The Shadow of the Lynx (40 page)

“Very like Jessica,” I agreed.

“They are two devoted people.”

“I must speak to her,” went on Minta, “She mustn’t go wandering round these closed-up rooms. This minstrels’ gallery was put in in the sixteenth century when this wing was built. You didn’t notice it from the hall because the curtains were drawn.”

We examined it and I pretended to show interest but my encounter with Lizzie had started up so many memories that my thoughts were far away.

I kept imagining Lynx in this house attracting the young lady whom he was teaching—and the maid at the same time.

When we rejoined the others the doctor was about to take his leave. He had one or two patients he wanted to look in on and he said he would take Maud home at the same time. I suggested that we ought to go too and Franklyn immediately offered to drive us home. So we said goodbye and soon were driving the short distance to the Mercer’s House.

“What a place!” Stirling was saying.

“I have never been is such a house.”

“I should think not,” I retorted.

“It’s unique.”

There are other houses which have been built on the site of old monasteries . and with some of the original stones,” said Franklyn.

“Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire springs to mind.”

“It’s a pity,” said Stirling, ‘that they can’t afford the necessary repairs. “

“A great pity,” agreed Franklyn.

“Perhaps they’d be wise to sell it to someone who could put it to rights.”

“Oh never!” cried Franklyn.

“It’s an institution. It’s a tradition.”

“That sort of house belongs to posterity,” said Stirling rather pompously.

“If people can’t afford to run it they should let it go.”

“If it were mine, I never would,” I said.

“And you can be sure,” added Franklyn, ‘that the Cardews never will either. “

The lights of Mercer’s were visible and we drove the rest of the way in silence.

We were too excited for bed. We went into the drawing-room

and iitirung rnrew himself on to the sofa. I sat down in the armchair looking at him.

“The first move,” he said.

“Well, if you think you’ve made a move, I don’t.”

“We’ve been there. We’ve inspected the house. My goodness, it needs some money spent on it, and they haven’t two brass farthings to rub together.”

“Exaggeration! And who wants to rub brass farthings together, which I’m sure they could easily do if they had a mind to.”

“You’re becoming infected by Mr. Franklyn Wakefield. That’s just the sort of thing he would have said.”

“Then he’d be talking sense.”

“But, seriously, Nora, what a satisfactory evening!”

“Was it? I came away with the impression that they would never for one moment consider selling Whiteladies.”

What will they do? Let it fall about their ears? “

“It’s in no danger of imminent collapse.”

“It’ll be worthless if they let it go much farther.”

“It’ll always be their home. Let them enjoy it. I happen to like this Mercer’s House. It’s really far more comfortable.”

“It’ll do until we move into Whiteladies.”

“And when will that be?”

“In the not far distant future. I feel it in my bones.”

“I wouldn’t rely on them.”

“You’re determined to be pessimistic.”

“I think I see this more clearly than you do.”

“Let’s be practical.”

“Yes, let’s. But they are not what you would call practical people.

They’ll never sell Whiteladies. That’s been made clear. Franklyn implied it. He would know. “

“He would know nothing. He’s quite obtuse. He knows how to bow and make the sort of remark people want to hear. That’s the sum total of his accomplishments. And since when have you been on Christian name terms?”

“We aren’t. I only call him Franklyn privately. I think you onderestimate him.”

“Listen, Nora. These people are not like us. They’ve been brought up to luxury. They haven’t the same stamina and vitality. We’re different. Think of our fathers. They had ambition, the ability to go out and get what they wanted. We have inherited that. They haven’t.

They were brought up in their mansions; they think they’ll inherit from Papa and

that’s that. But if there’s nothing for them to inherit, what then?

I’ll make a bet with you, Nora. We’ll be in Whiteladies this time next year. “

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the wrong attitude. You invite failure when you’re certain of it.”

“Perhaps I don’t think it would be such a failure.”

“It was what my father wanted,” he said.

“It’s what he would expect.”

And it was as though Lynx looked at me through his eyes, so that I felt I was a traitor and was silent.

Stirling smiled at me tenderly.

“You’ll see,” he said.

We were invited not only to Whiteladies and Wakefield Park but to the vicarage and several other houses. We had become part of the life of the neighbourhood, Maud Mathers saw to that. I was glad to be of use, for I had taken a great liking to her. She seemed to have such good sound sense. I had a great respect for her, too. My feelings for Minta and Frank lyn were to some extent affected by Stirling’s attitude towards them. He seemed to despise them faintly. He was continually stressing that they weren’t like us; they had been brought up in a different school. Whenever he discussed them a faintly pitying note would creep into his voice. I laughed at him for it, but it had its effect on me.

Lucie exasperated him a little. I knew why. She was more like ourselves. She had not been brought up to accept a life of luxury; she was practical and obviously doing everything she could to live within the means at their disposal. Stirling was aware of this. It hurt me in a way to see how he rejoiced in the ill fortunes of the Cardews. He had an obsession. Yet I could not entirely disapprove, for everything he did was due to his devotion to his father’s memory.

On the Saturday before harvest festival I went to the church to help Maud decorate. We worked hard arranging chrysanthemums, asters, dahlias and Michaelmas daisies round the altar. There were enormous vegetable marrows, too, and tomatoes and cabbages all on display.

Bunches of corn were tied up with red ribbon and set side by side with loaves of delicious crusty bread which would later be distributed to the needy.

“It’s been a good year for the harvest,” said Maud, looking down at me from the ladder, on the top rung of which she

was standing draping russet-coloured leaves over a brass rail.

“Be careful you don’t fall,” I warned.

“I’ve decorated this spot in the same way for the last five years. I’m surefooted.”

I came over to steady the ladder and hold it for her.

“What on earth would happen if you were out of action?” I asked.

“Father would have lots of helpers who would do just as well.”

“I don’t believe it. And just think of the work you’d give poor Dr. Hunter. He’s overworked already.”

“Yes,” she said soberly, ‘he is. “

She came down the ladder then and I noticed how rosy her cheeks were.

“I’ve often told him he should have help,” she went on.

“Sometimes I feel anxious for him.” She bit her lip. She was embarrassed.

“He seems . worried. It’s having so much to do.”

I was sure she was right, I told her. I’d noticed it too.

“Do you think these bronze chrysanthemums would look well with the leaves?” I asked her.

“Perfect. I do wish something could be done about Dr. Hunter.” Then she started to talk about him, his selfless devotion to his cases; the good he had done to this one and that.

As I arranged the flowers and leaves I thought: She’s in love with him.

I rode a good deal that autumn. Life in Australia had made a competent horsewoman of me and riding seemed the easiest and most convenient method of getting around. Stirling sometimes accompanied me. He was getting restive and making all sorts of plans. He was going to acquire land and saw himself as a local squire, which, I told him, would be usurping Franklyn Wakefield’s place.

“There’s no reason why there shouldn’t be two of us,” he would say.

But the first task was to get possession of Whiteladies and he was no nearer doing that than when we had arrived.

He wanted to go to see Sir Hilary and make an offer. I dissuaded him because I was certain he would be disappointed;

and he accepted my advice when I reminded him that he might

set the Cardews against him if they guessed at his motive for cultivating their friendship.

I often rode with Franklyn Wakefield. He made a habit of calling at Mercer’s and suggesting he show me some part of the country which I hadn’t seen before. I enjoyed those rides. We would often tether our horses outside some old inn—he always seemed to be well known in these places-and lunch off bread and cheese and cider. The food always tasted exceptionally good and I enjoyed meeting the people to whom he introduced me. I was aware of the great respect in which he and his family were held and this pleased me.

I loved the odours of autumn—the mist which was often in the air; the smell of burning leaves as we passed some garden;

the nip in the air which made my skin tingle. I watched the trees gradually denuded of their leaves to make a lacy pattern against the grey-blue sky. And I learned much about the responsibilities of a country squire, for he took them seriously;

I became accustomed to his rather pedantic style of speaking and grew to like it. When I was with him I forgot that slightly patronizing attitude of Stirling’s which had rubbed off on me. There was something dependable about this man which I respected. I realized, too, how great was his affection for his parents. He was devoted to them. So he was to his tenants and I was astonished by how much he knew—and cared-about their affairs.

One rather warm November day when the red sun was veiled by mist, and spiders’ webs were draped across the hedgerows, we rode out together.

He was rather subdued that day and I asked him if anything had happened to upset him.

“It’s not unexpected,” he answered.

“Dr. Hunter thinks my father can only have another six months to live.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“He is old and his condition is worsening. I am more particularly worried about my mother.”

“She is ill, too?”

“No, but they have been so close all their lives. They were neighbours and knew each other from childhood. I can’t imagine what would happen to her if my father died.”

“She will have you.”

“I don’t think that would be enough. She will be so heartbroken it will kill her.

“Do you think people die of broken hearts?”

This would be a broken life. “

e I was, as alive as I had ever been.

We rode in silence and he sensed my sympathy, I knew.

It was that day that we found the kittens. When we called at one of the farms on his estate, the farmer’s wife came out from the kitchen wiping her floury arms and Franklyn introduced me as the new tenant at Mercer’s.

“A fine old house,” commented the farmer’s wife, ‘and you couldn’t have a better landlord. “

She insisted on our drinking a glass of her very own elderberry wine and eating one of the buns which she had just taken from the oven. We sat on chairs in the kitchen and ahe told Franklyn about the farmer’s intention to let gravel-tfaree-acres lie fallow next year. A big tabby cat came in and, purring, rubbed itself against my legs.

“That’s old Tibbies looking for a saucer of milk again,” said the farmer’s wife.

“She’s lost interest in her last litter.”

“How many cats have you now?” asked Franklyn.

“Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Wakefield, I’ve lost count. I can’t bring myself to destroy the little things and in next to no time they’re no longer kitties and have little ones of their own. They scratch around in the barns so they don’t trouble us and they keep the mice away.”

When the farmer came in he took us out to show us the new barn he was putting up and that was when I saw the kitten. There were ten or twelve cats—most of them just passing out of the kitten stage—and I noticed one in particular because she was not so pretty as the rest and was, in fact, rather thin and cowed. When I called her she came readily and I wished I had something to give her to eat.

“This one seems a little outsider,” I said.

“You get them now and then,” said the farmer.

“They’re not so strong as the rest and can’t fend for themselves.”

I said on impulse: “We haven’t a cat. May I have her?”

“We’d be glad for you to take any that you want,” was the farmer’s answer; and I knew I was going to enjoy taking this little one and feeding her and cosseting her to make up for the hard time I was sure she had had on the farm.

We were about to leave the barn when another small cat came running up. She was tawny—much the same colouring as the one I had chosen, but much prettier though she had the same underfed look. She mewed piteously and I thought: She wants to come too. I said: “I’ll have the two. They’ll be

company for each other. “

The farmer’s wife found a basket and the two little cats were put in it. Franklyn carried them and we rode off. On our way we called at Whiteladies as Franklyn wanted to see Sir Hilary. Minta came out and was most interested in the cats. While Franklyn was with her father we took them out of the basket and gave them a saucer of-milk apiece.

“They’re darlings,” cried Minta.

“And never had a look-in at meal times. These will be quite different from those cats who started life as pampered pets.”

I saw that she would like to have one so I suggested she should. She was delighted.

“You choose,” I said, ‘and we’ll name them. “

When they had licked their saucers clean they sat licking themselves.

“That one is more beautiful,” said Minta.

The other has more dignity. “

We tried several names and at length I suggested Bella and Donna—Bella for the beauty and Donna for the dignified one.

Minta chose Bella; so I left her behind at Whiteladies.