Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake

by The Inn by the Lake (lit)

  Panic spread as she lay in the big bed, a small, desolate figure, feeling horribly alone in a world she did not very much care for.

  She had not danced very much. Only sometimes with Emilio or one of the insistent tourists at the lake-side cafés . . . and a formal private function might be a very different affair.

  A gentle knock on her bedroom door heralded the arrival of a young maid in a pink cotton uniform with her tray of morning tea. She was a pretty girl and Nicole instinctively smiled at her. "Thank you; good morning! What is your name?"

  "I'm Annie, Miss Nicole. I 'ope you 'ad a good night after your journey?" The girl was busy drawing back the heavy curtains, which Nicki had thrust aside last night without arranging them properly. She was a pretty girl, bright-faced, and often smiled. Nicki sat up in the big bed that was not as comfortable as it looked, clasping her hands round her knees. Already the sight of someone as young as herself, someone with a friendly smile, made her feel better.

  "Breakfast is at nine," Annie vouchsafed shyly, "and Miss Coles gave me a message from Madam for you—she does not come in for breakfast, but she would like you to go to the boudoir when you've 'ad yours."

  Annie was breathless with the length of her message, and added with a run, "And I'm to run your bath for you, miss, when you're ready."

  There was not a bathroom to every bedroom at Osterley House, like the hotel, but Nicole had already discovered that there were three: one downstairs for her grandmother only, one on this floor, and one at the top of the house for the staff. She smiled at Annie. "I can run my own bath, thank you—and this is all the breakfast I shall want!" She dealt with the tea, the biscuits and butter. "At home we have coffee and rolls and perhaps fruit. I cannot eat your bacon and eggs in the morning!"

  Annie laughed naturally. It was the first time she had seen the new arrival, and Coles and Mrs. Moore had been ever so catty about her luggage, and even Mr. Simpkins had unbent enough to tell them how Madam's granddaughter had tried to shake hands when the staff was introduced to her. "Foreign, that's what she is," the butler had said darkly. "Foreigners are all the same—kiss you on both cheeks one minute, stab you in the back the next!"

  Jealous old fogies, Annie thought contemptuously, looking at the face of the girl in the bed. Afraid of changes being made, below-stairs, probably! A few changes might be a good thing, when you come to think of the way Coles and Mrs. Moore, Cook and Simpkins ran the place as if they owned it! And she for one liked the look of Nicole, foreigner or no foreigner.

  "I'll tell Mrs. Moore you won't want no breakfast downstairs," she said breathlessly, "and, Miss Nicole, it is nice to 'ave you 'ome! It's nice to 'ave someone young about the 'ouse, whatever the old tabbies say!"

  With which fervent declaration Annie blushed furiously and almost ran out of the bedroom. Nicki thought it was the first real welcome she had had, except of course her grandmother's, and wished Annie could know how it had cheered her up.

  "Good morning, dearest. I'm afraid I'm very lazy, I only get up for lunch," Helen greeted her when Nicole, bathed and wearing a clean linen frock, rather shyly entered the boudoir. "I need not ask if you slept well, you look radiant. Joyce tells me you have quite a programme today—the bank and shopping, and the Milburs' ball tonight. You will like that, child." She smilingly indicated a chaise-longue near the window. "Sit down and let me look at you. You are so like Evelyn, my dear—it gives me such happiness to be able to say that."

  "Yes, I am like my mother," Nicole said sedately, but she smiled back at Helen. One could not grudge those hungry old eyes their fill.

  Helen was pleased that she had made friends with Nigel. "He is a nice boy, but I'm afraid his mother has made him a little extravagant. You will be good for him, Nicole."

  Nicki was amused at the idea. Besides, Nigel was a man, not a boy. Only a few years younger than Jonathan, eleven years older than Emilio . . . yet perhaps he was one of those persons who never grow up. Poor Nigel, who could perhaps have been a great artist if he had not been brought up on expectations!

  "I am sorry for him," she said expectedly. "I think he might have been a good pianist if my grandfather had not promised him all that money. It is not good for very young people to be promised a fortune without having to work for it."

  "Well. . ." Helen was astonished at the child's directness. In her world the subject of inheritances was skirted round with delicacy. She sighed. Henry's money seemed to have done more harm than good, one way and another.

  "I do not want you to alter your will, to leave me anything at all." Nicole got up to speak more emphatically, though her tone was respectfully gentle. "I want you to understand that, Grand'mère." She glanced at the luxurious boudoir with a small sigh, felt for the pockets of her slacks that were not there, planted her small feet well apart and clasped her hands behind her back. For an instant she reminded Helen not of Evelyn but of Henry.

  "I don't think I could stay with you," Nicki continued firmly, "if all the time we are all thinking about the money, even if we don't talk about it. I can earn my living, I have good friends in Lugano, I don't want the money that might have helped my mother and father. It's bad money."

  "Don't say that, child. Money is good or bad according to how one uses it . . ." Helen argued faintly. "But I am glad to know what is in your mind. We will not let the wretched stuff come between us, anyway. And I do want you to spend your allowance freely while you are staying here—that at least you can do to please me!"

  "I can spend it on anything—anyone—I like?" Nicole asked childishly.

  "Exactly how you like," Helen agreed. It was wonderful to have Evelyn's daughter here at last. Wonderful that she had so quickly made friends with Nigel. Perhaps, she thought wistfully, the money would in the end come to them together—and that would satisfy even Henry. There was something straight and strong in this girl that would help Nigel's weakness, and perhaps even Joyce would stop interfering then. . .

  "Thank you, Grand'rnère." Nicki stooped and kissed the old cheek softly. "I think you are very kind."

  Helen laughed. "Come and show yourself to me when you are dressed this evening," she commanded gently.

  "Using the Daimler always makes me feel like minor royalty," Joyce said when Parkinson had ushered them into the car's roomy interior and ensconced himself safely behind the glass partition. Joyce was being affable; she was pleased with the news Nigel had broken at breakfast, and she had complimented her son on being a fast worker. She had not noticed the faint expression of disgust that passed across his face as she spoke. Now she was intent on making friends with Nicole; they might as well make the best of a bad situation. Joyce was suddenly intensely grateful that she had a son, a good-looking, unmarried son, to hook this poor-little-rich-girl. She was sick and tired of being the poor relation, the hanger-on at Osterley House.

  "What is minor royalty?" Nicki asked curiously. She was a little amused herself by the way Parkinson put them into the car.

  Joyce laughed shortly. "Oh, you know—not the reigning ones, but the cousins and aunts and poor relations." She added without meaning to, "It's years since we had a car of our own."

  "I would not want a car, but I would like a boat," Nicole said thoughtfully, as the big car swept gently down towards the harbour. She added quickly, "I would like first to go to Mr. Grant's house, please, Mrs. Stannisford."

  "Oh, call me Joyce!" Joyce answered impatiently. "It makes me feel less of a museum piece. We are meeting Mr. Grant at the bank; there's no need to call at his house."

  "But I want to see Jonathan," Nicole stated definitely.

  Joyce glanced at her curiously. Nigel had not broken any confidences about Nicole's feelings for Jonathan Grant, but yesterday Joyce had not been blind to the girl's sudden affectionate leave-taking in the hall. That would be a highly unpleasant and unnecessary complication, she thought. She took a patronising tone. "My dear, I expect you've seen a lot of Jonathan on holiday, but he will be up to his eyes in work, appointments and things
, today. He is rather an important person in the medical world, you know. I wouldn't bother him today if I were you."

  "There is something I want to see him about," Nicole repeated firmly. Her face did not reveal the hurt of Joyce's words, the very plain warning. As if she did not know she must not make a nuisance of herself to Jonathan! But she wanted so desperately to see him, if only for a moment, to reassure herself that he was still her dear friend, the Jonathan she had known in Lugano, not a stranger . . . the stranger these people were presenting to her as Jonathan Grant.

  With a shrug Joyce picked up the speaking-tube and redirected the chauffeur. If the stupid child could not take a hint, maybe it was best to let her make a fool of herself. Jonathan was not the sort of man to welcome interruptions during working hours.

  The Georgian house, with its white pillars, appealed to Nicki a great deal more than Osterley House. The step was snowy white, the brasses gleaming on the dark green door, and there was a small discreet plate with Jonathan's name on it, and a row of initials that meant nothing to Nicole. Her heart was thudding ridiculously as she pressed the bell.

  A maid in a very neat uniform answered the door and ushered her into the waiting-room. "I am a friend of Mr. Grant's, not a patient," Nicki said eagerly. The girl only smiled at her.

  "I'll tell Miss Denbigh. She is the receptionist," she said, and left Nicki among the glossy magazines in the Adam room that was now given over to Jonathan's patients. She looked round at its cool elegance, sniffed the faint smell of polish, and wanted to giggle. There was something very un-Jonathan about this room, even if it was much nicer than the rooms up at the other house . . . something cool and formal that kept one at a distance....

  Miss Denbigh swished in, a middle-aged woman with a clever face, well groomed and capable. One guessed that beneath the starched coat she wore a well-cut suit. She smiled at Nicole, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

  "Miss Berenger? Good morning. The maid said you are a personal friend of Mr. Grant's, but I'm afraid he does not receive friends here at this hour." She glanced pointedly at her wrist-watch. "He has two doctors with him now; I can't interrupt him—but, of course, if you have an appointment you could wait—"

  "I have no appointment," Nicki admitted quietly, her heart heavy within her. Through those heavy folding doors, somewhere, was Jonathan. Jonathan talking about cases with doctors . . . and she had blundered into his consulting rooms like a fool. Her small face was flaming as she made her escape, after thanking the cool Miss Denbigh. What a woman! She was like a dragon protecting her employer from foolish females . . . perhaps that was why Jonathan had her, Nicki thought ruefully.

  "My dear! How nice to see you again."

  She had almost run into Aunt Bella coming through the hall, an Aunt Bella wearing a gardening apron, trailing raffia, and carrying a big basket of flowers. "Isn't it a heavenly day? Do come and see my garden. Have you been in to see Jonathan?"

  "I—I was very stupid to come at this hour." Nicki flushed again vividly and Aunt Bella wanted to hold the slender figure in her arms, to comfort the woebegone child. "Miss Denbigh said he was busy with doctors."

  "Oh, Jonathan wouldn't interrupt a consultation to see the Queen!" Bella laughed consolingly. "But I expect he will be so sorry to have missed you, all the same. Could you come and have dinner with us tonight, dear?"

  Steve would be cross with her, she thought, but she couldn't help it. If Jonathan were fond of this child—this adorable child—it would do him all the good in the world, and no family match-making should be allowed to spoil it all. . . .

  "Thank you, but I have to go to a grand affair—a ball." Nicole grinned her gamine grin suddenly, ruefully. "Mrs. Joyce Stannisford is waiting outside now, to take me shopping. But—oh, I would much rather come and have dinner with you! Thank you."

  "Run along, then, my dear." Aunt Bella put her arm round the girl's slim shoulders and gave her a little hug. "And don't forget, you are always welcome here. Some other evening, perhaps, when you are free."

  When the front door had closed behind her, Aunt Bella went out to the little cloakroom where she always did the flowers, indignant with her menfolk. Even Helen was allowing her family to interfere again with this sweet child.

  A grand affair ... a ball. That could only be the Milburs' dance for Frances's twenty-first birthday. Bella pulled a little face as she arranged the roses carefully. There was an invitation for Jonathan among the pile of personal letters upstairs; she had seen the crest on the back of the envelope. Jonathan had promised to lunch at home today; she would tackle him about it when they were alone and peaceful.

  Jonathan himself was not thinking of anything or anyone but the work that had been piling up against his return, until he drove to pay his duty-call on the matron of the nursing home where some of his private patients would be sent.

  He presented himself at Matron's office, smiling. She was an elderly woman, kind and capable, and an old friend.

  "I've come to show you I'm as good as new, and rarin' to go on the new job," he grinned.

  "Why, Jonathan Grant! Let me have a good look at you. You look wonderfully brown and fit—twenty years younger! Come and have some coffee and tell me all about your holiday."

  But it was not his holiday they talked about at any length, it was shop. It was always shop one talked with doctors and nurses in the end, he thought ruefully, as he ran down the steps to his car. Obeying an impulse, he stopped on the way home at a shop that sold radio sets and records, and asked rather haughtily for a song about a wild goose.

  " 'The Wild Goose Cries'?" The girl smiled up at him. "That's quite an old record, sir, but it's making a comeback. I'll see if we have one left in stock."

  Aunt Bella had an old portable record player some-where, he remembered. Feeling like a guilty schoolboy, he carried his record into the house, routed out the machine and set it in motion. It was quite absurd, probably Nicole did not even know the tune; yet it was hers, inescapably hers. . . .

  He beat time to the haunting tune with his pipe, staring down at the pleasant small garden that was Bella's pride and joy. Wild goose, brother goose, which is best? A wandering foot or a heart at rest . . . ?

  But would her heart be at rest, even if they persuaded her never to wander again? Would she be happy, his wild and wise little goose, in the conventional atmosphere of the old town, among the old fogies? Would she even be happy if they succeeded in marrying her off to Nigel?

  He simply could not imagine Nicole having any time for Nigel Stannisford or his parents, and he was aware of a bitter storm brewing in his own breast. Damn old Henry and his money! Nicole had said she could never be bought . . . but had he not helped to bait this golden trap for her?

  "Jonathan! I wondered who on earth could be playing the gramophone—how nice to hear it again, dear." Aunt Bella stood in the doorway, surprised and delighted,' her kindly face beaming. "What a queer tune—yet somehow beautiful."

  "You darling." Jonathan grinned as he stopped the gramophone, came across and gave her a hug. "Most aunts would have said, oh, something inane. I heard a Negro sergeant always singing that thing in Vietnam and somehow it got under my skin. I think the wild goose was as responsible for my taking a holiday as old Cranford."

  "Then I shall love it, too," his aunt replied placidly, "because that holiday has changed you, Jonathan. You're much more human."

  He raised one heavy eyebrow at her quizzically. "Was I such a monster before?"

  She considered him smilingly. "Not a monster exactly, but there's something wrong when a man forgets how to play, and you were too wrapped up in your work, dear. No man should immerse himself entirely in his job, however important it is and when you came back it wasn't only the wound in your leg that was wrong—that ghastly war had embittered you—but come and eat your lunch or Bessie will give notice."

  Stephen Grant was lunching at his club, so there were only the two of them. When justice had been done to Bessie's excellent soufflé, Aunt B
ella told him about Nicole's visit. "I ran into the poor child in the hall; your horrid Miss Denbigh had just snubbed her—one could see it in her face."

  "Oh, blast. I'm sorry, Aunt Bella, but I had no idea Nicki would think of coming here this morning." He was furious with Denbigh, but he added justly, "Miss Denbigh was only doing her duty, of course. She has strict orders—she didn't know that Nicki is different—"

  Bella knew that he was talking chiefly to himself, but she was delighted to know that, even to Jonathan, Nicole Berenger was different.

  "And Nicole, of course, did not know that you would be at work so soon," she said softly. "I do like that child Jonathan. I'm sorry she has to go into Joyce's clutches.'

  He shrugged his broad shoulders and changed the subject with decision. It was dangerous ground, discussing Nicki with Aunt Bella. The dear, sentimental creature would have him married to the girl in her imagination, and after what Uncle Steve had revealed last night, that was out of the question. Even if she loved him enough, he could not do her out of more than a hundred thousand pounds. He was comfortably off himself, but he had nothing comparable with that fortune to offer her. He wished sometimes that he had left her at the albergo, in peace, to work out her own destiny . . . yet even that wish could be selfish, he told himself; it was Nicki's right to have this fortune if she chose.

  After lunch Aunt Bella casually produced the sheaf of invitations that had accumulated during Jonathan's absence. "Here's one to the Milburs' ball, dear—Frances's twenty-first, you know—Lavinia would be pleased if you went."