Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3)

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Dry hill air and no wind.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s the answer.”

  They walked on and presently came to a stone dyke with a gate in it. James had had the gate mended; he opened it for Rhoda to go through and, as he did so, looked at it with pride.

  “Yes, it’s right sorted,” said Rhoda, laughing at him.

  James laughed too, and then suddenly was grave. “Rhoda,” he said. “It’s all right now, isn’t it?”

  “All right?”

  “Don’t pretend,” James said. “I’ve known all along it was a risk but I just had to take it. At first I thought it wasn’t going to work out, but now I think it is.”

  “Goodness! I had no idea you had noticed!”

  “You had no idea I had noticed!” echoed James. “That’s dashed funny! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard for a long time. You had no idea I noticed that you were homesick and miserable and couldn’t paint!”

  “You never said anything.”

  “I’m not a complete fool,” declared James.

  “No,” agreed Rhoda, looking at him in affectionate surprise. “No, you certainly are not.”

  “Oh, well,” said James deprecatingly. “If you love someone frightfully much that helps you to understand them … and of course I knew it was a risk. It’s such an entirely different life — but it’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

  “Right as rain,” Rhoda told him. “Though why rain should be right I can’t imagine. It was a bit lonely at first, and the days seemed awfully long and empty, but now my life is filling up nicely, thank you.”

  “Good,” said James nodding.

  “Yes, I’m getting quite used to it. I’ve even got used to being without a telephone. Believe it or not that was one of the most difficult things to get used to. How many times did I leap from my chair with the intention of ringing up Mamie and asking her to come over, or ringing up the grocer for biscuits or the greengrocer for lemons only to sink back — frustrated!”

  She spoke lightly but James knew it was true. He knew that quite often it is the small things which are most difficult to bear.

  “I wish …” began James.

  “Don’t wish,” laughed Rhoda. “It’s all right. The wild bird is tamed. The bird knows she’s lucky and she’s as happy as a lark.”

  “All the same I do wish we were not quite so isolated. I can’t help wondering what I should do if you were ill.”

  “Ill! I’m never ill … but if the unlikely happened you could pop over to Mureth and ring up Adam.”

  “Yes, I could,” agreed James. “Unless the river was in flood.”

  “James, don’t be silly,” Rhoda adjured him. “What did people do before telephones were invented? If the worst came to the worst you could take the car and go and fetch Adam, couldn’t you? But the whole thing is simply absurd because I never felt better in my life.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said James, but he said it without enthusiasm for the fact was he had been worrying a good deal, and was still worrying, not only about the river but about the road.

  One of the chief hazards of the daft road was a piece of boggy ground where it descended into a small valley between two hills. Jock Johnstone had poured many a cart-load of road metal into its maw, but any improvement was merely temporary. The recent rains had loosened some ground on the side of the hill and this had occasioned a small landslide which was gradually converting the piece of boggy ground into a veritable bog. James had been to look at the place several times and had consulted Roy and Wanlock as to whether anything could be done, if not to improve the conditions at least to prevent them from worsening, but the men had worked upon the road before and were thoroughly disgruntled with it.

  “The only thing to do with the daft road is to remake the whole thing,” Wanlock had said. Roy had nodded and agreed.

  The road was still passable to motor traffic if one were extremely careful but soon it would not be, for the bog was increasing in area with every storm of rain. Soon the only means of communication with the outside world, in the event of the river’s rising, would be by means of the Land Rover which could climb the shoulder of the hill and make a wide detour across the moor. James had bought the Land Rover quite recently and was finding it exceedingly useful on the farm; in fact he had begun to wonder how he had managed to run the farm without it, but of course if the Land Rover were used for other purposes it would not be available for work at Boscath — even a Land Rover could not be in two places at once.

  “Goodness, James, what a long face for a lovely day!” Rhoda exclaimed.

  “I know,” said James trying to smile. “I’m just wondering what’s going to happen when the daft road disappears into the bog. We’ll be more isolated than ever. You won’t be able to use the car at all.”

  “I still have the use of my legs,” said Rhoda smiling. “And I’ve got you, which is all that really matters. Listen, James, you once quoted poetry to me — it was Browning, wasn’t it? and now I’m going to retaliate with Tennyson.” She stood a little above him on the hill, with the morning sunshine making a halo of her golden hair, and began a trifle shyly:

  “And on her lover’s arm she leant,

  And round her waist she felt it fold,

  And far across the hills they went

  In that new world which is the old:

  Across the hills, and far away

  Beyond this utmost purple rim,

  And deep into the dying day

  The happy princess follow’d him.”

  There was silence when she had finished. James could not speak. He put his arm round her waist and tightened it and they walked on together.

  21

  THE STEELES of Drumburly Tower often entertained people to lunch or tea, but Sir Andrew and Lady Steele were both indefatigable in social duties and were too busy to be bothered with parties of which the object was pleasure and pleasure alone.

  For once, however, they had broken their rule and, having decided to give a dinner and a dance, it was natural that a brilliant organiser (as her ladyship undoubtedly was) should spare no trouble nor pains to make the affair a success. Sir Andrew took little interest in the arrangements. He stipulated that his study be locked and that he should keep the key and, having received a promise that this should be so, he dismissed the affair from mind. Fortunately Lady Steele had other helpers: her niece, Holly Douglas, for whom the party was being given; her son Ian who was reading for a degree in agriculture at Edinburgh University and her daughter Eleanor, who was just fifteen and was home for the holidays after her first term at boarding school.

  The old Tower of Drumburly was a square peel-tower with walls five feet thick and although it still stood solidly upon the hill above the town it was not used by its owners as a residence. Near the old tower was a large comfortable house which had been built at the beginning of the nineteenth century by Sir Andrew’s great grandfather. It was here that the Steeles lived and, considering the austerity of the times, they lived in reasonable comfort.

  Lady Steele would have liked to give a party in the grand manner and ask all her guests to dinner and to dance but this was impossible, not only because she could not obtain sufficient food for over a hundred people, but also because she had not sufficient staff to serve them. It was a little difficult to decide which of her friends should be asked to dinner and which merely to dance, but the difficulty had to be solved and after some careful thought the invitations were written. Amongst the favoured few were the Johnstones of Mureth and their nephew and his wife; the young couple because they were so newly married (and brides are always fêted), the older couple for the simple reason that Lady Steele was extremely fond of Mamie Johnstone. Lady Steele had always liked Mamie and liked her all the more because upon one never-to-be-for-gotten occasion Mamie had spoken her mind without fear or favour and given her ladyship a serious shock. The Ogylvie Smiths were invited too — chiefly on Henry’s account — and these guests, together with f
riends of the young Steeles who were staying in the house, made up the dinner-party.

  The Mureth car was the first to arrive and, as it drove up to the steps, the big door of Drumburly House was flung open and Sir Andrew appeared outlined against the brilliant lights of the hall. He had taken no part in the preparations but he enjoyed making a gesture and had decided to welcome his guests with old-fashioned hospitality at the threshold of his house. The Ogylvie Smiths were close behind; they had come in Henry’s car (whether this was because Blaikie had refused to bring them in the Daimler or for some other reason they alone knew). They all crowded up the steps and into the hall together, talking and laughing and exchanging greetings with their host.

  “We have not met before,” said Sir Andrew as he shook hands with the bride. “I have heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Dering Johnstone, and I have been looking forward to meeting you, not only because we are to be neighbours and good ones I hope, but also because I am told you are interested in pictures.”

  Rhoda murmured something suitable in reply.

  “My Raeburn,” said Sir Andrew, waving his hand towards a picture which hung above the big fireplace in the hall. “A portrait of my great-aunt, Mary Steele, painted by the master in the year eighteen twelve when he was at his zenith.”

  Rhoda looked at the picture with interest and was about to say something about it but Mrs. Ogylvie Smith was before her.

  “How fortunate you are to be the possessor of such a treasure, Sir Andrew!” she exclaimed. “Not only so valuable but so interesting as a family relic. She must have been a very beautiful woman, your great-aunt.”

  “She had the family features,” agreed Sir Andrew. He stuck a monocle in his eye and regarded the picture complacently.

  No more was said, for by this time Lady Steele had appeared, and the three ladies who had just arrived were herded upstairs to remove their wraps and to powder their noses.

  Rhoda was wearing her wedding dress; it was a picture frock of soft, cream satin and Honiton lace.

  “But how beautiful!” cried Mrs. Ogylvie Smith, looking at her in admiration. “And how right to wear no jewels — no jewels at all!”

  “You’re beautiful yourself,” replied Rhoda, kissing her admirer lightly on the cheek; and this was by no means an empty compliment.

  “Tush!” exclaimed the lady, laughing. “It is my mantilla you admire, and my diamonds and the red rose in my corsage. You need no jewels, Rhoda, and no colour in your gown to make your eyes more brilliant.”

  “When you have finished admiring each other …” began Mamie.

  “Ah, here is one who is jealous!” cried Mrs. Ogylvie Smith. “Look, Rhoda, nobody has kissed dear Mamie and told her how beautiful she is! But Mamie is always beautiful, the soul shines through her face, and whether she is attired for gardening in her butcher’s apron and a ragged skirt — as I have often seen her — or dressed for a ball at Drumburly House makes no matter,” and so saying she slipped her hand through Mamie’s arm and they all went downstairs to join the rest of the party.

  The long dinner table was glittering with silver and glass. It was decorated with sprays of holy, the dark green leaves and scarlet berries lightly powdered with crystal flakes to resemble snow. Rhoda found herself sitting at her host’s right hand, an honour which was her due as a bride but one which she would have foregone very willingly. On her other side was a somewhat uninteresting young man, a friend of Ian Steele’s, and beyond him was Eleanor.

  Rhoda had heard about Eleanor from James and was aware that Eleanor had rather a poor time of it and was seldom allowed to take part in festivities … but here she was tonight, looking very happy indeed. James had said she was like a fairy and Rhoda decided that the description was apt. She had fair straight hair, so fair that it was almost silver, and her large grey eyes and slender neck gave her an other-worldly look. Rhoda smiled at her and Eleanor smiled in return; it was a shy and rather appealing smile as if the child were anxious for Rhoda to like her. She’s a darling, Rhoda thought. I must talk to her later. There was certainly no chance of talking to her at present for Sir Andrew was a demanding man and required the full attention of his dinner-partner. Presently, however, he ceased talking and putting his monocle carefully into his eye he leant forward and transfixed his daughter with a piercing stare.

  “Eleanor,” said Sir Andrew in strident tones. “What have you done to your mouth?”

  He spoke so loudly that everybody stopped talking and, as was perfectly natural, gazed at Eleanor in alarm.

  “It looks to me,” continued Sir Andrew. “It looks to me as if you had painted your mouth with some sort of red material.”

  “Lipstick, that’s all,” said Eleanor in a very small shaky voice. She looked down at her plate as she spoke and her fair silky hair fell forward like wings, hiding her cheeks.

  “Lipstick!” said Sir Andrew in disgusted accents. “Lipstick! A girl of your age! Where did you get the stuff?”

  Eleanor did not reply.

  “Where did you get the stuff?” he repeated loudly.

  “Really, Uncle Andrew!” exclaimed Holly who was sitting at the other side of the table. “What a fuss to make about nothing. I did Eleanor’s mouth if you must know. Of course she’s too young to use lipstick regularly, but I thought it wouldn’t matter for a party.”

  “I object to it strongly,” declared Sir Andrew. “Kindly wash your mouth thoroughly after dinner, Eleanor.”

  “Perhaps you would like me to wash mine, too?” enquired Holly meekly.

  Everybody laughed, a trifle uncomfortably, and began to talk again. The incident was over. The subject was closed. Sir Andrew, for once, was speechless.

  Rhoda discovered herself shaking all over — her thoughts a turmoil of anger and pity and amazement. She was furious with Sir Andrew (literally furious, for if there was one thing she abhorred it was a bully), she pitied Eleanor from the bottom of her heart and she was amazed at Holly’s courage. Yes, Holly had come out of it very well, thought Rhoda, glancing at that extremely attractive and soignée young woman with feelings very different from any she had entertained before.

  Thinking thus, Rhoda lost track of her host’s conversation — it was a bad habit of hers — but fortunately it did not matter very much for when at last she felt able to listen she discovered that he was reminiscing complacently about his experiences in the First World War in which, according to himself, he had taken a not inglorious part.

  “But of course there were amusing incidents as well,” Sir Andrew was saying. “Incidents which, though not amusing at the time, are amusing in retrospect. I remember one in particular; we had been through hell — yes, literally through hell,” declared Sir Andrew, “and we had been sent back to a rest camp to recover from our experience. One morning we were told that a General was coming to inspect us, a very important personage and well known throughout the army as a martinet. The guns were camouflaged of course, so there was little to be done in the way of spit and polish but we did what we could to smarten ourselves up for the occasion and I must say that considering what we had come through so recently the turn out was very creditable indeed. The General arrived with military punctuality and we young officers were presented to him. Then it was time for the inspection. He looked at the turn out in a cursory manner and without remark and then he went forward to one of the guns and signed to the crew to open the limber.” Sir Andrew paused dramatically. “What do you think he found?”

  “A pair of old socks,” said Rhoda without a moment’s hesitation.

  Sir Andrew gazed at her, amazed. “How did you know?”

  “It’s always old socks,” explained Rhoda in matter-of-fact tones. “Gunners go all over the world (here, there and everywhere, ‘Ubique’ and all that) and wherever they go the same thing happens. It happens at Malta and on Salisbury Plain, it used to happen at Lucknow: the same old thing; spit and polish, inspecting General, old socks! I should think he must be getting awfully tired of it. Why don’t they put
something different in the limber for him to find?” Rhoda raised her extremely beautiful blue eyes to Sir Andrew’s face with an expression of innocent enquiry. She was punishing him, but of course he would not realise that. Would he be angry, she wondered.

  “My dear young lady, they don’t put them there …” he began.

  It was almost too good to be true. Rhoda had the greatest difficulty to maintain her gravity, but somehow or other she managed it. “Somebody must put them there,” she pointed out. “Of course I don’t know what ought to be in a limber (I’m not even very sure what a limber is), but if the right things were put there, just for a change, it would give the General such a nice surprise … or perhaps it wouldn’t,” she added thoughtfully. “Perhaps he likes to have something to grouse about.”

  “Er — um —” began Sir Andrew. He was assailed by the suspicion that the dear young lady was pulling his leg.

  “Or, if not the right thing, at least something different,” suggested Rhoda. “Supposing he opened the limber and found — and found a lemon?”

  Sir Andrew was sure now. She was pulling his leg, but she was so young and pretty that he could not feel as angry with her as she deserved. He was annoyed of course, but not really angry. “You’re very clever, Mrs. Dering Johnstone.”

  Rhoda smiled. “It was naughty of me, wasn’t it? It’s nice of you not to be cross. There’s another thing I’m going to be rather naughty about and I hope you won’t be cross with me about that, either.”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “Later,” said Rhoda, rising in obedience to a signal from her hostess. “It’s a secret”

  22

  JAMES HAD had rather a miserable time of it at dinner. He had been sitting between two girls neither of whom he had seen before and, although this fact in itself need not have made him miserable, the facts that they knew one another intimately, had not seen one another for some time and were both crazy about hockey made James’s position uncomfortable in the extreme. Reasonable conversation was out of the question, all James could do was to sit back as far as possible — consistent with the consumption of turkey and plum pudding and other seasonable delicacies provided by Lady Steele — and allow the sweet young things to converse across his chest. He had heard Sir Andrew’s devastating remarks, everybody at the table had heard them, and he had felt extremely sorry for Eleanor; he had also felt extremely anxious about his wife. Knowing his wife, and being aware of her usual fierce reaction to anything approaching cruelty to the weak, James half expected to see her rise from her chair and hit Sir Andrew upon the head or to take some other means of showing displeasure. In some ways James would not have minded for Sir Andrew deserved punishment (James himself would have given a lot to hit Sir Andrew on the head), but in other ways it would have been regrettable. The affair might have had serious repercussions and at the very least would have been an unconventional beginning to his wife’s collocation in the county.