Gossamer Cord

“And there he is…well, it’s just retribution, I reckon. That’s what the Bible says. The Lord has seen fit to punish him for his misdeeds.”

“Oh, Mrs. Pardell, you must not judge him.”

She shook her head. “He killed my girl. I know he did. I’ve always known it. And your sister. There are men like that. I suppose he has the utmost comfort.”

“He is well looked after.”

“H’m. Well, serve him right, I say. Goodness knows who’d have been the next. Wife number three, I suppose.”

It was no use trying to reason with her. She had made up her mind to that. Dermot had murdered her daughter and my sister, and he had now what she called his “come-uppance.” She was not going to let her opinion be shifted.

After I left her, I felt vaguely depressed. Everything was so uncertain. Nobody knew what was going to happen next. There might be war. That was what was in everyone’s mind, and I suppose my problems were as nothing compared with the catastrophe that would be.

I often thought of Gretchen with Edward and their little girl. My mother wrote of them from time to time.

We are delighted and Edward is ecstatic. Gretchen is overjoyed about the child in spite of her worries. Alas, she gets more anxious about her parents every day. Your father thinks the situation is rather grim and he is very suspicious of what Hitler will do next if they let him get into Czechoslovakia. What a nuisance that man Hitler is! I wish they could get rid of him.

How are you getting on down there? I do think they are foolish to make all that fuss about Tristan’s staying there. After all, it is you and Nanny Crabtree who are looking after him.

I can’t see why you couldn’t come home…for a visit, anyway. You must come up for Christmas and bring Tristan and Nanny with you. I’m sure he’d be all right to travel now. He must be getting to be quite a person. I’d love to see him. Come for a long visit. Your father misses you…as I do.

How is Dermot? It was a terrible thing to happen. You say he gets about in a wheelchair. Well, that’s something, and I expect he will eventually improve. Poor boy. Let’s hope that one day they can do something for him.

Don’t forget, dear, we want you home…with Tristan. I think they will come round to letting us have him in due course.

I did not think they would, but perhaps in a few months I should be able to take the baby home for a visit.

I often took out the miniature of Dorabella. I would hold it in my hands and look back over the years. It was a foolish habit and could only plunge me into melancholy. Dorabella herself had once said that brooding on what couldn’t be changed was like taking your sorrows out to swim instead of drowning them. She had heard that somewhere and liked it.

If only she could come back to me.

Then it occurred to me that she had once said she would always have the miniature of me with her. She kept it in her room, the dressing room in that bedroom she had shared with Dermot.

The room was not occupied now that Dermot had one downstairs. I wanted to see the miniature. The pair should be side by side.

I went up to the room, with its four-poster bed, the large and heavily draped windows.

I had seen the miniature on a little table in the dressing room. It was not there now. I remembered that she had said she would put it away in a drawer because she did not want to be continually reminded of my desertion.

I had once seen her take it from a particular drawer. It would be there now, I guessed, because I had not been in the house when she had gone down to take that fatal bathe.

I opened the drawer. There were a few things in it—some gloves and handkerchiefs and a belt, but no miniature. I took out everything and felt round the inside of the drawer. Nothing.

Where was the miniature, then? Perhaps in another drawer? There were three others. I searched them all, but the miniature was not there.

Puzzled, I looked round the room. I went into the bedroom. In the wardrobe there was a shelf and another drawer. But the picture was not there, either.

I wondered where it could be.

The uneasy weeks were passing quickly. There were long summer days when I met Jowan, perhaps three or four times a week. I met a number of the farmers on his estate; he was always busy and would invite me to accompany him on the calls he was making.

I was getting to know his grandmother. There was a very strong bond between them; she doted on him and I liked his attitude toward her which gave an impression of light-hearted affection, but I sensed it went deep.

Those meetings with him were the highlights of those long summer days. There was an aura of unreality about everything…my life…the world itself. There were war clouds on the horizon, and I often felt that I was seeing the end of an era. I was drifting along without the ability to exert my will. It was as though everything was being decided for me.

I continued to be baffled by the disappearance of the miniature. I mentioned it to Matilda.