The Fortunes of Springfield (9 page)

David was not home for lunch that day, and Caroline was grateful for the respite. He was at market, and, as usually happened on market day, he would lunch at the Crown with Duncan and Roger Demister and other farmers. Duncan, she thought suddenly. Why couldn’t I have felt this for Duncan? How easy, how beautifully simple it would have been! What an ideal basis for a wonderful marriage. Why can’t things work out like that sometimes, so easily, so perfectly right?

Of course, she told herself later, when the force of that first flood of emoti
o
n had subsided, it is an infatuation. It can’t be anything else. David Springfield is so entirely new to your experience, Caroline.

It was true that she was not used to the society of men. She had lived in a household of women, and there was a strangeness even about going into David’s room to clean it; to pick that warm dressing-gown up from a chair and hang it behind the door; to put away his clothes and arrange his brushes and personal possessions on the lowboy; a strangeness to enter any bedroom and smell cigarette smoke as she did in David’s. And then, from that household of women, to come into one lived in by such a man as David was too great a contrast. David, with his dark good looks, his forceful ways, his absorption in whatever he was doing, his brisk, decided voice, was enough to infatuate any green girl: “For you are a green girl, Caroline, where men are concerned.” And she warned herself to beware of this infatuation; to think instead of Duncan and his offer of marriage, the security and comfort he could offer her, the steady affection. Even steady affection seemed a wonderful state to Caroline, for she had never even accepted that as a right, or taken it for granted. She had been delighted that Mrs. Webster had grown so fond of her; she had even been gratefully surprised to know that Annie approved of her so much; the steady flow of affection that came to most people from family and home, she had never known. So that Duncan’s offer seemed more than she deserved, and to aspire to a David was madness—asking altogether too much.

So she would do her best to put thoughts of David out of her mind, and, although she thought that that would be difficult, she could not know how nearly impossible she was going to find it.

She was in the garden one afternoon, trying to clear the grass from what had once been a thriving herbaceous border, when Patricia found her there.

“Don’t think,” said Patricia at once, “that I am going to be a constant nuisance to you, Caroline,
but
...
”

“I certainly don’t think that,” smiled Caroline. “I am always pleased to see you.”

“Oh good. Don’t let me stop you working. In fact, I’ll help you, shall I?”

“Not in that suit, and those shoes and stockings. I’m glad to stop for a minute—it’s back-aching work.”

“I came over to offer to look after the children when you want time off. You never seem to have free time, and everybody needs a little. It would be a pleasure to come and take over now and then, when you want to go
off.”

“Well, that
is
kind of you.”

“Not at all. After all, it’s nice to be useful to somebody sometimes.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Caroline, a little embarrassed, “I have just come to some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Davis about my time off. It seems terrible to throw your offer back at you—it was so good of you to make it.”

For a moment, Patricia was very much annoyed, for she had thought this up as a wonderful way of seeing more of David; but she did not show her annoyance, and said smilingly:

“I should have thought Mrs. Davis would have been busy enough as it is.”

“She is. I believe she would like to know there was somebody else who would do it. But it would not always be convenient for you.”

“Oh, usually it would, I expect. You must tell me what times you would like to have.”

“Or
you
tell me when you are most likely to be free.”

They haggled over it for a while, pleasantly and laughingly, and then Patricia, refusing to hinder Caroline further by accepting tea, went to find David, ostensibly to see if he approved of her occasionally taking over the chi
l
dren.

She found him at the stables. He had just ridden his favourite grey home from Demister’s farm, and was looking handsome and immaculate in his best riding breeches and jacket, his boots gleaming like old mahogany.

“Ha
llo
, Patricia,” he called. “Nice to see you. I won’t keep
you a moment.”

He came out of the stable,
a
dmiring
her with his dark eyes—for she never came to Springfield without having taken particular care over her appearance. “What brings you over today?” he asked.

“Couldn’t it be just a friendly visit?” she asked teasingly.

“Quite the nicest kind of visit,” he approved.

“But it wasn’t,” she added.

“Oh. Dashed again,” he said,
smiling.

“I really came over to see Caroline first; and then to ask your approval of something I want to do?”

“My approval? Whatever would justify me in approving or disapproving of anything you wanted to do?”

“The children.”

“Ah, it concerns the children. Well, what is it?”

She explained to him the fact that Caroline was able to have so little free time that she had offered to look after the children sometimes for her; but that she preferred to have David’s sanction before doing
any
thing
definite.

“Well, of course you have my sanction. I
think
ifs very good of you; and you will do the children a lot of good. I hope Miss Hearst doesn’t feel I’ve been hard on her.”

“Good heavens, no. You wouldn’t hear Caroline complaining. It’s just that we all have a fondness for Caroline, you know; we have all felt so sorry for her in the past, and we would like to think that she would have good chances in life. But if she can’t have free time, she is so limited; and now that Duncan seems to be so interested in her—well
...
”

“Duncan Wescott?
Is
he interested in Miss Hearst?”

Patricia looked at him and laughed.

“Now, now, I’m not going to gossip. Nor am I
go
ing
to start matchmaking—though I can tell you that a good many people in the village
have
already started matc
hmaking
! But if there is anything in it, well, it would be a marvellous
thing
for Caroline, wouldn’t it? Duncan’s farm so prosperous, and such a lovely house; and, after all, Duncan himself is very handsome and distinguished, don’t you think?”

“But, good Lord, he’s too old for her. She’s just a girl.”

“But rather a serious girl after all.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you could hear her romping with the little girls sometimes, when she puts them to bed. They probably don’t know that I can hear them, but I can.”

“Well, anyway, she’s alone in the world, and she has got her future to think about, and if
you
don’t approve, everybody else does.”

“I should
think
I don’t approve,” said David. “Who is coming to look after the house and children if we lose Miss Hearst?”

“I’m sure there are other people who would be happy to take on the job,” said Patricia quietly, and he was aware of another meaning to her words, although, with this new thing about Duncan and Miss Hearst in his mind, he did not stop then to examine it. He went on: “Just when everything is going so well. And she is doing wonders in the house
.
”

“Well,” said Patricia lightly, having put into his mind what she wanted to have there, “you needn’t be so worried. Their friendship may never come to anything: we don’t know how far it has progressed. We only know the rumours that fly round; and even if it did, it
migh
t be months and months yet. Only I feel that Caroline should have her chances.”

“Well, it’s very kind of you,” said David.

They walked together over the field towards the house, where Patricia had left her car. Evidently David’s mind was still running on what she had told
him,
for after a while he said:

“I don’t know why you imagine that there are other people who would be happy to take on this job. I must say nobody before Miss Hearst made much of a success of it.”

Patricia stood with her hand
o
n the door handle of the car. She looked at
him
and smiled.

“My dear David,” she said,
“
you
didn’t live here then. And now you do. That, I think, is the answer.” And with that she left him, starting the car and waving gaily to him as she went away down 'the pot-holed drive. David stood on the drive and watched her go, her words clear in his mind. His dark eyes were thoughtful but inscrutable as he stood, tapping his riding crop against his other hand, until the car was out of
sight
.
Then he turned and went into the house, still thoughtful.

CHAPTER
SIX

CAROLINE was in the bedroom
o
f the two little girls, brushing Babs’ short hair, while Wendy conscientiously brushed her own. Both children were considerably improved since Caroline’s arrival. They had a well
-
cared-for look instead of the air of
sligh
t neglect they had previously worn; their hair was short and
shining
instead of straggling and rough; and they were beginning to take a pride in themselves. But the chief difference was in their ma
nn
er and outlook. They now had complete confidence in Caroline, talked freely to her, did not expect to be constantly punished, and even, such was their emancipation, made demands on her.

“Will you,” asked Babs, submitting with docility to the hairbrush, “tell me a story when I am in bed?”

“A short one, perhaps,” said Caroline.

“And me?” asked Wendy.

“That would make two stories.”

“But only one each,” pointed out Wendy.

Caroline laughed.

“You are an artful little monkey,” she said, and Wendy took this as a compliment and hugged Caroline from behind, nearly strangling her in the process.

“I want the story of the lit
tl
e girl who had a piebald pony,” said Babs.

“And I want the story of the little girl who went to stay with the wicked aunt and the naughty cousins, and had to do all the work,” said Wendy.

“The longest one you could think of,” said Caroline, knowing that she would not be permitted to omit one word.

The hair-brushing finished, the dressing-gowns hung on their hooks and the slippers put neatly by the beds, the two children wriggled their way between the sheets and waited expectantly for their stories. Caroline liked this time of the day, partly because when the children were in bed she had some breathing space, but chiefly because when these two little girls were in bed, clean, shining, hanging on her words with gleeful expectancy, they were adorable. They were forgetting Miss Church and her predecessors; they were beginning to take the present state of affairs for granted,
an
d this was what Caroline wanted. That they should feel secure. And secure they certainly were now, sitting up in their beds, quite absorbed in the little girl with the piebald pony. It was gratifying to Caroline to see them so.

Terence, however, was still a different matter. His memory was not only much longer; he not only continued to smart under many injustices of the past; but he seemed determined to let nobody get under his defences. He was a sullen, solitary little boy, determined to keep himself to himself, and all Caroline’s overtures had been firmly rejected. Perhaps he had learned never to make advances, never to accept advances made to
him. He had got into the way of being sullen and it was difficult to change.

Caroline went along to his room when she had finished with Babs and Wendy. He had been told to get undressed, but she did not expect that he had done so, and she was right. He was on the floor, fully dressed, playing with a few models he had made. He was lately always concerned with little pieces of paper and cardboard, string and glue; but all his efforts were concealed, and his models immediately hidden when Caroline appeared: This evening, however, he had forgotten she was coming, and there were too many models for him to hide at once; and although he grabbed up a few and threw them roughly into his cupboard, one or two
remained
on the floor. One of them was
a tiny
covered wagon like the ones used in the treks across America a century ago; and Caroline, who had recently bought Terence an adventure story book dealing with this period, was delighted to see that he had taken good notice of it. She picked up the model.

It was crudely made, but remarkably lively. Corks had been cut up to make rickety wheels, and match
-
sticks for axles: matchboxes, paper and glue had
ma
de
the body of the wagon.

Caroline said:

“What a lovely covered wagon, Terence.”

He said roughly:

“Give it to me. It’s
min
e.”

She handed it over at once,
saying
only:

“When you have finished it, Terence, you must paint it. But now I’m afraid you must get to bed.”

“I’m not going to bed. I’m going to finish my model.”

“You know, Terence, you will never get anywhere by speaking to people rudely like that. If you were to say, in a polite voice, that you would like a little more time to finish what you were doing, I would probably let you have it. But nobody will give anything to a boy who speaks so rudely. Now, put the model away and get ready for bed.”

He dropped the model on the floor. Caroline said: “Pick it up, Terence, and put it away.”

By way of answer, he trod the wagon underfoot,
grinding
it savagely. It was completely ruined, and suddenly and very fleetingly such a dolorous expression passed over his face that Caroline decided not to be angry.

“All your good work wasted,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “Such a pity. You could have made a whole lot of wagons, like the pictures in the book, and had a trek across America. With forts, too.”

A brief interest flickered in his eyes and was gone.

“If I had a lot of men in covered wagons, I’d make them shoot everybody,” he said. “If I had a covered wagon and a gun,
I’d
shoot everybody. And then I’d be the leader.”

“That wouldn’t be much good if everybody else was dead,” said Caroline matter-of-factly. “A leader has to have somebody to lead. Now, come along,
bed
.”

Reluctantly, he got himself to bed. Just before she went out of his room, he said to her:

“When I’d shot everybody, I would shoot all the Indians. And then I’d come back and shoot all the awful old people in England.”

“My goodness,” said Caroline mildly, “you are going to have a time of it. Good night, Terence.”

“Good night,” he said, forgetting to ignore her, wrapped up as he was in his dreams of conquest
.
She went out of the room thinking that she had got more out of
him
than ever before, thinking that if he wanted to vent his spleen on cowboys and Indians it was better than venting it on his sisters and
school friends
. She wondered if she could get at him through his love of modelling. She was still convinced that there was a loving
and lovable boy underneath this defiant facade. She stood at the bottom of the stairs lost in thought.

David came out of the mor
n
ing-room and saw her there. In the brief interval before she broke out of her thoughts and smiled at him, he had time to notice her. She had taken off the white apron
she usually put over her dress when she put the girls to bed, and was wearing a dress of rather vivid blue—a brighter colour than she was accustomed to wear. She had made it herself and was proud of it. Certainly, David thought that it was attractive. He said:

“You remind me of a game that was played in my childhood, called Statues. Why so still and so pensive?”

“I was thinking about Terence,” she replied. She looked up into his dark eyes, but he saw that she was still thinking only of Terence. “I believe,” she went on,
“
that in spite of the way he chokes off advances, he
w
ants somebody to take an interest in him. But I don’t think I’m quite the right person. Mr. Springfield, when I asked if I could have my own way with them, I didn’t mean that I wanted you to leave them entirely to me. It’s all right for the little girls, but I
think
it would be a marvellous thing if you took an interest in Terence.”

“But I do,” he assured her.

“But a more practical interest. He doesn’t ride yet, although he is eight. Couldn’t you teach him to ride, and perhaps get him a pony? Couldn’t you, once or twice, take him out with you? I’m sure it would do him good.”

“I’ll do what I can to help,” said David. “Though you mustn’t expect too much, Miss Hearst. There’s still a lot to be done on the farm.”

He did not mean to put her off, but his words had a curiously damping effect on Caroline. She thought that it was a polite way of refusing her request, and as she went back into the kitchen, she told herself, that she must do her best for Terence without David’s help. It was true that there was plenty of work to be done on the farm; that putting Gerald’s mistakes right, putting into good heart land that had been neglected, doubled the usual farm work. It was also to be remembered that David was a single man. He had no wife or children, and he could not be expected to have for these three the love that he would have had for his own. Nevertheless, she was disappointed.

“I shall simply have to manage them by myself,” she decided.

Yet when she walked one afternoon to meet the two elder children from school, with Babs prancing beside her and
d
arting
into the hedgerows and on to the banks to pick primroses, she saw David riding with Patricia Close, and wondered why, if he could find time to ride with Patricia, he could not occasionally spare a little for Terence. His interest in Patricia, presumably, was greater than in Terence.

This set going a new train of thought. Patricia and David? The thought hurt her, but in spite of that, she realized that most people would regard it as an ideal match. Riding together, they made a handsome couple. They waved their crops in Caroline’s direction, but did not stop to speak. The more she thought of them together, the more points she could see in favour of such a match. Patricia was twenty-eight, old enough and responsible enough to come into a household with three children in it, and not be completely put off. Yet she was still young enough, attractive enough to appeal to David, and their families had long been friends. They had background, tastes, habits in common. “So the sooner you get over
your
infatuation, Caroline, the better for you.” But she was not quite so sure that it was an infatuation any longer.

On a wonderfully warm afternoon of spring, Caroline was sitting in the garden with the two little girls when Duncan arrived to see them. Caroline was stitching new curtains for the doll’s house, and Wendy was enthusiastically but laboriously putting rather large stitches into a rather small bedspread. The doll’s house had been unearthed in the attic. None of the children had known it was there, and it was certainly the finest and grandest doll’s house that Caroline had ever seen. David remembered it well—it had been in the family for generations, he said. With his permission, Caroline had brought it down, and, to the delight of Babs and Wendy, had cleaned it, repainted it, mended it where necessary, and was now busy re-equipping it. Some craftsman, probably an enthusiastic amateur, had in the past made some beautiful miniature furniture for it; but much of it was broken, and Caroline amused the girls, in their leisure hours, by carefully glueing the broken pieces together.

When Duncan arrived to find them in a happy group on the still overgrown terrace, Caroline was stitching the little pieces of brocade. She would have got up, but he restrained her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Stay where you are. It’s good here in the sun. I’ll join you for a few minutes. You’re very busy.”

“I’m making a bedspread,” announced Wendy proudly, and proceeded to tell
him all about the doll’s house. When, tired of her sewing, she wandered away with Babs, looking for flowers to pick, Duncan said: “You haven’t been to visit me lately, Caroline.”

“You can see why,” she said. “I am always busy.”

“I can see that I shall have to pursue
you.
But I want you to come to dinner next Saturday. Can
that
be arranged, do you think?”

She looked up at him, slightly startled.

“To dinner?” she asked. And all sorts of problems presented themselves to her. “Is it a dinner party?”

“Only a small one,” he said.

“Oh.” She paused. “Mightn’t it be a little—difficult?”

“In what way?”

“Surely you know. People might not expect to meet me at your dinner parties.”

He smiled.

“No problems, Caroline. These are not neighbours—you don’t know them and they don’t know you; but I am very anxious that they should because they are dear friends of mine, and I want them to be your friends too.”

“It’s very kind of you, Duncan.”