Voyage of Innocence. Elizabeth Edmondson
Tyrell nodded. ‘I’ll put away these warmer clothes, you won’t be wanting them now.’ She opened a cupboard door. ‘What’s more,’ she went on, ‘she said it in Verity’s hearing, and that’s a thing I could never forgive her for. She had no time for that girl, none at all, and Verity thin and wretched after being so ill, and so distressed about Daisy.’
‘What about Vee’s father?’
‘The Dean was too troubled in his conscience to take any notice of what was going on around him. He lost his faith, you see, the night that Daisy died. For all the rest of the time I was there, he’d walk up and down, up and down, in his study at night, talking out loud. I thought he was writing his sermon, or talking to someone else. Then I thought he might be talking to God. Praying. Only he wasn’t. He was arguing with himself. Wrestling with darkness. And the darkness won. It usually does.’
‘Did he think to give up his position, leave the church?’
‘You’re Catholic, aren’t you? Yes, I heard it said that Mr Henry had married a Roman Catholic. So perhaps you don’t understand about the Church of England. Most of the clergy don’t believe in what they teach or say to start with, or if they do, the gloss soon wears off. Now, Dean Trenchard was different. He was truly a religious man, a man of faith. That’s why it was so terrible when he lost his faith. It was the centre of his life, well, Daisy and God were. He lost one and then the other. But he went on, did his job at the cathedral same as before. No one noticed any difference, I shouldn’t think.’
Lally was shaking her head. ‘Oh, poor Verity. What an appalling thing to happen to her. And at that age, when a girl’s so vulnerable. I had no idea, she’s never spoken about it. Did her father really not care about her?’
‘No, I don’t think he ever gave her a thought.’ Miss Tyrell shook out a twill skirt. ‘This with a light jumper will be just right for when you’re up and about and want to go on deck.’
‘What happened in the Deanery after that?’
‘I stayed on for a few weeks, helping to care for Mrs Trenchard and for Verity. Then I left in the autumn. They were sending Verity away to school, Mrs Trenchard didn’t want her in the house, if you ask me.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Lally said. ‘How could a mother treat her daughter in such a cruel way? And why did Vee never say a word about Daisy? Nor Hugh, if it comes to that.’
‘Being an American, perhaps you don’t understand that English people like the Trenchards are brought up not to talk about their personal problems and griefs. Mr Messenger must be just the same. It’s not considered good manners to do so, although in my opinion, bottling things up can go too far, and it can lead to a lot of trouble that would never come about if people had opened their mouths and said how they felt about this or that.’
Miss Tyrell was right about that; it was squeezing blood out of a stone to get Harry to talk about anything to do with his emotions – or anyone else’s.
‘And, looking back,’ Miss Tyrell said, ‘I don’t think it was just Daisy. I don’t believe Mrs Trenchard ever liked Verity. Sometimes that happens. Mrs Trenchard herself is a reserved woman, cold you could say, but who knows, perhaps her own mother didn’t have much time for her when she was a little girl. It wasn’t the same with Hugh, she was quite different with Hugh.’
‘That must have made it even worse for Vee.’
‘I thought, when she was getting better, that Verity was as cold as her mother, that she didn’t feel anything very strongly. Some children are like that, they live on the surface and take life as it comes.’
‘Oh, that isn’t true of Vee!’
‘No. It was her way of defending herself, shutting it all away inside, so no one thought she cared as much as she did, not about Daisy, nor how much her mother disliked her. Heartless, the servants said she was. But she did care. She felt Daisy’s death keenly, and she was devastated by her mother’s remark. I know, because I saw her face before the shutters came down.’
‘Did Hugh know about what his mother said?’
‘Perhaps Verity told him; they were very close, those two. I think Daisy’s death and the way their parents reacted to it had a long-lasting effect on both Hugh and Verity. It wasn’t a secret, it wasn’t hushed up or anything, everyone in the family knew about it, but Hugh and Verity entered into what you might call a conspiracy of silence.’
‘Claudia knew about Daisy, then. And she never said a word.’
‘Why should she? It happened a while ago, and the two families don’t see much of each other. I doubt if Claudia ever thinks about it. If Hugh and Verity don’t talk about it, why should she?’
Vee hesitated that night. If she took her pills, then the night brought the past back to her, memories she didn’t want. If she didn’t take the pills, then the dark hours of the night were a torment, an endless hour of the wolf with beasties and ghoulies coming out of the woodwork to fill her tired mind.
Exhausted in mind, body and spirit, she decided not to take her customary pills, trusting to the roll of the boat and her fatigue to bring her sleep. In an odd way, she found the huge motions of the vessel soothing, like being rocked in an immense cradle. Lulled, she slept for a few hours.
Until the nightmare began. It wasn’t a nightmare at first, in fact it was a gentle dream, of a summer’s afternoon, a memory of a drive, with Lally and Piers Forster. Kind, clever Piers, who had wanted to marry her; but this was before he proposed. They were going to Stratford, to see a Shakespeare play. Lally, the passionate Shakespearean, was sitting beside Piers, talking about Macbeth, they were going to see Macbeth. Some rational part of her mind, still wakeful, told her that was odd, reminding her that she had never seen Macbeth at Stratford, not with Piers or Lally.
The tranquil summer landscape blurred and dissolved, and they were in the theatre, taking their seats. The clarity and detail of the dream was extraordinary, the numbers on the velvet seats, the shape and feel of the programme, Piers’s head tilted towards Lally as she made a comment on one of the actors, with the smile she remembered so well.
The house lights dimmed, the curtain rose, the theatre vanished, and Vee was standing on the upper steps of a stone spiral staircase in a Scottish castle, with the wind howling and whistling through the tower. A huge raven perched on the wide ledge of an arrow slit, its cold eye fixed on her. Pressed against the wall was Macbeth, blood dripping from his hands, his face, the dagger in his hand. Words whirled about her head, desperate words of violence and torment and pain.
Macbeth had murdered Duncan, whom had she murdered? She had a bloody dagger in her hand as well, and she was overwhelmed with anguish, with the knowledge that she had struck a fatal blow and sent a soul into eternity, irretrievably lost, beyond her reach, a deed that could never be undone, guilt that couldn’t be assuaged or borne.
She struggled into wakefulness, overwhelmed by fear and panic and remorse, and unsure for a while where she was, in the darkness, with the creaking of the boat and the swaying motion and the sound of the sea. She switched on the light above her bunk, heavy-eyed and tired, but with no intention of letting herself go back to sleep, not until grey dawn sent its half-light filtering into the cabin, and the day brought its sense of normality and relief.
She didn’t feel sleepy, anyhow. Her mind was clear and sharp, all sleep driven away by the anguish of her dream.
Had Pigeon locked the door behind her? It appeared to be slightly open. An invitation to anyone walking by … Vee wasn’t thinking of visitors with amorous intent, she was afraid of quite a different kind of caller. She slid out of bed, and, holding on to the table as the ship paused for a moment at the height of a roll before plunging back the other way, reached out for the door and locked it. She had been wearing an eye-mask,