see.” Our fish arrived. She paused. “But it must wait until tomorrow. Everything’s closed to tourists until tomorrow morning.”
“But,” I began, a little surprised, “I thought this was your castle? Surely you’re not a tourist in your own family’s home?”
“No,” she replied, smiling at my innocence. “Of course I
could
take you to lunch with Uncle Cyril and Aunt Elizabeth if I liked. I don’t imagine they’d be delighted to see me, particularly, though they wouldn’t show that. But I can’t, of course, for obvious reasons.”
“Amongst which are … ?”
“Well for starters, you blind boy, the fact that you aren’t Charlie Stanhope. It would never do for them to see me here with anyone but him.”
“At least not until you’ve extricated yourself?”
“At least not until I have, as you say, extricated myself.”
“I see.”
“But there’s another reason too.”
“Which is?”
“I’d much rather show you it in private. The painting, I mean. That’s what I’ve brought you here to see. It might make things clearer; at least I hope it will. One should never underestimate the importance of visual aids.” She smiled. “And privacy is important. Not that I mind day-trippers; they won’t affect us. It’s family presence I want to avoid if I can. I want the anonymity of the tourist. And you’ve been seeing quite enough of my relations as it is.”
Something about the brittle laugh that followed this made me know of whom she was speaking. “I’ve only spoken to Sarah properly once,” I said. “I mistook her for you, in fact.”
“At my own engagement party?” Ella raised an eyebrow.
“No. Before that. In the park, as it happens.”
The eyebrow came to rest again; Ella looked at me steadily. “Well you must have got very chummy,” she said finally. “She seems to have told you all the family history you need to know.”
“She told me about your grandmother,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Ella paused. “I never knew her,” she said finally, discarding my sympathy.
“I really wanted Sarah to tell me about you,” I said.
“I bet she was happy to advise in that respect. Did she tell you I was a vulgar little upstart? Or was I just crass?”
“She said that you two didn’t see much of each other,” I replied, evasively.
Ella sensed my evasion. “I’m sure she said much more, which your fine manners couldn’t possibly permit you to repeat. I understand, James. I can fill in most of the gaps for myself anyhow.” There was a silence. I felt Ella’s eyes on me and busied myself with my cod. Across the table she lit a cigarette, with a murmured “You don’t mind, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Thanks.”
More silence.
“I wish you’d look at me,” she remarked. I looked up. There was a moment of hesitation on her part, as though things hung in the balance; perhaps, even then, they did. Then she said, in a quiet, low voice, “Do you know anything about jealousy, James? About what it does to people?”
I shook my head. Feeling as I did so that I was not so naive, I said, “Yes. I understand jealousy.”
“Ah, but have you ever felt it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But only briefly, spasmodically,” Ella went on, speaking quickly. “Sure, you can think of times when you’ve wanted someone’s car, or someone’s money, or something of that sort.”
I nodded.
“But that feeling hasn’t lasted long, has it? It hasn’t built up into something consuming; it hasn’t spread. Has it?”
“No,” I said, truthfully.
“Well the jealousy you’re talking about is only a distant relation of the kind I’m concerned with. You don’t mind my boring you with this?” I shook my head. “The kind I mean is an illness, a disease. It eats away, spreading into everything a person does, into everything a person thinks.” She exhaled, blowing her smoke to the ceiling. “The jealousy that you experience—and I hope you won’t take offense at this—is of the
“But,” I began, a little surprised, “I thought this was your castle? Surely you’re not a tourist in your own family’s home?”
“No,” she replied, smiling at my innocence. “Of course I
could
take you to lunch with Uncle Cyril and Aunt Elizabeth if I liked. I don’t imagine they’d be delighted to see me, particularly, though they wouldn’t show that. But I can’t, of course, for obvious reasons.”
“Amongst which are … ?”
“Well for starters, you blind boy, the fact that you aren’t Charlie Stanhope. It would never do for them to see me here with anyone but him.”
“At least not until you’ve extricated yourself?”
“At least not until I have, as you say, extricated myself.”
“I see.”
“But there’s another reason too.”
“Which is?”
“I’d much rather show you it in private. The painting, I mean. That’s what I’ve brought you here to see. It might make things clearer; at least I hope it will. One should never underestimate the importance of visual aids.” She smiled. “And privacy is important. Not that I mind day-trippers; they won’t affect us. It’s family presence I want to avoid if I can. I want the anonymity of the tourist. And you’ve been seeing quite enough of my relations as it is.”
Something about the brittle laugh that followed this made me know of whom she was speaking. “I’ve only spoken to Sarah properly once,” I said. “I mistook her for you, in fact.”
“At my own engagement party?” Ella raised an eyebrow.
“No. Before that. In the park, as it happens.”
The eyebrow came to rest again; Ella looked at me steadily. “Well you must have got very chummy,” she said finally. “She seems to have told you all the family history you need to know.”
“She told me about your grandmother,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Ella paused. “I never knew her,” she said finally, discarding my sympathy.
“I really wanted Sarah to tell me about you,” I said.
“I bet she was happy to advise in that respect. Did she tell you I was a vulgar little upstart? Or was I just crass?”
“She said that you two didn’t see much of each other,” I replied, evasively.
Ella sensed my evasion. “I’m sure she said much more, which your fine manners couldn’t possibly permit you to repeat. I understand, James. I can fill in most of the gaps for myself anyhow.” There was a silence. I felt Ella’s eyes on me and busied myself with my cod. Across the table she lit a cigarette, with a murmured “You don’t mind, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Thanks.”
More silence.
“I wish you’d look at me,” she remarked. I looked up. There was a moment of hesitation on her part, as though things hung in the balance; perhaps, even then, they did. Then she said, in a quiet, low voice, “Do you know anything about jealousy, James? About what it does to people?”
I shook my head. Feeling as I did so that I was not so naive, I said, “Yes. I understand jealousy.”
“Ah, but have you ever felt it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But only briefly, spasmodically,” Ella went on, speaking quickly. “Sure, you can think of times when you’ve wanted someone’s car, or someone’s money, or something of that sort.”
I nodded.
“But that feeling hasn’t lasted long, has it? It hasn’t built up into something consuming; it hasn’t spread. Has it?”
“No,” I said, truthfully.
“Well the jealousy you’re talking about is only a distant relation of the kind I’m concerned with. You don’t mind my boring you with this?” I shook my head. “The kind I mean is an illness, a disease. It eats away, spreading into everything a person does, into everything a person thinks.” She exhaled, blowing her smoke to the ceiling. “The jealousy that you experience—and I hope you won’t take offense at this—is of the
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