Patricia Wentworth - The Fingerprint

Six weeks is not enough to destroy the influence of this kind of background. It remained as a compelling reason for escape. When she came to Field End on a visit it was with the knowledge that here, if she could take it, was her chance. She must not only please Uncle Jonathan, she must please everyone, so that they would like her, and want her to stay. If she could stay a good long time she might get off with someone and never have to go back to the Home. At first her ambitions went no farther than this. And then Jonathan Field had begun to get fond of her. It didn’t happen all at once. She began to feel a warmth and an indulgence. She didn’t have to try any more. She pleased without effort and just because he found her pleasing. The visit stopped being a visit and Field End began to be her home. By the time Jonathan said that he regarded her as a daughter and told her he was going to change his will she had travelled a long way. It had not been altogether smooth going. There had been rough places and rather frightening places, and there had been difficult turns, but now it was all over. She had cried with the abandonment of a child, but even whilst the tears ran down she was conscious of something to which she could not have given a name. Uncle Jonathan had been so kind, and she was crying because he was dead. Uncle Jonathan had said he was going to make a new will and treat her as his daughter, and he had really made that will. He had gone up to town, and he had come down again and told her that the will was made. She would never have to go back to Aunt Grace and Uncle Albert again. She would never have to get up at six o’clock and vacuum the Orphanage floors. She would never have to wear anybody else’s clothes, not even Georgina ’s. Richards’, which was the best shop in Lenton, had lovely clothes. There was a grey coat and skirt in the window which was marked twenty-five guineas. She could buy it tomorrow if she wanted to. Or if not tomorrow, just as soon as it was given out about Uncle Jonathan’s will.

Johnny took her out into the country. They went up over the common and through the woods which lay beyond it. The sky was a pale, cold blue with dark clouds moving down from the north. The leafless trees made a lovely tracery against the sky. But Mirrie had no eyes for anything like that. She liked the light of big electric lamps and the Glorious Technicolour of the films. She did like the feeling of the air on her face. Her eyes were hot and sore from having cried so much. It was nice to have the windows down.

They didn’t talk at first, but when they came out upon another common he drew off on to the grass verge and stopped the car. There was rough ground that sloped away from them on every side, with here and there a clump of birch. Last year’s bracken made a brown carpet. There was blackberry, and gorse, and faded heather. The dark clouds were coming up behind them. Soon they would cover the sky. Johnny turned to her and said,

“Feeling better?”

“Oh, yes. You are kind-everyone is very kind.”

He thought she looked like a kitten that has been out in the rain. You wanted to comfort the little soft thing, to warm it, dry it, give it a saucer of milk-cream if you could lay your hands on it. Certainly Mirrie would prefer cream. Astonishing how quickly a creature accustomed to nothing but skim could become cream-conscious. He had watched this happening with Mirrie, and to his own surprise it had not only amused but touched him. He had it in his mind that looking after her and seeing to it that she got her cream might be an agreeable as well as a highly remunerative job. If she was going to be landed with most of Jonathan’s money she was certainly going to need someone to look after her- and it. He said,

“Don’t cry any more, will you?”

Mirrie’s eyes brimmed over.

“I’ll try-”

“That’s a good girl!”

She said, “He was so-good to me.” Her voice caught, and broke the sentence in two.

Johnny said, “He was very fond of you.”

“Yes-he said he was. He said he felt as if I was his daughter. Johnny-you know he said he was altering his will and he told me he had done it-but you don’t think, do you, that he hasn’t left anything to Georgina?”

Johnny whistled.

“What makes you think of that?”

Her voice went small and tight.

“He was angry with her. I don’t quite know why, but I could see that he was. I wouldn’t like her to be left right out.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that. She’s his own niece, and she’s been with him ever since she was three years old.”

“Yes, I know. Johnny-if I’ve got a lot of money-what am I going to do?”

“What would you like to do?”

She looked at him in a considering manner.

“I don’t know. I should like to go on being at Field End. Could I do that?”

“I expect so, if you wanted to. It would depend on who the house was left to.”

“He said he wanted it to be my home.”

“Then it would depend on whether he had left you enough money to keep it up.”

“He said he wanted everyone to know that he thought about me like a daughter.”

If words meant anything at all, that meant that at the worst she shared with Georgina. It might mean a good deal more.

She was gazing at him.

“Do you think I could have a car?”

Her tone was so solemn that he almost burst out laughing.

“Darling, I don’t see why not.”

She continued to gaze.

“I should have to learn to drive.”

“I’ll teach you myself.”

“Oh, Johnny, you are good!”

Johnny Fabian’s conscience had been brought up to know its place. Like an eighteenth-century child it spoke when it was spoken to, but not otherwise. But when Mirrie’s soft little voice told him how good he was it broke all rules and gave him a decided twinge. He said in a hurry,

“People will always be good to you, darling.”

“Will they?”

She put out her hands to him and he took them. She was wearing loose warm gloves. They were too large and too loose, because they had been Georgina ’s. He pulled them off and lifted the little cold hands to his face, kissing first one palm and then the other.

“Oh, Johnny-”

He said, “How could anyone help being fond of you? I oughtn’t to be, but I am.”

“Why oughtn’t you?”

“You’re going to have a lot of money, darling.”

“Does that matter?”

“It wouldn’t if I had a lot too, but I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you got any?”

He gave a rueful laugh.

“A little from an aunt and what I make by honest toil.”

“You buy cars and sell them again?”

“I buy them as cheap as I can and sell them as dear as I can -that’s the idea. If Jonathan has left me anything, I could put the lot into some decent going concern and make quite a good thing of it. I do know about cars.”

“This one isn’t very pretty.”

“Darling, it isn’t a car-it’s a has been. But I do get it to go, which is more than most people would.”

She said with the air of a child dispensing birthday cake,

“If I really have a lot of money I’ll give you some.”

Johnny’s conscience gave him another twinge. He kissed her fingers and said in a laughing voice,

“It can’t be done, darling. At least not just like that.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Well, for one thing you’ll have a guardian till you’re twenty-one, and whoever he is he wouldn’t let you. And even if he did, there’s a silly prejudice against men who take money from girls. You wouldn’t like everyone to cut me, would you? And think how bad it would be for business.”

He felt her hands flutter in his.

“Johnny, you said it couldn’t be done that way. Is there a way it could be done?”