by Anne Hampson
‘So Dirk’s father concluded that marriage would put an end to Dirk’s—er—wild ways?’
‘Marriage usually does,’ grinned Charles ruefully, and added, ‘That’s why it doesn’t attract me.’
‘It was very clever of Dirk to think of marrying someone who would not interfere with his pleasures.’ Charles looked oddly at her, and then his glance strayed to Dirk, who was standing on the edge of the crowd clustered around the guide.
‘It’s to be hoped that you’ll never come to resent his way of life,’ he murmured, almost to himself.
‘I’ll never do that,’ she rejoined confidently. ‘I promised—and in any case, I want to live a life of freedom myself. This marriage suits me perfectly.’ She paused. ‘Is he very wicked?’ she inquired naively, and Charles gave a loud laugh.
‘You’re cute, Serra. Yes, he is quite wicked.’ And both to her own surprise and that of her companion Serra exclaimed,
‘I don’t believe you! I think he’s only gay!’
‘Could it be that you prefer him only to be gay, as you term it?’ queried Charles strangely.
She paused in thought, looking towards her husband.
‘Yes ... yes, I do prefer him only to be gay.’ They were close to the others now and their steps became even slower. ‘Tell me about his mother?’ she invited, desirous of changing the trend of conversation. ‘I expect she’s a great lady?’
‘You’ll like her, Serra...’ He tailed off thoughtfully and something made Serra ask,
‘Will she like me, do you think?’
He seemed to give a little sigh, she thought, before he answered,
‘I expect she will, when she gets to know you.’
Serra bit her lip. In the excitement of the past few days she had not given much thought to her husband’s people. From a drab uneventful existence she had been swept into an exciting adventure where in the newness of her surroundings she could think of little else but her amazing good fortune. But now she was back on earth and she was conscious of some slight misgivings.
‘She’ll be horrified at her son’s marrying someone unsuitable?’ she murmured reluctantly, watching Charles’s face closely as she awaited his reply.
‘All mothers have their own ideas as to whom their children should marry. I expect she hoped he’d marry a society beauty—You’re a beauty,’ he added with a smile, ‘so she won’t be disappointed on that score.’
Soft colour rose to Serra’s cheeks at the flattery, but she was still troubled.
‘Would she have liked Dirk to marry Clarice?’
A moment’s frowning silence and then,
‘No, I don’t believe she would. You’ll see Clarice when you get to England, and I think you’ll agree with me that she’s hard. Had Dirk married her,’ he went on, ‘it wouldn’t have worked out at all because, as I said, she would have interfered in his life. Dirk didn’t want to marry anyone, as you know, and this arrangement he has with you suits him fine. He’ll have his freedom and that is all he cares about.’ They had reached the others and as the guide had finished his discourse they left and went off on their own to look at the white marble tomb of Saladin, that fierce warrior who defeated Richard the Lionheart in the Third Crusade.
‘Can we go to the Long Market?’ Serra wanted to know when at last both Dirk and Charles declared they had done quite sufficient sightseeing for one day.
‘You know about it?’ Dirk was frowning slightly; she felt he did not want to go to the souk and her face fell.
‘I’ve heard about it. You can buy beautiful things—very cheap, they are,’ she added as an inducement even though she was quite sure Dirk wasn’t in the least interested in obtaining a bargain.
‘We have time,’ observed Charles. ‘Let the child have a delve into the market if she wants to.’
Dirk shrugged.
‘Very well.’
‘Have you got any money?’ Charles asked the pointed question with his eyes on Dirk. Serra was given some money by her husband, who was thanked profusely by his grateful young wife.
‘What are you intending to buy?’ he inquired without much interest, and she told him she had no idea until she looked around.
She did not know how she came to be separated from Dirk and Charles, but she did, the crowds being dense, compounded both of natives and tourists. But, strangely, she was not too perturbed, feeling she must come upon them presently, so she gave herself up to the delights of the Arab market, situated against a background of ancient Roman relics. Traders in various and colourful costumes were gesticulating; and speaking in a language she could not understand; they were selling lovely brocades threaded with silver and gold, which Serra could not resist, although, having bought some, she did wonder what she would do with it. Then she bought a leather bag and some small souvenirs. The money Dirk had given her soon passed into the eager hands of the traders and it was not until she had completely spent up that she turned her attention to the problem of finding the two men in this maze of humanity. Her arms were full and she was hot and rather tired. She hoped she would run into Dirk and Charles soon because her purchases were becoming heavy. Perhaps she should not have bought the ‘earthenware object’, but the smiling Arab had assured her that it was very ancient, having been brought up out of the sea—and there was no doubt that it looked ancient, having little crusty things adhering to it, rather like barnacles. But what a weight it was ... and what did she mean to do with it, anyway?
‘Where can they be?’ An hour had passed, then another half hour, then another—‘I’m lost,’ she quivered. But scarcely had she uttered this despairing whisper than she heard her husband’s voice and turned around, a cry of greeting on her lips. But it was never voiced.
‘Where the devil have you been!’ he thundered, oblivious of the tears that had fallen on to his wife’s cheeks. ‘Over two hours we’ve been searching for you!’ He saw the pile of stuff in her arms and stared unbelievingly. ‘You actually went shopping—instead of looking for us?’
‘Dirk, old boy,’ put in his friend soothingly, ‘all’s well that end’s well. We’ve found Serra and that’s all that matters.’
‘I thought I’d easily find you,’ she faltered, quite dismayed by her husband’s scowling countenance. ‘I’ve inconvenienced you and I’m very sorry. She looked at Charles. ‘Will you carry some of my things, please? My arms are aching dreadfully.’
A smothered curse issued from Dirk’s lips.
‘Throw the damned stuff away!’ he ordered. ‘Inconvenienced us, did you say? Do you realize we’ve a three-hour journey ahead of us—and it’s already getting dark?’
‘It was an accident,’ she began, handing over some of her goods to Charles, who accepted them willingly, his good-natured face troubled and a little drawn. He had been anxious, that was clear, she realized, but even as she looked into his eyes she saw a sternness appear in them.
‘You shouldn’t have wasted time shopping,’ he admonished, more to appease his friend than anything else. ‘Not when you knew you had lost us.’
‘If you’re not very careful,’ said Dirk awfully, ‘I shall begin to wish I’d never set eyes on you!’
‘Shall we get back to the car?’ suggested Charles practically. ‘There seems no point in standing here.’ Dirk gritted his teeth, but strode off without another word, followed closely by his wife and Charles.
Dirk drove in furious silence for mile after mile with neither of his companions venturing to break it. Now and then Charles would throw a half glance over his shoulder, but Serra was perched on the edge of the seat with her head down, wondering how she could have carried on so blithely, buying everything she saw and not even thinking there might be trouble in finding the two men. She supposed she had not been much more than a quarter of an hour in getting rid of her money; for the rest of the time she had been wandering around, becoming more and more frightened as the minutes and hours passed. Two hours ... it had seemed like two days. And all Dirk could do was be angry with her. He
could have shown a little sympathy. Now if it had been Charles he would have been so relieved he would have said nothing—or if he had it would have been something kind.
They had to rush into dinner, and still Dirk was looking like thunder. Charles tried to open a conversation but was answered in monosyllables, and Serra felt sure Dirk was already regretting having married her.
‘I’m very sorry,’ she said in a small voice when the meal was almost over. ‘I won’t do anything like that again.’
‘You never said a truer word! You won’t get the chance!’
‘You mean you won’t ever give me money again?’ The idea appalled her. She had had a vague idea that Dirk would make her a huge allowance. ‘I wouldn’t spend it like that another time.’
A glowering glance and then,
‘What a holiday! I’ll remember this place, and no mistake!’
‘I’m beginning to think,’ interposed his friend mildly, ‘that, having married Serra, you’ll now have to develop a sense of humour.’
She sent him a speaking look. This was no time for frivolities, it said. But to her surprise her husband returned, in tones that had lost much of their wrathful edge,
‘I believe you’re right, Charles.’
Serra instantly threw off her haunted look.
‘Am I forgiven?’ she asked, her voice also brightening.
‘Unless the rest of the holiday’s to be spoiled,’ he said, ‘I’ve no option but to forgive you.’ He gave a small sigh before adding, ‘You’ll have to mend your ways, though—and before we get home.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Chalcombe Grange was approached by a mile-long avenue of ancient oak trees, and backed by a massive park. Standing on a rise above the lovely Dorset village of Portford Magna, it could be seen for miles around, its impressive Palladian south front facing the sea.
Having said goodbye to Charles at the airport, Dirk and his new wife drove by car to his home. As they proceeded along the drive Serra several times gave little gasps of disbelief.
‘England’s wonderful!’ she breathed, clasping her hands tightly in her lap as if by this gesture she would soothe the wild beating of her heart.
‘My home isn’t England,’ Dirk laughed.
‘I like everything I’ve seen up till now.’ She had been enthralled all the way from the airport, looking this way and that, afraid of missing something. ‘It’s so green everywhere.’ Her fascinated gaze was on the house, and instead of her heartbeats becoming calmer they were racing now as the car was coming to a halt on the wide imposing forecourt.
‘Dirk ... I’m frightened,’ she quivered, turning to him as he switched off the engine.
‘Rubbish. I’ve told you, my mother won’t be seeing you until I’ve had a talk with her.’
‘But—but she’ll be so surprised that you’re married.’
‘Certainly she will, but she knows I was looking for a wife. It’s just a little sudden, that’s all.’
He seemed so calm. Serra gave a deep sigh. If only she could be equally calm! But it would soon be over—the first meeting—and then everything would be all right, she tried to assure herself.
On alighting from the car she stood looking up. ‘You’ve been copying our architecture too,’ she said rather accusingly. ‘But your Doric columns are de-based.’
‘So I believe.’ Dirk closed the car doors. ‘Everyone who was anyone copied Greek architecture during the Renaissance period. Come, you can’t stand there all day finding fault with the building.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t!’ He was striding towards the massive arched front door and she tripped along after him. The door swung inwards as if he had sent a radar signal to the butler.
‘You’re back, sir. I trust you had a pleasant holiday?’ Dirk was already in the hall; a final little run brought Serra to his side. The butler, stout round the middle and so distinguished with his haughty features and greying hair that he could have been the master of the house rather than Dirk, looked questioningly at his employer.
‘Meet my wife, Preston.’ Dirk spoke casually, just as if he were remarking on the weather. ‘Is my mother over at her own place?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The question following on the introduction afforded Preston time to recover from his surprise. Of course, he would know about the will, thought Serra, and that was why he wasn’t evincing the astonishment she had anticipated. ‘How do you do, madam. Welcome to your new home.’ Covertly he looked her over; a pained expression settled on his aristocratic features.
‘Thank you, Mr. Preston.’ She tried to disarm him with a smile but failed, little knowing that her prefixing of his name had lowered her still further in his estimation.
Dirk was walking away and she followed, staring about her and allowing her lips to form recurrent ‘ohs’ while keeping one eye on Dirk, lest she should lose him in this vast edifice. She was walking on thick carpet; the walls of the great hall were covered with tapestries and oil paintings and swords and chain-mail jackets. The ceiling had been painted by Verrio and Serra gasped at the intricacies of flower patterns and clouds, of birds and animals and cherubs with outspread wings. Before her was a wide staircase curving out at the top to form a semi-circular gallery. All the way along its walls portraits were hung—portraits of Dirk’s ancestors, she concluded.
Dirk opened a door, threw a look over his shoulder to make sure she was following and entered the Green Drawing Room.
Serra stopped at the door; this wasn’t her world. This was some exalted paradise to which she could never belong. Fear took possession of her and she lifted appealing eyes to her husband’s face. He regarded her from the centre of the room, and perhaps it was because she looked so small, standing there in the great oak doorway, with its exquisite carvings and Ionic-style pillars, that he smiled reassuringly and held out his hand to her. She moved then, and forced a smile as she put her cold hand into his and felt its warmth and its strength and its support as Dirk curled his fingers round hers.
‘You’re not afraid?’ His eyes were kind, and quizzical. She saw again those little fan lines spreading to his temples and remembered her swift assertion that Dirk was not wicked—only gay, she had told Charles, and she now knew that her words had reflected a desire, deep and fervent.
‘I’m not afraid now. It was just butterflies—’
‘Lord—no!’ He examined her face for some sign of a green tinge that might have appeared.
She laughed, a little shakily, perhaps, but she was no longer nervous.
‘Not that kind of butterfly!’
‘Thank heaven. I don’t want you looking like a washed-out rag when I bring my mother over to meet you.’ Releasing her hand, he told her to sit down. ‘Why didn’t Preston take your coat?’ he frowned, suddenly realizing she had it draped over her shoulders like a cape.
She laughed again.
‘Mr. Preston was too shocked to ask for it.’
‘You don’t say Mr. Preston—just Preston.’
‘That doesn’t sound very polite; he’s old enough to be my grandfather.’
‘Not quite. Preston in future. Remember. Now, sit down,’ he said again, indicating a small tub chair delightfully upholstered in quilted crimson satin. Serra obeyed and Dirk told her how she must behave, and what she must and must not do. He knew Charles had enlightened her on certain matters, but now he told her a little more. He had business interests in London and was forced to go there periodically. Serra wondered if it were solely business that took him to the capital but naturally refrained from questioning him. That he would have these absences pleased her no end, for it meant that, should she get into any scrapes, her husband would never come to hear about them. He also told her that his sister, Jenny, might at first appear not to like her, but Serra must take no notice. Jenny did not live at the Grange, so Serra would not come into regular contact with her. The Dower House was away at the far side of the park, Dirk told his wife. ‘Now,’ he said finally, ‘I’ll ring for a maid who’ll take you up to your ro
om. Tidy yourself up and put on another dress. You’ll have to do everything yourself for a little while, just until I get a maid for you.’
‘A maid?’ Her eyes opened wide. Her mother had told her about English ladies having maids, but—‘I don’t want a maid, Dirk. It’s not necessary— ’
‘Certainly it’s necessary. Don’t interfere in things you don’t understand.’ He pulled a bell-rope and Preston appeared. Serra looked at him, trying to read his expression. It was impassive, but she sensed the pain behind the mask. Preston definitely did not approve of her.
‘Send Janet in here.’ Curt tones. Had Dirk also noticed the hidden disapproval in his butler’s wooden countenance?
‘Certainly, sir.’
Janet was a Scot with clear grey eyes and ruddy cheeks. Unlike Preston she was quite unable to conceal her surprise and she gave Serra an incredulous glance when Dirk said,
‘Janet, will you take my wife up to the blue bedroom?’
‘Y-your w-wife, sir?’
‘And see that the suitcases are taken up. Mrs. Morgan’s are in the back of the car; mine are in the boot.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Even then she seemed unable to accept the evidence of her ears and it was only when Dirk asked what she was waiting for that she emerged from her stupor and took Serra up to the room next to Dirk’s. In a little while Serra heard him moving about and knocked at the dividing door.
‘Come in.’
She entered, glancing round. The walls were covered with gold wallpaper, to match the elaborately-gilded ceiling, from which hung two enormous cut-glass chandeliers. Two beautiful commodes decorated with gold leaf stood one at either side of the John de Val fireplace above which was an enormous gilt-framed mirror. The room, she realized, was very similar to her own, differing in colour and having a view to the soft, undulating chalk hills, whereas Serra’s room looked south, on to the sea.
‘You didn’t tell me what to do when I’m ready,’ she began as Dirk waited, not very patiently, for her to finish her examination of the room.
‘Wait in your bedroom—No, go down to the Blue Drawing Room and wait there. I’ll bring Mother over in about half an hour.’
