She would have to wear her white frock every night for dinner, and a blue silk that had already figured at all the Christmas parties for the dance.
“What does it matter?” said Rosalie with complete sincerity. “I shall enjoy myself just the same.”
Cecilia had invited several people to stay. She wanted to make it amusing for Lucy.
Lucy took his duties as host as he did most duties—very lightly. His major exertion was to drive a high, light two-wheeled Canadian buggy, and in it he went to fetch Rosalie from St. Brinvels.
“Couldn’t I come too?” asked Kate.
“Better not, my love. No room for the bandboxes. Besides, I’d hate you to sit on the back seat. It’s like sitting on a knife-board.”
“Lucy, you can’t go alone. Mrs. Meredith wouldn’t like it,” said his mother.
“Certainly not,” said Lucy coolly. “I shall take Tim or Tom—whichever his name is—the new stable-boy.”
“His name is Tim.”
“I’m glad it’s not Tom, or we should get mixed up between him and Fanny’s husband. When is Fanny coming, by the by?”
“The day after to-morrow,” Kate answered, as her mother made no reply.
The fraternal affection of her sons, displayed openly in a most un - English fashion, for her daughters, Cecilia appeared always to receive with a rather unsympathetic astonishment. Nor was her indifference to Fanny and Fanny’s children in any way assumed.
She said: “Now, Kate, you can make yourself useful until your friend arrives. Go and see that the nurseries look nice, and then do the drawing-room flowers.”
She consulted a list.
“The Red room for Cousin Joe and Cousin Edith, the two South rooms for Fanny and her husband, and I’ve put Rosalie into the little Chinese room.”
“But, Mama,” said Kate, “I think she’d rather be near me.”
She stopped, as her mother instantly assumed an expression of exaggerated surprise.
“Tut-tut-tut, who do you think you are, my dear child? The Empress of China? I’ve given my orders, and there’s nothing more to be said. Run along now. Prompt obedience.”
Cecilia spoke quite good-humouredly and did not even glance up to see how Kate had received her reply, for it seldom occurred to her that her will could be questioned.
When Kate had left the drawing-room she spoke, in a gentler and less business-like voice, to her son.
“What do you think of that Meredith girl, Lucy? Kate is quite silly about her, but girls of her age get like that and then outgrow it.”
“Why shouldn’t Kate be silly about her?” mildly returned Lucy. “There’s no one and nothing else for her to be silly about, poor child, and I like to see her all giggling and schoolgirlish.”
“Nonsense.”
“I do indeed, Mama. When little Kate grows sensible I shall lose a lot of enjoyment and begin to feel like an old man.”
“My dear boy, I wish you’d marry a nice girl.”
“I don’t think a nice girl would care to marry me, Mama, or even to come and live here en famille.”
“Nonsense. This house is large enough for at least two families. Besides, I could get you a house somewhere else, and you could find something to do.”
“I could do some carpentry, of course.”
“Lucy, I’m speaking seriously.”
“So am I, Mama. I can’t think of anything I can do except perhaps join Fred and drink rum-swizzles on the plantations with him.”
“I sometimes think I’ll sell the plantations. If I do, the capital will be divided between you and Fred.”
“And what about the girls?”
“Fanny has her marriage settlement, and will get nothing more—Tom Ballantyne’s place is his own, and they can easily afford to live there, it’s not much more than a converted farmhouse—and I can see to Kate.”
“Kate, presumably, will inherit this place, as she’s a Charlecombe.”
Cecilia frowned. She disliked intensely the idea that The Grove, which had been her home for so many years and which she felt she had managed so admirably, should not eventually belong to Fred.
“This place, and everything else, was left entirely to me by poor Papa,” she said coldly. “I think you can rely on my judgment, my dear boy, as to what his wishes would have been and what is right and fair by all of you. It isn’t a matter I can discuss with anybody, naturally.”
It was, as her son well knew, at all events not a matter that she intended to discuss with anybody. Indeed she at once changed the conversation decisively.
“Isn’t the cart round? I thought you said you were starting at half-past two.”
“I’m not nearly ready,” said Lucy without stirring.
Cecilia had lived long enough in the West Indies to accept tardiness without protest.
The two-wheeled cart remained at the hall door, with the small stable-boy Tim standing rigidly at the horse’s head, and Lucy remained extended in an armchair in the shaded cool of the library, smoking a Cuban cigar, until three o’clock. Then Kate came into the room.
“Haven’t you gone yet?”
“Of course I have, dear. This is what the niggers call my duppy.”
Kate giggled and came and sat on the arm of his chair.
“The nurseries look so nice. I’ve put out my old doll’s house, and the rocking-horse is coming down from the attics. Won’t it be fun having the babies?”
“Yes, my little dear, it will. Does Fanny make a good mother, or does she spoil them?”
Kate’s eyes widened.
“Oh, I think she makes a very good mother. I’ve never thought about it, really. It was fun, staying at Rock Place. Tom gardened nearly all the time and Fanny said she liked having me to help her with the children and the housekeeping.”
“I’m sure she did. You’ve got more energy in your little finger than Fred and Fanny and I all put together.”
“Mama thinks I’m very idle and waste a lot of time. At least she’s always saying so.”
“Pay no attention,” advised Lucy, elongating himself and then standing up. “If you grow up into the kind of woman who’s never idle for a moment, I shan’t want you to come and keep house for me when I set up my own establishment.”
“I’m going to do that,” said Kate confidently. “A little cottage like the toll-house on the Monmouth Road. When do you think you’ll go?”
“When you’ve learnt how to waste time properly.”
(3)
Decorously chaperoned by young Tim perched upon the back seat, Lucy Lempriére drove Rosalie along the steep and winding road down from St. Brinvels.
“I hope you feel I’m keeping my promise, Miss Meredith?”
“Let me see—I think you promised to be careful?” said Rosalie, deliberately demure.
“Hardly that. I promised you should have no cause for alarm.”
“Thank you, I’m not in the least alarmed.”
“And I have no intention of being in the least careful—except so far as driving is concerned.”
“You’re not careful by nature, are you?”
“Not very, as you may perceive by my being here this afternoon. Are you?”
“Do you think I am—or not?” Rosalie asked, looking up at him.
Lucy, however, did not take his eyes off the road as he answered.
“I should say, on the whole—not.”
A silence.
“Well, am I right or wrong?”
“I can be careful, when I want to be,” said Rosalie softly. “Very.”
“It would, as a matter of fact, interest me more to know whether, when you want to be, you can be —not careful.”
“Doesn’t it follow?” she asked, in the most innocent of voices.
Lucy laughed suddenly. “What an actress you’d have made! Tell me, what on earth are you doing in St. Brinvels?”
“All the usual things that girls are supposed to do until they get married.”
“Are you going to ge
t married?”
“Some day.”
“How indefinite! Don’t tell me you’re going to marry a man who’s content with ‘some day,’ because I shouldn’t believe you. Besides, you’re not engaged.”
“How do you know I’m not?”
“One, you’re wearing no engagement ring—yes, I did look to see, the day we sat in your summer-house;—two, if you were you’d have told Kate and Kate would have told me.”
“Kate is a darling.”
“I know, but I’m not interested in talking about Kate at the minute. I want to know what was the very first thing that crossed your mind when you first saw me?”
“That you were the tallest man I’d ever seen and that Lucy was a ridiculous name. What did you think when you saw me?”
“That carefulness was an overrated virtue.”
“Anything else?”
“Lots of other things.”
“Should I like them?”
“All women like hearing things about themselves, don’t they?”
“It does rather depend,” suggested Rosalie, “who says the things, and how. I can’t bear being told things about myself by my Aunt Maude.”
“My point of view and your Aunt Maude’s point of view probably differ very widely. I wish you’d say my name again.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did. You said Lucy was a ridiculous name—as indeed it is.”
“Why do you want me to say it again then?”
“The sound of it seemed to have improved—Rosalie.”
She made no rejoinder.
The light cart swayed round a sharp corner at the foot of the hill and Rosalie swayed with it, against the driver.
They had reached one of the numerous bridges running across the Wye river and Lucy pulled up.
“Tim!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Doesn’t your mother live in the cottage at the other end of this bridge?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tim in a startled voice.
“Hop down and go and pay her a surprise visit. You can walk home by the woods.”
“If you please, sir, Mr. Reynolds—”
“Never mind Mr. Reynolds. I’ll explain to Mr. Reynolds when I drive round to the stables. Clear off.”
“Very good, sir.”
Tim jumped down and hurried over the bridge.
“This is your own fault, you know,” Lucy said, turning round in the driving-seat and looking straight at Rosalie.
She returned his look with equal directness, but whereas Lucy’s breath was coming rather faster than usual, hers was quite unhurried and she was smiling, with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth.
Lucy turned the horse’s head to where a deeply-rutted cart track ran off the side of the quiet country road into a shadowed lane where the branches met overhead.
(4)
Joe Newton and his wife had been asked by Cecilia to come and stay for a week, partly because there was to be cricket, and partly because Edith Newton was her nearest approach to an intimate friend. They had really very little in common, but proximity and cousinhood had forged links, and Mrs. Joe was godmother to Kate.
On the same afternoon as that on which the Newtons drove over to The Grove Fanny Ballantyne and her husband arrived by train with the three-year-old Cecil, the baby girl Awdry, a nurse, nurserymaid, perambulator and go-cart, and a mountain of luggage.
Fanny, at twenty-eight, was almost as indolent, as lethargic and as inarticulate as she had been in infancy. She was, however, no longer hostile to her surroundings.
She was, on the contrary, very happy. She had never expected to marry anybody at all, and in her red-headed, red-bearded, bucolic-looking husband she beheld a Perseus.
Tom Ballantyne had been quite genuinely attracted by Fanny. He admired large women, and he approved of her gift for silence.
When Fanny, incredulously delighted by his proposal, had pointed out that she was, she knew herself to be, a stupid woman, Tom had replied thoughtfully:
“I prefer a woman to be a bit stoopid myself.”
It was perfectly true.
Fanny had borne her children proudly and easily. She told Kate as a great secret, on the night of her arrival, that she was expecting a third baby in about six months’ time.
“How lovely,” said Kate light-heartedly.
She knew how babies were born, because Fanny had told her. She sometimes wondered how the babies first began, but was not curious and knew instinctively that on that point even Fanny would not be willing to enlighten her.
Kate was once more in a state of rapturous excitement and happiness.
Lucy was at home, and there were what she still thought of in nursery phraseology as “treats,” every day, and Rosalie was actually staying in the house and was gayer, more affectionate and more enchanting than ever. Rosalie was delighted with Fanny’s children, and spent a good deal of time with Kate, wheeling the perambulator about the grounds or playing with the babies on the lawn.
In the evenings there were very often cricket practices, with outside players as well as themselves, and Rosalie and Kate both took part, although neither could throw a ball as hard or as straight as could Mrs. Joe Newton.
On the afternoon that Cecilia had decided should be devoted to attending a neighbouring garden fête, the sun was blazing so fiercely and the heat was so great that even Mrs. Joe protested.
“Couldn’t we have tea here, and go afterwards? These affairs always go on till about seven o’clock.”
“You don’t want us all to get sunstroke, Mama, do you?” enquired Lucy, his straw hat tilted over his eyes, as he lounged outside the window.
Cecilia, for once, seemed irresolute.
“It’s to be in the grounds at Tintern Abbey, and there’s sure to be a great crowd. I don’t know whether——”
Kate felt childishly disappointed. She thought the garden fête would be lovely and she wanted to buy things at the stalls,—a present for Rosalie, and surprises for little Cecil and Awdry. And she liked having tea in a marquee, even the strong smell of trampled grass and hot humanity did not displease her. Besides, she had hoped to drive there with Lucy and Rosalie in the Canadian buggy.
“Oh, Mama, we don’t mind the heat in the very least. I’d like to go, and so would Rosalie.”
Only the night before, Rosalie had agreed with Kate that the garden fête would be the greatest fun.
“What it is to be young,” said Cousin Joe. “I’ll escort ’em, Cecilia, if you and Edith like to come on later.”
“Oh, Cousin Joe! Thank you!” Kate glanced triumphantly at Rosalie, who smiled at her in return.
“Well, since Cousin Joe is so kind,” began Cecilia. “I can order the pony-cart for you at once and we’ll have the carriage later on—about half-past four, perhaps.”
Kate looked across at Lucy.
She wanted him to come with them.
Lucy, however, gave no sign of intending to exert himself in any way.
“I suppose, Fanny,” said her mother, “that you’ll come with us, later, in the carriage?”
“Yes, please, Mama.”
“Then run along, girls, and get ready. Ring the bell, Kate, as you go up, and say the pony-cart is to come round at once.”
Kate obeyed. She ran upstairs, two steps at a time, happy because she was going to the fête at Tintern Abbey with Rosalie.
She dashed up the higher flight of stairs to look into the nursery and admire the grave, gentle little boy Cecil and the vigorous, shouting baby whose startling mop of red curls seemed so completely alien to her Lemprière ancestry.
Kate adored them both.
By the time she had twisted up her hair afresh, changed her dress, pinned on her hat and found a clean pair of gloves, she heard the wheels of the pony-cart being driven up to the door.
“Rosalie!”
Kate tapped at the door of the Chinese room.
There was no reply, and she looked in. The room was empty, but
Rosalie’s hat and her white gloves and clean handkerchief lay in readiness on the bed, where a careful housemaid had placed them.
Puzzled, Kate went downstairs.
Cousin Joe was waiting in the hall.
“Where’s Rosalie, Cousin Joe?”
“She’s coming on later after all. Tom is coming with us instead and Fanny’s going to rest.”
Kate gazed at him in bewildered disappointment.
“But Rosalie wanted to come—Oh, Cousin Joe, would you mind waiting just a minute?”
The complaisant Joe, straddling the oak bench in the hall, assured her that he was in no particular hurry.
Kate ran to the drawing-room, but found there only the two elder ladies.
“That dress looks very nice, but don’t frown like that,” said Cecilia, “and hold yourself up, Kate.”
“Where’s Rosalie?”
She saw her mother exchange a glance with Cousin Edith.
“She’s coming with us, after tea. I thought it rather hot for her in this sun. She doesn’t look very strong.”
“But——” said Kate blankly.
“Don’t be silly,” Cecilia advised, replying to Kate’s unspoken dismay. “You said you wanted to go to the fête early, and Cousin Joe is very kindly taking you. Is Tom ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, run along and wait for them in the hall.”
“Where’s——”
“Kate!” said her mother exasperated.
Mrs. Joe cleared her throat.
“Your friend is out on the terrace; if you go out that way you’ll find her.”
Omitting to thank the kind woman, Kate went out through the long French window, but she could not see Rosalie anywhere. There seemed nothing for it but to make her way slowly along the terrace, round the angle of the house to the front door and the waiting pony-cart.
The glory had gone from the hot sunshine and the glowing flower-beds.
Kate felt at once unhappy, cross, puzzled and ashamed of herself for caring so much about what she knew to be, by adult standards, a very trivial disappointment.
But as she went round the house she met Lucy, walking so slowly that, but for the natural length of his stride, it might almost have been supposed that he had no intention of moving at all.
No One Now Will Know Page 18
