Читать книгу The Brading Collection - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 6

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Stacy sat in the train and felt elated. She had drowned all the things which had tried to put her off, and here she was, on her way. She had a right to feel pleased. Even that morning Edith Fonteyne had said on the telephone, “My dear”, with about six exclamation marks when Stacy murmured that she was going to Burdon to paint a miniature of Myra Constantine. The exclamation marks had been followed by a gasp.

“You’re not!”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“My dear!” Edith was still gasping. “Well, if you don’t mind—”

“What is there to mind?”

“Well, I should have thought—”

Stacy lost her temper.

“Oh, don’t think!” she said, and banged the receiver down.

Edith might be a cousin, but she was one of the most irritating women in the world. What she really wanted was to hold Stacy’s hand and say, “Confide in me.” It was not the first time by a good many that the receiver had been jolted back in a hurry. As a rule Stacy was sorry afterwards, because Edith had known her in her cradle and she meant to be kind. But today she merely experienced a glow of triumph. She had downed Edith just as she had downed her own misgivings and that really damnable dream. You could down things if you tried hard enough.

Someone had once told Stacy that doing things in a hurry was her besetting weakness. She couldn’t remember who it was, but it was probably Edith’s mother, old Cousin Agatha Fonteyne. Yes, it was. Stacy could hear her saying it—“You are always in too much of a hurry, my dear. If you see something you like you must have it at once. That dress you came home with last week—not in the least suitable or practical, but you had to rush in and get it without giving yourself time to think. And now this marriage—”

Of course, that had been the text, a whirlwind courtship and a lightning marriage—“Marry in haste and repent at leisure”, and all the rest of it. Charles, like the offending dress, was neither suitable nor practical. An old place hanging round his neck, army pay and very little else, expensive tastes, and a good deal more charm than was good for him. Too much for Stacy, who had married him in haste and repented before the honeymoon was over.

A little hot spurt of rage made her face glow. Charles again! Bobbing up in such unlikely company as Agatha Fonteyne! She thought of them, and had to laugh. And there she was, back to being pleased with herself.

When she got to Ledlington there were a good many people on the platform, some getting out, and some getting in because the train went on to Ledstow. In the crowd, head and shoulders above the ruck, Lady Minstrell looked even more imposing than she had done in the flat. As soon as she saw Stacy at the window she came forward, met her at the open door, and with no more than a murmured greeting stepped up into the train and ensconced herself in a corner seat.

“I hope you don’t mind—we’re going on to Ledstow. I hadn’t time to let you know.”

Before Stacy could answer or do anything except feel completely out of her depth a porter thrust two suit-cases into the carriage and followed with a hamper of fruit. By the time Stacy had said, “Ledstow?” he was helping three children up the steps and hoisting a very stout woman in after them. The children all wanted to wave to someone on the platform, and when the stout woman had finished mopping her face she stood looking over their heads and waved too.

Stacy got as close to Lady Minstrell as she could. Her mouth was dry. She said, “Ledstow?” again, and then something like. “I can’t—”

The children were shouting farewells to a group of assorted relatives. Lady Minstrell raised her voice and said,

“My mother has gone to Warne.”

It was like a bad dream. She couldn’t possibly go to Warne, but in about half a minute the train would begin to take her there. No, that was nonsense. It couldn’t take her any farther than Ledstow, and what she had to do was to get out there and go back to town. She could even get out now. She half rose from her seat, and as she did so, a porter shouted, “By your leave!”, flung the door open with one hand, and pushing the children back with the other, made room for a wiry middle-aged woman to dart through the opening. As he banged the door on her and shouted, “All right, George!” the train gave a preliminary jerk, the children squeaked and giggled, the newcomer cleared two of them out of the corner opposite Lady Minstrell and, sitting down, said briskly,

“Hullo, Milly! Nice to see you. Where are you off to?”

Lady Minstrell said,

“Warne. Mama had a sudden urge. You know how she is.” She turned to include Stacy. “This is Miss Mainwaring whom we have persuaded to come down on a visit. She is going to do a miniature. Miss Mainwaring, this is our friend Miss Dale. I expect you know Miss Mainwaring’s work, Dossie. Mama admired it so much that she has given way and is going to sit to her.”

Theodosia Dale took a good sharp look at Stacy. She not only knew her work, but she knew all about her. She knew that she had married Charles Forrest and left him, and that they were now divorced. If there was anything to know about anyone she always knew it. She had, unfortunately, been away from home at the time of Stacy’s brief visit to Saltings as Mrs. Forrest. If she had been on the spot she would naturally have made it her business to know why the honeymoon had come to such a disastrous end. Of course the girl had found Charles Forrest out—that went without saying. But just what she had found out was what nobody seemed to know. There were plenty of stories, but she did not feel sure that any of them were true. Lilias Grey? Nonsense! She was his adopted sister, and though she was obviously a fool about him, Theodosia was prepared to eat her sensible felt hat if Charles was, or ever had been, in love with Lilias. Of course quite idiotic to bring the girl he had married down to Saltings with Lilias still in the house and a general clutter of relations knocking about. He probably thought they were all going to be bosom friends. Men were like that. Stupid beyond belief.

As these thoughts went through her mind, she glanced sharply at Stacy sitting over the way from her by Milly Minstrell. The children—very badly behaved—had come to blows over a piece of chocolate, and two of them were screaming. Conversation was for the moment quite impossible. She sat stiffly upright in the iron-grey tweeds which matched her quite abundant hair, the thick country shoes, the sensible hat, and looked at Stacy Forrest who had gone back to calling herself Miss Mainwaring. Not very tall, not very anything. Brown hair made the most of—girls spent all their money at the hairdresser’s nowadays. Grey eyes rather widely set. Good lashes, with none of that filthy mascara on them. A clear, pale skin, and a reasonable shade of lipstick. A neat blue linen dress. The girl looked like a lady. Good hands and feet, good ankles. But just why Charles Forrest should have fallen for her was past guessing. No particular figure—just slim. Probably never had a decent meal. Girls were just as stupid as men, only in less revolting ways. This—what was her name—Stacy? Ridiculous! She probably ate in snack bars perched up on a high stool with her feet off the ground. Lunacy!

The wails of the combatants had died away. The stout woman was fanning herself with a pair of black kid gloves, and all three children were smearing their faces with fresh pieces of chocolate. Lady Minstrell went on speaking as if there had been no interruption.

“Mama is like that—if she wants anything she wants it at once.” She turned to Stacy. “I would have let you know about the change in our plan if there had been time, but there really wasn’t. My mother just suddenly took it into her head that she had been long enough at Burdon and that what she wanted was sea air, so she packed up and went off to Warne this morning. She didn’t even let me know. I just came down and found she’d gone, and by that time it was too late to ring you up, so I thought the best thing I could do was to get into your train.”

Stacy felt amused, angry, relieved, all at the same time. She began to say, “Oh, but then of course—” but Lady Minstrell caught her up.

“No, no, there is no change about the sittings. My mother has gone, as she always goes, to Warne House.”

Stacy’s hand contracted in her lap. Lewis Brading’s house! And she was to go and stay there, presumably as his guest, and paint Mrs. Constantine! She had a quick picture of him in her mind, thin and grey, with dislike in his eyes, and one of his famous jewels held out for her to see—the sapphire ring which had belonged to Marie Antoinette.

Theodosia Dale leaned a little forward from her upright position and said dryly,

“Warne House has been turned into a country club.”

Stacy thought, “She knows me. She wouldn’t have said that if she didn’t know me.”

And then Lady Minstrell was going on.

“It belonged to a Mr. Brading, a friend of ours. But of course much too big for him, so he very wisely decided to sell. He keeps the annexe which he had built to house his Collection, and he lives there and has all his meals in the club. It saves him a lot of trouble. The annexe is quite shut off of course, with steel doors, steel shutters—all that kind of thing. Because his Collection is immensely valuable—jewels of historic interest. That is one of the things that takes my mother to Warne. She loves fine jewels, and some of Mr. Brading’s are very fine. The annexe is really like a strong-room, but I shouldn’t like to have so much valuable stuff about.”

Miss Dale gave a short laugh.

“Like it! Sticking your neck out, that’s what I call it! Lewis will be getting himself murdered one of these days, and then what good will all that junk be to him?”

Lady Minstrell sounded shocked. She said, “Dossie!” and Miss Dale tossed her head.

“Much better collect postage stamps. Something abnormal about a man going soft in the head over jewels.”

Stacy found her voice.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t undertake to do a miniature of Mrs. Constantine in an hotel—it really wouldn’t be possible.”

She caught a sardonic gleam in Miss Dale’s eye. And then Lady Minstrell’s hand was on her arm.

“Oh, please don’t say that—it’s all been so difficult! But do let me explain. It isn’t an hotel, it’s a club, and my mother has her own suite of rooms. You wouldn’t know you weren’t in a private house.”

Theodosia watched them. The girl would like to get out of it, but Milly wouldn’t let her. Nice hot water she’d be in with old Myra if she turned up at Warne without the tame artist. After refusing to so much as have her photograph taken for about forty years Myra had swung round and was all set to be painted. Snatch her miniaturist away at the last moment and there would be the devil to pay.

She watched Milly being soothing, and the girl hanging back. And then they were at Ledstow, with Myra Constantine’s chauffeur on the platform touching his cap and saying,

“The car is outside, my lady.”