Wideacre

15

In the morning she was the same. In the afternoon she received some callers and while I worked in the office I wondered if the babble of high voices and the tinkle of laughter would tire and undermine her. When I came down to dinner in the evening, my silk skirts rustling, my own head held high, she met me look for look. She was unbending. She was mistress of the house.

I claimed Harry’s hand and we went in for dinner with John squiring Celia to her place. He had now been a full day without a drink and his hands were shaking and there was a nervous tremor around his mouth. But with Celia on his arm his head was up and his walk was straight. I glanced covertly at them and they looked like a pair of heroes who had survived the worst of their adventure. They both looked tired: John was in bad shape physically, and Celia had violet shadows under her brown eyes to bear witness that her anger had made her sleepless for another night, but they looked ready to follow any thread into any maze and face any bull-like monster that might be lurking in the darkness there.

There was no wine at dinner. John drank water, Celia sipped at a glass of lemonade, and Harry had a pint mug full of water at his plate. Harry looked sour, as well he might, and I took my lemonade in mutinous silence. None of us made any attempt to maintain the appearance of a normal meal. I would normally set a conversation going and include Harry and Celia, but tonight I was sulky and unprepared for this defeat. The meal was brief and when Celia and I rose to withdraw I was relieved to see that the gentlemen were coming with us. I had not relished the prospect of private time alone with Celia before the parlour fire.

We ordered the tea table early and sat in silence, like suspicious strangers. When I had drunk my tea I put the cup down in the saucer with a decisive click and said to Harry, ‘Would you come to my office, Harry, if there is nothing you would rather do? I have had a letter about water rights on the Fenny and I want you to see the problem with a map.’

Celia’s eyes were on me, and I saw that she was testing my words for the truth.

‘That is, if Celia permits,’ I said sharply, and watched her quick rise of colour and her eyes drop in what looked like shame.

‘Of course,’ she said, softly. ‘I shall be going to the library to read in a few moments.’

I did not bother to maintain the pretence once I had shut my office door, but I spun round on it, leaned against the panels and said imperiously to Harry, ‘You must stop Celia with this madness. She will drive us all crazy.’

Harry threw himself into the armchair by the fire like a sulky schoolboy.

‘There’s nothing I can do!’ he said with irritation. ‘I spoke to her this morning for she would hear nothing about it last night, and she just said again, “I am Lady Lacey and John will not have drink in my house.’”

‘She’s your wife,’ I said crudely. ‘She has to obey you, and she used to be frightened of you. Threaten her, raise your voice to her. Break some china near her, hit her. Anything, Harry. For we cannot go on like this.’

Harry raised his eyes to me. He looked aghast.

‘Beatrice, you forget,’ he stumbled. ‘We are talking about Celia! I could no more shout at her than I could fly to the moon. She is not the sort of woman one shouts at. I could not possibly try to frighten her. I could not begin to do it. I could never wish to do it.’

I chewed the inside of my lip to control my rising temper.

‘Well, as you like, Harry. But we will have a pretty miserable Christmas on Wideacre if Celia keeps the wine locked away. You cannot even have a glass of port after dinner. How will we entertain our guests? What can we offer callers at noon or dinner? This plan of Celia’s simply won’t work and you must tell her so.’

‘I have tried,’ Harry said feebly. ‘But she just keeps on about John. She is really determined to stop him drinking, you know, Beatrice. She will not hear of any other course.’

His face softened. ‘And she is right when she says how happy we were before Mama died. If he did stop drinking, Beatrice, and you and he were happy together again, that is worth any amount of sacrifice, is it not?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said sweetly. ‘But in the meantime, Harry, it grieves me to see Celia, who used to care for your comfort so well, forbidding you the smallest of innocent pleasures: like a glass of sherry before your dinner, and a glass of port with a friend. You will be the laughing-stock of the county if this gets out. How people will joke about Wideacre gone teetotal, and a Squire so much under the cat’s paw that he is not even allowed a glass of his own wine.’

Harry’s rosebud mouth turned down still further.

‘It’s bad, I know,’ he said. ‘But Celia is determined.’

‘But we agree with her!’ I said beguilingly. ‘We too think John should stop his drinking. It is just that we know that here we cannot ensure that he has no access to drink. The only way to do it is to send him to a doctor who can cure him. I have looked into this and there is a Dr Rose at Bristol who specializes in precisely this problem. Why do we not send John there? He can stay till he is cured, and when he comes home he will be well and we can all be happy again.’

Harry’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes, and while he is away everything can be as normal again here,’ he said, visibly cheered.

‘Well, put the scheme to Celia now,’ I said. ‘Suggest it straight away and then we can have John out of the house within the week.’

Harry bounced from his chair with new energy and left the office. I waited. I reread the letter about the water rights, which is every landowner’s nightmare, and checked the claims against a map. It was a farmer further down the valley of the Fenny who was following a new-fangled plan of irrigation to grow some moisture-loving crop on his land. He had dug some fancy channels and was all ready to open the sluice gates from the Fenny when suddenly the water level had dropped. It was our millpond filling up after a period of milling, and if the man had been farming with an eye on the river rather than his nose in a book he would have seen the changing levels of the Fenny before he put his expensive gates in place.

Now his work would have to be redone, and he was blaming us and insisting on a guaranteed flow as if I could manage the rainfall. I became absorbed in drafting the reply, and barely glanced up when the door clicked.

I had been expecting Harry to return and tell me all was well, but it was Celia. I thought I saw a gleam of tears in her eyes and assumed that Harry had won the argument. But then I saw the purpose in her face, and the look she gave me was not that of a beaten woman.

‘Beatrice, Harry came to talk to me, but I think everything he said was what you had told him,’ she said firmly. I detected, to my amazement, a slight tone of disdain in her voice.

‘I am sure we know each other well enough for you to speak to me directly,’ she said. I was right, her tone was scornful. ‘Perhaps you will tell me now what is in your mind regarding your husband?’

I pushed the letters to one side, and folded the map carefully while keeping my eyes on this brave child who had left her ladylike pursuits to come so dauntlessly into my office.

‘Please sit down, Celia,’ I said politely. She pulled one of the hard-backed chairs from around the rent table and sat in it, straight-backed. I moved from my desk to sit beside her; I tried to put a warm compassionate look in my eyes but I found her direct candid gaze too disconcerting.

‘We cannot go on as we are,’ I said, my voice concerned. ‘You saw how uncomfortable it was at dinner today. We cannot possibly have evening after evening like this, Celia.’

She nodded. My reasonable tone was undermining her anger. I was making her see the problem of John as a trouble we all shared. I was detaching her from the idea that he was her responsibility in a world that cared nothing for him, perhaps even with a wife who was happy to do him harm.

‘I think we could manage for a short time,’ she said consideringly. ‘I do not think John’s problem is so deep-seated that he needs longer than perhaps a few weeks’ freedom from temptation.’

‘Celia,’ I said earnestly. ‘He is my husband. I do think about what is best for him. His health and happiness are my concern.’

Her eyes came up at the tone of tenderness in my voice and she stared curiously at me.

‘Do you mean that?’ she asked baldly. ‘Or is it something you are saying?’

‘Celia!’ I said. But my reproachful remonstrance had not maintained its power.

‘I am sorry if I sound impolite,’ she said evenly. ‘But I simply cannot understand your behaviour. If you do care for John you should be desperate for him to be well. Yet I do not see that.’

‘I cannot explain,’ I said, my voice low. ‘I cannot forgive him for Mama’s death. I wish him to be well, but I cannot yet love him as I ought.’

‘But you will, Beatrice!’ said Celia, her face suddenly lightening with sympathy for me. ‘As soon as he is well again, your love will return. I know things will be happy between you once more.’

I smiled, sweet as sugar. ‘But Celia, you have your husband to consider too,’ I said. ‘It is one thing for me to say there shall be no drink served here, but it is hard for you because you will make Harry so uncomfortable.’

Celia’s face hardened, and I guessed she had already faced this argument upstairs.

‘It is not much to ask of a man,’ she said firmly. ‘It is not too much to ask of a man, that he should give up drinking for a few short weeks when the happiness, perhaps even the life, of his sister’s husband depends on it.’

‘No, indeed,’ I said nodding. ‘Providing he does give up. But what if all you succeed in doing is to drive Harry away from his home?’

Celia’s eyes flew anxiously to my face.

‘There are many families round here who would be happy to see Harry for dinner every day of the week,’ I said. ‘They would not trouble him with tragedy-queen scenes when he is tired and wants a quiet drink and a good meal. They would be happy to see him, show him a smiling face, serve him with the best that they have in the house, and make him feel comfortable and beloved. There is young company at some of the houses too,’ I went on, twisting the knife. ‘After dinner Harry may find himself dancing. And some of the prettiest girls in England are to be found in the farmers’ houses around here. And they’d all be more than glad to dance with the Squire.’

When one loves, one gives hostage to the future. Celia, who had once told me that she would have liked Harry to take a mistress, now looked horrified at the thought of him dancing with a pretty girl.

‘Harry would never be unfaithful to you,’ I said reassuringly. ‘I am sure he would not. But you could hardly blame a man for dining away from home when his home is made uncomfortable for him.’

Celia turned her head away and rose from the table in a sudden sharp movement that told me that the picture of Harry away from home on pleasure jaunts alone was more than she could face. I sat still and said nothing. I gave her a good few minutes while she stood beside the fireplace resting her head on the high mantelpiece and looking down at the burning logs.

‘What do you think we should do, Beatrice?’ she asked. I gave a silent sigh. I was in control once more.

‘I think we should find a good doctor to take John into his own home to cure him,’ I said. ‘This drinking is not weakness, Celia. It is more like an illness. John cannot help himself. What I would like would be for him to go away to a really first-class specialist and for us to keep his home safe and happy for him. Then when he returns we can all be as we were.’

‘And you will love him again, Beatrice?’ Celia’s eyes on me were bright with the challenge. ‘For I know it is the way things are between you which is the worst of all for him.’

I smiled with relish at the thought of the day-long torture I was to John.

‘Yes, indeed,’ I said, my voice tender. ‘I shall never be out of his sight.’

Celia came back to me, seated at the table, and knelt beside my chair.

‘Is that a promise, Beatrice?’ Her honest eyes scanned my face.

I held her gaze, my face as clear as my conscience.

‘On my honour,’ I said solemnly.

Celia, overwrought and anxious, gave a little sob and buried her face in the silk of my skirt. I rested one gentle hand on her bowed head. Poor Celia! She understood so little, and she tried to do so much.

I stroked her hair soothingly. It was soft as warm silk to the touch.

‘Silly Celia,’ I said lovingly. ‘And what a scene you made of it yesterday!’

She turned her face into my lap and then looked up at me smiling.

‘I don’t know what I was thinking of,’ she confessed. ‘Something in my head just broke and I was so angry I did not know what I was saying or doing. I have been so worried for John, and so afraid about what was happening. Nobody seemed to be like themselves any more: you, Harry, John of course. It all seemed so different, so strange, when, before, we were all so happy. There seemed to be something poisoning the whole house.’

My smile hid my sudden shock. I had heard this before. Celia was talking just as Mama had done. They both had a sense of the corruption between Harry and me. It was as if our sin were some rotting thing in the house that stank until anyone close to us could smell it, but not know what it was. I gave a little shudder at the thought and bent down to bury my own face in Celia’s sweet-smelling hair.

‘Let us talk no more tonight,’ I said. ‘In the morning I shall show you a letter I have had from a Dr Rose at Bristol, and if you agree he sounds like the very person for John then we can send for him to come and see John here.’

Celia got obediently to her feet. She looked tremendously relieved. I had stripped her of her power by using my wits and by exploiting her own trusting nature. She was free again to be the loving wife and the pet of the household. She went lightly to the door and whispered, ‘Goodnight, God bless you,’ and then left me. I smiled at the embers of the logs and sat before the fire with my feet on the fender. Celia had caused me some alarm, but I had her back in my hand now. I rang the bell for my maid, Lucy.

‘Fetch me a glass of port from the hamper that was delivered from Chichester, please,’ I said to her. ‘And take the bottle into Mr MacAndrew’s bedroom.’

Afterwards I wanned my toes, and sipped my glass until I was called to supper. I read in the parlour until the clocks chimed midnight and, at the witching hour, I went to my bed and slept.

It was a busy week for me. I replied to Dr Rose and asked him and his partner to come and see John, and, if they thought him likely to respond to treatment, to take him back in their carriage. Left to me, John could have gone into a public hospital for the insane where the lunatics wallowed in their own filth and jabbered like monkeys in corners. But Dr Rose’s place was quite different. He had a small manor house outside Bristol and took only half-a-dozen patients. His method was slowly to reduce their alcohol, or drugs, until they were able to face the day with only very small amounts. In some cases they learned to do without their laundanum, opium or alcohol altogether, and could return to their friends and families completely cured.

As soon as that letter had gone off I received one from the London lawyers, who were ready to take steps to buy the entail if I thought the capital to compensate Charles Lacey would be forthcoming. My married name, MacAndrew, inspired a good deal of respect in the City and the letter was positively servile. But they would not be doing their job if they had not cautioned me that the cost of buying the entail was likely to be as much as £200,000. I nibbled the end of my pen and smiled at that. A week ago and I would have been in despair, but now, I thought, with sweet Celia’s help, I might be able to find that sum within the month. So I wrote them a guarded reply and told them to open negotiations with Charles and to keep the price as low as possible.

The second letter I had was from a London merchant who had been approached by our solicitors about a possible mortgage to raise the capital we would need to pay the legal fees. The MacAndrew fortune would stretch only so far, and we would have to mortgage some of Wideacre’s lovely land to take the whole of the estate for my son. If the figures I had calculated were right, I should be able to pay off the mortgage before Richard was even twenty-one. With extra corn grown on the common, extra rents paid, and bad debts called in, Wideacre could nearly double its profits. But it would be a hard winter for the people if we did all that. The merchant, Mr Llewellyn, offered to drive down to Wideacre to see the land for himself, and I sent him a civil invitation to come within the week.

And then I tired of my office and the four walls around me and slipped upstairs to Richard’s nursery where he was in the middle of his breakfast.

There is nothing, nothing in the world messier than a young child learning to feed himself. And, providing you do not have to touch him yourself, no sight more endearing. Richard grabbed unsteadily at his cup of milk and splashed at his face, getting some, accidentally I think, in his mouth. His little fist closed on a slice of bread and butter and he ate from his own hand like a little savage. His buttery, milky, stained face beamed at me through a mask of food and I beamed back.

‘Isn’t he growing!’ I said to Nurse.

‘Indeed, yes,’ she said, hovering with a wet cloth waiting for Richard to conclude this feast of the senses. ‘And so strong and so clever too!’

‘Dress him warmly,’ I said. ‘I shall take him out driving in the new trap I bought. You will come too.’

‘There!’ she said to Richard approvingly. ‘Won’t that be a treat!’

She wiped him clean and lifted him from the chair to take him through’ to his bedroom. I heard his protesting wails as she stripped and cleaned him, and I stood, idle, by the nursery fire smiling at the noise. He has a good pair of lungs, my son Richard, and a will as strong as my own. When they came out together he was dressed as I had ordered, but his hapless nurse looked ruffled and cross.

‘Mama!’ he said, and scrambled across the room in a little rolling crawl to my feet. My skirts billowed as I plumped down beside him on the floor and lifted him to my face. His gentle little hand patted my cheek and his deep blue eyes were fixed on mine with the unswerving love that only very small well-loved children give. I buried my face in his neck and kissed him hard, and then I play-bit his little bulging tummy, so full of bread and milk, and tickled his warm well-covered ribs until he gurgled and whooped for mercy.

While Nurse found her bonnet and shawl and an extra blanket for him, I romped and played with him like a child myself. I hid behind the armchair and popped out at him to his uproarious delight. I hid his moppet behind me and let him find her. I tumbled him over and rolled him on the floor, then I tossed him up to the ceiling and pretended to drop him in a great giggly swoop down to the floor.

Then I caught him up to me and carried him down the west-wing stairs out through the side entrance to the stable yard. John was just coming in and he froze to see me, my child on my hip, my face flushed with love and laughter. I handed Richard to Nurse, who took him on out to see the horses.

‘Thank you for your present of last night,’ said John. His face was sickly white. He looked as if he had drunk deep.

‘You are welcome,’ I said icily. ‘You can be sure that I will always keep you supplied with whatever you need.’

His mouth trembled. ‘Beatrice, for pity’s sake don’t…’ he said. ‘It is an awful thing to do to a man. I have seen better men than I end up as puking puppies in the street through drinking continually to excess. Celia thinks she can cure me; she says you all three agreed there should be no drink left in the house. Please don’t send me bottles like that.’

I shrugged. ‘If you do not want them, don’t drink them,’ I said. ‘I cannot make the whole of Sussex dry for you. There will always be drink around, perhaps one or another servant will always bring you a glass. I cannot help that.’

‘You can help it, Beatrice, for you order it,’ he said with an invalid’s sudden nervous energy. ‘Your word is the law at Wideacre. If you had a mind to save me you could ban drink from the whole estate and no one would disobey you.’

I smiled slowly into his red-rimmed eyes.

‘That’s true,’ I said, my face as sweet as a May morning. ‘But I will never ban drink from where you are, because I am content to see you destroy yourself. There will be no peace for you while I am here. And every time you open a drawer, or reach underneath your bed, or open a cupboard, there will be a bottle waiting. And nothing you do, or Celia does, can prevent that.’

‘I will tell Celia,’ he said desperately. ‘I will tell her you are determined to destroy me.’

‘Tell Celia!’ I laughed, a hard scornful laugh. ‘Run to Celia and tell her. I shall say I have not even seen you today, that you are dreaming. That I sent no port to you, that the cellar doors are still locked, which they are. Tell anyone whatever you like,’ I said triumphantly. ‘Nothing will save you from drink while you are on my land.’

I swept past him, my step as light and carefree as a girl’s and I caught my son up from his nurse. John heard Richard crow with laughter to be in my arms again, and then heard my sharp order to the grooms to hold the horse steady while I climbed into the trap with the precious burden.

As I took the reins in my gloved hands and clicked to the horse I glanced back at the door. John was standing where I had left him, his face greeny-white, his shoulders slumped in despair. Somewhere, lost in the back of my mind, was a sharp pain to see him so defeated, so driven. But I remembered his attack on me, his affection for Celia, and jealousy, fear, my own driving will, kept me hard. I know no half-measures. I had loved this man most truly; now I hated and feared him. I clicked to the horse and we drove out past him, into the bright sunshine of a Wideacre winter day.

I had him on the run, my husband. He spoke privately with Celia some time while I was out on my drive, and when I came home I noticed her face at the window of the parlour. As I expected, Stride came out to the stable yard with a message from her. He waited while I held Richard up to stroke the horse’s nose, and while I fed it a handful of corn from my pocket; then he told me Lady Lacey would like to see me at once, if it was convenient. I nodded, gave Richard a good hard hug, and told him to eat up all his dinner and went with a quick step to the parlour.

Celia was sewing in the window seat and her face was pale and tired again.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said blithely. ‘I have come straight to you smelling of horse and must be quick, for I have to change.’

Celia nodded with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

‘Have you seen John today, Beatrice?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said lightly. ‘I passed him on the stairs this morning but we did not speak.’

Her look was suddenly intent. ‘You said nothing to each other?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said casually. ‘I had Richard with me, and John looked ill. I did not want him upsetting the child.’

Celia’s face was aghast. ‘Beatrice, I am so afraid!’ she exclaimed. I turned to her in surprise.

‘Celia, what is it?’ I asked, full of concern. ‘What has happened?’

‘It is John,’ she said, nearly in tears. ‘I think he is delirious with drink.’

I feigned shock, and sat beside her on the window seat, taking her embroidery from her still hands.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What is happening?’

Celia gave a muffled sob and dipped her face into her hands. ‘John came to me just after breakfast,’ she said. ‘He looked dreadful and he talked wildly. He said you were a witch, Beatrice. That you were a woman possessed by the land. He said that you had killed for the land. That you were trying to kill him. That you had promised that everywhere he went there would be drink until he was dead from it. And when I told him that he was dreaming, he looked at me wildly and said, “You too! She has captured you too!” and he dashed from the room.’

I put my arm around her and Celia leaned her soft pliant body against me and wept into my shoulder.

‘There, there,’ I said. ‘Don’t cry so, Celia. It sounds so very bad, but I am sure we can cure John in the end. It sounds indeed as if he is half crazed, but we can help him.’

Celia shuddered with a sob and was still.

‘He talks as if it were all your fault,’ she whispered. ‘He talks as if you were a monster. He calls you a witch, Beatrice.’

‘It is often the way,’ I said steadily, sadly. ‘Men who drink so much often turn against the very people they love most in the world. It is part of the madness, I think.’

Celia nodded, and straightened up, drying her eyes.

‘He had a drink last night,’ she said sadly. ‘I was not able to prevent that. He told me it simply appeared in his room. He said you had cursed him with drink every time he reaches out a hand.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose he would blame me for everything. He loves me still in his heart. That is why he has turned against me now.’

Celia looked at me wonderingly. ‘You are so calm,’ she said.

‘He seems to me to be going mad, and yet you are so calm, Beatrice.’

I raised my head and looked at her tired face with eyes that were filled with tears. ‘I have had much sorrow in my life, Celia,’ I said sadly. ‘I lost my papa when I was only fifteen, and my mama just after my nineteenth birthday. Now I fear my husband is going mad with drink. I weep inside, Celia. But I have learned to be brave while there is work, and plans to be made.’

Celia nodded respectfully.

‘You are braver and stronger than I,’ she said. ‘For I have been in tears all morning ever since I saw John. I simply do not know what we can do.’

I nodded. ‘The problem is too great for us to try to handle alone,’ I said. ‘He must go to some specialist who will be able to care for him properly. Dr Rose should come this week with his partner and they could take John back to Bristol with them.’

Celia’s face lightened with hope.

‘But would he go?’ she asked. ‘He was talking so wildly, Beatrice, as if he trusted no one. He might refuse to go with them.’

‘If they agree to take him, agree that he needs treatment, we can force him to take treatment with them,’ I said. ‘They can sign a contract promising to house and treat him until he is well enough to come home.’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Celia. ‘I know so little about such things.’

‘Nor did I,’ I said ruefully. ‘But I have had to learn. This Dr Rose writes that if John can be persuaded to meet him and just talk with him he will be able to advise us. Do you think John would take your advice and agree to meet Dr Rose and his partner if you asked it of him? If you gave him your word it was for the best?’

Celia frowned. ‘I think so. Yes, I am sure he would,’ she said. ‘He accused you and Harry of being in some dreadful league for Wideacre, but he does not seem to doubt my affection for him. If this Dr Rose comes soon I am sure John will see him if I promise him that it is in his own interest.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then you must keep my name out of it altogether. Just let him think that they are doctors you have found for him, and then he will trust them and talk to them, and his poor delirious mind will have some peace.’

Celia snatched at my hand and kissed it.

‘You are good, Beatrice,’ she said chokingly. ‘I think I must have been as crazy with worry as John is with drink. Of course I will do whatever you think best. I know all you are thinking of is the good of all of us. I will trust you.’

I smiled sweetly and pulled her face up so I could kiss her cheek.

‘Dear little Celia,’ I said lovingly. ‘How could you ever have doubted me?’

She clung to my hands like a drowning woman.

‘You can free us from this madness, I know,’ she whispered. ‘I have tried and tried but it only seems to become worse. But you can make it all right again, Beatrice.’

‘Yes, I can,’ I said gently. ‘Be guided by me and nothing can be as bad as this again. We can save John.’

She gave another little sob and I slid my arm around her waist. We sat quiet in the window seat warmed by the winter sun on our backs for a long peaceful time.

I left the parlour well satisfied. Celia was snared by her own faith in me, and I had made John’s accusations mere evidence of his madness. In the mire of sin that held us all and muddied every clarity, John’s solitary clear vision was incomprehensible. They could have as many afternoons as they wished drinking strong sweet tea and trying to keep John from alcohol. Drunk or sober, as soon as my name was mentioned John would sound like a madman. But during those afternoons Celia, loyally and faithfully doing my witch’s work, spoke to John of the reputation of Dr Rose, and persuaded him to meet the specialist. She did better than that; she persuaded John that the only way he could be cured of his terror of me and his addiction to drink would be in the haven of Dr Rose’s Bristol clinic. And John, drinking and sobering in a haze of nauseous remorse, haunted by bottles tucked into his bed or between his linen, terrified of the gulf that yawned before him, and seeing my witch’s smile and my cat’s eyes every night and day, promised he would go.

The day of the doctor’s visit John had kept sober. I heard him, in the bedroom next to mine, sleeplessly pacing. When he went to throw himself into bed I heard him groan as he found on the pillows a bottle of port. Then I heard the clatter of his boots on the west-wing stairs as he fled the house to the icy garden to escape the lure of the drink. I dozed then, and heard him come in, in the early hours of the morning. He must have been frozen. The December mornings showed a heavy frost and often in the night we had a light dusting of snow. John had walked all night, wrapped in his driving coat, tears freezing on his cheeks, in a panic of fear to be away from the house, to set dark miles between him and me. But he was still on my land.

He came home, teeth chattering with the cold, and I heard him poking the fire in his bedroom for the warmth. He kept his back to his bed, and to the warming drink that was his for the pouring. Dozing in my nest of blankets, I heard him walking, walking in the bedroom, like a ferret dipping and running along the front of its cage. Then I slept, and when my maid came with my early-morning chocolate he was quiet.

‘Where’s Mr MacAndrew?’ I asked.

‘In Miss Julia’s nursery,’ said Lucy with surprise in her voice. ‘Mrs Aliens says he went up there early this morning to get warm by the fire, and he has stayed there drinking coffee.’

I nodded and smiled. But I minded little either way. John could stay sober today or he could drink. It made no odds. He was in the grip of a nightmare and was starting to doubt the truths he had so painfully learned. Only one person in the house was safe for John: Celia. He trusted Celia. If he could not be with her, he went to be with her child: Julia. Everywhere else there might be a bottle waiting, or some new madness around the corner. But with her child he was safe. With Celia he was safe.

I dressed in my black morning gown and tied a black ribbon around my head to keep the hair back from my face. My skin glowed against the dull sheen of the gown, a cream rose, my eyes dark as pine trees with sadness. I breakfasted alone and then sat in my office. I did not have long to wait until I heard the sound of a post-chaise, and moved to the main part of the house to greet Dr Rose and his partner, Dr Hilary, in the hall. We went into the library.

‘How long has your husband been drinking, Mrs Mac-Andrew?’ asked Dr Rose. He was a tall man, handsome, brown-haired, brown-eyed, high-coloured. He had been struck by me when he saw me, slim as an ebony wand in the shadowed hall. But now he had pen and paper before him and was doing his job.

‘I have seen him drinking since his return from Scotland,’ I said. ‘That was seven months ago. Since then he has had few days sober — but I believe whisky was always drunk in his father’s home, and he drank excessively after the death of his mother.’

Dr Rose nodded and made a note. His partner sat beside him in a hard-backed chair and listened. He was a burly giant of a man, blond, with a stolid face. It would be him, I thought, who could be trusted to restrain insane patients, or to fell them with one well-placed blow behind the ear if they became unmanageable.

‘Any reason for him to start drinking?’ asked Dr Rose.

I glanced down at my clasped hands. ‘I had just given birth to our first child,’ I said, my voice low. ‘I had known before our marriage that he was madly jealous, but I had not understood how desperate he was. He was in Scotland when our child was born, and when he came home he became obsessed with the thought that the child was not his.’

Dr Rose pursed his lips and looked professionally neutral. But no man could have avoided sympathizing with such a pretty victim.

‘That night my mama was taken ill and died,’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper. ‘My husband was too drunk to care for her properly and blamed himself for that.’ My head drooped lower. ‘Since then, our lives have been a misery,’ I said.

Dr Rose nodded, and stilled the impulse to pat my hand in comfort.

‘Does he know we are coming?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In his lucid moments he is very anxious to be well again. I think he has taken nothing to drink today. So you should see him at his best.’

The doctor nodded.

‘I thought you might like to meet him informally,’ I said. ‘He is in the parlour with my sister-in-law. We could go there for coffee if you wish.’

‘An excellent idea,’ said Dr Rose, and I led the way to Celia’s parlour.

Celia had done a fine job this morning, keeping John out of the way while the doctors arrived, and then bringing him to the parlour for coffee with her. He was surprised when I entered the room and when he saw the two men with me his hand trembled so that he had to put his cup down on the table. He shot a look at Celia, which she met with a reassuring smile, but it had shaken his confidence in her that I was involved in this visit.

‘This is Dr Rose and Dr Hilary,’ I said. ‘My sister-in-law, Lady Lacey, and my husband, Mr Mac Andrew.”

No one commented on the fact that I had dropped John’s title from my speech, but Celia’s eyes were on my face as she gave her hand to the two men and bade them sit.

I glided to the coffee pot and poured three cups. John watched Dr Rose like a bird watches a snake, and he kept a wide berth from the massive bulk of Dr Hilary, who eased himself into one of Celia’s slight chairs like a bailiff on house arrest duty.

‘I have heard a little about your problem,’ said Dr Rose to John, his voice son. ‘I think we can probably help you with it. I run a small house outside Bristol where you could come and stay if you wished. There are four patients with me now. One is addicted to laudanum and the other three have trouble with drink. They each have a private room and plenty of quiet and privacy while they come to terms with the cause of their problem and learn to resist the craving. I use limited amounts of laudanum in the early days, so the worst period is eased. And I have had some remarkable successes.’

John nodded. He was as taut as a trip-wire. Celia’s eyes on his face glowed with support and love. He kept glancing at her as a superstitious man might touch a lucky charm. He seemed reassured by the softness of Dr Rose’s voice. But he kept a wary eye on Dr Hilary, who looked at his own boots and sat like a mountain, still on the chair.

‘I am willing to come to you,’ said John, his voice a thread with strain.

‘Good,’ said Dr Rose, smiling reassuringly. ‘I am glad. I am sure we can help you.’

‘I will order your bags to be packed,’ I said and slipped from the room. After I had spoken with John’s valet I lingered in the hall outside to listen.

‘There are just some papers which need to be signed.’ I could hear Dr Rose’s gentle tones. ‘Just formalities. Sign here, please.’ I heard the rustle of the documents as he passed them to John and then the scratch of the pen as John signed. I smiled, and went into the room.

It was too soon.

I had mistimed my return. I had been impatient when I should have waited longer. John had signed the first document, agreeing to accept Dr Rose’s prescriptions, but he had not reached the power of attorney. My return to the room distracted him, and the pen hovered as he glanced at the close-printed text.

‘What’s this?’ he said, his voice suddenly sharp, his eyes narrowed. Dr Rose glanced across.

‘That is a power of attorney document,’ he said, his tone still smooth. ‘It is usual for people committed to my care to leave their business affairs in the hands of a responsible relation, in case any decision needs to be made while they are with me.’

John glanced wildly around the circle of our reassuring, smiling faces.

‘Committed?’ he said, his trained mind picking out the one, revealing word. ‘Committed? I was coming to you as a voluntary patient.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Dr Rose. ‘But as a mere formality we always have our patients committed in case their craving for drink becomes too much for them. So we can keep them in, away from suppliers.’

‘Locked up?’ said John, his voice harsh with shock. ‘These papers take my fortune from me and commit me to a lunatic asylum! Don’t they? Don’t they?’ He rounded, in a panic, on Celia. ‘Did you know of this?’ he asked fiercely. ‘This was your idea; you persuaded me it would save me. Did you plan this?’

‘Well, yes, John,’ said Celia, unable to speak coherently while John became more and more frantic. ‘But it could be no harm, surely?’

‘Who has my estate?’ John demanded. He grabbed at the document and the rest of the papers slid in a sheaf to the floor.

‘Harry Lacey, and Harry Lacey’s lawyers!’ he exclaimed. ‘And we all know who controls Harry Lacey, don’t we?’ He shot a venomous but frightened look at me. Then he dropped the paper from his hand altogether as the realization hit him.

‘My God, Beatrice. You are stealing my fortune and putting me away!’ he said in horror. ‘You are having me locked up, and robbing me.’

Dr Rose gave an inconspicuous nod to Dr Hilary but John saw it at once. Dr Hilary rose ponderously to his feet and John screamed like a terrified child.

‘No!’ he cried. ‘No!’ and he broke for the door, knocking over the little table and Celia’s workbox. Spools of cotton and coffee cups scattered over the carpet and then, moving surprisingly fast for a heavy man, Dr Hilary dived for John’s feet and brought him down to the floor in a crashing tackle. Celia screamed, and I clenched my hands in horror as the heavy man pinned John to the floor.

Dr Rose pulled a strait-jacket from his case and handed it to Dr Hilary. John shrieked in panic and terror, ‘No! No! Celia! Celia, don’t let them!’

Celia snatched at the strait-jacket but I was at her side in an instant. I grabbed her and held her tight. She pushed me away and cried out, ‘Beatrice! Beatrice! You must stop them! There is no need for this! Stop them hurting John! Stop them tying him!’

With deft skilful hands Dr Hilary had slid John’s flailing arms into the jacket and rolled him over as neatly as a trussed chicken with both hands tied around his belly and strapped behind his back. John’s back arched; his eyes bulged in a contortion of terror.

‘You are a devil, Beatrice,’ he moaned. ‘You are the devil itself.’

John’s eyes rolled towards Dr Rose. ‘Don’t do this,’ he said. His voice had gone; his throat was so tight with terror he could only croak. ‘No! I beg of you. Please don’t let this happen to me. It is a plot. I can explain it. My wife wants me put away. She is a whore and a murderess.’

Celia broke from me and swooped down to kneel beside John.

‘No,’ she said urgently. ‘Don’t say such things, John. Don’t be like this. Be calm, and all will be well.’

John’s mouth widened in a soundless scream of horror.

‘And now she has you!’ he said despairingly. ‘You betrayed me to these men, to her henchmen. She set you on to trap me and you did her dirty work for her. You …!’ He broke off and gazed wildly at the four of us, seeking help.

‘Beatrice, you are the devil,’ he gasped again. ‘A devil. God save me from you and from this infernal Wideacre.’ He gave a hoarse sob and said no more. I stood in silence. Dr Rose glanced at me curiously. My face was stony, white as milk. Celia had fallen back from John’s side as soon as he turned on her, and was weeping with her hands over her eyes to shut out the sight of her brother-in-law bound on the floor of the pretty parlour of her home.

I was as still as a frozen river. I could not believe this scene before my eyes, even though I had known that something like this could happen. I put one hand behind me until I felt the chair and then I sank on to it, my eyes still on John. I saw his eyelids flutter and close and his chest beneath his crossed arms heaved with a sigh.

Dr Rose stepped towards him and raised his head.

‘Put him straight in the carriage,’ he said to Dr Hilary. ‘He’s fine.’

The big man lifted John as if he were a child and carried him gently from the room. Dr Rose helped Celia to a chair but she neither looked at him nor stopped her heartbroken, gasping sobs.

‘It is very distressing, but not unusual in these cases,’ Dr Rose said gently to me. I nodded with a stiff strained movement. I sat bolt upright in the chair as if I were nailed to it. I ached all over from every tense rigid muscle, and my neck and head were hot with pain.

‘Dr Hilary and I will certainly sign the committal papers,’ said Dr Rose, gathering them from the floor. ‘I will need also the signature of a male relative.’

‘Certainly,’ I said. My lips were numb.

‘We prefer our patients to commit themselves to our care, and of course to resign their business affairs until they are well again. But when we are certain that a patient is too ill and too confused to seek treatment we can commit him without his consent,’ he said.

‘I am quite convinced that he is suffering from delusions brought on by an excessive consumption of alcohol,’ said Dr Rose, scribbling rapidly on the documents and signing his name with a flourish. He glanced up at me. ‘But do not be too distressed at what he says, Mrs MacAndrew. It is customary for patients like your husband to have exaggerated fears about the very people who are trying to help them. We hear a lot of strange claims from our patients, and when they are cured they forget all about them.’

I nodded again with rigid muscles.

Dr Rose looked towards Celia. ‘Should Lady Lacey have some laudanum?’ he asked. ‘This has been a dreadful shock for you both.’

Celia raised her head from her hands and took a deep breath in a struggle for control.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I wish to see John again before he goes.’ She was holding in the sobs with a tremendous effort of will, but she could not keep the tears from rolling down her cheeks. Her brown eyes were continually filled and her cheeks wet with them.

‘He will have had some laudanum in the carriage and will be sleeping peacefully,’ said Dr Rose. ‘There is no need for you to trouble yourself, Lady Lacey.’

Celia rose to her feet with the new dignity she had won in these last few days.

‘He thinks I have betrayed him,’ she said. ‘He trusted me and I let him be held down and tied up like a criminal in my own parlour. He thinks I have betrayed him, and that is not so, for I did not mean to work against him. But I have failed him because I could not stop you.’

Dr Rose stood too, and put out a placatory hand to her.

‘Lady Lacey, it was for the best,’ he said. ‘He will be untied as soon as we get to my house. He will be treated with every possible consideration. And if God wills, and if Mr MacAndrew has courage, then he may come home to you all completely cured.’

‘Doctor MacAndrew,’ said Celia steadily, the tears still streaming down her cheeks.

‘Doctor MacAndrew,’ he repeated, nodding his acknowledgement of Celia’s correction.

‘I shall write a note and I will put it in his pocket,’ said Celia. ‘Please do not leave until I have seen him.’

Dr Rose bowed his agreement and Celia went from the room, her head high, her step steady, and the tears still rolling from her eyes.

There was a silence in the parlour. Outside in the frosty garden a robin began to sing its piercing notes, loud on the cold air.

‘And the power of attorney papers?’ I asked.

‘I have signed them as part of the committal procedure,’ said Dr Rose. ‘He is committed to our asylum until I see fit to release him. And his business affairs will be managed by your brother, Sir Harold.’

‘How long do you think he will be with you?’ I asked.

‘It depends on himself,’ said Dr Rose. ‘But I would generally expect some improvement in two or three months.’

I nodded. Time enough. Even that slight movement of my head sent needles of pain up my neck and into the throbbing tight skin of my scalp. Everything I had planned was coming to me, but I could feel no joy.

‘I shall write to you with a report every week,’ said Dr Rose. He handed me a letter describing the hospital and the treatment, and the papers for Harry’s signature. I held them in hands that were as steady as his own. But even my fingers ached.

‘You may wish to visit him, or to write,’ Dr Rose said. ‘You, or any one of your family, would be most welcome to stay, if you wished.’

‘That will not be possible,’ I said. ‘And I think it would be better if he had no letters from home, at least for the first month. Recently, the most innocent events have upset him most dreadfully. Perhaps the safest thing you could do would be to send any letters he receives back to me.’

‘As you wish,’ said Dr Rose neutrally. He picked up his bag and closed it with a snap. I rose from my chair and found that my knees, and even the muscles of my calves, ached as if I had the ague. I walked stiffly towards the door and found Celia waiting in the hall, a sealed envelope in her hand.

‘I have written to John to tell him that I do indeed feel that I have failed him, but that I never ever meant to betray him,’ she said, her voice even. The tears were rolling down her cheeks but she did not seem to notice. ‘I have begged his pardon for failing to protect him from the violence he suffered.’

Dr Rose nodded, his eyes on the letter. As Celia preceded us to the waiting carriage he raised his eyebrows at me and nodded towards the letter in her hand.

‘You may take it from his pocket when you have left, and send it to me,’ I said, low-voiced. ‘It would certainly upset him.’ He nodded and followed Celia out to the carriage.

John was stretched along the length of the forward seat, still strapped in the strait-jacket, wrapped in a plaid travelling rug. Above the garish red and blue of the rug his face seemed deathly pale, but his breath was steady and his face, so strained and anguished before, was now as peaceful as a sleeping child’s. His fair hair had strayed from its tie in the struggle and curled around his head. There was the trace of tears on his cheeks but his mouth was slightly smiling. Celia climbed into the carriage and tucked the letter into his pocket. Her rumblings with the strait-jacket woke him and he opened eyes that were hazy blue with the drug.

‘Celia,’ he said, his voice low and slurred.

‘Please don’t speak, Lady Lacey,’ said Dr Rose firmly. ‘He should not be distressed again.’

Celia obediently dropped a kiss on John’s forehead in silence and stepped out of the carriage. She stayed by the window as Dr Rose got in beside his burly colleague, her eyes fixed on John’s face.

His eyes were still open and he gazed at her as if she were a lighthouse at some distant safe port in the middle of a stormy sea. Then his hazy drugged gaze sharpened, and he looked beyond her to where I stood, stiff as a ramrod on the steps.

‘Celia!’ he said, and his tone was urgent though the words were slurred. ‘Beatrice wants Wideacre for Richard,’ he said.

‘Goodbye,’ I said abruptly to Dr Rose. ‘Drive on,’ I said to the driver.

Celia took three rapid steps to keep up with the window so John could see her white desperate face.

‘Save the children,’ John said in one choking shout. ‘Save the children from Wideacre, Celia.’

Then the horses broke into a trot and the carriage wheels scrunched on the gravel and Celia’s little steps fell behind. And he was gone.

We dined in silence that evening. Celia had been crying all afternoon and her eyes were red and swollen. Harry at the head of the table shifted in the great carver chair as if he was sitting on pins. Celia had waited in the stable yard for him all morning and had begged him as soon as he appeared to withhold his signature from the documents committing John to Dr Rose’s care, and to order them to send John home. Harry retained enough sense to refuse to discuss the matter with Celia alone and told her that I had a right to be the judge of the best treatment for my husband. Celia had nothing to say to that, for all she had were vague impressions, frightened suspicions, that somehow, and she did not know how or why, I was not to be trusted about John.

So she kept her red eyes down, watched her plate and ate hardly a thing. I too had lost my appetite. John’s chair stood against the wall, his side of the table seemed curiously bare. I could not clean my ears of the memory of his terrified shrieks when the gaoler doctor had piled on top of him and bound him. The violence that had exploded in that sunny parlour seemed still to be echoing in the house as if a hundred ghosts were alerted by John’s screams.

Celia would not even enter the parlour after dinner but said she wanted to sit with Julia in the nursery. I remembered with a superstitious shudder how John too had sought the nursery as if only the children in the house were free from sin and violence and the lingering smell of corruption. But I smiled at her with all the warmth I could bring into my eyes and kissed her forehead to say goodnight. I thought, I imagined, that she shrank from my touch as if it might somehow mark her, leave some smudge of my ruthlessness on her. But I believed that Celia, like Mama, might hold the thread of detection in her hand and still fail to follow it into the maze.

So Harry and I sat alone in the parlour and when the tea tray came in it was my duty to pour and sweeten Harry’s tea to his liking. When he had sipped, and munched his way through a whole plate of petits fours I stretched my satin shoes out to the brass fender and said, casually, ‘Have you signed and posted the documents for Dr Rose, Harry?’

‘I’ve signed them,’ he replied. ‘They are on your desk. But what Celia tells me about Dr Rose, and about John, makes me wonder if we are doing the right thing.’

‘It was a most distressing scene,’ I agreed readily. ‘John was like a madman. If the two doctors had not been so prompt and efficient I do not know what might have happened. Celia thinks she can control John and help him with his drinking but the way he behaved today proves that she has little influence over him,’ I said. ‘It has been nearly two weeks now since she started trying to make him give up drinking and he has been drunk nearly every night. He even turned on Celia today and accused her of betraying him. We really cannot manage him if he is half mad from drink.’

Harry’s round face was downturned with worry.

‘Celia did not tell me that,’ he complained. ‘She only told me that she thought the doctors were too rough with John and that she feared the whole idea of getting him committed. She even seems to be concerned about John’s fortune: the MacAndrew shares.’

‘She has been influenced by the nonsense John was shouting,’ I said smoothly. ‘It was a very distressing scene. But dear Celia understands nothing of business and these matters. There is no doubt that Dr Rose’s home is the best place for John and of course he has to be committed into their care so that they can make sure he does not run off to buy drink. We should know how impossible it has been to keep it from him! Celia has had the cellars locked for a fortnight and still he has been getting drink from somewhere.’

Harry shot me a sly sideways glance.

‘You don’t know how he has been getting hold of the drink, Beatrice, I suppose?’ he said nervously.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, I shall reassure Celia that we are acting in John’s best interests,’ said Harry, getting to his feet and standing before the fireplace. He hitched up his jacket to warm his plump buttocks before the blaze, for the night was bitterly cold. ‘And I shall tell her that his fortune will be absolutely untouched until he comes to take control of it again,’ said Harry. ‘We have power of attorney over it, but of course we would not use it.’

‘Unless we see some business opportunity for him that we would do wrong to miss,’ I agreed. ‘The whole point of us having control of his fortune is so that his wealth can be properly managed during his illness. Of course we will not use his money to do anything he would not like. But we would be treating him very badly if we did not watch for his interests and act accordingly.’

Harry nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘But you have no immediate plans, have you, Beatrice?’

I smiled reassuringly. ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘All this has been so sudden, so unexpected. Of course I have no plans at all.’

‘What about the entail?’ Harry said nervously.

‘Oh, that!’ I put a hand to my face and smoothed my forehead in a gesture that contained a trace of theatre.

‘Let us leave that idea altogether until we can see our way clearer. John may be home inside the month and we can discuss it with him then. We can continue to increase Wideacre’s profits, and to save the surplus. But there is no need for us to rush into trying to change the entail.’

Harry’s look of relief spoke volumes. Celia, with no evidence other than her sharp intuition and her sensitivity to untruth, was mistrustful and anxious. And she had imparted a share of her unease. His question about John’s supplier of drink, his anxiety about my future plans, all pointed to Celia’s half-sense that all of Wideacre was being carried on a tide of my will. That none of us but I knew where we were going. That no one but I was in control. And that no one but I could say who would benefit from this headlong course.

‘It has been a bitter blow for you,’ Harry said kindly. ‘But do not be too distressed, Beatrice. I do believe John may be cured by these people, and then we can be as we were.’

I smiled back at him, a brave little smile. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Indeed I hope so. Now go and comfort Celia, Harry. And do assure her that although I am very sad I shall not break down under this.’

Harry gave me a gentle kiss on the top of my head and took himself off. I stayed only to drink one glass of port beside the dying fire, then missed supper in favour of an early bed. I had a day of hard work tomorrow. Mr Llewellyn was coming to look at the estate for a mortgage to pay the lawyers’ fees for the change of entail, and I was ready at last to write to the lawyers that they could go ahead: that I had access to the MacAndrew fortune, and that I could use it to buy Wideacre for my son. His to keep, and his to hand on to his son, and his son, and his, in a long, long line for ever. All of them descended from the witch of Wideacre.