by Betty Neels
She tried inviting a few of her grandfather’s old friends in for drinks one evening and realised too late that they were deeply interested in her visits to Holland, and wanted to know all about that country, and what was more, about her guardian too. They discussed him at some length—very much to his advantage, she was quick to note—and old Mr North, when asked to add his opinion to those of the other elderly gentlemen present, observed that, in his judgement, Jonkheer van der Blocq was a man of integrity, very much to be trusted and the right man to solve any problem. ‘That episode with Mr Mervyn Pettigrew, for example,’ he began, and then coughed dryly. ‘I beg your pardon, Mary Jane, I should not have mentioned him; doubtless your feelings on the matter are still painful.’
He smiled kindly at her, as did his companions, and she smiled gently back, happily conscious that her feelings weren’t painful at all, at least not about Mervyn. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she assured them, ‘I got over that some time ago.’ She realised as she said it that it was only a few weeks since her heart had been broken and had mended itself so quickly. ‘I made a mistake,’ she said calmly. ‘Luckily it was discovered in time.’
‘Indeed yes, and solely due to your guardian’s efforts. To travel to Canada when everyone was enjoying their Christmas showed great determination on his part. I feel that your future is in safe hands, my dear.’
The other gentlemen murmured agreement, and Mary Jane, busy playing hostess, wished with all her heart that what Mr North had said was true; there was nothing she would have liked better than to have had a safe future with Fabian, not quite such a one as her companions envisaged perhaps, but infinitely more interesting.
The next morning, urged on by a desire to do something, no matter what, she took the Mini to Carlisle and bought clothes. She really didn’t need them; she had plenty of sensible tweeds and jersey dresses and several evening outfits which, as far as she could see, she couldn’t hope to wear out, let alone wear. She had bought them when Mervyn had come to visit her. Now, speeding towards the shops, she decided that she loathed the sight of them; she would give them all away and buy something new.
Once having made this resolve, she found that nothing could stop her; several dresses she bought for the very good reason that they were pretty and she looked nice in them, even though she could think of no occasion when she might wear them. She balanced this foolishness by purchasing a couple of outfits which she could wear each day, and, her conscience salved, bought several pairs of shoes, expensive ones, quite unsuitable for the life she led, and undies, all colours of the rainbow.
She bought a red dressing gown for Mrs Body too, and more glamorous undies for Lily, who was going steady with the postman and was making vague plans for a wedding in the distant future.
She and Mrs Body and Lily spent an absorbing evening, inspecting her purchases, but later, when she was alone in her room, she hung the gay dresses away, wondering wistfully if she would ever wear them. It seemed unlikely, but it wasn’t much good brooding over it. She closed the closet door upon them and got into bed, where she lay, composing a letter to Fabian, reminding him that she still hadn’t got a horse to ride. The exercise kept her mind occupied for some time and although she knew that she would never write it, and certainly not send it, it gave her a kind of satisfaction. She should have said something about it in the short, stiff letter she had written to him when she arrived home, a conventional enough missive, thanking him for his thoughtful arrangement of her journey and his care of her while she had been in hospital. It had taken her a long time to write and she had wasted several sheets of notepaper before the composition had satisfied her. He hadn’t answered it.
The weather, which had been almost springlike for a few days, worsened the next morning, with cold grey clouds covering the sky, a harsh wind whistling through the bare trees and a light powdering of snow covering the ground. A beastly day, thought Mary Jane, looking out of the window while she pulled on her slacks and two sweaters. She had promised Mrs Body and Lily most of the day off too, to attend a wedding in the village, and heaven knew what time they would get back; weddings were something of an event in their quiet community and the occasion of lengthy hospitality. With an eye to the worsening weather, Mary Jane saw them off after an early lunch and went back to the kitchen to wash up and set the tea tray. This done, she wandered into the sitting room. It looked inviting with a bright fire burning and Major snoozing before it, but there was a lot of the day to get through still; she decided on a walk, a long one down to the lake and along its shore for a few miles and then back over the hills, and if the weather got too bad she could always take to the road. It would get rid of the restlessness she felt, she told herself firmly, and went to put on an old mackintosh and gumboots.
They set off, she and Major, ten minutes later—it was no day for a walk, but she was content to plod along in the teeth of the wind, thinking about Fabian, and Major was content to plod with her.
They got back home at the end of a prematurely darkened afternoon—the snow had settled a little, despite the wind, and the daylight had almost gone. The cold had become pitiless. Mary Jane and Major, tired and longing for tea and the fire, turned in at the gate and hurried up the short drive. The house looked as cold as its surroundings; she wished she had left a lamp burning as a welcome, then she remembered as she reached the door that she hadn’t locked it behind her—not that that mattered, she had Major with her. But Major had other ideas; he had left her to go round the side of the house to the back door; years of training having fixed in his doggy mind that on wet days he had to go in through the garden porch.
She went in alone, pulling off her outdoor things as she went and casting them down anyhow. The hall was almost in darkness and she shivered, not from cold but because she was lonely and unhappy. She said quite loudly in a miserable voice: ‘Oh, Fabian!’ and came to a sudden shocked halt when he said from the dimness, ‘Hullo, Mary Jane.’
She turned to stare at him dimly outlined against the sitting room door and heard his voice, very matter-of-fact, again. ‘You left the door open.’
She nodded into the gloom, temporarily speechless, but presently she managed, ‘Have you come about my horse?’
‘No.’
She waited, but that seemed to be all that he was going to say, and suddenly unable to bear it any longer, she said in a voice a little too loud: ‘Please will you go?’
‘If you will give me a good reason—yes.’
She didn’t feel quite herself. She supposed it was the shock of finding him there, but she seemed to have lost all control over her tongue.
‘I’ve been very silly,’ her voice was still too loud, but she didn’t care. ‘It’s you I love. I think I’ve always loved you, but I didn’t know—Mervyn was you, if you see what I mean.’ She added, quite distraught: ‘So please will you go away—now.’ Her voice shook a little, her mouth felt dry. She urged: ‘Please, Fabian.’
He made no movement. ‘What a girl you are for missing the obvious,’ he observed pleasantly. ‘Why do you suppose I’ve come?’
She wasn’t really listening, being completely taken up with the appalling realisation of her foolish and impetuous speech, but she supposed he expected an answer so she said, ‘Oh, the horse—no, you said it wasn’t, didn’t you. Have I spent too much money? You could have written about that, there was no need for you to have come…’
He crossed the hall and took her in his arms. ‘You’re a silly girl,’ he told her, and his voice was very tender. ‘Of course there is a need. Only perhaps I have been silly too—you see, my darling, you are so young and I—I am forty.’
‘Oh, what has that got to do with it?’ she demanded quite crossly. ‘You could be twenty or ninety; you’d still be Fabian, can’t you see that?’
His arms tightened around her. ‘I’ll remember that,’ he told her softly, ‘my adorable Miss Pettigrew,’ and when she would have spoken he drew her a little closer. ‘Hush, my love—my darling love. I’m not sur
e when I fell in love with you, perhaps when we first met, although I wasn’t aware of it—that came later, the night Uncle Georgius died and I opened the sitting-room door and you were on the stairs looking lost and unhappy. But after that you were never there, always disappearing when I came. I waited and waited, hoping that you would love me too, and then Mervyn turned up. I have never been so worried…’
‘You didn’t look worried,’ Mary Jane pointed out.
‘Perhaps I’m not very good at showing my feelings,’ he told her, ‘but I’ll try now.’ She was wrapped in his arms as though he would never let her go again—a state, she thought dreamily, to which she was happily resigned, and when he kissed her she had no more thoughts at all. Presently she said into his shoulder, ‘I was going to run away, but you came back. I thought you didn’t like me being in your house—that you wanted me to come back here.’
He loosed his hold a little so that he could see her face. ‘My dearest darling, there was nothing I wanted more than to have you in my home, but you were my ward…’
‘You let me go.’ She frowned a little, staring up into his dark eyes. ‘You arranged for me to go.’
‘Because I knew that you would run away if I didn’t—you see, my love, I know you better than you know yourself.’ He pulled her quite roughly to him and kissed her thoroughly. ‘I haven’t been the best of guardians, but I shall be a very good husband,’ he promised her, and kissed her again, very gently this time.
It was quite dark in the hall by now, and Major, fed up with waiting at the back door, pattered in and came to sit down beside them, thumping his tail on the floor. ‘He wants his supper,’ said Mary Jane in a dreamy voice.
‘So do I, my darling girl.’
She wasn’t dreamy any more. ‘Oh, my darling Fabian, you’re hungry! I’ll cook something.’ But when she would have slipped from his arms he held her fast. ‘Not just yet…’
‘We can’t stay here all night—Mrs Body and Lily won’t be back for ages—they’ve gone to a wedding.’ She smiled up at him, quite content to stay where she was for ever.
‘They shall come to ours, my darling.’
‘Oh, Fabian!’ She could hardly see his face although it was so close to her own, but that didn’t matter, nothing mattered any more. Life had become blissfully perfect, stretching out before them for ever. She clasped her hands behind his neck and because she couldn’t put her happiness into words, she said again, ‘Oh, Fabian!’ and kissed him.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-3969-2
WINTER OF CHANGE
Copyright © 1973 by Betty Neels
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