“Don’t get in a fellow’s way when he’s taking off. I was going to tell you that when the exile goes back to his—his exile, as it were, he has to give his friends a long and colourful account of all the dashing adventures he’s had. It’s no use telling them about the shows he’s seen—he’s got to reel off the names of all the actresses he’s taken out to dinner and—”
“You mean Rosanna’s only the first?”
“By a long chalk. I’ve got to work up from there, higher and higher, until I’m photographed with the latest star in the latest night club. ‘Our picture shows Miss Ravisha Starr with the well-known and popular Mr. Richard Ashton.’ That goes over big when you get back.”
“To your exile—or to your titbit?”
“Exile, naturally. I see you’re picking up the idea. Take a camel,” he invited. “He goes for long, dreary, dusty, thirsty weeks without a drop—so when he turns up at an oasis he gets down to it and makes up for lost time. He drinks his fill. And so does the exile. After a surfeit of dusky complexions, he catches up on the world-renowned English kind.”
“Is Edward catching up too?”
“He’s trying. He was pretty fluent on the boat—he had his plans all laid. A stage star on Monday, screen star on Tuesday, tennis star on Wednesday, society belle on Thursday”—Richard ticked them off earnestly on his fingers— “let me see, skating star on Friday and a charming little model for the week-end.”
“How’s he doing?” asked Rae calmly,
“Badly. He’s got everything but the patter, and that eludes him. That’s why I hoped Judy’d take him in hand— if there’s a girl that doesn’t worry about pauses in the conversation, it’s Judy. You can see how well he dances— but the poor mutt can’t talk. He just—could I say he just mutters?”
“I wouldn’t,” advised Rae. “Come in and see if you can dance too.”
Richard, throwing away his cigarette, followed her inside. He drew the curtains behind him and switched on the lights. The music to which they were dancing gave way to a Glee Club, and they turned the knob until they found something more rhythmic.
At ten o’clock, the General opened the door and appeared anxious to say something. Judy turned down the music.
“I looked in to speak about church on Sunday,” said the General. “The orders for the cars have to be given tomorrow morning, and I don’t suppose any of you will be down very early. How are we going to arrange it, Richard?”
Visitors to Thorpe Lodge were not asked whether they wished to go to church; they were merely asked which church they would attend. As the churches lay in different directions, cars had to be ordered accordingly. Richard began to count.
“You and Mother and Miss Beckwith—does the car hold anymore?”
“Not comfortably,” said the General, who had no wish to sit on the little seat. “Will Judy’s car—”
“No,” said Judy.
“I suppose I can take four if we’re all going the same way,” said Richard. “Where d’you go, Rae? C. of E. four miles; R.C. six miles, Presbyterian six—”
“Six and a half,” said the General.
“—and Baptist, Congregational, Seventh-day Adventist, Christadelphians, Friends and the Synagogue completely out of reach.—Well?”
“Church of England, please.”
“And Judy the same, unless she’s decanted since I was last home,” said Richard. “Edward?”
“I imagine decanted isn’t quite the word you want,” said the General. “Or perhaps it was a joke.”
“Thank you, sir. Edward?”
Edward was understood to say that he would go wherever it gave the least trouble.
“Then that’s fixed,” said Richard. “You go as usual with Mother and Miss Beckwith, sir; I take these three in my export mod.”
“That’s all right, then,” said the General. “You’ll put the lights out, won’t you, Richard?”
“What a good idea! I’ll do it the moment you’ve gone, sir.” Richard closed the door behind the General and switched out all the lights. “Though I must say,” he remarked with his lips against Rae’s in the darkness “it’s a surprising suggestion to come from an old-fashioned old boy like Uncle Bertram.”
Chapter 11
Early next morning it became obvious that Judy’s apprehensions were well founded: she was to be left to Edward. At eight o’clock there was a knock on Rae’s door, and it opened to reveal Richard on the threshold, fully dressed holding her tray.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said heartily, entering. “You like the tray in bed with you, or on a table beside you?”
“Go away,” said Rae.
“Don’t be silly—I’ve brought in your breakfast. Is this all you eat?”
Rae, checking an impulse to say that it was all she was given to eat, merely nodded.
“You can’t build yourself up on toast,” said Richard. “Look at me,” he invited, sitting on the edge of her bed and thumping his chest. “Porridge, egg and tomato, toast and marm—and three cups of nice hot coffee.”
“Did you make your mother go down and make all that?”
“Mother? Good Lord, no! I took the gardener’s daughter aside and whispered my wants into her ear, that’s all.”
“Go away, please,” said Rae.
“Why aren’t you up?” demanded Richard. “I made sure you’d be up with the lark—I looked out of my window expecting to see you tripping among the flower-beds, getting some fresh air. Go on—eat that and get up. We’re going out —you and I and a nice packed lunch.”
“What about Judy?”
“Judy? Did I come down here to take Judy around? Besides, what’ll Edward do?”
“Judy’s done so much driving lately. Can’t you—”
“—take them along? No. She’s got a good strong pair of feet and so’s Edward.” He rose and looked down at her. “I’ll give you thirty minutes. Meet you in the stable yard. I’ll go and get the car out.”
Just over half an hour later, they left the house and sped smoothly along a sunlit road. By noon they were seated on the car cushions on a hillside, and Richard was spreading out the contents of the lunch basket.
“Cold chicken, tinned ham, hard-boiled eggs and potatoes in their jackets—not bad. There was a nice bit of cold pie, but I left it for Uncle Bertram—he likes his bit of cold pie, does Uncle. There you are—there’s your share.”
“It looks nice,” said Rae.,
“Of course it looks nice. I told that girl to make it look nice. You’ve got to let people know what you want, and then you get it. Leave them to themselves, and you’ll find yourself landed with fish-paste sandwiches or something of the kind.—What did they give you when you went out? I bet it was fish paste.—Was it?”
“It was all right,” said Rae. “I didn’t eat it I mean, I got lunch at the farm.”
“But you didn’t take the fish paste back and throw it at them?” Richard sighed. “You’ll never do. I suppose Miss Beckwith said fish paste and you murmured a gentle thanks.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dishonest. And it’s moral cowardice. People like you, my angelic little Rae, make the excuse that they don’t like to give trouble—but it’s only an excuse. What they don’t like is speaking up, brave and bold, and airing their preferences. You’re easy money for anybody who wants to get out of doing something for you. ‘I hope you’ll let me know what you want,’ they say—but you don’t, and so you get what they want.”
“Well, that saves trouble, doesn’t it?”
“It might; but if you look closely, you’ll find that you get a good deal of the second best. Don’t you mind that?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you do,” said Richard slowly. “Nobody could call you the pushing sort, could they? No wonder you and Judy get on. What are you going to do when you fall in love—let him walk over you?”
“If he was the walking-over sort, I wouldn’t like him.”
“Empty words. Those heavil
y shod types always go straight for the gentle little yous—speaking of empty, that basket’s still quite full. If you’ll pour out the coffee, I’ll count out the tarts.” Having counted them out in the ratio of three to one, Richard helped himself to the lion’s share and lay back contentedly looking up at the blue sky.
“Lovely day, lovely Rae,” he chanted. “Why d’you spell your name with an e? It’s short for Raymonde, isn’t it? It ought to be R-a-y, isn’t that right?”
Rae took so long to answer that Richard rolled over and glanced at her curiously. At the look on her face he propped himself up on an elbow and repeated his question.
“Isn’t it Raymonde?”
Rae’s cheeks became pink.
“Well, no,” she said. “It—well, it isn’t.”
“Then what is it? Something frightful?”
“Well, yes—it is, rather. It’s—it’s Raedburh.”
“It’s what!”
“Raedburh.” Rae spelt it out slowly.„
“Where on earth did your parents get that one?” enquired Richard in astonishment. “And what does it mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything, as far as I know,” said Rae. “It’s the name of a queen.”
“You were a queen, were you?”
Rae nodded.
“Yes. I was the first Queen of the English. My husband was somebody called Egbert and—”
“Egbert!”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. He was the son of the King of Kent, and he was driven into exile to the court of Charlemagne.”
“Did you go into exile with him?”
“It doesn’t say. Egbert came back and subjugated West Wales, beat the King of Marcia, annexed Kent and then became the first King of the English. They called him Rex Anglorum.”
“That makes you Regina Anglorum. Regina Anglorum—and there you sit in a mended coat and—”
“The Duchess tore it.”
“Would she have torn it if she’d realised who you were. No! That’s a further proof of the way you let people walk all over you—but we won’t dwell on that. Did you have any children?”
“I had a son called Ethelwulf.”
“The first English wolf. What happened to him?”
“He married somebody called Osburgha, and she had four sons—one of them was Alfred the Great.”
“Alfred the Great? You mean the fellow who let the cakes go to charcoal?”
“Yes.”
“Great Scott!” said Richard, sitting up and regarding her with awe. “You mean you’re Alfred the Great’s grandmother?”
“I’m the grandmother of four Kings,” said Rae with pardonable pride. “Ethelbald, Ethel—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Richard hastily. “But where did your parents find a name like Raedburh?”
“My father was an historian,” explained Rae. “He was drawing up a chart of the Saxon Kings when I was born.”
“Then you were damn lucky to get off with Raedburh. I’m not strong on Saxon history, but if my memory isn’t at fault, there were girls running about at that time with names like Estrith and Gytha and Aelflaed and Aethelbarh. You were comparatively lucky—you’d think parents could be suppressed, but they go on tying the most humiliating labels on to their helpless infants. Even Judy didn’t get off scot-free.”
“I know. That’s why I first liked her—I heard her complaining that she’d been called Julienne, like a soup and it—”
“—drew you to her. I’ve nothing to draw you with—I’m merely Richard.” He lay back once more and closed his eyes. “High up on a hill, all alone with Alfred the Great’s grandmother,” he murmured. “Be still, my heart.”
There was long silence. Richard broke it by turning to her and speaking a little abruptly.
You know,” he said, “you’re very sweet.”
He had said it before, but he had never said it in quite this way. Rae, looking at him, saw that all trace of his normal sardonic, teasing manner had left him; the eyes that looked into hers were serious, brooding, a little puzzled, somewhat at a loss, Rae looked back at him without speaking and after a while, he went on in the same quiet manner.
“We met,” he said, “at rather a disadvantage. Judy can talk fluently enough, but her letters don’t convey anything that she wants to convey. They didn’t, for example, prepare me for you.”
“Judy’s sweet, but I always hoped she wouldn’t—”
“—throw us at one another. Being Judy, she did. You sounded just the girl to make a man’s leave pass quickly and pleasantly. She said that you were lovely to look at, quiet to have around, and of a meek and retiring disposition. When I met you, I found that only the first two were correct; you were lovely to look at, and you didn’t cause any noticeable disturbance—but you weren’t the somewhat self-effacing type she’d labelled you.”
“You like the self-effacing type?” enquired Rae.
“No. That’s why I was unprepared. And thats why I was caught. I went out to have a nice evening, and I ended up by forgetting about the evening and thinking about you. I went on thinking about you. I went on until you gave me a jolt by throwing me over for your aunts—and the jolt was such a severe one that I came to the conclusion I’d done a great deal too much thinking about one particular girl. When you come home on leave, I told myself, you don’t concentrate on one special girl, however beautiful; you spread yourself out and take in all the lovely girls you can induce to go out with you—that sounds a reasonable way of spending a leave, doesn’t it?”
“Very reasonable,” agreed Rae.
“So I decided to stop concentrating. And thats why I went to see your friend Rosanna.”
“She isn’t my—”
“Your old schoolmate, Rosanna. She was very kind to me, and she understood exactly how leaves should be spent. But I found that I went on thinking about one girl—round and round in circles. And it wasn’t about Rosanna I was thinking. It was about you.”
There seemed nothing to say to this, and Rae remained silent. Richard appeared to need no answer; he lay brooding, his eyes gazing upward at the blue sky. She examined her own feelings, and found them difficult to define. He was telling her that he loved her, and he sounded serious, but she had gone too fast once, and she was never again going to allow herself to rush precipitantly into misery and regret. She had imagined that she understood him, and he had acted in a manner that she had found incomprehensible; he had explained his actions to his own satisfaction, but he had left out of his account any possibility that she was entitled to a share of his consideration. He appeared to have spent a great deal of time dwelling upon his own feelings, but had wasted little thought on hers; he had not touched upon her reactions at arriving and finding that he was amusing himself elsewhere. She had no wish to remind him, but she felt something of her resentment returning. Watching her changing expressions, Richard, after a while, smiled.
“Another thing Judy didn’t tell me,” he said.
“What?”
“That you have a base and ungenerous nature, and harbour grudges.”
She laughed a little as she denied it.
“I haven’t, and I don’t,” she said.
“But you’ll admit,” said Richard, “that things aren’t the same—between you and me—as they were in London?”
“They’re not quite the same,” said Rae slowly.
Richard got to his feet and pulled her to hers. His manner was once again light and bantering.
“They will be again,” he promised. “I only need time— and tea.”
They had tea at an inn deep in the woods, and drove home slowly, Richard holding her hand in his favourite position under his on the wheel. He drove across the cobbled stable-yard and into the garage.
“Tomorrow?” he said.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday—church.”
“Well, after church. We’ll have lunch at home and then go out—yes?”
“Yes,” said Rae.
He left her at the end of her corridor, and
she walked slowly to her room and closed the door. It opened again almost immediately, and Judy came in, her expression one of resigned boredom.
“Nice day?” she asked.
“Very nice. I’m afraid,” said Rae regretfully, “that this isn’t turning out much of a week-end for you.”
“It would have been all right,” said Judy, “if Richard hadn’t brought that inarticulate idiot and left me to deal with him. You told me not to insult people and—honestly, Rae, I’m trying, but it comes hard. This Edward mumbles something, and when you’ve asked him politely, twice, to repeat it, it turns out to be some gem like ‘Nice country you’ve got here,’ or ‘Peaceful spot, this,’ or ‘Decent cattle.’ Anybody of his age—he’s twenty-five—I asked him; anybody of his age who can’t make up his mind what to say and how to say it, ought to stay at home until he can.”
“He’s all right when he’s talking to me,” said Rae. “I think that every time he looks at you, he gets tongue-tied.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Judy. “He ought to go away and talk to somebody else. I’m tired of coaxing all his speeches out of him like a diction mistress—When’s he going home?”
“Richard’s going to drive him into Sheafton Abbott on Monday morning and put him on the train.”
“Not on,” implored Judy. “Under.”
Chapter 12
On Sunday afternoon, it was Edward who drove the export model, Judy by his side; Richard and Rae went for a long, leisurely walk down to the village. Judy returned looking unhappy, but resigned; they had driven, she told Rae, to see an aunt of Edward’s, who lived near Allbrook.
“What was she like?” asked Rae.
“Just like him—to look at. Like a depressed spaniel, but at any rate she could talk. She’s his only relation—mother dead, father dead, everybody dead—only this aunt left. She mistook me for his girl-friend and showed me pictures of him in rompers—if I’d had any feeling for him before, that would’ve killed it.”
“I would have thought he would have been a sweet little boy,” said Rae reflectively. “Round pink face with a lost expression.”
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