‘No, indeed!’ I said, laughing.
‘It was an excellent sermon. John said we should never expect rewards for kind actions . . . and so on and so forth. Of course he never mentioned the cake—but that was what gave him the idea. I’m glad I’ve seen you to-day,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you and about the “difficult time” you said you were having. I told John and we both feel we should like to help you in any way we can. So if there’s anything we can do—no matter what—we should like you to let us know.’
I thanked her sincerely—she really meant it—and although I did not see how the Heaths could help me, except by talking to me in a friendly way, it was good to know that I had made two friends.
After that Mrs. Heath talked about her son: they had just heard that he was flying home from Singapore, so probably would be arriving quite soon.
‘I wish you could see him, Mrs. Wentworth,’ she said. ‘Of course I know I’m rather silly about Adam, but he really is a son to be proud of. He isn’t very tall but he’s tremendously strong and very good-looking—with fair hair and blue eyes and a ruddy complexion—and he’s brimming over with energy and vitality. You mustn’t mind me talking about him like this; we haven’t seen him for two years so I’m terribly excited.’
‘No wonder you’re excited! It will be lovely for you to have him on leave.’
Mrs. Heath nodded. ‘Yes, there’s only one thing I don’t like about having Adam home on leave.’
‘You feel as flat as a pancake when he goes away.’
‘How did you know?’ she asked in surprise.
I laughed. ‘Because that’s how I feel when Simon’s holidays are over.’
*
3
On Saturday night when I was dressing for dinner I felt remarkably cheerful; in fact I was happier than I had been for some time. I had dreaded this visit to Limbourne and it had been exceedingly unpleasant—though not in the way I had expected—but now it was nearly over. We were going home on Monday.
Only one more day, I said to myself as I sat before the mirror, brushing my hair. Only one more day!
When Simon came in I was nearly ready. He came to my room at this time every evening for me to tie his tie and to chat about the events of the day. It was the best time for a private talk; indeed it was the only time when we could be sure of being together without interruption. Although I was now quite used to seeing him ‘all dressed up,’ his appearance gave me a little thrill of pleasure. The wretch knew this and grinned at me mischievously.
‘Not too bad,’ he said, surveying himself with satisfaction in the full-length mirror. ‘I can’t see myself properly in my own room.’
‘Just like a waiter,’ I said teasingly.
Simon laughed. Then he turned and put his arm round my waist. ‘Listen, Mums. Would you mind if we stayed on a few days longer?’
‘We can’t!’ I cried in dismay.
‘You mean you don’t want to?’
‘I couldn’t—even if I wanted to. We must go home on Monday. Aunt Liz is flying to Copenhagen on Tuesday, so she can’t keep the children any longer . . . and there are all sorts of things I must do before we go to Loch Ron. It’s all settled, Simon. We’re going to Loch Ron on Thursday. You know that as well as I do.’
Simon was silent.
‘Do you want to stay on?’ I asked him.
‘I do—rather,’ he replied apologetically. ‘The fact is there’s going to be a treasure hunt. I shouldn’t tell you, really, because it’s a dead secret, but you won’t let on, will you?’
‘Why has it got to be a secret?’
‘Oh, you know what Aunt Florence is like. She would fuss about it and spoil everything.’
This was perfectly true.
‘A treasure hunt is rather fun,’ continued Simon. ‘We had one at school on a Saturday afternoon—it was good sport. There were hidden clues and you had to guess them. Of course we just ran, you know. It will be much more exciting at night with cars.’
‘At night with cars!’
‘They’ve done it before; they often do it. You needn’t worry, Mums.’
Of course I was worried. The idea of my precious Simon tearing about the country in the middle of the night with Lance and Anthea and their friends was extremely alarming.
‘It’s all right, darling,’ said Simon, giving me a little hug. ‘They’re all a lot older than I am. As a matter of fact they said at first that I was too young but Lance managed to persuade Oliver to let me come.’
‘Oliver Wade?’
‘Yes. It’s a sort of club and Oliver is the president. He manages the whole thing. Lance had an awful job persuading him. It was decent of Lance, wasn’t it?’
‘Simon, you really want to?’
‘Yes, I do—really,’ said Simon earnestly. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
I minded quite a lot but I realised that I should have to give in. It was impossible for me to stay at Limbourne any longer, but there was nothing to prevent Simon from staying. He could come north later and join us at the cottage. I reminded myself that Simon was sixteen—and very sensible. Aunt Liz said I kept him in cotton-wool and perhaps there was truth in her accusation. He had been small and delicate as a child so he had needed a lot of care. Now that he was no longer small and delicate I must cease to fuss about him . . . and anyhow what could happen to Simon here? These people were his relations: his grandfather, his aunt and his cousins.
Simon had walked to the window and was standing there, looking out. He said, ‘Say honestly, Mums. If you don’t want me to stay on I’ll come north with you on Monday. It doesn’t matter about the treasure hunt.’
‘Of course you must stay on if you want to.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, certain,’ I replied. ‘You’ll be sensible, won’t you?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, of course—frightfully sensible. Lance will take me as his “observer.” We go in couples, you see. As a matter of fact it’s very decent of Lance to take me, because I shan’t be much help to him—not knowing the ropes—but he says he doesn’t mind.’
‘You like Lance, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. Don’t you like him?’
‘I don’t feel I know him very well.’
‘Perhaps he is a bit difficult to know,’ agreed Simon. ‘But he’s awfully decent to me. Lots of chaps, so much older, wouldn’t bother to be decent. He isn’t like Mark, of course.’
‘People are all different,’ I suggested.
‘Yes, but I don’t mean that, exactly. Mark has a frightfully high standard.’
‘And Lance hasn’t?’
Simon smiled. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? He doesn’t think it wrong to tell lies.’
I knew that already but it didn’t seem ‘funny’ to me. ‘I can’t bear lies and secrets and deceit,’ I declared emphatically.
‘I know—neither can I—but people are all different. You said that yourself, didn’t you? Don’t worry,’ added Simon. ‘Lance will never be my very special friend, like Mark, but it’s better to take people as you find them . . . and he really is very kind indeed. He and Anthea are going to Austria to ski in the Christmas hols and he said I could join the party if I liked. It would be tremendous fun—absolutely terrific! Of course I told Lance I couldn’t go unless my expenses were paid, but he said the Bart paid for everything—so that would be all right, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I was trying hard to feel pleased and happy about this new plan, but it was difficult. I had never been able to give Simon pleasures, and now they were being showered upon him by his relations. It was not that I was jealous; quite honestly I would have been pleased and happy for Simon’s sake if these people had been good and wholesome. Simon had said that it was better to take people as you found them, and this was true—to a certain extent—but was it possible for a boy like Simon to mix with these people and maintain his integrity?
‘What are you worrying about?’ asked Simon.
&nb
sp; ‘Nothing much,’ I said. ‘Give me your tie. Who is going to tie it for you when I’ve gone?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll get Bassett—or somebody.’
After that we talked of other things. I told Simon that I intended to go to church the following morning at eight o’clock and he said he would come with me if I wakened him in time.
Chapter Nineteen
Simon was awake when I went to call him. The big, beautifully furnished house was very still—not a mouse seemed to be stirring. We dressed and crept downstairs as quietly as we could.
‘I feel like a burglar,’ whispered Simon as he eased back the bolt of the front door.
There was something in the atmosphere of Limbourne which gave one a feeling of uneasiness—as if one were doing wrong. (I had thought that Simon was free from this curious obsession but obviously he was not.)
Once we were outside in the sunshine the feeling vanished.
‘Lovely, lovely morning,’ said Simon in his ordinary voice. ‘It’s so fresh and new, isn’t it? Why don’t we always get up early? I think I shall tell Nitkin that I want to ride before breakfast every morning.’
‘Yes, you should,’ I said.
Simon took my arm and we walked down the avenue together and into the road. As we neared the church we saw several people at the lych-gate; a man came forward and opened it for us while his companions waited for us to go through. We both said good morning and they all smiled in a friendly manner and returned the greeting.
I hesitated at the church door. ‘Simon,’ I said, ‘shall we sit at the back or in the Wentworth pew?’
‘The Wentworth pew, of course. Do you know where it is?’
‘Mr. Heath showed me.’
Perhaps he was right. In fact I knew he was right; it would have been foolish to shrink from the ordeal. I led the way up the aisle and went into the pew. Simon followed.
I had known it would be an ordeal—and it was. I could not help noticing the stir and rustle of people coming in and finding their seats; I could not help feeling that everybody was looking at us. It was difficult to fix my mind on my prayers. I glanced across the aisle at the D’Artington pew . . . a man was sitting there alone. It was Major D’Artington of course—it couldn’t be anybody else—but the strange thing was that I knew him. I had seen him before, quite recently, but I could not remember where.
Presently Mr. Heath came in and the service began. It was a very simple service; there was no music; just the beautiful prayers in Mr. Heath’s quiet, clear voice. I was swept away, soothed and comforted, I forgot the other people. For all I knew there might have been nobody else in the lovely old building.
Unfortunately when the service was over the queer uncomfortable feeling returned and once more I was aware of the interested glances. I noticed that the little congregation were sitting quietly in their seats. They were waiting for Major D’Artington to go out first. He was lame and walked slowly with a stick. Simon was about to pass him, but I put my hand on his arm and he understood at once . . . and waited. We followed him slowly down the aisle; it was not until we reached the door that the other people rose and came out after us.
Major D’Artington’s car was standing at the lych-gate, but before getting in he turned and spoke to us . . . and, now that I saw him in the sunshine, I knew where I had seen him before. I had seen him carved in stone, lying on a stone slab. The stern features, the look of suffering, the Norman nose and firm mouth were identical. He was the living embodiment of his crusading ancestor. I was so surprised at this discovery that I was moonstruck.
When I came to myself I heard Simon saying, ‘Yes, sir. I’m at Barstow. I’m staying at Limbourne for a few days longer, but my stepmother is going north to-morrow. Perhaps I should—introduce you—or something,’ he added doubtfully.
Major D’Artington smiled and replied, ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself, Wentworth. Then you could perform the introduction correctly.’
‘Oh, I know who you are, sir!’ exclaimed Simon.
‘In that case no introduction will be necessary,’ declared Major D’Artington with a little chuckle. ‘I always think introductions are a terrible bore.’ He turned to me and added, ‘Gerald was a great friend of mine, so I’m delighted to have this opportunity of meeting you. It’s a pity you’re going away so soon but you’ll be coming back, of course.’
I smiled at him. It was difficult to reply because I had no intention of returning to Limbourne if I could possibly avoid it.
‘Now, let’s see,’ said Major D’Artington, turning to Simon. ‘My son is coming home to-morrow. He’s a little older than you are, I think.’
‘I’m sixteen, sir.’
‘Yes, well, Wilfrid is seventeen—but I dare say you may find quite a lot in common. I don’t make engagements for him but I’ll tell him you’re here and he can ring you up. That’s the best way.’
‘Yes, I should like to meet him. I mean we’re neighbours, aren’t we?’
‘You are indeed, so the sooner you get to know each other the better. Perhaps you could come over to Hurlestone and spend the day. Have you got a bicycle?’
‘I could ride over,’ said Simon eagerly. ‘My grandfather said I could have a horse whenever I liked.’
‘Good,’ said Major D’Artington. ‘We’ll arrange something.’ He shook hands with us; his chauffeur helped him into his car and drove away.
‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’ said Simon. ‘It will be fun to ride over to Hurlestone Manor. I wonder what Wilfrid is like.’
As we walked home together I told Simon all that I had heard about Major D’Artington; how he had been badly wounded in the war and had won distinction for his courage; how the villagers felt he belonged to them in a special sort of way because of his ancestry, and were fond of him because of his kindness and generosity.
‘Yes,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘He’s like a king, isn’t he? What a good thing you grabbed hold of me and prevented me from passing him in the aisle!’
‘It would have been a bad start,’ I agreed.
‘It would have been frightful,’ said Simon emphatically.
*
2
There was nobody about when we returned to Limbourne—except the servants, of course—so we had breakfast together in the dining-room. Sir Mortimer came down later, and Lance and Anthea appeared when we had nearly finished. Neither Simon nor I mentioned our visit to church; we had not agreed upon this, but obviously Simon thought—as I did—that it was better to be silent on the subject. Nobody would know whether we had been or not—nobody would care—that was my idea. It appeared that I was wrong.
The morning sunshine had vanished behind heavy clouds and it had begun to rain by the time we had all finished breakfast, so I took a book and sat down in the drawing-room to read. I had been sitting there for about half an hour when Florence’s maid came in and said Mrs. Godfrey would like to see me.
‘Now?’ I asked in surprise.
‘As soon as convenient,’ replied the woman.
It was a new experience to visit Florence in bed. She was propped up with coloured cushions and was wearing a pink lacy bed-jacket and a white Shetland shawl.
‘Oh, good morning, Katherine,’ she said.
‘I hope you aren’t ill!’ I exclaimed.
‘No, perfectly well. I always have a little longer in bed on Sunday mornings. You went to church, I believe.’
‘Yes, I like going to the eight-o’clock service.’
‘Papa is not pleased.’
‘Not pleased!’ I echoed in astonishment.
‘Oh, of course he has no objection to your going to church, but you should have told me so that I could order the car.’
‘But I went early! I didn’t want to bother anybody.’
‘Hurrell is there to carry out Papa’s orders.’
‘I know, but I didn’t want the car. It was a lovely walk; I enjoyed it.’
‘Papa knows that you’re fond of walking, and of course he doesn’t want to
prevent you from taking walks, but if you’re going to church he wishes you to go in the car. Hurrell can be told the night before. Papa is not angry,’ explained Florence. ‘He knows it’s difficult for you, Katherine. He just asked me to explain that it is more comme il faut for members of the Wentworth family to go to church in the car. Papa wishes you to use the car.’
This was intended to be the last word, but Alec had told me to keep my end up. ‘I prefer to walk to church,’ I said firmly. ‘And anyhow I shan’t be here next Sunday.’
Florence looked surprised. She said, ‘Oh, you’re going north to-morrow, aren’t you? But of course you’ll be coming to Limbourne again quite soon, so it’s just as well for you to know what Papa feels about the matter.’
For a few moments I was angry and then the humour of it struck me. Florence was exactly like the White Queen, sitting there in bed with her round face and popping eyes and the little fleecy shawl about her shoulders—so, instead of saying angrily that it would be a very long time before I paid another visit to Limbourne, I smiled and thanked her for giving me the message.
*
3
On Sunday evening Simon came to my room before dinner as usual. I was leaving Limbourne early the next morning so there were several matters to be arranged. I had calculated carefully how much money Simon would require for tips to the Limbourne staff (a difficult and delicate matter), for his railway fare to London and from London to Inverquill . . . and various incidental expenses. Fortunately I had brought plenty of money with me so I produced a sheaf of notes and counted them out on my dressing-table.
‘It’s costing an awful lot!’ exclaimed Simon in dismay.
It was costing a great deal more than I had expected—or could afford. I saw the new curtains for my sitting-room and new winter blankets for the children’s beds vanishing into space. ‘It can’t be helped,’ I said with a sigh.
‘Are you pleased to be going home to-morrow?’ asked Simon as he took the notes and stowed them away carefully in his pocket-book.
Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Page 15