by Susan Barrie
Meg certainly did make some remark before the seating arrangements were arrived at to the effect that Carol would no doubt prefer her to carry on acting the position of hostess, for the time being at any rate—seeing that she, Carol, was, to say the least, a trifle inexperienced, and might be unduly nervous if too much responsibility was suddenly thrust on her. And Timothy said nothing at all, but he probably thought that Meg was acting with her customary wisdom.
Carol, in short, had to grow up at least a little more, and to exhibit some symptoms of reliability and—perhaps! —worthiness before the heavy responsibilities of a hostess in her own house could devolve upon her.
The M.F.H.’s daughter was taking up art, and she chatted blithely upon this subject to Carol in the drawing-room after dinner. The doctor was very anxious to know whether she rode, and whether Timothy had yet procured her a suitable mount, and the vicar’ s wife was anxious to rope her in for the village fete in a few week’s time, and got her to promise to help dress one of the stalls—although Carol was secretly appalled by the idea of being thrust into any prominence. Old Colonel Dennison paid her some charming compliments which caused her to blush rather wildly for a few seconds, and then aroused her interest and abated her shyness by retailing some of his early army experiences and recounting little amusing anecdotes which caused her to laugh heartily with him after a time, so that on the whole she felt when it was over that she had quite enjoyed the evening.
Meg played bridge assiduously with the vicar, Mrs. Dennison and the doctor’ s wife, and Timothy and the doctor had a great deal to talk about and apparently to interest them in discussing Timothy’s travels and his efforts after big game. And if anyone thought it in the least strange that Timothy should have produced so suddenly—almost out of a hat, as it were! —such a young and obviously unsophisticated if unusually attractive wife, and that Meg still ruled the roost in her old home, then they were discreet enough not even to discuss the matter afterwards with any one else. For Timothy was popular in his own countryside, and his affairs after all were his own. And despite her shyness the girl made a pleasing impression. Everyone thought she was rather sweet—old Colonel Dennison, with his cavalier instincts, thought she was quite delightful!
The following morning at breakfast Meg announced that she was quite pleased with the way the dinner-party had gone off; and she certainly radiated unusual good humor towards Carol. She referred to the doctor’ s suggestion that if she did not already ride she must learn to do so, and, when her sister-in-law admitted that horse-riding had been included in her programme of studies at Selbourne, promptly urged Timothy to set about obtaining for her a suitable mount. She owned a couple of thoroughbred mares herself, as well as a promising chestnut filly, but apparently was not anxious to place one of these at Carol’ s disposal, although she did offer to lend her riding garments “until you can get fitted out with some for yourself,” she added. “I’ll give you the address of my tailor in Dulverton, and I think it would be a good idea if Timothy were to take you over to Stiles Farm one afternoon this week to have a look at a beautiful little bay mare which I know they are anxious to sell and which should carry you quite nicely. ”
She cast a professional glance at Carol’s small, slim, capable hands, and at her light build, and nodded her head, as if she was perfectly satisfied with the notion.
“Yes; I think she would carry you beautifully. And Joe Dibbins is sufficiently hard up to do more than meet you over the sale,” she informed her brother shrewdly.
“Thanks for the tip,” he replied, smiling slightly. “But I haven’t seen Carol on the back of a horse yet, and I’m not certain what her prowess is.”
Carol, who adored horses, but was secretly a little afraid of anything particularly high-spirited, warned him not to expect too much, but Meg waved a careless hand as if dismissing any possible doubts on the subject.
“Of course she must ride, like the rest of us,” she said. “And I do think she ought to have lessons in driving, too,” she continued, obviously well into her stride, “as apparently she has never handled a car, and if she is going to depend on either you or me or Judson to drive her everywhere she wants to go—even if it’ s just a simple shopping expedition!—then it’s going to be slightly awkward. What do you say, Carol?” she demanded, looking at the girl as if the matter was one of extreme and instant importance, and obviously expecting her ready compliance.
“Of course,” Carol replied quietly, although she had travelled so little in cars in her lifetime that the idea of being suddenly called upon to drive one was vaguely alarming to her just then. “If you think I ought to do so,” she added.
“My dear girl,” Meg responded with a cool, amused smile, “I honestly don’ t know anyone who can’ t drive a car—or, at least, has never attempted. It wouldn’ t matter very much if we were living in a town, but living where we do live it’s our only means of transport. And Judson is not a full-time chauffeur, you know. He’s actually a chauffeur-gardener-handyman.”
“Quite so,” Timothy murmured smoothly, lighting a cigarette. “But one thing at a time, my dear Meg, and just now you were discussing horses. In a few moments you’ll be suggesting that Carol enrols for a course of household management before you entrust the reins of housekeeping to her! ”
Carol could almost feel Meg stiffen, and a queer little glint appeared in her eyes.
‘‘Well, perhaps after all, that might not be such a very bad idea,” she murmured, with an effort at casualness. “Assuming that Carol at the moment knows nothing at all about running a home! ”
Carol sat suddenly erect at the breakfast-table.
“I think that’s a really splendid idea,” she said, speaking quietly, but obviously intensely earnest. “And I really would love it—if it could be arranged...” Her eyes met Timothy’s, who were twinkling a little, and then noticed the high spot of color beginning to burn on Meg’s cheekbones. Do you think it could?”
“And what about all that domestic science stuff you learned at Selbourne and which you once boasted to me about?” Timothy demanded teasingly. “I thought you were already highly competent! ”
Carol was about to explain that her ‘competence” was not of the order of Meg’s—and she did genuinely admire the apparently effortless manner in which her husband’s sister organized the untroubled and easily day-to-day regime which prevailed at Brown Furrows when he leaned forward and patted her fingers lightly, giving her at the same time a highly encouraging smile.
“That’ s all right, my dear! ” he said. “Don’ t worry about fences of that sort until you get to them, and in the meantime Meg is most anxious to see you astride a horse. So the present pressing need is to get you kitted out with something which will fit you slightly better than Meg’s reach-me-downs, and which you can wear for the purpose. That being the case a visit to Dulverton is indicated, and we might as well go this morning.”
And that was how it came about that, a few hours later, Carol found herself paying her first visit to Dulverton and being measured for buff-riding breeches and a black coat, as well as some more serviceable jodhpurs, and acquiring half a dozen white stocks and a bowler hat and beautiful polished riding-boots. The jodhpurs were for everyday use, the more conventional outfit for the occasions when she attended the local meets—if she ever did! But she was almost certain that her sister-in-law would insist on that sort of thing, and Timothy saw to it that she was in any case suitably equipped.
Afterwards they drove through the main street of Dulverton, which was narrow and crowded with traffic and had the air of having existed from a decidedly remote age. The Red Lion, which was the main hostelry, provided them with lunch, and afterwards they sat in the lounge drinking their coffee and Carol admired the genuine Tudor furnishings and panelling, and thought how much very nicer this sort of thing was than the organized sun-like existence she had led for so long at Selbourne.
She was always happy when she was alone with Timothy— blissfully, almost c
ompletely happy as soon as she got him away from the house and the strange, repressive atmosphere created by his sister Meg. Somehow, even when he smiled at her, if Meg was present, it was not quite the same, but when he was seated close beside her on a leather-covered chesterfield in a quiet hotel lounge, and she sipped the attractive emerald-colored liqueur he had ordered for her—although she didn’ t particularly like it, for she thought liqueurs were sickly—a sensation of unidentifiable but quite extraordinary contentment stole over her, and she wanted to lie back and close her eyes and savor the pleasure of the moment in very much the same way one savored the pleasure of stolen fruit— whole-heartedly, but with the knowledge that it couldn’t last.
Watching her, Timothy was surprised by her expression of almost rapt enjoyment, and her ability to maintain silence when conversation was completely unnecessary. Young though she was—and despite all the efforts of Delphine and the perfection of her little tweed suit, with its heathery fleck, and the attempts of a London hairdresser to do sophisticated things to her pale gold hair, it was her youth that was still the most striking thing about her— she had at times a demure composure which was a restfulness about her which appealed to him a good deal. It was not necessary when taking her out to be endlessly entertaining—even to attempt to be entertaining. She found her entertainment in the small things around her, the unusual, the unaccustomed things, and her delight in them was so obvious—her pleasure so transparent—that at moments she succeeded in touching him greatly.
The sight of the color coming and going in her face with the naturalness of a fresh spring wind—there was no doubt about the springtime-like quality of her looks—her eyes, which contained few secrets, but were quick to betray her emotions, drew his gaze very constantly to her. She did not know it, but much of the pleasure for him of this outing together—these few hours away from Brown Furrows and Meg, where she seemed to go into a kind of shell, and he often puzzled over the change in her demeanor when his sister was present—was gained from a kind of delight in watching her. And like her he savored it to the full, until the old-fashioned clock on the oak mantelshelf chimed the hour of three, and he decided that they had better go.
“Now that we’ve got you something to wear we’d better go and interview Meg’s horse dealer,” he said, as they passed through the hall. “Nothing like striking while the iron is hot, and she’s almost bound to keep us up to it...” He paused beside his car, about to open the door for Carol, when the big silver-grey luxury vehicle which came creeping up behind it ever so lightly touched his bumpers.
“Well, well! ” said Viola Featherstone, attractively enthroned behind the big wheel, and smiling at them a little oddly. “If it isn’ t the happy honeymooners! How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Tim? Or would you prefer that I didn’t see you? Pretend that I haven’ t, shall we say? If you would, just get in and drive away, and I give you my word I’ll understand...”
“Don’t be so absurd, Viola.” Timothy quietly shut the car door upon his wife, and went round to speak to Viola. Her cousin, Brian Winslow, was lounging in the seat beside her, wearing flannels and a blazer, and Viola herself was a sight for sore eyes in the creamiest of cream tailored slacks and a navy-blue and white jumper bearing her monogram above the pocket. Her red lips had the kind of upward lift at the corners which Cleopatra must often have made use of and found valuable, and her mysterious dark eyes were even darker and more mysterious than on the first occasion when Carol had found them regarding her enigmatically, for the very good reason that she was giving away no secrets, and, as a matter of fact, seldom did.
“Why didn’t you come to our dinner party last night?” Timothy enquired of her.
“My dear man, I simply couldn’ t manage it! ”
“Such a very full programme?”
“Completely and absolutely full! ”
“How nice,” Timothy commented, a little drily. “It was good of you to ask us to your dance on the twenty-fifth, but we couldn’t manage that, either.”
“Naturally not,” she drawled, smiling through the windscreen at Carol, “when you are on your honeymoon! And allow me to congratulate you, Timothy, on choosing such a young and pretty wife. We have, I believe, met on one previous occasion?”
“In London, yes,” he agreed.
“And you introduced her to me as your ward! ”
“She was my ward when I introduced her to you.”
He could feel her eyes on his face, dark, intense, searching and a little hostile, but she continued to smile, as if that at least was no effort.
“Quite like an old-fashioned storybook, isn’t it?” she commented. “Young and pretty ward marries handsome—but not so young—guardian! Romance with a capital R....” A motor-horn hooted behind them, and a policeman had started to survey them from across the narrow street, so she added in a tone of greater hurry: “Come out to my place and have cocktails, will you? There are several people coming in.... Do Timothy!... I’m dying to get really acquainted with your wife....”
Timothy hesitated, but the policeman, after looking ostentatiously at his watch, was beginning to move forward to the edge of the curb, and the motor-horn hooted again.
All right,” he said. “At least, we’re going your way—I’ll speak to Carol.” He got in beside the girl and started up the car, and they threaded their way along the narrow High Street. “Mrs. Featherstone doesn’t like refusals....”
Carol had already gathered that, and she said “Yes,” immediately, that she would love it. But she was not at all sure that she would love it. She would rather have gone quietly home with Timothy, even if it did mean meeting Meg and being sent forth again to test herself astride a horse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VIOLA FEATHERSTONE, however, had no intention of accepting any refusal, and as soon as they were clear of the town she nosed her car out from behind them and started to lead the way along the wide, white Westmorland road.
The big, opulent silver streak flashed ahead, doing a steady sixty miles an hour on the straight stretch, and deigning to slow down only a little when they got into the wilder country and narrower lanes. Timothy followed at the same rate of speed, but exhibiting far better driving. Carol, watching his brown hands on the wheel, was full of admiration for the way he negotiated sudden bends and hair-pin twists, and wondered by what miracle it was that Viola Featherstone kept her own car intact, and whether she was merely hoping to impress them—or, at any rate, Timothy.
When they finally reached the house she realized at once that here was something more calculated to arouse feelings of envy, if the big silver car had not already done that. It was a white house, long and low—not old, but built within the last decade or so. A beautiful, ornate house, unlike the solid houses of the district, surrounded by exquisitely-kept gardens, and approached by a perfectly tended drive.
When Carol alighted at the foot of a flight of steps which led up into a broad veranda running the entire length of the house, she thought at once that it was a highly appropriate setting for such an exotic mistress. The veranda was overhung by trailing vines, and late-flowering roses scented the air. The pavement was cool, white and tessellated, and there were comfortable basket chairs and little wicker tables scattered about it.
Viola led the way into the drawing-room, which was dim, and green, and exquisite. The carpet was like a. carpet of green moss overflowing into every nook and corner, and the long curtains falling
before the windows were of wistaria mauve brocade. There was also a gleaming cascade of silvery net in front of the windows, looped up in imitation of diminutive waterfalls, and the arm-chairs and couches were covered in pearl-grey and leaf-green brocade. There were only a few flowers, but they were arranged with skill and repeated the colors of the furnishings—deep purple dahlias and spiky mauve chrysanthemums.
Viola suggested to Carol that she might like some tea as it was still quite early in the afternoon, and having ordered it, departed to change her dress. When she returned she
was sombrely clothed in clinging black velvet, which trailed a little behind her and fitted closely to her wrists, and her gleaming black hair was wound in a coronet of plaits about her head. Her complexion was dead white, but her lips flamed like a peony.
She smiled upon both the men. Her cousin, Brian, was a pleasantly self-assured young man, and his glances strayed often to Carol, whose youthful appearance was thrown into greater prominence by contrast with the sophistication of her hostess, and the girl’s natural shyness and reticence plainly constituted something new in his experience— accustomed to anything but shyness and reticence in the world in which he moved.
It was a world chiefly concerned with art and fashion-shows and the reporting of feminine features at which, apparently, he had recently started to excel. He sat beside Carol on the veranda after tea, while her husband entertained his hostess, and told her about the promising new commission he had accepted, which was to take him to Paris in the New Year. He was obviously quite delighted with himself and his abilities, but he had a slightly naive way of expressing himself which appealed to Carol.