Winter of Change Page 9

  Mrs Body sighed in a satisfied manner when Mary Jane told her. ‘That will be nice,’ she said as she rang off, leaving Mary Jane wondering how much truth there was in that remark. Probably they would quarrel again before his visit was over, and there was nothing nice about that.

  But at least they didn’t quarrel that evening, tacit consent, they allied to keep Cousin Emma interested and amused, and succeeded so well that she didn’t cry once and went to bed quite cheerful. Mary Jane, quite tired herself, went to bed early too and closed her eyes on the thought that when Fabian wished, he could be a most agreeable companion.

  She saw little of him until Tuesday, when Cousin Emma, vowing eternal thanks, was packed off to stay with her friends and Mary Jane found herself alone in the house except for Jaap and the cook. The morning passed slowly enough because she had nothing much to do but go for a walk, but after her solitary lunch she settled down with a book until four o’clock, when she did her face and hair once more, got Jaap to bring down her case and went to the window to watch for the car. It didn’t come; it hadn’t come by half past four either. She had her tea, punctuated by frequent visits to the window, and when she had finished, put on her outdoor things, made sure that she had every thing with her, and sat down to wait. It was a quarter to six when the car’s headlights lighted up the drive. She went into the hall to meet him, saying without any hint of the impatience she felt: ‘You’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you? I asked Jaap to be ready with one.’

  ‘Good girl. I missed lunch—an emergency—I was called back to theatre.’

  She was already on her way to the kitchen. ‘I’ll get some sandwiches.’ She paused. ‘I hope it was a success.’

  ‘I think so—we shan’t be certain for a couple of days.’

  She nodded understandingly as she went, to return very soon with a tray of tea and buttered toast, sandwiches and cake. She poured the tea, gave him his toast and sat down again. Presently he said:

  ‘You’re very restful—not one reproach for being late, or missing the boat or where have I been.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t help much if I did, would it?’ she wanted to know in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Besides, there’s time enough, isn’t there? The Rolls goes like a bomb, doesn’t she, and the ferry doesn’t leave until about midnight.’

  ‘Sensible Miss Pettigrew! But I had planned a leisurely dinner on the way. Now it will have to be a hurried one.’

  She smiled at him without malice. ‘That won’t matter much, will it? Now if I’d been the girl you were with the other night, that would be quite a different kettle of fish…’

  He put down his cup slowly. ‘You’re a great one for the unvarnished truth, aren’t you?’

  She got up and went over to the big gilt-framed mirror at the opposite end of the room and twitched the beret to a more becoming angle.

  ‘Seeing that we have to deal with each other until I’m thirty,’ she said in a tranquil voice, ‘we might as well be truthful with each other, even if nothing else.’

  ‘Nothing else what?’ He spoke sharply.

  She went to pour him a second cup. ‘Nothing,’ she told him.

  They set out shortly afterwards. It was a cold dark evening and the road was almost free of traffic and Fabian sent the car tearing along on the first stage of their journey. He showed no signs of tiredness but sat relaxed behind the wheel—it was a pity it wasn’t light, he told her, for they were going to Rotterdam down the other side of the Ijsselmeer, and she would have been able to see a little more of Holland. Mary Jane agreed with him and they sat in silence as they ripped through the flat landscape. Only when they reached Alkmaar and slowed to go through its narrow streets did he say, ‘I’m poor company. I’m sorry.’

  ‘The case this afternoon?’ she ventured, to be rewarded by his surprised, ‘How did you guess? Would it bore you if I told you about it?’

  She wasn’t bored; she listened with interest and intelligence and asked the right questions in the right places. They were approaching Rotterdam when he said finally, ‘Thank you for listening so well—I can’t think of any other girl to whom I would have talked like that.’

  She felt a little pang of pure pleasure and tried to think of something to say, but couldn’t.

  They had their dinner in haste at the Old Dutch restaurant, and Mary Jane, seeing how tired Fabian looked, did her utmost to keep the conversation of a nature which could provoke no difference of opinion between them, and succeeded so well that they boarded the ferry on the friendliest of terms.

  The journey was uneventful but rough, but they were both too tired to bother about the weather. They met at breakfast and she was delighted to find that his humour was still a good one. Perhaps now that they wouldn’t be seeing much of each other, he was prepared to unbend a little. She accompanied him down to the car deck, hoping that this pleasant state of affairs would last.

  It didn’t, at least only until they reached the Lakes to receive a rapturous welcome from Mrs Body and sit down to one of her excellent teas. They barely begun the meal when Mary Jane stated, ‘I intend to buy a horse tomorrow.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Fabian spoke unhurriedly and with old finality.

  She opened her eyes wide. ‘Haven’t I enough money?’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t make ridiculous statements like that—you have plenty of money. If you want a mount, I’ll come with you, and you will allow me to choose the animal.’ ‘No, I won’t! I can ride, you know I can.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you will do as I ask, but before you start spending your money there are one or two details to attend to, I must ask you to come with me to the bank at Keswick, and Mr North will be coming here tomorrow morning. He will bring the last of the papers for you to sign, and as from then your income will be paid into your account each quarter. Should you need more money, you will have to advise me and I will advance it from the estate, should I consider it necessary.’

  She boiled with rage. ‘Consider it? It’s ridiculous—it’s like being a child, having to ask you for everything I want!’

  He remained unmoved by her outburst. ‘How inaccurate you are! You have more than sufficient to live on in comfort, and as long as you keep within your income, you will have no need to apply to me.’

  She snorted, ‘I should hope not—I’d rather be a pauper!’

  ‘Even more inaccurate.’

  There seemed no more to be said; she wasn’t disposed to say that she was sorry and she could see that such an intention on his part hadn’t even crossed his mind. He excused himself presently and she saw him cleaning the Rolls at the back of the house. From a distance he looked nice. He was a handsome man, she had to admit, and amusing when he wished to be, and kind; only, she told herself darkly, when one got to know him better did one discover what an ill-tempered, arrogant, unsympathetic… She ran out of adjectives.

  He stayed two more days, coldly polite, unfailingly courteous and as withdrawn as though they were complete strangers forced to share a small slice of life together. She told herself that she was glad to see him go as the Rolls went through the gate and disappeared down the road to Keswick. He hadn’t turned round to wave, either, and he must have known that she was standing in the porch. His goodbye had been casual in the extreme and he had made no mention of their future meeting. Mary Jane stormed back into the house, very put out and banged the door behind her, telling Major in a loud angry voice that life would be heaven without him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS HEAVEN for three or four days, during which Mary Jane explored the house from attic to cellar, examining with affection the small treasures her grandfather had possessed and which were now hers. She worked in the garden too, sweeping the leaves from the frosty ground, and went walking each day beside the lake with Major. It was cold now, and the snow had crept further down the mountains, but the sun still shone. She drove to Keswick, and to Carlisle to see Mr North, reflecting that it would have been marvelous weather for riding. But she had stubbor
nly refused to allow Fabian to choose a horse for her, and only after he had pressed the matter had she said that she wouldn’t buy one at all if she couldn’t have her own way; a decision she was regretting, for she had cut off her nose to spite her face, and a lot of good it had done her.

  He hadn’t even bothered to write to her—out of sight, out of mind, she muttered bitterly to herself, quite forgetting that she had hardly contributed to increase any desire on his part to have any more to do with her other than businesswise. It was that night, as she lay in bed very much awake, that she made the astonishing discovery that she actually missed him. She examined this from all angles and decided finally that it was because his extreme bossiness had imposed itself far too firmly upon her mind. Well, she was free of him now. She had a house of her own and what seemed to her to be quite a fortune—she could do exactly what she liked, whether he liked it or not—and she would too. She fell asleep making rather wild plans.

  She found herself, as the days passed, filling them rather feverishly, quite often doing things which didn’t need doing at all, taking walks which became increasingly longer, making excuses to get out the Mini and drive into Cockermouth or Keswick, and although she was happy she was lonely too, missing the rush and bustle of hospital life. In a few short weeks it would be Christmas and she wondered what to do about it. She hadn’t a relation in the world whom she knew of and her friends were miles away in London, and what was more, they wouldn’t be free over Christmas—nurses seldom were. She wondered what her grandfather and Mrs Body had done in previous years and went to ask that good lady, who chuckled gently and said:

  ‘Well, Miss Mary Jane, not a great deal—your grandfather liked his turkey and his Christmas pudding, and his friends came in for a drink. When he was younger, he used to give a dinner party—even have a few of his closer friends to stay, but they’ve died or gone away. The last few years have been a bit quiet.’ She looked a little wistful. ‘I suppose you haven’t any friends who could come—a few jolly young people?’

  Mary Jane explained about nurses not getting holidays at Christmas and Mrs Body said: ‘Well, there’s Doctor Morris, and there’s Commander Willis—he’s a very old friend of your grandfather’s, but Lily was telling me that he’s not been so well lately…’

  They stared at each other, empty of ideas and a little depressed. The sound of a car turning into the drive sent them both into the hall to peer out of the small window beside the front door. ‘It’ll be that nice Doctor van der Blocq,’ breathed Mrs Body happily, ‘Oh, how lovely if it is!’

  Mary Jane was looking out of the window; if it was keen disappointment she felt when she saw that the car was an Alfa Romeo and the man getting out of it wasn’t Fabian, she was quite unaware of it. The man was a stranger, young, fair and not very tall. He seemed to be in no hurry to ring the bell but stood staring at the house and then turned his attention to the garden. Only when he had looked his fill did he advance towards the door. As he rang the bell Mary Jane retreated to the sitting room, waving an urgent hand at Mrs Body. She just had time to sit down in her grandfather’s chair and take up the morning paper before the housekeeper, after the shortest of colloquies, put her head round the door. She looked surprised and excited.

  ‘A young gentleman to see you, Miss Mary Jane. Mr Pettigrew from Canada.’

  Mary Jane cast down the paper and goggled at her. ‘Mr Pettigrew?’ Enlightenment struck her. ‘Do you suppose he’s the cousin—the Canadian cousin—did he say?’

  Mrs Body shook her head. ‘He wants to see you.’

  Mary Jane went into the hall. The young man was standing by the wall table, one of the Georgian candlesticks which rested upon it in his hands, examining it carefully.

  She frowned. Even if he were a relation, it was hardly good manners to examine the silver for hallmarks the moment he entered the house. She said coolly, a question in her voice: ‘Good morning?’

  He put the candlestick down without any trace of embarrassment and crossed the hall, smiling at her, and she found herself smiling back at him, although her first impression of him hadn’t been a good one. When he spoke it was with a rich Canadian accent.

  ‘You must think I’ve got an infernal cheek…’ He paused and widened his smile, and Mary Jane, a little on her guard now, allowed her own to fade, but this didn’t deter him from continuing: ‘I’m a Pettigrew—Mervyn John Pettigrew. My grandfather was your grandfather’s cousin—he talked a lot about him when he was alive.’ He put a hand into his pocket and withdrew a passport. ‘I don’t expect you to take me on trust—take a look at this.’ And as she stretched out a hand to take it, ‘You’re Mary Jane, aren’t you? I know all about you too.’

  She glanced at the passport and gave it back, studying his face. She could see no family likeness, but probably there wouldn’t be any; his mother had been a Canadian; he might take after her side of the family. She said quietly, ‘How do you do? Why are you here?’

  ‘We get the English papers—I saw a notice of my great-uncle’s death. I had a holiday owing to me, so I decided to fly over and look you up.’ He smiled again—he smiled too much, she thought irritably. ‘My old man’s dead—died two years ago. Mother died when I was a boy, and I’m the only Pettigrew left at home, so I thought I’d look you up.’ He gave her a searching glance. ‘I don’t blame you for not quite believing me, despite the passport. If you’d give me ten minutes, though, I could tell you enough about the family to convince you.’

  He had light eyes, a little too close together, but his look was direct enough. Mary Jane said on an impulse. ‘Come in—I was just going to have coffee. Will you have a cup with me?’

  She was bound to admit, at the end of ten minutes, that he must be a genuine cousin. After all, her grandfather had told her often enough that the nephew in Canada had a son—this would be he; he knew too much about the family to be anything else. And when he produced some letters written by her grandfather to his own father, there could be no further doubt. True, he didn’t give them to her to read, but he showed her the address and the signature at the end, explaining. ‘Great-uncle was very fond of my grandfather, you know—he was always making plans to visit him. He never did, of course, but he had a real affection for him— Dad was always talking about him too. Have you still got Major?’

  Her last misgivings left her. She said with cautious friendliness:

  ‘Yes—he’s eleven, though, and getting a bit slow. He’s in the kitchen with Mrs Body. Would you like to stay to lunch? Are you passing through or staying somewhere here?’

  He accepted the invitation with an open pleasure which won her over completely. ‘I’m touring around, having a look at all the places the old man told me about. I’m staying at Keswick and very comfortable.’

  ‘Did you bring your car?’ She corrected herself. ‘No, of course you couldn’t if you flew.’

  ‘I’ve rented one.’ And when he added nothing further she suggested that they should walk down to the lake. Their stroll was an unqualified success, partly because Mary Jane, who wasn’t used to men—younger men, at any rate—taking any notice of her, found that not only did her companion listen to her when she spoke, but implied in his replies that she was worth listening to as well, and the glances he gave her along with the replies gave her the pleasant feeling that perhaps she wasn’t quite as plain a girl as she had believed. It was a pity, she reflected, while the young man waxed enthusiastic over the scenery, that Fabian wasn’t with them so that he could see for himself that not everyone shared his opinion of her. The horrid word tiresome flashed through her mind; it was amazing how it still rankled. A vivid picture of his face—austere, faintly mocking and handsome—floated before her mind’s eye. She dismissed it and turned to answer Mervyn Pettigrew’s eager questions about the house and its history.

  She told him all she knew, studying him anew as she did so. He had good looks, she conceded, spoiled a little by the eyes and a mouth too small—and perhaps his chin lacked determination, alth
ough, as she quickly reminded herself, after several weeks of Fabian’s resolute features, she was probably unfairly influenced, but these were small faults in an otherwise pleasing countenance. She judged him to be twenty-five or six, thick-set for his height and age. His clothes were right—country tweeds and well-polished shoes. On the whole she was prepared to reverse her first hasty impression of him, and admit that he might be rather nice. It was certainly pleasant to have someone of her own age to talk to; over lunch he told her about his home in Canada, volunteering the information that he was an executive in a vast business complex somewhere near Winnipeg, that he was a bachelor and lived in the house where he had been born—an oldish, comfortable house, by all accounts, with plenty of ground around it. He rode each day, he told her, getting up early so that he could take some exercise before breakfast and going to the office. ‘Do you ride?’ he wanted to know.

  Mary Jane frowned. ‘Yes. I haven’t a mount, thought. I—I’ve a guardian who wouldn’t allow me to choose a horse for myself, otherwise I would have had one days ago.’

  Her cousin looked sympathetic. ‘Don’t think I’m interfering,’ he begged her, ‘but why not tell me about it? Perhaps there’s some way…surely he can’t stop you…’ He waved a hand. ‘This is all yours, isn’t it? and I suppose Great-uncle left you enough to live on in plenty of comfort, and you’re over twenty-one.’ He added hastily, ‘At least, I suppose you are.’

  He was very well informed, she thought vaguely; he knew so much. ‘I’m twenty-two.’ She hesitated; the temptation to confide in someone was very great, and he was family. ‘It’s a little complicated,’ she went on, and proceeded to tell him a little about Fabian and the conditions of her grandfather’s will. She was strictly fair about Fabian. He was, she supposed, a good guardian and quite to be trusted with her money, she didn’t want her companion to be in any doubt about that, and she was careful not to go into any details about her inheritance—indeed, when she had finished she wasn’t sure if she should have mentioned it at all, but Mervyn had seemed very sympathetic and she was further reassured by his brief, vague reply before he changed the subject completely.