A Dream Came True Read online

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JEMIMA HAD MEANT to tell Mrs Adams of the Professor’s suggestion at breakfast the next morning, but she was given no chance to do so. Her landlady and Shirley were far too busy asking her questions about the party. What was the food like, and the dresses, and what had Lady Manderly worn?

  Jemima gave a detailed account of everything, beginning with the food and going on to Lady Manderly’s purple satin and diamonds and as many of the dresses as she could remember.

  ‘I didn’t see very many guests,’ she explained, which was true enough. She had wanted to see Gloria Egerton most particularly, but she hadn’t had so much as a glimpse of her. She glanced at the clock. ‘I must go, I’m going to be late and there’s bound to be a lot of post to open.’

  ‘OK,’ said Shirley cheerfully. ‘Perhaps the old lady’ll let you off early on account of all that overtime you did.’

  Jemima stacked her breakfast things neatly on the draining board. ‘Not likely!’

  Lady Manderly was in a bad temper; she hadn’t slept, she complained, her head ached, and then with the exception of one or two old friends she had found her guests tedious in the extreme.

  ‘Never mind,’ observed Jemima soothingly, opening envelopes and sorting the contents rapidly. ‘You won’t have to have another party until next year.’

  ‘If I live as long,’ declared her companion dramatically. ‘I’m exhausted.’ She put out a hand for the letters she was being offered. ‘My nephew—Professor Cator, you know—has advised me to spend a few weeks quietly at a house I have in Warwickshire. I shall take his advice, since he seldom offers it, but when he does, it’s to good purpose.’ She went on surprisingly: ‘I should like to give him some good advice too—to give up that silly little Gloria: feather-brained and wildly extravagant—he may be a wealthy man, but that’s no reason for him to marry a careless spendthrift who thinks of nothing and no one but herself.’

  Lady Manderly’s massive bosom swelled alarmingly, but Jemima had her eyes lowered on to the letters in her hand, guessing that her employer was going to regret her words as soon as she had spoken them.

  ‘I’m not quite myself this morning, Miss Mason, you will ignore what I have just said.’

  Jemima said briskly: ‘Certainly, Lady Manderly. Here’s a letter from the caterers hoping you were completely satisfied with their services. What would you like me to say in reply?’

  ‘Oh, say everything was as well done as possible, or something like that. Miss Mason, I wish to speak to you.’

  Jemima raised quiet eyes to her employer’s face. ‘Yes, Lady Manderly?’

  ‘I wish you to accompany me to Stratford-upon-Avon; you will of course live in the house, but I will continue to pay you your present salary on the understanding that you will bear me company of an evening should I not have friends to dine or be going out myself. You will, of course, be free on Sundays as you are here, and you may continue to have a half day each week when it is convenient to me.’ She added almost reluctantly: ‘I hope you will come.’

  ‘Thank you, Lady Manderly, I should like to. When do you plan to go?’

  ‘At the end of the week. Do you drive a car?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course.’ Jemima added: ‘But not at present—I—I haven’t one now.’

  ‘But you hold a licence? That’s fortunate. As you know, I hire a chauffeur here, but at Roseleigh the gardener also drives the car. Usually he brings it here and drives me back, but that would be a waste of time and money; you shall drive the Daimler down.’

  ‘Very well, Lady Manderly. Will Pooley be going with you?’ Pooley was Lady Manderly’s maid.

  ‘Naturally. When I go to stay in the country I do not rusticate, Miss Mason. You had better have your half day tomorrow, you will need to buy clothes. When there are no guests, I shall expect you to dine with me, and I dress for dinner.’

  Jemima gave her a limpid look. ‘I have a couple of quite suitable dresses, Lady Manderly, but I should be glad of an afternoon to make arrangements about my luggage. If we’re to come back here in a month or so, I shall ask my landlady if she’ll store my things.’

  ‘Make any arrangements you think fit. In any case, I shall return here before Christmas.’

  ‘Your house is in Stratford, Lady Manderly?’

  ‘Yes, in the heart of the town, but in a quiet street where few people go. I have a great many friends there, but life is very much quieter; a little bridge, small dinner parties—an evening at the theatre. You will probably have more time to yourself.’

  Jemima picked up the newspaper. ‘Yes, Lady Manderly.’ Her voice was calm, her ordinary face composed, but inside she was excited. To be free to roam the streets of the town she knew so well, to go to Oxford once in a while, to go to the theatre perhaps… She had had a letter from Dick, full of praise of his new job, the people he had met, America with a big A; now she would be able to write back and reassure him that she too had found a pleasant niche in life. True, it would only last for a few weeks, but ‘Sufficient unto the day’ as her father would have said. She scanned the editorial, turned to the births and deaths columns, picked out the bits of news her employer might like to hear, and at that lady’s command, began to read.

  The day passed quickly enough, and since Lady Manderly declared that she was too tired to do more than go to bed early and have a tray in her room, Jemima found herself opening the shop door a good hour earlier than usual.

  Shirley was behind the post office counter. ‘Oh, good!’ she exclaimed. ‘Be a darling and hold the fort while I nip upstairs. I shan’t be a minute and it’ll only be papers and mags this time of day.’

  She was a good deal longer than a minute. Jemima had sold almost all the evening papers, several magazines and a couple of paper backs by the time she came back. ‘Nice work,’ commented Shirley cheerfully. ‘’Ow about putting in a bit of time in the shop when you’re free?—we’d pay yer.’

  It was an opening Jemima had hoped for and hadn’t expected to get. ‘That sounds a marvellous idea, only I’ll be away for a few weeks. I must tell Mrs Adams—Lady Manderly’s going to Stratford-upon-Avon at the end of the week and wants me to go too…’

  ‘Well, ain’t that a bit of bad luck? Not counting on leaving us, are you?’

  ‘I hope not. You know how happy I am here.’ Which wasn’t quite true, but after all Jemima had a feeling that she would never be quite happy again. ‘I’d like to pay something for my room and leave my things here, if Mrs Adams wouldn’t mind. If she wants to let the room, I could put everything in a cupboard.’

  Shirley locked the door and put the ‘Closed’ sign up. ‘Let’s go and see what she says.’

  Mrs Adams was quite prepared to look after Jemima’s things while she was away, although she wouldn’t promise not to let the room: ‘Not that there’s much call for lodgings this time of year and you won’t be gorn all that time. Shall we say a pound a week to look after your bits and pieces?’

  It seemed fair enough, and in any case there was no alternative. Jemima supposed she could have written to one of her friends in Oxford and asked them to keep her luggage, but pride prevented her from doing that. Everyone had been very kind when she and Dick had been left on their own, and for a little while helpful, but when they had moved to a flat, Jemima had guessed that their friends were relieved to see them go. Of course they wrote from time to time, but she had always been careful to answer their letters with a cheerfulness which, if not quite true, certainly left them with the impression that she and Dick were doing nicely.

  The next morning passed peacefully enough. Lady Manderly seemed definitely subdued and even suggested that Jemima might leave for her half day directly after lunch instead of taking Coco for a walk first. And to Jemima’s astonishment, as she was bidding her employer goodbye, Lady Manderly said quite mildly for her, ‘I shall call you Jemima in future. You are still very young.’

  Jemima spent the whole of her half day going through her wardrobe. She didn’t po
ssess many clothes, but those she had were well cut, of good material and well cared for; that they were also lacking in high fashion was obvious; they would look equally right in three years’ time, even longer, and she was heartily sick of the whole lot. But new clothes were out of the question—she had had to buy shoes only last week and that had left her with a hole in her pocket. She washed and ironed and pressed and folded carefully, choosing a plain wool dress in a serviceable grey, a couple of skirts and a pair of slacks, blouses and sweaters and her two evening dresses, a rather prim brown jersey with a modest neckline and a sweeping skirt, and a patterned top and matching skirt—not the height of fashion but quite suitable for a companion. It was a pity that her winter coat was on its last legs, but it was elegant still and undatable, like everything else. How lovely, she thought, to buy something all the fashion rage and discard it the moment she was the least bit tired of it.

  The days were getting shorter now, soon it would be cold. She added a couple of scarves and some warm gloves and thanked heaven that she had brought sensible shoes. Very soon now it would be November, and the old man who swept up the leaves from the road outside had told her only that morning that it was going to be an early winter with plenty of snow. It seemed a bit silly, as the sky was blue, even if a bit washed out, and only the early mornings were getting nippy, all the same she found her elderly leather boots and put them at the bottom of her case.

  The next morning she was sent round to the mews behind the house and spent an hour with the Daimler. The hired chauffeur had been told to meet her there and greeted her with a cheerful scepticism. ‘A bit big for a lady,’ he pointed out. ‘What’ve you been driving, miss?’

  ‘A Volvo Estate, a Mini and sometimes a Land Rover.’

  He looked at her with a tinge of respect. ‘Lived in the country, miss?’

  ‘Well, almost—Oxford actually, but I drove my father round a good deal. I haven’t driven for some months, though, not since we’ve been in London, so I’d be glad of your advice.’ She added: ‘I’m not doing you out of a job, am I?’

  ‘Lord luv yer, no, miss. I work for a Garage, y’see, go wherever I’m wanted. Lady Manderly always has me when she’s in town, but there’s plenty more like ’er.’

  ‘Good. Now do tell me, which is the best way…’

  They parted good friends with the promise that if Jemima liked to reach the garage by half past eight the next morning, he would let her drive the car. ‘Just for ’alf an hour,’ he told her. ‘She runs like a dream, but you might like to get the feel of ’er.’

  She managed very well, going through the early morning traffic with a calm which reassured the chauffeur. She stalled the engine just once as they were turning finally into the road where Lady Manderly lived. It was sheer bad luck that Professor Cator, scything his elegant way through the endless cars and taxis, should be directly behind her. She saw him in her mirror and waved him past her, ignoring his sour smile. Luckily she wouldn’t see him before they left on the following day.

  He was there early the next morning, walking in on them just as she was about to start on an account of some society wedding. She had just read the glowing description of what the bride wore when Lady Manderly interrupted her to say: ‘Ah, Alexander—the Hockley wedding! The silly girl wore white—I don’t know how she dared, with that frightful complexion of hers, and her first youth already far behind her.’

  Her nephew bent to kiss her cheek. ‘I was there—she looked quite nice, actually—hardly a beauty, but clothes help, of course.’ His glance lingered for a moment on Jemima’s Marks and Spencer blouse and skirt and she pinkened. His cool eyes watched the colour come and go. ‘Good morning, Jemima, all ready to go, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Professor Cator.’ She looked at Lady Manderly. ‘Shall I come back presently, Lady Manderly?’

  ‘No, certainly not. You can open the rest of these letters and get them sorted. Have you come to say goodbye, Alexander?’ She added tartly: ‘It’s too early in the day for Gloria, of course.’

  ‘Oh, yes. She doesn’t surface until ten o’clock at the earliest. She sends her love. We might come down and see you—it’s a pleasant run at this time of year. I must be off, I’ve a lecture to give very shortly.’ He bent to kiss her again, nodded to Jemima and went off.

  ‘I cannot think,’ declared Lady Manderly, ‘where Alexander gets his brains from. I know very little of what he does, but he’s very much to the forefront in his work. All the same I can’t think how he fills in his days.’

  Jemima, curious by nature, had taken the trouble to go to the public library and read up all about endocrinology. She had no doubt that the Professor was a very busy man indeed, as well as being a clever one. She had painstakingly worked her way through detailed descriptions of all the glands involved, not enjoying it all, and had come to the conclusion that one gland would keep him busy enough and according to her reckoning there were ten, all capable of getting diseased, over-active, under-active or just not working. She doubted very much if Lady Manderly would thank her for telling her about them, and was surprised when that lady exclaimed: ‘Diabetes—I’m sure of that, because a friend of mine consulted him.’

  ‘How interesting,’ murmured Jemima. ‘Is he a surgeon, Lady Manderly?’

  ‘I believe not—he has rooms in Harley Street and I suppose he goes to hospitals. He goes abroad sometimes—I daresay he finds his work interesting.’

  Jemima murmured politely. She found his work interesting too, and what was more, she was beginning to find the Professor every bit as interesting as his work. Not that she liked him in the least; aware of her ordinary appearance, nevertheless she found it tiresome to be treated in an offhand manner. It would be nice to get her own back, but she was too sensible a girl to indulge in the impossible. She got on with her morning’s work, lunched off a tray because Lady Manderly had guests for that meal, and presently at the end of the day went back to the shop.

  The drive down to Stratford-upon-Avon went off without a hitch. Lady Manderly, installed in the back of the car, dozed for a good deal of the journey, leaving Jemima to drive unhindered out of London and on to the M40, where she put her foot down and got up some speed, expecting every moment to be told to slow down, but surprisingly, Lady Manderly said nothing. Jemima skirted Oxford, feeling a pang of longing as she turned the car on to the A34 which would take them to Stratford-upon-Avon.

  She knew the town well enough. She took the car over Clopton Bridge, turned left into Waterside and so to Southern Lane and then turned carefully into a narrow lane leading back towards the town centre. There were high brick walls here, and a glimpse of gardens and tiled roofs. She stopped halfway down before a pair of wooden gates, firmly shut. ‘This is it, isn’t it?’ she asked Lady Manderly. ‘I’ll get someone to open up.’

  There was a small door cut into the centre of one of the gates. She went through it and found herself on a cobbled sweep with out buildings on either side. A man came out of a half open door as she came to a halt and she said briskly: ‘I’ve brought Lady Manderly—would you open the gates, please?’

  The man nodded. ‘That I will, miss. She wasn’t expected so early, otherwise I’d ’ave had ’em open.’

  He started to draw the bolts and Jemima took a quick look round. The drive was a short one, leading to a fair sized gabled house surrounded by velvety lawns and flower beds. The house was set at an angle to the road and she guessed that its door was just round the corner of the wall facing her; there would be a front path back to the road somewhere on the other side, although she couldn’t see it either. Just as Lady Manderly had said, the house was secluded, and once inside the high walls they could have been in the heart of the country. And it was delightful to look at; typical of so many houses in that part of England with its whitewashed walls and oak beams and red-tiled roof. She went back to the car and drove through the gates, only half listening to the testy remarks made by her passenger about the delay, and up the drive to the front of th
e house and the front door, a solid oak one with a great iron latch and stout enough to withstand a siege. It was opened as she got out and a sharp-faced elderly woman came out on to the broad step.

  ‘My lady—welcome, it’s a pleasure to see you again.’ She ignored Jemima and went past her to help Lady Manderly out of the car. ‘You shall go straight to your room and I’ll send up a tray—you’ll be tired after your journey.’

  ‘Ah, Spencer. No, I’m not in the least tired. We will lunch in the dining room in half an hour. See that our cases are taken up-stairs at once, will you? This is Miss Mason, my companion. My housekeeper, Mrs Spencer.’

  She walked into the house, and Jemima and Mrs Spencer, exchanging guarded greetings, followed her. And although the housekeeper stood aside to let her enter the house, Jemima had the feeling that the woman regarded her with dislike. Natural enough, she thought, Mrs Spencer must have seen quite a number of companions go through the door.

  The house was pleasant inside, furnished suitably with dark oak with polished floors and brocade curtains, and when she finally reached her own room she found it to be comfortable but quite impersonal, like a hotel bedroom. She wished she had brought a few of her own bits and pieces with her to make it seem more like home, then comforted herself with the thought that she would be at Stratford only for a month or six weeks. She unpacked her few things, tidied herself and went downstairs to wait for Lady Manderly. There was no one about and all the doors were shut. The first one she opened revealed the dining-room, rather gloomy by reason of the narrow latticed windows, made more so by the thick velvet curtains. She retreated and tried the door opposite—a sitting-room, gloomy too but much more cheerful by reason of the fire burning in the grate, its light gleaming on the polished furniture. There were easy chairs here, and a vast sofa and little tables bearing reading lamps. She advanced towards the fire, then gave a yelp as Professor Cator levered himself out of one of the chairs drawn up to it.

  ‘You gave me a fright!’ she squeaked accusingly. ‘You could have said you were here…’