by Sara Seale
He put down his empty glass.
"Not a bit," he said briskly. "Shall we go in to dinner?"
It was with relief that she learned that the governess never joined him for dinner, but as each course was placed before her and she sought a little desperately for topics of conversation, she began to feel that the presence of a third person might have made the situation easier. He answered courteously enough such questions as she asked him, but he seemed indisposed to make small talk and at last she fell silent, watching his dark, withdrawn face.
Coffee was brought to the small room where they had drunk their cocktails. She poured it out, conscious that his thoughts were already preoccupied with his work and with the telephone that rang constantly in his study, and she was scarcely surprised when a little later he told her he had an hour or so of writing to put in before he went to bed and would say good-night.
"You'll find plenty of books in that room across the hall," he told her, getting to his feet, "but I would advise going to bed early. It's been a long day and you aren't entirely fit yet."
"Yes," she said. "What time do you have breakfast?"
"I'll be gone before there's any need for you to wake. I'll tell them to send up a tray."
"I see." Her eyes were on her wedding ring, which she was turning round and round on her thin finger. "Are you going away?"
He raised his eyebrows.
"Only into Plymouth. I'll be back in the evening."
"I did not know," she said.
He looked at her bent head, at the absurd ribbon circling her curls like a child's, and he rubbed his chin with a rueful gesture.
"I haven't been very clever about this, have I, Miranda?" he said. "You know nothing about me—my way of life, my tastes, even my working hours."
"Your tastes are probably particular," she said sedately. "But you must remember this is only the second time we have met."
He regarded her silently for a moment, thinking what a strange girl she was, one minute a child, and the next so oddly self-possessed.
"I hope," he said, "that I haven't forced you into taking a step that should have required more thought."
She looked up at him then and her eyes were clear and grave.
"I did not have to marry you," she said. "I would have found some way to live."
He frowned. "You're very young," he said uneasily. "Perhaps I had no right to tie you up in a loveless marriage."
She lowered her lashes.
"It's too late to think of that now," she said. "And you did not strike me at all as the kind of man to indulge in doubts."
"You're very sensible—and astonishingly unromantic for nineteen," he said a little dryly.
"I told you I was not romantic," she said then. "I was not brought up to be."
"That's just as well," he replied. "There's a great deal to be said for the French approach to these things. Well, I really must say good-night. Tomorrow, Simmy or Fay will show you around. Ask Simmy anything you need to know. She's been with us ten years and knows all the ropes. We don't see many people out here, but a Miss Latham may call on you in a day or two. She can tell you all about the neighborhood."
"Is she the" entanglement?" asked Miranda simply.
"Entanglement?"
"You said you needed a wife—as a social protection."
"There's no entanglement," he said, frowning. "Grace Latham was a friend of my first wife and is our nearest neighbor, that's all."
"I see."
Aware that he had spoken sharply, he touched her lightly on the shoulder.
"Well, get a good night's rest and ring for anything you happen to want. Good night."
"Good night," she answered, and after he had gone she put out the lights and went upstairs to bed.
And now she sat looking into her mirror and listening to the owls while she reminded herself that this was her wedding night and the house did not welcome her. Wintersbride… a strange name, a cold, forbidding name, or was it simply a sad name promising no gladness from such a union as she had made? But long ago in this house, in this same room, the first Mrs. Chantry had awaited her husband's coming and known herself loved.
She slept late the next morning and awoke to the steady sound of rain. Nancy had placed a breakfast tray beside the bed and was pulling back the heavy curtains.
"Good morning, Nancy. Another wet day?" Miranda said.
"Proper old misery," the girl replied cheerfully. She came now and stood at the foot of the bed, regarding Miranda with frank curiosity. The master's sudden remarriage had created much interest and speculation in the servants' hall, though Mrs. Yeo, the cook-housekeeper who had been in service at Wintersbride in the first Mrs. Chantry's time, had turned down her mouth and said no good would come of it. They had all thought Miss Latham would have been the master's choice and it was plain that no one, not even Miss Simms, had ever heard of this little bit of a thing not much older, by the looks of her, than Miss Fay herself.
"I hope you slept well, ma'am," the girl said demurely, but her eyes strayed to the uncreased pillow beside Miranda's.
Miranda felt herself flushing.
"Very well, thank you," she said briskly. "Will you please give me my bed jacket before you go?"
Left alone, she sat frowning at her breakfast and wondering how many servants Adam kept. Miss Simms must take her to the kitchen and introduce her to the staff. There must be plenty of activity in a house of this size, she thought, and the first thing she could do for Adam would be to see that it was well run.
When she had finished her breakfast she went to the window and looked out. She had got little impression of the countryside the evening before save one of rather bleak desolation, and now as she looked she shivered, for the bleakness and the desolation remained. Beyond the rough wall that bounded the grounds the moor stretched in unbroken solitude as far as the eye could see. Sky and moor were a uniform gray, chill, forbidding and utterly alien to her eyes, and this great gray house was part of the desolation.
She dressed slowly, wondering where she would find Miss Simms at this hour of the morning. It did not occur to her to ring for a servant and ask. Her room was one of several in a short corridor. At the end of the corridor, two steps took her down into another wide passage with doors, and here at last she caught the muffled sound of voices. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if this might be the servants' quarters, but a child's laugh reassured her, and she knocked on one of the doors and heard Simmy's precise voice bid her enter.
She found herself in what was evidently Fay's schoolroom and wondered for a moment why, with so many rooms to choose from, Adam had picked this small, square, ugly room on the north side of the house. The window had nursery bars that gave it a cell-like appearance and the furniture was the modern tubular variety found in offices and cocktail bars.
"Good morning, Mrs. Chantry. Did you want anything?" Miss Simms asked, rising politely.
"I was looking for you," Miranda said with a smile. "I thought perhaps you—or Fay—would take me around the house, show me the ropes, in fact."
"After lunch, while Fay is having her rest, I'll be at your disposal," the governess said.
"But can we not go now—all three of us?" asked Miranda impulsively. "It is such a bad morning and I am sure Fay would like some coffee or something when we have done our rounds."
"Simmy will call that sucking up," said Fay in her clear, high voice.
"Don't be rude, dear," Miss Simms said automatically, but her long, sallow face was not a bit disconcerted as she turned to regard Miranda with a calm eye. "I cannot interrupt the lesson, I'm afraid, Mrs. Chantry. We consider routine to be very important at Wintersbride. You will find there is a fire in the small study. Luncheon is at one o'clock."
Miranda felt like a rebuked child and was fully aware of Fay's enjoyment of her discomfiture.
"I'm sorry," she said. "How do I find the kitchen quarters, please?"
"The kitchen?" Simmy's eyebrows rose. "I don't think this
would be a very good moment—"
"Surely it is quite usual to visit one's kitchen in the mornings," Miranda said gently. "To give the orders for the day, I mean."
"The orders for the day? Oh, you are referring to meals. You've no need to trouble about anything like that, Mrs. Chantry. Mrs. Yeo—she's been cook-housekeeper here for years— does all that. Mrs. Chantry—I beg your pardon, I should have said the late Mrs. Chantry—left everything to Mrs. Yeo."
"I see," said Miranda, feeling chilled.
"If you would care to see Mrs. Yeo, I will send her to you in the small study," Miss Simms said, but Miranda turned to the door.
"No, it does not matter," she replied, and went away.
The late Mrs. Chantry… it was the first time Miranda was to hear that phrase from a member of the household, and even then the shadow of Melisande touched her with momentary disquiet.
She began to explore the ground-floor rooms for herself. There were not so many as she had at first supposed, and they all bore a curious uniform resemblance. The dark dining room, the small, well-stocked library, even the little paneled study, which last night had seemed friendlier with its wood fire and faded tapestry upholstery, had a secret air of anonymity, as if the façades they presented did not reveal their true personalities. Miranda made a face, remembering Adam's expressed hope that she was not fanciful, and she looked into the room in which the telephone had kept ringing, which she knew must be his study. She opened the door, half expecting to find a replica of the chromium fittings upstairs, but the room was like all the rest, admirably equipped with good period pieces; the desk and the modern filing cabinet had been chosen with care, and the neatness of the room bore mute witness to Adam's well-ordered habits.
There was one room left, and as Miranda opened the door and stood for a moment on the threshold, she immediately received a different impression. This was clearly the drawing room, though the holland covers that draped the furniture proclaimed that it was not in use. Even so, the room had a quality the others lacked, and as Miranda whipped off dust sheets to see what lay beneath, it began to reveal itself in all its graciousness. The rest of the house held good taste and quiet comfort, but whoever had designed this room was an artist, and Miranda's gaze was drawn to the portrait that hung above the fireplace at the farther end.
She walked slowly across the room and the lovely face of the first Mrs. Chantry came sharply into focus like a camera shot on the screen. It could be no one else. There were Fay's dark eyes, brilliant and demanding, the full, passionate mouth and the hint of arrogance in the lifted chin and the faint smile that touched the lips. It was the face-of a woman secure in the knowledge of her own power, and her beauty was almost insolent in its perfection. This, then, was Adam's wife.
For a moment, as she gazed up at the picture, Miranda experienced a sharp pang of inadequacy, a curious sense of trespass in her husband's house, and she jumped guiltily as a voice said sharply from the doorway, "What are you doing in there?"
Miranda walked slowly to the door, her eyes resting curiously on the tall, motionless young woman who stood there with her arms full of flowers.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm Miss Latham," the older woman replied. "Who are you?"
Miranda grinned.
"I'm the new Mrs. Chantry," she said.
Miss Latham was too polite to gaze incredulously, but she could not altogether keep the dismay out of her fine eyes.
"I beg your pardon," she said quickly, "I took you for a maid at first. I walked in, I'm afraid. Adam and I are old friends."
Miranda glanced at her sharply. Yes, this must be the entanglement. She had a proprietary air, and the way she had said "Adam and I are old friends" was slightly self-conscious.
"How do you do, Miss Latham. Adam told me you would be calling," she said demurely.
"Oh, please—I hope you'll call me Grace," the other woman said with a little laugh. "And you—what's your name?"
"Miranda."
"Miranda… Well, Miranda, I came over at once to welcome the bride. The news was so very sudden that I wasn't able to get over and arrange some flowers for you, but I've brought you these."
"Thank you."
Miranda took the flowers and stood holding them awkwardly. If Grace Latham was disconcerted by Adam's unexpected marriage to a stranger she hid it very well and, as she observed Miranda more closely, her natural poise grew more assured.
"Why, you're only a child!" she exclaimed in her soft, deep voice. "Whatever was Adam thinking of?"
"I'm nineteen," said Miranda, amused. "And he is not really so old, you know."
"Of course not, but nearly twenty years' difference… oh, well, I'm sure you'll be a great surprise to all his friends," Grace said, and her gaze shifted involuntarily to the portrait over the fireplace.
"Do you think so?" Miranda began to feel irritated. "Shall we go into the other room? There is a fire there."
"Hadn't we better replace the dust covers first?" Grace asked gently, but Miranda did not give the room another glance.
"Leave them," she said. "The room will have to be thoroughly cleaned and aired before it is used, anyway."
Grace followed her into the small study and said, a little diffidently, "Are you thinking of using the drawing room again, then?"
Miranda put down the flowers in a careless heap on a table.
"But of course. It is the nicest room in the house."
"She planned it," Grace said with a sigh. "Adam's first wife, you know. She had exquisite taste. The room has never been used since she died."
"Not for seven years? How absurd! But then I do not suppose a man alone would have much use for a drawing room," said Miranda cheerfully.
But Grace replied with gentle reproach, "Forgive me, but you probably don't understand. Adam felt his wife's death very deeply. Anything that helped to remind him—well, it's natural, isn't it?"
"The whole house would remind him if it comes to that," retorted Miranda, thinking of the south room that was now hers. "Why did he not sell the place at the time?"
"There was Fay, you see."
"A child can adjust to being transplanted. She was only five."
"It wasn't as easy as that. Fay has never been very strong, and Adam thought it best for her to grow up here. Hasn't he talked to you about these things?"
"We have not had time to discuss anything much," Miranda replied before she could stop herself. "We have only met twice."
Grace's well-modeled eyebrows rose.
"My dear child! What on earth do you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. I met him once a fortnight ago, and yesterday when I married him."
At last Grace Latham's poise was punctured. The fool, the utter fool, she thought angrily… Adam Chantry of all men to be caught by a scheming little adventuress…
"Where did you meet him?" she asked coldly, and did not realize how plainly her feelings showed on her face.
But Miranda had had enough of her visitor. If Adam had married her as an escape from this she was not going to put up with being patronized.
"I met him at a fair," she said jauntily.
"A fair—-Adam?" Grace was nearly routed then. "Do you mean you—picked him up?"
Miranda considered.
"Well, I suppose you could call it that. Actually, he picked me up—quite literally off the ground in the tent of the Mighty Mesmero—but I do not suppose you have ever heard of him."
Grace got to her feet.
"It all sounds utter nonsense, and highly unlike Adam," she said, then eyed Miranda more closely. "Or were you, perhaps, pulling my leg?"
"Oh, no, I was not," said Miranda innocently. "Will you stay to lunch, Miss Latham?"
"No—-no, thank you," said Grace hastily. "I'm expected home for luncheon. Will you tell Adam I called? I—my mother is giving a little dinner party for you one evening soon."
"That will be very nice—I'll tell my husband," said Miranda politely, and acco
mpanied her guest to the door.
As she watched Grace's car move off in the rain she experienced an unwonted sense of depression. She should not have sent her away with such a startling impression, and she suspected that Adam would not be pleased if he knew. Well, it was too late now. She had been childish and indiscreet, but there had been something about Grace Latham all along that had rubbed her the wrong way. The gong sounded somewhere in the house, and she turned reluctantly to face the fresh ordeal of lunch with Miss Simms and the child.
It was an uncomfortable meal. The governess insisted that Miranda sit in Adam's place at the head of the table, but she regarded her with the same watchful eye that she kept on her charge. Fay was sullen and picked at her food and Miss Simms made academic small talk that proved rather exhausting.
Only once did the child volunteer a statement, and that was when Miranda mentioned that Grace Latham had called.
"Why didn't you ask her for lunch?" she demanded.
"I did ask her, but she had to get back." Miranda replied.
"But didn't she want to see me?"
"She did not suggest it."
"Of course she wanted to! Don't think," said Fay, brandishing her knife and fork, "that because you've come here you can keep Grace out. My father won't stand for that."
"You are very fond of Miss Latham, perhaps?" suggested Miranda.
"I love her, I love her, I love her!" the little girl screamed, stamping her feet. Then she burst into tears.
"Fay, go up to the schoolroom like a good child. I'll come to you later," Miss Simms said, and to Miranda's surprise, the child obeyed her at once.
"Goodness!" exclaimed Miranda. "Does she often do that?"
Miss Simms went on eating as if nothing had happened. "She's highly strung," she replied unemotionally. "We sometimes have these little storms. It's best to take no notice."
"Is she really so devoted to Miss Latham?" Miranda asked curiously.
The governess lowered her eyes.
"She's fond of her, yes. But Fay's affections tend to change with her circumstances," she said.
It was an ambiguous remark and Miranda was not sure if it was intended as a warning or not.