Troy looked through the window. Some two miles away, on the crest of a hill, fully displayed, stood Ancreton.
CHAPTER III
Ancreton
i
It was an astonishing building. A Victorian architect, fortified and encouraged by the Ancred of his day, had pulled down a Queen Anne house and, from its rubble, caused to rise up a sublimation of his most exotic day-dreams. To no one style or period did Ancreton adhere. Its façade bulged impartially with Norman, Gothic, Baroque and Rococo excrescences. Turrets sprouted like wens from every corner. Towers rose up from a multiplicity of battlements. Arrow slits peered furtively at exopthalmic bay-windows, and out of a kaleidoscope field of tiles rose a forest of variegated chimney-stacks. The whole was presented, not against the sky, but against a dense forest of evergreen trees, for behind Ancreton crest rose another and steeper hillside, richly planted in conifers. Perhaps the imagination of this earlier Ancred was exhausted by the begetting of his monster, for he was content to leave, almost unmolested, the terraced gardens and well-planted spinneys that had been laid out in the tradition of John Evelyn. These, maintaining their integrity, still gently led the eye of the observer towards the site of the house and had an air of blind acquiescence in its iniquities.
Intervening trees soon obliterated Troy’s first view of Ancreton. In a minute or two the train paused magnanimously at the tiny station of Ancreton Halt.
“One must face these moments, of course,” Cedric muttered, and they stepped out into a flood of wintry sunshine.
There were only two people on the platform — a young man in second lieutenant’s uniform and a tall girl. They were a good-looking pair and somewhat alike — blue-eyed, dark and thin.
They came forward, the young man limping and using his stick.
“Oh, lud!” Cedric complained. “Ancreds by the shoal. Greetings, you two.”
“Hallo, Cedric,” they said without much show of enthusiasm, and the girl turned quickly and cordially towards Troy.
“This is my cousin, Fenella Ancred,” Cedric explained languidly. “And the warrior is another cousin, Paul Kentish. Miss Agatha Troy, or should it be Mrs. Alleyn? So difficult.”
“It’s splendid that you’ve come,” said Fenella Ancred. “Grandfather’s terribly excited and easily ten years younger. Have you got lots of luggage? If so, we’ll either make two journeys or would you mind walking up the hill? We’ve only brought the governess-cart and Rosinante’s a bit elderly.”
“Walk!” Cedric screamed faintly. “My dear Fenella, you must be demented! Me? Rosinante (and may I say in parentheses I consider the naming of this animal an insufferable piece of whimsy), Rosinante shall bear me up the hill though it be its last conscious act.”
“I’ve got two suitcases and my painting gear,” said Troy, “which is pretty heavy.”
“We’ll see what can be done about it,” said Paul Kentish, eyeing Cedric with distaste. “Come on, Fen.”
Troy’s studio easel and heavy luggage had to be left at a cottage, to be sent up later in the evening by carrier, but they packed her worn hand luggage and Cedric’s green shade suitcases into the governess-cart and got on top of them. The fat white pony strolled away with them down a narrow lane.
“It’s a mile to the gates,” Paul Kentish said, “and another mile up to the house. We’ll get out at the gates, Fen.”
“I should like to walk,” said Troy.
“Then Cedric,” said Fenella with satisfaction, “can drive.”
“But I’m not a horsy boy,” Cedric protested. “The creature might sit down or turn round and bite me. Don’t you think you’re being rather beastly?”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Fenella. “He’ll just go on walking home.”
“Who’s in residence?” Cedric demanded.
“The usual,” she said. “Mummy’s coming for the weekend after this. I’m on leave for a fortnight. Otherwise, Aunt Milly and Aunt Pauline. That’s Cedric’s mother and Paul’s mother,” Fenella explained to Troy. “I expect you’ll find us rather muddling to begin with. Aunt Pauline’s Mrs. Kentish and Mummy’s Mrs. Claude Ancred, and Aunt Millamant’s Mrs. Henry Ancred.”
“Henry Irving Ancred, don’t forget,” Cedric cut in, “deceased. My papa, you know.”
“That’s all,” said Fenella, “in our part. Of course there’s Panty” (Cedric moaned), “Caroline Able and the school in the West Wing. Aunt Pauline’s helping them, you know. They’re terribly short staffed. That’s all.”
“All?” cried Cedric. “You don’t mean to tell me Sonia’s gone?”
“No, she’s there. I’d forgotten her,” said Fenella shortly.
“Well, Fenella, all I can say is you’ve an enviable faculty for forgetting. You’ll be saying next that everyone’s reconciled to Sonia.”
“Is there any point in discussing it?” said Paul Kentish very coldly.
“It’s the only topic of any interest at Ancreton,” Cedric rejoined. “Personally I find it vastly intriguing. I’ve been telling Mrs. Alleyn all about it in the train.”
“Honestly, Cedric,” said Paul and Fenella together, “you are!”
Cedric gave a crowing laugh and they drove on in an uncomfortable silence. Feeling a little desperate, Troy at last began to talk to Paul Kentish. He was a pleasant fellow, she thought, serious-minded, but friendly and ready to speak about his war service. He had been wounded in the leg during the Italian campaign and was still having treatment. Troy asked him what he was going to do when he was discharged, and was surprised to see him turn rather pink.
“As a matter of fact I rather thought — well, actually I had wondered about the police,” said Paul.
“My dear, how terrifying,” Cedric interposed.
“Paul’s the only one of us,” Fenella explained, “who really doesn’t want to have anything to do with the theatre.”
“I would have liked to go on in the army,” Paul added, “only now I’m no good for that. Perhaps, I don’t know, but perhaps I’d be no good for the police either.”
“You’d better talk to my husband when he comes back,” Troy said, wondering if Alleyn would mind very much if he did.
“I say!” said Paul. “That would be perfectly marvellous if you really mean it.”
“Well, I mean he could just tell you whether your limp would make any difference.”
“How glad I am,” Cedric remarked, “about my duodenal ulcer! I mean I needn’t even pretend I want to be brave or strenuous. No doubt I’ve inherited the Old Person’s guts.”
“Are you going on the stage?” Troy asked Fenella.
“I expect so now the war’s over. I’ve been a chauffeur for the duration.”
“You will play exotic rôles, Fenella, and I shall design wonderful clothes for you. It would be rather fun,” Cedric went on, “when and if I inherit Ancreton, to turn it into a frightfully exclusive theatre. The only catch in that is that Sonia might be there as the dowager baronetess, in which case she would insist on playing all the leading rôles. Oh, dear, I do want some money so badly. What do you suppose is the best technique, Fenella? Shall I woo the Old Person or suck up to Sonia? Paul, you know all about the strategy of indirect approach. Advise me, my dear.”
“Considering you’re supposed to earn about twice as much as any of the rest of us!”
“Pure legend. A pittance, I assure you.”
The white pony had sauntered into a lane that ran directly up to the gates of Ancreton, which was now displayed to its greatest advantage. A broad walk ran straight from the gates across a series of terraces, and by way of flights of steps up to a platform before the house. The carriage-drive swept away to the left and was hidden by woods. They must be an extremely rich family, Troy decided, to have kept all this going, and as if in answer to her thoughts, Fenella said: “You wouldn’t guess from here how much the flower gardens have gone back, would you?”