Fay's first "letters" came from Wendy, who hugged her warmly under the mistletoe in the darkened hall. "I think I like you very much," the small girl confided.
"And I like you too," Fay conceded, "but shall I tell you something? I think you're getting very tired. Wouldn't you like to go to bed now—most of the fun's over, anyway."
"Mark hasn't said so yet," Wendy objected, stifling a yawn.
"I'm sure he'd want you to—if he knew you were sleepy," Fay persuaded.
"How d'you know what Mark would want?" Wendy retorted with a return to her normal sharpness. Then suddenly the gnome-like expression was shattered by a smile which was wholly childish. "I 'spect it's because you like him and he likes you," she decided, and then offered, "I'll go to bed if you'll take me up. It's kind of spooky upstairs by yourself when everyone's down here."
Fay did not contest that point. She could not have denied that she liked Mark—and she hoped very much that Wendy was as right in the other part of her assertion. "Let's go and say goodnight to Toni then, shall we?" she suggested.
It did not take Wendy long to get into bed and she was asleep literally as soon as her head touched the pillow. Not surprising, Fay thought as she tucked in the blankets, since the children had been on the go since about half past five that morning. She herself was beginning to feel pleasantly drowsy and had more than half a mind to slip away to her own bed.
She thought better of it, however, and went downstairs again. She thought that Postman's Knock must still be in
session, since the hall was still in darkness except for the glow from the fire. Since her feet made no noise on the carpet she thought it best to give warning of her approach by a slight cough.
One figure, not two, moved out of the shadows and Mark's voice came to her ears. "Oh, there you are—you've been the dickens of a time. I thought you'd gone off to bye-byes too."
"I did think of it," Fay confessed, "but I didn't think I'd been very long. Wendy dropped off to sleep at once. It's been a long day for the children—and a very exciting one too."
"Do you class yourself with the children?" Mark's voice was teasing. "You look like one—"
"I'm certainly getting a bit sleepy—and it's been an exciting day for me too—my first English Christmas."
"I hope you enjoyed the experience?"
"Very much—" she looked at the door of the drawing room, expecting it to open. "Hadn't you better get on with the game?" she suggested, for he was barring her way at the foot of the stairs.
"Oh, they're playing Consequences now—and my imagination simply isn't fertile enough to cope with their ideas. I was waiting for you to come down—I wanted to explain about those wretched pyjamas—"
"You don't have to," Fay laughed. "They're what Helen describes as fab—and it was sweet of you to think of getting them—"
"You see, we were sure that Toni had forgotten to get a present for you—and there wasn't one on the tree with your name on it. Horsey came to the rescue—the pyjamas had been intended for her niece who's about your size, apparently. We gave the kid a fiver instead, which probably pleased her more. I only wanted to save Toni embarrassment when she found she had forgotten you, but I certainly didn't want to do that at the cost of embarrassing you instead."
"Don't worry—I didn't mind at all," she told him. "I knew why you'd done it and I thought it was rather horrid of Toni not to appreciate what you'd done. I think she had forgotten really, don't you? I don't think she really planned to give me the fairy doll—she was just saving face, on the spur of the moment."
Mark regarded her for a moment in silence while a little whimsical smile played round his lips. Since Fay was still standing on the bottom stair they were more of a height than usual and she could look straight into his eyes.
"That's clever of you—rather frightening, too," he said with mock alarm. "I wouldn't like to have to try to keep a secret from you. No, I don't think it was planned—"
"And you didn't like her giving it to me, did you? Why?" Fay interrupted.
"It wasn't that I didn't want you to have it, especially if you'd always wanted it ... oh no, that was your mother, wasn't it? Toni's getting me all muddled now." He paused a moment, then went on, his voice rather serious, "You see, it's been that same doll on the Christmas tree for more years than anyone can remember. It's been re-dressed, of course, but that's all. It's a piece of Toni's own youth, I believe—it's never been given to anyone before ..." he stared past Fay into the dark corners of the hall as he fell silent.
Fay knew the thought that was in his mind. "You mean that Toni thought she wouldn't want it again? Oh no ! No, I'm sure it wasn't that. It was just a whim –I'm sure it was!"
Mark's eyes came back to her face and he smiled. "You're right, I expect—I'm just being gloomy over nothing. And now let's deal with you—did you think you were going to escape your 'letters' by running off upstairs to put Wendy to bed? I can assure you you're not. I have quite a batch for you."
Fay felt his arms slide round her, and his lips hard pressed on hers. She did not know how long that moment lasted—it might have been a second—it might have been eternity. But it was perfect happiness. She knew that she gave him back the warmth he gave her. Neither spoke—there was no need of words to express that something which flowed between them—or so it seemed to her in the magic of the moment.
A shout of hilarious laughter from the drawing room drove them apart, but no one came out to disturb the silence of the hall. "I don't want to go back in there," Fay whispered. "Please could you get my doll for me?"
He nodded, and in a moment he was back with the tinsel spangles of the doll's dress gleaming in the firelight against the black of his jacket. He gave her the toy with a smile. "Passport to fairyland," he said. "Though I don't think you need one—whoever named you Fay was inspired."
She took the doll in her arms and turned towards the stairs. They did not kiss again, but his whispered "Goodnight" was both a caress and a benediction.
Upstairs she undressed by starlight—to have put on electric light would have spoilt the magic. Last thing before she got into bed she propped the doll where it would be the first thing she would see in the morning.
As she nestled down cosily under her eiderdown she was consciously happy—already she was in fairyland. And it was of the essence of fairyland that it knew no time—no past or future, but only an eternal present.
Fay was still wrapped around in the cocoon of her unquestioning happiness in the cold light of the next day, but so far as the rest of the household was concerned it was definitely the aftermath of Christmas. Most of the guests had either drunk too much the day before, or eaten too lavishly of the rather rich fare, or had had insufficient sleep. The result was that tempers were edgy and the general outlook jaundiced.
Mark was nowhere to be seen and the children told her that he was mending the electricity. A somewhat harassed Horsey corroborated this.
"The house has got its own plant. Quite the latest thing when it was put in about fifty years ago, but terribly old now, and it's always breaking down. We should have been on the mains years ago—but Mrs. Travers lives in the past and it's hopeless trying to move her."
Most of the party seemed to congregate in the hall, but the atmosphere was not very congenial. There seemed to be some sort of an argument going on about whose boy-friend was whose. Fay had noticed the previous day a marked tendency on the part of Bernard to make advances to Oonagh much to the annoyance of his erstwhile partner, Christine. As a matter of fact Fay did not think that he had been making much headway, as Oonagh, who was nothing if not
thorough, had been concentrating all her efforts on Mark.
They were having some sort of argument now—Bernard and Oonagh—while Christine glowered. "He is, I tell you," Bernard was saying. "He is—and I'll prove it to you."
"I don't believe you—and I don't care if he is !" Oonagh pushed Bernard's tentative advances away with sultry glamour.
"Oh yes, you do—you care very much. You wait, I'll show you!" the young man was smugly confident of his point.
The altercation did not really prick the bubble of Fay's happiness, but she did suddenly feel as though she wanted a dose of clean, fresh air. She caught Helen's eye. "Would you and Wendy like to come for a walk?" she asked, and the suggestion was enthusiastically received. "Can we get Bruno too?" they demanded, and a few minutes later the three of them, plus Horsey's big retriever, were out in the cold, crisp air.
The children would have taken her across field paths they knew, but the snow had drifted in the open places and since Fay was not properly equipped for dealing with it she had to insist that they kept to the lanes where a certain amount of traffic had packed it fairly solid.
The children and the dog kept the walk lively and full of interest, but in any event it was a welcome change, Fay found, to get out into the open again after the hothouse atmosphere of Beechcroft.
The afternoon was short, and before they got back the sun which had appeared at midday was already like a big orange sinking below the horizon. Fay, as she walked up the drive, was remembering the impressions of her arrival a few days before and how she had stood outside the closed door wishing herself back in Australia because of the lack of welcome. That seemed ages ago now and she knew that there had been a purpose in her coming here—a purpose she had not dreamed of then. She did not follow that conviction to any logical conclusion, but she only knew that it was preordained that she and Mark should meet.
Going from the cold, clear frosty silence of the snowbound out of doors into the sudden warmth and noise of the great hall hit Fay almost like a physical blow. It seemed by
contrast as though she had stepped straight from the peace of heaven into the pandemonium of hell. Just the noise and the unaccustomed warmth, she thought. But there was something else as well. Some sort of fracas seemed to be going on—a sort of free-for-all, it seemed, in which the horseplay was not entirely all good-natured.
Fay was not surprised—tempers had seemed a little frayed before she went out—but she had hoped that they would have improved by now.
"It's in his pocket—the inside one—"
"It isn't—!"
"Yes, it is—here, I've got it!"
"No, you don't—"
"Oonagh! Catch!"
Something hurtled through the air and fell at Fay's feet. As she stopped to pick it up Wendy said, "It's Mark's—they've no business to take Mark's things."
The melee of assorted bodies was falling apart, and to her surprise Fay saw that at the centre was Mark. A very dishevelled Mark with has jacket half torn off him and with his hair most uncharacteristically ruffled. He looked intensely angry.
All these things Fay noticed in a second of time. Then Bernard snatched the opened wallet from her hand and thrust it towards Oonagh. "There you are!" he cried with spiteful triumph. "I told you he carried the kids' photographs around with him! Now do you believe you're wasting your time?"
The wallet had been in her hand for only a moment, but it had been there long enough for Fay to register one indisputable fact. It held the photograph of two small children. Two fair-haired children with noticeably dark eyes ... eyes which would be a rich, warm brown—like Mark's.
It seemed to Fay as though sudden silence had fallen over the hall, but it could have been that all her other senses were drowned in the overwhelming one of shame. For a split second her eyes and Mark's met. His were still very angry. Then she dropped her own glance and walked to the stairs.
Her dream was over. Fairyland was false—as false as hell.
ST. EDITH'S HOSPITAL in a north-western suburb of London was not a prepossessing building. It was red brick and bad Victorian in architecture, though it did have the advantage of spacious grounds. But the sight of it would have brought comfort to Fay Gabriel had it been in the back streets of some smoke-grimed city.
As the main doors swung to behind her she breathed a sigh of relief. The long vista of seemingly endless stone floored corridors, the tall windows, the inescapable and unmistakable odour of antiseptics mingled with anaesthetics reassured her. Here she was at home. This was her world. Here she was Sister Gabriel, and that other errant self, that other Fay Gabriel and her stay at Beechcroft, could be pushed into the limbo of things to be forgotten like a bad dream when morning is come.
It would take time, of course, for oblivion to become so complete that she could pretend that it had not happened. It would be a long time before she could forgive that other Fay who committed the—to her unforgivable—crime of giving her love unasked to a man who was unworthy. The shame of that realisation would be with her for a long time to come, but she would conquer it in the end, she told herself with determination.
She had not seen Mark again after that fracas in the hall when his photographs had fallen at her feet. She was not quite sure whether it was some innate common decency which had dictated that she should leave. No one seemed to know or care about his sudden disappearance and when
she had tentatively broached the subject to Toni the reply had been a typically vague, "Oh, I expect they wanted him at the theatre—they're always doing that."