CHAPTER VII

Some men has plenty money and no brains, and some men has plenty brains and no money. Surely men with plenty money and no brains were made for men with plenty brains and no money. From the Notebook of the Tichborne Claimant.

"WELL?" said Lisa softly, like an echo.

She was waiting at the foot of the stairs. A shaft of sunlight through the hall window dazzled along the edge of the copper bowl of pansies. She had her back to the light, and I couldn't see her expression, but even in the one softy-uttered word I could hear some of the trembling uncertainty she had showed in the kitchen. "How did it go off?"

I had paused when I saw her waiting, and now came reluctantly down the stairs.

"All right. Far better than I'd have expected."

She gave her withdrawn, close-lipped smile. It was as if, with this quiet lying-in-wait, these careful whispers, she was deliberately putting me back where I belonged; inside a dusty little cell of conspiracy, able to share my thoughts and hopes only with herself and Con, bound to them in a reluctant but unbreakable intimacy.

She said: "I told you there was nothing to be afraid of."

"I know. But I suppose conscience makes cowards of us all."

•What?"

"Nothing. A quotation. Shakespeare."

She looked faintly resentful, as she had in the kitchen when Con and I had seemed to be moving too fast for her. Perhaps the quotation irked her, or the realisation that I hadn't come from Grandfather's room bursting with confidence; or perhaps she didn't like to be reminded that I had once had a conscience. At any rate she slammed the door of the conspirators' cell hard on me once again. "You're very literary today. You want to be careful. It isn't in character."

I smiled. "I've had plenty time to settle down and improve my mind abroad."

“Hm. He didn't—he wasn't suspicious at all?”

"No.” I spoke a little wearily. "It's exactly as you and Con

foretold. There's no reason why he should be. It never even entered his head." She pursed her lips with satisfaction. "Well, what did happen?"

My mind went back to the scene upstairs. Well, they couldn't buy everything. I said slowly: "You can have the main outlines, if you like. I told him where I'd been since I left here, and how I'd been living. You know we'd arranged to tell the simple truth about that, as much as possible."

"Did he say much about . . . the trouble? The reason why you went?"

"If you mean the baby, he never mentioned it until I did. I simply told him I'd been mistaken, and that I'd found out my mistake after I'd gone abroad. And of course I never wrote to tell him so, since I'd no idea that Con had told him about it, and that he'd been worrying. That was all. He was so relieved, and ... oh, well, skip that. I was quite right, you know, Lisa. It would have been unforgivable to tell him anything else. As it is, we can forget all that part of the story. I don't suppose he'll refer to it again."

"And Con?" Her voice had lifted perceptibly.

"I tried to make it clear that, whatever had happened in the past, nothing in the world would persuade me to—well, to take up with Con again." I saw the look in her face, and added smoothly: "That, of course, was to protect Con and myself. It was quite possible, you know, that Grandfather was nursing some hopes of a reconciliation. I had to insist that there could never be anything between Con and myself except—" I hesitated "—you might call it armed neutrality."

"I see. Yes, that would have been—" she stopped. That conspirator's look again. "I'm sure you're right. There was nothing more? Nothing about the—the future?"

"Nothing at all."

She looked about her. "Well, you can't say much more just now, that's obvious. He'll be coming down soon. Later tonight, when we're alone, you can tell me all that was said."

"Make my report? No," I said gently.

Her mouth opened, with as much surprise as if I had struck her. "What d'you mean? You surely don't think that you can—"

"You probably wouldn't understand what I mean. But let's put it like this. I've a difficult role to play, and the only way to play it is to be it, to live in it, breathe it, think it, try to dream it. In other words, not to have to keep stepping out or Annabel's skin to remember that I'm just someone pretending to be Annabel. I can't act this thing in a series of little scenes, Lisa, with commentaries to you and Con in the intervals. If there's anything vital, or if I should want your help, believe me, I won't hesitate to come to you. But the biggest help you can both give me is simply to forget all that's happened in the last three weeks, and think of me, if you can, just as Annabel, come back to take my accustomed place in my own home. If you keep asking me questions, jerking me back out of my part into the part of Mary Grey, impostor. . . . Well, then, Lisa, some day I may get my parts mixed up, and go wrong. And I could go very wrong indeed, very easily." I paused, and added, lightly enough: "Well, there it is. Forget Mary Grey. Forget she ever existed. Believe me, I'm right. This is the only way to take it,"

She said doubtfully: "Well, yes, but..."

I laughed. "Oh, Lisa, stop looking at me as if you were Frankenstein, and the monster had just got away from you f I'm only talking common sense! And you've only to remember that Con and I are mutually committed, even to the extent of signing those deadly little 'confessions' for each other to keep, just in case. I've no doubt Con keeps mine next to his skin, day and night Call it remote control if you like, but it's there!

Even if Annabel Winslow is home again, at least you know that she's got to bat on Con's side this time I"

"I—well, yes, of course? Forgive me, I didn't really doubt you, but this afternoon has been disconcerting, to say the least You ... you're so very good at this. I've been the one to be nervous."

"I assure you, I'm quaking inside! It's all right I won't double-cross you, you know, Lisa, even if I dared."

"Dared?"

I didn't answer, and after a moment her eyes dropped. "Well, that's that, then. And you're quite right I'll try and do as you say, and forget it all, unless there's anything urgent. But it certainly doesn't look as if you're going to need much help, my dear. If you got away with that—" A movement of her head towards the upper landing completed the sentence for her.

"Well, I did. Now let's forget it. Did you say something about tea?"

"I was just going to make it," "Do you want any help?" "Not on your first day home."

"Then I think I'll go upstairs for a little. Am I in my old room." She smiled. "Yes. D'you mind using the nursery bathroom? You’ll be sharing it with Julie."

"Of course not. Does she know about me?"

"Yes. She rang up last night, to say she'd be here on Wednesday, and Mr. Winslow told her about you. That's all I know."

"Wednesday ..." I paused with a foot on the lowest stair. "Ah well, that gives us two more days. Oh, Lisa, I forgot, my cases—"

"Con brought them in just now, and took them up."

"Oh? It was good of him to get them so quickly. I'll see you at tea, then. Where d'you have it?"

"When I'm alone, in the kitchen as often as not. But for today, the drawing-room. Your grandfather'll be down, I expect. Did he say?"

"Yes. He—he wants to show me round the place himself after tea." The brown eyes held mine just a moment longer than was necessary.

"Of course," said Lisa, abandoning comment with what looked like an effort, "he would want to do that. Naturally. Well-I’ll see you later."

I turned and went back upstairs. I could see her watching me as, unhesitatingly, I took the left-hand passage past the head of the gallery.

"Yours is the second door" ... It was a pleasant room, with a long latticed window like Grandfather's, and the same Albertine rose nodding outside it. There was a wide window-seat, covered with chintz in a pretty, Persian-looking pattern of birds and flowers and trellis-work, done in deliberately-faded colours. The same chintz appeared for curtains and bedspread. The furniture was plain deal, white-painted; originally it would speak of 'nursery*, but now a new coat of paint made it merely cottagey and very charming. The floor was of polished boards with a couple of rugs, and the walls and ceiling were plain ivory-white. Con had dumped my baggage on the floor near the foot of the bed. He had also thoughtfully brought up my handbag, which I must have left in the kitchen, and this lay on the bed. I wasn't prepared to cope with unpacking yet. I picked up the handbag and carried it across to the window-seat, I sat down, opened the bag, and took out my cigarettes.

As I shook one loose from the pack, I glanced at the door. There was a key in the lock. So far, so good. I had a feeling that I was going to need frequent doses of privacy to recover from the rounds of a game which, though so far it had proved a walk over, might well get stickier as time went on. I put the cigarette in my mouth, and felt in the little mirror-pocket in my bag where I had carried a flat book of matches. It wasn't there. My fingers met merely a slip of paper. Surely, I thought, irritably, I had had one? I had been smoking in the bus coming from Newcastle ... I pulled the bag wider to look for it. I saw it immediately, then, a little scarlet book labelled Cafe" Kasbah” tucked deep in the pocket on the other side of my bag, where I kept bills and shopping-lists and oddments of that sort. I lit the cigarette slowly, and sat contemplating the bag, open on my lap. Now that I had noticed it, there were other signs. The top had come loose on one of my lipsticks; the few papers that I carried were shuffled hastily back into their places as I didn't think I had put them; the slip of paper where I had scribbled down the Whitescar telephone number, which had been among the other papers, was pushed into the mirror-department where normally the matches were kept. Whoever had scrabbled hastily through my handbag, had taken few pains to cover his tracks.

Con? Lisa? I grinned to myself. What was it they called this kind of thing? Counter-espionage? That, I was sure, was how it would rank in Lisa's mind. Whatever you called it, it was surely a little late, now, for them to be checking on my bona-fides.

I went quickly through what was there. The telephone number; it was natural enough that I should have scribbled that down; numbers change in eight years. A bus time-table, acquired that day on my way here. The receipt for my lodgings near the Haymarket, also received that morning. That was all right; it was addressed to "Miss A, Winslow".

Then I hesitated, with it in my hand. Was it all right, after all? It was admittedly unlikely that Grandfather would ever see it, or check on it if he did, but both Con and Lisa had visited me there. It was better out of the way. I crumpled the paper up, and threw it into the empty fireplace. I would burn it before I went downstairs.

I turned over the other papers. A few shopping chits; a couple of used bus tickets; a folded paper of pale green . . .

I picked it out from among the others, and unfolded it. "Passenger Motor Vehicle Permit. . . Mary Grey

..." and the address near Montreal. There it lay, clear as a curse, the Canadian car permit; the owner's licence that you carry daily, yearly, and never even see, except when the time comes round to renew it... Well, I thought, as I crumpled it in my hand, Con and Lisa must realise what an easy mistake this had been to make. I wondered, not without amusement, how on earth they would manage to warn me about it, without having to confess that they had searched my belongings. At least they could not also have searched my cases; the key hung on a chain round my neck, and there it was going to stay... From somewhere outside I heard Lisa calling, and Con's voice in reply. I heard him cross the yard towards the house. There was a low-voiced colloquy, then he went back towards the buildings. I got up, and set a match to the crumpled bill in the fireplace, then carefully fed the car permit into the flames. I picked up the poker, and stirred the burned fragments of paper till they flaked and fell away to nothing, through the bars of the grate. Then I went back to the sunny window, picked up my half-smoked cigarette, and sat for some minutes longer, trying to relax.

The window looked out over the small front garden. This was a simple square bounded by low sandstone walls, and sloping slightly towards die river. From the front door a gravel path, weedy and unraked, led straight to the white wicket-gate that gave on the river-bank and the bridge that spanned the water. There was a garden, which sprawled a few hardy pansies and marigolds. Behind these borders, to either side, the unkempt grass reached back to what had once been the flower-beds.

Here was confusion indeed. Lupins had run wild, all the gay colours faded back to their pristine blue; peonies crouched sullenly under the strangling bushes of fuchsia and flowering-currant, and everywhere ivy, bindweed, and rose-bay willow-herb were joyously completing their deadly work. At first glance, the riot of colour might deceive the eye into thinking that here was a pretty garden still, but then one saw the dandelions, the rampant rose-bushes, the docks in the rank grass under the double-white lilac tree ... Beyond the far wall, and the white wicket, was a verge of sheep-bitten grass and the wooden bridge that was Whitescar's short cut to town. From the other end of the bridge the track wound up through the trees that crowded the far bank, and vanished eventually into their shadow.

My eye came back, momentarily, to the tangled garden. Two blackbirds had flown into the lilac tree, quarrelling furiously. The great heads of milky blossom shook and swayed. I could smell lilac from where I sat.

("Annabel's garden. She planted it all. Remember to ask Con what's in it... if he knows.") He had not known.

I leaned to stub out my cigarette on the stone sill outside the window-frame. It was time to go down. Act Two. Back into the conspirators* cell with Con and Lisa. I found myself hoping passionately that Con wouldn't be in to tea.

•

•

*

He wasn't, and it was still, it seemed, going to be easy. Grandfather came down a little late, opened the drawing-room door on me discussing amiably with Lisa what had happened to various neighbours during my long absence, and thereafter acted more or less as though the eight years' gap had never been. After tea he took me outside, and led the way towards the farm buildings. He walked fairly rapidly, and held his gaunt body upright apparently without effort. With the westering sun behind him, shadowing the thinned, bony face, and making the grey hair look blond as it must once have been, it wasn't difficult to see once more the active, opinionated, quick-tempered man who had done so much through his long life to make Whitescar the prosperous concern it now was. I could see, too, why Con— in spite of the old man's favour—walked warily.

Grandfather paused at the yard gate. "Changed much?'*

"The farm? I-it's hard to tell."

A quick look under the jutting white brows. "What d'you mean?" I said slowly: "Oh, some things, yes. The new paint, and— that wall's new, isn't it? And the concrete, and all that drainage. But I meant—well, I've been gone a long time, and I suppose I've lived so long on a memory of Whitescar, that now it's bound to look strange to me. My picture of it—my imagined picture, I mean—has become almost more real than the thing itself. For one thing," I laughed a little, "I remember it as being always in sunshine. One does, you know."

"So they say. I'd have thought you'd be more likely to remember it the way you left it. It was a vile day."

"Yes. I went before it was fully light, and you can imagine what it looked like. Rain and wind, and the fields all grey and flattened. I remember how awful that one looked—at least, was it in corn that year? I—I forget."

"Turnips. But you're quite right. The corn was badly laid everywhere that year."

"The odd thing is," I said, "that I hardly really remember that at all. Perhaps the psychologists would say that the rain and wind, and that grey early morning, were all mixed up in my mind with the misery of leaving home, and that I've allowed myself to forget it," I laughed. "I wouldn't know. But all the years I was away, I remembered nothing but sunshine ... fine, lovely days, and all the things we used to do . . . childhood memories, mostly." I paused for a little. "I suppose you could say that my actual memories of home got overlaid, in time, with dream-pictures. I know that, after a few years, I'd have been hard put to it to give a really accurate description of . . . this, for instance."

I gestured to the tidy yard, the shadowy cave of the barn, the double stable doors with the tops latched back to the wall.

"If you'd even asked me what sort of stone it was built of, I couldn't have told you. And yet, now that I'm back, I notice everything. Tiny things that I must have taken for granted all my life, and never really seen before."

"Mm." He was staring at me fixedly. There was neither gentleness nor affection, that I could see, in the clear grey-green gaze. He said abruptly: "Con's a good lad."

I must have sounded slightly startled. "Yes, of course."

He misunderstood the wariness of my manner, for his voice had a harsher note as he said, with equal abruptness: "Don't worry. I'm not harking back to that business eight years back. I'd hardly hold Connor in affection for that, would I? Only thing I have against him, but at least he came out into the open, and tried to make amends like a decent man."

I said nothing. I saw him glance sideways at me, then he added testily, as if I had been arguing: "All right, all right. We've already spoken about that. We'll drop it now. I said we'd forget it, and we will. But apart from things that are over and forgotten, Con's a good lad, and he's been a son to me this last eight years."

"Yes."

Another of those bright, almost inimical glances. "I mean that. After you'd played the fool and left me, he stayed, and made a clean breast of things. Told me what he thought was the truth. I don't deny that there were words, but once everything had been said and done, what else was there for me to do? I'd have done badly without him for a long time now, and this last year or two, it'd have been impossible. He's more than made up for what's past. He's put everything he knows into the place."

"Yes. I know."

The white brows jutted at me. "Well? Well?"

I smiled at him. "What do you expect me to say, Grandfather? It's quite true. I played the fool and left you, and Con played the fool and stayed. One up to Con. Not forgetting, though, that it took me rather longer to get over my folly than it took him ... or you."

There was a little silence. Then he gave a short bark of laughter. "You don't change," he said. "So you've come back to quarrel with me, have you?"

"Grandfather, darling," I said, "no. But I don't quite see what you're getting at. You're trying to tell me how wonderful Con is. All right; I'll give you that. He's been telling me himself. But you can't blame me for being a bit wary. Eight years ago, all this would have been leading up to a spot of match-making. I hoped I'd made it clear that that was impossible."

"Hm. So you said, but one never knows how much one can believe a woman, especially when she starts talking all that claptrap about love turning to hate, and so forth."

"I said nothing of the sort. I don't hate Con. If I felt strongly about him at all, I couldn't have come back while he was still here, could I? I told you how I felt; indifferent, and more than a bit embarrassed. I'd give quite a lot not to have had to meet him again, but since he's here, and not likely to go..." I smiled a little. "All right, Grandfather, let it pass. I had to see you and it'd take more than Con to keep me away. Now, you don't usually hand out compliments for die fun of the thing. You're leading up to something. What is it?" He chuckled. "All right. It's this. You always knew Whitescar would be yours when I died, didn't you?

Should have been your father's, and then it would have been yours."

"Yes. I knew that."

"And had it occurred to you that I might have made other arrangements during the time you were away?"

"Well, of course." "And now that you've come back?"

I turned half to face him, leaning against the gate, just as I had leaned to talk to Con earlier that day.

"Come to the point, Grandfather dear."

The old eyes peered down at me, bright, amused, almost malicious. For some reason I was suddenly reminded of Con, though there was no outward resemblance whatever. "I will. It's this. They'll have told you I'm not expected to live a great while —no," as I made some movement of protest, "don't bother. We all know what this confounded condition of mine means. Now, you cleared out eight years ago, and, for all we knew, you were dead. Well, you've come back." He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reply. I said steadily: "Are you accusing me of coming back for what I think I can get?" He gave his sharp crack of laughter. "Don't be a fool, girl. I know you better than that. But you would be a fool if you hadn't thought about it, and wondered where you'd stand. Have you?" "Of course." He gave a nod, as if pleased. "That's a straight answer, anyway. And I'll be straight with you. Look at it this way. You walked out eight years ago; Con stayed. Do you think it right that you should just walk back like this, after the work that Con's put into this place meantime—and that fool Lisa Dermott for that matter—and just scoop it all up from under his very nose? Would you call that fair? I'm hanged if I would." His head thrust forward suddenly. "What in thunder are you laughing at?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Are you trying to tell me that you've left everything to Con and Lisa?" Again that glint of mischief, that could have been malice. "I didn't say that And don't you go letting them think it, either. I'm not dead yet. But is there any reason that you can think of why I shouldn't?"

"None at all."

He looked almost disconcerted, starting at me under his white brows. I realised then what the fleeting likeness had been between him and Con; it was a matter of expression, nothing else; an impression of arrogance, of deliberately enjoying a moment of power. Matthew Winslow was enjoying the situation just as much as Con, and for allied reasons. He liked the power that it gave him. 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

Lave 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 I 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 cars 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 f Here, Blondie ..." I put out a hand to her head. I hoped he wouldn't sec 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 marc 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 sec 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."

"Yes," I said, "I know it. I'll go now."

My one desire was to get away, to be alone, not even to have to walk back to the house in their company. But even as I spoke, half-turning to go, I saw a shade of what looked like genuine anxiety on Con's face. I realised then, suddenly, that his timely appearance on the scene had not been a matter of chance. He had not come down to see about the repair of the cutter, and then stayed to tease me; his coming had been a deliberate rescue bid. He had guessed that I had been brought down to the paddock; guessed, too, what might be happening there, and that the prolonged interview with Grandfather might be too much of a strain. He had come down solely to get me out of it, to draw Mr. Winslow off. In all probability there was nothing wrong with the cutter at all...

And if, once here, he had been unable to resist teasing me a little, it was no more than he was entitled to, under the circumstances. He was standing now with grave patience, listening to a crisp lecture on the incompetence of a young man who could not, in twenty seconds, diagnose and correct every fault in every piece of machinery in use on the estate.

Well, fair was fair. I wouldn't worry him further. I interrupted the lecture: "I don't think I will go, after all. I'll go back to the house. I—I've done enough for today."

Matthew Winslow looked at me, still with that crinkle of puzzlement round his eyes. "Something has upset you, child. What is it?"

Suddenly, absurdly, I wanted to cry. "Nothing, truly, Nothing. Con's right. I'm tired." I made a little gesture.

"It's been wonderful playing the prodigal returning, and everyone's been so kind .. . too kind. But, you know, it's terribly exhausting.

I feel as if I'd been back a year already, things have crowded in so fast." We were back in the lane. As Con pulled the gate shut behind me, he took my arm as if in reassurance.

"Of course it's a strain. We all understand that. You should go in now, and rest till supper." He spoke, as before, gently. I saw Grandfather glance quickly from his face to mine, and back again. It must be obvious to anyone that Con's solicitude was quite genuine, and I knew the reason for it, but I wasn't going to have Matthew Winslow leaping to the wrong conclusion. I withdrew my arm and said quickly:

"I think I will." Then I turned to the old man. "Have you still got the cribbage-board?" His face lightened to a grin. "Of course. You remember how to play?"

"How could I forget?" ("She used to play with him often: its an old-fashioned game; you know it? Good . .

.") I added: "I also remember that you owe me a vast sum of money, Grandfather."

"Nonsense. I always beat you."

"Ah well," J said cheerfully, "I've improved in eight years. I'll win your house and lands off you yet, so watch your step!"

At his dry little chuckle I felt Con stiffen beside me. He said abruptly: "Well, you'll not be playing tonight, at all events, I hope?"

"No, no. The child will want an early night. Besides, I'll probably stay up in the seventeen-acre with you. How are you getting on there?"

Con answered him, and the two of them talked across me as we walked slowly back towards the yard where the car stood. Con's manner with his great-uncle was charming; relaxed and easy and familiar, but with just the hint of a deference which obviously flattered the old man, coming from someone as vital and as capable as Con, to a man who, for all his deceptive appearance of power, was a frail husk that the first chill wind might blow way.

Grandfather was saying: "Nonsense! I can give you a hand when we've got the cutter running properly." Con gave him that flashing, affectionate smile. "You'll do no such thing. Come along, by all means, and bully us, but I'm afraid that's all we'll let you do J"

"You coddle me. I'm not senile yet, and I won't be treated like a girl." Con grinned. "Hardly that. In any case, the girl's going to work, once she's got herself run in again 1 Can you drive a tractor—still, Annabel?"

"I dare say I might manage, even if I have rather lost my touch with horses," I said evenly. We had reached the gate of the main courtyard. Grandfather climbed, a little stiffly, into the big Ford that stood waiting there. Con shut the car door on him.

In the distance, from the fields beyond High Riggs, came the steady, smooth whirr of the grass-cutter. Unless I was very much mistaken, there was nothing wrong with it at all. As Con shut the car door and turned, his eyes met mine. There was a smile in them.

He said: "Over to me," very softly, and then: "Do you drive a tractor, by the way?" "I have done." "And," said Con, "a car?"

I studied him for a moment, then I smiled. He had earned it, after all. I said: "I had a car in Canada; I've just burned the Permit, and I don't know where my licence is, but that doesn't mean a thing. I dare say I'd qualify for a British one, if I needed to."

"Ah," said Con. "And now, if you wouldn't mind shutting the gate behind us... ?"