Dear Trustee Read online

  “Do you know—” said Cecile slowly, “I think that’s a good idea.” She hated the thought of tackling Felicity yet again. But if a showdown had to come, perhaps the sooner the better.

  “Shall we make it a date?”

  “Yes. On Saturday. Laurie will have both a matinee and an evening performance that day, and she won’t need me. Oh, thank you, Maurice. It’s a date!”

  “Don’t thank me, dear girl. The pleasure is on my side. For I shall expect you to talk to me as well as Felicity.”

  “I promise.” Cecile laughed in her relief at the thought of Maurice’s cheering presence. And then, having made arrangements to fetch her on Saturday, Maurice finally rang off.

  By now there was no time left for sitting and thinking, if she intended to be ready when Gregory returned. So Cecile hurried into her own room, unpacked a few necessities, and changed rapidly into her black taffeta frock.

  They had Gregory in common, she and Felicity. That was the answer. Somewhere at the bottom of this tangle was the jealousy which Felicity felt because Cecile was now Gregory’s concern.

  She might have rejected him once, but now she wanted him back. Whether from pride or genuine affection one could not say. She wanted him back. And, rightly or wrongly, she thought Cecile threatened her plans.

  “She thinks he likes me and I like him,” thought Cecile. “And who am I to say she is wrong?” She gave a half-defiant, half-excited little laugh, which surprised herself. And for a moment she sat down on the side of the bed, and stared consideringly at herself in the mirror opposite.

  She saw there a wide-eyed, faintly flushed girl whose very red lips were parted in an oddly startled smile.

  “Well, Felicity is the one who claims she knows and understands him! As the jealous onlooker, maybe she’s seen more than I have. It doesn’t matter, really, but—”

  Half laughing still, Cecile leaned forward suddenly and drew out a marguerite from the little vase of flowers which her mother had put on the table beside the bed. She did not actually pluck out the petals, because it was a sweet, cheerful-looking marguerite that deserved to live. But she counted round them—smiling and flippant. Or so she thought, until she came to the final, “He loves me not,” when her chagrin was beyond anything she could explain.

  “It isn’t true!” she exclaimed indignantly. And this time she did not even pause to laugh at herself. She counted again, more carefully—and found that she had missed one petal “He loves me!” she said aloud, on a note of gay triumph which rang strangely in her own ears. “Or, at least—he could. And Felicity knows it. And she’s not going to stop at much in order to prevent it. Why—”

  The bell rang from below, and almost guiltily she stuffed the marguerite back into the vase.

  “It’s too ridiculous. I’m too ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “He is my trustee, and rather a dear, and he’s taking me out just because he feels responsible for me.”

  But she knew that was not the whole of the story. And, as she caught up her gloves and bag, let herself out of the flat and ran down the stairs to Gregory, there still echoed in her head the silly little jingle, “He loves me—he loves me not—”

  “Ready?” He smiled at her. “You look radiant.”

  “Do I?” She was surprised that she could have so many worries and look radiant. “Did you get Laurie there in time?”

  “Oh, yes. And now we have the whole evening—though I promised her not to keep you out late. What would you like to do?”

  Cecile stood looking up at the beautiful early evening sky. “I wish we could go somewhere into the country. Or almost country. Is there time?”

  “Yes, of course. Shall I drive you out to see my mother?”

  “Your mother?” Cecile gazed at him in astonishment. “Have you got a mother?”

  “Certainly. It’s customary, you know.”

  “Yes, of course. But I thought somehow—You never spoke of her before.”

  “Didn’t I? She lives quite a different life from mine. That’s why you haven’t met her yet.”

  “But when you told me—” she hesitated diffidently—“about your sister, I remember you said that she had no one in whom to confide. I thought you meant that your parents were both dead, even then.”

  “No. My father was in the diplomatic service. They were both out East at that time.”

  A sort of melancholy touched his expression for a moment, as though even now he recalled his own isolation at that time. But there was not, Cecile noticed with almost breathless interest, that look of bitterness which had always been there before when he spoke of the old unhappiness.

  “I see. And are they both still alive?”

  “No. My father died seven years ago. My mother lives in a very beautiful part of Surrey, just beyond Guildford. We have time to drive out there, have dinner with her and get back at a reasonable hour. Would you like that?”

  “If you think—” Cecile swallowed slightly, “that she won’t mind Laurie’s daughter coming to see her.”

  “She never knew about Laurie.”

  “Never knew about her?” Cecile looked astounded.

  “No. They were quite unable to come home at the time when it all happened. By the time they returned to England Hugh had gone to America, and all the talk had died down. I never knew quite what my father thought, but Mother accepted the open verdict at the inquest as meaning that Anne died by accident. I made it my business to encourage that belief, and I saw to it that she never knew the details—or the other possibility.”

  “I see,” said Cecile gently. And once again she realized how unbearably heavy his load of bitter, unshared knowledge must sometimes have been. “Then I should love to meet her, if you will take me there.”

  It was a delightful drive, as soon as they were free of the city and its outskirts. And it seemed to Cecile that Gregory became less the lawyer and more the indulgent trustee—and perhaps son—as they approached his mother’s home. By the time they arrived at the small but infinitely charming house, standing in its own ground, she felt relaxed and pleasantly curious about her visit.

  The front door stood open, and almost before the car stopped, a handsome, grey-haired woman ran out, with almost youthful eagerness, to greet them.

  Even without the eagerness, she would have been unmistakably Gregory’s mother, for the likeness was remarkable. Only, in her, the strongly marked features were slightly softened, so that, though she was handsome, she was not formidable. And the brilliant blue eyes which, in Gregory, could look cold and uncompromising, were in her sparkling and unexpectedly gay.

  “Darling, what a lovely surprise!” She kissed Gregory warmly and turned to Cecile.

  “This is Cecile, Mother—my new ward,” Gregory explained. And to Cecile’s surprise and gratification, Gregory’s mother kissed her too.

  “My dear, it was high time he brought you to see me. I think an elderly, respectable mother is just what is needed in the background of this rather odd situation, don’t you? Gregory doesn’t seem responsible and venerable enough for a guardian, somehow, does he?”

  “I’m not,” Gregory explained patiently. “I’m a trustee. And Cecile thinks I’m too responsible and interfering, rather than lacking in those qualities.”

  It was a charming place, with one long sitting room running from the front to the back of the house, and giving glimpses of a lovely garden on either end. The furniture was elegant and, though varied and evidently the collection of a lifetime of travelling, it had been worked into a satisfying whole by an obviously cultured and tasteful hand.

  “I hope you will regard it as something of your home, too,” her hostess said kindly. “Since you have not your own parents—”

  “But I have! I have my mother,” Cecile exclaimed quickly.

  “I’m sorry—” Mrs. Picton looked surprised. “At least—I mean I’m glad, of course. But I apologize, dear child. I had no idea. I thought that as you had trustees—” She hesitated.

  “We only look
after Cecile’s financial affairs,” explained Gregory calmly, “and give her a bit of advice from time to time. Which, I may say, she does not usually take.”

  “Oh, that isn’t true!” Cecile laughed in protest. “My mother is an actress, Mrs. Picton.” Suddenly she found it was quite easy to explain, since Gregory was so casual about it all. “She naturally is greatly concerned with her career. So, although she and I are very fond of each other, and even share a flat—” she saw Gregory raise a humorous eyebrow at that, though he said nothing—“I think my father felt it would be a good idea for me to have trustees too.”

  Evidently Mrs. Picton found this a perfectly adequate explanation, and she said kindly, “Well, since I can obviously only offer you a second home, I must say that I hope you will often visit me, dear, and always feel welcome.”

  And then his mother said that perhaps Cecile would like to come and see the rest of the house before dinner, while Gregory looked at some correspondence which was in his study.

  First she looked into the kitchen to tell her maid that there would be two more for dinner, and her maid, being Austrian, took this as a pleasant surprise and a challenge to her skill, instead of an insult for an encroachment on her own time. Then Mrs. Picton took Cecile upstairs.

  The whole house carried the unmistakable print of her own most likeable personality, and Cecile admired both her hostess’s charming room and the small but pleasing guest room. What interested her most, however, was Gregory’s room, with its few admirable prints, its enormous number of books and—with a disagreeable shock Cecile recognized it—a very good photograph of Felicity. Slightly idealized, but familiar enough for Cecile to pause before it with a slight exclamation.

  “Not one of the family,” Mrs. Picton explained, in a tone which subtly but unmistakably conveyed the fact that, if Mrs. Picton had her way, that was a position which would be maintained.

  “I know her,” Cecile said. “And I don’t like her.”

  She was ashamed of her crude candour, as soon as the words were out, but Mrs. Picton took it unblinkingly.

  “I don’t like her either,” she replied, in a confidential sort of tone. “But, between ourselves, I am venturing to think that photograph remains here more out of habit than anything else now.”

  “Was he—very keen on her?” Suddenly they were two women cosily discussing Gregory from the standpoint of shared knowledge and affection.

  “At one time, yes. Men can be so silly,” Mrs. Picton said elliptically. “Even the best of them have periods of blindness about some woman or other. Given time, they get over it, like measles when they are younger. But not all of them have time, of course, and then they are caught. I think,” she smiled pensively, “Gregory had enough time. And now, Cecile, I think you will be very good for him.”

  “It’s very nice of you to say so, Mrs. Picton. But you hardly know me, you know. You’re guessing.”

  “There is such a thing as inspired guessing,” was the succinct reply. “Mothers are rather good at it.”

  Then they went downstairs again, Cecile feeling indescribably happy and welcome in this charming house. In the company of her serene, slightly matter-of-fact, hostess, even the fear of Felicity and her dreadful knowledge seemed slightly unreal. And that encounter outside the flat, earlier in the evening, somehow faded in significance and ceased to have any sinister meaning.

  Dinner was a pleasant and friendly meal, but almost immediately after it Gregory said they should go, if he were going to keep his promise to get Cecile home in reasonable time.

  “It was all too short,” Mrs. Picton declared as she kissed Cecile goodbye. “But come again soon.”

  “Oh, I will! And thank you so much for making me feel completely at home, and for showing me—everything.”

  “What did ‘everything’ mean?” Gregory wanted to know, amusedly, as they drove away from the house.

  “What it says. I even saw your room,” Cecile told him.

  “Did you?” He looked surprised. “I shouldn’t have thought there was anything interesting about that.”

  She nearly said, “Oh, yes!” when she recalled the photograph of Felicity Waring, and the conversation she had had with Mrs. Picton. But she bit that back. And then, she could not possibly have said why, she asked a direct question, which was even worse. She said:

  “Does that big photograph of Felicity on your dressing-table mean that she is something rather special to you?”

  She was horrified the moment the words had escaped her. But the glance which he gave her was not angry. It was thoughtful and slightly puzzled.

  “If I answer that question, Cecile, will you answer a question I very much want to ask you, in return?” he said.

  “Why—why, yes. I think so.” She hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her caution.

  “Very well, then. That photograph means that once Felicity was something special to me. She didn’t want to be so, and a final break was made. And nowadays I am glad of it. Is that sufficient answer?”

  “Oh, yes,” cried Cecile, on a sudden note of joy. For, all at once, she knew it meant a great deal to her that Felicity was of no special interest to him.

  “And now it’s my turn.” He smiled ahead down the road in front of him.

  “Y-yes?” She smiled, a little doubtfully, too.

  “It’s also about Felicity, oddly enough,” he said slowly. “Why did she call at your mother’s flat this evening? And why did you send her away and pretend that a stranger had called by mistake?”

  CHAPTER VII

  The surprise was so complete, the blow to her temporary sense of security so totally unexpected, that for a moment Cecile could only stare at him in wordless dismay.

  “How did you know?” she asked at last. “You must be a mind reader.”

  “Oh, no.” He laughed. “Nothing so dashing as that. It was quite simple, really. When your mother left me, to go out of the flat and see what you were doing, I strolled to the window to look out at the view. I went on standing there when she returned, and, while she was pouring me another drink, I happened to glance out of the window—”

  “Oh—” Cecile put the back of her hand against her mouth.

  “I saw Felicity come out of the house, cross the road and walk quickly away. Then you came in—rather pale and scared-looking, as you are now—and told us that story about a stranger mistaking the house. It didn’t exactly ring true, Cecile, in the circumstances.”

  “N-no. I see it wouldn’t. I forgot the window looked on the street. And you were standing there when I came in. I remember now.”

  “Quite so,” he said, and waited. But all the inventive part of her mind seemed to have gone blank.

  What was she to tell him? The truth was impossible. And yet nothing even remotely plausible came into her mind.

  “I thought it all rather mysterious. I still do.” He was smiling faintly, she saw, and apparently not yet taking the matter very seriously. Only, he was curious.

  “It was—nothing—really.” She made a tremendous effort to look casually amused in her turn, but she felt that she managed no more than a stiff and nervous little smile. “Felicity thought I was away from home, and she came to see Laurie—”

  “Do they know each other, then?” The question was quite gently posed, but the tone of his voice had altered subtly and Cecile knew she had made a bad start.

  “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose they must.” Cecile strove to make that sound light and unconcerned.

  “If Felicity and Laurie know each other, they must have also recognized each other when Laurie looked over the banisters, to enquire what was happening. Why then did Laurie let you tell that story about a stranger calling?”

  “Oh—” Cecile saw her mistake too late. “I don’t know—I mean—of course, they couldn’t know each other, could they?”

  “I’m asking you,” he reminded her drily.

  “Well, then, obviously Laurie didn’t know Felicity. I—I had gone halfway down t
he stairs to meet Felicity. She was very much taken aback to see me. I thought perhaps she wanted to speak to you—that she had recognized your car outside. But when I suggested that, she said ‘no’, and she seemed a good deal put out at the discovery that you were there—”

  She paused and took a deep breath at this point, but he said, with deceptive gentleness, “Go on.”

  He gave her a skeptical glance as he said that, however, which made it difficult to struggle on. But Cecile had grasped the thread of a remotely possible story at last, and nothing was going to make her let go.

  “She said—Felicity said—that she preferred not to come up if you were there, and she added, ‘Don’t even tell him I came.’ And then she hurried off again. So, of course, when I came back upstairs, I—I had to give some plausible sort of story which didn't bring her into it.”

  Cecile thought she had not done too badly by now. But he cocked a humorous eyebrow at her and observed, “You’re not a very good liar, are you, Cecile?”

  “I’m not—” She flushed and dropped her eyes before his bright, amused, skeptical glance. “What makes you think I am l-lying?”

  “Almost everything,” he assured her a trifle maliciously. “If I had you under cross-examination in Court, I’d make mincemeat of you in five minutes.”

  “But I’m not under cross-examination and I’m not in Court.” She felt desperate, and she knew she must be looking sullen, because she had to keep her lips pressed tightly together to stop them from trembling.

  And then suddenly he drew the car to the side of the road, stopped the engine and put his arm round her.

  “True, my mendacious little ward. And so you could have said, quite simply, that you just didn’t want to answer my question, instead of telling me that very bad fairy story.”

  “But you had already answered my question,” she reminded him, almost in a whisper. “It—it was my turn to answer.”