With irritation he saw large tears roll down the intruder’s cheeks. ‘And just what are you weeping about? Personally I think you’ve got exactly what you deserved. Didn’t it strike you as a bit imprudent to answer such a blatant piece of buffoonery?’
The shock of his words made Kate’s tears suddenly stop flowing. ‘You mean you didn’t write the letters?’
‘Do I look the sort of man who’d write such mushy drivel to an unknown and impressionable young woman?’
He was right, Kate concluded. The high-boned and weatherbeaten man who stood before her with his harsh unsympathetic manner was completely at variance with the picture she had summoned up of the suitor who had written her so ardently. ‘But who would have done such a thing?’ she asked bewilderedly.
‘It’s the sort of so-called joke my cousin, Nicky Fitzpatrick, would indulge in. He probably considered it hilariously funny.’
And Aunt Florrie too, no doubt, he reflected, with her constant and bracing attempts to hustle him into matrimony. However, thank heaven he would be well rid of this extraordinary young woman before his aunt descended on him again. It was the type of situation that would tempt her to exploit her full armoury of calculated eccentricity.
‘I’m sorry, of course,’ he said, ‘but as you can see, your predicament has nothing to do with me.’
He was coldly dissociating himself, she could see. No doubt the dignified thing to do would be to take up her possessions and depart. But it wasn’t quite as simple as that. There was the long weary walk back to the station: besides, she had not eaten for several hours and was beginning to get a horrible empty feeling in her stomach.
‘There’s a train back to Dublin in a few hours,’ he remarked. Then something in her expression made him add grudgingly, ‘Perhaps you’d like tea or something; afterwards I could drive you to the station.’
‘Yes, I would like tea,’ Kate admitted. ‘I had only a sandwich on the train.’ Then added politely, ‘But I don’t want to take you from your work.’
Owen Lawlor shrugged. ‘I was harrowing, but I can do it later.’ He felt a sudden urgency to get this girl off his property and out of his life. There was a strange tenacity about her that made him feel both irritated and faintly intrigued. ‘It’s Mrs. Murphy’s half day. However, no doubt I can rustle something up for you, but first, what about getting that animal out of the pear tree?’
But Bedsocks, like her mistress, had begun to feel the pangs of hunger and was already advancing tentatively down the tree trunk. Kate scooped her up and popped her into the basket. ‘I’d better keep her there until she gets used to things,’ she explained.
‘Used to things?’ Owen inquired sharply. ‘But neither of you will be here long enough to need to get used to things.’
‘No, of course not,’ Kate said hastily. ‘All I meant was, until we’ve had something to eat.’
She tried not to think beyond the moment. Perhaps after refreshments in this comfortable sprawling farmhouse, she would feel capable of facing the hazards of the return journey, but for the present she wanted to think no further than sitting cosily by a large fire with a hot steaming cup of tea.
He led her across a wide cobbled yard where turkeys gobbled and white geese hissed at her approach. Two collie dogs dozed by a tractor and winding stone steps with a rustic banister led up to grain lofts above the stable.
Kate glanced down apprehensively at the basket. Bedsocks was inclined to be intolerant of dogs and could create a terrifying dramatic scene if one as much as ventured on to the steps of The Trinket Box.
‘Don’t worry,’ Owen remarked dryly. ‘Shep and Pinch are outdoor animals; they don’t come into the house and I don’t keep pets.’
No, he probably didn’t keep pets, Kate thought a little acidly as she shot a sidelong glance at her companion. It was impossible to imagine him keeping any animal that wasn’t strictly useful: he gave the impression of being completely devoid of sentiment and for a moment she wished passionately that by some miracle he could be transfigured into the Owen Lawlor whose letters had been so redolent of warmth and charm.
In silence she followed him into a large kitchen with dark red-tiled floors and white scrubbed woodwork. A red-hot fire burned in the range and pieces of smoked brown ham hung by hooks from the raftered ceiling.
Owen paused doubtfully. ‘I suppose you won’t mind if we’ve tea here. Usually there’s no fire lit in the other rooms until the evening, as I’m out on the land most of the day.’
‘Oh no,’ Kate replied eagerly. It was the type of kitchen she warmed to. It was easy to imagine it filled with the appetising scent of brown crusted loaves fresh from the oven, the cheerful clatter of pots and pans, while workmen seated around the long white scrubbed table chatted and laughed, before returning to the fields.
‘Everything’s so bright and sparkling,’ Kate enthused.
Owen glanced around speculatively, as though noticing for the first time the copper skillets gleaming against the wall and the dresser on which china and glass sparkled. ‘Yes, I suppose Mrs. Murphy’s a good worker, in spite of the fact she’s addicted to the bottle,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Actually I tried to get rid of her on several occasions, but she turned up again like a bad penny, and gradually she has become a sort of fixture.’
But it will be much easier to get rid of me, Kate thought. Parting with people would not offer difficulties to this hard cold man; there would be no sentimental memories, no regrets once he had made a decision.
A kettle hissed on top of the range and a large rose-patterned teapot stood on the dresser. Owen, however, glanced at his companion for the first time with a suggestion of embarrassment. He was one of those men, Kate guessed, who are completely helpless as far as domestic things are concerned and in all probability could not boil the proverbial egg.
She found herself proved right in her surmise when he said uncomfortably, ‘I’ll make tea if you set the things out on the table. You’ll find supplies in the larder and I know Mrs. Murphy keeps the soda-bread in the cupboard in the dresser.’
Kate nodded understandingly; it was a situation in which she was perfectly at home and swiftly taking off her coat she donned a minute floral-patterned apron she found behind the kitchen door.
When Bedsocks had been released, she gravitated without hesitation towards the fire and, displaying not the smallest signs of unease, curled up and promptly went to sleep.
While Owen rather ponderously made the tea Kate explored the larder and studied with interest the contents of the cool slate shelving. It was a sort of culinary Aladdin’s cave: an enormous glazed yellow crock brimmed full with creamy milk; bacon and mutton reposed on wooden platters; her eyes fell on rich yellow butter and fat cheeses and dark brown honey. High above her head she saw rows of pickles and preserves and the galaxy of colour formed by jars of cherry, blackcurrant, rhubarb and plum jam.
She filled a jug with milk and placing a varied selection of edibles on a battered japanned tray returned with a glow of achievement to the kitchen.
‘There should be a tablecloth somewhere or other,’ Owen said uneasily, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t locate it.’
Kate pursed her mouth thoughtfully. Now where would Mrs. Murphy keep the kitchen tablecloth? Then diving her hand into a drawer at the end of the table triumphantly she produced it.
When Bedsocks had been provided with a saucer of milk Kate, rather to her astonishment, found herself pouring tea and endeavouring to make small-talk—an effort which proved most unrewarding. Owen Lawlor appeared preoccupied and she got the distinct impression that his mind was engaged in devising ways of getting Bedsocks and herself out of his life as soon as possible.
After tea he would drive them to the station in good time to catch the next Cork-Dublin-bound train. Seated comfortably in the warm kitchen the spring sunshine bright on the copper skillets, she felt a wistful desire to prolong the moment. Generations of living had given the kitchen an intangible atmosphere of security and comfo
rt. Her eyes fixed on a vase of pale wild daffodils: the flowers had been roughly pushed into the water—no doubt by the bottle-addicted Mrs. Murphy—but it was easy to visualise them blowing in the fields of Laragh. Soon she would be gone for ever, taking with her only a memory of her glimpse into the domain of Owen Lawlor.
Owen, glancing at her small round pensive face, was conscious of being extraordinarily irritated by this strange girl; at the same time he felt an uncharacteristic interest in her motives.
‘Just what dire fate were you trying to escape when you went to the length of answering a matrimonial advertisement?’
Kate blushed. Put like that her actions sounded completely incomprehensible. ‘Nothing very dreadful, really! My cousin is getting married and I decided I shouldn’t be happy sharing her new home.’
He frowned into the mug he was holding in his strong work-hardened hands. ‘And you thought that good enough reason to travel to Ireland to meet a completely unknown man?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Well, not exactly,’ Kate said carefully. ‘At first the whole business was a sort of joke. I thought it might keep my mind off leaving The Trinket Box.’
‘Leaving The Trinket Box? You’re not making yourself very clear, are you?’
‘It was a little antique business,’ she went on hastily. ‘My cousin Margot inherited it from her father: he was an expert on antiques. Things changed when Margot took over: for one thing, the town was not as prosperous as it used to be and Margot and I have been conducting the business on a sort of hit-or-miss basis. Of course, my cousin knew a lot more about things than I did,’ she added, feeling vaguely disloyal. ‘I’m afraid I made a few expensive mistakes.’
‘I can imagine you did,’ he replied dryly. ‘All the same, you don’t strike me as the type of girl who would jump at the first offer of marriage, especially from a complete stranger.’
‘Oh, but it wasn’t as simple as that! It’s all rather mixed up really.’
From the sardonic look that flashed across her companion’s face she guessed that he was not impressed by this explanation, and rushed on, ‘His letters were so—so wonderful, and understanding. I felt almost as if I’d known him all my life.’
‘I don’t doubt it! Nicky has a talent for guessing exactly what a woman wants to hear and then giving it in large doses.’
‘But why should he do such a thing?’ she almost wailed. ‘What possible satisfaction could he get out of such a cruel and heartless deception?’
‘Your feelings were the last thing Nicky would take into consideration. His one idea would be to embarrass me. As I am a confirmed bachelor it’s naturally my family’s unrelenting ambition to provide me with a wife. They find it difficult to believe that I find life perfectly satisfactory as it is. Having a completely strange young woman turn up at the home of a misanthrope like myself and announce herself as my intended bride is Nicky’s idea of excruciating humour. By the way, as you seem to like his turn of mind so much, what about paying him back in his own coin by arriving up at Ballyfeeny?’
Kate glanced at him in horror. ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’
‘Why not? His mother is frightfully prim and proper and extremely conscious of her position in life. It would turn the tables nicely on Master Nicky if he found himself with a ready-made bride.’
She gazed fixedly at the vase of daffodils, trying to keep the tears back. ‘I think it’s a horrible idea.’
He appeared surprised. ‘But don’t you long for vengeance on the man who brought you gallivanting over to Ireland in search of non-existent romance?’
‘Oh no, in fact I’m lucky not to have met him, that’s my point of view, if his mind was taken up with playing a horrible sort of practical joke on you.’
‘Well, I must say that’s very forgiving of you. It’ll make it easier for you to go back again and take up again where you left off.’
But it wouldn’t, not really, she told herself miserably, and although she realised that Owen was being covertly derisive she was too concerned with thoughts of the future to be resentful. She could well imagine what Kenneth’s attitude would be: his settled disapproval of her would be reinforced by her latest escapade. Life at the red villa would be full of chilling silences and unspoken criticisms. Reluctantly she laid down her cup. Owen glanced at the wag-o’-the-wall, which had been inexorably recording each passing moment in the cosy homely kitchen. ‘It’s time we were heading for the station,’ he said briskly.
Once he had seen her off on the train with that ridiculous animal, he would return to Laragh and resume his everyday existence and gradually Kate Norbert s arrival and her absurd expectations regarding himself would become nothing more than an amusing memory. But he would definitely have a word with Nicky regarding his latest efforts to create chaos in his life. It was going a bit too far when one found strange females dumped on one’s doorstep—or rather amongst the young cabbage plants.
In an effort to prolong the moment before she would have to resume her travels, Kate carefully collected a few odd crumbs and formed them into a minute pile.
‘Don’t you think you’re carrying tidiness to extremes?’ he remarked impatiently. ‘Do you realise you may miss your train if you dawdle any longer?’
Kate nodded wordlessly and, getting to her feet, slowly untied the tiny frilly apron.
With growing acerbity he waited while she buttoned on her dark blue coat. She was deliberately dawdling, he suspected, and felt unreasoningly angry as he saw how young and bewildered she looked in the small knitted cap she wore over her dark gold hair. Nicky’s letters must have been extraordinarily convincing and persuasive to tempt such a girl to cross the Irish Sea in search of a man she had never even laid eyes on.
In slow motion Kate picked up the wicker basket and crossed to the little cat, which, having consumed a saucerful of milk, was again lying asleep, a blissful expression on her black face. She looked so peaceful and contented that Kate was loath to wake her, but, like herself, Bedsocks would have to set out on her travels once more.
It was at this moment there was a loud thumping on the door and a child’s treble was heard to declare, ‘Mr. Lawlor, me mammy’s after falling down and breaking her arm in two places, so she won’t be able to come up to Laragh tomorrow, she says to tell you.’
‘That’s young Barty Murphy,’ Owen frowned, and pulled open the door.
A small redheaded child repeated the message parrot-wise. It was obvious he had been well rehearsed by his mother.
‘And just how does she expect me to manage until she returns?’ Owen asked, showing scant sympathy for the unfortunate Mrs. Murphy.
Barty giggled delightedly. Evidently his mother had anticipated this enquiry. ‘She says there’s some shepherd’s pie and some cold meats in the larder and she’ll be back in no time at all.’
‘She certainly won’t be back in no time at all if she’s broken her arm, and shepherd’s piece and cold meats don’t last for ever,’ Owen returned, ‘especially when farm workers with healthy appetites have to be fed.’
Barty scratched his head and looked vague.
Owen sighed. ‘All right, tell your mother I’ll get Daisy McLaughlin instead.’
‘Can’t,’ the child piped triumphantly. ‘The young ones have the measles and she can’t get away.’ Evidently his mother had also anticipated that her employer might vouchsafe this suggestion.
‘All right,’ Owen said in a resigned manner. ‘Tell your mother not to worry. I’ll try to make some other arrangements until she’s able to manage again. Not that Mrs. Murphy will worry,’ he growled, as the child departed with a clatter of iron-shod boots on the cobbles. ‘I imagine she met with her unfortunate accident while under the influence of Guinness and I expect she’s delighted that Mrs. McLaughlin, who’s a hated rival, can’t oblige. But what I’m to do now is beyond me. There are so very few women free even for a few hours in the village and now that we’re ploughing and sowing the men work up a healthy appetite and it
takes someone as easy-going as Mrs. Murphy not to get irritable and unable to cope.’ He sat on the end of the table and rubbed his work-roughened hands through his dark wiry hair.
Kate, who had been on the point of waking up Bedsocks, straightened and said eagerly, ‘I’m very good at coping and I don’t get irritable—at least not very often,’ she added hastily.
He glanced at her abstractedly and she realised that he hadn’t even been listening to her.
‘I promise I shan’t get in the way,’ she added a little desperately, ‘or—or make any claims.’
At last she seemed to have riveted his attention. ‘Any claims? I should say not. What possible claims could you have on me? Nicky’s the one who should have been saddled with you.’
Now that an opportunity had arisen that might delay her return to England, she was beyond being wounded by his determination to repudiate all responsibility for her predicament. ‘I’m quite a good cook,’ Kate hurried on, determined to give herself as good a testimonial as possible.
‘You’re not by any chance suggesting that you take over here in place of Mrs. Murphy?’ he asked in astonishment.
She nodded eagerly. ‘After all, you’ll have to get someone. Why not me?’
He laughed shortly. ‘Have you ever made cabbage and bacon? Or baked soda-cake?’
‘Well, no,’ she conceded, ‘but I could learn.’
‘No doubt,’ he said dryly, ‘but even if you were a cordon bleu, there is also the fact that your presence here would be a matter of gossip all over the countryside.’ For a moment he glanced at her and for the first time she got the impression that he was really observing her and assessing her without rancour. ‘You see, unlike Mrs. Murphy, you’re not fat and middle-aged and addicted to the bottle. In fact,’ he added grudgingly, ‘I suppose you would be considered quite attractive.’
The Made Marriage Page 4