by Susan Barrie
“Did you make that barley water yourself?”
“No, it’s out of a bottle, but I can make you some if you like.”
To her surprise he smiled at her.
“You’re doing more than enough as it is. And the barley water was pure nectar and ambrosia.”
That made her think of the brandy that had sent her off to sleep the night before.
“You described that as nectar,” she said.
“What?”
“The Napoleon brandy.”
“Oh!” He smiled more broadly. “It did seem to have a disastrous effect on you, didn’t it? But I think you were completely exhausted. Yesterday was not a red-letter day for you, was it?”
“On the contrary,” she tried to assure him, “I was glad that the new owner of Leydon had come to see it at last. We all began to think you were never coming.”
His light grey eyes—rendered so striking by his thick black eyelashes—were watching her from the pillow.
“But I’m no Sir Francis,” he told her, “and I don’t intend to stay here. I regard this place as a wilderness of bricks and mortar, and it’s no use your telling me that numbers of my ancestors lived here because it doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m no ancestor-worshipper, and I’m not madly keen on history. I prefer life as it can be lived to-day ... trips to the Bahamas, and things like that. I wouldn’t live in a place like this for a pension.”
“You don’t need a pension,” she reminded him, dimpling at him.
He seemed quite captivated by the dimples. “You should smile more often,” he said. “Like that.”
“Like what?”
“As if you were twenty-seven, and not thirty-seven. When I first met you yesterday I thought you were unnaturally grave. Now I know why.”
“You intrigue me,” she said, smiling again very slightly.
“This place ... and three stepdaughters! It’s outrageous! Why, you could make a fortune as a cook if you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I don’t suppose you do.”
He looked as if he was about to make some further comment about something or other, but she stopped him.
“It’s late, Mr. Leydon. You must get some sleep. Would you like me to shake your pillow up for you?”
“No, it’s divinely comfortable. In fact, this whole room has suddenly become comfortable, and I’ve decided I like it after all.” He held out his hand to her. “Sorry about yesterday.”
She flushed brilliantly.
“I’m so sorry I fell asleep last night and kept you sitting up in that cold room. You ought to have wakened me earlier.”
“That would have been cruelty to animals,” he said a little strangely. He retained her fingers between his hot ones, and looked at them as if they interested him. “You have very pretty hands, even though you do seem to me to work harder than most people. But I wish someone would do something about that wedding-ring on your finger,” frowning at it. “Why don’t you take it off?”
“Why should I?”
“It’s not even as if you’re a widow. A widow has to be a wife first.” He looked up at her with over-bright, gleaming eyes, and she was afraid his temperature was mounting again. “I’d like to take it off myself, and cast it into the sea from a very high cliff top. Are there any cliffs near here?”
She felt worried. He was talking nonsense.
“The sea is twenty miles from here.”
“Too far. Much, much too far away...”
He closed his eyes, and she noticed that his eyelashes lay very still on his cheeks, and he was still unshaved because apparently he hadn’t felt up to shaving himself, and even Mrs. Davenport was not competent to do that. His grasp of her fingers was surprisingly strong, so he couldn’t have fallen asleep.
Gently she tried to detach her fingers, but he gripped them more tightly.
“They’re cool,” he said, “cool and soft...”
CHAPTER V
FOR the next few days life at Leydon Hall pursued a course that had been unfamiliar to it for years. The master lay in the dressing-room of the master suite, and the interest of everyone in the house and near to it was centred round him.
The late Sir Francis had seldom, if ever, stayed at Leydon, although he had visited it often, so it was something to have the man who was responsible for paying the wages of a generous-sized contingent who represented the outdoor staff actually in residence in the house, and many were the enquiries that were received about him. Mr. Minty, recovering more quickly than his unfortunate client, telephoned and commiserated with Alison. He thought it was too bad that she should have this added strain placed upon her. She had served them a magnificent dinner, and really she ought to be prostrate herself after being permitted to shiver for so long on the roof of Leydon Hall.
“Really, that was too bad,” he said.
“I’m tough,” Alison assured him.
“I’m afraid you’ll find Sir Charles—I beg his pardon, Mr. Leydon!—a trifle inconsiderate,” he deplored. And then he added hastily, “Naturally, he doesn’t mean to be inconsiderate, but when a man is as wealthy as he is, and has had everything so far come his way so very easily, he’s inclined to be difficult. People like you and me, we have to defer, but it isn’t always easy.”
“Mr. Leydon is proving an exemplary patient,” she assured him, to his astonishment, and it really was true.
Charles Leydon was an exemplary patient.
Apparently he hadn’t been ill for years—not even a slight cold—and that could have been the reason why all at once he was so submissive. He watched the doctor’s face when he called, and was obviously trying to detect whether or not he was feeling anxious about him. After three days the doctor assured him he was doing nicely, and he seemed to relax. He drew a deep breath, as if he had been secretly a little afraid. Curiously enough, her knowledge that he had been anxious about himself endeared him to Alison. Instead of an arrogant man who could order her about she had begun to think of him as a rather helpless little boy who had to plead with her occasionally when he wanted something she was by no means certain he should have, and that provided her with the novel sensation of having a certain amount of power over him.
Fit and well, he was such an iron-hard, ruthless, inconsiderate man ... she was sure of that. Lying in bed, with his black hair ruffled by the pillow, his lavender silk pyjamas taking most of the colour out of his face, slight hollows in his cheeks and mauve shadows under his eyes, he was enough to wring any truly feminine woman’s heart.
She was perfectly certain that as soon as he was on his feet again, and well enough to face the world—his world—their relationship would be back where it started. Neither of them would remember that he had once fallen asleep holding her hand, and that he had talked of casting her wedding-ring into the sea. That was all due, she was sure, to a rise of temperature.
People did things, said things, when they were unwell, that they would never do or say when they were in full possession of their senses, and capable of appreciating the possible implications.
Marianne and Jessamy were not allowed to visit the sickroom very often, but they did occasionally take turns listening for his bell, and answered it with promptitude when it rang. Even Marianne, most critical of the invalid, was no laggard when that bell rang and it was her turn to be considered on duty. She would jump up with alacrity, glance at herself hastily in the nearest mirror and smooth her hair and the front of her dress, make certain nothing could be done to improve her appearance—even if it meant a second summons on the bell before she finally presented herself at the bedside of the sufferer—and enquire breathlessly what she could do to be of assistance when Leydon’s eyes swung round to her, and sometimes the merest suspicion of disappointment appeared in them which puzzled her.
She flattered herself that she was sufficiently attractive to be regarded as a sight for sore eyes by most men ... and Charles Leydon was a man in the prime of life, whatever else he might or might no
t be that she could entirely approve of. She also flattered herself that she had a gentle touch, and he should have appreciated it when, without being asked, she turned his pillows and tucked in his sheet and emptied his ash-tray and poured him fresh barley water all with a few economical movements. But instead of always appearing grateful there were occasions when he frowned a little, even looked distinctly peevish.
“You!” he would say when she entered the room. “What’s happened to your mother?”
“You mean my stepmother?” with patient sweetness.
“Of course.” The surprise in his voice caused her to recoil. “How could she possibly be your mother?”
“Well, you called her my mother just now,” she reminded him gently, on the first occasion that he asked for Alison.
He turned his face away from her. His voice sounded fretful.
“I’d better call her Alison,” he said. “Then you’ll know who I’m talking about.”
“Yes, do,” she cooed, determined not to take offence. “But you know, if there’s anything you need, I’m perfectly capable of getting it for you.”
“Including a bed-pan if I need it?” The bright sparkle of amusement in his eyes disconcerted her so much that she blushed vividly, which was unusual for her.
“I—I—” she stammered. “Does Alison do that?”
“No, Mrs. Davenport.”
“Then it’s Mrs. Davenport you need, isn’t it?”
He shook his head violently.
“Your Mrs. Davenport, excellent though she may be, smothers me with her maternal instincts. She loves to treat me as if I were two years old. No, I don’t want Mrs. Davenport, and I don’t want you.” This was on the second occasion when Marianne answered his bell. “And the next time you come to my room please refrain from pouncing on me as if you were an instrument of torture and I the victim. My pillows do not need all the feathers shaken out of them every few minutes, and as I’ve only smoked one cigarette so far to-day I object to being regarded as an inveterate smoker whose ash-trays are always crowded to capacity. And now, as I can’t remember why I rang, you can go!”
Both his tone and his look were ungracious, but Marianne made allowance for his condition and retreated from the room without displaying anything in the nature of resentment. And the next time she was on call she respected his wishes and refrained from pouncing on him, as he had previously complained, and merely stood patiently waiting beside his bed until he had told her what it was he had pressed his bell for. As a reward for her exemplary behaviour he smiled at her with faint whimsicalness and apologised for his earlier rudeness; but by contrast with the kind of reception Jessamy received when she entered his room Marianne could hardly look upon herself as a prime favourite with him, and definitely not a welcome interruption.
Jessamy had a habit of creeping into his room like a frightened mouse, and this should have irritated a man of his temperament. He liked bold decisions, decisive behaviour, fearlessness. Alison had earned her first approving smile from him when he sensed that she was not really in awe of him, and despite her external placidity she could stand up for herself and her own private beliefs. Jessamy, with the large, shadow-haunted eves and the fluttering speech, and tiny nervous gestures, was so patently completely in awe of him and filled with a boundless admiration for him and everything he represented that she could easily have aroused contempt in his breast, instead of which he was gentleness itself whenever she was around.
She loved doing things for him, and would have fetched and carried for him from morning till night if she had been permitted. During the two days and nights when there was a certain amount of anxiety about his condition she was never far from his door, despite the fact that the temperature of the gallery outside it was near to freezing.
Alison was so afraid that she would catch a chill that she ordered her back to the flat more than once, and Jessamy always went disconsolately, as if she was a favourite hound that was being ordered to vacate its self-appointed place.
One person who telephoned constantly to find out how Charles Leydon was progressing was his secretary. She wanted to know whether Mr. Leydon was likely to require her services, and when Alison, without making it her business to find out, expressed the opinion that she didn’t think the invalid was up to dealing with anything in the nature of business, and was likely to have his temperature affected by even the thought of it, the secretary very practically arranged for the transference of some of his personal possessions, including extra pairs of his heavy silk pyjamas and another dressing-gown, from his London flat. She also sent flowers and fruit by means of Inter-Flora, and a quantity of books and magazines. Alison promised to keep her informed of her employer’s progress, and received the impression that the charming young woman at the other end—and from the soft, husky voice she was reasonably certain that she was a charming young woman—was quite genuinely concerned about Charles Leydon’s indisposition, and might descend upon them at any time if her anxiety got any more out of bounds.
Which caused her to decide mentally on a room where she would put her if she arrived unexpectedly, armed with more flowers, fruit and reading matter, as she almost certainly would be.
But for a week after being ordered to remain in bed Leydon was in no condition to receive visitors, not even if they were very closely related to him ... and it became obvious after the first twenty-four hours that he had no very close relatives. There had been one moment when Alison, alarmed by that fluctuating temperature of his, had wondered whether he had such a thing as a wife, and whether it was her duty to get in touch with her. The secretary satisfied her on that point. There was no wife.
Then she wondered whether, perhaps, there was a fiancée. The secretary was not so definite about that. She became a little cagey. But she seemed to think the young woman, if indeed she existed, would not be prepared to make the journey to Yorkshire unless the situation got more out of hand, and she was sent for.
And that puzzled Alison, as the secretary should have been in a position to be a trifle more explicit about the matter. At least she would, or should, know whether her employer was engaged to be married.
Perhaps, Alison thought, he was contemplating becoming engaged.
The local doctor came in every day, and sometimes twice a day, and after the first half dozen or so visits he became more satisfied about his patient’s condition.
“It’s a virus condition,” he explained, “but I think we’re getting the better of it. He’s probably been overworking or neglecting himself for some time, and this kind of thing is the result. I’m afraid he’ll need rather careful nursing for a while yet, and you must somehow persuade him not to think of returning to London until he’s really better. If he goes back too soon he may pick up another germ and—well, there you are!”
Alison understood perfectly. Despite his apparent physical fitness and native toughness Charles Leydon, a bachelor—-as it now seemed reasonably certain—had driven himself rather hard over the past few months, and unless he allowed himself to unwind the result might not be too good. He was not as tough as he thought ... as most people thought. He was by no means fragile, but a certain amount of Care was important with the winter only just beginning.
“Of course, if I were a man with his means I’d be off to the Bahamas, or somewhere like that, for the winter,” the doctor said wistfully. “And if he has any sense, once you’ve finished looking after him here, that’s what he’ll do. I’ll certainly advise it.”
But Charles Leydon seldom listened to advice. In fact it was quite possible he never listened to it, and Alison found this out as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to need someone to talk to. And as Alison was the one who was nearly always on hand it was her that he talked to.
On the day the doctor allowed him up for a short while to sit in a chair by the fire in his room his secretary telephoned for about the twentieth time since he had been taken ill. Her name was Miss Prim, but because she had such a beguiling voice and her conc
ern for her employer, was very feminine and uninhibited Alison was sure she was not prim. She said things like, “You mustn’t let him bully you,” and “Poor lamb, he’s such an independent male he must hate lying in bed and being fussed over!” to Alison. And when she heard that he was getting up she issued a set of quite decisive instructions.
“Whatever you do don’t let him think he’s better just because he’s on his feet again. Make him stay at the Hall for another week or fortnight. Tell him I’m carrying on blissfully without him, but I miss him sorely. Tell him if he wants me he has only to send for me ... But I’m letting everyone know he’s out of action for the time being and mustn’t be pestered. I thought that was the only sensible thing to do.”
But Charles Leydon, when informed that his secretary was carrying on blissfully without him, uttered a sound between a snort and a grunt.
“That means the correspondence is piling up and I’ll have to deal with it sooner or later.” He let out a sigh. “The way I feel at the moment I don’t want to see another letter in the whole course of my life. Certainly not a business letter.”
Alison, who was kneeling on the rug and adding another log to the fire, looked round at him anxiously. He certainly looked intriguingly pale, she thought, and the dark blue of his dressing-gown emphasised his thinness. She felt a passionate desire to build him up, to feed him egg custards and chicken broth, egg-nog and her own specially reinforced wine jelly.
“But you are feeling much better than you did a couple of days ago, aren’t you?” she almost pleaded. “At least your temperature has steadied, and it’s now just a question of building you up.”
He smiled at her a little whimsically.
“You and your building up! I honestly believe you enjoy looking after invalids, Alison.” He had stopped calling her Mrs. Fairlie days ago. “Why didn’t you take up nursing professionally?” he enquired curiously. “You’d have made a first-class nurse.”