She drifted away, leaving Ermyntrude torn between diversion and doubt. Mary remarked soothingly that she thought there was no immediate need to worry over such a volatile damsel: ‘In fact, if I were you, I’d let her go on the stage, Aunt Ermy,’ she said. ‘I believe that’s what she’d really like best.’
‘Don’t you suggest such a thing!’ said Ermyntrude, quite horrified. ‘Why, her father would turn in his grave – well, as a matter of fact, he was cremated, but what I mean is, if he hadn’t been he would have.’
‘But why should he? You were on the stage, after all.’
‘Yes, my dear, and you take it from me that my girl’s not going to be. Not but what she’s a proper little actress, bless her!’
‘Well, anyway, don’t worry about Alan!’ begged Mary. ‘I’m perfectly certain there’s nothing in that!’
‘I hope you’re right, for I don’t mind telling you nothing would make me consent. Nothing! As though I hadn’t got enough to put up with without that being added!’
It transpired that Ermyntrude had more to put up with that morning than she had anticipated. Having noticed on the previous day that a button was missing from the sleeve of the coat Wally had been wearing, she went to his dressing-room to find the coat, and took it down to the morning-room for repair, and discovered, pushed carelessly into one of its pockets, a letter addressed to Wally in an illiterate and unknown hand. Ermyntrude, who had no scruples about inspecting her husband’s correspondence, drew the letter from its envelope, remarking idly that it was just like Wally to stuff letters into his pocket and forget all about them.
Mary, to whom this observation was addressed, made a vague sound of agreement, and went on adding up the Household Expenses. Her attention was jerked away from such mundane matters by a sudden exclamation from Ermyntrude.
‘Mary! Oh, my goodness! Oh, I never did in all my life!’
Mary turned in her chair, recognising in Ermyntrude’s voice a note of shock mingled with wrath. ‘What is it?’
‘Read it!’ said Ermyntrude dramatically. ‘It’s too much!’ She held the letter out with a shaking hand, but as Mary took it she seemed to recollect herself, and said: ‘Oh dear, whatever am I thinking about? Give it back, dearie: it isn’t fit for you to read, and you his ward!’
Mary made no attempt to read the letter, but said in her sensible way: ‘You know, Aunt Ermy, you really ought not to have looked at it. I don’t know what it’s about, but hadn’t you better pretend you haven’t seen it?’
The ready colour rose to Ermyntrude’s cheeks. ‘Pretend I haven’t seen it? Pretend I don’t know my husband’s got some wretched little tart into trouble? I’ll thank you to realise I’m made of flesh and blood, and not stone, my girl!’
Mary was accustomed to Wally’s gyrations, but this piece of information startled her. ‘You must be mistaken!’
‘Oh, I must, must I? Well, if that’s what you think, just you read that letter!’
‘But, honestly, Aunt Ermy, one doesn’t read other people’s letters!’
‘No, all one does is to be beholden to one’s wife for every penny one has, and then go round putting girls in the family way!’ said Ermyntrude bitterly.
Vicky entered the room in time to hear this dictum, and inquired with interest: ‘Who does?’
‘Your precious stepfather!’ snapped Ermyntrude.
Vicky opened her eyes very wide at this: ‘Does he? Oh, I do think that’s so wonderful of him! Poor sweet, I thought he was practically senile!’
‘Don’t be so disgusting!’ said Mary sharply.
‘Oh, I’m not! Darling Mummy, how did you find it out? Doesn’t it give you an absolutely new angle on Wally?’
By this time Mary had decided to suppress her scruples, and had read the fatal letter. It was signed by one Percy Baker, who appeared to be the brother of the girl in question. Mary had no experience of such letters, but being a young woman of intelligence she was easily able to recognise it as an attempt at blackmail. The writer used illiterate but forceful threats, and ended by promising himself a visit to Palings if he did not hear from Wally immediately. Long association with Wally led her to assume that when he thrust the letter carelessly into his pocket he also thrust the memory of it from his mind. She looked up. ‘This was written at the beginning of the week. Today’s Saturday. He’ll turn up.’
Vicky took the letter out of her hand. ‘Angel-Mary, I do think you’re dog-in-the-mangerish. Oh, I never knew anyone was actually called Gladys!’
‘It’s too much!’ Ermyntrude said, kneading her hands together in her lap. ‘It’s too much! No one ever called me narrow-minded, but to get a local girl into trouble is more than I’ll stand for. If it had been in London I wouldn’t have said a word – well, what I mean is, anyone knows what men are, and what the eye doesn’t see the heart won’t grieve over – but to have Wally’s by-blows absolutely under one’s nose – well, I shall never be able to hold up my head again, and that’s the truth!’
‘Oh, darling, I do think you’re so modern and marvellous!’ said Vicky. ‘If you were old-fashioned and feudal you wouldn’t mind a bit, because it was awfully the done thing for the squire to have lots and lots of bastards.’
‘I won’t have you use that nasty, coarse word!’ said Ermyntrude. ‘The idea! Besides, Wally isn’t the squire and never was.’
‘It may not be true,’ said Mary. She gave the letter back to Ermyntrude. ‘I don’t mean that Uncle hasn’t had an affair with this Gladys person: I suppose he must have had; but we don’t know that he’s the one who got her into trouble. If you think it over, it looks as though the girl must be a pretty bad lot. You can’t imagine a girl falling in love with Uncle, can you? Obviously, she thinks he’s a rich man, and this brother of hers is going to try and get money out of him. Honestly, Aunt Ermy, I wouldn’t let it upset you too much. It’s no use blinking facts, after all, and you’ve known for ages that Uncle is simply hopeless about flirting with pretty girls.’
‘It’s never been as bad as this,’ Ermyntrude said. ‘I’ve borne all the rest, but I won’t bear this. It’s an insult, that’s what you don’t seem to see! Other people don’t think I’m old and dull, and lost my looks, but not my own husband! Oh no! He has to get off with a girl from Fritton! On top of everything!’
‘Darling, you’re so rare and precious the poor sweet can’t live on your plane,’ said Vicky comfortingly. ‘Really, it’s all dreadfully sad, and rather like a Russian novel, and I wouldn’t wonder a bit if you were one of those terribly fated women who go through life never being understood or appreciated.’