Above Rubies

by Mary Cummins

  ABOVE RUBIES

  Mary Cummins

  Merry was determined to get away from her selfish aunt and uncle, and live in the quiet Scottish village where she had been left a house—but her calculating cousin Sylvia seemed equally determined to spoil all Merry’s plans.

  CHAPTER 1

  MERRY came downstairs, quietly, a small suitcase in her hand, the rest of her luggage piled in the hall. The taxi was due in another fifteen minutes, just enough time to say goodbye to Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle George.

  They were both sitting in the lounge, and as she walked in Merry could feel the strength of their disapproval in the atmosphere. It was a large room, ostentatious rather than tasteful. Everything had been chosen with a view to the maximum of ease and comfort, but on Merry it had had the opposite effect, and in the three years she had lived in Carlisle, she had come to feel that it was ready to smother her. Now she could hardly believe that in a few more minutes she would be leaving it all behind, and it was difficult to keep the elation out of her voice.

  “I’m ready now, Aunt Elizabeth. Everything’s packed, and I’ve left the room tidy. I do hope you’ll both come and visit me after I’ve settled down at Kilbraggan.”

  Elizabeth Neilson ignored her for a full minute, carefully leafing over her glossy magazine pages with long slender white fingers, then looked up at her niece.

  “We can only hope you won’t regret your decision, Merry,” she said coolly. “Beau Ness hardly seems a suitable house for a young girl of nineteen to live in by herself. I don’t know what Ellen was thinking of to leave it all to you. After all, she was as much my friend as your mother’s, and Sylvia has as much claim as you have...”

  “She thought I would love it, Aunt Elizabeth, and I do.”

  “... and it seems to be singularly puzzling that she should only think of you,” went on her aunt, as though Merry hadn’t spoken, while Uncle George cleared his throat and rustled his paper. “You must have influenced her in some way, Merry, when you went to stay with her on holidays, instead of travelling on the Continent like dear Sylvia. A girl should broaden her horizons and not insinuate herself with a maiden lady.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t...”

  “Though who would have thought that Ellen Blayne had a bad heart? She was only in her fifties, after all. It should be a warning to you, Merry, not to live in that house alone. You should have taken your Uncle George’s advice, and let him sell it for you, and invest the money. Shouldn’t she, George?”

  “Very unwise of you, my dear,” her uncle rumbled, clearing his throat again. “Might be difficult to sell in a few months’ time. Mortgages are hard these days, and it’s getting to the wrong time of year for Kilbraggan. These Scotch villages...”

  “Scottish,” mumbled Merry.

  “... are all very well in the height of the season, but they’re hopeless in winter. No good at all. It might take overspill from Hillington, but it isn’t a very smart area.”

  Merry glanced at the clock, wishing the taxi would come soon. She’d been over all this before with both Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle George, while her cousin, Sylvia, sulked disdainfully. Her Aunt Ellen had predicted trouble for her when she asked her to promise to look after Beau Ness.

  “They’d just sell my lovely house, darling,” she had said, looking round the beautiful long sitting-room with the old polished furniture and brasses which winked in the firelight. “They’d never love Beau Ness as we do. They couldn’t even love you, though your father was Elizabeth’s only brother. I wanted to take you when he died in that plane crash on his way home from Nigeria. That was when you were at that awful boarding school.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” said Merry, smiling with affection at the one woman who had really loved her since her mother died. “As you should know!”

  “It was in your mother’s day, and mine.”

  “Times have changed, though, Aunt Ellen, and Daddy had to leave me somewhere. He didn’t earn much as a missionary.”

  “Well, you won’t earn much as a writer,” said Ellen, “but if it’s what you want to do, then stick to it like glue. Don’t let Elizabeth push you into anything.”

  “I won’t,” promised Merry.

  It hadn’t been easy, though, and Merry had already spent three months in the office, typing for Uncle George, when the sad news came that Aunt Ellen had died and bequeathed her Beau Ness, together with a small income.

  Aunt Elizabeth had been furious, as she considered it a great mistake for Merry to have property of her own. The fact that Sylvia had twice inherited legacies made no difference, in her opinion. Besides, now that she was losing Merry, she was loth to admit that she would miss her, having found her willing and useful. Even George would find her difficult to replace, and would have to pay a trained girl a ridiculous salary for doing the same work.

  “I suppose Sylvia is out with Graham,” said Merry, hoping to change the subject, and wishing fervently that the hands of the clock would move.

  “Not an ideal choice of young man,” disapproved Aunt Elizabeth, “but dear Sylvia is so popular. I expect she feels sorry for him, though she’s much too beautiful to throw herself away on a mere schoolteacher.”

  Merry felt a pang of sympathy for the earnest bespectacled young man who had once been her own boy-friend. He had so obviously fallen under the spell of her lovely cousin. Sylvia’s spun-gold hair fell round a pretty, piquant face with unusual slanting eyes. Her looks suggested a hidden depth and intelligence which Merry knew were both lacking. She’d never been close friends with her cousin, who had treated her like a poor relation and who had sulked ever since Beau Ness became hers.

  “Here’s the taxi now,” she cried, jumping up as wheels crunched in the drive. “Goodbye, Aunt Elizabeth ... Uncle George.” She bent to kiss their unresponsive faces. “Thank you for looking after me over the past three years. I ... I’ve appreciated having a home.”

  The silence indicated that she had a queer way of showing her appreciation.

  “Come and see me, won’t you?” she repeated.

  “Sylvia will probably want to come, but we prefer not to travel during cold weather,” said her aunt. “Goodbye, Merry. I hope you won’t regret this.”

  “Goodbye, my dear,” nodded Uncle George.

  Merry ran down the steps of Fairlawn, the modern, expensive house which had sheltered her for those three years, and which had never seemed a real home in spite of all the luxurious thick carpeting and the most expensive and prettiest of furnishings. Beau Ness would be almost primitive by comparison, but already her heart was lifting as the taxi swung round at the gate, and into the main road. The journey ahead would take a good eight hours, and it would be early evening by the time she reached Kilbraggan, but Mrs. Cameron, the housekeeper, had promised to stay on and would have a warm fire and supper ready for her. Merry had known Mrs. Cameron ever since she was a schoolgirl.

  “It will be a real pleasure, Miss Merry,” she wrote. “I was feared you’d be selling the house and we’d have another stranger among us. Rossie House has been empty since old Mr. Ross-Findlater died, and now there’s business folk living in it—the Kilpatricks from Hillington. Mr. Benjamin’s at the Cot House, too. I doubt if you know him, but he’s a funny one...”

  Merry smiled as she sat in the Scottish train which would carry her straight to Glasgow before she had to change into a local train. She wondered what the Kilpatricks would be like, and Mr. Benjamin, the funny one, that being Mrs. Cameron’s favourite expression to cover anything that was odd. She spent the rest of the journey weaving delightful stories round his no doubt strange appearance, and she hadn’t tired of the game when Joe Weir’s taxi finally deposited her at the door of Beau Ness.

  “Mercy on us, Miss Merry,” cried Mrs. Cam
eron, hurrying to help carry her luggage into the house. “You’ll be weary to death of your journey. I’ve a pot of broth ready and you can sup a wee bit before you go to bed. I’ve put a piggy in the bed, though it’s been kept well aired since ... Oh, well, we’ll not be talking of that now.”

  Merry nodded, too tired to say very much beyond the first greetings. She’d sup her broth because she knew she’d never be allowed into bed without it, but after that she’d be glad to crawl between the freshest of white sheets which always smelled of lavender.

  It was wonderful to have Mrs. Cameron to fuss over her, and tuck her up in bed. She was hardly conscious of her leaving the room.

  The following morning Merry awoke with a curious feeling of well-being. In one sense Kilbraggan was so quiet, but not in another, for the birds were singing joyfully, and not so far away she could hear the cows lowing in a field.

  Merry lay quietly allowing the curious mixture of reality and strangeness to soak into her mind. This was Aunt Ellen’s bedroom, the biggest and most comfortable in Beau Ness, but Mrs. Cameron had been wise enough to move small knicknacks she’d always loved from the bedroom which had been hers. Now she lay looking at a favourite picture of a Highland loch; and reached out to fondle her china Scottie which now sat on the table beside her bed.

  Merry lay remembering the long, carefree holidays she’d spent in Beau Ness when she and Aunt Ellen had roamed the neighbourhood together, coming in ravenous to eat Mrs. Cameron’s nourishing foods which were planned to put some beef on to Miss Merry. For a short time she allowed a few tears to trickle down her cheeks for the absence of Ellen Blayne, who had been her mother’s very dearest friend, though it was not a complete absence. It seemed as though the spirit of the older woman still lurked in quiet corners, watchful of the fact that her beloved house was still cared for, and loved, its warmth still being used as a real home.

  “That’s what it is,” said Merry aloud. “A real home.”

  The first home she’d had since she was twelve, she thought happily, and in a mood of exultation she slipped back the warm blankets and stood on the thick sheepskin rug by the window, gently pulling back the curtains. No one could call it a “braw” day, but although grey, the sky was calm without lowering black clouds scudding across. Merry had seen Kilbraggan in all its moods, and knew that this was “no sich a bad day”—good enough, in fact, for her to go for a brisk walk. Soon she would have to get down to serious writing again, but she was pleased to give herself a few days to settle in, and decided to fix the following Monday as her first working day.

  Merry had had very little success so far, though she knew that only to the few does success come easily. She’d sold a few articles and one short story. Now she would like to try a full-length novel with, perhaps, a few more articles and short stories to send out, for more immediate results.

  Aunt Elizabeth had disapproved of her writing, accusing her of wasting her time on rubbish, but Ellen had always encouraged her, putting on her large reading glasses to inspect her latest manuscript, and criticising it intelligently.

  “This one doesn’t quite come off, does it, Merry?” she would ask, handing back a short story. “One of your characters ... Joe Bell ... has behaved rather out of character, if you know what I mean. He would never suddenly go to the funfair, after avoiding such a thing all his life. You’ll have to give him a reason for going.”

  Merry had choked down, her defence of the story, and had later admitted that Aunt Ellen was right.

  “You’ve got a talent for making characters come to life, though,” the older woman continued. “We mustn’t waste that. I think you ought to spend some time on your writing while you’re here.”

  Merry had done her best work while sitting at Aunt Ellen’s big desk in her small study. Now she hoped to work there more permanently. Her income would be sufficient to feed her, and pay the household bills, including Mrs. Cameron’s wages, but; she would have to earn her own pocket money, and even some of her clothing allowance, and she loved clothes.

  Though her wardrobe was fairly small, she had always bought wisely, and had often turned out to parties looking every bit as elegant as Sylvia. In fact, many people considered Merry’s dark chestnut-brown hair, contrasting with vivid blue eyes and a peaches-and-cream complexion, even more lovely than Sylvia’s fair beauty, and Aunt Elizabeth had often been infuriated over hearing comparisons made in Merry’s favour.

  She would have no cause for jealousy at the moment, thought Merry, as she slid her long legs into olive green slacks and slipped on a pale primrose jersey. Strong walking brogues and a brown suede jacket completed her outfit, and she slipped quietly downstairs for a short walk before breakfast.

  “You’re never going out at this time, Miss Merry,” cried Mrs. Cameron, scandalised. “After a day like you had yesterday! You’ll have yourself worn away to a wee shadow. You’ll need some good porridge to stick to your ribs first.”

  “I was only going a short way, to work up an appetite,” explained Merry.

  “Oh, aye. You’ve gone a ‘short way’ before and we’ve had to come seeking you for your dinner. Now come on, Miss Merry, and eat up a good breakfast, there’s a good lass.”

  Merry sighed. She had often heard Aunt Ellen being lectured just like this, and had caught the twinkle in her eye. Now the mantle had fallen on her, yet there was a quiet and relaxed feeling of well-being in having Mrs. Cameron look after her. She began to appreciate how Aunt Ellen had felt. It was so nice to be cherished by someone.

  “I thought you’d want to see the house, too,” said Mrs. Cameron, “now that it’s yours.”

  “We’ll leave that till later.” This time Merry’s tone was decided. “I’ll get some fresh air first.”

  It was after ten by the time Merry felt energetic enough to go for a walk through the village. Kilbraggan was a tiny place with two rows of small whitewashed cottages interspersed with wee shops which sold most commodities for daily needs. Houses straggled on the outskirts, standing in their own grounds behind trees and hedges.

  Beau Ness was fairly small, with only six rooms, but it had been substantially built and its patina was delightful. Merry stuck her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and felt the pride of ownership surge through her as she looked back at its ivy-covered-walls and twinkling latticed windows.

  A few yards up the road she could see the cottage which housed the “funny one”, now known to Merry as Benjamin Brendan, commercial artist, and behind the trees she could see the tall chimneys of Rossie House which had belonged to the Ross-Findlaters for so many years, but now housed the Kilpatricks, jewellers, of Hillington.

  “Jeanie Lumsden says they’ve shops in all the big towns,” said Mrs. Cameron, “but the biggest is in Hillington. Fair fu’ o’ diamonds, so it is, just like Aladdin’s cave. Could you believe it? Mr. Nigel’s running the big Hillington shop now, for old Mr. Kilpatrick has the notion to retire in a year or two. Mr. Nigel’s a young chap, and very handsome, though Jeanie says he fancies himself, but Jeanie could find fault with her own pinkie. She’s my cousin, and whiles I couldn’t thole her when we were wee.”

  “What about Mrs. Kilpatrick?” asked Merry, all agog to hear about her fascinating neighbours.

  “Dead, poor sowl,” said Mrs. Cameron, solemnly. “There’s a daughter, too ... Miss Stephanie, and she’s a right young madam, though she works for the firm too. She’s very smart, but you wouldna call her bonny, if you know what I mean.”

  Merry had a fair idea what she meant, though “bonny” often covered a variety of descriptions from pretty to plump.

  “And what about Mr. Brendan?” she asked, curiously. “How long has he been here?”

  “Just about a year—not long after your last holiday. Though, of course, he’s no stranger, like the rest. He was supposed to be here on holiday, but he just stayed. Och, but he’s a one, I must say.” There was a faint softening in Mrs. Cameron’s manner. “He once stopped by and asked if he could have my hands for
a wee while.” She spread out the strong, roughened fingers. “I was just to keep peeling my vegetables, and he’d sketch them. Dear knows how it turned out, for he never thocht to let me see. He’s a funny one, but there’s a gentleness to him, too, for I’ve seen him calm a frightened dog, and he even risked his hands, once, to help his wee cat when it got stuck after Kilpatrick’s dog chased it up a tree. His hands are very sensitive, you see, so that he can use his brush skilfully. He used to have to get Joe Weir to chop wood for him in case he got blisters.”

  “Really?” commented Merry, interested.

  “Aye, your Aunt Ellen was fond of him, and he was often over here at Beau Ness. I’ve had the job of cooking for him many a time.”

  Now Merry craned her neck as she came within sight of the Cot House. She’d have liked to ask Mrs. Cameron if she had any message for Mr. Brendan, but she knew better. She mustn’t appear a forward young lady, or she’d be falling in Mrs. Cameron’s estimation!

  The Cot House looked like a tea-cosy with a riotous but colourful garden, and a warmth and friendliness which was very appealing. Merry’s steps slowed and she stood on tip-toes to peer over the hedge.

  “You’ll see a lot more from this side,” an amused voice informed her.

  “Oh!”

  Merry flushed scarlet as a tall and rather untidy-looking man rose from a rustic seat in the garden and regarded her with steady dark eyes. He wore stained blue jeans and a rust-coloured jersey with a hole in the front. His hair was slightly ruffled, but had been well cut, and the traditional bearded artist appearance was missing. Merry judged him to be around thirty, and felt taken aback because he looked so ordinary. She had been much too influenced by Mrs. Cameron’s description of him as a “funny” one, though she should have known better. Mrs. Cameron used “funny” to describe as many things as she used “bonny”.