Dorothy Eden (13 page)

Paul’s fingers caressed her cheek.

“What are you thinking of, love?”

“I’m listening to Nita.”

“Darling, do you know how absolutely beautiful you looked this afternoon.”

“You shouldn’t have seen me,” Julia said sadly.

“Why should everyone else be allowed to see you, and not me?” He reached over to rest his lips on the nape of her neck. “Darling, I’m utterly crazy about you.”

Julia plucked at the wool of the hearthrug.

“I had another letter this morning.”

His voice came quickly.

“I’m sorry, darling. They’ll stop now. I know.”

“Is that why you bought all those expensive presents?”

Nita sang in her husky hopeless voice,
Goodbye summer, goodbye, goodbye
.…

“No, it isn’t. Why are you shivering?”

“I don’t know. That song—I suddenly thought of graveyards….”—

Paul began to give his hearty explosive laugh. Nita’s song stopped in the middle of a bar. Her fingers crashed on the keys.

“What are you two talking about?”

“Can’t you sing something more cheerful?” Paul asked. “You’re making Julia morbid.”

“I feel morbid myself,” Nita said simply. She came over to stand by the fire. She was so thin that her figure was a shadow. “It’s this damned snow beginning,” she said.

“Well, I’m not morbid,” Paul said. “I’m exceedingly cheerful because my ankle won’t allow me to go round the sheep. Old Davey has the job himself.”

Julia turned.

“How long has Davey been gone?”

“Since this afternoon. He came in to tell me he thought it was going to snow.”

Julia sprang up.

“Then I must go down and feed the lamb.”

“What lamb, darling?”

“The stray that Davey brought in last night. It was nearly dead then but we brought it round. It would be a shame to let it die now.”

Paul flung out his hands.

“Darling, you’ll soon learn not to fret about every stray lamb.”

Perhaps she would, too, but this lamb was special. It represented her very first experience in saving a life. If nothing else, there was something about Davey’s cottage that always brought her back to sanity. Even without Davey there it had a reassuring effect, and now she wanted to escape from the peculiarly morbid mood that Nita’s singing had produced in her. She flung a coat over her shoulders, and groped her way through the thinly falling snow to the cottage.

Davey was not there. The lamb in the kitchen called feebly at the sound of her entrance. She switched on lights and found the little creature in its box snuffling hungrily. The cottage was very cold. Julia put on milk to heat for the lamb, then built up a fire of slow-burning coal in the living room. When she had fed the lamb and it had settled down contentedly she stayed by the fire, watching the reflections of the flames on the walls, listening to the wind and wondering when Davey would come home. She felt as safe and contented as the warmed and fed lamb. When at last she got up to go it was only because her eyelids were drooping with sleep, and it would hardly do for Davey to find her asleep on his hearth.

She put a screen in front of the banked fire and went out. The snow had stopped and there was a little thin moonlight. The path, speckled with snow, showed quite clearly, and she had no trouble in finding her way beneath the dripping trees to the big house.

There were no lights showing. She had a momentary feeling of surprise that Paul had not waited up for her, then she was obscurely grateful that he had not. She wanted only to creep upstairs undisturbed and get into bed.

She opened and closed the front door softly, groping her way to the front of the stairs without putting on a light. It was as she felt for the banisters that she heard a faint scuffling sound from the direction of the passage that led to the kitchen. Then, perfectly clear, came the low deep voice.

“Now are you going to behave yourself?”

There was a faint, unidentifiable chuckle. Then, “Yes, Harry darling,” came on a deep sighing breath.

“Who’s there?” Julia asked sharply. She went quickly forward in the darkness, and as she reached the kitchen door she felt for the light switch.

A hand closed over her wrist. In the same instant another one went firmly over her mouth. Before she could struggle she was pushed firmly back into the passage and the door closed behind her. She heard the click of the lock.

She raised her clenched hands to beat on the door. Then she dropped them to her sides hopelessly. What was the use? No one would answer her outcry. If she ran upstairs screaming for help because Harry, who was not dead at all, was making love to somebody in the kitchen they would all look at her in astonishment. And by the time she had routed them from their beds, Harry and the woman with him (who was it—Dove? Lily? Nita?) would have vanished.

In any case she felt as if nothing of this were really happening. She was in the dream that had held her in thrall all the time she was in this big derelict house.

Perhaps she hadn’t heard those voices. Perhaps no one had seized her wrist.

She began to stumble bewilderedly to the stairs.

There was a faint chink of light across the landing upstairs.

“Julia, is that you?” came Kate’s voice.

“Yes, Kate.”

“How late you are, dear. Paul said something about going to look for you. Are you all right?” Julia went to Kate’s door and looked in.

“Yes, I’m all right. Harry’s in the kitchen. I suppose you know.”

Kate, in a fluffy pink bedjacket that made her look like an oversized doll, sat bolt upright, her hand to her mouth. “Harry! What
are
you talking about?”

“I wish I knew,” Julia said wearily. “But he’s there. I heard someone call him by name. I suppose he’s the person who has been doing those peculiar things, the moths and so on. But why?”

“My dear child!” Kate began to climb out of bed and grope for her slippers. “You’re crazy. I must get Paul.”

There was a movement behind Julia, and there was Paul in a dressing-gown, his hair tousled, his cheeks flushed as if with sleep.

“What’s the matter, darling? Why does Mother say you’re crazy?”

“Harry’s in the kitchen,” Julia said flatly. “But it’s no use your going down. He’ll be gone by now. Only I wish someone would just tell me why there is all this mystery about him.”

Paul went leaping down the stairs, two at a time. He switched on the light in the hall and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Julia followed him slowly. She fancied she heard a splutter of laughter. But she must have imagined it, because when she reached the kitchen Paul was in it alone. The fire was out in the stove, and the room had a completely deserted look.

“There’s no one here,” he said.

“There was a moment ago,” she insisted stubbornly.

“Is Davey at the cottage yet?”

“No.”

“But he must be back by now. He probably came in here to speak to Lily. She makes him a hot drink when he’s round the sheep late.”

Julia’s eyes mutely swept the empty table and bench.

“Well, perhaps he didn’t have a drink tonight,” Paul said impatiently. “But that’s no doubt who it would be. Want me to go down to the cottage?”

“No,” said Julia, shaking her head. “I’ll ask Lily in the morning.” (Now are you going to behave yourself? Yes, Davey darling….” Was that the way it had been? Had she imagined the name Harry because she, like Georgina, was getting an obsession about him?)

“Yes, do that,” said Paul. “Though mind you, the minx will only tell you what she pleases. She’s a deep one.”

Julia was too weary even to question that remark. She couldn’t imagine why the thought that it had been Davey with Lily in the kitchen was so distasteful to her. Perhaps because she had been waiting fruitlessly by that fire she had lit for him.

“I’ll go to bed,” she said.

“Yes, darling. That’s the best thing. I waited for you until I damn near fell asleep myself. I thought you must have been talking to Davey. What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” said Julia vaguely.

Paul’s eyes searched her face quizzically. Then he put his soft full lips against her cheek.

“You’re dead on your feet. My little stupid!”

His caress roused no feeling at all in her.

Kate, her fingers pressed to her temples, was waiting shivering at the head of the stairs.

“Well?” she said.

“Go back to bed, Mother,” said Paul. “There’s no one there.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Kate’s eyes on Julia were reproachful. Perhaps she thought that what with anonymous letters, moths, and ghosts in the kitchen, Julia was becoming too fanciful for comfort. Yet Julia, for all her weariness, had the feeling that Kate was using reproach to cover her too-apparent fear. If she were not so tired, she thought, she would get the clue to this.

But she could only smile faintly in contrition for her behaviour and go silently to her room.

As she opened the door the curtains from the long windows billowed out and a flurry of half-melted snow came into the room. The air was icy.

How had she come to leave the windows open? Julia ran to close them, shutting out the cold wind and the sound of the swaying trees. Then she stood quite still. For she was absolutely certain that she had closed and bolted the windows securely before dinner that night.

In the morning it had stopped snowing, but the sky was just above the treetops, heavy and grey. Julia, waking late and reluctantly, found Lily at her bedside with her morning tray.

“Good morning, miss,” Lily said. “It’s a horrid day. Mrs. Blaine said you ought to have a morning in bed. And there was this note under your door.”

She handed the folded slip of paper to Julia and went briskly to the door.

Julia’s fingers trembled so that she could scarcely unfold the scrap of paper. The message was simple and juvenile, and vindictive, as usual.

Don’t you know that you will never wear that beautiful dress to marry Paul Blaine.

T
HE BUS, ON ITS
way to Mt. Cook, left the mail at midday. There were letters from Uncle Jonathan at last, one for Julia and one for Paul. Tom Robinson, dressed in oilskins, had brought the bundle of mail from the gate and handed it to Julia.

“Weather’s getting worse,” he said. “Davey and I were out most of the night, but we’re going to lose a lot of lambs.”

“Most of the night?” Julia repeated sharply. That meant, then, that it was unlikely Davey had been in the kitchen. She had never believed that he had.

Tom Robinson nodded. “It was tough on Davey. He’s not used to it.”

Julia absently rifling through the letters in her hand, suddenly lost the gist of his remarks entirely. For she found herself looking at a name on an envelope. “Mr. Harry Blaine, Heriot Hills….”

Tom had shuffled off in his heavy boots and oilskins before she realised he had gone. Paul came behind her and quietly took the bundle of mail from her.

“Some for me?” he asked.

“Paul! There’s one for Harry.”

Paul quickly studied the typewritten address.

“I’ll fix that. Don’t let Mother see it. It upsets her.”

“But what is it?”

“It will be some overdue subscription or something. This sort of thing happens after a man dies. Didn’t you know? Ah, this looks like your Uncle Jonathan’s handwriting.”

“Yes, it is. I have a letter from him, too. Paul, what are you hiding from me?”

He laid a hand on each of her shoulders. He was smiling, and his eyes were kind, but beneath their kindness was an implacable look.

“Darling, once and for all I am the only man in this house. There is no mystery. Nothing is being hidden from you. I and I alone own this beautiful harem. Do you understand that? Granny is old and suffers from delusions, but you don’t. You have no excuse at all for this sort of thing. So drop the subject, will you?”

It was a command. Julia levelly returned his gaze, and had no intention whatever of obeying.

“Then why did I get another letter this morning?”

Paul’s face darkened. “I haven’t had time to go into that yet, but I promise you whoever is doing it will leave. Even if it’s our valuable Lily. Can you cook, darling? It might be necessary for a few days.”

“Supposing it’s Dove,” Julia said.

“Dove also will go. I tell you I’ll stand no nonsense over anything concerning you. Now, does that please you?”

Julia knitted her brows.

“Paul, you’re so different. Once you were so shy, even with me. Do you remember that you only kissed me once? And now I find you with your harem, as you call it, and myself bitterly hated. It’s a little hard to adjust oneself.”

That, of course, brought her into his hard embrace.

“You don’t like me,” he said, his breath on her cheek, his voice full of that confidence that was almost displeasing.

But her body melted and her lips murmured of their own accord.

“You get your own way too easily. You haven’t been fair to those poor girls.” She tugged his nose gently. “You have to behave.”

“I’ll behave,” he promised, his quick charming smile smoothing that faint strangeness out of his face. “Now let’s see what your excellent guardian has to say.”

A few moments later Paul gave his loud explosive hoot of laughter. Julia was beginning to recognise that particular laugh. He gave it when he was upset or embarrassed or surprised.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing. The old boy’s full of advice, that’s all.” There was a high flush in his cheeks. Suddenly he crumpled the letter in his hand and flung it into the fire. “Paul!”

He turned, his eyes sparkling with anger. “Sorry, darling. But your worthy uncle doesn’t seem to trust me awfully. I don’t altogether appreciate his attitude.”

“But, Paul, what did he say? And that’s nonsense about his not trusting you. After all, he was the one who urged me to come out to New Zealand.”

“So you needed urging?”

“Paul!” She laid her hand on his arm. “You know I didn’t. Don’t be so contrary. And whatever Uncle Jonathan said, remember he’s an old man with impossibly high ideals. Why, he still thinks of his poor old Georgina as a young and beautiful girl. You’d have to be a saint to come up to his standards.”