Joan Smith: Delsie

Mr. Umpton took a keen interest in deVigne’s visit to the school. The true reason for his coming could not be told, so Delsie invented a different story to appease him, one having to do with becoming governess to Roberta at some future date. He didn’t believe a word of it, and developed such a strong suspicion of her that life at school was nearly intolerable.

Maybe he thought she was angling for his job. If a single student laughed or spoke loudly, he was at the door complaining of the noise. He complained too that the students coming to him from her class were ill-trained, couldn’t read a word, and could hardly add two and two. He even spoke badly of her to his students, an unpardonable offense, so that they looked at her in a jeering way. The few who used to come after class for work no longer showed up. He spoke more than once of the mistake of hiring a woman for a man’s job. “Next time we’ll know better,” he’d say meaningfully, implying that the next time was not far off.

The autumn wore on, the weather becoming colder, the days shortening, the winds growing more bitter, and the memory of the visit faded. She thought regretfully, once or twice a day, how fine it would have been if it had been a governess they were looking for, instead of a wife.

On the last Sunday in November, Delsie set her unadorned round bonnet on her head, looking in the mirror to see that it was straight. Her serious gray eyes looked back at her wistfully. She would have liked a prettier bonnet, at least on Sunday, but the schoolteacher was one who must dress discreetly. Dark clothing, she had been told. No curls, no powder, no scent, no jewelry of an ostentatious sort, Mr. Umpton had announced, with a disapproving eye at her simple gold locket. I might as well be a grandmother, she thought, then wrinkled her nose at her reflection and went downstairs to call for Miss Frisk, who would accompany her to church.

Since they had arrived early, their heads, like everyone else’s, turned when the party from the Hall entered. No company today, Delsie noted. Only Lord deVigne, Lady Jane, Sir Harold, and the young girl, Roberta, who came with them only infrequently. They entered their family pew, across the aisle and a few seats ahead of Miss Frisk and herself. The service progressed as usual, the hymns, and then it was time for the announcements. The vicar cleared his throat and looked around before speaking.

“I would like to ask the benefit of the prayers of the congregation this morning for Mr. Andrew Grayshott of this parish, well known to us all…”

My God, he’s dead! Delsie thought, and her eyes flew to the deVigne pew. So soon! Less than a month since Lord deVigne had asked her to marry him. I would have only had to live with him for a month. Surely it would have been worth it. I would be with them now, for the rest of my life. All this went through her head in a second. Then the minister’s voice went on. “… who is very ill. Also for the repose of the soul of…” Lord deVigne’s black head turned around over his shoulder. He directed a meaningful look across the aisle and back to Delsie, who was still staring at him, a question on her face. Their eyes met and, though no word was spoken, she was dead certain she would see him again that day.

After church, she went straight home and to her room. No “little chat” with Miss Frisk today. Within minutes-he hadn’t even taken the others back up the hill, but had come to her directly from the church-there was a knock at her door. She had scarcely taken off her hat and hung up her pelisse. She assumed it would be Miss Frisk, big with the news that Lord deVigne awaited her belowstairs, but she was wrong. It was deVigne himself standing there, hat in hand, filling the small door frame with his size. “May I come in?” he asked.

“I’m not allowed gentlemen callers in my rooms,” she told him. “We can go downstairs.”

“I have spoken to Miss Frisk,” he replied and, bending his head, stepped in.

“Oh-in that case…” It was unnecessary to extend any invitation. He was already inside, glancing around her apartment.

Never had her little rooms looked so bleak as they did today, as she imagined how they must appear to one accustomed to elegance. The shabby, threadbare rug, where dim outlines of flowers were all that remained of a once lively pattern, her homemade curtains and cushions, their unfaded yellow and blue stripes only strengthening the age of the rest, the worn settee to which she must lead him-all spoke of poverty and meager living. A vase of wilting flowers, weeds really, sat forlornly on the sofa table, and if he glanced through to her kitchen, he would see the breakfast dishes unwashed on the counter, for on Sundays she slept in and cleaned up after church.

“Pray be seated, milord,” she invited, in the lofty tones of a duchess.

He sat on the settee, while she took up the one chair beside it. “You know why I am here?” he began at once.

“I heard the announcement in church. Mr. Grayshott is ill-worse, I presume.”

“Dying. He has caught pneumonia. There is no hope of a recovery. I have come to repeat my request of a few weeks ago. Will you marry him now?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right. I can’t marry a dying man.”

“Your excuse-reason-on the last occasion I spoke to you on the matter was that I could not guarantee his death, I can now guarantee it, absolutely.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“It was your meaning. You said you couldn’t marry him because he might recuperate. He is now beyond hope of it. All the advantages I outlined to you at that time still exist. You would be removed from this-place,” he said, with a flutter of shapely hands, substituting a milder term than the word “hovel,” which had first occurred to him. “You would no longer be required to work so hard for your living. For a few days spent as Mr. Grayshott’s wife, you would achieve independence.”

“It’s not right. Marriage is a sacrament. You should love the person. I can’t marry for those reasons you give-for self-advancement.”

“Marriage is also a legal contract. Think of it in that context. You would agree to take on the care of Roberta in exchange for a home and some security. It is a better position than the one you now hold.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head in confusion, for, while she felt bound to object, there had sprung up, back in the church, a strong regret that she had first refused. “How would it look to the villagers? I marry him one day, and two days later he is dead.”

“You will have no trouble with the villagers. When you are seen to be under my family’s protection, on intimate terms with us, they will not bother you. There will be a little unavoidable gossip, of course, but these things blow over quickly.”

“On intimate terms with us.” It was the most forceful argument he could have used. Her whole being longed to accept, but conscience held out. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right to do such a monstrous thing as marry Mr. Grayshott. She tried, in a disjointed way, to put these thoughts into words. He nodded, but impatiently, frowning.

“Yes, yes, I understand your scruples. It is not the marriage any young lady would dream of, certainly, but still, it would be no bad thing for you. You needn’t consider it as selling yourself, as you mentioned previously, the other time I spoke to you. It would be a job-you would have charge of Roberta, you would be working still, in a way. She needs a mother. That poor child has been badly neglected. She needs the care of a conscientious woman like yourself, someone to take a real and lasting interest in her welfare. She is scarcely ever allowed to come to us. She was with us today only because her father is so ill. It would be an act of charity on your part, certainly not taking advantage of anyone. No one loses anything by your accepting. Even Clancy Grayshott will be happy enough to have the girl off his hands. He only takes her to keep her from me. He will not be sorry to see her placed with an objective third party like yourself. Roberta gains a mother, you a good position in life, and you will be saving me a long and costly court battle.” He spoke quickly, urgently, and convincingly, but still she was not quite talked over.