Mistress of the House (4 page)

Thine,

Laurie.

CHAPTER FOUR

Laurie alighted from the bus, carrying her several parcels, and set out on her walk to the farm. She rather wished that it was not quite so far, and debated whether she should stay in the village for a much needed cup of tea, or wait until she reached the farm, when she would enjoy it much more. The matter was settled for her, when a car drew up behind her and a voice said: “Like a lift, lady?”

She turned and smiled into Max’s face.

“I’m very pleased to see
you
,” she said.

“I thought you would be.”

“You didn’t come specially to meet me?”

“Not specially, but intentionally. I had to come down to the blacksmith, so I came when I could meet your bus.”

“Well, I call that most considerate.” Laurie heaped her parcels on the back seat and got in beside Max.

“You don’t want to be worn out
before
you go to a dance,” he said.

“I shall soon recover, but I admit that I could do with some tea.”

“If there’s any forthcoming. The whole house is in a state of turmoil. Mother’s flying round doing last-minute things for the supper. Jess is washing her hair. Roger’s getting in everybody’s way. I really felt safer coming to meet you.”

“I promise you I won’t add to the turmoil.”

“I could almost find it in my heart to wish you weren’t going to the dance.”

“Oh, but why? I love dancing.”

“Do you? Yes, of course you do.”

“Why don’t you want me to go?”

“I thought of the music we could enjoy when the others had gone.”

“So we could. But perhaps we’ll be able to have music soon. There may not be another dance for a long time.”

“It was only a notion,” he said. “You’re looking forward to it—had your hair done, and I’m sure you’ve got a lovely dress.”

“I haven’t danced for such a long time.”

“My dear child, I’m not reproaching you. I want you to enjoy yourself. Do you dance a great deal in Town?”

“Well, at least one evening a week. There are quite a lot of us, old friends, and we belong to a dancing club.”

“Do you miss it, your town life?”

“No,” she said, and then added, as if surprised, “No. Isn’t that strange? I don’t miss it at all. I always have done before—when I’ve been away on jobs.”

“Then you like it here?”

“Oh yes, rather. I love it I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a house where I’ve felt so much at home.”

“Except for Jess,” he said.

“Except for Jessica. Why does she dislike me so?”

“I can only think that it’s because we’ve always rather spoiled her, made much of her, in a quiet way, you know. She resents your coming here to take any of our attention.”

“Does she dislike Roger’s girl?”

“She doesn’t know much of her. No, she doesn’t dislike her, but then Roger’s girl doesn’t live in the house.”

“She takes Roger’s attention all the same.”

“But she doesn’t trespass on Jess’s kingdom. Don’t think that I think you trespass. I’m trying to put her possible viewpoint. Does it worry you?”

“No. It doesn’t worry me, but I don’t like it, naturally. It’s a little uncomfortable.”

“Are you saying that you want to move?”

“No. I don’t want to move. Not at all.”

There was a long silence between them. The car sped along the country road and turned into the farm lane. “Do
you
think it would be better for me to move?”

He turned his head and glanced at her, as she turned her head to look at him.

“I? No. However unsettling it may be,
I
don’t want you to go.” And he added belatedly: “Nor do the others, I’m sure, Roger and Mother.”

They came to the farm. Max stopped the car at the house. “I’ll bring in your parcels for you,” he said.

In spite of his warning, there was tea waiting for them, and the usual good tea. Laurie did not bother to go upstairs but left her hat and coat over the back of a chair and sat down straight away. Max came in, put her parcels on the same chair and went to wash his hands. Then he rem? in and sat down at the table.

“Is Diana Humphries coming to the dance?” Roger asked Laurie.

“Yes. I didn’t see her, because she went out when I was working and hadn’t come back when I left, but Mr. Humphries said I would meet her at the
dance
. Her brother had said he was coming home for the weekend, but didn’t arrive.”

“That’s Neville all over,” said Mrs. Lorney. “Always promising to come, but always going somewhere else at the last moment. He finds it dull here, without a doubt.”

Jessica looked across the table at Max.

“You’ll come down, won’t you, Max?”

“If Roger drives you, it won’t be necessary. There will just be room for the four of you in the car.”

“But if Diana is to be there, she’ll be disappointed not to see you.”

“Yes, I must see Diana, but I can see her tomorrow. She’s sure to come over.”

As Roger was ready and wanted to go on for his Audrey, and as Jessica did not want to be left to go with Laurie, they both piled in with their mother and the trifles, with Max to drive them down and bring back the car for Laurie.

When Max came back she was ready. The lamp in the kitchen had been turned low while Laurie was upstairs, and she had not bothered to turn it higher. She was standing before the fire, and the deep apricot color of her dress was turned to flame by the light lent it by the fire. Max stood at the door, transfixed, until she turned and smiled at him. Then he closed the door behind him and limped across the room to her side, looking down at her.

He took a deep breath, was about to speak to her and then restrained himself. Laurie smiled up at him.

“What a nuisance I am,” she said, “giving you another journey.”

“You look like another girl,” he said.

“Do I? But I’m just the same, I assure you.”

“You don’t belong in a farm kitchen, Laurie Giles.”
She looked at him. There was more in the few words than at first appeared, but she did not know what it was. She smiled a little.

“Don’t be misled by one pretty frock, Mr. Lorney,” she said, her voice teasing. “I expect I shall end up in somebody’s kitchen—and probably not half such a nice one as this.”

“Do you call this a nice kitchen?”

“I call it a lovely one.”

“What is the Laurie short for?” he asked her.

“Laura. But I always use Laurie. I was intended, like so many poor little girls, to be a boy, and his name was to be Laurence. Laura was the next best thing.”

“Laurie suits you. I’d like to call you Laurie, if I may.”

“Why, of course. I’d like it very much. Miss Giles is so formal. Several times I’ve been on the point of asking your mother to call me Laurie.”

“Well, Laurie, are you ready? I’m feeling sorry already for all the village girls.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to outshine them, I’m afraid.”

“But they aren’t all village girls. What about Diana Humphries?”

“Diana will need some outshining, true. Diana is always coolly lovely. I think you’ll like Diana.”

Laurie, slipping on her short fur jacket, snuggling her bare shoulders into its warmth, was not so sure.

The car climbed the length of the lane once more and turned on to the road. Max was silent Laurie, a little excited, looking forward to the evening’s pleasure, became aware of his silence. I wonder, she thought, whether Max danced before his accident? It isn’t a thing I can ask him now. He probably did. I wonder how he feels now to be driving us backwards and forwards, as if he were our chauffeur, and to be left out of it all. Poor Max. He would go back to the farm and sit by the kitchen fire, reading his paper, smoking his pipe, until it was time to come and fetch them, but who knew what he was really thinking and feeling? He was not talkative at any time, but never since Laurie had been at the farm had he referred to his lameness by word or sign. He was so handsome, so pleasant and attractive that it was a safe bet that he was a great success at the village dances at one time. She could imagine the fluttering of hearts among the maidens there. And now his part was to sit at home and wait.

Suddenly, on impulse, she said: “Mr. Lorney.”

“Max,” he said.

“Max, I’ve decided that I don’t want to go to the dance. I think I’d much rather go back and have some music.”

“Oh, no, you don’t” he said, a little grimly, driving straight ahead.

“I should, really.”

“My dear Laurie, don’t insult my intelligence.”

“Oh, please don’t take it like that I would like to go back.”

“You know that you’re quite excited at the prospect of the dance; that you’re interested to see what the village dances are like; and what the people are like. And you think I shall believe you when you say you want to turn your back on it.”

“Well, I want to do both; but I would like to go back more.”

“Laurie, it’s very kind of you; I appreciate it. Now don’t say any more about it.”

“Max.”

“Yes?”

“Stop the car.”

Obligingly, he drew it to the side of the road and stopped it Then he looked towards her enquiringly in the darkness.

“You’re bullying me,” she said.

“Heavens, no.”

“Yes, you are. You won’t allow me to know my own mind.”

“I won’t allow you to try to deceive me. Be honest Laurie. You’re sorry for me, aren’t you?”

She was silent for a moment, then she said: “Max, don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult. But I cannot stand people being sorry for me—especially you.”

She did not ask why he specified herself. He added: “It’s very nice to hear, Max, from you.”

“Max, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go back for an hour or two, and then you bring me down to the dance for the last hour, and stay and talk to your friends with us. Then we shall both have our music, I shall see the village dance, and you’ll be able to talk to your Diana.”

“My Diana? Diana is very much her own. I’m tempted to fall in with such a good plan, but there’s no fire in the sitting room. It will be cold and cheerless and you will be far better off at the dance.”

“Please turn round. It’s all settled.”

“I see that you’re as stubborn as a mule,” he said, but his voice sounded pleased, and he turned the car and went back to the farm.

He was an expert at fire building. He got a great blaze with wood chips, and progressed from small logs to big ones—all very dry, so that the blaze was continuous. Laurie watched him, keeping her fur jacket round her shoulders. He was very much aware of her, standing there beside him, as he worked: the long, soft folds of her bright dress, the silver sandals peeping from underneath (such silly sandals—nothing but an insignificant sole and a few slender straps), the caressing softness of the fur that she held about her. And an expensive, heady perfume that was strange and new in the sitting room of the farmhouse.

When the room had warmed a little, and the fire was too hot to stay close to, Laurie slipped off her jacket and went to the piano. Max sat back in his armchair and watched her and listened. The firelight danced all over the flame and apricot of her dress, and over the bright brown hair, hanging softly about her bare shoulders. Max smoked his pipe, his teeth clenched on it, and wondered what would happen if he went to her and put his hands on those soft shoulders, and his cheek down on that soft brown hair. The temptation to do so was easily resisted; he had only to think of his lameness to realize that he would do no such thing. He wasted a few minutes in vain regret; imagining himself taking Laurie down to the dance in the old days; imagining the good time they would have together, the drive home together, the softness of her lips under his when he kissed her in the darkness.

She turned on the stool and looked at him.

“Did you like that one?” she asked him.

“Yes, very much,” he said, realizing that he had heard it in spite of his dreaming.

“It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it? A Chopin prelude. And this is, too—one of the studies.”

She turned back and went on playing. He rose and went to her side, looking down on her and her flying hands.

“Don’t,” she said, “it embarrasses me if you watch me.”

But he stayed and watched so that she dropped her hands into her lap.

“I don’t embarrass you, do I, Laurie?”

“Yes. It’s because I know I don’t really play very well.”

“But you do. You play beautifully. You have a lovely touch. What else do you do?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. In this house, I feel a most useless person. Everybody is always so busy. But I just put in a few hours a day with the Humphries...”

“On highly technical work,” put in Max.

“And play the piano and dance, and look nice, and play tennis. I don’t know a thing about keeping house, or cooking, or poultry or crops or trees or flowers, or anything country and useful.”

“Why should you? You’ve never had need to.”

“But imagine what will happen when I’m married, what a dunderhead I shall be.”

“Are you going to be married?”

“Some day, I hope.”

“Have you picked out the man?”

“No. I haven’t got as far as that.”