They stood together in the corridor, Poppy feeling a little bit less nervous now. She felt so unreal in her new clothes that it was almost as if she were acting in a charade. “Did anyone see you, do you think, in your carriage?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Erika replied. “Not to notice, I’m sure. There’s only one man and woman in there.”
But Poppy could not help feeling that Erika must have been noticed—her clothes were so striking for one thing—so she made up her mind to remain in the corridor until they got to Pulborough.
At Horsham, Lew was waiting for Erika. He was on the platform and Erika spotted him at once. She squeezed Poppy’s arm. “Bless you for what you’re doing,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll never, never forget it. Good luck, goodbye.”
“Good-bye,” Poppy replied. “Be happy.” She watched Erika jump out of the train and run straight to Lew’s arms. They both turned and waved to her and then they were gone, walking away jauntily arm in arm, and Poppy was left to her ordeal.
The train started again, and in order to occupy her mind, Poppy opened Erika’s bag to try to get used to some of her new “belongings.” Inside, the first thing she saw was Erika’s gold cigarette-case and lighter to match, studded with sapphires. Poppy did not smoke so these would be wasted on her. The bag also contained twenty pounds in notes fastened with a gold clip (Erika had told her that she was going to put in some money, for Poppy might need it for racing and tips, but Poppy had had no idea it would be as much as this), a return ticket to Pulborough, a gold flapjack, a brand new lipstick, a tortoiseshell comb and a clean handkerchief liberally sprinkled with Erika’s expensive scent. The inside of the bag was so clean that Poppy realized that it must be new. There were no odds and ends in it, no old bus tickets, no spilt powder—nothing, beyond the scent, to speak of a particular personality. She felt alien to herself in these borrowed clothes, with these borrowed possessions, but she knew that in some odd way the strange clothes would make it easier for her to act her part, just as shy children so often lose their self-consciousness when they “dress up.”
Nevertheless, when the train drew in to Pulborough station her nerves were anything but steady. The curtain was up and the moment had come when she must go on and face the footlights.
She was so busy dealing with her luggage in the next few moments that there was no time to think. She went back into Erika’s compartment, found Erika’s coat on the rack (a light tweed of emerald and black checks) and took up the small case that was on Erika’s seat which had Erika’s large red and white label on it. The rest of her luggage was in the rack and, apart from a hat-box, looked much too large and heavy for her to move. The other people in the carriage had got out in front of her, and now she too stepped down on to the platform and looked round for a porter.
Immediately a very good-looking, bare-headed young man wearing grey flannels and a tweed jacket came up to her. “Are you Erika?” he asked. “I’m Romilly Hanbridge ... Is your luggage in the carriage or in the van? ... The porter will take it ... Oh, by the way, this is my sister, Philippa, generally called Pip!”
Poppy found herself shaking hands with a pretty girl who had just come up to them. She had been looking out for Erika at the other end of the train.
The porter had now got the luggage out on to the platform—a large hat-box and three enormous suitcases.
“Is this all you’ve got?” Romilly asked.
Poppy smiled. She was too nervous to realize that he was being gently sarcastic. “Let me take that,” he said, taking hold of the case she was carrying, and then as she released it to him, he added, “Goodness, it’s heavy. What have you got in it?”
Again she smiled for answer. She had absolutely no idea what was in it
“There’s a car outside,” Romilly said to the porter.
“What a lovely day.” Poppy found the words somehow. “How good the country smells and how quiet it is.”
“Have you got a ticket?” Romilly asked.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course.” She opened the strange bag, and in getting out the ticket pulled out the handkerchief as well which dropped on the ground. Romilly picked it up for her. “Oh, thank you,” she said.
“Give me your ticket,” he said. “Now, we give up this part”—tearing it in half—“but keep this”—and he handed her the other half. He talked to her rather as if he were talking to a child.
She was finding some difficulty in walking along the platform in her unaccustomed high heels, and suddenly, just as they got to the ticket collector, her ankle went over and she stumbled. Romilly caught her by the arm, and, still holding her firmly, guided her through the station to the waiting car.
Just then a very dark man came up and hailed them. “Hallo, Romilly; hallo, Pip.”
“Hallo, Arthur,” Romilly replied. “Let me introduce you to my long-lost cousin, Erika Hanbridge. This is Arthur Bingle, a neighbor of ours.” Poppy thought she detected a certain coolness in Romilly’s tone.
“As a matter of fact we travelled down in the same carriage,” Arthur Bingle said. “But Miss Hanbridge preferred to stand in the corridor all the way.”
“Yes,” Poppy replied quickly, making her first real speech in her false part. “I was looking out of the window. I am so entranced by the English country.”
Was it only Poppy’s imagination, or did Arthur Bingle give her a strange look?”
“Well, I shall be seeing you all,” he said as he went off to his own car.
In the meantime the porter had stowed Poppy’s luggage in the boot of Romilly’s car and Romilly told Poppy to get in front. He himself was driving, and Philippa got in the back. It was not at all the car that Poppy might have expected to come to meet her. It was in fact a very old Alvis that made . a strange bumbling noise, and Poppy felt an immediate affection for it. Hanbridge Court might be grand and frightening but there was nothing grand about Romilly and this old car of his, nor about his sister. In fact it was Poppy herself who felt ridiculously overdressed. Philippa had bare legs and was wearing an old cotton dress. Poppy would have felt much more comfortable in her own grey coat and skirt than in this flamboyant emerald green silk suit of Erika’s.
In the course of the drive to Hanbridge Court, Poppy discovered that the car was called “Bumble” and that Romilly had a very great affection for it. She also discovered the warm teasing affection that existed between Romilly and his sister. It was about six miles to the court and during the drive Poppy began to feel almost at her ease. The conversation was natural, she was asked no awkward questions and she was nearly able to forget the dreadful position she was in. It was all the more of a shock, therefore, when they turned in at the lodge gates and she saw an immense Georgian mansion facing them across a great expanse of park.
“Is that the house?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But it’s huge. How do you manage to keep it up?”
“We don’t,” Romilly replied, laughing. “We live in just a bit of it. It’s open to the public at week-ends and we let out the big rooms for dances, banquets, receptions and so on. It’s a continual struggle to keep it going. Mother spends most of her time mending the original curtains. Most of the big downstairs rooms are completely untouched—with the original carpets, covers and curtains.”
The road through the park must have been about a mile long, and the house, which they kept in view all the time, got bigger and bigger and Poppy began to feel more and more nervous and less and less inclined to leave the comforting shabbiness of Bumble. Romilly at last swept up to the front, but to Poppy’s relief he did not pull up at the great porch but drove round to a small door at the side.
As they got out the door was opened by a butler who was evidently expecting them. “Come on in,” Romilly said. “I expect Mother’s in the garden but she may be in the drawing-room.”
The wing of the house where the Hanbridges now lived had been cleverly converted so that it appeared from the inside like an ordinary small co
untry house. There was a square flagged hall—a real family hall full of coats and mackintoshes, sticks and umbrellas—and to the left of this Romilly opened a door and ushered Poppy into a beautiful drawing-room with french windows standing open to the garden. She only had time to get a general impression of the room—an impression of lived-in warmth, of the smell of lilies and of beautiful furniture and an exquisitely decorated ceiling—as Romilly led her through it and out into the garden, saying, “I expect Mother is in the rose garden.” As soon as she was outside the illusion of being in a small country house vanished. The garden was laid out in great terraces stretching to a lake which had a little island temple in the middle of it. This side of the house faced south and there was a huge portico on their right on which garden chairs and mattresses were spread out.
The swimming pool was hidden behind a high yew hedge, and also behind the shelter of the hedge was the sunken rose garden where they found Lady Hanbridge with a basket on her arm snipping off the dead heads of the roses.
Immediately she saw them she put down her basket and came forward with outstretched hands. “Welcome, my dear, welcome,” she said cordially and she kissed Poppy as well as taking both her hands. “But how sad that your mother and father can’t come. It is too absurd to think that we have never met ... How is your mother?”
“Oh, she is better this morning, thank you,” Poppy replied. Erika had told her this.
“Did you have a good journey? I expect you would like to see your room. Come, I’ll take you up.”
“Well, I’ll see you later,” Romilly said. “Now I have delivered you into good hands.”
“Oh, thank you ... Thank you for meeting me,” and she smiled her gratitude.
Lady Hanbridge conducted her back to the house. The enormous portico, reached by a flight of steps on each side, loomed over them. “It’s so beautiful,” Poppy found herself saying.
“It is a lovely house, isn’t it? I must say we love it—perhaps we love it too much and make too many sacrifices to try to keep it going. No doubt we’d be wiser to let it go as an institution of some kind and buy a little house somewhere else.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure not,” Poppy said quickly.
“No, I don’t think we could let it go until we are absolutely forced to. It would be like betraying an old friend to let it go to strangers when it has been in the family s© long, but it is certainly a burden at times. That’s why I haven’t even been able to get up to London to see your parents. Charles and I haven’t been away from here for so long—well, I’m almost ashamed to tell you how long it is!”
“Don’t you ever go for a holiday?”
“A holiday? My dear, we couldn’t afford a holiday,” and she laughed merrily—almost a young girl’s laugh. “It must seem too absurd to you—to be quite as tied as we are, but to tell you the truth this place is our whole life. Charles has the estate to manage, of course. I don’t know what Romilly will do. He has his career at the Bar ... This is your room. I do hope you will be comfortable.”
While talking they had gone back through the drawing room and upstairs to the bedroom floor. There was a maid in Poppy’s room already unpacking her suit cases. “Do you think you’ve got everything you want?” Lady Hanbridge asked. “You’ve got your own bathroom through there ... Come down when you are ready. We shall be in the portico. We don’t lunch till half past ... This is Florence, who will look after you. Ask her for anything you need.”
Poppy said good morning to Florence, and Lady Hanbridge left them together.
“I’m afraid the cupboard isn’t very big, miss,” Florence said. “I do hope your things won’t get too crushed, but I can always press anything for you ... I’ll just pop along now and get some more hangers.”
Poppy had never seen so many clothes. Some of them were hanging up and some spread on the bed and some still in the cases. No wonder there weren’t enough hangers. She felt terribly ashamed. When would she have time to look through all these things and get to know them?
She turned to the small case which had not yet been opened. Inside she found that it was a combined make-up box and jewel-case. She was not surprised that Romilly had found it heavy. There were so many bottles in it that she might have set up shop as a beauty parlor. Nor were the creams and lotions labelled. They were in plain gold-tipped bottles and jars and she had no idea what they contained.
She looked at herself in the glass. Fortunately there was no need to re-do her face. She contented herself with powdering her nose from the flapjack in her bag and taking off her hat and combing her hair. She felt in a complete whirl. There was a long glass in the room and she had time to stare at herself before Florence came back. “This can’t be me,” she thought. “Is it possible that clothes can change one so much?” She began to feel more and more unreal. She looked at her watch. It was just on half-past one. Thank goodness she had her own watch with her. Its plain, homely little face had never looked so familiarly dear. “I must go down,” she thought. There was no time now to examine her room. She had merely noticed that it looked out over the garden towards the lake. “I must come up here this afternoon,” she told herself, “and get used to all my new things.”
She found her way back to the drawing-room and then to the portico by way of the garden. Lady Hanbridge, Romilly and Philippa were sitting out there and also a tall thin man whom she guessed to be Lord Hanbridge. “Ah, my dear.” He got up to greet her. “This is a great pleasure. We are very pleased indeed to see you here but very sorry that your mother is ill.”
“Yes, it is a shame,” Poppy found herself saying.
“Will you have a cocktail, cousin?” Romilly asked.
“Thank you.”
He handed her a glass but she suddenly found that her hand was shaking so that she could not take it. She had to put out the other hand and take it with both. Romilly must have noticed this but she was thankful that he made no comment on it.
“It is so beautiful here but I feel so strange,” she said to Lord Hanbridge. “Everything is so—so different.”
“I’m glad you like the old place,” he said fondly.
“What is the history of it? When was it built?”
Lord Hanbridge began to tell her just as lunch was announced. “I’ll show you over after lunch if you like,” he said.
“Oh, please do.”
The dining-room was quite small and cosy and there were just the five of them and they helped themselves from the sideboard. Poppy was stabbed suddenly by the most dreadful feeling of guilt. These kind, simple people had taken her to their hearts and were treating her like one of themselves, and all the time she was nothing but an impostor. She had no right whatever to be there. It was the most terrible abuse of hospitality. If the Hanbridges had been grander she would not have felt this so acutely.
Conversation flowed easily. Romilly was attentive but slightly teasing, Lord Hanbridge was courteous and Lady Hanbridge was just her charming self. Philippa was the only one who did not go out of her way to be friendly. She was not unfriendly but Poppy got the impression that she had not yet made up her mind about her and was not going to commit herself one way or the other until she had. Romilly seemed to take pleasure in calling her “Cousin”. It had a pleasant, old-fashioned ring about it.
Although she was asked a certain number of questions about herself and what she had been doing since she got to England there were none which she could not answer. She said nothing, she believed, to arouse suspicion. Erika had been right in thinking that the Hanbridges would know next to nothing about South Africa, and in order not to hurt her by their ignorance they kept off the subject as much as possible. Poppy was really interested in Hanbridge Court and its history and this endeared her particularly to Lord Hanbridge. He was pleased to find that her knowledge of English architecture was much greater than he would have supposed.
After lunch they had coffee in the portico, and then after “a decent interval for digestion,” as Lord Hanbridge put it, he offered to
show her round the house. Poppy rather hoped that Romilly would go with them and felt a spasm of disappointment when she heard him say that he had to go in to Chichester.
She and Lord Hanbridge went over the house alone. In the big hall from which they started on their tour there were guide books and picture post-cards on sale. Poppy said that she would like to buy a guide book but Lord Hanbridge insisted on presenting her with one.
She was genuinely thrilled by the house. There was so much to see, particularly in the way of pictures—Gainsboroughs, Lawrences, Romneys, Hoppners—and then so much beautiful furniture, such lovely curtains and carpets and decorated plaster work. Lord Hanbridge proudly showed her the work which his wife had done in mending the original damask curtains, and he lifted up a picture for her in one of the rooms so that she might see the original color of the flock wall-paper underneath. He had so many amusing anecdotes to tell her, so many exciting little bits of family history to recount.
It was tea-time when they had finished their tour. They had tea in the drawing-room. “I hope you haven’t exhausted her, Charles,” Lady Hanbridge said smilingly from behind the silver tea-pot.
“I hope not, my dear. She was very patient with me.”
“It’s you who were patient with me,” Poppy replied quickly. “Answering all my silly questions.”
“She has a sense of the past,” Lord Hanbridge said. “I don’t know when I have enjoyed taking anyone over so much.”
Neither Romilly nor Philippa appeared for tea and no mention was made of them, but after tea, just as Poppy was about to say, “I think I’ll go up to my room for a little while if I may,” they came in announcing that they were dying of thirst.
“The tea is a bit stewed,” Lady Hanbridge said, “but if you like to get some more hot water, darling...” This to Philippa.
Once You Have Found Him Page 3
