by Mary Stewart
‘Well?’
‘At this – appropriate – family gathering . . .’ I paused . . . ‘do you intend to tell us all where we stand?’
‘A nice, old-fashioned gathering of the vultures round the old man’s bones? How do you think I like all this talk of what’s to happen after I’m dead?’
I grinned at him. ‘You started it, and you told me to be a realist. But, look, Grandfather—’ I fought not to let my voice sound too urgent – ‘if you do intend to – to make Con your heir . . . would you tell him so? Please?’
‘Why the devil should I?’
‘It – it would make things easier for me.’
‘Easier for you? What d’you mean?’
‘Only that he – well, he’d resent me less. You can’t blame Con for being a realist, too, can you? You must know he’ll have had expectations.’
‘If he has,’ said Grandfather drily, ‘then he’s an optimist.’ He caught my expression, and laughed. ‘What I do with my property’s my own affair, Annabel, and if I choose to allow people to confuse themselves, that’s their funeral. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Very clear.’
‘Good. You’ll gather that I intend to keep my affairs to myself.’
‘Yes. Well, you’ve a perfect right to.’
There was a pause. He seemed to be choosing his words, but when he spoke, it was bluntly enough: ‘You know I always wanted you to marry Connor.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Grandfather.’
‘It always seemed to me the best answer.’
‘For Whitescar; yes, I see that; but not for me. And not really for Con, Grandfather. Honestly, it wouldn’t work. Ever.’
‘Not even after – no; I said I’d drop that subject, and I will.’
‘Not even after that.’ I smiled. ‘And it does take two to make a match, you know. I don’t think you’ll find Con in the same mind as he was eight years ago.’
The old eyes were suddenly very sharp and shrewd. ‘Not even if Whitescar went with you?’
‘Of course not!’ But I was disconcerted, and showed it. ‘Don’t be so mediaeval, Grandfather.’
He still peered down at me, bright eyed. ‘And if it went with Connor?’
‘Is that a threat or a bribe?’
‘Neither. You’ve shown me how little effect it would have. I’m thinking about your future, if the place were Con’s. Would you stay?’
‘How could I?’
‘Is that meant to be a pistol at my heart?’
‘Good heavens, no. You don’t have to worry about me. I’d have Mother’s money.’
‘And Whitescar?’
I was silent.
‘Wouldn’t you care?’
‘I – I don’t know. You’ve just pointed out that I can hardly expect to walk straight home after eight years.’
‘Well, that’s true enough. I’m glad you seem to have faced it. I shan’t be here for ever, you know.’
‘I know. But at least I can be here as long as you are.’
He snorted. ‘Soft soap, child. That’ll get you nowhere. And don’t glare at me like that, it cuts no ice! So you expect me to cut you right out, do you, leave Julie to her own devices, and hand the place lock, stock and barrel, to young Connor? That it?’
I pushed myself upright, away from the gate.
I said: ‘Grandfather, you always were insufferable, and you were never fair in all your born days. How the devil do you expect me to know what you plan to do? You’ll do as the mood takes you, fair or no, and Con and I can take what comes, charm we never so wisely.’ I added: ‘That was another quotation. And don’t say I’ve been wasting my time again, because that’s from the Psalms.’
Grandfather’s face never changed, but something came behind the eyes that might have been a grin. He said mildly: ‘Don’t swear at me, Annabel my girl, or old as you are, I’ll soap your mouth out.’
‘Sorry.’ We smiled at one another. There was a pause.
‘It’s good to have you back, child. You don’t know how good.’
‘I don’t have to tell you how good it is to be here.’
He put a hand to the latch of the gate. ‘Come down to the river meadows. There’s a yearling there you’ll like to see.’
We went down a lane between hedgerows whispering with budding meadowsweet. The hawthorn was rusted thickly over with bunches of dried flowers hardening to fruit.
At the end of the lane a gate opened on a field deep with buttercups and cuckoo-flowers. A grey mare moved towards us, swishing her tail, her sides sleek and heavy. From the shade of a big beech a yearling watched us with eyes as soft and wary as a deer.
‘He’s a beauty.’
‘Isn’t he?’ There was satisfaction and love in the old man’s voice. ‘Best foal she ever dropped. Forrest kept a three year old out of her by the same sire, but they’ll make nothing of him. Yes, she’s a grand mare: I bought her from Forrest three years ago, when the stud was sold up. Give over, Blondie, give over, now.’ This to the mare, who was pushing at his chest with her muzzle as he opened the gate and held it for me. ‘Come through. The grass is dry enough. You’ll have to find some better shoes for this tomorrow.’
I followed him into the field. ‘What’s wrong with the three year old?’
‘What? Oh, Forrest’s horse? Nothing, except that nobody’s had time to do anything about him. Only kept him out of sentiment, I suppose, as he’s one of the old “Mountain” lot. Everest got him; you’ll remember Everest? He’s gone to the Chollerford stud now; getting long in the tooth, the old devil, but his get’s as good as it ever was; look at that yearling. And Forrest’s colt could be a winner, too, if they’d time to school him. Rowan, they called him.’ He chuckled, and clapped the mare’s neck. ‘By Everest, out of Ash Blonde.’
‘Mountain Ash?’
‘That’s it. Sort of nonsense Forrest always went in for with his names. You knew the stud was gone?’
‘Oh, yes. What have you called this one? You said he was the same breeding.’
‘We haven’t named him yet. That’ll be for his owners.’
The mare threw her head up to avoid his caressing hand, and swerved a little, flicking her tail pettishly. She pricked her ears at me, and reached out an inquiring muzzle.
I said, ignoring it: ‘He’s sold, then?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid you’ll find nothing here to ride now. Blondie’s heavy at foot, as you can see, and the youngster’ll be away next month.’ He laughed. ‘Unless you try your hand with Forrest’s three year old. I’ve no doubt he’d let you if you asked him.’
The mare was pushing close to me. The yearling, looking interested, was coming to join her. From behind me, some way along the lane, I heard footsteps approaching. I backed away from the mare’s advance until I was right up against the gate. She pushed her head at me again, and breathed gustily down the front of my dress.
I said breathlessly: ‘Asked who?’
‘Forrest, of course. What the devil’s the matter with you, Annabel?’
‘Nothing. What should be the matter?’ The footsteps were nearer.
Grandfather was regarding me curiously. ‘You’re as white as a sheet! Anyone’d think you were afraid of the mare!’
I managed a little laugh. ‘Afraid of her? How absurd! Here, Blondie . . .’ I put out a hand to her head. I hoped he wouldn’t see how unsteady it was. The mare was nibbling the buckle of my belt. The yearling had come right up to her shoulder, and stood staring. Any minute now he would close in too . . .
I looked away from Grandfather’s curious, puzzled stare, and said quickly: ‘I thought Mr Forrest was in Italy.’
‘He’s coming back some time this week, so Johnny Rudd tells me. They didn’t expect him quite yet, but I imagine the sale of the place in Italy went through quicker than he’d expected.’
I gave the mare’s head a shove away from me. I might as well have shoved an elephant. I said, unsteadily: ‘I – I understood he’d left for good. I mean, wit
h the Hall gone, and – and everything—’
‘No, no. He’s planning to settle at West Lodge now, Johnny tells me, with the Rudds to look after him. He came back last year to clear up the rest of the estate, and he and Johnny set to work and got the old gardens going; I believe that’s what he plans to do now.’
‘Yes, Con did say—’
Con’s voice, from beyond the bend in the lane, called: ‘Uncle Matthew? Annabel?’
‘Here!’ called Grandfather.
The mare was nibbling at my frock, and retreating from her advance, I was pressed so hard against the gate, that the bars bit into my back. Grandfather gave a quick little frown. ‘Annabel—’
‘I thought as much!’ Con said it, mercifully, from just behind me. ‘I might have known you’d bring her straight down here!’
He must have summed up the situation at a glance as he rounded the bend in the lane: Grandfather, his attention divided between the yearling and my own odd behaviour; myself backed against the gate, chattering breathlessly, and trying, with patently unsteady hands, to stop the mare from blowing lovingly down the breast of my frock.
I saw the flash of amusement in Con’s eyes, and then he had leaned over the gate beside me, handed off the importunate mare with one strong thrust and a ‘Give over, now,’ that sent her swerving straight away, ears flattened and tail switching. The yearling threw up his lovely head and veered after her. As I relaxed, Con pushed open the gate and came through.
Grandfather, fortunately, was watching the yearling as it cantered away into the shade of the tree. ‘Moves well, doesn’t it?’ he said fondly.
‘He’s a little beauty,’ agreed Con.
‘Little?’ I said shakily. ‘He looks enormous!’
A flicker in Con’s eyes showed me the ineptitude of this remark for someone who was supposed to have lived and breathed horses for most of her life. Then he covered up as smoothly as a practised actor, the amusement warming his voice so faintly that only I would hear it. ‘Yes, he’s pretty well grown, isn’t he, seeing he’s barely a year old . . .’ And he plunged easily off into technicalities with Mr Winslow, no doubt to give me time to recover my poise.
Presently Grandfather said: ‘I was telling Annabel that she’ll have to see Forrest about some riding if she wants it.’
‘Forrest? Oh, is he back?’
‘Not yet. Some time this week. Johnny Rudd told me they didn’t look for him before autumn at the soonest, but apparently he’s sold the villa, and he’s coming back to live at West Lodge.’
Con was leaning on the gate beside me. He sent a slanting look down at me, with a lurking smile behind it. ‘That’s a bit of luck, Annabel. He’ll let you ride the Mountain colt.’
I was still shaken, but I had no intention of letting Con amuse himself further at my expense. I said immediately, with every evidence of enthusiasm: ‘Do you really think he would? That’s wonderful!’
Con’s eyes widened. Grandfather said shortly: ‘Of course he would, unless you’ve lost your touch completely! Want to come across and look at him now?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Can’t it wait?’ said Con. ‘You look tired.’
I looked at him, slightly surprised. ‘I’m all right.’
Con straightened up with that lazy grace of his that looked deliberate, but was in reality as natural as breathing. At the movement, slow though it was, the mare, who was grazing near, rolled a white-rimmed eye and moved away.
‘Doesn’t like you, does she?’ said Matthew Winslow. ‘Come along then, my dear. Coming, Con?’
Con shook his head. ‘No, I’ve a lot to do. I really only came down to see if you’d come up into the seventeen-acre and take a look at the cutter for me. She’s been running rough, and I don’t seem to be able to get to the bottom of the trouble. I could take you up in the car.’
‘The cutter? Good God, can’t you put that right without running to me?’ But the old man had stopped and turned, looking far from displeased. ‘Well, in that case—’ He looked at me. ‘Some other time, perhaps? Unless you go along there yourself? He’s at grass, two fields along from the bridge, you know the place, beyond the wood.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know it. I’ll go now.’
My one desire was to get away, to be alone, not even to have to walk back to the house in their company. But even as I spoke, half turning to go, I saw a shade of what looked like genuine anxiety on Con’s face.
I realised then, suddenly, that his timely appearance on the scene had not been a matter of chance. He had not come down to see about the repair of the cutter, and then stayed to tease me; his coming had been a deliberate rescue bid. He had guessed that I had been brought down to the paddock; guessed, too, what might be happening there, and that the prolonged interview with Grandfather might be too much of a strain. He had come down solely to get me out of it, to draw Mr Winslow off. In all probability there was nothing wrong with the cutter at all . . .
And if, once here, he had been unable to resist teasing me a little, it was no more than he was entitled to, under the circumstances. He was standing now with grave patience, listening to a crisp lecture on the incompetence of a young man who could not, in twenty seconds, diagnose and correct every fault in every piece of machinery in use on the estate.
Well, fair was fair. I wouldn’t worry him further. I interrupted the lecture: ‘I don’t think I will go, after all. I’ll go back to the house. I – I’ve done enough for today.’
Matthew Winslow looked at me, still with that crinkle of puzzlement round his eyes. ‘Something has upset you, child. What is it?’
Suddenly, absurdly, I wanted to cry. ‘Nothing, truly, Nothing. Con’s right. I’m tired.’ I made a little gesture. ‘It’s been wonderful playing the prodigal returning, and everyone’s been so kind . . . too kind. But, you know, it’s terribly exhausting. I feel as if I’d been back a year already, things have crowded in so fast.’
We were back in the lane. As Con pulled the gate shut behind me, he took my arm as if in reassurance.
‘Of course it’s a strain. We all understand that. You should go in now, and rest till supper.’
He spoke, as before, gently. I saw Grandfather glance quickly from his face to mine, and back again. It must be obvious to anyone that Con’s solicitude was quite genuine, and I knew the reason for it, but I wasn’t going to have Matthew Winslow leaping to the wrong conclusion. I withdrew my arm and said quickly:
‘I think I will.’ Then I turned to the old man. ‘Have you still got the cribbage board?’
His face lightened to a grin. ‘Of course. You remember how to play?’
‘How could I forget?’ (‘She used to play with him often: it’s an old-fashioned game; you know it? Good . . .’) I added: ‘I also remember that you owe me a vast sum of money, Grandfather.’
‘Nonsense. I always beat you.’
‘Ah well,’ I said cheerfully, ‘I’ve improved in eight years. I’ll win your house and lands off you yet, so watch your step!’
At his dry little chuckle I felt Con stiffen beside me. He said abruptly: ‘Well, you’ll not be playing tonight, at all events, I hope?’
‘No, no. The child will want an early night. Besides, I’ll probably stay up in the seventeen-acre with you. How are you getting on there?’
Con answered him, and the two of them talked across me as we walked slowly back towards the yard where the car stood. Con’s manner with his great-uncle was charming; relaxed and easy and familiar, but with just the hint of a deference which obviously flattered the old man, coming from someone as vital and as capable as Con, to a man who, for all his deceptive appearance of power, was a frail husk that the first chill wind might blow way.
Grandfather was saying: ‘Nonsense! I can give you a hand when we’ve got the cutter running properly.’
Con gave him that flashing, affectionate smile. ‘You’ll do no such thing. Come along, by all means, and bully us, but I’m afraid that’s all we’ll let you do!’
‘You coddle me. I’m not senile yet, and I won’t be treated like a girl.’
Con grinned. ‘Hardly that. In any case, the girl’s going to work, once she’s got herself run in again! Can you drive a tractor – still, Annabel?’
‘I dare say I might manage, even if I have rather lost my touch with horses,’ I said evenly.
We had reached the gate of the main courtyard. Grandfather climbed, a little stiffly, into the big Ford that stood waiting there. Con shut the car door on him.
In the distance, from the fields beyond High Riggs, came the steady, smooth whirr of the grass-cutter. Unless I was very much mistaken, there was nothing wrong with it at all. As Con shut the car door and turned, his eyes met mine. There was a smile in them.
He said: ‘Over to me,’ very softly, and then: ‘Do you drive a tractor, by the way?’
‘I have done.’
‘And,’ said Con, ‘a car?’
I studied him for a moment, then I smiled. He had earned it, after all. I said: ‘I had a car in Canada; I’ve just burned the permit, and I don’t know where my licence is, but that doesn’t mean a thing. I dare say I’d qualify for a British one, if I needed to.’
‘Ah,’ said Con. ‘And now, if you wouldn’t mind shutting the gate behind us . . . ?’
8
’Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is wither’d to a stalk.
Ballad: The Unquiet Grave.
Supper with Lisa and Grandfather was not the ordeal I had feared it might be. The old man was in excellent spirits and, though he was in something of a ‘do you remember’ vein, and Lisa’s eyes, under their lowered lids, watched us both over-anxiously, it went off smoothly enough, with no hitch that I could see. Con wasn’t there. It was light late, and he was at work long hours in the hayfield while the weather lasted.
Shortly after supper Grandfather went into the office to write letters, and I helped Lisa wash up. Mrs Bates went off at five, and the girl who helped in the kitchen and dairy had gone home when the milking was over. Lisa and I worked in silence. I was tired and preoccupied, and she must have realised that I didn’t want to talk. She had made no further attempt to force a tête-à-tête on me, and she didn’t try to detain me when, soon after nine o’clock, I went up to my room.