Storm In A Rain Barrel. Anne Mather
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thrust you so heedlessly into my hands?’
Domine’s fingers tightened round the glass. ‘Of course it bothers me. In fact, I wanted to speak to you about that. It—it might be a good idea if I stayed here—in London, I mean. I could easily get a job, and I suppose there are bed-sitters and things—’
‘Oh, no!’ Mannering raised his eyes heavenward. Then he stared at her again. ‘Oh, no, Domine, most definitely, no! Old Henry knew exactly what he was doing when he handed you into my care. He knew that once I’d seen you, talked with you, got to know what kind of innocent you really are, I wouldn’t dare to let you out of my sight. Leave you here in London, indeed! Good God, girl, you haven’t the faintest idea what could happen to you here—in swinging London, as they say! Oh, no! Like I said at the convent earlier, right now you’re in for a holiday.’
Domine sighed. ‘But I don’t want to be a nuisance—’
‘A nuisance?’ He shook his head. ‘My dear girl, you began being a nuisance three weeks ago when old Henry died. There’s not a chance that you’re going to stop now, and certainly not by attempting to be independent. How old are you, fifteen? Sixteen?’
‘Seventeen!’ retorted Domine, somewhat jerkily. ‘You know that as well as I do!’
He smiled. ‘Yes, well, maybe I do at that. But right now you look about fourteen, and considering the promiscuity of girls today I would place you mentally among the twelve-year-olds!’
‘Thank you!’ Domine got unsteadily to her feet. ‘You needn’t imagine that because you’ve been given my guardianship that you can speak to me as you like!’ she gasped angrily. ‘I may look like a child, and I may appear to be one in your sophisticated eyes, Mr. Mannering, but I’m not, and I’m not as ignorant of the way of the world as you imagine!’
He looked up at her mockingly. ‘Are you not? Then forgive me!’
She turned away from his mockery then, unable to stand this verbal baiting any longer, and he seemed to repent, for he said: ‘Oh, Domine, this will have to stop, you know. It’s no good our arguing all the time. All right, I’ll accept that you’re on the verge of young womanhood, but there’s a hell of a lot you’ve got to learn, and you won’t learn it in the space of a couple of weeks.’
She looked back at him. ‘I don’t expect to,’ she said unevenly.
He leaned forward then, studying her thoughtfully. ‘And you won’t get anywhere unless you start asking some questions,’ he remarked. ‘Like, for instance, why Henry left everything to me.’
Domine flushed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ she murmured.
‘Of course it is!’ Mannering shook his head, apparently amazed at her lack of curiosity. ‘Look, did he never talk about me—about my mother?’
Domine shook her head uncertainly. ‘Not that I can remember.’
‘Did he talk about Grey Witches?’
Domine shook her head again.
‘I see. And you never visited there, did you?’
‘No.’
Mannering heaved a sigh. ‘Obviously his intention was to keep both sections of his life apart. He could hardly have taken you to Grey Witches without arousing a lot of unpleasant questions—unpleasant for him, that is.’
‘Why?’ Domine’s brows drew together.
‘Because my mother lives at Grey Witches. She always has.’
‘What!’
He shrugged. ‘Where else would a man’s house-keeper live?’
‘Your mother was Great-Uncle Henry’s house-keeper?’ Domine stared at him. ‘I—I see!’
He lay back in the chair again. ‘Now, just what do you see, Domine?’ he asked, sardonically.
Domine flushed. ‘Well—well, that explains a little of the mystery.’
‘There’s no mystery,’ he retorted dryly. ‘Your great-uncle was a man, like other men. His wife was an invalid for many years, or maybe you didn’t know that. After all, it was long before you were born. At any rate, my mother was ultimately more attractive than his virtue.’
Domine’s colour deepened. ‘I see,’ she murmured uncomfortably.
James Mannering got impatiently to his feet. ‘Oh, God,’ he said exasperatedly, ‘I can almost see your mind working. What kind of reading matter did you have at that establishment you’ve just left? Not the kind that lends itself to a situation of this kind, I’ll be bound. I’m not the illegitimate son, in the legal sense of the word. My mother was married when she produced old Henry’s heir!’ There was mockery in his dénouement of his father’s actions.
Domine bent her head. ‘You didn’t have to explain yourself to me.’
‘Dammit,’ he muttered, almost angrily now. ‘I’m not attempting to explain myself to you! My father was no saint, and I’ll admit when I learned of my connection with him, I hated him! That was when I was a teenager, when I was like you, beginning to find my feet—my identity, if you like. At any rate, I’d had enough of the simple life in Hollingford. I needed an excuse to escape, and that provided one. It was later, after I’d lived in London for a few years that I realized what a stupid attitude I’d adopted. Perhaps I’d realized I was human, too, by then, and humanity possesses many frailties, as you’ll discover in time.’
Domine twisted her fingers together. ‘Your—your mother? She’s still alive?’
‘Sure. Hell, she’s only about sixty now. My father’s dead, though, my adopted father, that is, and believe me, he was more of a father to me than old Henry could ever have been. Don’t expect too much sympathy, that’s all, from me regarding Henry Farriday! His ideas could never be mine!’
Domine shook her head, still slightly bewildered. ‘I wonder why he never told me that you were his son,’ she murmured incredulously. ‘We—we even went to see a play of yours once, in Brighton.’ She bit her lip, and James Mannering gave an exaggerated sigh.
‘Like I said,’ he murmured, ‘we had nothing in common.’
Just at that moment Graham arrived to announce that dinner was served, and they walked across the lounge and through to a small dining-room with a circular polished table, and chairs upholstered in buttoned brown leather. A low light hung over the table, and illuminated the crystal glasses and sparkling silver cutlery. Domine wondered what her great-uncle’s feelings had been when he discovered that his son was achieving success. Had he been pleased? Or had the knowledge soured him? The latter, from the course of his attitude in later life, seemed the most likely. Although she had been grateful to him for all he had done for her, she began to wonder what his motives had been for helping her, if indeed he had had any. Was it possible that his reasons for involving himself in her life had been anything to do with his own disappointment in not being able to acknowledge James Mannering, the playwright, as his son, as his own flesh and blood, without causing a great deal of talk and speculation, and possibly even scandal in a place like Hollingford, which she had learned from reference books and maps was not a large place? If that was so, he must have been sadly disappointed that he had died before discovering whether she was to make anything of her life. Even so, he had still kept his son in the forefront of his mind, and it was to him that he had endowed his heritage.
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