by Anne Weale
“It’s Tricel. It washes.”
So, half an hour later, Daniel was pulling leisurely at the oars of a hired dinghy, while Rachel managed the steering lines and warned him of oncoming river craft.
Although the sun was setting now, it was still very hot. Rachel had slipped off her high-heeled shoes, and Daniel, having removed his jacket in the car, had now rolled up his sleeves, taken off his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt.
Some way along the river they came upon a narrow backwater and, as there was a convoy of cruisers approaching and making a strong wash, they decided to explore it.
“This looks like part of the Toad Hall estate,” Rachel said smiling, as they glided under the branches of willows and between tall clumps of rushes. Then, as Daniel looked blank, “Oh, haven’t you ever read The Wind in the Willows?”
“Not that I recall. What’s it about?”
She explained, briefly, the story. “It was my favorite book as a child. I used to hide by our river at home and wait for Ratty and Mole to come by in their little boat.”
“I guess my childhood was pretty different from yours,” Daniel remarked, in a rather ironic tone. “I didn’t read much beyond school books.”
Round a bend, the stream was too overgrown with sedge and yellow flags to allow a passage. Daniel looped the painter over the branch of a submerged log, and lit up another cheroot.
The boat shifted slightly on the sluggish current, and there was a rustling and stirring in the reeds. It was very private and peaceful. Both London and the village seemed a hundred miles away.
“Mm ... what a blissful spot,” Rachel said dreamily, some time later. She had been almost asleep, her fingers trailing in the tepid water, her senses lulled by the quietude and the agreeable fragrance of cheroot smoke.
Opening her eyes, she found Daniel grinning at her.
“What’s so funny?” she asked amiably.
“Nothing really. I was thinking that you’ve finally forgotten that we started our acquaintance at logger-heads.”
She watched a dragonfly darting above the surface. “Why remind me, then?” she asked lightly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want our relationship to become too tame,” he said teasingly.
Rachel straightened. “I think we ought to go back now.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you think I’m about to make a lunge at you?” he enquired derisively.
But this time he failed to get a rise out of her. “I shouldn’t think so—not in a rowing boat,” she retorted, laughing.
He reached for the painter. “Quite right; it’s too rocky. You’re safe—at least till we land.”
As they rejoined the main waterway, some youths in a motor boat came hurtling along the river much too fast. The wash was like a tidal wave and Rachel heard Daniel curse as it swept towards them. For a moment a ducking seemed inevitable. But although the dinghy heaved and bucked for some seconds, they were not flung out.
“These damn fool maniacs! They could drown somebody,” Daniel said savagely, as the dinghy jolted roughly into the bank. Then his anger quietened suddenly. “Good girl, Rachel, Most women would have shrieked and tried to stand up.”
His praise lit such a glow of pleasure in her that, quite ridiculously, she was almost glad that they had been so near to capsizing. “Oh ... well ... I’m fairly used to boats,” she said confusedly.
It was growing dusk when Daniel stopped the car outside her home. Soon after leaving the inn, he had switched on the dashboard radio, so they had not talked much.
Now, reaching back for her carnations, he said, “It’s been a good evening, don’t you think?”
“Yes, lovely ... thank you very much,” Rachel agreed warmly.
He got out of the car and opened the nearside door for her. “Perhaps we can do it again,” he suggested, his hand under her elbow as they moved up the steps. Then, before she could reply. “Unless Edward is likely to disapprove?”
Edward. With sudden guilt, Rachel realized that she had forgotten all about Edward. Indeed, for the past two or three hours, she had not thought of anyone at all ... not Edward, not Carola, no one. It had been as if, for this one summer evening, she and Daniel had been the only two people in existence.
Startled and conscience-stricken, she looked up into Daniel’s face. And when she saw that he knew she had forgotten Edward, her cheeks grew hot.
“I—I must go in now. Thank you again. Goodnight,” she said hurriedly.
As she closed the front door, she was almost certain she heard Daniel laughing to himself.
CHAPTER FOUR
ON a Saturday morning, six weeks after Daniel Elliot’s arrival, Alfie Borrett and his friend Charlie Field were to be seen racing about the village, each with a handful of white envelopes. By the time the two boys had completed their task and were deliberating how best to spend their earnings at Miss Crockett’s sweet counter, those residents who were not in Branford for market day were either reviewing their wardrobes, hastening across the green to see Mrs. Hobbs, the village dressmaker, or congregating in the store to discuss the likely nature of this ‘do’ which Mr. Elliot was holding a fortnight hence.
Rachel did not hear the news until her father came into the kitchen with one of the envelopes and tossed it on to the ironing board.
“Elliot’s throwing a house-warming,” he said. “I suppose that means you and Carola will want new dresses. He’s certainly got a move on if the house was in as bad a shape as you described.”
Rachel studied the card inside the envelope and, as her father had surmised, her first thought was what she should wear. Fortunately there were two weeks in which to prepare for the event and, later in the morning, she remembered that she had a length of material, not yet made up, which would save buying something in Branford.
While most of the villagers were agog with anticipation, there were some who viewed the party with mixed feelings. One of them was Edward’s mother, who called at the doctor’s house one morning to find Rachel busy at her sewing machine.
“What pretty material, dear,” she said, fingering the stiff moiré silk which Rachel had found in a sale the previous autumn. “For the party, I suppose? Of course I think that particular shade of, biscuit is very trying to wear, but you can always make a nice bright sash to give it interest, can’t you? Oh!”— looking at the pattern—“It’s one of those new shapeless styles, I see. I can’t say I find them very becoming, and as for the shorter skirts—well! As I was saying to Mrs. Belling the other day, no really nice man is attracted by a girl who shows off her figure to that extent. To be quite candid, my dear, I was very surprised to see Carola in such a very short dress the other morning. If I were you, I should have a tactful word with her about it. People are so ready to judge by appearances, you know, and it’s very easy for a girl to get the reputation of being—well, a little fast, shall we say.”
Irritated by hearing her lovely champagne-colored silk being described as “that particular shade of biscuit,” Rachel said brightly, “Yes, I think very short skirts look terrible on most people. But Carola has such marvellous legs, it seems a pity not to make the most of them. What are you going to wear, Mrs. Harvey?”
Mrs. Harvey described the dress she had bought in Whiteways’ model gown department, and Rachel wondered how she could fail to realize that maroon lace was the worst possible choice with her florid complexion.
“Quite between ourselves, I was most surprised when I learnt that Mr. Elliot had invited everyone in the village,” the older woman said presently. “One would have thought that he’d have given a small dinner party for people like ourselves and offered some less formal hospitality to the others. You know, I suppose, that that dreadful Tubbitt man has been invited. I wonder if someone should have a word with Mr. Elliot about him. It will be most embarrassing if Tubbitt is in his usual condition.”
“I don’t think he’s been drinking so much lately,” Rachel said casually. “He’s a nice old man when he’s sober.”
Mrs. Harvey sniffed. “That I can’t say,” she remarked severely. “I always try to avoid him. He uses such shocking language.”
When she had gone, Rachel went upstairs to try on her dress. The low neck and tiny sleeves were bound with matching velvet and she had stitched a broad band of velvet round the hem and finished it off with a flat bow at the base of the centre panel. The delicate color of the material accentuated her tan and the darkness of her hair, which she planned to wear in a coil on the crown of her head.
Three days before the party, Edward came round for the evening and complained of a slightly sore throat. But although he left early, within twenty-four hours both he and Miss Burney were confined to bed with streaming head colds and it was evident that neither of them would be in a condition to attend the festivities. Rachel guessed that Edward would probably be relieved as he did not enjoy social functions, but poor Aunt Florence was almost hysterical with vexation, and had, to be given mild sedatives to calm her.
On the night of the party, Doctor Burney had an unexpected call and, dropping his daughters at the Hall gates, promised to join them as soon as he could. As they walked up the long drive, Suzy chattered excitedly, but Carola was unusually preoccupied, and Rachel felt an odd and groundless tension mounting inside her. It would be the first time she had seen Daniel since their evening by the river. At the bend of the drive, they slowed, taking in the changes. The younger girls had only seen the house as it had been in Sir Robert’s time, and three years had confused their recollection, but Rachel, remembering how it had looked six weeks before, was able to appreciate the rapidity with which Daniel had set about the work of renovation. In his grandfather’s day, the house had been painted brown, but now all the woodwork was white and the graceful Georgian portico had been restored to its original elegance. The garden was still half wild, although the grass had been scythed and the gravel cleared of weeds. But it was the interior of the house which most interested her.
“We seem to be the first-comers. I hope we aren’t too early. The card did say eight, didn’t it?” Carola asked, as they approached the door.
“I expect most of the others are still hunting for collar studs and squeezing into their best corsets,” Rachel said, leading the way.
“What do we do? Ring the bell?” Suzy asked, in an awed whisper.
Before Rachel could reply, the door swung open—silently this time—and Daniel stood smiling down at them.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, standing back. “Come in.”
“I’m afraid Father has been called out to an accident, so he can’t come till later,” Carola explained.
“Somebody’s scalded themselves with a kettle,” Suzy added.
Rachel said nothing. She was gazing round the hall with wide astonished eyes.
“Well?” Daniel said quietly. “Do you approve, Rachel?”
For a moment, she could not answer. The sense of being caught in a dream was so strong that she was half afraid to speak for fear the illusion would vanish. Then, with something like a sigh, she turned and met his eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, in a low voice.
For a long instant their glances held and then he smiled and said, “Glad you like it. There hasn’t been time to do up the whole house. And, in any case, I shall keep only part of it open. You’ll find a place to leave your wraps at the top of the stairs. If you’d like to go up, I’ll be getting you a drink.”
“Is this his room, d’you think?” Carola said, when they were upstairs.
She bounced experimentally on the wide double bed with its dark green leather headboard and plain linen cover.
“Mm, a foam rubber mattress. He’s obviously not as Spartan as he looks,” she said, with a smile to herself.
“I thought he’d be dressed up,” Suzy said disappointedly. “You know, in a dinner jacket.”
Rachel folded her stole and laid it on a chair. “Not when he knows most people will fee in their best blue serge,” she said.
They waited for Carola to make some minute adjustment to the hang of her pleated silk skirt and to touch up her lips. Going downstairs, Rachel fell behind to run her fingers over the gleaming, freshly waxed rail of the scrolled banisters. On the threshold of the drawing room, she caught her breath and stopped.
The clumsy plush-covered sofas, the fringed lampshades and all the clutter of Victorian knick-knacks had been swept away. The high panelled walls, previously covered with a dark embossed paper, were painted pale grey with white mouldings so that the beautiful proportions of the room were immediately discernible. The floor, denuded of its patterned carpet, gleamed with polish, the warm color of the worn oak boards relieved by a few Persian rugs. The same thick brocade curtains and tasselled lambrequins hung at the windows but, cleaned and relined, they were now a rich silky crimson. Again, she had the feeling of moving in a dream; a dream which, suddenly, had become reality. This was how she had known the house could be, even to such details as the great jars of young beech leaves on the Regency consoles between the windows, and the silver sconces flanking the chimney-breast. It was startling and uncanny to find it so exactly as she had imagined.
Daniel came towards her with two glasses in his hands, but before she could speak there were voices in the drive and, with a murmur of apology, he gave her a martini, set his own glass on a table and went out to welcome his guests. Very soon the room was full of people and the three girls were caught up in the buzz of conversation, while waiters from a Branford catering firm steered dexterously between the groups with trays of glasses.
As she smiled and chatted, Rachel caught glimpses of Daniel moving from group to group, as easily, she thought, as if he had lived in the village for years. Although she had not shared Mrs. Harvey’s dubiety, she had thought than the atmosphere might be a little strained for the first hour or so. She was surprised to see how soon people relaxed.
It was half-past nine when her father arrived and many of the guests were in the dining room where a long cold buffet table had been set out.
“Hm, I never realized what a handsome old place this was,” Doctor Burney said, looking about. “How’s it going, do you think?”
“Brilliantly,” Rachel said impishly. “Look over there.”
The doctor followed her glance to where Ben Tubbitt, astonishingly spruce in a navy blue suit, his grizzled hair brushed, his moustache waxed, was deep in discussion with the Vicar’s wife.
“Mrs. Bell is bearing down on you, Daddy. I expect she wants some free advice. I’ll leave you to it,” Rachel said.
As she was passing through the hall, pausing a moment to enjoy the evening light on the tall elms beyond the lawn, Daniel came out of the dining room.
“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Come and have a quiet drink with me. I think I can safely disappear for a few minutes without anyone feeling neglected.” He led the way across the hall and opened a door for her.
“You look very charming tonight,” he said, as he closed it behind him. “Someone should paint you in that dress.”
Rachel smiled, suddenly shy of him, and conscious of the heavy door shutting them away from the rest of the guests.
“I owe you an apology,” she said, as he went to a cabinet and took out a decanter and two glasses.
He arched an eyebrow at her. “What for?”
“For misjudging you so badly,” she said. “To find all this”—she made an expressive gesture— “after some of the things I said to you that first day.” She hesitated. “I suppose you meant to live here all the time and were just teasing me.”
He put the glasses on a small table between them and sat down, offering her a cigarette.
“Something like that, I’m afraid,” he admitted with a grin. “So it’s I who should apologize. Actually I’d made up my mind a few minutes before I found you in the orchard.”
“But won’t you miss Canada?” she asked curiously.
He leaned back in his chair, studying his cigarette. �
��Yes, in some ways. But the theory that people belong to the place where they are born is not always valid. I suppose one’s view, of a country depends on one’s experiences there. Mine weren’t notably successful, except in a material sense.”
“What will you do now? I mean, will you work?” she asked.
“Not being a millionaire, I shall have to,” he said dryly. “Fortunately I have one or two interests which are transferable, and a jack of all trades can, usually find a niche for himself.” He raised his glass and smiled at her. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll find yourself listening to my life story.”
There was a pause, until Rachel said softly, “I can’t get over what you’ve done to this house. Or did you engage a firm of decorators?”
“I didn’t sit up all night plastering the ceilings,” he said, with a laugh. “But if you mean did I pay for one of these arty-crafty characters to work on it—Not at all! I’ve no desire to spend my nights on. a Japanese couch and my days surrounded by contorted bits of metal which pass for abstract masterpieces. Most of the stuff in this room came over from Canada.”
She looked about her at the deep leather chairs and the large morocco-topped desk near the window. Shelves had been built along the whole of one wall and were packed with books. Then, catching sight of a picture on the chimney wall, she jumped up and said quickly, “Oh, where did you get that?”
“I found it in a shop in Branford a couple of weeks back,” he said, following her over to the hearth. “The chap said it had been done by some local fellow. I expect you recognize the place, don’t you? It’s that bend in the river about a mile above the weir.”
“Yes, I know it very well.”
“I don’t usually care for water-colors, but this one has more life in it than most of them. The shadow on the water under those willows is exceptionally good,” he said.
“Thank you,” Rachel said, smiling. “It’s one of mine. I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”
“Yours? You mean you painted it?” he asked in astonishment. “But, good lord, you’re extremely clever. Why on earth aren’t you making a career of it?”