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The thought was an unwelcome one which she thrust aside. Why shouldn’t he be married with a brood of children? It was none of her business. She did want to know, however.
Margo being Margo, it was no sooner said than done.
‘Are you married?’ she asked him. Then regretted it the moment she had spoken; the look of amused surprise on his face sent the colour into her cheeks and she mumbled, ‘Sorry, that was rude of me...’
‘No, I’m not married.’ He ignored the mumble. ‘I have never found the time.’
Mrs Pearson hastened to fill an awkward pause. ‘Of course one always expects doctors to be family men—I’m sure I don’t know why. A wife and children must be a hindrance to their work at times.’
He smiled. ‘I imagine that doctors’ wives quickly learn not to be that—rather, a pleasant distraction after a long day’s work. And my married colleagues are doting fathers.’
“Then you should make haste and marry,’ observed Mrs Pearson.
The vicar put his dignified oar in. ‘I’m sure that Gijs will marry when he wishes to do so, my dear.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘I wonder why a patient should expect his or her doctor to be a married man? It’s an interesting point.’
So started an interesting discussion in which Margo took no part. She passed the cake, handed cups of tea round and wished herself elsewhere. Which was silly—after all, she hadn’t been very rude. She should have laughed it off for the trivial remark it had been, instead of feeling as though she had been nosey. Perhaps, horror of horrors; now he would think that she was intent on attracting him. He wouldn’t want any more to do with her. He would go away and she would never see him again. If she had been witty and pretty and charming, it might have been a different matter...
Professor van Kessel was either a man with the kindest heart imaginable or was prone to deafness; he apparently hadn’t heard her muttered apology. The conversation flowed smoothly, and presently, when he got up to go, he bade her goodbye with his usual pleasant detachment. He didn’t say he hoped to see her again, however.
Watching the Rolls-Royce gliding away towards the village, Margo told herself that he’d gone for good and she could forget him. Whether she wanted to forget him was an entirely different matter, and one she was reluctant to consider.
To her mother’s observation that it was a pity that they were unlikely to see him again, she replied airily that it had been pleasant meeting him once more and that she supposed he would be returning to Holland. ‘After all, it is his home,’ she said.
She collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. ‘I thought I’d go over to see Mrs Merridew tomorrow afternoon. George said she might like some help with the jam. They’ve a huge plum harvest this year.’
Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. Despite the fact that George’s mother had made no secret of the fact that she considered Margo to be a suitable wife for him, the woman had no affection for her. She was, thought Mrs Pearson shrewdly, under the impression that once Margo married she would be able to mould her into the kind of wife she felt her George should have. That Margo wasn’t a girl to be moulded had never entered her head. She had too good an opinion of herself to realise that Margo didn’t like her overmuch, but bore with her overbearing ways for George’s sake.
Mrs Pearson, knowing in her bones that Margo didn’t love George, told herself to have patience. Somewhere in the world there was a man for her Margo—preferably the counterpart of Gijs van Kessel...
So Margo took herself off the next day to Merridew’s Farm, intent on being nice to everyone, doing her best to keep her thoughts on a future when she would marry George and live there, and failing lamentably because she thought about the professor instead.
However, once she was at the farm, he was banished from her head by Mrs Merridew’s loud, hectoring voice bidding her to join her in the kitchen.
‘I can do with some help,’ she greeted Margo.
‘There’s an apron behind the door; you can stone the plums... You should have worn a sensible sweater; if you get stains on that blouse they’ll never come out.’
I have never known anybody, reflected Margo, rolling up her sleeves, who could put a damper on any occasion, however trivial. She began to stone the plums—a messy business—and paused in her work as the thought that she couldn’t possibly marry George suddenly entered her head.
‘Why have you stopped?’ Mrs Merridew wanted to know. ‘There’s another bucketful in the pantry. I’m sure I don’t know why I should have to do everything myself; you’ll have to change your ways when you marry George.’
Margo said nothing—there was no point at the moment. Besides, she was busy composing a suitable speech for George’s benefit.
He wouldn’t mind, she reflected. He was fond of her, just as she was fond of him, but being fond wasn’t the same as being in love. She wasn’t sure why she was so certain about that. A future with George had loomed before her for several years now—everyone had taken it for granted that when the time came they would marry, and she had got used to the idea and accepted it; she wanted to marry, she wanted children and a husband to care for her, and at twenty-eight she was sure that romance—the kind of romance she read about in novels—had passed her by.
But romance had touched her with feather-light fingers in the shape of Gijs van Kessel, and life would never be the same again.
She glanced across the table at Mrs Merridew, who was a formidable woman, tall and stout, with her iron-grey hair permanently waved into rock-like formations and a mouth which seldom smiled. She was respected in the village but not liked as her long-dead husband had been liked, and she was always ready to find fault. Only with George was she softer in her manner...
‘Fetch me the other preserving pan, Margo.’ Mrs Merridew’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘I’ll get this first batch on the stove. By the time you’ve finished stoning that lot I can fill a second pan.’
Margo went to the far wall and got down the copper preserving pan and put it on the table.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Mrs Merridew. ‘Never known you so quiet. What’s all this nonsense I heard about you and a pack of tramps?’
‘Not tramps—travellers. And it wasn’t nonsense. One of them had a baby by the side of the road.’
‘More fool her,’ declared Mrs Merridew. ‘These people bring shame to the countryside.’
‘Why?’ asked Margo, and ate a plum.
‘Why? They’re dirty and dishonest and live from hand to mouth.’
‘Well, they looked clean enough to me,’ said Margo. ‘And I don’t know that they’re dishonest—no more so than people who live in houses...’
Her companion snorted. ‘Rubbish! If any of them came onto the farm George would soon send them packing.’
‘Would he? Would he really? Or would he do it to please you?’
Mrs Merridew went red. ‘You don’t seem yourself today, Margo. I hope you’re not ill—picked up something nasty from those tramps.’
She set the pan of fruit on the old-fashioned stove. ‘While that’s coming to the boil we’ll have a cup of tea, then you’d better go home. I dare say you’ve a cold coming.’
Margo never wanted to see another plum; she agreed meekly, drank her tea, washed the cups and saucers in the sink, bade Mrs Merridew goodbye and got on her bike. She had wanted to talk to George but she wasn’t to be given the chance. She would come up early in the morning; he would be in the cow parlour and there would be time to talk.
‘Early back, dear,’ commented her mother as she came in through the kitchen door. ‘Weren’t you asked to stay for tea?’
Margo sat down at the table and watched her mother rolling dough for scones. ‘No. Mrs Merridew thinks I may have caught a cold.’ Margo popped a piece of dough into her mouth. ‘Mother, I don’t want to marry George...’
Mrs Pearson was cutting rounds of dough and arranging them on a baking tray. ‘Your father and I have always hoped that you wouldn’t, although we would never have said anything if you had. You don’t love him.’
‘No. I like him—I’m fond of him—but that’s not the same, is it?’
‘No, love, it isn’t. When you do fall in love you’ll know that. Have you told George?’
‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow early. Do you think he’ll be upset?’
Her mother put the scones in the oven. ‘No, dear, I don’t. George is a nice young man but I think he wants a wife, not a woman to love. She’ll need to be fond of him, of course, and he of her, but that will be sufficient. And that wouldn’t be sufficient for you, would it?’
‘No. I would like,’ said Margo thoughtfully, ‘to be cosseted and spoilt and loved very much, and I’d want to be allowed to be me, if you see what I mean. I would be a good wife and have lots of children because we would have enough money to keep us all in comfort.’ She laughed a little. ‘Aren’t I silly? But I’m sure about George, Mother. I’d rather stay single...’
‘I know you are doing the right thing, love. See what your father says.’
Margo laid the table for tea and presently, over that meal, the Reverend Mr Pearson voiced his opinion that Margo was indeed doing the right thing. ‘And if you feel unsettled for a while, my dear, why not go and stay with one of your aunts? Heaven knows, your mother and I have enough relations to choose from.’
‘I’d be running away...’
‘No, clearing the decks. And you wouldn’t go for a week or two. Give the village a chance to discuss it thoroughly.’ They all laughed. ‘There’s not much happening until the bazaar; it’ll liven things up a bit.’
Margo was up early, dressed and on her bike while it still wasn’t quite light, and was in plenty of time to see George while the cows were being milked..
She leaned her bike against a pile of logs and, her heart thumping hard despite her resolution to keep calm, went into the cow parlour.
Two of the cowmen were already milking, and George was standing by the door checking some equipment. He looked up when she went in.
‘Good Lord, what brings you here at this time of the morning? Mother said you were sickening for a cold. Don’t come near me, whatever you do.’
Not a very encouraging beginning, but Margo braced herself.
‘I haven’t got a cold. Your mother just thought I might have one because I didn’t talk much... I’
‘Won’t do not to get on with Mother,’ said George. A rebuke she ignored.
‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute or two—this is the only time when we’re alone.’
‘Well, let’s have it, old girl. I’ve not got all day.’
It was being called ‘old girl’ which started her off. ‘You have never asked me, George, but everyone seems to think that we will marry. Perhaps you don’t intend to ask me, but if you do don’t bother, because I don’t want to marry you. I would make a very bad farmer’s wife—and your mother would live with us.’
‘Well, of course she would—show you how things are done before she takes her ease and you take over.’
The prospect left Margo short of breath. She persevered, though. ‘George, do you love me?’
‘What’s got into you, girl? We’ve known each other almost all our lives.’
‘Yes, I know that. That’s not what I meant. Are you in love with me? Do I excite you? Do you want to give me the moon and the stars?’
‘You’re crazy, Margo. What’s that twaddle got to do with being a good wife?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it must have a great deal to do with it. So you won’t mind very much if we don’t get married? You’re a very nice person, George. There must be dozens of girls who’d give anything to be your wife.’
‘Well, as to that, I reckon that’s so. Mother always had her doubts, even though she liked the idea of me marrying the vicar’s daughter.’
Margo swallowed her rage. ‘Well, that leaves everyone quite satisfied, doesn’t it?’ She turned to go. ‘Pass the news around the village, will you? I’m glad your heart isn’t broken!’
She got onto her bike and pedalled home as though the Furies were after her. She knew that George hadn’t meant to be unkind, but she felt as though he really didn’t mind one way or the other—and that was very lowering to a girl who hadn’t had much of an opinion of herself in the first place.
To her mother’s carefully worded question she gave a matter-of-fact account of her meeting with George. ‘So that’s that,’ she finished briskly. ‘And if you don’t mind I would quite like to go away for a week or two.’
‘You need a change,’ declared her mother. ‘There’s so little life here for someone young. I know you’re kept busy, but a change of scene... Have you any idea where you’d like to go?’
The vicar looked up from his cornflakes. ‘Your aunt Florence, when she last wrote, expressed the view that she would be glad to see any of us who cared to visit her. Sunningfield is a village even smaller than this one, but it is near Windsor and within easy reach of London and I believe she has many friends. Your uncle was a very respected and popular man during his lifetime.’
He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘I will telephone her this morning and drive you there myself if you would like that?’
Truth to tell, Margo didn’t much mind where she went. All she knew was that she would like to get away for a little while and think. She wasn’t sure what it was she needed to think about, but think she must. She wasn’t upset about calling off the vague future George had sketched out for her from time to time, but she felt restless and she didn’t know why. A week or two with Aunt Flo would put everything back into its right perspective once more.
It was arranged that she should go in four or five days’ time, and in the meantime that gave the village the opportunity to adjust to the idea that she and George weren’t to be married after all. She would have been surprised at the number of people who expressed their satisfaction at that.
‘There’d have been no life for Miss Margo with that Mrs Merridew,’ observed the verger’s wife. ‘Nice little lady, that Miss Margo is. Good luck to her, I says!’ A sentiment which was shared by many.
Margo countered the questions from the well-meaning among her father’s congregation in her sensible way, packed a bag with the best of her wardrobe and was presently driven to Sunningfield.
Aunt Florence lived at the end of the village in a cottage which had at one time been the gamekeeper’s home on the local estate. Lord Trueman, having fallen on bad times, had prudently let or sold the lodges and estate cottages, being careful to see that the occupants were suitable neighbours. And of course Aunt Florence was eminently suitable. What could be more respectable than an archdeacon’s widow?
They arrived in time for tea and, admitted by a beaming young girl, were led across the hall where she threw open a door and said cheerfully, ‘Here they are, ma’ am. I’ll fetch the tea.’
Aunt Flo rose to meet them. A tall, bony lady with short curly hair going white, she had a sharp nose and a sharp tongue too, both of which concealed a warm heart. She embraced them briskly, told them to make themselves comfortable, and when the girl brought in the teatray offered refreshment. At the same time she gave and received family news.
It was when this topic had been exhausted that she asked, ‘And you, Margo? You have decided not to marry that young farmer? I must say I never thought much of the idea. You are entirely unsuited to the life of a farmer’s wife; I cannot imagine how you came to consider it in the first place.’
‘No one had ever asked me to marry them, Aunt Flo. ’ Well, George didn’t exactly ask; we just kind of drifted, if you see what I mean. We’ve known each other for years...’
‘That’s no reason to marry. One marries for love—or should do. You’re not so old that you need despair, although I must say it is a pity that you haven’t the Pearson good looks.’
A remark which Margo took in good part, seeing that it was true. They had supper after her father had driven away, and Aunt Florence outlined the various treats she had in store for her niece.
‘You have brought a pretty dress with you? Good. We are invited to Lord Trueman’s place for drinks after church. You will meet most of my friends and acquaintances there—a good start.’
Aunt Florence lived in some style, even if in somewhat reduced circumstances. Her little house was well furnished and Margo’s bedroom was pretty as well as comfortable. Life for Aunt Flo was placid and pleasant. The cheerful girl—Phoebe—came each day and cleaned, and did most of the cooking before she left in the evening, and an old man from the village saw to the heavy work in the garden-although Aunt Flo did the planting and planning. Even at the tail-end of the year, it was a charming little spot, surrounded by shrubs and small trees, tidied up ready for the winter.
Margo felt quite at home within twenty-four hours—joining her aunt in her daily walk and playing cards in the evening, or watching whichever programme her aunt thought suitable, with Moses, the ginger Persian cat, on her knee. On the next Sunday she accompanied her aunt to church and afterwards walked up the drive to the rather ugly early Victorian house built by Lord Trueman’s ancestor on the site of the charming Elizabethan mansion he had disliked.
‘Hideous,’ observed Aunt Florence, and added, ‘It’s simply frightful inside.’
There were a lot of people gathered in an immense room with panelled walls and a great deal of heavy furniture. Margo was taken to one group after another by Lady Trueman, a middle-aged lady with a sweet face, and introduced to a great many people whose names she instantly forgot.
‘Now do come and meet my daughter,’ said Lady Trueman. ‘She’s staying with us for a week or two. I’ve a small granddaughter too—Peggy. She’s a handful—three years old.’ She had fetched up in front of a young woman not much older than Margo herself.
‘Helen, this is Margo Pearson—come to stay with Mrs Pearson. I’ve been telling her about Peggy...’
She trotted away and left them to talk. Helen was nice, Margo decided. They talked about clothes and toddlers and babies, and presently slipped upstairs to the nursery to see Peggy, an imp of mischief if ever there was one, who took no notice of her nurse—a young girl, kind enough, no doubt, but lacking authority.
‘Such a naughty puss,’ said her mother lovingly. ‘We never know what she will do next.’
Back in Aunt Flo’s house over lunch, that lady expressed the opinion that the child was being spoilt. ‘A dear child, but that nurse of hers is no good—far too easygoing.’
The days went by with a pleasant monotony: shopping in the village, visiting her aunt’s friends for coffee or tea. And if Margo sometimes wished for a little excitement she squashed the thought at once. Her aunt was kindness itself, and she was sure that the holiday was doing her a lot of good. Taking her mind off things. Well, George for instance. The unbidden thought that she wished that it would take her mind off Professor van Kessel too was another thought to be squashed.
She thought about him far too often, although she tried not to. It wasn’t so difficult when she was with her aunt, whose conversation was of a sort to require close attention and sensible answers at intervals, but when she was on her own, doing an errand for her or in the garden, grubbing up the few weeds which had hoped to escape that lady’s eye, there was ample time for reflection.
So silly, Margo told herself one day, on her way back from taking a pot of Mrs Pearson’s jam to an acquaintance who had expressed a wish to try it. It had been quite a long walk and the afternoon was already sliding briskly into dusk. What was more, it was going to rain at any moment. Margo, taking a short cut across Lord Trueman’s park, abandoned her pleasant daydreaming and put her best foot forward.
The park was vast, and this far from the house, which was just visible in the distance, its planned trees and shrubs had given way to rough ground, a ploughed field or two and sparse woodland through which ran a small stream, swollen now by October rains. The right of way ran beside it for some way and then turned away to join a wider path, leading back to one of the lodges some half a mile away.
Margo walked fast, head down against the rain, which was coming down in earnest now, thankful that she would soon join the path. It was pure chance that she gave a quick glance around her as she stopped to turn up the collar of her jacket. It was a movement in the stream some yards away which had caught her eye—a small, scarlet-clad figure, half in, half out of the water, a small arm trailing gently to and fro, washed by the stream as it raced along.
Margo ran through the rough grass and waded across the water, slipping and sliding, losing a shoe and not noticing, bent on getting to the child as quickly as possible.
