Wintersbride

by Sara Seale

  "Perhaps," she said, feeling her way, "she needs other children to play with."

  Miss Simms looked at her then.

  "There are very few children of the right age around here," she said tonelessly, "and Fay is not a good mixer."

  "Well," said Miranda reasonably, "how can she learn to be a good mixer if she never meets anyone?"

  "You had better talk to Mr. Chantry about these matters," Miss Simms said, her pale eyes veiled once again in reserve, and Miranda felt herself' politely dismissed.

  They finished their lunch in silence, and Miss Simms de­clined coffee.

  "If you will excuse me, I will go and settle Fay for her hour's rest," she said. "After that I am at your disposal, should you want me for anything."

  "I do not think so, unless—would it be possible for one of the maids to air out the drawing room?" Miranda asked.

  Sammy stiffened.

  "The drawing room?" she repeated with raised eyebrows. "That's a room we never use."

  "Well, it's different now, isn't it?" Miranda said pleasantly. "I shall use it myself if no one else wants to."

  "Mrs. Chantry—" the governess spoke repressively "—the servants have instructions not to meddle with that room."

  "Whose instructions?" asked Miranda coolly.

  "The late Mrs. Chantry's," Miss Simms replied, equally coolly. "No one entered that room then except by her express invitation."

  "But," Miranda protested incredulously, "she is dead! She has been dead seven years!"

  "Yes, she's dead," said Simmy, colorlessly. "Now perhaps you will excuse me."

  Left alone, Miranda experienced a swift wave of rebellion. Did Simmy think she could treat her by the same controlled methods she used with the child? And what was all this non­sense about the wishes of a woman who had been dead for seven years? She had a sudden impression of Grace Latham's deep voice saying with gentle reproof, "Adam felt his wife's death very deeply. Anything that helped to remind him…" And the mood passed. She was, she told herself, only a guest in her husband's house, and she could not complain of matters that she did not understand.

  She went back to the drawing room, meaning to have another look inside, but the door was locked and someone had removed the key.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the time Adam returned in the evening, Miranda had tabu­lated in her mind the things she wished to speak to him about, but somehow they did not get said. Adam seemed preoccupied and brusque and his manner did not encourage suggestions that might sound a little like interference on such short acquaintance.

  Such short acquaintance… Miranda observed him covertly. He seemed very professional in his dark clothes, with the gray in his hair and the deeply marked lines that gave his face the look of a much older man; professional and not nearly so approachable as he had appeared that night of the fair. She moved uneasily and he looked at her suddenly over his paper with that penetrating, considering glance that she was coming to know.

  "You have the unusual gift of knowing when to refrain from chattering, haven't you?" he said.

  "Gentlemen do not like to be disturbed when reading the newspaper," she told him gravely.

  He smiled and put the paper down.

  "Very true," he said. "But I should have taken more interest in your first day at Wintersbride."

  "It rained all day," she said, rejecting the moment as unpropitious for the things she had meant to say. "I learned the geography of the house and Miss Latham came to call."

  He frowned.

  "Oh, yes. What on earth possessed you to give her that garbled account of that night at the fair?"

  "How did you know?" she asked, with curiosity rather than dismay.

  "She phoned me at my office."

  "Oh. "

  "To warn me to give you a hint not to spread the story among my colleagues and patients."

  "I do not know your colleagues and patients," she replied sedately. "Anyway, it was true, wasn't it?"

  He did not smile.

  "Not the impression you gave Grace. I hope you're not an enfant terrible, Miranda. Naiveness is so tiresome."

  "I'm sorry," she said meekly. "Perhaps I did want to shock her. She treated me like a little girl."

  "She was probably only being kind," he told her shortly. "Please remember that she's an old friend and can be very helpful to you in adapting yourself to your new life."

  She looked at him under her lashes. Men were very obtuse, she reflected without surprise. It was Grace, she was sure, from whom he had been running away. Did he imagine that because he had now safeguarded himself her feelings would immediate­ly alter?

  "I'll remember," she said.

  He finished in his lecture-room voice, "I entertain and am entertained very little, but there are certain people you will be expected to meet. I hope you will remember not to indulge in fairy tales. There has been enough talk as it is."

  "You have had a—difficult day?" she suggested tentatively, and he smiled with more naturalness.

  "Human curiosity is proverbial and I suppose I asked for it by keeping my marriage so much in the dark. I'll have to put you on view sometime, you know."

  "Isn't that what you married me for?" she said politely. "A social protection—the conventional wife to be sometimes on view?"

  "The arrangement was to our mutual advantage, I thought," he said dryly. "You, I understood, were badly in need of a home."

  "I do not reproach you, Adam," she replied gravely, "but perhaps you are thinking that you did not choose so wisely for your part of the bargain."

  He leaned across and patted her on the knee.

  "Silly child," he said, unexpectedly dropping his stiff man­ner. "I've no doubt it will all work out admirably. Now, tell me, have you made friends with Fay?"

  "There has not been much opportunity," she replied evasive­ly. "All the morning she did lessons in that horrible school­room, and after lunch she rests and I do not see her again."

  "Didn't you have tea together?"

  "No. Miss Simms did not permit it. There was, you see, a little trouble at lunch."

  His dark eyes rested on her with a guarded expression.

  "Oh? What sort of trouble?"

  "She was disappointed that Miss Latham did not stay for lunch."

  "Oh, is that all? I'm afraid Fay is rather given to tantrums when she doesn't get what she wants. I was hoping you'd be good for her."

  "I don't think she likes me. She seems very devoted to Miss Latham."

  "She'll expect you to call her Grace, you know," he said with an unexpected twinkle, and added, "Fay's affections are inclined to be subject to her needs. There was a time when she resented Grace very much."

  "When she thought she might have her for a stepmother?" asked Miranda calmly, but he only smiled.

  "Children get odd notions," he replied. "Why did you describe the schoolroom as horrible?"

  "Well, all that chromium furniture and the bars on the window, and it's small and gets no sun…" Her thin hands began to gesticulate. "There are so many unused rooms in the house, Adam, why—"

  His eyes were cold and guarded again.

  "We consider this is the best room for Fay," he said briefly, and added, "I hope you won't interfere with Simmy's routine, Miranda."

  Miranda was silent, and he said with a reluctant smile, "Simmy has a governessy manner. I'm afraid you rather knocked her endways when I brought you home last night. She wasn't expecting anything quite so juvenile."

  He thinks I am a child still, she thought, with surprise at such a misconception in a man accustomed to dealing with the ills and demands of humanity.

  But after dinner Adam appeared to think he had been a little casual in his dealings with his new bride, for he sent for the servants and introduced them meticulously to Miranda: Nancy, whom she had already met, and Bessie, the parlor maid, and Mrs. Yeo. He apologized majestically for the absence of the gardener and of the girl from the village who helped in the scullery. The latter was very con
cerned at the moment that she had been caught unprepared and had not had time to change into her housekeeper's black.

  "I would have been up before, madam," she said, "but I hope I know my place, and no one asked for me."

  Oh, dear, thought Miranda nervously, she is offended. Adam should have done this last night.

  "I would have come to see you this morning, Mrs. Yeo," she said, "but Miss Simms thought you would be busy."

  "Miss Simms should have sent for me," the woman replied. "She knows very well I'd not expect to see you in the kitchen. However, I'm sure I wish you to be very happy, and you, too, sir."

  "Thank you," Miranda said, then added more firmly, "Will you come and see me tomorrow morning after breakfast, please, Mrs. Yeo? Just to discuss the meals and any other little thing, you know."

  "The meals, madam?" Mrs. Yeo's flat face was outraged. "When my lady was alive—begging your pardon, sir—the meals and everything else was left to me. Never a complaint did she make, and the house has been run the same way ever since, isn't that right, sir?"

  "If Mrs. Chantry wishes to order the meals herself, you will, I hope, give her every assistance, Mrs. Yeo," Adam said pleasantly. "That will be all for now, thank you. Good night."

  "Very good, sir. Good night, sir—madam." Mrs. Yeo's voice was expressionless and she did not look at Miranda again.

  "Thank you, Adam, for coming to my rescue," Miranda laughed when the door had closed on them all. "She is very touchy, isn't she?"

  "I could do no less than support you," he replied a little curtly. "But I don't advise poaching on Mrs. Yeo's preserves. She's very jealous of her rights."

  "But I thought—do you not want me to take any interest in the running of your house?"

  "If it will amuse you to play at keeping house, then don't let me or Mrs. Yeo discourage you," he told her gently. "I only meant that I don't expect you to bother your head about such dull things as housekeeping when there is no need."

  "Then what do you expect of me?" she asked, trying to find some way in which she might be useful and yet still please him.

  "I expect very little," he answered gravely. "Just the com­mon tolerance required when two people have to share the same roof—friendship if you wish it. Is that enough for you Miranda, or are you finding I drove too hard a bargain?"

  "No," she said a shade forlornly. "It is you who get so little from your bargain."

  "I'm getting all I asked for so far, even though I'm beginning to feel I've asked for too much."

  "Or too little."

  He moved uneasily.

  "Well, let's agree, shall we, that neither of us demand too much of the other?" he said with a little warning inflection in his voice. "Your job for the moment is to make friends with Fay, and that will keep you occupied."

  He tried to speak lightly, but he was aware all the time that she was giving him the polite attention of a child who is being talked down to.

  He suddenly held out both hands to her.

  "Forgive me, Miranda, for my clumsy approaches," he said with unexpected charm. "I haven't got the hang of you yet. We must get to know each other, mustn't we?"

  Her face was tender with swift response as she put her hands in his.

  "Ah, yes, Adam," she said. "And I do not think you clumsy. It is just that you cannot decide if I am a child or a woman "

  He looked down at the fair head that barely reached his shoulder, and his eyes twinkled.

  "I didn't marry you because I thought you were a woman," he told her with gentle mockery.

  She turned abruptly from him, withdrawing her hands from his friendly grasp, and would not let him see that he had hurt her.

  As she got ready for bed that night she could hear him moving about in his room next door, and already she envied him the work that took him away from Wintersbride all day, and often, as he had told her, all night. And she began to wonder what she was to find to do with the empty hours in this big silent house while the rain drove perpetually across the moor.

  The rain had stopped by the morning, but toward evening the mist that had been gathering all day became a thick moor fog and Adam telephoned to say he would stay the night in Ply­mouth. Miranda dined alone in the chilly dining room, too shy to ask Simmy to keep her company, and when she had finished she went upstairs to see if Fay was asleep yet. A light showed under the door and Miranda knocked and went in.

  Fay Was in bed reading a paperback novel propped against her knees, and as Miranda came into the room she thrust the book under her pillow.

  "Hello," Miranda said, "I thought I'd see if you were asleep yet."

  "Did Simmy send you spying?" asked Fay.

  "No, why should she? I'm alone tonight, and thought I would like to have someone to talk to." She sat down on the side of the bed and drew the book from under the pillow. "Goodness! Where did you get this? I have not seen such a voluptuous dustcover since I have been in England."

  "Are you going to tell her?"

  "Why should I? What you read is no concern of mine. This nonsense won't hurt you, anyway."

  "How do you know it's nonsense? Have you read it?"

  "No, but it seems to follow the usual pattern—rich suitor, poor heroine dazzled by wealth, and somewhere, I suppose, a clean-limbed young hero to round everything off neatly."

  "Is that why you married my father?" asked Fay. "Because he was a rich suitor and you were dazzled by his wealth?"

  Miranda laughed. "What extraordinary notions you have about your father," she said, shutting up the book and returning it to its hiding place under the pillow.

  "Adam is a cruel man," his daughter remarked.

  "What nonsense!" Miranda was startled in spite of herself.

  "Oh, no, it isn't," the child said with an air of conviction. "When you've lived in this house a little while, you'll see. You don't like the house, do you?"

  "Well, I have only been here two days, and the weather has been depressing," Miranda answered evasively.

  "That's right. The weather's always depressing here. Why don't you go away?"

  "Why do you want to get rid of me?" Miranda retorted.

  "Adam is not for you," said Fay, like a character out of her novel.

  Miranda looked at the strange, lovely little face so like the beautiful face of the portrait, and suddenly she felt sorry for the child. It was natural, after all, that having been shut away with grown-up people for so long, she should be possessive about her father.

  "You are very fond of your father, aren't you?" she said gently.

  She felt she had been slapped when Fay replied with dispas­sionate calm, "No, I hate him—and he hates me."

  "Oh, Fay, really! Your father may not be able to be with you very much, but he is continually thinking of your welfare."

  "Is he?" said Fay, and her smile was unchildlike and rather disturbing.

  Miranda felt a shiver run down her spine. To change the subject she said idly, observing the second bed in the room, "Do you not sleep alone yet at your age?"

  "No," Fay answered indifferently. "Simmy sleeps with me. I have bad dreams sometimes."

  "I see. Well, I think this side of the house is depressing anyway, and it is so far away from everyone else, isn't it? I found a room in the south corridor that must have been a nursery once, Fay—a big, sunny room with painted cupboards and pictures of animals. Was it ever yours?"

  "Yes," the child said tonelessly, "but I'm not allowed to go in it now."

  "Why not? It would make a much nicer schoolroom than your present one, and you would be next door to your father's room."

  "That was the reason they changed it. Adam couldn't bear me close."

  "Fay, dear, I'm sure that was not the reason," Miranda said.

  But the child cried wildly, "It was, it was, it was! Ask Simmy—she'll tell you it's true!"

  "Ask me what?" said Miss Simms's cool voice from the doorway. "What are you getting so excited about, Fay? You should have been asleep an hour ago. Do you want to have one
of your nightmares? Really, Mrs. Chantry, this is most unwise. I would prefer it if in future you would say good-night to Fay before I've settled her for the night. What do you want Mrs. Chantry to ask me, dear?"

  The brilliance had died out in the child's eyes and she looked sullen.

  "Nothing," she said, darting a quick look at Miranda.

  "That's not what I heard as I came in," Simmy said playful­ly. "Perhaps Mrs. Chantry can tell me."

  "It was nothing of any importance," said Miranda lightly, and saw the governess compress her lips.

  "In that case," she said, "perhaps you would be good enough to leave us now. It's time Fay settled down."

  Miranda was beginning to dislike the governess and was not at all sure that such a woman was the ideal companion for a difficult, imaginative child. Simmy's discipline was clearly excellent, as no doubt, was her integrity. But Miranda found her depressing. There was too much altogether that was depressing about Wintersbride, Miranda thought.

  The clock over the mantelpiece chimed the half hour and Miranda glanced at it wearily. Only half-past nine. But she might as well go to bed.

  In her own room she smiled as she fingered the monogrammed brushes on the dressing table. Strange, unpredictable man, she thought, to be so casual in his relationship with her, yet to remember so intimate a wedding present, and she traced the entwined initials M.C. on the back of the hand mirror with tender fingers, and remembered she had not thanked him.

  The following day the weather was little better. The fog had lifted, but the sky was still gray and overcast and rain clouds were gathering again over the distant tors.

  "I had better not dawdle this morning," Miranda said to Nancy when she brought her breakfast in the morning. You can tell Mrs. Yeo I will see her at ten o'clock."

  Nancy giggled.

  "That'll drive her mazed," she said with enjoyment. "Not in her blacks this morning, she isn't, and not expecting to be sent for again."

  But Mrs. Yeo was in her blacks by the time Miranda was ready for her, and they went through the same farce of ordering the menu for the day.

  "Mrs. Yeo, the key is missing from the drawing-room door," Miranda said at the end of the interview. "Kindly see that it is put back without delay. It is not, I think, the province of Miss Simms to lock up rooms."