The Quiet Heart

by Susan Barrie

  They chattered over the peach houses, the vines, the blue-black grapes, the acres of glass that protected rare plants and forced along horticultural prizes. They lost themselves in green alleys and yew-bordered secret places where the emerald turf was like velvet, and arbours smothered in white roses and jasmine waited at the end of the walk. And afterwards they bought postcards in the great hall where Alison showed them cases of medals and her stepdaughters served them tea on the terrace—if they wanted it.

  But that was in the summer, when the air was at least clement even if the sun didn’t always shine. But now it was drear November and the winter solstice was approaching, and the very thought of having tea on the terrace caused one to shiver ... as Alison was beginning to shiver uncontrollably while the man who was viewing his property for the first time actually discovered something to comment upon in the view that was spread out before his eyes.

  “Now that,” he exclaimed, eyes continuing to kindle, “is something!” He flung out a hand. “The best of England ... the England everyone wants to see! But even that will vanish before long.”

  Mr. Minty ventured to protest.

  “Surely not,” he said, as if he was genuinely shocked.

  Leydon turned from the view and regarded him disdainfully.

  “Have you any idea of the pace of progress nowadays?” he enquired. “It no longer crawls, as if the world can wait and people starve while the few with the right to make changes endeavour to bring their minds to the task. The world nowadays is changing its very shape because the people insist on it and progress is proceeding at an alarming rate.”

  Alison and the solicitor exchanged glances. They were both labouring under the delusion that Charles Leydon was an immensely rich man. Even before he inherited Leydon Hall and its various sources of income he had made a lot of money of his own as a highly successful architect. In London there were several edifices in the strictly modern idiom that reared their heads as a fairly lasting memorial to him, and he had created at least one cathedral and any number of blocks of flats, offices and shopping districts.

  As Charles Leydon he was well known, and he was also known to have advanced ideas ... But to talk of England’s green and pleasant land disappearing beneath a sea of bricks and mortar and concrete because the people wished for it was a statement that Alison at least found it difficult to accept when the man who made it had just inherited a very large slice of one of the most delectable corners of England. Having spent the last five years of her life amongst Yorkshire farmers she did not think they would be happy to see their land go for other purposes because the shape of the world was changing.

  Whatever Charles Leydon might know about the subject, in that part of Yorkshire it was changing very slowly.

  Striving to prevent her teeth from chattering while she hugged herself with her slim arms against the cold, she heard herself say in a tone of some surprise:

  “But I don’t think Leydon Hall will alter very much in the next few years. People love coming here to see it too much to wish to see it changed.”

  Her new landlord regarded her with open contempt.

  “My dear Mrs. Fairlie,” he said, contempt quivering in his voice, “don’t you know that ‘people,’ in the mass, have little idea of what is good for them? If I decided to pull this place down and replace it with a township it would be more to their advantage than coming here to gape at an archaic survival that at the moment is doing literally no good to anyone.”

  She gaped at him.

  “But you’d have to have permission to do that. Planning permission!”

  “I know. I have no intention of asking for it.”

  “Then why ...?”

  He glanced at the forest of chimney-pots. “It’s an idea,” he remarked, helping himself to a cigarette. “Just an idea.”

  She bit her lip.

  “Last summer,” she told him, “several hundred people came here and really enjoyed themselves, wandering in the grounds. Many of them came from towns where they can only read about places like this. The money that we took in entrance fees went to a very worthwhile charity in which the late Sir Francis was particularly interested. We don’t have a large staff here at Leydon now, but we do have gardeners and under-gardeners, who would lose their jobs if you decided to pull Leydon down.”

  She thought that his eyes mocked her.

  “And I don’t suppose you’d like it very much, either, would you, Mrs. Fairlie?” he said, as if he was reasonably certain she was thinking of herself when she mentioned gardeners and under-gardeners. “You’ve probably found it very pleasant living and working here, and it might not be entirely simple running something similar to earth if a situation arose that rendered you temporarily jobless and homeless. For I’ve no doubt you’d find something to suit your taste in time.”

  Alison, who had been dreading this day for weeks, and had been very much afraid that once it had come and gone her threadbare security would have been seriously threatened, felt as if the whole inside of her mouth and throat dried up. She felt as if already the worst had happened to her... and for one moment she was inclined to panic.

  Then she told herself, sternly, not to be ridiculous, because these things happened. They had happened to her before, and the world had steadied. The shock had evaporated, things had worked out, a miracle had occurred ... and she and the girls had survived. Poor Roger had died, but even he had lived long enough to know that his family had found some sort of a niche. It had been a tremendous relief to him.

  But now, apparently, they were once again in danger of losing that niche ... depending upon the whim of a man who could afford to indulge his whims, and judging by the quiet look of satisfaction on his face as he stood opposite her and surveyed her very frequently did. She stammered:

  “I wasn’t thinking of myself.”

  “Weren’t you?” The flicker of contempt was back in his eyes again, and it affected her with a sensation of being powerless. He cast his half smoked cigarette off the roof-top, turned the collar of his coat up higher about his ears, apparently became aware for the first time of the stinging wind, and suggested that it might be a good idea to go below again. “It’s not particularly clement up here,” he observed.

  “It certainly isn’t.” Mr. Minty’s voice was sharp and displeased, and it was rather bold of him as this was one of his most valuable clients. “Poor Mrs. Fairlie looks as if she’s chilled to the bone, and we really ought to have insisted that she fetched a coat.” He actually sounded so concerned that she was afraid he was going to offer her his own coat. “We can’t have you catching pneumonia, Mrs. Fairlie,” attempting a joke that misfired.

  Alison reassured him at once.

  “Oh, I’m very tough, I really am!”

  But she looked so slight, and her eyes were watering so noticeably, and the tip of her nose was such a delicate shade of harebell blue, that Charles Leydon’s expression underwent yet another change, and he frowned.

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell us that you were feeling the cold, Mrs. Fairlie?” he said sharply. “And it certainly would have been more sensible if you’d put on a coat.”

  She attempted to defend her stupidity.

  “I didn’t think ... I mean, it didn’t occur to me that you might wish to come up here—”

  “Why not? I said I wished to see over the house, and even a house the size of Leydon has a roof. The roof is a very important part of a house.”

  “Yes, of—of course.” She felt she was guilty whichever way you looked at it.

  “We’ll go back to your rooms and you can give me that cup of coffee you offered me before. You’d better have one yourself, too ... and Minty here, of course.”

  “I think Mrs. Fairlie had better have a glass of hot whisky and lemon,” the solicitor stated it as his opinion, a trifle peevishly. “It will be better than coffee.” He could have added, “And I think I’d better have one, too!”

  And then he sneezed violently, several times. The cosy, p
anelled room which Alison called her sitting-room was empty when they returned to it, and someone had removed the coffee-tray and made up the fire. She suspected Mrs. Davenport, who was hovering in the corridor when they made their appearance, waiting for the small remuneration which she received every Friday. Alison had forgotten that to-day was Friday, but she also knew Mrs. Davenport was an obliging soul.

  She flung her a look of appeal.

  “Do you think you could make some coffee immediately, Mrs. Davenport?” she requested. “And bring it here to the sitting-room.”

  Mrs. Davenport surveyed the new owner sourly ... not at all as if she had once acted as his nanny, or his wet-nurse, which she most certainly had not.

  “Three cups?” she enquired, her lips tightening. “You look as if you ought to take a couple of aspirins with yours, Mrs. Fairlie. It’s hardly the time of year for taking a closer look at the chimney stacks,” which proved she was very knowledgeable about the manner in which they had passed the last hour or so.

  Charles Leydon walked past her and into the sitting-room. He cast a mildly surprised glance around him, as if expecting to find the three girls there still, and then strode across to the fire and extended his hands to the blaze.

  “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fairlie,” he called over his shoulder, “ask your henchwoman not to take her departure yet. I don’t expect it’s possible for you to provide me with lunch, and, in any case, I’ve made arrangements to return to the Leydon Arms for it. But I shall be spending the night here, and a room will have to be got ready for me. I’ve no doubt your Mrs. Davenport will be willing to help you make up the bed, and whatever else you might find it necessary to do to render one of those state apartments upstairs habitable.”

  Alison felt certain she couldn’t be hearing aright.

  “Spend the night here?” she echoed, staring at him.

  He gazed back at her complacently.

  “But of course. That was my intention from the beginning. After all, why should I pay for a room at the Leydon Arms when there are so many bedrooms here that we could accommodate everyone in the village?”

  There was something in that, Alison realised. But she was appalled because she had never even thought of him staying the night.

  “But your meals...?” she protested. “Your breakfast!”

  “Surely you can provide me with a simple meal like breakfast?” The beautifully cut masculine mouth continued to smile faintly in mild amazement. “And dinner, too? I should like to ask Mr. Minty to dine with me, so it will be necessary to cater for two. You’ll have to get a fire lighted in the dining-room, and build it up well with a lot of the wood I see lying about here. No doubt your daughters will help you.”

  “Y-yes,” Alison stammered.

  Mr. Minty looked even more appalled than she did. He protested that he really ought to return to Murchester, where he had arranged to see an important client that afternoon, and he couldn’t really see how he could avoid granting the interview to the important client without giving offence. But Charles Leydon merely elevated his eyebrows.

  It was obvious he considered he was probably the most important client whose affairs were handled by Mr. Minty and his various partners.

  “Of course,” the solicitor suggested diffidently, realising he couldn’t get out of it altogether, “I could—if you’ll excuse me lunching with you, or even waiting for coffee—return to Murchester and see my client, and then return here this evening, in time for dinner.”

  But his expression indicated that he had grave doubts about it being a very comfortable dinner. Leydon shrugged almost indifferently.

  “Do that,” he agreed. “But I shall be returning to Murchester myself after lunch, so naturally I can give you a lift.”

  Mr. Minty reminded him:

  “I have my own car.”

  “Oh, yes, of course ... that veteran you arrived in. I hope it’ll get you back to Murchester.”

  Alison made an excuse and left the room. In the kitchen, which she had redecorated with her own hands, and which was bright and comfortable, although small, she found the three girls huddled round the Rayburn. Marianne was heating some soup, Lorne was simply toasting her toes, and Jessamy was looking thoughtful.

  “Gosh!” Lorne exclaimed. “You look as blue as a bilberry! What happened?”

  Alison didn’t bother to explain what had happened, but she informed them of what was likely to happen in the next few hours. Each one reacted differently, although the combined shock was considerable.

  Marianne, when asked to give as much assistance as possible, remembered that she had an appointment in Murchester that afternoon. A boy-friend was taking her to a dance that evening, and Alison had agreed that she could have her hair washed and set at the town’s leading hairdresser’s. Lorne was having a Spanish lesson—also in Murchester; and only Jessamy appeared to be free. Jessamy was not allowed to undertake heavy tasks, like shifting ponderous articles of furniture, or indulging in an orgy of furniture polishing ... but she could do the flowers, if her stepmother thought flowers would do anything at all to brighten up the forbidding sombreness of the great dining-room at Leydon. She could always get round the head gardener when she wanted something special, and he had some marvellous blooms he was bringing along for Christmas he might let her have. She would tell him Charles Leydon was staying the night.

  Anyway, she would ask him. She seemed quite eager to do the flowers. She was very clever with her flower arrangements, and, indeed, generally accepted as extremely artistic.

  Alison regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded her head.

  “All right. Only don’t cycle over to the gardener’s lodge, you know it’s bad for your foot. Marianne must give you a lift in the Mini when she goes into Murchester.”

  Somehow, Alison had managed to buy the girls a small car. They shared it between them—each having passed her driving test—while she made use of the local bus service when she wanted to go shopping, or visit someone on the outskirts of the village.

  While Marianne protested that she wouldn’t have time to drive her sister back to the Hall Mrs. Davenport, having provided the gentlemen with coffee in Alison’s sitting-room, returned with a distinctly grim expression on her face, and stood with her arms akimbo at the foot of the kitchen table. She and Alison exchanged glances.

  “What about my old man’s dinner?” she demanded. “He always gets home at one. And what about the children?”

  “Don’t they get a meal at school?” Alison asked vaguely, seeming to recollect that all children got meals at school nowadays, unless they went to expensive private schools, like her three stepdaughters, where the arrangements were sometimes more complicated. “And surely your husband can manage for once?”

  Mrs. Davenport poured her a strong cup of coffee and agreed that he would have to manage.

  “After all, now that His Lordship’s turned up at last I suppose we’ll all have to reorganise ourselves a bit,” she remarked gloomily.

  “We’ve had nearly a year since Sir Francis died,” Alison reminded her, thinking how fantastically lucky they had been without knowing it.

  She and Mrs. Davenport spent the afternoon performing the kind of tasks Jessamy could never dream of undertaking, and by six o’clock their backs were aching but they were moderately satisfied with what they had done. At one time Alison had half decided that it might be a good idea to serve dinner to Mr. Leydon and his guest in her own small sitting-room-dining-room; but Mr. Leydon himself had negatived this suggestion when she made it. He had indicated quite clearly that he wished the meal to be served in the main dining-room, with as much state and dignity as was possible at such short notice, and taking into account the almost entire absence of servants. And he wished coffee to be served in the library where, naturally, another fire had to be lighted.

  The dining-room furniture was magnificent, and as the place was well cared for throughout the year in very good order. Mrs. Davenport had a way of working miracles wi
th a damp cloth and a special brand of furniture cream, and in no time at all the side tables were gleaming, the sideboard reflecting the modest amount of silver that was nut out for the occasion, and the dinner-table itself—almost a priceless piece that needed a system of communication if two people were to dine at either end—a thing of beauty and almost certainly a joy to a large number of antique dealers (especially local ones) who were interested in it.

  Jessamy was left to do the flowers both in the dining-room and the library, and while a couple of girls hastily summoned from the village got the great Aga to work in the kitchen and prepared vegetables, Mrs. Davenport and Alison retreated upstairs and contemplated the well-nigh impossible task of deciding which bedroom would be the most cosy, and likely to let in the fewest draughts, during the one night—presumably—that Mr. Leydon would be occupying it.

  In the end, Alison herself made up her mind that the dressing-room adjoining the principal bedroom was the only possible answer to their leading problem. It opened on to the gallery near the head of the stairs, had a bathroom reasonably close to it—none of the bathrooms at Leydon formed a part of some of the magnificent suites—and in size was a mere slip of a room by comparison with even the smallest guest-room.

  While assisting Mrs. Davenport to make up the bed—with her own well-aired sheets—Alison hoped the autocratic Charles Leydon (who obviously had no mean ideas about his own importance) would not consider it necessary to raise an objection about the very size of the room, which would ensure the maximum amount of comfort for himself. If he had some idea of spending his first night at Leydon—the home of his ancestors for so many generations—in a room as vast as a throne-room, and with a bed actually raised high on a dais and approached by a flight of steps, while a fire blazed throughout the night on the far-away hearth, he was in for a disappointment.

  A disappointment that hardly troubled her as she laboured until she actually felt sick with exhaustion, and Mrs. Davenport insisted on breaking off operations to make them both a cup of tea.