by Sara Seale
“The whole thing is monstrous!” Nicky cried. “Can’t we upset the agreement somehow, Uncle Hilary? Surely you can think of some way out.”
He looked at her a little sadly.
“No, my dear,” he said with a sigh. “It’s all perfectly watertight, and there are some things even a Bredon can’t get out of.”
That week saw the last of the warm September weather, golden days with the brittle softness of early autumn. Nicky sneaked down to the South Water to bathe.
On the third morning as she pulled herself up on the bank and reached for her towel, she became aware of being watched, and looking across the river she saw a man standing on the opposite bank.
“What do you mean by watching me?” she shouted angrily.
“You’re trespassing,” he called back immediately.
“Trespassing!” she cried, shaking the wet hair out of her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know well who you are, and I say you’re trespassing,” he retorted.
John Shand of course! He was a broad-shouldered stocky little man dressed in tweeds of doubtful cut and color, and his rugged, bulldog face held nothing but hostility.
“I’ve bathed in this piece of water ever since I can remember, Mr. Shand,” she said. “And I’ve never before been told I was trespassing.”
“There is no such thing as trespassing on your own ground, my girl,” he replied in his strong North Country accent. “This water belongs to Hammertye Towers now and once you leave your own bank you’re trespassing.”
“But it’s quite ridiculous!”
“You’ll not find it so ridiculous when I prosecute, young lady, and if I catch you again I shall do it.”
“My father’s a magistrate, as you very well know, and we’ll see what he has to say about this threat of prosecution.”
He thrust his large head farther forward and stuck out an aggressive jaw.
“Then your father will know durn well I’m within my rights,” he said. “There’s been enough hanky-panky about this business as it is. If you’d asked if you could go on bathing in the river I might have said yes, but you’re too grand to ask favors, you Bredons. You take what you want and squeal when you can’t get it.”
“You horrible old beast!” Nicky shouted. “I’ll never ask a favor of any Shand as long as I live.”
“Get out of my bit of river,” he said and turned to go, catching out of the corner of his eye the rude grimace she made at him.
John Shand trudged back through the South Spinney, his simple pleasure at owning more of the Nye acres marred by his anger at what he termed the Bredon insolence. He viewed with satisfaction the bright new facade of Hammertye Towers, glistening with greenhouses and shiny tessellated turrets. When he made his way into the dining room, his wife was not yet down but Simon was already there helping himself to kidneys and bacon at the sideboard.
“Hullo! Been the rounds already?” he said with a smile.
“Yes, and found that damn girl swimming in our bit of river,” his father replied in a voice that was still angry and aggressive.
“Nicky Bredon?”
It was more a statement than a question. Simon had seen her at the same hour yesterday.
“I gave her a piece of my mind. Told her that she was trespassing and I’d prosecute if it happened again,” Shand said, splashing strong black tea into a large cup. He had never acquired the habit of coffee for breakfast.
“And what did she say?” asked Simon with interest.
“Stood there, brazen as you please, calling me names. ‘Horrible old beast,’ she called me, and put out her tongue when she thought wasn’t looking, the young hussy!”
Simon grinned involuntarily.
“I don’t really see why the poor girl shouldn’t bathe in the river if she wants to,” he said. “After all it can’t hurt us.”
“If she’d asked, I wouldn’t have minded. But they’re all so durn high-handed, these Bredons. Swindle you out of your rights if they can and take what they want whether it’s theirs or not.”
“Yes, they’re pretty well the salt of the earth, aren’t they?”
The old man began to chuckle.
“That durn girl! Told me she’d never ask a favor of any Shand as long as she lived,” he said, and sat down at the breakfast table.
“Oh, she said that, did she?” Simon said slowly and picked up the morning paper. But presently he threw it down and stood at the window, jingling the coins in the pockets of his riding breeches. He looked away to where in the distance the tall chimneys of Nye rose in gracious strength among the trees.
His father’s voice sounded abruptly behind him.
“Made up your mind to stop the winter, lad?”
“Yes—till Christmas at any rate.”
“That’s good. No need for you to look after the business now. Crow’s a good man. We want our son at home. Your mother misses you, Simon, and I’m danged if I don’t too.”
Simon turned and regarded his father thoughtfully. There was not the same affection between them as between Mary Shand and her son, but there was a very real mutual respect. John Shand was proud of the boy. Public school and university had turned him out a gentleman—a thing John had no ambition to be himself—and with it all' he hadn’t lost his sense of proportion. The lad was shrewd in business and honest as he was himself. A son to be proud of.
Simon, in his turn, respected his father for what he had made of his life. While there had never been any deep affection between the two, there was liking and trust. With all his faults, old John was a sterling person, and his son was grateful to him.
“I can’t do nothing indefinitely, father,” he said with a smile.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Shand retorted in his blunt fashion. “Look around for a wife for yourself, my boy. It’s time you were settled—you’re thirty-four. I was married to your mother long before I was your age.”
Simon smiled and left the room. Later in the morning he rode down to the village to give an order to the saddler, afterwards turning onto the stretch of common that bordered the coverts of Bassetts Ponds. There were wide grassy trails through the woods and it was pleasant to canter gently between the trees on a September morning.
As he came out by one of the old hammer ponds that gave the place its name, he saw another rider emerge from the opposite ride. His lips twitched as he recognized Nicky Bredon. The girl had a positive genius for trespassing.
“Good morning,” he said and for a moment she looked friendly and eager as she returned his greeting, then as she saw who it was, her expression grew angry.
She was riding a young chestnut mare, and her bare head, catching the sunlight filtering through the trees, was only a shade darker than the animal’s gleaming skin.
“I hear you had an unfortunate encounter with my father earlier this morning,” Simon remarked, his eyes twinkling.
“Your father—” She began to get angry all over again, and the nervous mare fidgeted, “Your father ordered me off my own premises, at least”—she had the grace to amend her statement— “what used to be my own premises until you held us to a most unfair bargain the other day.”
He let that pass.
“I understood you had a few harsh things to say to him,” he observed with humor.
She glanced at him suspiciously. Had they been laughing at her, Simon Shand and his abominable old father?
“To tell me I was trespassing—like any common poacher.”
“Well you were, you know.”
“What!”
Her slim hands instinctively tightened their grip on the reins, and the mare wrenched at her bit in startled surprise and started plunging.
“Steady! She’s young, isn’t she?” he said and watched appreciatively while the girl resumed control again. She certainly sat a horse well.
“I said you were trespassing,” he continued when the animal was quiet. “You’re trespassing now, you know.”
She stared at him with
such disbelief in her long bright eyes that he felt tempted to laugh. It was incredible, but the girl really did believe that she could go where she pleased without so much as a by-your-leave.
“I’ve always ridden here,” she said coldly. “The Ellises never minded.”
“And you can go on riding here,” he said gently. “But I’m only pointing out that we have leased Bassetts Ponds from the Ellises.”
“Lord almighty!” she exclaimed, and this time he did laugh.
He turned his horse and they cantered down the trail side by side. He glanced at Nicky and noticed that her clothes were good, the mare she rode was a thoroughbred, and he wondered idly how much of it all was paid for. He knew something of Charles Bredon’s affairs and began to speculate how long he could keep going at this rate. There were good horses in his stables, but they had to be fed and credit wasn’t inexhaustible.
As they rode through the village, Nicky saw Liza Coleman’s Bentley waiting outside the Nye Arms. Liza herself leaned out of the car and hailed them, her little painted face as bizarre-looking as ever.
“Didn’t know you were back, Nicky,” she shouted. “Did you have a divine time, my sweet? Hullo, Simon ... Nicky, I hand it to you ... I’ll be ringing you.”
“Crazy as ever,” Nicky said and rode on beside Simon.
Outside one of the Georgian houses, Stella Lucy was leaning over her front gate, gazing down the street with that lost elfin look that was her chief stock-in-trade. Looking at her fair delicate face, with its great brown eyes and passionate mouth, Nicky remembered that old affair with Michael. He had only been twenty at the time, and she a child of sixteen, but she remembered how disastrous the business had nearly proved; she felt sorry for Dick Lucy. Parent to Stella was a whole-time job, and the overworked, kindly doctor had no time at all.
Rather to her surprise, Simon pulled up his horse and started talking to Stella. She looked up at him with an expression that vaguely disturbed Nicky and she became aware of some fusion between the two which was unexpected and irritating.
“I’ll be getting on,” she said abruptly. “This mare won’t stand.” She moved off up the street; Simon let her go with a casual smile and resumed his conversation with Stella Lucy.
Nicky hadn’t been in long when the telephone rang and Liza Coleman’s breathless voice began to bubble: “Dar-ling, have you annexed our Simon already? Really rather a sweet, don’t you think? Quite the most attractive man in the district, and so eligible. Every woman in the place has been after him ... and after all, darling, what do a few shoes matter? And he can wear the old school tie and everything too ... Father’s rather an old sweet really—so downright and simple ... quite awful, my dear ... but Simon—definitely attractive, don’t you think? Come round some time darling.”
Nicky rang off and went violently into her father’s study.
“Do you realize that these Shands are accepted?” she demanded of Charles. “The women are actually dithering over Simon.”
“Are they, my pretty?” Her father said vaguely. “I’m not surprised. A thoroughly personable young man, though I hate to say it.”
“Oh, Charles—”
“That, my sweet, is your father’s considered opinion.” He glanced up at her with a puckish expression. “Tiresome of me, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER THREE
Charles’s affairs were in a worse state that autumn than they had ever been. The accumulation of years had eventually caught up with him, and situations had to be met that could no longer be postponed while he trekked blithely around the world leaving Nye to take care of itself. The tenants complained, with some cause, that their cottages were in need of repairs, wages were in some cases long overdue, and bills had reached alarming proportions.
In the past he had always relied on a lucky speculation to set his affairs right and quite often he had brought it off. But during the last year nothing seemed to have gone his way. Every reckless gamble had only added to his debts until he had been forced to sell his land to save himself from bankruptcy.
Nicky was used to lean times at Nye when the staff was cut down to a minimum and the wastepaper basket filled with unopened bills. It never unduly worried her, for Charles’s cellar remained miraculously unimpaired, and Charles’s stable and preserves were as good as ever. She was used to things being shabby, and meals indifferently served. Nye wouldn’t have been Nye with a system that ran like clockwork, and they were so seldom there that it wasn’t surprising the place was neglected. She didn’t see that they lived perpetually on the brink of disaster, that Charles’s roving spirit was only a drug to blind him to his responsibilities. But Mouse saw.
Mouse, with her twenty odd years of service to the Bredon family, saw more clearly than any of them. She was devoted to them all, but her devotion wasn’t blind. Charles frequently angered her by his failure as a parent. Nicky was her ewe lamb. She disapproved strongly of the girl’s mode of life, but she didn’t see what else you could expect from such an upbringing. It was Mouse who ran the house, harried the ill-paid servants into some semblance of efficiency, and patched and mended and turned curtains and tapestries that had long since had their day. Nye was her life. She had grown to womanhood there, and lived through the long years with no wish for any life except one of service to the Bredons. She watched with tight lips and unhappy eyes the sale first of Wet Wood and the east boundary, and then the South Spinney and with it that piece of river that had always been the children’s, and sometimes she wondered if Sir Charles would be forced into selling Nye itself. She heard plenty of talk in the village, and she wondered sadly how much longer the Bredons could continue to demand the good things of life without paying for them.
Nicky was so pleased to be back at Nye that she didn’t pay much attention to graver matters. She wished only that Michael might be there to share it with her. He was part of all the old associations with Nye, so much more like Charles than his own father that he might well have been her brother. But Michael was the other side of the world, picking up a living where and how he chose, the Bredon wanderlust stronger in him than in any of them. She hadn’t seen him for four years.
As November approached, Charles was less and less at home. He would snatch a couple of days hunting, then dash back to town, returning when he chose, looking thinner than ever, with the marks of dissipation strongly upon him. At weekends he often filled the house with casual acquaintances, a raffish crowd whom, likely as not, he barely knew, but who seemed for the moment to satisfy that fever of impatience that possessed him. Nicky entertained them in that casual spirit she had caught from her father, and by Monday morning he would watch the last car departing down the drive with evident relief and turn to Nicky with the air of a naughty child.
“A tatty crew this weekend, weren’t they, my pretty? Now we can enjoy ourselves and get a sight of Nye as it really is.”
But the next day he would be off again, and Nicky, left to her own devices, drove herself about the country in a disreputable old sports car and pursued her own affairs unchecked.
She met Simon Shand at the usual functions, but since that last encounter at Bassetts Ponds he had made no further effort to get to know her better. He was seen a great deal with Stella Lucy and, in common with everyone else, Nicky suspected a mild affair and thought no more about it. But the old anger remained. Gradually she began to realize that his attitude was as high-handed as her own. She had made her position toward the Shands very clear in the first place and he was making it equally clear in a far more courteous fashion that he had little use for the Bredons. Very well, then, let him try high-hatting her! There were still one or two houses left where breeding mattered more than money and where Sir Charles Bredon’s daughter would find a welcome when John Shand’s son would not.
But in this again he puzzled her. She could swear that he had no interest in her whatever, until at one of Liza Coleman’s parties he took her home because he considered her own escort too drunk to be trusted. She remembered that little
incident very well. He had taken no notice of her the entire evening, but he must have been observant of more than she had imagined, for he had left Stella abruptly and crossed the room to where Freddie Whiteman was trying to help Nicky into her coat.
“Were you leaving?” he asked quite politely.
“I’m taking Nicky home, ol’ boy,” Freddie said and winked broadly. “Maybe not see me back again tonight. I’ve taken Nicky home before.”
There was no scene. The astonished Freddie found himself once more propping up the bar, and Nicky was being tucked with strong capable hands into Simon’s car.
She looked at him curiously.
“Why have you bothered?” she asked.
He got in beside her and began pulling on his driving gloves.
“I really didn’t think he was in any fit condition to drive,” he, said.
“I’ve driven with Freddie when he’s been tighter than this,” she said with a hint of bravado. “As you heard him say, he’s taken me home before.”
“I shouldn’t have thought,” said Simon quietly, “that you would much care for that remark he made.”
She felt herself flushing in the darkness. What was there about this man that always got her back up? He seemed to have a knack of putting her gently but firmly in the wrong.
“That’s old-fashioned and rather provincial,” she retorted. “My father’s taught me to handle my men properly.”
They drove back in comparative silence after that.
Suddenly he said out of the darkness: “You mustn’t confuse your issues, you know. Old-fashioned and provincial are not necessarily the same thing, though I admit I’m probably both. I come of provincial stock.”
She could have gladly hit him, then unreasonably felt a desire to cry. There was some quality about him that unsettled her and made her feel frequently ashamed.
The headlights of the car struck the dark trunks of the chestnuts as they turned into the avenue, sending long shadows stretching ahead in grotesque distortion. They stood outside the silent house for a moment. Nicky didn’t ask him in, and she stood in a clear patch of moonlight, her lifted face half angry, half unhappy in the silver radiance. She was aware of Simon standing close to her, his disconcerting eyes gravely watching her.