“Violets in July! Who could have sent them? Father never chose them,” said Jane aloud, drinking in their fragrance. A slip of pasteboard lay on the floor where it had fallen unnoticed. She picked it up, to read in sloping copperplate: ‘Mr. Peregrine Gilbert,’ and under the name, in small scholarly writing: ‘With best wishes for this evening.’
‘Peregrine! How sweet of him—how unlike him!’ she thought. Peregrine sending flowers, and to her! She held the violets to the top of her low-cut bodice. The green heart-shaped leaves, the delicate purple petals, looked well against the silver, even better against her milky skin. “I’ll wear them,” she decided, but before she had begun to pin them on, the door flew open and Love, tall, slim as a birch, shining-lily-fair in her shimmering white dress, came in.
“Janey! John has sent flowers, look! A box for you, white gardenias to match my bouquet for me, with his love! Isn’t he a darling?”
She held out a second florists’ box to Jane, and her quick glance suddenly fell on the tumbled drift of paper on the floor, the violets lying beside a hand-mirror on the dressing-table.
“More flowers? Who sent these?” She swooped on the card. “Perry!”
Jane looked from John’s dusky red carnations to the violets distractedly. “Which shall I wear?” she asked, and for once Love was not ready with advice. She was still staring at the card, and finally said in a queer stifled voice: “Perry didn’t send me any flowers.”
“I’ll wear the violets,” said Jane firmly, in answer to her own questioning eyes looking at her from the mirror. “They—they came first, after all.” She pinned them to her corsage, and rising, put John’s carnations carefully into a glass of fresh water.
“Oh, you’re going to wear Perry’s flowers?” said Love. “I’m very glad.” She would give no explanation for her gladness, and turned and went away, the rucked white chiffon of her train foaming over her gloved arm.
Events began to move quickly, the evening became a series of brightly-coloured, confused moving pictures. They were in the car, driving through wet grey streets; they had halted near the head of a long double line of other cars, in the King’s Park, just outside the Palace gates, and in spite of the teeming rain, crowds had gathered on the sidewalks to look at the nodding feathers, the jewels and flowers, seen through the glass.
Policemen moved them on continually, but they always drifted back, to stare with generous admiration and frank comment, heedless of their increasingly damp condition. At last the gates were opened, the ears moved slowly forward, to stop before the door. Jane had a momentary glimpse of Lyon King-at-Arms, magnificent tabard stiff with gold, sprawling lion rampant blazing, flat black bonnet, as be went under the archway, and then it was their turn.
“Mind your feathers, Janey!” . . . Love, as usual, remembering the essentials. They were out, on a strip of red carpet laid over the grey stone, the Holyrood High Constables, solemn figures in blue with tall hats and batons, stood in a row, a band was playing on the green grass of the inner courtyard. Then a long stretch of stone corridor, flights of stairs, a halt to murmur a few words to Sir Magnus, erect and spare in the dashing green and dark crimson of the Royal Archers, the King’s Bodyguard for Scotland, who was on duty outside one of the drawing-rooms, and they found themselves seated in the front row of a room filled with closely-ranged, rather hard chairs, with two hours to go, and nothing to look at but a dim and ancient tapestry portraying a hunting scene, on the wall close in front of them . . . “If they start with this drawing-room, we shall be among the first after the entrée presentations are made,” murmured Lady Cranstoun, gently waving a painted fan to and fro. “Don’t crush your train, Love.”
“No, mother,” Love, sounding oddly subdued. . . . Jane’s thoughts were away far and far from her own part in this evening’s ceremony. Did the frail ghosts who must for ever haunt Holyrood approve of the stir and colour and splendour that had come to bring new life to the old Palace? Did the grey stones warm to it, which had been brushed against only by careless tourists during so many months of the year?
“The ante-room is next door. We shall hear when the King and Queen enter the Throne-room,” murmured a voice near by. The room was full of low-voiced feminine talk, the soft rustle of rich materials, the waving of feathers and fans.
But Mary Queen of Scots would probably think that there were far too many women here, thought Jane, lost in her dream, awakened suddenly from it by a poke from Love, and her excited whisper: “Stand up, Janey! They’re playing God Save the King. The balloon will be going up in a minute.”
A sigh, a murmur, like wind in the high tops of the trees, swept the big room; and without warning, as it seemed to Jane, they were on their feet again, moving slowly through the ante-room, Jane’s eyes on her mother’s slim straight back. An unexpected pause in the doorway of the Throne-room, and Jane, even as she mechanically held out her arm to have her train lifted from it and spread behind her by a deft page, even as she handed over her name-card and saw it passed from personage to gorgeous personage until it arrived at the Lord Chamberlain, standing just behind the Throne and to the right, was looking at the long, narrow room with her heart in her eyes. There was the dais, with its semi-circle of court officials about it, and there, on the two gilt thrones, were a King and Queen who, in looks and charm as well as in character, were perfectly fitted to sit there, to hold their court in this Palace of romantic memories, to which they brought a happier atmosphere. The King, tall, slim, erect, broad of shoulder, long of leg, in red and blue and gold, and on his left a Queen so delicately lovely that she might have sat by Oberon and he have taken her for Titania herself. From head to foot she shimmered as if clad in moonbeams, her only colour the broad green ribbon of the Thistle, crossing her breast from shoulder to waist; or no, not the only colour: for as Jane prepared to follow her mother up the room, the Queen turned her head towards her husband, a head on which a crown of diamonds beamed with their mild, ineffable lustre, and even at the doorway, Jane caught the dark, sapphire flash of her eyes, brighter and softer than any diamonds. The thought of those lovely, amazing eyes stayed with Jane throughout the rest of the evening, she made her curtseys, received two royal smiles and moved sidelong to the farther doorway, all in a daze. Even when she found herself in the long gallery, transformed this evening by bright lights and long buffet tables presided over by powdered footmen in the royal livery, she could think of nothing else. The room filled with feathers, with the glow and sparkle of tiaras, with the scent of flowers and champagne.
The dark-green Archers, scarlet of full-dress tunics, flashes of tartan, glint and clank of dirks, sombre black of court-dress, showed where men stood among the paler-clad women. A sudden glimpse of dark-blue and gold epaulettes, a handsome head rising from a gold gorget . . . John!
“You aren’t wearing the flowers I sent you, Jenny?”
“No. I’m sorry. They came too late. I had these. But Love is wearing your gardenias.”
“Shall I get you some champagne?”
“Oh, please. I’m so thirsty.”
Then, still half in a dream, she moved over to one of the windows, and stood looking down on the inner court, lighted only by the rays falling on it from the brilliantly illuminated rooms overlooking it. The band occasional sparkles reflected from their brass instruments, occasional splashes of red tunics caught in the uncertain light, played valiantly, and through the arcade of grey stone surrounding the courtyard on three sides, passed dazzling figures, seen only in flitting glimpses, uniforms, liveries . . . heralds in tabards of medieval splendour, the nodding plumes of early departing women, a swinging tartan plaid and a feather bonnet . . . flash and glitter and soft colour . . . she might have been gazing at a scene from that ball held in the Palace by Prince Charles Edward during his brief hey-day.
A stir in the gallery behind her, a voice calling that their Majesties would pass in a few minutes, made her turn inward, and presently the most beautiful sight of a dazzling evening rewarded her.
With the Lord Chamberlain and the Earl of Airlie backing before them, the King led his Queen up the length of the gallery between the lines of silent men and women in all their bravery of silk and satin, jewels and priceless lace and brocade, and as they bowed to the one side, the whole assemblage of women curtsied to the floor, all the white plumes sweeping downwards like wind passing over a barley-field. They bowed to the other, and now Jane was one of the curtseying crowd. As she rose, the royal procession passed from sight through the doorway, and a voice said beside her:
“That’s another sight worth seeing, isn’t it?” Peregrine Gilbert, his tall figure well set off by the black knee-breeches and coat, was smiling down at her, and at the same moment John reached her other side, a brimming glass in his hand.
“Thank you for sending me the lovely violets,” said Jane, touching them gently with one finger-tip. “Thank you for wearing them,” he said gravely.
John forced a laugh. “So you’re the lucky beggar whom Jane has favoured,” he said. “I wondered who’d sent her the violets.”
“I am the lucky beggar,” Peregrine said, still gravely. The scent of the violets, strengthened by the warmth of Jane’s breast, rose into the heavy air between them like incense, as the two men stared in silence at one another, their eyes hard.
Chapter Eight
BEGINNING OF A WEEK-END PARTY
A dull day in mid-July, when skies heavy with slate-coloured clouds hang low over the grim-faced hills, and trees, their lovely shapes hidden by masses of dark-green foliage, look like so many boiled cabbages, when even the freshly-flowered bell-heather is a dim and lifeless purple and the robin’s song has a peculiarly melancholy pipe, can be dismal indeed. If it comes immediately after a week such as the Cranstouns had spent in Edinburgh, which had ended with a particularly good day’s racing at Musselburgh, there seems nothing left to hope for but winter, roaring wood fires, lamp-light and hot scones for tea.
“July,” said Jane calmly but viciously, “is a month which I should have left out of the calendar altogether. As far as I can see, it has nothing to commend it.”
Dressed for tennis, but too lazy to play, she lay back in a deck-chair set under the great cedar on the lawn, her hands linked behind her head, gazing up into the layers of inky shadow which made a dark tent above. Beside her on the carpet of fallen brown needles dropped from the ancient tree, sat Peregrine Gilbert in white flannels, his racquet across his knees. He smiled at her tone.
“Do you think the same?” he asked, “on a bright warm day?”
“Even then there are midges,” retorted Jane. “Besides, it isn’t a bright day, though it’s warm enough. Too warm, I feel as if I’d been in a Turkish bath.”
“Thunder about,” he said lazily, lighting a cigarette. As if in answer, a long, low roll grumbled far to the south, where the sky was brassy and overlaid with heavy curl-edged clouds. “That’s why you feel limp. That and reaction. A week like last is bound to leave you in the trough of the wave. It has to follow the crest.”
“Must you be so philosophical! It bores me.” said Jane pettishly. “I don’t care what the reason is, I feel as flat as—as flat as—”
“A pancake?” he suggested helpfully.
“Too banal. There must be other flat things.”
“A kipper? A burst tyre?”
“Not nearly flat enough.”
“Well, me, then. I feel flat after your brutal treatment,” he said. “Every remark snubbed as soon as made, every suggestion stamped on. I’d do excellently as an example.”
“Poor Peregrine! But you’re coming on, you know. A few weeks ago you’d have subsided into offended or hurt silence and got up and left me with quiet dignity.”
“You think I’m improved?”
“Oh, immensely. You’re much more fun to be with.”
“H’m. I wonder if the improvement is anything but superficial,” he said thoughtfully. “It is hard to believe that a slight talent for back-chat has any really beneficial effect on the character.”
“Now you’re going too deep. It was the leopard’s spots I was to work on, not his character,” said lane.
“Somehow, they seem to have a strange affinity,” he answered gravely. “I’m not sure that I was wise to put myself in your hands, Jane.”
“Are you afraid you’ll be hurt?” she mocked.
“No. I don’t think I’m afraid of that, but I am a cautious man by nature, and I like to know that anything I pay for is worth the price,” he said.
“Mercenary. That’s even worse than I suspected,” sighed Jane, but he noticed that she no longer looked bored.
They relapsed into amiable silence, having reached that pleasant stage of intimacy where conversation is not necessary unless desired by both, and Peregrine was almost asleep when Love’s voice startled him broad awake.
“You lazy things! We’ve played three sets while we were waiting for you!” she cried.
Peregrine looked up at her with disfavour. “Then just trot straight back to the tennis-court and play three more, and don’t disturb us, there’s a good girl,” he said, closing his eyes as if the sight of her was too much for him.
“Perry—” faltered Love uncertainly, completely taken aback. “Perry—”
Standing there, straight and slim in her plain, short white piqué dress with her dark hair bound by a blue fillet, she looked like some woe-begone nymph. Jane was sorry, though she felt vaguely that it was probably very good for her, but Peregrine evidently suffered no pangs of remorse.
“Not that revolting name, I beg,” he murmured faintly, waving his hand as if to disperse a host of irritating flies.
“P—Peregrine, then,” said Love, more uncertainly than ever. “Won’t you please come and play? The others say they’re exhausted.”
“Exhausted? Strong young creatures like that? Nonsense. Your brother Stair leads a thoroughly lazy life in the Army, and a little running about will do him all the good in the world. As for that fat Graham girl and her hulking ox of a brother, it’s their plain duty to play. Reduce their bulk a bit,” said Peregrine firmly.
“Well, I think you’re a pig,” began Love, but without her usual spirit.
“Fine! Pigs can’t play tennis. It’s like swimming. They cut their throats with their fore-trotters,” said Peregrine.
“Janey.” There was almost tearful appeal in Love’s voice and look. “Can’t you make him play’?”
“Who am I that I should force any man to play tennis against his will?” murmured Jane sleepily. “But I think you might, all the same, Peregrine.”
“Very well,” said Peregrine with sudden winsome obligingness. “Since you ask me, I will. Are you coming, too?”
“Oh,” said Love hastily, “Janey’s not much good. She’ll spoil the set.”
Peregrine sank back again. “Then so will I,” he answered. “I don’t play unless Jane plays.”
“Oh, dear! How troublesome you are,” wailed Love. “I suppose I’d better just take them away to eat gooseberries until tea-time.”
“An excellent idea,” said Peregrine heartily. “Vaya con Dios, señorita.”
“Peregrine,” said Jane, “I don’t like to point out to you that you were asked here this afternoon to play tennis—”
“Well, I’m perfectly willing to play if you’ll be my partner,” was his reasonable reply.
“I really don’t want to play,” began Jane, and broke off in relief as Gunn, who had approached silently over the shaven turf, announced: “You are wanted on the telephone, Miss Jane. A trunk call.”
“There! You see, Janey can’t play!” cried Love. “Oh, do be an angel, Perry—Peregrine! It’s only till tea-time. There are more people coming then. Oh, do come, and I can let Violet go to the gooseberries, and you and I can take on the two boys!”
Jane, going towards the house, heard Peregrine grumble: “I don’t believe angels play tennis any more than pigs. I’m sure I hope not, for hell will be infinitely preferable to a heaven t
hat consists of celestial hard courts. And mark you, Love, I’m playing to oblige Jane, not you.” More faintly came Love’s subdued: “Thank you, Peregrine,” and then Jane was in the cool hall, dim after the brazen light that scorched the open stretch of lawns, and had lifted the receiver.
“Hullo. Jane Cranstoun speaking,” she said.
“Jenny! This is Kitty,” came a faint but familiar voice from hundreds of miles south. “Listen, honey, George and I are spending some of his leave in Inverness with an aged uncle of his, and we wondered if we could drop in for a meal with you on the way north? Starting to-morrow. Could we lunch with you the day after?”
Jane thought rapidly. Her father and mother had gone off on a friend’s yacht, cruising among the western islands, and would not be back for a week. “Kitty,” she said, “you and George had better stay here for a few days on the way. It’s ages since we saw each other. Can do?”
“Can do! Oh, and Jenny! Do have John over while we’re with you and let’s have a reunion? Of course I know John probably spends all his free time with you at your place, anyhow, but make sure that he synchronizes with us, there’s a sweet! How is he, by the way, and when is the wedd—”
“Thurrree minutes,” said an impersonal female voice, to Jane’s relief. She called quickly. “All right. We’ll expect you for lunch on Friday, and to stay the week-end!” and rang off.
For the first time since they had known each other she felt unwilling to see Kitty. It would be quite impossible to hide the state of affairs between herself and John from those wide-open brown eyes. Kitty knew her far too well. In a mood of sudden recklessness she decided that it would be far simpler that Kitty should see for herself how things were than to enter into long tedious explanations of a situation which was, after all, inexplicable. Once Kitty saw her and John and Love all together, she would realize everything without a word said.
Lifting the receiver again, Jane said calmly into it: “Telegrams, please.” But in the short interval of buzzes and clicks which passed before she heard the reply, it suddenly occurred to her that Kitty had seemed unusually eager to see John, there had been a note in her voice which Jane had heard before. Well, the telepathy business worked both ways, and Jane knew her friend quite as well as Kitty knew her friend Jane! ‘There’s been some monkey-work,’ flashed her thoughts. ‘And perhaps John won’t be so awfully keen to see Kitty—here, at least.’
Love Comes Home Page 16