The Silver Sty

by Sara Seale

  James didn’t laugh.

  “Well, that’s quite natural,” he said, “but you must be careful, Sarah. It may be only kindness to get all your repairs done there when there’s a garage in the village much nearer, but he might misunderstand.”

  He was rather touched by Sarah’s gentleness with the boy. She went out of her way to put him at his ease, got him to talk about his work, and sent him home much less aggressive than when he arrived. There was perception in Sarah for all her youth, but James was rather relieved when she suggested going to stay with Peronel for a few days.

  “I want some clothes,” she said. “At least Peronel says I do, and she says her autumn models are divine.”

  James thought it a good idea. He hadn’t troubled to explore the Peronel angle as yet, but it would do Sarah good to get away for a bit. She needed a break from old relationships, and buying clothes would give her a fresh interest. He arranged to come up to London himself a little later and spend a few days at his club.

  He saw her off on an afternoon train and at the last minute she leaned out of the window and kissed him.

  “Be good, J.B.,” she said, “and don’t get married while I’m gone. I think I’ll miss you.”

  But driving from Victoria to Peronel’s flat in Shepherd Market, all thought of Pinto, the Bakers, and even James himself, receded in the enchantment of fresh adventure. London on that late September afternoon looked gay and inviting. A faint blue mist was already gathering over the parks, and the shops were lighting up. The roar of the traffic was heady music after the quiet of Heronsgill, and Sarah thought with pleasure of silks and furs and scented soap. Peronel was right. She needed new clothes—lots of them. It was time she really grew up.

  She arrived at the familiar flat with its soft, expensive air of well-being, and there was Peronel with one of her long Russian cigarettes, rising cat-like from a deep chair to greet her.

  “Oh, darling,” Sarah cried, dropping everything. “It’s fun to be back. London’s so exciting!”

  Peronel offered a cool cheek and laughed.

  “As enthusiastic as ever,” she said, thinking in passing that this might prove to be an exhausting visit. But she had mapped out a programme for Sarah. Whatever the strain it was going to be well worth while to Peronel et Cie.

  “You’re just in time for tea,” she said. “I got back early from the shop today as you were coming. Tomorrow you and I have got a busy day, but this evening we’re free. Bill will be in about six, so sit down now and tell me all about it. How have you made out with the new guardian?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE first week of Sarah’s visit passed in a whirl of fittings visits to the hairdresser, odd meals snatched at odd times, and in the evenings, theatres, dancing and the hundred and one things which occupy Londoners.

  Sarah found it all wildly exciting, even the tedious business of standing for hours in one of Peronel’s fitting-rooms.

  “But do I need all these things?” she asked once, and Peronel said:

  “Why not? Your good guardian will pay the bills, won’t he?”

  “I suppose so,” said Sarah, eyeing the sleek coat of summer ermine which had just been added to her wardrobe. Peronel never told her the price of things, and she was used to Sophie dealing with bills and forwarding them to James’s solicitors.

  “After all,” Peronel reminded her, “he expects to have to dress you, doesn’t he? As a matter of fact, I spoke to him about it the day after he arrived, and he said he’d leave it to me.”

  “Oh, well, then, that’s all right,” said Sarah indifferently. She wasn’t really worried about the bills. The G.I. was rich.

  “Now,” Peronel said with satisfaction, when the last item had been sent home, “you can scrap all your old clothes and start afresh. Though I say it myself, I’ve made a very nice job of you, Sarah. Now all you have to do is to keep your wardrobe properly. I expect, you’ll go visiting the stables in that white Lanvin. You haven’t any clothes sense, really.”

  But Sarah hadn’t been listening.

  “Not the green chiffon,” she said dreamily.

  “What about the green chiffon?”

  “I won’t scrap it. J.B. likes it.”

  Peronel glanced at her curiously.

  “Quite fallen for him, after all, haven’t you?” she remarked dryly. “Well, keep him sweet, Sarah. He’ll need fortitude when the bills come home!”

  Sarah had one brief letter from James. It seemed odd to see that neat familiar writing and realise that J.B. was no longer a stranger. They had come at intervals, those impersonal little chits approving this, or consenting to that, all signed precisely “J.B. Fane.” Sarah never remembered having had a personal letter from him before. And this one was signed simply: “The Poor Fish.”

  She went out and bought a highly coloured comic postcard of a cod-fish, and sent it to him. On the back she scrawled:

  Thank you for your letter. I have met a Man. He has Technique. When are you coming up?

  Sarah

  James arrived at the end of the following week. Peronel had arranged a party for that night; herself and Bill Grafton, James and Sarah, and one David Summers, who was interested in Sarah and wanted to meet James. Peronel had taken seats for a theatre and afterwards they were to have supper and dance somewhere.

  Sarah, ready for once long before the appointed hour, was waiting alone in the sitting-room when she heard Bill’s latchkey in the door. She had guessed about Bill some time ago, and often heard him leave at two or three in the morning long after she had gone to bed. Peronel never discussed her affairs, but Sarah sometimes wondered why she didn’t marry Bill.

  He came in now and helped himself to a drink.

  “All ready for the Poor Fish?” he asked jovially. “You look very grand, Sally.”

  “Bill,” Sarah said with frowning solemnity, “please will you try and remember not to call me Sally? I’m grown-up, now.”

  “O-ho, are you, by jove! You always seem like a Sally to me.”

  “Sally has no dignity,” said Sarah, as the front-door bell rang. This time it was James. He came into the room looking very elegant in his dinner-jacket and was immediately strangled by Sarah’s eager arms.

  “J.B.!” she cried. I’m new all over! We’ve bought tons and tons of clothes and spent all your money!”

  “There’s nothing like breaking the news gently!” Peronel remarked, and handed James a sherry. He laughed, surveyed Sarah in the new white Lanvin, and said:

  “I like this one, anyway.”

  David Summers arrived late; shouted abject apologies from the hall and hurried into the room carrying a spray of flowers in each hand. He made charming speeches to Peronel and Sarah, then turned to shake hands with James.

  “How do you do, sir?” he said. “Sarah said you had fallen for her, too, and I really can’t blame you.”

  James caught Sarah’s eye and raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, David, that was when I first met you,” she said hastily. “Kind of local colour to give me a background. Of course J.B. doesn’t really want to marry me.”

  “Did you tell him I did?” enquired James with interest.

  “Oh, I see,” laughed David, helping himself to a drink. “Just a gag to provide competition. She drew a most romantic picture of the elderly guardian waiting for his young ward to grow to marriageable age. What a relief the field’s clear!”

  “You’re both crazy,” said Peronel, glancing at James’s face with amusement. “We’d better go in to dinner or we’ll be late for the show. Bring your drink with you, David, and do try and remember you only met Sarah last week, or Mr. Fane will start thinking.”

  But James was thinking already. He liked young Summers and wondered if behind all that nonsense he talked, he was really serious about Sarah. It would be a pity if Sarah at seventeen should be swept off her feet by the first young man who treated her as an adult person. She was at a far too impressionable age to know her own mind.

&
nbsp; He kept in the background most of the evening, watching them both. Chocolates for Sarah in the theatre, a taxi to themselves because five was too many, more flowers at the supper rendezvous, orders to the dance band for her favourite numbers. David certainly knew how to look after a woman.

  Sarah danced through the evening on thistledown rapture. In her white frock she looked delightful and very young, and James in his first dance with her caught her heady excitement and smiled sympathetically.

  “You have a great capacity for enjoyment, Sarah,” he told her. “It’s one of the intriguing things about you.”

  ‘That’s what David says,” she replied. “Do you find me intriguing too, J.B.?”

  James grinned above her head.

  “Now then, young woman, don’t you try your tricks on with me,” he said. “Remember I’m only the elderly guardian waiting for his ward to grow to marriageable age.”

  “I only said you were elderly so that he wouldn’t think the competition was too hot. You didn’t mind, did you, J.B.?”

  “Oh, no. It’s only on a par with all the other stories!”

  She grinned up at him.

  “You’re nice, J.B.,” she said happily. “So is David, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I can see he has Technique,” he teased. “I’m afraid you’re a flirt, Sarah. I can see I shall have my hands full dealing with all the suitors before long.”

  “But I can deal with them,” she said, and he smiled.

  “They have to come to me for my consent if they want to marry you,” he told her lightly.

  She shook back her long red hair and danced more closely to him. “Oh, marriage!” she said comfortably. “I’m going to have lots of fun like this first, and then marry someone nice and reliable like you.”

  James quirked an eyebrow.

  “Oh, are you?” he remarked. “That’s a relief to know!”

  During an interval in the dancing, a couple of late-comers passed their table, and Bill jumped up.

  “Hul-lo, Mick! Haven’t seen you for ages!” he exclaimed.

  “How’s the market? Been making any of your lucky deals of late?”

  The fair, good-looking man he addressed, paused and said: “Hullo, Bill! Oh, the market’s so-so. How are you, Peronel? I sent you a new client the other day—the Beldon heiress—stinks of money, so charge her accordingly. You know Mrs. Rosenheim, I think.”

  James looked up sharply and saw Clare standing at his elbow, looking at him with gentle enquiry.

  “Hullo, Jim,” she said. “It’s a long time between meetings, isn’t it? I heard you were back in this country.”

  “Well, look at this!” exclaimed Bill. “We all seem to know each other!”

  “All except me,” said Sarah, eyeing Mick Fennick’s broad figure with interest.

  Peronel’s eyes flickered over Clare Rosenheim.

  “Let me introduce Mr. Fane’s ward, Sarah Silver. This is a teeth-cutting party. Sarah is in the process of growing up and David’s helping her.”

  Clare held out a hand.

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she said with her slow t attractive smile. “I knew your guardian very well in the days before he was your guardian. She’s charming, Jim. Is that what brought you back?”

  The men were still politely standing, and Bill said:

  “Why not join our party? We’ll have a magnum of bubbly to celebrate the reunion of old friends.”

  Clare hesitated, looking at her escort, but Mick Fennick’s light, restless eyes were already on Sarah, and she smiled a little ruefully.

  “We’d like to,” she said.

  The music started again, and Mick asked Sarah to dance. Bill and Peronel paired off, and David, odd man out, saw someone he knew across the room and went to claim a dance. James and Clare Rosenheim were left. They were silent a moment.

  “Would you care to dance?” he asked courteously, but she shook her head and asked for a cigarette.

  “I’d rather talk while we have a moment to ourselves,” she said, and smiled at him. “You haven’t altered much, Jim, and it still seems odd to see you in a place like this. Do you remember how severe you used to be about the fleshpots? A quiet little restaurant on our few evenings out, a modest wine and a talk about ways and means.”

  “Yes, I must have been very dull,” he agreed quietly. “You never did understand that I couldn’t afford these things, did you?”

  “I was foolish,” she said regretfully. “And now you can afford all sorts of things and have a charming young ward to spend your money on. How do you like being guardian to an attractive young girl? Do you give her a good time, or is it still a case of life is real, life is earnest?”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. Sooner or later he had known he would run into Clare again and had wondered what his feelings would be. He had resolutely shut out all thoughts of her after she had married old Izzy Rosenheim, and now sitting opposite her again after three years, he found it only curious that he had ever been in love with her. Clare was still beautiful. That broad, lovely brow was just as serene. She wore her long golden hair in a coronet round her head, as he had always remembered it, and her skin was as flawless as ever. But he knew now that that gentle mask of sweet seriousness covered stupidity and not thought, and that there was calculation behind the wide blue eyes. He found himself comparing her with the young, untutored Sarah, a comparison which Clare herself would have found absurd.

  “I don’t think Sarah finds me a prig,” he said in answer to her question. “And yes—I find I like my new responsibilities very much. Sarah is a refreshing young person.”

  “And a handful, I should imagine,” Clare said a little sharply, her eyes resting for a moment on the girl’s red head. “She’s just up Mick’s street, so I’ll give you a friendly hint.”

  “Who is he?” asked James idly.

  “You should have heard of Mick Fennick. His father was mixed up in the Handley Grey affair, and Mick’s a born gambler. He’s made a nice little bit for himself speculating, and so far he’s been lucky. He’s older than he looks, you know, twice divorced, and never faithful to any woman. He likes them young, too.”

  James smiled, thinking of the number of times in the past he had listened to Clare’s “friendly hints.” In those days he had taken her earnest endeavours on behalf of her friends at their face value. Clare had the reforming spirit strongly developed when she wanted to keep a particular friendship to herself, “We’re only in London for a short time,” he said. “I don’t suppose Sarah will see much of Fennick while David Summers is about.”

  “Oh?” Clare looked pleased. “Is that the way the wind blows? How sensible of you, Jim, to get her settled early.”

  He sighed impatiently.

  “Sarah is only having the good time you asked if I was giving her,” he said. “I hope she’ll meet plenty of men before she finally settles down. At present, she’s staying with Miss Chase.”

  “You allow a young girl to stay with Peronel?” she exclaimed. “Oh, well, I suppose you know your own affairs, Jim, but with Bill Grafton practically living in the flat, I should have thought—but I suppose Peronel is relying on a new customer, poor woman. I will say she knows how to dress a young girl. That white frock is delicious. Jim—did you know my husband was dead?”

  “I’d heard he was. I’m sorry, Clare,” he said, and to his relief the music stopped and the others came back to their table.

  “Damn good-looking woman,” Bill said, when Clare and Mick Fennick eventually left them. “Hard lines old Izzy Rosenheim dying and leaving all his money to the nephew.”

  “Yes,” said Peronel, her eyes on James’s expressionless face. “They said we all get our desserts sooner or later.”

  “Oh, I say, Peronel—” Bill expostulated, but she gave him a little warning frown, and said to James, “Time we took your nursling home, don’t you think, Mr. Fane? She’s looking sleepy.”

  “It’s the champagne,” Sarah said. “It always makes me sle
epy.” She caught James’s eye and blushed. “It’s been a lovely, lovely evening. I do think men are nice.”

  They all laughed, and Peronel said:

  “I believe Mick’s cut you out, David. There was a lot of cheek-to-cheek business going on while they were dancing.” “Ah!” said David lightly, “but I have the advantage of youth.”

  “Not always an advantage, my dear,” said Peronel dryly. “Don’t you know that young girls always fall for older men? Come along, Sarah, we’ll get our coats.”

  “Peronel,” said Sarah, sleepily from the bed, “who’s Mrs. Rosenheim?”

  Peronel, her hand on the electric-light switch, said:

  “She used to be Clare Fuller in the days when your guardian knew her.”

  “She called him Jim. I’ve never imagined him called Jim,” giggled Sarah.

  “Well, they were engaged in those days.”

  “What!” cried Sarah, sitting up in bed, suddenly wide awake.

  “Yes, didn’t you know?”

  Peronel came and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “No,” said Sarah, and added in surprised tones? “I don’t know anything much about him except that he was poor. Why didn’t they get married?”

  “Because he was poor. I don’t altogether blame her for not being able to face it.”

  “But, Peronel, if she loved him—” Sarah’s eyes were wide with dismay.

  Peronel smiled.

  “Oh, I don’t know. That’s the romantic and quite unpractical point of view, Sarah, and it isn’t always easy to choose poverty of your own accord.”

  “Oh, poor J.B.! Did he mind very much?”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t know him in those days, but I should imagine he’s the sort of man who wouldn’t take these things lightly. It can’t have been very pleasant to have been thrown over for that rich old man smelling of money and well over seventy.”

  Sarah’s face was aghast. “She didn’t!”

  Peronel laughed.

  “How horrified you look, my sweet! But you see, after all, it didn’t work. Rosenheim died and didn’t leave her a penny, so now she has to start all over again.”