Sea Gem (7 page)

He had been surprised when she had come running after him, smiling a little, shy at her presumption but obviously anxious to be with him.

‘Can I walk with you, Sam?’ she had asked hesitantly.

‘Of course, my dear!’ he had agreed then, seeing her mood, offered nothing more. If she wanted to talk then he knew he was a good listener. On the other hand, if she preferred to
stroll in silence that was all right with him too.

‘I’m off to check the boundary hedges,’ he said to the fresh air in general.

Many of the leaves were already in tight, little buds, on the point of bursting into leaf. Green grass showed itself under the hedge bottoms and he thought to himself how fresh and lovely the
countryside looked.

Mary’s mind whirled. Duret’s short letter had upset her dreadfully. After her row with Victor le Page she had endeavoured to push him from her mind but, always before she fell
asleep, she had been aghast to see his handsome face loom in her memory. Then Duret’s letter had arrived saying all was quiet on the front at the moment. He had enclosed a short poem and it
was this that worried Mary. Try as she might, she had been unable to make head or tail of it. It did not rhyme, it lacked sense and sudden doubts had arisen about Duret. There had been no mention
of wedding plans for which she had been thankful, yet piqued. Now that she was on his island, did he presume it was all settled? Had she failed to make him understand that their engagement was
simply a loose arrangement? She knew she had to talk to someone or she would burst and who else was there but Sam?

She flashed a look at him and he caught it, lifting an eyebrow in a silent question.

‘Homesick?’ he asked gently.

‘I wish it were as simple as that,’ Mary sighed miserably as they reached the far hedge and a five-barred gate.

Sam stopped and leaned against the gate to face her. Mary looked towards him with misery in her eyes. Two cows in the field stared back at her with great interest and one lowed a question,
thought better of it and went back to chewing her cud.

Mary took a deep breath. ‘I think I may have fallen in love with someone else, Sam!’ she blurted out and waited with considerable trepidation.

Sam was taken aback with shock. This was something he had never expected in his wildest thoughts. He paused to sort out delicate words that would neither encourage nor condemn.

‘It’s someone I met the day after I arrived here and we met twice in the one day. On the last occasion we had a thundering row yet—’ her voice tailed away for a moment.
‘I cannot get him out of my mind. There is something about him which attracts me. I am drawn to him against my will and do nothing but think of
him
—not Duret.’

Sam took a deep breath and considered all this. ‘What about Duret and your feelings for him?’

Mary’s shoulders sagged unhappily. ‘The trouble is, Sam, although I like Duret and wear his ring, I do not love him. I’m under some moral duress. He was so begging, so winsome
and I wanted to get right away from England so I agreed to become engaged though I did make it clear that this arrangement was a loose one, capable of being broken by either party at any time.
Certainly nothing would be decided until after the war. Probably I acted wrongly but it’s done now. I’ve had a short note from Duret and, reading between the lines, it all appears to be
settled by him. It’s as if he’s taken it—and me—for granted. He sent me a poem which I cannot understand. What kind of person is he, really?’

Sam turned away, disturbed now. He could feel her eyes riveted on him for the truth.

He turned back with a sigh and little shake of his head. ‘Duret? He’s a dreamer. He wanders through each day in a different world to us and he’s always been like that—the
complete opposite to his dead brother Charles. If Duret had not been such a dreamer he could have done better at school because he is no fool. It was the same with girls here before he joined up.
You’ll have gathered now that young Noyen is a good, financial catch for any girl but Duret was incapable of seeing this even when a girl flung herself at him,’ he explained
carefully.

Mary frowned with bewilderment. ‘As soon as he saw me, he chased me with a vengeance. I made no running!’

‘Is that so?’ Sam replied and looked at her anew. ‘Well, knowing Duret as I do, he was paying you the highest compliment. Naturally you could not appreciate this, lacking the
background. You have that magical something which caught and held his eye and touched his heart,’ he said meaningfully.

He examined the girl. She was no beauty in his eyes, yet neither could she be called plain. Her large, blue eyes had a piercing quality that plumbed to the depths of a problem. She was frankly
honest, outspoken and a man would know where he stood with her. She stood strong and four-square to whatever life might throw at her and her unique spirit flared powerfully. Was it this which Duret
had seen? She was so utterly different from anyone he had met before, including his grandmother.

‘And the other boy?’ he asked delicately.

Mary grimaced. ‘He is Victor le Page and I know who he is. Tante’s bastard grandson!’

Sam was staggered. ‘Him? Good God!’ he exclaimed then puffed his cheeks, turned and studied the two cows. This really did put the cat among the pigeons. Sam considered the Mistress
was totally and even unreasonably stupid where young le Page was concerned. All she could remember was Christine and the disgrace brought upon the Noyen family. She had a blind spot where breeding
was concerned and Sam knew it would take a better man than himself to make her change her opinions.

He turned back. ‘What would you do if Duret came home tomorrow and wanted an instant wedding?’

Mary threw both hands in the air. ‘I just don’t know!’

‘Well!’ was all Sam could manage for a moment. ‘This certainly does make a pretty kettle of fish. The Mistress will throw a fit when she learns about this,’ he warned
her. ‘What is le Page doing back here anyhow?’

Mary sighed. ‘His mother, the lady who adopted him and reared him, has recently died and he has come back to explore his roots and decide what he wants to do. His father died a number of
years ago. There is a Will but he doubts he will receive much money because his father was a drinker.’

Sam knew that. He shook his head with horror at the idea of le Page and Mary as his mind slipped back down the long years. Louise Penford had been eight when Sam was born and he could still
remember her father. Dan Penford had been a strong, tough man; as wild and daring as they came, so was it any wonder he had bred a granddaughter as rugged as himself? What had not been anticipated
was Christine’s feckless nature, crude to the point of being wanton.

Sam knew that breeding was a queer, complex subject whether it be with animals or men. Certain characteristics were recessive, appearing when least expected in future generations. Victor le Page
was a case in point. In looks, colouring and mannerisms, he was a replica of Dan Penford. He had the same loose-limbed build; he was tall and lean and, Sam guessed, he duplicated Dan’s
incredible, whipcord strength. Victor le Page was an unmistakeable Penford and once the Mistress saw him, she would have the shock of her life. She would think the young man was her father
reincarnated. Danny had had a bright, swift intellect plus a fiery temper but he had never been unjust in his actions though he could be a hard man when crossed. He wondered if young le Page had
also inherited these traits. Certainly, when compared to Duret Noyen, Victor le Page was far superior because Sam knew, deep down, that Duret was weak. When an obstacle reared its head, Duret would
simply wander away lost in his own peculiar thoughts mentally composing his poor poetry.

Sam suspected he was totally unsuited to Mary. She was far too ingenuous to cope with someone like Duret. The Mistress knew what her grandson was like as well. Sam knew there was much about the
family finances which had been divulged to the unfortunate Charles but which Louise withheld from Duret because of his flippant approach to life. So what had pushed Duret to join the Militia in the
first place and chase Mary in the second? How had he managed to persuade her to come to the island? It was all very puzzling to him and now there was this added complication. His heart sank
miserably.

‘Well, girl,’ he told her at last, ‘the choice is yours. It has been from the start of time; the female has the prerogative to change her mind and better to do this than wear
the wrong wedding band,’ he advised laconically, refusing to be drawn any more.

‘Oh, Sam!’ Mary breathed. ‘You don’t condemn me?’

Sam gave her a smile. ‘Of course not!’ he replied briskly. ‘And I’ll not say a word to the Mistress or anyone but remember this, the Mistress does not miss much that
happens on this island,’ he warned quickly. ‘If you do meet le Page again to sort something out, make sure you are not observed. There are few secrets anyhow on Guernsey and it never
ceases to amaze me how much information the Mistress acquires without appearing to ask a single question.’

‘I’ll remember!’ Mary whispered with relief then, on an impulse, stood leaned over and kissed one leathery cheek. ‘Thank you, Sam! I feel much better for talking to
you!’

* * *

Louise looked at the girl from across a huge, dark table in the best room. She dropped her eyes and calculated again in swift, silent checking but there was no error.

Mary studied the room. Since her talk two days ago with Sam her heart had lifted while her emotions settled down. What exactly would happen in the future she had no idea and for the time being
was content to live each day as it came. She liked this room, the first time she had been in it long enough to study its detail. It was very large and filled with fine, old furniture without being
cluttered. There were four large, easy chairs and dining chairs ranged themselves alongside the table. Another enormous dresser flanked one wall, filled with top quality china. A number of
paintings hung from the walls, all of them seascapes and, though she knew nothing of art, Mary liked them and sensed they were well executed. Underfoot was a thick, mottled green carpet—the
same shade as the long, lined curtains.

‘Like it?’ Tante asked suddenly. She had been examining Mary’s face, puzzled by the girl but not displeased. She had brightened up recently and Louise hoped this was the end of
the homesickness.

‘It’s lovely!’ Mary replied enthusiastically. ‘So rich yet lived in and all those books!’

‘Help yourself to whatever you wish to read,’ Louise replied generously. She was no great reader herself but understood the fascination print could have for others. Their vast
collection had been acquired by her father who had never gone to sea without two fresh books in his cabin.

Mary nodded. ‘What is that?’

Louise grinned and sat back in her chair. ‘That is the
Jonquière
. Most good Guernsey homes have one. Even the humble fisherman’s cottage. It’s common name is
the Green Bed. They go back a long way historically and once were nothing but fern covered couches used by the farmers for a midday rest. Now they are simply another island custom. A Guernsey home
would not be that without its Green Bed.’

‘You have Guernsey milk cans in silver as well as two in good china.’ Mary pointed.

Louise eyed her thoughtfully. ‘For someone reared in an orphanage you have taste and knowledge but I suppose you acquired both in service. I can see too why you were given an initial
teaching post. You have good handwriting and your figures are most accurate.’

Mary was pleased. There had been few genuine compliments in her life to date.

Louise continued. ‘You said you wanted some work to do though it’s not necessary,’ she added quickly. ‘As my grandson’s intended you have the right to live here
doing nothing until he returns and you marry. However I think such idleness might pall after a while.’

Mary felt the brown eyes on her as she stared at the Green Bed. Here it came again—the ugly problem of marrying Duret plus the consequences if she did not.

‘If you really want to help I’d be glad,’ Louise said.

‘I’d like that,’ Mary told her honestly.

‘I’m part-owner of a quarry,’ Louise explained receiving Mary’s sharp attention. ‘Quarrying has always been big business on this island and it goes right back to
the eighteenth century. There are many quarries here, the bulk of them in the north of this island. Ship-building is also another good business as well as growing tomatoes plus our cows with their
rich milk and butter. However I suspect ship-building might decline when the war ends and perhaps too even the quarrying. In which case I’ll sell out and concentrate upon the tomatoes until I
think of something else worthwhile. Until that happens though I do really need someone to do the quarry accounts and books. I’m not as quick with figures as I used to be and I’m slow
compared to you.’

Mary nodded and waited to learn more so Tante continued.

‘Our stone is exceptionally strong,’ Tante told her, pleased with Mary’s concentrated interest. ‘Tests have been carried out on the mainland which prove our stone will
only lose four to five pounds of wear over a given period of time while Dartmoor granite will lose twelve and a half pounds and Aberdeen stone fourteen and three-quarter pounds.’

Mary sat enthralled. Acquiring information was her favourite pastime and she concentrated hard.

Louise steepled her fingers together as she explained. ‘In 1913 we exported nearly half a million tons of stone to the mainland. Did you know that it is our splendid stone which was used
in the construction of the Bank of England and the steps to St Paul’s Cathedral?’

‘No, I didn’t!’ Mary exclaimed, then her thoughts moved to another area and she frowned. ‘I’m rather puzzled,’ she said carefully. ‘You own a half share
of a quarry but this lovely house with its magnificent furniture and grounds must have cost a lot of money in the first place? What they call a capital investment?’ and she held her breath
wondering if she had been too nosy.

Louise’s lips twitched. She admired the girl’s perspicacity and was also annoyed by it. As yet she was not a member of the family and had no right to more information.