Summer's Awakening
Page 4
Her throat tight, her vision blurred, she stopped by the huge gilded mirror which reflected the break in the corridor where a short landing led to stairs going up to the schoolroom floor and down to a lobby between the gun room and the billiard room.
For a long time she had avoided catching sight of herself in full-length mirrors or shop windows. The only mirror she looked in was the one above her bathroom basin; a small rectangle of glass which reflected her head and neck when she brushed her teeth and washed her face, night and morning.
Now, as she forced herself to look at what other people saw—her outward and visible persona; not the real Summer Roberts, her inner self—a low groan of shame and despair burst from her quivering lips.
Because all he had said was true. She looked a fat slob... a mess.
How many times had she told herself: Tomorrow I'll start a serious diet. Tomorrow I'll cut down on sugar... stop eating chocolate... peanuts. Next week I really will start to get into shape. Starting next month, without fail, I'll begin a whole new regime; no snacks, no second helpings, no eating biscuits in bed.
Promises... secret pledges... New Year resolutions... good intentions. None of them ever fulfilled because, every time, she had lacked the willpower to starve herself. If it had been for just a week or two, she might have managed it. But not for the months and months it would take to dissolve the fat which had been slowly accumulating all through her teens.
And now, all at once, it was too late.
Today, when she wanted so badly to be slender and graceful, and turned out with casual elegance, she looked even worse than usual.
As her chest heaved with suppressed sobs and she felt her control giving way, her ears caught the sound of hurried footsteps crossing the marble floor of the Great Hall.
He was coming back! Perhaps on reaching the car Dr Dyer had noticed his gloves were missing. Guessing that, with his long legs and muscular physique, James Gardiner would mount the staircase much faster than he walked down it, for an instant she was overcome with panic. She wanted to run, to hide, to find a dark, secret place to curl up and cry as she had, long ago, under the bedclothes, when she first came to England and knew that never again was she going to be kissed goodnight.
But she had been only ten then. Now she was twenty-two. Too old to cry. Too old to show her feelings.
By the time James Gardiner came round the corner from the Gallery, she was moving slowly to meet him, her emotions under control.
'Dr Dyer has lost his gloves—ah, you've got them. Good.'
As he took them from her, he scarcely glanced at her face.
She watched him striding away, his broad upper back tapering to a lean waist and hips, his well-brushed glossy dark hair just touching the back of his shirt collar.
In that moment her usually pliant and amiable nature was swept by violent emotions quite foreign to her normal temperament. She felt anger, and fierce hostility and, above all, a burning desire to retaliate.
How, she had no idea. The desire, though strong, was vague, expressing itself in the thought: I'll show you. You wait, Mr Gardiner. I'll show you... damn you!
It was dark when she cycled back to the cottage near the village school of which, at one time, Miss Ewing had been in charge.
Summer put her bike in the shed at the end of the garden. The back yard she had called it at first, before Aunt Margaret had corrected her.
The door at the rear of the cottage led directly into the kitchen-cum-breakfast-room. There was no dining room and only a very small sitting room. ('Not living room, Summer. In England we say sitting room or, in a larger house, drawing room.') But as they never entertained, the lack of space hadn't mattered.
In all the years she had lived there, until Miss Ewing's first stroke, they had never had anyone to supper, or even to coffee and biscuits. To a child whose parents had delighted in impromptu parties for the friends made everywhere they went, Miss Ewing's belief in keeping herself to herself had been incomprehensible.
Since her aunt's death, Summer had made some improvements to the warmth and comfort of the cottage. The practical side of her nature, repressed by her aunt's insistence that she concentrate on her studies, had finally found expression in hanging more suitable wallpaper—small spriggy designs by Laura Ashley—over the ugly patterns chosen by Miss Ewing.
She hadn't enough money to make all the changes she would have liked, but gradually it was becoming a more welcoming place to come back to and spend her solitary evenings.
The absence of a television was no hardship to her, but lately she had been thinking it would be nice to have a cat. Until Emily's grandfather had died, she had seen herself staying at the cottage for at least the next three or four years. Marriage, or living with someone, had not been in her mind for a long time—not since that last blind date organised by well-meaning girl-friends.
Sometimes at night, before sleeping, she would let her imagination conjure romantic fantasies in which, slim and beautiful, she played the part of the mysterious Barbara dei Trechi whose love affair with the Chevalier Bayard resulted in the birth of his only known child, a daughter; or of Mary Wilemson, the Dutch girl whom Lion Gardiner had married while he was serving in the army of the Prince of Orange and whom, a year later, he took to Massachusetts with him.
Some of her father's forbears had come from Holland, and perhaps that was why, of the two passionate day-dreams she had so often replayed in her mind at night, she had always identified best with Mary, the pioneer bride unafraid of the dangers and hardships as long as she had Lion to protect her.
Now James Gardiner's coming had made it impossible for her ever again to think of Lion Gardiner without seeing, in her mind's eye, the compelling dark face of the man who had adopted his surname in preference to his own patronymic. And with the thought of him would come the wounding echo of his indictment of her as a gross, ungainly frump; someone who would never see a man's eyes light with desire when he looked at her, or surrender to real-life embraces as ardent as those she had invoked in her day-dreams.
That night, as she lay in bed after putting her light out, watching the full moon appear and disappear as a rising wind drove ragged clouds across the winter sky, her mind was full of a vengeful determination to make James Gardiner eat his words.
She had had nothing to eat since coming home, and only two cups of black coffee instead of her usual glass of milk with supper, and a mug of hot chocolate at bedtime. Knowing that she didn't need any more food that day after eating a substantial lunch at the Castle, she had been determined to begin her new regime immediately.
But as sleep eluded her, as she tossed and turned in the narrow single bed with the cheap mattress which her aunt had bought twelve years ago and which now needed replacing, she began to feel hungry.
Tantalising thoughts of the pork pie and cheese in the refrigerator, the cakes and biscuits stored in tins in the pantry, tempted her to go downstairs and assuage her appetite with a late-night binge, as she had so often in the past.
Secret orgies of compulsive eating had been a feature of her life ever since the abrupt termination of her time at university. With her aunt partially paralysed and no longer in charge of the domestic arrangements, she had been able to build up a store of chocolate bars, bags of what as a child she had called potato chips but now knew by the English term crisps, jars of peanut butter and jelly (called jam in England), tins of salted cocktail nuts and many other goodies.
While her parents were alive, she could remember being given fruit and celery to munch rather than crackers. The English called them biscuits, and produced probably the finest variety of them of any country in the world; ranging from Bath Olivers, invented by a Dr Oliver who had lived in the city of Bath in the eighteenth century, to currant-filled garibaldis, buttery Scottish shortbread and chocolate-coated digestives.
Once she had opened a packet of biscuits, she could never restrict herself to eating only one or two. Often she would demolish the entire packet.
As well as the pork pie, with its thick pastry crust, the refrigerator contained a tub of liver pate which she liked to spread on hard water biscuits. Thinking about it made her salivate. Yet at the same time she was remembering James Gardiner's scathing remark about her gluttony.
Her body craving the pleasure of crunching the brittle biscuits and feeling the soft, creamy texture of the pate on her tongue, she fought to control the mounting urge to have one last, final, never-to-be-repeated debauch.
The cottage did not have a telephone. At half past eight the next morning, Summer walked to the public telephone a short distance away and dialled the Castle on the line which would be answered by Conway.
'This is Miss Roberts. Would you ask Lord Cranmere if he wants Lady Emily to have a free day today, please,' she asked.
'His Lordship has already left for London, Miss Roberts. He isn't expecting to return till tomorrow evening.'
'Oh, I see. In that case I'll come as usual.'
As she returned to the cottage she felt pleased with herself for having resisted temptation the night before. But she knew she might not have the will-power to resist again tonight. Somehow, she had to get rid of all the fattening snacks.
It seemed a sin to dump them in the bin to await the weekly rubbish collection. Nor was it practicable to stand at her front gate, handing them out to the children on their way to school. They would think she had gone mad. She could imagine the grins they would exchange with each other, the muffled sniggers.
Suddenly she thought of the old people's houses at the far end of the village; a complex of low-rent bungalows built round a communal social centre and the house of the Warden and his wife whom the residents could contact if they were taken ill or needed any kind of help.
Half an hour later, with everything eatable, except eggs and vegetables, packed in a large cardboard box balanced on and tied to her bicycle basket, she set out for the old people's community centre.
The comfortable room where whist drives and other activities were held was never locked during the day although there was seldom anyone there before mid-morning. Summer knew that a number of local farmers wives left surplus produce there and other people took old magazines, unwanted paperbacks and anything else which might be useful. If any of the old folk happened to see her arriving with a large box and leaving without it, they wouldn't pay much attention and the contents would be distributed by the Warden to the most suitable recipients.
'James has gone to London,' said Emily, when Summer arrived at the Castle. 'I wish we could have gone with him,' she added wistfully.
She had often begged her mother to take her, but had always been refused on the grounds that the traffic fumes would activate her asthma and that, in any case, Lady Edgedale would be too busy to take her sightseeing. To the suggestion that Summer could do that, her mother had again demurred.
The family's town house had been demolished by a bomb during the air raids of the Second World War. After the war a block of flats had been built on the site, one of which they used as a pied-à-terre. But it wasn't large enough to accommodate Lady Edgedale, her Spanish maid, her daughter and her daughter's tutor. Or so she said. Summer suspected that she hadn't wished to be encumbered with them. Dr Dyer had been right in describing her interest in her child as perfunctory. She had gone through the motions of being a fond mother while at Cranmere, but in London she wanted to concentrate on shopping and social engagements.
'Did your uncle spend the evening with you?' Summer asked.
'Part of it. Mr Darblay, the lawyer, stayed the night. I had dinner with them, but afterwards they had more business things to discuss. Instead of Mr Darblay going back on the train this morning, he's gone with James in the car he hired at the airport. James has to see Granpa's stockbroker and his bankers. He's afraid there are going to be tax problems which he'll try to explain when he gets back. It's something to do with Granpa not expecting Daddy to die before he did.'
From time to time Summer had read newspaper articles about the crippling death duties and the tax on repairs which put the future of many of Britain's historic houses in jeopardy. She wished now she had studied the articles with closer attention.
In their unfinished conversation yesterday morning James Gardiner had not made it clear if, as well as disclaiming the title, he meant to cede his claim on the estate. He had said his disclaimer wouldn't be publicised till he had left the country, which suggested that he didn't mean to stay in England long.
On the other hand, he had told her his second reason for coming to England was to take responsibility for his niece till she could fend for herself. The two statements seemed contradictory. How could he protect Emily's interests from the other side of the Atlantic?
'I wonder if, unbeknown to your grandfather, your father and your uncle kept in touch with each other?' she speculated aloud.
'I shouldn't think so,' said Emily. 'In fact, no... I'm sure they didn't. The first time I heard him mentioned was after Mummy had been to London and met a man who had been at Eton with James and who asked her about him. That was why she asked Daddy if he thought James was still alive and would ever come back. I remember he said, "God knows", and then, "Certainly not while Father's alive". I think it was horrid of Granpa to thrash James for every least thing. I don't wonder he ran away.'
'He does seem to have been rather unruly as a boy,' Summer pointed out. 'He admits he went poaching with an old man called Barty Hicks, and that often they took game on this land.'
Having said this, she wished she hadn't. She might detest the man herself, and still harbour doubts about the integrity of his motives towards his niece; but he was Emily's only relation and therefore it was better for her to think highly of him, at least till he had disproved his right to her confidence.
For the child's sake, Summer was sincere in hoping that he would never hurt her as savagely as he had lacerated her own amour propre the day before.
'Oh, I don't count poaching as wicked,' was Emily's dismissive answer. 'I suppose it's stealing in a way—but it's not like taking things from people's houses, or from shops.'
By one o'clock, having had her mid-morning coffee without milk, sugar or biscuits, Summer was famished.
For lunch that day they had chicken consomme followed by Dover sole with carrots, braised celery and saute potatoes, and for pudding baked apples with cream.
It took all her resolution not to take a bread roll when John, the young footman, offered them to her. She also refused the potatoes and ate her apple without cream. The cook, Mrs Briars, had baked four apples for them, but Summer didn't have a second one, nor did she have cheese and biscuits.
To her relief neither Emily nor John seemed to notice any change in her habits. She rose from the table still feeling hungry but virtuous.
At four o clock her will-power was severely tested when there were hot crumpets, dripping with butter, for tea. Every afternoon, in winter, there would be either buttered toast or freshly baked scones, brought up to the schoolroom in a covered silver dish with a hot water compartment.
But crumpets with home-made raspberry jam were one of her particular weaknesses. She almost groaned aloud when Emily lifted the lid from the covered dish and the fragrance of toasted crumpet and melted butter wafted to her nostrils.
For some time before tea arrived she had been debating whether to admit to Emily that she was dieting, or to give some other reason for her apparent lack of appetite.
During her last year at school and in her brief time at Oxford, when girls who were sylphs compared with her were always worrying about their figures, she had tried several different reducing diets. Each time something had happened to make it impossible to stick to them. During the time she had known Emily she had made no further attempts to lose weight and had probably put on some pounds.
She said, 'I'
m not going to have a crumpet today. It will spoil my appetite for supper. I'm having a piece of fillet steak tonight.'
It turned out to be a well-chosen white lie.
Emily said, 'Oh, are you? We had it last night. I shouldn't have known what it was but Mr Darblay asked James if American beef was as good as it was reputed to be, and he said, "On the whole—yes. But no better than this excellent fillet." And he asked Conway to give Mrs Briars his compliments.'
While Summer averted her eyes, Emily bit off a mouthful of crumpet and munched enjoyably for some moments before going on, 'Then they had a long talk about meat. James explained to Mr Darblay that porterhouse steaks took their name from the places where travellers used to stop for meals on long coach journeys, and that Texas Longhorns were originally bred from cattle from Andalusia which were used to the heat and lack of water in southern Spain. That was why they were able to stand being herded as far as a thousand miles to the railroad centres. I asked James if he had worked as a cowboy when he first went to America. He laughed and said no, that was one of the few things he hadn't done. But I can imagine him riding the range in jeans and a Stetson, can't you?'
Summer murmured agreement and drank some tea which, without sugar, tasted horrible.
In spite of James Gardiner's urbane appearance the day before, it wasn't impossible to visualise him in the hard-wearing clothes of a cowboy, his long legs comfortably extended in American working stirrups rather than short English hunting stirrups.
But the image which came to her mind, remembering the tanned, raw-boned face, was not of him as a cowboy but as the other major protagonist of the American legend; the wild, war-painted Indian warrior defending a way of life which was doomed to extinction.
Obviously there could be no American Indian blood in James Gardiner's veins; and yet, with his high, slanting cheekbones and aquiline nose, the cast of his features bore more than a passing resemblance to the proud, hawklike faces of some of the so-called redskins.