Cordelia
Page 43
The cab turned in at the gates of Grove Hall. Everything the same. Dusk was falling. There was a faint smell of wood smoke. Somewhere far in the distance children were shouting; it sounded like bird cries on the still air.
Before she could ring, as she got down, helping Ian who was stupid with sleep, Hallows opened the door.
As if nothing had happened, as if she had been out for a drive, he said: ‘Oh, good afternoon, madam,’ and took her box from the cabbie. While she paid the man Ian wandered sleepily into the house.
She went slowly in after him. Although she had been away so short a time the familiar smell of the place, with all its memories, came upon her like a physical sickness. The hall was empty. She put down her muff as Hallows closed the door and walked with her box towards the stairs.
She cleared her throat. ‘Is Mr Ferguson – in his study?’
Hallow stopped. ‘No, madam. Mr Ferguson is in his room. He’s been unwell for some days.’
‘Unwell?’
‘Yes, madam.’
She stared at the butler. ‘ Oh.’ She couldn’t bring herself to pretend. ‘I didn’t know. What’s the matter?’
‘I think it was the bereavement, madam.’
For a moment she did not reply. Hallows stood there waiting.
‘Where’s Miss Ferguson?’
‘She’ll be in her room, madam. It isn’t quite time for tea.’
‘Oh, no. I forgot.’
Seeing that she was going to say no more, he went on up the stairs carrying the box. She watched him out of sight and then followed Ian into the drawing-room. It, too, was empty. A big fire. Brook’s piano.
Conscious of relaxing nerves, of anti-climax, of a dreadful loneliness settling on her, she began slowly to unfasten her cloak. Ian had run across to get two of his favourite books out of a corner. Betty hadn’t dusted the clock.
The familiar things, friendly with habit, inimitable, with their clinging strands, waiting to welcome her back. Somewhere surely would be the embroidery half done, the book half read. Oh, Stephen. So this is the end of our pretty story – at last. Tears blinded her eyes and she brushed them away. Really the end. Not even hope this time. Her heart ached as if it would burst. It was all very well to say come back, but somewhere in the very depth of her being she still loved him and it would never be the same. She needed Pridey now, desperately, to reinforce and renew with his arguments the logic for her return. Almost, if she had had the courage, she would have turned tail and fled again with Ian, anywhere, anywhere away from this big silent house with its indescribable surge of memories from the secret heights and depths of her life.
She looked about her in desperation, in panic. If for a while she could employ her hands, her mind, on any routine job to fill the first empty minutes of return. What could she do?
Hallows was coming down again. She must go up at once, with Ian, before her courage completely failed.
She turned. ‘Ian. I want you. We must go and see Grandpa.’
Up the stairs. Slowing at the top. Go into my bedroom first. No. Courage. Now or never. She went to his door and tapped. He called, ‘Come in.’
He was sitting by the fire, did not turn as she entered. He was in his big black dressing-gown, a huge bulk become amorphous but topped by that old grey distinguished head.
‘Yes, what is it?’
She cleared her throat to speak, and as she did so became conscious that there was someone else in the room. Robert Birch was standing by the window. So she missed Mr Ferguson’s first glance. When she looked back he was slowly getting up, gripping the chair. They looked at each other. There were shadows now in the room, lengthy planes of dark, but she saw his jaw muscles move.
He said: ‘We didn’t expect you.’ Almost without expression, feeling his way.
‘No … I didn’t write.’
Scarcely seeing it, she was yet conscious of Robert’s welcoming look, his pleasure – of something more than pleasure.
She said: ‘You’ve been ill.’
‘Oh … just a temporary thing.’ The old man glanced again at her suddenly, keenly. ‘ Is that why you have come?’
‘No … I didn’t know.’
He moved his head once, slowly, as if with satisfaction.
Robert said: ‘It was a nervous collapse. There’s nothing seriously wrong, but he’ll have to take things easy for a time.’
‘Grandpa,’ said Ian, slowly leaving his mother’s skirt. ‘Uncle Pridey took me to the Zoo. And I’ve seen an engine with ten wheels!’
Mr Ferguson looked down, still uncertain.
‘Ten wheels,’ he said.
The little boy broke into a sleepy patter. She glanced now at Robert. There was uncertainty in his look too. He said in an undertone:
‘I’ve been here a good deal. It was the least I could do. Have you – come back to stay?’
‘I – don’t know,’ she said miserably. ‘Perhaps for a little while.’
He said: ‘Cordelia …’
‘Yes?’
‘May I be the first to – welcome you home …’
‘Thank you, Robert.’
She had flushed, conscious of a creeping warmth, a complex anger, a weakness near to tears. Then she glanced again at Mr Ferguson and saw that he was not listening to Ian. The old steely glance, but less militant.
‘What did you say?’
Well, she must say it. ‘You got my first note, the one I left?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve decided,’ she said, ‘I mean, I think I was wrong. If I may, I want to come back – at least for a time.’
For a moment he seemed to search into her, to seek to read all those conflicting motives, the feelings, the impulses which had swayed her and which she would never explain to him. He put his hand on Ian’s head, moved his fingers over the hair.
Abruptly he put out his hand to her, with more than a shadow of one of the old regal gestures.
‘Then may I, too, say – ‘‘ Welcome home!’’ ’
Copyright
First published in 1963 by Bodley Head
This edition published 2013 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello
ISBN 978-1-4472-5657-1 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-5655-7 POD
Copyright © Winston Graham, 1963
The right of Winston Graham to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material
reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publisher
will be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication ( or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise),
without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does
any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to
criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by
any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (‘author websites’).
The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute
an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content,
products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.
This book remains true to the original in every way. Some aspects may appear
out-of-date to modern-day readers. B
ello makes no apology for this, as to retrospectively
change any content would be anachronistic and undermine the authenticity of the original.
Bello has no responsibility for the content of the material in this book. The opinions
expressed are those of the author and do not constitute an endorsement by,
or association with, us of the characterization and content.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books
and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and
news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters
so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.