That really is what I wanted to tell you. It has made a difference. I wanted you to know first, but somehow I really didn’t want to think about it…so I kept putting off writing.
If you were here, I could talk to you. That would be easier. When one is writing it seems more serious, more important. If I could only talk to you, it would be so different.
So, don’t tell the parents…yet. I wonder what they’ll say? I’m just telling you at the moment. Everyone here knows about it, of course. There’s always gossip. The servants are watching all the time. As I said, they are suspicious of me. I am not one of them. I heard one of them refer to me as “Mr. Dermot’s foreign lady.” I did mention this to Matilda and she laughed and said, “Everyone’s a foreigner from the other side of the Tamar.” So you see how it is.
I had to let you know this. Oh, how I wish you were here!
Your twin sister,
Dorabella
The letter disturbed me. Had she been in a certain mood when she wrote it? How much did it portray her real feelings? I knew her well. She could change her mind from one moment to another.
But whatever her mood, the fact remained that Dermot had been married before—and it was certainly strange that he had not mentioned it.
I think we should have seen him rather differently if we had known. He had seemed so light-hearted, so young. Had he been afraid of losing Dorabella? Why otherwise should he want to keep his first marriage a secret?
I should have liked to talk it over with my mother, but Dorabella had expressly said: “Don’t tell the parents yet.” And I must respect this confidence.
So I did not tell her that I had received the letter; she would have expected to read it if I had, for we shared Dorabella’s letters.
I hated the subterfuge, but I decided that I must wait for Dorabella’s permission before I divulged this secret.
I thought a great deal about Dorabella after that time and wondered whether I ought to go down to see her. I was still anxious about my mother. She was not really ill, but I liked to make sure that she did not go out in cold winds or rain which she might do without me to restrain her. Her cold still hung on and I felt torn between them.
And then came the next letter.
This was change indeed. This was Dorabella exultant…and yet a little fearful.
My dear Vee,
What do you think? I am going to have a baby. I am so excited. Can you believe it? Me…a mother!
I have been to the doctor and it is confirmed. I would not have told you until it was. Dermot is thrilled. So is Matilda…and the old man, too. And as for Gordon, even he seems quite interested.
I’m a bit scared, just a little, of course. It is rather an ordeal, you know. It has happened rather soon, but there’s a long time to go yet.
Just fancy! You’ll be Auntie Vee. It sounds a bit fierce to me. I think Auntie Violetta sounds much softer. Names are important. I’ll have to get the right one for him/her.
Isn’t it marvelous? I’m writing to the parents. I wonder who’ll get their letter first, you or them. If you get yours first, tell them right away. Mummy will be Grandmamma and Daddy Grandpa. What nice ones they’ll make!
Lots of love from,
Dorabella,
“Mother-to-be”
I had taken the letter to my room to read, wondering whether there would be more revelations about Dermot’s first marriage. Revelations there had certainly been, but on a different subject.
Almost before I had had time to read the letter my mother came into my room. She had obviously received hers by the same post.
She was flushed and excited.
“You have heard, too,” she cried.
I nodded. She was smiling.
“Dorabella a mother! I can’t believe it. I thought it might be some time, of course…but not quite yet. How will she manage a baby?”
“People you least expect do turn out to be good mothers. She’ll have a nanny, I suppose.”
“We’ll both go,” said my mother. “And now we must tell your father. He will be so thrilled!”
The Cottage on the Cliffs
BEFORE THAT WEEK WAS out we were on our way to Cornwall.
Dermot and Dorabella met us at the station. Dorabella looked radiant and beautiful; the prospect of motherhood had changed her in a subtle way: There was a softness about her which made her seem more vulnerable than ever.
She flung herself at us. My mother hugged her and then it was my turn.
“It is wonderful that you have come,” she cried.
“With news like this, what did you expect?” asked my mother.
“Everybody’s thrilled, aren’t they, Dermot?”
Dermot confirmed this and tenderly told her not to get too excited.
My mother smiled fondly at this display of husbandly concern, and we got into the car and drove to the house.
Matilda was waiting to greet us.
“How nice to see you,” she said. “Dorabella has been hoping you’d come for ages. Of course, the weather has not been good.”
“It’s lovely now,” said my mother.
“Spring is here.”
We went to the rooms which we had had for our last visit.
The old man came down to dinner and Gordon Lewyth was there, too. They both said how pleased they were to see us.
The old man was smiling that strange smile of secret amusement which I had noticed before.
“What do you think of the news?” he asked.
“We are delighted,” said my mother.
He nodded, smiling. “We are looking forward to the new arrival, aren’t we, Matty…Gordon? All of us…we can’t wait to see the little fellow.”
“You seem to be sure it will be a boy,” said my mother.
“Of course it will be a boy. Tregarlands always have boys.”
He was laughing to himself, as though it were some big joke.
Gordon asked about my father. I think he was disappointed because he had not come with us.
The old man was saying: “Gordon is especially delighted. He is looking forward already to the little one’s growing up and helping him with the estate. That is so, is it not, Gordon?”
Gordon’s face twisted into a smile.
“You’re looking very far ahead, Mr. Tregarland,” he said.
“It’s always a good idea to look ahead. Well, there is one thing we can be sure of. My grandson will have a good welcome when he arrives.”
Again I had that feeling that there was some sort of innuendo intended, and the uneasiness I had felt during my previous visit came back to me.
We had little time to talk to Dorabella alone, but my mother did corner her and asked the question, “When?”
“November,” said Dorabella.
I was hoping she would join me for a chat, which she would in due course, but I must be patient, it seemed.
My mother said to me, “November. That’s seven months’ time. We shall have to be with her then.”
“We will. They all seem so delighted about it.”
“Families love babies, and this will be the first to be born for years. They won’t have had any babies around for a long time. I am going to ask to see the nurseries here. I’ll get Matilda to show me. I am sure she will be very helpful. Dorabella is not the most practical person. She’ll need looking after.”
“It is wonderful that she is so happy.”
“I hope she will be all right. Pregnancies can be trying times. What about Nanny Crabtree?”
“What about her?”
“For Dorabella, of course. I could see if she were free.”
Nanny Crabtree had played a big part in my youth—and that meant Dorabella’s. Plump, with a double chin, what had fascinated us about her from our earliest days had been a large wart on that second chin from which a solitary hair protruded. We had often speculated about it and wondered why she did not pull it out.
“If she did,” I prophesied, “two more would grow in its place.”
Nanny Crabtree could be stern in the extreme and tell dire stories of what happened to little girls who did not eat up their rice pudding. They never grew up and remained little all their lives; if they made a face over it, God would be so angry with them and He would make them go through life with their tongues stuck out in a hideous scowl. But when we fell over we would fly to her ample lap to be comforted and have plaster or whatever was necessary from her spacious medicine cupboard; and if we were in some trouble which had been brought on through something not our fault, we were told that we were our Nanny Crabtree’s Pet and that was enough for anyone. The mention of her name brought her back clearly to my mind.