by Anne Hampson
‘How do you do, Serra.’ The handclasp was firm, but the eyes which were now raised to her brother’s face held an expression reminiscent of that which Serra had sensed lay behind that of Preston on being introduced to her. Pain ... and faint disbelief. Faint... ? Jenny knew her brother had to marry and, like her mother, she would also know that he was quite capable of acting in an unorthodox manner; this was the reason for the absence of any real surprise. Of course, she would already have received all the details from her mother, so in any case she was forewarned, knowing just what to expect. ‘I hope you like your new home?’ Sarcasm—which, besides making Serra blush, also brought a sparkle to her eyes.
‘I like it very much. It is in great contrast to my home in Greece,’ and she added slowly but with emphasis, ‘It’s more like the buildings of our past—noble and elegant like the temples one sees in Greece. But here Dirk has many treasures, in addition.’
Dirk frowned darkly at her, saying plainly that there was no need to be rude to his sister. Jenny went a trifle red, and withdrew her hand from Serra’s.
‘You have a bite. I always believed Greek girls were meek and subdued, with very little to say.’
‘But I am not a Greek girl. My mother was English, and in any case, I am now married to an Englishman.’
‘You sound as though you’d rather be English than Greek?’
‘I quite like the mixture,’ returned Serra, surprising both her husband and his sister. ‘But I have always longed for the freedom of my mother’s people. As you say, Greek girls are meek—which is inevitable, seeing that they’ve occupied an inferior position for more than three thousand years. I suppose my mother’s genes must have been dominant in me, because I’ve never been satisfied with my position of inferiority.’
Both Dirk and Jenny had been smiling as Serra talked and now they both laughed, Dirk with humour, Jenny with a sort of deprecating satire.
‘Shall we sit down?’ Dirk indicated a chair and Serra took possession of it. His sister sat on the couch, leaning back and crossing her legs one over the other and looking at her new sister-in-law through half closed eyes. ‘A drink, Jenny?’ She nodded and he handed her one; his eyes met Serra’s, a twinkle in their depths. ‘Lemonade?’ he asked without much expression.
She flushed but her chin tilted. However, before she had time to ask for the sherry which she wanted a glass of lemonade was handed to her and rather than cause a small scene she accepted it, fully aware of Jenny’s amusement. A little girl from an Eastern country, they thought her, a girl without any strength of character, a girl who had known her place for years and who would continue to know it. Well, Jenny at least would get a surprise, for Serra meant to take her husband’s promise seriously and do exactly as she liked. Just give her time to feel her feet, and she would show Jenny that she wasn’t at all meek. In fact, Serra fully hoped that in a few weeks’ time she would possess a poise and self-assurance matching anything her sister-in-law could produce.
‘She didn’t like me, as you said!’ commented Serra when Jenny had made her departure half an hour later.
‘It’s only temporary,’ responded Dirk without much interest. ‘I’m a sort of idol to her—though heaven knows why—and she’s probably been thinking I’d marry someone more suit—’ He broke off, but his eyes kindled with amusement. ‘You know what I mean?’
She nodded and said she hoped that in time Jenny would accept her and be friendly.
‘Your mother promised Jenny would take me under her wing,’ she ended on a tiny sigh. How was she to get around without someone to assist her?
‘She will—eventually. You’ll have to be patient, but it’ll all work out right in the end.’ He paused a moment, looking rather appreciatively at his wife. ‘You know, Serra, you’re quite refreshing. There was no indignation just now when I inadvertently mentioned someone more suitable. You’re just the wife for me, and as you overheard me telling my mother, I was exceedingly fortunate in finding you.’
She smiled rosily at him.
‘Thank you, Dirk.’ And she decided to add, ‘I’ll not get into any more scrapes, I promise.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. As I’ve said, I don’t want to feel I’m married, not in any way whatsoever.’
‘You won’t, Dirk. You must do just as you like—act in the way you’ve been used to all this time.’
‘I intend to, my child.’
‘And I shall be free too.’ A small silence; she sent him a hesitant glance from under her long dark lashes. ‘Will I have—have some money?’
‘Of course. Once a month you’ll have a cheque paid into your bank—’
‘I haven’t a bank.’
‘Don’t interrupt. You will have a bank—and, as I’ve said, you’ll have a cheque paid into it monthly. Now—’ he wagged a forefinger at her—‘don’t go mad like you did at the souk in Damascus. The money’s to last you a month, so you’d better have some system as regards your spending.’
‘Is this money for my clothes as well?’
‘No—you’ll have an account at the shops—I haven’t any idea about such things,’ he added with a hint of impatience. ‘Jenny will tell you all about it.’
She felt lighthearted and glowing with excitement and anticipation.’
‘So I can have beautiful clothes?’
‘Certainly.’ His eyes slid over her dress; it was of plain grey wool and lacked any cut or chic. ‘You’ll have to learn about dress. You can’t meet my friends looking frowsy like that.’
Her hands slid in a little deprecating movement down the front of her dress.
‘I never liked this one, but Aunt Agni said it would be very serviceable.’
‘Well, you won’t have to worry about dresses being serviceable—not any more. Mother and Jenny often wear a dress only once—’
‘Only once!’ gasped Serra. ‘I could never be as wasteful as that!’
‘A ball dress is never used twice. It would be talked about for years if my wife wore a ball dress for two separate occasions.’
She blinked at him, endeavouring to assimilate this. But no matter how much consideration she gave to the matter she could not see herself buying a new ball gown if she had one in her wardrobe which had been worn on only one occasion.
‘What do we do now?’ Serra wanted to know. It was half past seven and she was feeling hungry. ‘Do we have dinner at this time?’
‘At about a quarter past eight, usually. Have you anything better than that to wear?’
‘Something lighter, you mean?’ She had three new dresses which her father had bought her.
‘That’s right.’ Dirk frowned in thought. ‘I should have got you some clothes. It’s a wonder Charles didn’t think to mention the matter.’
‘Are you having your dinner with me?’ she ventured to ask after a long moment of silence.
‘This evening, yes. But I rarely dine at home more than once or twice a week.’
She said nothing, wondering what she would do, all by herself. However, she had no intention of dwelling on that at present, not only because she was hungry, but also because the idea of dining alone with her husband was most attractive. She had been alone with him only once since her marriage—that being during the drive from the airport after saying goodbye to Charles. Serra did not count the time when he had brought her home from the night club, for that was an incident she fervently wanted to forget.
For dinner she wore a printed summer dress, a flowered cotton thing upon which her husband instantly frowned. Preston maintained a wooden expression, but Serra cowered inwardly. Preston was more formidable than Dirk had ever been.
The table was laid with Georgian silver and Sevres china, with ornate candelabra down the centre. The table was too large, the room too high and the austere ancestors too overpowering.
‘Do you never eat in the cosy room?’ she asked, waiting until Preston was out of earshot.
‘The cosy room?’
‘You know—the one I like best.�
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‘No; this is the dining-room. You can’t eat in a room like that.’
She had eaten just wherever she felt like eating, Serra recalled, and mostly that was on the patio, with her kebabs and brown unsalted bread set out on a small wickerwork table under the shade of the trellised vines.
Dirk spoke little during the meal and, consequently, it did not come up to Serra’s expectations. With the meal over Serra half expected Dirk to sit with her in the cosy room, but he seemed restless and said he was going out for the rest of the evening.
‘What shall I do?’ she asked, her spirits dampening somewhat.
‘Go to bed; you must be tired after all the travelling, and the excitement of meeting your new relations.’
She had no alternative than to do as he told her; in the next room she heard him moving about for a little while and then the outer door closed. She heard his firm light footsteps on the stairs, then the voice of Preston.
Serra heard her husband again later. He woke her up with the closing of his bedroom door. Reaching out, she switched on the gilded bedside lamp and looked at the clock. Ten minutes to five...
CHAPTER FIVE
There was a lag to Serra’s footsteps and a droop to her mouth as she wandered down the drive and passed through the high wrought-iron gates at either side of which stood a turreted stone lodge. The dream had been so exciting, but the awakening left Serra dejected and lacking hope for a pleasant and contented future. It was better than being married to Phivos, she kept telling herself—but it certainly was not as eventful and thrilling a life as she had anticipated. Perhaps, she thought as she took the winding lane leading to the river, it would have been all right had Jenny shown some interest in her. But Jenny was fully occupied with having a good time, and with her various boyfriends.
‘If I could find a boy-friend,’ murmured Serra, ‘life might become a little more interesting.’
And of course, if Dirk stayed in more than he did life then would certainly be more interesting.
But Serra did not dwell on this last idea; she must not think too much of her husband at all, because when she did her heart seemed to become filled with lead.
The river Stour wound about in the meadows; above, the sky was blue-grey but the sun was striving to break through and in a short while its autumn warmth would fill the valley. She turned to look back at the great house on the hill. Gables and columns, ivy-clad walls and warm weathered Portland stone. Lawns and fountains and statuary; terraces and formal rose gardens and wooded enclosures. How different from her father’s austere villa in Greece, with its whitened walls and blue-shuttered windows. She swallowed, remembering Dirk’s promise that she could go home for a visit—but he had said his sister would accompany her, and when Serra had asked Jenny about this the older girl had frowned and shrugged and said,
‘Some time—but not this year.’
Delightful thatched cottages stood back from the river—the homes of estate workers. Children played in the gardens, women pegged out washing, snow-white or brightly coloured. It hung, limp, for there was no breeze as yet. Someone smiled, lifted a hand and called, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Morgan. It be a little colder, gettin’.’
Serra glanced towards the garden from which the sound had come. An ancient man was standing in his garden, peering at her over the hedge. ‘Youse’ll not be used to this ’ere weather what we’ve bin ’avin’ just now—not with youse bein’ in the sun all youse life.’
She smiled and shook her head and murmured an agreement, then continued to walk on, along the banks of the river. Was life to be like this all the while? Strange how the glamour had faded, and in so short a time. Less than two months she had been here, at the Grange ... and she had never been so bored in her life. If only she could make friends. The prospect had all been so clear, on that day when, having met Dirk, she had proceeded with dogged persistence to urge him to marriage. She had visualized gathering round her many friends of her own age, of going out to parties and theatres—in fact, partaking in every pursuit that spelled freedom.
But she had done nothing except sit in the cosy room, her legs curled under her, reading, or, like this, walking in the lovely countryside of Dorset, alone. True, Mrs. Morgan came over at times, but she had her own social round, her own establishment to run, and it was not to be expected that she could spare much time for her new daughter-in-law. She was kind, but too busy to entertain Serra; she advised about clothes, but could not spare the time to accompany Serra on a shopping expedition. Consequently Serra had not bought much at all, and as for spending the money Dirk allowed her—well, that was all practically intact.
She spread the mackintosh she had brought with her and sat down on the river bank. What was to be done? There must be something—Her eyes flickered, then stared unseeingly at some twigs floating slowly along the clear water. Her mother had never mentioned relations, but ... Goodwin was her mother’s maiden name, and she had lived in the Midlands. Was that a big area? Serra knit her brows in thought, recalling the name Walsall...
Perhaps she would not have troubled about finding out if she did have relations had not Dirk decided that morning to go to London.
‘You said you’d be at home for a couple of days—I mean, you said you weren’t even going out, because you had work to do appertaining to the estate.’ To her dismay she was almost in tears; her lashes were already damp and she brushed a swift hand across them. ‘It’s lonely without anyone.’
Dirk frowned at her from his great height. He seemed to grow more handsome every day, she thought, staring into his eyes. If only he would take her out sometimes ... she wanted to be seen with him, so that she could feel proud. This much she knew. As yet, nothing else registered.
‘I have more urgent business in London.’ He continued to frown and she wondered if he were a little anxious about her. ‘Hasn’t Jenny been round this week?’
‘This week? Jenny hasn’t been here for over a fortnight.’
‘She hasn’t?’ His mouth compressed. ‘I’ll go over and have a word with her. She’s no right to leave you alone like this.’
She hesitated.
‘Dirk ... if you would take me with you sometimes... ?’ Her soft sweet voice trailed away into a hopeless silence as her husband shook his head.
‘You knew from the start that I’d no intention of taking you about. You must try to make your own amusement.’
‘I do—reading in the cosy room all day.’
Her swift delivery and her tone of voice brought a dark lift to his brow.
‘Are you complaining of your life?’ he inquired, amazed. ‘You have just about everything a girl could wish for! And you seem to have forgotten your gratitude!’
‘No, I haven’t, Dirk, b-but it isn’t as I imagined it w-would be.’
‘That’s to be expected; you’re in a strange country and naturally it’ll take a bit of getting used to.’
She smiled through the mist that had covered her eyes. ‘You don’t understand my meaning, Dirk.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll explain?’ But although he stood there, in a state of apparent patience, his flickering glance towards the grandfather clock in the corner was more than sufficient to reveal his true feelings and Serra merely said,
‘It doesn’t matter, Dirk.’ And then, ‘How long will you be in London?’
‘A week, maybe—or perhaps a fortnight.’
A fortnight! It was a lifetime. She said impulsively, ‘Can I come with you? You can leave me,’ she added breathlessly as he switched her a darkling look. ‘I’ll amuse myself, and I’ll stay in my room in the evenings, I promise. I’ll be very, very good, and no trouble to you at all. Please take me, Dirk!’
‘It’s impossible,’ he almost snapped, and without affording her time to renew her pleading he turned on his heel and left the room.
And so she decided to insert her advertisement, struggling for hours in an endeavour to find the best way of wording it. And she wasn’t all that satisfied with her fina
l result, but she thought it would have the desired effect.
‘Young lady, newly come from Greece, would like to contact some of her mother’s relatives. Will anyone with the surname Goodwin, and living in or near Walsall, please communicate with Mrs. Dirk Morgan, Chalcombe Grange, Portford Magna, Dorset?’
The advertisement was sent to a newspaper circulating in that particular area and three days later Serra was called to the telephone. This was a contingency with which she had not reckoned and by the end of the day she was exhausted, having spent practically every minute of it with the receiver in her hand. Preston was obviously curious—and disapproving, she felt sure. As for Serra herself, she was thoroughly tired by the time she went upstairs to bed, but even then there was no peace, for the calls came in until half past ten. What a good thing Dirk was away, she thought, hoping this would not happen again tomorrow. But it did. Meanwhile, at ten o’clock in the morning Preston entered the cosy room carrying a huge silver tray piled high with letters of all shapes and sizes.
‘Your mail, madam,’ he said, glancing oddly at her, adding, with barely smothered sarcasm, ‘Perhaps I’d better leave the tray.’
‘Thank you, Preston,’ she returned in a small voice. She wished she weren’t so apprehensive of the man. But he looked so forbidding and so grand. Serra always felt his portrait should be in the Long Gallery among the notables associated with the Grange throughout the ages. It should be in a prominent position, and enhanced by a solid gold frame with scrolls and filigree and decorated with precious stones. ‘Yes, you c-can leave the tray.’
With the door closed behind him, however, her excitement knew no bounds. Were all these her relatives? In Greece so large a number of relatives was quite normal, but Serra had always been under the impression that in England families were much smaller. How very strange that her mother had never mentioned all these...