Wintersbride

by Sara Seale

  "No," she replied sedately. "But in this case it is different, isn't it? The door has never been locked."

  "Hmm," he observed, and stood looking at her with a speculative eye. She wore some brief undergarment that re­vealed more than it concealed and he crossed the room slowly and placed his hands on her narrow hipbones.

  She stood very still, and for a moment she thought he was going to draw her into his arms. She looked up at his dark face and each line was suddenly familiar, and she felt an aching tenderness toward him as she waited.

  But his eyes became coolly professional once more and all he said was, "You're still much too thin."

  "Yes, Adam," she said, and wriggled out of his grasp.

  "Well, now, what are the difficulties?" he asked her, and she plunged once more into the cupboard, pulling out dresses and tossing them at him in great haste.

  "Well," he said, looking at her over the armful of clothes with a rather odd expression, "I'm not very used to acting as a lady's maid, you know."

  "But it is only to choose for me," she said seriously. "I do not know if it is correct to wear the décolletage—" her hands began to sketch gestures "—or the high neck or the sleeves."

  "Definitely not the décolletage," he said, looking amused. "A modest dinner dress is what is required. What about this? White is very suitable for the bride's first appearance, don't you think?"

  She looked at the frock doubtfully. It was a charming cre­ation, but she felt a little uncertain of Adam when he made remarks of this kind.

  "If you think so," she said, and he tossed the rest of the dresses on to a chair.

  "I definitely think so," he replied, and went back to his room.

  Grace and her mother lived in an old, converted farmhouse on the other side of Shaptavy, and entering Mrs. Latham's low-ceilinged drawing room with its bright chintzes and old-fashioned Dresden china bric-a-brac, Miranda thought how much pleasanter it was than Wintersbride. The room seemed full of people and she experienced a moment of acute shyness as she stood beside Adam, acknowledging introductions. They regarded her with polite curiosity, these men and women who had been invited to meet her.

  As the evening progressed, Adam glanced several times at Miranda with eyes that were amused and a little surprised. She was holding her own nicely with Stokes, who had a dry wit and a poor opinion of female intelligence, and old Benyon was clearly very taken with her. The women, too, had dropped their earlier reserve and complimented him on his young bride, and even Mrs. Latham, though she could not have been best pleased at the end of her daughter's hopes, remarked a little acidly, "An attractive young creature, my dear Adam, and nice manners in an age of a deplorable lack of them in the young, don't you think? But that's the French upbringing, I expect."

  Adam grinned; he was not surprised that she was a success. There was no trace now of the shabby little waif he had rescued and married on such a curious impulse, and he realized that she was both attractive and unusual and that not one of the men present tonight would have believed or understood the terms of his marriage.

  He turned to speak to Grace, aware that she had been watch­ing him for some time.

  "It was kind of you and your mother to help launch Miranda so successfully," he said quickly, and she smiled.

  "But of course we did it for you, Adam. She is such a child and it can't be easy to become the wife of an important man when one has little or no experience."

  "She seems to be doing all right," said Adam a little dryly. "And you've always overrated my importance, Grace."

  She smiled again, but her eyes were less amused.

  "Do you think so? Well, I hope you're going to be very happy, Adam. You know that's all I've ever wished for you."

  "Yes, I know," he said, admiring the poise with which she hid whatever she might once have felt for him. " You' re looking very well tonight. It's time, you know, you emulated my exam­ple and got married. There must be many poor devils who have been living in hopes for too long."

  She winced. How clumsy men were, even the cleverest of them, she thought with a little spurt of anger. Was it possible that he had never really known what she had felt for him? His hasty marriage had come as a shock to her, but his choice of a wife had wounded her more bitterly. Adam Chantry, the cool, the levelheaded, to be caught by a pretty little gamine young enough to be his daughter…

  "You mustn't be like all bridegrooms and try to harry your friends into the married state," she said lightly. "There are still men and women who prefer the blessings of being single, you know."

  Miranda was talking to Dr. Tregellis. He was, he had told her, the doctor practicing in the neighborhood; he attended everyone in the village and Wintersbride had been on his visit­ing list ever since Adam had first bought it ten years ago.

  "Oh," said Miranda, betrayed into surprise, "then Fay was not born there?"

  "No." said Dr. Tregellis. "If she had been I would certainly have brought her into the world. But didn't you know the child was born when Adam was practicing in London?"

  "No," she said, "I did not know he had ever practiced in London. I thought he had always been here at Wintersbride."

  "Oh, dear me, no," Tregellis said, looking at her rather curiously. "He had been married three years when he came down here. The child was two. He'd have been in Harley Street by now had he stayed, but it's the west country's gain. Your husband is a very brilliant surgeon, Mrs. Chantry."

  "Yes," said Miranda, wondering why Adam had abandoned London for Plymouth. "I thought, somehow…" She laughed a little awkwardly, aware that he must think it odd that she knew so little of her husband's affairs. "I thought, perhaps, Wintersbride was the family home."

  "Oh, dear me, no," the doctor said again. "He bought the place as it stood, lock, stock and barrel. Old Colonel Hunter, the original owner, moved out, the Chantrys moved in and hardly a stick of furniture had to be altered."

  That, then, thought Miranda, explained the curious imper­sonality of all the rooms, but how had she liked it—Melisande, with the flair for beauty that her drawing room betrayed?

  "One forgets how time passes," Tregellis was saying with faint surprise. "It seems only the other day that the Chantrys moved into Wintersbride, and Mrs. Chantry's beauty was a nine days' wonder. People used to look through the gates, you know, hoping to get a glimpse of her in the garden." For a moment his eyes were introspective and a little sad, then he added rather hastily, "But that's all past history for you. You must have been a babe in arms at the time."

  "I was nine," said Miranda.

  "Did you attend Mrs. Chantry?" she asked, more for some­thing to say than because she was curious.

  "Yes," he replied, looking at her rather hard. "Poor soul, what a tragedy, but it was no one's fault in the end—no one's, you understand. Miss Simms blamed herself bitterly, but she had no cause to."

  "But I thought Fay had been sent away all the time her mother was ill. Wasn't Simmy with her?"

  "Oh, dear me, no. The child was with Nanny. Miss Simms was Mrs. Chantry's nurse-companion, you know. She only became Fay's governess afterward. But surely your husband has told you all this?"

  "It was so long ago," she said evasively. "I think Adam feels that his first marriage has nothing to do with his second."

  She began to dislike the little doctor's probing, bulging gaze and felt uncomfortable when he said with bluff heartiness, "Perhaps I've been talking too much, but meeting you was bound to revive old memories, you know-, and Melisande Chan­try was the most beautiful woman I ever saw."

  Miranda was saved from a reply by Grace, who sent the doctor to talk to her mother and sat down herself in his place. Grateful for the interruption and anxious to please Grace, who she really thought was looking very handsome, she began to admire the sapphire pendant that looked so beautiful against her white skin.

  "It was left me by a great-aunt," Grace said idly. "Inciden­tally, you never wear jewellery, do you Miranda? I haven't even seen your engagement ring. What d
id Adam give you?"

  Miranda sat twisting the plain wedding ring round her finger, trying to think of an answer. Grace repeated her question and two of the other women broke off a conversation to discuss the more interesting subject of jewellery.

  "Well, I…" Miranda began nervously.

  Then Adam's voice said firmly behind her, "We had to send the ring back for the setting to be looked at. A stone was loose."

  "Oh, what a shame," sympathized one of the women. "What is it like, Mrs. Chantry?"

  "Diamonds," said Adam promptly. "I was conventional, I'm afraid, Mrs. Stokes."

  "It's beautiful," Miranda said, relief making her unwary. "A square solitaire with—with baguette diamonds on each side."

  "It sounds lovely—and expensive," gushed Mrs. Stokes, and Miranda became aware of Adam's ironical eyes on her.

  "Yes," he said dryly, "doesn't it?"

  He took her home very soon afterward, and sitting beside him in the car, she gave a sigh of relief. She had enjoyed her evening, but there had been one or two awkward moments for which she had not been prepared.

  "Did I—was I—well conducted?" she asked with that odd little formality of expression that she was apt to use when she was nervous.

  "Very well conducted," he replied with a smile. "In fact, Miranda, you were a distinct success. Everyone thought you charming."

  "And you, Adam," she said boldly into the darkness, "you did not find me charming?"

  "I didn't say so," he replied, and there was a teasing note in his voice.

  He heard her sigh and placed a hand for a moment over one of hers.

  "I found you very charming, my dear," he said gently. "Do you want me to say I was proud of you?"

  "That gives me great pleasure if you mean it," she said, flushing in the darkness, and moved a little closer to him. "Thank you for rescuing me over the ring, Adam. I could not think of what to say, and everyone was staring."

  "Well, it's a pity your resourcefulness didn't desert you for a bit longer," he remarked with his old dryness. "You always have to embellish a story, don't you, Miranda? A square soli­taire with baguettes on each side—a most exact description. Cartier probably won't have such a thing in stock."

  "Cartier? Oh, but Adam, you don't have to be so literal. No one will notice now if I don't have a ring."

  "Of course you must have a ring. You should have reminded me that it was part of the conventions. I shall write to Carder's tomorrow."

  She was silent, not knowing whether he was annoyed or amused or a little of both, and he suddenly put a hand on her knee.

  "I'm not quite so thoughtless or so ungenerous as you must think me," he said unexpectedly. "There's some good jewellery in my safe, but after my—bétise over the dressing-table set, I hesitated to offer it to you."

  Melisande's jewels… But Miranda had never known her, and all jewels, unless they were new, had been worn by some­one else at some time or other.

  "Thank you, Adam," she said gently. "If you do not mind, why should I? But I do not want to—trespass."

  "What a nice child you are," he said, and turned for a moment to look at the fair, curled head so near his shoulder.

  "Adam, I am not a child," she said. But they had reached Wintersbride now, and he laughed as he got out to open the gates.

  "Aren't you?" he said. "Didn't you hear what old Benyon said, and Tregellis and the others?"

  The house confronted them in the thin drizzle, blind and shuttered as usual. The pleasure Miranda had been feeling during the evening died as she entered the silent hall.

  "Good night, Adam," she said, and would have gone up­stairs, but he unexpectedly put a hand under her chin, tilting her face up for closer observation.

  She looked up at him, aware that this time his interest was not wholly professional.

  "Am I forgiven for hurting you over that dressing-set?" he asked.

  She had not expected the question and for a moment she did not know how to answer. But as he gravely waited, searching her face with eyes that were curiously anxious, she replied gently, "It was not your fault that I was hurt. You had given me no reason to—misunderstand your actions."

  He gave her a long look.

  "Well, I've ordered another set for you from Asprey. Fay can have her mother's when she's older. Now go to bed and get a good night's sleep."

  He did not wait for her stammered thanks but turned his whole attention to locking up the house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was another week of wet weather. Then, toward the end of June, summer suddenly came to the moor. It became so hot that the wild ponies sought shelter in the lanes, and at night Miranda could hear them outside the gates, their unshod hooves ringing in the stillness as they made off down the road.

  Sometimes she would explore the moor in the cool of the evening, and once she got up very early to watch the sun rise behind the hut circles on Spiney Down. Adam met her in the hall as she slipped into the house, and his eyebrows rose.

  "Hello, you're up early," he remarked, observing with sur­prise her bare feet and the sandals swinging from one hand.

  "Yes," she laughed. "I've been on the moor. I have watched the sun rise over Spiney Down and I am very hungry."

  "Hmm," he said noncommittally. "Well, you'd better join me for breakfast. It's all ready."

  She was conscious that he was watching her as she ate, his eyes a little amused. She thought he looked very distinguished in his professional black coat and impeccable linen, distin­guished but a little alarming. In the strong morning light the gray in his neatly brushed hair was very evident, and his dark face, fresh from his recent shave, already wore an air of the shrewd, observant consultant. She was unsurprised when he said with crisp approval, "You look better. A little too fine­ drawn still, but healthier. Do you sleep well?"

  "Very well, thank you," she replied meekly, then her mouth suddenly curled up in a grin. "You are very professional, Adam. Do your patients dare to confide in you?"

  "Not more than is necessary for a diagnosis if I can help it," he retorted.

  "I think, perhaps, you intimidate your patients."

  "You do, do you? But I don't intimidate you, Miranda?"

  Did he intimidate her? Yes, she thought, at times, when he looked at her as if she were a temperature chart with which he was not entirely satisfied. She wondered whether she should tell him this, but in the end she only replied a little smugly, "I am not a patient."

  He replied with severity, "Oh, yes, you are, young woman. That heart of yours isn't all I should like it to be yet, so not so much of this sunrise watching, please, and more rest in your perfectly good bed—and keep your shoes on."

  "Yes, Mr. Chantry," she said, and he laughed.

  "You know—" he stirred his coffee idly, desiring unex­pectedly to linger over the conversation "—I think I should have adopted you instead of married you."

  "Why?"

  "Well, look at you, with your scratched legs and your hair curling like a lamb's back! And that rather disreputable cotton dress never came out of Dubonnet's collection, I'll swear."

  She looked surprised. It was so seldom that he appeared to notice what she wore.

  "I got it in Plymouth for twenty-five shillings. It saves my grand ones," she told him. "Don't you like it?"

  "Yes, the color suits you well enough, but you can always get things sent down from Bruton Street on approval, you know."

  "Very likely," replied Miranda severely. "But you should not discourage me from saving your money, Adam. In France women are taught to be thrifty with their husbands' incomes."

  "Indeed!" he said gravely. "Very praiseworthy, I've no doubt. Well, at least I've broken one French habit of yours of which I don't approve."

  She looked a little alarmed. "What?" she asked, searching in her mind for French habits of which the British would not approve.

  "You eat a decent English breakfast now instead of that continental nonsense," he said, and she giggled.

 
"Oh, Adam, what a funny thing to take so seriously. Wouldn't it—" she leaned across the table, coaxing him like a child "—would it not be nice if in this hot weather we had our breakfast on the terrace? In the south of France we had all our meals out of doors, my father and I."

  There was nostalgia in her voice, and for a moment he experienced a brief curiosity about that other life of hers into which he had inquired so little, but breakfast on the terrace with Miranda distracting his thoughts from their well-ordered chan­nels—no.

  "Not at all nice, I'm afraid, Miranda," he said briskly. "I've no time to dally in the mornings and I dislike eating my food out of doors." He glanced at his watch and got up from the table. "Well, this won't do. I'm a quarter of an hour late as it is. Bidder will be waiting."

  There were no more surprise breakfast parties and he did not Catch her again for some time in her cheap cotton dresses and no shoes on her feet. By the time he came back in the evenings she had already changed into one of the expensive dresses from Dubonnet's, and with the dress went her party manners. She spoke when she felt she was expected to, sensing very quickly when he was tired or merely uncommunicative. Sometimes they would drink their coffee on the terrace, but it was the nearest Miranda ever got to the alfresco meals she had planned when the warm weather came.

  Even Fay and Miss Simms seemed to share Adam's-dislike of any departure from routine except for picnics. When Adam could dispense with the car, Bidder would drive them to Spiney Down or Ram's Tor, where there was a cave and a famous view from the top, or even farther afield to a point where they could glimpse the sea. Then he would leave them with their rugs and their picnic baskets and return for them in exactly two hours. On these occasions Miranda and Fay were unexpectedly united, for both disliked the expeditions and both were irked by the gov­erness's unobtrusive supervision. Miss Simms did not appear to be watching them as she sat stiffly with her back against a boulder, reading or crocheting, but if they wandered out of sight she would call them back. Once, Miranda pretended not to hear and, taking the child's hand, pulled her down to hide in the bracken. Simmy, when she eventually found them, was very angry indeed.