The New Moon with the Old (27 page)

‘No guesses,’ said Clare blandly, barely permitting any to herself. She continued to sit quietly waiting, still holding the miniature of Charles II; she had long since put down the photographs of Mr Rowley and his lady. Frequently, but never when the living Charles was looking, she took a satisfying glance at the long dead Charles. She sneaked one now, then abandoned Mona Lisa quiescence and said cheerfully: ‘Whatever it is, need you make quite such heavy weather of it?’

‘It’s just that I’m conscious of betraying a trust,’ said Mr Charles, unhappily. ‘You have, I think, a certain confidence in me – and I deliberately created it.’

She found herself wanting both to help him and to express something that was dawning on her. ‘What matters most to me is the confidence you give me in myself.
Usually
I’m … so utterly dim. But with you, from the very beginning, I’ve always felt …’

He waited, then prompted her. ‘Well?’

‘For the first time in my life, fully alive.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, gravely. “Though I don’t flatter
myself
that I, personally, have very much to do with it. I think you are the type of woman who only comes to life fully in the company of men who admire her. It’s a type of infinite value – to men: and it becomes rarer and rarer as women acquire more and more interests. I’m a man who considers
the proper study of womankind is man – provided I’m the man. Well, you’ve made it easier to say what I have to say— what’s the matter?’

She had shivered uncontrollably. ‘There’s a draught – from the ftont door,’ she said, untruthfully, knowing she had shivered from excitement, not cold.

He went into the hall and shut the door. Now daylight came in only through the fanlight, and the skylight above the stairs. Rejoining her, he said: ‘Good God, we can’t sit here in the dark. Let’s postpone this conversation. I’ll take you out to tea.’

‘I don’t want tea,’ said Clare, very decidedly. ‘And there’s quite a bit of light, really. Please go on with what you’d begun to say.’

‘Well, I daresay the dark will be light enough for it – though I swear I have your happiness in view.’

He lit a cigarette and, as his lighter flickered, she was reminded of their first meeting in the pitch-dark hotel bedroom, and thought of it as the perfect prelude to this moment. The shuttered, secret house had become of great value to her; she even treasured the fear she had felt while, frozen into stillness, she had gazed at the sinister bed. And though almost breathless with excitement she was no longer troubled by suspense. Having become quite sure what he was going to say, she could await it blissfully.

‘Very well, then,’ he said at last. ‘As I pointed out less than a week ago, I’m exactly twice your age.’

‘But only for a month,’ she said, sweetly.

‘What?’

‘I shall have a birthday then. Remember, when I was one year old, you were twenty-two times my age, but I’ve been catching up ever since. If you go on living until you’re as old as Mr Rowley was, I shall be just on seven-ninths your age.’

He laughed. ‘How magnificent you are at arithmetic.’

‘Not usually,’ said Clare, remembering hated housekeeping books. ‘But I interrupted you.’

‘And I think perhaps you shouldn’t – helpful though I found that interruption.’ He had become more at ease. ‘Let me make the worst of myself first. And the worst includes worse than my age. I’m irrevocably married to a woman I haven’t even seen for over ten years. Did you realize I was married?’

She said with complete truth, ‘Do you know, I never even thought about it? Anyway, it couldn’t matter less.’

‘Should I take that for discouragement?’

‘Good gracious, no,’ she said in surprise.

Again he laughed. ‘Well, it might denote a complete lack of interest. But hear me out. I’ve kept the worst till the last. I haven’t, so far, had a talent for faithfulness; and whatever I may feel about the future, you should perhaps be warned by the past. And now … I fear there’s very little on the credit side, but I honestly believe I could make you happy. For one thing, you strike me as a girl who would thrive on luxury. Not that I’m implying that you’re mercenary.’

‘I never quite know what that means,’ said Clare. ‘I wouldn’t – well, do anything I didn’t want to do just for money. But I do find the idea of riches attractive.’

‘So do most women,’ said Mt Charles, dryly. ‘But you’re the only one I’ve met who was honest enough to admit it. Well, I’m rich enough. And, of course, I should make a settlement on you. But I can’t offer that as an inducement as I shall make it whatever you decide.’

‘Because you promised Mr Rowley?’

‘As I told you, that was a willing promise. And you couldn’t refuse me the comfort of carrying out his wishes. Well, there it is. But you don’t, of course, have to decide at once. The last time we met, you were kind enough to want me for a friend. Could you now accept me as … a friend on probation for possible promotion? My dear, am I being unbearably stilted?
It’s largely due to guilt. I so well remember assuring you that I never laid siege to the innocent. Well, at least I offer you a safe conduct through the besieging forces – if you want it?’ He waited, then went on. ‘Might I now have – oh, not a definite answer, but your first reactions to what I’ve asked?’

‘You haven’t yet asked anything,’ said Clare.

He frowned. ‘How unlike you to be naive! You know exactly what I’m suggesting.’

‘Still, I’d like it in plain English.’

‘How brutal of you – when you’ve helped me out so kindly up to now. All right, then.’ His tone became brusque. ‘I’m asking you to become my mistress.’

She gave a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Mr Charles. It’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me.’

‘My God, I should hope so. And is this a moment to call me “Mr”?’

‘Then, thank you – Charles. Thank you very much for asking me to be your mistress – such a beautiful, romantic word, don’t you think?’

‘I do not,’ he said, grimly. ‘And I detest the thought that it should ever describe you; so much so, that I doubt if I could ever have brought myself to ask you if I hadn’t promised— What’s the matter?’

She had gasped in sharp dismay. During the last few minutes she had been triumphantly happy, at last fully aware that she was in love. She had begun to realize it on seeing him standing in the hall. Since then, the fact of his royal descent, the resemblance to her old idol, Charles II, the growing sense of intimacy between them in this house of long-ago love, all these combined to make her more and more sure until she had experienced a flash of complete certainty with the flash of the cigarette lighter. And now …!

In a whirling moment of confusion she remembered he had made no mention of caring for her. Presumably he was,
at least, attracted – or could she not even presume as much as that, considering what he’d just said? A wave of her old sense of inferiority washed over her as she asked him, ‘Is it
only
because you feel you must keep your promise?’

Little short of a declaration of love would have reassured her. Instead, he merely told her not to be absurd.

She assumed a high, bright voice intended to be sophisticated. ‘Poor man, what an ordeal for you! But it’s all right now. You’ve kept your promise – and I hereby let you off. Of course I can’t be your mistress, Mr Charles.’

‘Might I point out that if I had my rights I should be King Charles? I doubt if you’ll get another chance to be a king’s mistress.’

It was too dark to see his expression but she was quite sure his tone was bantering. It both comforted and infuriated her; no doubt he
was
attracted and that was something, but how dare he treat her as a joke?

She said icily: ‘I’m sorry, but I had in mind a
reigning
king.’ He gave a shout of laughter. She slammed down the miniature, snatched up her handbag and ran towards the door. He called after her, ‘Clare, come back!’

‘Not unless you make me,’ she thought, walking briskly across the hall. Opening the front door, she dropped her handbag – and picking it up, remembered it hadn’t so much as a penny in it. How was she to get from wherever she was to wherever she decided to go? She’d never return to the hotel. If he let her get through the garden door she would just walk and walk until she dropped – and died, if she could possibly manage it … Her pace along the garden path slowed. Surely, surely, he would come after her? But he didn’t even call to her again. She reached the door in the wall and turned the handle—

To her unbounded relief the door was locked. And the keys? Heaven be praised, she had left them in the house. 

She looked back. The afternoon sun was shining in through the front door, across the hall and into the dim drawing-room, where he now sat on the edge of the table on which she had put the keys. She saw him pick up the large one, then turn to her and smile.

Neither pride nor indignation any longer supported her; she was too utterly submerged in love. She looked back pleadingly, then thought: ‘Oh, God, he’ll think I’m pleading for the key.’

But she had, it appeared, underestimated his powers of perception. 

Walking towards the house after garaging her car, Jane saw that a good fire was burning in the hall; a cheerful sight had it not indicated that Miss Winifred Carrington would be in front of the fire and alone. Richard, Jane felt sure, would prefer to shiver in his music room rather than sit with his aunt.

She went a little way beyond the house so that she could see the barn. Yes, there was a light behind the drawn curtains; never before had she known him to draw them. She would have liked to go and talk to him but perhaps he was trying to work, in which case it would be kinder to join Miss Carrington and keep that most irritating woman from disturbing him.

Why, Jane asked herself, should one so dislike a small, quiet, really very pretty old lady? And how could an old lady so lacking in personality have such an effect on the atmosphere of Dome House? Though, to be fair, no doubt the absence of Merry, Drew and Clare affected the atmosphere as adversely as did the presence of their aunt.
Great
aunt, of course: one always had to remember Miss Carrington was said to be in her middle seventies, in spite of her comparatively unlined face. Perhaps when one reached that age one would be as selfish as she was. And one didn’t, really, have to do so much for her; the main burden fell on Richard. Well, one would go in and behave pleasantly.

She opened the front door and smiled brightly. ‘What a lovely welcoming fire!’

‘I had a lot of trouble with it,’ said Miss Carrington. ‘Wood isn’t what it used to be. And the logs are so heavy. I asked Richard to saw them all in half but he keeps forgetting. I expect you want your tea.’

This meant Miss Carrington wanted hers. Jane said she would put the kettle on.

The kitchen, these days, was cheerless and it was difficult to find what one wanted. As Miss Carrington frequently remarked, she was no longer equal to any household tasks, so Richard always had to cope with lunch
single-handed
. He combined tidyness with vagueness, putting everything away but seldom in the right place. However, Jane soon had a tray laid and bread and butter cut. The cake tin contained nothing but crumbs. This made her feel guilty as presumably she was still in charge of the housekeeping. But there had been plenty of cake yesterday. And really when one worked all day – and no one would co-operate … Nowadays the maids only brought home and cooked something for a pretty inadequate evening meal.

She carried the tea-tray into the hall.

‘No cake,’ said Miss Carrington resignedly. ‘We finished it at luncheon as no one had provided us with a pudding. If only Clare were here! There’s still no news of her.’

‘She’s probably too busy to write,’ said Jane.

‘But it’s a whole week. I came the day she left, you know.’

Cause and effect, thought Jane, who had accepted Richard’s view that Clare had bolted on hearing Miss Carrington’s voice.

‘She’d never have gone if she’d known I was coming. She owes so much to me. And I’m very fond of her. One can’t help feeling anxious.’

‘But I told you,’ said Jane patiently. ‘She’s perfectly all right. I had that letter from my friend who runs an employment agency.’

“That’s hardly the same as hearing from Clare. What did the letter say, exactly?’

Was the old lady becoming senile? Day after day this question had to be answered. ‘It said Clare had found work, reading to an old gentleman, and would be staying with him and his nurse at one of the very best hotels.’

‘And you’re sure it didn’t say which hotel? I could so easily go up to London …’

‘Quite sure,’ said Jane, firmly and untruthfully. Clare would want no visit from her aunt.

‘If she knew I was here, she’d come back at once,’ said Miss Carrington.

Jane looked at her curiously. Did she really not know that Clare detested her? And was her affection for Clare genuine or did she merely hanker for someone who had waited on her? Whatever the reason, she constantly spoke of Clare, whereas she seldom so much as mentioned Drew or Merry.

This was certainly fortunate as regards Merry. According to Richard, his aunt had unquestionably accepted his statement that the child was staying with relations on their mother’s side of the family. ‘All she said was, “Really? I never knew them.” And then she went on bemoaning that Clare wasn’t here. She’s aged a lot, Jane, in the five years since she lived with us; that’s really why I had to let her stay. Well, she’s a poor exchange for Clare.’

She was indeed, thought Jane, handing her a second cup of tea. But one was glad the girl had escaped and was doing well, according to Miss Gifford, much liked by the old gentleman and his nurse. Drew, too, seemed to have found the right job. If only Merry would write! She had now been gone thirteen days and Jane was beginning to feel the maids had been right in wishing to inform the police.

She had felt it especially this afternoon, when two girls who were exact contemporaries of Merry’s had sat in her office waiting to see Miss Willy. They had seemed such
children
: one would hardly have trusted them to be on their own in London even for a day, let alone all these nights. After seeing the head mistress they had barely restrained their giggles until out in the passage and running full tilt to … their ponies or the playing fields or the swimming pool, and then to a very good tea. Their day’s work was over except for an hour’s ‘prep’ in the evening. What would Merry be doing in the evening?

‘Don’t you see the resemblance yourself?’

‘The direct question broke Jane’s thoughts; she found she had no idea what Miss Carrington had been talking about. But the quiet, plaintive voice continued and supplied a clue. ‘Before my hair went white it was the same pale gold as Clare’s and our eyes are just the same shade of blue.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Jane heartily. Miss Carrington’s eyes were now a very faded blue but there was, if one allowed for over fifty years difference in age, some faint resemblance between her and her great-niece. Their expressions, however, were very different. Clare’s, when – as at most times – it lacked animation, was merely listless. Miss Carrington invariably looked peevishly discontented.

‘And even now, our figures are similar.’

This was sheer nonsense. Clare’s figure, on a miniature scale, was exquisite. Miss Carrington was now flat-chested and round-shouldered. But Jane hoped her smile would pass for agreement as she said: ‘You must have been an unusually pretty girl.’

‘Well, I always say “See Clare and you see me as I was”,’ said Miss Carrington, complacently.

A gruff bark outside announced that Burly and the maids were returning from the Swan.

‘I’ll just have a word with them,’ said Jane, anxious to escape.

“They’ve become very slack. They need a tight rein. You should have known this household when
I
ran it.’

Jane couldn’t resist saying, ‘It was beautifully run when I first came here when there was money to run it.’

‘If so, that was due to the way I trained Clare. Well, I shall take a nap before dinner – not that it’ll deserve that name.’

And she won’t be paying for it or raising a hand to get it, thought Jane, carrying the tea-tray to the kitchen. One tried to be pleasant to the old girl but really …!

Cook, Edith and Burly had just come in. Burly showed more pleasure on sighting his basket than the maids did on sighting their kitchen. They looked tired.

‘Any news?’ they both asked together.

What they hoped for most was news of Merry but information about Drew or Clare would be welcomed. Jane had nothing to offer. They nodded resignedly and began preparations for the evening meal while Jane washed up the tea things.

‘Miss C. her usual bright self?’ Cook inquired.

‘Yes, she seems quite well.’ Jane always felt guilty when she discussed the old lady with the maids but could seldom resist it. ‘She’s been telling me how fond of Clare she is.’

Edith laughed satirically. ‘That’s a good one.’

‘When she nearly worried the life out of the poor child,’ said Cook.

‘Just how?’

‘She nagged – and she never praised.’

‘It was the same with us,’ said Edith. ‘But we weren’t as sensitive as Miss Clare was. She was only sixteen then. Mind you, there weren’t any scenes. It was just pin-pricks, perpetual pin-pricks.’

And perpetual pin-pricks, Jane reflected, could amount to torture.

The telephone rang. Cook hastily answered it at the kitchen extension, hoping, Jane guessed, it would be Merry.

‘It’s for you, miss. A lady.’

Probably Miss Willy, always liable to ring up with some query. Jane said she would go into the study.

She settled herself at Rupert Carrington’s desk and lifted the receiver. A click as the kitchen receiver was replaced followed her first ‘hello’. ‘Then, over a very bad line, she heard an irate voice so inaudible that it was a full minute before she realized she was listening to Miss Gifford, telephoning from London and accusing her of a breach of faith.

‘But I did
not
tell Clare the old man was once a king,’ said Jane indignantly. ‘I didn’t mention it to anyone.’

“Then how does Clare know?’

‘She doesn’t.’

‘But she does. Mr Rowley says so. He came to see me this morning and was most annoyed. I can’t think what my dear mother would have said. All these years we’ve been sending people to the old gentleman! And now he’s dead.’

‘Since this morning?’

‘No, no—’

Jane eventually gathered that there were two Mr Rowleys, one dead and one annoyed. And the latter appeared to think Clare was ‘a little adventuress’.

‘Then he’s a fathead,’ said Jane.

‘A what?’

‘Oh, never mind. If the old man’s dead I suppose Clare’s lost her job?’

‘Well, she was engaged for a month and she’s to stay on for the present. And I’m not quite happy about that. Mr
Charles Rowley’s rather a man-about-town, if you know what I mean.’

‘A man without what?’

‘Not without about.’

‘About what?’

‘Town – oh, never mind. It’s just that one girl I sent had an unfortunate experience with him – though she didn’t, in the end. And it was all her own fault – I mean, that she nearly had it, not that she didn’t. She was most disappointed.’ A spinsterish giggle came over the crackiing line.

Constance Gifford’s ageing, thought Jane and then said slowly and loudly: ‘Well, if this man’s annoyed with Clare and thinks she’s an adventuress he’s hardly likely to—’

Miss Gifford interrupted. ‘Oh, it was
me
he was annoyed with. He seemed still to like Clare. And he didn’t actually call her an adventuress. I think his phrase was “a bit of a minx”. And I thought that might make him all the more inclined … Still, I daresay it’s all right. He’s not staying at the hotel now and the nurse is. I’ll write and tell him Clare couldn’t have known – or shall I leave well alone? If it
is
well. I’m sure he wouldn’t
force
his attentions on her. And she wouldn’t encourage him, would she? After all, he’s almost middle-aged and really rather an ugly man, though with a good deal of charm. If you could …’

The high, breathy voice continued amid crackles. Jane was advised to write Clare a word of warning but on no account to say it emanated from Miss Gifford. ‘It might get back to Mr Charles Rowley, and after all these years …’ Miss Gifford’s mother was then mentioned again and there followed a history of the Gifford Emplacement Agency since its foundation in 1892. ‘So you’ll leave me out of it, won’t you? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Jane. “This call must be costing you a lot.’

‘Oh, heavens, yes. Well, goodbye then. I’m sorry I misjudged you but it’s really very puzzling—’

‘Goodbye,’ said Jane firmly, hanging up. Damn the woman, how could one warn Clare without saying where the warning came from? And anyway, it was all nonsense. Clare would never encourage an elderly, ugly man-about-town – of all the ridiculous phrases! Still, perhaps one should just mention it to Richard, though what he could do about it Jane couldn’t imagine.

She went into the hall meaning to go and see him in his music room. But he had already come in and was standing by the fire beside a slim, dark, rather beautiful young woman with large appealing eyes. She wore a simple but very elegant black dress and carried a fur coat.

‘Jane, this is Violet Vernon,’ said Richard. “This is Jane Minton, Violet, who’s been so good to us.’

Violet Vemon smiled sweetly. ‘He’s told me so much about you.’

Jane thought the voice charming but found the accent over-refined, suggestive of Mayfair and high society. She shook hands while Richard amplified his introduction.

‘Violet’s a friend of my father’s.’

‘Well,
ec
tually, we were engaged,’ said Violet.

‘What a difficult time this must be for you,’ said Jane, sympathetically. A memory was stirring of an overheard snatch of conversation …

‘She’s coming to stay with us.’ Richard avoided Jane’s eyes.

‘Ah, how nice!’ said Jane, intending it to sound as if she meant it. The memory was now fully awake. She had stood by her bedroom door and heard Richard, below, say: ‘Father didn’t even say goodbye to her.’ Clare had said: ‘Oh, poor
Violet!’ Then there had been something about the rent of a flat …

So this was ‘poor Violet’.