Beggar’s Choice (33 page)

“How did she know?” I asked.

“Listened when I was telephoning. You don't think of things like that—not with your own family—but that's what she must have done—eavesdropped—opened letters too, I shouldn't wonder!” He made a sound of disgust. “Who's this fellow she's married? He'll be sorry for himself before he's through—what?”

“Or she will,” I said.

My uncle looked up hopefully.

“What? Is he that sort? I hope he is—I hope he is!”

Then he let go of me and stepped back.

“You don't bear me a grudge, do you—what? I didn't think you did—not when you spoke about me.”

“When I spoke about you?”

He got very red.

“Perhaps it wasn't altogether fair—not playing the game—what? But I wouldn't have held it up against you if you'd grumbled a bit.”

I hadn't the slightest idea what he was driving at.

He turned plum-color.

“The other night!” he said explosively. “Damn it! What was I to do—what? I wanted to see you—couldn't think of any other way—wanted to know—what you felt about me—got my pride as well as you, you know.”

My mind was a complete blank. I suppose I looked as puzzled as I felt.

He made a sound like “Tch-h!” and blew out his cheeks.

“Back of the car,” he said—“what? The other night—Olding Crescent—what?”

I got there suddenly.

“You were in the back of the car the other night when I was talking to Z.10 Smith in Olding Crescent?”

He nodded and looked past me.

“What made you hit on Olding Crescent?” I said, partly to relieve his embarrassment, and partly because I wanted to know. I couldn't remember just what I had said about him to Z.10, and I thought we'd better get off the subject.

He seemed relieved at my question.

“Good place—what? Lonely place—dark—no traffic—what?”

“What made you hit on it?”

He burst out laughing.

“Anna put me on to it—dined there with that Markham fellow, and I came down from my club and picked her up, and I thought to myself it was as lonely a place as you'd find within ten miles of town.” He stopped laughing rather suddenly. “She's gone—and a good riddance. And now she's gone, you—you'll come back home—won't you, my boy? The place wants looking after. Jenkins can't keep up with it. He want to go and live with his married daughter in London. There's no accounting for tastes—what?”

I supposed he was offering me the agent's job, but he hadn't said so. I thought it wasn't any good beating about the bush, so I asked him straight out.

“What do you think?” he said. “I want you back. And there's the job if you'll take it—and the little Manor House by and by if you want to get married.”

I thought about Isobel. She had always wanted to live there, and I had said—I had said—that the only house we should ever have was a castle in the air. Things danced in front of my eyes, and I suppose I must have looked queer, for my uncle took me by the arm.

“Here—hold up!” he said. “What's the matter?”

I said, “It's—very good of you.”

He said, “Nonsense! Nonsense!” Then he let go of me and blew his nose violently. “You ought to have let me know. When Smith told me—” He blew his nose. “Such straits—no idea—you ought to have let me know—what? Damn proud young pup!” He blew his nose again.

I heard the door open, and walked away to the window, because I wasn't just feeling like confronting William. It wasn't William.

It was Isobel.

My uncle turned round with a grunt.

“I'm busy,” he said; and then he saw who it was and went to meet her.

She didn't see me. I was up by the window, and the curtain screened me. She was looking so beautifully happy that I wondered what had happened. She took both my uncle's hands and said,

“Don't be busy for just a minute, Mr. Carthew, because I've come on purpose to tell you that Car and I are engaged.”

And then she kissed him—at least that's what it looked like to me. She says he kissed her.

My uncle turned round and roared at the top of his voice,

“What? What? What's all this? Car—I say—what? Engaged? Bless my soul! Come and kiss her yourself! What?”

I came.

XLIV

Corinna Lee to Peter Lymington:

Peter Darling,

A great many things have been happening. When you get to the end of this letter you will know why I am calling you “darling.” If you don't like it, you had better cable right away, the same as you did about not being married to that Fay creature. First of all, you needn't get all puffed up about her being in love with you, because she never thought about you at all. She was just head over ears in love with Car Fairfax, and she said she was married to you so as to keep him right there looking after her, which he wouldn't have done if he hadn't thought you wanted him to. Crazy—isn't it?

Peter honey, everything has come right. Isn't it just perfectly splendid? It all happened so quick I'm still taking long breaths and pinching myself to see if I'm awake. Cousin John and Car are friends again. Anna Lang has run away with a dreadful man called Arbuthnot Markham. And Car is going to marry Isobel, and I am going to marry you. So now you know why you are “Peter Darling.”

You see, Car got engaged to Isobel, so I couldn't have him. And then I got your letter, and it did sound as if you were just rather fond of me, and then I felt terribly homesick and kind of alone in the world, so I sent Poppa a cable—a real long cable—and I'm not going to tell you what I said. And Poppa cabled back—and I'm not going to tell you what he said either, but we're engaged.

I hope you will like being engaged. Isobel and Car are perfectly sweet together. He looks at her as if she was the sun and the moon and the stars and everything beautiful you can think of. I don't suppose you'd want to look that way at me. If you would there will be just time for you to write and tell me about it. Car and Isobel are getting married at the end of October and as soon as the wedding is over I am coming home. I was just going to write “I am coming home to you,” but then I thought I wouldn't, because you don't know about being engaged to me yet. Of course you will know it by the time you get this far—so perhaps I'll say it after all.

Peter darling, I'm coming home to you.

Your

C
ORINNA

About the Author

Patricia Wentworth (1878–1961) was one of the masters of classic English mystery writing. Born in India as Dora Amy Elles, she began writing after the death of her first husband, publishing her first novel in 1910. In the 1920s, she introduced the character who would make her famous: Miss Maud Silver, the former governess whose stout figure, fondness for Tennyson, and passion for knitting served to disguise a keen intellect. Along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple, Miss Silver is the definitive embodiment of the English style of cozy mysteries.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1931 by J.B. Lippincott Company

Cover design by Maurcio Díaz

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3319-0

This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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