Mistress of Elvan Hall (3 page)

“No,” he said at length. “It could only be an ... ordinary marriage. I would want you for my wife in every way. I only wanted to know if you were still in love with Graham Lord. I’m asking you to marry me, but I’d be happier if your heart was ... well, free.”

She didn’t know what to say. He was offering her a true marriage, but there was no word of love for her. “And you?” she asked. “Is your heart free?”

Again his eyes grew dark, and he was very still.

“I couldn’t marry anyone else but you, Anne,” he told her, rather harshly, and she felt he had not answered her question. It could easily mean that he loved someone else who was out of his reach.

“I can’t give you time to think about it. There’s no time. If you agree, then we must be married as soon as ever possible. Your ... your father can perhaps arrange it. I suppose I should first have approached your parents, but I had to talk to you first. Besides...” he rubbed his forehead, “besides, I’m very bad at this sort of thing.”

He smiled ruefully and she could see the strain which had been put upon him. Her heart almost turned over as his eyes softened, looking into hers and she felt there was nothing she wouldn’t do to help him, and protect him. Half a loaf was always better than no bread, she thought, and tried to convince herself that this was no ordinary man asking a girl to be his wife. She was also being asked to be the mistress of Elvan Hall.

“I’ll marry you whenever it can be arranged,” she told him, and he relaxed as the warm colour again crept into his cheeks.

“Oh, Anne, I...
”

He leaned forward and kissed her briefly and rather clumsily, then stood up as her father’s heavy measured tread sounded in the corridor.

“We’d better arrange it with your parents at once. I leave for America in two weeks, and I want us to marry and for you to be in Elvan Hall, before I go. Can you manage it so soon?”

Anne nodded rather wryly. She already had a trousseau collected.

“I’ll manage ... Francis,” she said, the name sounding strange to her lips.

“Let’s tell your parents, then,” he said eagerly, as the door opened. “We must have their approval, mustn’t we, Anne?”

But what of Mrs. Wyatt’s approval? wondered Anne, seeing the first rocks ahead on her new journey. What of that?

Stephen Drummond was adamant. There would be no wedding arranged at such short notice. If they were seriously in love, then there was no need for such hurry, and the love would bind them together until Francis came back from America and a proper wedding could be arranged.

His sharp eyes sought Anne’s when he mentioned love and she turned away, glancing quickly at Francis whose face was impassive.

Anne’s pleading eyes went to her mother, and
Mrs.
Drummond looked at them both with concern.

“Are you sure, darling?” she asked Anne. “It’s very sudden, Mr. Wyatt ... Francis.”

“We’re sure,” said Anne, going to stand beside Francis.

“You mean that the real reason behind your break-up with Graham was that you had fallen in love with ... er ... Francis?”

Anne’s face went scarlet and this time she avoided looking at Francis entirely. How could she answer this but by the truth?

“Something like that,” she said, in a low voice, and felt his fingers tighten on her arm. “Francis has reasons why he wants us to marry before he leaves for America.”

“If I can see you privately, sir,” he said to Stephen Drummond, “I can go into my affairs, and I think I can assure you that Anne will be taken care of.”

The sharp eyes were now on Francis.

“Very well, come into my study. No doubt my wife and Anne will wish to prepare a meal?”

“Of course,” said Nell Drummond hastily.
“
Er ... perhaps you would like to stay the night if we have further things to discuss, Francis?”

He smiled gently, and Anne thought how young he could look at times.

“Thank you, but I must return to my flat in Carlisle. I have much to do before leaving, but I’d like to return in a few days. Anne and I have some shopping to do for two rings ... that is, if my talk with Mr. Drummond is satisfactory.”

“Better not keep him waiting, then,” advised Mrs. Drummond.

In the kitchen there was silence between the two women while Anne set out cups and saucers on a large tray.

“It’s true then,” her mother said at length. “You broke with Graham because you fell in love with someone else?”

Anne nodded.

“Graham guessed, but really, Mummy, he wanted out of it, too. We only went along with it while we were young, to please all of you. Now we’re older we want to choose for ourselves. Thank goodness we had the courage to stop in time.”

“And you chose Mr. Wyatt? Did he declare his love for you before you left Wyatt’s?”

This time Anne’s face flamed.

“Mummy, I ... I...”

“I’m asking too many questions?”

“No. It’s just that...”

She hesitated. If she confessed to her mother that Francis had not declared his love, she would immediately try to persuade her out of such a marriage. And perhaps she would be right, thought Anne, rather disconsolately. Would her own love really be enough for both? Wasn’t she being rather a fool?

“It’s all right, darling, I won’t pry any more, You’re old enough now to make up your own mind. I suppose we ought to have champagne, but the most we ever seem to manage here is the odd bottle of sherry, and some home-made wines gifted by people in the parish. Some of them are most potent, too, as your father and I have discovered.”

Mrs. Drummond was moving bottles about in a large store cupboard.

“Ah, here we are—Celebration Cream. This should do, shouldn’t it, darling? I remember now that I started laying in a few bottles against more people calling with presents as we were using all the rest up ...
Oh!”
She looked at Anne levelly. “People will talk, dear.”

“Surely you and Daddy can stand more talk. They’ve all talked their heads off already when Graham and I called it off. It’s my life, after all, not other people’s.”

“Of course, my dear.”

Her mother came to hug her, and Anne swallowed hard to control the rush of tears to her eyes, then she picked up her tray of crockery. She was going to marry Francis Wyatt. He would belong to no one else but herself, and surely there could be no greater happiness than sharing the life of the man one loved.

“Bring the sherry, Mummy,” she said. “Let’s have something special for tea, too. I can hear Daddy and Francis, and there are no raised voices, so it must be all right!”

CHAPTER TWO

AT the small church she had known all her life, Anne Drummond became Mrs. Francis Wyatt, with only a few close friends to witness the ceremony, even if the whole of Arndale had turned out, either to wish her well or to get a good look at the bridegroom. Graham had, unfortunately, gone to Norway on holiday, or he would, Anne was sure, have been delighted to have come to the ceremony.

Mrs. Wyatt had sent her regrets and had said that she was unwell and Helen would be required to help her over her illness. Judith was much too young to travel to Scotland on her own.

Francis had gone white.

“I expected this,” he told Anne. “Do you mind that my ... my people won't be at the wedding?”

“I don’t know,” said Anne frankly. “My parents will mind, but I don’t think I blame your mother. After all, I’ve been rather sprung on her, haven’t I?”

Again the hard look came over Francis’ face.

“I did what I believed to be necessary,” he told her, rather curtly.

Mrs. Drummond had showed her concern.

“You’ve met Mrs. Wyatt?” she asked Anne. “At the office, I believe.”

“I have.”

“It seems strange that Francis hasn’t taken you home to Elvan Hall, but wants to take you there for the first time as his bride.”

Anne had also thought it strange, but she did not wish to show that to her mother.

“I think he’s romantic,” she said lightly, and saw by her mother’s small smile that this had been the right touch.

“Don’t let ... anyone ... try to bully you, my dear,” she warned, however. “If you’ve any battles to fight, just remember you’re your father’s daughter, and have a good share of his courage in you.”

“And my mother’s,” said Anne softly.

“And your mother’s,” agreed Mrs. Drummond, her eyes twinkling.

Anne and Francis had spent a very brief honeymoon at New Abbey, where Francis wanted to explore the ruins of Sweetheart Abbey. He had shown Anne a great deal of gentleness and consideration, and though she had sighed a little in her secret heart for the love which might have been, she was happy.

Three days before Francis was due to leave for America, they travelled south-west again, through Carlisle, and then into Cumberland towards Cockermouth.

“How beautiful it is,” said Anne, looking at the freshness of the countryside and the distant mountains of the Lake District.

“Wait till you see Elvan Hall,” said Francis, as the car left the main road and they snaked along through narrow hill roads, passing small farms and picturesque cottages, till a beautiful silvery river could be seen winding its way along the valley. Francis stopped the car and they looked down on an ancient grey-stone house, which seemed to grow out of fine parkland. It was sheltered by beech trees to the west, and masses of rhododendrons and azaleas to the east.

“In spring the woods are full of snowdrops and aconites, then crocuses and daffodils with primroses and violets.”

“You love spring best of all?”

“I love every season in turn, but spring seems to me a time of re-birth, and hope, and a belief in all eternal things. It’s only just past, and this year ... this year, perhaps, it has all come true.”

Anne saw his eyes on her, and caught her breath. For a moment it almost seemed as though he really did care for her, then the moment was gone, and he was climbing back into the car.

“I’m sure you’ll come to love it, Anne,” he told her happily. “I saw your face when you first looked down on the house.”

Anne nodded. She had felt her heart contract at the beauty of the old place, and it must have shown on her face. Was that why Francis had looked at her with love? Could she only reach his heart through Elvan Hall, and not by being herself?

Anne was silent as they drove the two miles to the large, beautiful wrought-iron gates, and Francis drove through, the car wheels crunching on the gravel as it swung up to the wide doors.

Anne got out, feeling suddenly cold with nerves, unhelped by the white look which was again on Francis’ face, as an elderly woman came out to welcome them.

“This is Mrs. Hansett, our housekeeper,” he introduced. “This is my wife, Jessie.”

“How do you do, ma’am,” said Mrs. Hansett politely, as Anne shook her hand.

“Where is my mother?” Francis was asking. “Will you get Tom to remove our cases?”

“The mistress is in bed, Mr. Francis. She hasn’t been well. Miss Judith is with her, and Miss Helen is over at Cravenhill.”

“I see. Why isn’t Judith at school? It isn’t end of term yet.”

“She’s had measles, sir. She was sent home last Wednesday.”

“I see,” he said again.

Francis took Anne’s hand as they mounted the wide steps to the terrace, then almost grimly he swept her into his arms.

“The Wyatt brides are traditionally carried over the threshold,” he told her, rather harshly. “That goes for you, too, Anne.”

He carried her as though she weighed much less than her hundred and twenty pounds, then set her down on a Persian rug which covered a large part of the polished wood floor in the spacious hall.

The new mistress of Elvan Hall had come home.

Penelope Wyatt lay in bed surrounded by magazines, while a small, thin pale girl sat on a chair beside her, disentangling a ball of wool. The little girl looked up with large, rather frightened eyes as Francis showed Anne into the luxuriously furnished bedroom quite out of keeping with the house, after a brief knock on the door.

Mrs. Wyatt looked even more fluffy, clad in a dressing jacket in palest pink, trimmed with white swansdown. The soft furnishings were also of pale pink, the paintwork white, with a beautiful soft dove-grey carpet on the floor. The pinks succeeded in creating a sugary effect, the first jarring note Anne had found in the truly beautiful old house.

Francis had briefly shown her the main rooms downstairs, but he had promised her a full tour of inspection after she had met his mother and sister, and rested a little after her journey. Already Jessie Hansett had gone to prepare a light appetising meal for both of them.

Although they had met before, Mrs. Wyatt gave no sign of ever having seen Anne in her life.

“You must forgive me if I have done little to make you welcome, Miss ... ah ... My son has rather sprung his marriage on his family. The haste seemed to me rather... indecent, Francis. Not in keeping with Elvan Hall.”

“I felt it was necessary. Mother,” said Francis, and Anne could feel the undercurrents between the two. His eyes had met those of his mother’s defiantly, as though swords had been crossed, and Anne could feel his fingers gripping her shoulder. Just where did she stand between the two? she wondered uneasily.

“And you’re one of Francis’s employees? A typist, I understand.”

Anne flushed and her chin lifted.

“I
was
his private secretary,” she said evenly. “We’ve known each other for two years.”

Mrs. Wyatt gathered her magazines together as though Anne hadn’t spoken.

“Take these downstairs, child,” she said to Judith, having caught the little girl smiling shyly to Anne.

“Are your measles better?” Anne asked, smiling in return.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Spots all gone? I had measles, too, at your age.”

“I meant
now,
Judith,” broke in Mrs. Wyatt coldly. “Now! Are you deaf, child? Tell Mrs. Hansett you’ll have tea up here with me.”

The little girl’s disappointment showed in her eyes as she turned uncertainly to Francis, who suddenly put an arm round her and ruffled her mop of straight dark hair.

“We’ll talk later, love,” he promised her. “I’ve got that lovely book on wild flowers you wanted. It’s in my case.”

“Oh, Francis!” cried Judith, hugging him round the waist.

Anne’s eyes were soft as she watched. This was the Francis Wyatt she loved, this gentle considerate man on whom she felt she could depend utterly. Then her eyes turned to the woman on the bed, her heart quailing when she saw the anger betrayed on her round, plump, childish face.

“Must I have my wishes entirely disregarded?” she was saying petulantly, and Judith quickly picked up the magazines and hurried to the door. As she turned, Anne could see a closed look on her face, such as she had seen on Francis. Already she could feel the strength of personality of this soft-looking, frilly woman who was their mother.

But people had a right to grow and develop according to their own personalities, thought Anne rather fiercely. Could it be that Francis had no real deep love to give her, because at some time in his life it had become submerged, then stunted by sheer neglect? Was the same thing, even now, beginning in Judith?

Anne looked at their mother, but decided she could not judge while the older woman was so angry. She rose to her feet, realising that her first interview with her new mother-in-law was at an end, and as their eyes met, she also knew that it was war between them.

But Anne felt strength in her limbs as she drew herself up to her full height, unaware that her beauty had a quality which far outshone the prettiness which Penelope Wyatt had had in her heyday.

Francis and Judith both needed room to grow, even in such a spacious home as Elvan Hall, and Anne was going to fight fiercely to give them that right.

“I’m sorry to be indisposed and can’t show you my home,” Mrs. Wyatt was saying, rather tonelessly, to Anne. “No doubt Francis can take my place.”

“Anne is eager to see
our
home,” Francis put in smoothly, though again she could feel his fingers gripping her arm. “I’m sure she’ll love it as I do, since it will be hers for the rest of her life. I presume the plans for redecoration and renovation are still on my desk?”

“No, I have them,” Mrs. Wyatt said flatly. “There are changes I would like to make. I told you so before, Francis.”

“Changes can only be made with my permission,” Francis told her, the angry colour high in his cheeks.

Mrs. Wyatt changed her tactics, as she suddenly groped for a handkerchief and put it to her eyes.

“It was my home before you were born,” she said thickly. “Now you come here with a ... a strange young woman all ready to oust me. How can you do such a thing at such short notice, Francis? Surely I should know by now what is best for the Hall.”

The white closed look was back on his face.

“We’ll discuss it later, Mother. Come, Anne.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wyatt,” said Anne politely but only received a sniff in reply.

As they walked back downstairs, she could feel the anger and tension still in Francis.

“Go on into the drawing room, Anne ... along there and through that door. I’ll join you in a moment. There’s some mail on my desk, I believe.”

“All right, Francis,” she agreed, then on impulse caught his arm. “Don’t worry. We have each other, haven’t we?”

He stared at her, his eyes still remote, then he relaxed.

“Bless you, Anne. Of course we have.”

Anne walked along the broad, softly carpeted corridor at the foot of the stairs towards the drawing room, pausing as she heard a girl’s flutelike voice coming to her clearly through the slightly open door.

“She’s a pretty young lady, Helen.”

“That makes it all the worse. I
told
Francis that the only way to get Mother to accept Caroline was to bring home someone even less suitable, but the nitwit goes and marries her! I only told him in fun, too, and I didn’t think he was paying any attention. How could he be such a fool! He does the strangest things...”

Anne felt as though she was rooted to the carpet, the words falling on her head like blows. Who was Caroline? Was it someone Francis had loved, and of whom his mother had disapproved?

“Someone even less suitable,” she repeated.

She was obviously that someone... a typist... an employee...

Yet Francis
had
married her. Why?

She wanted to run back along the corridor and find somewhere she could be alone, even for a little while. Her head was whirring, and she didn’t want to meet this other sister of Francis’s, this girl with the pretty flute-like voice, who seemed to be his adviser with regard to his love affairs at any rate.

Anne turned, then saw Mrs. Hansett hurrying towards her.

“Do you want the drawing room, ma’am?” she was asking, though Anne felt the warm colour flooding her own cheeks. The housekeeper, she suspected, was aware that she had been listening outside the door.

“Yes, please,” she said, as evenly as she could.

“In here, then.”

Mrs. Hansett held the door open and Anne stepped into the large room which was again well-carpeted, with chintz-covered chairs and sofas drawn up round a huge log fire. The walls were dark and richly carved in panelled wood, and there were many paintings in heavy ornate gold-painted frames. From the centre of the room hung a huge crystal chandelier which Anne viewed with respect, recog
n
ising that it was quartz crystal.

A tall slender girl with the same pretty childish features as her mother, but dainty and elegant in a young girl, rose languidly to her feet. Anne could see that her skin was warmly coloured, as though she spent many hours in the fresh air. Little Judith had also stood up, and was smiling at Anne, shyly.

“This is Miss Helen, ma’am,” the housekeeper was introducing. “She was out when you arrived. The new mistress ... Mrs. Francis.”