03 Mary Wakefield (11 page)

It seemed to Mary that at least a dozen voices ordered him to be quiet.

“I hope you are getting on well,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “I hope you are able to put some knowledge into the children’s heads.”

“I’m trying hard.” Mary’s voice was scarcely audible.

“I think I must be getting deaf.” Mrs. Whiteoak cupped her ear in her palm. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’m getting on nicely, thank you.” Now her voice came clearly and, she felt, a little too loud.

Meg spoke up. “We haven’t had lessons lately. It’s too hot.”

Her grandmother’s bright glance discovered her. “There are other things besides lessons,” she said.

“What other things?” asked Renny.

“Behaving yourself. Does Miss Wakefield make you behave?”

He gave a peal of laughter.

“Is there a party or something?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak, looking Mary over.

Her dress! She should not have put on that gay dress! She felt ready to sink through the floor.

Ernest Whiteoak now came forward. His expression was faintly apologetic, though whether to his mother or to her, Mary could not guess. But he shook hands kindly.

“It seems quite a long while,” he said, “since I interviewed you, on behalf of my mother.”

“And saw Miss Wakefield through your mother’s eyes, I’ll be bound,” added Mrs. Whiteoak. She turned to Mary.

“How old are you, my dear?”

“Twenty-four.”

“H’m. That quite tallies with my son’s description of you. He said you were — youngish, that your hair had not gone grey and that you had your own teeth. Well — so have I and I’m sixty-eight.”

Mary was too confused to be certain whom Mrs. Whiteoak was making fun of. She stood looking down at the older woman fascinated.

Renny had run off and joined Meg with their toys in the sitting-room.

“Now I had better introduce you all round,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, “Nicholas, Augusta, Edwin — Miss Wakefield. Miss Wakefield — Mr. Whiteoak, Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.”

The tall dark gentleman with the moustache who was standing by a window talking to Philip, smiled pleasantly and bowed. Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley inclined their heads without smiling.

“Where are the children?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak.

“They’ve taken their toys to the library,” answered Philip.

Mrs. Whiteoak gave an imperious wave of the hand toward Mary. “You’d better join ’em, she said. “They’ll be up to mischief.” Mary noticed the hand, long and supple. She saw the flash of rubies and diamonds on it.

With a little bow Mary withdrew. Scarcely was she in the hall when she heard Mrs. Whiteoak say:

“Somebody please shut that door.”

It was closed and the six people left in the drawing-room exchanged looks of untrammelled intimacy. Nicholas was the first to speak.

“A lovely creature,” he said. “A very lovely creature.” He turned to his brother Ernest. “Upon my word, Ernie, you’ve a very pretty taste in women.”

“She looked quite different in London,” replied Ernest hastily.

“Doubtless the climate here has rejuvenated her,” said Sir Edwin who was small and neat and mouse-coloured.

“Are we to take that remark seriously, Edwin?” asked his wife who was tall, with a massive curled fringe about her forehead and a plum-coloured dress. She spoke in a rich contralto voice.

“I offer it as the only possible explanation,” he replied. “Ernest himself says she looks different.”

“If she looked as she does now, Ernest must have been demented,” declared Lady Buckley.

“What’s the matter with her looks?” demanded Philip.

“Everything,” returned his sister. “She looks and dresses like an actress.”

It went against the grain of Adeline Whiteoak to agree with her daughter, so she ignored this remark and asked of Ernest:

“How was she different in London?”

“Well, Mamma, it’s hard to say. But there was an impalpable difference.”

“I do not engage governesses on impalpable grounds.”

“We never should have trusted Ernest,” said Lady Buckley. “He is too easily carried away by a little charm.”

Ernest replied tartly, “I am the only one of us who has not been carried away into matrimony.”

Sir Edwin giggled. “My charm was too much for Augusta, eh, Augusta?”

His wife looked at him as though she failed to discover a remnant of charm in him. She said:

“A girl like that is no companion for the children.”

“What do you want me to do?” exclaimed Philip hotly. “Turn her out because she’s pretty and wears pretty clothes? Well — I refuse. You sent her to me. She’s a damned sight nicer than the other two were.” He went on more calmly, “Wait till you’re acquainted with her before you condemn her. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“Philip is right,” agreed Ernest. “Let us be patient and calm.”

This remark had no calming effect on his mother. She sprang up and swept through the length of the room. “By the Lord,” she exclaimed, “you have a way of bringing out the worst in people, Ernest.”

“Not in me,” said Augusta. “For I know that Ernest’s intentions are good.”

Mrs. Whiteoak came back up the room. She was smiling. “We certainly must give the young woman a chance, as Philip says. On my part I intend to be very civil to her,” she said.

“The thought of being uncivil to anyone,” came in Augusta’s contralto tones, “never enters my head.”

“We’ll all be nice to her,” said Sir Edwin gaily, “and see what happens.”

“She’ll be extremely grateful.” Philip smiled at him. He was about to add, “And so shall I,” but thought better of it.

Nicholas gave a yawn. “I’m off to my room to unpack,” he said. “Come along, Philip.” He put his arm affectionately through his brother’s. They moved toward the door.

The Buckleys rose and followed them. Augusta asked:

“Is there anything I can do to help you, Mamma?”

“No, thanks. Mrs. Nettleship will help me.”

Ernest had no mind to be left alone with his mother.

“Anything I can do?” he asked cheerily, when the others had gone.

She shook her head.

“It’s so nice to be home again,” he said.

“It may be, for you. It is well to be so irresponsible.”

“But — nothing has happened, Mamma.”

“Something will. Did you see the look on Philip’s face when he spoke of that girl?”

“No.”

“Then you are very unobservant. He is attracted by her. He may even be attached to her.”

Ernest gnawed his thumb, not knowing what to say. There came a tap on the door. Before opening it he turned to his mother and said: “Everything seems in very good order at Jalna, doesn’t it?”

“Good enough. Good enough,” she muttered. Then, with a look of complete exasperation she added:

“Oh, Ernest, what a fool you were to engage that flibbertigibbet girl!”

Ernest could not deny it. He was thankful when a second light knock sounded on the door. He opened it.

Mrs. Nettleship stood there, her little pointed hands folded on her stomach. Ernest slipped past her and went up the stairs. She said, “Excuse me, Ma’am, but is there anything I can do to help you?” She closed the door behind her.

“Yes. You can unpack for me but not till morning, except for my dressing-case.”

“I have that already unpacked.”

“Then there’s nothing. Wait — you may pour me another glass of sherry.” She had seated herself on a sofa and was half-reclining on its cushions, her long lithe body displayed to advantage, despite its cumbersome clothes.

With short silent steps Mrs. Nettleship crossed the room and gently took the decanter from the silver tray. “I thought you’d be tired and would like a little sherry,” she said.

“A good thought. Just half a glass this time.”

Mrs. Nettleship brought the sherry to her.

Adeline Whiteoak put the glass to her lips and looked keenly over its rim at the housekeeper.

“How have things been going — of late!” she asked.

“Do you mean in the last five weeks, Mrs. Whiteoak?”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Mrs. Nettleship was bow-legged. Even through her skirt and two petticoats it was discernible. Now she planted her feet firmly on the carpet.

“The last five weeks,” she said, “have been terrible hard to bear. If it wasn’t for you, Mrs. Whiteoak, I wouldn’t have stood it. It was affecting my health.”

“Just what do you mean?” Adeline Whiteoak spoke above a sharply indrawn breath.

“It’s the governess. It breaks my heart to look at those dear little children and think what she’s set out to do.”

“What has she set out to do?”

“Oh, Mrs. Whitoak, don’t ask me to say it out loud! I just couldn’t. But I lie awake at nights thinking what this house would be like with her at the head of it. Of course, I wouldn’t stay but wherever I was I’d be thinking of the poor little children.” She gave a deep sigh.

Adeline spoke calmly. “Tell me — what has Miss Wakefield done to make you feel like this?”

Mrs. Nettleship drew a step closer and the pupils of her pale eyes were fixed in a gimlet gaze. Now the words poured out of her.

“Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, it began as soon as she came under this roof. I saw that she was sly. She wasn’t dressed in a proper way but always as though she was going somewhere. She’d perfume on her. She’d worse than perfume on her, Ma’am, she had
paint
on her!”

“Paint! Where? On her cheeks?”

“On her lips. I noticed they were redder sometimes than they was at other times. Then — I
saw
.”

“Ha! What else?”

Mrs. Nettleship came very close and lowered her voice till it was almost a whisper.

“On the third day,” she said, then paused.

“Yes? Go on.”

“On the third day, I was carrying the children’s laundry up to their rooms. I had slippers on and I didn’t make any noise. On the
top
floor, at Miss Wakefield’s door, was Mr. Whiteoak. The door
was open and she was standing in it with a
loose
wrapper on.” The peculiar stress which Mrs. Nettleship laid on the word
loose
implied the most immoral intentions possible on the part of the wrapper. She watched Adeline Whiteoak’s face closely and was satisfied with the effect of her disclosure.

“What did they do when you appeared?”

“Miss Wakefield was just plain flustered. She didn’t know what way to look. But Mr. Whiteoak spoke real sharp to me.”

“What did he say?”

“I apologized and said I hoped I hadn’t scared the young lady, and he said
she’d
nothing to be scared of.”

“H’m. And what then?”

“Doctor Ramsey came in — he’d been twice before to see her but couldn’t find her — and, after a while she dressed and came downstairs. After he’d left I was passing through the hall, and she and Mr. Whiteoak was still in the library. Jake was there too and I thought I’d better see if he wanted out. We’ve never had a puppy that was so much trouble. Well — I didn’t go into the room, Mrs. Whiteoak. I didn’t go in. I know my place better. Especially after the way Mr. Whiteoak had spoke to me, outside her bedroom door. I just scurried down to the basement as fast as my poor legs would carry me.”

“What, in God’s name, did you scurry for?”

“Why, to keep out of Mr. Whiteoak’s way!”

“Woman alive — can’t you speak out plain?”

Mrs. Nettleship’s voice became suddenly harsh, “I’d heard a
kiss
. A soft little kiss. And then Mr. Whiteoak gave a pleased laugh.”

“Perhaps she kissed Jake!” Adeline exclaimed grimly.

“Ha, ha, that’s a good one, Mrs. Whiteoak. But I don’t see that young lady kissing a
dog
. Not with a handsome young man about.”

Adeline set down the empty sherry glass. “Is there anything more to tell?” she asked, almost casually.

“Just this.” The housekeeper put her hand in the pocket of her apron and took out a small packet wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolded the paper and disclosed several cigarette ends. She held them
out for inspection. “I found
these
amongst the shrubs underneath
her
window. She
smokes
, Mrs. Whiteoak.”

Adeline blew out her breath. “Well, well,” she said. “Quite a forward young woman.”

“
Forward
! Forward’s no name for her behaviour. Twice this week she’s gone through the house
singing
. Just as though she was mistress here!”

Adeline rose. If Mrs. Nettleship expected an explosion from her she was disappointed. She appeared more calm than she had been earlier in the recital. But, when she was in her own room with the door shut behind her, she was seething with mingled anger and consternation. She stood, with her back against the door, her palms pressed against the panels, only by a great effort restraining herself from going straight to Philip, demanding an explanation from him. But wisdom, experience of life, told her that it would be far, far better to wait, to discover for herself how far the affair had gone.

As for Ernest, she would gladly have taken him by the shoulders and shaken him. To think that he would deliberately throw such a temptation in his brother’s way. “If I had the ninny here,” she said aloud, and struck one clenched hand into the palm of the other. She did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the Indian gong that summoned the family to meals, sounded in the hall.

M
ARY CROSSED THE
hall and went to the door of the sitting-room which stood open. She felt confused by the meeting with the various and highly individualistic members of the family. They seemed to raise a wall between her and Philip. She pictured him, as though from a long way off. With the sound of voices all about her, she was isolated, alone. The air was oppressive. Another storm was brewing.

In the sitting-room the children were playing with their new toys. Renny was kneeling on the floor, winding up his train. Meg stood by the table where her music box was tinkling out “Children of Vienna”.

“Listen,” exclaimed Meg. “Isn’t that a pretty tune?”

“Charming,” agreed Mary. “What beautiful presents!”

“We have battledore and shuttlecock, too,” cried Renny, “and I have a lot of lead soldiers and Meggie a work-basket, with a thimble, and two books each!” He sprang to his feet and began to show off the treasures. His small being was vibrant with vitality and enthusiasm. Meg did not know what it was to experience such joy as he did, but she egged herself on to a simulation of it, not wanting to be outdone by him in the eyes of the grown-ups.