Star Creek

by Pamela Kent

  “I’m thinking of Mrs. Trelawnce. You see, when I came here I’d no idea there was a Mrs. Trelawnce, and I certainly hadn’t the least idea that she was in any sense of the word an invalid. It seems to me that Mr. Trelawnce is already rather badly burdened, and to have me thrust on him ... well, it’s most unfair! I know my father would be the first to agree with me if he were alive. And I could easily go away ... I mean, I’m quite capable of getting myself a job.”

  “H’m!” the colonel commented.

  She looked at him almost appealingly.

  “You do see what I mean, don’t you, Colonel Wince?”

  He knocked out the bowl of his pipe in an ash-tray. “Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” he admitted.

  She looked astonished.

  “But it isn’t fair to Mr. Trelawnce,” she persisted. “It isn’t fair to Mrs. Trelawnce...”

  The grizzled eyebrows confronting her went up. He looked at her with a puzzled twinkle in his somewhat faded blue eyes.

  “Well, even if you’re, right, I don’t know that I’m going to agree with you;” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I’m very far from agreeing with you. It isn’t many men whom fate favours to such an extent that a pretty girl like you comes under their charge, and when it does it would look like sheer ingratitude to quarrel with such benevolence.” The admiration of a bachelor—albeit no longer a young one—beamed at her out of his eyes. “You’d have to ask Roger whether he thinks fate’s taken an unfair advantage of him, or whether he thinks she’s been unusually kind, before you decide whether or not you ought to look for a job, but, personally, at the moment, I’d advise against it.”

  “You mean you’d advise against looking for a job?”

  “Against considering there’s any necessity.”

  But ... Mrs. Trelawnce...”

  “Does Valerie seem to be harbouring some sort of a grievance because you’ve come to live in the house?”

  “Why, no,” she admitted. “As a matter of fact, she—she said that she liked me.”

  The colonel smiled.

  “One pretty woman admiring another? And she is pretty ... or she was damned pretty at one time!”

  “I think she’s quite fantastically beautiful,” Helen said earnestly. She clasped her hands together tightly. “Whatever’s wrong with her—however mentally ill she is, I mean—I can quite understand Mr. Trelawnce wishing to keep her with him in his own home, instead of letting her go away for treatment to somewhere where she might be better looked after.” The earnestness increased as she added, hurriedly: “I’m quite sure Mrs. Pearce does her best, and that she really is very well looked after, and has everything she needs, and that nothing is neglected; but it does seem to me that being shut up, as she is, in a wing of the house, instead of being allowed to mix with everyone who comes to the house, is not the best method of getting her well again ... completely well, I mean.” The colonel sat back in his chair and regarded her beneath knitted brows. He shook his head, as if his bewilderment was increasing. Then he asked her whether she would like another glass of lemon squash.

  “No, thank you. And I didn’t come here to take up your time ... it was just that I—I was rather worried.”

  “Nothing to be worried about,” he assured her.

  Her expression told him that it was her turn to fail to understand him. “But—but in the circumstance...”

  He smiled at her again.

  “Come and have a look at my roses,” he invited. “I pride myself on knowing all there is to know about roses, and the soil here is well-nigh perfect for growing some of the choicer kinds. Last year I even went in for exhibiting, and won one or two prizes. I’ll probably do the same again this year if a few experiments I’m engaged on at the moment work out all right. You see that mauvish-pink rose over there—next to Madame Meilland...”

  She was following him round the garden, watching him bend over the various beds, and it seemed to her that she was going to find it an impossibility to divert his attention from his favourite hobby and get him to listen to her again. After the roses she had to be shown a litter of puppies, and being genuinely delighted by the puppies she found that she had been presented with one of them, and that it would be delivered to her at the manor as soon as it was able to leave its mother, a handsome golden Labrador. Whether or not her guardian would approve of her having a Labrador puppy she did not know, and apparently was not going to be given the opportunity to find out before she became the owner of it; but it did cross her mind that she might find it a little difficult to arrange for its being cared for if she had, as she was very much afraid she would have to do very soon, to start looking about for a remunerative post that would enable her to keep herself.

  Once the puppy question was settled, Colonel Wince explained his method of growing violets to her, and she realised that he grew them for the London market, and gathered that most of the local village women worked for him at certain seasons of the year.

  He had a most attractive old house in a perfect setting, and she was not surprised that he seemed thoroughly content with life, despite the fact that he was a bachelor, and none of his efforts to make money seemed to bring him in very much.

  The house was shabby, the furniture was shabby, Colonel Wince’s clothes were shabby ... but he had a peerless view over a sparkling blue sea, and below him was a sheltered beach from which he could bathe, and when his friends came to stay with him no doubt they thoroughly enjoyed themselves in such a sequestered corner. Helen thought the name of the house, Roselawn, could not have suited it better, and she told the colonel so before she left.

  “I think it’s lovely here,” she said. “And you seem to do all the things you like doing. There can’t be very much left for you to wish for.”

  “Except money.” His voice was a little dry as he mentioned the one thing he lacked. “I’d like to discover the art of making a little more money.”

  “I suppose there isn’t much that can be done here to make money? Except grow violets—and you’re already doing that!”

  “Violets are a hobby with me, rather than a business,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I’m not really a business man.” They were both gazing in the same direction, downwards over the sun-dappled slopes to the gently heaving sea, where a tiny toy of a motor-boat was nosing its way into one of the coves. There was something familiar about it, even at that distance, and Helen felt reasonably certain it was The Pretty Lady.

  “When I saw the film of Trelawnce Manor I thought it was the most romantic house I’d ever seen,” she remarked. “And ever since I’ve associated it in my mind with smugglers and secret passages and romantic nonsense of that sort,” laughing a little to excuse her weakness. “But, try as I will,” she added, “I can’t see Mr. Trelawnce in the role of a modern smuggler.” She could feel, rather than see, the colonel glance sideways at her sharply.

  “I should hope not!” he said, and his voice was curt and almost unfriendly. “Roger’s the very last person to become involved in such a fool’s game. And it is a fool’s game! Years ago, when almost everyone along this coast took a hand in it, it was a different matter. There was so much difficulty sorting out the chaff from the grain—that is to say, the smugglers from the non-smugglers—that the law more or less gave it up. But nowadays the law is constantly on the watch for offenders, for the simple reason that there’s less romance about the business nowadays, and it’s infinitely more of a menace. More dangerous, too!”

  “So no one smuggles along this coast nowadays?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘no one’ ...” He frowned. “But he’s a fool if he attempts it.”

  He walked with her along the drive to her car, and as he opened the door and watched her slip in behind the wheel he made an obvious effort and spoke more lightly.

  “I won’t forget to deliver the puppy to you as soon as it’s old enough ... in about another fortnight, I’d say.” He smiled at her gallantly, and accorded her a smart military salute. “Au revoir, Mi
ss Dainton. I shall look forward to seeing you again soon.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Good-bye, Colonel.. and I’m sorry I troubled you.”

  “It was the greatest pleasure, having you call on me like this,” he assured her.

  Still she hesitated to start the car, and slip away down his drive.

  “I wonder whether you would tell me something,” she said, hands resting on the wheel, eyes fixed on the windscreen. “Just one thing that I’m rather curious to hear about.”

  “Of course.” But she could sense a sudden caution in him again. “What is it? If I know the answer you shall have it.”

  She fixed her large grey eyes thoughtfully on his face.

  “Did Mrs. Trelawnce have an accident some time ago? Before she became as she is today ... not entirely fit, I mean,” she added hurriedly.

  The colonel tipped his hat forward over his eyes to shield them from the slanting rays of the evening sun.

  “She did,” he answered, “but I don’t know all the details. I’m afraid I can’t tell you exactly what happened to her because I’ve no real idea myself. But if it’s important to you to find out I suggest you ask Mrs. Pearce, if you can’t wait for Roger to get back,” a little drily.

  Helen felt herself colouring with embarrassment and a certain awareness of guilt. For she had no right to be as curious as she was.

  “It’s not my concern,” she said, flashing an apologetic smile at him. “I had no right to ask you,” and she waved a hand and let in her clutch.

  The colonel stood looking after her with an extremely thoughtful expression on his face as her cream convertible took the first bend in his winding drive.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THERE was no one about when she got back to Trelawnce, and she went up to her rooms and changed into something more suitable for the evening meal. It would be a solitary evening meal, with Roger away; but bathing and putting on something fresh was a kind of diversion that prevented her dwelling too much on other matters.

  Mrs. Pearce knocked on her door when she was nearly ready and said with a queer, unsmiling expression on her face that she was serving dinner in the dining-room as usual, and it would be ready in about another ten minutes.

  Helen met her eyes and nodded her head in acknowledgement of the information. Then, before she could prevent herself, she heard herself asking:

  “And Mrs. Trelawnce? Does she always dine alone these days?”

  Mrs. Pearce developed a rather tight look about the lips.

  “To-night she was tired, and she’s gone to bed early. I’m giving her a tray in bed.”

  “I see.”

  But as she made her way downstairs Helen wondered how the lovely, lonely, unfortunate wife of a rich man felt sitting up in some far distant room in a bed that was probably luxurious but seldom visited by anyone but a trusted servant ... and a husband who did so secretly when she created a disturbance.

  And that set Helen wondering whether she was ever visited by the local doctor. To her knowledge he had not visited the house while she was there ... but then he might well have done so when she was away from the house, or even in the night if the rest of them failed to cope with a bout of hysteria.

  In the morning Mrs. Pearce received a telephone call from the master in London, and she told Helen afterwards that he would be home for tea. He was catching the train that got in at Bodmin just before four o’clock, and the car was being sent to meet him.

  Helen was on the terrace when the car came sweeping up the drive, and she descended the steps to greet her benefactor. She thought he looked much younger, somehow, since he had been away, and there was a brightness in his eyes that had not been there at their first meeting. He looked fresh and debonair, too, despite his empty sleeve, and he gripped Helen’s hand quite hard and smiled down brilliantly into her face.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said. He lifted his head so that the afternoon sunshine bathed it in molten gold. “I always say, when I’m in London, that I’ll never visit it again willingly ... and when I get back here I get a faint idea of the reason why I was born.” He seemed curiously loath to let go her hand, and although she had felt shy when she first met him she felt almost acutely shy now, with his strong brown fingers holding hers so warmly. And there was something else that was worrying her, too, so she snatched away her hand and put it, almost childishly, behind her back.

  Instantly, she thought, his face changed. His strange eyes hardened, grew questioning.

  “Everything all right here?” he asked, adopting a light tone as they walked along the terrace to the main door.

  She looked at him sharply. He had spoken to his housekeeper on the telephone, and surely she must have told him...?

  His face hardened still more and grew grim and set.

  “Yes; I know all about it,” he answered her unspoken question. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the flagged floor of the hall as they crossed it in the direction of the drawing-room door. He held the door open for her with pointed politeness, and once inside the lovely long room with its diffused light and its scent of many flowers in many bowls and vases she walked hurriedly to the tea-tray and started to pour out.

  “You do take two lumps?” poising the sugar tongs over his cup.

  “Yes, please.” He leaned against the marble mantelpiece and watched her with a hooded, brooding expression, while he impatiently lighted himself a cigarette with his one hand, and she had to fight against the urge to put down the heavy silver teapot and rush to his assistance. “We’ll discuss it all later, if you feel I ought to discuss it with you?” subjecting her to rather an arrogant, cool stare. “I understand you had some of your things interfered with? Valerie does occasionally go berserk, but not very often.”

  Anxious to reassure him on this head, and convince him that it didn’t really matter what had happened to her things, Helen spoke hurriedly, while offering him a crumpet.

  “Oh, please don’t bother about that,” she begged. “It didn’t matter at all ... I mean, there was just the mess, and that was soon cleared up. And Mrs. Trelawnce apologised herself, in any case.”

  “Did she?” He was pressing his shoulder against the mantelpiece behind him in such a manner that she was sure the hard edge must hurt. His mouth looked cold and set. “What else did she say to you? Did you have much conversation?”

  “Oh, no, not much. I saw her in the grounds, at first, and then I found her playing the piano in here. Nimo was with her ... He seems,” she added, rather feebly, “very attached to her.”

  Trelawnce did not answer.

  “And— I thought she seemed perfectly natural and—and normal,” she added to that, not knowing what else to say, and feeling uncomfortable because of the way he continued to stare at her.

  “She has her good days, and her bad days,” Roger commented.

  It struck her that the complete detachment of his tone was a little unfeeling ... in fact, extraordinarily unfeeling considering it was his own wife they were discussing. Her grey eyes opened wider as she stared back at him, and although she could never look upon him and his empty sleeve without sympathy—a sympathy that embarrassed her at times, because it filled her with the urge to pour it out over him, and to perform all sorts of little womanly acts that could make life easier for him if he wasn’t so independent—and, in any case, she owed a lot to him and his generosity in providing her with a home, a feeling of indignation on Valerie Trelawnce’s behalf rose up in her, and she wondered what sort of an unnatural husband he really was.

  She fastened her fingers together and moved them in a slightly agitated manner.

  “I know it’s not my business, Mr. Trelawnce,” she said, “but is it absolutely necessary for Mrs. Trelawnce to be shut away in that lonely wing as she is? And if it isn’t absolutely necessary couldn’t she be allowed a little more freedom?”

  Once more he regarded her broodingly, ignoring his tea and the crumpet she had placed close to his elbow while he drew hard o
n his cigarette.

  “Do you remember that night when you were woken up by the sound of a scream?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course. Mrs. Pearce told me it was ... Mrs. Trelawnce.”

  “You’d better call her Valerie,” he said harshly, with an impatience that surprised her. “Everyone calls her Valerie.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind...”

  “I mind? Why should I mind?” He started to pace up and down the room, and she gathered that his happy mood on returning to Cornwall had vanished altogether, and he was now in the grip of an emotion that caused his black brows to meet above the faintly aquiline bridge of his nose, and put something frustrated and protesting into his eyes. “That night when you heard the scream was a bad night, but I’m willing to admit they’re getting fewer and fewer. Dr. Leyton, who lives over at St. Garth, said they would get fewer and fewer, and that with time she would cease to be troubled by them at all. She is very often quite rational, and naturally she’s getting more and more restless. Physically I think she’s quite fit. But allowing her more freedom would not guarantee you immunity from occasional unpleasant encounters, and so long as you remain here it’s far best that we adhere to the old arrangement.”

  She was genuinely shocked.

  “In that case I mustn’t remain here, Mr. Trelawnce,” she said decisively. “I’ll have to go.”

  “Where? Where would you go if you left here?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I said before that I would get a job. Sooner or later I’ll have to earn my own living.”

  “Why?”

  She gazed at him in amazement. His strange, agate eyes were fixing her deliberately, and waiting just as deliberately for an answer. She felt as if she had wandered into a situation that was unbelievable and fantastic.

  “Mr. Trelawnce,” she returned, giving careful emphasis to each word as she uttered it, “if it’s a question of my staying and Mrs. Trelawnce—Valerie—being deprived of her freedom because of me, then of course I must go! There’s absolutely no question about it! You must surely see that yourself?”