The Truant Spirit (17 page)

“I’ll wash them up,” said Sabina quickly, glad to get out of the room, and she lifted the tray and took it out to the kitchen.

“It’s not fair, Brock,” Bunny said as the door closed. He raised his eyebrows but did not reply, and she stood there, her slightly protuberant teeth pressing into her underlip.

“I heard from Mrs. Lamb this morning” she said. “She seems well satisfied with the progress of her arrangements.

Are you going to allow this farce to continue?”

“Perhaps it is ceasing to be a farce,” he said gently. “You never did care for intrigue, did you, Bunny?”

“I’ve most likely seen too much of it,” she replied shortly. “I’ve grown fond of that child, Brock. I wouldn’t like to see her get hurt.”

“And what about me? I always thought I was your

favourite pupil.”

“Oh, you!” she exclaimed, sounding unusually exasperated. “You can look after yourself—you’re a grown man.” “True,” he admitted. “But what about those little lectures you are fond of reading me?”

“I’ve told you before,” she said, “that there are other ways of fulfilment than casual affairs, and Sabina is not like the others.”

“No, she isn’t, but that should please, rather than alarm you.” She undid her coat with fingers which suddenly shook a little.

“If I thought for a moment you had more serious intentions-- ” she began and he grinned at her.

“What would you do? Acquaint Madame that her scheme was in danger? Advise her to bring M. Bergerac speedily to the point?”

“Oh, you’re impossible!” she exclaimed, sounding really cross. “If I’d known—if I’d thought—”

“But you did think, my dissembling Bunny,” he retorted gently. “You had one or two schemes of your own, I think, when you agreed to take in our little waif and stray. Now you are involved in intrigue whether you like it or not.”

She stood there for another moment, indecisive and thoroughly upset, then she quickly left the room to remove her outdoor clothes.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SLEET fell in the night, but by morning it had turned to rain, and Sabina wakened to see the graves in the little churchyard once more uncovered and desolate in the steady downpour. It was not a cheerful sight, she thought, and shivered.

She had not slept well. She had lain for a long time, looking at Brock’s mountains in the lamplight, and remembering that Bunny had told her they were his only love. Had he known when he kissed her that then she would grow up; that never again could she laugh at the rich M. Bergerac and accept his being with such childlike unconcern? Was she, away from Tante’s and Marthe’s stem seclusion, in danger of falling in love with the first experienced stranger who had shown her a little attention, or was she simply like the young chambermaids in the hotel who lost their heads to anyone because, after all, it was necessary to be loved and needed?

She dropped to sleep at last with her lamp still burning, and by morning the oil had run out.

“I’m sorry,” she told Bunny nervously, for going to sleep with one’s light on had been a crime in Marthe’s thrifty eye. “I wasn’t reading, I—I just went to sleep before I expected to.”

Bunny observed the shadows under her eyes but made no comment. She herself was quiet and uncommunicative all that day, and by evening it became evident that she was in for a cold.

“Oh, dear!” she said with exasperation; “and I get such bad ones. I’m afraid—I’m very much afraid it may mean taking to my bed.”

But she fought hard to remain up and about, as if, thought Sabina guiltily, she was loath to leave her two guests unchaperoned by day. The house reeked of eucalyptus, and Bunny’s nose got pinker and her speech thicker and the next day she was obliged to give in.

“It’s inconsiderate to spread your germs about,” Brock told her unfeelingly. “You’ll only pass them on to Sabina and me.”

“But there’s the cooking,” she protested feebly.

“Can you cook, Sabina?” Brock asked.

“W-ell—” Sabina began doubtfully, but at sight of Bunny’s poor mottled face she said quickly: “Of course. We’ll manage, Bunny dear, and I shall enjoy bringing up your meals on neat little trays with pretty cloths.”

“Well, dear, if you think you
could
manage for a day or two perhaps I would be wise ... Mrs. Cheadle is coming in the mornings again and—I really do long to get my head down on a pillow ... ”

Sabina took charge at once, delighted that she could be of help. She insisted on lighting a fire in Bunny’s room and sent Brock out for coal and wood, despite the governess’s protest that this was an extravagance; bottles were filled and hot drinks prepared and by the time Bunny was tucked up in bed she looked quite dazed.

“This is spoiling,” she said, watching the fire, which had not been lighted for years, burning brightly in the grate. “I’ve never had anyone to make a fuss of me before—it’s rather nice.”

Sabina regarded her with affection. Clad in one of her old-fashioned night-gowns and a spencer, with her greying hair in two wispy plaits on her shoulders, she looked quite different and somehow a little pathetic.

“That’s how I felt when you looked after me,” the girl replied gently. “We should do a bit of spoiling of each other— we’re a solitary pair.”

“But not you child,” said Bunny seriously. “You have all your life before you and you are young and very charming. And Sabina—”

But Bunny finished ambiguously:

“You’ll see that Brock is comfortable? A man does not like too much chatter with his meals or—or too much sitting in the firelight with nothing to do.”

Sabina’s smile was tender.

“Dear Bunny,” she said, “I won’t worry him with my—my company more than he wants.”

Bunny patted her hand.

“That’s a good child ... though I did not mean ... I was not implying ...”

“Don’t worry about us,” Sabina said. “Brock, as you should know, makes his own rules.”

“Yes ... that is what I’m afraid of. ” Bunny murmured, but she was too stupefied with her cold to finish, and Sabina left her to sleep.

She went downstairs, unsure herself as to what the hours alone with Brock might hold. Bunny’s presence was a check on thoughts and embarrassing silences, and Brock, if he thought at all of that other evening, had neither sought Sabina’s company nor introduced dangerous topics of conversation.

But for the moment meals were a far more alarming prospect than possible encounters, for Sabina had never so much as boiled an egg. She and Tante had always lived hotel life and if extra cooking had been needed Marthe had taken charge with scant appreciation for the efforts of others. How and with what was Sabina to cook Brock’s supper tonight?

He found her an hour later sitting on the kitchen table surrounded by cookery books. Her small face looked more pointed than ever and her eyes were enormous with anxiety as she feverishly scanned the pages of the book in her hand.

“Well!” he observed, “it looks as if you’re planning a Lucullan feast. What’s it to be—Boeuf a la Mode or Sole Bonne Femme?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said hurriedly. “What do you particularly like?”

“Well, now, let me see ... grouse—no, that’s out of season ... I have it! How about Arroz Paella alla Valenciana?”

“What on earth’s that?”

“A most delectable dish from Spain with exciting in-gredients—chicken, lobsters, pimentos, saffron—and, of course, rice.”

“Chicken
and
lobster?” protested Sabina her eyes wide with dismay. “Anyway, we haven’t any of those things.”

“A pity—still it can wait till another day. Well, let’s be more humble. What about risotto? That’s a simple peasant dish that can be made with practically anything.” “Risotto ... risotto ...” Sabina muttered to herself and referred feverishly to the index at the end of the book, but this failed her, for it was one of Bunny’s many austerity cookery books, and she pounced on another.

“It doesn’t seem to be here, either,” she said and Brock raised his eyebrows.

“But surely you will know without having to look it up,” he said with grave surprise. “It’s only a question of rice and odds and ends and of course the flavouring.”

“I forget things,” she said, beginning to look a little flushed. “It’s easier if I see it written down.”

He took the book out of her hand and stood grinning down at her.

“Be honest,” he said. “You can’t cook at all, can you?” She knew now he had been teasing her, but she was not going to admit herself beaten. She could not let him open a tin in the last resort of male incompetence in the kitchen, and in all these dog-eared, well-worn books there must be something that could be cooked by just following the instructions. Her mind, already reeled with impossible directions ...
make a roux
...
blanch the kidneys ...fold in the whites ...
and clear but

alarming,
take
twelve eggs
....

“Of course I can,” she said bravely, meeting his amused eyes with determination, “but I’m rusty. If you leave me alone I’ll find something.”

“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “Well, I’ll come and watch you when you begin. I like to see a charming girl busy over the stove.”

He went away then and Sabina, hoping that his threat was merely idle, went out to the larder to inspect Bunny’s reserves. There were chops and liver and plenty of bacon, and after another consultation with the cookery book she decided on a mixed grill. It was a masculine, English dish, she thought, and it would be easier and just as good fried with plenty of onions and tomatoes.

It took her a long time to prepare and by the time she was ready to cook the sink was piled with dirty plates and saucepans. She did not understand the regulating of the stove and got everything too hot, and there did not seem to be enough frying-pans to go round. When Brock, true to his word, sat himself down in a wicker chair to watch, smoke from the hot fat was already filling the kitchen and Sabina had burnt the chops.

“Dear me!” he said, “what are we eating?”

“A mixed grill,” she said, “only there aren’t enough frying-pans.”

“Then why don’t you use the grill?”

While she was thinking of a sensible reply to that the liver caught and she turned it over to find it black and hard.

“I wish you’d go away,” she said, burning herself with flying fat; “you make me nervous.”

“The onions are catching,” he pointed out with maddening calm and she turned too sharply to rescue them, upsetting one of the pans on the floor. The hot fat spurted over her and she clasped a hand to her breast in agony.

“Let me look,” said Brock, on his feet behind her. “No, don’t hold it like that; you’ll make it worse. Let me see.” She held out the burnt hand, trying at the same time to stop the tears from falling. He examined it carefully, then went out of the room and returned with Bunny’s first-aid box.

He dressed the hand with gentleness and skill, and she stood mutely, watching his strong, well-shaped fingers as he worked. On the kitchen stove, the frying-pans gave forth a villainous smell. The meal was ruined.

“The pain will go quite soon,” he said when he had finished. “That dressing has very soothing properties. Cry if you want to. Burns can hurt, I know.”

“It’s not
that,"
she said, fighting back the tears. “It’s the s-supper. Everything’s b-black.”

“Why wouldn’t you admit you couldn’t cook?” he asked curiously.

“Because you were so superior. I thought there must be something I could manage, even though I’d never done it before.”

“A mixed grill transferred to the frying-pan wasn’t a very wise choice,” he said and began deftly removing the pans to the scullery, where she could hear them sizzling as he ran water into them. He opened the windows to let out the smoke, then cleaned up the stove and adjusted dampers with a practised hand.

“What are we going to eat, now?” she asked with despair. “There’s no more meat. I—I could boil eggs, I suppose, but it’s a frightful admission of failure.”

“You’d better leave the matter of food to me,” he said, with a smile.

“Can
you
cook?” she asked, and he nodded. “Then you might have told me what I was doing wrong instead of— instead of sitting there gloating!”

“Poor Sabina! I couldn’t resist seeing how you would cope unaided. Never mind, I’ll make up for it by serving you with a superb omelette.”

“An omelette!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“It’s as well you didn’t,” he commented dryly. “Omelettes are not for the inexperienced. They require skill and a light touch, or what do you get? A pancake like leather with no delicacy, no lightness and sparkle.”

She glanced at him curiously. He had spoken with the creative instinct of an artist, and for one wild moment she wondered if this was what he did for a living. Was he a chef in somebody’s restaurant, wearing a tall white cap, or was he somebody famous who lectured on the radio.

He gave her a quizzical look as she laughed a little hysterically, and told her to lay the table.

“We might as well eat in here,” he said. “An omelette should go straight from the pan to the table. When you’ve done that, Bunny’s will be ready to. take up.”