by Dorothy Eden
“Yes, Mamma,” Flora said with deceptive submissiveness. Her eyes gleamed beneath their tawny lashes. “And I really don’t care so much for the brooch, Mamma. I’ll give it back to Great-aunt Tameson if Miss Hurst can have the room next to mine. I beg you, Mamma. Because I know I shall have nightmares and scream. I’m so exhausted after all that traveling.”
Daniel suddenly laughed.
“The minx has got round you, my love. In any case, what she says is eminently sensible. Let Miss Hurst move down. If that is agreeable to Miss Hurst, of course.”
With elaborate sarcasm, Charlotte said, “Does it suit your convenience, Miss Hurst? I think you will find the room comfortable. We usually give it to our more important guests.”
Lavinia refused to meet Daniel’s eyes, which she knew were waiting to twinkle at her. How was she to stay here if Charlotte became her enemy? For it would be foolish to think Charlotte defeated.
“I am happy to do what is most suitable, Mrs. Meryon.”
“It is not in the least suitable, but the house seems to be temporarily ruled by my daughter. Don’t imagine that is a state that exists all the time.” Charlotte stood over Flora, her hand held out. “I’ll take that brooch, miss. And I want to hear no more from you tonight.”
When they were alone, Lavinia said to Flora, “Did you steal the brooch?”
Flora looked acutely hurt. “Don’t you trust me, Miss Hurst?”
“No, I don’t.”
Flora sighed.
“I didn’t steal the brooch. Great-aunt Tameson did give it to me. She said I might as well have something before other people took all her things from her. She said she was surrounded by thieves. Who did she mean, Miss Hurst?”
“I really can’t imagine. Old people get queer ideas.”
“Well, she won’t need her brooches and things in heaven,” Flora said practically. “She’ll have pearly wings then.”
Chapter 8
THE NEXT MORNING FLORA, wheeling her chair toward Lavinia, complained, “Mamma wouldn’t let me in to Great-aunt Tameson’s room. They’re writing.”
“Writing?”
“Letters, I think. Get Joseph to carry me downstairs and I’ll show you the house. Then we’ll go out in the garden. I want you to see my blue garden. It is entirely my own. Everything in it is blue. I never let Edward in it. Do come, Miss Hurst.”
“I thought it was my place to tell you what to do.”
“Tomorrow will do for that. Today I’m going to be the hostess. Pray come, dear Miss Hurst. Let me entertain you.”
Lavinia allowed herself to be prevailed on sufficiently to ring for Joseph, the stalwart footman, who made nothing of Flora’s weight.
“How was Great-aunt Tameson?”
“She looked cross. She has the red room. Did you like the room I got for you, Miss Hurst?”
It was remarkably like her old room at Alford Chase. She had felt sadly at home with the shining mahogany furniture, the velvet-covered chairs drawn invitingly to the fireside, the attractive washstand china and the bed with its huge soft mattress and spotless white coverlet. The bed linen was monogrammed, the carpet thick, the branched candlesticks on the mantelpiece were heavy Georgian silver. There were books at her bedside, a volume of Keats’ poems, and Mr. Thackeray’s latest novel.
None of this comfort was meant for Lavinia Hurst. But it had come her way, and already she was taking a slightly malicious pleasure in Charlotte’s helpless disapproval. Not that she underestimated Charlotte. There would be penalties to pay for this victory Flora had won for her. In the meantime, the lovely room gave her courage. Later she would write a letter to Robin at the elegant Sheraton writing desk, and tell him of her good fortune.
Downstairs they encountered an old man in a velvet smoking jacket who peered at them from watery blue eyes and asked them if they could possibly tell him where he had mislaid his spectacles.
“Oh, Uncle Timothy, have you lost them again?” Flora said. “You are awful! Have you been to see Great-aunt Tameson?”
“How can I see anything without my spectacles? Did those foreign doctors teach you how to walk again?”
“No, Uncle Timothy. They only hurt me a good deal for nothing. They said I must be patient.”
“And are you? Who is that with you?”
“It’s Miss Hurst, my companion. This is my uncle, Sir Timothy Meryon, Miss Hurst. He’s really my great-uncle, but he doesn’t like to be called that because it makes him feel too old.”
The old man held out a cool-skinned elegant hand.
“How do you do, Miss Hurst. How long have you been with my niece?”
“She’s only been since Venice, Uncle Timothy.”
“So you’ve stayed a whole week. That’s quite a record! I hope you don’t intend to be driven off by a little temperament, like those other ninnies. The child has to let off a bit of steam. Sitting in that damn wheelchair. Where are you off to now?”
“I’m showing Miss Hurst the house, Uncle Timothy.”
“Splendid. May I accompany you? Follow me, Miss Hurst. We’ll go to the long gallery first. Are you interested in family portraits? We have one or two rather good ones, a Holbein and a pair of van Dycks.”
The long gallery held a portrait of a woman who looked so like Daniel that Lavinia had to linger. She was young, and wore a yellow sash around her high-waisted dress. Sir Timothy noticed Lavinia admiring her.
“That’s Grace, my late brother’s wife. Daniel’s mother. She was beautiful, wasn’t she? She died before she was thirty. She hated dying; she wanted to stay here. She loved Winterwood. She was going to make it a wonderful mistress. A house needs a good mistress. It responds to love. Had you ever noticed that?”
“Yes, I had. My mother loved—where we lived.”
Even that meager statement gave away too much, for Sir Timothy peered closely at her with his dim eyes. But he shook his head in defeat.
“It’s no use, all faces look alike to me without my spectacles. I shall just hope you are decorative, Miss Hurst. I like decorative young women about.”
“Uncle Timothy!” Flora scolded. “You know Mamma dislikes you flirting.”
The old man shuffled off, tch-tching irritably. Lavinia heard him mutter, “Only amusement a fellow has left. Charlotte has no sense of humor. This is the long gallery, Miss Hurst. It runs the entire length of the house. The windows give fine views over the parkland, as you can see. I can’t without my spectacles. But the view is there. Now come and see the Adam drawing room.”
The drawing room with its two elegant white marble fire-places, delicately scrolled, the carved ceiling, the ruby red damask walls, the Aubusson carpet, the French mirrors, and glittering chandelier. The dining room also overlooked the park with its ragged trees, and long slopes that ran away into blue mist The morning parlor, a pretty cozy room with yellow silk walls, and a set of miniatures over the mantelpiece; the library lined from floor to ceiling with books, and with well-dented leather armchairs and strewn papers, which suggested the master of the house spent a lot of time there; the smoking room, Sir Timothy’s own particular haunt; the gun room; another sitting room that looked over the terrace and the flower garden; the ballroom, with pillars and a frescoed ceiling.
Daniel hadn’t exaggerated. Winterwood was beautiful. It could become a hobby, or an obsession, or just an overwhelming love. To be happy with Daniel, one would have to share his love. Did Charlotte?
“Do you like it, Miss Hurst? Would you like to be its mistress?”
Flora had a knack of asking awkward questions. To her relief Sir Timothy answered for her.
“The right woman can be set in this house like a jewel. But the wrong one—ah ha, Daniel, I smell your cigar.”
Daniel came strolling in from the terrace just outside the ballroom. How long had he been there? Had he been listening to their conversation?
He ruffled Flora’s hair and said, “Good morning, Miss Hurst? Well, aren’t you going to answer Flora’s question?”
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He looked young and very alive, his black eyes sparkling, as if Winterwood had already rejuvenated him.
“If we are going to play a game of make-believe,” she said, “then of course I would like to be mistress of a house like this. What woman wouldn’t?” Then she lost her dignity, and clasped her hands, and said with intensity, “I think it’s the most beautiful house I ever saw.”
He was pleased.
“What did you like best?”
“I’m not sure. The little yellow parlor perhaps.”
“How fortunate. I was going to suggest that you and Flora spend the mornings there, instead of her making the tiresome journey up to the schoolroom. That would be convenient to the garden if you want to take walks.”
She believed that idea had come into his head only after her expressing a liking for the yellow parlor.
Flora was exclaiming in some glee, “Oh, Papa, what a very good idea, but Mamma won’t approve.”
“Mamma has her sitting room upstairs. She scarcely ever uses the parlor. The arrangement will be convenient to everybody.”
“And Edward won’t be allowed in?”
“Edward’s tutor arrives tomorrow. He’ll be fully occupied. And Simon will be home, too. Miss Hurst must meet my elder son.”
“Splendid,” said old Sir Timothy. “We can continue our chess games. I have no opponent when Simon is at school. Young Edward doesn’t concentrate. At his age Simon could beat me. When am I going to be permitted to see Tameson Peate, Daniel?”
“The Contessa?”
“Oh, bother that foreign title. I place no belief in it. The only titles I respect are ones like my own, given for services to one’s country. Tameson was always Willie Peate’s wife to me. But I must first locate my spectacles. I believe the servants hide them, you know. They have a little conspiracy. It amuses them to see me groping about like a blind walrus. I can’t even see this new young person of Flora’s. How does she look, Daniel? Is she like the others?”
“Not in the least, Uncle Timothy. Is that a matter of importance to you?”
The old man gave a throaty chuckle. “Certainly it is. I’m not in my dotage, you know. I hope you will see that Flora treats her well. None of your pranks, Flora. Always treasure a pretty woman. Isn’t that right, Daniel?”
Although Sir Timothy eventually discovered his spectacles, and perched them on his nose when he went upstairs to meet Lady Tameson, he still declared that she bore no resemblance to the pretty redhead he remembered.
“She’s a great deal older,” Charlotte pointed out. “How can you expect her hair still to be red?”
“She’s become vulgar,” the old man said disapprovingly. “Showing off her title like a flag. I don’t suppose a Count is any more important than a baronet, but she behaved as if I were a sort of superior old servant. That Italian sun, or something, has gone to her head. And suggesting that Winterwood is nothing compared with her damp crumbling palazzo. Not to mention wearing jewelry in bed. Really, I wouldn’t have believed this of that nice simple girl, Tameson Peate.”
“I don’t suppose you really remember her at all, Uncle Timothy,” Charlotte said.
“She’s changed a great deal,” Sir Timothy insisted. “She doesn’t even seem English.”
This seemed to be Aunt Tameson’s biggest failing as far as Sir Timothy was concerned. She had turned traitor. He said that as Charlotte’s aunt, naturally she was welcome at Winterwood, but expressed the wish that he should not have to be inflicted with her company.
“Of course you won’t be,” Charlotte said, as if indeed this was the situation for which she had hoped. “I imagine she will keep mostly to her room. The Italian doctor warned her against any kind of exertion.”
“Frankly, I’d never take the word of a foreign doctor,” Sir Timothy declared. “You might have her for a long spell, Charlotte. I’m a year older than her if I’ve calculated rightly, and I expect to keep above ground for another ten years. Give old Tameson a new heart and me a new pair of eyes, and we’d give you young people a dance yet.” Chuckling, and fumbling for his spectacles, which he had pushed onto the top of his head, Sir Timothy meandered off to the smoking room. He banged the door firmly behind him, as if he expected Aunt Tameson’s immediate encroachment on his privacy.
Aunt Tameson’s next visitor was Doctor Munro, an elderly man with a drooping white moustache and twinkling blue eyes set beneath grizzled white eyebrows. He, unlike Sir Timothy, had not known Aunt Tameson when she had lived at Croft House as plain Mrs. Willie Peate. He had no comparisons to make, and in any case was interested in her body, not whether she wore a diamond brooch on her nightgown.
It was unfortunate that Lavinia was just taking Flora to the yellow parlor when the doctor came downstairs, talking very audibly.
“Keep her happy, Mrs. Meryon. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
“You can’t say how long, Doctor?”
“One can’t, with a case like this. It might be today, or in six months. With care, it might be a year. Her heart’s worn out. That’s all there is to it.”
The voices died away, and Flora said intensely, “She’s going to die, isn’t she!”
“But you knew that, darling. You saw for yourself on the ship.”
“Her medicine kept her alive. Why can’t it always?”
“She’s old. People wear out.”
“Well, I just don’t like people dying around me. Why can’t she go back to Venice? We don’t want corpses!”
“Flora! I thought you hated Aunt Tameson.”
“So I do, so I do.”
Flora pummeled the arms of her chair, on the verge of one of her hysterical outbursts. Lavinia stood up.
“We’ve done too much this morning. You’re tired. I’ll ring for Joseph to take you upstairs.”
“I don’t want to go upstairs. I want to show you my blue garden.”
“Later today, darling.”
“Then it might be raining. The flowers will be all withered and spoiled. I want to show you the baby’s head.”
Flora’s conversation sometimes became so ghoulish that Lavinia looked at her sharply.
“A baby’s head?”
Flora smiled slyly, thinking she was getting her own way.
“Yes. You’ll like it. It smiles although it’s broken.”
If Lavinia was expected to recognize the same gallant courage in this child with her own damaged body, she refused to be beguiled in this way. She tugged the bell rope.
“Later today, I said. I’m coming up with you to rub your legs. We’re going to do this for half an hour every day. After that you’re to have luncheon in your room and then rest.”
Flora looked at her in fury.
“Miss Hurst, you’re to do as I say! That’s why I made Papa engage you.”
“And do I look so weak? Come now. Here’s Joseph.” Lavinia turned to the tall young footman. “Take Miss Flora to her room, Joseph. She’s going to rest. Don’t mind if she struggles. She’s simply overtired.”
Joseph grinned, his bright young eyes admiring Lavinia.
“I’ll manage, miss.”
Flora looked as if she were about to scream, instead changed her mind and went limp. She remained like that after Joseph had laid her on her bed and gone. When Lavinia took off her shoes and stockings to rub the pitifully thin legs, Flora said between clenched teeth, “I’ve made a mistake about you, Miss Hurst. You’re worse than Miss Brown. I shall tell Papa to dismiss you.”
“Does that hurt?” Lavinia asked clinically, busy with her task.
“Yes, it does.”
“Can you move your toes?”
“You know I can’t. I’ve told a thousand doctors I can’t.”
“Try, all the same.”
Flora’s thin body went rigid. The skirts of her tartan dress bunched up, hiding her face. Her feet, a child’s feet, too small and narrow, stayed limp. Would they ever support that frail body again?
“You’re going to try that
every day,” Lavinia said calmly. “And one day it will happen. Have you got a pink dress?”
Surprise forced a polite answer from Flora.
“No. Mamma says I can’t wear pink, I’m too pale.”
“I think you could. Say, a white muslin with sprigs of pink roses, and a pink sash. I’ll speak to your mother about it”
“She won’t pay any attention. She hates me. She thinks I’ll never get married and she’ll have me forever and ever.”
“You certainly won’t get a husband if you make this fuss every time I want to make your legs stronger.”
There was a long silence. Finally Flora said in a barely audible mutter, “Would it be any use if I said prayers for her?”
“For Lady Tameson? Of course it would. You can pray that she has courage, and you, too.”
“Is that what you pray for yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Because you haven’t got a husband?”
“For a great many reasons.”
“Do you mean that about the pink dress?”
“Certainly.”
“A pink dress isn’t going to stop people dying around me. Is it?”
Lavinia met the unhappy belligerent eyes. A strange sensation took possession of her. She wanted to put her arms around the frail little body, draw it close, protect it. She had done that for that wretched little chimney sweep dying in jail, a child of not more than eight years who had stolen an apple from a plate in some fine dining room. She had wept over him. She mustn’t allow herself to weep over Flora or she would be no use at all.
“No, it isn’t, lamb. But Lady Tameson might like to see you in it.”
“She won’t. She called me an unmitigated nuisance.”
“Which was true. Now, I’m going to ring for Mary to bring you a tray, and after that you’re to sleep.”
“Phoebe looks after me, not Mary.”
“I thought you might like Mary better. She’s not much older than you, and she’s pretty.”
“Mamma’s going to be furious if you order the servants about. That’s one thing she won’t stand from a governess.”