Dorothy Eden (56 page)

P
RISSIE LOVED THE BIG HOUSE
. She liked to come in and stand silently in the hall looking up at the wide curving staircase, at the high carved ceiling and panelled walls, and then, if the children could be induced to loiter, she liked to climb the stairs very slowly, looking at the portraits, one by one. She never tired of the portraits. She searched their features over and over; the long-nosed hawk-eyed Phillip, pirate of the Caribbean, the parsimonious Silas, and the fat blue-eyed loose-lipped Ernest. The women, too, absorbed her; most of all she was fascinated by Brigit’s mother who, at eighteen, had been beautiful, dark-eyed, white-skinned and with the lovely sensual mouth that Guy had inherited. In fact, it was Guy who was the first to notice Prissie’s interest in the portraits.

He said, ‘They’re a fine lot, aren’t they?’ in his habitually mocking voice.

‘If you hadn’t any at all of your own,’ Prissie flashed, ‘you would realize how wonderful they are.’

His eyes showed interest. ‘But you have ancestors.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ said Prissie proudly, fingering the locket round her neck.

Guy watched her inquisitively. ‘What is it that you have in there? Why don’t you show me?’

‘No, I can’t.’ Prissie moved away. ‘But the day will come,’ she said mysteriously over her shoulder.

Guy took her arm. ‘You funny little thing, why don’t you show me now? You can trust me.’

‘Trust you! Do you think it’s something I’m ashamed of?’

Guy laughed at her indignation. She was very pretty and so extraordinarily alive. She could almost make one believe in her world of fantasy. Royal blood, indeed! Brigit had told him about that. Her grandfather had more likely been an ambitious but poverty-stricken actor. But one had to admire the girl for the façade she put up. Funny she hadn’t married. Too ambitious, probably. That could explain her desire to get into one of the homes of the wealthy. Wealthy! Guy twisted his lips wryly. He looked at Prissie again, and suddenly wanted to kiss her.

‘You’re too romantic,’ he said.

She smiled at him, and was all warmth and friendliness again.

‘I guess I am. Brigit would think so if she knew how I admire these portraits.’

‘Biddy doesn’t like their history.’

‘But at least they had big splendid vices, not mean little ones. After all, you might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.’

‘None of them was hanged, unfortunately.’

‘Oh, you’re as bad as your sister. Why should you be so cynical. You have everything. You’re even good-looking.’ Her dark eyes twinkled. ‘Which is more than one can say for your Uncle Saunders, or your grandfather.’

Guy looked into her warm persuasive eyes.

‘You’re a funny little thing. Uncle Saunders couldn’t think what Fergus saw in you.’

‘Fergus!’

‘Brigit and Fergus, I mean. But I can see. You’re not pretty, and yet looking at you is like watching a flower suddenly begin to open—a morning glory, I think.’

Prissie gave her soft peal of laughter and looked up at the portraits.

‘Which one of these was a poet?’

‘Great-uncle Ernest, I should think. He was the one who liked falling in love. Will you have dinner with me one night?’

‘Why,’ Prissie hesitated. ‘I’ll have to see. The children.’

‘Brigit’s nurse arrives today. She’ll listen for the children. We’ll go somewhere gay. Wear your prettiest dress.’

The prospect of going out with Guy gave Prissie satisfaction rather than pleasure. Pleasure she derived more from the house and its furnishings. The chandelier in the dining-room, a shining shower of crystal, pierced her to the heart with a queer delight. When no one was about she would touch the china, Royal Worcester, Sèvres, Meissen, with caressing fingers. There was a Dresden shepherd and shepherdess that seemed to have come out of one of her childhood dreams. As for the gold plate, it made her think of cathedrals, the rich trappings of bishops, and incense, and an indescribable feeling of almost erotic pleasure went through her. There was a tiny gold angel with outspread wings, like a fat thrush, that she adored. She used to show it to Nicky and Sarah, as an excuse for handling it herself, but Nicky said he would rather have real feathers and Sarah was not even interested.

It was all such waste, she thought indignantly. Here was a house full of treasures which no one appreciated. Brigit loathed and was even frightened of them, the silly thing. Aunt Annabel acted as if they didn’t exist. Guy gave them his cynical glances, and Uncle Saunders remarked occasionally that all that money shouldn’t be tied up in works of art. Lorna, the maid, dusted them and complained about the work they caused. But no one loved them. Except Prissie herself, and already she did in the most overpowering way. She wanted to stay in the house in Montpelier Square for a long long time…

Of course the cats were a bit off, and Mrs Hatchett hadn’t been particularly friendly at first. Prissie had had to use all her tact and charm to become friends, and felt that she had achieved a major triumph when Mrs Hatchett unbent. The maid Lorna presented no problem. She had her round her finger in no time at all. Aunt Annabel, if one were prepared to be sympathetic about her cats, was harmless, and Uncle Saunders all bark and no bite. As for Fergus, he always had been sweet. (Had Guy been serious when he had made that remark about Fergus liking her?)

It hadn’t seemed fair that one girl like Brigit should have so much. But she hadn’t so much now, poor thing. Indeed very little at all…

There was no sense in being unhappy because of someone else’s misfortune. Prissie intended to make the most of her stay in the Montpelier Square house. There was no need to write so many letters, either. But she still enjoyed writing them for the sheer pleasure of putting her thoughts on paper and gloating over them. And because some things she found easier to explain by writing.

So she wrote:

‘I unpacked old toys from cupboards today. There are enough for a royal family. I will let Nicky and Sarah play with only one thing each day. Sarah usually chooses a doll, but Nicky is never sure what he wants. I think he is rather a sissy child. His father wants him broken of nervousness, but how can I do this until he has confidence in me? He is very like his mother. She isn’t sure of me either. Silly of her. But she pretends she is because Fergus likes me, and he’s as innocent as a lamb. Really, he is. Brigit is coming home tomorrow and the nurse arrives today. Aunt Annabel (I call the family by these names because that will make it easier for you to know who I am talking about) says I’m to go to Harrods and buy the children new clothes suitable for London. She says they’re shabby and countrified, but the quality of their clothes, Sarah’s frilled petticoats, Nicky’s coat with the fur collar—I wouldn’t say they were shabby. Why should there be different standards for different children? Oh, and Guy wants to take me to dinner. I think this is a good idea because I will get to know him better. I think he may be important. I know you will agree. But I’ll have to get a new dress. I’ll need about ten pounds’

In the next room, where Nicky and Sarah were playing, Sarah suddenly began to scream. Prissie finished writing hastily:

‘I will see you on Thursday—that is going to be my day off—but sooner if possible. Don’t try to ring me up here.’

She folded the letter, tucked it in her bodice, and went into the nursery.

Nicky had an umbrella and stuck on the end of it a torn flag. He was waving this in Sarah’s face aggressively.

Prissie exclaimed, ‘Nicky!’

As if he had been actually slapped, Nicky dropped the umbrella. He turned a frightened but defiant face to Prissie.

‘Nicky, why are you doing that?’ Prissie asked more gently.

‘It’s what happened when Polly was frightened and Mummy fell off.’

‘How do you know?’ Prissie asked swiftly. ‘You didn’t see.’

Nicky’s eyes fell. ‘Y-yes.’

‘Nicky, you couldn’t have. You were with me and Aunt Annabel and Uncle Saunders at the house. No one saw what happened.’

‘N-no.’

Prissie moved the umbrella away and knelt beside him.

‘Nicky darling, you mustn’t believe nasty things like that. They’re bad for you.’

The gentleness of Prissie’s voice and her arm about him made Nicky’s sensitive lips begin to quiver.

‘Mummy said.’

‘Mummy’s sick, darling. She imagines things. She has nightmares like you do. You know those nasty old nightmares of yours are never true. And you know, too, that you didn’t see a scarf on a stick. It was a handkerchief caught on a branch. Daddy found it.’

‘Yes,’ Nicky muttered.

‘Then you’re a naughty boy to frighten Sarah like that, and to tell lies. But never mind, it was just a game, wasn’t it?’

Prissie drew the child to her and kissed him warmly on his forehead. He was such a funny little scrap, a mass of quivering nerves.

‘Look, I’ve got a surprise for you. I found it this morning.’

‘’Prise,’ said Sarah eagerly, her tears vanished, her fat little hands extended expectantly.

‘Oh, you! You’re the greedy one!’ said Prissie good-humouredly. ‘This is a surprise for Nicky because he’s older than you and he’ll understand it more.’ She went to the toy cupboard and opened it, saying over her shoulder, ‘But you’ll have to be very careful of her, Nicky, because she’s’ very old, and I should think quite valuable. Look!’

She held in her hands a doll, about twelve inches high, made of wood, and dressed as an old woman wearing a wide peaked hat, and a tight-waisted full-skirted black dress. In her hands there was a miniature tray on which were strings of coloured beads, reels of cotton, pins and needles. Her face was pallid, she had a long sharp nose and beady eyes. Her expression, meant to be a smile, had become with the fading of the paint on her lips a curiously malevolent grimace.

‘There! Isn’t she cute,’ said Prissie gaily. ‘She’s a pedlar woman. Look at her wares for sale. What would you like to buy? A pretty string of beads for your little sister?’

Sarah stretched out her hands. ‘Me! Me!’

‘No, not you, greedy. You’re too little to appreciate a doll like this. Although Nicky’s a boy he’ll like her. She’s a friendly soul. She sings, like this…’ In a high sweet voice Prissie began to sing,
‘Oh, my darling, oh my darling, oh, my darling Clementine
… I know, that’s what we’ll call her. Clementine. There, Nicky, don’t you like Clementine? She’ll be your friend and play with you. But you mustn’t tell lies, like seeing things you haven’t seen at all. Clementine always knows when you are lying.’

‘Yes,’ whispered Nicky.

‘Well, take her in your arms.’

But at that Nicky stepped back, his face stiff with distaste. ‘No, no!’

Prissie looked at him in surprise.

‘Why, you funny little creature,’ she laughed. ‘I do believe you’re frightened of her. She isn’t as magic as all that.’

A
T HOME THERE HAD BEEN
a pear tree outside her bedroom window. At this time of year it was garlanded with small fat lime-green pears, and its bark was like a lizard skin. It had character and friendliness. Here, the mulberry tree with its dead limbs had an almost malignant significance. It was like herself, useless. Oh, why had they put her here where she had to lie and look at the mulberry tree all day? That thought had come to Brigit the moment she had been carried into the large airy room that had been prepared for her. But with a great effort she concealed her dismay and tried to be bright and cheerful for Aunt Annabel’s sake.

Aunt Annabel had obviously gone to a lot of trouble with the room, and when Brigit was settled in bed she stood hugging an enormous silver-grey persian cat and beaming at Brigit. With her fly-away grey hair, her fur collar, and her plump crumpled face, one could scarcely tell where the cat ended and Aunt Annabel began.

‘There, dear, you’ll be comfortable here, won’t you? This used to be the master bedroom before we did the alterations upstairs. That was before your time, of course. You’ll be the only one sleeping on this floor, which will make it nice and quiet for you. And it’s also only one flight of stairs from the kitchen so your meals won’t get too cold on the way. Oh, and if you hear any scampering over your head it’s only my cats. I’ve emptied the old studio just above you and it’s entirely theirs. They have great fun in it, the blessings.’ She tucked her chin into the grey persian’s fur, and her eyes looked out soulfully over his head. She was growing a little queer, Brigit thought, but harmlessly queer. And it was pleasant for the cats.

‘How many cats have you at present, Aunt Annabel?’

‘Only six, dear. The two black and whites I found homes for yesterday. Nice clean places with kind people.’

(As if they were children being adopted, Brigit thought, fascinated.)

‘But I quite expect to have another tonight. I caught sight of the most wretched tabby in the park yesterday. I couldn’t lure it to me then, but I shall go back today. It looked quite starved, poor pet.’ She gave Brigit her wide vague smile. ‘I call them my displaced people.’

That one doesn’t look very displaced,’ Brigit commented.

Aunt Annabel snuggled against the cat in her arms.

‘This is Renoir. He’s so fat—you know those fat nudes in the Pitti Palace in Florence—not that this Renoir looks nude. He’s my own treasure. He merely tolerates the waifs and strays. By the way, dear, I’ve given you the Spanish bed. They say Phillip had it brought from Madrid for his bride, and that it belonged to a Spanish infanta. Anyway, it’s very comfortable and it does go with this room. I had rather an argument with that nurse’—Aunt Annabel looked round furtively to see if the nurse were within hearing—‘who said it was much too large and inconvenient to nurse a patient in. But I said you were a Templar and sleep in the Templar bed you should. And, darling, you look absolutely ravishing lying there. If Phillip were to see you I’m sure he’d get you the bed of the Spanish queen herself.’

‘It’s not a bed I want,’ Brigit cried in anguish. ‘It’s my own two feet!’

‘I know, darling, I know. All in good time. Here’s nurse coming, and presently Prissie will want to bring the children in. I think she has them in the park at present, they’ve been so happy and good. And then you must rest before Fergus arrives this evening.’