“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Christie,” says Mr. Wiggs with old-world courtesy. “Please excuse me for interrupting your conversation. I just wondered if you had seen the gentleman, that’s all.”
“Seen the gentleman!” I exclaim.
“A tall gentleman—very sunburnt he was,” explains Mr. Wiggs. “I would say he was a military gentleman. Called in to ask the way to The Small House. I told him he must—”
But at these words light breaks; I abandon Mr. Wiggs and Susan and run. I tear madly across the street, heedless of the traffic; I turn the corner into the lane and putting on a sprint arrive breathless and dishevelled at the gate of The Small House . . . and there is Tim standing upon the doorstep.
“It was you!” I cry rushing up the path and hurling myself into his arms. “I thought it was—but I knew it wasn’t—because you were in Kenya.”
“But I’m not in Kenya, I’m here!” cries Tim, crushing me in a bear’s embrace.
“But, Hester, I did write to you,” says Tim when the first excitement of our meeting has died down a little. “I wrote and explained everything. As a matter of fact there is my letter!”
And there, without doubt, is his letter in the wire basket which is fixed to the front-door.
“How funny!” exclaims Tim, taking it out and looking at it. “How awfully queer to see it again! You won’t want it now, of course.”
“Of course I want it!” I cry, seizing it out of his hand.
We laugh again. We have done nothing but laugh and exclaim and carry on like a pair of lunatics for the last five minutes. No sensible word has been said and I still have no idea as to why Tim has arrived so suddenly and unexpectedly.
“Need we stand in the hall?” asks Tim. “It’s a nice hall of course, but I’ve been travelling for the last two days. If there’s any hot water I should like a bath. Bath first and then some food if possible. I didn’t wait to have a meal in London; I came straight here by the first train.”
“Yes, of course! Oh, I forgot . . .”
“What?” Tim enquires. “Nothing wrong is there? Bryan and Betty all right?”
“Perfectly all right. They’re in London with Richard and Mary having a very gay time. It was just—I suddenly remembered my guest.”
“Guest!” exclaims Tim in disgust. “Oh, I say, Hester! You don’t mean to say you’ve got somebody staying in the house!”
My guest is still reading. Incredible as it may seem she has heard nothing of the tumult and, when awakened from her trance, she gazes at Tim with a dazed and horrified expression and scrambles to her feet.
“I must go!” cries Anne. “I had no idea—I’ll go home at once!”
“Nonsense, Anne!” I exclaim.
“It isn’t nonsense! Of course I must go. You won’t want me.”
Tim was slightly annoyed to discover a strange woman in the house, but his heart is melted by these expressions of dismay. He assures Anne that we are old married people, inured to one another’s charms, and have no wish to be alone on the evening of our reunion. I add my reassurances to his and after a good deal of persuasion Anne agrees to postpone her departure until tomorrow morning.
“Poor little soul!” says Tim as we go upstairs together to see about his bath. “You do manage to pick up the oddest creatures, Hester.”
“What’s odd about her?”
“Everything,” says Tim vaguely. “In fact I’ve never seen anything the least like her before. Who is she?”
“A friend of mine, and incidentally the owner of The Small House.”
Tim is mollified. “Oh well,” he says, “if she’s our landlady that’s different . . . but I thought you said in your letter that Miss Stroude was an absolute fiend? That little creature seems quite harmless.”
“It’s rather a long story . . .”
“Then it must wait,” says Tim firmly. “I’ll have my bath and then we can talk our heads off.”
Tim seizes his sponge from his suitcase and vanishes into the bathroom and as I still know nothing of his plans, nor how he has managed to escape from his duties and fly home to his family, I take his letter out of my pocket and, slitting it open, unfold the sheets.
20th August.
Dearest darling Hester,
I am so sorry my letters have been scrappy but I have been most awfully busy—also various things have been happening and I did not want to say anything to you until I could tell you definitely what was what. I knew you would worry if I told you that I might be sent here or there or I might not, so I thought it best to wait. Quite soon after you left I got a signal from the War House posting me to Korea to take command of the 2nd Battalion vice Meredith who was being invalided home. This gave me a bit of a jolt coming out of the blue, all the more so because as you know I am up to the eyes in the Defence Schemes for East Africa. It seemed pretty sickening to have to hand over the whole thing to some other bloke to finish and as a matter of fact it would have been difficult for another bloke, however capable, to take over the job at a moment’s notice. The General was not a bit pleased when I showed him the signal; he looked at it and said, This Shall Not Be—or words to that effect. I could not tell you the exact words of course. So he Took Steps and the posting was cancelled. Rather fun to be a General and throw your weight about like that! All these things took time and, as I said before, I did not want to worry you until I knew exactly what was going to happen. It was difficult to write with all this on my mind and not mention it and I expect that is why you found my letters a bit unsatisfactory. Now for the great piece of news. There is to be a conference in London about the Defence Schemes and I am to attend it to explain what is being done here. I shall be flying home—not sure yet which day—and of course I shall come straight to Old Quinings. Isn’t it marvellous! As regards future plans it is difficult to say. The conference may last some time and then I can take my leave which might be made to stretch over Christmas. I wondered if we could stay on at The Small House, could we? Of course you must do as you think best but the house sounds very attractive and personally I would rather be comfortably settled than move about from pillar to post staying with friends and relations. About your letters—of course I appreciate them! I laughed like a drain at your description of the Roman pensione and Tony being shown into your room by mistake—and your interview with the Signora, her excitement and your feeble efforts to explain! I can imagine the whole thing and just wish I could have been there; but of course if I had been there it would not have happened! No need to fuss about those old cats gossiping. I expect they have nothing else to do in a sleepy little village like Old Quinings. It will die a natural death when I appear upon the scene. I meant to write to Tony but there is no time. The orderly is waiting to include this in the out-going mail. You can tell Tony the news and thank him from me for all he has done. He really is a good friend—none better—and I am thankful he is there to keep an eye on you. It is grand to think I shall be seeing you soon—simply gorgeous (as Betty would say).
No more now—Wilkins is pawing the ground—Oceans of love, my dearest, from Tim.
My heart is very light as I fold up the sheets. All my clouds have vanished. I realise, not for the first time, what a fortunate woman I am.
Tim is enjoying his bath. I can hear him plunging about and indulging in his usual porpoise-like habits. I am aware that when he emerges, clean and pink and smiling, the bathroom floor will be flooded—but what do I care!
THE END
About The Author
Born in Edinburgh in 1892, Dorothy Emily Stevenson came from a distinguished Scottish family, her father being David Alan Stevenson, the lighthouse engineer, first cousin to Robert Louis Stevenson.
In 1916 she married Major James Reid Peploe (nephew to the artist Samuel Peploe). After the First World War they lived near Glasgow and brought up two sons and a daughter. Dorothy wrote her first novel in the 1920’s, and by the 1930’s was a prolific bestseller, ultimately selling more than seven million books in her career. Among h
er many bestselling novels was the series featuring the popular “Mrs. Tim”, the wife of a British Army officer. The author often returned to Scotland and Scottish themes in her romantic, witty and well-observed novels.
During the Second World War Dorothy Stevenson moved with her husband to Moffat in Scotland. It was here that most of her subsequent works were written. D.E. Stevenson died in Moffat in 1973.
Fiction by D.E. Stevenson
Published by Dean Street Press
Mrs. Tim Carries On (1941)
Mrs. Tim Gets a Job (1947)
Mrs. Tim Flies Home (1952)
Smouldering Fire (1935)*
Spring Magic (1942)
Other Titles
Jean Erskine’s Secret (written c. 1917, first published 2013)
Peter West (1923)
Emily Dennistoun (written c. 1920s, first published 2011)
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (1932)*
Golden Days (1934)*
Miss Buncle’s Book (1934)
Divorced from Reality (1935, aka Miss Dean’s Dilemma, aka The Young Clementina)
Miss Buncle Married (1936)
The Empty World (1936, aka A World in Spell)
The Story of Rosabelle Shaw (1937)
The Fair Miss Fortune (written c. 1938, first published 2011)
The Baker’s Daughter (1938, aka Miss Bun the Baker’s Daughter)
Green Money (1939, aka The Green Money)
Rochester’s Wife (1940)
The English Air (1940)
Crooked Adam (1942)
Celia’s House (1943)
The Two Mrs Abbotts (1943)
Listening Valley (1944)
The Four Graces (1946)
Kate Hardy (1947)
Young Mrs Savage (1948)
Vittoria Cottage (1949)
Music in the Hills (1950)
Winter and Rough Weather (1951, aka Shoulder the Sky)
Five Windows (1953)
Charlotte Fairlie (1954, aka The Enchanted Isle, aka Blow the Wind Southerly)
Amberwell (1955)
Summerhills (1956)
The Tall Stranger (1957)
Anna and Her Daughters (1958)
Still Glides the Stream (1959)
The Musgraves (1960)
Bel Lamington (1961)
Fletcher’s End (1962)
The Blue Sapphire (1963)
Katherine Wentworth (1964)
Katherine’s Marriage (1965, aka The Marriage of Katherine)
The House on the Cliff (1966)
Sarah Morris Remembers (1967)
Sarah’s Cottage (1968)
Gerald and Elizabeth (1969)
House of the Deer (1970)
Portrait of Saskia (collection of early writings, published 2011)
Found in the Attic (collection of early writings, published 2013)
* see Explanatory Notes
Explanatory Notes
MRS. TIM
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment, the first appearance of Mrs. Tim in the literary world, was published by Jonathan Cape in 1932. That edition, however, contained only the first half of the book currently available from Bloomsbury under the same title. The second half was originally published, as Golden Days, by Herbert Jenkins in 1934. Together, those two books contain Mrs. Tim’s diaries for the first six months of the same year.
Subsequently, D.E. Stevenson regained the rights to the two books, and her new publisher, Collins, reissued them in the U.K. as a single volume under the title Mrs. Tim (1941), reprinted several times as late as 1992. In the U.S., however, the combined book appeared as Mrs. Tim of the Regiment, and has generally retained that title, though a 1973 reprint used the title Mrs. Tim Christie. Adding to the confusion, large print and audiobook editions of Golden Days have also appeared in recent years.
Fortunately no such title confusions exist with the subsequent Mrs. Tim titles—Mrs. Tim Carries On (1941), Mrs. Tim Gets a Job (1947), and Mrs. Tim Flies Home (1952)—and Dean Street Press is delighted to make these long-out-of-print volumes of the series available again, along with two more of Stevenson’s most loved novels, Smouldering Fire (1935) and Spring Magic (1942).
SMOULDERING FIRE
Smouldering Fire was first published in the U.K. in 1935 and in the U.S. in 1938. Until now, those were the only complete editions of the book. All later reprints, both hardcover and paperback, have been heavily abridged, with entire chapters as well as occasional passages throughout the novel cut from the text. For our new edition, Dean Street Press has followed the text of the first U.K. edition, and we are proud to be producing the first complete, unabridged edition of Smouldering Fire in eighty years.
FURROWED MIDDLEBROW
FM1. A Footman for the Peacock (1940) . . . RACHEL FERGUSON
FM2. Evenfield (1942) . . . RACHEL FERGUSON
FM3. A Harp in Lowndes Square (1936) . . . RACHEL FERGUSON
FM4. A Chelsea Concerto (1959) . . . FRANCES FAVIELL
FM5. The Dancing Bear (1954) . . . FRANCES FAVIELL
FM6. A House on the Rhine (1955) . . . FRANCES FAVIELL
FM7. Thalia (1957) . . . FRANCES FAVIELL
FM8. The Fledgeling (1958) . . . FRANCES FAVIELL
FM9. Bewildering Cares (1940) . . . WINIFRED PECK
FM10. Tom Tiddler’s Ground (1941) . . . URSULA ORANGE
FM11. Begin Again (1936) . . . URSULA ORANGE
FM12. Company in the Evening (1944) . . . URSULA ORANGE
FM13. The Late Mrs Prioleau (1946) . . . MONICA TINDALL
FM14. Bramton Wick (1952) . . . ELIZABETH FAIR
FM15. Landscape in Sunlight (1953) . . . ELIZABETH FAIR
FM16. The Native Heath (1954) . . . ELIZABETH FAIR
FM17. Seaview House (1955) . . . ELIZABETH FAIR
FM18. A Winter Away (1957) . . . ELIZABETH FAIR
FM19. The Mingham Air (1960) . . . ELIZABETH FAIR
FM20. The Lark (1922) . . . E. NESBIT
FM21. Smouldering Fire (1935) . . . D.E. STEVENSON
FM22. Spring Magic (1942) . . . D.E. STEVENSON
FM23. Mrs. Tim Carries On (1941) . . . D.E. STEVENSON
FM24. Mrs. Tim Gets a Job (1947) . . . D.E. STEVENSON
FM25. Mrs. Tim Flies Home (1952) . . . D.E. STEVENSON
FM26. Alice (1950) . . . ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM27. Henry (1950) . . . ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM28. Mrs. Martell (1953) . . . ELIZABETH ELIOT
FM29. Cecil (1962) . . . ELIZABETH ELIOT
D.E. Stevenson
Smouldering Fire
Iain stood for a few minutes on the little bridge that crossed the burn and looked at the house—he felt that he had betrayed it. No people save his own had ever lived in the house, and now he had sold it into slavery. For three months it would shelter strangers beneath its roof, for three months it would not belong to him.
Despite his passionate love for Ardfalloch, Iain has been driven to let his home and estate to Mr Hetherington Smith, a wealthy London businessman, and his kindly wife (who was, truth be told, happier when they were poor).
MacAslan stays on in a cottage by the loch, aided by his devoted keeper Donald and Donald’s wife Morag. But he finds himself irresistibly drawn to Linda Medworth and her young son, invited to Ardfalloch by Mrs Hetherington Smith. Lush Highland scenery and a ruined castle set the stage for a mystery, and tension builds to a shocking conclusion.
Smouldering Fire was first published in the U.K. in 1935 and in the U.S. in 1938. Later reprints were all heavily abridged. For our reprint, Furrowed Middlebrow and Dean Street Press have followed the text of the first U.K. edition, and are proud to be producing the first complete, unabridged edition of the novel in eighty years.
“A charming love story set in the romantic Scottish highlands, with plenty of local colour, a handsome hero, a lonely, lovely heroine and a curious mystery into the bargain.” Sunday Mercury
“A tale in which those who love the Highlands will delight, for the minor characters are gloriously alive and the atm
osphere is profoundly right.” Punch
FM21
CHAPTER I
DONALD
Iain MacAslan pulled slowly across the loch. The sun had set, but a bright glow lingered in the gap between the mountains; and the single planet, at the edge of an indigo cloud, was nothing but a silver pin’s point in the sky. The mountains to westward were dark—outlined against the glow—and the loch was dark save for a bright patch near the island which reflected the sky’s grandeur in bold streaks.
The small boat cut a silver streak in the dark waters—a bamboo rod was fixed to the thwarts close beside Iain’s hand, and the line sweeping through the water made a silver ripple. The surface of the loch was leaden-grey, but when Iain leaned over the side of the boat and looked down into its still depths it was green—dark and mysterious.
After a little while Iain rested on his oars and pulled in the line. He had had no luck to-night, the mackerel were not taking. He pulled up the line, disentangled the spinners and unshipped the rod, laying it carefully in the bottom of the boat. It was no use to try any longer. As a matter of fact, Iain had not come out to fish—not really—the fishing was merely an excuse. He had felt too restless and disturbed to remain indoors—the May night had called him, had drawn him forth as a magnet draws iron. But the May night had not soothed his restlessness, nor stilled the disturbance in his soul.
Iain raised his eyes and looked at the mountains . . . and the loch . . . and the smoky darkness of the forests. His eyes were fiery and yet sombre, they burned with passion . . .
“Mine,” he said aloud.
It was all his:—the loch, the mountains bare and rocky, or clothed with forest where the shy deer lived, the little island which lay like a dark cushion upon the smooth surface of the water—that most of all perhaps—all his. It was his land, the cradle of his race.
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