The New Moon with the Old (35 page)

And it was no use blaming some inimical psychic emanation from the old barn, because he had loved the barn when it was a barn, often jotted down work here; indeed, his love of it was one of his reasons for converting it. But now …

He went back to Merry’s letter.

Did she mean that his room was pretentious, suitable for a talent more proved than his? If so, she was right. As well might one furnish a room with dictionaries and hope to turn into a poet. And he had always known he should have stayed in Germany longer; his father would have gone on financing him instead of footing the bill for converting the barn. But he’d missed his family and the comfort of his home
– a womb-like comfort, no doubt … What more had Merry to say?

Well, whatever she’d done, he wouldn’t be angry with her; he was too grateful for her letter, all the more so because she had written it at a time when her own affairs might have been expected to fill her mind. And how astonishing that anyone of her age should be so shrewdly clear-sighted! Well, he’d always thought she had the best brains in the family. Still, he didn’t see how she could have found any way of helping him.

He went to his record-player and started it at the Andante of the Third Rasoumovsky, telling himself he would play it as a tribute to Merry … and also to get away from the thoughts her letter had provoked. He lay down on his divan and listened.

But the music did not as usual take over. Instead, he found himself thinking of Merry’s menace-filled mist … and then of Violet calling through the mist that afternoon, Violet sitting on the stubble with her long legs in laddered stockings thrust out in front of her. No other woman had ever told him she was in love with him. Suppose he did go and stay with her? At least that would be – in Merry’s phrase – ‘a bit of living’. Pretty luxurious living, he suspected, amused that like his brother and sisters he was gravitating towards riches. According to a theory of Drew’s, one got from life what one subconsciously expected. Well, perhaps early security had conditioned them all to expect its continuance. And there were precedents for young composers having rich patrons. Violet, dear horizontal Violet, would make a charming patron. He found his mental stress driven away by a relaxing surge of emotion …

But he was incapable of sustaining such a mood for long and he soon felt annoyed with himself for using the music as a mere background for it. He got up and turned off the record-player. And as he did so, there was a knock on the door.

It would be Violet, of course. He was instantly furious with her, yet some of the tenderness of his banished mood remained. And the fury and the tenderness combined in a curiously pleasing manner. For once, Violet had chosen her moment well. He unlocked the door and flung it open.

Jane stood outside.

‘Richard, I
am
sorry, but there’s a personal call for you – from somewhere in Yorkshire.’

‘There can’t be. I don’t know anyone in Yorkshire.’ Perhaps it was one of Aunt Winifred’s myths. ‘Did my aunt take the call?’

‘No, I did, and I’m quite sure about Yorkshire, though I didn’t hear the name of the place clearly. It sounded like …’

But he barely waited to hear. He had suddenly remembered that he did indeed know someone in Yorkshire. So that was what Merry had been up to …

Unwisely, she’d let herself sit down in the music room after Richard went to the telephone, and had at once begun thinking of Rupert Carrington. She would always associate the room with their last meeting. When in there talking to Richard, a few days before, she’d held such thoughts at bay; but, left alone, she didn’t even attempt to and was soon extremely depressed. For some while now she had given up hair-splitting as to the exact nature of her feeling for Rupert and simply accepted the fact that he mattered greatly to her; but her work, her plans, and an only occasionally lifted embargo on what she thought of as ‘sentimental wallowing’, had kept her cheerful. The music room provided an irresistible background for wallowing and it was a good ten minutes – Richard hadn’t come back – before she returned to the house. She had found the hall deserted, had her bath and gone to bed.

Now, lying awake, she tried to overcome her depression by plans for the future and started worrying in case Richard would not agree to her scheme. She then thought uncomfortably about Richard and Violet. One simply couldn’t believe that he … but unfortunately one could. Perhaps even at this very moment … The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Miss Carrington might have gone to bed but surely not the other two, not so early. Her guess was that they’d slipped out to
the music room while she was in her bath. Perhaps she’d hear them return … or perhaps she wouldn’t.

She then thought of Clare, accused herself of intolerance and exonerated herself. One was
not
narrow-minded; one hadn’t been shocked that Rupert Carrington had a mistress. But for a lonely widower to find consolation (temporarily) with a woman no one could expect him to marry was a different matter from Clare’s ugly affair. Clare must be mercenary.

She turned her thoughts to Drew in that cluttered Edwardian drawing-room at Whitesea. She was glad she could remember it and picture him there. And now Merry was with him. A pity one hadn’t seen the dear child and heard her full story; Richard’s version had been brief. It was pleasant to imagine Merry growing up and falling in love with Lord Crestover … But, oh dear, was one going to lie awake all night?

Waking suddenly, her first thought was: ‘Well, I did get to sleep.’ Then she wondered why she was so completely, alertly awake. Had something disturbed her? At that moment, she heard a definite sound outside – surely a car door closing? She got up, parted her heavy curtains and found it was just beginning to get light, but she could not yet see as far as the lane beyond the garden. Then she heard the click of the gate. A few seconds later she was able to make out the figure of a man who was coming towards the house. Although she could not see his features she had no doubt whatever who it was.

Swiftly she got into her dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, grabbed a torch from her handbag and lit herself along the gallery, down the stairs and to the back door. She had it unbolted and open when he was still some little way off. Shining her torch towards him she saw him dazzled by it before she turned the beam downwards.

‘Who is it?’ he asked as he came nearer.

‘Jane Minton. I thought you might like to be let in.’

He laughed quietly. ‘Efficiency can go no further. You’ll tell me next you were expecting me.’

‘No. Your car woke me and I looked out.’

He was in the house now. She lit him into the hall and said, ‘In case you want to rest in your room I must tell you Miss Winifred Cartington’s in it.’

‘Oh Lord, is she? I couldn’t need a chat with her less. Keep quiet a minute and don’t let’s switch a light on. And put that torch out, do you mind?’

No sound came from any room. After a moment, he said:

‘Well, I don’t seem to have disturbed anyone. We can talk a little if we keep our voices low. Let’s sit down.’

They sat together on the sofa. The dome above them and the two tall windows were grey with dawn.

‘Are you back for good, Mr Carrington?’

‘In England, yes – but not here. I must go to London when I’ve seen Richard.’ He looked towards the gallery as if thinking of going up to Richard’s room.

She doubted if Richard was in it, then reminded herself it was only a guess on her part that he and Violet had gone to the music room; and, even if they had, they might have come back while she was asleep … though she hadn’t slept till long after midnight. Anyway she wanted to keep Rupert Carrington a little longer. ‘Perhaps you’d like the latest news of them all,’ she suggested; then wondered how she would relay the news of Clare.

‘I’ve a fair idea of what’s been happening – in outline, that is; Clare’s no letter writer.’

Jane looked at him in astonishment. ‘Clare wrote to you?’

‘She jotted down some information for Charles Rowley to bring. But perhaps you don’t know about him.’

‘I do,’ said Jane.

‘One wouldn’t have thought that two such small words could convey so much disapproval.’ He sounded amused.

Her standards reeled. ‘Surely
you
don’t approve of him?’

‘At present I’m too stunned by his kindness to feel anything but gratitude towards him. He flew out to Switzerland, found me and brought me back. I’m driving his car – or one of them; he probably has a fleet.’

‘But was it wise for you to come?’

‘I think so. With his backing I just may keep out of the law’s clutches. There’s never been a warrant for my arrest. There probably would have been, once I’d been questioned, and there may be now; if so, I’m almost certain to land in jail. But Rowley will lay on a first-rate counsel, and there are some extenuating circumstances. I might get off with a light sentence.’

‘But prison!’ said Jane, in horror.

‘I felt like that when I skipped the country. But, as Rowley pointed out, the stigma isn’t what it used to be and the company’s quite good. There are plenty of men in jail for offences similar to mine. Anyway, I couldn’t have gone on where I was. Rowley would have financed me when my money ran out but he thought, as I did, that I’d find life unbearable. So here I am – hoping for the best but fairly cheerful about the very possible worst.’

He was talking with bravado but such bravado struck her as extremely brave. ‘Well, there must be some good in Mr Rowley,’ she conceded. ‘And he’s said to be devoted to Clare.’

‘Oh, completely. But don’t imagine he’s helping me because she wants him to; judging by her letter, all she cared about was getting him back quickly. No, I really believe he has a fellow feeling for me; he’s taken plenty of risks. But he’s all right now, and how! I feel like a very minor and inefficient warlock befriended by the Prince of Darkness himself.’

She asked if he thought Clare would be happy. He said he hoped so and that Clare was temperamentally like both him and her mother, capable of utter absorption in one person
only. ‘That’s why we neglected our children. I’d say all will be well – unless Rowley gets his divorce. Once married to her, he’d probably be unfaithful. The way things are, he’ll go on adoring her – largely because she’s given him something he never had before: a sense of sin. Anyway, I doubt if he’ll get any divorce; his wife’s a Catholic. Well, how are things here?’

She told him of her scheme and he approved of it: ‘If Richard can stand it. I shan’t be coming down, even if I keep out of jail.’

‘There are still some difficulties. Miss Carrington’s occupying a room and …’ Now she must tell him. ‘There’s a friend of yours here – Violet Vernon.’

‘What?
Why
is she here?’

Embarrassed, Jane said: ‘She arrived unexpectedly. And Richard … felt an obligation to let her stay.’

‘But, good God, why?’

There was enough light now to see his bewildered expression. Jane found herself apologizing. ‘I’m so sorry but … I’m afraid he thought you’d been … supporting her.’

‘What, single-handed? It’d be a job for a syndicate. Mercifully, she doesn’t need supporting. Violet, my dear Jane Minton, is a wealthy near-nymphomaniac, also a kindhearted, generous and really very charming girl – or rather, woman; I’d say she’s quite thirty. She must have come here after Richard – I knew he’d made an impression. Well, has he succumbed?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘Was she, then, merely a friend of yours?’

He said smilingly: ‘Violet has no mere men friends. I was occasionally entertained for an illicit and highly luxurious weekend, but I’m afraid she thought me rather elderly. At the risk of shocking you past forgiveness I’d say she might make an excellent un-mere friend for Richard. Well, I’d better wake him now.’ He got up and snapped a light on.

So it didn’t really matter if Richard was with Violet. And as Rupert Carrington could do no wrong, Jane’s standards now prepared to accept their final knock-out. One had been … well, unsophisticated. And yet … it wasn’t, after all, a
knock-out
; instead, she found herself a formula: ‘Judge not …’

Anyway, she only wanted to think about Rupert. With the light on she saw him, for an instant, as older and less handsome than she had remembered. Then his present self became the one that existed for her and was infinitely more appealing than his absent, idealized self.

He had picked up a letter from the hall table. ‘This is for you,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘It’s Richard’s writing.’

‘Good gracious!’ She tore open the envelope and read hastily.

There was an address and a telephone number at the foot of the letter. Handing it over, Jane regretted Rupert would see the reference to himself. He smiled when he reached it, then said: ‘Well, I’m delighted for him. I’ll write and wish him luck.’ He copied the address and telephone number into his pocket book before handing the letter back to Jane. ‘And now, as he’s not here, I shall – true to family form – run away again.’

‘Can’t I get you some breakfast first?’

‘No, thanks. I don’t want to risk meeting my aunt – or dear Violet or even the maids. Are you willing to run this house, as Richard suggests? If not, it can be closed.’

‘I’d like to try,’ said Jane. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll all be here together again.’ She had never ceased to long for the life she had once hoped to share with them.

He shook his head. ‘I shall never live here again. Some of my children may, but I rather doubt that. Perhaps I did them a good turn by boosting them out into the world. Well, I shall be in touch with you once I know my plans – or the plans others have for me. At present I don’t even know where I’m staying; I’m leaving all that to Charles Rowley. Try to feel kindly towards him. Believe me, I’ve cause to.’

‘Then I will, too,’ she said, smiling. And after all, he wanted to marry Clare, and it did sound as if they really
loved each other. ‘I’m afraid you should leave at once if you don’t want to see the maids. They get up very early.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll go the back way.’

She went with him and quietly opened the door. Standing there, in the chill grey early morning, he said: ‘Do you know it’s just a month today since you saw me off before? I knew then that I was walking out on the perfect secretary – and a very good friend. If ever I get on my feet in business again, would you consider joining me? Though perhaps I shouldn’t suggest it until I know if I can keep out of jail.’

‘Why not?’ She tried and failed to speak lightly. ‘Even if you don’t keep out you’ll one day
get
out. And I shall be waiting.’

‘At the prison gates? Don’t promise or I might count on it.’

‘You can,’ said Jane.

‘Then I shall. Well, goodbye – what was it Richard called you? Goodbye, dear, kind Jane.’

She blushed with pleasure but spoke calmly. ‘Goodbye and good luck, Mr Carrington.’

‘Am I rebuked for calling you Jane?’

‘Of course not. It’s just that secretaries rarely call their bosses by their Christian names.’

‘But you’re a very rare secretary.’

From high above their heads came the shrilling of an alarm clock. He shook hands warmly and hastily, then hurried through the garden. After closing the gate he turned and waved; an instant later he was out of sight. She waited while he started the car and drove off into the distance, then she went back to the hall and re-read Richard’s letter. Everything would work out. She would run Dome House until such time as Rupert sent for her.

She was confident he would send. He must have seen she was devoted to him and it obviously hadn’t embarrassed him.

He’d probably guessed she would never hope for anything beyond the opportunity to serve him, and a man in his position 
was likely to value undemanding, efficient devotion … Also she did feel that he rather liked her. It was, of course, dreadful that he might have to serve a prison sentence. But, in spite of that, never in her entire life had she felt quite so happy.