The New Moon with the Old (24 page)

‘A villa, with a walled garden,’ said Mr Rowley.

‘Oh,
yes
, a walled garden would be lovely. His Majesty would arrive in the early evening, very much incognito …’

‘And unlock the door in the garden wall,’ said Mr Rowley. ‘And you would be standing by the lily pond in a long white dress.’

‘I could be,’ said Clare eagerly. It was wonderful that he was really sharing a conversation, instead of merely prodding her with questions. ‘Yes, of course there should be a lily pond.’

‘And lilac blooming. What else?’

What did bloom with lilac? ‘Laburnum, perhaps? And could there be lights streaming from the windows?’

‘No. The shutters would be closed. But the door might be open and one might see across the hall to a lighted room.’

‘Would there be supper there?’

‘Not in that room but there would certainly be supper.’

‘Champagne and caviar. And after supper?’ He was not smiling now but staring at her intently with his dark, almost sightless eyes.

Suddenly embarrassed, she said: ‘I’m afraid I can’t think of any more.’

He smiled again. ‘Perhaps that’s as well. Dear child, I should like to
see
you again.’

‘Tonight?’ she said, dreading the ordeal by lamp.

‘No, perhaps not till tomorrow. I’m a little tired. Indeed, I think I shall let you go now. Please send my night nurse to me. Good night, my dear, and thank you for reviving a very happy memory.’

A memory – of course! No doubt of some foreign place; the walled garden suggested that, as did his slightly foreign accent. No longer embarrassed, she experienced for the first time a feeling approaching tenderness for him. Smilingly she said good night and hoped he would sleep well.

He said he thought he would. ‘But I shall not mind if I lie awake for a while. You have left me with such a pleasant subject for thought.”

She wondered if the very old were like the very young in needing a bedtime story.

When she had summoned the night nurse, she went to replace the Dumas novels and to find
Louise de la Vallière
which she had
not taken to Mr Rowley as it was the sequel to earlier books. Talking of it had made her want to re-read it and she would have done so by the sitting-room fire had not Nurse Brown chivvied her away: ‘You get an early night while you can, dear.’

Well, she could read in bed. She undressed quickly, regretting the loss of Mr Charles’s dressing-gown. She had tried it on that morning and, though the shoulders had come nearer to her elbows and the sleeves needed to be rolled up six inches, she had greatly liked the feel of the heavy silk. Boring of him to deprive her of it. But she no longer felt seriously worried about his return. Mr Rowley was so obviously pleased with her; surely he would not let her be dismissed even if she did have to repel his precious grandson – from whom she was now prepared to stand no nonsense whatever.

Having got into bed, she read absorbedly until not long before midnight, when she was disturbed by a quiet buzz. Was it the bell outside her door? More likely that of the next door which she had several times heard. The buzz came again and lasted longer and now she was sure it was her bell. Perhaps Nurse Brown or the night nurse wanted her. She flung on her cloak, hurried to the door, and was opening it before she remembered they could have summoned her by telephone.

Mr Charles, carrying a large parcel, stood outside smiling down on her.

‘Go away!’ she said instantly.

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Charles, coming in and closing the door.

She gave him a stoney look. ‘You won’t get away with it this time. If you don’t go I’ll ring
all
the bells. I’ll call the waiter, the valet, the chambermaid, the lot!’

‘As late as this you’ll only get the night waiter. He’s a Frenchman I’ve known for years and certain to be on my side. Still, he might be embarrassed, so we won’t have him in.’ Mr Charles had adroitly got between her and the stand of bells on the bedside table. ‘Now stop being silly. We have to talk
before we meet officially tomorrow. Need I go on standing guard over these bells?’

‘Oh, I suppose not if you’ll say what you have to say quickly.’ She certainly didn’t want to summon an embarrassed French waiter.

Mr Charles frowned. ‘What’s the matter with you? Last night – and this morning – you behaved with such superb good sense.’

‘I didn’t. I behaved idiotically. And you got quite the wrong impression of me.’

He looked delighted. ‘Really? How splendid. I do so much prefer disreputable women.’

‘But I’m not—’

He cut her short. ‘Oh, relax, you absurd girl. I know what’s happened. Nurse Brown’s been warning you against me.’

‘Not at all,’ said Clare, determined not to give the nurse away. ‘Nurse Brown’s devoted to you.’

‘She is indeed. And she’d serve you up to me minced on toast if I wanted her to. After ten years with my grandfather and me she’s lost every vestige of moral sense. Be nice to her, won’t you? She’s starved for someone to gossip to, poor dear. I do my best for her in that line, with vast indiscretion. But she must not, for your sake, know about last night.’

‘Not now, I agree,’ said Clare. ‘I ought to have told her at once.’

‘You ought not. And all you have to do now is to go on keeping your head, especially when we first meet.’

‘I’ll probably go scarlet.’

‘I doubt it. And if you do, it will just be put down to girlish nervousness. Little does she know that you have nerves of iron.’

‘Me?’ She stared in astonishment.

‘You had, last night.’

‘That was … peculiar,’ said Clare. ‘Anyway, I haven’t as a rule and I’m hopeless at lying or even acting a lie.’

‘I’m superb at both – after years of practice with my grandfather. So say as little as possible and let me carry things off. Well, that settles tomorrow. Here’s a present for you.’ He put his parcel on the bed and got a penknife from his pocket to cut the string.

Now she really would be firm. ‘No, thank you. I don’t want a present.’

‘Well, you
need
this one. It’s a dressing-gown.’ He took the lid off the box. ‘I bought the smallest size. Let’s see how it fits.’

Clare, eyeing the box with interest, said: ‘Sorry, but I’m not going to accept it.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed and addressed her in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Now stop pretending to be conventional. It
is
only pretence. No really conventional girl would have behaved so cleverly last night. I intend to give you quite a lot of presents, both because I enjoy giving presents and because I want to make your job bearable. Otherwise you won’t stay with my grandfather; girls never stand him for long. Suppose we clear the ground a bit. I understand from Nurse Brown that you’re twenty-one. Well, I’m forty-two.’ He noted her surprised expression with amusement. ‘Yes, I know I look older. That’s due to the three D’s: drink, drugs and dissipation, only one of which I actually allow myself. The first two affect one’s wits and I have to live by mine.’

‘Doesn’t dissipation affect them?’

‘Well, I’ve thrived on it so far. But what I want to make clear is that, in spite of anything dear Nurse Brown may have told you about me, I do have quite strict standards of … let’s say suitability. A girl of exactly half my age wouldn’t measure up – or, rather, down to them, apart from the fact that I never lay siege to the innocent. So you would appear to be doubly safe. Now go and put your dressing-gown on in the bathroom. You really can’t go on wearing that cloak. I can see your legs.’

She looked down hastily. ‘Only to the knees – and you could do that if I wore a dress.’

‘But legs seen through a nightgown are a different matter.’ He took the dressing-gown out of its wrappings and handed it to her. ‘Now off with you, and come back looking decent.’

She went.

It was the most luxurious garment she had ever put on, of white cashmere lined and trimmed with white satin. She tied the satin sash and then returned to Mr Charles, who had now settled himself in her armchair.

He regarded her critically. ‘Very becoming. You’re a girl who should be dressed very simply, at enormous expense. Does it fit?’

‘Marvellously. It’s even the right length. Most ready-made things are too long for me.’

‘They shortened it a little. I said it was for a girl whose head came below my chin. I happened to remember.’

She was busy admiring herself in the long looking-glass. ‘You certainly have good taste in dressing-gowns. But I looked jolly funny in yours.’

‘You wore it?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Well, you said I could.’

‘Of course. But judging by that last angry glare you gave me, I shouldn’t have thought you’d have felt friendly enough.’

‘I think I was more startled than angry.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was quite angry with myself – for succumbing to sudden temptation.’

She came towards him and sat on the bed. ‘Good heavens, being kissed on the top of the head isn’t the end of the world. Just forget it. Well, if I’m going to accept this lovely present I ought to be more gracious about it. Thank you
very
much.’

She smiled at him sweetly.

‘That was charmingly said. And you won’t distrust me any more?’

‘I never did, really – I only felt I ought to. It’s most extraordinary, but from the moment I woke up and saw you …’ She found difficulty in putting it into words.

‘Go on,’ he said, watching her closely.

‘Well, I was somehow so confident – brave as any lion. And that’s terribly unlike me. Perhaps I knew instinctively that you’d be all right with the young and innocent. Not that I’m all that innocent.’

‘Then I might not be all that all right. Don’t worry; that was just a joke – still, I suggest you stop lolling on the bed. I begin to see you’re a minx.’

She sat up straight. ‘Not on purpose, truly. And haven’t minxes gone out?’

‘I was beginning to fear so.’ He smiled at her speculatively. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand yourself.’

‘There’s no perhaps about it – I don’t and I never have. And trying to always makes me feel demented.’

‘Then don’t try. Anyway, it’s a mistake to know too much about oneself – does one out of exciting surprises.’

‘My young sister says people who aren’t introspective aren’t fully alive.’

‘She wouldn’t be my type. Still, I do know what she means. And one mustn’t
resist
self-knowledge. But I think the truest kind comes in flashes, not by taking thought.’

‘Oh, I’m certain you’re right,’ said Clare, leaning forward with eager interest. ‘Not that I’ve had any flashes yet. I sometimes think I’m mentally arrested.’

He threw his head back and laughed, and she laughed too, then said through her laughter: ‘No, really, I meant it. Oh, listen, that must be twelve o’clock striking. I think you should go.’

‘I’m sure I should,’ said Mr Charles, rising. ‘Well, come and see me off. And this time I promise not to assault you. Though if you really didn’t mind …’

They had reached the door. She gave him a quick smile and then obligingly bent her head.

‘Thank you … it’s exactly like a chicken. And I speak from experience. At the age of six, motherless and miserable, I did kiss a chicken. It hated it.’

‘This chicken didn’t,’ said Clare looking up at him.

‘This chicken is an out-and-out baggage – and in a certain amount of danger of being treated as one.’

She moved quickly away from him, then said seriously: ‘I’m sorry, honestly. I keep doing and saying things without thinking. I suppose it’s because I really do trust you now. You might be an uncle. Not that I ever had one.’

‘And you haven’t got one now,’ said Mr Charles, laughing. ‘Go right ahead. I don’t mind your making fun of me.’

‘But I’m not, I swear I’m not.’

For a silent second he looked down into her earnest eyes, his own eyes puzzled as well as amused. Then he said, ‘I think I shall allow myself to believe you. Well, good night, and don’t worry about tomorrow – or about absolutely anything.’

‘I absolutely won’t,’ said Clare.

Clare woke soon after eight feeling extremely cheerful. She bathed, dressed and ordered a large breakfast from her fatherly floor waiter, with whom she enjoyed a pleasant chat. He managed to combine a gentle playfulness with extreme respect, a manner she found admirably suited to the dignity of the hotel.

Soon after she began breakfast the telephone rang. She answered it eagerly and was sorry to learn that Nurse Brown was not summoning her. ‘You won’t be needed this morning, dear. Mr Rowley wants to talk to Mr Charles. But he says will you come in for lunch? Say, twelve-thirty. Now have your breakfast and go out for a walk. It’s a lovely day.’

Clare, getting ready to go out, felt a lack of enthusiasm for her blue cloak over her grey dress, now worn for the third day running. If Mr Charles wanted to force a new outfit on her it would require a minimum of forcing.

She had been greatly struck with his view that she needed to be dressed ‘very simply, at enormous expense’. Up to now she had taken little pleasure in her clothes. Ready-made ones neither fitted nor suited her; those achieved with the aid of the village dressmaker were usually neat, sometimes pretty, but invariably undistinguished. Clare, as usual, blamed herself for this; she could not create interesting designs or even choose the right ones to have copied. But this morning
she had, anyway, a great desire to think about clothes. She would imagine herself possessed of unlimited money and go window shopping.

She did so, with waning enthusiasm, finally coming to the conclusion that the simple, enormously expensive clothes which now hovered before her mind’s eye like some holy grail seldom came from firms which displayed their goods in windows, though one or two fur coats seemed tolerable.

By twelve o’clock she was back in her room getting ready to go to the suite, which she did on the dot of twelve-thirty. She felt extremely nervous when Nurse Brown took her into the sitting-room. Then she sighted Mr Charles and was suddenly confident.

He shook her warmly by the hand and said: ‘I’ve heard so much about you that I feel I’ve already met you.’

‘I feel just the same about you,’ said Clare, her
sang froid
fully equal to his; she wondered if he was as astonished by this as she was.

‘I said you’d like each other, didn’t I?’ Mr Rowley beamed on them; then went on with ponderous playfulness. ‘But don’t forget she’s mine, Charles. Nurse, I’ve promised myself to
see
her again. I think we’ve time before luncheon.’

Ordeal by lamp then proceeded and Clare was surprised to find that she now did not mind it at all. This was partly because she no longer found Mr Rowley frightening or even repulsive. It was also because she became interested in comparing his face with his grandson’s. They stared at her and she smilingly stared back.

It struck her that, whereas Mr Rowley looked slightly foreign, Mr Charles looked completely English. And it was just possible to believe that Mr Rowley might once have been darkly handsome, whereas Mr Charles could never have been anything but – rather less darkly – extremely ugly, in a humorous, sardonic way she found reassuring. She
had no idea why she did and was content to have none; the reassurance was enough.

Meanwhile, the two Mr Rowleys were discussing her freely. The elder asked for confirmation of his belief that her hair was the colour of ripe corn.

‘Exactly,’ said Mr Charles.

‘And her eyes – look at me, child – a very deep blue?’

‘Sapphire,’ said Mr Charles.

‘And the mouth unusually small?’

‘A veritable rosebud,’ said Mr Charles, winking at Clare. Her hair was a very pale shade of gold, her eyes a pale, though vivid, shade of blue, her mouth as unlike a rosebud as Nature and a lipstick could make it. But she interpreted the wink to mean that Mr Rowley should be allowed to ‘see’ her as he wished to, and she was content to let him.

The lamp was then put away and lunch, already ordered by Mr Charles, was served. It was the most interesting meal Clare had ever eaten and even Mr Rowley admitted that he could taste far more than he usually could, possibly because Mr Charles, who had insisted that Nurse Brown should eat with them, himself helped the old gentleman to eat and described exactly what was being eaten. Everyone was gay; even the waiters seemed to be enjoying themselves. Nurse Brown had indeed been right in saying: ‘Life’s quite different when Mr Charles is with us.’

The gaiety continued after lunch, when Mr Charles gave some amusing descriptions of recent adventures ‘abroad’. Clare was quite unable to distinguish fact from fiction. Her guess was that he did go abroad very frequently for short periods and thus had material to draw on and embroider. In mentioning a few days spent in Switzerland, he broke off to say to her, ‘Oh, my grandfather has told me whose daughter you are. I should think it’s more than probable that your father’s in Switzerland. If so, I might be able to get news of him. Would you like me to try?’

She considered, then said: ‘He could let us know where he is if he wanted to. Perhaps he’s as anxious to get away from his family as from the police. And I can understand it. I love my family – I really do – and yet I don’t want to let them know where I am. But perhaps that’s because Aunt Winifred’s there.’

‘Ah, the terrible Aunt Winifred,’ said Mr Rowley, smiling.

‘To whom we owe the pleasure of your company. But I wonder how much she really had to do with it. I think, Charles, this is a very unconventional young lady who wishes to lead her own life unencumbered by family ties.’

‘My family wouldn’t want to tie me. They’ll be only too happy if I can earn a living – not to mention surprised. I’ve always been the family fool.’

‘Now you mustn’t ask us to believe that, dear,’ said Nurse Brown.

‘But it’s true. Anyway, I’m a fool compared with my brothers and sister. They’re really clever. No one could accuse me of that.’

‘How clever of you to use the word “accuse”,’ said Mr Charles.

‘All really clever women conceal their cleverness,’ said Mr Rowley.

‘I’ve never had to do any concealing,’ said Clare.

Judging by their laughter, none of them believed her. And she suddenly did not quite believe herself. Perhaps she wasn’t such a fool, after all. How kind they all were – and how
very
happy she was! She gave a little sigh of pure pleasure.

When Mr Rowley, not very willingly, had allowed them to leave him alone for his nap, Mr Charles said he would take her for a walk.

‘That’s right,’ said Nurse Brown. ‘And mind you look after her well.’

‘I
was
thinking of abducting her,’ said Mr Charles. ‘Nurse, you will dress for dinner tonight, please. Your wine velvet.’

‘He gave it to me,’ Nurse Brown informed Clare, with satisfaction. ‘Now hurry up and get your cloak, dear. Looks as though there might be a good sunset. It’ll be ever so nice, walking in the park.’

But they went to no park. As soon as they left the hotel Mr Charles said: ‘Let’s buy something. I’m happy and that always gives me an appetite for spending. What do you want? Say the first thing that comes into your mind.’

‘Toothpaste,’ said Clare. ‘I really do need some.’

‘Well, you’re not getting any. We’ve hardly any time before the shops shut.’

He took her first to a florist; never had she seen such superb flowers. He asked if she had any special favourites.

‘No, I love them all, though I’m very bad at arranging them.’

‘How original of you. Most women think they’re good at it – and seldom are. These are
my
favourites.’

He bought three dozen roses of a kind she had never seen before, deep pink with a golden heart.

‘And now let’s make a dash for Bond Street.’ He took her by the arm and hurried her along.

In Bond Street he bought chocolates, a round box as big as a car wheel. ‘We can
roll
that back if we can’t pick up a taxi. What next? Scent? No, we must have more time when we choose that.’

‘Would that very grand shop over there sell toothpaste?’ said Clare.

‘Oh, bother your toothpaste – use soap. I want to get you to a jeweller’s.’

‘No,’ said Clare. ‘No jewellery.’

‘I thought we’d decided you weren’t conventional.’

‘Anyway, it’s too late. All the shops are closing.’

‘We may just get inside – and if we do, you can’t shame me by refusing.’

‘I wonder if I would,’ said Clare, with genuine speculation. ‘Well, we shall never know. Look!’

The jeweller’s he was hurrying her to was noticeably closed.

‘Then we’ll look in the window and you shall tell me what you’d like.’

‘Oh, just the largest tiara.’

‘Take care, you might get it tomorrow – and it really wouldn’t suit you. Seriously, tell me what you admire. I’ll promise not to force it on you.’

She gave the matter some consideration and then said, ‘There’s nothing I
terribly
like. I suppose that sounds silly.’

‘It sounds as if you’ve very good taste. All the
workmanship’s
excellent but the designs are dull. Those pearls are good. I fancy pearls are your jewels – orientals, of course, not cultured.’

‘Well, naturally,’ said Clare, laughing. ‘Can one really tell the difference?’

‘I can. Anyway, the difference in value is of the utmost significance. Without value, jewels mean nothing; and their meaning is an integral part of their beauty. They’re as symbolic as a religious symbol.’

He hailed a passing taxi and, once inside, surveyed his purchases ruefully. ‘I’ve nowhere near assuaged my spending appetite. And how strictly conventional we’ve been – flowers, chocolates, I wonder I didn’t buy you a pair of gloves; even in my grandfather’s youth, young ladies could accept those.’

‘Well, so could I,’ said Clare.

‘And a dress to go with the gloves and a coat to go with the dress? Not that I haven’t affectionate memories of that most peculiar cloak.’

‘All right,’ said Clare.

He laughed at her cheerful acceptance. ‘But you’re still adamant about jewellery? Is there anything else you draw the line at?’

‘Well, furs, probably. And money, of course. Except my wages. Not that I’ve come by any yet.’

‘You could have a loan against your salary.’

She opened her handbag and showed him her unchanged five-pound note.

‘Plutocrat! Well, we’ll go shopping again tomorrow, won’t we?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Clare.

She enjoyed every minute of the short taxi drive. The home-going crowds on the pavements, the bright shop windows beyond them, the western sky glimpsed at cross streets, all gave her enormous pleasure. She tore the wrapping off the roses so that she could smell them, then turned to Mr Charles and said: ‘Thank you.’

He smiled. ‘You have a charming trick of being just a little late with your thanks and then completely making up for it.’

Back at the hotel he carried the roses and chocolates into her room, where a chambermaid was turning down the bed. He sent her for a vase.

‘Won’t she think it peculiar, your coming in here?’ said Clare.

‘My dear child, you must never give a thought to what servants think of you.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Every now and then you turn into a very arrogant person.
I
was brought up not to call servants “servants”.’

‘I wasn’t. And until they quite die out – and hotels like this are among the few places where they haven’t – I shall go on calling them servants and treating them as servants.’

‘But you were so nice to the waiters at lunch.’

‘Of course. But I treated them as waiters. And so did you, by letting them wait on you.’

‘I always feel a bit apologetic about it,’ said Clare.

‘How very shocking. Either wait on yourself or be waited on with a good grace, which means accepting servants as
servants. Nowadays it’s little more than an elaborate pretence – on both sides. But one must either pretend properly or completely rule out the idea of one human being waiting on another, as perhaps we ought. But I don’t intend to until I have to. I must go. My grandfather will be awake.’

Clare, waiting for the vase to put her roses in, thought over what he had said and found she could accept his point of view; yet she also resented it. She was now on his side of the dividing line between master and servant but she had scarcely been that on their first meeting. She had been the chambermaid kissed by the rake. He had since apologized but only, presumably, because he had realized she was on his side of the line. Her feelings were extremely confused, as she was attracted by the arrogance she resented and incapable of understanding why. One direct result was that when the real chambermaid, a pretty Irish girl, returned she was given half a dozen roses and an apron-pocketful of chocolates.

She was touchingly grateful, especially for the roses; but her manner, Clare noted, underwent a change Mr Charles would not have approved of. The word ‘miss’ disappeared from her vocabulary and, before leaving, she gave Clare a shrewd look and said: ‘Good luck, dear.’ Her meaning was obvious – and startling. Clare reminded herself, ‘Never give a thought to what servants think.’ Well, it would need practice.

When she had arranged her roses (if one had enough of them, they did the job for themselves) she dressed and went to the suite, feeling she need no longer wait to be summoned. Now for Nurse Brown in wine velvet! But she found the nurse still in her uniform and looking worried.

‘Plans have been changed, dear. Mr Rowley’s having his dinner in bed, with just Mr Charles there. Seems they’ve things to discuss – though, goodness knows they talked enough this morning. Funny, I thought the old gentleman was looking forward to a dinner party.’

‘Perhaps he’s feeling ill,’ said Clare.

‘Says not. But he didn’t seem quite himself, after his nap. Anyway, he wanted just to be with Mt Charles. Their meal’s gone in already. You’re to have yours with me.’

Clare was disappointed, having hoped for a dinner as gay as lunch had been. She asked if they could wait a while. ‘I’m not very hungry.’

‘Oh, you will be when we start, dear, because Mr Charles has ordered dinner for us. He said I wasn’t to fob you off with any old thing. The way he chooses food always gives me an appetite.’