Anna and Her Daughters

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Oh Janie, don’t,” said Mother in a shaky voice. “Don’t talk about money — as if that were all that mattered.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand!”

  “I don’t understand — myself,” said Mother rather pitifully. “Of course I’m pleased — it’s wonderful — it’s frightfully clever of you, darling … but I wish you’d told me. I know I can’t help you like she does. I can’t share things with you — I’m not clever — but I could have given you peace to write — if you’d told me. I could have done that.”

  “Mother, listen —”

  “It’s just that you seem to be drifting away.”

  “But that’s nonsense!”

  “That’s what I feel. Ever since you went to work for her you’ve been — drifting away. Sometimes I’ve felt rather — miserable about it. I suppose I’m jealous — or something. It’s horrible, isn’t it? Quite horrible. Don’t let’s talk about it, Jane.”

  “We must talk about it!” I cried. “It’s a different sort of thing. Of course I’m fond of Mrs. Millard and terribly grateful to her for all she’s done. She’s absolutely wonderful in her own way. She’s brilliant and you can’t help admiring her, but she isn’t the sort of person you can love.”

  We were sitting there, looking at each other. It was frightful. It was terrifying. I did not know how to go on. I took her arm and shook her. “You’re you!” I said desperately. “There’s nobody like you — nobody at all! You must understand. You can if you try.”

  “Oh Janie!” said Mother, but she said it in a different tone of voice and I saw she had begun to understand.

  “If you knew her you wouldn’t be so silly about her and she wouldn’t be so silly about you,” I declared.

  “Is she silly about me?”

  I hesitated and then I said, “Yes.”

  “Oh,” said Mother thoughtfully.

  *

  It was time to go back to the inn and catch the bus so we collected all the litter and buried it in a deserted rabbit hole. I did not know whether to say any more about Mrs. Millard or leave it alone. Mother seemed quite cheerful and more like herself and I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

  “Tell me about the novel,” said Mother, slipping her hand through my arm as we walked along. “I’m sorry I was so silly about it, but you’ll let me read it, won’t you?”

  So it was all right!

  “Of course you must read it,” I said.

  “What is the book about?”

  “Oh — just people,” I said vaguely.

  “People in Ryddelton?” asked Mother with some anxiety.

  “Oh goodness no! It’s about highwaymen — and duels — and — and things like that.”

  Mother laughed and said she was glad. “We might have had to leave Ryddelton in a hurry,” she explained. “I once read a book about a woman who wrote a book about her neighbours and they weren’t at all pleased. She had to fly for her life.”

  “We shan’t have to leave Ryddelton,” I assured her.

  Chapter Twelve

  When we got back to Timble Cottage there was a car standing outside the door. It was Cousin Andrew’s car but there was no sign of its owner.

  “We’ve missed him! What a pity!” exclaimed Mother in dismay.

  “We haven’t missed him. He must be here somewhere.”

  “But Jane —”

  “But Mother,” I said laughing. “He couldn’t have gone back to Edinburgh without his car.”

  “He must have gone for a walk,” said Mother vaguely.

  This was the only explanation, for we had locked up the cottage and as usual had left the key of the front door hanging on a nail under the bird-table. The key was of iron and so large and heavy that it was uncomfortable to carry about. Mrs. Gow knew the secret, so she could get in if she wanted — and several other people knew about it too.

  We were still gazing round, looking for our unexpected visitor, when the window of the sitting-room was opened and he looked out.

  “I’ve been waiting for hours!” he exclaimed. “I wondered where on earth you had gone! I was beginning to get alarmed.”

  His voice sounded a little cross which was unusual, for Cousin Andrew was the most good-natured man in the world.

  “Oh poor Andrew!” cried Mother.” How horrid for you to find the door locked! If only we had known you were coming —”

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  “Climbed on to the shed and through the bathroom window,” he replied, even more crossly. “Really, Anna, you should have more sense! Anybody could get in without the slightest trouble. It isn’t safe. I suppose the bathroom window is left open all night?”

  “Who would want to get in?” asked Mother evading the question.

  “Burglars,” replied Cousin Andrew threateningly. “Burglars could get in.”

  “There aren’t any burglars in Ryddelton — and anyway there’s nothing for them to —” She hesitated and I knew what she was thinking.

  “Don’t you ever read the papers?” asked Cousin Andrew. “Don’t you realise that scarcely a day passes but some old woman gets murdered in her bed for a five pound note?”

  “But Andrew, I haven’t got a five pound note,” declared Mother smiling at him sweetly.

  By this time I had unlocked the front door and was hurrying into the kitchen, for it was nearly seven o’clock and we must feed our guest before he returned to Edinburgh. Fortunately there was cold beef — enough for us all — and there was a bowl of soup. There was cheese and biscuits and I could make coffee. It was not a luxurious repast but it would have to do.

  The sitting-room door was open and I could hear them talking as I made the preparations for the meal.

  “Yes, Andrew,” Mother was saying. “Of course I meant to have the painters but I put them off. Rosalie had to have clothes to go to Ayr with the Fergusons. You see that, don’t you?”

  “I told you I would pay for the house to be painted.”

  “But I can’t let you …”

  The door was shut after that.

  By the time supper was ready Cousin Andrew had quite recovered his temper and was his usual cheerful self. He asked about our day at St. Mary’s Loch and recalled a fishing expedition to the loch which had taken place over twenty years ago.

  “You were there, Anna,” he said. “Do you remember …”

  “Yes,” said Mother smiling. “You caught a trout and I lost it for you. I tried to net it and I knocked the hook out of its mouth. It was the biggest trout we saw that day — I nearly wept.”

  “Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “It was quite small, and not well-hooked. I’d have lost it anyway.”

  “Oh Andrew, what a lie!” cried Mother.

  They both laughed, and I laughed too — though quite honestly I could not see anything very funny about it.

  “Have you met the fellow who’s bought Mount Charles?” asked Cousin Andrew.

  Mother nodded. “He seems very nice,” she said. “Jane and I were peering in at the gate and he came out and asked us to tea.”

  “Very civil of him,” remarked Cousin Andrew.

  “Yes, wasn’t it? Jane liked him a lot. Didn’t you Jane?”

  I knew she was teasing but I did not care. “Yes, I thought he was very nice,” I said.

  “He’s a good chap,” agreed Cousin Andrew. “I know him fairly well. I’m straightening out some of his tangles for him and he’s extremely pleasant to deal with. Lady Fisher was an absolute tartar.”

  “Was she?” asked Mother with interest. “Do tell us about it, Andrew.”

  But of course he would not be drawn. He smiled and said he had told us too much already. “De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” said Cousin Andrew, and he added, “You ought to know better than to ask a solicitor to give away his client’s secrets.”

  By this time it was getting late and it was time for him to go, but before he went he took out his penknife and stabbed it into the woodwork of the sitting-room windo
w.

  “Look at that, Anna,” he said. “Just look at it!”

  “I know,” agreed Mother regretfully. “But she had to have a decent coat and skirt.”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “I know,” repeated Mother. “But I must stand on my own feet.”

  “You’re an awful trial.”

  “I know,” said Mother for the third time.

  He got into his car and drove away.

  *

  The next morning when I went to Mrs. Millard at the usual time there was a neatly typed manuscript lying on the table.

  “It came yesterday,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t have opened it but the temptation was irresistible. Yes, it’s The Mulberry Coach at last.”

  “Joy!” I cried pouncing upon it. “Oh joy! Have you read it, Mrs. Millard?”

  “Yes, I’ve read it again. The amount of time I’ve wasted reading your simple little tale is deplorable.”

  “Is it any good? Does it read better in typescript?”

  “It reads a great deal better in typescript. I’ve been trying to decide what publishing firm shall have the felicity of putting it on the market.”

  “I don’t suppose any of them will take it.”

  “You suppose wrongly. The Mulberry Coach is a publisher’s dream. It’s a natural.”

  “You mean it’s really good!”

  “It depends what you mean by ‘really good’,” said Mrs. Millard thoughtfully. “If you mean is it a work of art which will enrol you in the annals of fame it isn’t good at all. Alas, my poor Jane, you will never see your sculptured bust displayed on a marble column in the British Museum — or wherever it is that they display sculptured busts of the famous — but, unless I am very much mistaken, you will see a great many copies of The Mulberry Coach on the shelves of libraries and the counters of bookstalls all over the country — and probably in America as well if you have the temerity to cross the Atlantic Ocean. You see, my dear Jane, The Mulberry Coach provides an escape from the drabness of the modern world.”

  She took a long breath and continued, “Housewives will leave piles of unwashed dishes in the sink and revel in the richness and prodigality of the banquets which you have provided; miserable little clerks in lawyers’ offices will neglect their dusty duties and be transported to a wider life and more colourful surroundings; girls will imagine themselves swept off their feet by the wooing of your masterful hero; fashionable ladies will say to each other, ‘My dee-ar! You don’t mean to say you haven’t read The Mulberry Coach, by Jane Harcourt? It’s abso-lootly thrilling! Everyone’s talking about it!’ Young men will choose it for Aunt Fanny’s birthday and read it with avidity before despatching it by post with a suitable card … and of course people who haven’t got twelve and sixpence to spare will rush to the nearest Public Library and clamour loudly for a copy of The Mulberry Coach.”

  She paused and looked at me. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  “That will be fun,” I said. “But if I could possibly make a little money — just enough to have the house painted — it would be marvellous.”

  “Why not have the house pulled down and rebuilt,” suggested Mrs. Millard. “Of course I haven’t seen Timble Cottage — my own fault, I know — but it doesn’t sound a very desirable residence for a popular novelist.”

  “It’s a lot more desirable than it sounds.”

  “Well then, take Mother for a trip to the South Seas.”

  “I don’t believe she’d go.”

  “How tiresome of her!” exclaimed Mrs. Millard. “And how tiresome you are! Here am I trying to help you to spend a fortune —”

  “I haven’t got it yet,” I reminded her.

  “If you don’t make a small fortune out of The Mulberry Coach I’ll eat my — I’ll eat Esmeralda’s letters!” cried Mrs. Millard and she gestured to the pile of letters which lay on the desk.

  I did not believe it — not really — and I was not sure whether she believed it either. I said, “Well, of course it would be marvellous if I got enough money to —”

  “Don’t say it! You know perfectly well that it annoys me when you keep on saying the same thing over and over again.”

  “Yes,” I said meekly.

  Suddenly she was perfectly serious and in quite a different voice she said, “Listen, child, if you want fifty pounds to paint your revolting little house I’ll lend it to you here and now. You can pay it back when The Mulberry Coach arrives.”

  She did believe it.

  “Well?” asked Mrs. Millard. “Do you want fifty pounds or not? You can have it to-morrow if you want it.”

  “No,” I said breathlessly. “I mean yes of course I want it, and it’s frightfully kind, but I can’t take it — honestly.”

  “Mother wouldn’t like it.”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh well, I don’t blame her,” said Mrs. Millard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Rosalie returned from Ayr I knew something had happened to her; she looked different — prettier and more alive. At supper that evening she had a lot to say about all she had done and the people she had met and how much the children had enjoyed their holiday … but I had a feeling that there was something she did not tell.

  Helen had come down for the week-end and I saw her looking at Rosalie in surprise, and presently she said, “Couldn’t we change the subject? I think children are boring.”

  “Boring!” cried Rosalie. “Deb and Sally are terribly interesting. They say the most amusing things.”

  “Why don’t you tell us some of the amusing things —”

  “But I have! I’ve just told you —”

  “Helen is teasing you,” said Mother quickly, and she added with unusual asperity, “For goodness’ sake don’t start quarrelling the moment Rosalie arrives.”

  After I had gone to bed and was lying, comfortably tucked in and reading, there was a little sound at the door and Rosalie appeared.

  “Are you sleepy?” she whispered — and then, not waiting for an answer she came in and sat on my bed.

  It reminded me of the night Helen had come to tell me about ‘the earthquake’ but there were several important differences between that night and this: Helen had come in her evening frock, with a white face and blazing eyes; Rosalie was in her old blue flannel dressing-gown, her face was pink and her eyes were shining softly. Helen had come with bad news but Rosalie’s news was good.

  “Jane, I must tell you,” whispered Rosalie. “It’s a secret. You won’t tell anybody, will you? You won’t tell Mother — or Helen. I couldn’t bear Helen to know. It’s about Kenneth’s brother.”

  “Kenneth’s brother?”

  “His name is Ronnie,” said Rosalie as if it were the most wonderful name in the world.

  I gazed at her. “Ronnie!” I echoed.

  “It’s a darling name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it’s a very nice name.”

  For a moment I felt a little faint. There was a queer cold feeling in my heart … but of course it could not be the same. There are dozens of young men called Ronnie.

  “Oh Jane, he’s marvellous!” declared Rosalie. “He’s very tall and — and awfully good-looking — with brown hair — and blue eyes. There’s something absolutely thrilling about him. I couldn’t help — liking him — and he likes me. I know he likes me, Jane.”

  “Rosalie, are you — in love?”

  She blushed and nodded. “I couldn’t help it. I mean the moment I saw him I just felt — I felt as if there was nobody else in the world! He never said anything but I’m sure he felt the same. There wasn’t time to say anything; Kenneth and Jean were there, and he was terribly busy seeing patients, so we were scarcely ever alone; but one afternoon when the others were out he came into the garden and talked to me and played with the children. Ronnie loves children and he’s so — so sweet with them, Jane. We like all the same things,” said Rosalie dreamily. “We like children — and we like birds.”


  “It sounds — perfect,” I said. My voice sounded queer to me but Rosalie did not seem to notice.

  “It is perfect,” she said happily. “It’s the most wonderful thing that ever happened. You’ll like him, Jane. You won’t be able to help liking him. You’ll see him to-morrow.”

  “To-morrow? Do you mean he’s coming here?”

  “Yes, I forgot to tell you. He has got to be back in Edinburgh to-morrow night and he’s going to lunch with Kenneth and Jean on the way. He has got a little car so it’s all quite easy. He’s coming here to tea.”

  She paused and looked at me. I could see she thought I ought to be more excited at her news, but somehow I could not be excited. I knew now, without a doubt, that Rosalie’s Ronnie was the young man with the thick brown hair … but why should I mind? I had seen him once for a few minutes that was all. Probably he had forgotten all about me — or if he remembered me it would be as a plain, gawky girl who was dull and unfriendly.

  “It will be all right, won’t it?” asked Rosalie with a shade of anxiety. “I mean Mother won’t mind? I asked him to tea — at least he asked himself, really. He said would I be in if he called in the afternoon — so what could I do but ask him to tea?”

  “Mother won’t mind. She’ll be delighted. You’ll tell Mother, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Rosalie. “At least I’ll tell her that a friend is coming to tea. It’s too soon to — to tell her anything else. I mean there’s nothing to tell — not really. I mean I’d rather — wait. It’s too soon to say anything. You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “No, of course not,” I assured her.

  “I thought you’d be more excited — but you haven’t seen him have you? Wait till you see how marvellous he is!” She hesitated and then added “I’ll just tell Mother I’ve asked a friend to tea, that’s all.”

  Personally I thought it would be better to tell Mother a little more, but Rosalie would not have it, and it was for her to say.

  Rosalie went on talking about Ronnie; she said the same things over and over again. It was late by this time, nearly twelve o’clock, and my lamp was flickering.