Mistress of Brown Furrows (6 page)

Timothy, who was never going to get married!... Timothy, who had resisted even Viola Featherstone!...

The telephone rang sharply in the hall, and she nodded to Agatha to answer it. When the maid returned—panting a trifle, for she was no longer young, and the oak stairs were steep— Meg looked at her with an unconcealed expression of distaste in her eyes, as if she anticipated her news.

“What was it?” she asked.

“A telegram,” Agatha returned, a trifle breathlessly. “They’re coming tonight. They’ ll be here in time for dinner! ” She looked away from her mistress’s face. “Judson is to meet the seven o’ clock train at the junction. ”

Meg Carrington stood absolutely still, and then suddenly she bit her lip.

“That’s all right,” she said, after a moment, calmly. “I was expecting them to be here for dinner. You’ d better tell Ellen James that she will have to stay the night and wait at table, and if you want any more help in the kitchen you can get Mrs. Rogers from The Croft. Send Judson on his bicycle—tell him to leave whatever he’s doing.”

“Hoeing the potatoes, I think,” Agatha volunteered, still with that faint quiver of excitement in her voice.

“Then he can leave them. And get him to bring in enough peas to go with the duck I ordered from the farm, and I think if you make a raspberry and red currant fool, and perhaps an apricot flan—and some cheese straws, if you can manage it! Timothy always loves your cheese straws, Aggie!...”

“Very good, Miss Meg.” Agatha was looking at her half admiringly, for Meg’ s efficient, housekeeperly instincts were rising rapidly to the surface, and her cool, housekeeperly brain was prepared to deal with the questions of the moment in the precise and expeditious manner she customarily dealt with them.

“And tell Judson not to waste any time over at The Croft. We all know he has a weakness for the Rogersons’ eldest girl, but he is not to indulge it while executing my errands.”

“Yes, Miss Meg.”

She followed her mistress to the head of the staircase, and when they had descended it to the cool, quiet hall, with panelled walls and an open timber roof, Meg turned and briskly entered the drawing-room. Agatha hurried off to the kitchen to begin operations for the master’ s return home.

The drawing room, at that early hour of the afternoon, was a place of charm and infinite repose. It was dimly but sufficiently lighted by a fine specimen of a mullioned window, and at the opposite end french windows admitted one to the garden. The curtains and chair covers were not particularly new—they even bore some evidence of fading—but the subtle tones of blue and pink and primrose yellow contained in the chintz went well with the background of dark and ancient oak. And the wide fireplace was flower-filled, and so was every bowl and vase that was to be seen in the room.

Meg went round the room rearranging the clusters of old-fashioned Mrs. Sinkins, and the dark, almost mauvish red roses which were her favorites from the garden. She buried her face amongst the velvety blooms, inhaling their perfume with the relish of a connoisseur.

There were a great many silver-framed photographs loading little occasional tables, and delicate specimens of china-ware and other knick-knacks. It occurred to her that Timothy’s new wife might not altogether approve of such a heterogeneous collection of inherited family ‘treasures’, even though some of them were quite valuable, like Great-aunt Susan’s exquisite little Sheraton work-table, while others—Great-aunt Lucinda’s sampler, for instance, which occupied a rather prominent position on the wall above the fireplace—might easily have been dispensed with. And sooner or later a ‘clean sweep’ where the spindly-legged but not very comfortable furniture was concerned might occupy the mind of the newcomer, especially if she was a very modern sort of young woman.

Modern young women liked clear spaces and fitted carpets and cocktail cabinets. They had no time for faded but beautiful Persian rugs and silk embroidered cushions. A radiogram would probably very shortly replace the spinet in the corner, with its yellowed ivory keys, and one or two good pictures the slightly amateurish water-colors on the walls—mostly the work of herself when young, and one or two of her forebears.

In which case, thought Meg, she would retire to one of the remote corners of the house and surround herself with them.

Never once did it occur to her that she might be called upon to give way entirely to the bride, and that even her presence in the house might not be desired by that young woman. Mercifully for Meg, that thought had not yet been born to taunt and harry her.

When she went into the dining room the sideboard was ablaze with a splendid display of Georgian silver. Agatha and Ellen James had worked over it for half a morning, and it well repaid their efforts.

There was nothing at all in this room to which anyone—any reasonable human being, that is—could possibly take exception, for its proportions were excellent, it was dignified, and everything in it was the work of long-dead craftsmen. Meg paused beneath a portrait in oils of an inflammable-looking gentleman in the costume of an eighteenth century admiral, and a surge of pride went through her, for it was a portrait of one of her ancestors. And on the opposite wall was her great-great-grandmother and such an undoubted beauty that she felt a little saddened as she looked, for Meg knew that she herself had no pretensions to beauty whatsoever.

Meg would have given anything to have been born the sort of woman she so passionately admired in her heart, but which she knew she never could be now. A woman to be loved, and admired, and sought after—and married! A woman to attract an essentially man’ s man like Timothy, her brother, and to become mistress of Brown Furrows!...

As she went back upstairs to look out a dress to wear that evening she wondered whether Timothy’s new wife was really like that, and, if so, how would she feel about her? Would she— could she possibly—like her?

She would make a tremendous effort, of course, but—!

She dragged open the door of her wardrobe and ran her fingers along a row of dresses. They were all expressly designed to make the most of her angular proportions, and they were all elegant without being pretty, neutral and suitable in color, without one delicate pastel tint amongst them. And she felt that she hated them all, she hated even the thought of the future now that her world had been suddenly upset.

But most of all she
dreaded
the thought of the future. She was secretly very much afraid....

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE sunlight streamed through one of the least grimy patches of the beautiful stained-glass window of the old city church streamed across the foot of the chancel steps and lighted the faces of the little group of people standing there. The vicar, in his white surplice, and with his whiter hair, Miss Hardcastle, quite beautifully arrayed in a new dove-grey suit, and with a chic little bunch of parma violets nestling beneath the brim of her chip straw hat. The tall man who looked as if he was accustomed to wearing a monocle, but had dispensed with it for the occasion, and was very upright and soldierly in a suit of exquisite tailoring, with a carnation in his buttonhole, was Nat Marples—Nathaniel Daniel Edward Ferguson Marples—a lifelong friend of Timothy Carrington; and Carrington himself stood almost painfully and rigidly upright in a dark suit whose creator had also achieved sartorial perfection.

Carol, only vaguely aware of these people around her, but keenly conscious that somewhere out of this mist of unreality the vicar was addressing her, fumblingly removed the glove from her left hand, and passed it to Miss Hardcastle to hold. Miss Hardcastle smiled at her reassuringly, and thought that of all the young women who had enjoyed for a brief period the benefit of her hard-and-fast curriculum, Carol, on passing out into the great world, looked the least fitted to deal with all the responsibilities of matrimony which she was so quickly incurring.

Whether it was the effect of the misty blue dress she was wearing, with the little coronet of cyclamen-pink flowers resting like pink butterflies on her pale gold hair, and a wisp of veiling floating out behind her, it was impossible to tell, but she did look quite extraordinarily youthful. And her voice trembled as she made her responses—trembled so much that it threatened to break down altogether, or at least to die away into a mere nothingness, as she uttered the words:

“I, Carol Amanda Mary, take thee, Timothy Richard ... ”

Her hand was ice cold when Carrington took it and held it with rock-like firmness, and he felt her fingers incapable of responses as they lay within his own. His own voice was firm and contained no suggestion of emotion of any sort, and his eyes were quiet and straight-gazing. Carol standing so close to him, felt once a tremor of his breath on her cheek, and the muscles of his arm quivered once a trifle spasmodically—or so she thought. And then they knelt down together, before the altar.

When they rose up they were man and wife. In the vestry the vicar congratulated them both and beamed upon them, clasping their hands with genuine warmth. Miss Hardcastle felt as if something trembled on her eyelashes, and whisked it away quickly before bending forward to kiss the bride. Nat Marples, adjusting an imaginary eyeglass, glanced for an instant at the bridegroom and lifted an inquiring eyebrow—as if asking his permission—and then went forward and also soundly saluted the bride, astonishing her by the enthusiasm and the determination to do a good job well which he brought to such an excellent opportunity.

For she had no idea how utterly charming she looked, and how inviting was the small face with its large, bewildered eyes peeping shyly through the wisp of virginal white veiling.

“Good luck, my dear! ” he said, crushing her hands hard. “Good luck and plenty of it! ”

“I do hope you’ll both be
frightfully
happy!”

It was Miss Hardcastle’ s contribution, still conscious of a most unwanted moisture collecting behind her eyelids.

Nat Marples looked at her and grinned one-sidedly. “And you a headmistress, Miss Hardcastle!” he said. “You’re forgetting yourself today! ”

She laughed, and this time she did not disdain to look for a handkerchief.

“I am,” she agreed. “But it isn’ t every day in the week I see one of my pupils safely and happily married.”

“You think she’s going to be happy, then, Miss Hardcastle?” Timothy Carrington inquired quietly. For all his composure during the ceremony he looked a little pale now, she thought, and his expression was almost grave, while the expression of the girl who had so recently become his wife would have indicated to the world that her emotions at that moment were indescribable—which, as a matter of fact, they were.

“Of course.” Miss Hardcastle looked up at him almost affectionately. “You’re both going to be happy, and I want to thank you very much indeed for allowing me to be present on this most auspicious occasion. I was delighted to be asked, and I am still more delighted to have taken part in this really memorable little ceremony.”

“I move that we cease congratulating the happy pair and, as they have a train to catch, and not a great deal of time to catch it in, adjourn to somewhere as quickly as possible and drink their healths in something stronger than water,” Nat Marples suggested, looking at Carol a little quizzically, as if he had not yet made up his mind whether she was the completely radiant bride or not. There was something about her—something a little restrained and uncertain—apart from her rather attractive

shyness, which set his mind wondering. And Timothy, too....

Unless, of course, he was feeling the strain, which was more or less understandable.

But what was not quite so understandable was that he had not, so far, even turned and looked squarely into his bride’s eyes, let alone kissed her. And immediately the ceremony was over their hands had fallen apart.

“Of course, my dear chap,” Carrington replied with sudden briskness, “all that is arranged. What an ass you are, Nat, to think we are going running round London in a taxi, looking for a pub to have a drink in. We are going back to our hotel, and unless my instructions have been completely ignored we shall find some champagne on ice ready waiting for us.”

Not only was there champagne when they got back to the flower-decked room which the management had provided, but there were little
pate de foie
sandwiches and other delicacies, as well as an array of varied bottles and glasses set out on the buffet table. The waiters withdrew after releasing the corks from the champagne bottles with that fascinating little soft plop which Carol, when she had heard it once before in her life, had thought the most intriguing sound in the world, and Nat lifted his glass high.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Carrington! ” he said.

“Hear, hear! ” echoed Miss Hardcastle.

“May they live long and die happy, and may their descendants live long after them! ”

“Most comprehensive,” Timothy murmured, carefully avoiding his bride’s eyes, although he stood very close to her elbow, as he had sat close beside her in the taxi. It seemed to her, full of a strange sensation of wonderment as well as unreality, that although he meticulously avoided touching her— and apparently had no desire to touch her! —he wished to inspire her with the feeling that in future, whether she wished it or not, he would be there, always close at hand—a husband not altogether to be discounted, although he was not in any sense of the word to be a normal husband.