CHAPTER FIVE
THE small smile quivered again at the corners of Nicole's sensitive mouth when Jonathan pointed out the White Horses of the Wiltshire downs, and for a few miles the sight of Somerset fields, so crammed with buttercups that they looked like cloth of gold, banished the look of strain from her face, but it soon returned.
"Nearly home. This is the West Country," Jonathan said when they had passed Salisbury. It was another clear, sunny day, and even after growing up in a place like Lugano, Nicki could hardly find anything to criticise in the English landscape that slid past the windows of their train. He was inwardly grateful for the weather; it was absurdly important that this child should come home to sunshine and warmth ... and according to the weather reports a good June was going to be succeeded by a flaming July. It was the best summer England had known for several years.
They had lunched on the train soon after leaving Paddington, and Nicki had pulled a little face of dismay at the dingy purlieus of the station. But she had enjoyed every moment of their sight-seeing tour of the morning, taken this time in a taxi; she had stood breathless on the terrace of the House of Commons, listening to Big Ben striking across the fair stillness of the morning; she had peered into the Abbey and the Cathedral and St. Paul's; had her glimpse of the City and the Pool of London; and insisted on wandering across "the big market"—Covent Garden. The fruit shops interested her more than the Opera House, to his amusement; and behind Henrietta Street she had discovered a tiny, hidden-away, Continental church that delighted her beyond everything.
"It is exactly like the ones at home!" she whispered, kneeling before a medieval statue of the Madonna. And indeed, in this dark, soft peace, with the smell of flowers and incense faint on the air, and the only light the flickering of many tiny candles and the warm red glow of the Sanctuary lamp, Jonathan found it hard to believe they were only a few hundred yards from the roaring traffic of the Strand.
They had collected their luggage from the hotel and caught the train with only a few minutes to spare, breathless and laughing like two children as they sped up the platform in the wake of their impatient porter.
Then suddenly the holiday mood had deserted Nicole; she had remembered where they were going; that Jonathan, too, was returning to his proper place. In Combe Castleton he would not run down a platform hand in hand with her to catch a train, nor wander into cafés to drink a Coca-cola, nor lie in an old boat and let her row him out to look at the town's lights at night... The holiday was over for both of them.
"Tired?" he asked gently.
"A little." Now they were getting so near the end of their long journey she could not even say she was terrified. He would despise her completely if he knew how her knees were knocking together and the number of butterflies in her tummy. Yesterday evening he had laughed, he had made her promise never to be afraid of anything . . . but today was different. He would not even understand why she was afraid. So she sat silent for long periods, or answered his conversation politely when he pointed out objects of interest on their journey, and stared at the cloth-of-gold fields with unseeing eyes. She, who loved growing things and flowers so passionately! She had even kept last night's faded gardenias, wrapped in the new lace handkerchief Bianca had given her.
Jonathan had given her the corner seat facing the engine, and suddenly now the train ran out of a tunnel, and there in front of them was a curving bay, and the crooked grey and red roofs of an old town, and the sea.
"Combe Castleton," Jonathan said softly, and began to get their luggage together. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the look of delighted enchantment die out of the girl's face, to be replaced by a frozen expression that was almost sullen, but there was nothing he could do about it now. For Nicki this was zero hour. He could only grasp her arm firmly as the train stopped and give her a last swift, comforting smile before they were on the platform, shaking hands with his aunt and uncle.
"Welcome home, Nicole. Your grandmother asked us to meet you and bring you to Osterley House. Waites has brought your car, Jonathan."
The old-fashioned solicitor looked very formidable to Nicole as he arranged everything so deftly, taking it for granted that his arrangements would be acceptable. She shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Grant politely, unaware that they were secretly relieved to see that she looked so presentable. The chauffeur came to take Jonathan's bags, touching his cap. "It's nice to see you back, and looking so well, sir."
"Thank you, Waites. Take care of this one, please— and I'll drive."
In the bustle of arrival—quite a lot of people had got off the train—only one painful fact arrived in Nicki's tired brain. They were going to take her away, these old people with their stiff, polite manners; Jonathan was to get into his car and drive off; leaving her at their mercy.
She whirled round to Jonathan, the one familiar person in this confusing new world, and clung to his arm, crying impetuously, "You come, Jonathan! Please come with me to my grandmother's, or I shall run away and go to a hotel!"
To the solicitor and his wife she looked like a beautiful, spoiled child, but in her panic she was oblivious of their surprised faces, even of the faintly disapproving expression Jonathan himself turned upon her. "Please!" she whispered, "Please come and help me, Jonathan!"
For an instant Jonathan could have shaken her. This was not his proud, laughing Nicole Berenger, this white-faced, trembling stranger! Though she had not seen it, he had noticed the light of approval in his uncle and aunt's eyes, until this—this childish exhibition.
Then he realised that he was looking at it all through his own eyes, not hers. Combe Castleton was his home, these were his familiar relations, even Waites was his uncle's chauffeur and had been with the family for years. To Nicki they were all strangers, stretching out hands to snatch her into a wholly unfamiliar world. Naturally she clung to the one person she knew. And after all, Jonathan thought dryly, I'm the one responsible for bringing her here.
He took her arm in his usual warm, friendly grip. "All right, petite âme. Waites can take my car back." It was his especial name for her—their secret joke—and it comforted her at once. Old Lucia, when she wanted to scold, always accused one of having a "little soul," and when he had translated it into French, Nicki had explained that "âme" also meant one's heart, the essence of one's personality. In Jonathan's mind it became also little wild goose. . . .
Aunt Bella took the girl's other arm and spoke with all the kindness of her heart. "Of course Jonathan can come with us; we should have thought of it, Steve—and Helen will be delighted."
"Knowing Jonathan, I imagined that he would want to get into his own quarters without delay," Stephen Grant said dryly, but Nicole was beginning to see the twinkle of kindly humour beneath his craggy manner. "And Helen has the whole tribe waiting to welcome this young lady— Joyce and Paul, and Nigel, of course. But come along, she will be waiting and anxious—" He bustled them gently to his waiting car, an ancient Daimler that could hold them all comfortably. In front of it, Nicki saw Waites get into a long, low-slung black car and drive it off. She did not know it was a Jaguar, but she did recognise the grace and beauty of its expensive lines.
"You sit here, Nicole, beside me—Jon can keep his uncle company. I'll try and tell you about this town as we go up to Osterley House—" Aunt Bella was chatting away affably to try and take away the strained look on the girl's face. Nicole listened with one ear; the other one was listening to Jonathan while Stephen Grant drove them slowly and carefully out of the station drive. Jonathan was saying: "What on earth did Helen want to have those vultures for, so soon?" in a tone that told Nicki he did not care much for Joyce and Paul and Nigel, whoever they might be.
The car climbed through the pleasant old seaside town to the higher, residential district, with Aunt Bella chirping about various buildings of interest. "We live down in the town; in the days before cars it was handier for my husband to reach his office, and now, of course, Jonathan has the ground floor for his professional rooms
—"
Nicki was very willing to listen to news of Jonathan. She was surprised at this item, though. "I thought he would live at the hospital?"
"Oh, no, dear. He is a consultant, not a resident member of the staff." Aunt Bella sighed, wondering how to explain the intricacies of the National Health Scheme piled on top of the intricacies of the old medical etiquette. "He has private patients also; he operates in several nursing homes. He is a specialist, you see—"
Nicole nodded eagerly. "I understand. Like Dr. Adler, of Zurich." And she told the interested woman all about Pietro's accident, and how Jonathan had performed the emergency operation.
"I saw something about it in the paper; not much. Dr. Crantord was very cross"—Aunt Bella smiled reminiscent-ly—"because Jon had promised him to do no work at all. That was why Dr. Cranford forbade him to take his car abroad; he wanted him to rest completely."
"I think he has rested well," Nicki said softly, remembering the change in Jonathan, "except for that one night."
"Well, he is certainly looking very well, and so brown! But we are having a wonderful summer here for once, Nicole, so I hope you will not be too disappointed in England." She turned to look at the girl by her side and was struck by the soft glow on her face. Of course, they had been talking about Jonathan instead of looking at the views! The child was staring now at the back of his head, that well-shaped head with its thick, unruly brown hair, and Aunt Bella chuckled inwardly. If that was how the land lay, her favourite nephew might yet find the happiness she had always wanted for him. But Steve called her a sentimental old idiot whenever she dreamed dreams for him, pointing out that Jon got along very well without women hanging on to his coat-tails.
Osterley House was inland, away from the sea, in the residential district. It was a mansion, built in the Victorian era of the early industrial boom, and the Stannisford who built it had been lucky enough to own coal-bearing land in Wales. The architect who designed it had been unsure of his periods, with the result that it was an extra-ordinary hotch-potch of Victorian grey stone, pseudo-oriental cupolas, glass porches, and towers and portico trying to pretend they were Tudor. Jonathan had warned her that the house was hideous, and it was hideous.
Nicole stared at it with dismay. Going up the curving drive, gay with rhododendrons, she had been almost hopeful, but this huge, ugly, pretentious house, staring at her from its many flat and bowed windows, made her heart sink. The Albergo Fionetti was a palace of grace compared with Osterley House.
Stephen Grant pulled up sedately under the big portico, and as Jonathan jumped out to help them from the car, the big front door was solemnly opened by a manservant. The hall was as big as the foyer of the hotel, and seemed to be full of people, and Nicole felt an irresistible desire to giggle as Jonathan handed her up the steps. She knew, she could feel it through the hand he held so firmly under her elbow, that he felt the same. It was all so pompous, so ridiculously like an early Hollywood film of the long-exiled princess returning to her father's castle. . . .
Only her father's castle had been a Paris atelier on the fifth floor of an old ruined house in Montmartre, she remembered suddenly, and did not want to giggle any more. The next few moments were a flurry of introductions, after Jonathan had led her up to the white-haired little lady in a wheelchair.
"My darling, it is lovely to have you home!" Helen Stannisford whispered, holding her hand in one that trembled, and Nicole dropped the demure curtsey that was the due of old people. But she did not curtsey to Joyce, that hard-faced, middle-aged woman who stared at the girl wile she shook hands indolently, or to Paul, who was aparently an uncle on her grandfather's side, nor to Nigel, her cousin. Though Nigel, with his fair, boyish head and laughing eyes, seemed the most human of the lot. At least he smiled at her as though he was glad to meet her.
"Thank you, Jonathan, for bringing her home safely." Helen was too moved to notice the danger signals. This child was so like Evelyn it seemed impossible that she would not at once feel the love that surged in the old, weak heart. Helen had succumbed reluctantly to Joyce's suggestion that they should be at Osterley House when Nicole arrived.
"It will help the awkward beginnings, make the child feel she has a family after all, and I can help her choose some decent clothes," Joyce had insisted. Helen had never been able to withstand the strong wills of her husband's family, but she was longing now to have Nicole to herself.
Apparently there were servants to greet too, and as they were briefly introduced, Nicki made the mistake of starting to shake hands with them also. Simpkin, the butler, stepped back from the proffered hand with pained reproach on his face; and the girl merely nodded to the others. To Mrs. Moore, the housekeeper; to Paget, the parlourmaid; and Coles, her grandmother's personal maid who was to look after her also for the present; to Flora, the head housemaid.
While his uncle and aunt chatted casually with the family, Jonathan stood in the shadows watching Nicole going through this perfectly ridiculous ordeal. The return of the prodigal granddaughter! He guessed that Joyce, who was introducing the staff crisply, with the air of the-woman-in-possession, had stage-managed the whole thing.
And there, sitting rather desolately on one of the black-and-white marble squares of the hall, was Nicole's precious basket and her travelling bag. Coles picked them up as if they might bite her. Jonathan wished they could. For the first time he felt affection for the horrible basket.
"This is all the baggage? If Mademoiselle will give me the keys I will unpack for her."
Nicole wondered why servants referred to one always in the third person. And why these so very English women tried to sound as if they were French.... She said abruptly, "That is all the baggage and there are no keys. I will unpack it myself, thank you."
"Let Coles show you your room, dear. I expect you will want to freshen Up after your journey. Then we will have sherry in the little drawing-room. Do not bother to dress for dinner, tonight," Helen said quietly.
The staff had melted away, having given Nicole what Jonathan privately called the "once-over" beneath their mask of old family retainer. Joyce had taken her husband and son over to the group around Helen's chair, and Nicole was obediently starting up the stairs in the wake of Coles's stiff back. Jonathan felt a longing to call her back, to grab the horrible basket from the supercilious maid's hand, to run away with Nicki from the whole fantastic, Victorian situation. . . . Poor child, he'd had no idea he was letting her in for anything like this.
He wished that he could have had a private word with her, to reassure her. Helen alone would be all right; she was obviously extremely happy to have Nicole at last under her roof. . . . But what a crashing mistake to have allowed Joyce and her family to muscle in on the reunion! To Jonathan the staff was unimportant either way; he could not imagine himself in Nicole's shoes enough to understand the intense humiliation a young girl could suffer through tiny things. . . .
Suddenly she turned and ran down the stairs again, and put her arms up to give him a quick hug, kissing him on both cheeks. "I'd forgotten to say thank you, Jonathan— for bringing me safely home!" she said, in a passable imitation of her grandmother, and only Jonathan heard the heartache and the mockery beneath her tone.
"It'll be all right, later, when the two of you are alone," he answered in a very quiet voice, and she ran away up the stairs without waiting to argue, afraid that she would burst into tears in front of them all, afraid that she would run away.
Probably, she thought, as she looked round the comfortable bedroom, when Coles had departed, I shall run away... but not too soon, not soon enough to give, Grand'mère a shock. . . .
Her grandmother was nice. No one could have guessed what a shock the tiny, silver-haired woman had given Nicole. This was how her mother would have looked, if she had lived to grow old. . .
"Very touching!" Joyce commented acidly. "You seem to have made quite an impression on the child, Jonathan."
He was conscious of the group by the wheel-chair surveying him a
fter the little scene. Aunt Bella smilingly, Uncle Steve frowningly, young Nigel grinning openly.
For once Helen stood up to her relations. She said firmly, "I owe a great deal to Jonathan for—everything. Naturally Nicole feels strange here, and he has been kind to her—"
"Not very difficult; she's a pretty girl," Joyce commented. "But at that age they always prefer an older man. It's a father complex or something. Nicki thinks she can trust you, I daresay, Jonathan."
Jonathan would have liked to murder the woman. Instead, he managed to smile, and addressed himself entirely to Helen. "Nicki is tired and a little confused, Mrs. Stannisford. She has always lived simply—"
Simply—he thought with self-con tempt; the child has lived like a gypsy, like a happy little gypsy. . . .
"My dear Jonathan, we live simply enough these days!" Helen argued gently, oblivious of the irony in his eyes. To her, the great house, half permanently closed up, and a staff of six servants, was indeed living simply. "Won't you come and have a sherry, if you won't dine with us?" she added.
"Thank you, but I'm afraid I must go. Dr. Cranford is coming in this evening to see me." Jonathan made his exit almost brusquely, feeling that he would stifle if he stayed in the museum-like atmosphere of Osterley House another minute.
"What an impatient man he is," Joyce murmured, as Simpkins passed round the tray of drinks.
"He wants to get back into harness, I expect," Stephen Grant answered absently. He was worried. Worried and annoyed. What on earth had Helen been thinking of to let Joyce and her gang get into the house before the child herself? he wondered. And after a few minutes' casual conversation he and his wife went away also. The car was still in the portico, so Jonathan must have walked.
Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake Page 14