hurried to the kitchen to help her mother dish up the Sunday lunch.
Her mother had her head in the Aga oven, and was prodding the joint with a fork. ‘Put the apples on for the sauce, will you, dear? I wonder who that giant was in church? Did you see him?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He seemed to know the Foxes. I must keep my ears open in the village tomorrow.’
She emerged and closed the oven door, an older version of her lovely daughter although the hair was streaked with grey. ‘That was a frightful hat Lady Fox was wearing—I wonder where she buys them?’
‘Probably makes them herself.’ Matilda was peeling apples and biting at the cores.
She was up early the next morning and while her mother cooked the breakfast she sorted the wash, got the machine going, made sure that Esme was up and had everything she needed before catching the bus to Sherborne where she was having extra coaching for her O Levels, and then roused the two boys. Hilary, her other sister, was going to stay with her fiancé and was already up, doing the last of her packing. They all sat down to breakfast presently, a meal taken with the minimum of conversation since everyone there had his or her plans for the day. Esme was the first to go, then the boys on a fishing expedition, the rector to visit a parishioner in hospital at Salisbury and then Hilary, leaving Mrs ffinch and Matilda to clear the table and leave the dishes for Mrs Coffin, who came three times a week to help in the house.
‘Don’t be late,’ warned Mrs ffinch as Matilda got Nelson the cat’s breakfast. She sighed as she said it—it irked her that her beautiful daughter should have to go to work each day. Not that it wasn’t a suitable job for the daughter of the rector—social secretary to Lady Fox—even though it was badly paid and covered a multitude of odd jobs which no social secretary cognisant with her normal duties would have countenanced. But, as Matilda pointed out, it paid for her clothes, and the fees for Esme’s coaching, and helped towards the upkeep of the rectory, a large, rambling house with out-of-date plumbing always going wrong, draughty rooms and a boiler which swallowed coke by the ton. All the same, it was comfortable in a shabby way and the family was a happy one.
It was only a few minutes’ walk to the manor-house; Matilda nipped smartly through the light rain and went in through the side-door—not that she wasn’t expected to use the front entrance, but the polished floor of the wide hall showed every mark from damp feet and she was aware that Mrs Fletcher from the village, who obliged each day at the manor-house, would have just finished polishing it. She went along the passage to the kitchen, wished Cook and the kitchen maid good morning and made her way through the baize door into the front of the house. Lady Fox was coming down the staircase, holding a handful of letters.
‘Good morning, Matilda.’ She glanced at the long case clock in the hall, but since Matilda was exactly on time and she had no cause to find fault she went on, ‘Such a number of letters this morning; really, my days are so busy…’
Lady Fox gave Matilda a faintly disapproving look; there was nothing wrong with her appearance—the striped shirt, navy pleated skirt and sensible shoes were, to say the least, not worthy of a second glance—but dowdy clothes couldn’t dim the brightness of Matilda’s hair or the sparkling green of her eyes, and those allied to a delightful nose, a curving mouth and a complexion as smooth and fresh as a child’s. Lady Fox frowned slightly, remembering Roseanne’s regrettable spots and unfortunate nose. ‘I have guests for lunch,’ she observed. ‘I had better see Cook at once while you deal with these.’ She handed the letters to Matilda and hurried away kitchenwards.
Matilda, sorting out butcher’s and grocer’s bills from invitations to dinner and requests from charities, reflected that Lady Fox wasn’t in a very good mood and, since there was no sign of that lady, she put the letters on the desk in Lady Fox’s sitting-room and went along to the chilly little room where she arranged the flowers. The gardener had brought in early tulips and daffodils and some rather overpowering greenery and she was trying to decide what to do with them when Lady Fox’s voice, high and penetrating, reached her. ‘You might do a small centre-piece for the table, Matilda—go into the garden and see what you can find.’
Matilda, well brought up as she had been, allowed herself the comfort of a childish grimace; if it hadn’t been for the useful money needed at the rectory, she would have liked to flounce out of the manor-house and never go back.
The garden was soothing, if chilly, and she took a basket with her and picked primulas and grape-hyacinths, late Christmas roses, lily of the valley and a handful of brightly coloured polyanthus and bore the lot back through the garden door and into the hall, intent on fetching a particular bowl which would look just right on the dining-room table.
Lady Fox was in the hall, talking animatedly to the stranger. She paused to look at Matilda and her companion looked too; Matilda, her fiery head a little untidy, her pretty face glowing from the fresh air, clutching her basket of flowers, was worth looking at.
‘There you are,’ observed Lady Fox with distinctly false bonhomie, ‘but shouldn’t you be arranging the flowers?’ She turned to the man beside her. ‘My companion-secretary, you know—I couldn’t manage without help and Roseanne has her painting—quite talented.’
He gave her a grave, enquiring look and she went on hurriedly, ‘This is Matilda ffinch, the rector’s eldest daughter—Matilda, this is Mr Scott-Thurlow.’
Matilda transferred the basket to her other arm and held out a hand, to have it engulfed by his large firm grasp. Now that she could look at him face to face, she was even more certain that this was the man she had been waiting for. She beamed at him, full of delight, and he smiled a little in return. A firm mouth, perhaps a rather stern one, and his eyes were blue, heavy-lidded and cool; he would be at least thirty-five, perhaps nearer forty.
His polite ‘How do you do?’ was uttered in a deep quiet voice and her smile widened. Her ‘hello’ sounded like that of a little girl who had just been offered something she had longed for.
Lady Fox spoke in the voice she kept for recalcitrant children on those occasions when she had been asked to give away the Sunday school prizes.
‘If you would see to the flowers, Matilda—and since I shan’t need you for a few hours you may go home for your lunch.’
‘Back after lunch?’ asked Matilda.
‘Half-past two.’ Mr Scott-Thurlow would be gone by then; Roseanne on her own could be quite charming, reflected her fond parent, and there would be no competition…
‘Very well, Lady Fox.’ Matilda turned an emerald gaze upon Mr Scott-Thurlow. Her goodbye was cheerful; having found him she didn’t for one moment expect fate to lose him again for her. She would have liked to have stayed for lunch—usually she did—but one lunch more or less would make no difference to the future.
She nipped smartly to the back of the house, arranged the flowers and then took herself off home. She passed Roseanne as she left the house, and since she was a kind-hearted girl she was sorry to see that she was wearing an expensive two-piece in the wrong shade of green—it showed up the spots.
Roseanne stopped when she saw her. ‘I hate this outfit,’ she declared, quite fiercely for her. ‘Mother says it’s elegant but I feel a fool in it.’ She cast an envious eye upon Matilda’s person. ‘You always look right—why?’
‘I don’t know. You’d look nice in the greeny blue…’
‘There’s that man coming to lunch,’ went on Roseanne unhappily. ‘Mother says I must exert myself…’
She
