by Susan Barrie
She was about to deny that she wished any changes made or any expense incurred on her account when he interrupted her: “After tonight I shan’t be here for another fortnight, and you will have a lot of time on your hands that you may find a little difficult to kill until you get to know a few people in the neighborhood. Unfortunately I’ve been away in London so much that I’ve forgotten most of them, but you’ll probably receive a few calls in the course of the next week or so. And in the intervals you can start planning your room—if you’re quite determined to have nothing to do with the Yellow Room?”
“Quite,” she answered hastily, but her face had fallen noticeably at his announcement that he would be leaving her the following day. Somehow she had not expected him to go away so soon, although of course his life was simply full of engagements and appointments that she could not expect him to cancel on her account. He was a busy London doctor—an important consultant—and no doubt it had been difficult enough for him to snatch even these two days away from his well-filled program. But to be left alone with Miss Fountain!...
“Very well, just as you think best,” he told her. “But in case you’re rather dreading the prospect, Jane isn’t at all bad when you get to know her. She’s always been a bit stiff and starchy, and on her dignity, but she’s grateful to me for providing her with a home—a home she positively dotes on, for some extraordinary reason!—and she’ll be grateful to you, too, when she realizes you’re not going to turn her out. Although, of course, if you found her impossible to live with we should have to ask her to go.”
“Oh, no,” Stacey said at once, “I wouldn’t want that at all.” But she wished she could tell him about the Yellow Room, and how it was kept locked, and about the clothes in the wardrobe, and the flowers in the white drawing room that was also kept locked.
“Well, I didn’t think you would.” He gave her one of his nicest smiles. “But don’t hesitate to let her know that you’re mistress here, and if you want to make any alterations just make them. I give you carte blanche with the house-furnishers. I shall probably want to bring down a few friends a little later on, and I’d like the place to look as nice as possible.”
“Of course,” she answered, but she hoped she would see more of him before he brought his friends. Why, this was only their first lunch together in their own home, and he wouldn’t even be here tomorrow!
The rest of that day seemed to pass on wings. As the afternoon turned dull and cold they had a fire lighted in the library for tea, and Stacey quite enjoyed dispensing it from a handsome silver teapot and fragile porcelain cups which must once have belonged to the Fountain family, since the teapot bore their crest. And she enjoyed toasting crumpets in front of the fire, and watching Martin lying back comfortably in his deep leather chair and eating them, apparently quite content, while Tessa—not yet banished to the stables—lay on the rug and blinked in the warmth and was obviously just as content.
At dinner Miss Fountain condescended to join them in the dining room, wearing her flowered evening frock and her velvet bridge coat, and afterwards she sat with them in the library and worked diligently at some very fine petit-point, taking care to keep well away from the fire as if she feared the effect of the heat on her strange, parchment-like complexion. When Stacey asked her what she was making she replied that it was a chair-cover for the church bazaar, and then relapsed into tight-lipped silence, as if conversation did not appeal to her, and since conversation that did not include her would have been awkward to make, the other two relapsed into silence also, and studied books and magazines until bedtime.
Bedtime in Stacey’s case was just after ten o’clock, when Martin put down his book and looked across at her.
“Up you go, young woman!” he said, smiling at her. “No late nights just yet.”
As if it had suddenly occurred to her that they might wish to say things to one another which a third person would not care to overhear—or be expected to overhear!—Jane Fountain rose somewhat ostentatiously and swept towards the door with her embroidery bag beneath her arm.
“Good night,” she said, in a thin, cold voice, addressing both. “And if I don’t see you before you leave in the morning, Martin, I hope you have a good journey back to London.”
“Thank you,” he answered, and studied her departing back with a speculative eye.
Stacey clasped her hands together and stood on the rug in her dark dinner dress of finely pleated black chiffon worn with a fluffy white angora bolero, which somehow made her look very young, and her eyes already looked shadowed at the thought of his departure on the morrow. But he mistook the shadow for a dread at the idea of being left alone with only Miss Fountain for company until he came again, and he tried to rally her.
“Cheer up, my dear! When you two are together you’ll probably find quite a lot to talk about. And in case you don’t I’ll ring you up every other evening and let you know that I’m still in existence. How will that do?”
Her face instantly reflected so much pleasure that he knew it would do very well.
“At what time?” she asked. “I’d like to know when you are going to ring, so that I won’t be likely to miss the call.”
“Meaning that with so many distractions at this end you might not just be sitting waiting for it?” He laughed. “I’ll ring you at half-past nine—every other night. That is to say I shall not ring you tomorrow night, but I’ll ring you the night after. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” And she added to herself that it would be something to look forward to. Indeed, she would start looking forward to it forty-eight hours before the call was received.
“And don’t bother about getting up to see me off in the morning. I shall start early.”
“Oh!” she said, and felt her heart sink.
“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t approve of while I’m away. Remember, you’re a married woman now!”
“I’m not likely to forget that,” she told him, with so much intensity in her voice that it puzzled him. He looked at her curiously for a moment in silence.
“Well, don’t let it depress you, either,” he said.
She wished he wouldn’t stand so close to her on the rug, so that she could smell the faint scent of the shaving soap he used, and the hair cream. There was something whimsical and tantalizing about the expression of his eyes, almost as if he knew she was suffering a kind of agony because he was going away and leaving her for a whole fortnight, and it amused him. Which was absurd, of course, for he would never be as deliberately cruel as that. No; he was going away to lead his own life, after his own fashion, and what that fashion was she had no right to enquire. It might involve taking an attractive woman out for the evening, and paying her marked attention. It might involve almost anything! But she was his wife—she had become his wife on terms that were clearly understood between them—and he expected her to comport herself in a manner that was in keeping with her status and her position, and if he laughed at her sometimes inside himself—if he did find her a little naive and amusing—it was because she was young and inexperienced, and he knew she would grow out of it in time.
“Don’t you worry about me,” she told him, suddenly becoming rather dignified, despite the fluffy white bolero. “I shall be quite all right here, and no doubt I shall settle down very quickly. After all, as you said a few nights ago, I’m used to the country. The country really is my life—it was living in a town that I found so strange, especially London.”
“And now you need only pay visits to London when you want to buy new clothes.” He gave her ear a little tweak. “And don’t forget to buy all you want for that room you’ve chosen upstairs. It’s a grim room, but perhaps you can make something of it.”
CHAPTER NINE
The next day, long after he had gone, Miss Fountain went into the rose garden to gather a few late roses, and saw the new mistress of the house sitting somewhat forlornly on a rustic bench overlooking a pool where goldfish disported themselves.
T
essa, the red setter, was crouched at her feet. Miss Fountain did not look at all well pleased at the sight of this new freedom accorded to the dog, but she said: “Perhaps you’d like to help me cut a few roses for the vases? It might take your mind off your husband’s departure.”
Stacey looked up quickly, almost guiltily. She had been thinking almost exclusively of Martin, following him in her mind’s eye along the road which led out of Beomster and would eventually bring him to London in his sleek black car, but now she stood up at once and accepted a pair of scissors.
“Of course,” she said. “Which vases do you want them for? The dining room?”
“No; the drawing room.” Miss Fountain reached for a particular choice “Madame Hardy,” and transferred it to her basket. “I like to put roses in the drawing room because they always smell so sweet.”
“But—” Stacey straightened herself. She had made up her mind that, unpleasant though it might be, she had got to come to some clear-cut decision about not only the general running of the house, and affairs involving housekeeping, but the uses to which the various rooms in the house were to be put. And the drawing room, after all, was the most important room in the house, and treated by Miss Fountain as a museum. It contained a piano at which Stacey could spend many happy hours, for she was quite an accomplished pianist, and but for her father’s sudden death might have made music a career. And the sight of that piano yesterday had affected her with a strong yearning to run her fingers across its faultless ivory keys. “But, Miss Fountain—”
“Yes?”
Jane Fountain also straightened her back, and looked directly into her eyes.
“If the drawing room is kept locked, why keep flowers in it? No one can see them, so therefore they’re rather wasted, don’t you think?”
“Not at all,” Miss Fountain answered stiffly. “Fenella adored roses, and the drawing room was her room.”
“But it’s mine now, Miss Fountain!”
Miss Fountain set down her basket quietly. Her fingers began to tremble a little.
“So it is,” she agreed. “At least, you have recently become Mrs. Guelder. But Fountains Court has always belonged to the Fountains, and neither you nor your husband have any connection with that family.”
“That’s quite right,” Stacey said gently. “But Fountains Court does belong to my husband.”
Jane Fountain drew a quick breath, and her face went slightly paler than before.
“We won’t argue about it,” she said icily. “Legally, of course, you have the right to do what you like here, but I have lived in this house for years and looked after it, when neither you nor your husband had the slightest interest in it, and I also lived here when my dear Fenella was the mistress of the place. I don’t forget that she was born here, and although family misfortunes caused her to leave it before she was well into her teens, as soon as she could persuade her husband—your husband!—to buy it back for her she came back to it with all the delight in the world. And why did he buy it back for her? Because at that time he adored her, because she was the loveliest thing that ever lived, with enough charm to beguile the heart out of a serpent. And it was he who broke her heart! He who sent her to her death—”
She broke off, apparently on the verge almost of choking with emotion. Instead of the pallor a hectic flush was now burning in her cheeks, and her eyes glittered wildly. Stacey regarded her with stupefaction.
“Your precious Martin Guelder was not always a successful London doctor, but he was always well on the road to it! He thought of nothing but his career—the profession he was determined should mean more to him than a wife. The only reason he ever really needed a wife was to look pretty at the head of his table, and to introduce to his friends! He didn’t want the trouble of taking her out and providing her with amusement—he never had the time to waste on her! Not even though he did love her—madly at one time...”
Stacey felt herself go cold, although the sunshine was falling goldenly all about her, and bees were humming in the scented air, and drunk with honey, lumbering awkwardly from glowing flower to glowing flower, until the zephyr-like breeze caused the petals to lie like crumpled butterflies’ wings on the crazy paving which intersected the rose garden. She knew that Tessa was keeping close to her skirts, and looking up at her with appealing golden eyes, but she was not interested in Tessa just then, even although she mechanically stroked the rich brown muzzle. She felt as if she had received something in the nature of a profound shock.
“And you, too,” Miss Fountain continued, glaring at her wild eyes. “Why does he go off and leave you after being married to you for only a couple of days? It isn’t natural—it isn’t normal—”
“He’s a busy man,” Stacey heard herself defending her husband, through stiffened lips. “He hadn’t any choice—”
“Any choice!” Jane Fountain exclaimed, sounding derisive. “And do you think if he’d had the choice he would have put you first, and his precious future after you? Such men are absorbed only by their interests—the thought of advancement! And don’t tell me it’s all in the cause of humanity, because I wouldn’t believe it. Cold, calculating, probing individuals like Martin Guelder have only one use for the specimens of humanity they come up against, and that is to sharpen their brains on their weaknesses, their frailties ... Doctors learn too much about human beings, especially women. And when in addition to being clever they have good looks and charm their women patients quickly outnumber their male, and they have nothing but contempt for the poor creatures—”
“What utter nonsense!” Stacey exclaimed, anger replacing the sensation of shock. “And if you feel like that, why do you stay on here in his house? Wouldn’t it be more dignified to leave?”
“And deprive myself of a home that was mine long before it was his?”—haughtily.
“There are other homes,” Stacey reminded her. “Homes where you might be a good deal happier.”
Jane Fountain’s lips curled sneeringly.
“A lot you know about happiness!” she declared. “You are just a baby, a mere infant in arms when it comes to experience and living life as it should be lived! ... But Fenella lived her life to the full, short though it was, and what she got back out of it compensated her for what he denied her. She was not the type to sit down and mope or weep. She had too much spirit. Take a look at her picture in the drawing room and you’ll see that—”
“On the subject of the drawing room, Stacey said firmly, subduing an inclination of her voice to shake a little, “I have made up my mind that it must be made use of as the other public rooms in the house are made use of. It is absurd to keep it shut up. And the Yellow Bedroom, although I shall never use it, will make an excellent guest chamber—”
“Oh, it will, will it?” Miss Fountain said, a little mockingly. “But if it is to be used, why not take advantage of such a charmingly furnished room yourself? You must like pretty things, and the Yellow Bedroom is full of dainty, costly things. Fenella’s hair brushes, for instance—they are gold-backed, and Martin gave them to her. You could have the initials changed—”
“Thank you, but I have my own hair brushes, retorted Stacey, hating the cat-like, watchful gleam in the other’s eyes.
“And Martin might recognize them, mightn’t he? And be reminded of other days!—as the room might well remind him of other days—”
Stacey turned away, her fingers in Tessa s collar. “When we get back to the house,” she said, trying to speak naturally, “I would like to be taken through to the kitchen quarters. I have not so far met any member of the staff save Hannah, and in a big house such as this you must employ more than one maid.”
“On the contrary,” Miss Fountain answered, “I have only just started to employ Hannah, and a Mrs. Moss, who has been doing the cooking while Martin was here. But whether you wish to keep on Mrs. Moss or not is your own affair. You might like to take on the cooking yourself, seeing that there will be only two of us”—giving her an oblique, cool glance—“e
xcept for occasional weekends.”
“As a matter of fact I am quite a good cook,” Stacey answered, just as coolly, “and I would probably enjoy it. But as Dr. Guelder wishes to entertain here a good deal in future it will be necessary to have someone more capable of coping with larger numbers. And Mrs. Moss’s cooking was excellent, I thought.”
“Then perhaps you can persuade her to come up every day.” The thin lips disappeared into the familiar, compressed line as she pushed open the outer door to the kitchen. “I could only persuade her to ‘oblige,’ as she phrased it, for the weekend.”
And Mrs. Moss, when approached, put on such a grim expression at first that Stacey had little hope of her. Until she took a good look at Stacey, standing very upright and slim and young beside the slightly bent-shouldered Miss Fountain.
“Well, I don’t mind if I do, Miss—I beg your pardon, Madam!” she said, then. She wiped her hands on her apron. “My Joe don’t mind me helping anybody out, and if it’s only the cooking...”
Hannah, who was standing stirring something on the old-fashioned kitchen range, looked across at Stacey and smiled slightly. She had already informed Mrs. Moss that the new mistress was “rather sweet,” but she didn’t know how she and the “Old one” were going to hit it off together.
“Quite a triumph for you,” Miss Fountain remarked thinly to Stacey, when they left the kitchen. “Mrs. Moss was unusually obliging.”
But Stacey did not answer. She made an excuse for going up to her room, and when she reached it she went over to the window and stood looking out at her vista of the Welsh mountains. There was no haze over them today, and they were clear and stood forth boldly, like mountains painted on a backcloth. She could see the little patchwork of fields which began far below their summits, and the bright sparkle of a river which would like a serpent in and out of woods and copses.