Green Girl

by Sara Seale

  “I’ve always hated those freckles!” she said, as if they alone were to blame for all life’s disappointments, and he laughed.

  “But why? Freckles are called fairy dust in these parts, and that should please your wool-gathering heart, Besides, they’re considered lucky.”

  “Are they? Lonnegan’s Luck ... the old name for Clooney ...”

  “That was before the luck ran out—perhaps you and your fairy freckles will bring it back,” he said. “Well, I’m glad you’re pleased with your pearls; we must see about some more trinkets for you later on. I’m sure the regrettable absence of an engagement ring won’t pass unnoticed by the ladies of the district if they come to call.”

  “That wasn’t in the contract,” she pointed out, only wishing to be fair, but knew at once that she had said the wrong thing again as she saw his ugly features harden in distaste.

  “It’s not necessary to remind me, my dear. I had no intention of offering bribes as a prelude to breaking my own rules, I assure you,” he said, and sat down at his desk, pulling one of the skewered piles of business papers towards him, and Harriet knew herself dismissed.

  By the time luncheon was over, Harriet knew that her Christmas was a failure. The day was out of kilter, and from the leaking hot water bottle to the half-hearted pulling of crackers which had sent Uriah into screaming hysterics and banishment, one irritation had piled upon another. Samantha’s presents had been ostentatious and too expensive, her efforts to keep the party going too obvious, and it had been a great mistake to insist upon using the vast and icy dining-room to mark the occasion.

  It was a relief when they were able to return to the warmth of the snug for a post-prandial spell of somnolent comfort before the children’s party was due to start, but even the thought of the party, which for Harriet was to have been the crowning moment of the day, failed to cheer her. Duff, as usual, had been right, the Castle should have been dealt with on the grand scale or not at all, and she should have left well alone.

  The two men had subsided into easy chairs at the end of the room and were smoking and lazily discussing various matters to do with the estate, and Samantha joined Harriet on the long fender stool for what she described as a cosy feminine natter.

  “It’s quite a time since you and I got together,” she said, her husky voice warm and inviting like the scent which every time she moved gave out tiny wafts of fragrance. “You’ve certainly gone to town on Christmas, honey. Are those Kitty’s pearls you’re wearing?” The question was casual enough, but Harriet felt a small sense of shock. Duff had told her the pearls were not new, but she had not supposed that they had belonged to his first wife.

  “Very likely,” she replied, with a good simulation of indifference. “They’re Duff’s Christmas present.”

  “Oh, really? They were his wedding present to Kitty. I hope they don’t bring bad luck. Pearls mean tears, you know, and she wore them at another Christmas party when he found out she wasn’t such a good little girl as he thought her.”

  “That was sad for him—and for her,” said Harriet.

  “Oh, Duff made excuses enough to himself, but his answer wasn’t a very happy one for either of them. He got her with child, you see, very soon after, and thought that would settle things for both of them. It was a little shattering, you can understand, to feel he was responsible for her death. Now let’s leave my foolish little cousin’s mistakes and take a look at yours. Are you going to be content to take a back seat, too, like poor Kitty’s child, grateful for the crumbs?” Harriet resisted a strong temptation to scratch Samantha’s fine veneer with blunt orphanage retaliation, but succeeded in answering coolly enough:

  “Poor Kitty’s child takes a back seat from her own choice. She prefers her own company, and I must confess there are times when I sympathise with her.”

  “Who’s being a pussy cat now?” Samantha mocked, her beautiful, spoilt mouth curving in a pleasurable smile. “You’ve only learnt the first spittings of a kitten, though, honey, so don’t try tangling with me.”

  Harriet sent a quick look across the room, hoping to catch somebody’s eye, but the men were still immersed in farming technicalities.”

  “It’s you, I think, who want to tangle with me, Samantha,” she said wearily. “Why can’t you be content with whatever you’ve got and leave me alone?”

  “Certainly I’ll leave you alone if you’ll reciprocate, darling.”

  “When have I ever interfered with you?”

  “Well, you interfered quite seriously when you married into Clooney, presumably to shake off the orphanage background, since you couldn’t have been in love with Duff, but that you weren’t to know. I’m compromising too, you know. I wanted marriage, but I’ll settle for the other thing since there’s not much choice.”

  “Are you suggesting I should share my husband with you, by any chance?” asked Harriet politely, and wondered with faint surprise why she should appear to find no difficulty in meeting Samantha on equal terms where with Duff it was well-nigh impossible.

  “Not your husband, darling—just your husband’s favours,” drawled Samantha. “After all, you have the attentive Rory to supply the romance if that’s where Duff fails you.”

  “You’re rather foolish to try to drag Rory in,” she said, trying not to sound as defeated as she felt. “He’s been charming to me, yes, but he’s Duff’s cousin and that’s all there is to it.”

  “But Duff, I rather fancy, has other ideas,” Samantha said, and Harriet, who knew to her mortification that she was blushing, saw the long eyes narrow.

  “O-ho!” she chuckled. “That evidently went home. Well now, Harriet, let’s have an understanding between us. You play along with me and I’ll play along with you. Turn a blind eye to Duff’s affair, as most sensible wives have to do, but try getting me thrown out, and I’ll have to corroborate what’s been going on under his nose. He won’t take the usual steps, unfortunately, with this tiresome phobia about divorce, but he’ll make life pretty dismal for you.”

  The freckles were beginning to stand out as Harriet’s face lost colour.

  “No!” she said, her voice pitched to a note of shrillness. “I’ve bargained once—I’m not bargaining again with you.”

  “Very well,” Samantha said softly, “then you must take what’s coming to you.”

  It might have been that rising inflection in Harriet’s voice which made the men look up, but they seemed to abandon their discussion with tacit consent, changing their chairs to ones nearer the fire to make the conversation general, and at the same time Harriet felt a questing nose pushed under her hand as if in comfort and assurance. It was not Uriah, however, but the watchful Kurt, sensing perhaps from Harriet’s voice that his protection was needed, and she dug her fingers into his soft ruff, grateful for the earthy, animal comfort which seemed to flow from him.

  “You look a bit pale, Harriet. Are you feeling all right?” Duff said, giving her a searching look, and Nonie, who all this time had been lying on her stomach on the floor, apparently absorbed in a jigsaw puzzle, observed:

  “Cousin Samantha wants to give out the presents, so I might as well not bother to get dressed up in my party clothes.”

  “Oh, Nonie, what nonsense!” Harriet exclaimed. She might have known, she supposed, that the child would have been at her old game of picking up what she could from the adult conversation, and she began to wonder uneasily what else Nonie might have heard and construed to her own satisfaction.

  “Tisn’t. I heard her say I was plain and wouldn’t know how. You said I should take my place as daughter of the house, Harriet, but you were just being kind.” Nonie sounded as if she was nearer tears than trying deliberately to focus attention on herself, and Harriet thought it only needed a scene to put a final seal on the day’s contrariness.

  “And so you should. I wasn’t being kind, only sensible—ask your father,” she said, and prayed that for once Duff would find the right words and the right approach.

  He
did both. He picked the little girl up off the floor and sat her on his knee, saying with grave persuasion:

  “You wouldn’t let me down, would you, Nonie? I was depending on you to do the honours—and do me credit at the same time.”

  The child looked at him with a shy expression of doubt and rather tentative hope which wrung Harriet’s heart. Could he not understand, she thought, how simple the way to his daughter’s heart would have been had he only convinced her that he needed her? Perhaps he, too, realised in this moment that he had resigned himself too easily to the influence of the child’s grandparents, that Nonie was too much a replica of himself to offer what was not wanted, for he added gently: “You’re all I have, Nonie, to keep the Lonnegan flag flying. I could be proud of you.”

  “Could you?”

  “Yes, I could, and I will if you’ll stand by your old father.”

  “Then of course I will!” Nonie gave him a quick, rather self-conscious hug, being unaccustomed to demonstrations between them, and slipped off his knee. “Harriet, will you come and get me ready?”

  “In a minute,” Harriet answered, glad that the first step towards a better relationship had been taken, but hurt by that careless assertion that his daughter was all he had. She saw a little knowledgeable smile that replaced the look of boredom on Samantha’s face, and dug her fingers so firmly into Kurt’s neck that he yelped, and in a moment there was pandemonium.

  Uriah, waking belatedly to that fact that his mistress had been bestowing attentions on another dog, thrust himself between them with false growls of aggression and Kurt snapped. Uriah’s threats immediately changed to shrieks and howls of craven terror, and Harriet, convinced that he must have been badly bitten, was already on her knees beside him as the bitch, Delsa, promptly reverting to pack instinct, bounded across the room to attack the screaming animal.

  “For God’s sake, get up off the floor! Do you want to get bitten?” Duff shouted, leaping to his feet to haul the bitch off while he snapped a sharp command to Kurt.

  It was all over in a moment, but Harriet still sat there trying to soothe the hysterical Uriah, hardly aware of Duff’s angry alarm until he picked the dog up by the scruff of his neck, and deposited him unceremoniously outside the door for the second time that day. They could hear the piercing yelps fading into the distance as Uriah fled up the stairs to the sanctuary of Harriet’s bedroom.

  “They didn’t catch you anywhere, did they?” Duff asked, and his voice was harsh, either with concern or anger, and she got to her feet.

  “No, of course not,” she said, but added defensively, because she was still shaking; “You needn’t have thrown him out so roughly. He was only jealous and badly frightened.”

  “It was Kurt who was jealous, not your perishing cowardly tyke. You should learn to divide your favours with a little more tact, my dear, if peace is to be kept in this house.”

  Somewhere out in the storm a bell began to toll.

  “Another gaol-break, I suppose,” Rory said, going to the window to inspect the weather. “What a day to pick for a get-away! Sooner my nice dry cell and bite of Christmas fare than Clooney Plain in this weather—do you suppose the prisoners get turkey and plum pudding?”

  “More like bread and skilly! Tough on the warders being dragged out to search on Christmas Day,” Duff said, seeming to welcome with relief a change of subject, and Harriet, whose wits by now were too confused to do more than seize on the surface of conversation, contributed one of her more childish remarks.

  “That’s what you thought they gave us for supper in the orphanage, Duff—remember?”

  “Yes, I remember,” he replied a little shortly. “Hadn’t we better be getting the tree lighted? This infernal party’s due to start in less than half an hour.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE party, too, was a failure. A few children, coming in from a wild night, stood about awkwardly, dripping puddles of muddy water on the floor, the absent guests evidently preferring their own firesides to braving the weather for the doubtful hospitality of the Castle. They gazed at the tree with polite respect, but it was clearly a symbol of extravagance for them rather than of fairy-tale beauty.

  All the children seemed interested in was stuffing themselves with food and resisting all attempts to organise games, which was possibly less exhausting, but she was sorry that Nonie’s little hour of importance should fall so flat. She had given out the presents with a natural sense of occasion, and had even looked quite attractive with her long hair done up on the top of her head in a fashionable twist. She seemed unconcerned, however, when Harriet commiserated on the lack of appreciation in their guests.

  “What did you expect?” she replied. “Their parents probably only think we’re trying to show off. They know they have to badger and whine when repairs are needed because Father can’t afford to pay proper workmen to do the jobs.” Nonie, thought Harriet with humility, had a better understanding of her father and her father’s people than had she with her head filled with the romantic twaddle of long- outdated fiction.

  “Well...” yawned Samantha, when the last of the guests had been wrapped up and thankfully dispatched into the storm-tossed night, “I think we’ve all earned a stiff drink, don’t you, Duff?”

  “I think so too. Let’s go back to the snug and get warm.” But Harriet, viewing the mess and clutter in the hall, said she would rather start clearing up. She was tired, but she was also near to tears and she did not feel she could face Samantha’s running commentary on the doubtless amusing gaffes which had been made throughout the evening.

  Rory, aware that she was nearer breaking point than she probably realised, stayed to help her; so Duff and Samantha drank alone and Samantha was well content.

  “We ought to give those two a hand, I suppose,” Duff said as he poured champagne. “Harriet was looking very white. That bit of a scrap with the dogs shook her up more than I realised, I think.”

  “It was you who shook her up, darling, with your crack about the dispensing of favours,” Samantha retorted with a certain enjoyment, and he gave her a glass, then sat down in his favourite chair with his own.

  “Whatever I may have said was in the heat of the moment and not intended to be taken literally by anyone,” he replied.

  “Oh, I think it was, and of course you were so right. Rory’s very attractive, but they’re both a little indiscreet, aren’t they?”

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, come off it, darling! You’ve been in a tizz every time she’s responded so innocently to his particular brand of making love for all to hear. Are you a bit of a dog-in-the manger?”

  “Can one be described as that because one objects to one’s wife being involved with another man?”

  “Certainly, when you don’t want her yourself. Now, you’ve admitted it. See how right I was?”

  “I’ve admitted to nothing but the very natural reactions of a husband, neither do I see any reason for you to suppose that having married Harriet, I don’t want her.”

  “You married her to run away from me, if you remember, not because you couldn’t live without her,” she retorted a little shrewishly. “I quite understand that you have to put on a good front for your neighbours, but you don’t have to try and kid me.”

  “I think you try to kid yourself, Samantha,” he said quite gently. “You never have known when you were beaten, have you?”

  “If you’re trying to tell me that you’ve no further use for a relationship you were glad enough once to accept, then I don’t believe you,” she said, and her heavily ringed hand holding her glass began to shake a little. “If you can convince me that a naive little girl who hasn’t a clue about sex and physical passion or any of the things which make a virile man tick can satisfy you, having known love with someone like me, then either you’re out of your mind or I am.”

  “There was never love between us, my dear, just passion. Neither of us knew much about the other thing.”

  “Or wanted it. I d
on’t want it now, only what was once between us—and still is if you had the honesty to admit it.”

  “Well—no comment?” Samantha asked, uneasy at his silence, and he put the glass down on a table beside him.

  “It’s always difficult to convince a woman that an affair is over without hurting her,” he said. “Won’t you try to save us both embarrassment by calling it a day—with gratitude perhaps for what has been between us, but with graceful acceptance of the fact that physical attraction alone must come to an end. You only think you want me now, you know, because you can’t get me.”

  She was stung to something approaching dislike in a primitive desire to hurt him.

  “I’m promiscuous—so what?” she flung at him. “Is that why I wasn’t good enough to marry? Is that why I’m not even good enough for your mistress? Take care, Duff. You may find yourself coming to me again for consolation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That it’s Christmas again, and history has a habit of repeating itself. Aren’t you afraid?”

  She saw with satisfaction that she had at last got under his guard. The colour drained out of his dark face, leaving it sallow, and the more familiar anger was rising in him.

  “I’m afraid of nothing but your twisted motives for mischief,” he said harshly. “You came here today on Harriet’s invitation, not mine, and after today, you’ll keep away—understand?”

  “And what about that guarantee to your bank, darling? I’m so willing to forget it, if you’ll play ball.”

  “The money will be repaid as soon as I can raise the necessary capital, as I told you yesterday at lunch.”

  “I could call it in, you know. I could put you nicely in a spot.”

  “You’re flogging a dead horse, Samantha,” he said a little wearily. “I don’t regret what was once between us, but if I must speak plainly, I don’t care to barter my lands or my integrity in return for services I no longer require.”