Once more she glanced round and then out of the window. As she did so, she saw that a young man was leaning over the small fence which separated her garden from the grounds of the big house. He was a tall, dark, powerfully-built young man, and the glance which he bent upon the cottage was by no means as approving as hers had been.
This, she decided, must be Laurence Clumber. And, actually stimulated by the thought that she might have to do battle for her cottage, she rose and went downstairs and out into the garden.
He seemed slightly startled at her appearance. But recovering himself, he said,
“Good morning. You must be Miss Mersham.”
“I am,” Freda assured him, pleasantly but in the tone of one who was at home on her own estate. “And I think you must be Mr. Clumber.”
“Yes. I’m Laurence Clumber.”
A slight silence fell. Then Freda volunteered a statement.
“I’ve just been looking over my cottage. It’s charming, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to your aunt—your great-aunt—for leaving it to me.”
“Really?” He smiled slightly and, it seemed to Freda, disparagingly. “It’s a funny little place. Neither practical nor pretty, really. I’d have described it as a bit of an eyesore. But of course any property has a certain value.”
“Depending on the views of the owner,” agreed Freda coldly, for she was not going to have her cottage called an eyesore in that tone of voice.
“Meaning you?” He looked amused.
“Meaning me. I like my cottage. And I’m going to enjoy living in it.”
“Living in it?” His tone seemed to imply that no one could possibly think of living in it. “But I thought you came from London and had a job there.”
Freda permitted herself to raise her eyebrows and pause before replying, which had the gratifying result of making the young man look slightly abashed.
“I do, as a matter of fact,” she said drily. “Though I don’t quite know how you got your information.”
“Oh, everyone knows a good deal about everyone else in a place like Crowmain,” he assured her carelessly, recovering himself a little. “I’ve forgotten who told me. Merry, I expect.”
Resisting a desire to ask how Mr. Merry, in his turn, knew her circumstances, Freda went on, “Well, although I live and work in London, I intend to have this as a weekend cottage.”
“Oh, but I say—that isn’t very practical, is it?” He looked annoyed.
“You mean it doesn’t suit you?” she retorted, more sharply than she had intended.
He looked taken aback. But then he said, deliberately,
“It doesn’t, as a matter of fact. Not that I want to sound ungallant. I’m sure you’re a very nice person to have on one’s doorstep”—his expression did not altogether reinforce these softer words—“but that cottage doesn’t really do anything for the look of the place. And, quite frankly, my idea was to buy it from you—along with the piece of land, of course—have it taken down, and arrange for a really good landscape man to take the whole of this side of the estate in hand.”
There was a slight and—had he but known it—dangerous little silence at this. Then Freda said quietly,
“What a pity.”
He looked at her doubtfully.
“How do you mean, what a pity?”
“What a pity, in that case, that your great-aunt left the cottage to me,” she said sweetly. “For I have no intention of selling the cottage, nor of having it taken down, nor of allowing any good landscape man to come bulldozing over my property.”
If she had leaned forward and bitten his hand he could not have looked more astonished. Then an annoyed expression flitted over his face, to be succeeded by a faintly scornful smile.
“I see,” he said. “Naturally, if you like the place so much, you will expect to get a good price for it. Well, Miss Mersham, I’m prepared to pay a good price.”
“I’m afraid your ideas of price have nothing to do with the matter,” she replied, in a tone as dry as his. “Since I have no intention of selling, I’m naturally not interested in any price offered.”
The look of annoyance returned, this time tinged by a hint of incredulity.
“These matters are always a question of bargaining. I quite understand that there may be some tough negotiating first. Though, in point of fact”—again he cast a disparaging glance at the cottage—“in the open market it would fetch very little, you know.”
Freda drew a deep breath and counted ten silently. Then she said, with a bluntness which surprised herself,
“Mr. Clumber, you look quite an intelligent person, which makes it difficult for me to believe that you can’t understand a plain statement. But here it is—finally. My cottage is not for sale. It’s as simple as that. I’m not hedging coyly, in the hope of getting an inflated price. I’m just not interested in any price, because I’m keeping my cottage and I’m going to live in it.”
“At weekends only?” He looked faintly derisive.
“That will be my business,” she replied coldly. “I’m not asking you your plans for any future residence in your house, and what I do in my house is equally my own affair. Good morning.” And, turning away firmly, she walked back into the cottage, aware that he looked after her in puzzlement and anger.
She was sorely tempted to look back when she reached the door, but she resisted the temptation. She even managed not to look from the windows again. And, having gone over her cottage once more, noting details and taking a few measurements with a tape-measure she had thoughtfully brought along with her, she let herself out at the front, locking the door carefully behind her.
“It’s all right. I’m coming back,” she promised the little place. “And you needn’t worry about him.” Back in the main street of the village, she found the offices of Jason & Merry on the point of closing for Saturday afternoon. But Mr. Merry seemed quite willing to linger cheerfully and discuss things with her. He was amused and impressed by her enthusiasm for the place, but he agreed that, for a modest expenditure, the cottage could be put in order.
“It’s sound enough, in its way,” he conceded. “And if you’ve really taken such a fancy to it, I don’t doubt that Bill Token would give you a modest estimate for painting and refurnishing. But Laurence Clumber isn’t going to like it, you know.”
“Then Laurence Clumber,” replied Freda with unwonted brusqueness, “will have to lump it.”
Mr. Merry found this inordinately funny, but he regarded Freda with fresh respect, and even offered to take her along to see Bill Token, in order to fix something up on the spot, as he put it.
“But won’t he be closed by now?” Freda glanced at her watch.
“Bill’s never closed when it comes to business, Mr. Merry explained. “You go along and have a bit of lunch. They do you a good plain one at The Peacock and Peahen for six bob. Then meet me here again at two-thirty, and I’ll take you along to see Bill.”
Thus it was arranged. Freda had her good plain lunch (very good and not so plain) at The Peacock and Peahen, and later, in the friendly charge of Mr. Merry, was taken to meet Bill Token.
It had, of course, never before fallen to her lot to discuss house property, nor even to discuss business on any scale larger than that which concerned her own personal living, eating and clothing. But Freda had a strong vein of common sense. She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she was prepared to pay.
Her approach might be simpler and more direct than that of more experienced people. But she emerged from the interview with the pleasant feeling that the two men liked and respected her, and that, in her absence in London, Mr. Merry and Bill Token would see to it that her cottage was put in first-class order for an estimated sum which, in her new-found affluence, did not seem excessive.
“So Clumber didn’t want to buy, after all?” observed Bill Token when arrangements had been completed.
“We don’t know about that,” Mr. Merry began.
But Freda said pleasant
ly,
“Oh, yes, we do. I had a chat with him this morning. He very much wanted to buy. But I had no intention of selling. The matter ended there.”
“You don’t say!” Mr. Merry looked genuinely impressed. While Bill Token grinned and said,
“That’s the spirit. We’ll keep the costs down to the minimum, Miss Mersham.”
“The minimum consistent with good quality,” replied Miss Mersham, for all the world as though she were arranging to build a twelve-story block of offices.
“Of course, of course,” said the two men in chorus. Then they bade her a cordial good-bye, and Freda made her way back to town.
On the return journey she reviewed the day’s happenings with a great deal of quiet satisfaction—not least on account of the way in which she had put Mr. Clumber in his place. The idea!—when he had the whole of that charming estate and the run of the big house, that he should actually want her little cottage too. And solely for the purpose of pulling it down.
She tried to recall what it was he had said about having her living on his doorstep. Something sarcastic, but she could not remember the exact words. Well, anyway, that was just what he was going to have—whether he liked it or not.
During the next few days, Freda had considerable difficulty in concentrating on her work at the office. When she typed out bills of lading—or whatever it is one does type out in connection with imports and exports—her thoughts were not at all on the astronomically large quantities of goods recorded. What was the import of three thousand carpets to her, against the one enchanting little carpet she was going to have in her own sitting-room?
She told her special office friend, Ellen Marley, about her wonderful inheritance, and Ellen said how wonderful, but wasn’t it rather a responsibility, taking on a cottage miles from anywhere?
“It isn’t miles from anywhere,” Freda countered indignantly. “It’s just outside Crowmain. And,” she added with a touch of malicious enjoyment which surprised herself, “within a stone’s throw of Crowmain Court, which is the big house of the district.”
Ellen seemed to think that made it better.
“Are they a nice family living there?” she enquired.
“Not—exactly. I think there’s only Laurence Clumber, who’s just inherited the estate.”
“Unmarried?” enquired Ellen.
“I have no idea.”
“Oh.” Ellen looked as though she thought Freda had asked too many questions about the property and too few about the neighbours. “Is he an elderly crusty bachelor or—”
“No. Young and crusty,” Freda stated.
“That’s an unusual combination,” remarked Ellen. “Are you sure he’s crusty?”
“He was very unpleasant about my wanting to keep my cottage and live in it, instead of selling it to him. I call that being crusty.”
“We-ell”—Ellen considered the point judicially— “I’d try to get on with him, if I were you. You’re too much alone as it is, Freda, with no family. If you’re going to live alone in a cottage, even at weekends, your next-door neighbour can be quite important.”
Freda was silent at this, partly because she didn’t think anyone living at the big house could quite be regarded as a next-door neighbour, and partly because she was sure that in no circumstances would the rude, good-looking, acquisitive Mr. Clumber be of any importance to her.
But she could not quite dismiss Ellen’s words from her mind, and that evening, for the first time for some years, she had an acute attack of loneliness, and a sharp awareness, all over again, of her strangely isolated state.
If her parents had lived—if Celia and she had grown up together—how different life would have been. She tried to tell herself that in many ways she was a lucky girl, which at the moment was particularly true, but suddenly even the cottage lost a little of its beautiful glamour. And—to her surprise and slightly to her shame—Freda found that she was blinking away a couple of tears.
It was absurd, she told herself, but she could not help thinking, with almost passionate intensity, that if she and her sister could have entered that cottage together she would have had little else to ask of life.
“One can’t have everything,” she muttered impatiently. “It’s greedy to expect it. But I won’t sit here feeling blue. I’ll go into town and go to a show. I can allow myself the indulgence now. And if that’s not being fortunate, I don’t know what is.”
Determined to support a more cheerful frame of mind in every way, she put on her prettiest frock—a blue flower print which deepened the almost hyacinth shade of her eyes—and a charming little apology for a hat.
As it happened, the Tube train in which she travelled westward was crowded, no doubt with pleasure seekers like herself, and she tried not to notice too keenly how nearly all of them seemed to be in twos or threes. Hardly anyone was alone.
The couple standing quite near her, for instance, were laughing and talking with such animation that it was hard not to feel that pleasure shared was obviously pleasure doubled. It was the man who was more or less facing Freda, and she could not help thinking what a charming, humorous face he had. The girl strap-hung gracefully, her back turned to Freda, but the beautiful simple lines of her obviously expensive dress set off her enchanting figure.
I wish she’d turn, thought Freda, irresistibly drawn to the couple. I’d like to see if she’s a good match for him.
And at that moment the girl did turn, and Freda fetched her breath on an incredulous gasp. For, with a shock of astonishment which almost hurt, she saw that the girl was the image of herself.
Except for the difference in their clothes, she might have been looking at herself in the mirror. And then the girl looked back at her companion, and for a bewildered moment or two Freda thought she must have imagined the whole thing.
Surely there could not have been such a likeness. Just—a superficial likeness, and the rest she had imagined, mostly because she had been so startled at the suddenness of the apparition. And yet—and yet—what was the good of trying to tell herself that? She knew that, for a matter of two seconds, she had been looking at her other self.
Her other self!
What did that mean, exactly? she asked herself, and suddenly she found that she was trembling. It was like seeing a ghost. Because there had once been her other self. Celia—who had been killed in the raid which had destroyed everything else that one called home.
“It’s just that I’ve seen my double, Freda tried to believe. They say almost everyone has a double somewhere, only it’s very seldom that one meets. This girl must be my double. Nothing to do with me —except for that queer likeness. And perhaps it’s only from a certain angle. Perhaps someone else wouldn’t even notice it.
“Ours is the next station,” she heard the young man say. And suddenly she seemed to be faced with a crisis.
Was she to let this girl just go out of her life again without so much as a comment or question? And yet, on the other hand—what could one say? Neither of them had noticed Freda. Or, if they had, neither of them seemed to feel any reason to comment or question on their side. She would be making a fool of herself if she—
The train was slowing now as it entered the next station, and the two were already moving towards the door.
I can’t let them go like that! Freda thought. And, hardly of her own volition, she too rose and approached the door.
She was close behind them as they stepped out on to the platform, and as she hurried in their wake, she caught another glimpse of the girl, side-face, and again she felt as though something had struck her a slight blow in the region of her heart.
They were evidently in a hurry, for they almost ran up the escalator. And Freda, breathless already with excitement and anxiety, hurried up behind them.
Even now, she had no idea what she was going to do. To accost them in the street and ask them to look at her and see if they didn’t detect an extraordinary likeness seemed an impossible proceeding. And yet— what else?
“I’m being a perfect idiot,” Freda told herself. But still she kept on behind them.
And then, quite suddenly, the problem was solved for her. They turned in at the gate of a large, handsome, old-fashioned house, and ran up the flight of steps to the front door.
In a second the girl would be lost to her. And, in that second, with almost clairvoyant conviction, Freda gave a rather choked little cry—
“Celia—” she said. “Celia—”
And, although the sound could only just have reached her, the girl turned on the steps and looked down.
“Yes,” she said. “What is it?”
CHAPTER TWO
FOR perhaps three seconds the girl on the steps stood staring down at Freda, in the fading light of the summer evening.
Then she said, almost in a whisper, “Who are you?” And with a gesture of her hand to the young man behind her she added, “Don’t ring the bell for a moment, Brian.”
At that, the young man also turned from the door and looked down at Freda. As he did so, he gave an audible gasp.
“Who are you?” the girl said again, and she came down the steps until she stood on a level with Freda.
“My—my name’s Freda Mersham,” Freda stammered.
“But you look—just like me.”
“I know. That’s why I had to follow you. You were in the Tube, quite near me. When I saw you—it was like a shock. I—I couldn’t quite make up my mind to speak to you. And yet I couldn’t let you just go away. I got out of the train too and—and came after you. I didn’t know what to do. But when I saw you going into the house—I had to say something.”
“But—you know me? You called me by my name—Celia.”
For a moment Freda felt almost faint.
“I called you by the name of my twin sister,” she said, and she felt the tears come into her eyes.
My Sister Celia Page 2
