Fortune's Lead

by Barbara Perkins

  I found I was still seeing Henry as a leprechaun as I let myself into Julia’s flat. Mischievous, but both charming and kind—and he seemed, for some reason of his own, to like me.

  As I crept past Julia’s room—it was very late—I felt inclined to wake her up and tell her I’d just been offered a fabulous and overpaid job as a social secretary. And that Henry’s arrival in my life had been predicted by a gypsy—with further, distinctly startling, suggestions...

  I could imagine what she would say. ‘Really, Charlotte, you must be feverish! You’d better go to ‘bed!’ Or if I told her about the job and not the gypsy, she’d say, ‘Good gracious, how extraordinary! And what a waste of your training! Of course, you won’t take it!’

  And she’d be right—of course. I wouldn’t take it.

  CHAPTER III

  I climbed out of the taxi which had been there to meet me at Beemondham Station, and looked up at Thurlanger House with a flutter of nervousness in my stomach.

  All right—so here I was. It was one thing to decide the whole thing was inevitable, to write accepting Henry’s offer, and to receive a delighted letter back. It was another to be standing here in front of this square-fronted, beautifully imposing house trying to nerve myself to ring the doorbell and announce my arrival. I glanced over my shoulder at the parkland falling away behind me—grass, trees, a fenced paddock with horses grazing. Low buildings away to the left of the house suggested themselves as stables, and beyond them I could see white and red poles and bars set up as practice jumps. I had seen all this as we came up the long drive from the road, after a rattling journey along the fifteen winding miles from Beemondham. Beemondham’s best (or only) taxi had seen better days, but as its driver deposited my suitcases and climbed back behind the wheel, I felt half inclined to go back with him. I was too ridiculously out of place in this gracious setting. But it was too late to do anything about that now, as the car wheels swished on the gravel and the taxi rattled back the way we had come. Besides, I had not only accepted the job, but an advance on my salary as well, sent by Henry ‘for necessary expenses.’ One of the necessary expenses had been more clothes bought in London on my way here, since part of my job was supposed to be looking well-dressed for the benefits of Esther Thurlanger. Glancing round now, I had the horrible feeling that nothing I possessed would look suitable worn here—I should have gone for good tweeds, and sensible shoes. Wrong already—but it was no use standing here in the cool early October air wishing I’d never come. Stiffening myself resolutely, I picked up my suitcases and mounted the three shallow steps to the front door. After all, there was nothing to be afraid of...

  My peal on the doorbell had unexpectedly rapid results. The door swung open at once, as if someone had been standing just inside it—in fact someone obviously had, though not for the purpose of greeting me. He was on his way out—a very tall, broad-shouldered young man, who almost bumped into me, and drew back with an apology which died on his lips. I found myself staring into a face I’d seen once before—on the train, at Bradfield, when I first met Henry. The young man called Kevin was still favouring me with a thunderstruck glare when there was a stir behind him, and Henry himself bustled into view.

  ‘Ah, Shah, my dear, you’ve arrived. Good. Kevin, this is my new secretary. My nephew, Kevin Thurlanger. You’ll be seeing a lot of one another. Kevin—’

  ‘How do you do?’ I said, finding my voice and holding out my hand.

  ‘We’ve met.’ It was delivered with unpromising harshness, in the deep voice I remembered now too well. Kevin put his hand into mine for just long enough to be barely polite, glanced at his uncle, at me again, and moved to pass me. ‘Uncle, I’m just off,’ he said shortly. ‘Don’t wait dinner for me. I’ll be late.’

  ‘How unusually kind of you to warn me,’ Henry said with an irony which brought a faint flush to Kevin’s face—and then Henry took hold of my arm, turning me away from his nephew and leading me into the house.

  ‘How nice to see you, Shah,’ he said cordially. ‘No, don’t worry about your cases—I’ll have Ganner take them up to your room in a moment. Did you have a good journey? Come over here to the fire and warm yourself...’

  The slam of the front door jerked me out of my numbness, and I found my voice again. I assured Henry that I had had a good journey, and then, feeling that I couldn’t ignore my meeting with Kevin as Henry was so blandly doing, I asked, ‘Is—is your nephew staying here?’

  ‘Kevin? He lives here. I’m sorry he couldn’t wait to be introduced to you properly. Always in a hurry.’ Henry smiled at me amiably, seemingly forgetful of the fact that this was the second time I had brushed against his nephew in spite of Kevin’s statement of the fact, and added, ‘You’ll see him later, of course. But tell me—did you manage to find something to eat on the train? I’m sure Mrs. Mott can find you something if you’re hungry. No? Well then, get yourself warm, and then you must be shown round. Esther’s out, I’m afraid. But Mrs. Mott can take you to your room, and do the honours. Sit down, and tell me how you are!’

  How I was, at the moment, was very unsure of myself. I reminded myself that my entire family, though a little surprised, had accepted my taking a job as a secretary in Suffolk for the winter as a good move. Henry and my father had exchanged letters. My father had told me he was sure I’d enjoy myself chaperoning Mr. Thurlanger’s daughter. (Somehow, without my lying about it, it had been automatically assumed that I’d met Henry quite officially while I was in Grimsbridge—after all, Charlotte was So Sensible.) Now, unnerved by walking into the supercilious Kevin, I was quite sure Charlotte wasn’t at all sensible. Henry certainly hadn’t warned me that he was living here. However, there was no reason why he should—I was only an employee, after all. And here I was. I met Henry’s pleasant, friendly expression, and said weakly, ‘This is a—a lovely house.’

  ‘You like it?’ He looked round the wide panelled hall in which we were standing. ‘Yes, it’s pleasant. Previous Thurlangers seem to have had the taste to make only reasonable alterations. Parts of it are quite old—this fireplace, for example. Most of the heat goes up the chimney, but we have to light it to keep out the draught—do come closer, you must have had a cold journey.’ He indicated the wide, cowled fireplace with its stone, chimney jutting out into the room: a log fire blazed merrily. ‘There’s central heating in most of the house, of course. I refuse to live like an English country gentleman if it means being covered in ice. Ah, here’s Mrs. Mott. Let me introduce you.’

  Mrs. Mott was fat and grey-haired and comfortable, and looked so much like a housekeeper that it was almost impossible to believe she was one. She had a comfortable voice, too, going up a little at the end of every sentence as if everything was a question. She smiled at me, shook my proffered hand, and took me off placidly to show me my room—feeling faintly comforted, though still fluttering a little inside. The house, imposing outside, bore signs of such care, with everything shiningly polished, that I felt I might scratch something just by looking at it—but Mrs. Mott looked amiable as well as capable, and didn’t seem in any way to resent my arrival.

  A wide staircase of beautiful proportions curved up out of the hall, which was the height of both floors with the upper corridor forming a balustraded gallery. We came up into the centre of the gallery, and walked along one side, with Mrs. Mott pointing out doors-as we passed them: Mr. Thurlanger’s room; the study; the sitting-room. At the end of the gallery a much narrower staircase took us up to the top floor (with another staircase at the foot of it going down: the back stairs, I was told) and Mrs. Mott opened the first door we came to.

  ‘This’ll be your room, then. I hope you’ll be comfortable.’

  ‘I—I’m sure I will.’

  It was a bright, chintzy room, friendly and not nearly as imposing as the other parts of the house. Mrs. Mott was saying that Ganner would be up in a moment with my cases, and I murmured thanks as I crossed to the window to look out. The view was from the back of the house: a formal gar
den lay below, to the right a walled area made a kitchen garden, and beyond both there was rough grass and then woodland. It was a pretty view, so I exclaimed that it was, and then felt foolish: somehow Thurlanger House couldn’t possibly look out on anything but beautiful views.

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs. Mott said placidly. ‘There’s Tyzet village down beyond the trees there, around a mile away, but you can’t see it with the woods in between. Just as well, I’d say, with the way they build some of the houses nowadays. Ah, here’s Ganner with your things, then. You’ll be wanting to unpack.’

  Ganner must have knocked on the door with his elbow: he had one of my cases in each hand, and he gave me a nod as he put them down carefully, and wiped his hand before shaking mine when Mrs. Mott introduced him to me. He was gone again before I had gained more than the impression that he was a small, brown-faced man with a bow-legged walk—yet another person to make me feel tall, as Mrs. Mott only came up to my shoulder, her lack of inches making her look even rounder than she was. My mind went fleetingly to the one person who had looked down at me instead of up—Kevin, Henry’s nephew—and it was almost as if she had picked up my thought when Mrs. Mott began talking again.

  ‘There’s the bathroom and lavatory along the end of the passage, past Mr. Kevin’s room,’ she said. ‘You won’t want to be going all the way down to Miss Essie’s bathroom when there’s one up there, Mr. Thurlanger said, and Mr. Kevin could learn to be tidier.’ She gave me a comfortable smile. ‘Mr. Kevin’s in and out at all hours, but you won’t be minding that. He’s quiet enough. Oh, when you’ve things wanting washing out, I’ll hang them on the outside fine for you, if you’ll let me have them. I’ll be showing you where the bathroom is, and then I expect you’d like to rest a bit, if you’ve come all the way from London today.’

  ‘All the way from London’ sounded a long way as Mrs. Mott put it: I had also come all the way from Hertfordshire via London, but I didn’t say so in case that drove Mrs. Mott to feel I ought to be totally exhausted. Besides, I was taking in the fact that I had been put in the bedroom next to the supercilious Mr. Kevin Thurlanger, was apparently to share a bathroom he considered exclusively his. From the way Mrs. Mott had spoken, it sounded ominously as if he had objected that I would be sure to hang underwear all round it to dry. I thought grimly that I was likely to be receiving sardonic glances every time I ran into Mr. Kevin in the passage outside our rooms, and the idea didn’t cheer me—but it was no use thinking I had been mad to come when I was already here, so I followed Mrs. Mott along the narrow corridor and listened while she told me that I could put the towels from my room on this rail, and Sarah Ann should have put another toothglass up here as she’d been told, but that Mrs. Mott would see to it. Trailing back to my room, I learned with even deeper gloom that Mr. Kevin and I were in sole possession on this floor—the other doors, on each side of the long passage lit by a window at each end, gave on to rooms which were described by Mrs. Mott as the Old Nursery, a box-room, a linen-room, and a little room which wasn’t anything in particular but where Mr. Kevin ‘kept some things.’ By the time she went away downstairs, I was getting a little tired of hearing the name Mr. Kevin: for example, the Old Nursery hadn’t been used since Miss Essie was a baby, and wouldn’t be used again, Mrs. Mott supposed, until Mr. Kevin got married. She left me with the information that there would be tea at four o’clock in the drawing-room, and that was the door on the right as I came down into the hall, but that she could send Sarah Ann up with a cup of tea for me now if I’d like one? I refused politely, and went into my room to unpack, still feeling (in spite of Mrs. Mott’s amiability) that I had been mad to come.

  My bright room, with its comfortable bed and pretty curtains, seemed a small consolation. I wondered, rather helplessly, when my duties were supposed to begin—and caught myself longing for the familiar routines of nursing. That reminded me of the added confusion of my promise to Henry not to say I was—had been—a nurse. I wondered what to say if anyone questioned me directly on my past—perhaps I had better invent something? Pulling myself together, I unpacked quickly, tidied myself, and began to go downstairs—after a glance at the closed door of Mr. Kevin’s room. So that rude young man came in and out at all hours, did he? He must lead a gay social life. Well, if he made a noise about it, I thought with more resolution, I would hang my underwear all round the bathroom, in protest!

  I reached the gallery and began to walk round it: then I paused for a moment, to look down on the panelled hall from here. There was no sign of Henry, or anyone else, and I stood appreciating (with reservations about my own presence) the feeling of gracious living which went with the house’s well-kept elegance. And then the front door was pushed open, and a girl’s voice, husky and abrupt but young, floated clearly up to me.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Phil! It’s only dripping a bit! And—’ the girl came round the door as she spoke, a small and somewhat muddy figure—‘don’t tell your mother either, got it? Or I’ll slit yer throat!’

  She seemed satisfied that this terrible threat would silence Phil (whoever he was) and came right inside, kicking the door to behind her with one muddy boot. She was in jodhpurs and a jacket, and from above, all I could see of her looks was a mop of tangled brown hair. She came on towards the stairs without looking right or left, and I hesitated, wondering whether to retreat or go forward and introduce myself. I could guess who she was: Henry’s horse-mad daughter. Should I wait to be introduced to her properly, or ... but it was rather late to remove myself, so I stepped forward as she reached the top of the stairs. The movement brought her head round towards me quickly, and for a startled second we stared at each other. The words I had opened my mouth to say temporarily vanished, as I took in the unexpected details of Esther Thurlanger’s appearance. Surely Henry had said (rudely) that his daughter looked like a horse ... but, even dirty, untidy, and streaked with mud, the girl looking at me was startlingly beautiful.

  She had a small, pointed face, pale against the surrounding mop of curls. The perfect curve of her eyebrows was somewhat spoiled by a streak of mud across one of them, but her enormous brown eyes were fringed with unfairly thick black lashes. She was small—like Henry—but already at seventeen her figure was perfectly proportioned. The words ‘pocket Venus’ shot into my mind out of some book I’d read, but, after the first surprise of seeing me, she had already collected herself before I had. She said, huskily, ‘Hallo. Thought for a minute it was going to be Mottie. Are you the new secretary? I’m Essie. Sorry, can’t shake hands, I’m dripping gore at the moment.’

  ‘H—hallo ... Heavens, what have you done?’

  I sounded stupid, even to my own ears. And my nursing training was swiftly reasserting itself, at the sight of the red trickle across one grubby hand: Esther was definitely bleeding. Now I was looking, there was a rent in her coat-sleeve as well. ‘You’d better let me have a look at it,’ I said swiftly, but she glanced at her arm with indifference.

  ‘S’all right, t’isn’t much. Blast!’ This was as a drip trickled off her fingers and splashed on the carpet. ‘If you’re not the sort that faints at the sight of blood—’ her eyes assessed me doubtfully—‘you could come and tie it up for me. Only don’t tell. The fuss people make!’ She turned away along the gallery, holding her arm up to stop further drips and talking to me over her shoulder.

  ‘I want to go out again tomorrow, and I know Mottie would try and stop me. Appeal to Pa, or something. It only needs a bit of a bandage, and it’ll stop soon.’

  She seemed to expect me to follow her, and anyway I couldn’t have let her go off without finding out how badly she was hurt. She led me into a room at the end of the gallery—obviously her bedroom, done up in pretty pastel shades with a thick, pale carpet, a frilly bedcover, and a matching frill round a kidney-shaped dressing-table. Esther was happily leaving a trail of mud across the carpet. She said, ‘Bathroom. I’ve got some bandages,’ and led the way to another door, adding, ‘What’s your name, by the way? Sorry, I’ve
forgotten what Pa said.’

  ‘Charlotte Armitage. Esther, you’d better get that jacket off and let me see what you’ve done. How did you—’

  ‘Call me Essie. Everyone does, except Pa. And don’t fuss, I only gashed it on a branch. Cora threw me, the wretch.’ She turned to face me in the middle of the gleaming white tiles of her bathroom, her enormous brown eyes studying me. ‘You won’t go green, will you? It’s only a scratch. Perhaps you’d better look the other way while I clean it up a bit—’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said drily, ‘considering—’and then I stopped, memory warning me in time. ‘I did a first aid course once,’ I improvised hastily. ‘So get your jacket off, or do you need help? And have you got some cotton wool? Gauze would be even better.’

  She seemed to have everything—a highly efficient first-aid kit, which led me to suspect she was used to doing secret repairs to her person rather than causing the ‘fuss’ she complained about. Her arm, after she had struggled it out of her jacket and rolled up a bloodstained shirt-sleeve, showed a nasty gash—not deep enough for stitches, but gory enough to give most people pause for thought. Esther, as I quickly gathered, wasn’t most people. She looked at the mess without wincing and with a kind of casual satisfaction as she held her arm over the basin I was filling with water.

  ‘It’s okay. Just slap some iodine on it and tie it up tight, would you? If it isn’t a broken bone or a busted artery there’s no need to worry—that’s what my cousin Dominic always says. He’s Kev’s next brother. Of course, Kev would be useful for this sort of thing, if only he wouldn’t get so pi about it. Besides, he’d go on about it being my own fault—just because Cora’s a devil sometimes. There’s no fun riding a beast that won’t go. Anyway, I’ve told him, if he encourages Pa to get rid of Cora I’ll go out on Thunder, so help me I will. Kev said he’d break every bone in my body if I did. As if that’d stop me!’ She glanced at me as I swabbed her arm.