Wintersbride

by Sara Seale

  "Grace isn't overblessed with much sense of humor, I'm afraid," he said, and Miranda pulled a face.

  "She has a mind like a pudding—an English suet pudding," she stated. "Things sink into it and never come unstuck."

  "Poor Grace!" He laughed, despite himself. "Still, you know, she's a good friend, and that counts for a lot."

  "Umm…" She did not want to discuss Grace and her obvious good qualities. "But you do like my dress, don't you, Adam?"

  "You look charming," he told her, his eyes suddenly serious.

  "Oh, thank you. What is the time? I promised to show my dress to Fay."

  He looked at his watch. "They won't be here for another twenty minutes or so. Wait one moment, I have something for you."

  She was still preening herself before the long pier glass when he came back from his room and stood behind her.

  "Will you wear these for me?" he asked, and clasped a small string of pearls about her neck.

  She gazed, startled at their reflections in the mirror. His hands were on her bare shoulders and his eyes were curiously humble.

  "They are beautiful," she said slowly. "Are they—are they from your safe?"

  "Yes, but they've never been worn by anyone but my mother. I should like you to have them."

  "Oh…" For the first time she saw his mouth touched with tenderness. She turned with a soft little sigh and before she could stop herself had reached on tiptoe to kiss him. He re­garded her with a rather strange expression but said nothing, and she spoke a little breathlessly.

  "I'm sorry, but for that I had to thank you. But it commits you to nothing, Adam, I—it's—just that it's natural for me to kiss anyone when I'm pleased."

  "Not anyone, I hope," he replied gravely and, stooping, kissed her gently on the lips.

  There was just time to make her promised visit to Fay, and Miranda ran down the corridors, fleeing from Adam and from her own racing heart.

  Miranda greeted her first guests without nervousness. Tonight Wintersbride was not hostile. It was as if for this one evening its air of secrecy had lifted and the silence, which had so oppressed her, was dispelled by the pleasant murmur of voices. If curious eyes turned to the portrait of Melisande more often than was quite polite, only Adam noticed it.

  Adam, looking down the long table, tried to remember how many of them had been present at that other dinner party nearly nine years ago. Arthur Benyon, because Adam himself had insisted, and of course Grace. Tregellis, perhaps? No, she had considered the Tregellises bores and had not invited them, thereby mortally offending the pompous little doctor who admired her so much.

  His eyes lost their look of brooding introspection as he watched Miranda at the other end of the table, so small, so very young to listen so solemnly to some dry-as-dust treatise on disease from her next-door neighbor. Well, the conventions were satisfied. After tonight they could return again to their isolation. It had, perhaps, been a mistake to break the rule of so many years.

  , Miranda shepherded the ladies to the drawing room and glanced up at the stairs as she passed. Yes, Fay was there. She could just discern a small figure in the shadows, peering out from behind the banister. The ladies had already drifted into groups. They were mostly elderly and Miranda listened with growing amazement as they discussed their servant troubles, their husbands' incomes and even his patients with lighthearted indiscretion. It was no wonder, she reflected, moving among them, that Adam never discussed his work with her.

  Mrs. Stokes was looking at Melisande's portrait with frank curiosity.

  "Was that the first wife?" she asked Grace in a penetrating whisper. "What a ravishing face! Very different from the pres­ent little thing, wasn't she? Surprising what men will marry en secondes noces. I've heard, my dear—"

  Grace frowned a warning as Miranda joined them, and Mrs. Stokes, fluffy and far too girlish for her age, began to gush, "Dear Mrs. Chantry, such a wonderful dinner and how clever you've been with your flowers—such good taste."

  "Oh, Grace did the flowers," said Miranda. "She really organized the dinner, too. She has, as you said, excellent taste."

  Grace smiled and moved away, and Mrs. Stokes lowered her voice.

  "Really? But isn't that rather odd, now that your husband has married again? You know, we all used to think—but perhaps I shouldn't be indiscreet."

  "Yes?" said Miranda politely, but Mrs. Stokes gave a little trill of laughter and patted her tinted hair self-consciously.

  "No, I really mustn't give away state secrets. There was evidently nothing in it as things have turned out, was there? Oh, I see you've got your ring back—do let me look. Goodness, that must have cost a fortune! What a lucky girl you are, my dear. The women have been chasing your husband for years, you know."

  It was a relief to see the men again. Miranda slipped out of the room as the conversation became general again, and ran back to the dining room.

  Adam and old Arthur Benyon were still arguing about the efficacy of a new treatment for Parkinson's disease, and the specialist broke off to say, with a wave of his cigar, "Ha! We are about to be admonished by your charming wife, Adam. She has come to tell us that the ladies are getting impatient."

  "No, no," laughed Miranda, pouring a little claret into a sherry glass. "But I have a private date to keep."

  She carried the glass into the hall.

  "Fay!" she called softly. "Come down, my rabbit. Here is your wine."

  Fay descended to the bottom stair.

  "I thought they'd never come out," she said. "The dresses aren't very chic, are they, Miranda?"

  "No, but they would keep their best for grander occasions. Now—I will have a sip to toast you, and then you take a sip to toast me." She raised the glass. "Here's to the beautiful Miss Chantry who cannot appear at the party because she would break too many hearts!"

  Miranda took a sip of the wine, then handed the glass to Fay, who, delighted by such a conceit about herself, was about to put it to her lips when Adam's voice cut in, so sharply that they both jumped.

  "Fay! What are you doing?"

  "Drinking a toast to Miranda," the child replied, insolence already creeping into her brilliant eyes.

  He took the glass from her so roughly that some of its contents spilled on Miranda's dress.

  "How dare you give the child wine?" he demanded, round­ing unexpectedly on Miranda. "Haven't you learned yet that I will not have my orders disregarded?"

  "But, Adam," she protested, utterly bewildered, "it will not harm her. In France all children take wine as a matter of course. It was just a little treat—a novelty, you understand."

  "We are not in France," he replied icily. "And if you can't be trusted not to teach Fay bad habits as soon as Simmy' s back is turned, then you'd better keep away from her altogether."

  The tears gathered on Miranda's lashes. She could not answer him when he spoke to her like this; she could only stand there, looking up at his white, angry face, while the hostility of the house settled about her once again.

  Fay, frightened, had already turned and fled up the stairs, and Miranda's head drooped to hide her tears.

  Arthur Benyon, who was standing behind Adam, cleared his throat.

  "I think you should explain your attitude, Adam," he said quietly.

  "There's nothing to explain," Adam replied. "Miranda will just have to get better acquainted with the rules of this house, that's all."

  "She's your wife, remember—not one of your nurses who has broken a hospital rule."

  There was a slight sharpness in the old man's voice and Adam controlled himself sufficiently to reply icily, "I apologize, Miranda. You're not to blame."

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I—I must go and wipe my dress."

  She lifted her full skirt with shaking fingers and ran away up the stairs.

  It was, surprisingly, Simmy who came to her room, offering to help. Miranda turned, prepared for indignant reproaches, but the governess only took the towel from her hand and, kneeling, beg
an to rub the wet patch on her skirt with practiced fingers.

  "Dear me, what a pity," she said. "Such a pretty dress. But the stain won't show when it's dry."

  "I do not understand why he was so angry," Miranda said, the tears running unchecked down her white face. "Perhaps I should not have encouraged Fay to come down when she should have been in bed, but I cannot understand what harm there is in a small glass of wine."

  "Mr. Chantry was probably upset," Miss Simms replied, not looking up. "Something of the kind happened when Nanny was with us."

  "Such a storm in a teacup, and in front of Mr. Benyon, too."

  "Mr. Benyon must have understood. He's known us all for a long time. There! I think that ought to do."

  Miss Simms looked up and smiled, and Miranda received the strange impression that, like the house, Simmy did not always reveal her real personality.

  "Simmy, help me," she said impulsively, unconsciously using the household's affectionate abbreviation of the name. "Sometimes there seems much I do not understand."

  The governess got to her feet.

  "I know," she said. "I've often wished I could help you, Mrs. Chantry. I've seen you look at me, thinking me fussy and old-maidish, and sometimes I've been tempted to give you a hint."

  "A hint? But what is there to hint at?"

  Miss Simms sighed.

  "Perhaps nothing that would do any good, now. So much is past history, and no doubt Mr. Chantry thinks that need not concern you. You are—forgive me—so very young to bear other people's burdens."

  Miranda's tears had stopped.

  "There is, perhaps, some mystery about the first Mrs. Chan­try's death?" she asked, trying to understand.

  "No—no mystery. There was an accident," the governess answered, and turned away. "I've always blamed myself very much. That's why I am doubly careful with the child. I've always been deeply touched by Mr. Chantry's trust in me, after Nanny's behavior."

  "What did Nanny do?" asked Miranda, and the governess's mouth pulled down a little at the corners.

  "She was dismissed a year after Mrs. Chantry died. She was possessive, you know, like so many old nannies, and had a bad effect on the child. Other things came to light that need not concern you now, and she had to go."

  "Whatever happened," Miranda said gently, "I am sure my husband's trust in you was always justified, Miss Simms."

  For a moment the long, sallow face wrinkled with an emotion too long suppressed, and she said a little unsteadily, "Do call me Simmy like the rest of them, Mrs. Chantry, and—thank you for your understanding. Now—" her voice became firm again "—you will be missed downstairs. Dry your eyes and powder your nose and don't let them see you've been upset. Now I must go back to Fay and see that she gets off to sleep."

  Miranda smiled. "Dear Simmy," she said, kissing her on the cheek, "I shall always come to you for counsel in future."

  She joined her guests in the drawing room, saying dutifully to the first person she spoke to, "I spilled something on my dress. I had to go and dry it." But nobody had noticed her absence.

  Adam seemed perfectly normal and was exerting his not inconsiderable charm on dull Mrs. Tregellis, who always had so little to say. He broke off his conversation to ask Miranda if she had had any coffee. When she replied that she did not want any, he said with his familiar raillery, "Not afraid of it keeping you awake at your age, are you, my dear? Well, I'll get you some brandy. It will do you good."

  She took the brandy from him, but she would not let her eyes meet his. It seemed a long time ago that he had returned her kiss and looked at her as she had thought a man should look at a woman.

  She stood alone for a moment beneath the portrait of Melisande, watching Adam while she let the big balloon glass revolve slowly between her hands.

  "You mustn't look at your husband like that, Mrs. Chan­try," remarked old Benyon beside her. "Your guests will think he beats you in private."

  She looked up at him, laughing a little nervously.

  "But how absurd! Adam would never beat anyone."

  He stood looking down at her in silence for a moment, his fierce eyebrows twitching violently. Then he said, "You know, sometimes people act strangely because they suppress an emo­tion or a fear for too long."

  "Yes?" If he was trying to explain Adam's disturbing be­haviour, Miranda thought, he was not being very clear.

  "Has Adam never talked to you about his first marriage?" he asked.

  "No, but that is not surprising," she answered gently. "Grace Latham has told me that he was very much in love with his first wife. I think he has not forgotten her."

  He wondered if she realized how much she was admitting and for a moment he felt impatient with Adam. What right had he to marry a mere child and shut her away in this gloomy house if he was not in love with her?

  "Well, perhaps I'm a cynical old bachelor," he replied gruffly. "But I've never believed in this love-of-a-lifetime business. A man can fall in love many times, and a woman, too. So much depends on the circumstances. But I expect at your age you think that's a most prosaic and unromantic point of view."

  "Oh, no," said Miranda seriously. "I think it is very sen­sible. Me, I am not romantic."

  "You're not?"

  "Oh, no, I have the practical mind. In France they have the view that marriage should be sound first; then affection, love, what you will, should not be difficult."

  "Really?" he observed slowly. "And did you tell Adam all this?"

  "Of course—when he suggested that we marry. He would not have liked that I should be impractical. We understand each other very well."

  "Good God!" the specialist exclaimed, and she looked un­easily at the expression on his face. She had said too much, as usual.

  "I think perhaps I talk too much," she said, lowering her eyes. "You will please forget if I have been indiscreet."

  He rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully.

  "On the contrary, you are a very remarkable young woman, you know, Miranda—do you mind if I call you Miranda? You're far too young and attractive for me to continue to address you so formally. You know, I think you will be very good for Adam."

  "Do you think so?" she said. "He thinks I am still a child, you know."

  "Yes, I know. He's probably very conscious of those nine­teen years' difference, my dear."

  "But you do not think me a child, Mr. Benyon, and there is much more than nineteen years' difference."

  He smiled a little wryly.

  "Very much more, but when one is old one's values alter. Age is so much a matter of mentality, don't you think? Your husband's a very lonely man, Miranda."

  Her big eyes widened, and in that moment she was wholly childlike as she answered ingenuously, "Is he? I thought it was I who was lonely, for I have no one of my own, and he has Fay, even though he does not seem to be very fond of her."

  He considered her thoughtfully, puffing on his half-finished cigar. Then he said, his eyes going to the portrait, "She's too like her mother. She must be an ever present reminder of things he would rather forget."

  She shivered, and the old man said softly, "You needn't fear a ghost, Miranda. You are young and fresh and delightfully uninhibited. That's why I think you'll be good for Adam."

  She looked away from the portrait and said slowly, "But you saw how he looked at me on the stairs—as if he could have struck me."

  But Adam, Benyon knew, had not seen Miranda with his mind. He had been brutally reminded of that other dinner party so long ago, and he had seen only the child brought back into the house against his orders, standing on the long table in the candlelight while Melisande, beautiful, arrogant and excited by the laughter of her guests, held a goblet to the baby's lips.

  "Well, you must do one of two things, my dear," he said briskly, "You must ask him for an explanation, or you must forget it completely. In either case you must forget it. I do assure you that little incident had nothing to do with you."

  But she did not find it easy to ask
Adam for an explanation. When their guests had gone he sent her to bed at once with the observation that she was looking much too tired and washed out. When she lingered, searching for words into which to put her question, he touched her cheek with gentle but restraining fingers.

  "Your party was a great success, Miranda—thank you. And I want to apologize for that unforgivable little scene earlier. I should not have spoken to you as I did."

  "Why were you so angry with me?" she asked.

  "Believe me I was not angry with you—or only indirectly," he said, and his eyes were very weary. "You were not in any way to blame."

  "Then can you not explain?"

  "The fault lies in the past. It has nothing to do with you. Forget my rudeness if you can, and remember, if it means anything to you, you will always have my gratitude and admira­tion."

  The rather formal phrasing had a chilly sound and she said with a shiver, "I do not think I want admiration or even gratitude. Both are cold things by themselves."

  He smiled.

  "Foolish child! Go to bed and to sleep and forget my clumsy attempts to make amends."

  "Adam—" she said, instinctively reaching out a hand to him, but he only smiled again and turned away.

  "Good night," he said. "And don't hurry up in the morning."

  "Good night," she replied and went slowly up the stairs.

  July was a dull month, Miranda thought, as the days went by and she was much alone. Sometimes she thought that Adam deliberately shut himself away from her. He was very busy and was beginning to look strained and overworked, but he would not yet accede to Arthur Benyon's suggestion that he take a holiday. To holiday abroad with Miranda and encounter the intimacies and snares of small, overcrowded hotels would be to court disaster. It was becoming increasingly plain to him as the weeks went by that the child no longer left him unmoved. But had he the right, he reflected wearily, to break the rules that he himself had laid down just because she might be generous and he, despite his earlier conviction, was still a man of natural appetites?