Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake

by The Inn by the Lake (lit)

  As soon as the family was alone Joyce turned to her son. "Yes, Nicole is very pretty. Just like Evelyn at her age."

  Helen's face lit up; she did not see the ironical wink that passed between mother and son. Paul was fiddling with the piano; he was passionately fond of music, and this Bechstein—never used nowadays—was better than anything he had left in his own home. The Steinway had been sold long ago, of course. He was wondering if Helen would consider giving him the piano, if Nicole did not play. . . . Paul Stannisford was not very interested in the family reunion, He left all the intriguing to his wife and son.

  "If she doesn't play, I shall have someone up to give Nicole lessons, Paul." Helen interrupted his thoughts all unaware, her faded blue eyes shining with happy plans for her grandchild. "Or perhaps you would give her lessons? It's so nice to hear that piano being used again—"

  She left unspoken the fact they all realised, that the Bechstein had not been played since Evelyn ran away from home; though it had been regularly tuned.

  There goes my hope of this piano, Paul thought, without much regret. He had given up feeling much about anything. The iron will of his brother, Henry, nearly old enough to be his father, and then his wife's equally strong selfishness, had knocked most of Paul's dreams into dust. He answered lazily, "Nigel could teach her, I daresay. He's a better pianist than I am, Helen. Far better."

  "I say, Dad, that's not the same thing as giving lessons," Nigel protested hotly, ignoring his mother's frown. "Nicole may only be at the five-finger-exercise stage!"

  Helen tapped the arm of her wheel-chair absently. Sometimes her dislike of her husband's family led her to the brink of open discourtesy, until she remembered Henry's wishes. After a lifetime of obedience to an autocrat she found it difficult to realise that he was dead, that now she had control of a vast fortune, that she could do as she liked.

  "All the better if she has never touched a piano," Paul was arguing with his son, without heat. His passionate love of music was about all the boy would inherit from him, and he knew all about Nigel's bitter disappointment that there had not been enough money for his training as a concert pianist. For years they had tried to wangle the money out of Henry, but he had regarded all forms of creative art as so much waste of time, particularly in his own family.

  Now there was a faint hope that Helen might be persuaded to advance enough money for Nigel to give up his job and take up music seriously, if it was not too late. Henry, though he had been too mean to lend his brother a fiver, had made no secret of the fact that Nigel would be his heir, after he had cut Evelyn out of his will. He had thoroughly enjoyed, Paul thought, as he played a Chopin Nocturne softly, keeping them all dangling on their expectations. . . . And now Joyce was all het-up because Nicole had come back to her mother's home and might get the whole fortune. If he had not been too lazy to worry overmuch about anything, it would have amused Paul; Joyce, with her extravagant ways and social ambitions, deserved a little of her own medicine. . . .

  Joyce was frowning still at her son, who stood by the open french windows staring down the garden. The garden was by far the best part of Osterley House . . . formal, enclosed by old stone walls, it had a graciousness that was sadly lacking in the bumptious building. Nigel said sulkily, "All right, I'll give Nicole lessons if you like, Aunt Helen," because he felt his mother's eyes boring into his back, "but I won't go on with them unless she wants to learn."

  "Thank you, Nigel dear."

  Helen liked her young nephew the best of them all, though she secretly deplored the way Joyce had brought up her son; she also thought it a pity that Henry had told them about his will. It gave her an uncomfortable feeling when they were in the house. In spite of their good clothes, she always felt as if they were professional beggars. She never let them go away without a handsome present, but she suspected that the cheque did not last long. Joyce's clothes and bridge debts ran away with most of Paul's modest salary, and Nigel ran a sports car which he surely could not afford. . . .

  Nevertheless, perhaps it was as well that she had a presentable young man to take Nicole about.

  "She must have dancing lessons, also, and some riding," Helen planned aloud.

  Cinderella comes to the ball, Joyce Stannisford thought bitterly. The girl was going to have the whole box of tricks. She was also deeply thankful Nigel was here—they lived in Exeter and he could easily come over every week-end—and that her son was presentable. She said with a little laugh, "At least you can teach her to dance and to ride, Nigel."

  Nicole came in quietly in time to hear that. She looked very charming in her black frock, though there was none of last night's animation in her pale face. Her eyes were a brilliant blue under their dark lashes—those dark lashes that were such a contrast with her fair hair—and she held her small head very proudly.

  "Cousin Nigel need not trouble himself to teach me anything," she said distinctly. "I have come to visit my grand'mère, not to go dancing and riding."

  Nigel swung round from his contemplation of the garden and coloured slightly. "I say, I'll be only too pleased to take you around, Nicole."

  As he said it he realised it was true. The girl looked different from any of his girl friends, but it was a charming difference.

  "Cousin Nigel—how sweet you are!" Joyce laughed softly in a way that did not match her hard face. "It sounds like something out of Jane Eyre."

  Nicole faced her. From the first moment it was clear that they would be enemies, herself and this woman. She said quietly, "In my country we still address our relatives so," and obeyed her grandmother's smiling invitation to come and sit beside her.

  "Have a sherry, Nicole—or do you prefer something with gin in it?" Paul wandered over to the tray of drinks, amiably intent on keeping the peace. He was kind, in a weak wort of way, she decided, and to please him she accepted the sherry. Helen sat with her hands on the girl's, content to watch her. It was like having Evelyn back, and yet not quite the same. Though she spoke English without a trace of accent, there was something of French grace in the way Nicole moved, the way she draped her skirt over her feet as she sank on the stool, sometimes in the way she arranged her sentences.

  "Now that you are here, we must see that you enjoy yourself, my dear." Helen smiled into the frosty blue eyes and received a sudden, dazzling smile in return. She was proud, this child, but she was loving too. Nicole could not resist the hungry gaze of her grandmother's eyes, though she was fully aware that the others resented her. Except perhaps Nigel. "You're so young, you have had such a hard lite—it's only right that you should learn to play a little now."

  A shadow crossed the sensitive young face. It was only Helen's age and obvious frailty that protected her from the scorn in Nicki's mind. What about my mother . . . did she have much chance to enjoy her youth ... ? She wanted to shout at them, to tell them to keep their beastly patronage. But with her instinctive wisdom she knew that it was true what Jonathan had told her, that it had not been Helen's fault. I don't wonder my mother ran away from it all, she thought suddenly, hating the house, hating everything.

  The dinner was dreadful. It seemed to go on and on for ever, with the family making polite conversation because the servants were in the room all the time. Nicole thought the soup tasteless; she did not care for the salmon, and the salad dressing was not comparable with one she could mix herself; and the elaborate sweet was not half so good as Lucia's Torta alla Crema which she made for special occasions. Simpkins' solemn face as he directed Paget through the courses by a look or a gesture made Nicole want to giggle. She felt terribly homesick for the laughter and chatter that would be going on round the ancient oak table at the Albergo Fionetti, where Emilio would be recounting amusing anecdotes from his day's tours, and Bianca discussing her day at school with her plump arms sprawled on the table, and Lucia would be scolding gently. And over all the peace of sunset on Lake Lugano and the rich smell of good cooking from the kitchen beyond. . . .

  And Jonathan . . . but she would no
t think of Jonathan just now, it hurt too much. She had rushed to the window of her big, sombre bedroom upstairs as soon as Coles had left her, in time to see him striding away down the drive. Something about his walk had conveyed to her his feeling of anger; she knew he was upset about something. Perhaps she had been wrong to run up to him and kiss him goodbye like that, perhaps she had made a fool of him in front of his uncle and aunt, in front of these supercilious cousins. ... He had looked angry, too, on the platform, when she had begged him to come with her to Osterley House. Only for an instant, but he had never looked at her like that before. Yesterday had been heavenly; only yesterday evening they had been having such fun (if it had been Jonathan who was to take her riding and dancing, how she would have enjoyed it. Only, of course, he would be far too busy). And this morning, rushing round the sights of London in their taxi. ....

  It seemed incredible that forty-eight hours ago they had been having dinner on the Basle Express.

  A much better dinner than this, too, Nicole added to herself practically, though I expect all these sour-faced old servants swindle Grand'mère every day over the house-keeping. . . .

  In the drawing-room afterwards it was a little better; they could talk more freely, but Nicole answered all their questions guardedly, conscious that there was some unexplained antagonism between Joyce and herself. Helen retired early, and asked Nicole to wheel her to her bed-room, which was a sort of boudoir on the ground floor, but in the far wing.

  "It is easier for them to look after me here, and I am not supposed to climb stairs," she explained when they were alone in the boudoir, a pleasant room decorated in rose-du-Barry and gold. "I have what Dr. Cranford calls a tired heart." She smiled suddenly at the child who was so like Evelyn. "It may go on for years or just suddenly stop."

  "Oh, no," Nicole answered promptly, from conviction and not tact. "Now that my grandfather has gone and left you in peace, I think you will live for many years, very happy."

  "Dear, let us discuss this now, and then forget it—come and sit close to me." Helen was painfully conscious of the pride in the young face.

  Nicole obeyed, because she had been taught always to obey older people, but she stuck her small chin in the air. "I can never forget my grandfather's wickedness," she said clearly and quietly, "because my mother died of a broken heart. Not only because of the way they treated my father, but because after his death she wanted to bring me home, here, to you. And you never answered her letter."

  "I—I only saw that letter after my husband died." Helen found the words difficult to bring out, even now. But her love for Evelyn compelled her to be honest. "You must not call your grandfather wicked, dearest. He was just according to his lights. He was keeping his promise that your mother would never enter this house again if she—He did not want her to marry your father, you see. Of course, all this is very old-fashioned to you, but he was an old-fashioned man."

  "And you wonder that I did not want to enter this house!" Nicki jumped to her feet, the words bursting from her until she saw Helen's rose-leaf complextion go grey, and the sinister shadow round the pale lips. Then she took her grandmother's hand and held it to her tor a moment. "I am sorry, Grand'mère; if you wish we will never speak of it again. I am glad to know you did not receive the letter—"

  "It is best to try and forget the past. I will try and make the future happier for you, dearest, and it will make me much happier if you enjoy yourself. . . . Your mother would wish you to have everything, would she not?"

  Nicole smiled.

  "Maman gave me everything, everything! I did not need dancing and riding lessons and pretty clothes."

  Helen closed her eyes against the pain that was not wholly physical. How like Evelyn Nicole had sounded just now! She opened her eyes and smiled to show that she was not as ill as she felt and said gently, "Nevertheless, I think she would be pleased to see you enjoying yourself, Nicole. So let Nigel take you about when he is free, and let Joyce help you choose some new clothes. Mr. Grant is going to open a bank account for you tomorrow—no, I insist, it will save you running to me for every penny. Now ring the bell for Coles, dear, and I will go to bed."

  When her grandmother said "Mr. Grant," Nicki's heart jumped, but it was the uncle, of course, not Jonathan. And her grandmother was obviously a sick woman, with whom one could not argue. Though what she would do with a bank account of her own, perhaps with as much as fifty pounds to spend again, Nicki hadn't the faintest idea. All the same, it obviously pleased Grand'mère to give her things, and to please an old, sick woman Nicki would take presents, dress herself up like a fashion-plate, and dance all night with that dreamy young man, Nigel.

  There was just time to kiss the soft, pale cheek and wish her good-night before Coles came, cool and efficient and somehow reproachful to Nicki, though she did not address the girl directly.

  "You've stayed up too long, madam," she told her mistress as she helped her out of the chair. "We've only just got over that bad attack, only just got rid of the nurses."

  Nicole was to learn that Coles always used the royal "we" concerning her mistress, to whom she was devoted in a grim, possessive fashion. She left the room feeling guilty, though not sure of the reason.

  Nicki's future was the subject of a great deal of speculation that evening: among the Stannisfords, in the servants' hall, and in the Grants' house down in the town. When Jonathan had seen Dr. Cranford off he went to have a nightcap with his uncle, and to his amazement Stephen Grant was perturbed about his friendship with Nicole, in-stead of being delighted that he had persuaded the girl to come home.

  "Uncle Steve, I'm very fond of you, but I don't like you as a lawyer. What's on your mind?" he demanded bluntly.

  "I—er—oh, dammit, Jonathan! Bella says—I mean, that child is obviously very attached to you, and I don't want Helen to think we're fortune -hunting. "

  Jonathan stared at him, his whisky forgotten, between amusement and exasperation. "Well, we are friends, very good friends. What did you expect? You make me almost sorry I persuaded her to come—and surely the Stannisford fortune isn't as large as all that?"

  "About a quarter of a million, to be shared between Nicole and Nigel, if all goes well," Stephen answered dryly, "and even with death duties, that's not to be sneezed at, Jonathan."

  Jonathan drained his whisky, and something in his expression made his uncle add, "My dear boy, don't think I'm interfering just for the sake of interfering. I don't think it would be betraying a confidence if I told you—Helen is hoping that Nicole and Nigel will marry. She hasn't made a fresh will yet, though I've done my best to persuade her. I think she's still—er—still under Henry's thumb to some extent."

  "Do you mean to say she's going to try and match-make for Nicki—after what happened to Evelyn?" Jonathan cried, and saw his uncle shrug helplessly.

  "I'm only a solicitor; I can only carry out my client's wishes."

  "Well, I think it's damnable. I wish I'd left the girl where she was." Jonathan put down his glass steadily, but he was conscious of a deep, hurtful anger rising in him. He paused in the doorway and flung over his shoulder, with a set face, "And you needn't worry. Tell your friend Helen I am not after her granddaughter's fortune. When I marry, it will certainly not be for money."

  Bella, hurrying down the hall, saw Jonathan's face, though he stared past her with unseeing eyes, and she went into her husband's study breathlessly. "Now you've upset him, Steve—whatever have you been saying? The poor darling looks like he did when that dreadful girl married that American."

  "I've only been trying to—do my duty," her husband answered heavily. "I wish Henry had taken his wretched money with him!"

  Nicole left her grandmother's room feeling lonely and bewildered. That woman Coles had succeeded in making her feel as if she should not have come here at all, upsetting a frail old lady with a weak heart. . . . Yet she had come entirely because Jonathan and his uncle's letter had persuaded her, not because she wanted to get round an old woman to get a share
of the Stannisford money. Probably Coles and all the servants despised her, thinking as her aunt and uncle did, that she was after what she could get. . . .

  Alone in the passageway Nicole's face flushed rosily with hurt pride. She had allowed herself to be caught in a trap—to please Grand'mère she would have to be gracious, to accept at least some clothes, some pleasures . . . and all of them would be thinking that was what she had come for. All of them, except Jonathan and perhaps his relations... They knew, she thought, with a taint return of her old humour, what a job it had been to get her to come at all! But she felt in a wretchedly lonely position. It would be possible, she thought, to love Helen Stannisford; to show that tired old woman that she was forgiven for her husband's beastliness. But it would be difficult to show her any affection while those others were always watching, criticising, speculating. Nicole had no illusions about Joyce, especially. There was a snake for you

  To her annoyance, Nigel was lounging in the hall, waiting for her. He caught the expression on her face and held out his hand with a disarming smile. "Don't be cross with me, Cousin Nicole! Let me show you the garden, it's the best part of this mausoleum."

  She had to smile at the change in him, the way he teasingly said "Cousin Nicole," yet with niceness too. He was the most human of these new relations of hers, yet she did not wholly trust him. She thought he was probably under his mother's thumb. She said quietly, "It's late, and I'm tired. I was going to bed."

  He glanced at an old grandfather clock. "It's only ten—and a gorgeous evening. Come on, Nicole, I must talk to you, and I'm only here tor the week-end."

  Reluctantly she allowed him to lead her through the folding doors into the conservatory and out into the garden, but as soon as they were outside she drew in a deep breath of the warm evening air, scented with roses and stocks and mignonette, and cried impulsively, "You're right—this is much the best part of this place!"