Beloved Rake

by Anne Hampson

  ‘The Blue Drawing Room?’

  ‘When you’re ready ring for Janet; she’ll show you where it is.’

  She twisted her hands.

  ‘Won’t you take me down?’

  ‘I’m going over to the Dower House immediately, so I won’t be here.’ He picked up a hairbrush; it was a sign of dismissal and she turned into her own room, automatically looking round for, the bell. A hefty rope of twisted silk thread hung by the blue-draped tester bed and she supposed that was it.

  A dream of a bathroom led off her bedroom and she took a shower, then she dressed carefully, but wished she could press her dress, for it was creased from being folded in her suitcase. However, she thought she looked quite presentable when, twenty-five minutes later, she summoned up sufficient courage to tug at the bell-rope.

  Janet appeared and Serra, trying desperately to sound composed, asked to be taken down to the Blue Drawing Room.

  Its magnificence surpassed even that of the great hall and she stood in the middle of the room, gazing first at the lofty ceiling, decorated in white and gold, and then at the walls with their array of paintings by Van Dyck and Turner and many other notable artists. There was Chippendale furniture and French marquetry and Chinese porcelain of the like Serra had never even imagined, let alone seen. She thought of her father’s villa, with its tiled floors and distempered walls and paucity of furniture.

  ‘Well,’ she said with an effort at her innate buoyancy, ‘I’ll have to get used to it, seeing that I’m here to stay.’ She walked about, touching this and that—and it was when she touched a panel in the wall that she uttered a little cry and leapt back. A secret door—She had heard of such things and after the initial shock she stepped into the aperture. Was it a priest-hole? she wondered, shivering a little because it smelled musty and a cobweb touched her cheek. Then she heard voices—coming from the next room, she surmised, putting her ear to the wall.

  ‘But what about Clarice?’ the voice was musical and Serra thought she would have liked it had it not been edged with angry protest.

  ‘To the devil with Clarice 1 I never asked her to marry me.’

  ‘She must be taking it for granted that you will marry her, though—’

  ‘I am married.’ Impatient the interruption from Dirk.

  ‘Everyone expected you to marry her.’

  ‘Then everyone will be disappointed. I’m not tying myself up with a family like that. Serra won’t expect any fuss and attention—she hasn’t been brought up to the idea that her husband must be around all the time.’

  ‘You’re quite mad, Dirk, I always knew it—but it was your father. I did hope you wouldn’t take after him. I had a dreadful time with him.’ A pause. Serra pressed closer to the thin wood panelling. This girl sounds an oddity—’

  ‘She isn’t an oddity; she’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘Normal?’ echoed the musical voice with satire. ‘You call it normal to marry a complete stranger?—and to be quite content to let him carry on as if he were still single?’

  ‘I’ve explained the whole situation leading up to our marriage,’ impatiently from Dirk. ‘In her country the women are not considered. They just do as they’re told. I’ve been very fortunate in finding her.’

  A small silence and then, in a voice of resignation, ‘Well, what’s done is done. She’s in the next room, you say? Then let us go. I’m exceedingly interested in meeting this paragon of wifely submission—What on earth’s that?’

  The door had slammed to on Serra, bringing down a great cloud of dust and cobwebs. She let out a scream and began hammering on the panel.

  ‘Let me out!’ She was terrified, imagining herself dying, slowly, from lack of air and food. Let me out!’ She stopped on hearing voices coming from the drawing-room. The panel slid open and she sagged with relief.

  ‘Serra—what ?’ Dirk stood there, with his mother, immaculate and poised, her face a study of incredulity as Serra, her ashen face covered by dust and grime, made a rapid escape from her prison.

  ‘Normal, did you say?’ murmured Dirk’s mother, looking up at him.

  ‘Your manners!’ he snapped. ‘Serra, what do you mean by going in there!’ He was uncomfortable, but trying to retain his composure. Serra was too relieved at escaping an early death to trouble her head about her unceremonious first encounter with her mother-in-law.

  ‘The—the door shut on m-me.’

  Her husband drew an exasperated breath.

  ‘Why didn’t you sit still! Prowling about like this. You’d better go and do something with yourself!’ He looked as if he would dearly have liked to shake her, she thought, although he still endeavoured to retain some semblance of calm.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ inquired his mother softly, her eyes taking in every detail of Serra’s appearance.

  Dirk glared at her, his face colouring slightly under its tan.

  ‘Don’t be frivolous! Serra—do as I say!’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘The servants,’ interrupted Mrs. Morgan, slanting a look in her son’s direction.

  ‘Lord, yes.’ He gave his wife a glance fit to kill her. ‘Someone will see you if you go upstairs. What made you go in there?’

  ‘I touched a panel,’ she began unhappily, as the full import of her action struck her. Dirk had wanted her to make a good impression on his mother—just to mitigate the shock, as it were. Serra herself had desired to make a good impression, but now she realized she must be an object of ridicule to the elegant woman standing there, her expression now one of amusement rather than surprise. ‘And then—then I heard voices—’ She broke off, touching her mouth with a quivering hand as she saw what her admission meant.

  ‘You listened to our conversation?’ Dirk’s voice was dangerously quiet, his eyes like flint. ‘Is that why you stayed inside?’

  She nodded and hung her head. What must his mother think of her?

  But to her surprise Mrs. Morgan seemed to consider the farce should be terminated and said practically, ‘I’ll see if the coast is clear. I’ll give a little whistle if it is and then she can come up.’ She went out and for a few awful seconds Serra was alone with her husband. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began when he interrupted her.

  ‘You’ll be more than sorry if you continue like this, my girl!’ Coming very close, he wagged a furious finger in her face. ‘I’m just about reaching the end of my patience!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she faltered, ‘you’d have been better with Clarice.’

  ‘There’s no perhaps about it,’ he retorted brutally. ‘I would have been better with Clarice!’

  Serra could think of nothing to say to that, and in any case Mrs. Morgan was letting out a low whistle and, taking Serra by the arm, Dirk propelled her to the door and gave her a final shove which took her into the hall. His mother was at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Quickly,’ she beckoned, and Serra ran up the wide stairway and into the privacy of her room. Mrs. Morgan closed the door on her and went away.

  After washing and changing Serra stood a long time by the dressing-table, most reluctant to go downstairs again. But she would have to do so and at last she went to join her husband and his mother. Serra wondered at once what had been said in her absence, for Dirk appeared to be mollified and his mother actually smiled as she invited Serra to sit down. She’s sorry for me, Serra concluded, taking possession of the chair and sending a sidelong glance at Dirk.

  ‘As the introductions have been made we might as well have tea.’ Mrs. Morgan suggested. ‘And then we can talk over it.’

  ‘I heard you say I was an oddity,’ Serra murmured in an apologetic tone, ‘and now, I suppose, you are convinced of it.’

  ‘If you eavesdrop,’ said Dirk, ‘and eavesdropping appears to be a favourite pastime of yours—then you must be prepared to hear unflattering comments about yourself.’ He sat down after having rung the bell.

  ‘Don’t be so heartless, Dirk,’ admonished his mother, smiling as she was rewarded w
ith a grateful glance from her daughter-in-law. ‘I’m sorry, dear, that I said that, because you’re not an oddity at all. In fact, I’m sure you and I shall get along fine together.’

  Yes, Mrs. Morgan was sorry for her. Serra frowned at the idea because she did not want pity. Dirk was regarding his mother curiously, her words appearing to surprise him.

  ‘I sincerely hope we will.’ Serra glanced towards the door as it opened and Janet stood there.

  ‘We’ll have tea, Janet, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The girl’s eyes flickered from Dirk to his mother, as if she would discover what was going on.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ invited Mrs. Morgan when the door had closed behind the maid. ‘What part of Greece do you come from?’

  ‘Athens—Well, just outside.’

  ‘Your mother came from England, Dirk tells me. What part?’

  ‘The Midlands, but I don’t know where that is.’

  ‘You have no relatives here?’

  ‘I might have, but they’ll be very distant ones.’ She met her mother-in-law’s gaze, her eyes wide and faintly unhappy. ‘Mother never mentioned any cousins, or anything.’

  A tiny sigh came from Dirk. He looked immeasurably bored, and Serra felt he would rather be anywhere but here, with his wife and his mother.

  ‘You’re going to find our way of life a little strange at first,’ Mrs. Morgan was saying. ‘But you’ll soon get used to it. My daughter will take you under her wing and you’ll soon make friends.’

  A brighter expression spread over Serra’s lovely face. ‘How old is Jenny?’ she inquired, and Mrs. Morgan gave a little start.

  ‘Has Dirk not told you all about us?’ Automatically Serra shook her head; Mrs. Morgan looked at her son and murmured admonishingly, ‘That was remiss of you.’

  ‘We haven’t had much opportunity of talking together,’ Serra told her hastily in defence of her husband. ‘You see, Charles was there. He did tell me a little about you, and this house, and he said Dirk had a sister called Jenny.’ She stopped, wondering why Dirk was glowering at her. But his mother laughed.

  ‘What a priceless situation! Dirk, you’ve done some mad things in your life, but this is just about the limit. Why did you allow him to persuade you, child? Surely you could have done better for yourself.’

  ‘Better?’ Serra’s big eyes became wide and incredulous. ‘I must be the luckiest girl on earth!’

  A dry look now from her mother-in-law.

  ‘Talking of persuasion,’ intervened Dirk before his mother could return an answer to that, ‘if Serra is honest she’ll admit that it was she who persuaded me.’

  Absently his wife nodded.

  ‘I did—it was because I wanted to be free.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘Like English girls. Dirk promised I could do as I liked. We both thought it was a good arrangement—’ She threw a doubtful glance at her husband. ‘But now—now I’m very much afraid you’re regretting it?’ Her eyes appealed, urging him to deny this, and in spite of himself Dirk had to laugh.

  ‘Not yet—not quite. But if you get into one more scrape then I shall regret it.’

  ‘Scrape?’ Mrs. Morgan was interested; her blue eyes twinkled and it would seem she was thoroughly enjoying this little scene.

  ‘I got drunk,’ blurted out Serra, incurably honest.

  ‘You—?’

  ‘Only because she’s not used to having a drink,’ put in Dirk hastily, suddenly stern again. ‘Do you have to confess everything?’ he demanded. ‘You seem quite determined to shock my mother.’

  ‘My dear Dirk,’ said his mother drily, ‘you yourself have long since made me immune to shocks.’ She turned to Serra. ‘Tell me all about it? How did you come to get drunk?’

  After an uncertain glance at Dirk Serra obliged, amazed at the equanimity with which her narrative was received. Even Dirk had lost his ill-humour, it seemed, for he too was regarding her in some amusement.

  ‘I presume,’ commented Mrs. Morgan presently, ‘that this was not the only scrape you got into—not by the way Dirk spoke, that is?’

  ‘There was the market,’ Serra told her. ‘I lost Dirk and Charles and they were searching for me for two hours. Dirk was not very pleased about it.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’ Mrs. Morgan looked at her son, seeming to be seeing him through different eyes. ‘Do I recall your saying, a short while ago when you came over to the Dower House, that you wouldn’t even know you were married?’ He made no answer and she continued, ‘Tell me more about the market, Serra?’

  A little shamefacedly Serra mentioned her purchases, whereupon Dirk interrupted to say,

  ‘Those Arabs saw her coming. Such a conglomeration of rubbish I have never before seen, nor do I ever wish to see again. I made her leave it in the hotel bedroom.’

  Serra’s face creased into a reluctant smile.

  ‘I’d never had so much money to spend, you see.’

  The tea was brought in and they had it on a small table by the window. The sun was bright, shining on the lawn and fountain and on the distant hills. Mrs. Morgan asked more questions—about Serra’s home and her father and even about the boy she should have married, for Dirk had mentioned this in his initial explanation to his mother. Serra spoke, openly and naively, her heart lightening all the while. Mrs. Morgan was nice, and that was such a relief. Serra only hoped Jenny would be just as amicable as her mother, although Serra had not forgotten Dirk’s warning that, at first, Jenny might not appear to like her. And this, she supposed, was because Jenny was very close to her brother—so Charles had said—and she would probably not care for the idea of Dirk’s marrying someone from abroad.

  Jenny had been out at the time Dirk went over to the Dower House, but she arrived home later and, being told the news by her mother, who had left the Grange immediately after tea, she promptly got into her car and drove through the park to her brother’s home.

  Dirk had been showing his wife round the house, but all the while she had the impression that he was inordinately bored with his task. Serra went about with him, wide-eyed and wondering how anyone could need so many rooms. There was the Yellow Drawing Room and the Green Saloon and the China Room and the Sculpture Gallery and numerous others.

  ‘Don’t you have anywhere to sit?’ she murmured, revealing her decision that all was far too vast and treasure-filled for real comfort.

  ‘Sit?’ They were in the breakfast room and Serra was eyeing the silver on the sideboard. ‘I hadn’t noticed we were short of chairs.’

  She laughed a little deprecatingly.

  ‘I meant—haven’t you a cosy room—you know, all crumpled-cushiony and dented chairs and spilling logs. I’ve seen rooms like that on the English films we used to have.’

  His eyes lit with amusement.

  ‘You want to slum it at times, I take it? Yes, we do have such an apartment.

  It was situated on the south front of the Grange, overlooking the soft wooded slopes of Cranbourne Chase with, closer to, the lush vegetation of the parkland surrounding the Grange. Yet despite its obvious comforts—with its big couch and enormous easy chairs, and its scattered rugs and wide stone fireplace—it still possessed the same air of luxury as the rest of the house. Here was ease, yet dignity, comfort, yet detachment.

  ‘I like it very much.’ Serra breathed a tiny sigh of satisfaction as she stood and looked around. Then she lifted her face and met her husband’s gaze, which she had sensed had been fixed on her since the moment of entering this lovely graceful apartment. ‘You have a very beautiful house, Dirk, and I don’t know how I come to be here in it.’ She shook her head; the shining hair sprang with life and freshness on to her cheeks and then settled, a glorious crown for the classical face of a beautiful Greek kore. ‘It’s a dream and a miracle, and I keep thinking I’ll wake up and find myself married to Phivos.’

  To her surprise he frowned darkly at this and she slid her head sideways; an interrogating gesture but one that was in
ordinately attractive too, and a strange expression crossed her husband’s face before he said, with quite unnecessary abruptness, she thought, ‘You must forget Phivos. This is your life from now on.’

  A small hesitation and then,

  ‘You’re not sorry you married me, are you, Dirk?’

  Surprising her again, he ruffled her hair in a playful gesture.

  ‘I’ve said not yet. I’ve also threatened I would be sorry if you didn’t keep out of scrapes. What made you go into that chimney?’

  ‘Was it a chimney? I thought it was a priest hole.’

  ‘It would have been some sort of hiding-place at one time or another, but it’s also part of the chimney.’ His lips curved in amusement. ‘What a sight you looked! Good thing you weren’t seen by any of the servants; they’d have talked about it until you were ninety.’

  She had gone red, but at that moment a maid came into the room to say Dirk’s sister was in the drawing room.

  Serra cast a rather frightened glance at her husband. ‘Will your mother have told her of my—my escapade?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Most unlikely.’ A pause and a smile as they both turned to leave the room which Serra knew she would use more than any other in the house. ‘You’ve made a hit with my mother. I congratulate you, for she had high hopes of marrying me off to some wealthy heiress.’

  ‘She’s nice.’ They were passing through the hall, making for the high oaken door leading into the room where Serra had first met her mother-in-law in such humiliating circumstances only a few hours earlier.

  ‘I agree. Mother and I understand one another and, consequently, we agree about most things. She’s resigned to you, as I knew she would be without much delay.’

  ‘Charles told me you were very close to your sister,’ she began, her heart thumping as they drew nearer to the enormous door behind which her sister-in-law was waiting. ‘Is that why she might not like me?’

  ‘We are close—though heaven knows why. Jenny’s disapproval of my wicked ways has been evident since the moment she was old enough to know exactly what they meant.’ He opened the door and a second later Serra was shaking hands with Jenny, whose blue eyes, piercing like those of her mother, took in every detail of the flawless features before moving almost imperceptibly over Serra’s whole figure.