Above Rubies

by Mary Cummins

  Yet now she was finding herself the object of his scrutiny, and a flush stained her cheeks.

  “Miss Merry Saunders,” he said, “new owner of Beau Ness and goddaughter to Miss Ellen Blayne who was one of the sweetest ladies I ever knew. Good bones and colouring, and quite good expression if you like a shy fawn coining out of the woods. Won’t you step into my parlour for a moment, and we’ll introduce ourselves properly over a brew-up?”

  “No, thank you,” said Merry primly. “I really haven’t time. I...”

  “Haven’t time? In Kilbraggan? What could you be doing which can’t spare fifteen minutes? We’ve got to meet each other some time.”

  Merry felt his gaze mocking her, and bit her lip. Benjamin Brendan made her feel like a gauche schoolgirl caught stealing apples. Swiftly her chin rose.

  “Very well, Mr. Brendan, I shall be pleased to drink tea with you.”

  With quiet dignity she opened the gate and he showed her into a living-room which made her eyes widen with interest. It seemed as though the room had been divided into two distinct sections. At one end he had a long table drawn up so that the long low window was directly behind it. Bookcases full of reference books lined the walls, and in a corner stood a large filing cabinet. The remainder of the room was furnished with comfortable armchairs, lovely old rugs and well-polished furniture.

  “It’s very ... tidy,” she said, a frank note of surprise in her voice. “One thinks of an artist as ... well...”

  “A dirty, untidy creature who throws paint on the floor and wipes his brush on the cat,” suggested Benjamin, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Let’s hope all your ideas aren’t so firmly fixed, little Miss Merry.” He picked up an electric kettle and began to fill it in the small kitchenette. “Commercial artists have to be surprisingly methodical, and we need lots of files for reference. I mean, suppose I were doing a cartoon strip and I find that jungle natives have killed a Kongoni. What is a Kongoni, and what does it look like? Maybe I ought to know, but quite often I don’t. So I look it up.”

  “I see,” said Merry, interested in spite of herself. “So you do cartoons.”

  “Cartoons, book jackets, children’s annuals, magazine illustrations ... whatever brings me in some bread and butter. And don’t ask me if I ever try some real art, or I shall want to strangle you, Miss Merry. I’m not ashamed of being commercial, and I might dispute that any one form of art is any greater than another. My African native’s hand needs as much care in drawing as ... as...”

  “Mrs. Cameron’s at the vegetables,” suggested Merry, and he shouted with laughter and lifted down a detective novel entitled With These Hands.

  Merry grinned as she recognised Mrs. Cameron’s white enamel bowl and strong fingers grasping a carrot.

  “No wonder you never let her see it,” she commented, handing back the book, “and don’t keep calling me Miss Merry!”

  “Merry, then, and I’m Benjamin. Not Benny. Benjamin.”

  “Benjamin,” she agreed, accepting a piece of fruit cake with her steaming hot mug of strong tea.

  "Who keeps house for you?” she asked, biting into the cake.

  Benjamin gave her a cool look.

  “Who else but myself?” he asked, squatting down beside her on an ample pouffe. “I’ve been my own master since my grandfather died, and I’ve learned how to live alone, and like it. Once or twice I might have been tempted to change that happy state of affairs ... though I usually manage to resist temptation!”

  He drank his tea, his eyes twinkling, and she felt again that he was laughing at her.

  “Joe Weir and his wife come along three times a week and keep my house in order, when Joe hasn't a taxi job. But that’s enough about me, Merry Saunders. What about you? What do you intend to do with yourself in a quiet place like Kilbraggan?”

  Merry considered before answering. Her efforts at writing were still fairly new to her and rather precious. She hadn’t yet grown tough enough to take all criticism, and her rejection slips often hurt for longer than they need; She couldn’t bear it if this professional artist, used to doing book jackets for professional writers, laughed at her efforts. But as she looked into his strong square face, the broad forehead, the firm mouth, and the eyes bright and alert, she felt that he might understand.

  “Well, do I pass?” he asked softly, and she laughed and coloured rosily.

  “I hesitate to tell you, but I want to write.”

  “What kind of writing?”

  “Oh, various things ... short stories, articles, and I would like to try a novel.”

  “Then I can only wish you every success and hope you will still speak to me when you’re famous.”

  Merry coloured angrily, feeling that he was laughing at her again.

  “I must go,” she said, rising swiftly, then hesitated, feeling that she was being rather abrupt.

  “Thank you for the tea and cake. Perhaps you would come over for a meal one evening soon?”

  “Next Wednesday,” said Benjamin promptly. “It’s the day I send off my weekly cartoon series, and I’ll be free in the evening. Drop in when you want someone to talk to, though my guess is that you’ll soon have plenty, of friends.”

  “Who, for instance?” asked Merry curiously. “Is there a busy social life in the village?”

  “You’ll see,” promised Benjamin, ushering her through the solid front door. “Cheerio, little Merry.”

  She turned to wave and watched, him shut the door, then stepped out into the road, only to leap back again as a low white Jaguar turned the corner and pulled to a stop.

  Merry saw that the driver was a fair young man, beautifully groomed in spite of being slightly windblown. Beside him sat a beautiful girl, so like him that she could be his twin sister. Her elaborately-styled hair was protected by a silk scarf, but her vivid blue eyes, set in near-perfect features, regarded Merry coolly as the driver came round to talk to her.

  “It’s a girl!” he said, steadying her with a strong delicate hand. “I thought I’d run over a wood nymph.”

  “I ... I thought this was a private road,” she said shakily.

  “It is,” drawled the girl. “If you’re going to take all day, Nigel, I want a word with Benjamin.”

  “Go ahead, Stephanie. I suspect this is Miss Saunders, our new neighbour, and I want to get acquainted. I’m Nigel Kilpatrick, and this is my sister Stephanie.”

  “H ... How do you do,” said Merry shakily, while Stephanie acknowledged her with a cool nod, and strolled up to the front door of the Cot House, which opened suddenly.

  “Well,” said Benjamin, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he looked at all three, “it took less time than I thought, Merry.” His eyes sobered as they rested on the lovely girl on the doorstep. “Hello, Stephanie. Am I being honoured with a visit?”

  “Of course, darling,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I expect Nigel will want to take Miss ... er ... home after nearly knocking her down. He can pick me up on the way past.”

  Again Benjamin’s eyes glinted with amusement as he watched Nigel ceremoniously help Merry into the car.

  “Come in, then, do,” he said, opening the door wide. “Two charming visitors in one day. Truly more than one could hope for.”

  “Sorry about that, Miss Saunders,” said Nigel, as the car swung out again into the main road.

  “How did you know about me?” asked Merry, curiously.

  “Local grapevine, of course,” said Nigel. “Our cleaning woman is related to the worthy Mrs. Cameron.”

  “Of course,” said Merry, chuckling a little. “Jeanie Lumsden. Hi, Mr. Kilpatrick, you’ve passed Beau Ness.”

  “I know. I thought we’d just go for a quick spin up round the loch to give Stephanie time to talk to Benjamin. And please call me Nigel, and I shall call you Merry.”

  He turned to grin at her, and Merry found her heart beating more quickly than usual, and bit her lip to control her quick breathing. She was behaving like a schoolgirl, even failing
to protest when this young man, a complete stranger, was high-handedly taking her for a spin in his car, beautiful though it was, entirely without her permission.

  “You go too fast for me, Mr. .Kilpatrick,” she said coolly. “Please take me back home. Mrs. Cameron will wonder where I am.”

  Immediately he was contrite.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. I was carried away, I’m afraid. It’s very seldom that we have new ... and beautiful ... young ladies coming to stay at Kilbraggan. I suppose I just wanted to get acquainted as quickly as possible. Sorry I can’t turn the car just yet ... the road’s too narrow.”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “We shan’t be long, I promise you,” he told her briskly, without the teasing note of laughter in his voice. “And please don’t let’s get off on the wrong foot. I shall call you Miss Saunders if you’d prefer it ... but Merry is so much nicer.”

  “All right,” she laughed, “and I’d love a spin round the loch, if you’re sure it won’t take too long.”

  “Not long enough for me,” said Nigel gaily, then turned to her more seriously as he saw her eyes cool again. “You must be a witch, Merry. I don’t know what’s happening to me today. I don’t behave like this every time I meet an attractive girl, believe me. In fact, I’m quite a sobersides of a business man.”

  “Oh, look! Isn’t it all beautiful?” breathed Merry, as the car rounded a corner and Loch Braggan shimmered in pale sunshine through trees which were breathtaking in their variety of autumn shades. “I could swear some of those leaves were bright scarlet, and others are still emerald. Just look at them reflected in the loch! I’ve never stayed in Kilbraggan this late in autumn ... I think it’s even more beautiful than in summer.”

  “I know,” said Nigel. “I’ve tried to paint it, but it only looked garish and artificial. I suppose Benjamin Brendan could make more of it, if he wanted to, that is. He’s an odd sort of chap, preferring to draw kids’ comics to ... this ...”

  Merry didn’t feel qualified to comment as the car snaked along the narrow loch-side road.

  “You’re a jeweller, I believe,” she, said, changing the subject, and Nigel nodded.

  “Jewellery, watches, gold, silver and a few antiques. Are you interested in jewellery?”

  “What woman isn’t?” asked Merry. “I’ve never owned any, but I often look in shop windows, and admire.”

  “I shall still be at home tomorrow afternoon,” said Nigel, as the car suddenly emerged into a broader road. “Come over for tea, and you can look at some nice pieces. We’re having a private cocktail party soon for some of our special customers, in the showrooms above our largest shop in Hillington. It gives our customers a chance to see very special pieces of jewellery, worn by mannequins. It takes care and thought to decide which pieces we want to display, so I’ve brought them home for consideration.”

  “I’d love that,” said Merry. “Thank you ... Nigel. Goodness, are we home already?”

  “It was a circular route. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of your Mrs. Cameron. Not at this stage,” he added meaningly, and she felt her cheeks flush rosily, as she watched him wave carelessly before driving towards the Cot House.

  It was only two hours since she had left home, but in those two hours the world seemed to have become a different place. She had met Benjamin Brendan, and had found it slightly irritating that he obviously considered her little more than a child, and one who was an amusement to him.

  But Nigel had been different. An hour in his company and she felt that she was someone special, someone of importance. He had made her feel that she was not just someone to be regarded casually. Stephanie, though, hadn’t given her much attention. She would have liked a friend in Kilbraggan, but obviously it wasn’t going to be Stephanie Kilpatrick.

  As she opened the front door, a thought struck her. Why should a girl like Stephanie so obviously wish to cultivate Benjamin Brendan? He was fairly well-known, but not the sort of famous artist one would think could appeal to a girl like that.

  “She’s in love with him,” thought Merry, as she quietly hung up her coat and went to find Mrs. Cameron.

  After dinner, she found a book and sat down in front of the living-room fire, feeling suddenly exhausted. An hour or two later, Mrs. Cameron found her nodding, heavy-eyed, and ordered her up to bed.

  “You must have a good rest, Miss Merry,” she said briskly. “We’ll leave everything else till tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 2

  NEXT morning Merry woke up feeling more rested than she had for months. Downstairs she found Mrs. Cameron busy in the big kitchen with its wonderful view of deep purple hills behind the colourful autumn trees.

  “Och, you should have stayed in bed, Miss Merry,” Mrs. Cameron told her. “I was just going to bring you a wee bit of breakfast on a tray.”

  “Never, unless I’m ill,” Merry told her. “I hate breakfast in bed. I’d much rather have it here by the kitchen fire.”

  “Well ...” Mrs. Cameron eyed her doubtfully, then drew up a chair to the table, deftly setting out breakfast crockery.

  “I suppose you’ll want to see over the house, Miss Merry,” she said. “After all, it’s yours now, and you’ll want to see that everything is in order.”

  “It feels strange that it should be mine,” Merry told her candidly. “I feel as though Aunt Ellen has just slipped out for a moment. I don’t feel that it all belongs to me yet.”

  “Och, that will come in time,” the older woman told her. “I’m real glad to see you here, as a matter of fact. I couldna thole the place empty. I know you’re not kith and kin to Miss Ellen, but there’s a likeness between the pair of you. I like fine to see you here. I was feart it would all get into other hands when Miss Ellen died.”

  Mrs. Cameron paused to give her nose a quick wipe, then briskly cleared away Merry’s porridge plate and put a large dish of eggs and bacon before her.

  “Oh, goodness!” gasped Merry.

  “Eat it up, do,” she was told. “You look like a wee orphan, all skin and bones. It’s time somebody looked after you properly!”

  Merry found the task surprisingly easy, and after breakfast she accompanied Mrs. Cameron round the old cottage. The sitting-room was lovely, with fine, well-polished furniture and charmingly faded carpets and curtains. At the far end was an archway which led into a tiny room furnished with a large desk, two comfortable chairs and multiple bookshelves. A long low window gave a lovely view of the garden at the side of the cottage.

  Merry had rarely sat in Aunt Ellen’s study, except to write now and again, as the older woman had considered it a private domain, and now she wandered round, looking at it all with pleasure. The pale leaf green carpet blended beautifully with gold brocade curtains and pretty cretonne covers for the chairs. She loved the atmosphere of the tiny room, and felt she could work well here.

  “I won’t disturb you in here, Miss Merry,” Mrs. Cameron was telling her. “Miss Ellen liked it that way, too, and if you don’t want to be disturbed by callers, then you can always be out.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cameron,” laughed Merry.

  “Can we go upstairs now? I put you in Miss Ellen’s bedroom, but moved your things.”

  “Yes, I saw. Thank you, Mrs. Cameron. It ... it was very thoughtful of you.”

  “It will seem like your own room in no time,” the older woman comforted her. “This is a friendly house, and has always given succour to its owner. There’s been no sadness or evil here in living memory, and nothing but good tales are told of the place.”

  “I know. I’m sensitive to atmosphere,” said Merry, climbing the old polished stairs. “It was always a happy house to me, and I loved staying with Aunt Ellen.”

  Together they inspected the three bedrooms and tiny boxroom.

  “Will you want to see my rooms?” asked Mrs. Cameron diffidently, and Merry assured her that she didn’t, so long as she was quite satisfied.

  The bathroom was new and luxurious in pale a
quamarine tiles with deeper green fittings. Ellen Blayne had loved green, saying it was nature’s own colour, and she certainly hadn’t skimped when it came to her new bathroom. However, Merry felt happy with her choice, and delighted Mrs. Cameron by admiring its immaculate appearance. The day before she had still been too tired to take it all in.

  Back downstairs, Mrs. Cameron indicated a small table covered with notebooks and papers.

  “Will you look through these, Miss Merry?” she asked. “They were in a small chest of drawers Miss Ellen decided to give to an old lady in the village. She went to see her when she was ill, and found the puir sowl had nowhere to keep her claes.”

  Merry picked up the notebooks and leafed through them.

  “Miss Ellen took ill after that,” Mrs. Cameron told her, “and couldna attend to them hersel’, so I kept them. I didn’t want to burn them till you saw them.”

  Already Merry was reading the small, neat writing, turning the pages with interest. They had been written when Aunt Ellen was young, in the nineteen-twenties, and something at the back of Merry’s mind was responding to the small gay snippets of nonsense they contained. Already the whole personality of Ellen Blayne, whom she’d loved so dearly, was catching her I imagination.