Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘My father will blame me for my failure and he’ll be very disagreeable indeed.’

  ‘You can tell him I’m sorry—if that will be any help.’

  ‘It won’t be the slightest help. I’m in for a very unpleasant interview when I get home to Limbourne. My father must have exactly what he wants—exactly when he wants it—otherwise there’s a most unholy row.’

  ‘Peter,’ I said earnestly. ‘Do you think it good for a boy to be brought up under the rule of a dictator? Has it been good for Lance? Do you think Gerald would have broken away if he hadn’t found it unbearable?’

  We had stopped in the middle of the wood and were standing facing each other on the path.

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Peter in surprise. ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘It was different for you,’ I pointed out. ‘You were always your father’s favourite, so——’

  ‘It wasn’t different. I had to toe the line like everyone else.’

  ‘But you escaped and made your own career. How would you like to live at Limbourne and be dependent upon your father?’

  ‘I couldn’t stand it!’ declared Peter emphatically. Then suddenly he saw the point and his face changed. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I suppose that’s what you meant when you said Simon didn’t want to be chained up?’

  ‘You said it was an “absurd expression,”’ I reminded him. ‘Perhaps it is absurd . . . but can you think of a better description of the conditions at Limbourne? Everyone in the place is terrified of Sir Mortimer. It isn’t good, Peter. Fear leads to deceit. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said in a low voice. ‘When we were children we were frightened and—and deceitful.’

  ‘It isn’t only children, it’s everyone,’ I declared. ‘The whole atmosphere is unhealthy. I found it so oppressive that I was thankful to get away.’

  ‘You felt like that? But surely——’ he began in horrified tones.

  I was wound up now, so I interrupted him and rushed on breathlessly. ‘It’s like a prison, Peter. None of them has any freedom at all. Lance, Anthea—even Florence——’

  ‘Florence!’ he exclaimed. ‘Florence is so foolish that she wouldn’t know what to do with freedom if she were given it.’

  ‘Because she has been ruled with a rod of iron all her life. She has ceased to mind—if she ever minded—but that’s why she’s silly. Lance has to go out at night and smash up cars to let off steam.’

  ‘Katherine! Do you really mean——’

  ‘Yes, I do. Think about it, Peter. You must have had a great deal of experience in your profession—experience of men.’

  ‘It’s true. There’s always trouble if you keep them on too tight a rein. Why on earth didn’t I see it before?’

  ‘Perhaps it was because you know them all so well. I went to Limbourne a complete stranger—an onlooker—so I was able to see them in a different way.’

  For a moment or two he was silent, considering the matter, then he said, ‘I’ve never had any say in those children’s upbringing. As a matter of fact I’ve had very little to do with Lance and Anthea, yet here I am burdened with Lance’s troubles. Now that Henry has gone there’s nobody in the family with any sense at all—nobody to talk to about family matters. I feel absolutely helpless.’

  ‘You aren’t helpless,’ I declared. ‘You’ve let Lance off the chain and given him a chance to make good. Try to do the same for Anthea.’

  ‘Anthea!’ he exclaimed in alarm. ‘What do you mean, Katherine?’

  I hesitated. Then I said, ‘Anthea is very unhappy—she’s desperate. Get her away from Limbourne . . . otherwise there may be serious trouble.’

  ‘Serious trouble?’

  I nodded. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to betray Anthea’s confidence; I can only urge you to get her away as quickly as you can.’

  ‘This is frightful!’ he exclaimed, looking at me in dismay.

  ‘It’s true, Peter. Every word I’ve said is true.’

  ‘Of course I believe you—but what am I to do? Good heavens, this is an awful problem!’

  ‘Talk to her. She has nobody to talk to.’

  ‘I’ve told you I scarcely know the girl.’

  ‘If you talked to her kindly I believe she might confide in you. She’s miserable—and you’re the only person who can help her. You’ll try, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll try. I’d better get a week’s leave and see what I can do.’

  He looked so distressed that I felt sorry. ‘Peter,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to burden you with all this. It just—came out.’

  ‘I could see that,’ he replied with a rueful smile. ‘I could see it pouring out. Obviously you’ve been worrying about it.’

  ‘Yes, but now I’ve worried you.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me; we don’t want “serious trouble.” Leave it to me, I’ll do what I can for the wretched girl. Perhaps I could find her a job in London—or something.’

  ‘Good,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘I must go home now, Peter. I’m glad I’ve met you. We’ve had a troublesome sort of talk but I’ve enjoyed bits of it.’

  ‘So have I. When shall I see you again?’

  ‘You won’t see me at Limbourne.’

  ‘No, I suppose not . . . but I should like to write to you, if I may.’

  ‘Write and tell me how you get on,’ I suggested.

  We shook hands and said good-bye.

  *

  2

  Simon was startled when I told him about my visitor and the arrangement I had made.

  ‘But I don’t want to see him!’ declared Simon. ‘There’s no object in me going to see him. When I wrote I made it quite clear——’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had written.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t mean to write so soon, but you see I had to write a bread-and-butter letter and, when I was in the middle of writing it, I just thought—well, I mean it seemed a bit deceitful to write and thank Grandfather for having me without telling him what I’d decided. So I told him. It’s easier to do difficult things if you do them suddenly without thinking about them too much.’

  ‘Yes, I think it is.’

  ‘And I wanted to get it off my chest,’ added Simon frankly.

  I understood that too. ‘Yes, of course. But all the same I’m afraid you’ll have to go and see your Uncle Peter. He has come all the way from Limbourne, so you can’t possibly refuse. As a matter of fact I think you’ll like him.’

  ‘I’m sure I shan’t,’ declared Simon emphatically.

  No more was said, but it was unnecessary to remind Simon of the appointment. After supper he got up from the table and stood, looking at me for a few moments.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and get it over,’ he said reluctantly.

  He went away and I heard him getting his bicycle out of the garage.

  I expected him back quite soon, so I took a book and sat down by the window. I read for about an hour—and then I began to watch for him to come. Time passed slowly. I wondered what they were talking about. I thought I had convinced Peter that his mission had failed, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he was trying to persuade Simon to change his mind and accept his grandfather’s offer.

  Peter Wentworth was clever and persuasive and forceful—I knew that—so perhaps he would succeed. The idea that he might succeed filled me with dismay. I had said that Simon was free to choose for himself, but now I wished I had taken the responsibility of refusing Sir Mortimer’s offer. I wished I had refused to allow Simon to go and see his uncle at the inn. I told myself that I had been a fool.

  The evening was cloudy and mild; the light began to fade; Mrs. MacRam brought in the lamp and stayed to chat. Then she went away and I heard her shutting up the windows and doors in the kitchen premises as she always did before she went home.

  By this time it was dark . . . and I had become so worried that I was nearly crazy. Simon must have started home long ago—what could have happened? The path throu
gh the wood was rutty and uneven, not too bad if you could see where you were going but quite unfit for bicycling in the dark. There was a lamp on Simon’s bicycle, but I had no idea whether or not it was in proper order.

  At last I could bear it no longer. I took a small torch and went out to look for Simon, convinced that he had fallen off his bicycle and was lying, injured, somewhere in the wood. Unfortunately the battery in the torch had run down, so all the light it produced was a dim flickering glow which made the darkness darker. The wood was pitch dark and somewhat eerie—but I pressed on, picking my way as carefully as I could. When I had gone about half-way along the path I saw a light wavering about through the trees, then I heard someone whistling ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’—so I knew it was Simon. A moment or two later I saw him approaching, wheeling his bicycle.

  ‘I thought you were lost!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Sorry, Mums. I didn’t mean to stay so long but we got talking and I forgot the time.’

  ‘I was awfully worried; I couldn’t think what could have happened.’

  ‘Sorry, Mums,’ he repeated.

  I turned and we started to walk home together. Simon’s bicycle lamp was very bright so it was easier to see the way.

  ‘It was funny, really,’ said Simon. ‘You see I thought he would try to persuade me to change my mind and promise to go to Limbourne when I leave school; I was all keyed up to say no—no—no, but he never mentioned the subject.’

  ‘What on earth did you talk about—all that time?’

  ‘He talked a lot about you,’ replied Simon with a little chuckle. ‘You seem to have made a favourable impression upon my Uncle Peter. Perhaps you didn’t know that you’ve got a logical brain—an unusual thing in a woman—that’s in addition to your charm of manner and your sympathetic personality, of course.’

  ‘What nonsense! I’m sure he said nothing of the sort.’

  ‘He did—really. Then we talked about cricket. He saw Alec play for Cambridge at Lord’s, so he was frightfully impressed when I said Alec had been coaching me; he said I ought to keep it up after I leave school but I told him there wasn’t a hope. When I go to Butterfields I shall have to work like a horse. It’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. We talked about lots of other things too. He’s at the War Office at present and he said the next time I was in town I must come to lunch at his club. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. You could let him know when you’re on your way back to school. Did he seem quite cheerful, Simon?’

  ‘Cheerful? I should jolly well think so! He was laughing and joking like anything’ Why shouldn’t he be cheerful?’

  ‘I just wondered—that’s all.’

  ‘He’s awfully decent,’ declared Simon. ‘I liked him a lot. Lance said Uncle Peter was stuffy. It’s absolute bilge; there’s nothing stuffy about him. He’s clever and amusing; that’s what he is. Then, when I was coming away—hurrying, because I’d just discovered the time and I knew you’d be getting in a flap—he gave me this.’ Simon put his hand in his pocket and took out a five-pound note. ‘Five quid!’ said Simon. ‘Super tip, isn’t it?’

  ‘How kind of him!’

  ‘Here you are. It’s for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s for you,’ repeated Simon, trying to thrust it into my hand. ‘I want to pay you back for the money you gave me to send to Nitkin.’

  ‘Nonsense! You must keep it and——’

  ‘Please take it,’ said Simon earnestly. ‘Honestly, Mums, I’ll feel better if you take it. I was a fool to give the money to Oliver—worse than a fool because it wasn’t my money to give—I don’t know what made me do it. Something queer got into me. If you take this I can put it out of my head. I shall feel the whole thing is over and done with.’

  ‘Very well. If that’s how you feel——’

  ‘Yes, that’s how I feel.’ He put his arm through mine and added, ‘There’s something else. He told me about Lance. You know what happened, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s awful, isn’t it? When Uncle Peter told me I was absolutely staggered. I suppose I must have looked a bit queer because he leant forward and said, “Look here, Simon. You know something about this matter, don’t you?” and then, when I didn’t answer, he said, “Did you swear you wouldn’t tell?”’

  We walked on for a few yards in silence. Then I said, ‘I think you were wise to tell him all about it.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Simon hastily. ‘I just said, “Why don’t you ask Oliver Wade?” You see, I thought it was a bit hard on Lance to get all the blame when it was Oliver who managed the whole thing. Uncle Peter said, “Is that all you can tell me?” and I said, “It’s quite enough for anyone as clever as you are, Uncle Peter.” That was all. It wasn’t telling, was it?’

  I tried not to laugh. ‘Simon,’ I said, ‘if you had thought for a week you couldn’t have found a better answer.’

  *

  3

  There was no need to worry any more. Between us, Simon and I had unloaded our secrets and placed them upon the shoulders of Peter Wentworth. His shoulders were best fitted to bear them—I had no doubt of that. Peter’s personality was forceful and he would tackle the problems we had given him without delay. First, he would do what he could for Anthea and, second, he would get into touch with Adam Heath. Peter and Adam Heath would put their heads together and plan a campaign. Yes, that was what they would do—and when the Navy and the Army join forces the success of the operation is assured! Mr. Wade’s treasure-hunting would come to an abrupt conclusion.

  I felt vindictive towards Oliver Wade, not only on account of the vandalism but also because of the way he had treated Anthea. I hoped he would be caught red-handed, setting fire to a house or something equally wicked, so that he would be sent to prison. It would be a thousand pities if he were caught in the act of perpetrating some minor offence. That he would be caught, somehow, somewhere, was a foregone conclusion with those two redoubtable warriors on his track.

  For the next few days I thought about it a great deal and wondered what would happen—and hoped Peter would remember to write and tell me how he got on.

  Simon did not mention the subject, and did not seem to be brooding over it, so I kept my thoughts and wonderings to myself.

  Chapter Thirty

  Now that I was rested and refreshed it had become a habit to waken early. I enjoyed those early hours, lying in Zilla’s comfortable bed. I had the windows wide open; I could hear the dawn chorus of birds in the rowan trees; I could see the sun rise from behind the mountains. The sun still rose very early (though a few minutes later every day). More often than not he rose in splendour from behind Ben Ron so that suddenly my room was filled with golden light and his effulgence ran down the waiting slopes like golden water.

  I watched for him every morning and was absurdly disappointed if he were hidden by a bank of cloud.

  When His Majesty had risen and was shining brightly I turned over and went to sleep again or sometimes rose and went out to enjoy the tranquillity of the early morning hours, to wander down to the loch and listen to the birds.

  One morning I wakened earlier than usual in the grey light of dawn. I lay and listened. An owl screeched as he flew quickly to his retreat, a lamb called to its mother on the hill, far off in the distance I heard the sound of a car. It was so faint—the soft purr of an engine—that I thought I must have been mistaken; then I heard it again, slightly louder. Suddenly the noise ceased.

  Craig-an-Ron was so far from everywhere—at the back of beyond—that no cars nor any other traffic came near it unless they were coming to the cottage . . . and who could be coming at this hour?

  I went to the window and looked out from behind the curtain. There was nobody to be seen—not a creature—even the little birds were not yet awake. The loch was silver-grey, still and peaceful; the leaves of the rowan trees hung limp in the morning air. I looked up the path to the woods—and saw a tall figure standing at
the edge of the trees.

  He stood there quite still, looking up at my window.

  At first I couldn’t believe my eyes—it must be a trick of light or a shadow that had deceived me—but the light from the eastern sky was growing stronger every moment and soon I could see him distinctly; tall and broad-shouldered in Lovat tweeds with his thick dark hair brushed back from his forehead.

  Why had he come at this hour of the morning? How had he come? What was he going to do? I was so bewildered that I couldn’t move; I was rooted to the spot with astonishment.

  He stood there, quite still, for some time—I don’t know how long—and then turned and went back into the wood.

  In a few moments I heard the sound of the car starting and driving away. Then there was silence.

  *

  2

  Alec to do that! Sensible, solid Alec! It was a revelation!

  I had told myself that we were friends . . . but a man does not come at dawn and stand and gaze at a woman’s window unless drawn there by an irresistible force. Friendship is not that sort of force.

  I had known before that Alec was fond of me, but I certainly had not realised that he loved me—like that. I had told him he was ‘solid and sensible’—he had seemed so to me—but there was nothing solid and sensible about his action this morning. It was the action of a man deeply in love, a man whose heart was full of romance.

  I began to wonder how Alec had managed to get away from the office (he had told me it would be impossible for him to come to Loch Ron). I began to wonder how long he would be able to stay. Supposing he had just come in the night to stand and look up at my window and was now already on his way home!

  But that was absurd—even for a knight of romance. Alec would have gone to the inn. Even if he could not stay for long, he would have gone there to rest and have breakfast before starting home. He was there now, of course, and if I hurried I could see him and talk to him and find out what he intended to do . . . if I hurried.

  I dressed—it did not take long—and went softly down the stairs. I was half-way up the path to the wood when I saw Mr. MacRam coming down the hill from his own little cottage with his dog at his heels.