• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 2207 0

was enraged. She was the traitor in all tales of chivalry and in myths. She was Vivien, she was Morgan Le Fay, she was Loki. She despised the cow-eyed and the gentle, Elaine the lily maid, faithful Psyche, Baldur’s weeping wife, Nanna. She was a detective, who saw through appearances. No one was as nice as they seemed, was her rule of judging characters. She was the darkest of the children, with long black hair and very solid black brows, drawn in a frown more often than not, and long, black lashes which in themselves were beautiful, especially when she was asleep. She had no one to talk to about her investigations. Phyllis was an idiot. Florian was a baby. She had had hopes of Pomona, but Pomona was an idiot, too, of the same kind as Phyllis. Dorothy was who she hated, because she was older, and in the way, and got things Hedda didn’t get. And because she had Griselda, and they were together, and Hedda had no one. But Dorothy didn’t know what Hedda knew, or partly knew. She had even wondered about Tabitha as a sort of friend—it was odd that she, at ten, was certainly a young child, whereas Tabitha, at twelve, was supposed to be in charge of Robin Oakeshott, and was a sort of nursemaid. She saw that Tabitha’s simple manner was put on. Tabitha had her own thoughts, which she kept to herself. Hedda did not know what those thoughts were, and she saw Tabitha didn’t want her to know. Tabitha was acting, and could not afford a crack in the surface.

Olive came through the orchard, running, clutching her skirts. She pulled up a chair near Violet, and leaned forward, and hissed to her in a desperate whisper. Hedda could hear perfectly from where she was, and kept very still.

“I’ve just discovered something frightful, Vi. I don’t know what to do.”

She was all atremble.

“Tell me,” said Violet. Violet liked being told things, Hedda knew. “That woman—that Mrs. Oakeshott—who is no Mrs. anyone—she is the same woman—she is Maid Marian.”

“That was fairly clear from the outset,” said Violet. “What?”

“That was what I thought, myself. What has upset you?”

“She kissed him. He kissed her. I saw.”

“That was stupid of you. Better not see. She’s going away to be the schoolmistress at Puxty. What are you thinking of doing?”

“I am not made of stone, Violet, though you may think so. I have violent feelings. I feel—very angry, very—I can’t stand the mess. I can’t work if there’s a mess. You know that. I can’t afford to get agitated, I need to work.”

“Well then, you must not get agitated. You are the goose who lays the golden eggs on which we all depend. Including, I imagine, Mistress Maid Marian. You’ll be better off if you leave her to go earn her living at Puxty. You don’t need any more dependants.”

“He kissed her.”

“Well, you know what he is and what he does. He won’t leave us, all the same, you can feel safe on that count. Mistress Marian is the victim, not you, you goose.”

“But I saw—”

“Well, take good care to see no more. You’ve had practice. Kiss someone yourself, there are those who would enjoy that, and you know it.”

There was something going on, Hedda sensed, that she did not understand, over and beyond what she did understand. Olive gave a little laugh.

“Mr. Methley has been lecturing me on the nature of women.”

“He’s another who can’t keep his hands to himself.”

“You’ve noticed that?”

“There’s not much I don’t notice,” said Violet, with quick satisfaction. That was it, Hedda thought, she has to know everything, or she feels—smaller, lesser—

“So you think I should just go on—as though nothing—as though I’d noticed nothing—”

“Isn’t that one of your great accomplishments?”

“Oh, you are hard on me.”

“Rather the opposite,” said Violet.

That first summer school was ad hoc and haphazard, from start to finish. Later schools took up deliberately a pattern that developed casually and at odd moments, in that first year, where one event—a lecture, a drawing class, a poetry reading, the Play above all—became connected to the others, so that Toby Youlgreave gave a lecture on Italian tales of abandoned babies who were returned