The Ivy Tree (30 page)

‘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. He sent me a look up under the white brows, a pale counterfeit of his old, bright glance, but recognisably the same. ‘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! Are you mad? If the place comes to him over the heads of you and Julie, he can hardly expect much more! 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.'

‘Darling, of course it is! More than fair! And now let's stop thinking about it; it's done, let's all forget it, and you forget it, too.' I grinned at him. ‘You know I can't stomach these post-mortems.'

He patted my cheek. ‘Dear child,' he said, and went abruptly out of the room.

What it cost Con in self-command I shall never know, but he did not come in to luncheon. The lawyer left immediately afterwards, and Grandfather retired to rest. I had promised Lisa to go into Bellingham that afternoon to do some shopping. She was already busy with preparations for dinner, but had refused to allow me to help her ‘because,' she said simply, ‘I enjoy special occasions, and I'm selfish; but you shall do the table if you like.'

I laughed. ‘All right, I've no quarrel with that. If I'm to be allowed to eat your cooking without having to work for it, that's okay by me.'

‘Oh, you can wash up,' said Lisa placidly, adding, with that spice of malice that was never far away: ‘Julie can help you.'

The shopping did not take long, and I caught the four o'clock bus back from Bellingham, which put me down at the head of the lane. I assembled my rather awkward collection of packages and set off downhill.

When I reached the mouth of the disused quarry where, on the first day, I had left my luggage, I saw a car standing there, an old car with too much chrome winking too brightly in the sun. Donald's car.

I picked my way in at the rutted entrance of the quarry. Donald was there, pipe in mouth, hands deep in trouser-pockets, his head tilted back, apparently surveying the high wall at the back of the quarry. This was of sand-coloured stone, darkened with weathering, and here and there fissured red with iron. It was a big quarry, deep and narrow, consisting of several sections opening out of one another, partitioned off by jutting walls of rock. The cliff tops were crested with woods, whose crowding trees had sown seedlings broadcast, so that every ledge and tumble of rock was hung with green, and young oaks thrust golden frilled leaves above the brambles and foxgloves that hid the edges of the quarry floor. It must have been decades since any stone had been taken out of here.

Donald turned when he heard my footsteps, took the pipe out of his mouth, and smiled.

‘Why, hullo.'

‘Hullo.' I added, a little awkwardly, with a gesture of the basket and parcels in my hands: ‘I saw your car, and yielded to temptation. You were coming down to Whitescar, weren't you?'

‘If I hadn't been,' said Donald diplomatically, ‘I should be now.'

I laughed. ‘You could hardly do anything else. I've an awful nerve, haven't I?' I hoped that my glance at his suit, which was, for once, impeccably formal, had not been too obvious. ‘But surely, you're coming to dinner?'

I thought he looked uncertain. I added, quickly: ‘Julie said you weren't quite sure if you could manage it after all, but we're hoping you will. It'll be worth it, I promise you. There were rumours about duckling.'

‘I'm sure it will. Miss Dermott's a wonderful cook. Well, if you're sure I haven't put things out—'

‘Of course you haven't. We were all hoping you'd manage to get away. Julie'll be delighted. She's out just now; she went into Newcastle, after all; but she'll be back in time for dinner.'

‘Did she? Then she won't miss the play. I'm glad. Did her cousin take her?'

‘Con? No. Bill Fenwick. D'you know him?'

‘She mentioned him. Would you like to put your parcels in the car?' He moved to open the door and take them from me.

‘Thanks very much.' I handed them over with a sigh of relief. ‘There. At least that's one way of ensuring that you do come to dinner. I only hope I'm not taking you down too early.'

‘No; I wasn't going straight there, as it happens; I want to go over and see Mr Forrest, so I'll take you down via Whitescar, and—' he grinned ‘– it'll be very nice to have someone to open the gates.'

‘Fair enough. And there's an extra one now; one of the cattle-grids is damaged, and you have to use the gate.' I added, curiously, for his eyes had returned to the quarry face: ‘What interests you here? This is a geologist's sort of thing, not an archaeologist's, surely?'

‘Oh, sure. But there is something interesting. This is the local sandstone, the building stone you'll see they've used for all the old houses hereabouts, and most of the walls, too. It's an old quarry. I've been asking about it, and I'm told it stopped working in 1910. I'd like to find out when it started, how far back there are any records of it.'

‘I can tell you one thing, though it may be only legend. This is supposed to be the quarry that Whitescar came out of, and I suppose Forrest too, though Whitescar's older. It's supposed to have taken its name from the quarry. When this sort of stone is newly blasted, could it be said to look white?'

‘Fairly pale, anyway. Yes, I'd heard of that story. It's in Bewick's
Northumberland
. The first Whitescar was built in the fifteen hundreds, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. And the main part of Forrest in 1760, or something like that. At any rate the first workings here must be at least four hundred years old.'

‘Older than that, by far.' He smiled. ‘The quarry was here long before Whitescar was built. When you come to think about it, it is more likely that the place got its name from a quarry – a white scar – that was already a well-known landmark,
before
they took the stone out to build the house.'

‘It could be, I suppose. Is this a guess, or can you tell, somehow?' I looked vaguely at the overgrown rock around us.

‘I can tell.' I saw, suddenly, a spark of excitement in the deep hazel eyes. ‘Come and tell me if you see what I see. Over here, and watch your feet. There are bits of old iron and stuff lying around still. The oldest end of the quarry's along here, and it's flooded. I'll go first, shall I?'

We picked our way through the foxgloves, and the buds of ragwort, where loose stones and shards of rusting iron made going dangerous. A rabbit bolted out of a clump of nettles, and dived out of sight down an unlikely-looking crevice.

‘A nice fat one,' said Donald, watching it.

‘Were you thinking of the cooking-pot, and Lisa's arts?'

‘I was not. I was thinking about myxomatosis.'

‘Oh. Seeing the rabbits coming back, you mean?'

‘Yes, the destructive little devils. But will you ever forget seeing them hobbling about, dying and in pain, and having to kill them, and not quite knowing how, and being afraid one wouldn't manage it cleanly the first time? One got sickeningly good at it, in the end. It may be the wrong thing to say to a farmer's daughter, but I'm pleased to see them back, nice and fat and immune, and I hope they eat every blade of grass belonging to the brutes who deliberately gave them the disease . . . But of course you won't remember it. You weren't here, I keep forgetting. You seem so much a part of the scene at Whitescar. It's a lovely place, isn't it?'