Books 5-8: Whiteoak Heritage / Whiteoak Brothers / Jalna / Whiteoaks of Jalna

by Mazo de La Roche

  When Mama died! The thought of her death always brought a tremor of apprehension with it. There was first the dread of losing her, and, added to that, the prolonged uncertainty as to who would inherit her money. Not a hint had dropped from her lips. She had thought it enough for them to know it was willed in its entirety to one member of the family. Thus her power over them was kept undiminished through the years. And their suspense. She must be worth between ninety and a hundred thousand, all in reliable bonds and stocks. Ah, if she should leave it to him, he would have independence, power in the family! He would do so many nice things for the boys! Dear boys, it would be best for them if the money were left to him…

  Looking steadily into the glass, his cheeks flushed, his body erect, he was sure that he did not look more than fifty, or fifty-five at the most. The coat was so warm, as well as so becoming, he would wear it tomorrow—no more shillyshallying about it.

  Before he got into bed he went to the basket where his cat, Sasha, lay sleeping with her kitten beside her. He looked down on them with a wry smile. Sasha, at her age-she was twelve—to have a mongrel kitten! And not only to have it, but be brazen about it! He had thought she was past the age for having kittens—especially mongrel ones—-and then, one morning, she had had this one on his bed. Just given one yell, about six in the morning, and had it. It had sounded like a yell of triumph, rather than an outcry of pain. What a jolt it had given him at rhat hour in the day! He’d scarcely been able to eat any breakfast. It wasn’t only the sudden birth on his quilt, but the thought that Sasha… it wasn’t as though she were a silly young female to be intrigued by a pair of handsome whiskers!

  He murmured, “Kitty, kitty.” and touched her with his fingers. It was as though he had touched a vital nerve that controlled her whole body She unfolded like a fan, uncurling her body to its full length, raising the great golden plume of her tail. She opened her eyes, and then grinned impudently up at him—a great three-cornered grin that showed the roof of her mouth and her curling tongue.

  “Naughty, naughty.” he said, tickling her.

  Her kitten butted its little bullet head against her. It should have been drowned, but his love for Sasha made him weak. It showed no sign of its mother’s pure Persian birth, but there was something charming about its snow-white underpart, pink nose, and pointed grey ears. It had white paws, too, that looked large for it—working-class paws. The father was evidently a handsome fellow, but of the people.

  Even after he was in bed he stretched out his hand and felt for the pair in the basket. It was amusing to lie in bed with one’s hand snuggled against those warm furry bodies. It was comforting.

  Piers found Pheasant already in bed, her shingled brown head quite off the pillow on the edge of the mattress, her bright eyes gazing into the cradle.

  “piers, do you know, Mooey’s perfectly wonderful! What do you suppose he’d done? Got in between quite different layers of the blankets! I don’t see how he managed it. Goodness, you’ve been a long time.”

  “We got to talking.” He came over and looked down at the five-months-old baby. “Looks pretty fit, doesn’t he?”

  “Oo, the precious! Hand him in to me. I want him beside me while you get ready.”

  “Don’t be silly. I shan’t be five minutes. You’ll only disturb him.”

  “I want to see his little toes, don’t you?”

  “Pheasant, you’re nothing but a baby yourself… I say, someone’s been at my top drawer!”

  “Not me! Not Mooey! Oh, Piers, if you’d only seen the face he made then! His mouth just like a pink button and his eyebrows raised. He looked positively supercilious.”

  “If I thought young Finch had been at my cigarettes…” He muttered as he undressed.

  “Well, he had none of his own tonight. I know that. What would you do?”

  “I’d show him… Good Lord, I wish you had heard Uncle Ernest going on about his new coat after you left! I’ll bet you a new silk undie thing to a pair of socks that he ends by wearing his winter coat after all.”

  “Then you’d go and say something to discourage him. Just a few words from you like ‘Some day, this, Uncle Ernest,’ or you might simply come into the house shivering.”

  “Well, you’re free to tell him how balmy it is, and how perfect his shoulders look in the new coat.”

  “No. I’m not going to bet. It’s against my principles. From now on I’ve got to be setting a good example to my little baby.”

  Piers sputtered with laughter. He was in his pyjamas now. “Shall I put out the light?”

  “Piers, come here; I want to whisper.”

  He came and bent over her. Lying relaxed on the bed, her hair rumpled, a white shoulder showing above the slipped-down nightdress, she seemed suddenly very tender and appealing to Piers. She seemed as sweet and delicately vigorous as one of the young silver birches in the ravine.

  His heart quickened its beat. “Yes? What does she want?” His eyes glowed softly into hers.

  She hooked an arm around his neck. “I’m hungry, Piers. Would you—like a darling?”

  He looked genuinely shocked. “Hungry! Why, it isn’t any time since you were eating.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s ages. You forget how long you’ve been sitting downstairs talking. Besides, I’ve fed Mooey There’s practically all the good of my own supper gone. Anyway… will you, Piers?”

  He thought, as he descended the steps into the basement: “I’m spoiling her. Before the kid came she’d never have dreamed of sending me downstairs for food for her at this hour. She’d have jolly well got it herself. She’s getting just like those American wives in the magazines.”

  Nevertheless, he sought earnestly in the pantry for something to stay her. He could hear Mrs. Wragge’s bubbling snore from the room beyond the kitchen. He could hear the old kitchen clock ticking the night away as eagerly as though the game were fresh to it instead of seventy years repeated. He lifted an enormous dish cover. Under it three sausages. He looked between two plates turned together. Cold salmon. He opened a door. The last of the joint, cold boiled potatoes, beetroots in their own juice, the carcass of a fowl—that looked promising. No,high! Whew! He shut the door… What quantities of bread and buns all tumbled together in the bread-box! He chose a bun, split it, buttered it. That was that. Rather doubtfully he laid a sausage beside it. Cold rice pudding, packed with raisins. That was the thing! A saucer of that with cream… Ha! What was this? Plum cake. He cut a slab and devoured it like a schoolboy. Indigestible, that stuff, for a nursing mother.

  Pheasant, round-eyed, sat up in bed. “Oh, how scrumptious!”

  She clutched him and kissed him before she ate.

  The light out, Pheasant snuggling close to him. Mooey making comfortable little noises in his sleep like a puppy. The rain beating on the windows, accentuating the snugness and warmth of the indoors, the peace. The peace. Why was it that at times like these Eden’s face should come out of the darkness to trouble him? First as a pale disturbing reflection on the sea of his content, like the reflection of a stormy moon. Then clear and brilliant, wearing his strange ironic smile, the blank look in his eyes, as though he never quite clearly knew why he did things. Piers shut his own eyes more tightly. He clenched his teeth and pressed his forehead against Pheasant’s shoulder, trying not to think, trying not to see Eden’s face with its mocking smile.

  He tried to draw comfort from her nearness and warmth. She was his! That awful night when Finch had discovered the two in the wood together was a dream, a nightmare. He would not let the dreadful thought of it into his mind. But the thought came like a slinking beast, and Piers’s mouth was suddenly drawn to one side in a grimace of pain. Pheasant must have felt his unease, for she turned to him and put an arm about his head, drawing it against her breast.

  Nicholas could not sleep. “Too damn much rum,” he thought. “This comes of drinking scarcely anything stronger than tea. You get your system into such a state that a little honest spirits knocks your sleep in
to a cocked hat.”

  However, he didn’t particularly mind lying awake. His body was in a tranquil, steamy state, and pleasant visions from his past drifted before his eyes. The glamour of women he had cared for long ago hung like an essence in the room. He had forgotten their names (or would have had to make an effort to recall them), their faces were a blur, but the froufrou of their skirts—that adorable word “froufrou” that had no meaning now—whispered about him, more significant, more entrancing, than euphonious names or pretty faces. And their little hands (in days when women’s hands were really small, and “dazzling” was a word not too intense for the whiteness of their flesh) held out to him offering the flowers of dalliance… His thoughts became poetic; there was a kind of rhythm to them. Realizing this, he wondered if it were possible that Eden had taken his talent from him. That would be rather a joke, he thought. What if he began to write poetry himself! He believed he could at this moment if he tried.

  Nip, his Yorkshire terrier, who was curled up against his back, uncurled himself suddenly and began to scratch the quilt with concentrated vehemence. “Spider,” growled Nicholas, “catch a spider, Nip!” The little dog, giving vent to a series of yelps, tore at the quilt, snuggled into it, and at last recurled himself against his master’s back.

  Nicholas loved the feel of that compact ball against him. He lay chuckling into the blanket he had drawn pretty well over his head. He began to get drowsy… What had he been thinking of? Oh yes, old days. Affairs. When Nip had begun that bout of scratching he had been recalling a little affair with an Irish girl at Cowes—it must have been quite thirty-five years ago, and the memory of it as fresh as her skin had been then! Ha—he had it! Adeline, that had been her name—the same name as his mother’s. His mother. How she had hung on to Renny and kissed! And how they had stared into each other’s eyes! A thought came to him with a nasty jolt. Suppose Renny were trying to get around her—get on the inside track after her money… One never could tell… That red head of his. He might be as crafty as the devil for all one could tell. Nicholas remembered suddenly how as a child Renny could get things out of his grandmother… What if all his caresses were calculated?

  Nicholas became blazing hot, his brain a hotbed of suspicion. He flung the covers from his shoulders and put his arms out on the quilt. Nip began to smack his lips as though he were savouring the imaginary spider he had caught. The rain dripped steadily. Nicholas lay staring into the darkness, going over in his mind encounters between the two—little things trivial in themselves, but which seemed to indicate that Kenny’s influence was unduly strong with the old lady. Good heavens, if Renny were worming his way in there, how dreadful! He would never forgive him!

  He heard a step in the hall, Renny’s step. He felt that he must speak to him, see his face, discover perhaps some telltale predatory gleam in his eye. He called: “Is that you, Renny?”

  Renny opened the door. “Yes, Uncle Nick. Want something?”

  “Light my lamp, will you? I can’t sleep.”

  “H’m. What’s the matter with this family?” He struck a match and came toward the lamp. “Wake’s been having a heart attack.”

  Nicholas growled sympathetically. “That’s too bad. Too bad. Poor little fellow. Is he better of it? Can I do anything?”

  “I shouldn’t have left him if he hadn’t been better. I think he overdid it helping Gran to get up. He gets excited about things, too… Is that high enough?” The clear flame of the lamp illumined the strongly marked features that looked as though they had been fashioned for the facing of high winds, carved more deeply the line of anxiety between the brows, accented the close-lying pointed ears.

  Nothing underhand, self-seeking, in that face, Nicholas thought, but I mustn’t let the old lady get too doting about him. He’s the kind of man that women… “One thing that was keeping me awake,” he observed, peering shrewdly into the illumined face, “was the thoughts of Mama. Her spirit, isn’t it amazing?”

  “A corker.”

  “It seems impossible to think that some day… Renny, has she ever said anything to you about how she’s left her money?”

  “Not a word. I’ve always taken it for granted that you’ll get it. You’re the eldest son and her favourite—a Court and all that—you ought to have it.”

  Nicholas’s voice was sweet with reassurance. “Yes, I suppose that’s the natural thing. Just set the lamp on the table here where I can reach it. Thanks, Renny. Good night, and tell Wake that he’s to go straight to sleep and dream of a glorious trip to England Uncle Nick’s going to take him.”

  “Righto. Good night.”

  He took from the mantel his special pipe, the sweet instrument of his bedtime smoke, and filled it. He stretched his leather-legginged legs before him, and, as he pressed the tobacco down into the bowl with his little finger, he gazed thoughtfully at Wake sleeping on the bed. Poor little beggar! What a time he’d had with him! A rotten bad spell, and that after weeks and weeks of seeming so well. He supposed it was the raw chill of the weather they’d been having that had pulled him down. That and heaving Gran about. He was such a game youngster, he’d tackle anything.

  Wake’s hair, rather long for an eleven-year-old, lay in a dark halo around his face. With his beautifully marked eyebrows, his fringed white lids, and his breath coming flutteringly through his parted lips, his appearance was such that it hurt Renny to look at him. Dash it all—would he ever rear the kid? Well, thank goodness, he was a little devil sometimes! He leaned forward and gently took the little thin wrist in his, felt the pulse. Quieter, more even. Wake lifted his lids.

  “Oh, hello, Renny!”

  “Hello. What are you awake for?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m better. I say, Renny, may I go to the horse show tomorrow?”

  “Not if I know it. You’ll wait and go with the other kids on Saturday.”

  “How much can I have to spend?”

  “Spend! What on?”

  “Why you know. They take around ice cream and chocolates and lemonade.”

  “Twenty-five cents.”

  “Oh. But last year there was a fortune-telling place just outside the restaurant part. I’d like to get my fortune told.”

  “Better not. You might hear something bad.”

  “What do you mean bad? Like dying?”

  Renny scowled. “Good Lord, no! Like getting a sound hiding.”

  “Oh… I was thinking I might hear of a fortune being left me.”

  Kenny’s voice hardened. “What are you talking about, Wake? What fortune?” What the devil had the child in his mind?

  “I dunno… I say, Renny, I love watching your face. The way your nostrils go. They’re funny. And the way you wiggle your eyebrows. I love watching you, more ‘specially when you don’t know it.”

  How cleverly the little rascal could change the subject! Renny laughed. “Well, I guess you’re the one person who does, then.”

  Wakefield stole a sly look at him. “Oh no. There was someone else. Alayne. She loved watching you. I often caught her at it.”

  His elder sent forth a cloud of smoke. “What surprises me is the number of things you know which you’ve no right to know, and how slow you are on the uptake with useful information.”

  Wakefield closed his eyes. “He’s getting himself worked up to cry” thought Renny. He asked: “How about those legs? Nice and warm now? That nasty feeling gone, eh?” He put his hand under the clothes and began soothingly to rub them.

  Alayne! What was she doing tonight? Was she happy? Forgetting him? Oh no, she wouldn’t forget—any more than he! He wished to God he could forget! It had always been so easy for him to forget—the natural thing. And now, after more than a year, a sudden mention of her name sent the same tremor through him—gave him a sudden jolt, as though his horse had stumbled… He rubbed the little legs rhythmically. Wake slept. The room was dimmed by a blue-grey haze of smoke… He heard Finch moving in the room above and remembered that the boy’s school fees were o
verdue. He unlocked a drawer and took out a slim roll of banknotes. Separating three tens and a five, he put them into an envelope, addressed and sealed it.

  In the attic the only sign of habitation was the rim of light beneath Finch’s door. He was about to turn the knob when a bolt was shot on the inside and he heard the boy’s quick breathing.

  “Hello,” he rapped out. “What’s this mean?”

  “Oh, darn it all, Renny. I didn’t know it was you!” He slid back the bolt and stood sheepish and red.

  “Did you think it was the canary fellow come to get the lottery ticket?” He grinned down at Finch sarcastically.

  Finch mumbled: “Thought it was Piers.”

  “Why? Had you been pinching something of his?”

  The random shot went home. The boy’s flush deepened, he stammered a weak denial, and Renny’s grin exploded in a laugh. “You’re certainly going to the dogs! What was it— ties? Cigarettes?”

  “Cigarettes.”

  “H’m… Well, here is your fee for the term. I should have sent it by cheque, but—the truth is, my account is a bit overdrawn. Just hand it to the bursar—and no frenzied finance on the way!” He laid a dollar on the envelope. “Get some fags for yourself, and cut out this light-fingered business. Also, keep inside your allowance.”

  Finch’s hand shook as he took the money. He brought the lamp to light his elder down the stairs. “Is Wake feeling rocky tonight?” he asked, heavily.

  “Yes.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry.”

  He watched the lean figure descend, noticing how the lamplight sought the warm russet of leather leggings and close-cropped head. He wished to God he had some of Renny’s ginger!