TO MY DEAR NIECE
Hilda Nickson
Strong-willed and imaginative, Vanessa had no problem deciding what to do with Puck’s Hill, the rambling country house she’d inherited from her eccentric great-aunt.
She was so busy reclaiming the gardens and setting up a gardening center that she forgot to worry about the conditions attached to the inheritance—conditions known only to the trustees.
And she refused to admit to herself that she was in love with her next-door neighbor, Ian Hamilton, who was obviously helping her because he wanted to buy Puck’s Hill! The house became just like a millstone, keeping Vanessa from her love.
CHAPTER ONE
The letter from Aunt Maud arrived on one of those rare, still misty mornings in early summer that give promise of a fine, warm day. The dew was wet on the grass, the distant trees mysterious and aloof, the world silent, ethereal, and unspeakably beautiful.
Coming in from an hour’s weeding for breakfast, Vanessa picked up the letter from the hall mat. The name—Vanessa’s own—and address were written in a thin rambling scrawl and were barely decipherable. Vanessa’s father had been born in this house, and the mailman brought into the world by her grandfather. Everyone for miles around knew the unconventional Dr. Woodrow and his pretty wife who was a leading soprano in the local operatic society.
Vanessa went through into the large kitchen. Hester, an elderly, distant relative who acted as general help and housekeeper was setting the breakfast trays. No one ever ate breakfast in the same place. It was an eccentric household. Her father came of a family of eccentrics—or so they appeared to the more conventional. Great-Aunt Maud, who had never married, lived virtually alone in a large old country house called Puck’s Hill: its grounds overgrown with weeds because Aunt Maud would not allow chemical weed-killers in case these poisoned the birds; Uncle Ted who owned a private zoo; a cousin living in a converted windmill in Norfolk on the edge of the marshes; her mother, hopeless at ordinary household skills, but an accomplished pianist and with the voice of an angel. One could continue. Even herself, filling the role of chauffeur/gardener at home. Not that she considered herself odd. It was a job she had drifted into, having had no other immediate plans for a career. She had been educated at a boarding school. It was typical of her father that when people asked what she was going to do “when she left school”, he would answer:
“Do? Do? Why, she’s just going to be herself. She’s not being educated merely to earn money; she’s being educated so that she can live a full and happy life.”
Vanessa could see now the sad smiles, the wise shakes of the heads. Fresh from the home of a friend whose parents had a beautiful garden to the wilderness which passed for the same thing at home, she had set about uprooting weeds, making flower beds, tending the stretch of grass which had once been a lawn in the days of old Joshua, her grandfather’s gardener. Turning a wilderness into a thing of beauty had given her an immense amount of satisfaction. Then she began to drive her father on his rounds or out on emergency calls, and to run her mother to and from rehearsals and opera performances.
Life was good—or had been until her father had taken on a junior partner. Vanessa had fallen in love with the young doctor, but not he with her. Yesterday, he had married the equally young and very pretty district nurse. When they returned from their honeymoon they would be living much too near the Woodrows’ house to make it easy for Vanessa to forget him. Not that anyone had ever known how she felt. She had kept it completely to herself—simple enough, surrounded as she was by people who were always preoccupied.
She had her own breakfast in the big conservatory. Her mother would doubtless have hers in the bath; her father, with a book, in front of the French window of his study which overlooked the herb garden; and Hester, in the kitchen.
Halfway through her breakfast Vanessa took out Aunt Maud’s letter. Accustomed though she was to her great-aunt’s scrawl, she still had difficulty in deciphering its contents, but two sentences stood out like banner headlines. I have not been so well of late. And: I would dearly love to see you, child, if you could possibly come down for a few days. Vanessa folded the letter thoughtfully, her features relaxing into soft lines. Dear, funny little Aunt Maud! She was sweet, but as tough and as independent as they come. Vanessa had been fond of her since childhood when she used to spend school holidays in the rambling old house full of passages and tiny rooms. Aunt Maud had devised treasure hunts in the untidy garden, and built fairy and elfin houses. She had taught Vanessa to appreciate nature; to learn about insects, birds, butterflies and all tiny creatures by seeking them in their natural habitat, by sitting with quiet patience, watching and waiting. Waiting for them to appear, and then watching what they did and how they lived.
Vanessa made a swift decision. She would go to Aunt Maud. Tomorrow. She would send a wire saying she was coming on the ten-thirty train. Another of her aunt’s eccentricities was not having a telephone. It would be folly to trust the mail. She finished her breakfast, then went outside again. She would tell her mother and father when she saw them. A family consultation about her decision was not necessary; neither would it be expected.
“Poor Aunt Maud,” was her father’s comment when she told him as she drove him on his morning round. “She must be 90 if she’s a day. Go and see her by all means, my dear. Have you any money?”
“Not much.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll write you a check when we return. You can cash it in the morning.”
“Thanks, Father. I hope you’ll be able to manage.”
He smiled. “I can’t promise to weed the garden or spray the roses, but otherwise, we’ll manage. Kenneth and Julie are due back at the end of the week anyhow.”
“Yes. Yes, I know.”
When she told her mother the news at lunchtime, her mother simply murmured absently: “Yes, all right, dear. Give Aunt Maud my love.”
And so with 50 pounds in her pocket, Vanessa caught the ten-thirty train to Cringlewood, a small country town deep in the heart of Suffolk. Barn Hill, the tiny village where her aunt lived, was some 20 miles from there. If the little branch line had been closed down, which was more than likely, she would have to hire a taxi to take her the rest of her journey.
Puck’s Hill, she mused. It was the name Aunt Maud had given to the house. She was rather puckish herself, Vanessa thought, with her wizened, weather-beaten features and crinkly smile.
It took the train a little over two hours to reach Cringlewood. As she expected, the branch line to Barnhill was now closed. Vanessa knew that buses ran only about twice a day, and these were unlikely to have been increased. She was searching for a taxi when a girl about her own age with long dark hair approached her.
“Are you Vanessa Woodrow?”
“Yes,” Vanessa answered in a surprised voice. The girl was a complete stranger to her.
With a swift smile the girl held out her hand. “My name’s Freda Hamilton. Ian knew you were coming, so he asked me to meet you.”
“Ian?” Vanessa queried with a brief handshake.
“My brother. He was around at Puck’s Hill yesterday when your telegram arrived.”
“You and your brother are friends of Aunt Maud?” Freda Hamilton nodded. “Ian especially. My car’s just outside. Shall we go?”
Vanessa fell into step with the other girl. “How is my aunt?” she asked, trying to remember whether she had ever met any friends of Aunt Maud.
“She’s—not too good, I’m afraid,” was the answer.
“So we’re glad someone has come. Actually, you’re the only relative your aunt seems to talk about.’’
Vanessa felt a twinge of conscience. Her mind had been so preoccupied in battling against her hopeless love affair that she had not wr
itten to Aunt Maud quite as often as usual.
“She does have other relatives, of course,” she told Freda, “but not all of them understand Aunt Maud’s funny little ways.” It was the kindest way she could put it. “Anyway, she and I have always kept in touch, though I must admit I haven’t written to her lately. I didn’t know she was ill; naturally, otherwise—”
She broke off as they emerged from the station yard and her companion pointed to a green station wagon.
“That’s my car. It used to be Ian’s, but he let me have it and bought another one.”
“How long have you and your brother lived in Barn Hill?” asked Vanessa as they drove out of the picturesque town with its narrow cobbled streets, half-timbered stores and houses, and the colorful, straggling market.
“Not very long, I suppose, in terms of country life. About five years.”
“And you’ve known my aunt all that time? She never mentioned either you or your brother.”
“For the simple reason that we haven’t really known her for very long. Your aunt has always been something of a recluse, hasn’t she? Or so they say in the village. We rarely saw her, either.”
It was true. Aunt Maud’s home and garden had been her world; though at one time, the children of the village were always welcome in her wild garden. But as she had become older, she had kept more and more to herself. “How did you come to meet her, then?” she inquired. “Ian went to see her one day. She asked him to stay to tea, and after that he was a frequent visitor.”
“And you?”
“Oh, I didn’t visit her quite as often as Ian did. They—found things to talk about.”
Vanessa had detected a slight hesitation before the other girl answered and was about to ask her what sort of things her brother had discussed with Aunt Maud, but Freda Hamilton went on:
“Ian and I wondered whether you’d care to come and have lunch at home with us. You’ll find things a little disorganized at Puck’s Hill.”
But Vanessa was anxious to see her aunt as soon as possible.
“That’s very kind of you,” she answered, “but if you don’t mind I’d rather go straight to my aunt’s. If things are as disorganized as you say, then it’s high time someone did something about it.” Anxiety lent a sharp edge to her voice.
There was a pause, then the other girl said quietly: “Yes, of course. I understand. I just thought it would give my brother a chance to—to meet you. But if you’re staying for a few days—”
“I shall stay for as long as my aunt wants me.”
Though the other girl was very likeable, and it was good to know that Aunt Maud had found someone to keep an eye on her, Vanessa could not help feeling slightly irritated. She frowned, trying to find out why. Was it really a guilty conscience about her own family: that their eccentricities caused them to be lacking in caring enough for each other, even for someone old like Aunt Maud? But then this applied also to her aunt. Each of them seemed to have one thing only, besides themselves, that they cared about. Her father had his medical practice and was a good doctor, but the rest of his time he lived in his own world. Her mother had her singing. Aunt Maud had her house and garden, but the world outside—apart from Vanessa herself—might not exist.
This Ian Hamilton. How had he managed to gain Aunt Maud’s confidence sufficiently to become a regular visitor? Few people had, if any, so far as she knew. It was strange. Who was he? What had he and her aunt to talk about? His sister appeared greatly preoccupied with him—Ian this, Ian the other. He was obviously a person of some importance to her. It had been he who had asked her to meet Vanessa herself. Why? Why should he concern himself with her arrival? Perhaps Aunt Maud had asked him to meet her, and he had delegated the task to his sister.
Vanessa concluded that it was he, this man she had not even met, who was the cause of her irritation. She could almost hear him accusing her of neglecting her aunt. Well, she was here now, and there was no need for this Ian Hamilton to concern himself any longer.
She became aware that they had almost arrived. The car was driving through the cool avenue of trees which formed part of the estate bordering on Aunt Maud’s property. Vanessa realized that she had followed her aunt’s lead in not taking much interest in the rest of the people who lived in the village. All she knew of the ownership was that the estate belonged to a wealthy landowner who used the woods with its house—aptly named The Lodge—as a country retreat, breeding pheasants for the sheer joy of killing them. He was known simply as the Colonel, though whether he had ever actually commanded a military unit was doubtful. But even this limited knowledge had been gained from snatches of conversation Vanessa had heard in the village stores. His name was never mentioned in Aunt Maud’s house. A wicked man like that who bred God’s creatures for the pleasure of killing them was beneath her contempt. Vanessa caught a glimpse of a deer. Had the man added deer-shooting to his nefarious pastimes?
But the trees were thinning out. A few minutes later Freda Hamilton turned her car through a wide gateway which led up a twisting drive to Aunt Maud’s house. Vanessa was appalled at the neglect. The rank weeds, now eight or ten feet high, had thick stalks and umbrella-like leaves shooting up from the earth like nuclear monsters.
“Good heavens!” she breathed. “I had no idea it was as bad as this. What’s happened to Joe Simpkins who used to do the gardening?”
“He’s still here. It’s simply more than he can cope with. He keeps an area near the house clear, then tackles as much of the rest as he can. Your aunt won’t allow—”
“I know. I’m not entirely ignorant of my aunt’s ways,” Vanessa felt stung to interpose.
“I’m sorry.” Freda Hamilton brought the car to a halt outside the front door of the old gray stone house with its porticoed entrance.
Vanessa sensed that she had given offense. She turned to the other girl.
“Do forgive me if I seem put out. I’m so worried about my aunt. I write to her regularly as a rule, but I’m afraid I’ve had problems lately and—”
Freda gave a swift smile. “Never mind, you’re here now.”
Vanessa nodded. “It was extremely good of you to meet me. Perhaps we shall see each other again.”
“I hope so,” the other girl responded.
They said goodbye, and as the car disappeared down the drive Vanessa looked after it for a moment. A charming girl, even if she did seem rather under her brother’s thumb. Where did they live, she wondered. And what did both she and her brother do?
The outer door of the house was flung back. Vanessa turned the knob of the vestibule door and stepped inside the wide hall that narrowed into a long passage with doors on either side. Immediately, a dusty, musty smell pervaded her nostrils. She wrinkled her nose and frowned. Dust lay thickly on the Jacobean oak furniture; the once colorful carpet was badly in need of cleaning. What had happened to Miss Gould, the companion-help Aunt Maud used to have?
Vanessa was about to climb the stairs when a door opened at the farther end of the long passage. Miss Gould herself appeared.
“Your aunt’s expecting you. Miss Vanessa.”
Vanessa went toward the woman, almost as small and frail-looking as Aunt Maud and was struck at once by the tired look about her eyes.
“You look as though you could do with a rest, Miss Gould. How is my aunt?”
Miss Gould shook her head sadly. “Not too well, miss. I wanted to get a nurse in, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She just keeps drifting off, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes for longer periods. At times she rambles, at others she’s surprisingly lucid. She keeps asking for you, miss. I’m glad you’ve come.”
“Is she in any pain? And has the doctor seen her?”
“Oh yes, he comes every day, sometimes twice. She doesn’t seem to be in any pain. The doctor says it’s her heart—and just old age. She’s 93, miss. But if only she would eat, I’m sure she’d gather a little more strength.”
“Is she asleep now?”
Nancy Gould no
dded. “I’ve only just this minute left her. Do you know what I think, Miss Vanessa?” Vanessa shook her head. “I think your Aunt Maud’s decided she’s had enough of this world and has simply made up her mind to leave it.”
Vanessa felt her heart contract sharply. “Oh, don’t talk like that, please!”
“It’s true, my dear. You know what she’s like. Once she’s made up her mind to a thing—”
“I know. But I hope you’re wrong. I’ll go up and see her. Would you like me to stay with her for a while? You must have lots to do.”
Nancy Gould nodded. “If you would. Miss Vanessa. I’ve hardly dared leave her side for weeks now.”
Vanessa’s conscience smote her again. “For weeks? But how long has she been ill? I received a letter from her only yesterday. I could tell by her writing that something was wrong, but—” She broke off in distress. “Oh, I do wish you had written to me, Miss Gould.”
“My dear, I wanted to. She kept saying you’d be writing in a day or two. Then when weeks passed and no letter came, she made me bring paper and pen and insisted on writing herself. If she hadn’t, I had quite made up my mind to drop you a line myself. If her condition had become really serious—urgent—I would have telephoned or sent you a wire. As it is, Dr. Upson says she might continue like this for a year or more. He wanted her to have her bed brought downstairs, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
Vanessa sighed worriedly and went upstairs. She tapped softly on the green-painted door, but there was no response. She opened it quietly and closed it behind her. She walked on the balls of her feet toward the great double bed. At the foot she paused, and her heart as well as her conscience smote her. Dear, sweet, fragile Aunt Maud! She looked tinier and more puckish than ever, but weak and ill. Tears gathered in Vanessa’s eyes, but suddenly her aunt’s were wide open and looking straight at her.
To My Dear Niece Page 1
