by Mary Stewart
No one made any attempt to stop him. Lisa got up with rather too patent relief, and let him carry the coffee cups out to the kitchen for her.
I followed. ‘I’ll come back in a minute, Lisa, when I’ve done the gate for Donald. Leave them for me: you said you would.’
It was dusk in the lee of the big barn, where Donald had parked his car. When I reached it, I couldn’t see him. Puzzled, I paused beside the car, peering around me into the shadows.
Then I heard a soft step, and turned swiftly. Donald came very quietly round the end of the barn, from the direction of the stableyard. Seeing me waiting beside the car, he stopped abruptly, and even in that light I could see he was out of countenance. I stared at him, completely at a loss for words. He looked like a man who has been caught out in a dubious act.
There was one of those ghastly pauses, then he smiled. ‘It’s all right, I haven’t been hiding the silver behind the barn. I’ve been visiting friends.’
‘Friends?’ I said, blankly.
He laughed. ‘Come and see.’
I followed him into the yard, where he pushed open the half-door of the empty stable. The interior smelt sweet and dry, of hay and horses. Opposite the door was a big loose-box, the bars down now, since Blondie had gone out to grass. Donald switched on the light, and led the way into the loose-box. There was an iron manger running the breadth of it, deep, and half full of clean straw. I supposed the hens laid there sometimes.
‘Here,’ said Donald softly, ‘meet the family.’
I leaned over the manger. Deep in the straw was a nest, but not of eggs. Seven kittens, some days old, still blind and boneless, all sleeping soundly, lay curled together in a tight, furry mass, black and white and ginger. Donald put down a gentle hand to touch the warm fur. As he did so, a wraith, black and white, jumped on to the iron manger at his elbow, purred softly, and slid down beside the kittens. There was a wriggling, and butting, and readjusting of fur, then Tommy settled down, eyes slitted and happy, paws steadily kneading the rustling straw.
‘How on earth did you find them?’ I whispered.
‘Tommy showed me tonight, when I got back from West Lodge.’
‘Well, I’ll keep your secret. Nobody’ll come in here, while the horses are out . . . Did you really have to leave so early?’
‘I thought I’d better.’
‘Mm, yes, I see what you mean.’ We left the darkened stable quietly, and walked back to the car. Beside it, I hesitated for a moment, then turned quickly to him. ‘Look, Donald, don’t worry.’
‘Aren’t you worrying?’
‘Well, one can’t help it, can one? But nothing’ll have happened. Depend on it, they’ve forgotten, and stayed out to a meal, or something.’
‘It seems unlikely.’
‘Well, perhaps the car has broken down.’
‘Mphm,’ said Donald.
‘Why don’t you wait? They really ought not to be long.’
‘No, thanks, but I won’t. Did I remember to thank Miss Dermott for the supper?’
‘You thanked her very nicely. No, I’ll do the gate.’
‘Oh, thank you . . .’ but he lingered, a hand on the car door. He seemed about to say something, then I thought he changed his mind. What he did say, rather tentatively, was: ‘Nice chap, Forrest.’
‘Yes.’
‘He seems interested in this quarry. He says he’ll come over himself tomorrow, and hunt up that stone in the cellar with me.’
‘I hope you’ll find it. Does it sound to you as if it could be the real thing?’
‘That’s impossible to tell, but I think it may well be, if only because he’s kept that strong impression, all these years, that it was Roman. He thinks there must have been at least one or two words that he and his sister would have recognised as Latin, even at the age of nine or ten.’ He grinned. ‘He reckons that an EST or a SUB would have been about their limit at the time. Let’s hope he’s right.’
‘It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it?’
‘At best,’ said Donald cheerfully, ‘it’ll probably simply say “Vote for P. Varro as quarry foreman. Shorter hours and longer pay”.’
I laughed. ‘Well, good luck to it, anyway.’
‘Would you care to come along tomorrow afternoon and help in the hunt?’
‘No, thanks, I won’t. I – I have things I’ve got to do.’
‘Mphm,’ said Donald. This time it seemed to signify a vague agreement. He hesitated again, and suddenly I found myself wondering if Julie had told him anything about Adam.
I glanced up at him. ‘I’m sorry I was upset this afternoon. Did he – did he mind, d’you think?’
‘He didn’t seem to.’ Donald spoke so quickly that I realised that this was exactly what he had been wanting to say, and hadn’t liked to broach the subject, even to bring me comfort. ‘He said nothing. I’m sure he’d understand. I shouldn’t worry.’
‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Good night, Donald.’
‘Good night.’
The car’s engine started with a roar, and the ancient vehicle jerked forward. I saw Donald lift a hand as he passed me, then the car grumbled its way off into the dusk towards High Riggs and the top of the hill.
The washing-up was done, and we were back in the drawing room, Lisa with some mending for Con, myself playing a rather abstracted game of cribbage with Grandfather, when at length we heard a car enter the yard. Almost before it had drawn to a halt, one of its doors slammed; there was a short pause, and, faintly, the sound of voices, then the car moved off again immediately, and high heels tapped quickly across the yard to the kitchen door. We heard Julie cross the kitchen lobby and push open the green baize door to the hall. Then the hasty steps tapped their way across the hall, and were on the carpeted stairs.
Grandfather put his cards down with a slam, and shouted: ‘Julie!’
The flying steps stopped. There was a pause.
‘Julie!’
She came slowly down the stairs again, and crossed the hall to the drawing-room door. With another part of my mind I heard the car’s engine receding over the hill.
The drawing-room door opened. Julie stood there for a moment before she came in. Her eyes went swiftly round the room, and came to rest on Grandfather. Her hair was ruffled from the ride in the open car; her colour was high, and her eyes shone brilliantly, as the pupils dilated to meet the light. She looked very lovely; she also looked like the conventional picture of the young girl fresh from her lover’s embrace, confused by the sudden light and the watching eyes. For a moment I wondered, with a sinking heart, if I had been wrong, and her interest in Bill Fenwick was serious, but then – I’m not quite sure how, except that Julie and I were so much alike – I knew, with relieved certainty, that the confused brilliance of her glance was due, not to love and embarrassment, but to sheer temper.
I saw Lisa’s plump hands check in their work, and the sock she was mending sink slowly to her lap, as she stared at Julie with what looked like speculation.
‘Julie!’ Grandfather sounded angry. ‘Where have you been? We’ve spent the whole evening waiting and watching for you, and worrying in case anything had happened. Heaven knows I don’t expect you to remember anything so completely unimportant as your grandfather’s birthday, but I do think—’
‘I’m sorry, Grandfather.’ Her voice was tolerably composed, but I saw how white her hand was on the door-knob. ‘I – we meant to get back. I didn’t forget – there was an accident.’
‘An accident?’ The old man’s hands had been flat on the table among the cards. I saw them twitch, like a puppet’s hands pulled by strings threaded through the arms.
I looked up quickly. ‘I take it nobody’s hurt?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it was a silly thing. It wasn’t Bill’s fault. We weren’t going fast – it was in the speed-limit area, and Bill really was driving quite slowly. Somebody backed out of a garage straight into us.’
‘Was Bill’s car damaged?’
‘
Yes. The door panel was dented, and he’d hit the front wheel, and Bill was afraid he’d knocked it out of true, and bent the track rod, or whatever you call it, but he hadn’t. Then there was all the fuss and the police’ – she swallowed – ‘you know how it is; and then we had to get the car back to a garage and let them see what the damage was, and Bill had to arrange to take it back later to have it done. I – we couldn’t help it, really we couldn’t.’
‘Of course you couldn’t,’ I said. ‘Look, honey, have you had your supper? Because—’
‘You could have telephoned,’ said Grandfather sharply. I noticed he was breathing hard, and the thin fingers twitched among the fallen cards.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Julie again, but with something too sharp and driven sounding in her voice. Outside, the yard gate clashed, and I saw her jump. ‘I know I should have, but I didn’t think of it till we were on the way home. You – you know how it is, with everything happening, and Bill’s car, and the other man being foul about it, and telling all sorts of lies to the police, only they did believe Bill and me . . .’ Her voice quavered and she stopped.
Grandfather opened his mouth to speak, but I forestalled him.
‘She’d be too upset to think about it, Grandfather. You know what even the smallest of accidents is like; it shakes you right to pieces. Well, it’s lucky it’s no worse.’ Then, to Julie, ‘We thought it might be something like this; we knew you wouldn’t have skipped the party unless something had happened. Look, my dear’ – I got to my feet – ‘it’s obvious you’ve had a shaking. I think you should get yourself straight upstairs to bed. I’ll bring you something to eat; there’s plenty left . . . That was a wonderful meal you missed – Aylesbury ducklings, and strawberries straight off the straw. Tommy ate the trifle.’
‘Did he?’ said Julie uncertainly. ‘Lisa, really, I’m terribly sorry, but—’
Lisa said: ‘Donald Seton was here.’ It was impossible to tell, from her composed, colourless tone, whether or not she was actuated by deliberate malice.
The result was the same. Julie bit her lip, stammered, and looked ready to cry. ‘Here? I – I didn’t think he was coming.’
I said gently: ‘I met him when I was on my way back from Bellingham. His London colleague had left early, and he was free, so I told him we were expecting him. He’d obviously been hoping to come, anyway.’ I smiled. ‘He’d changed into a very respectable suit.’
‘He left some time ago,’ said Lisa. ‘We thought he would wait to see you, but he said he had to go.’
Julie turned to look at her, but vaguely, as if she wasn’t really seeing her. I said, as lightly as I could: ‘I hope this all happened after the play? You saw that all right?’
‘Oh, yes. It – it was wonderful.’
‘Then I expect, when you’ve had a rest,’ I said briskly, ‘you’ll vote it was worth it, accident or no. Now, darling, I really think—’
The baize door opened and swung shut on a whoosh of air. Con came quickly across the hall, to pause in the open doorway behind Julie.
He had changed back into his work-clothes before he had gone up to the field, and in breeches and open-necked shirt he looked tough, and also extremely handsome. And this for the same reason as Julie. He, too, was in a flaming temper, and it didn’t need much gazing in the crystal ball to guess that the pair of them had just had a monumental row.
Julie never even turned her head on his approach. She merely hunched one shoulder a little stiffly, as if he were a cold draught behind her, and said to Lisa, on a strained, high note: ‘Did Donald say anything?’
‘What about?’ asked Lisa.
‘No, Julie,’ I said.
Grandfather’s hand scuffed irritably at the cards on the table in front of him. ‘What’s all this? What’s all this? Young Seton? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Julie. ‘Nothing at all!’ Her voice went thin and high. ‘And nor has Con!’ She flung him a glance over her shoulder, about as friendly as a volley of swan-shot.
‘Con?’ Grandfather’s eyes went from one to the other. ‘Con?’ he repeated querulously. ‘Where does Con come into this?’
‘That’s just it!’ said Julie, dangerously. ‘He doesn’t, for all he seems to think he’s the master here, and I’m answerable to him! Can you imagine—?’ She checked herself, and went on in a voice that trembled insecurely on the edge of self-control: ‘Just now, as we came back, Bill had to stop the car for the gate at High Riggs – you know the grid’s broken, and you’ve to use the gate – well, Con saw fit to come over, and ask me where the hell I’d been (I’m sorry, Grandfather, but I’m only saying what he said), and why was I so late, and, as if that wasn’t bad enough he started pitching into Bill! As if it had been Bill’s fault! Even if it had, it’s not your business—’ swinging on her cousin – ‘to start anything like that! What put you in such a howling temper, for heaven’s sake? Speaking to Bill like that, swearing and everything, making a fool of me . . . and I’ll be very surprised if he shows his face here again! He was furious, and I don’t blame him! I had to apologise for you! How do you like that?’
‘You know, Connor,’ said Grandfather, mildly enough, ‘you ought not to have done this. Julie’s explained it to us. It wasn’t young Fenwick’s fault that—’
‘That’s not the point!’ cried Julie. ‘Don’t you see? Even if it had been Bill’s fault or mine, it’s none of Con’s business! If I choose to stay out all night, that’s my affair!’
‘And mine,’ said Grandfather, with sudden grim humour.
‘All right,’ said Julie, ‘yours! But not Con’s! He takes too dashed much on himself, and always did! It’s time someone said something. It’s been going on for years, without anyone noticing, and now this – this sort of thing – is the last straw as far as I’m concerned! Being ticked off like a naughty child in front of Bill Fenwick, and all because—’ she mimicked Con’s voice – ‘it was “vital we should all have been here tonight, and now Great-Uncle Matthew’s as mad as fire!”’ She swung back on Con. ‘So what? I’ve explained to him, and that’s all there is to it. Why should you make it your business? You’re not the master here yet, and as far as I’m concerned you never will be!’
‘Julie!’ I said sharply. ‘That’s enough!’
They ignored me. Grandfather thrust his head forward, his eyes intent under scowling brows. ‘And just what do you mean by that?’
‘Just,’ said Julie, ‘that this is my home, and Con – why Con doesn’t even belong here! And I’m beginning to think there isn’t room for both of us, not any more! If I’m to be able to go on coming here—’
Grandfather slammed the cards down on the table in front of him. ‘And now, perhaps you’ll let me speak! What you appear to forget, all of you, is that this is my house . . . still! Oh, I know you think I’m old, and sick, and that I’ll go at any moment; I’m not a fool, that may be true, and by heaven, from the sort of scene you’ve made tonight, you appear to be eager to see the last of me! No, keep quiet, you’ve said enough; you’ve had a shaking, and I’ll excuse you for that reason, and we’ll say no more, but let me make this clear; this is my house, and while I’m alive I’ll expect civil conduct in it, or you, Julie, and you, Connor, can both of you go elsewhere! And now I’m going to bed.’ And he put shaky hands to the arms of his chair.
Julie said raggedly, on a sob: ‘I’m sorry, Grandfather. I – I am a bit shaken up, I guess. I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t want any food, Annabel. I’m going upstairs.’
She turned past Con as if he didn’t exist, and ran out of the room.
Con hadn’t moved. It wasn’t until that moment, when we were all looking at him, that I realised that, since he had come in, he hadn’t spoken. His face seemed to have emptied even of anger, and gone blank. His eyes looked unfocused.
‘Well?’ said Grandfather, harshly. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Con turned on his heel without a word, and went back across the hall. The baize doo
r whispered itself shut behind him.
I stooped over Grandfather’s chair. ‘Darling, don’t upset yourself. Julie’s a bit strung-up tonight; she’s more shaken than she knows . . . and Con . . . Con’s been working far too hard, you know he has, and I guess he’s tired. It wasn’t very sensible of him to tackle Julie, but if they hadn’t both been a bit edgy, it wouldn’t have come to anything. I expect they’ll apologise in the morning.’
He looked up at me, almost vaguely, as if the effort of that last speech had exhausted him. He looked very old, and tired, and almost as if he didn’t quite know who I was. He said, muttering it to himself rather than to me: ‘Always the same. Always the same. Too highly strung, that’s what it is, your mother always said so; and Julie’s the same. History repeats itself.’ The faded eyes focused on me then. ‘Annabel. Should have married Con in the first place, as I wanted. Settled the pair of you. Settled this. I’m going to bed.’
I bent to help him rise, but as soon as he was on his feet he shook me off almost pettishly. ‘I can manage, I can manage. No, don’t come with me. I don’t want a pack of women. And that goes for you, too, Lisa. Good God, d’you think I can’t see myself to bed?’
He went slowly to the door. I thought, he really is old; the tallness, and the sudden flashes of energy are what deceive us . . . Something closed round me that might have been loneliness, or fear . . .
He went out. Lisa and I were left looking at one another.
I remember thinking, with something like a shock, one forgets she’s there; she heard all that; she heard what was said to Con . . .
She had put her work composedly away. For all she showed it, the scene might never have taken place. As she moved towards the door, I said quickly: ‘He meant it, you know. I wouldn’t upset him by saying anything else.’
