To Catch A Unicorn

by Sara Seale

  "Your younger brother-in-law advised me not to be tempted by rinses," Laura said sedately, and smiled again.

  Cleo bounced off the bed with an angry flounce, and looked down at her cousin with a puzzled frown.

  "I don't know what's got into you," she said crossly. "If my brand new brothers-in-law between them are already turning your head on such slight acquaintance, I tremble to think what the rest of your holiday will do to you."

  "Forget it," said Laura with a disappointing failure to rise. "Your new in-laws have no part in my rather ordinary life, or I in theirs."

  She could see by Cleo's puzzled frown that she had scored a point, but it gave her little satisfaction. She was already wondering what this come-by-chance introduction into affairs that were not really her concern might not do to her, but already since yesterday she seemed to have grown another skin, or perhaps, like Prince Lindworm in Nicky's favourite fairy-tale, she had shed one. She reached absently for her dressing-gown while she considered her position which, as she had just pointed out, could hardly matter to the household one way or the other; all the same she had an unquiet suspicion that life with the dark Trevaynes might demand protective covering; better to grow another skin than shed one and become vulnerable.

  "You're day-dreaming again," Cleo said sharply, disliking her own unquiet speculations, and Laura sat down at the dressing-table and took up a hairbrush briskly.

  "Quite right, I was," she said, "but if you'll leave me to get on quickly, I'll take Nicky off your hands for the rest of the morning."

  Cleo turned at the door and blew her a perfunctory kiss, relieved that she must have imagined a change in the hitherto

  amenable little cousin who, after all, should only be grateful for an unexpected break in her rather dull routine.

  "Do that," she said carelessly. "His room is the end one down the passage from yours. He's been grizzling ever since breakfast for his precious Moo-moo, so I wish you joy of him. Be seeing you----"

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the broad light of day Penzion lost its first impression of strangeness, revealing itself as a house of bad architectural design with haphazard additions which owed little to beauty or convenience.

  The house seemed empty of its inhabitants that Sunday morning, and it was the little boy who took her on a tour of inspection, running from room to room with whoops and shouts, delighted with the advantage that a week's prior residence had given him over her. She had found him in the room at the end of the passage and was surprised and pleased to discover it must once have been a nursery. The wallpaper and the rocking-horse and an old painted toy cupboard with one door half off its hinges were clearly relics of an earlier generation, and Laura did not know why she should feel surprised by the knowledge that the Trevayne brothers must once have played there, unless, in her slight acquaintance with them, it seemed difficult to imagine the very adult and slightly forbidding head of the family playing anywhere. She would, if left to herself, have been content to linger there, indulging in her easily aroused day-dreams, but the boy, after bis first excited greeting, was only anxious to do the honours of the house before some grown-up could deprive him of his importance.

  "This is the tea-room ... that's the day-room ... here's the book-room, and there's the parlour, only no one ever uses it —aren't they funny names?" he said. "Ordinary people have drawing-rooms and dining-rooms and libraries, but at Penzion everything's different, and nobody—nobody in the wide world could have such a splendid hall as this, could they, Moo-moo?"

  "I shouldn't think so," Laura laughed, remembering that only last night she herself had stood in this self-same place and been impressed, until Dominic had gently mocked her.

  "You like Penzion, then?" she said, a little surprised that the child, usually so reserved in his reactions to new places and people, should, in one week, have accepted the strangeness of a house as big and unfamiliar as this.

  "Of course. I belong here, Cleo says. I have pirate blood, too," he replied, frowning at her ignorance, and she felt a twinge of uneasiness. It was only right, she supposed, that Cleo should impress her son with his just claim to kinship with the Trevaynes, but it would be a mistake, she thought, to foster an assumption of rights so early in the relationship.

  "Nicky, you mustn't take too much for granted—" she began gently, and realised at once that at five years old he could scarcely be expected to understand adult warnings. He did not, as usual, ask for an explanation, however, for he had hardly heard her, so intent was he on revealing to her the pride of his newly discovered treasures.

  "And this, Moo-moo, is the wonderfulest thing of all," he said solemnly, pointing upwards to a bronze statuette which stood out of his reach on top of one of the glass-fronted cabinets which were filled with a motley collection of curios and flints and shells and pieces of quartz. "Do you know what it is?"

  "No," said Laura obligingly. "You tell me."

  "I didn't think you'd know. It's a unimecorn!" he announced triumphantly. "It's a magic. Bella told me. It's the beast of this house."

  "How do you mean, the beast of this house?"

  "The guardian beast, the family beast—you know—like the Queen has."

  "Oh, you mean a coat of arms. I don't think the Trevaynes would have a unicorn as theirs. That's just a model."

  "There's one here, too—look!" The boy darted over to the fireplace where, sure enough, the rough outline of a horned head had been carved without much skill in the great slab of granite that formed the chimney piece.

  Laura reached up to trace the outline with a curious finger and at the same moment the front door opened with a bang,letting in a gust of wind which sent a puff smoke from the

  fire into her face, and a familiar voice observed: "Inspecting our adopted family emblem? How are you, Miss Laura Smith? I told you we would meet again." Laura turned, her eyes smarting, to find Peregrine Trevayne grinning down at her with the remembered mockery, and her first feeling was one of indignation at the trick he had played on her.

  "How do you do, Mr. Trevayne?" she replied with distant coolness. "What a pity you didn't make yourself known to me on the train. I must have bored you with a lot of information you already knew."

  "On your high horse again, are you? I assure you I was anything but bored. I was getting the reverse side of the coin, you see, and comparing the two was—er—interesting," he retorted, and she was silent, trying to remember what she had told him that could conflict with her cousin's version of their relationship, for it had been clear from the elder Trevayne's unspoken misconception that Cleo would seem to have inadvertently misled them.

  Nicky, however, whose attention had been caught by the mysterious allusion to a high horse, caused a diversion by running to bis uncle and tugging him by the coat-tails.

  "What's a high horse, Uncle Perry? It it a unimecorn? Tell me!" he demanded, and Peregrine ruffled the round black head with a careless hand.

  "Certainly it's a unimecorn," he answered solemnly, "and a very high horse indeed which your Miss Smith likes to mount at times, because she thinks it makes her superior."

  "She's Moo-moo, not Miss Smith," the boy corrected him politely, "and I shouldn't really think she could ride on a unimecorn, should you?"

  "You never can tell. There's a legend about that fabled beast. I wonder if you know it, Moo-moo?" Peregrine said, and as she burst out laughing and dared him ever to address her by Nicky's not very flattering pet name, the front door opened again and Dominic came into the house with Cleo laughing beside him, her hands to her head as the wind blew the dark hair about her ears in wild and charming disorder.

  "Are you alluding to our unicorn?" Dominic asked, shutting the door behind him.

  She answered, "Nicky seems very taken with it. Is it really a family crest or something?"

  Dominic smiled and glanced up at the model of the unicorn.

  "No, just one of my father's whims. He found the model up there in some saleroom, I believe, and had one of the men fr
om the quarry carve the other one over the fireplace. He didn't make a very good job of it, I'm afraid, but you'll find others in odd corners of the house."

  "Why not adopt it as the family crest, if that's what your father wanted?" Cleo asked lazily, sliding an arm about her son and pressing him to her. Laura's smile was involuntary and wholly appreciative of her cousin's instinct for a charming picture, but Peregrine saw, and his own smile was not so guileless.

  "You feel, Cleo, that a crest—or why not a coat of arms— would lend tone to the rough Trevaynes?" he asked innocently, and she shot him a quick, rather wary look.

  "Why not?" she said lightly. "I don't mind betting, if the truth were known, that a good many such sops to snobbery are phoney."

  But Dominic intervened just then.

  "Lunch must be nearly ready," he said. "The boy had better run along to Bella."

  Laura stood irresolutely, uncertain what was expected of her. She was here, after all, to take charge of Nicky, but no one had told her what the arrangement was for meals.

  "Does Nicky feed with you, or do I—will he—should he have his meals in the nursery with me?" she asked, and jumped at the sharpness in Dominic's voice as he replied:

  "Certainly not. You are our guest and will naturally take your meals in the day-room. I personally have no objection to the boy joining us, but his mother says he's used to being alone with his nanny."

  "Well, Laura is his stop-gap nanny for the time being. She won't mind, will you, darling?" said Cleo.

  "But I should," Dominic snapped with an unmistakable touch of arrogance. "Bella will continue to see to the child as she has done for the past week. Now, Nicky, run along to Bella, like a good chap."

  Nicky promptly screwed up his face and began to cry.

  "Horrid old Uncle Dom I hate you!" he wailed, and Laura, who could have cheerfully slapped the child for his stubborn refusal to make friends with the one man whose tolerance, if not liking, was so essential to Cleo's hopes, took him quickly by the hand.

  "Come along, Nicky," she coaxed. "I'll race you to the nursery."

  "Bella is in the kitchen. Nicky knows his way," Dominic said. "Run along, Nicky, you don't need Laura to take you; she wants to get ready for lunch."

  Much to Laura's surprise, the child obeyed, though he muttered something uncomplimentary as he passed his uncle, and ignored his mother's little parting coo.

  "You see?" Cleo said to Dominic, making a small moue. "We're both in the dog-house, I'm afraid, but you mustn't blame Nicky too much; he's led the wrong sort of life for a little boy."

  "Yes, he has, hasn't he?" Dominic replied, and his glance lingered on her for a reflective moment. There had been no rebuke in his voice, merely a hint of polite surprise, but Cleo let her charming, sulky mouth droop again and slipped a confiding hand through his arm.

  "I know I've been a bad mother," she said. "Nicky was born so soon, and Troy, you see, never took parenthood very seriously. After he was killed—well, I was too shocked to care, I suppose. I shall only be grateful to you, Dom, if you can act as—as deputy father to Nicky while we're here, so don't think I shall resent interference. After all, we did call him Dominic after you, so that gives you special rights, doesn't it?"

  They had both been drifting towards the day-room as she spoke, and Laura became aware that Peregrine was standing there looking after them with a very odd expression on his

  face, then he suddenly threw back his head and laughed immoderately.

  "That," he said, "was a very pretty performance—a very pretty performance indeed, thought I doubt if the wool is pulled over brother Dom's shrewd eyes."

  "What on earth do you mean?" Laura exclaimed. "Nicky was called after his uncle, and Cleo was simply explaining. What's so funny about it?"

  "Rebuke accepted, if not entirely digested," he mocked. "You don't seem to know your cousin very well."

  "That's a very silly remark since you've only known her for one week."

  "Ah, but a great deal can be learnt in one week. You'll be surprised how much I will have discovered about you, Miss Smith, by the end of a week."

  "Well, really! You have the most colossal opinion of your own powers, haven't you? At least your brother doesn't assume on sight that he's got you taped!"

  "Possibly he's more subtle and uses other methods," said Peregrine with a grin. "But don't be fooled, Miss Bread-and-Butter, by brother Dom's rather better manners. You may find, of the two of us, that I'm a very much easier person to live with."

  "Very likely, if all you require is an admiring audience, but that hardly concerns me, does it?" retorted Laura, who was coming to the conclusion that neither brother would be very comfortable to live with.

  "Well, it will concern you for the next few weeks unless you hand in your notice and up and leave us like all the other nannies," he jeered, and when she protested, with a child's temptation to argue, that he knew perfectly well she was never a nanny, he shrugged his broad shoulders and shook his head at her.

  "That literal mind again," he sighed, and went away, whistling.

  Looking back afterwards, Laura was grateful that her first day at Penzion happened to be a Sunday, for the explosive

  background to everyday life with which she was to become familiar was subdued to a Sabbath calm.

  After lunch, when she had settled Nicky for his rest, Laura fetched a coat, wanting to explore outside the house, and poked her head round the door of the tea-room with the vague notion that her host's permission should be asked, but only Cleo was there, stretched out again on a sofa, smoking in sleepy idleness, dropping ash into the open box of chocolates on her lap.

  "Where's Dominic?" Laura asked.

  "With his feet up in the book-room, I shouldn't wonder. Do you want him?"

  "Only to ask if I may go and explore outside."

  Cleo crammed another chocolate into her mouth and spoke with indistinct irritability:

  "Really, Laura! What on earth do you want to ask per-misison for? You're not a child."

  "I just thought perhaps it would be polite as I'm a guest."

  "Then you'd better forget our correct Auntie Flo's hints on etiquette. The Trevaynes are scarcely a polite family in her outdated sense—in fact they're often damn rude, as you'll find out. Dom won't thank you for disturbing his forty winks for idiotic reasons. No one bothers with anyone else in this house, thank goodness."

  "That makes us sound rather lacking in hospitality," Dominic's voice said from the doorway. "And you libel me, Cleo, if you accuse me of taking forty winks. I'm not in my dotage yet. I was having a quiet pipe."

  Cleo smiled up at him cosily, proffering the chocolates which he refused with a smile, and settling herself more luxuriously among the cushions.

  "No, Dom, you're just the right age," she said. "Thirty-five is neither too young to be without worldly experience, nor too old to change horses in midstream."

  "Is that a riddle?"

  "Not a very obscure one. I was only pointing out that a man of your age is still in his prime if he fancies a change from celibacy, whereas a woman of the same vintage is no

  longer considered young."

  Laura felt slightly embarrassed at such frank manoeuvres before a third party and wondered if Cleo was serious, but Dominic merely raised expressive eyebrows.

  "Surely, these days, no woman admits to being on the shelf at thirty-odd? No woman admits her true age, anyway," he retorted with a hint or irony, and Cleo gave him one of her intimate and very feline looks.

  "I don't mind admitting my age," she said. "I'm twenty-five—nearly twenty-six, if I'm honest, and aeons and aeons older than that in experience and men."

  "Dear me!" he said mildly. "That sounds very portentous and, if I may say so, rather silly. Laura, were you going out?"

  Laura jumped as he suddenly addressed her. She had been listening curiously to that odd exchange, and thought they had forgotten her.

  "Yes, I was—that is—you won't m-mind if I poke about the grounds,
will you?" she stammered a little nervously, and looked unhappy when he unexpectedly said he would go with her.

  She could do no less than agree, but she had wanted to explore by herself and, like a child, felt cheated by the casual whim of a grown-up. She turned to make a small grimace of discomfort at her cousin, but finding that Cleo was regarding her with a very definite expression of disgust, she realised too late that she should have slipped away unnoticed while they were still talking.

  She forgot her regrettable lack of tact, however, in the pleasure of fresh discovery, and almost forgot the restraining company of the unwanted dark stranger beside her.

  Penzion itself had to Laura's unaccustomed eyes a harsh, unfinished air as though the house had been carelessly dumped on the cliffs and then been left to nature. The grass which did duty for surrounding lawns was coarse and bleached white with salt, and although stone paths and steps and terraces, white with seagull droppings, had been laid out to lend an air of formality, they only seemed to accentuate the lack of flowers. The boundary wall, though clearly built in

  a tidier age of bricks and mortar, was, thought Laura, a poor way of indicating privacy when trees would have been so much nicer.

  "Actually, they would have looked rather drunk," Dominic said, amused by his young guest's naive remarks. "Do you see how the few trees there are leaning all one way? That's the way of the prevailing wind, and even in the summer they don't put out much leaf. My mother, I believe, tried to make some sort of a garden when she first came to Penzion, but we're not sheltered enough up here for flowers. Don't let our apparent barrenness put you off the Duchy, though. When spring comes I'll show you the flower gardens down in Merrynporth where things grow with tropical lushness, and even up here the gorse makes a brilliant show of colour and, later on, the heather."

  He spoke, Laura thought, as if despite his apparent indifference to the niceties Cleo found important, he had a pride in his bleak inheritance and would not have changed it if he could for rich green acres and the gentle elegance of mellowed brick.