Authors: Mary Burchell
“I didn
’
t, you know.” Celia smiled at him. “It was my sister who did.”
“Well, bless my soul how
’
s a man to know the difference?” Mead wanted to know. “Though, if I may say so, when young ladies are as nice as you are, one can
’
t have too much of them.” And Mead laughed immoderately at his own joke. “Only last
night, I said to Mr. Clumber, I said
—”
“Is Mr. Clumber here at the Court already?” interrupted Celia eagerly.
“Yes, indeed. Came down yesterday morning. He said to let him know as soon as you arrived, in case there was anything he could do to help.”
“Then I think I
’
ll walk up now and—just say hello.” Celia turned to Freda. “You don
’
t mind, do you? I
’
ll be back in ten minutes or so. Before the furniture comes.”
“Yes—that
’
s all right,” Freda assured her. And she somehow forced herself to go on listening to Mead
’
s account of his activities, and managed not to show how desperately she wanted to break away and hurry after Celia.
Celia was gone for close on half an hour, and arrived back just as the furniture van drew up outside the cottage. Laurence was not with her, and Freda was aware of a sharp stab of disappointment, even in the midst of all the enjoyable excitement about the arrival of the furniture.
“I thought Laurence was anxious to come and help,” she said, almost curtly. But Celia, intent on the first things which were being lifted out of the van, seemed not to notice her tone.
“He
’
s coming later. He had to see his bailiff first. Oh, look, Freda! It all looks even nicer, away from the other things in the shop.”
It did indeed. And for a while Freda was able to thrust every other thought into the background.
This was the great moment when her beloved cottage was being clothed, as it were, and stamped with her own personality. This was when it became her home —and nothing, she decided, should be allowed to spoil that moment.
Either she and Celia were extraordinarily lucky, or else they had been very thorough in their preliminary measurements and planning. At any rate, everything seemed to fit into its place, as though specially designed for that purpose. And, as each article was brought in and set in position, it seemed to Freda that the most lovely little home was taking shape before her entranced eyes.
Halfway through operations, Mr. Merry came down to “have a look at things”, as he expressed it. And he told Celia—probably under the impression that she was Freda—that the place couldn
’
t look snugger or trimmer, which was apparently very high praise with him.
Several other people from the village drifted slowly past, gazing their fill, and one or two who evidently considered this a free show on which all were entitled to comment told Freda and/or Celia that the place had never looked nicer.
By noon everything had been delivered and the van drove off, leaving the girls to arrange and rearrange to their hearts
’
content. They wandered from room to room together, commenting and admiring and congratulating each other on their choice.
Then at last Freda said, “I
’
m
hungry,
aren
’
t you? Mead kindly brought us some lettuce and tomatoes and what he called
‘
salad bits
’
. If you like to carry on with setting things to rights upstairs, I
’
ll make a salad and open one of our tins, and make our first lunch here.”
This idea commended itself to Celia, who was lost in happy experimental grouping in her own room. So Freda went downstairs and into the now quite luxuriously equipped kitchen, where she started her simple preparations.
It was while she was standing at the sink, washing Mead
’
s lettuce, that she saw Laurence coming down the grassy slope from the big house. Her heart skipped a beat. But, because he was still some way off and she was not under his immediate scrutiny, she was able to give him a seemingly careless, friendly wave of the hand, to which he replied in kind.
She set the kitchen door open and then went on with her task, trying to pretend to herself that her hands were perfectly steady, and that Laurence was just a casual visitor, like any other neighbour who might drop in.
But during the few moments when he passed out of her line of vision, in order to enter the little yard, she put up her hands for a moment to her cheeks and found them unnaturally hot.
“It
’
s the exertion of moving things,” she told herself absurdly, as she heard his firm, decisive tread in the yard. “I can be quite natural with him—and I will.”
But somehow, when he entered, it was quite impossible to turn and greet him unselfconsciously, and for a moment she went on washing the lettuce feverishly, as though it were something she must not leave, even for a moment.
She heard him laugh softly behind her, and then his hands were on her arms and, drawing her back lightly against him, he kissed the side of her cheek
—
just as she had been wanting him to kiss her ever since she had interrupted that scene with Celia.
“Well,” his laughing voice said in her ear, “haven
’
t you a word of greeting for me?”
It was the most heavenly, exciting thing that had ever happened to her, and for a moment she didn
’
t even turn, because she wanted to prolong the delight of it.
And then, suddenly, she felt herself go cold and limp, as a dreadful sort of chill seemed to touch her heart. For, as though the words had been spoken aloud, she heard Brian
’
s voice saying again,
“I suppose from the back it would be virtually impossible to tell you apart.”
CHAPTER NINE
For
a second longer, Freda remained wordless, with Laurence
’
s arms round her. Then, in a voice which she strove to make natural, she said lightly,
“Are you quite sure you know who it is you
’
re kissing?”
“Why, of course. What do you mean by that, exactly?” And, still laughing a little, he turned her towards him.
For days afterwards she was to regret that she simply could not summon the resolution to look
him
in the face at that moment. For only by seeing his expression then could she have known for sure if his next words were the truth, and not just a hasty attempt to cover up an awkward slip.
There was, she thought, a second
’
s hesitation—or was that just in her own imagination? Then he said, but more seriously this time,
“What is it, Freda? Are you cross with me for kissing you?”
“N-no. I
’
m not cross.” She tried not to sound as breathless and agitated as she felt. “I just thought that perhaps you—you took me for Celia.”
“But why should you think that?”
She could not possibly decide if he were just playing for time, or whether this smiling protest were perfectly genuine, and so she launched into rapid, rather nervous explanation.
“Well, no one seems to know us apart in this get
-
up. All the morning people have been taking us for each other. And I just thought, somehow, you were more
likely
to kiss Celia.”
“You silly child,” he said, and this time she
thought
his amusement was genuine. “You
’
re eminently kissable in your own right, if you want to know. And, just to prove it”—he leaned forward and touched her cheek with his
li
ps—
“
there
’
s another kiss, without any doubts attached to it.”
She had only time to give an incredulous little laugh, and to feel the sudden stirring of fresh hope and confidence, before Celia came running down the stairs and into the kitchen.
“Hello!” She greeted Laurence with a mixture of pleasure and reproof. “I began to wonder when you were going to show up. Are you staying to lunch? We
can
manage lunch for three, can
’
t we, Freda?”
“If Laurence doesn
’
t mind a sort of picnic meal.” Laurence said that sounded wonderful to him, and could he do anything to help?
“Yes, indeed.” Celia, in the nicest way possible, appropriated this offer to herself. “Come on upstairs and move my chest of drawers for me, will you? I
’
ve decided to have everything round the other way, after all. Can you manage on your own for ten minutes, Freda dear?”
Freda dear said she could. And indeed she was almost glad to see them both go, for she felt she must have a few minutes to herself, in which to recall every detail of the scene which had just taken place, and somehow assess its significance—or lack of it.
“I must try not to make too much of it,” she told herself. “Not to run away with the idea that one kiss”—she remembered then that there had been two of them—
“
should necessarily mean anything.”
But then, if her kiss represented nothing important, the same could be said of the kiss she had seen him bestow on Celia, and the scene which had caused her such anguish at the time could be written off as relatively unimportant.
Had she been making the silliest fuss about nothing? she wondered. And was it not much more significant that it was to
her
that he had laughingly confided Miss Clumber
’
s matrimonial plans for him, and that it was
she
who had been teased and petted on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion when Ada had produced the snapshot of herself and Belshazzar?
Suddenly it seemed to Freda that the sun was shining much more brilliantly, and that the birds in the garden were singing much more sweetly. And then she hoped guiltily that she was not being mean or disloyal to Celia. But it was so extraordinarily difficult to know what the right attitude was in this tangled affair. After all, if Brian desperately wanted to marry Celia, and was sure that was the right thing for her, why should Freda reproach herself for hoping ardently that nothing would come of Celia
’
s romantic regard for Laurence?
While she tried, unsuccessfully, to work out that particular problem, Freda completed her lunch preparations. And, having set out the modest but appetising meal on the new table, she surveyed it with infinite satisfaction, and then called down the other two.
It was, understandably, the gayest of meals. The very first in her own home, and shared with the two people who had changed her life. She would have liked to have Brian there too, she thought. But he would be coming on the morrow, and then everything would be perfect.
“Isn
’
t this heaven?” Celia said, gazing dreamily out of the window into the garden. “Aren
’
t you ashamed now, Laurence, that you ever thought of pulling down this cottage over Freda
’
s head?”
“I never thought of doing anything so uncivilized,” he pointed out indignantly. “I only meant
—”
“I know, I know. But it
’
s the same thing, really,” Celia interrupted, rather unfairly. “I think it
’
s very nice and forgiving of Freda to be willing to have you here at her table.”
“You didn
’
t give her much chance to do anything else,” Laurence retorted, “You invited me, out of hand, and merely requested her agreement afterwards.”
“Did I really?” Celia looked genuinely surprised.
“It was a very good idea—anyway,” Freda assured her with a smile.
After lunch, Laurence nobly offered to stay and help further. But both girls insisted that they could manage on their own.
“Well then, at least come up to the house for dinner to-night,” he said. And to this they willingly agreed.
When he had gone, they cleared away lunch and washed up together in the little kitchen. And, as everyone knows, even these humdrum jobs take on a certain pleasure when done in one
’
s own place, in congenial company.
Then they re-inspected every room, made a few alterations here and there, and finally gathered some flowers from the garden, to add a final touch to the place.
“This is the sort of thing one should never take for granted,” exclaimed Freda, speaking her thoughts aloud.
“What is, darling?” Celia asked absently, as she sat back on her heels on the floor and surveyed a difficult comer of the carpet, which had not been tacked down to her satisfaction.
“Almost everything that
’
s happened to-day,” Freda confessed with a laugh. “But I meant specially—the joy of going in and out of one
’
s own home, picking one
’
s own flowers, to decorate one
’
s own rooms. I suppose, in time, the first magic is bound to pass. But I don
’
t think I
’
ll ever forget this first day.”
“I don
’
t expect you will.” Celia glanced at her affectionately. Then a sharp rap on the front door brought her to her feet, and she ran across to open the door and take in a telegram.
“Looks nice,” remarked the telegraph boy, unblushingly peering in. “My ma said to tell you that if you want someone to clean for you, she has Mondays and Thursdays free.”
“We might be glad of that,” Celia conceded. “Mightn
’
t we, Freda?”
“Why—yes. I suppose we might.” Freda was faintly flustered by this unexpected offer of domestic help. Then she pulled herself together and tried to look like an experienced householder. “Tell your mother we
’
ll let her know. What
’
s her name?”
“Cherubim. Same as mine.” The boy grinned cheekily. “And we
’
re as good as we sound.”
“Well, it
’
s certainly a name to live up to,” Celia told him, with an answering grin. Then, as he went off whistling, she closed the door again and said, “I
’
d adore to have someone called Mrs. Cherubim come and clean for us, wouldn
’
t you?”
“It does sound rather nice,” Freda agreed with a laugh. “Who
’
s the telegram from?”
“Brian!” exclaimed Celia, who had to
rn
the envelope open by now. “And it
’
s to say he can get down this evening, after all. How splendid! He
’
ll be down about seven. That
’
s just in time to go to the Court for dinner. At least—no, of course, he
’
s staying there anyway, so he might well go there first. We ought to let them know, up at the house. I might
walk up and
—”
“No,” Freda was surprised to hear herself say, on a note of calm decision. “I
’
ll go. I want to see Ada about some recipes she was going to give me,” she added, when she saw how astonished Celia looked.
“O-oh, very well.” Celia was obviously surprised to have the initiative snatched from her in this pleasant but arbitrary way. But, in that moment, Freda told herself she didn
’
t
care.
She was tired of being the one to stay out of the picture each time. It was
her
turn to go.
And so, not quite sure if she had behaved childishly or diplomatically, she plunged the rest of her flowers into a big jug of water, to await her return and,
taking
the telegram, she set out for the big house.
It was a still and lovely afternoon, and as she walked, the peaceful scene began to have a soothing affect upon her. So that, by the time she arrived at Crowmain Court, she was feeling slightly ashamed of her insistence. But this did not prevent her from being profoundly glad that she had come.
The first person to greet her was Ada, which
seemed—
a little illogically—to give some substance to her assertion about needing the recipes.
“Well, now, Miss Freda, isn
’
t that nice?” Ada beamed upon her as she stood at the open door. “Quite like old times, to have you dropping in to tea.”
“I haven
’
t come to tea,” Freda explained. “We
’
re coming to dinner to-night, anyway, you know, and I can
’
t behave as though I
’
m living here.”
“More
’
s the pity,” observed Ada, dropping her voice to a confidential note which the late Miss Clumber would have disapproved. “What this place needs is a mistress. A master
’
s all very well. But”—she shook her head—
“
it
’
s not the same as having a woman about.”
“You mean,” suggested Freda tactfully, “that you miss Miss Clumber?”
“Well,” said Ada, who evidently didn
’
t mean that at all, for—not to put too fine a point on it—Miss Clumber had been what she characterized to herself as a Great Trial in the last years. “What I really meant, Miss Freda, was that Mr. Clumber ought to get married.”
“Perhaps,” Freda said soothingly, “he will.”