by Sara Seale
Fay, having been informed privately of what was going on, came down to help and thrust inquisitive fingers into bowls and saucepans. Miranda tied aprons around both of them and the kitchen rang with their laughter while the summer rain beat against the windows, a pleasant and fitting accompaniment to an occupation that kept them all indoors.
They had all forgotten Simmy, and when she appeared in the kitchen at teatime, having searched the house in vain, Miranda felt bound to ask her to join them.
Miss Simms stood surveying the prepared dishes with eyebrows that slowly rose.
"Dear me!" she remarked. "It all looks very lavish and extravagant. Is this a special occasion, might I ask?"
"Yes," said Miranda, wiping a streak of flour from her flushed face, too excited to remember the unpleasantness of yesterday. "It is a special occasion for me. A celebration."
"Oh? Well, I hope your efforts won't be wasted," the governess replied, and Miranda was sure then that Simmy had been listening on the extension that morning. "Come along, Fay, dear. You may eat your scones in the schoolroom."
"But, Simmy, we are having tea here," said Fay. "Kitchen tea, Miranda said, with Nancy and the girl, and Bessie is to have a tray in the servants' hall because she's too grand."
"That in itself is a very foolish idea to put into a little girl's head," Miss Simms said to no one in particular. "You've had enough excitement for one afternoon, dear. Remember how yesterday ended. You don't want me to ask your father to keep you altogether in the schoolroom if you can't behave, do you?"
Miranda supposed the ensuing storm of tears was inevitable, and she wondered a little curiously how Simmy enjoyed being a perpetual cause of grief in the little girl. Then her eyes widened as she observed the governess's face and realized that she did enjoy it.
Simmy, as was her wont on such occasions, waited impassively for the storm to subside, and in the middle of it all Miranda rushed too late to the oven and discovered that Fay's scones were burned black.
"Ah, chérie, quelle domage!" Miranda exclaimed, French coming quickest to her tongue in the face of catastrophe. "You cannot let your attention be distracted when you are cooking, or suffer the interruptions. Never mind, my rabbit, we will make some more another time, and next time you will watch them and we will not allow the interruptions."
"Well, Mrs. Chantry," said Miss Simms in a curious voice. "You certainly have a strange way of upholding authority. I'm afraid I shall have to speak to Fay's father about certain little matters, after all—in fact, as soon as he returns."
Miranda looked at her. "If you," she said very quietly, heedless of the presence of Nancy and the girl, "upset my husband unnecessarily, Simmy, I shall have no hesitation in warning him that you listen to his conversations on the telephone."
For a moment, Simmy's pale lashes flickered with some sign of emotion. Then she said in a colorless voice, "What a very extraordinary suggestion to make in front of the servants, Mrs. Chantry. Come along, Fay. We won't wait for the tea tray under the circumstances. Nancy can bring it up when it's ready."
"Well, beggar me!" exclaimed Nancy as soon as the door had closed, forgetting, in the excitement of the moment, that she was not at home with her free-spoken family. "Do she really listen in, ma'am?"
"Yes," said Miranda angrily, "I'm sure she does."
"Oh, my dear soul! Fancy you'm telling her in front of me and the girl. Her'll not forget that."
"No, I suppose not, but it's time Miss Simms understood that all in this house are not fooled by her little ways."
Miranda had ceased to think of Nancy as the maid who brought her breakfast up each morning. They were just two young girls united in a common cause.
"Has it ever struck you, Nancy, that Fay is only silly and difficult when Miss Simms is around?" she asked, beginning to untie her apron.
Nancy considered, her head to one side.
"Now I come to think on it, you'm right," she said. "Though Miss Simms always says it's others that upsets Miss Fay and her's the one that has to suffer for it afterward. I don't know, I'm sure. Since you'm come her's a nicer little girl, I will allow, but Miss Simms don't like her away from the schoolroom for long."
"Are Mrs. Yeo and Miss Simms not good friends, then?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that, but they was both here in the late mistress's time, you see, and I reckon they both think they have their rights. There's always been a bit of feeling between the schoolroom and the servants' hall."
"Yes, I suppose there would be. What happened to Nanny?"
"Nanny?" Nancy laughed. "Oh, her's long before my time. Left under a cloud, I did hear, but no one seems to rightly know—it was a brave little while ago."
"But Mrs. Yeo would know, wouldn't she?"
"Yes, I suppose. But her's not one to chitter." Nancy suddenly remembered the girl, silent and openmouthed with a fine tale to take back to the village that evening.
"You start clearing up this litter," she said sharply. "And don't 'ee get scranny ideas because the mistress chooses to be a bit free with her tongue."
She grinned apologetically at Miranda, and started to get the schoolroom tray ready.
Miranda did not stop for tea in the kitchen after all. She wanted to recapture the delights of anticipation that Simmy had so nearly destroyed, and she wanted to make sure that she was the first to greet Adam on his return and so postpone, if she could not evade, the governess's small threat to her happiness.
She had her bath early and spent a long time selecting a dress. In the end she chose the simple gray chiffon with the cherry sash because she had worn it on her wedding night. She slipped on her ring, clasped the pearls about her neck and finally touched her skin with perfume, careful not to overdo it this time.
"I am decked with his gifts," she said aloud, her eyes suddenly grave. "And I—what gifts have I?"
The answer was still unclear, but her mouth was touched with a shy ardency and to this, at least, she knew the answer.
I must be bold, she thought, but not demanding… A must be wise and inviting… and I must have the courage to persuade him should he still think of her…For if it is true, as I told him, that it is not difficult to love any man who is decent, can that not be true for him, also… ?
She gave herself a little shake and ran downstairs to the dining room to put the last touches to the table.
Although it was not yet seven o'clock, the evening was dark. A small wood fire had been lighted in the study because, Miranda had thought, firelight is romantic, and when we leave the candles in the dining room we will not turn on the lights.
She did not hear the car, but a soft tap on the window pane made her jump, and she turned, a little startled, to look over her shoulder. A man's figure stood outlined against the early twilight, and she ran to unlatch the French windows and let him in. She flung open the doors, then stood staring incredulously at the man who stepped inside.
"But—but it cannot be!" she stammered, as if she had herself conjured up a dream from the shadows and firelight.
"But yes, it is I, chérie, and I will say first of all that it is of the inconvenience most unnecessary that you live in the middle of a moor," he said, and now she knew he was really Pierre, complaining of inconveniences as if she had seen him only yesterday.
"Pierre…Pierre…" she cried, half laughing, half crying. "I cannot believe… oh, you are so wet!"
She shut the windows while he took off his raincoat, flinging it with his old carelessness in a heap on the floor. Then he switched on the lights.
"Now," he said, surveying her critically, "let me look at my little Mielle who has grown up and found herself a husband without consulting her old friend. Trés charmante, ma petite… a fine gown…jewels…a big house… but you have not changed, I think."
"And you," she said, watching him with eyes hungry for a renewal of her happy childhood, "you have not changed either. Oh, Pierre…"
(
She ran to him and threw her arms around h
is neck.
"It has been so long," she said. "And I thought you had forgotten me. Pierre—where is Marguerite?"
"Marguerite? Still in the chateau with her family."
"Then you did not marry her after all?"
"No, her parents would not permit. They married her off to the Comte de Vilbois and they all live en famille at the château."
"That funny little man with the tic? Oh, poor Marguerite— she thought you were such a beau garçon."
He held her away from him for a moment.
"But you, my rabbit, you did not wait," he said, and her eyes widened.
"For you? But, Pierre, it was you who always counseled me to be practical."
"Yes, yes, I talked too much. But now, we meet for a little moment, yes, and things are as they were."
Even as she kissed him, she knew that for her, things could never be as they were. Circumstances, life itself, had changed since those carefree days in France, and while she welcomed Pierre's return with the innocent gladness of her childhood, he was no longer the loved one, the only friend.
"You smell as you never did in those other days," he was saying, with laughter in his voice as he rubbed his cheek against hers.
"The perfume you cared about was fish and paint," she said and, pulling out of his arms, saw Adam standing in the doorway.
She was still too lost in old memories to be warned by the expression on his face as he stood there, watching them. She only knew that here was the perfect reunion, her husband and her childhood friend, and she stretched out a hand to him.
"Adam, is it not wonderful?" she said. "This is Pierre, of whom I have so often told you. And you see, he had not forgotten me as I feared, and he did not even marry Marguerite. Pierre—this is my husband."
The young man looked with frank curiosity at the man Miranda had married, and although Pierre came forward at once with graceful apologies, Adam had seen the look of surprise in his eyes.
"You will forgive me, m'sieur, for arriving so unexpectedly, but I sail from Plymouth tomorrow and I had a wish to see my little friend again," he said, and bowed politely.
"I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name, but how do you do?" said Adam in an expressionless voice.
"Morel," Pierre said, bowing again. "Pierre Morel."
"But you will, naturally, call him Pierre," broke in Miranda. "And he will stay the night, of course, will he not, Adam?"
"Of course," said Adam, after a slight pause. "Now if you will both excuse me, I will go and change."
Pierre made a small grimace.
"He is not pleased, the good husband," he said, and Miranda, released from the old spell, faced reality with a sense of dismay. That it should be this of all times that Pierre should choose to visit her—that on such an evening the incalculable should happen!
"It is better that I should go back to Plymouth, hein?" Pierre asked.
"No, no," she said quickly. "You cannot sleep in a strange hotel when this house is at your disposal."
It was an unhappy evening for Miranda. The dinner she had planned with such care seemed only to emphasize her relations with Pierre as he heaped lavish praise upon each course and reminded her of past festivities of Ste. Giselle.
"You have married well, m'sieur,' he told Adam. "For if all else fails you have a wife who is a chef and that oils the domestic wheels of the poorest hovel, n'est-ce pas?"
"Adam has never sampled my cooking before," Miranda said, and looked across at her husband for a word of praise.
Adam, who had raised his eyebrows at the Sevres dinner service and abundance of flowers, merely said, "I had no idea you were so expert, Miranda, but was all this additional effort really necessary?"
She felt like a reproved child, and after that it was natural to turn to Pierre for all the news she was so anxious to hear.
Adam listened, watching Miranda in the candlelight and observing with brooding eyes the provocative trick she had of wrinkling her nose as she spoke and the unconscious play of her expressive hands. He was thinking of Simmy, who had smiled knowingly at the news of Pierre's arrival and had remarked, "So that explains all the fuss and festivity. Mrs. Chantry said it was a celebration—a special occasion—but of course as she had not mentioned she expected a guest, I could not understand the reason."
He had asked her on impulse to join them for coffee, not because he wanted her, but because the sight of Miranda's childish face turned to Pierre in soft oblivion of his own quiet presence might become unbearable. He watched them, and the anger still lay deep beneath his suave manner as he pictured again that lighted window and the two of them framed, as in a stage set, in each other's arms for any who cared to see.
They had their coffee in the little study and Miranda was made uncomfortable by Simmy's unexpected presence. She described at length the trouble Miranda had taken with her preparations for the evening, and when Miranda remarked rather shortly that she did not even know Pierre was in England, let alone about to visit Wintersbride, she only smiled discreetly and replied, "Well, at any rate it's nice to think your efforts were not wasted, after all, isn't it?"
Only she, thought Miranda, would notice the impertinence behind the governess's remarks; only she knew how easily Simmy's desire to spoil the evening had come about.
Pierre sought to soften matters with affectionate anecdotes of Miranda's childhood.
"She was a romantic, that one," he told Adam, shaking his head. "Always the grand passion, the single heart."
"Really?" said Adam, raising his eyebrows. "She has always insisted she was not romantic. Indeed, I understood her to say on several occasions that you had taught her that the head rules the heart—very admirable."
"O-ho!" exclaimed Pierre. "So you listened to me after all, did you, Mielle? But that is very flattering though I do not quite believe you would change so fast. Is it that m'sieur, too, is not romantic, and you have been married—how long? Two months only? Oh, no, m'sieur, that, I think, is the British reserve!"
"Very likely," remarked Adam dryly. "You are a student of psychology, perhaps?"
"I am a student of nothing, but I am French," replied Pierre airily. "I like to observe."
"You do not have to be French to do that, Mr. Morel," Miss Simms said mildly, and Miranda, wishing the conversation would change, told him a little severely not to be absurd.
He looked across at her, his eyes twinkling.
"You call me that? I know too much about you, ma petite, to be treated to the high English horse. You are still the little Mielle who ran barefoot over the sands with me at Ste. Giselle. Marriage has not changed you, chérie."
She flushed unaccountably, aware of Adam's eyes on her face, and Simmy asked if "honey" was a term of endearment in France as it was in America.
"No, no, it is a name we gave her for her coloring, you understand. A love name, you call it?"
"A nickname, I think you mean," said Simmy, glancing at Adam. "Personally, I have always thought nicknames rather silly and undignified."
"But Mielle is not dignified," Pierre retorted, unable to resist shocking the stiff English governess. "She is an enfant terrible, a breaker of hearts, as I should know, and her innocence is very, very misleading."
Simmy looked uneasy, but Adam said in an expressionless voice, "Yes, innocence can be misleading. Will you have some more coffee, Simmy?"
But there was no stopping Pierre, who thought it no bad thing that the stiff English husband should be made aware of his wife's charms through the eyes of a younger man.
"Innocence can also be beguiling," he said. "The freshness of youth, unspoiled, clear-eyed—is that not what all men desire? Hélas, youth will not wait! Did you not, Mielle, at only sixteen, promise to wait for me? But, no—you run to England and marry a gentleman much more distinguished."
Miranda's hand shook as she poured out some more coffee for herself.
"You are monstrous," she said calmly. "You know very well that was a family joke. Besides, you intended t
o marry Marguerite, which was very practical and quite understood Only I think she was very sensible not to have you."
"You see—always the rap on the knuckles," Pierre said to Adam. "She never would stand any nonsense, our little Mielle."
And so it went on until Adam excused himself with his usual plea of work. Miranda looked at him with suddenly stricken eyes.
"Will you not stay for a little?" she asked.
His smile was sardonic as he replied, "I think not. You and Mr. Morel will have plenty to discuss that can be of no interest to me."
"Well," said Simmy playfully as the door closed, "I can't have you thinking I've been left as a chaperon, Mrs. Chantry, so if you will both excuse me, I will go to my room."
"That was most tactful of all concerned," observed Pierre when they were alone, but Miranda looked at him with troubled eyes.
"You should not have talked like that in front of them," she said. "Adam will not understand and the governess will make mischief."
The amusement left his face and he gave a quick frown.
"This marriage, is it not happy?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, yes. But Adam is—different. He has never, I think, learned to play as we do. He works very hard and has been alone for many years."
"But that is not right for you, my little one. You are young and should be cheerful. How is it that you choose a man with gray hairs who shuts you up in the middle of a moor and does not know how to laugh?"
"I had," said Miranda with a certain asperity, "little choice at the time. I had no money, no job and I was ill. We met by chance. Besides, you did not write and you had, I thought, made the marriage of convenience yourself."
He shot her an amused glance.
"So I set you the example and you marry the rich widower whom you say you meet by chance? You take a gamble and voilà, you win the lottery, my little innocent. Does that content you?"
She looked at him under her lashes.
"You have not, perhaps, allowed that I also found Adam very attractive," she said.