The New Moon with the Old (29 page)

‘You put no address on your letter?'

‘Of course not. And he doesn't know my real name.'

‘Then you should be safe enough. But … Merry, did you tell him you were only fourteen?'

‘Fourteen and nearly seven months. Yes, I told him that.'

‘Then he must be very anxious about you. Let me write to him and say you're with your family again.'

She looked horrified. ‘No, Richard! He might come after me. Even if you put no address, there'd be a postmark.'

‘We could get the letter posted somewhere else.'

‘I'd have to think out what you could say. Leave it for now – please, Richard!'

‘It's pretty callous, Merry. Still …' He could see that the very thought of poor Lord Crestover was seriously distressing her. ‘The thing we've got to decide now is what to do about you.'

‘I suppose I'll have to go back to being a child and go to some dreary school –
and
face life with Aunt Winifred.'

And with Violet too, he thought. Not that Merry would mind that, but he would mind it for her and even more on his own account. He'd told Drew and Clare about Violet after his first meeting with her but they'd all agreed Merry shouldn't be told. He hated the thought of explaining Violet to her, and he positively loathed the thought that Merry would quickly spot Violet's interest in him – not to mention his in her. God, how awful! Desperation led to inspiration.

He said: ‘Merry, I've had a wonderful idea. Don't ask me what it is yet. I must go in and telephone.'

‘Telephone who? If it's about me—'

‘Please, Merry. I'll discuss it with you the minute I know if my plan will work. Now you stay here till I come back. I want to be sure no one sees you yet.'

‘Oh, all right. But … Richard, you're not going to telephone the Crestovers?'

‘No, I swear it. Just wait.'

He dashed out and ran into the house. Drew's letter contained the telephone number of Miss Whitecliff's
solicitor, to be used in case of emergency as there was no telephone at White Turrets. But could one reach Drew quickly? Well, it was worth trying.

He got the number after only a short delay, gave his name and asked for Mr Cyril Severn, who was soon apologizing for keeping him waiting, and proving remarkably quick on the uptake.

‘Drew's brother? Nothing wrong, I hope?'

‘No, no,' said Richard. ‘But could Drew telephone me – quickly?'

‘If he's at home I could get him down here within half an hour. But he may be out shopping. Can
I
be of any help?'

Drew's letter had made it dear that Mr Severn's decisions governed the Whitecliff household. Richard plunged straight in. ‘It's my younger sister. She's been away and now she's come home.'

‘What, the missing teenager?' Mr Severn obviously knew about her. ‘Is she all right?'

‘Yes, quite. But I particularly want to get her away from here. Drew did mention he could have asked her to stay—'

‘Of course he can,' said Mr Severn heartily. ‘When do you want to send her?'

‘Would this afternoon be too soon?'

‘Not at all. There's a good train from London at 4.30. I'll arrange for Drew to meet her.'

‘Drew's employer won't mind?'

‘She'll be delighted. So am I. It'll help keep Drew amused. He's a saint but he might get bored by being one – in which case my life would fall in ruins. Anything else?'

‘Well, no, if you're sure … You did say 4.30?'

‘That's right. She'll have to change trains but that won't worry her if she's been on her own all this time. Hope she
is
all right. Girls, nowadays …! Anyway, we'll take care of her.'

‘I'm most awfully grateful to you,' said Richard.

‘Be a pleasure. Why not come and see us yourself?'

‘I only wish I could,' said Richard, and meant it.

‘Well, do when you can. Goodbye now, or you'll run into another three minutes.'

God, I wish that man was
my
solicitor, thought Richard, hanging up. He sat still for a moment, slightly dazed by Mr Severn's briskness; then he looked up the morning trains to London.

Now to break the news to Merry. As he hurried through the garden he heard the gramophone. She had started it again.

‘This is the Third Rasoumovsky, isn't it?' she said, when he opened the door. ‘Do you remember the lovely story I made up about the second movement? Oh, I know you don't approve of making music programmatic but you did like that story.'

‘Did I?' He silenced the gramophone. ‘Wonderful news, darling – it's all arranged! You're going straight to Drew.'

She looked dismayed. ‘But I don't want to. You said he was working for a dreary old lady.'

‘I didn't say she was dreary. According to Drew she's sweet. And you and he can have a marvellous time together.'

‘No, Richard! I want to stay here and sleep in my own room and write all my sorrows in my journal.' Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I'm pretty miserable, Richard.' She began to gulp, loudly and painfully.

‘Stop dramatizing yourself,' said Richard, firmly.

She gave him an outraged stare. ‘Those were genuine tears, Richard.'

‘They were, but the gulps weren't. The tears got impressed with themselves. Now listen: you can write your journal at Whitesea. And you may not have to go to school at once there, as you certainly would here. What's more, life here isn't what it used to be, with Cook and Edith out all day and Aunt Winifred in.'

Merry looked thoughiful. ‘And we're a bit too close to the Crestovers. They sometimes drive past this house. Oh, Richard, it was awful that evening I drove past. I didn't tell you—

‘Tell me in the car,' said Richard.

‘You can't want me to start at once. I'll have to re-pack, take some different clothes … and I'm hungry.'

‘Well, you can have twenty minutes for packing and I'll bring you some food. I've got to get you to the station before I pick up Aunt Winifred at the hairdresser's. Which reminds me: you'll have some time in London as your train doesn't leave till 4.30. Could you get your hair put right?'

‘I might. But it would cost quite a bit.'

He took out his notecase. ‘I'll give you five pounds – if you'll promise to go straight to Drew and not run away again.'

‘All tight. I haven't the spirit to run away now.'

He handed her the notes, then hurried her out and through the garden. ‘Not much peace for a girl' she said as they reached the house.

‘You'll get plenty of peace at Whitesea.'

He carried her suitcase up for her and then went to make her some very thick sandwiches out of the cold meat intended for lunch. When he took them, with a glass of milk, up to her room he found her wearing a schoolgirlish flannel suit which made her look years younger.

‘Terribly juvenile,' she said gloomily. ‘But Clare's coat will hide it. Could I call on her while I'm in London?'

‘There won't be time if you're to get your hair done.'

She looked at herself in the glass and nodded resignedly. ‘It
is
a bit much – for here. It looked all right at Crestover. I think it needs spacious surroundings.'

Somehow he got her to finish packing. She was still munching a sandwich when he hurried her into the car. ‘Keep your head down while we drive through the village,' he told her. ‘If you're seen I shall be asked awkward questions.'

‘What a bore! I wanted to look at everything.'

‘You can come up for air now,' he said at last.

‘Need I duck when we pass my dear old school? No, it's too far from the road. Fancy Jane working for Weary Willy! That's practically treason. Shall you tell her I'm back?'

‘Yes, and I shall tell Cook and Edith but ask them all to keep it from Aunt Winifred. Duck again, will you? Here comes the Vicar's car.'

Later, she said: ‘Richard, how brisk and … well, managerial you've become. You used to be so vague and wrapped up in your work.'

He said he'd had to snap out of that.

‘But I admired you for it – for being so dedicated. Are you working at all?'

He shook his head. ‘There's too much on my mind. And life's not easy now. In some ways I'd like to leave home and try for a job, teaching in a school. Handling a school orchestra would do me a world of good.'

‘Well, why not do it?'

‘I can't close the house, when Cook and Edith and Jane and Aunt Winifred want to live in it.' To say nothing of Violet. ‘And you or Clare or Drew might want to come home.'

‘To hell with the lot of us,' said Merry. ‘Nothing should come in front of your work, not even good deeds. You'll get punished for it, Richard – just as I shall. Only in my case, it was bad deeds.'

‘Such as, darling?'

‘I stopped being dedicated. I thought I'd like to be a countess, and that it would help me to get parts without really working for them. That was blasphemy. I sinned against my own personal Holy Ghost.'

‘But not for long. And you did fall in love with the man.'

She shuddered. ‘I almost hate him now – and all the Crestovers. It's unjust of me but they were my
stumbling blocks. And one does feel like kicking stumbling blocks.'

‘Unwise, lovey. You just stub your toe a second time.' She laughed and relaxed. He wondered if he should ask her again to let him write to Lord Crestover, then decided not to worry her. Let her remain childishly callous about that if she could. He suspected she had more than enough on her conscience. Dramatize herself she might, but he was quite sure she was already genuinely and even maturely dedicated.

They had only just enough time to catch her train. He found her a seat, repeated instructions for her journey to Whitesea, begged her to enjoy herself and to write fully.

‘Oh, I shall,' she said. ‘And I shall nag you to stop sinning against your Holy Ghost.'

The other occupants of the compartment looked startled. Only when he watched her train leaving the station did he fully realize how sorry he was to let her go.

As Aunt Winifred held herself aloof from all household matters and Violet merely helped assemble what food there was, he did not have to account for the cold meat eaten by Merry. He simply announced there would only be eggs for lunch.

‘How shall we have them?’ he asked Violet, as she followed him into the kitchen. ‘Not enough butter to scramble them and frying would mean cleaning the frying pan.’

‘And poaching is very tricky. They’ll be safest boiled.’

Even so, they cracked.

‘Clare would have made us a delicious omelette,’ said Aunt Winifred.

Richard doubted if Clare had ever even attempted to make an omelette. But no doubt Clare the good cook was now as real to the old lady as Clare the devoted niece.

After lunch and the subsequent washing-up, he decided to work, for the first time since catastrophe had struck; Merry had both stirred his conscience and stimulated him. But he made the mistake of telling Violet and she at once asked if she could come and listen. ‘Oh, please! I’ll keep very quiet. I do so want to hear some of your music.’

He told her he was working on a sextet which would not make sense to her if he attempted to play it on the piano. But as she still begged to come, he let her, the truth being that he wanted to.

He rather expected her to insist on talking but she settled herself on the divan and seemed genuinely anxious both to listen and to understand. So he did his best to give her an impression of his first movement, indicating such melody as there was and explaining about the various instruments. He found her most attentive, and several times she asked him to repeat a phrase and expressed admiration for it. But after a while she seemed less alert and he didn’t blame her. His music, whether good or bad, certainly wasn’t simple. He decided she needed a rest from it. Leaving the piano, he wandered around the room, talking of music generally.

Very soon she said: ‘How restless you are, dear Richard. Come and sit down.’

He sat, but not beside her. Instead, he placed a chair where he could face her. She was reclining against his cushions with her feet tucked under her, looking small and young. As almost always, she was wearing a black, clinging dress unsuitable for the country but very becoming to her. He wondered if it was usual for pale, black-haired women to look so well in black and he noticed, not for the first time, the beautiful line of her jaw and throat.

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked, after a moment. He had no intention of telling her. Instead he commented on the lack of any news about his father. ‘It must be so very worrying for you, Violet.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, indeed. But I’m more worried on his account than on my own. You know, Richard, I doubt if he and I would ever have got married.’

Richard, too, doubted it.

She went on, ‘For one thing, there was such a difference in our ages. After all, I’m only twenty-seven.’

Less than a week ago she’d mentioned that she was
twenty-nine
– or had he misheard her? Today she didn’t even seem
twenty-seven. ‘You look like a little girl,’ he told her. ‘Sitting there with your feet tucked up.’

She raised her arms and clasped her hands behind her head – and stopped looking like a little girl. The movement tightened her already tight dress, and the way she now sank back against the cushions constituted an invitation hard to ignore. He ought to have known this would happen if he let her come to the music room. Perhaps he had known it.

He rose and came towards her, wondering how one took hold of a woman who had bunched herself into a lump and was protected on three sides by cushions. As if understanding his problem she instantly shot her feet from under her, reclined full length, and gave him a smile of comprehensive welcome. This offered more than he had bargained for – anyway, at present. So he said: ‘Sit up like a good girl and l I’ll kiss you.’

She laughed delightedly and somehow managed to lie down even flatter.

He turned towards the door, uncertain whether to bolt it or merely bolt. It suddenly opened to admit an almost breathless Aunt Winifred.

‘Richard, there’s a man wants you on the telephone. And you should hurry as it’s a trunk call and he said it was most urgent, and I’m afraid I’ve taken rather a long time to get here because I couldn’t find my glasses.’

As she wore glasses only for reading he couldn’t think why she needed them to walk through the garden. ‘Well, sit down and get your breath back,’ he told her as he hurried out.

Could the call be something to do with his father? Or was it Drew calling from Whitesea? He dashed into the study and heard, even before he reached the desk, shrill sounds coming from the receiver. That certainly wasn’t Drew.

It proved to be the local doctor’s wife ringing up the local laundry about a missing pillow slip; that at least had been
her intention. ‘But I’ve been hanging on for ages,’ she wailed when Richard told her she had the wrong number. ‘And she said it was the right number.’

‘She’s getting very deaf,’ said Richard untruthfully. Hanging up, he wondered if his aunt had really thought she’d heard a male voice urgently calling him from a distance, or if she’d merely wanted to make a dramatic entrance. Anyway, she and Violet could now have a chat while he did some thinking.

Why, why, had he let himself tell Violet he would kiss her? Up to now it had been – just – possible to pretend he did not realize their interest in each other. From now on, that would be out of the question. And what was he going to do about it?

He had come nowhere near deciding when the front-door bell rang. He went to answer it.

Opening the door, he found himself facing a tall, very fair man whose features combined extreme distinction with just the faintest suggestion of half-wittedness. On seeing Richard, he swallowed nervously before saying: ‘It’s difficult to explain but I’m trying to find a Miss Merry le Jeune – though I believe her real name is Carrington.’

‘Come in,’ said Richard. ‘And stop worrying. She’s quite safe.’

‘Thank God,’ said Lord Crestover.

Richard took him to the study, hoping Violet and Aunt Winifred would stay out of the way. He explained that he was Merry’s brother and had been told a good deal about her adventures. Lord Crestover, seeming slightly dazed, sank anto the proffered chair.

‘I’ve been so anxious – we all have. Is she really only fourteen and a half?’

Richard nodded ruefully. ‘It’s her only excuse for such disgraceful behaviour.’

‘Oh, we none of us count it against her, I assure you. Poor child! Though it’s still hard to realize she
is
a child. Believe me, I never for one moment suspected—’

Richard interrupted hastily. ‘Of course you didn’t. She’s a brilliant actress and she
looks
grown up with that hair. I thought so this morning.’

‘She told me in her farewell letter – so honestly – that it was dyed. What colour is it really?’

‘Just a light brown.’

‘I shall like that,’ said Lord Crestover, his eyes shining.

The poor devil’s demented about her, thought Richard, and then asked: ‘How did you trace her – and so quickly?’

Lord Crestover took Merry’s diamond brooch from his pocket and handed it to Richard. ‘The dear girl left this. We were all more touched than I can say. You’ll notice the name of the jeweller engraved on the back; my mother’s jeweller, incidentally. I drove up to London this morning and had no difficulty in finding out the brooch was originally sold to a Mr Rupert Carrington. And when the salesman happened to mention, well, certain things, I knew I was on the right track. You see, Merry’s letter said her father was a fugitive from justice.’

‘It never occurred to her – or me – that you could find her.’ Richard handed the brooch back.

‘She must keep this, of course. But I’ll return it myself. May I see her now, please?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Richard. ‘She’s gone to stay with my younger brother at … well, quite a long way off.’

‘Can I reach her tonight?’

Richard wondered how to protect Merry without being brutal. At last he said: ‘I think it would be a great mistake to see her, Lord Crestover. She feels you should forget her.’

‘That’s because she thinks I shall want to. I must see her at once – for her sake as well as mine; I must relieve her mind.
Please give me the address and the telephone number. I’ll ring her at once and say I’m coming.’

‘There’s no telephone. And I can’t, I really can’t give you her address – not until I have her permission. She made it so absolutely clear that … that she
wants
you to forget her.’

‘Then it’s because she thinks it’s for my own good. She can’t want it on her own account – not after her letter. I’d better show it to you.’ Lord Crestover took the letter from his pocket, gave it a reverently loving look and handed it over. ‘I’m sure you’ll be as moved by it as we all were.’

Richard was indeed moved. Poor Merry, confessing to her dyed hair and false figure. But an hour – no, it must have been less – after her ‘dearest Claude’ had read that she truly loved him she had seen him as a codfish. Really the comparison was too cruel!

Richard looked up from the letter. Lord Crestover was regarding him with anxious, wide-open eyes and a mouth even more widely open. Cruel the comparison might be but it was also apt. And if a girl had once seen a man as a codfish, could she ever in future fail to see him as one?

‘Now you’ll understand why I must go to her at once,’ said Lord Crestover. ‘And let me tell you our plans for her. My mother wishes to adopt her, either officially or unofficially, whichever seems best. We shall take a flat in London. I’m told that Merry, absurd though it seems, is still under
school-leaving
age. Well, of course she can go to classes or have private tuition before starting her career. Then everything can proceed just as we’d planned.’

‘Not everything, surely?’

Lord Crestover flushed. ‘Naturally, we shall consider her a child. You surely don’t imagine that I …’ The flush had now reached his shining fair hair.

‘No, no!’ Richard protested. ‘I think you’ve behaving most admirably – really quite nobly. And I know you always
would. But surely it would be difficult for you, feeling as you do about her?’

‘Remember she feels the same way about me,’ said Lord Crestover, emotionally.

‘That would make things even worse. Do you realize she couldn’t be married for years and years?’

‘She could be legally married at sixteen. And she’s unusually mature in her feelings. And she told me once that Juliet was married at fourteen.’

Juliet! That patron saint of the precocious! And remembering Merry’s school performance of Juliet, Richard could well believe she might, thinking herself to be in love, have given an impression of maturity. But it wasn’t genuine maturity. He said firmly: ‘My father would never agree. And neither would I, if I had any say in the matter.’

‘Well, that’s all in the future. The great thing now is to let the dear child know that all is well. I have affectionate messages for her from my mother and sisters – and my uncle, for whom Merry has a special regard.’

‘Mr Desmond Deane?’ said Richard, remembering Merry’s narrative. Wasn’t he the one who had warned her off?

‘He asked me to tell her he now likes her better than ever. Surely you can trust us?’

‘Indeed I do,’ said Richard, and meant it as regard Lord Crestover. He wasn’t so sure about the mother who, according to Merry, merely wanted a reason for living in London. ‘It’s only that— Can I get you a drink or something? Perhaps you’d like some tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’d just like to go to Merry,’ said Lord Crestover, doggedly.

Should one hand over the address? Could one, in decency, refuse? Richard got up and walked to the window, thinking hard … There was now a light in his music room – well, thank God Violet and Aunt Winifred were staying put. If
Merry re-joined the Crestovers there’d be such enormous advantages as regards her immediate future. And no one could
make
her marry. Anyway, she ought at least to
see
this extremely nice man. Could any girl fail to be moved by such devotion? Perhaps she’d have another change of heart … But not yet. And pursued in her present mood of revulsion, she might be brutal; one must withold the address as much for Lord Crestover’s sake as for hers.

He turned (and now got his lordship in full profile … that jutting nose, that receding chin – neither would have looked so bad without the other). ‘Please consider this,’ he said, persuasively. ‘My sister will be extremely tired when she arrives. If she has to face an emotional scene tonight it could be very bad for her, after the mental strain she’s recently been under. Suppose we both of us just write to her – now. I’ll put your letter in mine and she’ll get them both tomorrow morning – we can still catch the post. How would that be? And I’ll promise to tell her how wonderful I think you’re being.’ He felt as if cajoling a child.

Lord Crestover seemed impressed. ‘Perhaps she would be too tired to see me tonight. But I’m not a good letter writer.’

‘Just tell her what you’ve told me – and I’ll tell her, too. She’ll understand.’

He settled Lord Crestover at the desk and said they would allow themselves twenty minutes. ‘It’s easier to think when one’s alone so I’ll leave you for the moment.’ He took writing paper into the hall. Here he could, if necessary, head off Violet and Aunt Winifred.

In his own letter, he found himself coming out strongly for Lord Crestover. Well, one was so damn sorry for him. And Merry was no shrinking violet. (Nor was Violet … He dragged his thoughts back from his own problem.) It really wouldn’t hurt his quite tough young sister to have a talk with a man who would undoubtedly behave most chivalrously.
After all, she’d made her bed … He refrained from writing that but had no hesitation in telling her she’d incurred the responsibility of being both kind and tactful. He’d felt she was being a bit callous …

He remembered then that he’d also felt she’d better go on being callous, but that was before he’d met the poor codfish.

He wouldn’t mention ‘codfish’ in his letter. Instead, he wrote of Lord Crestover’s great distinction and good looks (well, he had large eyes and – most fortunately – good teeth). He pointed out the advantages of life with the Crestovers and concluded by saying, ‘And do remember, he
loves
you.’