Cloud Castle

by Sara Seale

  “Thank God!” he exclaimed, and then she felt him lift her, and snuggled her face into the warmth of his shoulder, sniffing the scent of turf-smoke and tobacco which always seemed to cling to his clothes.

  “It was all your fault,” she sobbed. “You never gave me those lessons and you t-took my nice clean heart and squeezed it dry and now it’s like a wizened old walnut. It’s m-most uncomfortable...”

  He thought she was lightheaded, and perhaps she was for the moment, but as he set her on her feet she cried out with the pain in her ankle and he said quickly:

  “You’re hurt. Can you stand?”

  “I t-twisted my ankle, that’s all, but it was too bad to walk home. I did try,” she said.

  “There’s blood on your forehead.”

  “Is there?”

  “You must have been cut by the glass. I’ll get you into the Land Rover, then we’ll see what the damage is.”

  He lifted her into the other car and told her to sit still while he soaked his handkerchief in the stream. The stream must be part of the waterfall, she reflected, trying to sort out again the different sounds of the night, and then he was back, bathing her forehead, assuring her that the cut was only a small one.

  “Now let’s see that ankle,” he said, and stripped off her torn stocking, and having tested the ankle with gentle, experienced fingers, bound it up tightly with the wet handkerchief. She looked down at his dark, ugly face bent in grave concentration over his job, and remembered how she had wondered what the touch of his fingers would be like to the skin. She had stopped crying, but was beginning to shiver after the long hours of sitting in damp clothes.

  “No more than a sprain, I think. Good grief—you’re wringing wet!” he exclaimed, touching her skirt.

  “I sat in the bog-water for too long, I’m afraid,” she said, and he glanced at her sharply.

  “Well, take your skirt off.”

  “Take it off?”

  “There’s no one to see you but me,” he said impatiently. “Here—where does it undo?”

  She unfastened the zipper and he pulled the skirt off without ceremony and flung it in the back of the car.

  “Here’s an old mackintosh you can wrap round your knees to keep warm, and I had the sense to bring a flask of brandy with me,” he said, reaching for the flask. “Drink it up, now—a good big swallow. Your hands are like ice.”

  She drank the brandy obediently, grateful for the warmth and comfort of the spirit trickling down her throat.

  “That’s better,” he said and, dropping the flask on the floor, turned to look at her.

  “Well,” he said a little grimly, “you see what comes of disobeying orders. What possessed you to take the car out by yourself? The letters could have waited till tomorrow.”

  “I was delayed or I’d have asked one of the men,” she said, then began to talk a little feverishly while he held her icy hands between his own to warm them.

  “It was Grogan—Noel and Grogan. I heard them quarrelling and then they were going to change over the tallboy, only they couldn’t because I was there. He had it in the van, you see—the other one, I mean—and Noel said he’d call the Garda and Grogan just laughed and said he wouldn’t dare, and Noel said you knew about it, but you don’t, do you, Raff?”

  “You seem a little incoherent,” he said. “Shall we leave explanations until we get home?”

  “Miss Doyle will tell you. Grogan’s been pulling the wool over her eyes for ages.”

  “Agnes has already told me nearly as garbled a tale as yours, only she seemed obsessed with false promises and male deceivers! But at least she remembered the letters and Granny Malone saw you pass, or we wouldn’t have known where you’d gone.”

  “She put the ‘fluence on me—that’s why it all happened.”

  “It happened through your own silly fault and nobody else’s,” he said, and the anger that can follow hot on the heels of fear and anxiety began to rise in him “How do you think I felt when I saw the overturned car and you lying there apparently unconscious? Do you imagine my only thought was that I should have the inconvenience of hiring another secretary?’ He stopped, for he could not tell her that the sight of her limp young body and the red hair falling over her face had brought an unbearable reminder of Kathy. He could not in any way be blamed for that first small tragedy, but for Judy, whose endearing simplicity he had needed, but stubbornly rejected, he would always feel reproach.

  “You are going to sack me, so it wouldn’t have been an inconvenience in the end,” she said meekly.

  “It was not a question of sacking you in the accepted sense, as you know very well,” he replied. “In any case that’s all in the future, and we’d best be getting home. Willie-the-Post will spread the most fantastic rumours when he finds the car in the morning.”

  “Will you warm me a little before we go?” she asked, and he took her into his arms and rested his own cold cheek for a moment against hers.

  “What did you mean about your nice clean heart?” he said, and felt her hand thrust confidingly into the breast of his jacket

  “It was nice and clean—like a slate, a—a piece of fresh paper that’s never been written on. I wasn’t romantic, you see.”

  “So you once told me, but I hardly think it’s true.”

  “You remember a lot of things I told you, don’t you?”

  “Well, it’s more than I can say for you, forgetting, even, that I’d told you not to drive!”

  “I didn’t forget. I haven’t forgotten anything you’ve told me—but I don’t think you’d like to be reminded of some things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t tell you now. You wouldn’t have thought them important, anyway. Avuncular, probably,” she said sleepily, and he took her chin in his hand and, raising her face to his, kissed her gently.

  “Avuncular is probably what I should remain,” he said, and kissed her again, this time with a lingering tenderness that made her slip a hand round his neck.

  “Dear Raff...” she murmured. “Must you do it?”

  “Do what, you irresponsible child?”

  “Marry Marcia. And I’m not a child, and I’m not irresponsible, but I don’t seem able to make you understand.”

  His grasp tightened on her for a moment, then slackened.

  “What makes you think I mean to marry Marcia?” he asked.

  “Oh, everyone thinks so. Besides, you told me this morning there were going to be changes at Slyne. You made it very clear, I thought, that you’d decided to settle down.”

  “And is that why you cried?”

  She drew away from him, aware that she had probably been impertinent and that this conversation could embarrass them both.

  “My tears were a matter that need not concern you, and it was unkind to remind me. I don’t often do it,” she said. “But, Raff—be careful. It’s so easy, I imagine, when the time is ripe for oneself, to make a false assessment of another.”

  “How do you know these things?” he asked.

  “I just know. My father was a wise man—but even he couldn’t teach me the things one must learn for oneself. I suppose no one can.”

  “No, Judy, no one can,” he said a little sadly and, as if putting a period of finality to the interlude, pressed the self-starter and set the engine running.

  “It was all your fault ... all you fault...” she murmured in a kind of chant as they bumped home over the south road.

  She was, he thought, driving in silence, a little lightheaded after all, and he cursed himself for having lingered at the crossroads when he should have been getting her home and out of her wet clothes. Presently he thought she slept, her head against his shoulder, and he could see the dark crescents her closed eyelids made and the innocent curve of her mouth. The dried trickle of blood on her temple and the streaks of dirt gave her face the look of a chidden child’s. It would be better for him, for all of them, he thought, if he sent her back to England as soon as could be conveni
ently arranged.

  III

  Judy was astonished by her reception upon arriving back at Slyne. The servants ran into the hall, exclaiming and weeping by turn, joined mysteriously by some of the yard dogs which were forbidden in the house; the Colonel and Miss Botley vied with each other in prescribing remedies for shock, broken limbs and an assortment of misfortunes which had not come to pass, and even Noel expressed a concern which, judging by Raffs expression, was a trifle overdone. Only Marcia remained aloof, her eyes darting from one to another of them while she herself made no attempt to join in the chorus of commiseration. Judy was aware that she must present a comic appearance with Raffs old mackintosh clutched round her hips in lieu of a skirt, but there was no amusement in Marcia’s glance, only a watchful impatience and, when she looked at Raff, a slightly incredulous expression, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

  “Hadn’t you better go straight to bed, Judy?” she said when the first commotion had died down. “Since it’s you who requires an immediate hot bath, Timsy, I’m sure, has stoked the furnace. Go back to the kitchen, all of you, please—there’s no need to make such a fuss—and take those dogs with you and turn them out.”

  “Yes, get them out Timsy,’ Raff said quietly, and soon the hall was still again and Marcia repeated her advice to Judy, adding an indifferently polite inquiry as to whether she wanted any help in undressing.

  “That ankle needs strapping properly,” Raff said. “When you’ve had you bath, Judy, I’ll come up and do it. Shall I carry you upstairs?”

  “I’m expert at carrying maidens up to bed. Go and get yourself a drink, my dear chap, you look all in,” Noel said, and swung Judy up into his arms. “No need for the physician act, either. I’m a very pretty hand with the first-aid box. I’ll bandage her up and tuck her into bed with an aspirin and a nice bedtime story.”

  “Yes, come and sit down and have a drink. You look tired, darling,” Marcia said, linking an arm with his.

  He hesitated, rubbing the bridge of his nose and frowning at Noel, who was already mounting the stairs with his burden.

  “Very well,” he said, “Goodnight, Judy.”

  “Goodnight, Raff,” she replied, chilled by his sudden indifference, and gave a little wriggle as Noel murmured softly above her head:

  “You’d rather it was him than me, wouldn’t you, my sweet? What fairytales have you and Raff been exchanging by the light of the silvery moon? Marcia didn’t like it, you know.”

  “Marcia might have offered a little more sympathy, for the look of things. Raff mightn’t like that!” she retorted sharply, and he grinned.

  “O-ho! Is there rivalry between you two? I shouldn’t try telling tales, if I were you.”

  “Are you afraid, Noel?”

  “Afraid for Marcia? Well, hardly.”

  “No, for yourself.”

  He had readied the nursery now and had deposited her on the bed. Mary Kate or, more probably, Rosie, had banked the fire up well with turf and the room looked warm and comfortably shabby as it had, no doubt, when Raff and his brothers had occupied it and chalked their drawings on the faded wallpaper.

  “What’s all this about?” Noel asked.

  “I overheard you and Grogan quarrelling this afternoon,” she said. “You were going to exchange the tallboy, weren’t you?”

  He sat down on the side of the bed and grinned at her impudently.

  “So you think you know all, as the novelettes say, do you?” he replied. “And have you passed on your unworthy suspicions to friend Raff?”

  “I tried to warn him, but I was rather mixed up with other things at the time and he thought I was lightheaded,” she said, too honest herself to try and match him at his own game.

  “And that’s what you were, of course. It was foolish to try and get me the push when you’d had the sack yourself.”

  “I haven’t been sacked.”

  “I understood it was Marcia who got you a reprieve,” he said a little mockingly.

  “Because,” replied Judy tartly, “neither of you want to do the donkey-work now the place is beginning to fill up. Marcia doesn’t want me here, but she’d sooner put up with me than have to hammer a typewriter all day.

  “And when she’s made use of you, she’ll get you out of here, my dear. It’s too late to try soft soap with Raff now. He’s committed to Marcia.”

  “He hasn’t said so.”

  “Not to you, possibly. He thinks, incidentally, that you’ve got a bit of a weakness for me. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “Very silly—Spongy!”

  He laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound.

  “You won’t hurt my feelings with prep-school jibes, he said. “Neither will you convince our lord and master very easily, for I’ve said nothing to undeceive him, I assure you. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  “You’re just a spoilt rather nasty child who only wants what it can’t have,” she said, and he dropped an unexpected and entirely meaningless kiss on the top of her

  “I admit I’m perverse in that respect,” he admitted a trifle maliciously. “I have to confess you didn’t attract me at all at first, my sweet, but reluctance is always tempting when one’s bored. Raff has the same effect on Marcia and, if she brings him up to scratch, I’ve no doubt the desire will pall. That’s human nature for you, I suppose.”

  She looked at him with such plain disgust that the simulated merriment began to leave his eyes.

  “You aren’t thinking of repeating this little canard, when you can be presumed not to be lightheaded, are you?” he asked softly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, my child, it would only boomerang on yourself. Do you think that Raff would want his future brother-in-law branded as a thief? No, my dear little Judy, if you try that line, you’ll find you get very short shrift. He’ll stand by Marcia, not by you.”

  It was, she supposed, only too true. He would be bitterly hurt, but if he was already committed to a future with Marcia, he would make the best of things rather than go back on his word.

  Her ankle was beginning to throb painfully and she wished he would go. She had her proof at last, but she knew she could not use it and deliver such a blow to pride and friendship. Seeing the weariness and defeat in her face, he leaned over her and said persuasively:

  “I see you’re thinking better of your rashness. There’s a very simple explanation, as I think I’ve hinted at before. Raffs pretty broke, compared to the old days, you know. I admit we went about our transactions in rather a cloak-and-dagger fashion, sneaking things in and out of the house when no one was about, but we didn’t want the servants talking.”

  “And doesn’t Miss Doyle talk?”

  “Oh, no one pays any attention to her, poor soul—besides, she thought Grogan did repairs to the furniture as an excuse to see her. Raff is proud, you know. He wouldn’t like it known that he was selling the family stuff; that’s why it was always done through me.”

  She did not believe him, but she remembered that when she had asked Raff if he had known about the dealings with Grogan he had only replied by saying that she appeared to be incoherent; another word for lightheadedness, perhaps.

  “Grogan said the money went into your own pocket,” she said, still trying to fight what she felt to be a fabric of half-truths.

  “Grogan was simply trying to air knowledge he doesn’t possess—nasty, blackmailing little spy!” he replied. “I bank everything in my own name. When a worthwhile sum has accumulated I hand it over, that’s all.”

  “You must,” said Judy very wearily, “take me for a fool.”

  “Oh, no!” he retorted, patting her lightly on the shoulder, “I take you for quite an astute young woman who knows which side her bread’s buttered. Don’t play tricks with me, my sweet, and I won’t play tricks with you.”

  It was a merciful relief when Mary Kate came bursting into the room to demand to know why Judy had not been in a hot bath long ago.

  Tucked up in bed, Judy kne
w again that comforting return to childhood. The well-worn furniture, the fairytale pictures repeating themselves round the walls, the criss-cross pattern the fireguard made on the ceiling, brought familiarity, and protection from the world outside.

  “You’re so kind to me, Mary Kate,” she said. “You must have been a nice nanny. I’d like to feel there were children here again in the nursery, wouldn’t you?”

  Mary Kate looked about her, her hands on her hips, and there was reminiscence in her eyes, a slow recapturing of the essence of a room long since forgotten.

  “Childer...” she said softly. “Aye, doty, the place needs that ... will you be stayin’ here awhile?”

  “I don’t think so,” Judy replied sadly. “But I shall stop in Ireland, if I can find another job. I would like to feel my roots were here.”

  “Roots, is it? Well, I’d be thinkin’ an English young miss had that much sense!” said Mary Kate, her eyes brooding on the bed. “Are you ready, now, Miss Judy? Will I alarrum the master?”

  Judy was still not quite used to this descriptive Irishism, and her forehead puckered.

  “Alarm?” she echoed, thinking there had been enough alarms for one day.

  “Advise him that you’re waitin’,” Mary Kate translated patiently, and Judy smiled.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m waiting—but I could go to sleep any minute.”

  “You’ll not sleep without me good broth inside you,” Mary Kate observed severely. “When himself has finished with you, I’ll bring it up.”

  Judy waited in drowsy anticipation, glad that it was Raff and not Noel who would come to bandage her ankle. She could tell him again, perhaps, the strange thoughts that had been chasing around in her mind and, even if she could not prove her suspicions a certainty, she could somehow warn him to be careful. But when he came, Marcia came with him, carrying the first-aid box, and although she inquired solicitously enough for Judy’s comfort, she stood by the bed, her dark eyes bright and watchful on Raff’s hands bandaging and strapping with swift impersonality. “Is that comfortable?” he asked, straightening his long back.