Sir Mortimer greeted us courteously; he gave us each a glass of sherry and inquired if we had had a comfortable journey. Simon had declared that he was not going to be frightened of his grandfather but I could see by his heightened colour that he was not very comfortable. I had expected to be terrified—but was not. In fact I found myself talking to the ogre quite naturally, answering his questions about the children and explaining that I had left them with my aunt.
‘Denis and Marguerite,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t Gerald give them family names?’
‘I don’t believe he ever thought of it,’ I replied.
There was a slight constraint in the air. (Perhaps Sir Mortimer realised that I had almost said, ‘Why should he have given them family names?’)
‘You must bring them with you next time you come,’ he said.
I smiled. ‘That’s very kind, but you might find them rather much for you, Sir Mortimer. They’re quite young and not very civilised.’
‘They’re natural children,’ declared Simon, rushing to their defence. ‘They’re full of beans and very amusing—especially Daisy—nobody could help liking them.’
Sir Mortimer turned, ‘You’re fond of your half-brother and sister?’
‘Yes, of course. We’re a whole family, you see. We’re . . . sort of complete,’ declared Simon, becoming very red indeed.
‘Ho, you’re “sort of complete,” are you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simon.
Sir Mortimer was staring at Simon with his dark piercing eyes. ‘You’re like your father,’ he said at last.
‘I’m glad,’ declared Simon. ‘I couldn’t be like anybody better—or finer.’
There was a short silence while they stood and gazed at each other. Simon was nervous but he stood his ground. I realised that he had determined to say what he had said; to make it perfectly clear from the very beginning that we were ‘a complete family’ and that he admired his father more than anybody else on earth. Those were Simon’s terms, he had stated them plainly, Sir Mortimer could accept or reject them . . . but in reality Sir Mortimer had no choice. After a short silence he turned and picked up his glass.
‘Lance took me for a walk round,’ said Simon. ‘We saw the horses. Nitkin said to ask you if I could ride.’
‘Most certainly. Order them whenever you please, but Nitkin had better go with you. Tell him I said so.’
‘Oh, thank you! Yes, I’ll tell him,’ said Simon, smiling with delight. ‘I haven’t ridden for some time, but Nitkin said one of the horses was fairly quiet so I had better have the quiet one—just until I get used to it.’
‘Nitkin will see to that,’ returned Sir Mortimer with a twinkle in his eyes.
It was encouraging to see that the ogre had a sense of humour.
We chatted for a few minutes longer, then Sir Mortimer glanced at the clock on the chimney-piece; he took from his pocket a thin gold watch and compared them. ‘It’s eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘Ring the bell, Simon.’
The bell should have been a long bell-pull, hanging from the ceiling—or so I felt—instead of which it was a modern electric push-bell. Simon did as he was told and a few moments later an elderly manservant opened the door and announced that dinner was served. Sir Mortimer offered me his arm and we went in.
As we took our places at the table Lance appeared and slid into his chair as unobtrusively as possible. ‘I’m sorry, Grandfather,’ he murmured.
‘Where is your mother?’
‘Mother was—delayed. She’ll be down in a minute.’
This was my first glimpse of Lance—it was not the moment for an introduction. He was tall and slender with a small head and a pointed nose. His hair was light brown and sleek, brushed back from his forehead. Unlike the rest of the family, Lance was not memorable, he could have passed unrecognised in a crowd.
We had just begun our soup when Mrs. Godfrey came in, looking hot and flustered. ‘Oh dear, am I late?’ she said. ‘I couldn’t help it, Papa. Anthea rang me up to say she’s coming home to-morrow afternoon. We needn’t send for her, someone will bring her—Edward, I expect. That’s what delayed me.’
‘How strange,’ said Sir Mortimer acidly.
‘What is strange, Papa?’
‘Strange that Anthea’s telephone call should have delayed you. She rang up at four o’clock. I heard you speaking to her in the morning-room as I was crossing the hall.’
There was silence. The soup plates were removed and fish was served.
It was a strangely uncomfortable meal. Mrs. Godfrey twittered to me in a low voice, trying to explain that the telephone call from Anthea had delayed her because she had been obliged to speak to Mrs. Sillett about Anthea’s room. I pretended to believe her. Lance and Simon conversed spasmodically in almost inaudible murmurs. Sir Mortimer was silent, he seemed to be lost in a trance. The food was delicious. (I was glad to see that Simon thought so too.)
‘What did you say, Simon?’ asked Sir Mortimer suddenly.
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Simon in surprise. ‘Oh—well—I was just t-telling Lance that I’d like to go to Peru. That’s all, sir.’
‘Why Peru?’
‘To see those temples and things.’
‘What do you know about them?’
‘Not very much, really. I’d like to know more about those Maya people who built them. There was a book in the school library; that’s where I read about them, and I just thought . . .’ His voice died away.
‘What did you think?’ inquired Sir Mortimer.
‘I thought I’d like to see those temples. They looked enormous in the pictures.’
‘Well, go on,’ said Sir Mortimer. ‘They looked enormous—was that why you wanted to see them?’
‘There were carvings in stone, beautiful carvings and very intricate; there were jade axe-heads and brooches inlaid with turquoise. I wondered how the people made them without proper tools. They had no wheels either. People in other parts of the world had wheels. It seems funny.’
‘Funny?’ inquired Sir Mortimer with a puzzled frown.
‘I mean strange,’ said poor Simon. ‘I mean they were so clever at building and carving; why didn’t somebody invent wheels?’
‘Hmph,’ said Sir Mortimer—and that was all.
Absolute silence descended upon the dinner-table.
Fortunately for everyone the meal was nearly over. The table was cleared and a decanter of port was placed before Sir Mortimer. Mrs. Godfrey looked at me and we rose.
‘You can stay, Simon,’ said Sir Mortimer.
Lance opened the door for his mother and me. He followed us out and shut it firmly behind him. ‘Phew!’ he exclaimed. ‘Simon stuck his neck out, didn’t he?’
‘I’m afraid Papa is a little displeased,’ said Mrs. Godfrey.
I was speechless. The whole thing was quite absurd. It was cruel to lead the child on and then leave him floundering. I should have liked to rush back into the dining-room and rescue Simon . . . but of course I couldn’t. I was obliged to follow the others into the drawing-room and sit down as if nothing had happened. I took the tangle of wool from Mrs. Godfrey’s work-bag and continued the task of sorting out the colours.
Lance brought my coffee cup and put it on the table beside me. ‘It isn’t my fault,’ he said. ‘I warned Simon to be careful. The Bart likes leading you up the garden path and making you look a fool. It’s just one of his endearing little ways. When we’re alone like this it doesn’t matter so much, but it’s rather painful if we happen to have guests. It isn’t any good to be angry with me, it was Mother’s fault.’
‘My fault!’ cried Mrs. Godfrey.
‘You were late and you made it worse by that silly lie. If you tell a lie to the Bart it has to be a good one—absolutely watertight.’
‘Really, Lance——’
‘I’m not angry with anyone,’ I said loudly.
‘Good,’ said Lance, smiling at me. ‘Let’s consider the subject closed. I want to ask you something: am I supposed to call
you Aunt Katherine—or what?’
I smiled and said he could call me what he liked.
‘Simon calls you Katherine, so I suppose——’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Mrs. Godfrey. ‘I never heard of such a thing.’
‘You would have heard if you had listened,’ declared Lance. ‘When we were talking at tea-time Simon referred to his step-mother several times by her Christian name. The odd thing about you is that one never knows whether you’re listening or not. Sometimes it’s a bit awkward.’
‘That isn’t the point,’ said Mrs. Godfrey.
‘I thought it was,’ replied Lance in injured tones. ‘I thought it was obvious that if Simon is permitted to call her Katherine—which incidentally is a delightful name—there is no reason why I shouldn’t do so.’
‘She is your aunt,’ said Mrs. Godfrey stubbornly.
‘But she doesn’t look like an aunt,’ complained Lance.
‘That doesn’t matter, dear. An aunt is an aunt. You’ve never heard me call Aunt Prissy anything but Aunt Prissy.’
‘Aunt Prissy looks like an aunt. Incidentally where is Aunt Prissy? I haven’t see her all day.’
‘She was feeling a little out of sorts so I advised her to stay in bed,’ explained Mrs. Godfrey. ‘She is going away for a little holiday on Wednesday—as you know. We want her to be quite well before Wednesday. She would be so disappointed if she couldn’t go.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Lance. He turned to me and explained. ‘You see, Katherine, Aunt Prissy wanted to go to a large hotel at Eastbourne for a fortnight, so my grandfather arranged for her to go to a small hotel in Tunbridge Wells.’
‘It will be much more peaceful and quiet for her,’ said Mrs. Godfrey hastily.
‘Oh, definitely,’ Lance agreed. ‘Only Aunt Prissy doesn’t want peace and quiet—she gets enough of it at home—she wants to see a bit of life.’
‘It’s a very comfortable hotel,’ declared Mrs. Godfrey. ‘Aunt Prissy will enjoy her visit and it will do her a great deal of good.’ She added in a low voice, ‘Lance dear, just peep out and see if Grandpapa and Simon are still in the dining-room.’
‘They aren’t,’ he replied. ‘I don’t have to peep. I heard them come out a few minutes ago. They crossed the hall and went into the library.’
‘Lance has such sharp ears,’ said Mrs. Godfrey complacently. ‘He has always had sharp ears. When he was a baby we had to creep about on tiptoe; he wakened at the slightest sound.’
‘I’m going out,’ said Lance. ‘Good night, Katherine, you’re wasting your time trying to disentangle Mother’s wools; she’ll have them in a worse mess in half an hour.’
‘Lance, where are you going?’ cried his mother.
But Lance had gone.
*
2
The hour I spent with Mrs. Godfrey in the drawing-room was extremely trying. She twittered on interminably about the difficulties of running the household, at one moment complaining bitterly that Lance and Anthea never listened to her and the next moment assuring me that they were the height of perfection. Lance was so good at rowing that he was sure to be chosen to row in the Cambridge boat and Anthea was so pretty that she was certain to make a good marriage. I was worried about what was happening to Simon—shut up in the library with his grandfather—and could scarcely listen to what she was saying. Luckily she could talk incessantly without any intelligent reply.
At last I could bear it no longer and told her I should like to go to bed, explaining that I had travelled south from Edinburgh the night before.
‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ asked Mrs. Godfrey in surprise. ‘I always think sleepers are so comfortable.’
‘No, I didn’t sleep well,’ I replied (omitting to add that I had sat up all night in a crowded second-class compartment).
‘Oh, what a pity! It’s only ten o’clock. Papa will be coming in later; he’ll be surprised if he finds you’ve gone to bed.’
‘Papa’s’ feelings did not affect me in the least. I said good night and escaped.
My head was aching intolerably. I drew back the curtains and opened the window and sat there looking out. The garden was bright with moonlight; across the lawn lay a shaft of silver and beyond, beneath the trees, it was dark as black velvet. A bed of white flowers glimmered like stars and their heavy scent was wafted up to my window in an occasional puff of air.
At first I was too upset to notice the beauty of the night. I felt quite desperate. We had come here for a week—but we couldn’t stay. A week of this would be unbearable. How could we escape? Should I wire to Aunt Liz and ask her to ring up and say we must go home at once? It seemed the only way.
*
3
For a long time I sat at my window looking out, and gradually the peacefulness of the moonlit scene soothed me. My head ceased to ache and I began to feel better. I had no idea what time it was—probably very late—but I did not want to go to bed until I had seen Simon. If I had known where his room was I could have gone there—but I didn’t know and I couldn’t go wandering about this strange house looking for him.
I was still sitting there, wondering what to do, when there was a tap on my door and Simon came in.
‘All in the dark!’ he exclaimed.
‘It isn’t dark. The moonlight is lovely—and peaceful. Simon, this is a dreadful house.’
‘Dreadful?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Oh, you mean dinner? Yes, I was rather silly, wasn’t I? But Grandfather didn’t really mind. You see he knows a lot about those Maya temples, he’s actually been there, Mums. Isn’t it amazing? He took me into his library and showed me books about them. He lent me this one to read.’ An enormous tome was dumped upon my lap. ‘Look, Mums! Look at the pictures! I’ll turn on the light so that you can see them properly. Aren’t they interesting? Here’s a gorgeous piece of carving! Grandfather actually saw it when he was there—saw it with his own eyes—and here’s another. . . .’
When I had admired the pictures sufficiently, and listened to an account of Sir Mortimer’s adventures in Peru, I inquired whether anything else had been discussed. ‘You were with him for hours,’ I pointed out.
‘Yes, I know. You see he started talking about Limbourne and the family; he’s terribly keen on the family. It goes right back to Henry Wentworth who lived in Ireland and was made a baronet by James the First. Then later the family came to England and were given these lands by Charles the Second—and they’ve been here ever since. In the old days the place was called Limbourne Royal because it was the gift of a king. He showed me the family tree—they were nearly all called Mortimer or Henry or Gerald, but in seventeen-five there was a Peter who did something very important. I’m a bit vague about it all,’ admitted Simon. ‘There was such a lot of it—and Grandfather doesn’t like you to ask questions—but I’ll study it some time and get it clear. I shall have to,’ he added with a sigh.
‘I suppose you will.’
‘Mums,’ said Simon. ‘All the time we were talking I was thinking of Dad and wishing he were here. It’s too much for me all of a sudden like this. It’s a sort of—a sort of burden. If Dad were here he could have shouldered it all right, and I could have learnt it gradually. That would have been the natural thing.’
‘I know, darling. It would have been the natural thing. You’re too young, that’s the trouble. Try not to let it be a burden. Sir Mortimer will probably live for years so you needn’t think about it too much.’
‘But that’s just it,’ explained Simon. ‘He wants me to think about it. He wants me to come here when I leave school and learn all about it from Mr. Marsh.’
‘Simon!’ I exclaimed in dismay.
‘Don’t you like the idea, Mums?’
‘No,’ I cried. ‘Besides, you can’t do it, can you?’
‘You mean Butterfields?’ said Simon doubtfully. ‘But Mr. Butterfield said I needn’t decide about that until I left school . . . and it seems sensible, doesn’t it? You see all this will belong to me some day. I ca
n’t really believe it,’ declared Simon with a dazed air. ‘I simply can’t believe that all this—will belong—to me.’
I couldn’t really believe it either.
‘So you see,’ he continued, ‘if it’s all going to belong to me—some day—then I ought to learn to look after it properly. That’s what Grandfather said.’
‘Yes, I suppose you ought. The only thing is . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, Mrs. Godfrey seems to be under the impression that Lance is going to help Mr. Marsh and learn to manage the property.’
‘Oh, I know! Grandfather explained that. It would have been quite a good plan while Uncle Henry was alive. Lance could have managed it for Uncle Henry. But now that it’s going to belong to me—some day—I’m the person who ought to learn to manage it. You needn’t worry about Lance because he doesn’t want to.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me this afternoon when we were walking in the grounds. I asked him what he was going to do and he said, “I’ve got to do what I’m told. When I leave Cambridge I’ve got to come home and trot round after Marsh.” I said, “But what do you want to do?” and he laughed and said, “Not that, anyhow.”’
‘Do you want to do it, Simon?’
‘Oh goodness, I don’t know!’ cried Simon in perplexity. ‘How does a fellow know what he wants to do? I thought Butterfields sounded an interesting business; it seemed a good opening and it would have been fun to be with Mark . . . but now this has happened.’
‘Yes, this has happened.’
‘It seems sensible, Mums.’
I was forced to agree.
‘Grandfather was very decent. At first I thought he was an absolute monster, but he isn’t, really. You’ve just got to be careful not to put his back up. He explained what I shall have to do when I come here; I shall get a salary as assistant to Mr. Marsh and I can have a couple of hunters—he was mad on hunting when he was young. I can have a car, too, if I want. Well, I should jolly well think I’d want a car if I could get it!’
Here was bribery.
Simon laughed excitedly. ‘Who wouldn’t want a car? I could buzz up to Edinburgh and see you whenever I liked, couldn’t I?’
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 11