My Sister Celia (8 page)

“Started all over again, on another tack, of course,” he replied with a grin. “That
’
s what is meant by research.”

She looked at him with slightly increased respect and said, “You must be very patient.”

“I am. About anything I very much want.”

“Oh,” said Freda, and thought a little uncomfortably about her cottage.

“But now tell me what happened to you this week.” His tone became much lighter. “Have the family tangles straightened out?”

“If you mean by that—have Celia and I proved up our relationship? Yes,” Freda said, with a brilliant smile. And, before she knew what she was doing, she was telling Laurence Clumber all about the scene at the Vanners
’
house.

“It must have been pretty dramatic,” he observed.

“Oh, it was. I was in absolute despair when it seemed that we had been wrong, and yet I knew somehow she was my sister. And then, when the explanation tumbled out, all unawares as it were, I could have gone mad with joy.”

“Yes, I understand. And did the Vanners—the older couple, I mean—go mad with joy too?”

“No. That would have been expecting too much, you know,” Freda said. “They—he was very nice about it, and, although I think Mrs. Vanner will take some time to get used to the position, she hadn
’
t any objection to raise, once it was clear.”

“I see. And what
’
s the general result? Will you
be going to live there as another daughter or
—”

“No, of
course
not! I have a life and an identity of my own, you know,” Freda protested energetically. “I
’
m delighted to find that I
’
m Celia
’
s sister. But I
’
m also myself. And the Vanners, on their side, chose to adopt Celia, years ago—but there
’
s no reason why they should have me wished on to them as a sort of inevitable appendage, just because I happen to exist.”

He laughed at that.

“I suppose that
’
s logical,” he agreed.

“We shall see a good deal of each other, naturally,” Freda went on. “I shall go there at weekends
and
—”

“You won
’
t be able to,” he put in.

“How do you mean—I shan
’
t be able to?” She looked taken aback.

“You
’
ll be at the cottage,” he reminded her. “Remember?
I
t
’
s going to be your weekend home.”

“It will be—very often,” Freda assured him, with dignity, “and Celia is planning to come down with me sometimes, which will be great fun. But when she isn
’
t visiting me at
my
home, I may well be visiting her at hers.”

And, if Laurence Clumber didn
’
t look particularly crushed after this statement, he should have done.

It was a beautiful drive down, through the blossoming countryside, and when they came within sight of Crowmain, just before noon, Freda was secretly quite sorry that the expedition was over. But it was not the moment to linger regretfully over any experience shared with Laurence Clumber. Now was the time to be businesslike, if courteous, and show that she was in no doubt of her own next move.

“Would you kindly drop me at the offices of Jason & Merry, in the High Street?” she said. “Or will that be out of your way?”

“It won
’
t be out of my way at all,” he assured her. “But can
’
t I drive you right to the cottage?”

“No, thank you.” Somehow, the idea of herself and Laurence Clumber together in the vicinity of the cottage seemed to suggest some odd possibility of danger. “I have to call in and see Mr. Merry first. And then I shall probably be looking in on Mr. Token. After that, I
’
ll walk along to the—to my—cottage. It isn
’
t far.”

“Very well. How and when do you propose to go back to town?”

“By train and bus—and this evening,” Freda informed him categorically.

“I could drive you over to Dalling,” he offered. “It would save you a roundabout bus journey.”

“You really mustn
’
t trouble yourself. I
—”

“It wouldn
’
t be any trouble.”

“But I don
’
t know yet which train I shall take,” Freda said, with the uneasy conviction that the more she accepted favours from Laurence Clumber, the more she weakened her own position in some intangible way.

“Very well.” Unexpectedly, he abandoned the argument, just as they arrived outside the offices of Jason & Merry. And, such is the contrariness of human nature, Freda immediately felt rather regretful about having rejected the evening drive to Dalling.

However, she bade him a brisk but pleasant goodbye, having thanked him for the lift. And, without a backward look—though this required a slight effort on her part—she entered the offices of Crowmain
’
s genial house-agent.

“Good morning, Miss Mersham.” Mr. Merry came forward. “Very pleasant to see you down here again so soon. Bill Token and his men have made a start on the cottage, but everything
’
s a bit at sixes
and sevens at the moment, of course. I see
—”
for
Mr. Merry had looked unblushingly from his window
and saw no reason to conceal the fact—
“
that you drove down with Mr. Clumber.”

“Yes,” said Freda uninformatively.

Mr. Merry secretly considered that a rather mean sort of answer, which deserved nothing in reply but a further question.

“Does that mean”—he looked almost arch for a moment—
“
that you may have second thoughts about selling the cottage?”

“No,” said Freda. “It doesn
’
t. I just thought I
’
d better look in and see you about insurance, Mr. Merry, and anything else that I ought to attend to as—as a householder.”

“Y
es, of course.” Mr. Merry immediately became more official, though—as all was grist to his conversational mill—he hoped that, even over anything as humdrum as house insurance, he might glean a few more interesting details about the situation between the unusual Miss Mersham and the new owner of Crowmain Court.

Freda, however, kept strictly to business, and then bade Mr. Merry a very pleasant good morning and went on to see Bill Token.

Work, it seemed, had been satisfactorily begun. But, like most people in his profession. Bill Token was maddeningly vague about when it was likely to be finished. However, he conceded reluctantly that no major repairs had been found necessary and that they would, as he expressed it, “get around to the decorating” in not much more than a week.

“Then it
’
s time I chose papers and paint,” Freda said, in a tone of the utmost satisfaction. “But I
’
d like to do that actually in the cottage, so that I can judge how they will look. Could I take some of your sample books down there
?”

“Much too heavy for you to lug along,” Mr. Token assured. “I
’
ll drop them in on my way home to lunch, and you go in this afternoon and take your time over it.”

So once more Freda lunched at the Peacock and Peahen and then, with the familiar thrill of pleasurable excitement, made her way to the cottage.

Quite a lot of outside work had already been done upon it, and it looked very snug and secure in the afternoon sunshine. True, there was no new paint on yet. But the old, shabby paint had been burned off, and the very solid-looking doors and window frames seemed to be only awaiting her choice of colour before they should take on a completely new lease of life.

Mr. Token had been as good as his word. On the floor in the big room downstairs stood a pile of books of wallpaper samples and shade cards showing every conceivable colour of paint. And, sitting down on three of the books, Freda proceeded to study the others.

No one who has ever engaged on the pleasing but tantalizing task of choosing wallpapers will be surprised to learn that Freda became completely absorbed for something like the next two hours. At the end of that time, she had inserted dozens of slips of paper into the various books, to indicate possible choices, and then withdrawn most of them in favour of later temptations.

By the time she straightened up from her task—with a crick in her neck, but the pleasant certainty that
sh
e had at last found what she wanted for each of her rooms—the afternoon was quite far advanced. It was warm in the cottage and, happy to have come to so many satisfactory conclusions, Freda went out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.

There was no question about it—the garden was going to need a lot of attention, to bring it back into anything like a state of tidiness. But here and there among the tangle of overgrown bushes and weeds there were some gay flowers determinedly flaunting their summer colours.

“I
’
ll get someone in to do the heavy digging,” Freda decided. “And then I
’
ll try my own hand at gardening. There must be plenty of people around here to give one advice.”

And, almost as though in answer to that thought, a voice hailed her from the fence at the end of the garden.

“Hello,” said Laurence Clumber. “I wondered if you
’
d like to come up to the house and have some tea.”

Of all things in the world, on this hot afternoon, Freda discovered she was longing for a cup of tea. She could, of course, insist on walking back to the village and trying to find somewhere there where she could have tea. But why make heavy weather of it? Particularly when one was hot and thirsty.

“How did you guess? There
’
s nothing I
’
d like better,” she admitted, and she came towards the owner of Crowmain Court with a smile.

“Well, I knew you had no facilities yet at the cottage,” he explained, as he helped her over the fence. “And I thought you might like to see the place again. You knew it very well when you were a little girl, didn
’
t you?”

“Yes, I did,” Freda agreed. And as she walked up the grassy slope towards the big house beside Laurence Clumber, suddenly it seemed that the shade of Belshazzar walked with her and that Miss Clumber must surely be waiting in the long drawing
room, with the tea-table beside her—spread out with all the things which could most commend themselves to a hungry little girl.

“Your great-aunt was very kind to me when I was small,” she told Laurence Clumber. “I came here nearly every week.”

“Yes, I know. You saved her cat from some horrid fate, didn
’
t you? She approved of you—as much as she ever approved of anyone. She used to tell me you had
‘
most of the right instincts
’
.”

“Did she really?” Freda laughed, because she thought she could almost hear the dry tones of old Miss Clumber uttering this somewhat qualified praise. “It seems strange to me that she should have remembered me for so long.”

“Does it?” said Laurence Clumber. “It doesn
’
t seem strange to me. You
’
re not the kind of person one easily forgets.”

Freda was not entirely sure that he meant this in a strictly complimentary sense, so she made no reply. And presently they came to the open
french
w
in
dows, which admitted
them
to the long drawing-room.

“You can
’
t have changed much here.” Freda stood looking round, half charmed, half saddened by such a strong reminder of a long-gone past. “It all looks so familiar.”

“I like it as it is,” he said. “It
’
s almost a period piece. I don
’
t intend to change it.”

“No—you
’
re probably right. She used to sit here, just by the tea-table, so that she could enjoy the view from the window, but also see at once when anyone came in at the door.”

“Yes, she did that in my time too. I used to come down here a lot of late years. She was pretty lonely, I think, and in her odd way, she was fond of me. Though she didn
’
t approve of
me
,”
he added, with a laugh.

“Didn
’
t she? Why not?” Freda glanced at him, amused and curious.

“Oh, she used to say I did nothing to prepare myself for the role of country gentleman—in which I suppose she was right. She never made any secret of the fact that she intended to leave me Crowmain Court and most of her money. But she said—very truly—that it was not a place for a bachelor, and she was always badgering me to get married. She even left me a letter, reiterating her wishes, and adding a list of possible candidates who might prove suitable.”

“You don
’
t say!” Freda laughed heartily. “I couldn
’
t imagine even Miss Clumber going as far as that. How did she pick her possible winners?”

“I don
’
t know. But she wrote that she
’
d given a lot of thought to the matter.” He smiled reminiscently. Then suddenly he looked up and across at Freda, and she saw that his eyes were glinting with an almost dangerous light of amusement.

“Would it interest you to know,” he said deliberately, “that she placed you quite high up on the
li
st?”