Winter at Cray

by Lucy Gillen

  There was always a certain amount of jealousy involved with the two old ladies, for there was barely twenty years between them and at that age it was little enough. It must have been difficult trying to live up to Emma Kincaid for eighty years, and now, when Charlotte would normally have expected to sit back and enjoy the ease of old age, she had to contend with the unflagging competition of her own mother.

  When Emma Kincaid put in an appearance it was to a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ and her smile told how gratified she was at her welcome, delighting in the attention being showered upon her.

  Louise, watching her, thought how incredibly frail she looked and had a momentary touch of panic when she thought of Cray without her. The sharp blue eyes refused to admit to the necessity of spectacles, although she normally wore them when they were their usual small household, her glance flicking round the assembled faces at the table.

  Thin, probing fingers examined each gift as it was revealed and she carefully thanked each donor, some with more enthusiasm than others, for she was past the age when pretence is considered a necessary politeness. She hugged Robert and baby Poppy, a suspicion of tears glistening in her eyes as she kissed them both.

  ‘It’s a pity you’re not a boy, my darling,’ she told the tiny girl, who gazed at her solemnly. ‘There are so few boys to carry on the name of Kincaid.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe you’ll have a brother before I go,’ she added hopefully, and Diamond drew her pencilled brows together at the suggestion.

  ‘Not yet, darling,’ she drawled as she took Poppy and handed her to her father. ‘There’s plenty of time yet.’

  Old Emma shook her head, and Louise realised how old and tired she really looked, despite her dogged determination. ‘Time is one thing I’m running out of,’ she said shortly, and for a moment there was an uneasy silence as if they all realised only now how true it was. ‘Where’s Jon?’ she demanded a moment later, and Louise looked round, startled to discover he was not there, yet she was sure he had been there when they were eating breakfast only a short time before.

  It was Stephen who answered, his satisfaction obvious. ‘I saw him earlier,’ he said. ‘He was on his way out. I expect he realised he had no place here today, being a family affair.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ old Emma declared with surprising resonance. ‘Louise!’ She sought the familiar red head in the gathering. ‘Go and find him for me, will you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Great-gran.’ She caught Stephen’s black frown as she left the big room, wondering if Stephen had been right about the reason for Jonathan staying away, although, she told herself, it was unlike him to be so self-effacing.

  She looked in the small sitting-room, but it was empty and the fire only just coming into life. About to go upstairs and look for him there, she turned with her foot on the first tread, as the front door opened and admitted a bluster of icy wind and Jonathan carrying a huge bouquet of roses in his arms.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ she told him, staring unbelievingly at the bouquet he carried and which he thrust in her direction while he divested himself of coat and gloves. ‘I’ve been sent to look for you.’

  ‘Her Majesty?’ he asked, one brow arched impudently, and she nodded.

  ‘Great-gran wondered where you were.’ She looked at the flowers as he took them from her. ‘Roses in November is extravagance indeed.’

  Toil think she’ll like them?’ He held them at arm’s length for a moment, eyeing them critically. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get her that wouldn’t mean me treading on someone’s corns. Flowers are sufficiently impersonal to be permissible and personal enough to convey what I mean, aren’t they?’

  Louise nodded, finding herself strangely touched by the gesture. ‘She’ll adore them,’ she told him, ‘but don’t be surprised if she bursts into tears. She’s overexcited and nostalgic, and red roses will probably prove the last straw.’

  ‘Oh.’ He paused half-way across the hall, uncharacteristically hesitant about delivering his gift. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t—’

  ‘Of course you should,’ Louise assured him. ‘She’ll love you for it.’ Which was probably only too true, she thought ruefully, and Stephen would hate him with equal vehemence because he had not thought of it first.

  He smiled, looking at the roses he held. ‘If you think so,’ he told her, ‘you’re the expert.’

  ‘Not on bouquets of red roses I’m not,’ she denied, ‘and—’ She bit her lip on the rest of the sentence, but he was eyeing her curiously almost as if he guessed what she had been going to say.

  ‘And—?’ he prompted.

  ‘Nothing, it was just something that crossed my mind, but on second thoughts I’d rather not say it.’ He pulled a face at her over the top of the roses. ‘Using past experience as a guide,’ he guessed, ‘that probably means that it was uncomplimentary and aimed at me. Right?’

  She flushed to have her intention so accurately interpreted. ‘If you like,’ she told him shortly, and would have turned away, but a touch on her arm stayed her.

  ‘What was it?’

  She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a special day and I don’t want to—’

  ‘Coward!’ he interrupted with a grin, and she bit her lip.

  ‘All right,’ she retorted, ‘if you insist. I was going to say that I’m surprised you thought of it.’

  ‘Oh?’ He stood looking down at her, willing her to meet his eyes which she stubbornly refused to do. ‘Too romantic, you think? Don’t you think I’m the red roses type, Louise?’ His voice had that deep, seductive note she despised so much and she curled her fingers into her palms.

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so,’ she admitted defiantly, and glared at him when he laughed.

  ‘Well, you don’t know much about me, do you?’ he asked. ‘And if you prefer to believe the worst—Oh well—’ He sighed with exaggerated regret, then without warning, bent his head and kissed her full on her mouth before he strode off across the hall to the big room.

  For a second or two Louise stared after him, her face flushed with the heavy throb of her pulse, then, hearing the old lady’s cry of delight when she saw the roses, she hastened after him in time to see old Emma holding the bouquet, tears rolling down her cheeks as she rocked gently, the flowers in their cellophane wrapping just touching her face softly.

  ‘Red roses,’ she whispered, almost to herself. ‘Red roses. You always promised me red roses, Robert.’

  ‘Jon,’ he corrected her gently, bending to kiss her tearful face, ‘and if you cry I shan’t bring you roses again, so dry your eyes, hmm?’

  ‘But how did you get them?’ she asked, and he laughed softly.

  ‘You can have flowers sent anywhere in the world now, you know,’ he told her. ‘Essie fixed it up for me after she left here. She had a wait during her journey and she found a flower shop that belonged to the group who run the scheme. Hey presto! All I had to do was to go down and meet the first boat. Mind you,’ he added with a grimace that made her smile, ‘I held my breath for fear they’d miss the boat.’

  ‘I was always promised red roses,’ the old lady sighed, and brushed away a tear that Louise was hard put not to emulate.

  ‘Well, now you’ve got them,’ he told her softly, and old Emma nodded her head gently, only Louise noticing the black frown that Stephen directed at the donor of the roses.

  After the excitement it was thought best that the old lady rested, at least until lunch time, when she insisted on joining them. ‘I don’t intend sleeping my birthday away, my girl,’ she informed Louise.

  ‘I know you don’t, darling, but you must rest. Would you like Robert to sit with you for a while?’

  ‘I would,’ the old lady admitted, ‘but he’d be better off going for a walk with Jon.’ The shrewd, tired old eyes looked at her speculatively. ‘They get on well, those two, don’t they?’

  ‘They seem to,’ Louise admitted warily, ‘and I’m not altogether happy about what’s going to happen when Mr. Darrell goes back
.’

  ‘Well, he’s not going back yet,’ Emma stated firmly. ‘He’s staying on.’

  ‘I know,’ Louise said shortly. ‘I wondered why.’

  ‘Because I asked him to,’ the old lady informed her. ‘I like having him here and he said he hasn’t had a holiday in two years, so why not?’

  ‘Because,’ Louise explained, ‘I would have thought Berren was the last place Jonathan Darrell would have chosen to spend a holiday. He described it as a wilderness when he arrived and he’s expressed no change of heart since, so far as I know. Anyway,’ she added, ‘I really meant, why did you ask him, not why is he staying.’

  ‘Why not?’ the old lady demanded again, evidently intending to keep her reasons to herself, and Louise smiled her defeat and left her, closing the door quietly, convinced that Emma Kincaid had some devious scheme afoot, though heaven knew what it was.

  It was later than usual that night when the old lady went to her bed and she leaned rather more heavily than usual on Louise’s arm as she left the room, looking back wistfully as if she hated to see her exciting day end. Louise felt the frail body trembling with emotion as they took the wide stairs slowly, unaccustomed tears rolling silently down the small, wrinkled face unchecked.

  ‘Don’t cry, darling Great-gran,’ Louise said softly. ‘You’ve had a wonderful day, but you’re very tired.’

  ‘I’m not tired,’ the old lady denied automatically, sniffing back the betraying tears. ‘I don’t know why I’m crying either—must be goin’ soft.’

  Louise laughed and kissed her cheek gently. ‘Not you, darling, you’ll be as right as rain tomorrow after a good night’s rest.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ old Emma agreed, and turned an unexpected smile on her for a moment. ‘I did have a good party, though, didn’t I? And I had Jon there, despite Stephen’s scowls.’ That, Louise thought ruefully, had probably given her as much satisfaction as anything.

  Louise was on her way downstairs again shortly afterwards when she saw Jonathan leaving the big sitting-room, and the way he glanced over his shoulder at the closed door before he moved across the hall to intercept her suggested that he was hoping to avoid being overheard. She frowned, eyeing him curiously.

  ‘Ssh!’ He put a finger to his lips in exaggerated caution, his eyes glistening with the effects of the champagne they had all imbibed fairly freely, drawing her towards the little sitting-room and closing the door carefully behind them.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, her own head feeling the effects of the unaccustomed wine.

  He turned from the door and stood looking at her for a moment in silence, as if he only just saw her for the first time properly. ‘You look very beautiful in that dress,’ he told her solemnly. ‘You should always wear that shade of green.’

  ‘Actually it’s blue,’ she corrected him automatically, ‘and what are you up to?’

  ‘Actually I’m not up to anything,’ he admitted with a grin, ‘but Stephen would never believe that, would he? That’s why I caught you in the hall. I’ve been trying to get you alone all day, but you’ve been occupied, and this morning when I had a chance we got involved in a discussion about red roses and it went clean out of my mind.’ A raised brow reminded her of the incident. ‘I have some good news for you.’

  ‘Good news?’ She frowned suspiciously. ‘About what?’

  ‘It’s about whom, actually,’ he corrected her in turn, ‘but never mind the grammatical pros and cons, I thought you’d like to know that Henri Dupont left on the boat that brought Great-gran’s roses over this morning.’.

  Louise stared at him for a moment. ‘You—you mean he’s actually gone?’ It was difficult to keep from smiling at the thought, and he nodded, eyeing her curiously.

  ‘You look surprised,’ he told her. ‘Why, I wonder? I told you he’d be going, didn’t you believe me?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I did.’ She dared not voice the suspicions she had harboured ever since he had rejoined her with that ominous bruise on his chin and an almost rakish air of self-assurance, ‘It was just that—I could scarcely believe he would leave without—well, without making a fuss.’ Unconsciously her eyes went to the still visible mark on his face and he put a hand to touch it, a look of sheer devilment in his eyes as he laughed.

  ‘Not quite without fuss,’ he admitted, and she shook her head.

  ‘I knew—I mean I guessed you’d—’ She stumbled over her words and he laughed again.

  ‘We had a brief disagreement,’ he told her. ‘He’s shorter than I am, but he has a long reach and I didn’t duck quickly enough.’

  ‘Did you hit him?’ She did not know what prompted such a display of interest and she was slightly ashamed of herself for it, but the matter had been on her mind so much, and she had wondered at Henri Dupont’s decision to depart so suddenly.

  ‘Only once,’ he admitted solemnly, ‘and he didn’t duck either, but he’ll have nothing worse than a bruise or two to show for it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Again her relief was unmistakable and he eyed her with interest, while she hoped desperately that he would never guess what had passed through her mind so persistently since she had seen that bruise and tried to guess its implications.

  ‘I imagine he had rather a headache when he came round,’ he added blandly. ‘That’s probably why he didn’t leave on the earlier boat.’

  Louise blinked. ‘You mean you—you actually knocked him out?’ It was far less than she had been imagining all this time, but nevertheless she viewed it with mixed feelings. ‘But why?’

  ‘He was rather offensive,’ he explained calmly, ‘and in Breton French it sounded even worse—I’m afraid I acted on impulse.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  He regarded her seriously for a moment, except for the betraying gleam in his eyes. ‘What did you think had happened?’

  ‘I—I don’t know,’ she admitted, unable to meet his gaze. ‘Only I knew—I knew he hadn’t left on a boat up until last night.’ She flushed when he arched a curious brow at her certainty. ‘I phoned Mac,’ she confessed hastily, ‘and he told me he hadn’t left the island, and as I hadn’t seen him again—’ She bit her lip on just what she had thought, knowing he would inevitably discover what she had suspected and just as inevitably find it amusing.

  He looked at her silently for a moment and there was speculation as well as the eternal glimmer of laughter in his gaze. ‘Louise Kincaid,’ he said, at last, ‘I do believe you thought I’d dropped him in the ocean.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ she protested hastily, too hastily, and the flush in her cheeks, plus the way she avoided his eyes, betrayed the accuracy of his guess.

  ‘Oh yes, you did,’ he insisted, ‘and I don’t know whether to be flattered or not.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t be,’ she said crossly, annoyed because he had guessed so accurately. ‘Anyway, I don’t know why I should have thought you’d take such a chance, especially—’

  ‘But you thought I might have done it on the spur of the moment,’ he interrupted, and laughed again at her expression. ‘You’re really far more like your great-grandmama than you realise,’ he told her. ‘She would have expected her Robert to throw a man like Henri Dupont into the sea for her.’

  ‘But I didn’t—’ she began, and lowered her eyes before that disconcerting laughter. ‘And you’re not Robert,’ she added shortly, feeling far more flustered and unsure of herself than she should have done. ‘Any more than I’m Emma Kincaid.’

  ‘We might as well be,’ he declared, undeterred. ‘We’re just a couple of carbon copies, it seems. According to your great-gran, we’re Robert and Emma all over again.’

  She swallowed hard on the information, hearing a door open somewhere off the hall and suspecting, as he obviously did, that Stephen was coming in search of her.

  He waved a hand towards the door as footsteps sounded in the hall. ‘We’re about to be invaded,’ he told her blithely. ‘He’s determined I shan’t have a chance to talk to you. Y
ou know,’ he added as the footsteps halted outside the door, ‘he really appears to be in love with you.’

  Louise shook her head, as much to deter him from further indiscretion as to deny the truth of what he said. ‘Please—’

  ‘I’d love to really give him something to worry about,’ he mused, and laughed when Louise shook her head, not quite sure what he implied, but feeling a little bewildered and fuzzy-headed.

  A smile flitted briefly across his dark face as Stephen walked into the room, as if he had not altogether abandoned the idea, whatever it was.

  ‘I thought I might find you here,’ Stephen told her, sparing only a brief, discouraging glance for her companion, and Louise attempted a smile, although she resented the tone of his voice. If only Stephen was not so obviously jealous, there would be less for his adversary to play on, and apart from anything else it made her feel almost afraid to even speak to Jonathan and almost guilty when she did. Jonathan, on the other hand, obviously found the groundless jealousy amusing, and that she resented most of all.

  ‘Did you want me for something special?’ she asked. ‘Aunt Charlotte’s all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Stephen answered, dismissing Aunt Charlotte with an impatient hand. ‘I wanted a word with you, Louise, and when you didn’t come back to the sitting-room, I expected I’d find you here. I’d like to speak to you,’ he glared at Jonathan pointedly, ‘alone, if possible.’

  ‘Oh, please excuse me,’ Jonathan said politely, turning in the doorway to send her a smile that carried enough implication to arouse anyone’s jealousy.

  ‘I guessed you’d be with him, when I saw him sneak out earlier,’ Stephen told her, without even waiting for the door to close.

  ‘Well, you guessed right, didn’t you?’ Louise retorted, and he blinked uncertainly at her reaction.