Grace Hardie (38 page)

‘It's odd, this spinster business,' she said. ‘It's a word which sounds as though everyone looks down on you. As though you've somehow failed in life. Nobody but a heartless brother would ever dare to use such a word in my hearing. Why is it so different from “bachelor”, d'you think? Why are spinsters always pitied and bachelors always envied?'

‘A bachelor gay am I!' Jay was never one to miss a cue and would have performed the complete song had his sister not shaken him into silence.

‘I was thinking about that earlier, when Aunt Midge arrived,' she went on. ‘When I was a girl – when Aunt Midge was a headmistress – I admired her enormously. To go to university and pass all those examinations and have such an important job and earn money and be in charge of her own life – if that was being a spinster, then I only wished that I had the talent to be a spinster as well. But since her marriage – well, she's somehow become just an ordinary person. Still great fun to be with and talk to; but there's nothing special about her any longer. Don't you feel that?'

‘It's just that she's old now.' To Jay, anyone over forty was old, and his aunt was sixty-two. ‘Just as you are, pretty well. Thirty.'

‘Thank you so much for cheering me up,' said Grace, but she laughed as merrily as her brother. Jay was quite right. She was happy.

That evening, after the visitors had gone and the silver had been put back into its felt bags and locked away, Philip and
his mother both went early to bed. It was not just the exertions of the day which had tired them, but the society; for they were not used to so much conversation. Grace, though, was too restless to sleep. She let herself quietly out of the house and for a second time that day made her way through Philip's garden.

This time, with no flowers to cut, she could lift her eyes to the great house higher up the hill instead of looking for the most perfect roses. No lights burned in its windows, and the rising slope behind it masked part of its outline, but there was sufficient moonlight to show the silhouette of Grace's tower.

By now she knew the reason why the tower – and, indeed, the whole house – had been built. Her mother, on returning from China, had willingly answered questions, describing the anxiety which an elderly aristocrat had once felt for a bright-eyed but asthmatic child.

‘Thank you, great-grandfather,' said Grace aloud. He had wondered what would become of her, but had not lived to find out.

‘A sort of farmer indeed!' she exclaimed. Had Jay never understood that all the ways in which she and Philip earned money from the land had never been more than expedients which would allow them to go on living in the house they loved? They had done well enough, although the top storey, where the servants had once slept, was now damp and the whole building needed redecoration. At least their success gave them the freedom to lead the lives they wanted to lead. Philip had inherited his father's passion for breeding new plants, whilst Grace herself… She smiled in contentment and began to walk back up the serpentine way, this time pausing to touch each of her carvings in turn.

Reaching the house, she groped her way towards the studio and lit one of the five lanterns which were suspended in a circle round her bench. Slipping off her silk dress and
stockings, so that they should not spoil, she began to stroke the piece of polished walnut on which she had been working for the past week. Her fingers moved lightly over the parts which were already taking form, and pressed harder where the wood must be cut away.

‘Just ten minutes!' she said, picking up a fluter and setting to work. Without being aware of it, she continued to talk – either to herself or to the walnut – as the shavings began to fall to the ground.

‘A sort of farmer!' Jay's phrase still amused her. Still speaking aloud, she set him right. ‘Grace Hardie, spinster and carver of shapes.'

Jay had been right to recognize that she was happy, but wrong to fear that' tomorrow, or any of the days after tomorrow, would bring any surprises to disturb her. She was a princess in a palace, with no wish to be disturbed by any Prince Charming; and she was living happily ever after.

Anne Melville
is a pseudonym of Margaret Potter (1926–1998), a daughter of the author and lecturer Bernard Newman. She read Modern History at Oxford as a scholar of St Hugh's College, and after graduating she taught and travelled in the Middle East. On returning to England, she edited a children's magazine for a few years, but later devoted all her working time to writing.

Discover books by Anne Melville published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnneMelville

Lorimers at War
Lorimers in Love
Lorimer Loyalties
The Last of the Lorimers
The Lorimer Legacy
The Lorimer Line

The House of Hardie
Grace Hardie
The Hardie Inheritance

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc,
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain in 1988 by Grafton Books

Copyright © 1988 Anne Melville

All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The moral right of the author is asserted.

eISBN: 9781448214389

Visit
www.bloomsburyreader.com
to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can
sign up for newsletters
to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.