Then, with his own eyes and ears, he had seen and heard acknowledgements of his daughter’s influence at the big house, for as tenants arrived to pay their respects to the young man, Derwent noticed that he redirected their compliments to Claire and even received guests with his arm resting on her shoulder, and this evidence was reinforced by Craddock’s cheerful, ‘Well, Mr Derwent, my thanks for the loan of your daughter. Everything you see is her work, all I’ve done is carry out her orders, isn’t that a fact, Rose?’ And Rose had loyally agreed that the whole idea had been Claire’s, after which Claire bustled away to introduce Squire to latecomers, for all the world as though she was already mistress of Shallowford.
Derwent was a slow-thinking man and continued thinking to some purpose, until past midnight, when everyone trooped into the paddock to watch the fireworks, and his thoughts, for once, were heart-warming, so that he sensed the spread of a satisfied glow deep in his belly that was not wholly due to rum punch and at length his rare feeling of well-being demanded physical expression. Hesitantly, as a man unpractised in familiarities, his arm stole round the waist of his wife Liz and he pressed her to him so that she almost cried out with astonishment and delight for it was the first public acknowledgement he had made of her in five years of marriage, the first acknowledgement at all discounting his lusty embraces in bed. She thought, for a moment, that he must be far gone in drink, and then she was ashamed of the thought, reasoning that perhaps she had misjudged him after all and perhaps the glorious conviviality of the occasion had wrought a miracle on him. She revelled in this illusion for two minutes and then Handcock discharged another shower of green and crimson balls, and the glare lit up the paddock like a searchlight, so that everyone there might have been standing under strong lamplight, and this was the biggest betrayal of all, for it showed both Claire and her father the face of Paul Craddock, who was looking down at Grace Lovell, standing close beside him. In that moment father and daughter conceded complete and utter defeat.
IV
Claire had been coaxed from the cloakroom by Rose and they had gone out into the paddock as the first rocket soared; she saw Paul standing in the angle of the box hedge, talking to Mrs Lovell, and at once made up her mind to edge round towards them during an interval of darkness, but unluckily, before the rocket dipped, her father saw her and called, ‘Well, Claire, this is a rare night for Shallowford! The Lovells never came up with anything of this kind at either of the Jubilees!’ and his voice was so jovial that she hesitated in spite of herself, puzzled by his rare amiability and pondering its source. Then, as the golden rain went up, she noticed that he had his arm round Liz’s waist, and in the light of the rockets they both looked so spoony that Claire’s spirits lifted and she wanted to laugh but did not for it pleased her to see them standing like lovers, with faces turned to the sky. She kept her mind on Paul, however, and when the volley of golden rain erupted she looked quickly in his direction and then wished very much that she hadn’t, for he was still there, no more than ten yards away but was no longer talking to Mrs Lovell. He was looking directly down at Grace Lovell and his expression was even more fatuously captive than that of poor Liz, and as Claire stared, almost choking with humiliation and dismay, Grace Lovell’s chin tilted so that she seemed to be returning his rapturous gaze and for several seconds, as the glare in the sky faded, they continued to look into one another’s eyes at a range of no more than twenty inches. As soon as it was dark again she fled, pulling back from the enclosure so quickly that Rose called, ‘What is it, Claire?’ but she could not talk, even to Rose, hurrying back to her seat on the backstairs with tears of disappointment streaming down her cheeks and a throat so dry and constricted that she could hardly get her breath. She sat here alone for the remainder of the display, oblivious of the winking flashes of reflected light, and the thunder and crackle of explosions over the paddock.
Derwent had not missed the exchange of looks between Paul and Grace, and it brought him up with a severe jolt. He knew then, and instantly, that his original estimate of this affair had been more accurate than the family’s and that Paul Craddock, for all their prattle, was not the least bit interested in his daughter, except perhaps in the way a lazy curate courts an earnest spinster who rushes to arrange flowers in the church, and polish the brasswork of the altar rails. It was all a lot of damned nonsense, he decided, dreamed up by silly womenfolk in their idle moments, and as the certainty of this laid hold on him he suddenly felt enraged with himself for being so gullible. He loosed hold of his wife, Liz, so abruptly that she staggered, and thrust both hands into his breeches pockets, as though to make sure he would never again surrender to a sentimental impulse. Fireworks continued to explode all around but he paid no attention to them. He was too busy assuring himself that he must take immediate steps to prevent his daughter being further exploited. ‘Damn the fellow!’ he muttered, ‘Who the devil does he think he is, keeping a girl of mine dancing attendance on him for the better part of a month, when she ought to have been at work in the dairy?’ He wondered, briefly, if the association had progressed beyond the mutual hanging up of a few paper chains and evergreen sprigs but decided this was unlikely. Surely a daughter of his would have more pride than to let a callow townee make a real fool of her. He looked round as though to assure himself of the fact but Claire was not to be seen, so he switched his thoughts to the only source of comfort that presented itself—the prospect of persuading Craddock by any means, fair or outrageously foul, to sell High Coombe and thus make the Derwents independent of young men with too much money who came prancing down here to play at being farmers.
The flash that had sent Claire back to the house, revived her father’s habitual pessimism and put a term to his wife’s illusions, went flickering down the years to the end of time. Claire had gone, having seen enough, and Smut Potter had gone, having seen more than enough; Arabella Codsall was to leave as soon as she could tear herself from the engaging spectacle of a smouldering Queen Alexandra, and Paul Craddock, adrift on a sea of romantic speculation, was not thinking of fireworks any more. One golden rain beneficiary remained until the final discharge and this was Walt Pascoe, the bricklayer who had, that same night, spent fifteen minutes in the rhododendrons with Violet Potter, and about the same time with her sister, Pansy. He had not had an opportunity to sample Cissie, the third Potter girl, for Cissie was being squired by Bert Tidmarsh, a close friend of Walt’s who was known to be very handy with his fists. This, as it turned out, was fortunate, for if Cissie had been added to Walt’s immediate worries his problem might have proved insoluble.
The trouble was all three were as alike as peas in a pod and not only in appearance but in speech, gait and even courting technique. They both giggled and wriggled when he passed his hands over them and they both said ‘Dornee, Walt!’ when he was quite certain they would have been very indignant if he had heeded their protests, for this was by no means his first brush with them. On several previous occasions he had skylarked with the Potter girls in coppice and hayfield, but that, he reflected sadly, was before his mother died, when he had every intention of remaining single. Tonight things had changed and he looked into a cheerless future, one of preparing his own meals before he went to work, and again when he returned, of making his own bed and keeping the cottage clean, of doing his own mending and fire-lighting and hearth-sweeping and generally leading the devil of a life as a bachelor. He had buried his mother in June and the loneliness of the cottage was getting on his nerves, especially at night. He had made up his mind that, sooner or later, he would have to share his life with someone, for he was a very amiable young man with a lively sense of humour but although, at first sight, it seemed that Violet would make him just as comfortable as Pansy, or vice versa, he was reluctant to make a hasty decision on a matter as final as marriage. Every time a rocket exploded he compared their upturned faces, noting their cheerful snub noses, their freckles, their thick chestnut hair and their strong, white teeth, and as he wrestl
ed with his problem he did a sort of double-entry balance sheet of their merits and demerits, in so far as he was able on the strength of samples taken that evening. Violet, he noted, had drenched herself in some kind of rosewater scent, certainly home-made scent, and whilst it was pleasant and provocative it suggested that she might have something to hide. On the other hand Pansy used no scent, or none he could detect, but she had been slightly less accommodating than her sister in the rhododendrons whereas her sister Violet had surrendered to his embrace with apparent eagerness. On the other hand perhaps this was unfair, for he had sampled Violet first and now that he thought about it Pansy had proved harder to win, which surely implied superior virtue on her part. He was still undecided when the last Roman candle burned itself out and the darkness was only moderated by the glow of the set-piece. Then, with one sister on either side of him, Pansy made up his mind for him, almost as if she was guiding him towards the best prize in a lucky dip. Her hand moved up until it lay on his shoulder and then, as though caressing a cat, it moved slowly across his chest and down to his loins, a gesture that indicated two certainties. She had found him pleasing and had the kind of need for him that a man who worked hard all day and brought home regular money on Saturday ought to look for when choosing a wife.
The caress was casual and probably absent-minded yet it made him tingle from head to foot for it was as though she regarded him as a prize bull that had just been awarded the county accolade and he was ready to burst with manly pride. He said, hoarsely, ‘Come over yer, Panse! I got zummat to zay to ’ee, midear!’, and they withdrew from the enclosure just as Queen Alexandra’s right eye went out in a spiral of smoke and a long, satisfied, ‘Ahhh!’ rose from the spectators.
It would be untrue to say that Paul Craddock’s mind did not return to Claire Derwent this night, or that he spent every moment of the next few hours in a cloud. He continued to go through the motions of host to a shrinking company but he would have found it hard to say with any accuracy who had left and who had remained for the dawn stirrup cup. He danced with Grace twice, one waltz and one polka, but they exchanged little conversation, a few conventional remarks from him about the way people of the Sorrel Valley had received him, a comment from her praising his initiative and the prodigality of his hospitality but even then he did not think directly of Claire. It was much later, about three o’clock in the morning, that he wondered vaguely whether it was time to serve more ices, and learning that Mrs Handcock had gone to bed, excused himself, went in search of Claire and was rather puzzled at not finding her or any member of her family.
There were then about thirty of the younger guests on the floor, the girls still full of zest but the men a little unsteady with all the refreshment they had taken between dances. The heroic orchestra was flagging but it continued to play, the twins, Matt and Luke, standing one on each side of Mary Willoughby, who had been relieved from time to time by Crisp, the Coombe Bay organist. Unable to find any of the Derwents, Paul went into the yard to see if their waggonette had gone and here he ran into Gregory, the High Coombe foreman, supping the dregs of Tamer Potter’s cask in the outhouse. Gregory was drunk and Paul had to shake him before he could get any sense out of the fellow.
‘Where is Mr Derwent and his family?’ he shouted in Gregory’s ear, ‘When did they leave?’ The man, recognising the Squire, made a supreme effort to collect his wits.
‘They’m gone off ’ome, Mr Craddock, long zince!’ he mumbled, shaking his head violently in an effort to stop the roaring in his ears.
Paul thought it odd that they had left without saying good-bye, for he had understood both Rose and Claire were staying the night to help clear up in the morning but it occurred to him that Derwent might have objected to them staying so he returned to the ballroom and whilst Grace was dancing with Crisp, the organist, he sat out with Celia, eating an ice-cream. Mrs Lovell was very gracious, saying that she and Grace much appreciated being invited and adding that dear Edward would certainly make a splendid King and keep the Kaiser in his place. She went on to say that she hoped he would be very happy at Shallowford and that she, for her part, was gratified that the estate had been bought by someone young, for under the Lovells it had been the resort of dull, middle-aged gentlemen, and have never had much to offer the young people in the district. ‘I have often thought,’ she said, laying an elegant gloved hand on his arm, ‘that this could be a happy house, full of noise and laughter and people who really cared for the land, and the families living on it,’ to which Paul, much encouraged, replied that he agreed whole-heartedly but was already finding his lack of experience a handicap. ‘There’s John Rudd, of course,’ he admitted, ‘but a man ought not to put himself entirely in the hands of an agent, should he?’
‘I should think not, indeed,’ Celia replied with an expert flutter of her fan, as though to shoo John Rudd from the place where important decisions were made, ‘but I should be flattered if you felt free to ask my advice about anything—well, anything social, you understand? After all, I grew up on a country estate—a much larger one of course but administered along the same lines and I believe I could be of service to you from time to time. We rejoin my husband in London the day after tomorrow, but we shall be back again shortly.’
‘I’m very obliged for the offer, Mrs Lovell,’ Paul said, sincerely, ‘and I shall certainly take advantage of it.’
‘Well then, that’s settled,’ she said, with a maternal smile and Paul thought how very gracious she was and what a pity it was she was the wife of a rake like Bruce Lovell, rumoured throughout the Valley ‘to have led ’er a praper ole dance’.
Grace returned to them then, her smooth, pale cheeks flushed with the heat and exercise, and Mr Crisp, the organist, bowed himself out, after she had declined his offer to bring her an ice.
‘I’ve been telling Mr Craddock that he is very welcome to seek our advice about Shallowford, my dear,’ Celia said and Grace murmured, ‘He seems to be managing very well on his own, Mother!’ after which she remained silent but although Paul observed that her foot tapped to the rhythm of the music and asked her if she would care to dance again, she said, ‘No, thank you, Mr Craddock,’ without looking at him but then, to his delight she added, ‘It’s very stuffy in here! Could we take a breath of air, do you think?’, and Paul leaped to his feet, expecting Celia to reach for her shawl for he could not believe that so formal a person would countenance an unchaperoned walk on the terrace at three in the morning. She made no movement, however, but smiled, saying, ‘I haven’t thawed out after watching the fireworks. Please take her on the terrace, Mr Craddock, but see that you have your cape, Grace dear!’, and they passed through the hall to the terrace, turning left along the walk under the library windows.
It was a mild night for late September and a very still one now that the roar from the house had been greatly reduced in volume. The starlight was brilliant and they could make out the blur of Shallowford Woods but the glimpse stirred in him no memory of Claire. As she stopped where the terrace ended at the steps he said, ‘I’m very glad you were able to come, Miss Lovell. I was talking to your stepmother and she seems very pleased I’ve taken over here.’
The girl turned, so quickly and so unexpectedly that she seemed almost to spin round and he saw, in the light shed by the library lamps, that her face had the same look of exasperation as on the occasion they first met.
‘Of course she’s pleased,’ she said sharply, ‘and why not? She sees you as a quite unexpected means of getting me off her hands. Surely you must have realised that by now?’
Her candour made him gasp but for all that he was no longer intimidated by her for it occurred to him that her attitude offered a short cut to a courtship that had promised to be tedious.
He said, ‘Very well, Miss Lovell, I’ll accept that, but if you can say precisely what’s on your mind whenever we meet I ought to have the same freedom. If you aren’t prepared to grant it we’ll go inside at
once!’ and he waited, watching her consider the challenge. She met it with the same disconcerting frankness.
‘I really don’t know why I have to behave this way with you,’ she said. ‘Manners aren’t my strongest point but they really aren’t as bad as they must appear to you. I suppose it’s because, while I can’t help admiring your enterprise and honesty, it makes me very angry to see people like Celia exploiting it. So here comes one more apology! You get one every time we meet.’
‘I’m not looking for your apologies,’ he said, ‘I’d far sooner say what’s in my mind for a change. It might upset you, but it would save both of us a good deal of sparring and the rest of the Valley a great deal of speculation!’.
Her rather bothered expression gave place to curiosity so that she looked at him sharply from under her brows, like a sleek little spaniel uncertain of whether a pat or a cuff was coming her way.
‘All right, Mr Craddock,’ she said, at length, ‘you can be as blunt as you like, and afterward I’ll tell Celia I’m tired and we’ll all go home to bed!’
He did not feel much like laughing but he almost laughed at this. It was an aspect of her he had not suspected and somehow made her seem about fourteen.
‘Then to be absolutely honest I’m rather flattered by what you say was in Mrs Lovell’s mind and also by her going out of her way to let me know she approves of me! I’ve only got your word for it, mind you, but I hope it is so all the same.’
Long Summer Day (A Horseman Riding By) Page 20
