‘Oh, I suppose so.’
‘Then you had better have Monaker here.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, I suppose he has the draft.’
‘That he has not.’
‘You mean you have not made a Will?’
‘Oh, all the provisions of it are in my head.’
‘That is hardly the same thing as having them down on paper, duly signed and witnessed.’
‘Oh, Monaker will have it all in hand. I am not going to die just yet.’
Maria went off to the small room in which Fiona had had her desk and typewriter. Both were still there. The desk was not Chippendale, but was of the period. It was in heavy mahogany and had a long drawer over the kneehole and two smaller drawers, one on either side of it. To protect its polished top, the typewriter stood on four little padded hassocks which kept it away from the woodwork.
Maria lifted it with difficulty and staggered with it over to a small, unremarkable table. Then she rummaged in the middle drawer of the desk for writing paper and envelopes. The drawer contained nothing but a large jotter, so she tried one of the lesser drawers and met with success.
Her letters of invitation were brief and few. She wrote jointly to Bluebell and Parsifal, separately to Garnet and jointly to Rupert and Diana, to whose letter she added a postscript: Not the children this time. To Gamaliel she wrote that, although Romula looked forward to seeing him again, she herself wondered whether it would be better at this time for him not to break his concentration on his examinations and the revision required for them. She did not attempt to analyse her motive in making this suggestion, but, in the event, Bluebell, who knew Maria’s motive perfectly well, decided to ignore the hint and to bring Gamaliel with her as before.
Her task completed, Maria sealed and addressed the envelopes, and was about to rise and take them over to Lunn’s cottage and tell him to take the car and deliver them by hand, when curiosity caused her to lay them aside and take out Fiona’s jotter.
It seemed to consist mostly of transcriptions of household accounts, each weekly entry initialled by Romula in bold and flourishing style augmented by a ferocious-looking tick such as a teacher will put at the end of a child’s written work. Each entry was duly dated and Maria was slightly surprised at Fiona’s meticulous keeping of accounts. She turned the pages idly at first, but then she came to the page which bore a list of special items ordered for the last dinner party.
Here Fiona had left a loose sheet of paper which could hardly have been intended for any eyes but her own and which, apparently, she had forgotten to retrieve before her somewhat abrupt departure from the house. Reading it, Maria realised that Fiona might have been more in Romula’s confidence than she had supposed, for in spite of the fact that each item on the single sheet was followed by a question mark, the items themselves hardly looked like the figments of Fiona’s imagination.
House and contents to Maria? Ten per cent for upkeep? Ruby’s training to be paid for by sale of pictures?
Forty per cent Rupert? Fifty per cent Garnet? No divorce for Rupert or loses all?
Charge upon Garnet to look after Bluebell? Nothing for me or the black boy?
Fiona had scribbled over all this, but the words and queries were plain enough to read.
‘I wonder how much she really knows?’ thought Maria. ‘It can’t just be wishful thinking, or she would have cut herself in for a bit. No wonder she was so willing to leave the house. There’s nothing here to make her want to stay. Only ten per cent to me, indeed! However large a sum that may amount to, there is a slur cast upon the women compared with the men.’
‘So I am to be received back into the fold, even though only for one enchanted evening,’ said Fiona, tossing aside Maria’s letter. ‘I am not at all sure that I shall go.’
‘Then can you help me with my English Literature revision,’ said Gamaliel. ‘I am not strong on the poems of Wordsworth and Shelley and I don’t know anything about the set book.’
‘What is it?’
‘Wuthering Heights by a woman called Emily Brontë and it seems to me the silliest book ever written. The author must have been mad.’
‘Hush, child! You are speaking of a genius,’ said Fiona laughing.
‘Well, you could have fooled me! This man Heathcliff! I could lay him out with one hand tied behind my back. How I wish I had not to sit my exams! But for them I would be invited to the dinner party and get all those magnificent things to eat.’
‘You are a greedy boy and should be ashamed of yourself.’
Gamaliel caught her playfully by the waist and swung her off her feet. ‘All boys are greedy, only it is not greed, it is a necessary intake of calories. My mother says so and, as she has to feed me, she ought to know. Say you’re sorry, before I lay you on the sofa and tickle you,’ he said, holding her.
This mild flirtation which, in spite of the difference in their ages, both protagonists had been enjoying almost since the first day of Fiona’s entry into Seawards, was interrupted by Bluebell who, for no reason that she would have been willing to disclose, disapproved of it.
‘Stop teasing Fiona, go and wash and then come and have your tea,’ she said. ‘There are raspberries and Cornish clotted cream.’ Gamaliel gave a whoop, released Fiona and went off. Bluebell continued: ‘I rather wish you wouldn’t encourage Gamaliel in this sort of horseplay. He behaves like a young savage when he is with you.’
‘Well, I suppose he is a young savage.’ said Fiona, ‘Most boys of his age are savages. It marks a stage in their development. You don’t think I enjoy these rough and tumbles, do you? He is much too strong for me.’
‘That is what you enjoy,’ said Bluebell. ‘But I make the remark truthfully, not offensively. Shall you not accept the invitation to dinner?’
‘If the alternative is to stay here and help Gamaliel with his revision, I shall go to Headlands with the rest of you. Do you think madre will send the car?’
‘My mother will. The invitations are in her handwriting. Incidentally, I shall certainly take Gamaliel. He will do no work if he is left here.’
Romula and Maria did send the car and the five piled in, Garnet and Gamaliel squeezed in beside the driver and the other three wedged tightly together on the back seat.
‘You’re very quiet, Lunn,’ said Garnet, as the car descended through the village before making the steep ascent past the back of the Smugglers’ Inn.
‘I be broodin’ darkly,’ replied the chauffeur.
‘How come?’
‘Mattie, her’s getting the sack and a bag to put it in.’
‘Mattie? Then how about the horses?’
‘Mistress be puttin’ of ’em down. Says, what with that gal Ruby away to London most of the time, and Miss Fiona gone, there ent no use for ridin’ horses any more, so they’s to be sold and Mattie go.’
‘Oh, dear! I am sorry. What will Mattie do?’
‘Keep house for me, I reckon, and start her own riding stables. She counts on the old lady to start her off with a bit of capital to be paid back out of the profits later on.’
‘But where will she have her riding stables?’
‘Where they are now, the old lady being agreeable.’
‘But is that likely?’
‘Mattie reckons it is, but I have my doubts.’
‘By Jove, so have I! The holy peace of the downland shattered by little girls in jodhpurs and loud-voiced London trippers? Perish the thought! My grandmother will never wear it.’
‘Mattie won’t be livable with if her don’t.’
‘So that’s why you’re so down in the mouth! I don’t wonder. A disgruntled Mattie is not going to be the easiest of stable companions.’
They were met in the hall at Headlands by Maria, who said: ‘Watch your words this evening. We are more than a little put out.’