The Changing Years

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Jilted by the man she hoped to marry, Prudence is on her way to Gibraltar when she meets Vyvian, an Englishman in Spain who has inherited a castle. They wed, and all is well until Vyvian's first wife, Fleur, arrives at the castle. Vyvian had always presumed her dead...

Release date: June 12, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 391

Sample

It was the day before her fourteenth birthday, a bitter November night of frost and fog, when the Waynes drove home from a neighbour’s house where they had been dining, skidded, and crashed into a motor-bus coming in the opposite direction, and both were killed outright.

For the rest of her childhood, Prudence Wayne was to associate Christmas with a misery which, perhaps, was given to few of her age to suffer. For until that time when the tragic car accident made an orphan of her, Christmas had stood for Prue as it stands for most young people … as a season of fun and laughter and especial love. And every year so far had been spent in her own beloved home.

This year she returned to Broadacres for only a few hours, and to find that it had changed its character completely. The warm welcoming house had become a tomb wherein she buried all her childish dreams, her sense of security and most of her happiness. A place in which, instead of her gay sweet mother and charming father, she found an aunt with whom so far she had had little association. This aunt, Miss Ursula Wayne, was now her guardian. Miss Wayne was a good and well-meaning woman, who, by a slow process and without so intending, destroyed all that was in Prue of natural gaiety.

Ursula Wayne was ten years older than her brother Richard and had none of his geniality or understanding of children. She was a God-fearing woman of stern principles, who in her youth had taken a science degree at Cambridge, and whose brain was more attuned to the study of cold, hard scientific facts than in bringing up a little girl.

For years she had held a post as an assistant in a laboratory attached to some big chemical works. It suited her temperament. Being of thrifty nature she had saved the money left to her by her mother and part of her salary, which had increased as the years went by. At the age of fifty she was also able to lay hands on a small sum of money reaped through the rigorous payments of an endowment life policy. With this she had bought herself a small ugly house in Twickenham – she considered it well-built and sensible. And it was there that she retired from her work and settled down (so she had hoped) to the writing of a book of a scientific nature.

Then came the news of her brother’s sudden death in company with his wife. News which affected Miss Wayne more materially than sentimentally, for she had seen little of Dick in his lifetime and had found nothing in common with his pretty musical wife. But from the moment that she heard that Dick had died up to his ears in debt and had left a small girl of fourteen more or less destitute, she considered it her duty to come forward and make the supreme gesture of her life by offering Prudence a home.

There was nobody else to do it. Having a young person in the house would mean a complete upheaval in Miss Wayne’s ordinary routine and it was in no way agreeable to her. But it had to be done. Miss Wayne had never at any time failed in her duty.

She had had nothing to do with children so far, and she had seen Prue only once or twice in her life at odd family gatherings. She dreaded the child’s arrival but did what she considered the right thing by taking charge of her and her affairs. Her brother Dick, God rest his soul, had, in her opinion, always been a bit of a fool and a dreamer. She was not surprised to hear that he had accumulated many debts, and during her interview with the solicitor who handled the estate she gathered that it was not altogether Dick’s fault. Unknown to Dick, and probably to his wife, Dick’s partner had in recent months absconded, taking with him a major portion of the assets of the firm. By this time he was in the Argentine and it was beyond hope that they would recover any of the stolen money. He had also appropriated money from several of Dick’s clients, and it was these clients who had to be paid back by the sale of Broadacres and with Mr. Wayne’s life-insurance money.

All of which left Prue without a penny or a home. Prue, who had been the darling of her parents’ heart and whom they would have given their lives gladly to save from the misery into which she was inadvertently plunged by their death.

She had remained at school for the rest of that term because it had seemed the best thing for her to do. Her work and the company of her friends helped to take her mind off her sorrows. But it was understood that it must be the last term she would spend at that lovely and expensive school. Her Aunt Ursula could not continue with the fees.

The whole thing was a nightmare to Prue … and a concrete reminder of her old nervous dread that she might go home one day to find that everything had changed. It was exactly what happened to her. A few days before Christmas, when she returned to the Lake District, she was met by Miss Wayne and conducted to her old home for the sole purpose of sorting out the few possessions she wished to take to her new home in Twickenham. And nothing was the same for Prue – nothing. She was not even allowed to keep all her belongings. The little house in Twickenham could not possibly become a dump for ‘all that rubbish’, as Miss Wayne described a great many of Prue’s treasures. And when it came to the question of the Corgi, she was adamant. Spats must be sold along with the pony and the rest of the animals at Broadacres. Miss Wayne had never had a dog and never intended to keep one under her roof. She had too much respect, she told Prue, for her carpets and chair-covers. Added to which, for the next two years Prue would be carrying on with her schooling, and Miss Wayne had no intention of looking after the puppy in Prue’s absence.

That day spent at Broadacres was one long heartbreak to the unfortunate child, whose agony of mind was almost unbearable. Miss Wayne, to do her justice, could not really fathom how sharp it was. She tried to be kind. In her awkward way she kissed the child when they first met, expressed her sympathy and hoped that Prue would ‘be happy’ at Twickenham. But she treated Prue as an ordinary, stolid little girl who was young enough to recover quickly from the blow and could be partially consoled by a box of chocolates or the promise that she should be taken to a pantomime in London.

She had no idea of the peculiar sensitiveness and ‘temperament’ of her young niece, who found every stage of that melancholy day in her old home a fresh agony.

It would have been better for her not to have gone back, but in the circumstances Miss Wayne thought that she was doing the child a kindness by allowing her to sort out her own things before the sale of Richard Wayne’s furniture and effects.

When Prue first entered the silent empty house (the servants had been paid off and had gone and there was nobody left except the old gardener who was caretaking) Miss Wayne thought Prue hysterical and over-dramatic when she dropped the case she was carrying, looked around with a hunted expression and gave a wailing cry:

“Oh, Mummy! Daddy!”

Miss Wayne cleared her throat, put out an awkward hand and tried to pat the child’s shoulder. But Prue shrank from her, tore up the stairs to her own bedroom, crumpled up on the floor and cried until she could cry no more.

It was true that the first shock of hearing of her parent’s fatal accident had come six weeks ago, and that the tactful and sympathetic handling which she had received from the headmistress, and the whole-hearted compassion she had received from her own friends, had done much to help her. But she had by no means recovered from that shock.

At first she had been numbed with grief and hardly able to take in the full import of her personal tragedy. Only gradually she had awakened to the completeness of it. The first thing to drive it home to her had been the sudden cessation of letters from her parents.

The only letters she received were two from Aunt Ursula explaining that it was with her that Prue would be living from now onwards. She had just not been able to take it all in. She had felt that it couldn’t be true that she would never go to her own dear home again, that she would be leaving even this familiar school where she was happy during the term, and that she must in future live in a place called Twickenham with a woman who was almost a stranger to her.

Prue wept hopelessly and drearily, night after night, during the rest of that term. And every time she woke it was to that blank sick feeling that used to beset her when she was homesick in the old days. Only this was a thousand times worse, because the homesickness would never get any better. It would just go on and on. There were no holidays to look forward to, no relaxation from the misery. Just nothing.

Miss Wayne, on this dreary afternoon at Broadacres, made her way into the little girl’s bedroom, raised her from that crumpled heap on the floor and begged her to start getting her things together.

“You must – er – learn self-control – er – my dear,” she said, wanting to be sympathetic but not knowing in the least how to go about it.

Prue blew her nose and dried her tears and stood there like a small image of despair. She had lost most of her colour during these final weeks of the school term. Today she was like a little ghost, and her eyes were swollen and red with violent weeping. Her hair was long and needed cutting. Her school-uniform coat was crumpled. If Angela Wayne could have come back from the grave and seen her … seen the care and attention and love that her adored small daughter so sorely needed … her own gentle heart would have broken. But she was lying out there in the little country churchyard beside the husband whom she had loved till the end. For her there was peace. But for her beloved Prue, an end to the peace she had once known, and the prospect of long months of disappointment; the agonising task of readjusting herself to a new life to which she was in no way suited.

The farewell to Broadacres was not a good start to life with Aunt Ursula. That good lady, harassed by the whole business, and troubled about the finances of the future now that she had this new commitment, lost her own self-control by the time the day ended and began to snap and dictate – a state of affairs with which Prue was to become sadly familiar.

The child wanted to linger, to pore over all the familiar treasures which meant so much to her, and Miss Wayne thought it morbid and senseless and goaded her into action whenever she saw her slacking or wandering about in what Miss Wayne thought an aimless fashion.

“We haven’t all day to waste, my dear. Do hurry up. No, you can’t have that picture – it’s going to be sold. No … it’s no good going to your mother’s bedroom. All her things have gone, but I have one or two of her jewels in a case in the bank for you. That is all that is left. No … you cannot take more than six books as there is no room for them in your little bedroom at home, and you certainly cannot bring all those china ornaments. They just make dust. Bring one or two …”

But it was when the question of the Corgi came up that the real trouble began.

Prue flamed into real anger and resentment then.

“You can’t take Spats away from me … Mummy and Daddy would want me to take him. It’s bad enough leaving my pony, but I won’t leave Spats!” she cried passionately.

Miss Wayne was a little shaken by the outburst and looked over her rimless glasses down at the flushed, furious young face raised to hers. So Prue had a temper? Dear, dear! That was unfortunate, and reminded Ursula vaguely of scenes in the old home when Dick had been a small boy and couldn’t get his own way. Ursula Wayne decided that she must deal firmly with this aspect of Prue.

“If you and I are going to live together in concord, my dear, it must be understood right from the start that it is my home you are going to live in, and my wishes that must be obeyed. I am extremely sorry about your puppy, but I have already explained why I don’t want it. You are going to live in a town now and not in the country, and I will not have a dog ruining my things. I have already told the gardener that the dog and the pony must be sold.”

Prue stared at her, trembling from head to foot. From that moment she hated Aunt Ursula. She had never hated anyone in her life before. But she was sensible enough to see that it was no use arguing. She went white again, turned, and rushed out of the house. She couldn’t bear to live with Aunt Ursula, without her dog, or her home, or any of the old associations. She ran blindly through the garden regardless of the fact that she had neither coat nor hat and it was a bitter winter’s day, until she found old Hurst, the gardener, in the potting-shed.

The old man touched his cap as he saw the little figure in school uniform, and looked at her with deep pity in his rheumy old eyes.

“Well, Miss Prue … it’s a very sad day … that it is,” he said mournfully, for he had been devoted to his late employers, and had seen Prue grow up from her infancy.

“Oh, Hurst, Hurst … they’re taking everything from me. They won’t even let me have Spats. I can’t bear it.”

“Now that’s a shame,” he said. “Why can’t you have your puppy, Miss Prue?”

“Because that horrible Aunt Ursula is afraid he’ll put paw-marks on her chair-covers,” said Prue in a voice of anguish.

“H’m,” said Hurst, and made no further comment.

“Oh, Hurst,” said Prue. “If only I could stay here with you and not go away with Aunt Ursula!”

He looked at her with compassion. Rough and uneducated though he was, he had a deeper understanding than Miss Wayne of the agony this child was going through. He had a granddaughter nearly her age and he had six children of his own. They had never been away from him or their mother and they had always kept their pets.

“I wish you could stay with me, Miss Prue,” he said. “But you got to go away and be eddicated like a young lady.”

She shook her head dumbly. She was cold and shivering and looked to the gardener as though she were sickening for something. He took off his old jacket with its many rents and patches and put it around her.

Her lower lip trembled and the tears gushed out of her swollen eyes again.

“But it will be so awful, leaving here and living with my aunt,” she wailed. “Oh, Hurst, why can’t I stay with you?”

The gardener was puzzled and upset. He would have given a lot to be able to comfort the child, but he could not. As he afterwards told his wife, “It fair went to my heart to see and hear her.” Then a bright idea struck him.

“How about me taking Spats for you, Miss Prue? My granddaughter Maggie is fair gone on animals and she would look after him, I know. And I’d get Maggie to drop you a note now and again and tell you how he’s getting on. And my son Tom, he’s got a camera and we’ll send you a photograph of the little chap and you’ll see how he turns out.”

Those few kindly words did more to alleviate Prue’s misery than he ever knew. Her tears dried. She clutched the old man’s horny hand with grateful fingers.

“Oh, Hurst, that would be wonderful! I’d be so glad if you’d do that. I’d simply loathe him to go to strangers. And, Hurst, if anything happened to him, you would bury him under the cherry tree, next to Henry, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, it might be difficult if the garden belongs to someone else, Miss Prue, and if I’m not taken on by the next corner. But I’ll do my best.”

The tall figure of Miss Wayne appeared outside the potting-shed. She was carrying Prue’s school coat.

“I have been looking everywhere for you,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing out like this in the cold?”

Prue swung round.

“Aunt Ursula, Hurst is going to take my dog for me and look after him. He can, can’t he?”

“By all means,” said Miss Wayne, thankful that that phase between herself and her niece was over.

Some of Prue’s hatred for her aunt evaporated.

She ran back to the house. Miss Wayne lingered a moment, looking up at the sky which was leaden and heavy with snow. There had been a heavy fall last night and she was anxious to get away from this place and back to the hotel in Keswick where she and her niece had to stay for the night. And she was extremely anxious to return to Twickenham tomorrow. It had really been a very trying day for her. She had no notion how to cope with this emotional child who was her brother’s sole legacy to her.

She disliked Twickenham right from the start. It was so utterly different from Broadacres that she could not help making comparisons, all of them unfavourable to her new home.

It was a grim, rather dark little house in which every conceivable economy had to be practised and where it seemed to her the silence was never broken by laughter or music. At Broadacres, Prue had been brought up in an atmosphere that was always cheerful and friendly. Aunt Ursula’s house had a forbidding air to it, and it seemed to Prue that Aunt Ursula herself lacked, completely, a sense of humour. Prue could never share a joke with her. Never point out anything funny that she read or saw, or have what she called a good giggle, as she used to have with Mummy. Never confide in her to tell her any of the things she could have told Mummy. Never rely on her for support in moments of trouble or understanding when it was needed. So, in consequence, the child shut up like a clam, brooded far too much and too long over her griefs and became in Miss Wayne’s opinion difficult and even morose. For which fact she blamed Prue’s temperament instead of her own inexpert and stupid handling of the young girl.

It was not altogether Ursula Wayne’s fault that she dealt Prue so many blows rapidly and consecutively. Money was tight and she had to make personal sacrifices to continue with her niece’s schooling, which she wished to do because she believed in education. But Prue, who had had little idea of the value of money up till then, and into whose lap all the good things had fallen easily, could not understand why Miss Wayne considered e. . .