by Norrey Ford
"Nothing, except be born John William's son. Don't let it worry you; we may be crazy, but there's no actual brawling. We just don't meet."
An odd little smile played about Rosemary's discontented mouth. "Indeed? What would happen if you did?"
Verity felt her hackles rise. She returned cool stare for cool stare. "The younger generation have never been allowed to meet, so we should be complete strangers, shouldn't we?"
"Good lor'," Tom interposed. "I never thought of that. You and Adam wouldn't even know each other, I suppose?"
"Except by the pricking of their thumbs," Rosemary suggested. "It would be an interesting experiment."
"We ought to go or we'll miss the next race," Verity said. She had had enough of Rosemary Brown. "Daddy will be expecting us."
Verity had always loved watching slim silky horses on their long delicate legs which looked as fragile as porcelain. Her interest was in the animals, not in betting, so she hurried Tom to the rail, intent on missing nothing.
"Why do you dislike Miss Brown so much, Tom?"
He was genuinely surprised. "Rosemary? I don't dislike her. She's a decent kid."
"You spoke to each other as though you held knives behind your backs. I've never heard such sweet antagonistic tones."
"Rubbish! You're imagining it. Rosemary and I have been friends for years."
"You're fooling yourself, Tom. That girl hates your shadow."
"I can't think why. Let's watch from here. If we try to get back to the family we'll miss the next race and I particularly want to see it."
Verity's gloved hands clutched the white rail tightly as they waited for the interminable, inexplicable delay which seems inseparable from the start of every horse race. She blinked hard to keep the treacherous tears back.
I did like him—I did! Why didn't he tell me? I'm en-
gaged, Verity; I'm going to marry a girl called Rosemary.
Such a simple thing to say, early in their acquaintance. If the fishing trip was nothing but a jaunt to mark the burying of the family hatchet, why the second invitation? Why the kiss?
Oh, Adam, why the kiss? Did you think I was the cheap kind, expecting to be kissed by any man who takes me out?
She opened her eyes wide, to dry the tears. To be tearstained now would be the last humiliation.
Concerned, Tom said, "Here, you've split your glove on that railing. Good grief, you've practically bruised your hand." He turned her hand over, showing the reddened palm, but she pulled it away sharply. "It's nothing."
"Nothing? I believe you're crying."
"Dust in my eye."
"The first aid chaps will have it out in a jiffy. Come on, let me take you."
Tom was so kind. It was stupid to cry over a man who didn't care two hoots, a man who was going to marry that lovely Rosemary Brown, who would be quite beautiful if she didn't look so spoilt and selfish. A girl who had a flourishing spice business as her dowry.
She blinked. "It's out, thank you. We ought to return to Daddy, he hates being left."
Between races, practically everyone on the course de, cided to move to some other spot, and in the ensuing General Post Verity and Tom wove briskly through the crowd towards the big, old-fashioned Bramhall car, which Robert continued to use because it still gave good service and he saw no point in spending money on an article he didn't really need. Another two years would bring it into the vintage class, though Robert cared nothing for that.
Tom groaned. "There's Rosemary again! Isn't it dashed awkward when you keep on meeting people after you've said goodbye to them? She's got a man in tow, it's—good grief, the darned little monkey!"
His explosion made Verity look up quickly. Adam was striding along beside Rosemary.
She had not expected to meet him here. For some reason she had imagined he'd stick to his fishing expedition whatever happened. A pulse beat strongly in her throat, her mouth went dry.
Oh, please, she prayed silently, let him pass without seeing us! Why isn't he out in Seafoam? I suppose Rosemary made him come to the races. Perhaps he .was glad when I cried off, and only pretended to be cross.
Rosemary was chatting animatedly, Adam's grave attention upon her. Then, as they passed, Rosemary looked across at Tom, smiled and said "Hello again", in the embarrassed tone people use when they've already said goodbye. She half hesitated, but Tom took Verity's elbow and marched her firmly forward, acknowledging Rosemary's greeting with a smile and a wave of the hand.
Adam's face was stony. He bowed politely to his companion's friends, impersonal, unrecognizing. In a moment the two were lost in the crowd.
"She did it on purpose," Tom explained. "For your information, that was Adam Bramhall, your cousin."
"My thumbs are not pricking at all. Do you think he knew who I was?"
He laughed. "He'll know now."
There was a pain like a knife plunged into her heart. She'd never known anything like it in her whole life. Her fingers curled with the desire in them to take Rosemary's elegant shoulders and shake and shake till the other girl's head wobbled and her teeth rattled like theatrical hailstones.
"Wake up!" Tom gave her elbow a jolt. "I've spoken to you twice. Are you calculating you winnings?"
"You know I don't bet."
My losses, he should say. Maybe I was never in the running, but all the same, I've lost.
Tom chuckled. "I wonder if the old man, John William, is here too? What a lark if he and your father met."
Verity snapped crossly, "Oh, do be quiet! Must you go on and on ?"
Almost before Verity had time to collect her scattered wits, they had arrived at the spot where Sally and Laurie were helping Aunt Fidget with the picnic basket. When Aunt Fidget was in charge of a picnic, no one was allowed sandwiches. She believed in plates,' knives and forks, and a table. Robert sat in the car with a rug over his knees and a raffish corduroy cap pulled well down over his bald head. Like many old sailors, Robert dreaded fresh air.
She waved to them. "Hurry, you two. Take your plates. And who do you think has had the nerve to come up and speak to me to-day? Walking around as large as life and not a bit ashamed of himself, too?"
Cautiously, Verity said, "Who, Aunt?"
"Your Aunt Kate's widower, Saul. And that woman!"
Laurie reached over her shoulder for a chicken leg. "Do we know Saul?"
"He had only the thumb and little finger on one hand," Verity reminded him. "You told me he was the original Captain Hook and I believed you. I thought he was dead."
"He is to me," said Aunt Fidget primly. "I visited him for poor Kate's sake, but when he ran away with another man's wife at the age of seventy, I drew the line."
"Good luck to him," said Robert unexpectedly, from the depths of the car. "She's an old boiling piece if ever there was one, but a man with guts enough to elope at that age is all right. Your sister Kate was a long streak of misery, and a poor life Saul had with her."
Laurie winked at Tom. "Excuse our family skeleton. I remember it all now. The lady was married, but her husband was nobbut a lad of sixty-five. Saul decided it was later than he thought—he hadn't time to wait for his inamorata to be free. So they upped and hopped it together. I'm with Father—jolly good luck to them."
Aunt Fidget pursed her lips. "It's no laughing matter. It's immoral!"
Robert rumbled with amusement. "Never mind, love. Kate was one of those who expected to get into Heaven by the early doors, and Saul believes the souls of old sailors go into seagulls. No harm done."
A black mood had Verity in its claw. Now the family were doing it, too. Taking it for granted Tom was one of the family circle, discussing that dreadful old Saul quite freely, as they'd never done before a stranger. Gently, almost imperceptibly, they were binding her to Tom with invisible chains. Soon everyone would be taking Tom-and Verity for granted, and escape would be so difficult. She was not sure whether she wanted to escape, but quite certain she did not want to be bound, as yet.
"You shouldn't ratt
le skeletons before strangers, Daddy," she said crossly.
"Tom and Sally aren't strangers, bless my soul. And Saul's no skeleton, he's a barrel. And he's rolling around this racecourse somewhere, girl friend and all."
"Anyone can come to Minster races," Tom remarked airily. "Absolutely anyone. Can't they, Verity?"
She was in no mood for teasing. "That's the worst of it. No, thanks, Aunt. I don't want to eat."
"Do you feel poorly, love?"
"Not she!" Laurie pointed an accusing drumstick at Verity. "Sunnyside-Up is in a foul stinking temper. Got out of bed the wrong side, I shouldn't wonder. Tom my boy, I'm sorry for you."
This made Verity so much crosser that she jumped to her feet and walked away. She knew she was making an exhibition of herself, but was beyond caring. To-day had been wrong from the beginning, and everyone seemed determined to annoy her.
Tom followed. Out of earshot of the others, he asked anxiously, "Have I upset you, darling?"
"You more than hinted to that girl that we were engaged. She'll believe it and tell everybody. That's cheating, Tom. Giving a wrong impression is less honest than plain lying."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what made me do t, except that I was riled when she said she was marrying your cousin."
"Why should you be riled?"
"Rosemary and I like to cap each other's exploits. Nowadays we needle each other a bit, and not always good-
humouredly. I can't think how it started, but it's a bad habit."
"A very bad habit, if others are victimized."
"Oh, come, don't let's quarrel."
"I feel like quarrelling with my own shadow. Please leave me alone. I know I'm unreasonable and bad-tempered, but I've had more than enough of this beastly day. I'd like to go home.
Her ill-humour infected him. "Very well, then."
His car was wedged into a distant car park with a thousand others. The attendant, intending to be helpful, gave muddled directions for getting it out. Tom wasted time and temper on the business, and drove Verity home in silence which both were too deep in sulks to break.
At the house Verity had had time to become slightly ashamed of herself. "Sorry, Tom," she admitted brusquely, "but perhaps it has happened for the best. You know now how horrid I can be."
"It didn't put me off, if that's what you mean. You were right to be annoyed. I did go a bit far with Rosemary. I'm frightfully sorry."
"Do stop apologizing," she said with unreasonable perversity. "I can't bear it when you're patient and understanding. Why don't you squabble with me?"
There was a brief silence in which Verity hoped Tom would smack her, stalk away, or laugh. Instead, he teetered on his heels, studying the pepper-shaped attics of the house, screwing his eyes up in the strong sunlight.
"I apologize," she snapped at last. "Perhaps I'd better go in. Goodbye."
In the cool privacy of her room, she cried a little and afterwards felt more ashamed of her exhibition of bad temper. She thought of several crushingly polite remarks she might have made to that detestable Rosemary, and had common sense enough to be thankful she had not used them. After a brisk cold shower and a clean linen dress, she felt normal enough to face the returning racegoers.
On the day Laurie Bramhall was to marry Sally Dane, Verity woke early and ran to the window to examine the weather anxiously. The official forecast promised a fine dry day, which had thrown Laurie into deepest gloom, prophesying a thunderstorm at least. It was, in fact, a pearly morning, veiled this early in soft white mist. A thrush sang in the apple tree.
Verity's toes curled with excitement. It was going to be a heavenly day and Sally would be the happiest bride in the world. She grabbed her dressing-gown and ran across the landing to thump on Laurie's door to wake him and tell him the news about the weather. He yelled back to her, and in a moment or two she heard him plunging and wallowing in the bathroom, and singing snatches of the Wedding March in an unmusical voice. Laurie was always noisy in the bathroom.
She laid her bridesmaid's dress on the bed, and carefully unfolded its tissue wrappings. It was the loveliest—and the most expensive—dress she had yet possessed, tier upon tier of shaded gold chiffon, the bodice shirred and tucked exquisitely by hand. Her headdress was a tiny circular veil kept in place by a coronet of gold rosebuds; her flowery spray was to be of gold rosebuds too, and Sally was carrying white lilies and fully opened gold roses. A white and gold wedding on a perfect day.
Laurie's banshee howl as he plunged into a deep cold bath rent the air as it had done every morning he'd been in the house, ever since she could remember. It banished her summer-morning gaiety like the shadow of a thundercloud over a bright lake.
Tomorrow morning, and all the other ,mornings, Laurie
e
wouldn't be here. She'd be in this great empty house, with only Aunt Fidget, and her father with his difficult temper, his obstinacy. She would have no young ally, no companion in distress, no one with whom to giggle over Robert's more outrageous actions. Laurie's brotherly companionship was lost to her for ever. He was Sally's, from now on.
She flung herself on the bed, pressed her face into the pillow. I won't—I won't cry on Laurie's wedding day! He'll
be so happy, it isn't fair to cry. Some day I'll be getting married myself, and I'd hate anyone to cry about it.
Determinedly she mastered her distress. If I feel like this, to-day of all days, how must Daddy be feeling? A man misses another man, I suppose? I'll have to be both son and daughter to him from now one.
The morning breeze lifted the delicate white curtains gently, laid a cool kiss on her burning face. The beginning of this day seemed suddenly important and solemn, like a new year's morning.
I promise, she whispered, I promise I'll look after Daddy and not let him be too sad about losing Laurie. She felt dedicated, almost nunlike, until the clock reminded her it was time to dress.
Her emotions did not upset her hearty young appetite, nor did Laurie miss his favourite breakfast of ham and kidneys in spite of declaring categorically that he'd lost the ring and the tickets for Paris.
"You gave them to Tom," Verity told him firmly. "Now - eat properly and don't have any more kidney or you'll be airsick, and fine and romantic that'll be. When is zero hour for you?"
"Quarter to eleven from here. I told Father quarter past."
"And he's always half an hour early, so that's about right. Goodbye, lambkin, and the best of luck. I have to go now."
"Help, don't desert me! Aunt Fidget panics, and I know I've lost my tie."
"You haven't lost a thing. Bridesmaids have to help the bride. Any messages for Sally?"
"What? Oh—no, no messages."
"There's a bridegroom for you! I shall give her your love."
Laurie buttered toast with a gloomy air. "Gosh, yes, I forgot. Do that."
"Laurie, it's your wedding day and this is the last twosome breakfast you and I will ever have. Promise me something?"
"Anything in reason," he said with his mouth full.
"Tell Sally you love her, every single day of your life. I realize she knows you do, but women are funny that way."
"I'll try to remember. Tell you what, Verity, I wish I could have had Adam as best man instead of Tom." He laughed aloud. "Can't you see Father's face? If Adam ever comes into this house it'll be over Father's dead body."
"Mine, too."
"Aye, aye? I thought you were slightly smitten. At the Fair you were starry-eyed."
"I'm sure Daddy is right about the John William Bramhalls."
He raised his eyebrows to an astonishing height, and looked deceptively guileless. "I agree They're a pair of unprincipled scoundrels, and Adam is a cheating deceitful liar."
She flashed, "He's not!" before she recognized the parody of Robert's tone and knew he was teasing.
He roared with amusement. "There, you see! You do like him. Don't be prissy. You went fishing with him, didn't you? Hey, wait a minute—did he do anything to annoy you, o
n the fishing trip?"
"Not a thing. He was quite decent. I just don't like him, but that doesn't mean he's as bad as you said."
At the Danes', confusion was worse because there were more of them. Sally's sisters, brothers and dogs seemed to have multiplied themselves.
"Look at Hobo!" Sally wailed. "He's been sitting on my suitcase since dawn. He knows I'm going away and won't let me finish packing."
Verity sat on her heels and fondled the silky intelligent head. "Poor boy! Ten days will seem an eternity to him. I'll take him to Springwater the day you're due home, and he'll be there to welcome you."
"He'll love that. I've another favour to ask, too. I'm having a young maid from Earlton, only seventeen but quite domesticated and thrilled about the farm. She loves animals. Could you possibly collect her and take her over, when you fetch Hobo? Mrs. Apple from the farm cottages will be there to receive her. The address is on the back of an envelope somewhere in my tan handbag."
By the time Verity had found the envelope and stuffed it into her own bag, one of Sally's brothers thrust a brushed brown head into the room. "Bridesmaids° car ready to leave. Sally, you're on in five minutes. Daddy says to look sharp. Mummy's coming upstairs now."
Verity snatched her bouquet. "I'm on my way, All the luck in the world, Sally. You deserve it."
Then there was the stately old marriage service, the solemn beauty of which sent shivers down Verity's spine. And in no time at all, it seemed, Laurie and his wife were ready to leave for the airport.
Verity stood with the crowd on the steps of the big Dane house, waving goodbye to the bridal pair. Confetti and silver paper horseshoes blew about on the gravel drive so freely that it would be a long time before traces of the wedding vanished.
Robert Bramhall stood apart, and presently Verity left the group of bridesmaids and slipped her arm through his.
"Tired, Daddy? Would you like to go home now? I can change quite quickly." He looked older, greyer. She did not want him to go back alone and sit in an empty house with only Aunt Fidget for company.
"I'll go by myself. There's a dance to follow, isn't there?"
"I don't feel like dancing. I feel deflated. Weddings are only fun for friends. For the family, they're wretched. When the bride and groom have gone, everything is so empty for people like us. Perhaps it's worse for the groom's family. The Danes will be occupied for hours being hospitable."
