The Unseen(69)

‘Darling Amy, please don’t cry! The children must not see … Please, dearest, take heart. Archie loves you, and the children. I know he does, and you know it too. Perhaps men are indeed governed by stronger forces than we women … I can scarce credit a good man such as Archie behaving in such a manner if this weren’t the case. Can any of us see into the heart of another? Truly? Please don’t cry.’ Gradually, Amelia lifts her face and blots her eyes on her handkerchief.

‘Well, I have told him the contents of my heart. He is killing my love for him with his infidelity. Perhaps only one more incident, I told him, would be enough to wipe it away completely,’ she sniffs. Hester is too shocked to say anything to this. ‘And what of your marriage, Hetty? Do you fare any better of late?’ Amelia asks. Hester looks down, at her fingers nestled in the cotton folds of her dress. Such plump, smooth fingers; the nails buffed and clean. For some reason, she can hardly stand the sight of them, feels such a spasm of dislike for herself that she curls them into fists and squeezes until her nails bite into the heels of her hands.

‘I married for love, Amelia. As you know … as our parents lamented, albeit in their soft way. And I thought that, though I chose a humble man of limited means, I would have love, and be loved, and raise children surrounded by love …’ She looks across the scorched lawn to where John is teasing his sister, holding a ribbon he’d pulled from her hair above her head and snatching it away when she makes a grab for it. The little girl jumps and reaches quite amiably, always smiling, never losing her patience, and again Hester feels a violent pull of sympathy for her, of fellow feeling for their shared path in life.

‘And … are you not loved?’

‘Oh, I am loved. As a sister, as a friend. Not as I love him, I feel. Not as a wife. Not as a … lover.’ She takes a deep breath and sighs slowly, feeling the weight of her own words settling ever more heavily on her spirits. ‘And now he has a new friend, a new confidant, and I fear I am slipping further from his thoughts every day.’

‘Surely not, Hetty? Albert has always been so devoted to you,’ Amelia says.

‘Perhaps he was, once. But now, everything has changed. Even his parish is suffering the effects of his diversion by Mr Durrant.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well … For example, the other day, Pamela Urquhart called in to see if the vicar was unwell, since he hadn’t been to visit them for two weeks or more. Let me explain – Mrs Urquhart’s father is very old and infirm, and has been awaiting death for some time now. He suffers a great deal, poor man, and finds his faith tested daily, and he hasn’t been able to come to church for many months. Albert made a habit of calling on him to offer comfort and prayer, at least two times a week, but his visits, since the theosophist arrived, have ceased. I just don’t know what to make of it, Amy. It’s so unlike Albert to neglect his duties, but this new interest seems to be taking precedence over all other concerns.’

‘This new interest – do you mean in theosophy, or in Mr Durrant?’ Amy asks, pointedly.

‘Theosophy … or rather, both, I suppose,’ Hester says, looking up at her sister and trying to read her expression.

‘This is a troubling evolution, indeed. I wonder … I wonder quite what it is about the man that draws Albert so?’

‘You think it’s the man, then, and not the ideas he’s brought with him?’

‘Well, don’t you, dearest? After all, I expect Albert has known about fairies and theosophy for quite some time. How is it that only when Mr Durrant appears does it become all-consuming?’

‘Amy – I don’t understand,’ Hester says, desperately.

‘Perhaps I am wrong. I must meet the young man again, and get to know him a little better,’ Amelia replies, leaning back in her chair and letting her gaze fall into the distance. Her tears, already dried by the sun, have left faint pink streaks in her face powder.

‘Well, of course you shall,’ Hester says, still trying to make out her sister’s meaning.


In the kitchen, Cat slides the empty tray onto the table top and crosses to the sink. She thrusts her hands into the basin of water where the milk jugs are standing, supposedly keeping cold, but the water is blood temperature. She splashes some onto her wrists and wipes her wet hands over the back of her neck nonetheless, hoping to feel it cool her.

‘This milk will have gone by the evening,’ she warns Mrs Bell, who sits wedged into her chair, the newspaper spread open on the table in front of her.

‘It’ll turn all the quicker if you keep dipping your hot hands into the basin,’ the housekeeper observes.