‘Really,’ she said with a short, amused laugh, ‘don’t you think you’re being rather sentimental? Not, of course, that your views will make the slightest difference, for Averil and I have discussed things generally and we see eye to eye on this matter. I can’t imagine what objection you could have,’ she added, her voice loud and hectoring. ‘But then you’re older than your sister, aren’t you, and your life has been rather circumscribed, hasn’t it?’ she added acidly.
I could see that although my opinion would not make the slightest difference to Mrs. Ashmore’s plans, yet she resented opposition from one whom she so obviously considered negligible.
‘My dear, I’m going to say something personal and I do hope you will be sensible enough to take it in the manner in which it is intended. But are you really in a position to judge what is suitable in such circumstances?’
In spite of the fact that I was determined not to lose my temper, I felt anger grow at the open contempt in her voice. ‘Perhaps not, but at least it has never taught me to despise my background.’
Mrs. Ashmore put her skinny hands in a gesture of disclaimer. ‘Whoever suggested such a thing? Really, my dear, aren’t you inclined to be rather hotheaded and take offence too readily?’
‘Miss Carson hotheaded? What on earth gave you that impression? On the contrary, Mother, she strikes me as extremely self-possessed.’
I glanced around to see Vance standing in the window, the light from the terrace outlining his broad shoulders.
‘Vance, you’re being naughty and listening in,’ his mother said rather uncomfortably. ‘And do stop calling her Miss Carson: it’s so ridiculously formal.’
Vance laughed. ‘I don’t need to listen in: you were making the welkin ring. What is it about, anyway?’ He regarded me critically. ‘I was wrong. You do seem to have lost some of your ladylike calm. In fact I actually detect an angry glitter in those hazel eyes of yours. By the way, shall I take Mother’s advice and call you Esther?’ He was obviously mocking me and suddenly I felt an overwhelming wish to be out of this house with its atmosphere of dislike and suspicion.
I walked swiftly towards the window and as I reached it his hand grasped my arm. ‘And where are you going, without as much as a word of farewell?’ he said softly.
I glanced up at him, hoping that he would not notice the tears that, in spite of my efforts, had begun to prick my eyes. ‘I’m going back to the cottage,’ I said haltingly. ‘I should never have come.’
I pushed past him and ran down the terrace, only to find that he was following me with quick strides.
‘You’ve forgotten something,’ he said, his teeth gleaming as he swung my hat by its long ribbons.
I hesitated and was on the point of snatching it from his hand when he put it firmly behind his back.
‘Ah, not so quick. You may have it only if you allow me walk back to the cottage with you.’
‘There’s nothing I can do to prevent you,’ I said crossly. ‘After all, it’s your property, isn’t it?’
‘Actually I was simply being polite. I’d have gone back with you anyway even if you had rejected my generous offer.’
‘But why? I’m quite capable of finding my own way back,’ I replied dryly.
He nodded, then rammed the hat over my long hair, and considered the effect judiciously. ‘You look like a rather cross Alice in Wonderland, and if you must insist on an explanation as to why I want to accompany you to the cottage it is because I wish to eradicate, if possible, the rather unfortunate impression you seem to have concerning me.’
I turned and walked quickly towards the woods. ‘I’m afraid that would be impossible, Mr. Ashmore,’ I said coldly, and realized to my annoyance that I sounded starchy and prim.
‘Why don’t you call me Vance?’ he asked. ‘After all, we’re bound to see quite a lot of each other.’
His cool assurance infuriated me. ‘Not if I can help it,’ I said angrily, and almost ran the last few yards towards the orchard. But his long strides kept pace with me easily. And I had the annoying feeling that my effort to get rid of him was simply causing him amusement. ‘Now that I’ve arrived back safe and sound,’ I remarked acidly, ‘don’t you feel free to go?’
‘Why do you dislike me so much, Esther?’ he asked quietly. ‘After all, we were strangers until recently.’
I had a sudden clear memory of that snapshot of him with Averil, laughing and so obviously in love. Half-hidden in Averil’s drawer, it had so clearly not been intended for other eyes. And I remembered Clive, quiet and undemanding, adoring his beautiful and wayward wife, unconscious that Vance Ashmore was intent on removing him to the Middle East and leaving the path free for him to pursue his affair with Averil. For, negligible as Clive might appear to be to a man like Vance Ashmore, yet the Etherton family was socially prominent and might become a troublesome nuisance should they discover the truth concerning his employer.
I tried to bite the words back, then blurted out, ‘Why did you ask Averil to stay at Cherry Cottage?’
He raised his thick brows in quizzical surprise. ‘My dear good girl, why should I not give her the chance of taking up the tenancy of the cottage? It’s not the type of place that grows on trees and in its own way it is unique. As Averil was the widow of one of our most valued employees naturally when it became vacant she was the first I thought of.’
‘Naturally,’ I said bitterly, ‘except that Averil has always hated the country.’
‘And just what do you mean by that extraordinary remark?’
But I thought I saw his eyes darken angrily and I added recklessly, ‘You know perfectly well what I mean. There’s only one possible reason why she’s burying herself here, and that’s because you and she—’ I stopped, appalled at what I had been about to say.
‘Why stop?’ he said gratingly. ‘Just when you’ve come to the interesting part.’ Gone was the amused mockery that I had found so infuriating. It had been replaced by a dark fury that glittered in his eyes. He caught me by the shoulders and shook me roughly. ‘All right, why don’t you say your piece! Do you think you can go so far and no further? Who do you think you are, Miss Prim and Proper, that you dare so casually to drop such insinuations?’
‘Let me go!’ I gasped. This was the man who had so ruthlessly removed Clive from his path, I told myself.
With relief I heard the back door open and Mrs. McAlister’s stocky figure appeared. Immediately Vance’s hands dropped from my shoulders and his expression relapsed into its familiar inscrutability. It was hard to believe that I had not just imagined the dark rage that had suddenly transformed him and made him appear strangely frightening.
But I could see that Mrs. McAlister had observed the sudden movement and drawn her own conclusions. ‘Ah, it’s Mr. Ashmore,’ she said affably, glancing from one to the other of us with a sly, knowing expression. It was obvious that she had interpreted my passage of arms with Vance as a romantic interlude that she had inadvertently interrupted. ‘I’ve just now taken an apple tart out of the oven. Why don’t you ask Mr. Vance to come away in then and have a piece?’
‘Well, are you going to take Mrs. McAlister up on the suggestion and ask me to come away in, then?’ he asked mockingly.
I stood flushed and confused, uncertain what line to take; anxious that the garrulous Mrs. McAlister should have no reason for gossip. What I really wanted to do was to retreat into the fastness of Cherry Cottage and slam the door firmly in his face. But by this time I knew Mrs. McAlister well enough to know that if I should take such a course the story of my impulsive action could rapidly spread through Warefield. Before I could summon up an answer, Vance said easily, ‘Thank you, Mrs. McAlister, but even if Miss Carson had been disposed to take you up on such an excellent suggestion, I’m afraid that I simply wouldn’t have time. I’m going back to London this evening, though I’ll be sorry to miss your excellent apple tart.’ Mrs. McAlister preened herself, evidently unaware of the irony that underlaid the words.
The
n, without even a glance in my direction, he strode back through the orchard.
I followed Mrs. McAlister into the house. Why had I let him dismiss me, as it were, instead of retaining control of the situation and retreating with dignity while I had the opportunity? I thought angrily.
Mrs. McAlister, a grin of satisfaction on her moonlike face, crossed to the oven. ‘Ah, he’s no so bad as folks make him out,’ she remarked complacently, as she removed a perfect golden-brown tart from the oven. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t have thought of you asking him in, only you seemed so friendly like.’ She cocked a knowing eye in my direction as she slid the tart on to a wire rack on the kitchen table.
I wondered uncomfortably how much she would embroider the passage of arms between Vance Ashmore and myself. How much, for that matter, was she in Averil’s confidence? Was she aware of the true relationship between the tenant of Cherry Cottage and her landlord? I pulled off my hat and tossed it on to the sofa and watched her absently as she folded a fresh batch of pastry. Her movements were deft and sure and I was not surprised that she had a reputation as being an excellent cook.
‘Did you have a nice time at Mrs. Ashmore’s?’ she asked cosily.
I carefully avoided the bait. ‘Yes, thanks,’ I said shortly.
But she was not to be suppressed. With a swing of her plump wrist she outlined a circle in the sheet of smooth dough and lifting it out, laid it in a tart dish. ‘Was it only the family was there?’ she ventured. ‘Mrs. Ashmore, Mr. Eric and Mr. Vance?’
‘Exactly!’ I agreed, and in spite of my vexation at her persistence I had to smile at her irrepressible curiosity.
She nodded. ‘I’m not surprised that Mr. Vance is off with himself to London. Warefield is no place for a man like that. He was never one to stay at home for long, and anyway, now that Mrs. Etherton is gone, what’s to keep him? He’ll be looking for a little consolation, no doubt, and a man as wealthy as Mr. Vance will have no difficulty in finding it, I’ll be bound.’ Then, flustered that she had let her tongue run away with her, she added, ‘You mustn’t take everything I say too seriously, but everyone knows that Vance Ashmore is a bit of a ladies’ man.’
I wondered if she was obliquely warning me. She obviously misunderstood the scene she had glimpsed between Vance and myself in the orchard. As if I needed warning against Vance Ashmore. The idea was ridiculous. For a moment I remembered Eric and his bitter, coldly classical features. How did he feel, I wondered, as he watched his half-brother free to pursue his life while he, the former heir to the Ashmore wealth, was left behind?
It was my turn now to ask questions. ‘What was Eric like before the accident?’ I asked, feeling a little ashamed of my curiosity.
Mrs. McAlister sprinkled a few judicious cloves on the heaped apples. ‘Even, before his accident, as they called it, he was never the smallest bit like Mr. Vance. Always secretive and sly, I thought him—’
‘Why do you say “as they called it” when you refer to the accident?’ I interrupted. ‘Do you mean that it wasn’t really an accident and that Vance deliberately shot Eric?’
Mrs. McAlister straightened and glanced at me consideringly as though doubtful as to how much she could safely say. ‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? Here was Mr. Vance and Mr. Eric out shooting together. Mr. Eric at that time was heir to the Ashmore fortune and both of them in love with the same woman—and it strikes me that there’s something fishy about it that Mr. Eric gets shot. Everyone knew that he was used to guns since he was a boy—’
‘Who was the woman?’ I asked sharply, my anxiety to find an answer overriding all sense of discretion.
Hastily she began to cut out petals from the odds and ends of dough and arrange them symmetrically on the piecrust. ‘Now how should I know, Miss Esther?’ she said with an air of unconvincing surprise. ‘You know what it’s like in a small town like Warefield; some say one thing and some another. Anyway, the Ashmores always had lots of friends, you’d have no way of knowing who it was.’ But Mrs. McAlister knew, I felt sure, although I realised that she had no intention of saying anything further on the matter. She picked up the pie and crossed to the oven and after testing it with her hand, popped the dish in.
‘Rodney’s in the front garden,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Poor wee soul, he looks real lonesome swinging there on the gate all by himself, but then, his mother is dead against him playing with his school mates. She says they’re a rough lot. It seems a pity, though, that he’ll have no friends to play with on his birthday!’
She cast me one of her knowing looks as she returned to the table and began to roll out the cover for another pie, and I felt faintly irritated as I went in search of Rodney. First she had obviously been warning me not to take a romantic interest in the philandering Vance Ashmore, and now she .was obliquely pointing out that Rodney’s life was a lonely and unnatural one for a young boy. I wished she would stop her well-intentioned interference in my life. As far as Vance Ashmore was concerned, her warning was ludicrous. But Rodney was a different matter!
I went down the path and saw him perched disconsolately on top of the gate. His small figure looked forlorn and dejected.
He turned when he heard my footsteps and a look of faint interest animated his podgy features. ‘Did you have cake for tea at the Ashmores?’
I smiled. ‘All sorts of cake.’
He frowned. ‘Was Vance there?’
I nodded, wondering why he asked.
‘I hope Mummy doesn’t marry him. Mrs. Clarke says she will and that as soon as we go to live at Ashmore House she’s going to leave the farm.’
‘But you tease the cows, don’t you? I suppose she can hardly be looking forward to having you there all the time.’
He wriggled his foot between the wooden slats of the gate. ‘Oh, I won’t be there all the time. I heard Mummy say to Vance that she’ll send me to boarding school.’
It didn’t surprise me that Averil was hinting to Vance that their future life would not be encumbered by the presence of such a troublesome and unattractive child as Rodney. ‘Won’t you like that?’
Rodney swung his leg. His shoe was scuffed and I made a mental note to darn the wide, jagged hole in his sock. ‘I don’t know,’ he said listlessly. ‘I expect they won’t like me.’ There was something pathetic about the admission.
‘But why shouldn’t they, Rodney?’ I protested.
He frowned. ‘They don’t like me here at school.’
‘That’s because you deliberately make yourself unpleasant,’ I said severely.
‘No, I don’t,’ he retorted with sudden heat, and I wondered how much he really knew of Averil’s attitude towards his school companions.
‘Mrs. McAlister tells me your birthday will be in about a fortnight: why didn’t you remind me?’
‘A birthday is no good if you can’t have people to a party.’
‘But you will have a party this time and you can invite some boys from school,’ I promised.
‘May I really?’ His eyes lit up. I saw hope gradually dawn and the heavy sulkiness leave his face. ‘And may I invite Phillips?’
‘Yes, of course, and any other boys you like to come.’
He slid off the gate, his face beaming. ‘Then I’ll go and tell Mrs. McAlister and she can get the cakes and jellies ready.’
‘Not so fast!’ I laughed. ‘After all, it’s not for a fortnight yet.’
But he was already running back to the house excitedly calling Mrs. McAlister at the top of his voice.
As I followed him slowly a sudden depression fell on me. The cottage, pretty and cosy as it looked, starred with the white blossoms of clematis, had nothing really to do with me. I was an outsider, and when I left on Averil’s return, Cherry Cottage and the Ashmores would gradually become a part of the past.
I shivered a little as a sudden cold wind sprang up and shook the deep purple lilacs and I wished I was seated beside the crackling fire, enclosed by the warm, narrow walls and ancient dark beams. S
omehow it didn’t seem to matter now that the perfection of the old cottage was to be marred by a hideous glass addition. Anyway, I told myself, Vance Ashmore had gone back to London to pursue his own mysterious concerns. The less I saw of him the better I would like it. Yet, somehow, I felt vaguely uneasy. It was as though I already had a premonition of the stormy days ahead.
CHAPTER SIX
I LAID down Avail’s postcard. The message on the back was written in her usual wide, almost childish scrawl that was somehow so expressive of her character. ‘Have met the most fascinating man. But not a patch on Vance Ashmore, of course. Hope you are coping with Rodney.’ But of course I knew that she didn’t really care whether I was coping with Rodney or not. It was evident that, for the time being, her attentions were fully taken up with the ‘fascinating’ man.
I took up a trug and went into the garden. Every day now brought summer nearer and the borders that led down to the wicket gate were a riot of colour. I picked huge bunches of golden-brown wallflowers and purple and white lilacs.
When I returned to the cottage I arrayed the flowers in the windowsill and on the gleaming walnut table and in fact anywhere I could find a space. And when I was finished the sun-filled room was full of the scent of beeswax and blossoms and the faint indefinable perfume of old, long-seasoned woods. ‘It’s a fair treat,’ Mrs. McAlister remarked, with an air of flattering conviction. ‘It does my heart good to see them lilacs. Mrs. Etherton never paid any mind to the garden, that’s why the vases and bowls are so dusty. They were stuck there in the cupboard out of the way and I never took any notice of them.’
I smiled. This was her oblique way of expressing apology for the grimy condition of the vases. ‘But the garden’s so well taken care of!’ I remarked. ‘Someone must have kept it in such good order.’
Mrs. McAlister nodded. ‘Mr. Vance had one of his gardeners call once a week and keep things in order. Come to think of it, never once did I see Mrs. Etherton as much as pick a daisy.’
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