Vittoria Cottage (Drumberley Book 1)

by D. E. Stevenson

  Caroline thought of these things while she was dressing and then she caught sight of her troubled face in the mirror. (What an unhostess-like face! It was enough to frighten away any guest!) and she decided that for to-night at least she must banish care. If she could not enjoy herself she must pretend to do so; she must do her utmost to make the party a success. She decided that she was an actress, dressing for her part in a First Night Performance. This idea helped a good deal, though, of course, the analogy was not strictly correct: the actress had an advantage over Caroline for she knew her part, knew the words she would say when she stepped on to the stage and, even more important, she knew what the other actors in the drama would reply. Caroline’s part was unknown and therefore much more difficult and alarming … but I look quite nice, she thought, as she took a last glance in the mirror. This time the reflection was reassuring. She was wearing the same black velvet gown which she had worn at the Ash House party — she had nothing else to wear — but she had pinned some red velvet roses on her corsage. Her cheeks were slightly rouged and her eyes were sparkling.

  “Not bad at all,” said Caroline, nodding at her reflection and with that she tilted her head courageously and went downstairs.

  Robert had just arrived. He was in the hall. He came forward quickly and met her at the bottom of the stairs and took her hand.

  “Are we saying how do you do?” asked Caroline with a little smile.

  “That’s hardly necessary, is it?” returned Robert. “It wasn’t that, it was just …” he paused. How could he say that as she came downstairs it had seemed to him that a light shone in her face, that he had taken her hand impulsively, that he had not been able to help taking her hand. Perhaps he might have found the right words if there had been time, but the house was full of bustle … Mrs. Podbury came out of the pantry with a tray of glasses.

  “What is it?” asked Caroline, smiling and withdrawing her hand.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “At least — nothing I can say now.”

  “Nothing wrong?” she asked in sudden anxiety.

  “No, nothing.”

  The little incident was over (it was a mere nothing, a whole series of nothings). Bobbie came running downstairs, James came out of the dining-room, and a moment later the bell rang and the first guests had arrived.

  As is usual with parties, the dullest guests arrived first. The Meldrums, the Burnards and the Whitelaws. The Burnards and the Meldrums were not on speaking terms, Mrs. Burnard having quarrelled irreconcilably with Mrs. Meldrum over the Hallowe’en Party at the Girl Guides’ hut. Caroline knew about this, of course, for she had heard the whole story from each of the combatants in turn, but she had thought that with thirty-odd guests the fact that two of them were not on speaking terms would not matter … and it would not have mattered if one or other or both of the ladies had been late in arriving. Who could have foreseen that both would arrive early, thought Caroline as she saw her guests glare at each other like strange cats and gravitate to opposite sides of the large empty room.

  The Whitelaws (a young married couple who had just come to live in the district) knew nobody, of course. Caroline had asked them because she thought it would be nice for them to meet some of their new neighbours … but apparently the Whitelaws thought otherwise. They stood together in the middle of the room and nothing would move them, they answered their hostess’s inquiries as to their health and well-being in as few words as possible, they refused to be drawn into conversation about the weather, they were practically dumb on the subject of their garden. Perhaps they were shy, thought Caroline, giving them the benefit of the doubt.

  Caroline prayed for more guests to arrive quickly. She began to wonder if more guests would come. How awful if everybody except the Meldrums, the Burnards and the Whitelaws had decided that they couldn’t be bothered to go to the party at Vittoria Cottage! She could almost hear them discussing it. “We shall be more comfortable at home,” they would say. “It doesn’t matter, does it? No need to let them know we aren’t going. There’ll be such a crowd, the Derings won’t notice if we don’t turn up.” Others would suddenly be afflicted with toothache or would discover that the car wouldn’t start. It was one of Caroline’s flights of fancy — one of her “things” and a very uncomfortable one.

  She was beginning to feel quite desperate when the door opened and dozens of people poured into the room; and the room, which had seemed so large and bare and empty, was suddenly full of a chattering throng. The Whitelaws, the Meldrums and the Burnards were swallowed up and engulfed in the flood; their hostess abandoned them to their fate and saw them no more. Everybody knew everybody — or very nearly — and they were all delighted to meet … and soon every guest had a glass in one hand and a piece of cake in the other, and the party had begun to roll along as merrily as any hostess could desire. It was like a wedding, thought Caroline (as she went from one friend to another, smiling and chatting and asking after sons and daughters who were absent from the rout), it was like a wedding without the principal actors; there was wine and cake and flowers, but no bride and bridegroom to receive congratulations and no bridesmaids in pretty frocks to be admired. Perhaps it had been a mistake to have this kind of party now, for if Leda and Derek were to be married next year the party would have to be repeated — and repeated in exactly the same form.

  Derek’s absence was noted, of course — especially when Sir Michael and Rhoda arrived without him — and soon everybody in the room knew what had happened and regrets were being expressed on every side. “Poor Derek!” people said, or “Poor Leda, what bad luck I” or “Have you heard about Derek’s accident? Yes, isn’t it unfortunate?”

  Harriet, like a good stage manager, gave her audience plenty of time to settle down before beginning her entertainment. The Mumming Play was not the only item on the programme; Anne was to sing; the Meldrum girls had offered to perform a duologue from Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet’s interview with Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Joan was Elizabeth, of course. That was enough, decided Harriet; she was fully aware that it is better to give people too little rather than too much.

  Leda’s song was cut, she did not feel like singing, but the rest of the entertainment went well. Harriet thought poorly of the duologue — naturally she could have done it better. The girls were sticks, thought Harriet; Margaret was shy and far from word perfect, and Joan was full of ridiculous airs and graces (which Elizabeth Bennet most certainly was not). Fortunately the audience was not as critical as Miss Fane (the audience was of the opinion that it was so clever of Joan and Margaret to act like that) and the applause was satisfactory if not prolonged.

  The Mumming Play was last on the programme, and the audience, having heard a good deal about it, was keyed up to the proper stage of anticipation. There was complete silence when Bobbie drew back the curtains and disclosed the scene. It had not been possible to prepare scenery in the short time at their disposal, but the “stage” was dimly lighted and there were plants in pots to give the illusion of a forest grove … and in the centre lay a large green dragon with a huge hideous head and glowing eyes. A gasp went up from the audience — and Caroline did not wonder for it was a most alarming sight. Caroline was aware that the dragon’s head was fashioned from green gauze and hat wire, and its glowing eyes were pieces of glass from an old pair of spectacles with an electric torch behind them, but even this knowledge could not destroy the illusion and even she was horrified at the dragon’s appearance.

  The dragon writhed about for a few moments, showing its paces, and then the Hidden Voice began to speak:

  “Here in this bosky thicket is the haunt

  Of a foul dragon, strong and fierce and gaunt.

  The bones of many a victim lie around

  Strewn far and wide upon the trampled ground.

  Behold the monster! Mark his glowing eyes —

  The very mountains tremble when he sighs —

  Sharp are his talons, fiery is his breath;

  He fears nor m
an nor beast, he fears not death.

  The land he ravages — north, south, west, east —

  He is the very devil of a beast.

  Brave lads and gentle maidens are his prey;

  All England cowers ’neath his dreadful sway.

  Many, to end his horrid life, have tried,

  None have been strong enough to break his pride.

  “But lo, a paladin comes out to fight;

  His shield is stainless and his sword is bright.

  In silver chain, from head to foot, he’s mailed —

  Will he succeed where other men have failed?

  See him stride forth and mark his doughty mien!

  Never such noble champion was seen.

  ‘What ho!’ he calls. ‘Avaunt thou Beast of Night!’

  ‘St. George for England! God Defend the Right!’”

  St. George was a truly magnificent figure. There he stood, mailed from top to toe in silver cardboard armour, while the Hidden Voice enumerated his exploits and extolled his virtues. The dragon, meanwhile, became more and more enraged, snarling and growling and flashing its eyes; then, all of a sudden, it reared its ugly head and snapped ferociously at its challenger … the fight was on.

  At first the combatants seemed evenly matched. St. George was more mobile, of course. He rushed about with tireless energy and dauntless courage, stabbing the dragon repeatedly from different angles, while the dragon writhed and roared and managed to deliver some shrewd blows with its terrible claws in return … but St. George’s silver armour saved him from harm and, if he retired for a moment, it was only to clear his arm for a mightier thrust. Presently the dragon lost heart, its attacks had less pertinacity, its roars were less furious, more despairing … and, seeing this, St. George redoubled his efforts. He leapt upon it and plunged his sword into its black heart. Now the dragon was dying — there was not a doubt of that — it was dying in agonies, rolling upon the ground and groaning and shrieking like a lost soul. (Its death throes were so realistic that Caroline began to be alarmed and to wonder whether James, by mistake, had pierced his aunt in some vital portion of her anatomy, and she looked round anxiously to see if Dr. Smart was still there, over near the fire, where she had been talking to him a few minutes since.)

  There was a storm of applause when the fight ended and St. George stood erect with his sword outstretched and his foot firmly planted upon the dragon’s head.

  “Again!” cried somebody. “Do it again! Encore!”

  “Encore! Encore!” cried everybody, clapping like mad.

  But the dragon had had enough. “No thank you,” said the dragon, rising to its feet amongst folds of green cloth (which looked to Caroline extraordinarily like her spare-room curtains). “Not again,” said the dragon firmly. “It’s very nice of you to be so appreciative, but once is enough. James — I mean St. George — got a little carried away. An audience sometimes has that effect upon an amateur …” The remainder of the dragon’s speech was drowned in roars of laughter and in loud calls for the author, the producer and the actors.

  The Derings had expected their guests to depart when the dramatic entertainment was over, but nobody made any move to go until long after midnight, and it was nearly two o’clock before the last guest said good-bye.

  “It was a howling success,” declared Harriet, sinking into a chair. “It was simply terrific … and I’m absolutely exhausted.”

  “We may as well finish up the drink,” said James.

  They finished it, sitting amongst the débris of the party, talking about all that had happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHRISTMAS DAY was damp and muggy, as it so often is, but, although the weather was not of the snow and robin variety, the scene inside Vittoria Cottage was as Christmasy as could be. The presents were opened after breakfast and soon the drawing-room was in fine confusion with gifts upon every chair and the floor covered with boxes and papers of every size and hue. Harriet was always generous, and this year she had fairly let herself go. Her presents included cardigans and silk stockings and pullovers … it was a wonder how she managed to spin out her coupons to cover all her gifts. Bobbie was certain that the thing was quite impossible and charged her aunt with having a secret source from which she was able to procure an inexhaustible supply of coupons; but her aunt only smiled and remained dumb. James had been generous, too. His heavy baggage had arrived and from it he produced sarongs of gorgeous silk and jade earrings and quaint figures of ivory and pictures fashioned from butterflies’ wings. The “opening ceremony” was in full swing, and everybody was talking at once when the door opened and Robert walked in laden with parcels like Santa Claus, parcels for every one — not forgetting Comfort. There was a pile of parcels for Robert on the sideboard, and he was invited to stay and open them.

  Robert had come to bring his presents and also to invite them all to lunch with him at the Cock and Bull. Mrs. Herbert was preparing an elaborate feast, declared Robert, and would be desolated if nobody came to eat it. They accepted, of course, and Caroline arranged to have their own Christmas dinner in the evening. Robert would come and share it and they would play a game. This being settled, they got ready for church, and all walked down the hill together.

  Caroline loved the little church. It was old and very beautiful, and she knew it so well that it had a comfortingly friendly atmosphere … and to-day it felt even more friendly than usual. The church was decorated with holly and white flowers; it was warm and brightly lighted and the faces of the worshippers were peaceful and happy, for this was Christmas morning and they had all given and received tokens of goodwill. Perhaps it is better to give than to receive, but it is best to do both and to do it graciously in the Christmas spirit. Caroline had done both; her heart felt peaceful and it was full of gratitude for the safe return of her son. He stood beside her in the pew, the sleeve of his jacket brushed against her shoulder … God has been very good to me, she thought. Other things did not matter in comparison with the safety of James, they must be banished from her mind. She would banish them and be happy and grateful as she ought to be.

  Most certainly she ought to be grateful. If she had known two months ago that James would be here beside her on Christmas Day she would have said she wanted nothing more, she would have been blissfully happy. Now her unruly heart wanted more — could anything be more ungrateful!

  “When shepherds watched their flocks by night,

  All seated on the ground;

  An angel of the Lord appeared

  And glory shone around …”

  James was smiling down at her for this was his favourite hymn and, as she smiled back, the last vestige of her unhappiness vanished. I am happy, she thought. I am truly grateful. I don’t want anything more.

  *

  Robert Shepperton had asked Sir Michael and Rhoda to join his lunch party, so they sat down eight to Mrs. Herbert’s Christmas feast. They sat down informally, without arrangement, which was unfortunate — or so Caroline thought — she found herself between her host and Rhoda.

  “Mrs. Dering, I’ve got a bone to pick with you!” exclaimed Rhoda. “I haven’t had time to pick it before. I want to know why you were away when I came to see you, and I want to know what you meant by coming to town and never letting me know. I told you I would throw a party for you.”

  “That was why,” declared Caroline, entering into the jest. “If you hadn’t said you would throw a party I might have come.”

  “I throw very good parties —”

  “Orgies,” said Caroline gravely. “Mrs. Meldrum says they’re orgies, so of course they must be.”

  “You always agree with Mrs. Meldrum, don’t you?”

  “Um — well —” said Caroline.

  They both laughed.

  Robert looked at Caroline several times but she continued to spar with Rhoda, so all he could see was a light-brown curl beneath the brim of her hat and a very pretty little ear with a pearl-stud in it. The stud went right through, it was no
t clipped on as were so many earrings nowadays. Robert had noticed this before, it was one of the first things he had noticed about Caroline. She wouldn’t wear earrings at all if her ears were not pierced, thought Robert as he ate his turkey; clip-on earrings are artificial — well of course all earrings are artificial, but those with screws or clips are silly — and clothes should be simple, not fussed up with ornaments and frills and buttons that don’t button into honest-to-goodness button-holes. It’s the same kind of thing, thought Robert. Buttons that don’t button and earrings that don’t go right through — they’re fakes — that’s why Caroline doesn’t wear them.

  Robert had ample time to work out his theme, for Leda was sitting on his left. Leda did not like Robert and to-day she had even less use for him than usual. Sir Michael (who was next on her other side) was telling her all about Derek, and naturally the subject interested her profoundly. Rhoda had been to see Derek the day before and had found him cheerful and comfortable and exceedingly well looked after with a nurse in attendance. He was still at the Brights’ house, but it was hoped to move him soon.

  “I want him moved,” declared Sir Michael. “The Brights have been very kind but we can’t presume upon their hospitality. Rhoda agrees, she thinks he should be moved without delay, so I’ve written to the doctor and asked if Derek can be brought home in an ambulance.”

  “I wish I could see him!” exclaimed Leda.