The Eternal Collection

Author’s Note-2

Mirabelle had been sent presents at Christmas and on her birthday first by Lady Alcester when she was alive, and after she was dead by Valeda.

Sometimes Hermione wrote to thank them for the gifts, but more often there was just a letter from the Earl’s secretary acknowledging their arrival.

‘I wonder who Mirabelle resembles,’ Valeda often thought.

Then she knew that if Mirabelle should grow up to be as beautiful as her mother, Hermione would be jealous.

She faced the uncomfortable fact that the reason why Hermione had no wish to communicate with her or ask her to stay after her marriage, was that she wanted everything for herself and had no wish to share it with anybody.

It seemed extraordinary that she should feel like this about her own sister and yet Valeda could remember when she was quite small hearing Hermione raging at her mother and saying,

“I cannot think why you wanted to give me a sister. To have a brother would have been a little better, but actually I want to be the only child that you and Papa have and not to share my things with anyone.”

Lady Alcester had spoken gently but firmly to her elder daughter, telling her how selfish she was being and that she would, in fact, find it very lonely to be an only child.

Hermione had listened, but with a withdrawn expression on her face which told Valeda that she did not believe anything her mother had said and had been speaking no less than the truth when she asserted that she wanted to be an only child and thus to avoid all competition in the family.

‘I may as well face the truth,’ Valeda thought after her father’s funeral when there was only a large wreath to represent Hermione. ‘I shall never see my sister again.’

She felt not exactly hurt by Hermione’s indifference. It was more a sense of being deprived of something precious, something which she knew other families, whose members were close to one another enjoyed, could never be hers.

But she had grown used to being on her own, apart from a number of elderly neighbours who welcomed her whenever she called on them.

She was content with the horses, and of course books which filled the library and which her father and she had enjoyed together.

Now, riding home in the sunshine, she felt as if the green corn sprouting in the fields, the mauve cuckooflowers in the grass and the buttercups golden as the sun, spoke to her.

They were part of her life, part of her consciousness and she often thought they were part of every breath she took.

She thought sometimes, when the first buds of spring could be seen in the shrubs and the hedgerows, that she could feel the very earth coming alive after the winter, awakening something very exciting within herself.

She could feel herself growing as the buds were growing into the lush beauty of summer.

She felt that everything in Nature was not only part of herself but could speak to her and make her feel that she, as they were, was being resurrected after the barrenness of winter.

Now, because Skylark realised he was going back to his comfortable stable, he quickened his pace to gallop across the paddock and slowed down only as they approached the cobblestones of the stable yard.

As they rode in, an old groom who also had been at the Manor for a great many years came out from a stall to take hold of Skylark’s bridle

“’Ad a noice roide, Miss Valeda?” he asked

“Lovely, thank you, Abbey,” Valeda replied, “and Skylark went like the wind when he galloped over the straight meadow.”

“’E can move when ’e wants.”

He started to lead Skylark off towards his stable and only as he reached the door did he turn his head to say,

“There’s be some’un up at t’house to see ye, Miss Valeda. A carriage arrived a short toim ago.”

“I wonder who that can be?” Valeda remarked, but if old Abbey knew the answer, he did not tell her, but disappeared inside the stall.

She walked over the cobbles towards the ancient archway that led to the front of the house.

When she reached it, she could see a smart travelling carriage drawn by four well-bred horses and sitting on the box, a coachman in a distinctive livery with a cockaded top hat.

There was a footman wearing the same livery standing by the carriage door and, as Valeda turned forward, she wondered frantically who could be calling on her.

No one she could think of could have arrived in such a smart turnout and as she hurried up the steps to the front door, two servants saluted her and she wondered if she should ask them who their master, or mistress, might be.

Then she decided it would be a mistake to do anything of the sort and she walked in through the open front door a little apprehensively, aware that her hair beneath her riding hat was slightly untidy from the speed at which she had galloped on Skylark.

Because she had not expected to see anyone that afternoon, she was wearing an old riding habit that was not only a little threadbare but also too tight for her across the breast.

There was, however, nothing she could do about it without keeping her caller, whoever it might be, waiting for even longer.

She therefore pushed some of the curls that were rioting around her cheeks back into place and crossed the hall to open the drawing room door.

This was a long, very attractive room with windows looking onto the Rose Garden on the other side of it.

As she entered, Valeda had eyes only for the woman who was standing in front of the mirror over the fireplace and apparently regarding her own reflection.

For a moment all she could see was an extremely elegant silk gown of blue satin and a hat ornamented with ostrich feathers of the same colour.

Then as she shut the door behind her the woman turned and Valeda gave a gasp of astonishment.

“Hermione! is it really you?”

Valeda thought her voice seemed to ring out almost too loudly and there was a pause before her sister replied,

“Hello, Valeda, I might have guessed you would be out riding.”

“Why did you not tell me you were coming?” Valeda asked “and why are you here?”

“I have a very good reason for wanting to see you,” Hermione answered, “and I must say, you have changed very little since we last met.”

“Which was a very long time ago.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” Hermione said quickly, “but do not let us start by having recriminations over my neglect, or whatever you like to call it.”

There was a little pause. Then Valeda said,

“I think Papa would have liked to see you before he died, but his death was very sudden and unexpected.”

“How could I guess that was going to happen?” Hermione asked “but it is no use raking over the past or regretting what cannot be undone. Sit down, Valeda, I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, of course,” Valeda agreed, “but first, would you like some tea or refreshment of some sort?”

“I have ordered it already,” Hermione replied. “That old man has been here for years – what is his name?”

“Banks.”

“Yes, of course. Banks said he would bring me some tea and I am quite prepared to believe I shall have to wait until Christmas before it arrives.”

Valeda laughed.

“It will not be as bad as that, but he is growing very old.”

“That is what the house looks like and everything in it,” Hermione said disparagingly.

Valeda was just about to retort that as far as she was concerned, everything was perfect, then decided it would be a mistake.

Instead, she took off her riding hat, attempted to smooth down her riotous curls and sat down on the sofa.

Looking at Hermione standing in front of her, she thought it would be impossible for anybody to be more beautiful, or, in fact, more like a fashion plate straight out of an expensive magazine.

It was not only Hermione’s gown that was so different from anything she had seen before – so also were the whiteness of her skin, the jewels flashing in her ears and on her long, thin fingers and the large row of perfect pearls that encircled her lovely neck.

Because she was used to expressing her thoughts, Valeda exclaimed with an unmistakable sincerity,

“How beautiful you look, Hermione. Everything about you is absolutely perfect.”

“That is what I always intend,” Hermione replied complacently.

“I see you are out of mourning,” Valeda went on, “I was so very sorry to hear of your husband’s death.”

“It was certainly entirely unexpected,” Hermione replied, “but, as you say, I am out of mourning and there is no point in talking about the past. In fact, Valeda, it is the future I want to discuss with you now.”

“The future?”

It flashed through Valeda’s mind, though it seemed impossible, that perhaps Hermione wished to come home.

She knew with a feeling of horror that nothing she found at the Manor would be good enough for her and in consequence she would spoil the happiness that Valeda had always known there.

Hermione sat down in an armchair opposite the sofa on which her sister was sitting and arranged the folds of her skirt. Then as Valeda waited she began.

“I have come home because I need your help and I feel sure you will not refuse to give it to me.”

“N-no of course not,” Valeda said, “but I do not see how I can help you.”

“That is what I intend to tell you, if you will listen.”

There was a note in Hermione’s voice that Valeda well remembered was always there if she did not get exactly what she wanted and without having to wait for it.

She was curious, but at the same time very apprehensive.

“I am, as you know, a widow,” Hermione began, but she did not sound as if that was something that upset her very much.

“It must be difficult for you,” Valeda murmured.

As if she had not spoken, Hermione continued.

“I have of course decided that I will marry again, if it is to my advantage to do so.”

“Marry again?” Valeda exclaimed, realising she had been very stupid not to imagine this was a possibility.

“Stop repeating everything I say,” Hermione said sharply.

Valeda lapsed into silence, her eyes looking very large fixed on her sister’s beautiful face.

“As of course you must realise, my position in the Social World is one of great importance,” Hermione said complacently, “at the same time, not so important as if my husband had given me a son.”

There was a note in her voice as if she blamed the Earl for the fact that she had a daughter instead. Then as if Valeda had asked the question, Hermione continued,

“There is, of course, a new Earl of Eltsley, a nephew of my late husband’s for whom I have no liking and I should therefore be quite pleased to change my name if the gentleman I have in mind asks me to be his wife.”