The New Mrs. Aldrich E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 257

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.    She loved a man to the manor born... And the young, spirited American bride-to-be was determined to take her place beside her distinguished Maurice with dignity. Bur Tracey soon found she had married more than the squire of a vast old English estate. She had married a man with a very disturbing – and very recent – past. As she unveils the truths surrounding his aristocratic, secluded family, Tracey finds herself in increasingly sinister circumstances. Maurice had married before, his brother had died mysteriously … and several people are warning Tracey now to leave before she learns too much. One of them is an attractive artist who is capturing their ancestral home on canvas for posterity. But Maurice suddenly forbids her to see Don…

Leseprobe

The New Mrs. Aldrich

The New Mrs. Aldrich

© Vivian Stuart, 1976

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-486-6

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

____

for

LYNNE BARBARA CROSS

in memory of one summer’s day

PROLOGUE

The car turned in through the main gate, now rusty and sagging on its hinges as it lay permanently open, past the deserted gatehouse and along the weed-covered drive which led, in a double bend, to the wrought iron entrance to the paved courtyard. There the man parked it, and he and the woman got out and stood in the entrance, silently staring.

Once the house had been magnificent, built in a hollow square around the three sides of the large courtyard, in the center of which was a magnificent ornamental fountain. Flanking the wrought-iron entrance, forming the fourth side, were the outhouses, stables and garages. Even now, when it was a mouldering ruin, you could sense its former magnificence.

The girl slipped her hand into the man’s, and shivered.

“Do you really want to go on with this?” he asked.

“Yes, darling. I always knew I would have to come back one day, just to look. It gives me a funny, creepy feeling.”

“That makes two of us.” He spoke lightly and, squeezed her hand to reassure her.

Her glance swept around the courtyard again, and settled on the big four-columned portico which led into the house. Hidden, on the opposite side of the building and facing the main grounds, was another, more splendid five-pillared semi-circular entrance. The house faced southeast and about a quarter of a mile away, on the right, flowed the little River Trill, which formed the boundary of the grounds on two sides. It flowed into the River Clere about a mile further on, by the main road to Ross on Wye.

“What a difference only ten years can make,” she remarked quietly, with hardly any trace of her native American accent. “This was the first house I’d ever seen where you arrived via the back door. . . .”

CHAPTER ONE

They had made good time on the hundred and twenty mile drive up from London that August morning, ten years ago, despite the fact that her car was old and low on horsepower. Maurice sat beside her, glancing at her from time to time, and occasionally she would lift her eyes from the road and smile. They were both very happy, and as if in sympathy with their love, the sun was bright and the air warm. At Ross on Wye he gave her detailed instructions, and at last they came to a quiet country road with fields on one side, and a high wall on the other, above which she could see the tops of trees.

“Just along here, darling,” Maurice directed. “Slow down now, and you’ll see the gateposts on the left.”

“Goodness, is all this behind the wall yours?” she asked breathlessly.

“It will be, one day. Strictly speaking, it’s mother’s at the moment”

She saw the gateposts with their carved stone ornamentation, and negotiated the turn. On her left was a little house, windows bright and shining. Ahead stretched a tree-lined drive, curving away from her.

“Whose house is that?” she asked.

“That’s the gatehouse. Nobody lives there nowadays.”

“Oh.” She was surprised. It didn’t look at all deserted. She followed the curve of the drive until they came to another wall with an entrance topped by a wrought-iron ornamental decoration, in the center of which was set a huge clock.

“In here?” she asked.

“Yes. This is the back of the house. Drive up to those pillars beyond the fountain, and park. Willis will put your car away in one of the garages.”

One of them, she thought. Well, it figured. She drove slowly across the courtyard, past the cascading fountain, and drew up by the splendid pillared rear entrance. As she turned off the motor, she remarked,

“This is the back? How big is the house, Maurice?”

“Not terribly large, dear,” he answered in that English public school accent which fascinated her. “Thirty-eight rooms. It was built so that the front of the house faces directly over the grounds toward the park. The idea was that nothing should be allowed to spoil the view, not even arriving guests. That’s why the courtyard is at the rear. Got it?”

She climbed out of the car, feeling a little timid and daunted. She turned to him, and his confident smile made her feel better. He was tall, very dark, and of course they each had a magnificent suntan after a month of water skiing in the Mediterranean. He held out his hand to her.

“Come along. Just nice time for a celebration drink before lunch.”

They walked up the broad steps to the glass-fronted doors which lay open. Inside she could see the hall; dark wood, gleaming brass, expensive rugs, a number of oil paintings, and an impression of towering height and infinite space. And then a woman appeared in the hall, walking toward them.

“Hullo, mother.” There was affection in Maurice’s voice. He strode quickly toward the woman, embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Mother, this is Tracey. Tracey, this is my mother.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Aldrich.”

“What a pretty girl you are. Maurice’s letter didn’t do you justice at all.”

She held up her face to be kissed, and then said, “I think you’d better call me ‘mother’ too. You are engaged, aren’t you?”

Tracey nodded, smiling, and held up her hand. Maurice chuckled.

“We got the ring yesterday in London. We had to wait for it to be engraved, or we’d have driven home last night. Come along then. I hope the champagne is waiting.”

“Aunt Gravina is keeping an eye on it, in the yellow room.”

Tracey kept a firm hold of Maurice’s arm as they walked across the hall to a closed double door. Maurice opened it and stood back while first his mother and then Tracey went inside.

Once again there was a bewildering first impression, of light and space, of lovely furniture, and predictably of pale yellow flock wallpaper. As a jarring contrast, standing by the enormous white fireplace was a small, sallow complexioned woman with jet black hair and a plain black dress. Like a crow, Tracey thought, and surprised herself by shivering.

“Hullo, Aunt Gravina,” Maurice said, stepping up and kissing her cheek. “I’d like you to meet Tracey. Tracey, darling, this is my aunt.”

Tracey nodded and smiled and said “How d’you do”, hoping that the aunt would not expect to be kissed. Apparently she didn’t, for she replied in a cold, harsh voice,

“How do you do, Miss Hamill.”

Just that. No words of welcome.

“Right, then, ladies.” Maurice was bubbling over. “Sit down everyone while I open the champagne. Mother, how do you like the ring?”

While he opened and poured the champagne, Tracey allowed Sybella Aldrich to inspect the emerald and diamond ring. She was very sweet, Tracey thought, and anxious to make her feel at home in this great house. The aunt was quite different.

“Emeralds?” Gravina sniffed. “I don’t like them. Cold stones.”

Tracey recalled uncharitably that this was Maurice’s father’s sister, unmarried and in no position to criticize other women’s engagement rings, never having had one of her own.

“You’re just an old grouch, Aunt Gravina,” Maurice told her lightly, coming over with the glasses on a silver tray.

The aunt made no reply, but the look she gave him was unfriendly, and Tracey began to wonder about her. There was plainly a lot to be learned here, in this strange house. Thank goodness his mother was so sweet.

They drank to the engagement and Sybella asked,

“Well then, tell us all about it. I’m full of curiosity. When did you meet and how? I know it was in Malta, of course, but that’s about all. Maurice never was a good correspondent.”

“Second day I was there,” Maurice grinned. “At a place called Golden Bay. All the launches were out and I was waiting for one to come in so that I could ski; and then I looked up, and there was this lovely vision, doing things on a mono-ski which were really very clever. I fell in love on the spot, didn’t I, Tracey?”

“So he says,” Tracey told Sybella. “We only said ‘good morning’ that day. It was next day that he picked me up on the beach, when he’d finished skiing.”

“Picked you up?” Again Gravina’s irritating sniff. “I’ve often wondered how it’s done.”

Yes, I bet you have, Tracey thought with annoyance. Aloud she simply said, “Maurice did it very nicely.”

She wondered why Gravina seemed determined to pour cold water on everything. Sour grapes? Two elderly woman living here with one handsome man, the son Qf the house—did the childless Gravina resent the idea of Maurice marrying? It was possible.

“Tracey skis marvelously,” Maurice interrupted, in an effort to ease the tension. “She makes me feel like a novice.”

“That’s not true. Maurice is very good indeed. After all, I was brought up on snow skis, every winter from the time I was old enough to stand.”

“In America?” Sybella asked.

“Yes, till I was fifteen and we came to England.” “Whereabouts in the United States?”

“A little place called Vail, in Colorado. I was bom and raised there. It’s a big resort now, but it used to be a nice, quiet little place. When my father died, my mother brought me to England. She was English, you see.”

“She’s dead too, isn’t she?” Sybella asked.

“Yes.” Tracey nodded. “She died six years ago.”

“Poor child. What do you do now? Do you have a job?”

“Goodness, yes. I have to earn my living. Every winter I go on the staff of a holiday agency that does winter sports holidays. It’s called Ski Austria, and I’m one of their overseas representatives. That means that I get a whole winter’s skiing free of charge, all expenses paid, and I even get money as well.” She chuckled happily. “I wish it could last all year round. In summer I do free-lance work for a secretarial agency in London.”

“You don’t have a proper job?” This was Gravina, mouth curling with plain disapproval.

“I don’t have an improper one,” Tracey retorted quickly, and Maurice laughed while Sybella smiled.

Gravina’s face did not move; she merely stared stonily at Tracey.

“It all sounds interesting,” Sybella said encouragingly. “Maurice says you have a flat in London?”

“A very small one, in Richmond. It’s big enough for a bachelor girl.”

“What did your father do?” Gravina demanded, and Tracey began to wish she’d jump on her broomstick and fly away. The question was natural enough, but the manner of asking got right under her skin.

“My father worked for an insurance company, until he became ill and was told to live in the mountains for his health. He bought a small hotel in Vail. It wasn’t anything grand, but in those days there was hardly any competition. He did little wood carvings too, which used to sell in Denver.”

“Hmm. An insurance salesman.” Gravina made it sound like a dirty word, and Tracey flushed furiously.

“I think it’s time for more champagne,” Maurice interrupted, rising. “I wish to God I owned a hotel. Come along my dears and drink up. This is a party.”

Bless you, Tracey thought gratefully. She made up her mind not to allow this dessicated and aggressive spinster to spoil her arrival.

She had been shown to her bedroom, had washed and freshened up, and they had eaten lunch together in the dining room overlooking the grounds at the front of the house. Now she and Maurice were by themselves in what was called the music room, a comfortable room which housed color television, the stereo sound equipment and tape recorder, and an expensive radio, as well as a lovely full concert grand piano.

Tracey sipped her coffee and asked, “What are dur plans, darling?”

“When you’re ready, I thought I’d show you around the house. After that we can walk in the grounds and along the banks of the river. Then we must go into the village, because the word will be all around that you’ve arrived, and they’ll expect me to trot you along to the Red Lion for inspection. I don’t know how well you know this kind of country, but it’s full of Red Lions and Green Men. Not much originality in our local pub names.”

“Where is the village?”

“Renhope? It’s about a mile and a half further on—on the road we took from Ross. The road goes past Renhope another couple of miles to a little place called Clerehill. It’s become an artists’ colony in the last few years. It’s rather a beauty spot, on the river Clere. Our little river here, the Trill, is a tributary. I’ll take you to Clerehill later.”

“I feel odd, having to be inspected in a pub,” she laughed.

“That’s rural village life for you. We belong to the village, you know, just as much as it belongs to us; some of it, anyway. Not as much as it used to. We have to go to Church on Sundays, because if there weren’t an Aldrich in Church, I think the roof would cave in. I’m pretty meticulous about putting in an appearance at the pub once a week, for about an hour. Practically all the village activities involve us, one way or another. You’ll find plenty to do when we’re married, and they’re a friendly lot locally.”

“I like your mother very much.”

“She likes you. She told me she’s glad I’m engaged to you.” He grinned. “After all, I’m headed toward being middle aged, so she was probably becoming anxious.”

“What nonsense. Middle aged, indeed.”

“I’m thirty-six, darling. The forties beckon. You’re only twenty-seven, but you wait; you’ll find out how it feels to be nearer forty than thirty.”

She put down her empty coffee cup and went over to him, cupped his face between her slim hands, and kissed him on the mouth.

“Our first kiss in our home. Perhaps that will keep your mind off your approaching senility.”

“You’re a wonderful girl, Tracey,” he said, holding her.

“No, just somebody who loves you.”

“Don’t ever change.”

“I’m not going to,” she laughed, confidently.

They kissed again, and she felt ridiculously happy. After a few moments she stood up and pushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes.

“Maurice, what have I done to upset your aunt?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. She’s just in one of her moods. She’s a queer one, till you get to know her. She was bom in this house and has never lived anywhere else, so I can hardly ask her to leave.”

“I was hoping maybe you could persuade her to live in the gatehouse,” Tracey laughed.

“No such luck. But forget her. She isn’t important and she keeps to herself a lot.”

He showed her all over the house. There were twenty rooms in the main building, and nine in each of the wings, all of them large rooms by her standards, some of them positively vast The red room, which was the ballroom, was bigger than a bam. It was all tremendously impressive and grand.

As they were leaving the east wing, she pointed to the Stairway leading to the upper floor.

“Aren’t you going to show me up there?” she asked, a little surprised. She’d seen everything else.

“It’s locked,” he said casually.

“Why?”

“There’s some stuff stored in the upper rooms,” he replied vaguely, ushering her out into the corridor leading to the hall. She shrugged, a little disappointed that he had. not offered to unlock them. Not that she was curious, but she felt shut out. Back in the hall, he pointed to one door, almost hidden by the staircase, and told her,

“Whatever you do, darling, don’t poke your nose in there.”

“Is that where you keep the skeletons?” she asked, still a little miffed.

“Not quite. It used to be my den. When I brought chums home from school or from Oxford, that was where we could be out of everybody’s way. Then, about the time I came down from Oxford, my father died, and I took over the library and the study, so Aunt Gravina nabbed the den for herself. It’s her own little sitting room, and she’s wildly jealous of it and won’t let anyone in.”

He squeezed her hand.

“It’s a good thing, really. Gravina spends most of her time in there. The green room is the ladies’ drawing room, and I never go into it unless I’m asked. The library and the study are strictly my territory. The rest of the place is neutral ground.”

He saw the expression on her face and laughed.

“It’s one way of having a little bit of privacy, and also the rooms would never be used if we didn’t do this,”

“I don’t know how I’ll remember. I’d better stick close to you, I think.”

“That’s my girl. You do that.” He gave her a kiss, and they went off to walk in the grounds. Like the house, they took her breath away. The big vegetable garden was laid out with military precision, and beyond it was the orchard. They walked in the park, and over lawns and between flower beds ablaze with color. He took her along the charming little path beside the river till they found a place to sit in the sunshine and hold hands. It was unbelievable that some time soon, she was to be mistress of all this.

After tea, they drove to the village in Maurice’s big grey Bentley convertible. Halfway between the manor and the village, she saw a gaunt, black tower partly concealed by trees.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“What’s left of Renhope Castle. It’s been a ruin for a long time. Cromwell burned it down and only the square tower still stands.”

“Is it yours?”

“Sort of. It’s a scheduled Ancient Monument, so we can’t do anything with it, even if we wanted to.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Sometime. There’s nothing to see. It’s all overgrown and nobody goes near it.”

“Even so, it’s our castle.”

“Our rubble,” he corrected easily and then, as they took the bend in the road, Renhope appeared in front of them. Tracey gasped, for it was all that an English village is supposed to be and rarely is.

It had been built around the village green, complete with duck pond and ducks. Near one end of the green stood a great stone contraption which, Tracey later learned, was an old cider press. Facing it she saw the sleepy little Norman church, its stone glowing in the warm evening sun. On the nearside she spotted the Red Lion, flanked by quaint shops and houses.

The Rectory stood on the far side, beside more stone cottages, each one with its trim little garden, bright with flowers. Some children played by the duck pond, and one or two people stood chatting over garden walls and fences. On a bench outside the pub two old men sat drinking tankards of ale.

“How perfect,” Tracey breathed. “Is it real?”

“Oh yes, it’s real. We used to own it all, but we don’t have much left now. The Church is endowed by us, so I have the living.”

“What does that mean, darling?”

“I have to approve the appointment of any Rector before he can be appointed here.”

“Gosh!” Tracey had heard of droit de seigneur, but she had no idea it still existed.

“We still own the Rectory, of course, and most of the land the shops and pub stand on. That’s all, though.”

She did not reply. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

He steered her into the cool shade of the lounge bar which was exactly, as she guessed it would be; all dark oak, heavy beams, brasses hanging on the walls among old country prints, yards of ale above the bar, padded leather stools, subdued lighting. There were eight people at the bar, and a man and woman behind it.

“Hullo, everybody,” Maurice greeted them breezily. “Hullo, Madge, Tommy.”

Madge and Tommy were plainly the landlord and his wife, a middle-aged, comfortable couple.

“Hullo, squire,” Tommy answered. “The usual?”

Maurice took Tracey’s hand. “This is Miss Hamill, Tommy. You’ve probably heard the news. We’re getting married shortly. Darling, meet Tommy and Madge Owen. What will you have?”

Tracey smiled shyly at the others and asked, “Do you think I might have a half pint of draft bitter, please?”

“By George,” Maurice exclaimed, beaming. “Good for you. A pint of best bittet for me, Tommy, and half-can for Tracey here, and drinks all around.”

He began to introduce her to the others, while the beer was being drawn, and she felt overwhelmed, smiling, shaking hands, trying vainly to remember names. Everyone was smiling and reassuring, and at last she was able to relax on her bar stool, and sip the cool beer. Glancing around she saw one man sitting alone and silent, in the darkness of a far comer. Obviously he hadn’t been included in the drinks all around, for his glass tankard was almost empty. Perhaps a visitor, she thought; not one of the in-group.

She was kept busy answering questions about herself. Most of them were farmers and their wives, and other people wandered in, including the Rector whose unlikely name was the Reverend John Littlejohn. He too had his pint of beer with the squire.

Everyone called Maurice ‘squire’, and he seemed to fit the part perfectly, with that easy-going confidence that came with generations of being top dog. She watched him with fresh interest, here on his own stamping ground. They stayed for a bit over an hour, and then drove home to dinner. In the car she asked,

“Do you ever drink in the public bar, darling?”

“I stick my nose in occasionally.” He said it as though it were some sort of unpleasant duty. “Why?”

“Nothing. I just wondered.”

She was thinking of one of her former boyfriends, Wilf Lisle, a young architect. He and she spent hours in the public bar of a pub in Richmond, playing darts. Wilf poured scorn on lounge bars. It was as well that he and Maurice would never meet!

“I didn’t know you drank beer,” he remarked, interrupting her train of thought.

“I do occasionally. A half pint is my limit.”

“It went down well, I can tell you that. They admire a girl who’ll join them in a glass of beer. They’re the salt of the earth, these local farmers. Good chaps.”

Suddenly and inexplicably, she felt uneasy. She was out of her depth. What was Tracey Hamill of Vail, Colorado, expert skier, not so expert secretary, doing here in this Bentley with this man?

Not even the soothing sight of the rich, lush

Herefordshire countryside could restore her earlier mood of happiness.

Dinner at Renhope Manor, like lunch, was an enormous meal. Tracey, who had strong views on overeating and overdrinking, left a good deal of food untouched. She was sure Maurice hadn’t eaten so much in Malta, and she wondered how to mention to him that big meals were positively bad for him.

“You’ve an appetite like a bird, my dear,” Sybella said, as though reading her mind. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I never felt better. I just don’t eat large meals.”

“She’s minding her figure,” Maurice joked, and Gravina sniffed.

“Good food never hurt anyone,” Gravina pointed out coldly.

“It kills people every day,” Tracey retorted, stung. Fitness was something she did know all about.

There was a small silence and she realized that Gravina was watching her with malicious amusement. It had been deliberate provocation. She was glad when the meal was over and she and Maurice had coffee together in the music room. He switched on television and, after a second cup of coffee, he got up.

“You’ll have to excuse me for a few moments, darling. I shan’t be long.”

She smiled fondly at him as he strode to the door. About ten minutes later the program finished, and she wondered what was keeping Maurice. She got up and prowled around the room restlessly, and at last she went out into the hall.

It was deserted and she walked to the glass doors and stood looking out at the grounds. Then she decided she might as well go back and watch television again. Where on earth was Maurice?

She was just level with the door of Gravina’s den when she heard raised voices from inside. Her step faltered. Voices? Maurice said that nobody ever visited the room, other than the maid who cleaned it. She walked slowly into the music room, and just as she was closing the door, the door of Gravina’s den opened and she saw Maurice’s figure outlined in it, his back to her, facing Gravina inside. She heard him say,

“I know what you think, and I don’t want any trouble with you.” He laughed and added, “After all, if you were right, that might be unwise, mightn’t it?”

Neither his tone of voice nor his laugh were pleasant. Tracey closed the door quietly and returned to her seat. A second later Maurice strolled back into the room, smiling.

“Sorry to be so long, dear. Anything good on the box?”

“I don’t know. I switched it off. Where have you been for so long?”

“There were a couple of things to tell mother, and you know how it is. One word led to another and I didn’t notice the time flying.”

No mention of Gravina. She wondered why, disappointed that once again he had succeeded in making her feel shut-out.

Later that night, as she lay in bed trying to get to sleep, she wondered if she was being over-sensitive. She could hardly expect to be told everything at once. She’d find out in time. Yet she was unhappy at the thought of anything which could mar the happiness of what had been, after all, one of the really big days in her life.

Next morning, however, she awoke to a room filled with sunshine, her moodiness of last night all gone. She was cheerful and humming as she had her morning shower and dressed for breakfast. It was Sunday and today they would go to Church and she would hear the banns read by the Rector. This was another big day. Life was wonderful, she reflected brightly.

The others were already assembled when she went down to have her usual breakfast of orange juice, toast and coffee.

“Hullo, darling,” Maurice greeted her, getting up and holding her chair for her. “You look wonderful. Sleep well?”

‘Yes, thank you. Another glorious morning. What shall we do today?”

“After Church we can go out on the river, if you like. We can take a picnic lunch.”

“Lovely. We have a boat too, do we?”

“Only a punt and a skiff. The stream is too shallow for anything else. We’ll go as far as Clerehill, okay?”

“That would be nice.”

Conversation flagged. Breakfast was not a social event. Gravina had said nothing except a grunt which had sounded like “G’morning”, and she finished first and stalked out silently, still wearing black. A few moments later Sybella excused herself and went off to attend to things.

“Why does your aunt wear black all the time?” Tracey asked, pouring more coffee.

“I really don’t know. She’s done it for years. Ever since my father died, I think.”

“How odd. If I were your mother, I don’t think I’d like that.”

“For God’s sake, don’t say anything!” he exclaimed.

“I wasn’t going to.” She stared at him. “I’m only talking to you. That’s permitted isn’t it?”

“Sorry, darling.” He looked contrite . .”Sometimes Gravina gets on my nerves.”

Mine too, Tracey thought drinking her coffee. Odder and odder. Why would Gravina want to wear black for her brother, for years on end, when his widow didn’t? And why Maurice’s exaggerated reaction to her remark? She suppressed a sigh.

They all drove to Church in the Bentley. Tracey noticed that the family had its own pew, guarded by a little door adorned with a coat of arms. She knew she would be under close scrutiny, and had taken a lot of trouble over her make-up. She hoped she looked more calm then she felt. When the banns were read, she slipped a hand into Maurice’s, and they exchanged a quick, sideways glance. After that, she was scarcely aware of anything until they were in the car again, driving home. She went upstairs to change to go out on the river and when she came down there was no sign of Maurice. She heard a sound behind her in the hall and turned to see Gravina.

“I wish to speak to you privately.” Gravina spoke in a stage whisper and beckoned. “In here.”

Tracey, bewildered, went into the den and Gravina shut the door.

“Why do, you stay?” The question was asked harshly.

“What?” Tracey could hardly believe her ears.

“You must not marry Maurice.”

“How dare you!”

“I’m telling you for your own good. Don’t let all this impress you. Get out while there’s time. If you need money...”,

“Money!” Tracey took a deep breath and mastered herself. “I think you had better explain yourself. You’ve either said too much or not half enough.”

“I can’t explain. You must trust me. Go while you can. Make any excuse, and go back to your own life.”

“Trust you?” Tracey laughed bitterly. “You must think I’m crazy. I prefer to trust Maurice. We love each other and we’re marrying very soon now.”

“You’re making a terrible mistake.” Gravina’s eyes seemed to bore into her. Tracey shivered and then tightened her lips.

“You can either explain yourself to me, or to Maurice.”

“No!” Unexpectedly there was fear in Gravina’s eyes. “I was a fool to try to help you. I should have known you’d be too besotted to listen. Whatever you do, don’t say anything to Maurice. There will be trouble. I only tried to help.”

Suddenly Tracey felt a stab of pity for the old woman. God alone knew what had brought about this scene, but perhaps there hadn’t been malice in it.

“I ought to tell Maurice,” she warned, “but if it worries you, I won’t. Only, I want no more scenes like this, now or later. Don’t you ever try to interfere between Maurice and me.”

Gravina said nothing, and Tracey turned and left the room. She thought she understood, now. Maurice had admitted that Gravina was odd, and didn’t all these old families have them, from time to time—elderly, maiden aunts who in the old days would have been confined to an upstairs room? Gravina, wearing black for her dead brother and trying to scare her, Tracey, away was simply a dotty old woman, that was all. She hoped.

When Maurice came down, a moment or two later, the smile she gave him was quite untroubled.