by Betty Neels
She cut ruthlessly into Mervyn’s description of the grain harvest. ‘They’ve taken Prince!’ she uttered, and turned to look at Fabian, who returned her startled gaze with a placid unsurprised face. ‘I mentioned it,’ he reminded her mildly.
‘Yes, I know—but I didn’t know he was going. Where is he going to?’
‘The vet has taken him into his stables. A very good man, I believe.’
‘Prince? The horse I bought for Mary Jane?’ Mervyn’s voice sounded strained. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘A limp—the near hind leg, my dear fellow. Nothing much, probably he did it after you saw him. A splendid animal, I must congratulate you on your choice. Which reminds me, Mary Jane couldn’t remember from whom she had bought him—you have the papers on you, I daresay.’
Mervyn searched his pockets. His face was a little pale, he looked harassed. ‘I’ve left them at the hotel,’ he muttered. ‘I quite intended to bring them—I must remember tomorrow.’
‘Of no consequence.’ Fabian’s voice had a silkiness which struck unpleasantly upon Mary Jane’s ears as she came back into the room. ‘What did you pay?’
Mervyn answered before she had a chance to remind Fabian that she had already told him, and rather to her surprise, Fabian merely nodded his head, remarked that the price of horseflesh had risen out of all bounds, and went on to say that doubtless such a splendid beast would be well known in the district. ‘I must go along and see his owner,’ he observed casually, ‘and see if he has anything as good. Where did you say he lived?’
Mary Jane watched the hunted look on Mervyn’s face and wondered about it, and when he said at length that he couldn’t exactly remember, helpfully suggested the names of some of the local breeders, to all of which Mervyn answered rather shortly that none of them was correct. At last, goaded by her excessive helpfulness, he said, ‘It wasn’t a breeder—just someone selling privately.’
‘Ah,’ Fabian’s voice was still hatefully silky. ‘Doubtless one of the small estates around here—I should have no difficulty in finding him.’
There was no knowing what Mervyn would have replied to this if Mrs Body hadn’t come in at that minute with the tea tray. Mary Jane poured tea and oil upon what she felt might be troubled waters if she allowed the two men to go on long enough, but she need not have bothered, for Fabian seemed to have lost interest in Prince and his former owner. He was talking, much more freely than he usually did, she thought, uneasily, about the house and it contents, which, he assured Mervyn in a manner quite unlike his own somewhat reserved one, were by no means without value and likely to become more so. ‘A very nice little property,’ he said as he got up to go, ‘worth quite a considerable sum in the market today.’
He was about to shake hands with Mary Jane when Mervyn spoke.
‘I may not see you again—I hadn’t intended to say anything just yet, but as you are here…I want to marry Mary Jane—I understand from her that she needs permission from you before she can marry. Well, I should like it now.’
This speech, uttered in urgent tones, had the effect of silencing Mary Jane completely, although it had no such effect upon her guardian, who remarked airily, ‘My dear chap, why didn’t you mention this earlier? Now I am forced to leave on most urgent business, and you can quite understand that I’m not prepared to give my consent until we have had a little talk about your prospects and so on. But I imagine that you will be here for another week or so? I’ll endeavour to come and see you at the earliest opportunity.’
He glanced at Mary Jane, his face empty of expression. ‘I’m sure that you both have a great deal to talk about. Goodbye, Mary Jane. I have no need to wish you a happy Christmas, have I—but I do, just the same.’
He took her hand, and she stared up into his face, completely out of her depth, filled with the ridiculous wish that he wouldn’t go away, but stay for Christmas. She whispered some sort of reply and stayed in the middle of the room, watching him walk away.
Mervyn talked a lot after Fabian had gone. He talked about their future together and how he had been wanting to tell her that he loved her for several days. ‘We’ll get married after Christmas,’ he urged her. ‘There’s no reason why we should wait, is there? I can move in here…’
She was surprised at that. ‘But won’t you have to go back to Winnipeg? What about your work? Do you want to give up your job there? and if you come here to live you’ll have to get something else. Wouldn’t it be better if I came to Winnipeg?’
He was adamant that that wouldn’t do. ‘You would be homesick,’ he told her, ‘and this will be a marvellous home for us both—we’ll get another car, and a boat—something fast.’
She agreed happily, in a rose-coloured future, not quite real. She asked him, ‘And your income? Is it enough for us to live on?’
‘Oh, don’t worry your little head about that,’ he assured her, and kissed her. ‘We’ll go into all that when we’re married.’
‘But I don’t suppose Fabian will let me get married until all that’s sorted out. He takes his duties very seriously.’
Mervyn caught her hands in his. ‘Look, darling, why do we wait for him? If we get married he can’t do anything about it, can he? He’s far too busy a man to get involved in our business—besides, he’ll be glad to be rid of this guardianship—that is, unless he’s feathering his own nest with your money.’
Mary Jane felt a sudden fierce rush of sheer rage. ‘That’s a beastly thing to say!’ she said loudly. ‘Fabian is the most honest man alive, he wouldn’t touch a penny that wasn’t his—besides, he’s frightfully rich.’
Mervyn apologised at once, turning it into a joke, but the sour taste of it stayed with her for the rest of the evening, despite his gay talk, although she found it hard to resist his charm. He would be a delightful husband, she assured herself, and how lucky she was that he had appeared out of the blue to fall in love with her and want to marry her. She wished him a warm good night, all her small qualms forgotten, and went along to find Mrs Body making last-minute preparations for the following day while Lily stood at the sink cleaning the vegetables. Mary Jane drew up a chair to the table and began to blanch a bowl of almonds standing on it.
‘He’s gone,’ said Mrs Body sadly.
‘Just this minute, but he’ll be back for lunch tomorrow.’
Mrs Body thumped the stuffing she was making with quite unnecessary vigour. ‘Not him,’ she sounded aggrieved, ‘Doctor van der Blocq, and I’d like to know where he’s going to spend his Christmas.’
Mary Jane, her mouth full of almonds, said indistinctly, ‘Holland, I suppose.’
The housekeeper gave her an impatient look. ‘Now, Miss Mary Jane, you know as well as I do that he can’t get back all that way by tomorrow morning—not with the car, he can’t. What are you about not to think of that? It fair bothered me to see him driving off alone this afternoon—didn’t you give him a thought?’
‘Yes—no—I had something else to think about. Mrs Body, darling Mrs Body, I’m going to be married!’
‘To that Mr Pettigrew? Well, I suppose it was to be expected, though how he could allow you to ride that wild animal I can’t think. I never was so pleased to see the animal go again—he should have known better. Good thing dear Doctor van der Blocq came along like he did.’
‘Oh, Mrs Body, aren’t you pleased?’ Mary Jane sounded as forlorn as she suddenly felt. ‘I thought you would be—I’m not going to be an old maid after all.’
Mrs Body rallied. ‘Of course I’m pleased, my dear, there’s nothing I’d like better than to see you wed. But Canada’s a long way off.’
Mary Jane reached over the table and kissed her housekeeper and friend on the cheek. ‘But I’m not going there— Mervyn suggested that he should move in here just as soon as we’re married.’
‘And Doctor van der Blocq—does he know?’
‘Oh yes, Mervyn told him this afternoon, and Fabian said he’d come back very shortly and they’d have a talk—about mon
ey and things.’ She got up. ‘I’m going to get something to drink—we’ll toast Christmas before we go to bed.’
She went to sleep almost at once, thinking about the perfect future she was going to have with Mervyn, but she didn’t dream of him, she dreamed of Fabian, driving his car endlessly through a lonely Christmas. She remembered it when she wakened in the morning and it became real somehow when Mrs Body brought her early tea and laid a small package on the bed.
‘A Happy Christmas, Miss Mary Jane,’ she said, ‘and the dear doctor asked me to be sure and give you this first thing in the morning.’
There was a velvet box inside the wrapping paper, and in the box was a brooch, a true lovers’ knot in rose diamonds, exquisitely beautiful. Mary Jane stared at it for a long time because it somehow seemed to be part and parcel of her dreams, its sparkle, a little blurred because of the sudden tears in her eyes, tears because she hadn’t given him anything at all—she hadn’t even invited him for Christmas. She remembered with shame that she had let him see her relief when he had told her that he was going away again. He must have said that because he was too proud a man to say anything else. She wondered forlornly where he had gone.
CHAPTER SIX
DOWNSTAIRS, Mary Jane found a delicately painted porcelain bowl on the breakfast table, filled with a gorgeous medley of tulips, hyacinths and dwarf iris. She sniffed their perfume delightedly and looked for a card. They would be from Mervyn, of course. She wandered into the kitchen to wish the others the compliments of the season, exclaiming: ‘Those heavenly flowers—I wonder where he got them this time of year?’
Mrs Body dished bacon and eggs before replying. ‘Brought them all the way from Holland, he did—made me promise to look after them and put them on the table first thing in the morning. It’s a lovely bowl—ever so old. He gave us presents too, but we haven’t opened them yet.’
Mary Jane remembered her remorse before she had gone to sleep, and it came crowding back into her head now—even if the flowers and the brooch had only been a gesture from a guardian to his ward, they had been gifts, and she had been horribly unkind. Once more she wondered where he had gone and if he had expected to stay. She pushed the thought away and with it the faint regret that the flowers hadn’t been Mervyn, even the brooch, although possibly he couldn’t have afforded that. It struck her anew that he had never talked about money to her at all, only sketched in a vague background, leaving her to suppose that he was comfortably off. She sighed, for she was a romantic girl and had always cherished the idea that a man in love went to any lengths to please his girl-friend, and yet it had been Fabian, not Mervyn who was so in love with her, who had taken care that there would be presents waiting for her when she got up on Christmas morning. She ate her breakfast thoughtfully and then went, with Mrs Body and Lily, to church. Mrs Body and Lily wore the new leather gloves Fabian had given them, and Mary Jane wore the brooch.
They had a drink when they got back and then got the lunch ready together. Mrs Body and Lily had friends to share theirs, so Mary Jane laid the table in the dining room for herself and Mervyn. By the time he arrived she was feeling gay and lighthearted, having spent a good deal of the morning persuading herself that Fabian had only called in on his way to somewhere and wouldn’t have stayed even if she had asked him.
She had bought Mervyn a picture, a landscape by a local artist of some repute. She gave it to him when he arrived and watched while he unwrapped it, admired it and then laid it on the table in the window. There was an awkward pause until he said, ‘I had no idea what to get you—we’ll go together and find something later on.’
She made excuses for him—perhaps in Canada they didn’t set much store by Christmas—but surely he could have brought a few flowers? She wasn’t a greedy girl, only hurt because she had expected that because he loved her, he would have wanted to express that love with some small gift. She stifled the hurt and smiled at him. ‘That will be nice,’ she agreed. ‘And now what about a drink before lunch?’
The bowl of flowers was on the table; he couldn’t help but see it. He commented idly upon it, remarking that it looked a valuable piece.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Fabian sent it.’
He frowned. ‘Now that we’re going to be married,’ he stated categorically, ‘I’m not sure that I like you receiving valuable gifts from him, even if he is your guardian.’
She flushed a little and said with a spurt of temper, ‘Why ever not? As you said, he is my guardian, and what harm is there in giving a girl flowers? We do it a lot in England—for birthdays and Christmas.’
It was his turn to get angry. ‘I don’t like it,’ he reiterated stubbornly. ‘Before you know where you are he’ll be giving you something really valuable—jewellery—bought with your money, no doubt.’
‘I hope you’ll apologize for that.’ Mary Jane’s voice was quiet, but it shook a little. ‘I thought I had made it plain to you that Fabian wouldn’t touch a penny of my money—he’s my guardian, not a thief,’ she added defiantly. ‘He gave me this brooch.’
Mervyn stared at it across the table. Presently he said sullenly:
‘Oh, all right, I’m sorry I said it—I didn’t mean it, you have to make allowances for a man being jealous when he’s in love.’ His eyes were still glued to the brooch. ‘It looks very expensive—I thought it was something you had inherited from your grandfather.’
He smiled at her. ‘I’m a brute behaving like this on Christmas Day, darling. I’m sorry—I suppose I’m a bit on edge. I want to marry you, you see, as soon as possible, and I can’t think of anything else but that. I promise I’ll make it up to you when we’re married.’
He was charming for the rest of the day; she basked in his admiration and listened happily to the delightful things he said, knowing right at the back of her mind that most of them were grossly exaggerated if not completely untrue. No one had ever told her before that she was pretty, nor had they spared more than one glance upon her eyes, which Mervyn declared were quite remarkably lovely; her common sense, buried in a haze of wishful thinking, told her that. But no one had ever been in love with her before, she had no yardstick by which to measure him. She allowed herself to believe every word and squashed her common sense, almost squashing her resolve to wait for Fabian’s permission before they married. It was tempting, especially when Mervyn showed her the special licence he had bought, sure that she would give in when she saw it. But she still refused and put his sulky silence down to disappointment on his part.
During the following few days he had become a little difficult, and once or twice, when she was alone and quiet, a small voice deep inside her wanted to know if she really loved him or was she just being swept off her feet because she had never been in love or loved before. She buried the thought under a host of more pleasant ones and scoffed at her doubts.
But they stayed; she asked Mrs Body about them, and that dear soul looked troubled even while she spoke reassuringly. ‘And wait until the dear doctor comes,’ she counselled. ‘It can’t be long now.’
It was Old Year’s Day when Fabian came. Mary Jane had expected Mervyn to lunch; she had spent most of the morning helping Mrs Body in the kitchen because Lily had gone home for the day and now she sat at the desk in one of the sitting room windows, writing thank-you letters, and keeping an eye on the drive and the road beyond. It had turned cold once more, there were a few snowflakes falling and the frost had been heavy the night before. She had put on a new dress, a dark green pinafore with a matching crêpe blouse under it, and had pinned the diamond brooch into it. She had done her hair with more patience than usual too, but it was getting a little untidy again, for she had a habit of running her hand through it while she was writing and it was two hours since she had done it. She was shocked when she saw the time; it was past one o’clock—something must have delayed Mervyn, and she couldn’t think what. She resolved to wait another half an hour and applied herself to her letters again, but only for a few
minutes, for a car turned into the drive and she got to her feet and ran to the door without bothering to look out of the window.
It was the Rolls, and Fabian who got out of it. He came in slowly, looking tired, and the sight of his shadowed face stirred a desire deep inside her to help him. But Fabian wasn’t a man to accept help or admit tiredness, so she said instead, ‘Hullo, how nice to see you, and just in time for lunch—it’s a bit late, because I’m expecting Mervyn. You’ll be able to talk to him.’
‘We have had our talk, and he won’t be coming.’
He stood in the open doorway, towering over her, his face expressionless, staring down at her, making no effort to move or take off his coat.
Mary Jane gave him a puzzled look. ‘Why isn’t he coming? He particularly wanted to see you—he’s got a special licence.’ She bit her lip and went on in a cold little voice, ‘Where did you see him?’
‘In Keswick.’ He paused. ‘I have to talk to you, Mary Jane.’
‘He’s ill—hurt? Oh, Fabian, do tell me quickly!’
‘It’s neither. If we could go somewhere?’
‘Yes, of course, and you must have something, you look tired to death.’
He smiled grimly. ‘When I have finished what I have to say and you still want me to remain perhaps you will ask me then.’ He sounded suddenly impatient. ‘The sitting room?’
He didn’t sit down, but walked over to the window and then turned to face her. ‘Mervyn isn’t coming. He won’t be coming again. He has left Keswick and is already on his way to catch his plane, back to Canada.’