Never to Love

by Anne Weale

  “Pour out my coffee while I fetch them,” he said with a laugh.

  She did so, wishing he was always like this, friendly and teasing instead of aloof and unapproachable. Was it her fault that he was more often the latter?

  He was back in a few minutes with two large boxes, which he tossed onto the couch beside her. Aware that he was still amused by her, Andrea opened the longer box, which was packed with voluminous swathes of pale pink tissue paper stamped in silver with the name of a famous Fifth Avenue store. Inside were two delightfully frivolous playsuits. She had no need to counterfeit pleasure, for they were as gay and modish as anything she could have chosen herself: one, made of black cotton patterned with white mice, consisting of frilly bloomers, a bra top and a hip-length smock, and the second, of bright yellow cotton, cut like a small boy’s bib and brace set with a pleated sun cape.

  “They’re charming! Nobody can touch the Americans for beach clothes. Thank you very much,” she said warmly.

  “I’m glad you approve my taste.”

  “You mean you chose them yourself?” she asked, surprised.

  “Certainly. Did you think me incapable of buying clothes for my wife?” His voice held an odd note.

  “No, not really. I just assumed you got someone to help you. Most men are terrified of women’s shops.”

  “Are they? I must be an exception, then. I find them rather amusing.”

  The second box contained a pair of pale blue suede lounging slacks with multicolored fringing from hip to ankle and matching moccasins. “Oh, these are heaven! I must try them on,” she exclaimed excitedly, jumping up.

  “Later,” Justin said firmly, catching hold of her wrist. “I want to talk to you.”

  She stood very still. “What about?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just talk. There seems to be something different about you.”

  She let out a breath. “My hair, I expect. I’ve had it done a new way.”

  She put up a hand to smooth the soft waves above her ears.

  “Yes, I noticed. It’s very becoming.”

  He let go of her wrist and produced cigarettes.

  “There is something else, though.” He paused to light up and added, “Are you glad to see me?”

  “Of course,” she said politely, and then, on impulse, “I missed you.”

  As soon as it was out she regretted the admission, expecting him to make some sardonic reply. Instead he studied her gravely for a moment and answered with unexpected gentleness, “I missed you, too.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Justin thought it would be a good idea to spend some time at Lingard. They went down to Cornwall by car, setting out after an early breakfast in order to reach Exeter by lunchtime. Once on the Great West Road, Justin put his foot down, although, had she not been watching the speedometer needle creeping steadily up to seventy miles an hour, Andrea would never have guessed they were traveling so fast, for the Bentley glided along as smoothly and steadily as a spaceship, but with only a subdued humming sound to indicate the presence of an engine beneath the gleaming hood.

  Beyond Staines the road undulated through pleasantly wooded countryside, and the breeze fanning through the open window was almost heady in its hedge-scented freshness.

  Having looked through the morning newspapers, reading aloud one or two items in which Justin expressed an interest, Andrea stretched out her legs and settled back to enjoy the swiftly passing scenery. But while her eyes were registering the beauty of the early summer landscape, her thoughts drifted back to another westbound journey when the trees had been bare of leaves and today’s blue sky hidden by December clouds. She had not dreamed then that her second visit to the Royal Duchy of Cornwall would be as mistress of one of its great houses.

  But would she be any more at home at Lingard than she had been in London? Or would uncertainty follow her across the Tamar, making the sojourn in Cornwall as uneasy as the past weeks had been? Surely there was a limit to that kind of existence?

  Questions, questions, questions ... and no sign of any of them being answered, she thought anxiously. Unless that was the purpose of their journey. Could it be that the crossing of the Tamar had a double significance? Another country, another house, another way of life? Tired of being in an apparently endless state of surmise, she decided to concentrate on inquiries that could be answered squarely.

  “Is there a large staff at Lingard?” she asked.

  “No. If we were going for any length of time I would have sent Hubbard and a couple of maids down. Mrs. Bassett housekeeps and her husband is the head gardener. She has some women from the village to help clean the place and there are three men under Bassett keeping the grounds in order. In my father’s time there were several gamekeepers and half a dozen stable hands, but they aren’t needed now even if we could get them,” Justin replied.

  “How long have the Bassetts been there?”

  “Since they were both youngsters. Ellen Bassett was a housemaid when I was in the nursery and Tom was second gardener. They’re part and parcel of the estate. I think you’ll like Ellen. She is a true Cornishwoman—very reserved until she gets to know you, and then fanatically loyal and devoted.”

  “I hope I pass the muster,” Andrea said dryly.

  “You will.”

  She glanced at him. “What makes you so sure? She might take an immediate dislike to me.”

  A slight smile tilted his mouth, but he made no answer, and she did not feel inclined to press the point.

  After a leisurely lunch they began the second lap of the journey, skirting the windswept beauty of Dartmoor, passing through Okehampton, Lanceston and Bodmin and then turning north toward the wild granite coast.

  “Can you smell the sea yet?” Justin asked.

  “Why, yes, I think I can,” she said, sitting forward. “Are we near it then?”

  “Not far away.”

  “How far is the sea from the house?”

  “Almost on the doorstep. Lingard is built on the cliffs.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” she exclaimed in surprise.

  “You may find the ground of the breakers disturbing for a night or two, but one soon grows accustomed to it. Madeline is a very light sleeper and always has a room in the west wing. At this time of year the sea is comparatively quiet, but in winter we get the full force of the Atlantic gales.”

  “Is there a beach below the cliffs, or just rocks?”

  “There is a small cove that is under water at high tide, so I wouldn’t advise you to take a nap down there if you’re alone. There it is. Beyond those trees.”

  They had just breasted a steep incline, and following Justin’s pointing finger Andrea saw that about half a mile ahead the chimneys of their destination were discernible above a sheltering half circle of trees.

  A few minutes later Justin slowed the car to a crawl and they turned into a massive stone gateway guarded by a lodge house. The broad graveled driveway was bordered by well-kept grass verges flanked by giant rhododendrons and, behind these, the trees that she had seen from a distance.

  It was even more impressive than she had anticipated—and somewhat forbidding. But as the driveway curved and the house came into view Andrea gave an involuntary exclamation of delight, for, bathed in the mellow afternoon sunlight, Lingard was the most beautiful house she had ever seen.

  She had a brief impression of weathered stone walls veiled with the russet tendrils of Virginia creeper and the misty blue cascades of blossoming wistaria ... of a broad terrace where clusters of rock flowers laced the worn flagstones ... of a spreading lawn as smooth and green as young moss. And then they were at the door and a stout woman with gray hair was hurrying down the steps to greet them.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Justin. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

  “How are you, Ellen?”

  Slightly to Andrea’s surprise, Justin got out of the car, and putting his arm around Mrs. Bassett’s ample waist, kissed her rosy country cheek. Then turning back t
o Andrea, who had slid across the front seat and got out of the nearside door, he drew her forward and said, “Andrea, this is Ellen Bassett. Ellen, my wife.”

  Andrea smiled and held out her hand. There was a momentary pause while the older woman’s shrewd blue eyes met hers in a searching glance, and then they shook hands and Ellen said in her soft Cornish voice, “Welcome to Lingard, madam. I hope you’ll find everything to your liking.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bassett. I’m sure I will.”

  “Where’s Tom?” asked Justin.

  “Here he is now, sir, and the dogs with him.”

  Round the corner of the house came a tall, stoop shouldered man in a green hessian apron, with two handsome black Labradors at his heels. As soon as they saw the group by the steps the animals bounded forward barking excitedly, their tails threshing wildly. After giving Justin a boisterous reception, they turned their attention to Andrea, sniffing her outstretched hand with a mixture of curiosity and caution.

  When Justin had greeted Tom and introduced him to Andrea, Ellen led the way into the house.

  “Will you have tea first or would you like to see your room, madam?” she asked.

  Andrea looked inquiringly at Justin.

  “I won’t starve for half an hour if you want to change. Tom will be up with the luggage in a minute or two.”

  “I do feel rather travel worn,” she admitted.

  “It’s a long journey from London even at the rate Mr. Justin drives,” Ellen said, with a measuring glance at her employer.

  Justin laughed. “I haven’t killed myself yet.”

  “You’ve come near it often enough,” she said severely, and then to Andrea, “This way, if you please.”

  They went up the broad polished wood staircase and along a paneled gallery carpeted with dark Turkish rugs to a door at the far end. Ellen opened it and then stood aside.

  The room within was large and light and filled with the mingled fragrance of beeswax and roses and the salt tang of the sea. The sound of the sea was so close that Andrea walked straight to the windows and looked down to see the white-capped waves of the Atlantic Ocean stretching away to the horizon. She had been to the sea only twice before in her life: once as a child on a day trip to Blackpool, and more recently to be photographed in beach suits at Eastbourne.

  Neither of these excursions, nor Justin’s brief reference to the fact that Lingard was built on the cliffs, had prepared her for the rugged grandeur of the view from these windows. Leaning out, she could see the great rocks below the cliffs where the shining breakers dashed themselves into a flurry of pearly foam.

  “If the room is not to your taste there are others on the south side of the house,” Ellen said quietly at her elbow.

  “Oh, no, no, this is perfect. I’ve never seen such a glorious view,” Andrea said swiftly.

  There was a tap at the door and Tom came in with her suitcases, followed by a freckle-faced boy carrying the smaller pieces, which they deposited on a rack.

  “Shall I start unpacking, madam?” Ellen said.

  “Oh, no, I can manage, thank you. I won’t be long changing. Where are we having tea?”

  “In the drawing room. It’s the first door at the foot of the stairs. Your bathroom is through here, and if there’s anything you require the bell is by the bed.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable ... oh, and thank you for these, Ellen,” she added, indicating the bowls of white roses on the dressing table and chest of drawers.

  Once again the housekeeper gave her a keen look, then she nodded her head in acknowledgment and left the room. As the door closed Andrea began to survey her surroundings in greater detail.

  The room was dominated by a four-poster bed with primrose silk hangings. The deep pile carpet and brocade curtains were of a pale eau-de-nil shade and the chairs and the cushioned chaise longue were upholstered in apricot brocade. Andrea guessed that the color scheme had been chosen to counteract the north light.

  Remembering that she had said she would not be long, she unlocked her cases and changed into a simple cotton dress and flat-heeled sandals, unpacking a few other clothes and leaving the suitcases until later.

  She found that the adjoining bathroom was attractively old-fashioned. The bath itself was boxed in polished wood and there were three gleaming brass taps, one marked Rain. There was also an enormous wicker drying chair like one she had seen in an exhibition of Victorian relics.

  As she returned to the bedroom she noticed a third door, and thinking it was a closet she opened it only to find herself on the threshold of another bedroom.

  “Hello. Ready for tea?” Justin said, straightening up from the case over which he had been bending.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know...” She drew back in confusion.

  “Come in. You might have some idea where Hubbard is likely to have stowed my sports shirts.”

  Her passion for neatness affronted by the way he was tossing the contents of his cases onto the bed, she went forward and began removing them more methodically.

  “How do you like your room?” Justin asked, getting out of her way and leaning against the wall.

  “It’s charming. As for the view...” She made a little gesture to express the impossibility of putting her reaction into words.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “Here they are.” She discovered the shirts he wanted and held them out.

  “Thanks.” He unknotted his tie, and with a murmured excuse she retreated toward the door.

  “Don’t run away. I haven’t seen you in a dress like that before. It’s very pretty.”

  She looked down at the full skirt patterned with trails of ivy on a white ground.

  “I was going to wear slacks, but I thought Ellen might not approve,” she said following the pattern of the carpet with the toe of her shoe to avoid meeting his glance. She guessed that her attempted flight from the room had amused him, and knew without looking that there would be a sardonic glint in his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t worry about Ellen. She’s been lecturing me since I was in short pants, but she won’t browbeat you—at least not until she knows you better,” he said.

  “Perhaps not, but I want her to like me.”

  “It’s safe to look up now,” he said mockingly.

  She managed to control the flush that threatened to suffuse her face, knowing that he would enjoy any sign that he had nettled her.

  “We’d better go down. The tea will be ready,” she said coolly.

  The drawing room was informally furnished with deep chintz-covered chairs. A mass of flowers screened the empty hearth and tea was laid on a low table near the crescent shaped window seat that overlooked the terrace. Andrea’s eyes widened slightly at the abundance of home-baked cakes and pastries surrounding a great bowl of strawberries and a silver jug of fresh cream.

  “You’ll have to muster a hearty appetite. The way to Ellen’s heart is through her cooking,” Justin said.

  When they had finished he took her on a tour of the garden.

  “How peaceful it is. London seems a million miles away,” she said softly as they passed under the dappled shade of a giant beech tree.

  “Wait till you’ve been here a week. You may find the peacefulness dull,” he warned.

  The dogs, which had been dawdling behind them, flopped down on the grass, their pink tongues hanging out. Andrea leaned against the trunk of the tree, listening to the muffled cooing of a pigeon from the depths of the surrounding woods.

  “Perhaps,” she said lightly. “Do you find it so?”

  “I was born here. It’s my home.”

  “But this is your first visit since Christmas,” she pointed out.

  “Yes ... well, there are reasons for that. I doubt if I could explain them at the moment.”

  She began to walk on. “You leave rather a lot of things unexplained, don’t you?” she said over her shoulder.

  “For example?”

  “Oh ... not
hing.”

  “Why do women delight in unfinished remarks?” he inquired, catching her up with in a couple of strides.

  “Sometimes it’s difficult to put a thought into words, or it isn’t particularly important anyway,” she said, wishing he had not this disconcerting flair for seizing on her more unguarded comments.

  By the time they had visited the walled kitchen garden, the stables and the rock garden on the north side of the house, it was seven o’clock.

  “I don’t usually bother to change for dinner down here, but we will if you want to,” Justin said as they went indoors.

  Andrea shook her head. “Have I time to finish my unpacking?”

  “Yes. You’ll hear the gong. The dining room is opposite the staircase. I’ll take you around the house after we’ve dined.”

  He went off to talk to Tom Bassett and Andrea returned to her bedroom. As she put away the rest of her things in the lavender-scented drawers, she wondered what Justin had meant when he said there were reasons that he could not explain why he had not been to Lingard since Christmas. Until today she had had no intimation that he was particularly attached to the house, for he had seldom spoken of it, and never in terms that suggested that it held any special place in his affections. Yet just now, as they strolled around the grounds, she had seen a new expression on his face and sensed a difference in him.

  When she had asked him if he found the peacefulness dull and he had replied that Lingard was his home there had been an unfamiliar gentleness in his tone. Why then, if he loved the place, had he stayed away so long? The obvious reason was that his business interests obliged him to live in London. What was the other reason, the one that could not be explained at the moment?

  She was still puzzling this out when the gong boomed and she went downstairs. After dinner they had coffee in the drawing room, and then Justin showed her over the rest of the house. All the bedrooms with the exception of their own were shrouded in dust sheets, although they were evidently aired and cleaned regularly and had not the musty darkness of long disuse. The old-fashioned sculleries beyond the kitchen had been converted into storerooms and the kitchen itself was equipped with the most modern appliances, including a washing machine and two refrigerators, one for dairy produce and the second for fish and meats.