Fantails (14 page)

“Sixteen come October!”

“—I’ve never heard it. This is Miss Selkirk, Mary.” The parlourmaid had until now, from shyness or good manners, avoided looking directly at Logie. Now their eyes met. Logie saw high Scotch cheekbones, thin lips, a sharp nose, small light-blue eyes summing her up shrewdly. So this was the “character” of whom Sherry had told her, who ruled the household with a stern efficiency that hid a warm and kindly heart; one of those beloved and faithful old retainers that are so often met with in fiction and on the stage, so sadly seldom in real life.

Smiling, she held out her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mary!”

Mary shook it awkwardly. “It’ll not do to believe the half of what Mr. Sherry’ll tell you!” But she was obviously pleased, for all the dourness of her manner, that Sherry should have spoken of her. “You’ll want to see your room. Elsie can be getting on with your unpacking while you get your tea—I’ll have Miss Logie in the library by the time you’ve had a wash, Mr. Sherry!—Come you this way, Miss Logie, if you please.”

Giving one backward smiling glance at Sherry, Logie followed the parlourmaid obediently through a square, white-panelled hall where Persian rugs lay on the parquet floor and on a large refectory table stood a large copper jug filled with chrysanthemums and dahlias in a brilliant bouquet. Then up a curving staircase with wrought-iron banisters and smooth mahogany handrail, a few steps along a landing, into a large light room whose windows looked out on the view she had seen from the front door.

Looking about her, Logie cried involuntarily, “What a
lovely
room!” For never in her wildest dreams had she imagined any room whose every detail had been so carefully planned and chosen; the rooms in her world had grown together, friendly and haphazard, in the course of time, and—no, she couldn’t think of one that wasn’t shabby in some detail or other.

The walls of this room had been painted pale pearl grey; the woodwork was a slightly deeper grey; the plain pile carpet deeper still. The curtains hanging at the two tall windows were of Chinese yellow brocade; so were the cushions of the window-seats, the petticoat of the dressing-table that stood between the windows, the bedspread, and the covers of the chairs. Near one window was a
chaise longue
covered in the same brocade, and with two cushions, one covered in burnt-orange velvet, the other in rusty red. The bed was lacquer, in Chinese yellow on a rust-coloured background. Dressing-stool and triple mirror on the dressing-table were of the same lacquer. There were no pictures; three wall vases in pearl-grey pottery, shaped like large flat shells, hung on the walls, one by the door, a second near the bed, a third above the dressing-table. In them some skilled hand had exquisitely arranged flowers that picked up the colouring of the lacquer—sulphur and orange and tomato dahlias, saffron and lemon marigolds, topaz and gold and bronze chrysanthemums, every leaf removed, no colour but the brilliant petals visible. A book trough on a table by the bed was filled with books, all bound in gold or orange or rust-red.

Mary was pleased by her approval. “Yes, it’s real nice. The mistress thought it out herself. You’ll need to see her own room. She took the colouring of that from her aubretia border. This is your bathroom.”

Opening from the bedroom was the bathroom, all in pearl grey and silver. “Like an oyster-shell, the mistress says. I’ll leave you now, Miss Logie, and take in your tea; the kettle’s on the boil. The library is the big door on your right near the bottom of the stairs.”

Logie, as she washed her hands, reflected that the downright manner
of the parlourmaid was oddly out of keeping with this lovely, formal house, and was glad of it: a stately butler would have been more in the picture, but at the same time more intimidating.

Sherry was waiting for her in the hall, a dog on either side. Their frenzy of delighted welcome had abated, and with wagging tails they came to sniff at Logie’s hand, accepted her, and returned to Sherry’s heels. “Mary commanded me to wait here for you.” He imitated Mary’s lilting Border accents. “ ‘She’ll likely be feeling just a wee bit strange’.
Are
you feeling strange, darling? You look quite normal to me! Come and have tea.”

The library was bright with amber sunshine. Its chief features were the bookshelves lining every wall up to the ceiling, deep, comfortable leather chairs, and an enormous kneehole writing-table. Logie looked about her. “What a nice friendly room!”

“D’you like it?” He looked pleased. “It’s all exactly as my father left it. Mother never sits here, but Mary knows I like it.”

Tea waited their attention on a round table in the window. There was a square of honey, raspberry jam, shortbread, chocolate cake, and a fruit cake. Mary came in as they were sitting down with hot scones in a covered silver dish.

‘Tell Mrs. Mackintosh I’m glad to see she hasn’t lost her skill with a fruit cake!” Sherry told her.

“No, nor yet with éclairs, as you’ll see come dinnertime!” Mary departed, closing the door quietly behind her.

“She’s even nicer than you told me,” Logie said.

“Yes, she’s a good old sort, is Mary. She and Mrs. Mackintosh still treat me like a small boy home for the holidays from his prep school. All through the war, every time I came on leave, my favourite dishes were produced at every meal. I’ll have to take you to be introduced to Mrs. Mackintosh. By the way, d’you realise you’ve made a smash hit with Mary? It’s the highest honour she could have paid you to accept you as ‘Miss Logie’!”

“Instead of Miss Selkirk, you mean?”

“Yes. Making you one of the family. She keeps most people at arm’s length for ages. She never called—” He broke off short. After a moment he said, “Have some honey?”

“Thank you.” She helped herself to honey, wondering idly what he had been going to say. Presently she sighed. “Sherry, I do hope I’ll make a ‘smash hit’ with your mother. It’d be too frightful if she didn’t like me.”

“Getting stage fright? But she’s bound to like you, sweet! And even if— Listen! Isn’t that the car?” He turned his head, listening. Logie listened too, wondering if he could hear the frightened pounding of her heart, telling herself that the ordeal would be over in a moment.

A voice, high-pitched and clear and astonishingly youthful, sounded in the hall. “They’ve come? Where are they? Having tea? The
library?
But why on earth—?”

The door was flung wide by an impetuous hand. Sherry’s mother stood there, smiling at them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sherry had never given Logie any description of his mother, beyond saying once that she was “Very well turned out” and another time, “She has tremendous charm.” Yet she had unconsciously built up a picture in her mind, of a tall woman, generously built and carrying herself proudly, with an authoritative manner and handsome statuesque features.

The woman in the doorway was quite different from her imagining. True, she was tall, but slender and small boned. Her features were delicately cut, her expression gay and animated, her skin as fair and fine as Logie’s. She must be nearing fifty, yet in spite of her grey hair she had an air of youth. Logie had never dreamed grey hair could look as hers did. It was the colour of pale pewter faintly rinsed in hyacinth blue, swept to her head in smoothly sculptured waves that ended in flat shining curls. Her clothes were chosen as a perfect setting for her colouring; she wore a suit of pale grey in fine man’s suiting, and her blouse was heavy hyacinth-blue crepe, hand made. A brooch of sapphires set in platinum and diamonds gleamed at her throat.

She came quickly forward, giving one hand to Sherry, the other to Logie. “My
dears!
Too shocking of me not to have been here to welcome you. I’d fixed up weeks ago to go to bridge with Lady Danvers, and it’s impossible to get a fourth at a moment’s notice, and I couldn’t let her down.” She turned the full charm of her smile on Logie, still holding her hand and frankly appraising her. “Sherry, you never told me she was lovely!”

“I thought I’d leave you to discover it for yourself.”

“Darling, how wise of you! Far more amusing to be kept guessing. How naughty of Mary to give you tea here in this dreadful dreary room!”

“She knows I like it,” Sherry said.

“Yes, and she knows I hate it! Tiresome old woman. Did you have a good run? Logie, are you very tired? You must go up quite soon and rest before dinner. If you’ve finished tea, do let’s go to the drawing-room. You must tell me all about your plans ... Sherry, the Darringfields are coming to dinner, and Elizabeth and Rodney. And Geoffrey Peverill. Not that I wanted him, but an even number is so much easier. And the sooner Logie meets the neighbourhood, the better.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sherry’s eyes, meeting his mother’s, held an odd look of defiance; Logie, fascinated by the older woman’s exquisite grooming, did not see it.

“Yes. To-morrow we must do some telephoning and collect people for drinks. I spent practically the entire morning in York, exuding charm from every pore to get a good supply of gin. I sometimes wonder how one contrives to have any personality left at all these days, considering how one has to squander it on the butcher and the grocer and above all the wine-merchant! However, I must admit I had a most successful morning. Talking of drinks, we’d all be much the better for a cocktail. Come along.”

Tucking Logie’s hand under her am, talking still, she led her across the hall into the drawing-room. Logie could see at once why she preferred it to the library. Any woman must be happy in a room that was so perfect a background for herself, though London would have been a more appropriate background than the Yorkshire countryside for such a room. It was long and light and spacious. Walls, paint, and carpet were oyster colour; curtains and covers of hyacinth-blue brocade. There were Persian rugs in which blue predominated. A bureau and a cabinet, holding a Rockingham tea-service of grey and rose and gold, were of modem design in pickled sycamore. So was a table on which there stood a tall arrangement of blue flowers, with here and there a touch of rose. Over the fireplace hung a modern painting of delphiniums in a square accumulator tank of greenish glass, against a silvery-turquoise background. Otherwise the walls were bare, except for crystal candle sconces and a carved gilt Chippendale mirror. It had been built up as a setting for the woman who had planned it, as cleverly as she had chosen her clothes and her elusive and sophisticated scent.

Logie exclaimed, “Oh, what a perfect room! And it’s so right for you, I wonder you can ever bear to leave it!” Then felt that she had been too personal for such an acquaintance, but Mrs. MacAirlie looked pleased. “Nice, tactful child! Ring, will you, Sherry? Logie, you must call me Vee. Short for Vera, though that’s short enough, but so severe. Cocktails, Mary, please! ... Of course, you’ll want to have the whole house done up differently, but it’s so difficult these days with coupons and the wretched quality of everything. Sherry, the moment I got your wire I wrote off to find out if that flat in Curzon Street that I’d been thinking of was still available, and luckily it was, and so I’ve signed the lease. You people will want to settle here as soon as may be. I might perhaps take a small house at Maidenhead or Sunningdale next year, for week-ends ... Ah, here come the drinks!” Raising her glass first towards Logie, then to Sherry, she wished them luck. “And are you planning an enormous wedding? ... Oh, just a quiet country one? How wise of you. These large fashionable weddings are so artificial, don’t you think? Though there were eight hundred guests at mine, and it
was
really rather fun! ... And so you come from Suffolk? I scarcely know it, though I stayed once in Norfolk for a hunt ball somewhere near Norwich. I expect you know the Ambermeres?”

Logie said she had never met them. “We live very quietly and don’t go about much.”

Sherry added, “You’ll have to rub up your geography, Vee! Suffolk is a pretty large county. It’s a case of ‘East is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet!’ you know.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I always was shockingly vague about places I haven’t been to. Rosemary Ambermere has grown into such an attractive creature. I saw her with her mother at the Garden Party in June. She would have made a charming bridesmaid ...
You’ll
have to be presented next year, on your marriage, Logie! ... Come along, it’s time we all went upstairs. Sherry, did Mary tell you Crail Count was the best bull at Perth last week? Macpherson is delighted.”

She came with Logie to her room. A pleasant young housemaid was waiting there. “Oh, there you are, Elsie. See that Miss Logie has all she wants, won’t you? And look after her—Ask Elsie if there’s anything you want, my dear. We must have a long talk to-morrow! I must fly—the Darringfields are shatteringly punctual, and I do love to linger in my bath!”

The housemaid said that Logie’s bath was ready. “And have I put out the right dress, miss?” The hyacinth-blue dinner frock lay on the bed. Logie, reflecting that it might have been selected specially to wear in the oyster and hyacinth-blue drawing-room, told her that she had, and that she would want nothing more.

“Will you ring, miss, if you do? I must go down now, I have to help in the dining-room when there’s company, and Mary likes me to be there in good time.”

Logie found a long row of jars and bottles holding bath-salts and essences and dusting powder on a glass shelf within reach of the bath. She studied their labels: Mary Chess, Floris, Coty, Atkinson; gardenis, stephanotis, pine, rose, geranium, carnation,
A pres la Pluie,
Omy, Russian leather. Some day when she was in experimental mood she would investigate their contents; this evening she didn’t want to smell like someone else, and so she used her own Roman hyacinth essence, thinking what fun it was to be luxurious and how glad she was that Sherry was so well off. Money couldn’t buy happiness, of course, but there was no denying that it could make life far more amusing! Alison should have this room when she and Jane came to stay here after the wedding. Alison should have breakfast brought up to her in bed. Jane, who longed to ride, should have lessons from the groom who had taught Sherry years ago; Sherry had said there was an elderly quiet polo pony in the stables that would be the very thing for her—he’d give it to her for her own. Andrew could come and spend his leaves here, and have shooting. Hunting, too; Sherry had said practically everybody hunted, and since he joined the Army Andrew had done a lot of riding. It would be marvellous to be able to do nice things for all of them!