A House for Sharing

by Isobel Chace

  She smiled briefly.

  “I shall get Jacob’s room ready for Félicité—things like that,” she replied.

  He made a face.

  “Not very exciting, in fact?” he suggested.

  She shook her head.

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” she began.

  “But you would rather be doing something else?” he pursued the point. “Like getting your face done, or something?”

  She sighed slightly.

  “I don’t have my face done!” she said.

  He smiled.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologised, and he sounded as though he meant it. “I didn’t mean to put my foot in it again. But I’m right in thinking that you’d rather have something else to do, aren’t I?”

  “Not exactly,” she said thoughtfully. She was trying to be honest with him. “I suppose like everyone else I’d like to do something important, but I’m quite content with keeping house for Jacob. At least I was. I don’t like being excluded from everything that’s going on—I don’t seem as necessary to him as I was.”

  “But you’ve had jobs away from home, haven’t you?” he asked her.

  She nodded.

  “They weren’t very important jobs,” she said wryly. “Is that what you think I ought to do?” she asked. “Get a job?”

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “No,” he said decidedly. “I don’t want you any different—prickles and all! I rather enjoy coming home and finding you here, having someone to spar with and to argue with. I wouldn’t change anything.”

  So that was how he felt about it. He tore her into little pieces and broke up her relationship with her stepfather, and he “rather enjoyed” it.

  “But you prefer Félicité really,” she said positively.

  His eyes glinted darkly.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed. “She’s very flattering to a man’s ego!”

  Oh yes, she would be that all right! And it wouldn’t be difficult with someone like Rupert. It wouldn’t be difficult at all to relax and let him take complete command of one. It would even be rather fun— She turned her back on the thought.

  “You’d better go,” she said, “or you’ll be late.”

  She heard him go whistling up the stairs and a few seconds later come down again, slamming the front door shut after him. The house seemed suddenly very quiet and lonely, the more so when she went upstairs and found the bathroom immaculately tidy after his bath and even Jacob’s room left orderly and neat, with not a single shirt left on the floor for her to pick up. With a sigh she went over to the bed and began to strip it down so that she could get it ready for Félicité.

  Yamina was obviously intrigued by the thought that someone was coming to stay. She worked very hard, making Jacob’s room as pretty as possible, even cutting some flowers from the next-door garden so that Rosamund could do some sort of arrangement for the bedside table.

  Rosamund wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but they had managed to work out some way of getting their meaning across to one another despite the fact that they scarcely had a word in common. Vivid pictures would be drawn in the air and fantastic pantomimes in mime would end up with the requisite article being brought, or with something being done. Rosamund even began to hear some of the gossip of the small town, and she learned who had offended whom by not recognising them in the street, or who was expecting a baby and when, and she liked to know these things, for they made her feel a member (if only a temporary one) of the community.

  Yamina went home at lunch-time, and Rosamund made a few preparations for the evening meal and then made an inspection of the little house to see that everything was as nice as it could be. It was almost tea-time when she went upstairs to change her dress and to make herself ready for the Frenchwoman’s arrival. Unaccountably she still felt tired and a faint headache threatened as it had all morning, made worse by the slight feeling of nervousness that she had about entertaining Félicité. She was not an easy guest and Rosamund didn’t like her, but Louis would be there, and she was clinging to the hope that his easy charm would help the evening along. She wished that she could feel even the least bit sorry for the Frenchwoman, but she couldn’t; all she could feel was a vague, nagging distaste.

  She chose a dress that she had not yet worn in Tunisia, deceptively simple and yet clever. It had been made from a pattern that she had always liked and she had made it herself. It was this latter fact that had made her hesitate to choose it, for she was quite sure that Félicité would never have been seen out in a home-made dress, but it didn’t look homemade, not even when she examined it closely in the looking-glass, and it was quite one of the most flattering frocks that she had in her wardrobe.

  As usual when she had finished dressing, she paused at the window in the salon, gazing out at the view that never failed to please and awe her. The further mountains were not really visible in the heat, but because she knew they were there she fancied she could just make out their outlines. She was still staring out into the distance when Félicité arrived.

  Although tea was not a great success, Félicité was pleased with her room and made no objections to the plans that had been made for her entertainment for the evening. She was obviously pleased when she heard that Rupert was coming to dinner, and even made one or two polite enquiries about Louis Dornant.

  “How clever of you to find him!” she said with amused malice. “But then I imagine that most men are attracted by your rather obvious good looks. Rupert is different, of course, he likes a bit of subtlety as well in his women, as you’ve probably noticed?”

  Rosamund didn’t really find Félicité very subtle at all, but she could hardly say so, and so she smiled and nodded and left it at that. It was odd, because she didn’t really even like Rupert, and yet she couldn’t help being disappointed that he should like the Frenchwoman. She wasn’t good enough for him—in any way! She was chic and social, but she didn’t have any heart, and somehow, Rosamund thought Rupert would need someone who had quite a lot! Not that it was any of her business and so she thought resolutely about something else. Then, in a surprisingly short time, it was dinner time and Louis arrived, looking very French and handsome in his dinner-jacket so that even Félicité began to sit up and take notice, a fact of which the young Frenchman was thoroughly aware.

  He had very good manners, Rosamund noticed, and was doubly glad to count him as her friend. She sat back in her chair and idly listened as he chatted to Félicité in French, making her feel at home, but she knew that he didn’t really like her by the fleeting face he had pulled behind her back which had very nearly given her the giggles.

  When Rupert arrived Rosamund excused herself and went to make the final preparations for dinner.

  It was Louis who came down to help her. She could hear him whistling under his breath as he loped down the marble steps and walked briskly across the patio.

  “Want me to light the candles?” he asked her.

  She nodded gratefully.

  “Would you mind?”

  He bowed gracefully to her.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure!” he teased her lightly.

  She laughed.

  “Idiot!” she chided him.

  He looked suddenly serious.

  “It seems to me you could do with some help,” he growled. “How often are you afflicted with that terrible woman upstairs?”

  Rosamund giggled.

  “Oh, Louis! Do you dislike her too?” she demanded. Then she stopped laughing and sighed instead. “I wish Rupert did!” she said wistfully.

  Louis touched the nape of her neck with one finger.

  “I think you take what he says far too seriously!” he said stoutly. “Why don’t you listen to my nonsense instead?”

  Rosamund’s eyes opened wide.

  “But I do, Louis!” she protested.

  But he shook his head.

  “No, you don’t my dear. It’s just as well you don’t at that! Or my girl wou
ld have reason to be jealous! What else do you want me to do?”

  He found his way easily around the kitchen, though he was not as neat and decided in his movements as Rupert was and he kept taking things away from her before she was ready and having to bring them back with an apologetic smile.

  “I’ll fetch the others,” he said at last, and a few seconds later he came downstairs again with Rupert and Félicité and they all went in to dinner.

  It was Rosamund who noticed the favour of jasmine that had been carefully placed by her own place and Felicity's. Her eyes went first to Louis, and then, as he slowly shook his head, to Rupert.

  “They’re beautiful!” she breathed. She picked up her own favour and softly fingered the flowers of jasmine that had been patiently speared on to the bound pine-needles, making it look almost like a carnation. She was pleased out of all proportion to the size of the gift. It was something so very much of the country and she loved it. With care she fixed it on to the front of her dress and then turned to see what Félicité had done with hers.

  But that lady was busy tearing her favour to pieces to see how it was made.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ROSAMUND was sitting in the only comfortable chair reading a book when her stepfather came home. She looked up and smiled at him, very glad to see him and to have him, for once, all to herself.

  “Had a good time?” she asked him.

  He looked very dirty. Black oil had stained his hands and the odd smear had landed on his face and the back of his neck, defying all his attempts at removing it. But he looked happy, and she was glad of that; satisfyingly and completely happy.

  “It was grand,” he said simply. His face creased into a simple smile of happiness. “I’m afraid I got rather grubby, though, so I thought I’d call in and have a bit of a clean-up before I reported back to the office.”

  Rosamund chuckled.

  “That might be a good idea!” she agreed. “Shall I run a bath for you?”

  He gave her a slightly embarrassed look.

  “That would be very nice.”

  It was pleasant going into his room and laying out a fresh set of clothing for him to wear. Rosamund, noted with pleased approval that every sign of Félicité’s short occupation had completely gone already. She had been rather shocked when she had come into the room earlier to find traces of make-up all over the dressing-table and a mass of dirty tissues thrown idly on to the bed for somebody else to clear up. It had added the finishing touch to the distasteful picture that she had formed of her guest and which the visit had done nothing to dispel. But already there was nothing left of her in the room, not even the smell of her perfume, for Yamina had left the window wide open, and all that lingered was a faint odour of insect flit that she had hopefully sprayed everywhere in a vain attempt to keep out the flies.

  Félicité had not been an easy guest. She had been frankly scornful of the water-heating system and had left the pilot-light burning most of the night, despite Rosamund’s warning that the rubber tubing was apt to leak. In fact it had been Rosamund who had turned it off at four in the morning. Startled into wakefulness by a sudden change in the wind that had set the windows rattling and had brought a first spattering of rain to the district, she had begun to wonder whether the doors were properly locked and had gone down to see. Coming back upstairs, she had seen the faint glow of light and, smothering a sigh of irritation at Félicité’s carelessness, had gone into the bathroom and shut off the gas.

  The irritation had grown in the morning. Yamina had been late coming in because the baby had spent a restless night. To make up she had done her best to rush through the work, but at twelve o’clock it had still been impossible to do Félicité’s room as she hadn’t yet made any attempt to get up.

  At last, not without reluctance, Rosamund had asked her to stay on for lunch.

  “It won’t be anything much, I’m afraid,” she had apologised. “I haven’t had time to go out to do the shopping yet and there isn’t very much in the house.”

  Félicité had looked up from painting her nails, her eyes inscrutable.

  “Anything will do,” she had said indifferently.

  But anything had not done. Faced with an omelette and bread and cheese, she had announced that she was ravenously hungry and had gone on to remark that as Rupert’s housekeeper Rosamund could hardly consider herself a conspicuous success.

  Rosamund’s eyes had opened very wide.

  “I hadn’t really considered myself in Rupert’s employment,” she had said mildly.

  Félicité had smiled.

  “Hadn’t you?” she had asked, apparently surprised. “I thought that was the arrangement—that you would do the housekeeping in return for Rupert’s hospitality. At least that is what he told me—” Her voice had drifted off into silence. “So awkward for the poor dear really,” she had added. “It makes it so difficult for him to see any of his old friends alone!”

  Somehow Rosamund had swallowed down the storm of temper that had risen within her.

  “Oh well,” she had said quite lightly, “it won’t be for any longer than I can help!”

  Félicité had looked pleased.

  “No,” she had agreed, “you don’t get on very well together, do you?”

  Put in words like that, Rosamund hadn’t liked it at all. Her relationship with Rupert was her business—and his, but it certainly wasn’t Félicité’s!

  All in all she had been glad to see the Frenchwoman go, even if it had meant carrying her case out for her herself and that last barbed jibe:

  “Cheer up, dear, Rupert is counting the days too, you know!” It had hurt because Felicity was probably in a position to know.

  Rosamund turned on the hot tap and lit the gas, waiting for the water to run hot before she dropped the plug into its socket. Jacob at least was very happy and she would not have it any other way.

  He came in now and watched the steaming water as it trickled into the bath with satisfaction.

  “You don’t know what a joy it is to see hot water!” he exclaimed. “One night without it and it becomes a luxury! I can hardly wait to get into it!”

  Rosamund laughed, turning the tap on full, though the water remained a maddening trickle.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to!” she observed dryly.

  Her stepfather hugged her to him.

  “Ah well,” he said philosophically, “to travel hopefully is better than to arrive.” He kissed her on the cheek. “It’s nice to be back with you,” he said.

  She hugged him back.

  “Back to dumb beauty?” she asked him.

  He laughed.

  “Is that what Harringford calls you?” he asked. “I don’t think he really thinks you are so dumb. I think he thinks you’re wasted trailing after me. He’s right too,” he added seriously. “I’m growing into a selfish old man.”

  Rosamund thought she would remember the peeling blue paint on the water pipes that straggled across the wall for as long as she lived.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel, Jacob,” she pleaded with him.

  But her stepfather was unexpectedly firm.

  “It isn’t possible,” he said briefly. “Besides, it’s much better for you not to have to live permanently in the atmosphere of a hotel. We’re much better off here.”

  But were they? Rosamund brushed the unbidden tears out of her eyes and faced him.

  “But we’re not really welcome here, Dad!” she insisted.

  He looked sad, and then he smiled the smile that neither she nor her mother had ever been able to resist, the smile of a small boy seeking for approval.

  “It isn’t really so bad, is it?” he asked.

  She turned off the tap and dropped the bathmat on to the floor.

  “No, of course it isn’t,” she said.

  When Jacob came back to the salon he looked his familiar clean, slightly diffident self. And yet there was a change in him. In so short a time the sun had burned his skin and the ruddy tan made h
im look younger and somehow more capable.

  “We’ve got the perfect site out there for the experiment,” he enthused. “Rolling sand-dunes that go right down to the sea. Perfect! And the accommodation is pretty comfortable too. You know, my dear, I felt pretty proud to be part of the team. I think we’re doing good work!”

  “Do you think it’s going to be a success?” she asked him.

  He shrugged his shoulders, but the action wasn’t one of indifference.

  “It’s got to be,” he said, and there was a new hardness in his voice that went with this new toughness that she thought she detected in him. “It’s got to be!” he repeated.

  He stared moodily out of the window for a long moment and then he started pulling on his tropical lightweight coat.

  “But we need to get moving if we’re to get the trees planted before the rain comes. There’s a hold-up in the deliveries of the stuff. They say they keep sending messages down to quicken things up a bit, but nothing seems to happen. I think I’ll go down to the office straight away and see what’s going on.”

  Rosamund went with him down the stairs.

  “Is Rupert responsible for sending the stuff out to them?” she asked.

  Her stepfather looked first surprised and then horrified.

  “Good heavens, no!” he exclaimed. “Whatever made you ask that?”

  Rosamund flushed slightly.

  “I just wondered,” she said. Of course she might have known that Rupert would have had nothing to do with inefficiency. It was one of his more depressing characteristics.

  Her stepfather grinned.

  “I’ll give him a good talking to all the same, though, just for you,” he promised as he got into his car. “It’ll be interesting to see the results.”

  He drove the car almost too quickly down the narrow street, scattering the small boys who were playing ball against the walls of the houses. Rosamund stood in the doorway watching the white dust rise and then settle again behind him and then she went into the house, smiling. She didn’t really believe that he would dare to tell Rupert off—she couldn’t quite believe that anyone would!—but it would have been rather fun all the same.