Body in the Library - Agatha Christie [45]
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, “that Conway was lonely?”
Addie moved restlessly. She said:
“He was—this summer.” She paused and then burst out: “Mark will have it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I don’t know.”
She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, she went on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way.
“I—I’ve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband, died so soon after we were married—it—it knocked me out. Peter, as you know, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mike’s great friend. So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peter’s godfather—Mike had wanted that. I got very fond of him—and—oh! sorry for him too.”
“Sorry?” queried Mrs. Bantry with interest.
“Yes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything he wanted. His father and his mother couldn’t have been nicer to him. And yet—how can I say it?—you see, old Mr. Jefferson’s personality is so strong. If you live with it, you can’t somehow have a personality of your own. Frank felt that.
“When we were married he was very happy—wonderfully so. Mr. Jefferson was very generous. He settled a large sum of money on Frank—said he wanted his children to be independent and not have to wait for his death. It was so nice of him—so generous. But it was much too sudden. He ought really to have accustomed Frank to independence little by little.
“It went to Frank’s head. He wanted to be as good a man as his father, as clever about money and business, as far-seeing and successful. And, of course, he wasn’t. He didn’t exactly speculate with the money, but he invested in the wrong things at the wrong time. It’s frightening, you know, how soon money goes if you’re not clever about it. The more Frank dropped, the more eager he was to get it back by some clever deal. So things went from bad to worse.”
“But, my dear,” said Mrs. Bantry, “couldn’t Conway have advised him?”
“He didn’t want to be advised. The one thing he wanted was to do well on his own. That’s why we never let Mr. Jefferson know. When Frank died there was very little left—only a tiny income for me. And I—I didn’t let his father know either. You see—”
She turned abruptly.
“It would have felt like betraying Frank to him. Frank would have hated it so. Mr. Jefferson was ill for a long time. When he got well he assumed that I was a very-well-off widow. I’ve never undeceived him. It’s been a point of honour. He knows I’m very careful about money—but he approves of that, thinks I’m a thrifty sort of woman. And, of course, Peter and I have lived with him practically ever since, and he’s paid for all our living expenses. So I’ve never had to worry.”
She said slowly:
“We’ve been like a family all these years—only—only—you see (or don’t you see?) I’ve never been Frank’s widow to him—I’ve been Frank’s wife.”
Mrs. Bantry grasped the implication.
“You mean he’s never accepted their deaths?”
“No. He’s been wonderful. But he’s conquered his own terrible tragedy by refusing to recognize death. Mark is Rosamund’s husband and I’m Frank’s wife—and though Frank and Rosamund aren’t exactly here with us—they are still existent.”
Mrs. Bantry said softly:
“It’s a wonderful triumph of faith.”
“I know. We’ve gone on, year after year. But suddenly—this summer—something went wrong in me. I felt—I felt rebellious. It’s an awful thing to say, but I didn’t want to think of Frank anymore! All that was over—my love and companionship with him, and my grief when he died. It was something that had been and wasn’t any longer.
“It’s awfully hard to describe. It’s like wanting to wipe the slate clean and start again. I wanted to be me—Addie, still reasonably young and strong and able to play games and swim and dance—just a person. Even Hugo—(you know Hugo McLean?) he’s a dear and wants to marry me, but, of course, I’ve never really thought of it—but this summer I did begin to think