Sister of the Bride (4 page)

Crisp muslin fluttered at the open window, and through it I could see the tops of trees hazed with the pale green of opening buds. Through a gap in the curtain of green I glimpsed tall chimneys and a jumble of roofs. ‘Is that the Ashmore house I see through the trees?’ I asked.

She swung round on the little petit-point stool before the dressing-table. ‘Yes, but how did you guess?’

‘Bob Pritchard was telling me about it.’

She shrugged and returned to her meticulous application of eye-shadow. ‘I’ll bet he wasn’t too complimentary. He hates Vance like poison.’

‘But why?’ I asked, puzzled. It seemed strange that Bob Pritchard with his placid equable ways should take a dislike to another person without a good reason.

‘Oh, who knows? Perhaps because Vance is rich and important and he isn’t. And then,’ she added slowly, ‘there’s probably another very good reason why there’s no love lost between them—’ She stopped abruptly as though she had been on the point of revealing more than she meant to and with a shrug returned to the mirror.
’

‘From what I gathered Vance Ashmore doesn’t appear to be a particularly attractive character,’ I remarked.

‘Oh, indeed!’ Averil applied lipstick and examined the results critically in the mirror. ‘And what gave you that impression?’

‘Well, Bob Pritchard described him as arrogant and overbearing—’

‘Really, must you take everything Bob says as infallible? I’ve already told you he’s envious of Vance. But in a way it’s true of Vance: he has a certain arrogance. But then why not? He’s master of all he surveys. I’ve no time for people like Bob, easygoing and unambitious: the woman who marries him will wind up in that ghastly red-brick house and be the wife of a
struggling
G.P. until the end of her life.’ The picture would be quite different for the woman who married Vance Ashmore, I thought, and wondered what exactly was the relationship between the master of Ashmore and his tenant.

‘And don’t put on that prissy, censorious air,’ Averil said irritably. ‘It was perfectly natural that Vance should offer me the cottage: after all, he owed it to Clive. He worked himself to the bone for Ashmore Shipping and if he hadn’t been sent on that trip to the Persian Gulf I wouldn’t have been in the position of having to accept charity from Vance.’

‘But you’ve always hated the country: couldn’t you have taken a job and stayed in town?’

Averil got abrupt
l
y to her feet. ‘Really, why this interest in my welfare?’ she asked angrily. ‘And anyway, suppose I am interested in Vance, what about it? You don’t expect me to remain a sorrowing widow to the end of my days. It’s the sort of role, I suppose, that you’d like to see me in: it would satisfy that sentimental heart of yours to imagine my heart was in the grave with Clive. Well, for your information, my marriage was a mistake in the first place. Oh, Clive was handsome and dashing-looking, but it was only a front. It was too late when I discovered that he was only an
other
Bob Pritchard, content to slog along in the same old rut.’

‘Then you find Vance Ashmore more your type of man?’ I asked dryly.

‘Let’s say I’ve a feeling that absence might
make
the heart grow fonder: that’s why I jumped at Sheila’s offer in the first place. I’ve a feeling that by the
time
I return from the sunny Caribbean Vance will have come up to scratch. Not, of course, that I’d turn up my nose at a little
dalliance
under the tropical moon, but what I feel for Vance is a different matter. Vance can offer me all the things I’ve ever wanted out of life. I’m sick of scrimping and saving. I’ll send Rodney to a really decent school, not that seedy little preparatory school he goes to now. I’ll have decent clothes and a place in London. In fact, Vance is the type of man I should have married in the first place.’

‘
What about Mrs. Ashmore? According to Bob Pritchard she
’
s a bit of a dragon: she may have different ideas
.’

She slipped into a light travelling coat before answering. ‘Yes, the present mistress of Ashmore is rather a harridan: she dresses as though she were twenty years younger and loads herself down with masses of jewellery. She sees herself as the leading social fight in these parts and has her finger in all the local affairs. I’m not foolish enough to cross swords with her, for I know I wouldn’t stand a chance. After all, I’m only the tenant of Cherry Cottage and she’s used to having the whole district fawning on her and cutting each other’s throats to get an invitation to her ghas
tl
y parties. She sees herself as a swinging hostess and I play up to her: butter wouldn’t melt in little Averil’s mouth. I drink in every word she utters as though it were a pearl of wisdom. In fact, she’s now quite prepared to consider me as a suitable daughter-in-law. But just wait till Vance carries me over the threshold of Ashmore House as its new mistress and that old witch will be in for a surprise.’ Averil’s clear blue eyes narrowed coldly as she visualised her revenge. ‘I’ll make life as miserable for her as she would make it for me if I didn’t toady to her. I don’t see you getting on particularly well with her: you can be so frightfully forthright at times, Esther.’

I looked at her in surprise. ‘But why on earth should I come in contact with Mrs. Ashmore in the first place? From what you say of her I imagine she’d hardly be aware of my existence.’

‘Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong. Warefield is frightfully parochial in ways: everyone’s bursting with curiosity about newcomers. As soon as I told her you were taking over while I was on the cruise, she as good as gave a royal command that you should call on her. I expect she wants to look you over and see if you’re suitable material to add to her list of hangers-on.’

‘Well, I’ve no intention of letting the redoubtable Mrs. Ashmore look me over,’ I said firmly, ‘and I can’t understand how she could imagine I would agree to such an invitation.’

Averil packed her handbag with quick expert movements. ‘Because, of course, she’s an Ashmore and like her son Vance, lord of all she surveys, which, may I remind you, includes Cherry Cottage.’

‘Well, he may own Cherry Cottage, but he certainly doesn’t own me.’ I felt angry and antagonistic towards this man who apparently had such high-handed mailers towards his tenants.

For a moment Averil paused and considered me as though, for the first time since my arrival, I had really impinged. ‘Do try to co-operate, Esther. If you stand on your dignity you’ll only make things difficult for me. If you deliberately make yourself unpleasant she’ll complain to Vance. Not that he’s tied to her apron
-
strings, for I can’t imagine Vance being under any woman’s thumb, but I don’t want the wrong atmosphere created.’

‘You’re the one who’s keen on Vance, not me! I don’t intend to act the sycophant, just to keep Mrs. Ashmore happy,’ I replied obstinately.

Averil gave the slight dismissing shrug that was characteristic. ‘Oh, very well, if you’re going to be pig-headed about it! Anyway, I don’t imagine he’s your type—or you his, for that matter.’

Just then there was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and Rodney burst into the room. He regarded his mother blankly for a moment, then his pale, rather pudgy face screwed up ominously and he gave a howl of rage and frustration. ‘You said you weren’t going till tomorrow, and when I came in from the dairy I saw your cases packed downstairs.’

‘Hush, darling,’ Averil said soothingly, completely unperturbed. ‘Mummy has to leave sooner than she expected. But Aunt Esther has come to take care of you while I’m gone. After all, it won’t be for so very long—only three weeks. And I want you to promise you’ll be a good boy while I’m away, won’t you?’

Rodney’s pale rather protuberant eyes slowly swivelled in my direction and he set his jaw mulishly. ‘But I don’t want to stay with Aunt Esther,’ he said flatly and, reverting to his grievance, added, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going? Then I wouldn’t have gone to the farm for the milk.’

‘Oh, did you fetch the milk, dear?’ Averil said vaguely.

If it was an effort to distract Rodney, she succeeded only too well. ‘Yes, I did,’ he replied belligerently. ‘But old Mrs. Clarke at the dairy said I was a young varmint and a limb of Satan.’

‘You weren’t being mischievous, were you, darling?’ Averil crossed to the window and scanned the lane, her mind obviously on the expected taxi.

‘Not really,’ Rodney returned reluctantly. ‘I only put a little stick in the milk separator to see if it would grind it up.’

‘Oh, Rodney, you didn’t! When you know how cantankerous old Mrs. Clarke can be!’ For the first time, Averil seemed really perturbed by her offspring’s activities. ‘Now she’ll rush to tell Mrs
.
Ashmore, and she was quite sarcastic and unpleasant to me the time you pulled up one of her prize rose bushes: she kept bringing it up time and again until I thought I’d scream.’

‘Well, Mrs. Clarke had no right to call me a limb of Satan,’ Rodney reiterated.

‘She certainly had not,’ Averil agreed, ‘and I shall report her insolence to Vance when I come back. It’s time Mrs. Clarke learned her place!’ Averil set her lips firmly and I could see that the luckless Mrs. Clarke would have cause to regret her remarks when Averil became Mrs. Ashmore.

For the first time Rodney looked faintly apprehensive. ‘Oh no, don’t bother. It doesn’t make any difference what the old horror calls me, and anyway Vance will probably back her up and be cross. I think he hates me,’ he added darkly.

Laughingly his mother ruffled his hair. ‘Why, you
silly little goose, Vance doesn’t take the smallest notice of you. But I shall certainly mention Mrs. Clarke’s impertinence to him: it can’t be allowed to continue.’

Averil then was very sure of her power over the enigmatic Vance Ashmore, and I wondered for a moment if she fully understood
him or
was merely relying on her beauty and powers of attraction to get her way.

There was the sound of a car drawing up outside the gate.

Averil glanced out. ‘I must rush, darling,’ she said gaily. I could see her eyes sparkling with anticipation of the pleasures ahead. She gave him a gay little kiss on the top of his head. ‘Now be good, as I said, and don’t give Aunt Esther any trouble, and I’ll bring you something nice when I come back.’

With a quick wave in my direction she ran downstairs and we watched from the window as she got into the taxi and was driven away.

CHAPTER THREE

RODNEY, his chin on the window-ledge, sat gazing sullenly after the taxi and refused to reply when I mildly suggested he come down and show me where the food supplies and kitchen utensils were stored.

As he showed no signs of co-operating I went down myself and rummaged around until I had a fairly good idea where everything was kept. It was evident
that
Mrs. McAlister, in spite of her propensity to gossip, was an excellent housekeeper: I dreaded to think of the chaos that would have met me if Averil had been in sole charge, for she had the ability to create the wildest disorder when it came to domestic matters. I stoked the fire with beech logs which I found in a basket beside the range and soon they were crackling cheerfully behind the bars. Then I began to prepare vegetable soup from the store of young spring vegetables I found in a small adjoining outhouse. Behind the cottage was an orchard and the carmine and snowy white blossoms vied with the more pink and more ornate blossoms of the flowering cherries that had evidently given the cottage its name.

I was standing at the table scraping slender juicy young carrots when Rodney wandered into the kitchen and eyed my activities sulkily. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Making vegetable soup,’ I replied calmly.

‘I don’t like vegetable soup,’ he vouchsafed belligere
nt
ly, then immediately asked, ‘Did you bring a present?
’

The abruptness of the transition didn’t surprise me. I was well accustomed to Rodney’s self-centredness. I shook my head. I could well imagine that Rodney was accustomed to his mother’s friends paying tribute in an effort to ensure his co-operation, but I had no intention of starting off on the wrong foot with my young nephew.

He frowned ominously at the information and scuffed the worn tiles with the toe of his shoe. ‘When we lived in London, Mummy’s friends always brought me presents.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ I said dryly. ‘But then I’m afraid I’m not rich.’

For a moment his face took on an expression of un
-
childish slyness. ‘We’ll be rich when Mummy marries Vance and then I’ll be able to buy anything I like.’

I wondered with a feeling of distaste how many conversations Rodney had overheard and how much he really understood of the conflicting information that must be confusing his young mind.

He climbed on to the old-fashioned horsehair sofa that stood underneath the window and surveyed my activities morosely. ‘I wish we hadn’t come here: I hate the country: there
’
s nothing to do.’

‘Nothing to do?
’
I smiled. ‘With the whole of the grounds of Ashmore House to run about in? I
think
you’re a very lucky little boy.
’

‘Vance doesn
’
t like me to go near the house,
’
he replied, ‘not even to feed the ducks in the lake.
’

‘From what
I’
ve heard of your exploits I’m not surprised,’ I told
him.

For a moment his face took on a lost and bewildered expression that, in spite of myself, I found touching. It was typical of all I had heard of Vance Ashmore, I thought angrily. Lord of all he surveyed, he would no doubt object to a grubby small boy invading his domain, no matter how innocent his reasons.

But almost immediately the sly expression returned to Rodney’s face. ‘When he marries Mummy I’ll live at Ashmore House and he won’t be able to stop me.’

Where had the child got these ideas? I wondered. Surely whatever lay between Averil and Vance Ashmore hadn’t progressed to the stage where they were openly planning marriage! Besides, Clive had been dead barely six months. I finished the vegetables in thoughtful silence and placed the pot of soup at the back of the range.

As Rodney seemed satisfied to sprawl on the sofa scanning the coloured pictures of a comic, I decided to take another look at my new domain. I found that upstairs, apart from Averil’s bedroom, which would now be mine, there were two other smaller rooms with the same steeply angled oaken beams and air of creaking antiquity. Part of the charm of the cottage lay in the fact that the rooms were not on the same level: two shallow steps led up to Rodney’s room and the third bedroom lay at the end of a short twisting corridor. The only incongruous note was a modern bathroom in gleaming tiles of black and turquoise.

I carried my cases up to my room and began to unpack with a growing sense of happiness and satisfaction about my decision to come to Warefield: except for the cawing of crows in the trees and the sound of the grandfather clock that stood opposite my door all was silence. The offices of Wentworth & Judd seemed aeons away and even Miss Palmer’s precise little figure fussing through the files seemed to be more a creature of fantasy than of fact. I had made the right decision, I thought happily.

As I placed a pile of handkerchiefs in the drawer of a walnut William-and-Mary tallboy there came a blood-curdling scream from the direction of the kitchen. It was Rodney, I realized, and my first reaction was that I should ignore him. I had had experience of his propensity to dramatics and no doubt he was already trying to test out just how indulgent I intended to be. Yet there was something about those screams that struck chill to my heart and pushing the drawer too roughly I rushed down the narrow twisting stairs.

I dashed into the kitchen and stood rooted to the floor at the scene, that awaited me: the soup pot had been overturned on the range, its contents trickling on to the tiled floor: beside it Rodney stood, clutching his arm, his mouth open in a scream. It was only too obvious what had happened: typically taking advantage of my absence upstairs to investigate the contents of the pot, he had tipped it over himself.

Panic-stricken, I rushed back upstairs and dashed into the bathroom. While exploring the cottage I had noticed an enamelled medicine cabinet to one side of the bath and now I pulled it open and scrabbled frantically inside. At that moment I was too upset to realize how incongruous the contents were, and it was only later I was to question how Averil had managed to acquire such luxuries: flagons of expensive perfumes, bath oils and cosmetics from the exclusive Paris houses. All I could think of at the time was the agony the child downstairs must be suffering, and it was with a sigh of relief that I discovered at the very back of the cabinet a small dust-covered tin of Vaseline. I dashed
downstairs again and applied it as best I could
:
Rodney certainly gave me no co-operation, but danced up and down, yelling.

How on earth had he managed to bu
rn
himself so badly? I wondered. I distinctly remembered placing the pot at the back of the range and in fact it hadn’t been there so very long: the soup must have been only beginning to heat up while I was settling into Averil’s room, yet Rodney’s yells seemed to proclaim that he
was in great pain.

To my dismay the Vaseline didn’t seem to give him any relief, and as I desperately raked my mind as to what further steps I should take I suddenly remembered Bob Pritchard and his jocose offer. Well, I thought a little wryly, he’s going to find me taking
him
at his word sooner than he could have expected.

Telling Rodney,
‘I’ll
be back shortly,’ I raced down the path and out on to the lane. There was only one
thing
for it—distasteful as it might be, I’d have to stop a passing motorist on the main road and ask for his assistance. The idea was not particularly attractive, but, on the other hand, considering the pain Rodney was in, I had no alternative. It was obvious he needed medical help as soon as possible.

I reached the end of the lane panting and breathless, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long before a car passed. To my relief almost immediately a powerful car approached around a curve in the road. Without thinking of the danger I ran out and frantically signalled it to stop. The car skidded to a halt: I ran after it as quickly as I could and found myself being surveyed with cold distaste by the lean saturnine features of the driver.

‘If you’re thinking of hitching a ride you’re very
much mistaken. I don’t take hikers,’ he said gratingly.

Wordlessly I shook my head, too breathless to explain.

‘
What the devil do you think you’re doing anyway? Are you trying to get yourself killed?’ he demanded.

If I hadn’t been in such a panic I might have resented the contemptuous, authoritative tones, but at the time all I could think of was Rodney and the guilt I felt at the fact that he had met with a serious accident almost immediately on my taking over at Cherry Cottage.