Mistress of Elvan Hall

by Mary Cummins

  A day or two after she had been to see Caroline Cook, the telephone rang and a smooth, rather rich voice asked to speak to Miss Wyatt. The line was rather indistinct and Anne paused.

  “Miss or Mrs.?” she asked, her brows wrinkling. No doubt it was another invitation to a function.

  “Miss, of course,” the voice laughed lazily in her ear. “Is that you, Helen darling, trying to pull my leg?”

  “No, this is Mrs. Wyatt,” said Anne firmly. “Miss Wyatt is round at the stables, if you’d care to hang on. Or would you prefer that she rang you back?”

  There was silence, broken only by gentle breathing.

  “It will take ages to bring her over ... er ... Mrs. Wyatt. No, I’ll ring back in ... say ... thirty minutes?”

  “Very well,” agreed Anne. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  But the line had gone dead, and Anne put down the telephone, considering. So Helen had a boy-friend? It was strange she had never mentioned a young man, though now and again she had gone out looking very smart and well-groomed. Anne speculated. She hadn’t liked the sound of the rather fruity, confident voice.

  However, it was Helen’s business, not hers. The man was Helen’s friend, and no doubt she knew him well enough to judge him. Anne looked at the time. It wasn’t likely that Helen would be back within the next half hour, so she would just have to slip a jacket on over her silk dress, and go round to the stables to find her.

  The stables were situated away from the house, across a cobbled yard, and after Anne had poked her head into the tack room and found it empty, she walked round a corner to find Helen putting a shoe on one of the horses, assisted by a tall, well-built young man. Anne had met David Mellor before and liked him a lot.

  Peter Birkett, the young veterinary surgeon, also stood nearby, and he turned to smile at Anne as she approached. He was thin beside David, but he looked strong and wiry, the wind ruffling his dark curly hair.

  Helen looked well in her own environment, and Anne, stood watching her for a moment, admiring the girl’s deft skill with the horse.

  “Well, this is an honour,” she said, straightening up. “It isn’t often we see you here.”

  “It isn’t often I’m invited,” said Anne equably.

  This time Helen flushed.

  “Oh ... well, I didn’t think you cared about horses.”

  “Well, I do. Who’s this chap here?”

  “Elvan Prince,” said Helen, her eyes shining a little. “He’s going to make our name one day, aren’t you, my precious?”

  Helen’s hand went up to stroke the soft dark neck, which shone with grooming. Both young men watched her indulgently.

  “He was fourth last time we raced him.”

  “Are they all for racing ... all the horses, I mean?”

  “Gracious, no. The others are for hunting.”

  “Foxes?”

  “Yes.”

  Anne frowned.

  “I hate the thought of an animal being hunted to its death.”

  “But not the thought of the animals hunted by the fox?”

  “It’s a wild creature. It doesn’t know any better.”

  Helen’s eyes were gleaming.

  “Don’t make quick judgements, Anne. It’s the only way to keep the foxes down on those fells, and while he’s young and healthy, he’ll get away. He’s a wily chap, is our fox, you know. He’s by no means a defenceless animal, and if you saw the damage he does, you might not be so sympathetic.”

  Anne said nothing. Perhaps Helen’s was good advice. She would get to know more about it before voicing dogmatic opinions. Nevertheless, she still hated hunting.

  “If you’re going to argue over hunting,” Peter Birkett put in, smiling, “I’m off! See you later, Helen. Goodbye, Mrs. Wyatt.”

  “Drop in tomorrow if you can, Peter,” Helen called after him.

  Anne watched him go, then turned again to Helen.

  “Where are the ponies?” she asked.

  Again Helen’s eyes softened.

  “Up there in that field, but you can see our Peter Pan over here in the field behind the stables.” They wandered over the cobbles together, and Helen called loudly for the small Shetland pony, a truly beautiful chestnut with a flaxen mane and tail. Anne knew that Peter had won many prizes, including Breed Champion at the last show, and she delighted in the small sturdy pony who plodded over to the fence to nuzzle Helen’s fingers.

  “He’s lovely,” she said sincerely.

  “Yes, he is,” Helen agreed.

  “And you keep the ponies for breeding?”

  Helen nodded. “Children love Shetland ponies, and occasionally they’re even bought to be harnessed to a small trap. They make lovely pets, though.”

  Anne’s eyes were alight with interest, and she thought how charming Helen looked without the carefully withdrawn look on her face when they were having a normal discussion. They could be friends, thought Anne, if only Helen would come to accept her as Francis’ wife.

  Suddenly she remembered why she had come. She glanced quickly at her watch.

  “Heavens! I forgot.”

  “What?”

  “You’re wanted on the phone. A man rang up half an hour ago and said he would ring back. We’d better hurry if you want to speak to him, though he didn’t give his name.”

  Helen had flushed scarlet.

  “Why didn’t you tell me at once?” she asked crossly. “I might miss him!”

  “Surely he’ll keep trying till he gets you ... on the phone, I mean,” cried Anne, running after her.

  But already Helen was racing to the house. Anne gave up, and walked after her slowly. She was going through the hall when she heard Helen’s voice! on the phone.

  “Of course, Roger, I’d love to ... of course not ... yes, I can be ready for seven...”

  Anne mounted the stairs slowly, to wash and change before tea. Normally she would have been pleased to hear Helen speaking so warmly to a young man on the telephone, but something was making her uneasy. There was something rather young and trusting about Francis’ sister, in spite of her upbringing, and Anne hadn’t liked the sound of that smooth voice at the other end of the telephone. Voices, she thought, were a bit like handshakes. You reacted instinctively.

  Suddenly she wished that Francis would be home again soon, though there was no date yet fixed for his return.

  And tomorrow she was going to prepare the drawing room for the decorators to start, and Mrs. Wyatt was insisting that she saw the men before they started the job. Anne couldn’t guess why this was so important, as the colours had already been chosen for the plans, and she had no intention of making any changes.

  She met Helen again on the stairs.

  “I shall be going out tonight, Anne,” she said, her eyes twinkling almost with mischief. “I shan't be in for dinner.”

  “I hope you have a lovely evening,” Anne told her sincerely, and Helen smiled.

  “I shall.”

  “Can I help in any way?” asked Anne impulsively. “I mean, I can let you have some of the perfume Francis gave me.”

  “To get the smell of the stable away? I do bath, you know, Anne.”

  The colour surged to her cheeks. Why should Helen misinterpret a generous gesture? She had only wanted to ... perhaps to share a little in the evening, and surely Helen should know she had not been making tactless remarks, since the other girl was always as fresh as a daisy after her days in the open air.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said sharply. “You know I don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, all right. I’m sorry. Only leave me alone to choose things for myself.”

  Anne watched her go, then slowly she went on downstairs. Suddenly Elvan Hall seemed very lonely indeed.

  At dinner Anne shared a rather silent meal with Mrs. Wyatt. The older woman obviously had something on her mind, judging by the frown on her forehead, and finally she cleared her throat.

  “Who is this man who’s taking Helen out?” she asked at lengt
h.

  “I don’t know,” Anne told her. “He rang up, but he didn't give his name. I ... I rather thought you would know.”

  “Hmph!”

  “It’s good for her to have time off and enjoy herself,” Anne defended, “though I wish...” She broke off. She could hardly comment about her uneasiness to Mrs. Wyatt, especially since she had nothing, really, to go on.

  “You wish what?”

  “That he’d called for Helen. He sounded ... plausible, sort of smooth ... I don’t know.”

  “Unsuitable, you mean?”

  There was a look on Mrs. Wyatt’s face which made Anne’s cheeks colour.

  “I tell you, I don’t know,” she said again, rather sharply.

  “One’s children do extremely ill-considered things these days,” Mrs. Wyatt said heavily, and there was no mistaking her meaning. Anne looked consideringly at her mother-in-law. For better or worse they were stuck with one another, and on impulse she leaned forward.

  “Why can’t we pull together?” she asked. “Francis belongs to both of us in a way. It would be easier if we pulled our weight together.”

  “I agree,” the other woman said deliberately, “only you seem to be bent on holding all the reins yourself.”

  “I’m only shouldering my own responsibilities.”

  “And making a fool of yourself at times, girl!”

  Anne flushed again. Their meal that evening had been less appetising than usual, because she had recommended alternative cuts of meat.

  “All right, so I make mistakes. Can’t you help me to learn?”

  “Why should I? If Francis had listened to me, he’d have found a girl who doesn’t have to be taught. I told him so before.”

  “Before what?”

  Mrs. Wyatt heaved herself out of her chair.

  “It doesn’t matter now. I’m going upstairs. I feel rather tired.”'

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne. “Goodnight.”

  “G’night,” muttered Mrs. Wyatt, and Anne sighed a little, though at least she had received an answer.

  The day before the decorators were due to start on the drawing room, Anne spent the morning tidying drawers and cupboards. She had been to see Caroline Cook the previous afternoon, and felt very satisfied that the girl’s work was excellent. Caroline was starting work on Monday, and was going to give Anne her opinion on how much work was needed to renovate the old tapestries. She had also found some delicately worked bed-covers, and some old samplers which might look very nice if they were framed.

  Helen was delighted that Caroline was taking on the work, and threw rather malicious glances at her mother, who clearly didn’t care for Caroline. She and Helen had been having words over the girl’s friendship with Roger Baxter, the man who had telephoned her.

  “Who is he?” demanded Mrs. Wyatt.

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Don’t be impertinent!”

  “But he is a friend. I met him in Carlisle and Teresa Elliott introduced us. He’s a company director.”

  “What sort of company?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly, Mummy, do lay off. I can decide for myself who my friends are, thank you very much.”

  “First Francis, now you,” said Mrs. Wyatt sourly, and this time Anne’s lips tightened.

  She was still thinking about Mrs. Wyatt as she tidied up bundles of old bills and clipped them neatly with bulldog clips.

  There was an old sheet of paper with closely written notes, difficult to read, which fascinated her, and she sat down to read notes on otter hunting which had taken place almost a hundred years ago, a diary kept most probably by a member of the family or some friend of an earlier Wyatt. She read that in the first half of the nineteenth century, otter-hounds were kept in small numbers in different parts of the county, and used for hunting otters and foulmarts, or polecats. A full-strength pack numbered ten couple, and this particular pack included a Newfoundland dog.

  Anne read on, fascinated yet repelled, that in December of 1837 an otter was dragged from Bassenthwaite Beck into the side of Dash waterfall and over a hilltop adjoining Skiddaw, then down the watershed of the River Ellen, where it was killed.

  She shivered a little at the mental picture this invoked, and put the papers back again, going to the window to look out at her favourite view, which was of a long sweep of garden, bright with herbaceous borders, protected by tall, stately silver birch trees, pines, firs and cedars, and the bright sparkling river beyond, where otters had been hunted to their death.

  Yet she herself had been furious with the owls when she saw the wreck of a wren’s nest.

  Anne finished tidying the room and tried to imagine it with fresh ivory walls instead of the present neglected-looking buff colour. The lovely old panelling could be polished until it reflected the light, and the carpet and curtains were still good. The chairs and tapestries would look splendid after Caroline Cook had Worked on them.

  Anne felt a sudden surge of happiness and satisfaction, and a strange inner excitement at the thought of seeing Francis again. She was sure he would be pleased with everything she had done, and she thought how nice it would be if it had all been finished before his return. However, in his last letter he said that his business transactions might be concluded fairly quickly, as problems were gradually being ironed out.

  “You’re a fool,” said Mrs. Wyatt to Anne, having called her up to her bedroom on Monday morning.

  Anne said nothing. She was well aware that Mrs. Wyatt thought her a fool.

  “You’ve brought that girl here after all.”

  “She’s doing a splendid job of work,” defended Anne. “There’s so much beauty in this house, so much fine work which is going to be spoiled through neglect. I don’t intend that to happen. Caroline has been trained to save that sort of thing, so it seems to me very sensible to employ her to do it.”

  “She’s after Francis. I don’t know why I should bother tilling you that, but I don’t want more scandal in the house. The Wyatts haven’t always been discreet. And Helen will only encourage her. She wanted her to have Francis in the first place, but I put my foot down. I stopped her games, and for once Francis seemed to listen to me, which I may as well tell you was a surprise. He’s far too fond of going his own way. But you go inviting her back here again. You’re a fool, Anne Wyatt!”

  Anne caught her breath. So there had been something after all. Yet why had Mrs. Wyatt waited till she had Caroline actually working in the house before telling her all this? What hadn’t she told her so when she knew she had gone to see the girl in the first place?

  “Why haven’t you told me this before?” she asked, anger and a spark of fear making her voice husky.

  “Why should I? I thought you learned by mistakes and wouldn’t be such a fool. Besides, I gave you a broad enough hint.”

  “Foolishness and ignorance aren’t the same, are they? I’d no knowledge of what happened...” She bit her lip. “Did ... did Francis want to marry her?” she asked in a small voice, and for a moment there was a slight softening in the darting gaze of the older woman.

  “He’s a man, isn’t he?” she demanded, “and she’s a soft, pretty little thing. She’s full of feminine wiles, making herself look pretty and helpless, then showing how clever she is with her needle. A very womanly pursuit. She clings, too, so don’t think you’ll get rid of her easily. Get her in, and you can’t get her back out!”

  Anne stared back.

  “I’ve no intention of getting her back out till the job is finished,” she said, with a lift of her chin. “I’ve employed her, and I hope to see that she carries out the work which needs to be done. After that, I’ve no doubt she will be going to London to take up her post-graduate course.”

  “You hope!”

  “I’ve no reason to think otherwise,” said Anne quietly.

  “You must be very sure that Francis is deeply in love with you.”

  The eyes which looked at her were veiled, and Anne felt the hot colour rush to
her cheeks, and fear swept over her like a sickness. Francis didn’t love her. In fact, she suspected now that Francis might still be in love with Caroline, but in some way this rather selfish woman had spoiled things for him. What could she have said, which made Francis heed her for once?

  The colour began to drain from Anne’s cheeks leaving her pale and tired-looking.

  “Francis can surely arrange his own life, can’t he?” she asked quietly. “He’s a grown man, and my husband.”

  She stopped, desperately wanting to know more, to probe the past and to have more idea as to how Francis had felt about Caroline, and what strong weapon had been used to break it up. But she knew it was no good asking questions, and pride kept her tongue stilled in any case.

  “I’m getting up now,” Mrs. Wyatt said, rather peevishly. “I want to see those decorators anyway, to see if they’re brightening up that appalling drawing room. It’s like the Black Hole of Calcutta.”

  “It will look beautiful when the walls have been painted ivory,” Anne told her. “It’s just the dark ceiling which makes it look so dull.”

  “I’ve always said it’s too dark, but Henry wouldn’t have it any other way. Francis is almost as bad. I hate all this gloom.”

  This time Anne smiled. That was evident in the bright frills of Mrs. Wyatt’s bedroom. She loved soft fluffy things.

  “Tell Mrs. Hansett I want her,” she called as Anne turned towards the door.

  “Very well.”

  “And throw that girl out, if you’ve any sense.”

  Could it be that for once, Mrs. Wyatt was on her side? wondered Anne wryly.

  It was after lunch before Anne had time to look in at the drawing room and see what impression, if any so far, that the painters were making. Caroline had elected to go home for lunch, and Anne breathed a small sigh of relief. She hadn’t relished a meal with Mrs. Wyatt either scowling or being openly rude to the girl.

  The information that Mrs. Wyatt had given her about Caroline had tended to make her view the girl rather differently, making her seem even lovelier with her dainty slenderness. It was easy to imagine Francis in love with her, thought Anne with a sudden fierce pang of jealousy, as she looked at the soft cloud of dark hair falling over Caroline’s face, as she bent over her stitching. Anne had provided her with all she needed, in a corner of the morning room, and Caroline had laid out her materials on a spacious table where she could work comfortably.