My Sister Celia (15 page)

His office hours were too unpredictable for him to undertake to pick Freda up on the way home, But, as soon as she came into the house, Celia rushed to greet her, if she were home. If not, then Freda went to her own lovely room, to relax and change and make herself ready for a delightful evening with her sister and—as she half laughingly called him to herself—her brother, once removed.

Celia was a very social creature, and Brian—if not quite so gay and exuberant in the company of others—was an admirable escort. And quite often they took Freda out to meet various friends of theirs.

Occasionally they went to a theatre, and sometimes they just stayed at home, which Freda thought was almost the nicest of all. Brian had an excellent collection of gramophone records, and when he found that Freda was truly fond of music, he made her free of his study. It was all so exactly what her vague dreams of happy family life had been that sometimes she felt the tears come into her eyes, for sheer pleasure at the reality proving equal to imagination.

Another enchanting novelty to Freda was that Celia would sometimes meet her at lunchtime, and they would whisk into a taxi—Celia
’
s special and personal extravagance, this—and hurry off to buy things for the cottage.

“We
’
ll have a couple of days of solid shopping, once your holiday begins,” Celia declared. “But if I do some scouting first, there
’
s quite a lot we can settle in a lunchtime, or in the evening when the stores stay open late.”

And so, together, they settled on chintzes and bed-linen, china and kitchen-ware, with an occasional sidelong glance at more important items of furniture, as they sped happily on their way through one big store or another.

Her days were so full and her thoughts so well occupied that it was not until she was alone in her bedroom that Freda felt the full force of the one unhappiness hovering on the edge of her consciousness.

She tried not to think of Laurence too much. Or, if he refused to be excluded from her thoughts, she tried to think of him with the indifference—even the resentment—he had at first inspired in her. But she was not very successful in either effort.

As soon as she was alone, his handsome, vivid face, with the half provocative smile, rose before her mental vision. And then she would sit dreamily recalling the agitating, but enchanting, scene when he had told her of Miss Clumber
’
s plans for him. She would see Ada come in again with the photograph of herself with Belshazzar, and she would almost feel Laurence lean over her shoulder to look at the photograph and hear him say,

“I say—you
’
re rather sweet, aren
’
t you?”

“He didn
’
t really mean anything,” she told herself angrily. “It was on a par with the careless compliments he probably spills on a dozen different girls. And anyway, he didn
’
t kiss me
...
” How she wished now that he had! “It was Celia he kissed.” And then she would be back again on the final, inescapable decision that, if Celia were truly falling in love with him, there was nothing that she, Freda, could do but forget him. As far, that was to say, as one could forget one
’
s brother-in-law. For that, of course, would be what he would eventually become.

And, at the thought of this fresh and odious complication, Freda would switch her mind painfully away from the whole problem. Until her heart would betray all her good intentions—and the wearisome procession of argument and counter-argument would start all over again.

The worst evening of all was when Laurence telephoned and it was Celia who took the call. Freda could not help hearing her end of the conversation and, having once realized who it was who had rung up, she sat there in the most exquisite impatience and anguish, unable to demand a word with Laurence and yet unable to bear the thought that she was being completely excluded from the conversation.

It should have been quite easy to say carelessly, “Is that Larry? Don
’
t ring off until I
’
ve had a word with him.”

But by now it was virtually impossible to do or say anything casual, so far as he was concerned. The whole issue had become one of such distressful importance that Freda found herself quite unable to be natural about it. And, while she was trying to think of some easy way to join in, Celia called a “Goodbye” and hung up the receiver.

“That was Laurence,” she announced unnecessarily.

“Yes. I thought so.” It was all Freda could do to keep her voice steady.

“He
’
s delighted about all the arrangements, and intends to be at Crowmain for at least as long as we are.”

“Does he?”

“I explained that we
’
ll be shopping on Monday and Tuesday of next week, but that we hope to get the furniture down there by Thursday anyway. And I said that you
’
d be coming down on the Friday evening, Brian”—she turned to her brother—
“
and staying over the weekend and for as much as you could of the following week.”

“But I haven
’
t settled yet that I can do that.”

“Of course you can!” Celia said impatiently. “We shall need you to help move furniture.”

“Well, I shall be there for the weekend, anyway,” Brian agreed. “I
’
ll see about the rest later.”

“Did Laurence say anything else?” Freda enquired.

“I don
’
t think so. Oh, yes. He said that Mead was getting on well with the garden.”

“Oh.” Freda swallowed hard. “I should have liked to—to talk to him about that.”

“Would you? I
’
m sorry, Freda. I thought you
’
d probably prefer to have him infer you weren
’
t here. I mean—you didn
’
t want to talk, just for talking
’
s sake? I knew that.”

That was so exactly what Freda had wanted to do that she could hardly control her angry disappointment.

“It doesn
’
t matter,” she muttered. But so badly was she hiding her feelings by now that she was thankful for the fact that another friend rang up Celia at this moment.

Obviously Celia was about to engage on a long and enjoyable exchange of news, views and gossip, so Freda slipped out into the garden, feeling that if she stayed in the room a moment longer she would burst into tears.

“It
’
s all so
trivial
,” she kept on telling herself, without any conviction at all. “What does it matter whether you speak to him on the telephone or not? How can a few words about the garden matter, one way or the other?”

But she was sick for the sound of his voice. So quickly, she realized in utter dismay, had her feelings gained ground. If she had just heard him say “Hello” and “Good-bye” she would not have felt so forlorn. At least, that was how it seemed to her. As it was
...

Big tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, and, as she stood staring at a great blowsy pink rose, the outlines of the overblown blossom wavered and broke into a blur.

She must stop being so silly, she told herself. Celia
’
s conversation might not last as long as had seemed likely. If she should follow her out into the garden
...

But it was not Celia who followed Freda out into the garden. It was Brian. And he came upon her long before she had her tears under control.

“What
’
s the matter, Freda?”

His voice spoke so unexpectedly behind her that she jumped, and said automatically,

“Nothing!”

“Well, obviously there
’
s something.” He spoke in his pleasant, reasonable voice, without any sign of
harassing
her, but as though he expected to get to the bottom of the matter. “You aren
’
t the kind of girl to go away and cry on your own for nothing. Suppose you tell me what
’
s wrong.”

“It
’
s so-so silly, really.”

“Lots of things that hurt are silly,” Brian said kindly. “They don
’
t hurt any the less for that. Come on, Freda—you
’
re more or less my responsibility, you know, while you
’
re in this house and my parents are away.”

“A-am I?” She blinked her wet lashes and looked wonderingly at him.

“Well, of course. What
’
s the matter?”

“I w-wanted to speak to L-Larry,” stammered Freda.

“You wanted
—
? But there was nothing to prevent you.” He looked surprised, as well he might. “Why didn
’
t you?”

“I—couldn
’
t. It
’
s all so—complicated. I can
’
t explain.”

He did not start protesting or arguing over that. He just looked at her thoughtfully. And then, by what seemed to her an almost uncanny leap of intuition, he asked calmly,

“Look here, are you keen on him, instead of disliking him thoroughly, as you thought at first?” Freda stared at Brian in awe. Then she nodded slowly.

“And you wished it could have been you who did all the talking and arranging, instead of Celia?” Again she nodded, fascinated by what seemed to her to be his perspicacity.

“Well, that
’
s quite simple.” Brian patted her shoulder encouragingly. “You only have to drop a
strong hint to Celia and
—”

“Oh, no!” Freda exclaimed quickly. “No—Celia mustn
’
t know a
word
of this!”

“Why not?”

“Because—Oh, it
’
s so complicated! Because
she too
—”
Freda stopped helplessly.

“She
’
s keen on him too! I say, he is in demand, isn
’
t he?” said Brian, rubbing his chin reflectively, and she thought he had some difficulty in suppressing a smile. However, to his credit, he did suppress it.
And, although his eyes twinkled rather, they rested kindly on Freda
’
s somewhat woebegone face.

“So you
’
re prepared to step aside for your beloved sister, even if it means giving up the man you want?” he said reflectively. “That
’
s extraordinarily magnanimous of you, Freda.”

“I—I don
’
t know what else to do.” Freda drew a long sigh. “I love her. And if she wants to marry Laurence—she must.”

“Think so?” Brian smiled at her drily, in the faint moonlight which was beginning to filter through the branches of the trees. “Well, I
’
ll let you into a secret, Freda. I love her too. And she isn
’
t going to marry any Laurence Clumber—or anyone else but
me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“But—B
rian
—”
Freda stared at him, hope and
incredulity alternating in her face. “How can you be so certain? How do you
know
you
’
re going to marry Celia eventually?”

“I
’
ve known it for the last two years,” he replied coolly. “It will take more than Laurence Clumber to put me off.”

“Do you mean
—”
Freda was impressed in
spite of herself. “Do you mean that you won
’
t
let
her marry him?”

“Reduced to its simplest terms, I suppose that
’
s what I do mean,” Brian agreed.

“How are you going to prevent her?”

“The same way I
’
ve prevented her marrying all the other Laurences,” he replied with a smile. “This isn
’
t the first time, by a long chalk. Celia
’
s both romantic and flirtatious. She enjoys falling in love. She even enjoys falling out of love. That
’
s a very different thing from wanting to settle down and marry someone.”

“She says this is quite different from the others,” Freda observed diffidently.

“They
’
ve all been different from the others,” Brian assured her a trifle callously. “Don
’
t break your heart about this, Freda. It
’
ll turn out all right.”

“If you—say s
o—”
Even now, Freda hardly
dared to draw a breath of hopeful relief. “I can
’
t feel quite so—confident as you appear to be.”

“You haven
’
t been through it as often as I have,” he told her, with a sort of kindly cynicism. “I tore myself to ribbons about it the first time.”

“Then you
’
ve—you
’
ve been in love with her for a long time?”

“Most of my adult life,” he admitted. “For quite a while I didn
’
t think I had any chance with her. She always regarded me as her brother, and I supposed that took all the romance out of things. But after a while I found that, although she immensely enjoyed a romantic flutter with someone else, it was on my shoulder that she invariably wept a few enjoyable tears when it was all over.”

Freda laughed reluctantly. But she said diffidently,

“Couldn
’
t that be the supreme evidence that she regarded you as a brother only?”

“I used to think so.”

“But you don
’
t now?”

“No, Freda. Over the years, I
’
ve found that, by the merciful dispensation of Providence, I seem to have most of the things that Celia wants in a man. I
take
no credit for it. I
’
m only humbly thankful that it is so. After a while—she has told me so, with great candour, herself—she compares her latest love with me. And I
’
m thankful to say the balance has always been tipped on my side.”

“Aren
’
t you scared that one day it won
’
t?”

“Yes, of course. Only I
’
m not so scared as you are because, as I said before, I
’
ve been through it rather often.”

“I see.” Again Freda gave that reluctant little
laugh. “But there
’
s something I must ask. May I?”

“Of course.”

“If she feels you have most of the things she wants in a man, why doesn
’
t she marry
you?
Haven
’
t you asked her?”

“Yes, certainly. Her reply—as one might expect with Celia—is that she wants her freedom a little longer, that she can
’
t quite make up her mind. She
’
s too used to me—I
’
m a dear, but—you know the sort of argument. I can
’
t press her too hard. I can only” —he frowned slightly and looked away from Freda with the first hint of restlessness she had seen in him—
“
give her a little more rope—and wait.”

“There is such a thing as giving a girl too much rope,” Freda said shrewdly.

“Yes, I know. I
’
m not unaware of the dangers, Freda. It
’
s just that I try not to let them rattle me. Tell me—is she very much attracted by Laurence Clumber?”

“She—seems to think so,” said Freda, wondering uneasily if she were in some way betraying a confidence by admitting that.

“Very well. I
’
ll come down to Crowmain on Friday of next week—and stay as long as I can.”

“Oh, I
’
m
glad
!”
Freda heaved a sigh of relief. And at that moment Celia called from the house, “Hello, there! Are you both in the garden?”

“Yes,” Brian called back. “Come out and join us.”

She didn
’
t answer, but a moment or two later they saw the pale sheen of her dress as she came down the path towards them.

“What on earth were you doing? Watching the moon rise?” she enquired, as she came up with them.

“That, and discussing you,” replied Brian, with a cool candour that made Freda
’
s heart skip a beat.

“You don
’
t say?” Celia sounded pleased rather than put out. “What had you to say about me?”

“Oh, quite a lot. We agreed, on balance, that you were a singularly nice child.” Brian ruffled her dark
hair with a touch of careless affection which—Freda realized now—was exactly what Celia liked. “We expressed mutual anxiety that you might, in your characteristic impulsiveness, one day fall for the wrong man. But we finally decided that your native common sense—not to mention my affectionate supervision—would probably save you from clinching a serious error.”

Freda was divided between admiration and terror at this apparently joking, but really exact, description of their conversation. But Celia laughed easily, and affectionately linked her arm in Brian
’
s.

“You do
think
you know what
’
s best for me, don
’
t you?” she said, in a tone of friendly derision.

“There have been times when I
’
ve thought that I have my uses in your life,” he replied good-humouredly.

“Hark at the self-satisfied male! Doesn
’
t he need a lesson? Where are you, Freda darling?” She rea
che
d out in the gloom with her disengaged hand and slipped her other arm into Freda
’
s.

“I love you both.” She laughed and hugged their arms. “And I
adore
being talked about. It makes me feel important. But, when it comes to managing my own life, I
’
m pretty good at it myself.”

“Of course,” said Brian, in a tone which sounded almost bored. “Don
’
t take us too seriously. Shall we go in now?”

So they went into the house, and Freda had no way of guessing whether Brian were disturbed or serenely untroubled by that final statement of Celia
’
s.

Much later that evening, however, Celia came to her room, clad in a flowered nylon housecoat which made her look so enchanting and appealing that Freda felt she would have given her anything. Well—almost anything.

“Can I come and talk?” enquired Celia, curling up in the arm-chair by Freda
’
s bed.