by Sara Craven
She said quite amiably, 'Good morning, sweetie. You look dreadful. Wasn't your night on what passes for a town round here a success?'
Rowan moistened her lips. She said carefully, 'It was all right.' She hesitated. 'Antonia, I'm sorry about our disagreement-about the money. If I could help, I would, only it's impossible and . . .'
'Don't worry about it,' said Antonia. She put up her hand and pushed it through her hair, lifting it luxuriously away from the back of her neck.
Rowan stared at her. 'But you said . . .'
'I was hasty,' Antonia said, and smiled again. 'The fact is the money isn't a problem any more. It really isn't, sweetie.' As she spoke, she glanced back over her shoulder towards the room she had come from. Carne's room. Then she looked back at Rowan. 'You were quite right, angel. It was the simplest solution in the end,' and her smile was ripe with reminiscent pleasure.
Rowan felt sick as if someone had just jabbed her unexpectedly and unpleasantly in the midriff, but she kept her head up and neither her gaze nor her voice faltered as she said, 'I'm very happy for you, Antonia-happy about everything. I suppose you and Carne will be getting married quite soon.'
'Quite soon,' Antonia agreed. 'It's just a question of fixing up the formalities.' She paused. 'I imagine you won't want to waste any more time around here. You'll be anxious to get back to London as soon as possible.'
'Yes,' Rowan said noncommittally. Anxious, she thought, wasn't really the word. It didn't do anything to describe the gnawing, desperate agony which had her in its grip.
'Well, there's nothing to keep you here now.' Antonia was studying her fingernails with some attention. She looked very beautiful this morning, Rowan thought detachedly, and much younger with those harsh, strained lines gone from her face. Perhaps that was what the prospect of security did for you, or maybe it was the way most women looked after fulfilment, sleek and relaxed and not caring who knew it.
Antonia went on, 'I managed to persuade him to forgive us for our little deception—eventually.' She giggled. 'But you really made him angry, sweetie. Not a sensible move. Carne's a bad man to cross.'
Rowan made herself smile back. 'So I discovered.' She managed to inject, she thought, just the right amount of ruefulness into her tone. 'All the more reason to make myself scarce as soon as possible.' She paused. 'Did—did Carne tell you that I'd lost my job at the pottery?'
'No.' Antonia's eyes flicked up sharply and fixed on Rowan's face. 'How did that happen?'
Rowan shrugged. 'It's a long and complicated story, and I won't bore you with it, but it does mean I'll have to get another job. I haven't nearly enough money saved yet to see me through college next winter.'
'But you could find work in London, surely.'
'Perhaps, but I think I'd stand a better chance in Kes- wick. The souvenir shops and cafes often want extra help in the holiday season. Will you be going into Keswick later on, because if so maybe I could go with you and see what was available.'
'I shan't be going in,' Antonia said almost absently, as if she was thinking about something else.
'Oh.' Rowan was taken aback. She had become used to Antonia's almost daily absences, but she should have realised that now Carne was back, there would be a change in the pattern of her stepmother's days. 'Well, it doesn't matter. Next week will do.'
There was a pause, and then Antonia seemed to re-focus on her. 'Honestly, sweetie, I think you'd do far better if you went south again. And I'd have thought that under the circumstances you'd have preferred it yourself. You'll get over your little crush on Carne much more easily at a distance.'
Rowan looked back at her steadily. 'Antonia,' she said, 'I came here for your convenience, but I'm going to leave for my own. I haven't the slightest intention of presenting myself in London with nowhere to live, no job and hardly any money. Not even you could expect me to do so. I'm sorry if my continuing presence here is inconvenient to you, but maybe I should remind you that I never wanted to come here in the first place.'
'No, you didn't,' Antonia s voice was silkily pleasant. 'What a pity I didn't leave you there to stagnate in that dreary little flat. Believe me, darling, if I could have done so, I would have.'
'Oh, I'm well aware of that.' Rowan couldn't disguise her bitterness. 'I was just a means to an end, but now you're going to be married and your allowance is safe, I've become instantly dispensable. Well, unfortunately you're going to be stuck with me for a while yet. Thanks to you, my life is in sufficient mess as it is. Next time I'm going to try and get it right.'
Antonia lifted a hand to her mouth to mask a yawn. 'Just as you please, sweetie,' she said lightly. 'I merely thought it would be less—humiliating, shall we say—if you made a tactical withdrawal. But we won't fall out about it.' And, as Rowan turned to go downstairs, 'Oh, and if you're going to make some coffee, I would love a cup. Carne, too, I daresay.'
Rowan wanted to scream at her, 'Make it yourself!' but she controlled herself. Antonia, she thought, would now be hell-bent on making her life at Raven's Crag as difficult as possible, and she would just have to ride out the storm as best she could. And making coffee to order would probably be the least of her troubles, so it was not worth making a fuss about.
She set the percolator going, tidied the kitchen and opened the door to the garden to let the sun and breeze in. She lingered for a moment in the open doorway, lifting her face to the warmth and the scents on the air, and a feeling of desolation swept over her as she realised how soon she would have to exchange the vibrant, verdant beauty of this place for the concrete pavements and fumes of London. It was amazing how easily she had transplanted to this new environment, how easily she had made it her own. She felt as much a part of this fell as the ravens who chose its shelter in which to live their lives and breed their young. She remembered the glossy feathers of the bird she had seen the day before, and the joyous freedom of its flight, and sighed.
A slight movement behind her invaded her consci ousness with the awareness that she was no longer alone. She turned hurriedly and came face to face with Carne.
He was dressed, but his chin was unshaven, and his eyes were bloodshot and deeply shadowed as he stared across the kitchen at her. The silence stretched tautly between them, until at last Rowan said quickly and inanely, 'Good morning. It—it's a lovely day. Would you like some coffee?'
'When I look back on this bloody summer,' he said sardonically, 'my overriding memory will be of you, Rowan, eternally offering me coffee.'
She flushed. 'I'm sorry, but Antonia said . . .'
'I'm quite sure she did,' he returned. 'And don't apologise . Yes, I'll have some of your coffee, and also some aspirin, if you can suggest where I might find some.'
Rowan gave a swift frown. 'I'm not sure there are any. Wait a minute, though. I think there are some in Sybilla's bathroom. I saw them when I tidied the cabinet the other day.'
She walked to the door, but he barred the way. He said, 'The aspirin will wait, Rowan. You and I must talk.'
'There's nothing to talk about.' She stared past him. She could not meet his gaze again. Her mind was tortured by images of Antonia and himself together.
'I think there is.' He took a step nearer to her. 'After last night...'
'And last night I want to talk about least of all,' she said raggedly. 'For God's sake let me go, and leave me in peace from here on in.'
There was silence, and then he said, 'If that's what you want, so be it.'
She thought, 'What I want? I want you, Carne. I want you now and for ever, in sickness and in health, as the marriage service says. I want to be close to you, in your thoughts as well as in your arms. I want my child to be yours. I want my life to be built around you, and only you.'
Aloud, she said flatly, 'That's what I want.' Then she walked out of the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER TEN
Alone in her room, Rowan stayed by the window for a while, looking out at the view with blank unseeing eyes. Wherever her lif
e might lead her, she thought, a vista of pale skies, grey and amethyst fells and a distant glimmer of water would always rouse her to remembered sadness.
She glanced down at the sheet of paper in the typewriter, trying to make sense of the words, but they danced in front of her in a meaningless blur, and after a moment she tore the sheet out and crumpled it into a ball. She had no business to be writing love stories—especially love stories with happy endings. She didn't want to write about people at all, if it came to that. She wanted something as removed from her own sphere of experience as possible. Something Came has said came back to her. 'Tales of derring-do for tiny tots.' Well, why not? At least it would be an occupation.
Listlessly, she sat down at the typewriter, fitting another piece of paper into the machine, touching the keys here and there, trying to recapture the germ of an idea which had occurred to her the day before when she was out on the fells with Carne. It was the sight of the raven, wheeling and turning with the sun glinting on its feathers, which had done it—which had made her wonder how one of the ravens from the Tower would manage if it changed places with one of those from the fell. In her mind's eye she could see the raven, its coat drab and a little dusty like a City commuter, its movements precise and ordered with none of the grace and freedom she had sensed out on the fell.
She would have to do some research, she thought, find out as much as possible about ravens, what they fed on, how they made their nests, their breeding habits. She would read up the ancient myths and legends concerning them too. As her story was intended for young children, she wouldn't labour this part of her research, but if she could make it interesting enough, perhaps some of the children would be prompted to find out more for themselves.
Her mouth twisted a little. She was getting much too far ahead of herself. The story wasn't written yet, let alone published and being seized on by eager young hands.
But even if her story never saw the light of day, she thought, at least it would give her something to think about except her own unhappiness. She needed something, some interest to fill her days. The emptiness of the nights was something she did not want to contemplate.
She had been working for about two hours, drafting a possible outline for her story, when there was a knock at the door and Carne walked "in without further preamble.
'What. is it?' Her voice was slightly' defensive, and she stationed herself between him and the work in-her machine. She didn't want him to come over and read what she had written. This was her defence against him, against the' world, and it was too new and vulnerable to be shared.
'It's a number of things,' he said briefly. He had shaved, she noticed inconsequentially, but he still looked weary, and the lines on his face had deepened, the scar beside his mouth showing up white against his tan. 'Firstly, I've been on to an employment agency, and they're sending over a possible housekeeper, so that should take the-pressure off a little.'
'Well-yes.' She was a little at a loss, wondering why he should bother to tell her. 'The house is rather big for Antonia to look after. She--she isn't altogether used to housework, as you must have realised.'
'Yes, I realised,' he said rather grimly. 'I was a fool to expect . . . but that doesn't matter now. The woman will be arriving tomorrow, and perhaps you could spare an hour or two to show her about, and provide an explanation if it's necessary.'
'Very well.' Rowan wasn't sure why he was asking her to do this. Antonia was the mistress of the house now, all but legally, and it was surely her place to talk to the new housekeeper and give her her instructions. But all too probably, Antonia had no relish for the task. She would consider it a bore.
'You, might stress how important it is for her to keep out of the studio,' said Carne, after a brief pause. 'I tolerate no one in there when I'm working.'
'You're going to start painting again? I-I'm very pleased.'
'Are you?' His voice was cool, his eyes and face remote.
'I'm taking your advice and starting a portrait of Antonia.'
'That's-good,' she managed. It wasn't good, but it was appropriate, setting the seal on their relationship, she supposed. Antonia would like to be painted. She would see it as a tribute to her beauty from the man who enjoyed it, just as she had regarded the furs and jewels Victor Winslow had lavished on her in the same way. She would like to see that beauty encapsulated, preserved for all time on canvas.
'The other thing I have to tell you is that Grace is downstairs. She wants to talk to you-to apologise. David has revived sufficiently to give a full account of last night's happenings, and she's realised how hasty she's been.'
'I see.' Rowan's fingers drummed restlessly on the typewriter keys for a moment. 'Well, there's no need to apologise. I can understand why she reacted as she did. Perhaps you'd thank her for me.'
'And perhaps I won't,' he said impatiently. 'Come downstairs and speak to her, at least, Rowan. She wants you to go back to work at the pottery, and you can't pretend you don't need the job--or the money anyway.'
She said, 'I'll make out.'
'Don't be a stubborn fool,' he said icily. 'And don't punish Grace for something she said when· she was half out of her mind with anxiety. She doesn't deserve it and she's come to make amends. You can at least give her the courtesy of a hearing.'
He turned and went out of the room, and she glared after him, but after a moment she got up and followed.
Grace was waiting in the sitting room, looking rather nervous.
She said immediately Rowan appeared, 'I'm sorry, love. I leapt to conclusions. Will you forgive me and come back and work for us again? I don't think we can do without you.'
They were alone, and Rowan had closed the door behind her. She said slowly, 'I'll come back willingly, Grace, but 1 can't promise to stay the summer. As soon as I've saved enough money, I'm leaving, but if you're prepared to have me under those conditions . . .'
'You've quarrelled with Carne? Oh, I was afraid that might happen. Clive said this morning that he'd been furious with you, and it's our fault.'
'It isn't.' Rowan gave a little sigh. 'Well, only indirectly.
You see, because of what happened last night, he realised that I'd been making a fool of him-that 1 was in fact several years older than I'd let him think.'
'Well, of course you are,' Grace said surprisingly. 'Clive and 1 had figured that out when we first met you, but then we've had-more experience of adolescents than Carne has. What we couldn't understand was why. You're still far too young to need to lie about your age.'
Rowan made a weary gesture. 'Let's just say it seemed like a good idea at the time, and leave it at that. But Carne was very angry when he found out-justifiably so, I suppose.'
'I suppose too,' Grace agreed. 'And he can be a swine when he loses his temper, although 1 must say I've never known him bear a grudge.'
'I could be the first.' Rowan's voice shook a little, but she made herself smile. 'But it doesn't really matter. It just gives me a greater incentive to get away from here. Anyway, that's enough of me. How's David?'
'Praying for death, I imagine. He's got the most terrifying hangover, but the doctor thinks there'll be no ill effects.' Grace's brightness was shadowed for a moment. 'But it was a terrible thing to do. He could have had alcoholic poisoning and died.'
'What about Jeff Wainwright?'
'Taken himself off to Manchester very conveniently.
Clive went round this morning, only to find the bird had flown. The mother and sister were there, both obviously upset, so Clive guessed they knew what had happened last night, or at least part of it. There's a rumour in the village that they're putting the shop and their cottage up for sale and moving away, and I must say I shan't be sorry if they do. And nor, I suspect, will anyone else.' She sighed, then pulled herself briskly together. 'So it's' settled, then, is it?You'll come in to work as usual on Monday?'
'I'll be there,' Rowan promised, and after a few moments Grace went off.
Rowan wandered over
to the window and stood looking out for a moment. She supposed she could go back upstairs and get on with her story, but she felt she had done as much as she could for now. She glanced rather ruefully round the room. She could usefully employ herself restoring a little order in here and other parts of the house before the new housekeeper arrived. She didn't want the woman to turn tail and flee, appalled at the magnitude of the task confronting her. She couldn't hope in a few brief hours to restore the gloss and sheen Raven's Crag had worn when they arrived, but maybe she could do something to make the place look a little less neglected and uncared-for.
She was plugging in the Hoover when Antonia walked in.
'No need to play the little menial anymore, sweetie. Came's getting some real help in at long last,' she tossed at her carelessly, as she kicked off her shoes and sank down on the sofa. 'Was that Grace Lister's car I saw leaving here?'
'Yes, she came to offer me my job back at the pottery.' 'Big deal.' Antonia paused in the middle of rummaging in her bag for the inevitable cigarette, and stared at her stepdaughter. 'And you're going to take it?'
'Yes, of course.' "
'There's no "of course" about it.' Antonia's voice was suddenly a little shrill. 'You know exactly how I feel about you hanging round here endlessly, making sheep's eyes at Came. I thought you were g0ing to look for something in Keswick. You might have found another girl to share a bedsit with.'
'Thank you for your generous concern!' Rowan could not disguise her bitterness. 'What a pity I ever came here at all.'
'Yes, it is,' Antonia snapped. 'The whole thing was a ghastly mistake. I must have been mad-and all for the sake of that piffling little allowance from the Winslow estate. Well, thank God I needn't look forward to that sort of penury any longer.'
'You were more than glad of it at one time,' Rowan snapped back.
