The Nutmeg Tree (18 page)

“Where do you get your hair washed, Sue?”

“Here? I do it myself,” said Susan.

Julia looked at her daughter's head—smooth, golden, with a slight natural wave—and smiled enviously.

“You
can
, of course. But me with my perm'! I'd never get it set. I suppose there's a hairdresser in Belley?”

“Two or three,” agreed Susan. “I'll ask about them to-morrow, if you like, when we go in shopping.”

“I'd rather get it done to-day,” said Julia unreasonably. She had no ground for supposing Sir William more observant than most men, but he was always so beautifully spruce himself—as she had, at that very moment, an opportunity to note. For Sir William had joined them, appearing on the terrace just in time to catch Julia's last words.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

“It's my hair,” said Julia. “I want to get it washed. I think I'll have to try Belley.”

“I'll run you over in the car,” said Sir William.

Julia beamed with gratification. He really must like her, then! Because as a rule men hated a hairdresser's, it made them wait about …

“You won't have time before lunch,” observed Susan practically. “It's nearly half-past twelve now.”

“We'll have lunch at Belley,” said Sir William. “We'll drive in, make an appointment, have lunch, and then Julia can get it done. How's that?”

“Perfect!” gasped Julia, quite overwhelmed by the magnitude of the offer. Then she looked quickly at her daughter, to see whether Susan wanted to come too. But Susan's air, as she returned to her books, was one of amiable relief only; she seemed sincerely glad to have got her parent fixed up.

“We'll now leave Susan in peace,” said Sir William. “I'll have the car out in five minutes.”

2

A happy woman was Julia as she took her place in the Daimler. To be seated by a Knight, in a large car, was almost her ideal of earthly bliss; with a good lunch in front of her as well, she felt that life had nothing more to offer. And her face showed it; she beamed with pleasure.

“Comfortable?” asked Sir William.

“Heavenly!” breathed Julia.

She adored him. She had always admired him as the most distinguished man she had ever seen, but her adoration dated from that moment. Something in that one word—the way he said it, smiling, but with his eyes fixed on the road ahead—went straight to her heart. Other words had gone straight to her heart before, but never with such force.

“Tell me if you want a cushion,” said Sir William. “There's one behind.”

Julia smiled. Since he was not looking at her, a smile was no answer; but she dared not speak. By some miracle she had made a good impression on this superlative man; the nerve-racking part was that she had no idea how she had done it. She could not tell now, for instance, whether he would like her to move up close, so that their shoulders touched, or whether he would prefer her to keep her distance. She stole a sideways glance at his thin aquiline profile; it had such an effect on her that she had to look hastily away.

“I believe this is
it
,” thought Julia uneasily. “I believe this is the real thing. If I don't look out, I shall be making a fool of myself.”

Her thoughts raced on, and Sir William would have been greatly surprised at them; for by the time they reached Belley Julia had already dedicated herself to a life of hopeless devotion. The prospect did not depress her as much as might have been expected; it rather thrilled her, and gave her a good opinion of herself. It also gave her an immediate object, for with so many sleepless and tearful nights ahead, it was absolutely essential that she should have a photograph for the tears to fall on.

“I should think you take wonderfully,” she said, at last breaking the silence.

“What, photographs? I don't know,” said Sir William. “I haven't been taken for years.”

Julia was slightly dashed. If she made him get taken specially, he might think she was—well, interested in him. And she didn't want that; her adoration was to be unknown, unrequited, of the highest possible quality.

“I've some snaps taken on the
plage
at Cap-Martin,” added Sir William, drawing up outside the Pernollet. “They make me look like a scarecrow.”

“I like men to be thin,” said Julia. But she said it with great detachment, so that it sounded like a general reflection only. “You should see the old geezers here—they're like a lot of pineapples.”

Sir William laughed.

“The Pernollet is their only distraction. Live here a month or two yourself, and you'll see the danger.”

“I wouldn't dare,” said Julia seriously. “I've got to be careful. This evening I shall eat hardly anything at all.”

“Then you'd better have a good lunch,” he said.

3

Julia entered the restaurant with a proud and buoyant step. She did not walk, she swept. With Sir William behind her, and the Daimler outside, she felt the equal of any Disgusted Lady there. But her triumph was short; she swept only three paces; on the fourth she faltered. For the first person she saw, at a table directly in their path, was Mr. Rickaby.

Even at that peculiarly unfortunate moment Julia's first thought was an unselfish one: she was glad to see that he had consoled himself. For Mr. Rickaby was not alone, he had a companion, a handsome blonde with a good-humoured face; just the thing for him, thought Julia, as Mr. Rickaby no doubt was just the thing for
her
. Then, as the thought flashed through her mind, Mr. Rickaby glanced up.

“There's someone who knows you,” said Sir William.

Julia turned round to deny it, and saw that he was looking in an opposite direction. At a table to their right sat the two Misses Marlowe.

There was nothing to do but smile and nod back, and this Julia did with admirable aplomb. Standing half the restaurant away she felt reasonably safe; she was even pleased that they should see her in the distinguished company of Sir William. So Julia smiled and nodded with her best Packett air.

It was also necessary—which Julia had not realized—to pass directly alongside their table. A beckoning
maître d'hôtel
left no option. The Misses Marlowe smiled again; the elder, who had been much taken by their new acquaintance, even put out her hand in a friendly and detaining gesture.

“We meet again!” she exclaimed cordially. “Did you find your children waiting for you?”

With the small of her back (as though she had suddenly developed a new nerve there) Julia distinctly felt Sir William's start of surprise.

“Yes, of course I did,” she mumbled hastily. “Of course … Thank you very much.”

“Perhaps we may all meet at Aix,” elaborated Miss Marlowe. “And then you must show them to us.” Her keen old eyes, as she spoke, glanced over every inch of Sir William's long figure: she evidently took him for Julia's husband, and was as evidently prepared for an introduction. But Julia, with one more incoherent mutter, passed quickly on; and a moment later found herself seated opposite Sir William's placid but enquiring gaze.

“Go on, you order the lunch,” she said. “I'll tell you when I've had a drink.”

“Don't if you'd rather not,” said Sir William politely.

But Julia had to. She felt she couldn't sit opposite him for an hour, or maybe longer, with the shadow of an unexplained family hanging between them. As soon as the lunch was ordered, and their
apéritifs
consumed, she took the plunge.

“Those,” said Julia (and the plunge was indeed a very little one), “are two ladies who live at Aix.”

“I should think extremely nice acquaintances,” said Sir William.

“Aren't they?” agreed Julia, gratified, even in the midst of her distress, at having given cause for his slightest approval. An odd cause it was too, when you came to think of it; and Julia thought so long that at last Sir William had to prompt her.

“I'd an idea they seemed interested in me as well?”

“They were,” said Julia. “That's just it.” She drew a deep breath. “I think they thought you were the father of my three children. Elizabeth, and Ronald, and—and I've forgotten the other one's name …”

To her extreme amazement, to her no less extreme relief, Sir William, after a moment's astonished silence, put back his head and laughed until the arrival of the
pâté
.

After that they got on famously. Julia did not tell him everything, of course,—she suppressed Mr. Rickaby altogether, and substituted for her desire to visit the casino a simple desire for a jaunt,—but she told him all about her assault on the Daimler, and most of the lost-sheep-and-heather stories with which she had beguiled her hosts. Sir William seemed to find them extremely entertaining, and as her confidence grew Julia proceeded to other and equally picturesque episodes of her past life. For the first time since her arrival in Muzin she was completely herself; she had cast all care aside, she no longer bothered even about being a lady. A glorious ease flooded her soul; mentally and physically she had her elbows on the table. For Sir William wasn't being shocked, he was being thoroughly amused; he was
liking
her, enjoying her company, just as though he'd been one of the boys and not a Knight at all. If the Packetts could only see them …

“Gosh!” cried Julia. “You won't let out any of this to the others?”

“Of course I won't, if you don't want me to,” promised Sir William. “But why not?”

“Why not!” Julia's round dark eyes widened with astonishment. “Because—because they think I'm a lady!”

“And so you are,” said Sir William.

She loved him for it, but she knew it was only his niceness.

“Not really. Not their sort. I'm not
vulgar
, but I've got to be careful. In fact—and in a way I'm glad to tell you—Bryan's seen through me already.”

At that Sir William's brows came down, and all at once he looked like a Knight indeed.

“That young man!” he said grimly. “If he's been impertinent to you—”

“He hasn't,” cried Julia. “It's just that he's a bit the same sort—And that's another thing: that's why he mustn't marry Susan. I couldn't tell you before, because I didn't want to give myself away. But you don't think she ought to marry him, do you?”

“To tell you the truth, my dear,” said Sir William surprisingly, “I haven't thought much about it. I'm fond of Susan, of course, and I should see she didn't get tied up to a blackguard; but I've never found her particularly interesting.”

It has been remarked before that Julia's maternal instinct was highly erratic. One minute earlier such an offhand dismissal of her marvellous daughter would have roused her to fury: she would have glared like a tigress, and like a tigress sprung; but two words from Sir William had, within the last few seconds, changed all that. He had called her “my dear”!—and those two words had so violently impinged upon her heart, and had so largely printed themselves there, as to confuse all previous inscriptions. Julia still loved her daughter, but she adored Sir William; and she had no idea of quarrelling with his judgment.

“I came to the villa,” continued Sir William, thoughtfully, “purely from a sense of duty. But I'm very glad I did.”

“Oh, so am I!” said Julia.

It was just at that moment that Mr. Rickaby and his friend, making for the door by a circuitous route, passed close beside the table. He saw Julia, and Julia saw him; out of the fullness of her glad heart she gave him a hearty smile. It was irresistible in its warmth and friendliness, and Mr. Rickaby smiled forgivingly back. The last wrinkle in Julia's conscience was smoothed out; she left the restaurant at peace with all the world.

The rest of the afternoon passed like a beautiful dream. They went for a long drive—but not into Aix—and Julia talked all the way. They stopped for tea at a peculiar little inn where the
patronne
, who served them, observed frankly that she had a very nice bedroom; and Sir William did not mind. “It's me,” said Julia, with a frankness at least equal; she was very anxious for Sir William's dignity. She had already determined that if by any marvellous chance he asked her to go away with him—he wouldn't, of course, but just supposing he did—she would try and behave exactly like a wife.

They got back to the villa just in time, as Susan informed them, to change for dinner. The sight of her daughter roused Julia, as always, to heartfelt admiration; but it occurred to her as strange that she and Sir William, having been summoned all across France to Les Sapins solely by the question of Susan's marriage, should have found there something of so much greater interest.

4

“Did you find a nice hairdresser?” asked old Mrs. Packett at the dinner table. She was rather shortsighted, and the question was quite without malice; what disturbed Julia more was the fact that both Susan and Bryan, who were not shortsighted at all, had preserved a discreet silence.

“No, I didn't,” said Julia brazenly. “They were all horrid. I'll have to try Aix.”

Chapter 17

1

The trip to Aix took place, but Mrs. Packett came too. Julia did nothing to stop her, and even welcomed her company, for she was extremely anxious that the new relationship between herself and Sir William should not attract notice. She dreaded Bryan's sharp eyes and sharper tongue—not so much on her own account as on Sir William's; she could not bear the thought of causing him even a moment's embarrassment. Rather than jeopardize a morsel of his dignity, she set herself a Spartan programme of self-repression; no one was to guess that she was the least in love.

How difficult a task that was! For Julia loved with enthusiasm. She put all her heart into it. She longed to show, by her manner, by her voice, by her every action, that she regarded Sir William as the nonpareil of humanity. Flying (as usual) to extremes, she attempted at first a mask of complete indifference, and refused to take part in an expedition to the Colombier; with the result that everyone at the villa immediately assumed that she was not feeling well. Mrs. Packett suggested an aspirin; Susan advised a good stiff walk and offered her company, which alarmed Julia so much—she had a vision of herself being made to tramp for three hours up a hill—that she rapidly resumed her normal habits. These now seemed to include a good many morning tête-à-têtes with Sir William in the garden. Julia erroneously fancied that they would pass either unmarked, or as common politeness to a guest at a loose end.