by Sara Seale
“Yes—no—I don’t really know.”
“I think,” said Julian, easing himself more comfortably into his chair, “we’ll get married pretty soon.”
Jennet stared at him. He had said it so casually that at first she thought she must have been mistaken. As she made no reply he looked across at her and observing her astonished face, laughed.
“Don’t look so amazed,” he said. “After all, you’ve always known that was the idea.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said in a small voice. “But not for a long time.”
His eyes were thoughtful.
“I had meant to wait,” he admitted. “But lately—well, I think we’ve hung about quite long enough—don’t you agree?”
“How—how soon?” she asked.
“Round about Christmas. It’s November now—you’ve known me a year—that’s long enough, don’t you think?”
A year, thought Jennet. A year of planning, of strict supervision; a year of moulding into the right frame.
“I don’t think a year would ever be long enough,” she said carefully. “I don’t really know you, Julian.”
He felt his freshly shaven chin.
“Sometimes I think I don’t know you very well, either, Jennet,” he said humorously. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that we’d do better not to wait much longer. You’re very young, I know, but I’ve taught you all I can without a more definite status. You’re nearly eighteen. I think we’ll get married.”
There seemed to be nothing for her to say. She had always accepted the idea that she would eventually marry Julian, and if, in her own mind, she had placed the notion in the far future, it was only because he himself had treated her so much as a child.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” he demanded, a little piqued at her apparent lack of interest.
She cleared her throat nervously.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, aren’t you interested in your future—where you’ll live and things like that?”
It had never occurred to her that she would be consulted. She said, trying to make an effort:
“I don’t really mind where I live. Would it be here?”
“In this flat?” He considered. “A little small for two, but we might have to make a start here.”
She got up suddenly and went to the window, opening the curtains and staring out at the lights on the river. Julian watched her straight, slender back with a little puzzled frown.
“Come here,” he said abruptly.
She came at once and stood beside his chair, and he slipped an arm round her waist.
“Don’t you want to marry me?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, and repeated: “I don’t know.” He pulled her down on to the arm of his chair.
“You know nothing very much, do you, darling?” he said with tenderness, and it was the first time he had ever used any endearment to her. He felt her tremble, and drawing her face down to his, kissed her with great gentleness.
“That’s the first time,” she said.
“The first time you’ve been kissed? What about that young man on the moor?” He was laughing at her, dismissing Frankie’s kisses as something which did not count.
“No, the first time you’ve ever done it. You never even kissed me good night—you or Aunt Emily.”
“A good night kiss,” said Julian with humor. “Yes, we might have given you that. Will you sing for me, Jennet? Will you sing ‘Searching for Lambs’ ?”
She did not feel like singing. There was an uncomfortable lump in her throat and confusion in her mind. But the habit of obedience was strong, and Julian so rarely asked a favor. It was the least she could do for him. He got up and went to the piano, switching on the light. Her voice sounded tired, and once or twice she stumbled over a phrase, but he did not interrupt. But for Jennet all the meaning the song had ever had for her seemed to crystallize in each loving line, leaving her empty in its terrible simplicity.
“For I am thine and thou are mine,
No man shall uncomfort thee:
We’ll join our hands in wedded bands—
She broke off and hid her face in her hands, shaken with tears.
Julian finished the verse, ending on a soft chord, then he reached up a hand to her.
“Jennet, my dear, what is it?” he said. “That song’s always upset you. Why?”
“I can’t—I can’t—” she said, and finished forlornly: “It’s meant for lovers.”
He pulled her down beside him on the music-stool, and as once before, he drew her head back on to his breast and held her closely.
“And you feel cheated,” he said gently. “Is that it?”
“No, no, not exactly. But it’s not meant for me.”
“I think it is. Do you remember when you got lost on the moor, you talked a lot about the song and the china fawn that was somehow mixed up together and stood for something you wanted from life? I didn’t altogether understand then, but I think I do, now.”
She turned to him with a little sigh.
“It wasn’t just Frankie so long ago,” she said, “it was the children—the sense of belonging they all had. Frankie was only part of it and I was part of it, too.”
“I see.” He touched her with gentle fingers. “Yes, I see. I was very stupid, wasn’t I? But why couldn’t you have told me at the time?”
“You wouldn’t have understood. If you’d only been like this before,” she said, reaching up to touch his face, “I could have explained myself so much better.”
He laughed and kissed her wet cheek.
“You never were very good at explaining, were you, my silly dear?”
“No,” she said, and sighed. She could not explain now that this strange, unlooked-for tenderness was new and sweet, but that at any minute he might turn back again into that other being who pounced and snubbed.
“I’m going to take you back to Piggy now,” he said, and got up, drawing her gently with him. “You’re overtired. To-morrow I’ll come and see you, and we’ll discuss further arrangements. In the meantime, dry your eyes and blow your nose. You look more like an orphan than the real thing.”
She sniffed, searched in vain for a handkerchief, and he gave her his, remarking
“I always told you women never have enough clean handkerchiefs. Run along and get your coat.”
It was not until she was dropping off to sleep in Piggy’s spare room that she remembered, she had, left Luke’s manuscript in Julian’s flat.
CHAPTER F O U R T E E N
Julian was to come round after breakfast, and half the morning, Jennet stood at Piggy’s window watching for his car.
Piggy, observing her, smiled a little dryly to herself, and hoped that this ridiculous farce was about to end. If Julian had not been so clumsy and so stubbornly dictatorial, long ago the child might have worn that eager expectant air for his arrival. Well, she was thankful it wasn’t Luke.
“He’s late,” came Jennet’s voice from the window. “He said eleven o’clock.”
“Well, that won’t hurt him for once in a way. I must go out and get the joint now, Jennet. If you are not here when I get back, I will know that Julian has taken you out to luncheon.”
Jennet turned and looked at Piggy.
“You are a dear,” she said impulsively, and would have liked to give her a hug, but Piggy, like the Danes, did not encourage embraces.
She watched the little figure walk away sedately in the direction of Gloucester Road, then she saw Julian’s car turn the corner of the street and draw up in front of the house. She was waiting with the front door open long before his dragging steps had brought him to the head of the stairs. She had wondered if she might kiss him in greeting without risking a snub, but the first glance at his dark, unsmiling face as he stopped on the landing made her clasp her hands behind her back and say rather blankly:
“Hello!”
He went into Piggy’s sitting room without speaking, and she followed
him, shutting the door quietly behind them.
“Is—is anything the matter?” she asked him nervously. He peeled off his gloves and threw them on a chair with his hat and overcoat before replying, then he said without preamble:
“Has Luke been making love to you?”
She was completely taken aback and said indecisively: “I—I think so.”
He made the old impatient gesture with his stick. “You think so—don’t you know? Either a man makes love to you or he doesn’t. Can’t you be, more definite?”
“Well, yes—yes, he has,” she admitted.
The room was still full of Luke’s flowers. Julian’s eyes rested on them for a moment, then came back to Jennet’s face.
“And you?” he asked then with a quietness which deceived her. “You let him make love to you?”
“I—She was confused and unsure. Love-making—the love-making of subtle phrases from someone like Luke just happened. “I suppose I did.”
He turned away from her, and began prodding at the fire with his stick, that old trick he had when he was most disturbed.
“It’s all there in the book, isn’t it?” he said. “I read it after you’d gone last fright. Do you like the idea of your poor little emotions being set down in cold print?”
Her eyes were fixed on his back.
“No,” she said, “I don’t. I didn’t realize at the time that I was just—copy.”
“And the last chapter—the one that’s unfinished—was that just copy, too?”
“I don’t understand.” She tried to remember where Luke had left off and could not.
Julian spoke, still without turning.
“If you remember, the heroine was about to accept her first lover. It had already been proposed that the two should sleep together.”
“Oh, no, Julian, we never—I never—” Jennet’s voice was horrified.
Suddenly he wheeled round on her and she realized that his quietness had misled her from the beginning. He was furiously angry.
“And this is the one man I trusted you with—the one man who, knowing my intentions, would not, I thought, betray my trust. What a fool I was! What a god-almighty fool!”
She made a little timid gesture towards him. It was Luke, she thought, who had hurt him most.
“Julian, please—let me explain— ” she began, but he cut her short.
“Be quiet! You don’t need to explain anything. It’s all too plainly written down—for anyone to read and understand. Oh, I suppose I can’t blame you, you poor little fool. I should have known better than to turn you loose with someone of Luke’s charm and experience. It’s not surprising your head was turned.”
“I don’t think,” said Jennet with dignity, “that my head was turned. But Luke was the one person who treated me as an adult—the one person who ever considered my feelings, made a fuss of me, yes, and made love to me, even if it was only to see how I’d react.”
Some of Julian’s own anger was beginning to take possession of her, driving out her fear of him.
Julian looked at her, his eyes hard and bitter.
“Do you think I couldn’t have made love to you with more right and justification than Luke?” he said.
“Why didn’t you, then?” she retorted. “If you had ever, once, been as you were last night, do you think I would have listened to Luke?”
There was a small silence.
“Why didn’t I?” His voice was very bitter. “Because, like a fool, I thought it wasn’t fair. You were very young, and you were in my care. What I wouldn’t allow to others, I certainly wouldn’t allow to myself.”
“No,” said Jennet, “that’s not true. You didn't need me as a person—you don’t need anyone. I was just an experiment. Oh, I know I owe you gratitude. You’ve thought for me, planned for me, you’ve sheltered me from everything that might spoil your experiment for you, but you never for one moment gave me what I wanted.” Her voice rose. “I’m sick of having my clothes and my friends chosen for me, my opinions—even my thoughts vetted—do you hear? I want to live my own life, be my own self. I’m still grateful to you, Julian, but I don’t want to marry you.”
“Go on,” he said quietly.
She turned away with a tired little gesture “That’s all,” she said.
The anger went out of her as quickly as it had come, and Julian controlled his own with an effort.
“Now you’ve got that off your chest, we’ll have no more nonsense,” he said. “Now you’ll listen to me. I’ve wired Aunt Emily that I’m sending you back to Pennycross tomorrow, so you’d better spend the rest of the day packing. We’ll forget about this unfortunate affair, which, as things have turned out, can’t be very flattering to your self-esteem. You’ll stay at Pennycross until I can make arrangements to marry you, and, if you prefer it, I won’t see you between now and that time, to give you an opportunity to readjust yourself.”
“I told you,” said Jennet unhappily, “I don’t want to marry you.”
“You were quite acquiescent last night. What do you suppose you’ll do if you don’t marry me?”
“Work—the same as anyone else out of an orphanage.”
His eyes were more kindly.
“You seem to forget Aunt Emily adopted you. You’re her legal responsibility until you’re of age, and that’s a long way off yet. Now, don’t let’s have any more of this nonsense. Get your things packed, and tell Piggy I’ll come round and explain things to her this afternoon.”
He began to put on his overcoat and collect his hat and gloves.
“Julian—”
He paused at the door.
“Well?”
“You can’t force me.”
He pulled on his gloves impatiently.
“Of course I can’t force you. But you’ll see things quite differently once you’re back in the country. I made a great mistake in bringing you to London before you were ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready to behave like an adult.”
“You won’t let me do that,” she said sadly. “Julian—I shall go away.”
He looked at her sharply and his eyes narrowed. “You don’t by any chance imagine you’re in love with Luke, do you?”
She shook her head.
“No, I’m not in love with Luke. I’m not in love with anybody.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said dryly. “At least among your other foolishnesses you’ve spared me that aspect of the adolescent.”
His voice was still bitter, and she knew an impulse to ease the hurt which Luke had dealt him.
“Julian, I’m sorry—” she began, but he broke in, his hand on the door knob.
“Don’t be. You told me only yesterday that I trusted people either too much or not enough. I don’t know which category referred to Luke and which to you, but I’ve only myself to thank.”
Jennet stared at him. The promise of last night’s new tenderness had indeed fled with the morning.
“Oh, go away, go away,” she cried, and broke into desolate weeping.
He stood looking down at her for a long minute, and sadness wiped the bitterness from his dark face, then he opened the door, without another word, and quietly shut it behind him.
Jennet did not hear him go. She was shaken by her own weeping, blind and deaf to anything outside that suddenly released emotion. She wept for many things; for lost felicity which had been so nearly within her grasp, for the bitterness behind Julian’s anger, for the knowledge that she could perhaps have loved him. She did not think of the future; she only knew that she must go, not to Pennycross to-morrow at Julian’s bidding, but away from them all, away where they could not reach her and talks about gratitude.
She looked at the clock. It was after twelve. Piggy would be back any time from her morning’s shopping. She must go before she returned and learnt of Julian’s new arrangements.
Jennet went up to her room and bathed her face in cold water. She packed a small case hurriedly with bare necess
ities, scribbled a bald little note to Piggy telling her not to worry, and turned out her handbag for some loose coins. She had enough, she decided, a little wildly, enough to get her to the other side of London, to lose herself in the crowds and become anonymous. She had no thought beyond that.
She propped the note up on the mantelpiece in Piggy’s sitting room, then with one last look of distaste at Luke’s expensive flowers, slipped out of the flat and down the stairs. Getting on the first bus she saw she took a six-penny fare.
As the bus rattled along she had time to think more rationally, and the problem of what she was to do next presented alarming aspects. She could not go riding round in buses all day, besides it would use up her few last coins. She must be housed and fed while she looked for work, and without money neither of these, things were possible.
The conductor was shouting: “Oxford Street! Oxford Street!” and out of the window Jennet saw the bright gold lettering of Sparks & Spicer’s store. Sparks & Spicer ... Oxford Street ... that was somehow familiar. Milly! Milly White worked in a department in Sparks & Spicer, and Jennet had promised to go and see her.
She picked up her case and jumped off the bus just as it was beginning to move.
As she pushed her way through the crowds inside the store, she was beset with fears that Milly might have left. It was a long time ago, that meeting back in June. If Milly had gone ... But she was there in the haberdashery, her tight curls gleaming with peroxide.
“Yes” she said disdainfully as Jennet approached the counter, then her whole manner changed. “Why, if it isn’t little Jenny-wren! Took your time about calling round I must say! I thought you must have gone high-hat with your posh way of living! How are you, ducks?”
“Milly, I must speak to you—in private,” Jennet said in a low voice. “I—I’m in trouble.”
Milly gave her a shrewd look.
“I should say!” she remarked. She leant across the counter, ignoring a woman impatiently tapping with her purse to attract attention. “Listen. I get out for lunch at one. Meet me at the A.B.C. round the corner. I’ll be along as soon as I can get rid of these old trouts.”
Jennet found the A.B.C. and joined a queue waiting for tables. She was still standing there when Milly arrived, but in five minutes they had a table.
