“A horrible sort of joke!”
“Well, anyway,” I said bitterly. “It’s worked in Helen’s case, hasn’t it. Helen has got exactly what she wanted by being tough — and callous — and selfish.”
Mother was silent but she looked so miserable that I wished the words unsaid.
We had had several invitations to stay with friends in London, but as neither of us felt sociably inclined we had refused them. We took a double room in a small hotel in Bloomsbury. It had the advantage of being cheap, but no other advantage that I could see; it was noisy and overcrowded, the beds were uncomfortable, the food was poor and we had to share a bathroom with innumerable other people.
Mrs. Millard’s ‘selfishness’ meant that we could stay in London for two nights only and it meant that we could not attend the large tea-party the day before the wedding and be shown the presents. We could have travelled south by night, I suppose, but Mother never suggested it and neither did I.
Our wedding garments presented no difficulties, for Mother had kept two of her smart London frocks and altered them for the occasion. One of them was cherry-coloured and had been altered to fit me; the other, which she was wearing herself, was soft dove-grey with lavender embroidery and she had a hat made of lavender feathers with a diamanté ornament at one side. She had sold all her good jewellery, but she still had an old necklace of Irish paste and a bracelet to match. My hat had not cost a penny! Mother had made a crochet cap out of some white wool, which she happened to have in her work basket, and she had got a whole bag of little white feathers from old Mrs. Gow’s hens. The feathers had been washed and then sewn on to the cap, covering it completely. I had never possessed a more becoming little hat in all my life.
*
The room in the hotel was so small that there was scarcely enough space for the two beds — let alone anything else — so it was difficult to get dressed but we managed it somehow and the results were remarkably good.
“Will I do, Jane?” asked Mother anxiously. “I can’t see what I look like in that spotty little mirror.”
“You look beautiful,” I told her. “Really beautiful. Nobody could possibly pity you for a poor miserable exile from the delights of the great metropolis.”
“You’re too clever by half,” declared Mother laughing. “As a matter of fact you don’t look bad, yourself. That colour suits you, Jane, and the hat is a great success. Wait a moment while I arrange it for you.” She did so and then added, “I see you’re wearing the pearls.”
“Why not? The poor things will enjoy the party, and nobody will think they’re real.”
“They look real — now. I wonder if it’s wise.”
Wise or not I was determined to wear the pearls, for they were beautiful — and valuable — and I felt they would give me the confidence which I so badly needed. I was sure Mrs. Millard would not mind; she would think that it would be nice for them to have a little outing and to be admired. By this time the pearls were almost back to normal, but not quite, for although they had regained their lovely pearly colour they were not yet as glossy as they should have been. Soon I should have to take them back to their rightful owner but I wanted them to be absolutely cured before I returned them.
In spite of my assurances Mother was still a trifle anxious about her appearance.
“Are you sure I’m all right?” she asked. “It’s so long since I dressed up like this. If only I could see myself properly …”
“You’re marvellous,” I told her. “Do come, Mother. We’ll be late if we don’t go now.”
As I followed Mother down the narrow dingy staircase we met a young man coming up; he was one of the inhabitants of the hotel; I had met him that very morning going into the bathroom. He was whistling gaily, but the whistling ceased when he saw us and he fell back and clutched the banisters and gazed at us with his eyes like saucers and his mouth agape. (I suppose we were rather an unusual sight in those sordid surroundings.)
“Good afternoon,” said Mother sweetly and swept past him with a swish of her silken skirts.
Poor young man! I never saw him again but I owe him a debt of gratitude. We were both giggling feebly when we climbed into the waiting taxi.
*
Aunt Thelma had not asked us to go to the house before the wedding so we drove straight to the church and found it spread with red carpets, decorated with flowers and full of guests. I saw dozens of people I knew — all Helen’s friends — and amongst them Basil Romford and his mother. We were in the front pew with Aunt Thelma; she nodded to us as we went in — but without much enthusiasm — and I had a feeling that Helen had been complaining about us.
Ronnie was there already. He looked splendid in his wedding garments, but his face wore the somewhat anxious expression not unusual in the circumstances. It brightened a little when he saw us and he smiled wanly. His best man was almost as tall as himself and he, too, looked anxious; his fingers kept straying to his waistcoat pocket to make certain he had not mislaid the ring.
The bride was late, which did not surprise me, it was ten minutes past the appointed hour (and everyone had begun to get restless) when at last she appeared, leaning upon Uncle Leonard’s arm and followed by four bridesmaids. I had always known Helen was beautiful but to-day she was more beautiful than ever before; no wonder Ronnie had fallen in love with her. There was magic in her triumphant smile.
The wedding followed its appointed course. I was too upset to listen very intently but when it came to those strange and solemn and rather terrifying vows ‘to love and to cherish … to have and to hold till death us do part’ I noticed that the bridegroom made his promises in a low tone and stumbled over the words but the bride’s voice was clearly audible and contained no trace of emotion.
There were far more than fifty guests at the church and all went on to the reception. The furniture in Aunt Thelma’s drawing-room had been moved and the double-doors opened but even so it was slightly overcrowded. There was champagne and a large cake and all the usual etceteras … the bride and bridegroom stood in the large bay window and received the congratulations of their friends.
When I kissed Helen she murmured, “Isn’t this lovely, Jane? I’m so happy I could fly over the moon.”
Ronnie seized my hands and said, “Jane, my dear! It’s wonderful to see somebody I know! Stay and talk to me for a few minutes for goodness’ sake.”
Of course I could not stay and talk to him for people were crowding round and Helen was introducing him to everybody and they were all telling him how lucky he was to have got such a beautiful wife.
Mother was having her own little success in another part of the room; she was surrounded by an admiring group which grew larger every moment. I heard someone say, “Anna is over there. Have you spoken to her? She’s more amusing than ever — and prettier than ever.” And someone else replied, “I know. Isn’t it odd? Seems to suit her being buried in the wilds.”
I knew nearly everyone in the room but quite a number of people seemed to have forgotten me. Basil Romford had not.
“Hallo Jane!” he said. “You seem to have grown up. I suppose it’s porridge and haggis.”
“I suppose it must be,” I said laughing.
“How do you like your new brother-in-law?”
“Very much indeed.”
“Didn’t seem to know his lines, did he?” said Basil lightly.
I could not let that pass — and Basil was an old friend — so I said quite seriously, “They’re awful promises, Basil. I think Ronnie was feeling that when he made them.”
“And Helen was not?”
Fortunately there was no need to reply, for Uncle Leonard had begun to make his speech, and when he had finished and the healths had been proposed and drunk, Basil did not refer to it again.
Instead he said, “Jane, those are real pearls you’re wearing.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know they are. They’re beautiful. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
; “They aren’t mine,” I told him. “I’m just wearing them for a friend.”
After that it was all a whirl; Basil caught hold of several people — there was Ned Elton and Frances Wilmerton, Edgar Mowbray and others too numerous to mention.
“Look who’s here!” cried Basil. “It’s Jane! you know Jane Harcourt, don’t you?” and all at once everybody seemed to remember me and they were all teasing and laughing and saying I had grown and put on weight and was much better looking. Basil kept on saying it was porridge and haggis, and somebody else said, “More like salmon and grouse — and whisky!”
They all roared with laughter, and I laughed too.
“But what do you do with yourself all day long?” asked Mrs. Romford in her affected voice which always annoyed me a little.
“I’ve written a novel,” I said. Goodness knows what made me say it. I had no intention of mentioning it until I heard myself uttering the words.
“Not really!” they exclaimed.
“Not a real novel?”
“You don’t mean it’s going to be published?”
“What is it about?”
“Shall we be able to buy it in a shop?”
“What is it called?”
“Yes,” I said laughing. “Yes, yes, yes! And of course you’ll be able to buy it in a shop and it’s called The Mulberry Coach!”
“That’s easy enough to remember,” they said. “The Mulberry Coach! It sounds as if it were about highway robbers and haunted houses and things.”
“It is,” I said. “And it’s about a duel and an elopement and a marriage at Gretna Green —”
“Gosh, it’s got everything!” exclaimed Basil in amazement. “I shall have to buy it and give it to Mother.”
“I suppose it’s pure?” asked Ned Elton anxiously.
“Oh yes,” I told him. “It’s quite suitable for Aunt Fanny’s birthday — but you should read it first yourself.”
This seemed to everyone the soul of wit and they roared again.
The noise and the heat and the champagne and all the people crowding round and asking questions had begun to make me feel quite dizzy (I was ‘a bit above myself’ as old Mrs. Gow would have said); so perhaps it was just as well that at this moment one of the bridesmaids pushed her way through the throng and said that Helen was changing in her room and wanted to see me.
*
When the bride and bridegroom had vanished in the usual shower of confetti Aunt Thelma asked if Mother and I would stay to supper, but the invitation was somewhat half-hearted and it was easy to refuse.
“I’m sure you must be tired,” said Mother. “I’m sure you should rest. Jane and I will just go back to the hotel.”
“Well, I am a little tired,” said Aunt Thelma.
So we thanked her for all she had done and went back to the hotel; and we took off our finery and lay down on our lumpy beds.
We were both suffering from reaction and I thought Mother needed a little cheering, so I said, “You were the success of the party.”
“I didn’t do badly,” agreed Mother. “But you were the great success. I saw you chattering away to everybody. You’ve got over your shyness.”
“It was partly the pearls,” I said thoughtfully. “And partly the hat — I kept on remembering dear Mrs. Gow’s hens — but most of all it was The Mulberry Coach. If you’ve done something worthwhile it gives you a certain amount of cheek and you don’t feel such a worm.”
There was a little silence after that, and then Mother murmured, “Four bridesmaids!”
“And they all matched,” I agreed. “All fair, and of moderate size, and all pretty — but not as pretty as Helen.”
“Don’t Jane,” said Mother. “I can’t bear it when you talk like that.”
Chapter Sixteen
While we were away Rosalie had been staying with the Fergusons and helping to nurse Deb; then Sally developed measles, which was only to be expected, and Jean also — which was totally unexpected because she had had the complaint before! The doctor’s house was like a hospital and Rosalie had three patients on her hands. She could not come home and leave them so she stayed on and seemed happier than she had been for weeks. Kenneth said she was a born nurse.
After that there was an epidemic of measles amongst the children in Ryddelton and, as the Fergusons were better by this time, they ‘lent’ Rosalie to some of their friends. Jean told Mother that she and Kenneth thought it was so good for Rosalie that they wanted her to go. The Fisher children all got measles, one after the other, and their poor little father was in such a state that Rosalie went to Mount Charles and helped to nurse them. Then she went to Dunnian on the same errand of mercy.
Needless to say everybody was delighted to see her. Even if she had not been ‘good with children’ she would have been welcome as another pair of hands, but Rosalie loved children and was willing to do anything for them, so she was as welcome as the flowers of spring.
In this curious haphazard way Rosalie became known to many people in the district and made friends with them all — and when she had time to come to Timble Cottage we noticed a new assurance in her manner. Nursing little children was Rosalie’s ‘Mulberry Coach’; she had found something worthwhile to do and knew she could do it well.
All this time I had been working with Mrs. Millard and at last the book was finished. It was finished in October on a Friday afternoon; I helped Mrs. Millard to parcel up the manuscript and posted it off to London to be typed. Of course there was still a great deal to be done before the book would be ready for the publishers but my part in it was finished and I went home feeling miserable. What was I going to do? I must do something and I would never get a job like that again.
It had been so interesting — and Mrs. Millard herself was unique. I had become very fond of Mrs. Millard, and I had a feeling that she was fond of me. Of course I could still drop in and see her occasionally but it would not be the same as going there every morning. It was working with her that had been so fascinating — watching how she tackled her problems and knowing that I really was a help.
In my opinion The Biography of Lady Esmeralda Pie was quite outstanding — not that my opinion was worth very much.
Mrs. Millard had asked me to go on Monday morning ‘to help to clear up the mess’; there were papers to be collected and docketed and put away in the chest and several letters to be written — so I went down as usual. When I reached The Corner House I was surprised to find all the curtains had been taken down. Solda was on her knees, rolling up the hall carpet.
“We are going away to-morrow,” said Solda, looking up and smiling. I had never seen her smile before in all the months I had known her; there was nothing pleasant about her smile.
“Going away to-morrow,” she repeated loudly. “I am glad. We ’ave been ’ere too long.”
I went on up the stairs without answering.
*
Mrs. Millard was in the study — and it was all tidy and bare. There was not a single paper or letter on the table. The chest which had contained the letters was roped up. The waste-paper-basket was bulging.
“You’re going away!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know!”
“Neither did I,” replied Mrs. Millard. “I made up my mind quite suddenly. Quite, suddenly I realised that there was nothing to prevent us from leaving Ryddelton. We’re going to Provence; Solda wants to see her mother. Provence in October is a dream of beauty — warmth and golden sunshine!”
“But you’re coming back! I mean — it’s just a holiday?”
“Coming back? I don’t think so,” she said vaguely. “I’ve always gone on — from one thing to another — never back. I’ve stayed here longer than most places and it’s time to move. Life is like a bog. If you stand still too long your feet begin to sink into the mud.”
“I shall miss you — frightfully!”
“That’s the devil of it,” she said in a low voice. “That’s the bog. I’ve begun to sink. If you stand still too long you’re
stuck for ever.”
“I don’t understand”
“You’re young and you haven’t been torn to pieces.” She hesitated and then exclaimed, “I hate getting involved — emotionally. It’s happened to me before and I’ve always said it shouldn’t happen again. I must be free. I must be — free!”
I was a little frightened at her vehemence. I said, “It’s been wonderful, Mrs. Millard. You’ve taught me so much. I’m very very grateful for all you’ve done. It’s been — wonderful.”
It was only now when she was going away that I began to realise what a wonderful experience it had been. My work with Mrs. Millard had filled my life with colour: Esmeralda — the pearls — my own Mulberry Coach —
The pearls! I took them off and held them out to her without speaking.
“Oh Jane, they’re cured!” she cried in surprise.
“Nearly cured. I think they ought to be a little more shiny.”
She had taken the pearls and was running them through her fingers. I could see she was pleased. “Nearly cured,” she agreed. “They ought to be soaked in sea-water. That’s what they need now. You had better keep them,” she added, handing them to me.
I took them gladly for I had wanted them to be in perfect condition before I handed them back, and they were so nearly perfect that it seemed a pity not to complete the cure … besides I was fond of them; there is a strange sort of magic about pearls, and these pearls meant all the more to me because they had been sick and miserable and had recovered when I wore them round my neck.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll go on wearing them until they’re in perfect condition — perhaps I could manage to go to the sea for a day. If you give me your address I can post them to you. I could insure them to go through the post.”
“Keep them,” said Mrs. Millard.
“Keep them!” I echoed stupidly.
“Don’t you understand English, Jane?”
“You don’t mean — keep them — always?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But, Mrs. Millard —”
Anna and Her Daughters Page 13