as to that, I reckon that’s so. Mother always had her doubts, even though she liked the idea of me marrying the vicar’s daughter.’
Margo swallowed her rage. ‘Well, that leaves everyone quite satisfied, doesn’t it?’ She turned to go. ‘Pass the news around the village, will you? I’m glad your heart isn’t broken!’
She got onto her bike and pedalled home as though the Furies were after her. She knew that George hadn’t meant to be unkind, but she felt as though he really didn’t mind one way or the other—and that was very lowering to a girl who hadn’t had much of an opinion of herself in the first place.
To her mother’s carefully worded question she gave a matter-of-fact account of her meeting with George. ‘So that’s that,’ she finished briskly. ‘And if you don’t mind I would quite like to go away for a week or two.’
‘You need a change,’ declared her mother. ‘There’s so little life here for someone young. I know you’re kept busy, but a change of scene... Have you any idea where you’d like to go?’
The vicar looked up from his cornflakes. ‘Your aunt Florence, when she last wrote, expressed the view that she would be glad to see any of us who cared to visit her. Sunningfield is a village even smaller than this one, but it is near Windsor and within easy reach of London and I believe she has many friends. Your uncle was a very respected and popular man during his lifetime.’
He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘I will telephone her this morning and drive you there myself if you would like that?’
Truth to tell, Margo didn’t much mind where she went. All she knew was that she would like to get away for a little while and think. She wasn’t sure what it was she needed to think about, but think she must. She wasn’t upset about calling off the vague future George had sketched out for her from time to time, but she felt restless and she didn’t know why. A week or two with Aunt Flo would put everything back into its right perspective once more.
It was arranged that she should go in four or five days’ time, and in the meantime that gave the village the opportunity to adjust to the idea that she and George weren’t to be married after all. She would have been surprised at the number of people who expressed their satisfaction at that.
‘There’d have been no life for Miss Margo with that Mrs Merridew,’ observed the verger’s wife. ‘Nice little lady, that Miss Margo is. Good luck to her, I says!’ A sentiment which was shared by many.
Margo countered the questions from the well-meaning among her father’s congregation in her sensible way, packed a bag with the best of her wardrobe and was presently driven to Sunningfield.
Aunt Florence lived at the end of the village in a cottage which had at one time been the gamekeeper’s home on the local estate. Lord Trueman, having fallen on bad times, had prudently let or sold the lodges and estate cottages, being careful to see that the occupants were suitable neighbours. And of course Aunt Florence was eminently suitable. What could be more respectable than an archdeacon’s widow?
They arrived in time for tea and, admitted by a beaming young girl, were led across the hall where she threw open a door and said cheerfully, ‘Here they are, ma’ am. I’ll fetch the tea.’
Aunt Flo rose to meet them. A tall, bony lady with short curly hair going white, she had a sharp nose and a sharp tongue too, both of which concealed a warm heart. She embraced them briskly, told them to make themselves comfortable, and when the girl brought in the teatray offered refreshment. At the same time she gave and received family news.
It was when this topic had been exhausted that she asked, ‘And you, Margo? You have decided not to marry that young farmer? I must say I never thought much of the idea. You are entirely unsuited to the life of a farmer’s wife; I cannot imagine how you came to consider it in the first place.’
‘No one had ever asked me to marry them, Aunt Flo. ’ Well, George didn’t exactly ask; we just kind of drifted, if you see what I mean. We’ve known each other for years...’
‘That’s no reason to marry. One marries for love—or should do. You’re not so old that you need despair, although I must say it is a pity that you haven’t the Pearson good looks.’
A remark which Margo took in good part, seeing that it was true. They had supper after her father had driven away, and Aunt Florence outlined the various treats she had in store for her niece.
‘You have brought a pretty dress with you? Good. We are invited to Lord Trueman’s place for drinks after church. You will meet most of my friends and acquaintances there—a good start.’
Aunt Florence lived in some style, even if in somewhat reduced circumstances. Her little house was well furnished and Margo’s bedroom was pretty as well as comfortable. Life for Aunt Flo was placid and pleasant. The cheerful girl—Phoebe—came each day and cleaned, and did most of the cooking before she left in the evening, and an old man from the village saw to the heavy work in the garden-although Aunt Flo did the planting and planning. Even at the tail-end of the year, it was a charming little spot, surrounded by shrubs and small trees, tidied up ready for the winter.
Margo felt quite at home within twenty-four hours—joining her aunt in her daily walk and playing cards in the evening, or watching whichever programme her aunt thought suitable, with Moses, the ginger Persian cat, on her knee. On the next Sunday she accompanied her aunt to church and afterwards walked up the drive to the rather ugly early Victorian house built by Lord Trueman’s ancestor on the site of the charming Elizabethan mansion he had disliked.
‘Hideous,’ observed Aunt Florence, and added, ‘It’s simply frightful inside.’
There were a lot of people gathered in an immense room with panelled walls and a great deal of heavy furniture. Margo was taken to one group after another by Lady Trueman, a middle-aged lady with a sweet face, and introduced to a great many people whose names she instantly forgot.
‘Now do come and meet my daughter,’ said Lady Trueman. ‘She’s staying with us for a week or two. I’ve a small granddaughter too—Peggy. She’s a handful—three years old.’ She had fetched up in front of a young woman not much older than Margo herself.
‘Helen, this is Margo Pearson—come to stay with Mrs Pearson. I’ve been telling her about Peggy...’
She trotted away and left them to talk. Helen was nice, Margo decided. They talked about clothes and toddlers and babies, and presently slipped upstairs to the nursery to see Peggy, an imp of mischief if ever there was one, who took no notice of her nurse—a young girl, kind enough, no doubt, but lacking authority.
‘Such a naughty puss,’ said her mother lovingly. ‘We never know what she will do next.’
Back in Aunt Flo’s house over lunch, that lady expressed the opinion that the child was being spoilt. ‘A dear child, but that nurse of hers is no good—far too easygoing.’
The days went by with a pleasant monotony: shopping in the village, visiting her aunt’s friends for coffee or tea. And if Margo sometimes wished for a little excitement she squashed the thought at once. Her aunt was kindness itself, and she was sure that the holiday was doing her a lot of good. Taking her mind off things. Well, George for instance. The unbidden thought that she wished that it would take her mind off Professor van Kessel too was another thought to be squashed.
She thought about him far too often, although she tried not to. It wasn’t so difficult when she was with
