The One and Only

by Doris E. Smith

  ‘So I wrote not knowing. It was such a shock when Angus replied and I felt most regretful about making the past intrude. But now all seems so well with him. You would agree?’

  ‘I wouldn’t disagree,’ Maggie said carefully. ‘But I’ve only known him a week or two.’

  ‘Of course. That was explained. You will be marrying quite soon and going away.’ The beautiful eyes lifted disarmingly. ‘I hope you will be very happy.’

  It was a little deflating. You couldn’t fail to draw the inference that Angus MacAllan was still taking no chances on their names being linked.

  ‘Thank you. My plans are still quite fluid.’ The question she longed to ask hovered on her lips. Domenica had known Jean MacAllan. What had she been like?

  The Italian girl stood up smoothing her purple skirt with small plump hands. She said intuitively: ‘You never knew Jean, did you? They were a happy couple, devoted, very alike. She told me they first met here at the University.’

  Back in the drawing-room Angus was talking shop with one of the German women. Of the four she had the least English and occasionally she looked blank. Noting this, he changed to German which patently he spoke like a native. A short time later Maggie saw him with Guido and Domenica and realised they were all conversing in Italian. It confirmed her first impressions of Angus MacAllan. He was a man of parts, not easily thrown. Now she caught his eye and he nodded. Tonight at least they had a team thing. It made her absurdly lighthearted as she went kitchenwards.

  The chef had already told her his meticulous instructions. They were starting with a compote of fresh grapefruit, nuts and ginger, but from then on the courses had a local flavour. The smoked salmon had originally come from the Dee, the saddle of venison was a reminder that Strathyre stood on the threshold of deer country, the juniper berries with which the joint had been rubbed grew in the Highlands and the dessert had been made with the last of the raspberries. Now he mentioned a slight break in pattern—he would be following the Continental custom of serving cheese as a palate-clearer before dessert.

  ‘Mr. Mac Allan’s idea also?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Surely,’ the chef returned.

  She smiled and went to take a last look at the dining-room now with leaf bordered plates out and flowers on the serving table. A beautiful house, a gracious house, this last moment of looking round was irresistible. So too the dream of producing one’s own party without the help of caterers. Jean MacAllan must often have done it, how happy it must have made her. Angus too. Domenica had said they were alike.

  In the hall one of the chrysanthemums in the cone had shed some petals. She was sweeping them into her hand when the doorbell rang. Not someone who would have to be fitted into the party, she hoped, as she went to answer it.

  It was Troy. She stood staring, her ridiculous stamen-like eyebrows accentuating her astonishment.

  ‘How marvellous! Did you know I’ve been wanting to see you?’ Maggie joked.

  Troy stepped into the hall. She was wearing the inevitable trousers and two striped ‘skinnies’, one a polo-neck sweater, one a little vest. A dark peaked cap perched on the back of her head. She darted a look at the flowers, at a passing waitress and at Maggie. On Maggie it seemed to sharpen. ‘What goes on?’

  ‘Mr. MacAllan is entertaining some business friends.’ Troy’s gaze was disconcerting. Maggie felt it sweeping her from the toes of her black pumps to her simply brushed hair.

  ‘Is he now?’ the younger girl asked pointedly. ‘Friends and neighbours, I see.’

  Perhaps it was silly, but Maggie felt like a turncoat. ‘Strictly business,’ she explained quickly. ‘I’m deputy hostess. The real one has a migraine.’

  ‘My commiserations. You must be loathing it,’ Troy said with such feeling that it was Maggie’s turn to stare. If she disliked him that much it was a big price to pay for keeping the stables.

  ‘Would you like me to call Mr. MacAllan?’ she was suggesting when the door of the drawing-room opened.

  Angus was holding it, tossing a joke back to the group in the room. He turned with a rustle of lilac shirt. ‘Maggie,’ he began, and stopped. ‘Troy! Good grief, where have you sprung from this time?’

  It was a tactless greeting, unbelievably so where marriage hopes were concerned, and face to face with him Troy suddenly looked drained and very young. She answered jerkily: ‘Just passing through. A friend is getting married up north. I thought I’d see Maggie. Not now, though. I’ll push off.’

  ‘That you won’t,’ Angus said masterfully. ‘You’ll make yourself decent and sit down with us.’

  ‘I’ve said no.’

  ‘And I’ve said yes. Quick as you like, please. And wash your face. It’s smutty.’

  The two faces glared at each other, Angus’s over-ferocious. It came to Maggie suddenly that he was enjoying himself. His brows were beetling, but the familiar quirk had returned to his mouth. ‘Oh, come on!’ he bade warmly. ‘I’ll explain why you’re dressed like that.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he threw back in apology to the guests he had left. ‘My young cousin has just arrived. I sometimes think she drops down on a broomstick.’

  Once more Maggie went to the kitchen. Another place was laid with a yellow mat, another orange napkin tweaked into a shape. Another dish of grapefruit came with its stems of ginger. The guests took their seats and the glasses Angus was filling caught the light and shone like ruby baubles from a Christmas tree.

  ‘I can’t think what Troy’s doing, but we won’t wait for her,’ Angus said cursorily.

  Troy was upstairs, changing perhaps into another pair of trousers. After she had shrugged assent to the ultimatum he’d given her she had gone out to the Mini and returned with a small suitcase. ‘I can’t stay too long. I’m meeting someone at Glenglover.’ It was eighteen miles away.

  ‘Phone them,’ she had been commanded.

  Concern had again stabbed Maggie as Troy, still white-faced, made her way upstairs. No two ways about it, the girl was the picture of fear. It could only be of Angus and the demands she could not meet. In Edinburgh she had treated it lightly, in Strathyre she would have to give battle within enemy territory. Maggie’s spoon dissected the grapefruit in front of her, her brain worked similarly on the recent past.

  Troy’s unheralded departure the night she herself had arrived was suddenly laid bare. It had been flight. She had a skin of sophistication, but that was all. Alone with Angus she had felt the magnetism that an hour ago seemed to have been beamed on Maggie herself. No match for it, and confused by the response of her own body, she had done the only thing possible, run away. And wisely. Maggie had not understood before. Now she knew that the woman did not breathe who could beat Angus MacAllan if he wanted her.

  Thank your lucky stars, Maggie girl, that the moment he looked at you it was hate at first sight.

  Just the same it had not stopped him using her in tonight’s emergency. Oh yes, she could see Angus. Very clearly she could see Angus. His raw handsome face was dead opposite her at the end of his beautiful table. And now their eyes had met. He passed her a smile, complacent and conceited. He’s gorgeous, damn him, she thought.

  The door behind her opened. She saw a not unfamiliar light in the blond face of the younger German man. Guido was on her right and she saw his head jerk. Domenica was beside Angus and her dark eyes had narrowed. Angus was sitting back, staring and then slowly getting to his feet.

  A slim long-gowned figure, utterly feminine, had glided forward. The dress, copper rose, had ruffles to its shirred cuffs. The glossy hair finished in a large low bun and snood. The pixie eyebrows gave the face a frail look.

  Angus must have thought this too, for his ushering was almost reverent.

  ‘Now I know you keep a broomstick,’ he said.

  ‘I feel I’m being a nuisance,’ Troy said contritely. ‘But it is nice to be here.’ Her eyes went shyly round the table and returned to the green ones watching her so intently. ‘Thank you,’ she added, and slipped into the c
hair he had pulled out.

  The party was so good that no one wanted it to break up, but at last it had to with an exchanging of addresses and phone numbers and for Maggie, astonishingly, Domenica’s warm embrace. Each car in turn circled the gravel and moved off. Troy’s Mini alone remained.

  Angus’s arm swept upwards in farewell and dropped. He swung round on his heel and strolled back to the house.

  ‘Well, that’s it. Went well, I thought. Nice folk.’

  Maggie agreed. She heard her voice echo and knew she was talking for the sake of it. Nerves sent her babbling on. Angus looked amiable but not particularly interested. Troy, she could swear, was not even hearing her. Her eyes had a drugged look.

  ‘Would either of you like a nightcap?’ Angus invited.

  It seemed an obvious hint that three was a crowd.|

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’ Maggie was only too anxious to get back to Kelly since Mrs. Kerr—Angus’s cleaning lady—who had been keeping an eye on her had just availed herself of a lift from the caterers. But as well as Kelly there was Troy. Could she leave her alone with Angus? Tonight he could make the most sluggish blood race. Or, if he stopped short at words, he could be a plausible devil. All the weapons were his. Would her own departure be the signal for their use?

  ‘I’ll see you again,’ he said. ‘Meantime, my thanks. You did a grand job.’

  ‘No thanks at all. I loved it.’ He had her all mixed up. The evening had been enchanted—and portentous. She really had loved it, at the same time she felt a little sick. There was a thickness in the silence that seemed to be curtaining alarm bells.

  Troy broke it. ‘I should be going too.’ To Maggie it had a defeatist ring as though the speaker knew that the moment she made to leave he would stop her. The moment had not arrived yet, so he said nothing.

  It was one moment, Maggie decided sharply, that never should arrive.

  ‘You can’t now,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s far too late. I’ll put you up.’

  ‘You couldn’t,’ Troy cut back. ‘You haven’t the room.’

  ‘We can make room. I’ll go in with Kelly. Please. I insist.’

  ‘And I say no.’

  If she drove in this state, Maggie thought uneasily, she could easily be in trouble.

  Support came unexpectedly. ‘Seems I have the casting vote,’ Angus said smoothly. ‘And I say yes. I wouldn’t drive myself at this moment. I’ve had too good a time and I don’t want you on my conscience, dead or blowing into a wee bag.’

  It was well said, but it did not fool. He was too skilled an adversary to show his feelings. Troy, plainly anxious to get on the road, showed hers in another abortive protest and then gave in ungraciously.

  Wee House was easily organised. Five minutes put clean sheets on the guest’s bed and not long afterwards Maggie was crawling in beside Kelly who never so much as stirred.

  It was an uncomfortable night; the dividing wall was thin and several times she heard muffled sobbing. It was in keeping. Troy’s beauty at dinner had been fey, her gaiety feverish. Sally had looked like that at times and wept like that too.

  Living on one’s nerves was an abrasive process and it was no surprise that Troy came to the breakfast table heavy-eyed and almost plain. The initial treatment seemed to be hot coffee and time to come round, but it was not strikingly successful. Maggie waited until the meal, such as it had been, was finished and Kelly had gone upstairs to get tidied for School. ‘You said you wanted to see me. What about?’

  Troy looked blank. ‘I said I wanted to see you? When?’

  ‘Last night when you arrived.’

  ‘Oh, that. Figure of speech. To check you were all right.’

  ‘Very much all right,’ Maggie said warmly. ‘And very happy. There’s just one thing.’ Cream Cracker and the discussions she had had in regard to expansion were interrelated. The arguments in favour were foolproof. She gave them confidently. ‘If you like to look on Cream Cracker as a pilot scheme for a month or two, but ultimately we do need more rides, especially rides for children. It’s just not sense having such good equipment and accommodation and not using them to capacity.’

  ‘Do you want me to hire your pony, is that it?’ Troy asked slowly.

  ‘Of course not. What he earns will be yours for free.’

  ‘For free? Then are you going to pay rent for his keep?’

  ‘No. That’s not the way it’s done.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ The cold note was disconcerting. ‘Then forgive me, but isn’t this all very nebulous?’

  ‘No,’ Maggie said patiently. ‘He’ll earn it, more than earn it.’ She gave facts. Trekking expeditions one pound twenty-five for an hour and a half. Two pounds for two hours; a fit horse or pony could do a trek morning and evening. Only yesterday she had had to turn away five customers, two adults and three children, because the stables had only one mount—Dundee the Welsh pony—suitable for a child. Trekking was big business nowadays and numbers were important. A stables near where she’d worked in Glencullen had thirty horses ranging from ponies to hunters. ‘And children could be our best customers,’ she concluded. ‘Say we have a minimum of five or six ponies. Cream Cracker will cost you nothing...’

  ‘Except his keep,’ Troy corrected dampeningly.

  Maggie was taken aback. ‘Well, yes, but nothing else. And if you can’t afford to buy three more and don’t want to raise a loan I’d suggest you sell Kincardine.’ Not an easy decision. She’d thought about it at length herself, being very fond of the grey, but conscious of his defects as a stable hack. ‘He’s a show jumper, he’d fetch a good price, but he’s not a comfortable ride for what we want.’ She sketched with her hands the horse’s conformation. ‘He’s all behind!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of selling Kincardine or any of them,’ Troy said swiftly. ‘And I’m not out to make money. I just want things done as my great-uncle would have wished. Mac understood that. He was quite well able to cope on his own. Derek Grant assured me you were just as competent.’

  This was frightening. ‘I can do that, of course,’ Maggie said, flushing. ‘But it’s also my duty to see you don’t make a loss. Please think about what I’ve said, and meantime let’s grab Cream Cracker.’

  Troy had the muscles of a cat. Her check blazer was draped over one shoulder and she held it there with her chin. It could have been the angle that set her nostrils and mouth so insolently. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would, and I’ve explained why,’ Maggie returned spiritedly. It was upsetting. Apart from the disappointment over the pony, they seemed to have drawn apart, and that was illogical when last night she’d felt so concerned about Troy’s problems that she’d lost sleep.

  ‘All right,’ Troy used the feline muscles again to unwind from the chair. ‘I’ll think about it—one of these days.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  To Maggie’s amazement Kelly came home from school with an invitation to ‘Moira’s house’ straight after school next day. A word on the telephone to ‘Moira’s’ mother confirmed that it was in order.

  ‘And you won’t mind if she’s not back till eight or so. My husband has to go in to a meeting and he’ll be passing Strathyre.’

  The day following the tea party would be Saturday, so the question of getting up for school did not arise. Maggie was delighted to agree and to add that it would then be Moira’s turn to visit the stables. It seemed too good to be true that Kelly had found a friend so quickly.

  Friday afternoon, as was often the case before Saturday’s business peak, had no bookings and Rob suggested that there was no need for Maggie to hang about if there were any bits of shopping she wanted. ‘Why don’t you take a look round Aberdeen?’ If she didn’t want to take the van she could get a bus, he said, throwing in for free the fact that the trams used to come out to Bieldside and there had been talk of bringing them out to Culder.

  Why not? You could sit down and worry about Troy’s changing attitude and the probable loss of Cream Cracker, bu
t you would get nowhere. A breath of Aberdeen’s tonic North Sea air would go a long way further. Besides, she was not at all sure that Rob’s solicitude was not a plea to be left on his own. It was a part of her countrymen’s make-up that Maggie respected. Angus MacAllan had it and at times her own father had shut himself away with a pipe and groaned: ‘What is it now?’ when his small daughters had come crashing in.

  She slipped out of working garb into tan trousers, a matching maxi waistcoat and a sugarstick sweater in shades of cream, beige and crushed strawberry, slung on a shoulder bag and went to stand at the bus stop. A nod was as good as a wink and she also suspected Rob had designs on the van. He was quite entitled to ask for it, but asking was another thing he found difficult.

  A car hooted. It would not be for her so she did not bother. When it came again, protracted and deep-throated, she glanced up.

  A few yards from the stop was a long-bodied silver coupe. As she stared the two notes sounded again, the near door opened and she could see a broad head turn impatiently.

  ‘Were you hooting at me?’ she gasped as she ran up.

  ‘Well, there’s not much competition, is there?’ Angus returned as gallantly as ever.

  There wasn’t. She was, she realised, the only waiting passenger.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.