Wicked Uncle

Chapter X

Dorinda had a perfectly silent drive down to the Mill House. Martin Oakley sat in front beside the chauffeur and never uttered. She had the back to herself, with a cushion to tuck into the corner, and a lovely warm rug. As she watched the streets and the people slipping by she had at least one cause for gratitude. Martin Oakley certainly wasn’t the Wicked Uncle. He was just Marty grown up and become a very successful business man. There was the sallow skin, the brooding look which meant mischief when Marty had it, the same quick twitching frown. Not, however, the same flow of conversation, which was an added reason for being grateful.

Dorinda felt very glad indeed that she hadn’t let Justin drag her out of what promised to be a comfortable job. Even in her short experience it had occurred to her that an aloof and silent employer might be worth his weight in gold. So many of them seemed to be afflicted with a coming-on disposition. She told herself that she was in luck’s way, and that it wasn’t any good Justin saying things, because there were a lot of girls wanting jobs just now, and if you had got a reasonably good one you would be a fool not to stick to it.

Her fingers went up to Justin’s brooch. When she had taken it off and looked at it, and put it on again, she felt all warm and glowing. It was wonderful of him to give it to her. She hadn’t thanked him a bit properly, because she had had a dreadful feeling that she might be going to burst into tears. She couldn’t imagine anything that Justin would mind more than having you burst into tears in a public restaurant-it was the sort of thing you would simply never live down. So she hadn’t really dared to speak. She began to plan a letter to write to him after tea.

When she came to write it she didn’t seem able to get it down the way she had planned it. She wasted quite a lot of paper and quite a lot of time. In the end she wrote slap-dash fashion without stopping to think:

“Justin, I wasn’t ungrateful. I do hope you didn’t think I was. I’ve never had such a lovely present. I truly love it. I was afraid I was going to cry because it was so lovely, and if I had you wouldn’t ever have wanted to speak to me again.

Your loving Dorinda.

P.S.-Mrs. Oakley likes the dress.

P.P.S.-Mr. Oakley isn’t a bit like the Wicked Uncle. So far the only thing he has said to me is ‘How do you do, Miss Brown?’ But that’s better than being the other sort.

P.P.P.S.-I do love my brooch.”

When she had finished she changed into her blue dress, but with an uncertain feeling, because she didn’t know whether she was to dine with the Oakleys when Martin Oakley was there or not. She had asked of course, but Mrs. Oakley had merely looked vague and said it would depend on Martin. There was an uncomfortable sense of being on approval, and she felt a passionate preference for a tray in her sitting-room. That was something she hadn’t told Justin. She turned back to the letter and added a fourth postscript:

“I’ve got a sitting-room of my own.”

It was across the passage from her bedroom, next to the nursery on the third floor. Except that the ceiling was lower, it was the same size and shape as Mrs. Oakley’s boudoir, and it was quite comfortably furnished, with an electric fire which she could turn on when she wanted to. It was glowing red now and the room was beautifully warm. She thought it must be immediately over the boudoir, but strange houses were difficult until you got your bearings. She began to try and make them out. The boudoir was at the end of a passage on the left, and so was this. She went to the window, dividing the curtains and letting them fall to behind her so as to cut off the light.

At first she couldn’t see anything at all. Like another curtain, the darkness hung close up to the other side of the glass, but after a little it seemed to get thinner, to melt away, to dissolve into a sort of glimmering dusk. The sky was cloudy, as it had been all day, but somewhere behind the cloud she thought the moon must be up, because now that her eyes had got accustomed to the changed light she could see where the trees cut the sky, and the dark line of the drive, and the gravelled square on which the house stood. This window looked out to the side. Yes, that was the boudoir window just below, and the study underneath that again. Mrs. Oakley had told her she could go there and get herself a book if she wanted to, and that is how she had described it- “At the end of the passage, right underneath this room.” And “this room” was the boudoir.

She could see that there was a light in the boudoir. A faint rosy glow came through the curtains. The study curtains were red. If there had been a light behind them, she wondered whether it would have filtered through to stain the dusk outside. Perhaps it wouldn’t. The curtains were very thick scarlet velvet with deep pelmets, and the furniture all chromium-plated tubes, except the desk, which was quite comfortable and ordinary.

She was thinking she would get tired of those surgical-looking chairs and all that scarlet leather, even with a black marble mantelpiece and a black carpet to tone it down, when someone loomed up on the gravel square. One minute he wasn’t there and the next he was. She didn’t see where he came from, she just saw him against the gravel because it was lighter than he was. She couldn’t really see that it was a man, but it never occurred to her for a moment that it wasn’t-something about the outline, something about the way he moved-a quick, thrusting way. He came right up to the study window and turned round and went back again. There was hardly a check, there certainly wasn’t any pause. He went away across the gravel square and over the edge on to the grass, where she lost him. She thought it was very odd.

As she drew back into the lighted room, Doris came in with a tray.

“Mr. and Mrs. Oakley will be dining together, Miss Brown, so I’ve brought your dinner up.”