Dorothy Eden (7 page)

“And still do? Now I’m a waif from the sea?”

He laughed again, obviously relieved that they were getting on better, and that she was not going to be nervous and hysterical about her near drowning.

“Now you’re looking more like yourself. I’d say more a mermaid than a waif.”

“Hugo, how gallant.” It was rather fun being coquettish. Now she knew why Clemency had enjoyed it so much.

“Wait till we’ve got you a new wardrobe. But I told you they wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in here.”

It was true that they hadn’t. The doorman had said, “Good morning, my lord. Good morning, miss,” his expression just as much in control as Pimm’s had been. And the elderly waitresses had clucked over them both in a maternal way, not showing any surprise that Lord Hazzard should bring in someone looking like a peasant. It would be amusing to come back here one day when she was Lady Hazzard and dressed by Worth or Patou.

She watched the attentive waitress refilling her cup with the delicious hot coffee, and suddenly an immense surge of gladness went through her. It was so unexpected and dazzling that she could have stood up and shouted, for the bliss of being vividly alive, past horrors suppressed, future difficulties not thought about. She was taking nothing from Clemency who was dead. She would eagerly repay Hugo for her deceit. He would find her an amenable and loving wife, and would never know that he had been cheated. The past was finished with. From now on, beginning with this charming room, the agreeable attention, and the handsome young officer sitting opposite her, she was going to be head over heels with delight in everything.

“What are you smiling about?” Hugo asked.

“I guess I was just feeling happy to be alive and here with you.”

“Well, that’s a good beginning.” His face had softened and he had lost a little of his stiff army-officer look. She was doing splendidly.

“Can we start soon, Hugo? I’m longing to see Loburn.”

“At once, darling. But it’s a long drive. Do you feel up to it?”

“Of course I’m up to it. I’m absolutely rejuvenated by this marvellous breakfast.”

“Capital. We’ll be there in time for luncheon. They’re expecting us. By the way though, Clemency, there’s one thing I’d like to mention away from old Pimm’s attentive ears. The money.”

“The money?”

“You know what I’m referring to. The marriage settlement. We threshed it out in New York, your Uncle Jonas and I. He’s a hard business man.”

“Oh, that. Oh, yes, I guess he has to be.”

She couldn’t look at Hugo. The thought of Clemency’s money shocked her too deeply. How much was the marriage settlement? She had no idea. She had stepped into Clemency’s shoes with little thought of them being gold-lined or diamond-studded. She had truly overlooked the fact that by becoming Clemency she had become an heiress. For not only was there the marriage settlement, but she would now presumably inherit Mrs Jervis’s considerable fortune. She had even had to accept the grisly diamond necklace, thrust into her hands by an embarrassed Mother Superior, and hidden at the bottom of her makeshift travelling bag.

“It’s all in order, I hope. No hitches?”

Hugo was embarrassed, too. His blue eyes had gone stony. The suspicion that he had been much more in love with Clemency’s fortune than herself became a certainty. Clemency must have known this. But, with her cool calculating little head, she had happily settled for the advantages of this particular marriage of convenience. So why was Hetty feeling momentarily daunted?

She searched her memory for snippets of information.

“I think it was to be lodged in the Westminster bank.” Someone had told her that. Polly, the parlour maid, who had overheard the conversation at that last breakfast in New York. “Didn’t Uncle Jonas tell you?”

“He did. But communications haven’t been simple since the war. I haven’t had confirmation. The drill was to present credentials, our marriage certificate being top of the list.”

“That will be easy enough, Hugo. When we’re married.”

Supposing the money hadn’t arrived, would she then be jilted? She—no, Clemency—had been dispatched like a bundle of goods. But that was the way things were done.

“What’s the money for?”

“To save Loburn, of course. My father left a lot of debts when he died, and I confess I’ve some hefty ones myself.”

Hetty found she didn’t care much for this conversation. She guessed too that Clemency would have slid over it merrily.

“People like you value your homes very much, don’t you?”

“Naturally.” His voice had a distinct arrogance. “After all, you Americans haven’t anything comparable, have you?”

Being in love with the past: was that a good thing? But she was going to love Loburn. And it was going to be hers as well as Hugo’s when it was repaired with her money.

Her money. Good. Now she was getting into the part. Except for one thing. She was making a spontaneous decision no matter what the risk. She was going to have to be bold about risks.

“Hugo, could I persuade you not to call me Clemency?”

“Why not?” He was surprised. “You never said anything in New York.”

“Then I was at home. Mother, and the servants, called me Clemency. But I’ve always hated the name. It’s so puritan. I was only given it because it was Mother’s name, too.”

“Don’t care for it much myself, to tell the truth. What do you want to be called? Did you have a pet name?”

“Yes. It was Hetty. My father called me that.” (
I will call her Hetty
…) She longed to keep some small part of herself. Perhaps it wasn’t a significant risk. Now that Mrs Jervis was dead the Fifth Avenue house would be shut up, the servants dispersed. She was unlikely to see any of them again, and Uncle Jonas had known her only as Brown.

“I rather like Hetty. It’s neat. Better than Clemency, as you say.” He was being kind, if a little patronising. “Everything’s going to be capital. I want to buy a couple of hunters if I can find any decent ones. Most of the good stock has gone to the front. You do ride, don’t you?”

That was one of the questions she had been dreading. Clemency had ridden very well at the Jervis’s summer place on Long Island. She herself had never attempted to mount a horse. She had never had the opportunity.

“I don’t, actually.”

He looked surprised. “I thought you did. I thought you told me so. Well, never mind. I’ll soon teach you. It will be the first thing I do when my leg’s better. Now, shall we go?”

The countryside soothed and enchanted her. She was going to love those low green hills dotted with sheep and crying lambs, the farm buildings nestling like tabby cats in the hollows, the clumps of elms and beeches, the streams glinting sharply in the hazy sunshine. It was a green and grey landscape, infinitely peaceful, a quiet dream.

“Like a Corot painting,” Hetty murmured.

“Is it? Didn’t know you cared about pictures.”

“Oh, I do.” She was emphatic. “Having been so near to death I care passionately about everything. Did you think I was just a party girl?”

“I’m getting to know you better by the minute. You’re not going to turn out to be a blue stocking, are you?”

He sounded slightly alarmed. She must remember to be more Clemency, less Hetty, at the beginning at least. Hetty the bookworm who had made herself invisible for hours in the library whenever she had had the opportunity.

“I’m not a blue stocking, I just look awful,” she murmured, leaning her head against his shoulder.

He gave his short bark of laughter. He appreciated that kind of wit. “Don’t worry. Kitty will fix you up.”

“Who’s Kitty?”

“My sister-in-law. My brother’s wife. They have a son, Freddie. Bit of a milksop.” He squeezed her hand again, painfully. “We’ll do better than that.”

His thoughts were so transparent. As head of the family it was his duty to save Loburn. It followed logically that he then wanted an heir. Failing that, one supposed the property and the title would revert to the younger brother and then to the milksop, Frederick. An eventuality that must be absolutely avoided.

Well, I’d like a son, too, Hetty told herself stoutly.

“Who else will be there, Hugo?”

“My mother. She’s waiting to meet you.”

“Does she approve of an American daughter-in-law?”

“Not entirely. But I daresay you can convert her, if you try. Don’t be deceived by her delicate look. She’s a strong-minded lady. Look, this is the beginning of Loburn land. We ride to hounds over those hills. It’s marvellous hunting country. If my leg stopped me hunting I’d rather have had a fatal wound, I can tell you.”

The low mounded hills, the patches of bluebells which were the same hazy blue as the sky, rooks squabbling noisily in a tall elm, a farmer following two horses and a plough, carving his slow sculpture over the hill’s breast and down to the hollow.

The cold waves and the cries of the drowning were receding in her mind, were surely nothing but a nightmare. The little village they motored through, a narrow street bordered by the rock-grey houses, a church steeple at the end, was infinite peace.

“Oh, Hugo! I love it!”

He was pleased.

“Capital, old girl. Capital.”

His vocabulary was a bit stereotyped. But she would improve it. As she would persuade his strong-minded mother to approve of her. And as she would become pregnant as soon as possible to give Hugo his heir. For who knew how long the war would last, and how many young men like Hugo, and presumably his brother, too, would be killed.

That fear was the only cloud over this miraculous day of rebirth.

T
HE STAIRS SEEMED ENDLESS.
Suddenly Hetty had been seized by an overpowering tiredness. The euphoria of meeting Hugo and the pleasure of the drive to Loburn had left her. She was not only tired but extremely nervous, an actress waiting to go on stage for her first big role.

Loburn, the weather-worn grey stone house at the end of a winding drive, was not as large as she had expected it to be, although who knew what warren of rooms there was behind the austere facade. Worn stone steps up to a pedimented doorway, a butler swinging the door open, and then the sun-splashed gloom of a black and white tiled hall, a long curve of staircase, a smell of pot-pourri, of generations of beeswax, a bowl of plum blossom on an almost black polished oak table, some chairs with faded needlework covers and curly legs, like spirals of candy. What were they called? She must learn about furniture. A fire that had almost gone out in a wide stone fireplace, two Labrador dogs making a rush at her.

And a plump woman whose mouth looked a bit pinched. Hugo’s mother?

“This is Mrs Evans, our housekeeper,” Hugo said. “She’ll show you your room.”

Only a housekeeper to welcome her? Considering the circumstances of her arrival, she had hardly expected a contingent of servants to be lined up on either side of the hall, but she was sure Clemency would have expected this, and been deeply disappointed, slightly insulted, too, at being greeted only by such a disapproving matron. What would Clemency have done? Treated the matter flippantly?

It seemed nothing was expected of her, for Hugo was saying, “Miss Jervis has no luggage, Mrs Evans. I hope someone has thought to put some things out for her.”

“I believe Mrs Lionel has,” Mrs Evans answered primly.

“Where is Mrs Lionel?”

“At the hospital. She was on duty from eight o’clock. But she’ll be home for luncheon. And Lady Hazzard is feeling poorly, but hopes to be down later.” Mrs Evans turned to the stairs, “Will you follow me, miss.”

Hetty cast a slightly panic-stricken look at Hugo, but he was already making off in another direction, leaning on his cane, the two big dogs following him. One flight of curving stairs, then another, much steeper. Hetty’s tiredness made her stumble. Mrs Evans looked round.

“We’ve put you in the grey room, miss. We thought you’d like to be quiet after that terrible shipwreck. Are you quite recovered, miss?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever truly recover,” Hetty answered, knowing she spoke the truth.

“Yes, it was dreadful, but worse things are happening in France. Perhaps you don’t know, being American.”

“I guess I don’t.”

“Then you’ll soon learn. All our fine young men are being killed. The master has been lucky so far, with only an injured leg. Mr Lionel is leaving for the Dardanelles. We’d never heard of such places before.” Mrs Evans’s anxiety was making her more friendly. But she still had difficulty in accepting this dishevelled white-faced young woman as the new bride for Loburn. Or was it that she didn’t care for Hetty being an American?

“Funny you arriving without any trousseau. We had expected great things.”

“I did have a lovely trousseau. It’s at the bottom of the sea.”

Mrs Evans gazed at Hetty for a moment with unguarded sympathy, then said briskly, “Never mind, you’re here and alive. That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

It was the only thing, Hetty reflected, nodding vehemently, and wondering what Clemency would have thought of the sad room into which she was shown.

A four-poster bed with grey brocade hangings, grey walls, a beamed ceiling. Cold. A room for second-class guests? Who had decided she should be put here until she occupied the Master’s bedroom? Hugo hadn’t yet said anything about wedding plans. Supposing he decided that after all he didn’t want to marry her, and packed her off back to New York? But no, the money in the bank was too great an attraction. That was her insurance.

“Nothing will disturb you up here,” said Mrs Evans, “except the rooks squabbling, and the wind. You’ll want to rest. Luncheon is in half an hour, but Mrs Lionel said if you didn’t want to come down you could ring for a tray.”

“Oh, I’ll come down,” said Hetty. The grey room. A meal alone. It was too melancholy. Her lip trembled, but she was determined not to begin weeping. “I’ll just wash and change. You said there were some clothes?”

“In the wardrobe, miss. Shall I send Effie?”

Send Brown to button up Miss Clemency. She heard an echo of Mrs Jervis’s autocratic voice …

“No, I’ll manage. Thank you, Mrs Evans.”

“The bathroom’s just across the passage. You do look peaky, miss.”