Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘You told me that,’ nodded Aunt Liz. ‘To me the point is whether or not Simon should go near the place. Gerald got away and never wanted to go back, so he can’t have liked it much. Would Gerald have wanted his son to go to Limbourne?’

  We seemed to have come round to the beginning of the argument; I could find nothing else to say.

  ‘There must be something queer about the whole setup,’ declared Aunt Liz as she stubbed out the end of her cigarette. ‘It’s useless for you to ask my advice; I can see you’ve made up your mind to go. I only hope you won’t regret it. What about clothes?’

  ‘I thought my blue would do for the evenings if I had it cleaned and pressed.’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Aunt Liz firmly. ‘If you’re determined to go to that place you must have decent clothes; two evening dresses and some cotton frocks. You can have your tweed suit cleaned and pressed—it doesn’t matter if tweeds are slightly shabby—but you had better have a couple of new shirts. I shall give you the outfit.’

  I began to thank her.

  ‘There’s no need for all that nonsense,’ declared Aunt Liz. ‘You’ve got to have decent clothes; I don’t want you to disgrace our family . . . which, in its own way, is every bit as good as theirs.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Simon was obliged to go south on Sunday; I sent him by train; I could not bear the idea of him ‘hitch-hiking’ all over the country. After he had gone I thought of all sorts of things that we should have discussed and arranged . . . but there had been so little time. There had been no time for Simon to answer Sir Mortimer’s letter. We had made several rough drafts—none of which seemed satisfactory—and eventually Simon had stuffed them into his pocket and said he would write when he got back to school. ‘Mark will help me,’ he said. ‘Mark is a whizzer at letters.’

  The week passed slowly; I was restless and depressed. One moment I found myself hoping that Sir Mortimer would agree to receive me at Limbourne, the next moment I found myself hoping that he would not.

  On Friday night Alec rang me up to ask if to-morrow was all right for Moffat and at last I was able to say yes.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Unless something frightful happens in the night.’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Alec. ‘I have a feeling in my bones that we’ll make it this time, and the weather forecast is good.’

  He rang off and I put the receiver down. Immediately the bell rang again—and it was Simon.

  ‘Mums, can you hear me?’ he said. ‘Mr. Talbot is letting me use his phone. It’s all right about Limbourne. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, of course I can hear you. Do you mean you’ve had a letter from Sir Mortimer?’

  ‘Yes, this morning. It’s a nice letter—I’ll send it to you—he says he will be very pleased to have you. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, very good,’ I said, without enthusiasm.

  ‘You sound awfully far away,’ said Simon’s voice rather sadly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I told him. ‘I shall be seeing you quite soon—meeting you in London as we arranged. What about the match? Is Mark’s elbow better?’

  ‘Yes, it’s better—and I’m glad.’

  *

  2

  There was rain in the night and it was a cloudy morning, but before Alec called for me the clouds were clearing and the sun had begun to shine warmly. He had opened his car and, as he tucked me in with a light rug, he asked if it would be all right.

  ‘If you feel too much draught I can easily shut it,’ he said.

  I told him I liked lots of air.

  He was in good spirits and I wished that I felt more cheerful; poor Alec had waited so long for this famous run that he deserved a high-spirited companion. I did my best to respond adequately but my efforts did not deceive him.

  ‘Something wrong, Katherine?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really; just silliness,’ I said. ‘Simon rang up last night and my fate is sealed. Sir Mortimer has asked me to Limbourne.’

  ‘It won’t be as bad as you think.’

  ‘Perhaps it will be worse.’

  ‘Nonsense, Katherine!’

  We talked about it off and on as we wended our way through the busy streets. I had told Alec the whole story and he thought I was doing the right thing. He pointed out that our position was strong—as Simon had said—and that, putting aside all questions of feeling, it was to the advantage of the inhabitants of Limbourne to be friendly with the heir to the property.

  ‘But I’m not the heir,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘If they offend you they offend Simon; so, unless they’re perfect fools, they’ll all be extremely kind and pleasant to you.’

  Being a lawyer Alec took a lawyer’s point of view, serious and matter-of-fact, and I found it comforting after listening to the vague and gloomy prognostications of Aunt Liz. By the time we had passed Fairmilehead and were out in the country I was feeling a great deal better. We took the road to West Linton and fairly whizzed along the straight stretch across the moor . . . but after that Alec slowed down as he wanted me to enjoy the scenery.

  ‘Mark’s elbow is better,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alec in a disappointed tone.

  ‘It’s good, Alec. Simon is glad, which makes it splendid.’

  ‘Friendship is better than cricket, you think?’

  ‘A hundred times better.’

  We had taken a left-hand turn at West Linton and were now drifting with effortless and noiseless ease along a winding road which led past meadows full of buttercups and placidly grazing cows.

  ‘When are you going to Limbourne?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Much too soon. In other words the end of this month when Barstow breaks up. Then we come back to Edinburgh to collect the twins and all go off to the cottage for August. It’s awfully kind of Zilla to——’

  ‘August!’ exclaimed Alec. ‘But you’re going to Craigan-Ron in September. Zilla has let it to the Mitchells for August.’

  ‘No, Alec. It’s August—really it is.’

  He was silent for a few moments, negotiating a hairpin corner which led on to the main road.

  ‘Are you certain?’ he said at last. ‘You see Zilla told me it was September. I thought you would be in Edinburgh in August and made plans accordingly.’

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘Yes, I planned to be in Edinburgh. I thought we could have some expeditions—picnics with the children—and Simon could have more coaching. I could arrange for him to play in a match; I was making plans about that. But if you’re to be away——’

  He sounded so disappointed that I felt sorry. I explained the reason Zilla was allowing us to have the cottage in August, making the story as amusing as I could.

  Alec was not amused. ‘Oh, I know she was annoyed about the dogs and I wondered why she was letting them have it again.’

  ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘No. But why did she tell me a . . . I mean why did she say what she said?’

  Perhaps I could have answered his question, or perhaps not. ‘Don’t let’s worry,’ I said. ‘Let’s enjoy ourselves. This is a delightful little village.’

  ‘Broughton. Yes, it’s pretty, isn’t it?’ said Alec gloomily.

  Soon we came to the youthful River Tweed, sparkling and glittering joyously in the bright golden sunshine. Some of the peaceful reaches of the little river were incredibly blue, reflecting the sky. I pointed this out to my companion and added that if somebody painted a picture of that gorgeous colour people would say it was unreal.

  The road wound along beside the river, going uphill all the way until we came to its source, then we passed over the top. All around us were the rolling hills, one behind the other as far as eye could see; they were like huge green billows in a rough Atlantic gale, which had suddenly frozen into a state of immobility. Later they would be clad in heather, purple as the robes of a king. A turn in the road brought us to The Devil’s Beef Tub. Then we drifted slowly downhill and the valley opened before us, a pleasant
peaceful vale in which the Annan wandered gently on its course. Far away in the distance, so hazy and indefinite that they looked like clouds, were the English Hills.

  ‘Moffat,’ said Alec, pointing down at the little town nestling in snug comfort on the floor of the valley, the spires of its churches half-hidden in trees.

  *

  3

  Presently we found ourselves in the wide High Street and looked about us for a place to have lunch.

  ‘I know nothing about the hotels, I’m afraid,’ said Alec. ‘Which do you fancy? Shall we say “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo”?’

  We said it, laughing at the joke, and soon we were sitting at a small table in a pleasant dining-room enjoying a simple but well-cooked meal.

  There was still a little cloud on Alec’s spirits and I was sorry for this. He had been looking forward to the day so much that I wanted him to forget his disappointment and enjoy himself. I was grateful to him for making plans for Simon; I was grateful for the good advice he had given me and last but not least for this delightful day. I was enjoying it tremendously and, if I could manage it, Alec should enjoy it too, so I set to work to entertain him. It was not very difficult. I soon had him laughing at my silly jokes.

  The dining-room was fairly full but not overcrowded. I was sitting with my back to the wall so I had a good view of our fellow-diners. Half-way down the room there was a couple who caught my interest, chiefly because they seemed to be interested in me. The man was middle-aged with a bald head and a very red face, the woman was younger. Her face was dead-white with large brown eyes and orange-coloured lips. She would not have attracted attention in London, where heavy make-up is fairly common, but here in this country hotel she was completely out of place; as foreign to her surroundings as a bird of paradise.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Two people,’ I said. ‘They seem interested in me, but I never saw them before. They look sort of Londony—if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I expect they are admiring you, which isn’t surprising.’

  ‘It would be very surprising indeed,’ I retorted. ‘The lady looks as if she had just emerged from a beauty parlour. Don’t look, Alec.’

  ‘I don’t want to look; she doesn’t sound my type. You’ll have coffee, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said.

  A few minutes later the ‘Londony’ couple got up and went away.

  The afternoon was not so warm, there were big clouds coming up from the west, but the country was beautiful—perhaps even more beautiful than in blazing sunshine. Alec took a different road back to Edinburgh, a lovely road up the narrow valley of Moffat Water where high steep hills rose up on either side. We stopped at The Grey Mare’s Tail and walked up a rocky path to look at the waterfall splashing down into a dark and somewhat sinister-looking pool. Then on we went to St. Mary’s Loch; its large expanse was dark, reflecting the cloudy sky, and little waves were whispering on the shore. Half-way down the loch we left it, turning up the hill called Paddy Slacks, a delightful name, then down through the ancient town of Peebles and so back to Edinburgh and home.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twelve

  Simon had made all the plans for our visit to Limbourne and they worked out well. On leaving Barstow he had spent two nights at Wimbledon with the Butterfields so that he could do some necessary shopping in London. I had come south by the night train and we had met at Harrods for lunch. We were now seated in a first-class compartment of the afternoon train to Wandlebury.

  The first-class tickets seemed to me an unnecessary extravagance.

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Simon firmly. ‘They’ll probably meet us at the station. You said we weren’t to go to Limbourne in rags.’

  After that we were silent.

  The compartment was empty except for ourselves so we could have talked quite comfortably, and there were all sorts of things I wanted to ask Simon, but I was unable to speak a word. Simon also was dumb; was he as frightened as I was? I began to wonder what would happen when we arrived at Wandlebury. Sir Mortimer had said we would be met at the station, but I had no idea how far it was or when we would arrive; worst of all, if any of Simon’s relations came to meet us how should we know them?

  The train slowed down and stopped.

  ‘Come on, Mums! It’s Wandlebury. I’ll get a porter,’ exclaimed Simon, opening the door and leaping out.

  I saw to my dismay that it was a large station, thronged with all sorts and kinds of people hurrying hither and thither, jostling each other in their endeavour to keep clear of trucks laden with luggage. How could we possibly find anyone in this chaos? The only thing to do was to collect our belongings and get out of the train. I had just managed to drag one suitcase off the rack when an oldish man in chauffeur’s uniform appeared at my elbow.

  ‘Allow me, madam,’ he said and took the suitcase out of my hand.

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘Are you——’

  ‘I’m Nitkin, madam. It’s a bit of a crowd to-day. I doubt if Mr. Simon will be able to get a porter but we’ll manage all right ourselves. There’s a big meeting at the town hall, that’s what all the fuss is about. I did ought to have brought Hurrell along to help with the luggage but I never thought. . . .’

  Nitkin had got all the things out of the compartment when I saw Simon, shouldering his way through the crowd.

  ‘No porters anywhere!’ he declared.

  ‘We can manage ourselves, Mr. Simon,’ said Nitkin and, taking a suitcase in each hand and a large cardboard box (belonging to Simon) under one arm, he set off down the platform. He was a wizened little man with spindly legs so he must have been stronger than he looked.

  ‘Who is he? How did you get him?’ asked Simon.

  There was such a noise now—doors banging, people shouting, whistles blowing—that I couldn’t reply. Besides I hadn’t the slightest idea how I had got him. For all I knew he had materialised out of thin air. I signed to Simon to pick up his kit-bag and we followed as quickly as we could.

  A Daimler was waiting in the station-yard. Nitkin stood beside it. He opened the door as we approached. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t no porters,’ he said. ‘There usually is. Sir Mortimer would be vexed if he was to know you’d carried the luggage. I did ought to have brought Hurrell. . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, don’t worry,’ said Simon cheerfully.

  ‘Nitkin,’ I said, ‘how did you know us in all that crowd?’

  He smiled. ‘Easy. I’ve bin at Limbourne most of my life. When Mr. Gerald came home for the holidays I always met him—if I could. Mr. Gerald liked me to meet him. When he was going away he used to say, “You’ll meet me, won’t you, Nitkin?” Sometimes I couldn’t (if Sir Mortimer wanted me for something) but I managed it usually. When I saw Mr. Simon jump out of that there door onto the platform I thought it was him for a minute—gave me quite a turn, it did.’

  Simon and I got into the car and Nitkin drove off.

  There was no glass between us and Nitkin; it was not that kind of car. I put my mouth close to Simon’s ear and murmured, ‘He doesn’t want us to tell Sir Mortimer that you had to carry your kit-bag.’

  Simon grinned and replied in the same manner, ‘We’d be stinkers if we let on, wouldn’t we?’

  We drove a long way through pleasant, wooded country and lush meadows and small villages. There were old-fashioned cottages with gardens full of flowers. Nitkin chatted as we went along, pointing out various objects of interest (I was tired after the night journey so I lay back in my corner and let Simon reply). Nitkin asked after Mr. Denis and Miss Marguerite and seemed pleased to hear they were in good health.

  ‘You did ought to have brought them along with you, Mr. Simon,’ he said. ‘But you’ll bring them next time. It’d be nice to see children about the place again. I could pick up a couple of nice ponies for them—quiet ones, you know. I like children. We never had none of our own. Me and my wife lives in a little cottage in the stable-y
ard. It’s convenient for looking after the horses but not very up-to-date. My wife complains a good deal, she thinks we did ought to have one of the other cottages—me having bin here forty years—but I don’t know as I’d like to change.’

  ‘Horses—for riding?’ asked Simon eagerly.

  ‘Bless you, yes, Mr. Simon! Two nice hacks, but Mr. Lance and Miss Anthea don’t care for riding so it’s a job to keep them exercised. Time was when we had six in the stable—Sir Mortimer was keen on hunting in his younger days—but it’s different now. Major Wentworth likes a ride when he comes down from London but he doesn’t often get leave.’

  ‘Major Wentworth?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Your Uncle Peter, Mr. Simon,’ explained Nitkin. He added, ‘The horses are really my proper job. It’s Hurrell that drives the car—usually, that is.’

  Simon glanced at me and winked.

  ‘That’s Hurlestone Manor,’ said Nitkin as we swept past a tall, stone gateway with curious-looking stone beasts sitting on the tops of the pillars. ‘The D’Artingtons are a very old family—came over here with William the Conqueror, they say. It’s only about six miles before we get to Limbourne. I expect you’ll be glad to get there, Mr. Simon, after your long journey.’

  Simon had not had a long journey, but he did not explain this.

  Presently the road ran up a steep hill and then turned sharply along a ridge from which we could look down upon parklands set with fine old trees.

  Nitkin stopped and pointed. ‘There, Mr, Simon,’ he said. ‘That’s Limbourne.’

  The house lay in a hollow; we looked down upon it as if from the air. It was built in the form of the letter L; the roof was gabled and there were rows of tall chimneys; rows of tall windows, shining in the afternoon sunshine.

  ‘How old is it?’ asked Simon after a little silence.

  ‘Well, I don’t rightly know,’ admitted Nitkin. ‘There’s been a house there for hundreds of years and it’s always belonged to the family but it was rebuilt in Sir Mortimer’s grandfather’s time so there’s only a bit of the old house left. My grandfer used to talk to me about it when I was a lad—he remembered the building. He said it was foreigners that came; they set up a camp and built it.’