The Vicar's Daughter

Imogen, fifteen years old, wilful, spoilt and convinced that she was quite grown-up, was delighted. Life, she confided to Margo, was boring. For most of the year she was at boarding-school while her father—something in the diplomatic service—and mother lived in an obscure and unsettled part of Europe, which meant that she was ferried to and fro between members of the family in England.

She made no secret of her boredom while staying with her grandparents—but the aunt in London offered the delights of theatres and shopping. Imogen, recovering from a severe attack of measles, intended to enjoy her sick leave before going back to school.

Of course, she disliked the idea of being taken to her aunt’s as though she were a child, but she got on quite well with Margo and it was nice to have someone to see to the boring things like tickets and taxis.

They made the journey together more or less in harmony, although Margo had to discourage her from using a particularly vivid lipstick and eyeliner the moment the taxi was out of her grandfather’s gates.

‘Why not wait until you are in London?’ suggested Margo, being tactful. ‘You will be able to consult one of those young ladies behind a cosmetic counter and get the very best and the latest.’

Imogen reluctantly agreed. ‘You could do with some decent make-up yourself,’ she observed with youthful candour. ‘But I suppose that as you’re the vicar’s daughter it doesn’t matter how you look.’

Margo, trying to think of the right answer to this, gave up and said nothing.

It was quite a lengthy ride from Paddington to Imogen’s aunt’s house—a substantial town residence in a terrace of well-maintained homes.

Strictly for the wealthy, reflected Margo, getting out of the taxi to pay the cabby. It would be interesting to see inside...

They were admitted by a blank-faced butler who informed them that they were expected and showed them into a small room furnished with little gilt chairs which looked as though they would collapse if anyone sat on them, a hideous marble-topped table and an arrangement of flowers on a tall stand.

‘Lady Mellor will be with you presently,’ they were told, and were left to perch uneasily on the chairs. But only for a few minutes. Suddenly the door was thrust open and Lady Mellor made a brisk entry.

‘Dearest child,’ she exclaimed in a penetrating voice, and embraced her niece before adding, ‘And your companion. Your grandfather said that you would have suitable company for your journey.’

She smiled briefly at Margo, then turned to Imogen and said, ‘Your little cousin is rather poorly. The specialist is with him at the moment, but as soon as he has gone we will have lunch together and a good chat.’ She turned back to Margo. ‘If you’d care to wait in the hall I’ll arrange for some refreshment for you before you return home. I’m sure I am much obliged to you for taking care of Imogen.’

Margo murmured politely that refreshment would be welcome, as breakfast had been at a very early hour. She sat down in the chair indicated by Lady Mellor and watched her walk away with Imogen. She had been thanked and forgotten.

Her stomach rumbled and she hoped for a sandwich at least.

She had been sitting there for five minutes or more when she heard the murmur of voices, and two men, deep in talk, came down the staircase slowly. One was an elderly man who looked tired, and with him was Professor van Kessel. They stood in the hall, murmuring together, with the butler hovering in the background, ready to show them out.

They were on the point of leaving the house when Professor van Kessel, glancing around him, saw Margo. He bade his colleague goodbye and crossed the hall to - her.

‘Miss Pearson. So we meet again—although rather unexpectedly.’

She didn’t try to hide her delight at seeing him again. ‘I brought Imogen—Sir William’s granddaughter—up to London to stay with her aunt. I’m going back again very shortly, but I’m to have some kind of meal first. I was told to wait here.’

‘I have an appointment now, but I shall be free in an hour,’ said the professor. ‘Wait here; I’ll drive you back. I’ m going that way,’ he added vaguely.

‘Well, thank you, but won’t they mind? I mean, can I just sit here until you come?’

‘I don’t see why not. I shall be here again probably before you have had your lunch.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go away.’

‘No, all right, I won’t. If you’re sure...’

‘Quite sure,’ he told her placidly. ‘I’ll see you within the hour.’

She watched him go, and the butler closed the door behind him and went away.

It was all right at first. It was quiet and pleasantly warm and her chair was comfortable; the minutes ticked away and she thought longingly of coffee and sandwiches. At any moment, she told herself, someone would come and lead her to wherever she was to have the refreshments offered to her.

No one came. Fifteen minutes, half an hour went past, and although from time to time she heard a door open or close no one came into the hall. If she hadn’t promised Professor van Kessel that she would wait for him she would have left the house. Margo, used to the willing hospitality of the vicarage, felt in an alien world. The magnificent long-case clock across the hall struck half past one, almost drowning the sound of the doorbell, and as though waiting for his cue the butler went to answer it.

Professor van Kessel came into the hall unhurriedly. ‘I’ve not kept you waiting?’ he wanted to know cheerfully. ‘You’ve finished your lunch?’

Margo stood up, her insides rumbling again. ‘I haven’t had lunch,’ she said with asperity. ‘I have been sitting here...’ She gave the butler a nasty look.

His poker face became almost human. ‘I am indeed sorry, Miss. We had no orders concerning you. I had assumed that you had left the house.’ He gave the doctor a nervous glance. ‘If the professor would wait, I can bring coffee and sandwiches...’

Margo, her thoughts diverted from her insides, gave the doctor a thoughtful look. ‘Should I call you Professor?’

‘It’s only another name for Doctor.’ He turned to the butler. ‘I’ll give Miss Pearson lunch. I’m sure it was no fault of yours. Explain to your mistress, will you?’

He whisked Margo out of the house then and into his car. As he drove away he asked, ‘When are you expected home?’

‘I was going to get the three-thirty from Paddington.’

‘Oh, good. We shall have time for a leisurely meal before we start for home.’

She said awkwardly, ‘Just coffee and sandwiches would do. It’s just that I had breakfast rather early.’

‘So did I. And I haven’t had time for lunch.’ He uttered the fib in a placid voice which reassured her.

‘Oh, wel—I dare say you’re hungry.’

‘Indeed I am.’ He resolutely forgot the lamb cutlets followed by the substantial apple tart that he had been offered at the hospital. ‘I know a very pleasant little restaurant five minutes from here.’

‘I expect you know Lady Mellor?’ asked Margo, making conversation.

‘Never heard of her before this morning. Her doctor asked me for a second opinion on her small son. A pampered brat who needed his bottom smacked. He got at the wine decanter and was first drunk and then sick. No one had thought to ask him what he’d had to eat or drink.’ He slowed the car. ‘A waste of my time. There’s a meter—we’re in luck.’

The restaurant was close by and only half-full. Margo gave him an eloquent glance and sped away to the Ladies’, and when she got back found him at a table by the window, studying the menu. He got up as she reached him, took her jacket and handed it to the waiter, then said, ‘You deserve a drink. Would you like sherry?’

‘You can’t have one—you’re driving—so I won’t either. I’d like tonic and lemon, please.’

He waited as she took a menu from the waiter. ‘We have plenty of time; choose whatever you would like.’

The menu was mouthwatering and, since there were no prices, probably very expensive. Margo decided on an omelette and salad, thereby endearing herself to the doctor, who chose the same, thankful that when she chose sticky toffee pudding with cream to follow he could settle for biscuits and cheese.

Presently, as she poured their coffee, he was pleased to see that she had a pretty colour in her cheeks now, and a well-fed look. Shabby treatment, he reflected, to leave her sitting there without so much as a glass of water...

He asked idly, ‘Do you often run errands for anyone who asks?’

‘Well, yes. You see, Father always helps anyone who needs it, and of course that means Mother and I help out too.’

‘You would not wish for a different life?’

‘I haven’t any training, have I?’ she reminded him.

‘I’d love to travel...’ Just for a moment she looked wistful. ‘But life isn’t dull. There’s always something happening, even in a small village like Thinbottom.’

‘You don’t hanker for life in London?’

‘Goodness me, no. Do you like living here, Professor?’

‘Don’t, I beg you, call me Professor; it makes me feel elderly. No, I don’t like living here—my home is in Holland. I only come here from time to time. I stay with an old friend and, though I’m too busy to go out much, I do have other friends scattered around the country with whom I spend my weekends when I’m free.’

‘You’re going back to Holland soon?’

Her heart sank when he said, ‘Oh, yes, in a few weeks—I have to be back there for Christmas.’

Soon after, they got back into the car, and, encouraged by his questions, she gave him an account of the travellers.

‘I went to see them in that house you found for them. The baby’s a darling. They plan to move on but they’ll be all right; they were given clothes and blankets and they didn’t seem to mind that they hadn’t a van. I wish I knew someone...’

‘They’ll probably strike lucky. The weather is good, and that should be a great help to them.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we stop for tea, or would you like to get home as quickly as possible?’

‘Well, by the time we’re home it will be teatime. If you can spare the time I know Mother would love to give you a cup. You don’t need to stay if you’re going further.’

He hid a smile. ‘That does sound delightful.’ He began to talk about the country they were passing through, careful to put her at her ease.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY reached the vicarage shortly before five o’clock, and Margo led the way in through the open front door to be met by her mother’s voice.

‘Is that you, love? You’re early...’ Mrs Pearson’s head appeared round the kitchen door. ‘Dr van Kessel, how nice to see you. You’ll stay for tea? It’s in the dining room—I thought that Margo might be hungry...’

‘You’ll stay?’ asked Margo. ‘That is, if you’d like to.’

‘Indeed I would. Thank you, Mrs Peaison—if you don’t mind having an uninvited guest. I happened to meet Margo, and it seemed sensible to give her a lift as I was driving this way myself.’

‘Now that was kind of you. Take off your coat, and you too, Margo, and go and fetch your father. You come with me, Doctor...’

‘He’s a professor, Mother,’ said Margo quickly.

‘He’s Gijs to his friends.’ He glanced at Margo and smiled. ‘And I hope Margo will allow me to call her Margo...’

‘Of course you may, if you want to. Everyone does.’

She gave him a wide smile and skimmed away to fetch her father from his study.

Sitting beside his hostess presently, Gijs reflected that it was a very long time since he had sat down to a substantial tea. At the hospital he drank the cups of tea brought to him and often drank them tepid, since he hadn’t the time to stop in his work. If he wasn’t at the hospital but at his consulting rooms, his secretary would sneak him a cup between patients—but five o’clock tea, such as this was, was a rarity. Sliced bread and butter arranged on a pretty plate, jam, honey, a covered dish of buttered toast, scones and a large fruit cake. Moreover, the tea was hot and strong, with plenty of milk.

‘I don’t suppose you have much time for tea,’ observed Mrs Pearson chattily. ‘Last time I was in London with the Women’s Institute we had tea at a hotel—little teapots barely enough for one cup and quite nasty looks from the waitresses when we asked for more hot water. And such mean little sandwiches and cakes. I dare say that’s fashionable. Where did you see Margo?’

‘At Lady Mellor’s house. I’m sure that Margo can tell you about it better than L’

Margo told. ‘I dare say Lady Mellor had a lot to worry about,’ she finished, ‘and the butler was very nice about it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, if you see what I mean.’

From anyone else, thought the professor, that would sound priggish, but somehow not from Margo—she is, after all, the vicar’s daughter, brought up to see good in everyone. Let’s hope she’ll never be disillusioned.

He said lightly then, ‘It was just our good luck that we should meet in such an unlikely place. I’m delighted to have had company driving down here.’

‘You like England?’ asked the vicar.

‘Very much.’ The two men started a discussion about the English countryside, but the professor volunteered no real information about his own country. Certainly he enlarged upon the social and commercial aspects, and enlarged too upon his homeland, albeit rather vaguely, but Margo reflected that he had told them nothing of his own home or where he lived. Perhaps he was married...

The thought was an unwelcome one which she thrust aside. Why shouldn’t he be married with a brood of children? It was none of her business. She did want to know, however.

Margo being Margo, it was no sooner said than done.

‘Are you married?’ she asked him. Then regretted it the moment she had spoken; the look of amused surprise on his face sent the colour into her cheeks and she mumbled, ‘Sorry, that was rude of me...’

‘No, I’m not married.’ He ignored the mumble. ‘I have never found the time.’

Mrs Pearson hastened to fill an awkward pause. ‘Of course one always expects doctors to be family men—I’m sure I don’t know why. A wife and children must be a hindrance to their work at times.’

He smiled. ‘I imagine that doctors’ wives quickly learn not to be that—rather, a pleasant distraction after a long day’s work. And my married colleagues are doting fathers.’

“Then you should make haste and marry,’ observed Mrs Pearson.

The vicar put his dignified oar in. ‘I’m sure that Gijs will marry when he wishes to do so, my dear.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘I wonder why a patient should expect his or her doctor to be a married man? It’s an interesting point.’

So started an interesting discussion in which Margo took no part. She passed the cake, handed cups of tea round and wished herself elsewhere. Which was silly—after all, she hadn’t been very rude. She should have laughed it off for the trivial remark it had been, instead of feeling as though she had been nosey. Perhaps, horror of horrors; now he would think that she was intent on attracting him. He wouldn’t want any more to do with her. He would go away and she would never see him again. If she had been witty and pretty and charming, it might have been a different matter...

Professor van Kessel was either a man with the kindest heart imaginable or was prone to deafness; he apparently hadn’t heard her muttered apology. The conversation flowed smoothly, and presently, when he got up to go, he bade her goodbye with his usual pleasant detachment. He didn’t say he hoped to see her again, however.

Watching the Rolls-Royce gliding away towards the village, Margo told herself that he’d gone for good and she could forget him. Whether she wanted to forget him was an entirely different matter, and one she was reluctant to consider.

To her mother’s observation that it was a pity that they were unlikely to see him again, she replied airily that it had been pleasant meeting him once more and that she supposed he would be returning to Holland. ‘After all, it is his home,’ she said.

She collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. ‘I thought I’d go over to see Mrs Merridew tomorrow afternoon. George said she might like some help with the jam. They’ve a huge plum harvest this year.’

Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. Despite the fact that George’s mother had made no secret of the fact that she considered Margo to be a suitable wife for him, the woman had no affection for her. She was, thought Mrs Pearson shrewdly, under the impression that once Margo married she would be able to mould her into the kind of wife she felt her George should have. That Margo wasn’t a girl to be moulded had never entered her head. She had too good an opinion of herself to realise that Margo didn’t like her overmuch, but bore with her overbearing ways for George’s sake.

Mrs Pearson, knowing in her bones that Margo didn’t love George, told herself to have patience. Somewhere in the world there was a man for her Margo—preferably the counterpart of Gijs van Kessel...

So Margo took herself off the next day to Merridew’s Farm, intent on being nice to everyone, doing her best to keep her thoughts on a future when she would marry George and live there, and failing lamentably because she thought about the professor instead.

However, once she was at the farm, he was banished from her head by Mrs Merridew’s loud, hectoring voice bidding her to join her in the kitchen.

‘I can do with some help,’ she greeted Margo.

‘There’s an apron behind the door; you can stone the plums... You should have worn a sensible sweater; if you get stains on that blouse they’ll never come out.’

I have never known anybody, reflected Margo, rolling up her sleeves, who could put a damper on any occasion, however trivial. She began to stone the plums—a messy business—and paused in her work as the thought that she couldn’t possibly marry George suddenly entered her head.

‘Why have you stopped?’ Mrs Merridew wanted to know. ‘There’s another bucketful in the pantry. I’m sure I don’t know why I should have to do everything myself; you’ll have to change your ways when you marry George.’

Margo said nothing—there was no point at the moment. Besides, she was busy composing a suitable speech for George’s benefit.

He wouldn’t mind, she reflected. He was fond of her, just as she was fond of him, but being fond wasn’t the same as being in love. She wasn’t sure why she was so certain about that. A future with George had loomed before her for several years now—everyone had taken it for granted that when the time came they would marry, and she had got used to the idea and accepted it; she wanted to marry, she wanted children and a husband to care for her, and at twenty-eight she was sure that romance—the kind of romance she read about in novels—had passed her by.

But romance had touched her with feather-light fingers in the shape of Gijs van Kessel, and life would never be the same again.

She glanced across the table at Mrs Merridew, who was a formidable woman, tall and stout, with her iron-grey hair permanently waved into rock-like formations and a mouth which seldom smiled. She was respected in the village but not liked as her long-dead husband had been liked, and she was always ready to find fault. Only with George was she softer in her manner...

‘Fetch me the other preserving pan, Margo.’ Mrs Merridew’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘I’ll get this first batch on the stove. By the time you’ve finished stoning that lot I can fill a second pan.’

Margo went to the far wall and got down the copper preserving pan and put it on the table.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ asked Mrs Merridew. ‘Never known you so quiet. What’s all this nonsense I heard about you and a pack of tramps?’

‘Not tramps—travellers. And it wasn’t nonsense. One of them had a baby by the side of the road.’

‘More fool her,’ declared Mrs Merridew. ‘These people bring shame to the countryside.’

‘Why?’ asked Margo, and ate a plum.

‘Why? They’re dirty and dishonest and live from hand to mouth.’

‘Well, they looked clean enough to me,’ said Margo. ‘And I don’t know that they’re dishonest—no more so than people who live in houses...’

Her companion snorted. ‘Rubbish! If any of them came onto the farm George would soon send them packing.’

‘Would he? Would he really? Or would he do it to please you?’

Mrs Merridew went red. ‘You don’t seem yourself today, Margo. I hope you’re not ill—picked up something nasty from those tramps.’

She set the pan of fruit on the old-fashioned stove. ‘While that’s coming to the boil we’ll have a cup of tea, then you’d better go home. I dare say you’ve a cold coming.’

Margo never wanted to see another plum; she agreed meekly, drank her tea, washed the cups and saucers in the sink, bade Mrs Merridew goodbye and got on her bike. She had wanted to talk to George but she wasn’t to be given the chance. She would come up early in the morning; he would be in the cow parlour and there would be time to talk.

‘Early back, dear,’ commented her mother as she came in through the kitchen door. ‘Weren’t you asked to stay for tea?’

Margo sat down at the table and watched her mother rolling dough for scones. ‘No. Mrs Merridew thinks I may have caught a cold.’ Margo popped a piece of dough into her mouth. ‘Mother, I don’t want to marry George...’

Mrs Pearson was cutting rounds of dough and arranging them on a baking tray. ‘Your father and I have always hoped that you wouldn’t, although we would never have said anything if you had. You don’t love him.’

‘No. I like him—I’m fond of him—but that’s not the same, is it?’

‘No, love, it isn’t. When you do fall in love you’ll know that. Have you told George?’

‘I’ll go and see him tomorrow early. Do you think he’ll be upset?’

Her mother put the scones in the oven. ‘No, dear, I don’t. George is a nice young man but I think he wants a wife, not a woman to love. She’ll need to be fond of him, of course, and he of her, but that will be sufficient. And that wouldn’t be sufficient for you, would it?’

‘No. I would like,’ said Margo thoughtfully, ‘to be cosseted and spoilt and loved very much, and I’d want to be allowed to be me, if you see what I mean. I would be a good wife and have lots of children because we would have enough money to keep us all in comfort.’ She laughed a little. ‘Aren’t I silly? But I’m sure about George, Mother. I’d rather stay single...’

‘I know you are doing the right thing, love. See what your father says.’

Margo laid the table for tea and presently, over that meal, the Reverend Mr Pearson voiced his opinion that Margo was indeed doing the right thing. ‘And if you feel unsettled for a while, my dear, why not go and stay with one of your aunts? Heaven knows, your mother and I have enough relations to choose from.’

‘I’d be running away...’

‘No, clearing the decks. And you wouldn’t go for a week or two. Give the village a chance to discuss it thoroughly.’ They all laughed. ‘There’s not much happening until the bazaar; it’ll liven things up a bit.’

Margo was up early, dressed and on her bike while it still wasn’t quite light, and was in plenty of time to see George while the cows were being milked..

She leaned her bike against a pile of logs and, her heart thumping hard despite her resolution to keep calm, went into the cow parlour.

Two of the cowmen were already milking, and George was standing by the door checking some equipment. He looked up when she went in.

‘Good Lord, what brings you here at this time of the morning? Mother said you were sickening for a cold. Don’t come near me, whatever you do.’

Not a very encouraging beginning, but Margo braced herself.

‘I haven’t got a cold. Your mother just thought I might have one because I didn’t talk much... I’

‘Won’t do not to get on with Mother,’ said George. A rebuke she ignored.

‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute or two—this is the only time when we’re alone.’

‘Well, let’s have it, old girl. I’ve not got all day.’