Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Horses’ hoofs clattered on the drive.
Mary fled upstairs to her own room.
There she stood in the open doorway listening. The hall seemed full of people. Surely those few could not make all that noise. Above the talking came every now and again the sound of a laugh, almost masculine in its vitality, yet with a feminine gaiety. Later she heard luggage being carried up the stairs. She heard voices in the bedrooms below. She heard a man’s deep voice call, “Come here for a minute, Ernest.” Then the voice of the Mr. Whiteoak she had met in London replied, “All right, Nicholas. I’ll be there when I’ve put on a fresh collar.”
Mary resolutely closed her own door. She made up her mind to stay where she was till sent for. She would read, and yes — she would smoke a cigarette! Mary’s own father had introduced her to this decadent habit, and it had grown on her to such an extent that, in times of stress, she not infrequently sought its comfort. In ordinary times one a day sufficed her. She had brought several packets with her.
Now she sat down, with both windows open, so there might be a current of air to carry away the smoke. She put a cigarette between her lips and lighted it, taking care to throw the match as far as possible into the shrubbery. She inhaled gently. She took up the copy of
Lady Audley’s Secret
which had kept her awake for hours the night before and began to read. Either the house was quieter now or she had succeeded in isolating herself. She started when a peremptory rap came on the door. The cigarette had been finished long ago but she dashed a little good scent on her hair and collar to allay any lingering odour of tobacco.
“Miss Wakefield!” called Renny.
She opened the door.
“You’re wanted downstairs. My grandmother wants to see you. And what do you suppose she brought me? A train that winds up and runs right across the room! And a music box for Meggie! Come and see!”
He caught her by the hand, with a warmth he had never before shown and dragged her through the door.
“You smell!” he exclaimed.
“Of what?” she demanded startled.
“It’s nice,” he said, and tugged at her again.
He was still holding her hand when they entered the drawing-room. That close grasp gave her strength. Anxiously she looked about her, seeking the figure of Mrs. Whiteoak.
But there was no need to seek. Her vigorous presence caught and held the eye, though all those in the room, save one, were strongly individual, and even he, Sir Edwin, was far from insignificant, if only because of his contrast to the others. Mary had expected to see an old woman but, at sixty-eight, Adeline Whitoak might have passed for fifty had it not been for her clothes, which were of a massive cut, and the fact that she wore a lace cap with ribbons on her head. The cap was wired to give it body. It also added to her look of imperiousness. There was little of grey in her hair which still retained a hint of russet. Her handsomely-cut aquiline features, her expressive brown eyes, her fine teeth, brought an admiring shine into Mary’s own eyes. Above all, she was smiling and Mary smiled in return.
“How do you do, Miss Wakefiled.” She held out her hand and Mary’s hand was enfolded in it. Renny still gripped the fingers of the other.
“Come,” he persisted, “come and see my train.”
It seemed to Mary that at least a dozen voices ordered him to be quiet.
“I hope you are getting on well,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “I hope you are able to put some knowledge into the children’s heads.”
“I’m trying hard.” Mary’s voice was scarcely audible.
“I think I must be getting deaf.” Mrs. Whiteoak cupped her ear in her palm. “I can’t hear you.”
“I’m getting on nicely, thank you.” Now her voice came clearly and, she felt, a little too loud.
Meg spoke up. “We haven’t had lessons lately. It’s too hot.”
Her grandmother’s bright glance discovered her. “There are other things besides lessons,” she said.
“What other things?” asked Renny.
“Behaving yourself. Does Miss Wakefield make you behave?”
He gave a peal of laughter.
“Is there a party or something?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak, looking Mary over.
Her dress! She should not have put on that gay dress! She felt ready to sink through the floor.
Ernest Whiteoak now came forward. His expression was faintly apologetic, though whether to his mother or to her, Mary could not guess. But he shook hands kindly.
“It seems quite a long while,” he said, “since I interviewed you, on behalf of my mother.”
“And saw Miss Wakefield through your mother’s eyes, I’ll be bound,” added Mrs. Whiteoak. She turned to Mary.
“How old are you, my dear?”
“Twenty-four.”
“H’m. That quite tallies with my son’s description of you. He said you were — youngish, that your hair had not gone grey and that you had your own teeth. Well — so have I and I’m sixty-eight.”
Mary was too confused to be certain whom Mrs. Whiteoak was making fun of. She stood looking down at the older woman fascinated.
Renny had run off and joined Meg with their toys in the sitting-room.
“Now I had better introduce you all round,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, “Nicholas, Augusta, Edwin — Miss Wakefield. Miss Wakefield — Mr. Whiteoak, Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.”
The tall dark gentleman with the moustache who was standing by a window talking to Philip, smiled pleasantly and bowed. Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley inclined their heads without smiling.
“Where are the children?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak.
“They’ve taken their toys to the library,” answered Philip.
Mrs. Whiteoak gave an imperious wave of the hand toward Mary. “You’d better join ’em, she said. “They’ll be up to mischief.” Mary noticed the hand, long and supple. She saw the flash of rubies and diamonds on it.
With a little bow Mary withdrew. Scarcely was she in the hall when she heard Mrs. Whiteoak say:
“Somebody please shut that door.”
It was closed and the six people left in the drawing-room exchanged looks of untrammelled intimacy. Nicholas was the first to speak.
“A lovely creature,” he said. “A very lovely creature.” He turned to his brother Ernest. “Upon my word, Ernie, you’ve a very pretty taste in women.”
“She looked quite different in London,” replied Ernest hastily.
“Doubtless the climate here has rejuvenated her,” said Sir Edwin who was small and neat and mouse-coloured.
“Are we to take that remark seriously, Edwin?” asked his wife who was tall, with a massive curled fringe about her forehead and a plum-coloured dress. She spoke in a rich contralto voice.
“I offer it as the only possible explanation,” he replied. “Ernest himself says she looks different.”
“If she looked as she does now, Ernest must have been demented,” declared Lady Buckley.
“What’s the matter with her looks?” demanded Philip.
“Everything,” returned his sister. “She looks and dresses like an actress.”
It went against the grain of Adeline Whiteoak to agree with her daughter, so she ignored this remark and asked of Ernest:
“How was she different in London?”
“Well, Mamma, it’s hard to say. But there was an impalpable difference.”
“I do not engage governesses on impalpable grounds.”
“We never should have trusted Ernest,” said Lady Buckley. “He is too easily carried away by a little charm.”
Ernest replied tartly, “I am the only one of us who has not been carried away into matrimony.”
Sir Edwin giggled. “My charm was too much for Augusta, eh, Augusta?”
His wife looked at him as though she failed to discover a remnant of charm in him. She said:
“A girl like that is no companion for the children.”
“What do you want me to do?” exclaimed Philip hotly. “Turn her out because she’s pretty and wears pretty clothes? Well — I refuse. You sent her to me. She’s a damned sight nicer than the other two were.” He went on more calmly, “Wait till you’re acquainted with her before you condemn her. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“Philip is right,” agreed Ernest. “Let us be patient and calm.”
This remark had no calming effect on his mother. She sprang up and swept through the length of the room. “By the Lord,” she exclaimed, “you have a way of bringing out the worst in people, Ernest.”
“Not in me,” said Augusta. “For I know that Ernest’s intentions are good.”
Mrs. Whiteoak came back up the room. She was smiling. “We certainly must give the young woman a chance, as Philip says. On my part I intend to be very civil to her,” she said.
“The thought of being uncivil to anyone,” came in Augusta’s contralto tones, “never enters my head.”
“We’ll all be nice to her,” said Sir Edwin gaily, “and see what happens.”
“She’ll be extremely grateful.” Philip smiled at him. He was about to add, “And so shall I,” but thought better of it.
Nicholas gave a yawn. “I’m off to my room to unpack,” he said. “Come along, Philip.” He put his arm affectionately through his brother’s. They moved toward the door.
The Buckleys rose and followed them. Augusta asked:
“Is there anything I can do to help you, Mamma?”
“No, thanks. Mrs. Nettleship will help me.”
Ernest had no mind to be left alone with his mother.
“Anything I can do?” he asked cheerily, when the others had gone.
She shook her head.
“It’s so nice to be home again,” he said.
“It may be, for you. It is well to be so irresponsible.”
“But — nothing has happened, Mamma.”
“Something will. Did you see the look on Philip’s face when he spoke of that girl?”
“No.”
“Then you are very unobservant. He is attracted by her. He may even be attached to her.”
Ernest gnawed his thumb, not knowing what to say. There came a tap on the door. Before opening it he turned to his mother and said: “Everything seems in very good order at Jalna, doesn’t it?”
“Good enough. Good enough,” she muttered. Then, with a look of complete exasperation she added:
“Oh, Ernest, what a fool you were to engage that flibbertigibbet girl!”
Ernest could not deny it. He was thankful when a second light knock sounded on the door. He opened it.
Mrs. Nettleship stood there, her little pointed hands folded on her stomach. Ernest slipped past her and went up the stairs. She said, “Excuse me, Ma’am, but is there anything I can do to help you?” She closed the door behind her.
“Yes. You can unpack for me but not till morning, except for my dressing-case.”
“I have that already unpacked.”
“Then there’s nothing. Wait — you may pour me another glass of sherry.” She had seated herself on a sofa and was half-reclining on its cushions, her long lithe body displayed to advantage, despite its cumbersome clothes.
With short silent steps Mrs. Nettleship crossed the room and gently took the decanter from the silver tray. “I thought you’d be tired and would like a little sherry,” she said.
“A good thought. Just half a glass this time.”
Mrs. Nettleship brought the sherry to her.
Adeline Whiteoak put the glass to her lips and looked keenly over its rim at the housekeeper.
“How have things been going — of late!” she asked.
“Do you mean in the last five weeks, Mrs. Whiteoak?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
Mrs. Nettleship was bow-legged. Even through her skirt and two petticoats it was discernible. Now she planted her feet firmly on the carpet.
“The last five weeks,” she said, “have been terrible hard to bear. If it wasn’t for you, Mrs. Whiteoak, I wouldn’t have stood it. It was affecting my health.”
“Just what do you mean?” Adeline Whiteoak spoke above a sharply indrawn breath.
“It’s the governess. It breaks my heart to look at those dear little children and think what she’s set out to do.”
“What has she set out to do?”
“Oh, Mrs. Whitoak, don’t ask me to say it out loud! I just couldn’t. But I lie awake at nights thinking what this house would be like with her at the head of it. Of course, I wouldn’t stay but wherever I was I’d be thinking of the poor little children.” She gave a deep sigh.
Adeline spoke calmly. “Tell me — what has Miss Wakefield done to make you feel like this?”
Mrs. Nettleship drew a step closer and the pupils of her pale eyes were fixed in a gimlet gaze. Now the words poured out of her.
“Oh, Mrs. Whiteoak, it began as soon as she came under this roof. I saw that she was sly. She wasn’t dressed in a proper way but always as though she was going somewhere. She’d perfume on her. She’d worse than perfume on her, Ma’am, she had
paint
on her!”
“Paint! Where? On her cheeks?”
“On her lips. I noticed they were redder sometimes than they was at other times. Then — I
saw
.”
“Ha! What else?”
Mrs. Nettleship came very close and lowered her voice till it was almost a whisper.
“On the third day,” she said, then paused.
“Yes? Go on.”
“On the third day, I was carrying the children’s laundry up to their rooms. I had slippers on and I didn’t make any noise. On the
top
floor, at Miss Wakefield’s door, was Mr. Whiteoak. The door
was open and she was standing in it with a
loose
wrapper on.” The peculiar stress which Mrs. Nettleship laid on the word
loose
implied the most immoral intentions possible on the part of the wrapper. She watched Adeline Whiteoak’s face closely and was satisfied with the effect of her disclosure.
“What did they do when you appeared?”
“Miss Wakefield was just plain flustered. She didn’t know what way to look. But Mr. Whiteoak spoke real sharp to me.”
“What did he say?”
“I apologized and said I hoped I hadn’t scared the young lady, and he said
she’d
nothing to be scared of.”
“H’m. And what then?”
“Doctor Ramsey came in — he’d been twice before to see her but couldn’t find her — and, after a while she dressed and came downstairs. After he’d left I was passing through the hall, and she and Mr. Whiteoak was still in the library. Jake was there too and I thought I’d better see if he wanted out. We’ve never had a puppy that was so much trouble. Well — I didn’t go into the room, Mrs. Whiteoak. I didn’t go in. I know my place better. Especially after the way Mr. Whiteoak had spoke to me, outside her bedroom door. I just scurried down to the basement as fast as my poor legs would carry me.”