by Betty Neels
‘This is wonderful news, Paul, and we will make her very welcome. Come for lunch on Saturday. Can you stay until Monday morning?’
‘I’ve a teaching round in the afternoon. If we leave soon after breakfast. I can take Emma home first.’
‘Emma—that’s a pretty and old-fashioned name.’
He smiled. ‘She’s rather an old-fashioned girl.’
Watching him drive away presently, his mother said, ‘Do you suppose it will be all right, Peter?’
‘My dear, Paul is forty years old. He hasn’t married sooner because he hadn’t found the right girl. Now he has.’
Emma got off the bus in the village, walked the short distance to Paul’s house, went along the alley and in through the side-door. Mrs Parfitt would be preparing dinner and she didn’t want to disturb her. She went through to the hall and opened the drawing-room door, her parcels clamped under one arm.
Sir Paul was sitting by the fire, with the dogs resting their chins on his feet and Queenie on the arm of his chair. Emma gave a squeak of delight, dropped her parcels and hurried across the room.
‘Paul! Oh, how lovely; you’re home. Don’t get up…’
He was already on his feet, his eyes very bright, scanning her happy face. He said lightly, ‘Emma, you’ve been shopping again.’ And she pulled up short beside him, conscious that she had been quite prepared to fling herself into his arms. The thought took her breath so that her voice didn’t sound quite like hers.
‘Well, yes, my wedding-dress.’ She added earnestly, ‘I couldn’t buy it the other day because you mustn’t see it until we’re in the church.’
‘A pleasure I look forward to.’ He picked up the box and parcels she had dropped. ‘You’d like a cup of tea? I’ll tell Mrs Parfitt while you take off your things.’
When she came down the tea-tray was on a little table by the fire—tea in its silver teapot, muffins in their silver dish, tiny cakes.
She was pouring their second cups when he said quietly, ‘Next Saturday we are going to my parents’ home in the Cotswolds—just for the weekend.’
She almost dropped the pot. ‘Oh, well, yes, of course. I—I hope they’ll like me.’ She put down the teapot carefully. ‘I think that perhaps I’m not quite the kind of girl they would expect you to marry, if you see what I mean.’
‘On the contrary. You will find that they will welcome you as their daughter.’ He spoke kindly but she could sense that it would be of no use arguing about it.
She said merely, ‘That’s good. I’ll look forward to meeting them.’
‘If you’ve finished your tea shall we go along to the vicarage and discuss dates with the vicar? If you’re not too tired we can walk.’
The vicarage was on the other side of the church. I suppose I shall walk to my wedding, thought Emma as Paul rang the bell.
The vicar was a man of Paul’s age. ‘I’ll read the first banns this Sunday, tomorrow, which means that you can marry any day after the third Sunday. You’ve a date in mind?’
They both looked at Emma, who said sensibly, ‘Well, it will have to fit in with Paul’s work, won’t it?’ She smiled at him. ‘I know I’m supposed to choose, but I think you had better…’
‘Will the Tuesday of the following week suit you? I believe I’m more or less free for a few days after that.’ He glanced at Emma, who looked back serenely.
‘In the morning?’ she asked.
‘Whenever you like; since I chose the day you must choose the time.’
She realised that she had no idea if there would be anyone else there, and her face betrayed the thought so plainly that Sir Paul said quickly, ‘There will be a number of guests at the reception.’
He was rewarded by the look of relief on her face. ‘Eleven o’clock,’ she said.
The vicar’s wife came in then, with a tray of coffee, and they sat for a while and talked and presently walked back to the cottage.
‘You said there would be guests,’ observed Emma, in a voice which held a hint of coolness.
‘It quite slipped my mind,’ he told her placidly. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. We’ll make a list this evening, shall we?’ He smiled at her and she forgot about being cool. ‘Mrs Parfitt will be in her element.’
The list was more lengthy than she had expected— his parents, his sisters and their husbands, a number of his colleagues from Exeter, friends from London, friends in and around the village, Doreen Hervey and her husband. ‘And we must ask Mr Dobbs—I take it there is a Mrs Dobbs?’
‘Yes, I think they’d like to come. Shall I write to them?’
‘I’ll get some cards printed—no time to have them engraved—and I’ll phone everyone and tell them the cards will arrive later.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I can reach several friends after dinner this evening.’
They told Mrs Parfitt the wedding-date when she came to wish them goodnight. ‘The village will turn out to a man,’ she told them happily. ‘Been wanting to see you wed for a long time, sir. Your ma and pa will be coming, no doubt.’
‘Indeed they are, Mrs Parfitt, and we hope you will be our guest too.’
‘Well, now—that’s a treat I’ll enjoy. I’ll need a new hat.’
‘Then you must go to Exeter and get one. I’ll drive you in whenever you wish to go.’
Emma saw very little of Paul until the weekend; he had consulting rooms in Exeter and saw his private patients there, and, in the evenings, although they discussed the wedding from time to time he made no mention of their future. All the guests were coming, he told her, and would she mind very much if he went to Exeter on the day after their wedding? He had promised to read a paper at a seminar; he had hoped to postpone it but it hadn’t been possible.
‘Well, of course you must go,’ said Emma. ‘May I come with you? I shan’t understand a word but I’d very much like to be there.’
He had agreed very readily, but she wasn’t sure if he was pleased about it or not.
They left early on Saturday morning and Emma sat silently beside him, hoping that she had brought the right clothes with her and that his parents would like her. She was then comforted by his quiet, ‘Don’t worry, Emma, everything will be all right.’ And as though Willy and Kate had understood him, they had uttered gentle grumbling barks, and Willy had got down off the back seat and licked the back of her neck.
It was a day when spring had the upper hand and winter had withdrawn to the more remote stretches of the moor, and once they had bypassed Exeter and were racing up the motorway the country showed a great deal of green in the hedges. The car was blissfully warm and smelled of good leather, Paul’s aftershave and the faint whiff of dog and, soothed by it, Emma decided in her sensible way that there was no point in worrying about something she knew very little about. So when Paul began a rambling conversation about nothing much she joined in quite cheerfully.
Just past Taunton he stopped for coffee and then turned off the motorway to drive across country—Midsomer Norton, Bath and then onwards towards Cirencester—to turn off presently into a country road which led them deep into the Cotswolds.
‘Oh, this is nice,’ said Emma. ‘I like the houses—all that lovely pale yellow stone. Where are we exactly?’
‘Cirencester is to the north-east, Tetbury is away to the right of us—the next village is where we are going.’
When he stopped the car in front of his parents’ home, she sat for a moment, peering at it. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Do you love it very much?’
He said gravely, ‘Yes, I do, and I hope that you will love it too. Come inside…’ He took her by the elbow and went towards the opening door.
His mother stood there, smiling a welcome. She offered a cheek for his kiss and turned to Emma. ‘Emma—such a pretty name—welcome, my dear.’ She shook hands and then kissed Emma’s cheek and tucked her arm in hers. ‘Come and meet my husband.’ She paused a moment to look up at her son. ‘Paul, you described Emma exactly.’
He smiled but didn’t spea
k, and when they entered the drawing-room and his father came to meet them he shook hands and then drew Emma towards him. ‘Father, this is Emma—my father, Emma.’
Mr Wyatt wore his years lightly, and it was obvious where his son had got his good looks. She put out a hand and he took it and then kissed her. ‘Welcome, my dear. We are delighted to have you here with us.’
After that everything was perfect. Going to bed that night in the charming bedroom, Emma reflected that she had had no need to worry—Paul’s mother and father had been kindness itself, and Paul had taken her round the house and the large garden while Willy and Kate and his father’s elderly spaniel trotted to and fro, dashing off following imaginary rabbits and then coming back to trot at their heels.
It had been an hour she didn’t think she would forget; they hadn’t talked much but somehow there hadn’t been the need for that. All the same, when they had gone back into the house for tea, she’d had the strange feeling that she knew Paul better than she had done.
In the evening, after dinner, they had sat talking about the wedding and who would be coming to it and Mrs Wyatt had admired her dress—one of the pretty ones Paul had persuaded her to have. ‘You will make a charming bride,’ she had told Emma. ‘Paul is a lucky man.’
Emma, curling up in the comfortable bed, promised herself that she would make sure that he was. Not loving him didn’t seem to matter, somehow, and she supposed that he felt the same about her. They were friends and they liked each other; everything would be all right, and on this cheerful thought she went to sleep.
They all went to church the next morning, and Emma got stared at Somehow the news had got around that Sir Paul had got himself engaged at last and everyone wanted to see the bride-to-be. Wedged between father and son, Emma did her best not to notice the interested stares, hoping that they wouldn’t be disappointed that she wasn’t a girl whose good looks would match her bridgegroom’s. She peeped up at Paul’s face and found him looking at her and took heart at his kind smile, knowing that he understood how she felt.
They left early on Monday morning, and his mother kissed her and gave her a little hug. ‘My dear, we are so happy for you both. You are exactly right for Paul and we wish you every happiness. We shan’t see you before your wedding-day—it’s something we both look forward to. You’ll meet the rest of the family then—they will love you, too.’
Emma got into the car feeling a pleasant glow of content; she had been accepted by Paul’s family—something which mattered to her.
They were home by lunchtime but he went back to Exeter directly after, saying that he might be late back and that she wasn’t to wait up for him. He didn’t say why he was going and she didn’t ask, although she longed to. Instead she offered to take the dogs for their walk in the late afternoon.
‘Yes, do that. But not after teatime, Emma. I’ll give them a good run when I get home.’
He patted her shoulder in what she considered to be a highly unsatisfactory manner and got back into the Rolls and drove away. The day, which had begun so pleasantly, had turned sour, and although she told herself that she had no reason to complain, she felt ill done by. She sat still when he had gone, looking at her ringless hand. Had he forgotten that it was the custom to give one’s intended bride a ring? Or perhaps he thought that the unusual circumstances of their marriage didn’t merit one.
Moping about and feeling sorry for herself would do no good, she told herself, and, leaving Queenie by the fire, she took Willy and Kate for a long walk.
She was late getting back to the cottage and Mrs Parfitt said severely, ‘Another ten minutes and I’d have been getting worried about you, miss. Sir Paul said most particular that you weren’t to go out after teatime. And quite right too!’
It was a remark which cheered her up a little, and tea round the fire, with the lamps lighted against the gloomy day, restored her usual good spirits. She spent a careful half-hour writing her bread-and-butter letter to Mrs Wyatt, then stamped it and left it on the hall table. The postman would take it in the morning.
She lingered over dinner, helped Mrs Parfitt clear the table and, since there was no sign of Paul, went to bed with a book. She read for a long time, one ear cocked for the sound of his footfall, but by midnight she was half-asleep. She put the book down, telling herself that this was no way to behave—there would probably be years of similar evenings, and if she lay in bed worrying about him she would grow old before her time. Queenie, glad at last that the bedside lamp was out, crept up beside her and she fell asleep.
When she went down to breakfast the next morning, Paul was already at the table. His good morning was cheerful and friendly. ‘You slept well?’ he wanted to know.
‘Like a top, whatever that means! What a nice morning it is…’
‘Yes, indeed—a pity I have to go back to Exeter this morning. Unfinished business, I’m afraid.’
‘Would you like me to take the dogs out?’ She buttered toast, not looking at him.
‘I’ll take them before I go; I’m sure you have a lot to do here.’
What, in heaven’s name? Mrs Parfitt got upset if she offered to help in the house, the garden was beautifully kept by the part-time gardener, but there was a chance that she could go to the village shop for Mrs Parfitt…
‘Oh, yes, I’ve lots to do,’ she told him serenely.
‘You won’t mind if I leave you?’ And at her cheerful, ‘Of course not,’ he got up.
On his way to the door, though, he paused and came back to the table. ‘I must beg your forgiveness, Emma.’ He took a small box from a pocket. ‘I have been carrying this round since we left yesterday and forgot all about it.’
He took a ring out of the box and held it in the palm of his hand—sapphires and diamonds in an old-fashioned setting. ‘It has been kept in the safe in father’s study, waiting for the next bride in the family. It is very old and is handed down from one generation to the next.’ He picked up her hand and slipped the ring on her finger.
‘It fits,’ said Emma.
‘As I knew it would.’ He bent and kissed her, a quick kiss which took her by surprise. ‘That augers well for our future.’
Emma said, ‘Thank you, Paul,’ and, while she was still trying to think of something else to add to that, he patted her shoulder and was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
EMMA didn’t see much of Paul during that week; he took her with him to Exeter one day, so that she might do some last-minute shopping, and once or twice he was home early so that they could walk the dogs together. On the Saturday he drove down to Buckfastleigh.
They had been invited by the Herveys to have drinks and at the same time they called at the house agent’s. There were enquiries, they were told; it was certain that the house would sell, especially now that the warmer weather was coming.
‘You don’t mind waiting for the money?’ asked Emma worriedly as they got back into the car.
‘No, Emma, there’s no hurry for that.’ He turned to smile at her. ‘There’s time for us to get an armful of flowers and visit your mother’s grave.’
She hadn’t liked to ask but that was exactly what she wanted to do. He bought the flowers she chose—roses and carnations—and they took them to the quiet churchyard. Emma’s sadness was mitigated by the feel of Paul’s great arm round her shoulder and his unspoken sympathy.
The Herveys were delighted to see them and Emma was borne upstairs to see Bart, asleep in his cot. Emma was relieved to see that Nanny had been replaced by an older woman with a pleasant face and a ready smile.
‘He’s grown,’ said Emma. ‘He’s perfect…’ ‘He’s rather a duck,’ said his mother fondly, ‘and Nanny’s splendid with him—and I’m getting better, aren’t I, Nanny?’
On the way downstairs she took Emma’s arm. ‘Mike took one look at that other nanny and gave her notice,’ she confided. ‘Didn’t fancy her at all—a regular sargeant major, he said she was. This one’s an old dear, and she’s taught me a lot—you know, how t
o hold Bart properly and what to do when he yells. I’m not afraid of him any more.’
She was quite serious; Emma murmured sympathetically, reflecting that it was fortunate that the Herveys could afford a nanny.
They had their drinks then, talking about the wedding and the baby and listening to Mike’s amusing account of his trip to America. Then the two men went upstairs to see Bart and Mrs Hervey described in great detail what she intended to wear at the wedding.
Listening to her, Emma thought it likely that she would outshine the bride. Not that she minded—she liked Doreen Hervey; she might be helpless and unable to do much for herself but she was kind and friendly and light-hearted, and she went into raptures over Emma’s ring.
‘It’s a family heirloom, isn’t it? You deserve it, Emma, for you’re such a nice girl, and Paul’s the nicest man I know—excepting Mike, of course. He’s frightfully rich, of course, and awfully important—but you’d never know, would you? Never says a word about himself—never told anyone why he was knighted…I don’t suppose you would tell me? I’ll not breathe a word…’
‘Well, no,’ said Emma. ‘He wants to keep it a private matter.’
So private, she thought, that he had never mentioned it to her. She would ask him…
Which she did as they were driving back to Lustleigh, and was thwarted by his placid, ‘Oh, you know how it is—names out of a hat and I happened to be lucky.’ Even though he sounded placid there was something in his voice which prevented her from asking any more questions. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, when they had been married for a long time and had got to know each other really well he would tell her.
They went to church in the morning and heard their last banns read, and after the service an endless stream of people stopped to wish them well. They all wanted to know the date of the wedding.
‘It will be very quiet—just family and a few close friends,’ said Paul and, when pressed, told them the day on which they were to marry, knowing that if he didn’t tell them they would find a reason to call at the cottage and ask Mrs Parfitt.
