by Susan Barrie
When she arrived at the Bell Melanie telephoned Martin Vidal, and was fortunate enough to find him in, preparing a solitary lunch for himself in his centuries-old kitchen. He left the lettuce leaves he was somewhat dispiritedly arranging around the base of a salad bowl and hastened to pick up the receiver, and at the sound of Melanie’s voice his own grew so audibly more cheerful that she felt quite glad she was in a position to cheer him up still further.
‘I’m at the Bell,’ she announced, ‘and I thought you might join me for lunch. That is,’ she added, remembering that he had a farm to attend to, ‘if you can spare the time—’
He let out a whoop of pure pleasure.
‘Time?’ he echoed. ‘Of course I can spare the time ... for you! I’ll be with you in less than twenty minutes!’
He was as good as his word, and she was sipping a grapefruit juice in the bar when he joined her. He glanced at the bleak-looking beverage with distaste, and immediately ordered a little gin to give life to it, but she declined to allow her chosen drink to be interfered with.
‘This is not a celebration,’ she declared soberly. ‘It’s a day I shall probably remember for a long time ... the day I said my final farewell to Wroxford Priory!’
Martin looked sympathetic and intrigued at the same time.
‘Then you really have left?’ he said.
‘To all intents and purposes. The bulk of my stuff has been left behind, but that will be collected in a matter of hours.’
‘But you weren’t intending to leave so soon, were you?’
‘No.’ She finished her grapefruit and then made a face at the glass. ‘But Sir Luke arrived with a very large party of his friends - as I tried to make clear to you on the telephone when I arranged for Lady to be temporarily lodged with you
— and I felt so much like the odd man out that I couldn’t stand it a minute longer. Wroxford hasn’t seen such a party of people for a long time, and at the moment it isn't really equipped for house-parties. But apparently Sir Luke likes surrounding himself with his friends, and one of them is rather more than a friend. She’s the future Lady Charnock!’
Oh, really?’
Melanie nodded at him. If anyone had said to her that he was experiencing an emotion not unlike actual relief she would have believed them.
‘Very beautiful, and Swedish. Her mother is English, and congratulating herself on the prospect of a son-in- law as well lined as Sir Luke Charnock.’
Martin regarded her curiously over his own drink.
‘And you?’ he asked. ‘What did you think of him?’
‘I don’t like him.’ She bit her lower lip hard to still its faint tremble. ‘He doesn’t want me to have my piano.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Oh, yes.’ She tried to smile at him normally. ‘But of course it’s mine already, and he hasn’t got very much choice in the matter. However, I must admit that it was a bit of a shock that a single item like a piano should appear to upset him ... and I told him if he felt like that he could keep it. He probably will. He’s that sort of a man.’
Martin looked considerably taken aback.
‘I find it hard to believe,’ he admitted. ‘Sir James was so very different. . . . ’
‘He was entirely different.’
‘Then what about your horse? Is it true that he refuses to stable it for you?’
‘He didn’t actually refuse, but he seemed to think it an imposition.’
‘Extraordinary.’ Martin seemed to think this called for another drink. ‘Any other unpleasantness? I’m afraid there must have been, or you wouldn’t have walked out like this.’ Melanie told him about the cottage, and about her room being taken over by Mrs. Larsen. She kept on insisting that she liked Mrs. Larsen, and that she hadn’t really minded turning out of her room one bit, but because he knew her very well Martin was perfectly well aware that what she was actually doing was deceiving herself, and that the twenty-four hours since he saw her last had been twenty-four hours of unpleasantness for her.
He insisted that they went in to lunch and that it was to be on him, and he did his best to cheer her up during the meal. He pointed out that since she had to leave the Priory it was a good thing to do it painlessly, which meant cutting out any lingering farewells, and once she was settled into her cottage she would begin a new life that would have so much unfamiliarity about it that she was bound to forget, and in any case she would be much more independent. He urged the proprietor to provide them with the very best that his house could offer in the way of lunch, insisted on adding to it a half a bottle of champagne, and toasted the future in the sparkling beverage while Melanie strove to forget that in her haste to leave Wroxford she had not even said good-bye to Mrs. Edgerley or the cook — let alone Horton - and that in future her destiny would lie outside the bounds of the park, and not inside it.
By the time the excellent roast chicken had disappeared and they had arrived at the coffee stage she was feeling very much more like herself, and the extraordinary hostility of Sir Luke Charnock no longer struck her as anything strange. She decided that he was probably like that, and the fact that he had inherited so much did not prevent him being acquisitive about a few trifles. And Miss Larsen, if she married him, would probably live to regret it, and in any case it didn’t matter to her, Melanie.
She had her own life to lead, and it wasn’t such a very serious thing if she was deprived of a piano. Or was it?
She remembered how often Sir James had assured her that it was to be hers, and for the life of her she couldn’t understand why a man — if he was a very masculine man, which Sir Luke appeared to be - should object to the removal from his somewhat over-crowded drawing-room of a piano.
Why, he had even offered to buy it from her!
She felt her cheeks grow pink at the recollection, and determined, when the opportunity arose and the question of the piano came to the fore again, that she would refuse to accept it.
She would tell Sir Luke, in no uncertain terms, that he could keep it. And the one thing that really bothered her was that she couldn’t tell him that he could also keep her cottage.
After lunch Martin insisted on devoting the whole of the afternoon to her, and he drove her over to the cottage and they inspected the place for the umpteenth time, and approved the few alterations that had already been made to it in order to render it habitable, and discussed whether or not an extra coat of paint in the living-room would improve its slightly forbidding appearance. The cottage had been occupied for years by one of the estate workers, and although it stood in an enchantingly pretty garden and had some excellent beams, latticed windows and an engaging inglenook, was not really in a fit condition for a young woman to move into. Sir James, if he had lived a little longer, had intended to restore the place properly for his unofficial ward, and to equip it for her in a way that would have made it unnecessary for her to do so herself with the few bits and pieces that she already possessed.
But he had not lived, and the single tap in the kitchen was enough to make anyone feel far from enthusiastic as they stood regarding it.
Melanie observed with entirely false optimism:
‘Of course, it will look nice when I’ve done all that I can do to it.’
Martin glanced down at her, standing flush with his shoulder, and felt a wave of sympathy sweep over him. ‘But do you really have to live here?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I told Sir James I would live here, and I mean to do so.’
‘But with that tap—’
‘I shall call in a plumber and have the entire system overhauled.’
‘And no bathroom—’
‘I’ll buy myself a slipper bath.’ She dimpled suddenly. ‘It’ll be fun, really, doing things I’ve never done before. And wait until you see my garden in summer!’
Martin looked grim as he strode back into the living-room.
‘If you do come to some satisfactory arrangement about your piano where will you put it?’ he asked. ‘There doesn’t
appear to me to be a great deal of room for you and your possessions and a grand piano!’
Melanie was feeling considerably more cheerful for no particular reason all at once, and she continued to dimple as she followed his glance around the living-room.
‘I could throw out a wall and build another,’ she suggested. ‘As a matter of fact, that was what Sir James intended to do.’
‘But you don’t happen to possess Sir James’s bank balance.’ He patted her slender shoulder pityingly. ‘Melanie, I simply can’t see you living here alone,’ he told her gloomily. ‘For one thing, it wouldn’t be safe. The place is too remote.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
As soon as she received his answer she understood perfectly that she had blundered. And she had also been unwise.
‘You could marry me,’ Martin said quietly.
Her eyes softened. It was the first time he had actually proposed to her, but she had known it was coming some time or other. And the trouble was that she couldn’t possibly marry him.
‘No, Martin,’ she answered just as quietly.
‘Why not?’
‘Because - because I’m not in love with you!’
‘But I’m madly in love with you, Melanie darling!’ His good-looking, brown and strong young face quivered with appeal. ‘In time you might grow to love me quite a lot if we — if we risked . . . .’
She shook her head. ‘We can’t risk it, Martin.’ Her small hand rested lightly, like a bird, on the rough tweed of his sleeve. ‘I wish we could, but— When I marry I’ve got to be sure. More than sure!’
‘You mean you’ve got to be wildly in love?’
‘Something like that.’
He smiled at her with almost painful wryness.
‘And what if he never comes along? The lucky bloke for whom you’re going to fall hook, line and sinker? You never know, you know. It’s just possible he doesn’t exist!’
‘Then I’ll have to live my life without him, won’t I?’ she said brightly, smiling up at him. ‘And in lieu of a husband I’ll keep cats ... or dogs! Yes; I think I’ll breed dogs. In any case, I’ll buy myself one dog.’
Martin refused to look amused. He laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them for a moment rather hard.
‘If he doesn’t turn up, Melanie, and you change your mind, remember there is always me!’ he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
They returned to the inn by way of Willow Farm, where Martin lived and his forebears had lived for generations, and Melanie realized for the first time that it was a great pity she couldn’t marry Martin Vidal, who had everything to commend him and would make a really excellent and wholly dependable husband, because his house was one of the most charming in the district, and with a little attention from a woman could be even more charming.
It was old, centuries old, and roomy enough to raise a family. Martin had been bequeathed stacks of flowery china -Rockingham and Worcester, Staffordshire and Minton - and a whole roomful of linen. And it was all the right kind of linen, hemstitched and lace-edged and monogrammed. And his beautifully polished furniture and silver - for he had an excellent daily woman - would have fetched a very high price if he had decided to allow it to find its way to a local auction room.
The farm itself was extensive, and highly productive. Martin never lacked for cash, and was quite unlikely to lack for it in his lifetime. The girl who married him would be free of financial worries, and she would be able to play hostess against a charmingly chintzy background. Melanie’s piano would have been displayed to perfection in the drawingroom, but she knew that even supposing she eventually acquired the piano - which at the moment seemed highly doubtful - it would never come to rest under the mellow roof of Willow Farm.
Nevertheless, she felt regretful. She was honestly regretful as she lay back on a superbly comfortable old-fashioned chesterfield and allowed Martin to wait on her and bring her tea. He cut wedges of rich fruit cake and tried to tempt her, but she hadn’t any appetite.
She was wondering all at once what was going to happen to her, how she would feel once she had said goodbye to the Bell Inn and made the move to her cottage.
Where there wasn’t even a telephone at the moment to put her in touch with her neighbours!
There was no news that night from Dickson, but the following morning he telephoned to let her know that he would be delivering the items she had left in his care to the cottage as soon as he was relieved from duty that night. As Melanie had no intention of sitting waiting in the cottage that still had no electric light until he turned up she told him where he would find the key, and he promised to restore it to its hiding place under a decrepit fibre mat in the porch as soon as his mission was completed.
Melanie felt acutely restless all that day, and she knew she had no right to be idling her time away at the Bell - to say nothing of paying the somewhat extortionate charges of the Bell - while she had a roof of her own that could receive her, and a number of things to be done inside the cottage before she could think of bedding down there for the night.
The truth was, however, that she was a friendly soul, and without quite realizing it herself she shrank from the moment when she would find herself entirely on her own in new and strange surroundings. So she told the landlord of the inn that she would probably be staying on with him for a week at least, and then went out to search for an animal to keep her company once she did move into the cottage.
She had told Martin that she was going to buy herself a dog, and she fully intended to invest in something rather large and possibly ferocious-looking - once it had reached maturity — that could be reasonably quickly house-trained, and be a friendly fellow occupant of the cottage to boot.
But so easily were her emotions played upon that the animal she finally selected was a very small and very white bundle of Sealyham. It was one of a litter that had arrived in the world a few weeks before, and the owner of the kennels where she ran it to earth assured her that its pedigree was irreproachable, and that it would have few rivals as a burglar alarm once its vocal chords were more strongly developed. Melanie fell in love with it on sight, and decided to call it Sherry ... for no particular reason except that it made her think of syllabub whipped up with lots of cream and sherry.
The kennels said they would keep the dog for her until she moved into her cottage, and as Melanie disliked the thought of being parted from her new possession for too long she made up her mind to get the cottage ready as soon as possible. Sherry had acted as a spur to an alarmingly flagging interest in Sir James’s major bequest, and she felt rather ashamed of herself for putting off the ‘evil moment’, as she had begun to think of it, of taking over.
Instead she determined to spend the whole of the following day there scrubbing and cleaning the place, and perhaps inducing Betty Clark’s mother to go along with her. And she also bought several large tins of paint with which to begin her paintwork, and a pair of workmanlike steps for the purpose of reaching inaccessible spots.
She returned to the Bell for lunch very much happier in her mind because she had come to a decision, and found a quite unexpected visitor awaiting her in the small downstairs lounge.
He was disposing of a tankard of beer in a corner of the room, on one of the uncomfortable settees - apparently feeling strongly that anyone of his local eminence should not mix with the locals in the bar — and tipping ash from his cigarette into a pot-plant when Melanie entered the room. She remembered for a long time afterwards the expression of distaste on his face as he regarded the somewhat abortive specimen of a plant in the highly polished brass container, and the really striking quality of his casual clothes as he sat there looking very far from relaxed and at his ease.
She had not been given the name of her visitor, although it had occurred to her that in the eyes of the chambermaid who had passed on to her the intelligence that ‘a gentleman’ had been waiting for half an hour for her return there was a certain rather dazed kind of awe, and she
was utterly taken aback when Sir Luke Charnock arose from the settee and accorded her a somewhat satirical bow.
‘Ah, so you have accomplished all your pressing engagements,’ he remarked, ‘and recollected that the Bell is your present headquarters. The young woman who showed me in here seemed to think you had a lot to do and might not be back for lunch.’
Melanie stood quite still in the middle of the slightly threadbare carpet and looked at him as if she defied him to offer any sound explanation of his presence there.
‘Well?’ she said, when he declined to offer it; ‘Are you quite sure you came here to see me?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘You’re not suffering from the delusion that I’ve decamped with a large portion of the Charnock silver, or anything like that?’
‘So far as I am aware there is nothing missing from the silver pantry or from the dining-room sideboard.’ He surveyed her a trifle grimly, nevertheless. ‘Can you really afford to stay here?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been inquiring about terms from the landlord, and it strikes me that they’re a bit steep for a backwater like this.’
‘Ah, but then, you see,’ she explained with deceptive softness, ‘here at the Bell they associate me with all the prodigality at the Priory, and naturally their charges are steep. But don’t worry,’ she added, ‘I still have a few pounds left in the post-office.’
‘The post-office?’
‘And a few hundreds in the bank.’ She smiled at him sweetly. ‘It’s a local branch, and the account was opened for me by your late uncle, Sir James.’
He started to pace up and down the carpet, and his expression was frowning and severe.
‘It’s absolute nonsense that you should come here,’ he declared, lifting his sleek dark head rather jerkily and fixing her with his highly critical dark eyes ... such intensely dark eyes that she still felt rather amazed by their slightly alien quality of darkness. If he had had an Italian or a Spanish forebear she would not have been surprised. ‘You know perfectly well that there is plenty of room for you at the Priory, and even if you did have to give up your room to Mrs. Larsen there are still a good many others which you could take over. Not with the same degree of luxury, perhaps,’ a little drily, ‘that my uncle seemed determined to surround you with, but every bit as comfortable as anything they’ve got in this place, I’m sure.’
