Taken by the Hand. O. Douglas
No wonder she looked quiet and happy. She knew what she was going to. Meeting her glance Beatrice said desperately, “I wish I were going to a job!”
“Why, what would you do with a job?”
“I’d be independent,” said Beatrice, thinking of her step-sister, who would probably want to decree what she should do.
“Oh,” said her companion, imagining she had been mistaken in the signs of affluence about Beatrice, and deciding in her own mind that Sir Samuel had made the money, and was kindly supporting his young step-sister. “No one who has a comfortable home should try for a job. Jobs are for people who can’t live without them.”
Beatrice was about to explain that it was the job, not the salary that she wanted, but the older woman at that moment handed her a card. “I’m always at home,” she said, “on Sunday afternoons. If you should ever have an hour or two to spare I’d like very much to see you and to hear how things go with you. Don’t forget.”
“I’m not likely to forget,” said Beatrice. “I know almost no one in London and it would be a great treat to see you again.”
She looked at the name on the card as she put it away safely in her bag; Miss Jane Naesmyth, and thought that it suited her companion well.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you,” said Miss Naesmyth. “Here we are! Will you be met?”
Beatrice had never thought of anything else. She or her mother had always gone to the station with the car and brought home any expected guest. But she told herself London was different. Probably the car would be engaged, and Betha and Elaine too, and they would expect her to take a taxi. It would be easier for her, really, than looking about for people she didn’t know by sight.
“Oh,” she said lightly, “I don’t suppose so. It’s so easy with lots of porters and taxis.” But she could not help peering round her as she followed the porter from the luggage-van, and presently she spied in the crowd the large, satisfied face of her step-brother. He was looking very impressive in a tall hat, and coat with a fur collar, and greeted Beatrice with urbanity, complimenting her on having got out her luggage with such celerity and pointing out his waiting car.
As they got in Beatrice saw her fellow passenger pass with a porter to a taxi, and over her shoulder she gave Beatrice such an encouraging smile that the girl drove away warmed and heartened.
CHAPTER V
“See, your guests approach, Address yourself to entertain them sprightly.”
The Winter’s Tale.
Although far from feeling at ease in her step-brother’s company, Beatrice would have liked to prolong the drive from Euston to Portland Place, and put off the moment when she must meet the rest of the family, whom she pictured as grouped in the hall prepared to receive her. But when the front door closed on them only the butler was there. Her ladyship, he said, and Miss Dobie had not yet come in.
“After your journey,” said Sir Samuel, “I expect you would like to go straight to your room. Betha and Elaine must have been detained. I know they expected to be in when you arrived. I told them the time—Ah, here is Higgins, she will take you to your room and be sure you ask for anything you want. . . . See you at dinner—8.30.”
Beatrice went up two flights of long stairs and was shown into the room that was to be hers. The maid turned on the electric fire, showed her the nearest bathroom, and suggested that she would lay out what Miss Dobie meant to wear that evening, and unpack the boxes while she was at dinner.
“You may want to rest now, Miss,” she said, “and it would make such a litter in the room.”
But Beatrice assured her that she was not in the least tired.
“I think I’d like to unpack myself, if you don’t mind, and then I’ll know where everything is. Not that there’s a very great deal to unpack,” she added.
“Being in mourning,” said Higgins, “you don’t want an accumulation.”
Beatrice agreed. She liked the look of Higgins, her middle-aged figure and round face and spectacles. There was something rather countrified and innocent about her.
“Perhaps I could get you a cup of tea, Miss?”
“No, thank you. I had tea in the train. It’s a very short, comfortable journey from Scotland.”
“So I’ve heard, Miss, but I’ve never had the chance to try it. . . . Can’t I put those away for you? It’s a pity to have you stooping and I’m used to it, being her ladyship’s maid.”
She was a most efficient maid, Beatrice realised, as she speedily and neatly unpacked and disposed of the boxes, and tidied the room.
“There now, Miss, you’re quite settled in as you might say. Everything put away under your own eye. . . . Now shall I turn on a nice hot bath? The bathroom’s practically your own so you need have no fear of being disturbed; a lady hates to be hurried with the bath.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Beatrice, wondering to herself how Fairlie would have behaved under the same circumstances. “Only,” she reflected, with a somewhat wry smile, “it couldn’t have happened in our house, for never would a guest have been left to a maid.”
Still, she admitted to herself, it was much pleasanter and easier for her to be in her own room with the kindly, helpful Higgins than sitting, as she might have had to do, downstairs, making difficult conversation with strange relations until it was time to dress for dinner. Now, at her leisure, she could have a bath and dress, and become accustomed to her surroundings.
She looked round the room which was furnished in a way that she had hitherto only seen in advertisements. Everything was the last word in modernity, and, the girl thought, hideous. The carpet was puce, and had a most irritating pattern that looked as if packs of cards had been thrown on it by some untidy person. There was one picture above the bed and after Beatrice had studied it for a long time and made nothing of it, she decided that it might be better turned upside down.
“Not a very restful picture for a bedroom,” she said to herself. “I’d rather have ‘Sleep sweetly in this quiet room’ embroidered with lavender!”
She couldn’t think at first what was wrong with the room, then she realised that it lacked the personal touch; it might have been a room in a furniture warehouse. There were no books, no flowers, nothing to make it look welcoming.
Well, she had her own belongings to put out, some of her favourite books, a few photographs, and her own pretty toilet things. They certainly made the room more human, but how awful her rose-pink satin dressing-gown (so much admired by Mrs. Lithgow) looked on the puce coverlet.
About twenty-five minutes past eight, when she was trying to make up her mind to go downstairs and find the drawing-room, there came a tap at the door, and before she could say “Come in” Lady Dobie entered.
“So here you are,” she said, kissing the girl. “I was desolated not to be in when you arrived, but Elaine and I simply had to put in an appearance at two parties. I hope Higgins looked after you properly? Had you a nice journey? How long is it since we met? You haven’t seen Elaine since you grew up, have you? Nor Stewart? A giant, simply a giant, six feet two! And oh, my dear, your poor mother! But we won’t speak of sad things; after all the world must go on. . . . Are you ready? Then, let’s go down—you must be famishing. I hope they gave you tea?”
To this rush of questions Beatrice merely returned a vague murmur, aware that no answer was required, for her step-sister flew from subject to subject like a busy sparrow. She was a small woman grown heavy, with golden hair and a bold taste in clothes. All the way downstairs she chattered, giving little staccato cries at intervals. “Is that my darling? Yes, it’s Missus!