Wintersbride

by Sara Seale

  "You should know better, Mrs. Chantry, than to play tricks like that," she said.

  "But there is no harm in hiding," Miranda said reasonably. "I often used to hide from my nurse when I was small."

  "You are not a child now," the governess retorted.

  Miranda replied a little sharply, for the woman's attitude struck her as ridiculous, "Fay is a child, or should be. If you allowed her a little more freedom, Miss Simms, she might react more like a normal little girl."

  Miss Simms's lips tightened at these last words and she glanced quickly at Fay, who gazed with interest at Miranda and remarked with complacency, "But I'm not normal, Miranda. I once heard Adam tell Grace I was not a normal child."

  "You're talking nonsense, my dear," said Simmy briskly. "You never heard your father say any such thing."

  "Oh, yes, I did. What does not normal mean?"

  "It means not being like other people, so you see you could not have heard quite right."

  "But I'm not like other people," said Fay proudly. "I don't want to be. I want to be different so that everyone will remember me like they do my mother."

  "Now that's quite enough of this foolish talk," Miss Simms said quickly, and gave Miranda a warning look.

  "Mrs. Chantry," the governess said as soon as the child was out of hearing range, "I must ask you not to make remarks of that kind in front of Fay, suggesting that I am responsible for her—bad behavior."

  "Well, I think you are, without meaning to be," said Mi­randa candidly. It was time Simmy realized that Miranda also was not twelve years old.

  They were walking back to their picnic spot, and for a moment Miss Simms paused.

  "You don't understand," she said quite quietly, and did not look at Miranda as she spoke. "I realize that to you my methods may often seem old-fashioned and unnecessary, but believe me, I know what's best for Fay."

  "I wonder if you do," said Miranda slowly. "Sometimes I think that you—and her father, too—do not treat her enough like an ordinary little girl."

  "That's a matter you must take up with Mr. Chantry," the governess replied in her colorless voice, and said no more until they were in the car.

  But it was Adam who took the matter up with Miranda after dinner that night.

  "I wish, Miranda," he said without preamble, "you'd try to cooperate a little more with Simmy. It doesn't make her position easier, you know."

  "Does Simmy," asked Miranda with a flash of temper, "have to report every trivial happening of the day?"

  He studied her thoughtfully.

  "No," he said, dropping his impatience, "only what she considers necessary. She thought, as you had given her the impression that in your opinion both she and I were at fault in our dealings with Fay, it would be as well if I had a talk with you."

  Miranda felt herself flushing.

  "But, Adam, it is all so silly," she said. "First she is annoyed because we hide in the bracken and then she is annoyed because I suggest—quite without rudeness, you understand— that Fay would behave more like a normal child if she was treated as such. She makes such unnecessary significances out of the most ordinary happenings."

  He did not make any comment for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Well, I think it's unwise to put ideas into a child's head. You will agree that the minute you suggested she was not a normal child she promptly agreed with you and further ex­pressed the opinion that she had no wish to be. Fay is very suggestible, you know. We all have to be careful."

  "Well," said Miranda, feeling uneasy at his consulting-room manner, "if she really did hear you tell Grace Latham that she was not normal, the idea was there already, wasn't it?"

  "Yes," he said gravely. "It was a pity she heard that. One talks too loosely these days about normality and other claptrap definitions."

  "You wouldn't," Miranda said shrewdly. "Adam—she is not normal, is she?"

  But he was not prepared to answer that question with such directness. "For heaven's sake, what is normality?" he ex­claimed. "Are you normal? Am I normal? Don't we all differ in varying degrees from the accepted pattern? Yes, Miranda, judged by the average third-form standard of giggling, basket­ball-playing little girls, Fay is not normal. But that doesn't make her a psychopathic case."

  "No, of course not," she said, and hesitated. Was this the moment to say what had been in her mind ever since she had come to Wintersbride?

  "I'm sorry," she began, "if I have made things difficult for Miss Simms—or for you. But Adam, you are a doctor—does the trouble not go deeper?"

  "What do you mean?" His voice was sharp.

  "I only meant that you do not seem very fond of her," she said gently.

  For a long minute he sat regarding her with a strange expres­sion that held something of irony and something of sadness, too.

  "Yes, my dear, that's true," he said with unexpected gentle­ness. "But you don't understand—how should you? Affection must be mutual. There are people who don't understand what is being offered and it's less exhausting to withdraw than beat perpetually on a locked door."

  She did not know what to reply. She was not really sure whether he was thinking of Fay's or his own inability to give when he spoke of affection.

  Tears suddenly stung her eyelids and she jumped up and turned toward the open window, seeking to escape to the garden. But he caught her hand as she brushed past his chair and held her beside him for a moment.

  "Look at me," he said abruptly.

  She turned her head unwillingly and the light from the reading lamp at his elbow slanted across her face, betraying the tears on her lashes.

  "I've hurt you, haven't I?" he asked her gently. "You don't understand half the time what I'm trying to tell you."

  She stood looking down at him, aware of the strong fingers on her wrist and the disconcerting scrutiny with which his dark eyes searched her face.

  "If," she replied with dignity, "you are trying to tell me that you do not want my affection, you need have no fear I will embarrass you, Adam."

  He sounded rather weary.

  "No, I wasn't trying to tell you that. If you have acquired any—fondness for me, I can only be grateful, my dear, and humble, too. I don't think I can be a man who easily inspires affection."

  "You!" she exclaimed, so quickly and in such a tone of disbelief that he gave her a surprised smile. "If you would only allow—"

  She broke off warily at the look in his eyes and lowered her own when he said, "I seem to remember you once told me that it should not be difficult to make yourself love any man who was reasonably decent. Do you still think that?"

  "Pierre used to say there is no such thing as love. It is only a matter of wishful thinking," she replied, and immediately sensed the change in him.

  "Yes, well, I'm not particularly interested in Pierre's opin­ions," he said dryly. "And you, I think, would do better to stick to your own. I'm afraid we're an unsatisfactory couple, my daughter and I. You'll just have to make the best of us."

  "Yes," she said, and gently withdrew her hand as she felt his fingers slacken on her wrist.

  "That's a good child," he said absently, and reached for a book on the table beside him.

  They were asked to dine out on several occasions by Adam's colleagues, but he was seldom was able to go. Miranda, if they accepted, went alone, and wondered which bored her most, the medical shoptalk that seemed to pervade most dinner conversa­tions or the men who tried to flirt with her afterward.

  "You've done your duty now," Adam told her with a smile at her disconsolate face when he packed her off for the last time without him. "Once we've returned hospitality, we can refuse all the rest. No one expects me to be social."

  "We must have them here?" Miranda asked, looking a little alarmed.

  "I think so. I've never entertained at Wintersbride, but you don't need to worry, Miranda. Mrs. Yeo will see to everything and she's an excellent cook."

  He gave her a list of guests the next morning and, when she asked him blankly how the
invitations should be worded, he said a little impatiently, "Call up Grace. She understands all that sort of thing."

  Miranda was loath to display her ignorance to Grace, who was always so ready with advice. But it was important that she should not disgrace Adam, so she went to the telephone and asked the girl to lunch.

  Grace was charming.

  "But how sensible of you, Miranda," she said when she arrived. "You can't have much experience of this sort of thing, and I've played hostess for Adam before, you know."

  "Here?" asked Miranda, acknowledging to herself that Grace would make an admirable hostess.

  "No, not here. There's been no entertaining at Wintersbride since Melisande died, but occasionally Adam had to return hospitality to the wives of his various colleagues at some hotel. I used to help him out. Now, let me see your list, Miranda, and we'll decide on the table seating."

  Grace took full charge. The order of precedence was ex­plained to Miranda and the table decorations and arrangement of the rooms decided on. Grace interviewed Prout, the gardener, who was jealous of his fruit and flowers, and she made Miranda send for Mrs. Yeo in order to discuss the food. Mrs. Yeo did not appear to be pleased.

  "A dinner party here?" she exclaimed. "There's been no entertaining here since that dinner my poor lady gave the year before she died. You remember, Miss Grace? That was a night!"

  "Yes, Mrs. Yeo," Grace replied, giving her a level look. "This is not that kind of party at all. Mr. and Mrs. Chantry simply wish to return hospitality in as simple a manner as possible. I'm sure you'll do everything to make the evening a success."

  "Certainly, miss, if you say so," the woman replied, ignor­ing Miranda from then onward. "Will you leave the menu to me, or do you wish to make suggestions?"

  "Well, I think Mrs. Chantry would like to make a few suggestions," said Grace tactfully, but Miranda declined and Grace hastily made some suggestions of her own.

  "You mustn't mind her, Miranda," she said a little apolo­getically when the housekeeper had gone. "She can be very difficult, I know, but she was devoted to Melisande and I'm afraid she resents a change. I must get Adam to talk to her. Now, Miranda, Adam will choose the wines, of course. I shall be here should you get into difficulties and I shall be over in the morning, of course, to do the flowers and make sure nothing's been forgotten."

  Miranda was beginning to feel ruffled. She looked Grace straight in the eye and made her only bid for independence.

  "I shall open up the drawing room," she said.

  A faint flicker of negation passed over Grace's face but she said impassively, "Is it worth it for one evening?"

  "It will not be for one evening once it is used again," Miranda replied. "Besides, the other rooms are not suitable. The women, anyway, will expect a drawing room."

  "If it's weather like this the garden will be pleasant."

  "But you cannot depend on the English weather."

  "No, that's true. Very well, Miranda, but you had better let me explain to Mrs. Yeo. Adam will be sure to understand."

  Miranda had been prepared for more argument on the subject, and she said a little defiantly, "Adam told me long ago that he did not object. It is Mrs. Yeo—and perhaps Miss Simms—who make the difficulties."

  And you, she would have liked to add, but Grace only said with cheerful finality, "Well, that's all right then. I'll speak to Mrs. Yeo before I go."

  It was not, after all, a very large dinner party. They would seat twelve for dinner. Miranda enjoyed the faint air of bustle the preparations lent to the house. It was heartening to see the impeccable Bessie forgetting small details for once, and even Grace, arranging the flowers and giving tactful orders to Mrs. Yeo, did not disturb her unduly. She sat on the stairs with Fay, who, pleased by the unusual break in her daily routine, seemed disposed to be friendly. Like a couple of children they watched the preparations.

  "I wish I could stay up," Fay said, so like a normal little girl that Miranda warmed toward her.

  "Simmy would never permit it, but I tell you what," she whispered. "If you can stay awake you can hide in the bend of the stairs; then, when the men have joined the ladies, I'll bring you a small glass of wine and we will toast each other, yes?"

  The child's eyes were bright with excitement.

  "Will you, really, Miranda?"

  Just then Grace crossed the hall, a great sheaf of lupins and delphiniums in her arms.

  "I'm ready to do the drawing room now, Miranda," she said. "Fay, you'd better go back to the schoolroom, out of every­one's way."

  "No," she said, "I'm going to sit here and talk to Miranda."

  "I'm afraid I need Miranda's help," Grace said calmly. "Run along up to Simmy, dear. You're not wanted down here."

  Miranda felt the child stiffen with" resentment at being snubbed and said softly, "Go—you will see it all tonight, remember?"

  Without further protest, Fay unexpectedly kissed her and ran up the stairs.

  "I'm glad to see," remarked Grace, turning toward the drawing room, "that you and Fay seem better friends. Adam will be pleased."

  "The kiss was not a mark of affection," Miranda grinned. "It was a sign of her displeasure with you."

  "What nonsense!" Grace sounded annoyed. "You know, my dear, I sometimes think you are the teeniest bit inclined to take too little trouble with Fay. A child's affection has to be won."

  Miranda sighed. It was no good, she thought; she would never get on with Grace Latham.

  "I will open the door for you," she said meekly. "There! It looks nice, doesn't it?"

  Grace paused in the doorway for a moment and stood sur­veying the drawing room with eyes that held a hint of pain.

  "Yes," she said slowly. "When Melisande was…ill, she spent all her time here."

  "She could not walk up the stairs?" Miranda asked with sudden understanding. "She had her bed here?"

  "No, she could walk upstairs," said Grace, her eyes fixed on the portrait, "but she liked to shut herself in here with her china and her objets d'art. Adam spent a mint on this room and it was a fit setting for her."

  Miranda felt some of her own pleasure in the room's beauty diminish. In Grace's eyes the place had become a shrine, and in Adam's… ?

  "We'd better get busy," she said briskly, and Grace smiled a little apologetically.

  "Forgive me, Miranda," she said gently. "The room brings back memories, I'm afraid, but one mustn't be morbid, must one? Now, if you'll bring me the bowls and vases as I want them, I'll try to arrange the flowers."

  Miranda, fetching and carrying for Grace, gave Melisande's portrait a rebellious look in passing. She was beginning to dislike this paragon whose legendary memory no one seemed able to forget.

  "Not there," said Grace sharply as Miranda stood a great bowl of gladioli and scabiosa on an Empire escritoire. "That always goes on the pedestal in the corner. The famille verte for the escritoire—I have the roses ready."

  "There!" she said when she had at last finished. "I hope you approve."

  Miranda let her eyes travel slowly around the room, drinking in the glowing colors of the carefully chosen blooms, which, she had to admit, brought out all the more subtle tones of silk and china and delicately inlaid wood.

  "It's beautiful," she said.

  But her pleasure faded when Grace placed a bowl of crimson roses on the mantelpiece directly beneath the portrait, say­ing, "This is my own tribute. Ena Harkness. They were her favorites."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Miranda went up early to dress. She wanted to lie for a long time in her bath and ponder upon her first dinner party in her own house.

  As she thought of what she would wear, she wished a little sadly that Pierre could be there to see her in her finery and lend his own cheerful support to the ordeal. She had written to Michel who kept the inn at Ste. Giselle to inform him of her marriage and to ask for news of Pierre, but there was none. Monsieur Morel was still traveling, Michel had said in his reply, and the villa was sold. Should he return to S
te. Giselle, Michel would, of course, acquaint him with mademoiselle's news and new address.

  There was no discordance in the house. Fay had behaved admirably for the rest of the day. Miss Simms, although refus­ing to dine downstairs, had been gratified at being asked, and even Mrs. Yeo had accepted Miranda's congratulations on her choice of courses with a good grace. Adam had come home early after tea and brought with him her ring, which had come from Cartier's that morning. He had smiled when she had held out her hand and told him that he must put it on himself.

  "How many women can say they received their wedding ring two months before they got the other, I wonder?" he had said, slipping it over her finger.

  The ring had been made to order, after all—a square solitaire and two baguette diamonds, just as she had described.

  "Is it two months already?"

  "It is indeed. How time flies, doesn't it?"

  He had seemed gayer, younger, as if for him, too, the evening was an occasion.

  She chose the black dress with the bouffant skirt and the tightly boned bodice that had been Dubonnet's special pride. She had not worn it before and the fastenings were completely out of reach.

  "Adam," she called, "come and hook me up."

  It was quicker to call to him than to ring for Nancy and she was still twisting and wriggling in front of the mirror when he opened the door between their rooms.

  She waited while he secured the last hook and eye, then wondered how many times he had performed this service for Melisande.

  "There! Now let's have a look at you," he said, turning her around to face him. "Do I know this one?"

  "No, I have never worn it—because of the décolletage, you know. But tonight is more formal, isn't it?"

  "You and your décolletage! Black's too old for you, my child."

  "Grace says—" Miranda's voice was solemn, but her nose was already wrinkling in mirth "—Grace says I am to try to remember I'm a married woman and that you have a position to maintain. So—we wear black."

  He watched her turning and twisting in order that he should admire the dress. He had not allowed for these intimate inter­ludes when he had suggested marriage to her, and not for the first time of late he experienced a sudden desire to pick her up in his arms.