71 Love Comes West Page 4

  The Countess somewhat reluctantly acquiesced and Clint Dulaine had come to dinner.

  He was seated next to Lady Margaret and, afterwards looking back, her father and mother and those of her brothers and sisters who happened to be present, remembered how she had suddenly appeared to become a beauty they had never before noticed and to be more vivacious than anybody had ever known her to be.

  Clint Dulaine had arranged to stay with the Vicar for two days. He remained for two weeks and when he left Margaret went with him.

  He declared himself with an American impetuosity four days after they had met.

  When Margaret told her father that she wished to marry an American preacher, he had not only been appalled by the idea but had forbidden her categorically ever to see the man again.

  “I am not having any Bible thumpers in my family and least of all an American one!” he had declared. “You quite understand that you are not to speak to this man or see him! If he tries to come into the house, I shall order the servants to throw him out!”

  Margaret appeared to listen to what her father had said, but she secretly met Clint in the woods and, just as years later her brother was to run away leaving a brief note behind him, she did the same.

  One evening she said goodnight to her parents in the same dutiful manner she had always done.

  If they had been a little more observant they would have seen by the brightness of her eyes and the new beauty of her face that she was pulsating with excitement and joy.

  Only when she had gone and they had no idea where, did they remember that she had seemed different.

  Margaret and Clint were married unconventionally at a Registry Office and, not until she was on her way to America, did she write to her father and tell him that she was blissfully happy and looking forward to a new life in another part of the world.

  The Earl with a shrug of his shoulders realised that there was nothing he could do about it, but knew that he would miss Margaret when he was hunting and the horses would miss her too.

  Thinking back into her childhood Roberta could remember her grandmother speaking in the same contemptuous tone about her daughter as she was later to speak about her son.

  ‘It was very brave of Aunt Margaret,’ Roberta told herself, ‘and she will understand why I cannot go back to live with Grandmama and hear her saying such unkind things about Papa.’

  They reached a station, which she had been told was the nearest to Blue River late in the afternoon.

  It was a small station and, as she stepped out of the train, Roberta could see at a glance that there was nobody to meet her and knew, as she might have expected, that her letter would not have arrived.

  She might have sent her aunt a cable, but she thought it would be difficult to explain her father’s death in a few words and the purpose of her journey.

  A carrier was found to take her and her trunk into the village.

  She gathered that her appearance caused quite a commotion as they were obviously not used in Blue River to having anybody so smartly dressed or for that matter so young and pretty arriving unannounced.

  The carrier, who called at the station to fetch the mail and a number of odd-looking parcels, was fortunately unable to have her sitting beside him.

  Had she done so, Roberta was quite certain that he would have plied her with questions.

  Instead there was a large, very fat, elderly woman who occupied the front of the cart as if by right and who was so tired after her journey that she had no wish to talk.

  The cart at the back had seats facing inwards and besides Roberta and her two trunks there were parcels and the sacks of mail.

  There was also a hen coop containing a cockerel and two hens which expressed their indignation and their dislike of travel the whole way from the station to the village.

  The countryside, however, was lovely and it seemed to Roberta that there was colour everywhere.

  The shrubs were in bloom, the trees, many of which she did not recognise, were vivid with flowers and, as the land on either side of the road was cultivated, the first green sprouts of spring made it very picturesque.

  ‘I am sure this is a happy land,’ she said to herself.

  The words thrust away the apprehension she was feeling now that the journey had ended and she had to confront a relative with her presence without being sure whether or not she would be welcome.

  If her aunt did not like, her she would have to go home as she had told herself not once but a dozen times during the sea voyage and on the train, until even thought seemed lost in the rumble of the wheels.

  Because she was frightened, she prayed,

  ‘Please, Papa, wherever you are, make Aunt Margaret want me! I could not bear to go back after having come all this long way!’

  She was still praying as the roofs of the village came into sight and she saw in the middle of them the spire of a rather ugly newly built Church.

  Some of the houses looked quite prosperous, but there were others that were little more than shacks built in a haphazard manner on a flat piece of ground.

  Beyond them was the river that the village had taken its name from.

  She had told the carrier, when he had agreed to take her to the village, where she wished to go, which was to ‘The Haven’, the address that had been written at the top of her aunt’s letter.

  Now she had seen the Church she was sure that Mr. Dulaine, who had always been referred to disparagingly as an ‘American preacher’, was in fact a Minister of the Episcopal Church.

  Because of the way her relatives always spoke of him she had thought of him as one of the fanatics who she knew roamed the countryside, preaching to whoever would hear them, but having no authority apart from a burning faith to turn those who listened to them from sin to righteousness.

  ‘At least Aunt Margaret is respectable,’ Roberta thought.

  She wondered why the Countess was not in this case willing to forgive her daughter for running away and to accept her back into the bosom of the family.

  It seemed strange that all the time she had been living with her grandmother she had never once heard her mention her eldest daughter. But it was part and parcel of the general attitude that anyone who defied the family could no longer be considered a part of it.

  ‘I suppose I am in the same position now,’ Roberta told herself ruefully.

  The carrier’s horse came to a standstill and she saw in front of her a small grey house that was apparently built of wooden slats with a slate roof.

  It had a porch, which she knew was characteristic of American houses.

  She climbed down from the cart and the carrier, after handing the reins to the fat woman to hold, lifted her trunks down and followed her up a short path that led to the porch.

  There were two steps up onto it and he dumped down her trunk, accepted half-a-dollar without comment and walked away without replying to her thanks.

  It seemed slightly churlish, but Roberta had no time to think of him but only of what lay ahead.

  The door in front of her had two glass panes in it, which it was impossible to see through.

  There was no knocker and, although she looked for a bell, she could not see one.

  Then, as she raised her hand to knock on the glass, she heard a child screaming at the back of the house.

  First it was one scream and then it was followed by a succession of them, each one louder than the last.

  It was obvious that nobody could hear her knock above such a noise and it also struck Roberta that perhaps the child had had an accident and was badly hurt.

  Without really considering whether it was the right thing to do or not, she pushed the door and found it was ajar.

  Now, as it opened, the screams were absolutely deafening and she walked into a narrow hall with a steep staircase coming down on one side of it.

  It was then that she was aware that the screams came from the room directly in front of her, which she thought in most houses of this size would be the
kitchen.

  Having gone so far, there was no turning back.

  She walked on, opened the closed door and found herself, as she had expected, in what was obviously quite a large kitchen with two windows letting in the sunlight.

  In the centre of it seated on a chair was a man with a beard beating a small boy with a cane.

  He was bringing it down as hard as he could on the child’s behind, and making him scream louder and louder at every stroke.

  The child was small and the man seemed very big and menacing and, as Roberta saw the boy’s face wet with tears, his mouth opening in anguish at what he was suffering, she walked forward to say sharply in a voice that was loud enough to be heard above the din,

  “Stop that! Stop it at once!”

  For a moment there was silence as if the noise had been turned off by a tap.

  The man’s arm was arrested in mid-air and the child stared at her as if he could not believe what he saw.

  In a voice that was quieter, but still positive, Roberta said,

  “Excuse me, but I do not think any child should be submitted to such severe punishment!”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” the man asked.

  She realised as he spoke that he was educated, but, as he was dressed only in his shirtsleeves, she had thought that he was a servant.

  As if he was suddenly aware that he had been reprieved, the small boy scrambled off the large man’s knees and rubbing his behind with his hands moved away until he was standing against the wall of the room and staring at Roberta, the tears still running down his cheeks.

  He was a small attractive-looking little boy, his head covered in golden curls, his eyes very blue in a thin pale face.

  The man still sat on the wooden chair and now he put his hands on his knees, one of them still holding the cane as he said,

  “I asked you who you were and what you are doing here!”

  “I am looking for my aunt, Lady Margaret Dulaine.”

  “You’ll not find her here,” the man replied surlily.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s in the Churchyard!”

  Roberta stared, not understanding.

  Then in a voice that trembled she asked,

  “Are – are you saying that – Lady Margaret is – d-dead?”

  The man, still in the hard voice he had addressed her before, replied,

  “Yes, dead, about six months ago.”

  “And her husband? Mr. Dulaine?”

  “He went off. I’ve taken his place.”

  The man rose as he spoke.

  “I cannot believe it!”

  The words were spoken almost in a whisper and, because Roberta felt suddenly as if her legs would no longer carry her, she sat down on the nearest chair.

  She had never for a moment imagined that Aunt Margaret might possibly have left the village from where she had written two years earlier, let alone that she might have died.

  “Who are you?”

  The question was abrupt.

  “I am Lady Margaret’s niece. My name is Lady Roberta Worth.”

  “We’ve no use for titles in this country.”

  It was a blunt statement and Roberta did not answer.

  Yet, as if in spite of himself she commanded his respect, the man with the beard put on a black clerical coat that was lying over a chair.

  When he had shrugged himself into it, he looked across the room at the small boy who was still staring at Roberta and rubbing his behind and said,

  “Get out, you little varmint! And if I find you stealing the food again, I’ll give you the rest of the beating you’ve escaped now!”

  The small boy gave a gasp and rushed out through the door at the back of the room, which he slammed noisily behind him.

  The man frowned, but he did not say anything.

  Looking at Roberta who seemed almost to have collapsed in the chair she was sitting on, he poured her out a glass of water from a jug standing on the sink and handed it to her.

  She took it from him saying,

  “Thank – you.”

  She realised as she spoke that her voice seemed to come from very far away.

  She drank the water and the coolness of it seemed to take away the feeling that she was beginning to float on the air and there was a darkness coming up from the floor.

  The man stood watching her until, as if he was satisfied that she had revived a little, he asked,

  “Where have you come from?”

  “From Algiers. My father, the Earl of Wentworth, died there and he suggested that I should come and stay with my aunt. He had, of course, no idea that she had died.”

  “From Algiers!”

  It was obvious that the length of her journey impressed him.

  “Are you the Vicar of this Parish?”

  “I’m the Minister.”

  “Yes, of course, I had forgotten that is what you would be called in America.”

  “What are you going to do with yourself?”

  The Minister had a hard voice with no kindness or compassion in it.

  “I suppose the first thing I must do is find somewhere where I can stay the night,” Roberta replied.

  There was silence.

  Then after a moment the Minister suggested reluctantly,

  “I suppose you could stay here.”

  “Thank you, that is a very kind offer.”

  “Then what do you intend to do?”

  “I-I have not had time to think about it – but if Aunt Margaret is dead and you have no idea where I can find Mr. Dulaine – then I suppose I must go home to England.”

  Again there was silence.

  Then after a minute the Minister said,

  “Can you work?”

  “Work?” Roberta repeated.

  “Cook, clean, look after a house?”

  The words came out abruptly.

  Roberta was just about to retort that as she had money there was no necessity for her to perform such menial tasks.

  Then, just as she was about to open her lips, she saw the small boy peering through the window of the back door.

  His face was still streaked with tears, the sun was shining on his fair curls and he looked, she thought, almost like a small unhappy angel peeping down on her from the clouds of Heaven.

  As she looked at him, she remembered that he had been beaten because he had stolen food.

  She was quite certain from the hollowness of his cheeks and the thinness of his neck that he was far from being well fed.

  Impulsively she asked the question which came to her lips.

  “Who is the small boy you were chastising when I arrived?”

  She had the feeling after she had spoken that the Minister wanted to tell her to mind her own business.

  Instead he said gruffly,

  “There was an accident on the railroad near Blue River. His parents were both killed and your aunt adopted him.”

  “Adopted him!” Roberta exclaimed. “Then why did Mr. Dulaine not take him with him?”

  “He left me a message to say that he would come for him when he had a home.”

  As if the Minister was aware that Roberta was waiting to hear more, he said, almost as if the words were dragged from him,

  “He has gone back to preaching, moving from place to place. I think he’s a fool, but it’s his way of trying to forget.”

  “You mean he wanted to forget my aunt because he was upset when she died.”

  “They had been together for a long time, but sensible men don’t give up on their jobs and wander around aimlessly.”

  “And you said you would look after the boy?”

  “If I had any sense,” the Minister replied, “I would put him in an orphanage where he belongs. He’s always stealing and lying and I’ll beat the Devil out of him, if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Roberta’s lips tightened.

  Then she forced herself not to utter the words that were in her mind.

  Instead she s
aid quietly,

  “You asked me if I could work. I am considered a good cook.”

  As she spoke, she thought of the times that she had cooked for her father these last two years when they were on their travels.

  Francine, like most French women, was a natural cook but she disliked doing it, so she taught Roberta how to cook many of the dishes that she and her father had found most delicious when they were living in Paris.

  Because Roberta liked cooking, nine times out ten she managed alone and she grew extremely proficient at making delicious meals out of anything they carried with them or could find where they camped.

  “Yes, I can cook,” she repeated aloud.

  “Very well,” the Minister said, “I will engage you as housekeeper. You’ll find it cheaper than paying for a roof over your head and we’ll talk about what I will pay you for your services later when I see what they are worth.”

  The way he spoke made Roberta know perceptively that, if he could get away with it, he would pay her nothing.

  Now she was beginning to understand why the small boy looked half-starved and why he stole.

  Resolutely she rose from the chair.

  “If you will show me where I can sleep,” she said, “and help me in with my trunks, which are on the veranda, I will try to prepare you something for supper.”

  She knew by the expression on the Minister’s face that he was pleased at her acquiescence.

  She was certain that he was gloating to himself over his cleverness in acquiring a maidservant on the cheap.

  Chapter Three

  “I will not be back for luncheon.”

  Without any more formal polite goodbye, the Minister stomped out of the house, down the steps of the veranda and started to walk away towards the Church.

  Roberta gave a sigh of relief.

  She found that every moment she was with him she disliked him more and it was with the greatest difficulty that she prevented herself from contradicting the statements he made, which were opposed to everything she believed in.

  She had realised at supper last night how mean he was to the small boy whose name, she had discovered, was Daniel.

  “Mama called me Danny,” he told Roberta when he came into the kitchen before supper.