Under Gemini

by Rosamunde Pilcher

  “I’m going to garden,” said Isobel firmly. “It’s going to be a beautiful afternoon and I’ve been wanting to get at that border for days.”

  “We thought we’d go for a walk,” said Antony.

  “In that case you can take Plummer with you.”

  Jason broke in. “But Antony, you said that…”

  Antony interrupted him. “If you mention that bow and arrow once again, I shall make one and then shoot you with it, straight through the heart.” He aimed an imaginary bow and arrow in the direction of Jason and fired it. “Twang.”

  With an air of righteousness, Jason said, “You mustn’t ever fire things at people. Never never let your gun pointed be at anyone.”

  “It’s a laudable stricture,” said Antony, “but a useless piece of verse.” He turned to Flora. “Shall we go up and see Tuppy for a moment?”

  But Nurse McLeod invervened. “Mrs. Armstrong had a bad night and didn’t sleep at all, so not just now, if you don’t mind. I’m just away upstairs to settle her for a little nap. It doesn’t do for her to get overexcited.”

  Antony, meekly, accepted this. “Just as you say, Nurse. You’re the boss.” Nurse pushed back her chair and stood up, towering over them all like some formidable nanny. “But when can we come and see her?”

  “How about before dinner tonight? When you’re all dressed up and ready for the party? It’ll make a wee occasion for her, to see you all then.”

  “All right. Tell her we’ll be along about seven o’clock, looking unbelievably dressy.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Nurse. “And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I must see to my patient. And thank you for lunch, Mrs. Watty, it was just delicious.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Nurse,” Mrs. Watty beamed, reaching out her huge arm to pour them all another cup of coffee.

  When Nurse had left them, Antony leaned his elbows on the table and said, “She talks as though we were going to throw some great reception here, with all the men in boiled shirts and monocles, and Aunt Isobel sweeping about in the heirloom diamonds and a train. Who’s actually coming?”

  “Anna and Brian. And Mr. and Mrs. Crowther…”

  “Gayer and gayer,” murmured Antony. Isobel sent him a fairly cool glance and went on, undeterred. “And, provided he isn’t called out for a baby or an appendix, or some other emergency, Hugh Kyle.”

  “That’s a bit better. Conversation will doubtless sparkle.”

  “Now don’t try to be too clever,” his aunt warned him.

  “He’ll not catch Mr. Crowther napping,” Mrs. Watty observed. “Mr. Crowther is very quick at the repartee.”

  Flora asked, “Who’s Mr. Crowther?”

  “He’s the Presbyterian meenister,” Antony told her, in an accent more Highland than Mrs. Watty’s own.

  Jason chipped in. “And Mrs. Crowther teaches Sunday school, and she’s got very big teeth.”

  Isobel said, “Jason!” but Antony said, “All the better to eat you with. Are you coming to the party, Jason?”

  “No,” said Jason. “I don’t want to. I’m going to have supper here with Mrs. Watty, and Aunt Isobel’s got me a bottle of Coke.”

  “If conversation gets too sticky in the dining room,” said Antony, “I might well come and join you.” Isobel said, “Antony!” again, but Flora could tell that she knew he was teasing. He had probably teased her all his life, which was one of the reasons she so missed him and looked forward to his coming home.

  Making the bow and arrow took a little time. Antony’s good penknife and a length of suitable string had to be found, and then the right sort and shape of branch for the bow. Antony was neat-fingered and had obviously done this thing many times before, but still indulged in a good deal of cursing and bad language before the new bow and a few arrows were finally done. Then with a piece of chalk he drew a target on the trunk of a tree, and Jason, straining every muscle of his puny arms, fired the arrows, missing with most but finally making some sort of contact with the target. The arrows, however, were not flying true.

  “They need to be feathered,” Antony told Jason.

  “How do I feather them?”

  “I’ll show you tomorrow. It’ll take too long now.”

  “I wish you’d show me now.”

  “No. We’re going for a walk now. We’re going to take Plummer. Do you want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, put the bow and arrow away, and then we’ll go.”

  Jason gathered up his new possessions and went back to the house to stow them inside the front door, along with a battered croquet set and a number of fraying deck chairs. Antony came over to where Flora and Plummer had been sitting patiently on the grass, waiting for the target practice to be over.

  He said, “I’m sorry. It took a long time.”

  “That’s all right. Do you know, it’s like summer, sitting here. It’s turned into a beautiful summer’s day.”

  “I know. It happens in this part of the world. And tomorrow will probably be a drencher.” Jason came running back up the grass toward them. Antony held out a hand to Flora. “Come along,” he said.

  They went down the drive, through the gate and across the road, and on up the hill that rose behind the house. They crossed fields of stubble and pastures full of sturdy cattle. They climbed a dike and jumped down into deep heather crisscrossed with sheep tracks. Plummer, nose down, tail going like a piston, startled a family of grouse which exploded out of the heather at their feet and sailed away ahead of them, calling, Go back, go back, go back.

  The slope of the hill became steeper, sweeping on and up to the skyline. Ahead, the ruins of a croft appeared with a scarlet-berried rowan tree by the gaping doorway, and nearby a lonely Scots pine, twisted and deformed by the constant wind, stood guard.

  In front of the croft was a stream, its water peat-brown, tumbling down the hill in a series of miniature waterfalls and deep pools where the dark foam gathered like lather beneath tufts of overhanging heather. Rushes grew in clumps as green as emerald. The ground was boggy and the white canna blew in the wind. They crossed the stream by means of some wobbling stepping stones and came into the shelter of the ruined walls.

  They had now reached the crest of the hill. On all sides the land fell away, and suddenly unexpected breathtaking views revealed themselves. To the south, beyond the forested hills, lay the Sound of Arisaig; to the north the blue waters of an inland loch, imprisoned by massive flanks, reached deep into the hills. And to the west …

  They sat with their shoulders against a crumbling dike and gazed at the incomparable view. The western sea, a brilliant blue now, was dancing with sun pennies. The sky was cloudless, and the visibility clear as crystal. Under those conditions, the islands lay on the water like mirages.

  “Imagine living here,” murmured Flora, “and looking at that every day of your life.”

  “Yes, except that you wouldn’t see it. Most of the time you couldn’t see the end of your nose for rain, and if it wasn’t raining it would be blowing a force twelve gale.”

  “Don’t spoil it.”

  He quoted, “‘A naked house, a naked moor, a shivering pool before the door.’ Robert Louis Stevenson. Tuppy used to read him to Torquil and me when she thought we were in need of a little culture.” He pointed. “The small island is Muck. And that is Eigg. The mountainous one is Rhum, and then away to your right is Sleat, and beyond Sleat the Cuillins.”

  The distant needle peaks glittered silver against the sky. “That looks like snow,” said Flora.

  “It is, too. We must be in for a hard winter.”

  “And the loch, the one in the mountains. What’s that called?”

  “That’s Loch Fhada. You know the sea loch where the Beach House is? That’s Fhada, too. The fresh-water loch runs out into the sea, right there, under the road bridge. There’s a dam and a fish ladder for the salmon…”

  His voice trailed away. Talking, they had forgotten about Jason. He stood beside them, listeni
ng, puzzlement in his eyes.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why do you tell Rose all these things as though she’d never been here before? You make it sound as though she’d never been to Fernrigg before. As though she’d never been here.”

  Antony said “Yes … well…”

  But Flora spoke quickly. “It was so long ago, and when I was seventeen, I wasn’t very interested in learning the names of places. But now I am.”

  “I suppose that’s because you’re coming to live here.”

  “No, I won’t come and live here.”

  “But if you marry Antony?”

  “Antony lives in Edinburgh.”

  “But you’ll come and stay here, won’t you? With Tuppy?”

  “Yes,” Flora finally had to agree, “yes, I expect I will.”

  * * *

  The slightly strained silence which fell upon the party was tactfully broken by Plummer who, though old enough to know better, suddenly decided to chase a rabbit. Off he went, bouncing through the heather with his ears flying, while Jason, who knew that Plummer was quite capable of chasing the rabbit to the ends of the earth and losing himself in the process, went after him.

  “Plummer! Plummer, you’re very naughty. Come back!” His legs were spider-like, his high voice carried away by the wind. “Plummer, come back!”

  “Ought we to help?” asked Flora.

  “No, he’ll catch him.” Antony turned to her. “We nearly messed things up there, didn’t we? Jason’s a bright child. I never realized he was listening.”

  “I forgot, too.”

  “Are you going to be all right tonight? Conversation-wise, I mean?”

  “If you stick near me, I’ll be all right.”

  “I was teasing Aunt Isobel at lunchtime. They’re nice people.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She smiled, to reassure him.

  He said, slowly, “You know, I can’t get used to this idea that you look like Rose, but you aren’t Rose. It keeps coming back and hitting me just as hard as it did the first time.”

  “Do you wish I were?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant that something—perhaps the chemistry—is different.”

  “You mean you’re not in love with me like you were with Rose.”

  “But if I’m not in love with you, then why aren’t I?”

  “Because I’m Flora.”

  “You’re nicer than Rose. You know that, don’t you? Rose would never have had any time for Jason. Rose wouldn’t have known how to talk to people like Mrs. Watty and Nurse.”

  “No, but she would have known what to say to you, and perhaps that’s more important.”

  “She said goodbye to me,” Antony pointed out with some bitterness. “And went off to Spetsai with some bloody Greek.”

  “And you told me you were so hard-headed.”

  He grinned, ruefully. “I know. But I do want to get married, that’s the funny thing. After all, I’m thirty, I can’t go on being a bachelor for the rest of my days. I don’t know. I suppose I just haven’t met the right girl.”

  “Edinburgh must be running with them. Fresh-faced lassies living on their own in Georgian flats.”

  He laughed. “Is that how you imagine life in Edinburgh?”

  “Life in Edinburgh, to me, is dinner with Antony Armstrong, on a wet, black night.” She looked at her watch. “You know, when Jason and Plummer finally return, I think we should go home. If Isobel’s going to wear the family diamonds, I should at least wash my hair.”

  “Yes, of course. And Jason and I have promised to do the hens for Watty.” He looked at her and gave a snort of laughter. “Family life. So glamorous.” He stooped and kissed her, a proper kiss, on her mouth. When he drew away she asked, “Is that for Rose, or for Flora?”

  “It’s for you,” Antony told her.

  * * *

  That evening the sun went down behind the sea in a welter of liquid golds and reds. Flora, having washed her hair and now trying to dry it with an old-fashioned device borrowed from Isobel, left the curtains drawn back and watched the sunset with something like disbelief. Gradually, as the light altered, the colors changed, and the islands turned pink and then a dusky blue. The sea was a mirror for the sky and when the sun had finally gone, it darkened to an inky indigo starred by the riding lights of fishing boats setting out from Tarbole for the night’s work.

  While all that was going on, the house rang with the pleasant sounds of the preparations for the evening’s festivities. People went up and down stairs, called to each other, drew curtains, built up fires. There was the clatter of pots and china from the kitchen, and delicious smells of cooking presently began to drift upstairs.

  What to wear was no problem for Flora, since she had brought only one possible outfit: a long skirt of turquoise wool, a silk shirt, and a wide belt to cinch the lot together. In fact, recalling the speed with which she had packed in London, she was amazed that she had brought even these. When she had done her hair and made up her eyes, she put them on, screwed on some earrings, and squirted herself with the Chamade that Marcia had given her for her birthday. The smell of it, in the way that smells are apt to do, brought back Marcia and her father and Seal Cottage so vividly that all at once Flora felt lost.

  What was she doing here? The answer to the question was outrageous. The insanity of what she was doing hit her like a kick in the stomach, and she was overwhelmed with panic. Everything turned sour. She sat at the mirror staring at her own reflection and knew that the evening lay ahead of her like a nightmare of lies. She would make a fool of herself, give herself away, let Antony down. And they would all know that she was nothing but a lie on two legs, the worst sort of cheat.

  Every instinct in her being told her to get out. Now. Before anybody could find out. Before anybody could be hurt. But how could she go? And where would she go? And hadn’t she given Antony a sort of promise? Antony, who had embarked on the crazy deception with the best of intentions, and all for the sake of Tuppy.

  She tried to pull herself together. After all, neither of them was going to get anything out of it. Neither of them stood to gain a mortal thing, except perhaps an uneasy conscience for the rest of their lives. It wasn’t really going to affect anybody else.

  Or was it? All afternoon Flora had resolutely not thought about the man on the beach. But now he came back again, that big antagonistic man, with his veiled threats that he had called a warning. While he existed there was no sense in pretending that the situation was simple. She could only hope that he had nothing to do with the Armstrongs. And, when one came down to basics, Tuppy was the only person who mattered. Perhaps if a wrong thing were done for a good reason, that made it right. And if ever there was a good reason, then it was Tuppy, the old lady in her room down the passage, waiting now for Flora to go and say goodnight to her.

  Flora? No, not Flora. Rose.

  She took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror, drew the curtains, turned off the lights, went out of her room and down the passage to Tuppy’s door. She knocked and Tuppy called, “Come in.”

  Flora had expected to find Antony there, but Tuppy was alone. The room was half-dark, lit only be the bedside lamps which cast a warm circle of light over the great bed at the end of the room. In it, supported by many pillows sat Tuppy, wearing a fresh lawn nightdress with lace at the throat and a bedjacket of palest blue Shetland wool, tied with satin ribbons.

  “Rose! I’ve been waiting for you. Come and let me look at you.”

  Flora obligingly stepped forward into the light and displayed herself.

  “It’s not very grand, but it’s all I’ve got with me.” She went to the bedside to give Tuppy a kiss.

  “I love it. So young and pretty. And you look so tall and slim with that tiny waist. There’s nothing so pretty as a tiny waist.”

  “You look pretty too,” Flora said, settling herself on the edge of the bed.

  “Nurse dressed me up.”

  “I love the bedjacket.”

  “
Isobel gave it to me last Christmas. It’s the first time I’ve worn it.”

  “Has Antony been to see you yet?”

  “He was in about half an hour ago.”

  “Did you sleep this afternoon?”

  “A little. And what did you do?”

  Flora began to tell her, and Tuppy lay back on her pillows and listened. The light fell on her face, and Flora was suddenly afraid for her, because all at once Tuppy looked frail and exhausted. There were dark smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes, and her hands, gnarled and brown as old tree roots, fidgeted restlessly with the hem of the sheet as Flora talked.

  And yet it was a wonderful face. Probably as a girl she had not been beautiful, but in old age the bone structure, the vitality, came into their own, and Flora found her fascinating. Her skin, fine and dry, tanned by a lifetime of being outdoors, was fretted by wrinkles; to touch her cheek was like touching a withered leaf. Her white hair was short and curled disarmingly about her temples. The lobes of her ears had been pierced for earrings and had stretched, deformed by the weight of the old-fashioned jewelry she had worn all her life. Her mouth was the same shape as Antony’s, and they shared the same warm, sudden smile. But it was Tuppy’s eyes which held your attention, deep-set eyes, shining periwinkle blue, bright with interest in everything that was going on.

  “… And then we came home, and the boys went off to feed the hens and collect the eggs and I washed my hair.”

  “It looks lovely. Shiny. Like well-polished furniture. Hugh’s just been in to see me, and I was telling him all about you. He’s downstairs now, having a drink with Antony. So nice he could come. He’s such a busy man, poor pet. In a way it’s his own fault, though. I’m always on at him to get a partner. The practice had grown too much for any single man over these last years. But he swears he can manage on his own. I think he prefers it that way. Then there isn’t time for him to brood and be unhappy.”