by Jane Arbor
Jess did so, feeling glad that apparently he approved enough of her friendship with Liane to want her to become part of the circle of which he had spoken, but realizing that a time might come for her when to visit Quintains often to see Liane might call for more courage than she possessed. Meanwhile, there was a bittersweet tang about accepting this one invitation from Muir Forester, which she could not resist.
Muir went on. “Peter will still be on leave won’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good, and with Jane and Edgar Bretton that makes seven of us so far. I think twelve for dinner, the others to come on later for dancing. Jane will know who should be asked. Have you met Mrs. Bretton yet, Miss Mawney?”
“Yes. She was at Mrs. Tempton-Burney’s when I was making a visit.”
Muir went to sit down, idly picking a skein of wool from Jess’s lap as he passed and dealing with it expertly before handing it back to Mrs. Seacombe. He said, “Yes, they are friends, I know. There is a daughter there, isn’t there? Would she make a friend for Liane, do you think?”
“Petra Tempton-Burney? She is younger—eighteen, I think—but she is a charming person,” said Jess.
“Does she live at home, or has she a job?”
“She lives at home—with the job of looking after Mrs. Tempton-Burney.”
Something in Jess’s tone must have struck Muir. He interposed quickly, “... who is something of a hypochondriac, according to Jane Bretton. Is the girl happy, would you say?”
“She is the happiest-sounding person I know. Obviously she adores her mother and won’t complain, but she is wise enough to know that she could make life easier for both of them if she were given a chance to do the things she has real talent for. She is eating out her heart with longing to train for veterinary work.”
“Has she any aptitude for it?”
“All she needs, I should think. She has a genius with animals and birds, and though she is essentially an outdoors girl, in her last year at school she set herself to pass matric really well with the sole purpose of going straight on to her veterinary course after it.”
“And what stands in her way? Lack of money—or Mrs. Tempton-Burney?” queried Muir dryly.
“I don’t really know, and Petra won’t admit that it could be anyone’s fault—only that it happens to be her fate, and she means to make the best of it.”
Muir nodded thoughtfully, and Jess found that she was surprised at the way in which he had drawn Petra’s story from her, at the ease she had found in talking to him. Time seemed to have flown since they had dined—and it was with something of a shock that she realized that, though they had been gone for close upon an hour, Liane and Peter Seacombe had not yet returned.
She looked at Mrs. Seacombe to see whether she had noticed their prolonged absence and judged, from her frequent glances toward the door, that she had. And presently Muir noticed it, too.
“Very absorbing, the garden, apparently,” he remarked. It was Mrs. Seacombe’s cue. “Really, Mr. Forester, I had no idea that Peter meant—” She folded her embroidery with nervous hands and, with Jess’s help, stood up, leaning on her cane.
“I’m concerned as to whether Liane took a coat with her. Did she?”
“Oh, I think so. She said she was fetching one, but—” Mrs. Seacombe broke off as the door opened and Liane, with Peter behind her, stood upon the threshold.
Her face was flushed beneath its delicate, golden tan, and she seemed to bring a breath of the scented night air with her. She looked quickly in Muir’s direction, as if expecting his disapproval.
His glance was for the wisp of chiffon about her shoulders. “I should have thought you would be sensible enough to take a proper wrap if you meant to be out late,” he said.
Peter’s voice, warm with amusement, came in reply. “I told you it was an idiotic bit of nonsense to have bothered to fetch,” he said to Liane. His voice seemed to caress her.
“It’s all right. I knew I should be warm enough, and I was,” she protested.
“Peter, it is you who should have been more considerate!” said an annoyed Mrs. Seacombe.
“I know, and I’m abject. But we began to talk, and somehow we got absorbed.” His smile, as he followed Liane into the middle of the room, was boyishly disarming. Clearly he was the only person there who was unaware of any crosscurrent in the atmosphere of disapproval around him.
Liane stood, childishly fingering the folds of her skirt. “Well, I think I’ll go to bed now,” she said in a small voice, addressing Muir.
He nodded. “Good idea, and I’ll send you up a nightcap that I want you to drink without a fuss, in case you may have caught cold.” He held out his hand to her and squeezed her fingers gently when she went to lay hers in it.
It was Jess’s opportunity to leave, and she stood up to bid Mrs. Seacombe and Liane good night. Then Liane had gone and Muir was waiting to drive Jess back to her rooms. They made conventional small talk as they went and parted on Mrs. Boss’s doorstep with a formal word of farewell.
Jess was trembling a little as she watched the car’s tail light wink and disappear up the hill toward Quintains. Its last gleam seemed to mock at her, emphasizing her probable dismissal from Muir Forester’s thoughts or concern until they should meet again. Not for him to guess at the disturbing magic she found in his presence, in his voice, in the rare smile turned upon her. For him, a gentle, patient wooing of Liane that took no thought of self. For
Liane, a molding of her ways to his, leaving no room for doubt of love. For Jess now—only the slow, painful building of a facade against a man’s indifference, against the curiosity of her friends, against the self-pity that destroyed...
On the day she was next to visit Mrs. Seacombe, Liane phoned in the morning to say that Peter had hired a car for the duration of his leave and was going to drive her to Norwich for the day.
“Muir is away, but he couldn’t mind, could he?” she asked Jess wistfully.
How was Jess to answer that? Was it something Muir could not be expected to mind in the circumstances? She temporized with, “I shouldn’t think he could object to your going out with Peter when he is away and not able to take you himself. But you won’t be making any secret of it, will you?”
Liane had sighed. “Mrs. Seacombe will see that he hears about it. Jess, why does she dislike me so?”
But Jess had contrived not to answer that directly, and indeed she did not believe that Mrs. Seacombe disliked Liane for herself, but only misjudged her aptitude for a useful life and had firmly set her face against any entanglement of her son in Muir Forester’s and Liane’s affairs. But perhaps it was inevitable that Liane should read her attitude as one of personal dislike.
On her own free day that week Jess decided that she, too, would spend it in Norwich, as it was a city she did not know. She had been assured by several of her patients that she must visit the castle and the cathedral without fail.
There was one direct morning train from the halt at Crane, but in midweek it was not much patronized, and Jess supposed that she might even be the only passenger to be picked up there. To her chagrin, however, she found that Mrs. Bretton would be traveling, too, and when, after their nod of greeting to each other, a too cooperative porter shepherded them both into the same compartment, the situation had to be accepted as gracefully as possible. They were to spend an hour in each other’s company, whether they liked it or not!
For a time Jess sat looking out of the window, being only too well aware that she was being subjected to a furtive inspection of her appearance from head to foot. Mrs. Bretton was exquisitely correct for a day’s shopping in the city, in a black, tailored suit with a tiny veiled hat, but as the weather was still hot and Jess was bound for sight-seeing rather than shopping she was in low-heeled shoes, and the navy linen frock and wide-brimmed straw hat she had worn on the day she had first encountered Muir Forester. She had not worn it since then but had put it on this morning in a gesture against the danger of becomi
ng sentimental about it, of wrapping it up in the lavender of, “I wore it on that day—” and so never wanting to wear it again. Now she felt she had given Mrs. Bretton the satisfaction of feeling much better dressed than she was.
And perhaps it was this sense of superiority that presently led the older woman to break the silence with, “It’s extraordinary, isn’t it, that a train can possibly take an hour to do less than twenty-five miles?”
Jess smiled in response to this apparent olive branch. “Is that all it is?” she queried.
“About that. Though, of course, I usually drive in, when Edgar can let me have the car,” added Mrs. Bretton, lest it should be supposed she was entirely dependent upon the railway for transport. “But he wanted it today, so as I must have a fitting for my dress for Liane Hart’s twenty-first birthday party, I had to make the best of coming by train. Such a bore—”
She waited for Jess’s comment, but when none came she went on. “I daresay you may have heard from Mrs. Seacombe when you have been attending her that Mr. Forester means to give a party for Liane?”
“Yes, I had heard about it,” said Jess noncommittally.
“When he told me about it and asked me to help with his guests I told him I thought him so right to want to take Liane out of herself, not to let her droop so. I think Muir must feel that she is a little colorless and without any real poise. And I happen to know that of all things Muir Forester admires in a woman it is poise—”
Jess exclaimed quickly, “Colorless? Surely Liane Hart is vividly beautiful? And besides, she is completely natural, which even Mr. Forester must find as attractive as any acquired poise?”
“Even Mr. Forester?” echoed Jane Bretton, narrowing her eyes at the corners. “Really, nurse, you shouldn’t make the mistake of belittling Muir’s standards! I venture to think that I know him better than you can, and I happen to know that when he marries her he will expect in Liane other qualities than that rather ingénue beauty of hers. The ultimate mistress of Quintains will need poise and self-possession aplenty, not to mention an ability to manage Muir himself with some subtlety!”
“He is not buying Miss Hart’s acceptance of him,” murmured Jess.
“But she would be a fool to refuse him, wouldn’t she?” was the retort. Jane Bretton yawned delicately behind a black-gloved hand. “Perhaps we waste our breath on speculation. I admit I am expecting that, even if there’s to be a long engagement because of Liane’s bereavement, we may hear the announcement of it at the party.”
“Perhaps we may.”
Jane Bretton’s head tilted. “We? You mean—? Muir didn’t mention—”
“Perhaps Mr. Forester consulted you only about the guests whom he hadn’t already invited himself?” suggested Jess smoothly, deriving some satisfaction from Jane’s discomfited stare before she recovered herself sufficiently for another shaft.
This time she said, “Apparently, through attending Mrs. Seacombe, you have come to know Mr. Forester better than I thought. And in quite a short time, too! But, of course, I should have realized it when he approached me the other day, asking me to give him an introduction to Eva Tempton-Burney, because of some of her affairs that you had discussed with him, nurse!”
Jess whitened. “Mr. Forester asked me about Petra Tempton-Burney—whether she was likely to make a friend for Liane!”
“But wasn’t it extremely indiscreet of you to gossip about one of your patients, even to Mr. Forester?”
“Petra isn’t a patient of mine!”
“But Mrs. Tempton-Burney is.”
“Mr. Forester asked me about Petra, and I told him what I knew about her,” maintained Jess doggedly.
“No doubt conveying that she is a martyr to the care of her mother?”
“Of all people, Petra is not martyred!” protested Jess hotly.
“Then how, I wonder, did Muir gain the impression that she is? Do you seriously suggest that Eva’s name was not mentioned between you?”
“It was, of course. In telling him about Petra I had to say that she lived with her mother, and I did say that she had special talents and ambitions that were not finding scope—”
“Ah, I thought so! And you still consider you were discreet, nurse? I daresay there was some excuse for you—you were flattered by Mr. Forester’s concern for anything you could tell him. But really you know, I am wondering just how Dr. Gilder—or even your district superintendent—might view idle mischief making of that sort? Mightn’t they be very disturbed?”
Trembling with indignation, Jess said, “Perhaps you would care to convey it to them?”
“I should dislike extremely being the instrument of getting you into trouble, nurse. You were very lucky to be appointed to this district at all. You might not find it easy to get another.”
“I think I could expect justice.”
“And I should like to believe that it would be enough to exonerate you. However, let it rest. I don’t wish to say any more about it.”
“But I do! I shall report to Dr. Gilder exactly what passed between Mr. Forester and me and let him judge for himself.”
Mrs. Bretton shrugged. “As you please. But kindly don’t bring me into it.” It was a tactical retreat, but Jess was too angry to take advantage of it.
She said shortly, “I shouldn’t dream of doing so.” Thereafter they sat in hostile silence until the train drew into Norwich, where they took different ways.
Jess walked up into the center of the city where she bought a small guidebook that contained a map, and took it into a cod, attractive cafe to study it. She preferred to do her own exploring, rather than to join any of the parties being conducted around the places of interest, and when she had had coffee she went to the castle. Afterward she lunched at a hotel and wandered around the stalls on Market Plain, amused and beguiled by the blandishments of the market men whose passionate claims that they were giving away their stock were an entertainment in themselves.
Then she went to the cathedral and after seeing around it was in time for evensong, which she attended, finding her whole spirit uplifted in tune with the soaring voices of the choir. When she came out from the soft cathedral light into the white glare of the sunshine, she was dazzled by it, until she turned into a narrow street where the shop blinds afforded some welcome shade.
It was an attractive street that seemed to be brooding in siesta without troubling too much about finding immediate customers for its antique and print shops. Jess lingered, looking in the windows and feeling very covetous of the exquisite china and fine furniture on display. But in one window there was a framed sampler that she thought she might afford as a memento of Norwich, so she ventured into the shop’s dim interior to ask about it.
“Certainly. We have others, too, if you’d like to see them?” was her cordial welcome from the soft-voiced proprietor as he produced them from a drawer and left her to examine them at her leisure.
She was still doing so when he passed her on his way to the door in order to welcome another customer. And she was aware of a tall figure silhouetted against the light there at the same time as she heard the shopkeeper say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Forester. You are very welcome indeed!”
Jess’s heart missed a beat. Muir Forester here, and she had thought he was still away from home! He came down the couple of steps into the shop, looking about him but not seeing her at first. She bent her head over the samplers again, looking at them but not really seeing them while she told herself that this was the first real test of the composure that must be her armor against loving him without hope, against the enchantment of the senses at being near him, against the betrayal of the heart at hearing his voice.
He said, “Yes, well—I’m on my way from Lincoln and I looked in to see if you could show me some china in the willow pattern. Nothing shoddy or modern, of course. Just a few pieces of quality from one of the original makers. I want them for a particular purpose—” He broke off, noticing Jess. And it was as if his very gaze compelled her to turn around t
o greet him.
He looked down at her. “Perhaps I couldn’t have asked for anyone more suitable to help me to choose willowware for the Welsh dresser,” he said cryptically. “Have you time to look at what Mr. Penmyre here may have to show us?”
“Yes, of course—”
He indicated the samplers. “But you were choosing one of these?”
“Yes, but I’ve already made my choice.” She turned to the hovering Mr. Penmyre. “Thank you for letting me see the others, but I’ll take the first one I saw, if I may.”
“Certainly, madam.” As he wrapped it he turned a troubled face to Muir. “I wish I had something for you, Mr. Forester, but I haven’t. Nothing, at least, of quality I’d ask you to buy or that you’d be likely to take.”
“Hmm. A pity, that. Is there anyone else you could put me onto?”
“Yes. You might try—” Mr. Penmyre mentioned a few dealers’ names, at each of which Muir nodded, as if he recognized them. And when he and Jess emerged from the shop he indicated his car standing at the curb. “Would you care to join the hunt with me?” he asked. “None of these places is far afield.”
They visited at least six antique shops before Muir found what he wanted. And by that time Jess felt herself indeed a partner in the hunt, sharing his disappointment at each blank and enjoying his success when it came.
“This is really something,” he said to the dealer.
“Of course it is, sir. Consider the maker—and the date—”
Muir handed one of the plates to Jess. “Does it compensate?” he asked quietly.
“Compensate?”
“For the loss of your own willowware, which you say enhanced the dresser so much?”
“Of course. It’s lovely. Mellow and homely, as if someone had loved it all its life.”