It was a dismal outlook . . . and when Charles tapped his weather-glass, which he had bought at the displenishing, the pointer slipped back half an inch.
“That thing is very depressing,” I said.
“I like it,” declared Charles. “I like the weather, too. The sudden changes are so interesting—no wonder people here talk a lot about the weather! Let’s wrap up well and go to tea at Craignethan. They’ll be glad to see us.”
When were they not glad to see us! It was one of the lovely things about the grans that we could walk in, early or late, and be sure of a welcome.
Today our reception was even warmer than usual, for the weather was colder than usual.
“Goodness!” cried grandpapa, when we staggered into the hall, covered with snow. “Goodness! Are these two Eskimos, come to visit us? What a day! What a day! How good of you to come! You must be frozen. Sit down on that chair, Sarah, and I’ll pull off your rubber boots. Did you bring slippers with you? That’s right! I’ll take that coat, Charles. It had better be hung up in the kitchen.”
“Don’t bother, sir. I’ll do it,” said Charles. “I want to speak to you about something.”
“Come into my study,” said grandpapa, nodding.
Grandmama was sitting in her usual chair by the drawing-room fire; her welcome to me, though less exuberant, was even warmer.
“Dear child, how lovely to see you!” she exclaimed, putting down her book and kissing me fondly. “We’ve missed you very badly. Sit down by the fire and get warm—your hands are like ice!”
“How are you, Grandmama?”
“Oh, I’m much better, dear. It was just one of my giddy turns, that’s all. Mark fusses too much. Tell me about little Freddie; you were worried about her, weren’t you?”
I told her that Freddie had quite recovered and related some of the child’s amusing sayings.
“I wish I could see her; she’s our only great-grandchild,” said grandmama with a sigh.
“Tell me about the Dunnes,” I said. I was anxious to know more about the family; Minnie, who was my authority upon the histories of all the families in the district, had talked a great deal about “Miss Celia” . . . and then, correcting herself, had added, “Of course she’s married now. She’s Mrs Courtney Dunne. Her cousin came over from America in the war and fell in love with her straight off.”
“Yes, that’s what happened,” nodded grandmama. “He was a distant cousin; his name was Courtney Dale, but he changed it to Dunne when he married Celia, because of the property. There have been Dunnes at Dunnian House for hundreds of years. I remember old Miss Celia Dunne—she was small and dainty and delightful to look at—but quite indomitable.”
“Minnie said there was something queer about her will.”
“Very queer,” replied grandmama. “The entail of the property had been broken and Dunnian was hers, to do what she liked with, so she left it in trust to her nephew, Humphrey, and after that to his daughter Celia.”
“That wasn’t queer! I suppose old Miss Dunne was fond of Celia?”
“Celia wasn’t born at the time.”
“Wasn’t born? Then how——”
“Humphrey and Alice already had three children, including Mark, but they had to set to work and produce Celia,” explained grandmama with a little chuckle. “Fortunately they succeeded . . . and the odd thing is that young Celia is exactly like her great-aunt (she’s like the picture of old Miss Dunne); she has the same little mannerisms and the same charming way of managing people without being the least bit ‘managing.’
“There was another nephew,” continued grandmama. “He tried to upset the will on the grounds that his Aunt Celia wasn’t compos mentis—but it was nonsense, of course! Miss Dunne was as sane as a judge: she just wanted another Celia Dunne to be mistress of Dunnian. You may say it was a bee in her bonnet, but we all have a bee buzzing about in our bonnets, if it comes to that.”
Grandpapa and Charles had come in and had heard the end of the story.
“Bees in our bonnets!” exclaimed grandpapa. “This young man has got a hive of bees in his bonnet. He wants to make me a present of five hundred pounds.”
“No, seven and sixpence,” said Charles, smiling. “That’s what it cost me. If you’ve taken a fancy to it I shall be very happy to give it to you. I owe you more than I can ever repay, if I live to be a hundred!”
“Stuff and nonsense! You owe me nothing,” muttered grandpapa crossly. “Say no more about it.”
“I owe you Sarah,” said Charles, bravely disobeying the command. “I owe you my wife and my house and my garden and kindnesses too numerous to mention. Please do me another kindness and allow me to give it to you, Grandpapa.”
“Oh, dear, what am I to say!” exclaimed grandpapa, sitting down and holding his head in his hands. “You talk to him, Jane! Tell him he’s a young fool.”
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about, William!” said grandmama in bewilderment.
At this moment the door opened and Janet came in. She proceeded to spread a lace cloth on the low table by the fire and to arrange the tea things. Perhaps she was surprised to find absolute silence in the room—or perhaps not.
“It’s stopped snowing,” said Janet. “But it’s freezing hard. Postie had a job getting up the avenue. He’s wanting to know if he can leave the Braeside Cottage letters here.”
“Yes, we’ll take them,” I said.
“It’s not the right thing at all,” said Janet scornfully. “He’s just wanting to save his legs—the lazy loon—but I’ll give him the message.”
“You had better give him a cup of tea, Janet,” suggested grandmama.
“He’s getting a pot to himsel’ and I’ve given him yon gingerbread that fell in the middle. It’s better than he’ll get at home anyways. Will that be all, Mrs. Maitland?”
“Yes, thank you, Janet,” said grandmama.
When she had gone everyone began to talk at once.
“What is it all about?” asked grandmama with a puzzled frown.
“It’s a picture that Charles bought by mistake——” I began.
“It’s a Christmas present——” began Charles.
“The whole thing is nonsense,” declared grandpapa. “I won’t hear another word.”
“A Christmas present,” repeated Charles earnestly. “You can’t refuse to accept a Christmas present, Grandpapa.”
“But, my dear boy——”
“Be quiet, both of you!” I cried, flapping my hands at them. “Be quiet and let me explain to Grandmama in peace.”
*
We stayed to dinner at Craignethan and walked home together in bright moonlight. It was freezing hard, as Janet had said, and the path was slippery, but Charles was as steady as a rock, so I clung to his arm and we managed it safely.
“He was pleased—really,” I said.
“Yes, I believe he was. He takes a bit of understanding but I’m beginning to know him quite well now. At any rate he’s going to accept the picture—which is delightful. It’s so nice to be able to give him something he really wants. We had a long talk in his study . . . he said he and Grandmama wanted me to adopt them.”
“I noticed you had adopted them.”
“I noticed that you noticed,” said Charles, chuckling.
“What else did he say?”
“Oh, nothing much; we just chatted about this and that. He said we ought to go to Kirkoobry one day. Maggie mentioned it, didn’t she?”
“We were on our way to Kirkoobry when we got hung up at the displenishing sale,” I reminded him.
“Yes. Apparently it’s a charming little town and well worth seeing; there’s a colony of painters there. Let’s go tomorrow. We can look it up on the map.”
The curious thing was that we couldn’t find Kirkoobry on the map; not even with the aid of a magnifying glass.
“Oh, you’ll find it all right,” said Minnie. “You’ll see it written on all the sign-posts after Dumfries. It’s not very far and you’ll get
a very good lunch at the hotel.”
Thus encouraged we started off shortly after breakfast.
We went for miles, up one road and down another; there were plenty of sign-posts but not one of them said “kirkoobry.”
It didn’t matter, of course; we had found a very nice little hotel for lunch, and thoroughly enjoyed our day, but somehow the charming little town with its colony of painters had become a sort of Shangri La! We were determined to find it—and to find it by ourselves.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” said Charles, smiling. “We’ll do some Christmas shopping in Dumfries—and have lunch there—then we’ll go on and have tea in Kirkoobry.”
We didn’t have tea in Kirkoobry because we couldn’t find it.
It may be said, here and now, that we didn’t find Kirkoobry until we had become tired of the game and I told Charles to stop at a cross-road where a man was having trouble with his tractor.
I got out and approached the man. “Can you tell me the way to Kirkoobry, please?” I said.
“Is it Kirkoobry you’re wanting?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
“It’s staring you in the face,” said the man, pointing to the sign-post.
The sign-post announced, “kirkcudbright 10 miles.”
“Oh, is that Kirkoobry?”
“Aye, that’s Kirkoobry. Can ye not read?”
I was giggling feebly when I returned to the car.
Our Shangri La was certainly a delightful little town. We walked about and looked at the quay and the picturesque old buildings and we had a very good lunch at the hotel. We didn’t see any painters—or at least none of them were painting pictures—but perhaps it was too cold for them.
“We’ll come again in the summer,” said Charles. “Summer is the right time of year for painters to practise their art. We ought to have a picture of Kirkoobry, just to remind us that things are not always what they seem.”
Part Two
Social Occasion
Chapter Ten
Grandpapa was very anxious to have a party: he wanted to introduce us to all his friends; but I thought it would be much too tiring for grandmama so I managed to persuade him that it would be more pleasant to have a quiet Christmas—just the four of us together.
On Christmas morning Charles went to the Roman Catholic chapel and grandpapa and I to St Mary’s Episcopal church.
St Mary’s was a small church (most of the local people were Presbyterians) and it was quite full that morning; it was decorated with holly and there were Christmas roses on the altar. We had a beautiful service and sang all the lovely old hymns and there was a short but memorable sermon; then we came out into the pale December sunshine and found the congregation lingering in the little garden, talking cheerfully and wishing each other “a happy Christmas.”
“This is my granddaughter, Sarah Reede,” said grandpapa. He had taken me firmly by the arm and was introducing me to everybody: to Admiral Sir Humphrey Dunne, to Mrs Courtney Dunne (who had two little girls with her), to Major and Mrs Andrew Raeworth, to Mr Brown (who was the proprietor of the garage in Ryddelton) and to half a dozen other people whose names I couldn’t catch. They all wished me a happy Christmas and said they had been looking forward to meeting me.
I was feeling completely muddled when I saw Mrs Mark Dunne; she was waiting on the outskirts of the crowd . . . and presently when the crowd began to melt away she came and spoke to me.
“What an ordeal for you!” she said sympathetically.
“Hallo, Debbie!” exclaimed grandpapa. “Have you met my granddaughter?”
“Yes, but perhaps she doesn’t remember me.”
“Of course I do! You were so kind to me at the sale and helped me to buy what I wanted.”
“Will you come and have tea with me some day?” asked Mrs Dunne. “I’m very busy just now because Mark hasn’t got a receptionist—and I’m helping him—but if I manage to get a free afternoon perhaps I could ring you up. Would that be all right?”
“Yes, I should love to come.”
“I’ll fetch you,” said Mrs Dunne, nodding. “We live at Timperton, it’s about ten miles from here. There’s a bus, of course, but——”
“Come and meet Mrs Bay Coates,” said grandpapa.
“Not now,” I objected. “Please not, Grandpapa! I’ve met so many people——”
“Come on, Sarah! I want you to meet Tonia, she’s a dear. Oh, there’s Oliver! We must speak to him . . .”
Grandpapa was such a sociable person that it was difficult to tear him away but at last all the introductions had been made and we got into the car and went back to Craignethan.
“They’re such nice people,” he explained. “It would be delightful to have a little party; I want you and Charles to meet them properly and make friends with them. Why are you so shy?”
“I’m not shy, Grandpapa. I want to be friends with them—but not all at once. I’d rather get to know them gradually.”
“They’re such nice people,” repeated grandpapa. “So friendly and kind.”
*
The people round about Ryddelton were almost too friendly and kind. Charles and I were quite happy to be together, to read and talk and walk over the hills and go for expeditions in the car. Charles’s piano had come; it had been in store for years so he was delighted to have it . . . and, after he had got it tuned to his satisfaction, he enjoyed playing for hours on end. Last but not least the publishing firm in London, to whom he had written some time ago offering to do translations, had sent him a very large volume to translate; it was the biography of a German Baron, Heinrich von Katzheim. Charles’s English was almost perfect now but occasionally I was able to suggest a more suitable word or a more felicitous turn of phrase. Working together like this was a delight, and “Heinrich” soon became very real to us. He had lived in the later days of the 18th century and his life had been colourful and adventurous.
Charles would light his pipe and say, “What about a go at Heinrich? I’d like to hear what you think of the bit I did this morning.”
I was grateful to “Heinrich” for I loved to feel I was able to help Charles and the money for the translation would be useful in paying off our debt to the bank.
Now, however, we were suddenly swept into a round of social engagements. Cards of invitation arrived by post and people rang up and invited us to lunch or tea or dinner.
“What day would suit you?” they asked eagerly.
“It’s your grandpapa, of course,” said Charles with a sigh. “Everyone likes him. We shall have to go.”
We went to lunch at the Raeworths’; we dined at Dunnian House; we went to several tea-fights and half a dozen cocktail parties. We were both getting a little tired of our gay life and wondering how long we should have to endure it when Mrs Loudon rang up and asked us to lunch.
“You must come,” she said hospitably. “Bob and I are longing to meet you. We’ve heard such a lot about you—can you come to lunch on Tuesday—or Wednesday—or Thursday?”
This was different from the usual run of invitations, and Charles was quite pleased when he heard about it, for Colonel Robert Loudon was Charles’s best friend. They had been in the Oflag together; they had escaped together and had survived almost incredible adventures in their struggle to reach safety. I had heard a great deal about “Bob” and was very anxious to meet him.
“You must be friends with Elspeth,” said Charles as we drove over to Blacklock House together. “Bob says she’s longing to meet you . . . and we shall be seeing a lot of the Loudons.”
“Yes, of course,” I agreed.
“They’ve got two boys, Harry and Bill—but I told you that, didn’t I? Bob used to talk about them a lot when we were in the Oflag.”
Colonel Loudon came out on to the steps to meet us; he greeted us warmly and took us into the drawing-room where Mrs Loudon and a friend were sitting.
“Here they are, Elspeth!” exclaimed Colonel Loudon cheerily.
Mr
s Loudon rose and shook hands; she was plump and rather pretty with a good complexion and brown eyes. We were introduced to Miss Stewart and all went into the dining-room for lunch.
“Where are the ruffians?” asked Colonel Loudon, pointing to the two vacant places at the table.
“Goodness knows!” replied Mrs Loudon, laughing merrily. “I told them to come back in plenty of time but they went off on their bikes and disappeared.” She turned to me and added, “They’re awful—and Bob encourages them.”
“I like that!” cried Colonel Loudon. “I particularly wanted them to be here today so that Charles could see them. Where can they have gone?”
“Perhaps they’re breaking some more windows,” suggested Miss Stewart archly.
“Oh, that was rich!” exclaimed Mrs Loudon. “It was an empty house along the Timperton road. Bob had given Harry an air-gun for his birthday and of course Harry wanted to try it out.”
“Six windows I had to pay for!” declared Colonel Loudon, chuckling. “The worst of it was they were so proud of themselves that I had to laugh—and if you laugh you can’t punish them, can you?”
“I should feel inclined to punish them,” said Charles gravely.
“Oh, you horrid, hard-hearted man!” cried their mother.
“You don’t want boys to be nincompoops,” said their father.
“Boys will be boys,” added Miss Stewart.
The “ruffians” didn’t come back until we had finished our meal so we were denied the pleasure of making their acquaintance . . . but we heard a great deal about them, especially about the younger one, Bill, who was reported by his proud mother to have a splendid appetite.
“Harry is pretty good at cricket,” said Harry’s father. “I’ve been giving him some coaching.”
After lunch Colonel Loudon and Charles went out together to see the garden; Mrs Loudon, Miss Stewart and I retired to the drawing-room for coffee . . . Mrs Loudon was still talking about “the boys.”
“They’re both very clever. I do wish you could have seen them, Mrs Reede.”
“Perhaps I shall see them another day,” I suggested without enthusiasm.
Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2) Page 8