Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Foreigners?’ asked Simon.

  ‘That’s what they called them in the village. They weren’t blacks or such-like, Mr. Simon. It was just that they didn’t belong to this part of the country. Very narrow the village people were in those days,’ added Nitkin with a pitying smile.

  We drove on down the hill. The village lay on our right; to the left were big wrought-iron gates which opened of their own accord as we approached.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ exclaimed Simon in amazement.

  ‘It’s sort of mysterious,’ agreed Nitkin with a chuckle. ‘Sir Mortimer had them made like that so he doesn’t have to wait for them to be opened. It’s a neat contraption. Sir Mortimer likes to have everything just right. You should see the Home Farm, Mr. Simon. It’s a model—really it is.’

  ‘Does my grandfather run it himself?’

  ‘Not to say run it. There’s Mr. Marsh, you see. Mr. Marsh looks after all the farms—estate agent, they call him—but Sir Mortimer keeps an eye on things and woe betide if things aren’t just O.K. Mr. Marsh is a very capable gentleman but he’s getting on in years and there’s talk in the village that he’s to have an assistant—some say it’s to be Mr. Lance. The village is an awful place for gossip.’

  While Nitkin had been talking we had been running smoothly along the avenue, with a hedge of rhododendron bushes on one side and a wide expanse of parkland on the other; we were now in sight of the entrance. There were three broad steps up to the door with a pillar on either side.

  ‘Here we are, Mr. Simon,’ said Nitkin; he gave a little toot with his horn, the door opened and a man ran down the steps to fetch the luggage.

  In the doorway there was a tall thin woman with grey hair. She came forward and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Wentworth. I’m Mrs. Sillett, the housekeeper. I hope you had a good journey. Good afternoon, Mr. Simon.’

  We shook hands with her.

  Mrs. Sillett chatted in a friendly manner as she led me up the broad staircase; she explained that Mrs. Godfrey always rested in the afternoon and that tea would be ready in half an hour. I had not much time to look about me but I saw thick carpets and beautiful old furniture. The walls were hung with oil paintings, chiefly portraits. I stopped suddenly in front of one, which depicted a tall elegant man with powdered hair; he was wearing a brocade coat with wide skirts and there was a sword at his side.

  ‘That’s the fifth baronet,’ said Mrs. Sillett. ‘It’s a beautiful picture, isn’t it?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I agreed . . . but it was not the beauty of the picture which had arrested me, it was the amazing resemblance to Gerald.

  Mrs. Sillett walked on and opened a door. ‘This is your room, Mrs. Wentworth. I hope you’ll be comfortable here. If there’s anything you want just ring the bell. The head housemaid is out this afternoon but Betty is a very nice girl.’

  It was a lovely room with tall windows looking out over a flower garden and beyond to the park which sloped upwards to a wooded hill.

  Mrs. Sillett opened another door and disclosed a bathroom. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to share it with Miss Anthea,’ she said apologetically. ‘But Miss Anthea isn’t at home just now and we aren’t sure what day she’ll be coming.’

  ‘Would there be time for me to have a bath before tea?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘You needn’t hurry. It won’t matter if you’re late for tea. Sir Mortimer is very particular about punctuality, but he doesn’t bother about tea and Mrs. Godfrey won’t mind. Just come down to the drawing-room when you’re ready.’ She paused at the door and added, ‘Mr. Simon’s room is at the other end of the passage; Bassett is looking after him.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bathroom was luxurious; I spent some time in the scented water, soaking the tiredness out of my limbs, so when I had found a frock and dressed and brushed my hair it was later than I expected. However I felt a great deal better and Mrs. Sillett had said I needn’t hurry.

  When I was ready I went out onto the landing and had another, more careful, look at the portrait of the fifth baronet. Yes, it was exactly like Gerald. Gerald in fancy dress! Somehow the sight of Gerald’s portrait hanging on the wall in this strange house gave me confidence. The house had not been strange to Gerald; he had been born here and had lived here when he was young. Sad to say he had been unhappy here . . . but perhaps he would be pleased if he knew that some day it would belong to his son.

  I went downstairs and found my way to the drawing-room and opened the door quietly; tea was laid on a round table near the window and before it sat a small plump woman with fluffy grey hair. She was eating a large piece of chocolate cake with obvious enjoyment and was so intent that she did not hear me come in. She was Mrs. Godfrey, of course.

  For a few moments I hesitated, then I went forward and said, ‘I’m Katherine.’

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh yes, of course! How do you do?’

  We shook hands solemnly.

  Her eyes were pale blue, slightly protruding, and she had a double chin. Could this woman really be Gerald’s sister? It was almost incredible.

  ‘I expect you’re tired,’ she said vaguely. ‘Where would you like to sit? The boys had a cup of tea and went out together. I hope you aren’t annoyed about it.’

  ‘Of course not! I’m sorry I’m late for tea, but——’

  ‘Well, I told them they had better wait and ask you if you minded, but Lance doesn’t pay any attention to what I say.’ She poured out my tea, offered me a cucumber sandwich and helped herself to another piece of chocolate cake. (It crossed my mind that Mrs. Godfrey would soon be the possessor of a third chin.)

  ‘I don’t mind in the least,’ I assured her. ‘It will be nice for Simon to have a walk with his cousin.’

  ‘Oh—yes—they’re cousins!’ she said—as though it were a new idea to her. ‘Lance is very clever,’ she added.

  ‘How nice,’ I said. It was an idiotic thing to say, but I was nervous and uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Godfrey seemed quite placid and unperturbed. She continued to munch her cake in silence.

  At last I said, ‘What is Lance going to do?’

  ‘He’s at Cambridge.’

  ‘Yes, but afterwards?’

  ‘Oh, he’s coming home. He’s going to manage the estate. It was Henry’s wish. Henry was very fond of Lance. Henry was a widower, you know; he had one son . . . but Morty was killed two years ago in a plane accident. It was a great grief to us all when Morty was killed.’

  ‘Yes, it must have been.’

  ‘But of course you know all about it, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know much about the family.’

  ‘Oh, how funny!’ said Mrs. Godfrey. ‘I thought you would have heard about poor Morty. It was after Morty was killed that Henry came to me and said he would look after Lance. Those were his very words, “you needn’t worry, Florence, I’ll look after Lance.” I knew he meant Lance was to take Morty’s place.’

  Mrs. Godfrey had finished her tea by this time. She took out a large work-bag and began to work at a piece of tapestry with coloured wools.

  ‘It was all very sad,’ she continued. ‘There was a good deal of trouble about it. You see Papa had an idea that he ought to find out whether Gerald had any children (I mean after Morty was killed), but Henry said to wait. Henry was thinking of getting married again, and she was young, so they might have had children. Then poor Henry had a heart attack. It was very alarming—very alarming indeed—but he recovered and seemed quite well. Then he had another . . . and died.’

  ‘How dreadful!’

  ‘Yes, dreadful,’ said Mrs. Godfrey, taking out her handkerchief and wiping her eyes. ‘He worked too hard. He was a barrister, and very clever, so of course he had lots of briefs. I was very fond of Henry. Henry and I were always friends; we were friends when we were children. Gerald was quite different; he liked to go his own way. Papa was very angry when he wrote to say he was going to marry that Italian girl.’

/>   I had listened half-dazed to all this information, which had been poured out so rapidly that there was no chance for me to reply . . . but now she paused for a minute while she scrabbled about in a tangle of wool to find the colour she needed.

  ‘Why shouldn’t Gerald marry her?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘It was a mésalliance,’ she replied. ‘Of course some Italians are well-born, but that girl was just a peasant. Papa made inquiries.’

  ‘They were very happy,’ I said defensively.

  ‘He should have married Rosamund Ferrars,’ declared Mrs. Godfrey. ‘That’s what Papa wanted him to do. If he had married Rosamund and settled down and looked after the estate none of this would have happened.’

  Here was plain speaking indeed, but the extraordinary thing was I could not be angry with the woman. There she sat, scrabbling about in her tangle of wools like a kitten, saying unforgiveable things in her vague wuffly voice . . . and I was not angry.

  I said quite calmly, ‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t; and it wouldn’t have happened if your family hadn’t broken off all relations with Gerald.’

  ‘How could you expect anything else?’ asked Mrs. Godfrey in mild surprise. ‘He couldn’t have brought that Italian girl to Limbourne. Noblesse oblige, that’s what Papa always says. If you belong to a family like ours you can’t do exactly as you like. I was in love with a young man when I was eighteen, but Papa wouldn’t have it, and afterwards I saw he was right. You see poor Tom had no money so we should have been very uncomfortable. Then I met Lawrence. It was all done properly. Papa arranged it and we were married. Lawrence had a beautiful place in Essex—not as large as Limbourne, of course, but very delightful—and we lived there happily till Lawrence died. Unfortunately he wasn’t a very good business man—Lawrence I mean—so when he died the place had to be sold. By that time Mamma was an invalid so I came home. The children were young and Papa was a little strict so it was difficult at first.’

  ‘It would have been nicer for you to have a house of your own, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, no! You don’t understand. I couldn’t have afforded to have a nice house. Henry explained it to me and said it would be much more comfortable for me to come home.’

  ‘I like to be independent,’ I told her.

  She had been stitching industriously, but now she raised her head and looked at me in astonishment. ‘Independent?’ she said as though she had never heard the word before.

  ‘I like to live my own life,’ I explained. ‘My aunt asked me to live with her, but I refused because I wanted to bring up my children in my own way. You can’t do that if you live in somebody else’s house.’

  ‘It’s Papa’s house,’ said Mrs. Godfrey. ‘You haven’t seen Papa yet, have you? When you see him you’ll understand. He’s very kind if people do as he says. Perhaps it’s just as well to warn you,’ she added, looking at me with her faded blue eyes.

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Children are different nowadays,’ continued Mrs. Godfrey. ‘Lance and Anthea never listen to me, but we were brought up to obey our parents. It says in the Bible, “Children obey your parents” so that was what we did . . . all except Gerald, who was rather queer.’

  I had not been angry before but now, suddenly, I was angry—so angry that if I had said anything I would have said a great deal. Sometimes a sort of devil gets inside me. He was inside me now and I was forced to wrestle with him. I reminded myself that it would be the height of folly to quarrel with the woman; Simon and I had come here to make friends with these people and for Simon’s sake I must try.

  ‘I don’t know why these wools get into such a tangle,’ said Mrs. Godfrey peevishly. ‘I never can find the colour I want.’

  My devil was vanquished now, so I said, ‘Shall I disentangle them for you?’

  She smiled and handed me the tousled mess.

  ‘Tell me about your daughter,’ I suggested as I began my task.

  ‘Wait till you see her!’ exclaimed Mrs. Godfrey. ‘She’s so pretty—just like me when I was eighteen and poor Tom fell in love with me. Anthea is staying with some old family friends but she rang up a little while ago and said she was coming home to-morrow afternoon. I asked if she wanted to be fetched but she said someone would bring her. Poor Anthea is a little unsettled just now; she wants to go to an art school in London—she’s very good at painting—but of course that would be quite absurd. Papa says it will be much better for her to stay at home and learn how to manage a house. Mrs. Sillett will teach her. It will be so useful when she’s married.’

  ‘Is Anthea engaged?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, not exactly. Papa thinks she’s a little too young. There’s Giles D’Artington, of course. He’s a good deal older than Anthea but it would be very suitable. Hurlestone Manor is quite near; you must have passed it on your way from Wandlebury. Then there’s Edward Ferrars—that’s where Anthea is staying now. I expect he will bring Anthea home to-morrow, so you’ll see him. Papa would like her to marry Edward, but there’s no hurry, of course.’ She threaded her needle with rose-coloured wool and added, ‘I think it would be a good plan for her to marry Simon.’

  ‘Simon!’ I echoed in amazement. ‘You don’t mean—Simon?’

  ‘Why not?’ she said vaguely. ‘It would settle everything so comfortably, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Simon is just a child!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean at once—Anthea is only eighteen, you know—I just mean some day. I don’t want Anthea to marry for quite a long time.’

  ‘It’s out of the question, Mrs. Godfrey—it’s absurd—Simon is only sixteen and very young for his age. He hasn’t a thought for girls or—or anything like that.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, perhaps he is a little too young for Anthea—and of course they’re cousins, aren’t they?’

  ‘We needn’t discuss it,’ I said firmly. ‘It isn’t—sensible. When Simon is old enough to marry he shall choose for himself.’

  ‘He couldn’t have anyone nicer than Anthea,’ said Anthea’s mother complacently. She added, ‘I expect Papa will choose someone nice for him when he’s old enough.’

  It was ridiculous to allow myself to be upset by her foolish prattle! All the same I was so upset that my heart was thumping madly. They intended to absorb my Simon into their family; they intended to choose a suitable wife for him. They had failed with Gerald, they were going to try the same thing with Simon. Mrs. Godfrey was the silliest woman I had ever met, but she was an echo of the Wentworth family.

  ‘It’s so nice for us to have had this little chat,’ said Mrs. Godfrey. ‘We’ve got to know each other, haven’t we? I suppose I shall have to call you Katherine; you’re my sister-in-law, aren’t you? It seems funny.’

  It seemed very funny indeed. I looked at her and wondered if I could ever manage to call her Florence.

  She folded up her work and put it into the bag. ‘Dinner is at eight and Papa likes us to be down in plenty of time. I always rest before dinner. Just ask Mrs. Sillett for anything you want.’

  Obviously I was supposed to retire to my room.

  *

  2

  There was plenty of time before dinner so I unpacked and dressed in a leisurely manner. I wondered where Simon was and what he was doing.

  Presently there was a tap on my door and Simon came in; he was ready except for his tie.

  ‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed in amazement.

  ‘Am I all right?’ he asked, surveying himself in the long mirror.

  He was very much all right. The formal evening clothes became him admirably and fitted him like a glove.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ I asked. ‘They must have cost the earth.’

  ‘Hired,’ he replied, grinning mischievously. ‘It was far too expensive to buy evening clothes, besides I shall probably grow. Mark came with me and helped me. We went to a place where they had dozens and dozens of suits. I tried on six jackets before the chap was satisfied with the fit. Pretty good, isn’t it?�
�� he added, turning round slowly to give me a view of his back.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said.

  He held out the black tie and I tied it for him. I had often done the same little service for Gerald. It seemed strange to be doing it for Simon.

  ‘I had a very interesting time,’ he said. ‘Lance took me for a look round. It’s a lovely place, Mums. Everything is in apple-pie order. Lance has a super motor-bike, he showed it to me.’

  ‘Have you seen your grandfather?’

  ‘Not yet. Lance said he spends a lot of time in the library and nobody must disturb him “on pain of death.” Lance calls him “The Bart”—but not to his face, of course. He seems a bit of a Tartar.’

  ‘Yes, I gathered that.’

  ‘Lance is frightened of him, but I’m not going to be frightened,’ declared Simon defiantly. ‘Why should I be frightened? He asked me to come here—and I’ve come. You aren’t frightened, are you?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Mums. He can’t eat us.’

  I smiled and replied, ‘No, he can’t eat us . . . and you look simply marvellous in those clothes. If he isn’t proud of you he ought to be.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ agreed Simon. ‘It’s all awfully funny, isn’t it?’

  Funny was not the word I should have chosen.

  ‘Have you got a nice room?’ I asked.

  ‘Not as nice as this, but very comfortable. It looks out onto the yard. I suppose you had tea with Mrs. Godfrey—I mean Aunt Florence—she’s a frightful ass, isn’t she?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  When we went down to the drawing-room Sir Mortimer was there alone. He was standing on the hearth-rug with a glass of sherry in his hand—a tall old man with dark eyebrows and a jutting nose. His hair was thick and grey; it looked as if it were powdered. I had a feeling that he was out of place in the modern world.