The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [299]
“I must leave the Museum, and take a house in the country, somewhere quiet, where we can all—”
“You can’t do that,” said Florence. “I can’t bear it if you do that. I’d rather be dead.”
She said “What we must arrange, is for me to go away somewhere—until—and find someone to take—the …”
She could not say, child. Prosper’s imagination chewed at the unmanageable facts. How could his daughter ever now be in his house, with his new wife and his new child? He did not want her to give away her child—it was his flesh and blood, and did not deserve to be pushed into the dark. He was at a loss. His new mask was that of an old man, indecisive.
Griselda said “Perhaps Florence could go abroad—to Italy, say—as a young widow maybe—to a clinic, until the birth—and then decide what to do? It is too hard to decide now what to do. But it does seem clear Florence should go away. People are always going away to clinics—Frances Darwin spent two years in one when she had a breakdown when her mother died. My brother is always going to Ascona where there is a whole colony of artists and philosophers who believe in free love and wouldn’t ask questions. There is a new clinic there. It’s a beautiful place. Mountains, Lake Maggiore, Italian farms. Florence might be peaceful there.”
Prosper and Florence sat still and silent, as though exhausted. Florence said
“I’m sorry. You can’t know how sorry …”
Imogen Cain chose this moment to tap at the door and come in, her waist already thicker under a loose dress. She took in the stricken faces and her smile died.
“I’m sorry. I’ll go.”
“No,” said Florence. “Don’t. You will have to know, so you may as well stay. I’m expecting a child. We are making plans for me to leave the country.”
Imogen went white. She put her hand to her belly, protectively, opened her mouth to speak, closed it and began to weep, completely silently, huge tears falling heavily down her face and into her collar.
“My dear—” said Prosper, standing up.
“This is my fault,” said Imogen, not dramatically, but flatly, as though it was incontrovertible.
“No—” said Florence. “It is me who has been stupid and me who should be punished. I did it, you didn’t. And I—I should say—I haven’t been very nice to you, lately. I’ve been unpleasant. I know it. I’m sorry. But you can’t say you’re responsible for what I do. I am. I shall go abroad.”
Imogen went on weeping. Florence stared, stony. Griselda said to Prosper “I could ask my brother about that clinic. He says the place is an earthly paradise.”
“I can’t stay here,” said Florence. “At all. Now. I must go away now.”
Griselda said Florence could come with her, if Major Cain agreed. Prosper was standing, still behind his desk, like a stag brought to bay by three hunting nymphs. He came out, now, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his wife’s wet face. Then he turned to his daughter.
“You will allow me to accompany you—on the journey. You will need…”
Much depended on her answer to this question. She gave a little sobbing sound, but did not weep, only relaxed her tense muscles ever so little.
“Thank you. That will make a great difference.”
Prosper said to Griselda that he was grateful for her presence. She said she would make sure all Florence’s things were properly packed in Cambridge and sent back to the Museum. She would take care of the glass. She said to Florence
“I’ll visit you, in the vacations. You won’t be quite on your own.”
“What shall I do if Charles comes … and sees …”
“Well, he won’t be disapproving. He’s an ex-anarchist. And he can be told not to talk, which he’s actually good at, he’s spent his life not telling people things …”
Father and daughter travelled slowly, and mostly in silence, across Europe