IN THE END, MIRANDA agreed to be married from Broadhayes in the local church. It was such a perfect house to be married from and, unlike her home in Chelsea, there was room to put up their relations and friends. Anyway, David, at this time, would have made an indifferent host. Even by Christmas he still seemed unable to recover from the shock of Felicity’s death. Naturally, none of them felt able to mention it to Thea and she, sublimely unaware that they knew of Felicity’s existence, never mentioned her to them. They had none of the comfort of being able to tell themselves that her death had been accidental and even if David had known this to be the case he would have been unable to accept it. His whole being shrank from the horror of what he had done and when he came face to face with himself in the looking-glass each morning as he shaved, he saw the visage of a murderer.
Miranda, shocked and frightened at her part in it, thrust it deep down inside and refused to look at it at all. Even she was unable to say with conviction that Felicity had got what she asked for or that it was a just retribution. She pushed it out of sight and was glad when David returned to London and she no longer had to see his tortured eyes looking out of the carefully schooled mask that had become his face.
Tim fared best. Horrified though he was, he steadfastly refused to believe that Felicity had killed herself. Everything that they knew of her, he argued, went against that. Much more likely to have been accidental and, because of his love for Thea, he was able to remember what Felicity had been prepared to do to harm his cousin and could harden his heart. As the new year wore on, he was far too busy setting up his business and organising his new home to think of it at all and it sank gently into the recesses of his mind.
As the months went by they saw very little of David, who was busy with an exhibition in London, and Tim, alone at last with Miranda, was beginning to find that marriage was not quite the joy he had hoped for. Miranda’s tendencies to unexplained silences and prickly irritability worried him. It was borne slowly in upon him that she preferred them to live an almost reclusive life, where there could be no cause for jealousy or suspicion, and Tim, who had imagined them using Broadhayes to its maximum advantage—giving parties, keeping open house—was disappointed and puzzled. He spent more and more time in his office with his computers and made the most of his business trips to see friends and fulfil the naturally gregarious side of his personality and, although she hated it when he went away, Miranda seemed content enough to keep herself occupied with her own pursuits.
GEORGE’S GRIEF WAS VIOLENT but as proportionately short. Thea talked him through it as he had hoped she would, comforting him, guiding him kindly but firmly away from the boggy paths of guilt and self-pity and leading him to the higher paths where he could look back and remember Felicity with gratitude and affection. Perhaps she made it too easy for him to disown any responsibility but it was not in her interest—or his—to have him obsessed by remorse. She had no past memories to mourn over but a much more recent memory of a glowing, youthful-looking Felicity which she could describe to George, assuring and reassuring him that her death was an accident. George was only too ready to be convinced, to put it all behind him and to look forward to a life which seemed to have no cloud on its horizon.
In June when Thea gave birth to a daughter, Amelia, even she let the tragedy of Felicity’s unhappiness and death slide away. It was as though she had taken the pain from George to be dealt with in her own way and she mourned Felicity in a completely different manner. She mourned the sadness and unhappiness that had been Felicity’s lot by virtue of her character. What a blessing it is to be born with a happy, loving, generous disposition; what a handicap to start life with a tendency towards self-seeking and selfishness, an indifference to the well-being of others. Thea brooded on the ability to change oneself, to train and encourage the character towards a discipline that brought contentment and fulfilment. It depended upon so many things and it was impossible to judge the capabilities of others. The frailty of human nature and life itself weighed upon her soul and she sought her usual reassurance. The collect for the fourth Sunday after Epiphany brought her comfort.
O God, who knowest us to be set in the midst of so many and great dangers, that by reason of the frailty of our nature we cannot always stand upright: Grant to us such strength and protection, as may support us in all dangers, and carry us through all temptations; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
She left the care of Felicity’s soul in higher hands and turned her attention to her own household.
AS IN THE PAST, Kate’s mourning took place on the great open spaces of the moor. She looked back over the twenty years that she had known Felicity and her heart w as heavy. She wondered if Felicity had ever experienced real happiness. It seemed that this unknown man had shown her something, enabled her to experience some depth of feeling hitherto unknown to her. How cruel, then, to have it snatched away. Kate remembered how Felicity had sat at her kitchen table and wept and she knew that none of them had really known her. Perhaps Felicity had never truly known herself. As usual Kate’s fears and depression were soothed in the face of this great timeless world but they could not entirely be done away with.
I’m getting old, she thought and remembered Cass’s last letter.
Cass had felt it almost impossible to believe that her old enemy and sparring partner was dead. She still couldn’t take it in.
‘. . . It’s too awful, Kate,’she’d written. ‘It sounds so terribly unlike her, if you know what I mean. I simply can’t imagine her keeling over or giving in just for a mere man. It must have been an accident. Those awful heads she used to get. Perhaps she didn’t know what she was doing, especially if she’d been drinking. Oh, God! When I think of all that Felicity-baiting I used to do I feel very small and mean. I’m so glad you and she were together just before the end. That’s a comfort somehow. I wish I could have the chance to say I’m sorry. I was rotten to her sometimes. Oh dear. I’m crying now. She was an old cow, wasn’t she? But even so, she was part of us, part of all our pasts, and I’d give anything to see her again. She could be as rude as she liked! And when I think that she left everything to you I’m speechless! I could forgive her anything. Oh, Kate. Isn’t life hell? I think I must be getting old! Thank God we shall be home for Christmas . . . ’
Kate, too, still felt a spasm of shock when she woke each morning to the fact that Felicity had smoothed her path financially. It was such a very great blessing, to be eased from the pinching and saving of the day to day, but Kate felt uneasy at receiving such benefit in such a manner and her thoughts of Felicity were troubled and grateful in equal measure.
DAVID SIMPLY COULDN’T COME to terms with it. His mind played and replayed the same scene: Felicity dying. He saw this scene a hundred different ways while trying desperately to cling to Tim’s theory. Sometimes this seemed very reasonable. Felicity had been no neurotic, no unbalanced clinging female. She was a strong, forceful personality. Look how she had fought for George. At this point, David would remember that George, too, had rejected her and that even the most balanced of people can only take so much punishment. Even so . . . And so on and so on. His mind would tread the same well-worn circular path until he was exhausted.
His exhibition was a tremendous success but each painting was a reminder, a memory, a little stab to the heart, and he was glad to put it behind him. He visited Tim and Miranda as seldom as he could, afraid of resurrecting emotions or being obliged to talk about Felicity. If he had but known it there was no risk of that. At Broadhayes the subject was taboo by mutual consent but, at present, the mere presence of Tim and Miranda would have been too much for him. Anyway, he was enjoying his freedom. He hadn’t been alone for years and he found it soothing to potter quietly when the day’s work was done, listening to music, reading, inviting one or two of his closest friends to supper. Slowly the pain receded a little but the guilt lived on, fresh and new each morning, and he suspected that he would never be free of it.
EVEN POLLY, THOUGH SHE had never known Felicity, was affected by her death. Thea often talked of it with her, going over the mysterious circumstances, describing George’s reaction, reporting on his progress through the months. Polly was strangely moved by the idea of the lonely, unwanted woman, dying alone in the empty house. Had she regretted it when it became too late? Tried to raise help? What had been her last thoughts? She was moved to make greater efforts with Paul, who was even more deeply immersed in his work and—Polly suspected—Fiona. However, these efforts seemed to go unnoticed and, with the arrival of Amelia, Polly was often at the Old Station House and life gradually slipped back into its old pattern.
THE YEAR WORE ON and the anniversary of Felicity’s death arrived and passed. Those who had known her turned their eyes towards Christmas and a new year but they had all, in some way, been touched and changed and Felicity herself would have been surprised to know how often she was remembered, mourned, loved. Too late now, these emotions, to be of use to her, but they would go on working in other hearts and breasts and, because of her, thoughts and actions would be differently shaped and lives changed.