The Tender Flame (14 page)

Stephanie's eyes were round and entranced. ‘Oh please, will you take me?'

‘I wish I could, little missy,' he said, winking broadly at Jan, ‘but my rheumatism has been playing me up something awful. You'll have to ask your daddy.'

Jan didn't think Stephanie would let it go at that, but she caught sight of the big black gates, and this effectively turned her attention.

Her nose flattened against the car window.
‘Look,
Tatty Bear, we're here. That's the fish pond which you haven't to fall into. And you mustn't push your sandwich down the side of the sofa because that's naughty, isn't it Jan? Jan, will there be cake with pink icing on it for tea?'

The symptoms of an ‘interesting' afternoon were well in evidence.

Jan and Stephanie-and-Tatty-Bear got out of the car. Jan walked sedately towards the door, Stephanie and accomplice danced by her side. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Palmer drive the car away, either to garage it or turn it round ready for the homeward journey, with the distinct feeling of having lost a crutch.

Mrs. Palmer, Palmer's wife who was Mrs. Grant's housekeeper, opened the door to them. Her smile of welcome was as warm as Palmer's. By the time she'd chucked Stephanie under the chin and declared that she got prettier every day, Mrs. Grant was coming forward to greet them, looking every inch the gracious lady in a purple silk dress patterned with grey flowers, with pearls round her neck and dangling on fine gold wire from the lobes of her ears.

Neither her husband nor her son had been wise about money matters. Since their deaths certain financial disclosures had come to light which made it necessary for her to change her lifestyle quite drastically. She was a very proud
old
lady, adhering as best she could to the old standards and maintaining the dignity she felt her position called for, at the same time making no pretence to riches no longer in her possession. The paintings in the hall and throughout the house were copies. The originals had been periodically sold off to keep the place in a reasonable state of repair, but even that was beginning to prove a losing battle. A small army of servants had once been at her beck and call, but only the faithful Palmers remained.

‘We are having tea in here,' Mrs. Grant said, throwing open a door and ushering her guests into a charming room with an Adam fireplace and sunshine falling in at the tall french windows. The kettle must have been on the boil because Mrs. Palmer followed them in almost directly. She put the tea pot and the hot water jug down on the table, and looked to Mrs. Grant for instructions.

‘That's all right, Mrs. Palmer. Jan will pour, won't you dear? My hands aren't too steady these days,' she explained matter-of-factly, and not to seek sympathy.

‘Of course,' said Jan, sitting forward. She turned her cup in her fingers, admiring the delicacy of the china and the tiny blue flower motif. ‘What a beautiful tea service.'

‘Yes, the forget-me-not was always my favourite.'

‘Actually I'm a little apprehensive. Do you
think
Stephanie should have a mug?'

‘Thank you for your thoughtfulness, but no. I value people more than possessions. I've always used my things, and I'm too old to break the habit of a lifetime. When my mother-in-law died, her wedding present china was intact because it was never put to daily use. I thought it was so sad. I prefer my way, even with the risk of breakages. My dear husband used to tease me and say I'd change my mind when I had butter-fingered grandchildren to cope with, but I knew I wouldn't.' She looked at Stephanie with affection in the smile that curved her lips. It was impossible to see what her eyes were doing behind the tinted lenses of her spectacles, but the handkerchief pressed daintily to her nose was a clue. Was she thinking that had her son, Stephen, lived, she might well have been entertaining her own grandchild to tea instead of Stephanie?

She had lived most of her life in an atmosphere of opulence surrounded by treasures, but she had been denied the one treasure the poorest woman in the world may have in abundance: grandchildren. A woman like Mrs. Grant, who valued people more than possessions, would feel deprived indeed.

‘I'm a sentimental old fool,' Mrs. Grant suddenly announced, blowing her nose and straightening her shoulders. ‘I regret that little display. I don't often indulge myself and I'm
sorry
if I've embarrassed you.'

‘You haven't. I think I understand.'

‘Do you, my dear?' The eyes behind the tinted lenses seemed to be looking at her with intense penetration. ‘I very much doubt it.' Her mouth was firm, her manner so brisk that it was hard to believe that a few moments ago she had been overcome by emotion. ‘Mrs. Palmer has baked all your special favourites, Stephanie, so I want you to tuck in. You too, Jan. I envy you your healthy appetite. I was always a little on the plump side myself and had to resist all the luscious fattening things. Now that it no longer matters whether I diet or not, I find that my appetite has gone. It's so unfair, don't you think?'

There was a brittleness behind her laugh and Jan suspected that her thoughts had gone back and she was dwelling on life's other injustices and deprivations.

Jan had been so engrossed with Mrs. Grant that she hadn't been watching Stephanie. Unsupervised, Stephanie had eaten the pink icing off four small round cakes, and if Jan didn't act swiftly a fifth cake, with its top bitten off, would join the other four.

‘Stephanie!'

The smile she gave Jan was seraphic. She bit deeply into the cake in her hand and began to chew virtuously. Jan just had to smile.

But the smile was soon wiped off her face. It was the unexpectedness of it that was her
undoing.
She had been sitting in apprehension of something happening, but she had envisaged a piece of china getting broken. The plate very nearly was a casualty as Stephanie jumped to her feet. It fell to the floor, but thanks to a miracle, or the density of the carpet, it didn't break. Jan was down on her knees dealing with the spill of crumbs produced by all those uneaten cakes, when it happened. She heard Stephanie say: ‘There now, we don't have to go into town for Tatty Bear to get some glasses.'

Jan stared in disbelief, horror and dismay. No! Stephanie couldn't have! But she had. She'd jumped up and before anybody could possibly know what was hatching in her mind, she'd snatched Mrs. Grant's spectacles from her nose and put them on Tatty Bear.

‘Goodness!' Mrs. Grant blinked shortsightedly. ‘Whatever made the child do that?' she added with such tolerance that it was Jan's turn to blink.

‘I think I know. It's the result of a silly conversation Stephanie had with David ages ago. You think children forget, but they don't. It was all to do with the untidy state of her bedroom. Tatty Bear came into it, as he always does, and David said if Tatty Bear thought it was tidy then he needed glasses, and they'd better take him into town to get him fitted with a pair. Stephanie asked if he could have tinted ones like you wear and . . . oh, I'm so sorry.'

‘That's
all right,' assured Mrs. Grant, her mouth twitching in amusement. ‘I don't suppose any harm has been done.'

It was the indignity Jan had been concerned with. She hadn't thought about anything more serious. ‘I hope not,' she said earnestly, retrieving the spectacles from Tatty Bear and examining them for damage. ‘They seem to be all right.'

In handing the spectacles back to their owner, and before they could be restored to their rightful place, she scrutinised Mrs. Grant's face for tell-tale signs of irritation, hardly daring to believe the genuineness of such a sweet and tolerant reaction. It was no fake. But even as she was thinking what an exceptionally nice person Mrs. Grant was, she was riveted by her eyes. They were her best feature. The tinted lenses had concealed not only the tranquil sweetness of expression, but the beauty of their colour. Such an exquisite peridot green. The same shade of green as Stephanie's.

Jan had often wondered whom Stephanie had inherited her unusual eye colouring from. Not from her mother, Annabel's eyes had been blue. Not from her father, David's eyes were brown. She had thought perhaps that Stephanie had a green-eyed grandmother, and she was devastated to think she might be right. But to be right about that, she had to be wrong about something else. If Louisa Grant was
Stephanie's
true grandmother, then David couldn't be Stephanie's true father. Her father had to be . . . and she had even been called for him . . . Louisa Grant's son, Stephen. But Stephen had died in the car crash, and so by voluntary action, or because it had been forced on him, David had taken the role of father upon himself.
But David wasn't Stephanie's father.

Jan tried to behave normally, as if she hadn't just made a most momentous discovery. But it was difficult to pick up the threads of the light-hearted chatter when her mind was reeling. On the other hand, Mrs. Grant had regained her composure and was talking away as happily as if nothing untoward had happened. As a child of her time, and station in life, the social arts and graces must have been part of her time-table, so it could be she was falling back on rigid practice. It also occurred to Jan that she could be at ease because she didn't know that Jan had suddenly hit upon this startling revelation. Why should she, now, after all this time? There must be those in Willowbridge who suspected, but they were obviously keeping quiet. Jan had never heard a whisper of gossip that might cast a doubt upon Stephanie's parentage.

Had David gone into the marriage knowing that the child on the way wasn't his? Jan didn't think so. Other things were beginning to make sense now. David wouldn't have deserted
Annabel
because he couldn't face life with a crippled wife. But Jan could well believe that he would refuse to live with her if he found out he'd been duped. Annabel's pregnancy would have come to light when she was admitted to hospital after the car that was taking them to the reception met with an accident. Whatever she'd done, by that time she was David's wife, and he had honoured his responsibility to her, providing her and her child with a home and maintaining them both.

After all this time was the pain still there? What were David's thoughts when he looked at his . . . when he looked at Stephanie? It was going to take some getting used to the fact that Stephanie was not his daughter.

Jan let the tangled ends of her thoughts lay where they would, to be picked up and unravelled later, and made the effort to discharge her obligations to her hostess. Luckily, Mrs. Grant was in good form and the conversation flowed even though Jan's contribution was minimal. She could understand now why Mrs. Grant was tolerant towards Stephanie and why she made so much of her. When she looked at the child the love in her eyes took on a new meaning. When Stephanie trustingly put her hand in Mrs. Grant's as she walked them to the door when it was time to leave, a lump came into Jan's throat.

Some compulsion lifted Jan's chin and she
found
herself reciprocating Mrs. Grant's keenly penetrating look.

‘Please bring Stephanie again quite soon.'

‘I will.'

Jan was sure that Mrs. Grant knew she was aware of her relationship with the child, but not a word was said.

Palmer opened the door for them to get in. Goodbye waves were exchanged, and they drove off.

* * *

‘Reckon we're going to have a drop of our own,' Palmer said.

‘Yes. I hadn't noticed, but it does look like rain.'

They could be in for a real downpour. Livid splashes of black rent the blue sky. By the time they arrived home there wasn't a speck of blue to be seen. The clouds met in floating black masses, squeezing out the last remnant of light, but despite one splash on Jan's nose, as they hurried from the car to the cottage, the rain held off.

Evening came. The air was hot and oppressive, but still it did not rain.

It was the usual drill for Jan to get Stephanie to bed and then dish up the evening meal, which she and David took together. She slowed down the simmering pans and returned to the living room with Stephanie's mug of
cocoa.

‘. . . please, Daddy, you've
got
to.' There was more mutiny than entreaty in Stephanie's eyes.

Whatever it was about—had David told Stephanie one bedtime story and was she demanding two?—David wasn't having any.

‘No, young lady. It's way past your bedtime. Drink your cocoa and then it's up the wooden hill for you.'

‘Tatty Bear doesn't like you,' she said fiercely.

‘I'm sorry about that, because I like Tatty Bear. I love Tatty Bear,' he amended. And because he was talking in Stephanie-language, he meant ‘I love you.'

He does, thought Jan, and that nuisance lump came to her throat again.

‘Tell you what, if you're nippy about getting into bed, I'll come up and tell you a story.'

So Stephanie hadn't been pleading for a story. David never gave in. The promise of a story was used to distract her from whatever it was she'd been pestering him about.

Stephanie went upstairs with Jan, but it was under duress. As she tucked her in, Jan didn't much like the set of that mutinous little mouth.

David came down from telling that promised story just as Jan was putting the finishing touches to the table.

‘Is she all right?'

‘She will be.' He shook his head in
amazement.
‘The ideas that pop into that child's head.' He didn't elaborate on that, but said: ‘What sort of a day have you had?'

‘A nice one, actually.' She wondered how he'd react when she told him where they'd been. She would have to tell him. If she'd known what the situation was beforehand, she wouldn't have gone without first asking his permission. ‘Mrs. Grant phoned this morning and invited us to tea.'