Nurse in Waiting

by Jane Arbor

  “Roger? Least of all Roger! And you’re not to tell him anything!”

  Joanna sighed. “There’s nothing I could tell him,” she said wearily. “And it seems that there’s nothing I can say to you either. Except—to warn you that, whatever particular form of fire you’re playing with, remember that it could burn Roger too!”

  Without a word Shuan turned away, and it seemed to Joanna that for all her liking of the girl, for all the poignancy of their love for the same man, the curtain of alien hostility between them was as impenetrable as ever.

  The girl’s spirits seemed unaffected, but Joanna was still depressed by the encounter when she found herself caught up in the more cheerful mysteries attending the last preparations for the dance.

  On the evening itself Mrs. Carnehill drew her aside to whisper: “The dress and the cloak, and the hat I managed to get for you in Dublin, are laid out on your bed. I put them there myself. Then I locked the door—here is the key.” She dropped it into Joanna’s hand and went on: “You’ll dress early, won’t you? Because I want to smuggle you into the drawing-room and the timing is going to be difficult. I don’t want Roger to see you first—that would spoil everything. So I want to have him and Shuan occupied in greeting some of the first-comers while I manage to get you in through the french windows. We’ll probably have to hang about on the terrace for a bit. What a mercy that it’s a warm night!”

  Joanna laughed. “You treat me as if I were a special kind of tableau that must be organized and arranged in secret!”

  “Well, that’s my idea. That’s why I borrowed the wolf-hound for you. I couldn’t keep that secret from Shuan, of course, but I think I gave her to believe—” the blue eyes twinkled wickedly—“that he was coming to the dance in his own right as What’s-his-name—Gelert?—the Celtic hound that was wrongfully suspected of killing his master’s child because he was found with blood-slavered jaws. Maybe she didn’t believe me—Anyway, I don’t expect you to trail him around all the evening, but I do want the representation of the portrait to be complete, if only for as long as you can hold the post. You’ll do it to please me, won’t you, Joanna?”

  “Of course!”

  “Good girl. You see, it’ll be a diversion—something to set people talking, to warm them up. Run along and dress now. I’ll come and help you with your hair, and then we’ll watch our moment for slipping out on to the terrace.”

  Not knowing whether she did it reluctantly or eagerly, Joanna went up to her room. There lay the dress and the cloak which had belonged to Clarissa Carnehill, but for a long time after she was ready to do so she did not put them on. She was thinking: “I mustn’t let this mean more than it really does. It’s only fun, after all, and Mrs. Carnehill is so fascinated with the idea that I’ve simply got to play up ... But oh, I can’t help its meaning something more to me! By this night’s work I am only tying another knot in the rope of association and memory that binds me to this place—and to the thought of Roger. I haven’t been brave enough to cut myself free before I must—and the slow fraying of the rope is going to take so long—”

  And it was so that Mrs. Carnehill found her. “Joanna, child—you’ve been dawdling!” she scolded. “People are beginning to arrive and Roger is giving them drinks. We’ve got about a quarter of an hour—”

  She checked as Joanna turned about, her face white and her lips trembling a little.

  “I—can’t,” she whispered. “I—don’t belong—!”

  For a moment Mrs. Carnehill’s gaze was very steady. Then without a word she lifted the dress from the bed, held it out in readiness for Joanna to put on. “It will be all right,” she promised. “And you are doing it for me.”

  Joanna said nothing, and when she had slipped her house-coat over the low-cut bodice of the dress they both worked upon the arrangement of her hair.

  In faithful imitation of the portrait, they parted it down the centre, then with the help of combs looped it in two forward sweeping “wings” at each side. Then, since nothing would induce its fineness into the appropriate series of ringlets for the rest of it, Mrs. Carnehill brushed and turned it under so that its length was concealed in a thick “page-boy” sweep upon Joanna’s neck. She tied on the cloak by its broad ribbons which were faded but very soft, and put the hat into the girl’s hand. Then she stood back to survey her handiwork.

  “Not Joanna Merivale any longer—Mistress Clarissa Carnehill to the life!” she said triumphantly.

  “N-not that!” The words broke wretchedly from Joanna.

  Again the older woman looked steadily at her, then patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder. Then she said lightly and apparently irrelevantly: “D’you know, there was never another fair Carnehill woman after Clarissa—redheads or coal-black, every one of them. We’re making Carnehill history, you and I—even if it is only in play!”

  And realizing that she was indeed only taking part in a game, Joanna made an effort, as they crept surreptitiously downstairs, to put aside her prejudices, to take everything less seriously, and really to try to throw herself into the feeling and atmosphere of the part she must play.

  On the terrace in the dusk Michael was waiting for them, with the borrowed wolfhound straining upon a leash.

  “Is he friendly?” whispered Joanna, patting a narrow head which was well above the level of her own waist.

  “Arrah,” said Michael scornfully; “the likes of’m have not the gift o’ the brains t’ be anything else! Nor, praise be, t’ think out devilries t’ be up to!” He paused to peer admiringly at Joanna. Then he turned to Mrs. Carnehill. “ ‘Tis herself that’s straight out a picture-book, surely?” he commented.

  “Yes, Michael. Come in with us and peep—!”

  A few minutes later Joanna was posed—a little to the left of the Reynolds portrait—to Mrs. Carnehill’s satisfaction. She and Michael stood back admiringly and she was murmuring: “It’s—perfect, Joanna!” when voices were heard outside the door, and a press of ten or a dozen people came in.

  Roger was there—talking to a girl in a white froth of columbine fluffiness—Roger, tall, upright, his red hair aflame above a short-tunicked costume of green leather, his legs bound about with thongs, and a green-lined cloak fastened upon one shoulder by a great embossed clasp. The cloak reached the floor and lay in a swirl about his feet as, half-way across the room, he saw Joanna and stood transfixed.

  For a moment it seemed to Joanna that they were alone ... That, for all the chatter and movement about them, they had achieved with each other a kind of desert of intimacy where, she could imagine, many an unsaid thing passed between them.

  But with nonchalance, with an air, she held her pose. One hand rested upon the head of the wolfhound, the other held the leghorn hat at her side. Her head was high and about her lips played the little calm smile of the girl in the portrait.

  Someone—a woman—exclaimed: “What a wizard idea! Too enchanting!”

  The spell broke. The twentieth century was about them again. But Roger stepped forward to lift, with a slightly mocking gesture, Joanna’s fingers to his lips.

  He said: “King Conchubor greets a lady of Ireland who came long after his time—a matter for his profoundest regret!”

  And Joanna, accepted her cue, dropped a straight-backed little curtsey as she replied: “The regret. Sire, is mutual!”

  Everyone laughed and glancing at Mrs. Carnehill, Joanna noticed that she looked gratified with the result of her plot. Roger glanced at his mother, too, and said mock-reprovingly: “Mother—you’re not properly dressed!”

  Mrs. Carnehill looked apologetically at the be-frilled and figured satin of her evening gown. Her voice was slightly pathetic as she said: “Oh, Roger, I’m too old for this sort of thing! I don’t have to be a post office again, do I?”

  There was another concerted laugh, as if everyone understood the joke. Roger turned to Joanna. “Mother’s perennial fancy dress is a pillar-box. It used to be red, with G.R. for a headpiece. Latterly it has been g
reen and very earnestly Republican. Now, it seems, she has contracted out of public service altogether!”

  At that moment there was another surge of movement at the door. A fresh group of people came in. Among them were Shuan, Justin McKiley, and Magda. René was there too—dressed as a sixteenth-century Lowland soldier.

  At sight of Shuan, Joanna barely suppressed a gasp. How lovely the girl was! Her costume was so completely right for her coloring and her personality that it seemed that all the latent taste which did not go to her everyday dressing had gone to the choice of it.

  Her dark hair hung loosely about her shoulders from which hung a mist of grey-green draperies which were bound about her waist with a thick silver rope and hung in an uneven, diaphanous line above her ankles. Her feet were bare. Somehow she wasn’t Shuan any more—she was eternally faerie...

  “Who is she?” murmured Joanna.

  “Etain, I think,” said Roger. “Etain, who gave up her fairyhood in order to marry the man she loved.” He paused. “The fairies claimed her again, of course. I’ve often wondered how willing she was to go ... A mortal man has little enough to offer a woman, after all—even one of his own kind!”

  His glance passed from Shuan to the people she was with. Justin McKiley, Joanna noticed, was blatantly and arrogantly modern in faultless evening clothes. So was Magda, in a beautifully modelled gown of white taffetas shot with gold. In her ears she wore heavy “gipsy” ear-rings of gold to match the broad bangles at her wrist. The effect was striking and exotic, but not, Joanna felt, in the best of taste at a party at which the other guests had carried out their hostess’ wish by accepting the doubtful comfort of “fancy dress.”

  As they crossed the floor Magda was drawling: “You didn’t mind did you, Shuan darling? Such a frightful bore! I mean—I couldn’t have fagged into armor as Joan of Arc or into a ruff as Queen Elizabeth! And Justin simply refused to sweat into a tiger skin!”

  Shuan said simply: “Of course not.” She put out a tentative finger to touch the stiff folds of Magda’s skirt. “If I,” she added naively, “had a dress like that I couldn’t have borne not to wear it!”

  “Shuan, you’re sweet!” Magda’s tone was light, indifferent and utterly without sincerity.

  Shuan was bringing them over to Roger and Mrs. Carnehill in order to introduce Magda, and Joanna stood aside. But she was near enough to notice the formality of Roger’s greeting to Magda, even the slight frown between his eyes which she had come to know so well. He was annoyed...

  Shuan looked with shining eyes at Roger. “I didn’t even try to find out beforehand,” she said childishly. “Are you Conchubor or somebody? You used to tell me tales about him—Where is your Deirdre?”

  Roger shook his head. “There isn’t any Deirdre,” he said.

  “Well—you married her!”

  “Yes. But she loved—Naisi. Even a king had no power over that. So that’s why she isn’t here tonight. I think even Etain held faith longer.” Outwardly he was playing at legend-telling with Shuan. But to his voice there was an edge of bitterness which Joanna, attuned, heard and did not understand.

  The twentieth century flowed insistently in again ... The “band from Dublin” struck up a foxtrot, the groups of people shifted, became reassorted, and the first few couples began to drift round the room.

  Justin McKiley bowed to Shuan and they moved off together. Joanna believed that Roger would invite Magda, but, explaining formally that he would be dancing very little, he introduced her to a stranger at the same moment as Joanna was claimed by Colonel Kimstone.

  Beyond that first piece of mocking play-acting Roger had not spoken to her...

  It was a little later when, making conversation with a shy youth who had been her last partner, her attention was taken by some talk going on nearby.

  A woman whom she did not know was saying: “Rather odd, I thought.” And then a voice which she recognized said in a little insinuating half whisper: “Well, so did I. I mean—his own ancestress and she, a nurse out from England for a few months! It isn’t as if she was anyone the Carnehills actually knew—in the ordinary way, I mean! And using the very gown itself, I understand from his mother. When she told me, I said, ‘Ena, what effrontery of her to suggest it!” And all Ena said was: ‘She didn’t. I did!”

  Deliberately, Joanna leaned towards her partner. “You were saying—?” she urged.

  But the conversation she did not want to over-hear came through ... Mrs. Kimstone’s companion remarked with relish: “Well, Roger at least didn’t know anything about it. Completely taken aback, I thought!”

  “As surprised as he was annoyed, I should say. After all, if anyone should be allowed to play-act in Carnehill heirlooms it should be Shuan, not an English miss who hasn’t a—”

  Flushed and annoyed with herself as much as with the two gossiping women, Joanna stood up abruptly. She had to get away, had to—!”

  When she came back into the drawing-room another dance—a waltz—was in full swing. She stood watching, noticing idly that Shuan was dancing again with Justin McKiley...

  A voice at her shoulder said quietly: “May I find you a partner?” It was Roger, his voice as formal as if they were almost complete strangers.

  “Don’t bother, please. This dance must be half over—”

  “Yes.” There was a pause. Then: “May I, for the rest of it, have the privilege? I’m not dancing, of course. Would you find it warm enough out on the terrace?”

  “Yes, I think so—”

  He turned and, side by side, they went out on to the stone terrace where chairs had been placed, but which was quite deserted.

  Joanna sat down near the low parapet, Roger leaned against it, facing her, his arms folded.

  He said: “I hope you’re going to agree with me that I might have been consulted!”

  Joanna looked up quickly. But she could distinguish only his profile in the darkness.

  “I’m sorry.” she said. “I didn’t think it was suitable and that you might be very reasonably annoyed. But Mrs. Carnehill particularly asked me not to tell you.”

  “Mother did? You mean that she was consulted by Shuan, and that she was against my being told?”

  “Shuan—?” Joanna’s voice was hesitant, puzzled.

  Roger leaned forward in order to look into her upturned face. “Are we at cross-purposes?” he asked quietly. “I’m inclined to think we’re not talking about the same things.”

  “I don’t know. Don’t you mean that you think my appearing as a copy of the Reynolds portrait was in bad taste and that you should have been told about it?” asked Joanna wretchedly.

  There was a little pause. Then Roger laughed, though not very mirthfully. At that moment Joanna would have given her all to be able to see his face. But he had straightened and had turned about, looking out over the parapet towards the dark parkland beyond.

  He asked: “How could you think I minded about that?”

  “Don’t you? I thought you might. I’m—not one of your family—”

  “Neither,” he pointed out dryly, “was Clarissa—until she married into it. She was English—as you are—”

  “Yes.” Joanna made a desperate effort to tell herself that she was relieved that he had not taken her masquerade in the wrong spirit. But she found his indifference as painful as his anger. She steadied herself in order to say: “So we were at cross-purposes. You were talking about something to do with Shuan?”

  “Yes, of course. I want to know how she had the presumption to ask McKiley and that—that woman to this affair—to this house?”

  “But how could she not ask Mr. McKiley?” asked Joanna in surprise. “While he is still here, presumably he is accepted by your friends?”

  (As I am not by some of them! she thought in bitter parenthesis.)

  “Well, perhaps he had to come.” Roger conceded the point grudgingly. “But the woman Magda—I suppose she invited herself?” he added sarcastically.

  “I don’t know. But Sh
uan asked me if I thought you would mind if she asked Mr. McKiley, and told me at the same time that Magda would be coming too—”

  “She consulted you? And you took it upon yourself to guarantee my complacence? You know my opinion of McKiley. You know that I have always distrusted him, though perhaps you don’t know that I have learnt a good deal more about him lately. I know that he has dined here before now at Mother’s invitation, though mostly when I insisted on talking business with him. And I realize that you yourself have accepted his hospitality”—Joanna winced—“but how Shuan could imagine that I would countenance his bringing Magda here—!”

  Astonishingly, and against her will Joanna found herself forced into a defense of Justin McKiley. “I fail to see,” she said coldly, “how he could avoid it if Shuan asked her.”

  “And if you had assured Shuan that I couldn’t possibly mind!”

  Joanna moistened her dry lips. “When Shuan spoke to me I gathered that it was settled they should come. I had no idea that she was saying nothing to you. Even if I had—”

  “Yes? ‘Even if you had?”

  “Well—there mightn’t have seemed anything wrong. I understand that Magda is employed by Mr. McKiley in some capacity.”

  “And you accept that at its face value?”

  “For want of any proof to the contrary—I must.”

  Again Roger laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “I’m afraid my innocence isn’t of that crystal clarity,” he said shortly. “Quite apart from the fact that McKiley happens to be employed by me, and has no right to delegate authority to anyone else! I’ll only say that I should have preferred that neither Mother, nor Shuan—nor you, Joanna—should have to accept a questionable relationship of that sort in this house—mine!”

  Suddenly the indignation Joanna had called to her own defence seemed to fade away. She knew only a kind of pity for Roger—an understanding of the hurt pride of family and of code which had spoken in his voice.