The Glass Virgin Read online

  She stood in the middle of the room now and looked about her. It wasn’t as big as the drawing room in the House, but it was nicer somehow, warmer, even though the rough stone walls could be seen all around the fireplace and windows. But why was the furniture covered up and not the pictures? She felt it was the pictures that should be covered up. It was very puzzling.

  And then the sound of her father’s laughter came to her again, muted and far away, and it drew her moving slowly and cautiously into the hallway.

  There were pictures here too, but these were pictures of blue and scarlet-robed people sitting stiffly in chairs. There was a battle scene with men on horses, but on closer inspection she found the riders were only chasing ladies; but these ladies had clothes on.

  She had reached halfway along the hallway when it came to her, and forcibly, that she shouldn’t be here at all. Her mama had warned her never to pass beyond the oak door. ‘Annabella,’ she had said, ‘you must not. Now listen to me. You must not, never, never, go into Papa’s house,’ and she had answered, ‘Yes, Mama,’ but had dared to add, ‘But if Papa took me in that would be quite in order, Mama, wouldn’t it?’ And her mama had looked away and said, ‘Your papa will not take you in; it is a house just for grown-ups, for your papa and his friends. He thinks the same as I do, he has no wish that you should go into his private house. Anyway,’ she had ended, ‘you can see all you want of Papa here.’

  But she never saw enough of her papa, and something warned her now that her papa would not wish to see her today, not when he was with his friends.

  She was about to turn and hurry along back towards the oak door and to the safety of the gallery again when she saw Constantine passing along a passage at the far end. He was carrying a tray of cutlery and if he had turned his head just the slightest he would have seen her. She didn’t know whether he was going into a door opposite or coming towards her but in real fright she darted towards a door on her left and, pressing herself against the deep lintel, she remained tautly still for a moment. Unconsciously her hand had gripped the knob of the door, and now she was turning it. The next second she was inside, and again she was gaping.

  She was in a bedroom, a beautiful bedroom. It must be her papa’s bedroom. There, in the middle, was a four-poster bed draped in blue silk curtains. The carpet too was blue but the furniture was all gilt with rose upholstery. It was very, very beautiful. Her papa wouldn’t mind her looking at his bedroom.

  As she slowly walked towards the bed, she became aware of the big, white sheet lying at the foot of it and, standing on it, the porcelain bath. This, too, was covered over with a sheet through which the steam was slowly evaporating. What she should have noticed right away but what was just dawning on her now was that all the blinds were drawn and the room was lit by two glass candelabra, each holding at least twenty candles, and these were standing on tables at each side of the bed head. Her papa, too, then had to have his bath in the dark; well, not in the black dark as she endured her bathing. But perhaps just before he took his clothes off Constantine would extinguish the candles. Her stomach began to tremble. She must get away. If her papa found her in his bedroom and he about to bathe he’d be very angry.

  When her father’s voice, the words smothered in laughter, came to her from a door to the right of the bed she turned so swiftly about that she tripped and just saved herself from falling into the bath itself. But she was on her knees when the door opened and with the scurrying movement of a frightened beetle she scampered on all fours up by the side of the bed and towards the shelter of a screen in a corner of the room. Having reached safety, she lay for a moment on her face, her hands pressed tightly over her head and ears.

  What brought her hands from her ears was not the sound of running feet but the vibration that passed through her body from the floor. Slowly she raised her head and looked towards the light streaming through the fretwork of the screen and as she had put her eye to the spyglass earlier in the day she now put both eyes to two holes in the screen and witnessed a most unusual sight. Her papa, dressed in a long blue robe with a high collar, was chasing a lady around the room. He was still making use of his stick and limping, but he ran at times. They were playing a game of tig, and every time her papa caught the lady he took off one of her garments and put a strawberry in her mouth until at last she had nothing on but her stays.

  Now the lady was standing with her back to the screen, blocking out the light. She could see nothing of what was happening now, she could only hear. The lady was laughing softly and her father was talking, but they were strange words, words that she hadn’t heard before and she couldn’t understand them. Then the light was in her eyes again and she saw the lady once more. She was just like the one in the picture in the room along the hallway except that she was younger.

  She kept her eyes riveted on the lady, finding it impossible to look away; that was, until she saw her father fling off his robe and lift the lady into the bath.

  The sight of her father’s bare legs and buttocks caused her whole body to shrink away from the screen, and again she was lying with her face to the ground, one hand pressed tightly against her mouth in case she cried out.

  Her papa was wicked, he would go to hell; everybody who looked at their own bodies was destined for hell, old Alice said that over and over again. She felt sick with fear, fear for her father, and fear of him. Her body was wet with perspiration. She was going to have a fainting seizure like her mama had. She wanted her mama, oh she wanted her mama; she was going to be sick, really sick. Yet she hadn’t eaten much food at dinner time; she had hidden two-thirds of it away in napkins to take to the children. The children! They would be waiting. They would think she hadn’t meant what she had said. Her mama had impressed on her never to promise anything unless she meant to keep her promise. Oh! Oh! she was going to be sick.

  When the food regurgitated into her mouth and spewed through her fingers she pushed helplessly against the screen with her other hand, and when it toppled she saw through her misted eyes the contorted figures of her papa and the lady on the bed. Their limbs were locked together but their faces were turned towards her, staring at her as if she herself was a devil.

  She fainted away on a high, cursing scream that not only vibrated through the Old Hall but penetrated into the House and brought figures flying from every direction.

  She was brought partly out of her faint by the cries of Constantine, whimpering, frightening cries, and she raised her heavy lids and looked up into the face hanging over hers. It was the face of the lady, and she was praying, saying, ‘Oh my Gord! Oh my Gord!’ And it came to her that she couldn’t be really wicked if she prayed. Then she heard Constantine’s voice again, coming in protesting moans, and she saw her father punching at the Negro while the man cowered against the wall, and when he slid to the ground her father grabbed something that had been hanging on the wall and beat him with it . . .

  When next she regained consciousness she was in her own bed and her father was sitting by her side. His face was not angry-looking, nor was his voice harsh. She tried to recollect what she had seen and for the moment could think of nothing but that she must have been dreaming, one of those dreams that fade away when you open your eyes, and her father immediately confirmed this. As he stroked the hair back from her brow he looked straight into her eyes and said, ‘You’ve had a bad dream. You ate too much at dinner and were sick. You’ve had a bad dream, Annabella.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’ Her voice was faint and, even to herself, faraway-sounding.

  ‘Your mama will be very angry with me when she comes home. She will think that she cannot leave you for a day but that you must take ill, and she will blame me.’

  She didn’t say, ‘Yes, Papa,’ or ‘No, Papa, she won’t,’ she just lay looking up at him. He was still dressed in his blue robe and she wondered if he had put on any clothes underneath; then chastised herself strongly, she m
ust not think like that. If she thought about what she had seen it would make her papa wicked, and he wasn’t wicked. She looked from one feature of his face to another, from his fair hair still unruly as it had been when she saw him on the bed, the light grey eyes, the long straight nose, the wide full mouth, the lips gleaming softly with saliva as he kept rubbing his tongue over them. Her father was beautiful. She loved looking at his face; he couldn’t be wicked . . . Yet he was. She knew he was.

  ‘You’ve had a nasty dream, haven’t you, Annabella?’ The grey eyes were staring down into hers and she looked back at them for a long while before she said, ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘And we’ll say nothing to Mama about it?’

  Again time elapsed before she answered, ‘No, Papa.’

  ‘We wouldn’t want to distress your mama in any way, would we?’

  ‘No, Papa.’

  ‘Do you know what I’m getting you for your birthday?’

  ‘No, Papa.’

  ‘A pony.’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  ‘Aren’t you excited?’

  No, she wasn’t excited, because she was afraid of ponies and horses. Her mama knew she was afraid and had said she was too young to have an animal, but her papa had just laughed and said every child loved to ride. And now her papa was talking about the pony in order to make her forget that she had seen a strange lady in his bedroom. He was telling her that she had dreamt everything that had happened. Her papa was wicked, but how she wished he wasn’t, oh, she did, she did, because she loved him.

  He bent and kissed her now and said softly, ‘Do you love me, Annabella?’

  There was no hesitation now. ‘Yes, Papa.’

  He stroked her cheek softly as he muttered low in his throat, ‘Go on loving me. Never stop loving me.’

  And, shutting out the past hour, she said fervently, ‘I won’t, Papa, never.’

  Then in the next minute she stopped loving him because when he went into the day room she heard the sound of a ringing slap and Watford cry out; this was followed by a dull thud as from a fist against padded flesh. Then her father’s voice, low, almost a whisper, but to her acute hearing still audible, said, ‘She’s had a bad dream, remember, she’s had a bad dream. If one word of this leaks out to your mistress you’ll find yourself outside those gates, and you won’t get into service within six counties, I’ll see to that. Do you understand?’

  It was some time before the whimpered reply came, and then the day-room door banged.

  When she rose from the bed and put her feet on the footstool she still felt a little dizzy and sick and she had to remain quiet for a moment before she could step down on to the floor.

  On entering the day room, she saw Watford with her head resting on her arms on the table and her shoulders shaking with her smothered sobbing. As she put her hand on her shoulder Watford almost jumped from the chair and, licking at the tears running down her face, she gulped, ‘Oh, Miss! Oh, Miss, get back into bed. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘It’s all right, Watford. Sit down, and please . . . please don’t cry.’

  Watford sat down and, cupping her inflamed cheek with one hand, she rocked herself as she said, ‘Oh, Miss, you shouldn’t have . . . ’ cutting off the sentence in drooping her head. But her head jerked up immediately when the child before her said solemnly, ‘I went to sleep and had a bad dream, Watford.’

  The effect of this statement was to make Watford again lay her head on her arms and cry even louder, and all the while Annabella stood by her side and patted her shoulder. She had a desire to put her arms about Watford and comfort her, but somehow she thought her mama would not have approved.

  Watford was again brought into an upright position when her charge said simply, ‘Papa is a wicked man, Watford.’

  ‘Oh no, no, Miss.’ Watford now caught hold of both of her hands and shook them up and down in agitation. ‘You must never, never say that. Oh no. No. The master’s not wicked, no, no, Miss.’

  ‘But . . . but he struck you, Watford.’

  Watford shook her head several times, finding speech at the moment impossible, and then blurted out, ‘He didn’t hit me, Miss, not the master; no, no, the master’s a good man. Always remember that, he’s a good man.’

  ‘But, Watford . . . ’

  ‘Look, Miss.’ Watford got to her feet. ‘I’ll wash your face and hands; it’ll freshen you up a bit. You’ve been upset, you’ve, you’ve had a bad dream as you said, but . . . but remember’ – she bent down to Annabella – ‘remember, the master . . . your papa is a good man. He’s a gentleman and gentlemen are not bad, not gentlemen like the master. No matter what they do they’re not bad. Remember that, Miss Annabella, gentlemen are never bad.’

  After Watford had washed her face and hands and dabbed eau-de-cologne on her brow and wrists, changed her dress and pinafore, combed her hair and put fresh ribbons in it, Annabella said to her, ‘Would you take me for a walk to the strawberry field, Watford?’

  ‘You want some strawberries, Miss?’ Watford managed to smile.

  ‘No, Watford; but . . . but I’ve got to see someone.’

  ‘See someone?’

  As Annabella looked up at Watford she became aware of new emotions, new trends of thought. She wasn’t seven until tomorrow but in the last hour she had grown up a great deal. She had discovered that you could love someone one minute and not love them the next, then love them again; you could have feelings that were not love but which were nice, and kind, like those she had for Watford. Yet at one and the same time there was this new feeling, this feeling that put her in a position of power. She realised, without fully understanding, that the events of the past hour had given her power, not only over this girl, and not only over the other servants in the household, but over her father. She held a secret, a dream, that could make people do what she wanted. She said now quite quietly, ‘There are some poor children, they are very hungry, they were eating strawberries because they hadn’t anything else. I’ve saved half of my dinner; I want to take it to them.’

  ‘Po-po-poor children? How do you know any p-poor children?’

  ‘I told you a lie this morning, Watford. I said that I had been to the closet and the schoolroom when I had really gone outside. I saw the children from the gallery and ran out to speak to them. They were very frightened and very hungry.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  These were the same words as the lady had used, but Annabella now knew that they were not said in the form of a prayer.

  Watford had moved two steps away from her and was looking at her most oddly, and then she said, ‘What’s come over you, Miss, what’s come over you? You’ve never been like this afore.’

  ‘Will you take me down or shall I go myself?’

  Annabella watched Watford put her fingers tightly across her mouth; then she said almost in a whimper, ‘They’re scum, Miss, those bairns. They’re from the fells, livin’ wild. Their folks neither work nor want; they’re from Rosier’s village. If they would do what they’re told and not strike they’d have food and shelter. They’re bad, Miss, they’re very bad.’

  ‘Will you take me down, Watford?’

  Again Watford used the expression that wasn’t a prayer, and then she swallowed deeply and said, ‘Where did you put the food?’

  ‘In one of the cabinets in the gallery under the bookcase.’

  Ten minutes later Watford informed a glaring, greatly troubled housekeeper that she was going to take Miss Annabella into the air, and when her great-aunt just stared at her, making no comment whatever, she knew she was saving all she had to say for later when the child was abed and she was off duty. She hurried back to the nursery where Annabella was waiting for her dressed for outside in an alpaca coat and cream bonnet and carrying in her hand a small basket, in which lay a napkin c
ontaining the food.

  The journey to the field was made in silence and when they reached it there was no sign of the children, but Annabella, under the accusing eyes of Watford, laid the napkin under the hedge, and Watford, looking down at the hidey-hole, said, ‘This is dreadful, awful. You don’t know what you’re doing, Miss Annabella, encouraging them, ’cos they’re bad that lot, layabouts, nothin’ but scum.’

  On the journey back to the house, her hand held firmly in Watford’s, Annabella pondered the fact of how strange it was that her father, besides bathing a strange lady, could beat Constantine who served him so faithfully and punch Watford who served her so faithfully yet could still be considered a good man; while the children who were so hungry they rammed the strawberries into their mouths with the stalks on, and were so poor that their clothes were in rags, were bad. It was all very puzzling; she wanted it explained to her. She wished, oh how she wished she could talk to her mama about it.

  Two

  From the moment Rosina Lagrange entered the House she knew that something had happened during her absence, although on the surface everything was as usual.

  Before the coach had stopped, Faill was on the drive, and when the horses were brought to a standstill it was he who opened the door and let down the steps and then extended his hand to assist her, and with the usual quiet courtesy she used towards servants she thanked him.

  In the plant-lined conservatory Harris, his portly figure encased in black as befitted his rank, bowed towards her, saying, ‘May I hope that you’ve had a pleasant journey, Madam?’

  ‘It was very agreeable, Harris, thank you,’ she replied; then turning to where an old woman was lumbering into the conservatory burdened by a long box, she said, ‘Relieve Miss Piecliff of that package, Harris, but be careful with it and see that it’s taken up to the nursery.’ Harris took the long box from the old governess guessing that it held a doll, then almost as if it burnt his fingers he passed it on to Armorer, the second lackey, who had been hovering in the background.