A middle-aged waitress came over to them and took their order. When she had gone he said,
“I’ve got a lot to talk to you about too.”
“Who is going to start?”
“Would you like to?”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Not particularly. It’s the man’s business to lead off, really.”
He leaned towards her across the table and said,
“How much does your sister really want to live in that house?” Ione looked at him composedly.
“I don’t think she wants to live in it at all. I should hate it myself, and I think it’s all wrong for Allegra. She isn’t strong, and the place frightens her.”
“Then why-”
“Oh, it’s Geoffrey. You can’t have talked to him for five minutes without seeing that he’s in love with the house-besotted about it. He makes a joke of it, but that is only on the surface. He can hardly make himself stop talking about it, and I don’t believe he ever stops thinking of it.”
It was curious how easily she could talk to him. He had come to Bleake to furnish Mr. Sanderson with an opinion as to the structural soundness and general condition of the Ladies’ House considered as a suitable investment for Allegra’s trustees, yet neither he nor she was talking about it from that angle. It was the personal and private aspect of the case which was presenting itself. Without a word of explanation they had between them the two things which Ione would not have believed she could discuss with a stranger-Allegra’s state, and the anxiety to which it was giving rise.
The arrival of the waitress with two plates of pink tomato soup gave both of them pause. Jim Severn thought, “It’s none of my business. Why didn’t I hold my tongue?”, and Ione, “but he isn’t a stranger. I’ve known him always-at least that’s what it feels like.”
The soup was hot, and surprisingly, it wasn’t out of a tin. Ione guessed at home-bottled tomatoes and thought that she would like to have the recipe. She smiled and said,
“Someone told me the food here was good. It was the daily maid from the village, Florrie Bowyer. She said the cook here was her aunt, and she had been in very good places but she liked her independence. And the other day, when she thought of having a room and going out daily just to special people, the manager asked her to marry him, so she is staying on. He lost his wife in the autumn, and she is very fond of his little girl, so she is going to take him and stay.”
He was laughing.
“How on earth did you get all that?”
“Oh, Florrie likes talking.”
“Does she talk to your sister? Was it she who frightened her about the house?”
Ione nodded.
“What did she tell her about it?”
“Oh, some story about the house being called Ladies’ Bane because whoever was mistress there would lose what she cared for most in the world. Allegra isn’t in a state to have that sort of thing said to her.”
“All these old houses have stories about ghosts and curses. The Ladies’ House hasn’t got a ghost, I suppose?”
“I haven’t heard of one, but I wouldn’t be surprised. What Allegra wants is a nice bright modern house with lots of windows and no history.”
The waitress changed their plates and brought them each a helping of roast duck cooked to a turn. There was apple sauce, deliciously sharp, cauliflower in a creamy sauce, and little potato balls cooked to a golden brown but soft inside. Jim Severn said,
“Well, your Florrie was right about one thing, the aunt is certainly a heaven-born cook. This is the sort of food which I thought had perished from the earth. Comforting to realize that it lingers here and there.” Then, without any perceptible pause or change of voice, “You know, if you feel as you have just given me to understand about your sister living at the Ladies’ House, it is all too easy. You have only to go to Sanderson-is he your trustee as well as your sister’s?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Well, all you’ve got to do is to go to him and tell him what you’ve just told me. If you say the place gives you the creeps-”
She looked up quickly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said you hated it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Well, does it, or doesn’t it?”
She looked away, frowning.
“Well, it does-but I don’t know that I should be justified-” She bit her lip. “You see, Geoffrey is so frightfully keen. I should feel the worst kind of doublecrosser if I did it behind his back. And if I tell him I’m going to go to Mr. Sanderson to try to and put him off, well, I don’t see any way out of it except one of those nasty family rows which are never quite patched up. And I can’t have that, because of Allegra.”
After a little he said,
“I see-” He was thinking that she had an unusually delicate sense of honour, and then wondering if it wasn’t just a little too delicate-quixotic. He couldn’t make up his mind. There was, of course, another way. He said rather abruptly,
“Sanderson will surely talk to Mrs. Trent herself. I shouldn’t think he could fail to discern that the house doesn’t appeal to her.”
Ione said,
“I don’t know. She-she is very devoted to Geoffrey, you know, and very much under his influence. She is gentle, and rather timid. If she is fond of someone she will do almost anything they want her to do. She has always been like that. If Geoffrey wants the Ladies’ House, it is no use supposing for a moment that she will tell Mr. Sanderson she doesn’t want to live there. It’s beyond her, and it’s better to make up one’s mind to it. I suppose you can’t say anything that would put Mr. Sanderson off?”
He shook his head.
“I shall have to give an honest professional opinion. We’ve left the roof till Monday, but as far as the rest of the building is concerned it is remarkably sound. They knew how to build in those old days. It has been continually lived in and looked after ever since, and the American’s modern conveniences have been admirably contrived. My uncle drew the plans himself, and I must say he made a marvellous job of it. So unless something quite unforeseen crops up in the roof I shall have to submit a very favourable report.”
Ione drew a long breath.
“I shall just have to tell Geoffrey that I don’t think the Middle Ages are good for Allegra’s nerves. He won’t like it, and he’ll think I’m all the interfering sisters-in-law rolled into one, but it can’t be helped.”
The waitress changed their plates again. She put down what looked like a piece of real English cheese and a dish of homemade biscuits. She also produced some quite admirable coffee.
It was over the cheese and the coffee that Jim Severn said suddenly,
“You’ll never guess who I ran into downstairs in the coffeeroom having a snack.”
“Someone I know?”
“Well-” his voice sounded amused-“someone you have talked to.”
“With you?”
“With me.”
Something like a small cold draught drew in from the glass of the window behind her. She had not noticed it before. And Jim Severn was saying,
“You’ve even heard him sing. That was how I recognized him. He was drinking a quite horrible brew of cocoa laced with whisky, which he tells me he finds very sustaining, and bursting at intervals into ‘The Bluebells of Scotland.’ ” Ione knew why she had felt cold. She was back in that horrible night of fog, following the man whom she had just heard bargaining over the price of a life, and it was “The Bluebells of Scotland” that he had whistled and sung as he clattered with his stick along parapet and balustrade. She caught her breath sharply and said,