by Sara Seale
It was nearly dark when they got home, and mist from the lough surrounded the house. For the first time since she had come to Ireland Miss Dearlove thought a little wistfully of the flat in Streatham and Miss Pringle returning from the library with a bundle of new magazines under her arm. Nolan, for once, was on hand to stable the donkey, and as they went into the house Danny remarked with surprise: “There’s a light in the nursery.”
They were hardly inside the front door when Nonie came hurrying through the hall.
“A fine thing!” she scolded. “And is it today of all days you’d choose to be gallivanting away from home, Miss Sarah?”
“What’s the matter, Nonie? You knew we were going.”
“Did you have no telygram?”
“No, of course not.”
“Och! That Willie’s guv it to someone who’s forgot it for sure. Himselfs arrived.”
Sarah stared.
“Not—not—” she faltered.
“Amn’t I telling you? And his room not ready, and he wanting to go straight to his bed as soon as he’d seen the proprietress. What’s that, I asks him, and he says, impatient like, the owner of the house, Miss Riordan, and I tells him both Miss Riordans is out with the ass and the cyart, and he says will I trouble you to come up to his room as soon as you’re within, Miss Sarah.”
“Oh—oh, dear!” For once Sarah sounded at a loss, “Perhaps he wants to leave immediately.”
“He’s not lavin’ yet. He’s unpacked, and Nolan’s carried his gramyphone up, but he fetched his records himself. Said they might get broke.”
“A gramophone!” said Kathy softly. “He must be fond of music. What’s he like, Nonie? Is he very old? Does he look ill?”
Nonie surveyed them all, and some of her agitation seemed to evaporate. A twinkle came into her eyes.
“Old, is it?” she mocked. “He’s not old at all.”
“Not old?” said Sarah blankly.
“Well, he’s no young sprig with his mammy’s milk still wet on his lips, if that’s what you mean,” Nonie retorted. “A little older than Mr. Joe—thirty, perhaps.”
“Is he—is he—quite normal?” Aunt Em asked, and Nonie laughed.
“He’s right in his head, and as cross as two sticks an’ he waiting nearly an hour at the station for the cyar and obliged to hire Cribbens’ new taxi to carry him home, an’ he going by the north road and asking double fare. You’d best go up and see him, Miss Sarah, and explain about the telygram.”
“Why not let Kathy go?” suggested Miss Dearlove, her eyes popping with pleasurable anticipation, but Nonie replied:
“He said the proprietress and that’s who he’ll get. It was Miss Sarah’s notion to take in strangers here and she’s the one to pacify them. Off you go, me doty, and ask him when he wants his supper.”
“Not like that, Sarah,” protested Aunt Em. “At least change out of your wet trousers.”
“My wet trousers are good enough for him,” pronounced Sarah, scowling. “Besides, I’ve got my farm rounds to do yet.”
She slowly began to climb the stairs, squeezing the damp out of her hair as she went. She knocked on the door of the nursery, thinking it must be the first time in her life she had ever done such a thing. A clipped, English voice answered immediately, and she pushed open the door.
He was sitting by the fire, reading, a lamp at his elbow, and in the brief moment before he looked up she had the impression of a cold, clear-cut profile, quite different from Joe’s irregular ruggedness. He looked at home and completely unruffled, in fact, Sarah thought resentfully, he looked as though he never lost his temper at all.
“Hello,” he said quite pleasantly, putting down his book. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sarah Riordan,” she said, and he frowned, giving the polite impression that he disliked being disturbed. “Did you want anything?”
She closed the door behind her.
“It was you who wanted to see me,” she pointed out. It did not occur to her that he might not know who she was. He was looking at her with the unfocused attention he might have given to a child, and indeed, he took her to be one of the younger members of the family. There appeared to be several Riordans.
“Did I? It was the proprietress I wanted to see—your aunt, perhaps? Is she in, yet?”
“We’re all in,” said Sarah severely. “And I’m the proprietress.”
‘My dear young lady! Is this a joke with an Irish flavor?”
Sarah might have been feeling nervous a moment ago, but this sensation soon passed into one of indignation. How dared he laugh at her!
“I am Sarah Riordan,” she repeated on a higher note. “You replied to my letters and I replied to yours. Dun Rury is my house and I think at least you might get up when you speak to me.”
He rose slowly to his feet, but his face showed no signs of discomfiture.
“I beg your pardon,” he apologized gravely. “How do you do, Miss Riordan. Didn’t you get my telegram?”
“I wanted to explain about the telegram,” she said quickly. “You see, our postal system is a bit erratic here—we’re so isolated. Willie-the-Post gives the mail to anyone who’s coming this way to save himself the extra five miles, and it’s the same with telegrams, unless Casey rows across the lough himself, which he wouldn’t do unless he thought it important, like a death or something. So Willie takes them. He must have given yours to someone. I expect it will turn up tomorrow.”
“I see,” he said. “Rather a haphazard method of communication, don’t you think?”
“It suits us,” Sarah replied, then added rather hastily: “But I’m sorry you had that wait at the station. I would have met you myself with the car, of course, and taxis always will come the north road because it’s the longest way round. I hope Cribben didn’t sting you too badly.”
“Your tone rather implies that you hope that he did,” he remarked mildly. “Now, let’s get this straight. You say, you are the proprietress but I really can’t talk business with you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not used to dealing with children.”
“I’m no child,” said Sarah angrily. “I’m eighteen.”
His eyebrows went up.
“As much as that? Still, it’s not a very great age, is it?”
“Quite old enough to run this house and this family. I don’t think you’re going to suit Dun Rury, Mr. Flint.”
The corners of his mouth twitched.
“Well, you can’t turn me out before the end of the week, you know. I booked for that period with an option to stay on if I wished. To clinch the matter, perhaps you’d like my rent in advance. It’s usual in some places, I believe.”
“It’s not necessary,” she said loftily. “At least—”
There was Casey’s bill in again, and if Flint was going to stay they would need more whisky, and possibly more groceries.
“I think we’ll settle it now,” he said, counting notes from his wallet. “Five guineas a week, I think you said, and the extras—?”
“If you want your meals in your room, it will be two guineas extra,” she said firmly. She thought he looked a little surprised and added defiantly: “There’s a lot of work running up and down with trays four times a day.”
“I’m sure there is, and it will be three, not four. I don’t take tea. Seven guineas in all.”
“Thank you.” She scooped up the money and stuffed it in her trouser pocket.
“A receipt, please.”
She stared at him.
“A receipt?”
“It’s usual.”
“Our other lodger—I mean guest—doesn’t expect receipts. We never bother.”
“Must unbusiness-like. Bring it to me in the morning.” There was a definite note of dismissal in his voice and he walked over to the table and began rearranging books and papers.
Sarah observed him angrily. He was tall, and had a trick at times of massaging his finger joints, as Aunt Em did when she had rheumati
sm. Good English tweeds, the sort of shoes Joe could never have afforded, and not a fair hair out of place. She disliked him very much.
“Oh, Miss Riordan—” He turned as if expecting to see her leave the room. “I would like it clearly understood that I wish to be disturbed as little as possible. I quite appreciate that my room must be free at certain times for cleaning, but we can work out a timetable tomorrow. You won’t find me exacting. I simply want to be left alone.”
Sarah thought his wish would be shared by everyone. Timetables, indeed!
“You made that clear in your letters,” she said stiffly. “I think you said you were ill.”
“I’m not ill. I had a breakdown several months ago but that’s behind me now.”
As he moved back into the circle of lamp light, she saw that he looked very tired, and for a moment his eyes held the same weariness which she had seen in the eyes of country people who had known much bitterness.
‘I’m glad,” she said softly, and the impression vanished at once.
“I shan’t be making calls on either your sympathy or your nursing abilities,” he said with that odd little edge to his voice, and she almost expected to hear him add: “Please do not expect me to respond to your offer of home comforts which I do not require.”
“What time would you like your supper?” she asked. “We don’t have dinner here.”
He glanced at his watch.
“In half an hour if that’s convenient, please,” he replied briskly.
“Well, I don’t know if Nonie—” she began doubtfully. “Anyway, I’ll send up some whisky to be going on with.”
His eyebrows lifted again.
“Is that included in the terms?” he enquired.
“Naturally.”
He shook his head.
“You’ll never make a guest house pay,” he said.
“Well—” She edged towards the door. “If there’s nothing more I’ll say goodnight.”
He glanced across at her. The whole conversation was utterly ridiculous. How could he deal sensibly with this half-drowned, touchy young creature? Oh, well, he was very tired. Tomorrow he could sort things out. There must be someone responsible running the house.
“Goodnight,” he said more gently. “And in case you think my insistence on solitude ungracious, I must tell you that I’ve come here to work on a book.”
He was unprepared for Sarah’s groan of dismay.
“Golly, another!” she exclaimed.
He looked enquiring and slightly surprised.
“Have you any objection?” he asked mildly.
“No—no, of course not. It’s only—well, the other lodg—guest—writes wee tales for little people. We’ve suffered a lot—finding local color, you know.”
“I see.” He smiled faintly. “Well, my book’s quite different. It won’t trouble you at all and it wouldn’t interest you, anyway. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she said again and went downstairs to order Nolan to stoke the furnace properly for the morning baths or she would cut his heart out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nonie took his supper upstairs and his breakfast the next morning. Kathy, who was a little alarmed at Sarah’s description of the new guest, decided to keep out of sight until she could meet him with the full support of her family. Sarah’s “Well, that’s one brow you won’t smooth without getting your fingers rapped” had not been encouraging. Danny, who was hopping with curiosity, was obliged to go to school without catching a glimpse of the stranger, and it was Mary from the village who answered the nursery bell when it rang at ten o’clock precisely.
“Would you be wantin’ anythin?” she asked, eyeing the new boarder with interest.
“Only to let someone know I’m ready to have my room done now,” he replied. “Is that your job?”
“Sure, it’s annyone’s job,” she answered cheerfully, and at his look of surprise, explained further: “I do Master Danny’s room, he being at school, and Miss Dearlove’s, and Miss Emma gives a hand with a duster, and Miss Sarah, too, when she’s not in the stables. Miss Dearlove makes her own bed, but she’s cranky, that one.”
It sounded altogether too social, and he said firmly: “Well, I would be obliged if you would attend to mine at this hour every morning.”
Her fine eyes opened widely.
“Och, the rooms are done anny time. Will I wisk it around a bit now I’m here?”
“Er—yes, if you please. I’ll come back in half an hour.”
She regarded his retreating back with growing respect. He was not the sort the Miss Kellys had at all.
He turned at the door.
“Please don’t touch those cases of records,” he said. “I’ll dust them myself.”
“Yes, sor,” she said, impressed.
It was Miss Dearlove who took it upon herself to do the honors of Dun Rury. She had been waiting in her room ever since breakfast to listen for sounds from the nursery opposite which would mean he was coming out, and when she was sure he was going downstairs, she caught up one of her many scarves and followed him. He heard her jingling bangles behind him and turned just as she cleared her throat to address him.
“Mr. Flint, I believe?” she said, beaming down on him.
“Yes. Are you, by any chance, Miss Riordan’s aunt?”
She bridled and came down to join him at the bend in the stairs.
“Oh, dear me, no. My name is Dearlove, Miss Dearlove. I’m your fellow guest.”
“Oh, I see. Good morning, Miss Dearlove,” he replied without enthusiasm and stood aside to allow her to pass.
“Shall I help you to find your way about the house?” she asked, remaining where she was.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he replied. “I’m not coming down for meals, you know.”
“So I’ve heard, you unsociable man! Still, you will want to know where you can sit, won’t you. The drawing room is not used”—she lowered her voice, “—they’ve sold a lot of things, I believe—typical impoverished Irish family, you know. The library’s reserved for visitors, but the family use the snug, the room under yours, and of course I do, too— so much more friendly, don’t you think, to live as family.”
All the time she was talking she was descending the stairs and he was obliged to follow her, but when they reached the hall he said firmly:
“I shall not be living as family, Miss Dearlove. I made that quite clear before I came here.”
She shook a roguish finger at him.
Unsociable creature,” she said. “But of course you’ve been ill, and then I mustn’t forget your work, though I never allow mine to turn me into a recluse—so bad for one’s mind. No stimulation of ideas or imagination.”
“Quite,” he said hurriedly. “I’m just going to get a breath of air outside.”
A very sensible idea,” she approved. “I’ll come with you, if I may. I can show you the ropes and give you some little hints. I always think one’s first day in a strange environment is a little trying.”
“Very,” he agreed laconically, but he could do no less than open the front door for her to precede him out of the house.
“Shall we sit here?” she suggested, indicating a, wooden seat on the terrace. “It’s still quite warm in the sun and the view of the lough is quite beautiful.”
Yes, he thought, the lough was beautiful, and if he kept his eyes on that he might be able to control his rising irritation. There were things it was necessary for him to learn about the household, and he might as well hear them from Miss Dearlove as anyone else.
“Now,” she said, settling herself on the seat, “tell me all about your book. What are you writing?”
He frowned. He had no desire to discuss his work. “It’s a purely technical job. I’m not a writer by profession,” he replied briefly.
“You knew, of course, I was a writer?” she said, rearranging her fluttering scarf.
‘Wee tales for little people,” he replied absently.
“Oh
, you’ve heard of me!” she exclaimed, moving closer. “Perhaps you’ve given my little stories as Christmas presents to nephews and nieces—or perhaps you have children of your own?”
“I’m not married,” he said shortly. Really, the woman was impossible. He thought of Sarah saying: “We’ve suffered a lot,” and smiled in sudden sympathy.
Miss Dearlove misunderstood the smile, and said archly:
“But there’s someone in your life, I suspect. Am I right?”
Adrian Flint was not a patient man, and since his breakdown small things had tended to irritate him with disconcerting suddenness. He turned and looked at her, and she, like Sarah, was aware of the coldness of his face, but, unlike her, guessed at a temper only controlled by the outward chill.
“Miss Dearlove,” he said with frozen courtesy. “I have no interest in other people’s affairs, and I do not expect them to have any in mine, but for your information, I am not married, engaged to be married, or interested in any woman whatsoever. Now, if I might ask you one or two questions, I will then take a walk round the garden and return to my room.”
Miss Dearlove flushed, a deep, unbecoming red, and began to stammer.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to pry ... please don’t think ... I’m sure I never...”
“Quite. Now, perhaps you’d tell me who really has the running of this place, and with whom one deals over matters of bills and any mundane thing that may crop up.”
“Sarah.” Miss Dearlove still sounded a bit breathless.
He frowned.
“But she’s a child. I understood there was an aunt.”
“Oh, there is. But you won’t find Miss Emma at all helpful. She leaves everything to Sarah, they all do, and I rather gather Miss Emma has been given a home here—since the father died, you know. She has no official position. There are lawyers, of course, who look after their affairs. The son is a charming young man and is very much in love, poor boy.”
“Danny Riordan?”
Quite recovered now, she gave a little ripple of laughter. “Oh, dear me, no! Danny’s only ten. I was speaking of Joe Kavanagh who is expected to marry the eldest girl.”