She paused at the door without turning. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. In spite of her efforts, she knew her voice sounded stifled and unnatural. ‘I really won’t have time for reading. I’m going to be frightfully busy tomorrow. It’s high time I began the spring-cleaning.’
‘Damn the spring-cleaning!’ he said harshly.
Surprise made her swing around, her mouth forming an O, her eyes wide and shining with the tears that had barely dried.
For an instant silence lay between them, then he said brusquely, ‘So you’ve been crying!’
She was on the point of protesting when he said with a return of something of his old acerbity, ‘And don’t pretend you haven’t been! I think I know you well enough to know when you’ve been crying.’
Kate shook her head and blinked rapidly. There was something in his voice that seemed to break down all her defences and she had the horrifying conviction that if he continued to speak to her in that particular way She would burst into floods of tears. Better to hold on to her dignity and retreat to her room with banners flying. ‘I expect I’m I tired,’ she said with an attempt at hauteur, and turned once more towards the door.
In two strides he was beside her and catching her by the shoulders had turned her towards him. ‘Yes, you have been crying: your eyes are big and shiny. So don’t deny it!’ Surprise at his words held her in momentary confusion. How strange that a man like Owen Lawlor should have noticed that tears made her eyes large and shiny! Yet caution made her hold herself rigid and upright.
He felt a faint grudging admiration as he saw the proud tilt to her chin. So there was much more to Kate Norbert than he had bargained for! He had always suspected that, but the knowledge gave him a strange irrational desire to find out what went on under that thatch of honey-coloured hair. ‘So I’ve been rude,’ he said hoarsely. ‘But then don’t you consider that Doretta is a girl well worth defending?’
The words, she knew, were a test, and she resisted the temptation to lean her head on his broad shoulder and burst into releasing tears. His eyes were close to hers, piercing and challenging, and she tried to hold her voice steady as she said, ‘But of course she’s very charming and beautiful, but it really wasn’t my fault the men hated her cooking. I didn’t do it out of malice or jealousy. As your employee it’s my duty to feed the men and run your house and I’m simply trying to do it to the best of my ability.’
In spite of her efforts her voice gave a betraying quaver and with a sudden movement he pulled her towards him. ‘Dear, earnest little abigail!’ His voice was harshly tender. Then, as suddenly, he pushed her away from him so that she staggered back and clutched at an armchair for support. ‘Perhaps it’s time Aunt Florrie made her appearance.’ His voice held his usual sardonic tones as he turned and began to fill his pipe from a green majolica jar on the fireside table.
Kate gazed at him in dazed wonder. Had he really taken her in his arms and called her his little abigail? Somehow those dry tones seemed to belie the whole incident.
She walked up to her room in a dream, then closing the door leaned against it feeling a warm happiness suffuse her whole being. It was as though she could once again hear the brusque tenderness of his voice as he held her against him.
As she slowly undressed she remembered his qualifying words. ‘Perhaps it’s time Aunt Florrie made her appearance,’ he had said, and the memory deflated her happiness. What had warmed her heart had been no more than a moment’s impulse on his part and no doubt Aunt Florrie’s arrival would rapidly put things in their proper perspective as far as her employer was concerned. And as she slid between the sheets her heart felt as cold as the cool linen that enveloped her.
CHAPTER SIX
KATE pushed her hair back from her hot face as she put the finishing touches to Mrs. Lawlor’s bedroom. On the previous day Owen had received a note announcing her arrival for that afternoon. The fresh spring air filled with the scent of ploughed earth and new green grass wafted through the open windows as Kate paused to admire her handiwork.
After lunch she had gathered handfuls of the lily-of-the-valley that grew in a shady part of the garden. They stood now, the tiny richly scented bells like delicate filigree against the green leaves, in small crystal vases on the chimney mantel and on the golden oak bureau and bedside table. On the wide feather bed she had spread a brilliantly coloured patchwork quilt she had found in the well-stocked linen cupboard. She gave a last polish to the Psyche mirror that reflected the pristine freshness of the room and decided it was time to tidy herself before Mrs. Lawlor’s arrival.
From what she had gathered from the remarks her nephew had let drop and from the men’s conversation during meals, Aunt Florrie was a formidable and unconventional character whose biting tongue and unpredictable behaviour was a source both of amusement and of fury amongst their neighbours in the surrounding countryside. Owen had warned her that by now Aunt Florrie would undoubtedly have full details of Nicky’s deception and would most certainly express her views on the matter freely. It was an uncomfortable thought, and as she slowly went downstairs Kate wondered with a shrinking feeling just what the redoubtable Aunt Florrie’s attitude would be towards her.
As she tidied up the front parlour she occasionally glanced through the window and eventually caught a glimpse of Ned Fogarty’s side-car and saw it slow down surrounded by the white powdery dust that always arose when traffic passed on the dry limestone road.
Owen had previously given her instructions to receive his aunt if he should happen to be absent from Laragh on her arrival. ‘Aunt Florrie makes a practice of arriving exactly when it suits her,’ he had remarked dryly, ‘so there’s no point in my trying to be on hand when she turns up.’
As Owen had driven off to Limerick Kate now waited nervously as an elderly lady descended gingerly from the side-car. Warned as she had been of Aunt Florrie’s eccentricity, Kate was still totally unprepared for the extraordinary figure who was now loudly conducting an altercation with the jarvey. She was a tall thin woman dressed in an outsize mustard-coloured tweed coat. A vast turban of pink tulle surmounted by an enormous brooch of fake rubies and diamonds swathed her haggard features and a long string of old and beautiful amber beads dangled almost to her waist.
Kate waited with sinking heart as Mrs. Lawlor, after a final exchange of execration, advanced upon the house. From the triumphant gleam in her eye, it was clear that she had emerged the victor.
‘I’m Owen’s aunt,’ she announced in clarion tones. ‘And don’t ever on any account hire that dreadful man Ned Fogarty’s car; he’s an utter rogue and I should have taken a taxi if there had been one about.’
She drew to a halt and examined Kate closely. ‘I assume you’re the girl Nicky selected for him! Well, for once the wretched scamp had gumption enough to do something really constructive. Has he proposed yet, by the way?’
As she was by this time standing in the hall, Aunt Florrie drew out an ebony and mother-o’-pearl snuffbox and helped herself to a generous pinch.
Kate, feeling as though she had been rocked by a particularly violent tornado, said weakly, ‘Who proposed?’
‘Owen, of course, girl,’ Aunt Florrie barked. ‘Whom did you think I meant? It’s time the man settled down and raised a family to follow him. A farm needs children to play in the grain lofts and run about the fields, so the sooner you bring him up to scratch the better, my girl, and I promise to chip in with a pretty generous wedding present.’
She stopped suddenly and there followed a disconcerting pause that was almost as embarrassing as her conversation.
‘All right, girl,’ she remarked testily after a moment or two, ‘don’t stand there gaping. Show me up to my room. I feel tired and dusty and want to freshen up.’
In silence Kate picked up the case which Ned Fogarty had unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep. It was an old-fashioned one of heavy hide and looked as if its proper place was tucked away in an old attic. Breathlessly she dropped it on the floor as soon a
s they reached Mrs. Lawlor’s room.
Aunt Florrie glanced about with approval. ‘Hum, very nice and tasty, as they say in these parts. Yes, you’d certainly make a competent wife for Owen. Everything spick and span!’
‘Perhaps you’d like a fire?’ Kate enquired desperately in an effort to get her off the subject of her suitability as a bride for her nephew.
To her relief Aunt Florrie rose to the bait. ‘Fire, nonsense! I’ve never needed a fire, not even in the depths of winter, and I may warn you it can be bitterly cold in these parts when the wind blows from the Gal ties.’
Kate smiled. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be here in winter; Mrs. Murphy will have recovered by then, I expect.’
Aunt Florrie, who had been unswathing herself at the mirror, glanced around. ‘Nonsense, you most certainly shall! Mrs. Murphy was always much too fond of the bottle. I told Owen over and over again to get rid of her, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Her mother worked for his father, you see, and I suspect there’s a sentimental streak under that iron front of his!’
If Aunt Florrie thought her nephew was sentimental, then she must be a very poor judge of character, thought Kate. Sentimental indeed! The only sentiment she had detected in him was in connection with Doretta Denzzani and, after all, what man could resist such beauty—or even wish to, for that matter!
She felt suddenly depressed, not quite knowing why, but aware that she rather dreaded being the victim of Aunt Florrie’s curiosity and surveillance. She suspected too that it would not be long before the domestic reins were taken firmly from her hands, in which case there would be no more reason for her to prolong her stay at Laragh.
Florrie Lawlor had crossed to the bed and was poking the pillows suspiciously. ‘They’re not down, I see. Well, as a rule I’m not one for fads and fancies, but I do insist on a down pillow, otherwise I don’t get a wink of sleep.’
‘But there are no down pillows at Laragh,’ Kate protested.
‘Then there’s only one thing for it. You’ll have to send over to Ballyfeeny for my own. I left it there the last time I stayed with Alice Fitzpatrick. You can send young Joe. If he’s anything like as fond of a pretty face as he used to be I’d say he’ll be delighted to act the Sir Galahad.’
‘I’m afraid all the men are busy spraying. It seems there’s a mist coming and if the crops aren’t treated immediately the early potatoes will become blighted.’
Aunt Florrie’s green eyes gazed at her approvingly. ‘What did I say! I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that you were the right bride for Owen.’
‘Perhaps I could go to Ballyfeeny this afternoon and fetch your pillow,’ Kate put in hastily, before Aunt Florrie could get into her stride. She stopped abruptly as she remembered Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s insulting words and obvious contempt for her. She would hardly get a warm welcome if she were to call at Ballyfeeny.
But Mrs. Lawlor’s keen green eyes had already noticed her confusion. ‘Ah, so Alice has been putting a spoke in your wheel! It’s really beyond me how Myles Fitzpatrick could have married a woman like Alice: she’s completely without humour and an arrant snob into the bargain. I hope you stood up for yourself, otherwise she’ll have absolutely no respect for you.’
Kate smiled as she remembered what little chance she had had of sticking up for herself. ‘Well, no, I didn’t, but you must remember I’m only an employee here and in no position to cross swords with Mr. Lawlor’s relations.’
‘Nonsense,’ snorted Aunt Florrie, ‘you’ve a perfect right to defend yourself against such a woman. And by the way, what’s all this “Mr. Lawlor” business? Surely you’re not on such formal terms with my nephew? In future you must call him Owen; I shall tell him so.’
‘Oh no, you mustn’t do that,’ Kate exclaimed, appalled.
‘I most certainly shall,’ Florrie Lawlor retorted firmly. ‘And now, girl, I hope you’ve tea ready in the small parlour. I’m just dying for a pot of tea with lots of buttered barmbrack.’
As her guest seated herself before the tea-table, Kate could not resist a glow of pride at the effect she had created: the table was laid with a dainty lace cloth she had discovered in the linen cupboard, and she had set out the blue and gold tea-set she had found packed away carefully in one of the small store rooms that lay off the kitchen passage.
Her thoughtful preparations however were lost on Owen’s aunt. ‘Can’t stand those finicky little cups,’ she remarked. ‘Just give me one of those big white kitchen cups and I’ll be perfectly happy.’ She picked up one of the cups and said shortly, ‘These were Owen’s mother’s wedding present. She was a charming girl, but delicate. Terence didn’t live long after her death—although it was a made match.’
‘Made match?’ Kate asked in bewilderment.
Mrs. Lawlor looked surprised. ‘Yes, didn’t Owen tell you?’
Kate did not inform her that she was hardly on intimate enough terms with her employer to discuss the circumstances of his parents’ marriage.
‘Their marriage was arranged; they had met of course beforehand, but there was no question of their being in love or any of that tosh. It was afterwards that Terence fell in love with his wife.’
Kate gazed at her open-mouthed; the idea was so bizarre that she found herself speechless.
‘It’s an old Irish custom,’ Florrie proceeded, ‘and, although no doubt to you it seems extraordinary, it often works out quite well. In this case it was extraordinarily successful. He fell madly in love with her and was quite broken-hearted when she died and, as I said, didn’t live very long afterwards.’
Kate longed to question her further, but it was at this moment that Owen came into the room. He was dressed in his working clothes, his face tanned by his outdoor life, and to Kate he had never looked more attractive and fascinating.
His aunt greeted him with a lack of sentiment that Kate was to learn was characteristic. ‘Nice time for you to turn up! Why weren’t you here to greet your old aunt? However, I’ve been talking to this child and I must say that Nicky did you a favour, no matter what you may think. She’s utterly charming. If you’ve any sense you’ll pop the question and be done with it. I’ve been telling her the made match is an old Irish custom.’
Kate flushed with embarrassment as she saw him glance quickly in her direction. Would he think, she wondered, that she had been discussing her predicament with this tactless woman?
‘Customs have changed,’ Owen said shortly. ‘I came in because I decided I’d like a cup of tea—not to hear your opinions on my marriage prospects.’
‘Hoity-toity,’ his aunt said, completely unperturbed by his displeasure. ‘You were always proud and self-opinionated, Owen; if you don’t watch out you’ll be left a lonely old bachelor.’
Kate saw Owen give a small secret smile and wondered if he was thinking of Doretta and how mistaken his aunt was on that point.
‘Kate’s going over to Ballyfeeny to fetch my pillow,’ Florrie went on comfortably.
‘Oh, your famous pillow!’ Owen smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot to bring it?’
‘I left it at Ballyfeeny the last time I was there. And it’s no wonder,’ his aunt continued indignantly. ‘Those twins were up to their usual mischief: made what they called an Irish apple-pie bed, which needless to say was a hundred times more uncomfortable than the usual type! I was so busy telling Alice she should keep a more firm hand over them that I forgot to see that it was packed.’
‘Yes, the twins can be pretty drastic,’ Owen agreed, ‘but is it fair to send Kate into the lions’ den?’
His aunt snorted. ‘I’d say Kate would be well able for them; she’s not a prissy young miss in spite of being English.’ She turned to Kate. ‘Remember, don’t let the twins bother you. Their mother’s much too lenient with them, but if they take any liberties, just give them a cuff about the ears.’
‘I don’t think she’ll be in a position to give anyone a cuff about the ears,’ Owen said dryly. The car has broken down.’
His aun
t looked incensed. You mean she can’t fetch my pillow after all?’
‘Not unless she walks!’
‘There’s a bicycle in one of the sheds,’ Kate put in doubtfully, and immediately regretted the suggestion, as Florrie took it up enthusiastically.
‘But of course. Why didn’t I think of it? My old bicycle must still be here: all it will need is for the tyres to be pumped up. You must do that for her, Owen, and she can set off right away.’
Owen looked across at Kate quizzically. ‘Well, you brought this on yourself! Are you game to cycle to Ballyfeeny and face Nicky and the twins?’
Now that it was put to her in this fashion Kate didn’t feel at all enthusiastic. It sounded by all accounts a perilous undertaking. Seven miles might seem a slight distance to the Irish, but she had already experienced how the roads could turn and twist and wondered if she would lose herself hopelessly in some Irish boreen.
She had the feeling that Owen was taking a malicious delight in her reluctance as she followed him out to the shed. ‘So Aunt Florrie has already established herself!’ he remarked. ‘Somehow, Kate, I’d have thought you were better able to stand up for yourself!’
It was, she concluded, a jibe at the reservations she held in regard to himself.
He grinned as he wheeled out the high old-fashioned bicycle with its rusted spokes. It was only too easy to picture Florrie Lawlor perched majestically on the high saddle, her scarfs waving sedately in the breeze as she pedalled to the village bent on assimilating the current gossip. Arrived there she would, no doubt, impose her views on the more timorous of its inhabitants.
‘I do hope your amour propre is not outraged by this wreck,’ Owen remarked as he pumped up the wheels.
It was a deliberate attempt to provoke her, Kate concluded. ‘I’ve obviously very little amour propre or I’d hardly have landed myself in this position in the first place,’ she said coldly.
The Made Marriage Page 10