I'll Never Marry!

by Juliet Armstrong

  I’LL NEVER MARRY!

  Juliet Armstrong

  It was not, as is so often the case, an unhappy love affair that had caused Catherine to decide that she would never marry, that the blessings of a husband, home and family would never be hers, but the conviction that no man would ever I be attracted by such a quiet mouse-like girl as herself. So, as the next best thing, she took a post as foster-mother in a Children’s Home.

  Her kind and capable ways soon made her a great success in her new job ... and then, much to her surprise, she discovered that there are quite a number of men who demand more of a wife than just a pretty face, and that there was one man in particular who could easily appreciate Catherine’s true worth.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Catherine Emberley, turning her grey eyes reluctantly from the flying landscape of green valleys and hills, and blossoming orchards, snuggled farther back into her corner seat. She wondered how much longer she would be able to keep awake: she was so sleepy—and so devastatingly tired.

  Breaking away from home at the mature age of twenty-seven must always, she thought, be a pretty formidable business. But when one happened to be a parson’s daughter, with a delicate mother on one’s hands, and a small nephew and niece as well, to achieve a break at all seemed little short of miraculous.

  She smothered a sigh as she reflected how much easier it would all have been if Marion, who had unwittingly provided her with the opportunity to escape, had chosen to behave less selfishly. But there it was. Marion had never been able to see any point of view but her own. That dark, breathtaking beauty of hers had made her a law unto herself, and everywhere, even in nursery days, she had found willing slaves.

  Of course, these last fourteen years in India, as the wife of an important official, had made her even more spoiled and imperious. Each annual leave she had been a little lazier, a little more exacting. And this last time she had shown herself such a blatant egotist that even dad and mum, who thought her the most wonderful being in the world, had sided against her.

  After all, it had been her own decision to come home to England for two years, and live at the Vicarage. She was longing, she had said in her letters, to be with Pat and Pamela, to get to know them as a mother should know her own children.

  Who could have supposed that she had never had any intention of looking after them?—that her idea of living at the Vicarage merely meant making it a jumping-off place for a round of visits?

  Catherine shivered a little, in spite of the heat of the crowded compartment, as she recalled in detail that wretched scene in the drawing room after supper when Marion had suddenly learned that her younger sister had taken a post as assistant foster mother in a children’s home in Westshire, eighty miles away.

  How furious Marion had been, and how utterly ungrateful for all the love and care that had been lavished on Pat and Pam during her long absences.

  “You can’t be really fond of them, or you would not dash off and leave them at the very first opportunity,” she had burst out, throwing the fashion magazine she had been studying on to the shabby carpet. And when dad, peering over his crooked and perilously placed spectacles, had observed gently that divided authority always led to trouble where children were concerned, she had conveniently forgotten the caustic criticisms she had been making almost from the moment of her arrival, on her offspring’s manners and appearance, and had declared stormily that there would be no difficulties with anyone who wasn’t so “tiresomely touchy” as Catherine.

  “A dismal job in some frightful orphanage is just the sort of thing that would appeal to your morbid mentality,” she had continued with angry contempt. “I don’t think mother and dad should have encouraged you.”

  Mum, propped up on the sofa with her patience board, had murmured that it was time poor Kit had a chance to go out into the world, and dad had nodded agreement with this sentiment. They had looked across at Catherine as though expecting her to defend her choice of a career, but she made no attempt to do so. Her outlook and Marion’s were too dissimilar to make the effort worth while.

  She had felt strongly inclined, however, to tell Marion roundly that nothing would induce her to live in the same house for any length of time; but she had choked back the words, as she had always done in the past, and had taken refuge in silence.

  What use to say to Marion: “You’ve had the knack of making me feel at my worst, ever since I was a child. It’s not that you’re lovely, and I’m ordinary; I’ve always been proud of your beauty, not jealous of it. It’s just your way of disparaging everything I do or say—of switching the limelight on to my bad points, so that everyone sees them as clearly as you do yourself.”

  Marion’s reply to such candor would have been a battery of fire of her own peculiarly wounding brand. From her vantage point of twelve years’ seniority, to say nothing of her proud position as wife and mother, she would have assailed her younger sister with such adjectives as “introverted” and “old maidish,” hinting that it was these characteristics, no less than her lack of looks and flair for dress which had kept her for so long on the shelf.

  “No flair for dress!,” Catherine felt slightly less ruffled as that favorite phrase of Marion’s came into her mind. The accusation of dowdiness was grossly unfair, coming from Marion, for there had been plenty of money about during her girlhood; the catastrophe over mum’s money had not occurred until after her marriage and departure for India. But what did that matter now? The suit she was wearing this moment—dad’s parting gift to her—was irreproachable: one could count on good tailoring in a hunting district, and the Hilliton man had achieved a modest fame for miles around. In it she felt her best, sure that whatever she lacked in beauty of feature, her figure would pass muster anywhere.

  “I’m not ugly, I’m just painfully ordinary,” she mused. “My hair is an ordinary brown, and my eyes are an ordinary grey. I could probably find a double in every sizable town in the kingdom. Even my hands and feet—”

  Her train of thought was snapped abruptly just then by the sound of heated voices in the corridor. The ticket collector had apparently discovered someone travelling in a first-class carriage with a second-class ticket, and was refusing to allow her to pay the difference and keep her seat.

  “There are people sitting in the second-class this minute, Miss, who have first-class tickets on them,” he asserted severely. “If you are so set on travelling first you must do as others do, and buy your ticket—not trust to luck I shan’t be round to catch you out.”

  “You’ll be reported for this.” The answer came in a girl’s high, angry voice. “What you are saying is definitely libellous.”

  “Fireworks don’t trouble me. I happened to notice you at Paddington, and heard you telling your porter to find you a seat in a first-class carriage. Come along now, and I’ll fix you up in-the second-class. There’s a lady in this very next compartment whom you can exchange with nicely.”

  And then to Catherine’s embarrassment, for she had long got over her slight annoyance at being unable to benefit by the first-class ticket on which her father had, in a burst of generosity, insisted, the man came into the carriage where she was seated, and beckoned her purposefully.

  “Here you are, Miss,” he told her crisply, “there’s a place waiting for you in the first-class just next door. This young lady will change places with you.”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Catherine began pacifically, but the girl whom the ticket-collector had pounced on, an attractive-looking and extremely well dressed brunette, had by now let her temper get the better of her. Ignoring Catherine’s gesture she informed the official haughtily that she preferred to stand in the corridor rather than suffocate in a stuffy, overcrowded carriage.

  “Com
e along, Miss.” The ticket collector was already lifting down Catherine’s suitcase. “I’ve no time to waste over all this nonsense. If the young lady sees a vacant seat waiting for her, she’ll maybe cool down and occupy it.” And he escorted Catherine firmly into the next carriage, and shut the door upon her with the air of one who has satisfactorily accomplished his good deed for the day.

  By no means pleased at becoming a central figure in the little drama, which had aroused a lively interest in both compartments, Catherine abandoned her day dreaming, and buried herself in the detective story she had brought with her, and so immersed did she become in following crime clues that she thought no more of the sulky brunette until at a junction two stations before Great Garsford, her own destination, she noticed her getting off the train, in company with a number of other passengers.

  “That’s that,” she thought philosophically. “I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again.” And with that she settled down once more to the gradual unmasking of the villain.

  Thereafter the train crawled, and to while away the stop at the next wayside station, she took out the letter of instructions she had received from the Matron of the Children’s Home to which she was bound, and re-read it carefully.

  It was a warm and friendly letter, giving her advice about the wardrobe most suitable in her prospective role of assistant “foster mother”—“don’t think you need to be drab and dreary living here,” Matron had written—about the trains, and finally about the best way of getting from Great Garsford to the village of Little Garsford, where the Home was situated.

  “A young market-gardener, who is a neighbour of ours, and a good friend to us, will meet you with his car if at all possible,” Matron had informed her. “If he does not turn up, I am afraid you will have rather a tedious wait for the bus; but he has promised to do his best.”

  Used to the slow pace of life in the country, the prospect of hanging about until the bus arrived did not depress Catherine unduly. All the same it was a relief to her when, on walking out of the station at Great Garsford, she caught sight of a two-seater car with a truck attached, and beside it a big, sunburned man in open-necked blue flannel shirt and worn but well-cut breeches who, on observing her hesitation, came straight up to her with a casually pleasant “Good evening,” and the remark that as it was only a few minutes’ run to Little Garsford he hoped she would excuse the “clobber” at the back, and his own disreputable appearance. He was much too dirty, he was afraid to shake hands; indeed he would suggest that she kept as far away from him as possible.

  Murmuring that it was very kind of him to meet her, Catherine watched him flip her suitcase into the truck with as little effort as if it had been a feather pillow, and then climbed into the car.

  In spite of his undeniably grubby appearance—he looked as though he had come straight from, his fields—he was so different in almost every way from her expectations that the shyness to which she was so painfully prone descended mercilessly upon her.

  Tall, broad shouldered, well-featured, with thick coppery hair which, though cut short, persisted obstinately in curling, and with very direct blue eyes, he had the air of being completely at home in the world. But this was not the end of the matter.

  He was the kind of man, Catherine knew instinctively, whom most women would find attractive, and it was this, far more than his rather cool manner, which sent her shrinking into her shell.

  Had he himself shown the least sign of diffidence Catherine would have found it fairly easy to chat to him. But the circumscribed life she had led since her mother’s loss of that private income which had so pleasantly oiled the wheels during Marion’s youth, the shifts of genteel poverty which she had so painfully learned, had made her nervous and ill-at-ease with prosperous and good looking men, on the rare occasions when she encountered them. Moreover, Marion, on her frequent flying visits home had managed to destroy, more from thoughtlessness than malice, what little poise she had managed to achieve. “You know, darling, you are rather heavy on hand! That’s why you aren’t more of a success with men. Try to let yourself go a bit.” That sort of remark, made when they were on their way to a tennis party together, had not only infuriated Catherine, but had completely paralysed her. And the worst of it was that after Catherine had made the most heroic efforts to disguise her shyness, and be sociable, Marion had more than once found cause for even more wounding criticism, observing sweetly of irritably, according to her mood: “I didn’t tell you to be arch, dear! You just want to be natural.”

  “I ought to shake off this ridiculous Marion Complex, now I’ve struck out on my own,” she told herself impatiently, and forced herself to remark that it was a lovely evening.

  To her surprise her escort, instead of agreeing in the conventional manner with this unimpeachable sentiment, turned and looked at her with slightly sardonic amusement.

  “The perfect opening for a polite conversation,” he declared. “My cue is, of course: ‘I trust you, had a pleasant journey.’ ”

  Oddly enough his satirical tone had a stimulating, rather than a flattening effect on her. She flushed a little, and said smiling: “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. There was a distinctly tiresome contretemps.” He gave her another glance and, observing again the intense blueness of his eyes, she found herself wondering whether it was vanity that had made him buy a shirt of so apt a shade, or whether the choice had been a woman’s—his wife’s, for instance.

  “Ah,” he said dryly, “now we’re launched on a real conversation. Did the old gentleman opposite insist on shutting all the windows? Or did the dowager in the corner tick you off for lighting a cigarette in a non-smoking compartment?”

  “No such thing.” She was actually chuckling now. “The truth is that for once in a way I had indulged in the luxury of a first-class ticket—”

  “Mad extravagance!” He raised his eyebrows in mock horror.

  “Wasn’t it! And useless, too, as it happened. There were so few first-class carriages that I had to travel second-class after all.”

  “Dear, dear! And that ruined your journey altogether?”

  “Not at all.” Usually sarcasm reduced her to silence; but for some inexplicable reason his particular brand merely amused her. “I was comfortable enough in a corner seat. But an officious ticket collector spotted a girl travelling first on a second-class ticket, and made me change places with her. She was very annoyed at not being allowed to pay the difference, and it was embarrassing all round.”

  He changed gear as they began to climb a long hill towards a village whose raisin-colored roofs and grey walls could be seen among the green trees.

  “I should have behaved in just the same way, if I had been the ticket-collector,” he said after a moment, speaking seriously now. “I don’t mean that I should have made a scene, of course—”

  “Oh, he made out that he had heard her telling her porter to find her a seat in the first class,” she explained. “That was why he was so crusty. Still, I would have much rather he had left things alone. The girl was so furious that when I offered to stay where I was, she simply ignored me. She stood in the corridor, sulking, and it was sheer relief when she got out at Byttleton Junction.”

  “Women’s notions of honesty can be very, very peculiar,” was his sole comment on this, and then he went on cheerfully. “But here we are. You can see the house over there on the left. Now hold on tight. This drive’s a scandal. If you aren’t careful you’ll be shot through the roof.”

  Certainly the track, which went through some rather stony pastures, was extremely rough, but her companion drove so skilfully that she did not get too bad a bumping. In any case, she had something else to think about for as they neared the house, an old stone building of the Cotswold type, she decided that it was one of the most attractive she had ever seen.

  “What a perfectly lovely place for a Home,” she exclaimed, getting out of the car.

  “There is something rather—well, satisfying about it, isn’t there!” he ret
urned, looking at her with more interest than he had yet shown. “But come along; I wonder where everyone has got to. They surely won’t have started tea already, the greedy wretches.” He pushed open the massive front door, stooping to stroke a black spaniel bitch which came ambling up, and led Catherine into a square, panelled hall, furnished with some simple but fine antiques and gay with flowers.

  “This can’t be the right place,” she thought, assailed with sudden panic, as her eyes went from a carved oak chest to a string of gleaming horse-brasses hanging on the wall. “Wherever has he brought me?” But before she could protest, her escort had flung open another door and was ushering her into a long, low-ceilinged room in which, round a shining mahogany table, some young people of about her own age were sitting.

  “Here is your visitor, Cecily,” he announced robustly. “What she’ll think of you for starting tea without her, I can’t imagine.”

  “But, Andrew, Beryl’s here—at least, she has just run up to get a handkerchief. Roland met her at Byttleton Junction and drove her out in his new sports car.” A fair-haired girl in a green jumper and tweed skirt detached herself from the circle and came hesitantly forward, a puzzled frown on her pretty face. “She says she wired, but—”

  “I’m terribly sorry.” Catherine’s cheeks were burning, as she took the girl’s extended hand. “I was expecting to be met at Great Garsford, and it never occurred to me when your husband came up—”

  “Husband! Andrew’s my big brother, not my husband—thank goodness!” The fair girl was smiling now. “No, Andy, don’t pull my hair,” she exclaimed, as he tweaked a curl. “You always spoil my introductions.” And then she added seriously: “Playdle’s our name.”

  “Mine’s Catherine Emberley, and I feel awful at making such a blunder,” poor Catherine stammered.

  “Heavens, there’s nothing to worry about. Andrew will take you along to your rightful direction in two two’s. Meanwhile let me introduce you to the rest of us.” And waving her hand in the direction of the tea table she observed cheerfully: “These friends of ours are Mr. and Mrs. Burlen and Roland Alldyke. And here,” as the door opened, “is the girl Andrew meant to meet, Beryl Osworth.”