by Susan Barrie
“O.K.,” Timothy murmured. He took his new wife by the arm and conducted her toward the door. “And now come outside and get a breath of fresh air before lunch,” he said. “We’ve been cooped in here long enough. ”
“Cooped in here long enough! ” echoed Captain, in his cage, and let out a furious squawk.
Timothy turned and shook a fist at him, and Carol laughed, but Meg did not even smile. Perhaps, thought Carol, she agreed with the bird, and considered that her own private sanctum had been invaded that morning.
In future, Carol decided, she would be most careful to avoid it, since Meg was so obviously touchy on some subjects. She believed in preserving her own rights at least!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE wild and beautiful Dulverton Water was an enchanting spot on a languorous afternoon of high summer. Silver birch trees overhung it, and peered smilingly at themselves in the water, and the surface was as smooth and crystal clear as any mirror. It reflected the blue of the occasional little clouds which sailed across it; and the gentlest of breezes crept across from the opposite shore, laden with the scent of bog-myrtle and thyme and miles and miles of misty moorland. But on three sides the jagged hills encompassed it around, and they were not always as pleasingly remote and distant as on this warm afternoon, when the heat haze floated so persistently about their summits. Sometimes the hills stood out sharp and violently purple, and the color of the water was affected also. Then it was wild as well as beautiful. This afternoon it was merely beautiful, and Carol loved it.
She and Timothy had halted their car right beside the water’s edge, and they were sitting gazing at it in a bemused enchantment. At least, Carol was enchanted, for she had never seen country like this before. And when she turned her head and looked up at the white house, with its gardens running down to the very shore of the lake, she thought that Aunt Harry must have been enchanted, too, when she first came in contact with this spot.
Aunt Harry—or the Marchesa dei Conti Rienzi—had bought Dulverton House when she had been left a widow, over twenty years ago, because although she loved Italy the climate had never suited her health, and the climate of the north of England did. She had also been assured by the house agent who had sold the place to her that Wordsworth, before moving on to Grasmere, had lived there for a time, and the thought of him making up poetry in the woods adjoining, and strolling on the shores of the lake, had appealed to her well developed imagination. That she had since discovered that neither Wordsworth nor, indeed, any poet worth mentioning, had ever lived there had done nothing to diminish her liking for the place, for it was one of those naturally charming houses which everyone must love, and not a few covet. Not large—not even as large as Brown Furrows—but mellow and peaceful and ageless, and wreathed in torrents of jasmine and honeysuckle, wistaria and wild roses, all in their various seasons.
The gardens which ran down to the lake were a fairyland to wander in. And from her windows Aunt Harry always had that perfect view which she loved—the view across the lake to where the lonely miles of moorland began. Behind her the hills guarded her from the worst of the winds, and in summer they protected her from the tourists. So she was altogether happy, or would have been, had she not been so crippled by arthritis, or the possessor of a godson who had gone off quite happily to the ends of the earth and apparently forgotten all about her.
But Timothy had not forgotten her, although he was such a bad correspondent. He started to tell Carol all about her as they sat there in the sunshine, and Carol, liking the sound of his voice, and watching his brown hands lying quietly relaxed on the wheel of the car, felt happier and more at peace with the world than she had done for several days. Certainly the few’ days immediately preceding her marriage to Timothy had been somewhat hectic, and since she had arrived at Brown Furrows she had been so overwhelmingly conscious of the presence of Meg in the house that she had felt a kind of cloud of apprehension settling round her. But now, on this first occasion that they were outside the house together, she felt able to relax the tension that had held her for at least forty-eight hours, and to take a certain amount of pleasure in the scenery, as well as a certain not easily explained and rather shy pleasure in the near presence of the man on the seat beside her.
She kept saying to herself that he was her husband—but she could never actually believe that he was! She wondered whether he thought of her as his wife, and was secretly certain that the only way in which he thought about her was as a rather pathetic and unusually helpless schoolgirl who was alone in the world, and whom he had simply had to do something about.
But had he...? Had he really needed to marry her...?
Marriage was so final, even in these days when half the population made a kind of hobby of getting themselves divorced!...
“Aunt Harriet is something of a character,” Timothy told her. “She always says what she thinks, and she takes violent likings and equally violent dislikes to people. But don’t worry—she’ll like you all right! I don’t know why, but I’m quite certain of that. She adored her Italian husband, and he died when she was still quite young. She was also very fond of my mother, and that’s how she came to be my godmother.”
“Then she’s not really your aunt?” Carol questioned.
“Oh, no. But we’ve always called her Aunt Harry.” He paused. “She does not like Meg,” he added unexpectedly.
Carol endeavored to look really surprised.
“Why not?” she asked.
He glanced at her for an instant.
“Some people don’t, you know.”
Carol was silent.
“She’s too straightforward for some people, and, of course, she is a little bit on the managing side.” He smiled slightly. “She even tries to manage me sometimes.”
“I hope she doesn’t always succeed,” Carol said, very quietly.
“I hope not, too! ” One of his eyebrows rose a little quizzically as he glanced at her again. “Perhaps I’ m rather an obstinate person once I make up my mind, Carol,” he remarked, and she wondered for quite a long time afterwards precisely what he meant by that.
“And now I think we’d better go in,” he added. “It’s quite likely she’s already seen us sitting here by the lake, and will accuse us of wasting her time—or our own! ”
He turned the car in at the curly wrought-iron gates, and they proceeded up a smooth and beautifully kept drive to the house. The front door was opened to them by an elderly manservant in impeccable dark indoor dress, and he bowed and looked surprised at the sight of Timothy, and then radiated obvious pleasure.
“Madame will be delighted to see you,” he assured him, and accorded Carol an additional little bow and smile. “If you will come this way, there is no need for me to announce your arrival! ”
The Marchesa had been enjoying an afternoon rest in her low chair by the open drawing-room window, but she had not noticed the car beside the lake—perhaps because she had been nodding a little, although she was instantly awake when the servant threw open the door. She looked up, her silvery-white head erect on her plump shoulders, her once devastatingly handsome eyes looking inquiringly at her oldest retainer.
“What is it, Hughes?” she demanded. And then: “Timothy!” she exclaimed.
He went forward at once and bent over her and kissed her on her delicately powdered cheek. The rings positively blazed on her white hand as she put it up and almost convulsively seized his wrist.
“Oh, Timothy, you naughty, naughty boy to neglect me so long! ”
“Darling Aunt Harry,” he returned very gently, “I may have neglected you, but at least I have never forgotten you!”
“Which is a back-handed compliment if ever there was one,”
she commented.
He reached behind him to draw Carol forward, and the girl slid her cool fingers into his with the odd feeling that he now possessed her.
“This is Carol, Aunt Harry! Say ‘how-do-you-do’ to Aunt Harry, Carol! ”
“How do
you do, Aunt Harry?” Carol murmured obediently.
“Well, well!...” Aunt Harry lay back in her carved elbow chair and studied her as if this was something she really enjoyed. Carol noticed that her white hair was ornamented with an exquisite fan-shaped comb, encrusted with brilliants, and a black lace mantilla was draped about her shoulders, over her rich velvet gown of almost a royal purple. She even wore a rose, scarlet as a young girl’s lips, tucked into the lace of the mantilla, and diamonds flashed, too, sparkling like water on her broad bosom.
“Well, well...” she repeated. And then all at once her brown eyes softened miraculously, and she smiled almost tenderly at Carol. “I’ m so glad you chose such a pretty wife, Timothy— such a really lovely wife! Why, my dear, your hair is like sunshine, and you’ ve got eyes that will never grow old! Come here and kiss me, child,” she commanded. “Come and tell me how you and Timothy fell in love!...”
There was a somewhat awkward silence in the room after Carol had obediently kissed her, but Aunt Harry did not even notice it, for she was too busy patting the cushions of the seat beside her, and insisting that Carol should sit as close to her as possible. Timothy took up his position in the window, and Carol avoided looking at him while his godmother got ready to enjoy herself.
“Now, my dear—now, Timothy!... If there’s one thing I really do love to hear it’ s the romantic story of someone else’ s love affair! ” she declared with enthusiasm. “All love affairs are exciting—my own was the most thrilling thing in the world! — but in these days people are all so dull and so terribly, rational that they marry for almost any reason you can think of except love! It’s not even fashionable any longer. Any amount of scandals, yes! but tender affairs of the heart? —no! ”
She leaned towards Carol and looked into her eyes, and her hands that were becoming knotted and veined went out and clasped the girl’ s.
“You’re very young, child... ” she murmured.
Timothy was about to produce his pipe and absent-mindedly
set it alight, but her eagle eye caught sight of it.
“Not in here, Timothy!” she said sharply. “You know I can’t bear anything like that in my drawing-room! But if you wish to smoke you can choose a cigarette from the table over there. They are Italian, and therefore good! ”
Timothy repressed a shudder.
“No, thank you, Aunt,” he returned with a smile which she took to be a smile of gratitude. “I will call upon my fortitude and do without.”
“Dear boy! ” said his godmother fondly, looking lovingly at him; but she did not give him permission to smoke his pipe.
“Now, my dear! —now, Timothy! ” she began again. “Now, why in the world didn’ t you let me know you were going to be married, and I would have arranged for you to spend your honeymoon at my house in Venice! It is the one place in the world where a honeymoon should be spent, and I would have been delighted to place it at your disposal. Such romance! —the Grand Canal, the Lido, a gondolier to sing for you every evening after dinner!... Oh, why didn’t you let me know?”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Timothy, hoping the amusement was not too plainly revealed in his eyes, and wondering whether the tips of Carol’s small, shell-like ears would grow much pinker in the next few seconds, “there wasn’ t time.”
“Wasn’t time?” The Marchesa looked infinitely perplexed. “Do you mean you arranged things in such a hurry that there wasn’ t time to think about where you would spend your honeymoon? And I still don’ t know where you are spending it? Not at Brown Furrows with Meg! —Oh, never that! I couldn’ t endure to hear you were doing a thing like that,” and her upflung hands proclaimed so much horror that Timothy had to laugh.
“All the same, dear Aunt, that’s just what we are doing,” he had to confess. “Don’t forget that I’ve only just got home to England, and a taste of my native land was what I’ d been longing for for months. And Carol’s never seen the Lakes before — so it could be worse! ”
“Yes, but with Meg!...”
It was plain that Aunt Harriet was not to be numbered amongst the most fervent admirers of Timothy’ s sister, and she was also genuinely concerned that her favorite godson had begun his married life—with such a charming bride, for she had taken a great fancy to Carol, as Timothy had predicted—in such a hole and corner fashion.
“But perhaps later on,” she said, “perhaps towards the autumn, when it will be cooler.... You shall have the Casa Rienzi, and Carol will simply love it...”
“Perhaps,” Timothy agreed, and watched Carol’s ears turn positively carmine.
Tea was brought in, and the Marchesa was diverted for the time being, dispensing her favorite China beverage in exquisite porcelain cups and manipulating the heavy silver teapot, which bore the Rienzi coat-of-arms, with the skill of long practice. Carol offered to pour out for her, but Aunt Harry waved away her offer with the remark that although her legs had begun to fail her hands were still capable of dealing with such a simple matter as pouring out tea. And she had the air of a very grand and gracious lady indeed as she sat there at her round drawingroom table, and the flowers and the furniture and everything in the room behind her formed a most fitting background for her exceedingly dignified old age.
She smiled continually at Carol, studying her quite openly over the assortment of tiny sandwiches and little cakes until the girl felt almost acutely embarrassed, although at the same time she knew the regard was well-meant and friendly. The Marchesa’ s keen old eyes had none of the veiled hostility of Meg’ s, her questions though pertinent were put as a result of genuine interest, and if she read more into the attitude of this pair whom she considered delightful and well matched (even allowing for the fact that the man was so many years older than the girl!) towards one another than they either intended or hoped that she would, then she was careful not to reveal that she did. Not on this occasion, at any rate.
If she had any harrying remarks to make they were directed solely at Meg. And on the subject of Meg she could become at times quite caustic.
“She should have married years ago,” she said, “and not lived to be forty-something-or-other and dependent on a brother! I can’t think where her pride is.”
But Timothy wouldn’ t allow this. Meg, he pointed out quietly, had her own private income, and was not in any sense dependent on him—save, perhaps, that she clung to her old family home, and that home was legally his. But she had always looked after him well.
“Of course she has,” Aunt Harry derided her scornfully, “for
the very good reason that she hoped you would never marry and that you would go on being looked after by her—ending your lives together as a kind of brother and sister Darby and Joan! Pah! ” she exclaimed disgustedly. “Nat Marples wanted to get engaged to her years ago, but she wouldn’t have him. Lucky escape for him I always thought, but he’s got a better home than Brown Furrows. The old home of the de Laceys is something to be proud of, and when his people bought it they spent a lot of money on it. Nat could have made Meg a rich woman.”
“Meg apparently didn’t desire to become a rich woman,” Timothy pointed out rather drily.
Aunt Harry looked at him with impatience, while Carol was for the time being completely overlooked.
“Oh, don’t think I undervalue her good points! She’s a fine horsewoman—she’s got horse sense—she’s fond of you! But, oh, she’s so deplorably unromantic! So devastatingly practical!...”
She turned back again to Carol.
“Don’t ever become terribly practical, my dear,” she begged. “No charming woman is ever really practical.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very practical now,’’ Carol confessed, a little wryly. “Although,” she added, “I try to be.”
Timothy rewarded her with one of his friendliest smiles.
“Good for you, Carol!” he said approvingly. “Aunt Harry lives always about a century or so behind the times. She can’t help it, and I forgive her,” he added, pattin
g one of the beringed hands which still rested on the ornate handle of the teapot.
“Nonsense!” declared his godmother, rather crossly. “And don’t,” she added to Carol, “don’t let Meg crush you. She will, you know, if you don’ t stand up to her! ”
Carol was uncomfortably silent.
“I don’t think that’s quite fair, Aunt,” Timothy objected, with a slight frown.
“It’ s fair and it’ s the truth! ” Aunt Harry insisted emphatically. She touched Carol’s arm lightly, and then her fingers closed and gripped hard. “She can’ t like you, you know!—not even if she tried! You’re pretty, for one thing, and you’re Timothy’s wife. Don’t expect her to forgive you for that! ”
“Oh, come, Aunt Harry! ”—Timothy actually sounded a little concerned—“what a thought to put into Carol’s head...!”
But Aunt Harry looked immensely sage as she sat there in
her almost regally appointed drawing-room, in the black lace mantilla with the red rose stealing all the color out of her calm, beautifully chiseled and once fantastically beautiful features. And her brown eyes were wise with the years.
Carol suddenly felt chilled and vaguely anxious.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AS it happened Viola Featherstone did not after all make one
of the little dinner-party arranged by Meg to introduce Carol to the district. She telephoned during the week with an excuse which Meg, who answered the call did not divulge to either Carol or Timothy, although when she said “I quite understand” into the mouth-piece she obviously thought that she did understand very clearly. And her eyes were not unsympathetic as she replaced the receiver on its rest.
Viola, widow of a wealthy manufacturer of essential kitchen utensils, had had a fondness for Timothy for quite a number of years now, and sometimes Meg had suspected that it was capable of developing into an even deeper emotion—given the right amount of encouragement...!
Poor Viola, thought Meg, with a fleeting sensation of pity.
But the dinner-party was quite a success despite Mrs. Featherstone’s absence. The vicar, and the vicar’s wife, were delighted to make the acquaintance of Timothy’s new wife, and so were the doctor and his wife, a friendly, sporting kind of pair who had become enamored of one another in his hospital days, and had not long been married themselves. And then there was old Colonel Dennison, who was virtually the squire of the district, and lived in the local manor-house, the local master of the hunt and his lady, and their somewhat leggy daughter, not far advanced in her ‘teens. Carol was glad of the company of one young person at least, despite her dignified married status, and she was also glad that Timothy did his best to support her on this occasion, and that Meg, without making any bones about requesting the right, took her place at the bottom of the long dining-table, in a direct line with Timothy, while Carol was placed on the vicar’ s right hand, and between him and Colonel Dennison.