by Susan Barrie
“I’ll ring for Mrs. Abbie to bring you some tea,” he said, when the conversation, unassisted by Noel, appeared to be in danger of dying away altogether. “She’s my housekeeper, and an absolute gem amongst housekeepers, and for that reason I’ve decided that she’d better go with you two to the Wold House and look after you.”
“Oh, of course.” But somehow Melanie could not see him there, in that lonely house on the edge of the moor, cut off from all the things he himself had admitted he found so important to his physical well-being, especially in the winter time. “Naturally, it will be your home.”
“But first we will find out just how much of a home it can be turned into! It takes rather more than a carte-blanche order to a firm of house-furnishers and decorators and so forth to create an atmosphere in which it is possible to live even amongst period bricks and panelling.”
Melanie nodded her head.
“I agree,” she said, and added, without pausing to measure her words: “Home is where the heart is!”
“Exactly!” he replied, smiling at her curiously, a tiny twinkle invading his eyes. “And the heart does not always behave as one would expect, attaching itself to the oddest corners, places and people. But the essence of what you say is correct. ‘Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home!’ ”
Melanie felt a faint color begin to rise up in her cheeks as he continued to study her as if he was amused, and she was glad when the door opened to admit Mrs. Abbie with the tea-tray. Mrs. Abbie was buxom and smiling in a black dress, with a most housekeeperly-looking bunch of keys dangling at her waist, and she looked at the two girls with friendly eyes. She had evidently attempted to do their visit justice, for amongst the edibles on the tray there was a large fruit cake, as well as scones, sandwiches, and chocolate biscuits.
“There!” she exclaimed, as she set down the tray on a little table beside Melanie’s elbow. “I expect the young lady will like to pour out.”
“So long as you don’t expect me to, Abbie,” Richard Trenchard exclaimed, with a faint shudder, and an amused glance at her as she passed his chair. “I haven’t yet sunk to the level of afternoon tea—not willingly,” he added, meeting the sudden, quick smile in Melanie’s eyes as she recalled the afternoon of her arrival in London, and Great-Aunt Amelia’s neat method of pinning him to the side of her chair.
“My great-aunt is a woman of enormous strength of character,” he observed, an unwilling smile appearing in his own eyes, “as no doubt you have discovered for yourself, Miss Brooks?”
“I think she’s a very wonderful old lady,” Melanie told him truthfully.
“Do you?” He looked at her keenly. “And she hasn’t succeeded in, intimidating you yet?”
“No.” She appeared surprised. “I don’t think she has even tried to do so.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed, watching her neat method of handling fragile porcelain cups, as well as a squat silver teapot of William and Mary pattern. “As a matter of fact I think she approves of you.”
“Does she?” Her brown eyes were lifted quickly to his face, and he detected a shy, pleased look in them. “In that case I’m glad, for she’s so extraordinarily well preserved—in every way!—that one can’t help but admire her enormously. I don’t imagine I shall be so well-preserved when—if ever!—I reach her age.”
“You’ve a very long way to go yet,” he told her, switching on the reading-lamp beside his chair so that she could see now that his eyes were grey and sparkling, and with a look of something not altogether unlike admiration in their cool depths as they took in the youthful perfection of her cheek and chin and brow.
He endeavored suddenly to include Noel in the conversation, and leaned a little towards them.
“Is there anything you two girls would like to do before you leave London?” he asked.
Melanie hesitated.
“It’s Noel’s birthday next week. She will be sixteen,” she added.
“Great Scot!” he exclaimed, looking at the small, shrinking figure of Noel. “Almost completely grown-up! Then we must celebrate, of course.”
Melanie hesitated again.
“But first,” she said—paused, and then rushed, on determinedly—“first I think Noel would like to acquire a few more clothes—some things she can really wear. At the moment she is rather sadly reduced, with little or nothing that fits.”
“Good heavens!” He looked shocked. “Is that really so? Then I must give you a cheque and you must take her shopping. I can’t allow myself to be disgraced by the possession of a shabby niece!” He was teasing her, but the painful self-conscious color which rolled up over her face and neck disturbed him a little. He said more gently: And what about a cinema or a show of some sort on the great day? There’s a very good film on at the Orion, and we could have tea afterwards at the Savoy, or somewhere like that—since you both appear to be very fond of tea!” Melanie thought his eyes had quite the nicest expression she had seen in them yet as they rested on his niece, and even Noel roused herself from her welter of shyness and uncertainty to thank him in trembling tones.
“That would be lovely,” she said. “I’ve hardly ever been to a cinema,” she confessed.
“Too bad. Then it’s high time we did something about it.”
On their way home in a taxi Melanie was pleased to observe that there was quite an animated color in Noel’s cheeks, and her eyes were bright. But whether her animation was due to the prospect of a shopping expedition, a visit to the cinema or her uncle’s unusual condescension she could only guess.
As they passed the Orion she glanced at the huge letters above it which announced that Morning in Spring had been running for several weeks, and was apparently an unqualified success. It also proclaimed the name of the star to be Sylvia Gaythorpe!
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Noel murmured, leaning forward to gaze at an outsize portrait of the titian-haired attraction which was placed prominently beside the entrance. “She’s some sort of connection of my mother’s family, you know, and very like my mother—in fact, much more like her than I am!”
“Really? I didn’t know.” Melanie stared at her thoughtfully. So that, no doubt, explained the reason why Richard Trenchard, who had probably already seen the film, felt capable of gazing at it again and again—or gazing at Sylvia Gaythorpe! For had he not once been in love with Elaine...?
“I didn’t know,” she repeated.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE next few days were occupied in getting together a suitable outfit for Noel, the cost of which the really handsome cheque which Richard Trenchard had supplied easily defrayed. Melanie, despite her own limited number of years, had excellent taste, and she was able to advise in the choice of neat, ready-made suits and jumpers, and all the accessories which went with them, which would be suitable for a remote spot like Murchester, where durability would be more important than ostentation. But for the birthday outing—looked forward to almost childishly by Noel, whose previous celebrations had left much to be desired—she encouraged the purchase of a fine wool afternoon frock of a misty shade of blue which looked enchanting on the petite figure of the sixteen-year-old, with her cornflower-blue eyes and pale gold hair. And with it she wore a little dark blue velvet Juliet cap, and a slim tailored coat which was practical as well as sufficiently attractive.
Her guardian, when he called for them in a taxi, allowed his dark eyebrows to slide upwards quite noticeably in surprise when he looked at her, and then glanced approvingly at Melanie.
“You’ve done very well!” he observed. “But it’s obvious you have what is known as a ‘dress sense’.”
And Melanie, who was wearing the same leaf-green suit she had worn when she visited him at his flat, with a soft grey squirrel stole—re-modelled from one of her mother’s—draping her slim shoulders, and her dark hair uncovered, took it that he also approved of her own appearance.
But apart from this leaven of appreciation at the out
set of the afternoon it soon became clear to her that this was not one of his best days, in the sense that he was in any party mood himself. At the cinema, where they sat for over two hours in the dark and simply stared at the screen, it was unnecessary for him to make any effort—and whenever she glanced at him sideways Melanie thought that his features were set in an expression of faint boredom, despite the unique performance of Sylvia Gaythorpe—but afterwards, in the brightly-lighted lounge of one of London’s leading hotels, his obligations as host came to the fore a little.
He told Noel that her birthday present—which he refused to name—would reach her when she reached the Wold House, and his niece’s eyes sparkled in anticipation. She was obviously enjoying herself, surrounded by so much unaccustomed luxury, with so many ultra-smart men and women taking tea on all sides of her. Some of them—especially the women—glanced across at their little party of three, and Melanie found herself deciding—without in the least intending to do so—that Richard Trenchard had a greater air of distinction than any of the other men present.
She noticed how the women’s glances dwelt on him with obvious interest, despite the fact that he looked detached and faintly arrogant, and there was a rather petulant gleam in his eyes behind their almost feminine eyelashes. His well-cut mouth had a kind of cold boredom hovering round it—which was not particularly flattering to either herself or Noel—and he refrained from taking note of any of the people who studied him, as if under no possible circumstances could they have had the slightest degree of interest for him.
But Melanie knew that the women were discussing him amongst themselves, and with their men friends, and it was simple for her to follow the drift of their conversations:
“... Richard Trenchard, you know ... the playwright. You must have seen his Summer Symphony and After Daylight ... an enormous success...”
And she knew also that they were regarding her a little curiously, because she looked so young and inexperienced, and Noel they might almost have decided was his daughter! Which, after all, she very easily could have been! ...
And then the swing doors opened to admit Sylvia Gaythorpe, with a tall, weedy-looking young man who nevertheless managed to convey an impression of affluence, at least, in attendance. Sylvia instantly caught sight of Richard and came over to him, both slim gloved hands held out in delighted surprise.
“Richard! What in the world are you doing here at this hour of the afternoon? You, who loathe afternoon-tea! Oh, I forgot!—It’s a birthday, isn’t it?”
She glanced with a formal, red-lipped smile at Noel, who was instantly covered in shyness, and then with a less perceptible smile at Melanie, who thought that she was even more striking and glamorous off the screen than on. Her flaming hair was arranged skilfully on the top of her shapely head, and she wore a black suit with a pencil slim line and a froth of white organdie frilling in the opening of the revers which threw into prominence the flawlessness of her complexion. A diamond brooch in the shape of a spray of orchids was pinned to the front of her suit, and looked costly as it blazed away in the rosy-pink rays of the subdued lighting effects.
Richard had stood up as soon as he saw her coming towards him, and he still retained her hands in his as he smiled down at her with a sudden, complete banishing of his boredom, and a light and entertaining sparkle in his eyes.
“We’ve been gazing at you all afternoon,” he told her, “and now you appear in person, as if conjured up by magic!”
“Have you?” She put back her head to gaze up at him, the expression of her huge, greeny-grey eyes melting but pleased. “How nice of you, darling, to be willing to pay to see me! How many times is that, I wonder?”
“I wonder?” he echoed, deliberately withholding the information, and provoking her with his look of bland teasing.
She studied him for a long moment in silence, and then accepted the chair he had drawn up for her. While she removed her gloves and the weedy-looking young man ordered fresh tea—without looking in the least pleased because his expected tete-a-tete with the star had been interfered with—Richard produced his cigarette-case and lighted one for her, holding the flame of his lighter just below the level of her eyes so that the tiny yellow spurt of flame flickered and danced for a moment in her great, soft, curiously magnetic pupils.
“Well,” she murmured drawlingly, when the cigarette was comfortably alight, “at least you do consider me fit entertainment for your niece!”
His grey eyes regarded her with amusement.
“Of course,” he agreed. “And I’m quite sure she considered it excellent entertainment!”
“Good!” she exclaimed, rather shortly, and watching her, Melanie felt suddenly sure she was not particularly pleased at that moment—possibly because Richard Trenchard occasionally baffled even her a little, and she would have preferred it had he been rather more on the surface, and had his look been less whimsical and provocative and difficult to read.
She pretended to be consumed with a desire for a cup of tea, but when she had no more than sipped at it she turned to him again, slid one white, scarlet-tipped hand inside his arm in a coaxing manner, and told him that someone was giving a party for her that night, and that he simply had to be one of the guests.
“And I shall not take no’ for an answer,” she assured him. “You’ve got to come!”
“Sorry, my sweet.” He shook his head. “I’m desolated to refuse you, but I have another engagement.”
She looked at him almost angrily this time.
“That probably means that you intend to work, and nothing more, and I shall not let you off!”
“Even so, I’m afraid you’ll have to!”
She tried to extract from him the nature of his previous engagement, but Richard annoyingly withheld the information, and was cool and impervious to all her blandishments and her petulant burst of “artistic” temper. Watching them both with a certain amount of interest Melanie wondered what it must feel like to be up against the rock-like determination and baffling unassailableness of a man like Richard Trenchard, who could yet caress with his eyes at the same time that he proved so elusive. And the sight of his square jaw and handsome, amused mouth made her feel a faint sympathy for Sylvia.
Not that Sylvia apparently required sympathy for long, for it was obvious that she had had previous experience of Richard, and she was not going to humble herself by appealing to him for any length of time. She turned with a shrug to her other admirer, and observing out of the corner of her eyes that the rest of the room was quite absorbed in her actions, and that Noel was gazing at her with large-eyed wonder and admiration, and that the only other sharer of the limelight with her at their table was small, and dark, and mouse-like—that was her private opinion of Melanie!—she became good-humored again, and decided that the matter was not worth pursuing—at any rate, not then! For was she not Sylvia Gaythorpe, who had climbed by her own efforts to quite a dizzy peak of popularity already, and had many men who admired her? And the “literary lion” on her left might be more easily handled if discreetly handled! There was such a thing as finesse when dealing with a type of male who preferred rather to pursue than be pursued!
So she smiled at him forgivingly, and removed a speck of imaginary fluff from the neat lapel of his jacket.
“Well, at least you haven’t forgotten that you’re taking me out to dinner tomorrow night?”
“As if I would!” he replied, with a softened, caressing note in his voice.
“And when you go north to this exciting new house of yours—which I haven’t seen yet, although Mother reports in her letters that it’s absolutely charming—you promise me to throw a really grand-scale house-warming party, with myself as one of your most important guests? Is all that agreed?”
“All that is agreed,” he echoed gravely, as one who humored a charming but importunate child.
She smiled at him, her eyes like softened, seductive green flames.
“Dear Richard!” she exclaimed. “How nice to make
such a lot of money writing plays that you can buy all the things you want, even a house that was practically tumbling down and which you’ve restored—again to quote Mother!—at enormous cost!”
“Not so enormous,” he told her. And added: “How nice to be a rising young film star with all the heights to scale, and all the world at your feet!”
“Flatterer!” she accused, and leaned a little nearer to him so that the subtle perfume she used crept about his nostrils. “If only I could get a really good story, instead of some of the stupid stories I do get!” she lamented. “Richard, you’ve simply got to write something really spectacular for me!...”
Melanie was glad when he suddenly recollected that time was passing, and that it was his duty to collect a taxi and return them to Hill Street. If she had enjoyed the early part of the afternoon—and there was no doubt that Noel had enjoyed the whole of it—the latter part had seemed barely to include her at all, and she had even felt slightly but very decidedly in the way at times. Sylvia Gaythorpe had hardly addressed her at all, her escort had offered her a few desultory remarks, and her employer seemed completely to have forgotten her existence. Until he handed her into the taxi and inquired, with belated politeness, whether she had enjoyed her afternoon.
