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"Of course, Mama-in-law," Rosamond said without looking up.
"And no doubt Miss Latterly will come with us," Fabia added without consulting her. "We shall leave at eleven.
That will allow you time to dress appropriately. The day is most warm—do not be tempted to forget your position." And with that admonition, delivered with a frozen smile, she turned and left them, stopping by the door for a moment to add, "And we might take luncheon with General Wadham, and Ursula." And then she went out.
Rosamond threw the hoop at her workbasket and it went beyond and skittered across the floor. "Drat," she said quietly under her breath. Then she met Hester's eyes and apologized.
Hester smiled at her. "Please don't," she said candidly. "Playing Lady Bountiful 'round the estates is enough to make anyone resort to language better for the stable, or even the barracks, than the drawing room. A simple 'drat' is very mild."
"Do you miss the Crimea, now you are home?" Rosamond said suddenly, her eyes intent and almost frightened of the answer. "I mean—" She looked away, embarrassed and now finding it hard to speak the words which only a moment before had been so ready.
Hester saw a vision of endless days being polite to Fa-bia, attending to the trivial household management that she was allowed, never feeling it was her house until Fabia was dead; and perhaps even afterwards Fabia's spirit would haunt the house, her belongings, her choices of furniture, of design, marking it indelibly. There would be morning calls, luncheon with suitable people of like breeding and position, visits to the poor—and in season there would be balls, the races at Ascot, the regatta at Henley, and of course in winter the hunt. None of it would be more than pleasant at best, tedious at worst—but without meaning.
But Rosamond did not deserve a lie, even in her loneliness—nor did she deserve the pain of Hester's view of the truth. It was only her view; for Rosamond it might be different.
"Oh yes, sometimes I do," she said with a small smile. "But we cannot fight wars like that for long. It is very dreadful as well as vivid and real. It is not fun being cold
and dirty and so tired you feel as if you've been beaten— nor is it pleasant to eat army rations. It is one of the finest things in life to be truly useful—but there are less distressing places to do it, and I am sure I shall find many here in England."
"You are very kind," Rosamond said gently, meeting her eyes again. "I admit I had not imagined you would be so thoughtful." She rose to her feet. "Now I suppose we had better change into suitable clothes for calling—have you something modest and dowdy, but very dignified?" She stifled a giggle and turned it into a sneeze. "I'm sorry—what a fearful thing to ask!''
"Yes—most of my wardrobe is like that," Hester replied with an amusing smile. "All dark greens and very tired-looking blues—like faded ink. Will they do?"
"Perfectly—come!"
* * * * *
Menard drove the three of them in the open trap, bowling along the carriageway through the park towards the edge of the home estate and across heavy cornfields towards the village and the church spire beyond the slow swell of the hill. He obviously enjoyed managing the horse and did it with the skill of one who is long practiced. He did not even try to make conversation, supposing the loveliness of the land, the sky and the trees would be enough for them, as it was for him.
Hester sat watching him, leaving Rosamond and Fabia to converse. She looked at his powerful hands holding the reins lightly, at the ease of his balance and the obvious reticence in his expression. The daily round of duties in the estate was no imprisonment to him; she had seen a brooding in his face occasionally in the time she had been at Shelburne, sometimes anger, sometimes a stiffness and a jumpiness of the muscles which made her think of officers she had seen the night before battle, but it was when they were all at table, with Fabia's conversation betraying the ache of loneliness underneath as if Joscelin had been the only person she had totally and completely loved.
The first house they called at was that of a farm laborer on the edge of the village, a tiny cottage, one room downstairs crowded with a sunburned, shabby woman and seven children all sharing a loaf of bread spread with pork drippings. Their thin, dusty legs, barefooted, splayed out beneath simple smocks and they were obviously in from working in the garden or fields. Even the youngest, who looked no more than three or four, had fruit stains on her fingers where she had been harvesting.
Fabia asked questions and passed out practical advice on financial management and how to treat croup which the woman received in polite silence. Hester blushed for the condescension of it, and then realized it had been a way of life with little substantial variation for over a thousand years, and both parties were comfortable with its familiarity; and she had nothing more certain to put in its place.
Rosamond spoke with the eldest girl, and took the wide pink ribbon off her own hat and gave it to her, tying it around the child's hair to her shy delight.
Menard stood patiently by the horse, talking to it in a low voice for a few moments, then falling into a comfortable silence. The sunlight on his face showed the fine lines of anxiety around his eyes and mouth, and the deeper marks of pain. Here in the rich land with its great trees, the wind and the fertile earth he was relaxed, and Hester saw a glimpse of a quite different man from the stolid, resentful second son he appeared at Shelburne Hall. She wondered if Fabia had ever allowed herself to see it. Or was the laughing charm of Joscelin always in its light?
The second call was similar in essence, although the family was composed of an elderly woman with no teeth and an old man who was either drunk or had suffered some seizure which impaired both his speech and his movement.
Fabia spoke to him briskly with words of impersonal encouragement, which he ignored, making a face at her when her back was turned, and the old woman bobbed a
curtsy, accepted two jars of lemon curd, and once again they climbed into the trap and were on their way.
Menard left them to go out into the fields, high with ripe corn, the reapers already digging the sickles deep, the sun hot on their backs, arms burned, sweat running freely. There was much talk of weather, time, the quarter of the wind, and when the rain would break. The smell of the grain and the broken straw in the heat was one of the sweetest things Hester had ever known. She stood in the brilliant light with her face lifted to the sky, the heat tingling on her skin, and gazed across the dark gold of the land—and thought of those who had been willing to die for it—and prayed that the heirs to so much treasured it deeply enough, to see it with the body and with the heart as well.
Luncheon was another matter altogether. They were received courteously enough until General Wadham saw Hester, then his florid face stiffened and his manner became exaggeratedly formal.
"Good morning, Miss Latterly. How good of you to call. Ursula will be delighted that you are able to join us for luncheon."
"Thank you, sir," she replied equally gravely. "You are very generous."
Ursula did not look particularly delighted to see them at all, and was unable to hide her chagrin that Menard had seen fit to be out with the harvesters instead of here at the dining room table.
Luncheon was a light meal: poached river fish with caper sauce, cold game pie and vegetables, then a sorbet and a selection of fruit, followed by an excellent Stilton cheese.
General Wadham had obviously neither forgotten nor forgiven his rout by Hester on their previous meeting. His chill, rather glassy eye met hers over the cruet sets a number of times before he actually joined battle in a lull between Fabia's comments on the roses and Ursula's speculations as to whether Mr. Danbury would marry Miss Fothergill or Miss Ames.
