Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  *

  Neither Charles nor I slept well that night. I lay and thought about grandmama and wondered what was happening at Craignethan. Perhaps I should have stayed the night with her instead of letting Charles drag me away. They would ring us up—if anything happened—I knew that. I listened for the telephone bell to ring.

  The bell rang next morning when we were having breakfast.

  “Shall I take it?” asked Charles, rising from his chair.

  “No, I will,” I said. “It may not be anything . . .”

  It was grandpapa.

  “Hallo,” he said cheerfully. “Are you awake yet? I didn’t want to ring you up so early but Grandmama made me do it. She said you might be worried about her. Are you worried?”

  “Not a bit,” I replied. It was easy to tell that there was nothing to worry about.

  “Good! I told her you wouldn’t be worrying. Clive and Lottie are making preparations for their departure. If you want to see them, you had better come now—at once if not sooner.”

  “We said good-bye last night so I don’t think we’ll come. It would delay them, wouldn’t it?”

  “Just as you like. At the moment they’re in the kitchen, distributing largesse to the staff.”

  “How is she?” whispered Charles.

  “All right,” I replied.

  “Is that Charles?” asked grandpapa.

  “Yes, do you want to speak to him?”

  “No, I’m rather cross with Charles for dragging you away so early last night. Tell him that, will you?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “Oh, Sarah! I nearly forgot. Grandmama said I was to tell you that she has work to do. Have you any idea what she means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to tell me the joke?” asked grandpapa with a chuckle.

  “It’s a private joke between Grandmama and me,” I said. There were so many lies on my conscience that one more or less didn’t seem to matter.

  Part Three

  Easter Holiday

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Your sister, Lottie, is the most selfish woman on earth,” said Charles.

  I was in bed, recovering from an attack of ’flu, and Charles had marched into the room like a grenadier to make his announcement.

  “Was that Lottie on the telephone?” I asked languidly.

  “No, it was your father.”

  “Father hates the telephone.”

  “I know,” agreed Charles. “He isn’t very proficient in his use of the instrument—and he was a bit flustered—so it wasn’t easy to get the trouble straightened out.”

  “Trouble?” I asked anxiously.

  “Oh, nothing really serious! It’s like this,” said Charles, standing at the foot of the bed and frowning in perplexity. “Your father promised to have Freddie at Allington for the Easter holidays. He was looking forward to it and Mrs Brand, his daily help, said she would look after the child . . . but now the plan has been upset because there are some cases of whooping cough at Freddie’s school.”

  “Has Freddie got it?”

  “No, but she’s in quarantine, of course, and Mrs Brand has a child of her own, a delicate child, so she isn’t willing to risk it.”

  “Why can’t Freddie go to Brailsford?”

  “Because the house is going to be redecorated from attic to cellar and the pampered menials are having a month’s holiday. That’s why Freddie was to be dumped on your father for her Easter holidays . . . but, now that the arrangement has fallen through, she will have to remain at Gates Head. Your father seems unhappy about it.”

  “Charles, would you mind——” I began doubtfully.

  “Would you mind?” he interrupted. “You’re not fit, are you? Mark said you were to ‘go slow’ for a bit.”

  “I’m better . . . and she wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Well, if you say so.”

  “I’m much better,” I repeated emphatically. The idea of seeing Freddie had begun to act as a tonic. I hadn’t seen Freddie for more than three years—not since that ill-starred visit to Brailsford.

  “Yes, you’re looking better,” agreed Charles. “You seem to have more life about you.”

  “We must ring up Lottie and ask her.”

  “Why? The arrangement has nothing to do with Lottie; it’s between your father and me. Your father is supposed to be hiring a car and fetching her from Gates Head but, instead of her grandfather fetching her in a hired car, her uncle will fetch her in his Humber.”

  “Too high-handed,” I objected.

  “It isn’t high-handed. It’s just sensible.”

  “No, Charles, it won’t do.” I said with a sigh.

  Charles was very unwilling to ring up and ask Lottie’s permission, but I stuck to my point and after some argument he went away and made the call. He was smiling cheerfully when he returned.

  “I spoke to Clive,” announced Charles. “He said it was very good of us to have the child. Does that satisfy you?”

  “What about Lottie?”

  “Clive said she had ‘gone abroad’.”

  “She has probably gone to Cannes with Mrs Meldrum. She often does, in the spring.”

  “He didn’t say where she had gone, which seemed a little odd. I mean it would have been more natural if he had said, ‘Oh, Lottie has gone to Cannes with Mrs Meldrum’ or ‘Lottie has gone to Florence with Mr and Mrs Snooks’ . . . or whatever it may be. That’s what I would have said.”

  “Clive is a businessman,” I pointed out. “He says as little as possible on the phone.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps you’re right. Clive is going to stay with his mother in London during the redecorating at Brailsford. His mother is very old now, so it wouldn’t be suitable to have a child there. Anyhow he said we could have ‘Frederica’ and I could fetch her from school whenever I liked. If I start very early tomorrow morning I can easily be home by tomorrow night.”

  “I suppose Clive will tell Miss Gates——”

  “Not he!” said Charles. “He’s much too busy with mergers and things to bother about anything so unimportant as his daughter.”

  “But, Charles, Miss Gates may not be willing to let her go with you! She doesn’t know you, does she? From what Lottie said I gathered that she was terribly strict about ‘her children’.”

  “Oh, I don’t anticipate any trouble of that sort!”

  To tell the truth, neither did I. When Charles gave his mind to it he could twist any woman round his little finger . . . including his wife, of course.

  “Why are you smiling?” he inquired.

  “I’d like to see you bewitching Miss Gates.”

  “Just as well you can’t! I can bewitch the lady more easily without your eye upon me,” said Charles with a mischievous grin.

  *

  Charles left very early—it was barely light. I settled down after he had gone and tried to sleep but I had begun to feel so excited at the thought of seeing Freddie that sleep eluded me.

  What was Freddie like now? I hadn’t seen her since she was five years old . . . and now she was eight and a half. Would she remember me? Perhaps she would be shy, perhaps she would find it dull here after the hurly-burly of school. I couldn’t ask any children to come and play with her.

  When Minnie arrived at her usual hour she was delighted at the news of Freddie’s advent and full of suggestions for her entertainment. “She can come and have tea with us—and there’s a circus coming to Dumfries; she’d enjoy that, wouldn’t she, Miss Sarah?”

  “She’s in quarantine for whooping cough, Minnie.”

  “Och, I’m not worrying,” declared Minnie. “I had the fever when I was eight years old and I’ve never ailed since. Maggie’ll not worry either. I’ll stay and do supper, Miss Sarah. I’m wanting to see Miss Lottie’s wee girl.”

  When I had helped Minnie to make up the bed and had arranged what we should have for supper I went out into the garden—which had now begun to look quite civil
ised. It was the first time I had been out since my illness and I felt so much better that I could almost have climbed the hills. I was really a little ashamed of myself, not for my present feeling of well-being but at the recollection of my miseries. It seemed wrong that a virus, too small to be visible, should have made the whole world dreary and comfortless for nearly a fortnight. It had not only sickened my body, it had sickened my very soul.

  Now, suddenly, the baleful influence had vanished as if it had never been!

  It was a real spring day, a golden day. The earth seemed full of promise: tiny spears of green were pushing up through the soil; the buds on the trees were swelling; the burn running down the hillside was chuckling happily in its stony bed. I could see the rooks flying past with straw in their bills; they were busy mending their nests in the Craignethan Woods after the winter storms.

  I felt excited—as if in me, too, there was an awakening; a promise of summer days and summer flowers.

  Charles had made such good time that it was only a little after five o’clock—and I had not really begun to expect them—when I heard the car. I called to Minnie and ran to the door.

  “Here we are!” cried Charles gaily. “Everything went well. Freddie is a splendid passenger; she doesn’t mind how fast I go; that’s why we’re here so early.”

  I opened the door of the car and Freddie got out; she was taller than I had expected, tall and thin with a small white face and large hazel eyes. Her hair was light brown; it was cut in a straight fringe across her forehead and hung in heavy masses over her ears.

  She held up her face to be kissed so I kissed her and led her into the house. I knew I must not “rush” Freddie; she was a little shy—which was natural—but we should soon make friends.

  “Have you had tea?” I asked.

  “Yes, thank you. We stopped on the way and had a lovely tea.”

  Her speaking voice was so pretty that I longed to hug her but managed to refrain. I took her up to the little spare room and showed it to her.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “Uncle Charles told me the house was like a doll’s house—and it is.”

  “Are you tired, Freddie? Would you like to rest before supper?”

  “I’d rather go out if you don’t mind. My legs want to run and jump,” explained Freddie seriously.

  I nodded. “Yes, of course! You’ve been sitting in the car for hours . . . but don’t go too far and get lost, will you?”

  She went off like an arrow from the bow, down the stairs and out into the garden; a moment later I saw her running down the road.

  “Where has the child gone?” asked Charles when he came up with her suitcase.

  “Her legs wanted to run and jump.”

  “So do mine,” said Charles, chuckling. “But I’ll curb their craving for exercise. I can go for a walk after supper.”

  “You bewitched Miss Gates successfully.”

  “There was no need; she’s a sensible woman and she was quite glad to get rid of ‘Frederica.’ She has several children there, all whooping like mad. Miss Gates gave us an early lunch and we came away. Freddie was a little shy of me at first but she blossomed forth after an enormous tea and chatted happily the rest of the way. It will be fun having her here; she’s got a sense of humour. I just hope it won’t be too much for you.”

  “I’m perfectly well; the virus has vanished completely.”

  “Good,” said Charles.

  We went down to the sitting-room together. I sat on the window-seat and watched the road—I was a little worried about the child—but in about half an hour I saw her come hopping and skipping up the path. She went into the kitchen and I heard her talking to Minnie. All children loved Minnie; she had “a way” with them.

  Presently Freddie came to tell us supper was ready.

  “It’s fish with cheese sauce,” she said. “I helped Minnie—I grated the cheese for her. I help Mrs White sometimes. Mrs White says I’m going to be a very good cook. Minnie is the same size as me—exactly. We measured against the door. It’s because she had the fever when she was eight and never grew another inch. If I get whooping cough perhaps I won’t grow another inch.”

  “It’s quite different,” said Charles hastily.

  “Oh, well, I’m glad,” declared Freddie. “I’d like to be tall. I’d like to be taller than Aunt Sarah.”

  “Aunt Sarah is exactly the right height,” said Charles.

  “Do you remember me, Freddie?” I asked her.

  She looked at me consideringly. “I didn’t think I remembered you—but I do. I think I’ll remember you better tomorrow.”

  It was enough to go on with.

  *

  Freddie had had a long day so we didn’t waken her for breakfast. I went in and looked at her once or twice and saw that she was sound asleep. Her cheeks were a little flushed and her hair was in a tangle on the pillow . . . so she seemed younger, more like the Freddie with whom I had played at Brailsford.

  Later, when she had wakened and dressed and had had her breakfast, she came into the sitting-room to talk to us.

  “I remember you now,” she said, looking at me with a penetrating stare. “We picked cabbage leaves for the rabbits and you told me their names. The black one was Peter and the white one was Bengie—so that’s what I called them. Nurse said I wasn’t to call them that, but I did.”

  “Why did Nurse object?” inquired Charles.

  “I dunno!” said Freddie, tossing back her hair. “Nurse said Bengie was Sylvia—that’s a silly name for a rabbit. Besides he wasn’t, he was Bengie. Then Peter and Bengie had eight darling little rabbits—four white ones and four black ones. Wasn’t that nice?”

  “It was delightful,” said Charles solemnly.

  “Nurse said they were Sylvia’s babies—all of them—but they weren’t.”

  “Whose babies were they?” inquired Charles.

  “The white ones were Bengie’s and the black ones were Peter’s, of course.”

  “Oh, of course! How silly of me!”

  “Not silly, just dim,” said Freddie with a sudden ravishing smile.

  “Just dim,” agreed Charles meekly.

  “So you had ten rabbits,” I suggested.

  “They were all sold,” replied Freddie, shaking her head in sorrow at the recollection.

  “Oh, but that was dreadfully——” I began.

  Charles was chuckling. He said in rapid French, “Sarah, think for a moment! If two rabbits produce eight rabbits how many rabbits would ten rabbits produce?”

  “I was never any good at arithmetic.”

  “But you see the point, don’t you? Unless one wanted to start a rabbit farm in one’s garden——”

  “Yes, I see! But they might have explained to the child.”

  “Could you have explained it to the child?”

  “It might have been difficult,” I admitted.

  “Oh, you’re talking French!” exclaimed Freddie in delight. “I want to learn how to talk French, so you can teach me, Uncle Charles.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” declared Charles in horrified tones.

  “Why not?”

  “There wouldn’t be time——”

  “Yes, there would! You can start now, this minute! I’m going to be here all the Easter holidays—perhaps longer if I get whooping cough. Oh, I do hope I’ll get whooping cough!” added Freddie with enthusiasm.

  “I can’t teach you French because I’m too lazy,” said Charles firmly.

  Freddie gave a hoot of laughter and leapt on to his knee. He was surprised but by no means displeased.

  “You’re so funny,” she declared, settling herself comfortably. She added in wheedling tones, “Tell me the French for rabbit.”

  “Le lapin,” said Charles obediently.

  “What’s eight baby rabbits?”

  “Huit petits lapin . . . but you must say it, Freddie. Say, ‘huit petits lapin’.”

  I left them and went to ring up the butcher and order food for lunc
h.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The French lesson didn’t last very long. I was dusting Freddie’s bedroom when its owner appeared and sat down on the bed.

  “Why doesn’t Minnie do that?” she inquired.

  “Minnie is making a pie for our lunch.”

  “Oh, I see!” she was silent for a few moments and then said, “Aunt Sarah, I like being here.”

  “We like having you, Freddie.”

  “I wish I had a home.”

  “What do you mean, darling? Brailsford is your home.”

  “Yes, but it isn’t like other girls’ homes. Other girls have mummies and daddies who live in their homes.”

  The tone was so sad that I was distressed. For a moment I hesitated, wondering whether to pursue the subject . . . but what could I say.

  “Come on, Freddie!” I exclaimed. “It’s a lovely morning. Let’s go out on the hill. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh yes!” she cried joyously. “Can we go now, this minute? Can we go to the very top?”

  I had managed to turn Freddie’s thoughts from her troubles, but only temporarily. As we climbed the hill together she went back to the problem which was worrying her.

  “Mummie has gone away,” she said.

  “I expect she has gone to Cannes with Mrs Meldrum,” I suggested.

  “No, she’s gone in a yacht to Greece. Not a little yacht with sails, but a big ship with beds and bathrooms. Mrs White told me when I went home for my week-end. Daddy doesn’t know where she’s gone.”

  I felt I shouldn’t be listening to this; but, on the other hand, it would be unwise to reject Freddie’s confidences. She was troubled and unhappy; she needed someone to confide in.

  “How did Mrs White know?” I asked.

  “She had a postcard from Vera. It was a picture of a big white palace in Greece. Mummie took Vera with her to Greece because she’s good at doing hair. Vera was away with Mummie when I went home for my week-end, so I had my dinner with Mrs White in the kitchen. You won’t tell, will you?” asked Freddie in sudden alarm.

  “No, I won’t tell anyone.”