‘Have you told your mama?’
‘I haven’t told anyone yet.’
Lindsay laid a sympathetic hand on her cousin’s sleeve. ‘We can’t talk about this here. We’ll have to meet in private.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon, after church. We’ll meet at the iron bridge in Kelvingrove a half-hour after lunch,’ Lindsay said.
‘Good idea.’ Cissie sniffed. ‘You do believe me, Lindsay, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do, silly,’ Lindsay said.
* * *
Eleanor Runciman believed that the world was full of women plotting to lure Mr Arthur to the altar. She lived in dread that one night he would not return home. For this reason she made a point of finding out which swan-throated soprano or full-bosomed contralto was running first in the field of Mr Arthur’s affections, but as season succeeded season and the eager little divas became younger and more attractive Eleanor’s anxiety increased.
She had no reason to suppose that the man she loved was anything other than honourable. Men were such weak creatures and so easily led, though, that she was afraid that Mr Arthur might eventually succumb to one of the grasping little harpies, a younger, slimmer, still fertile version of the woman that she had been when she’d stepped into his house sixteen years ago.
The sight of the man she loved rubbing shoulders with some sweet-voiced young thing so filled her with gloom that she no longer attended choral society concerts. Recently her fear of losing not just her place in the household but her place in Mr Arthur’s heart had become so great that she could hardly bear to be civil to any of the women who turned up at Brunswick Crescent soirées. In the words of Osgood Turner’s famous song, ‘The years were passing, passing, passing, and the light in her heart grew dim.’ The trouble was that the light in Eleanor Runciman’s heart was not growing dim. Indeed, the older she got the more fiercely it seemed to burn.
When, just after eleven, Arthur opened the front door he found Miss Runciman waiting in the hall. He paused, a guilty silhouette, then whispered, ‘Eleanor, what are you doing up at this hour?’
‘Waiting to lock up, sir.’
‘I can do that, you know.’
‘I’ve left the whisky cabinet open and some cheese and oatcakes on a tray in the parlour in case you’re hungry.’
He removed his overcoat. She took it from him. The fragrance of the night clung lightly to the cloth; the fragrance of the night or the perfume of one of the flowery young women with whom Arthur had shared a hansom. Eleanor gave the overcoat a violent shake, hung it on a hook on the hallstand and locked the outside door and glass-panelled inner door. Arthur watched.
He called her Eleanor only when they were alone. Now and then she had been tempted to try him with Arthur but she could not relinquish her ingrained feelings of deference. ‘Do you wish me to pour your whisky, sir?’
‘No, but do come and join me for a nightcap.’
‘Thank you. I would like that.’
The parlour was lit by firelight and a single gas jet, the piano alcove filled with soft summery shadows. Eleanor wished that Arthur would play for her, would let her turn the music sheet and place a hand on his shoulder as Lindsay did, or Matilda Perrino, who was as slender as a willow and talented.
Mr Arthur didn’t have to ask what she would have to drink: a thimbleful of brandy and scoot of soda water. He handed her the glass and invited her to be seated. He cut himself a sliver of cheddar and, nibbling it, lowered himself on to the upright chair at the edge of the alcove, half in and half out of shadow.
‘Did the concert go well?’ Eleanor enquired.
‘It seemed to. What did Linnet have to say about it?’
‘She appears to have enjoyed it. She did not say much.’
‘She’s changing,’ Arthur said. ‘Growing up.’
‘She is grown up. She will be married and gone before we know it,’ Eleanor said. ‘Did you go back to Harper’s Hill afterwards?’
‘No, a gang of us went on to Pettigrew’s.’
‘For supper?’
‘Hmmm. To celebrate the end of the season.’
‘Another year gone,’ said Eleanor Runciman. ‘How it flies.’
Arthur dusted crumbs from his fingers, drank from his glass.
‘Talking of change,’ Arthur said. ‘My father will be leaving Harper’s Hill in a day or two. He takes possession of this Perthshire place on the first of June.’
‘He will be missed.’
‘Lindsay will be next to leave, I expect,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll feel very cut off when that day comes. Perhaps I should marry again. What do you think?’
Eleanor kept her voice level. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’
He shrugged. ‘No one in particular.’
‘Miss Perrino, perhaps?’
‘Matilda? Far too young for me.’
‘What age is she?’
‘Twenty-two or -three, I reckon.’
‘Nevertheless, you have much in common.’
‘Matilda already has a young man.’
‘Does she?’ said Eleanor, less evenly than before.
‘In the other choir, the So-Fa. A Highlander, I believe, a tenor. She keeps rather quiet about him. Apparently her father doesn’t approve. No doubt he’ll be won over in due course.’
‘If not Miss Perrino, Miss Douglas perhaps?’
‘Rosemary? No, no. Rosemary’s a kind friend but not…’ He got up suddenly and to Eleanor’s surprise, laughed. ‘What’s all this about, Eleanor Runciman? Are you trying to marry me off?’
‘May I remind you, sir, that you raised the subject.’
‘Yes, I suppose I did. I don’t know what I’m blathering about half the time. I’ve no intention of getting married again. It’s all this blessed shifting about that’s put me at sixes and sevens. Pappy pretending he’s a country gentleman. Irish nephews descending upon us. Lindsay – well, Lindsay already planning what she’ll do when I’m dead.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Amused by his own pessimism, Arthur said, ‘It’s true; well, half true. My dear daughter is beginning to show signs of ambition. She sits in on our management meetings and, when she remembers, makes notes. I wonder what she makes note of, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Do you wish me to have a word with her, Mr Arthur?’
‘If you would, Eleanor. Try to find out what’s going on in her head.’
‘Could it be the young man, perhaps?’
‘Young man? What young man?’
‘The Irish cousin.’
‘Forbes? Good God! I hope not.’
‘He seems very personable.’
‘Not to me he doesn’t,’ Arthur said. ‘He’s sly and self-serving, like his mother. Has he been here again?’
‘No.’
‘Is she seeing much of him elsewhere, I wonder?’
‘I expect she encounters him at Harper’s Hill. She could hardly avoid it.’
‘Well, I’m glad he isn’t lodging with us,’ Arthur said. ‘I wouldn’t be happy having that particular nephew as a resident in my house.’
‘If I might ask…’ Eleanor hesitated. ‘What do you have against your sister and her son?’
Arthur tugged his earlobe. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’ve never liked Kay; Kay has never liked me. When we were children she was resentful of the fact that I got more attention than she did. That, at least, is Donald’s theory. Doesn’t really hold water, does it?’
‘I do not think it does, no.’
‘Kay and Helen were so damned outspoken. They gave Pappy and Mama a very hard time of it. Finally they gathered a little money from somewhere and struck out on their own.’
‘Set up house together, you mean?’ said Eleanor. ‘I believe I did hear something of the sort.’
‘They wanted to be independent, to have a life of their own. Wanted to behave like men, I suppose, but without responsibility.’
‘Why did yo
ur father allow it?’
‘Oh, they could wheedle the birds off the trees, that pair. Besides, Helen was practically an invalid and Pappy refused her nothing.’
‘Much good it did her, poor thing,’ said Eleanor.
Arthur was silent for a moment, then said, ‘You know, I’ve never known if Helen realised she was dying when she set up with Kay in Shalimar Street. If Kay knew it too, or if…’ He was silent again then, in a little rush, said, ‘She had a lover. Helen, I mean. She had a lover that none of us knew about. They rented the apartment in Shalimar Street so that Helen could be with him.’
‘Would he not marry her?’
‘He was, I believe, already married.’
‘Ah!’ Eleanor said softly.
‘Do you think that is a romantic thing to do? Do you approve?’
‘I certainly do not,’ Eleanor Runciman lied.
‘Oh, dear,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, she was never strong, our Helen. I vividly remember winter nights with the doctor coming and going, the stink of medicinal vapour and Nanny, our old nanny, running to fetch hot fomentations and glass cups from the stove.’
‘Does Lindsay know about her aunts?’
‘Certainly not, no.’
‘Do you not think she should be told?’
‘Why?’ Arthur said. ‘It isn’t the sort of thing that a decent young woman should have to hear about her family.’
‘That her aunt was loved?’
‘That her aunt had a lover.’
‘If I may ask,’ said Eleanor again, ‘did Kay also…’
‘I don’t know,’ said Arthur. ‘Perhaps she was already – ah – consorting with Daniel McCulloch. I wouldn’t put it past her. She certainly let us down.’
‘Us?’
‘Lindsay and me. Left us in the lurch. How could she abandon her brother and her motherless niece with hardly a moment’s notice? She was off to Dublin with her brewer within forty-eight hours of making the announcement. Married without any of her family present, not even Pappy. He was hurt, so hurt. I don’t know how he found it in his heart to forgive her.’
‘How old,’ said Eleanor, ‘is the boy?’
‘No, it wasn’t a pregnancy.’ Arthur said. ‘Kay was married for over a year before the first child was born. In my opinion it was Daniel McCulloch who forced her to choose between her family and marriage.’
‘And she chose marriage?’
‘That’s how it seems to me.’
‘Looking back?’
‘Even at the time.’
‘Perhaps she loved him,’ Eleanor suggested.
‘Love!’ Arthur said. ‘I doubt if Kay knows the meaning of the word. It was all very distressing. If it hadn’t been for Nanny Cheadle – and you too – I don’t know how I’d have coped.’
‘Donald and Lilias…’
‘She was my daughter, Eleanor. Lindsay was all I had.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’
For a moment Eleanor felt her sympathy waver. She had shared his life but not the making of him. She had no knowledge of the brief, loving marriage that had been brought to a close by premature death. She could forgive his bitterness but not the object of it. The boy, the nephew, could hardly be blamed for events that had happened before he was born. She got to her feet.
‘Don’t go,’ Arthur said, ‘unless, that is, you want to.’
If she had been in Kay’s position and Arthur had asked her to run off with him she would have put everything away, every duty, every responsibility, every consideration. She would have shouted, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ and have been on the boat with him before he could change his mind. She sat down again.
‘Now do you see why I’m less than enthusiastic about having Forbes McCulloch join the firm as a trainee manager?’ he said. ‘What’s more I would prefer it if he did not come calling on Lindsay.’
‘I’m not sure he can be stopped, not without appearing to be rude.’
‘How many times has he been here?’
‘Once, just once,’ Eleanor said. ‘His father, McCulloch, what’s he like?’
‘I have no idea,’ Arthur answered. ‘Never clapped eyes on the fellow. Apparently the boy’s quite cock of the walk in Donald’s house. I don’t suppose I can stop Lindsay meeting with him there but I’d prefer him not to call on her here when I’m not at home.’
‘Are you forbidding him the house, sir?’
Arthur considered. ‘Yes, I do believe I am.’
‘You’re frightened of losing her, aren’t you?’
‘When the right chap comes along I’ll let her go willingly; but Forbes McCulloch is not the right chap.’
‘I would not say that to Lindsay,’ Eleanor advised.
‘Why not?’
‘Forbidden fruit, Mr Arthur. Forbidden fruit.’
First there was a frown, then a wry smile. ‘You’re absolutely right. Negative effect, what? Tell me, Eleanor, what do you suggest I do about young McCulloch?’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Eleanor.
‘Let nature take its course, you mean?’
‘Precisely,’ Eleanor Runciman said and shortly thereafter took herself off to bed.
* * *
It was a warm day with a touch of humidity, not oppressive. Hawthorn foamed with blossom, rhododendrons were in full bloom and on the river, under the willows, the first hatch of ducklings bobbed comically behind their mama. In the bandstand the band of the Royal Naval Reserve was thumping out orchestral selections just military enough to offend those Sabbatarians who had resisted the introduction of Sunday afternoon concerts. Most Clydesiders could not have cared less about preserving the Lord’s day; they just enjoyed a good tune. Even those unwilling or unable to fork out sixpence for a seat in the enclosure were content to lean on the railings or loll on the riverbank and take the programme as it came, for cornet, bass, trombone and the wheedling notes of the piccolo floated freely into all the corners of the Kelvingrove.
The beat of the drum, or at least its vibrations, penetrated Owen Franklin’s mansion on Harper’s Hill where, at Lilias’s insistence, Owen had finally addressed the problem of packing. The dressing-room on the second floor was strewn with tea chests, hampers and hat boxes. Mercy and Pansy had offered to assist but Pappy’s temper was on short fuse and Lilias had ordered all her children out into the park with firm instructions not to return home before half past five o’clock. Before Donald Franklin’s troops could muster, however, Cissie slipped off on her own to rendezvous with Lindsay by the iron bridge.
‘He’s coming,’ said Cissie breathlessly. ‘They’re all coming, in fact.’
‘What’s happening?’ said Lindsay. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’
‘Pappy’s finally decided to prepare for departure,’ Cissie explained. ‘I’ve never seen so much luggage. I don’t know where he’s going to put it, for the house at Strathmore is already furnished.’
They strolled under the chestnut trees, clearly superior young ladies and thoroughly absorbed in themselves. ‘Oh, yes,’ Lindsay said, as if the topic had just entered her head. ‘I believe you were going to tell me about Forbes.’
‘Forbes!’ Cissie made a unladylike gesture. ‘Him! I can do without him, I may tell you. I’m heartily sorry that he ever came to Scotland.’
‘Why? What’s he done now?’
‘Not only does he show himself off, he touches me,’ said Cissie, primly. ‘He keeps touching me.’
‘Where?’
‘In the hall, in the upstairs corridor, wherever he can.’
‘No, I mean – where?’ said Lindsay, agog.
Cissie glanced across the river as if afraid that her voice would be amplified by the trees and her confession made public.
‘He’s touched my – my breast.’
‘What!’
‘Stole up behind me, put his arms around me and placed his hands on my breast. He’s always taking liberties, Lindsay, frightful libe
rties. When we were playing charades last evening – why didn’t you come round, by the way? – when we were playing charades, he and I were sent out of the drawing-room, he pulled me into the cloakroom under the stairs and—’
‘What?’ said Lindsay again.
‘Kissed me.’
‘Why didn’t you slap him?’
‘I – I tried to.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He caught my hand and laughed. Then do you know what he said? He said that he liked a girl with a bit of fire in her, in her…’
‘What?’
‘Belly. That’s what he said, Lindsay. Honestly! He told me that he liked a girl with a bit of fire in her belly.’
‘How awful for you!’
‘I asked him what sort of a person he thought I was.’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘He said he thought I was passionate.’
‘Did he indeed?’
‘I swear that’s what he said. I’m not making it up.’
There was, Lindsay realised, more excitement than revulsion in her cousin’s response. What worried Cissie, apparently, was that she could not predict just how unscrupulous their Irish cousin might turn out to be.
‘Has he told you that he was sent down from school?’ Lindsay said.
‘Yes, he told me,’ said Cissie.
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘Something to do with girls.’
‘He prides himself on being a ladies’ man,’ said Lindsay. ‘At first I thought he was boasting but now I’m beginning to believe him.’
‘Oh, believe me, believe him,’ Cissie said. ‘He has absolutely no sense of propriety. And he’s so ridiculously young.’
A tiny green worm of envy wriggled within Lindsay’s breast. Its abrupt appearance had less to do with Forbes McCulloch’s fumblings than his compliments. Plump, befreckled Cissie, passionate and desirable? Cissie had never struck her as passionate and desirable.
‘If you really want to put a stop to his capers,’ Lindsay heard herself say, ‘surely a word in Martin’s ear will do the trick.’
‘Martin and the boys like him. Besides, I don’t want to cause a fuss.’
The Piper's Tune Page 7
