by Betty Neels
‘George will be back in time for the wedding?’
‘Don’t worry, dear, he will. It’s only a matter of a few stitches.’
* * *
CLAUDIA, CASTING A critical eye over her reflection, wished for a brief moment that it was white chiffon and yards of veiling and not the blue outfit she was looking at. She had dressed with care, taken pains with her face and her hair, and arranged the hat at the most becoming angle. She supposed that for a quiet wedding she looked all right.
Supposing it didn’t work out well? Thomas was so sure that it would, and so was she, but that hadn’t prevented last-minute doubts creeping in. Did all brides feel as she did? she wondered. Wondering if they were making the biggest mistake of their lives? Or was that because she was marrying Thomas after such a short time in which to know him?
She turned away from the mirror and went to look out of the window; she couldn’t even see the Duck and Thistle from it, but it was only a few minutes’ walk away. Was Thomas standing at his window as full of doubts as she was, perhaps wishing that he had never set eyes on her?
Her mother, coming into the room, broke into her thoughts. ‘Darling, just look at this—Thomas doesn’t know what you’re wearing, so the flowers are white—isn’t it gorgeous?’
The bouquet she was offering Claudia was truly bridal; white roses very faintly tinged with pink, lilies of the valley, hyacinth pips, orange blossom, little white tulips and miniature white narcissi nestling in a circle of green leaves. It made up for the lack of white chiffon; just looking at it made her feel like a bride.
A very quiet wedding, Thomas had said, but that hadn’t prevented everyone in the village who could get to the church from going to see Claudia married. But they understood, sitting at the back of the church quietly so that Claudia and Thomas were unaware of them, knowing that they wanted a quiet wedding. Only as they left the church did she become aware of smiling faces and voices wishing them luck and happiness.
Back at George’s house, they drank the champagne which Mr Tait-Bullen had thoughtfully provided, and presently sat down to an early lunch, waited upon by Tombs at his most majestic. Mrs Pratt, refusing to be discouraged by the brief notice she had had of the wedding, had sat up late and got up early in order to provide a feast worthy of the occasion.
Cheese soufflés, each in their own small ramekin, followed by salmon en croûte, watercress salad and potato straws, and, following that, Tombs carried in the wedding cake. Not quite in the traditional manner, perhaps—Mrs Pratt hadn’t had time for that—but she had iced a fruit cake and ornamented it with silver leaves, searched for at length in the village shop, and arranged it on one of George’s much prized Coalport plates, which he kept under lock and key.
‘Nothing but the best for Miss Claudia,’ Mrs Pratt had told him, standing over him while he took the plate from the glass cabinet where it was displayed.
It was a pleasant meal. No one made a speech, although they did drink to the bride and groom’s health, with Tombs and Mrs Pratt summoned from the kitchen, well pleased with their efforts, beaming at them from the door.
It was Thomas, refilling their glasses, who said, ‘My wife and I thank you both for giving us such a delightful lunch. It has made our happy day even happier.’
They had coffee in the drawing room, and presently Thomas said, ‘I think we should be going, Claudia.’ He looked at George. ‘We both thank you for making our wedding such a happy occasion. Once we are settled in we do hope that you will come and visit us.’ He turned to his mother and said, ‘And of course you and Father. But we shall be seeing you at Christmas.’
‘We look forward to that, Thomas.’
It took quite a while saying goodbye to everyone. Thomas put the luggage in the car and then waited with no sign of impatience while Claudia went from one to the other. Tombs and Mrs Pratt had to be bidden goodbye, messages left for Jennie and Rob hugged. But finally there were no more goodbyes to be said, and she went out to the car with Thomas and got in beside him. It wasn’t until they had driven for a mile or two that she said in a small voice, ‘It has all been so sudden...’
He touched her hand briefly. ‘Don’t worry, Claudia, I shan’t hurry you. Think of us as being engaged, if that makes you feel happier...’
‘Well, I dare say it would, but I won’t. We’re married, aren’t we? Once I get used to that everything will be fine.’ She added quickly, ‘Don’t think I’m regretting it. I’m not. I’m very happy—only a bit out of my depth.’
‘You may have all the time in the world to find your feet. I have to work tomorrow, but on Wednesday I shall be home in the morning—time for us to talk.’
He was on the motorway now, driving fast through the already fading light.
‘Cork will have tea for us and we shall have this evening together. I enjoyed our wedding, Claudia, and I hope you did, too?’
‘Oh, yes, I did. And the flowers—they were glorious. They made me forget that I was wearing an ordinary outfit. I felt as though I was in white chiffon and a veil—a real bride.’
‘But you were a real bride, my dear. You looked beautiful...’
A remark which lifted her spirits, so that for the rest of the journey she was utterly happy.
Chapter FIVE
THOMAS’S DESCRIPTION OF his home in London had been vague; Claudia had gathered that he lived near his consulting rooms in a terraced house, and she had pictured a typical London house—solid, mid-Victorian, with rather a lot of red brickwork. And, since she knew very little of London, her visits having been confined to brief shopping expeditions and the occasional visit to a theatre, she’d visualised a busy road, noisy with traffic and not a tree in sight.
When Thomas stopped before his home, got out and opened her door, she got out, too, and stared around her. It was quite dark by now, but the street lighting was shining onto the elegant houses standing back from the tree-lined pavement. He took her arm and led her up the three steps to the door being held open, giving a glimpse of a softly lighted hall.
‘Ah, Cork,’ said Mr Tait-Bullen. ‘Claudia, this is Cork, who looks after me so well and will doubtless do the same for you.’ He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘My wife, Cork.’
Claudia offered a hand and smiled into the craggy face, and Cork allowed himself a pleased and relieved smile in return. A nice young lady, he saw at once, just right for his master.
‘May I wish you both every happiness?’ he observed solemnly. ‘And I shall hope to give you as much satisfaction, madam, as the master.’
‘Very nicely put,’ said Mr Tait-Bullen, busy taking Claudia’s coat and gloves and tossing them and his own coat onto one of the chairs flanking the side table.
Cork allowed himself another smile. ‘Tea will be brought to the drawing room in five minutes, sir.’
He melted away, and Thomas took Claudia’s arm and led her through a door—one of three leading from the hall.
The room was large, with its windows overlooking the quiet street. There was an Adam fireplace, with two sofas and a maple and rosewood library table arranged before it, a Regency writing table under the window and a magnificent Chinese lacquer display cabinet facing the window. There were comfortable chairs, too, upholstered in the same burgundy velvet as the curtains draping the window. And small lamp tables here and there, too, piled with books and magazines. A lovely room, restful and lived in.
Claudia felt instantly at home in it—a good augur for the future? she wondered, smiling at Cork, coming in with the tea tray. He didn’t return the smile. She appeared to be a nice young lady, at first sight a suitable wife for his master, but time would tell, and he was a man who did nothing hastily. She might want to interfere in his kitchen...
Claudia had seen the prim set of his mouth. If Cork was anything like Tombs then she would need to tread carefully for a while. It had taken h
er quite a time to win over Tombs, but once she had he had become her firm friend and ally. She sat down in the chair Thomas had offered her and composedly poured their tea, as though she had been doing it for years.
Mr Tait-Bullen, leafing through his post, observed her from under his lids. He had known instinctively that she was the right wife for him: taking things in her stride, accepting each new challenge as it arose, fitting into his life without fuss. And he liked her; he liked her very much.
He considered himself beyond the age of falling in love, and he had no intention of doing so. His work was all-engrossing. The way of life that he had chosen suited him very well; he had no doubt that Claudia would accept that. They had similar tastes. She would be free to make her own friends, and whenever they had the time they would spend a day or so in the country. He must remember to do something about that...
Cork came back presently, removed the tea things and ushered her upstairs. The staircase was narrow, and curved against the end wall of the hall, and Claudia stopped to admire it. She ran a hand over its mahogany banisters, gleaming with polish. ‘Lots of elbow grease,’ she reflected out loud, and Cork gave her a respectful look.
‘Nothing beats it, madam.’ He allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking a long, narrow garden. Even in winter it looked charming, with a tracery of leafless trees grouped here and there. Doubtless in the spring there would be crocuses and daffodils around them, and bright flowers in the summer.
She turned from the window and found Cork still standing at the door. ‘The bathroom is through the door on the right, madam, and beyond that is the Professor’s room. Tomorrow, if you wish, I will conduct you round the house.’
‘Oh, please, Cork. And if you will tell me anything that I should know—advise me. You will know exactly how the...the Professor likes things done.’
‘I trust so, madam.’
When she was alone she took stock of the room and could find no fault with it. The bed was a satinwood four-poster, curtained and covered with a gossamer-fine ivory silk patterned with forget-me-nots, and the bow-fronted chest was of the same wood. There was a satinwood and mahogany mirror on the mahogany sofa table under the two windows, and a tallboy in exquisite marquetry. On either side of the bed were delicate little side tables, each with a china figure bearing a rose-coloured lamp. There was a wall cupboard, too, she discovered, and beyond the farther door a bathroom to be drooled over. She peeped round the door in the bathroom, too—another bedroom, furnished more plainly, but with the same beautiful old pieces.
It was something she hadn’t thought about; that Thomas had comfortable means had always been apparent, but this house of his was full of treasures. Had he inherited them? she wondered. Or did he collect old and valuable furniture as a hobby?
She went downstairs presently, determined to find out.
Thomas looked up from his letters as she went into the room. ‘Is your room all right? Most of the furniture here was left to me by my grandmother, who had it from her husband’s family—they had an enormous old house in Berkshire. I loved it when I went to stay with her as a boy, and I still do.’
‘So do I, and it’s just right for this house, isn’t it?’
‘I think so, and I’m glad you agree. This place isn’t large but the period’s right.’
‘I was wondering—you know, while I was upstairs—if you collected old furniture or something like that?’
‘No, but when we have found the house we like in the country we will spend time finding exactly the right furniture for it. I’m seldom free for any length of time, so it may take months.’
* * *
LYING IN THE four-poster, nicely drowsy, Claudia reviewed her wedding day. They had spent a happy evening together, talking like an old married couple, disagreeing pleasantly from time to time, discovering that they agreed about most things which mattered. Cork had served them with a splendid dinner: watercress soup, roast pheasant with all its trimmings, a dessert of his own devising—a concoction of ground almonds and whipped cream, angelica and crystallised fruit—and finally coffee in a very beautiful silver coffee pot, poured into paper-thin cups. They had drunk champagne, too, with Cork toasting them gravely and wishing them long life and happiness.
She had gone to bed quite happily. Wasn’t there a song ‘Getting to Know You’? That was what they were doing, wasn’t it? Taking their time like two sensible people, but instead of getting engaged for a time before they married, they had married first.
‘Let us give ourselves time to get to know and understand each other,’ Thomas had said, and she had agreed. Life spread before her, undemanding and rather exciting. Tomorrow, she thought sleepily, she would go over the house with Cork, taking care not to encroach on his orderly life. She would wait for him to make the first suggestions as to what she should or should not do; later on, when he had accepted her, it would be for her to make suggestions...
Breakfast was at half past seven. When Thomas had suggested that she might like hers in bed, or later in the morning, she had told him that, no, she liked getting up early and would breakfast with him. She had seen his faint frown and hastened to add, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t talk!’
In the morning she was as good as her word. Beyond a cheerful good morning she stayed silent, eating the scrambled eggs Cork put before her and following that with toast and marmalade. Thomas left before she had finished, dropping a hand on her shoulder as he went past her chair.
‘I may be late home...’
‘How late is late? Does Cork have a meal ready for you whatever time it is?’
‘Yes. But I’ll do my best to be here by eight o’clock. If I’m held up I’ll phone, or get someone to do it for me.’
He had gone. She heard him speak to Cork in the hall before he went out to his car. She had finished breakfast when Cork came to clear the table.
‘You will wish to see over the house, madam?’
‘Yes, please, Cork. When it’s convenient to you. I’m sure you have your day organised. I’d like to telephone my mother and write a letter or two, so will you let me know when you are ready? Does someone come in to give you a hand?’
‘Mrs Rumbold comes each morning except Saturday and Sunday. A reliable, hardworking person, and entirely trustworthy. If it suits you, I will bring you coffee at ten o’clock, after which I shall be free to take you round the house.’
‘Thank you, Cork. Ought I to meet Mrs Rumbold?’
‘Certainly, if you wish, madam. I will bring her to you—she comes at nine o’clock.’
Claudia had a long and satisfying conversation with her mother, declaring herself to be entirely happy and promising a full description of the house later. She put the phone down as Cork came in with Mrs Rumbold—a stout lady with small dark eyes in a round face, a great deal of hair, in a most unlikely shade of ebony, and a wide smile.
Claudia got up and shook hands, and murmured suitably, and Mrs Rumbold’s vast person quivered with cheerful laughter.
‘Lor’ bless me, ma’am, it’s a great treat to see another female in the house. A bit of a surprise, but Mr Cork tells me as ’ow you and the Professor ’as known each other awhile.’
Claudia smiled and said that, yes, indeed that was so. Cork coughed, a signal for Mrs Rumbold to take her departure, declaring that she’d do her best, same as always, and had never given Mr Cork cause to complain...
‘I’m sure you haven’t, Mrs Rumbold...’
She had her coffee presently, this time from a small silver coffee pot and a much larger cup, delicately patterned with roses. It looked so fragile that Claudia was in two minds as to whether to drink from it. But she did.
She went for a walk after lunch, finding her way round the quiet streets, lined by similar houses, going to the nearest main road to study the bus t
imetables. There were no large stores close by, although she did find a row of small shops tucked away behind an elegant row of houses. The kind of shops she was used to, selling wools and knitting needles and high-class green groceries, an antiquarian bookshop, a tiny tea shop—very elegant—and at the end a dusty, rather shabby little place selling small antiques and a variety of odds and ends.
She spent some time looking in its window, and then walked back, thinking about her morning. Cork had been very helpful, but she felt he was still suspicious of her. He had shown her every nook and cranny of the house, every cupboard... The house was bigger than she had thought at first: three storeys high and every room charmingly furnished. Cork had a room and bathroom behind the kitchen in the semi-basement, and she had no doubt that it was comfortably furnished, too.
The kitchen was very much to her own taste—a cheerful red Aga, a vast old-fashioned dresser along one wall, filled with plates and dishes, a square wooden table in the centre of the room, around which were an assortment of comfortable, rather shabby chairs, and pots and saucepans neatly stacked on the shelves on the walls. There were checked curtains at the window and a thick rug before the Aga. It reminded her of Great-Uncle William’s kitchen... She reached the front door and rang the bell, reminding herself that she must ask Thomas for a key.
Thomas didn’t get home until almost eight o’clock. She saw that he was tired and, beyond answering his queries as to how she had spent her day, she forbore from chattering. They dined in a companionable silence, and, since it was by then getting late in the evening, she said that she was tired and would go to bed if he didn’t mind. It had been the right thing to say, but she tried not to mind when she saw the relief on his face.
Still, he bade her goodnight and kissed her cheek, then reminded her that he was free in the morning and they would go shopping. ‘I shall open an account for you at Harrods and Harvey Nichols, and arrange for an allowance to be paid into your bank. But tomorrow we will shop together.’
He took her first to Harrods the next morning, accompanying her to the fashion floor, telling her to buy whatever she liked and making himself comfortable in one of the easy chairs scattered around.