Dressed, he came out into the passage and ran into Meriel back from church carrying her presents for the family to put by their places at the breakfast table. A pile of boxes and parcels was under her right arm, her left encircled a rose-tree. Four red roses were flowering on it. His heart gave a leap. A fresh rose on Christmas morning, he would tie it to the top of the scent.
“Meriel, my sweet lamb, give your Cousin Derwent a rose.”
“Of course not.” She moved the tree out of his reach, because he almost looked as if he might snatch. “It’s for Mummie, and it cost seven-and-six, and even then only four roses are out.”
“Darling, give me a rose and I’ll buy you anything you like as soon as the shops open.”
“Don’t be so silly, you know you’ve got no money and have got to try and get some work. And anyway, I want all my roses for Mummie.”
She moved off. He shrugged his shoulders, obviously she would not relent.
“If you’ll wait one second I’ll get some boxes of chocolates I’ve got for you three.”
Meriel stopped dead. She turned round to him.
“Oh, Derwent, a box each?”
“Yes.”
She glanced round to be sure their conversation was private.
“Could I have mine now, so nobody knows but us you’ve given it me, and would you mind terribly if I gave it away?”
“Whom to?”
“Somebody I forgot to buy a present for.”
He saw she wanted the chocolates badly, he looked cunning.
“If I say ‘yes,’ give me a rose.”
“Oh, Derwent, there are only four.” She saw he meant to have the rose. “Well, only the little one at the top, then. Go and get the chocolates. I won’t pick it till I see if they’re worth it.”
Flossie, in a pink satin nightdress and little coral-coloured coat, opened the small parcel which the maid had just brought in on her breakfast tray. Inside was a jewel box and in that an emerald ring. She slipped it on and the stone was so magnificent she squeaked with pleasure. Mouse knocked and came in.
“Happy Christmas.” She looked at the ring. “Hullo, been pulling crackers?” She held Flossie’s finger. “Well, I will say Ossie treats you proud.”
Flossie snatched away her hand, disliking her tone. She looked Mouse up and down.
“Been down to breakfast, have you? That’s unusual. Still, I suppose some people are worth getting up for.”
“I doubt if you’ll ever find them so.” There was a knock on the door, Mouse opened it and the maid gave her Derwent’s present done up in a box. There was a card in an envelope on top of it.
“A happy Christmas,” Flossie read. “Derwent. That’s the nephew, isn’t it, I saw last night?”
“Yes, Jim’s heir.” Flossie looked up interested. “Not your cup of tea, my duck, no money, got to get a job at a few pounds a week.”
“Oh.” Very bored, Flossie opened the box. “My God! It’s another bottle of that filthy scent, the stuff I’m finishing up at the theatre. Can you imagine why men must choose scent? What’s the matter with an order on a shop? So silly buying stuff nobody can use.”
Mouse was twiddling the rose between her thumb and first finger; in a glance she had recognised that it came off the tree Meriel had given Jasmine that morning. How had Derwent come by it?
“The rose is nice anyway.” She laid it on the eiderdown.
Flossie gave it a flick.
“What’s the good of one rose?”
There was a knock on the door and Meriel’s silvery, eager voice called out could she come in.
Flossie shrugged her little coat further on to her shoulders.
“Who the hell?” she whispered.
“Meriel, the flapper you saw in her pyjamas last night.”
“I suppose nobody thinks I’d like a little sleep. Come in,” she called sweetly, putting on the smile she reserved for her gallery girls and autograph collectors.
Meriel stood just inside the door, she gripped the handle with one hand and stood on her left leg, the other curled round it, her eyes were round with pleased childish amazement. To her, Flossie was a picture-book come true, a coloured print she had of the Princess who could not sleep on a pea, she looked just as Flossie looked, even to the little coat, only the Princess in the picture had a white one. She held out the box of chocolates.
“A happy Christmas.” Like her mother she had a habit of stammering at moments of stress or deep thought. “I hope you like chocolates.”
Flossie, accepting Meriel as a vague attachment to her female adorers, acted almost unconsciously. She held out a hand, and at the same time looked round for some souvenir for the child to keep in memory of this wonderful day.
“Come and kiss me. How sweet of you, I adore chocolates.” She snatched up the rose. “There’s a tiny present from me in exchange.”
Meriel took the rose.
“But Der——” she stopped, feeling that the person in the bed, lovely though she was, would think her silly if she gave it back because of hurting Derwent’s feelings. “Thank you.” She hurried out of the room.
Flossie looked after her with the kind smile of one who knows she has given pleasure. Mouse caught the look.
“Don’t think, darling, that you’ve made the poor little thing’s day, because the pretty business with the rose went very badly. She knew Derwent had given it to you.”
Flossie opened the chocolates.
“I expect she’s pleased. Girls like something like that, she’ll press it.” She bit a chocolate. “Oh God! A nut, they’re all nuts, I hate nuts, you take them, Mouse.”
In the passage Meriel shrank against the door and put the rose carefully inside the elastic in the leg of her knickers. It would be an awful thing if Derwent saw it had been given away. She went to her room and filled her tooth-glass with water and put the rose in it, and then hid it behind the clock. She stared at it miserably, feeling as though somebody had hit her, and she could not think why. It wasn’t very nice of Virginia to give away Derwent’s rose without asking him if she might. Suddenly to her surprise the rose grew hazy because her eyes were full of tears.
The three children and Miss Burns, and Jim, Jasmine, Mouse and Myra, went to morning service.
“Jim and I have to go,” Jasmine had said, “and it will do all of you good to see what a church looks like inside, and Myra will like singing carols.”
Jim did his best to persuade Derwent to come, pointing out that the village would know he was staying at the house, and would expect it. Derwent refused sulkily. He said that the village could go on expecting, that it was all a lot of rot going to church as a show. The real truth was that Virginia must get up sometime, and he wasn’t going to have only that bounder Ossie about the place.
Jim was not deceived.
“The young fool will upset everything,” he growled to Mouse, “drooping after that girl. If she shows one sign of liking him he can call off any chance of a job from old Bone.”
Mouse patted his knee.
“You drive carefully and don’t let your temper get the better of you, or we’ll all be killed and then the new Lord Derwent won’t need a job. Don’t worry about the Virgin Queen, she asked me about Derwent this morning, and on hearing the bald truth her face was enough. I’m sorry for him. From the look of him, he’s in for a sticky time.”
“Won’t hurt him, he needs a few knocks.”
“He’ll get ’em chasing that lady.”
Ossie stretched himself out comfortably in an arm-chair by the library fire and read a thriller. It was a perfect book, he thought, the sort he liked best with no half-hearted villain, but an honest-to-God murderer whom no author would dare let escape, but who was bound to hang. There was one blemish in an otherwise perfect morning, and that was that damned fellow Derwent. What was the matter with him,
sitting in a chair one minute, and then on the fender, and then running out into the hall leaving the door open which made a draught, and then back on the fender again glaring at him? Why the hell couldn’t he get something to do? Place was full of books, surely he could pick one to keep him quiet. At last he could bear it no longer.
“There’s the Christmas number of Punch here, have you seen it?”
Derwent glared.
“Yes. Why?”
“Seemed to have nothin’ to do.”
“Thank you, I’ve plenty to do. It’s Christmas Day, I suppose I can do nothing if I like.”
Ossie lifted an eyebrow.
‘Rude cub,’ he thought, ‘must have got a liver.’ He went back to his book, the police had just unleashed the bloodhounds, it was no moment to worry about restless young men.
Derwent did not know what to do with himself. His ear was strained for a door shutting or a step on the stairs, none of the maids were about, he could get no information as to what Virginia was doing. If only he could catch her as she came down, perhaps she would come for a walk or they could sit in the drawing-room, there was a nice fire there, he had been in twice to make sure. Of course he could wait in the hall, then he would be sure to catch her, but that might make the wretched Ossie suspicious. How contented the fellow looked with his eyes glued to his book. Why couldn’t he go to church or for a walk? A man of his build needed exercise. Asking him if he wanted something to do, that was funny, he might have said something rude, only of course there was this job business. He thought he heard a sound outside; he jumped up and went into the hall. Mary the housemaid was sweeping the passage at the top of the stairs, he could see her two feet, and pink print behind with its white apron bow. He ran up to his bedroom pretending he wanted something, and then stopped casually on the way back.
“I say, do you happen to know if Miss Virginia’s up yet?”
Mary was sweeping the passage just in order to see Miss Virginia dressed. Coming so late last night, only Mr. Sims had been up and they were wild to hear about her in ‘the Hall.’ She had already given a rapturous description of what she looked like in bed, and of every one of the garments she had unpacked this morning, but she meant to see what she looked like dressed. Mr. Derwent enquiring and hanging about was a bit of news, she wouldn’t be surprised if he was struck on her, and small wonder.
“She’s had her bath, sir. Shouldn’t be long now.”
Wouldn’t be long. The news made Derwent shaky at the knees. He peeped into the library, the fellow looked more engrossed than ever, never raising his head, so he slipped out closing the door softly. In the hall he picked up The Field and sat on the edge of the table pretending to read. He looked anxiously at the clock. If she didn’t come down soon, all the others would be back from church. Just after twelve had struck a door opened upstairs, and simultaneously Ossie came out of the library.
“There you are, young feller-me-lad. What a book! Murder in the Maisonette; you read it? No? You know he cuts a woman to pieces and boils—” he looked up at the sound of Flossie coming down the stairs. She came slowly, she wore a Madonna blue frock of some heavy woollen material that clung to the figure.
‘Oh my!’ thought Mary, her breath taken away, she scurried off to describe the frock to the kitchen.
Derwent’s knees grew weak. She was more exquisite even than he had thought her last night. She wasn’t a girl, she was a poem.
“Hullo, Jinny,” said Ossie casually. “Happy Christmas.”
She leant over the banisters to him.
“Kind, kind Ossie. Jinny’s wery, wery pleased with her lubly ring.”
“Well then, how about a kiss?”
She had seen Derwent out of the corner of her eye. She disliked kissing people in front of other people as it gave the third party the idea that she was easy to kiss. Still it was a nice ring, perhaps Ossie had earned it.
“Well, just cos it’s Cwistmas.” She leant down to him; Derwent squirmed. She came to the bottom of the stairs. “Come on, Ossie, I’se cold, want to sit by g’eat big fire.” She nodded to Derwent coolly: “Thanks awfully for the scent.” She put her hand on Ossie’s arm and went with him into the library. They shut the door.
Derwent sat where he was, unconsciously clutching The Field. His disappointment at the end of his morning’s wait was dissipated in a mood of knight-errantry. Poor lovely little thing, how had she got into the clutches of that bounder? She needed a man to look after her, that was it; she was just the type that bounders of the Ossie variety would get hold of. She was innocent enough, she just didn’t know what they were after. It was then that a thought crystallised in his brain. Somehow, some day, he’d marry Virginia.
Christmas night and all the party were exhausted. There had been the tree and the dinner with many crackers, and the endless silly games, including charades in which Ossie in a skin rug had been a riot as the wolf to Avis’s Red Riding-Hood. At last Miss Burns had shepherded the children to bed and the party fell limply on to sofas and chairs, except for Myra who sat at the piano playing an occasional chord or a little melody as an undercurrent to the talk of Mouse and Jasmine. Ossie lay back against the cushions of his arm-chair. It had been a grand day, he thought, just the right way to spend a Christmas; he had enjoyed the charades, didn’t know he had it in him. He glanced sleepily across at Virginia who was curled up at the end of the sofa facing him. She was looking up so prettily at Menton, asking questions about the house and family history. Clever girl, he glowed for her, always knew just the right sort of things to say. That young Derwent had got it badly. Leaning up against the edge of the mantelpiece so that he could look down on her. So that was why he was so restless this morning. Funny a young fellow who needed a job falling for her. Oh well, he’d learn.
Jasmine looked across at the party by the fire.
“Look at Circe, I wonder what she’ll turn them into.”
Mouse’s eyes followed hers, and she felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. The way Flossie collected the men. Ossie was, of course, a foregone conclusion, and Derwent a pathetic case, but need she make a fool of Jim? She laughed to hide her feelings.
“Little Virgin’s having a lubly, lubly time.”
Myra struck a savage chord.
“We’ve had enough baby talk for one day, Mouse, without you starting it. I’m proud of Virginia, and God knows I should be, seeing I’m almost her creator, but one more word of baby talk and I’ll do her a mischief, so I’d better go to bed.” She got up. “God rest you Merry Gentlemen, I’m off to my downy couch.”
The men got to their feet. So did Virginia.
“’ittle Virginia’s tired too.” Jasmine only just held back a giggle. Flossie made a round, kissing and shaking hands. Jim ran to the door to open it for her, she nodded her thanks in an off-hand way. Then letting Myra precede her, she turned in the doorway and blew the party a good-night kiss.
Derwent felt suicidal; infatuated though he was, he could not fail to notice that he had less attention paid to him than any other member of the party, almost he was snubbed. He poured himself out a strong whisky-and-soda and lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. The others in the room looked at him sympathetically.
“Well, young fellow,” Ossie went over to him and slapped him on the shoulder, “I hear you want a job. Come and see me three o’clock day after to-morrow, and I’ll fix you up.”
For one moment Derwent had a desperate wish to put his fist into that cheerful face, then he remembered that a job was the first stepping-stone to his marriage. He must get it, and make good at it.
“Thank you,” he said grumpily.
Jim looked at Jasmine, they had both felt it had been a near thing.
If Ossie had noticed the pause before Derwent’s rather graceless thanks, he did not show it.
“Well, good night,” he shook hands all round, “I’m for bed if you’ll excuse me,
these charades take it out of you.”
Derwent knocked back his drink and stubbed out his cigarette, nodded at his aunt, and without a word followed Ossie up the stairs.
Jasmine looked after him.
“Dear nephew Derwent is in a bad way.”
Jim got himself a drink.
“Oh well, poor fellow, the lady hasn’t been too kind. I hope he holds this job down.”
Jasmine yawned.
“He will, he’ll need his car back to take her out. Good night, my sweets, put out the lights.”
Left alone, Jim put both arms round Mouse.
“Well, lovely, what about bed?”
She leant against him.
“Have you fallen for her a bit?”
He looked down at her in amazement.
“For Virginia? My dear, no man could sit in a room with her and not be mildly intrigued. But my heart’s where it’s been this last ten years.”
It Pays to Be Good Page 14