Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  Except that she couldn’t have Hugh. The only way she could lessen the pain of her love for him—forget him, if she ever could—was to get right away from here just as soon as the condition of Aunt Esther’s will had been fulfilled.

  She turned as Hugh came in with the tea and forced a smile.

  ‘I must say you’re very domesticated.’

  He gave a thin smile. ‘To a point. I was brought up to make my own bed, lend a hand with the dishes, cook a meal of sorts when necessary—which is just as well, because Rosa isn’t terribly domesticated.’

  At the unexpected mention of Rosamond’s name, her heart contracted painfully, so that she simply could make no answer to him. Hugh busied himself pouring out the tea, then he gave her a keen glance.

  ‘You’re looking tired. When you’ve drunk this—’ he said, putting her cup of tea where she could reach it—’I think you should lie down on the settee and have a rest—before Martha gets back,’ he added, a humorous quirk to his lips.

  ‘Are you—having a cup of tea with me?’ she asked.

  He hesitated, then sat down and picked up the teapot again.

  ‘Just one, then I must be off.’

  They sipped their tea in a rather constrained silence. Sara could not think of a single thing to say which would not either sound trivial or give away what she was feeling about him. Hugh appeared to have much on his mind too, and as soon as he had emptied his cup, he poured another one for her and rose to his feet.

  ‘Martha will be back in about half an hour. That will just give you time for a rest. Try to sleep. Your worries will keep—and I’ll drop in to see you some time tomorrow.’

  She tried to thank him once more, but he shook his head swiftly, then rested his hand on her head for a moment as if she were a child.

  ‘Just take care of yourself, that’s all, and get those hands better as soon as possible.’

  Automatically, she did as he had told her when he had gone, and lay down on the settee, but she couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts chased each other round her brain. When Martha returned she dabbed some fresh lotion on Sara’s hands and re-bandaged them, then cooked the fish with some tomatoes and made a trifle.

  ‘Will you be all right now while I go and cook Ted’s meal?’ she asked. ‘I’ll come back later and stay overnight with you.’

  But Sara would not hear of it. ‘No, Martha, you mustn’t. There’s nothing wrong with me except for my hands—and they feel marvellous since you’ve done them. I shall be quite all right, honestly. After all, I can use my fingers even now.’

  Martha hesitated, and it was apparent to Sara that she really needed very little persuasion.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ she queried uncertainly.

  ‘Quite sure, Martha, thanks.’

  ‘Very well, then. But let me take your door key—and you stay in bed until I come in the morning to get your breakfast. And I’ll give you a ring about nine o’clock this evening. And don’t bother about those dishes, I can do them in the morning.’

  When she had gone Sara could barely prevent a sigh of relief. Unhappy though her thoughts were, she wanted to be alone with them. Disregarding Martha’s ‘orders ‘she put the dishes in the bowl with some washing-up liquid and poured hot water on to them, swished the long-headed dishmop around, then rinsed them and put them to drain.

  Was it possible, she wondered, that she could ever sell any of her designs? One thing she was certain of. From now on, her designs would be different. She would create clothes which gave a woman dignity and character, clothes which were feminine, not gimmicky. Clothes which made a woman feel good because they had pleasing lines. There were some half-finished drawings still in her folder. She would take note of the ones Hugh liked and go on from there.

  Martha rang about nine as she had promised, then just as Sara was thinking it was time to ring her father again, he rang her.

  ‘How are you, Sara?’ he asked. ‘Mrs. Worthing said you’d hurt your hand.’

  Sara laughed. ‘You’ll never believe it, but I somehow managed to get myself locked in the Mill. The door slammed and I couldn’t open it. I made my hands sort of raw trying to break my way out. But eventually Hugh came to my rescue.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, anyhow. By the way, Mrs. Worthing has posted your folders by first class mail, so you should get them by tomorrow.’ Then he went on after a pause, ‘Why do you want them? Any particular reason?’

  ‘Hugh wants to see them. Besides—I—’ She hesitated, then as Hugh’s words came back to her, in a rush of words she told her father what had happened about the business.

  ‘Sara, I’m sorry. I really am,’ came his voice over the wire, warm with sympathy. ‘I want you to believe that.’

  Deeply touched, she felt a constriction in her throat. ‘Thanks, Father. You—you were right about Des after all.’

  ‘Of what use is it to be right? It’s you I’m concerned about. Just put it down to experience, and I’ll take care of those debts for you.’

  ‘But, Father—’

  ‘My dear, you can pay me back, if that’s what’s worrying you. But we must keep it in the family. You might just as well borrow from me as from the solicitor. Far better. I won’t charge you as much interest—only maybe a few shares in your next venture.’

  ‘Oh, Father, I wish I could kiss you!’

  ‘It won’t be long before you have an opportunity. I shall come down there as often and as soon as I can.’

  She frowned worriedly. ‘Father, I shall be coming back home to live as soon as the thirteen weeks I have to reside here are finished. I’m going to lease the Millhouse.’

  ‘Just watch out the place doesn’t get into the wrong hands. I should sleep on that idea if I were you. But we’ll talk some more next time I see you. Goodnight now—and don’t go getting yourself locked in that mill again.’

  ‘I won’t. Goodnight, Father.’

  A soft smile curved around her lips as she replaced the receiver, but she was determined not to borrow any more money from her father than she would have done from the solicitor. For the rest she would stand on her own feet.

  She took some tablets the doctor had left for her and went to bed. Her hands hardly pained her at all now, and when she awoke the next morning they were not paining her at all. An idea occurred to her. She went into Aunt Esther’s room and after rummaging around a little, found a pair of old-fashioned cotton gloves. She cut off the fingers, offering a silent apology to her aunt as she did so. Then she removed the bandages from her hands, treated them with the lotion and slipped on the fingerless gloves, discarding the bandages. To wash, she wore a pair of rubber gloves, and when Martha arrived was already making preparations for breakfast.

  As she had hoped Martha brought with her the parcel of folders she was expecting. She could barely wait until after breakfast to take out her sketches and have a fresh look at them. But when she did so, it was with some trepidation. What would Hugh really think of them? Was she any good at all?

  She went through them, rejecting first one, then another as being useless, worse even than she had realized. Then she came across the one she had made up herself and worn the evening Des had been here. The one Hugh had admired. Her expression softened. She would never sell this to anyone. Never. And he mustn’t see it. Mrs. Worthing had included a sketchbook in the parcel. She would slip the design at the back of that.

  Feverishly almost, she began to sketch a few ideas. Clothes for relaxing, for evenings. A bridal gown. A bridal gown. For a moment despair overwhelmed her. Then she pressed her lips together firmly. She must learn to live with this love she had for Hugh. She must. She must stop feeling sorry for herself. Now, she scarcely heard Martha as she moved heavy-footed about the house, but when she entered the room and asked if there was any shopping she could do for her, Sara felt conscience-stricken. She ought not to be under any further obligation to Martha.

  ‘That’s—kind of you, Martha, but I shall be going out myself soon. I�
��m perfectly all right now, really. And thanks a thousand times for all you’ve done.’

  ‘We-ll—if you’re sure—’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Sara saw her off, then went back to her sketchbook. Only hunger drove her into the kitchen later to prepare a belated and hasty lunch. She had barely cleared away when Hugh called.

  ‘You look better,’ he said at once. ‘That’s good. These your drawings?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs. Worthing sent them by post, after all.’ Sara unfastened the tape which held the folder together. ‘They’re—not much good, I’m afraid. I’m sure I can do better.’

  ‘One can always do better, Sara,’ he said quietly.

  She handed them to him one by one, making small explanations as to their purpose or making small self-criticisms. He spoke very little as he looked first at one and then the other, sometimes giving one a second scrutiny. Sara was certain he was keeping silent out of politeness, searching his mind for a way of letting her down lightly. She wished he would say something, and at last could stand the suspense no longer.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’

  There was another maddening pause, then he said slowly: ‘Do you mind if I let a friend of mine see some of these?’

  ‘Why—no, if—if you think anyone else would be interested.’

  ‘This friend teaches at the Norwich School of Art.’

  ‘And you think—’

  ‘I think she’d be very interested. You—were saying something about getting a job in Norwich, weren’t you? If my friend thought you had the right qualifications—and I don’t necessarily mean academic qualifications—she could perhaps recommend you for a teaching post. Would you consider anything like that?’

  ‘Well—yes, but I—I haven’t had any experience in teaching.’

  ‘I gather they’re very short of staff. I feel sure you could put over the basic principles of dress designing to beginners. Anyway, my friend would be able to try you out.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, of course, but I—I’d only want a temporary post. When the thirteen weeks’ residence required by Aunt Esther’s will are over, I shall be going back to London.’

  ‘To start another “trendy boutique” with Des or someone like him?’ he asked sharply.

  The sudden sharpness of his tone brought tears to her eyes. Her lips trembled.

  ‘I—I’m not sure yet. I—just want to get away from here.’

  Hugh took a deep breath, as one exasperated. ‘It’s no business of mine, of course, but I think you could do better than that. However, we’ve had all that out before, so I won’t start another argument. I just think it’s a pity to waste your obvious talent.’

  She swallowed hard, hoping he hadn’t noticed her momentary distress.

  ‘You think that? That I have some talent? You didn’t really give me your opinion.’

  ‘Didn’t I? I thought I’d made that clear by suggesting to show them to an expert. Dress designing isn’t my line, of course, but I would say you have a real flair.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ she asked eagerly.

  He nodded his affirmative. ‘But you think you’d do better in London than in Norwich? Or do you prefer the bright lights and the noise of London to the sound of birds and the country life? Or maybe there’s some other reason?’ he asked in a hard voice.

  She began to collect together her drawings. ‘Yes, there—there is another reason,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t stay here permanently. I can’t. I must—see my solicitor as soon as possible about finding the right lessee for the Millhouse.’

  Hugh strode over to the window and looked out, his hands thrust into his pockets.

  ‘So your mind is quite made up?’

  ‘Yes. It’s—it’s not that I dislike the country, but I have to go. So unless your friend can offer me a temporary post—’

  He swung around. ‘I daresay it would be that in any case. I gather they have a number of staff off sick. It would be a try-out both for you and for them. However—’ He paused and crossed the room again. ‘I—wonder if you’d consider leasing Fenchurch Millhouse to me?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘To you? Why, of course—why on earth didn’t I think of that before? But would you only want it for limited periods?’

  He shook his head. ‘Rosamond and I would come and live here, if you’d agree to a long lease. I was thinking of moving to East Anglia anyway, and as you know, Rosa took a very great liking to the place. There’d—always be a room for either you or your father, of course.’

  But Sara shook her head swiftly. ‘Father might be glad to, but I—I don’t think I’d ever come back.’

  To be in the same house as Hugh with Rosamond as his wife? It would be impossible.

  ‘Just as you like,’ Hugh said curtly. ‘I must be off now. May I select a few of your designs to show my friend?’

  She nodded miserably. ‘When will you see her?’

  ‘This evening, as it happens. So if it’s convenient, I’ll look in on you tomorrow and return these. After that I—shall be busy on my book.’

  He took his departure, and Sara had never felt so unhappy in her entire life. If she had needed confirmation of his love for Rosamond she had it now. Added to this, she knew he was disappointed in herself, if only as a person. He thought she still yearned for the bright lights of London, that she cared nothing for the country, that she still wanted to design and sell gimmicky, cheap and tawdry clothes, exploiting the needs of teenagers rather than giving them something worthwhile.

  During the day she telephoned her solicitor and told him of her father’s offer of a loan to cover her liabilities, also of Hugh’s wish to lease Fenchurch Millhouse.

  ‘For how long would he want the lease?’ he enquired.

  ‘For as long as he wishes. A ninety-nine-year lease?’

  ‘As you wish. But that doesn’t allow for any change of mind for you. Wouldn’t it be better to let it on a five or ten-year?’

  ‘I shan’t change my mind,’ she answered dully. ‘But I’ll ask Mr. Cornish what he would like.’

  She did not go out shopping, as she had told Martha she would. Her heart was not in it. She mooned about the garden during the afternoon, then did some more sketching in the evening. Before she realized what she was doing she found she had not only designed a wedding dress, but an entire bride’s outfit. Travelling clothes, suits and dresses to wear on the honeymoon, and finally several very feminine and glamorous sets of lingerie. What a fool she was. What a fool!

  By the time Hugh called to return her folder, Sara was all tensed up. She hoped that after today he would not call at the house so often, if at all. Being alone in his company was becoming more and more of a strain.

  ‘My friend was quite impressed with your work,’ he told her. ‘She’d like to see you. Will you give her a ring in the morning and fix up an appointment? Here’s the number.’ He gave her a slip of paper, then his glance fell on her sketchbook. ‘You’ve been sketching more new designs?’

  ‘Well—yes.’

  ‘May I see?’

  She wanted to snatch up the book and hide it behind her back like a child protecting a precious toy. She reached out her hand and picked it up, but Hugh held out his hand, and like a person hypnotized she handed it to him.

  He flicked it open and noticed the loose leaf on which was her design of the match-mate co-ordinate.

  ‘No, Hugh—’

  But it was too late. He had recognized it at once. ‘Surely the dress in this set was the one you were wearing yourself that night? The one I—’

  ‘Yes!’ she told him in an impassioned voice. ‘The one you liked, the one you said showed taste and discrimination, the one you said was utterly charming—like a summer’s day.’

  His eyes widened and he gave her a long, keen look. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d designed it yourself?’

  ‘I tried to. But you wouldn’t listen. You had quite made up your mind that nothing I did was any good,’ she flung back at him.
She was appalled at herself, yet felt unable to control her ragged emotions any longer.

  ‘I had done nothing of the kind,’ he answered sharply. ‘It was an impression you yourself were giving me. Your use of that ridiculous and over-worked word boutique for one thing. It required very little imagination to visualize the kind of clothes you were selling. And designing—judging by most of your drawings. But these are different,’ he said, turning over the pages of her sketchbook. ‘These are clothes any woman would be proud to wear because she would look good in them. If you can create clothes like these, why do you want to go back to London and—’

  He stopped short and stared at the page on which she had drawn her idea for a bridal gown.

  ‘Have you, by any chance, designed this for yourself?’ he demanded in a hard voice.

  He was so very near the truth that her control, already in danger of slipping, now broke completely. She covered her quivering mouth and averted her head, but she simply could not stop the great sobs which began to shake her frame. Hugh moved swiftly towards her.

  ‘Sara, don’t—please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, but I couldn’t help it. The idea of you ever dreaming of marrying a—a fellow like that—’