Читать книгу Lady Cassandra - Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey - Страница 8

Marten Beverley and his wife Grizel confronted each other across the breakfast table. Only the night before they had returned from a protracted, wedding tour, to take possession of their new home. Each was superbly, gloriously happy, but there was a difference in their happiness. Martin was not tired of play, but the zest for work was making itself felt, and he looked forward with joy to the hours at his desk which would give extra delight to the play to follow. Grizel faced work also, but faced it with a grimace. How in the world to settle down, and to be practical, and keep house?

“Here beginneth the second volume!” she chanted dolefully across the breakfast table. “The happy couple return from their honeymoon, and settle down! ... Martin! I don’t want to settle down. Why should one? It’s out of date, anyhow, to have a second volume. Nowadays people live at full pressure, and get it over in one. Let’s go on being foolish, and irresponsible, and taking no thought for our dinner. It’s the only sensible plan. And it would prevent so much disappointment! I’m a daisy as a honeymoon wife, but I’m not a typical British Matron.”

“You don’t look it!” said Martin, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, tilted back in his chair and sat staring across the table, his eyes alight with admiration. A fire blazed in the grate, but Grizel’s morning robe suggested the height of summer. It was composed of some sort of white woollen material, which showed glimpses of a delicate pink lining. She wore a boudoir cap too, a concoction of lace and pink ribbon at once rakish and demure. Martin was certain that she looked a duck, what he was uncertain about was the suitability of such plumage for the mistress of a small ménage. Had he not kept house for eight years with a sister who had visited the larder every morning, and kept a stern eye on stock-pot and bread-pan, clad in the triggest of blouses, and the shortest of plain serge skirts! His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Is it your intention to visit the scullery in those garments, may I ask?”

Grizel tilted in her turn, and returned his stare with an enchanting smile. She looked young and fresh, and adorably dainty; an ideal bride deluxe.

“In the first place,” she said, dimpling, “what precisely is, and does—a scullery?”

“A scullery, my child, is an apartment approximate to, and an accessory of, a kitchen. It is equipped with a sink, and is designed for the accommodation of pots and pans, brushes and brooms. Likewise boots, and er—uncooked vegetables. Every mistress of a small establishment visits the kitchen and scullery at least once in the twenty-four hours.” Grizel considered the subject, thoughtfully rubbing her nose.

“Why vegetables?”

“Why not?”

“With brushes and boots?”

“It seems unsuitable, I grant. But they do. I’ve seen them when I’ve been locking up. On the floor. In a wooden box. Carrots and turnips, and potatoes in their skins.”

Grizel straightened herself determinedly, and attacked her breakfast.

“I shall never visit the scullery!” she said firmly. “It would spoil my appetite. Thank you so much for warning me, ducky doo!”

“Not at all. It was an exhortation. The cook will expect it of you. So shall I. You must kindly remember the sink.”

“I take your word for it. Suppose there is? What in the name of fortune has it to do with me?”

“It’s your sink, Madam. Part of your new-found responsibilities. I don’t wish to harrow your susceptibilities, but it might not be kept clean. It is for you to see that it is.”

“You should have told me that afore, Laddie!” warbled Grizel reproachfully. “Nobody never warned me I should have to poke about sinks! And I won’t neither. It’s a waste of skilled labour. Aren’t there lots of sanitary kind of people who make their living by that sort of work? Let’s have one to look after ours!”

“Every morning?”

“Why not? Every evening too, if you like.”

Martin burst into a roar of laughter, and stretched a hand across the table.

“You’re a goose, Grizel; an impracticable little goose. I’m afraid we shall never make a Martha of you.” Then suddenly his face fell, and the caressing touch strengthened into a grasp. “You shouldn’t have to do it,” he cried sharply. “It isn’t fair. You’ve been a miracle of generosity to me, darling, but when it comes to facing the stern realities of life, I wonder if I ought to have let you do it.”

“You couldn’t help yourself,” Grizel said calmly. “I asked you, and you couldn’t for shame say no. Give me back my hand, dear. I want it, to go on eating. I do love having breakfast with you in our very own house, and I must make it last as long as possible, as I shan’t see you again for four whole hours. ... What shall we do after lunch?”

“Er—generally—if I’m in the mood—I go on writing till five o’clock.”

Martin spoke with hesitation, as though fearing a reproach, and Grizel narrowed her eyes, and smiled; a slow, enigmatical smile, but spoke not one rude word. She had quite decided that Martin should not be in the mood!

“On Wednesday and Thursday I’m to be At Home!” was her next irrelevant remark. “We put fifteenth and sixteenth on our cards, and now that we’ve stayed away a week longer than we intended, the fell date is upon us before we can breathe. Do you suppose many people will come?”

Martin’s shrug was eloquent.

“Every adult feminine creature who can crawl on two legs from a radius of five miles around, will crawl to the door. Hundreds of ’em! And with luck three or four males.”

“I could find it in my heart to wish it were t’other way round! However! never say die... There’ll be no time to finish the drawing-room! I’ll have to receive the surging mobs in the sitting-room upstairs. Let’s pray the chairs will go round!”

“Couldn’t the drawing-room be got ready with a rush?”

“Why in the world should we bother to rush?”

“They’ll be disappointed if you don’t. The drawing-room is part of the show. The whole neighbourhood is speculating about it now, and wondering if it’s blue or pink. A house with a closed drawing-room is like a play without the star. Do you realise, darling, that they’ll expect to be shown all over the house?”

“Let them expect, if it pleases them to do it, but they won’t! Let me catch anyone trying it on!” cried Grizel sharply, and the gay eyes sent out a flash of fire. “My own little home!—it shall not be turned into a peep-show for a flock of curious women to criticise and quiz. I’ll give them tea, and I’ll give them cake, I’ll talk pretty, and put on a tea-gown which will scare ’em into fits, but show them over the house—I will not! Let’s pretend the sitting-room is the drawing-room, and all will be peace and joy.”

“It would leak out afterwards, and they’d feel defrauded. Half of them will never enter the house again, darling; you won’t care to pursue the acquaintance, and it will end with an exchange of calls; but you’re rather an exceptional kind of bride, remember, and these good ladies don’t get too much amusement out of life. It would be kind of you to give them an afternoon out! Not, of course, if it bothers you, but surely the maids—”

Grizel crossed the room to the fire, and stretched a small pink, silk-quilted shoe towards the blaze.

“If you’re going to be moral, and appeal to my better feelings, you’d better be off to your work! I detest people who air their principles at breakfast... For two straws I’ll stay in bed, and say I’m over-tired with my journey, and can’t see anyone at all. I will, too, if you hector me any more, or I’ll show ’em into the dining-room, and have a sit-down tea, round the big table, with shrimps, and cold ham, and potted beef...”

“They’d put it down as the latest society craze, and adopt it when they wished to be smart... You will be one of the fashion leaders of the neighbourhood, whether you like it or not, so you’d better take heed to your ways. You and Lady Cassandra.”

“Humph!” Grizel’s eyes showed their most impish gleam. “Yes! I’m building great hopes on Cassandra. It’s dull keeping all the fun to oneself. With her help, if she’s the right sort, I’ll make things hum!”

Martin told himself that it was waste of time to say any more for the moment. Whatever he said, Grizel would contradict; whatever he proposed, she would reject; and as what she said would have no bearing whatever on her future conduct, the wisest plan seemed to be to kiss her several times over, talk delicious nonsense for a couple of minutes, and then to retire precipitately to his study. The which he proceeded to do.

Left to herself, Grizel strolled into the half-furnished drawing-room and seated herself on a packing box to survey the scene. Two rooms had been thrown into one, and the windows lowered, to allow a wide view of the garden, and so increase the feeling of space. The furniture was a selection from the collection of antiques which she had inherited from her aunt. Several old cabinets stood ranged along the wall ready to be put into position, and filled with treasures still unpacked. In a corner were rolled the old Persian rugs which would be spread over the parquet floor. At the end of five minutes’ scrutiny Grizel’s quick brain had put every article into its place, and her quick eye had seen the completed whole, and found it good. She decided to get it finished before lunch, and give Martin a surprise, and rang the bell to summon the staff to her aid.

The parlourmaid appeared with alacrity. It was like living in a novelette, to attend a bride who wore pink and white fineries in the morning, and looked as if she had never done a hand’s turn in her life. She entered on the day’s duties with a refreshing feeling of excitement.

“Please ’Um, the fish-man’s called.”

“Oh! has he? I can’t attend to him now. Parsons!—your name is Parsons, isn’t it?—would you kindly remember that my name is not ‘’Um.’ It is just as easy to say Madam, and sounds far better. I want you and Marie, and cook, to come here at once, and I’ll tell you what I want done to this room.”

“At—at once, Madam?”

“Certainly, at once.”

“Before I clear away?”

“What do you want to clear away?”

“The breakfast things, Madam. And,—and the fish-man can’t wait.”

“Tell him to call again then, later on.”

“He’s on his rounds, Madam. He only calls the once.”

“The fishmonger be—” Grizel coughed audibly, remindful of responsibilities towards the young. It was borne in upon her that the moment which she had dreaded was upon her, and could no longer be escaped. The fish-man was waiting, could not wait, could not return; it therefore behoved the mistress of the household to repair to the kitchen and interview the cook. She rose from the packing case, gathered her skirts around her, and turned to the door.

“Kindly go and tell Mrs Mason that I am coming!”

Mrs Mason was on duty beside the kitchen table. Having heard from Parsons’ lips a bated account of her lady’s splendour, she also was setting forth on the day’s duties with a flavour of excitement. Spread out neatly in rows were the remains of last evening’s repast. Cold fish, cold cutlets, dishevelled chicken, half-eaten sweets. Grizel, who had never before been called upon to interview food in déshabillé, turned from the sight with a shudder.

“You can use those up in the kitchen.” The cook acquiesced, and concealed her complaisance.

“And what would you like for the room?”

“In future,” said Grizel firmly, “I should like the menu for the day drawn out, ready to be submitted to me every morning.”

“I have never been uzed—” began the cook, then her eyes met those of her mistress, and to her own amazement she found herself concluding lamely, “Of course if you wish it, ’Um, I must try! ... The fish-man is waiting for horders.”

“Au diable avec le poissonnier!” ejaculated Grizel sotto voce. She leant back against the corner of the dresser, the tail of her white robe folded round in front, displaying the small pink shoes to cook’s appraising eyes. Her eyes roamed here and there over the kitchen, but studiously avoided the provisions on the table. From the region of the back door sounded a whistle, impatient and peremptory. The cook glanced around, glanced back at the pink and white figure standing with head on one side, leisurely regarding the arrangement of brass on the mantelpiece, and was goaded into the extreme course of making a suggestion.

“P’raps... soles!”

“Oh, certainly!” cried Grizel swiftly. “Soles.”

The cook ambled slowly towards the back door. Returning a moment later, she folded her arms, and continued tentatively: “The grocer’ll be next. I ordered in the usuals yesterday—but there’ll be a few extras.—I wanted to ask, ’Um, if you allowed lard?”

“Madam,” corrected Grizel sweetly, and pursed her lips, as though in deliberation. To herself she was declaiming desperately: “Now may the powers preserve me, ... one slip, and I am undid! What on earth does she mean by cornering me like this? I must temporise, and lure her on.” ... She stroked her nose, and said judicially:

“Of course—it depends!”

“Most ladies do,” affirmed the cook. “If they’re particular. It’s difficult to get it the same with dripping.”

Grizel had a flash of inspiration. Lard was the superlative, dripping the positive; naturally, then, all plain cooks angled for the former, and all British Matrons insisted on the latter. She put on a severe air and said firmly:

“Not if your pans are perfectly clean!” and was so overjoyed at her own aptness, that she was ready to allow anything under the sun. Nevertheless, the detective instinct having been born in her heart, she was resolved, as she mentally phrased it, to track lard to the death.

Cook was staring open-eyed, a faint misgiving mingled with the former complaisance. When a mistress began talking of keeping pans clean, she was not so green as had been expected! Her lips set in obstinate fashion.

“Some ladies,” she said, “are so fussy about the colour. You can’t help getting it darker with dripping.”

Grizel felt hopelessly that she had lost the scent. It was a desperate position, face to face with her enemy, defenceless, yet aware that an instant’s failure must lead to wholesale debacle. “I can’t tackle her alone,” she told herself desperately. “I must—I must have a confederate!” and throwing principle to the winds, in a flash of thought she created a fictitious Emily, and wove around her a suitable family history. Faithful servant, perfect cook, expert dripping-er, rent by marriage from a sorrowing mistress, now slumbering in a village grave! With a voice imbued with the sacredness of the remembrance, she pronounced firmly: “Emily did! She always got it white.”

“Oh, rolled!” cried the cook. The corners of her lips gave a slight expressive twitch before she added in automatic fashion. “Yes, ’Um—Madam,—I quite understand.” She crossed the floor and took down a slate from its nail, while Grizel made a mental note. “Lard.—Its Use and Abuse.—Differentiate from dripping.—Why darker? Under what circumstances should it be forbidden or allowed?”

“Soles,” said the cook firmly. “And soup?”

“Oh, certainly. Certainly soup. Mr Beverley likes quite a simple dinner—soup, fish, an entrée, one solid course, sweets—lots of cream, please! and dessert. See that there is always plenty of fruit. And of course, salad. Did I say savories? Of course you’ll arrange all that. That is all for to-day? I think. To-morrow you will have the menu ready.”

The cook, who was a superior plain cook, reflected that she would require a “rise,” if they expected a party dinner every night. If Grizel had been attired in an ordinary coat and skirt she would have rebelled forthwith, but the sheer glamour of pink and white kept her dumb.

“Soles,” she repeated stolidly. “And soup. What kind of soup?”

“Clear!” said Grizel, and felt a glow of triumph. Really and truly she had done better than she had expected. So well that it seemed diplomatic to beat a retreat before she fell from grace. She hitched her skirts still further, and stepped daintily towards the door, but cook cut short her retreat.

“Entrée, you said, Ma’am. What kind of entrée? And there’s lunch. And breakfast. To-morrow’s breakfast. Would it be bacon?”

Grizel waved an impatient hand.

“Bacon certainly. And er—omelette! Kidneys. Cold dishes. The usual things one does have for breakfast. And lunch at one. A hot dish, please, and several cold, and some sweets. And always fruit. Plenty of fruit. That will do nicely for to-day, Mrs Mason. We’ve discussed everything, I think.” She turned a beneficent smile upon the bewildered face. “And I’m sure,” she added daringly, “you’ll manage splendidly with dripping!”

In the dining-room Parsons was still busy clearing away. Upstairs Marie the maid was unpacking endless boxes of clothes, and hanging them up in a spare room fitted to do duty as an immense wardrobe. At the end of a passage stood the baize door which gave entrance to Martin’s sanctum. Grizel approached it stealthily, and pressed her lips to the keyhole.

“Martin!”

A voice from within answered with would-be sternness:

“Go away!”

“Martin... I’m sorry! Just one moment... Something I must ask you.—Most important...”

“Go on, then... What is it?”

“What—Is—Lard?”

The door flew open, and Martin stood laughing on the threshold.

“You goose! What on earth are you talking about?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. And how on earth am I to find out! I’ve been interviewing cook, and she asked if I allowed it. Do I, or don’t I, and why should I not, and for goodness’ sake how does it differ from dripping? I prevaricated, and looked economical, and middle-aged. I saw my face in the dish covers, and it aged me horribly. I thought I’d better find out at once.”

“Yes, but you mustn’t come running to me for such information. I’ve got to buy the lard, remember, and I shan’t be able to afford it, if I’m interrupted. For all you know I might have been killing my heroine...”

“Then she’d have a reprieve, and I’d have done a good deed. You can’t seriously have begun yet, and this is so deadly important. You might spare five minutes to instruct your poor wife.”

Grizel perched herself on the corner of the table, and tilted the boudoir cap at a beguiling angle. Martin stood with his back to the fire and adopted a professorial air.

“Lard,” he said sententiously, “is a substance compounded of a whitey grease, contained for the purposes of trade in balloons or bladders of skins—”

Grizel’s face showed a network of horrified lines.

“How exceedingly disagreeable! I shall certainly not allow it... And what is dripping?”

“Dripping is, er—brown! So called because it drips from the meat in the process of cooking. It is inferior to lard, and aspires to no bladder, but lives in odd receptacles, such as jam jars. It is supposed to supply an unconquerable temptation to a plain cook, and there are fiends in the shape of men, who are said to spend their life tempting cooks to sell the dripping. Katrine used to see dripping in the eye of every unknown man who opened the gate. I never heard her make any allegations about lard. Does that distinction afford you any illumination?”

Grizel sighed, and turned to the door with an air of resignation.

“Well, good-bye, my loved one! Be very good to me, for you won’t have me long. If I’ve got to order meals, I shall never be able to eat them. I foresee that. I never heard so much about grease in my life. Is there nothing decent one could use instead?”

Martin hesitated.

“I believe—sometimes—butter!”

Grizel waved a triumphant hand.

“Of course! Butter! Why couldn’t you have said that before? Nice, clean, fresh butter. I’ll tell her I allow nothing else. What a fuss over nothing! ... Martin, you’re wearing a green tie. I’ve never seen you in green before... Darling! you’re adorable in green...”