Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “They can come and see you in bed, one at a time,” said Mark firmly. He added, “It will be much easier for Sarah if you stay quietly in bed.”

  “Well, if you insist I suppose I must,” said grandmama with a sigh. “But that starchy nurse wants to wash me in bed—and I won’t have it! Please tell her that I can get up and have a proper bath.”

  “All right, I’ll tell her,” said Mark, turning aside to hide an involuntary smile.

  As we came downstairs together I said to Mark, “It isn’t natural, is it? Will she have a relapse when all the excitement is over?”

  “Ask me something easier, Sarah,” he replied.

  *

  The next day was fine and dry and from lunch-time onwards the different members of the family arrived at Craignethan. It was lovely to see them. If it hadn’t been such a sorrowful occasion it would have been a very happy one . . . but I kept on thinking how much darling grandpapa would have loved welcoming them all, how busy he would have been seeing to their comfort! What jokes he would have had! It seemed dreadfully sad that they hadn’t come before, when he was here to enjoy them.

  I told father my thought—and he agreed. “Yes, Sarah, you’re right. I ought to have come before; your grandpapa was a very good friend to me.” He sighed and added, “I know you’ll miss him but don’t be too sad about his death. He was a happy man—and a good man. He was old, and we’ve all got to go some day. He wouldn’t have liked a long illness, would he?”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” I said. There was no doubt whatever in my mind about that. Grandpapa would have hated to lie helplessly in bed . . . not able to go about and see his friends, not able to enjoy the garden and the sunshine!

  Father’s words helped me to feel a little less sad.

  Masses of beautiful flowers arrived, everybody in the neighbourhood sent flowers. Fortunately there were plenty of people to help me and to make all the necessary arrangements for the funeral. Father decided to have the service at St Mary’s, Ryddelton, so that all grandpapa’s friends could come, and afterwards the family party would follow the hearse to Edinburgh to attend the burial at the Dean Cemetery. I stayed at home with grandmama—I couldn’t bear to leave her—and we had a quiet peaceful day together. She was still wonderfully composed.

  *

  With so many people in the house it was difficult to get anyone alone. I particularly wanted to talk to Willy and, as he and father were going south on the following day, this was my last chance. I intended to take him into the study but when we opened the door we found Charles and Clive in earnest conclave with an important-looking document spread out before them on the table.

  “Come up to my room,” suggested Willy. “Nobody will bother us there; we can lock the door if you want to talk secrets.”

  We went up to his room and locked ourselves in.

  “Now you can spill the beans,” said Willy.

  “It isn’t much,” I told him. “I just want to know if you could arrange to have a manuscript typed for me.”

  “Goodness! Is that all? I expected a hair-raising disclosure.”

  “Can you, Willy?” I asked anxiously.

  “Nothing easier. What is it?”

  “It’s something I’m writing.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Willy, looking at me in surprise. “Is it a novel—or what?”

  “It’s a sort of novel.”

  “Why is it such a dead secret?”

  “Because I haven’t finished it yet, but there are other reasons as well. You won’t mention it to anyone, will you?”

  “All right,” said Willy, nodding. “Just send it off to me when it’s ready and I’ll have it typed. You had better send it to the office if you don’t want Father to know about it. Is that all I can do for you, Sarah?”

  “Yes, that’s all,” I said with a sigh of relief. I knew I could depend on Willy.

  *

  Charles and I were tired that night. We walked back to the cottage very slowly. For the last three days we had been so busy that we had had no opportunity of speaking to each other about plans.

  “They’re all going away tomorrow,” said Charles with a sigh. “Then, what, Sarah?”

  “Grandmama can’t be left alone.”

  “That’s what I meant. We shall have to shut up the cottage.”

  We walked on up the hill in silence. Charles and I didn’t need words to understand each other. We were both sorry at the idea of leaving our little home but there was nothing else to be done.

  “What were you and Clive talking about?” I asked.

  “It’s rather amusing, Sarah. Clive asked me to be one of his daughter’s trustees. I told him he had better get some of his business friends, I know nothing about business, but he had made up his mind about it so eventually I signed on the dotted line. He told me, somewhat naïvely, that the other two trustees were extremely capable, he wanted ‘an ordinary sort of man’ for the third.”

  “But why does Freddie need trustees?”

  “Because Clive’s mother is making a new will, leaving her not inconsiderable property in trust to her granddaughter, and everything has got to be cut and dried before the old lady dies. I shan’t have to worry about the business part of the trust—the ‘extremely capable’ chaps will do that—but I can refuse to give my consent if Freddie wants to marry someone I don’t like.”

  “Freddie is only thirteen!”

  “She won’t be ‘only thirteen’ for ever.”

  “I wonder why Lady Hudson has altered her will. It seems funny, doesn’t it? Lottie is under the impression that the money will be left to her.”

  “In that case Lottie will be disappointed,” declared Charles in cheerful tones. He added hastily, “Don’t mention it to Lottie—or anyone—I really shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. I had no desire to reveal the secret to anyone—least of all to Lottie! I was aware that she would be very angry indeed.

  “I think I got something good out of the transaction,” continued Charles. “I told Clive that if I took on the job I should like Frederica to come and stay with us occasionally so that I could get to know her better. He seemed surprised and replied, ‘Oh, do you want her?’ Obviously he had no idea that we had invited her to our house! I suggested that it was important for me to see the child—if he wanted me to be her trustee—and asked when she could come. At first he said vaguely, ‘Oh, any time you like!’ but I was determined to pin him down to a definite date and eventually he said that he and Lottie were going to Wales next August to stay with Sir Eustace and Lady Gallimore and he saw no reason why Frederica shouldn’t come to us for her summer holidays.”

  “Next August? That’s nearly a year, Charles!”

  “I know,” he agreed. “Apparently people like the Gallimores make up their shooting parties from one year to the next and, as Clive is a good shot, he’s in demand. Did you know he was a good shot, Sarah?”

  “I knew he was keen on shooting; perhaps it’s the same thing?”

  “Not always, but it seems to be in this case,” replied Charles smiling. “It’s lucky, isn’t it? August is a long way off but it will be delightful to have Freddie for the summer holidays, we shall have her for six whole weeks.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t really very excited about it: we had asked her so often and several times, at the last minute, Lottie had changed her mind and refused to let the child come. Probably the same thing would happen again.

  “I suppose you noticed that Lottie and Clive are getting on a bit better?” asked Charles. “A little more rapprochement, I thought. Clive cleared up the mystery by remarking that Lottie is very pleased about the Gallimore invitation; she has been trying to ‘make friends’ with Lady Gallimore for years and now she has succeeded.”

  “Because Clive is a good shot?”

  “Yes, his stock has soared,” replied Charles laughing.

  “How funny people are!” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven


  It was sad to say good-bye to the little house. Charles helped me to roll up the carpets and to spread dust-sheets over the furniture, then I pulled down the blinds and locked the door behind me.

  I was determined to take it lightly but as I went down the path and through the little wood I had a feeling that I was saying farewell not only to the little house but to a large part of my life. It was an unreasonable feeling for we were aware that our stay at Craignethan would be temporary. Grandmama was life-rented in the property, after which it would go to a Maitland nephew.

  By this time I had come to the bridge across the burn so I leant on the rail and watched the water swirling beneath me . . . and the brown beech leaves moving round and round the pool below the waterfall until suddenly, caught by the current, they were swept away downstream. I wondered what the future held for us.

  Grandmama had got up today; she had defied the starchy nurse and was sitting in her usual chair in the drawing-room. She put her arms round me and held me close but for a little while she didn’t speak.

  At last she said, “Sit down, dear. I want to talk to you.”

  I sat down beside her and took her hand in mine.

  “It’s good of you and Charles,” she continued. “I hope you don’t mind leaving your little cottage—you’ve been happy there, I know—but you may as well move now as later.”

  “We want to be with you, Grandmama.”

  “It’s lovely for me to have you, but I don’t want you to feel tied. You and Charles must do exactly as you like. It won’t be for long.”

  “We can stay as long as you want us, darling.”

  “I’m tired, Sarah.”

  “You must rest. Charles and I will look after everything.”

  “Yes, that will be lovely. It won’t be for long, Sarah. My work is done, you see.”

  “Your work is done?”

  “I thought you understood. You said the prayer for me. My work wasn’t done then, so I had to wait. William would have been unhappy without me.”

  “Of course he would have been unhappy!”

  “It seems funny. I’ve been quite useless for years but all the same he depended on me to be here. I can go now.”

  She had said the same thing before: “I can go now”—and I hadn’t understood. I understood now.

  “Listen, Sarah,” she continued. “I want to explain my plans. I’ve made the bedroom over the front door into a little sitting-room for myself. You and Charles must be perfectly free to go out and about and invite your friends to come here. I’m not going to be a bother to you. Charles can have his piano here; it’s a much better instrument than ours, and he can use William’s study for working at his translations. If there is anything else you want from the cottage we can get Willy Proudfoot to move it. Does Charles intend to sell the cottage?”

  “Sell the cottage?” I echoed stupidly.

  “You’ll live here, won’t you? William always hoped you would live here—and I do, too, of course. It’s a happy house, Sarah.”

  “But—but I thought Ralph Maitland——” I began.

  “Oh no!” exclaimed grandmama. “At one time, long ago, William had an idea of making Ralph his heir, but that was before we knew you. Didn’t William tell you about it?”

  I was so astonished that I was dumb.

  “We settled it when you stayed with us,” grandmama explained. “You were in quarantine for chickenpox and your mother left you here so that you shouldn’t give it to the other children.”

  “You—settled it—then?” I asked incredulously.

  She smiled. “We had you all to ourselves and got to know you. It was better that the dear old house should belong to somebody we knew and loved. How funny of William not to have told you.”

  “Oh, Grandmama!” I exclaimed. “Oh, darling, I don’t know what to say! I feel—sort of dazed. I had no idea . . . I never thought for a moment! I love Craignethan . . . so does Charles! Of course we shall live here . . . and you’ll be with us!”

  “Just for a little while,” she said with a sigh.

  “You’re tired, darling! You’ve talked too much. I’m going to leave you to rest here quietly while I go and unpack. We can talk about it another time.”

  “Yes dear, another time.” She lay back and closed her eyes.

  I kissed her gently and left her. My mind was in such a whirl that I couldn’t find the right words; it was only afterwards that I remembered I hadn’t even said “thank you.”

  First I went to the room over the front door; it had been “my room” when I was a child and was full of happy memories of holiday times. It was changed now: the bed and furniture had gone and, instead, there was a small sofa, two arm-chairs and various pieces of furniture from other parts of the house. The picture of mother when she was a girl was hanging over the chimney-piece. It was to be grandmama’s sitting-room.

  The big spare room which looked out on to the garden had been prepared for Charles and me; my suitcases were here and Charles’s things were in the dressing-room next door. I had begun to unpack when I heard Charles come dashing upstairs, two steps at a time, in his usual headlong fashion.

  He came in and looked round. “Nice!” he said happily, stretching out his arms.

  “Did you feel cramped at Braeside Cottage?”

  “No, of course not! I love our little cottage but I must admit it’s pleasant to have lots of room to move about. Perhaps we shall feel a bit cramped when we go home.”

  “This is our home.”

  “This is our home? What do you mean?”

  “Craignethan is ours, Charles. Grandmama is life-rented in the property, of course, but . . . but after that . . .”

  Charles was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “Oh, that was what he meant!”

  “Who? What?”

  “It was when Grandpapa was showing me the title deeds. He said something about the old stable buildings being in a bad state of repair . . . and added, ‘You can see to that later, of course.’ I had no idea what he meant.”

  “He meant that the place would belong to you.”

  “The place will belong to you, Sarah.”

  “What’s mine is yours,” I said hastily. “It will belong to us both . . . you’d like to live here, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s a beautiful old house and a fine property, but . . .”

  “But what?” I asked anxiously. “I thought you liked it?”

  “I was going to say, ‘but I wonder if we shall have enough money to keep up a place like this’.”

  “I suppose it would be expensive?”

  Charles nodded. “Old houses require a good deal of attention. As a matter of fact the roof of this house is in an unsatisfactory condition—you know that, don’t you? Another thing is our standard of living would be rather different in a big place like this.”

  “Oh, Charles!” I exclaimed in dismay.

  “Don’t worry! We’ll make out somehow. Maxton promised me more translations—that will help—and I expect we shall be able to get a substantial sum for the cottage.”

  “We mustn’t sell it until we’re sure——” I began.

  “I thought you were sure?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am, really. It’s just that I can’t—can’t believe it, somehow.”

  “You can’t believe you’re a landed lady,” said Charles, putting his arms round me and kissing me. “I do congratulate you, darling.”

  “You’re happy about it, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I’m happy about it.”

  “Really happy?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I hesitated and then said, “I wish you’d talk to Grandmama. I was so astonished when she told me that I didn’t say any of the right things.”

  Charles laughed and said he would do his best . . . and went off to talk to her. He was very good at saying “the right things.”

  As I finished unpacking I thought over what had been said: it certainly would be more expensive to l
ive in a big house than in Braeside Cottage but it occurred to me that grandpapa was much too sensible to leave his beloved Craignethan to Charles and me without sufficient money to maintain it. I hadn’t mentioned this to Charles—and I decided not to mention it—for, although Charles had said he was “happy about it” I had sensed a lack of sincerity in the assertion. He had said, “the place will belong to you . . . you’re a landed lady.”

  The cottage belonged to Charles and we had been living on his money. I had been the beggar-maid and he Cophetua! Things would be different now and Charles was not really very happy about it . . . I saw that I should have to be very tactful.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mark had warned us that we were unlikely to have grandmama with us for very long and I thought he was right; she would fade away now that grandpapa had gone. She had said herself that her work was done and now she could go . . . but after we had moved into Craignethan and had settled down it seemed to me that her health was improving.

  We had established a routine: she came downstairs, had lunch with us and spent the afternoon in the drawing-room. After tea she went upstairs, taking it very slowly. She spent the evening in her little sitting-room with her books and her knitting and her wireless and went to bed at ten. I had got rid of the “starchy” nurse and had engaged a woman of about my own age who was the daughter of a Highland minister; she wasn’t a trained nurse but she had looked after a delicate mother for years so she knew a good deal about nursing. Moira Campbell was a “find”; she fell in love with grandmama and became her faithful slave and she was so responsible that we could leave her in charge with safety.

  It was delightful having grandmama in the house; her room was so peaceful and pleasant that it became the focal point of the household. We were always welcome there and could drop in for a little chat whenever we felt inclined . . . and in this way we got to know grandmama better. Grandpapa had been so full of life and vigour that grandmama had played second fiddle, but now she seemed to have become a person in her own right.

  The domestic arrangements were running smoothly; Janet had her niece, Lily, to help her in the kitchen and Minnie came daily to do the housework. When Janet was out Minnie cooked the dinner. I was congratulating myself on my arrangements—perhaps I was feeling a little smug about them—when one morning I received an unexpected shock.