To Dream Again

by To Dream Again (retail) (epub)

  The birth of John had given Mercy a welcome respite from wagging tongues, and by the time she had returned to the social round people had found some other topic upon which to focus their attention. Nevertheless, she never lost her dislike of the at-homes.

  The hum of voices and the discreet clatter of Crown Derby china filled the drawing room. Then the door opened and Rogers announced, ‘The Honourable Charlotte Dawson-Pring.’

  An immediate stir greeted the announcement, and Agnes hurried forward to welcome the newcomer with unusual effusiveness.

  ‘She’s the granddaughter of the Earl of Hembury,’ Mercy’s neighbour, Tilly Hewson, whispered in her ear. ‘Quite an individual.’

  The new arrival certainly was distinctive. A little older than Mercy she was striking rather than beautiful with the sort of strongly chiselled bone structure that would ensure she would be as handsome at sixty as she was at thirty. She wore a long black satin tunic patterned vividly in orange, gold and scarlet and belted with crimson leather. A black and gold scarf was twisted round her auburn hair in lieu of a hat or headdress. Most women would have looked bizarre in the costume, inspired by the Russian ballet, which had taken London by storm, but Charlotte Dawson-Pring had all the self-assurance of a person of consequence and carried herself accordingly. She looked magnificent.

  After being welcomed by Agnes and ushered to a chair, she leaned back and reclined in a careless manner that would have sent Miss Herriot into palpitations.

  ‘Oh, it’s so good to be back,’ she said, embracing the entire assembly with one wave of a much beringed hand. ‘Sometimes I think I only go abroad for the pleasure of coming home again.’

  ‘Where have you been this time, Miss Dawson-Pring?’ asked Agnes.

  ‘To Egypt. It was incredible! Along the Nile are areas where the way of life cannot have changed for hundreds – no, thousands of years.’

  The whole room was hushed, everyone, including Mercy, waiting to hear more from the distinguished guest. All except Tilly Hewson. She was so eager to let it be known that she was on Christian name terms with an Honourable that she blurted out, ‘And did you see a camel, Charlotte?’

  Miss Dawson-Pring’s eyes narrowed. ‘I saw quite a few, Tilly,’ she said. ‘Were you inquiring after one in particular?’

  If Tilly Hewson was conscious of having been made to look foolish she gave no sign. ‘Oh, Charlotte, you are such a tease,’ she twittered, trilling her little-girl laugh. ‘Please, do tell us more about your adventures.’

  Miss Dawson-Pring, however, was no longer in the mood to recount stories of her journey; her attention had been caught elsewhere.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, looking directly at Mercy. ‘What’s this I see? A new face and no one thought to introduce us.’

  ‘How remiss of me. Of course you have not met, have you? Miss Dawson-Pring, may I present my daughter-in-law?’ Agnes did the honours with a hint of unease. Introducing such a nobody to the granddaughter of an earl was a formidable responsibility.

  Charlotte Dawson-Pring seemed quite unaware of any undercurrents as she scrutinized Mercy in a manner that in a less illustrious person would have been considered impertinent.

  ‘So this is the mysterious beauty the whole town is talking about,’ she declared loudly. ‘Well, I can quite understand how you came to steal our most desirable bachelor from under our noses. Every eligible female for miles must hate you.’

  ‘If they do they are keeping their enmity very secret,’ laughed Mercy.

  ‘What a pity! There’s nothing like a little dissension and malice to add spice to a dull season. Come over here and sit by me. I want to know more about you.’ Mercy’s heart sank. There was no ignoring the imperious way the other woman was patting the seat next to her.

  ‘I am afraid you are in for a sad disappointment,’ she said. ‘There is little to tell.’

  ‘Nonsense! You appear out of nowhere, looking absolutely delightful, and carry off the prime hope of every scheming mother from Exeter to Plymouth. There must be a story here and I am determined to hear it.’

  ‘Where do you want me to begin?’ asked Mercy, hoping that her anxiety did not show too blatantly. ‘Where do you come from? What are your people?’

  ‘I’m a true Devonian; as for my family, they are country people.’

  ‘What was your maiden name?’

  ‘Seaton.’

  ‘A Devon family, you say, yet I’ve never heard of you. Why?’

  ‘I expect it is because my family live so quietly. They don’t go out into society.’ Mercy parried the questions carefully, giving the answers that had been drummed into her by Agnes. She was conscious of the tension building round her, of everyone waiting for her to give something away.

  ‘Live quietly!’ exploded Miss Dawson-Pring. ‘They must have buried themselves in some bog on Dartmoor for me not to have heard of them. Where did you say you lived?’

  ‘I don’t think I did.’

  ‘Well?’ Clearly Miss Dawson-Pring was not used to receiving evasive answers.

  The earlier panic which Mercy had felt was beginning to give way to an icy calm, tinged with indignation at being questioned like a criminal.

  ‘But what of the mystery, Miss Dawson-Pring?’ she said. ‘Here you are, wanting me to give the whole game away. Where would be the fun in that?’

  For a moment Charlotte stared at her, indignant at being thwarted. Then a spark of admiration appeared in her pale green eyes.

  ‘Bless me, you may be right! At least give us a clue to work on, as they do in all the best mysteries. Let me see, what shall it be? I know! The name of your father’s house!’

  ‘Fernicombe!’ said Mercy promptly, her own eyes glinting with mischief, for the Seaton home really was No 1 Fernicombe Cottages.

  ‘Never heard of it!’ declared Miss Dawson-Pring, it sounds fishy to me, very fishy indeed! What are you hiding, eh? Tell me that?’

  Suddenly the humour went out of the situation. A hush fell upon the room as everyone waited to hear Mercy’s reply.

  She drew in her breath to make a sharp retort. She was tired of being baited; if these silly women wanted something to prattle about she would certainly provide it! Agnes’s face froze into severe lines, silently commanding her to hold her tongue, but Mercy was past caring.

  Then the door opened and in walked Peter.

  ‘I thought I would return home in time to join you, ladies,’ he said smiling. ‘That is, if you will permit me.’

  Any woman interrupting such a tense moment would have been greeted with silent indignation – but not a man – and certainly not Peter. His appearance was a signal for a chorus of cooing pleasure and chirrups of welcome. The only dissenting voice came from Charlotte Dawson-Pring, and even she was making only a token objection.

  ‘Shall we let him stay, ladies? Or shall we turn him out?’ she demanded.

  ‘I promise I’ll be good,’ said Peter.

  ‘In that case we’ll definitely turn you out!’ she retorted.

  This prompted an outbreak of laughter from the others – all except Agnes, who maintained a stiff silence, and Mercy, who suddenly felt limp from the realization that she had nearly ruined everything.

  Peter’s eyes met Mercy’s across the room, sending silent messages of love, and she smiled back at him. Aloud he said, ‘I see you have already met my wife, Miss Dawson-Pring.’

  ‘Indeed I have, and find her both charming and intriguing. You are not thinking of sitting here, are you? Because there’s no room and I flatly refuse to move. I disapprove of married people sitting together.’

  ‘Then if I can’t sit by my own wife I must sit beside someone else’s.’

  ‘There’s room here!’ Tilly Hewson’s languid air disappeared as if by magic, and she prettily gathered her skirts to one side to make room for him. ‘There!’ she said coquettishly, slipping her arm through his. ‘Now we can flirt with each other.’

  ‘Very well – if you are sure no one will tell my wife,’ hisse
d Peter in a stage whisper.

  Everyone laughed. The tension in the room had now dissipated and general conversation broke out once more.

  Mercy was afraid that Miss Dawson-Pring might resume her close questioning so she said, ‘I’m sure you must have seen the Sphinx while you were in Egypt. Is it as imposing as it always seems in pictures?’

  ‘More so!’ Miss Dawson-Pring took the bait and started to talk about her exploits in Egypt, much to Mercy’s relief.

  The afternoon came to an end eventually, and as the last visitor departed Agnes turned to Mercy, her eyes glittering coldly.

  ‘It was a particular honour having Miss Dawson-Pring here today,’ she said. ‘She mixes in the very highest circles.’ Agnes paused to add emphasis. ‘A wrong word to her could have the direst result, do you realize that? Social ruin with no chance of ever being accepted back into polite society again. I hope I make myself clear?’

  Mercy nodded. Lack of clarity had never been one of her mother-in-law’s failings. In view of the warning, and the cross-examination she had already suffered at the hands of Charlotte Dawson-Pring, Mercy hoped fervently that it would be a long time before she met that aristocratic lady again.

  She found Agnes’s control of every aspect of her life oppressive. She knew now why Peter had objected so strongly to giving way to his mother’s terms. In her heart she knew they had had no alternative, but sometimes, when Agnes was even more dictatorial than usual, she wished some other solution could have been found. It was too late now, though.

  Since returning to Torquay Mercy had not made any friends of her own. There was no one, Peter apart, with whom she could share confidences or jokes, as once she had done with Dolly. At times the temptation to go and see her family was almost unbearable, but she had given her word and would keep to it. There was another reason why she never travelled the short distance back to her old home – she feared she might not be welcome. When she had first been forced to abandon Ma, Joey, and the others she had written a letter of explanation but had received no reply. Perhaps they thought the steady two pounds a week well worth her loss. Dolly had been sympathetic at first and had seemed to understand, now even she no longer wrote. Whether this was because she was too busy or because she was hurt that she, Mercy, made no attempt to visit her there was no knowing.

  Being in a well-remembered landscape yet having to play the stranger gave Mercy a feeling of unreality and increased her sense of isolation. It was all the more extraordinary, therefore, when one afternoon Rogers entered the drawing-room and announced a visitor for Mercy.

  Agnes looked at the butler in surprise. ‘What sort of visitor? Have they no card? No name? Surely, Rogers, you are capable of announcing visitors correctly.’

  The back of the butler’s neck went red at the reprimand. ‘There is a card, ma’am, but it is, er, rather unorthodox.’

  ‘What are you talking about, man? How can a visiting-card be unorthodox? Give it to me at once.’

  Rogers presented the silver salver. Agnes gingerly picked up the grubby piece of pasteboard. She turned it over once or twice then snapped, ‘I cannot make head nor tail of it. You must try!’

  Mercy gazed at the card thrust at her. It bore the name of a local manufacturer of mineral waters, along with the statement ‘Purveyors of Best Quality Non-Alcoholic Beverages to the Gentry and to the Premier Hotels of Torquay’ – all of which had been scratched out in ink. Turning it over Mercy saw a familiar shaky hand.

  ‘“Mrs Blanche Seaton”,’ she said in astonishment. ‘My grandmother! She’s here!’

  Agnes’s response was immediate. ‘Mrs Peter is not at home,’ she rapped out at the butler.

  ‘Not at home to her own grandmother?’ demanded a haughty voice. ‘Stuff and nonsense!’

  Blanche stood in the doorway, an almost unrecognizably tidy Blanche, clad in a grey flannel two-piece which was a little too large but otherwise quite presentable and a grey hat adorned with black and white feathers. She stood there, completely sober, exuding dignity.

  ‘Is it customary for a lady of my advanced years to be kept standing in the hall?’ she asked acidly. ‘If so, manners have certainly deteriorated since my day. Mercy, come and kiss me, child!’

  Mercy needed no second bidding. ‘Grandmother, this is such a surprise!’ she declared, flinging her arms about the frail figure. ‘How is everyone? Is Joey getting on well? Is Ma all right and—’

  ‘All in good time, my dear.’ Blanche responded to her granddaughter’s greeting with unexpected warmth, then patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps we should have introductions first, do you think?’

  Laughing and crying at the same time Mercy declared, ‘Of course! What am I thinking of! Grandmother, I would like to present my mother-in-law, Mrs Lisburne.’

  Blanche extended a hand encased in a much-darned cotton glove. ‘Pray do not disturb yourself, Mrs Lisburne,’ she said. ‘I am glad to see that such an absurd custom has fallen out of favour.’

  ‘What absurd custom?’ asked Agnes, caught unawares.

  ‘That of a lady rising to greet one who is senior to her.’

  Agnes, who had previously made no attempt to move, shot to her feet. Before she had time to say anything or take the proffered hand, however, Blanche withdrew it and turned to Peter.

  ‘And this, I presume, is my grandson-in-law. Hm! He’s a fine-looking fellow, I’ll say that for him!’

  ‘Delighted to meet you at last,’ replied Peter, bending to kiss Blanche’s hand.

  Blanche nodded approvingly, a sudden gleam in her eye. ‘By the look of you you can do better than that,’ she said, and proffered a wrinkled cheek. ‘I like him,’ she announced after Peter had obliged. ‘Mind, you will need to watch him with other women.’

  Her words hit too near the mark. But Blanche was apparently too busy examining a portrait over the fireplace to notice Mercy’s and Peter’s reactions.

  ‘Your husband?’ she inquired of Agnes.

  Agnes was still struggling to regain her composure. It was unheard of for her to come off second-best in anything, and to be worsted by this scrawny old woman was unthinkable. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

  ‘My late husband,’ she said at last.

  ‘I see where your boy gets his good looks.’

  ‘It was painted to celebrate his appointment as Chairman of the Torbay and South Devon Bank,’ retorted Agnes, returning to the fray.

  ‘Hm! As I thought. Trade!’

  ‘Your family is a distinguished one, of course,’ said Agnes with ominous sweetness, scenting a chance to gain the upper hand.

  ‘And a long established one,’ agreed Blanche calmly. ‘Our ancestor came to this country in the thirteenth century, you know. He was a kinsman of the Count of Provence and so was entrusted to accompany the Count’s daughter, Eleanor, to England for her marriage.’ There was a pause. ‘Her marriage to Henry III, of course,’ she added, as though talking to a backward child.

  Agnes’s first reaction was to be furious with such a blatant piece of effrontery. A kinsman of the Count of Provence indeed! She opened her mouth to say what she thought of a mad woman who claimed to be related to a queen of England, albeit in the distant past, then she stopped herself. There had been such a tone of authority in Blanche’s voice that it made her think twice. But it was preposterous!

  While Agnes grappled with her uncharacteristic indecision the moment for a cutting response passed, and sheaware Peter was offering their uninvited guest some refreshment.

  Mercy held her breath as her grandmother’s eyes rested covetously on the array of crystal decanters on the side- table.

  To her relief Blanche replied, ‘Thank you, no. My visit must be a brief one. My purpose is to see my greatgrandchild, since I understand I have one, and to inquire about the health of my granddaughter since she no longer communicates with her family.’

  ‘As you can see, she is in excellent health,’ retorted Agnes.

  ‘A fact which she would no do
ubt tell me herself, if given the chance.’

  Agnes faced her squarely. ‘You are to have no communication with my son’s wife. The conditions were explained to you fully.’

  ‘Conditions! What conditions? That we accept payment in lieu of Mercy’s company?’ Blanche suddenly delved into her purse and threw two sovereigns on to the table with a contemptuous gesture. ‘That is what I think of your conditions, Madam. I am surprised someone with your pretensions to gentility could devise such a plan.’

  Agnes winced. ‘Your granddaughter agreed…’ she cried angrily.

  ‘But I did not! I do not know what duress you placed upon the girl – it must have been severe for her to cut all ties with us. I say to you now that it will stop. Immediately!’

  ‘And your weekly allowance? What of the money?’ demanded Agnes.

  ‘You think I would consider money before my granddaughter? Such an accusation does not even deserve the dignity of a reply!’

  A tense silence fell upon the room. Mercy gazed at her grandmother with dumb admiration. She had long known that there were few who could get the better of Blanche in any argument – but to conduct herself with such control and authority! She suppressed a sudden chuckle as she observed that while Blanche had returned one week’s allowance so dramatically, she had made no mention of the other money that had been paid to her family during the preceding months. She also realized that her grandmother must be missing her very much to have gone to such lengths to come and see her. She was touched and very moved.

  ‘And now, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to see my great-grandson.’ Having dealt with one matter to her satisfaction Blanche was ready to move, imperturbably, to the next.

  ‘He is asleep. He always sleeps at this hour. He cannot be brought down!’ declared Agnes, making one last attempt to exert her authority.

  ‘Then, perhaps if we are very quiet, a visit to the nursery?’