by Pamela Kent
l8 THE MAN WHO CAME BACK
want! Now that I'm a widow and you're without ties, too, we must simply live for one another and make each other's world. I've got enough money�and more!�for both of us, and you won't ever need to work."
"I couldn't feel independent ff I didn't work,"
Harriet told her, gently releasing her wrist. Gay scoffed at her gently. "You and your old independence! I remem
ber, it was always a kind of bee in your bonnet- But you'll be completely independent, because I'll make you an allowance, and you'll be my close companion, and when I don't want you you can paint and paint! We'll have the house full of your paintings. You won't ever need to sell
them." Harriet massaged her wrist unobtrusively. "You'll get married again," she said, as decisively as if she was quite convinced of it. "I don't think so." The flower-like mouth grew pensive. "I don't really like men... I
mean, I'm not one of those women who can't get on without a man. To a certain extent, I suppose, I depended on Bruce, and he really did
look after me extraordinarily well. That's why I honestly feel quite lost without him now. I would never have believed, while he was still alive, that I would miss him to such an extent. ..." She focused her wild-violet coloured eyes on her half-sister, and for a brief moment their expression was accusing. "Oh, I know you
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know I'm not breaking my heart over him, but
I miss him!"
"Because he fetched and carried for you? Attended to all your business concerns, and spared you all sorts of irritations and minor worries?"
"He was always considerate, and he knew I couldn't cope ... not with anything involving a clear head and the ability to make decisions. I always dither. I simply can't make up my mind in a hurry about anything. I'm a helpless type."
"So someone has to look after you^"
"Always."
Gay's little teeth gleamed as she smiled.
"And although you'd prefer a man to look
after you, if you haven't got a man around you
you're content to have me?"
"Darling!" She bent forward and nuzzled her face against Harriet's arm. "Quite honestly, I prefer you around all the time, because you never get in my way and you're never difficult, and in any case, I'm terribly fond of you, which is perfectly natural since we're fairly closely related. And as I've made up my mind that we're going to live together let's stop talking about it, and simply make our plans. If you want to go to London and shut up that flat of yours you can, but after that we'll settle down here. I've a kind of feeling you're going to love Falaise... I al- ready like it quite a lot."
20 THE MAN WHO GAME BACK
"But you will get married again, and I can't
afford to sacrifice my career...."
"You don't have to. You'll just carry on here, and we'll both be wildly, deliriously happy in a manless Eden."
Harriet stared at her.
"Whatever you say about getting along without men, you know very well that you couldn't ... not for longer than a few months, anyway. And I'm not precisely a man-hater."
"But you're twenty-seven and you've never married. That proves you've very strong resistance to their charms, or else you mistrust them, as I do. Now, get me a glass of sherry and have one yourself, and let's be cosy." She stretched herself luxuriously on the graceful Regency couch, after depositing her nail varnish on the small occasional table that had been drawn up close to her, and examining her nails with satisfaction: ^f Bruce was still alive he'd hate to see me doing my nails in the drawing-room. But why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't I do all the things I want now that I'm my own mistress?"
Harriet brought her a glass of sherry, and then fetched her special brand of cigarettes from a drawer of the walnut bureau. It was then, while Gay surrounded herself with a haze of smoke and stared dreamily at the ceiling, that she walked to the window and looked out into what remained of the early autumn afternoon.
She felt restless all at once. In a sense, she
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supposed she felt trapped. And it wasn't that she
disliked being with Gay, but she had to have some control over her own future, and if it was left to Gay the future would become so much
part and parcel of her own that, in time, the two forms of lives would be indistinguishable from one another, except that Gay, being the glamorous sister, would continue to devote a large part of each day to the ritual of maintaining her own glamour, and she�having really very little interest in her own appearance� would prefer to steal off somewhere and paint.
� The sunset, the first long shadows creeping across the lawn, the angle of a rosy brick wall, a blaze of clematis falling across the orchard wall. "But hardly ever her nails, the comers of her ^eyes, or the outline of her mouth so that it blended well with her lipstick. ^ She couldn't be bothered to do that. She used lipstick and powder and occasional eye-shadow,
"but that was all. She was no beauty, and she
5 didn't believe in attempting to paint a lily that
I didn't exist.
I She rolled up her knitting�it was a rather
;, ungainly pullover she was making for a youthful
| cousin away at school�and made for the door.
| "I think I shall go for a walk," she said.
t "Do, darling, but don't get wet. It looks as if
l-we're in for another heavy shower." ^ "I don't mind getting wet. And in any case, I I shall wear my raincoat."
22 THE' MAN WHO GAME BACK
But when she got outside the drawing-room she decided against going for a walk after all. It really did seem rather dark outside, the black clouds rolling up and blotting out the angry sunset, and as she stood listening in the hall she heard the hail driving against the windows.
She went upstairs to her room instead, and for once she inspected herself in a mirror. She frowned at what she saw... a kind of watereddown edition of her half-sister. Instead of violet eyes�and Gay's eyes were almost startiingly violet at times�a pair of greenish-grey ones stared back at her, and her hair she had to admit was rather lovely. It was very pale hair, like floss silk, and she wore it shoulder-length because she couldn't be bothered to get it cut when it ought to be cut.
Her eyelashes were very dark by contrast with her hair, and she had a pair of excellent, shapely eyebrows. Her face was heart-shaped ... yes; it was most decidedly heart-shaped. And she had a good skin, and a mouth that wasn't too big or too small. But the overall effect was rather pallid. Some people might suspect her of being bloodless and lifeless, whereas she was, p fact, extremely healthy, and she loved walking and running, and getting excited about nothing at all....
Or some people might consider the things she got excited about were unimportant A rainbow, for instance, or a kingfisher dart
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ing amongst reeds. Or a litter of puppies, or a new foal... or even a very friendly cow. She loved cows, and horses, and dogs. She suspected that she was going to leam/to love Falaise, for it was a delightful house with roots that went so far back they made her feel breathless when she thought of them.
And when she thought of all the Eamshaws who had lived at Falaise that set her wondering, too... thinking what a satisfying thing was continuity, and how infinitely a house must prefer it when the same people�the same stock, that is �lived in it generation after generation, and
expected their children to go on doing me same ^ thing without halt or pause. As a duty and a right.
No doubt Bruce Eamshaw had expected to have children by Gay. But now there was no possibility of that, and there might one day come a time when no Eamshaw lived at Falaise. For there didn't appear to be many close connections ... in fact, there weren't any. Gay was the last Eamshaw who would live at Falaise, and it seemed a great pity, especially as, when she married again�as Harriet felt reasonably certain she would�her name would be changed, and Fala
ise would pass into the hands of someone� possibly as yet unborn�who hadn't any
right to it at all. Harriet didn't quite know why this worried
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her, but it did. It worried her as it would never worry Gay. "Why, you idiot, what's in a name?" Gay had actually said to her, since their return to Falaise. "Isn't one as good as anotner? I think it is, unless it's something rather ordinary, like Smith," she
added, a qualifying note in her voice. "I don't think I would like a Smith to come and take over here at Falaise."
Harriet explained to her: "I wasn't thinking about names in that way. I was thinking of names in connection with places ...rightful names!"
"Bruce was terribly proud of tracing his descent back to William the Conqueror, or someone like that," Gay recalled with an amused
smile on her mouth. Harriet was instantly excited. "Could he really do that? What fun!" "Is it?" Gay's smile humoured her. "But then
you're a bit odd, aren't you, darling? And you
' love all kinds of quaintnesses and conceits. I might be inclined to think it fun if Bruce had a handsome close relative who could take over here... or who could have taken over here if I hadn't been legally entitled to the place. If such a person existed I might invite him to stay here,
and that would be kind, wouldn't it? At least he could sleep in that great four-poster bed upstairs in the master suite where the heads of the house were always supposed to sleep... although
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Bruce and I weren't tempted. We chose our rooms after much thought and consideration,
and I'm perfectly happy with mine. I shall prob
ably have it entirely redecorated next year."
Harriet gazed at her with an abstracted ex
pression in her green eyes.
"Was Bruce an only child, then?" she asked.
"Yes. And his father was an only child."
"Pity."
"Because he hadn't any cousins, like we have?
I must say we've more than most people... only
unfortunately they're not Eamshaws."
"Not one single, solitary Eamshaw," Harriet
murmured, thinking what a very great pity it
was. After inspecting herself in her dressing-table
mirror she crossed to the window and looked out.
The garden swam in a strange, greenish, un
earthly light that emphasised the beauty of the
lawns and the well-cared-for shrubberies. Be
yond the lawns the woods began, and beyond the
woods was a low, purplish ridge of hills that had
been hidden by mist for the better part of the , afternoon, but which now stood out sharply
against a curiously lurid sky.
The sun was very close to its setting, and it
was quite obvious that it hated slipping below
the rim of the world without bathing the world
in splendour before it did so. So the cloud forma
tion was being broken up by streaks of angry
reddish gold that were expanding and allowing
26 THE MAN WHO CAME BACK
the full benefit of the sun to shine through, and instead of a greenish light the gardens and the wet woods that made up the grounds of Falaise were suddenly flooded by a benison of molten gold that made Harriet feel restless, uncertain whether to go for a walk after all.
What should she do? The rain had ceased, the sky was clearing. It looked as if it would be a beautiful evening. Should she walk to the village and buy some stamps at the post-office before it closed, or should she set up her easel on the terrace and paint the golden rod as it glowed in the wide herbaceous border at the foot of the main
lawn? Or, as the light wouldn't last long, and a walk would mean changing her shoes, should she simply go upstairs to the attics and hunt amongst the conglomeration of junk up there for the companion piece to the exquisite little Dutch flower piece she had found amongst a batch of pictures the other day? If she could acquire the pair she could have them re-framed, and they would look well on the walls of her own room, or on the walls of the room Gay was insisting should be set apart as a kind of studio-sittingroom for her. Another glance at the raindrops sparkling on the grass and she decided to go upstairs to the attics. In any case, she loved hunting amongst a lot of old junk.... For, in a house like this, so
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27
much of it was not junk. And even the genuine
junk had the power to fascinate her.
There must have been a time when it was put to good use, and the thought of that always made her fed a little sad, the kind of sadness that occasionally inspired her to write verses, and paint something rather unusual. And if she sold the unusual painting then there was an intrinsic value in it as well.
She sat amongst the cobwebs in the attics, and decided that, after all, there wasn't much that she hadn't already seen.
An album filled with late Victorian photographs was on her lap, and she examined them and set them aside. One maiden aunt was very much like another, she decided, and it didn't greatly matter whether the lady was an Eamshaw, or a Smith, or a Jones. She looked faintly appealing and rather wistful, and she was generally rather plain. But not always. Some maiden aunts�possibly the ones who had been crossed
in love�were genuine beauties.
And there seemed to have been many more of them years ago, when the opportunities to marry were fewer. And the balm for curing broken hearts less readily available!
Harriet examined the contents of a ladies' -reticule, wondered why a collection of seals in a box were inclined to mesmerise her,
and plumped down on her knees beside
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an antique chest which contained a lot of faded finery such as feather boas and headdresses, a white silk ballgown encrusted with silver embroidery and a gentleman's silk top-hat. She replaced the lid on the chest and went hunting once more amongst the pictures, and this time she found a couple of watercolours which intrigued her because they must have been executed by one of the Eamshaw maiden aunts, who was possibly no older than she was when she was classified as maiden aunt. But she found no companion to the flower piece that was already downstairs in her bedroom.
She rose, dusted her knees, groped her way gingerly into yet another portion of the attics, and found another pile of pictures propped against the wall. On examination these were quite definitely family portraits, and one or two of them bore a distinct likeness to Bruce, her half-sister's husband, who had met such an unfortunate end in Italy.
Then, with a sensation of amazement, she thought she recognised another of the portraits ... and in fact she was so sure of it that the discovery took her breath away. Bruce Earnshaw had been fair, and apparently a lot of his forebears had had his colouring; but there was an equal number of Eamshaws who were dark� very dark; and the likeness in oils that affected
1 Harriet with the uneasy sensation that she had
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stumbled on something most peculiar was also
the likeness of a very dark man.
But it was also the likeness of Philip Drew, who at the moment was acting as locum in the village for the regular doctor, and had called at Falaise only that morning to find out how Gay
was progressing.
Philip Drew! With a couple of sideboards,. and a distinctly haughty expression, and a cravat tied beneath his square, noticeable chin with meticulous exactitude, so that it appeared to be actually supporting his chin while emulating the flow of a waterfall.
A Regency Philip Drew... something of a buck and macaroni, obviously. And judging by the slumbrous fire in his night-dark eyes, not the sort of man a lady of the period would have treated lightly or heedlessly. Indeed, she would have been most unwise if she had done anything of the sort.
Harriet was absolutely convinced of that.
The picture was somewhat unwieldy, and enclosed in a heavy frame; but Harriet managed to drag it with her back to the main part of the attic, and she set it beneath the skylight, where she could study it with greater ease and discover whether it was simply the dimness that had been deceiving her. But no, it was nothing to do with the dimness. In the last of the sunset light, with a bright star actually suspended like a jewel in the clear sky above the roof of Falaise
30 THE MAN WHO CAME BACK and looking down inquisitively at the portrait, she could see that it was an extremely faithful likeness of a man who, for some reason, had taken an instantaneous dislike to her�unless that was too strong a word; disapproval might be a better word. For some reason he thought she was not capable of looking after her half-sister, and he resented it. There was the same cool curl of the lip in the portrait that there was in the living features of Dr. Drew. His eyes held the same glint. He had the. same suggestion of hardness, and it would be just as difficult to placate him as it would to
placate Dr. Drew.
Harriet gave it up. The mystery was too much for her, and she knew that the silent attics would provide her with no answer to the mystery. She didn't even think it at all likely that Gay could help, for Gay was no authority where her late husband's family were concerned. And she certainly hadn't been upstairs to the attics, so she had probably never seen the portrait.
Harriet decided that the mystery would have to remain a mystery for the time being. Perhaps at dinner that night she might mention the portrait to Gay.... But if Gay was tired and depressed," as she often was in the evenings, she would leave it for some other occasion. She certainly didn't think she could carry the portrait downstairs and show it to Gay.
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She heard the bell that was always rung in the house when it was time to change for dinner, and she once more dusted the knees of her slacks, wiped her hands on her pocket handkerchief, and made for the exit to the stairs.
The light was fading so fast in the attics that she actually hurried somewhat unwisely before she left them behind her, and the eerie feeling that suddenly assailed her very nearly caused her to fall flat on the dusty floor... and she actually did bruise her ankle against the edge of a trunk before she reached the welcome opening through which she could see the dark blue stair carpet that Gay had insisted should-be carried right up to the top of the building, and even up the final short flight of stairs... a wanton extravagance which would have pained some people.