Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “But in spite of that you were your father’s favourite.”

  “Perhaps because I was different; perhaps because I was like Mother. He loved her in his own way. It wasn’t a very good way—I mean he didn’t make her happy. He didn’t even try to make her happy.”

  “It sounds—unkind.”

  There was a short silence. I wanted to hear more about Charles’s mother: he had shown me a miniature of her in a little shagreen case; it was one of his treasured possessions. She was a beautiful creature, sweet and gracious, with auburn hair and gentle eyes.

  “There are a great many people like my father,” continued Charles. “They don’t mean to be unkind but they just—don’t think of other people’s feelings. He was completely happy at the old Schloss so he couldn’t understand Mother’s craving to visit her home in Skye. I understood because she used to talk to me about it: about the green meadows and the jagged mountains and the waves breaking on the rocks and the silver beaches . . . most of all she spoke of the strange fragrant smell of the sea-wrack which was washed up by the winter storms.”

  “Couldn’t someone have explained to him——”

  “I don’t think she tried to explain, but . . . Oh, I don’t know! You see she was very gentle and the Reeder atmosphere got her down. I remember once, when she had been ill, the doctor advised a change of air. She wanted to come to Scotland but my father arranged for her to go to the South of France instead. He said the climate was better—and I suppose it was true—but that wasn’t the real reason.”

  “What was it?” I asked.

  “He was afraid, Sarah. He was afraid that if she went to Skye she might not come back. It was nonsense, of course, but that was in his mind. He was afraid of losing her . . . and then he lost her. It was pneumonia, but she could have got better if she had tried.”

  “Charles, that sounds dreadful!” I exclaimed.

  “It was dreadful,” said Charles sadly. “The one thing she really enjoyed was riding; she had a beautiful little bay mare called Belle. We used to ride together for miles over the fields and through the woods; it was only then that she escaped from the grim old castle and was free. One day when she was out with a groom she had a fall and was brought home unconscious; it was concussion, not a serious injury, but my father was so terrified when he saw her being carried in that he made her promise never to ride again. She gave her promise willingly; she was frightened and she felt ill and wretched. When she recovered, and wanted to ride, she discovered that Belle had been destroyed. She was never the same after that; she had nothing to live for.”

  Charles had spoken about his mother before but he had never told me so much—this little sidelight on the lives of his parents was very revealing. I understood better now; I realised the tragedy of an exile, imprisoned within the thick stone walls of an Austrian castle, full of an unseen host of dead and gone Reeders. I thought of her often; her unhappiness haunted me for many a long day.

  Chapter Two

  Charles and I were tired, so after supper we locked up the cottage and went to bed.

  “Nobody has ever slept in this house before,” said Charles, as he laid his head on the pillow. He yawned and added, “It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it?” The next moment he was asleep.

  I stayed awake for a little longer, thinking. Every house, even the oldest house on earth, must have had a “first night” when sleep came on gentle wings to carry its occupants into oblivion . . . and then I thought of our cottage as a clean page upon which we would write its history; it was our responsibility to make it a history of love and happiness and kindness . . . and then I wondered whether old houses, where bad deeds had been done, could be purified if they were lived in by good people. I did not have to look far afield for the answer. Craignethan House was old, parts of it had been built in the 17th century, it had seen days of Border warfare, but in spite of all the storms its atmosphere—as long as I had known it—had been peaceful and happy. It was the happiest house I had ever lived in. The warmth of love and kindness enveloped you as you stepped over the threshold.

  Next morning we awoke to golden sunshine and a clear blue sky. I rose early and went downstairs to prepare breakfast; presently I heard Charles singing in his bath. Everything was ready when he appeared, clean and shaven, wearing his dressing-gown.

  “My own wife, my own house, my own table,” said Charles, as he sat down upon his own chair.

  “My own husband, my own kitchen!”

  “My own sunshine, shining in at my own window!”

  “Your own porridge,” I said, placing the bowl before him. I added, “And here’s your own cream. You wouldn’t have got any if I hadn’t caught the milkman as he was passing the gate.”

  “Admirable woman!” he exclaimed, helping himself lavishly. “How clever I was to win such a prize! Porridge without cream is like love without kisses . . . or steak without mustard, or . . .”

  “Charles, listen! This is serious,” I said. “The milkman was on his way to Craignethan, which means——”

  “Wait!” said Charles. “Wait until I think this out. The milkman was on his way to Craignethan. The milkman is old Janet’s second cousin once removed, which means he’ll tell her that he has just sold a pint of cream to Miss Sarah who’s married to yon man who’s built yon wee hoose on the brae.”

  “Yes,” I said. “At least it was half a pint—and I don’t know his exact relationship to Janet—but of course he’ll tell her. Which means——”

  “Which means,” interrupted Charles. “Which means Janet will tell your grans that we’re here, which means we shall have to call at Craignethan this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “How clever I am!” said Charles smugly.

  “You’re learning . . . but your accent could be better.”

  “Your coffee couldn’t be better. Can I have some more, please?”

  Charles was silent while he ate his eggs and bacon. Presently he said, “I hope you don’t expect me to sparkle at breakfast every morning, Sarah?”

  “Not every morning; only when I hear you singing ‘Sur le pont d’Avignon’ in your bath.”

  “I must make a note of that,” he declared, taking out his handkerchief and tying a knot in the corner.

  “Darling, I love you!” I exclaimed.

  Then Charles kissed me and the conversation became too foolish to relate.

  *

  We were just finishing breakfast when Willy Proudfoot arrived with wood for the shelves and after the usual polite greetings he and Charles shut themselves up in “the book-room.” I washed the dishes and tidied the house and then looked in to see how they were getting on.

  “I’m coming,” said Charles. “We’ve marked the walls where I want the shelves so Proudfoot can get on with the job.”

  “It’ll no’ take long,” declared Willy Proudfoot. He added, “I’m hoping the carpets are right, Mrs Reede. I had a wee bit of deeficulty wi’ the stair. I’d like tae have another look at it in a month or two when it’s got trodden doon.”

  “That’s right,” said Charles, nodding. “Just look in when it’s convenient.”

  By this time it was a quarter to eleven so we left Proudfoot to finish the work and set off down the path to Craignethan House. The path had been made by grandpapa for our benefit—and his. It was a pleasant walk, over a bit of moorland and through a small wooden gate. The sun was warm but there had been frost in the night, the first frost of autumn, and the scent of a garden bonfire was drifting in the air.

  “Lovely!” said Charles, sniffing appreciatively. “The gardener at Craignethan must be burning his hedge cuttings. What’s his name, Sarah? I’d better know his name in case we see him to speak to.”

  “John Dell. He’s Minnie’s uncle.”

  “That’s easy to remember.”

  Charles opened the gate and we went through into the wild garden, where there were beeches and oaks and sycamores and bushes of rhododendrons. Some of the trees had been touched lightly
by the frost so that their leaves were reddened. The burn ran in a small rocky ravine, with ferns growing in the crevices, it was spanned by a solid wooden bridge. On our right was the kitchen-garden, well stocked with vegetables, on our left was the grey stone building with its close-fitting roof and tall chimneys. Craignethan was not a large house and it was somewhat irregular, for part of it was very old and part had been built in the early days of Queen Victoria’s reign, but the addition had been skilfully made and the whole effect was pleasing to the eye.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” I said, as we walked across the gravelled sweep to the front door.

  “It’s a delightful house,” agreed Charles. “They built well in those days; they made things strong to last. Shall we ring the bell, Sarah?”

  There was no need to ring. As we reached the door, which was made of solid oak and studded with iron nails, it was flung wide open by grandpapa.

  “I saw you!” he exclaimed, seizing me in his arms and hugging me. “I saw you coming over the bridge. We thought you were coming on Friday but Tom Todd said you were here!”

  “We wanted to come home,” I said somewhat breathlessly.

  “How are you, Charles?” inquired grandpapa.

  “I’m well, sir,” said Charles, smiling and shaking hands.

  By this time we were in the hall.

  “Jane, they’re here!” shouted grandpapa at the top of his voice.

  Grandmama came running down the stairs. “Oh, darlings! How lovely to see you!” she cried. “We heard you were here—grandpapa was so excited that he couldn’t eat his breakfast.”

  “Nonsense, Jane!”

  “Grandmama, you shouldn’t have bothered!” I exclaimed. “It was naughty of you—really it was! I told you to leave everything——”

  “It was no bother, dear child. I wanted to have it ready for you. I just looked on while Willy Proudfoot and that nice cousin of his laid the carpets and unpacked the furniture; it was done in half no time! Then Minnie arrived and cleared up the mess. If I had known you were coming last night I could have ordered your stores.”

  “Why stand in the hall?” demanded grandpapa. “For goodness’ sake come into the drawing-room and sit down comfortably.”

  We did as we were told. Then Janet appeared with a tray of coffee and biscuits and arranged it on a low table beside the fire.

  “This is good,” declared grandpapa, rubbing his hands together. “This is what I’ve been looking forward to for years.”

  “They’ve come to stay,” agreed grandmama.

  “That’s what I mean. Those flying visits were tantalising—here today and gone tomorrow—we couldn’t enjoy them in peace. I just hope the cottage is not too cramped.”

  “It’s quite perfect,” I said.

  “It should have been bigger. I’m not satisfied——”

  “They’re satisfied with it, William,” put in grandmama.

  “More than satisfied,” declared Charles. “It’s our own place—and I can walk all round it on our own ground.”

  “What are you going to do about the garden? I could send Dell’s son to dig it for you; he’s a strong hefty fellow.”

  “No, thank you, sir,” said Charles. “I intend to dig it myself.”

  “My dear boy, it’s virgin land!”

  “I shall do a little at a time; it will prevent me from getting fat on Sarah’s cooking. We shan’t have room for vegetables, except for a few herbs, but Sarah wants roses and I’m determined to have a lavender hedge outside the sitting-room window.”

  “Now look here! Don’t you go and buy your vegetables from that man in town. He’s a robber,” said grandpapa fiercely. “He gets second-rate stuff from Carlisle market and sells it at first-rate prices . . . and anyway there are enough vegetables in Craignethan garden to feed a regiment.”

  “Oh, Grandpapa! How kind of you!” I exclaimed. “That will be marvellous. Charles and I——”

  “Just take what you want and say no more about it. I’ve told Dell.”

  “Exceedingly kind,” declared Charles. “Fresh vegetables are——”

  “Say no more about it,” repeated grandpapa.

  Charles looked at me imploringly but I shook my head.

  “I hope you’ll be happy here,” said grandmama. “You deserve a little happiness after all your troubles.”

  “It has been worth waiting for,” said Charles.

  “We’re both free,” I said. “That’s all we wanted. Duncan Barrington has been able to get a very good interpreter to take my place.”

  “You’re both so clever,” said grandmama admiringly. “I was never any good at languages.”

  “You’re good at living, which is much more important,” said Charles.

  Grandpapa nodded thoughtfully. “Good at living. Yes, it’s a valuable gift.”

  It is a valuable gift—and grandmama had been dowered with it; she loved people and understood them; she oiled the wheels of life so that everything ran more smoothly when she was there. It was not because she talked much—in company she was rather silent—but she always said the right thing at the right time. She was lovely to look at: her silver hair was thick and soft and slightly wavy and, despite her age, her eyes were deep-blue and full of intelligence. Goodness and kindness emanated from grandmama like the fragrance of spring flowers.

  After a short silence Charles said, “This is a very beautiful old house; I should like to know its history. Has Craignethan always belonged to your family, sir?”

  “No. The Maitlands only came into the property in seventeen-two. Before that . . . but, if you’re interested, Charles, I can let you have a look at the title deeds. I’ve got a file of them, yellow with age, written on vellum in dog-Latin. I can’t make head or tail of them, but you’re a linguist, of course.”

  “Not that kind of linguist,” said Charles, smiling. “All the same I should like to see them.”

  “Come on, then!” said grandpapa. “I’ll get them out of the safe.”

  They both rose and went away.

  “Now, Sarah,” said grandmama happily. “Now we can talk comfortably. Tell me about your father: does he like Allington?”

  During the war father had been working as an unpaid curate in the East End of London, but, quite recently, he had been given a charge in a small village near St Albans. Willy, who had been with us in London all through the blitz, was able to live with father and travel to London daily. Everything had fitted in well and I had got them settled in the vicarage at Allington before Charles and I were married.

  “Yes, he likes it,” I said. “He complains of not having enough to do but he’ll soon find plenty of work to keep him busy. People in trouble come to father for help so, once the Allington people get to know him, he won’t have a moment’s peace.”

  “Henry is a kind man.”

  “Yes, and very human. He doesn’t expect people to be saints.”

  “You feel relieved about him, Sarah?”

  “Oh, I do!” I declared emphatically. “He doesn’t look old—or feel old—but he was doing far too much at St Rule’s. He’ll be comfortable at Allington. The church is delightful and the vicarage is not too big; best of all I managed to engage a nice kindly woman to come in daily. It isn’t difficult to get a woman to look after two men.”

  “I remember when Willy was born,” said Grandmama. “It doesn’t seem so long ago. He was born here, at Craignethan, so your father called him William Maitland. It was nice of Henry.” She hesitated and added, “I didn’t like to ask Charles about his father.”

  “His father is very angry with him, Grandmama.”

  “I was afraid of that. I suppose it’s because Charles has become a naturalised British subject?”

  “Yes, and because he has married a Protestant.”

  “Couldn’t Charles have explained——”

  “Oh, he did!” I said. “Charles wrote to his father and explained everything. He reminded his father that he was half-British by birth and added that,
during his years at Oxford, his mother’s country had become very dear to him. He said that Austria had treated him shamefully; he had been betrayed to the Nazis and had spent most of the war in a German prison. He went on to say that for these reasons he intended to become a British national, and change his name to Reede . . . and he was going to marry an English girl, whom he had loved very dearly for years, and make his home in Scotland. He explained that, as his elder brother Rudolph was heir to Roethke, he felt that it was up to him to make his own way in the world but he would always be his father’s faithful son, ready to help his family in any emergency, and he hoped his father would understand and forgive him and send him his blessing . . . I have just told you the bare outlines, of course. It was a very good letter, Grandmama.”

  “I’m sure it was, my dear.”

  “Charles received no answer, so he wrote again; this time he insured the letter to make certain that the Baron would get it . . . and it was answered by return of post. It consisted of two sentences: ‘I received your first letter. I have nothing to say to you.’ It was signed ‘Roethke’.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed grandmama in distress. “Oh, Sarah, how dreadful! How unchristian! Oh, poor Charles!”

  “I don’t think Charles is very upset. When he showed me his father’s reply he said he wasn’t surprised; it was natural that his father should be angry. He said, ‘It was my duty to write and tell him. Now it is finished and we needn’t think about it any more.’ Charles isn’t resentful, he has forgiven his family for their unsympathetic attitude—which I think is very good of him considering all he has done for them!”

  Grandmama sighed and said, “It is all very sad. Would you like me to tell William?”

  “Yes, please tell him; then nothing more need be said. Charles wants to forget the past; he’s starting a new life in a new country.”

  Chapter Three

  We had intended the grans to be our first visitors but as grandmama was not very well their visit was postponed, and we had Minnie and Maggie Dell instead.