The Proper Place

O. Douglas

Description

The Proper Place is delightful reading and is Miss O. Douglas at her best. The story deals with the Rutherfurd family, who have to leave their beautiful country house and all their friends on Tweedside and settle in the littler Fife sea town of Kirkmeikle. Here, Lady Jane and the attractive, friendly Nicole rapidly make a niche for themselves until we feel it is indeed Kirkmeikle that is their "proper place." It is a joy to read of their endless ability to give happiness to all with whom they come in contact - inculding their readers. This book is as fresh and invigorating as the sea breezes of Fife.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Family Life

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 05 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774642894
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Proper Place

by O. Douglas



First published in 1926

This edition published by Rare Treasures

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

The Proper Place




by O. Douglas

TO ISABELLA CREE,
MY FRIEND
It was a wonderful flute! A note was heard all over the mansion,in the garden, and in the forest, for many miles into the country,and with the sound came a storm that roared, “Everything in itsproper place!” And then the baron flew, just as if he werecarried by the wind, right out of the mansion and straight intothe herdsman’s cottage. But in the dining-room the youngbaroness flew to the upper end of the table, and the tutor got theseat next to her, and there the two sat as if they were a newly-marriedcouple. An old count, one of the oldest families in thecounty, remained undisturbed in his seat of honour . . . a richmerchant and his family who were driving in a coach and fourwere blown right out of the coach, and could not even find a placebehind it, two rich farmers who had grown too rich to look aftertheir fields were blown into the ditch. It was a dangerous flute!
Fortunately it burst at the first note, and that was a goodthing; it was put back in the player’s pocket again, and everythingwas in its proper place.
HANS ANDERSEN.
CHAPTER I

“This young gentlewoman had a father
—O, that ‘had’ how sad a passage ’tis.”
All’s Well that Ends Well.
“How many bedrooms does that make?”
Mrs. Jackson asked the question in a somewhatweary tone. Since her husband had decided, twomonths ago, that what they wanted was a country-house,she had inspected nine, and was frankly sick of hertask.
The girl she addressed, Nicole Rutherfurd, wasstanding looking out of the window. She turned atthe question and “I beg your pardon,” she said, “howmany bedrooms? There are twelve quite large ones,and eight smaller ones.”
They were standing in one of the bedrooms, andNicole felt that never had she realised how shabby itwas until she saw Mrs. Jackson glance round it. Thatlady said nothing, but Nicole believed that in her mind’seye she was seeing it richly furnished in rose-pink.Gone the faded carpet and washed-out chintzes;instead there would be a thick velvet carpet, pink silkcurtains, the newest and best of bedroom suites, a rose-pinksatin quilt on the bed. In one of Hans Andersen’stales he tells how, at a dinner-party, one of the guestsblew on a flute made from a willow in the ditch, andbehold, every one was immediately wafted to his or herproper place. “Everything in its proper place,” sangthe flute, and the bumptious host flew into the herdsman’scottage—you know the story? Nicole thoughtof it now as she looked at the lady, who might reign inher mother’s stead at Rutherfurd.
She was a stout woman, with a broad kind faceunder an expensive hat, and she stood solidly besidethe old wash-stand and looked consideringly beforeher.
“We have the twelve rooms where we are,” she toldNicole. “Deneholm’s the name of our house inPollokshields—but, of course, that’s including maids’rooms. Four public rooms, a conservatory off thelibrary, and central heating. Oh, Deneholm’s a goodhouse and easy worked for its size: I’ll be sorry toleave it.”
“And must you?” Nicole asked.
Mrs. Jackson laid a fat hand on the towel rail,shaking it slightly, as if to test its soundness, and said:
“Well, you see, it’s Mr. Jackson. He’s makingmoney fast—you know how it is, once you get started,money makes money, you can’t help yourself—and hethinks we’ve been long enough in a villa, he wants acountry-house. It’s not me, mind you, I’d rather stayon at Deneholm. . . . D’you know Glasgow at all?”
“Hardly at all,” Nicole said, and added, smiling,“but I’ve often wanted to see more of it.”
Mrs. Jackson beamed at her. “You’d like it.Sauchiehall Street on a spring morning with all thewindows full of light pretty things! or BuchananStreet on a winter afternoon before Christmas! I’vehad many a happy hour, I can tell you, going in and outof the shops. It’ll be an awful change for me if Mr.Jackson carries out his plan of living always in thecountry. Shop windows are what I like, and this”—shewaved her hand towards the window with its viewof lawn and running water, and golden bracken onthe hillside—“this gives me no pleasure to speak of. Ihaven’t the kind of figure for the country, nor the kindof feet either. Fancy me in a short tweed skirt andthose kind of shoes—brogues, d’you call them? Anice fright I’d be. I need dressing.”
She looked complacently down at her tight form inits heavily embroidered coat-frock—her fur coat hadbeen left in the hall—and said solemnly, “What I’dbe like if I didn’t corset myself I know not.”
Nicole had a momentary vision of the figure ofMrs. Jackson unfettered, and said hurriedly, “It’s—it’scomfortable to be plump.”
Mrs. Jackson chuckled. “I doubt I’m more than‘plump’—that’s just your polite way of putting it—butwhat I say is I repay dressing. I’m not the kindthat looks their best in deshabille. See me in the morningwith a jumper and a skirt and easy slippers—I’ma fright. But when I get on a dress like this over agood pair of corsets, and a hat with ospreys, and mypearls, I’m not bad, am I?”
Nicole assured her that the result left nothing to bedesired, and then, anxious to break away from such apersonal subject, she said, “I do hope you will beginto like the country if you have to live in it. I thinkyou’ll find there are points about it.”
Mrs. Jackson moved towards the door shaking herhead dubiously.
“Not me. I like to have neighbours and to hearthe sound of the electric cars, and the telephone alwaysringing, and the men folk going out to business andcoming back at night with all the news. You need tobe born in the country to put up with it. I fair shiverwhen I think of the dullness. Getting up in the morningand not a sound except, mebbe, hens and cows.One post a day and no evening papers unless you sendfor them. Nothing to do except to take a walk in theforenoon and go out in the car in the afternoon.”
“There’s always gardening,” Nicole reminded her.
“Not for me,” said Mrs. Jackson firmly. “I liketo see a place well kept, but touch it I wouldn’t. Forone thing I couldn’t stoop. Now, I suppose you gardenby the hour and like it? Ucha? And tramp aboutthe hills and take an interest in all the cottages? Well,as I say, it’s all in the way you’re brought up, but it’snot my idea of pleasure.”
Nicole laughed as they left the room together. Shebegan to feel more kindly towards this talkative andoutspoken lady.
“Now I wonder if there is anything more you oughtto see. You took the servants’ quarters on trust, you’veseen all the living-rooms and most of the bedrooms.There is another room, my mother’s own room, whichyou haven’t seen. Would you care——?”
“Oh, I’ll not bother, thanks, just now. I’ve enoughto keep in my head as it is, and the time’s getting on.”
“Tea will be in the drawing-room now,” Nicole toldher. “We ordered it early that you might have somebefore you start on your long drive home.”
“Oh, well—thanks. A cup of tea would be nice.And I’d like to see the drawing-room again to be ableto tell Mr. Jackson right about it. I must say I likethe hall. It’s mebbe a wee thing dreary with all thatdark oak, but there’s something noble-looking about ittoo. I’ve seen pictures——”
She stopped on the staircase for a minute, studyingthe hall with her head on one side, then went on. “Ofcourse, if we bought it we would need to have centralheating put in at once. Mr. Jackson’s great for all hiscomforts. I see you’ve got the electric light. Yes—That’sthe library to the left, isn’t it? Then the dining-room,and the billiard-room. I’m quite getting thehang of the house now, and I must say I like it. Forall it’s so big there’s a feeling of comfort about it—grandbut homely, if you know what I mean? . . .Deneholm, now, is comfortable right enough, always anice smell about it of good cooking, and hot-waterpipes, and furniture kept well rubbed with polish, butwhen all’s said and done it’s only a villa like all theother villas in the road. In our road nobody wouldever think to have a stair like this without a carpet.This’ll take some living up to.”
Nicole was standing a few steps lower down, lookingback at Mrs. Jackson, and she surprised on the face ofthat lady an expression half-proud, half-deprecating.Her bearing, too, had subtly altered; her head washeld almost arrogantly, it was as if she saw herself cutfrom her moorings in Pollokshields, sailing as mistressof Rutherfurd in stately fashion over the calm watersof county society.
Opening the door of the drawing-room, Nicole said,“Is tea ready, Mother? Mrs. Jackson, my mother.My cousin, Miss Burt.”
Lady Jane Rutherfurd rose from her chair by thefire and smiled at the newcomer, as she held out herhand in greeting.
Nicole knew what it meant to her mother to receiveMrs. Jackson smiling. It was necessary that Rutherfurdshould be sold, and Lady Jane was brave aboutit and uncomplaining, but she found the preliminariestrying. She disliked exceedingly—how could she helpit?—the thought of unknown people going through thehouse, appraising the furniture, raising eyebrows at theshabbiness, casting calculating glances round roomsthat were to her sacred. Ronnie’s room with the book-shelvesmade by himself—they always stood a littlecrooked—