“The other cup is for Mr. Hamilton, Miss Vanessa. I’m having mine indoors, and Joe will have his in his usual place.”
“Nancy—” Vanessa began in an admonishing tone. But Nancy affected not to hear and called to Joe to come to the kitchen for his coffee.
Vanessa suppressed a sigh. “Black or white, Mr. Hamilton?”
“White—but strong,” he answered, “and two good spoonfuls of sugar.”
Evidently he expected her to sugar it for him. “Is that to your liking?” she asked. A hint of sarcasm was in her voice, as she offered him a cup of dark brown coffee, particles of demerara sugar dissolving on the surface. “Looks fine,” he answered.
She offered him a biscuit, but he declined. “I’ll have a smoke, if you’ve no objection.”
He pulled out a pipe. I might have known it, she thought. He didn’t look the type to smoke cigarettes. She poured her own coffee and sweetened it while he filled his pipe. He paused in the act of striking a match.
“I’m sorry I haven’t a cigarette to offer you.”
“I don’t smoke, thanks.”
He struck his match and drew on the smooth brown pipe. “Have you made any plans yet, or thought any more about getting a job?” he asked.
He sounded almost schoolmasterish, she thought, or as if he were her guardian or something. She tried to remember that as a friend of Aunt Maud he had a certain interest in her.
“I don’t think I shall look for a job, anyway,” she told him. “There seems to be more than enough to do here—”
“If it’s only digging out weeds, eh?”
“Well, it’s a job which in my opinion has to be done,” she answered sharply.
He gave her a swift, sidelong glance. “But not necessarily by the sweat of your brow, surely?”
“How else? Chemical weed-killers are out of the question.”
“On what grounds?”
“If you were a friend of my aunt you must know how she felt about weed-killers.”
He removed his pipe and looked at it thoughtfully for a moment.
“Yes, I do know. But I’d like to know how you feel. I know how costly a job it would be to clear this little lot by sodium chlorate or something like that, but suppose you had the money, what then?”
Vanessa frowned and thought for a moment. “I still wouldn’t,” she decided suddenly.
“Why not? Because of your aunt’s influence?”
“Not entirely, though she taught me more than any other person to appreciate wildlife of all kinds. If there is any possibility that chemical weed-killers would poison the birds and other small creatures, then—”
“Well, some say they do, some say they don’t, but it’s going to be the only way you’ll get rid of all this quickly without a lot of back-breaking work .”
“I’m not afraid of work,” she told him with determination. “Naturally, if I had the money I’d employ extra labor. In the meantime, while the weather is good, I shall carry on digging up the weed.”
“And when the weather is bad?” he prompted.
But she felt she had answered enough of his queries. “You’re asking a lot of questions, aren’t you, Mr. Hamilton?”
“I’m interested,” he answered smoothly. “And by the way, the name is Ian.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she did not feel like calling him Ian, but checked herself. Why was she so tempted to be rude to this man? She counted ten and answered his query, ignoring for the time being the reference to his first name.
“When the weather is wet, I might get Joe to help me tidy up the barn.”
“With what object? To rent it for barn dances or something?”
She gave him a surprised look. “Something like that. How on earth did you guess?”
“It wasn’t difficult. You mean that’s what you are thinking of doing?”
She nodded. “It wouldn’t bring in very much money, I know, but then, it wouldn’t cost anything to clean up either. And it would be a start. I’d rent it to anyone who wants to hire it; for dancing, bingo, political meetings or anything.”
“Not a bad idea, but of course there is the village hall, you know.”
“Thanks for the encouragement!”
It was out before she could stop it, but Ian did not seem the least bit put out.
“Just reminding you, that’s all. Any other ideas?”
“I thought I might make use of the greenhouse. I’m—fairly good with plants. I could grow some flowering pot plants to sell for Christmas and next spring.”
“Ah now, that is a good notion. Long term—or at least, fairly—of course, but the idea does have possibilities.”
“The only trouble is, numerous panes of glass are missing.”
“That’s no problem,” he said promptly. “I’ll get one of my men to fix those for you.”
“It isn’t the fixing I’m worried about,” she answered. “It’s the cost of the glass.”
“That’s no problem, either. I’ve got plenty of glass lying around at my place,” he said in a voice which brooked no argument.
But Vanessa did not want to be indebted to him. “I’d rather pay my way—thanks all the same.”
He did not give away his feelings by so much as the flicker of an eyelid, but he rose and knocked out his pipe.
“All right. I’ll send you a bill. You can pay me when your plants begin to pay. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll leave you to get on with your digging.”
His tone implied that he thought her efforts rather futile. He strode off down the weed-flanked drive. Vanessa gazed after him for a moment or two angrily. Then all at once she found herself admiring the way he walked, his firm yet loose-limbed strides, the way he swung his arms and held his head. But this was ridiculous! She quickly picked up the tray and took it into the kitchen.
In spite of a rest at lunchtime Vanessa ached in every limb by evening. How on earth was she going to stand this day after day? she thought despairingly.
Fortunately for Vanessa’s aching back—though in the light of a new day, she told herself she would get used to it—it was pouring rain the following morning. Joe said he could manage clearing out the barn himself. Vanessa took a good look into all the rooms of the house, beginning with the attic packed with the usual kind of bits and pieces. At this juncture Vanessa made no attempt to start sorting it out. That was a task which would take weeks. There was a various assortment of chairs with torn upholstery and protruding springs; an old sofa of the chaise longue kind; an ancient cabinet gramophone with no innards; trunks and pictures and piles of stuff which at the moment were unidentifiable.
As she went from room to room, some of them unfurnished, others filled with what could only be described as junk. Vanessa toyed with all kinds of ideas. Some rooms were large, others quite small. One could have the house converted into a number of apartments. But that would cost money. Not only did the idea not appeal to her but she felt sure Aunt Maud would not have approved. A guest house? But what attractions were there at Barn Hill apart from those of a pleasant country village? She could not think of anything which would not be too expensive.
She wandered into her aunt’s room where there were drawers and cupboards that ought to be looked into and cleared out. Clothes and other personal effects could not just be left to rot. In the drawers of the dressing table was an assortment of underclothes of the old-fashioned kind. What Nancy did not want could go to a village rummage sale. In the top drawer were various trinkets and ribbons.
Nothing of any great monetary value, but Vanessa would keep them for memory’s sake. The cupboard which passed for a closet was almost empty. Two coats; one light-weight, one heavy; two winter dresses and a summery one which Vanessa remembered quite well. Poor dear Aunt Maud! She had spent very little either on herself or on the house. On the floor of the closet were two pairs of shoes and a couple of empty boxes. Vanessa was about to shut the door again when she caught sight of an old-fashioned hat box tied up with a piece of
string. She picked it up thinking it might contain old letters or other souvenirs.
She untied the string and flung back the lid, then almost dropped the box. In it were rolls of pound notes. On top of them was a letter addressed to herself.
CHAPTER THREE
Vanessa stared at the contents of the box for a moment, unable to believe her eyes. She carried it over to the bed and took out the letter to read it.
Vanessa child, here is a little money to tide you over for a few months until you find your feet. I know you’ve no money of your own. Bless you and keep you. Your Aunt Maud.
Vanessa felt tears prick her eyes. Dear, sweet little Aunt Maud! What sacrifices of personal comfort she must have made to have saved this. The money was in bundles of 50, and there were half a dozen altogether. If all the bundles contained the same number of notes, there would be 300 pounds. Not a fortune but enough for her to live on until she began to earn money: enough to pay for the repair of the greenhouse, employ extra labor for weed clearance, to buy plant pots and potting soil, to heat the greenhouse when the weather grew colder, to pay a year’s taxes or anything else urgent which cropped up.
At the bottom of the box were old letters, some from Vanessa herself, others tied with black velvet ribbon were apparently love letters from someone called John. Why had Aunt Maud never married? Perhaps the letters would reveal the answer, but Vanessa felt it would be trespassing on her aunt’s privacy to read them. For the time being she put them back in the box and went to find Nancy to tell her what she had found.
Nancy was not in the least surprised. “I had a feeling she would do something like that. She was certainly what some people would call odd in many ways, but somewhere hidden away she had a shrewd, practical streak. I’ve often seen her with that old hat box, but I would never pry into things that didn’t concern me. Your aunt knew that.”
“But where did the money come from?”
“I can only guess, Miss Vanessa. You know, at one time your aunt owned a lot of property in the village. Cottages, plots of land and so on. She’d collect the rents and never bother to put the money in the bank. And in later years she got into a habit of selling things. Jewelry, pictures, things of that nature. It started when we had one or two burglaries in the district. She said she wasn’t going to have her bits and pieces stolen. As I said to her, they could steal money just as easily and that was a lot more difficult to trace than articles. But she wouldn’t listen. She said she’d put the money where no thief would dream of looking for it. She was always afraid the house might one day catch fire, too. She said she could easily pick up her money, whereas she might not have time to go running around the house for various things.”
Vanessa smiled. “It sounds just like Aunt Maud. But what happened to her cottages and other property? The lawyer didn’t say anything about them.”
“She sold those too, Miss Vanessa. A rare old profit she made in some cases. Plots of land, for instance, for building purposes. You know how values have risen. As the older folk who rented her cottages died, she sold those at a handsome profit too. Cottages she hadn’t paid more than 100 for fetched a couple of thousand or so.”
Vanessa smiled ruefully. “And I thought she was poor—apart from this old house.”
“That was another of her notions. It was what she wanted people to think.”
If the house had a telephone, Vanessa would have called Ian and told him not to bother about sending his man to glaze the greenhouse windows. She could now afford to have it done by a glazier.
Excited at the prospect of starting on her pot plant project, she put on a raincoat after lunch and went into the village to see what flower seeds were available. But the stores that did sell seeds—the general store and the drug store—had a limited variety. There was a preponderance of vegetable seeds, wallflower seeds and annuals, but no cinerarias or other of the greenhouse plants she had had in mind, such as the popular winter cherry, browalia or exacum. With the vague idea of perhaps being able to raise and sell wallflower plants if she could clear a space outside, she bought several packets of these seeds.
An idea occurred to her as she walked back to the house. An idea which became a strong conviction. That was the use to which she ought to put Aunt Maud’s land. For growing things. For growing plants which would bring color and beauty to the world, not those ugly weeds which choked everything else. She would grow tall spires of lupins, and delphiniums, scarlet and yellow geums, bright golden coreopsis and sunflowers, as well as all the wonderful half-hardy annuals which many people had not the time, space or heating to grow. Asters and petunias in their glorious array of colors, sweet pea plants, exotic zinnias, sweet scabious, gloriosa daisies and many more. A thousand and one things. Vanessa’s imagination ran riot as she almost skipped back to Puck’s Hill.
“All that, Miss Vanessa, on four packets of seeds?” Nancy quizzed jokingly when Vanessa told her excitedly about her plans.
Vanessa laughed. “Yes, I know. It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But I’m going to make Aunt Maud’s garden into a real show place, you’ll see.”
“And how long do you reckon that will take you?” came a masculine voice behind them.
They swung around. Ian Hamilton stood in the open doorway of the kitchen, wearing a raincoat and a country cap, his pipe in his mouth, but unlit.
Vanessa recovered swiftly. “I don’t know how long it will take, but whether it takes six months or six years, I shall do it.”
He pursed his lips and inclined his head. “Well, as a step in the right direction I’ve come to find out how many panes of glass you need for your greenhouse.”
Her chin went up. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hamilton, but I have the money to pay for that to be done now.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, I’ve discovered a little—nest-egg, as it were, left for me by my aunt.”
“Ah, I thought it wasn’t like her to leave you entirely without resources. But I take it it’s not an overly large sum?”
She told him the amount, while behind her she heard Nancy putting on the kettle for tea.
Ian heard the sound too. “I always arrive at the right time, don’t I? A ‘cuppa’ would be just fine.”
Vanessa had to stop herself from retorting that he should wait to be invited. Nobody seemed to realize that this was her house. But of course, Nancy had been living here for so long.
“Yes, well—” Ian said, examining his pipe in his usual fashion, “I wouldn’t be too ready to turn down offers of help, if I were you. Your money will melt quite soon enough, you’ll find. My man will be here in the morning. If it makes you feel any happier, you can pay him for his time.”
“I want to pay for the glass too,” she insisted.
He regarded her in silence for a moment, then said reasonably, “It’s been hanging about my place since goodness knows when. I’m only too glad to get rid of it. It was in danger of getting broken.”
She did not know what to say to that. The natural, normal thing, of course, would be simply to thank him, but with Ian Hamilton she was anything but normal and seemed to have a natural antagonism. Evidently taking her silence for consent, he turned to leave. But at the same moment came the sound of the teapot lid dropping onto the teapot.
Vanessa roused herself to be polite. “Will you stay for a cup of tea, Mr. Hamilton?”
She fully expected him to refuse, as her attitude was anything hut friendly. She was still calling him mister instead of his first name. Even asking him formally to have tea could be taken as a hint that he ought to wait to be invited. But Ian Hamilton appeared impervious to all these considerations.
“Thanks,” he said.
She led the way into the library—one of the rooms she had not yet had time to attend to. But it had two comfortable chairs, a floor to ceiling window with a pleasant view and seemed a more suitable place to have tea than the larger living room.
Ian looked around the room with interest, his glance ranging up and along
the rows of dusty-looking books, most of their titles all but obscured with age and use, and to the large Adams-style fireplace.
“It’s rather a fine old house, this,” he remarked “I haven’t been in this room before.”
Nancy brought in the tea, then left again. “I haven’t used it very much myself up to now,” Vanessa answered. “And I can’t remember Aunt Maud using it much either. I’m not sure yet what to do with it.”
“How do you mean?” he asked.
Vanessa frowned a little. He had a habit of asking questions to which she had not even thought out answers for herself.
“Well, I don’t believe in having rooms that are not used, nor books which are never read, for that matter. I must get around to having a look at these—find out what they are, whether they’re worth keeping.”
He took the cup of tea she offered. “You’re very practical. Tell me, how far will your aunt’s wishes count with you? You don’t seem to me the kind of person who will allow sentiment to influence your decisions.”
Vanessa thought for a moment. “I don’t know that there’s a very clear-cut answer to that one. I’m sure my aunt would expect me to have a mind of my own.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. I think you’re right.”
“Do you?” she came back swiftly. “Why?”
He took a sip of his tea before answering smoothly, “Well, I’m quite sure your aunt—from what I knew of her—would never want to bind you to anything or impose any restrictions on you. At least, not as far as the house and what you do with it is concerned. She has left it to you without any conditions, hasn’t she—I presume?”
“That’s right,” Vanessa answered stonily. “If I wanted to, I daresay I could sell the house tomorrow.”
Her words seemed to electrify him. He shot a sharp, piercing glance at her.
“I thought you said you’d never sell,” he said accusingly.
To My Dear Niece Page 5