The house of my enemy

by Norrey Ford

  The staff firemen had taken over, the extinguishers were bringing the blaze under control.

  "Adam—I was trapped, shut in!"

  `Didn't you know I'd come for you?" The long-lashed eyes were Adam's, the Adam she loved and who loved her. It was no longer an angry stranger looking at her out of those eyes.

  She sighed shakily. "I thought you'd stopped loving me."

  "I'll never stop loving you. Only sometimes I love you

  too much. It's the force of my love that drives me to hurt

  you. When I read you were engaged to Tom Cooper, my

  common sense told me it wasn't true, but I was too angry to listen to my common sense. I saw red, Can you forgive me?"

  "I don't have to forgive. How can there be forgiving between you and me, when we are one?"

  He smiled tenderly, touching her face. "My poor girl, you'll need to do a deal of forgiving for the rest of your life."

  Tom stumbled towards them. For a moment they had been oblivious of the crowd, the pandemonium. They looked at him with mild surprise.

  "You all right, Verity? I tried to get at you, but this man of yours pushed me aside like a charging elephant. He swept us all out of the way like a row of ninepins."

  Adam growled, "She could have burnt to death like Joan of Arc up there. How did it start?"

  "Those confounded streamers, plus, I suppose, a careless smoker. Your fur coat's a goner, Verity."

  "I'm so thankful not to be a goner myself, it doesn't seem to matter about a coat. I hope that doesn't sound ungrateful—it looked lovely."

  "It was insured. We'll get you another. Yes, fireman?"

  "All safe, sir." The fireman saluted. "I shall need to ask questions of those nearest the platform, sir. I have to make a full report." He turned to Adam. "We'll hand you over to First-Aid, sir. Those hands need dressing."

  Verity seized his wrists, turning his hands palm upwards. -"Adam, your hands! They're dreadfully burnt."

  An ambulance man came forward. "Thank God you're the only casualty. We might have had a disaster here tonight, with the hall so packed."

  Adam said impatiently, "I'm all right. Attend to the lady."

  "I'm all right, darling. Honestly I am. Not so much as a scorch."

  The ambulance man was big and fatherly. "But you'll be all the better in bed, Miss, after such a fright. As soon as we've dressed this gentleman's hands we'll take you both home in the ambulance."

  "That's ridiculous," said Adam at once, and Tom added, "I'll drive her home."

  "You won't drive a car with those hands, Mr. Bramhall," the man pointed out, "and Mr. Cooper will be needed here. The firemen will have to make their report."

  Adam nodded. "That makes sense. All right—get on with it."

  Verity and Tom were left alone for a moment. "Listen, Tom," Verity told him quietly. "I may be wrong, but just before the fire started I thought I saw the flick of a lighter quite near the stage."

  "As I thought, a careless smoker. People don't realize how dangerous all this paper stuff is. We'll never allow streamers again. Yes, fireman?"

  The fireman held out his hand, with a tiny cigarette lighter in the palm. "We found this on the floor, sir. It may be the culprit."

  Tom's hand closed over the lighter, and his voice was oddly strained. "Probably."

  "I'll need to identify the owner The authorities have to be satisfied about the cause of the outbreak."

  "I see. Verity, if you'll go and see how Adam is getting on, I'll help the fireman."

  "All right. Goodnight, Tom. If it doesn't seem too fantastic, a happy new year. And don't feel too badly about all this. It was a pure accident."

  Tom looked around and presently found what he sought. He went across to where Rosemary was sitting alone. She looked white, shaken.

  She smiled up at him, her make-up garish on her white face. Her lips were shaking. "You're all black, Tom. Are you hurt?"

  He sat beside her, turning himself slightly to screen her. "You lit that paper," he accused in a low voice.

  She blustered. "You must think I'm crazy!"

  "I do. Crazy with jealousy. You knew you'd have been Miss New Year if Verity had not come home—and you wanted that fur coat, didn't you? And you knew about Adam."

  She seemed startled. "What , about Adam?"

  "You weren't fooled by that nonsense in the Echo. You knew Verity is going to marry Adam."

  Her cheeks burned. Her control broke, she began to sob. "I didn't know that, I swear I didn't. I only meant to scorch the coat. She had everything. I was promised Miss New Year—promised. Grandfather is a skinflint over clothes, and I needed that coat so much . . ."

  He pressed an iron hand over her wrist. "Keep your voice down. There's no need to let everyone know, you little idiot. Did you need to burn Verity to death to get a coat? You darned nearly did, you know."

  `That's what's so awful! I do know. Honestly I didn't realize it would flare up like that." She lifted red eyes to his face. "I'm not so wicked, Tom. I didn't mean to do more than scare her. Jealousy has nearly driven me out of my mind."

  "Over a coat?" He was scornful.

  "Over the man I've loved all my life. She'd taken him from me, and I hated her for it."

  Puzzled, he said, "But you swore you didn't know about Adam."

  She did not answer at once. 'How much of a blind fool can you be, Tom? I'm beyond reticence now. I can tell you I love you and not be ashamed. I've utterly lost you anyway. You'd never look my way after this."

  He was strangely moved. "Me, Rosemary? But we are always quarrelling. You were such a tormenting young devil every time we met. And you told me yourself you were going to marry Adam."

  "I was so mad with you because you wouldn't notice me. I was trying to jolt you into jealousy."

  "Yes, I suppose that makes sense, in a twisted sort of way. But why try to hurt poor little Verity?"

  "She was taking you from me. When I read of your engagement it finished the last shred of decency in me. I wanted her to know what it felt like, to be hurt as I've been hurt. I know it was wicked. Funnily enough, I even feel sorry for what I did, though I don't expect you'll believe me."

  He groaned. "What a coil! What are we going to tell the fireman? He intends to find out how it started, and he's found the lighter I gave you for your birthday. It has your initials on it."

  "So that's how you knew. Didn't you tell him?"

  `You must tell him yourself. Say it was an accident—give your own version. And thank God on your knees that you didn't kill a hundred innocent people."

  She twisted a long white chiffon handkerchief between her fingers. "Do you think I shan't remember that, every day for the rest of my life?"

  He stood up and helped her to her feet. "Come on. It will take courage, my girl, but you're going to tell the fireman now that it's your lighter and that you think you probably started the fire by accident. Then we'll find you some brandy and I'll take you home. You're as shaken as Verity herself—more so, I believe."

  She leaned on him heavily, but only for a few seconds. Then she stood erect. "If you say I must."

  He squeezed her hand tightly. "Good girl!"

  The next afternoon Adam drove out to the farm and talked seriously to Laurie. "The position is intolerable. Half Earlton thinks Tom and Verity intend to marry. Her father is convinced she's in love with Tom and has obviously been talking. I intend to tell my father to-morrow and write to Uncle Robert at the same time."

  Laurie nodded. "I think he must, Verity." "I'd prefer to tell Daddy to his face."

  Sally agreed with Verity. "He'll be home soon. Why not wait?"

  "I want my girl." Adam was quietly emphatic. "I hate being in a false position. If Verity wants to wait . . ."

  "I hate waiting. I want everything to be open and above board as much as you do, darling. But I know Daddy would respect the personal approach more."

  Adam threw a questioning glance at Laurie, who nodded. "The girl's right. Father apprecia
tes straight dealing. You'd better humour her, Adam my boy. It isn't long to wait."

  "I've already waited too long. Will no one here understand I love the girl!"

  Sally kicked Laurie sharply on the shin, causing him to remember very suddenly that he had urgent business in the milking-parlour, and Sally followed him from the room muttering something about a job in the kitchen.

  Adam moved to sit beside Verity. "Tactful critturs. My love, are you sure you can bear to marry me?"

  "I'm sure I can't bear not to." She kissed him on the mouth, and curled contentedly into the crook of his arm. "We've so much lost time to make up. Can you believe we're together again?"

  "I'm trying hard to make myself believe it. This time, my white love°, nothing—nothing in the whole wide world —shall separate us."

  "Touch wood." She tapped the chair leg lightly. "Are you so superstitious?"

  "Not a bit, normally. But when you spoke just then, cold fingers tickled my spine."

  When Verity was at the farm, Jenny's cup of happiness was full. Chattering happily, she followed Verity everywhere, and drawn by an irresistible fascination. Verity listened to her prattle about the orphanage.

  "Mrs. Bramhall is promoting me to nursemaid when the baby comes. We always had a baby at The White Cottage. I feel lost without one."

  "Do you visit The White Cottage now?"

  Jenny spread farm butter on home-baked bread. "But of course. It's my home. There's a big party next week, for Matron's birthday. Mrs. Bramhall says I can take her butter and eggs and cream. Matron's the head of the whole orphanage."

  "What is she like?"

  "Lovely. I mean, she's strict and you have to be on your best behaviour, and if anybody gets sent to her because they've been especially bad she's terrible. But we know it's because she loves us really, and if you're in real trouble or

  need help, she is simply wonderful. Some quite old girls, and boys too, come back to her to ask advice and things."

  In Jenny's tales, Verity saw her own life story, as it might have been. As that other girl she might never have met Adam. But if she had done so, their love-story would have been so simple. No inherited family squabble, no obligation owed to Robert Bramhall.

  Talking to Jenny, she felt the personality of Verity Bramhall to be as false as the name, as little belonging to her. It was built up on the assumption that she had been born a rich man's daughter. What would Jenny's sturdy little soul make of it, she wondered?

  There were moments when she longed to shed Verity Bramhall; to plunge clean and deep into truth as a swimmer into the sea; to emerge with tingling blood and braced skin, as her true self. To earn her living, stand on her own feet, on equal terms with girls like Jenny Small.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JOHN WILLIAM BRAMHALL was downstairs again after his illness. Adam noticed with a catch at his heart that during the last few weeks he'd changed from a middle-aged man into an old one. The grey suit which had fitted him well now hung on him as if on a wooden scarecrow.

  His housekeeper had put his tea on a table beside his chair, and he looked it over with an invalid's finicky appetite. "She can take this muck away, Adam, and tell her to bring me a boiled egg, new-laid, and some home-made bread with a knob of butter. Food doesn't taste as good as it used to, you know. No taste at all in this modern stuff, too synthetic, by half. A bit of real home-made stuff takes some beating."

  "I know. I brought you some fresh eggs and a home-baked loaf."

  " Didn't think there was such a thing. Where'd you get it from?"

  "Just happened to be passing a farm out Springwater way. What sort of a day have you had, Father?"

  "Horrible. I'll tell you what, you'll have to write to the Echo and complain about the type they're using in the paper these days. Can't read it."

  "I'll mention it to the Editor. You might try wearing your glasses, too."

  "My eyes are all right. It's this small, blurred type they use. Er—sit down, sit down, boy."

  Adam drew up a chair, prepared for a long session of complaints. John William had never suffered fools, or anyone else, gladly, and now he could not get to the office and his warehouses, he had to feed his passion for perfection on the trivial daily details within his grasp.

  The old man listened to Adam's account of the day's work, and examined with fingers and nose the samples from a new shipment. "Not up to the old stuff. In my younger days I wouldn't have tolerated such rubbish."

  "It's the best we can get. The customers haven't complained."

  "They don't know any better, that's why. Er " He

  hesitated, rubbing his hands before the fire with a thin papery sound. "I had old Sam Brown here to-day. Looks years older than I do. It's high time they fitted him with a wooden suit. He's wanting to retire."

  Adam lit his pipe, studying his father cautiously over the match flame. "Buying the business, Dad?"

  "I'd like it. It never was in the same street as ours for quality or turnover, but it's been my ambition to get it, and so it was my father's before me."

  "I know. I'm not averse to it myself. A good old-established business like that—add it to Bramhall's and we'd really go places. It's a day of amalgamations, Father."

  "If you want it, you know how to get it. Old Sam regards it as his granddaughter's dowry. High time you married that girl."

  "And if I don't want to?"

  "I shall suppose nowt o' sort. She's a pretty girl and she'll have her pockets well lined. What have you against her?"

  "Nothing at all."

  Adam watched his father's face shrewdly. This was it, then. The trial of strength had come at last. It had drawn upon them through the years and had chosen this hour. He gave a quick glance up at the white marble chimneypiece where, in slightly tarnished silver frames, the photographs of his two brothers dominated the room. Would they have managed it better? If they had been alive, the quarrel looming so inevitably would not have mattered so much. When a man has three sons he can afford to lose one. But when two have already gone, and there is only one left .. .

  "Well, then, what are you waiting for? Pop the question to-night, and we can get it all settled up. I'd like to see it through before anything happens to me."

  "You're good for years yet, Father. If it's possible to get hold of Sam Brown's business I'll do it, but not by marrying his granddaughter. I don't love her. I'm certain she doesn't love me. I know you and Sam have talked this

  marriage business over for years, but it's time you both

  faced the truth. I'm not marrying any girl for her money."

  "Sentimental drivel! You know the old saying, never marry for money but marry where money is! One woman is as good as another where looks are concerned. After a hundred breakfasts together you don't notice her face. You only notice whether she's a nagger or a kind woman, and I daresay little Rosemary's kind. She'll be a good manager if she's Sam's granddaughter, and a good mother for your children. What more do you want?"

  "I want a great deal more. I want to marry a woman I love."

  "Love is woman's stuff. A man's real interest is in his work, and if you're busy and happy in that—as you would be, with Brown's and our's to manage—why, it doesn't matter in the long run whether you've married this girl or that. So let's hear no more of this girlish love stuff. That's no talk for a man. Announce your engagement at once, and we'll let the lawyers get busy. Sam's willing enough." He fidgeted with a rug, plucking it over his knee until Adam bent forward and adjusted it for him.

  "I had to agree to keeping the name of Brown in. Bramhall and Brown, it's to be. You'll be in sole control." "Sole control? What about you?"

  "I shall retire as soon as it's all settled. You can manage the lot. I've had enough. Of course I shall drop in the office about once a week to keep an eye on you, but you'll be boss."

  Adam's pulses stirred with excitement. With sole control of both businesses, he could make things hum. He realized at once what a nuisance his father would be on those weekly v
isits—which were more likely to be daily. But gradually he'd gather all the reins into his own hands.

  "So we'll make the wedding June, say."

  "Wait a minute, I haven't agreed. The business end of this attracts me enormously, and I'd give a lot to see it come true. But I won't have the Middle Ages touch. You and Sam must think of some other way of uniting your kingdoms. I shan't marry Rosemary."

  "You'll do as I say. I've planned this for years."

  "And lost sight of the fact that sons and daughters are human beings, not parcels of coriander seeds or ginger. Look here, Father, I know as well as you do this is the best possible thing that could happen to Bramhall's. The day of small family businesses is done. You've got to have size and power behind you nowadays. Buy old Brown out, and I'll slave to make the thing go."

  "He's asking too much for my pocket."

  "How much?"

  John William's expression became crafty. "Never you mind. More than I can afford."

  "There are ways and means of raising money."

  "None that I'll consider. If we let this chance go to strangers, we'll lose the chance of my lifetime and yours."

  "I know that. That's why I'm asking you to raise the money to buy it."

  "Sam may not sell outright. That girl of his is a responsibility. He wants to see her settled, with someone capable of managing her inheritance for her."

  "Need he be so stubborn? If he sells out, he can leave her the money.",

  "He doesn't trust women with money. He says she'd blow the lot in five years."

  "That's his worry, not ours. Especially not mine. I'm as keen as you are to secure Brown's, but I'm not going to marry to get it. 'That's final. I'm sorry, Father, but you'll have to accept it."

  His father's bald head reddened dangerously. He beat the arm of his chair with one frail hand. "You'd better not make that your last word, Adam, I mean to have my way. You're nothing and nobody in Bramhall's without my backing, remember. I can fire you to-morrow if I want to."

  "Certainly you can. But be sure you've someone capable of taking my place, or you might regret it."

  "So! You think I can't manage without you, eh? Nobody's indispensable, think on. I've been ill, I grant you. But I'm out of bed now, and on the mend. I could go down to the office in the morning if I'd had a mind. Don't make any mistake, my lad. I can manage without thee."