I decided to keep out of everyone’s way. I stayed in my room, writing a letter home to say I had arrived safely: that finished, I ventured as far as the library. I found it empty, and settled down rather dispiritedly to read. The library had french windows on to the terrace, and after a time, hearing a slight noise outside, I looked up—to see a pair of mournful canine faces regarding me hopefully. The two dogs obviously wanted to come in, so I let them in—and petted them, since they seemed disposed to accept me this time. The female (who must be Bess) settled herself on the hearthrug and blinked at me amiably, but Royal came and leaned lazily against me with friendly sentimentality. I had made a quick check of the terrace when they arrived to make sure that Kevin wasn’t out there too, but the dogs seemed quite happy to stay with me for the moment—and I was glad to have them, even if only as a proof that I didn’t have such disastrous effects on all the Thurlanger animals. We kept each other company, until they both got up as if called and asked to be let out of the window again. A glance at my watch showed me it was still only twelve o’clock (luncheon, I had been told, was at one) and I wondered if it was ungrateful of me to feel that idleness made time drag.
I was supposed to be a secretary. A secretary should know how to type: very well then, I decided, I would go upstairs to the study and teach myself to type. At least I would be doing something. Where Henry was I didn’t know, but Esther (and probably Kevin) would still be at the stables. I went determinedly up the elegant staircase to the room I had been shown—Thurlanger House seemed to have an enormous number of rooms in which one was apparently supposed just to sit—and found the portable typewriter Henry had mentioned. The study didn’t look a very workmanlike room—it was too beautifully furnished, like the rest of the house—but I put the typewriter on a table, found some paper, and settled down to try to sort out some order in the letters on the keyboard. There was probably a method...
I was too absorbed to hear anyone coming. The first intimation that I wasn’t alone came in the sound of a deep voice from the doorway. I looked up, startled, to see Kevin Thurlanger in his riding clothes leaning casually against the doorpost.
‘How interesting. It is new to you, isn’t it—or are you going to try to claim you’re out of practice?’
He spoke sardonically. I recalled myself from wrestling with a method which seemed to require me to have three thumbs, added up what he’d said, and found myself flushing.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said coldly.
‘Whatever you were before, it certainly wasn’t a secretary, was it?’ he said coolly. ‘See how quickly you can invent something—er—respectable.’
I felt my jaw dropping. He might have disliked me on sight on the train; I might have frightened his horse this morning; but throwing gratuitous insults at me was too much. I said, in a shaking voice, ‘Would you repeat that?’
‘I think we’d better understand one another, don’t you? You’ve wangled yourself in, but even my uncle won’t be taken in indefinitely. Unless of course—’
‘You,’ I snapped, ‘are the rudest young man it has ever been my misfortune to come across! Would you mind telling me what you mean by wangling—’
‘Mr. Kevin—oh, excuse me, Miss Armitage. There’s the telephone for you, Mr. Kevin.’
Mrs. Mott’s placid voice put a damper on everything I had been about to say. Having removed Mr. Kevin—he departed with an ironic bow in my direction—she turned to me, and if she had heard anything of what we had been saying, she didn’t show it. ‘I was wondering if you were in again, Miss Armitage,’ she said pleasantly.
‘There’ll be luncheon ready in a minute, and your car’s arrived for you. Miss Essie’s gone out hacking, and Mr. Thurlanger left a message to say he was sorry but his business will keep him out over luncheon. You could take yourself for a drive this afternoon to try out your car, he said. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and have the other place taken away from the table, since it doesn’t sound as if Mr. Kevin will be in either, after all.’
I was more than thankful to hear that I wouldn’t be having a solitary—or even accompanied—lunch with Kevin Thurlanger. As Mrs. Mott left me, I heard him coming back up the stairs, but he didn’t return to throw more insults at me: he had a brief murmured conversation with the housekeeper and then his footsteps went on up—to change, I supposed. I stayed where I was, feeling stunned by his manners. Henry had welcomed me; Esther seemed to tolerate my presence, even if she made a habit of a rather innocent brand of rudeness. But Kevin—!
I caught myself remembering Gypsy Rose delivering the standard warning about a dark man crossing my path. Crossing was about right!
I heard him go past again, downstairs, and slam the front door. A moment later a gong rang, mellowly. Presumably, it was just for me.
Eating in lonely state in the dining room was more depressing than it should have been, and brought back the unreality of my being here at all. I was—almost—yearning for Grimsbridge. However, I went out obediently to the garage on Mrs. Mott’s instructions, and looked helplessly at the brand new green Mini which had been delivered for my use. What more could anyone want?—a very comfortable house to stay in, a car of my own to drive, a job which so far required me to do nothing at all but be waited on. I could think ungratefully at the moment of several things I would rather have had, but Henry had instructed me to go for a drive, so I swallowed my doubts and got into the driving seat. I would go down to Tyzet, the nearest village, and post my letter home—which said, untruthfully, that so far I was enjoying myself very much.
Tyzet was an attractive village, though the addition of a new-looking estate of houses didn’t add to its appeal. There wasn’t much of it—one village street with a post-office-cum-village store, a greengrocer’s, and some scattered cottages—but I parked the car and walked round it, feeling conspicuously a stranger. It was the kind of place, I thought wistfully, where if one liked the country one could settle down happily as a district nurse. I did like the country—even though my father had always lived in town parishes, or perhaps because of that—and there was something very attractive about this part of the world, with its humpy contours of farmland interspersed with woods, just now showing a variety of autumn colours for my pleasure. I wandered round Tyzet, exploring the lanes which led out of it, until I remembered that I should be going back to Thurlanger House, and began to make my way back towards the car. I hadn’t been noticing the villagers particularly, but as I approached the end cottage of a row my attention was caught by a young man in sports jacket and flannels who, as I came towards it, began trying to wrestle with a sticking front door while not dropping a bag full of shopping. He was hampered by the fact that he had one ankle in plaster of paris, which made me remember him—he had been in the post office when I was, and it was the sight of his ankle which had started my train of thought about district nursing. His front door opened straight on to the street, and after a moment’s hesitation, I quickened my step to offer to help him. As I reached him the shopping bag was just slipping out of his grasp; so I caught it, and steadied him with my other hand as he swayed unsteadily on his injured foot.
‘Oh, thanks! I’m sorry—that was clumsy of me, but this wretched foot’s such a nuisance!’
I was being offered a charming smile. He had a pleasant, cultured voice, and was regarding me with friendly brown eyes. I smiled back, and said, ‘You nearly lost your—oh, it’s eggs! Just as well I caught them, then. Can you manage now?’
‘Could you be sweet and hang on to that while I give the door another shove? You must be a guardian angel, I think. Mine hasn’t been working overtime lately, so I’m doubly grateful.’ He put his shoulder against the offending door and pushed it hard. ‘I’m Michael Chace, by the way. No one warned me about this sticking lock when I rented the cottage. It keeps catching me out.’
The door gave as he spoke, and he turned back to me with another smile. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Charlotte Armitage. Do mind the
step!’ I added quickly, as he seemed about to take a pace without remembering a downward step to the interior.
‘There I go again! About to break the other ankle. I haven’t been here long, you see. I wonder—’ he gave me a doubtful look, with a shy smile—‘You wouldn’t come in for a moment, I suppose? I’m looking for someone to tell me about the district—I’m thinking of writing a book about it, while I convalesce. Hence the rented cottage.’
Since he had moved inside while talking, and I was still holding his shopping bag, I was obliged to follow him as he had invited. He seemed a pleasant young man, and very friendly, and he was none too steady on his plaster. He almost collided with a table, grinned at me, and went on talking.
‘You come from one of the local families, I suppose. Charlotte—may I call you Charlotte?—excuse me if I’m being a bit forward, but I don’t know a soul around here yet, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Writing’s a fairly isolated game. Oh, lord, you’re still holding my things—sorry! I’ll take them through to the kitchen—what there is of it! May I ask where you live?’
‘Thurlanger House. I’m—’
‘Oh, is that the place in the park beyond the trees there? It’s one of the ones I’d like to write up. Would your parents object, do you suppose?’
‘I’m just the secretary there,’ I said hastily. ‘And I’ve only just arrived myself. Yesterday.’
‘Oh. Really?’ Was it my imagination, or did the friendly brown eyes studying me hold just a little less warmth? It must have been my imagination, since he promptly smiled at me again. ‘It must be quite a nice place to work, isn’t it? Is Mr. ... What’s the owner’s name?’
‘Thurlanger.’
‘Oh, yes, I see. Is Mr. Thurlanger a writer too, that he needs a secretary?’
‘I’m—a sort of social secretary. He’s going to be giving some dances and things for his daughter.’ As I said it, I thought again what an unlikely job it sounded, for me. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t help you with—with details of the district, or anything, but I should think Mr. Thurlanger knows plenty about it. Would you,’ I asked kindly, thinking what a pleasant young man Michael Chace seemed, ‘like me to ask him?’
‘Some time, maybe. I’ve got several introductions I may take up, if I can be bothered—but thanks for the offer, all the same. I’d hoped,’ he added casually, ‘to come down this way for some hunting, actually, but when the ankle did that in, I thought I’d camp down here for a while just the same. And write this book to fill in my time.’
It seemed inevitable that everyone was horsy—except Henry, of course—but I looked as sympathetic as I could, as I prepared to depart. Michael Chace came stumping after me as I moved to the door. He said,
‘Thanks again for helping me in. I expect I shall see you around. You were driving a green car, weren’t you—? You’re lucky to be mobile. Is it your own?’
‘It—goes with the job. I must be getting back—I’ll be expected in for tea, I suppose.’
‘Nice to have met you,’ he said pleasantly, and stood in the doorway to wave me off, the low beamed doorway framing his black hair. He was, I supposed, about the same age as Kevin Thurlanger—late twenties—but a great deal more pleasant (which wouldn’t have been difficult). As I walked away, I hoped he wouldn’t forget the step again and trip down it. As a nurse, I itched to find out why he hadn’t been taught to balance against his plaster better instead of putting too much weight on it—but I wasn’t, of course, supposed to be a nurse, in this part of the world. The complications seemed to close in on me again as I climbed into the car and set off back for Thurlanger House. Possibly the odious Kevin would be back by now and prepared to tell me just why he detested me so much. His instant assumption that just because I couldn’t type I must be disreputable was still making me burn when I thought about it.
I had Henry’s company for tea instead of Kevin’s, to compliment me and twinkle at me and make life seem more reasonable than it was. Essie came in rather late from her hacking, was sent away again to brush her hair properly, and came back to sit silent but amiable when her father indicated that he did not want to hear an itemized account of life down at the stables. I thought how incredibly unconscious of her beauty Esther was, that she could bundle herself up in any clothes which came to hand regardless of size or shape—and yet, though Henry himself was neat to the point of dapperness, there were likenesses between them. Both seemed to show a good-tempered determination to go their own way regardless of other people’s opinions, combined with a charm which made their stubbornness forgivable. Esther, apart from the startlingly lovely face, should really have been a boy. She would have hearts at her feet, but would be more likely to walk across them unnoticing than to make any acknowledgement of her femininity. While she was out of the room I tried, hesitantly, to point out to Henry that she was already very charming; but he disagreed with me firmly, and said she would harden into something atrocious if someone like myself didn’t take her in hand. Since he turned that into a compliment (which confused me) and Esther came back at that moment, the subject had to be dropped.
We spent an evening like the one before, except that I was the first to go up to bed, and Henry declared his intention of sitting up late to look through a parcel of books he had sent for from London. I got ready for bed, and then remembered that Mrs. Mott had told me my suitcases would be put away in the boxroom for me when I had finished with them: that was surely something I could do for myself instead of adopting the Thurlanger habit of letting the servants do it. The slip-room between my room and Kevin Thurlanger’s was the boxroom, as far as I could remember—and opening the door certainly showed it to be full of miscellaneous objects, including a trunk, fishing rods, and a large pair of Wellington boots. I found just enough space for my cases on a low shelf, and took myself back to bed. Ridiculous to feel that such a small gesture as putting my cases away made me an inescapable part of the household—after all, I had already decided that I was committed to stay.
When something woke me, I couldn’t have been long asleep: my travelling clock showed a mere ten minutes past eleven. Listening, I heard a bumping sound through the wall: something had apparently fallen off somewhere. Two things, if an earlier sound had woken me. I realized that my cases must have been less firmly wedged than I had hoped, and scrambled quickly out of bed, reaching for my dressing-gown. In my half-asleep state, I caught myself thinking that if gypsy predictions had sent me here, other spirits might just as well be warning me away by throwing my luggage around ... but that, I thought, rousing myself into wakefulness, was hardly a sensible idea. I came out into the passage and reached for the boxroom door—but it was ajar, and gave to my hand. Immediately, I wished I had remained in my room. The light in the boxroom was on, with Kevin Thurlanger standing under it making the crowded little room look even smaller than it was. My cases were at his feet, and he was glowering at them.
He saw me before I could withdraw. The glower grew, if possible, worse. Before I could say anything, he snapped, ‘Who said you could put your things in here? I come in to fetch something, and find your luggage dropping on me, just where I expected to find the trees for my boots!’
‘I didn’t move anything very much—’I swallowed, and added with more dignity, ‘You should have looked what you were doing, and then they wouldn’t have fallen out!’
‘I know just where everything is in here, and I don’t want any of it moved! If,’ he added nastily, ‘it was one of your little ploys to get better acquainted, you can—’
‘I can’t think of anyone I want to get acquainted with less!’ I snapped, finding my breath before he had finished. ‘Mrs. Mott told me I could put my cases in the boxroom, and—’
‘This isn’t the boxroom. That’s the boxroom. This is where I keep some of my things,’ he retorted. His things, apparently, couldn’t be kept in something as lowly as an ordinary boxroom. ‘If it was a genuine mistake—which I doubt—you can remove these now, if you please, and don�
�t come in here again!’
‘Certainly,’ I said with dignity, picked up the cases from his feet, and then realized what he had said.
‘What do you mean, not a genuine mistake? And come to that,’ I added, putting the cases down again militantly, ‘what did you mean when you were so atrociously rude to me this morning? Or are you always rude to—to employees? I may tell you, you have the worst manners of anyone I’ve ever met, as I thought the first time I saw you, though then I didn’t realize just how bad they actually were! And if I’d known I was going to have to put up with you banging about in the middle of the night and waking people up, I doubt if I’d ever have come!’
Attack might be a good method of defence with some people—but not, apparently, with Kevin Thurlanger. He looked down at me with as much regard as he might have given to a fly which needed swatting. I became aware that I was ruffled with sleep, and not very thoroughly dressed; and I pulled my dressing-gown more tightly around me, wondering bitterly why I couldn’t have guessed he was out here and put on something thicker. (At least this morning I had been clothed). However, I stood my ground, glaring at him, determined to have an apology out of him if it was the last thing I did.
It certainly seemed to be the last thing I saw going to get. After a pause during which he studied me scornfully, he said, ‘Quite clever. But I thought I’d made it clear enough that I saw through you. After all, as you’ve pointed out, we met before. I’ll give you credit for one thing, you aren’t scared away easily. But it won’t work, and I shall see that it doesn’t!’
‘What,’ I asked in a shaking voice, ‘are you talking about? I suppose you know? Because I certainly don’t! What won’t work?’
‘My dear good girl,’ he said coolly. ‘It’s one of the oldest tricks in the world, though you carried it off quite well. Do you want me to spell it out for you, so that you can see that I do know what you’re up to? Very well. An elderly man is alone in a first-class compartment. A young woman with a second-class ticket makes her way along the corridor, pauses and carefully arranges things, trips—by accident, of course!—over a perfectly obvious piece of luggage, and takes care while doing so to rip the lining of her coat. Lo and behold, the acquaintance is made! How convenient. A travelling companion. And the travelling companion turns out to be a wealthy widower, which was a piece of luck for you, wasn’t it—’
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