"Thank you—thank you, Aunt Bella!" Nicki cried, gibing the plump little woman the kiss of gratitude she would have liked to offer Jonathan. He sat a little away from the women, letting them settle final details, aching with the question he could not ask Nicki . . . the question about Nigel. He knew that this coming holiday for Aunt Bella and Pietro would be a bitter-sweet interlude for himself. Cobbler's Bay was delightful, an old fishing hamlet that was too small to take in many holiday-makers, and Vine Cottage—he must get Vine Cottage in order at once. If he paid old Creehan enough of a bonus the men could be working there tomorrow
His thoughts took a practical turn, and he excused him-self to telephone the builder. Though Nicki would only be visiting Vine Cottage every day for a few weeks, he would have it ready for her down to the last detail. ... He would make it as much like the albergo as he could, and perhaps a happy time there with Pietro would cure her homesickness for Lugano, and be an escape from the conventional life of Osterley House.
His poor little wild goose had been trapped indeed, by her pity for an old sick woman. But he could look further ahead than a girl of her age, and he knew that before long she would probably be able to lead any life she chose; she would be able to buy herself a dozen Vine Cottages and a mansion or two into the bargain.
That blasted money! he thought wearily, when he had spoken to the builder, who had promised to put the interior work in hand immediately. "And the outside colour-wash, doctor, if the saints stop this downpour before the week is out!"
The discreet promise of a handsome bonus for time saved had worked wonders. Money again. Jonathan was thankful he had enough to procure this little pleasure for Nicki . . . but what he had would be mere chickenfeed against the Stannisford thousands.
He would have to be very, very careful not to influence a grateful child like Nicki during Pietro's visit. . . . He, at least, would avoid emotional blackmail at all costs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AUNT BELLA entered into the arrangements for Pietro's holiday with complete enjoyment. Having a boy of ten again would bring back the happiness of Jonathan's school holidays, and without fuss or bustle she attended to many details in the week that followed.
Stephen Grant, as they had predicted, preferred to stay in his own home. But he had no objection to his wife deserting him for a month or so. "Leave me Thomas and I shall be quite comfortable—probably spend my evenings at the club. I never was much use in cottages, or on the water," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "But no match-making, my dear."
"Match-making?" Aunt Bella was all innocence. "I leave that nonsense to silly old things like Helen, dearest."
Stephen had not mentioned the matter of Helen's will again to any member of his household. Helen had particularly asked him not to confide in Bella.
"Bella always disliked Henry so much, Steve," she said on a small sigh.
"Perhaps because she was always very fond of you," Steve retorted.
But Helen had a way of side-stepping arguments. She said softly, "Bella would be furious with me about this will, but I think I know what Nicole wants—"
"What Nicole wants at twenty-two may not be what she will want at forty-two." Stephen Grant had made a last effort to get the new will drafted on what he considered a just basis. "And after all, the money is hers, by right, Helen, without any strings attached to it."
"If it comes to that," the old lady argued with surprising obstinacy, "Henry had a right to do what he liked with his own money. It was not entailed."
Now Stephen Grant was a little perturbed about this project of a holiday for the young Italian boy. Jonathan would surely spend most of his admittedly small free time with them at Vine Cottage, and Nicole would certainly be there every day. He hoped Bella was not planning anything foolish. He trusted Jonathan and Jonathan's pride completely, but he did not trust Nature, and young people could very easily fall in love in romantic, rustic surroundings. Stephen Grant was not a hard man, but he had the legal mind and its attitude towards the responsibilities of great fortunes.
He was also much too fond of his nephew to want him to get badly hurt, and he found it difficult to believe that any young girl could withstand the temptation offered by enormous wealth and power.
Aunt Bella even found time to go and talk to Helen, who had not been enthusiastic about the cottage project. "Nicole is a little inclined to behave in a bohemian fashion now," she complained gently. "This cottage idea will make her worse."
"You let her off the leash now and then, my dear," Bella patted her friend's hand, "or we shall have her running away altogether."
Nigel was inclined to sulk, too. "You won't have any time for me at week-ends, Nicki. I've never seen you so excited—anyone would think this little Wop was a real relation of yours!"
"But he is. He's more of a cousin to me than you are," Nicki flamed, "and he is not a Wop!"
Nigel apologised so humbly that she allowed him to accompany her to Folkestone to meet Pietro.
"Carissimo, but you have grown! At least four inches," she exclaimed, as the boy ran down the gangway of the steamer and flung himself into her arms, with much kissing on both cheeks.
"I grew a lot in bed," he boasted, "and Dr. Adler says I can do almost anything now. Who is that pale man with you? He looks like a gigolo."
She flushed and drew away a little. Pietro had been speaking in Italian, but Nigel had heard the word gigolo and he looked furious. Nicki said firmly, "Here we must speak English; it is rude to talk when others cannot understand . . . and this is ray cousin, Nigel Stannisford. Say how do you do to him properly."
"You're still talking Italian!" Pietro grinned like a monkey, but he held out his hand stiffly to Nigel. "How do you do. I also am Nicki's cousin. My name is Pietro Fionetti."
Nigel shook hands, but he wanted to spank the cheeky-looking child. However, the journey to London was filled with Nicole's loving questions about all at the albergo and Pietro's excited descriptions of his travelling adventures. He insisted on delving into his shabby fibre suitcase then and there to exhibit his treasures—the new clothes Emilio had bought for him with Nicole's present of money, the photograph of the wedding group when his brother married Francesca last week, the special cake Lucia had baked for Nicki.
"It has been dull without you," he broke into Italian again, involuntarily, "but when I go back it will be better. Francesca makes everything very nice."
Nicki suffered a tiny pang. Already he was talking of going back, already Francesca had taken her place at the albergo . . . but of course she had. Nicki told herself firmly not to be a fool, to be glad they had Francesca.
Nigel was not good at talking to children. He squirmed inwardly with embarrassment when people passing their carriage raised amused eyebrows at the mess on the seat. He thought the Italian wedding-group ghastly, and the rich cake in its cardboard box a sticky mess. He was glad when they finally got into the train for Combe Castleton. If this wiry little brown-skinned boy with his excited chatter and gestures was a sample of Nicole's beloved friends, she could keep them.
He dusted a crumb of Torta alla Crema carefully from his immaculately creased trousers, unconscious of Nicki's amused glance.
Nicole insisted that Pietro should be presented to her grandmother before going on to the cottage. Helen was kind to the boy, though she winced when his strident young voice rang excitedly through the boudoir.
"I am sorry that you cannot stay here as we planned, Pietro," she said gently, "but as you see, I am not very well and I have to rest a great deal."
"Me, too, when I hurt my head"—the boy grinned and touched his scalp where the thick dark hair had grown over the scar—"I had to rest for a long, long time. Too long. But now I don't have to rest any more, only not to fall on my head again. And I am happee to stay in a little house by the sea—I have not seen the sea before yesterday."
"Well, I hope you have a nice holiday." Helen dismissed him with a box of candy, looking wistfully at Nicole, whose face was glow
ing as she had never seen it glow before. "I shall not see you again until Monday, I suppose, dear?"
Joyce and Paul and Nigel were spending the week-end at Qsterley House to keep Helen company, as Joyce said pointedly, while Nicole played sailors at the beach cottage. To them it was like old times, having Helen to themselves; but Helen knew that for her it would never be the same again. She would miss Nicole if only for a few days. . . . "Have a good time with your little friend, dearest," she whispered as if to make amends for her selfishness in wanting to keep the girl by her side . . . what was it Bella had said? I should let her off the leash now and then or we shall have her running away altogether. . . .
Well, she would not see much of Nicole for the next month, but she would put up with that if it made the child happy, if she lost the restless, rebellious look that sometimes crossed her sensitive face. Helen knew that Nicki was grateful, she wanted to bind the girl by ties of love and gratitude.
"Thank you, Grand'mère—for everything!" she whispered back, impulsively, stooping to kiss the soft cheek on the pillows. After all, Grand'mère had paid for this holiday for Pietro, for the new clothes and the journey anyway. Jonathan was providing everything else.
He came after dinner to fetch them, and the Stannisfords were mildly supercilious when the little Italian boy flung himself wildly at the surgeon.
"Caro mio Jonathan! I am here at last! I have been good, have I not? No more holes in my coconut!"
That was their own little joke. Jonathan rumpled the thick dark hair with gentle fingers. "Very good. For that you shall sail my boat, Bluebird."
"Ooh! What a car!" Pietro exclaimed joyously as they went out on the porch. His look begged Jonathan to let him sit in front, and Jonathan glanced at Nicki, who nodded.
"Of course. He will want to see how everything works."
She sat behind them, deeply contented. It was heavenly to be leaving behind the musty gloom of Osterley House, if only for a week-end (it had been Aunt Bella's idea that Nicki and Jonathan should spend the first week-end at the cottage, to make Pietro feel at home), and during the next month she would be at Cobbler's Bay every day. There was a bus service from Combe Castleton. And with Aunt Bella to see that she did not get into mischief, there was no need for any excort from Osterley House.
For the first time since her arrival Nicole felt free. It was like old times, sitting in the back of the car listening to Pietro's careful English that broke every now and then into Italian, to Jonathan's deep-toned replies. There was a smile in his voice today as if he, too, had temporarily escaped from the routine of his ordinary life.
He answered, patiently, all the boy's questions about everything they passed: the cathedral, the town, the harbour, and the little fishing hamlet for which they were bound, further along the coast. As soon as they were within sight of the sea Pietro fell silent, glueing his nose to the car window, rapt with this new joy. Even the weather had been kind to them; the August day had been long and bright, and now there was the soft summer twilight over everything; the red cliffs with their emerald crowns, the coves and beaches far below, the ships swinging gently to their anchors.
Nicole had not seen Vine Cottage. She thought that it had been rented for Aunt Bella's holiday; she did not know that Jonathan had only recently bought it, in a fit of recklessness, when the old owner died; she did not know that it had just been redecorated throughout. She only knew that it was delightful, that she loved it from the moment Jonathan pointed down the lane at the long, low, thatched cottage. The lane wound past Vine Cottage to other small houses, only a handful of them, and then down to the cove that sheltered half a dozen fishing smacks and a few private boats drawn up on the sandy beach. Cobbler's Bay was not large enough to attract the tourist steamers that invaded the larger beaches, it still belonged to the local inhabitants. From the front windows of Vine Cottage they could look down to the bay, from the back there were the rolling hill pastures, some golden with grain, some already harvested and ploughed.
Aunt Bella was on the doorstep waiting for them when she heard the car. She threw a smile towards Nicki and Jonathan, but her eyes and her outstretched arms were for the boy, who stood shyly for an instant before running to her. Already Pietro realised that in England one does not make too free with kisses, with embraces; one shakes hands stiffly, with silly how do you do saying . . . but here at last was the beaming face, the open arms, the deep bosom which he had missed so sorely since his mother's death. Aunt Bella and Pietro disappeared into the cottage, and Jonathan grinned as they put the car away in the small garage.
"I don't think you'll have to worry about him, Nicki."
"I am not worrying about him." Nicole stood on the cobbled mossy path, staring entranced at the cottage. It had been newly washed in warm, glowing apricot; the creepers that gave it its name had been carefully tied back to the walls again. The windows were leaded, the thatch curved above them like smiling eyebrows; and they were all wide open, with white curtains blowing in the soft breeze. Hollyhocks leaned negligently against the cottage, and the garden was a tangle of overgrown roses and lavender bushes. It reminded Nicki a little of the albergo, as Jonathan had intended it should, only the house was not dilapidated. I can tidy the garden, she thought joyously, when we are not in the boat; the days are so long at this season.
And now, for a whole week-end, Jonathan was with them . . . her cup was full and running over.
"I am too happy to worry about anyone!" she cried, thrusting her hands into the slanting pockets of her linen frock with the old familiar gesture.
"You like it?" he asked unnecessarily, blinded by the smile she turned on him.
"Oh, Jonathan—so much! This is a home, not a museum. I think people have been happy here . . . but it's not a cottage, it's a house."
"It was two cottages I—er—they knocked two cottages into one," he explained rather lamely. "It's often done. It has only four bedrooms now, and a sleeping porch."
"Please—show me everything," she commanded, and he realised what she had been missing during her stay at Osterley House, apart from the freedom of her life in Lugano. There, she had been to all intents and purposes the mistress of the house; at her grandmother's she was a mere visitor in an over-staffed household. He was suddenly thankful that Bessie was such a nice person, she and Bella would not resent Nicole taking her share of the household chores at Vine Cottage.
He held out his hand to her. "Come and see everything, then," he bade her with a smile that held tenderness. This was his Nicki, his little wild goose, and everything he had had done to Vine Cottage had been done for her, though he knew she would only be there during Pietro's holiday. Nevertheless, the game of make-believe was infinitely worth while; he could pretend at least for a few weeks that this was their home. . . .
Her enjoyment of everything more than repaid his anxious thought, the money he had spent. Through the open french windows at the back of the living room they could see Pietro and Aunt Bella exploring the orchard; the contents of the boy's case were strewn on the floor, where he had been showing his treasures to his new friend.
"Sst! The untidy one! He will be spoiled." With a graceful gesture Nicki sank to her knees, collecting the oddments, rapidly, deftly. "Where does he sleep, please?"
Jonathan, suddenly amused by the little touch of maternal fussing, showed her the boy's bedroom, her own, Bessie's, and his aunt's. To her worried question he answered that he would use the sleeping porch, which was quite comfortable at this time of the year.
Nicki was in love with everything. Most of all with Jonathan, who had made this happiness possible. She had no experience of renting cottages in the English seaside villages, but this one struck her as unusual. It had period furniture, and glazed chintzes, and a few ornaments that were obviously good. Aunt Bella had probably brought the linen and arranged the flowers, yet—
"This house belongs to a friend of yours?" she demanded bluntly. "It is too good for ordinary summer tenants, I think."
J
onathan was looking down over the bay. "It belongs to me," he said casually. He longed to turn and tell her, It is yours, my darling, if you want it . . . but how could he bribe her, guileless and inexperienced as she was at present, with a cottage that happened to take her fancy because it reminded her of the place where she had spent her girlhood? In a few years, he reminded himself bitterly, she will be able to buy herself all the cottages and yachts she wants. And a husband or two into the bargain.
"Jonathan!" She came to him and planted herself so that he had to turn and meet her incredulous gaze. "You mean—all this is yours? And yet you live in the town? There's a bathroom, and electric light, even a telephone," she added accusingly, glancing out through the open door at the landing. "You could easily live here, and still do your work in the town."
"I suppose I could." He answered her meekly, so that she was immediately suspicious. "But I only bought it three weeks ago. The old chap that owned it had a couple of boats; he looked after Bluebird for me as well. When he died it seemed sensible to buy the place when I had the chance."
"But you will live here, one day?" she argued, almost pleadingly. "Such a house is a. home, Jonathan. It doesn't like to be left empty."
"Perhaps I will, one day." He was casual, dry, seemingly indifferent. He gave her no clue to his longing to take her in his arms and kiss her until she cried for mercy, to make her a free gift of Vine Cottage and himself and all that he possessed. "And now we'd better take Pietro down to the beach before it gets too dark to see the steps."
That first week-end went too swiftly for Nicole in her happiness. It was like old times, being with Jonathan and Pietro on the water. Bluebird was only a sailing dinghy, and Nicki soon mastered her, learning of the currents and rocks and tides. Pietro was in his seventh heaven, and because he already loved Tia Bella he was not even unduly naughty, he consented to rest occasionally. Aunt Bella and Bessie were happy, too; preoccupied with the comfort of the menfolk, and the fun of making a new home, if only a temporary one.
Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake Page 21
