She scribbled the date on a piece of paper and pinned it to the sweater, then opened the door and made a dash for the Long Gallery. There, she lifted the lid of one of the chests containing clothes, delved down and put the sweater at the very bottom, hoping it would remain undisturbed for many years – for generations, perhaps, if Claude married the lady who loved poor unloved Crestover and they kept the house for Tom to inherit.
‘That’s from me to posterity,’ she thought, closing the chest.
Back to her room for her suitcase … down the marble staircase … across the cold white hall, pausing only to leave her letter on the table. She was through the front door, down the steps and running across the park. ‘Stop running, you fool,’ she told herself. ‘They can’t send bloodhounds after you. They haven’t so much as a Pekinese.’
She reached the road. The bus, she reckoned, would be along in less than five minutes. She sat down on her suitcase and looked back at the house.
All the bedrooms occupied by the family were still lit. Then she saw Claude’s lights go out. Now he would be coming downstairs. She imagined him finding her letter, opening it, reading it. She remembered every word:
My dearest Claude,
This is to say goodbye. I thought I could work things out. I thought I could marry you but the law won’t let me. I am terribly sorry that I have victimized you and the fact that I truly love you does not excuse me.
I thank you all for everything. Lady Crestover and your sisters have been so generous. I have left their clothes on my bed. I send special thanks to Mr Deane who has taught me many things. I thank you for loving me but hope you will soon stop – it may help you to when I tell you everything about me is false, even my figure. My hair is dyed. I have told you any amount of lies. My father is not dead but a fugitive from justice.
I’m afraid the clothes Lady Crestover ordered for me yesterday will have been started and cannot be cancelled. So I am leaving a diamond brooch (honestly mine, once my mother’s) to help pay for them.
Please forget me but I will never forget you.
Yours lovingly,
Merry.
P.S. I almost forgot to mention that I am only fourteen years and nearly seven months old.
At least, she thought, it was a humble letter and did not give away that she felt resentful as well as guilty. And the resentment, directed only towards Lady Crestover’s scheming, was already abating. What right had she to resent anything? And Lady Crestover had genuinely liked her.
She sat there, staring across the park and thinking of them all. Perhaps no one would notice her letter tonight—
The front door was flung open and a man’s figure was silhouetted against the lighted hall. It must be Claude, looking for her – perhaps calling her name! Suddenly she knew she had done wrong, leaving him like this. She should have told him the truth, not written it. How cowardly just to run away! She was flooded with love, pity and the blackest guilt. But it was too late to turn back.
Now the large, lighted bus was approaching. She stood up and signalled. It stopped and she jumped on.
Interlude Under the Dome
Jane
In the battle which raged after Merry’s flight from Dome House was discovered, Jane found herself sympathetic with both the warring factions and quite undecided which to back. Richard and Drew were determined that no pursuit should be instituted. Cook and Edith, with no less firmness and much more noise, demanded that the police should be notified. Clare, after wavering, sided with her brothers, though not very firmly. Her main reaction seemed to be envy of Merry’s courage.
For the third time Richard read the farewell letter aloud, stressing the passage which referred to the police: ‘If I read in the papers that they are after me, I won’t be answerable for the consequences. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. I might even slip out of the country with a troupe of dancers and you know what that could mean. But if you leave me alone I will take the greatest care of myself—’
Cook broke in, loudly emotional. ‘How can she take care of herself? She’s just a little, little girl.’
‘She’s five foot seven,’ said Richard. ‘And probably has the best brains in the family.’
‘I doubt if she could get out of England,’ said Jane.
‘There’s plenty of trouble she can land in without that,’ said Edith. ‘She ought to be found this very day, before the sun sets – before she faces night in the London streets.’
Drew said: ‘All she’ll face tonight is a London theatre and a London hotel. Truly, it’s safer to let her have her head.’
Argument continued, Cook and Edith becoming more and more excited. Richard’s firmness turning to anger, Drew’s support of his brother remaining quiet and therefore mainly inaudible. A climax was reached when Cook announced that, if Richard would not telephone the police, she would do it herself and at once. He then seized her by the shoulders, thrust her into a chair, and said: ‘If the police or anyone else in the village learn the true facts of Merry’s disappearance from you or Edith, you will both leave this house for good. I’m deeply fond of you, deeply grateful to you. But while you live here, you will do as you are told.’
There was a moment of utter silence. Then Cook said:
‘Edith, we pack,’ and led the way out of the hall. Edith, before following her, gave Richard a look of bitter outrage.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Richard.
‘I doubt if you’ve realized what “that” amounts to,’ said Drew. ‘The minute they’re out of this house they’ll feel free to notify the police – not to mention everyone else in the village. Our only hope was to convince them we’re right. I shall give them a few minutes and then try again. May I say you’re sorry?’
‘Certainly not. Oh, God, perhaps you’d better. If Merry finds out the police are after her …’
‘But surely it could be kept out of the papers?’ said Jane. ‘Then she wouldn’t know.’
‘She’d know if they found her, and she’d never forgive me. What’s more, she’s capable of doing something desperate, just as a reprisal. Say anything you like, Drew, if you feel you can muzzle Cook and Edith. But I don’t believe you’ll manage it.
Neither did Jane believe it; but in twenty minutes Drew returned to say all was well. He even bore an apology for Richard. ‘That is, they said they hoped you’d understand it was all due to their fears for Merry. I found the poor loves sitting on their beds crying, and wondering how they were going to pack the accumulations of fifteen years into the two suitcases they brought with them originally. And they were afraid you wouldn’t let them take Burly – or that, if you would, their sister wouldn’t give him a permanent home. And they couldn’t work at the Swan if they didn’t live here – and so on. Still, they kept on saying nothing mattered except that Merry must be found by the police so they did need quite a bit of convincing she shouldn’t be.’
‘How did you manage it?’ asked Jane.
‘Oh, I just explained, very gently. And they finally had the nerve to say they’d have understood if we’d explained before. As if we didn’t! Anyway, they’re now loyally prepared to back our story that Merry’s staying with an aunt. Let’s have breakfast. Cook’s making fresh tea.’
Later in the morning, Drew went to get the support of Merry’s friend, Betty.
‘Just explain, very gently,’ said Richard, smiling at his brother.
Drew brought back the news that Betty’s conscience had given only a feeble flutter and been satisfied by a simple formula. She would say to people: ‘Drew tells me Merry has gone to stay with an aunt,’ thus leaving the lie on Drew’s conscience, not on hers. Asked by him if she knew how Merry would set about getting a job, she’d replied: ‘I suppose she’ll go to theatres and ask for one.’
‘I shouldn’t think that would work,’ said Jane. ‘Though there is something invincible about Merry.’
‘And she knows what she wants,’ said Clare. ‘That’s half the battle. How I wish I could run away and get a job!’
r />
‘No need to run away, dear,’ said Drew. ‘We’ll give you our blessing.’
‘I shall start hunting this afternoon – in grim earnest.’
Jane offered to drive her to the nearest Labour Exchange but it turned out that Clare’s hunting was merely to be through newspapers. After lunch, she spread various Situations Vacant pages on the hall floor and proceeded to crawl over them on her hands and knees. Jane was invited to sit near by and give advice. Drew shortly joined the crawl. Richard, for the first time since his father’s flight, went to his music room.
‘Really, it’s humiliating,’ said Drew. ‘Hundreds of firms simply shouting their need of employees in large, expensive advertisements; offering huge salaries, brilliant prospects, positively coaxing one to work for them – and not one job one could conceivably do. Metallurgists, mathematical physicists, organic chemists, estimators – well, I could estimate some things; ah, no, not boilers. Intermediate engineers – what could that mean? Jig and tool draughtsmen. Oh, if only one had been trained to jig and tool!’
‘And thousands of shorthand typists needed,’ said Clare. ‘Jane, how long does it take to train as a shorthand typist?’
‘It took me a year.’
‘Then I’d have to allow at least three. And the training would cost so much.’
‘Can’t you think of some job you’d actually enjoy? Do try, both of you.’
Clare sat back on her heels and considered. At last, looking pleased at her sudden initiative, she said: ‘I wouldn’t mind travelling abroad with someone – provided I was well looked after.’
‘You’d have to do the looking after,’ said Jane. ‘That’s what you’d be paid for.’
Drew said he could fancy running the Correspondence Corner of a woman’s magazine. ‘You know – advice to the lovelorn. I wrote for advice myself once – Merry dared me to – and got my letter published. I began, “May a puzzled lad crave the courtesy of your column?” and signed the letter “Tuffy Roughwell”. I said I was six foot three and terribly strong but gentle as a lamb, and why were nice girls so scared of me? Six letters were forwarded from nice girls who weren’t one bit scared. I had to write and tell them I was emigrating. Well, failing a Cupid’s Corner with me as Uncle Andrew, I can’t think what I’d like – all I really want is to work at my novel. Of course I get on very well at tea parties with village old ladies. Do you think I’d enjoy being an old lady’s companion?’
Jane laughed. ‘Not for long, you wouldn’t.’
‘Well, perhaps not for very long. But I might be willing to put in a few well-paid weeks with some kind, rich old girl who was young in the early nineteen hundreds – provided she had a good, nostalgic memory; my village old ladies are so much more interested in their presents than their pasts.’ He sighed. ‘I’m beginning to despair of ever getting the feel of the period for my novel. Research isn’t the same as meeting people who remember.’
‘This sounds the right job for you,’ said Clare. ‘“Elderly lady needs secretary-companion. Two maids kept. Good salary. Apply Miss Blanche Whitecliff, White Turrets, Whitesea.” What a name and address!’
‘Fascinating,’ said Drew. ‘I pine to see those turrets.’
‘I have seen them,’ said Jane. ‘That’s a job I investigated five or six weeks ago. Seriously, I wonder if Clare—’
Clare interrupted. ‘It says secretary-companion.’
‘She didn’t need shorthand, and you might even manage without typing. She talks about writing a memoir of her parents, but I doubt if it’ll get any further than talking about it. Her father was a composer named Albion Whitecliff who set her mother’s verses to music. I had to confess I’d never heard of either of them. She was so nice, Clare, and rather beautiful. And the house was just right for your novel, Drew – lots of fancy white-painted balconies, and I’ve never seen such a perfectly preserved Edwardian interior; silver vases and a satin-striped wallpaper with a frieze of roses and blue ribbons.’
‘Sheer bliss,’ said Drew. ‘Why didn’t you take the job?’
‘Well, the word “companion” always alarms me, and the maid who opened the door looked a bit of a menace – very old and rather like a little black fly, but a lovely lace cap and apron. However, I did say I’d think it over, because I liked Miss Whitecliff so, and I could see she was lonely. But then I went to see your father.’
‘Do try for it, Clare,’ said Drew. ‘I could come and see you and get all the atmosphere I want. None of my old ladies have preserved the surroundings of their youth; they’re all for Georgian antiques and modern American kitchens. Besides, a seaside town would make a splendid setting for my novel.’
‘And Whitesea’s almost as Edwardian as Miss Whitecliff,’ said Jane.
But Clare said she couldn’t be shut up with an old lady.
‘I might dress up as a female and try for the job myself,’ said Drew. ‘But my gruff voice would give me away.’
‘Not only that,’ said Jane, smiling. She found Drew, in spite of his gentleness, cosiness and occasional pretence of feminine interests, essentially masculine, but not yet maturely masculine. He was still only a boy, even when his manner was dryly sophisticated. As for his voice, ‘gruff’ certainly didn’t describe it well; ‘veiled’ was the most suitable word she could think of.
Soon he gave up job-hunting and went to his room. Clare, looking after him, said: ‘If only he’d known this catastrophe was coming, he could have equipped himself for it. Grand always said he had an all-round intelligence – not dead-set on just one thing. Now, poor love, he’ll never get his year abroad, the way Richard did.’
‘Richard went abroad?’
‘When he was twenty-one, to study music. He said a year wasn’t nearly long enough, but he was glad to get back. And we were glad to have him. It’s the only time the four of us have ever been separated.’
Jane asked if the boys had not been away to school and was surprised to hear they had attended a day school in a nearby town. Excellent, according to Clare, but one would have expected Rupert Carrington’s sons to go to a public school. Well, one was probably a snob, but quite unrepentant. As if answering her thoughts, Clare said: ‘Grand didn’t approve of public schools. And anyway she wanted us all at home. When I think of … well, what sheltered lives we’ve led I’m even more amazed at Merry’s bravery. I wonder where she is.’
‘And where your father is.’
‘Oh, dear, it’s raining again. I do feel depressed.’
So did Jane; and when Richard shortly returned from his music room he was equally gloomy. Asked by her if he had been working he said: ‘Merely shutting up shop. At the moment, I can’t imagine ever working again. But one must, at least, down tools in an orderly manner.’
‘Surely you need your work more than ever now – to keep your mind off things?’
He said he must keep his mind on things, much as he’d prefer not to. ‘And when I work, I forget everything else.’
Jane suddenly decided that she, anyway, must work. She would accept Miss Willy’s offer of a job. Apart from the fact that she could then help the family financially, she would need distraction from the changed atmosphere at Dome House. Richard had already given his grateful approval, if she really felt she could stand working for Miss Willy. Well, stand it she must; perhaps she’d look on it as a penance for having failed to get a scholarship for Merry.
She went upstairs and wrote her acceptance. Coming out onto the gallery with her letter, she met Drew, also coming from his room with a letter. He said he would take hers with his, to catch the afternoon post.
BOOK THREE
Drew
1
A Town Embalmed
The answer to his letter came by return of post. Guessing it might, he was careful to be in the hall when it arrived. The name on the envelope, if seen by anyone else, would have given rise to comment.
Miss Blanche Whitecliff wrote to say she would be at home on the following afternoon at three o’clock – ‘If you
are sure you wish to come all this way to see me. From what you tell me, there is a great possibility you might prove suitable, and I very much admire your handwriting. Forgive the seeming illiteracy of my own owing to arthritis.’
He had written in his best italic script. He had mentioned having been temporary companion to several ladies who would, if required, supply references. (Surely his friendship with local old ladies amounted to temporary companionship?) He had touched on the fact that he had recently met Miss Jane Minton ‘who felt that the position might be right for me’. (Well, she’d almost said that.) He concluded by saying that he felt qualified to help with Miss Whitecliff’s family memoir as he had already done research on the Edwardian period, and he signed the letter ‘Evelyn A. Carrington’, a name he had every right to, having been christened Evelyn Andrew.
Naturally, Miss Whitecliff addressed him as ‘Miss’. Reading her gracious reply he was smitten by qualms of conscience. He had acted on an impulse born of his intense desire to see her house and talk to the woman who had preserved such a setting; so soon now it would be too late to catch an authentic glimpse of the golden era that fascinated him. But his letter, implying that he was a female, was rather like his letter to Cupid’s Corner – just ‘one of Drew’s jokes’, famous in the family; and he now saw it as an offensive joke. But surely he could prevent its being offensive? And in the unlikely event that she would accept him he would stay with her … yes, a whole month and be very, very kind to her. Anyway, conscience or no conscience, he just must see that Edwardian interior.
After breakfast he speedily packed a suitcase and, being determined not to tell anyone what he was up to, wrote a brief note to Richard saying: ‘Another bird has flown the nest in search of a job, but is liable to be back, jobless, within a couple of days. If not, I’ll write.’ Then, remembering Merry’s farewell letter, he added: ‘I promise not to go abroad with a troupe of dancers.’