Mistress of Elvan Hall

by Mary Cummins

  Three days before Francis was due to leave for America, they travelled south-west again, through Carlisle, and then into Cumberland towards Cockermouth.

  “How beautiful it is,” said Anne, looking at the freshness of the countryside and the distant mountains of the Lake District.

  “Wait till you see Elvan Hall,” said Francis, as the car left the main road and they snaked along through narrow hill roads, passing small farms and picturesque cottages, till a beautiful silvery river could be seen winding its way along the valley. Francis stopped the car and they looked down on an ancient grey-stone house, which seemed to grow out of fine parkland. It was sheltered by beech trees to the west, and masses of rhododendrons and azaleas to the east.

  “In spring the woods are full of snowdrops and aconites, then crocuses and daffodils with primroses and violets.”

  “You love spring best of all?”

  “I love every season in turn, but spring seems to me a time of re-birth, and hope, and a belief in all eternal things. It’s only just past, and this year ... this year, perhaps, it has all come true.”

  Anne saw his eyes on her, and caught her breath. For a moment it almost seemed as though he really did care for her, then the moment was gone, and he was climbing back into the car.

  “I’m sure you’ll come to love it, Anne,” he told her happily. “I saw your face when you first looked down on the house.”

  Anne nodded. She had felt her heart contract at the beauty of the old place, and it must have shown on her face. Was that why Francis had looked at her with love? Could she only reach his heart through Elvan Hall, and not by being herself?

  Anne was silent as they drove the two miles to the large, beautiful wrought-iron gates, and Francis drove through, the car wheels crunching on the gravel as it swung up to the wide doors.

  Anne got out, feeling suddenly cold with nerves, unhelped by the white look which was again on Francis’ face, as an elderly woman came out to welcome them.

  “This is Mrs. Hansett, our housekeeper,” he introduced. “This is my wife, Jessie.”

  “How do you do, ma’am,” said Mrs. Hansett politely, as Anne shook her hand.

  “Where is my mother?” Francis was asking. “Will you get Tom to remove our cases?”

  “The mistress is in bed, Mr. Francis. She hasn’t been well. Miss Judith is with her, and Miss Helen is over at Cravenhill.”

  “I see. Why isn’t Judith at school? It isn’t end of term yet.”

  “She’s had measles, sir. She was sent home last Wednesday.”

  “I see,” he said again.

  Francis took Anne’s hand as they mounted the wide steps to the terrace, then almost grimly he swept her into his arms.

  “The Wyatt brides are traditionally carried over the threshold,” he told her, rather harshly. “That goes for you, too, Anne.”

  He carried her as though she weighed much less than her hundred and twenty pounds, then set her down on a Persian rug which covered a large part of the polished wood floor in the spacious hall.

  The new mistress of Elvan Hall had come home.

  Penelope Wyatt lay in bed surrounded by magazines, while a small, thin pale girl sat on a chair beside her, disentangling a ball of wool. The little girl looked up with large, rather frightened eyes as Francis showed Anne into the luxuriously furnished bedroom quite out of keeping with the house, after a brief knock on the door.

  Mrs. Wyatt looked even more fluffy, clad in a dressing jacket in palest pink, trimmed with white swansdown. The soft furnishings were also of pale pink, the paintwork white, with a beautiful soft dove-grey carpet on the floor. The pinks succeeded in creating a sugary effect, the first jarring note Anne had found in the truly beautiful old house.

  Francis had briefly shown her the main rooms downstairs, but he had promised her a full tour of inspection after she had met his mother and sister, and rested a little after her journey. Already Jessie Hansett had gone to prepare a light appetising meal for both of them.

  Although they had met before, Mrs. Wyatt gave no sign of ever having seen Anne in her life.

  “You must forgive me if I have done little to make you welcome, Miss ... ah ... My son has rather sprung his marriage on his family. The haste seemed to me rather... indecent, Francis. Not in keeping with Elvan Hall.”

  “I felt it was necessary. Mother,” said Francis, and Anne could feel the undercurrents between the two. His eyes had met those of his mother’s defiantly, as though swords had been crossed, and Anne could feel his fingers gripping her shoulder. Just where did she stand between the two? she wondered uneasily.

  “And you’re one of Francis’s employees? A typist, I understand.”

  Anne flushed and her chin lifted.

  “I was his private secretary,” she said evenly. “We’ve known each other for two years.”

  Mrs. Wyatt gathered her magazines together as though Anne hadn’t spoken.

  “Take these downstairs, child,” she said to Judith, having caught the little girl smiling shyly to Anne.

  “Are your measles better?” Anne asked, smiling in return.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Spots all gone? I had measles, too, at your age.”

  “I meant now, Judith,” broke in Mrs. Wyatt coldly. “Now! Are you deaf, child? Tell Mrs. Hansett you’ll have tea up here with me.”

  The little girl’s disappointment showed in her eyes as she turned uncertainly to Francis, who suddenly put an arm round her and ruffled her mop of straight dark hair.

  “We’ll talk later, love,” he promised her. “I’ve got that lovely book on wild flowers you wanted. It’s in my case.”

  “Oh, Francis!” cried Judith, hugging him round the waist.

  Anne’s eyes were soft as she watched. This was the Francis Wyatt she loved, this gentle considerate man on whom she felt she could depend utterly. Then her eyes turned to the woman on the bed, her heart quailing when she saw the anger betrayed on her round, plump, childish face.

  “Must I have my wishes entirely disregarded?” she was saying petulantly, and Judith quickly picked up the magazines and hurried to the door. As she turned, Anne could see a closed look on her face, such as she had seen on Francis. Already she could feel the strength of personality of this soft-looking, frilly woman who was their mother.

  But people had a right to grow and develop according to their own personalities, thought Anne rather fiercely. Could it be that Francis had no real deep love to give her, because at some time in his life it had become submerged, then stunted by sheer neglect? Was the same thing, even now, beginning in Judith?

  Anne looked at their mother, but decided she could not judge while the older woman was so angry. She rose to her feet, realising that her first interview with her new mother-in-law was at an end, and as their eyes met, she also knew that it was war between them.

  But Anne felt strength in her limbs as she drew herself up to her full height, unaware that her beauty had a quality which far outshone the prettiness which Penelope Wyatt had had in her heyday.

  Francis and Judith both needed room to grow, even in such a spacious home as Elvan Hall, and Anne was going to fight fiercely to give them that right.

  “I’m sorry to be indisposed and can’t show you my home,” Mrs. Wyatt was saying, rather tonelessly, to Anne. “No doubt Francis can take my place.”

  “Anne is eager to see our home,” Francis put in smoothly, though again she could feel his fingers gripping her arm. “I’m sure she’ll love it as I do, since it will be hers for the rest of her life. I presume the plans for redecoration and renovation are still on my desk?”

  “No, I have them,” Mrs. Wyatt said flatly. “There are changes I would like to make. I told you so before, Francis.”

  “Changes can only be made with my permission,” Francis told her, the angry colour high in his cheeks.

  Mrs. Wyatt changed her tactics, as she suddenly groped for a handkerchief and put it to her eyes.

  “It was my home be
fore you were born,” she said thickly. “Now you come here with a ... a strange young woman all ready to oust me. How can you do such a thing at such short notice, Francis? Surely I should know by now what is best for the Hall.”

  The white closed look was back on his face.

  “We’ll discuss it later, Mother. Come, Anne.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wyatt,” said Anne politely but only received a sniff in reply.

  As they walked back downstairs, she could feel the anger and tension still in Francis.

  “Go on into the drawing room, Anne ... along there and through that door. I’ll join you in a moment. There’s some mail on my desk, I believe.”

  “All right, Francis,” she agreed, then on impulse caught his arm. “Don’t worry. We have each other, haven’t we?”

  He stared at her, his eyes still remote, then he relaxed.

  “Bless you, Anne. Of course we have.”

  Anne walked along the broad, softly carpeted corridor at the foot of the stairs towards the drawing room, pausing as she heard a girl’s flutelike voice coming to her clearly through the slightly open door.

  “She’s a pretty young lady, Helen.”

  “That makes it all the worse. I told Francis that the only way to get Mother to accept Caroline was to bring home someone even less suitable, but the nitwit goes and marries her! I only told him in fun, too, and I didn’t think he was paying any attention. How could he be such a fool! He does the strangest things...”

  Anne felt as though she was rooted to the carpet, the words falling on her head like blows. Who was Caroline? Was it someone Francis had loved, and of whom his mother had disapproved?

  “Someone even less suitable,” she repeated.

  She was obviously that someone... a typist... an employee...

  Yet Francis had married her. Why?

  She wanted to run back along the corridor and find somewhere she could be alone, even for a little while. Her head was whirring, and she didn’t want to meet this other sister of Francis’s, this girl with the pretty flute-like voice, who seemed to be his adviser with regard to his love affairs at any rate.

  Anne turned, then saw Mrs. Hansett hurrying towards her.

  “Do you want the drawing room, ma’am?” she was asking, though Anne felt the warm colour flooding her own cheeks. The housekeeper, she suspected, was aware that she had been listening outside the door.

  “Yes, please,” she said, as evenly as she could.

  “In here, then.”

  Mrs. Hansett held the door open and Anne stepped into the large room which was again well-carpeted, with chintz-covered chairs and sofas drawn up round a huge log fire. The walls were dark and richly carved in panelled wood, and there were many paintings in heavy ornate gold-painted frames. From the centre of the room hung a huge crystal chandelier which Anne viewed with respect, recognising that it was quartz crystal.

  A tall slender girl with the same pretty childish features as her mother, but dainty and elegant in a young girl, rose languidly to her feet. Anne could see that her skin was warmly coloured, as though she spent many hours in the fresh air. Little Judith had also stood up, and was smiling at Anne, shyly.

  “This is Miss Helen, ma’am,” the housekeeper was introducing. “She was out when you arrived. The new mistress ... Mrs. Francis.”

  “Hello there,” drawled Helen Wyatt. “You’re a surprise. Anne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes ... Anne. So I believe,” said Anne, managing to look directly at her older sister-in-law. “How do you do, Helen?”

  “How do you do.”

  “I’ll just bring tea in now,” Mrs. Hansett was saying. “You’re going upstairs, Miss Judith.”

  “Yes, Jessie.”

  “She isn’t going to serve you with a tray of poison,” Helen admonished her. “Someone must keep Mummy company.”

  Why? Wondered Anne, though she said nothing.

  “Do you like your new abode?” Helen was asking. “Think it makes it all worth while?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Anne told her rather stiffly.

  “No? I guess you must love Francis, then.”

  Anne was about to assure her, rather defiantly, that she did when she. remembered the remarks she had overheard.

  What had they meant? Would she begin to understand her strange marriage to Francis Wyatt when she met a girl called Caroline? But if he really loved Caroline, why had he married her?

  Anne felt an odd wave of fear and loneliness. She was mistress of this great house, but she felt alien, suddenly, to every part of it. She had no business here, she thought, trying hard to still the fear in her heart.

  Then the door opened and Francis walked in.

  “So you’ve met my wife, Helen,” he said, with a smile as he came forward to warm his hands in front of the fire. “Good. I hope you two will be friends.”

  “Oh, darling,” said Helen, with a laugh, “you do the strangest things and expect us all to applaud. Poor Anne must feel like a fish out of water.”

  “You can soon put that right,” said Francis sharply.

  “Give us time. You spring a new bride on us ... a new mistress of the house ... and we have all to adjust in a moment.”

  “Why not?” asked Francis. “You knew I planned to marry.”

  “But not...” Helen bit her lip and had the grace to colour deeply.

  But not me, thought Anne.

  They were saved from further discussion by the arrival of Mrs. Hansett with a heavy wooden trolley. Anne felt that her appetite had deserted her, but once again Francis had put his long sensitive hands on her shoulders.

  “You pour, Anne,” he said gently. “You must be hungry, dear. Jessie has made a special effort for you, too.”

  This time Jessie Hansett’s smile for her was completely natural.

  “It’s an occasion, ma’am. It’s lovely to have a new bride at Elvan Hall.”

  Warmth slid into Anne’s heart.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hansett,” she said huskily.

  There was much to do in the two days before Francis left for America. He conducted Anne carefully all over the old house, carrying a folder containing plans and suggestions worked out by a firm of interior decorators. Anne had studied the plans carefully and thought that the suggestions made were excellent, though Francis had written in several notes of caution regarding parts of the house which must be carefully preserved without alteration in any way.

  “These notes aren’t enough either, Anne,” he told her. “As you see, many things have become neglected. Tapestries require to be repaired, and I would like to preserve some old hangings which have been embroidered.”

  “I couldn’t tackle those jobs,” said Anne quickly. “I’m no needlewoman, Francis.”

  “I don’t expect that of you,” he returned smoothly. “I would expect you to employ a skilled needlewoman. In fact...” He paused, rubbing his cheek thoughtfully.

  “Have you someone in mind?”

  He turned to her, almost with a start.

  “No,” he said, flatly, “no one. I shall leave all that to you, my dear. You can perhaps arrange for someone to come from London. I’m making financial arrangements for you so that you may spend as you wish, though I know it will be used carefully and judiciously.”

  They had mounted a broad stairway of polished wood, blackened with age.

  “You like it, Anne?” he asked eagerly, catching her hand.

  “It’s very beautiful,” said Anne truthfully.

  But how could she ever think of it all as hers?

  “I knew you were right for it,” Francis told her, his voice deepening, and suddenly his arms were round her, drawing her close.

  Anne’s heart raced, but even as she felt his nearness, she remembered that he only cared for her because it had become necessary for him to marry, and in his opinion she had been his most suitable choice.

  She forgot her resolve that her own love would be enough for both of them, and stiffened a little in h
is arms. Immediately he let her go.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her, rather stiffly. “I forgot that there are certain things about our marriage I must respect.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your right to your own feelings,” he told her roughly, and she was silent. Had he guessed her feelings?

  Colouring, she walked ahead of him.

  “We have very little time, Francis. Shall we check the bedrooms?”

  Their own bedroom was a huge place as different from Mrs. Wyatt’s as possible.

  “It hasn’t been changed over many years,” Francis told her. “It was my father’s and grandfather’s. Mother never cared for it, so she chose her own further down the corridor.”

  “I see there’s little to be done to it, from your report here,” said Anne, leafing over the pages.

  “I thought it unnecessary,” said Francis.

  “Nevertheless, I would like to make one or two small changes,” said Anne, her chin firming a little. She had no idea why she was asserting herself in this way. In its own way the bedroom was perfect, but it had rather sombre overtones, not in keeping with a happily married young couple. “That is, unless you’d prefer me, too, to choose another bedroom further down the corridor.”

  Their gazes locked and she saw Francis turn white.

  “You must do as you wish,” he said stiffly. “You are mistress here. You are entitled to your own wishes over the matter of ... of a bedroom.”

  It was a hollow victory. Anne inclined her head, feeling that she had gained nothing and feeling, too, that she had somehow hurt Francis. But she didn’t know what to say to put things right between them.

  “I take it the girls have been allowed their own choice with regard to their rooms?”

  “Certainly. This is one of our guest bedrooms. There are three more on this floor. We’ve turned part of the top floor into a flat for the Hansetts, Tom and Jessie.”

  “I’m glad of that,” smiled Anne, with relief. She had quite enough to digest at the moment. “I take it that they, too, are happy with their own decorations?”