Night Over Water - Ken Follett [192]
For dessert there was apple tart with cream, or ice cream with chocolate sauce. Margaret ordered ice cream and ate it all.
Father asked for brandy with his coffee, then cleared his throat. He was about to make a speech. Could it be that he would apologize for the frightful scene at dinner yesterday? Impossible.
“Your mother and I have been discussing you,” he began.
“As if I were a disobedient parlormaid,” Margaret snapped.
Mother said: “You’re a disobedient child.”
“I’m nineteen years old, and I’ve been menstruating for six years—how could I be a child?”
“Hush!” Mother said, shocked. “The very fact that you can use such words in front of your father shows that you’re not yet adult!”
“I give up,” Margaret said. “I can’t win.”
Father said: “Your foolish attitude just confirms everything we’ve been saying. You can’t yet be trusted to lead a normal social life among people of your own class.”
“Thank heaven for that!”
Percy laughed out loud, and Father glared at him, but spoke to Margaret. “We’ve been trying to think of somewhere to send you, a place where you will have the minimum opportunity to cause trouble.”
“Did you consider a convent?”
He was not used to her cheeking him, but he controlled his anger with an effort. “This kind of talk won’t make things any better for you.”
“Better? How could things be better for me? My loving parents are determining my future, with only my best interests at heart. What more could I want?”
To her surprise, her mother shed a tear. “You’re very cruel, Margaret,” she said, wiping it away.
Margaret was touched. The sight of her mother weeping destroyed her resistance. She became meek again and said quietly: “What do you want me to do, Mother?”
Father answered the question. “You’re going to live with your aunt Clare. She has a place in Vermont. It’s in the mountains, rather remote; there will be nobody nearby for you to embarrass.”
Mother added: “My sister, Clare, is a wonderful woman. She never married. She’s the backbone of the Episcopalian Church in Brattleboro.”
Cold rage gripped Margaret, but, she kept herself under control. “How old is Aunt Clare?” she asked.
“In her fifties.”
“Does she live alone?”
“Apart from the servants, yes.”
Margaret was shaking with anger. “So this is my punishment for trying to live my own life,” she said in an unsteady voice. “I’m exiled to the mountains to live alone with a mad spinster aunt. How long do you expect me to stay there?”
“Until you’ve calmed down,” Father said. “A year, perhaps.”
“A year!” It seemed a lifetime. But they could not make her stay there. “Don’t be so stupid. I shall go mad, kill myself or run away.”
“You’re not to leave without our consent,” Father said. “And if you do ...” He hesitated.
Margaret looked at his face. My God, she thought, even he is ashamed of what he’s about to say. What on earth can it be?
He pressed his lips together in a determined line, then said: “If you run away, we will have you certified insane and committed to a lunatic asylum.”
Margaret gasped. She was speechless with horror. She had not imagined him capable of such cruelty. She looked at her mother, but Mother would not meet her eyes.
Percy stood up and flung down his napkin. “You bloody old fool, you’ve gone off your rocker,” he said, and he walked out.
If Percy had spoken like that a week ago there would have been hell to pay, but now he was ignored.
Margaret looked again at Father. His expression was guilty, defiant and obstinate. He