Dorothy Eden (63 page)

Gravely she moved her fingers over the lines in Fergus’s face.

‘You don’t have to worry about me, my darling. I’m going to be all right.’ She smiled steadily, and now, with the spirit strong inside her, it was even easy to smile. ‘You might not believe it, but I’m not even going to cry any more!’

N
ICKY HAD BEEN DREAMING
about the little baby hidden in the dark hole beneath the wall in Edinburgh Castle. In his dream it had not been a dead baby, still and curiously light and empty, as had been birds and once the tiny corpse of a field mouse he had found, but a little live baby that fought and struggled to get out of its dark hole. It even had a tiny gold crown on its head to show that it was really the true king. In his dream he became the buried baby, fighting and struggling and screaming, and he still struggled even after he found that it was not a box but Prissie’s arms that held him.

‘Now, now,’ came Prissie’s soothing voice. ‘It’s only a bad dream. Keep still, honey. Go to sleep again.’

Nicky opened his eyes and looked into her face. It was a pretty face, soft and smiling and happy.

‘See,’ she murmured. ‘It was only a dream.’

But Nicky was suddenly stiffening in her arms, trying to draw away. For inexplicably her face was the face of the dead baby in his dream. The only difference was that she wore no crown. But the crown would be in the locket round her neck that she never opened. That would be where she hid it. A little secret crown. If one could only get the locket and look in it…

‘What’s the matter?’ Prissie asked, laughing. ‘You funny little scrap. Surely you’re not frightened of me!’

It was truly silly to be frightened of her. She was so kind when she smiled. But she had that dead baby’s face…

‘I’ll just go back to sleep,’ Nicky announced, in his new aloof mature voice.

‘You didn’t hear that doll in the cupboard again, did you?’ Prissie asked.

Nicky tried not to shiver. Even mentioning that doll wasn’t safe. It might bring back the cackly voice. He shook his head vigorously.

‘I—I haven’t talked about Clementine today.’

‘Well, that explains it, doesn’t it. Just let me tuck you in. That’s a good boy. Kiss me good night.’

Obediently Nicky kissed her. Her cheek was quite warm and it smelt nice. Something told him that the cheek of a dead baby would not be nice to kiss. So that old dream was silly, after all. It had almost gone now. But he wished his own mother could have tucked him in and wished him good night…

When Prissie went back into the next room she sat down at the table and picked up her pen to continue the letter she was writing.

You should see my dress. It’s going to look wonderful. But you will see it, of course. Don’t you think I am clever? Please say I am clever. I am still desperately upset about the little gold angel. It was such a heavenly thing. I hope whoever took it will be caught. And for your information I am not falling in love with Fergus. How absurd!

But she stopped writing, and began to remember the quick walk with Fergus, his light chatter about the parcel addressed to Mr George Brides-in-the-Bath Smith, and the rain in their faces.

A tap at the door made her hastily slip the sheet of paper under her writing desk. Who was this? That silly old Mrs Hatchett with her tales of ghosts. Ghosts, indeed! Or—her heart missed a beat—was it Fergus, come up for a little cheerfulness after his wife’s depressing company.

‘Come in,’ she called in her light welcoming voice.

The door opened and Guy came in.

Prissie exclaimed, ‘Oh, how nice of you to come and see me! I was feeling a little lonely.’

‘You! You wouldn’t ever need to be lonely,’ Guy said.

‘Everyone is lonely some time.’ Prissie picked up her sewing, and threaded a needle. ‘Sit down and talk to me. Tell me what you do all day juggling money.’

‘I don’t juggle much money,’ said Guy. ‘I wish I did. I’m afraid that’s left to Uncle Saunders.’

‘Does he have that much?’ Prissie asked. Her smooth head was bent over her sewing, her voice politely interested.

‘Enough, I should think.’

‘Never mind,’ said Prissie soothingly. ‘It will be all yours and your sister’s one day. Or do you hate it the way your sister does?’

Guy smiled wryly. ‘I only hate the lack of it.’

‘Oh, come!’ Prissie patted his arm. ‘You’re a Templar. You must know ways of making money. They all did, didn’t they? I’ll bet your Uncle Saunders has done some things he wouldn’t talk about.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised at that.’

Prissie looked up eagerly, her face alight with interest.

‘Do you know anything? Oh, do tell me. I adore scandal.’ Then she drew back. ‘I shouldn’t ask you those things. He’s your uncle. We shouldn’t talk about him. But I’m disgustingly inquisitive. I just can’t resist knowing about people. They’re so fascinating.’

‘I shouldn’t mind talking about Uncle Saunders if I knew anything,’ Guy said. His thin face was momentarily bitter. ‘He doesn’t rate any loyalty. On the surface he doesn’t appear to be a miser, but you find out about him, really. You’ll be at the mercy of his grudging allowance as I have been all my life—what’s the point when he has so much?’

‘Yes, what is the point,’ Prissie said sympathetically. ‘But I really don’t see why you couldn’t be clever, too. There must be ways.’ Her eyes rested on Guy speculatively. Then she laughed. ‘That must sound awful and calculating. But I’m on your side, you know.’

‘Darling!’ said Guy, pulling his chair closer to her.

‘You want to be clever, too,’ Prissie murmured. ‘Match your brains with his.’ Again she gave him her considering gaze. Then she exclaimed, ‘Guy, you’re looking awfully tired and worried. Is there something wrong?’

‘No, nothing.’ His answer was too swift. Prissie said intuitively:

‘Guy, you’re in trouble!’

‘I’m not in trouble. For God’s sake’ He stopped and gave a tense apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit edgy these days. Tell me, did Brigit ask you to do anything for her today?’

Prissie re-threaded her needle. Her voice was cool. ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’

‘I meant to, but the nurse wouldn’t let me in. Said she was sleeping.’ He pouted, his mouth suddenly childish.

‘Your sister was tired and upset,’ Prissie said. ‘The doctor came and I don’t think he gave her very much hope of walking, poor thing. Just imagine that. Never being able to walk again.’

‘This is—worse,’ Guy muttered.

‘What did you say, Guy? You are in trouble! Is it money?’ Suddenly she exclaimed, ‘Oh, that’s why she wanted the hundred pounds.’ Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. It was private.’

‘Then she did get it,’ Guy said eagerly.

‘Yes, but don’t tell her I told you. I didn’t tell you, anyway. You wangled it out of me.’ Prissie was hurt and offended, her cheeks flushed, her eyes reproachful. ‘Guy, it wasn’t fair of you.’

But Guy was suddenly happy, the tension gone from his face and his eyes admiring.

‘Prissie—you’re the most attractive girl I’ve ever met. You like me a little, don’t you?’

‘Of course I like you, but—’

‘Then why don’t you kiss me? Come.’

Prissie’s body stiffened. She tried to draw away from his embrace. For all their bony fragility his hands were steel. She felt her arms bruised as she resisted.
Silly!
she told herself.
Silly!

‘You little puritan!’ Guy muttered. And then the full sensuous lips of the Templars, painted on half a dozen portraits over the stairs, were on hers.

She forced herself to relax and respond.

But afterwards, when she was alone, she finished her letter in agitated emphatic words, ‘I can’t endure Guy kissing me. Must I? Must I?’

I
N SPITE OF HER
resolution it was still difficult to wake up in a cheerful frame of mind. Brigit’s first feeling as she opened her eyes in the early dawn was dread as to what might be in the mail. It was said that blackmailers never stopped at their first demand, but that the horrible vampirish letters kept on coming, making more and more demands. She hadn’t thought too seriously about that yesterday. It had been enough to take the fear and guilt from Guy’s face.

But now she was afraid she had been foolish and impulsive, and too ready to obey the blackmailer’s instructions. She should have told Fergus about it. He would have communicated with the police and the house in Hammersmith could have been watched.

And Guy would have been arrested… Guy who was perhaps at last going to find the miraculous happiness with Prissie that she had found with Fergus. No, she could have done nothing else. She had had to give Guy this one chance, at least. She could only pray that the blackmailer had some sort of honour, and would now keep his promise to trouble her no more.

It was going to be a nice day. The sky beyond the skeleton arm of the mulberry tree was luminous. A nice day for Fergus flying, Brigit thought, and listened to the house stealthily coming to life. One of the cats was mewing plaintively. From far off there was a steady rattle of dishes in the kitchen. A sudden series of bumps overhead indicated that one of the children had decided to get out of bed. Sarah, probably. She never waited to be told it was time to get up. She came bouncing out in her definite imperturbable way. Nurse Ellen appeared abruptly, said, ‘Good morning, ducky. Sleep well? No ghosts last night, thank goodness. I’ll be back in a minute with your tea,’ and disappeared. As she went the black kitten that Aunt Annabel had brought home yesterday suddenly pounced on the bed. It made Brigit jump. She said, ‘Naughty,’ and fondled it. The kitten purred and settled beside her contentedly. It seemed to be asleep when all at once it stiffened and made a spring at her toes.

Why had it done that so suddenly? It couldn’t be—surely it couldn’t be—

With wildly beating heart she watched the mound of bedclothes as she wriggled her toes. They moved. They did move! They really did!

An exclamation of excited joy caught in Brigit’s throat. She repeated the exercise, and again there was a faint but definite movement of the bedclothes. The kitten pounced eagerly.

Hitherto when she had had the sensation of her toes moving nothing whatever had happened. It had been an illusion. But today, on this wonderful wonderful day, life was coming back to her.

On the verge of calling excitedly for Nurse Ellen, Brigit suddenly checked herself.

No, she wouldn’t tell Nurse Ellen yet. Nurse Ellen would promptly tell the whole household, and some caution urged her to keep it a secret from Fergus until she was quite sure that she would walk again. It would be so awful to send him away full of hope this morning, and to come back tomorrow to find that it had been all an illusion. No, she must be certain, absolutely certain. So, in the meantime, if she could manage it, the joyful news would remain her secret.

How can I be so calm as to plan this? Brigit wondered incredulously. Indeed, she could not keep the colour and excitement out of her face. Nurse Ellen spied it at once, and said, ‘My, we are perky this morning!’

‘Oh, I was playing with the kitten. He’s so funny. Has the mail come yet?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid there’s nothing for you.’

Brigit sighed with relief. Even the blackmailer was silent. Life was beginning to take on colour and warmth again. Where was Fergus? She wanted Fergus.

But it was Aunt Annabel who was her first visitor. She came in with Renoir in her arms and two timid long-legged alley cats at her heels. Nurse Ellen tripped over one and gave an exclamation of impatience. The cats scuttered away.

Aunt Annabel said amiably, ‘No one likes my cats.’

‘I like this one,’ said Brigit, stroking the black kitten. ‘He’s a sweetie.’

‘Do you, dear? Then you must take him home with you when you go.’

Yesterday the obvious uncertainty in Aunt Annabel’s voice would have struck her to the heart. But this morning she could say confidently, ‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ and resist the temptation to wriggle her toes.

‘It’s our monthly meeting today,’ Aunt Annabel went on. ‘I do hope Saunders stays in the city, otherwise he’s liable to—well, to join in with us. And he will insist on making absurd and facetious suggestions.’

‘You’d like the children out of the way, too,’ Brigit said.

‘Oh no, dear, they’re no trouble.’

‘But it’s a lovely day. They can spend the whole day in the park. I’ll tell Prissie.’

A little later Prissie came in with the children to say good morning. She wore a red sweater and a black skirt that swirled about her.

‘I sat up until after midnight finishing my dress,’ she said. ‘I feel half dead this morning.’

If that were being half dead, Brigit reflected, how did she look when she was really alive? Oh, if only Guy were going to be happy. Otherwise keeping Prissie might just possibly be a mistake.

Brigit could not have explained why she had that intuition. Certainly it was not because Fergus, coming in at that moment and overhearing Prissie’s remark, put his arm round her and said, ‘Don’t look too bewitching tonight. Save that for me.’

Prissie giggled and took the children out. Fergus came over to the bed and looked down at Brigit.

‘Hi, darling! You look very up and coming this morning.’

‘I told you I wasn’t going to cry any more.’

Fergus bent to kiss her. His lips lingered on hers.

‘Good girl,’ he whispered. Then he caught up the black kitten.

‘Who does this thing remind you of?’

‘Why, nobody.’

‘Yes, it does. It’s just like Prissie. Smooth and soft. And no one knows what it is thinking.’

‘Do you wonder that, too, about Prissie,’ Brigit asked involuntarily.

‘I wonder it about all pretty girls,’ Fergus’s voice was light. ‘Darling—no tears before I come back?’

‘No tears,’ Brigit promised.

If a man couldn’t guess what a girl was thinking he usually grew more and more determined to find out, and in the process of satisfying his curiosity he grew more and more interested in the girl. Nonsense, Brigit told herself firmly. Fergus was no more interested in Prissie than he would be in any attractive girl—even if it were possible that she was making that dress to lure him, and not Guy at all. But that, too, was a sick fancy that belonged to her illness now past. She began happily to concentrate once more on the miraculous movement of her toes.