Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Can’t be done,’ declared Mr. Wade.

  ‘Oh, Oliver, why not?’ asked Anthea.

  ‘No clothes.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter——’

  ‘It does matter,’ interrupted Mr. Wade. ‘Sir Mortimer likes his guests to be properly clad. I shall never forget the occasion when I appeared at the baronial table arrayed in tennis gear.’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs. Godfrey hurriedly. ‘You must have a good tea, Oliver. Where would you like to sit?’

  Rather surprisingly Mr. Wade chose to sit down beside me on the sofa near the window. He said, ‘Anthea has been telling me about you, Mrs. Wentworth. It must be interesting coming to Limbourne for the first time. How does it strike you?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place.’

  ‘Yes, and so well kept. Most of the Stately Homes of England are a bit dilapidated these days, aren’t they? My home used to be stately, but it’s going downhill fast.’

  ‘What a pity! Can’t you do anything about it?’

  ‘My father says I must marry money,’ said Mr. Wade. ‘It sounds all right, of course, but so far I haven’t been able to carry out his suggestion. There isn’t much money walking about ready to be snapped up by an impecunious land-owner . . . and, if you do happen to meet it, ten to one it’s extraordinarily unattractive in other ways. Don’t you agree?’

  I smiled at this nonsense and said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘In the old days it was different,’ he continued. ‘In the old days if a gentleman needed a little money to bolster up his estate he could do a spot of buccaneering on the high seas. It was the done thing, nobody thought any the worse of him. As a matter of fact—strictly between ourselves—that was how my ancestor made his pile. He built a large and extremely inconvenient mansion and founded the family.’

  ‘In the days of Queen Elizabeth?’ I suggested.

  ‘Those were the days,’ agreed Mr. Wade with a sigh.

  ‘But nowadays buccaneering is out of fashion.’

  ‘How right you are! Nowadays all that a high-spirited gentleman can do to mend his fortune is to write a best-seller.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing?’

  Mr. Wade nodded gravely. ‘I haven’t really got down to it yet but it shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘I should think it might be very difficult indeed.’

  ‘Not if you go about it properly. Obviously the right way to begin is to buy all the best-sellers and study them carefully.’

  ‘A best-seller must be original, Mr. Wade.’

  ‘You dismay me, Mrs. Wentworth,’ he declared. ‘I have laid out money I can ill afford on these books; surely if I study them carefully I shall discover what it is that makes them sell like hot cakes.’

  I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Why not make hot cakes?’ I suggested.

  So far his face had been serious, but he actually laughed at that. We were both laughing when Lance came towards us with a plate of sandwiches.

  ‘You seem to be having a good joke,’ said Lance.

  ‘Mrs. Wentworth has been advising me how to write a best-seller,’ explained Mr. Wade.

  ‘I’ve told you how not to write it,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. There has been nothing constructive about her advice. I believe Mrs. Wentworth is of the opinion that piracy or highway robbery would be more lucrative.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ I exclaimed. ‘I told you to make hot cakes.’

  ‘You’re both mad,’ said Lance as he offered me the plate of sandwiches. ‘Don’t have one of these, Katherine,’ he added. ‘Mother told me to hand them round, but I’ve just had one and they’re very nasty.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ said Mr. Wade. ‘I don’t want a nasty sandwich either. You can go and get us two large pieces of chocolate cake. Hurry up about it, Lance, or your mother will finish the lot.’

  Mr. Wade and I went on talking; he was clever and amusing, there was something curiously attractive about his personality. We were still talking—half sense and half nonsense—when Anthea came across the room and sat down beside us on a pouffe.

  ‘Oliver, listen,’ she said, breaking into the conversation. ‘It’s all right about dinner. The Bart is going over to Hurlestone Manor to play chess with Lord D’Artington so he won’t be here and nobody else minds about your clothes. You will stay, won’t you?’

  Anthea had made it obvious by her manner that I was de trop so I rose and gave her my place on the sofa. She took it without a word of thanks and as I moved away I heard her say earnestly, ‘Do stay to dinner, Oliver. We could have a club meeting to settle about next week.’

  *

  2

  In the absence of Sir Mortimer, dinner was a different sort of meal. The three young people talked incessantly about various friends and acquaintances and laughed heartily at jokes which were incomprehensible to a stranger. Simon and I were obliged to sit in silence.

  Mrs. Godfrey was silent too, and I could see that she felt ill at ease. At first I thought she was distressed at the bad manners of her son and daughter, but presently she leant forward and whispered to me, ‘Papa wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t like what?’ I asked.

  ‘Oliver . . . but I couldn’t help it, could I? Really, it’s rather naughty of Anthea.’

  ‘You couldn’t help it,’ I agreed. ‘You can explain to Sir Mortimer how it happened.’

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed in an alarmed whisper. ‘Oliver must go away before Papa comes home. I’ve told Anthea that he must slip away directly after the meeting. That will be best. You must warn Simon not to mention Oliver, it would never do to distress Papa.’

  I thought it unlikely that Simon would mention Mr. Wade’s visit to his grandfather but Mrs. Godfrey was not satisfied until I had promised to warn him. ‘Is it a tennis club meeting?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Mrs. Godfrey vaguely. ‘It’s some sort of club, you know. Perhaps if you asked Anthea she would tell you.’

  The club did not really interest me; I had only asked Mrs. Godfrey about it as a means of changing the subject. Certainly I had no intention of asking Anthea.

  The conversation between Lance and Anthea and their guest continued in a sprightly manner. Simon, at the other end of the table, remained silent, eating steadily through the excellent meal. The food was always good at Limbourne but to-night it seemed even better than usual and I felt pretty certain that the banquet had been ordered to do honour to Edward Ferrars.

  So far I had not met ‘Aunt Prissy’ but when we went into the drawing-room for coffee she was there; a tall thin woman with white hair, and bearing a remarkable resemblance to her brother.

  ‘Oh dear, I didn’t know you were coming down!’ exclaimed Mrs. Godfrey in a flustered manner. ‘The children are having a meeting to-night upstairs in the nursery.’

  ‘The children?’ inquired ‘Aunt Prissy,’ looking round the room inquiringly.

  ‘I mean Lance and Anthea and—and a friend,’ explained Mrs. Godfrey. ‘Oh, they’ve gone,’ she added in relief.

  They had vanished swiftly and noiselessly directly their eyes had fallen upon old Miss Wentworth.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ said that lady. ‘I came down to meet Katherine and Simon. These are they, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Mrs. Godfrey. ‘I should have introduced them properly but it isn’t really necessary, is it?’

  Simon and I shook hands with Miss Wentworth and I sat down beside her to talk. It seemed the right thing to do but I found it exceedingly difficult. I was glad to see that Simon had taken upon him the task of handing round the coffee cups.

  ‘That’s a handsome boy,’ said Miss Wentworth, in approval. ‘He’s a great deal better-looking than Lance.’

  This statement, made in a clear contralto voice, produced an embarrassed silence. It was broken by Mrs. Godfrey, who murmured uncomfortably, ‘You mustn’t mind Aunt Prissy;
she’s deaf, you know.’

  ‘What did you say, Florence?’ inquired the old lady.

  ‘Nothing, really. Nothing important, I mean.’

  ‘You have never learned to produce your voice correctly,’ declared her aunt. ‘Young people nowadays mumble and mutter in an indistinguishable manner. I remember telling your mother many years ago that you required elocution lessons but my advice was ignored. How old are you, Simon?’

  ‘Sixteen and a half—nearly,’ replied Simon loudly.

  ‘Well-grown for your age,’ said Miss Wentworth, adding in a slightly lower voice, ‘Obviously a Wentworth. I shall tell Mortimer that it is unnecessary to make any further inquiries about his paternity.’

  It was clear that the implications of this remark were lost upon Simon. He remained unruffled, but Mrs. Godfrey was so perturbed that she knocked over the cream-jug.

  ‘Oh dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘Look what I’ve done! Aunt Prissy gets such funny ideas—it’s because she’s deaf, of course—all that lovely cream wasted! Ring the bell, Simon. Bassett must bring a cloth or something. . . .’

  ‘You are very clumsy, Florence,’ said her aunt.

  ‘Yes, dreadfully clumsy,’ shouted poor Mrs. Godfrey, trying to wipe up the mess with an inadequate lace handkerchief. ‘I don’t know what made me do such a silly thing—but Bassett will clean it up. I think you should go to bed, Aunt Prissy,’ she added.

  ‘Did you say go to bed?’ asked Miss Wentworth in surprise.

  ‘I’m sure you’re tired,’ declared Mrs. Godfrey loudly and clearly. ‘You look very tired indeed. Remember you are going away to-morrow and you’ll have a long day’s journey.’

  ‘Three hours’ drive in the car.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Mrs. Godfrey earnestly. ‘You don’t like Hurrell to drive fast.’

  ‘Past where?’ asked Miss Wentworth.

  ‘Fast,’ shouted Mrs. Godfrey. ‘You don’t like driving fast.’

  ‘There is no need to shout like that, Florence,’ said Miss Wentworth reprovingly. ‘But perhaps I am a little tired. I shall say good-bye to Katherine and Simon and go upstairs. You had better come with me. Clara is having her supper and I require a little assistance.’

  We all rose and said good-bye. Simon ran to open the door and the two went out together.

  When they had gone Simon and I escaped to the garden and, finding a seat in a sheltered corner, we sat down and talked about all that had happened during the day. It had seemed a very long day—more like a week—and I was glad it was over.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Several days passed. To tell the truth they all seemed long to me but Simon was quite happy. He rode with Nitkin in the morning and usually went out with Lance in the afternoon. Anthea had a studio in the attic where she painted and Sir Mortimer seldom appeared, except for meals, so I was left to the mercies of Mrs. Godfrey. She had told me to call her Florence and I was beginning to manage it.

  Luckily for me Florence was fond of bed; she got up late in the morning and always rested in the afternoon. After lunch—and coffee in the drawing-room—she would rise and collect her various belongings and say, ‘I think we should rest, Katherine.’ She said it as if it were quite a sudden idea.

  At first I had said I would rather go for a walk, but she argued with me about it, saying a doctor had once told her that every woman over a certain age should rest in the afternoon. It was useless to tell her that I was not over a certain age—whatever that might mean—she still continued her persuasions. I found it easier to agree with her and follow her upstairs. Once she was safely in her room I was free to do as I wanted. I could put on my walking shoes and go out by myself.

  Usually I went up the hill, which I had climbed my first morning at Limbourne, and took deep breaths of fresh air to rid myself of the curious oppression which lay like a damp blanket upon my spirits, but one afternoon I wanted postcards to send to the children so I walked down the long avenue into the village and bought some coloured ones at a little shop.

  It was very warm and there were few people about. Some children were playing on the village green and an old man was sitting in the sun in a cottage doorway. He said good day to me and I stopped for a few moments and admired the little garden, which was bright with old-fashioned flowers. He seemed pleased and said a good deal, waving his hand, but unfortunately I couldn’t understand a word.

  ‘Yes, they’re lovely,’ I said. ‘I never saw better pansies and your hollyhocks are marvellous.’ Then I walked on.

  Presently I came to the lych-gate, which led into the churchyard, so I went in. I had seen the church from the hilltop—it was a simple Norman building of grey stone with a square tower. Trees grew about it amongst the head-stones; great oaks, some of them so old that they were mere skeletons, hollow inside, but still bearing green leaves. I was standing looking at one of these ancient giants and marvelling that anything so old should be capable of producing new foliage when the vicar came out of the side door of the church. He was a small thin man with pale, clean-cut features; the sun shone on his thick silver hair turning it to gold.

  ‘I think you must be Mrs. Gerald Wentworth,’ he said.

  I smiled and said, ‘Yes.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘John Heath is my name. My wife heard that you and your stepson were staying at Limbourne. I have been here for over thirty years and of course I knew your husband—I knew him well—so I have been hoping to meet you. Would it interest you to see the church, Mrs. Wentworth?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I should like to, but—but I’ve no hat or scarf or—or anything,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think God will mind?’

  ‘No, I just wondered if you would.’

  Mr. Heath looked at me in a surprised sort of way. ‘How interesting!’ he said. Then he opened the door and held it for me to go in.

  It was dim and shadowy in the little church, after the glare of the sunshine, and I stood for a few moments looking round. The walls and floor were of stone—the floor uneven, worn into channels by the passage of many thousands of feet—the roof was barrel-shaped, crossed by great oaken beams. The windows glowed like jewels and threw coloured patterns on the stones. Over the doorway was a wooden screen and carved upon it were the words, ‘O come let us worship and bow down; let us kneel before the Lord our Maker.’

  It seemed to me good advice. I knelt down in the nearest pew and prayed that Simon might be guided aright through all the dangers and difficulties of his life. When I rose I felt happier and more relaxed.

  Mr. Heath smiled at me in a gentle way and began to talk about the history of the little church and to show me round. He knew all about it and loved it. He told me that the D’Artingtons were a Norman family, descended from a certain Gilles D’Artagnon who had come over soon after the Norman Conquest and been granted lands; it was the grandson of this man who had built the church. As is the case with many old families, their name had been anglicised to a form easier for their neighbours to pronounce. There was still a Giles D’Artington at Hurlstone Manor, said Mr. Heath proudly. He was very old—but his son was another Giles.

  Mr. Heath showed me the effigy of a knight in armour, carved in stone and lying on a stone slab. A beam of yellow light from one of the windows showed every detail of his fine features. His sword lay upon his body, his hands were crossed upon it and his legs were crossed at the knees.

  ‘Wilfrid Giles D’Artington,’ said Mr. Heath. ‘No doubt you are aware that the curious position—with crossed hands and knees—indicates that he took part in two crusades. A mighty warrior, indeed!’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Gerald made a study of the crusades—so I knew.’

  ‘Of course you’re more interested in the Wentworth family,’ said Mr. Heath. ‘Compared with the D’Artingtons they are newcomers.’

  ‘Newcomers? But I thought——’

  ‘They came over from Ireland in the seventeenth century, and were granted lands by Charles the Second.’

  I
looked at Mr. Heath and saw that he was perfectly serious. Three hundred years seemed nothing to him.

  ‘The title of baronet is of fairly recent origin,’ continued Mr. Heath. ‘You are aware of that, of course. King James the First created the rank and bestowed it upon landed gentlemen in Ireland. He found it a convenient way of augmenting his exchequer.’

  ‘Do you mean they paid for it?’

  Mr. Heath smiled. ‘Do you find that so horrifying?’

  ‘It’s rather—disappointing. I always thought it was given for valuable services.’

  ‘Ah, perhaps you’re thinking of “banneret” from which the word is derived. That title is of very much older origin and was bestowed by a sovereign upon a knight who distinguished himself in battle. It was bestowed then and there on the field of victory. The pennon which the knight had carried was converted into a banner by the sovereign himself tearing off the points of the pennon with his own sword and thereby converting it into a square banner.’

  ‘I’d like to have seen it done!’

  ‘So should I,’ agreed Mr. Heath. ‘It must have been an impressive sight. If you’re interested in heraldry I shall be delighted to lend you a book on the subject.’

  I thanked him, but said that I was only here for a week.

  He left that and moved on. ‘This is a very fine window,’ he said. ‘It was given by Sir Mortimer’s grandfather as a memorial to his wife. These pews beneath the window are the Wentworth pews. The D’Artington pews are opposite.’

  There were three pews on each side, facing each other across the aisle.

  ‘The Wentworth pews are always empty now,’ said Mr. Heath regretfully. Then he added, ‘But perhaps you will be here on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to come,’ I said—and then I changed my mind. ‘No, I couldn’t, Mr. Heath. I’m very sorry but I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t sit there all by myself with everybody staring at me. Perhaps if you would let me sit at the back in an ordinary pew——’

  ‘My dear young lady, you may sit anywhere you like.’

  We went all round the church. We looked at brass tablets commemorating long-dead D’Artingtons and Wentworths and various other families in the neighbourhood. We looked at a large stone slab bearing the names of sixty-nine people who had died in the Great Plague. Mr. Heath took me into the vestry and showed me an old yellow parchment with names of parishioners who had given money to repair the church after its partial destruction by Cromwell’s Roundheads.