The New Moon With the Old

‘You wore it?’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘Well, you said I could.’

  ‘Of course. But judging by that last angry glare you gave me, I shouldn’t have thought you’d have felt friendly enough.’

  ‘I think I was more startled than angry.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was quite angry with myself – for succumbing to sudden temptation.’

  She came towards him and sat on the bed. ‘Good heavens, being kissed on the top of the head isn’t the end of the world. Just forget it. Well, if I’m going to accept this lovely present I ought to be more gracious about it. Thank you very much.’

  She smiled at him sweetly.

  ‘That was charmingly said. And you won’t distrust me any more?’

  ‘I never did, really – I only felt I ought to. It’s most extraordinary, but from the moment I woke up and saw you …’ She found difficulty in putting it into words.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, watching her closely.

  ‘Well, I was somehow so confident – brave as any lion. And that’s terribly unlike me. Perhaps I knew instinctively that you’d be all right with the young and innocent. Not that I’m all that innocent.’

  ‘Then I might not be all that all right. Don’t worry; that was just a joke – still, I suggest you stop lolling on the bed. I begin to see you’re a minx.’

  She sat up straight. ‘Not on purpose, truly. And haven’t minxes gone out?’

  ‘I was beginning to fear so.’ He smiled at her speculatively. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand yourself.’

  ‘There’s no perhaps about it – I don’t and I never have. And trying to always makes me feel demented.’

  ‘Then don’t try. Anyway, it’s a mistake to know too much about oneself – does one out of exciting surprises.’

  ‘My young sister says people who aren’t introspective aren’t fully alive.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be my type. Still, I do know what she means. And one mustn’t resist self-knowledge. But I think the truest kind comes in flashes, not by taking thought.’

  ‘Oh, I’m certain you’re right,’ said Clare, leaning forward with eager interest. ‘Not that I’ve had any flashes yet. I sometimes think I’m mentally arrested.’

  He threw his head back and laughed, and she laughed too, then said through her laughter: ‘No, really, I meant it. Oh, listen, that must be twelve o’clock striking. I think you should go.’

  ‘I’m sure I should,’ said Mr Charles, rising. ‘Well, come and see me off. And this time I promise not to assault you. Though if you really didn’t mind …’

  They had reached the door. She gave him a quick smile and then obligingly bent her head.

  ‘Thank you … it’s exactly like a chicken. And I speak from experience. At the age of six, motherless and miserable, I did kiss a chicken. It hated it.’

  ‘This chicken didn’t,’ said Clare looking up at him.

  ‘This chicken is an out-and-out baggage – and in a certain amount of danger of being treated as one.’

  She moved quickly away from him, then said seriously: ‘I’m sorry, honestly. I keep doing and saying things without thinking. I suppose it’s because I really do trust you now. You might be an uncle. Not that I ever had one.’

  ‘And you haven’t got one now,’ said Mr Charles, laughing. ‘Go right ahead. I don’t mind your making fun of me.’

  ‘But I’m not, I swear I’m not.’

  For a silent second he looked down into her earnest eyes, his own eyes puzzled as well as amused. Then he said, ‘I think I shall allow myself to believe you. Well, good night, and don’t worry about tomorrow – or about absolutely anything.’

  ‘I absolutely won’t,’ said Clare.

  5

  Mr Charles

  Clare woke soon after eight feeling extremely cheerful. She bathed, dressed and ordered a large breakfast from her fatherly floor waiter, with whom she enjoyed a pleasant chat. He managed to combine a gentle playfulness with extreme respect, a manner she found admirably suited to the dignity of the hotel.

  Soon after she began breakfast the telephone rang. She answered it eagerly and was sorry to learn that Nurse Brown was not summoning her. ‘You won’t be needed this morning, dear. Mr Rowley wants to talk to Mr Charles. But he says will you come in for lunch? Say, twelve-thirty. Now have your breakfast and go out for a walk. It’s a lovely day.’

  Clare, getting ready to go out, felt a lack of enthusiasm for her blue cloak over her grey dress, now worn for the third day running. If Mr Charles wanted to force a new outfit on her it would require a minimum of forcing.

  She had been greatly struck with his view that she needed to be dressed ‘very simply, at enormous expense’. Up to now she had taken little pleasure in her clothes. Ready-made ones neither fitted nor suited her; those achieved with the aid of the village dressmaker were usually neat, sometimes pretty, but invariably undistinguished. Clare, as usual, blamed herself for this; she could not create interesting designs or even choose the right ones to have copied. But this morning she had, anyway, a great desire to think about clothes. She would imagine herself possessed of unlimited money and go window shopping.

  She did so, with waning enthusiasm, finally coming to the conclusion that the simple, enormously expensive clothes which now hovered before her mind’s eye like some holy grail seldom came from firms which displayed their goods in windows, though one or two fur coats seemed tolerable.

  By twelve o’clock she was back in her room getting ready to go to the suite, which she did on the dot of twelve-thirty. She felt extremely nervous when Nurse Brown took her into the sitting-room. Then she sighted Mr Charles and was suddenly confident.

  He shook her warmly by the hand and said: ‘I’ve heard so much about you that I feel I’ve already met you.’

  ‘I feel just the same about you,’ said Clare, her sang froid fully equal to his; she wondered if he was as astonished by this as she was.

  ‘I said you’d like each other, didn’t I?’ Mr Rowley beamed on them; then went on with ponderous playfulness. ‘But don’t forget she’s mine, Charles. Nurse, I’ve promised myself to see her again. I think we’ve time before luncheon.’

  Ordeal by lamp then proceeded and Clare was surprised to find that she now did not mind it at all. This was partly because she no longer found Mr Rowley frightening or even repulsive. It was also because she became interested in comparing his face with his grandson’s. They stared at her and she smilingly stared back.

  It struck her that, whereas Mr Rowley looked slightly foreign, Mr Charles looked completely English. And it was just possible to believe that Mr Rowley might once have been darkly handsome, whereas Mr Charles could never have been anything but – rather less darkly – extremely ugly, in a humorous, sardonic way she found reassuring. She had no idea why she did and was content to have none; the reassurance was enough.

  Meanwhile, the two Mr Rowleys were discussing her freely. The elder asked for confirmation of his belief that her hair was the colour of ripe corn.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr Charles.

  ‘And her eyes – look at me, child – a very deep blue?’

  ‘Sapphire,’ said Mr Charles.

  ‘And the mouth unusually small?’

  ‘A veritable rosebud,’ said Mr Charles, winking at Clare. Her hair was a very pale shade of gold, her eyes a pale, though vivid, shade of blue, her mouth as unlike a rosebud as Nature and a lipstick could make it. But she interpreted the wink to mean that Mr Rowley should be allowed to ‘see’ her as he wished to, and she was content to let him.

  The lamp was then put away and lunch, already ordered by Mr Charles, was served. It was the most interesting meal Clare had ever eaten and even Mr Rowley admitted that he could taste far more than he usually could, possibly because Mr Charles, who had insisted that Nurse Brown should eat with them, himself helped the old gentleman to eat and described exactly what was being eaten. Everyone was gay; even the waiters seemed to be enjoying themselves. Nurse Brown had indeed been r
ight in saying: ‘Life’s quite different when Mr Charles is with us.’

  The gaiety continued after lunch, when Mr Charles gave some amusing descriptions of recent adventures ‘abroad’. Clare was quite unable to distinguish fact from fiction. Her guess was that he did go abroad very frequently for short periods and thus had material to draw on and embroider. In mentioning a few days spent in Switzerland, he broke off to say to her, ‘Oh, my grandfather has told me whose daughter you are. I should think it’s more than probable that your father’s in Switzerland. If so, I might be able to get news of him. Would you like me to try?’

  She considered, then said: ‘He could let us know where he is if he wanted to. Perhaps he’s as anxious to get away from his family as from the police. And I can understand it. I love my family – I really do – and yet I don’t want to let them know where I am. But perhaps that’s because Aunt Winifred’s there.’

  ‘Ah, the terrible Aunt Winifred,’ said Mr Rowley, smiling.

  ‘To whom we owe the pleasure of your company. But I wonder how much she really had to do with it. I think, Charles, this is a very unconventional young lady who wishes to lead her own life unencumbered by family ties.’

  ‘My family wouldn’t want to tie me. They’ll be only too happy if I can earn a living – not to mention surprised. I’ve always been the family fool.’

  ‘Now you mustn’t ask us to believe that, dear,’ said Nurse Brown.

  ‘But it’s true. Anyway, I’m a fool compared with my brothers and sister. They’re really clever. No one could accuse me of that.’

  ‘How clever of you to use the word “accuse”,’ said Mr Charles.

  ‘All really clever women conceal their cleverness,’ said Mr Rowley.

  ‘I’ve never had to do any concealing,’ said Clare.

  Judging by their laughter, none of them believed her. And she suddenly did not quite believe herself. Perhaps she wasn’t such a fool, after all. How kind they all were – and how very happy she was! She gave a little sigh of pure pleasure.

  When Mr Rowley, not very willingly, had allowed them to leave him alone for his nap, Mr Charles said he would take her for a walk.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nurse Brown. ‘And mind you look after her well.’

  ‘I was thinking of abducting her,’ said Mr Charles. ‘Nurse, you will dress for dinner tonight, please. Your wine velvet.’

  ‘He gave it to me,’ Nurse Brown informed Clare, with satisfaction. ‘Now hurry up and get your cloak, dear. Looks as though there might be a good sunset. It’ll be ever so nice, walking in the park.’

  But they went to no park. As soon as they left the hotel Mr Charles said: ‘Let’s buy something. I’m happy and that always gives me an appetite for spending. What do you want? Say the first thing that comes into your mind.’

  ‘Toothpaste,’ said Clare. ‘I really do need some.’

  ‘Well, you’re not getting any. We’ve hardly any time before the shops shut.’

  He took her first to a florist; never had she seen such superb flowers. He asked if she had any special favourites.

  ‘No, I love them all, though I’m very bad at arranging them.’

  ‘How original of you. Most women think they’re good at it – and seldom are. These are my favourites.’

  He bought three dozen roses of a kind she had never seen before, deep pink with a golden heart.

  ‘And now let’s make a dash for Bond Street.’ He took her by the arm and hurried her along.

  In Bond Street he bought chocolates, a round box as big as a car wheel. ‘We can roll that back if we can’t pick up a taxi. What next? Scent? No, we must have more time when we choose that.’

  ‘Would that very grand shop over there sell toothpaste?’ said Clare.

  ‘Oh, bother your toothpaste – use soap. I want to get you to a jeweller’s.’

  ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘No jewellery.’

  ‘I thought we’d decided you weren’t conventional.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s too late. All the shops are closing.’

  ‘We may just get inside – and if we do, you can’t shame me by refusing.’

  ‘I wonder if I would,’ said Clare, with genuine speculation. ‘Well, we shall never know. Look!’

  The jeweller’s he was hurrying her to was noticeably closed.

  ‘Then we’ll look in the window and you shall tell me what you’d like.’

  ‘Oh, just the largest tiara.’

  ‘Take care, you might get it tomorrow – and it really wouldn’t suit you. Seriously, tell me what you admire. I’ll promise not to force it on you.’

  She gave the matter some consideration and then said, ‘There’s nothing I terribly like. I suppose that sounds silly.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve very good taste. All the workmanship’s excellent but the designs are dull. Those pearls are good. I fancy pearls are your jewels – orientals, of course, not cultured.’

  ‘Well, naturally,’ said Clare, laughing. ‘Can one really tell the difference?’

  ‘I can. Anyway, the difference in value is of the utmost significance. Without value, jewels mean nothing; and their meaning is an integral part of their beauty. They’re as symbolic as a religious symbol.’

  He hailed a passing taxi and, once inside, surveyed his purchases ruefully. ‘I’ve nowhere near assuaged my spending appetite. And how strictly conventional we’ve been – flowers, chocolates, I wonder I didn’t buy you a pair of gloves; even in my grandfather’s youth, young ladies could accept those.’

  ‘Well, so could I,’ said Clare.

  ‘And a dress to go with the gloves and a coat to go with the dress? Not that I haven’t affectionate memories of that most peculiar cloak.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clare.

  He laughed at her cheerful acceptance. ‘But you’re still adamant about jewellery? Is there anything else you draw the line at?’

  ‘Well, furs, probably. And money, of course. Except my wages. Not that I’ve come by any yet.’

  ‘You could have a loan against your salary.’

  She opened her handbag and showed him her unchanged five-pound note.

  ‘Plutocrat! Well, we’ll go shopping again tomorrow, won’t we?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Clare.

  She enjoyed every minute of the short taxi drive. The home-going crowds on the pavements, the bright shop windows beyond them, the western sky glimpsed at cross streets, all gave her enormous pleasure. She tore the wrapping off the roses so that she could smell them, then turned to Mr Charles and said: ‘Thank you.’

  He smiled. ‘You have a charming trick of being just a little late with your thanks and then completely making up for it.’

  Back at the hotel he carried the roses and chocolates into her room, where a chambermaid was turning down the bed. He sent her for a vase.

  ‘Won’t she think it peculiar, your coming in here?’ said Clare.

  ‘My dear child, you must never give a thought to what servants think of you.’

  She looked at him curiously. ‘Every now and then you turn into a very arrogant person. I was brought up not to call servants “servants”.’

  ‘I wasn’t. And until they quite die out – and hotels like this are among the few places where they haven’t – I shall go on calling them servants and treating them as servants.’

  ‘But you were so nice to the waiters at lunch.’

  ‘Of course. But I treated them as waiters. And so did you, by letting them wait on you.’

  ‘I always feel a bit apologetic about it,’ said Clare.

  ‘How very shocking. Either wait on yourself or be waited on with a good grace, which means accepting servants as servants. Nowadays it’s little more than an elaborate pretence – on both sides. But one must either pretend properly or completely rule out the idea of one human being waiting on another, as perhaps we ought. But I don’t intend to until I have to. I must go. My grandfather will be awake.’

  Clare, waiting for the vase to pu
t her roses in, thought over what he had said and found she could accept his point of view; yet she also resented it. She was now on his side of the dividing line between master and servant but she had scarcely been that on their first meeting. She had been the chambermaid kissed by the rake. He had since apologized but only, presumably, because he had realized she was on his side of the line. Her feelings were extremely confused, as she was attracted by the arrogance she resented and incapable of understanding why. One direct result was that when the real chambermaid, a pretty Irish girl, returned she was given half a dozen roses and an apron-pocketful of chocolates.

  She was touchingly grateful, especially for the roses; but her manner, Clare noted, underwent a change Mr Charles would not have approved of. The word ‘miss’ disappeared from her vocabulary and, before leaving, she gave Clare a shrewd look and said: ‘Good luck, dear.’ Her meaning was obvious – and startling. Clare reminded herself, ‘Never give a thought to what servants think.’ Well, it would need practice.

  When she had arranged her roses (if one had enough of them, they did the job for themselves) she dressed and went to the suite, feeling she need no longer wait to be summoned. Now for Nurse Brown in wine velvet! But she found the nurse still in her uniform and looking worried.

  ‘Plans have been changed, dear. Mr Rowley’s having his dinner in bed, with just Mr Charles there. Seems they’ve things to discuss – though, goodness knows they talked enough this morning. Funny, I thought the old gentleman was looking forward to a dinner party.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s feeling ill,’ said Clare.

  ‘Says not. But he didn’t seem quite himself, after his nap. Anyway, he wanted just to be with Mt Charles. Their meal’s gone in already. You’re to have yours with me.’

  Clare was disappointed, having hoped for a dinner as gay as lunch had been. She asked if they could wait a while. ‘I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Oh, you will be when we start, dear, because Mr Charles has ordered dinner for us. He said I wasn’t to fob you off with any old thing. The way he chooses food always gives me an appetite.’

  Clare, too, found her appetite stimulated, as much by the fact that Mr Charles had taken the trouble to choose her dinner as by what he had chosen. But it was not a cheerful meal as Nurse Brown was worried about Mr Rowley. When the waiters came to remove his dinner table, she left her coffee and went into his room with them. She came back more worried than ever.