Authors: Eleanor Farnes
She went into the kitchen, where the staff would normally be having a mid-morning cup of coffee, to
find them
all clustered round a table, exclaiming admiringly over
som
e
thing
that was hidden in the midst of them.
Inga turned to Celia.
“Come and see what Willi has made. It is
a mas
ter
piece
.” They made room for her to see the cake that Willi had
made
.
It was indeed a masterpiece. The layer of cake at the bottom was completely hidden by the bouquet of flowers spread over its top, flowers made of spun sugar, or marzipan or a stiff cream. Delicately colored, beautifully
made,
it was certainly the highest expression of Willi’s form of art that Celia had yet seen. Roses and lilies made up the bouquet, and Celia thought it would be a pity to cut into such a beautiful thing.
“It is for Anneliese to take with her today,” they said. “Willi, you must pack it very carefully.”
“Where is Anneliese going?” asked Celia.
“She is going home—but she will be back tomorrow evening. They cannot spare longer in the busy season.”
“They?”
“Mr. St Pierre is going, too. It is some very special celebration.”
“Oh,” said Celia, with a sinking of the heart
.
“Perhaps,” said Hertha, “it is because the mother is better.”
“I think it would be more important than that,” said Gustave.
“I wanted to put words on it
,
” said Willi. “I asked Anneliese: ‘What shall I put on? Is it for a birthday, or engagement, or for your mother’s recovery?’ But she would not say. She laughed, and said: ‘No, Willi, no words’.”
“It is beautiful,” said Celia. “It’s wonderful, Willi.” They broke up the circle, and began to drink their coffee. Celia could not keep her mind from the celebration for which this cake was made. She watched Willi packing it carefully and lovingly into its box with many sheets of finest tissue paper, and thought of his words: a birthday, or an engagement, or your mother’s recovery. It could be any of these; but was it their engagement? Could it be? She told herself that she knew it might come at any time, and she must be prepared for it, but her heart was heavy.
Later in the morning, Anneliese and Kurt left for Zurich. Celia saw than go, from the dining room, wh
e
re she was laying tables for luncheon. Anneliese looked radiant dressed in pale green, which suited her fair beauty perfectly. Kurt was immaculate, very brushed up, as for a special occasion. Celia’s heart yearned over him—foolishly,
she
told herself. She stood still, her hands full of forks and spoons, and, unseen herself, watched them get into the gleaming, elegant car. They made sure the box with the cake was there; they put in another long box which obviously contained flowers; Anneliese was
lau
ghing
and seemed very vivacious this morning. They settled themselves, and the car slid almost noiselessly from the court
yard.
Two departures in one morning, thought Celia; the first welcome, the second most unwelcome; for she could not help thinking that they must be off to celebrate their
engagement.
This was far from the truth. Anneliese had known for some time of the celebration that was to mark the thirty-fifth
anni
versary
of her parents’ wedding, a celebration
ma
de
more significant than ever by her mother’s recent recovery from illness. But a little before the date, she had spoken to her father on the telephone, when she was sure of having the office to herself, and had asked him to ask Kurt to go, too; to press Kurt to go; to say that Mutti would like so much to see him, and that the whole family would be happy. She knew that Kurt would not refuse an invitation put like that; and when Kurt later told her that her father had been speaking to him, she knew what his answer had been. Unfortunately, Rudi would also be present; but as
she
had no scruples about
being unkind to Rudi, she still hoped to have plenty of time alone with Kurt.
Celia was left in charge of the office. There was little to do, since letters could be left for Anneliese’s return. She was to answer the telephone and deal with guests’ inquiries; receive any newcomers and speed the parting visitors. Easy work, that gave her too much time for thinking. One of the first telephone calls was from Dr. Sturm.
“If it is possible, Miss Dorrelson,” he said, “I would like that you come up today.”
“What is the matter, Dr. Sturm? Is Dorothy upset?”
“Yes, I am afraid so. She had a very bad night—I think she was all the night crying—and the temperature is up again. Can you come?”
“I will come as soon as lunch is finished here. Mr. St. Pierre is away and Anneliese, too, so I have to look after the office. But tell Dorothy I will be there soon.”
She went to find Geoffrey, who said he intended to go up to his chalet anyway, and would be delighted to drive her to the rest centre at any time. They left in the early afternoon, and Geoffrey strolled about the plateau while Celia went anxiously up to Dorothy, to find her lying in bed with a very miserable face, tear-stained and pole. Celia went across to her with a smile.
“Why, Dorothy, what a dismal face! That’s no way to greet me.”
“Celia. Oh, darling Celia. I did want you to come so much. Celia...” she burst into tears, and sat up in bed to fling her arms around Celia’s neck,
cl
in
ging
to her desperately.
“Dodo, you’re strangling me,” said Celia, holding her
close
. “Stop crying, darling. You’ll send up your temperature and Dr. Sturm will send me away. Try to be quiet, darling. Don’t cry. Now
...
now
...
please don’t cry. See, I’m here and I’ve got you, and I’m always going to keep you.” She sat on the bed, rocking Dorothy gently, until she was quieter.
“Always, Celia?” asked Dorothy at last.
“Always.”
“Mother was here yesterday,” said Dorothy.
“I know, Dodo. I couldn’t stop her from seeing you.”
“You won’t let her take me away, will you?”
“She doesn’t want to take you away, darling.”
“But you won’t let her.”
“No, of course not.
”
“Promise?
”
“Yes, I promise.”
“I never want to go with her.”
“She wouldn’t want to take you away from a place that was doing you good, Dorothy.”
“You
m
ean
she wouldn’t want me around getting in the way; with that beastly old Bernard.
”
“Now you’re feeling better, when you start saying rude things about people. Now lie down, darling, and I’ll tuck you in. And you absolut
el
y mustn’t worry—I’ve promised you over and over again that I will look after you—and if you worry and send up your temperature, I shall know you don’t trust me.”
“But I do, Celia.”
“Good. Then don’t let me hear any more about you crying and getting a temperature. Will you be good?
”
“
Just tell me once. You won’t go away and leave me?”
“I won’t go away and leave you.” Celia said it deliberately, with every intention of keeping her promise.
“Only she might come back.”
“No, she won’t. She’s done her duty for another year and she won’t worry us.”
Dorothy seemed reassured. She said:
“She brought me a cap and scarf with embroidered pictures of Switzerland.”
“How nice. May I see them?”
"It’s not nice. I hate them. I’ve already given them to
Irmgard.”
“Dorothy, that was naughty of you.”
“Irmgard
thinks
they are pretty. She likes them and I don’t, so she had better have them.”
Ce
lia
stayed a little longer, talking to her, and when she was pleasantly sleepy, and apparently quite recovered in spirit, Celia went downstairs to rejoin Geoffrey, and he drove her back to the hotel.
That night,
she
walked out on to the balcony of her pleasant little room. The moon was not full, but was shedding a pale light over the mountains and valley. The air was still warm, and sounds travelled upwards very clearly from the
gar
de
n
and courtyard below. Celia sat down on the wicker sofa, and leaned back wearily.
She had, today, promised Dorothy that she would not go away and leave her. She had made this promise deliberately, recognizing it as important; but now she had to do
so
m
e
thing that
would make her able to fulfil it. She had promised to stay; and she could only stay if
she
had a job that would support her—or if she married Geoffrey.
Well, at the moment,
she
had a job, but she would not like to say how long it would last. Kurt obviously disapproved of her as a waitress, and seemed always to be
insisting
that she was in the wrong job.
Perhaps be would be able to find her another position? But no, she could not allow herself to work at anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary—she did not want him to
make
a position for her. But perhaps he could find her work elsewhere? The Bellevue shut down in winter; soon, the peak period would be past, here at the Rotihorn, and there would be a slacker time until the wintersport; so
that
in neither of those places would he require her services. At the Mirabella, then? It was open all the year. She did not think she would like to work at the Mirabella; and she would be a long way from Dorothy.
Well, said a voice inside her, if you want to be near Dorothy, you could hardly do better than marry Geoffrey. You are right on the spot. You would have no more financial worries. You would be living in a beautiful
pla
ce
,
and Geoffrey would always be willing to take you back to England from time to tim
e
... She listened to this voice for some time. It was true, too, that Geoffrey loved her. This feeling she had for Kurt, real as it was for herself, was like the stuff that dreams are made of; beautiful, too delicate to touch, too evanescent to materialize into everyday terms. Kurt was thirty-four, and he had an experienced touch for relationships between men and women, Celia felt Perhaps he would never marry. And she was going to sit by, and having said no to Geoffrey, see her life and her youth slipping by while she worked at a
series of jobs?
It would be expedient to marry Geoffrey, but expediency was no good reason for doing it. It would even be, she had to admit, pleasant to be married to him. She looked squarely and frankly at what such a marriage would mean, and still felt that it would be a pleasant
thing
she
was aware that the picture of Kurt wanted to obtrude itself into these reflections, but she banished it sternly. All common sense and reason would vanish
thon
and
she
would be lost in daydreams again; and where would da
y
dreams get her?
Still, she could not make up her mind. As long as she had not given Geoffrey a definite answer, she was free to decide, but it was unfair to him to keep him waiting much longer.
And she would have a home, ran on her thoughts
.
After the selling of her childhood home, had come Peter’s death then the death of her mother, and the selling up of everything. Only a few very choice pieces of furniture she had
kept, and these had finally gone to raise funds for Dorothy’s cure. Her flat had been relinquished. She had now no place in the world that she could call her own; and it was a lost and lonely feeling for a person whose childhood had
been
grounded in happiness, and a home that had been in the family for many generations.
Geoffrey’s chalet could be a real home. It would be lovely and gay in summer, with its flowers and its open windows; it would be cosy and snug in winter, with its stove alight, and the snow mounting the outside staircase.
Celia left the balcony and went into her room to undress. Yes, it wanted thinking about very seriously,
she
decided; and perhaps, although this was quite unconscious, she was more willing to think about it since the departure of Anneliese and Kurt together to an unknown celebration.
Next day, after dinner, she was free. Kurt and Anneliese had not yet returned, and she felt that she did not want to be there when they arrived. She dreaded that she would see a betraying radiance on Anneliese’s lovely face. So she
sl
ipped on a coat and walked slowly up the mountain road, in the soft, clear dusk of the evening.
When she came to Geoffrey's chalet, she found that he was wandering round it, inspecting the work so far done. He called to her, and she
crossed
the short thick grass, and went up the outside staircase, and allowed herself to be
co
nduc
t
ed
on a tour of inspection of the alterations and decorations. Then they sat out on the wide balcony. The men had long since gone to their homes, and everything was very quiet, very peaceful.