The Shadow of the Lynx (29 page)

I laughed at her.

“Why, Lucie, you care more for the place than any of us.”

“You’ve just taken it for granted,” she cried vehenemently and her mouth was grim. I knew she was thinking of that little house in a grimy town in the Black Country. She had told me about it, and when I thought of that I could understand her love for Whiteladies; and I was so glad that she was with us. In fact she had made me appreciate the home which had been in my family for hundreds of years.

It was I who had brought Lucie into the house. She had taught English literature and history at the boarding-school to which I had been sent, and she had taken rather special care

of me during my first months there. She had helped to alleviate the inevitable homesickness; she taught me to adjust myself and be self-reliant; all this she had done in her unobtrusive manner. During my second term we had been told to write an essay on an old house we had visited and naturally I chose Whiteladies. She was interested and asked me where I had seen this house.

“I live in it,” I answered; and after that she often questioned me about it. When the summer holidays came and the rest of us were so excited about going home, I noticed how sad she was and I asked her where she was spending the vacation.

She had no family, she told me. She expected she would try to get a post with some old lady. Perhaps she would travel with her. When I said impulsively, “You should come to Whiteladies!” her delight was touching.

So she came and that was the beginning. In those days the tiresome subject of money was never mentioned. The house was large; there were many unoccupied rooms and we had plenty of servants. Often we had a house full, so Lucie Maryan was just one more. But there was a difference. She made herself so useful. Mamma liked her voice and she did not tire easily; she could listen to Mamma’s accounts of her ailments with real sympathy, for she knew a great deal about illnesses and could entertain Mamma with accounts of people who had suffered in various ways. Even my father became interested in her. He was writing a biography of a famous ancestor who had distinguished himself under Marlborough at Oudenarde, Blenheim and Malplaquet. In his study were letters and papers which had been found in a trunk in one of the turrets. He used to say, “It’s a lifetime’s work. I often wonder if I shall live long enough to complete it.” I suspected that he dozed most of the afternoon and evening when he was supposed to be working.

On that first visit I remember Lucie’s walking with Papa under the trees in the grounds, discussing those battles and Marlborough’s relationship with his wife and Queen Anne. My father was delighted with her knowledge and before the end of the visi’t he had accepted her help in sorting out some of the letters and papers.

That was the beginning. After that it became a matter of course that Lucie should spend her holidays with us. She was so interested in Whiteladies itself that she urged my father to write a study of the house. This appealed to him and he delared that as soon as he had finished with General Sir Harry

Dorian he would begin his researcnes on the history of Whiteladies.

Lucie was passionately fascinated by his work; and I was amused that Papa and Lucie should be so much more interested in the house than Mamma and myself, when my father had merely married into it and Lucie was not connected with it at all.

When I left school my mother suggested that Lucie join us. We knew what her circumstances were; she was alone in the world, forced to earn her own living; and life at school was not easy. There was so much she could do at Whiteladies.

So Lucie was paid a salary and became a member of our household; we were all fond of her and she was so useful that we could not imagine what we should do without her. She had no specific duties—she was my father’s secretary, my mother’s nurse and my companion; moreover she was the friend of us all.

I was seventeen on that day when Stirling and Nora came;

Lude was twenty-seven.

One of the servants had brought Mamma’s chair into the garden and Lucie put down her work and went over to it. We had chosen a pleasant spot near the Hermes pond under a tree for shade. Mamma could walk quite easily but she liked her invalid’s chair and used it frequently.

I sat idly watching Lucie wheel Mamma across the lawn, wondering whether it was one of her peevish days. One could often tell by the expression on her face. Oh dear, I thought, I do hope not. It’s such a lovely day.

“Do make sure we’re not in the sun,” said Mamma.

“It gives me such a headache.”

“This is a very shady spot. Mamma,” I told her.

“The light is so bright today.” Yes, it was one of her bad days.

“I will place your chair so that the light is not on your face, Lady Cardew,” said Lucie.

“Thank you, Lucie.”

Lucie brought the chair to a standstill and Jeffs, the butler, appeared with Jane, the parlour maid who carried the tray on which was bread and butter, scones with jam and honey, and fruit cake.

Lucie busied herself with making Mamma comfortable and I sat at the table waiting for one of the servants to bring out the tray with the silver teapot and spirit lamp. When it came

I poured out the tea, which Mamma said was too strong. Lucie immediately watered it and Mamma sat sipping in silence. I understood.

Her thoughts were in the past.

I glanced at the house. The window on the first floor which belonged to my father’s study was open a little. There he would be sitting at his desk, papers spread out round him, dozing I could be certain. He never liked to be disturbed when working; secretly I suspected he was afraid someone would catch him sleeping. Dear Papa, he was never cross with anyone. He was the most easygoing man in the world; he was even patient with Mamma, and it must have required a great deal of forbearance to be constantly reminded that she regretted her marriage.

“Lucie,” she was saying now, “I want an extra cushion for my back.”

“Yes, Lady Cardew. I think’ ll1 go indoors for one of the larger ones.

In any’ case I’m always afraid the garden ones may be a little damp.

”

Mamma nodded and as Lucie went off she murmured:

“She’s such a good creature.”

I didn’t like Lucie’s being referred to as a ‘creature’. I was so fond of her. I watched her walking across the grass-rather tall, very straight-backed, her dark hair smoothed down on either side and made into a knot at the nape of her neck. She wore dark colours—mulberry today—and they became her rather olive skin; she had a natural elegance so that not very expensive clothes looked quite modish on her.

“She’s a good friend to us all,” I said with slight reproof. I was the only one who occasionally reproved Mamma. My father, hating any sort of fuss, was invariably gentle and placating. I have known him take endless trouble to avoid the smallest unpleasantness. And Lucie, because after all she was employed—a fact which my father and I always strove to make her forget—was quick to respond to my mother’s whims, for she was proud and determined that her job should be no sinecure.

“Good heavens, Lucie,” I often said, ‘you needn’t fear that. You are guide, comforter and friend to us and all for the price of a housekeeper! “

Lucie’s reply to that was: “I shall always be grateful for being allowed to come here. I hope you will never regret taking me in.”

Mamma was saying that the wind was cold and the sun too

hot and that the headache she had awakened with had grown worse throughout the day. Lucie came back with the cushion and settled it behind Mamma, who thanked her languidly.

Then they were coming across the lawn. They looked a little defiant as indeed they might, being uninvited and unannounced. He was tall and dark; she was dark, too—not exactly pretty but there was a vitality about her which was obvious as soon as one saw her, and that was very attractive.

“Good afternoon,” said Stirling, ‘we have come to get my ward’s scarf.

”

It seemed an odd announcement. It struck me as strange that he should be her guardian. I thought she was about my age and he perhaps Lucie’s. Then I noticed the green scarf lying on the grass. She said something about its blowing from her neck and sailing over the wall.

“By all means …” I began. Mamma was looking on in astonishment;

Lucie was unruffled. Then I noticed that the girl’s hand was bleeding and I asked if she were hurt. She had grazed it, she told me. It was nothing. Lucie said it should be dressed and she would take her to Mrs. Glee’s room where they could bandage it.

There was some protest but eventually Lucie took the girl to Mrs. Glee and I was left alone with Stirling and Mamma.

I asked if they would like tea and he declared his pleasure-He was greatly interested in the house. He was different from any man I knew, but then I knew so few. I was, I suppose, comparing him with Franklyn Wakefield. There could not have been two men less like. I asked him where he lived and was astonished when he said Australia.

“Australia,” said Mamma, leaning forward a little in her chair.

“That’s a long way off.”

“Twelve thousand miles or thereabouts.”

There was something very breezy and likeable about him and the intrusion had lifted the afternoon out of its customary monotony.

“Have you come here to stay?” I asked.

“No, I shall be sailing away the day after tomorrow.”

“So sooni’ I felt a ridiculous dismay.

“My ward and I leave on the Carron Star,” he said.

“I came over to escort her back. Her father has died and we are adopting her.”

“That’s very … exciting,” I said foolishly.

“Do you think so?” His smile was ironic and I flushed.

feared he was thinking me raiher stupid. He was no doubt comparing me with his ward who looked so lively and intelligent.

Mamma asked him about Australia. What was it like? Where did he live?

She knew someone who had gone there years ago.

That was interesting, said Stirling. What was the name of the settler she had known? “

“I … er can’t remember,” said Mamma.

“Well, it’s a big place.”

“I often wonder …” began Mamma and then stopped.

He said he lived about forty miles north of Melbourne. Was it to Melbourne her friend had gone?

“I couldn’t say,” said Mamma.

“I never heard.”

“Was it long ago?” he persisted. There was an odd quirk about his mouth as though he were very interested and perhaps a little amused about Mamma’s friend.

“I find it hard to remember,” said Mamma. Then she added quickly: “It would be such a long time ago. Thirty years … or more.”

“You never kept in touch with you^ friend?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What a pity! I might have been able to take him … or her … news of you.”

“Oh, it was long, long ago,” said Mamma, a little flushed and quite excited. I had never known her like this. Our unexpected visitor seemed to have affected us both strangely.

I gave him tea and noticed his strong brown fingers on the Crown Derby. He smiled as he took the cup from me;

there were wrinkles round his eyes, caused I supposed by the hot sun.

I asked him questions about Australia and I was very interested in the property his people owned. There was a hotel, too, in Melbourne, and a gold mine.

“What exciting lives you must lead!” I said.

He admitted it; and for the first time I felt restive. It hadn’t occurred to me before how uneventful life was at Whiteladies. Lucie was constantly implying that I should be grateful; he had the opposite effect on me. But it seemed that he, too, was fascinated by Whiteladies. He asked a great many questions about it and we were on this subject when the girl came back with Lucie. Her hand had been bandaged. I poured out tea for her and we continued to talk of the house.

Then Franklyn arrived. There was something very charming about Franklyn. He was so calm. I had known him all my life and never had I seen him ruffled. On the rare occasions when it was necessary for him to reprimand anyone or assert himself in some way, one felt he brought a judicial attitude to the matter and that it was done from a sense of the rightness of things rather than in anger.

Some people might have called Franklyn dull. He was far from that.

The contrast between him and Stirling was marked. Stirling might have appeared clumsy if he had been a different kind of man; but Stirling was completely unaware of any disadvantage. He clearly was not impressed by the immaculate cut of Franklyn’s suit—if he noticed it at all.

It was difficult to make introductions, so I explained to Franklyn that the scarf had blown over the wall and that they had come to retrieve it.

Then Nora rose and said they must be going and thanked us for our kindness. Stirling was a little put out, and I was pleased because he obviously would have liked to stay; but there was nothing I could do to detain them and Lucie went with them to the gates.

That was all. A trivial incident in a way and yet I could not get them out of my mind; and because I wanted to remember it exactly as it happened, I started this journal.

We sat on the lawn until half past five then my father came down. His hair was ruffled, his face slightly flushed. I thought:

He’s had a good sleep.

“How did the work go. Sir Hilary?” asked Lucie.

He smiled at her. When he smiled his face lit up and it was as though a light had been turned on behind his eyes. He loved talking about his work.

“It was hard going today,” he said.

“But I tell myself I’m at a difficult stage.”

Mamma looked impatient and Franklyn said quickly:

“There are, I believe, always these stages. If the work went too smoothly there might be a danger of its being facile.”

Trust Franklyn to say the right thing! He sat back in the gardfil chair looking immaculate, bland and tolerant of us all. I knew that Mamma and my father had decided that Franklyn would make a very good son-in-law. We would join up Wakefield Park and Whiteladies. It would be very convenient, for the two houses were moderately close and the grounds met. Franklyn’s people were not exactly rich but,