Sarah's Cottage (Sarah Morris Book 2)

by D. E. Stevenson

  I tried to think it over calmly: Lottie had never wanted her daughter, never loved her, but her daughter was a “belonging.” She wouldn’t give up her daughter and allow us to have her. I knew that. And I knew that Lottie would be furious with me. She had told me in her letter that Frederica was to go to Paris and then to Girton—I was to persuade the child that it was a good plan—but I hadn’t even tried to persuade her; it was obvious that nothing I could have said would have been the slightest use. Freddie had been at school since she was five years old. She was “sick and tired of schools” and she wanted a home. I had understood. I had thought it reasonable, but Lottie wouldn’t think it reasonable. Lottie would think I had encouraged her daughter to defy her.

  I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter about Lottie, it was Freddie who mattered, but the two problems were really one, for if I quarrelled irrevocably with Lottie it was even less likely that she would allow us to give Freddie a home at Craignethan.

  If only Charles were here so that we could talk it over together! Charles, with his good sense and his clear brain! Charles would be able to find a way out of the tangle . . .

  I had been worrying about Freddie for hours. Now I began to worry about Charles. I had sent him a telegram telling him of grandmama’s death but I had had no reply. I hadn’t heard from him for more than a week! What could have happened to him? Why hadn’t he written to me? He had dreaded going to Austria; he had been full of apprehensions; he had said he felt as if he were saying good-bye to happiness. Why had I let him go? One word from me “at the eleventh hour” would have kept him at home. If I had spoken the word he would be here now, safe and sound.

  By this time I was nearly crazy with fatigue and worry. I could lie in bed no longer so I got up and walked about the room. I took two aspirin tablets and drank a glass of water, then I went back to bed and fell into an uneasy sleep, broken by terrifying dreams.

  *

  I had gone to sleep, troubled and miserable, I awoke to find the room full of sunshine and Charles sitting on a chair by my bedside, reading a book.

  At first I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was just another dream—but in a moment or two he looked up and, seeing I was awake, took my hand and held it in a warm firm clasp.

  “Oh darling,” he said gently. “I didn’t want to waken you—the child said you were exhausted.”

  “Charles, is it really you?”

  “Yes, really and truly.” He put his arms round me and kissed me.

  For a little while I lay with my head resting on his shoulder. I didn’t want to speak. It didn’t matter how he had come, nothing mattered except that he was here and I was safely in his arms.

  At last he said, “Oh, my poor darling, what a dreadful time you’ve had! You look absolutely worn out—and no wonder!”

  “Yes, I’m tired but it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now.”

  “Nothing matters?”

  “I’ve got you back safely. You won’t have to leave me again, will you?”

  “No, never again,” he murmured. “My father died; it was sudden and merciful at the end. All the sorrow and suffering is over. I’m glad I was there—it was right to go, Sarah.”

  “Yes, it was right to go.”

  “When I received your telegram I came at once,” he continued. “I went to Vienna and took the first plane I could get. They were angry with me for leaving like that, before the funeral, but I had done my best for my father and I wanted to come home to you. I came as quickly as I could. Unfortunately we were delayed—there was a slight accident to the plane—or I should have been here before.”

  “An accident?”

  “It was nothing,” said Charles soothingly. “Nothing serious, but the pilot was obliged to make a forced landing and I had to hire a car to go to Paris and get another plane to bring me home. Perhaps I should have wired to you, but it was all such a rush and my one idea was to get home as quickly as possible. I flew from Paris to London, and then on to Turnhouse. I got the car and came straight to Craignethan and arrived here about eight this morning.”

  “Oh darling, you must be tired! Have you had any breakfast?”

  “Not tired,” replied Charles. “And I’ve had an exceedingly good breakfast. When I arrived here I was somewhat surprised to find the child in charge. She welcomed me with open arms and gave me bacon and eggs—a real man’s breakfast! I missed my good British breakfast when I was in Austria. Talking of breakfast: yours is all ready on a tray. She said I was to give it to you when you woke.”

  “Not yet!” I exclaimed, clinging to his hand. “I want to talk to you about Freddie. Did she tell you her plans?”

  “Yes, she told me: we had a long discussion. Then she went off to Ryddelton in her car to lay in provisions. She is a very capable young person,” said Charles with a smile. He added, “I really think I must go and get your tray. She left me in charge and I promised to give it to you. It’s after ten o’clock and it will do you good to have something to eat.”

  I lay and waited for him to come back; he was back in a few minutes: the coffee and the milk were in Thermos jugs, there were wholemeal scones, butter and marmalade, a bowl of sugar and half a grapefruit.

  “Our new housekeeper left it ready, but I could easily boil an egg for you,” he suggested.

  “No, no! That’s all I want. It’s simply perfect.”

  “Our new housekeeper knows what’s what,” said Charles as he arranged my pillows comfortably and settled the bed-table across my knees. “It looks as if we shall be well looked after in our old age.”

  I couldn’t joke about it. “Charles, I’m terribly worried!” I exclaimed. “What are we to do? Freddie is miserable.”

  He sat down beside me. “Yes, it’s a problem,” he agreed. “We must discuss the matter seriously. First of all, do you want the child to come and live with us?”

  “Yes, of course! Don’t you want her?”

  “Have you thought what it means? For the last few years our lives have been very peaceful; it will be different with Freddie in the house. It will be interesting and amusing—but not peaceful—to have Freddie.”

  “We must!” I cried. “The child is miserable and frightened. We must rescue her! Lottie has always been selfish and negligent but now she seems to have gone completely off the rails. Freddie wants a home—and she has nobody else, nobody but us in all the world.”

  “I know—and I agree with you, of course. I was merely pointing out that life will be different if we rescue Freddie and give her a home.”

  “Did she tell you about the gambling parties and about the way Lottie treats her?”

  “Yes, she told me. It’s appalling, isn’t it? As a matter of fact Mr Crossman happens to know a good deal about Sir Stanley, but nothing in his favour. ‘Staggie’ is a bad lot, Sarah. It isn’t only drink and gambling; the police suspect him of drug-pushing but so far he has been too clever for them and they’ve no proof. Mr Crossman tried to ‘drop a hint’ to Clive about the man and his peculiarities, but Clive replied that he didn’t interfere with his wife’s choice of friends.”

  “Oh Charles, how frightful! Lottie must be mad to get mixed up with people like that!”

  “Quite mad.”

  “Well, that settles it!” I declared. “We must keep Freddie here and never let her go back. Lottie isn’t fit to be trusted with the care of a young girl. She will be furious with us, but that doesn’t matter, we shall just have to bear it. I shall write to Lottie of course . . . and I must write to Mrs White and tell her to pack all Freddie’s possessions and send them. You had better write to Clive——”

  “Listen, Sarah!”

  “We must do it at once——”

  “No, listen,” interrupted. Charles “Your plan is admirable in its way, but——”

  “It’s Freddie’s plan! She wants to write to them herself . . . and perhaps she’s right.”

  “No, darling, she’s wrong,” said Charles earnestly. “I know she wants to ‘break�
� with her parents—she wants to do it now, this minute, in her usual impetuous fashion—but she can’t because she’s under twenty-one and her parents are her legal guardians.”

  “But if they’re not fit to look after her!”

  “Who is to say whether they’re fit or not?”

  “I say so—everyone will say so!”

  “Listen, Sarah,” repeated Charles. “Please listen. I don’t know much about law but I have a feeling that if we’re not careful we may find ourselves in serious trouble. If they wanted to be nasty they could take legal action against us.”

  “Legal action?”

  “It’s called enticement or something,” said Charles vaguely. “I shall write to Mr Crossman and ask his advice; meantime Freddie must hold her hand. There must be no dramatic letters, no recriminations, no unpleasantness.”

  “Do you mean she must go on living at Brailsford?”

  “No, this is my plan: more often than not her parents are away from home so what is to prevent her from getting into her car and coming to visit her aunt and uncle? If they write and tell her to come home—and she doesn’t want to go home—she will say, ‘No, thank you, Mummie,’ very politely.” Charles smiled and added, “It worked before, didn’t it?”

  “What does Freddie say?”

  “Freddie wasn’t keen on my plan at first—she was all for the ‘complete break’ and the dramatic letters, but when I had explained the matter she agreed to try it. Mr Crossman may have a better plan—we must wait and see what he says.”

  “I hope they won’t go to law. That would be very unpleasant,” I said apprehensively.

  “It would be unpleasant for them, too,” Charles pointed out.

  I considered the matter thoughtfully. “It’s a clever plan, but it’s horribly deceitful. I wish we could be straightforward about it and explain that Freddie isn’t happy at home and would rather come and live with us. I wish we could put all the cards on the table. Then we could settle down comfortably.”

  “Yes, I know, but Freddie is a minor—as I said before. If we put our cards on the table it would give them good grounds for a legal action. My plan isn’t very pleasant, but it would be worse to go to law and wrangle over the child’s body . . . and I have no idea what would happen if we lost the case.”

  We were silent for a little while.

  Presently Charles continued. “I’m afraid we shall have to do it my way, Sarah. We shall have to be polite and pleasant. Our house is open to the child, that’s all. She prefers to be with us at Craignethan—it’s lonely for her at Brailsford—so she comes as often as she likes and stays as long as she pleases. We talk of her as ‘the child’ but she’s a very determined little person . . . and I don’t see how her parents will be able to make her come home, or keep her at home against her will. They’re both too busy with their own concerns to play the part of warders.”

  By this time I had eaten a scone and had drunk two cups of coffee so I had begun to feel a good deal better and I saw what he meant. “You mean we shall have to keep out of the quarrel—if we can. They could take legal action against us, but they couldn’t take legal action against their own daughter.”

  Charles nodded. “I may be wrong but, quite honestly, I don’t think there’s much fear of their taking legal action. A case of that sort would make headlines in the papers—extremely nasty headlines—which wouldn’t suit Lottie’s book at all. Her connection with ‘Staggie’ and his friends would be exposed to the light of day. The publicity wouldn’t suit Staggie either.”

  “It would be frightful!” I exclaimed. “It would be simply horrible! We must do it your way, Charles. But, whatever happens, we must stand by Freddie. Long ago Mark told us to give her a safe place in our hearts and in our home. It was important then; it’s even more important now.”

  “Our house must always be open to her,” Charles agreed. “If you approve we could give her a key of the side door. We can’t give her the front door key; it’s the only one we’ve got and it’s too big and heavy.”

  “She doesn’t need a key; she climbs on to the roof of the coal-shed and gets in at the bathroom window,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, I know,” he replied, smiling. “I intended it as a symbol. I thought it would be rather nice to say, ‘Here’s the key of our house, Freddie. Come whenever you like, night or day, your room will always be ready for you.’ Perhaps it’s foolish of me——”

  “It isn’t foolish!” I exclaimed. “It’s a lovely idea! Freddie will appreciate the significance of the key. You can give it to her and explain.”

  “We’ll give it to her together,” said Charles. He added earnestly, “Try not to worry, darling; I’m sure my plan will work. The important thing is to avoid a row—if we possibly can.”

  “It’s no good worrying,” I agreed. “We must be cheerful for Freddie’s sake. She must stay with us in the meantime until we see what Mr Crossman says. We must try to entertain her and keep her from brooding over her troubles . . .”

  “Yes, we must keep her amused.”

  “And I suppose when she comes of age she will be able to do as she likes without any fuss,” I added.

  “Oh, we shan’t have her with us for three years.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked in alarm. “I thought she wanted to make her home with us! I thought that was the——”

  “She’ll marry,” interrupted Charles. “Oh yes, she’s sure to marry before she’s twenty-one. She isn’t exactly pretty but there’s something very attractive about our little Freddie.”

  We looked at each other and smiled.

  “I don’t envy the man,” Charles continued thoughtfully. “I’m very fond of her but she isn’t my idea of a comfortable wife . . . no, I don’t envy him. The man who marries Freddie will have plenty of amusement—but not much peace.”

  “Have you chosen him yet?” I asked teasingly.

  “Oh, I don’t have to choose him—she can do that herself—but of course I can raise objections if I don’t approve of her choice.”

  “Beric?” I suggested.

  “Beric,” agreed Charles, nodding. “Yes, I wouldn’t object to Beric. Beric . . . or Harry . . . or David . . . or Peter . . . or Andrew . . . or Johnny.”

  Charles had just completed his list when we heard Freddie’s car drive up to the front door and a few moments later she burst into my room.

  “Oh, darlings, did you think I was lost?” she cried breathlessly. “I’m sorry I’ve been so long. I meant to be back ages ago but I met Harry in the town—that was what delayed me. They’re going to Ingliston tomorrow to see the motor-racing and they want me to go with them. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Harry and Bill?” asked Charles.

  “No, Harry and Adrian. Adrian is staying with the Loudons, he’s a subaltern in the Scots Guards, tall and dark and very good-looking. It was Harry who asked me to go tomorrow, but I said no, because I meant to be here (and do all the cooking until Minnie comes back) but Adrian persuaded me. Adrian said if I could come he would get another girl—to amuse Harry—so I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Where was Harry when these arrangements were being made?” asked Charles with interest.

  “Oh, he was in the ironmonger’s buying cartridges for his father. I can go, can’t I?”

  “Poor Harry!” said Charles with a lugubrious sigh.

  “I can go, can’t I?” she repeated. “I promised Adrian to ring up before twelve—so that he can ask another girl. He’s awfully nice; I’m sure you’ll like him, Uncle Charles.”

  “I expect I shall,” said Charles, beginning to chuckle. “I like to see a young officer with plenty of initiative and resource.”

  She hesitated, looking at us in surprise. “I don’t know why you’re laughing at me!” she exclaimed.

  “We’re laughing at ourselves,” I told her. “Yes, darling. Of course you can go tomorrow.”

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