"What a hope! My dear Aunt—a twenty-first dance should be crammed with trendy young things!" Jonathan looked at his watch. "And probably the hospital will keep me too late to change into glad rags this evening."
"Don't let them," Bella answered calmly. "If you are not careful, Jonathan, they'll have you back in your treadmill within a week—eating, drinking, sleeping surgery Now this thing of the Milburs' is something you should go to—everyone will be there. Frances herself adores you Besides, you'll be some support for Nicole."
"Nicole?" He glared at her. "What has Nicki to do with this affair? What are you up to, Aunt Bella?"
"Nothing, my dear. I had nothing whatever to do with it, I assure you! I know that Helen told Lavinia when Nicole would be arriving, and Lavinia said something about it being in time for Nigel to bring her to the ball. And today Nicole said she had to go to a 'grand' dance which she seemed to dread a little, so—obviously "
Nicki. Nicki at Fourways, that lovely old manor house; Nicki, shy, wild little Nicki among all those old snobs, Lady Lavinia being patronisingly sweet to her because she was Helen's granddaughter. . . Nicki, who was actually a trifle older than Frances, yet who seemed so much younger. Poor little Nicki, they hadn't wasted any time in pushing her into her appointed niche!
"I think that was what she wanted to tell you, dear," Aunt Bella said smoothly. "I'm afraid there isn't time to answer the invitation properly, but I did half promise Lavinia that you would be there. There is always a shortage of young men at a dance nowadays."
"The hell you did!" Jonathan grinned at her wickedly. "When you knew perfectly well that I loathe these full-dress affairs."
Aunt Bella smiled placidly. "I think you'd be a comfort to Nicole," she repeated gently, "and, after all, you are her sort of guardian, aren't you? I mean, you brought her here, and your friendship will be a lot safer for her than young Nigel's—"
It was on the tip of Jonathan's tongue to tell her that her husband was plotting to make Nicki young Nigel's wife, but all he said was, "We'll see what time I get home." Driving furiously up the hill to the hospital, he thought of Nicki as he had first seen her, in old faded jeans and a ragged shirt, and his heart was sore.
"Helen, that woman of yours gives me the shivers!" Stephen Grant smiled as he stooped for a moment, clasping the hands of his old friend.
"Coles?" Helen laughed softly. "Poor Coles! She tries to keep me alive by wrapping me in cotton-wool, Steve. When one considers that she will gain by my death, that is really rather altruistic of her!"
"Oh, I think she's fond of you, in her way. But it's high time we drew up your new will, Helen, if I may say so —the one you made on Henry's death was nothing but a copy of his, after all."
"I know. I was too upset to think very clearly. Nicole is at the hairdresser's, Steve—that is why I sent for you this afternoon."
The tall, silver-haired laywer looked down at her with quizzical despair. "So you had to see her first. What do you think of your granddaughter now you've got her, Helen?"
Helen looked up at him with happy eyes, and he was struck by the renewed youth in her face. She clasped her small hands over the arms of her wheel-chair. "Need you ask? She is so like Evelyn, Steve! And not only in looks. She has Eve's loving heart and generosity. . . ."
"I understand that her father was a decent chap, too," Steve contributed dryly. "Well, now we can get down to business. I'll make notes of your wishes, and we'll submit the draft to you within the next few days."
Helen laughed softly. "I thought you had retired, Steve."
An answering smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, and she realised afresh what a distinguished-looking man Stephen Grant was . . . Bella had been lucky. She put the thought firmly behind her, as disloyal to Henry. Poor Henry, whose temper had cut himself off from so many of life's joys. . . .
"I have retired, except for a very few affairs I like to keep in my own hands. Old clients and old friends, like yourself, Helen. Otherwise golf and chess and Bella's beloved garden make up my whole life."
"Well, I'm afraid you are not going to approve of my new will, either, Steve"—the old lady leaned forward a little—"so I wondered if you would rather send some other member of the firm to take the notes?"
She remembered the silver revolving pencil in his hand so well. She could see, even with her eyes shut, Steve's precise movements as he wrote with it, and the beautiful copperplate that evolved. What he called rough notes were never rough scribbles. . . .
"Oh, Helen " There was a hint of exasperation in his tone. "My dear, I do hope you're not going to—to prolong that old folly of Henry's! I know you won't hear a word against him, but surely enough harm has been done—"
"Yes, enough harm has been done." She spoke almost absent-mindedly. Steve could have shaken her if she had not been so frail. Yet today there was a new resolution about her, some quality he could not place, and there was nothing absent-minded about her when she spoke again, and her faded blue eyes looked directly into his.
"Steve, whether you approve or disapprove of my new will, I want you to know that Nicole does not wish for a great deal of money." Her smile was suddenly reminiscent. "She made herself quite clear on that point this morning."
Stephen shrugged impatiently. "Nicole is a young girl who's probably never had twopence to bless herself with! How can she possibly know whether or not she wants the responsibility of a great fortune?" he demanded irascibly.
Helen sighed. "I think Nicole is wise. Wiser than you, wiser than me, wiser than Henry. Perhaps because she has had so little she knows what is really valuable in life. You must leave this to me, Steve. If you are not prepared to draw up the will, I'll get some other firm to do it."
He stared at her. This was a new Helen. A Helen he had not encountered for many, many years. That child Nicole seemed to have bewitched them all, brought something fresh and strong-willed into their lives. Jonathan was subtly changed; Bella was already absurdly fond of the girl; and now Helen.
"Very well." He spoke more heavily than he realised. "You know perfectly well that a lawyer must carry out his client's wishes, my dear—whatever his private opinion of them!"
"Turn round, darling, so I can see better."
Slowly, obediently, Nicole pirouetted in front of her grandmother's chair in the boudoir. All day she had been docile, obedient—ever since that moment of bitter disappointment at not being allowed to see Jonathan. She had managed to compose herself before joining Joyce again in the car; Aunt Bella's kindness had been like a warm fire over the sudden frozen gulf that separated her from Jonathan. And she had no intention of revealing her feelings to the observant Joyce.
"He was busy, of course. Jonathan's time is very valuable, you know," Joyce had observed with some satisfaction.
"I saw Mrs. Grant," Nicole had answered sedately, "and that was very nice. She has invited me to dinner."
The shrewd old busybody, Joyce thought vindictively. Of course she's in the know about Helen's will. . . .
That anyone could take a sudden liking to the little orphan beside her, without regard to her being a possible heiress, did not occur to Joyce. After a lifetime's work on that old brute, Henry, and later on Helen, she thought it would be the last word in unfairness if Paul and Nigel were to see the money slip through their fingers now, almost at the last moment. Helen could not live much longer; Dr. Cranford had been severe in his warnings.
Mr. Grant had been waiting for them at the bank. He had detached Nicole from Joyce with a suave tact that left the older woman in an adjoining office while they proceeded to the manager's sanctum. He felt it incumbent on Mm to give the child a word of warning when they were alone for a moment.
"Mrs. Stannisford senior has instructed me to place five hundred pounds in your account here, Nicole. You are to spend it how you please; it is a personal allowance. But there is no necessity to tell—er—any other members of the family the figure—"
"Five hundred pounds! But Ï shall never want to spend as much as th
at, Mr. Grant!"
He was touched to see that the girl was genuinely shocked by her grandmother's generosity, though he was also afraid her ignorance of money would lead to foolish extravagances—it certainly would if Joyce directed the spending.
"I'm afraid you will have to take the gift, it's all ar-ranged," he answered dryly, wondering how long it would be before Nicole learned to spend money like water, and there was no time for further private conversation. The manager joined them, welcoming Nicole as gravely as if he had heard nothing of her family history, and she was initiated into the mysteries of a cheque book and quarterly bank statements. Her specimen signatures were written with a small defiant flourish because her hand was trembling.
Nicole Berenger. . . . She wrote it proudly, her father's name. It was absurd, of course, but she need not spend the five hundred pounds. She would buy a dress for this ball tonight, and whatever they thought necessary for her wardrobe . . . but nothing else. To be paid five hundred pounds for doing nothing! She had never in her life had an allowance; she did not know whether it had to last a year, or a lifetime, and she was too shy to ask Mr. Grant. He was so like an older Jonathan, yet there was some legal severity in him that was not in Jonathan. She could not take Mr. Grant's hand as they came out on the steps of the bank, looking down the main street of the town to the glittering blue of the harbour, and cry, "Oh, but this place is beautiful! Let's go and find a little boat!" as she would have done with Jonathan.
They had insisted on her writing a cheque for twenty pounds so that she would have some cash on her. The clothes could be paid for by cheque. The crisp new notes were in her handbag now, the handbag she had chosen with Jonathan in Lugano a week ago. It felt like a year ago.
"Well, my dear, I'll leave you to your shopping orgy." Mr. Grant shook hands with the two women, adding dryly, "Don't spend it all today," and he went down to his own car waiting a few yards up the street.
"Stuffy old man!" Joyce settled herself comfortably back in the Daimler. "I wonder why being a lawyer always puts red ink instead of blood in a man's veins!"
"I think he is a kind and honourable man," Nicole answered in the old-fashioned manner that exasperated Joyce. "I like him. Please, Joyce—before we go to the shops-may we drive round the harbour? I want to look at the water."
Lord, she's like a child! Joyce thought impatiently, but she gave the order to Parkinson. She did not want to antagonise the girl if she was going to be friendly with Nigel, but she thought the long detour by the harbour road a complete waste of time.
Nicole was oblivious of everything but the sea, a sea that reflected an azure summer sky, with dozens of small boats bobbing on the white-capped waves. This was no grey and dingy land, as she had always thought of England. There was colour here—soft, entrancing colour—and the movement of the light breeze on the water, and the seagulls crying overhead, enchanted her. She forgot the new responsibility of her bank account; she forgot the shopping ahead; she forgot even the heartache over Jonathan last night.
"Oh, I would like to take out one of the little boats!" she cried ecstatically.
"My dear child, there's no time today. We'll be lucky if we find you a suitable frock ready-made for tonight," Joyce replied tartly, and the ecstasy faded from Nicole's small face like a light being switched off.
"Of course, I'm sorry," she said humbly. For the rest of the morning she submitted patiently to the endless shop-ping, the trying-on, the seemingly inane conversations between Joyce and the saleswomen. These women were not like the girls in the Lugano shops, with laughter in their eyes and the knowledge that a woman in love wants to look her best. They were elderly, for the most part, obsequious to the name of Stannisford, and deferring to Joyce's opinion.
"The young lady is very slim—very small."
She found herself wanting to giggle. The large, old-fashioned stores contained nothing that would satisfy Joyce.
"White is too obviously ingénue," she complained.
They found what she wanted in a small exclusive shop in an arcade overlooking the harbour. And Nicole, when she saw herself gowned in the misty sea-blues and sea-greens of silk chiffon, had to admit Joyce's taste. A halter of sequins in the same colours disguised the thinness of her collarbones, and matched the flowers sprayed over the full skirt. Her golden skin rose out of the frock that was light as sea foam, and she was glad she had swum and sunbathed so often at Lugano, so that there were no ugly patches in her tan.
"You're a lucky girl to have skin like that," Joyce conceded grudgingly. "I think this will do."
"It's very pretty." Suddenly Nicole was shy of looking at herself transformed in the long mirrors. She wished that it was Jonathan taking her to the ball and not Nigel. Jonathan had never seen her look like this.... She pulled her thoughts up sharply. He loved her as his little friend, he thought of her as a child, affectionately. She had not really needed Nigel's warning not to throw herself at him as a woman. . . .
"Now for some lingerie, and shoes. I've made an appointment for the hairdresser this afternoon." Joyce was practical; she was pleased that she had dug out such a frock for Nicole in this one-eyed town. It might have been created especially for the girl—and she was not easy to dress, with that unusual colouring and that queer, almost boyish slenderness. There was certainly nothing boyish about her in that gown. . . .
"Thank you, Joyce—for taking so much trouble," Nicole had said at the end of the long morning, feeling churlish because she would so much rather have been out in one of the little boats. She chuckled inside herself, remembering Mr. Grant's caution. It had been all in vain. Joyce had, of course, seen her writing the cheques, and noted her careful sums. The evening dress alone had cost something terrible; the memory of it froze her now as she turned for her grandmother's inspection. The hairdresser, in the salon in one of the big hotels, had done her hair differently, too; the soft fair curls were done in demure Victorian ringlets. And Joyce had helped her to make up; a process which for Nicole usually consisted of dabbing her nose with powder when she remembered it. "Very little I think—just a touch of eye-shadow and lipstick." Joyce had been almost softened by the results of her handiwork. The girl certainly paid for dressing and grooming. If Nigel had to get married, she would rather have this quaint child for a daughter-in-law than one of his usual girl friends.
"There. Run along and show yourself to Helen," she had said, almost kindly, and hoped that Helen would appreciate the trouble she had taken.
"This gown cost thirty-five guineas, Grand'mère," Nicole said tremulously. She had already thanked her for the allowance, but she felt this was a ridiculous price for one frock. It would have kept them all in food at the albergo for a month. "I think I shall not need any more evening dresses."
"Nicole, you must spend your allowance just as you please—and don't worry me with the price of each article! Helen smiled to soften the admonition. "You look charming, darling—charming. Now bring me the box on that chair."
She selected the antique silver and sapphire set of necklace and ear-rings, and made Nicole stoop so that she could fasten them herself. "Those are perfect with that frock. You must keep them, darling, with my love. I always meant Evelyn to have them."
There was nothing to be done against this blackmail of love, Nicki decided, as she kissed her grandmother impetuously and ran down the passage to the waiting Nigel. When he saw her his eyes brightened and he took a step forward. "Nicole! You look like a princess! I told you Mother is clever about clothes."
Nicole privately thought his mother was clever about a lot of things, but she could not help being excited. Grand'-mère had stared at her entranced, and no man had ever looked at her as Nigel had just now. On the long drive through the warm summer evening she could not help enjoying her new grandeur, though she reminded herself quizzically that Nigel's admiration was not for herself alone. She represented to him a great fortune.
"You all make me feel like Cinderella," she said laughingly.
"But you won't
have to return at midnight," Nigel grinned.
The old manor house delighted her, as they had promised it would. It was all, to Nicki, like a fairy-tale, with the Milburs receiving their guests in the great Tudor hall, the gallery festooned with flowers and creepers, and the orchestra playing in the ballroom beyond. Lady Lavinia was charming to her, and Frances accepted her shy birthday wishes gaily.
"Phew! Thank goodness that's over—now we can dance," Nigel said. Nicole wished she had not to dance; she wanted to hide herself away up on the gallery and watch this party. She wanted to explore this lovely old mansion. But as the evening wore on and she found dancing with Nigel much easier than she had expected, and other men looked at her with that expression of open admiration in their eyes, she found herself being a little intoxicated by it all. It was, after all, fun ... to be young, and dancing; to have men look at you as if you were a woman and not a child; to be wearing the most exquisite frock you had ever possessed. . . .
If only Jonathan were here, it would be perfect, her unruly heart whispered. As if in answer, she heard Nigel's voice laughingly close to her ear.
"What did I tell you about Jonathan? Look at the way young Fran is adoring him! With her mother's full approval, too, I bet."
Jonathan was there. Across the ballroom she saw him, dancing with Frances Milbur. And Frances was gazing up at him with the entranced look of a woman in love, a woman careless of what anyone else might see or think.
In the same instant, as if drawn across the crowded room by their thoughts, Jonathan's eyes met Nicki's, and widened a little in surprise, and smiled suddenly before he stooped slightly to answer some remark of his partner's. And Nicki longed for the earth to open and swallow her up; she thought he was laughing at her. Laughing about the transformed Cinderella with that girl—Frances—a girl of her own age, who was so very, very different from Nicole Berenger. A girl who was utterly at home in this lovely house, among these people; a girl who was more beautiful, more sophisticated, than she could ever hope to be.
Dorothy Quentin - The Inn by the Lake Page 18