Stormy Springtime. Бетти Нилс

decided Meg with satisfaction, he was going to be disappointed. She remembered the look he had given the bathroom pipes and the Victorian fireplace; he would make an offer, perhaps, far below the one asked, and she would find great satisfaction in refusing it.

      It wasn’t like that at all. Betsy ushered him in. ‘Mr Culver to see you, Miss Meg.’ She winked as she went out.

      Meg got up and said uncertainly, ‘Have you come about the house? It’s sold—’ and at the same instant said, ‘Culver—you aren’t by any chance related to Mrs Culver?’

      ‘Her son. I suggested that she should come and see the place; I knew she’d like it.’ He raised dark eyebrows. ‘You’re disconcerted, Miss Collins?’

      Meg eyed him cautiously, for he sounded cross. ‘Not that,’ she explained politely, ‘just surprised. I’d forgotten your name, you see.’

      ‘You’re to remain here as my mother’s housekeeper? Oh, don’t look alarmed—I have no intention of interfering with her plans. It seems a most suitable arrangement. But you do understand that when Kate, her own housekeeper, returns, you and your servant will have to go.’

      ‘Betsy isn’t a servant,’ said Meg clearly, ‘she’s been with my family for a very long time. She’s our friend and helper.’

      The eyebrows rose once more. ‘I stand corrected! May I sit down?’

      She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, please do. Why have you come, Mr Culver? And you had no need to remind me that we’re only here temporarily.’

      ‘I came to tell you that within the week there will be some furniture delivered, and to ask you to remove whatever you wish to keep for yourself. Presumably there are attics?’

      ‘Three large ones, and yes, I’ll do that.’

      ‘A cheque for the furniture, which will be valued, will be paid to your solicitor in due course. Tell me, Miss Collins, don’t your sisters want to discuss this with you?’

      ‘No—my elder sister is married and my younger sister is too busy—she’s a staff nurse in London…’

      ‘And you?’ For once his voice was friendly, and she responded to it without thinking.

      ‘Me? I can’t do anything except look after a house and cook; that’s why I’m so happy to stay on here for a little while.’

      She studied his bland face for a while. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked.

      ‘Why should I mind?’ He got to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. Let your solicitor know if there’s anything which worries you.’

      Meg went with him to the door, and because he looked somehow put out about something, she said gently, ‘I’m sorry you don’t like me staying here, Mr Culver, but it won’t be for long.’

      He took her hand in his. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Miss Collins,’ he told her gravely. ‘Goodbye.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      MEG SHUT THE DOOR firmly behind Mr Culver and then stood looking at the painted panelling in the hall. She wondered what he had meant; it was a strange remark to make, and it made no sense. She dismissed it from her mind and wandered off to the kitchen to tell Betsy about the furniture. ‘So we’d better go round the house and pick out what we want,’ she ended. ‘I’ll try and get Doreen to come down and sort out what she wants.’

      Doreen came two days later, full of plans for herself and for Meg. ‘You’ll have to go into a bedsitter or digs for a while,’ she told her. ‘I’ll ask around…’

      ‘There’s no need; I’m staying on here as housekeeper, and Betsy’s staying too,’ she said, and before an astonished Doreen could utter a word, added, ‘I’ll explain.’

      When she had finished, Doreen said, ‘Well, I don’t know—housekeeper in your own home—it’s a bit demeaning, and such hard work!’

      ‘But I’ve been housekeeping for years,’ Meg pointed out, ‘and besides, I’m going to be paid for it now.’

      Doreen was a bit huffy; she had been telling Meg what to do and how to do it since they were children, and until now Meg had meekly followed her lead. ‘Oh, well,’ she said grudgingly, ‘I suppose you know your own mind best, though I think it’s a mistake. Cora won’t like it…’

      ‘Why not?’ asked Meg placidly. ‘I should have thought you’d have both been pleased that I’m settled for a month or two.’ She added cunningly, ‘You’ll be able to concentrate on your new flat.’

      A remark which caused her sister to subside, still grumbling but resigned. Moreover, she declared that she would be down the following weekend to choose furniture. ‘I don’t want much,’ she said. ‘I’m going to buy very simple modern stuff.’ She added, ‘Cora doesn’t want anything, only those paintings of the ancestors in the hall and the silver tea and coffee sets.’

      As she got into her car she asked carelessly, ‘What’s this son like?’

      Meg paused to think. ‘Well, he’s very tall—about six feet four inches—and broad. He’s dark and his eyes look black, though I don’t suppose they are…he’s—he’s arrogant and—off-hand.’

      Doreen gave her a kindly, pitying look. ‘Out of your depth, were you?’ she asked. ‘He sounds quite a dish.’ She started the engine. ‘What does he do?’

      Meg stared at her. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. We only talked about the house and the furniture.’

      Doreen grinned. ‘I can well believe that! When I’ve settled you in that semi-basement, Meg, I’m going to find you an unambitious curate.’

      She shot away, and instead of going indoors Meg wandered along the path which circumvented the house. She had no wish to marry a curate, she was certain on that point, nor did she want to marry a man like her brother-in-law—something in the city and rising fast, and already pompous. She would like to marry, of course, but although she had a very clear idea of the home she would like and the children in it, not to mention dogs and cats and a donkey and perhaps a pony, the man who would provide her with all this was a vague nonentity. But she wanted to be loved and cherished, she was sure of that.

      She went back into the house and sat at the kitchen table eating the little cakes Betsy had made for tea and which Doreen hadn’t eaten because of her figure. ‘Do you suppose I could have the furniture in my room, Betsy?’ she asked at length. ‘I could put a few chairs and tables in there before Mrs Culver comes, then it would be easy when we move out. I won’t need much in a small flat…’

      Betsy was beating eggs. ‘Likely not,’ she agreed. ‘Poky places they are, them semi-basements—lived in one myself ‘fore I came to yer ma. Can’t see why yer ‘ave ter live in one, meself.’

      Meg ate another cake. ‘No—well, I’ve been thinking. If I can get Mrs Culver to give us good references we might try for jobs in some large country house, the pair of us. I was looking through the advertisements in The Lady, Betsy, and there are dozens of jobs.’

      ‘Yer ma and pa would turn in their graves if yer was ter to do that, Miss Meg—housework indeed—and you a lady born and bred. I never ‘eard such nonsense!’

      Meg got up and flung an arm round her old friend’s shoulders. ‘I think I’d rather do anything than live in a basement flat in London,’ she declared. ‘Let’s go round the house and choose what I’ll take with me.’

      Small pieces for the most part: her mother’s papier mâché work table, encrusted with mother-of-pearl and inlaid with metal foil, a serpentine table in mahogany with a pierced gallery, and a Martha Washington chair reputed to be Chippendale and lastly a little rosewood desk where her mother had been in the habit of writing her letters. She added two standard chairs with sabre legs, very early nineteenth century, and a sofa table on