“By the way, if you weren’t engaged to him and Lady Masters was not objecting to it, what was happening this afternoon?”
“Dear Miles, never mind what happened this afternoon. Come back to Woodside and we’ll break the news to Mummy.”
“You needn’t tell me,” he said, laughing at her. “I think I can guess.”
“Please don’t. It’s a horrid, humiliating story.”
When Laura did not return, Mrs. Cole thought they must have stayed to tea with Miss Selbourne. Lady Masters and Miss Selbourne were the merest acquaintances, and Miss Selbourne had never been known to ask anyone to tea (it might be different now she had Jocelyn to cook for her), so the idea soon began to seem improbable. Could they have gone back to Endbury? At the thought of it Mrs. Cole grew quite excited. She saw that Lady Masters had taken the car, which gave her good reason for thinking that they must have gone farther than Bank Cottage. She hoped that Laura would not catch Toby’s cold.
However, this maternal solicitude was quickly dispelled by much more agreeable fancies; there must be some reason—some special reason, she thought—for Lady Masters’s behaviour. The flimsy excuse of going for a walk, and then changing her mind and taking the car, the prolonged absence, it must mean something, and what could it mean but—? The significant “but” was the key to a door that opened on vistas of splendour: bridesmaids; the Brussels lace; a wedding in Bramton Church, but with the Rector of Bramworthy too because she liked him much better than the Vicar of Bramton; a spring wedding if possible, because of the flowers; as fine a trousseau as she could possibly manage. . . .
“What can I sell?” she wondered, mentally listing the furniture, the pictures, and her own remaining jewellery, and rather regretting having given her pearls to Gillian. Of course, Gillian was the elder, and had got married first, but it was a pity the pearls could not have gone back to Endbury with Laura.
At this point, conscious that her imagination was running away with her, Mrs. Cole told herself that she would not think any more about it. Perhaps it was unlucky. But even the power of superstition could not prevent her from thinking, as she carried her tea tray back to the kitchen and replaced the milk jug in the larder, how wonderful it would be if Laura should come home and announce that she was engaged.
The fine afternoon was now merging into a fine evening. Inside the house it was already dusk, and Mrs. Cole began to worry because Laura had taken only her thin coat and might be cold. She made up the fire, then she went upstairs to close the windows and draw the bedroom curtains. Her own bedroom looked out over the garden, and she stood at the window, as she did almost every night, contemplating the beauty she had created and thinking how it might be improved.
A garden, even such a small garden as this one, was an expensive form of self-expression; but then it was her only extravagance. She never thought of it as an extravagance and when she spoke vaguely of economizing it was generally because the money was needed for the garden—the garden itself being rigidly excluded from schemes of retrenchment. Now, while half her mind was occupied with plans for Laura’s trousseau, the other half was considering the extension of the herbaceous border, which would mean curtailing the vegetable garden and cutting down two or three old apple trees.
It would be rash to maintain that her devotion to the garden equalled her devotion to Laura and Gillian. Nevertheless, Mrs. Cole, who ought to have been at the spyhole watching for her daughter’s return, was still gazing out on an imaginary herbaceous border, and debating the exact height of an imaginary thuya hedge, when Laura and Miles entered the house. Hearing their voices, she went to the top of the stairs. In the fading daylight, looking down into the hall, she could see only that Laura had someone with her, and for a brief moment she thought it must be Toby bringing her back from Endbury. Forgetting that Toby had a cold and was spending a day in bed, Mrs. Cole drew a deep breath of satisfaction.
“Laura, darling!” she called in a warm, welcoming voice, hurrying downstairs towards them. But almost as she spoke she realized that it was not Toby after all; the tall man who stood there in the dusk could only be Miles Corton. The disappointment of finding it was not Toby made her greet Miles with less than her usual cordiality.
They followed her into the drawing-room. Laura said she hoped there was some sherry left, and went off to look for it. Resenting this extravagance—for though it would not have been extravagant to offer Toby a drink, there was no need to offer one to Miles—Mrs. Cole at once began to talk about the garden, which was a safe and enjoyable subject. But when Laura came back her curiosity got the better of her and she interrupted herself to ask what had become of Lady Masters, and where Laura had been all this time.
“Oh, she went home,” Laura said casually. A silly reply, thought Mrs. Cole, coming strangely near to criticizing her precious child. Of course Lady Masters had gone home; where else would she be likely to go?
“But did you see Miss Selbourne? Did you have tea with her?”
Laura looked across at Miles. “No,” she said, “we didn’t. I—I met Miles down by the bridge.”
Where she had met Miles was of less interest to Mrs. Cole than what had become of Lady Masters, and she asked fretfully:
“But what did you do? Did you go for a drive? I saw that you went in the car after all. I wish you had thought of bringing Lady Masters back for tea here, as you were out so long.” She did not really wish this, for she had had enough of Lady Masters for one day, but Laura ought to have asked her. “She will be late getting home, and I know they always have tea at four o’clock.”
“She won’t be late,” Miles said. “She went home a long time ago.”
Whether or not these words were meant to be reassuring, Mrs. Cole took them in the wrong spirit; to her they sounded like a flippant dismissal of Lady Masters and all she represented. Almost as if he were laughing. Then she realized that if Lady Masters had gone home early then was a big gap of time unaccounted for. A more resolute mother might have continued her questioning, but Mrs. Cole, instinctively playing for time, changed the subject by telling Miles that Gillian was coming back tomorrow.
“Mummy!” said Laura, before Miles had time to reply.
Mrs. Cole looked at her daughter. Since Laura’s return, since the moment when she had seen that it was Miles, and not Toby, who stood beside her in the hall, she had felt faintly uneasy. Something had happened; there was a breath of excitement—and danger—in the air. Now, while she looked at Laura, the uneasiness became alarm. For no reason—or for a most sinister reason—she found herself picturing Marly House. Ugly as it was in fact, her inward vision made it still uglier and invested it with circling winds and ceaseless icy draughts.
“And all those cobwebs,” she murmured aloud. This inconsequent remark went unnoticed by Miles and Laura, who proceeded to tell her, with as much calm and tact as possible, that they wished to marry. Neither had expected that she would instantly approve of their engagement, but they were too much engrossed by their own happiness to realize how strongly she disapproved. Mrs. Cole took refuge in vagueness, in saying it was a great surprise, she had never dreamt of it, and Gillian must be told first. Outwardly she remained tolerably calm; inwardly she was extremely agitated, and Pussy Cleeve’s words rang in her head like prophetic tolling bells.
She ought to have guessed. She ought to have known. She ought to have Done Something.
Chapter Twenty
On Monday afternoon Gillian returned from Cleeve Manor. Thomas drove her back, but could not stay long because he was going up to London on the evening train. Laura had gone to Marly House to have tea with Miles; quite apart from a faint, wild hope that being taken all over Marly House might make her regret her choice, Mrs. Cole was glad of her absence, which would give her the opportunity to break the news to Gillian and find out what she thought of it.
The presence of a third party entailed a slight delay, for Mrs. Cole had no intention of discussing the dreadful situation till they were alone. But in spi
te of her restraint Gillian was soon aware that something important had happened. Her mother was even vaguer than usual, and although she chatted politely with Thomas it was quite plain to anyone who knew her that she was not listening to his account of the Hospice Ball.
“Not a bad show,” Thomas said. “Not a bad show at all.”
Mrs. Cole said that must have been wonderful.
Gillian wondered if it was sudden ruin, or the death of a dear old friend, or simply some fearful catastrophe in the garden. There was an aura of tragedy about Mrs. Cole which suggested that it had been something disastrous. Gillian did not care for disasters, and she was preparing herself to minimize this one when something was said that made her think it was not a disaster after all. In reply to Thomas’s polite inquiries her mother said briefly and rather coldly that Laura was out. Mrs. Cole had a fond conviction that everyone must share her interest in her daughters, and it was so unlike her not to give a full, exact account of their activities that Gillian instantly perceived that whatever had happened, had happened to Laura.
As soon as Thomas had left the house, Mrs. Cole drew her back into the drawing-room and announced in tones of deepest woe that Laura wanted to marry Miles Corton.
“Does she?” Gillian said. “I thought that might be it. Has he asked her?”
“They’re engaged,” wailed Mrs. Cole.
“Let’s have tea, and you shall tell me all about it. It’s been coming on for weeks, you know.”
Whatever Mrs. Cole had expected, it had not been this.
“Gillian!” she cried. “If you knew, you should have told me. We could have done something. Laura’s so young . . .”
“Mummy, darling, Laura’s only five years younger than I. She’s older than I was when I got married.”
“That was different. That was the war.”
Gillian always knew what was needed, and what was needed now was a nice cup of tea. Leaving Mrs. Cole to make up the fire, which was smouldering in a dismal way as if it shared her feelings, she went into the kitchen and in a remarkably short time returned with the tea on a trolley, set out elegantly with the best china and the silver teapot. Soothing people’s ruffled feelings was exactly what Gillian was best at, and it was easier in this case because she knew the reason for her mother’s dismay and disapproval. But she was careful not to let the conversation get round to Endbury. Endbury would have to be mentioned, but that would come later.
To begin with she listened to a confused and agitated account of how Mrs. Cole had heard the news and what a shock it had been to her. She had already been worried and anxious because Laura had been out for so long and hadn’t come back at tea-time, and had taken only her thin coat. And then Laura had brought Miles in and without any warning they had announced that they wanted to get married, and Miles had stayed the whole evening, and Laura had used all the eggs to make an omelette for supper.
Although she appeared agitated and confused Mrs. Cole thought she was giving an accurate statement of what had happened and what she had felt at the time. She could not help adding a few dramatic touches, such as her anxiety at Laura’s prolonged absence, and stressing the fact that it had all come as a complete surprise to her. The destruction of her secret hopes was so painful that she felt justified in making these small exaggerations.
“I never dreamed of it,” she repeated. “It’s as if she’d suddenly said she was going to marry a total stranger.”
“It’s odd, really, that we don’t know Miles better. After all, you were such friends with old Mr. Corton, and he did so much for us.”
Gradually, under the influence of tea and sympathy, Mrs. Cole was lured into remembering what a good friend old Mr. Corton had been to the family. She always enjoyed talking about the past, and soon she was plunged into a flood of reminiscences, with Gillian cunningly guiding her in the right direction.
“People used to say he was stubborn,” she declared, “but he was always very kind to me. And he took such an interest in the garden. Nothing was too much trouble.”
“Miles is very like him. And he likes gardening, too.”
Unable to deny the physical resemblance, Mrs. Cole refused to admit that Miles cared for gardening. “Oh, no,” she said, “he doesn’t mind what happens to Marly. I was quite horrified, last time I was there, to see how neglected it was. Weeds everywhere, and the knot garden quite ruined.”
“But farming takes most of his time. It isn’t that he doesn’t care. Look how often he’s been here to help you with the alterations—that shows he must be interested.” Gillian could perceive another motive for Miles’s frequent visits to Woodside, but naturally she did not mention it. “When they’re married, you’ll be able to help them,” she went on. “Laura will want to get that garden straight, and she won’t know where to begin. You’ll have lots to plan and think about.”
Mrs. Cole looked a little happier. Though she had not yet got over her disappointment she saw for the first time a small ray of light amid the encircling gloom. The gardens at Endbury were perfect; and even if she had wanted to she would not have been allowed to tamper with them. But the garden at Marly House, like a sad, neglected child, cried out for care and attention. There was so much to be done that it would be difficult to know where to begin.
Of course they would not have much money. It would be better to get rid of the knot garden and all those elaborate beds which needed edging and constant weeding. It would be better to grass over all that part below the terrace. And then, perhaps . . .
Watching her mother, who was gazing into the fire and twisting the fringes of her shawl between her fingers, Gillian saw that she was happily employed in reconstructing the Marly garden. Presently they would come back to discussing Miles and Laura, but it would be easier now to persuade her that everything was really for the best.
Gillian was a kind-hearted daughter. She realized that it would take a little time for her mother to get used to the idea of Laura’s marriage, and that still more time would be needed before she really began to approve of it. She had had as much agitation and excitement as she could bear. For these and other reasons Gillian decided not to speak about her own future. It was clearly not the right moment to break it to Mrs. Cole that she was to lose both her daughters, or alternatively that she was to acquire two uncongenial sons-in-law.
Even before she knew about Laura and Miles she had foreseen that there would have to be a right moment for telling her mother about Thomas, and she had pledged him to secrecy. So there was no hurry; the first thing to be done was to get her into a favourable pro-engagements frame of mind, and then in a few days’ time, when she had begun to think about weddings, the right moment could be created.
While they talked, Gillian continued to lay her plans. Laura’s marriage would make a difference; if Mrs. Cole continued to live at Woodside they would have to find her a housekeeper or companion; or perhaps it would be better if she left this house, which would be rather too large for her, and lived either with Laura at Marly or with herself at Cleeve. Or for six months at a time with each of them. But that need not be settled at once, it could wait until she had time to discuss it with Thomas and find out how he felt about mothers-in-law.
It was lucky, she thought, that Thomas was so rich, and then, quite spontaneously, she found herself thinking, “Dear Thomas!” For she was more attached to him than she would have cared to admit, and some of her reformer’s zeal had already abated. The prospect of wealth was not unpleasant, but while she was fully aware of her good fortune she was also convinced that she and Thomas were ideally suited to one another.
Mrs. Cole, who so deplored the obstinacy of the Cortons, could be obstinate herself where her own interests were concerned, and Gillian’s plan for removing her from Woodside was doomed to failure. Gillian did not foresee this, for in everything concerning her daughters Mrs. Cole had always been pliable and accommodating. Happily ignorant of the great tussle to come, they settled down to a friendly talk, in the course of which Mrs. Cole
admitted that she had hoped Laura might marry Toby Masters.
Gillian sympathized about Endbury, but pointed out that marrying Toby would have meant marrying Lady Masters too.
“And being completely dominated,” she said. “You know what she’s like. Laura could never stand up to her.”
“But if she had gone away—left Endbury—”
“Mummy, darling, can you see her leaving Endbury?”
Facing facts, Mrs. Cole could not. Now that the dream was over there was no need to continue the mental exercise of willing herself to like, or at least to admire, Lady Masters. The self-imposed discipline had been as uncomfortable as a tight pair of shoes, and it was a relief to be able to relax, to shuffle, as it were, into cosy soft slippers, and to say that fond as she was, and always would be, of Toby, she could only pity him for having such a possessive mother.
“Not like you, darling,” said Gillian, building up the picture of an indulgent parent who let her daughters follow the inclinations of their own hearts.
The weather had changed since yesterday. Driving rain hid the park, and the wind was bringing drifts of leaves from the trees and howling round the ugly, solid walls of Marly House as if to show what it could do when it tried. It was not perhaps the best possible day for inspecting one’s future home, but nothing could depress Laura and Miles, not even a prolonged tour of the house, which had now brought them up to the dusty and lumber-filled attics. Miles was stubbornly attached to his home and Laura was quite incapable of finding any fault with it. They both knew that other people thought it ugly and inconvenient, they were even prepared to agree that it was rather large, but neither of them wished to live anywhere else.
The tour of the house had taken a long time, for each room had to be considered on its merits. It would be impossible for them to use all the rooms, and yet it was hard to decide between them. By the time they reached the attics it was already dusk.
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