by Lucy Gillen
‘Hello, Mama, how are you?’
‘Fit as a fiddle,’ his mother replied shortly, and Louise smiled at her grandfather knowingly. The old lady looked around, a slight frown between her brows. ‘Where’s that writer feller who was coming to see me?’ she asked.
Jonathan Darrell, Louise noticed, had stayed discreetly in the background while the introductions were made and she signed to him and Essie to come over and join them. He was, she saw with relief, not making notes but observing everything with a practised eye.
Essie Nostrum’s smile betrayed her nervousness in the presence of the formidable old lady, and Louise sought to put her at her ease. ‘Great-gran,’ she said, ‘this is Miss Nostrum, she’s here to take pictures—you remember I told you someone was coming to take pictures?’
‘Of course I remember,’ the old lady told her shortly.
As her daughter had done earlier, the old lady puzzled over the unusual name, but her comment was less disparaging. ‘It’s quite an honour to meet you, Mrs. Kincaid,’ Essie told her, ‘and I don’t mind in the least anyone commenting on my name. I’m used to it.’
A dry appreciative chuckle approved her acceptance of things as they were and she nodded her head. ‘Take things as they come,’ she told Essie, ‘that’s the way to be, girl. Now, where’s that young feller, aren’t I to meet him as well?’
Essie moved aside to make way for Jonathan Darrell and Louise felt the old lady’s fingers stiffen on her arm and heard a sharp intake of breath when she saw him.
‘Who is he, Louise?’ There was an unfamiliar tremor in the usually firm voice and a sudden glaze in the bright blue eyes as if she did not believe what she saw.
‘Jonathan Darrell, Great-gran.’ Louise looked up at him, her own curiosity renewed. ‘He’s a journalist and a very well-known one, darling. They’ve dealt with you proudly for your hundredth birthday. Mr. Darrell—my great-grandmother, Mrs. Emma Kincaid.’
She noticed the gentle way he took the old lady’s hand in his and thought again how dangerously attractive that slow smile was, noticing how the old lady responded to it.
‘Darrell, did you say?’ The bright old eyes still searched his face, while Louise sat her gently but insistently on a chair, even though she refused to relinquish her hold on his hand. ‘You’re remarkably like the Kincaids, young man, do you realise that?’
Louise was sure she caught a momentary flicker of uncertainty in the brown eyes, but a second later he smiled again and shook his head. ‘My name’s Darrell, Mrs. Kincaid, Jonathan Darrell.’
‘Great-gran—’ Louise began, but the old lady waved a silencing hand.
‘Well, the resemblance is uncanny,’ she insisted. ‘You look exactly like Robert, and my son Robert.’ For a moment the bright eyes glazed again with nostalgia. ‘Robert was the only one like his father, you know.’
Louise thought there was wariness as well as apology in the look he gave her above the old lady’s head. ‘I’m flattered, Mrs. Kincaid, very flattered, thank you.’
Charlotte Kincaid, sitting at the table near her mother and impatient for her dinner, looked up sharply, not as hard of hearing as she affected to be. ‘I said he was a Kincaid,’ she said shortly, ‘but he said I was wrong.’
Louise shook her head, frowning, wondering again at those glimmers of uneasiness she had noticed but not prepared to probe the matter further. ‘We’re all wrong, it seems, Aunt Charlotte,’ she said in her soft voice, ‘and I think we’re being rather too personal. We shall be embarrassing Mr. Darrell with our comparisons.’
She saw him glance across at Essie Nostrum before he spoke again and noted the girl’s look of doubt, as if she was troubled by something he might say. ‘I’m not embarrassed at all, Miss Kincaid,’ he said at last. ‘I’m flattered, as I said.’
It was Diamond who broke the silence that followed, her brilliant and deliberately seductive gaze fixed on his face. ‘Well, there’s surely no mystery about Mr. Darrell’s identity, is there?’ she asked in her brightest voice. ‘After all, he’s well known enough and I’m sure he could produce some form of identification if we insist, but it all seems rather silly to me and not very polite.’ On that point at least Louise had to agree with her, but old Emma was not yet ready to relinquish her dreams and she still gazed at him a little mistily.
‘Robert was just about your age when I met him, Mr. Darrell. I can remember it so well, as if it was only yesterday and not—oh, I don’t know how many years ago. He had the same black hair, the same quiet bearing that you have, and those wonderful brown eyes, I remember so well.’
Louise could feel her tremble with the depth of her emotions and she wondered how much more deeply the old lady would be disturbed by the presence of this man who so much resembled her beloved Robert. She looked at the dark face and saw a kind of determination there that both puzzled and alarmed her.
‘I’m sure we all need our dinner,’ she said firmly, determined to close the subject. ‘Shall we sit down and let Hannah and Davey bring it in?’
Jonathan Darrell looked at her for a moment before he turned away and she felt the embarrassing flush of colour in her cheeks, wondering at her own naiveté in colouring like a schoolgirl each time she met his eyes. If it was going to happen often she hoped fervently that they would not be snowed in and their visitors forced to stay on.
Dinner was a pleasant enough meal with the reunited family chatting quite happily among themselves, although some of them were a little stilted and wary since they had met each other so infrequently. The two non-family guests were subjected to one or two surreptitious looks too, as if it was feared that they might find substance for their professional ear in the conversations going on around them.
Thinking of Aunt Charlotte’s plainly stated disapproval of the visitors, Louise thought there was perhaps reasonable grounds for her dislike of two representatives of the press probing into the history of the family. Robert Kincaid had still been married to his first wife when Charlotte was born and she had always resented the stigma of illegitimacy she had been burdened with and which none of her brothers had borne.
She knew too, that Gavin and Jean Kincaid, Stephen’s parents, had disliked the old lady’s obvious liking for Jonathan Darrell, for they resented anyone likely to usurp their son’s position as Emma’s favourite, and a stranger would be doubly suspected. Stephen too had been aware of the newcomer’s attraction for his great-grandmother and he would take exception to it, for he made no secret of the fact that he enjoyed being the old lady’s favourite.
If Jonathan Darrell was forced by weather conditions to spend long at Cray, Louise had no doubt that old Emma would seek his company, for she was a strong-willed woman and if someone took her fancy she made no secret of it, regardless of disapproval from other quarters.
Louise surreptitiously glanced down the table at the stranger who threatened to be such a disruption if he stayed on. He was undoubtedly very like the picture she had seen of old Robert Kincaid, even to those warm brown eyes, his greatest attraction, she had to admit, and that slow enigmatic smile.
Jonathan Darrell, she thought, could cause trouble, however unknowingly, and she sighed at the prospect of it.
It was some time after dinner when she noticed that their disruptive visitor had been cornered by Diamond, determined to make herself known to him no matter how Colin frowned over it. Louise arrived just in time to hear Diamond’s childishly shrill voice declaring that, ‘Oh, but of course everyone knows the Jonathan Darrell, especially anyone who’s been in show business as I have.’
The flirtatious eyes surveyed him hopefully and Louise felt herself crawl with embarrassment on Colin’s behalf.
A flick of one eyebrow expressed polite enquiry. ‘You were on the stage, Mrs. Kincaid? I didn’t realise that.’ He laughed softly and Louise chose to ignore the brief, almost intimate look that invited her to share his amusement at Diamond’s behaviour. ‘I hope I’m not being indiscreet in admitting that,’ he added.
&nbs
p; Diamond pouted her full mouth in mock reproach, thoroughly enjoying the situation. ‘You could have pretended,’ she chided him, ‘but to be honest I wasn’t very well known. I was a dancer,’ she enlarged, and flicked him another look from under her lashes, ‘but I was only eighteen when I married Colin, so I hadn’t really time to make a name for myself.’
‘Understandable,’ he agreed, and again the dark eyes invited Louise to share his amusement, but she merely looked straight-faced. Silly as Diamond was, she had no intention of encouraging a complete stranger to make fun of her.
‘I came to ask when you would like to see my great-grandmother,’ she told him, changing the subject despite Diamond’s frown. ‘I presume you’d like to—to interview her and take some pictures.’
He looked at her for a moment before answering, as if he guessed her disapproval and that, too, amused him. ‘Any time that’s convenient will suit me,’ he told her, and added, ‘Are you her official watchdog, Miss Kincaid?’
Louise flushed at the jibe, her eyes sparkling with unaccustomed anger at the implication in both his words and his look. ‘Someone has to look after my great-grandmother, Mr. Darrell, she’s a very old lady, and as I live here with her naturally I make all arrangements for her, she expects me to.’
He smiled, slowly and expressively, so that Louise felt her cheeks warm again. ‘Of course you do, Miss Kincaid.’
Louise would have retorted sharply, but before she could find words, Diamond’s shrill laughter interrupted. ‘Oh, honestly, all these Kincaids!—wouldn’t you find it much easier, Jonathan, if you used our Christian names? Anyway,’ she added with obvious malice, ‘Louise isn’t a Kincaid, strictly speaking, are you, darling?’
Louise felt the chill of embarrassment and recognised the malice in the baby-blue eyes. She was aware also of something that could have been curiosity or satisfaction in Jonathan Darrell’s as he looked at her, waiting for her to answer.
‘I—I don’t think there’s anything illegal in using one’s maiden name,’ she said slowly, hating the way here voice trembled.
‘Didn’t you know she was married?’ Diamond persisted, seemingly quite unworried that the man she was talking to was a journalist and that Louise was obviously hating every minute of her indiscretion.
‘Should I know, Mrs. Kincaid?’ he countered, his eyes still on Louise so that she clasped her hands together in her lap to still their trembling, wondering if he was as ignorant of the facts as he affected to be.
Diamond had the bit between her teeth and she would not relinquish it readily, Louise realised despairingly.
‘Oh, it was before my time, of course,’ Diamond went on, ‘but it was public knowledge at the time, I believe.’
Louise wished desperately that he would take that disturbingly curious gaze off her for just a moment as she sat tight-lipped, hoping her self-control was equal to the call upon it. ‘I don’t think this is either the time or the place, Diamond,’ she began, ‘Mr. Darrell doesn’t—’
‘Journalists like a good story,’ Diamond insisted. ‘Don’t you, Jonathan?’
‘Only if it’s printable and still a good story,’ he told her. ‘Is it, Miss Kincaid?’
‘Mrs. Dupont,’ Diamond informed him sulkily, and Louise got up from her chair, her eyes bright with anger and humiliation.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she whispered, ‘I have to get Robert to bed.’ It was a poor excuse, she thought, and wished she had not been so obviously anxious to get away. It was ridiculous to get so upset about the past after all this time and it was annoying and spiteful of Diamond to have brought up the subject, especially with someone as shrewd and obviously interested as Jonathan Darrell.
To her consternation, when she walked away he followed her across the room and she turned and stared at him enquiringly, her gaze anything but friendly. ‘I have to go and do some work on what I’ve gathered so far,’ he explained, undeterred by her frown.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ she told him, her voice cold and discouraging, she hoped, despite its quaver, and he smiled.
‘‘I’m not disappointed,’ he declared, ‘but I would be interested to know why you give me the cold shoulder when apparently you get on so well with Essie.’
She dared not look at him, sure that she would see only amusement in the dark eyes if she did and sure that her anger would break out at the sight of it. ‘I don’t like journalists,’ she informed him, not without satisfaction at her own bluntness, but he merely laughed.
‘Now there has to be a reason for that remark,’ he mused, ‘and I’ve a feeling that Mrs. Diamond Kincaid could provide it.’
It was as frank a threat as it could be and she glanced at him sharply. ‘You—’
He shook his head, still smiling. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, ‘everything comes to him who waits.’
There was no time to demand his meaning, for they were level with Hector Kincaid, his great-grandson already half-asleep on his knee, but she turned her head for a moment, her blue eyes wide and vulnerable, as if she suspected he might mean more than he said.
Robert slid from the old man’s knee and took her hand, too shy to linger over his farewells; he merely called out a collective goodnight and walked out of the room holding her hand tightly.
She was surprised to find Jonathan Darrell still standing in the hall when they emerged from the sitting-room and she looked at him questioningly, cautious of the smile that sought to pacify her.
‘I’m probably asking for another snub,’ he told her, apparently undismayed at the prospect, ‘but I’ve a small nephew about Robert’s age and when his father’s away I’m always expected to stand in at bedtime for the traditional ride upstairs. Am I speaking out of turn?’
The offer, and the thought behind it, was so unexpected that she could only stare for a moment, then she shook her head slowly. ‘It—it was very thoughtful of you,’ she managed at last, ‘but I’m not sure—’
‘What about it, Robert.?’ He looked down at the boy and grinned. ‘Would you like a pick-a-back upstairs?’
Knowing her son’s reaction to most strangers, Louise waited for the inevitable shy shake of his head, and a quick tug at her hand to urge her away, but instead Robert surveyed the tall newcomer with mingled suspicion and interest in his eyes. Apparently he felt none of her own resentment.
‘What’s a pick—pick—’
‘Pick-a-back,’ he was informed with a grin. ‘It’s a ride on my back, or even higher if you’re brave enough.’
The little square chin, with its deep dimple, thrust out aggressively at the challenge. ‘I am brave,’ he declared, and Jonathan Darrell chuckled.
‘Up you come, then!’
Louise lent a hand, speechless not only with surprise but, she had to admit, dislike of the situation, for never before had her son been so uninhibited with a stranger. It was almost as if they had known each other for years and were good friends.
It was a simple, childish experience, Louise thought as she followed them upstairs, but one which was new to Robert, and his laughter shrilled above the deeper sound of his mount’s, making her more than ever uneasy. It was hot like Robert to take to someone so easily and the more disturbing because she herself disliked the man he was befriending.
She was briefly aware, from the corner of her eye, of Stephen leaving the sitting-room to stand below in the hall, but she was keeping her gaze anxiously on Robert for the moment and spared him no more than a hasty glance. He watched their progress with a frown and she bit her lip on the inevitable reproach she would have to face when they spoke again.
Upstairs, Robert fixed his dark, shiny eyes on his new friend’s face with evident delight. ‘Will you give me a ride tomorrow night, too?’ he asked, and Louise glanced up hastily to see what the reaction would be.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he was informed. ‘Sorry, Robert, I shan’t be here.’
Robert frowned his disappointment. ‘Say goodnight,’ Louise prompted, ‘and thank you.
’
‘Thank you,’ he echoed obediently. ‘Goo’night, Mr.—’ He looked up at Louise for guidance.
‘Mr. Darrell,’ she supplied, and he frowned over it.
‘Mr. Dal.’
‘No. Darrell,’ Louise corrected him gently. ‘Mr. Darrell.’
Jonathan Darrell put a large hand on the shock of black hair and shook his head understandingly. ‘He’s had quite a few names to remember in the last twenty-four hours,’ he said. ‘Maybe something simpler like Jon would be better. If you’ve no objection, of course,’ he added with a look that challenged her to argue.
‘I—I don’t know,’ she demurred. ‘It’s not very respectful from a child, is it?’ It was not altogether the lack of respect that worried her, she admitted to herself, but the added intimacy of using a Christian name.
‘Oh, come on!’ He might almost have guessed her reason for objecting. ‘I’m used to being either Darrell or Jon, and respect doesn’t come with a handle, you know.’
The hint of superiority in the correction angered her. ‘Respect has to be earned,’ she retorted, and flushed when he chuckled softly, bobbing his head in mock humility.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He had probably meant only to tease her, but she chose to take it as sarcasm and lifted her chin, a warning glint in her eyes.
‘Goodnight, Mr. Darrell.’
‘Goodnight, Mrs.—Dupont?’
This time she knew he intended to bait her and she felt the hammering of the pulse in her temple as she met his gaze, her fingers tight on Robert’s shoulder. ‘Miss Kincaid,’ she insisted flatly, ‘if you don’t mind.’