Sara Seale Read online

  "I thought you'd most likely come. Do you know you're my first visitor? I have no friends in London."

  "Like Toby," she answered absendy. "His people live in Ireland."

  "Well?" he said impatiently. He had not sat down again, but stood, leaning on his stick, observing her with critical attention.

  The mention of Toby had sent her thoughts to the skies, to the droning of engines and the flash of sunlight on the wings of a travelling plane. She looked at Rick uncomprehendingly for a moment and saw him frown.

  "Have you made up your mind?" he asked brusquely.

  "I—I thought you might have changed yours," she said. "It was such a—such a very odd suggestion."

  She was altogether absurd, he thought, sitting on the edge of her chair like a reprimanded child, with her hair scraped back into that ridiculous pony-tail.

  "No," he said, "I've not changed my mind. Have you decided?"

  "I suppose so. What do you want me to do, then?"

  He sat down at last, stretching his stiff leg before him, and leaned back in his chair regarding her without much interest.

  "It's all quite simple," he said. "I leave here on Friday. I shall probably stay in London over the week-end and go down to Cornwall on Monday. You will be ready to come with me and we shall arrive at Trevallion as an engaged couple. Is that clear?"

  "Yes," said Anna obligingly, but it was none of it really clear. Did he expect demonstrations of devotion in front of his family? Did he believe that he could deceive his formidable-sounding grandmother into thinking that his engagement was a normal one?

  "You don't need," he said, aware of her hesitation, "to have doubts, Anna. I shall not embarrass you in any way."

  "Why," he asked idly, as they crossed the room together, "do you have to do your hair in that extraordinary fashion?"

  Her hand flew to the pony-tail, conscious at once that it was not long enough to be fashionable, that she had not, perhaps, the personality to carry off such an impertinence.

  "Don't you like it?" she faltered, remembering sadly that Toby had.

  "I could think of more becoming styles," he said.

  They said goodbye on the steps of the nursing home and arranged to meet for dinner on Saturday. The evening sunlight dappled the litde square where only yesterday she had sought refuge and found such a surprising answer to her troubles.

  They dined in a small Knightsbridge restaurant and Anna was quiet and suddenly depressed, reminded of the evening,

  not so long ago, when Toby had taken her out to dinner and proposed. Then she had been as excited as a child by the unfamiliar atmosphere, the attentive waiters and the rich food; now she sat opposite Rick Peveril, feeling gauche and ill at ease. Toby had been gay and amorous after several cocktails, laughing at her enthusiasm and delighting in her mistakes over the foreign-sounding dishes on the menu; Rick ordered their food soberly, not consulting her wishes, and appeared to be as silent as she. She ate unhappily, hardly tasting what she swallowed, acutely aware that for the next few weeks her life was to be bound up with this stranger's, that she knew nothing of his thoughts and habits, that day after day she must play the part expected of her.

  "Aren't you enjoying it?" he asked sharply, as she pushed away her food unfinished.

  "I don't think I can do it," she said, aware at last of the enormity of her undertaking.

  "Do what?"

  "Pretend to be engaged to you."

  He looked up for a moment; then went on eating as if she had not spoken. He placed his knife and fork neady together on his plate, took a sip of wine and, just when she concluded he had not been paying attention, observed calmly:

  "It won't be pretence while it lasts. Here—see if this will fit." He took something wrapped in a screw of tissue paper from his pocket and tossed it across the table.

  Anna unwrapped the paper and sat staring stupidly at the ring which lay in the palm of her hand. The setting was old-fashioned and rather heavy, but it suited the stone, a big carved emerald of magnificent colour.

  "Do you carry something as valuable as this about in a screw of paper?" she asked, sounding rather horrified.

  "The jeweller's case would have bulged my pocket," he said. "Try it on."

  She slipped it on to her finger. It was a litde loose and the unaccustomed weight of the stone was inclined to turn it to one side.

  "It will serve for the time being. When we get home we'll have it altered," he said, but she took it off at once.

  "I couldn't," she said. "It's far too valuable."

  "How many more things do you feel you can't do?" he demanded irritably. "Put it on again at once. My grandmother will expect to see you wearing it. I wired for it to be sent up a couple of days ago. It was my mother's ring, and Gran's before that. It is, in fact, the traditional engagement ring in our family."

  Anna put the ring on again and said faintly:

  "Have you told them, then?"

  "Naturally I've told them. I would hardly demand the emerald without stating what it was required for."

  She smiled unwillingly.

  "Now you're laughing at me," she said.

  "Perhaps. You must learn to laugh at yourself, Anna. I'm glad you've abandoned that terrible pony-tail. You have pretty hair—almost more silver than gold. Now, let's get down to immediate matters. Tomorrow, Sunday, you will pack, and on Monday I will call for you in time for the train."

  He went into precise details of times, jotting down his instructions and the telephone number of his hotel on the back of the menu. He did not raise the point of whether she was still willing or not. If she had protested again, he would, she knew, have reminded her that she had already burnt her boats which, indeed, she had.

  She sighed, defeated by his calmness and a hint in the set of his hard dark face that he was not prepared to be trifled with at the eleventh hour. Quite suddenly he looked across at her, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

  "Are you foolish, I wonder, or merely very trusting?" he asked unexpectedly.

  "To go away with you on Monday?" she replied calmly.

  "Yes. You know nothing about me. Perhaps I should have given you a reference." Was he laughing at her again?

  "You know nothing about me, as far as that goes," she retorted.

  "True," he answered. "But that's rather different. You see, anyone would have done."

  She blinked at him, taken aback, and knew a moment's intense dislike for him, then, observing his indifferent face, acknowledged humbly that it was true. Anyone would have done.

  They had finished their coffee and she picked up her bag nervously.

  "I think I would like to go back to the hostel now, Mr. Peveril," she said.

  He beckoned the waiter to bring him his bill.

  "A dull evening for you, I'm afraid," he said, and she thought he sounded relieved that it should so soon be over. "You really will have to remember to call me by my Christian name, Anna. My family will think it a litde odd if you address me as Mr. Peveril."

  He took her back to the hostel in a taxi, bade her a brief goodnight and drove away. She stood on the pavement, her fingers tracing the carving on the big emerald. When next she saw him, she thought with a hint of panic, she would be committed to that long journey into Cornwall, to the care of a man who looked as if he might not always show mercy, to Trevallion and the unknown Peverils who would accord her small welcome.

  The panic passed.

  "Well," said Anna, shrugging philosophically, "beggars can't be choosers." She dropped a curtsey to a new crescent of moon appearing between the chimney stacks and went into the hostel.

  Rick called for her at nine-thirty on Monday.

  "You—you want to go on with this, I suppose?" she asked timidly in the taxi to the station.

  "It's a litde late for regrets, don't you think?" he replied blandly. "Where would you be if I told the taxi driver to turn round and deposit you again at the hostel?"

  "That needn't trouble you," she said, trying to muster />
  dignity. "After all, I'm a stranger, and you told me anyone would have done."

  "Don't be stupid," he replied with bored indifference. "If you had serious doubts you should have rung me up yesterday at my hotel. I hope, Anna, you aren't going to be unco-operative when we get to Trevallion. My grandmother has very sharp eyes."

  She sat beside him without replying, and the tears stung her eyelids. Quite suddenly he placed a hand on her knee and said:

  "Still hankering for that young man? Forget him, my dear. At your age such affairs are two a penny."

  The tone of his voice and the pressure of his fingers were kindly. She looked down at her own hands, at the new gloves which lay in her lap, at the smooth linen of the going-away suit which had been bought for Toby.

  "Not for me," she said austerely. "I've never had an affair except this one. I'm—I'm not very attractive to men, you know."

  "Aren't you? Have you known many men?" "No."

  "Well, then, forget about this one. One's first love may have a quality of its own, but it seldom lasts, you know." "Didn't yours?"

  The kindness to which he had seemed impelled suddenly vanished. He sat withdrawn and hard as the taxi bore them to Paddington Station.

  "There will be no need for you to concern yourself with my affairs," he said, as if he found her impertinent. "I was merely trying to put some backbone into you."

  She looked at him directly then and the colour stained her cheekbones.

  "My backbone has had to be reasonably stiff for some time, Mr. Percival," she said. "You've caught me at a bad moment, that's all."

  He gave her a look of slightiy surprised appreciation. "I beg your pardon," he said politely. "I had no wish to

  tread on your corns, and my name, if you remember, is Rick."

  He did not speak again until they arrived at Paddington when he told her briefly to wait with the luggage and the porter while he got the tickets. He was, she discovered, a man who found travelling easy. Porters were always to hand, corner seats achieved without difficulty and the restaurant car only a coach away. He bought a bundle of magazines and flung them on the seat beside her, then retired behind his own newspaper in the corner opposite her. The noise and busde of the station filled the last few minutes for Anna, but as their train pulled out she knew a return of the old panic. She was committed now. She was journeying into Cornwall to the unknown, with a stranger who had little regard for her personal feelings. She was turning her back on all that was familiar, all that her two years as a working girl had taught her to expect.

  "Don't fidget," he said suddenly. "There are plenty of magazines for you to read." She picked one up obediently, but he saw her smile.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to speak to you as if you were a child, but you looked as though you were contemplating jumping out of the window."

  "Perhaps I was," she replied, fingering the glossy covers of the magazine with indifferent fingers.

  He merely raised an eyebrow and retired again behind his newspaper.

  "Hadn't you better tell me something about your family? I mean, I don't know your sister's name—or how you all live."

  He looked across at her with surprised indifference.

  "My sister's name is Ruth and we live, I suppose, much as other people do in the country. What were you expecting?"

  "I don't know. I—I only wanted a little background, I suppose. They will, I imagine, expect me to know something about them."

  "Why should they? They know nothing about you, so far."

  "No, I suppose not, only-"

  "Only you feel at a disadvantage, is that it? Well, Tre-vallion's a big house—too big for the three of us. My grandmother keeps a great deal to her own rooms, which will leave you with Ruth while I'm away at the quarry, but Ruth needn't trouble you. Her dog is the only thing she cares about She's one of those women who should have married years ago and had a large family. Then there's Birdie. He's another distant connection; no money and earns his keep by looking after Gran's topiary and helping with Sol's pigs. He seems a little wanting at times, but he's become a habit."

  Anna listened dutifully. It did not sound encouraging and she wondered what place there would be for her in this already established household.

  "Are you away much?" she asked.

  "Every day. The house is near the sea but the quarry is a few miles inland. Do you care for swimming?"

  "I'm not very good," she said. "We never had real holidays by the sea."

  "Then our bit of the coast is not for you. The currents are dangerous and there are rocks and very litde sand," he answered.

  "Oh," said Anna flatly, and knew instinctively that his thoughts had been turned to someone who could swim mag-nificently.

  There seemed nothing more to ask that he would be prepared to answer. She had been grateful, since they left the hostel, for his rare flashes of kindness, but she was learning now that it was not kindness, but merely a matter of expediency. He had, she thought, no interest in her as a person. She simply fitted into his plans and was adequate. Anyone would have done.

  The journey continued endlessly. Back in their carriage Rick relaxed and closed his eyes but Anna did not think he slept. She furtively examined the strong, harsh features, wondering what manner of man he really was, but every so often he would open his eyes suddenly and catch her watching him and she would hurriedly take up one of the magazines and

  pretend to be engrossed. He evidendy did not trouble himself about tea and it did not appear to occur to him to ask her if she would like some. She sat in her corner, her limbs beginning to feel stiff after the long hours of travelling, and longed passionately for a cup of tea, for two, three, four cups of tea, hot and strong and sweet with sugar.

  As the country grew wilder she pressed her face against the window, her eyes widening at stretches of moor and bleak empty fields bounded by stone walls. The litde towns were grey and alien and once the track ran beside a rugged coastline with rocks and towering cliffs, red with the west-country soil.

  Rick was watching her.

  "Not much liking what you behold?" he asked, and his smile was faintly mocking.

  "It's strange and unfamiliar, that's all," she answered, and understood now how much a part of this harsh, rugged country he was.

  "Very likely," he replied with a touch of irony. "Cornwall bred smugglers and tinners in the past; she still breeds a strong race of men. I doubt you'll find us very much to your liking, Anna."

  "Then," she said, stung by his unspoken assumption that she, by comparison, must necessarily be a weakling, "it will be up to you to convert me. You didn't have to bring me here, you know."

  "True," he replied with a trace of surprise. "Well, here's Truro, We've a fair drive ahead of us, but no doubt you'll be glad to get out of the train."

  They had left in sunshine, but it was a grey day here in the west. The evening held none of the warmth and sweetness of early summer; the slate and grey stone of the houses seemed to match the dull drabness of the sky. A car waited for them in the station yard and the driver was a big, loose-limbed man in corduroys and Norfolk jacket with a lugubrious cast of countenance who stared at Anna in evident surprise.

  "This is Miss Crewe, my fiancee," Rick said. "Everything all right, Sol?"

  "Yes, maister, though there's things I have to say to you about they pigs," the man replied, and suddenly smiled at Anna. His skin and hair were as dark as Rick's, but his pronounced cheekbones were flushed to an apple red and there was a reserved welcome in his close set eyes. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, miss, though you wasn't what any of us was expecting. What's got into 'ee, Maister Rick?"

  "Nothing that concerns you, Sol," Rick replied, quite unmoved. "Sit in the back with the luggage, please. I'll drive."

  It was a strange drive, Anna thought, nervous at first at the narrow winding roads and the high banks which blocked the view. Sol made brief remarks from the back of the car, but Rick drove almost in silence. He rounded corner
s with a blind disregard for what might be coming and soon she was sitting erect, tensed in every limb, her hand reaching out to the door for support.

  Sol chuckled from the back.

  "No need for alarm, missy," he said. "Maister ain't no time put us in the ditch."

  Rick threw her an amused look and Anna tried to relax. She was unacquainted with such narrow lanes, such blind corners, but she must have faith in Rick Peveril, just as his man, obviously enjoying her discomfiture, had faith in him.

  The car skirted a village and mounted to a road over the cliffs. Anna had a glimpse of a little town climbing uphill from the sea and asked involuntarily:

  "Where is that?"

  "That's Merrynporth, our nearest shopping centre," Rick replied. "We're nearly there, Anna. Hold on a bit longer."

  "Do you think I'm nervous?" she asked indignantly.

  "Yes," he answered, swinging the car round a bend which appeared to have a sixty-foot drop on one side. "And why wouldn't you be, poor innocent? You're a city child, when all's said and done."

  Yes, she thought unhappily, she was a city child, she sup-

  posed. The country had meant no more than the fields and lanes of London suburbs, a brief visit to the coast which had promenades and tidy shingle and decorous bathing in a calm sea. Nowhere had she encountered the wildness of this countryside, the stretches of uninhabited land, the frowning cliffs which buttressed the land from the sea.

  "I can learn," she said, and was aware of a brief tenderness in his smile.

  "Perhaps," he said. "But it doesn't really matter, does it? I hope you'll enjoy your stay with us, Anna. Here's Trevallion."

  He had turned the car between iron gates set in a high stone wall, and she looked with a certain apprehension at the home that was to be hers for the summer. Lawns spread each side of the short drive, and there were great clumps of rhododendrons and azaleas, but few flowers. Trees grew sparsely, spindly-looking and without much foliage, their twisted shapes all leaning the way of the prevailing winds. The house itself sprawled untidily in the middle of the well-kept grounds, grey and a little forbidding, like everything she had seen since they had left the train at Truro.

  "It's big," she said, aware of the inadequacy of her words, but what was one to say about a house which looked shuttered and unwelcoming, and grounds which, though well kept, offered none of the accepted ideas of a charming English garden?