My Sister Celia (18 page)

“Oh, Miss Freda, I wouldn
’
t like to speak out of place,” exclaimed Ada, who was obviously dying to do just that, “but do you mean there might be a
chance—soon
—”

“
I
didn
’
t mean anything specific,” exclaimed Freda, a good deal taken aback. “I was speaking quite generally.” And then she stopped, as though a bullet had hit her, for she saw Laurence coming out into the hall, just behind Ada.

Ada, all unknowingly however, went on.

“Well, if Mr. Clumber did think of getting married, he wouldn
’
t have far to look for the very
best person.”

“A cheering thought, Ada,” observed Mr. Clumber behind her, and she jumped, with a degree of horror which must have given the shade of Miss Clumber great satisfaction, had she been passing.

“Oh, sir, I am sorry, but
—”

“Not at all. It
’
s nice to know you take such a personal interest in my welfare. Hello, Freda, have you come for tea, after all?”

“Oh, no
—”
Freda was only one degree less put
out than poor Ada. “I merely looked in to say we
’
ve had a telegram from Brian. He expects to be down here this evening, and—and I thought I should let you know, in case he comes straight here.”

“Well, that
’
s fine.” Laurence
’
s enthusiasm about Brian
’
s coming was sufficient without being excessive. “But come in and have at least a cup of tea, now you
’
re here. I
’
m just having mine. Ada, bring another cup and saucer, will you?”

Only too glad to make herself scarce, Ada went to fetch the extra cup and saucer, and Freda found herself ushered, willy-nilly, into the familiar drawing
r
oom by an obviously intrigued host, who enquired, as soon as they were alone,

“What on earth were you and Ada doing, discussing my matrimonial prospects?”

“Oh, we
weren
’
t
.”
exclaimed Freda, earnestly but not quite truthfully. “It was just that—that we were speaking about old times”—she hoped she was not twisting the truth too atrociously—
“
and Ada said— but
quite
inoffensively—that she thought this place needed—that you needed—a mistress. I mean that the place needed a mistress and you needed a wife,” she hastily amended, going bright pink at the unfortunate slip.

If Laurence very much wanted to laugh, he gallantly controlled the impulse.

“She
’
s quite right, of course,” he said musingly. “It does—and I do. I used to think my great-aunt rather tiresome when she chivvied me about marrying and said this was not the house for a bachelor. But I already see the force of her arguments. I even got out her list again the other day and looked it over,” he declared, with a grin.

“D-did you?” Somehow Freda produced a convincing little laugh. “I expect most of them are married to other people by now.”

“To tell you the truth, they are,” he conceded. “That made me feel I
’
d better add to the list on my own account.”

This time Freda was unable to produce any laugh, convincing or otherwise. She could only stare at him with widened eyes.

“That seems to be the most sensible plan, doesn
’
t it?” he said reflectively.

“No, it doesn
’
t,” retorted Freda coldly and furiously. “I never heard of anything so—so smug and cold-blooded. The idea of a man making a list of—of
possibilities
!”

“Oh, I say”—it was he who opened his eyes wide that time—
“
you don
’
t think I
’
m serious, do you? The whole idea of a list is a joke. You and I laughed over it from the first.”

“Th-that was Miss Clumber
’
s list that we—laughed over,” said Freda, making a great effort not to burst into tears and only just succeeding. “I
thought—I thought
—”

But before she had to define what she thought—a very difficult process, in any case—Ada fortunately came in with the extra cup and saucer, and that gave Freda a few moments in which to recover her composure.

“I
’
m sorry,” she said, m a much more natural tone, when Ada had gone out again. “It was too stupid of me to take your suggestion seriously. But
I—I don
’
t always remember that you
’
re sometimes joking when you look most serious.”

“It
’
s I who should apologize for fooling too extravagantly,” he declared, as he handed her her tea. “It
’
s a silly habit. Where
’
s Celia, by the way?” She knew he was probably only changing the subject to make her feel more at ease, but the more unworthy part of her couldn
’
t help wondering if he had been prompted by the thought that
Celia
would never have made such a silly mistake.

“She stayed at the cottage, to finish something,” Freda explained. “It didn
’
t seem necessary for more than one of us to come up. But I really mustn
’
t stay. I don
’
t want to leave her too long on her own.
”

“You
’
re very happy together, you two, aren
’
t you?” He smiled at her.

“Oh,
yes?
’
said Freda from her heart. “I love Celia dearly.”

“I can understand that,” he replied sincerely, and this time his seriousness carried no underlying joke.

In the first moment, she was pleased and proud on Celia
’
s behalf. But when she was on her way back to the cottage, she began to wonder uneasily if that quiet concurrence had a rather special meaning. Was it his way of saying that he thought he too could love Celia—dearly?

Oh, dear, why do I keep on reading something into every casual remark that
’
s made? Freda thought unhappily. I
’
ve always so despised people who are eaten up with jealousy and suspicion. And yet it seems all I can do, to keep a balanced view of everything that Laurence does and says.

Back at the cottage, she found Celia still happily occupied, with tasks she would probably have found tiresome in her own home but which, in the cottage, took on a special attraction all their own.

“I
’
m sorry to have been so long,” Freda said breathlessly, for she had run the last half of the way.

“Were you long?” Celia glanced at her watch. “I didn
’
t notice.”

“Yes. They—I mean Larry—made me stay to tea—and we got talking.”

“Did you, really?” Celia looked genuinely curious. “What about?”

“Oh—all sorts of things. Principally”—she took a deep breath and spoke a little faster—
“
about his discovery that Crowmain Court isn
’
t really the kind of house for a bachelor to live in.”

“Isn
’
t it?” Celia raised her eyebrows. “What
’
s he going to do then? Leave it?”

“Oh,
no
!
I don
’
t think so. I would say that he was looking at the problem from quite another angle and—and deciding that he really ought to get married.”

“To whom?” enquired Celia bluntly.

“He didn
’
t say to whom. I don
’
t think he had anyone particular in mind.”

“Don
’
t you? It
’
s an unusual subject for a man to be academic about,
’
remarked Celia good-humouredly. “Put the kettle on, there
’
s an angel. I haven
’
t had tea, if you have.”

So Freda obligingly put on the kettle and made fresh tea. And then, to their great delight, Brian put in an appearance.

“Brian! We didn
’
t expect you here or so soon.” Celia fell on his neck and kissed him with much greater warmth than she would have done at home. “Isn
’
t this the loveliest place you ever
saw?
”

“Very nearly so,” he agreed. “I must say you girls have done a wonderful job of settling in. Happy, Freda?”

“Oh, blissfully so!” declared Freda, which was true, of course, so far as her cottage was concerned. “I never imagined having such a home of my own. Not in my wildest dreams.”

“All you want is a man about the house now,” Brian told her, with a teasing smile. “But of course, Laurence Clumber could qualify for that role, one stage removed.”

“Don
’
t be absurd!” In her alarm, she spoke quite sharply. “He
’
s just a—a casual neighbour.”

“Strategically placed, though,” Brian pointed out.

“That could apply to me too,” Celia put in lightly.

“You won
’
t be down here as much as Freda will,” he replied.

“I might. You don
’
t know.” Celia tossed her head a little.

And Freda saw Brian look thoughtfully after her as she carried away the tea tray into the kitchen.

“How are things?” he enquired, suddenly completely serious.

“I don
’
t quite know. He—Larry—talks quite seriously of Crowmain Court not being the place for a bachelor.”

“Did he say that to Celia?”

“No. To
me.”

“Come, that
’
s better!” Brian smiled slightly.

“Oh, it didn
’
t have any special significance, so far as I was concerned.” Freda sighed involuntarily. “At least, I don
’
t think it did.”

“And she?—Celia? Does she have anything to say on the subject?”

“Not recently. But she came into my bedroom the night after—after you found me in the garden, and we had a heart-to-heart talk. I think she
’
s pretty serious about him, Brian.” She hated to have to put it into words, and yet there was a sort of relief in sharing her anxiety with someone.

“Did she speak about me at all?”

“Oh, yes. She admitted that she was deeply fond
of you
—”

“But?” he enquired, as Freda paused.

“I
’
ll give you her exact words,” Freda said slowly. “They may hurt a bit, but I think you should know how she feels. She said,
‘
There are no delicious and romantic surprises about Brian. I know he
’
s devotedly mine—and that
’
s all there is to it.
’
”

Once she had repeated the words, she was sorry and wondered if she had gone too far, for he flushed and then paled slightly, and she saw him frown and bite his lip.

“No—surprises,” he murmured, half to himself. “Perhaps that
’
s the danger. Well, we
’
ll see.” Then he got up from his chair. “I
’
ll drive up to the Court now, and announce my arrival. Then I
’
ll come down later and fetch you girls. What time?”

“Just before seven. Shall I call Celia?”

“No,” he said rather curtly. And, as she watched him go, again she wondered remorsefully if she had told him too much. But she could not think it was a bad thing for him to know just how Celia regarded him.

“Why—has Brian gone?” Celia came back from the kitchen and looked round in surprise.

“Yes. But he
’
ll be back just before seven to fetch us.”

“Good.” Celia threw herself into one of the comfortable new chairs and said pensively, “I wonder how he and Laurence will get on together in the same house?”

“Reasonably well, I imagine. Men always seem to,” replied Freda. “Even if they don
’
t like each other much, they don
’
t bristle about it, the way we do. They just talk cricket or something innocuous.”

Celia laughed a good deal at that, and declared that she hadn
’
t realized her sister was so knowledgeable.

“You get to know these things in an office,” Freda replied sapiently. And then they went upstairs to change into their prettiest dresses for dinner at Crow
m
ain Court.

It was Laurence who drove down to fetch them. But Brian came too. And Freda could not help noticing that there was a certain significance even in the way they were seated for the short drive back. Celia quite naturally took her seat in front with
Laurence, leaving Brian and Freda to sit together behind.

If Brian noticed and didn
’
t like it, he was far too kind and polite to show the fact. But Freda had the subtle, and faintly depressing, conviction that he was worried about things. It might be, of course, merely that he was soberly turning over what she had told him. But, whatever the cause, she sensed that he no longer felt the cool confidence which had made him declare that Celia should marry no one but himself.

In spite of this, he proved a very amusing and delightful addition to the party that evening. Neither by profession nor temperament was he inclined to show signs of weakness or defeat, and no one—not even Freda, who knew most about the situation—could guess at his real thoughts, as they sat round the table, laughing and talking, and enjoying the admirable meal.

Afterwards, they strolled in the grounds. But presently and, as it seemed, inevitably they broke up into two couples. And again it was Celia and Laurence who went off together.

For a while the other two walked in silence. Then Brian said,

“I
’
ve been thinking a lot about what you told me, Freda. It
’
s basic, of course. I can
’
t think why I didn
’
t see it for myself. To Celia, it
’
s the unexpected and provocative which is always intriguing. I
’
m surprised I haven
’
t lost her to someone else before.”

“But she
’
s truly fond of you. I shouldn
’
t really have given you those statements out of their context.” Freda spoke anxiously, and even put her hand on his arm.

“Yes, you should.” He patted her fingers absently. “What I needed was a shock. Well, I
’
ve had it now—and I hope it
’
s not too late,” he added grimly.

“Too—late?” There was a slight quiver in Freda
’
s voice.

“I
’
m sorry.” He drew her arm through his. “I forget sometimes that this concerns you as deeply as it concerns me. But for that reason you
’
ll help me, won
’
t you, Freda?”

“Help you?” She turned her head and looked at him in the fading evening light. “How can I help you? What are you going to do?”

“I
’
m going to shake my adorable, maddening Celia
’
s sense of security as it
’
s never been shaken before. She
’
s right when she says there are no surprises in our relationship. She describes me as devotedly hers, and the fact very faintly bores her—”

“Oh, no!” Freda was shocked.

“Oh, yes!” he retorted. “That
’
s the fatal word. We may as well accept it. I
know
that Celia and I are made for each other. I
know
that I can make her happier than any other man. But because she
’
s so used to me, she doesn
’
t even dream what it would be like for us to be without each other. I
’
m going to show her—with your help.”

“I don
’
t know what you mean.” But Freda drew away from him slightly, as though in instinctive protest.

“Oh yes, you do,” said Brian, and in this moment he sounded very different from the easy-going, brotherly fellow she had known hitherto. “You know I
’
m going to ask you to do something damned difficult. But you also know you
’
re the only person I can ask. If it succeeds, I promise you it will mean Celia
’
s ultimate happiness. It will mean mine too, incidentally—though there
’
s no reason why you should set special store by that.”

She was silent, though her arm trembled slightly
in his.

“
I don
’
t need to point out that it will also leave
Laurence Clumber free from any romantic entanglement,” Brian went on drily. “But, though that argument would appeal to your heart, I
’
m not sure that it would appeal to your sense of fitness. Knowing you, I imagine that if you wouldn
’
t do this thing for Celia
’
s sake, you wouldn
’
t do it for your own.
”

“You
’
re asking me to pretend to a—an attachment between us, in order to shock Celia into a realization that she can
’
t do without you, aren
’
t you?”

“I
’
m asking you to pretend to an engagement between us,” he retorted coolly. “Nothing less will do.”

“Oh, Brian! That
’
s taking things too far!”

“On the contrary. There
’
s nothing else which will speak the language of finality to Celia. You and I could flirt with each other, go out with each other, be affectionately friendly to each other—she would still believe in her heart, and rightly so, that I really belonged to her. Only the shock of finding that I
’
d left her finally for someone else would make her realize—for good or ill—what I really mean to her. I
’
m backing my belief in her real love for me, Freda, and I can
’
t believe I
’
m wrong.”

“But, Brian, you forget, if what you fear is true, she
’
s already toying with the idea of leaving
you
for someone else.”

“There
’
s a world of difference between leaving and being left,” was the dry reply. “Even if she married Clumber”—Freda winced at the thought— “she
’
d still imagine I
’
d be there in the background. I shouldn
’
t, of course. I
’
d have to make it my business not to see her any more.”

“And then,” said Freda, half to herself, “she
’
d find out when it was too late.”

“Yes. That
’
s what haunts me.”

“Oh, Brian, you sound so—so horribly sure!”

“I am horribly sure.” He looked at her haggardly. “That
’
s why I
’
m urging you to do this thing. Do you think I
’
d interfere to this extent if I really thought she
’
d be happy with this Clumber fellow?” Even then, Freda faintly resented having Laurence described thus. But she realized that Brian was in no mood to hand out compliments to his rival.

They had been standing still for some time now, talking to each other urgently in the fading evening light. But now they began to walk slowly towards the house.

“May I have time to think it over?” she said at last.

“No.”

“
No
?”
She was shaken by the ruthlessness of that.

“There
’
s no time to think it over,” Brian said curtly. “Besides—if you think it over, you won
’
t do it.”

She laughed faintly.

“You can tell me that, quite frankly?”

“Yes, of course it
’
s the truth. In the ordinary way, one should never decide on impulse. But sometimes, for someone one loves very much, it
’
s the only thing to do. Will you decide—now?
’

“For Celia
’
s sake?” she said, half to herself.

“Perhaps for all our sakes,” he replied sombrely.

She was silent for perhaps three seconds longer. Then slowly she said,

“All right. I
’
ll do it.”