by Ivy Ferrari
WINDY NIGHT, RAINY MORROW
Ivy Ferrari
When Tina Rutherford’s brother Bruno was tragically killed, she decided to go to Northumberland, where he had been working, to clear up his affairs and to meet his fiancée, Helen Copeland. But Tina found a far from warm welcome awaiting her from Helen’s dour brother Adam ...
CHAPTER ONE
‘Go if you must, darling,’ Mark Rutherford said gently to his daughter. ‘But I can’t help wondering if it’s wise to visit England so soon.’
Tina moved restlessly about the large salon of their Rome apartment. The city sweltered in spring heat, but they were aware of the sun only as a distant dazzle behind drawn blinds.
‘You mean—wise to go where it all happened, to meet the Copelands?’
‘Better to wait, perhaps. It’s all still so shocking, so painful. You could always stay with your Aunt Lucia. Of course in my case—’
Her father glanced at the expensive luggage piled near his desk, at the passport folder on the table, the labels with a New York destination. His eyes held a resigned acceptance.
Behind his chair an English grandfather clock ticked off the seconds with a quiet insistence that impinged on the roar of traffic outside. Tina flung herself into an armchair, shook back her ebony fall of hair and wished passionately that time might be set backwards, that it could be still a fortnight ago, with her father anticipating his lecture ‘Your and her own life a happy careless existence of secretarial college, outings and parties with friends.
Unwillingly her gaze slanted to her brother’s photograph. She saw a clever, sweet-tempered face, with clear strong lines of brow and jaw. Bruno—impossible that he could be dead, wiped out in seconds in an English car accident. He had been only twenty-three, five years older than herself.
Like herself he resembled their long-dead Italian mother. Her photograph was on the desk too, in her bridal headdress. She could have been Tina all over again. But Regina Rutherford’s blood had been wholly Latin. Tina’s was mingled, for Mark Rutherford was a quiet self-possessed Englishman, with the controlled emotions of his race.
‘Of course you must go to the States, just as you planned,’ she reassured him. ‘This lecture ‘Your has always meant so much to you. And now there’s nothing more you can do—for Bruno.’
She heard her father’s sharp sigh. Never yet had he broken down, even when the cable came from England; at least not in her presence, but she had watched the paling of his tan, the desolation in those so-English blue eyes under the greying thatch of hair.
Although Tina had Regina’s magnolia skin, long sensuous lips and poised graceful body, her eyes, soot-fringed, were of a soft flowery blue, subtly echoing her father’s.
‘Like English forget-me-nots,’ he always said. And often he had spoken to her of Coventina’s Well, on the Roman Wall in Northumberland, with its smother of wild forget-me-nots in late spring; Coventina, the little Roman water-goddess, so real to those Roman soldiers stationed on the Wall all those centuries ago that they had thrown their precious coins as offerings into that ancient spring.
And so Mark Rutherford had called his daughter Coventina, in memory both of her Roman ancestry and those far grey moors he loved.
Those same forget-me-not eyes, soft and troubled now by grief, were actually deceptive, suggesting a mildness and docility very far from the truth. For Tina was wilful, spirited and half way to being spoiled, her father’s darling and so lately her brother’s delight. Life had been utterly pleasant and taken for granted, Bruno’s friends had vied for her favours. There had been money, a lavish spending allowance, as much education as she wished. Until now, life had denied her little.
If she had been wholly of her mother’s blood her sudden tragedy would have brought swift passionate tears, a total abandonment to grief and then a sure healing. Tina had cried, but not for long. Her father’s stoical courage, like a vein of ore, streaked through her southern emotionalism.
Mark Rutherford roused himself to speak again. ‘I still think it might be the wrong decision, you going over there. But you won’t be alone. I know Chris will look after you, bless him!’
‘I feel I ought to go, though in a way I’m dreading it. But Bruno was engaged to Helen Copeland—that makes us—well, almost sisters. I feel I owe it to her. And then there’s Bruno’s unfinished work on the dig—’
‘It was all so sudden, wasn’t it? Bruno falling in love, becoming engaged—’ Mark Rutherford broke off, his thoughtful face a little bewildered. A distinguished archaeological scholar, a worldwide authority on the Roman occupation of Britain, he had an endearing habit of being constantly surprised by real life.
‘That’s what I mean,’ Tina said slowly. ‘She’s almost one of the family now. And her brother too, of course. Remember what Bruno said in his letters, how he admired Adam Copeland? ... Yes, I think I must go, Dad. You needn’t worry about me. After all, I almost know the place.’
Tina tried to speak brightly, but her young heart sank a little. She had been to Northumberland once, nine years ago, while on holiday with Bruno and her father. Details were lost now, but she remembered a grey spring, the moors lying heavy and sullen under a leaden sky. She could just recall glimpses of the great lonely bastions of Hadrian’s Wall, built by the Romans who had sacked and occupied those sad northern moors sixteen centuries ago.
Her knowledge of the Wall, however, had nothing to do with that long-ago visit. While she and Bruno were still small children their father had built for them a large relief-model of the original Wall, big enough to fill their playroom and exact down to each turret and milecastle, each bridge and gateway, temple and bathhouse. Though the real Wall was ruined now, long stretches of it non-existent, Tina never doubted her ability to find her way anywhere along its length, from Milking Gap to the Cat Stairs, from the heights of Sewingshields Crags to the shining sands of the Solway. Already she had pinpointed Hadrian’s Edge, the home of the Copelands, lying west of Chollerford.
‘Chris will be glad of your help at the dig,’ her father mused. ‘And you know so much about it already, from Bruno’s letters.’
‘Chris has already suggested it—that I should work on the dig, I mean. After all, I’ve got to do something while I’m there—I can’t just sit around getting in the Copelands’ hair all day,’ Tina thought with relief of Chris Irwin, a friend and fellow-lecturer of Bruno’s, who had been assisting him on the archaeological dig on Hadrian’s Wall. Chris was so efficient, so uncomplicated. She would be glad to have him around as a comforting background. Besides, he knew the Copelands already, which would be an undeniable help to her.
She saw the familiar mask of grief settle again on her father’s face and said quickly: ‘It’s time for tea. You know you always look for it at four and it’s nearly ten past—you stuffy old Englishman, you!’ But she slipped to the arm of his chair to drop a kiss on the top of his head.
They had just begun tea, served by their voluble Italian maid, when Chris Irwin arrived.
‘Trust an Englishman to smell tea!’
Maria lifted her solid shoulders expressively. ‘I bring another cup.’
Chris gave her his usual quiet grin, greeted Tina and her father and sat down to light a cigarette. He was a tall, easy-boned Londoner with a relaxed personality, his colouring fair to medium, his eyes a forthright grey. He and Bruno had both taken a year off from their work as lecturers in a Rome Institute of Archaeology to carry out field work on the dig at Hadrian’s Edge. Chris had travelled back to Rome for Bruno’s funeral but was now due to return to the dig.
Bruno had been in charge of operations, though Chris had spent longer in England, having opted to go out first and make the preliminary arrangements. He had b
een restless and rootless since the break-up of his marriage to a beautiful Italian photographic model. Some years older than Bruno, he had always treated Tina with the amused indulgence of an elder brother.
Tina, knowledgeable without being too committed, listened in silence to the conversation of the men. They were talking of Bruno’s plans, of the work already done, the discoveries made. Both men were subdued, almost listless, though the dig showed exciting promise. Tina felt impatient. Interested as she was in archaeology, for owing to her father she had almost cut her teeth on it, she yet thought of the dig emotionally rather than otherwise. It was the scene of Bruno’s final labours, his last enthusiasms. And now his work was finished. Others would have the recognition, the praise. And the cold Northumbrian wind would blow uncaring over Hadrian’s Edge ...
At last Chris spoke directly to her. ‘So you’ve decided to come with me, Tina?’
She braced herself for criticism. ‘The Copelands have been kind enough to invite me.’
‘I’m not so sure it’s the right decision, for all that. Though of course I’ll be glad to have your help. That is if you promise to behave yourself,’ he said crisply.
‘On Hadrian’s Wall? Have I any choice?’
He smiled. ‘No night clubs or bright lights, I grant you. That wasn’t quite what I meant. You know that trouble has a habit of following attractive girls around.’
‘And good-looking young men?’ she parried.
A shadow crossed his face. ‘I can’t say I’ve had any trouble like that yet. Even if I were interested, girls are pretty thin on the ground round Hadrian’s Edge—except for the students on the dig, of course. And usually one can’t see them for mud.’
Tina poured out more tea. ‘You’ll hate the weather too,’ he warned her.
‘It’s still spring,’ her father protested. ‘Summers up there can be warm, you know. But I grant you spring is usually bitter.’
Tina shivered, imagining hail on the wind, huddled sheep, a sad and shrivelled turf. She had never minded exciting weather, rainbow and tempest, the battling of the elements. Italian storms were exhilarating.
Her father excused himself to make a phone call. Chris turned to her again, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘I meant that, you know—about behaving yourself. Otherwise the deal’s off.’
‘I can look after myself,’ she said loftily. But even as she spoke she remembered escapades in the past from which Chris had rescued her. Since his separation he had always been around if she needed him and, like Bruno, she had expected him to pamper her whims. He had been indulgent, affectionate but not at all blind to her many faults. ‘Anyway,’ she finished, ‘I shall be at the house and you at the hotel, so you can dodge me whenever you like. Fair enough?’
He shook his head at her. ‘Why did no one spank you when you were small—good and hard ... No, don’t tell me. You looked at them out of those fragile blue eyes—and they just hadn’t the heart. A pity for your sake, Tina.’
‘Why?’
‘Because one day you’re going to meet a man who has a trick for every one of yours, who will hurt you like hell—’ again the shadow crossed his face—‘and make you wish you’d never been born. You’ll see,’ he said all this with a hint of relish.
‘Sounds fun!’ Tina said lightly. Then her eyes swung to Bruno’s photograph and her voice softened again to grief. ‘You do understand why I have to go, Chris? I can’t just resign myself to—what happened. Not like you and Dad. I’ve got to go there—it’s just as if he’s telling me. As if he’s still there in spirit, and somehow troubled ... And there’s Helen. I’ve never met her—and I want to. We ought to be friends. You liked her, didn’t you—and her brother?’
‘Yes, I liked her. I’m not so sure about her brother.’
‘You mean Adam Copeland?’
He nodded. ‘He rules the roost up there, a kind of country squire and uncrowned king rolled into one. You might say he bestrides the Wall like a Colossus. The Copeland family has been known and respected in the area for generations. They’ve been magistrates—he’s a local J.P.—local squires, served on the County Council. The local church has more than one Copeland on its memorial tablets. Mention his name up there and you have everyone touching their caps. But Bruno probably told you all this in his letters.’
‘You must be joking. His letters were all about Helen. But he did say Adam Copeland liked to rule her life.’
‘You could say that too.’ Chris hesitated. ‘You’re sure you’re doing the right thing, accepting this invitation of theirs? You don’t think it would be better to wait, until everyone concerned has had time to get over it all—’
‘No, I don’t. I’ve told you—’ Tina began collecting the cups to place on the tray. ‘I’ve got this strong feeling I must go—’
‘You always were one for following your instincts.’ He shrugged. ‘And I suppose you can always practise, your wiles on Adam Copeland.’
‘I might.’ Her smile was half sad, half teasing.
‘I doubt if you’d get anywhere. He’s a hard-headed Northumbrian, not a susceptible Roman. And a land-agent, of all things, his feet in the soil, his mind on estate problems. Don’t deceive yourself about him, my dear Tina. You’ll find yourself up against something as impregnable as the Wall itself.’ And with this warning he got up to leave.
A few days later, when Mark Rutherford had already flown to the States, Chris drove Tina to Milan, where they stayed a couple of days en route, as Chris had arranged to lecture there before returning to England. From Milan they flew to London Airport, with a further short lap to Newcastle. Here Chris picked up his car which he had garaged in the city and drove her out to Corbridge-on-Tyne.
Corbridge in the rain—a grey steepled town perched along the northern escarpment of the river. The Romans had called it Corstopitum and made it their supply base for the building of the Wall.
Rain, bitter spring rain—the gutters ran, the drenching-trees swayed about the ancient church, the river ran steely over its pale pebbles under the wooded heights across the valley.
Tina sat huddled in her blue anorak, shivering and drinking tea in the lounge of Chris’s hotel. She was tired and depressed after the journey. The outer door was opened five times in as many minutes, swinging draughtily in the wake of other drenched tea-seekers.
Chris had gone to telephone Mrs. Butterfield, Adam Copeland’s housekeeper, who combined her household duties with enthusiastic archaeological activities. In Chris’s absence she had been in charge of operations at the dig.
Tina pulled a face at the thought of her. She had met female archaeological enthusiasts many times at the flat in Rome, and usually escaped by the back stairs. Interested in the subject as she was, there came a limit to one’s enthusiasm in the presence of these excitedly-babbling ladies.
At the moment, though, the thought of Carrie Butterfield merely hung on her mind like an irritating burr she was too listless to brush off.
Something bigger was troubling Tina, one of her dark sinking misgivings. Already she had grave doubts about her journey. Back in the Rome sunshine it had seemed an overwhelming necessity. Now, in this chill northern rain, her reasons for coming seemed suddenly impulsive, without reason. It could be just because she was chilled and depressed, already missing the light and warmth of Italy. It was difficult to understand how these Northerners felt any emotions at all in weather like this. And sympathetically if inconsequentially, she thought of those miserable legionaries fresh from Rome to do duty on the Wall centuries ago, and with no recreations except gambling in the bath-houses. How they must have hated this cold northern clime! Yet she remembered too that many of them had married Briton girls from the wild countryside bordering the Wall and when their time-serving duties were over had settled down to farm and raise families. It was odd, she mused, how traces of that same Roman blood must have shaped the Northumbrians of today, perhaps accounting for that warmth which her father insisted was one of their best-known virtu
es.
Warmth ... She shivered again as the hotel door crashed open for the umpteenth time.
Tina found herself arrested by the sight of the tall man who stood there. With an easy authority his gaze moved over the occupants of the lounge, as if looking for someone. He was well but negligently dressed in twill trousers, a white sweater and a waterproof jacket, and the clothes had the look of being moulded to his hard muscular body.
A man who spent most of his time outdoors, Tina guessed. His tan had a weathered vitality that suggested storm and wind rather than exposure to sun.
His gaze had reached her now, measured, almost insolent. Cold grey eyes surveyed her from under a dark sweep of hair. Tina saw the hard implacable, curve of jaw and temple, the heavy eyebrows. He was too racy-looking to be handsome. Tough but interesting was her final summing-up, and almost automatically, being Tina, she widened her forget-me-not eyes.
His gaze settled, his expression changed. Those heavy eyebrows lifted fractionally and a smile touched his mouth, a smile which made Tina hot instead of chilled. It was amused, condescending and somehow utterly disconcerting.
‘Do you happen to own a blue Fiat?’ he demanded, and repeated the registration number.
‘My friend does. I have the car-keys here.’ Tina, a capable driver, had been at the wheel on the road from Newcastle.
‘Then perhaps you’ll kindly park it in a more sensible situation. I want to get my car out.’
He had already moved to the door, somehow conveying without moving an eyelash that he had no intention of being kept waiting.
She-moved towards him with deliberate languor.
‘And put a jerk into it, my lass!’ he shot at her. ‘I happen to be in a hurry.’
Tina winced. She waited imperiously for him to open the door, saw a further flicker of amusement in his face.
Outside he waited, hands in pockets, while she manoeuvred the car. She had parked it badly, she realised, and the knowledge annoyed her. She supposed the mud-spattered Land-Rover nearby was his vehicle. That meant he was probably a farmer. Yet she was shaken, not having visualised a moorland farmer in quite that mould.
