Winter at Cray

by Lucy Gillen

  Louise bit her lip, wildly searching for an answer and wondering how Essie Nostrum could have been so wrong when she pronounced him so dedicated to his career to the exclusion of anything else.

  She was rescued from further embarrassment by the arrival of Diamond and Colin, the former immediately making a play for Jonathan’s attention, and for once Louise blessed her for it. One good thing came from her argument with Jonathan Darrell; she had momentarily forgotten the premonition that had been worrying her and it was not until she went to bed that night that it troubled her again. She went to sleep fairly quickly, but there was still a faint and persistent niggle of worry at the back of her mind.

  The following day the snow stopped and William Grayston, Hannah’s son, was set to clearing some of it from the path round the house and down to the pier. It was hard work and the threatening look of the sky discouraged him from being too persistent in his efforts, but it was a relief to see some break, however small, in the monotony of stark whiteness.

  There was little chance of a boat venturing out, Louise realised, and sighed in sympathy with herself, for she was almost eagerly anxious to see one of their visitors at least leave the island.

  She was looking out hopefully at the glowering sky during the afternoon, when she sensed someone come and stand just behind her. ‘No joy?’

  She spun round and met the quizzical gaze and the inevitable smile, feeling her pulse leap wildly, though for no good reason that she could see, except that he had startled her. ‘It’ll probably snow again before evening,’ she told him, and made no attempt to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  ‘And you’ll be stuck with us for another day, poor you.’ He sounded sympathetic, but the expression he wore betrayed him and she felt the familiar flush of anger when she answered.

  ‘That’s your opinion, Mr. Darrell, not mine, I hope you’ll remember that. Actually,’ she added, irresistibly, ‘I get along with Essie rather well and I don’t really mind how long she stays.’

  ‘But you’ll be mighty glad to see the back of me, hmm?’

  ‘I did not say that,’ Louise protested, the more indignant because it was the truth. ‘You’re very good at putting words into other people’s mouths, Mr. Darrell. Is that part of the art of being a reporter?’

  ‘Actually I’m a journalist,’ he corrected her with a grin, ‘and that’s a pretty snide remark, Miss K. You’ve an even worse opinion of me than I feared. I shall really have to do something to set you straight on that.’ He glanced out at the sullen but snowless sky. ‘Weather permitting, of course.’

  Having him stand so close behind her made her uneasy and she would have turned and moved away, but he stood near enough behind her in the curve of the bay window to make passing him impossible without first getting uncomfortably close. Since she was not prepared to chance that, she stayed where she was, her back straight, her chin set at an angle that was both stubborn and defensive.

  ‘I don’t think I’m interested enough to want to be put straight, as you call it,’ she told him, and he laughed.

  ‘A mere scribbler is well below your social standing, of course,’ he taunted, still smiling as if it worried him not all. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Kincaid, I should have known better.’

  He could not know, Louise thought, that Essie had told her about his own position and he was evidently set on playing the humble role of struggling writer as long as it served his purpose. ‘You’re putting words into my mouth again,’ she accused, and again he laughed as if he found her indignation amusing.

  ‘Usually the right ones, you have to admit,’ he insisted, and she could guess that the inevitable dimple was in evidence again, although she refused to look at him.

  She was silent for a moment, staring out at the snow and the bleak grey sky, conscious of him standing so close that she could hear his every breath in the stillness of the room. ‘I wish you wouldn’t try to be so clever at my expense,’ she told him at last. ‘I made the arrangements to have you here, you and Essie, because my great-grandmother wanted it. If it had been left to me I’d have refused to allow anyone in your profession even to land on the island.’

  ‘But why, for heaven’s sake?’ He sounded exasperated as well as puzzled and his hands turned her to face him, so that she was forced to meet the steady gaze of his eyes briefly before hastily lowering her own. ‘Why, Louise?’

  ‘Let go of me!’ She shook herself free of his hold, annoyed to find her hands trembling and the prickle of tears in her eyes. ‘I—I have my own reasons,’ she told him, ‘and I don’t have to explain them to you.’

  ‘That’s right, you don’t,’ he retorted, ‘but it’s the least you can do since you insist on treating me like some kind of monster. I think I’m entitled to know why.’

  ‘I—I just don’t like reporters—journalists,’ she corrected herself hastily before he could do it for her.

  ‘So you’ve said before,’ he told her, ‘but I want to know why.’

  ‘And I don’t have to tell you why!’ She had raised her voice and she swallowed hastily, hoping no one had overheard and was likely to come into the room, especially Stephen. His dislike of his room-mate was, if anything, deeper than her own and he would probably make a scene which she would regret more than anyone.

  ‘You’re the most stubborn, unreasoning female I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet,’ he informed her, exasperation at last dismissing the smile from his face. ‘You’re supposed to be like your great-grandmama was at your age, but I’m damned sure she was never as prickly and pig-headed as you are or Robert Kincaid would have tipped her into the nearest deep snow and left her there.’

  ‘Don’t swear at me!’ She clenched her hands tightly, her eyes blazing at him, and to her chagrin, he laughed at her again.

  ‘I didn’t swear at you, Miss Prissy, but by heaven I will if you don’t get down off that high horse of yours and act like a human being for once.’

  The drawing back of her hand was instinctive as was the swing of it towards that annoying smile, but before she knew what was happening, strong fingers closed round her wrist and held it tight while a dark devil of mockery looked down at her, obviously amused by her attempt.

  ‘Let me go!’ She tried to free her wrist with her free hand, but the gripping fingers resisted her efforts easily.

  ‘And let you slap my face?’ he mocked. ‘No, thank you. You simmer down and I’ll let go, but not before.’

  ‘You’re hurting me!’

  ‘Quite likely,’ he agreed amiably, his smile mocking her efforts.

  She knew struggling was useless, for he was as stubborn as she was and far stronger. ‘If Stephen comes in,’ she threatened as a last resort, ‘he’ll—he’ll hit you.’

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ he agreed, ‘but I happen to know he’s seeking audience with his great-grand-mama, I suspect with the intention of having me firmly put in my place by the head of the family.’ He laughed softly as if the prospect amused rather than alarmed him. ‘I also suspect,’ he added, not without satisfaction, ‘that the darling matriarch will reverse the procedure and tell him where he gets off.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Louise declared crossly. ‘Until you came here, Great-gran would never have taken anyone’s side against Stephen, and now—’ She glared at him helplessly. ‘Just because you happen to look like her Robert, she dotes on you and—and almost ignores poor Stephen. It isn’t fair!’

  ‘Not fair at all,’ he agreed rather surprisingly, ‘but it’s none of my doing, I assure you. This is the face I was born with, and no matter how much you dislike it, I’m quite fond of it and so is your great-gran. And I didn’t acquire it specially to influence your great-gran in my favour, honestly.’

  He released her wrist, apparently considering it was now safe to do so, and she rubbed vigorously at the marks his fingers had left, curious despite her anger. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, and he laughed. The same deep, rather seductive sound she found so disturbing to her composure.
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  ‘Jonathan James Darrell of London, aged twenty-seven years and three months.’ He quoted the facts with mock solemnity as if he was being interrogated. ‘Height six feet one inch, hair black, eyes—’ He bent his head bringing his face close to hers so that she could see his eyes. ‘Brown?’

  The gleam of mischief was too close for comfort and she turned her head away quickly. ‘I think you’re being deliberately obtuse,’ she accused, and he sighed. ‘And far too evasive to be honest.’

  ‘All you need to know about me, Miss Kincaid,’ he told her, ‘is that I’m a journalist who came here to interview a rather remarkable old lady for her hundredth birthday. I’m stranded here, with my photographer, ‘pro tern, and you can either put us out in the snow or put up with us; it’s your privilege to choose which you do.’ There was silence for a moment, then he laughed shortly, shaking his head. ‘Seriously, I’m sorry you’ve been lumbered with us, but there’s not much any of us can do about it, is there? And you’re certainly no sorrier than I am, believe me.’

  Louise frowned, on the defensive. ‘Because you don’t like Berren?’

  He shook his head, something other than mockery or amusement showing in his eyes for the first time. Something that she thought could have been anger. ‘Because I know when I’m not welcome,’ he retorted, ‘and it’s a sensation nobody enjoys, Miss Kincaid, even a hard-skinned journalist.’ He turned before she could answer, leaving her standing, staring after his tall, straight figure as he strode from the room.

  It was a little after ten o’clock the following night and Louise had been upstairs to make sure Robert was asleep and at the same time look in on little Poppy Kincaid, and she had just left Colin and Diamond’s room on her way downstairs again.

  From the stairs she could see from the tall, narrow window the expanse of snow outside and the darker strip of the path up from the pier. It was on the path that she thought she caught a sign of movement and bit her lip on the unexpectedness of it.

  William’s efforts the day before had made some impression on the thick snow and he had tried again since, so that the path was partially cleared, although treacherously slippery underfoot. Anyone walking or attempting to walk up the steep incline would find it difficult going indeed.

  There was no light outside, save that which shone, diffused and pink, through the sitting-room curtains and a patch of yellow from the landing light which outlined her against the stairs window and spotlighted a figure outside.

  She found it hard to believe for a moment that anyone would have been foolhardy enough to venture out at this time of night and in such conditions, but whoever it was must have seen her moving against the background of the light, for a second later he looked up briefly and one hand was raised in a gesture that was at once plea and salutation.

  She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and unbelieving, rooted to the spot by some sensation that held her numb and breathless, then the man fell to his knees, as she stared out at him, and seemed to struggle briefly before he lay still.

  ‘Jon, Jon!’ She scarcely realised the voice was her own as she ran down the rest of the stairs on legs that threatened at any moment to collapse under her and throw her headlong. Nor did she stop to reason why it was Jonathan Darrell she called so urgently as she ran, except that his was the first name that came into her head.

  She felt the moment’s listening silence before the door of the sitting-room opened and Jonathan Darrell appeared, surprise and curiosity in his eyes as he looked at her. Colin, she noticed vaguely, followed him from the room and he too stared at her questioningly.

  ‘Louise, what’s happened?’ Colin asked, while Jonathan Darrell’s gaze followed the direction of her own to the big wooden doors that shut out the snow and the dark and whoever it was out there.

  ‘Someone outside?’ he asked quietly, and she nodded dumbly, relieved not to have to voice it herself.

  Colin stared at her in frank disbelief. ‘You must be mistaken, Louise,’ he told her. ‘No one’s left the house, and who on earth would be out there otherwise?’

  ‘Someone is,’ Louise insisted, and watched as Jonathan turned the key in the heavy doors, her heart skipping crazily, telling herself that only her imagination could have made her see the face she had glimpsed out there in the darkness.

  The door opened slowly and the black wetness of the step glistened darkly in the light from the hall. He peered out into the darkness, illuminated by the snow, and saw the same patches of light Louise had seen from the upstairs window, the pink sitting-room light and the yellow from the stairs, then after a moment he turned back into the hall and looked at her curiously.

  ‘Are you sure you saw someone?’ he asked, and she nodded, the expression in her eyes bearing witness to what she had seen.

  ‘Just below the steps,’ she insisted. ‘He fell just below the steps.’

  Colin joined Jonathan in the doorway and together they peered out, then Jonathan nodded shortly and pulled the door open wider. ‘I can see something lying there,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ll take a look.’ That he should have been the one to take the initiative did not for the moment strike her as strange.

  He went down the steps, taking care on the slippery lower section, and Colin followed him, while Louise stood feeling dauntingly helpless, at the foot of the stairs, her eyes as big as pools and reflecting the anxiety she felt.

  It seemed like an eternity before the two men returned, though it could have been only a few minutes at most, and they carried between them an ominously limp figure whose dark head was turned away from her as they passed, but which was, even so, heart-stoppingly familiar. Seeing it, she put her hands to cover her mouth as she had done earlier, her head shaking slowly in disbelief.

  She followed them into the room where curiosity had already brought the rest of the family to the doorway, and she heard Diamond draw a sharp breath as if she recalled her own words about needing to call for help..

  Carefully they laid the man on the settee and it was Jonathan who turned the face towards the watching, silent family. It was Hector Kincaid’s voice that broke the silence as the still, cold face became visible against the dark cushions, and Louise had already seen and had her worst suspicions confirmed.

  Her grandfather’s voice was the last thing she remembered hearing. ‘Good God,’ he whispered, ‘it’s Simon Dupont!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LOUISE did not remember being carried to her room, but that was where she found herself when she opened her eyes to Aunt Jessie’s kindly anxious face looking down at her.

  ‘Are you feeling better, dear?’ The deep voice was soothing and Aunt Jessie smiled encouragement.

  ‘Aunt Jessie!’ She smiled her relief, but touched and held the soothing hands for a moment. ‘Aunt Jessie, who is he?’

  ‘My dear, I don’t know,’ Jessie Ross told her. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ She sat on the edge of the bed, her dark eyes anxious, and Louise was glad that it was Aunt Jessie who was there. ‘Try not to worry about it,’ she urged, and Louise shook her head.

  ‘I can’t help worrying,’ she insisted. ‘I saw his face, Aunt Jessie, please—’

  ‘Now there’s no point in getting upset about it,’ Jessie told her firmly but kindly, brushing back the dishevelment of red hair from her forehead. ‘Your grandpa was wrong, of course, it can’t possibly be Simon, we know that, but who he is I don’t know.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Frankly, darling, I wish I did.’

  ‘But it was him,’ Louise insisted, knowing she was talking nonsense, but yearning to be convinced. ‘You never saw Simon, Aunt Jessie. Grandpa did.’

  ‘Darling, that’s just silly,’ Jessie told her firmly. ‘It’s easy enough for two people to look alike, heaven knows. My father looked exactly like Grandfather Kincaid and your nice Mr. Darrell looks like both of them. It often happens, dear, don’t let yourself get fanciful about it and don’t worry.’

  Louise frowned over the reference to ‘your nice Mr. Darrell’, but there w
as something reassuringly practical about Aunt Jessie and she relaxed a little. It could not possibly be Simon, of course, but that somehow only made it seem more discomfiting. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with a wry smile, ‘but I do wish I knew who he was.’

  ‘I had very little opportunity of finding out, dear,’ Jessie Ross told her, smiling faintly. ‘Mr. Darrell scooped you up as soon as you fainted and brought you up here. I think he was afraid you’d come round and have hysterics or something.’ Which was probably exactly what he would think, Louise thought wryly. ‘I volunteered to be nurse,’ Aunt Jessie went on, ‘and I’ve been with you ever since, so I really know nothing about the man and I must admit I’m horribly curious.’

  ‘I was an idiot to faint like that,’ Louise admitted, ‘but I saw him from the stairs window, he was there in the patch of light it makes and I could see his face.’ She shivered at the memory of it. ‘It was his eyes, Aunt Jessie, just as I remember them—that’s what frightened me so much.’

  ‘Well, I’m quite sure there’s no need to be afraid of the poor man,’ Aunt Jessie told her practically, ‘whoever he is.’

  Louise looked at her wistfully, knowing Aunt Jessie would welcome the opportunity of satisfying her own curiosity. ‘I’d love to know who he is, Aunt Jessie,’ she said. ‘Could you—’

  ‘Of course, dear.’ Jessie got up from the edge of the bed. ‘I’ll go down and see if he’s recovered yet, and if anyone knows who he is.’ She stood for a moment beside the bed, looking down at Louise with her dark eyes kindly but glinting curiosity. ‘It was Jon you called out as you came downstairs, wasn’t it?’ she asked in her deep, soft voice. ‘I told Stephen I was sure I was right, but he wouldn’t have it.’ He wouldn’t, Louise thought ruefully, and sighed inwardly over the possible consequences of her impulsive cry for help.