by Norrey Ford
“I told you I did. I may even love you. It’s just—being in such a hurry. Please, Guy—give me time to get to know you. It’s been fun, being with you to-day. I’ve enjoyed every single minute of it But we haven’t”—she spread her hands helplessly, unable to explain properly—“talked together. Found out whether we have anything in common. Anything that really matters.”
He swept her into his arms. “What really matters is this?” He kissed her lips roughly, hungrily. “My little darling, my love.”
She was swept away, as a swimmer, clinging to a crumbling bank, might be carried off by a raging river. It was crazy, it was much too impetuous, but his vigorous, determined, love-making, his vitality and sureness, were not to be resisted. She felt faint with excitement; as if her feet were no longer on solid ground. He searched for her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. Then suddenly he stopped, his mouth to her hair. He held her so closely that she could feel the pounding of his heart.
“Don’t make me wait,” he whispered urgently. “I don’t want to wait any more. I’ve been on fire ever since I first saw you. Please, please, darling Jacqueline, say you’ll marry me soon.”
She freed herself, feeling she could think better if she were not in his arms. Was this love, this pounding of the heart, this disturbance of the senses? Was this the important thing, and was Guy right when he said the other things did not matter? She pressed cool fingers to her hot temples.
“I can’t think straight. You’re not being fair. Wait just a little time, a few months. There’s my career, too. All my life I’ve wanted to be a nurse—why should I give it up?”
He sulked, like a small boy, his handsome face dark and angry. “As if a woman’s career mattered, when she has a chance of marrying!”
She stared, unable to believe he had made such a preposterous statement, but his face convinced her he really meant what he said. He believed it. She pealed with sudden laughter.
“Guy! I never heard such a conceited statement in my life. Do men think they are the be-all and end-all of a woman’s existence? Do you think we’d throw anything over that we cared about, just to marry one of you?”
“Most women would. You would, too—if you loved me. Besides, what’s nursing, anyway? You said yourself you were in everybody’s black books, and Deborah is always swearing she’ll give it up because it’s a dog’s life.”
“I admit there’s hard work, routine, monotony at times, but so there is in marriage. But nursing has great rewards.”
“Hasn’t marriage?”
“Of course. A home of one’s own, children; the joy of being queen bee in one’s own hive. But I can’t give up all that I’ve hoped for, worked for, just in a moment like this. I suppose if I knew for certain that I loved you, I wouldn’t hesitate—but I’m honest enough to say I don’t know.”
He took her hands and raised the fingers to his lips. ‘“Very well. I’ll wait. But not for long, remember. And no nonsense about going on with nursing after we’re married. I want my wife to myself, I’m not sharing her with anybody.”
As they had talked the sky had clouded quickly, and now Guy looked up, weatherwise. “Thunderstorm coming. We must dash for it. It may not last long, but you’ll be soaked to the skin in a few minutes if we don’t get under cover. There’s a shepherd’s shelter not far away, just a stone hut; but at least it has a roof. Come on.” He spoke to the dog, and led the way at once at top speed down the clough, Gypsy trotting ahead. They came in sight of the shelter as the first heavy drops came down.
Guy put his tweed coat over her lightly covered shoulders. “Run for it now! You don’t know what this country can do when it really rains.”
He tucked his arm under her elbow and almost lifted her over the last few yards of broken ground. By the time they reached the hut, which had no doors or windows, the rain was torrential, thunder and lightning coming almost simultaneously.
“Afraid?” he shouted.
“Not a bit. I like to watch the lightning.” All the same, a tremendous crack, and an increased downpour, sent them bundling into the open entrance, laughing.
The shelter was not empty. Leaning against the stone wall, nonchalantly filling his pipe, was Alan Broderick.
He saluted them gravely. “You just made it. I saw you coming, from the top of the gully.” Looking at Guy, he added, “Left it a bit late, didn’t you? Miss Clarke is quite wet.”
Jacqueline felt her shoulders. “No, I’m not. This is Guy’s coat. I’m quite dry under it.” She made to slip it off, but Guy told her to keep it. It would be cold until the storm had finished.
“It was needed,” Alan said. “It will clear the air.”
They watched the play of lightning over the hills; the thunder cracked like a whip. Gypsy crept into a corner of the hut and lay down, trembling, her eyes luminous in the shadowy building.
Jacqueline was grateful for the warmth of Guy’s tweed coat, for the air was cold after the sultry heat earlier. Alan smoked his pipe calmly, gazing out at the rain which fell like a grey sheet. Guy, feeling in his coat pocket for cigarettes, kept his arm round Jacqueline and drew her slightly towards him. “Lean on me,” he suggested. “The walls are rough and there’s nowhere to sit down.”
Presently the thunder died to a distant rumble and the lightning flickered only on the farther hills.
“The storm is passing,” Alan said, breaking a silence between the three. “The sun will come again soon.”
Jacqueline noticed a fine leather strap over his shoulder. “Are you photographing to-day?”
“I was—until the light went. Then I must confess, I was planning to call at Timberfold and ask after you.” Again he turned to Guy. “If you will forgive an interest in my patient’s welfare? Out of sight is not out of mind.”
Guy looked surprised, and Jacqueline said quickly, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you knew each other. This is Mr. Broderick. From the hospital, you know.”
She was not Alan’s patient and never had been, but Guy apparently did not realise that. He nodded curtly. “I’ve heard of you, naturally. Afraid I didn’t recognize you. The farm isn’t far from here. You must stay for tea.”
Jacqueline was speculating. He has not come to see me as a patient; so why has he come? To see me—as a person? Or for some obscure reason of his own, using me as an excuse?
Tea at Timberfold was an uncomfortable meal. Connie hated company, but was bound by the inexorable law of hospitality to make a special effort and brought out some fine old china which astonished Jacqueline. Guy scowled all through the meal. There was an atmosphere one could cut with a knife, and only Alan seemed unaware of it. He talked easily of farming, of sheep and birds.
At last Connie started clashing the crockery together as a signal that the meal was over, and Jacqueline jumped up to help her, hoping to salvage at least some of the rosebud china which looked like falling a sacrifice to the old woman’s temper. The men pushed back their chairs and lit pipes in true farmhouse style. Jacqueline, flying to and from the back kitchen, was amused to see how easily Alan fell into the way of it. He must have eaten in many farm kitchens to make himself at home so naturally.
She had to press past him to put the sugar-basin away in a corner cupboard. “Well, Jacqueline? Seen your geographical dog on the moor since you came back?” he asked, smiling.
She shook her head. “You’re teasing—you know what an idiot I feel about that.”
“What sort of a dog’s that?” Connie wanted to know. She paused for the answer, big brown teapot in one hand, milk-jug in the other. “Niwer heard o’ yon.”
“A dog with a map of England on its side. Jacqueline dreamt it attacked her.”
Guy swung round to Connie. “Map of England? Why?”
She screeched, “Look out, you gormless fool!” The teapot crashed to the quarried floor and smashed. “Now look what tha’s done.”
“I wasn’t near you!” Guy protested. “Oh, all right, stop screeching. I’ll clear it up.”
But
Connie pushed him away and made a great deal of to-do with mop and dustpan, muttering about tea-leaves all over her best rag rug. Alan was unperturbed by the upset, beyond moving his chair to allow Connie to retrieve the broken spout. Jacqueline, watching him covertly, noticed his speculative look upon the grumbling woman.
Connie took the debris out, and could be heard clashing the washing-up about for a few minutes; then there was silence. Guy jerked his head kitchenwards. “Gone outside or upstairs, to sulk. She’ll get over it. Well, Mr. Broderick, I’ve stock to see to. I’ll say good-bye. Glad to have met you—we hear a lot about you, one way and another. Our Deborah and such-like.”
“Sister Clarke—of course, she’s your sister. If I see her I’ll tell her I’ve been to Timberfold. Jacqueline, are you busy, too, or can you walk a little way with me?”
As they strolled slowly through the plantation, he said, “Uncomfortable meal, little one. My fault, I’m sorry. I don’t usually force myself on folk, but I wanted to talk to you and find out if you felt happier about your visit. I must admit I now appreciate your reluctance.” He grimaced dryly. “Connie is quite a character.”
“You put up with all that for me? That’s sweet of you, Alan. Are we far enough from hospital for me to say Alan?”
“Of course. Besides, these are Alan’s clothes. You’ve never seen a check shirt and a coat with leather-patched sleeves at St. Simon’s. Sure you’re all right?”
“Quite. You were right about the air and the quiet. I was nervy and hysterical about that dog. I genuinely believed someone was trying to kill me, but now I see how silly the idea was.”
“You almost made me believe it.”
She glanced sideways at him, surprised by the tone in his voice. “Why, Alan! Did you come to rescue me?”
He looked slightly confused. “Shall we say, I came to see if you needed rescuing.” His mobile mouth quirked into a rueful smile. “If you don’t think that too quixotic.”
She was touched. “I think it noble,” she said simply, and though he looked to see if she was laughing at him, her small sweet face was gravely serious.
They walked in silence to the top of the wood, where the open moor lay before them. Then halted, as if by mutual consent. Jacqueline was surprised to find how sorry she was that he was going; it felt absurdly like severing a last link with civilisation.
“How do you get on with Guy? He seems a surly type.”
“He isn’t, really. You didn’t see him at his best. I think he was shy.”
He bellowed with laughter. “You sound like a mother talking about a horrid child. Do you have to make excuses for him?”
“Of course not.” She was stiffly offended for a moment. “You didn’t like him, that’s obvious. But I get on with him very well.”
“Right. I’ll consider myself warned off.”
She abandoned her stiff dignity. “Oh no, Alan. I didn’t mean to be rude, and he really was sulky at tea. I could cheerfully have smacked him. I am an ungracious creature. Every time you do me a kindness I repay you by flying into a temper. Why do you bother with me?”
He shrugged. “Blest if I know. You can be as prickly as a hedgehog, but in some darned silly way I feel responsible for you. We are all our brother’s keeper, of course—no one can contract out of that. But having hauled your unconscious form over miles of heather—and dashed heavy you were towards the end in spite of your deceptively frail appearance—I have an absurd interest in what becomes of you.”
She said frankly, “That’s the nicest thing ever said to me. Thank you very much.”
A silence fell between them and neither seemed able to break it. But suddenly Alan pointed. “Isn’t that your aunt? She seems in a hurry.”
Connie had, indeed, emerged from the far end of the wood and was scuttling across the moor in a peculiarly bent, furtive way, her figure black against the skyline. She looked more like a witch than ever, and Jacqueline wondered whether it wouldn’t be quicker by broomstick.
“Where can she be going? Maybe she has lost a hen. She leaves the sheep to Guy, so it isn’t that. The farm is her life, you know. I am sure she would shrivel up and die taken away from it—like that dreadful old crone who left Shangri-la young and beautiful.”
He rubbed his chin. “That’s interesting—very.”
“She may be going to Michael’s cottage. I haven’t seen him on this visit, and she did say he was sick. He’s a revolting old shepherd who drinks. He was madly in love with Connie when they were young—though that’s hard to imagine now. They say he’d do anything for her. Perhaps she’s taking food or something.”
“Old Michael? Does he live in a tumbledown stone cottage on the moor? I know it. It does lie in that direction, so you are probably right. Somehow one hardly pictures Connie in the role of Good Samaritan, but there is more good in human nature than we bargain for. The longer I live, the more I realise that. Now I must go or Mollie will be cross with me for being late. I’m at the Moor Hen to-night, and to-morrow I have a full day at St. Simon’s.”
“Where you’ll turn into Mr. Broderick and be horrid.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is he horrid?”
“They tell me so. I haven’t met him—I’m not important enough.”
He returned her smile. “Didn’t he come and scold you on one occasion?”
“That was just my friend Alan—in a bad temper. Goodbye. And thank you—most sincerely.” They shook hands in a casual, friendly way, and she felt a little like Dr. Livingstone saying good-bye to Stanley. Turning back into the plantation, she moved forlornly, knowing she had parted from a friend.
She met Guy, who had come to look for her. His handsome face was still sulky; she remembered what Alan had said about a horrid child, and felt a sudden almost uncontrollable longing to slap Guy or shake him.
“What did Broderick want? Why did he follow you here?”
“He didn’t ‘follow’. He came to inquire after my health, which I think was kind of him.”
“Why should he snoop around? You’re a free agent.”
“You yourself invited him,” she answered tartly. “It wasn’t snooping to accept.”
“Is he in love with you?”
She laughed merrily. “Don’t be ridiculous! I do believe you are jealous.”
“I am. I don’t like men running after my girl.”
“I’m not your girl, yet, Guy.” She saw that he was genuinely upset and not to be laughed out of his ill humour, so she slipped a friendly arm through his. “Come, Guy, don’t be cross. It wasn’t my fault he came, so don’t punish me for it. I don’t care for him at all.”
Her coaxing put him in a good humour again, but for the rest of the day the little incident remained with her. Subtly their relationship had altered. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome as he was, she knew he was less mature than herself.
He would never frighten her any more, and she knew she would always be able to manage him. She was not sure whether she liked this new sensation, amused and somehow , protected, in spite of his size. Could it be—love?
Alan called a council of three in the Medways’ private sitting-room.
“Tell us everything,” Mollie demanded. She curled up in a corner of a deep sofa and prepared to listen. “Where is the maiden in distress? I expected to see her riding a white horse led by a very parfait gentil Sir Alan.”
Alan threw a cushion at her. “Shut up and don’t be a nuisance. She was not only not in distress but being kissed by the big handsome cousin.”
“Fancy!” said Lance, with mocking sarcasm. “Did you see him?”
“I had a grandstand view from the shepherd’s hut where I was sheltering from the storm. Guy was making the running, Jacqueline obviously holding back. I wasn’t near enough to overhear what they said.”
“This man,” said Lance, handing Alan a generous measure of whisky, “has no shame. Go on. Our ears are pinned back.”
“I have to go back to-morrow, and I have a hectic week ahead, so that puts me out of t
he reckoning. I want you two to act as watchdogs.”
Mollie uncurled, moved across and sat on a humpty at Alan’s feet. “Is she in real danger, darling?”
“Did you meet the Hound of the Baskervilles and my favourite witch Baba-Yaga?” Lance was perfectly serious and sat facing Alan as if awaiting his orders.
Alan drained his glass. “I told you all I knew before I left here this morning. This is the rest.” He described his visit to Timberfold, up to the time of saying good-bye to Jacqueline.
‘Then what happened?” asked Mollie quietly.
“I followed the old woman, taking the path which sweeps round by the old stone cottage. She had a good start, and I didn’t catch up with her—in fact, I didn’t see her again, so she must have gone back another way. Near the cottage there is a clump of bracken. I noticed a few of the fronds broken, hanging down. So I went to investigate.”
Mollie drew a deep breath but did not speak. Lance finished his drink and put his glass down carefully. “What was in the bracken, Alan?”
“The body of a black-and-white sheep-dog, still warm. I turned it over.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Lance. “I can guess. There was a map-shaped white patch on the other side.”
Alan nodded. “It was a nice dog, too.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Jacqueline went back to St. Simon’s with more regret than she had thought possible. Her vacation at Timberfold had been fun. There was Alan’s visit, and the next day that charming Mollie Medway had turned up to discuss poultry with Connie. She did not actually buy any poultry, but she seemed to be passing nearly every day and called in to have a chat. They were Jacky and Mollie to each other now, and Mollie had issued an earnest invitation to the Moor Hen for her next free week-end. Once, Jacqueline had gone for a stroll to the summit of a knoll overlooking the farm, and found Lance Medway there. He had a pair of field-glasses and said he was bird-watching.
Guy had been sweet, too. He had recovered quickly from his fit of sulks. He could charm a bird off a tree if he chose—and he had tried hard. He had not mentioned marriage again until their last evening. They were sitting in a favourite spot, on a com bin in the big stone stable, now disused except for one stocky pony which Guy rode sometimes. The smell of leather, corn and horses still persisted faintly, like a pleasant nostalgic ghost of the past.
