Dorothy Eden (6 page)

“I think it’s delightful,” Julia said, suddenly wanting to laugh with relief at the very simple explanation for Paul’s overheard words. (But had he needed to speak in that caressing voice?) “How useful that you know how to treat a sprain, Mrs. Robinson.”

The woman had her head bent now. Julia’s eyes rested on her fiery mass of hair that was confined with a violet-coloured ribbon.

“I used to be a nurse,” she said briefly.

“And that’s a very valuable accomplishment in the country,” Paul said. “If ever your husband wants to leave, Dove, we shall certainly bribe you to stay.”

The woman flashed him a swift emerald glance. Then she quickly and capably wrapped a bandage round Paul’s ankle and said; “There! That will be all right, Mr. Blaine. But for goodness’ sake keep off that foot. You’ll have the swelling twice as bad again.”

Paul looked at Julia. It seemed to her, suddenly that his face was a choir-boy’s, full of what was at once innocence and guile.

“You must stop these women hen-pecking me, Julia. Lily does it, too. I get no peace at all.”

Dove Robinson imperturbably picked up the basin of water.

“I’ll be going now. I’ll come over again this evening.”

As she went out, her burning head held high, Julia said involuntarily, “I believe she’s jealous.”

Paul smiled lazily.

“And why not? You’re so charming.”

“But it’s ridiculous. She has a husband, hasn’t she?”

“A dull sort of a fellow, scarcely knows a woman from a sheep.”

“So you comfort her by calling her your little Dove.”

Paul began to laugh.

“My darling, I believe it’s you who are jealous.”

“Well, what do you think? I don’t believe in sharing my husband with every discontented woman he meets. Besides—”

But Paul had come to her and was kissing her so that she could not say what she had been going to about those childish letters. And, anyway, wasn’t it better not to talk about them, silly mischief-making articles that they were. Now she thought, it could well be fiery-headed Dove Robinson who had written them and arranged with someone in Wellington and Timaru to deliver them. Well, Dove could soon be dealt with. She was not afraid of a woman.

“Close your eyes,” said Paul’s voice in her ear. “The perfect kiss is always made with closed eyes.”

“Paul when did you become such a connoisseur in this art—” Julia was interrupted by a sudden sharp thumping on the ceiling overhead. She drew back. “What’s that?”

Paul sighed. “Oh, that’s Granny. She wants to come down. Davey must do it while I have this bad ankle. Sweet, do you mind calling Davey. He’ll be out at the back somewhere, or in the cottage in the orchard. And of course you must meet Granny. But I warn you, she’ll talk a lot of pathetic nonsense, poor little soul. She won’t really know who you are. Do you mind coming to such a peculiar household, my love?”

His words were humble, but his gaze was not. It had that mixture of innocence and boldness that she was beginning to find acutely disturbing. It had almost the same effect as his too-familiar hands on her body. She felt it like a caress.

“I’ll go for Davey,” she said hurriedly, but even as she went she thought sensibly, “I can’t run away from the way he looks at me, and the way he touches me all the time. The only thing to do is to like it.”

A track ran from the back door beneath the heavily arching trees through a sagging wooden gate and across the damp grass of the orchard. It led to a sloping-roofed cottage with a wooden verandah, and the front door standing open. Julia tapped at the door and waited. There was no answer. “Davey!” she called. “Are you there?”

The door that stood open led straight into the living room. It was dominated by a writing desk under the window that was covered with writing materials in fantastic disarray. Julia’s fingers itched to tidy it, then she shrugged her shoulders fatalistically. Tidying up at Heriot Hills was going to be a long job. It was hardly seemly that she start with the shepherd’s cottage.

She went into the room, however, and stood idly pressing the rocker of the ancient rocking chair as she gazed at a picture hanging above the mantelpiece. It was a Venetian scene, and it had the dusty sunlit effect of a Canaletto. Probably a reproduction, Julia thought idly, and was startled from her thoughts by Davey’s voice.

“What do you want? Your bags carried up?”

She turned sharply to see him in the doorway, dressed in plaid shirt, corduroy trousers, and riding boots. A picturesque shepherd, she thought lightly, the kind that Texas would call a tenderfoot.

“Davey, can’t you stop harping on my bags,” she said pleasantly. “It’s old Mrs. Blaine who wants to be brought down. Will you come now? I’m longing to meet her.”

“All right,” he said. Then he added casually, “Have a good night?”

“Why not?” Suddenly she said, “Did you know Paul’s brother, Harry?”

“No. Have you met him already?” He was watching her, his eyes full of interest. She couldn’t think what had made her ask him that question. Of course he could not have known Paul’s brother who had died in Australia some time ago.

“How could I when he is dead? You know he was dead,” she accused.

“Perhaps I meant his ghost,” he said lightly. “The old lady thinks it is in the house. She’s astonishingly emphatic about it.”

“So Paul says,” Julia said uneasily, “But she’s a little senile.”

“Just the sort of person to converse with a ghost Well, let’s go, shall we?”

She cast a quick look round the room. She sighed.

“I like this. It’s so beautifully uncluttered, except for your desk, of course. Are you really writing a book?”

“Do you think it is a disguise for a more sinister occupation?”

His dark unreadable eyes teased her. Then he took her elbow and guided her to the door. In that instant the feeling she had had when his warm coat had protected her from the sweeping snowy wind last night came back to her. She felt enclosed in a small circle of warmth. It was an odd feeling, disturbing in its way, but completely unrelated to the excitement that overcame her when Paul kissed her. She moved quickly away from him and said,

“It really was a wise thing coming last night. Paul is delighted. So is his mother. It was only that they were worried about the state of the house, but it will be fun fixing it. I have all sorts of ideas.”

“I am sure you have. Who will you get to do the interior decorations. Marcus Blount?” He mentioned a well-known decorator.

“That isn’t very funny,” said Julia. “Just because I have a Lanvin dress through no fault of my own. Anyway, you have a Canaletto.”

“A copy,” he said quickly.

She looked at him. He had spoken too quickly. His narrow brown face gave nothing at all away, yet in that moment she knew that the little dusty golden picture over the fireplace in the shepherd’s cottage was a genuine Canaletto. She knew it without a shadow of doubt.

Who was he? What was he?

He went on talking, again too quickly, making her think of her own unease when she chattered.

“In the midst of this redecorating and marrying you might just remind your husband that there are sheep on his property and the lambing season is beginning.”

Into Julia’s mind there flashed the small intimate picture of Paul lounging in the low chair while the voluptuous Dove bent over his injured ankle. Again her defences were down.

“But he always used to talk as if he had no interest but his farm.”

“Perhaps he’s a little out of practice,” Davey commented drily. “From what I can see the farm is in much the same state as the house. It’s a pity.”

“Then Paul and I must go into that. He’s been in hospital so much, that’s what the trouble is. He’s had no time to attend to work. Hasn’t he told you that?”

Davey went ahead of her to open the rickety gate that led up to the house.

“Just as a matter of interest,” he said, “do you know how long scarring from a skin graft takes to fade?”

They were at the back door, and there was no more to be said. Davey went inside and up the stairs with his long light stride, and Julia, waiting, wondering whether to think Davey’s remark insolence or not, thought, “If the operation were recent the scars would be much more vivid. Of course I know that. Paul’s scars are scarcely visible. They must have been made a year, perhaps more than a year, ago. Why has Kate lied about it, and Paul too? Why all this lapse of time before he wrote to me? That’s what Davey is trying to tell me.”

T
HE OLD LADY WAS
exactly like a white rabbit. When Davey put her down her head emerged from the several shawls she had draped round her tiny shoulders, and there she was with her pale mild eyes, her little sharp nose that twitched constantly at its pink tip, her mass of fluffy white hair. Julia found herself unable to stop staring. So this, she thought, this quaint miniature morsel who snuffed faintly as she breathed, was the person Uncle Jonathan had treasured in his memory for so many years. She tried to create round the fragile bones the young radiant flesh that Uncle Jonathan remembered. Yes, perhaps she had been a delectable little person, blue-eyed, soft-mouthed, pink of cheek. It was pathetic, shocking, to think that the image Uncle Jonathan carried was in reality this shrunken snuffling little bundle of bones that showed no spark of interest or intelligence.

Julia suddenly wanted to weep, for Uncle Jonathan and his so truly-lost Georgina. It was a mistake to live too long. She and Paul, on the threshold of their life would come to this. She tried to visualize Paul as an ageing man, and failed utterly. He existed only as the virile young man with the innocent choir-boy face whom she knew.

She was aware of Davey looking at her over the old woman’s head.

“You knew she was very old,” he said.

She was uncomfortably aware that he had read her thoughts.

“Don’t let this place make you introspective,” he said uncannily, and just as she was thinking that she could imagine Davey growing old, the flesh growing spare over those thin long bones, Kate came bouncing into the room.

“Thank you, Davey, for bringing Granny down. She was getting impatient.” As Davey went out Kate said, “Julia, come and speak to her. I’m afraid she won’t have any idea who you are. Granny dear,” she bent over the bundle of shawls surmounted by the faintly trembling white head, “this is Julia Paget, the girl Paul is going to marry.”

The filmy blue eyes turned on Julia. One hand, the dry twiglike shape that Julia had felt on her cheek in the night, was slightly raised. Julia took it, and she heard the little voice, high, like a sleepy bird’s, “So pretty. Now I would like my morning chocolate. Send Mrs. Bates to me, dear.”

Kate said quickly in an undertone, “Mrs. Bates isn’t here. She and her husband, a dreadful old couple, were here when Paul and I came, and we had to get rid of them. The house is bad enough now, but you should have seen it then, such a mess. But Granny didn’t notice, poor soul, and she was used to them.”

She raised her voice. “Granny, you know Mrs. Bates isn’t here now. Lily is here. She will make your chocolate. She makes it very nicely. You know that.”

The old lady’s mouth trembled. “I would prefer Mrs. Bates. I’m used to her. I don’t like changes.” She peered at Kate. “What is your name?”

“Now, Granny! You know very well. I’m Kate, your daughter-in-law.”

The old lady stared.

“I don’t remember your name. How foolish of me. If you are my daughter-in-law I should know you. But there is so much to remember, so much to forget. I forget the wrong things. Mrs. Bates get so cross with me. Now, she says…” The faint voice twittered on. Kate drew Julia away.

“She just does that all day. You can’t really talk sense to her. Now, dear, do you see the kind of house we tried to prevent you from coming to. If only Paul had sent for me earlier. I’m so angry with him. Poor child, what do you think of it all?”

“We all come to this,” said Julia slowly, looking at the little whittled-down face of Uncle Jonathan’s lovely Georgina.

“Now, darling, don’t be
morbid!”
Kate cried. “That would be just the last straw. Come out and meet Lily. She’s just arrived back. She’s a lively young thing who will take your mind off age. We’ll all have chocolate. Or a brandy if you prefer it. I always feel I could do with one after a session with Granny. You know, she has her wedding dress ready to be buried in, and she insists on looking at it every day to see that the moths haven’t got into it.”

Kate looked at Julia and suddenly clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, darling Julia, what an ass I am! When you have that beautiful beautiful dress up there. I just didn’t think—”

“Perhaps some day I should like to be buried in it,” Julia said dreamily.

“My God, now you are morbid! Come along out of this fusty room.”

The room was a large one looking north, and darkened to a green gloom by the overhanging trees. Julia observed the relics of another generation, the spinning wheel, the velvet tasselled overmantel, the pictures of sailing ships coming into the brown and barren-hilled New Zealand harbours, the yellowed keys of the old upright piano, the round-back couches with their worn tapestry covers, the vase of dried and brittle
toi toi
grass, like a plume of biscuit-coloured hair.

As Kate took her out the high piping voice followed them,

“But are you
sure
you want to marry Harry, Julia?”

Kate would not let Julia go back.

“It’s quite ridiculous the way she insists Harry is here,” she said crossly. “Isn’t it bad enough being always reminded that we have lost him?” Her little ripe mouth trembled, and finally it was Julia who had to comfort her and take her out to the kitchen where a blonde-haired girl with a tall supple body was setting cups on a tray.

Julia watched the girl closely as Kate performed introductions. She had narrow rather sly blue eyes and a pasty skin, but her body was lovely. So was her smooth genuinely silver-blonde hair. She hadn’t the guile to darken her colourless eyebrows or eyelashes, but even without that she had seductiveness enough. Julia had a feeling of certainty that here was the author of those childish notes. The girl was in love with Paul, her watchful sidelong glances at Julia told that.