by Susan Barrie
But most of all she dreaded the thought of the future. She was secretly very much afraid....
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE sunlight streamed through one of the least grimy patches of the beautiful stained-glass window of the old city church streamed across the foot of the chancel steps and lighted the faces of the little group of people standing there. The vicar, in his white surplice, and with his whiter hair, Miss Hardcastle, quite beautifully arrayed in a new dove-grey suit, and with a chic little bunch of parma violets nestling beneath the brim of her chip straw hat. The tall man who looked as if he was accustomed to wearing a monocle, but had dispensed with it for the occasion, and was very upright and soldierly in a suit of exquisite tailoring, with a carnation in his buttonhole, was Nat Marples—Nathaniel Daniel Edward Ferguson Marples—a lifelong friend of Timothy Carrington; and Carrington himself stood almost painfully and rigidly upright in a dark suit whose creator had also achieved sartorial perfection.
Carol, only vaguely aware of these people around her, but keenly conscious that somewhere out of this mist of unreality the vicar was addressing her, fumblingly removed the glove from her left hand, and passed it to Miss Hardcastle to hold. Miss Hardcastle smiled at her reassuringly, and thought that of all the young women who had enjoyed for a brief period the benefit of her hard-and-fast curriculum, Carol, on passing out into the great world, looked the least fitted to deal with all the responsibilities of matrimony which she was so quickly incurring.
Whether it was the effect of the misty blue dress she was wearing, with the little coronet of cyclamen-pink flowers resting like pink butterflies on her pale gold hair, and a wisp of veiling floating out behind her, it was impossible to tell, but she did look quite extraordinarily youthful. And her voice trembled as she made her responses—trembled so much that it threatened to break down altogether, or at least to die away into a mere nothingness, as she uttered the words:
“I, Carol Amanda Mary, take thee, Timothy Richard ... ”
Her hand was ice cold when Carrington took it and held it with rock-like firmness, and he felt her fingers incapable of responses as they lay within his own. His own voice was firm and contained no suggestion of emotion of any sort, and his eyes were quiet and straight-gazing. Carol standing so close to him, felt once a tremor of his breath on her cheek, and the muscles of his arm quivered once a trifle spasmodically—or so she thought. And then they knelt down together, before the altar.
When they rose up they were man and wife. In the vestry the vicar congratulated them both and beamed upon them, clasping their hands with genuine warmth. Miss Hardcastle felt as if something trembled on her eyelashes, and whisked it away quickly before bending forward to kiss the bride. Nat Marples, adjusting an imaginary eyeglass, glanced for an instant at the bridegroom and lifted an inquiring eyebrow—as if asking his permission—and then went forward and also soundly saluted the bride, astonishing her by the enthusiasm and the determination to do a good job well which he brought to such an excellent opportunity.
For she had no idea how utterly charming she looked, and how inviting was the small face with its large, bewildered eyes peeping shyly through the wisp of virginal white veiling.
“Good luck, my dear! ” he said, crushing her hands hard. “Good luck and plenty of it! ”
“I do hope you’ll both be frightfully happy!”
It was Miss Hardcastle’ s contribution, still conscious of a most unwanted moisture collecting behind her eyelids.
Nat Marples looked at her and grinned one-sidedly. “And you a headmistress, Miss Hardcastle!” he said. “You’re forgetting yourself today! ”
She laughed, and this time she did not disdain to look for a handkerchief.
“I am,” she agreed. “But it isn’ t every day in the week I see one of my pupils safely and happily married.”
“You think she’s going to be happy, then, Miss Hardcastle?” Timothy Carrington inquired quietly. For all his composure during the ceremony he looked a little pale now, she thought, and his expression was almost grave, while the expression of the girl who had so recently become his wife would have indicated to the world that her emotions at that moment were indescribable—which, as a matter of fact, they were.
“Of course.” Miss Hardcastle looked up at him almost affectionately. “You’re both going to be happy, and I want to thank you very much indeed for allowing me to be present on this most auspicious occasion. I was delighted to be asked, and I am still more delighted to have taken part in this really memorable little ceremony.”
“I move that we cease congratulating the happy pair and, as they have a train to catch, and not a great deal of time to catch it in, adjourn to somewhere as quickly as possible and drink their healths in something stronger than water,” Nat Marples suggested, looking at Carol a little quizzically, as if he had not yet made up his mind whether she was the completely radiant bride or not. There was something about her—something a little restrained and uncertain—apart from her rather attractive
shyness, which set his mind wondering. And Timothy, too....
Unless, of course, he was feeling the strain, which was more or less understandable.
But what was not quite so understandable was that he had not, so far, even turned and looked squarely into his bride’s eyes, let alone kissed her. And immediately the ceremony was over their hands had fallen apart.
“Of course, my dear chap,” Carrington replied with sudden briskness, “all that is arranged. What an ass you are, Nat, to think we are going running round London in a taxi, looking for a pub to have a drink in. We are going back to our hotel, and unless my instructions have been completely ignored we shall find some champagne on ice ready waiting for us.”
Not only was there champagne when they got back to the flower-decked room which the management had provided, but there were little pate de foie sandwiches and other delicacies, as well as an array of varied bottles and glasses set out on the buffet table. The waiters withdrew after releasing the corks from the champagne bottles with that fascinating little soft plop which Carol, when she had heard it once before in her life, had thought the most intriguing sound in the world, and Nat lifted his glass high.
“To Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Carrington! ” he said.
“Hear, hear! ” echoed Miss Hardcastle.
“May they live long and die happy, and may their descendants live long after them! ”
“Most comprehensive,” Timothy murmured, carefully avoiding his bride’s eyes, although he stood very close to her elbow, as he had sat close beside her in the taxi. It seemed to her, full of a strange sensation of wonderment as well as unreality, that although he meticulously avoided touching her— and apparently had no desire to touch her! —he wished to inspire her with the feeling that in future, whether she wished it or not, he would be there, always close at hand—a husband not altogether to be discounted, although he was not in any sense of the word to be a normal husband.
And for the first time she asked herself, rather wildly, why— why had she married him ...?
She suddenly looked rather frightened as she sipped her champagne, and Timothy added his thanks—for both of them. Had she done a very, very unwise thing in tying herself up for life to a man who had not even pretended to want to marry her— though in that case why had he married her? Not mere, quixotic chivalry, surely? He was far too level-headed a man of the world for that!
And in her own case, had she been merely carried away by the sheer casual commonsense of his arguments, and a sense of her own insecurity? She didn’t think it was altogether that. For she could, after all, have earned her own living, and if she had disliked him intensely she would have chosen that path without a moment’ s hesitation. And if she had merely just quite liked him, which was very different to liking very much indeed....
She caught Miss Hardcastle’ s eyes upon her, and there was a faintly perplexed expression on the Headmistress’s face. For a moment Carol wondered whether the elder, and certainly ver
y shrewd, woman who had known her so long was beginning to sense that everything was not exactly as it should be at an entirely normal wedding, where the bride was simply bursting with happiness.... And then, as she was beginning to flush a little, and feel uncomfortable, lest Miss Hardcastle asked some slightly awkward questions later on, Miss Hardcastle merely said gently:
“Don’t think I want to hurry you, dear, but if you’re going to catch the midday train.... Well, oughtn’t you to disappear now and change your dress? If you want any help I’ ll come with you.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Carol hastily, and replaced on her plate the sandwich she had just commenced to nibble, and disappeared with such lightning speed that the little party of three left behind were silent for a few moments after her departure, and then recommenced a somewhat disjointed conversation.
When she returned, Nat Marples was sampling a glass of sherry and declaring that he liked weddings because they provided him with an excellent opportunity to mix his drinks without caring very much about either the results or the cost, and that the only thing he missed on this occasion was the wedding-cake. And he was particularly partial to wedding-cake.
“So am I,” Carol said suddenly, impulsively, going to stand beside him in her neat new travelling outfit, and looking at him for the first time with very definite interest. “I adore it, but there just wasn’ t time—they have to be ordered several days in advance, you know. ”
“Do they?” He looked at her and shook his head reprovingly. “I didn’ t know, but in that case you ought to have arranged things very differently, Mrs. Carrington.” His pleasant blue eyes were twinkling. “Doing me—and yourself! —out of an opportunity to make pigs of ourselves! ”
Carol flushed deliciously at the ‘Mrs. Carrington, and Timothy said with a dry note of humor in his own voice: “If I’ d known of your combined weakness I’ d have bribed the chef to sit up all night and concoct you a cake. ” He was pleased to see that Carol was looking less like a frightened rabbit, and that her normal schoolgirlish charm had returned to her. “And if we don’t hurry, young woman, we are going to miss that train! ”
He turned to Miss Hardcastle and grasped her hand heartily, thanking her once again for her attendance at the ceremony. And then Carol—suddenly overcome by the recollection that this was one of her oldest friends, and that it might be a very long time before they met again—if ever! —turned to her and held up her face to be kissed, like the child she had once been, and Miss Hardcastle pressed her cheek very gently but firmly with her lips.
“Mustn’t spoil your make-up, dear,” she whispered. “It’s perfect!”
Carol’ s eyes suddenly brimmed over.
“Oh, Miss Hardcastle,” she said, “it’ s been lovely to have you! ”
“And me, I hope?” Nat Marples grinned at her engagingly, and offered her his handkerchief. “Don’ t let them run down on to the front of your dress! ” he begged. “You don’ t want to have to send it to the cleaners before you reach your destination! ”
And that caused Carol to giggle a little hysterically.
“That’ s better,” he said. “And don’ t forget I’ m going to be one of your first visitors when you’ ve settled down at Brown Furrows. I live about five miles from your place, and I like to be received with much ceremony.”
“You shall be,” she promised, in a whisper.
“Good! ” he said. His eyes told her that she looked delicious in the suit Delphine had created especially for the occasion. “Then don’t forget.”
Timothy took her arm somewhat possessively and urged her towards the door.
“Stop flirting with my wife so soon after she has become my wife, Nat,” he requested good-humoredly.
And Carol felt something extraordinarily like a thrill speed up and down her arm as his fingers closed about the cloth of her sleeve, and he guided her into the lift. And even then he did not release his hold.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN the train she relaxed for the first time that day. As they were seated facing one another in the dining-car, and she was selfconsciously about to remove her gloves, she looked up and caught Timothy’ s eyes upon her, and there was an odd, inscrutable expression in their depths.
“Forget it, my dear,” he urged, unexpectedly. “It’s all over now, so forget it, and have a good lunch. I’ m sure you can do with it. ”
Carol’ s surprise must have been given away by her eyes, for he smiled slightly.
“Oh, I know how you feel—I know how you felt all the morning! And I want to see you looking a little less like a lamb being led to the slaughter. We’re married, you and I—for good or ill we’re tied up together, and the sooner we become completely reconciled to that fact the happier we’ll be—or you will be! You won’ t feel so strange when you get used to the idea, and the way to get used to it is to forget it. ”
He beckoned a passing waiter with his hand, and Carol stared at him, repressing a slightly hysterical desire to laugh. How funny, she thought—how completely and unromantically funny! And yet—how comfortable! How soothing to the wrought-up state of her nerves was that intensely masculine speech, delivered with such calm and everyday coolness, such blunt, cold sanity. Already she felt slightly better—very much less agitated—as if she were coming up for the second time after sinking in an unknown strip of water, and someone had thrown her a life-line. She drew a deep breath. She looked at the menu placed in front of her by the waiter. She even began to feel slightly hungry....
Soup, roast chicken and garden peas, ice cream and fruit salad....
“And a couple of cocktails to begin with,” Timothy said. “Today you shall try a martini, Carol, and see how you like it! ”
Carol smiled at him with less uncertainty. His eyes were as blue as the day when he first came down to Selbourne to rescue her from being a schoolgirl, and once again she noticed how unusually long and thick and black for a man’s were his eyelashes. And she liked the way he smiled, and the way his teeth gleamed in contrast with his bronzed skin, and that shadow of dark moustache on his upper lip. And most of all she liked the way he looked at her—as if he thought she was very young, and rather foolish, and that although she needed a certain amount of protection she also needed a great deal of encouragement.
In short, she liked him altogether, and she hoped one day that she would find the courage to let him know that she did.
Unless, perhaps, he already guessed...?
After lunch a kind of mental exhaustion came over her, combined with the effects of the excellent meal she had so recently consumed—with a great deal of unromantic relish, she had to admit to herself! — and when they returned to their first-class compartment she found herself growing rapidly drowsy, and inclined to nod in her corner. The train was not due in at Albrington Junction until close upon seven o’clock, and there were several hours yet to go before that time was reached. And in the meanwhile it was a very warm afternoon, they were running monotonously through a somewhat unchanging landscape, and the steady rhythm of the train was like the rhythm of a piece of music running through her head....
Her eyelids felt weighted, and every now and then her chin jerked down on to the white collar of her blouse. She started up and grabbed at the pile of magazines on her lap, for people who fell asleep in railway-carriages always looked so completely and ridiculously funny, with their mouths wide open and their heads wobbling uncertainly from side to side; and sometimes they were inclined to snore a little....
And Timothy, her husband, although ensconced behind his newspaper, and apparently lost in its contents, might notice her....
He knew, as a matter of fact, the instant she fell asleep— having given up the unequal struggle—and he laid down his newspaper and looked across at her, and a little smile touched the corners of his lips.
“She’ s had about enough for one day! ” he thought.
He knew that in her heart she was confused and utterly bewildered by all that had happened to her in such
a short space of time, and that her reactions to those happenings were not yet sufficiently crystallized for her to be aware—deep down within herself—what her feelings were, now that she was no longer Carol Inglis, and a schoolgirl at Selbourne Abbey. Some people grow up overnight, but Carol was not of that order, and she had experienced no tremendous emotional upheaval to aid in her development. New clothes, new surroundings, a new outlook—a newly acquired status—these things alone could not effect any radical alteration in the essential Carol, and Timothy Carrington was sufficiently aware of that fact to be aware at the same time that the immediate future must not be expected to reveal any extraordinary changes.
Time—and time alone—would provide her with the opportunity to throw off her youthful chrysalis, and the effect of all sorts of new experiences would sooner or later reveal changes. But there could be no hurrying the matter.
In the meantime he watched her, and by the time she sat up and blinked her eyes and flushed with sudden horrified guilt at the realization that she had fallen asleep after all, the train was nearing its journey’s end and the brightness of the summer afternoon was becoming dimmed a little by its meeting with early evening.
“But why didn’t you wake me?” Carol demanded, shocked to discover that she had slept so long.
“You certainly do go long way towards sleeping the clock round once you start,” Timothy commented, regarding her concern with an amused look in his own eyes. “I remember you did it once before, on the way up from Selbourne. And on that occasion as well as today you had suffered a little from overexcitement, so we will find it in our heart to forgive you.” He waved a hand to indicate the change of scenery that had occurred while she slept. “What do you think of that?” he asked.
Carol, about to drag forth her powder-compact and inspect herself in the mirror—a habit she had lately formed, and which she did with none of the sophisticated nonchalance of your true young woman of the world, but rather as if she was horribly ashamed of the action—slipped it back in her bag again and looked. And a little gasp of pure delight escaped her.
