The Gentle Prisoner

by Sara Seale

  "One day," he said, "I'll have you painted like that, with a muff held against you face."

  She rubbed her cheek against the fur, then ran to him and put her arms round his neck, and he could feel the softness of the muff against his face.

  How long, he thought, with sudden hunger, must this waiting be? Should he, at moments such as these, break down that reserve between them which he himself had created? Should he take what was his right, and watch, perhaps, the revulsion she would be unable to hide in her eyes? Slough a skin, Prince Lindworm... Gently he let her go.

  "I'm glad you're pleased," he said. "Next time I'll find you something to go with it."

  Early in February a cable came from India to say that Frances Penryn's baby was born, and a week later Nicholas had a brief letter telling him that Justin was to be moved next month.

  "Soon we will be able to send for Martin," she wrote. "Tell him his baby sister is a pet and don't let him be jealous."

  It was strange, thought Shelley, that it was always Frances who wrote and never Justin. Was the shadowy ghost of Lydia still between them? she wondered. Yet Justin had married again; Justin had forgotten ...

  "Do you think Martin will mind?" she asked Nicholas,

  "His nose may be a little out of joint at first," he replied with a smile, "but he'll be used to the idea by the time he gets to India, and Frances is a sensible woman; she won't let him, feel neglected."

  "Do you think they'll send for him soon?"

  "In a month or so, I expect."

  It was the first time that she had fully realized the boy would have to leave them. He had meant so much to her in her solitude that it was impossible to imagine that familiar wing shrouded and untenanted. Then she would, in truth, be alone

  with Nicholas through the long days and nights with no escape to turn to.

  "When Martin goes, there'll be no one," she said.

  "No one?" He held out a hand. "Shelley, come here ..."

  She went to him slowly and he put an arm round her, drawing her down on to the arm of his chair.

  "Ah, Shelley, how can I handle you?" he said. "Sometimes you're like Martin, just a little child with no thought, and sometimes you're almost a woman and full of flashes of wisdom. I think I was wrong at the very beginning."

  The tears came now, quietly and gently, but he was not looking at her. He had never spoken to her quite like this before, and for a few moments she felt almost on the brink of discovering him for the first time.

  "Do you mean," she asked forlornly, "that you were wrong to marry me?"

  He sighed.

  "Perhaps that, too. But having married you, I should have seen to it that you understood what I wanted of you."

  "You seemed," she said, "to want nothing."

  "My dear," he said gently, "have you understood me so little?"

  He looked up then and saw her tears and the tiredness and bewilderment in her face. He pulled her down into his arms.

  "Poor baby ..." he said. "You don't want a husband at all. You want a father and a mother and time to grow up. Well, I'll give you time, little one. Just be yourself and stop worrying."

  She leant against his breast and knew again that sense of safety which she had experienced only with Nicholas.

  "It's so hard to know how to treat you," she said. "You said you didn't want affection..."

  "I said I didn't expect it, that's quite a different thing," he replied with sadness. "Could you ever feel affection for me, do you suppose, Shelley?"

  "Oh, yes," she said. "Easily, if you would let me."

  "Well, then, perhaps I've sloughed one skin."

  "Sloughed a skin?"

  "Yes, the Lindworm. Didn't he have to slough nine skins

  before he won the maiden?"

  "She whipped him with whips dipped in lye, then washed him all over with fresh milk," she said.

  "It sounds a little drastic," he remarked mildly.

  "It was to end the enchantment," she replied seriously. "Then he became a handsome young prince."

  "Yes, well - I'm afraid that's beyond me." His voice was a little dry, and he kissed her wet cheek. "Now, run along to Martin while I do some work.

  February was not a good month, but there were soft days when spring seemed not far distant, and Shelley and Martin walked in the garden, or played strange games of the boy's invention. Martin loved rhymes, and Shelley tried to remember all the old rhyming games she had played at the convent. They would chase each other through the plantation, chanting:

  "A Duck and a Drake,

  And a half-penny cake,

  And a penny to pay the old baker,

  A hop and a scotch is another notch,

  Slitherum, slatherum, take her!"

  On wet days they would stop in Shelley's sitting-room and she would play him nursery rhymes and little chansonettes which delighted him. Once he asked her if Colin was coming back.

  "Not yet," she replied. "Perhaps never." She did not think of Colin often, but she remembered vividly his bright blue eyes and the way they had crinkled in merriment.

  "Was he just a magic?" Martin said, and she smiled a little wistfully and answered:

  "Perhaps."

  Then one morning, Nicholas came to her with a cablegram in his hand.

  "Martin is to go home," he said, gently, because he knew it would hurt her. "When?" "Next week." Her eyes widened. "So soon?"

  "Some friend of Frances' is going out with her own child and a nurse. They managed to get a passage for Martin. It seems a sensible arrangement."

  "Yes," she said. "Yes..."

  They did not tell him until a few days before he was to go. He watched Shelley with compassion, knowing that she would miss the boy, but knowing, too, that she might be dreading being left alone with him. He could not deny that for himself, Martin's departure would be a relief. He could have given him the affectionate tenderness which the sight of Lydia's child had first inspired in him, but the boy had not wanted him, and in a fashion Nicholas had never foreseen, he had been an unconscious barrier between himself and Shelley.

  The last days were difficult for Martin was exacting. He demanded Shelley's attention at all times, even sneaking along to her room at night to slip into bed with her. Nicholas could hear them whispering together, but he gave no sign that he knew, except on the last night when he could hear them weeping. At one o'clock he got up and went into Shelley's room. In the light of his candle, they looked at him fearfully, their faces wet with tears.

  "Martin, you must go back to your own room, now," he said. "You've got a journey tomorrow and you must get some sleep."

  "Let him stay," Shelley said. "I'll get him to sleep." Nicholas put down the candle.

  "No, my dear, you're tired out. Come along, Martin. I'll carry you back."

  He came in to her again before going back to his own room, and sat on the bed for a few moments.

  "Is he all right?" she asked.

  "He was asleep before I left him," Nicholas told her gently. "Now, I want you to do the same."

  "Yes, Nicholas," she said, and closed her eyes. She felt his hand, warm and firm on one of hers, and later she opened her eyes and said:

  "I wish you'd let me come to London with you tomorrow." He shook his head.

  "Much better not. Prolonged farewells are always painful.

  I shall only be away a couple of nights - or would you rather I stayed away longer?"

  Her hand twisted in his and she linked her fingers with his.

  "No," she said. "Come back to me soon." He bent to kiss her.

  "Now sleep, and remember - there can be other Martins," he said, but she was too tired to take his meaning, and by the morning she had forgotten.

  They were all in the porch to see the boy off; Baines, Mrs. Medlar, even old Isaac. In the sudden excitement of his own importance, Martin forgot to be tearful, and although he clung to Shelley and hugged her tightly, he was anxious now for the new adventure to begin. Shelley watched the car drive away, o
ld Isaac hobbling after it to close the gates, and surprised a look of real regret on Mrs. Medlar's face.

  "You'll miss him," she said softly.

  "Well, you get used to a child," the housekeeper replied, shutting the front door.

  "Yes. I'll miss him too. It'll be lonely here without the boy," Shelley said.

  Mrs. Medlar glanced at her, and smiled a little slyly.

  "Well, that's easily remedied, ma'am," she said, and went upstairs.

  Isaac said much the same to her, only more bluntly, when she met him later in the morning, as she wandered idly round the garden.

  "No use frettin' after other folks' brats," he said. "Have one of your own. You and maister ev been married this seven months. Time you was startin' a family. Not but what you look like the breeding sort to me," he eyed her slight figure disparagingly. "Still, you never can tell."

  "Yes, Isaac," she said, and began to walk away, but he called after her.

  "That young fellow I seed you with at Christmas - like Mr. Justin again, he was." "Mr. Justin?" She paused.

  "They used to meet in the summer-house just the same as you. Promised to maister she was, but she'd meet Mr. Justin

  in the summer-house and they'd laugh and kiss. I know, I seed 'em."

  Shelley came back. "Do you mean Miss Lydia had been going to marry Mr. Nicholas?" she asked, but the old man spat over his shoulder and started to wander away.

  "'Tes foolish talk," he muttered, "'Tes proper foolish talk."

  Shelley went thoughtfully back to the house. Was there, she wondered, more in that old relationship than she had always supposed? Had Nicholas, too, been in love with his cousin and lost her to his more attractive brother?

  But introspection vanished when she got back to the house and found a letter from her father. Lucius wanted to come and stay for a few days. Might he come tomorrow and would she please arrange about having him met at the station? She had tried so often to get her father to Garazion that now he was actually coming she could scarcely believe it was true. For a moment she wondered if Nicholas had arranged the visit for such an opportune time, knowing she would be lonely. She sent a telegram at once telling him to come, and spent the rest of the day choosing which room he should have, what he should have for dinner his first night; even what she should wear to grace the occasion. She was glad she would have him to herself for twenty-four hours before Nicholas returned.

  He arrived a little fretful after his long journey, complaining of the cold and the indifferent dining-car service on the train, but he returned Shelley's welcome with graciousness, and when he heard that Nicholas was away from home until the next day he seemed to forget his complaints and expressed much pleasure that he was to have his daughter alone for a little while.

  "That was charmingly thoughtful of Nicholas," he remarked stretching his legs to the library fire, and reaching for the decanter which Shelley had placed at his elbow. "Now, let me look at you, my child. Yes, charming ... charming ... you certainly pay for dressing, Shelley. Who makes your clothes?"

  "I don't know," she said indifferently. "Nicholas has them made somewhere in London."

  Lucius' eyebrows rose.

  "You mean he chooses your clothes?" "He designs most of them."

  "Good gracious me!" Lucius looked amused. "Still, it's in character, I suppose. Are you still part of the collection, my sweet?"

  He saw the momentary uneasiness in her face and changed the conversation immediately. Time enough to satisfy his latent curiosity. He had not particularly wanted to come to Garazion and meet his son-in-law again, but he was bored, and London was expensive; he was curious to see how this odd marriage was working out, and he hoped to borrow money from his daughter.

  "And where is the good Nicholas?" he enquired. "Or have you become the discreet wife who never asks her husband questions?"

  "He's taken Martin - the little boy I wrote to you about -to London to hand him over to some friend of his mother's who's taking him out to India."

  "Well, that, I should think, is a relief," remarked Lucius, yawning. "Other people's children always underfoot can become a frightful bore."

  "It wasn't like that at all, " she said. "I loved Martin. I shall miss him very much,''

  "To be sure," said Lucius, looking at her curiously. "I'd forgotten. Take me round this mansion of yours and show me where I'm to sleep. I should like a bath."

  After dinner he inspected the portraits, having some apt comment for each one. The excellent dinner had filled him with a glow of well-being; the lovely old silver and glass had delighted his eye, and Baines pouring wine at his elbow had given him the right feeling of importance. After all he might extend his visit; the house was extremely comfortable, and the good living would cost him nothing.

  "You know," he said, "I was wiser than I thought when I persuaded you into this marriage. I'd no idea Old Nick did himself quite so well. Where's his august portrait, by the way?"

  "There isn't one. At least, I believe he was painted as a very young man, but he had it taken away after - after the

  accident," Shelley said.

  "Really? Understandable, I suppose. No one wants to live with a constant reminder of what they once were. Who's this young spark?"

  "That's Justin Penryn - Martin's father."

  "O-ho! The handsome younger brother!" Lucius looked more closely. "Yes, I can see some women would fall for him. The girl was scarcely to be blamed in the circumstances."

  "What girl, Father?" asked Shelley quickly.

  "The cousin - the one that died - what was her name?"

  "Lydia Penryn?"

  "Yes, Lydia. Ran off with young Justin right under his brother's nose, so I'm told."

  She stood with her back to Justin's portrait and said gravely: "Father, was Nicholas in love with Lydia?" He regarded her with amusement.

  "Good gracious! Hasn't Nicholas told you that old story?" he exclaimed. "It was all in the best romantic tradition. It had always been understood in the family, apparently, that the girl would marry the elder brother -I think they were actually engaged when she changed her mind and ran off with the young one."

  "But Father," she said slowly, "That must have been after the accident."

  He was busy examining the next portrait and was not looking at her.

  "Of course it was," he said. "I imagine the accident was mainly responsible. Nicholas can't have been a very pretty sight in those early days."

  At the little exclamation of pain she gave, he turned and looked at her.

  "Good gracious, my pretty, I've upset you!" he said. "It was bad luck on Old Nick, I'll admit. I believe he was very fond of her - but you can hardly blame the girl. It must have been a shock to her."

  "And what about the shock to Nicholas - the double shock?" she said.

  He began to wish he had not mentioned the thing at all.

  "Well, it was all a long time ago, and the girl's dead," he

  said impatiently. "You mustn't let yourself become morbid about things that don't really concern you. Nicholas must want to forget it or he'd have told you the story himself. Now, for heaven's sake, let's get back to the library fire and talk about pleasanter matters."

  She followed him to the library, but all the time he was gossiping idly about his affairs she was scarcely listening. So much that she had not understood in Nicholas was made plain. The hermit's life he had led for so long, the concentration on beauty which was inanimate, the repudiation of love, even of affection, because one woman had found him repulsive. Even Lydia's child had shared that distaste, and it was clear now why Martin's behaviour had held such a sting for him. Shelley's whole being was outraged by the dead Lydia's cruelty, and could Nicholas have come home that night, she thought she could have told him all that was in her heart.

  "Shelley, you're not listening," Lucius complained a little fretfully.

  "I'm sorry, Father," she said. "What were you saying?"

  "I was asking you if you could let me have a little ready c
ash before I go back. London's damned expensive these days, and you can't have many personal expenses, living here."

  "I never have any money," she said simply.

  Lucius' eyebrows climbed to his silver hair.

  "But surely Nicholas makes you an allowance?"

  "No. He's never suggested it, and I've never asked him."

  He frowned.

  "But this is all wrong. Every woman should have some independence these days. Nicholas can well afford to make you a handsome allowance. I shall speak to him about it."

  "No, please don't," she said quickly. "I have all I need he's most generous."

  "You've scarcely all you need if you can't even spare a tenner for your poor old father!"

  She moved restlessly. This was a mood she instinctively distrusted in him. The early warmth and sweetness of their reunion seemed to have vanished, and his manner had the brittle quality of the days when he had been trying to persuade her to marry Nicholas.

  "If you're hard up, Father," she said gently, "I'm sure Nicholas would help you. Shall I ask him, if you don't care to?"

  Her father's smile was slightly cynical.

  "No, I don't think so. We'll have to think of some other way," he said, and immediately set out to charm her again by being the tender parent. Whatever the effort, he must keep her sympathy and establish his right to first place in her affections, for he did not believe that Nicholas had touched them deeply.

  All the next day he was the delightful companion she had always hoped for, and her sadness at Martin's departure went in the pleasure of his unexpected company. By the time Nicholas returned they were established in an intimacy that was not as irksome to Lucius as he had feared it would be. He had to admit that Shelley's desire to please him was very charming, and for a few days, at any rate, he was content to play the father of her expectations.

  When Nicholas returned in the evening, Shelley came flying across the hall to meet him in the way he had come to look for. His heart lifted at the happiness in her face. She had missed him as he hoped she might. Now that the boy was gone he was all she had, and the knowledge filled him with tenderness for her.