Sister of the Bride

by Henrietta Reid

  ‘Anyway, that’s all beside the point,’ she continued irritably. ‘You intended to return to work as soon as I came home again, didn’t you? Well, I’m not preventing you. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the sooner you go the better.’

  I took a tray and began to clear off the remnants of the party in an effort to conceal the agitation I felt. Why did I feel such a devastating reaction at the news? I wondered. After all, it had been accepted that as soon as she returned from the cruise I should take up my old life again, but now that it had come to the point where I must leave I found that the knowledge had shaken me badly.

  ‘When do you want me to go?’ I asked, trying to keep the revealing tremble out of my voice as I turned and walked towards the kitchen with a tray laden with the debris of the party.

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ Averil replied coolly. ‘There’s a train in the morning: you should be able to catch it quite easily. I’ll go up to Ashmore House fairly early and when I come back I’ll expect you to be gone. It’s really the most sensible scheme and will save us both embarrassment: don’t you agree?’

  Stunned, I laid down the tray and turned to her. ‘But you can’t really mean you want me to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘I mean every word I say: I don’t want you here any more, Esther, so let’s face it.’

  There was the sound of a furtive movement at the top of the stairs and a little half-stifled gasp of dismay.

  ‘Is that you, Rodney?’ Averil called sharply. ‘What are you doing, sneaking about up there? You have no right to be listening in to what doesn’t concern you.’

  Rodney’s pale face appeared around the bend in the stairs. ‘What do you mean about Aunt Esther being gone when you get back from the Ashmores?’ he asked apprehensively. ‘Do you mean she’s going to leave us?’

  ‘I mean Aunt Esther and I have talked things over and have decided it would be best if she went home. You didn’t expect she’d stay on for ever, now did you, dear?’ she asked with an air of reasonableness.

  Rodney didn’t answer, evidently aware that it would be useless for him to argue with his mother, and I heard the sound of his footsteps retreating on the creaking old boards as he returned to his room.

  Averil yawned elaborately. ‘By the way, Esther, for the night you can take the room next to Rodney’s. I feel frightfully tired, so the sooner you get your things moved out the better.’

  It was her way of letting me know that the subject was now closed. Tomorrow I would leave Cherry Cottage, and that was that: there could be no appeal, even if my pride would have allowed me to make one.

  I cleared the table and stacked the dishes for Mrs. McAlister to wash in the morning; I swept up the broken glass and china and as much as was possible restored the room to order, but all traces of the debacle could not be hidden. At any rate, I thought a little wryly, Mrs. McAlister would derive a certain satisfaction in discovering that her prognostications had proved correct.

  Afterwards it didn’t take me long to collect my few possessions from Averil’s room and take over the bedroom with the dormer window that overlooked the front garden. In its own minute way this room was even prettier than Averil’s with its steeply sloping roof and dainty muslin curtains and time-worn oak furniture. However, this would be my last night at Cherry Cottage and I found it impossible to take any pleasure in my new domain.

  Later, when Averil had retired to her room and silence had fallen on the cottage, I lay awake. At the open dormer window the muslin curtains billowed: in the silver light of the crescent moon they looked like iridescent butterflies’ wings and I caught the scent of the sweet-smelling borders of velvety wallflowers that lined each side of the patch. Why did I feel so stricken at the knowledge that tomorrow I would be leaving Warefield? Surely it wasn’t simply the idea of returning to the office: from the beginning I had known that sooner or later I would have to go back to some sort of work—even if it were not to return to Wentworth & Judd’s. Nor was it even disappointment at the thought that now I would not be able to take part in Mrs. Ashmore’s charity show.

  I lay in bed and watched the clouds pass over the moon and suddenly I realized it was because—whether I liked it or not—I had fallen in love with Vance. It accounted for the painful stricken feeling I had had at my heart when I realized we would not meet again. But should I not be glad that that mocking glance would never again rake me with silent ridicule? For an instant the brilliant silver moonlight blurred as tears welled into my eyes and slid on to the pillow.

  It was then I heard the sound of the wicket gate creak open and I felt a stupid wild elation at the notion that Vance might have returned. It as quickly subsided as I realized how improbable the idea was. Even if by some magic he could have become aware of my peremptory dismissal, did I imagine he was going to ride up to rescue me like a knight of old? No, the only reason why Vance might return at this hour would be for a clandestine meeting with Averil. I felt a sudden revulsion as I remembered the photograph. Were these the sort of stolen meetings they had indulged in while Clive was alive, before Vance had, so conveniently, dispatched him to the Middle East and his death? How could I possibly love such a man? I asked myself, knowing, at the same time, that it was impossible for me not to love him, for it was as though a tide too strong to be conquered was sweeping me into a maelstrom of strange sweet emotions that I both loved and dreaded.

  I crept quickly out of bed and crossed to the window. But it was not Vance’s tall form I caught sight of. Instead, I saw the figure of a small boy close the gate carefully and dart furtively along the lane in the direction of the village. There could be no mistaking Rodney’s podgy outlines and for a moment I stared in stupefaction at the spot where he had disappeared. Then, snatching up a dressing-gown and pushing my feet into slippers, I hurried from the room. I had been too wrapped up in my own woes to hear the tell-tale groaning of the boards as Rodney slunk from his room and now I took care as I tiptoed past Averil’s bedroom; I dreaded any more histrionics from that quarter.

  As soon as I was clear of the house I darted down the path and wrenched open the gate, but already Rodney was out of sight around the bend in the lane. What on earth was he doing, wandering about the countryside at this hour of the night? I wondered, as I broke into a run. One thing was clear, the sooner I got him back the better. To be found tearing along a muddy lane in Warefield, dressed in nothing more than a long blue dressing-gown and feathered slippers, would certainly cause unfavourable comment in the village.

  As I raced around a curve in the lane and came in view of the main road, I was in time to see Rodney stepping into a car that had drawn up. Panting, I ran the last few steps and was on the point of yanking him out abruptly when I heard Bob Pritchard’s voice say in amazed tones, ‘And what are you two doing, running about the countryside at this time of night?’

  As he eyed me I became conscious that I was panting and dishevelled, the hem of my dressing-gown mud-spattered where I had slipped and stumbled in some rain-filled pools. I found myself giggling helplessly at the almost shocked expression that had replaced Bob’s initial surprise.

  It was Rodney who clarified the situation. Perched on the back seat, he said dismally, ‘Aunt Esther’s going home tomorrow and I thought if I ran away she might stay on to look for me and then perhaps not go at all in the end. But I didn’t mean to go far,’ he assured us earnestly. ‘I was going to hide in the barn up at the farm until she’d missed her train.’

  Bob Pritchard, however, didn’t seem particularly interested in the latter part of Rodney’s extraordinary statement. ‘What’s this about your leaving tomorrow, Esther?’ he asked abruptly.

  As I hesitated wondering how I should reply he said quickly, ‘Hop in and I’ll drive you back to the cottage. Can’t have you two haring about the countryside at this time of night.’ But it was plain that he was only making conversation.

  He turned into the lane and in the driving mirror I caught a glimpse of his eyes, frowningly intent, as he asked again,
‘Why are you leaving tomorrow, Esther?’

  This time I was prepared and answered lightly, ‘Oh, I was to return anyway when Averil returned from abroad.’

  ‘But isn’t she here sooner than expected? According to my calculations she had another week yet to revel in the tropical sun and romantic moonlight.’

  ‘She decided to cut her holiday short,’ I said briefly. He drew the car up in front of the cottage gate and, turning, leaned his arms on the wheel and surveyed me with his penetrating glance. ‘Methinks I scent dirty work at the crossroads. Averil was wildly keen on this cruise: she wouldn’t have cut it short unless something pretty cataclysmic had occurred from her point of view—’

  ‘Rodney, you’d better go in now,’ I said quickly, ‘Slip upstairs quietly without waking your mother.’ His eyelids were drooping with fatigue and wordlessly he did as he was told.

  ‘There is only one consideration that would cause Averil to tear back in such a hurry,’ Bob went on, his eyes on Rodney’s departing back, ‘and that would be the possibility that Vance might be slipping from between her fingers. Well, have I been correct in my diagnosis of the case?’

  I glanced away uncomfortably as I remembered Averil’s accusation that I was deliberately trying to acquire Vance Ashmore.

  ‘We can be frank with one another, Esther,’ he said quietly. ‘You see, I know quite a lot about Averil. It’s not as if I were a nosey, interfering stranger.’ He drummed his fingers on the wheel as though considering what he was about to say, then went on abruptly. ‘At one time I thought that Averil might marry me. Looking back now I realize that it was ridiculously naive of me to imagine that someone like your sister might settle down contentedly in what she considers a one-horse town like Warefield, but when a man’s in love he won’t accept the obvious. I expect it amused her when she came here first to think how easily she could make me fall under her spell. It passed the time, but afterwards it became a bore for her—you see, I was serious, and when it struck her that I would make a nuisance of myself by hanging around when she had her sights set on Vance she didn’t waste time in letting me know exactly where I stood as far as she was concerned.’

  His face looked grim and he laughed bitterly. ‘Let’s say that when it came to my dismissal she didn’t mince her words. But then why should she? In her estimation I was a futureless, unambitious G.P. with nothing to offer her but a hideous red villa. For the rest of my life I would be occupied in nothing more interesting than coping with the local aches and pains.’

  Why was he telling me this? I wondered, for instinctively I knew that he was not the type of man who would wear his heart on his sleeve. He had a reason for making these revelations, and I became suddenly conscious of the close intimacy of the car: it was as if we were isolated in a little self-sufficient world surrounded by darkness and moonlight while through the open window came the sweet smells of the country at night time.

  As though aware of my reaction, he said, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m telling you all this. It’s because although it’s clear you’ve no intention of divulging why you’re leaving, I think I can guess the reason. I’d say that Averil has been tipped off that Vance might be taking more than a passing interest in you and characteristically has picked a flaming row with you and is now chucking you out into the cold snow.’

  When I didn’t answer, he went on, ‘Anyway, the reason for your leaving doesn’t really matter: all that counts is that you’ve made up your mind to go. You intend to leave Warefield tomorrow, isn’t that so?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Look, Esther, I’ve a proposition to make. I’ve needed a receptionist for ages. That old gargoyle of a housekeeper of mine has been acting as a sort of makeshift one, but it’s all rather too much for her. Would you consider taking on the job? I could get lodgings for you quite easily in Warefield and later on, perhaps, if you got to like me a little, or as they say in the old-fashioned books, if you should ever feel for me something stronger than mere friendship, perhaps—’ He stopped. ‘I know it sounds a bit crude, but fundamentally I think you and I are similar sort of people. We’re both sensible, down-to-earth types and even though we mightn’t be madly in love still we could pull along together and make a good life.’

  Confused and taken by surprise as I was, yet I couldn’t but feel a little stab to my heart at his words. Sensible Esther who might some day turn into sensible, competent Mrs. Pritchard, adroit at dealing with hysterical mothers and their children, patiently waiting the meals until my husband returned from an emergency case, always on tap in times of crisis! It was somehow mortifying that Bob Pritchard with his keen doctor’s eye had immediately recognized the category I would fall into.

  ‘Thanks, Bob,’ I said a little drearily. ‘Thanks, that is, for the first part of your proposition. But somehow I’ve a feeling the second part wouldn’t work out.’

  He patted my hand. ‘Well, let’s take things as they come,’ he gave a sudden disarming grin. ‘You will think over this receptionist business, won’t you? I’ll admit that I have an ulterior motive in offering it to you, but the fact is that I’m badly in need of someone to take things in hand and as you’ve had office experience you shouldn’t find it too difficult. At any rate I promise to be an easy-going boss.’

  As I got out of the car I thanked him as warmly as I could, but the elation I had felt at first at the idea of being able to stay on at Warefield had evaporated. I would never marry Bob Pritchard, I knew deep in my heart, and wondered a little wryly what my mother would say were she to know that once again I had turned down what she would consider an excellent opportunity of settling myself in life. Not a brilliant marriage, of course, but vastly superior to being left on the shelf, she would consider it.

  ‘Think it over,’ Bob called as I moved away, ‘and let me know tomorrow so that I can make arrangements for you. By far the best arrangement, of course, would be for you to stay at the house, but Mrs. Purvis is a frightful old puritan and would probably throw a fit if you stayed under my roof even for a night.’ He waved and drove off and I stood at the gate for a moment feeling the soft night air about my face. So Bob Pritchard had offered me a job with a view to marriage, as it were, yet on neither side was there any elation at the idea. Had it been Averil how different his attitude would have been—but then I was only second-best. Were Bob and I ever to marry it would be second-best for both of us, for there was no longer any use in deceiving myself. I was deeply in love with Vance Ashmore, whether I wanted to be or not.

  Slowly I walked up the path, dreading the coming day. As I opened the door and tiptoed upstairs I was hoping that Averil, tired out by her travels, might have slept through all the excitement.

  I peeped into Rodney’s room and found that he was already asleep with Marmalade cosily curled up on the foot of his bed. I turned away and went along the corridor to my room and as I did so Averil’s door opened and she appeared, pulling about her shoulders a chiffon negligee in pale mauve. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders in disorder, she looked exceedingly beautiful and the thought struck me—Bob Pritchard disapproved of Averil, but would it be possible for him to cease loving her?

  She opened her azure eyes wide. ‘What on earth is going on? Was that a car I heard drive away?’

  I hesitated. If possible, I wanted to keep her in ignorance of Rodney’s escapade. The fact that he had attempted to run away because I was leaving would hardly ingratiate him with his mother, I knew. ‘It was Bob Pritchard,’ I said carefully. ‘He was on his way back from an emergency call.’

  Averil, now fully awake, fastened the sash of her negligee about her waist with a decisive little tug. ‘And drew up at Cherry Cottage for tea and crumpets, I presume! Really, Esther, what kind of a fool do you take me for! All in all you seem to have been leading a fairly hectic sort of life since I left. Perhaps it’s as well I came back when I did—before you have the whole male population of Warefield dropping in at all hours of the night. And I do wish you had conducted your
affairs a little more discreetly. Mrs. McAlister is an inveterate gossip, so it’s as well you’re clearing out tomorrow or you wouldn’t have a scrap of reputation left.’

  I turned away wearily. It was impossible to argue with Averil and I was too tired myself by this time to attempt to get her to see reason.

  ‘You are going tomorrow, aren’t you?’ she asked sharply, with a note of apprehension in her voice. ‘I mean, Bob Pritchard didn’t call to suggest—’

  ‘Suggest what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, some alternative arrangement, perhaps.’

  Her attitude aroused my curiosity. ‘And if he had, what difference would it make?’

  For a moment she looked taken aback. ‘No difference, of course. You’re at perfect liberty to do what you want—as long as you leave here. But for your own sake perhaps it would be as well if you made a clean break. For one thing, it’s stupid to linger when a situation is no longer feasible and you might be only storing up—’ she paused, ‘unhappiness for yourself.’

  I nodded. ‘Exactly what I feel too, Averil. No, don’t worry. I’m going tomorrow. I’m leaving Warefield for good.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NEXT morning, Averil left for Ashmore House soon after breakfast. During the meal she chatted brightly about the cruise and I could see she was already rehearsing the more innocuous incidents for Mrs. Ashmore’s entertainment. She had a gift for mimicry and exercised it to the full in describing her more eccentric shipboard acquaintances. In fact, from her manner, it was hard to believe that the scene on the previous night had really taken place. At the same time I was under no illusion that she had deviated from her original intention that I should be clear of Cherry Cottage by the time she returned from visiting Mrs. Ashmore.

  ‘By the way,’ she said casually, when breakfast was over and Mrs. McAlister had cleared the table, ‘when I get up to the Ashmores’ I’ll phone for a taxi to collect you. I’ll make your excuses to Vance—I mean, about your not staying on for the pageant of famous women. I’ll simply say something vague—something about your being needed at home, perhaps. After all, it’s simply a matter of time before Mother will be screaming for you to come back and you wouldn’t have been staying on much longer anyway. So, except for missing the charity affair, things would have worked out pretty much this way in the long run.’