The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [194]
Marian said it was quite possible that Seraphita had come from much the same world as Elsie, but she entirely lacked her common sense or her willingness to make do.
Patty Dace said that that fact could make her harsher with Elsie’s predicament, or more sympathetic, there was no way of knowing. She might feel she had to keep up appearances.
“What appearances?” asked Phoebe Methley, tartly. “They’re all darned and draggled, or were before Elsie took over.”
“And Elsie seems to be saying that she isn’t paid.”
“That isn’t right.”
“It’s not. Is it our business?”
“What about him in all this,” asked Marian Oakeshott. “He’s another, you don’t know what he thinks, or feels, or what drives him, except the making of beautiful pots. For which it appears he needs Philip.”
“I do not know them well,” said Phoebe Methley. “But I have to say, I have never seen him address one word to his wife. Not one word. Once I had noticed this, I observed him a little. He may have married her for her beauty, but his eye passes over her as though she were a jug, and not a masterwork of ceramics, but a common earthenware crock.”
They were overexcited by their own openness. Miss Dace did not feel able to speculate about anyone’s sex instinct or sexual behaviour.
Indeed she preferred to ignore such matters. But Marian Oakeshott, daring, said to Phoebe
“I saw him brush against her on the lawn. He flinched. And she turned that head of hers the other way.”
“Are we any nearer to knowing what to say to her?” asked Miss Dace.
“Has she any substance to oppose to our decisiveness?” asked Marian. “Can we not overwhelm her with our calm certainty about what is best to be done?”
The day they went to speak to Mrs. Fludd was a bright spring day. They found her sitting in the orchard in a sagging basket chair, working—or about to work—on a circular tapestry frame, with a basket of wools open in the grass at her side. Marian Oakeshott, who had seen some Impressionist paintings, thought that Seraphita resembled a painting by Monet or a painting by Millais. The apple branches cast dappled shadows over the chalky face, which gave the impression of being blurred, as though rapidly and sketchily filled in. She was wearing floating dove-coloured muslin, which again appeared brushed-up, in the half-shadow, and her long fingers and long neck were insubstantially slender and very slightly textured, shantung, not smooth silk. Her large eyes were surrounded by slatey skin, slightly puffed, with liquid under it. The skeins of wool in the basket were bright jewel colours, emerald, amber, jacinth, sapphire, ruby. They were precise and sharp amongst the floating cloudiness. She greeted them without rising. It was delightful to see them, she said. Where was Elsie? Elsie would bring more chairs, and make tea. Marian said Elsie had gone into Rye, and that she herself would find more chairs, which she did, dragging them in from other parts of the orchard and garden. They had something particular to say, said Marian. It was no accident that Elsie was out.
Seraphita dropped her frame into her lap, and had to hunt for her needle. She said she hoped Elsie had done nothing bad.
“Have you noticed nothing—about Elsie?” asked Phoebe.
“No,” said Seraphita flatly, her eyes widening.
“Elsie is expecting a baby,” said Miss Dace. “In the summer. She hasn’t seen a doctor, it is not precise.”
There were several long moments whilst Seraphita took this in, and seemed to decide what to say. Her face creased up, with thought perhaps, although it looked as though she was about to cry. She said in a faint voice “Who…?”
As she didn’t finish the sentence, none of the ladies felt a need to answer.
Seraphita next brought out “I should send her away …?”
This exasperated all three ladies, who all knew that Elsie cost Seraphita nothing, and saved her a good deal. Marian, more