by Betty Neels
Jemima didn’t say anything at all. Resentment was choking her and the thought of the next hour was enough to make her scream. She prayed she would get through it without turning on the girl and telling her just what she thought of her. She swallowed the rest of her sherry and looked out of the window. A burst of angry tears would have been a great comfort to her, but this was neither the time nor the place. Lady Manderly, obedient to Mrs Spencer’s voice assuring her that lunch was on the table, got to her feet and led the way to the dining-room.
Contrary to her expectations, Jemima found that the meal wasn’t the ordeal she had expected, largely because Professor Cator took the conversation into his own hands, allowing his aunt no more than an odd remark or two, and Gloria almost none at all. He addressed most of his conversation to the table at large, but was careful to include Jemima in it, and since he chose to carry on at some length about Shakespeare and his works, and it was obvious that Gloria wasn’t in the least interested, she found herself responding warmly, a nice colour in her cheeks and her eyes sparkling with interest. Just for the moment she had forgotten that she loved him; that he disliked her, and that now she only knew that she was enjoying herself, that it was wonderful to talk to someone who was interested in the same things as she was herself.
It was Gloria who brought her down to earth. ‘Can we change the subject?’ she asked plaintively. ‘It’s bad enough that I’ve got to go to this beastly play this evening without having to have it rammed down my throat all day as well!’
Professor Cator looked at her thoughtfully. ‘So sorry,’ he said blandly, ‘we got carried away.’ He smiled at Gloria and at his aunt, who bowed her head graciously and declared that she had found the topic interesting enough. ‘Although I know little enough about it, unlike my companion,’ she added. ‘We will excuse you, Jemima, there are those letters to see to; if you’ll have them ready, I’ll sign them and you can post them when you go out with Coco.’
‘I didn’t know you typed,’ observed the Professor idly.
‘I don’t.’ Jemima got up from the table and slipped away, to shut herself in the small sitting-room and write replies to Lady Manderly’s various invitations in her neat hand, trying not to hear the laughter coming from the drawing-room.
She wore the brown dress again that evening, with her hair well dragged back, and got a sour satisfaction from Gloria’s appearance: sapphire blue velvet of a devastatingly simple cut and some outrageously chunky jewellery which looked exactly right with it. As Jemima went into the drawing-room Gloria looked her up and down. ‘Hullo, Jemima, still a brown mouse? And what in heaven’s name have you done to your hair?’ She laughed a little and shrugged gracefully. ‘Oh, well, I suppose clever girls don’t need to bother with themselves. Thank God I’m not clever…’
She broke off as Lady Manderly and her nephew came into the room together and she crossed the room to tuck an arm into the Professor’s. ‘Don’t I look nice?’ she wanted to know. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy myself after all.’
He answered her rather absently, his frowning gaze on Jemima. Gloria saw that. ‘And don’t stare at poor Jemima, just because she isn’t wearing a pretty dress—there, now you’ve made her blush!’
Hateful creature, thought Jemima, needling me and knowing I can’t do a thing about it.
But Gloria knew when to stop; nothing could have been friendlier than her manner towards Jemima during dinner, and outwardly at least, the meal was pleasant enough.
Lady Manderly was strangely silent after they had gone. She and Jemima had an hour of cribbage, then she got up from the card table and sat down, very upright, in her chair. And for once she was polite.
‘I should like you to play to me,’ she stated. ‘I feel a little restless this evening, some music may calm me. Be good enough to lift Coco on to my knee and ask Mrs Spencer to bring a tray of coffee.’
And when this was done and Jemima had poured coffee for them both she was bidden to sit down and drink hers before going to the piano.
‘We shall be leaving here shortly,’ observed Lady Manderly. ‘There’s a good deal to see to before Christmas.’
It was the opportunity Jemima had been looking for. ‘When Professor Cator first told me about the visit you intended to make here, I mentioned that I’d thought of leaving before Christmas. You see, Lady Manderly, I have to train for something or other—shorthand and typing for an office job, some sort of social work, nursing…I haven’t decided which I shall do, but I must start soon…’
‘You dislike being my companion? You’re not happy?’ Lady Manderly sounded as though she couldn’t believe her ears.
‘I’m very happy, thank you, and I certainly don’t dislike working for you, Lady Manderly, but you must see that sooner or later I must do something else—I’m twenty-seven, if I don’t get married, and that isn’t likely, I have thirty or so years ahead of me, and I have to do something worthwhile with them, build up a career if I can. I know I’ve left it rather late, but that’s all the more reason to get started.’
‘But you’ll stay until I return to London?’ Lady Manderly passed her cup for more coffee. ‘I have your word on that?’
‘Certainly, Lady Manderly.’
‘Good. You may go to the piano now—I should like Chopin, I think, and perhaps a little Schubert.’
So Jemima sat down to play, the soft light from a table lamp shining on her, turning her quiet face and plump person into something very pleasing to the eye. ‘Restful,’ murmured Lady Manderly, and didn’t mean the music.
Jemima played Chopin and thought about Alexander Cator. He would be sitting in one of the best seats, naturally, and Gloria would have tucked an exquisitely kept hand into his. The play was All’s Well that Ends Well, very appropriate for the pair of them, she supposed, and what with the knowledge of her own hidden love, and the thought of a future empty of the Professor and the wistful Chopin Nocturne she was playing, she was hard put to it not to burst into tears.
She came to the end of it and dropped her hands into her lap, but Lady Manderly said at once: ‘Go on, go on, let’s have Schubert now.’
So Jemima played on, presently soothed just as much as her listener. She went from Schubert to Handel and then, her good sense asserting itself once more and feeling a shade militant, she started on Beethoven. Her technique left much to be desired, but she played with a good deal of fire and feeling, which was probably why she didn’t hear the return of Gloria and the Professor. And Lady Manderly didn’t hear them either; she was sleeping, still sitting bolt upright, snoring faintly.
Beethoven dealt with, Jemima started on Delius. The ‘Walk to the Paradise Garden’ suited her mood, which, no longer bolstered up by Beethoven’s rolling chords, had become decidedly sad. She didn’t hear the door open; the Professor stood there listening to her for quite a few minutes before she finished and turned on her stool to speak to Lady Manderly.
Jemima closed the lid and got up at once, and he strolled over to her, casting a smiling glance at his sleeping aunt as he did so.
‘The play was excellent, but I believe I should have enjoyed myself even better if I’d stayed here and listened to you playing. You’re a woman of parts, Jemima.’
‘Lady Manderly likes me to play to her sometimes, but as she’s asleep now I’ll fetch Pooley.’ She skipped past him, rather in the manner of someone avoiding a dangerous whirlpool. ‘I’ll say goodnight, Professor Cator.’
She hadn’t been quite quick enough; he caught her arm, quite gently, and drew her back. ‘I’ll say goodnight too,’ he said softly, and kissed her. It was a pity that he added as he let her go: ‘That brown dress suits you.’ It reminded her how dowdy she must look after Gloria’s glowing velvet and reminded her who she was, too. She went out of the room without a word.
She didn’t even look at him, and if Lady Manderly had woken up and seen it all, she didn’t care two pins. Probably she would be sacked the next morning, like Victorian governesses caught with the son of the
house. She giggled as she went up stairs, but the giggle turned into a sob.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JEMIMA WAS quite out in her guessing. She went down to breakfast in the morning to find Lady Manderly and her nephew already at the table, and by the way they looked at her as she went in, talking about her too. Gloria, of course, was having her breakfast in bed. Jemima took the chair the Professor had politely set for her, wished them both good morning and poured herself some coffee. The air of innocence upon Lady Manderly’s face, while quite out of place, was highly suspicious. Jemima buttered toast, added marmalade and waited quietly.
She had taken the first bite when Lady Manderly spoke. ‘I’ve decided to go to Scotland for a couple of weeks,’ she observed weightily. ‘I have a small lodge there—it belonged to my husband, he was accustomed to spend August and September there each year. In the highlands on the Morar coast. We’ll fly to Glasgow, take the train to Oban and hire a car to take us the rest of the way.’
Jemima put down her toast. ‘But, Lady Manderly, I understood that we were returning to London within the next week or so…’
‘I have changed my mind,’ said Lady Manderly in regal tones. ‘Unless you have a new post waiting for you, I can see no reason why you shouldn’t accompany me. I need you.’
Jemima took a quick peep at the Professor. He was eating his eggs and bacon with an inscrutable face and listening to every word.
‘I have a feeling that I’m being got at,’ she said clearly.
Lady Manderly’s face became richly purple, but before she could speak Professor Cator said smoothly: ‘Now why should you think that, Jemima? You’ve told me that you have no job to go to.’ He exchanged a lightning glance with his aunt. ‘I believe the intention is for my aunt to leave for Arisaig within the next day or so; so that you’ll still return to London a mere few days later.’
‘But surely the weather…’ began Jemima weakly. ‘I mean, it’s winter, isn’t it, wherever we’re going?’
‘The west coast of the Highlands,’ he told her blandly, ‘is known for its mild climate. And the lodge is very comfortable.’
She gave him a look and addressed herself to Lady Manderly.
‘I had intended to put an advertisement in one of the London papers, Lady Manderly…’ She stopped, remembering that she had declared her intention of training for something or other; she had given it as the reason for leaving. She reddened, but neither of her companions appeared to have noticed. Professor Cator, buttering a roll, looked up briefly to say:
‘If you like to write it out, I’ll see that it goes into one of the evening papers and that any replies are sent on to you.’
Jemima had her mouth open to refuse and then, in the face of his blandly smiling countenance, closed it again. She loved him with her whole heart, but just at that moment she would willingly have boxed his ears. After a few moments she remarked matter-of-factly: ‘Well, I really don’t see how I can go…I haven’t any warm clothing with me, only some sweaters and a raincoat.’
It was Lady Manderly who spoke this time. ‘That is quickly arranged. I have only to telephone to Belling and ask him to go to your lodgings and collect anything you may need.’
Jemima looked doubtful. ‘I don’t suppose it would get here in time—the post, you know.’
‘There’s some sort of urgent delivery, I believe; a couple of days should suffice.’ The Professor’s voice was almost placid, but she thought she heard laughter in it.
She looked at Lady Manderly and was surprised to see her looking anxious. Perhaps the old lady really did want her to go, perhaps she had some sentimental reason for going to the lodge at all the wrong time in the year. She said slowly: ‘Very well, Lady Manderly, I’ll come with you.’
Lady Manderly inclined her head in regal thanks. ‘We will leave here in three days’ time. Be good enough to have a list of the things you require as soon as possible after breakfast. Perhaps it would be as well if you spoke to Belling yourself.’
Jemima turned to her neglected breakfast. ‘Yes, Lady Manderly.’ She buttered toast with a steady hand, aware of excitement. It would be interesting to see the Highlands in early winter; at the same time it would mean that Professor Cator would be even farther away. Not that distance made any difference, she reminded herself. However near they were to each other he would never notice her as a person—a girl—she had to admit, with nothing to notice about her, anyway.
His voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘If I might suggest, Aunt, it would be far easier if you were to drive up from Glasgow. There are plenty of firms who’ll send a car and driver to meet you at the airport.’
‘A good idea, Alexander. I shall do that; Jemima shall see to it…’
‘No need,’ his voice was careless, ‘I can arrange it for you.’ He handed Jemima his cup for more coffee. ‘Are we going to church?’
‘Naturally we all go,’ stated Lady Manderly. ‘If you’ve finished your breakfast, Jemima, be good enough to go to Gloria’s room and remind her that we leave the house at half past ten.’
Gloria wasn’t even eating her breakfast; the tray on the table by her bed was untouched, while she lay back reading a magazine.
She greeted Jemima with a careless, ‘Hullo. What do you want?’
‘Nothing, but I have a message from Lady Manderly—that we all leave the house at half past ten for church.’
‘You may, I shan’t. It’s nine o’clock already and I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I take hours to dress. Tell her I’m prostrate with a headache.’
‘You’d have heaps of time if you had your breakfast now and got up straight away.’
Gloria put down her magazine. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she begged languidly, ‘I shall do exactly what I like.’
Jemima went downstairs again, uncertain what to do. It was a pity that she met both Lady Manderly and her nephew in the hall.
‘Is she up?’ he wanted to know.
‘Well, no—not quite.’ Jemima addressed herself to the old lady. ‘Gloria wondered if you’d mind very much if she doesn’t come to church…’
She watched Lady Manderly’s cheeks empurple; one day the old lady would have a stroke or something.
‘Leave this to me.’ Professor Cator’s voice was brisk; he had disappeared up the stairs as he had spoken, and a moment later they heard a door open and close with a snap. Lady Manderly said almost tearfully: ‘The girl’s impossible—so why can’t he see that? But perhaps he does…’ She was so obviously talking to herself that Jemima didn’t answer, but opened the sitting-room door, and when they were inside, closed it again firmly. She longed wholeheartedly to know what was going on upstairs, but no one was going to accuse her of eavesdropping. She said calmly: ‘I’ll make that list, shall I? Is there time to phone Belling before we go to church? Would you like me to make a list for you at the same time, Lady Manderly?’
The old lady looked at the closed door and just for a moment Jemima thought she was going to open it and stand in the hall in the hope of hearing what was happening upstairs, but she went and sat in her usual chair. ‘Yes, you may make a list of things I shall need, and one for yourself; Belling shall see to them at once.’
The next half hour was taken up with writing. Lady Manderly changed her mind at least twice while Jemima sat patiently, one ear tuned to the silence outside the room. She had the final lists ready by the time the door opened and the Professor joined them. It was tiresome of him not to say anything; he sat down and unfolded the first of the Sunday papers and she went away to telephone to Belling—a lengthy business, since she judged it wise to make him read it all back to her. And when she had finished with him, she phoned Shirley. The phone was behind the post office counter and she was rather afraid that Shirley might not hear it in the flat above; it was Sunday and she enjoyed what she called a good lie-in then, but she was in luck. Shirley’s cheerful cockney voice answered after a short interval, wanting to know who it was. Jemima explained:
‘And Belling will c
ome along quite soon,’ she pointed out, ‘if you wouldn’t mind looking in my trunk for the things on the list he’s got with him. And I’ll be back soon now—I think Lady Manderly only wants to stay in Scotland for a week or ten days.’ She didn’t mention that she intended to leave her employer; by the time she got back, with luck, there would be some answers to her advertisement. She hung up finally and went back to the sitting-room to tell Lady Manderly that Belling would get one of the maids to start the necessary packing up at once, and then retired to her own room, where she wrote out an advertisement. It took several attempts to get it quite right, but in the end she was satisfied, and since it was almost time to leave for church, she put on her jacket and a small felt hat, picked up gloves and handbag and went downstairs.
Lady Manderly, in mink and fine broadcloth, was sitting in her chair again, her nephew was still reading. Jemima crossed the room and addressed the back of the Sunday Times. ‘I’ve written the advertisement,’ she told him to his unseen face. ‘If you would be good enough to put it in the evening paper, and perhaps the Daily Telegraph, and if you’ll let me know how much…’
He put out a hand and took the paper she offered him. ‘I’ll see to it and let you know the cost.’
The door opened and his uninterested gaze swept over her shoulder as Gloria came into the room. It was clearly obvious that she was in a bad temper, for her lovely mouth was turned down at its corners, making it thin and ugly. She ignored everyone but stood in the middle of the room, one hand on a hip, waiting for someone to speak, which gave Jemima ample opportunity to take in the short fur jacket, elegant skirt and still more elegant boots. A little fur cap crowned her golden head and she was swinging a tan leather handbag and gloves from one hand. She looked perfectly gorgeous, thought Jemima, and moved away from the window because the contrast was too awful for words.