Chapter 27 Ormdale
Chapter twenty-seven
Ormdale
Una spent the evening practising. She couldn’t face Brahms’ Hungarian Dances, which was Janushek’s latest assignment. The jagged melodic line would bring out all of her inner disorder, she was sure, and the prospect appalled her.
She played Bach instead, and tried not to think what Janushek would have to say about that at her next lesson. At least Oolong appreciated Bach as much as she did. He curled up on her foot while she played to absorb as much of the music as possible.
As soon as she put her instrument away, there was a polite tap at the door.
Una sighed. The worst part about playing the violin was that it gave away one’s whereabouts.
To her relief, it was Uncle George who popped his head in.
“I wondered, my dear, if you might like to say the Thanksgiving collect with me?” he asked.
Una’s heart sank. She glanced at the little writing desk where her prayer book lay. “Of course, Uncle. Shall I call Violet?”
“You may, of course, if you wish, but it wasn’t Violet I was thinking of.”
Una looked at him in surprise. “It wasn’t?”
“No, my dear. It was to give thanks to God for preserving your life.”
Una swallowed over the lump in her throat. She slid her foot out from under Oolong, got the prayer book, and sat next to her uncle on the settee by the window, opening to the prayers for Thanksgiving—though she knew he had it all by heart.
“O Almighty God, who art a strong tower of defence unto thy servants against the face of their enemies; We yield thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from those great and apparent dangers wherewith we were compassed.”
Una usually liked the feeling of the words trickling over her when her uncle prayed. She ought to have liked it today, but instead she felt wild and strange, despite Oolong coming to paw at her knee until she gathered him up.
In what wicked frame of mind must she be that Bach had soothed her better than the prayer book did?
“We acknowledge it thy goodness that we were not delivered over as a prey unto them; beseeching thee still to continue such thy mercies towards us, that all the world may know that thou art our Saviour and mighty Deliverer; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed Una quietly. Delivered over as a prey…that was exactly how she felt. The stranger in the night had been dreadful, but the tormentor that frightened her more was within her—a dreadful knot of anger and pain that only tightened every day.
“This was Edith’s, was it not?” Uncle George took her prayer book in his hands, looking at the frontispiece.
“Ah, yes, I wrote her name in the front when she was christened. It must have been ten years or more since she gave it to you. You might write your own in it, Una, I am sure she meant you to keep it for your own.”
Una smiled politely. It was precious to her, but it felt like something borrowed, and a sacred something at that. To write in it would be unthinkable.
Uncle George’s gaze shifted inward. “I was afraid I would be too angry at Violet to welcome her, you know.”
Una stopped breathing. Uncle George, angry? She had seen him outraged, indignant, but angry—never!
“And then when she burst into the library,” he went on, “I was so relieved when I saw here. I was relieved that she is still the same Violet. The world can be so very cruel to young women, you know. I was afraid it would have hurt her.”
He shook his head, and Una suspected he was thinking of the Daily Mail. Then he put his hand over hers.
“Whatever her homecoming has stirred up, Una,” said Uncle George, “do not chide yourself for it. The two of you were as close to each other as any sisters I’ve known.
A break like that—you can’t expect it to heal overnight.
You can’t place the pieces together and expect them to knit themselves.
You will have to make it anew, I suspect, now that you are both grown.
” Uncle George looked at her closely, his forehead creased along familiar lines.
“I do so wish Emily were here. She would know the right thing to say. Well, I ought to go speak with Janushek about the school. He’s been kind enough to keep an eye on things while Emily is gone, but he has his work cut out for him at the kilns, I know… ”
He rose to leave. Una wanted him to go—wanted to escape without further scrutiny—but she was almost frantic with unresolved questions.
He was at the door before she managed to find the words.
“Uncle George—you said that you were angry. What did you do with the anger? How did you make it go away?”
Una regretted it instantly. Uncle George had spent years being very patient with his parishioners’ horrid sins, and now he was supposed to be a squire and a dragon-keeper and not worry about such things anymore. She oughtn’t to make him go back to all that, just for her childish turmoil.
But he nodded slowly, as if the question deserved the utmost care. “If you want to know what to do with a thing, you must first ask what it is for.”
“But isn’t it a terrible sin?” she asked.
Uncle George’s eyebrows lifted. “Be angry, but do not sin.
Do not let the sun go down on your anger,“ he quoted, as if that would explain things sufficiently. Una must have looked as blank as she felt, for he continued, “Anger is a wilful beast. But its strength can drive us to do justice. What Violet did was wrong,” he went on. “It will not help to pretend it was anything else. Indeed, it may hurt you both. It usually does.” His face softened. “I’ll pray for you, Una.”
And he left her.
Una stared at the prayer book in her hands. The anger wasn’t driving her to do anything—it was just circling on itself, gnawing its own tail like the ouroboros of legend.
If her anger was a beast, it was the only one she could not tame.