by Anne Weale
Returning to the bedroom, she noticed the April issues of the leading fashion magazines on one of the bedside cabinets. The seascape hanging above the marble fireplace—at present filled with a mass of white lilac—was one she had admired in the window of a Bond Street art gallery several weeks ago, and there were a dozen other touches that told how carefully the room had been prepared for her use.
Why, then, when she had thanked him for it, had Justin’s response been so offhand? Was he one of those people who disliked thanks or did he really expect her to take it as a matter of course?
When she reached the library he was already going through an accumulation of correspondence while Hubbard hovered in the background.
“I’ve put your letters on the table, madam,” the old man said. “Shall I pour the tea?”
“No, thank you, Hubbard. I’ll do it,” Andrea said with a smile, wondering who could have written to her.
“You may find the kettle a little temperamental, madam. If you have any difficulty with it perhaps you would ring.”
“Thank you.”
She surveyed the low tea table with some amusement. Evidently afternoon tea was quite an elaborate ritual, very different from the quick brew that she and Jill had made after struggling home in the rush hour. It had been a matter of minutes to switch on the electric kettle, spoon tea into the old brown pot, set out the pottery mugs and collapse into a chair with a sigh of exhaustion. But those kitchenette “revivers,” as Jill had called them, were far removed from the dignified rites that she would be expected to perform from now on.
The table was laid with an immaculately laundered lace cloth and set with a handsome tea service of Queen Anne silver and Spode china. A copper kettle burbled gently over a gas stove and there was a choice of Indian or China tea. Buttered scones, fragile fingers of toast and crisp sausage rolls were keeping hot in covered silver dishes and there were plates of wafer-fine bread and butter rolled into tubes, two kinds of sandwiches, shortbread, fruitcake and creamy éclairs.
Having poured the tea, Andrea left Justin to help himself to this prodigal variety of delicacies and began slitting open her letters. Most of them were circulars from stores soliciting her business, and there were a number of appeals from obscure charities and one from an individual.
“By the way, if any of those are begging letters I would throw them in the basket,” Justin said suddenly, looking up from his own mail.
She was a little shocked by the hardness of his tone, and perhaps realizing this he said, “If you want to help lame dogs, make sure they are genuine. You’d be surprised by the number of people who make a comfortable income by cadging.”
“How does one know if they’re genuine?”
“Generally speaking, if they write you a hard-luck story they’re sharks. People who really need help seldom beg for it,” he said dryly. “If you want to salve your conscience there are plenty of recognized charities in need of funds.”
She tensed. “What do you mean—salve my conscience?” she asked stiffly.
“Don’t we all? This sort of thing, doesn’t make very comfortable reading for those of us who are on the safe side, do you think?”
He handed one of his own letters to her. It was an appeal from a society for the aid of displaced people in Europe and the Far East, but as she read it she wondered if this was really what he had meant.
“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed soberly, handing it back and glancing at the lavishly spread table. How many people there must be who lived on food that was scarcely fit for animals.
“What would you have done if you had been poor?” she asked him curiously. “I mean, how would you have earned your living?”
“Gone to sea, I imagine,” he said. “Tell me, are you beginning to feel a sense of anticlimax now?”
“In what way?”
He shrugged. “Usually when people get what they want from life they feel rather lost at having no further aim. Or is there something else you want besides the material comforts?”
“What more could I want?”
His eyes were speculative. “I don’t know yet,” he said slowly. “I hope it will be something I can give you.”
“Sometimes...” She stopped abruptly.
He lighted a cigarette. “May I have some more tea? I wonder why you are always so nervous of saying what you think. Sometimes what?”
She filled the cup and returned it. “It wasn’t important.”
“My good girl, how many remarks are?” he said in a rather exasperated tone. “At least they keep a conversation alive, which is more than can be said for your habit of stopping short in midstream.”
“All right, then. I was going to say that sometimes I think one of the reasons you married me was to take a sadistic delight in asking difficult questions,” she retorted with a flash of spirit.
He leaned back in his chair, his black eyes mocking.
“You look very attractive when you’re annoyed,” he said easily.
She was prevented from making a stinging reply by Hubbard, who came in to ask if they would be dining at home. A few minutes later Justin was telephoned and while he was talking she slipped out of the room to do her unpacking.
But when she opened the bedroom door she found that a maid in a dark silk dress and muslin apron was already at work.
“Good afternoon, madam.” The woman straightened up from bending over a suitcase.
“Oh ... good afternoon. I don’t think we’ve met before, have we?”
“No, madam. The housekeeper engaged me as your personal maid on Mr. Templar’s instructions. I came in only yesterday.”
“I see. Well, I hope you’ll like it here. What’s your name?”
“Miller, madam.” The woman did not return Andrea’s smile. She had a thin face with a beaky nose and pale blue eyes fringed by almost colorless lashes. Her sandy hair was screwed into a tight knot at the back of her head and the burgundy color of the staff uniform did not enhance her pale dry-looking complexion. She might have been any age between thirty and fifty.
“I was just going to unpack, but I see you’ve almost finished it,” Andrea said, searching for more suitable remarks.
“What do you wish me to put out tonight, madam?”
“Put out? Oh, you mean clothes. We’ll be at home this evening. I think I’ll wear the black dress with the square neck, please.”
“And the shoes, madam?”
“It doesn’t really matter. The green ones will do. They’re old and comfortable. We’ve done so much sightseeing in Paris that my feet are a bit travel worn.”
Miller bared her large and prominent teeth slightly. This was presumably her version of a smile.
“What time would you like your bath, madam?”
Heavens, thought Andrea, if I have to go through this catechism three times a day I won’t dare to come in here.
Aloud she said, “I had a bath this morning. I usually have them before breakfast or last thing at night.”
“Very good, madam.”
Since this seemed to be the end of her inquiries for the time being, Andrea murmured something indistinct and went into the sitting room.
Making sure that the door was firmly shut, she crossed to the couch, lifted the telephone on to her lap and dialed Jill’s number.
The distant bell rang five times before it was cut short and a breathless voice said, “Hello?”
“Jilly? It’s me, Andrea. We’ve just got back. How are you?”
“Fine. I’ve only just come in, that’s why I’m panting. Have you had a marvelous time? How’s Justin? I’m dying to see all your Paris finery. When can I come to see you?”
“Paris was marvelous. Justin’s very well. And come as soon as you can,” Andrea answered, laughing.
“How about tomorrow? Could you ask the chef, to rustle up an extra sausage or are you giving a housewarming banquet?”
“Idiot! That’s a date, then. Lunch tomorrow. How is Nick?”
“Fine. We’re
both spending every spare minute decorating the apartment. I want your advice about some wallpaper I’ve seen. Now that you’re a lady of leisure perhaps you can come and give a hand with the curtains and things.”
“Of course. By the way, Justin’s had my room redecorated as a surprise. It’s wonderful, but I’ve just discovered I have a personal maid and she doesn’t match the room. I’m terrified of her already.”
They had an enjoyable ten minutes’ gossip, and when Andrea hung up she felt more cheerful. It was reassuring to know that in moments of stress she could confide some of her problems to Jill. The others she would have to face alone, but that was inevitable.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the days that followed Andrea began to settle down in her new life. Apart from approving the menus that Mrs. Lane, the middle-aged housekeeper, submitted to her each morning, and arranging the flowers that were sent up by train from the Cornish estate twice a week, she had no domestic responsibilities. On the day after their return from Paris the housekeeper had shown her the kitchen and storeroom and staff dining room, but where the servants slept, what their hours of work were and whether they were contented, she had no idea and did not like to ask. Justin had mentioned that Mrs. Lane had run the household for more than ten years, and Andrea was afraid that she might resent any searching inquiries into her methods. It seemed wiser to leave things as they were.
The days began at half-past seven, when Miller brought her early-morning tea, prepared a bath and laid out her clothes. At a quarter to eight she got out of bed, stepped into the dressing gown that the maid was holding ready and began a leisurely toilet. At half-past eight, as the gong boomed in the hall, she went downstairs to the dining room, where Justin was already looking through the Times.
Lunch was at one o’clock, tea at half-past four and dinner, unless they were entertaining or going out, at seven. Within this framework of meals her time was her own, with none of the harassing experiments in housewifery that occupy most brides.
Justin suggested that she should open accounts at a number of stores and gave her a monthly allowance, which she thought at first was intended to cover the household expenses as well as her personal needs. Then she discovered that it was all pin money and that he would continue to deal with the domestic bills.
“But it’s much more than I will need. What could I possibly spend it on?” she protested when she found this out.
“I daresay, you’ll think of something,” he said with his sardonic smile.
All her life she had dreamed of being able to afford anything that took her fancy. Yet now that this was so there seemed to be very few things that she really wanted, and by the end of the first month she had spent only a fraction of the money.
He arranged for her to take riding and driving lessons, and Madeline insisted that she learn to play bridge. Having mastered the intricacies of the game, which, she secretly thought a rather boring pastime, Andrea found herself obliged to attend her sister-in-law’s weekly bridge parties.
Here she met women whose pictures she had often seen in the glossy magazines, women whose husbands’ wealth enabled them to spend most of their time in beauty parlors and dress salons or exchanging gossip over the card tables, women whose children appeared to lead a separate existence in the care of nursemaids until they were old enough to be dispatched to exclusive boarding schools. Almost at once she was invited to sit on various charity committees whose meetings, like the bridge parties, were spent more in idle chatter than in any strenuous organization.
When she had passed her driving test, Justin bought her a small car, and as the weather grew hotter she spent several days driving around in Berkshire and Surrey, taking a picnic lunch and returning to London in time for dinner.
Once, on a particularly fine morning, she asked Justin if he could come with her, but he said briefly that he had a busy day ahead but might manage it later. Whenever she tried to take an intelligent interest in his business affairs, he changed the subject in such a way that to ask any more questions would invite a more pointed rebuff.
Jill and Nick were getting married in May, and their little apartment was almost ready. One afternoon when the two girls had been fitting loose covers on the secondhand chairs in the living room, Jill asked Andrea to stay to supper. Nick would be coming along later to finish fixing a tiled splashboard behind the sink and they could have potluck together. So Andrea telephoned home and asked Hubbard to tell Justin that she was busy at the apartment and would be back late.
Nick arrived about seven with a friend whom he introduced as Simon Brennan, a roving reporter on one of the more reputable national newspapers, who had just arrived in England on leave. Apparently they had trained together on a provincial paper and were still close friends.
Andrea studied Mr. Brennan with interest as she remembered his brilliant dispatches from the front line in Korea and his reports from Kenya when the Mau Mau uprisings began. More recently he had covered the terrorist activities in Cyprus and the Suez crisis.
She had visualized him as a tough, hard-bitten man with a forceful personality and blunt manners, but he was nothing like this preconception. Tall and too thin for his height, he had a lankiness reminiscent of an overgrown schoolboy. His fair hair was bleached almost white by the Middle East sun and his deep sunburn accentuated the blueness of his eyes. He did not look at all like a man who spent his life in the world’s trouble spots, writing trenchant commentaries on the cause and outcome of international dissension. If she had passed him in the street she would have thought he was a lawyer or doctor or scientist, certainly not an itinerant journalist.
Presently Nick went into the kitchen to help Jill finish getting the supper and the other two were left alone, Andrea sewing hooks and eyes on the last chair cover and Simon Brennan sitting on a packing case watching her.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
He produced a stained corncob pipe and began to fill it from an old oilskin pouch.
“What do you do for a living?” he inquired.
“I used to be a fashion model until I married.”
“Your husband’s the sensible type who believes a woman’s place is in the home, is he?” When he smiled the fine lines of his eyes crinkled and two deep clefts formed in his thin cheeks.
“I don’t really know. The question of carrying on with my career didn’t arise. I should think he probably is. Do you disapprove of wives going out to work?”
He laughed. “I disapprove of work. If I had a couple of thousand pounds put by for my old age, I’d find a quiet cove in a warm climate and settle down to beachcombing for the next twenty years.”
She snipped a thread and looked up at him. “Wouldn’t that get a bit boring after a while?”
“I don’t think so. Most people’s lives are boring anyway. The only time they really come alive is for two short weeks a year when they can forget about scraping a living and do as they please.”
“Mmm, that’s true up to a point, I suppose. But your job isn’t a humdrum one. You aren’t tied to an office desk or a factory bench, going through the same monotonous routine day after day.”
He lighted his pipe and when it was drawing satisfactorily, said, “Come to that, your job must have been pretty easy. I’ve never understood why girls should get fat fees for dressing up and posing for pictures.”
Andrea opened her mouth to repudiate this, caught his eye and smiled.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I used to get terribly cross with people who thought modeling was money for jam. Now I’m doing the same thing myself. I’m afraid I don’t know much about journalism, but I suppose it has drawbacks like everything else. What are the worst ones?”
He shrugged. “Living in hotels. Having to move on just as one’s getting settled. Seeing things that should be splashed across the front page but won’t even get into small print for various reasons. Missing meals to catch editions. Spending your life chasing nine-day wonders.�
� And yet, she thought, he looks such a relaxed person. One can’t imagine him getting worked up and irritable. Aloud, she said, “Are you married?”
“If I were I wouldn’t be cadging meals. No, marriage doesn’t fit in with a roving commission, and since I don’t know any other way of earning money I reckon I’m doomed to be a crusty old bachelor.”
“Couldn’t you get a job like Nick’s?”
“I could, but I wouldn’t care for it. What I said now about moving around being a drawback wasn’t altogether true. After a while the travel bug gets under your skin. Too long in one place and you begin to feel restless.”
A shout of “Come and get it!” from the kitchen interrupted him. Knocking out his pipe in the empty hearth, he held out a hand to pull Andrea up from the floor.
“Oh, I’m stiff.” She rubbed the small of her back and stretched.
It occurred to her that this afternoon was the first time she had worked hard enough to be tired since her wedding day.
After supper Simon helped Nick fix the tiles while Jill painted a bedroom chair and Andrea bound a lampshade frame with white tape. She wondered what Justin was doing, and whether he minded her being out. Should she have telephoned and asked him to join them? Somehow she could not visualize him fitting into this working party.
Later they made coffee and sat talking until Andrea suddenly realized it was past ten o’clock. She had come in a taxi because her car was being serviced, and Simon offered to run her home in his ancient sports coupe. They discussed cars for some minutes until he said, “You know, an evening like this makes me wonder how much I’m missing. It must be a good feeling to have a place of one’s own.”
“Where do you live when you’re in England?”
“I have a service apartment.”
“Your family isn’t in London, then?”