To My Dear Niece

by Hilda Nickson

  “It all sounds marvelous.”

  They arrived, eventually, at the boundary fence of her own land where they stood silent for a moment or two. For some inexplicable reason Vanessa suddenly hated the fence. It was like a barrier, one she did not want. She looked at Ian’s grave face and wondered what he was thinking. Then, eyeing the hogweed still to be dealt with, she said. “I suppose that horrible stuff encroached on your land too?”

  He nodded. “To some extent, but of course we were able to tackle it before it became too rampageous. And in your aunt’s time, our men hopped over the fence and cleared a yard or two there to prevent further encroachment too soon.”

  Viewed from this side of the fence the task of dealing with the monster weed appeared insuperable. Vanessa felt swamped in her own inadequacy. How long was it going to take her with help from only Joe Simpkins? A long, long time. She was only just beginning to realize fully the enormity of the task she had set herself. Not only that, but the land ought to be productive as soon as possible. Perhaps Ian would like a strip for tree planting. He wanted more land. She could now see it taking her years to cultivate the whole of the estate and develop a full-scale nursery business, employing a lot of labor as she had envisaged, though vaguely.

  She sighed heavily and voiced some of her thoughts aloud. “You know, I can’t help feeling that this land ought to be put to a better use more quickly than I shall be able to.” Then she had a sudden inspiration. “Come to think of it, I didn’t promise Aunt Maud anything about the land—only the house. I suppose I could sell part of the grounds and just keep enough to develop a small nursery business.”

  His eyes widened swiftly and his glance sharpened. “That sounds to me awfully like compromise. I’m quite sure that if your aunt wanted you not to sell Puck’s Hill, she was referring also to the land. Don’t you realize what was behind her request to you not to sell? This land of yours is a very desirable piece of building land. It has road access, and it’s well drained. It’s not too far from a town, while at the same time being in pleasant country surroundings. In addition, building land is at a premium. Before you know where you are somebody like Miles Kendal will slap a block of apartments or something here.”

  He paused to fill his pipe. Vanessa was so surprised and so staggered by the way he had taken her up that she could not think what to say to him. But before she could say anything he spoke again.

  “Oh, I know people need houses and all that, but if some of these property developers have their way ‘England’s green and pleasant land’ will soon be anything but green, and far from pleasant.”

  He struck a match, cupped it in his hands until the flame spread, then lit his pipe, his face granite-like. Vanessa found herself watching him. noticing the strength of his long fingers, his broad forehead, the shape of his nose, his mouth, his jaw.

  “Freda tells me you play the piano,” she said suddenly and rather irrelevantly.

  He stared at her. “That’s a swift change of subject. Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Why?”

  “I—just thought I’d like to hear you, that’s all. I don’t know what made me think of it at this moment, but I think it’s time we changed the subject, anyway. I shall think about what you’ve said, of course. I think maybe you’re right about what Aunt Maud had in mind.”

  “Well, that’s something,” he said. “Shall we make our way back to the house?”

  They walked in silence at first. Vanessa savored the smell of earth and peat, letting her gaze soar upward into the leafy canopy above, feeling a peace enter her heart once more and a peculiar oneness with the man at her side.

  “Do you—play any kind of a musical instrument yourself?” he asked after a little while.

  She smiled and shook her head. “My mother plays the piano. She sings too. Rather well, as a matter of fact, but for some reason or other it was never suggested that I should learn to play—or sing. Perhaps Mother couldn’t bear the thought of having to listen to anyone hammering out five-finger exercises. There was always music in the house of some kind, either Mother performing or a record player with whole operas or symphonies.”

  “So you became a listener rather than a performer. And you never at any time wished you could play an instrument?”

  She laughed. “Once when I was still at school I had a go at learning to play the guitar, but I’m afraid I didn’t get very far.”

  “Why the guitar? Did you want to play pop—just chords—or in the classic style?”

  “Oh, not pop. At least, not in particular. The classic style, I suppose, or to accompany folk songs.”

  “Why didn’t you persevere?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was just a passing phase. The instrument seemed difficult to handle; I couldn’t somehow get my hand across the fret or get true notes. It was more difficult to play than I had anticipated. At any rate, I lost interest. I was teaching myself, of course, from a book.”

  “That’s a big mistake. It’s always better to have a good teacher.”

  When they reached the house she asked him if he would play the piano for her.

  “All right,” he said. “But don’t stand over me. Sit in a chair or listen from another room, whichever you like.” She eyed him mischievously. “Is it all right if I hum or tap with my feet?”

  He smiled then. “Yes, because then I shall know you’re enjoying it and not just listening out of politeness.”

  She chose a chair near the window where she could see the wide sweep of green lawn and the roses now in full bloom. Ian sat down at the piano and improvised at first—some pleasing sounding chords and arpeggios, then slid into a Chopin waltz followed by a nocturne. His playing was exquisite. Her mother had never played like this. Ian played on. Vanessa felt she could go on listening to him forever.

  “Oh, Ian,” she sighed when he stopped at last. “Do you think I could ever learn to play like that?”

  “You liked it?”

  “It was wonderful!”

  “It takes practice,” he said. “But it’s worth it. And many of the classics are quite simple to play really. To love music is the main thing.”

  “You make me wish I’d learned when I was a child. Do you think I’m too old now?”

  “You’re never too old,” he told her, “but of course the older you get the more difficult it is to learn anything new. Is there a piano in the house?”

  “An old upright in the sitting room.”

  “Well, why not have it tuned and take some lessons? I can recommend a good teacher.”

  “In town?” He nodded. “Then I’ll have to get myself a car.”

  “That would be a good idea,” he said quietly.

  There was a silence. Vanessa was remembering the morning when he had put forward the idea of her having a car and a telephone, and how she had rejected both suggestions. Freda had said he would keep a look-out for one for her. She was about to mention this to him when Freda entered with a tray of tea.

  “That was very nice, Ian. I would think you could do with a cup of tea now. You too, Vanessa, after your tramp around the estate.”

  “Thanks,” he said absently, and excused himself, saying there was something he wanted from his room.

  Freda’s gaze followed him for a moment, then she looked at Vanessa with a swift smile.

  “You’re honored,” she said. “Ian doesn’t often give a private recital. At least, not until he’s known a person for a very long time.”

  “He plays beautifully,” answered Vanessa, wondering about his change of mood when she had said she would have to get a car. Was he still holding her rudeness of that morning against her?

  Harry came in followed by Ian, and the talk became general. After tea, Vanessa said she must be going. After all, she had only been invited to lunch, not for the rest of the day, she told herself.

  “Oh, but you don’t have to run away. Does she, Ian?” Freda said quickly.

  “Of course not. She can stay for as long as she lik
es.” But Vanessa detected a lack of enthusiasm in his voice and felt sure that Freda and Harry would want some time alone together. This might result in Ian and herself being thrown into each other’s company, something from which Vanessa found herself shrinking.

  “That’s kind of you,” she said. “But I feel I really must get back. I don’t like leaving Nancy alone too much. She’s still missing Aunt Maud.”

  “Yes, of course,” murmured Freda.

  Vanessa insisted that she could walk back to Puck’s Hill by way of the woods and the boundary fence. She was glad that Freda and Harry walked part of the way with her instead of Ian. In spite of the odd moments when they seemed to find a common bond, she felt surer than ever that he disliked her.

  But when she arrived home, she sat down at Aunt Maud’s old piano. Ian’s playing still touched her heart, his strong fingers sometimes caressing the keys, at others commanding them.

  The following day her telephone was installed. She called Freda to tell her what the number was. But it was answered by a voice which Vanessa knew at once was not Freda’s. It was that of a young woman with a refined accent and a strong hint of haughtiness.

  “Freda is not here at the moment,” came the voice, in answer to her query.

  “Mr. Hamilton? Er—Ian?”

  “Mr. Hamilton is busy. Can I take a message?”

  Feeling curiously shut out, Vanessa gave her the telephone number and hung up. She wondered who the girl could be, whether a friend of Freda or of Ian. The speculation occupied her mind so much on and off that she completely forgot to call Miles to tell him what her number was. He came to see her about mid-week, however.

  “Didn’t the telephone company come?” he asked

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Miles, I’m terribly sorry. Yes, it’s all fixed up. I was going to call you the same evening, but something put me off, and then I forgot.”

  He waved an admonishing finger at her, then kissed her swiftly.

  “I’ll forgive you this time. I know you have a lot of things on your mind. I came to ask you if you’d like to go to a dinner and dance. I’ve got two tickets.”

  “Oh, yes. Lovely. Thanks very much. What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s the annual ‘do’ of the Foresters’ Club.”

  Suddenly she felt deflated. Neither Freda nor Ian had phoned to tell her about this.

  “Do you belong?” she asked.

  “No, but I have a pal who does. He usually wangles invitations for me if I want them. I expect the Hamiltons will be there, but I don’t suppose you mind that.” He eyed her keenly. “I’ve never actually asked you. How do you like those two? You had lunch with them on Sunday, didn’t you?”

  Vanessa led the way into the sitting room before answering. “I like them both quite a bit. Why shouldn’t I?”

  He shrugged. “As I’ve told you before, I can’t stand Ian at any price. You’re not seriously telling me that he’s made any kind of hit with you?”

  She shook her head swiftly. “I didn’t say that. He’s not as easy to get along with as Freda, but I think he’s a—man of good character and all that. One you could trust.”

  Miles gave a grunt of derision. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that if I were you.”

  And afterward, Vanessa did not feel quite so sure. Neither Ian nor Freda had told her about the Forestry Club dance. Why? They had not called either, she thought miserably. She hardly expected Ian to do so really, although he had been keen enough for her to get a telephone.

  The day after Miles’s visit, Freda called. As the weather was still holding well, Vanessa was working outside, digging up more of the hogweed, wondering whether there would ever be an end to it, feeling, on the whole, a little discouraged.

  “Poor you,” sympathized Freda. “You’ve set yourself an enormous task.”

  Vanessa sighed. “I doubt whether I’m going to stick it out.”

  “You will,” encouraged Freda. “But you mustn’t try to do too much of it at once.” She paused and looked troubled for a moment or two, then added swiftly, “But I came to find out if you’ve a phone yet. Did the men come on Monday?”

  Vanessa frowned. “But I phoned you. I don’t know who it was who answered the phone, but you weren’t in. Ian was busy. I did leave a message.”

  “Really? Our daily didn’t say anything, and I haven’t seen any message on the pad. Anyway, I came to ask if you’d like to come to a dinner and a dance.”

  Somehow, Vanessa did not think it had been the daily help who had answered the telephone, but she decided not to pursue the matter.

  “Is it the Foresters’ dinner-dance?” she asked.

  “Why, yes. Did I tell you about it?”

  Vanessa shook her head. “Miles came yesterday and invited me. He has two tickets.”

  “But they weren’t available until last night at the meeting. He wasn’t even there. He isn’t a member.”

  “He has friends.”

  “Obviously. And did you accept his invitation?”

  Vanessa nodded. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “We—ll, it would have been nice to have you in our party, but never mind. We’ll see you there. By the way, we proposed you as a member last night. Meetings are held once a month over the Stag—a lovely old pub just the other side of town. Usually we just talk and have drinks; sometimes we dance. Occasionally we have a speaker. They’re good fun, the meetings, I mean, and you meet some interesting people.”

  “I’m sure. Thank you very much.”

  Freda eyed her quizzically. “You are pleased? I mean—you did want to join, didn’t you? We don’t want to force you into anything.”

  “Of course I’m pleased. It’s very kind of you, and I’ll look forward to getting to know a few people.”

  It was difficult to explain, even to herself, this leaden feeling inside her. It was somehow tied up with Ian. It was Freda who was setting the pace, offering friendship, taking the initiative. Without prompting from Freda, he would undoubtedly want very little to do with her. Why the thought should depress her, she didn’t know. She told herself how ridiculous and how futile such thoughts were, but she still continued to think about Ian and to be depressed every time she did so.

  On the night of the dinner and dance, Vanessa wore a new dress she had bought recently. She and Freda had driven into town together for a day’s shopping. Vanessa had bought a sleeveless dress in silvery blue with a matching jacket. But she dressed without enthusiasm and with an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Miles called for her. His admiration of her appearance was unmistakable.

  “You look terrific,” he said spontaneously. “I’ll have to keep a tight hold on you, I can see.”

  She laughed. It was nice to be flattered. She felt she needed it.

  The members of the Foresters’ Club and their guests were seated at tables for four, six or eight. Doubtless by prearrangement, Vanessa was at a table for six with Miles and two other couples whose surnames were misheard or quickly forgotten in the use of first names. Vanessa did not care much for them. They made a great deal of noise and drank too much. The girls were dressed in what Vanessa considered to be shocking taste. She scanned the tables until she saw where Freda and Ian were sitting. They were at a table for four, with Harry, naturally, and a girl Vanessa had never seen before. In contrast to the two girls at Vanessa’s table this girl was dressed with impeccable taste in white. She was also very beautiful.

  Between courses there was dancing. Vanessa danced with each of the other two men in turn and hated it. Both held her too closely. Miles and she were sitting at the table alone when Vanessa’s attention became riveted on Ian dancing with the beautiful dark girl in white. Suddenly she was in the grip of the fiercest jealousy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Miles looked at her face. “What’s the matter?”

  She started and shifted her gaze back to him. “Nothing.”

  He gave an amused smile and glanced in the direction of Ian and his party. �
�If looks could kill, Cecile would have been stretched out on the ground.”

  “Don’t be silly. How do you know I wasn’t casting venom at Ian? I’ve never even met—Cecile, did you say her name was? Who is she, anyway?”

  Miles gazed across the room through narrowed lids, still wearing the same smile of amusement. “She is Cecile Harland, daughter of Sir Walter and Lady Harland who live at Kelsley Hall.”

  Vanessa frowned, trying to think, trying to shake off the effect of that awful feeling of pure jealousy which had choked her momentarily.

  “I—thought Lord Kelsley lived there.”

  He shook his head. “Not now. You’re out of date, my love. As a matter of fact she and her parents moved into the area about a month before Hamilton and his sister. They say he followed her here.”

  “You mean—”

  Miles laughed shortly. “Because he wanted to marry her, I suppose. I don’t think he’s had a lot of luck—so far. But he’s nothing if not a trier.”

  Vanessa supposed vaguely that she ought to hate Miles, but his sneers somehow went over her head. She was looking at the two again; Ian and the beautiful girl, their steps matching perfectly, the rapt expression on Ian’s face, the cool detached demeanor of Cecile.

  Miles’s hand touched Vanessa’s. “Come on, let’s dance. Sitting looking at those two is giving me the willies.”

  Vanessa rose, feeling something of the “willies” herself, though she would not have expressed it in quite those terms. She felt like an actress who, for the time being, must keep her own affairs somewhere deep inside in a dark secret place. But what she had felt at the sight of that girl in Ian Hamilton’s arms was like a monster which was trying to rear up. Why I feel like that? Why? Why? went around in her brain as Miles swung her on the dance floor. Ian was nothing to her. Nothing.