To My Dear Niece
Page 9
“Vanessa, meet a friend of mine, Harry Davidson. Harry, this is our new neighbor, Vanessa Woodrow.”
A very special friend? Vanessa wondered as she shook hands with the young man. At any rate, she felt he would be a welcome addition to the small luncheon party.
The meal was served in the oak-panelled dining room, furnished in the Jacobean period which Vanessa found so mellow and satisfying to look at.
“You like the room?” Ian said, seeing how she glanced around.
She nodded. “Very much. I like old furniture—or rather, antique furniture.”
“Do I take it you wouldn’t settle for the reproduction kind?” he queried.
“I would if it was well made. Why not? It isn’t the period in which things are made which counts, but the craftsmanship and design. Did you—buy the furniture with the house?” she queried, still curious as to why a brother and sister should be living together.
Ian shook his head. “The Colonel took his furniture with him to the Isle of Wight. All the furniture in the house was chosen at various times by either Freda or myself. Fortunately our tastes don’t clash too violently, although Freda prefers the more modern look. If she shows you her own rooms after you’ll see what I mean.”
It was a pleasant and most enjoyable meal. Ian sat at the head of the table looking very much a family man as he carved the Sunday roast. Vanessa couldn’t help wondering why he was still unmarried. Freda, she guessed, would not remain single for much longer, judging from the expressive glances she and Harry exchanged from time to time. But in the event of her marrying, what would happen to Ian? Would he live in this house alone?
Vanessa tried to control her thoughts better. For all she knew Ian might already have someone he was hoping to marry, someone who lived in another part of the country perhaps. But why another part of the country? she asked herself. It could be a girl in the village. She had not known Ian and his sister long enough to know much about them; neither did she know many people in the village. As well as the cottages and terrace houses, there were some quite big houses here and there.
“Freda has been telling me what a heroic job you’re doing at Puck’s Hill.’’ Harry spoke to Vanessa across the table. She smiled.
“Well, it did seem rather formidable at First, but now I’ve found a way of tackling that giant hogweed. Thanks to the help I’ve had from Freda and Ian, it doesn’t seem nearly as hopeless. There’s still an awful lot of work, though. I’ve realized that even more after seeing Freda and Ian’s lovely house and garden.”
“There’s quite a considerable amount of land there, isn’t there?” pursued Harry. “You’re not going to try to cultivate it all, are you?”
“I’m aiming to clear the whole area of that hogweed, anyway,” she answered. “After that, I’m not sure. I might develop my plant growing into a sort of nursery business, or just add more greenhouses and grass the rest.”
“A nursery business? Why not grow trees?” suggested Harry.
An alert glance passed between Ian and his sister.
“What sort of trees?” asked Vanessa.
Harry shrugged. “Oh, any kind. Christmas trees, for instance. Much less trouble than growing roses or whatever it is you have in mind. Ian could—”
The rest of his sentence was cut short by Freda.
“Harry, Vanessa doesn’t know you’re a forester. He simply can’t help trying to sell the idea of trees to everyone,” she explained to Vanessa. “Unlike Ian, he works for the Forestry Commission, but he’s got trees on the brain.”
“Haven’t we all,” murmured Ian. “But Vanessa is more interested in plants and flowers.”
Vanessa wondered what Harry had been about to say when Freda had interrupted him.
“I wasn’t thinking of growing roses, actually,” she answered him. “Just things like perennials—herbaceous border plants and maybe shrubs. But the idea of growing Christmas trees is intriguing. I must think about that.” After lunch Ian and Harry gallantly said they would do the washing up while Freda showed Vanessa the rest of the house.
“Coffee on the patio in half an hour,” Ian told them. “So don’t start chatting and forget the time.”
Freda made some tart rejoinder and led the way upstairs. “I’ll show you the kitchen and other downstairs rooms last—when they’ve done the washing up.”
“Is Ian always so domestic?” asked Vanessa.
“Oh yes. He calls it a fair division of labor. I do the cooking, he does the washing up—when there’s no one else to do it. Our daily help works from nine to four, five days a week. Evenings and weekends we have to do our own chores.”
Vanessa ventured to ask, “Why are you and Ian living together? Are your parents still living?”
“Oh yes,” came the surprising answer. Vanessa had thought perhaps they were both dead. “They live in Hampshire—the New Forest. Father is a head forester there. It’s just that Ian wanted to have his own woodlands and carry on his own forestry business. He bought this place and—I thought I’d like to come too. I wanted a change. In fact I wanted to recover from a disappointing love affair. You know the sort of thing—I was in love, he wasn’t, so I thought I’d get away: keep house for Ian and help him with the secretarial work. And I’m glad I did. Because now I’ve met Harry and he’s in love with me and vice-versa. A much more satisfactory state of things.”
“Yes, indeed,” Vanessa said fervently. “And I’m very glad for you. Have you fixed a date for your wedding?” Freda shook her head. “Not yet. Ian would hate to hear me say this—but I would like to make sure things are going to work out happily for him too I’d hate to leave him on his own.”
“Is there—anyone?” Vanessa felt encouraged to ask.
Freda gave a little smile, giving a slight shake of her head at the same time.
“I have an idea that there is, but he hasn’t said anything, so I just keep on hoping.”
Vanessa wondered who the mysterious woman was and what kind of lover Ian would be: whether he would “rush a woman off her feet” or gently woo, be jealous and possessive, or easy-going. She decided he would be anything but easy-going.
Vanessa loved the house. It had four large bedrooms and two smaller ones, with two bathrooms, and a large square landing housing linen cupboards which would be many a housewife’s dream.
“Roomy, and at the same time compact,” was her verdict.
“It’s a shade on the big side for two, of course,” Freda said, “unless you do a lot of entertaining—which we don’t at present. But it went with the property, and it was a property Ian was looking for primarily. One with woodlands or room to develop. It will be an ideal family house, though,” she added.
Vanessa noted the way Freda said be, not would be, as if she was 100 percent certain of Ian’s marriage. As if, indeed, it were a fait accompli.
The two guest rooms were simply but extremely tastefully furnished; one in a decor of blue and gold, the other in grey and pink. A guest would sleep peacefully in either room. Ian’s room was in muted shades of green with fine Regency furniture; a comfortable armchair, plenty of books—several, Vanessa noticed, on his bedside table, with antique maps and one or two curious wood carvings to add a truly masculine touch. A fascinating room. Vanessa would like to have lingered—to look at some of the book titles, to see the view from the window and to sit for a while in Ian’s armchair. Why she didn’t know, unless it was to know him better through his possessions.
Freda’s room was completely feminine in pink and white, with light, modern furniture, a white carpet, pink walls and pretty curtains.
“Quite a contrast to Ian’s, isn’t it?” laughed Freda, then she added, “I expect Harry’s room is essentially masculine. The problem is, whose taste is reflected when one marries? A mixture would probably look awful, neither one thing nor the other.”
Vanessa agreed that this could be the effect. Then she said without thinking how it could be taken, “For myself, I’d prefer Ian’s room.”
But Freda only laughed. “It’s all right, I know what you meant. But it did sound rather funny. On the whole, I think my home and Harry’s will be a mixture. Periods don’t really clash if the designs are good.”
They made their way downstairs, and Vanessa thought the sitting room the most beautiful she had ever seen. The whole tone was so restful. The color scheme was green and gold with panelled walls and alcoves. The wall lights had twin Fittings. At one end there was a grand piano, a sheet of music on the stand as if someone had recently been playing, the easy chairs and sofa were commodious and comfortable-looking. There were one or two interesting pieces of fine furniture which could well be Sheraton.
“Who plays the piano?” she asked.
“Ian. He plays quite well. I thing he wanted to do it professionally at one time, but for various reasons it didn’t work out.”
“Was he terribly disappointed?”
Freda thought for a moment. “A little frustrated perhaps at the time, but he soon recovered. And now I think he’s rather glad. Once an art becomes a person’s work, it’s no longer a relaxation, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“At any rate he enjoys playing in what leisure time he can get.”
“Do you think he could be persuaded to play this afternoon? I’d love to hear him.”
“If you’re really keen, he might. But he hates playing to an audience who only listens out of politeness.”
The kitchen was used also as a breakfast room and was a joy of varnished timber and copper brightness. A room adjacent which had probably been intended for a breakfast room was set aside for Freda’s own use. “I do my dressmaking and keep all my own bits and pieces in here,” she explained. Ian had his study. This again reflected Ian’s personality; his love of good furniture and a pleasing color scheme. The house also had a downstairs cloakroom where raincoats and jackets could be hung, and all kinds of articles deposited which would normally make a house look cluttered.
Ian called out that coffee was ready, so they went out to the patio.
“Well, what did you think of the house?” Ian asked as they settled down to coffee.
“I love it. It’s a perfect dream,” she answered. “If only I could transform Aunt Maud’s house to something like it!”
“Oh, you’ll get it the way you want it in time,” Freda murmured.
“What sort of place is your aunt’s?” queried Harry. “A rather big rambling house, I suspect.”
“Yes, it is. All sorts of things could be done with it, but it will never be the compact, useful size that this house is,” Vanessa said.
“What will you do with it, then? Convert it into apartments or something like that?”
Vanessa shook her head. “I—don’t somehow think Aunt Maud would like that.”
Harry gave her a thoughtful look. “You—er—set a great deal of importance on what your aunt would have liked or disliked?”
Vanessa did not quite know how to answer. Neither Freda nor Ian were taking any part in the conversation. Ian was eyeing her thoughtfully as if waiting to hear what she had to say. But suddenly Vanessa wanted his opinion on the subject on which Miles had been so adamant. “What do you think, Ian?” she asked him. “How far should the wishes of the dead influence the lives of the living? How seriously should one take a promise made to the dying?”
His expression became alert, then a slight frown appeared between his brows. “I very much doubt,” he said thoughtfully, “whether it’s right to make distinctions between the living and the dead. A promise is a promise and should be kept. I don’t believe, myself, in making promises unless I intend to keep them.”
“But, Ian,” interposed Freda, “people often do intend keeping such promises at the time, but—”
“I know. But there are people who make them without the slightest intention of keeping them; who make them rashly, or, which is the more usual, make a promise to a dying person in order to placate them in the same way that they tell lies or half truths to children. But from whatever motive, a promise should be honored no matter to whom it was made, or under what circumstances.” Vanessa thought how uncompromising he was. Such strength of purpose was almost frightening.
“On the other hand,” he went on, “if we’re speaking in general terms, I firmly believe that one should never allow tyranny from either side of the grave. If we’re speaking specifically of Vanessa and her aunt, I would say that Vanessa should do what her conscience dictates.”
“Oh dear,” Freda said. “What a heavy burden of responsibility that could turn out to be! Are we to take it, Vanessa, that you—made your aunt certain promises?”
Vanessa nodded. “I promised her I would never sell Puck’s Hill—and I have every intention of keeping my word.”
This brought a swift exchange of glances among the other three. Ian drew a deep breath and knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe. There was silence for a moment or two, during which Vanessa experienced a faint feeling of regret that Aunt Maud had not left her house to someone else. She did not wholeheartedly want it.
Harry was the first to speak. “You know, it’s a very debatable point really, whether or not a person should be bound for ever to a promise made to someone who’s dying. I don’t mean that one should make promises lightly, but they can be made on a wave of emotion such as pity or sorrow, or to give a dying person peace at the last. The dead can impose tremendous burdens on the living—sometimes unwittingly, of course. But is it right for a person to be carrying a burden too great for them? There is a time, surely, when a promise becomes no longer binding?”
“Certainly there is,” agreed Ian. “And I would suggest that, if the time comes when Vanessa finds that that house is, or has become a burden, then she should consider letting it go. Her aunt was far too fond of her to want her to feel that the place is a millstone around her neck.”
He had used the same phrase that Miles had. Was he really hankering after the property for himself?
After they had talked a little more and finished their coffee, Freda suggested that Ian might show Vanessa around the grounds. Sensing that Freda and Harry might like some time alone together, she said she would love it. She did genuinely want to see the place, but somehow did not feel entirely at ease in Ian’s company.
He rose and glanced down at her feet. “Will you be all right in those sandals, or would you like to borrow a pair of Freda’s walking shoes?”
But Vanessa assured him that her sandals were not as flimsy as they looked and that she was used to them.
“Mm,” he said disbelievingly. “Well, we’d better go through the house and out at the front anyway. It’s a bit rough around by the sheds.”
He succeeded in making her feel something of a nuisance. She wanted to retort that she didn’t mind whether it was rough or not, but he stood waiting for her to precede him, so she meekly went through the house as he had indicated.
But once outside, her admiration for the beauty of the garden dispelled all raggedness. She gave a huge sigh.
“Oh, Ian, do you think I’ll ever have a garden half as lovely as this?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, then he said gruffly, “Of course you will. The main thing is not to try to do too much at once. You need more help, of course.”
But she shook her head. “I simply can’t afford to pay for any more help at present, so I shall just have to be patient. There’s a lot I can do toward improving the garden area near the house, anyway.”
“I suppose so,” he answered.
She glanced at his unsmiling face and wondered what was wrong. She so often seemed to displease him. Or was it that he did not really like her very much? She told herself that she didn’t much care whether
he did nor not, that the feeling was mutual. But she knew in her heart that that wasn’t true.
Soon they left the garden area and were walking along wide grassy paths beneath mature beeches, oaks and chestnuts. Vanessa’s gaze wandered upward to the leafy canopy. “I think I’d like to have more trees,” she murmured. “But of course it takes years and years for them to reach this height.”
“Some trees grow more quickly than others, of course,”
The lines of his face had softened. Evidently it pleased him that she liked trees.
“Your—won’t have these lovely beeches and chestnuts felled, will you?” she asked.
He smiled faintly. “Not all of them, naturally. But you mustn’t be too sentimental about trees. There’s a time to plant and a time to harvest, just as in other growing things. We’ve done quite a bit of felling already.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“The main thing is to keep on planting. The area we’ve felled will be prepared for a nursery bed to receive young plants.”
“Why do you say that? That the main thing is to keep on planting? For commercial reasons?”
“Not entirely, though of course it is my living. If one just kept on felling timber and selling it without replanting, one would soon be out of business. Besides, the country needs timber. But there’s something else attached to it. The feeling, or instinct, that for every tree one fells, another should be planted in its place.”
She smiled. “I like that. It’s good. Do you buy plants or sow seeds of trees?”
“Both, at present, but in time I shall grow from seed only. I don’t know how much you know about forestry, but not all trees are allowed to reach maturity before being used commercially. Young chestnuts, for instance, are used for fencing, for pit props, and, of course, the thinning of Norway spruce for the inevitable Christmas trees.”