‘Fair enough. What is it?’
‘Evie’s told me that she’s accidentally met that Elizabeth Tresaile. Evie seems to have liked her. I don’t want my girl ever having anything to do with her or her bleddy lot. There can be nothing but trouble or heartbreak for her. I want you to swear, Rob Praed, that if Evie returns your interest you’ll always keep her away from them.’
Grinning straight into Davey’s stricken face, Rob spat on his hand then offered it to be shaken. ‘Put it there, mate. It’s as good as done.’
As Rob strutted off, relighting his smoke, Davey stumbled into his shed and wept for his past loss, his present horror and humiliation, and his revulsion and dread at Evie’s possible future. She was soon to be faced with guile beyond her understanding.
After a while he looked up out of his watery eyes. Those eyes glowered and dried in the heat of his fury and then they glared into an evil fantasy that might become a reality of his making. He was seeing Rob Praed with his mocking face no longer handsome but bloody and smashed beyond recognition. ‘You might not have mocked me over Cyrus like that upstart bastard Francis Vyvyan did the day he discovered my secret here, but you’re threatening my precious Evie’s peace and well-being. I’ve not tied her down to me. She knows her own mind and she’s enjoying a life of freedom in the way that she wants. She won’t want you, you piece of shite, and if you don’t quickly get that message you’ll end up in the sea, all rotted away and apparently smashed up by the rocks. Just like Francis Vyvyan did, out on his boat.’
* * *
The succulent aroma of roasting lamb filled the Vage kitchen and wafted out of the open windows and the open top of the back stable-door. Evie had not long basted the sizzling meat and potatoes and put the roasting tin back in the oven. Saucepans of lightly salted vegetables were prepared and ready to put on the hob to bring to the boil and simmer. Her father would be back in about an hour with the Sunday newspaper, which, after he had changed and washed up, he would read in his comfortable little armchair; the armchair in which three former generations of Vages had sat. Davey and Evie were the last to bear the name of Vage locally.
Evie spread over the table a pure white, lace-edged square tablecloth, one made by her mother, following in her mother’s Sunday tradition of laying the table with the best cloths She fetched the rosewood canteen that held the silver, a wedding present to her mother from her father, and one which Iris had been very proud of.
Three of the cats were indoors, washing themselves or snoozing. It was a cosy, safe scene that Evie loved. For five days and nights she had missed Davey, praying for his safety at sea and good catches of pilchards on Morenwyn – prayers that had been answered. From the corner of her eye Evie noticed the most fastidious cat, Fluffy, pause in her preening on the hearthrug, seeming to listen. Nothing unusual in that, but some instinct made Evie keep still and look towards the door.
A large tall shape appeared at the open top half of the door and then Evie was rushing to the door in alarm. ‘Smoky!’ Her youngest cat was streaked with blood and shivering, wrapped up in a shirt in the muscular bare arms of Rob Praed from next door. ‘Oh, my goodness, what happened?’ She opened the lower half of the door and beckoned Rob inside.
‘Somehow he got stuck in some old drainpipe. He was scared and howling like a banshee. He was just as scared about being pulled out,’ Rob said, grimacing to indicate the long deep scratches on his arms and chest, revealed by his ripped vest. ‘’Fraid he got a bit scraped and mangled. I’m sorry but he got hurt more during the rescue than I think he did getting stuck.’
‘Thank you so much, Rob,’ Evie said gratefully, her eyes on Smoky’s de-furred wounds. ‘Come to the sink. Are you all right holding him a bit longer?’
‘Of course.’
‘If I can manage to bathe him with some salt water and put on some healing salve, Smoky can go down in his basket.’ Then she said, in a lower voice and with her head down, ‘After that I suppose I’d better see to your scratches. They look very sore.’
‘They are stinging a bit.’ This was no lie, but the soreness was nothing to Rob in comparison with his flesh being ripped by a fish hook or getting a net or rope burn. Picking up a trusting Smoky had been easy, but pushing him into the narrow, foot-long piece of drainpipe in a quiet unobserved spot, while Smoky spat, howled and fought, had taken a full bloody three minutes of pandemonium. Then, gripping Smoky’s rear end, Rob had hauled the cat out, while it was thankfully stunned, and wrapped it in his shirt. Smoky had stayed in shock. Rob had been pleased to be seen as the animal’s rescuer by some local kids. ‘Keep back, can’t stop, I’m rushing him home to Miss Vage.’ The gleeful interested kids had followed on Rob’s heels until he had told them to ‘Run along now.’ The morsel of news would soon pass round the cove. Rob would be called a hero, and the thoughtless person who had supposedly tossed away the drainpipe would be the stupid villain.
Evie fetched a bag of cotton wool and a bowl of hot water from the kettle. She put in three good pinches of salt then without glancing at Rob – she was aware of him watching her with a smile – she carefully eased away parts of the ruined shirt and bathed Smoky’s wounds. He wailed in pain and protest but Rob’s vice-like grip stilled his struggles.
‘Please, Rob.’ Evie gave him apologetic eyes for a moment. ‘You’re hurting him.’
‘Sorry,’ Rob gasped as if mortified. ‘I didn’t want him to scratch you.’
Finally Smoky was clean and his wounds were covered with a herb salve. ‘I’ll take him from you now,’ Evie said, again not looking at Rob. She was uncomfortable having him this close to her. It felt like an invasion. ‘Still inside your shirt, if that’s all right.’
‘Of course.’ Rob would have given her his deepest smile but he knew his nearness to her was disturbing her. He would have to proceed very slowly to get Evie to see him any differently than a male neighbour she would rather keep distant from. He would have to prove to her that she could trust him and that he was genuinely interested in her.
He had never been this close to Evie before, and he had not particularly wanted to be until considering who would make him the best wife. He had always thought her pretty despite her plain attire and modest ways and he preferred her longer hair to the short styles. Nearness to Evie, and now feeling her careful arms touching his body as she took the damned cat from him, was a sweetly sensuous experience. She smelled clean, of the essence of sweetness. He would take a bet that she was a better cook than his sisters, who were good in the kitchen. Her housekeeping was homely and immaculate, a necessary part of Rob’s specifics in a bride. As was her reserve, aversion to gossip, and respectability. Evie would bring up strong dutiful children. He wanted at least four. Her only downside was her love for these useless annoying furry creatures. They could stay living here with Davey. If she wanted a pet once married to him, she could have a dog.
Cooing, and stroking Smoky on the one small place on his head he was not creamed, Evie gently placed him near the range on a knitted green and blue patchwork blanket in the large round basket that her family of cats shared, although rarely all at the same time. ‘Poor Smoky, you poor thing, rest now. You can have some poached pilchard when you’re over the shock.’
She rose, still anxiously gazing down on Smoky while addressing Rob in her soft voice. ‘If you don’t mind waiting, I’d like to give Smoky a drop of water. Shock dehydrates, you know.’
‘You see to Smoky first, Evie. If you don’t mind though, I’d like to sit down for a minute.’
‘Oh, of course. Take my chair.’ She pointed to the tiny stuffed chair next to the cat basket. ‘I’ll bring some fresh salt water to you.’
‘That’s good of you. I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner preparations. Don’t suppose you’ve got a cup of tea in the pot? Don’t make a fresh pot. I like my tea as it comes.
‘Lovely tea,’ Rob said appreciatively, a short while later. The tea was lukewarm and over-steeped but he still enjoyed the taste. He did not watch
Evie closely while she poured steaming water into a clean bowl and put salt in it. If he embarrassed or unsettled her he wouldn’t get far with his campaign for her, so he simply took the odd glance and enjoyed her light economical movements. Evie was wholly feminine and she was the sweetest thing. He could actually say he really was interested in her. It was a sublime feeling to be considering a woman who was not a pushover. He would not be able to take his time wooing her, despite Davey’s word at not getting in his way, even with the condition to keep the Tresaile woman at bay from Evie. Davey would not tolerate his attentions to Evie for long if she did not soon reciprocate his hope of forming an attachment. So after a time Rob would have to steamroller her towards marriage.
Evie tore off a wad of cotton wool from the package and approached Rob uncertainly. She was trying to ignore his half-naked torso, the well-toned muscles of his fine physique, but she could not help herself admiring it. She was not entirely averse to the attractions of the finest masculinity. How she wished the evidence of her eyes, which she kept mostly down, would stop making her tummy fold over and squirm so. Where should she start on bathing this man’s deep scratches? ‘Um, the water needs to cool a bit.’
‘I’ll tend to myself, Evie,’ Rob said, knowing she would find this a tremendous relief. He had to repress an improper shiver at the thought of her fingers touching his bare skin. Evie was growing more appealing by the moment. ‘Won’t take a minute. Then I’ll go out and get rid of that drainpipe so it can’t do any more harm.’
‘Thank you,’ Evie said humbly, feeling a little less awkward. ‘I’m very grateful to you for saving Smoky. He must have been so frightened. That’s the thing about cats, they’re so curious and love to squeeze into small cosy places, not that a drainpipe should seem cosy.’ She went to Smoky and leaned down to him. ‘You are a silly boy, aren’t you?’
This sort of thing would usually bore Rob, but he thought it a charming scene as Evie was involved in it. It was time he took himself off. Quickly, he wiped the salted water across his chest, hands and arms, not feeling the heat of the water. Years of immersion in bitterly cold seawater and handling fishing gear and fish had killed off the nerve endings on his fingertips, but the cat’s scratches were damned sore. Needing a smoke, he got up and made for the door. ‘Thanks for the tea, Evie. I’ll leave you in peace.’
He couldn’t resist smiling into her eyes. Such pretty eyes she had. Not unexpectedly she couldn’t hold his gaze and looked down at the cat. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Bye then.’ He left, shutting the lower half of the stable door after him.
Evie stared at the stable door for some time. Smoky’s self-pitying mews finally drew her attention. Evie swallowed to wet her dry throat. Just for a moment her everyday life seemed somehow strange. She snuggled Smoky up in the blanket and caressed him until he fell asleep. ‘Well, Smoky,’ she found her voice at last. ‘That was quite an experience for both of us. Please don’t get into any more scrapes like that.’
Twenty-Two
‘Papa, may I speak to you please?’
Muriel Oakley had run after her father and stationed herself in the porch of the neglected church before he could enter to intone his duty of morning prayers. It had always come down to her having to make an appointment to gain her father’s time, but that usually proved a failure for he always forgot. So today she had chased after him.
Fluttering his scrawny arms, which made his black robe and cloak flap and gave him the look of an ancient rook – a habit some found alarming and some mockingly mimicked – the elderly clergyman blinked down over his half-glasses. ‘What is it, daughter? You mustn’t stop me from going about the Lord’s work.’
He was half kindly and half reproving, and it was frustratingly evident to Muriel that his mind had already left her. ‘I just want to remind you that I’ve been invited to luncheon at Owles House today,’ Muriel elucidated loudly. ‘I’ll leave you some cold meat and salad on a tea tray in the kitchen. Don’t forget, Papa.’
‘Yes, um, my dear,’ the Reverend Oakley murmured vaguely.
Muriel stood aside and let her father flutter past her. She jumped in her skin as he clanked the church door shut heavily after him. Hugging her drooping cardigan to her body, head dipped low, she trudged back to the vicarage. She was feeling guilty about going out. Her father would forget to eat and drink unless she stayed in his presence and reminded him to chew and sip every mouthful. But she so wanted to go to Owles House. Muriel still felt honoured and a little elated to have been invited to dine by Mrs Vyvyan herself, after matins nearly two weeks ago. Her house guest, the very beautiful Miss Copeland, had seemed genuinely interested in Muriel too and had generously encouraged her to attend. It was such a change for Muriel not to be overlooked. Falteringly, she had accepted and had shyly suggested the date ahead to give her time to sort out something appropriate to wear, to brush up on her manners and simply to get used to the idea.
During the intervening time she had dug out all her clothes and pairs of shoes. They were all woefully out of date and smelled either musty or of mothballs. Mrs Vyvyan and Miss Copeland had appeared in church utterly chic and exuding ladylike confidence. Muriel saw herself as an ugly faded marsh moth to their tropical butterflies. Miss Elizabeth would also look stylish and polished at the luncheon today. She had written to say how much she was looking forward to Muriel attending the meal. Muriel had sat down on her bed and cried large round tears of shame and desperation. She would look like a freak in the company of those three women. Part of her shame was over her father’s behaviour after the church service that day. All had gone well during the service; somehow he always managed to perform admirably well. He tended to rattle through most of it, but the faithful flock of Mrs Reseigh, a few elderly ladies, and a serious-faced young man, a permanent guest at the Grand Sea View Hotel who would never offer his name, did not seem to mind. Her father’s prayers were dignified and his sermon, given with drama and emotion, albeit rambling on too long, always seemed to go down well.
‘I thank you for the Word, Reverend Oakley. I have a greater understanding of the Lord’s words to the Samaritan woman at the well now,’ Mrs Vyvyan had said with a gracious smile.
Muriel, nursing sore fingers after grinding out the hymn tunes on the creaky old organ, had been glad for her father to receive some sincere praise. Usually all the small but faithful congregation said was, ‘Thank you, vicar,’ and off they went. Her father had brought out a flurry of extra points to Mrs Vyvyan about his sermon, but then he had muttered, ‘Thank you again, dear lady,’ before shooting off abruptly through the graveyard, whooping and flailing his robes as if a boy pretending he was an aeroplane. Her father was losing his mind, and was only his normal self during an increasingly small part of each day. Sometimes he went off for hours after dark, leaving her anxious about whether he would ever come home.
Mrs Vyvyan and Miss Copeland had generously behaved as if they had not noticed her father’s childish antics. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Oakley,’ Miss Copeland had said.
‘Oh, it’s very nice of you to say so.’ Muriel had twisted her hands bashfully in front of her body. ‘I’m so sorry Miss Tresaile was unable to come today.’
‘She wanted to spend some time alone with Joseph,’ Mrs Vyvyan had put in.
And then the luncheon invitation had come on behalf of all three ladies. Muriel was embarrassed to remember how twittery she had become. She had even curtseyed at one point. She had immediately accepted the invitation, of course; at the very least it would have been terribly rude not to.
A short time later she had asked why such refined ladies would want to bother with the shabby likes of her. She was as plain and as dull as stagnant pond water. Except for having looked after both her parents, and now just her father, her life was pointless. If Mrs Vyvyan and Miss Elizabeth and Miss Copeland knew everything about her they would shun her with disgust. She was disgusted with herself, was so every day, and had been so for many, many long years.<
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Having made her way up to her bedroom she dropped down on the edge of the bed and gazed gloomily at the garments laid out beside her, which she had chosen to wear today. She had laundered the outfit and rinsed it in strong rose water, but it was awfully dreary – a white and fawn striped blouse with smocked panels above the bosom and a small shawl collar, and a long, gored, high-waist skirt – and well below par for socializing in. Even her cameo brooch and her mother’s pearls did barely a thing to prettify the effect.
She sat there and sat still. Willing herself to attend the luncheon. No one would mind her clothes, it was she they wanted with them, she was their exclusive guest, they had said so, and they would not care what she looked like. But she couldn’t go looking like a governess – that’s what it amounted to. She should have made polite immediate decline. She must cancel and do it now. Leave it any longer and it would be unspeakably discourteous. She sat and brooded, rubbing the sleeve of the blouse between her thumb and forefinger.
She realized she had allowed an hour and a half to drift by. She should be at Owles House now, the sherry should have been sipped and the meal should have begun. She could hear the telephone ringing down in her father’s study. It would be one of the three ladies, but she continued to ignore it. She was now unforgivably disrespectful. But she had no respect for herself and nor should anyone else respect her. And she was unforgivable. Years ago she had done an unforgivable thing and she was doomed for it.
Suddenly she jumped up and saw with despair her reflection in the mirror. She was a drab. She was an ugly, useless, good-for-nothing sinner and decent people should have nothing to do with her. She hated herself. She couldn’t stand it. ‘Why did you have to invite me to your fine big house?’ Muriel screamed at the image in her mind of the three hostesses while beating the sides of her head. ‘You should leave me alone. I wish I could be left alone. If only I was all alone!’
Leaving Shades Page 20