Raymond had lost his qualm of the previous day: the sight of Anne’s face when he opened the front door of the Dower House was enough. Bare and clean, barred with sunshine and shadow from the mullioned windows, the rooms looked serene and welcoming and lovely. Anne went from white-panelled drawing room to dark-panelled study, from honey-coloured bedroom to leaf brown of dining room; inspected the Aga stove and the new stainless-steel sink which had been installed in the old servery, the cupboard space in the one-time butler’s pantry, and she whooped with joy over tiling and porcelain in the new bathroom.
“Ray, it’s marvellous! Everything’s been done quite perfectly. I’ll never scoff at the aristocracy again. The noblesse have jolly well obliged this time.”
“It looks pretty good to me,” he said. “Nothing makeshift or shoddy about.”
“I’m going to love this house so much, I shall never want to go away anywhere,” said Anne. “It’ll be a full-time job and a dream of delight simultaneously. Ray, come and sit on the window scat in the sunshine and tell me a bit more about people in the village. It’ll help such a lot if I can get them placed and learn their names before I meet them. I’m awful at names.”
“Right: let’s start with the hierarchy. Sir James and Lady R. You won’t forget them. I suppose the parson and his lady come next in the book of precedence: the Reverend and Mrs. Kingsley: he is thin and she is fat and I swear she bullies him. They’re both elderly, conservative to their marrow bones, and my guess is they’ll take a very poor view of anything in the way of progress or reform. Mrs. K. will certainly leave cards on you, so put out the salver. Other card leavers will be Colonel and Mrs. Staveley of Monk’s Milham —two more old dodderers—and Miss Braithwaite of Coombedene. You may like her: old Brown says she talks like a Bolshie, which means she isn’t hidebound. So much for local gentry.”
“Give me a line on the village.”
“I don’t know too much about it myself, angel. The most important bodies I’ve heard of arc Mrs. Yeo, who runs the post office, the village shop, and all the worthy efforts. You’d better make friends with her, she’s a power in the village. The innkeeper is Simon Barracombe. He was once a butler and he looks it: too much hand washing and kowtowing for an innkeeper, but his wife takes in visitors, which may be useful if we want to ask folks to see us. You saw the bailiff—Sanderson. He struck me as a sound chap. If you want information, he’d probably be the best person to ask. Villages all have their private politics, and there’s generally some scandal or schism or what have you, and it’s often useful if you’re given a word off the record by someone who isn’t involved.”
“Yes, I think you’re right there,” said Anne. “I shall have to watch my step: newcomers are suspect in villages. Is that someone at the front door, Ray?”
“I didn’t hear anybody.”
Anne jumped up and ran across the room. The drawing room, where they sat, faced south, as did the front door, which stood wide open to the sunshine. Glancing through the open door of the drawing room, Anne had been aware of a shadow in the wide entrance hall beyond. When she reached the hall she had to choke back an exclamation of astonishment. In the doorway, silhouetted against the sunlight, stood a figure so tall and dark and unexpected that Anne had a sudden qualm of discomfort, a sense that she was facing something unreal and utterly unlike anything she had ever known.
2
“Miss Torrington, is it not? May I introduce my wife?”
Raymond’s easy voice behind her brought Anne back to the realities of a sunny day in a new and lovely home, and she realised who this tall woman must be—the wonderful Sister Monica of Gramarye. She was certainly a very tall woman, but her garb accentuated her height: she was dressed in the long dark cloak and veil which hospital nurses had worn as uniform in the early nineteen hundreds: the dark silk veil was drawn smoothly over silver hair, parted in the centre, and below the wings of intensely white hair her eyes were unexpectedly black. Into Anne’s mind flashed the thought: “She’s simply fantastic . . . unbelievable . . even as she pulled herself together and held out her hand.
“I do apologise for troubling you,” said the visitor. “I thought the house was still empty and you would not be arriving until later in the day. I just brought a little bunch of flowers to welcome you. The children picked them for you, and they are from all of us at Gramarye. Rosemary, give the flowers to Mrs. Ferens, dear.”
From behind the dark cloak emerged a very small fair child. Without a word or a smile she held up a posy of flowers to Anne, and the latter gave a cry of pleasure.
“Oh, but they’re lovely! What a kind thought—and I adore wild daffodils. Look, Raymond, aren’t they just adorable?”
The posy was indeed a thing of delight, tiny wild daffodils, dog violets, primroses, and windflowers put together with much skill and surrounded with a delightful paper frill. “It’s the prettiest bouquet I’ve ever had, Rosemary. Thank you very much, Miss Torrington. Nothing could have given me more pleasure.”
“I’m so happy that you like them. I’m always called Sister Monica, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Ferens. Now I’m not going to stay. I just wanted to wish you happiness in your new home. Say good-bye, Rosemary. Perhaps Mrs. Ferens will come and see us all someday later
