Another Home, Another Love

by Gwen Kirkwood

  Catherine drove to Martinwold intending to catch Sam at the house when he stopped for lunch. Sam was ravenous and he was looking forward to the dish of shepherd’s pie he had taken from the oven. He saw a car turning into the yard through the kitchen window and swore silently, thinking it was one of the men selling cake or fertilizer. His eyes widened at sight of Mrs Palmer-Farr. He shoved his dinner into the bottom oven of the Esse. Rosie? Something must be wrong. Was she hurt? He pulled open the door.

  ‘Has Rosie had an accident?’

  ‘May I come in?’ Catherine asked. ‘There is a dreadful smell.’ She sniffed in disgust.

  ‘Yes, the men are spreading slurry,’ Sam muttered. He had never expected Mrs Palmer-Farr to visit, let alone enter his house. He couldn’t show her into the sitting room without any furniture.

  ‘Rosie? Is she all right?’

  ‘It is my daughter I wish to discuss with you, Samuel. May I come inside?’ she repeated, ‘Or do farmers always keep their guests standing on the doorstep?’ There was an edge to her voice. Sam’s dark brows rose. He was tempted to tell her that guests were invited. He stood aside and allowed her to enter, indicating she should go through to the kitchen. At least it was warm and comfortable, even if things were a bit shabby. His mouth tightened as he saw Catherine surveying everything, including his breakfast dishes, still soaking in the washing up bowl. He seldom left dirty dishes but Ned had come to get him in a hurry that morning.

  ‘I canna start the tractor to feed the silage to the cows. You’ll have to come, Sam, they’re milling around the feed barrier, pushing and shoving and making a racket.’ Sam had grabbed the remains of his breakfast, shoved the dishes into the sink and followed Ned. His heart sank as he saw Catherine’s lip curl in disdain. All his possessions were somebody’s cast offs, but they were adequate for his needs. He straightened his shoulders. As a little boy he remembered visiting here when Grandfather Oliphant had been dairyman for Mr Turner. It had been warm and comfortable and always welcoming. Rosie had thought it was cosy having the old leather settee in the kitchen. His eye fell on the film of dust on the dresser where he kept his little television and the radio. Mrs Palmer-Farr had seen it too. It was all right for her with maids to do her cleaning. He could smell the shepherd’s pie his mother had given him after Sunday lunch at Bengairney. His stomach rumbled.

  ‘You wanted to talk about Rosie?’ Sam asked. ‘Will you take a seat?’ He pulled out one of the pine armchairs from the table. Catherine took her time folding her coat beneath her, but her mind was racing. How best to convince Sam that he must stay away from Rosemary Lavender? It had seemed easy enough until she looked at Sam’s set young face, the tilt of his square jaw, the glint in his green eyes and the thick mop of burnished chestnut hair. She could understand why her daughter found him so attractive.

  She rushed into speech. Sam gasped and stared at her as her words, or rather her meaning, sank in.

  ‘You’re telling me not to see Rosie again? Did she ask you to come?’ His thoughts flew back to Saturday evening and a pulse beat in his jaw. They had indulged in some heavy petting. They had grown bored with the television programme and it had seemed natural to turn into each other’s arms in the peace and privacy of the cottage. Even now Sam felt his heart throbbing as he remembered the feel of Rosie’s firm young breasts and her little gasps of pleasure. She had been shy and diffident about exploring his body in return but her response to his kisses had been wonderful. He longed to make her his but he knew how innocent she was. He was the one who had drawn back. God, it had taken all his self control. He became aware of Mrs Palmer-Farr, watching him with narrowed eyes. Her lips were pursed. Surely she didn’t know? Rosie would never confide in her mother over such things? ‘Did Rosie ask you to come?’ he repeated.

  ‘Not directly,’ Catherine said. She had seen the expressions passing over Sam’s face. She was all too aware how long he had spent alone in her daughter’s company on Saturday night. Please God Rosemary had not let him make love to her! Catherine knew little about the younger generation and their changing standards, but she could guess at the temptations for a girl as naïve as her daughter. In many respects the world had moved on without Catherine realizing it. She would have been shocked to know unmarried girls visited family planning clinics and took their own decisions about birth control. She had been a virgin when she married Douglas and she had been shocked when she learned he was not. She trembled at the memory. He had been a good lover. He had known how to thrill her. She had never slept with another man, or wanted to. She was convinced that’s the way it should be for all girls, but could she be sure Rosemary had not already given herself to Samuel Caraford? She had always hero worshipped him and his younger brother. Catherine had seen the fleeting expressions on his handsome young face, and his guilty flush. Anger surged in her.

  ‘I suppose you are looking for a wife with money now that you and your family are burdened with debts to buy this place.’ Again she gave a disparaging glance around the kitchen. ‘You couldn’t afford to keep Martinwold House I understand, but you could never expect my daughter to live in a place like this.’ Sam bristled with indignation.

  ‘The Turners lived here when they started out. My mother was brought up here after Mr Turner built the big house.’

  ‘No daughter of mine will live in a hovel like this. I am here to remind you that Rosemary is not yet twenty-one and you are ruining her chance of inheriting—’

  ‘I’m not interested in Rosie’s money!’ Sam snapped. ‘I wouldn’t—’

  ‘Then you will not mind proving it by promising that you will not see her again,’ Catherine stated and made to rise.

  ‘You must be crazy! I love Rosie. I may not be able to afford to marry yet but if she loves me enough I hope she will wait for me.’ Did she love him? She hadn’t said she did in spite of her passionate response to his lovemaking. Catherine saw the uncertainty in his eyes and sat down again.

  ‘It is not her inheritance from her father which is at stake. If she marries against my wishes she will get nothing from me. We gave her the gardens to humour her, to occupy her until she marries a man with breeding and education, who can keep her in the style to which she is accustomed.’ Catherine saw Sam’s chest expand indignantly but she rushed on before he could speak. ‘Sir Henry Braebourne and his sons have become frequent visitors. Harry is attracted to Rosemary. Did she tell you that? No, I thought not,’ she carried on without waiting for an answer. ‘He shares her interest in plants and gardens. He has asked her to visit and advise him about landscaping the gardens at The Manor.’

  It had never occurred to Rosemary to mention the Braebournes to Sam. Neither had she considered it necessary to inform her mother she had sent Paul Keir to make sketches and discuss suggestions with Harry Braebourne and Sir Henry. Catherine spoke again, less acerbic now she could detect doubt on Sam’s expressive face.

  ‘If you care for Rosemary Lavender you will give her time and space to meet other young men. She is innocent in such matters. She has never had a steady boyfriend. You wouldn’t want her to rush into marriage because you were the first man who asked her, would you, Samuel? After a few years of drudgery she would realize what she has missed and regret tying herself down to a working farmer. For your own sake, as well as hers, I’m asking you not to see her again, or make contact with her.’

  Sam stared at her. Catherine smiled. She could be charming when she wanted. She sounded so reasonable, Sam thought. Was it possible he had frightened Rosie a little? Had her mother sensed her fears and uncertainties? She had seen how aroused he was. He couldn’t hide it. Her blue eyes had been round as saucers as she felt the hardness of him. He had known he must go slowly with Rosie. He loved her. He would never do anything against her wishes.

  ‘I can’t promise not to see her again. We’ve always been friends. We move in the same circles.’

  ‘You could avoid her company for a few months at least, Samuel. Allow her friendship with the Braebournes to de
velop,’ Catherine said. ‘If she discovers you’re the one she loves what difference does a few months make?’

  A few months. That sounded like a lifetime to Sam. He longed to have Rosie in his arms again, to hold her close, to kiss her. Her mouth was soft and yielding. She must love him or she would never have responded as she had.

  ‘A month!’ he said, surprising himself, and startling Catherine. ‘One month.’ Sam’s face was set. He went to the door and opened it. ‘I promise not to see Rosemary, or get in touch with her, for one month. That’s to the end of March. After that I shall consider we are free to meet, or not, as we please.’ His tone was firm and decisive and Catherine realized that was the best she could hope for. She would have to work on Rosemary, sow the seeds of doubt his silence would cause.

  ‘Thank you, Samuel, I’m sure you will not regret allowing a young and innocent girl her freedom to find friends of her own class.’

  Sam was silent, waiting for her to leave, already regretting his promise. As she stepped outside he said, ‘If you love your daughter so much, Mrs Palmer-Farr, may I extract a promise from you in return?’

  ‘Why of course,’ Catherine said, smiling now.

  ‘If Rosie and I still love each other six months from now, will you give us your blessing to get engaged?’ Catherine looked at him, frowning.

  ‘Six months? Engaged….’ she repeated. ‘Very well,’ she agreed. After all anything could happen in six months, or even in one month. Engagements could be broken if need be. Catherine climbed into her car and drove away.

  Sam watched her go with a sinking heart. He no longer had any appetite for food, not even for his mother’s shepherd’s pie. He had been a fool. A whole month – and not even chance to talk to Rosie, to explain that her mother wanted to break up their friendship. Catherine Palmer-Farr had always disapproved of the time Rosemary spent with his family, even though she had never had time for Rosie herself. Her disapproval would be twenty times greater if she thought Rosie was marrying into the Caraford family. If only he had told Rosie how much he loved her. A month would feel like a lifetime.

  NINE

  John Oliphant’s illness had taken more out of him than he realized. He settled into Megan’s little sitting room with relief. He had a comfortable bed and his armchair in front of a cheery fire, all without any effort on his part. There was a toilet and shower room across the passage. It was good to have company. Steven and Alex drew him into their discussions about the farm and the stock as though he were still a young man. Megan cooked his favourite meals. He began to think he would be foolish to move back to his empty cottage.

  ‘Ye’re sure ye dinna mind having me to share your home, Steven?’ he asked, one evening when the pair of them were sitting alone together before the fire.

  ‘Mind? Of course we don’t mind. In fact it’s a relief to know you’re here, safe and warm. Megan was worried about you being at the cottage in the cold weather. It troubled us knowing young Rosie was looking out for you every day.’

  ‘She’s a grand lassie, young Rosie, always has been, but I was a cussed independent old man.’ He smiled and stared into the leaping flames of the fire. ‘Now that I’m here I enjoy the company.’

  ‘And we enjoy having you,’ Steven assured him, ‘so what’s on your mind?’

  ‘The cottage. I want to leave it to Tania. Your sons will get their share of the farm stock and machinery, and now there’ll be Martinwold to pass on to them some day so I’d like to leave my wee hoose to Tania. I’m thinking I ought to do it soon, while I can still see to things.’

  ‘I’ve no objections, if you’re sure about this,’ Steven said. ‘Some day I expect Tania and Struan will have to move into the farmhouse but Mrs Ritchie is a peculiar woman so goodness knows when that will happen.’

  ‘Tania could let the cottage when that day comes,’ John Oliphant said, ‘or sell it if she wants. Either way it wouldna do any harm for her to have a wee bit of money of her own, would it?’

  ‘No, you’re right of course,’ Steven agreed.

  ‘So will ye arrange for your solicitor to come to see me and put things in hand?’

  ‘Yes, I can do that. Tania is a lucky girl to have you for her grandfather. Don’t think we don’t appreciate what you’re doing for her,’ Steven said.

  ‘She’s a grand lassie and she’s aye been good to Chrissie and me, especially since I’ve been on my own. Where farms and farmers are concerned the lassies always seem to get less than their brothers so I thought this might help even things up a bit. I wouldna like to cause any trouble in your family though, Steven.’

  ‘I’m sure Sam and Alex have enough to think about since we bought Martinwold. They’re full of enthusiasm. Sam is making a good job of managing the men and organizing the work at Martinwold, but he’s seemed a bit down in spirits this past ten days.’

  ‘Aye, Megan was a bit concerned about him on Sunday. He’d lost his appetite. He loves her bread and syrup pudding with sultanas and the crunchy top. She says he usually takes some back but he didn’t want it this week.’

  ‘It’s not like him,’ Steven agreed. Megan had confided her concerns about Sam when they were in bed on Sunday night. She wondered if he and Rosie had quarrelled when Rosie didn’t come for lunch two Sundays in a row.

  ‘If they have it will only be a lovers’ tiff,’ he’d said, intending to reassure her.

  ‘I’m not so sure. Tania went up to see Rosie on Friday evening to ask if she was going to the Saturday dance. She shook her head and would have gone on working if Tania hadn’t insisted on stopping to chat. She said Rosie looked pale and tired and she’s lost her sparkle, but she insisted there was nothing wrong.’

  As usual when Megan was anxious Steven had taken her in his arms and soothed away her worries, reminding her that young people always sorted out their own problems. A tender smile curved Steven’s mouth as he remembered. He and Megan had had their own ups and downs when they were young. He remembered being jealous as hell of Lindsay Gray and there had been no need. He was the one Megan loved – and still loved, even though their sons probably thought they were too old to make love anymore.

  When Sam didn’t call for Rosie on Saturday evening she had expected he would telephone to say he had a cow calving, or some other urgent task with the animals. She’d had to miss Sunday lunch at Bengairney two weeks in a row because her mother had already arranged lunches and expected her to attend. They had never entertained so much when her father was alive but she felt it was her mother’s way of dealing with the void he had left and she felt a pang of guilt and sympathy.

  She wanted to explain to Sam, but he hadn’t phoned or called since the Saturday evening they had spent alone together. Her cheeks burned. Had he thought she was cheap? Too forward? Or too inexperienced?

  She telephoned Martinwold but there was no reply two evenings in a row. Was she chasing him, as Lidia had done? Every instinct told her something was wrong but Tania would have told her if he was ill.

  She knew Sam could not afford to marry because he had told her there was no spare money for anything major since his family had bought Martinwold. Rosie understood that, but was it only lack of money keeping him away? Passion had flared between them the evening they had spent alone together. Did he feel the need to cool things? Was he drawing back in case she made demands as Lidia had done? Was he afraid of commitment? Surely he knew her well enough to know she would never force him into anything he didn’t want? So why hadn’t he phoned?

  The weekend passed. The days passed. Rosie had never felt so miserable. She was convinced Sam was drawing away from her before it was too late. Her mother had had people to dinner both Saturday and Sunday and Harry Braebourne had even dropped in to see her in the gardens in the middle of the week on the pretext of discussing Paul’s ideas for laying out the main garden at The Manor. If Rosie had not been feeling so miserable she might have noticed the gleam of speculation in his brown eyes. When he had gone, Paul joined her in the greenhouse with a
grin on his face.

  ‘He didn’t want to discuss the plans at all,’ he said. ‘That fellow is after you, Rosie. Anybody can see that.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Paul. You sound like my mother.’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ Paul said. ‘Seriously Rosie, what with Sam, and now Harry Braebourne running after you, it’s reasonable to suppose you’ll end up married before too long.’ His expression sobered. He looked so anxious when Rosie turned to face him that she bit back her sharp retort. She liked Paul and she couldn’t manage half so well without him. He had the ideas for both garden planning and marketing their produce while she knew about plants and growing them. They worked well together.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know if – repeat if – I ever think of getting married, Paul,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm, we-ell I wanted to ask a serious question, but I don’t want you to take offence, or think me presumptuous. Mother agrees a pretty girl like you will be snapped up in no time.’

  ‘Your mother said that, Paul? I shall never marry without love.’

  ‘I believe you.’ He was convinced she did love Sam but he sensed there was something not quite right. ‘But supposing you did marry, what would you do with the gardens?’

  ‘The gardens? I don’t know. I mean I’ve never thought.’ Rosie looked at him, then realized Paul might be worried about his job. Her expression softened.

  ‘Can I ask you to consider a suggestion?’

  ‘Of course, but I shall always consider you, Paul,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Would you give me first opportunity to buy the gardens if you decide to sell?’ Paul asked in a rush. ‘Or if you didn’t want to sell outright, would you consider taking me on as a partner, selling me a half share?’