My Sister Celia (9 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

“
Me
?” gasped Freda. “Miss Clumber actually suggested
me
as a possible”—she cleared her throat a trifle self-consciously—“a possible wife for you? But how could she? I don’t think she saw me after I was eight or nine years old.”

“Please don’t run away with the idea that it’s a particularly large legacy.”

“No? She seemed to have made up her mind pretty strongly about you, all the same,” he declared, not without enjoyment, Freda thought. “As I told you before, she believed you had most of the right instincts—whatever they may be—and she said that, if you had developed as she hoped, you should—her words, not mine—be well worth serious consideration.”

“What absolute
—”
Freda glanced round the
room, as though the recollection of something or someone restrained her. “I mean,” she said more quietly, “that in anyone but Miss Clumber that would be the most outrageous cheek.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed.

“In fact,” she added severely, “I
’
m surprised that you even thought fit to repeat the words to me.”

“
I
’
m a bit surprised myself.” He grinned reflectively. “But when you were actually here in the house, and we were recalling my great-aunt, I couldn
’
t quite resist the temptation to see how you took it.”

“Well, of course”—Freda passed her hand over her hair and endea
v
oured to produce a careless little laugh—
“
I suppose it makes quite a good joke, when one
’
s got over the first shock.”

“Does it?” He still looked somewhat reflective.

“Why, y-yes. Don
’
t you think so?” She glanced at him almost nervously.

“I don
’
t know,” he said, rubbing his very firm chin meditatively. “That
’
s something I haven
’
t quite decided in my own mind. But I mustn
’
t keep you standing like this. Do sit down, and I
’
ll ring for tea.”

Freda sat down. In fact, she almost sank into a chair by the window, both disquieted and intrigued by what Laurence Clumber had said. She watched him go across and pull the long embroidered bell-pull—which had also been there in Miss Clumber
’
s time, she recalled—and she tried to decide if he had intended his last remark to be funny, provocative or—inconceivably—serious.

She would have liked to continue the conversation. But it was difficult to do so without appearing unduly interested. And, while she was trying to find the right words in which to reintroduce the subject on a light, amusing plane, the door opened and an elderly maid wheeled in just the kind of tea-trolley which used to appear on Freda
’
s weekly visit during her childhood days.

In fact, as she looked at the elderly woman, who was manipulating the tea-trolley with an expertness bo
rn
of long experience, it seemed to Freda that she too was part of a familiar picture. She dredged into the depths of her memory, and suddenly she exclaimed,

“Why—Ada! It
is
Ada, isn
’
t it?”

“Yes, miss.” Ada smiled, with the polite reserve which Miss Clumber expected of all her domestics, but her faded blue eyes rested kindly on Freda. “You haven
’
t really changed much, miss, if I may say so.”

“Oh, I must have!” cried Freda. “I was—what?—eight—nine, when I was last here.”

“Well, you
’
ve grown of course, miss,” Ada conceded. “But I would have known you.”

“Would you really, Ada? That
’
s interesting,” put in Ada
’
s master, with a slightly dangerous twinkle in his eye. “You mean that Miss Freda has—what shall we say?—developed as one might have expected?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. She was a very nice, kind little girl, and she always had a smile for everyone. The mistress thought well of her. And so,” added Ada, with an air of bestowing the final accolade, “did Belshazzar.”

“Belshazzar? Ah, yes, of course, Belshazzar was the cat, wasn
’
t he? A very intelligent cat, I believe,” said Laurence Clumber gravely.

“He was more than intelligent, sir. Belshazzar” —Ada
’
s voice dropped a couple of tones—
“
was an
unusual
cat. He knew about people and things—better than most humans.”

“
You don
’
t say!” Laurence Clumber looked suitably impressed. “And he—er
—knew
about Miss Freda?”

“Yes, sir. If Belshazzar
’
s ghost was to be walking about here now—and I wouldn
’
t put it past him—he
’
d be very pleased to see Miss Freda sitting in that chair again.”

“Well, well,” said Laurence genially. “We must see that we have her sitting there fairly often.”

“Yes, indeed, sir. Are you coming back to Crowmain to live, miss?”

“Only at weekends,” Freda explained, without looking in her host
’
s direction. “Miss Clumber very kindly left me the little cottage on the Dalling road. And I hope to come there pretty often.”

“A
very
good idea, miss, if I may say so,” said Ada. “Will you just ring if you want some more hot water, sir?” And then she withdrew, leaving a rather odd little silence behind.

Then Laurence Clumber said, “Well, that
’
s very satisfactory, I must say. Would you like to pour out for us?”

Freda moved over to the tea-table.

“What is so very satisfactory?” she enquired.

“Why, Ada
’
s assurance that you have developed as my great-aunt—and Belshazzar—would have wished. I
’
m more than interested to have this confirmation.”

“You
’
re quite ridiculous,” said Freda, but she could not help laughing, as she handed him his cup and saucer. “It
’
s nice to be remembered so kindly, though,” she added, with a little sigh of nostalgic pleasure. “I couldn
’
t have believed it would all be so familiar and pleasant. Just like coming home.” He did not answer that. And, after a moment, it occurred to her that her words might seem a trifle too apt in their significance, in view of Miss Clumber
’
s advice to her nephew, and she found herself blushing furiously.

“I mean, of course,” she said, rushing somewhat ill-advisedly into speech, “that there are some places which seem to—to welcome one back, even after years.”

“I
’
m glad you feel that way about Crowmain Court,” he told her gravely. “I hope you
’
ll come here very often, and always feel welcome.”

It was impossible not to be touched by this, however lightly said, and Freda gave him a shy smile.

“Does that mean,” she asked, “that we
’
re more or less—burying the hatchet, so far as my cottage is concerned?”

“I think it must.” He smiled slightly in return. “I
’
ve been thinking things over, of course, and it seems to me that perhaps one
’
s neighbours are
more important than the view from one
’
s windows.”

“That
’
s awfully nice of you, Mr. Clumber,
because
—”

“I feel that Belshazzar would prefer you to call me Laurence, or even Larry,” he put in.

She laughed. And then she said curiously, “Does anyone call you Larry?”

“Only if I like them very much.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“May—I call you Larry?” she asked, rather diffidently.

“Please do,” said Laurence Clumber, and she felt that the welcome back to Crowmain was complete. It gave her a degree of satisfaction and happiness beyond anything she would have thought possible. And although her smile was no more than composed and friendly, her voice shook slightly as she said, “Then of course you must call me Freda.”

“Thank you. I will.”

And then she said hastily that she thought they would need some more hot water, and he rang the bell for Ada, who came, within a matter of minutes, bearing not only the jug of hot water, but also a faded photograph.

“Perhaps you
’
ll remember this, Miss Freda,” she observed, handing Freda the photograph, if not exactly on a silver tray, with all the air of doing so.

“Why, Ada”—Freda looked at the photograph and laughed affectionately—
“
it
’
s Belshazzar, isn
’
t it?”

“It
’
s you too, miss,” Ada pointed out. “You
’
re holding him.”

“So I am!” exclaimed Freda. “Goodness, how untidy my hair is.”

“Let me see.” Laurence came and leaned over her shoulder, so close that she was more intensely aware of him than she had ever been before. “I say—you
’
re rather sweet, aren
’
t you?”

“I don
’
t know about that. I look as if I could do with a bit of brushing and combing. But you can see what a beauty he was.”

“True,” said Laurence, taking the photograph and examining it with attention. “I see what you mean, Ada.”

“About him, sir?”

“No, no. About Miss Freda. She hasn
’
t really changed much, in essentials.”

“Thanks,” observed Freda drily. “The hair-do
’
s just what any girl would love to have identified as hers.”

He laughed.

“Never mind the hair-do. The smile
’
s the same,” he declared.

“You can
’
t really see. Belshazzar
’
s whiskers have got in the way.”

But Laurence Clumber declared that he would have known the photograph anywhere for Freda, and he handed it back to Ada with the same half mischievous, half thoughtful smile which had disquieted Freda before.

“Thank you, Ada,” he said. “I very much appreciate your bringing that in.”

“I thought you
’
d be interested to see it, sir.” Ada looked pleased with herself. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?
’

“Nothing else at all, thank you, Ada. You seem to have thought of everything,” declared her master genially.

So Ada withdrew once more, and Freda hastily launched into an admiring assessment of the garden which certainly, viewed from the drawing-room window, presented a very beautiful sight.

Perhaps Laurence Clumber felt he had teased her enough. At any rate, he fell in with her choice of subject, and even asked her what plans she had for her own cottage garden. When he learned that she hoped to find someone locally to do the heavy, preliminary digging, he suggested good-naturedly that his own under-gardener might be willing to oblige her over this. And, on this amicable note, tea was concluded.

By then it was time for Freda to think about returning to town, and on his repeating his offer to drive her over to Dalling, she accepted gratefully.

They returned to the cottage for a few minutes, where she left written instructions for Mr. Token and his men. Then Laurence drove her the few pleasant miles to Dalling and saw her off on the
London train, as though he had been doing this for years.

Atone in her compartment, Freda stared out of the window at the passing scene and thought how nice it was, after all, to be on good terms with the owner of Crowmain Court. She thought it would be some while before she could actually bring herself to address him as Larry. But she no longer thought of him as “that Laurence Clumber.”

He
’
s a nice person, really, she reflected indulgently. Not so charming or so understanding as Brian Vanner. But rather fun. Now Brian would
never
have embarrassed me by repeating what Miss Clumber said. He has more imagination—finer feelings, I suppose—and would have known how I was bound to feel.

At that point, she tried to decide just how she
did
feel about Miss Clumber
’
s verdict on her, and Laurence Clumber
’
s unfeeling repetition of her words.

Faintly gratified, of course, that anyone—particularly anyone as discriminating as Miss Clumber—should have thought well of her. But amused— intrigued—put out by the idea that she should have been paired off, even in thought, with the owner of Crowmain Court.

“She probably didn
’
t mean that I
’
d have been specially suitable for
him
,” Freda told herself. “She just meant that, in her view, I
’
d make a good wife for someone. Would I, I wonder?”

And she pursued that interesting line of thought until she arrived at her destination, but without arriving at any valuable conclusions.

The following week appeared to Freda to be quite astonishingly dull and uneventful. In point of fact, it was no different from dozens of weeks she had lived through quite happily in the past. But, so heady and insidious a drug is sensation that, once exciting things begin to happen, we want them to go on happening all the time.

As it was, she had one affectionate telephone call from Celia on the Monday evening, ending with a promise to see her during the next few days—and then silence.

Freda was not at all a demanding girl by nature, and she was sensible enough to know that anyone so gay and popular as Celia undoubtedly had a great many calls on her time. But she was disappointed not to hear from her. Particularly as a sort of anxious diffidence kept her from telephoning to the Vanners
’
house herself.

In addition, it was not possible to visit her beloved cottage that weekend, because it was her turn for Saturday morning duty at the office. Hitherto, Freda had never specially grudged that one-in-four arrangement. But now it seemed to her to be the greatest imposition.

She scrambled rather resentfully through a very busy morning, and, at the end of it, felt too exhausted even to play with the idea of visiting Crowmain on the Sunday.

“Sunday trains are sure to be crowded,” she told herself. “And there doesn
’
t seem to be any lift on offer this weekend. And, if I got down there, I wouldn
’
t be able to see Mr. Token and the workmen. It would be a wasted visit.”

Besides, even in her new and modest affluence, she could not be perpetually paying the train fare to Crowmain, unless she were really going to be able to do something useful when she got there.

Freda, therefore, was feeling both cross and dejected as she emerged from the offices of the International Import and Export Company, and so intent was she upon her own affairs that she actually jumped when someone said behind her,

“Freda—aren
’
t we on speaking terms?”

“Brian!” She turned to face Brian Vanner with such pleasure and delight in the unexpected meeting that her whole expression was irradiated with a welcoming smile.

“Come, that
’
s better!” He laughed a little as he took her hand. But she thought suddenly that he looked tired and worried, and there were unmistakably anxious little lines round his handsome dark eyes. “I telephoned you once or twice, but was unlucky.”

“
Did you really?” She was unspeakably gratified. “And then, when I came past here on my way from our City office, I remembered your saying you worked here. I was just wondering if it were worth while to go in and enquire for you on a Saturday morning, when out you came, in a brown study.”

“Oh, Brian, I
’
m so glad to see you. I was really just having a secret little grouse because nothing very exciting seemed to have happened for days. And—then you were there.”

“Do I rank as something exciting?” He smiled, though his eyes still remained serious. “How flattering! Come and have lunch with me, Freda, if you
’
re free. I
’
ve rather a lot to tell you.”

“H-have you?” For a moment, a sort of anxiety communicated itself to her. But then the pleasure of going to lunch with him superseded all else. She eagerly accepted his invitation. And, summoning a passing taxi, he handed her in.

As they drove westward, she turned and glanced at him.

“Is something—wrong, Brian?”

“We
’
ve had rather an anxious week. That
’
s why you haven
’
t heard anything
f
rom us. I tried, as I said, to phone, but—
”

“It
’
s not—Celia?” Her hand went apprehensively to her lips and her eyes became enormous.

“No, no. It
’
s my mother.”

“Oh—I
’
m sorry.” She hoped she didn
’
t sound only academically sorry. But it was difficult not to revel in one
’
s relief over Celia rather than feel absolutely overwhelmed by anything which might have happened to the formal, slightly unfriendly woman who had not been pleased at the discovery that Celia had a sister. “Has she been ill?”

“She was involved in a very serious motor accident.”

“Oh, I
’
m sorry!” This time the tone was quite different. “Do you mean that she was badly hurt?”

“Quite badly enough, even from the physical point of view—a broken arm and a nasty knock on the head—but much more seriously affected from the nervous shock. We
’
ve had a very worrying time.”

“Is she in hospital?”

“Oh, yes. She was taken there immediately after the accident, and there
’
s been no question of moving her.”

“Wh-who was driving?” enquired Freda diffidently.

“None of us, I
’
m glad to say. For, although it seems it was not the driver
’
s fault—just a very bad skid—one would feel awful, of course, if one were in any way responsible. The ironic thing is that she was coming home from a hospital committee, less than a mile from home, and she could just as well have come by bus. But someone else on the committee offered her a lift—and this had to happen. They were both back in the hospital within ten minutes of leaving it.”