CHAPTER ONE #3
“Quite a heritage I have: a spendthrift gambler for a paternal grandfather, and an embittered father. I could not like my grandfather Albright either, on the two occasions when you took me to visit your old home. He was so distant — almost disdainful — that I never felt welcome there. One would have thought he’d have been eager to make amends for having forced you into a connection that did not turn out to be advantageous after all. ”
“I fear human nature does not always react according to rules of logic, dearest. It is not uncommon to resent and dislike those we’ve injured.
I presume it saves us from the pangs of guilt that otherwise would assail our consciences if we had to believe our victims were undeserving of the harm we’d done them.
My father considered me too stupid and unworldly to know what was good for me, in any case. ”
“I did not know the background then, but it is really quite satisfying to learn that I was right to dislike my grandfather — quite perceptive for a child of eight or nine.” Laura was relieved to see that the exaggerated smugness with which she had infused this statement had the desired effect of driving away the world-weary expression from her mother’s face.
“I was proud of the way you behaved during that dismal visit, Laura. You did not allow yourself to be intimidated by your grandfather’s brusque manners, and you maintained a quiet dignity that was surprising in a young child.
” Mrs. Marsh’s lips twisted wryly. “Certainly I never learned to stand up to him without quaking, inwardly at least.”
“But, Mama, I was only imitating your dignity as best I could at the time. I did not dream that you were afraid of him.” Laura thought she detected gratitude in her mother’s expression just before Burns announced dinner.
The women followed the balding, rotund butler, who had grown old in the service of the Marsh family, into a pleasant dining room where a mahogany table had been made smaller to accommodate them after the master’s death.
As she slid into her chair, Laura watched her mother smile a thank-you to Burns as he guided her chair into place.
Opening her eyes wide, she said, “By the way, Mama, you did not tell me what happened to Mr. Wright.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Mrs. Marsh said blankly. “I never saw him again after my father sent him away.”
“Or even heard about him? Nothing at all?”
“No, nothing.”
“A story without an ending — how disappointing.”
“There was an ending of course, Laura, but it is unknown to me. Another thing I do not know is why you were so late changing this evening.”
“Guinevere was lonely. She refused to permit anyone else to milk her tonight.”
Mrs. Marsh smiled but shook her head as she picked up her fork. “That is what comes of making pets out of farm animals. I have the greatest fear of finding that cow in my drawing room one of these days.”
Laura chuckled at the mind picture produced by her mother’s facetious remark, but solemnly promised to depress any pretensions Guinevere might entertain about accompanying her mistress indoors.
The meal proceeded in a spirit of amity as Mrs. Marsh ate sparingly and her daughter devoured the simple but well-cooked dishes Mrs. Burns had been preparing at Wellstead Farm as far back as Laura’s memory reached.
A smile swept across her mother’s face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud at some nonsense of Laura’s.
The girl observed this with satisfaction that was succeeded by a spurt of guilt at the thought of how much more pleasant the dinner hour had been since her father’s death.
She had shied away from making even the most private admission that life itself had been more pleasant during the fifteen months since an accident while felling trees had ended her father’s life, but such was the truth.
It was a terrible truth to own, but how could she forget hundreds of family dinners where her mother smiled rarely and her father never, dinners where the principle burden of maintaining any form of conversation had fallen on her own adolescent shoulders?
Her habitually reticent mother’s intimate revelations this evening had opened a floodgate of memories and feelings she’d barricaded away.
Beneath her light remarks and questions about her mother’s activities during the day, Laura was wrestling to subdue a rush of unhappy recollections.
There had been several angry confrontations between father and daughter over the question of a marriage with Chester Hamilton before her father had accepted that he could not command her obedience.
She’d met his initial fury and subsequent resentment with ill-disguised resentment of her own.
That this had been mustered to conceal even from herself a throbbing pain at his total disregard for her happiness was something she’d never been able to face, until tonight’s revealing conversation with her mother.
Her own feelings of guilt and remorse at not being able to mourn her father wholeheartedly must be as nothing compared with her mother’s self-assumed burden.
In Laura’s eyes her mother was blameless in the minor tragedy that was the Marsh domestic failure.
Coerced into a contract she did not desire by two imperious, inconsiderate males, she was au fond a gentle loving person.
Her father, on the other hand, was neither kind nor loving.
Having imposed his will on his reluctant bride initially, he had not known how to win her affections, thus ensuring his own unhappiness and, ultimately, that of his family.
Perhaps he might have found consolation if she had been a son, Laura speculated sadly, but there fate had denied him, and the domestic tragedy had played itself out to its bitter end.
A question from Mrs. Marsh brought Laura out of her melancholy musing.
At the same time she became aware of the rumble of approaching thunder.
“I thought we were due for a storm,” she remarked, not without some satisfaction at her weather-divining acumen.
“The sky was clouding over rapidly while I was changing. It won’t be long now. ”
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when a fork of lightning appeared in the window.
A loud clap of thunder was followed by the first patter of raindrops.
Within a minute or less the rain had become a torrent.
Mrs. Marsh, who detested electrical storms, declared her intention of returning instantly to the parlour, which was on the more sheltered side of the house, and Laura rose to accompany her, leaving her lemon sponge half eaten.
The storm was still at its height when Burns entered the parlour with more haste that was his wont.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but one of Farmer Judson’s sons has just come to the door to say there has been an accident.
Evidently a sporting vehicle of some sort has overturned almost at the front gate; the horses are flailing about and the driver is unconscious or worse. ”
“Is Judson out there with the horses, Burns?”
“Yes, Miss Laura, and the boy has gone back to help him.”
“Would you get my boots and the frieze cloak in the back hall, Burns?”
“Laura, don’t go out there in this horrible storm!” Mrs. Marsh cried as the butler left the room to do her daughter’s bidding. “Judson and his son will handle the situation.”
“They’ll handle the horses, Mama, but they might do more harm than good to an injured man. The storm seems to be passing over now. I’ll take Burns with me. You will not object to bringing the driver here if his injuries are serious?”
“Of course you must bring him inside, unless he is able to drive himself in his carriage, which seems not to be the case, or Mr. Judson would not have sent his son up to the house.” Mrs. Marsh rose as Burns returned. “I’ll have a bedchamber readied for him.”