This Merry Bond

by Sara Seale

He looked down at her with tired, restless eyes, then, like a child, he relaxed in perfect and amazing trust of someone’s ability to get him out of a hole.

  “If you think so, darling, then set about it quickly,” was all he said. “Time’s running short.”

  He asked her no further questions. Indeed he seemed to prefer to forget the whole unpleasant position, and turned with relief to other topics.

  Nicky was never quite sure if the thought of the Shands came to her while Charles was talking or when she herself was in bed that night sleepily trying to evolve a way out. Upstairs in the fastness of the room she had known since childhood, with its wide windows and high moulded ceiling, the situation took on a sense of unreality. What, when all was said and done, was five thousand pounds? A small enough sum to stand between the Bredons and bankruptcy. Anyone would be glad to lend it. But anyone hadn’t. Yet they had friends with bank balances that could well stand such a temporary strain as this. Sooner or later Charles was bound to bring off a lucky speculation that would more than repay the loan.

  Nicky was growing sleepy. The fire had died down to a faint glow, and through the uncurtained west windows she could see the lights of Hammertye Towers on the distant ridge. She would ask the Shands. They would be glad enough to help a neighbor. Wasn’t that true north-country hospitality? Not John Shand, the old dragon. He would probably be quite glad of an opportunity of downing the Bredons. But Simon was a reasonable being. He at least was brought up in decent surroundings and would understand that one must hang on to the necessities of life before surrendering completely to clamoring creditors. And to Nicky, as to all the Bredons, horses in the stable, game in the preserves, and an irreproachable cellar did constitute the necessities of life.

  She would go and see Simon Shand tomorrow. What difference would five thousand pounds make to Shand’s Shoes, anyway? It was only a loan to be paid back at the first reasonable opportunity. There was no need to worry any more, the affair was already settled. With a little contented grunt, Nicky rolled over on her side and fell asleep.

  But the next day as she walked through the sodden woods and climbed the boundary fence that marked the limit of the Nye coverts, she didn’t feel so sure of herself. There was something a little unapproachable at times about Simon Shand. It wasn’t going to be altogether easy to meet those direct eyes and make such a request to a comparative stranger.

  “Oh, well, it’s not for myself,” she said aloud and rang the doorbell with determination. But they told her that Simon was out, though he was expected back for lunch.

  “I’ll wait,” said Nicky, her courage ebbing a little.

  It was the first time she had ever been inside the Towers and she looked with interested distaste about the room into which she was shown. This was evidently the drawing room, large and square with bow windows and filled with suites of furniture. Brass and silver, gleamed everywhere, and photographs adorned every spare inch of space. Nicky subsided into a suffocating mass of silk cushions and feeling alien and unhappy, prepared herself to wait.

  She wasn’t left alone for long. The door opened and an elderly woman came into the room. Nicky rose a little uncertainly.

  “Mrs. Shand?” she said, and found her hand taken in a firm cool clasp.

  At first glance Mary Shand was nothing like the vague picture Nicky had formed of Simon’s mother. She was a big woman with deliberate movements, and she spoke in a slow, pleasant voice with just a trace of north-country accent. The features of her calm face were still fine with a hint of delicacy that was perhaps unexpected.

  “You’ve come to see my son?” she said. “He’ll not be long, so sit down by the fire and we will have some tea and biscuits while you’re waiting. I like to have my cup of tea at eleven o’clock.”

  “I’d love some tea,” said Nicky, feeling unaccountably shy.

  Mrs. Shand stopped to put another lump of coal on the fire, then with a little brush, tidied up a hearth bristling with brass fire irons.

  “I’m glad to have met you at last, my dear,” she said, and, when she had touched the bell, sat down by the fire. “Neighbors should be friendly, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose they should, only sometimes it’s difficult,” said Nicky frankly.

  Mary Shand smiled, and her smile was like the rest of her personality, a tolerant indulgence toward a world peopled with wayward children.

  “You mustn’t mind my husband,” she said. “His bark’s worse than his bite, as they say, but men—especially when they’ve never had time to play in their youth—like to strut a little like small boys.”

  Nicky, utterly charmed by her hostess, sat down comfortably on the floor and hugged her knees to her chin. The tea came Mary Shand talked on as she poured the tea. Nicky began to see that Simon was very like his mother, and she thought that here must lie the answer to what Uncle Hilary had designated the good blood in Simon.

  “Where did you live before you married, Mrs. Shand?” she asked impulsively, but Simon’s mother gave her a curious look as if she had read her thoughts and said tranquilly:

  “I come of yeoman stock, my dear. My father farmed his own land, and his father before him, and I never had but one party dress until I married John.”

  Nicky felt herself flushing a little.

  “Oh,” she said, “do tell me about it. When I was a little girl I always wanted to live on a farm and poke the hams in the chimney and eat new bread straight from the oven.”

  “If you come up to tea one of these days, I’ll make you a girdle scone,” said Mary Shand, smiling.

  She began to talk of her life as a child on the old Cumberland farm, and Nicky had a picture of a great kitchen full of children of whom Mary was the eldest. Mary’s mother was a tiny woman full of darting energy and her six-foot-four husband could recite great slices of Shakespeare with never a book to prompt him.

  Nicky was so engrossed that she didn’t hear Simon come in, but his mother looked up at once and saw his raised eyebrows as his glance fell on the girl’s slender body crouched by the fire.

  “Miss Bredon wanted to see you, Simon,” she said. “Would you like to go along to the den where it’s quiet? Perhaps when you’ve finished your business, my dear, you’ll stop and have some lunch.”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” said Nicky rather hastily and scrambled to her feet. “What I want to say won’t take very long.”

  She faced Simon, and the sight of his grave, faintly quizzical expression made her wish she hadn’t come. Her task wasn’t going to be very easy.

  “Well, come along, then,” he said, and led the way out of the room and across the wide tessellated hall.

  The den was entirely masculine, with old leather armchairs, guns ranged around the walls and a large ugly office desk taking up most of the center of the floor.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Simon said courteously, indicating a chair, and whether by design or accident seated himself behind the desk.

  Nicky said nervously: “I like your mother. Why did you never tell me about her?”

  “Why didn’t you come and find out for yourself?” he retorted. Nicky relapsed into silence, striving in vain to think of a suitable opening. He studied her curiously. She seemed different today. Less sure of herself and definitely nervous about something.

  “What did you want to say to me?” he asked.

  Now that the moment had come, it seemed more difficult than ever. What right had she to demand such a favor from the Shands? There wasn’t even the excuse of friendship to justify the claim.

  “It’s—it’s rather difficult,” she said. “May I have a cigarette?”

  “Of course.”

  He held a light for her and watched her while she sat a little desperately inhaling smoke.

  “I’m afraid I’ve come to beg,” she said then.

  “To beg?” He raised his level eyebrows in gentle surprise. “But I seem to remember you telling my father some weeks ago that you would never ask a favor of a Shand as long as you l
ived.”

  He was clearly not going to make things easy for her.

  “Well, you don’t suppose I like doing it now, do you?” she retorted, driven back into her old rudeness with him.

  “Then why—”

  “Because there’s no one else. Because you’re our richest neighbor, to put it crudely, and if you won’t help us we’re sunk.”

  “Oh, I see—money,” he said and there was a curious inflection in his voice that made her wriggle uncomfortably. “Do I understand you want to borrow money from me?”

  She bit her lower lip hard.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” she said in a small voice.

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  “Five thousand. That’s a large sum.”

  If he was surprised, he managed to disguise the fact admirably, but his whole manner subtly changed. When he next spoke he had become the hard-headed businessman, the true flesh and blood of old John Shand.

  “What security have you to offer?”

  She stared at him, blinking a little.

  “Security?” she stammered. “Why—I don’t know. We’d pay interest, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What exactly do you mean?”

  “On a loan of this size it’s usual to offer some sort of security in lieu of default,” he said.

  She flushed.

  “Surely my father’s word—” she began hotly, but he broke in with gentle irony:

  “Another gentleman’s agreement? I’m sorry, but I’m a businessman, and that kind of proposition doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Is that another way of telling me you don’t trust either of us?” she asked, her cheeks now scarlet.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “But I think your father’s word has not always been his bond in the past. That’s why you’ve had to come to me now, isn’t it? Well, as I think I told you once before, I come of working stock and I like a deal to be square. Just one thing. Did your father send you here?”

  “No,” said Nicky, humiliated beyond words. “And I wish to goodness I’d never thought of the idea myself.”

  He leaned forward in his chair.

  “I repeat, Nicky, I’m a businessman, and if you can offer any reasonable security I’ll put up the money.”

  “What security have I?” she demanded bitterly. “There’s only myself.”

  “Yes, that’s so, but in what capacity?”

  She looked at him, her long bright eyes restless and unhappy. In her humiliation she flung back:

  “Any capacity you like. There’s only one really, isn’t there?”

  “You would suggest a weekend in some discreet spot?”

  She couldn’t make out if he was serious or not.

  “Why not?” she said flippantly. “If you could stand it that long.”

  “I see.” He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her steadily. “You put a pretty high value on your services.”

  All at once she wanted to weep. She wanted to cry: “I’m not like this. How did we land in such a situation? I want to keep your respect, not lose it.” But then she thought: Perhaps I never had his respect in the first place. How shall I deal with this? Michael would know how. And she suddenly longed for Michael’s return from those distant places, for someone of her own kind to stand beside her and give her back her self-esteem.

  Simon was speaking again.

  “Under the circumstances, I suppose that is the best you can offer,” he said. “I’m prepared to take it.”

  She stared at him.

  “Are you serious?” she said at last.

  “Perfectly. Weren’t you?”

  She lifted her head a little higher.

  “If the arrangement suits you, it suits me,” she said in a hard, brittle little voice.

  “Very well, then.” He unlocked a drawer in the desk and took out a check book. “You won’t object, of course, to having our agreement down in writing,” he said in an expressionless voice. “It’s quite usual and this, you will admit, is rather a peculiar case.” She nodded, unable to speak for the moment. He pulled a sheet of foolscap to him and wrote steadily for a few minutes, putting his signature at the bottom. He handed the paper to her to read through, then taking his pen, she signed her name beneath his without a word, and watched him fold up the agreement and lock it away in the drawer.

  He gave her the check, and she got slowly to her feet and stood twisting it between her fingers.

  “What did you say the date of repayment was?” she asked with lips that trembled a little.

  “January the thirty-first. It was down in the agreement.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  For a moment his gaze was more kindly as it rested on her pale, still face.

  “You should never sign anything you haven’t read through properly,” he said and walked to the door. “Sure you won’t stop to lunch?”

  “Lord almighty, no!” she exclaimed fervently.

  At the front door, she said with an effort at recapturing her old nonchalant attitude:

  “Goodbye, and thank you. After all, there’s not really much risk for either of us, is there? And one has to take a chance.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he told her gravely, and watched her slim erect figure pass from the sunlight into the shadow of the trees.

  But, safe on her father’s territory, she began to run, and the difficult tears, restrained so long, ran down her face unchecked.

  “Oh, Charles! The things I do for you!” she sobbed aloud. “The things I do for you!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Charles asked no questions

  When Nicky said: “Foreclosing date is January the thirty-first, darling, so get busy with the markets,” he replied:

  “Bit of a usurer, isn’t he? But these rich tradesmen are all alike. We’d better ask him around to dine or something.”

  “No,” said Nicky violently. “At least—not yet.”

  Charles went off presently on one of his brief disappearances to London, and Nicky elected to go with him. They spent a week of racketing around nightclubs and returned with a crowd of weekend guests.

  Charles bought a young horse that pleased him mightily. He was in great form these days and stopped at Nye for longer periods than before. The weeks slipped by and somehow that invitation to Simon Shand was never sent. Nicky saw him once or twice out hunting, but he must have been away a good bit himself, since nobody heard of him for some time. A wet November slid quickly into an even wetter December and Christmas was almost upon them.

  “The usual family Christmas again, Charles?” Nicky asked with resignation.

  “I’m afraid so, my sweet. It’s all we ever do for our relations.”

  “But Aunt Alice!”

  “Well you can’t have Hilary without Alice, and you know you want him.”

  “Darling Uncle Hilary, of course I do! Charles, isn’t Michael ever coming back?”

  “Oh, he’ll blow in some time when you least expect him. His is the life, Nick. I’ve a good mind to go and look him up wherever he is and racket around with him for a bit.”

  “Well, not till after Christmas, darling,” Nicky said firmly. “I’m not coping with Aunt Alice alone, thank you.”

  They were all to arrive on Christmas Eve. Hilary and Alice Bredon, and old Lady Edderton, an aunt of Charles by marriage.

  Mouse and Nicky worked feverishly all morning with holly and mistletoe. They were still at it at three o’clock when the front door bell pealed and quite unexpectedly Simon Shand walked into the great hall.

  Mouse gave him a brief greeting and went on with her work of decorating the fireplace, but Nicky stared at him open-mouthed. “Oh, hullo!” she said a little blankly.

  She was winding a long garland of holly around one of the big chandeliers, and Simon stood surveying her with a friendly smile. She was wearing an old green smock, and was flushed and dishevelled, and she had a piece of holly rakishly st
uck behind one ear.

  “I’ve brought you a Christmas cake from my mother,” he said. “One of the real old-fashioned sort we get in the north. She made it herself.”

  The homely and utterly unexpected gesture touched something unsuspected in Nicky.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “How lovely of her! Do let me look.”

  She scrambled down from the steps and took the parcel he was carrying.

  “Quick, Mouse, the scissors!” she cried. “Oh! Isn’t it lush? Look, Mouse! You could never buy that in a shop.”

  Her pleasure was so spontaneous that Simon glanced at her with interest. So there was simplicity in her after all! Mouse said with respect that it made her think of her younger days when the best houses would have died rather than send out to a caterers for food. “I’ll take it to the kitchen and put it away at once,” she said. Nicky stood looking at Simon after Mouse had gone. It was the first time she had been alone with him since that distressing morning in his den, and some of her embarrassment returned.

  “We’re in the most awful muddle still,” she said a little nervously. “Mouse and I have been at it all day and the servants are much too busy decorating their own quarters to lend a hand.” She paused suddenly and a faint flush stained her high cheekbones.

  “I didn’t think of sending anything up to the Towers,” she said. “I never thought your mother would trouble. But I’ll get Giles to pick masses and masses of violets—we have thousands—and you can take them back to her. Do you think she would like that?”

  “I’m sure she would be most touched,” he said gently.

  “Stay and have tea and help us with the decorations,” she said impulsively. “It’s rather fun really.”

  “I’d like to,” he replied simply. “Give me some orders.”

  All afternoon they worked on the decorations together. Nicky was more natural than he had ever seen her. The simple performance of an old-established custom seemed to disperse that defensive attitude she always had with him. With the advent of tea and Charles simultaneously, however, some of the old restraint returned. Quite unconsciously Nicky and her father ranged together against him, keeping him gently outside their circle. But, sitting around the library fire listening to the rain beating against the window, it was difficult not to be friendly. Dogs lay peacefully asleep at their feet and there was a smell of crumpets in the air. Looking at Nicky, Simon began to wonder for the first time how old she really was, for sitting on the floor, her crumpled smock pulled up to display her knees, and her tousled red hair falling over her face she might have been still in the schoolroom.