‘I had to see you,’ he repeated for the third time. ‘I couldn’t tell you in a letter—it’s too important. We’ve got to discuss it. Grandfather wrote to me.’
‘Your grandfather?’
‘Yes. It’s quite a decent letter. I’ll show it to you—but I want to explain to you first that whatever you say I’m not going to Limbourne, unless——’
‘Do you mean he’s asked you?’
Simon nodded. ‘But I’m not going, unless——’
‘Why has he asked you?’ I cried. ‘Why ignore you all these years and then suddenly——’
‘He has ignored us all,’ Simon pointed out. ‘It’s only now—because his son is dead—that he’s written to me. He says, “No doubt you will have seen the notice of your Uncle Henry’s death in the papers.” Well, of course I hadn’t. I mean I take The Times at school but I don’t read the births and deaths and things. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it either; it wouldn’t be in the Scotsman. We don’t get jam like this at Barstow,’ he added. ‘School jam is just sweet mush. I like whole strawberries in my jam.’
‘Simon, I don’t understand. Why should he write to you because your uncle died? You’ve never even seen him, have you?’
‘Well, that’s the amazing thing. It really is amazing—quite fantastic,’ declared Simon with his wide grin. ‘Believe it or not, Mums, it means I’m the heir. The estate is entailed so, even if he wanted to leave it to somebody else, he couldn’t.’
‘Limbourne!’
‘Yes, Limbourne. Isn’t it queer?’
‘But I thought,’ I began doubtfully, ‘I thought Henry Wentworth had a son, and if so——’
‘You must be wrong about that. I mean if he had a son the estate would go to him, wouldn’t it? He’d be the baronet and everything.’
‘Baronet?’
‘Yes, when the old man dies I’ll be a baronet.’
I was absolutely speechless. As a matter of fact I knew so little about Gerald’s relations that I had been under the impression that Sir Mortimer was a knight. Perhaps it would be more true to say that I had never thought about it at all.
‘Comic, isn’t it?’ said Simon, helping himself to another large spoonful of home-made jam. ‘Mark laughed like a drain when I told him.’
‘That’s why he wants you to go to Limbourne?’
‘Yes, that’s why. At first I decided not to go; why should I do what he wants? I mean, after the way he treated my father and my mother it just wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t me he wanted, it was the heir to his blue-pencil baronetcy. He wanted to make sure that the heir didn’t eat peas with his knife——’
‘But you ought to go, Simon!’
‘Yes, I came round to that. I ought to go because of Dad. It would have been Dad, you know. It should have been him.’
I nodded.
‘So then,’ said Simon gravely, ‘then I tried to think what Dad would have done if it had been him. The answer was easy. Dad would have gone—on his own terms.’
‘On his own terms,’ I repeated in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’
‘So I shall go—on my own terms. I’m in a strong position. A general in a strong position can make his own terms. See what I mean?’
Suddenly it dawned upon me. Simon was in a strong position because whatever he did—or did not do—his grandfather was obliged to accept him. ‘Yes, I’m beginning to see. Go on, Simon. What are your terms?’
He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘I shall do exactly as Dad would have done. Dad wouldn’t have gone to Limbourne without you. Neither shall I.’
‘Simon! I don’t want to go!’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘It’s a crazy idea!’ I cried. ‘He doesn’t want me—it’s you he wants. What am I to him?’
‘You’re his daughter-in-law; Den and Daisy are his grandchildren—just as much as I am. You and I and the twins are a whole family. I shall make that perfectly clear.’
‘Simon, listen. You must go, but——’
‘I shan’t go without you. Dad wouldn’t have gone without you, would he?’
‘No,’ I said doubtfully. ‘No, I don’t think he would.’
‘You know perfectly well he wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do—but it isn’t the same.’
‘It’s exactly the same. If you don’t go with me to Limbourne the whole thing is off.’
‘Why don’t you go by yourself and——’
‘No!’ cried Simon. ‘If I were to go to Limbourne alone and—and get accepted by my grandfather it would mean a break with you and the twins. I’d belong to Limbourne in future. I won’t have that at any price. I won’t have it!’ cried Simon desperately. ‘It’s all or nothing, Mums. Don’t you understand?’
‘Yes, I see what you mean; but you could go by yourself this time and explain. Then, if he’s willing to be friends with me——’
Simon shook his head. ‘No general worth his salt would give up a strong position without making favourable terms—and this is the right moment to make terms.’
‘I don’t want to go! It would be frightful!’
‘Absolutely frightful,’ agreed Simon.
‘Well, then——’
‘Mums,’ said Simon earnestly. ‘I don’t blame you for being bewildered. You see I’ve had lots of time to think, because I haven’t been sleeping well. Ever since Wednesday when I got the letter I’ve been lying awake and thinking. I’ve had hours and hours to think it all out and decide what to do. At first I couldn’t see the way, it was like a fog, and then I thought of Dad and it was all quite clear. You’ve always told me to think of Dad—and what he would do—haven’t you?’
The shadows beneath Simon’s eyes were explained; he certainly had done a lot of thinking. I began to realise that his conclusions were reasonable; I began to see that I should have to face the ordeal. It would be frightful, but I should have to bear it—for Simon’s sake.
‘But perhaps he won’t want me to go,’ I said with a sudden gleam of hope.
‘Then I don’t go either,’ said Simon promptly. ‘I shall make that perfectly clear when I write to my grandfather.’
*
3
‘Do we clear up now or leave it till the morning?’ asked Simon, looking at the remains of his repast.
‘Leave it,’ I replied. ‘It’s too late. We’ll sit down quietly for a few minutes and then we’ll go to bed.’
As we went into the sitting-room and took our places on the sofa I began to think of plans.
‘When are we to go?’ I said. ‘We’ve got the cottage for August. Perhaps we could go to Limbourne in September.’
‘Let’s get it over, Mums. We’ll enjoy the hols much more if we haven’t got it hanging over us. I thought it would be a good plan for you to come south at the end of July and meet me in London—Barstow breaks up on the twenty-seventh—then we could go down to Limbourne together. Aunt Liz would have the twins, wouldn’t she? We shall have to stay for a week—not longer—then we come back here, pick up the twins and make tracks for Craig-an-Ron.’
Obviously he had thought it all out. I could find no fault in his plan except that it brought the dreaded visit much too near. I would rather have put it off until September in the hope that something might happen to prevent it from taking place.
‘Much better to get it over and done with,’ said Simon who, apparently, had read my thoughts.
I sighed. ‘Who lives there? Did Sir Mortimer tell you? He doesn’t live there alone, does he?’
‘Aunt Florence lives with him; she’s a widow with a son and a daughter. The son is at Cambridge, but he’ll be at Limbourne when we go . . . and there’s an old lady, Sir Mortimer’s sister. I suppose she’s my great-aunt. She lives there too.’
The idea of so many people was terrifying—all strangers and rich—with lovely clothes. They would gaze at me to see what I was like. ‘I haven’t anything fit to wear,’ I exclaimed
.
‘Rubbish, it doesn’t matter what you wear.’
‘Of course it matters—and for you, too. We may be poor relations but we can’t go to Limbourne in rags.’
‘M’m, I see what you mean. We shall have to keep our end up. I suppose they’ll dress for dinner, which means I shall have to launch out into a dinner-jacket. I shall take the money out of my Post Office Savings. That’s what to do.’ He smiled and added, ‘I’ve been saving up to buy a gun. You didn’t know that, did you?’
All the evening I had been feeling that there was something different about Simon and now, quite suddenly, I knew what it was. ‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I’ve grown up, that’s why. It’s a funny sort of feeling to grow up suddenly. This time last week I was thinking about cricket, wondering if I’d be chosen to play in the Haileybury Match, but now it doesn’t seem to matter awfully. It’s because I’ve done such a lot of thinking. I’ve grown up,’ repeated Simon. ‘When we go to Limbourne I shall call you Katherine.’
‘You can’t!’
‘Yes, I can. Listen,’ said Simon earnestly. ‘You’re only eleven years older than I am, so——’
‘Twelve,’ I said firmly. ‘I was nearly nineteen when I married your father and you were seven.’
‘Call it twelve if you like. The point is you look very young indeed so it would be absurd for me to call you “Mother.” I shall call you Katherine.’
I was too tired and bewildered to argue with him.
‘Poor darling, you’re half asleep,’ said Simon. ‘Off you go to bed. I’ll tidy up and shut the windows.’
I went meekly. It seemed as if Simon and I had changed places.
Chapter Ten
The next day was Saturday so there was no need to get up early and see the children off to school, but I had to phone to Alec and put off our jaunt to Moffat for about the sixth time. I explained that Simon had been given the week-end by Mr. Desborough.
‘Lucky young dog,’ said Alec. ‘We didn’t get weekends off when I was at school. No, of course you can’t come.’
‘I’m frightfully sorry, Alec. You’ll go to Muirfield, won’t you?’
‘Yes, don’t worry, I’ll get a game all right.’
It was after nine when we sat down to breakfast. Simon appeared in pyjamas and dressing-gown. I had intended to let him sleep but he said the smell of frying bacon had wakened him.
Den and Daisy welcomed him with enthusiasm as usual and as usual Simon was delightful with them. He produced two little parcels from the pocket of his dressing-gown—a knife for Den and a little red purse for Daisy.
‘Cheap and nasty,’ said Simon to me, sotto voce.
They were cheap, of course, but the children were charmed with the presents.
There was a lot of chat at breakfast. The children wanted to know if Simon had been chosen to play in the first eleven.
‘Not definitely,’ he replied.
‘Will you be chosen?’ I asked.
‘It depends on Mark—we’re both in the running. I’m erratic, sometimes I can hit up a pretty good score; Mark is steady and a bit stodgy. They’d rather have Mark, really, but he has got a groggy elbow. If Mark’s elbow is better by Wednesday week I’m out. That’s the position at the moment.’
‘I hope Mark’s elbow won’t be better!’ exclaimed Daisy.
Simon smiled. ‘I hope it will,’ he said. ‘At least . . . yes, I hope it will. As a matter of fact I’ve been rubbing it for him every night with some stuff the doctor gave him.’
‘Good!’ I said.
‘Oh well, he’s a good pal,’ said Simon.
Later, when Simon had dressed, the three went out together to pay a visit to the Castle. They wanted me to go with them but I was still feeling tired and I had a lot to do. I reminded Simon that Aunt Liz would be expecting us to lunch and he promised to be back in time.
I was busy in the kitchen when Aunt Liz arrived.
‘Well, has he come?’ she asked.
I kissed her and said, ‘Yes, late last night.’
‘Has he run away from school, or what?’
‘Mr. Desborough gave him permission to come.’
‘What has he been up to?’
I looked at her as she stood there, frowning balefully, and realised that what Simon had said was true. Aunt Liz didn’t like him.
‘What has he been up to?’ she repeated. ‘Some silly scrape, I suppose.’
‘That isn’t fair!’ I exclaimed. ‘You haven’t heard yet——’
‘I can see you’re worried,’ she interrupted.
‘Yes, I’m a bit worried. I want to tell you about it and ask your advice.’
I made some coffee and carried the tray into the sitting-room.
‘Well, let’s hear all about it,’ said Aunt Liz more amiably.
Aunt Liz had been a rock of strength to me since I was a small child. I was very fond of her and I admired her integrity. She was prickly at times, but if you were in any kind of trouble she would stand by and see you through so it was not difficult for me to tell her ‘all about it.’
She sat there, listening intently, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette in an expendable cardboard holder. It was a pleasant sight to see Aunt Liz smoking, she looked comfortable and happy; many of her friends had given it up but Aunt Liz said she had smoked for forty years and she saw no reason why an old woman should deny herself small pleasures.
When I had told her everything she sat in silence for several minutes.
At last she said, ‘Kit, I don’t like it.’
‘Neither do I, Aunt Liz.’
‘I wonder what Gerald’s reaction would have been.’
‘But, darling, if Gerald were here there would be no problem at all.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she explained. ‘I meant what would he have advised you to do under the present circumstances.’
I was silent.
‘Don’t you understand?’ she said earnestly. ‘He knew his family—which we don’t. He must have spoken to you about them and told you what they were like.’
‘He seldom spoke of them—they had cast him off, you see—he never blamed them or said anything bitter about them.’
‘He never regretted the breach? Never showed any desire to revisit his old home?’
‘We were happy,’ I said defensively. ‘We were—we were sort of complete with each other and the children. He was interested in his work and . . .’
‘Go on,’ said Aunt Liz.
‘Well, it’s just something he said. I had forgotten about it but you’ve made me remember. It was one night in winter, the wind was howling in the chimney. The children were in bed and we had made up a lovely fire. We sat and chatted; Gerald always told me about his research, it was terribly interesting, you know. Then suddenly Gerald said, “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”’
‘He wasn’t happy when he was young,’ said Aunt Liz thoughtfully.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, ‘No, not happy.’
‘Why?’
‘He was odd-man-out in his family. Henry and Florence were much older than he was and there was another brother—much younger and rather spoilt. Nobody appreciated Gerald. He wasn’t good at games or shooting or hunting or—or anything like that. They all thought he was cowardly and stupid. It was only when he went to Oxford that he discovered he was short-sighted.’
‘Do you mean Gerald didn’t know he was short-sighted?’
‘He never realised that other people could see better than himself.’
‘How extraordinary!’ exclaimed Aunt Liz.
I nodded. It had seemed extraordinary to me. Gerald had never discovered before that the reason he couldn’t shoot or hunt or play games like the rest of his family was because of his poor eyesight. He had discovered it one day when he was out for a walk in the country with Antony Finch. Antony had said suddenly, ‘Good lord, look at that chimney-pot! It’s as crooked as sin. It’ll topp
le over on to someone’s head if they don’t have something done to it. I wonder if the people know. We’d better go in and tell them about it.’ Gerald had followed Antony up the path and had stood there while Antony explained. The owner of the house came out into the garden, followed by his wife and son. They all looked up at the chimney-pot and talked about it and decided to ring up the builder.
‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ asked Antony as they walked on. ‘You never opened your mouth. Are you dumb?’
‘I’ve just discovered that I’m blind,’ replied Gerald.
At first Antony couldn’t believe that Gerald had been unable to see the chimney—or at least had seen it only as an indefinite blur—but when he found that his friend really was myopic he took him to London to see a famous oculist in Welbeck Street. Gerald told me that when he got his spectacles it was a revelation. The world suddenly became large and incredibly beautiful. ‘But it wasn’t only that,’ Gerald had explained when he was telling me about it. ‘The best thing of all was that I realised why I was such a hopeless duffer at everything. I wasn’t really stupid, I was only blind.’
When I had explained all this to Aunt Liz she said again, ‘How extraordinary!’ and added, ‘I can scarcely believe it.’
‘Well, it’s true. His spectacles not only changed the world for him, they banished the inferiority complex which had ruined his life; they gave him confidence in himself.’
‘Oh, I can understand that, of course. I’m quite idiotic without my spectacles. What I can’t understand is why his disability wasn’t discovered before. His parents can’t have taken much interest in him.’
‘They didn’t. I’ve told you that already.’
Aunt Liz pulled herself together. She said, ‘Well, we must decide whether you’re to go or not. Is Sir Mortimer ready to be friendly with you?’
‘That isn’t really the point,’ I replied. ‘The point is Simon won’t go without me. He says his father wouldn’t have gone without me.’
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 8