Читать книгу Rachel in the Abbey - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 6

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As they reached the garth Damaris came to meet them—a changed Damaris, wearing a green linen frock and with neatly combed hair. “Ray, I hope you’ve asked Benedicta Bennett to tea? The kettle’s boiling and I’ve cut bread and butter. As she’s an old friend of the Abbey we can’t let her go away unfed.”

“Oh, how kind!” Benedicta cried. “Your sister did ask me. She was going to put on the kettle.”

“Thought I wouldn’t think of it,” Damaris mocked. “But I did, and it’s all ready.”

Her dark eyes met Benedicta’s, as if to say—“Has Rachel told you? Do you understand and sympathise? Then let’s forget it!” Benedicta’s answering look told all she could never have put into words—“I think you’re perfectly splendid; an absolute heroine!” But no word was said, and Damaris turned quickly and led the way into the rooms which had been made, long ago, for the caretaker of the ruins, out of the old refectory of the lay brothers.

“Oh!” Benedicta gave a cry, as she had done when she saw the Abbey garden. “This is all different too! I like it much better! It used to be so dark, and the walls were faded pink. This is bright and gay and cheerful! How have you done it?”

The girls had been watching her expectantly. They smiled at one another, well-pleased.

“Mrs. Raymond did most of it—had the walls cleaned and new curtains and covers put in, when we came last February,” Rachel explained. “We were so much relieved! We were dreading those pink walls. We like it much better now.”

Damaris went to the tiny kitchen and came back with a round green tea-pot. “Sit down and tuck in!”

Benedicta’s eyes were busy. Sun was streaming through the long lancet windows that looked to the new garden; the curtains, of soft pink, blew gently in the breeze and—with the rose-patterned covers of chairs and couch,—were pretty against the grey walls. The table had a crimson cloth under the white one spread for tea; the fire-place was filled with a big jar of mixed flowers, blue and mauve and pink spikes; a bowl of red roses stood on the table; there were books on low shelves, and the open kitchen door showed gleams of vivid colour.

“The kitchen and bathroom are green and white,” Rachel said, seeing the direction of her look.

“My bedroom, at the far end, is green and gold,” Damaris added.

“And they all have the old grey stone as a background! I do like it,” their guest said earnestly. “Oh, pottery, like Mary-Dorothy’s! How lovely to have it! And such a pretty green!”—as her cup was handed to her.

“Lady Jen’s gift to the new house,” Rachel said. “She says she always gives pots to people, when she can find an excuse.”

“Do you have heaps of tea-parties, to show off all these lovely things?”

“We did, at first. February and March are peaceful months. Now, with tourists turning up and the garden to keep Marry busy, we haven’t so much time.”

“It’s terribly good of you to make time for me!”

“An old friend of the Abbey! We’re delighted, and I hope no tourists will come,” Rachel said. “It’s not like a Saturday afternoon. We may be left in peace.”

“I like your white dress.” Benedicta had been eyeing the gown with its embroidered badge. “Do you always wear it when you show people round?”

“It keeps me neat and ready for visitors. I don’t wear it for housework or washing up!”

“It’s a marvellous idea!—Oh, I love your pictures!” Benedicta cried, catching sight of one and then another. “Why are they all of lakes and mountains?”

“Our real home is in the Lake District, on the fells,” Rachel explained. “Here’s Grasmere, with its island; this is Rydal Water, and here’s the head of Ullswater, with more islands. This, over the hearth, is Grisedale Tarn, which is just above our farm; we often climbed up there. If you look down to Marry’s bedroom you’ll see a bit of Windermere.”

“And they’re all misty blue and brown and purple, and grey and green!”

“The lakes and fells are, you know.”

“What’s that awful place?” Benedicta demanded, dramatically throwing out one arm to point at a jagged mountain opposite the windows.

“The top of Helvellyn. That was one of our favourite walks.”

“Gosh! Have you really been up there?”

“I wanted to dance on that edge,” Damaris remarked. “But Ray restrained me, almost by force.”

“I should think so! It looks frightening!”

“It isn’t. Were you in earnest when you said you’d like to help me in the garden?”

“What’s that?” Rachel asked. “Surely Benedicta Bennett doesn’t propose to throw over all her friends at a moment’s notice and come here to do weeding for you?”

“I’d just love to do it. As for friends, nobody wants me very much. I could come here, if I arranged it. I haven’t anything real to do,” Benedicta said, her voice sounding a little forlorn. “I love the Abbey. To work in its garden would be a fascinating job.”

“Suppose you tell us?” Rachel suggested.

“You must have belongings. You can’t be quite alone in the world,” Damaris argued. “Oh, but you said—I remember! I’m sorry.”

Benedicta looked at Rachel. “When I was almost sixteen—I’m nearly twenty now—I went to Wood End School, near Kentisbury; the Countess was very good to us. We learned a lot about gardening, as well as other useful jobs, and my plan was to look after our place in Devonshire; we had a London house as well. After Wood End I went to Swanley College, for real training in gardening, but I hadn’t been there long when Father died suddenly. He had bronchitis and his heart gave out; we hadn’t known it was weak. It was a terrible shock to Mother, who had never been strong after a bad motor accident. Things were difficult, and we gave up the Devonshire house and lived in London. Jim, my brother, had been in the business for a year or two, and he did his best and kept things going. It was all too much for Mother and she collapsed and went too. I stayed with Jimmy and his wife; I’m very fond of her. Then my godfather wanted me and I’ve been in Rome with him for nearly a year. I’m on my way back to Gail and Jimmy now, but it isn’t like going home. They want me, and Gail says I can help her with the baby, but I haven’t any real job and I’ve not had enough training to get a good one.”

“You ought to go back to college and get a diploma,” Rachel remarked.

“It costs a lot. Jim would try to manage it, but I don’t like to ask him; he has so much to pay for. He wants me to have a dress allowance and live with them; college fees would be a very different thing. The business will be all right in time, but it’s going to mean hard work and waiting.”

“What about your godfather?” Damaris demanded. “He ought to send you to college.”

“He won’t do it. I talked to him, but he’s old-fashioned and he says girls should stay at home. The whole point of college would be to take a job afterwards; we’ve not much garden now. He hates the idea. He said he’d leave me something in his will and I needn’t worry about the future; but that till then it was my brother’s duty to take care of me and my place was at home with him. I’ve had to give in, but I don’t feel happy about it. I hate to dump myself on poor Jim, who is starting his own family, with little Penny. I expect quite soon it will be too much for me, and I shall throw up everything and take some sort of job, if it’s only as a housemaid or in a shop.”

“Seems a waste, if you like gardens,” Damaris observed.

“What did you call your little niece?” Rachel asked. “Did you, by any chance, say ‘Penny’, or did I dream it?”

Benedicta grinned. “Penelope Rose. Mother was Penelope, and Penny was born just after she died. I told Jim not to do it, for she’ll be called Penny Bennett at school, or perhaps even Pennybenny; but he and Gail were determined to call her for Mother.”

“Nice of your sister-in-law,” Damaris commented.

“Gail’s a dear and she loved Mother. I decided as soon as I heard Baby’s name that I must be Benedicta and have no more of Ben or Benneyben. Penny and Benney in one family wouldn’t do.”

“You had to insist, of course. But they may call her Rose, if that’s her second name. It sounds as if she had the Countess of Kentisbury for her godmother! There’s a whole crowd of babies called Rose after Lady Kentisbury.”

“Penny Rose is one of them,” Benedicta agreed. “Gail thinks a lot of Lady Kentisbury; she used to work for her. She took charge of our school tuck-shop, which belonged to the Countess when she was just Miss Rosamund Kane; and when Gail came here to the Abbey Lady Kentisbury was the first person who was nice to her and made friends. When Penny was born Gail wrote to Lady Kentisbury and asked if she might call her Rose, like all the other babies, of whom she had heard; and if there was room for one more godchild. The Countess said there was heaps of room and she’d love to be godmother to Gail’s first daughter.”

“Penelope Rose is very pretty,” Rachel said. “So are the rest of the tribe! Dorothy Rose, Cecily Rose, Shirley Rose, Jillian Rose, Marie Rose—those are some of them. And I believe the new baby at the Hall is called Madeline Rose.”

Damaris had been looking thoughtful. “If that’s how things are and you’ve nobody really depending on you, I don’t see why”—and she paused.

“I could come here!” Benedicta cried. “I could talk it over with Jimmy and Gail and then come back! They’ve both been to the Abbey; they’d see what a lovely job it would be. I’m sure they’d agree that it was sensible. Would you have me? You wouldn’t feel I was butting in? But you said you had help already.”

“The chauffeur digs for me,” Damaris said solemnly, “but he won’t weed, because he’s sure he’d pull up the wrong things. A boy from the farm helps too, and he does pull up the wrong things! He’s willing, but he doesn’t know much. I could do with an assistant who knows all about gardens.”

“Knows a little,” Benedicta amended. “Oh, do have me! I’ll do whatever you tell me and not have any ideas of my own—at least, I’ll ask you about them first! I won’t mess up your plans. I’d love to work for you—and for the Abbey!”

“There might be something good in it for both of us,” Damaris said, growing eagerness in her voice.

Benedicta and she looked at one another and then turned hopefully to Rachel.