“There’s a trunk from London. Is that it, Lydia, down at the far end?”
“That’s it,” Lydia declared, relieved by the sight of her neat yellow trunk, standing solitary on the little platform.
“Badcock will bring it along. The trap’s outside,” Nathalie said to the porter. “Let’s come.”
Lydia followed her, feeling slightly amazed. The old Nathalie had certainly never possessed a manner of any assurance at all, and moreover it impressed the town-bred visitor to see that the railway-porter actually knew Nathalie, and said “Yes, Miss Palmer,” as he lurched away to fetch the trunk.
She was still more impressed by the sight of the “trap,” a tall four-wheeled dog-cart with a white horse between the shafts, its head fastened to the station railings.
Nathalie untied the piece of rope, stowed it away at the back of the cart and climbed into the driving seat, talking all the while.
Lydia, who had never climbed into a dog-cart before, was not happy, but she performed the feat as unconcernedly as she could, having carefully watched Nathalie’s movements.
The trunk was hoisted into the back, Nathalie said “Thank you, Badcock,” jerked the reins slightly, and drove off.
An unusual, and quite unexpected, sensation of shyness caused Lydia to talk rapidly about the heat of the journey, and the beauty of the steep lanes through which they drove — anything that was impersonal.
Nathalie responded happily and naturally, but Lydia thought that she, too, was feeling a little shy.
“What a pretty house!”
“That’s Quintmere. The Damerels live there.”
Lydia wondered where she had heard of the Damerels before. Then she suddenly remembered.
“Oh, is one of them a clergyman in London?”
“Mr. Clement is. Why — do you know him, Lydia? How funny!”
“He comes to see Sir Rupert Honoret on business.
I’ve seen him sometimes. Does he live at that house?”
“His mother does — Lady Lucy. She’s nice — awfully old. The eldest son was killed out hunting last winter — no, the winter before. Don’t you remember? I wrote to you about it. It was awful. Poor father had to go and tell Lady Lucy.”
“Lady Lucy!” Then the young clergyman was “somebody.”
Lydia was speechless.
Nathalie went on, speaking very seriously: “Of course, the Squire being killed like that was dreadful — he was only thirty-five. Luckily he’s left a son — a dear little boy. He and his mother, Mrs. Damerel, live with Lady Lucy at Quintmere now.”
“And what does the other son do — the clergyman? Does he live in London?”
“He does now. I suppose he’ll have the living when father retires — it’s in Lady Lucy Damerel’s gift. You remember father, of course, Lydia?” Lydia said that she did, quite well, and presently they drove through Ashlew village, where Nathalie exchanged a number of greetings with the people they met, and then up a short, steep drive to the Rectory door.
It was not a very pretty house, but completely smothered in ivy, and with shabby, chintz-furnished rooms — full of flowers and littered with papers — that seemed to Lydia’s unaccustomed eyes very large and bright.
She felt that somehow she had never expected Nathalie to have a home so like a Rectory in a book.
The Rector came in for tea, and his long, rather solemn face, crowned by a high forehead and sparse white hair, struck Lydia as resembling that of a horse.
He spoke to her in the kind, slow way that she remembered, and asked questions about her book.
Nathalie poured out the tea, and it caused Lydia an unreasonable surprise to see her doing it. Somehow, she had never imagined Nathalie any older or more grown-up than when they had parted at school.
Nathalie had just gone home, and lived there ever since — she herself, in her letters, had often said that nothing ever happened at Ashlew, and Lydia had been slightly struck with the contrast to her own varied days — independent livelihood at Elena’s, the boardinghouse, the publishing of a successful novel, the new position as Sir Rupert Honoret’s secretary. Even her experience with Margoliouth had been a dramatic affair, although she had never written of it to Nathalie.
And yet here was Nathalie, who had done nothing at all, sitting indefinably poised and “grown-up” And more at her ease, Lydia felt certain, than was her visitor.
However, she enjoyed the evening, and the novelty of sitting on the lawn with the just-arrived London paper after tea, while Nathalie went down to the school on her bicycle, because Mr. Palmer said that the schoolmistress wanted to speak to her about the infant class in the Sunday school most particularly.
She also enjoyed supper, which they had on a wooden table in the garden, just under the dining-room window, from which the pink-faced maid handed them out the bread sauce and peas and potatoes for their roast chicken, and the dishes of raspberries and clotted cream that concluded the meal.
“We must see what our country fare can do towards fattening you up, while you’re with us,” said the Rector.
“You look as though you were in need of a rest.”
“She works so hard, father,” said Nathalie proudly.
“I know, my dear. We must try and make this a real holiday.”
Lydia was touched and gratified at their kind solicitude.
She acquiesced gratefully when Nathalie suggested that she must be tired, and would like to go to her room early.
The room was a very pretty one, seeming enormous after Number Seventeen at the boarding-house, and with a comfortable deep arm-chair near the bed, and a little vase of red, scented roses on the dressing-table.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” ejaculated Lydia in spontaneous delight at so great a contrast to any surroundings that she had ever known before.
“I’m next door,” said Nathalie, “and the bathroom is beyond the landing — only I’m afraid the water’s not very hot in the mornings. Breakfast at eight, but don’t hurry; Lydia, dear, I won’t stay and talk to you tonight, but it’s splendid to think I’ve really got you here at last.”
The enthusiasm of Nathalie’s words, and good-night kiss, assured Lydia that her adoring junior at Miss Glover’s still survived in the youthful lady of the house of Ashlew Rectory.
She went to sleep at last in the unaccustomed silence, a little bewildered and surprised still, but happily confident that here, as elsewhere, she would very soon regain her usual serenity of outlook and find her rightful place.
XVIII
LYDIA’S rightful place at the Rectory was found even more quickly and easily than she had hoped.
She helped Nathalie with her Blanket Club accounts, she contributed most valuable garments, made by herself quickly and deftly during the long, pleasant evenings, to the Maternity Bag, and she begged to be allowed to relieve Nathalie sometimes by reading aloud at the meetings of the Mothers’ Union. It was gratifying to see how much the mothers appreciated it, when the Rector told them that this was his daughter’s friend, who was taking a well-earned holiday from hard work in London.
The Rector and Nathalie could hardly say enough of Lydia’s eagerness to join in all the activities of their large and straggling parish, and both expressed a naive admiration for her wonderful aptitude over details which must be so new to her.
But Lydia enjoyed it all, and also enjoyed her own quickness, that admittedly so far surpassed Nathalie’s rather automatic performance of her many duties, and the sense of being a great success, and really helpful to the kind and hospitable Palmers.
The old intimacy between herself and Nathalie had revived very quickly, and it surprised and flattered Lydia to see the eagerness displayed by her friend to hear all about her life in London.
But she did not tell her a very great deal. It was always a mistake to talk very much about oneself, and the Rector had seemed to think it rather a pity that Lydia should be working for the Jewish Sir Rupert Honoret. More successful, somehow, to keep the conversation to the
great novelty that she found in a country life, and her enjoyment of the Saturday afternoon cricket matches, attended by Nathalie always, and her father whenever possible, as a matter of course.
“I suppose I’m so used to them, and — it’s very slack of me — but I do get rather tired of always getting the tea ready,” Nathalie confessed.
“Do you give the tea?”
“The Cricket Club funds are supposed to provide it, but Lady Lucy lets us have the crockery and Mrs. Damerel often comes down to help. The Squire used to play, you know. And Mr. Clement Damerel sometimes plays when he’s down here. We may see him this afternoon.”
Lydia felt rather pleased, and put on a new pink frock that she had copied from one of Nathalie’s neat prints, because her customary long skirts and frilly blouses had somehow seemed out of place at the Rectory.
She went down with Nathalie to the cricket ground in the middle of the village, early in the afternoon.
“We call at the post-office for the key of the cricket pavilion,” said Nathalie, quite matter-of-factly.
The postmaster gave them the key, and they also called at the baker’s for a very large basket containing long loaves of yellow saffron cake.
The pavilion was a small, match-boarded erection, painted in green, and with a little wooden fence all round it. Within this enclosure, Nathalie and Lydia erected a trestle table, and from inside the pavilion they extracted a quantity of enamel mugs and plates, with two knives for cutting up the cake and spreading butter on the splits, as Nathalie called the round, white buns that Lydia had taken for scones.
“That’s splendid, Lydia! How quickly you do it.
You see, we hand out the tea over the paling, then they eat it on the grass outside. The urns will come down presently from Quintmere.”
“What fun it is!” said Lydia.
“I wish you were always here!” cried Nathalie.
“You’d make anything fun, and I sometimes get so tired of it all.”
Nevertheless, she went on spreading butter rapidly, and the splits were piling up on the enamel plates.
“Here’s Mrs. Damerel,” said Nathalie presently.
Lydia looked up curiously, and felt rather disappointed at the sight of the Squire’s widow.
Mrs. Damerel was very tall, dressed in a short black skirt and a black shirt made very plainly indeed, a small black veil hung from her hat, denoting her widowhood, and she had the red, weather-beaten complexion of the hunting woman, with a very much turned-up nose and prominent teeth. She did not look more than thirty, but as a pathetic young widow, Lydia thought her appearance a failure.
“Good afternoon, Nathalie,” she said in a short, clipping way. “What a lot you’ve done! Billy and I came down to see if we could help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Damerel. This is my friend, Lydia Raymond, who’s staying with us,” said Nathalie shyly.
“How d’y do?” Mrs. Damerel shook hands, which Lydia had somehow not expected her to do.
“Quite well, thank you,” she replied politely, and there was a pause, while Mrs. Damerel pulled off her gauntlet gloves, revealing an unexpectedly white pair of hands.
She gave the two girls very efficient help, and the dishes of food were all ready and set out in the shade, covered with clean cloths, before the match had even begun.
“The urns are coming down at four o’clock. Lady Lucy will be driving down,” said Mrs. Damerel.
“Where’s Billy?” They left the cool shelter of the little pavilion and went outside to find Billy, a fair child in white flannels, better-looking than his mother.
“The other team has just arrived,” he shouted excitedly, and a wagonette crowded with men and boys jolted slowly to a standstill outside the ground.
It was all new to Lydia, and she sat in the brilliant August sunshine and watched the groups of men on the ground, the rosy Devonshire school-children rolling about the grass, under the shade of some great elm trees, and the arrival of a number of village folk who took their places on forms conveniently placed for watching the match.
Mrs. Damerel spoke to many of them, and presently sat down on one of the benches, with Billy on the ground at her feet, playing with a big dog that seemed to belong to them, and of which Lydia felt rather nervous.
Nathalie said to her apologetically: “I must go and score, Lydia. We’re a man short, because Bert Greenaway isn’t here, and the man who generally keeps the score has been put in first. I don’t suppose he’ll stay in long, though, and then I can come back. We’ve won the toss.”
She went to sit at a little table under a black-board on which a few figures, incomprehensible to Lydia, were chalked up, and busied herself with an enormous sheet of heavily scored paper.
Lydia tried to remember all that she had ever heard about cricket from the Senthovens.
What a long way off the Senthovens seemed — and London, and the girls at Elena’s, and even Sir Rupert’s study.
As she smiled at the thought, a voice beside her suddenly recalled to her with surprising vividness the very atmosphere of the Lexham Gardens house.
“How do you do, Miss Raymond? I never expected that we should meet down here.”
It was Clement Damerel, looking unfamiliar in dark grey flannels.
Lydia flushed with surprise and jumped up. They shook hands.
“I never saw you arrive,” she said rather naively.
“I’ve been talking to Miss Palmer. She told me you were staying with her, and that you’d been kind enough to remember our meetings in London. You’re having a holiday, I suppose?”
“Yes. Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret have gone to Scotland.”
“I’ve got a fortnight, too. Isn’t this glorious after London? Have you met my mother yet?”
“No. I’ve only seen her in church, and then I was up in the choir, because Nathalie — Miss Palmer — was playing the organ. Lady Damerel had gone when we came out.”
Lydia had heard Nathalie and her father speak of “Lady Lucy,” but she felt sure that in a stranger this would sound like impertinent familiarity.
“My mother will be down here presently,” said Clement Damerel. “She doesn’t often miss a cricket match.”
He stayed beside her on the grass, watching the game, eyes screwed up against the sun.
“That’s a good bowler they’ve got — he’ll have Davy out in a minute, you’ll see.... No, that’s the end of the over... the man at this end is a good man — if he’s wise he’ll block every ball until he gets his eye in.... Are you interested in cricket?”
“I’m enjoying this very much,” Lydia said, “but I don’t know much about the game. I used to play with some cousins” Mr. Damerel certainly was not at all like the Senthovens, the only other people Lydia had known who were much interested in games.
Although he watched the match and called out “Well hit, Mr. Yeo, well hit!” when a boundary was scored, and although he clapped generously when a slow ball unexpectedly sent Davy’s middle stump flying, he was all the time attentive to Lydia, addressing his conversation to her, and seeming really interested in everything she said.
When Davy walked sheepishly away from the wicket, unfastening his pads as he came and handing them to his successor with the bat, Nathalie was set at liberty.
“I’ll put myself down for a duck’s egg, Miss Palmer,” said Davy, grinning ruefully.
Nathalie laughed, and came to join her friend.
Lydia was on the whole not sorry to welcome her.
Although at Regency Terrace it might be considered bad form to break into a tête-à-tête between any girl and any young man, her experience at Lexham Gardens had shown her that this rule was not by any means universally prevalent, and moreover she was beginning to find it a strain to show herself as consistently charming and intelligent as Mr. Clement Damerel quite obviously considered her to be.
With four o’clock there came a break.
Two large urns were lifted on to the trestle table by a man in groom’s live
ry, who touched his hat to Nathalie, and Clement Damerel got up and made his way to a small, old-fashioned pony-carriage just drawn up under one of the further elm trees.
“Shall we make the tea, Lydia?” Little muslin bags of tea leaves were at the bottom of each urn, and boiling water was miraculously procured from immense kettles that appeared to have spent the afternoon over a fire of sticks concealed behind the pavilion.
Nathalie emptied milk and sugar with a practised hand into the tea-urns.
“We always give it to them ready mixed,” she said with finality.
Lydia felt no inclination to criticize. Everything at Ashlew, imbued with the immemorial traditions of a country parish, seemed as much beyond criticism as might be some age-old law that had remained unbroken throughout centuries.
They handed mugs of tea and plates of cake and splits across the wooden palings, and Billy Damerel came to ask for some tea for his mother, and carried a brimming mug carefully away with him.
Mrs. Damerel remained seated between two village matrons, talking to them in her abrupt yet unembarrassed manner, but the old lady in black, whom Lydia had vaguely discerned in the pony-cart, presently descended, and came slowly across the grass, leaning on her son’s arm.
If Mrs. Damerel’s appearance had been a disappointment to Lydia, that of Lady Lucy Damerel was an even worse shock.
She was small and old, with wisps of untidy white hair blowing round her face, under a big mushroom hat of black straw, whereof the edges were unmistakably frayed, her black dress was of a cut and antiquity that even Aunt Evelyn, who reputedly “had no time to think about appearances,” would have disdained, and she wore a large pair of clumping black boots.
Lydia thought of Lady Honoret’s ruffled tea-gowns, and picture hats, and innumerable sparkling, jangling rings, and chains and lockets, and felt that Lady Lucy Damerel really could be no one so very important, after all.
Even her voice, as she greeted Nathalie by her Christian name, had not the peculiar distinction that was noticeable in her son’s.
“Is your father coming down?” she asked Nathalie.
“I’m afraid he won’t be back in time. He’s had to take a funeral at Clyst Milton Halt this afternoon.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 168