by Jane Arbor
Aunt Alicia smiled kindly, indulgently. “Still being just the slightest bit selfish, aren’t you, sweetheart? Your ‘If anything happened’ means that you are thinking—rather fearfully—of your own future. But need we—while you are with me and, I assure you, a source of pleasure to me—discuss that? You don’t have to worry, Lysbet. Will you understand that once and for all? You—you have power to hurt me, you know!”
For answer Lysbet tucked her arm beneath her aunt’s and pressed it to her side. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “I’m a crude, ungrateful wretch. It’s only—” She caught back the little sigh which symbolized the hopelessness of trying to make herself understood. It had always ended like this. It probably always would. She was blanketed and cushioned with kindness, and utterly stifled with obligation. And there was no way out.
Beside her Mrs. Tempest walked in silence. To all appearances she and Lysbet were once more in the easy accord of friendly companionship they usually knew. But she had the sensation that the air about her had chilled. For her, too, there was no way out from her thoughts.
Caroline, in a short white tennis frock and with a big white bow tying up her curls, looked more childishly appealing than ever.
Her air of gentle deference towards Richard was as studied an effect as the impression, gained by Lysbet at their first meeting, of the proprietorial control which she had over him. Remembering her pouting—‘Shall I scold him for you?’ Lysbet realized with some amusement that this was obviously no part of Caroline’s attitude to her employer in his presence. Caroline at luncheon with Richard, Mrs. Tempest and Lysbet was quiet and self-effacing, and when appealed to for her opinion in the course of the general conversation she gave it deprecatingly, almost apologetically, with an air of saying: “Of course you can’t expect me to know anything on this subject, really!”
Lysbet, naturally, frank and without a trace of artistry to her character, watched this arch performance with a fascinated awe. The girl was a consummate actress! For, as Richard had often thought before her, Lysbet’s feminine perception told her that no one as clothes-conscious, as aware and as poised as Caroline could possibly be genuinely as ingénue and innocent as she appeared today.
Mrs. Tempest appeared to like her and Caroline was openly admiring of the other woman. After luncheon the two of them went off together to look at the gardens, leaving Richard and Lysbet to stroll across to the tennis-court in each other’s company.
“Caroline’s sweet, isn’t she?” asked Richard.
Lysbet, who hadn’t been thinking about Caroline, but about Richard himself, lean, tanned and unfamiliar in flannels, started and said blankly: “Caroline—sweet? Oh—yes!”
“She has to put on an act of some sort or feel, like some tragedienne who hasn’t given of her best, that she has betrayed herself,” pursued Richard. “If you have any men coming to play tennis this afternoon all the meek attention to me will be switched off like a light—you’ll see. She’ll be all feminine teachability—‘Do show me that marvellous forehand drive of yours, Mr.—Er...’ ”
Richard’s mimicry was very true and Lysbet had to giggle guiltily in appreciation of it. “She’s—biddable, isn’t she?” she asked.
“Biddable—to a degree,” agreed Richard drily. “Until, I suspect, the will is crossed and then, my! how the little heels would dig themselves in!”
“Well, I expect Johnnie Petersen and Major Silver and Barry, if he arrives before you have to go, will revel in telling her all they know,” remarked Lysbet. “Major Silver—we call him Long John because he is so lanky—is a middle-aged bachelor, awfully lonely everyone thinks, but he doesn’t seem to get anyone to marry him; and Barry is always ready to co-operate in anything.” Lysbet felt quite pleased with the array of male attention which she had provided for Caroline, and Richard looked positively relieved.
“She’ll be happy,” he said with conviction, and as they walked on neither was thinking very concernedly of Caroline.
They reached the tennis-court and sank down into the deck-chairs placed alongside it. As Richard offered Lysbet a cigarette he said suddenly: “You ought always to wear red—your hair demands it.”
Lysbet, since she would not be playing tennis, had added to her white frock a flare of scarlet silk at her waist and knotted a kerchief to match around her shoulders: she knew that the raven blackness of her hair needed the ‘picked up’ brightness of the color, but she flushed with pleasure at Richard’s implied compliment. In its beginnings, love can thrive for a very long time on no more than such a mere treasury of remembered words...
Before she could answer, however, Mrs. Tempest and Caroline were approaching, bringing with them the rest of their guests.
For the first set Caroline partnered Richard (‘because we’ve played together so often that we know each other’s game’, she had claimed with a flutter of her eyelashes) against Major Silver and Mrs. Petersen.
Caroline had not a great range of strokes but she played a quick, neat game which made a good complement to Richard’s hard hitting. Mrs. Petersen was a brawny muscled amazon of fifty or so, but she and the Major could not match the greater speed of the younger pair, who won the set without the loss of a game.
“Know each other’s game too damn well, if you ask me,” commented Johnnie Peterson in a stage whisper to Lysbet, not knowing that he had laid a probing finger upon a little thorn of jealousy in the girl’s heart.
(“I will NOT be jealous of her!” she told herself fiercely. “Richard sees through her, and even if he didn’t, what right have I to be jealous of her, anyway?”)
As the couples came off the court she smiled at Caroline, patting the chair beside her invitingly. But the other girl, neat, cool and unruffled, preferred to sit on the other side of Johnnie, with Major Silver beyond.
Richard came to take the chair beside Lysbet which Caroline had rejected. He winked as he sat down, saying conspiratorially, “She’s off!”, and though Lysbet felt that, as Caroline’s hostess, she oughtn’t to share this innocent alliance with Richard against her, to share anything with Richard was such fun that she could not resist making an understanding grimace in return.
But Mrs. Tempest was already arranging another set. Mr. Petersen did not wish to play much, so she herself would be partnered by Johnnie, while Richard played with Mrs. Petersen.
It was an arrangement which made a better match than the first set; it was promising to be a long one when the parlormaid came out from the house in search of Mrs. Tempest.
“What is it, Marian?” she asked.
For answer the girl proffered the visiting card upon the salver in her hand.
Mrs. Tempest took up the card, read it and asked:
“Is he waiting?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Well, ask him—,” Mrs. Tempest glanced back towards the waiting players, “no, never mind. I’ll come up to the house to see him. Major Silver—would you mind taking my place? Someone has called unexpectedly.”
She excused herself to her guests and hurried away across the lawn, ignoring or not hearing Lysbet’s offered: “Don’t break up the set, Aunt Alicia! Let me go instead!” In her hand she still held the small square of pasteboard which she had taken from the salver. From time to time she glanced at it, re-reading the engraved name—Eliot Bradd—and the address, one in Cape Town.
Bradd ... Bradd ... It was a name from the past. Combined with ‘Eliot’ it was completely unfamiliar to her—the man she had known of had been called, she believed, Samuel Bradd. But Samuel Bradd had been dead for a long time as she knew. The man awaiting her in the house now could be a brother—a son?
She entered the drawing-room by the french windows flung wide to the garden and at the footstep the man standing and looking at the banked flowers in the fireplace turned about to face her.
In the swift glance she gave him before coming forward to hold out her hand with a smile Mrs. Tempest saw that her guest appeared to be about thirty-five; the deep tan of his face an
d hands emphasized by his well-cut lounge suit, which was lighter, both in color and weight, than many English men wear, even in the hottest weather.
Although his answering smile was confident and assured his words of greeting to his hostess were the beginnings of an apology.
“I’m terribly sorry to descend on you like this, without writing or even telephoning you, Mrs. Tempest!” he began. “But the fact was that I had letters of introduction to you, and when I found unexpectedly that my business would allow me to leave Town I decided that this was the opportunity to call upon you, even if I risked getting myself thrown out by doing so without notice—”
“But of course I’m glad you came, Mr. Bradd,” smiled Mrs. Tempest politely. “We haven’t met personally before but I know your name.” She glanced at the visiting-card in her hand. “Probably the Mr. Bradd of whom I have heard would be your father?”
Eliot Bradd nodded. “Yes. I ought to have explained myself from the beginning. As I daresay you know, my father, Samuel Bradd, was Mr. Edward Marlowe’s partner in the diamond agency they had in Cape Town. Before he died Mr. Marlowe sold out his share of the business to my father, who also died ten years ago. Well, of course I was only a kid at the time of Mr. Marlowe’s selling out to my father, and since he died, I’ve had no occasion nor opportunity to come to England until now. But when I decided to come over this year—well, perhaps you know how it is—one begins to look around for possible links and contacts with people over here—”
“And you thought of me? Or, more probably, since you may not have known of my existence, you thought of Edward’s daughter, Lysbet?” suggested his hostess.
“Yes. Although, as a matter of fact, I did know that you, and your husband had been appointed as Lysbet’s guardians when she came to England after your brother’s death. My father had mentioned it to me more than once, and of course I could remember Lysbet herself—though faintly.”
“Could you?”
‘Yes. She was only a baby when I was about at prep, school age. I have no recollection of her after that time, and I can’t quite place how old she would be now?”
“She is twenty-three.”
“And married, I daresay?”
“No. She has been a treasure of a companion to me since my husband died. But look—we’re in the middle of a tennis-party, so won’t you come down to meet her and join us?” Mrs. Tempest suggested.
“I’d love to do that. But,” his mouth twisted in a half smile, “there are my bona fides, my introductions—you haven’t seen them yet. For all you know, I may be the most blatant impostor!”
Mrs. Tempest brushed the suggestion aside. “And what would you hope to gain by that?” she asked lightly. “In any case, I doubt whether we could have any mutual friends in South Africa. I don’t think I know anyone there since Edward died and Lysbet was sent home.”
“Well, since you’re so kind as to take me on trust, perhaps I won’t bother you now with, say, my bank-manager’s reference or the other letters I have, saying I’m quite proper to know!” said Bradd easily. “You’re being most hospitable, all the same. I’m infinitely grateful!”
As they went side by side across the lawns in the direction of the tennis-courts he was thinking his own thoughts while Mrs. Tempest was thinking hers.
What a handsome, groomed woman she was! His mental picture of a guardian aunt to Lysbet Marlowe had been very different from the reality that was Alicia Tempest. If this place was indeed hers—as in Fallsbridge, where he had lunched, he had been given to believe—-she must be a very rich woman in her own right. That had been a pretty shrewd move on old man Marlowe’s part—to make a rich sister and her husband guardians to Lysbet. People with enough of their own were automatically removed from the temptation to any funny business...
But wasn’t it rather an odd situation, all the same? He had come to England with very little information at his finger-tips, but nevertheless scarcely expecting to find Lysbet Marlowe in the position where she could be described as ‘a treasure of a young friend and companion’ for anyone, however sophisticated, which Mrs. Tempest admittedly was. But damn it—the girl, on her aunt’s admission and his own calculations, was twenty-three! Hadn’t she begun to step out yet! One of the mousey, colorless kind, probably. They often came that way when—oh well, one of Nature’s little compensations, he supposed...
He remarked upon the beauty of the herbaceous borders between which they were passing and Mrs. Tempest replied: “Yes. They need rain of course, but they’re still lovely, aren’t they?” Her tone was rather absent. She was thinking—
This sudden, unexpected link with South Africa and the past had found her unready and a little disturbed. But what was there in it, after all? She stole a sidelong glance at the young man by her side. He was obviously a gentleman and a man of means; as he told her, he had been ‘only a kid’ at the time of her brother Edward’s selling out to his partner, and although he must have been about twenty before Lysbet left South Africa, he admitted to having no recollections of her after her babyhood. So that any information he had about her, about her father or about her English aunt, Mrs. Tempest herself, must have come to him at second hand through Samuel Bradd, his own father. But even with so remote a connection it was natural enough, surely, that he should seek out Lysbet upon his first visit to England.
Mrs. Tempest’s spirits lightened. She found that she was quite looking forward to introducing him to Lysbet. He had spoken of ‘business’ from which he had been temporarily freed, but he would surely be able to look forward to a certain amount of leisure. He and Lysbet must go about together ... It would give Lysbet something to think about while she recovered the use of her arm. And the attentions of this personable young man from Cape Town might serve as a foil to those of that earnest medico, Richard Guyse...
They reached the court to find the previous set finished and everyone standing in a laughing group about Lysbet’s chair, claiming that in her aunt’s absence she must play hostess and arrange the next set.
“You’d better do it, Miss Marlowe,” Major Silver was drawling as they approached. “Otherwise we shall go on saying: ‘No, I won’t play—it isn’t my turn’ indefinitely.”
“All right,” laughed Lysbet. “You’ll all take my orders—and like it! Major Silver, you’ll carry on again with—”
She stopped as, at that moment, everyone had noticed that Mrs. Tempest was returning with another guest at her side.
Lysbet stood up and Mrs. Tempest brought Eliot Bradd straight across to her.
“Lysbet darling—” said Aunt Alicia, and there was neither in her tone nor even, at that moment, in her thoughts, any foretelling of the significance which this formal-sounding introduction was to have upon their lives, “this is Mr. Eliot Bradd—from Cape Town. His father was Edward’s partner out there and—” the fine eyes glanced roguishly at Eliot, “he actually claims to remember you in your cradle!”
Lysbet laughed and, indicating her right arm with an apologetic gesture, bowed without offering a hand to Eliot. “How d’you do, Mr. Bradd,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t really remember our previous meeting, you know!”
Eliot’s dark eyes flashed. “You wouldn’t,” he said easily. “And I must confess that it’s the only recollection of you that I can claim. I thought that in the course of events I must have seen you since then, but now—” he paused, while the look with which he held her gave savor and point to the compliment which followed, “now I realize that I could never have seen you at any later date—and have possibly have forgotten you!”
A flush that was half pleasure, half embarrassment, flooded Lysbet’s cheeks and it was left to Mrs. Tempest to say gaily: “What a charming speech! How fortunate the twenties are to collect such things! But let me introduce you all round, Mr. Bradd—”
Eliot took in the names of his hostess’s other guests with even less attention than is usually accorded to such formalities. For nothing in his facile compliment to Lysbet had expressed
his real reaction to her beauty.
‘One of the mousey, colorless kind’! That was what he had supposed he might have been called upon to meet. That, indeed, might have been his own damnable luck, after travelling six thousand miles for the purpose.
But the girl was lovely! As unspoiled and probably as malleable as if she were a Cinderella of a kitchenmaid, instead of being, as his information and his calculation read worth something near a quarter of a million...
‘One of Nature’s little compensations, eh?’ his thoughts mocked at him. Well, Lysbet Marlowe, bless the lovely thing, was in need of no compensations from Nature or anywhere else! She had everything. But he, Eliot Bradd, had been looking for an odd compensation or two for his own lot, for some time now. He hadn’t always been able to be too particular where he found them. But all that was changed now. His own future—and Lysbet’s—lay claylike in his hands, ready for the moulding. Somehow, Eliot felt, he was going to enjoy the process...
CHAPTER FIVE
It was full summer still, but in the morning’s misty air which pregnated another day of heat there was already a tang of autumn.
Lysbet sensed it as soon as she had softly closed a side door behind her and had stepped out upon the wide gravel drive surrounding the house. She sniffed delightedly. Since this glorious summer must fade one day the thought would be almost bearable if autumn came in to the scents, blurred outlines and muted tones of mornings like this. Besides, it was perfect for riding, and this was only the second ride she had had since Richard had allowed her to use her arm again.
The stable clock struck seven. That would give her an hour before coming back for her bath and dressing, ready for breakfast at nine. She was about to step out briskly towards the stables when her name was called from above.