The house of my enemy

by Norrey Ford

  "Very bloodcurdling, Miss. What are you selling?'

  "The idea that blood is thicker than water. You may have friends, but they're not the same as family; they go their own way and study their own concerns. You can pay for help and even companionship, but you can't buy love. Adam loves you. Goodness knows why, for you haven't shown him much love."

  His hands, as ivory-white as the long paper-knife he handled, shook slightly. Only by that did she know she'd moved him, for his jaw was set, the hooded eyes gave nothing away.

  `With what right do you come here and talk with such impertinence?"

  "Soon I shall be Adam's wife. Your daughter-in-law."

  Startled, he peered over the desk. "You? But Adam told me it was Robert's lass. Have you wormed your way in here under a false name?"

  She flashed angrily, "No, I have not."

  An angry woman, he remembered dimly, was always a beautiful one, when she was as young as this bright creature who shone like a jewel in the musty atmosphere. He'd always liked them proud and high-spirited, with courage and that lovely sheen of health and delicate beauty. He smothered a chuckle. Young Adam knew how to pick himself the right girl, choose how. But what was all this nonsense about Robert and that girl of his?

  `So you're not Robert Bramhall's lass? Why did he tell me you were?"

  "I'm known as Verity Bramhall and I'm proud to be Robert's lass. You probably know Robert and his wife adopted me at a year old. In actual fact I'm an orphanage girl. I know nothing about my father and mother except that they're both dead. My father was a sailor, lost in a wreck off the Faroes before I was born. My mother died in childbirth. That's my whole history. My name was Bell, and at the orphanage they called me Mary because that was my mother's name."

  "Very nice. But what has it to do with me?"

  "Simply this; to-day I went back to the orphanage and talked to the Matron. I told her about you and what a pigheaded, stupid, selfish old man you are. I persuaded her to tell me my real name and she agreed because she saw that it was necessary to my happiness."

  .Why?"

  "Because you're condemning me as Robert's lass. You're not considering me as me. What does it matter what my name is, or where I live? I'm the same person. I'm me. Two eyes and a nose, a heart and a soul, two hands, two feet. Verity Bramhall or Mary Bell, what does a label matter? If I'd been brought up in the orphanage, if I'd been called Mary Bell, would you have had any objection

  to Adam's marrying me? Give me a straight answer, John William Bramhall."

  He half rose, leaning on the desk. "Straight enough, then, Mary Bell. No, I would not. You're pretty and by golly, you've got courage. You're a proper mother for a new generation of Bramhalls. Now listen, and take this as your final answer. If you'd come from the orphanage—nay, I'll say if you'd come from the meanest home Earlton—if you were the least important worker down there in my warehouse—I'd welcome you as my son's wife. But as the adopted daughter of my brother Robert, you're not acceptable to me. Now go away!"

  "I'll tell Adam that. But it will make no difference. We shall still marry. Uncle John William, you're the loser, don't you see? You're the one who'll be left high and dry, lonely. Love is not so easily come by that we can afford to throw it away like dirt. Adam loves you."

  "Don't dare to uncle me. Adam can do as he's bid, if he loves me. Tell him he can come back any time, and nothing said, as long as he comes on my terms."

  "I'd be wasting my breath, as I've wasted it on you."

  He sank back into his seat. "You've had your say. Now let me have mine. Has Adam told you his heart's in Bramhall's?"

  "Often. I understand the sacrifice he's making for me."

  "Right. Remember that. Now let me remind you that blood is thicker than water. Four generations of Bramhall blood flow in Adam's veins. He won't let it go so easily, as you'll find to your cost. A pretty face doesn't last, a man soon gets used to it. But a business!"

  "Is that more important than love? Adam doesn't believe so."

  "Women don't understand business, poor things. A business to a man is what marriage and children mean to a woman. A call in the blood, a need, a hunger. Adam comes of generations of fine merchants, and it's knit deep into his fibres, the same way that a man can have a call to be a fisherman, a pirate or a parson. It isn't the money; if a man is any good at all, he has an urge in him to achieve, to create."

  "Women have an urge to create, too."

  He waved a deprecatory hand. "Woman is the marrying creature, but fundamentally man isn't. That's where you women make your big mistake. Man—he's an organizing creature. He's got to be organizing something, whether it's a ship or a plough or a trade that goes all over the wide world. When he sees the thing running smoothly the way he planned it—girl, it's a wonderful fulfilment! Once a man has sampled that thrill, he won't give it up for ever, for the sake of a pair of blue eyes. Faint hopes die on a warm hearthstone, they say. But Adam's hopes aren't faint, my girl. They're powerful enough to pull him away from you in the long run."

  "Let me remind you of something you've forgotten, Uncle. Man does not live by bread alone. There are other things, like a home, and children growing up around you, and the comfort and strength a man can get from his marriage. Life is for living, not for being tied down to a desk and a warehouse, for ever buying and selling in this dusty air. There are all the things money can't buy, that have value but no price. You're forgetting those things. Adam's a complete person, he sees life in the round, not just at one narrow angle. You and Mr. Sam Brown are trying to organize your flesh and blood as if they were goods in the market. You'll fail."

  "We shall see."

  "You're right, we shall see." At the door she turned back. "It's a funny thing, Uncle. I've stopped hating you. In fact, I almost like you. I think we understand one another."

  He grunted. "We both speak plain. Aye, Mary Bell, I reckon we understand one another. It's a pity we couldn't be on the same side. But—" he jabbed a long forefinger at her—" we're not, my girl. Don't get any fancy notions."

  "Don't you. Goodbye, Uncle."

  "And don't uncle me, you little monkey!"

  * *

  Verity had no chance to confess her fruitless visit until Sunday, when Adam was at the farm for the day. In the

  pale spring sunshine, she leaned on a gate waiting for Sally to be ready for church, and idly listening to the men's brisk discussion of the replanning of Laurie's pig unit.

  The men were oblivious of her presence, and she was not entirely sorry to be ignored. She had a sinking feeling that Adam was going to be very angry.

  "Get rid of pigs altogether, Laurie. They need too much labour. Specialize. I tell you."

  "Who's the farmer, you or me?"

  "A business is a business, whatever you produce. You have to watch your labour costs. Now look here . . ." Adam sketched on the barn door with a bit of chalk.

  Man is an organizing creature! John William Bramhall was no fool—would he prove right in the end? It was remarkable how easily men could forget the very existence of the women they professed to love, when some interesting project of work was afoot.

  Sally came out, dressed for church. "Oh, Laurie, you're not ready! You promised."

  Laurie looked abashed. "Gosh, so I did! Sorry, my pet. Can I get this muck off in time?"

  "No. They're ringing the last bell already. Verity, aren't men the absolute end? We'll have to leave them."

  The two girls walked down the lane towards the Norman,- towered church. "Laurie's happy farming," Verity said.

  "Because his heart is in it. He always hated the office."

  "I know. Sally, do you think a man could be happy doing a job if his heart wasn't in it?"

  "No, I don't. He might stick it out because he'd no alternative, but he wouldn't be happy. His work is so important to a man."

  "Oh, Sally—what am I doing to Adam?"

  "It'll work out. Personally I think John William will throw in the sponge."

 
"I don't. Neither will Adam. They're both as hard as granite. Sometimes Adam terrifies me. He just goes on, day after day, like a landslide, slow, remorseless. Nothing moves him from the decision he's taken."

  "Would you be happier if he gave in to his father?"

  "Of course not. But all the same it scares me to see him so set."

  During the service Verity glanced at Sally more than once. Her face had a calm, sweet serenity these days, eloquent of an inward peace and happiness Verity envied. If only she could feel as serene as darling Sally looked. But the thought of her coming interview with Adam gave her a hollow feeling at the pit of her stomach.

  After lunch Sally went upstairs to rest, and Laurie retired behind the Sunday papers. "There are lambs in the field beyond the wood," he hinted broadly.

  The confession couldn't be postponed any longer. Verity slid her arms into a nut-brown suede coat and knotted a yellow scarf round her hair. "We'll go and see them, shall we, Adam?"

  The wood was full of promise. Already the chestnut buds were plumb and sticky, and Adam spotted a primrose under the hedge. Soon there would be pale green leaves and a carpet of bluebells, and woodruff smelling of new-cut hay.

  "Exciting," Verity breathed. The wind rustled like the sea in the tops of the trees, but at ground level the wood was perfectly still. "It's like a stage, the minute before the curtain goes up."

  "Speaking of stages, have you seen anything of Tom lately?"

  "Not a glisk. He knows about us—I told him. I suppose he's nursing a broken heart, though I was as gentle as I could be."

  "He gave in pretty easily, considering the advantage he had."

  "Did you expect to fight a duel, pistols for two and coffee for one? Tom's too civilized for that sort of thing."

  "Thanks for the suggestion that I'm uncivilized. Shall we sit on this log? Wait a minute, I'll put my coat down, it's probably damp."

  "Probably full of creepy-crawlies. These old logs are usually an insect Grand Hotel. However, I'll risk it, on your coat. I have a confession to make and I'm terrified of you I think you will both bark and bite, but I meant well.

  My road was paved with good intentions, Adam my love, and you know where that leads.".

  His face darkened as he listened. She felt his anger rising in him, but she told him everything without faltering, right through to the parting shot.

  "Why, why, why?" He gave her his hunched shoulder, his voice suspiciously mild, which did not deceive her for one moment, He was angry, in that unmistakable way of his. She was beginning to know that the madder he was the more quietly he was liable to begin.

  "I don't need a woman to plead for me. Father knows my mind and I know his. Leave us alone to seek out our own salvation."

  "But don't you see—you never will. You'll both sit tight, with your arms folded like Napoleon, too proud to do anything at all, until you turn to stone. And—and everybody else with you."

  "Proud? That's good, coming from you. You don't leave a man much pride, do you? You're determined to tear it off in little gobbets, to satisfy your urge to interfere. Good heavens, why did you go? What on earth possessed you?"

  "It's my cause, too, remember. I had a right to plead it."

  "I don't agree. You must let a man do his own fighting. I don't need help from anyone."

  She sighed helplessly. "No human creature stands alone. We all need help from each other. If everyone were as stiff-necked as you Bramhalls, civilization would fall to pieces."

  Verity was ready to cry. In the deep rumble of his voice was a hurt so profound that she wanted to hide her head somewhere and weep. This was not the quick flash of anger, but something she could not overcome or comfort.

  She wound her arms round him coaxingly. "I'm sorry, Adam. It was wrong of me to interfere. It was an impulse and a darned silly one. Being unsuccessful makes it all the more humiliating."

  He could not be angry long, when she coaxed so humbly. "All right, firebrand. Let's forget it."

  The cloud had not lifted from his face, and his voice was still brusque.

  "Please forgive me properly. I swear solemnly that I'll never interfere again—ever."

  He took her grave face between his broad palms and kissed her forehead. "I forgive you properly. Will that do? And you'll never, never fight my battles for me again? I can't help being a Bramhall, you know. We can give, but we can't take."

  "That's your tragedy. It could destroy you. It's so easy to give—it makes you feel good and noble. But to accept —" she tilted her head, frowning slightly, "—to be humble enough to take from others, one must love wholly; the surrendering kind of love." She studied him with wondering eyes. There was still so much she did not know about this beloved man. "Every good thing is given by God, you see—and if we can't take—" she spread her hands with an expressive movement—"He can't give."

  "Yes, yes, I see what you're driving at. But independence isn't wrong. Not the independence which makes a man want to fight his own fights—the pride which won't let him hide behind a woman's skirt. Darling of my heart, much as you love me, you must leave me my self-respect."

  She pouted. "I did apologize. I'll remember another time. In time I might learn to keep my big mouth shut."

  With a quick change of mood, he laughed aloud. "Oh, you funny young juggins! I do wish I'd seen you at it—you and Dad going at each other hammer and tongs."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KEEPING her news from Robert Bramhall was not merely difficult; it was impossible.

  Of the five people round the table at his welcome-home dinner, four were acutely uncomfortable, knowing that a mine was about to explode under their feet. There were dead silences, followed by a rush of chatter which would fade away nervously as one or the other found the ice too thin.

  Laurie took Sally home early, and Aunt Fidget went to bed with a splitting headache..

  Robert studied Verity shrewdly. "Don't you run away yet. I want to hear all you've been up to."

  "I've been chattering ever since you arrived, Daddy. It's your turn now."

  "You've not told me what I want to hear. You and Tom? I thought he'd be with us to-night."

  "I haven't seen Tom since New Year's Eve."

  "Aye, that fire was a rum do. Did they find out how it started?"

  "Rosemary Brown admitted she dropped her lighter among the paper streamers. She was terribly upset and wrote me a charming letter to apologize."

  "Why? She didn't do it on purpose, did she?"

  "Oh, no. Even Rosemary wouldn't do a dreadful thing like that. It was queer—before the fire she seemed to hate me, yet afterwards she was as nice as pie. As if something had happened to make her stop disliking me."

  "What could have happened?"

  Verity laughed. "I can't imagine. Tom thought she might have been jealous about the fur coat, and that was certainly ruined. But the insurance people bought a new one, so it couldn't have been that. I've made myself forget the whole thing—it was an accident, and that's the end of it."

  "I hope you don't hold it against poor Tom. You promised me you'd give him an answer after the cruise. If you

  haven't seen him since the dance, I take it the answer was in the negative?"

  She bent her shining head in agreement. She knew the moment had come and she was not frightened at all. Her love for Adam was greater than her fear of Robert's anger; it was as if Adam held her hand.

  He rubbed his chin. "I'm disappointed in you—deeply. But if the lad doesn't strike on your box, he doesn't, and I won't force you in any way. I suppose I'll have to talk to poor old Cooper. He was building on it. We both were. I've no son to follow me, and I was hoping for young blood. Laurie's no use to me, he takes after his mother, unpractical."

  "He's a good practical farmer."

  "In farming you can make a decision six months before you need to act. I wish you'd been a boy, I could have trained you. I've seen you swoop to a decision like a young sparrowhawk. Pity!"

  `Suppose there was someone
, Daddy? Someone—not Tom—who could help. A real businessman, an organizer —and ready to start working for you to-morrow morning?"

  He laughed throatily. "A paragon like that wouldn't be out of work, my pet. He'd have a queue a mile long waiting for him."

  "I'm not just imagining, Daddy. I mean it. I—I know a man like that."

  His eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me you're in love with some chap who's out of work? If so, I'll tell you before you go any further that your swan is a goose. A man of the calibre I need doesn't get himself out of a job. You'd best tell me all about it. I hope you haven't passed up a good man like Tom Cooper to lose your head over a ne'er-do-well?"

  Before she could answer, the telephone at his elbow rang out.

  He frowned. "Can't give me a bit of peace my first evening at home, drat them! Hello, hello—who is it?"

  Verity had nerved herself to speak, and now she had to wait. It was too bad—why couldn't people leave a man alone on his very first evening? If the conversation lasted

  long, her courage would run out at the heels of her shoes; there wasn't much of it.

  Robert exploded, his face reddening. "What? Who?"

  With his free hand, he motioned Verity to leave the room. She collected his coffee cup and went out. As she closed the door, she heard his spluttering explosion again.

  She ran upstairs. "Would you like some coffee, Auntie? How's your head?"

  "Terrible! It's the strain. Honestly, Verity, I don't think I can bear it. Robert is sure to blame me, in the long run. He always does."

  "You won't have to bear it much longer. I'm going to tell him to-night. Dinner was too awful, and it's not fair on any of you to ask you to keep my secrets. I can't now, because someone's rung him up, and annoyed him. He's simply spluttering into the telephone."

  "Miss Latimer, I'll be bound." She sat up, eyes wide. "It couldn't be Adam?"

  "Not without warning me."

  When she returned, the call was finished He was clutching the corner of his desk. He breathed heavily and his face was a dull, frightening crimson. He glared at her like a baited bull, angry yet stricken.