by Sara Seale
He still made no move to touch her or even to ask her to sit down. He was like, she thought, an employer interviewing a new applicant.
“If you mean by that do I expect the recognized privileges of an engaged man, I told you last night that I wouldn’t take advantage of the situation or make things harder for you than I have to. You needn’t be afraid I shall make love to you,” he answered.
“Oh,” she said, “I see.”
“I doubt if you do,” he countered a little dryly. “However, first things first. I brought you in here to choose your ring. Afterwards we can talk.”
He opened a safe in the wall and tossed a collection of old jewel cases on to his desk.
“Take your pick,” he said and began opening the cases and shaking their contents carelessly into the circle of lamplight. Pentreath loot, thought Tina, her eyes hypnotized by the glittering pile, and as if he read her thoughts he remarked sardonically: “Come by quite honestly, I assure you. It’s all family stuff.”
Tina leaned against the desk and began to laugh. Had any girl, she wondered, been asked to choose her engagement ring in such a haphazard fashion? Had any man expected so little, or perhaps so much from a bargain?
“The situation amuses you?” he inquired gravely and she looked abashed.
“No, not really. It’s just—I’m sorry, Craig.”
“Never mind. Make your choice then I can lock them all up again.”
“I don’t know,” she said a little helplessly. To her the jewels looked clumsy and heavy in their old-fashioned settings and she knew nothing about precious stones.
“Perhaps you’d better let me choose for you,” he observed with a glance at her dismayed face, and picked out a fine cluster of emeralds, rubies and sapphires set in a flower design which was unusual and rather charming.
“My mother was specially fond of this,” he said holding it up to the light. “She had the stones set to her own design. Do you like it?”
“Very much,” she said.
She slipped the ring on to her finger. It was a little loose but not uncomfortably so and without further comment he locked away the other jewels in the safe.
“Now,” he said. “Sit down and tell me why you ran away yesterday.”
She sat by the fire, staring at the ring on her finger and wondering how best to explain the reason for her flight without appearing ungrateful for his kindness.
“I didn’t know till yesterday about the money,” she said shyly.
“What money?”
“The money I thought was father’s. I didn’t know that you had been paying for everything all the time.”
“So Belle told you that, did she? You weren’t ever meant to know.”
“It put me in an impossible position, so—when I realized work would be difficult to find and—and understood Adwen was willing to marry me, I thought—well, it seemed the best way out.” Even as she spoke it sounded a foolish, not very convincing reason and she was not surprised when he said with a touch of hauteur:
“Was it so much more preferable to be beholden to my rather unscrupulous cousin than to me?”
“I didn’t, she said, flushing; “consider marrying someone as being beholden to them.”
“Then since you are now engaged to me, perhaps you’ll oblige me by applying the same principle.”
“That’s different,” she replied. “This—this engagement only adds to the debt.”
“I fail to see how.”
“Because you were getting me out of a jam.”
“Not entirely, my dear. My own good name is important to me, too. I don’t choose to be compromised with my Polrame cousins through a member of my own household.”
“But when in the end we don’t marry, it will surely be worse for your good name?”
“There is no suggestion, as far as I’m aware, that the engagement will ultimately be broken,” he said.
The room was very quiet. The whole house seemed to be suddenly wrapped in silence and outside there was now no vestige of last night’s storm.
“But you said the engagement was a lie I would have to put up with for the time being,” Tina said, twisting the ring absently off her finger into her lap.
“It was you who called it a lie, Tina, not I,” he said. “It was not entirely a gesture of expediency, you know. I’ve often thought of marrying you. Last night simply precipitated matters.”
“Well!” said Tina, indignation driving out dismay. “The Pentreaths certainly do follow their own extraordinary whims with a most complete disregard for other people’s feelings!”
He observed her curiously, aware that for the moment she had lost her self-consciousness with him.
“What makes you think I disregard your feelings?” he asked.
“What makes you think I want to marry you?” she retorted, a bright spot of color on each cheekbone. Unexpectedly he laughed.
“I don’t suppose you do, though I flatter myself I’m one better than my cousin Adwen,” he said. “Believe me, Tina, I’m quite aware that you’ve had little occasion so far for considering me in the light of a possible husband, but is there any reason why you shouldn’t start now?”
“Belle once said the Pentreaths expected their money’s worth,” she said, not looking at him. “Was it your idea to treat me as—a kind of investment that might eventually pay dividends?”
His eyes narrowed and when he next spoke the amusement had gone from his voice.
“If it lessens your sense of obligation to believe that, you can. Marrying me is as good a way as any other of repaying a debt, don’t you think? After this, don’t let’s have any more talk of charity between us. You can rest assured that true to Pentreath legend I shall make sure that I—how did you put it?—get my money’s worth.”
He seemed a stranger again, the dark stranger of her fortune who, so astonishingly, was carrying out the gipsy’s prediction. Had he told her himself he wanted her, that even though he did not love her, he needed her, she could have taken what he had to offer with the belief that the future might hold something better for them both. But she saw only in his adamant eyes the right to choose as he wished, and instinct warned her that now was the moment to meet him on his own ground and bargain with him.
“Very well,” she said, sitting straight as a wand in her chair, the long throat and lifted chin motionless in profile. “I’ll think of it that way, but there’s a condition.”
His eyebrows rose. In the flickering firelight she could not be sure if he smiled or not.
“You make conditions—with me?” he said gently.
“Yes, I do,” she replied, coolness in her young voice and the taut straightness of her slender body. “I will remain engaged to you as long as Belle stays here.”
She was sweet and rather absurd defying him with her ultimatum and for a moment there was tenderness in his expression before it hardened into one of refusal.
“That’s out of the question,” he said harshly. “Belle would naturally appeal to you in the matter, but I’ve told her to go and I’m not changing my mind.”
“Then,” said Tina with gentle composure, “I must go, too.”
“I believe you mean that,” he said slowly. “What’s given you the courage to risk losing a home, security, the things you told me you always wanted so much? You can’t really care what happens to Belle.”
“I didn’t really need courage,” she said, her clear eyes lifted to his. “You taught me yourself how to speak your own language, Craig.”
He took her suddenly by the shoulders and shook her, and the ring fell out of her lap and on to the hearth.
“You little fool!” he cried passionately. “Do you think I want to teach you things I’m trying myself to forget? Do you think I want to bargain with you as if in no other way you could ask a favor of me? Well, Belle can stay until we’re married if it means so much to you, but not, let it be understood, because you like to think you’ve beaten me at my own game, but because, strange as it ma
y seem to you, I have some regard for your good opinion.”
Her composure left her then, and her mouth trembled while the tears gathered slowly on her lashes. He stopped abruptly and picked up the ring and stood turning it over on the palm of his hand, then he suddenly knelt beside her and his rare, charming smile drove the bitterness from his face.
“Give me your hand,” he said and she dumbly placed her left hand in his. He slipped the ring gently over her finger.
“You remember the cuckoo of Zennor?” he asked. “Well, my ring is the hedge built to capture the spring. Will you remember?”
Her fingers tightened on his. She wanted to weep on his breast, to gather his disarming gentleness into her heart and offer to give him whatever he would care to take.
“Will I ever know you?” she asked and he raised her fingers to his lips for a moment before he answered.
“Yes,” he said with a twisted little smile. “In course of time we’ll come to know each other. Now I think we’d better go back to the others and try and put some brightness into this not very sociable evening. Dinner was scarcely a celebration, was it? Tomorrow night we’ll have champagne.”
III
All that month the rough weather swept in from the sea and the three women were confined to the house for days at a time. Tina would shut herself away in the little room upstairs which Brownie had once told her she could have for a schoolroom, for she could not bear in those early days to meet Belle’s mocking eyes and endure her curious questioning. Belle knew, if no one else, how empty was her relationship with Craig, and even Brownie would glance at her sometimes with impatience and remark tartly that she did not behave like a newly engaged girl.
With the approach of Christmas, the first snow fell. Tina woke one morning to find the garden beneath her window a dazzling blanket of white, and she ran out before breakfast to look at the temple. Snow weighted the bare branches of the magnolia tree with a canopy like frosted sugar and the broken columns of the little temple took new shapes in the morning sunlight.
“Will you come down to look before you go to the cannery?” she asked Craig at breakfast. “It’s so beautiful—please come and look.”
He had watched her as she had run into the parlor, late and a little dishevelled. The snow which she had brushed against in the shrubberies, still clung to her hair, and her eyes, with their strange spacing, were as bright as a child’s.
“We’ve seen snow at Tremawvan long before you were thought of,” Brownie said, but her eyes were kindly on the flushed young face.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Tina looked crestfallen and Craig from behind his newspaper observed:
“But not in the temple, perhaps. No one ever went there in the winter, Brownie.”
Tina felt foolish, as if her own private delight was an illusion, or, perhaps an intrusion on more important matters. She ate her breakfast in silence, glad that Belle was not there to laugh at such nonsense, and when Craig, pushing back his chair rose and said “Well, we’ve just time. Swallow your coffee, Tina, and lead me to this wonder,” she sprang to her feet with grateful surprise.
“Did you think I didn’t want to come?” he asked as they pushed their way through the snow-laden alleyways.
“I didn’t know,” she said, and he touched her hand with a brief gesture.
“Silly child!” he said, and in a little while they stood at the edge of the clearing, and the miracle which had so enchanted her eyes was waiting there for them.
For a long time Craig stood looking without speaking, and Tina saw again the drifts in the deserted circle of wall, the icicles which hung from broken plinths and the frosted beauty of the spreading branches of the tree.
He was silent for so long that she said, apologetically: You never liked this place, did you?”
“No, that was my father,” he replied. “And Brownie, too, for different reasons.”
“Because,” she asked, “your mother was unhappy here?” He turned to look at her and his face was remote and withdrawn.
“Why should she have been unhappy?”
“Because she was unloved,” said Tina simply, and his blue eyes flickered in a moment of pain.
“Yes, she was unloved,” he said, “except by me.”
She put a hand out to touch his arm.
“Didn’t that help “ she asked.
“Not much. She wanted Keverne,” he replied shortly.
“Craig”—she twined her fingers through his arm—“was it like me—I mean, did you—?”
“My mother,” he said, his eyes on the tree, “was not in the least like Belle.”
It was one of those answers he made from time to time, when he was moved or withdrawn, a little chilling, accusing her of impertinence. She took her hand away and thrust it in the pocket of her coat.
“Of course not. I didn’t mean—” she began, then said bleakly, as if stating a recognized fact. “The Pentreath men had no fondness for their women, had they?” She was thinking of Zion and was startled when Craig caught her by the shoulder.
“You have no right to say that,” he exclaimed. “Because affection isn’t needed or wanted, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. You should know that.”
“Yes,” she said, blinking up at him with thoughts which tried to adjust themselves to his. “I do know that, only—”
“Only what?”
“I don’t know,” she finished a little wretchedly. The beauty had gone from the morning. She wished she had not asked him to come to the temple.
“You know very little, don’t you?” he said with his twisted smile, then glanced at his watch. “You’ve made me late. I’d better be getting back to the house.”
She let him go without her. He had come, she supposed, to humor her, but the beauty of the place had not moved him, only the memories it evoked. He had, she thought, loved his mother and her unhappiness could still hurt him where little else could. Are we always alone, she wondered sadly, wandering back through the shrubberies; do we always desire to give what another does not want? It was better, surely, to be like Belle and desire nothing of any man save well-being.
As the days went by and snow fell intermittently, Belle clung to the fireside, smoking her Turkish cigarettes and sleeping when it pleased her. Tina, coming in from the garden, would find her in the parlor or the book-room with all the windows shut and a blue haze of tobacco smoke perpetually in the room and Belle would look at her, yawning, and roll over on the sofa cushions with a sleepy request to keep away. But sometimes she wanted to talk, and would command Tina’s presence, poking stray hairpins into place while she asked questions about Craig’s future plans.
“Has he fixed the day?” she inquired one afternoon, not long before Christmas.
“Isn’t it for me to do that?” Tina said with an attempt at humor.
“Not in this family,” Belle laughed. “Pentreaths make the rules and see that you stick to them. I must say, darling, your swain doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. Not very flattering, is it?”
“We haven’t been engaged for much more than a month,” Tina replied equably. “Where’s the hurry, Belle? You’re stopping on and that’s what you wanted.”
Belle frowned. She did not like this failure to rise. Tina had grown up a good deal in the last few weeks.
“I only want to know where I stand,” she said sulkily. “When Craig finally does turn me out I’m banking on you to see that I don’t leave with empty pockets. At least some of that jewellery should be mine. Keverne’s share would have gone to his wife, anyway.”
Tina turned to prod the fire.
“I can’t,” she said quietly, “do any more for you, Belle. Craig has really been very generous.”
“Generous! When I could have been married to Keverne and ousted him as the younger son!”
“But you didn’t want him then. I can’t see that Craig really owes you anything.”
Belle looked at the young face turned towards the fire, observing the clean lines of throat and
jaw, and the softness of a mouth untouched by passion, and knew instantly that Craig did not make love to her.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” she said softly. “What do you know of Pentreath generosity? Has Craig been generous to you? He doesn’t bother to make love to you, does he? I doubt if he even troubles to kiss you as Adwen kissed you and all his other casual girls. I wouldn’t take Pentreath pride as a token of generosity, if I were you, Tina. Craig has his own reasons for marrying but he’s not in love with you.”
Tina’s thin hands went to her breast with an instinctive movement which betrayed more than Belle had suspected. Her face, before she got quickly to her feet, wore a look of defeat which she could not hide.
“I know he isn’t,” she said quietly and left the room.
CHAPTER NINE
I
IN the flurry of Christmas preparations, Tina was able to forget the raw uncertainty which Belle had exposed in her cautious happiness. It could never be said that Tremawvan was ever disorganized by any occasion, but there was a flavor of preparation which caused meals to be a little late and a faint air of dishevelment in rooms where cards accumulated, and paper and string not always put away.
Brownie found many small jobs for Tina: there were days of cake-making, days of checking preserves and the crates of nuts and oranges which arrived by carrier, and on Christmas Eve Zachary brought a young conifer still sprinkled with snow into the hall to be dressed. Under Brownie’s militant generalship Tina saw little of Craig and it was not until the tree was finally finished late on Christmas Eve that she had a moment with him alone.
“I’m exhausted,” she laughed, flopping on to the staircase and surveying the decorated hall with admiring eyes. “Brownie won’t let you have a thing out of place. She even remembers the exact angle of a piece of holly twenty years ago.”
“I believe you,” he said, looking down at her untidy hair with tender amusement. “We used to help her as boys, Keverne and I, but it always had to be done her way. Brownie is a great stickler for tradition.”