Family Gathering

by Elizabeth Cadell

  The door closed. On the doorstep, in the pouring rain, stood Helen and her luggage.

  Chapter 11

  Helen’s visit, so unsuccessfully begun, improved little as the first evening wore on.

  After a hot bath at Romescourt before dinner, Helen changed into her simplest dress, repaired the damage which the rain had done to her hair and, glancing at herself in her mirror, found her habitual coolness and poise returning. Looking like this, she could exert herself to extract more from Lucille than a monotonous series of sweet agreements; she could listen politely to Lady Rome’s conversation while thinking about something else—and she could almost put up with the maddening tone—half bantering, half sardonic—which Jeremy, after their first encounter, had adopted when addressing her.

  Dinner was not a success. Helen’s dress proved too simple to withstand the chill of the vast dining-room and she would have liked some of the comfort of Lady Rome’s extraordinary velvet overall. Jeremy’s remarks were addressed chiefly to Natalie; Sir Jason and Lucille offered nothing to the conversation, and Lady Rome was therefore able to flow on without halt or check.

  “Did you like the house, Helen, my dear?” she inquired kindly. “Your mother did it all very cleverly—I haven’t been down to see it yet because Shearer hasn’t been well enough to drive me, but Jeremy tells me it’s beautiful. Did you get your hair dried properly? Lucille says that Jeremy drove you in that dreadful little motor car of his. He never puts up the top—that may be all very well for these boys with their hair, but I don’t like your mother to go out with her head uncovered. Jason, did you hear that Lord Batch was at his mother’s cottage? I wish I’d known he was coming down—I could have asked him about the fête. Was he making a speech, Jeremy?”

  “I think he had a shot at one,” said Jeremy, “but he got roped in to haul furniture. He did rather well—I saw Canny loading him with some pretty solid stuff.”

  “Who did you say he was?” asked the startled Duncan.

  “Lord Batch—brother of Batch the remover,” said Jeremy.

  Duncan studied his last potato soberly. The old boy in the striped shirt-sleeves had been Lord Batch…he’d sat on the stairs with him drinking a mug of Mrs. Batch’s tea and talking about…talking about…well, it showed you ought to keep your mouth shut until you knew who people were. Duncan remembered some of his less restrained utterances on the country’s administration and wished that he had held his tongue.

  “If I’d known he was to be down here,” went on Lady Rome, “I would have sent him a message about the fête and—”

  “Fête?” repeated Jeremy.

  “What fête?” demanded Sir Jason.

  “There’s only one fête, of course,” said Lady Rome. “It’s very odd, Natalie—we have only one fête a year— no sales and no garden parties and none of these tiresome bazaars—only this one fête, but they never remember about it and I have to chivvy them. Then they get so cross, because nobody likes to be fussed and chivvied, but if one left them alone, nothing would get done.”

  “You mean the Hunnytor Orphanage one?” asked Jeremy.

  “Of course, my dear boy.”

  “But—good Lord!” said Jeremy, his brow knitted, “you can’t be running that—I mean, the thing’s practically now, isn’t it?”

  “It isn’t now at all, Jeremy,” said his grandmother. “It isn’t until Saturday.”

  “Isn’t it a little early in the year for a fête?” asked Natalie.

  “Oh dear me, it isn’t an outdoor affair,” said Lady Rome. “It’s to get money for the Orphanage—the Hunnytor people are very proud because there’s no grant of any kind for it—it’s built and staffed and so on entirely on Hunnytor funds. And so of course they don’t take anybody’s orphans, but only the ones from Hunnytor and the places round about. I must take you over it, Natalie, my dear, if Shearer’s well enough to drive me. Helen will want to come too—you’ll be charmed, Helen, my dear, because the poor little things aren’t at all like the orphans one used to read about, don’t you know. They live in this charming old house just like real children—that is, children with real parents—and they wear delightful clothes and not the horrid garments people used to put them into before. You’ll be interested in their clothes—your mother tells me you love pretty things. You must try to make Lucille do a little better—sometimes she doesn’t bother.”

  At this point, Duncan raised his head and directed at Helen a look of intense scorn which she interpreted— correctly—as an indication that, however much she knew about dressing, she didn’t look a patch on Lucille, seated beside him in her simple white dress.

  “What happens at the fête?” asked Natalie.

  “We sell things, of course,” said Lady Rome. “I’m in charge and I say to this and that person, ‘Will you sell this or that’, and they fill their stalls and make a lot of money—it all goes off very well.”

  “Have you—are all the stalls ready?” inquired Natalie, wondering why she had heard no mention of so important an event.

  “Well, people know it’s coming, don’t you know,” said Lady Rome, “and I give Shearer a list and he goes round and sees that everybody is getting ready. Jason, you’re doing the vegetables, aren’t you?”

  “No time,” said Sir Jason. “Should’ve told me before.”

  “Nobody should need reminding,” said Lady Rome, “about so important a thing. I never have to remind all those nice women in Dummerton and Hunnytor— the only person who ever forgets about it is Mrs. Bellamy, because she’s away so much, but you must drive down and call on her tomorrow, Natalie, my dear, and Helen would like to go with you, and you could ask her if she’ll do the needlework stall.”

  “It’s rather short notice for her—” began Natalie.

  “There won’t be anything to do,” said Lady Rome. “Her house is full of horrid little pieces of cloth on which she sews little daisies and stem-stitch. She ought to be very glad to have something to do with them, because if she’s going off to Australia she can’t possibly pack things of that sort.”

  “Is she going to Australia?” asked Natalie.

  “Australia or America—I’m not sure which,” said Lady Rome. “It’s the country that’s coming in the future, she says, and going to lead us all. She’ll no doubt tell you about it, Natalie—she tells everybody.”

  “She only mentioned America, I think,” said Natalie.

  “Well, perhaps that’s the one,” agreed Lady Rome. “She’s always changing so. She doesn’t care for England because she likes to sit in the sun all day in those very odd wide trousers, and if you like that sort of thing, this isn’t really the climate for it. I don’t know why they build all these outdoor swimming baths here, because although it looks very charming, don’t you know, I really don’t think anybody but very strong people can enjoy the water. Nobody could possibly teach children to swim in them—the poor little things go quite blue before they’ve been in the water any time at all. They had great trouble persuading Alexander to come out, and he was quite mauve. Do take some more of that custard, Mr. Macdonald, won’t you? And you must help Lucille with her stall.”

  “Stall?” murmured Lucille. “Oh, granny—no!”

  “Of course you must, Lucille,” said Lady Rome. “The flowers, and Mr. Macdonald will be there to see that you don’t get mixed up counting out the bunches. Natalie, will you help me with my stall? I always do books. And then Helen and Jeremy can do the bric- a-brac.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Helen.

  “Bric-a-brac,” explained Jeremy, politely. “You remember, surely? It’s the sort of thing they always used to put on the walnut what-not. It’s—”

  “As I’m only here for so short a time,” said Helen firmly, addressing her hostess, “I do hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Of course I will, my dear,” said Lady Rome. “I quite realize that you won’t be able to collect much when you’re only going to be down here for a week or so, but you must get Jeremy to do most
of it. There are some little shops in the village full of horrid little pieces of china—you must buy some of those and you charge more for them, don’t you know, and that’s how you make money.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Helen. “I’m awfully bad at selling anything.”

  Lady Rome looked at her in surprise.

  “Don’t you sell all those lovely dresses at that nice place your mother tells me about?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” said Helen, “but that’s a little different.”

  “Of course it is,” said Lady Rome. “All those beautiful frocks—you’ll find it quite different with little pieces of china, but you’ll feel quite at home when you’ve sold one or two pieces—and you must help her, Jeremy.”

  “Certainly,” said Jeremy. “I’m very good,” he told Helen, “at arranging bric-a-brac to the best advantage.”

  “That’s capital,” said Lady Rome, “and as I’ve missed Lord Batch, I must write a letter to his wife—he married a nice little thing, Natalie, and related to the Sellingtons—such nice people—I don’t know whether you ever met them in London. It seems odd to think of the Sellingtons connected in some distant way with old Mrs. Batch, but there it is, and Lady Batch is really a nice little creature, though she has an odd way of looking at one—sometimes I think she isn’t quite right in the head. Now, I think we’ve all finished, haven’t we? Helen, you must come and have your coffee and then we shall send you up to bed in case you caught a little chill this afternoon. Would you like to peep in on your way and see little Margaret and Alexander? You’ll meet them in the morning, of course, but they look like little angels when they’re asleep.”

  “I never,” said Helen, following her hostess to the drawing-room, “go to bed early, thank you.”

  “No, of course not,” agreed Lady Rome. “You must have such long hours in that nice place your mother often tells me about. But you mustn’t catch a chill and make your mother anxious. Would you like a nice hot drink brought up to you later?”

  Helen made no reply. Jeremy brought her a cup of coffee and she took it and walked over to sit beside Lucille.

  “When,” she asked, “is your fiancé coming back? I do hope I can see him before I leave.”

  “My fiancé? Oh—next week,” said Lucille gently. “I’d like you to meet him.”

  “When,” pursued Helen, “are you going to be married?”

  “Oh, quite soon, I think,” said Lucille. “Philip’s—my fiancé’s mother is arranging everything.”

  “And when,” Helen asked Duncan, “do you go back to Scotland?”

  “He isn’t sure,” said Jeremy, from across the room. “He wanted to wait until you came, of course, and he’s a fellow who takes a long time to make up his mind about what he’s going to do—aren’t you, Canny?”

  “I am,” said Duncan, looking at Helen. “I hope,” he added in his clearest tones, “that you didn’t catch a chill this afternoon?”

  “Gosh! I hope not,” echoed Jeremy fervently. “Granny, do you know any good remedies for chills and things?”

  “Have you,” asked his grandmother, “given yourself a chill in your little car?”

  “I’m fine,” Jeremy told her, “but poor little Helen—”

  Lady Rome regarded Helen anxiously.

  “You must go to bed now,” she said, “and get nice and warm. Would you like a nice hot drink to—”

  “You know,” broke in Natalie timidly, after a glance at her daughter’s face. “Helen doesn’t really ever go to bed early—”

  “Of course not,” agreed Lady Rome. “Only tonight. Off you go, Helen, my dear—would you like Lucille to take you up, or can you find your way by yourself? Some of the corridors are so muddling at first.”

  “I,” offered Jeremy, “would love to show you the way. Can I?”

  Helen, with a murmur to her host and hostess and a glance of cold dislike that embraced the remainder of the party, walked slowly to the door. Jeremy glanced at Duncan, and the latter, with polite haste, bounded across the room and opened it. He met Helen’s stare with an unmoved countenance, closed the door behind her and, with a grateful look at Jeremy, settled himself happily at Lucille’s feet.

  Natalie was too uncomfortable to sit long after Helen’s departure. She had been watching her daughter uneasily, wishing that Helen could have showed more graciousness. She understood, and wished she could explain to all the others, how much importance Helen had always placed on her own appearance and dignity. With the memory of her own arrival at Romescourt fresh in her mind, she felt that she ought to have arranged things better for Helen. What everybody considered a little inconvenience—a shower of rain, a not- too-comfortable car, untidy and blown hair—were to Helen serious and important matters and liable to upset her greatly. It was such a pity that they had seen her cool and distant, instead of at her best—gay and laughing. If Jeremy could have been more patient—and Helen a little less off-hand ….She wondered unhappily whether the visit was going to be a success. She had once feared that she herself would not be adaptable enough to fit into a new setting—but the new setting had proved, she acknowledged with a little pain, far more congenial than the life she had lived in London. She had lived in London for Helen’s sake, but it was perhaps asking too much that Helen should endure Jeremy’s teasing, Lucille’s dreaminess, Duncan’s scarcely veiled dislike, and—and all that shouting— merely to please her mother.

  After fidgeting uneasily for some time, Natalie rose and said good night. Lady Rome asked her to remember to call on Mrs. Bellamy the following day, offered her a hot drink and went back to her game of patience. Jeremy accompanied his stepmother to the foot of the stairs.

  “Your family,” he observed, “doesn’t seem to be very good at arriving. D’you remember your first night here?”

  Natalie smiled.

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “But I’m always so silly. Helen isn’t at all like—like this as a rule. I think she’s tired and a little unsettled.”

  Jeremy, who thought that he could settle Miss Forrester very quickly, made no reply and patted Natalie’s hand in a fatherly manner.

  “Pop along,” he ordered. “Don’t worry about— about anybody else. It does everybody good to have a nice long cry on the first night in any strange place. And this,” he added, “is a very strange place.”

  Natalie went upstairs feeling grateful to him for his comfort. It was warming to know that he had such genuine affection for her. If only he and Helen had—

  She put regrets aside, and, knocking gently on her daughter’s bedroom door, went inside. Helen was lying in bed reading and looking, in the soft light, as Natalie loved her best—relaxed and childish and not at all cool or efficient.

  “Hello, Mother,” she said. “Did the old girl send you up to bed, too?”

  “Well, no,” said Natalie, sitting on the bed. “I—I just came.” She waited a moment and then added: “They’re all really very nice, Helen.”

  “I’m sure they are,” said Helen coolly. “I’m glad— for your sake—that you can stand them. It makes it less awkward for you—for you and William, I mean. Personally, I think they’re all more than slightly mad.”

  “Oh, no,” protested Natalie. “At first—”

  “Well, at first they appear so,” said Helen. “I don’t hold it against them—if I lived in this prehistoric atmosphere I’d go completely homicidal. Why,” she inquired, “don’t they give the whole place over to the Orphanage and move into something more suited to the times?”

  Natalie sat still and said nothing. She wished that she could arrange her thoughts more neatly—then she could pick quickly upon something to say in answer instead of groping among a jumble of confused impressions.

  “I don’t think you ought to say that,” she said at last. “They’ve been here—”

  “I know—three hundred years,” said Helen. “People needed a place like this three hundred years ago—you lived in it with all your retainers and a hundred scullions and
pages and you put up coach loads of visitors and passing minstrels and it was all quite merry. But now it’s nothing but a morgue and they ought to get out. When you and William come into it, you’ll shut up five more rooms and if ever that Jeremy finds any girl to marry him, he’ll turn the dining-hall into his studio and all those walking skeletons they call maids will have died off and Mrs. Jeremy will spend her time in the kitchen.”

  “For three hundred years—” began Natalie, in distress.

  “Yes, Mother—you’ve said that. I think it’s tough, all this taxing and death duties and so on, but I wasn’t arguing on general grounds—I was merely saying that when it comes to the point of having to huddle round the last fire in the last usable room, then it’s time to pack up.”

  There was silence for a long time. There was much that Natalie wanted to say, but she was experiencing an unfamiliar sensation. If it had been possible to admit such a thing, she would have said that she was feeling very angry with Helen…

  “I think,” she said slowly at last, “that perhaps living too long in London isn’t a very good thing to do.”

  “It isn’t,” agreed Helen. “It makes you civilized, for one thing, and disinclined to go native. It gives you the ridiculous idea that a house should be compact, easy to run and fitted with all the improvements which have occurred to architects and builders within the last —shall we say—three hundred years.”

  “I like Lady Rome,” said Natalie, “very much indeed.”

  “I’m glad,” said Helen.

  “And Lucille, too,” proceeded Natalie.

  “How long did it take you,” asked Helen, “to discover that she was really alive? Personally, I think she’s more than slightly Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “She’s kind,” said Natalie, “and gentle.”

  “That’s nice,” said Helen.

  “And Jeremy—”

  “Yes, I know, Mother—he looks after you. He’s too, too sweet and you couldn’t have found nicer in-laws, but you mustn’t expect me to get as enthusiastic about them as you’ve done. I haven’t got to live with them, anyhow, so I can go on thinking what I like. I’d have hated it if you hadn’t liked them all, but you do, and so what I think is quite beside the point. I really am glad,” she ended more gently, “that you like them and that you’re happy.”