by Sara Seale
She. like Peregrine, Laura saw, had had enough to make her careless, but Dominic, apparently, was more amused than annoyed.
"Your cousin, I think, is hardly impressed with the honour done her," he said. "She was in a hurry to retire, as she told you. Would you like a nightcap, Cleo?"
"Why not?" said Cleo cosily, sinking on to Laura's stool. "Oh, are you going, Laura?"
She scarcely had much choice, thought Laura crossly, slipping through the doorway. She did not wish to remain, listening to their familiar wrangles, but neither did she care for being dismissed like an importunate child.
Peregrine, who had slipped out after her, caught her in the shadows.
"Disappointed in brother Dom's technique?" he asked, turning up her face. "You should be content with me, Miss Bread-and-butter—at least I know what satisfies little girls."
She had no chance of avoiding his kisses, but, unlike other occasions, she found herself responding, not because he had any great attraction for her, but because for the first time in her life she was curious and felt a desire to experiment.
"Well ..." he said as he released her, "do I detect a change of heart, or has brother Dom been giving you lessons?"
"Your brother," she retorted, her cheeks flaming, "is hardly likely to make love to pass the time, as you should know. Now, please let me go to bed."
"Disappointed, evidently," he remarked unkindly, and fell to whistling that maddening little tune as he went back to the book-room, and Laura knew it was true.
She went unhappily to bed and lay there in the darkness, probing her own emotions. Day-dreams were all very well if kept in their proper places; it had done no harm to weave colourful fantasies about the dark Trevaynes and their buccaneering forebears, but it wouldn't do to lose one's heart to one of them—it wouldn't do at all. ...
The next day the brothers had gone to work long before Laura could be embarrassed by the presence of either, but Cleo was curious.
"What went on between you and Dom last night?" she asked when Laura brought up her breakfast. "You don't usually pursue him to his lair."
"Nothing," Laura answered sedately. "He wanted to talk about Nicky, as a matter of fact."
Cleo became immediately alert.
"What did he say? What did you gather?" she asked eagerly, and Laura looked at her curiously.
"Why haven't you discussed things with him yourself?" she asked, and Cleo looked smug.
"Because, darling, I'm a sensible girl and know my onions. So much better, don't you think, if suggestions come from him?"
"Yes, I suppose so. I think he's made up his mind."
"And discussed it with you? Well, what's the verdict?" Cleo asked, and Laura wandered over to the window, as she did each morning now April had come, to look for the signs of spring that Bella had taught her. She wished that she could stay for summer and watch the rich fulfilment of the land.
"Laura! You're day-dreaming again! What did you get out of Dom?" said Cleo's impatient voice behind her, and she turned back to the bed.
"He wants to bring Nicky up here," she said colourlessly, and Cleo stretched and yawned.
"Does he now? How very cosy! And how, did you gather, does he propose to set about that?"
"I don't know. He just said he had made certain plans and there were conditions."
"Conditions? But didn't you ask him for chapter and verse? Really, Laura, sometimes I think you do it on purpose!"
"Do what? It was hardly my place to ask for explanations —that must be between the two of you. Conditions could, of course, refer to legal aspects."
"Is that what you really think? No, of course you don't! The poor dear was probably angling for a line on what my reactions would be. Didn't you throw out a cousinly hint that I might be interested?"
"We only discussed it generally—in fact—"
"In fact the whole thing was an excuse on Dom's part for a little cosy get-together, I'm beginning to think," said Cleo petulantly, but her petulance could only have been assumed as an excuse for further ridicule, for she went on with mischievous enjoyment:
"How does he tick, Laura? Does he make love as well as Perry?"
"I wouldn't know," said Laura coolly, and Cleo aimed a petulant kick at her under the bedclothes.
"You can be quite infuriating when you like," she said crossly. "Have you fallen for Dom? He's just the type to raise
flutters in virginal breasts."
Unicorns ... young virgins as bait ... thought Laura, and immediately blushed.
"O-oh!" exclaimed Cleo delightedly. "So that went home, did it? Well, don't set your sights too high, darling. I may have use for Big Brother myself. Those conditions you mentioned. Didn't it really occur to you that he might have had me in mind? It would, after all, be quite a tidy solution of both our needs, wouldn't it? A wife for him and a father for Nicky. I rather think it's been mentioned before."
Laura remembered those other not very serious conversations with Cleo throwing out idle hints, but she remembered, too, that she had said there were more ways than one of killing a cat, and that if she was clever she could both have her cake and eat it as well.
"Would you bear his children?" she asked, with such unexpected sternness that Cleo blinked.
"Really, darling! Your imagination does leap ahead!" she replied, sounding slightly nonplussed. "But if you must have an answer to such a delicate question, it's no."
"That's cheating. What would he be getting in exchange for Troy's child?" Laura said, and temper showed in Cleo's eyes.
"You're hardly being very complimentary, sweetie-pie. Don't you consider I qualify as fair exchange, or is this sudden excess of primness simply a matter of sour grapes?" she snapped with some acidity.
Laura was silent, retreating into that semblance of abstraction which had long been a useful defence against unwelcome probing, but she probed for herself, nonetheless, and found the truth distasteful.
"Cleo, you and Perry—" she began, but Cleo, having scored the final hit in this rather unsatisfactory exchange, was bored with the subject.
"Oh, forget it," she said. "We've both been talking hot air. Did you know Perry's always had an urge for Australia? Troy over again. It's a grand country for adventurous spirits —better than this tax-ridden dump. I wouldn't mind going
back there."
"Well, there's nothing to stop you, is there?" said Laura, suddenly feeling tired and rather cross, and Cleo's smile was provocative.
"Only the small matter of Nicky's future. Once that's settled, who knows? But then, of course, these mysterious conditions the head of the family is apparently preparing to lay down may necessitate my remaining here, mayn't they? Oh, stop looking like a bewildered sheep, Laura, and go and get Nicky up. Dom's promised to take him over the works after lunch. God knows why, so for heaven's sake try to get the brat into a reasonable frame of mind."
But Nicky was in a good mood, Laura found, when she went to the nursery to dress him. With cunning reminders of the night his Uncle Dom had told him a story, and hints that if he was as good as gold during the treat proposed for him, there might be another story forthcoming on the way home, she persuaded him into a most obliging state of mind.
The visit to the quarry turned out a failure, however, thanks to Cleo's last-minute decision to go with them.
They returned to the house a couple of hours later, inevitably disenchanted, and it was hard to say which was the crossest, the small boy or bis mother.
Laura put a tearful small boy to bed after obliging with the promised story which his Uncle Dom had never told him in the end, then she slipped out of the house to enjoy the rest of the afternoon in blissful solitude.
She had presumed Dominic had gone back to the quarry after dropping his passengers at the house, but to her surprise his car still stood on the drive, and he himself appeared suddenly from the stable yard, the bunch of dogs at his heels.
"Hullo," she said, "I thought you'd gone back to the works."
"No," he replied, "I wanted a breath of air. Were you going for a walk? Well, we might as well join forces."
He did not sound enthusiastic, and Laura suspected that, like herself, he had planned to walk alone. It was awkward
that having met inadvertently at precisely the same moment, they could do no less than go together as far as the gates. Once on the headland, however, she hung back to see which direction he would take and said firmly:
"I'm going this way. See you later."
To her surprise he turned in his tracks, whistling up the dogs, and fell into step beside her.
"Was that a brush-off?" he asked with a hint of the old arrogance, just as Peregrine might have, and she glanced up at him with faint apprehension.
"No," she said, "I had the idea you wanted to be alone."
"Meaning you did, I suppose. Well, Miss Mouse, you'll just have to put up with my company, I'm afraid."
They walked in silence after that, and he, as usual, strode ahead without troubling to moderate his pace.
"I'm sorry the quarry visit didn't work out," she said, giving him a chance to work off his grievance. "Didn't Nicky behave?"
"Nicky? Oh, the boy was all right. He got a bit peeved when his mother wouldn't let him get as dirty as he liked, but that was only natural. I'd promised he should dig like a proper quarryman, and he felt cheated."
"You must take him again.""
"No, I don't think so. Too many of the men remember that ancient quarrel. The older ones shared my father's view, you see. They think it's weakness to let bygones be bygones."
"Oh! You mean they resent Troy's wife and child?"
"In a sense. To them Cleo's a foreigner. The story wasn't a pretty one, and Cornishmen have long memories."
"No, it wasn't pretty. You—you must have cared very much, Dominic, to—to offer to take your brother's place—or am I trespassing again?"
"Trespassing? No, I don't think you'd ever do that, Laura," he said, shortening his stride as if he had only just become aware of her beside him, and as he looked down at her and she met the grave regard of those very blue eyes, she knew he was released from his bitterness. "Yes, I cared, but I was younger then."
"Only seven years."
"Well, seven years can be a long time. One changes."
"Yes, I suppose so. Like little Bridget," Laura said with a return to her natural habit of expecting people to follow her private train of thought, and Dominic raised an enquiring eyebrow.
"Who's she?" he asked. "One of your unlucky school friends crossed in love?"
"No one real—just something I once learnt.
'They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone ..' "
"Dear me! What an unfortunate happening for the poor girl! What happened to her after that?"
" 'They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow ..."'
"Yes," he said, "that can happen too." The banter had gone from his voice and his smile was a little twisted. Laura looked up at him with eyes that were big with compassion. They had both come to a standstill and she was unaware of how much her transparent face revealed of her thoughts until he put a hand under her chin.
'No, Laura, you absurd, romantic creature, I haven't buried what passes for my heart in someone else's grave. You were implying that the other day in the stableyard when I bit you, weren't you? In any case, the lady is very much alive and happily wed to another, so I understand," he said, and she smiled again.
"Oh! What a good thing," she said with that cheerful matter-of-fact little air that he found rather touching. "And I'm not at all romantic in that sense, Dominic, even if I do seem absurd to you."
"Have you never been in love?" He asked the question with
faint amusement, winding a strand of her hair absently round his finger, but she answered quite seriously:
"No, but then I don't meet many young men. Cleo's always been the honey that attracts the flies."
It was a pity, she thought, as she saw his change of expression, that she had mentioned Cleo. His earlier mood seemed to return, and he made no attempt to pursue the conversation. Whistling up the dogs, he turned for home, and they walked back in silence.
Supper was late that evening. Dominic had gone back to the works for a couple of hours to wind up some unfinished business which the earlier visit had interrupted, but he was kept longer than had been anticipated and by the time he and Peregrine returned, Cleo was in a contrary mood.
"Why the hell are the men so late?" she said impatiently, glancing at the clock, and Laura wondered if a prearranged date with Peregrine was in danger of being wrecked by the lateness of the hour, for Cleo had dressed with more than due care for the average evening at home and was becoming increasingly restless.
"I don't like Dom's foreman, he has an insolent way of looking at you," she said suddenly.
"That's just the natural Cornish suspicion of foreigners, I expect," Laura replied, but it would have been best left unsaid. An angry flush mounted under Cleo's warm, olive skin, and she said sharply:
"Has Dom been talking to you? Yes, of course—you dragged him out for a walk, didn't you?"
"As a matter of fact, I didn't. I would have much preferred to go alone, but we happened to meet."
"And he, I suppose, told you all about the scene with Perry over that business of Nicky."
"No, he didn't mention it. Was there a scene?"
"There's always a scene when Perry shows off, and the men just stood around and smirked. I could have choked Nicky for being so craven."
"I thought you said that Perry did it on purpose. Dom
wouldn't have made the same mistake, you said."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Laura, don't go throwing things back at me. I had a lecture on child psychology most of the way home, though he succumbed sufficiently to my humble plea for guidance to suggest a dinner in the town, and now it's too late."
So it was Dominic for whom Cleo had dressed with such care, thought Laura, and knew an irrational sense of disgust.
Peregrine breezed into the room, and his brother followed more leisurely, discarding his jacket and slinging it over a chair with the comfortable habit of years. He looked tired, Laura thought, but the earlier tension had gone out of him and he accepted Cleo's offer to mix him a drink with a small amused lift of the eyebrows.
"What a change to become a guest in one's own house," he said, slipping down the knot of his tie and loosening his collar with, thought Laura, a rather pointed reminder that he was, nevertheless, master in his own home, but Cleo, who was not sensitive to nuances, smiled on him with the gracious indulgence of the lady of the house and asked what had kept them.
"How well you do it, dear sister-in-law," mocked Peregrine, and she smiled up at him with his own unruffled impudence.
"Our ties by marriage give me rights, don't you think?" she said, and slewed her bright eyes round to Dominic with the natural assurance of a woman whose charming liberties were never questioned. "Do you think I usurp your privileges, Dom? Do I make myself too much at home?"
"If you can put up with our somewhat uncouth manners in what technically should be the drawing-room, we, I'm sure, can bear with a little female possessiveness," Dominic said with a faint twinkle, and Cleo pouted.
"Was that a crack?" she said. "I'm quite equal to the brash harshness of the Trevaynes, which is more than my nicely brought up little cousin is."
"Not the best way to catch a unicorn, I fear," murmured Peregrine, with a rather unholy grin, and winked as he met Laura's surprised stare.
If Cleo heard, the remark did not register, and she looked at Dominic with a little pout.
"Had you forgotten we were going out?" she asked, and he smiled at her kindly.
"No, I hadn't forgotten, but it's too late now. There aren't many places round here where you can get a decent meal, anyway. Does our humdrum life bore you, Cleo?"
&
nbsp; "I'd hardly call it humdrum with Trevayne passions ready to relieve the monotony by waxing high, but that I enjoy. As you've told me more than once, Dom, I measure up to family standards."
"Do you? Yes, perhaps you do. In fact—"
"In fact?" prompted Cleo, her eyes dancing.
"In fact this whole conversation's becoming a bore. If you and Cleo want a monopoly it's a pity you don't take her down to the local and have a cosy get-together," interrupted Peregrine rudely, and Laura looked at him curiously. He was jealous, she thought, really jealous under that familiar manner he adopted with his brother, and Dominic knew it, too, for he refrained from comment and merely grinned back with tolerant amusement.
The meal was tepid owing to the delay, but only Cleo picked discontentedly at her food. The other three, although they lapsed into their usual silence while occupied with eating, seemed on the other hand to relax, and Laura stared at the lamp in sleepy contemplation and remembered an old thatched farmhouse where once when she was a little girl, she and Auntie Flo had spent a summer's holiday.
"Who stole her?" asked Dominic suddenly, looking across the table at Laura.
"Who stole who?" she answered, puzzled.
"Little Bridget."
"Oh, her—the fairies, of course."
"Of course! I might have known."
"For heaven's sake!" exclaimed Cleo. "What next!"
"Yes, what next?" asked Dominic quite seriously. "Why was she stolen?"
"I don't quite know. It was the little men, according to the
poem. They had frogs for their watchdogs," Laura answered with equal seriousness, and Bella suddenly spoke in bell-like tones:
" 'Up the airy mountin, down the rushy glen' ... I remember ... 'we daren't go a'hunting for fear of little men ...' There were little men here in the mines, dear child—mischievous creatures called the knackers. They had to be appeased with offerings of food and light by the tinners, who were intensely superstitious. I wonder would there be any connection?"
Dominic said reflectively:
"Oh yes, there was such a race of little men, I believe, though they were more likely offshoots of the tinners themselves, who, in those days, lived such subhuman lives underground. Can you remember any more of your jingle, Laura?"
