The Chain of Destiny
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It was hard at first and time hung heavy on her hands, for she had been doing more and more for her aunt during the past few months. She turned out cupboards and drawers, gardened for hours at a stretch, and in the evenings sat at the table, pondering ways and means. Her aunt had left only a very little money, for she had been supplementing her pension from her small capital. Suzannah had a few pounds saved, but she would have to find work as soon as possible. There had been a rumour in the village that Miss Smythe had asked for an assistant to help her in the school; Suzannah had had a good education, a clutch of A-levels and could have had a place in a university. Much cheered with the idea, she went to bed a week or so after her aunt’s death, determined to go and see Miss Smythe in the morning.
She was up early to find that the postman had already been—several letters which she skimmed through and laid on one side to answer later; the last one was from the manor house and rather surprised her—a formal note asking her to call there that morning.
She read it a second time; perhaps there was a job for her there? She got dressed and had breakfast, tidied the little house and walked up the drive and round the side of the house to the door which the staff used. She met Mr Toms as she was going through the flagstoned passage which would lead her to the stairs and the private wing. She had always got on well with him, but now he showed no wish to stop and pass the time of day; indeed, he muttered that he was already late and barely paused to wish her good morning, which surprised her very much.
Grimm the butler answered the door when she pressed the discreetly hidden bell by the door at the top of the staircase. He bade her good morning, ushering her into a small ante-room, and then he went away, to return in a few minutes and ask her to go with him.
She had expected to see old Sir William, but there was no sign of him in the study into which she was ushered. Only his niece, a girl a little older than Suzannah, sat behind the desk. Suzannah had met her on several occasions and hadn’t liked her; she liked her even less now as she went on writing, leaving Suzannah to stand in the middle of the room. She looked up finally and Suzannah thought what a pretty girl she was, tall and dark with regular features and blue eyes and always beautifully dressed. She said now, ‘Oh, hello. Uncle isn’t well enough to see anyone, so I’ve taken over for a time. I won’t keep you long. I expect you’ve heard that there is an assistant teacher coming to live here to give Miss Smythe a hand. She’ll start after half-term, in a couple of weeks’ time, so we shall want the lodge for her to live in.’
It was the very last thing Suzannah had expected to hear. She was sensible enough to know that sooner or later she would have to leave the lodge unless she could get a job connected with the manor house, and somehow she had believed that old Sir William would have agreed to her applying for the post of teacher or at least allowed her to have stayed on and continued to work as a guide.
She said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘I had hoped to apply for that post…’
‘Well, it’s been filled, and don’t expect to find a job here. Sir William has been far too easygoing; I’m cutting down on the staff. But you’re able to shift for yourself, I suppose?’ She gave Suzannah a cold smile. ‘I consider that we’ve more than paid our debt to your aunt; there’s no reason why we should have to go on paying it to you.’ She pulled some papers towards her. ‘Well, that’s settled, isn’t it? I don’t know what you intend doing with your aunt’s furniture—sell it to the schoolteacher if you like, only the lodge must be empty of your possessions in two weeks. Goodbye, Suzannah.’
Suzannah didn’t answer, she walked out of the room and closed the door very gently behind her. It was like a bad dream, only it wasn’t a dream, it was reality, and presently when she could think straight she would come to terms with it. Without thinking, she took the long way round to the front door, through the picture gallery, and half-way along it found herself face to face with Professor Bowers-Bentinck. She would have walked past him, but he put out a hand and stopped her, staring down at her pale, pinched face.
‘Well, well, Miss Lightfoot, so we meet once more—there must be a magnet which draws us…’ He had spoken lightly, but when she looked up at him with her lovely grey eyes full of hurt and puzzlement, he asked, ‘What’s wrong? You’re not ill?’
She didn’t answer, only pulled her arm away and ran from him, out of the gallery and down the staircase, through the front door and down the drive. She would have to be alone for a while to pull herself together and then think what was best to do. Fleetingly she wondered why the professor was at the manor house, and then she remembered that old Sir William wasn’t well. And anyway, what did it matter?
Back at the lodge, she sat down at the kitchen table with Horace on her lap and tried to think clearly. Two weeks wasn’t long, but if she was sensible it would be time enough. She fetched pencil and paper and began to write down all the things which would have to be done.
The professor stood for a moment, watching Suzannah’s flying figure, then he shrugged his huge shoulders and went back to the private wing, opened the door of the study and strolled in.
The girl at the desk looked up and smiled charmingly at him.
‘Phoebe, I have just met that small red-haired girl who works as a guide here, with a face like skimmed milk and tragic eyes…’
The girl shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s that woman’s niece—the one who died and lived at the lodge. The new assistant teacher will have to live there, so I’ve arranged for the girl to move out.’
He leaned against the wall, looking at her without expression. ‘Oh? Has she somewhere to go?’
‘How should I know, Guy? She’s young and quite clever, so I’ve heard; she’ll find something to do.’
‘No family, no money?’
‘How on earth should I know? Uncle William has been far too soft with these people.’
‘So you have turned her loose into the world?’
The girl frowned. ‘Well, why not? I want that lodge and there’s no work for her as a guide—I’ve got rid of that woman from the post office, too. Miss Smythe can manage on her own, and if we get more visitors in the summer I’ll get casual help.’
‘Does your uncle know about this?’ he spoke casually.
‘Good heavens, no! He’s too old to be bothered. I’ll write to Father and let him know when I’ve got time.’
‘And he will approve?’
She shrugged and laughed. ‘It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t—he’s on the other side of the world.’ She pushed back her chair and smiled charmingly. ‘Let’s talk about something else, Guy—how about driving me over to Hungerford and giving me lunch?’
‘Impossible, I’m afraid, Phoebe. I have to be back in town this afternoon.’ He strolled back to the door. ‘I came to see your uncle before I left.’
‘You’re not going? I counted on you staying for a few days…’ She got up and crossed the room to him. ‘You don’t mean that?’
He had opened the door. ‘My dear girl, you tend to forget that I work for a living.’
‘You don’t need to,’ she retorted.
‘Agreed, but it’s my life.’ He made no move to respond when she kissed his cheek.
‘We’ll see each other?’ she asked.
‘Undoubtedly, my dear.’ He had gone, shutting the door behind him.
He went back to Dr Warren’s house, made his farewells, threw his bag into the boot of the Bentley and drove away. But not very far. At the main gates of the manor house he stopped, got out and knocked on the lodge door. There was no answer, so he lifted the latch and walked in.
Suzannah was sitting at the table, neatly writing down what needed to be done if she were to leave in two weeks—the list was long and when she had finished it she began on another list of possible jobs she might be able to do. It seemed to her, looking at it, that all she was fit for was to be a governess—and were there such people nowadays? Or a mother’s help, or find work in a hotel or large house as a domestic worker. Whichever way she looked at it, the list was depressing.
She looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, and for some reason she wanted to burst into tears at the sight of him. She said in a slightly thickened voice, ‘Oh, do go away…’
Despite her best efforts, two large tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ he told her coolly, ‘and don’t, for pity’s sake, start weeping. It’s a waste of time.’
She glared at him and wiped a hand across her cheeks like a child. She wasn’t sure why he seemed to be part and parcel of the morning’s miserable happening; she only knew that at that moment she didn’t like him.
He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, stretching out his long legs before him. ‘You have to leave here?’
‘Yes.’ She blew her nose and sat up very straight. ‘Now, if you would go away, I have a great deal to do.’
He sat looking at her for a few moments, frowning a little, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Miss Davinish tells me that you have no job. Perhaps I could have helped in some way,’ his blue eyes were cold, ‘but it seems that I was mistaken.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll bid you good day, young lady.’
He went away as quietly as he had come, and she heard his car drive away.
CHAPTER TWO
SUZANNAH DID her best to shake off the feeling that the not very solid ground beneath her had been cut from under her feet. She might not like the professor, but he had offered to help her and she badly needed help, and like a fool she had turned his offer down; she hadn’t even thanked him for it, either. A pity he hadn’t had the patience to stay a little longer until her good sense had taken over from her stupid bout of weeping. She winced at the thought of the cold scorn in his eyes. And yet he had been so kind when Aunt Mabel had been ill…
As for the professor, he drove back to London, saw a handful of patients at his consulting rooms, performed a delicate and difficult brain operation at the hospital and returned to his elegant home in a backwater of Belgravia to eat his dinner and then go to his study to catch up on his post. But he made slow work of it. Suzannah’s red hair, crowning her white, cross face, kept superimposing itself upon his letters. He cast them down at length and reached for the telephone as it began to ring. It was Phoebe at her most charming, and she had the knack of making him laugh. They talked at some length and he half promised to spend the next weekend at the manor house. As he put the phone down, he told himself that it was to be hoped that Suzannah would be gone.
He spoke so forcefully that Henry, his long-haired dachshund, sitting under his desk, half asleep, came out to see what was the matter.
He had a long list the next day, and when it was over he sat in sister’s office, drinking coffee and taking great bites out of the sandwiches she had sent for, listening courteously to her rather tart observations on lack of staff, not enough money and when was she to have the instruments she had ordered weeks ago?
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘We need another staff nurse, don’t we? We didn’t get a replacement for Mrs Webb when she left. You’re working at full stretch, aren’t you, Sister?’
She gave him a grateful look. Sister Ash was in her fifties, a splendid theatre sister and, although she had a junior sister to take over when she was off duty, she was hard-pressed. Just like Professor Bowers-Bentinck to think of that, she reflected; such a nice man, always calm, almost placid when he was operating, and with such lovely manners. She thanked him and presently he went off to the intensive care unit to take a look at his patient. It was as he was strolling to the entrance, giving last minute instructions to his registrar, Ned Blake, that he stopped dead.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’
‘A change in treatment?’ asked Ned.
‘No, no, my dear chap—nothing to do with our patient. Keep on as I suggest, will you? I’ll be in the earliest I can in the morning, and give me a ring if you’re worried.’ He nodded goodbye and went out to his car and drove home, where he went straight to his study, sat in his chair for five minutes or more, deep in thought, and then picked up the phone.
The voice which answered him was elderly but brisk. ‘Guy, dear boy, how nice to hear your voice; it would be nicer still to see you…’
He talked for a few minutes and the voice said cosily, ‘Well, dear, what exactly do you want us to do?’
The Professor told her.
Suzannah spent several days packing up the contents of the cottage. There was little of value: a few pieces of jewellery which her aunt had possessed, one or two pieces of silver, a nice Coalport tea service… She put them into cardboard boxes and carried them down to the post office, where Mrs Coffin stowed them away safely in an attic. The new assistant teacher had called to see her too, and had been delighted to buy the furniture, which was old-fashioned but well-kept. Everything else Suzannah had promised to various people in the village. And, this done, she set to, writing replies to every likely job she could find advertised which could offer her a roof over her head. Several of her letters weren’t answered, and those who did stated categorically that no pets were allowed. It was a blow, but she had no intention of abandoning Horace, so she wrote out an advertisement offering her services in any domestic capacity provided she might have a room of her own and Horace might be with her, and took it down to the post office.
Mrs Coffin, behind the counter, weighing out oatmeal for a beady-eyed old lady, greeted her with some excitement. ‘Don’t you go posting that letter, m’dear, not if it’s a job—there’s something in the local paper this morning…’ She dealt with the old lady and then invited Suzannah to join her behind the counter. ‘Just you look at that, love.’ She folded the paper and pointed at the situations vacant column. ‘Just up your street.’
Suzannah, with Mrs Coffin breathing gustily down her neck, obediently read. A competent, educated person was required for a period of two or three months to sort and index old family documents. An adequate salary would be paid and there was the use of a small flatlet. Pets not objected to. Good references were essential. Application in the first instance to be made in own handwriting. A box number followed.
‘Well,’ declared Suzannah and drew a great breath. ‘Do you suppose it’s real?’
‘Course it is, m’dear. Now you just go into the room at the back and write a letter, and it’ll go with the noon post.’ Mrs Coffin rummaged through a shelf of stationery behind her. ‘Here, take this paper, it’s best quality and it will help to make a good impression.’
‘References…’
‘You can nip round to the vicar and Dr Warren when you’ve written it. You just sit yourself down and write.’
The dear soul pushed Suzannah into the little room at the back of the shop and pulled out a chair, and, since she had nothing to lose, she wrote.
Three days went by and, though she had made up her mind not to depend too much on a reply, she was disappointed to hear nothing. She got up early on the fourth morning and wrote out her own advertisement once more, and was putting it into an envelope when the postman pushed several letters through the letterbox. There were still outstanding matters arising from her aunt’s death and, trivial though they were, she had dealt with them carefully; she leafed through the little bundle to discover most of them were receipts of the small debts she had paid, but the last letter was addressed in a spidery hand on thick notepaper and bore the Marlborough postmark.
Suzannah opened it slowly. The letter inside was brief and written in the same spidery hand, informing her that her application had been received and, since her references were satisfactory, would she be good enough to go to the above address for an interview in two days time? Her expenses would be paid. The letter was signed by Editha Manbrook, an elderly lady from the look of her handwriting, which, while elegant in style, was decidedly wavery.
Suzannah studied the address on the letter: Ramsbourne House, Ramsbourne St Michael. A village, if she remembered rightly, between Marlborough and Avebury. She could get a bus to Marlborough and probably a local bus to the village, which was only a few miles further on.
She went to Mrs Coffin’s shop after breakfast, told her the good news and posted her reply, and then hurried back to the lodge to worry over her wardrobe. There wasn’t all that much to worry about. It would have to be her tweed suit, no longer new, but with a good press it would pass muster; it was grey herringbone and did nothing to improve her looks, but on the other hand she considered that it made her look sober and serious, two attributes which would surely count when it came to selecting a candidate for the job? There was a grey beret to go with the suit, and a pair of wellbrushed black shoes and her good leather handbag and gloves. She tried them all on to make sure that they looked all right, with Horace for an audience.
The appointment was for two o’clock; she had an early lunch, told Horace to be good while she was away, and caught the bus to Marlborough. There was a local bus going to Avebury several times a day and she caught it without trouble, arriving at Ramsbourne St Michael with time enough to enquire where Ramsbourne House was and then walk for ten minutes or so to the big gates at the end of a country lane.
The drive was a short one, running in a semicircle between shrubs, and it opened out before a pleasant Regency house, painted white and with wide sash-windows. The drive disappeared round one side, but Suzannah went to the canopied porch and rang the bell.
An elderly maid opened the door and Suzannah said, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have come to this door—I’ve come for an appointment about a job…’
The woman smiled and ushered her inside. ‘That’s right, miss, I’ll show you where you can wait.’
She opened a door to one side of the entrance hall and Suzannah went past her into a pleasant room with wide windows overlooking the side of the house. She paused only for a moment, and then sat down in the nearest chair.
She hoped that her surprise hadn’t shown too clearly upon her face; it had been foolish of her to suppose that she would be the only person after the job. She murmured a rather belated good afternoon and took a surreptitious stock of the other occupants of the room. There were four of them, and each of them had the look of a woman who was skilled at her work and knew it. One of them said loudly now, ‘There is no mention of shorthand and typing, but I imagine it will be an absolute must for this kind of job.’ The others agreed and Suzannah’s heart sank into her shoes. Her journey was a waste of time; she could have put her advertisement in the paper three days ago and perhaps by now she would have had some replies; time was running out… She checked her thoughts; fussing wasn’t going to help. She watched the other young women go in one after another until she sat alone, and presently the last one came out and gave her a cursory nod. ‘You can go in.’
So Suzannah knocked on the door at the end of the room and went in. The room was large, opulently furnished in an old-fashioned style and very warm. Two old ladies sat on either side of a bright fire and neither spoke as she crossed the room over the polished wood floor towards them. When she was near enough she wished them a good afternoon in her quiet voice and stood patiently while they took a good look at her.
One of the old ladies took up her letter and read it. ‘Suzannah Lightfoot? A pretty name. What do you know about cataloguing and indexing documents?’
‘Nothing—that is, I have never done it before, but I think it must be largely a matter of common sense and patience. I’m interested in old books and papers, and I know I would very much like the work, but I can’t do shorthand nor can I type.’
The second old lady said thoughtfully. ‘From your references I see that you had a place offered you at Bristol University reading English Literature. You didn’t mention that in your reply to my advertisement.’ And when Suzannah didn’t answer, ‘Modesty is always refreshing. We think that you will be very suitable for the post. The salary we offer is by no means large; indeed, we were left with the impression that it is quite inadequate when it was mentioned to our other applicants. But there is a small flatlet where you may live while you are here.’
‘I have a well-behaved cat,’ said Suzannah.
‘We have no objection to your pet, but perhaps you may object to the salary we offer.’ She mentioned a sum which, while modest, was a good deal more than Suzannah had hoped for.
She said quickly, ‘I’m quite satisfied with that, thank you, Miss Manbrook.’
‘Then we shall expect you—let me see—in four days’time? I think it best if we send the car for you, since you will have luggage and your cat. We have your address, have we not?’ She glanced at the other lady. ‘You agree, Amelia?’ and when that lady nodded, ‘Then you will be good enough to press the bell; you will wish to see the flat.’
The same elderly maid answered it and led Suzannah away, back across the hall down a passage and out of a side door. The small courtyard outside was encircled with outbuildings: a garage with a flat above it, storerooms and what could have been a stable, now empty. At the end of these there was a small door which her companion opened. There was a tiny hall leading to a quite large room with a cooking alcove in one corner and an open door leading to a small bathroom. There were windows back and front and a small Victorian fireplace. It was nicely furnished and carpeted and, although the front window looked out upon the courtyard and the side of the house, the view from the back window was delightful.
‘Oh, how very nice,’ said Suzannah, and beamed at her companion. ‘Would you tell me your name?’
‘Parsons, miss. And you’ve no call to be nervous; there’s the cook’s flat over the garage and the rest of us have got rooms on this side of the house.’
Her rather severe face broke into a smile. ‘I was hoping it would be you, miss—didn’t take a fancy to any of the other young women.’
‘Why, thank you, Parsons. I’m quite sure I’m going to be very happy here. When I come in four days’time will you tell me where to go for meals and at what time?’
‘It’ll be Mr Snow to tell you that, miss—the butler, it’s his day off but he’ll be here when you come.’
‘You’ve been very kind. Now I must go back and pack my things. Miss Manbrook…’
‘Lady Manbrook, Miss.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. She didn’t mention when I would be fetched.’
‘Mr Snow will let you know.’
‘Oh, good.’ At the door, on the point of leaving, she asked, ‘And the other lady?’
‘That’s Lady Manbrook’s sister, miss, Mrs van Beuck; they’re both widowed.’
‘Thank you, Parsons.’ Suzannah glanced at her watch. ‘I must catch my bus.’ They wished each other goodbye and she went off down the drive and along the lane and found that she would have to wait ten minutes or so for a bus, which gave her the chance to think over her afternoon and dwell on the delights of the little flat.
Her friends in the village were glad when she told them her news. Mrs Coffin gave her an old cat basket for Horace, Dr Warren and his wife gave her a pretty eiderdown, and Miss Smythe presented her with a red geranium in a pot. Suzannah bade them all goodbye, cleaned the lodge ready for its new occupant, packed the last of her possessions and, obedient to Mr Snow’s letter, stood ready and waiting by ten o’clock in the morning, Horace restless but resigned beside her in his basket.
It was a pity there was no one to see her leave, thought Suzannah, for the car which arrived was an elderly, beautifully maintained Daimler. The driver was a short, thick-set man, with grey hair, very smart in his dark grey uniform.