by Sara Seale
“Keep your strength and your pride, Sarah,” he said softly, and she turned her head to give him a startled look.
“Sarah”—Kathy’s voice behind them was a little fretful—“do give a hand. I’m getting cold, and Joe wants to go home.”
In December the weather changed to a deceptive mildness. Aunt Em discarded her mittens and Kathy was able to sit in a sheltered corner of the walled garden with a book. Cards began to arrive, their Christmas scenes according ill with the weather. There was one from Miss Dearlove; a copy affair of elves and toadstools. Sarah looked gloomily at the turkeys, trying to decide which ones should be killed. Adrian’s dress clothes arrived from England.
Sarah took the box up to the nursery and waited with frank curiosity for him to open it. Parcels at Dun Rury had always been common property.
“What do you suppose it is?” she asked, standing on one leg, which seemed to be a favorite habit of hers upon occasion.
He pushed the box aside without opening it.
“My dress clothes, I imagine,” he said and glanced at her with a twinkle.
“Then you mean to go to the dance,” she said.
“Certainly. I said I would.”
“Kathy will be pleased. I wonder who Joe will find as a partner for you? The O’Sullivan girls will be home, though they’re not exactly girls. Sheila O’Sullivan, the youngest, is thirty-five.”
“Definitely on the shelf,” he said. “Who else can you think of?”
“Well, there’s Eileen Rafferty who lives next door to the Kavanaghs, only she doesn’t dance very well, Joe says, and there’s the Healey girl who giggles, only I think she’s got herself engaged, now. I can’t think of anyone else. We know so few people, living all this way out, but Joe will find you someone.”
“Why don’t you want to come yourself?” he asked.
“Oh, dances aren’t in my line,” she answered carelessly. “Dressing up and having to wear stockings.”
He shook his head at her.
“That’s not really the reason, you know.”
“What other would there be?”
“I’m afraid you don’t want to dance with me.”
“That’s silly—” she began swiftly, and he replied:
“Yes, isn’t it?” She was silent.
“You still dislike me?” he asked politely, and she moved away a little awkwardly.
“No, no, I don’t,” she said. “Sometimes I like you very much. I don’t always understand you. I—”
Even to herself she could not explain what she felt. He was right, of course. She did not want to dance with him, to experience that unfamiliar intimacy of his arms, but not for that reason.
“Perhaps you think I can’t dance,” he said.
“Of course I don’t. I—” She turned and saw for a moment the teasing light in his eyes, and looked perplexed. She was used to being teased by Joe but not by Adrian.
He smiled slowly, and she had the impression that he understood her reluctance better than she did herself.
“Well, I don’t doubt you’re right,” he said, but whether he was referring to his abilities in a ballroom or to her own stubborn decision, she had no means of knowing.
Nonie’s preparations were in full swing. She made dozens of mince pies, the gingerbread that Sarah was so fond of, and a gigantic cake ready and waiting to be iced. The kitchen was redolent with the scent of spice and baking, and the whole family would gather there in the mornings, irresistibly drawn by the festive atmosphere which always pervaded Nonie’s kitchen weeks before Christmas.
“I feel sorry for people who leave all their preparations to servants, don’t you, Kathy?” Sarah said, unpacking with care the decorations which graced the cake each year, the rhina Santa Claus, the reindeer, the tiny, frosted trees.
“I don’t know,” Kathy said absently. “It must be rather nice to leave everything to experts and just be the perfect hostess.”
“And you’d do it very beautifully, darling. Now me. I like to have a finger in every pie. I like to know what’s going on below stairs. I should hate to just sit in my drawing room and be a perfect lady.”
“It’s where you both belong,” grunted Nonie, getting ready to ice the cake.
“And where would you be, you old hypocrite, if we left you all the dirty work?” said Sarah severely, and Nonie smiled.
“Och, well—I don’t doubt me kitchen, is just another nursery to the both of you. Stop fiddling with them gew-jaws before you break them, Miss Sarah.”
Sarah put the decorations down and dipped an exploratory finger into the bowl of icing sugar.
“What are you going to give Adrian for Christmas?” Kathy asked.
“Nothing,” said Sarah, licking her finger with enjoyment.
“Nothing? But, Sarah—”
“Does one give presents to the lodger?” Sarah asked. “What do the Miss Kellys do, Nonie?”
“Paper hats and a glass of bad sherry,” said Nonie, beginning to ice the cake.
Sarah giggled.
“I can’t see the Flinty One in a paper hat,” she said.
“But, Sarah, Adrian’s different,” Kathy said. She was sitting by the stove, her hands idle in her lap, and her eyes were indignant.
“Well, you can give him something if you want to, but I think you’ll embarrass him. He won’t expect to make us presents.”
“Then you’ll find yourself mistaken,” said Nonie briskly. “There’s a gentleman who is a gentleman, English or no. Christmas is a time for giving, and he’d not be shamed in a strange country, and he empty-handed on Christmas morning.”
“Do you think so?” said Sarah doubtfully.
“Sure, an’ I know it. Isn’t he like one of the family, now, though you do take his money every week, God pity him.”
Sarah watched the ribbon of icing ooze smoothly through the forcer with the fascination the skilful proceeding had always held for her. A white twirl here, a pink loop there, in Nonie’s hands such an effortless art, in her own, so clumsy.
“Don’t you think I should be taking his money?” she asked with surprise. “You know we had to do something to keep Dun Rury going. You didn’t mind Miss Dearlove, did you?”
“Och, that wan! She’s a born lodger if ever I. saw tone, but Mr. Flint, now he’s the sort should be coming to Dun Rury as a guest. He’s the sort that used to come in the old days.”
“Well, we can’t afford that sort of guest any more,” Sarah said shortly, and the old woman gave her a quick look.
“You’ll not be free of yourself till you’re free of your fancies,” she said.
“What do you mean, Nonie?” Sarah looked startled.
“You’ll be finding out one of these days, if the divil doesn’t blind you to the truth. Miss Kathy, will you reach me the jar of silver balls from the dresser?”
“Well, I shall certainly give him something,” Kathy said, handing over the jar with a dreamy gesture. “The trouble is, what? I shall need some extra money, Sarah? Can I take it from Aunt Em’s housekeeping?”
“Yes,” said Sarah absently, “take what you want.”
The question of a present for Adrian vexed heir unduly. What, she argued, could you find for a man who already had everything? Records, suggested Kathy; no, not records, she knew too little about music. Handkerchiefs? Fine Irish linen were still a rarity in England; but on second thoughts Kathy decided she would give him handkerchiefs herself. A tie? No, men distrusted feminine choice in ties. In the end she found in a second-hand book shop in Knockferry an old collection of Irish songs and ballads, long since out of print, and since it included The Spanish Lady, which he liked, she bought it.
“That will have to do,” she announced firmly. “And if I find he hasn’t got anything for me, I can always pretend I bought it for myself.”
Two days before Christmas Sarah went out to hunt for holly. Kathy always got out of his expedition for she disliked getting scratched, and this year Danny had a cold and was being kept
in by Aunt Em. At the last minute Adrian surprised Sarah by saying he would like to help, and they set out together in the car.
“There’s only one place round here where it grows—away towards Kibeen in a little wood,” Sarah told him. “I always like collecting holly, don’t you? It’s so much more Christmassy than buying it.” She glanced at his impassive face. “Haven’t you ever done that, either?”
No, he had never done that. The Flints had always bought their holly and the servants, had put it up.
“You must have had a queer childhood,” she said pityingly. “Didn’t you ever decorate your own nursery—with paper chains and things?”
He might have done that, he thought, but paper chains, no; his nurse had considered such things to be dust-catchers and rather silly when you were the “only inhabitant of the nursery.
“But didn’t you have a tree, and parties? You must have known other children?”
Yes, there had been a tree in the servants’ hall but that was for the tenants’ children, and he supposed there were parties, but the children of his parents’ generation were older than he was, and the parties in his own home were mostly grown-up affairs.
She put out a tentative hand and touched him.
“You’ve missed so much,” she said softly. I hope you will enjoy your first proper Christmas.”
He thought of other Christmases: New York and its hectic gaiety; Paris, fighting off a chill caught in a draughty concert hall; Berlin, London, Manchester; Christmas Day spent in hotels between recitals; wet days, snowy days, blank days, all exactly the same, no better and no worse than the rare Christmases spent in his mother’s home. “Yes, Sarah,” he said, and his mouth was tender, “I’m going to enjoy it very much.”
The wood held plenty of holly. It was too isolated to be much plundered, and Adrian and Sarah filled the back of the car with greenery.
“The berries are good this year,” Sarah said. “Last year there were hardly any. You must decorate the nursery yourself, Adrian, and you must have paper chains, too.”
“Will you help me?” he asked meekly. “With the paper chains, I mean. They are a closed book to me.”
“Oh, it’s quite easy. They unfold like concertinas and you just tack them up, and—” She saw the twinkle in his eye and made a face at him.
“You’re always leading me into traps,” she said. “I never know when you’re serious.”
“Don’t you, Sarah?” He had deposited his last load of holly in the car, and he caught her unexpectedly by the shoulders. “I’m serious now. You’re coming to that dance.”
She tried to wriggle away but his hands were firm on her arms.
“I am not, then. It was all settled long ago,” she said. His smile was amused.
“Yes, it was. Do you know that Kathy is making you a frock specially for the occasion? It was supposed to be a secret, but you’re such a stubborn young creature, and I should hate her to be disappointed.”
She ceased to struggle in her surprise.
“Kathy’s making me a frock?” she said. “But she knew I wasn’t going.”
“She thought the reason was because you had nothing to wear.”
“Do you think that was the reason?”
“No, I know the reason, but I doubt if you do. Look at these hands, Sarah. Are they so objectionable when they hold you? Come closer. Now, are you going to find it so very distasteful to be in my arms in such a conventional manner?”
She was suddenly still beneath his hands, but she did not look at him.
“That wasn’t the reason, either,” she said.
“No, I know it wasn’t. Could it be possible that you’re a little afraid of me?” His voice was suddenly mocking and she flung up her head.
“I’m afraid of no man,” she said, and he smiled.
“No, you’re afraid of yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Now, you’ll come, and no more nonsense?”
She felt her resistance ebbing from her. It was such a small thing to assume such importance for both of them.
“All right, I’ll come,” she said meekly, and added: “I wouldn’t want to disappoint Kathy.”
He gave her a little shake and let her go.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” he said dryly. “And now, my dear child, will you please allow me to drive home? I don’t think I can stand many more of your shocking gear changes.”
CHAPTER NINE
Christmas morning dawned fine and frosty. Adrian watched Sarah returning from the stables after breakfast, running across the lawns still sparkling with frost, whistling as she ran, and pausing beneath his window to shout: ‘Merry Christmas!”
Joe and his father drove over later in the morning, and there was a great deal of laughter and exchanging of presents round the tree which stood this year in the library, as the piano had been moved from the snug. Joe had brought a little pendant of aquamarine and pearls for Kathy, and for a moment she stood in the dim light, softly pliant, while she reached up to kiss him.
“Thank you, Joe, it’s lovely,” she said, then turned quickly to include Adrian in the circle round the tree.
Adrian himself had neatly got over his personal obligations by presenting the house with a good portable wireless set, and if Kathy was disappointed that she did not receive a more intimate souvenir, Sarah was relieved. It was very wrong of Adrian, she thought, to spend all that money, but it made it easier for her to give him her little book of songs and ballads and feel there was nothing personal in the gift.
It was a pleasantly lazy day. Lunch was cold, and afterwards they paired off, Brian Kavanagh to doze by the snug fire, with Aunt Em to keep him company, Sarah and Danny to the farm, Joe and Kathy for a brief walk, and Adrian to the nursery.
“Enjoying your Christmas?” Joe asked, laying a careless arm across Kathy’s shoulders as they walked.
“Yes,” she said happily. “It’s always the same, isn’t it? Each year we do the same things. You and I walk, Uncle B. and Aunt Em sleep, and Sarah looks at the animals. Only this year there is Adrian. I wonder if he would have liked to come with us.”
“He’s a tactful soul. He fits in with the customs of the house,” Joe said.
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, ;but what? You have him every day. Can’t you spare an hour or so for me?”
“Oh, Joe!” she pulled away from him, “I’ve known you all my life. Adrian’s a guest.”
“A very paying one,” Joe said, and grinned.
“Because he pays,” Kathy replied quietly, “is no reason why we should neglect him.”
“I’m sure, darling, that can never be laid to your door,” he said briskly. “Anyway, let’s forget him. Do you like your present?”
“Oh, Joe, it’s lovely,” she said quickly. “You shouldn’t have spent so much. Look! Slieve Rury had a ring of cloud. That means rain.”
“It won’t rain,” he said absently. “It’s getting colder. Kathy, it’s Christmas.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you remember what you promised me in September? At Christmas, you said, you’d give me your answer.”
She was very quiet suddenly, walking at his side, the dark curls hiding her face from him.
“It’s Christmas,” he said again.
She looked at him then, brushing the hair from her cheek, and her eyes were large and troubled.
“Don’t, Joe—not today. I’m not ready,” she said.
He took her hand, swinging it gently as they walked.
“Is it always going to be like this?” he asked a little sadly. “Can I never pin you down, darling? I’ve let you alone since that day by the lough. I’ve never bothered you. You made me believe that by Christmas you would give me an answer. Christmas you said was a time for promises, and for New Year resolutions.”
“New Year,” she said eagerly. “Give me till then, Joe. If promises are to be made, New Year’s Eve is the night.”
“And on
New Year’s Eve it will be Easter, and at Easter it will be Midsummer’s Eve. I know you, Kathy.”
“No, no,” she said, catching her breath. “If you can’t wait, Joe dear, then I’ll tell you on New Year’s Eve.”
He stopped walking, and turned her slowly round to face him, and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“I’m a fool,” he said.
Back in the nursery, Adrian stood for a moment surveying the paper chains he and Sarah had put up the day before, remembering the seriousness with which she had decided where they were to go, the way they had laughed when she had fallen off a chair, and the expression on her thin little face when she had appraised her handiwork and said: “There! It’s exactly as it used to be when Kathy and I were children. Father used to stand under that pink paper bell and give us his own special presents. Every year he would say the same thing. ‘Och!’ he would say, ‘Santa Claus must have dropped these out of his sack.’ Then he would kiss us and pull Kathy’s curls and say: ‘Every year you grow prettier and more like your mother, my darling.’ ” Then she had run out of the room before he could see the tears on her lashes.
The burnt-out candle, which Kathy had placed in the window the night before, still stood there, mute testimony to the coming of the Christ-child. He smiled and sat down by the glowing turf and opened Sarah’s book of songs and ballads.
Kathy and Sarah were lighting the last candles on the tree when he came down before dinner, and he stood for a moment watching them unobserved as they reached up to the higher branches, their faces solemn and intent in the flickering light, their thin frocks fluttering moth-like in the draught, two young girls, a little touching in their innocence, with their pale dresses and their white Irish skins.
“There,” said Sarah, “that’s the last one. Doesn’t it look lovely?”
“Very lovely,” said Adrian from the doorway and they turned and saw him.
“Do you like it? I dressed it entirely myself,” Kathy said with childish pride.
