Mistress of Elvan Hall

by Mary Cummins

  Mrs. Wyatt grumbled that there was nowhere decent left to sit in, and went off in the huff to her room. This was untrue, as Elvan Hall was plentifully provided with public rooms, and the central heating could easily be switched on if she wished. Anne had made herself unpopular by switching it off until evening during the warmer days.

  “You’ll freeze us all to death,” Mrs. Wyatt had declared, pulling on a woollen jacket.

  “On days like these?” asked Anne. “That’s nonsense! You could even sit outside on the summer seat, and feel the warmth of the sun on your face.”

  “And get eaten alive by insects. Besides, there’s a draught. If you won’t switch on the heating, I’ll have my fire.”

  So Mrs. Wyatt’s bedroom became a hothouse of warm air, while the others were glad of a cooling breeze, now and again, coming up from the river.

  The painters, an elderly man and young boy, sang and whistled merrily as they pulled out furniture and moved planks. Helen looked pink-cheeked and excited—almost too excited, thought Anne uneasily, and took every opportunity of talking to Caroline and inviting her out to the stables to look at the horses.

  “But I’m here to work,” the girl protested, glancing at Anne.

  “Surely she can just come over to the stables for five minutes!” protested Helen, and Anne nodded.

  “I’m sure Caroline will plan her time here properly,” she agreed, and watched the girls run along, side by side. She’d had her own girl friends at school, but most of them were married now, with families. But it would be nice to have a friend, she thought rather wistfully. It was easy to see now that Helen would much prefer to have had Caroline here all the time.

  Anne wandered along the corridor, promising Mrs. Hansett that she would come along and help her with one or two things very shortly.

  “I’ll just look in at the drawing room,” she said, making for the heavy oak door.

  “Very well, ma’am,” the housekeeper smiled.

  Mrs. Hansett approved of Anne. The kitchen staff might have to mind things a little more, but Mrs. Hansett preferred it that way. Things were no longer so lackadaisical, she thought, as she made her way to the kitchen.

  Anne was bereft of words as she stood in the large drawing room, where everything was covered with large sheets, and the young boy painter had started to put a first coat of paint on the dark wood panelling. Anne was so appalled that she couldn’t find a word to say for the first minute.

  “Stop!” she gasped. “For heaven’s sake, stop! Whoever gave you permission to paint that panelling?”

  The boy turned to stare at her, then the older man slowly descended the ladder.

  “I thought it was funny,” he confessed, “but the lady of the house said to paint it all right, that it needed brightening up, and that the plans had been changed.”

  “I’m the lady of the house,” said Anne, her eyes flashing.

  “The older lady ... Mrs. Wyatt,” protested the painter. “She told us. She really did say the plans were changed.”

  “They were not changed. I thought I made that clear to you.”

  The man looked uncomfortable.

  “Oh aye, miss ... ma’am ... only it wasn’t clear who had the right of it, you see. You or her.”

  “You could have asked!”

  “Asked who? Her or you?”

  Anne bit her lip.

  “I’m afraid it will have to be cleaned off,” she said firmly.

  “Cleaned off! But ... but that’s well-nigh impossible, miss. It’s...”

  “I don’t care how impossible it is, it will have to be cleaned off,” said Anne firmly. “You do not paint carved oak panelling, centuries old, and polished with age.”

  The man pushed a hand through his hair.

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought so, but ... well, it will take time. It’ll be costly, too. Thank God there’s only a little bit done.”

  This time Anne gave no thought to be economical.

  “I don’t care what it costs,” she said, her eyes flashing. “It must be cleaned off.”

  She looked at it again, her panic rising. Whatever would Francis say? Now she was beginning to understand his insistence that she took charge of the work which had to be carried out. Only she hadn’t ... she’d let him down. She should have checked up on it all along the way, but her head had been so full of fears over Francis and Caroline, and her own efforts at deciding whether to allow the girl to keep coming, or if it would be wiser to send her home. Yet the renovations had to be considered, and Anne had put that first. Now she was furious with herself for not checking on the painters, too.

  'Anne hurried from the room, a cold sickness in her heart, and mounted the stairs to her mother-in-law’s bedroom. This time they really were going to have it out!

  “The place has been like a mausoleum for years,” protested Mrs. Wyatt. “Henry promised me I could brighten it up, then he wouldn’t allow it to be touched. No woman has been allowed to bring a bit of taste to the place for generations.”

  “I’d hardly call painting beautiful carved oak panelling bringing taste to the place,” said Anne hotly. “Francis trusted me to look after it, and now you ... you went behind my back!”

  “If I hadn’t it would still be the same dull room,” Mrs. Wyatt told her balefully. “I could make this house a place of beauty, fresh and bright with a ... a sort of lightness to the place. But I was never given my head, and now ... now Francis has handed it over to you and you’re obviously going to toe the line, like all the rest. I think I might at least have had my chance.”

  Anne sat at the foot of the bed. For some reason she began to feel sympathy for the older woman who would probably have been much happier in a different sort of home from the Hall.

  “The panelling has only improved with age,” she said gently. “It’s beautiful. It was made with love, and generations of women have looked after it with love, and its beauty was enhanced by its patina. When you paint it, that’s all swept away by each stroke of the brush. Don’t you see? ... anyone coming after who prefers the original panelling would find it almost impossible to remove the paint, and till keep what was already there. As it is, heaven knows what harm has been done...”

  Her voice trailed off forlornly, but Mrs. Wyatt was more angry than sorry.

  “It’s ridiculous to waste time and money going back,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “The only way is to take one’s courage in both hands and order the job to be done. It takes one woman with an individual mind to be firm. No doubt everyone will enjoy the freshness and brightness and will bless me when it becomes a fait accompli. I don’t see how you can order the men to remove what’s been done, Anne. You’d be much better to accept it, and enjoy it, as we’re all likely to do.”

  Anne stared at her for a long time, then rose slowly to her feet. It was no use talking. Her father-in-law must have been a strong man to have kept Mrs. Wyatt in check for so many years!

  “I’m feeling unwell again,” Mrs. Wyatt said peevishly. “That girl upsets me, and Helen is going out again with that strange man. If he’s a proper person for her to associate with, then he should be calling here for her, not ringing her up and asking her to meet him in Carlisle.”

  This time Anne was in complete agreement with her mother-in-law.

  “Surely Helen has sense enough to judge people she meets, and to recognise if they’re worthwhile or not, she said slowly. “I mean, a girl of her age...”

  In other words, I should have brought her up better able to choose her friends,” said Mrs. Wyatt dryly, and Anne flushed again. The thought had crossed her mind.

  “We can only be taught to recognise good value, then left to find it ourselves,” she said defensively.

  “And you found it?”

  “Yes.”

  Anne’s tone was emphatic, and there was an unreadable gleam in the older woman’s eyes.

  “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?” she asked blandly, and Anne hesitated, feeling slightly
at a loss. Her efforts at having it out with her mother in-law seemed to have accomplished nothing. They were just different kinds of people and Anne visualised the years ahead when she would have to keep fighting for what she considered to be right for Elvan Hall.

  Her hand caressed the beautiful wood on the banister rail as she descended the stairs, the smell of paint and turpentine from the drawing room making her heartsick with frustration and disappointment. Would the men succeed in undoing the damage before Francis got home? She had been so looking forward to the room being completely finished, and she had visualised just how she would arrange it by altering the position of several small items, and placing bowls of flowers, which she had learned to arrange while she still lived at the Manse.

  But now she felt worried in case the panelling would never look the same again. Luckily very little had been painted so far, and could, perhaps, be hidden with an item of furniture. Nevertheless there was no disguising the fact that the patina was going to be spoiled.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANNE felt a headache coming on as she made for the small morning room, where Caroline would no doubt be packing up, ready to go home. She would just check up on the work she had already done.

  But as Anne rounded the corridor at the foot of the stairs, she heard the sound of voices, and a moment later she was looking along the corridor to where Francis stood, the morning-room door open, as well as the drawing-room door opposite.

  Anne’s heart turned to ice at the expression on his face, and she could hear Caroline’s light voice greeting him half-fearfully, then Francis closed the door with a sharp click and strode towards her down the corridor, his dark eyes flashing in his white face, his mouth grim with compressed lips.

  “Francis?” she said nervously, then felt a lump catching her throat. “Oh, Francis! I’m so glad to see you.”

  For a moment he wavered, catching her to him and kissing her. Then the fury was back in him.

  “I’ve no doubt, and I shall be very glad of a word with you, Anne. In here.”

  He propelled her into the study, and shut the door, before turning her to face him, his fingers biting into her arm.

  “Can you please explain why some of our lovely old wood panelling is being painted, and why you thought fit to invite Caroline Cook to this house?”

  “I ... I didn’t expect you home so soon,” she stammered.

  “Obviously.”

  “I ... I ... it was a mistake ... about the panelling, I mean.”

  “I’m glad to hear it!”

  She bit her lip at the granite-like expression on his face. How could she talk to him when he was so hard in his anger that his ears were closed to reasons and explanations? Besides, how could she blame it on Mrs. Wyatt, when she had been left in charge?

  “Obviously whatever I say won’t make any difference, Francis,” she said quietly. “You aren’t in the mood to listen to reason.”

  “Beautiful panelling spoilt and you expect me to listen to reason! I left you here in charge as my wife. I thought I could trust you to carry out my wishes because they were your wishes, too, but instead ... instead...”

  He choked on his anger, and she felt waves of sickness pass over her as she tried to keep her wits about her. She couldn’t blame him for his rage. Her own feelings had been almost as intense, though her natural desire to seek for explanations had made her understand, and had tempered her own anger and disappointment. Francis had nothing with which to lessen his.

  “I can only say I stopped the work immediately I found out, and the men are going to clean off what has already been done.”

  “They will not lay a finger on it!” shouted Francis. “They could cause as much ruin undoing their charming handiwork as they’ve caused in the first place. No, I shall have someone who knows something about it here as soon as possible. It will probably cost me a fortune!”

  Her legs were trembling, and he pushed forward a chair, saying rather more gently: “Sit down, Anne. And Caroline Cook? Why is she here?”

  “To mend the tapestries and chair-covers, of course. All the old embroidered items such as pictures, panels, bedspreads. Didn’t you know she had qualified in embroidery at university, and she’s about to do a post-graduate course?”

  He nodded. “Of course I knew. If I’d wanted Caroline to do work, I’d have asked her myself.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” she asked, slow anger beginning to burn. He had been away for several weeks, but instead of being pleased to see her, he was giving her nothing but censure. Maybe she hadn’t got his love, but she was his wife and surely entitled to some sort of affection. Instead, all he could do was criticise, without even trying to find out how far responsible she was for these mistakes.

  “Why...?”

  “Didn’t you? You must have known this work had to be done. It seems eminently sensible to me to ask this girl to do this work, when she lives nearby and is a friend of Helen’s. I’ve seen samples of her work, and she’s well qualified to do it. Surely it’s perfectly natural for me to ask her, and I’m at a loss to understand your anger.”

  “You know nothing about it,” he told her, his eyes flashing.

  “Obviously. Do you want to tell me or shall I guess? Can it be that you’re in love with her? Can it be that you regret not having her here permanently, instead of me?”

  She stood up and faced him, her chin high and her eyes flashing as angrily as his own. For a long moment their eyes met, and she saw him struggling with some sort of strong emotion as he gripped her hands, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her fiercely, almost bruising her in his arms.

  “There! Is that how I should welcome you?” he asked.. “Is that better?”

  Again Anne felt a wave of sickness pass over her as she fought against the threatening tears.

  “No, Francis,” she said quietly. “No, that isn’t the welcome I expected. I shall instruct Mrs. Hansett to prepare something for you if you need a meal, then ... then I shall unpack for you. I’ll see that Caroline leaves in the morning.”

  “Oh, don’t trouble,” he told her wearily. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. She can stay and finish the job. You undertook to engage her, so we’ll both honour that contract. As for a meal, I need none. I have work to do here at the desk.”

  “Very well. I’ll leave you to get on with it. Perhaps we can discuss things further tomorrow?”

  He drew a hand across his forehead.

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I shall have the panelling put right. I shall also hire another firm of decorators who don’t employ charlatans. I...” he looked at her. “I can no doubt guess as to how it happened, and I look to you to see that nothing further goes wrong. No doubt you’ll be rather more vigilant from now on, but I expect you to oversee the rest of the work. You are the mistress here, not ... not...” His voice trailed off. “My mother,” he muttered.

  Anne left, a heavy dullness in her eyes. She was mistress here, but she wasn’t his wife. She was being asked to love an empty shell. Slowly she climbed the stairs and went into the large bedroom they shared, then on impulse she removed her immediate necessities to the small room she used as a dressing room next door. It had a small bed in it, which, she understood, had been put there for the use of a nurse when Henry Wyatt had been so ill. It was quite big enough for her, and she sat down on it, her heart bruised and aching. She loved Francis, but she refused to share his bed while he regarded her as part of the fitments.

  Perhaps he had cared for her a little, but anger and disappointment at her incompetence had soon dispelled that. He didn’t really need a wife, she told herself bitterly. He only needed someone in whom he had vested the authority to run his home.

  She was already in bed, but far from being asleep, when he came up that night. She heard him pause as he entered their bedroom, then cross the room quickly to open the door of the dressing room.

  She lay still, her heart pounding loud enough for him to hear, then after what seemed a lifetime, while he l
ooked on her still form, he walked back out and closed the door with a sharp click.

  It was then that the tears came, and Anne allowed them to soak her pillow, feeling that she would weep her heart out. What would tomorrow bring? she wondered. And a lifetime of tomorrows? How could she bear this house which offered her everything, except love?

  Next day Francis had recovered a little from his initial rage and greeted Anne quietly, a rather carefully searching look in his eyes as he looked at her. A glance in the mirror that morning had told her that she wasn’t at her best, and that her storm of weeping had given her shadowed eyes in a pale face.

  “I trust you ... slept well?” Francis said rather heavily, and her chin lifted.

  “Thank you, I slept comfortably,” she returned evenly.

  Helen joined them for breakfast, her eyes speculative as she sensed the withdrawn atmosphere between them.

  “The drawing room is rather a mess,” she said mischievously.

  “It surprises me that you didn’t anticipate something of the kind, Helen,” said Francis bitingly. “You must have known Mother had this in mind.”

  “You didn’t leave me in charge,” said Helen pointedly, “and anyway, I’ve enough to do with Goldie. She’s caught a cold. Peter and I have been worried stiff about her.”

  But not enough to keep her from going out with Roger Baxter, thought Anne, then felt ashamed of herself. David Mellor, the young groom, was no doubt thoroughly reliable and competent, and Helen could leave her precious horses in his charge with a completely free mind. Peter Birkett, the young vet, was also very responsible, and wouldn’t let the horse be neglected.

  “Caroline will be here soon,” said Helen, glancing at the clock, then at Francis from under lowered lids. “She’s making a marvellous job of all our old tapestries. She at least has a reverence for old treasures, and does her best to restore them.”