Ivy Tree (27 page)

If she shared her half-brother's wariness and worry, she didn't show it, unless perhaps in a reflection of his reckless industry. Regardless of the heat, she threw herself into a positive frenzy of housewifery and cooking, and we were treated to a magnificent course of haute cuisine which drew only the most casual of accolades from the others, which Con, shut in his cold and wary preoccupations, noticed not at all, and which proved a great nuisance to me, who had in common civility to offer my help in whatever job she undertook.

For me, it was something of a relief to find myself abruptly removed from the centre of attention. Con was, for the moment, no longer concerned with me, and Lisa had accepted me completely. What jealous thoughts she may have originally had of me, she had transferred to Julie, who (to do her justice), had done nothing to deserve them. Me, she seemed even to like; I had the odd feeling that, in her stolid, brother-centred way, she was even grateful for my presence at Whitescar, where Mr. Winslow persisted in regarding her as something of a stranger, a sort of paid-housekeeper-cum-poor-relation; Mrs. Bates with a slightly jealous Northern caution; and Con himself with a casual affection that took everything, including the most detailed personal service, completely for granted.

Meanwhile, the heat increased, charging the air with thunder, adding this threat to the other perceptible weights in the air. Day by day the great soapsud clouds built up their slow thunder-towers in the south-west. The trees hung heavily, as if themselves exhausted by the heat, and the sky was a deep, waiting blue.

And Con kept quiet, and watched the clouds, and drove himself and the men like galley-slaves to clear the fields before the weather broke . . . And with that same cold preoccupation, and for a closely analogous reason, he watched Grandfather . . .

•••

Wednesday came, still without the threatened thunderstorm. The air felt a little lighter, as a small breeze had sprung up, though without shifting the towering, beautiful clouds. But the sense of oppression (or was it foreboding?) seemed to have lifted.

Mr. Isaacs came just before midday, and Grandfather took him straight into the office. I gave them ten minutes^ then went to the dining-room to get the sherry.

As I crossed the hall, Julie came downstairs, pulling on her gloves.

I paused. "Why, hullo! Arc you going now? My, my, don't you look wonderful!"

? This was true. She was wearing crisp cotton, the colour of lemon-ice, and her gloves were white. The pale, shining hair was brushed into an elaborate and very attractive style that had been thought up at least two hundred miles from Whitescar. Over one arm she carried a little coat of the same material as the frock.

I said: "Very nice! But why so early? I thought Donald couldn't get away till after lunch?" She tugged the second glove into place, pushing the heavy gold bracelet higher up her wrist with a sharp little movement that looked almost savage. "Donald," she said crisply, "can't get away at all."

"What?"

"He rang up an hour ago to say that he couldn't go, after all." "Oh, Julie, no! Why?" Her careful composure shivered a bit, like cat-ice wrinkling under the wind. Her eyes were stormy.

"Because he doesn't think what / want to do matters a damn, that's why!" I threw a glance towards the office door. "Come into the dining-room. I was just going to take Mr. Isaacs and Grandfather some sherry..." In the dining-room I said: "Now come off it, honey. Why can't he come?

What's happened?"

"Somebody's turned up from London, that's why. Some beastly man from the Commission, who's working with Donald, and Donald says he'll have to stay and see him. He says—oh,-what's it matter, anyway? I didn't listen. It's always the same, I might have known. The one time he did say he'd leave his precious blasted Romans—"

"Julie, he'd come if he could. He can't help it."

"I know! Oh, it isn't that! It's just—oh, it's just everything I" cried Julie. "And he sounded so calm and reasonable—"

"He always does. He would in a fire. It's a habit men have; they think it calms us, or something."

"Well, but he seemed to think / ought to be reasonable, too!" said Julie, furiously. "How dumb can you get?

.. . Annabel, if you laugh, I'll kill you!" She gave a reluctant grin. "Anyway, you know exactly what I mean."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. But you're not being fair to Donald, arc you? The man's got a job to do, and if something crops up that has to be attended to—"

"Oh, I know, I know. I'm not as silly as all that. But he knew how foully disappointed I'd be. He needn't have sounded just as if he didn't even mind not going out with me."

"He wouldn't mean to, you know. He's just not the type to spread himself all over the carpet for you to trample on. He'd be as sorry as the next man, but he—well, he just hasn't got the gift of the gab."

"No, he hasn't, has he?" Her voice was genuinely bitter. She had turned aside to pick up the jacket from the chair where she had thrown it.

"My dear-"

"It's all right. I dare say I'm being stupid about it, but* I can't help that. It would be different if he'd ever—if I knew—" she sounded all at once very young—"if I was sure he cared."

"He does care. I'm sure he does."

"Then why the hell doesn't he say so?" cried Julie explosively. She snatched up her coat. "Oh, what's the use?" "Is he still coming to dinner tonight?" "He said he'd try. I said he could please himself." "Oh, Julie!"

"Oh, I didn't just say it like that. I was really quite nice about it." She gave me a wavering smile. "Almost reasonable ... But if he knew what hellish thoughts were churning away inside me...

"It's often a good thing they don't," "They? Who?" I grinned. "Men."

"Oh, men" she said, in accents of loathing. "Why are men?" "I give you three guesses."

"The most harmless answer is that there'd be nothing whatever to do if there weren't any, I suppose."

"There'd be nothing whatever, period," I said.

"Well, you've got something there," said Julie, "but don't ask me to admit it for quite some time. Oh, Annabel, you've done me good. I must go now; there's the car."

"Car?"

She gave me a little sideways look under her lashes. "I told you I wasn't going to miss this play. I'm going with Bill Fenwick." "I see."

"And just what do you see?"

I ignored that. "But surely the play's going to open in London soon? You'll see it there?" "That," said Julie,

"is not the point."

"No, quite. Donald couldn't get' away, so you rang up Bill Fenwick, and asked him to take you? That it?"

"Yes," she said, with a shade of defiance.

"And he dropped everything, and promptly came?*'

"Yes." She eyed me. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all," I said cheerfully. "I hope they've finished leading for the day at Nether Shields, that's all."

"Annabel," said Julie, warmly, "are you trying to be a pig?" I laughed. "I was, rather. Never mind me, honey, go and enjoy your play. We'll be seeing you at dinner. And, Julie—"

"What is it?"

"If Donald does come, don't make it too obvious that you're a bit fed-up with him, will you? No—" as she made a little movement of impatience—"this isn't Advice from Aunt Annabel. What's between you and Donald is your affair. I was thinking of something quite different . . . I'll explain later. There's no time now .

. . But come and see me when you get in, will you? I've something to tell you."

"Sure," said Julie.

The front door shut behind her. I found the sherry glasses, and a tray, but as I set the decanter on this, the office door opened, and Grandfather came out.

He was making for the baize door that led to the kitchen lobby, but, hearing the chink of glass, he stopped, turned, and saw me through the open door or the dining-room. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then abruptly to make up his mind. He came into the room, and shut the door quietly behind him.

"I was just going to bring you some sherry," I said. "Were you looking for me?"

"I was going to get Betsy Bates and that girl Cora to witness my signature," he said, in a dry, rather harsh voice.

"Oh." I waited. He stood just inside the door, his head bent and thrust forward, staring at me under his brows.

"Child—" He seemed not quite to know what he had come to say. "Yes?"

"I've taken you at your word."

I tried not to let him see the relief that swept through me. "I'm glad of that," "I believe you are." I said earnestly: "It's right, Grandfather, you said yourself it was only right and fair. It's best for everyone—Con, me, the place, your peace of mind."

"Julie?"

"And Julie," I said steadily. "Julie loves this place, don't think she doesn't, but can you see her running it?" He gave his little bark of laughter. "Frankly, no. Must confess I've wondered, though, with young Fenwick in the offing—"

I said quickly: "There's nothing in that. It's Donald Seton, and you know he lives in London when he's not on field work."

"Hm. Gathered there was something in the wind. Not quite senile yet. Decent sort of fellow, I thought, Gentleman, and so on. Only thing is, he doesn't look as if he's got a penny to his name." I laughed. "His clothes and car? That's affectation, when he's out on a dig. I'll bet he's formal enough in London. He makes eighteen hundred a year, rising to two thousand five hundred, and his family's got money."

"How the devil d'you know?"

"Julie told me. She looked him up."

"Good God," said Grandfather, impressed. "Girl's got sense, after all." He gave a curious little sigh, and then smiled the tight, lipless smile of the old. "Well, that's that, isn't it? All settled. But I don't mind telling you. I haven't liked it. Boy's all right, don't think I don't know it, but not m'own flesh and blood. Not the same. Young people don't understand that nowadays, but it's true. A bit too much of the damned foreigner about Connor sometimes."

"Foreigner?" I said blankly.

"Irish," said Grandfather. I thought of Donald, and smiled to myself, but he didn't see. He was looking past me, out of the window. "If your father, or Julie's, had lived, it would have been a different matter." Yes, I said gently.

The old eyes came back to me. "You and Connor should have made a match of it. Should still. I'm not raking up the past, but after what's been between you—"

"I told you, it would never have worked."

"Not then, no. Too much of the Winslow in both of you, perhaps. But now ... say what you like, the onlooker sees most of the game. I still think it would be the best thing. For the place, for Connor; yes, and for you. Never a woman born yet, that wasn't the better for a husband. Don't just stand and smile at me, child. Come here."

I went and stood in front of him. He put up a hand, and held it against my cheek. It was cool and very dry, and felt as. light as a leaf. "It's made me very happy, your coming back. Don't think for a moment that you're not my favourite, because you are."

"I always did say you were never fair in your life." "I've left you some money," he said gruffly. "A good sum and Julie, too. I want you to know." "Grandfather, I—"

"It's settled. We'll have neither thanks nor argument I've done what I think fair, in spite of what you say about me. Tell you just how it stands. It's tangled up in a lot of lawyer's nonsense, but it amounts to this: Whitescar goes to Connor, with the house, stock, implements, the lot I take it you won't contest that? Or Julie?"

"No."

A grin. "Doubt if you could, anyway. Isaacs' wrapped it all up in legal jargon, with reasons stated. Seems you have to stop anyone being able to say, later on, that you were cranky when you made the Will. So there it is, all laid out: Whitescar goes as an acknowledgement of Connor's 'devoted work', for which I've so far made 'inadequate recompense'. True enough. Well, there it is. Then we come to the recompense for you."

"For me? What have I ever done, except run away?"

"Recompense for losing Whitescar. Should have been yours. Handed over your head to Connor."

"Oh." I waited, hopelessly.

"The money," said Grandfather. He had a hand on the table, and was leaning on it "I've divided it into three. A third goes to Julie, outright. It's all she ever expected, and I doubt if she'll quarrel with Con over Whitescar. If she marries this man of hers, she'll be well enough found. The other two-thirds I've left in trust, to pay your income for life." "In-trust?"

"That's what I said. Worked it all out with Isaacs as the best way. I want you repaid for losing Whitescar, and I want to see you well-provided-for. But I don't want the money to leave the land outright. You said you'd not stay here when I'd gone; remember? So it's left in trust for your lifetime. After your death it comes back to Connor absolutely, or to his heirs. On the other hand, if Connor should die before you, without issue, then Whitescar becomes yours, and the money along with it, absolutely. I take it, if he were gone, you'd look after the place ... ? Good girl." His hand lifted. "No, wait. I haven't finished. There's one thing more. If you should marry Connor—"

"Grandfather—"

"If you should marry Connor, and live at Whitescar, the money becomes yours then, absolutely. Clear?"

"Y—yes."

The only really clear thing was the old man's determination to tie the money to Whitescar; and me, along with it, if he could, to Con. The wrong end of the shotgun, with a vengeance. Dazedly, I tried to assess the probable results of what he had just told me. "But.. . two-thirds for me, and a third for Julie? What about Con? If I don't—I mean—" I floundered, and stopped. It was no use insisting; let him keep his dream.

"I've left him a little, and Lisa, too."

"But, Grandfather—"

"My good girl—" he was suddenly irritable—"anyone would think you were trying to get rid of every penny piece to Connor I Are you mad? If the place comes to him over the heads of you and Julie, he can hardly expect much more 1 It'll not be easy for him, with only a small capital to back him, but he'll have all the liquid assets of the place, and he'll make out."

He stopped, breathing rather hard. I noticed all at once how heavily he was leaning on his hand. He pulled a handkerchief, rather fumblingly, from his breast-pocket, and touched it to his mouth. "Con's a good lad, and a clever lad; he's not afraid of work, and the land's in good heart. I think it's fair enough, all round."