Harbinger of Spring

by Hilda Pressley

  HARBINGER OF SPRING

  Hilda Pressley

  Sara Seymour was a career girl, a London sparrow, never happy unless she was near the bright lights.

  And then, under the terms of an eccentric will, she found herself obliged to live for three months in an old mill miles from anywhere, in the heart of Norfolk.

  She needed that legacy—but could she possibly hold out for long enough to get it?

  CHAPTER I

  It was as cheerless and bleak a February morning as Sara could remember. For most of the two hours’ journey from London to Norwich she stared through rain-lashed windows. She supposed she ought to feel excited, but she was not in. the least. She couldn’t think why. Being left a legacy by a great-aunt she had never before heard of was not an everyday occurrence. Why was she not even a tiny bit thrilled?

  She left the train and stepped quickly from the windswept station entrance into a taxi, giving the address she wanted to the driver.

  Her father had been barely interested in the lawyer’s letter either, but then it had always been difficult to turn his attention from whatever civil engineering project he had in mind. Although they loved each other and were comfortable and happy in their St John’s Wood flat their lives, strictly speaking, were joined together only by the capable hands of Mrs. Worthing who kept house for them and had done so since Sara’s mother died five years ago.

  Eric Seymour had his civil engineering business and Sara had her boutique, or rather a half share with Desmond Morris, and everything was very satisfactory. Well, almost. Her father had a very definite dislike for Desmond Morris, but as the two men very rarely met that did not matter very much.

  Secretly, Sara was amused by her father’s antagonism towards Desmond, knowing it stemmed from Desmond’s trend-setting clothes, long hair and affected speech. She knew him to be strong and somewhat ruthless. Once, three loutish youths had entered the boutique and tried to upset the business. Desmond had dealt with them so quickly and efficiently that they were all outside nursing

  their injuries in less than a minute. Sara thought it was a good illustration of the advice not to judge a parcel by its wrapping—something so many of the older generation seemed to do.

  The taxi stopped in a narrow street of Georgian houses, all of which had been converted to offices. Sara paid the driver and after a glance at the brass name-plates, ran up a curved flight of stairs. She waited a few seconds in a rather austere waiting-room then was shown into a small office. A pale-faced man of about forty rose from behind his desk to greet her.

  ‘Miss Seymour? I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

  Sara’s brown eyes lit up as she smiled. ‘Except for the atrocious weather, Mr. Carrigon.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like some tea before we begin?’

  ‘No, thank you. I took coffee on the train.’

  ‘Then we’ll begin. Your great-aunt, Mrs. Esther Knowles, willed to you all her possessions.’

  ‘But I didn’t even know of her, and my father could barely remember her existence.’

  ‘Quite so. I was about to say that she was something of an eccentric, but that would not be true. Mrs. Knowles became a widow early in her married life and joined the Women’s Suffrage Movement. You’ve heard about that, I suppose?’

  ‘Something about getting votes for women, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That was the main aim. She became a militant and suffered much as a consequence. This embittered her and she became a complete feminist, barring men from her life as much as possible. She willed her possessions so that only females of her kin could succeed to them. You, Miss Seymour, since your mother is dead, are her only female relative.’

  Sara felt moved. ‘Poor Aunt Esther,’ she said softly. ‘What a grim life she must have had.’

  ‘I think, in a way, she enjoyed the fight.’

  ‘I hope so, but isn’t there some way in which her money could go to some charity she would have favoured? You see, I don’t think it really belongs to me, and I have no need of it. I have a fairly good business and—’

  ‘There isn’t much in actual cash, but the property is quite valuable. However, that’s entailed, so—’

  ‘Entailed? What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that you have the use of it for your lifetime and when you die it passes to your nearest female relative.’

  ‘Suppose I haven’t any? I haven’t at the moment.’

  ‘Then it will go to the Crown.’

  ‘I suppose I can refuse the bequest?’ Sara said with a slight edge to her tone.

  ‘You may indeed. In which case the property and the money would pass to the Crown.’ He gave a little smile. ‘I’m bound to say that this is my first experience of anyone talking of refusing a bequest and a quite valuable one. Fenchurch Mill must be worth all of ten thousand pounds today.’

  For some reason the word mill ‘conjured up a picture of a decaying watermill in Sara’s mind. She visualized a low building on the very edge of a weed-choked stream with dark, sullen water spilling over a rotting sluice gate to froth vainly about a rusted iron waterwheel which was motionless for ever. She barely heard the lawyer’s next words.

  ‘It’s a condition of the will that you must reside at the Mill for a quarter—thirteen weeks—before you can either rent or lease the property to another party.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying proper attention.’

  He repeated the condition.

  ‘Stay away from London! Oh, I couldn’t do that. There’s my business.’ She half rose from her chair.

  The lawyer made a gesture. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to make a decision, Miss Seymour. I don’t know how heavily your business in London weighs on you, but surely you could use some more capital? If you were to fulfil the condition of the will and then lease the property you would have a very useful income from it.’

  ‘I suppose I could travel backwards and forwards each day. When would I have to take up residence?’

  ‘Any time you like, within reason. I would suggest the spring, say early in May when it’s beginning to be pleasant to be out of doors.’

  ‘Oh no. From that time onwards is our best business period. In fact we’re well in full swing before Easter. Why not now? Let me get it over and done with.’

  For a moment he looked almost startled, then he smiled.

  ‘This is a sudden change of front.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘I think perhaps you’d better see Fenchurch Mill this morning before you decide to move in immediately.’ He spoke into an intercom. ‘Thompson, ring the boatyard at Barton and ask them to have an all-weather launch ready in about half an hour, and one of their men to drive it, please.’

  ‘Do I understand we have to reach the Mill by water?’ Sara asked.

  ‘There is a road—or rather lane—to it, but it will be in rather a bad condition at this time of the year. In any case it’ll be quicker by water.’

  He saw the dismay on her face and added, ‘Think nothing of it, Miss Seymour. The launch will be as comfortable as a car and you can be back in Norwich for lunch.’

  He held the office door open for her, but as she went down the stairs and entered his car she thought her worst fears were being confirmed. The lane he had mentioned was probably a muddy track over swampy ground, and far from being able to reach London rapidly each day she would probably find herself marooned for days on end.

  He drove rapidly through narrow, twisting streets, but Sara hardly bothered to glance out of the window on her own side. Then she noticed they were in open country on a road which was probably a very pleasant one when the trees were in full leaf. She noticed the scarcity of traffic and the distance between cottages and thought how empty the place was. Then there was a
sizeable village, and crossing a river the steepest humpbacked bridge she had ever encountered.

  ‘Wroxham,’ Mr. Carrigon informed her. ‘They call it the Capital of Broadland.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Rain still pouring down and spraying from under the car wheels did not help to impress Sara, and London with its hurrying crowds, speeding taxis and general air of wealth and importance seemed an awful long way off. This woman, this Great-aunt Esther who had intruded with dramatic suddenness into a life she had up to now found entirely satisfactory, what had she really been like? Domineering and unloved probably, and certainly wishful of interfering in other people’s lives after she was dead. Well, she could do that as far as she herself was concerned for just thirteen weeks, and not a moment longer.

  The car turned from the main road into a very narrow one, then through a gateway to stop almost at the edge of a wooden quay with several white-painted boats moored alongside it. A man appeared from what seemed to be an office and spoke to the lawyer.

  ‘Drive into the boatshed, Mr. Carrigon. There’s no need for the lady to get wet stepping out of the car.’

  The car moved into the shed. Sara stepped out of the vehicle and gave an exclamation of surprise as she saw rows of cabin cruisers and yachts resting on their keels on the concrete floor of the shed. Out of the water they looked huge and she wondered by what means they had been put there. Then to her nostrils came a pleasant, tangy scent which she recognized as coming from wood shavings.

  The lawyer broke into her thoughts. ‘Miss Seymour, let me introduce Mr. Barker, the owner of this little yard.’

  ‘Little! I think it’s absolutely tremendous. All these boats! How do you do, Mr. Barker?’

  ‘Nicely, Miss Seymour. But it is only a little yard. You should see some of those owned by the big groups. Here’s your launch in the covered dock. I’ll run you out to the Mill myself, although why Mr. Carrigon shirks doing so, I don’t know. He’s perfectly capable of handling a launch.’

  ‘Except when I come into moorings,’ the lawyer said. ‘I usually misjudge whatever current there is.’

  Sara was helped to a comfortably cushioned seat and the launch slipped quietly from its moorings into the open river. She glanced out of a window at her side and saw a patch of blue in an otherwise grey and forbidding sky. Then, within the space of seconds, it seemed, the overall grey turned into billowing, white-topped clouds which raced furiously across a wide sky.

  ‘Typical East Anglian weather,’ the lawyer observed. ‘In these parts prolonged rain is the exception rather than the rule. Savage squalls are the more usual thing.’

  ‘You learn to see them coming,’ Mr. Barker said.

  Sara did not answer. She had no intention of remaining in the area long enough to study the local weather conditions.

  The launch turned a bend in the river and the waterway suddenly became much wider and straight for about half a mile. Stumpy-looking trees edged the banks and there was a thin fringe of reeds. Taller trees with black, leafless branches were set further back, and above them the white sail arms of a windmill showed.

  ‘Fenchurch Mill,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘Is it really? I don’t know why, but I had it firmly fixed in my mind that it was a watermill and right on the bank of the river.’

  Mr. Barker half turned from piloting the craft. ‘The Mill has its own dyke, Miss Seymour. We’ll turn into it in a minute. It used to be for loading wherries with sacks of flour for places up river, Norwich and the like.’

  ‘Wherries? What are those?’

  ‘I suppose the best way of describing them would be to say they were like the old Thames barges. There’s only one left, which is being preserved. It’s called The Albion. Moored at Homing.’

  Sara thought it unlikely she would ever see the wherry. She watched for the dyke entrance, but she did not see it until the bows of the launch had turned towards a high clump of reeds and brushed past them to cruise very slowly through a channel so narrow she could have reached out and plucked at the dead plant life on one bank or the other. Ahead, quite large trees had spread their branches so that they touched one another, but above the tracery of near-black twigs she could see the head and one of the sails of the mill. It would be like living in a lighthouse, she thought. Impossible circular rooms, midget-sized windows and stairs to climb if she so much as wanted to change her mind. Thirteen weeks would be just as much as she could stand without going raving mad.

  A minute later the waterway suddenly opened into what Sara would have called a large pond, and she saw how wrong she had been in her imaginings. The mill itself was a tall, white-painted tower set on a low mound. But it was on the house attached to it that her gaze fixed as the launch went slowly towards a timber staging with a rock garden behind it.

  The roof was crowned with thatch and hugged closely to spirally twisted chimneys. Then there were four tiny dormer windows, peeping like two pairs of bright eyes from beneath the heavy brows of the thatch. Beneath the oak sills, stout timbers were supported by a heavy carved beam and underneath that were the carved lintels of four lead-light windows with diamond-shaped panes. Diagonally-placed timbers braced the upper storey of the house and the in-filling was a herringbone of deep red brick.

  Only two windows were on the ground floor, but they were of good proportion and spaced on either side of a massive-looking front door.

  Sara said nothing as the lawyer helped her out of the launch, but she walked with him up a path set between lawns and flower beds, her thoughts very mixed. Never before had she seen a house of such charm. Yet the idea of living in it was utterly impracticable. Since she had been eighteen she had made herself financially independent of her father, and now at twenty-one she was well on the way to being a successful businesswoman, but if she was to succeed fully there could be no let-up in effort. Besides, she loved the bustle and clamour of London. She could almost be termed a Cockney sparrow.

  Mr. Carrigon opened the door with a heavy key, then stood aside for her to enter. She drew a deep breath at the sight of a wide oak-floored hall spread with dark red rugs, of decorative plaster panelling and a staircase of good width. Then she pulled herself together. It just would not do to get to like the house too much. She might easily fall in love with it. She turned to the lawyer.

  ‘How long will it be before I can actually take up residence?’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t think we need wait for the formality of probate. If your luggage was here you could move in now.’

  ‘I see,’ she spoke very slowly, a half formed thought in her mind, which seemed completely mad. ‘I’ll have a look around. I shall lease the house, of course to—to someone who will take great care of it and be very kind to it.’

  She walked into the room at her right and saw it was furnished as a dining room for six persons. The table and chairs were of oak, as was a sideboard. They looked like antiques, but could have been reproductions for all she knew. There was a cavernous-looking fireplace and antique-styled electric fire which did not seem to detract from its appearance.

  Sara crossed the hall and immediately fell in love with the sitting room. No attempt had been made to furnish in any particular style, and a Victorian-looking mahogany sofa stood close to a baby grand piano and did not look out of place with it or with the inlaid display cabinet standing on the other side. The various armchairs looked comfortable and were covered in the same greeny-gold plush as the sofa. Two tapestries and several oil paintings decorated the walls, and what Sara took to be a liqueur cabinet held a television set.

  Before leaving the room, Sara glanced through the window and saw Mr. Carrigon on the quay in conversation with the owner of the boatyard. She went up the stairs and stood for a moment on the landing. There were four doors and three of them were open. She entered the open rooms and found two furnished as modern bedrooms and the third a bathroom. She hesitated for a moment at the fourth door, then gently turned the knob. An oak tester bed with richly carved posts and brocade c
anopy came into view, white rugs covered most of the floor and Sara did not step on them as she moved into the room to look at a heavy tallboy and a many-drawered dressing table with a swing mirror. The dressing table was bare except for a silver photograph frame lying face downward. Sara turned it over and looked at the faces of a young couple dressed in the costumes of fifty or sixty years ago. With an upward-curling moustache the young man looked very fierce, but the girl, and Sara felt sure she was looking at the portrait of Aunt Esther, was so demure-looking and had such a sweetly sensitive mouth that Sara found it hard to believe she had been a militant female—a suffragette.

  Setting the photograph upright, Sara closed the door and went downstairs. Almost as an afterthought she looked in the kitchen and found it hopelessly modernized with an electric cooker, a stainless steel sink unit and a breakfast alcove where the old fireplace had been. A little shocking, she thought, but supposed you had to use some of the modern ways of living. No doubt in its time, the wax candle had been hailed as a great advance on tallow. Anyway, about one thing, her mind was thoroughly made up. Whether her father and Desmond thought her mad or: not she would take up her period of residence right away. Beginning tonight, if at all possible.

  Half expecting to be told that such a speedy move was out of the question, Sara marched towards the front door, but to her surprise the lawyer made only a qualified objection.

  ‘I didn’t see you bring a travelling bag with you, Miss Seymour, and of course you’ll need to stock up with food. You can, of course, get everything you need in Wroxham, but I have an appointment in Norwich in a little over an hour’s time, so I won’t be able to drive you there and back again.’