“Why, of course! It’s quite simple. Masters is taking Rosemary to Larcombe. Well, then, while he’s there he can call for the skiv and run her over to your mother’s before he comes home. It’s as simple as simple.”
Franklin demurred. Lady Montague was away from home and Sir Digby was having a bad day. Neither could be approached for permission.
“Pins,” he said, “remember, that I’m a stranger within the gates. Honestly, I can’t commandeer the family chariots to send skivs to my mother in them.”
“No, but I can,” said Felicity very firmly, “and I’m going to. So don’t argue about it. Just write and tell her to wait till the car comes to-morrow, and if you don’t I will. And I’ll tell Masters to go round for her anyway, so you’ll only cause a lot of confusion if you send her off by train.”
He yielded, laughing.
“You’ve got a good heart, Pins. I’ll confess I was just beginning to get hopelessly lost in junctions and Saturdays Only. It was an impossible journey. I don’t think I’d ever have got her there. I was beginning to think that the simplest thing would be to send her up to London, though it’s right out of the way, and then get her out from there. It seemed less complicated. These country lines are the very devil.”
“Well, don’t worry your silly old head about it any longer because it’s all settled . . . and good-bye now— Sheila’s here and we’re going to discuss bridesmaid’s dresses really seriously.”
She blew him a kiss and went out. Sheila had come over that morning and was upstairs sitting on the schoolroom table surrounded by books of historical costumes. She was going to be married to Ronnie next month.
As she passed the drawing-room Felicity heard voices and looked in. Rosemary was there with Sir Bertram Parker. Sir Bertram wasn’t staying at the Hall. He had just come over to see Rosemary. He was always coming over to see Rosemary when Rosemary was at the Hall.
Rosemary looked tired and unhappy. Rosemary seemed to run about from house-party to house-party, and from dance to dance, and she always looked tired and unhappy.
Her eyes softened as they met Felicity’s.
“Come in, Pins, darling,” she said gently. “Do you want me?”
But Felicity didn’t go in. For one thing she disliked Sir Bertram. She’d stiffened as soon as her eyes rested on his slim, sleek person.
“No thanks,” she said, “Sheila’s here. I’m just going up to her.”
Sir Bertram was a very determined suitor. He’d pursued Rosemary unremittingly for the last six months. He’d swallowed her snubs with unexampled meekness. He remembered all her tastes. He’d humoured all her whims. He was desperately in love with her. Though she had refused him several times, she’d made up her mind to marry him ultimately. He was, of course, just the sort of man she’d decided to marry ultimately—rich, of good family, good-natured, adoring. She didn’t love him, but she’d made up her mind some time ago that she didn’t believe in love. Felicity had been right. Someone had once hurt Rosemary rather badly and after that she’d built up defences around her so that no one should ever hurt her again. That often happens to girls, of course, but with some the hurt goes deeper than with others. With Rosemary it had gone very deep indeed. She’d decided to expect nothing of the man she married but money. Money, she had persuaded herself, made up for the lack of everything else.
She’d been quite firm in the decision, till Franklin came to the Hall. And Franklin’s coming had somehow upset it. Franklin’s coming had raised again a nagging doubt, a nagging unhappiness in her heart . . . And she hated Franklin for raising the doubt in her heart. She refused even to look at what lay under her hatred of him. She wasn’t going to go through it all again. She’d had enough of it. So she clung to her hatred of him. She proved it to herself again and again by her deliberate rudeness to him.
“I didn’t expect you this afternoon,” she said to Sir Bertram.
“I didn’t mean to come,” said Sir Bertram, “but I couldn’t keep away.”
He spoke in a maudlin sentimental voice that irritated her. She frowned. “I suppose I should feel complimented,” she said with her slight drawl.
She heard the sound of the opening of the library door and then the sound of Franklin’s voice and Felicity’s. Her brows contracted quickly as if with pain or annoyance. Her lips tightened.
“Rosemary,” pleaded Sir Bertram, “say you’ll marry me. I’ll make you a good husband. I’ll settle six thousand a year on you. I know I’ve lived rather a gay life I suppose people have told you that—but —but—I’ll settle down and make you a good husband.
She turned her pale face to him. It was a beautiful expressionless mask.
“I’ve told you I don’t love you,” she said.
“Yes, but—you don’t love anyone else, do you?”
“No.”
She said it breathlessly and as if more to herself than him.
“No, of course not.”
“Then—say ‘yes,’ Rosemary.”
She suddenly let down her defences. She might as well say “yes,” and get it over. If it wasn’t he it would be someone else. He’d got money, and money made up for other things. The “yes” had been on her lips when Felicity burst in.
Something about Felicity’s radiant freshness touched her, as it often did.
“Come in Pins, darling,” she said kindly. “Do you want me?”
But Felicity’s face hardened into hostility when she saw Sir Bertram. The child didn’t like him, of course, thought Rosemary wearily. Well, it didn’t matter . . . she probably wouldn’t like any man whom she—Rosemary—considered suitable.
“No, thanks,” said Felicity, “Sheila’s here, I’m just going up to her,” and went out abruptly.
Sir Bertram had waited impatiently: during the interruption. Now he turned to Rosemary again and said eagerly:
“Say ‘yes,’ Rosemary.”
She’d just been going to say “yes,” of course, before Felicity came in, but somehow she couldn’t now. The memory of Felicity’s face somehow wouldn’t let her. She felt impatient with herself, but—there it was. She couldn’t accept him here in this house—this house that held both Felicity and Franklin.
“You’re going to Larcombe Towers to-morrow, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’m going too. Ask me there.”
“And may I hope?”
“There’s nothing to prevent your hoping, of course,” she said, “one may always hope.”
He read a promise in her voice.
He went away well satisfied.
It was the next day.
The car stood at the door.
Rosemary, looking very tall and beautiful in her dark furs, went into the library.
Franklin was writing at the table.
“Where’s my grandfather?” said Rosemary.
She spoke curtly.
A strained set look had come over his face at her entrance.
“I don’t think he’s downstairs yet,” he said.
She received the information without even troubling to look at him, and was turning on her heel to go when he said, uncertainly, “Oh, Miss Harborough—–”
She turned back again and looked at him, her delicate brows raised.
He’d felt slightly uncomfortable about Felicity’s solution of the problem of his mother’s maid. Rosemary certainly ought to have been consulted. . . . He stumbled on. He always stumbled when he spoke to Rosemary.
“Did Felicity tell you? . . . My mother has engaged a maid who lives at Larcombe—–”
She cut him short with her most insolent drawl.
“I’m afraid I’m not interested in your mother’s domestic arrangements, Mr. Franklin.”
Then something happened. The set look left his face. His eyes blazed.
She looked at him, then closed the door.
“You look as if you’d rather like to tell me exactly what you think of me,” she said quietly.
“I should,” he said in a voic
e as quiet as hers. “I think that you behave like a spoilt, ill-bred child. I think that you break the most ordinary and elementary rules of breeding in treating your grandfather’s employee as you have consistently treated me ever since I came here. I think that you’re going to marry Sir Bertram Parker for no other reason than that he’s got what you consider a satisfactory bank balance. That’s no business of mine, of course. You’re one of those women who are born parasites. You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life and nothing on earth would ever induce you to do one—–”
He stopped. He was amazed at what he’d heard saying. He could hardly believe his ears. He hadn’t meant to say it. He’d had no idea that he was going to say it till the words were actually out She was leaning against the door looking at him. She had gone very white.
“Have you quite finished?” she said.
She recovered something of her poise. Drawing her fur about her, she drawled:
“You needn’t on my account.”
The car was at the door. Felicity was calling “Rosemary.”
Without another word she went from the library.
Franklin stayed where he was, staring stonily in front of him. What a damned fool he was. What on earth had possessed him to talk like that to her? He’d have to go now, of course. Whether she told her grandfather or not he’d have to go. And in a way he didn’t regret it. It would be better to go than to stay here where he was always meeting her. He wouldn’t give his notice to Sir Digby by word of mouth. He was going to his mother’s the next week-end. He’d write from there. That would be easier.
Of course he’d miss Felicity frightfully . . .
Rosemary sat in the car without moving, almost without breathing, staring straight in front of her till the car reached the gates of Larcombe Towers. Then she seemed to awake from a trance. She rapped on the windscreen. Masters stopped the car and came round to the door.
“Weren’t you going to fetch a girl from the village after you’d left the Towers?” she said.
“Yes, miss,” he said, “Miss Felicity gave me orders to.”
“Go there first,” she said.
He looked a little mystified, but turned back from the gates and drove into the village and stopped at a cottage on the outskirts.
Rosemary descended and knocked at the door.
An elderly woman opened it. Rosemary entered.
“Your daughter was going as maid to Mrs. Franklin?” said Rosemary.
The woman looked apologetic.
“Well, she were, miss,” she said, “an’ she’s all ready to go for a week to oblige till the lady gets someone else, but,” coyly, “she an’ her young man fixed it up like last night, an’ they’re to be married as soon as possible.”
“So she’d really rather not go?” said Rosemary slowly.
“Well, yes, she would,” said her mother, “but we don’t like placing the lady awkward—I’m not that sort. I’ve told her she must go for a week if the lady really wants her to—–”
“Oh, no,” said Rosemary still slowly and thoughtfully, “I don’t think it’s necessary for her to go if she doesn’t want to. I think that Mrs. Franklin can easily get someone else.”
“Well, it would be a convenience to her if she could,” said the woman.
Rosemary went down to the waiting car.
“The girl’s going by train, Masters,” she said.
“I see, miss. To the Towers now, isn’t it, miss?”
“No. To the station.”
Masters didn’t trouble much about this alteration of his arrangements because it was well known in the servants’ hall that Miss Rosemary was quite incalculable. So he took her to the station and she caught the first train to town.
*
It was the next week-end.
Franklin limped slowly up the flagged path that led to his mother’s cottage door. He looked tired and worried. In his mind he was composing the letter which he would write to Sir Digby, resigning his post.
He was wondering how he should break the news to his mother that he would shortly be out of work again.
He was thinking of Rosemary.
It was a pretty little cottage with casement windows and a rose-covered porch. The flagged garden path was edged with lavender and bushes of rosemary and love-in-a-mist grew by the porch. Inside it was furnished with small pieces of cottage Chippendale and Sheraton that had been saved from the wreck of his father’s fortune . . .
The place had a wholesome air. It seemed to hold healing in it. It seemed to breathe peace and serenity. It wasn’t only the house and garden, of course. It was his mother as well. She was very small and slender with white hair and blue eyes and a smile that had been his lodestar from babyhood. He had never seen her angry, never seen her frightened or put out—always calm and with that magical serenity about her. She came at once to open the door for him. He entered the hall and kissed her, then followed her into the little sitting-room. Old-fashioned chintz curtains hung at the windows. A mahogany table caught and held the light on its polished surface and reflected sharply the bowl of roses in its centre. The armchair was upholstered in old-fashioned chintz. There was some cottage pottery on the low mantelpiece.
He sat down rather wearily in the armchair by the fireplace. He wouldn’t tell her he was going to give up his job till after tea. It would be sure to worry her, of course, though she wouldn’t show it.
“The maid get here all right?” he said.
“Yes . . . Jack, she’s such a darling.”
“I’m glad. She’d had no experience, of course?”
“No, but she’s so easy to teach. She works splendidly. She gets up at half-past six every morning and she doesn’t mind any of the heavy work. I wanted to get a woman in for the really hard work—grates and scrubbing floors and getting the coals in, but she wouldn’t let me. There’s a lot of heavy work to be done in these old-fashioned cottages, you know.”
“I suppose so,” he said absently.
He felt relieved that the maid was turning out a success, but he wasn’t really thinking about it.
He was thinking about telling her that he was going to lose his job.
He was thinking of Rosemary.
“She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life,” went on his mother.
He looked up surprised.
“Do you think so? I thought her rather plain.”
“You’re blinder than I thought you were then, darling,” she said. “She’s lovely, and, of course, she’s a lady.”
He was still more surprised. “A lady?”
“Yes. She hasn’t told me exactly why she took a post like this and I haven’t asked, but I suppose she had her reasons. As a matter of fact, I’ve made her come in here to sit with me in the evenings just because—well, because I’ve got so fond of her and it’d seem so absurd for her to sit by herself in the kitchen. It’s ridiculous of me, of course,” she went on with a little deprecating laugh, “but I feel as if she were a sort of daughter. I’ve never felt like this with any of the other ones, but, of course, she’s obviously not of the servant class.”
He looked amused.
“It’s an ideal arrangement, of course,” he said. “I’ve always wanted you to have someone like that, but from what I remember of her I shouldn’t have thought she was the type to appeal to you in that way at all.”
She rose smiling.
“Then, as I said before, you’re blinder even than I thought you. . . . I’ll go up and unpack your bag now. I know you’ll just jumble anything into a drawer together if I don’t. Tea will be ready in a few minutes. I told her to bring it in as soon as you came.”
She went out and Franklin took up the paper from a table near and began to read it. The door opened and a girl, wearing a white apron over a black alpaca dress, entered and began to set the table. He did not look up till she had been in the room for a few minutes. Then, remembering what his mother had said about her, he threw her a quick, curious glance.
The paper fell from his hand. His eyes dilated. Every drop of blood left his face. It was Rosemary.
But there was a subtle change in her. She looked bright-eyed and happy. Her air of weary boredom, of arrogant hauteur, was gone. There was something of Felicity in her smile.
“You were wrong,” she said. “I’ve put in seven honest days’ work and they’ve been the happiest days of my life.”
He limped across the room to her. Then to his own great amazement he took her in his arms and kissed her.
Chapter Twelve
L’envoi
They were all in Marcia’s house in Westminster. Ronnie and Sheila were married and Franklin and Rosemary were going to be married next month. Rosemary had seemed quite different since her engagement to Franklin. It was as if the defences of arrogance and listlessness had crumbled away because she didn’t need them any more, and what Felicity called the “nice hidden self” had come out. Rosemary had told Franklin that he needn’t be conceited and think that it was all him because it wasn’t—it was partly his mother. She said she’d felt quite different when she’d been at the little cottage even one day. Something of its peace had entered her soul and stayed there.
She’d admitted to herself after that first day that she loved Franklin and she realised with something of surprise that she wasn’t afraid of poverty, that she’d welcome it with him. But, as a matter of fact, they weren’t going to be very poor because Matthew had got a post for him as secretary to a friend of his who was in the Cabinet, and they had found a little house in Westminster not far from Marcia’s.
Felicity was “coming out.” Marcia was going to present her that evening, and next week Marcia and Matthew were going to give a dance for her. Much to everyone’s relief, Lady Montague had said that she was too old for that sort of thing and that Marcia must manage Felicity’s debut entirely. There had been one horrid moment when John and Violet had offered to do it, but Marcia had managed to put them off quite politely.
Matthew stood rather nervously by the front door in his overcoat.
“They ought to hurry,” he said to Franklin and Rosemary, “it’s time we were starting.”
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