Page 58 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #2)

She listened with her customary intelligent concentration to Nina’s somewhat tangled account, and then was silent a while, allowing Nina to eat some more.

Trump, who had had a walk at either end of the train journey, stretched his legs to expose more of his belly to the fire’s warmth, and groaned comfortably.

‘Well, Nina,’ she said at last, ‘I’m very sorry you’ve had this upset but, you know, I did try to warn you before you married that there would be difficulties.

He is a much older man than you, from a different background, and it was not apparent that you had any tastes in common.

Adjustment was bound to be uncomfortable. ’

‘But – you didn’t try to stop me,’ Nina said. ‘You could have forbidden me.’

‘You were no longer a child. I laid the problem before you, but you had to make your own decision. No one can live your life for you. You have to make your own mistakes, and learn from them.’

‘So you think it was a mistake? To marry him, I mean?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She was silent a moment. ‘You know, don’t you, that you did a very wrong thing? You did something you knew your husband would object to. And you went behind his back.’

‘But it’s not reasonable to object to women riding astride,’ Nina cried. ‘And what right do men have, anyway, to dictate to us like that? It should be our choice!’

‘Men run the world, Nina. They make the rules, they have control over us, and there’s nothing to be done about it.’

‘ Isn’t there? I’m surprised to hear you say that, Auntie.’

‘I was lucky,’ Aunt Schofield said. ‘I married a man of intellect, who could be swayed by reason. But even he was a man, with a man’s feelings, and there were things over which we struggled – and times when I had to submit.

A woman can change things, but it has to be done gradually.

You must never push them further than they can tolerate at one time.

Your misfortune is that your husband is not a man of intellect, so you may have to work by even smaller increments.

And you may never be able to make substantial changes in him. ’

‘So we are prisoners,’ Nina said bitterly. ‘Bound to obey every rule however foolish and petty and – and—’

‘Inconvenient?’ Aunt Schofield supplied coolly.

Nina scowled at her, and she went on, ‘Yes, women are prisoners – financial prisoners. Your father left you no money, so who is going to feed and keep you? I am a widow with just enough to live on, so I need answer only to myself. But I railed like you when I was young. It is hard, and I do feel for you. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. ’

But Nina was feeling better, just from talking about it to someone who understood.

She hadn’t told her aunt everything: she hadn’t mentioned the denouement of the row, any more than she had spoken to her in the first place of the bedroom problem.

She would have liked to, but she just couldn’t.

It was frustrating that women could not discuss this thing that was clearly so important and, if she understood correctly, fundamental to the continuation of the human race.

She wished she could ask whether what he had done was the completion of the act her aunt had tried to prepare her for.

She wished she could ask whether that episode made it more or less likely that he would do it again.

Would the problem – if it was a problem – get better over time?

Or worse? She felt lost, adrift in a sea of uncertainty, alone on a ship that she didn’t know how to sail, knowing only that there were no charts, and no land in sight.

Slowly she ate the last piece of toast, and licked the butter from her fingers. She was young, and it’s hard for the young to feel hopeless for long. ‘Thank you for listening to me, at any rate,’ she said.

‘Oh, my dear,’ Aunt Schofield said sadly.

‘I wish I knew what to do,’ Nina said. ‘Is there anything you can tell me, anything I can do in a practical way to make things better?’

Aunt Schofield thought. ‘You can apologise. An apology always goes a long way. And I’m sure that Mr Cowling does love you. This early in the marriage, he will probably be eager to forgive you.’

But I don’t want to be forgiven , Nina thought resentfully. There’s nothing wrong with riding astride .

Aunt Schofield read her thought easily enough – it was written on her face. ‘The good thing about an apology,’ she said, ‘is that it doesn’t always have to be specific. You were not wholly in the right, you know.’

‘You mean I should just apologise for having kept it from him? I suppose that was bad. And I am sorry I hurt his feelings.’

‘Yes, but you needn’t go into details. Just say you’re sorry and ask him to forgive you. Let his generosity do the rest.’

He was at home when she arrived back. He had come in, found her gone, and had panicked for a moment, until Mrs Deering had told him she had gone to London to see her aunt.

Then relief had been followed by regret and shame, and a simple longing for her.

But, left alone, he had begun to wonder what she was saying to her frighteningly clever relative.

Was she telling her everything ? Was she crying?

Was her aunt shocked? Would she tell Nina to stay and never return?

No, she wouldn’t do that – surely not! But if Nina told her everything – did women talk about such things?

– would Mrs Schofield think him less of a man?

Would she speak scornfully about him to Nina? Would they laugh about him?

It was not a long time, between his getting home and her arriving, but it was long enough for him to go through a range of feelings and internal arguments.

By the time Trump ran in to stand up on his hind legs for a caress, heralding her entrance, he was thoroughly confused and hardly knew whether to be angry or contrite.

So he said nothing, and schooled his face into immobility.

She came in looking tired, which plucked at his heartstrings, and came straight up to him, looking up under her eyebrows, like a child, and said, ‘I’m sorry, Joseph. Please forgive me.’

Just for a moment, he didn’t know what to say, and while he hesitated, she brought out from behind her back a box, which she presented to him. ‘Carlsbad plums,’ she said. ‘I know you like them. I went to Fortnum’s for them. To say I’m really, really sorry.’

He wanted to cry, he wanted to sweep her into his arms, he wanted to ask if she thought he could be bought off with a box of sweetmeats.

He wanted to kiss and forgive her, he wanted to beg her to forgive him, he wanted to demand her future obedience.

And in the turmoil, he could say nothing.

He took the box with a gruff ‘Thank you,’ and turned away, saying, ‘You had better go and change for dinner. It’s time. ’

At dinner, they both tried to behave normally, each hoping the storm had passed, neither entirely sure what they should be thinking.

Conversation was stilted. ‘How are things at the factory?’ ‘How was your aunt?’ It faltered and ran out, and they ate mostly in silence.

After dinner he excused himself, saying he had business to attend to, and went to his study.

She read a book, and went early to bed, exhausted by all the emotions.

She was almost asleep when he came to her room and got into bed with her. She tensed, listening to his breathing.

At last he said in a low voice, ‘What did you tell your aunt about me?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Not – I told her what I’d done, and that you were angry, that’s all.’

Another silence. Then: ‘I suppose she took your part.’

‘She said I was in the wrong.’

He felt relief, and a resurgence of power. ‘So you were!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, very low. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’

Yes, you did, by God! he thought with a last surge of anger.

His blood rushed up, he had a brief, quite surprising image of her naked on a horse, like Lady Godiva, her shame covered only by her hair, and with a sort of growl he rolled over onto her, and for a second time consummated his marriage.

This time he fell asleep afterwards, still in her bed, with a heavy, possessive arm across her.

Dead tired, she slept too, but when she woke at dawn he had gone.