by Anne Weale
The high mantelpiece above the marble fireplace was swagged with chenille velvet and crowded with faded sepia photographs in curly silver frames, and the discolored brass curb surrounding the hearth was flanked by massive fire-irons.
“Remind me to fix up a musical evening some time,” Elliot said, grinning at her over another array of photographs on the grand piano. “Let’s take a look at the rest. It can’t be any worse than this.” He led the way across the hall and opened another door.
“This must be the dining room,” Rachel said, peering into the gloom and making out a long table ranged with high-backed chairs.
Elliot moved past her and unlatched the shutters. “I should have had the power connected before I came up here,” he said, over his shoulder. “Or do you have to run your own generators around here?”
“We’re not completely cut off from civilization,” she said, a shade acidly. “You’ll have to see the Electricity Board people in Branford. They’ll want your signature before they connect you.”
He chuckled. “Okay, don’t get sore. I’ve lived a lot rougher than you have in my time.”
It was on the tip of Rachel’s tongue to retort that she had no doubt of it, but at the same instant, she noticed something which made the sharp rejoinder give place to a murmur of excitement.
“Oh, look!” she exclaimed.
Elliot skirted the table and watched her inspecting the handsome sideboard, dusting part of the top with her handkerchief and examining the ivory inlay.
“It’s not all junk, Mr. Elliot,” she said, with satisfaction. “I think this is Sheraton.” Then, as he seemed unmoved: “He was one of the great eighteenth-century furniture makers.”
“Are you an expert on furniture?” he enquired.
“No, but I know a little about it—and even if this isn’t Sheraton, it’s a beautiful shape,” she said, stroking the glossy satinwood.
Elliot rapped it with his knuckles. “And probably rotten with worm,” he said briefly.
“Oh no! Do you think so?” she asked anxiously. “Why wasn’t the furniture stored?”
He shrugged. “I suppose the lawyers thought I’d get here sooner than I have, and had instructions to leave the place as it stood,” he said unconcernedly.
She followed him into the hall. “You ought to get an expert to come and look at everything,” she suggested. “There may be all kinds of treasures tucked away.”
“Maybe.” He made for the staircase, his long legs taking the shallow steps three at a time.
Rachel followed more slowly, puzzled and put off by his negligent attitude.
By the time she reached the landing, he was in one of the bedrooms. She stood in the doorway and watched him fling open the windows.
“Ye gods!” he said succinctly, surveying the huge mahogany bedstead, the towering wardrobe and marble-topped washstand with its china ewer and basin and covered soap dishes. His glance fell on an ornate plush-covered night commode in one corner. “A fine piece of Chippendale, no doubt,” he said, with a grin. “How many servants did it take to run this place?”
Rachel ignored the jibe. “I think there was quite a large staff in your grandmother’s day,” she said seriously. “But of course that was a long time ago. After the war there was only a cook and a daily and a very old butler. He died soon after Sir Robert, and the cook went away. But if you want the house spring-cleaned, there are several women in the village who will help. It won’t take long with a team.”
He looked at her with an expression she could not read. “I’ll think about it,” he said briefly.
The neighboring bedroom was similarly drab and depressing and, evidently losing interest, he did not bother to explore the rest of the upper floor, but went downstairs again to the back of the house. As Rachel had anticipated, the kitchen had flag stones and an enormous black-leaded range. It smelt of mildew and mice, and the plaster was flaking from the outside walls.
Looking into a cupboard, she found it full of china; huge soup tureens and vegetable dishes, all much too large for modern use.
“Found another treasure?” Elliot asked, coming up behind her.
“No, only—” She drew in a breath and jumped back, knocking into him.
His hands closed on her shoulders. “What—oh, a spider. Don’t panic. He won’t take a spring at you.” She tried not to shudder. Mice and garden pests had never alarmed her, but she had a terror of spiders which she knew to be childish but could not overcome. This one, poised on the lip of a sauce-boat, was large and hairy and menacing.
Elliot kept one hand on her shoulder and reached past her to tap the shelf. The spider scuttled back into hiding, and he closed the door.
“I’m sorry. It—it startled me,” Rachel said awkwardly.
He looked down at her and, her fear of the spider receding, she became actually conscious of his arm round her.
“Everyone’s scared of something,” he said easily, moving away.
“I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything,” she said, without thinking.
He looked up, his eyebrows arching. “Is that a compliment?” he asked dryly.
She flushed. It had been a silly remark to make, she thought, annoyed with herself. Perhaps—her color deepened—he suspected her of trying to flirt with him. The possibility was so shaming that, instinctively, she moved to the door with a muttered excuse about having to go home.
But before she reached it, Elliot said. “Here, wait a minute.”
She hesitated and he strolled after her.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked mildly. “Are you always so jumpy—or are you still worried about that fellow in the cupboard?”
“No, of course not,” she said uneasily. “I—I just have to get back to work, that’s all.”
“What kind of work?”
“Oh, not a proper job. I keep house for my father. I have to get the lunch ready.”
He eyed her thoughtfully for a moment. “That must be pretty slow for a kid your age, isn’t it?” he asked. “Sorry—I should have said ‘a young woman’.”
Rachel let that pass. “I don’t find it so,” she replied evenly.
“No leaning for the bright lights of the city?”
She shook her head. “I like the country. It only seems dull to people who don’t know anything about it.”
“What do you do with yourself when you’re not keeping house?”
“Oh ... I swim and go for walks and read.”
“Alone?”
“I like being alone.”
His mouth twitched. “What’s the trouble? Has someone given you a knock?”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He smiled at her. “There must be some reason for a girl to prefer her own company.”
“Not at all,” she said coolly. “One doesn’t always want to be with a crowd—at least I don’t. I’m afraid you won’t find the village very gay if you’re looking for a round of parties, Mr. Elliot. Although you don’t—” She stopped short, aware that tact seemed to have deserted her this morning.
“Although I don’t look the social type, mm?” he said, guessing what she had so nearly said.
Rachel bit her lip. “I’ve no idea what type you are,” she said stiffly.
“That’s easily remedied. If you’re free this evening, we could have dinner together. You could put me wise to some more of the local customs.” Rachel recoiled slightly. She had had an average number of escorts in the past six years, but no one had ever suggested a date on so short an acquaintance before.
“Oh no—that is, I’m afraid I’m busy tonight,” she said, stammering a little in her confusion. “I—I’m sure you’ll get used to our ways quite soon.”
“Maybe—maybe not,” he answered, for the second time.
For some reason that she found it hard to define, the non-committal phrase irritated her. At the door, she brushed a cobweb from her skirt and said, “Of course it’s terribly dusty and damp,
but once it’s cleaned up it will look quite different.”
The Canadian lit a cigarette and leaned against one of the stone columns supporting the portico. “You don’t think I’m going to live in tins flea market, do you?” he enquired, a shade derisively.
“I don’t see why not,” she said seriously. “It’s a bit big for one person. Have you brought your family over?”
“I’m not married.”
“Oh ... then you wouldn’t need to use all the rooms. What kind of house did you have in Canada, Mr. Elliot?”
His glance went past her to the tall elms encircling the weed-choked lawns. “Nothing like this. In my part of the world, we build with timber mostly, and there’s no place for a lot of fancy decoration.” Rachel gave him an anxious look. Was it possible that, to him, the Hall was nothing more than a derelict white elephant. Oh, surely not?
Anyone—even an uncouth Canadian backwoodsman—should be able to visualize what it could be like, given some redecoration and with the contents thinned out and rearranged.
“You mean you’ve made up your mind—just like that?” she asked, snapping her fingers.
“Pretty well,” he agreed carelessly.
“Oh, but that’s so unfair!” she protested. “You haven’t even looked at it properly yet.”
He eyed her speculatively. “You know, back there in the orchard, I had the impression that you weren’t too happy to see me,” he said mildly. “Now you’re trying to convince me what a gem I’ve landed. Why the sudden change?”
Rachel put her hands in her pockets and traced a crack in the flagstones with the tip of one sandal. “All right, I’ll be perfectly frank with you,” she said evenly. “I spend quite a lot of time here. It’s quiet and peaceful and Bolster likes rooting about. Naturally, now you’ve arrived, we’ll find somewhere else. But since you are here, I think it’s incredibly casual just to glance through a few doors and then condemn it out of hand. I’ve only seen Canada on films and it’s obviously a wonderful country—but so is England. You can’t just toss away something that’s existed for more than two hundred years because it’s not looking its best. After all, it’s your fault that it looks like this.”
“Would you live here?” he asked.
“Of course I would. I’d love it. Not as it is now, but as it could be.”
“It could be turned to some use, I agree,” he said, flipping his cigarette on to the drive. “The lawyers tell me there’s a firm of developers in Branford who’d like to convert it into some kind of garden suburb. If the house were pulled down and the timber thinned out, it could be made into a pretty attractive set-up, I guess.”
“You mean you’d sell the whole estate to some beastly jerry-building speculators?” Rachel exclaimed, horrified.
“Why not? I’d stand to make quite a packet out of it.”
“But you couldn’t! That would be a terrible thing to do,” she said vehemently. “Why, almost anything would be better than having it turned into a hideous red brick dormitory. It would spoil the whole village!”
“I didn’t say I was sold on the idea. But it’s certainly a possibility,” he countered.
“I suppose in Canada you hack down lovely old trees and bulldoze your way through anything if it makes a profit,” she flared angrily. “I don’t know why you bothered to come here at all if—if carrying on a tradition means less than nothing to you.”
“It’s not good business policy to sell out unless you’re sure you’re getting value,” he said easily.
“I suppose it’s never occurred to you that some things are priceless!”
“Sure, I know that. I also know that it’s a mistake to jump to conclusions,” he answered coolly. “You make up your mind a lot faster than I do, Miss Rachel. If everyone around here is as hot-headed as you are, it might be interesting to stick around.” His lazy drawl, and the quizzical calm with which he surveyed her, failed, to cool her anger. She knew now what she had felt instinctively from the first moment of their encounter: he was undoubtedly the most arrogant and insensitive man she had ever met.
“Well, don’t expect to be popular, Mr. Elliot,” she said icily. “You may not think much of us, but it’s just possible that the village won’t think much of you. Good morning!”
And, her cheeks burning and her back very straight, she called to Bolster and hurried away down the drive.
Doctor Burney’s house stood on a corner of the village green, its front door leading directly on to the street, the rear giving on to a sizeable walled garden. In many ways the house was badly planned and inconvenient to manage, but all three girls had been born there and, although they grumbled at the arctic temperature of the bathroom in winter, and the tiresome distance between the kitchen and dining room, they would have been aghast at any proposal to move elsewhere. Their mother had died when Rachel was nineteen and, for more than a year, the house had been run by a series of daily helps, none of whom had been willing to put up with the exigencies of a doctor’s household for more than a month or two.
Finally Rachel, who had just completed her training at a London art school, had overridden her father’s protests and come home to take her mother’s place. Doctor Burney had been very reluctant to allow her to give up her career as, from her early teens, she had displayed considerable artistic talent. But Rachel had insisted that she could very well combine some free-lance work with her domestic responsibilities, and in the end he had accepted her decision. Shortly after this, his unmarried sister had asked if she might come to stay with them and, thinking she would be a help to his eldest daughter, he had readily agreed. In practice, Florence Burney was a liability rather than an asset. She was not, she explained sadly, at all robust; but they soon noticed that her attacks of migraine and prostrating backaches always coincided with periods when the household was especially busy.
When Rachel reached home after her stormy encounter with the new owner of the Hall, she found her aunt peeling potatoes with an air of Christian martyrdom.
“You have been a long time, dear,” Miss Burney said reproachfully. “I thought I’d better get on with the lunch although, to tell you the truth, I feel rather poorly today. Did you have a nice walk? What it is to be young and active!”
Rachel was not in the mood to pander to her aunt’s hypochondria.
“Thanks, Aunt Flo. I’ll finish the spuds,” she said briskly. “Why don’t you go up and rest for an hour? You may feel better.”
“Yes, I think I will, dear. There’s no point in overtiring myself and I do want to be well enough to go to the W.I. meeting tomorrow,” Miss Burney said wistfully.
When she had gone, Rachel tied an .apron round her slim waist and sat down to finish the peeling. She had just popped the potatoes into a saucepan and was lighting the gas, when the telephone rang. She had made a note for her father to call at an outlying farm as soon as he was free, when there was a rap at the back door. This time it was the Vicar’s wife, asking if she would help to fetch contributions to the forthcoming jumble sale. Wondering if Carola would lend her the motor scooter, Rachel agreed, and was then obliged to listen to a gruesome account of Mrs. Belling’s recent ordeal at the hands of a Branford chiropodist. Half an hour later, as she was laying the table and making a mental note that the last of their respectable tablecloths was wearing out, the telephone rang again.
By the time her father came in for lunch and Aunt Florence drifted downstairs with a cologne-damped handkerchief pressed to her forehead, Rachel had almost forgotten about Daniel Elliot. When, halfway through the fruit salad, she remembered him, she decided not to break the news until later in the day. To announce it now would mean that Aunt Florence would follow her about all afternoon, demanding every detail of the wretched man’s appearance and a verbatim report of their conversation.
Carola and Suzy did not come home from Branford until six o’clock, so after she had done some ironing, Rachel took her sketching block into the garden and settled under the shade of the mulberry tree to finish
an illustration for the children’s page in the Branford Evening News. Her work for the News and one or two other commissions brought her a small but steady income and, some weeks earlier, a Branford art dealer had sold two of her pastels for twice the amount she had expected to make from them.
As she worked on the drawings, her thoughts reverted to her clash with Daniel Elliot and she had an uncomfortable feeling that, in spite of his provoking manner, she had been much too outspoken. As he had pointed out, England was virtually a foreign country to him, and although people from the Commonwealth usually had an inborn sense of relationship with and loyalty to “the old country,” one could not expect them to understand the English reverence for the past until they had lived here for a time. Probably, to a man raised in the backwoods, the Hall did seem hopelessly out of key with modern life. For the first time it occurred to her that, even if he wanted to, he might not be able to restore his heritage to its former dignity. Sir Robert had left a considerable fortune, but perhaps, after the death duties had been paid, there was little left with which to repair and maintain the property.
As her pencil passed swiftly over the paper, Rachel imagined the house as it could be—given adequate funds and a discriminating taste. Many of the existing appointments were extremely ugly, but as they had passed through the musty rooms, she had seen several pieces of furniture which had made her fingers itch to dust and polish them.
At four o’clock, having finished the illustrations, she was making a pot of tea when her father came in. Rachel took a cup to her aunt and then carried the tray into the garden.
“What are we having for supper tonight, puss?” her father asked, lowering himself into a deck chair and pushing up his spectacles to rub his eyes. He had been called out to a maternity case at two o’clock that morning and returned home only a short time before the surgery opened.
Rachel worried about him as, although he seldom spoke of it, she knew he still grieved for her mother and worked himself much too hard in an attempt to fill the gap which her death had left.
