Linden Rise, page 15
“As to the Lynnekers . . . of course they’re my hosts, so I shouldn’t say anything against them, but—”
“Yes?” encouraged Althea.“Just fools,” said Mrs. Redbum a little flatly. “Thinking so much of themselves. Giving themselves airs. So gracious and patronizing. That clodhopper, Roddy. Those, great plain horsy girls.”
“What about Piers?” said Althea.
Her glance went to where Piers stood on the terrace outside the house, talking to the girl with violet-blue eyes and dark hair. He was tall and good-looking and he had been the centre of all the day-dreams she had woven round this afternoon. He would be Sir Piers Lynneker. He would own this house and estate. His wife would queen it over the neighbourhood. And not only over the neighbourhood. London . . . the season . . . money . . . jewels . . . admiration . . . As she put on the organdie dress and lace hat, she had seen herself through his eyes, had lived in eager anticipation of their meeting. And the meeting had disappointed and humiliated her. He had greeted her courteously, but as if he did not really see her. Not once had he joined the group that clustered round her. Not once had his eyes strayed in her direction. It was clear that to him she was no different from any of the other guests who thronged the lawns. Roddy had hovered about her, beaming ingenuous admiration, but it was not the younger brother she was interested in.
“That’s his cousin, isn’t it?” she said, “the girl who lives with them . . .”
“Yes.” The silky voice grew lower. The violet toque drew nearer. “My dear, I could tell you something about her. If he knew what she was . . .”
“Tell me,” pleaded Althea. “Do tell me.”
“Well, he’s adored her ever since she was a child. It’s common knowledge that he’s proposed to her over and over again.”
“Won’t she accept him?” said Althea, vague hopes rising again in her heart.
Mrs. Redburn shrugged.
“She’s clever,” she said. “She holds him off. She’ll take him in the end, of course, but if he knew what she was . . .”
“Do tell me,” pleaded Althea again.
“Well,” the silky voice was only a whisper now, “it happened last summer. She gave out that she was going to the South of France with a friend for three months. Everyone believed it, but I found out that she’d never been near the South of France.”
“Where had she been?”
“She’d been to a nursing-home in London. I found it out quite by chance. He’d no idea of it. Neither had anyone else.”
“But why?” said Althea. “What did it mean?”
Again Mrs. Redburn shrugged, spreading out plump ringed hands.
“My dear, what does it mean when a girl goes into a nursing- home for several months and doesn’t tell anyone? Surely you know.”
The colour flamed into Althea’s cheeks.
“You mean—that?” she gasped.
“Of course I do.”
“But doesn’t he know? Surely he ought to know?”
“Of course he ought,” said Mrs. Redburn, “but I’m the only person who knows and I daren’t tell him.” She gave a short laugh. “I can dare a lot but not that.”
Althea looked at her for a moment in silence.
“Why did you tell me?” she said.
One part of her had seized avidly on the piece of scandal, but the other part—the child who still lived in her—felt ashamed and besmirched.
“I thought it would amuse you,” said Mrs. Redburn lightly, “You hardly know them, so it can’t mean much to you. People here are such toadies. It’s high treason to say a word against the Lynnekers here. I often watch those two and have a good laugh to myself thinking of it. If only he knew . . . Watch them now.”
Althea turned her head to look at the couple on the terrace, but as she looked they went towards the long french window and vanished into the house.
Chapter Twelve
“What’s the matter, Lindsay?” said Piers.
The room was high and dim and cool. Drawn curtains at the windows kept out the sun, and the air was sweet with the scent of the roses that were massed in an old Delft soup tureen on a low chest against the wall. The sounds from the lawn—the chatter and laughter and strains of the band—were muted and distant.
Lindsay had gone to a settee in the farthest comer of the room. Piers followed and sat down by her.
“What is it, darling?”
“I’ve got a headache. It’s the heat, I think. Don’t stay with me, Piers. I shall be all right.”
“You shouldn’t have gone riding this morning. You should have rested.”
“I can’t rest. You know I can’t rest.”
He knew that she couldn’t rest. She was either upheld by surging excitement or plunged into black depression. Her moods changed so suddenly that, however hard one tried to be prepared for the change, it took one always by surprise.
She had removed her hat and her dark hair fell softly over her high blue-veined forehead. Her eyes were shadowed, yet curiously bright and glancing. They moved around the room now, darting here and there in quick, aimless scrutiny. Her mouth was long and beautifully arched, but it was set in a line of strain, and every now and then the corners gave a quick nervous twitch. Her hands, resting on the settee, clenched and unclenched themselves. He laid his hand on the one that was near him.
“Don’t, Lindsay,” he said.
She gave a faint, uncertain smile.
“I’m sorry. I’m all on edge this afternoon. I don’t know why.”
“Stop worrying about things, Lindsay. Say you’ll marry me. I’ll look after you.”
“Piers, we’ve been over it so often. It wouldn’t be any use.”
“Why not?”
She looked at his thin sensitive face.
“We’re too much alike. We’d wear each other out. The more we loved each other the more we’d wear each other out. And we’re both—frightened.”
“Frightened?”
“ Yes. Frightened of everything. Of people and things and—life.”
“I’m not frightened, Lindsay,” he said gently, holding her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers.
“Yes, you are. You won’t face it, but you know in your heart that you’re frightened. I’ve had to face it because—” She turned her head away with a sudden sharp movement.
“Don’t, Lindsay. Don’t think of it.”
“We’d tear each other to shreds without meaning to. You’d be hurt for days because of the way I’d looked or spoken . . . and I’d be the same. We’d torture each other, although we loved each other . . . because we loved each other. We each ought to marry someone stolid and stupid and insensitive.”
He laughed shortly.
“How terrible!”
“If I marry at all, that’s the sort of man I’m going to marry,”
she said.
“No, you’re not. You’re going to marry me.” He took both
her hands. “You love me, Lindsay. You know in your heart that you love me.”
“I love you more than anyone in the world, Piers, but—not that way. I’m not going to marry you.”
He heard his mother’s voice on the terrace outside, “Where’s Piers?” He rose. Then he bent over the settee, put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently against the cushions.
“Rest, darling,” he said. “Rest and relax. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Left alone, she sat up again with a quick jerk of her slender body, and her violet-blue eyes widened with fear as they moved round the room. In the half-light the shadows seemed to take on a life of their own, hostile and sinister, gathering together in the corners. The ticking of the Sèvres clock on the chimney-piece lost its sleepy note and became sharp with menace. Her fear intensified till it was beyond control. She rose quickly and made her way out again to the terrace. Piers was not there. In front of her was the lawn with its crowds of guests and she shrank from the thought of joining them, but behind her lay the empty room with the gathering shadows and the ticking clock. Then suddenly came the memory of the cool quiet spot beneath the trees at the other side of the kitchen garden that was her favourite refuge. None of the guests would be there. She took one of the deckchairs that were stacked at the end of the terrace and stood hesitating. To reach her refuge she would have to cross the lawn, to face the hordes of people who seemed to be her enemies, who seemed already to be watching her malevolently. And then, while she hesitated, a young man appeared, walking across the terrace with an air of quiet purpose. She had met him earlier in the afternoon. He was the elder of the two Culverton boys—the good-looking one. He stopped.
“May I carry that for you, Miss Moreton?” he said, taking the chair from her.
Their eyes met. He saw nothing of her indecision, her secret fear. She was just a girl who wanted a chair taken somewhere. And, with his quiet earnest gaze upon her, she became just a girl who wanted a chair taken somewhere.
“Oh, thank you,” she said. “I’m trying to find a place away from the crowd. I’m feeling rather tired and it’s so hot on the lawn.”
He considered the question for a moment with frowning concentration.
“Why not go and watch the croquet on the other lawn?” he said. “Actually, I was just going to watch it myself. I’ll put your chair in the shade and away from the other seats so that you can watch the game without interruption.”
She drew a long deep sigh. This was what she wanted, someone to take decisions out of her hands—those small, trivial, everyday decisions that wore down her spirit—to tell her what to do in this calm authoritative manner.
“I’m afraid that I haven’t played croquet since I was here as a child nine years ago,” he said as he walked beside her, carrying the chair, “but I’m very anxious to learn, and I think that one can learn a game best by watching it carefully.”
He set the chair up for her in the shadow of some trees on the edge of the croquet lawn. A short distance away was a group of chairs filled by laughing, chattering young people.
“We’ll stay here, I think,” said Edmund. “You can’t watch a game properly if you’re distracted by people talking to you. I’ll sit here with you if you don’t mind.”
“No, please do,” said Lindsay.
He fetched another deck-chair and sat in it by her side, leaning forward, watching the game intently and in silence. He wasn’t like Piers. He didn’t throw her anxious sidelong glances wondering what was in her mind, if anything had happened to upset her, hurting her by his anxiety and receiving hurt in his turn from her hurt. This man wasn’t even interested in her. He hardly knew she was there. He only wanted to learn how to play croquet. And while he was there she was safe. No one could worry her . . . nothing could frighten her. She relaxed peacefully in her chair.
Miss Maple and Richard were sitting at a small table near the buffet. Miss Maple wore the dress that she had worn at garden parties for the last six years. It was a dress of foulard silk with a beige ground and flowers climbing about it in all directions. Her faded panama hat was contemporary with the dress, but was refurbished each summer by a trimming of fresh ribbon to match the flowers. This year it was red to match the red flowers, last year it had been blue to match the blue flowers and the year before it had been green to match the green flowers. She wore a pair of white kid gloves, yellowed by age, black cotton stockings and stout black leather walking shoes.
“Seed cake?” she said, looking at the plate of cakes that Richard was handing to her. “It’s a great favourite of mine, but I don’t think I’d better. Mother didn’t like it and I make it a rule never to have any in the house.” She hesitated, selected a small currant bun, then, lowering her voice, said, “Richard . . .”
“Yes?”
“I sent that list in—the one you did in the kitchen.”
“Good for you!”
“And I had such a nice letter from the man, thanking me for rousing public interest in the cause. You know . . .”
“Yes?” said Richard again.
“It’s my first incursion into crime and—well, I really find it rather thrilling, Of course, I feel guilty, too, but I can understand the—the sort of thrill, that international spies and people like that get out of it.”
“That’s grand,” said Richard.
“It gives one a strange feeling of daring. I think I’ll have that piece of seed cake, after all.”
Richard passed her the plate of cakes.
“As long as you stop on the right side of the law,” he said, “the possibilities are endless.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Maple, “and it’s true what they say in tracts. After the first downward step the rest is easy. There’s a sort of lure in it. Since I sent in that list I’ve had temptations that I never had before.”
“What sort of temptations?” said Richard.
“Well, yesterday I was suddenly tempted to buy some new clothes. It’s wrong to care what you look like, and, of course, the price even of a new hat would buy food for a starving family, but I don’t know any starving families, and I contribute regularly anyway to the Sick and Poor Fund, but Mother allowed me ten pounds a year for clothes, and it seems an insult to her memory to spend more now that she’s gone.”
“It would be fun,” said Richard, his glance travelling from her deplorable hat to her deplorable shoes. “Let’s do it together. Let’s go into Bellminster and get you a whole new outfit. You could try the things on and I could tell you if you looked nice in them.”
“Oh, no, Richard. I resisted the temptation. I decided quite finally not to buy any new clothes . . . but it shows how true it is that once you start—slipping, you simply can’t stop, because no sooner had I resisted that temptation than I had another one.”
“What was the other one?” said Richard.
“You’d hardly believe it. I simply don’t know how, to tell you.”
“You can tell me,” said Richard. “I can believe most things, and I’m as silent as the grave.”
“It was much worse than the first one, and I’m sure I shouldn’t have had either of them if I hadn’t sent that list.”
“What was it?” persisted Richard.
“It sounds dreadful, put into words, Richard. It was—well, I was lying in bed this morning and I had a sudden temptation to go abroad.”
“Go abroad?”
“Yes. To Paris or Rome or the Channel Islands. Just to see what they’re like.”
“But why shouldn’t you?”
“Oh, Richard, it would be an insult to Mother’s memory. She couldn’t bear foreigners. She never went abroad in her life.”
“Yes, but—” began Richard.
Miss Maple interrupted him,
“I didn’t feel quite happy about going to church after sending that list, but still I haven’t done anything as bad as the people in the Bible did.”
“And they seemed to get away with it all right,” said Richard. “Yes, indeed,” agreed Miss Maple earnestly. “Look at David. He’s held up to us as an example and he did far worse things than making up a list of people out of his head.”
“Or eating seed cake,” said Richard, and they both laughed.
“Come along,” he continued. “Let’s have a game of croquet.”
“Oh, no, Richard. I couldn’t. I must be going home now. Mother always used to get upset if I wasn’t back from a garden party by six.”
“All right,” said Richard. “I’ll see you to the gate.”
“Thank you, dear boy. I’ll just go and say good-bye to Lady Lynneker . . . Richard, it is rather exciting, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Egerton, sitting beside the Vicar’s warden and gently suggesting several improvements in the organization of the next church social, looked up as Richard and Miss Maple passed her chair. Miss Maple’s eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed. She was laughing and the panama hat was slightly askew. If I hadn’t known her for fourteen years, thought Mrs. Egerton, I’d think she was tipsy.
The guests were gradually departing on foot or in carriages. The Culvertons collected themselves together and took their leave of Lady Lynneker. The Lynneker girls accompanied them to the gate. A host of dogs had been released as the party ended and were leaping round the two girls.
“Down, Rover! They’re so rough that we kept them in the kennels till people began to go because they will jump up and people don’t like it in their best clothes. To heel, Prince! He’s no idea what ‘heel’ means, the darling, and I’ve spent months trying to teach him. It has been lovely to see you . . . No, Ranger! . . . You must come again soon . . . Quiet, Hector! . . . Let’s all have a picnic sometime . . . It’s been such fun.”
They waved good-bye at the gate, and the Culvertons walked slowly down the road towards the village.
“I suppose we might have had a cab,” said Mrs. Culverton, “but it didn’t seem worth it.”
“Oh, no,” said Edmund, “it’s much better for us to walk— especially after all those rich cakes they had for tea.”
“Did you enjoy it, Edmund?” said Mrs. Culverton.
“Yes, thank you,” said Edmund. “It was very pleasant. I really think I’ve got the hang of the thing now. Croquet, I mean. I think I could face a game in public now without making a fool of myself. I hadn’t even seen it played since that time we were here before.”
“You were sitting with Miss Moreton, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Edmund. “A nice quiet girl.”
“And what about you, darling?” said Mrs. Culverton, turning to Althea, who was walking on the other side of her. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
“Yes . . .” said Althea.
