The house of my enemy

by Norrey Ford

  She shivered, feeling the prick of goose pimples on her skin. No, she mustn't love Adam. Quite apart from the effect it would have on Robert Bramhall, she suspected that Adam himself was not always kind or gentle. It

  would be a rough and turbulent love, Adam Bramhall's. A woman might climb to the mountain heights with him, but she'd have to cross the deepest valleys too.

  "I'm going to telephone him and tell him I can't go, Sally. It isn't worth the risk of lying, and I might get you into trouble. After all, it isn't as if I were in love with Adam. I don't want to be. Daddy wants me to marry Tom and I rather think I'm going to."

  "But you can't refuse now. You've promised and you must go through with it. You can't back out."

  "Can't I? I'm not at any man's beck and call. I'll put him off if I want to."

  "I thought you had more adventure in you! Your father can't eat you, can he?"

  "Almost—when he's really angry. And this would make him practically berserk, besides hurting him terribly. Don't you see, Sally, I'm afraid to meet Adam again. I'm afraid of falling in love with him It would ruin everything my father had ever planned for me—and I can't do that to him, I owe him too much."

  Sally lifted a gentle, troubled face. "Do you, Verity? Do you owe him even your life's happiness? The Bramhalls chose you because they wanted a baby girl, and everything they've given you was of their own choice and because it made them happy. I doubt if old Robert has the right to lay his yoke on you for all the rest of your life."

  "He made me Verity Bramhall, all that I have and am."

  "I question that, but let it ride. He gave, but he took away."

  Verity's wide eyes questioned. "Took away?"

  "The person you were—the girl you would have been if he hadn't interfered. Not quite so well educated, perhaps; not quite so well dressed; riding a bicycle maybe, instead of driving her own sports car. But free, Verity. Free to live her own life and choose her own love."

  Verity's silver voice shook. "Free?" She seemed to be asking a question of herself, not of Sally. "Do I owe her some sort of debt, that other girl? I haven't thought of her

  for years. Is she here, inside me?" With an unselfconsciously dramatic gesture, she pressed her clenched hand over her heart. "Will she someday demand to be heard, to have satisfaction for being obliterated?"

  "At least you owe her one more chance with Adam. It isn't as if in going out with him once you committed yourself to anything. You needn't go again. And you're not doing anything wrong. If there's a wrong, Robert and John William are the sinners, not you and Adam."

  "All right, I'll go." Her gloom left her, and she laughed aloud. "Do have the cabbage curtains, Sally. Every time we see them we'll think of peppermint rock and Adam Bramhall, and Hobo sitting there so patiently; of shoes and ships and sealing-wax . .

  "My curtains have associations already and they're not even bought. Funny, that's how you make a home, I suppose. Gradually everything stops being new and starts to have associations."

  * *

  When Verity's meeting with Adam was only twenty-four hours away, she panicked. She did not dare telephone from home, so she drove half a mile down the road to a call-box, rehearsing what she would say.

  The one thing she would not tell him was that he disturbed her mind, as a distant storm can create a deep swell on a calm sea. She almost wished Laurie had never taken her to the spice warehouse. The hitherto unruffled surface of her life was threatened by Adam, in some way she did not as yet know.

  He listened in silence. Because he did not interrupt or protest, she found her explanation more and more difficult. She struggled through to the end. "So you understand why I'm not coming, don't you, Adam?"

  "You've given me a lot of excuses which add up to nothing at all. If you're not on the quay at ten o'clock in the morning, I'll come over to Nutmeg House to ask the reason why."

  Her voice belled like a silver trumpet. "Oh, you young brute! You wouldn't do that to me?"

  There was a short silence, just long enough to allow her fine conviction to evaporate in a trickle of fear. Then he chuckled.

  "Mebbe not. But you're not sure enough to take the risk, are you? You don't know me yet. When I set my mind on a thing, I get it. I'm not afraid of coming to the front door of your fine house and asking. for Miss Verity Bramhall. I'm as much a Bramhall as my Uncle Robert and I don't scare easily. Better be on that quay."

  She was fine and angry, and sure—almost sure—he wouldn't do it.

  "It's blackmail! It's—it's intolerable!"

  "So are last-minute feminine changes of mind. I'll see you to-morrow. Goodbye now."

  "No—wait--listen! I won't be there when you call. I'll be out."

  "No matter. My Uncle Robert will entertain me grandly, no doubt of it."

  She gripped the receiver, shaking it as if it were a fist in his face. "There's a feud between your family and mine, and well I understand why."

  "Wrong, girl! There's a truce."

  "The, truce is cancelled. Goodbye."

  On Saturday morning a little wind blew out of a high blue sky, bringing with it a smell of summer. Verity went into the garden before breakfast and sniffed the light southerly breeze. At sea, it would be fresher, making the waves dance and sparkle in the sun.

  When the wind is in the south,

  It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth.

  She remembered the old saying. She was tempted to change her mind and go with Adam after all—till she remembered his outrageous threat.

  At breakfast Laurie announced he was going to see a second-hand potato-lifter, said to be a bargain.

  "I'd hoped you might play golf with me," his father grumbled.

  "Sorry, Dad. I don't want to miss this machine if I can help it. After all, you're paying, and if there's a chance of striking a bargain I think I ought to try. Verity 'll play—oh no, you're helping Sally with curtains, aren't you?"

  Verity's cheeks flamed. "I—that is, yes."

  "Good job, too," said Aunt Fidget. "Robert, if you go out in this cold wind you'll be bent two-double with rheumatism. Wait till the wedding's over."

  Sometimes Robert could be childish in disappointment. "I want to play to-day." He rustled the morning paper angrily and ducked behind it.

  Verity grimaced to Aunt Fidget that she would play golf with her father, and Aunt Fidget, by a shake of her head and a tug at the tea-cosy, answered that she didn't consider the morning suitable for Robert's brand of golf. Years of practice had made them both adept at discussing Robert Bramhall under his nose without detection. Laurie pulled a face at them both and said aloud.

  "Come with me, Father. I'd value your opinion."

  Robert was pleased, though for form's sake he complained. "What do I know about potato-lifters? I'll have to pay, that's all." He pouted heavily.

  No one spoke, and presently Robert grunted, "What time shall we get back?"

  "I thought of driving direct to the farm afterwards. Verity and Sally will be there doing curtains, and we might have tea. You haven't seen Springwater since the outbuildings were remodelled."

  "All right. But tell Sally I like my tea at five o'clock and not a minute later." The storm signals which had fluttered dangerously over the breakfast table were lowered, and in a moment Robert stumped out to the study with his morning's post.

  Laurie led Verity into the garden. "Spill it. What are you and Sally up to? Measuring for curtains doesn't turn a girl into a tomato. There's dirty work afoot."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Tch! You with your innocent eyes! Are you covering up for Sally, or Sally for you? Whatever it is, don't be late with Father's tea. If he's upset to-day I shan't get my expensive machine, and I want it badly. If I have to pay for it myself, bang goes the honeymoon!"

  If Adam came looking for her, his Uncle Robert would be very upset indeed. She daren't take the risk. Suppose she went down to the quay and explained how impossible was a friendship between them? She'd make him understand, if
she could talk to him face to face. Afterwards she could go on to Springwater and be with Sally when the men arrived.

  "I am going to help Sally at the farm, Laurie. Honestly."

  He patted her rounded cheek with a lean brown finger. "Keep your secrets, sister mine. But—five o'clock sharp, mind. Whatever you're up to, don't be late."

  At five minutes to ten precisely, Verity parked her neat car beside Bridsea fishing-pier. Chalked boards advertised trips round the bay, and she had to run a gauntlet of ruddy-cheeked fishermen in navy-blue knitted guernseys, touting for her custom. Beyond the stone pier favoured by visitors there lay a lower wooden pier used by the small boat-owners, and there she could see someone who was surely Adam, waiting beside a trim, white-painted little craft which was the answer to her heart's desire—or one of them.

  Adam saw her coming, and watched her a moment with fine male appreciation of the way she moved. She was slim and supple, and carried herself with a litheness that was a delight. She wore earth-red tapered slacks and a white chunky sweater. Her hair was tied back with an alice band, and in the morning sun he could not decide · whether it was red or gold, so he tilted back his head and half closed his eyes to get that bright mop outlined against the pale blue sky. Her shoes were rope-soled canvas, and she carried a zipped windcheater. She looked like a girl who intended to go fishing. Just one moment more he

  waited before moving to meet her. Her proudly-held small head, her lissome body and the long tapering legs of her filled the eye. Then he bellowed to her, and there was bugle in his tone.

  Verity saw Adam pounding towards her; a different Adam from the man she'd met in Earlton. He had bought his clothes at the fishermen's outfitters down on the quay, blue frieze trousers and a high-necked guernsey, white cable-stitched in some coarse wool. His dark hair was tousled in the wind, and sea air had whipped a ruddy colour into his face. She had forgotten how attractive he was—or perhaps to-day, in this setting, she saw more in him that she had seen before. To-day he was so vitally alive that he made other men seem like shadows.

  He grabbed her hand to help her over a mooring-rope, and his touch sent an electric shock up her arm to the elbow.

  "I knew you'd make it! What a day—they don't come any better. Look at Seatoam—isn't she a beauty?"

  As Verity stood looking up at him, her hand resting in his, a dominant surge went through him. Here was all a man could desire from life. A boat with the sea talking under her, a brisk breeze, the one girl who might give a man all he'd dreamed of; not only with her lovely, lithe body, but with her qualities of mind and heart that would be worth exploring for ever, and for ever yielding new treasures.

  Verity was astonished at the warmth in the eyes so close to hers. Astonished and faintly startled. She withdrew her hand.

  "I came to say I can't come. I'm sorry, Adam."

  "But you have come." His tone was at once pained and comical as he pointed out the obvious fact. So comical that she could not help smiling, and once she'd smiled at him, she was lost.

  Five o'clock was hours away, and the boat was here, lifting her bows enticingly to the tide. Verity had never been able to resist the lure of a boat. She peered down. "She's perfect. She'd be my Christmas-stocking wish for evermore. May I go aboard, just to look?"

  "Seafoam and I would be honoured."

  He handed her into the boat with a flourish.

  He smiled at her, his pleasant and wistful smile. "Now tell me you're not coming."

  She shook her head. "I give in. Temptation is too strong. You don't deserve it and I'm furious with you for your wicked threats, but Seafoam is a witch and I can't say no to her. Mind, I absolutely must be at Spring-water Farm by five o'clock. Daddy and Laurie are to be there for tea, and I mustn't get Sally into trouble with either of them. She's told some awful fibs for me."

  "Bless her kind heart. We won't let her down. I promise you shall be back in plenty of time."

  Soon they were weaving their way out of the harbour, busy with small boats at high water.

  "Do you always make people do things they don't intend to, Adam?"

  He smiled at her gravely, steadily. "Not always, lady." He turned his attention back to the steering, but in that brief meeting of glance and glance she had seen something which made her exclaim with surprise.

  "Your eyes are sea-coloured, Adam; blue-grey. To-day they're blue as blue, and at the fair they were grey." As soon as she had spoken she wished she had not, for she saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. She had him at a disadvantage, for it was obvious he could think of no retort that would put him in countenance again. For a moment she gloated over her advantage, then said frankly, "That was an outrageous thing to say, and I wouldn't have uttered it if you hadn't taken me by surprise. Your eyes really do change."

  "A trick of the light only."

  "I suppose so. Do you realize you've practically kidnapped me, but I'm glad. Would you really have come to Nutmeg House?"

  He threw back his head to laugh and she had time to admire the smooth strong column of his throat, brown paling to cream below the collar line. "You silly young gobbin, of course not."

  Out in the bay, the wind was fresher and the water was brisk. He headed towards the long white arm of the Head which curved protectively round Bridsea Bay; between the blue water and the white cliffs there was a tiny line of golden sand. The big white hotels of the resort seemed like dolls' houses already and soon they gave way to green and brown fields like tiny chessboards.

  "Where are we going?"

  She did not care where they were going. Detached from the, land, she had already surrendered herself to the magic of the sea. Her worries of this morning had grown as small as the fields and the hotels; she was separated from them by a widening space of cleansing salt water. Her world was a small world contained in a white boat, her universe an empty blue one.

  "Round the Head, under Mempton cliffs to look at the seabirds nesting. Then we'll fish in my favourite spot in the shelter of the next bay and you shall catch a couple of whales, or at least a pound of brown-backed dabs. I brought a picnic lunch, but if you prefer it we can run into Scarlington harbour and eat decently at an hotel."

  "It's a good programme, but picnic, please—I couldn't bear to waste a minute of the day in an hotel."

  "That's what I hoped you would say. Under the locker you'll find oilskins. We'll need them as we go round the Head, with the wind in this quarter. Mustn't get that fine smart outfit of yours wet or take the curl out of your carroty hair."

  "Remind me to kill you sometime—my curls are my own and water makes them crisper; and no thanks to you for carrots. Here are your oilskins and you don't deserve them."

  He had been right about the need for oilskins. Outside the bay the sea was steep and choppy. Verify tied a yellow sou'wester over her hair, laughing with delight in the tugging wind, the lifting boat, the spray on her face, salt-tasting.

  "Not scared?" They had to yell at each other to make themselves heard.

  "Why? It's magnificent, Adam. I adore it." He made a thumbs-up gesture and grinned.

  When they had beaten round the Head he brought the boat closer in so that she could see the sea-bitten caves in the white chalk, and the black and white guillemots flying fast and low over the water with whirring wing-beats; above them, tier upon tier, more guillemots stood crowded on the breeding ledges, like waiters at a banquet.

  In the smoother water of Scarlington Bay, he asked if she'd like to take over.

  "May I, truly?" She scrambled towards him. He held her hand to steady her, and once again the contact tingled. He stood close beside her, giving instructions, and once he put his hands over hers to guide her.

  "That's fine. You're a natural sailor."

  "My father must have been a sailor. I was in a sailor's orphanage, though I don't remember being there." "Don't you know anything about yourself?"

  "Not a sausage! I appear to have been born at the age of thirteen months, when Mummy and Daddy collected me fr
om the Home. I've toyed with the idea of going back there one day and asking my name and parentage. Perhaps they wouldn't tell me, and it would mean nothing if they did. Daddy and Laurie are my family now, and Nutmeg House is my home. Basically I must be the same girl. The heredity is the same but the environment is different, that's all."

  "But you might have kinsfolk in Earlton."

  "No. That much I do know. Daddy told me I had neither father nor mother, and no relatives at all. That's why they chose me."

  "I'll bet it was because you were the prettiest baby there."

  She laughed aloud. "Wrong! Tradition has it that they picked me for yelling the loudest. Daddy said I must be strong as a little horse to make such an unholy din."

  His hands closed over hers again. "This way now." His lips were close to her ear, she felt his breath on her cheek and he could speak without shouting. "I'm glad

  'you're not Uncle Robert's daughter. We're a queer gang, and when two of us get together . ."

  "The fur flies. I know."

  She was almost disappointed when he said they had reached the fishing ground and dropped anchor. "I'd like to have sailed on like that for ever."

  He looked up from the hook he was baiting with limpets. "Then you'd have been late home. It's a sad reflection that even our highest adventures have to end in being back in time for tea."

  "All the same, I'm glad you made me come."

  "I'm glad you're glad. There, drop your line over and you shall catch a couple of wee small dabs."

  She lowered the line into green water and watched the sinker disappear with a flash of silver, as if she'd caught a fish already. Almost at once she felt the thrilling nig-nig on her line which signalled a bite. Cautiously, she hauled in.

  "Adam, quick! I've got one. Oh, he's enormous." She went on pulling in her line, hand over hand, until the hooks came clear of the water, empty even of bait,

  "Oh! I've lost him—and honestly, he was simply huge."