Amberwell (Ayrton Family Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You’ll go straight off to bed, Nell,” said Nannie rising. “That’s the best place for you. I’m sure I don’t know what’s the matter with you — sickening for measles, I wouldn’t wonder.”

  “It’s you!” wailed Nell. “It’s not me at all!”

  “Off to bed,” said Nannie firmly.

  Nell went off to bed without another word — she was not sorry to go — but Anne was appalled at the injustice. Nannie was usually so kind; she was usually so sensible. What had happened to Nannie? Anne left her tea half finished and fled from the scene of disaster, down the stairs and out into the garden. Her one idea was to escape, to find a place where she could hide from the world — and weep. Ponticum, of course! Ponticum was a sure refuge.

  Anne sped through the walled garden and out at the gate and dived through the little gap between the rhododendron bushes … then suddenly she halted with a heaving chest; somebody was here before her! It was Aunt Beatrice.

  Anne was petrified with astonishment.

  “Come here,” Aunt Beatrice said.

  Anne hesitated. Her instinct was to fly.

  “Come here, Anne,” repeated Aunt Beatrice in a curiously rough voice.

  Anne went and stood before her. She was sitting on a box — the box where they kept their treasures. Anne had always been a little frightened of Aunt Beatrice and she was much more frightened now for Aunt Beatrice looked so queer. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet and her hair was hanging in wisps over her forehead. Anne gazed at her in horror — it had never occurred to Anne that grownup people cried.

  “You needn’t stare like that,” said Aunt Beatrice with a little catch in her voice.

  Anne gazed at the ground.

  “Why are you frightened? I’m not going to eat you,” Aunt Beatrice added.

  Anne said nothing.

  “I’m going away to-morrow. You’ll be glad, won’t you? Everybody will be glad to see the last of me.” She drew a sobbing breath and continued, “You think I’m mad, don’t you? But that’s because you don’t understand; you don’t know what it’s like to be miserable. I was like you — once — long ago — running about Amberwell, happy and carefree. I never thought of the future and I don’t suppose you do. Perhaps some day you’ll be like me.”

  She paused for a moment to mop her eyes with her soaking wet handkerchief.

  Anne was so frightened that she was shaking all over.

  “Some day,” continued the harsh unsteady voice. “Some day, sooner or later, you’ll be turned out of Amberwell. It will belong to Roger. It won’t be your home any more. You’ll have no right to walk in Amberwell gardens. You’ll have no right to pick a flower. Perhaps you’ll be asked to come when Roger and his wife want your help, but you’ll be thrown out when they have no further use for you — that’s very certain. You’ll be expected to smile and look pleasant. If you don’t, you won’t be asked again.”

  “But Aunt Beatrice —” began Anne.

  Aunt Beatrice laughed hysterically. “It’s true!” she cried. “It’s all true — every word. You won’t marry. You aren’t like Connie — a pretty, empty-headed doll! You aren’t the type to marry.”

  “I don’t want to — to marry — anybody —” gasped Anne.

  “Then you’re a fool. Marriage is the only thing that could save you!” cried Aunt Beatrice wildly. “Marriage while you’re young — before you lose the freshness of youth — that’s your only hope. Long ago there was a man who wanted to marry me — yes, me — that surprises you, doesn’t it? I wasn’t pretty but I was young — and we loved each other. But they said he wasn’t good enough — not good enough for a Miss Ayrton — so they sent him away. There was nobody else — ever. Nobody else ever looked at me. Why should anybody look at me when the other girls were prettier and more attractive?”

  Anne was speechless. This was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to her.

  “That was my only chance,” said Aunt Beatrice, her voice hardening. “If I had married I would have had a life of my own — a place in the world — somebody to care for. At least I would have been necessary to somebody, not utterly unloved and unwanted.”

  Anne felt she could not bear it a moment longer, she looked round desperately.

  “All right, you can go,” said Aunt Beatrice sitting up and blowing her nose.

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne. She knew it was inadequate but what else could she say?

  “I believe you are,” said Aunt Beatrice, looking at her curiously. “Well, never mind; it isn’t your fault anyway. I wouldn’t have been such a fool if you hadn’t taken me by surprise. I thought I was safe in the wigwam.”

  This seemed to end the interview so Anne came away. For a little while she sat in the potting-shed, not exactly thinking — she was too shattered — but musing in a dazed sort of way about all that Aunt Beatrice had said. The awful part was it was true. Every word was true … unloved and unwanted, thought Anne.

  After a bit she got up and went back to the nursery and, although she had probably been out less than half an hour, so much had happened that she forgot there had been a row. But the storm was over and the skies were blue; Nannie, regretting her bad temper, was all smiles and Nell was quite happy sitting up in bed and reading Count Hannibal with absorption.

  Anne went in and sat on the end of her bed.

  “Hallo!” said Nell looking up and smiling.

  “Hallo!” replied Anne listlessly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing — really. I saw Aunt Beatrice.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “In Ponticum.”

  “In Ponticum!” exclaimed Nell, her voice going up in a squeak. “Do you mean she knows about Ponticum?”

  Anne pushed back her unruly hair. “I suppose she must.”

  “But didn’t you ask her? Perhaps she played there when she was little.”

  “I don’t know,” said Anne flatly.

  “What did she say?” asked Nell.

  Anne could tell nobody — not even Nell — what Aunt Beatrice had said.

  “Surely she must have said something,” urged Nell.

  “She called it the wigwam,” said Anne who had just remembered.

  “How funny! The wigwam! It’s rather like a wigwam, isn’t it? I wonder if the little saucer belonged to her. Did you ask her about it?”

  “No.”

  “Anne, what’s the matter? Was she beastly to you?” asked Nell anxiously.

  “N’no,” replied Anne in a doubtful tone.

  “Well, never mind,” said Nell comfortingly. “We don’t need to worry about her. She’s going away to-morrow and I don’t expect she’ll be back for ages.”

  Anne was silent.

  PART TWO

  Standing with reluctant feet

  Where the brook and river meet;

  Womanhood and childhood fleet.

  HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ten years had passed since the opening of the fountain but Amberwell had changed very little. Some of the trees had grown larger and a few had been cut down. An alpine garden had been made at the end of the lawn outside the drawing-room windows; it was rather attractive with its black boulders and the rock plants nestling in the crevices. There were little paths and steps, so that you could walk round and look at all the plants … but to the children this little garden was completely spoilt by the labels. Each plant had a label attached with its name printed clearly upon it, and the smaller the plant the larger the label. For instance there was a tiny plant with soft grey leaves and a sweet little blue flower which was labelled Meritoriana Cannabilis Alpeniensis — or some such nonsense.

  In addition to these alterations some rhododendrons in the spring garden had been cleared to make room for a grove of wild cherries, and four small palm trees had been planted in a sheltered glade beside the avenue.

  Mr. Ayrton was very proud of his palms, and took his guests to admire them — e
specially if the guest happened to come from south of the Border.

  “Palm trees in Scotland!” the guest would exclaim incredulously, which of course gave Mr. Ayrton the right opening.

  “Chamaerops excelsa,” he would say and would continue with a dissertation upon the delightful soft mild climate of Amberwell, due to its sheltered position and the proximity of the Gulf Stream.

  If the guest were not very careful he would find he had let himself in for a comprehensive tour of the estate, which might have been pleasant enough if he had been allowed to admire the flowers and bushes in peace but which most people found extremely tiring in the company of Mr. Ayrton. They were hurried past beds of roses and halted before a small bush of purple flowers. “Olearia Semidentata,” their host would say. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? But wait until you see my Passiflora coerulia.”

  There were very few who emerged from the ordeal with flying colours.

  The gardens had changed very little with the passing years but the children had changed a good deal. Roger was a subaltern in the Guards, Tom was reading medicine at Oxford. The three girls were not at school — they had remained at Amberwell — and Miss Clarke still came in daily to give them lessons.

  To do her justice Miss Clarke had tried to persuade Mrs. Ayrton to send them to school (she thought it would do them good and she felt they deserved a better education than she was able to give them) but Mrs. Ayrton had never been to school herself and saw no reason why her daughters should be highly educated. They would marry — that went without saying — and the money spent upon teaching them Latin and Geometry and such-like nonsense would be wasted. Connie was very pretty. She could sing quite nicely and play the piano — and of course she could dance. Nell was less attractive, but no doubt she would improve. Anne’s future was a matter of indifference to her mother. Mrs. Ayrton had never forgiven Anne for not being a boy.

  The three girls had been given a half-holiday and had decided to have a picnic on the moor. It was the first picnic of the season, the first day of Spring. There was a smell of Spring rising from the moist brown earth and the grass in the meadow. The hedges had a dim green mist upon them, a promise of leaves which would soon clothe them in emerald brilliance; soon there would be primroses in the banks, hiding amongst their soft leaves, and the birds would begin to collect moss and sticks and fragments of wool and feathers to build their nests.

  Connie had walked on ahead but Nell and Anne lingered for they had decided to make a Nature Book of Amberwell. It was to be a diary of the weather and the birds and the flowers and the trees. The project, still fresh in their minds, was fascinating.

  “It’s the right day to begin,” said Nell eagerly. “It’s the day of beginnings … all the trees are budding. Look at this chestnut! I love chestnut buds; they’re so brown and sticky.”

  “Just like glue,” agreed Anne. She laid her hands upon the bole of the chestnut tree gently (almost as if it were alive, thought Nell, as if it were a dog or a pony and could feel her caress) and looked up at the budding branches with a strange light in her face. “It’s a part of Amberwell,” she continued in a soft dreamy voice. “Its roots are in Amberwell ground and its leaves breathe Amberwell air.”

  “Like us,” agreed Nell, nodding to show that she understood.

  Anne did not answer for a few moments and then she said, “But it will die here. Nobody will pull it up by the roots and move it to another place.”

  Nell was about to ask her what on earth she meant but they heard Connie’s voice calling to them impatiently so they hurried on.

  “Whatever were you doing?” asked Connie. “I’ve carried the basket all the way.”

  “I’ll take it!” exclaimed Anne, seizing it from her.

  They went on together through the woods and over the stile on to the open moor for they had decided to have tea in a little quarry by the side of a burn. This moor really belonged to Sir Andrew Findlater and he had let it to the Lamberts for the shooting but the Ayrton girls knew that nobody would mind if they had their picnic there.

  When they reached the quarry they saw somebody sitting on a rock; a young man in a grey flannel suit and a blue shirt, open at the neck.

  “It’s Gerald,” said Anne in a low voice. “What a nuisance! Let’s go back.”

  But Gerald had seen them. He rose and waved to them and came towards them smiling.

  “Hallo!” he cried. “Is this really you? I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  Anne and Nell hung back, for they were shy (and this pleasantly-smiling young man seemed quite different from the Gerald they remembered) but Connie was equal to the occasion and went forward to meet him.

  “Hallo, Gerald, we didn’t know you were home,” said Connie.

  “Only for a few days,” he said ruefully. “I’m one of the world’s workers, you know.”

  “You’re in your father’s firm, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes, and I like it immensely, it’s a very interesting job, but you needn’t think that because I’m the boss’s son I have an easy time. I work as hard as the last-joined apprentice — and for longer hours.”

  “Tell us about it,” suggested Connie. “Come and sit down and have tea. There’s sure to be lots of food.”

  “The basket weighs a ton,” murmured Anne.

  Gerald accepted the invitation with alacrity and soon they were sitting on a bank in the quarry eating scones and jam and talking cheerfully together — Nell and Anne as well — for although this young man seemed quite unlike Gerald he was a friendly young man.

  2

  “It’s funny how we’re all scattered,” said Anne. “I mean we used to be all here together in the holidays and now there are no proper holidays at all. You’re in Glasgow, Roger is at Caterham and Tom is at Oxford.”

  “Tom gets long holidays, doesn’t he?” Gerald inquired.

  “Not really,” replied Anne. “He seems to do most of his work in the vacations. He’s going to be a doctor, you know.”

  “I know,” said Gerald, accepting another scone. “At one time Tom and I were crazy about the Navy but Dad was frightfully keen for me to go into the firm and of course I saw the idea. Building ships is just as good as sailing them, and as a matter of fact I get quite a lot of the sea because I often go out for trials.”

  “To see how the engines work,” suggested Connie.

  Gerald smiled. “That’s the idea, really.”

  “It’s a pity Tom can’t do that,” said Anne with a sigh. “Tom loves the sea. He was frightfully disappointed about it.”

  “But why?” asked Gerald. “Why didn’t he go into the Navy?”

  “Father said he was to go to Oxford,” explained Anne.

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Gerald incredulously. “I can hardly believe it. D’you really mean he wasn’t allowed to choose his own career?”

  None of the girls could find an answer to that. They were aware that Gerald had always been allowed to do as he wanted.

  “Oh well,” said Gerald after a short but rather uncomfortable silence. “It seems a bit odd to me, but I expect Tom will make a very good doctor.”

  “Of course he will!” cried Anne. “He’s getting on splendidly. Tom can always do anything he sets his mind to; he always could.”

  “And he’s quite happy,” added Connie who liked to think that everything was for the best.

  Anne had been talking a lot — she was not as shy as Nell — and Connie had a feeling that it was now her turn to carry on the conversation so she asked politely about Gerald’s life in Glasgow and whether he had made many new friends:

  “Oh, it’s all right,” said Gerald. “I know a few people of course. I play tennis occasionally, but more for exercise than anything else.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if you enjoyed it much,” said Connie sympathetically.

  By this time Gerald had been able to have a good look at his companions and size them up. He smiled at them and said, “You don’t know how funny it is to see yo
u. I always thought of you as tiny little girls and now you’re all grown-up.”

  “We’re not grown-up,” said Anne seriously. “Connie is nearly grown-up. She’s going to London with Mother to buy clothes.”

  “I’m sure she’ll look charming in them,” said Gerald.

  It was so funny to hear Gerald being polite that Anne began to giggle.

  “Shut up!” whispered Connie, frowning.

  It was no use of course. When Anne began to giggle it was hopeless trying to stop her. Anne shook with internal convulsions; she was seized with uncontrollable mirth and flung herself upon the bank writhing helplessly.

  The others caught the infection and laughed too.

  “What are we laughing at?” asked Gerald at last in a trembling voice. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Come on, Anne. Tell us the joke.”

  “Anne can never tell you,” said Nell hastily (for Nell had a pretty shrewd idea of what had amused her young sister). “Anne can never tell you the joke, and even if she does it isn’t a bit funny.”

  Gerald could hardly believe this. It certainly was difficult to believe that a joke which had thrown a young woman into such a passion of mirth would not be worth hearing. “Do try, Anne,” he said earnestly.

  At this Anne laughed the more.

  “It’s no good,” said Connie. “Honestly, Gerald. We’ll just have to talk about something else.”

  “Have some more cake,” suggested Nell, offering him the last piece.

  Gerald accepted it and they talked of something else.

  “This is a nice place for tea,” he said looking round the little quarry. “I haven’t been here for years and years — not since Roger and Tom and I had a shooting-match with a sailor doll.”

  There was a dead silence. Six round eyes fixed themselves upon Gerald’s face.

  “A sailor doll with a cap and bell-bottomed trousers,” continued Gerald cheerfully. “It made a fascinating target. Tom stuck it up against a rock and we all had shots at it with Roger’s rook-rifle. There wasn’t must left of it by the time we’d finished. Funny how you remember things, isn’t it?”