Philippa Gregory - Wideacre

I had been expecting Harry to return and tell me all was well, but it was Celia. I thought I saw a gleam of tears in her eyes and assumed that Harry had won the argument. But then I saw the purpose in her face, and the look she gave me was not that of a beaten woman.

‘Beatrice, Harry came to talk to me, but I think everything he said was what you had told him,’ she said firmly. I detected, to my amazement, a slight tone of disdain in her voice.

‘I am sure we know each other well enough for you to speak to me directly,’ she said. I was right, her tone was scornful. ‘Perhaps you will tell me now what is in your mind regarding your husband?’

I pushed the letters to one side, and folded the map carefully while keeping my eyes on this brave child who had left her ladylike pursuits to come so dauntlessly into my office.

‘Please sit down, Celia,’ I said politely. She pulled one of the hard-backed chairs from around the rent table and sat in it, straight-backed. I moved from my desk to sit beside her; I tried to put a warm compassionate look in my eyes but I found her direct candid gaze too disconcerting.

‘We cannot go on as we are,’ I said, my voice concerned. ‘You saw how uncomfortable it was at dinner today. We cannot possibly have evening after evening like this, Celia.’

She nodded. My reasonable tone was undermining her anger. I was making her see the problem of John as a trouble we all shared. I was detaching her from the idea that he was her responsibility in a world that cared nothing for him, perhaps even with a wife who was happy to do him harm.

‘I think we could manage for a short time,’ she said consideringly. ‘I do not think John’s problem is so deep-seated that he needs longer than perhaps a few weeks’ freedom from temptation.’

‘Celia,’ I said earnestly. ‘He is my husband. I do think about what is best for him. His health and happiness are my concern.’

Her eyes came up at the tone of tenderness in my voice and she stared curiously at me.

‘Do you mean that?’ she asked baldly. ‘Or is it something you are saying?’

‘Celia!’ I said. But my reproachful remonstrance had not maintained its power.

‘I am sorry if I sound impolite,’ she said evenly. ‘But I simply cannot understand your behaviour. If you do care for John you should be desperate for him to be well. Yet I do not see that.’

‘I cannot explain,’ I said, my voice low. ‘I cannot forgive him for Mama’s death. I wish him to be well, but I cannot yet love him as I ought.’

‘But you will, Beatrice!’ said Celia, her face suddenly lightening with sympathy for me. ‘As soon as he is well again, your love will return. I know things will be happy between you once more.’

I smiled, sweet as sugar. ‘But Celia, you have your husband to consider too,’ I said. ‘It is one thing for me to say there shall be no drink served here, but it is hard for you because you will make Harry so uncomfortable.’

Celia’s face hardened, and I guessed she had already faced this argument upstairs.

‘It is not much to ask of a man,’ she said firmly. ‘It is not too much to ask of a man, that he should give up drinking for a few short weeks when the happiness, perhaps even the life, of his sister’s husband depends on it.’

‘No, indeed,’ I said nodding. ‘Providing he does give up. But what if all you succeed in doing is to drive Harry away from his home?’

Celia’s eyes flew anxiously to my face.

‘There are many families round here who would be happy to see Harry for dinner every day of the week,’ I said. ‘They would not trouble him with tragedy-queen scenes when he is tired and wants a quiet drink and a good meal. They would be happy to see him, show him a smiling face, serve him with the best that they have in the house, and make him feel comfortable and beloved. There is young company at some of the houses too,’ I went on, twisting the knife. ‘After dinner Harry may find himself dancing. And some of the prettiest girls in England are to be found in the farmers’ houses around here. And they’d all be more than glad to dance with the Squire.’

When one loves, one gives hostage to the future. Celia, who had once told me that she would have liked Harry to take a mistress, now looked horrified at the thought of him dancing with a pretty girl.

‘Harry would never be unfaithful to you,’ I said reassuringly. ‘I am sure he would not. But you could hardly blame a man for dining away from home when his home is made uncomfortable for him.’

Celia turned her head away and rose from the table in a sudden sharp movement that told me that the picture of Harry away from home on pleasure jaunts alone was more than she could face. I sat still and said nothing. I gave her a good few minutes while she stood beside the fireplace resting her head on the high mantelpiece and looking down at the burning logs.

‘What do you think we should do, Beatrice?’ she asked. I gave a silent sigh. I was in control once more.

‘I think we should find a good doctor to take John into his own home to cure him,’ I said. ‘This drinking is not weakness, Celia. It is more like an illness. John cannot help himself. What I would like would be for him to go away to a really first-class specialist and for us to keep his home safe and happy for him. Then when he returns we can all be as we were.’

‘And you will love him again, Beatrice?’ Celia’s eyes on me were bright with the challenge. ‘For I know it is the way things are between you which is the worst of all for him.’

I smiled with relish at the thought of the day-long torture I was to John.

‘Yes, indeed,’ I said, my voice tender. ‘I shall never be out of his sight.’

Celia came back to me, seated at the table, and knelt beside my chair.

‘Is that a promise, Beatrice?’ Her honest eyes scanned my face.

I held her gaze, my face as clear as my conscience.

‘On my honour,’ I said solemnly.

Celia, overwrought and anxious, gave a little sob and buried her face in the silk of my skirt. I rested one gentle hand on her bowed head. Poor Celia! She understood so little, and she tried to do so much.

I stroked her hair soothingly. It was soft as warm silk to the touch.

‘Silly Celia,’ I said lovingly. ‘And what a scene you made of it yesterday!’

She turned her face into my lap and then looked up at me smiling.

‘I don’t know what I was thinking of,’ she confessed. ‘Something in my head just broke and I was so angry I did not know what I was saying or doing. I have been so worried for John, and so afraid about what was happening. Nobody seemed to be like themselves any more: you, Harry, John of course. It all seemed so different, so strange, when, before, we were all so happy. There seemed to be something poisoning the whole house.’

My smile hid my sudden shock. I had heard this before. Celia was talking just as Mama had done. They both had a sense of the corruption between Harry and me. It was as if our sin were some rotting thing in the house that stank until anyone close to us could smell it, but not know what it was. I gave a little shudder at the thought and bent down to bury my own face in Celia’s sweet-smelling hair.

‘Let us talk no more tonight,’ I said. ‘In the morning I shall show you a letter I have had from a Dr Rose at Bristol, and if you agree he sounds like the very person for John then we can send for him to come and see John here.’

Celia got obediently to her feet. She looked tremendously relieved. I had stripped her of her power by using my wits and by exploiting her own trusting nature. She was free again to be the loving wife and the pet of the household. She went lightly to the door and whispered, ‘Goodnight, God bless you,’ and then left me. I smiled at the embers of the logs and sat before the fire with my feet on the fender. Celia had caused me some alarm, but I had her back in my hand now. I rang the bell for my maid, Lucy.