The Brading Collection (3 page)

Stacy sat in the train and felt elated. She had downed all the things which had tried to put her off, and here she was, on her way. She had a right to feel pleased. Even that morning Edith Fonteyne had said on the telephone, “My dear,” with about six exclamation marks when Stacy murmured that she was going to Burdon to paint a miniature of Myra Constantine. The exclamation marks had been followed by a gasp.

“You’re not!”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“My dear!” Edith was still gasping. “Well, if you don’t mind—”

“What is there to mind?”

“Well, I should have thought—”

Stacy lost her temper.

“Oh, don’t think!” she said, and banged the receiver down.

Edith might be a cousin, but she was one of the most irritating women in the world. What she really wanted was to hold Stacy’s hand and say, “Confide in me.” It was not the first time by a good many that the receiver had been jolted back in a hurry. As a rule Stacy was sorry afterwards, because Edith had known her in her cradle and she meant to be kind. But today she merely experienced a glow of triumph. She had downed Edith just as she had downed her own misgivings and that really damnable dream. You could down things if you tried hard enough.

Someone had once told Stacy that doing things in a hurry was her besetting weakness. She couldn’t remember who it was, but it was probably Edith’s mother, old Cousin Agatha Fonteyne. Yes, it was. Stacy could hear her saying it—“You are always in too much of a hurry, my dear. If you see something you like you must have it at once. That dress you came home with last week—not in the least suitable or practical, but you had to rush in and get it without giving yourself time to think. And now this marriage—”

Of course, that had been the text, a whirlwind courtship and a lightning marriage—“Marry in haste and repent at leisure,” and all the rest of it. Charles, like the offending dress, was neither suitable nor practical. An old place hanging round his neck, army pay and very little else, expensive tastes, and a good deal more charm than was good for him. Too much for Stacy, who had married him in haste and repented before the honeymoon was over.

A little hot spurt of rage made her face glow. Charles again! Bobbing up in such unlikely company as Agatha Fonteyne! She thought of them, and had to laugh. And there she was, back to being pleased with herself.

When she got to Ledlington there were a good many people on the platform, some getting out, and some getting in because the train went on to Ledstow. In the crowd, head and shoulders above the ruck, Lady Minstrell looked even more imposing than she had done in the flat. As soon as she saw Stacy at the window she came forward, met her at the open door, and with no more than a murmured greeting stepped up into the train and ensconced herself in a corner seat.

“I hope you don’t mind—we’re going on to Ledstow. I hadn’t time to let you know.”

Before Stacy could answer or do anything except feel completely out of her depth a porter thrust two suitcases into the carriage and followed with a hamper of fruit. By the time Stacy had said, “Ledstow?” he was helping three children up the steps and hoisting a very stout woman in after them. The children all wanted to wave to someone on the platform, and when the stout woman had finished mopping her face she stood looking over their heads and waved too.

Stacy got as close to Lady Minstrell as she could. Her mouth was dry. She said, “Ledstow?” again, and then something like “I can’t—”

The children were shouting farewells to a group of assorted relatives. Lady Minstrell raised her voice and said,

“My mother has gone to Warne.”

It was like a bad dream. She couldn’t possibly go to Warne, but in about half a minute the train would begin to take her there. No, that was nonsense. It couldn’t take her any farther than Ledstow, and what she had to do was to get out there and go back to town. She could even get out now. She half rose from her seat, and as she did so, a porter shouted, “By your leave!”, flung the door open with one hand, and pushing the children back with the other, made room for a wiry middle-aged woman to dart through the opening. As he banged the door on her and shouted, “All right, George!” the train gave a preliminary jerk, the children squeaked and giggled, the newcomer cleared two of them out of the corner opposite Lady Minstrell and, sitting down, said briskly,

“Hullo, Milly! Nice to see you. Where are you off to?”

Lady Minstrell said,

“Warne. Mama had a sudden urge. You know how she is.” She turned to include Stacy. “This is Miss Mainwaring whom we have persuaded to come down on a visit. She is going to do a miniature. Miss Mainwaring, this is our friend Miss Dale. I expect you know Miss Mainwaring’s work, Dossie. Mama admired it so much that she has given way and is going to sit to her.”

Theodosia Dale took a good sharp look at Stacy. She not only knew her work, but she knew all about her. She knew that she had married Charles Forrest and left him, and that they were now divorced. If there was anything to know about anyone she always knew it. She had, unfortunately, been away from home at the time of Stacy’s brief visit to Saltings as Mrs. Forrest. If she had been on the spot she would naturally have made it her business to know why the honeymoon had come to such a disastrous end. Of course the girl had found Charles Forrest out—that went without saying. But just what she had found out was what nobody seemed to know. There were plenty of stories, but she did not feel sure that any of them were true. Lilias Grey? Nonsense! She was his adopted sister, and though she was obviously a fool about him, Theodosia was prepared to eat her sensible felt hat if Charles was, or ever had been, in love with Lilias. Of course quite idiotic to bring the girl he had married down to Saltings with Lilias still in the house and a general clutter of relations knocking about. He probably thought they were all going to be bosom friends. Men were like that. Stupid beyond belief.

As these thoughts went through her mind, she glanced sharply at Stacy sitting over the way from her by Milly Minstrell. The children—very badly behaved—had come to blows over a piece of chocolate, and two of them were screaming. Conversation was for the moment quite impossible. She sat stiffly upright in the iron-grey tweeds which matched her quite abundant hair, the thick country shoes, the sensible hat, and looked at Stacy Forrest who had gone back to calling herself Miss Mainwaring. Not very tall, not very anything. Brown hair made the most of—girls spent all their money at the hairdresser’s nowadays. Grey eyes rather widely set. Good lashes, with none of that filthy mascara on them. A clear, pale skin, and a reasonable shade of lipstick. A neat blue linen dress. The girl looked like a lady. Good hands and feet, good ankles. But just why Charles Forrest should have fallen for her was past guessing. No particular figure—just slim. Probably never had a decent meal. Girls were just as stupid as men, only in less revolting ways. This—what was her name—Stacy? Ridiculous! She probably ate in snack bars perched up on a high stool with her feet off the ground. Lunacy!

The wails of the combatants had died away. The stout woman was fanning herself with a pair of black kid gloves, and all three children were smearing their faces with fresh pieces of chocolate. Lady Minstrell went on speaking as if there had been no interruption.

“Mama is like that—if she wants anything she wants it at once.” She turned to Stacy. “I would have let you know about the change in our plan if there had been time, but there really wasn’t. My mother just suddenly took it into her head that she had been long enough at Burdon and that what she wanted was sea air, so she packed up and went off to Warne this morning. She didn’t even let me know. I just came down and found she’d gone, and by that time it was too late to ring you up, so I thought the best thing I could do was to get into your train.”

Stacy felt amused, angry, relieved, all at the same time. She began to say, “Oh, but then of course—” but Lady Minstrell caught her up.

“No, no, there is no change about the sittings. My mother has gone, as she always goes, to Warne House.”

Stacy’s hand contracted in her lap. Lewis Brading’s house! And she was to go and stay there, presumably as his guest, and paint Mrs. Constantine! She had a quick picture of him in her mind, thin and grey, with dislike in his eyes, and one of his famous jewels held out for her to see—the sapphire ring which had belonged to Marie Antoinette.

Theodosia Dale leaned a little forward from her upright position and said drily,

“Warne House has been turned into a country club.”

Stacy thought, “She knows me. She wouldn’t have said that if she didn’t know me.”

And then Lady Minstrell was going on.

“It belonged to a Mr. Brading, a friend of ours. But of course much too big for him, so he very wisely decided to sell. He keeps the annexe which he had built to house his Collection, and he lives there and has all his meals in the club. It saves him a lot of trouble. The annexe is quite shut off of course, with steel doors, steel shutters—all that kind of thing. Because his Collection is immensely valuable—jewels of historic interest. That is one of the things that takes my mother to Warne. She loves fine jewels, and some of Mr. Brading’s are very fine. The annexe is really like a strong-room, but I shouldn’t like to have so much valuable stuff about.”

Miss Dale gave a short laugh.

“Like it! Sticking your neck out, that’s what I call it. Lewis will be getting himself murdered one of these days, and then what good will all that junk be to him?”

Lady Minstrell sounded shocked. She said, “Dossie!” and Miss Dale tossed her head.

“Much better to collect postage stamps. Something abnormal about a man going soft in the head over jewels.”

Stacy found her voice.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t undertake to do a miniature of Mrs. Constantine in an hotel—it really wouldn’t be possible.”

She caught a sardonic gleam in Miss Dale’s eye. And then Lady Minstrell’s hand was on her arm.

“Oh, please don’t say that—it’s all been so difficult! But do let me explain. It isn’t an hotel, it’s a club, and my mother has her own suite of rooms. You wouldn’t know you weren’t in a private house.”

Theodosia watched them. The girl would like to get out of it, but Milly wouldn’t let her. Nice hot water she’d be in with old Myra if she turned up at Warne without the tame artist. After refusing to so much as have her photograph taken for about forty years Myra had swung round and was all set to be painted. Snatch her miniaturist away at the last moment and there would be the devil to pay.

She watched Milly being soothing, and the girl hanging back. And then they were at Ledstow, with Myra Constantine’s chauffeur on the platform touching his cap and saying,

“The car is outside, my lady.”

In the car Stacy told herself that she had behaved like a mesmerized rabbit. But what on earth could she have done? Impossible to go on saying no without giving a reason. Impossible to explain in the interested hearing of Theodosia Dale, a fat woman, and three children eating chocolate. She hastened to make amends to herself. Much better to do as she had done. She could go up to Warne House, put the case quietly before Mrs. Constantine, and catch a morning train. It wouldn’t hurt her to spend the night in Lewis Brading’s house. She need not even come down to dinner. Much better and more dignified than having a scene at the station. Lady Minstrell’s voice came through her thoughts.

“Dossie and I were at school together. Her father was the Rector. She has a little old house in the village, and she knows all about everyone. I have asked her to come up this evening. My mother likes to know about everything too.”

Stacy couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Lady Minstrell flowed on—schooldays, Dossie’s good heart, Dossie’s sharp tongue.

“She really is the best friend in the world, but of course she wants knowing. She never wears anything but those thick coats and skirts winter and summer. I don’t know how she does it in this heat. There—we’re coming to Warne now—down in the dip. Such a pretty village. Really it was a pity Dossie was having tea in Ledstow, or we could have given her a lift, but there is quite a convenient bus service. Look—that is Warne House, half way up the slope on the other side among the trees. It is very tiring travelling in this heat, don’t you think? We shall both be glad of some tea.”

Stacy felt as if it was going to take more than a cup of tea to get her through arriving at Warne House. Lewis Brading was the sort of cousin who had always been there. She and Charles had dined with him, driving over from Saltings on a summer evening, turning in between the trees as they were turning now, and just as they came in sight of the house Charles had taken his hand off the wheel and touched her lightly on the cheek.

“Cheer up, darling, it’ll be all the same by tomorrow. Anyhow, what’s the matter?”

“He doesn’t like me.”

His smile flashed out, fleeting, impish, charming.

“He doesn’t like anyone—much. What used to be his heart is completely bunged up with the Collection—there really isn’t room for anything else.”

“How grim.”

She could hear him laugh.

“Cheer up! It takes all sorts to make a world.”

The whole scene came back in a flash, the two of them all warm and happy, and sorry for Lewis Brading who was out in the cold. That cut deep, because two days later Stacy was out in the cold too—the bitter freezing cold that kills your heart.

“Here we are,” said Lady Minstrell in a tone of relief. “We’ll go straight up to my mother. She is longing to see you.”

Mrs. Constantine’s sitting-room looked over the tree-tops to the sea, unbelievably blue and still under a cloudless sky. Mrs. Constantine herself sat well up to the window in the largest armchair with her feet resting upon an embroidered footstool. They were pretty feet, and she was inordinately proud of the “only bit of prettiness I ever had, so no wonder.” Stacy saw them before she saw anything else, pretty, elegant feet in pretty, elegant shoes. And then a shapeless incongruity of figure, and the clever, ugly face with its flattened features, big chin, wide mouth, and astonishingly brilliant eyes.

In that first glance she was reminded of a toad—something about the big hunched body, the forward thrust of the head, the wide mouth and the eyes, not bulging like a toad’s but with something about them, something that reminded her—

All at once she knew what it was. Words flowed into her mind: “Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.” Myra Constantine’s eyes were like the fabulous jewel, full of black fire. A voice that was almost as deep as a man’s said,

“Well, Milly?” And then, “How do you do, Miss Mainwaring?” She put out a hand that felt square and strong. “I don’t get up, because it is rather a performance. Come and sit down and have a good look at me. I’m an ugly old devil, but I daresay you get tired of painting pretty-pretties. Girls are all too much alike, especially nowadays—clothes, figures and complexions planned, controlled, and mass-produced. Het, ring for tea!” She waved a hand. “My daughter Hester.” Then, with a grimace, “Miss Constantine.”

Stacy shook hands with a tall, limp woman. There was a look of Lady Minstrell, but no more—older, meek, bullied, without colour or individuality. Stacy gave her a glance, and realized that that was all Hester Constantine would ever get from anyone whilst her mother was in the room. If she had worn scarlet to old Myra’s black, she wouldn’t have been noticed. But it was Myra who flaunted the loose coat of cherry silk over a gay flowered dress. She fixed her brilliant eyes on Stacy.

“Well, what about it? Are you going to paint me?”

This was the moment to explain that she simply couldn’t stay, and it was quite impossible to do it. Myra Constantine had asked her in so many words if she was too ugly to paint, and if she came out with “I’ve got to get back to town,” it was as much as to say, “Well, yes, you are.” And it wouldn’t be true. She’d be the most marvellous subject, just as she was, in that red coat, with the fuzz of white hair standing up in a golliwog frill. The artist in Stacy took charge. Her eyes shone as she leaned forward and said in most convincing tones,

“Oh, may I? I’d love to! You’d be marvellous to paint!”

Myra Constantine chuckled.

“That’s the stuff! And now you and me’ll have a talk.” She turned her head for a moment. “Milly, you and Het can go and have your tea in the lounge. Me and Miss Mainwaring’s going to have a talk.”

The tall, imposing Lady Minstrell came to lay her hand on her mother’s shoulder, and said, “Yes, Mama,” in the voice of an obedient little girl. And then the tea came in and she and her sister went out.

Mrs. Constantine took charge. It was a substantial tea. When she wasn’t pouring out she was eating with gusto, and whether she was pouring or eating she hardly ever drew breath.

“Now you just make a good tea. I’ve always liked my tea, and always shall. ‘You may keep your cocktails,’ that’s what I said when they come in. ‘Keep ’em and welcome,’ I said, ‘I’ll stick to a nice cuppa.’ ” She shot a malicious glance at Stacy. “Vulgar old woman, ain’t I? Well, I can talk common, and I can talk fine if I want to.” Voice and manner altered in a flash. “I’m sure you must have had a dreadfully hot journey, Miss Mainwaring. Let us each take one of these small sandwiches and talk about the weather.” She dropped back with a grin. “There—I can talk exactly like the Minstrells if I want to. Milly’s in-laws, you know—perfectly well bred and damnably dull. She’s made herself over to suit. ‘Yes, Mama. No, Mama. Dear Mama, it’s time for your rest.’ ” The mimicry was perfect.

“Tchah!” said Myra Constantine with violence. And then, “Oh, well, she’s a good daughter, and so is Het. The bother with me is I can’t stand being bored.”

As she tossed off a cup of almost boiling tea, those black eyes of hers were searching Stacy’s face. “Are you going to be any good?” they said. “Are you going to amuse me? I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Can I shock you? I don’t know that either, but I’m going to see.”

She set down her cup and filled it again.

“Not ready yet?”

Stacy said, “Mine’s too hot.” Her eyes met the questing look, wide and clear with a little laugh in them. What she would have liked to say was, “Do go on talking.”

Said or unsaid, Myra Constantine obliged, this time with a sharp question.

“Well, what do you know about me?”

“You are Myra Constantine—”

“So what?”

“The greatest variety artist we’ve ever had.”

Myra nodded.

“I knocked ’em,” she said. “And do you know where I started? In a slum. Drunken father—bullied, worn-out mother—seven kids one after another as quick as they could come. Quads hadn’t been invented then, or I daresay she’d have had ’em, poor Mum. Nine of us in a basement kitchen—kids getting dragged up somehow.” She gave a short laugh. “If it had been Milly or Het, they’d have stayed there. But I got out—pushed my way into panto. Can you see me as a fairy? That’s how I started. ‘Keep that kid well out of the way at the back! She’s ugly enough to scare the crows,’ that’s what the stage manager said. So they put me in the back row, and I made faces at the kids that made fun of me. Like this.” The wide mouth widened and curled up to show remarkable teeth, strong, white, and sharp. The eyes looked inwards in a horrifying squint, the ears under the golliwog thatch wiggled horribly.

“I can still do it,” said Myra Constantine in a complacent voice. “After three kids had had highstrikes they hauled me out and asked me what I’d done, so I did it again. Old Sim Purcell saw it—he just happened to be passing. He took his cigar out of his mouth and said, ‘Put her in as an imp, damn her! She won’t want any make-up.’ So they did, and I had a sort of hop-skip-and-jump dance and made faces. After a bit it got worked up into a kind of take-off of the fairy dance. Brought the house down every time. That’s where I got my start, and that’s where I learned that it paid to be ugly so long as you were ugly enough.” She paused, and added in a deep meditative tone, “I was damned ugly. Have another cup of tea, my dear.”

The laughter was clear in Stacy’s eyes. She said, “Do go on,” and passed her cup.

Myra Constantine gave a sort of grunt.

“You’ll have plenty more,” she said. “I couldn’t stop talking if I tried, and I don’t try. Only turn and turn about’s fair doos. Why did you walk out on Charles Forrest?”

Stacy felt exactly as if she had been slapped in the face. She said, “Oh—” and, “You know!” The sort of thing you say, and the minute you’ve said it you can hear for yourself how idiotic it sounds. She had the full cup in her hand. She had to put it down because it shook.

“Know?” said Myra Constantine. “Of course I know! That’s why I went to see your stuff. I said to Het, ‘A girl that can walk out on Charles Forrest, she’s got guts—that’s what. And I’ll go and see her stuff,’ I said. And when I saw it I liked it. There was an old man you’d done—like an old cross tyke snarling over a bone. ‘Clever,’ I said to Het right away, ‘I wouldn’t mind letting that girl do me.’ And she said, ‘Oh, Mama—’ same as she always does. And I rang up Milly and told her to fix it. I’ll say one thing for my girls, they do what they’re told. And now are you going to tell me why you walked out?”

Stacy had got her balance again. She picked up her cup of tea.

“Did you really think I would?” she said.

Myra chuckled.

“You never can tell.”

Stacy’s colour rose. This time it was because she was angry.

“I should never have come if I had known that you were going to be at Warne. I ought to have gone straight back to town from Ledstow.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Miss Dale was there, and the chauffeur. I thought—”

The black eyes were mocking her.

“Yes?”

“I meant to come up here and explain—to you.”

“But just now you were all for painting me.”

“I got carried away.”

The square ugly hands were clapped, a big diamond flashed. The wide mouth grinned.

“That’s how I got where I am—I carried ’em away. That’s better than letting them shunt you, you may take my word for it. Somebody started to hiss me once—a put-up job. Shall I tell you what I did? Stamped my foot and said, ‘Don’t be damfools! I’m a lot better than you think I am! I’ll show you!’ And I showed ’em. I had ’em shouting before I’d finished.” She dropped to an affable conversational tone. “Well, are you going to let ’em drive you away?”

“I don’t see how I can stay.”

Myra shrugged.

“Have it your own way. The job’d be a big advert—you know that as well as I do. Funk if you like—you’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else, haven’t you?”

Stacy was being carried away again. She didn’t want to be, but she was. She tried to hold on to being angry, but it wasn’t any good. She wanted to paint Myra Constantine in her cherry-coloured coat—she wanted it more than she had wanted anything for the last three years. She threw out her hands and said,

“It’s not fair—and I ought to go. But I won’t. I’ve got to paint you.”