Orphan Bride (2 page)

“Well, anyway, you’d better have a clean up. They’ll be sending up some food at half-past twelve. We’re catch
i
ng the one-thirty from Paddington.”

Jennet followed him out into the passage
.
“Here’s the bathroom, and here’s my bedroom if you want to tidy.” He looked at her critically. “And do something about your hair, for heaven’s sake. Brush it out—you look like a skinned rabbit.”

“Yes, Mr. Dane,” she said meekly, and took her newspaper parcel into the bathroom.

Sixteen is an awkward age, all eyes and legs, Jennet reflected, examining herself in the mirror in Julian’s bed-room.

“I look half-starved,” she said aloud. “I expect it puts people off.”

The hair which Julian had taken such exception to was not long enough to plait and was tightly tied with two tapes which made it stand out on each side of her face. She began to undo the knots. On the whole, she agreed that it was an improvement. Her hair fell softly to her shoulders and helped to hide the thinness of her face.
She wandered round Julian’s bedroom, touching things with exploratory fingers. Her work-roughened fingers rasped suddenly on silk, and she drew her hand sharply away.

Impossible to say what manner of man her host was, except that he believed in comfort. Would the aunt’s house be like this, so
well-appointed
that you were afraid to sit down?

Jennet wondered a lot about the aunt as s
h
e returned to the living room, but she was too shy to ask Julian. She did venture to enquire where her new home was to be, and he replied briefly:

“Dartmoor.”

Jennet’s eyes grew enormous.

“Where the convicts live?”

“Dartmoor’s a large area,” he replied carelessly. “The prison’s about ten miles away. You’d better have something to eat now. We haven’t too much time.”

She sat down opposite him, and, they ate in silence. Jennet was a little confused at the number of knives and forks, but she watched Julian surreptitiously and imitated everything he did.

When he had finished, he lit a cigarette and sat back and surveyed her across the table with an amused expression. She could not know that he was trying with some difficulty to see her as a possible future wife, and only thought again that he had an uncomfortable sort of face.

“That’s, distinctly better,” he remarked. “You don’t look
so skinned now. Did they give you enough
to eat in that place?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m just the thin kind. Perhaps you should have taken Katy Green.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I should hate to have taken Katy Green,” he replied. “You’ll do, once you get out
of those revolting clothes.”

“Your aunt,” Jennet began tentatively, “mightn’t like me.
”

This seemed to amuse him.

“It doesn’t matter if she does or she doesn’t,” was his not very encouraging reply. “Well, it’s time we got going. Here! You can’t go on lugging that perishing parcel around —I’ll find you something.” He left the room and returned with a small
attaché
-c
a
se, which he tossed over to her.

“Dispose of the body in that,” he said. “And don’t leave it in the taxi or train.”

He seemed full of things she was not to do. At the station she was not to lose him in the crowd; at the barrier she was not to get pushed out of the queue; in their first-class compartment she was not to move out of her co
rn
er until the train started.

He bought her a couple of magazines, but she was too interested in the first part of the journey to do more than glance at them. Real country was new to Jennet.

Although it was early November, the day had been bright and sunny, but
as the train approached the West Country the rain began to fall and the overcast sky hastened the gathering twilight. Someone remarked: “Typical West Country weather!” and Jennet wondered if it always rained on Dartmoor.

“
Are we nearly there?” she asked Julian shyly.

He looked up from his book and frowned.
“Lord, no, we haven’t reached Taunton yet,” he said
.
“Go and stretch your legs in the corridor if you’re tired.
”
He returned to his book, and Jennet sa
t
; back in her corner with a small sigh. Julian took no notice of her beyond enquiring from time to time if she felt all right
.
Soon it was too dark to see out of the window any more and presently she slept, worn out with the strangeness of the day and the seemingly endless journey.

She woke with a start as the train pulled into Exeter and looked feverishly for her
attaché
-case.

“Are we there?” she asked Julian anxiously.

“Sit down,” he told her wearily. “We’ve nearly two hours to go yet.”

“Two hours!” It seemed to Jennet as if the train was never going to arrive anywhere. “Where are we going?”

“Plymouth,” he said shortly. “I told you that in London.”

“You said Dartmoor,” she corrected him gravely.

“Dartmoor isn’t a station. Go to sleep
again or read your magazine.”

The rest of the journey passed like a dream. Rain beat upon the windows and for a little while Jennet caught the gleam of foam as the train seemed to travel along the sea’s very edge. She thought with longing of the orphanage and the familiar ugliness of the rows of narrow beds in the dormitory.

The train was slowing up, lights twinkled through the rain-blurred windows and Julian reached up to the rack for his suitcase.

“We’re here,” he said. “Don’t forget your case, and stick close to me when we get out. There’s a car ordered to meet us.”

As she stepped on to the platform, the
wind swept over Jennet, blowing her hair wildly into her eyes. She smelt and recognized the tang of the sea in it, and stood for a moment, sniffing it
.

“Come on!” called Julian.

She followed him blindly, thankf
u
l that he could not walk fast, for the Station was badly lighted, sailors with their hammocks slung across their shoulders jostled her out of the way and the cold penetrated the cheap material of her coat, making her teeth chatter.

The driver of their car was waiting at the barrier. They drove about
fifteen miles through wind and rain, and once the driver said, presumably for Jennet’s benefit: “Here’s old moor.” Jennet who had been half asleep, looked out of the window eagerly. All she could see, however, was a vast expanse of blackness, with the narrow road winding ahead like a pale ribbon.

They passed slowly through a deserted village, then out on to the moor again, stopping abruptly before a house which seemed suddenly to spring out of the empty blackness at them.

“Here?” faltered Jennet, conscious of the wind howling and no other sound.

“Here,” said Julian, handing out the luggage with thankfulness. “And about time, too.”

CHAPTER
T
W
O

As
the fr
ont door opened, it seemed to Jennet that bedlam broke loose. Dim shapes rushed madly from the shadows and hurled themselves yapping into the night. Julian shouted in exasperated tones:

“Aunt Emily! For God’s sake shut your devil’s brood
up!
”

“I’m sorry, Julian,” an unruffled voice replied. ‘Someone must have let them out. Come in, both of you.”

Emily Dane crossed the dark hall and came into the lamplight. She was a small, bird-like woman of fifty or so, with iron-grey hair cropped like a man’s, and her nephew’s dark eyes. She and Julian did not kiss, but shook hands formally.

“Is this the girl?
”
she asked, and shut the front door with a slam.

“This is the girl,” Julian replied.
“
Her name is Jennet Brown.”

Miss Dane considered.

“Jennet
... J
ennet
... I have a bitch called Jeannette. Oh, well, it can’t be helped, only it’s rather confusing. Come in and get warm. Supper will be in soon.”

She led the way into the living room, which was large and untidy, the walls hung with photographs of Belgian griffons, and the mantelpiece loaded
w
ith silver cups.

Julian flung himself into a chair and stretched his bad leg wearily. Jennet stood in the middle of the room, feeling rather dazed, and stared at the row of cups.

“Admiring my trophies?” observed Emily with ap
p
roval. “Like dogs?”

“I’ve never had anything to do with them,” she said shyly.

“You’ll probably wish yourself back in the orphanage before you’ve been here a week,” remarked Julian dryly.

Jennet was already wishing it. If Julian had brought her here to be a kind of kennel-maid to his aunt, she felt he had made a mistake.

“I don’t think I’ll be much good,” she said slowly.

“Much good?” repeated Miss Dane. “What for?
”

“
A kennel-maid.”

Julian burst out laughing.

“Bless you, my child, Aunt Emily wouldn’t let you near the kennels, they’re much too sa
c
red!” he said.

“What rubbish you talk,” his aunt said briskly. “No, Jennet, J
u
lian wouldn’t like you to become what he calls a doggy woman. We will find other occupations for you.”

Jennet privately thought that it could have nothing to do with Julian what his aunt expected her companion to do, but she was relieved the dogs were not to be her province. Emily looked at Jennet speculatively.

“You’re very thin,” she said critically. “Not what I would have chosen myself perhaps, having regard to good, sound stock, but quality—definitely quality.”

She had seen him earlier that day, when he had been doing an unusual tour of inspection with half the hotel staff following at his heels—or so it had seemed. And it was obvious that he was in no sweeter mood now than on that other occasion. His Indian black hair, with the tendency to fall lankly across his forehead, looked as if his impatient fingers had ruffled it many times, and his brow was lowering. His square jaw looked both mutinous and sullen.

“
I think Jennet would probably like to see her room,” Julian interposed mildly. “She’s had a long journey.”

“Of course
!
What am I thinking of? Come with me, child.”

Emily
marched out of the room, lighted one of three candles in old-fashioned brass sconces which stood on the hall table, and preceded Jennet up a slippery flight of bare oak stairs to an unsuspected maze of dark passages above.

“No doubt you’ll find it confusing at first,” she remarked over her shoulder. “But you’ll get used to it.”

To Jennet there seemed to be so many things she had been getting
used to ever since she got up this morning, and so far, nothing had turned out as expected.

“Here you are,” Emily said at last, flinging open a door. “Rather a chilly room, I’m afraid
.”

“The bathroom’s at the end of this passage, and mind the step. Bring your candle down when you come and put it back on the hall table. Supper will be in a quarter of an hour and Julian likes punctuality. When we are alone it’s different.” Emily gave a sudden quick grimace which Jennet took to be meant for a smile, and left the room, shutting the door briskly behind her.

Jennet stood in the middle of the large room and shivered, but not so much with cold. She was already accepting this silent, draughty room. It would be her own now with all its emptiness and odd corners and the dark,
unfriendly bed, and the lamp whi
ch,
flaring,
s
ent grotesque shadows leaping over the walls.

Jennet carefully unpacked Julian’s small
attaché
-case and set out her few possessions on the dressing table. There were deep cupboards which smelt of moth balls, but she had no clothes to hang in them, and Jennet shut them with a small sigh.

She spent a long time washing her hands, then, suddenly anxious that she had overstayed her allowed quarter of an hour, and Julian would be waiting, she blew out the lamp, and by the light of her candle, with difficulty found her way back along the twisting passages to the living room.

Julian was still lying stretched out in his chair by the fire. He looked very tired, and there were lines of pain running from his nostrils to his mouth. He did not look up as Jennet came into the room, but Emily nodded casually and gestured towards a thin grey man standing in front of the fire.

“My brother-in-law, Homer Davey,” she said.

“How do you do?” said Homer Davey, peering at her over the powerful lenses of his spectacles. “Have you met Them yet?”

“Them?” Jennet looked bewildered. “Do you mean the dogs?”

“No, no, no,” said Homer impatiently.
“
Them
.”