I asked Celia Dunne if she had heard anything about him and she replied that he came sometimes to Dunnian and “the two Admirals enjoyed an argument” but Sir Rupert was a recluse and preferred his own company to the company of people with whom he had nothing in common.
“Do you know if he’s all right?” I asked anxiously.
“All right?” echoed Celia in surprise. “Why shouldn’t he be all right? As a matter of fact he blew in several days ago and stayed to dinner; he seemed in very good form. He doesn’t come often, you know—he never accepts an invitation—he just comes when he feels in the mood.”
Obviously there was no need to worry about Sir Rupert, so I ceased to worry, and quite soon we had other matters to occupy our minds.
*
Clive and Lottie had been invited to stay with friends who had a big place near Poolewe in Ross-shire and Lottie had rung up grandmama suggesting that they should break their journey at Craignethan House. The grans hadn’t seen Lottie for years—they had never seen Clive—so there was great excitement over the visitors. Charles and I were invited to dinner to meet them.
It was a wet night and we were “dressed up” for the occasion so we took the car and went round by the road. We went early, as requested, and found them all in the drawing-room drinking sherry.
I was a little shocked at my first glimpse of Lottie. She was still a beautiful woman but the youthful glow which had been one of her chief attractions, had vanished. It seemed strange that little more than a year could have changed her so much but I soon discovered that Lottie’s gaieties had worn her to a shadow.
“It will be nice to have a little peace at Poolewe,” she said with a heavy sigh.
We sat down together on the sofa for a little chat and I asked after my niece.
“Oh, she’s very well,” said Lottie. “I’ve sent her to a marvellous school at Harrogate. The Duchess of H . . . sends her children to Gates Head.”
“Does she like it?” I asked anxiously.
“She wouldn’t send her children there if she didn’t like it, would she?”
“I mean, does Freddie like it?”
“I’ve told you not to call her by that silly name!”
“Does Frederica like it?” I asked meekly.
“Of course she likes it! Gates Head is a lovely house with a beautiful big garden. They grow all their own vegetables. Miss Gates is a dietician; she’s very keen on fresh vegetables for children.”
“Frederica is so young,” I murmured unhappily.
“Miss Gates likes to get a child before it has formed bad habits.”
“Lottie,” I said. “I was wondering if you would let Frederica come and stay with us for a little during the holidays? It would be——”
“Oh, thank you, Sarah! But I’m sure Miss Gates wouldn’t approve. She doesn’t like her children to have too much excitement in the holidays, it unsettles them. She has a well-trained staff at Gates Head: women who know how to manage difficult children. It costs the earth, but it’s worth it.”
“Frederica isn’t difficult.”
“You don’t know her,” declared Lottie. “Nurse was beginning to find her very troublesome; the only thing to do was to make a clean break. Fortunately Mrs Meldrum knows Miss Gates personally, so she was able to arrange it for me; Miss Gates has a long waiting-list but she made a vacancy for Frederica.”
“She comes home for her holidays, I suppose?”
“Oh, of course! And occasionally for a week-end as well. I usually send Brookes to fetch her . . . and I make a point of going to Harrogate for the school play. They did A Midsummer Night’s Dream last Christmas and Frederica was Ariel.”
“But Ariel isn’t in A Midsummer——.”
“Oh, it was the Fairy King—or something.”
“Have you still got Vera?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, Vera is a fixture! She annoys me sometimes but I couldn’t do without her . . . as a matter of fact she’s doing her work much better now that Frederica is at school. She used to spend far too much time in the nursery, playing with the child. She was never there when I wanted her,” complained Lottie.
I remained silent.
“When are you coming to London?” asked Lottie, changing the subject. She added, “I suppose you come up now and then, don’t you?”
“Why should I?”
“To get clothes, of course! I don’t suppose you can get anything fit to wear here, in Scotland.”
“There are very good shops in Edinburgh,” I replied.
Lottie looked at me critically. “You didn’t get that frock in Edinburgh, Sarah.”
“No.”
“No, I thought not. I can tell at a glance you got it in London—probably at Barrington’s—the colour suits you and it’s very good style.”
“I’m glad you like it, Lottie. It was made for me by Minnie Dell.”
“Minnie Dell? I never heard of her!”
“Surely you remember Minnie? She was our cook when we lived at Fairfield. She lives in Ryddelton now, and comes to us as a daily help. She has always been good at dressmaking, so I got the material in Dumfries and Minnie made it up for me.”
“How extraordinary!” said Lottie crossly.
It was foolish of me to annoy Lottie—I saw that now, when it was too late—but fortunately Janet had begun to beat the gong so our conversation terminated. Grandpapa advanced and offered Lottie his arm to conduct her to the dining-room; Clive took me and Charles followed with grandmama.
“This is a charming house,” said Clive, as we sat down at the table. “I’ve never been here before, of course. Has Colonel Maitland got a son?”
“Their only son was killed in the First World War.”
“Sad!” said Clive. “It’s a pity when these old families die out. Is the property entailed?”
I didn’t like being questioned like this, but as Clive was Lottie’s husband it seemed right that he should know so I replied, “Craignethan isn’t entailed but I happen to know that my grandfather’s heir is his nephew, Ralph Maitland. He is a major in the Gunners and has several boys so there is no chance of the family dying out. There have been Maitlands at Craignethan for well over two hundred years.”
“Oh, I see,” said Clive. “The old people seem very fond of Lottie; I expect it’s because she’s so like her mother. Lottie has a coloured photograph of her mother which might easily be a picture of Lottie herself.”
“She has the same colouring,” I agreed.
“It’s a pity Frederica doesn’t resemble Lottie. She’s at school now, you know. It was what you said that made me think of school for the child.”
“What I said?”
“Yes, you taught her that rhyme and said she had learnt it very quickly.”
“Clive, is Frederica happy at school?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh, I think so. She has children to play with; Lottie and I are out so much that it’s dull for her at home.”
I could find nothing to say to this so I changed the subject. “I suppose you’re a keen fisherman,” I suggested.
“Not really,” he replied. “The people we’re going to stay with are Lottie’s friends. I much prefer shooting. I’m taking my guns with me and hoping for a day on the moors. I suppose there are good moors in the district?”
I told him I didn’t know the district at all.
It was a curious little talk—and made me feel rather uncomfortable—so I was glad when the conversation became general.
Grandpapa was in tremendous form, he loved entertaining and was making much of Lottie, teasing her about her “fine feathers” which he declared were more suitable for a ball at Buckingham Palace than a simple meal with her aged grandparents. Lottie enjoyed the teasing; she played up to him and was very charming. Nobody could be more charming than Lottie when she pleased.
Grandmama was silent, she was eating nothing and looked frail and weary—but there was nothing I could do about it. I glanced at Charles, who was sitting beside her; h
e, too, was watching her with anxiety.
Presently, he whispered to her and she nodded.
“Grandmama is a little tired,” said Charles, rising from his chair. “We’ll go into the drawing-room and wait for you.” Then he took her arm and led her away.
“She gets tired very easily,” explained grandpapa. “There’s no need for you girls to go; she’ll be all right with Charles. It’s just the excitement,” he added.
I wanted to go but, if I were to follow them, Lottie would come with me and there would be more chat. It would be better for grandmama to have peace and quiet, alone with Charles. . . .
By this time Janet and her niece had cleared the table and had brought fruit and wine.
“I hope you’ll like this port, Clive,” grandpapa was saying, as he poured out a little for himself and passed the decanter. “It’s a Dow ’27. I was lucky enough to get three dozen and I’ve still got a few bottles in the cellar. I keep it for very special occasions.”
“How kind of you, sir!” said Clive. “It’s a legendary year and this bottle is in perfect condition. We should drink this standing!”
They went on talking about wine. Clive had been to Portugal and had visited one of the great shipping firms. He talked about his experiences—and was quite interesting—but I could scarcely bear to sit still; I was wondering what was happening in the drawing-room.
After a little Charles came back. He said, “I’ve persuaded Grandmama to go to bed. She asked me to tell you not to worry; she’s a little tired, that’s all. She would like Sarah to go up to her.”
“Come and have some port, my boy,” said grandpapa.
I rose and fled up the stairs as quickly as I could.
*
Grandmama was sitting in a chair in her room. Her face was grey and pinched but she smiled and said, “Kind child! I hope you’ve finished dinner. I got a little tired with all the talking—it was silly of me.”
“How do you feel?” I asked anxiously.
“Better now. I just felt a little giddy, that’s all. Charles picked me up as if I were a baby and carried me upstairs.”
“I’ll help you to undress, darling. You’ll be better in bed, won’t you?”
“Well . . . if it wouldn’t be a bother.”
I undressed her and got her into bed. She lay there, propped up with pillows, while I tidied the room. By this time her pretty colour had returned and she looked more like herself.
“Shall I ring up Mark?” I asked.
“No, dear. Please don’t! Just give me one of my tablets. Don’t worry,” she added.
“I’m not worrying,” I told her untruthfully. “You were just a little tired; you’ll be all right tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Shall I tell Grandpapa to come and say good night to you?”
“Presently, Sarah; I want to talk to you first. What has happened to Lottie?”
“What has happened?”
“I was watching her: there’s a sort of feverishness about her and she looks too old.”
“Too many parties and late nights.”
“She isn’t happy,” said grandmama with a sigh. “Your mother was so proud of Lottie—she was a sweet child—something has gone wrong.”
I didn’t reply. I could have told her what had “gone wrong” but it was no good worrying her. I could see that she was getting sleepy now . . . perhaps the tablet was a sedative.
“Sarah.”
“Yes, Grandmama?”
“Do you know Cardinal Newman’s prayer about ‘all the day long’?”
“Yes.”
“Say it to me, dear.”
I said it: “‘Oh Lord, support us all the day long of this troublous life until the shadows lengthen and the evening cometh and the busy world is hushed, the fever of life is over, and our work done. Then Lord, in Thy mercy, grant us safe lodging, a holy rest and peace at the last; through Jesus Christ our Lord’.”
*
“The shadows have lengthened but my work isn’t done,” murmured grandmama.
“No, darling,” I said. I was so upset that I scarcely knew what I was saying.
After a little her eyes closed and I thought she was asleep. Then suddenly she opened her eyes and said distinctly, “Don’t tell William.”
“No, darling.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
She sighed and shut her eyes. A few moments later she was asleep. Her face was pink and she was breathing as quietly and evenly as a child.
I waited a little longer; then I lighted the night-light and turned off the bedside lamp. I sat down on a chair. The room was very peaceful.
I was still sitting there when the door opened and grandpapa came in. I put my fingers to my lips.
He nodded. For a few moments he stood and looked at her in silence . . . and then he took my arm and we went out of the room together.
“She looks all right,” he said in a low voice.
“She was tired. It was all the talking and the excitement.”
“She does too little, Sarah.”
“Too little?” I asked incredulously.
“Oh, I know it sounds a bit daft, but she does nothing except potter about the house and the garden; if there’s anything extra—like Lottie coming—it upsets her. I’ve been thinking about it seriously and I’m sure she’d be better if she got about more. It’s my fault, of course; I’ve been thoughtless and inconsiderate. I must try to make life more interesting for her—liven her up a bit—take her for spins in the car.”
“But you do that sometimes!”
“We must go more often. A day in Edinburgh would be too much for her, but I could take her to lunch at Peebles. It would amuse her to see all the people, wouldn’t it?”
We had paused on the stairs. I was behind grandpapa, two steps higher, so our eyes were level. His eyes were very blue and innocent and a trifle anxious. I almost told him then. I would have told him if I hadn’t given my solemn promise.
“It would amuse her, wouldn’t it?” he repeated.
“No, Grandpapa, I don’t think it would. If I were you I wouldn’t bother her. People are different, aren’t they? You enjoy going about and chatting to people; she enjoys the garden and her books and her knitting. She’s never bored, is she?”
“No, she’s never bored, but I can’t help feeling it would be better for her to go about more. She’s not ill, Sarah.”
“She’s not young, Grandpapa,” I said . . . and I managed to smile.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “We’re both old. I keep forgetting that.”
“You!” I exclaimed, smiling, and it was a real smile this time. “You’re eternally young! You still enjoy flirting with a pretty woman . . . and under her husband’s nose!”
“She is pretty, isn’t she?” he said eagerly. “She’s a charming creature! It was nice of her to play up, wasn’t it?”
“She likes flirting with a good-looking man—and who can blame her?”
He laughed delightedly.
I kissed him lightly on the forehead and we went on down the stairs together.
*
The others were sitting in the drawing-room, talking. When Charles saw me he got up at once and said we must go home.
“But it’s only half past nine!” cried grandpapa.
“Don’t go yet, Charles,” said Clive. “I want your advice about salmon flies for Loch Maree. Do you think——”
“I know nothing about Loch Maree. It’s better to wait until you get there. The gillie will be able to advise you about flies. Come on, Sarah,” added Charles, taking my arm and moving towards the door.
“Why must you go so early?” asked grandpapa. “I was looking forward to a comfortable chat.”
“Sarah is tired,” said Charles.
“Goodness, everyone seems to be tired!” exclaimed Lottie, laughing. “This is the time of night when I begin to wake up.”
“We keep early hours, we country bump
kins,” replied Charles.
“Well, if you really must go . . .” said grandpapa reluctantly.
They followed us into the hall.
We said good-bye—and thank you. Charles seized my evening cloak and wrapped it round me and we came away.
“Is she all right?” asked Charles, as we drove down the avenue.
“Yes, I think so. I wanted to ring up Mark, but she wouldn’t let me; she said she was better and she looked more like herself.”
“I was terribly worried about her; she nearly passed out when I got her into the drawing-room.”
“So you carried her upstairs like a baby!”
“Oh, she told you that, did she? She’s as light as a feather! What happened later, when you went up?”
“I got her into bed and gave her one of her tablets. She talked for a little and then went to sleep . . . quite peacefully.”
“Good! When I saw you come into the drawing-room with Grandpapa I was quite alarmed; you looked awful. That’s why I dragged you away.”
“I felt awful. I was so frightened.”
“Sarah, I don’t like it,” said Charles earnestly. “It seems wrong for us to know about her heart—and Grandpapa not to know. He was quite cheerful and happy, having jokes with Lottie and Clive. It was almost more than I could bear! We can’t go on like this. I must speak to Mark and——”
“No, Charles!” I interrupted. “She’s determined that he mustn’t know about her condition; I believe she’s right. You remember what Mark said, don’t you? He said it was the worst thing for people if their nearest and dearest worried about them . . . so it’s better for both of them that Grandpapa shouldn’t know.”
“But, Sarah——”
“No, listen! If Grandpapa knew he would worry terribly; he would want to wrap her up in cotton-wool; he wouldn’t dare to leave her and go out; he would watch her all the time. Neither of them would have another happy moment.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Charles thoughtfully. “It would be intolerable.”
Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2) Page 12