Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  I had lain there for some time when I was disturbed by the sound of the front-door bell jangling in the distance. It was an unusual sound at Craig-an-Ron; nobody ever called, and any message that came was delivered at the back door. However, Mrs. MacRam was there and would answer the summons. I turned my head to watch, and a few moments later I saw the tall, soldierly-looking stranger—Daisy’s new friend—approaching down the slope.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said as he took off his cap. It’s difficult to get out of a hammock unless you’ve acquired the knack. The woman said you were here and I wanted to see you. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I haven’t much time.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I told him. ‘I was just being lazy. I hope Mr. Buchanan is able to deal with your car. Won’t you sit down?’

  He sat down on the wooden bench and said, ‘Peter Wentworth is my name.’

  ‘Peter Wentworth!’ I exclaimed in astonishment.

  ‘Didn’t your daughter tell you who I was?’

  ‘Not really. She said you were her uncle, but—but I thought it was a joke. I never imagined——’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to produce my credentials?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ I said—nor was there. Now that he had taken off his cap and I could see him clearly the resemblance to his family was obvious. In some ways he was like Gerald; his nose and the shape of his head and the manner in which he was leaning against the tree with one leg crossed sideways over the other were all exactly like Gerald . . . but his mouth and eyes and expression were entirely different. It was a queer experience to look at this stranger and to see bits of Gerald in him.

  ‘Well, are you satisfied?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sorry I was staring, but family likenesses are so—so very strange.’

  ‘Well, if you’re satisfied that I’m Peter Wentworth it’s unnecessary to explain why I’ve come.’

  I looked at him in surprise. He had spoken in rather an unpleasant tone—or so it seemed to me. I said doubtfully, ‘I suppose you happened to be in this part of Scotland for shooting or something. If so it was natural that you should look in and see us. I’m very pleased——’

  ‘What’s the use of beating about the bush!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve come to speak to you about Simon’s letter.’

  ‘Simon’s letter?’

  ‘His letter to my father,’ said Major Wentworth irritably. ‘When my father received it he sent for me at once and after some consideration we decided that I had better come and see you. You dictated the letter, of course.’

  ‘I didn’t even know that Simon had written.’

  ‘Are you asking me to believe that the boy changed his plans without any reference to you?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘Simon told me that he had changed his mind and intended to write to his grandfather, but I had no idea he had written so soon. As a matter of fact I meant to consult somebody before——’

  ‘A lawyer, I suppose?’

  ‘A friend. He happens to be a lawyer but it wasn’t as a lawyer that I meant to consult him. He’s very sensible and he’s fond of Simon, so——’

  ‘In that case he would tell you that what you’re doing is the height of folly. Don’t you realise what it means? My father likes the boy and was willing to accept him and give him all he wanted and have him trained to look after the estate. In addition to that he intended to make himself responsible for the education of your children—which was what you wanted, I believe.’

  ‘I never asked him to do that. I never asked him for anything.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re behaving rather foolishly?’

  ‘Some people might think so,’ I admitted.

  ‘Most people would think so.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps; but it isn’t for me to decide. It’s Simon’s life; he must do as he thinks best.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense!’ exclaimed Major Wentworth. ‘Do you mean to tell me that a boy of his age is fit to decide his own future? Does he know what he wants?’

  ‘He knows what he doesn’t want.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Major Wentworth. ‘Yes, I admit there’s a difference. Why doesn’t he want to come to Limbourne?’

  I tried to remember Simon’s exact words. ‘He doesn’t want to be chained up.’

  ‘Chained up? What an absurd expression!’

  There was silence for a few moments. Then he said, ‘It’s no good talking like this—we aren’t getting any further. I came here to explain my father’s point of view. He liked the boy and the whole thing was arranged. Now, suddenly for no reason at all, the boy seems to have changed his mind. You say it’s Simon’s choice—but it’s really your doing. My father is convinced that you’ve influenced him.’

  I shook my head. ‘Sir Mortimer is wrong, I didn’t influence Simon. I was astonished when he told me he had changed his mind.’

  ‘Well, anyhow, I can tell you this—it’s only fair to warn you—my father is very angry indeed and unless Simon behaves himself and does as he’s told my father will have nothing more to do with you or your family.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought Sir Mortimer would say.’

  ‘You expected that?’ asked Major Wentworth in surprise.

  ‘It was the way he treated Gerald,’ I explained. ‘I’m sorry about it because I don’t like family quarrels, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘You can’t help it? Haven’t you any control over the boy? Can’t you talk to him seriously and explain the advantages of accepting his grandfather’s offer—tell him it’s the sensible thing to do?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t. You see I don’t think it would be a good plan for Simon to go and live at Limbourne. Simon is like Gerald.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Gerald valued his freedom above everything.’

  ‘That was different,’ declared Major Wentworth. ‘Gerald had no expectation of inheriting the property. Simon has every expectation of inheriting the property so he ought to learn how to look after it. Surely you can see that?’

  I was silent. Of course I saw it—I had seen it from the beginning—but to me Simon’s happiness and wellbeing were more important than all the property in the world.

  ‘Look here,’ said Major Wentworth persuasively. ‘I can see you’re doubtful about it. I’m sure if you consider the matter seriously you’ll realise that my father’s plan is best—for everyone. Best for Simon, best for you and best for your children. Won’t you change your mind and persuade Simon to do what his grandfather wants? Simon says in his letter that he intends to take a post in a firm of export merchants in the City. Do you think that would be good training for a boy who is going to inherit a place like Limbourne?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I admitted.

  ‘What’s your idea, then? I suppose you have some plan for the boy’s future?’

  ‘There’s plenty of time to decide Simon’s future. He’ll be at school for another eighteen months—or more. I should like him to go to Cambridge, but I’m afraid——’

  ‘Cambridge! You needn’t think my father would consent to that. He would be furious at the mere idea of Simon going to Cambridge. If I were to mention the word he’d go straight off the deep end,’ declared Major Wentworth emphatically.

  ‘I didn’t intend you to mention it to Sir Mortimer. As I told you before, I’ve never asked him for anything. I’m not asking for anything now. I’ve managed to look after my family without help from Sir Mortimer and I shall just—go on—managing.’

  He looked at me with a straight piercing gaze. ‘You’re proud,’ he said.

  ‘Not really—proud,’ I replied thoughtfully. ‘I just try to bring up Gerald’s children as he would have liked. That’s all.’

  *

  2

  There was quite a long silence. Major Wentworth turned his head and looked out over the loch. At last he rose and said in a much more amiable tone, ‘Well, I’ve done my best. I can see it’s no use discussing the matter further.’ He added under
his breath, ‘Heaven knows what Father will say. . . .’

  It was the first sign he had shown of human feeling and for the first time I felt sorry for him. I realised that he would have to return to Sir Mortimer and admit defeat. I thought of Sir Mortimer and became even more sorry for his unsuccessful emissary! However there was nothing I could do for Major Wentworth—except offer him tea. Whisky would probably have been more acceptable but I had none to offer.

  ‘Tea?’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Oh, well—why not. But isn’t it a bit early in the afternoon for tea?’

  ‘It’s never too early—nor too late,’ I told him. ‘Mrs. MacRam drinks tea morning, noon and night. I expect she has got it all ready for us,’ and so saying I struggled out of the hammock—never a very graceful performance—and led the way into the cottage.

  Mrs. MacRam met us at the door with a beaming smile. ‘I was just thinking Mistress Wentworth and the gentleman would be wanting a cup of tea,’ she declared. ‘I have it all arranged—and the kettle is boiling.’

  We sat down at the table in the window. It was all arranged (as Mrs. MacRam had said). There was a large plate of hot scones, butter and jam and honey, a bowl of strawberries and a jug of cream.

  ‘Strawberries!’ exclaimed my guest in surprise.

  ‘They’re later here,’ I told him. ‘We’ve been having them nearly every day. The children love them—with cream.’

  ‘So do I,’ he said. He hesitated and then added, ‘I’m not going to say any more about it—I can see it would be useless—but I should like your permission to speak to Simon. It would be better if I could tell my father I had spoken to him. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You don’t need my permission to speak to Simon. He’s perfectly free—that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The children are out on their bicycles this afternoon but they’ll be back in time for supper. Would you like Simon to come and see you at the inn? He could come about eight o’clock if that would suit you.’

  ‘It will suit me admirably,’ he said. Then he smiled and added, ‘I suppose I call you Katherine—is that right? I’ve been wondering all the afternoon what I should call you.’

  ‘I’ve had the same trouble,’ I confessed.

  We were laughing when Mrs. MacRam came in with the large brown teapot and hot-water jug.

  *

  3

  It had been a difficult and somewhat disagreeable half-hour but now that it was over I was glad that the interview had taken place. Obviously Peter had resigned himself to the failure of his mission.

  ‘It will be better, really,’ I said as I poured out the tea. ‘Florence would have been very disappointed if Simon had come to Limbourne. She was looking forward to having Lance at home. It was all arranged that Lance was to be assistant to Mr. Marsh, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Lance is going to South Africa next week.’

  ‘What!’ I exclaimed in surprise. ‘But I thought he had got another year at Cambridge! Do you mean he has been sent down?’

  ‘No, just removed,’ said Peter. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about it, but—well—the fact is Lance has been incredibly silly—to say the least of it.’

  ‘Silly?’

  ‘Crazy,’ declared Peter. ‘On Monday night the young ass went out on his motor-bike and started to smash up a small car which was standing, unattended, in a country lane. Unfortunately for Lance, its owner was lurking in the bushes. When he saw—and heard—what was happening he sprang out and went for Lance with his fists. He was young Heath, the vicar’s son; a hefty sort of type,’ added Peter with the ghost of a smile.

  I was speechless.

  ‘He’s a naval officer,’ continued Peter. ‘Sailors are often pretty hefty and useful with their fists. There are no half-measures with sailors. Poor Lance was properly beaten up; he was considerably the worse for wear when Heath had finished with him.’

  ‘Was he—seriously—injured?’ I asked in a trembling voice.

  ‘No bones broken—just bruised and shaken.’

  ‘When—did it happen?’

  ‘It happened the night I arrived at Limbourne. I was with my father in his study, discussing Simon’s letter, when the front-door bell rang. It was long after midnight—we had been talking for hours—and as Bassett had gone to bed I answered the bell myself. I found young Heath standing on the doorstep with Lance clinging to his arm. I thought there had been an accident so I helped to get Lance into the study and we lowered him onto the sofa. Naturally my father wanted to know what had happened . . . so Adam Heath told him.’

  After a short silence Peter continued, ‘There was a frightful scene: my father raging and storming and Lance spread out on the sofa, half dazed, with blood dripping from his nose. Adam Heath said nothing. He just stood there, looking on. It seemed to me that we ought to decide upon a plan of action so I tried to get my father to calm down and discuss the matter sensibly—but it was hopeless. He stamped up and down the room and declared that Lance was a scoundrel, a blackguard—and other things, unfit to repeat. He declared that Lance had been at Cambridge for years and had learned nothing but hooliganism (quite illogical, of course, but logic isn’t my father’s strong point). Lance must leave Cambridge forthwith, meantime what he deserved was a sound thrashing.

  ‘“He’s had one,” said Heath, smiling and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘By this time Lance seemed to have recovered a bit, so I helped him upstairs to bed. When I came down I found Adam Heath in the hall—he was just going—so I went out with him and had a look at his car. It wasn’t badly damaged; he had brought Lance home in it, but I told him to have it repaired and send us the bill. I was glad to have a private word with him; there had been no chance of any sensible talk in the study. I asked if he intended to go to the police and make a charge against Lance. He laughed and said perhaps Lance would like to bring an action against him for assault and battery. That was ridiculous, of course, so I asked him again, seriously, if he intended to inform the police. He replied that he couldn’t—even if he wanted to—because he had taken the law into his own hands and given Lance a hiding which he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. He said that in his opinion it was the best way of dealing with a young fool like Lance. I told him I couldn’t agree more.

  ‘Then, just as he was starting, he said perhaps I had been wondering what he was doing out in his car at that time of night. As a matter of fact I had thought it a bit queer, but I had decided in my own mind that he had been out with a girl. He’s a good-looking chap and girls are usually keen on sailors. I told him I wouldn’t dream of asking what he had been doing. “Oh, it wasn’t what you think,” he said. “I was big-game hunting and Lance happened to fall into my trap.” What do you suppose he meant by that, Katherine?’

  I knew exactly what he meant. ‘Have some more strawberries, Peter,’ I suggested.

  He took another large helping of strawberries and covered them thickly with cream. ‘It was very decent of Heath,’ he said. ‘I was grateful to him—I can tell you! It might have been extremely unpleasant if the police had got wind of the affair. You see there has been quite a lot of vandalism in the neighbourhood and the police are searching diligently for the culprits. Traffic lights have been broken, tombstones daubed with paint and every window in an empty house smashed to pieces . . . other things, too; I can’t remember them all. It’s senseless, isn’t it? What on earth makes people do things like that?’

  ‘Did you ask Lance about it?’

  ‘Of course I did! I went up to his bedroom next morning; he was a lot better, but he wouldn’t talk—wouldn’t answer any questions—wouldn’t open his mouth. I couldn’t get a word out of him. None of us could get a word out of him. He remained absolutely dumb. We can’t do anything with him; we don’t even know if this was his first offence—just a sudden mad impulse—or whether he has done anything of the kind before. I’m told that the police are of the opinion that the damage had been done by a gang, but somehow I can’t believe Lance
is mixed up with a gang of toughs—he hasn’t enough guts for one thing. All the same the police would have been only too glad to get hold of someone to charge. It might have been very nasty indeed,’ added Peter in a thoughtful voice.

  I moistened my lips and said, ‘So he’s going to South Africa.’

  ‘Yes, I managed to fix it up. I know a chap who grows oranges (he was in the gunners but had to retire owing to ill-health) so I cabled to him and he has agreed to give Lance a job on his farm. Florence is furious with me—if words could kill I’d be stone dead. The idea of her precious son being sent out to Africa amongst all those black people!’

  ‘She ought to be grateful to you.’

  ‘You think I was right?’

  ‘Absolutely right. It’s the best thing possible for Lance.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Peter. He sighed and added, ‘I don’t know why I’ve told you all this, Katherine.’

  ‘I’m quite a safe repository for secrets.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘I expect quite a lot of people confide in you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  After tea I walked back with Peter through the woods; we had been talking about birds. Suddenly he laughed and said, ‘Well, I never thought it would end like this!’

  ‘You mean your visit to Craig-an-Ron?’

  ‘Yes, I envisaged various different endings, but never tea and strawberries—and birds. I still don’t understand your point of view, but I’m willing to admit you have one.’

  ‘That’s something,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘I’m afraid I started by being rather disagreeable but you were very patient with me.’

  ‘I wasn’t angry,’ I told him. ‘You say you don’t understand my point of view, but I understand yours. Sir Mortimer has every right to be annoyed—and you too, of course. If people have a right to be annoyed you can’t blame them for being disagreeable.’