Only by Chance

by Betty Neels

  When Henrietta had gone upstairs, obedient to Mrs Pettifer’s request that she should go up to the linen room and fetch down some frilled pillowcases which needed careful darning, Mrs Pettifer told them about Mr Mike Hensen and Henrietta.

  ‘She’s not like these modern girls—well, what do you expect, brought up in a children’s home and then living hand to mouth in an attic?’ Her audience nodded sympathetically for they all knew Henrietta’s history. ‘A blessing it was that Mr Ross-Pitt turned up just when he was needed most. Took her back to his place for tea and drove her back to the lodge. He’s a kind man if ever there was one—wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  There was general agreement at this. ‘It behoves us,’ said Feathers with great dignity, ‘to keep an eye on Henrietta, in a friendly way as it were. I’m sure as how we all wish her well.’

  There was a chorus of assent, for she was liked. Had she not listened with sympathetic patience to Mrs Dale’s grumbles about running a big house with insufficient staff, run untold errands for Cook when her feet were bad, taken letters to the post for Feathers, lent one of the housemaids a pound so that she could send a birthday card to her granny—the birthday falling awkwardly just before pay day—and spent the whole evening searching for the kitchen cat and found her shut up in the laundry room?

  ‘Just let anyone bother the girl and I’ll give him what for,’ observed Cook sternly, and was answered by an assertive chorus.

  * * *

  HENRIETTA, UNAWARE of everyone’s concern for her well-being, quickly settled down to work again. There was no sign of Mike Hensen, and very soon she stopped peering round doors before entering a room or hesitating about answering bells in case he had returned unexpectedly. Life resumed its even flow—plenty of work, but good food and a comfortable bed and her wages each week. And her memories of Mr Ross-Pitt.

  Even if she never saw him again, and probably she wouldn’t—not to speak of, at any rate—she had those, and the best memory of all was the gentle kiss on her cheek. Sometimes she remembered Mr Hensen’s attempts to kiss her too, but she had only to think of Mr Ross-Pitt to forget that entirely.

  So on the whole she was happy. Sooner or later Adam would marry, and she would have to get over that as best she could, but until then she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon him and treasured every crumb of information she heard about him. That wasn’t much for he was a very private man despite his friendly manner.

  This was a sentiment echoed by Deirdre who, despite determined effort, had been unable to coax another invitation to spend a few days at Mr Ross-Pitt’s home out of him. She had contrived to meet him fairly frequently, badgering her mother to find out from her friends and acquaintances when and where he might be dining with mutual friends and then scheming to be invited.

  He had been friendly on these occasions but that was all; questions put to him concerning his private life he’d evaded with easy good humour, and her delicate hints that they might meet more frequently had been met with a bland politeness. If only she could engage his attention—catch his eye. Chic new outfits had no effect upon him at all; he might compliment her on her appearance, but she felt sure that he really had no idea what she was wearing or how well turned out she was.

  She could have saved herself a good deal of time and money if she had known that he regarded her with indifference nicely concealed by good manners, while if he thought about her appearance at all it was to compare it unfavourably with Henrietta’s sober attire. Not that this prevented him from picturing Henrietta in more attractive and colourful garments—she would look nice in anything, even an old sack.

  These observations, he told himself, were merely the outcome of a natural interest in her welfare. It was to be hoped that she would meet some worthy young man and settle down, then perhaps he would be rid of her image popping up with increasing frequency to annoy him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WITH EASTER A WEEK away now, Henrietta was being put through her paces as a guide. Each day Mrs Pettifer led her round the vast rooms which would be open to the public, reciting their contents and making her repeat them until she was word perfect. There was the ballroom, the vast drawing room seldom used by the family, the banqueting room—‘Never used at all,’ said Mrs Pettifer in an aside, ‘except for weddings, christenings and funerals’—the main hall and the great staircase which led them to the only two bedrooms on view, both with canopied beds, vast wardrobes and Hepplewhite dressing tables with their giltwood toilet mirrors, and Regency day-beds and giltwood chairs.

  The second bedroom contained a leather screen—Dutch painted leather, eighteenth century and worth a small fortune—‘And don’t forget the ormolu clock on the side-table—French, Louis XV,’ said Mrs Pettifer. ‘Pierre Leroy made it, just in case anyone asks. They seldom do. The carpet in this room is an Aubusson and in the other bedroom a Tabriz, but you already know that, for you helped me to clean them, didn’t you?’

  By the end of the week Henrietta was a bundle of nerves. The house was to open on Easter Monday and she spent her usual Sunday afternoon sitting in the office, becoming more and more nervous—a state of mind Mrs Pettifer cured by coming over to the house before supper.

  ‘I’m a visitor,’ she told Henrietta. ‘Take me round the house. Don’t worry, there’s no one about and it’s a splendid chance for you to rehearse.’

  Henrietta, very much on her mettle now, led Mrs Pettifer from room to room, trying to pretend that the lady was a group of interested tourists and succeeding very well.

  ‘Well done,’ said Mrs Pettifer. ‘You’ll be all right—remember that visitors have come to see the inside of the house and its contents, not you.’

  * * *

  A MOST SUCCESSFUL day, Lady Hensen assured Mrs Pettifer as the last of the tourists trooped down the drive. She had been presiding at the counter in the garden room, turned into a café for the occasion. ‘We did really well in the tearoom. It always surprises me that so many people want to see round the place. Did Henrietta manage? No gaffes?’

  ‘None. She is going to be very satisfactory. She’s intelligent and keen and she wants to know about everything she sees and does.’

  ‘Splendid. She will be capable of guiding each afternoon, you think?’

  ‘Oh, perfectly, Lady Hensen. You don’t want her day off altered? She has Tuesday.’

  ‘Why don’t we let her have Saturday? She has Sunday morning, doesn’t she? That will give her a nice break; she could even stay away if she wanted to for the night.’

  Mrs Pettifer said bleakly, ‘She has nowhere to go, Lady Hensen.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. How silly of me. Has she made any friends in the village?’

  ‘Well, they all know her—she’s well liked there and she visits Mrs Tibbs sometimes—but friends, no...’ Mrs Pettifer frowned. ‘She’s shy and reserved although she’s so well liked—she takes an interest in everyone, you see, asks after their rheumatism and the baby and where they’re going for their holidays, and she is really interested and they know it. But she never talks about herself.’

  ‘She’s happy?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and an undemanding companion; I have grown quite fond of her. May I tell her that you’re pleased with her, Lady Hensen, and ask if she would like to have Saturday free? She’ll be acting as a guide for the rest of the week?’

  ‘Yes, I dare say the two of you will be able to manage between you for most of the time; Mrs Bruce—the vicar’s wife—will do Saturday afternoons with you and come in on Wednesdays if she’s needed; that’s our busy day, isn’t it?’

  * * *

  HENRIETTA WENT PINK with pleasure when Mrs Pettifer passed on Lady Hensen’s satisfaction. ‘And she has decided,’ added Mrs Pettifer, ‘that you shall have Saturday for your free day so that you get a nice long break until Sunday afternoon. You’re pleased?’

  ‘Yes, th
ank you. But you’ll still get your day off, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, child. Monday is usually very quiet and I’m free on Tuesday morning now; that gives me a long break too.’

  Mrs Pettifer settled down with Ollie on her lap. ‘Now, tell me, what did you think of the visitors? Did they ask questions? Sometimes you can do the whole tour and nobody asks a thing.’

  Henrietta reflected. ‘I was rather surprised that no one asked about the screen—it’s so beautiful. There was an elderly lady who wanted to know about the clocks, but the third group I took round didn’t say anything, only when we went downstairs again someone wanted to know where they could get tea...’

  Mrs Pettifer laughed. ‘We get all sorts, and just now and again along comes someone who’s really interested, and that is deeply satisfying for us.’

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Saturday came, Henrietta was more than glad of a free day. The spate of visitors over Easter had dwindled to a steady trickle—enough to keep her or Mrs Pettifer busy during the afternoons—and in the mornings there was no let up over her usual chores.

  The rooms had to be kept in a pristine state, dusted and vacuumed and checked to make sure that everything was still there. There were always odds and ends left behind by forgetful visitors—plastic bags, bottles of lemonade, the occasional half-eaten sandwich, scarves. Any items of clothing had to be collected up, labelled with the date and put into a box in case the various owners came in search of them.

  Getting ready to go out on Saturday morning, Henrietta reflected that the week had been fun. She would take herself to Thaxted, have lunch in the small café that she had discovered previously and do a round of the shops. She would soon need something more summery—a plain navy blue skirt and another blouse, they would do nicely when she was acting as guide, and later on she could get some woollies for the skirt.

  She had her coffee in the quiet little café where she intended to lunch and then began a tour of Thaxted’s shops. She was wearing the jersey skirt and jacket and the pastel blouse, and Mr Ross-Pitt, coming out of the corn chandler’s shop, stopped to look at her. It was a pity that she wore such dull colours, although he had to admit that she always looked pleasing to the eye.

  He crossed the street in a leisurely manner and wished her good morning, and was quite startled at the rush of colour which flooded her cheeks. But her good morning was uttered in a quiet voice which gave no hint as to the riot of feeling churning around her insides.

  ‘Having a day off?’ he wanted to know pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, and as I get Sunday mornings too it’s like having a weekend...’

  ‘I dare say you’re kept busy with visitors. You are enjoying acting as a guide?’

  She wondered how he knew that. ‘Yes, very much.’ He stood looking down at her, not speaking, so that she felt constrained to say something. ‘You’re having a day off too?’

  ‘The weekend. Shall we have a cup of coffee and you can tell me how you’re getting on?’

  ‘I’ve just had coffee, thank you.’

  ‘In that case, unless you have something special to do, keep me company. I’m going to visit my mother’s old housekeeper; she lives at a small place called Tollesbury on the Essex coast.’

  ‘But she doesn’t know me—I mean, a stranger and unexpected.’

  ‘She would be delighted to have company. Matty lives alone—she won’t have it otherwise—although she has good neighbours on either side of her and we all visit her frequently. You will like her, Henrietta, and I would be delighted to have company.’

  ‘Isn’t Watson with you?’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, yes, and a splendid listener. Unfortunately he can’t answer back.’

  She wanted to ask him why his Deirdre wasn’t with him but prudence made her hold her tongue. It would be delightful beyond her wildest dreams to spend a few hours in his company. Henrietta got into the car, replied to Watson’s delighted greeting with suitable warmth, and allowed her present happiness to overcome any doubts she might have in the future concerning the rashness of her actions.

  As for Mr Ross-Pitt, he appeared to have no doubts at all. His manner was casually friendly as he told her about the countryside they were driving through, the towns they would pass and about Tollesbury itself. Once a fishing village, he explained, but left behind by the sea, surrounded now by creeks and marshes.

  ‘At the back of beyond, many people say, and I suppose in a sense they are right, although it’s only eight miles from Maldon which is a small town—we go through it presently. This is Braintree we’re running into now....’

  They drove through two other small towns—Witham and then Heybridge—before bypassing Maldon and taking the road to Tollesbury.

  ‘The sea,’ observed Mr Ross-Pitt. ‘There’s a path—several paths—through the marshes.’

  ‘The sea,’ echoed Henrietta, and craned her neck round him to see it better.

  He was struck by a thought. ‘You’ve seen the sea before?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s wonderful.’ He touched a switch and the windows rolled down so that she could sniff the air. ‘It’s like drinking very clear, cold water and it smells like heaven.’

  He looked at her rapt face and smiled a little. A half-formed idea crept into the back of his mind, to be forgotten as he rounded a curve and the village came in sight— Neat cottages, plaster and brick with ancient, tiled roofs, a village square, a couple of small shops and a church behind a high stone wall. He pulled up before one of the cottages and got out, opened her door and helped her out, released Watson, and thumped the handsome brass knocker.

  The door was opened by an old lady, cosily plump with white hair strained back into a tidy bun, and old-fashioned steel spectacles on her small turned-up nose. The spectacles shielded faded blue eyes which twinkled with delight at the sight of them.

  ‘Mr Adam.’ She held up her face for his kiss. ‘Right on time; you always were a punctual little boy. Come on in, and your little lady...’ She beamed at Henrietta, who went red and gave him a reproachful look.

  ‘This is Henrietta Cowper, Matty; she works for Lady Hensen.’

  Matty offered a cheek for Henrietta’s kiss. ‘Now isn’t this nice? Come along, my dear; it will be a treat to have a bit of a gossip. You’ll need to tidy yourself, no doubt. Such a pretty jacket and skirt...’

  The cottage was very small, very clean and nicely furnished. While Mr Ross-Pitt took Watson to the kitchen to give him a drink, Matty led Henrietta up the short, narrow staircase. ‘There’s the bathroom, dearie; come down when you’re ready.’ She smiled. ‘Such a treat having the pair of you.’

  Henrietta didn’t hurry; she guessed that Matty might want to question Adam about her and it would make it much easier if she was told at once that Henrietta was with him by casual invitation. When she went downstairs they were in the small living room, one seated each side of the old-fashioned Rayburn, alight even though it was a mild day.

  Adam got up as she went in, and pulled up a chair. ‘I’ve been telling Matty about your job,’ he told her.

  The old lady chimed in, ‘Interesting it must be, meeting all sorts of folk, I dare say.’

  ‘Yes, it is, but I help around the house too,’ said Henrietta, anxious not to sail under false colours.

  ‘There’s pleasure to be got from tending good furniture and silver and such. I don’t hold with modern rubbish. Mr Adam says that you worked at his hospital. You liked that, no doubt, but who’d live in London when they can live free and easy, away from all them rows of little houses and smoky factories?’ She paused for breath. ‘Mr Adam, be so kind as to open that bottle of sherry you so kindly brought with you, and we’ll have a drink before I dish up.’

  Between them they made Henrietta feel completely at home, sitting at the round table in the little kitchen, eati
ng Matty’s steak and kidney pudding, with carrots from a neighbour’s garden, and potatoes from the local farmer, who fetched a sack for her whenever they were needed. There was apple pie to follow, with cream from the same farm.

  ‘I may live alone,’ said Matty comfortably, ‘but there’s not a day passes but what someone pops in, and your ma, Mr Adam, telephones without fail each week. She’s coming down to see me as soon as that baby’s born. How’s Miss—Mrs Langley; it’s high time, surely?’

  ‘Next week Matty.’ He turned to Henrietta. ‘My younger sister is having her first baby; my mother is staying with them—they live in Cumbria.’ He saw the unspoken questions she wasn’t going to ask. ‘I’ve got another sister, married too—she has two boys. My mother and father live on the Northumbrian coast.’

  ‘A long way,’ said Henrietta.

  ‘We contrive to see each other quite frequently.’ He didn’t add to that and presently she helped Matty with the washing-up and set a tray ready for tea, wondering what was to happen next. Should she take herself off for a stroll so that they could talk if they wished?

  When she went back into the living room he got to his feet. ‘Matty has a nap in the afternoons; we’ll take Watson for a brisk walk...’

  Matty was still in the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t you want to talk? I mean, you came to see her and you might want to say things—I mean, without me there.’

  He shook his head. ‘Matty needs a rest, especially after the excitement of us coming. After tea you can potter in the kitchen and leave us alone, but only if you feel that you must.’

  ‘Well, yes, I do feel that I must. I hope it hasn’t spoilt your visit to her, my being here as well.’

  ‘On the contrary, I fancy she will like to see you again. She’s had a long and busy life and she loves to talk about it.’

  ‘It would be lovely to have a granny like her,’ said Henrietta. There was no self-pity in her voice, only regret.

  A sudden pang of pity made him say briskly, ‘Are you ready? We’ll take the lane to the marshes. There’s a boat yard on one of the creeks; you might like to see that.’