The Right Kind of Girl

by Betty Neels

  ‘I must look a fright. I’ll go and do something to my face…’

  He studied her with an impersonal look which she found reassuring. Not a fright, he reflected, but the face far too pale, the lovely eyes with shadows beneath them and the clear skin blotched and pinkened with her tears. ‘It looks all right to me,’ he told her and knew that, despite the tearstains, she was feeling better.

  ‘As long as you don’t mind,’ she said rather shyly, and got out the frying-pan. ‘Will fried eggs and fried bread do?’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any bacon…’

  ‘Splendidly. Where do you keep the marmalade?’

  They sat down eventually, facing each other across the kitchen table and Emma, who had had no appetite for days, discovered that she was hungry. It wasn’t until they had topped off the eggs with toast and marmalade that Sir Paul allowed the conversation to become serious.

  ‘What are your plans?’ he wanted to know, when he had listened without interruption to her account of her mother’s death.

  ‘I’ll have to sell this house. I thought I’d find a small flat in Plymouth and take a course in office management and then get a proper job. I’ve enough furniture and I’ll have Queenie.’

  ‘Is there no money other than the proceeds from the house?’

  ‘Well, no, there isn’t. Mother’s pension won’t be paid any more of course.’ She added hastily, anxious to let him see that she was able to manage very well, ‘I can put the house up for sale just as soon as I’m allowed to. There are still some papers and things. They said they’d let me know.’

  ‘And is that what you would like to do, Emma?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She caught his eye and added honestly, ‘I don’t know what else to do.’

  He smiled at her across the table. ‘Will you marry me, Emma?’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘Marry you? You’re joking!’

  ‘Er—no, I have never considered marriage a joke.’

  ‘Why do you want to marry me? You don’t know anything about me—and I’m plain and not a bit interesting. Besides, you don’t—don’t love me.’

  ‘I know enough about you to believe that you would make me an admirable wife and, to be truthful, I have never considered you plain. As for loving you, I am perhaps old-fashioned enough to consider that mutual liking and compatibility and the willingness to make a good marriage are excellent foundations for happiness. Since the circumstances are unusual we will marry as soon as possible and get to know each other at our leisure.’

  ‘But your family and your friends…?’ She saw his lifted eyebrows and went on awkwardly, ‘What I mean is, I don’t think I’m used to your kind of life.’ She waved a hand round the little kitchen. ‘I don’t expect it’s like this.’

  He said evenly, ‘I live in a thatched cottage at Lustleigh and I have an elderly housekeeper and two dogs. My mother and father live in the Cotswolds and I have two sisters, both married. I’m a consultant at the Exeter hospitals and I frequently go to London, where I am a consultant at various hospitals. I go abroad fairly frequently, to lecture and operate, but at present I have taken a sabbatical, although I still fulfil one or two appointments.’

  ‘Aren’t you too busy to have a wife? I mean—’ she frowned, trying to find the right words ‘—you lead such a busy life.’

  ‘When I come home in the evenings it will be pleasant to find you there, waiting to listen to my grumbles if things haven’t gone right with my day, and at the weekends I will have a companion.’

  ‘You don’t—that is, you won’t mind me not loving you?’

  ‘I think,’ he said gently, ‘that we might leave love out of it, don’t you?’ He smiled a tender smile, which warmed her down to the soles of her feet. ‘We like each other, don’t we? And that’s important.’

  ‘You might fall in love with someone…’

  She wasn’t looking at him, otherwise she would have seen his slow smile.

  ‘So might you—a calculated risk which we must both take.’ He smiled again, completely at ease. ‘I’ll wash up and tidy things away while you go and pack a bag.’

  ‘A bag? What for?’

  ‘You’re coming back with me. And while Mrs Parfitt fattens you up and the moor’s fresh air brings colour into your cheeks you can decide what you want to do.’ When she opened her mouth to speak he raised a hand. ‘No, don’t argue, Emma. I’ve no intention of leaving you alone here. Later you can tell me what still has to be settled about the house and furniture and I’ll deal with the solicitor. Are the bills paid?’

  He was quite matter-of-fact about it and she found herself telling him that there were still a few outstanding. ‘But everyone said they’d wait until the house was sold.’

  He nodded. ‘Leave it to me, if you will. Now, run along and get some things packed. Has Queenie got a basket?’

  ‘Yes, it’s beside the dresser.’

  She went meekly upstairs, and only as she was packing did she reflect that he was behaving in a high-handed fashion, getting his own way without any effort. That, she reminded herself, was because she was too tired and unhappy to resist him. She was thankful to leave everything to him, but once she had pulled herself together she would convince him that marrying him was quite out of the question.

  And, since he didn’t say another word about it as he drove back to Lustleigh, she told herself that he might have made the suggestion on the spur of the moment and was even now regretting it.

  It was a bright morning and cold, but spring was definitely upon them. Lustleigh was a pretty village and a pale sun shone on its cottages. It shone on Sir Paul’s home too and Emma, getting out of the car, fell in love with the house at first glance.

  ‘Oh, how delightful. It’s all nooks and crannies, isn’t it?’

  He had a hand under her elbow, urging her to the door. ‘It has been in the family for a long time, and each generation has added a room or a chimney-pot or another window just as the fancy took it.’ He opened the door and Mrs Parfitt came bustling down the curving staircase at the back of the hall.

  ‘God bless my soul, so you’re back, sir.’

  She cast him a reproachful look and he said quickly, ‘I got back late last night and went straight to the hospital and, since it was already after midnight and I wanted to go to Buckfastleigh as early as possible, I didn’t come home. They put me up there.’ He still had his hand on Emma’s arm. ‘Mrs Parfitt, I’ve brought a guest who will stay with us for a little while. Miss Trent’s mother died recently and she needs a break. Emma, this is my housekeeper, Mrs Parfitt.’

  Emma shook hands, conscious of sharp, elderly eyes looking her over.

  ‘I hope I won’t give you too much extra work…’

  Mrs Parfitt had approved of what she saw. All in good time, she promised herself, she would discover the whys and wherefores. ‘A pleasure to have someone in the house, miss, for Sir Paul is mostly away from home or shut in that study of his—he might just as well be in the middle of the Sahara for all I see of him!’

  She chuckled cosily. ‘I’ll bring coffee into the sitting-room, shall I, sir? And get a room ready for Miss Trent?’

  Sir Paul took Emma’s coat and opened a door, urging her ahead of him. The room was long and low, with small windows overlooking the narrow street and glass doors opening on to the garden at the far end. He went past her to open them and let in the dogs, who danced around, delighted to see him.

  ‘Come and meet Kate and Willy,’ he invited, and Emma crossed the room and offered a balled fist.

  ‘Won’t they mind Queenie?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Not in the least, and Mrs Parfitt will be delighted; her cat died some time ago and she is always talking of getting a kitten—Queenie is much more suitable. I’ll get her, and they can get used to each other while we have our coffee.’

  While he was gone she looked around the room. Its walls were irregular and there were small windows on each side of the inglenook, and a set of heavy oak beams suppor
ting the ceiling. The walls were white but there was no lack of colour in the room—the fine old carpet almost covered the wood floor, its russets and faded blues toning with the velvet curtains. There were bookshelves crammed with books, several easy-chairs, and a vast sofa drawn up to the fire and charming pie-crust tables holding reading lamps—a delightful lived-in room.

  She pictured it in mid-winter, when the wind whistled from the moor and snow fell; with the curtains drawn and a fire roaring up the chimney one would feel safe and secure and content. For the first time since her mother’s death she felt a small spark of happiness.

  Sir Paul, coming in with Queenie under his arm, disturbed her thoughts and saw them reflected in her face. He said casually, ‘You like this room? Let us see if Queenie approves of it…No, don’t worry about the dogs—they’ll not touch her.’

  Mrs Parfitt came in to bring the coffee then, and they sat drinking it, watching the dogs, obedient to their master, sitting comfortably while Queenie edged round them and finally, to Emma’s surprise, sat down and washed herself.

  ‘The garden is walled—she won’t be able to get out; she’ll be quite at home in a few days. I’ve taken your bag upstairs; I expect you would like to unpack before lunch. This afternoon we’ll walk round the village so that you can find your way about. I’ll take the dogs for a run and see you at lunch.’

  Emma, soothed by the room and content to have someone to tell her how to order her day, nodded. It was like being in a dream after the loneliness of the last week or two. It wouldn’t last, of course, for she had no intention of marrying Sir Paul. But for the moment she was happy to go on dreaming.

  She was led away presently, up the charming little staircase and on to a landing with passages leading from it in all directions.

  ‘A bit of a jumble,’ said Mrs Parfitt cheerfully, ‘but you’ll soon find your way around. I’ve put you in a nice quiet room overlooking the garden. Down this passage and up these two steps. The door’s a bit narrow…’

  Which it was—solid oak like the rest of the doors in the cottage and opening into a room with a large circle of windows taking up all of one wall. There was a balcony beyond them with a wrought-iron balustrade and a sloping roof. ‘For your little cat,’ explained Mrs Parfitt. ‘I dare say you like to have her with you at night? I always had my Jenkin—such a comfort he was!’

  ‘How thoughtful of you, Mrs Parfitt. I hope you’ll like Queenie; she’s really very good.’

  ‘Bless you, miss, I like any cat.’ She trotted over to another door by the bed. ‘The bathroom’s here and mind the step down, and if there’s anything you need you just say so. You’ll want to hang up your things now. Lunch is at one o’clock, but come downstairs when you’re ready and sit by the fire.’

  When she had gone Emma looked around her; the room had uneven walls so that the bay window took up the longest of them. There was a small fireplace in the centre of one short wall and the bedhead was against the wall facing the window. That was irregular too, and the fourth wall had a deep-set alcove into which the dressingtable fitted. She ran a finger along its surface, delighting in the golden brown of the wood.

  It was a cosy room, despite the awkwardness of its shape, and delightfully furnished in muted pinks and blues. She unpacked her things and laid them away in the tallboy, and hung her dress in the cupboard concealed in one of the walls. She had brought very little with her—her sensible skirt and blouses, her cardigan and this one dress. She tidied away her undies, hung up her dressing-gown and sat down before the dressingtable.

  Her reflection wasn’t reassuring and that was partly her fault, for she hadn’t bothered much with her appearance during the two weeks since her mother had died—something she would have to remedy. She did her face and brushed her hair and pinned it into its neat French pleat and went downstairs, peering along the various passages as she went.

  It was indeed a delightful house, and although Sir Paul had called it a cottage it was a good deal larger than that. There was no sign of him when she reached the hall but Mrs Parfitt popped her head round a door.

  ‘He won’t be long, miss. Come into the kitchen if you’ve a mind. Your little cat’s here, as good as gold, sitting in the warm. Taken to us like a duck to water, she has.’

  Indeed, Queenie looked as though she had lived there all her life, stretched out before the Aga.

  ‘You don’t mind her being here? In your kitchen?’

  ‘Bless you, miss, whatever harm could she do? Just wait while I give the soup a stir and I’ll show you the rest of it…’

  She opened a door and led the way down a short passage. ‘This bit of the house Sir Paul’s grandfather added; you can’t see it from the lane. There’s a pantry—’ she opened another door ‘—and a wash-house opposite and all mod cons—Sir Paul saw to that. And over here there’s what was the stillroom; I use it for bottled fruit and jam and pickles. I make those myself. Then there’s this cubby-hole where the shoes are cleaned and the dogs’ leads and such like are kept. If ever you should want a good thick coat there’s plenty hanging there—boots too.’

  She opened the door at the end of the passage. ‘The back garden, miss; leastways, the side of it with a gate into the path which leads back to the lane.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘Higgledy-piggledy, as you might say, but you’ll soon find your way around.’

  As she spoke the gate opened and Sir Paul and the dogs came through.

  ‘Ready for lunch?’ he wanted to know, and swept Emma back with him to the sitting-room. ‘A glass of sherry? It will give you an appetite.’

  It loosened her tongue too, so that over Mrs Parfitt’s delicious lunch she found herself answering his carefully casual questions and even, from time to time, letting slip some of her doubts and fears about the future, until she remembered with a shock that he had offered her a future and here she was talking as though he had said nothing.

  He made no comment, but began to talk about the village and the people living in it. It was obvious to her that he was attached to his home, although according to Mrs Parfitt he was away a good deal.

  He took her round the house after lunch. There was a small sitting-room at the front of the cottage, with his study behind it. A dining-room was reached through a short passage and, up several steps to one side of the hall, there was a dear little room most comfortably furnished and with rows of bookshelves, filled to overflowing. Emma could imagine sitting there by the fire, reading her fill.

  There was a writing-desk under the small window, with blotter, writing-paper and envelopes neatly arranged upon it, and the telephone to one side. One could sit there and write letters in comfort and peace, she thought. Only there was no one for her to write to. Well, there was Mr Dobbs, although he was always so busy he probably wouldn’t have time to read a letter, and she hardly thought that Mrs Hervey would be interested. Cook and Alice, of course, but they would prefer postcards…

  Sir Paul had been watching her. ‘You like this room?’

  She nodded. ‘I like the whole cottage; it’s like home.’

  ‘It is home, Emma.’

  She had no answer to that.

  She was given no time to brood. During the next few days he walked her over the moor, taking the dogs, bundling her into one of the elderly coats by the back door, marching her along, mile after mile, not talking much, and when they got home Mrs Parfitt had delicious meals waiting for them, so that between the good food and hours in the open air she was blissfully tired at the end of each day, only too willing to accept Sir Paul’s suggestion that she should go early to bed—to fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

  On Sunday he took her to church. St John’s dated from the thirteenth century, old and beautiful, and a mere stone’s throw from the cottage. Wearing the dress under her winter coat, and her only hat—a plain felt which did nothing for her—Emma sat beside him in a pew in the front of the church, and watched him read the lesson, surprised that he put on a pair of glasses to do so, but enthralled
by his deep, unhurried voice. Afterwards she stood in the church porch while he introduced her to the rector and his wife, and several people who stopped to speak to him.

  They were friendly, and if they were curious they were far too well-mannered to show it. They all gave them invitations to come for a drink or to dine, promising to phone and arrange dates, chorusing that they must get to know Emma while she was in Lustleigh.

  ‘We are always glad to see a new face,’ declared a talkative middle-aged woman. ‘And as for you, Paul, we see you so seldom that you simply must come.’

  He replied suitably but, Emma noted, made no promises. That made sense too; their curiosity would be even greater if she were to return home and never be seen again there. Sir Paul would deal with that without fuss, just as he did everything else. She remained quiet, smiling a little and making vague remarks when she had to.

  After Sunday lunch, sitting by the fire, the Sunday papers strewn around, the dogs at Sir Paul’s feet and Queenie on her lap, Emma said suddenly, ‘You have a great many friends…’

  He looked at her over his glasses and then took them off. ‘Well, I have lived here for a number of years, and my parents before me, and their parents before them. We aren’t exactly cut off from the world but we are a closeknit community.’ He added casually, ‘I believe you will fit in and settle down very well here.’

  His gaze was steady and thoughtful, and after a moment she said, ‘I don’t understand why you want me to marry you.’

  ‘I have given you my reasons. They are sound and sensible. I am not a young man, to make decisions lightly, Emma.’

  ‘No, I’m sure of that. But it isn’t just because you’re sorry for me?’

  ‘No, certainly not. That would hardly be a good foundation for a happy marriage.’

  He smiled at her and she found herself smiling too. ‘We might quarrel…’

  ‘I should be very surprised if we didn’t from time to time—which wouldn’t matter in the least since we are both sensible enough to make it up afterwards. We are bound to agree to differ about a number of things—life would be dull if we didn’t.’