Dear Trustee (11 page)

“It isn’t true!” she exclaimed indignantly. And this time she did not even pause to laugh at herself. She counted again, more carefully—and found that she had missed one petal “He loves me!” she said aloud, on a note of gay triumph which rang strangely in her own ears. “Or, at least—he could. And Felicity knows it. And she’s not going to stop at much in order to prevent it. Why—”

The bell rang from below, and almost guiltily she stuffed the marguerite back into the vase.

“It’s too ridiculous.
I’m
too ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “He is my trustee, and rather a dear, and he’s taking me out just because he feels responsible for me.”

But she knew that was not the whole of the story. And, as she caught up her gloves and bag, let herself out of the flat and ran down the stairs to Gregory, there still echoed in her head the silly little jingle, “He loves me—he loves me not—”

“Ready?” He smiled at her. “You look radiant.”

“
Do
I?” She was surprised that she could have so many worries and look radiant. “Did you get Laurie there in time?”

“Oh, yes. And now we have the whole evening—though I promised her not to keep you out late. What would you like to do?”

Cecile stood looking up at the beautiful early evening sky. “I wish we could go somewhere into the country. Or almost country. Is there time?”

“Yes, of course. Shall I drive you out to see my mother?”

“Your mother?” Cecile gazed at him in astonishment. “Have you got a mother?”

“Certainly. It’s customary, you know.”

“Yes, of course. But I thought somehow—You never spoke of her before.”

“Didn’t I? She lives quite a different life from mine. That’s why you haven’t met her yet.”

“But when you told me—” she hesitated diffidently—“about your sister, I remember you said that she had no one in whom to confide. I thought you meant that your parents were both dead, even then.”

“No. My father was in the diplomatic service. They were both out East at that time.”

A sort of melancholy touched his expression for a moment, as though even now he recalled his own isolation at that time. But there was not, Cecile noticed with almost breathless interest, that look of bitterness which had always been there before when he spoke of the old unhappiness.

“I see. And are they both still alive?”

“No. My father died seven years ago. My mother lives in a very beautiful part of Surrey, just beyond Guildford. We have time to drive out there, have dinner with her and get back at a reasonable hour. Would you like that?”

“If you think—” Cecile swallowed slightly, “that she won’t mind Laurie’s daughter coming to see her.”

“She never knew about Laurie.”

“Never
knew
about her?” Cecile looked astounded.

“No. They were quite unable to come home at the time when it all happened. By the time they returned to England Hugh had gone to America, and all the talk had died down. I never knew quite what my father thought, but Mother accepted the open verdict at the inquest as meaning that Anne died by accident. I made it my business to encourage that belief, and I saw to it that she never knew the details—or the other possibility.”

“I see,” said Cecile gently. And once again she realized how unbearably heavy his load of bitter, unshared knowledge must sometimes have been. “Then I should love to meet her, if you will take me there.”

It was a delightful drive, as soon as they were free of the city and its outskirts. And it seemed to Cecile that Gregory became less the lawyer and more the indulgent trustee—and perhaps son—as they approached his mother’s home. By the time they arrived at the small but infinitely charming house, standing in its own ground, she felt relaxed and pleasantly curious about her visit.

The front door stood open, and almost before the car stopped, a handsome, grey-haired woman ran out, with almost youthful eagerness, to greet them.

Even without the eagerness, she would have been unmistakably Gregory’s mother, for the likeness was remarkable. Only, in her, the strongly marked features were slightly softened, so that, though she was handsome, she was not formidable. And the brilliant blue eyes which, in Gregory, could look cold and uncompromising, were in her sparkling and unexpectedly gay.

“Darling, what a lovely surprise!” She kissed Gregory warmly and turned to Cecile.

“This is Cecile, Mother—my new ward,” Gregory explained. And to Cecile’s surprise and gratification, Gregory’s mother kissed her too.

“My dear, it was high time he brought you to see me. I think an elderly, respectable mother is just what is needed in the background of this rather odd situation, don’t you? Gregory doesn’t seem responsible and venerable enough for a guardian, somehow, does he?”

“I’m not,” Gregory explained patiently. “I’m a trustee. And Cecile thinks I’m too responsible and interfering, rather than lacking in those qualities.”

It was a charming place, with one long sitting room running from the front to the back of the house, and giving glimpses of a lovely garden on either end. The furniture was elegant and, though varied and evidently the collection of a lifetime of travelling, it had been worked into a satisfying whole by an obviously cultured and tasteful hand.

“I hope you will regard it as something of your home, too,” her
hostess said kindly. “Since you have not your own parents—”

“But I have! I have my mother,” Cecile exclaimed quickly.

“I’m sorry—” Mrs. Picton looked surprised. “At least—I mean I’m glad, of course. But I apologize, dear child. I had no idea. I thought that as you had trustees—” She hesitated.

“We only look after Cecile’s financial affairs,” explained Gregory calmly, “and give her a bit of advice from time to time. Which, I may say, she does not usually take.”

“Oh, that isn’t true!” Cecile laughed in protest. “My mother is an actress, Mrs. Picton.” Suddenly she found it was quite easy to explain, since Gregory was so casual about it all. “She naturally is greatly concerned with her career. So, although she and I are very fond of each other, and even share a flat—” she saw Gregory raise a humorous eyebrow at that, though he said nothing—“I think my father felt it would be a good idea for me to have trustees too.”

Evidently Mrs. Picton found this a perfectly adequate explanation, and she said kindly, “Well, since I can obviously only offer you a second home, I must say that I hope you will often visit me, dear, and always feel welcome.”

And then his mother said that perhaps Cecile would like to come and see the rest of the house before dinner, while Gregory looked at some correspondence which was in his study.

First she looked into the kitchen to tell her maid that there would be two more for dinner, and her maid, being Austrian, took this as a pleasant surprise and a challenge to her skill, instead of an insult for an encroachment on her own time. Then Mrs. Picton took Cecile upstairs.

The whole house carried the unmistakable print of her own most likeable personality, and Cecile admired both her hostess’s charming room and the small but pleasing guest room. What interested her most, however, was Gregory’s room, with its few admirable prints, its enormous number of books and—with a disagreeable shock Cecile recognized it—a very good photograph of Felicity. Slightly idealized, but familiar enough for Cecile to pause before it with a slight exclamation.

“Not one of the family,” Mrs. Picton explained, in a tone which subtly but unmistakably conveyed the fact that, if Mrs. Picton had her way, that was a position which would be maintained.

“I know her,” Cecile said. “And I don’t like her.”

She was ashamed of her crude candour, as soon as the words were out, but Mrs. Picton took it unblinkingly.

“I don’t like her either,” she replied, in a confidential sort of tone. “But, between ourselves, I am venturing to think that photograph remains here more out of habit than anything else now.”

“Was he—very keen on her?” Suddenly they were two women cosily discussing Gregory from the standpoint of shared knowledge and affection.

“At one time, yes. Men can be so silly,” Mrs. Picton said elliptically. “Even the best of them have periods of blindness about some woman or other. Given time, they get over it, like measles when they are younger. But not all of them have time, of course, and then they are caught. I think,” she smiled pensively, “Gregory had enough time. And now, Cecile, I think you will be very good for him.”

“It’s very nice of you to say so, Mrs. Picton. But you hardly know me, you know. You’re guessing.”

“There is such a thing as inspired guessing,” was the succinct reply. “Mothers are rather good at it.”

Then they went downstairs again, Cecile feeling indescribably happy and welcome in this charming house. In the company of her serene, slightly matter-of-fact, hostess, even the fear of Felicity and her dreadful knowledge seemed slightly unreal. And that encounter outside the flat, earlier in the evening, somehow faded in significance and ceased to have any sinister meaning.

Dinner was a pleasant and friendly meal, but almost immediately after it Gregory said they should go, if he were going to keep his promise to get Cecile home in reasonable time.

“It was all too short,” Mrs. Picton declared as she kissed Cecile goodbye. “But come again soon.”

“Oh, I will! And thank you so much for making me feel completely at home, and for showing me—everything.”

“What did ‘everything’ mean?” Gregory wanted to know, amusedly, as they drove away from the house.

“What it says. I even saw your room,” Cecile told him.

“Did you?” He looked surprised. “I shouldn’t have thought there was anything interesting about that.”

She nearly said, “Oh, yes!” when she recalled the photograph of Felicity Waring, and the conversation she had had with Mrs. Picton. But she bit that back. And then, she could not possibly have said why, she asked a direct question, which was even worse. She said:

“Does that big photograph of Felicity on your dressing-table mean that she is something rather special to you?”

She was horrified the moment the words had escaped her. But the glance which he gave her was not angry. It was thoughtful and slightly puzzled.

“If I answer that question, Cecile, will you answer a question I very much want to ask you, in return?” he said.

“Why—why, yes. I think so.” She hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her caution.

“Very well, then. That photograph means that once Felicity was something special to me. She didn’t want to be so, and a final break was made. And nowadays I am glad of it. Is that sufficient answer?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Cecile, on a sudden note of joy. For, all at once, she knew it meant a great deal to her that Felicity was of no special interest to him.

“And now it’s my turn.” He smiled ahead down the road in front of him.

“Y-yes?” She smiled, a little doubtfully, too.

“It’s also about Felicity, oddly enough,” he said slowly. “Why did she call at your mother’s flat this evening? And why did you send her away and pretend that a stranger had called by mistake?”

CHAPTER
VI
I

T
he surprise was so complete, the blow to her temporary sense of security so totally unexpected, that for a moment Cecile could only stare at him in wordless dismay.

“How did you know?” she asked at last. “You must be a mind reader.”

“Oh, no.” He laughed. “Nothing so dashing as that. It was quite simple, really. When your mother left me, to go out of the flat and see what you were doing, I strolled to the window to look out at the view. I went on standing there when she returned, and, while she was pouring me another drink, I happened to glance out of the window—”

“Oh—” Cecile put the back of her hand against her mouth.

“I saw Felicity come out of the house, cross the road and walk quickly away. Then you came in—rather pale and scared-looking, as you are now—and told us that story about a stranger mistaking the house. It didn’t exactly ring true, Cecile, in the circumstances.”

“N-no. I see it wouldn’t. I forgot the window looked on the street. And you were standing there when I came in. I remember now.”

“Quite so,” he said, and waited. But all the inventive part of her mind seemed to have gone blank.

W
h
a
t was she to tell him? The truth was impossible. And yet nothing even remotely plausible came into her mind.

“I thought it all rather mysterious. I still do.” He was smiling faintly, she saw, and apparently not yet taking the matter very seriously. Only, he was curious.

“It was—nothing—really.” She made a tremendous effort to look casually amused in her turn, but she felt that she managed no more than a stiff and nervous little smile. “Felicity thought I was away from home, and she came to see Laurie—”

“Do they know each other, then?” The question was quite gently posed, but the tone of his voice had altered subtly and Cecile knew she had made a bad start.

“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose they must.” Cecile strove to make that sound light and unconcerned.

“If Felicity and Laurie know each other, they must have also recognized each other when Laurie looked over the banisters, to enquire what was happening. Why then did Laurie let you tell that story about a stranger calling?”

“Oh—” Cecile saw her mistake too late. “I don’t know—I mean—of course, they couldn’t know each other, could they?”

“I’m asking you,” he reminded her drily.

“Well, then, obviously Laurie didn’t know Felicity. I—I had gone halfway down the stairs to meet Felicity. She was very much taken aback to see me. I thought perhaps she wanted to speak to you—that she had recognized your car outside. But when I suggested that, she said ‘no’, and she seemed a good deal put out at the discovery that you were there—”

She paused and took a deep breath at this point, but he said, with deceptive gentleness, “Go on.”

He gave her a skeptical glance as he said that, however, which made it difficult to struggle on. But Cecile had grasped the thread of a remotely possible story at last, and nothing was going to make her let go.

“She said—Felicity said—that she preferred not to come up if you were there, and she added, ‘Don’t even tell him I came.’ And then she hurried off again. So, of course, when I came back upstairs, I—I had to give some plausible sort of story which didn't bring her into it.”

Cecile thought she had not done too badly by now. But he cocked a humorous eyebrow at her and observed, “You’re not a very good liar, are you, Cecile?”

“I’m not—” She flushed and dropped her eyes before his bright, amused, skeptical glance. “What makes you think I am
l
-lying?”

“Almost everything,” he assured her a trifle maliciously. “If I had you under cross-examination in Court, I’d make mincemeat of you in five minutes.”

“But I’m not under cross-examination and I’m not in Court.” She felt desperate, and she knew she must be looking sullen, because she had to keep her lips pressed tightly together to stop them from trembling.

And then suddenly he drew the car to the side of the road, stopped the engine and put his arm round her.

“True, my mendacious little ward. And so you could have said, quite simply, that you just didn’t want to answer my question, instead of telling me that very bad fairy story.”

“But you had already answered
my
question,” she reminded him, almost in a whisper. “It—it was my turn to answer.”

“I didn’t mind answering yours,” he told her, with a smile. “So I wouldn’t have insisted on the exact discharge of the bargain, you know.”

She heard him laugh softly and felt him kiss the tip of her ear lightly.

“You’re not engaged on some activity that your trustees ought to know about and forbid, are you?” he enquired, half amused, half serious.

“No, Gregory. Truly not!”

“Word of honour?” She knew he was still laughing, but the slight pressure of his arm was reassuring.

“Yes—word of honour—really!”

“Very well. But you just don’t want to tell me why Felicity came this evening or why you sent her away?”

“No. I don’t want to tell you.”

“We’ll leave it at that. He released her. But he looked at her quizzically as he added, “Next time you want to tell fibs, try them on one of the other trustees. I have had more practice than they have in detecting the truth and the lie.”

“I’m sure you have.” Cecile looked rather sober.

They drove on after that, and he talked of other things—amusingly and lightly, so that she was presently smiling again and talking too. But in the background of her mind lingered the horrid, inescapable fact that he
knew
now that there was something between herself and Felicity.

He timed things so well that they arrived back at the flat just as Laurie’s taxi, bringing her from the theatre, was drawing up outside the house. For a few moments they stood together on the pavement, exchanging goodnights. Then Gregory drove away, and Cecile and her mother mounted the stairs to the flat together.

Over tea and toast, Cecile told Laurie about her visit to Mrs. Picton. At which her mother looked reflective and said, “So he took you to see his mother? Is he fond of you, Cecile?”

“In a way, yes. I think he is.”

“In what way?” enquired Laurie, looking amused.

“Oh—I think he likes having me for a sort of ward, and he is indulgent, where he used to be strict. And he’s truly concerned about my welfare.”

“It sounds rather boring,” said Laurie with a slight yawn. “I didn’t mean quite that.”

“It isn’t a bit boring,” retorted Cecile, somewhat nettled.

“Well, if you’re not going to marry Gregory Picton in the next week or two—”

“Marry him, Mother—and in a week or two? Whatever gave you such an idea? It’s crazy!”

“So are lots of nice things,” replied Laurie, unmoved. “But if you have no definite plans for the immediate future, shall we say, I suppose you had better set about getting a job. What can you do?”

Cecile explained again about her idea of taking a refresher course in business training and seeking a post as a not too ambitious secretary or shorthand-typist.

“I suppose it’s practical,” Laurie conceded, “though it sounds dull to me. But if you really make the grade, I might get you a job with Sir Lucas. He has quite a big office staff at the theatre, because of his varied managerial interests.”

“I’d love that!” cried Cecile. “But I’d have to be something really good for that.”

“Well, Sir Lucas doesn’t suffer fools gladly, for all his good humour,” Laurie admitted. “It wouldn’t be a private secretary’s job in the full sense, you know. Miss Kitson is that, and nothing short of an earthquake is going to dislodge her.”

“I don’t want to dislodge her,” declared Cecile, rather shocked by these ideas of fierce competition. “But I’d like to work under her.”

Laurie looked amused again.

“You aren’t a bit like me,” she said musingly. “No overriding ambition. But perhaps that’s all to the good. I don’t think you’ll be difficult to settle, somehow. Where do you propose to go for your training course?”

Cecile, who had made some enquiries, explained that she had been highly recommended to a place quite near the flat, and that she intended to go along in the morning and see about enrolling there.

“Very well,” her mother said. “Don’t wake me too early in your enthusiasm.”

“Oh, no! Of course not. If you call out when you wake up, I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed.”

“Will you?” Laurie smiled at her indulgently. “Do you make good coffee? I don’t have anything but coffee and toast.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cecile promised. “Father always approved of my coffee.”

“Well, come! we may discover we have one thing in common, after all,” her mother replied ironically. “What are you going to do with yourself on Saturday, by the way? I always have a quiet morning and a very busy afternoon and evening then, so don’t count on my company.”

“No. I had thought of that. I’m going out to Erriton Hall for the day.”

“Where on earth is that?”

“It’s where Uncle Algernon—I mean Mr. Deeping—lives. He is the third trustee, you remember.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Is Gregory Picton driving you out there?”

“No. Maurice—Mr. Deeping’s nephew—is taking me.”

Laurie looked at her reflectively again and she smiled suddenly. “Perhaps you take after me, after all,” she remarked. “Two admirers ready to run you round the country to meet their relatives isn’t bad.” Then she kissed Cecile goodnight and firmly sent her off to bed.

The next morning, after putting things to rights in the flat, and taking Laurie her coffee and toast, Cecile set off to make enquiries at the business-training college of her choice.

It proved to be one of those useful organizations which cater for almost all requirements. And after some discussion—and some unexpectedly searching tests—Cecile was told that, with a month’s intensive re-training, she should be suitably equipped to offer herself to the business world as a reasonably qualified employee.

During the next few days, Cecile made the discovery that life with Laurie was quite unusually pleasant. For, now that her mother had apparently decided to put a line under the past, and look resolutely to the future, she was a much happier, even gayer, creature than Cecile had ever supposed possible.

She laughed when Cecile recalled what Florrie and Stella had said of her, and remarked reminiscently, “I suppose I
was
gay then.”

“You still are, when you allow yourself to be,” Cecile told her.

“Yes? Well, it’s fun having you here,” was the frank reply. And Cecile, thinking how strange and charming it was to hear her mother use such a word, felt that she could not be thankful enough that she had insisted on this arrangement being made.

On Saturday, Maurice called for her about eleven o’clock, and, on coming upstairs to the flat, was introduced to Laurie, who gave a splendid repeat performance in her role of worldly but sympathetic mother.

“I say, your mother is a charmer!” he observed, as Cecile and he drove away from the flat, on the first stage of their journey to Uncle Algernon. “She looks like your sister, for one thing. And she’s a much warmer, more sympathetic person than she appears to be on the stage. Or than you led me to suppose, now I come to think of it.”

“She is like everyone else,” Cecile replied, with a satisfied smile. “She is a much nicer person as soon as she is happier. I love living with her.”

“So you were right.” Maurice glanced at her curiously, but admiringly. “And all the trustees were wrong.”

“Well, it was mostly Gregory and Mr. Carisbrooke, the solicitor,” Cecile admitted justly. “But they’ve capitulated handsomely now. So we won’t say any more about it. Tell me instead how Uncle Algernon is. And—and why Felicity is staying down there.”

“Oh, she always did, from time to time, you know. She used to be there for long spells when she was a kid and her people were abroad.
A propos
Felicity, did you work out your own private mystery to your satisfaction, and decide just why she had tried to call on your mother?”

“Oh—yes. I think I got to the bottom of it. I daresay I made too much of it when I spoke to you. I’ll have to speak to her sometime today rather sharply. That’s all.”

“It’s enough,” Maurice told her good-humouredly. “Felicity doesn’t take easily to sharp speaking. Unless, of course, she is doing it herself. But good luck.”

“Thanks,” Cecile said, and smiled vaguely.

They arrived rather earlier in the afternoon this time, and were immediately conducted to Uncle Algernon’s bedroom. He was not in the large, handsome four-poster bed, but sitting up in a chair, in a very magnificent dressing gown, looking more lined and shrunken than ever.

“I’m a very sick man,” he announced, with a sort of gloomy satisfaction in his own woes. “I shan’t be troubling any of you much longer.”

“Oh, nonsense, Uncle Algernon,” declared Maurice, a little mechanically. “And, in any case, you don’t trouble any of us.”

“Yes, I do,” retorted his uncle tartly. “That’s what I aim to do, and I flatter myself I have a considerable measure of success.”

This naturally had a somewhat blighting effect on the opening stages of the conversation. But Cecile drew up a chair near his and, taking his hand in her warm one, asked kindly what was the matter with him.