‘Yes, you could.’
‘And that wasn’t all,’ continued Simon. ‘I told him about Den—and how clever Den was—and he said he would pay for Den’s education. Of course he ought to pay for it. He’s Den’s grandfather, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ I said wearily.
Simon looked at me in surprise. ‘You don’t like it, Mums?’
‘Not awfully, Simon. It seems so strange. For years and years he took no notice of us; he didn’t even bother to find out whether we existed—and now he seems all over us.’
‘Because I’m his heir, that’s all. Because when he’s dead Limbourne will belong to me. That’s why he’s doing it. Limbourne means a lot to him; it has belonged to the Wentworths for hundreds of years. It isn’t because he has taken a liking for me or anything like that; it’s because he wants to do the best thing for Limbourne . . . and obviously the best thing for Limbourne is to have its future owner here on the spot, learning about the best way to take care of it.’
This was all true. Perhaps it was foolish of me to feel so unhappy.
Presently Simon rose to go. ‘I hope it’ll be fine tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’m going to ride. Grandfather has made arrangements with Nitkin to take me at ten.’
‘That will be nice.’
‘Lovely,’ said Simon. He kissed me and said good night.
Chapter Fifteen
Nitkin brought the horses round at a few minutes before ten and I went out to have a word with him and to explain that Simon was not an experienced rider.
‘That’s all right,’ said Nitkin. ‘I’ll look after Mr. Simon. Don’t you worry, madam.’
I was not really worrying; I trusted Nitkin. As a matter of fact he was the only person at Limbourne that I trusted. I had liked him yesterday; this morning I liked him even more. Yesterday I had felt there was something slightly comic about the little man in the chauffeur’s coat and cap, but to-day he looked absolutely right in his well-cut breeches and gaiters and ancient bowler hat. Horses were really his job.
Simon came out attired in riding-breeches and boots which he had borrowed from Lance. He was excited and happy. We stood and chatted for a few minutes and admired the horses. Simon produced an apple from his pocket and asked Nitkin if he might give it to one of them.
Nitkin smiled and cut it in half with his penknife. ‘Fair’s fair, Mr. Simon,’ he said.
When Simon had given them the apple he mounted nimbly enough and Nitkin altered his stirrup leathers. ‘This is Dark Rosaleen and that’s Postiche,’ said Nitkin. ‘I call them Rosie and Posie—it’s easier. We’ll go through the plantation and back by the village, it’s a nice ride and not too far for your first day. We don’t want you stiff as a board to-morrow.’
Simon laughed and trotted off down the avenue.
‘He’s got a good seat,’ declared Nitkin. ‘It’s just practice he wants. My, he is like Mr. Gerald! I taught Mr. Gerald to ride and he liked riding, but he was always a bit nervous. I wouldn’t say your young gentleman was nervous.’
I watched them ride away. Nitkin had said they would come back by the village; that was because he wanted ‘the village’ to see him out riding with Simon!
When I had watched them out of sight I began to wonder what I was supposed to do. Mrs. Godfrey had not appeared at breakfast—did she expect me to hang about and wait for her? It was a lovely morning, sunny and breezy; the country lay before me, green and pleasant. I decided to go for a walk and explore. I went through the park and discovered a little path which led through a grove of oak trees, and presently found myself on the hill which I had seen from my bedroom window. Here the wind was stronger, ruffling the grasses, creaking and groaning amongst the scattered clumps of trees. I climbed up steadily; larks rose from the ground and soared into the sky, singing joyfully; sheep stopped cropping the grass and gazed at me in mild surprise. The wind blew through my hair.
Soon I had reached the top and finding a sheltered nook between two boulders, sat down upon the turf. I had come so quickly that I was breathless . . . it was only then that I realised that my morning walk had been a flight.
Yes, quite definitely it had been a flight from Limbourne. I had rushed to the hill-top to get away from the place. The atmosphere of Limbourne was unhealthy. I had had a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface and a glimpse was enough. There was physical comfort in abundance, the house was full of beautiful things, but there was no love, no kindness, there was none of the gentleness and consideration which makes the smallest cottage a home.
I thought about Gerald. What Nitkin had said was true: he had lacked self-confidence. Gerald had been passed over and treated as of no account; he had been ‘a hopeless duffer’ at hunting and shooting, useless at games. Now that I had seen his home I understood Gerald better; I saw why he had escaped and rushed into marriage with a girl who could give him love. I saw why he had never wanted to come back. Gerald had been gentle in spirit.
There was gentleness in Simon, also, but Simon’s upbringing had been very different, he had been surrounded with love from his earliest days, so he had developed naturally and was happy and fearless . . . but was it right that he should come and live here?
Although the hill where I was sitting was not very high it gave a bird’s-eye view of the country; there were little woods and meadows and fields of different colours separated by green hedges. There were several farms, neat and well-cared-for, with outbuildings and huge stacks in orderly rows. Limbourne itself stood in its green park with fine trees; the gardens were a blaze of colour, the glass panes of the greenhouses glittered in the morning sunshine. To the left was the village, a cluster of little cottages and one or two larger houses surrounded with gardens. The church was Norman with a square tower and a flagstaff, it stood in a green churchyard with the vicarage close by.
For a long time I sat and looked at the peaceful English scene, wondering how much of it belonged to the Wentworth family.
The sky had been blue and clear but now a white cloud appeared from behind the woods; it grew larger, towering higher and higher, changing shape every moment, until it became so huge that it seemed to dwarf the landscape. The wind was colder now and I found myself shivering in my thin cotton frock and cardigan; I sighed and rose and went slowly back to Limbourne down the hill.
*
2
The path by which I had come led through the wood, but I went back by a shorter way through the vegetable garden, and when I opened the gate I saw Sir Mortimer sitting on a wooden seat near the greenhouses. It would have been natural to go forward and speak to him, but the whole atmosphere of Limbourne was unnatural and it was affecting me. For a moment or two I hesitated, wondering whether I should go back; then he saw me and waved.
He rose as I approached and asked if I had enjoyed my walk.
‘Yes, it was lovely,’ I replied. ‘I went to the top of the hill. There’s a fine view from there. I wondered how much of it belongs to you.’
‘Most of it,’ he said, smiling. ‘You can see Hurlestone Manor behind some trees, if you know where to look, and of course the village and the church are on D’Artington property—they were here long before we came—but all the lands to westward are ours: farms and woods and plantations.’ He looked at me with his piercing eyes and added, ‘I’m glad you’ve seen it, Katherine, because now you can realise better that there’s a great deal of valuable property to look after. Did Simon tell you my plans?’
‘Yes, he did . . . but he’s very young, Sir Mortimer. He feels that it’s rather too big a responsibility, coming suddenly like this.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. A boy should have a sense of responsibility.’
‘I don’t want him to feel it a burden.’
‘A burden? No, he should feel it to be a privilege.’
‘He’s very young,’ I repeated.
‘Of course he’s young, but he will grow older. Simon is still at school and will remain there for another eighteen months at least. All I want is for
him to come to Limbourne when he leaves school and learn about his family and the property, so that when the time comes he will be ready to step into my shoes. I’m a perfectly fit man . . . it may be years before Simon has any of the responsibilities which you seem to dread.’
‘Yes, of course! I didn’t mean——’
‘Is it unreasonable to want Simon to be trained to carry on the family traditions? I venture to think it is eminently reasonable.’
‘I suppose it is, but I’m not—not happy about it.’
‘Not happy? I very much doubt if you have the power to prevent Simon from accepting my offer.’
‘Oh, I shan’t try!’ I cried. ‘You don’t understand, Sir Mortimer. I want the best possible life for Simon. It’s just—it’s just that it all seems—so strange.’
‘Come now, Katherine,’ said Sir Mortimer, smiling at me kindly. ‘I want you to be happy about it, because it will be so much better for everyone concerned. Think about the matter seriously, pull yourself together and face the facts. What do you want for Simon?’
I was silent. I did not know what I wanted.
‘You see,’ said Sir Mortimer. ‘You can’t answer that. Simon told me about his idea of going into Butterfields and working in their warehouses; it’s a sound firm, I admit, and probably would have been a very good opening for a young man without any prospects, but in Simon’s case it would be the height of folly. He would learn nothing there that would be of use to him in later life. Surely you realise that what I propose is the best possible plan for Simon?’
Put like that, nobody could fail to realise it. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I realise that. But—but you’ll be good to him, won’t you, Sir Mortimer?’ I smiled and added, ‘He’s very precious, you know.’
‘That won’t be difficult,’ he replied. ‘I like Simon; he’s a fine boy.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘Meantime we’ll say nothing about our plans . . . to anyone. You understand, Katherine?’
I understood perfectly. ‘I don’t like secrets, Sir Mortimer.’
‘Just for the present,’ he said firmly. ‘Later I shall explain the whole matter to my daughter, but not now. I have my reasons.’ He hesitated for a few moments and then continued, with mounting fury, ‘Florence is a fool. She wanted Lance to go to Cambridge because his father had been there. I should never have given my consent—never. What is Lance doing at Cambridge? Wasting his time and my money! Work is anathema to Lance, he does as little as he possibly can. He rows!’ said Sir Mortimer scornfully. ‘His chief aim in life is “to get into the boat” and even that miserable goal is beyond him because he can’t be bothered to train. Lance is too fond of his creature comforts. He’s soft. He’ll never be any good at anything. If he had gone in for cricket I could understand it better—but rowing! Sitting in a contraption they call a boat with other young men as brainless as himself—rowing! Is that a proper sort of training for life?’
‘Rowing requires skill and endurance and—and discipline, doesn’t it?’ I said uncomfortably.
‘Discipline!’ exclaimed Sir Mortimer. ‘Lance doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He should have gone into the Army—as I wanted him to do—Sandhurst would have knocked him into shape.’
Sir Mortimer had become so red in the face with rage that I thought it best to change the subject. ‘Shall we see Major Wentworth while we’re here?’ I asked.
‘Peter? No, I’m afraid not. He’s at the War Office at present. I wrote and told him that you and Simon were coming and I wanted him here, but he can’t get away. Absolute nonsense! In the old days an officer was treated as a gentleman, not tied to his desk like a clerk. Of course Peter comes down to Limbourne when he can. He loves the place and he’s interested in the family.’
Quite suddenly I realised that if it had not been for Simon the baronetcy and the property and all the rest of it would have gone to Peter . . . and obviously, from the way he had spoken of his youngest son, Sir Mortimer would have liked that. Peter had always been his father’s favourite. Only Simon stood in Peter’s way. But no, there was Den. The thought of Den relieved my mind, though why it should do so I could not imagine.
‘Peter always manages to come for the pheasant shooting,’ continued Sir Mortimer. ‘He’s a very fine shot—takes after me in that. I don’t suppose Simon has done any shooting?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well,’ said Sir Mortimer cheerfully. ‘He won’t have any bad habits to unlearn. Perhaps you would like to walk through the greenhouses, Katherine. I want to have a look at the orchids and speak to Medlam about the vine.’
We went through the greenhouses, which were extremely warm and full of exotic plants. The orchids were very strange, more strange than beautiful in my humble opinion. Sir Mortimer gave some directions to the head gardener, then he took out his thin gold watch and looked at it.
‘Twelve o’clock,’ he said. ‘I shall have to go in. Marsh wants to see me about one of the plantations. I suppose you think me a gentleman of leisure, Katherine, but I can assure you there is a great deal to do in a place like this. I like to see everything in perfect order. When I go over to Hurlestone Manor it annoys me to see the property going downhill. The D’Artingtons have no excuse for their neglect, they have plenty of money.’ He turned to the gardener and added, ‘Show Mrs. Wentworth the rose-garden and cut some good specimens for her.’
With these words Sir Mortimer walked away quickly and disappeared into the house.
*
3
Like everything else at Limbourne, the rose-garden was a model of tidiness. There were grass paths between the beds—paths of velvet smoothness—and there was not a weed to be seen. I thought suddenly of my daughter and her remark: ‘Funny sort of garden with no daisies!’ She would think this a very funny sort of garden, there was no doubt of that.
The roses grew in orderly array, each little bush perfect in shape, bearing perfect blooms. I asked Medlam how he managed to attain such perfection and he explained that there was a nursery behind the beech hedge so that any bush which was not perfect could be replaced.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it, ma’am?’ said Medlam, looking round with complacency. ‘It’s the best rose-garden in the county.’
It was beautiful of course—roses are always beautiful—but to my mind it was too tidy and neat. The roses did not look happy; perhaps they were aware that if they failed in their duty to their owner they would be rooted out, thrown on the rubbish heap, and replaced by another rose-bush from the nursery garden behind the tall beech hedge.
Although Medlam had received orders to ‘cut some good specimens’ for me he seemed reluctant to carry out his task. He stood there fingering his knife and looking round in a doubtful way.
‘What about cutting them in the nursery garden?’ I suggested.
The idea commended itself to Medlam . . . but still he hesitated.
‘I expect there are lovely roses there too.’
‘Oh yes,’ he agreed. ‘Lots of them, but Sir Mortimer sed as how I was to cut them in the rose-garden—that’s the trouble.’
‘But the nursery garden is really part of the rose-garden so it would be just the same, wouldn’t it?’
His brown leathery face crinkled into an enormous grin, and without another word he escorted me through a gate in the hedge. Here there were more roses, dozens and dozens of little bushes, their exquisite flowers filling the air with fragrance. There were red and white and pink and yellow roses in prodigal confusion.
‘I’m afraid it isn’t very tidy, ma’am,’ said Medlam apologetically. ‘It isn’t really for show, you see. We just plants them here temporary until they’re wanted.’
‘I like it,’ I said. ‘The roses here look natural and happy and their scent is far sweeter.’
Medlam did not deign to reply to this piece of nonsense. He set about cutting my bouquet without more ado.
Chapter Sixteen
Mrs. Godfrey had expected Anthea
to arrive at three o’clock and had been restless and miserable since half past two. It was half past four and we were all having tea in the drawing-room (with the exception of Sir Mortimer, who despised afternoon tea) when a car was heard approaching. I was sitting near the window so I saw a red sports car drive up to the door with a girl and a young man in it.
Mrs. Godfrey rushed into the hall to meet them. Lance strolled over to the window and looked out.
‘Hallo, it’s Oliver Wade!’ he said. ‘That won’t be popular with the parent. She was banking on Ferrars bringing Anthea over from Minston. I wonder what happened.’
I said nothing. I had listened for hours to Mrs. Godfrey’s eulogies of Edward Ferrars, of his passion for Anthea and of his suitability as a husband for her child. ‘So rich, you know, and such a lovely place. Of course the family isn’t very old—Edward’s grandfather made his money in jam—but that doesn’t matter so much nowadays, does it?’
In a few minutes the new arrivals came in and were introduced. I had heard so much about Anthea that I was interested to see her. She was a pretty creature—small and fairy-like with dark curls and brown eyes—but her prettiness was a little spoilt by a curious wavy sort of mouth outlined in brilliant carmine.
‘I expected you at three,’ said her mother. ‘I was very worried, Anthea. I thought something must have happened.’
‘Three?’ asked Anthea. ‘Why three? I didn’t say three, did I?’
‘I thought you said three.’
‘You must have muddled it. I couldn’t possibly have said three. The Ferrars had a luncheon party. I shouldn’t be here now if Oliver hadn’t rescued me.’
‘So kind of you, Oliver,’ murmured Mrs. Godfrey. ‘Perhaps you would like to stay to tea.’
‘Of course he’s staying to tea,’ said Anthea as she sank into a chair. ‘He had better stay to dinner too—if there’s anything fit to eat.’
‘Yes, that will be lovely,’ agreed Mrs. Godfrey in tepid accents.
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 12