Authors: Susan Barrie
“Is it?” He seemed to be looking around him, as if he scarcely remembered it, and Stacey, whose heart had been hammering away in double-quick time ever since he had arrived shortly after tea, noticed his eyes wandering to the portrait which hung in quite a prominent position on the end wall, with the light from the windows falling directly upon it. He went on looking up at it for so long in silence, while the brown, wilful eyes gazed back at him as if deliberately tantalizing him—or, perhaps they were saying, Stacey thought, realizing it was rather a wild fancy: “I’ve escaped you now, and I no longer have any need of you!”—until Stacey began to feel as if her breath was suspended, and there was an ache in her chest because she dared not move, or lower her own eyes, or do anything to distract him. And at length he said quietly, casually, looking away from the portrait and at the piano: “I see somebody's been playing recently. Was it you?”
“Yes,” she answered, in a husky kind of little whisper, and he dropped down rather heavily into a chair.
“Then play to me,” he requested her. “Play something light and diverting, not heavy or gloomy. I am not in the mood for gloom.”
And as she obediently sat down on the piano stool she felt her heart racing in a kind of panic, for it must have been the portrait which had disturbed him. Her heart stopped racing and became a leaden weight inside her, for if the portrait had so much power to affect him, what sort of power had the woman herself been able to exercise over him when she was alive? How badly did he still miss her?
The chair he had selected—probably deliberately—had its back to the portrait, but she was sure that he was overwhelmingly conscious of it there behind him on the wall, the last stab of sunset light making a deliberate attack on Fenella’s exquisite, peach-like complexion, on her shining golden hair, and that exciting exotic mouth. Whether it was her imagination or not Stacey was unable to decide, but she thought that he was sitting rather rigidly upright, waiting for her to begin playing the piano, and he had not even lighted a cigarette. The cigarette was in his hand, extracted from his case, and he was staring down at it thoughtfully.
Stacey began to play, sparkling extracts from romantic operettas, lilting waltz tunes, gay ballads. Nothing too sentimental, or likely to arouse sentiment. She grew gradually more confident as her fingers flew over the keys, loving the feel of them as she always did, her own heart lightened almost magically by the irresistible quality of her music, her head of dark, soft curls held a little higher, her slender shoulders squaring themselves after twenty minutes or so of playing. And if she had been able to look behind her she would have been surprised to see that her “treatment” was working so well that he was now sitting watching her, still not smoking, but leaning forward and studying the flying movements of her hands, the flash of her shell-pink finger nails, the graceful whiteness of her wrists. And by the time she was finished he knew not only that her hands were extraordinarily lovely, and that his plain gold wedding ring looked very well indeed on the third finger of her left hand, but that the rest of her, clothed in something filmy and grey which billowed above the piano stool, was as unsubstantial as mist, and as pleasing as the childish white fichu from which her slender neck escaped.
“That was really splendid!” he exclaimed, when her fingers were lying relaxed in her lap. “I’d no idea you were such an accomplished pianist!”
A little, pleased flame of color sprang up in her cheeks, and turned even her ears pink.
“I love playing,” she said simply.
“Then I’m glad you’ve got the piano,” he told
her. “At
least it
’
s something to keep you amused while I’m not here.”
He was not there for long.
He could only stay one night that weekend, which made it seem a terribly short visit. But as soon as he left Stacey started looking forward to his next visit, and counting the days until he came again. And in that way the first few weeks of her married life passed over her head, and to her they seemed unreal weeks, weeks that were simply wished away because there was only one
thing
about them that was real, and vital, and which meant anything to her at all—and that was the coming of Martin Guelder. And each time he went away again she stepped back into her unreal world.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Until g
radually she got to know a few people in the district. She was returning from a long tramp across open country one afternoon when the days were beginning to shorten noticeably, and in the air there was the smell of autumn, co
m
pounded of ripening fruit and dry leaves and the last of the co
rn
being carried to safety from the lovely, fertile area around her, and she had Tessa with her as her companion, when she saw that there was a car parked outside the entrance to Fountains Court.
It was not a large or an opulent car, in fact it was a little decrepit; but the fact that it was there immediately struck her as strange. For Miss Fountain, so far as she knew, had few friends in the neighborhood, and scarcely any acquaintances, and so far no one had called upon them, not even the vicar, or the vicar’s wife. Which might have appeared to her as odd, if she had stopped to think about it, for she was, after all, newly married, and the wife of a man with an excellent reputation—at any rate in London!—and she had come to take up her residence at Fountains Court, with the object of making it her home.
But now, for the first time, she saw someone emerging from the house, and she saw that it was a little, rather dumpy woman, wearing shabby tweeds and a practical felt hat pulled well down over her greying hair, and she was drawing on her gloves as she started to run down to her car.
Stacey, with Tessa keeping close to her side, came to a halt beside a large bush of rhododendrons. Stacey was wearing a clinging pullover of lemon color, and a skirt that was finely pleated and too good for walking alone in a desolate country district. She was hatless and her dark hair was windblown, and there was a rich color in her cheeks after her recent exercise. She looked much more like the girl who had left Herefordshire three months before than the one who had returned to it a few weeks ago.
The visitor to the house paused on the steps and looked at her. Tessa started to wag a feathery tail, as if she recognized the caller and was anxious to renew acquaintance, and Stacey moved forward a few paces.
“Are you—you must be Mrs. Guelder!” the visitor said. If she was surprised, she did not show it, and she smiled in a way that Stacey took to at once. It was a smile that had a strong hint of real humor in it, and although her eyes were shrewd they were kindly as well. “You must forgive me for not coming to see you before this, but I’ve been so busy—terribly busy. What with having the house done up, and the decorators in, and Archie—he’s my husband!—developing lumbago, and a portrait I’m trying to finish—I don’t call myself a portrait painter, but I do accept commissions when they come my way—and a whole multitude of other things
...”
Her voice died away vaguely as she inspected Stacey, and then she held out a hand, and Stacey put hers into it.
“My name, by the way, is Aden—Beatrice Aden. I happen to be your nearest neighbor, although about half a mile away as the crow flies!”
“Then yours must be that pretty little cottage just this side of the church?” Stacey said, recal
l
ing it at once. “It’s one of the most delightful cottages I’ve ever seen, and I can’t think why you want to waste money on having it done up, when it’s perfectly heavenly as it is!” She had so often noticed it in her walks that she was unusually eager, and Mrs. Aden, recognizing her genuine enthusiasm, smiled at her with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Well, my dear, it may look delightful, but from time to time we get visitations from unwanted insects who love to settle in that kind of half-timber framework, and threats of dry rot, and so forth, and things have to be done. But I’m so glad you like the place, unostentatious though it is.” She glanced up at the face of Fountains. “Now this, of course, is a habitation to be proud of, although before your husband is through with it he'll probably find that it’s going to cost him a fortune to maintain it. By the way, when I called just now Miss Fountain didn’t tell me you were out. She just said she didn’t know where you were.”
“Did she? Oh!” Stacey colored slightly. “Probably she didn’t realize I’d gone for a walk.”
“Probably not. But I expect you do a lot of walking, being so much alone. It’s a great pity your husband has to spend so much of his time in London, but if you like the country it isn’t so bad.”
All the time she was talking she was still studying Stacey, but Stacey felt no embarrassment beneath the scrutiny she bent on her. For one thing there was only the purest interest in it, and nothing harsh or critical. Stacey said: “Won’t you come inside, Mrs. Aden, and have some tea? If I’d known you were going to call I’d have been in, of course, or let Miss Fountain know when to expect me back. She isn’t always certain how long I’m going to be when I go wandering”—endeavouring to excuse the obvious lack of welcome Mrs. Aden had received from Miss Fountain.
“No, thank you, child—I’m really rather anxious to get back. But come in and see me one afternoon, will you? And I’ll show you my cottage—all there is to be seen of it!”
“Thank you,” Stacey answered, “I’d love to.”
And that was how it came about that, a few afternoons later, Stacey paid her first visit to Primrose Cottage, the black and white cottage with the gay garden facing it which had so captivated her when she had seen it for the first time on a walk with Tessa. The inside was just as delightful as the outside, and the Adens had spent years collecting many choice period pieces which were completely in keeping with the cottage. Mrs. Aden's drawing room was agleam with them in the afternoon light, the polished surface of her little Sheraton writing desk particularly attracting Stacey’s attention. Her studio was at the bottom of the garden, a large place like a ba
rn
which had been converted to her needs. Stacey looked at the portrait she was painting of a local big-wig who had commissioned it, and decided that however much Beatrice Aden might make light of her abilities, she had genuine talent. The portrait
would probably not flatter the sitter, but it was strangely lifelike.
“Have you ever had your portrait painted?” Mrs. Aden enquired, when tea had been brought to them in the studio, because it was filled with sunshine, and the brightly-covered couches were exceedingly comfortable. She had the sugar tongs poised in one hand and was looking at her guest, her head a little on one side.
Stacey, in a leaf-green dress of softest woollen, shook her head.
“I don’t imagine anyone would ever want to waste time painting me.”
“Wouldn’t they?” Mrs. Aden still had her head on one side, and she looked as if she disagreed. “Well, maybe that’s what you think.”
After tea they returned to the drawing room. There, Stacey suddenly noticed a photograph on a Buhl cabinet, and it was a photograph of Dick Hatherleigh, her childhood playmate. She uttered a little exclamation, and Mrs. Aden looked at her in surprise.
“You don’t know Dick, do you? It would be too odd if you do! He happens to be my nephew.”
“He
does
?”
Stacey wheeled round on her, pleasure which she didn’t think of concealing flooding her face. “Why, Dick and I have known one another for years! We lived in the same village for half our lives—or half his, and practically all mine! He’s in Kenya now, and doing very well. He wrote to me
only a few months ago
—
”
She suddenly came to a pause, conscious that her hostess was wearing a faintly surprised expression on her face, although there was also a mild sort of little twinkle in her eyes.
“How extraordinary!” she exclaimed. “Don’t tell
m
e you had a sort of boy and girl love affair?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” But Stacey could not prevent the color from rising up in her cheeks, and for an instant she wondered suddenly whether Dick—whether Dick had ever intended
...
? That last letter of his had been a little more than friendly, slightly warmer than any he had written to her before. He had talked of coming home as soon as he could manage it, for a brief holiday, and looking her up as soon as he arrived. He did not at that time know about her father’s death. He had imagined her still safe and secluded and tucked away in the little village where he had left her—the village where they had had good times together. He did not even yet know of her marriage, for she had not written to him since she had received that last letter.
“Well, my dear,” Mrs. Aden said, smiling at her, “it’s nice to know that you know a relative of mine—a particularly dear relative, as it happens—and when he does come home he’ll probably come and stay with me, so you’ll have an opportunity to meet him again.”
Before Stacey left, her hostess made a reference to Martin.
“Such a wonderfully clever man,” she said. “So nice to have a clever doctor for a husband. But it’s a pity he has to leave you so much alone.” She secretly thought that Stacey had anything but the aura of a radiant bride about her, although she had only been married a few weeks, and she seemed almost pitifully young and alone. A young man like her nephew, she thought—much nearer her age, and probably with quite a lot in common
...
Why had the foolish child married a man who was old enough—or very nearly old enough—to be her father, and whose professional concerns occupied most of his time? And then, of course, there had been that other wife!
...
There had been some sort of a tragedy there, but nobody locally knew very much about it. So much of it had been hushed up, and not only she, but most of the people round about, had been surprised that he had kept on Fountains Court.
And
the unpopular Miss Fountain!