Choose the One You'll Marry (4 page)

There were no sounds of conversation from the drawing room, and she guessed that her father was displaying the beauties of his beloved garden to their guest—probably with assistance from Susannah. So she went through into the kitchen, where she found her mother putting the finishing touches to the evening meal.

“Hello, mother—did you see me all right?”

“Yes, darling.” Her mother looked at her absently. “You were splendid.”

“And father picked up Aunt Henrietta all right?”

“Yes. They’re in the garden now.”

“She’s charming, is
n’
t she? Very lively—and not much like anyone else one has known. It must have been odd and rather fun seeing her again after all these years.”

“Ye-es,” said Mrs. Tadcaster, and Ruth saw that her mother was struggling with some thought she found hard to put into words.

“What is it, mother?” Ruth came closer to her. “Don’t you—like Aunt Henrietta, after all?”

“It isn’t that.” Mrs. Tadcaster went over and shut the door and leaned against it. “I know it sounds perfectly mad. But you know, I don’t think she
is
Aunt Henrietta at all.”

CHAPTER TWO

“Not-Aunt Henrietta?”
Ruth stared at her mother
in
stupefaction. “But she must be! Who else could she be?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s the person who wrote the letter to you, surely?”

“Oh, yes. She referred to it. And she calls me by my old nickname, and knows all sorts of things about the past. And says that you’re like me as a girl—which is true. But—I don’t believe she’s Aunt Henrietta.” Mrs. Tadcaster set her mouth in a way that was strangely reminiscent of Susannah, confronted by an arithmetical problem to which she was naturally resistant.

“But, darling, what makes you think that?” Ruth looked nonplussed, for she knew quite well that her mother, though often scatterbrained and charmingly unreasonable, was basically shrewd and the possessor of a quick instinct about the natural rightness of things.

“She doesn’t
look
like herself.”

“But she wouldn’t, you know, after twenty years or more. Some people change radically with the years.”

“No. Not radically. Superficially. Outwardly, I mean. So that you may be mistaken at first. Oddly enough, she hasn’t changed so much in that way. Her eyes are the same bright brown, and her hair could have been the color it was, although it’s gray now. And the actual shape of her face isn’t much more different than it might be with the years. But she isn’t the
essential
Aunt Henrietta.”

“Is she the same height?”

“Yes. More or less. It isn’t anything like that.” Mrs. Tadcaster made a vague gesture with her hands, as though dismissing such details as height, weight and color of eyes and hair in favor of something intangible but much more telling.

“Don’t you think you might be mistaken?” Ruth said doubtfully. “It’s a long time to remember anyone in detail.”

“I don’t remember her in detail. I remember her in the essentials,” her mother said obstinately. “And anyway, she didn’t recognize the canteen of cutlery.”

“Oh, but, mother, she might not, after all these years!” Ruth protested. “Patterns in silver aren’t all that different from each other.”

“I didn’t expect her to remember the pattern. I mean—she didn’t remember that she’d given it to us.”

“Well—mightn’t she have forgotten? One doesn’t necessarily remember all the wedding presents one has given over the years, I imagine.”

“One remembers anything as handsome as that,” Mrs.
Tadcaster
insisted. “Besides, there was something special about that. Frankly, I was astonished that she gave us anything so valuable, and when I thanked her, rather overwhelmingly I suppose, I remember she said, ‘I want you to have something that will
last.
I like to think that even if I come to see you when I’m quite old, you’ll still be using my wedding present.’ She even made a joke about it, and said, ‘I’ll look to see if it’s worn well. And if it hasn’t, we’ll send it back then and there.’ ”

“And she—didn’t remember anything of that?”

“No.”

“Did you ask her?”

“No. Not point-blank. I showed her the spoons and forks, as I was setting the table, and I said, ‘There’s no need to send it back, you see.’ And she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“She might not, mother. She might need to be reminded.”

“I don’t believe it.” Mrs.
Tadcaster
shook her head obstinately. “She isn’t Aunt Henrietta.”

Ruth bit her lip, and said after a moment, “What do you want to do about it?”

“Nothing. There isn’t anything one can do about it. Only—it gives one the most uncomfortable feeling to have someone—someone bogus in the house.”

“But I really don’t think she can be bogus,” exclaimed
Ruth, recalling a further complication. “Because, if so, her nephew would have to be bogus, too. And there’s nothing in the least bogus about Michael Harling. He’s quite unusually real and earnest. You’ll see for yourself, when he comes to get her later this evening.”

“Well—” said Mrs. Tadcaster, but not at all in a convinced sort of tone. “It’s a funny business, anyway. You’d better hurry, dear, if you’re going to change before supper.”

“Yes—of course.” Ruth went out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to her room, which looked out over the long garden. But pressed though she was for time, she could not resist going to the window and looking down on the scene below.

Her father, pipe in hand, was indicating something of special interest to their visitor, while Susannah skipped around in the middle distance, but still within talking range of Aunt Henrietta, who evidently commanded her admiring attention.

Aunt Henrietta herself, in a short fur cape, Over a quite beautifully cut gray silk dress, appeared to be hanging on Mr. Tadcaster’s words. Her air of absorbed attention suggested that nothing in the world was nearer to her heart than the cultivation of an English garden. And as she watched, Ruth thought curiously,
that’s how she is with everyone. She feels—or assumes—the most intense interest in whomever she’s speaking to at the moment. Like a fine actress getting the very most out of a part.

The comparison faintly disturbed her, as soon as she had admitted it into her mind. And as she hastily changed into a navy blue and white tartan nylon dress, she thought,
is that what mother means? Is she really playing a part to us all? And, if so, is Michael Harling playing a part, too? But—why would he and why should she? Mother simply must be mistaken, surely.

Ruth came downstairs just as supper was being taken into the dining room, and she was able to help her mother with the last of the preparations. But as soon as the others came in from the garden, she found herself most flatteringly the center of interest.

Even her father ruffled her hair and said, “Quite a distinguished performance. I didn’t know we had a television personality in our midst.”

“You were simply splendid, dear!” Aunt Henrietta abandoned gardens in favor of television and gave the impression of not having been able to think of anything else since she had witnessed Ruth’s brief appearance. “I can hardly believe it was your first appearance.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t very much,” Ruth felt bound to protest. “I only had to be myself.”

“Sometimes that’s the most difficult thing to be,” Aunt Henrietta said almost somberly, and instinctively Ruth met her mother’s glance across the table.

“Will you be famous now?” inquired Susannah, with simple gusto.

“No. Of course not.” Ruth laughed, relieved by this break in the tension.

“Some people
do
spring to fame in a night,” Susannah insisted.

“Not on the strength of a few minutes’ conversation,” Ruth assured her. “though I must say everyone was very nice and complimentary. And one of the cameramen said he thought Angus Everton might use me again, if the opportunity offered.”

“There you are!” said Susannah excitedly. “That’s how it starts. Did you tell him about me?”

“About you, Susannah, dear?” Ruth smiled. “What should I tell him about you?”

“Well, just that I’m
there,
you know. In. case he should ever want someone my age in a hurry. You never know! He just might. And if I got on
TV
even Miss Jenkins would have to be impressed. It’s much more important than doing silly old sums about trains and filling cisterns and that sort of thing,” Susannah declared. And she lapsed into a happy reverie in which, quite obviously, she saw herself confounding the hitherto unappreciative math teacher by a display of brilliance in a field beyond the reach of silly old sums.

No one else seemed inclined to pursue the subject of Susannah’s possible triumphs on television. In fact, during the rest of supper, conversation centered on Aunt
Henrietta’s journey back from Australia. And whatever else about her might or might not be genuine, Ruth decided that at least was. For she displayed a knowledge of the places she had visited that was both varied and highly interesting.

That Aunt Henrietta—if she were Aunt Henrietta—could hold one’s attention and fascinate her hearers was beyond doubt. Ruth realized that her parents were as absorbed as she herself was, and as for Susannah—she was still fighting a rearguard action on the subject of bedtime when Michael Harling arrived.

It was Ruth who opened the door to him, and as he came in he said, “Congratulations. You were absolutely natural and charming.”

“Oh—thank you.” Ruth smiled and colored slightly as she took his hat and gloves. “It really wasn’t very difficult, you know. I was told exactly what to do. And I hardly had time to feel nervous. Come in and meet my family.”

He followed her into the drawing room, and even during the introduction it became obvious that Michael Harling being social was quite a different person from Mr. Harling casting a critical eye over the personnel of the Excelsior Hotel.

Ruth saw immediately that her mother liked him and that her father was prepared to accord him the friendly respect of one sensible businessman for another. But what was really most astonishing of all was his championship of Susannah, who, in the final moment of retreat to bed, suddenly wailed, “Oh, gosh, I’ve forgotten all about my arithmetic homework!”

“Then you must do it in the morning,” said her mother calmly.

“Oh, mother, I
can’t
! No one ever does homework in the morning. And there isn’t time, anyway. And in the morning you can’t even
understand
arithmetic problems
—
much less work them out.”

“I can’t help that. You should have thought of that before.”

“Oh, mother—”

“What problems are they?” inquired Mr. Harling.
“Perhaps I can help. I’m rather good on trains overtaking each other, or fields being plowed at unusual speeds.
”

“They aren’t trains or fields,” Susannah said, but with a gleam of hope in her eye. “They’re cisterns being filled and emptied.”

“Same principle, though different element,” Mr. Harling declared. “Can we go somewhere quiet, Mrs. Tadcaster? And we’ll have them done in a quarter of an hour.”

“Well, I suppose—” Mrs. Tadcaster smiled reluctantly. “But please don’t let Susannah bother you too much.”

“She doesn’t bother me,” Michael Harling declared, and he went off with Susannah into the deserted dining room.

“Absolute imposition,” objected Mr. Tadcaster with a frown. “To ask a man to do the child’s homework when he hasn’t been in the house five minutes.”

“No one asked him to,” Aunt Henrietta pointed out with a smile. “He offered. And Michael’s like that. He’s naturally helpful.”

“Have you—known him a long time?” Ruth could not help asking.

“Known him, my dear?” Aunt Henrietta opened her fine eyes wide. “He’s my nephew. I’ve know
n
him all my life.”

“Yes, I—I know that. I just wondered—was he in Australia? Or have you just—met him since you came back?”

“I knew him as a boy, of course,” Aunt Henrietta said, with an odd air of firmness. “And then, when I came back to this country, he was naturally the first person I looked up.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And you were the next.” Aunt Henrietta turned and smiled at Mrs. Tadcaster. “You always seemed like a real niece to me, even though I didn’t see you for so many years.”

“Did I?” said Mrs. Tadcaster, and she smiled very sweetly. But Ruth, who knew her well, recognized that that vaguely benevolent air of her mother’s really hid a determination not to commit herself to anything.

She still isn’t satisfied,
thought Ruth.
And yet
—
it’s so fantastic! If she isn’t Aunt Henrietta, what is she doing here?

“By the time I get back to London,” Aunt Henrietta went on at this point, “I hope to be fixed up with a place of my own, and then I want you to come and stay with me.”

“Me?” Mrs. Tadcaster looked faintly startled. “Oh, but that would be rather difficult, you know. I couldn’t leave the family without a good deal of arranging and—”

“Not right away, perhaps. But I’m sure it could be managed. And meanwhile, perhaps Ruth would like to come for a long weekend?”

“It’s very kind of you—” In the ordinary way Ruth would have been delighted by such an invitation. But she could not help being infected to a certain degree by her mother’s doubts. “I don’t know just when, but—”

“I’ll get Michael to arrange it with your manager—what’s his name—Mr. Naylor. I would love to have a young girl to take around with me.” Aunt Henrietta smiled almost wistfully and with such real kindness that Ruth felt her doubts evaporate. “Perhaps you could make it a whole week, and then Michael could take you to some shows. Much better for him than running around with that actress, lovely though she is.”

“Is he running around with an actress?” Ruth simply could not see Michael Harling in this role, and she sounded genuinely curious.

“Oh, well—perhaps I shouldn’t put it like that.” Aunt Henrietta laughed rather contritely. “But I was a bit taken aback when she actually turned up here in Castlemore. In my young days we’d have called that chasing a man, even though she’s supposed to have some sort of work here at the television studios. But perhaps I’m suspicious without cause. I never did like girls with red hair.”

“Red hair?” This time Ruth’s attention was completely captured. “You don’t mean Charmian Deal, do you?”