Dinny sat with a fixed smile; she hated being driven really fast, and, when Jean had dropped again to her normal thirty-five, said plaintively:
‘Jean, I have a nineteenth century inside.’
At Folwell she leaned forward again: ‘I don’t want them to see me at Lippinghall. Please go straight to the Rectory and hide me somewhere while you deal with your parent.’
Refuged in the dining-room opposite the portrait of which Jean had spoken, Dinny studied it curiously. Underneath were the words: ‘1553, Catherine Tastburgh, née Fitzherbert, aetate 35; wife of Sir Walter Tastburgh.’
Above the ruff encircling the long neck, that time-yellowed face might truly have been Jean fifteen years hence, the same tapering from the broad cheek-bones to the chin, the same long dark-lashed luring eyes; even the hands, crossed on the stomacher, were the very spit of Jean’s. What had been the history of that strange prototype; did they know it, and would it be repeated by her descendant?
‘Awfully like Jean, isn’t she?’ said young Tasburgh: ‘She was a corker, from all accounts; they say she staged her own funeral, and got out of the country when Elizabeth set about the Catholics in the fifteen-sixties. D’you know what was the fate of anyone who celebrated Mass just then? Ripping up was a mere incident in it. The Christian religion! What oh! That lady had a hand in most pies, I fancy. I bet she speeded when she could.’
‘Any news from the front?’
‘Jean went into the study with an old Times, a towel, and a pair of scissors. The rest is silence.’
‘Isn’t there anywhere from which we can see them when they come out?’
‘We could sit on the stairs. They wouldn’t notice us, there, unless they happen to go up.’
They went out and sat in a dark corner of the stairway, whence through the bannisters they could see the study door. With some of the thrill of childhood Dinny watched for it to open. Suddenly Jean came forth, with a sheet of newspaper folded as a receptacle in one hand, and in the other a pair of scissors. They heard her say:
‘Remember, dear, you’re not to go out without a hat today.’
An inarticulate answer was shut off by the closing of the door. Dinny rose above the bannisters: ‘Well?’
‘It’s all right. He’s a bit grumpy – doesn’t know who’ll cut his hair and that; thinks a special licence a waste of money; but he’s going to give me the hundred a year. I left him filling his pipe.’ She stood still, looking into the sheet of newspaper; ‘There was an awful lot to come away. We’ll have lunch in a minute, Dinny, and then be off again.’
The Rector’s manner at lunch was still courtly, and Dinny observed him with admiring attention. Here was a widower well on in years, about to be deprived of his only daughter, who did everything about the house and parish, even to the cutting of his hair, yet he was apparently unmoved. Not a murmur escaped his lips. Was it breeding, benevolence, or unholy relief? She could not be sure; and her heart quailed a little. Hubert would soon be in his shoes. She stared at Jean. Little doubt but that she could stage her own funeral, if not other people’s; still, there would be nothing ungraceful or raucous about her dominations; no vulgar domesticity in the way she stirred her pies. If only she and Hubert had enough sense of humour!
After lunch the Rector took her apart.
‘My deah Dinny – if I may call you that – how do you feel about it? And how does your Mothah feel?’
‘We both feel it’s a little bit like “The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea!” ’
‘ “In a beautiful pea-green boat.” Yes, indeed, but not “with plenty of money” I feah. Still,’ he added, dreamily, ‘Jean is a good girl; very – ah – capable. I am glad oui families are to be – er – reunited. I shall miss her, but one must not be – ah – selfish.’
‘ “What we lose on the swings we gain on the roundabouts,” ’ murmured Dinny.
The Rector’s blue eyes twinkled.
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘yes, indeed; the rough with the smooth. Jean refuses to let me give her away. Here is her birth certificate in case of – ah – questions. She is of age.’
He produced a long yellowed slip. ‘Deah me!’ he added, sincerely: ‘Deah me!’
Dinny continued to feel doubtful whether she was sorry for him: and, directly after, they resumed their journey.
Chapter Fourteen
DROPPING Alan Tasburgh at his Club, the two girls headed the car for Chelsea. Dinny had sent no telegram, trusting to luck. On reaching the house in Oakley Street she got out and rang the bell. An elderly maid, with a frightened expression on her face, opened the door.