‘Well, Mrs. Clarke had no right to call me a limb of Satan,’ Rodney reiterated.
‘She certainly had not,’ Averil agreed, ‘and I shall report her insolence to Vance when I come back. It’s time Mrs. Clarke learned her place!’ Averil set her lips firmly and I could see that the luckless Mrs. Clarke would have cause to regret her remarks when Averil became Mrs. Ashmore.
For the first time Rodney looked faintly apprehensive. ‘Oh no, don’t bother. It doesn’t make any difference what the old horror calls me, and anyway Vance will probably back her up and be cross. I think he hates me,’ he added darkly.
Laughingly his mother ruffled his hair. ‘Why, you silly little goose, Vance doesn’t take the smallest notice of you. But I shall certainly mention Mrs. Clarke’s impertinence to him: it can’t be allowed to continue.’
Averil then was very sure of her power over the enigmatic Vance Ashmore, and I wondered for a moment if she fully understood him or was merely relying on her beauty and powers of attraction to get her way.
There was the sound of a car drawing up outside the gate.
Averil glanced out. ‘I must rush, darling,’ she said gaily. I could see her eyes sparkling with anticipation of the pleasures ahead. She gave him a gay little kiss on the top of his head. ‘Now be good, as I said, and don’t give Aunt Esther any trouble, and I’ll bring you something nice when I come back.’
With a quick wave in my direction she ran downstairs and we watched from the window as she got into the taxi and was driven away.
CHAPTER THREE
RODNEY, his chin on the window-ledge, sat gazing sullenly after the taxi and refused to reply when I mildly suggested he come down and show me where the food supplies and kitchen utensils were stored.
As he showed no signs of co-operating I went down myself and rummaged around until I had a fairly good idea where everything was kept. It was evident that Mrs. McAlister, in spite of her propensity to gossip, was an excellent housekeeper: I dreaded to think of the chaos that would have met me if Averil had been in sole charge, for she had the ability to create the wildest disorder when it came to domestic matters. I stoked the fire with beech logs which I found in a basket beside the range and soon they were crackling cheerfully behind the bars. Then I began to prepare vegetable soup from the store of young spring vegetables I found in a small adjoining outhouse. Behind the cottage was an orchard and the carmine and snowy white blossoms vied with the more pink and more ornate blossoms of the flowering cherries that had evidently given the cottage its name.
I was standing at the table scraping slender juicy young carrots when Rodney wandered into the kitchen and eyed my activities sulkily. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Making vegetable soup,’ I replied calmly.
‘I don’t like vegetable soup,’ he vouchsafed belligerently, then immediately asked, ‘Did you bring a present?’
The abruptness of the transition didn’t surprise me. I was well accustomed to Rodney’s self-centredness. I shook my head. I could well imagine that Rodney was accustomed to his mother’s friends paying tribute in an effort to ensure his co-operation, but I had no intention of starting off on the wrong foot with my young nephew.
He frowned ominously at the information and scuffed the worn tiles with the toe of his shoe. ‘When we lived in London, Mummy’s friends always brought me presents.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I said dryly. ‘But then I’m afraid I’m not rich.’
For a moment his face took on an expression of un-childish slyness. ‘We’ll be rich when Mummy marries Vance and then I’ll be able to buy anything I like.’
I wondered with a feeling of distaste how many conversations Rodney had overheard and how much he really understood of the conflicting information that must be confusing his young mind.
He climbed on to the old-fashioned horsehair sofa that stood underneath the window and surveyed my activities morosely. ‘I wish we hadn’t come here: I hate the country: there’s nothing to do.’
‘Nothing to do?’ I smiled. ‘With the whole of the grounds of Ashmore House to run about in? I think you’re a very lucky little boy.’
‘Vance doesn’t like me to go near the house,’ he replied, ‘not even to feed the ducks in the lake.’
‘From what I’ve heard of your exploits I’m not surprised,’ I told him.
For a moment his face took on a lost and bewildered expression that, in spite of myself, I found touching. It was typical of all I had heard of Vance Ashmore, I thought angrily. Lord of all he surveyed, he would no doubt object to a grubby small boy invading his domain, no matter how innocent his reasons.
But almost immediately the sly expression returned to Rodney’s face. ‘When he marries Mummy I’ll live at Ashmore House and he won’t be able to stop me.’
Where had the child got these ideas? I wondered. Surely whatever lay between Averil and Vance Ashmore hadn’t progressed to the stage where they were openly planning marriage! Besides, Clive had been dead barely six months. I finished the vegetables in thoughtful silence and placed the pot of soup at the back of the range.
As Rodney seemed satisfied to sprawl on the sofa scanning the coloured pictures of a comic, I decided to take another look at my new domain. I found that upstairs, apart from Averil’s bedroom, which would now be mine, there were two other smaller rooms with the same steeply angled oaken beams and air of creaking antiquity. Part of the charm of the cottage lay in the fact that the rooms were not on the same level: two shallow steps led up to Rodney’s room and the third bedroom lay at the end of a short twisting corridor. The only incongruous note was a modern bathroom in gleaming tiles of black and turquoise.
I carried my cases up to my room and began to unpack with a growing sense of happiness and satisfaction about my decision to come to Warefield: except for the cawing of crows in the trees and the sound of the grandfather clock that stood opposite my door all was silence. The offices of Wentworth & Judd seemed aeons away and even Miss Palmer’s precise little figure fussing through the files seemed to be more a creature of fantasy than of fact. I had made the right decision, I thought happily.
As I placed a pile of handkerchiefs in the drawer of a walnut William-and-Mary tallboy there came a blood-curdling scream from the direction of the kitchen. It was Rodney, I realized, and my first reaction was that I should ignore him. I had had experience of his propensity to dramatics and no doubt he was already trying to test out just how indulgent I intended to be. Yet there was something about those screams that struck chill to my heart and pushing the drawer too roughly I rushed down the narrow twisting stairs.
I dashed into the kitchen and stood rooted to the floor at the scene, that awaited me: the soup pot had been overturned on the range, its contents trickling on to the tiled floor: beside it Rodney stood, clutching his arm, his mouth open in a scream. It was only too obvious what had happened: typically taking advantage of my absence upstairs to investigate the contents of the pot, he had tipped it over himself.
Panic-stricken, I rushed back upstairs and dashed into the bathroom. While exploring the cottage I had noticed an enamelled medicine cabinet to one side of the bath and now I pulled it open and scrabbled frantically inside. At that moment I was too upset to realize how incongruous the contents were, and it was only later I was to question how Averil had managed to acquire such luxuries: flagons of expensive perfumes, bath oils and cosmetics from the exclusive Paris houses. All I could think of at the time was the agony the child downstairs must be suffering, and it was with a sigh of relief that I discovered at the very back of the cabinet a small dust-covered tin of Vaseline. I dashed downstairs again and applied it as best I could: Rodney certainly gave me no co-operation, but danced up and down, yelling.
How on earth had he managed to burn himself so badly? I wondered. I distinctly remembered placing the pot at the back of the range and in fact it hadn’t been there so very long: the soup must have been only beginning to heat up while I was
settling into Averil’s room, yet Rodney’s yells seemed to proclaim that he was in great pain.
To my dismay the Vaseline didn’t seem to give him any relief, and as I desperately raked my mind as to what further steps I should take I suddenly remembered Bob Pritchard and his jocose offer. Well, I thought a little wryly, he’s going to find me taking him at his word sooner than he could have expected.
Telling Rodney, ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ I raced down the path and out on to the lane. There was only one thing for it—distasteful as it might be, I’d have to stop a passing motorist on the main road and ask for his assistance. The idea was not particularly attractive, but, on the other hand, considering the pain Rodney was in, I had no alternative. It was obvious he needed medical help as soon as possible.
I reached the end of the lane panting and breathless, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long before a car passed. To my relief almost immediately a powerful car approached around a curve in the road. Without thinking of the danger I ran out and frantically signalled it to stop. The car skidded to a halt: I ran after it as quickly as I could and found myself being surveyed with cold distaste by the lean saturnine features of the driver.
‘If you’re thinking of hitching a ride you’re very much mistaken. I don’t take hikers,’ he said gratingly.
Wordlessly I shook my head, too breathless to explain.
‘What the devil do you think you’re doing anyway? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he demanded.
If I hadn’t been in such a panic I might have resented the contemptuous, authoritative tones, but at the time all I could think of was Rodney and the guilt I felt at the fact that he had met with a serious accident almost immediately on my taking over at Cherry Cottage.
‘It’s Rodney: he’s spilled a pot of soup over himself and I’m afraid he’s terribly burned,’ I babbled. In my agitation I had completely forgotten that this stranger would have no idea whom I was talking about.
He regarded me frowningly and I saw his strong fingers beat an impatient tattoo on the wheel. ‘And what do you expect me to do about it?’ he asked abruptly.
‘It’s Rodney Etherton,’ I explained. ‘He’s my nephew. You see, my sister Averil has gone on a cruise to the West Indies and she’s left me in charge, and somehow or other Rodney burned himself and—’
‘Get in,’ he broke in abruptly.
I suppose if I had had, my wits about me I would have attached significance to the change in his attitude, but at the tune I was in no state to observe such subtleties. He leaned over and opened the door. I slumped into the seat beside him, silenced by the unexpected change in his manner. I glanced inquiringly at him, but his dark, rather forbidding features had regained something of their former irritation. Without questioning me further he turned the car into the lane. We were stopping outside the cottage before it dawned on me to wonder how he could have known exactly where to go.
As I tumbled out of the car there was no sound of Rodney’s blood-curdling screams: an ominous calm seemed to hang over the cottage and I felt a stab of fear. Was Rodney, then, more badly injured than I had suspected and was he even now lying unconscious on the kitchen floor? I felt my breath come in little gasps as I hurried after the tall figure striding purposefully ahead.
As he pushed the door open Rodney’s screams began again in redoubled volume.
‘The patient seems to have revived,’ the stranger said dryly.
Without answering I dashed ahead and found Rodney where I had left him and on the point of drawing breath to give another yell.
His mouth fell open when he saw whom I had returned with and the scream I had been bracing myself for failed to emerge. ‘I didn’t tease the cows, Vance,’ he said defensively. ‘Mrs. Clarke’s always blaming me, even when I don’t go near the stupid old things.’
So this was the formidable Vance Ashmore! For some reason or other the knowledge caused me embarrassment. If I had known beforehand who he was would I have stopped him so peremptorily? I wondered.
He examined Rodney’s arm closely, then said firmly, ‘There doesn’t seem to me to be very much wrong.’ He glanced at the spilled contents of the pot, then turned to me and said coldly, ‘If you’d kept your wits about you and not let him bamboozle you you’d have realized that all he has suffered is a mild scorching.’
At this cold appraisal Rodney began to sniff self-pityingly.
What Vance Ashmore said was true, I immediately realized: obviously Rodney had simply been trying to make himself the centre of notice: it explained too the facts that had puzzled me about the accident. But there was something in this man’s personality that aroused antagonism in me so that I couldn’t resist opposing him. .
‘All the same, I think I’d like him to see Dr. Pritchard,’ I said stubbornly.
He glanced at me sardonically. ‘Indeed, so you doubt my diagnosis!’
I evaded his eyes, aware that I was being unreasonable. ‘I think it might be wiser to take no chances. After all, I’m in charge here!’ I was trying to let him know quite definitely that the decision didn’t rest with him.
‘Very well,’ he said coolly, ‘if you wish it, although, according to himself, Dr. Pritchard is hopelessly overworked and is unlikely to welcome having his time taken up by a spoiled and completely healthy child.’
‘If you don’t want to take us, I’ll send for a taxi,’ I said stiffly.
‘My dear girl, I haven’t the slightest objection to driving you: I’m simply pointing out the hazards, as it were.’
‘But Dr. Pritchard told me I could call on him at any time,’ I said with what I hoped was impressive dignity.
‘Oh, did he?’ The black eyebrows arched sardonically. ‘So you’ve already made the acquaintance of our lovelorn medico!’
‘We met on the train, if it’s any of your business and, as far as I know, he isn’t lovelorn,’ I replied stiffly. I had the suspicion that he was deliberately trying to rile me and I made up my mind not to give him the satisfaction of showing anger.
He shrugged. ‘Which goes to show how little you know of Bob Pritchard. However, I’m quite willing to drive you to his house. After all, as I’ve already been taken on a fool’s errand I may as well finish the job. But I’ve no intention of taking the child in once we’re there. As you seem so determined you can do that part of the business yourself .’
We drove off in silence: Rodney in the back seat unusually subdued and perhaps realizing for the first time that his histrionics might have consequences he had not anticipated. Tight-lipped, I gazed stiffly ahead and when we reached Bob’s house I got out of the car quickly. I was on the point of turning away and marching up the path when Vance put his head out of the car window and said, ‘I’ll wait and drive you back to the cottage.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I answered stiffly. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘Are you always so pig-headed?’ He sounded amused. ‘May I assure you that I pass your lane on the way to Ashmore House so you won’t be under the slightest obligation to me—in case that’s what’s worrying you.’
I nodded grudgingly and taking Rodney’s hand moved away.
At close quarters Bob Pritchard’s house was even more depressing: wilted-looking geraniums grew in moss-covered pots in the glass porch and the paint was scruffed and dingy. I pressed the bell, wishing uncomfortably that it was possible for me to make a dignified retreat. I glanced back at the car, to find myself being surveyed by Vance with a discouragingly sardonic smile. I waited, wondering if Bob would assume that I had made Rodney’s accident an excuse for another meeting.
However, when the door opened I was met by an elderly woman in a white linen coat who eyed me bleakly. ‘You’re too early,’ she announced. ‘Doctor’s at his tea.’
‘On the contrary, Doctor has just finished his tea,’ Bob announced cheerfully, his good-natured features appearing over her shoulder. ‘Tell Miss Carson to come right in.’
Grudgingly she stood aside and I advanced into the hall.
I nodded. ‘He spilled a pot of soup over himself, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve made a fuss over nothing.’
He grinned. ‘Better to be sure than sorry. I’ll have a look at the invalid and tell you the worst.’
I followed him into the consulting room and felt a growing embarrassment as Bob examined the arm, then glanced up at me in puzzlement. ‘But there’s nothing whatever the matter with the child,’ he announced decisively. ‘What on earth gave you the idea that there was something seriously wrong?’
‘He was screaming,’ I replied lamely. Even as I said it, I realized that no doubt Bob Pritchard knew as well as I did that Rodney’s screams meant nothing.
‘Well, I can assure you he had no cause to scream,’ Bob told me.
I stood up, only too glad to escape from the ridiculous position Rodney and my own stubbornness had placed me in.
Rodney, seeing that the limelight was being withdrawn from him, assumed the mulish expression I had grown to dread. ‘But it hurt like anything,’ he whined.
‘Oh, do stop, Rodney,’ I said, exasperated. ‘Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble already?’ I pulled him towards the door, muttering excuses to the still puzzled Bob.
Then Rodney, who was dragging his feet reluctantly, to my horror announced, clearly, as a parting shot, ‘Anyway, Mummy’s not going to marry you: she’s going to marry Vance: I heard her say so.’
There was a moment’s appalled silence while Bob and I gazed at each other. I saw his face grow stiff and white, then, without a word, he turned and strode from the room.
Sick with mortification, I almost ran back to the car, grateful that it was there and that I would quickly be borne away from the-scene. Vance glanced at me swiftly as I bundled into the back seat with Rodney, then in silence started the car and drove swiftly to the cottage.
Before leaving he leaned out of the car window and said casually, ‘By the way, I wonder if Averil mentioned that my mother would like to meet you? Won’t you come over tomorrow? You can take the short cut behind the cottage and through the woods.’
Sister of the Bride Page 4