Letter To My Love

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “But you offered to help them all, Grant,” she had pointed out.

  “And they refused, and I don’t blame them. My mother never made any secret of what she was going to leave them; it was all drawn up years ago; we all knew what we could expect. And then...”

  “If you went down again now, after they’ve all had time to think things over—”

  “Not now, Claire. Later.”

  Perhaps the coming of spring, she thought, had caused her change of mood. She had begun by sympathizing with his desire to keep away from the house; to go down too soon might have appeared too strong a hint to those still occupying it. She had admired his patience and his feelings of delicacy and she could not decide exactly when she had come to believe that his refusal to act, to move, to come to any kind of decision was the result not of consideration, but of cowardice. The house was his, and he lacked the courage to claim it.

  She came back to the present to find that her father and stepmother were beside them. Edwin looked down at his two sisters.

  “Well, are you tired, you girls?” he asked.

  Coming from anybody else, Claire reflected, the words would have had a facetious sound—but her father had never made a facetious remark in his life, and if he had, her mother would have missed the humour. Where her own spring of gaiety, her own love of laughter came from, she was unable to decide; probably from Ettie.

  She looked at her stepmother, trim and neat, the grey suit given a bridal touch by an orchid, a lacy white hat and white gloves, and wondered how much happiness she expected. From the hospital to a life devoted to this tall, handsome, white-haired, semi-professional invalid. Not for the first time, Claire tried to assess what it was about her father that had ensured him loving and lifelong service. He asked nothing; there had never been any need to ask. He accepted gravely, gently, gratefully the ministrations of sisters, wife, daughter and faithful old servants. Perhaps, she thought, it was the touch of the saint or the sage or the scholar in his appearance; he drew disciples. Claire did not think that he had ever suffered, but he had the air of one who would suffer in silence.

  She had learned, since her mother’s death, that the scholarly look hid an almost limitless vapidity of mind. The classics that filled the bookshelves in his room, the impressive works that lay on the table beside his easy chair, the serious new literature regularly ordered from booksellers—all these, she now knew, were part of the picture, but if her father had ever had intellect, it had atrophied; if he had ever had initiative or ambition, it had been smothered beneath invalid rugs or drowned in nourishing beverages. At sixty-four, his sweetness remained undiminished by suffering, his natural gentleness unruffled by opposition. And this new wife, Claire realized with a certainty that sent her already warm feeling for her close to love, would do nothing to jar or to interrupt the smooth flow of service. Edwin Marston was indeed in luck.

  “If you’re going up to change,” she asked her, “can I come and help?”

  “Come by all means”—her stepmother ushered her towards the lift—“but I’m not changing. All I’m doing is removing this orchid and this hat and these high-heeled shoes, which I can’t bear any longer.”

  She and Claire went up to the neat, impersonal room she had occupied since leaving the hospital two weeks ago. Having no home of her own, she had arranged to be married from the Gisborough hotel, with a married couple, distant cousins, to act as host and hostess.

  The room was small, but the windows overlooked the river, on to which the sun was sending flickering, tree-patterned reflections. Flowers—the bridegroom’s daily message to his bride—stood in tall vases on dressing-table, writing-table and mantelpiece, and to these Mrs. Marston directed Claire’s attention.

  “It’s such a shame to leave them here,” she said. “Would you have time to take them to a patient at the hospital?”

  “Of course. Will you write a card?”

  Mrs. Marston wrote one and placed it beside a vase. Then she turned to face her stepdaughter, and there was a short silence as the two women studied one another.

  “Claire—there’s a lot I want to say to you. I wish we had more time.”

  “There’ll be time,” Claire pointed out, “when I come home.”

  “I wish you hadn’t arranged to go and stay with your aunts.”

  “It’s only for ten days.”

  “They asked you because they felt that your father and I ought to have some time alone, and because I refused to go on a honeymoon. The very word is absurd, at your father’s age and mine. But you needn’t have gone away. You’ve spent too much of your life with old people. Don’t let them persuade you to stay on. Come home as soon as you can and let’s talk about your own wedding.”

  “If and when,” Claire said quietly.

  Her stepmother hesitated.

  “I would have said something to you earlier, Claire, but I felt I ought to wait until we were related—until I had some sort of standing. Well, now I have, so here goes: Is there anything wrong between you and Grant?”

  Claire answered unhesitatingly.

  “In the way you mean—no.”

  “That takes something off my mind, but not everything. Your father thinks there must be something wrong with the Will.”

  “There isn’t. But…”

  “But?”

  “They’re waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Let them wait. You’re the first daughter I ever had or ever will have and I’ve been worried about you. If the Will is valid, why this long delay in marrying?”

  Claire, to her own surprise, felt tears pricking her eyes. She forced them back; make-up was make-up, and there was enough speculation downstairs as it was.

  “You’re sure,” her stepmother said, watching her with a worried frown, “that there’s nothing wrong?”

  “The Will was wrong. Not legally, but morally. There had been an earlier one in which there were gifts and legacies; Grant’s mother had told them all quite openly what she was leaving them. And then, quite suddenly one morning, without a word, she left the house and had herself driven to her lawyer’s. When she told him that she was going to change her Will, he begged her to stop and reconsider. Her answer was to get up and go to the only other lawyer in Spenders, and get him to do it. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t stop her. It was drawn up, and signed, and witnessed—everything.”

  “They had no idea why?”

  “None. The only thing she said to both the lawyers was that they—whoever They were—were all in it. 'They’re all in it, all of them’ she kept repeating—she was in a terrible rage. It was probably rage that made her miss her footing as she came out of the room. She caught her heel at the top of the stairs and went crashing down to the bottom. When the lawyer and his clerk got to her, she was dead.”

  “And these people,” Mrs. Marston asked, “these people who are still in the house, were beneficiaries under the old Will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly who’s living there?”

  “Mrs. Tennant’s housekeeper, who’s called Mrs. Peel, and who has been working there for over twenty-seven years. And Grant’s stepsister. She’s a widow with a little boy named Paul. She married Mrs. Tennant’s godson, Geoffrey Summerhill, and he and she made their home with Mrs. Tennant and Grant.”

  “Isn’t there a stepbrother?”

  “Yes. But he and Mrs. Tennant loathed one another, and there was never any question of his getting anything.”

  “There was no blood tie, was there?”

  “None. Grant was twenty-two when his mother remarried; his stepbrother was about a year older, and the sister, Lotty, was eighteen. Their father died soon after the marriage.”

  “Was the house his?”

  “No. It belonged to Mrs. Tennant—or Mrs. Hewitt, as she was then. Her parents left it to her, and she refused to leave it when she married, so Grant’s father went to live there.”

  “And the second husband too?”

  “Yes. She loved th
e house, and so does … so did Grant. When I first met him, that was one of the things that struck me about him—this tremendous affection he had for his home. And that awful Will seems to have … he won’t go to the house at all. There’s no reason to suppose that the people in it aren’t prepared to move out—but since the funeral, Grant’s refused to go there, refused to discuss the future of the house, refused to ask Lotty or Mrs. Peel to come up to London to discuss their plans, or our plans. And that isn’t the worst. The worst is that Grant now says he doesn’t want the house. He says he wants to go back to Canada—for good.”

  Her stepmother considered both the statement and the tone.

  “And you think,” she said, “that he’s . . . running away?”

  “What else can you call it?” There was a note of desperation in Claire’s voice. “He loves that house. I don’t know why he does, because when I saw it on the day of the funeral, I thought it was gloomy beyond words and I don’t in the least look forward to living in it—but that isn’t the point. The point is that no matter how much Grant regretted what his mother had done, he couldn’t go further than his offer to make up their losses. When they’d refused, he should have left them to think things over, and then he should have gone down there again and talked things over. But he wouldn’t. He’s been brooding for months, because he’s known Mrs. Peel all his life, and is fond of Lotty and her little boy, and doesn’t want to turn them out. And that’s where we’ve stuck—for months. I can’t tell you what it feels like to watch a man dodging, evading, putting off, waiting for another man to get him out of his dilemma.”

  “What other man?”

  “His stepbrother. The house comes first in Grant’s affections, and his stepbrother next.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In Paris. His mother was French, and he and Lotty lived most of their lives in France. He wasn’t at the funeral because he’d had a skiing accident. When he was on his feet again, Grant wrote and asked him to come home—and he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or didn’t. And after that, Grant simply persuaded himself that he liked Canada and would like to go back — for good.”

  “Leaving the house and the problem?”

  “Yes. Letting Lotty and Mrs. Peel work it out. Is that how a man behaves? Is that how I thought my future husband would behave? He’s afraid. He’s afraid to face the harsh fact that they’ve got to get out, and that he has got to put them out—and that he has got to come to some practical arrangement about when and how. He owes it to himself, and to me—and also to them, because after all, they’ve been stuck down there waiting for him to say something, do something. I suppose Lotty Summerhill could have asked him what his plans were—but how can a housekeeper walk out and leave a house, or a gardener walk out and abandon a garden if there’s a hope of being kept on by the new owner? And that’s all. Downstairs, they’re waiting for you, and wondering why Grant and I didn’t get married long before you did.”

  “Couldn’t you have married and solved the house problem between you?”

  “That’s what I hoped—but I couldn’t get him to see it that way. As soon as he heard that his mother was dead, he decided that we would marry quietly and go down to live at Spenders—and then the Will was read, and that plan, and all other plans, came to a full stop. I realize that the Will was a shock to him, but how long are patients allowed to remain under shock? From February to May?”

  There was a pause.

  “When you come home,” her stepmother said, “you and I and Grant are going to talk this over. Your aunts aren’t going to be much help.”

  There was no need, Claire noted, to add that her father wouldn’t be much help either.

  They walked together to the lift.

  “It’s perhaps a pity,” Mrs. Marston said, “that Grant’s stepbrother didn’t come home and see about getting possession of the house.”

  “I’d like Grant to see about it, not Richard Tennant.”

  Her stepmother’s hand paused on its way to press the lift button.

  “Richard Tennant?” she repeated slowly.

  “I’ve never met him,” Claire said. “Do you know the name?”

  “Somewhere, recently, I’ve heard it. But where?”

  The lift had been summoned, and had borne them downstairs before she could remember where. And then they were surrounded by a cluster of guests, and the bride and bridegroom drove away and the gloomy forebodings of the hall porter were more than realized: there was no great harvest of tips.

  The next hour or so was spent by Claire in helping her stepmother’s cousins to complete the business details of the wedding. She had also to drive her aunts to the station; she herself was to dine with Grant before joining them at their flat. Her last task before leaving Gisborough was to go up to her stepmother’s room and collect the flowers. She made them into an attractive bouquet and pinned on to it the card she found lying on the desk; then she went down to join Grant, who was waiting to drive her to London.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes. Will you go past the hospital? I’ve got to leave these flowers.”

  He drove her there and left the engine running while he took the flowers to the door and handed them in.

  “Where,” asked Claire on his return, “are we dining?”

  “I’d like to go up to my rooms first and get out of these clothes. After that, perhaps Soho.”

  She waited in his small and dim sitting-room, and thought that it was almost as depressing as the house at Spenders. He had lived all his life at home; only on his return from Canada had he taken rooms in town in order to see as much of her as possible and avoid the nightly journey down to Spenders.

  A letter dropped into the letter-box and she took it out and gave it to Grant when he emerged from his bedroom. He looked at it, and she saw his expression change.

  “Richard,” he said.

  He did not open it until he had poured a drink for Claire and for himself. He read it through quickly, standing by the window, and then he put it into his pocket without comment. Claire raised her glass.

  “To weddings,” she said.

  She saw him flush, and regretted her words and regretted even more the faintly sarcastic tone in which they had been uttered. He spoke after a short, thoughtful pause.

  “You’ve been very patient,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But some things are worth waiting for.”

  Any other man, she reflected, would have shown his appreciation of this sentiment in a warm, almost too warm manner. But Grant merely gave her a slow, grateful smile.

  Sometimes, she realized, you got just what you asked for. She had asked for a man whose passions were under some kind of control—and here he was. There was no danger, when they were alone, of his sweeping her into a fierce embrace and making the most of the moment. There was no danger, full stop. Her somewhat limited experience of men had led her to the belief that you had to choose between the placid and the passionate, and she couldn’t complain if her preference had been taken too literally. What had become of the man who had written the long, longing, moving letters from Canada, she had no idea.

  He took her to a quiet, famous restaurant in Soho, and while they waited for the food they had ordered, they spoke of the wedding.

  “Your father,” he said, “is a wonderful man.”

  “You mean that he looked handsome and happy and at case, and made people forget he was an elderly bridegroom?”

  “That—and other things. I’ve sometimes wondered if—”

  “—if he wasn’t really as strong as a horse?”

  She saw his look of surprise, and realized that the irritation building up within her was finding voice.

  “That’s putting it rather strongly,” he said. “I was going to say that I sometimes wondered if he’d outgrown his early disorders.”

  “Whatever they were. I suppose he’s like one of those old ships that can sail in calm waters but couldn’t weather a storm. How much he can stand, nob
ody’s ever cared or dared to find out. He was a delicate baby, and they worried about his health. His parents worried and then his sisters worried and then my mother worried. I don’t think my stepmother’ll worry; she’ll just apply a professional touch. She—are you listening?”

  “No.” His voice was husky. “Claire, you’re so lovely. I… ”

  It was, she knew, no use waiting for the completion of the sentence. At no time talkative, under stress of emotion he became dumb. He resorted, now, to fumbling with the knives and forks, and she took them gently from him.

  “You were saying?”

  “I said you were lovely. I thought so all through the wedding today. And at the wedding, I realized for the first time that people were talking—talking about us, I mean. That gave me a shock. Perhaps you didn’t notice the way they were looking at us.”

  “Yes. I noticed.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. I hadn’t looked at it from that point of view before. From your point of view. I’d been seeing it as my own problem. But it won’t”—he raised his eyes and looked at her across the table, and she saw for the first time since his mother’s death something of life, something of animation in them—“it won’t be a problem much longer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Richard’s coming home.”

  She said nothing for some moments; it was safer to say nothing.

  “I don’t,” she said at last, “see quite how that disposes of your problem.”

  He did not notice the coolness in her voice, but she noted that he—who had been unable, before taking her down to his home, to describe it adequately, who had failed to give her the smallest idea of what his mother was like, or Lotty Summerhill or Mrs. Peel—was now, on the subject of Richard Tennant, growing lyrical.

  “He’s been asked to join the London branch of his firm. He doesn’t say whether he’s going to accept the offer or not, but he’s coming over to England to talk about it. I’m glad you’re going to meet at last, you and Richard. You’ll like him, Claire. He’s a good chap. He’s tall—taller than I am. And very dark — darker even than Lotty. And clever. I did better than he did at Oxford because I was a good examinee and he wasn’t, but he’s got a better brain than I have. He looks foreign, and in a way I suppose he’s not really English, though you wouldn’t know it when he talks. He speaks several languages—speaks them well. He’s going to a hotel in London, but he says he’ll go down to Spenders on Friday for the week-end. I could get Friday morning off, and you and I could go down there and arrive in time for lunch.”