Wintersbride

by Sara Seale

  "How did you tempt providence?" she asked, a little afraid, for some reason, of the answer.

  But he only replied, with the bitterness still touching the corners of his mouth, "If I hadn't had a considerable private income I could never have afforded to marry at twenty-six and things might have 'been very different. But that applies to anything, doesn't it?"

  She had come to like the little paneled room where they usually sat after dinner, but in the brighter glow of electricity, the atmosphere seemed subtly to change. Adam was already looking at his watch and saying he had work to do, and she knew that very soon he would retire to his study and she would not see him again.

  She slipped a hand through his arm.

  "Not tonight," she pleaded. "You are tired. Stay here with me until bedtime, or walk with me in the garden."

  He looked down at her, surprised and a little touched. It was the first time she had ever tried to detain him.

  "I'm afraid you must find the evenings dull," he said.

  "No, no, the others I do not mind, but tonight is different. You are different."

  "Am I? And you, I'm beginning to suspect, are a bit of a minx."

  "A minx? Oh, no. A minx can always get what she wants. How can I keep you, Adam? By flattery, by tears? But you would not like tears and I would not dare to flatter. Will you sniff me again, please? I think the perfume must be wearing off."

  She had offered him the top of her curls again and he regarded her with an odd expression.

  "Is it possible you are trying to flirt with me, Miranda?" he asked.

  She looked up at him.

  "Yes," she replied with firmness.

  His eyebrows lifted, a trifle sardonically.

  "That might be rather dangerous in the circumstances," he said softly. "I'm flesh and blood, you know, in spite of our platonic agreement."

  "Our agreement was of your making," she said, the heavy lashes veiling her eyes.

  "Yours, too, remember. We struck a bargain, Miranda, but if you try me too hard, one of these days you'll have to take the consequences and how would you like that?"

  She slid her hands to his shoulders, but she would not meet his eyes.

  "I cannot know beforehand, can I?" she said.

  He put a hand under her chin, forcing her to look at him, and she saw that although the quizzical smile remained, his eyes were grave and suddenly demanding.

  "If I thought—" he began, then the telephone started to ring insistently in his study.

  "Damn!" he exclaimed, and went out of the room to answer it.

  Miranda waited, her hands pressed to cheeks that were sud­denly hot. He will think me shameless, she thought, then re­membered the look in his eyes and was afraid and glad at the same time.

  The moment he returned she knew that her evening was over. ' "That was an emergency call from the hospital," he told her. "I haven't time to change. Be a good girl and phone Bidder while I collect my things."

  She was conscious of him moving about the room as she made the call. Drawers opened and shut, his case snapped to, and he was ready. She went with him into the hall, For a moment he became aware of her, of how silent and small she was as she listened for the car.

  He ruffled her fair hair.

  "Saved by the telephone!" he said with a little quirk of humor. "You might have had a narrow escape, my child. Don't do it again."

  He was gone before she could make any reply.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Miranda awoke the next morning with a sense of loss. The evening had been so exceptional, so sweet to think back on, and the telephone cutting in upon that strange new intimacy had left her without courage for the future. Could a mood, so fragile, be recaptured? Had she the courage to offer again what might not be wanted? She remembered Arthur Benyon's words: "Your husband is a very lonely man."

  Adam… She remembered how he had smiled and called her a strange child when she had quoted the Bible upon learning his Christian name, and she remembered again her own voice saying, "And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helpmeet for him…"

  Miranda stretched her slender arms above her head. God had made her, she thought soberly, not, perhaps in the same likeness that He had created Melisande, but fair enough to suffice a man's needs. Was it not Eve who had offered the apple to Adam? Was it not, as Pierre had once said, the woman who should command the situation?

  The morning passed pleasantly in solitary idleness, and Miranda selected, with great care, a posy for Adam's room. She lingered lovingly over each bloom, arranging and rearranging them in the famille verte bowl she had stolen from the drawing room, then she carried the bowl upstairs and into Adam's bedroom.

  Miranda put her bowl of flowers on the dressing table and there she saw, tucked into a corner of the frame of the mirror, a small snapshot, the only incongruous detail in the well-ordered room. It was a snapshot of herself, and Miranda stared at it, touched by the curling edges and absurdly grateful for that unexpected evidence of sentiment in Adam. She touched the photograph with gentle fingers, set it more firmly in its place and went softly from the room.

  She was at the head of the stairs when she heard the telephone ring. It was quicker to go back to Adam's bedroom where there was an extension, than to his study, but even so she was too late.

  "I think she must be out," Simmy's quiet voice was saying, and Miranda thought there was a hint of disappointment in Adam's reply.

  "Oh, very well, don't bother. Just tell her I'm sorry but I can't get home tonight. I'll call again in the morning."

  "Adam, wait—I'm here," Miranda said, but he had hung up and she heard the soft click of the receiver being put down in the study.

  Disappointment, sharp and irrational, drove the tears to her eyes and she ran down the stairs. Simmy was just coming out of Adam's study and before she could speak, Miranda cried angri­ly, "Why did you say I was out? You saw me going upstairs with that bowl of flowers not twenty minutes ago."

  Miss Simms looked at her, her pale eyes expressionless.

  "I don't recollect seeing you, Mrs. Chantry," she replied. "In any case it was not important. Mr. Chantry was only calling to say he would not be home tonight."

  "That is not the point," said Miranda, remembering how many times Simmy had taken messages and not troubled to fetch her to the telephone. "I wished to speak to my husband as it happens, and you knew very well I was only upstairs,"

  A faint smile touched the governess's thin lips.

  "My dear Mrs. Chantry, why should I wish to prevent you from speaking to your husband?"

  "I do not know," Miranda answered uncertainly. "But it happens too often. In future will you be so kind as to take the trouble to look for me first?"

  Almost for the first time since she had known her, Miranda saw the faint color mount under the tired skin.

  "I'm not a servant, Mrs. Chantry," Simmy said. "The late Mrs. Chantry would never have dreamed of speaking to me like that."

  "I daresay not. But you," observed Miranda with sudden shrewdness, "would never have dreamed of treating her like an inconsequent child."

  A strange expression crossed the governess's face.

  "An inconsequent child…" she said slowly, almost as if she was talking to herself. "Yes… that's what she be­came… a child who relied on one person…" She raised her eyes and looked straight at Miranda. "No, Mrs. Chantry, it was not her husband she relied on, it was me," she said with an odd little ring of triumph, and went quickly up the stairs.

  Miranda stood quite still, looking after her. There was a chill in the house, and watching the thin, drab figure of the governess turning the bend in the stairs without a backward glance, Mi­randa had the strange impression that Simmy was Wintersbride, cold, secret and hostile, and the child in her barred schoolroom and even she herself were prisoners.

  "Simmy!" she called running to the foot of the stairs. "I would like to take Fay for a picnic lunch—just the two of us. Will you tell her
to get ready?"

  For a moment she thought Miss Simms was going to refuse outright, but she only said, "Very well, Mrs. Chantry," in a tight, repressed voice and went on up the stairs.

  It was a pleasant picnic, and for the first time Miranda saw Fay as a different child from the difficult, self-centered young creature who had to be treated so carefully. Away from the house and the governess she was just a normal little girl delighted with an unexpected treat. She splashed happily in the river and played games of Miranda's invention with the shy curiosity of a child who has lacked companionship too long.

  "Would you like to go to school?" Miranda asked idly, as exhausted and content they lay on their backs in the cool bracken.

  "Yes," said Fay unexpectedly. "But Simmy says Adam would never allow it. I used to be given books about girls who had midnight feasts and saved the honor of the school. They were exciting." It sounded odd coming from a child who hid novelettes under her pillow and talked so often like a sophisti­cated adult. "Simmy says those books aren't true. She doesn't allow me to read them anymore."

  "They are as true as the stories Nancy brings you," Miranda said. "We will go to Plymouth together and buy some more, yes?"

  "It wouldn't do any good," Fay replied, tickling Miranda's nose with a piece of grass. "Besides, I don't think I would like school, really. Bidder drove us to Princeton once for a picnic and Simmy showed me the prison and said school would be just like that."

  "Simmy told you that?" exclaimed Miranda sharply. "But, Fay, that is not true. You should ask your father about these things."

  "Adam doesn't like me," the child said, but she spoke with less conviction than usual. "Simmy says he can't help it. I remind him too much of my mother."

  Had the governess, thought Miranda indignantly, deliberate­ly set out to turn the child against her father? It was beginning to look to her very much as if Adam was being used as the familiar bogeyman of tradition.

  "Listen, my rabbit," she said. "It is true you are like your mother, but it is not true that your father dislikes you. It is he, Fay, who thinks you dislike him. You have not, I think, been very kind to him."

  "You can't," said Fay with innocent conviction, "be unkind to grown-ups."

  "You can be unkind to anyone, chérie—often without knowing it," Miranda said. "You were unkind to me when I first came here and wanted to make friends with you."

  "You aren't exactly a grown-up," Fay said slowly, "but I didn't know, then. Simmy had said that Adam had put you in my mother's place and would love you better than me."

  "But," said Miranda gently, "if you do not want your father's love, why should you mind?"

  The child looked puzzled.

  "I don't know," she said on a note of surprise. "I only know what Simmy tells me."

  "That," said Miranda with a certain grimness, "becomes very evident. Listen, my cabbage, do not believe all the good Simmy tells you."

  "You mean she tells lies?"

  "No, no—but she, perhaps, misunderstands. When you are puzzled, ask me. I will always explain the truth."

  "Yes, Miranda. I'm sorry I was unkind to you. I love you very much now, though Simmy says I only think I do."

  Miranda gave the child a quick kiss and was touched to feel the eager response from the warm young lips.

  "As long as you think you do, that is what matters," she said. "Now, we will find some flowers and then we must go home for tea. I will be in trouble, you know, for I have kept you from your afternoon rest."

  "Why does Simmy not allow you to go to Shap Tor?" Miranda asked curiously as they paused to watch a herd of ponies gallop over the shoulder of the hill.

  "I don't know," Fay replied. "Once, Nancy took me, and Simmy was very angry. It's a lovely place for hide-and-seek, too. The quarry echoes."

  "We will go by ourselves one day and play hide-and-seek together," said Miranda.

  But the day ended badly. They were very late for tea, and Simmy met them, white and angry, and ordered the child to bed as soon as she had had her tea.

  "But why do you punish her?" Miranda asked indignantly. "She has not done wrong."

  "It is a precaution, not a punishment," Miss Simms said. "She has missed her rest and got overexcited and we shall probably have a scene. Fay, don't hang around Mrs. Chantry's neck in that silly fashion. She doesn't like it."

  When, later, Miranda went upstairs to Fay's room she was met by Simmy, who said she did not wish the child to be disturbed.

  "I have had a difficult time with her," she said, her back to the closed door. "She has settled down now and I think it unwise to disturb her again."

  Miranda looked at her steadily.

  "Very well," she said, "but do not try to set Fay against me, Simmy. She is a naturally affectionate child, and you, I think, do not like that."

  A flicker of the old malice showed for an instant in the governess's eyes, but she only said, "I should not dream of trying to set the child against you, but you must remember I've witnessed these little—crushes—before. You are the one who will get hurt, Mrs. Chantry, not Fay."

  "As her father was hurt?" asked Miranda gently.

  The sallow face seemed to grow longer.

  "The position there is unfortunate, I admit, but understand­able in the circumstances. The child is heartbreakingly like her mother. Every time he looks at her—but, forgive me, I should not be saying that to you. Mr. Chantry must surely have got over his first wife's death since he has married again."

  There was a hint of mockery in her colorless voice, and Miranda found herself flushing.

  "We were not discussing my husband's feelings about mar­riage," she said. "I was trying to say that I find Fay is very suggestible, and I think you have not always been—wise—in your care of her."

  A slight smile touched Simmy's lips, as if she recognized an adversary and did not deny her own intentions.

  "You are very young, Mrs. Chantry, and only lately come among us," she replied. "But may I say that it's not altogether wise to put foolish ideas into the child's head. As you say yourself, she is very suggestible. Good night."

  Adam telephoned after breakfast and she thought there was a different note in his voice.

  "I was so sorry I was kept last night," he said, and she knew that for him, too, the interruption had been a disappointment. "I'll be home early to make up. What would you like me to bring you for a present?"

  "A pumpkin," she said, laughing softly. "A pumpkin and six white mice to carry us away from Wintersbride."

  "Do you want to be carried away from Wintersbride?" he asked, lingering with unusual tolerance over the absurd con­versation.

  "No," she said. "Not so long as you are there. I am deter­mined now to become a minx and get what I want."

  "Are you?" There was a little pause. "Well, I gave you fair warning the other night. You must make yourself responsible for the consequences of any ill-considered action on your part."

  He was laughing at her, but she thought he was warning her, too.

  "Yes, Adam. I told you I have the practical point of view," she said demurely, and giggled suddenly. "Simmy says I must remember you are far too busy to waste time with unimportant chatter. Are you in the middle of a consultation?"

  "Hardly! Well, I suppose we'd better take Simmy's advice and hang up. Miranda—"

  "Yes?"

  "Shall we—make it a celebration tonight?"

  She cupped her hands lovingly around the receiver and her voice was suddenly serious and a little shy.

  "Yes…" she said.

  "Then wear your prettiest dress. Goodbye, darling," he said, and hung up.

  Miranda stood with the receiver still in her hands. Dar­ling…he had never called her that before… How strange that it should immediately bring him so close.

  Before she put the receiver back she thought she heard the faint click of the extension being returned to its rest. Had someone been listening in?

  It was a happy day of growing anticipation for Miranda
. "Make it a celebration," he had said, so she spent the hours arranging the tiny details that, to her, should mark a special occasion: lavish flower decorations for the table, the Sevres dinner service, the Waterford glass, and a carefully chosen menu with the appropriate wines.

  "Were you expecting company, madam?" Mrs. Yeo in­quired, eyeing the preparations in the dining room with surprise.

  "Only my husband," said Miranda shyly, and unexpectedly and astonishingly, Mrs. Yeo smiled.

  "Well, I must say that's nice to hear when a lady takes trouble over her gentleman," she said, and looked at Miranda with the first hint of approval she had ever allowed herself.

  "Mrs. Yeo—" encouraged by the woman's unusual friendli­ness, Miranda grew bold "—I am a very good cook, you know. Would you mind very much if this afternoon I prepared some little French dishes? I could, of course, do so if I wish, but I would like your permission first, and I will not, I promise you, make disorder in your kitchen."

  She waited breathlessly for Mrs. Yeo's shocked refusal, but the housekeeper regarded her with a certain surprised indul­gence and said mildly, "Well, I take it very kindly that you should ask me, madam—very handsome indeed—not like some I could mention, in and out of my kitchen with never a by-your-leave and taking this and that for the schoolroom without asking if it can be spared. I've no objection to you trying your hand at a little cooking now and then."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Yeo," said Miranda, feeling rather bewil­dered.

  Had Simmy and Mrs. Yeo had words that the housekeeper was suddenly so obliging? For the first time it occurred to her that the rest of his staff might not share Adam's own belief in the governess's integrity, and she warmed toward the hitherto ob­structive Mrs. Yeo.

  Miranda had never enjoyed an afternoon at Wintersbride so much. Unlike the rest of the house, the big kitchen was bright and friendly. Selecting her ingredients and cooking utensils with the precision of a general planning a maneuver, she was reminded of the old days when she had cooked for her father and Pierre and been awarded unfailing praise.