My Sister Celia Page 4

  “And someone with a very special claim on her,” he added.

  “I shan’t make any claim on her,” Freda protested.

  “Not in the ordinary sense of the term, I’m sure. In fact, as I said before, you seem to be singularly undemanding,” he said kindly. “But no one has ever been able to disprove the saying that blood is thicker than water.”

  “N—no,” agreed Freda, aware that the particular application of the saying to her own situation gave her a most extraordinary sensation. Then, after a moment, she asked quietly, “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Nothing very drastic.” He smiled. “I just wanted you to know the position—and to judge it as leniently as you could. And I would suggest that I am allowed to make the explanations to my parents, in my own way and at my own time.”

  “Why, of course! I hadn’t thought of anything else.”

  “Hadn’t you?” He looked amused. “I suppose I keep on expecting you to react like Celia, just because you look so much like her. As you’ve probably noticed, she’s tremendously impulsive and eager. In your position, she would certainly want to take the initiative.”

  “She may still,” Freda observed shrewdly.

  “Then we must manage to deflect her,” he replied, and, in some odd way, Freda was flattered by the use of “we” in this context.

  “Would you like to come and dance now?” he enquired.

  “I—I don’t think I dance well enough.”

  “Well enough for what?” he enquired, with that touch of amusement again.

  “I mean—I’ve never been to a real dance in my life. And I—I’m sure everyone here knows lots of steps that I wouldn’t know at all and—”

  “I’m a very moderate performer myself,” he assured her. “Come and let’s see how we get on together.”

  So, half pleased, half apprehensive, she went with him into the other room. And here she made the satisfactory discovery that she danced quite well enough for an informal party at the Ronaldsons. In fact, she was enjoying herself immensely, and had just decided that Brian Vanner was a natural smoother of difficult paths, when she became aware that the girl called Coralie was looking across the room at her as though she had no right to be on the earth at all.

  Until that moment, so far as she knew, Freda had never inspired even a mild dislike in anyone (If one excepted that little brush with Laurence Clumber, that was to say.) But then, of course, she had never before been in a position to provoke envy.

  It gave her a queer and disagreeable shock to see naked dislike in anyone’s eyes. But the moment was not without a tingling sensation of rather frightening triumph too. For Coralie’s dislike and envy were due solely to the fact that Freda was dancing with Brian Vanner, and so, in an odd way, they were a measure of Freda’s social and personal success that evening.

  Freda glanced up into the strong, attractive face of the man who was dancing with her. But either he had not noticed Coralie (a pleasing thought in itself) or else he attached no importance to her glowering looks. At any rate, he merely smiled briefly at Freda and asked,

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Enormously,” she said truthfully. And, after that, Coralie didn’t seem to matter any more.

  Later in the evening, Celia, flushed and sparkling from the pleasure of what was evidently a specially exciting evening for her, managed to get Freda to herself for a few minutes.

  “Are you having a nice time, darling?” She squeezed Freda’s arm affectionately. “You look so pretty, with your cheeks flushed and your eyes so bright.”

  “I was thinking just the same thing of you,” Freda replied, with a smile. “Yes, I’m having a lovely time, thank you. Bri—everyone has been so kind.”

  “They’re a nice crowd,” Celia agreed carelessly. “By the way, who’s the handsome hunk of man who claimed you as an old friend?”

  “The handsome—? Oh, that’s Laurence Clumber.”

  “I remember the name now. I’ve met him before, I think. But you know him very well, I take it? Are you sweet on him?” enquired Celia, with candour.

  “Sweet on him?” gasped Freda. “No. I can’t st—I mean, we’re not on those terms at all.”

  “On what terms are you, then?” enquired Celia curiously.

  “I—I knew his great-aunt very well,” stated Freda sedately.

  “Good heavens, how dull!” exclaimed Celia, and laughed heartily. “Haven’t you anything in common except a great-aunt?”

  A faintly mischievous smile flitted over Freda’s face at that.

  “I suppose,” she said reflectively, “one might say we have a common interest in a cottage in the country.”

  “You dark little horse!” exclaimed Celia. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “Oh—nothing questionable,” Freda explained hastily. “I—I own a cottage more or less on his estate.”

  “Do you?” Celia was impressed. “How perfectly lovely. You must ask me down there.”

  “Oh, darling Celia, I will!” Freda looked suddenly radiant. “I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.”

  “Just the two of us together, you mean?”

  ‘Yes.” Freda nodded.

  “And the handsome Laurence Clumber somewhere in the offing,” added Celia musingly. “Very delightful.”

  Freda was tempted to say that Laurence Clumber was little more than a blot on the landscape, so far as she was concerned, but that would involve her in too many explanations, so she was silent. And, after a moment, Celia said,

  “We’ll arrange it. And soon. What fun it is having a sister! Especially when she’s a landed proprietor.” Then she glanced at her little diamond wrist-watch and declared,

  “We ought to be going.”

  The party had not really shown any signs of breaking up. But, as Brian came and joined them, Celia said,

  “I don’t think we ought to stay to the end. No one will mind if we go early, in the circumstances. We’ve a lot to explain to the parents.”

  “We don’t have to explain it all to-night,” Brian pointed out drily.

  “Not explain it all to-night? Don’t be absurd!” Celia was good-tempered but positive about that. “You don’t suppose I’m going to sleep on this terrific discovery, without telling them, do you?”

  “It might be more considerate.”

  “Nonsense. They’ll be thrilled,” Celia declared. And Freda saw that she was quite unable to believe that anyone could fail to share her own feelings over anything which concerned her greatly. “We must take Freda along with us, of course, so that they can see her for themselves.”

  “I don’t think that would be the best way to do things.” Freda put in quickly, as a look of concern passed over Brian Vanner’s face. “You and your brother should explain everything to them first, surely. And then, if—if they want to see me, I can come some other time.”

  “But that takes all the drama out of it,” Celia protested. “We should be taking you home, in any case. It’s only natural that we should call in at our place first, so that Mother and Father can see you. Then Brian will take you home, wherever you live.”

  Freda could not help guessing that, in Brian’s view, this was the worst possible way of breaking the news to his parents. At the same time, Celia’s lovely, smiling face wore a look of remarkable obstinacy.

  For a dreadful moment Freda saw herself as a bone of contention between her darling new sister and the delightful Brian Vanner, who had helped to make her evening so memorable. She glanced round for something—anything—with which to avert such a catastrophe. And, as her glance lighted on Laurence Clumber, quite near at hand, she suddenly found the solution.

  “It’s sweet of you, Celia dear,” she said. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you and Mr. Vanner take me home. Mr. Clumber has already undertaken to do that. Haven’t you?”

  And stretching out her hand, she closed her fingers compellingly on Laurence Clumber’s arm.

  CHAPTER THREE

 
IF Laurence Clumber was astonished to be claimed as Freda’s escort home, he concealed the fact with admirable coolness. For one perilous moment, certainly, he looked down at her, while she wondered if he intended to humiliate her with a refusal, in front of everyone. Then he said, with the faintest drawl in his voice,

  “Sure—I’m taking you home. No one’s going to dispute my claim to that pleasure.”

  “But then—” Celia looked put out—“that upsets all my plans.”

  “Never mind, dear.” Freda spoke soothingly. ‘You’ll have all the fun of showing me to the home circle another time. It wouldn’t have been a good idea to do it to-night, you know. These things can fall pretty flat if they’re wrongly timed—and it’s late for springing a surprise on anyone. Bri—Mr. Vanner is quite right”—her voice took on a note of sisterly authority—“your parents should be allowed some preparation first.”

  “We—ell—” reluctantly, Celia abandoned her original scheme—“have it your own way.”

  It surprised, and even slightly alarmed, Freda to discover that she had actually imposed her will on Celia’s. But the glance of approval which she received from Brian Vanner warmed her heart. What Laurence Clumber was thinking was another matter. But that she would have to tackle later.

  She and Celia then went upstairs to fetch their things, and, in the bedroom, Celia hugged her unselfconsciously and said,

  “You’re a darling, and I love you. If you want the slightly mysterious Laurence Clumber to take you home, who am I to stand in the way?”

  “Celia! He’s not in the least mysterious!”

  “Oh, I don’t mean in temperament. There’s nothing of the dark-eyed mystery man about him. I’d say his feet are very firmly planted on the ground. But you indignantly deny that you know anything of him, except through—of all things—a great-aunt. You even hint that you don’t like him. And then, with an air of challenging all comers, he’s determined to take you home. It’s rather thrilling, really,” Celia said pensively.

  “It’s nothing of the sort,” declared Freda crossly. “It just happens that—that—”

  “All right, my dear. You don’t have to tell me everything, just because I’m your sister,” Celia assured her, with the utmost good humour. “Let’s go down and see what our menfolk are doing.” Freda didn’t really want Laurence Clumber included under the heading of “our menfolk”, however temporarily. But it was not the moment to dispute that now. So down they went, and there was Brian waiting for them in the hall. And there was Laurence Clumber too, looking as though he had no other purpose in life but to escort Freda on her way.

  While good-byes were being said and telephone numbers exchanged, Brian found time to whisper, “Thank you, Freda. You managed everything splendidly.”

  She gave him a brief, half shy smile, which showed how much his approval pleased her. Then Celia kissed her warmly, repeated her good nights, and ran down the steps with Brian to a waiting taxi.

  Freda stood on the steps, watching them go, and when she reflected on all that had happened since she had met them on those same steps a few hours ago, she could hardly believe she was still the same girl.

  “Shall we go?” enquired Laurence Clumber, just behind her. “My car is parked across the road.”

  “Oh”—she turned to him quickly—“I must explain. There’s really no need for you to take me home. You see—”

  “Now, that’s where you’re mistaken,” he assured her, pleasantly but firmly, and this time it was his fingers which closed on her arm. “I’m not the sort of chap to let a girl slap his face one minute and hang on his arm the next, without some sort of explanation.”

  “I didn’t hang on your arm!” she said indignantly.

  ‘Metaphorically speaking, in each case,” he amended, unmoved. “Anyway, the situation’s intriguing—and of your own making, don’t forget. You asked the wicked squire to take you home. He’s taking you.”

  And, without any opportunity for further protest, Freda found herself piloted unresisting down the steps and across the road, to where a very handsome-looking car was waiting, at the opposite corner.

  Short of stamping her foot in an undignified way and saying she would not go with him, there was little she could do. Besides, he was right—the situation was of her own making. He had accepted the role she had thrust on him. In all fairness, she must play her part now.

  So Freda got into the car, and tried to look completely at ease.

  “Where to?” he enquired, as he got into the driver’s seat, beside her. “I’m afraid I know only your weekend country address.”

  Ignoring this little crack, Freda gave him the address of her bed-sitting-room near Earl’s Court, and proceeded to add instructions for getting there. But he said, “It’s all right. I know the district.

  “Do you?” She was surprised, for she would have associated the owner of Crowmain Court with a somewhat more exalted locality.

  “Certainly. I used to lodge there when I was a student. Nearly ten years ago,” he added reflectively.

  And what,” enquired Freda, with more interest than she had intended to display, “were you studying?”

  “Chemistry.”

  “Oh,” she said doubtfully. “Then you’re a chemist?”

  “In a modest, experimental sort of way,” he agreed.

  And Freda immediately visualized him playing at being a chemist, while he waited for his great-aunt to die and leave him a fortune.

  Presumably the thought was reflected in her face, because, after a moment, he enquired amusedly,

  “What does that severe look mean?”

  “N-nothing.” Freda was taken aback.

  “Of course it does,” he assured her cheerfully. And if you won’t tell me, I’ll tell you. You thought —‘Parasite! He just played around with a few bottles and test-tubes until someone else left him enough money to live on’.”

  She flushed at the accuracy of his deduction. But she said firmly, “I did not think—‘Parasite!’ It isn’t a word I use.”

  He laughed immoderately at that, and seemed suddenly to be in an excellent mood.

  “But the rest was a good guess?” he suggested, with unkind insistence.

  “It really doesn’t matter.” She tried not to look as confused as she felt. “I don’t know anything about you, and I’m not sitting in judgment on you or—”

  “You are, you know,” he assured her good-humouredly. ‘You think I’m a frightful bounder, just because I want your cottage. And you’re only too glad to attribute all sorts of unlikeable characteristics to me, in consequence. Which makes it all the more intriguing that you should have firmly picked me to escort you home. Why did you?”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” Freda explained, with more candour than tact. “I had to find someone on the spur of the moment—and there was no one else.”

  He made a face.

  “You do have a special talent for deflating one’s ego, don’t you?” he said wryly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Freda laughed, with a hint of contrition. “That wasn’t meant to sound disparaging. It was the literal truth. Both Br—Mr. Vanner and I knew it would be ill-advised for Celia to present me to her parents at this hour of the night, and without preparation. But she was very determined, so I thought the simplest solution was to pretend someone else wanted to take me home. You were the only one I felt sure would back me up without question.”

  “Nice child!” He took one hand from the wheel and patted hers. “You couldn’t make handsomer amends. But what made you sure I would back you up?”

  “I don’t know. But”—she turned that innocent glance upon him—“you did, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, in a slightly surprised tone. “I did. But I feel bound to tell you that sheer curiosity played an unworthy part in my reaction.”

  “I think you might be allowed that,” Freda told him with a smile, as they turned into her road.

  “Is this the place?” He leaned forward to peer a
t the numbers, in the lamplight.

  ‘Yes. It’s the second house from the end, on the left.”

  He drew up outside the house and then turned in his seat to face her.

  “Are you planning to go down to the cottage this weekend?” he enquired.

  “Well”—she hesitated, self-consciously aware that Mr. Token had probably already started on the pleasant task of making her cottage habitable—“I thought I might perhaps—just see—how things are getting on.”

  “Things?” he repeated, as though determined to have the situation in black and white.

  “I shan’t actually be staying at the cottage for some time, of course,” she conceded. “But Mr. Token will already have started to put it in order and do some redecorating for me. I might go and see how far he has got. I’m not sure. In any case, it really isn’t the slightest good trying to re-open the argument, because—”

  “I wasn’t going to,” he assured her drily. “I was merely going to say that, if you intended to go to Crowmain this weekend, perhaps I might give you a lift?”

  “A—a lift?” stammered Freda, completely taken off her guard by this unexpected approach. “But— but why?”

  “Because I shall be going down there myself on Saturday morning,” he explained calmly. “And it’s a much pleasanter journey by road than by train and bus.”

  “I’m—sure—it is,” murmured Freda, still a good deal nonplussed.

  “Well”—he looked amused—”what’s the difficulty, then?”

  “You know what the difficulty is,” she returned indignantly. “You and I—” she stopped, unable to find any words in which to describe the equivocal situation between them. But he made no attempt to help her out.

  “It’s very kind of you,” she began again, in as dignified a tone as she could achieve. “But I don’t think I should—I should make use of you, in the circumstances.”

  “What are you doing at the moment?” he enquired good-humouredly.

  “That’s different! I’ve explained.”

  He laughed then, and unexpectedly put his hand over hers—but in the same light, inoffensive way he had before.