Celia's House

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Copyright © 1943, 2015 by the Estate of D. E. Stevenson

Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Eileen Carey

Cover images © Nella/Shutterstock; alexmakarova/Getty Images; Swim Ink 2, LLC/Corbis

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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Originally published in 1943 in the United Kingdom by Farrar & Rinehart, Inc. This edition issued based on the hardcover edition published in 1971 in the United States by Holt, Rinehart, and Winston.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily).

Celia’s House / D. E. Stevenson.

pages cm

(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Families—Scotland—Fiction. 2. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PR6037.T458C45 2015

823’.912—dc23

2014050063

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Note

Part One: Old People in the House

Chapter One: June 1905

Chapter Two: Humphrey

Chapter Three: The Red Rose

Chapter Four: Family Affairs

Chapter Five: August 1905

Chapter Six: Alice

Chapter Seven: Becky

Chapter Eight: Aftermath

Part Two: Children in the House

Chapter Nine: Mark

Chapter Ten: Settling In

Chapter Eleven: June 1910

Chapter Twelve: Celia

Chapter Thirteen: Debbie

Chapter Fourteen: Humphrey and Mark

Chapter Fifteen: Celia

Chapter Sixteen: Billy and Celia

Part Three: Young People in the House

Chapter Seventeen: June 1923

Chapter Eighteen: Mark and Tessa

Chapter Nineteen: Deb

Chapter Twenty: Midsummer Night’s Dream

Chapter Twenty-One: Conversations

Chapter Twenty-Two: Humphrey

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Wedding Reception

Part Four: Grown-Up People in the House

Chapter Twenty-Four: Billiards

Chapter Twenty-Five: Persuasion

Chapter Twenty-Six: Timperton

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Thunderbolt

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Titania’s Dress

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Mark’s House

Chapter Thirty: Mark Alone

Chapter Thirty-One: Dynamite

Chapter Thirty-Two: Christmas 1932

Part Five: War Measures in the House

Chapter Thirty-Three: June 1942

Chapter Thirty-Four: Second Chance

About the Author

Back Cover

Author’s Note

The characters in this book are imaginary and have no relation whatsoever to any persons who may happen by accident to bear the same name. The places mentioned do not exist in fact but are intended to present a composite picture of the Scottish Border Country and to reproduce the atmosphere with artistic rather than literal truth.

—D. E. Stevenson

Part One

Old People in the House

Chapter One

June 1905

Some people call the Rydd Water a good-size stream; others call it a small river. It starts away up in the hills of the Scottish Border as a score of tumultuous burns that come leaping down the steep slopes between rocks and heather and creeping through pockets of bog, leaping, creeping, tumbling hastily down the hills to meet in the valley below. The valley of the Rydd is wide and open, a shallow bowl, tilted a little toward the south; there are farms in the valley and quiet villages, and big houses with fine gardens; there are stretches of meadowland and woods with tall trees—chestnut, oak, and beech. When it reaches the valley, the Rydd seems to lose its youthful impatience and begins to dawdle peacefully, wandering first this way and then that, as if it were loath to leave so pleasant a place…and one of its silver loops brings it within earshot of Dunnian House, brings it sweeping through the belt of woodland beyond the lawn. Sometimes the voice of the Rydd is loud and fills the whole house with a rushing sound; sometimes it is so soft that one has to listen to hear it…but it is always there, roaring, rippling, or whispering through the lovely old rooms: it is as much a part of the place as the solid gray stones of which Dunnian is built.

Generations of Dunnes, born and bred at Dunnian and afterward scattered to the four corners of the earth, are sometimes awakened at night by the rustle of trees or the roar of tropical rain and are transported home to Dunnian and childhood.

• • •

It was a lovely afternoon and Dunnian House slept peacefully in the sunshine; two or three of the tall chimneys were smoking idly, the smoke rising straight and hanging in little clouds in the still air. The main rooms in the house faced southwest with french windows opening onto a sheltered terrace with a stone balustrade…and here in the sunshine sat Miss Dunne, wrapped in rugs and shawls, her feet on a footstool and a cushion behind her head. The sun was warm, but old blood runs slowly and Miss Dunne was very old indeed.

For reading Miss Dunne required strong spectacles, but she needed no spectacles to see the hills…how green they were after yesterday’s warm, soft rain! Her bright brown eyes moved from one well-known landmark to another; she knew every stone and every tree. She saw Rydd Hill with its girdle of dark green conifers and, to left and right, Garlesknowe and Timperton Law, and, beyond these rounded hills, peeping over Souden Gap, the sterner darker face of Winters Gill. The hills were always the same and yet they always looked different, for sometimes they seemed quite near and sometimes far away; sometimes they gathered clouds of mist about them and hid their faces; sometimes they smiled and sometimes they frowned. Today they were smiling—and no wonder—for the sun lit them so they glowed like jewels, and the cloud shadows moved over them slowly, caressing them.

How lovely they were, thought Miss Dunne, looking at them with deep affection, looking at them with her farsighted eyes. Here and there she saw a gleam of silver. The burns were up; yesterday’s rain had filled them and they were filling the river, for she could hear the river’s voice speaking to her from the dell. Closing her eyes for a moment Miss Dunne looked at the river with her inward eye—it was the easiest thing imaginable—and saw the bright water sliding past the roots of the trees, dimpling and sparkling in the sunshine; she saw the stepping stones, fringed with lacy foam, and the deep peaty-brown pools with movement stirring in their depths. She looked beyond the river to the woods, green and freshly washed, carpeted with hyacinths, lit by an occasional bush of blazing rhododendrons… Yes, the rhodies would be out now—past their best, of course, but still full of fire and color.

At this moment there was a heavy step on the gravel path and Miss Dunne’s reverie came to an end abruptly. She sat up and her small face assumed a look of alertness, of interest and animation, for although she loved the hills she was fond of people too.

Johnson! cried Miss Dunne. Johnson, I want to speak to you.

The man came forward and leaned his arms upon the balustrade and smiled at her. Well now, it’s real nice to see you, Miss Dunne. You’re better then?

Much better, she replied, nodding at him. Becky thought it wouldn’t do me any harm to sit in the sun.

It’s a nice day for you, that’s certain.

A beautiful day. Perfectly beautiful. I feel much better already.

They were silent for a few moments; it was a friendly silence, for they knew each other so well that there was no need to speak unless they felt inclined. Johnson was almost as much a part of Dunnian as Miss Dunne herself. He had been born there, in the gardener’s cottage, and had lived here all his life. Like her, he would die here—but not so soon. These thoughts passed through Miss Dunne’s mind as she looked at him.

I’ve peas today, said Johnson, lifting a basket of vegetables and showing it to her.

So you have, she said. Peas and radishes and a lovely crisp lettuce—

And new potatoes and green gooseberries, added Johnson.

They’re lovely, she told him, feasting her eyes upon the basket. I think vegetables are as pretty as flowers in their own way. Look at the colors in them.

They’re not bad, he agreed, looking at them.

She stretched out a tiny, fragile hand and took one of the pea pods from the basket; it was a beautiful bright green and smooth and cool and shiny. (Like jade, Miss Dunne said softly.) Inside was a little row of bright green beads.

They’re very wee, said Johnson.

That’s how I like them.

I know that fine, but Mrs. Drummond will be saying they’re too small.

You’ll have an answer for her, no doubt, replied Miss Dunne dryly.

Johnson chuckled. He watched her eat the peas one by one. It reminded him of a bird. He thought, not for the first time, that Miss Dunne was very like a bird, like the robins that came and sat on the handle of his barrow and watched him digging.

The sweet peas are coming on nice, said Johnson, and the herbaceous border near the potting shed that I sorted last year. I’d like fine if you could see it, Miss Dunne.

It was a temptation, and she hesitated for a moment before she refused. Another day, she said with a sigh of regret. Another day, Johnson, you shall give me your arm and I’ll walk down to the garden, but not today—I mustn’t tire myself today.

He nodded understanding. They were telling me, he said, with a jerk of his head toward the kitchen premises. They were saying that Mr. Humphrey is expected.

Yes, he’ll be here quite soon. He’ll enjoy your peas, Johnson.

It will be nice seeing him again. He’s not been here for a long time.

He’s been abroad.

Aye, he’ll be glad to be back, no doubt.

He’s a lieutenant-commander now, continued Miss Dunne. He’s thirty-five, you know. She made this statement with an air of surprise, for it seemed very odd that Humphrey should be thirty-five. He was the grandson of Miss Dunne’s youngest brother and she had always thought of him as quite a boy, but she had looked up the date of his birth and there was no doubt about it…

Aye, he’ll be about that, Johnson agreed. He’s ten years younger than me and I’ll be forty-five come September. The years slip past. They’re saying he’s married too.

Miss Dunne had long since ceased to marvel at the fact that her servants knew almost as much as she did about the affairs of her family. Yes, she replied. He’s been married for six years and he’s got three children—one son and two daughters.