Sweet Adventure

164 Pages·2014·0.65 MB·English

by  Burchell Mary

SWEET ADVENTURE

Mary Burchell
When Nicola set out on a short motoring holiday, she vaguely hoped to
encounter some sort of adventure. She wasn't prepared, however, for the
bewildering net of events in which she found herself caught.
To lose her way was bad enough, but to find herself involved in a dramatic,
sudden death, to become the temporary guardian of a small girl - and then to
have the course of her own life changed. This was more than Nicola had
bargained for.
How she became involved in the complicated pattern of a strange household, and
how, after anxieties and disappointments, she eventually found love and
happiness, make an enthralling story.
CHAPTER I
" ," N herself rather disconsolately, as she stopped the car and
THIS ICOLA TOLD
gazed around her at the bleak moorland scenery, "is what is called adventure.
Heroine lost in the midst of nowhere and night coming on. No one to thank but
herself. Oh, dear! Why did I leave that map on the table in the inn? Fate—or just
plain stupidity?"
She took out her cigarette case, and allowed herself the luxury of a cigarette and
a review of the situation. For the last half-hour at least, though she had pushed
on determinedly, there had seemed very little point in doing so, since she had no
idea where she was going and her petrol gauge was registering more depressing
news every few minutes.
"A really experienced and sensible motorist would be able to deduce all sorts of
useful information from the light—such as there is—and the wind and that sort
of thing." She spoke aloud, because even her own voice was better than none in
this great waste of silence. "But beginners ought to stick to main roads, I
suppose, and not try the bypaths of places like Westmorland and Cumberland."
She drew thoughtfully on her cigarette, and looked round her again for any signs
of civilisation. The sun had slid below the horizon quite a while ago, and now
the grey light was fading, and every moment more colour seemed to drain from
the landscape and outlines to become less clearly defined.
It had been silly, really, not to make the best of that queer little hamlet she had
passed some way back. At least, she could probably have found shelter for the
night there. But, because this modest motor tour—the first of her experience—
had seemed such an adventure, to spend the very first night in quite such
undistinguished surroundings had appeared out of keeping with the general level
of her spirits and expectations.
"A night in the open would be much more uncomfortable, of course," she told
herself. "But it would also rank as a much more unusual experience."
However, a chilly breeze lifted the dark hair on her forehead just then and a few
cold drops of rain spattered the windscreen, and a night in the open—though still
ranking as an unusual experience—became an experience which she was not
particularly anxious to sample just then.
She could turn round, and go back the way she had come, of course. But a streak
of obstinacy urged Nicola rather to keep on. Inexperienced motorist she might
be, but she was proud of no longer having to display an amateurish "L" on the
back of any vehicle she drove. She felt in full command of any situation—and
her car; the battered little car which her Cousin Laura had so kindly lent her for
ten days while she herself went abroad.
Nicola meant to extract every moment of enjoyment from each one of those ten
days. She would go on, she decided. No one in search of adventure ever went
back.
The road was not a bad one, really. It was almost certain to lead to another
hamlet—or even to a village—soon.
It did nothing of the sort, however. So far as Nicola was concerned, it very
nearly led into a head-on collision with a big tree-trunk which had fallen across
the road.
She pulled up just in time, oddly scared by the incongruity of this great thing
apparently blown down on a night when there was nothing but a light, cold
breeze. It was as though there were something deliberate about the incident, and,
before she regained a hold of her common sense, Nicola felt her heart come into
her throat at the curious idea that someone had been responsible for this, rather
than the impersonal elements.
With something of an effort—because to leave the intimate and almost cosy
interior of the car for the immense and chilly outside scared her—Nicola stepped
out of the car and went to examine the tree.
Immediately she was reassured. Big and grand though it must have looked when
it towered above the road, casting its shade through many summers and
weathering the snow and gales of many winters, it had obviously, like so many
treacherous elm trees before it, been rotten at its heart. And, probably less than
twenty-four hours ago, it had evidently succumbed to the insidious decay and
come crashing to the ground.
The naturalness of the phenomenon completely restored her nerves to their usual
even level, and Nicola stood there considering the only other problem which
arose—what was she to do now?
She had passed a very narrow uphill turning on her right, two or three minutes
ago. She might try that. Now she came to think of it, it had looked the kind of
path which might lead to some sort of habitation.
So Nicola got back into her car and turned in the narrow road with a skill which
cheered her and made her wish that her severe instructor of a few months ago
could have witnessed this performance; a performance vastly superior to any she
had been able to display to him.
Rather slowly she retraced her way for something like half a mile and found her
opening. It was narrower even than she had thought, and not so promising as her
anxious recollection had made it out to be. But still, it was a path.
Her heart was beating more heavily than she liked to admit as, cautiously, Nicola
edged the car along the winding pathway. She was already regretting her choice,
already wishing that she had decided to go straight back the way she had come,
and make the best of whatever she could find in that hamlet. It was stupid to be
caught like this on the very first night. It only showed ‑
Trees and shrubs seemed to loom like a wall in front of her, then divided to
allow the path to wind between them, and suddenly the most welcome sight in
the world broke upon Nicola's relieved gaze. A small house, or large cottage,
stood in a clearing in front of her, and from a ground-floor window a dim light
was showing. Someone must live here. Indeed, now that she had time to look
round, she saw that another car—a much smarter affair than hers—was standing
at the side of the clearing.
Rather stiffly she got out. And, as she did so, the front door of the house was
flung open and a man stepped out.
He was youngish, she thought, so far as she could judge in the light from her
headlamps, and his hair was dark and dishevelled and his face showed signs of
evident distress— even fear, Nicola felt.
"Who's that?" he cried out sharply, and Nicola came forward into the ring of
light.
"I'm awfully sorry to come knocking you up at this hour, but I've lost my way ‑"
she began.
He interrupted her immediately, however.
"Thank heaven you're here. I can go for a doctor now. My wife is ill, and there's
no telephone. She's asleep at the moment. Will you stay with her while I go?"
"Why, of course. I'd offer to go, only I don't know ‑"
"No, no." He rejected that suggestion almost violently. "Just go in and sit there
with her. Don't disturb her."
And with a vague gesture which seemed to urge her towards the open front door,
he ran across to his car, jumped in, and drove off very much faster than Nicola
would have cared to negotiate that winding path.
Remembering the admonition not to disturb the sick woman, Nicola tiptoed into
the house.
A tiny hall gave on to the one room where a light was burning and, as far as
Nicola could see, a short flight of stairs almost facing the front door led up to the
first floor. There were one or two other doors, but they were closed, and Nicola
quietly entered the one lighted room.
The girl lying there—for she looked very little more than a girl—was not in bed.
She was on a settee, with a blanket thrown over her, and she lay with her head
turned away from Nicola and the light.
Nicola was practical enough to interpret her instructions exactly and, intent on
not disturbing the sleeper, she sat down in the nearest chair, prepared to remain
still and silent unless she were actually needed.
It was not specially cold in the room. Indeed, if anything, the atmosphere was
close and a little airless, as though the place had been shut up for some time.
And, looking round her, Nicola noticed with surprise, now that her eyes were
growing used to the rather dim light, that there was a light film of dust on the
surface of the furniture nearest to her.
She frowned, groping after some puzzling impression which seemed to elude
her. Her senses sharpened gradually, like those of an animal which was not
exactly afraid but vaguely suspicious. Something was not quite right about all
this, she thought, although she tried hard to resist the idea and assured herself
that she was being fanciful—that the unusual nature of the situation was what
disturbed her.
It was odd perhaps that the sick girl was not in bed. But then she might have
been taken ill downstairs and her husband have been afraid to move her. If they
lived here ‑
But perhaps, they did not live here. Perhaps they, like herself, had been stranded,
and had come across this place and thankfully taken possession of it in the
extremity of emergency when the girl was taken ill.
A few moments' reflection told Nicola that this was not really very likely. How
had they got in, for one thing? And wouldn't the man have chosen, rather, to
drive straight on to the nearest doctor? How desperate did one have to be to take
summary possession of someone else's property?
She wondered now why the idea had even occurred to her.
And then she knew the answer.
Because it fitted in with her vaguely puzzled impression of something being
wrong. Somehow that agitated young man at the door, and the silent girl on the
settee, no more fitted into this place than she did herself.
The dusty room, the silent house, all gave the impression of a place which had
been deserted and then suddenly invaded. Even the slightly stuffy atmosphere
confirmed that. Not a clock was ticking anywhere. There was no sound but her
own breathing.
No sound but her own breathing!
For some reason or other, Nicola felt the hairs lift at the nape of her neck. She
held her breath and listened. Held it until she had to expel it again in a long gasp.
Then, though she had started to shake' unaccountably, she repeated the process.
When she held her breath there was no other sound in the room at all. Not a
single whisper of a sound from the girl on the settee.
She was not breathing!
Putting her hands on the arms of the chair in which she was sitting, Nicola
almost literally pushed herself to her feet and crossed the room.
She stood looking down at the silent, motionless figure. Then, conquering her
feeling of horror—because it was preposterous to feel horror for something so
young and pretty and helpless—she put out her hand and touched the girl's
cheek.
It was soft and delicate—and quite cold.
"No," Nicola whispered aloud. "No!"
And then, because she was a practical girl and not without courage, her first
impulse was to do her duty by another human creature, even though she felt
certain there was nothing further that anyone could do.
She took the girl's wrist in her hand and tried for long, silent minutes to find the
faintest thread of a pulse. Then, because she had often read that this was the
simplest test, she reached for her handbag and, with oddly fumbling fingers,
drew out her powder compact, which had a mirror inside the lid.
Again for unnumbered anxious minutes she held the mirror to the girl's lips. It
looked curiously and pathetically frivolous, with its gaily enamelled back, and
quite unsuited for the tragic use to which it was being put. But its bright surface
remained unclouded. And, with some return of the horror which she had thrust
from her, Nicola allowed herself to believe at last that the girl was dead.
She had never seen anyone dead before, and what struck her most was the pitiful
naturalness of the girl's pose: as though she had just gently fallen asleep where
she was lying.
The poor husband, when he came back! It would be for Nicola to break the news
to him. The doctor would be there, of course. But—she would have to say some
word of preparation first.
Had he any inkling of the seriousness of his wife's condition? He had said she
was asleep, but he had looked frightened and distraught. He had been in a fearful
hurry to fetch the doctor. He had almost fled from the place ‑
Nicola stood quite still in the middle of the room, and then she slowly rubbed her
hands over cheeks which had grown strangely cold.
He had almost fled from the place. That was—what—ten minutes, quarter of an
hour ago?
But the girl lying there was quite cold. How soon after death did ‑?
Nicola swallowed, clutched grimly at her self-control, and tried to thrust from
her the conviction that had come upon her. But it returned, slowly, resistlessly—
the only conviction which somehow satisfied every one of her previous doubts
and her bewilderment.
The man had known the girl was dead when he fled from the house.
He had said he was going for a doctor. He had told Nicola not to disturb the girl
whom he had called his wife. In fact, he had done everything that a man
improvising in a hurry could do to ensure that any investigation would be
delayed. With luck—from his point of view—she might have gone on sitting
there quietly for ages, wondering perhaps at the length of time it took him to find
a doctor, but reminding herself how deserted the district was.
With dreadful reluctance she admitted that everything was beginning to fall into
place. He had not gone for any doctor. He had just fled into the night, leaving
Nicola alone in a deserted cottage on the moors, with no one for company but
this quiet, dead girl, who was quite unknown to her.
It was fortunate that Nicola was not of an hysterical nature. The next few
minutes were among the worst of her life. Her first impulse was to go from the
place as fast as her legs and her car would carry her.
But she arrested the rising tide of panic in her, and reminded herself that she had
nothing on which to base this new conviction of hers but her frightened instinct.
The man's story might have been correct. Perhaps he had thought his wife had
been asleep for the last hour or so, only he dared not either leave her or disturb
her until someone else came. In any case, she herself was inexperienced enough
in these matters. Maybe the girl could have been alive when her husband left.
It was certainly not for her to panic and flee from the place if she had been left in
trust here by some poor soul who believed, in all good faith, that he had a chance
of saving his wife's life.
She must sit here and wait. How long she could not and would not face. She had
no idea where the nearest doctor might be found. For all she knew, the man
hadn't either. Always supposing that he had really gone for a doctor.
If she sat there for an hour, and no one had then come, would she be justified in
going? Would she, even, have the courage to get up and move out of this silent
place into the night? Grope around with the controls of her not very familiar car,
and flee from the scene, knowing—as she must know by then—that someone
had deliberately involved her in this terrible position?
She tried to fix her thoughts on something very normal and familiar. Her cousin,
handing over the car and telling her not to expect adventure at every corner,
because that was just not the way modern life worked out. Herself choosing her
modest outfit and her few practical necessities to take with her on this holiday.
At any rate, her cousin would never again be able to say that the opening of the
trip had not presented Nicola with an adventure—albeit a tragic and melancholy
one.
Sitting alone here ‑
And at that moment the very faintest sound impinged upon her consciousness,
and she knew with dreadful certainty that she was not alone.
Someone was moving about cautiously upstairs.
Nicola was thankful that her training had been a sensible and reasonably
disciplined one. To scream was as unnatural a mode of expression to her as to
weep extravagantly. Self-control was a blessed habit which clung to her, even in
this horrifying moment.
She rose to her feet, although her legs felt like rubber, and the blood beat so
loudly in her head that she was afraid she would not hear the cautious approach
of whoever was coming.
There was a faint scuffling noise now, as though a hand felt its way fumblingly
along the banister.
And then, just as Nicola felt she could bear the strain no longer, a child's rather
timid voice called:
"Mummie, are you there? I want you. I want a drink."
Nicola felt almost faint with relief—and also experienced a certain degree of
shame at her inability to identify the harmless explanation of the sounds which
had terrified her.
Then the next moment she realised the first essential—to keep the child from
realising what had happened. And, catching up the lamp in her shaking hand, she
went out into the hall.
"Hallo, darling," she said, trying to make her voice as natural and her smile as
reassuring as possible. "I'll get your drink for you. But you must go back to ted
or you'll catch cold."
A little girl of about ten was standing half-way down the stairs. She was in
pyjamas, and her thick dark hair fell over her forehead in a heavy fringe, while
her large, dark, suspicious eyes regarded Nicola with no marked favour.
"Who are you?" she inquired uncompromisingly.
"Just a friend who dropped in," explained Nicola, feeling foolish and over-bright