by Sara Seale
“Shut the door, will you, Jim, I want to talk to you.”
“Pity one can’t listen at doors,” remarked Sarah, and led the way back into the library.
Clare looked round the study and smiled a little ruefully.
“It’s very like you, this room,” she said. “Economy of expression, good taste, and a little severe.”
“That sounds rather a grim picture,” he said, “I don’t think I’m really severe.”
“No,” she regarded him thoughtfully. “Money has made a lot of difference to you. You were rather a grim person in those days. I couldn’t live up to such Spartan standards. I’m afraid I like my comforts, Jim, and I expect you understand that better now.”
“I always understood,” he said gently. “I just expected too much. You deserved something better than what I could offer you then, Clare.”
He spoke generously, conscious that perhaps in his almost fanatical resolve to keep out of debt he had been a bit of a prig. But it had not been Clare’s failure to understand which had hurt him. It had been that quick retraction when his uncle had died, that sudden marriage to Rosenheim.
She was regarding him with gentle sadness.
“I married Izzy because I was unhappy. I was foolish, and I’ve paid for it, but one does foolish things when one is hurt,” she said, and he flushed.
“We were both probably intolerant,” he told her. “But we can still be friends, can’t we?”
“I hoped so the other night when we met again, but somehow you gave me the impression—” She broke off and he said quickly: “I was wrong. I’d be grateful for your friendship, my dear, and if you ever need any help—well, I know things haven’t been too easy for you, and I wasn’t much use to you in the old days, was I?”
“Thank you, Jim,” she said. “And anything I can do for you—I might be some help with your little ward, for instance. It must feel a little strange to be suddenly responsible for a young girl. And sometimes, you know, an older woman’s point of view is useful.”
“Yes,” James admitted, “you’re probably right. And incidentally, although I know he’s a friend of yours, the Mick Fennicks of this world are one of the things I want to avoid for Sarah, Could you drop him a hint?”
“My dear”—Clare spread out her hands—“That’s where you must be clever. It’s no use dropping hints to Mick. Forbidden fruit only makes him keener.”
“Yes, and I suppose the same applies to Sarah,” he acknowledged wryly.
“But,” continued Clare, ignoring the interruption, “I admit I was a little horrified to see her in that gambling-place of Mick’s. Oh, but perhaps you don’t know about that?”
“Sarah told me,” said James a little grimly. “That’s one comfort—Sarah finds the greatest difficulty in keeping anything to herself!”
“But, Jim you should have seen her face! She was oblivious to everyone and everything—the real gambling fever. Rather shocking in such a young girl.”
For a moment James was irritated. Clare had rather a district visitor’s manner at times.
“I don’t think that will occur again,” he said rather shortly.
“You’ve dealt with that? Good. It made me a little afraid. Well, Jim, any time you feel like calling on me—I like your Sarah. I’d like to help you both if I could.” She got up and began pulling on her gloves. “I’ll take Mick away now before he can put silly ideas into the child’s head. David Summers seems a nice young man, and very épris with our pretty redhead, isn’t he? Thank you, my dear, for welcoming me so charmingly. May I come again, some time—without Mick?”
“Of course,” he said, opening the door for her,
Peronel, Sophie, and Sarah observed their return each from her own secret angle. Peronel gave Clare full marks; James had lost that guarded stiffness, though there was nothing but friendliness in his polite regard. Sophie’s muddled impressions registered approval of what she considered a fine-looking couple, while Sarah thought: I wonder what they’ve been talking about all this time. I bet she’s got her hooks into him, the Poor Fish!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the end of October, Sarah had made a habit of running up to Town, sometimes for the day, sometimes spending an odd night with Peronel. David took her out a great deal. She developed a passion for dancing and was soon familiar with all the best-known night-clubs in London.
James, who didn’t altogether approve of so many late hours, made as few objections as seemed reasonable in the belief that this new phase would wear off, Sarah was a country-lover at heart, but she was trying her wings for the first time, and as long as she was with David, he didn’t worry unduly about her. Discreet enquiries showed that she was never seen about alone with Fennick, and James, knew nothing as yet of those apparently casual meetings and their lucky results. For Sarah, the gambling fever now high within her, continued, with Mick’s connivance to play, and she continued to win.
By November, with the help of lucky speculations, she had more money in the bank than she had believed possible. Her luck was becoming proverbial, and had James moved in certain circles himself, he would have been bound to hear. As it was, he put down her radiant high spirits to David’s credit and wondered if the child imagined herself to be in love.
If, at that time, Sarah did imagine herself to be in love, it was not with David. Mick Fennick’s experienced charm had turned more worldly-wise heads than Sarah’s. The very fact that she saw him so seldom alone lent flavour to the situation. She felt immensely flattered by this half-amused admiration, and if her head was filled with romantic notions about him, it was not entirely Mick’s fault. A third marriage had never been part of his plans, but he often forgot how young Sarah was.
But at Fallow, life remained undisturbed for some time.
At times Sarah found it very difficult not to confide in James. The daily rides together, the walks through the wet woods, the long evenings when he sometimes read aloud to her while Sophie nodded in her chair bred confidences. He got to know her pretty well that autumn, and had he perhaps probed a little deeper, the subsequent trouble might have been averted. Once she asked him:
“J.B., how is one sure about being in love?”
Sophie had gone to bed, and they had been talking companionably over the dying fire.
He looked across at her and smiled.
“Rather a teaser, that one,” he said. “I suppose it takes everyone differently.”
“Yes, but there must be some sort of common symptom, like high blood-pressure, loss of appetite, wanting to cry, wanting to shout.”
“Sounds rather exhausting!” James said lightly. “Are you trying to tell me you are suffering from these alarming symptoms, Sarah?”
She wrinkled her nose, and burrowed deeper into her chair, tucking her long legs under her.
“My appetite’s terribly good,” she said doubtfully, “I never want to cry, and I’ve always wanted to shout. I’d just as soon spend an evening like this with you as one with—I don’t see how one ever knows. Do you think I can be fickle, J.B.?” She asked it so seriously that he refrained from laughing.
“I think at your age,” he said kindly, “everyone fresh must appear exciting. It’s quite natural, only you don’t want to take things too seriously—especially after champagne!”
She laughed.
“I’m getting used to champagne. I’ve been reading a book where the hero used to drink it out of his girl-friend’s slipper. Have you ever drunk champagne out of a shoe, J.B.?”
This time he did laugh.
“I’m not quite as old as that!” he said. “What very curious literature you indulge in, Sarah!”
“It was one of Sophie’s,” she said vaguely. “A very roistering story. It swam in champagne and diamond bracelets and ladies’ garters. It must be rather fun to marry a reformed rake.”
“Well, I shouldn’t try, if I were you,” he retorted. “They’re apt to break out again.”
“Oh, but,” said Sarah quite seriously
, “it’s a well-known thing, J.B., that reformed rakes make the best husbands.”
Early in November, Sarah’s luck suddenly changed. Mick’s speculations failed, and soon that fat little cache in the bank had dwindled with surprising rapidity. Two hundred down on the markets, five hundred; it seemed that everything Mick put her money into went wrong.
“Never mind, sweet,” he told her cheerfully, “get off the chain for an evening or so, and you’ll soon win it back.”
But the tables were against her too. She began to lose, and there came a time when she found she owed Mick nearly three hundred pounds, and had nothing with which to pay him. “Don’t worry your pretty head,” he said. “I’ll stake you till your luck turns again. It’s bound to go like this sometimes. “Sarah didn’t worry to begin with. The terrible fascination was still there, whether she won or lost. Her luck must change some time. In the meantime, she must contrive to get to London more often.
But it wasn’t becoming quite so easy to avoid explanations with James. He thought she was beginning to look a little tired and over-excited, and told her quite pleasantly that four nights out of seven spent in dancing until the small hours was overdoing things.
“Well, I’ll go up for the day, and come down on the last train,” she said. “I want some clothes, anyway, and David will give me dinner.”
“You can’t possibly want any more clothes,” he protested. He had had Peronel’s account, and although he hadn’t commented on it up till now, he had been a little staggered at the amount.
“Oh, there’s always something,” Sarah said vaguely.
“But, Sarah,” he said reasonably, “you mustn’t be just wantonly extravagant. After all, when you’re at home you mostly live in slacks or breeches. You oughtn’t to want any new clothes for ages.”
“Well, give me a bigger allowance and I’ll buy my own,” she said, “then it won’t matter to you what I spend.”
“I think,” James said quietly, “if I showed you the bills you might be surprised. It might be worth your while to go through your wardrobe yourself and work out what it comes to.”
“How can I?” said Sarah in astonishment. “I’ve no idea what each thing cost.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you never asked the price of anything?”
“No, why should I? Peronel chose it all.”
This was an aspect which hadn’t occurred to James. He was well aware that Peronel was making a good thing out of Sarah, but he hadn’t realised that the girl was in total ignorance of what she had spent.
“Listen, Sarah; this is all wrong,” he said. “You can’t grow up like this in total ignorance of the value of money. I suppose it’s’ my fault. I’ve never tried to explain these things to you. When you’re of age and independent, you won’t be a rich woman, you know.”
“Oh, I know Long John left it all to you. I don’t grudge it to you, J.B.,” she said ingenuously.
“But that’s not the point,” he said. “You must learn the values of things. You may not marry a rich man, and you don’t want to ruin him, do you?”
“All right,” said Sarah reasonably, “I won’t buy any clothes, m just have my hair done.”
He gave it up then, resolving that he must go through this question of finance with her very thoroughly at some other time. For the moment she got her way and went up to London for the day, returning late, tired, and for once, a little anxious. It had been a dispiriting day. She had tried without success to get Mick on the telephone as soon as she arrived. David at such short notice wasn’t available for lunch, and Peronel, when Sarah went along to South Molton Street, was busy with a difficult client and in no mood to listen to girlish exuberance, “Come back later in the morning,” she told Sarah distractedly. “Everything’s gone wrong today. Lady Basset’s gown isn’t ready and she’s raising hell. The Beldon hag’s due for a fitting any minute and that always means trouble in the workroom, and we’re up to our eyes in the Tyler trousseau—the wedding’s been hurried on a month, which gives us no time at all. Be a sweet and go away now. I’m feeling like a lunatic!”
Sarah felt stranded and slightly cross. No one seemed to want her, and it looked as if she was going to have a wasted day. She didn’t go at once, but wandered round Peronel’s showroom idly inspecting the new models. A little jacket of red fox was flung carelessly over the back of a chair and Sarah slipped it on.
“I’ll have this,” she told the saleswoman, hovering in the background.
“It’s marvellous with your hair,” the woman murmured. “It’s a beautiful little coat. Shall I send it for you, Miss Silver?”
“No, I’ll wear it now. You can send my own home,” said Sarah, snuggling into the new coat with rising spirits. This was the sort of garment to bring one luck.
She walked out of the shop feeling pleased with the world again and went to look for a telephone-box to put through another call to Mick. But Mick was booked up all day.
“Sorry, my sweet,” he said regretfully, “can’t be done, Tm afraid. Go along without me and see what you can do.”
He had long ago made her a member of the club where he usually played, but she had never before gone there alone. Feeling dismayed again, she wandered up Bond Street looking at the shops, then went back to South Molton Street to try and persuade Peronel to lunch with her.
Peronel was having a hurried sandwich and a cup of coffee in her office and she looked up with a frown as Sarah came in.
“What on earth did you want to go and buy that thing for without asking me?” she demanded irritably.
“I liked it,” said Sarah, feeling rather annoyed. “It matches my hair, and I think I must choose my own clothes sometimes.”
“Darling, when you’re left alone, you always do your best to turn yourself into a mild tart. You can’t, at your age, wear that sort of thing with dignity. Besides, do you know how much that coat is?”
“No,” said Sarah, flushing, “but does that matter?”
“It’ll matter to your respected guardian when he gets the bill,” said Peronel dryly. “I imagine he’ll think three hundred guineas a little excessive for something he doesn’t consider either suitable or necessary.”
“Three hundred guineas!” gasped Sarah. “But I’d no idea one could pay that for this sort of thing.”
“My dear Sarah,” Peronel said impatiently, “I’m always telling you you have no clothes sense. Those skins are specially selected, the colour is marvellous, and I don’t suppose you’ll find another coat quite like it anywhere in London, but you can’t expect a mere man to appreciate that. If you like, I’ll put it back into stock. You’ve only worn it for about an hour.”
“No,” Sarah felt superstitious about the coat. “I want it. It’s going to bring me luck. When I’ve retrieved my fortunes I’ll pay for it myself, then J.B. needn’t know what it cost. You do sound cross, Peronel. Come out and have some lunch with me.”
“Haven’t time. It’s just one of those days,” said Peronel. “You can share my coffee and sandwiches if you like.”
Sarah sat on Peronel’s desk and bit into a sandwich.
“No one seems to have any time for me today,” she said forlornly. “Mick and David are both tied up and I’ll have to try and retrieve my fortunes this afternoon by myself.”
Peronel regarded her speculatively.
“Sarah,” she said, “it’s never been my line to interfere, but don’t you think you’re rather overdoing things? I don’t know what you owe Mick—you’ve been losing, haven’t you? But he’s not a very good person to owe money to.”
Sarah looked surprised. It was the first time she had ever known Peronel utter words of warning.
“I’ll pay him back when I’m twenty-one,” she said carelessly. “Before, if my luck changes. He doesn’t mind.”
“Well, I should be careful. And by the same token, I shouldn’t overdo the extravagance either. God knows, I’ve got my living to make like anyone else, and if you want to smother yourself in ex
pensive furs it’s okay by me. But this guardian of yours can stop supplies, you know.”
“What on earth do you mean? J.B. knows as well as anyone that he’s got to keep me till I’m of age and have my own money.”
“Yes, but within reason. I’m only warning you. It would be a pity from both our points of view if he declined to pay any more bills.”
Sarah remembered her conversation with James, and looked at Peronel suspiciously.
“Has J.B. said anything to you?” she asked quickly.
.Peronel poured herself out another cup of coffee and lit one of her Russian cigarettes.
“He threw out a hint the other day when I ran into him at the Berkeley. I don’t know if Clare had put him wise or not. It would be rather her line, you know. “Let me help you with little Sarah’s budget, Jim dear. Young girls can be extravagant!”
Sarah felt a sudden sick dismay. James had been up to London once or twice by himself, lately. Had he gone for the express purpose of meeting Clare?
“Was Mrs. Rosenheim with him?” she asked, and Peronel gave her an amused glance.
“Didn’t he tell you? Dear Clare was all dolled up in one of my smartest models and I will say she looked the goods.”
“Peronel”—Sarah looked quite white—“do you think she means to marry him?”
Peronel considered.
“I think, quite honestly, our Clare is out to marry anyone with money,” she said. “I don’t blame her—she made a bad mistake over Izzy, and it must be pretty galling for her to remember that if she’d stuck to James a bit longer she’d have been sitting pretty. But if she does succeed in marrying him, your life won’t be a bed of roses, my sweet. She’ll soon see that the Silver fortune is spent as she thinks fit.”
“J.B. wouldn’t marry her. He said he had no regrets when he met her again,” said Sarah.
“Well, I don’t know,” Peronel said, and wondered if the child wasn’t fonder of her guardian than she imagined. “There’s no telling what a man will do when he’s reached the settling down age. And Clare’s very decorative, you know.”
