The Ivy Tree (17 page)

He said testily: ‘I wish I knew what the devil there was in all this to laugh at.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I was thinking of Con. “The engineer hoist with his own petard.”'

‘What? What are you talking about girl?'

‘It was a quotation,' I said, helplessly. ‘I'm sorry, Grandfather. I'm serious, really I am.'

‘You'd better be. Quotation indeed. You've been wasting your time abroad, I can see that. Some modern rubbish, by the sound of it. Well, what were you thinking about Con?'

‘Nothing really. Aren't you going to tell him that you've made a Will in his favour?'

‘I didn't say I had. And I forbid you to speak to him about it. What I want is to get things straight with you. Perhaps I should have left it till you'd been home a bit longer, but as it happens, I've been thinking a good deal about it lately. You knew Julie was coming up here?'

‘Yes. Lisa told me.'

‘I wrote and asked her to come as soon as she could, and the child tells me she can get leave straight away. When she comes, I want to get things fixed up. Isaacs – do you remember Isaacs?'

‘I – I'm not sure.'

‘The lawyer. Nice chap. I'm sure you met him.'

‘Oh, yes, of course. I remember now.'

‘He's coming on Friday, and then again next week. I suggested the twenty-second.'

‘The twenty-second? That's your birthday, isn't it?'

‘Good God, fancy your remembering.' He looked pleased.

‘Lisa's planning a party, she told me, since we'll all be here, Julie too.'

‘Yes. A family gathering. Appropriate.' He gave that dry, mischievous chuckle again.

I tilted my head and looked up at him, all amusement gone. ‘Grandfather—'

‘Well?'

‘At this – appropriate – family gathering . . .' I paused . . . ‘do you intend to tell us all where we stand?'

‘A nice, old-fashioned gathering of the vultures round the old man's bones? How do you think I like all this talk of what's to happen after I'm dead?'

I grinned at him. ‘You started it, and you told me to be a realist. But, look, Grandfather—' I fought not to let my voice sound too urgent – ‘if you do intend to – to make Con your heir . . . would you tell him so? Please?'

‘Why the devil should I?'

‘It – it would make things easier for me.'

‘Easier for
you
? What d'you mean?'

‘Only that he – well, he'd resent me less. You can't blame Con for being a realist, too, can you? You must know he'll have had expectations.'

‘If he has,' said Grandfather drily, ‘then he's an optimist.' He caught my expression, and laughed. ‘What I do with my property's my own affair, Annabel, and if I choose to allow people to confuse themselves, that's their funeral. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Very clear.'

‘Good. You'll gather that I intend to keep my affairs to myself.'

‘Yes. Well, you've a perfect right to.'

There was a pause. He seemed to be choosing his words, but when he spoke, it was bluntly enough: ‘You know I always wanted you to marry Connor.'

‘Yes, I know. I'm sorry, Grandfather.'

‘It always seemed to me the best answer.'

‘For Whitescar; yes, I see that; but not for me. And not really for Con, Grandfather. Honestly, it wouldn't work. Ever.'

‘Not even after – no; I said I'd drop that subject, and I will.'

‘Not even after that.' I smiled. ‘And it does take two to make a match, you know. I don't think you'll find Con in the same mind as he was eight years ago.'

The old eyes were suddenly very sharp and shrewd. ‘Not even if Whitescar went with you?'

‘Of course not!' But I was disconcerted, and showed it. ‘Don't be so mediaeval, Grandfather.'

He still peered down at me, bright eyed. ‘And if it went with Connor?'

‘Is that a threat or a bribe?'

‘Neither. You've shown me how little effect it would have. I'm thinking about your future, if the place were Con's. Would you stay?'

‘How could I?'

‘Is that meant to be a pistol at my heart?'

‘Good heavens, no. You don't have to worry about me. I'd have Mother's money.'

‘And Whitescar?'

I was silent.

‘Wouldn't you care?'

‘I – I don't know. You've just pointed out that I can hardly expect to walk straight home after eight years.'

‘Well, that's true enough. I'm glad you seem to have faced it. I shan't be here for ever, you know.'

‘I know. But at least I can be here as long as you are.'

He snorted. ‘Soft soap, child. That'll get you nowhere. And don't glare at me like that, it cuts no ice! So you expect me to cut you right out, do you, leave Julie to her own devices, and hand the place lock, stock and barrel, to young Connor? That it?'

I pushed myself upright, away from the gate.

I said: ‘Grandfather, you always were insufferable, and you were never fair in all your born days. How the devil do you expect me to know what you plan to do? You'll do as the mood takes you, fair or no, and Con and I can take what comes, charm we never so wisely.' I added: ‘That was another quotation. And don't say I've been wasting my time again, because that's from the Psalms.'

Grandfather's face never changed, but something came behind the eyes that might have been a grin. He said mildly: ‘Don't swear at me, Annabel my girl, or old as you are, I'll soap your mouth out.'

‘Sorry.' We smiled at one another. There was a pause.

‘It's good to have you back, child. You don't know how good.'

‘I don't have to tell you how good it is to be here.'

He put a hand to the latch of the gate. ‘Come down to the river meadows. There's a yearling there you'll like to see.'

We went down a lane between hedgerows whispering with budding meadowsweet. The hawthorn was rusted thickly over with bunches of dried flowers hardening to fruit.

At the end of the lane a gate opened on a field deep with buttercups and cuckoo-flowers. A grey mare moved towards us, swishing her tail, her sides sleek and heavy. From the shade of a big beech a yearling watched us with eyes as soft and wary as a deer.

‘He's a beauty.'

‘Isn't he?' There was satisfaction and love in the old man's voice. ‘Best foal she ever dropped. Forrest kept a three year old out of her by the same sire, but they'll make nothing of him. Yes, she's a grand mare: I bought her from Forrest three years ago, when the stud was sold up. Give over, Blondie, give over, now.' This to the mare, who was pushing at his chest with her muzzle as he opened the gate and held it for me. ‘Come through. The grass is dry enough. You'll have to find some better shoes for this tomorrow.'

I followed him into the field. ‘What's wrong with the three year old?'

‘What? Oh, Forrest's horse? Nothing, except that nobody's had time to do anything about him. Only kept him out of sentiment, I suppose, as he's one of the old “Mountain” lot. Everest got him; you'll remember Everest? He's gone to the Chollerford stud now; getting long in the tooth, the old devil, but his get's as good as it ever was; look at that yearling. And Forrest's colt could be a winner, too, if they'd time to school him. Rowan, they called him.' He chuckled, and clapped the mare's neck. ‘By Everest, out of Ash Blonde.'

‘Mountain Ash?'

‘That's it. Sort of nonsense Forrest always went in for with his names. You knew the stud was gone?'

‘Oh, yes. What have you called this one? You said he was the same breeding.'

‘We haven't named him yet. That'll be for his owners.'

The mare threw her head up to avoid his caressing hand, and swerved a little, flicking her tail pettishly. She pricked her ears at me, and reached out an inquiring muzzle.

I said, ignoring it: ‘He's sold, then?'

‘Yes. I'm afraid you'll find nothing here to ride now. Blondie's heavy at foot, as you can see, and the youngster'll be away next month.' He laughed. ‘Unless you try your hand with Forrest's three year old. I've no doubt he'd let you if you asked him.'

The mare was pushing close to me. The yearling, looking interested, was coming to join her. From behind me, some way along the lane, I heard footsteps approaching. I backed away from the mare's advance until I was right up against the gate. She pushed her head at me again, and breathed gustily down the front of my dress.

I said breathlessly: ‘Asked who?'

‘Forrest, of course. What the devil's the matter with you, Annabel?'

‘Nothing. What should be the matter?' The footsteps were nearer.

Grandfather was regarding me curiously. ‘You're as white as a sheet! Anyone'd think you were afraid of the mare!'

I managed a little laugh. ‘Afraid of her? How absurd! Here, Blondie . . .' I put out a hand to her head. I hoped he wouldn't see how unsteady it was. The mare was nibbling the buckle of my belt. The yearling had come right up to her shoulder, and stood staring. Any minute now he would close in too . . .

I looked away from Grandfather's curious, puzzled stare, and said quickly: ‘I thought Mr Forrest was in Italy.'

‘He's coming back some time this week, so Johnny Rudd tells me. They didn't expect him quite yet, but I imagine the sale of the place in Italy went through quicker than he'd expected.'

I gave the mare's head a shove away from me. I might as well have shoved an elephant. I said, unsteadily: ‘I – I understood he'd left for good. I mean, with the Hall gone, and – and everything—'

‘No, no. He's planning to settle at West Lodge now, Johnny tells me, with the Rudds to look after him. He came back last year to clear up the rest of the estate, and he and Johnny set to work and got the old gardens going; I believe that's what he plans to do now.'

‘Yes, Con did say—'

Con's voice, from beyond the bend in the lane, called: ‘Uncle Matthew? Annabel?'

‘Here!' called Grandfather.

The mare was nibbling at my frock, and retreating from her advance, I was pressed so hard against the gate, that the bars bit into my back. Grandfather gave a quick little frown. ‘Annabel—'

‘I thought as much!' Con said it, mercifully, from just behind me. ‘I might have known you'd bring her straight down here!'

He must have summed up the situation at a glance as he rounded the bend in the lane: Grandfather, his attention divided between the yearling and my own odd behaviour; myself backed against the gate, chattering breathlessly, and trying, with patently unsteady hands, to stop the mare from blowing lovingly down the breast of my frock.

I saw the flash of amusement in Con's eyes, and then he had leaned over the gate beside me, handed off the importunate mare with one strong thrust and a ‘Give over, now,' that sent her swerving straight away, ears flattened and tail switching. The yearling threw up his lovely head and veered after her. As I relaxed, Con pushed open the gate and came through.

Grandfather, fortunately, was watching the yearling as it cantered away into the shade of the tree. ‘Moves well, doesn't it?' he said fondly.

‘He's a little beauty,' agreed Con.

‘Little?' I said shakily. ‘He looks enormous!'

A flicker in Con's eyes showed me the ineptitude of this remark for someone who was supposed to have lived and breathed horses for most of her life. Then he covered up as smoothly as a practised actor, the amusement warming his voice so faintly that only I would hear it. ‘Yes, he's pretty well grown, isn't he, seeing he's barely a year old . . .' And he plunged easily off into technicalities with Mr Winslow, no doubt to give me time to recover my poise.

Presently Grandfather said: ‘I was telling Annabel that she'll have to see Forrest about some riding if she wants it.'

‘Forrest? Oh, is he back?'

‘Not yet. Some time this week. Johnny Rudd told me they didn't look for him before autumn at the soonest, but apparently he's sold the villa, and he's coming back to live at West Lodge.'

Con was leaning on the gate beside me. He sent a slanting look down at me, with a lurking smile behind it. ‘That's a bit of luck, Annabel. He'll let you ride the Mountain colt.'

I was still shaken, but I had no intention of letting Con amuse himself further at my expense. I said immediately, with every evidence of enthusiasm: ‘Do you really think he would? That's wonderful!'

Con's eyes widened. Grandfather said shortly: ‘Of course he would, unless you've lost your touch completely! Want to come across and look at him now?'

‘I'd love to.'

‘Can't it wait?' said Con. ‘You look tired.'

I looked at him, slightly surprised. ‘I'm all right.'

Con straightened up with that lazy grace of his that looked deliberate, but was in reality as natural as breathing. At the movement, slow though it was, the mare, who was grazing near, rolled a white-rimmed eye and moved away.

‘Doesn't like you, does she?' said Matthew Winslow. ‘Come along then, my dear. Coming, Con?'

Con shook his head. ‘No, I've a lot to do. I really only came down to see if you'd come up into the seventeen-acre and take a look at the cutter for me. She's been running rough, and I don't seem to be able to get to the bottom of the trouble. I could take you up in the car.'

‘The cutter? Good God, can't you put that right without running to me?' But the old man had stopped and turned, looking far from displeased. ‘Well, in that case—' He looked at me. ‘Some other time, perhaps? Unless you go along there yourself? He's at grass, two fields along from the bridge, you know the place, beyond the wood.'