by Dodie Smith
A moment later, the flatness was replaced by dismay. As she approached her room she saw her suitcase being carried out by a chambermaid. Was she being evicted? Then Nurse Brown, at the door of Mr Rowley’s suite, beckoned her in.
‘The girl’s moving your things for you, dear – I’ve had to get you another room. Mr Charles is coming back.’
For a second, Clare’s thoughts whirled. She then implored herself to keep calm. Having taken Mr Charles’s advice and said nothing about their meeting, she must now proceed with extreme caution. ‘From abroad?’ she asked, histrionically.
‘Well, dear … come in to my room for a minute. Quietly – Mr Rowley’s still asleep. Of course I’m always happy to see Mr Charles but I must say this is a bit sudden. I rang him up to tell him we’d found a young lady, and bless me if he didn’t say he’d be back this very night. And before you meet him, dear, well, I do have to warn you of one or two things.’
‘Oh?’ said Clare, trying to sound only casually interested. ‘To begin with, don’t ask him questions about having been abroad. Oh, he’ll make up some story to satisfy Mr Rowley but the least said about it the better. You see, dear, we sometimes pretend Mr Charles is abroad; otherwise his grandfather wants him to live at the hotel. Naturally Mr Charles can’t do that all the time but he hates hurting the old gentleman’s feelings. So he says he has to go abroad on business – which is true enough sometimes but more often he just goes off to his flat.’
‘And Mr Rowley doesn’t know about the flat?’
‘Well, he does in a way, dear, but he thinks Mr Charles only visits a lady friend there.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Clare. ‘My father has that kind of lady friend in a flat. I mean he had before he bolted.’
‘Really, dear? I thought it had rather gone out of fashion. Of course it was all the thing for gentlemen when Mr Rowley was young and he thinks it’s the right thing for Mr Charles and likes hearing all about it. But the truth is that Mr Charles hardly ever has ladies to stay at his flat and anyway he hates telling Mr Rowley about his private life, so he’s had to invent a lady. She’s foreign and dashing, with a violent temper – he makes her sound ever so real. And now … But I mustn’t tell you.’
‘Oh, go on,’ said Clare, coaxingly.
‘Well, it’s only fair you should know the kind of gentleman he is. And you’ll see the funny side of it. The truth is, he has had a lady staying at the flat for once, and she is foreign. “Nurse,” he says to me just now on the phone, “it’s a case of life imitating fiction.” It seems they had a row yesterday before he went off to business, and, when he came back, in the small hours, she’d bolted the door against him. Short of breaking the door down, there was nothing he could do. No doubt she expected him to, but he wasn’t having any. “I needed a night’s rest, Nurse,” he says, “and a kind friend let me have one.” My word, it’s a mercy he didn’t come back here!’ She laughed heartily.
Clare hastened to laugh too.
‘Not that you’d have had any trouble. Mr Charles is a gentleman. Still, you will need to be careful, dear, because you’re the type he most admires – quite a bit like the last girl who lived in, only you’re much prettier.’
‘Did she have trouble?’
The nurse chuckled. ‘Her trouble was that she didn’t have it – he changed his mind. He soon found out she wasn’t as refined as she looked. But he was very generous to her. And you mustn’t think he isn’t nice. It’s just that he has to have distractions, what with Mr Rowley on his hands and lots of business worries – property deals, if you know what they are; his name’s often in the papers. It’s a wonder he can ever spare time to stay here.’
Clare asked how long he would be staying.
‘Well, he’s completed some big business deal today, and got rid of the foreign lady – I mean the real one, not the one he tells Mr Rowley about.’ Again the nurse chuckled. ‘So he might stay quite a while. I hope so, anyway; life’s quite different when Mr Charles is with us. Now you’d better get changed for dinner.’
‘Will Mr Charles be here for it?’ Clare’s tone betrayed her nervousness.
Nurse Brown gave her a kind look. ‘No, dear. He said he’d be very late and not see any of us till tomorrow. And you mustn’t worry. Everything will be all right as long as … well, I’ve given you the hint. Your new room’s only a few doors away, across the corridor. The key’s on the hall table.’
The room proved to be pleasant but less luxurious than Mr Charles’s. Clare rather resented that he had ousted her; but other aspects of his return worried her far more.
All her usual self-distrust was back. Now that she knew more about him she felt sure her behaviour had been dangerously silly. She should have forced him to go or gone herself, to Nurse Brown. No wonder he had kissed her – not that the top of one’s head really counted, but still, what impertinence! Like an eighteenth-century rake casually kissing a chambermaid. And she had conspired with him, deceived Nurse Brown. If that ever came out …
She must treat him with the greatest coldness. No, he might resent that and so might Nurse Brown who obviously adored him, and they might do her out of her job. She must be pleasant, but firm. He must be made to see the kind of girl she really was. And perhaps she was flattering herself in thinking she might have ‘trouble’ as Nurse Brown called it. And anyway, one could hardly have serious trouble unless one was to some extent willing – which one never would be, with such an ugly, elderly man. Still, she must be wary, both of ‘trouble’ and of losing her job. And she must be particularly wary of herself; that sense of confidence she had experienced last night was most dangerous, and just a form of conceit, really. She wasn’t usually conceited. As a rule she did realize what a fool she was – and heaven help her if she forgot it! And now she couldn’t bear thinking about it one moment longer. Anyway, she must dress.
She had barely finished when the telephone rang: ‘Those books you wanted have been sent up, dear. Could you come in and arrange them while Mr Rowley gets ready for dinner?’
She found a very large set of Dumas stacked on the sitting-room floor. The volumes were old but perfectly preserved, their edges gilt, their spines and comers bound in green leather, their sides in green and grey marbled paper. There were many titles of which she had never even heard. What treasure! She arranged the whole collection along the white marble mantel, wondering if she would ever get time to read some of it on her own. She liked to lose herself in books, live in them – as she never could do when reading aloud.
Nurse Brown steered Mr Rowley in. He was particularly cheerful and talked with pleasure of his grandson’s return. ‘He’s a dear fellow. We’ve always been very close since his father died when Charles was eight. You’ll like him, Clare – and he’ll like you. I think, Nurse, we must see that Clare is carefully chaperoned.’
He and Nurse Brown seemed to think this a very good joke. Dinner was served: again clear soup, chicken and ice cream; Clare gathered it was a standing order. She also gathered that Mr Rowley had very little sense of taste left. She was realizing more and more how extremely old he was. His height and breadth gave an illusion of virility which was indeed an illusion.
After dinner she had half an hour on her own while he was put to bed. She again began to worry about Mr Charles; even the beautifully engraved illustrations to the Dumas novels failed to distract her and she was glad when at last she was sent for. She took half a dozen of the novels with her and gave Mr Rowley his choice. But she found he wanted not to listen to Dumas but to her talking about Dumas. Would she describe the novels, tell him which were her own favourites and why? Well, if she had to talk, this gave her plenty to talk about, and if her powers of invention were weak, her memory was excellent. She said her favourite of all was Louise de la Vallière and launched into a description of it.
She had reached the night scene under the royal oak when she interrupted the story to say: ‘Goodness, how excited I was when I first read that – I was only fourteen. You see, Louis
Quatorze overhears Louise declare her love for him, so of course one gets afraid for her.’
‘In case she loses her honour?’ queried Mr Rowley, gravely.
‘No, in case it puts him off. But it works just the other way and she becomes his mistress – but not for ages and she makes a terrible fuss about it. She’s really rather dull and pious. Nell Gwynne was far more fun – and darling Charles II was much more exciting than Louis Quatorze. Still, it was reading about Louise that made me want to be a king’s mistress.’
‘My dear Clare! Surely you’re not serious?’
She looked at him quickly. Was he shocked? He certainly had no right to be, if he liked his own grandson to keep a lady in a flat. Anyway, it was hard enough to think of things to tell him without having to censor her conversation. And perhaps he’d quite enjoy being a little bit shocked.
‘I am, indeed,’ she said gaily. ‘It’s a standing joke against me. Being a king’s mistress is the only job I’ve ever fancied.’
‘How very astonishing! Tell me how you … er, visualize the job.’
He was smiling now, interested. No, he hadn’t been shocked. And she was glad of another subject to talk about. Unearthing a memory of some old Ruritanian novel, she said: ‘Well, I’d live in a secluded house on the outskirts of the capital city.’
‘A villa, with a walled garden,’ said Mr Rowley.
‘Oh, yes, a walled garden would be lovely. His Majesty would arrive in the early evening, very much incognito …’
‘And unlock the door in the garden wall,’ said Mr Rowley. ‘And you would be standing by the lily pond in a long white dress.’
‘I could be,’ said Clare eagerly. It was wonderful that he was really sharing a conversation, instead of merely prodding her with questions. ‘Yes, of course there should be a lily pond.’
‘And lilac blooming. What else?’
What did bloom with lilac? ‘Laburnum, perhaps? And could there be lights streaming from the windows?’
‘No. The shutters would be closed. But the door might be open and one might see across the hall to a lighted room.’
‘Would there be supper there?’
‘Not in that room but there would certainly be supper.’
‘Champagne and caviar. And after supper?’ He was not smiling now but staring at her intently with his dark, almost sightless eyes.
Suddenly embarrassed, she said: ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of any more.’
He smiled again. ‘Perhaps that’s as well. Dear child, I should like to see you again.’
‘Tonight?’ she said, dreading the ordeal by lamp.
‘No, perhaps not till tomorrow. I’m a little tired. Indeed, I think I shall let you go now. Please send my night nurse to me. Good night, my dear, and thank you for reviving a very happy memory.’
A memory – of course! No doubt of some foreign place; the walled garden suggested that, as did his slightly foreign accent. No longer embarrassed, she experienced for the first time a feeling approaching tenderness for him. Smilingly she said good night and hoped he would sleep well.
He said he thought he would. ‘But I shall not mind if I lie awake for a while. You have left me with such a pleasant subject for thought.”
She wondered if the very old were like the very young in needing a bedtime story.
When she had summoned the night nurse, she went to replace the Dumas novels and to find Louise de la Vallière which she had not taken to Mr Rowley as it was the sequel to earlier books. Talking of it had made her want to re-read it and she would have done so by the sitting-room fire had not Nurse Brown chivvied her away: ‘You get an early night while you can, dear.’
Well, she could read in bed. She undressed quickly, regretting the loss of Mr Charles’s dressing-gown. She had tried it on that morning and, though the shoulders had come nearer to her elbows and the sleeves needed to be rolled up six inches, she had greatly liked the feel of the heavy silk. Boring of him to deprive her of it. But she no longer felt seriously worried about his return. Mr Rowley was so obviously pleased with her; surely he would not let her be dismissed even if she did have to repel his precious grandson – from whom she was now prepared to stand no nonsense whatever.
Having got into bed, she read absorbedly until not long before midnight, when she was disturbed by a quiet buzz. Was it the bell outside her door? More likely that of the next door which she had several times heard. The buzz came again and lasted longer and now she was sure it was her bell. Perhaps Nurse Brown or the night nurse wanted her. She flung on her cloak, hurried to the door, and was opening it before she remembered they could have summoned her by telephone.
Mr Charles, carrying a large parcel, stood outside smiling down on her.
‘Go away!’ she said instantly.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Charles, coming in and closing the door.
She gave him a stoney look. ‘You won’t get away with it this time. If you don’t go I’ll ring all the bells. I’ll call the waiter, the valet, the chambermaid, the lot!’
‘As late as this you’ll only get the night waiter. He’s a Frenchman I’ve known for years and certain to be on my side. Still, he might be embarrassed, so we won’t have him in.’ Mr Charles had adroitly got between her and the stand of bells on the bedside table. ‘Now stop being silly. We have to talk before we meet officially tomorrow. Need I go on standing guard over these bells?’
‘Oh, I suppose not if you’ll say what you have to say quickly.’ She certainly didn’t want to summon an embarrassed French waiter.
Mr Charles frowned. ‘What’s the matter with you? Last night – and this morning – you behaved with such superb good sense.’
‘I didn’t. I behaved idiotically. And you got quite the wrong impression of me.’
He looked delighted. ‘Really? How splendid. I do so much prefer disreputable women.’
‘But I’m not—’
He cut her short. ‘Oh, relax, you absurd girl. I know what’s happened. Nurse Brown’s been warning you against me.’
‘Not at all,’ said Clare, determined not to give the nurse away. ‘Nurse Brown’s devoted to you.’
‘She is indeed. And she’d serve you up to me minced on toast if I wanted her to. After ten years with my grandfather and me she’s lost every vestige of moral sense. Be nice to her, won’t you? She’s starved for someone to gossip to, poor dear. I do my best for her in that line, with vast indiscretion. But she must not, for your sake, know about last night.’
‘Not now, I agree,’ said Clare. ‘I ought to have told her at once.’
‘You ought not. And all you have to do now is to go on keeping your head, especially when we first meet.’
‘I’ll probably go scarlet.’
‘I doubt it. And if you do, it will just be put down to girlish nervousness. Little does she know that you have nerves of iron.’
‘Me?’ She stared in astonishment.
‘You had, last night.’
‘That was … peculiar,’ said Clare. ‘Anyway, I haven’t as a rule and I’m hopeless at lying or even acting a lie.’
‘I’m superb at both – after years of practice with my grandfather. So say as little as possible and let me carry things off. Well, that settles tomorrow. Here’s a present for you.’ He put his parcel on the bed and got a penknife from his pocket to cut the string.
Now she really would be firm. ‘No, thank you. I don’t want a present.’
‘Well, you need this one. It’s a dressing-gown.’ He took the lid off the box. ‘I bought the smallest size. Let’s see how it fits.’
Clare, eyeing the box with interest, said: ‘Sorry, but I’m not going to accept it.’
He sat down on the edge of the bed and addressed her in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Now stop pretending to be conventional. It is only pretence. No really conventional girl would have behaved so cleverly last night. I intend to give you quite a lot of presents, both because I enjoy giving presents and because I want to make your job bearable. Oth
erwise you won’t stay with my grandfather; girls never stand him for long. Suppose we clear the ground a bit. I understand from Nurse Brown that you’re twenty-one. Well, I’m forty-two.’ He noted her surprised expression with amusement. ‘Yes, I know I look older. That’s due to the three D’s: drink, drugs and dissipation, only one of which I actually allow myself. The first two affect one’s wits and I have to live by mine.’
‘Doesn’t dissipation affect them?’
‘Well, I’ve thrived on it so far. But what I want to make clear is that, in spite of anything dear Nurse Brown may have told you about me, I do have quite strict standards of … let’s say suitability. A girl of exactly half my age wouldn’t measure up – or, rather, down to them, apart from the fact that I never lay siege to the innocent. So you would appear to be doubly safe. Now go and put your dressing-gown on in the bathroom. You really can’t go on wearing that cloak. I can see your legs.’
She looked down hastily. ‘Only to the knees – and you could do that if I wore a dress.’
‘But legs seen through a nightgown are a different matter.’ He took the dressing-gown out of its wrappings and handed it to her. ‘Now off with you, and come back looking decent.’
She went.
It was the most luxurious garment she had ever put on, of white cashmere lined and trimmed with white satin. She tied the satin sash and then returned to Mr Charles, who had now settled himself in her armchair.
He regarded her critically. ‘Very becoming. You’re a girl who should be dressed very simply, at enormous expense. Does it fit?’
‘Marvellously. It’s even the right length. Most ready-made things are too long for me.’
‘They shortened it a little. I said it was for a girl whose head came below my chin. I happened to remember.’
She was busy admiring herself in the long looking-glass. ‘You certainly have good taste in dressing-gowns. But I looked jolly funny in yours.’