Michael’s horrible drink did seem to help. After a while she felt strong enough to rise and face the day. She had been dimly aware of a bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the house, but she hadn’t had the energy to pursue it to its source. Now she realized that it might have been Alan. Perhaps he had called to tell her he wouldn’t be able to keep their date. She had better call him back. Anyway, common decency demanded that she inquire about Elizabeth.

  Alan had called, but not to break the date.

  “No, really,” he said, when she expressed concern over the weariness that was apparent even in his voice, “I’d like to get out, if you can bear with me. I suppose you don’t feel like sailing? It’s a glorious day, but rather breezy.”

  Carla suppressed a shudder.

  “I don’t think I had better, Alan. What about a swim?”

  “Just what I need. May we use your little beach? I’m not in the mood for a lot of other people right now.”

  “That’s a good idea. Can you leave Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, certainly. She’s much better this morning, and Simon has agreed to stay with her. I’ll be with you in about an hour, if that is okay.”

  Carla was ready when he arrived. She was wearing a new bathing suit, with a matching wrap; the breeze was still cool, though the sun promised a warm afternoon. Alan’s dim eyes brightened at the sight of her. He was also dressed for swimming, but carried shirt and trousers over his arm.

  “I thought we might pop off somewhere for dinner afterwards,” he said. “Isn’t this the cook’s day out?”

  Carla agreed, feeling that he was entitled to some sympathy and consideration. In what she hoped was a friendly, undemanding silence, she followed him through the gardens toward the western gate.

  It would probably be a long time before the name, and the sight of the structure, failed to send a shiver up her spine. Yet it looked innocent enough in the morning light, and the path down the cliff turned out to be less formidable than she had feared.

  Alan preceded her, reaching back to give her a hand now and then, but there were plenty of rocks and weeds to cling to. The granite formed a natural staircase, which in some sections had clearly been improved by the hand of man. There was even a wooden railing in one spot; but when Carla reached for it, Alan snapped out a warning.

  “That hasn’t been repaired for years. Better not trust to it.”

  Carla had no leisure for gazing at the view as she descended. When she reached the bottom of the cliff she let out a cry of pleasure.

  The sand glittered like snow in the sunlight. The surf rolling gently in looked like the train of a blue velvet robe edged with filmy lace. Between sheltering arms of rock the small bay basked in warmth, protected from all but a direct west wind.

  The only object that marred the idyllic beauty of the spot was man-made—a tumbled heap of wood at the extreme end of the southern point.

  “The remains of the old boathouse,” Alan explained, when she asked about it. “It’s gone the way of everything else on the estate. Avoid that part of the beach, there are rusty nails by the bucketful.”

  The water felt cold at first, but once she was well in, it was just what her jaded muscles needed that morning. She paddled happily, and Alan’s head popped up beside her, sleek as a seal’s.

  “It’s divine,” she sputtered. “The water is so warm.”

  “All a matter of currents. Just don’t come here alone. You’re perfectly safe within the arms of the bay, but there’s a tide out there that would drag you clear to the Scillies.”

  “I know, Simon already warned me.” Carla turned on her back and splashed.

  She was not really a strong swimmer, and was soon ready to go in. Stretched out on a towel, chin on her folded arms, she watched the flash of Alan’s muscular arms as he swam back and forth as if doing a required number of laps. It was a healthy way to work off anxiety; when he finally waded up onto the beach, she saw that he was smiling.

  “Now we can talk,” he announced, sitting down beside her. “It won’t be easy to concentrate on what I’m saying, though; mind if I spread a towel over that gorgeous body?”

  “No, I need the sun. You’ll just have to control yourself.”

  “You are a bit pale.”

  “I’m going to come down every day,” Carla said dreamily, “Not alone; I can probably get Tim to come with me. Or Michael.” She saw Alan’s face change, and sat up, forgetting her suntan. “We might as well get it out, Alan. Why do you dislike him so much?”

  “Surely you can guess. You’ve seen the way Elizabeth looks at him; the way she ran to him last night, when she was…. I can’t help blaming him for her breakdown.”

  “I doubt that a psychiatrist would agree.”

  “Oh, they babble about childhood experiences and all that rot; I can’t make sense of what they tell me. The fact remains that she was all right until he…. She had an abortion.”

  The last sentence came out like an explosion. Alan’s face was averted; his fingers moved stiffly, sorting a handful of miniature shells.

  “That’s not exactly shocking, these days,” Carla said, fumbling for the right comment. Alan had not struck her as a prude, but perhaps a man felt different about his sister….

  “I’m not the one who is shocked,” he protested. “I know Elizabeth; I know that if she…yielded to a man, it would be because she was pressured and persuaded. She’s always been shy and unsure of herself. That’s why the episode hit her so hard. She doesn’t even remember it, Carla. That’s why she turns to Michael. She thinks of him as her lover, not her seducer—her betrayer.”

  Carla was taken aback, not by what he was saying, but by the terms in which he expressed it. He sounded like an Old Testament Fundamentalist, or a Victorian father. It was so alien to the Alan she knew that she could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “Michael denies the whole thing,” Alan went on. “He’s perfectly safe in doing so. It’s her word against his, and who would believe a crazy, mixed-up girl? But I believe her. I know she isn’t…promiscuous.”

  “Of course not. Any woman who falls in love can be weak.”

  Good God, she thought, it’s contagious; I’m talking the same sort of rubbish he is.

  Alan went on in the same vein for some time, while Carla murmured sympathetically. The murmurs were not entirely sincere. She felt sorry for anyone who was so genuinely distressed, but she couldn’t quite empathize with Elizabeth’s illness, not if it was really caused by what modern society regarded as a minor misdemeanor. She was relieved when Alan finally said,

  “Well, that’s enough of that. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your sympathy, my dear. Shall we go in again?”

  “We have to settle one more thing,” Carla said. “The house. I promised Michael I would ask.”

  Alan sighed. “I thought we had settled that. Rather than see him have the house, I’ll buy it myself. Honestly, Carla, he probably couldn’t raise enough money to make a deposit on a bicycle. Even if I weren’t personally biased, I would advise against dealing with him. I hadn’t meant to mention it, since negotiations are still in the preliminary stages, but I may have a buyer. I think I can get a fairly decent price.”

  “I’ve decided to stay on over the winter,” Carla said, and then started as he turned a face of blank horror upon her.

  “Are you insane?”

  “I’ve got it all figured out,” Carla protested. “I’m going to fire Mary and the cook; I don’t need them. The remaining contents of the house will have to be sold anyway, and I’ll bet I can find enough antiques to tide us over through the winter. Alan, I’m really excited about it. I’m sure I can do it. If not, I’ll just hand over the keys and move out. I have my return ticket. If I can’t get my old job back, I’ll work in a dime store or supermarket.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Alan muttered. “Give me a moment to recover from the shock.”

  “Why is it such a shock? It’s a slightly impractical idea, maybe, but after all, Alan, I’m not incompetent. I’ve been looking after myself for years. If this fails, it won’t ruin my life.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I can’t get over my conventional attitudes so easily, I guess.” He smiled at her. “Give me a day or two to think it over. Perhaps I can work something out.”

  Without waiting for an answer he ran out and plunged into the surf. Carla followed more slowly. Lawyers were notoriously cautious people; Alan probably felt it was his duty to steer her into sensible decisions. But she was getting a little tired of his exaggerated reactions to her suggestions.

  By tacit consent the subject of Michael was not raised again that day. They swam, and lazed in the sun, and swam again, and later in the afternoon Alan took her to an inn in a remote village, where they had several drinks and an excellent dinner. It was not, however, a very successful day. Alan was remote and distracted, and Carla thought he must be anxious to get back to his sister.

  “Please let me know if there is anything I can do for her,” she said conventionally, when Alan dropped her off; and then, to her disgust, she felt a deep flush rising over her face as he looked meaningfully at her. There was something she could do. She could sell the house, thereby forcing Michael to leave the area.

  She was about to open the front door when King came out of the underbrush and leaned against her leg. Still ruffled by Alan’s behavior, Carla bent to stroke him. He had a horrid, rasping purr, as if he were suffering from laryngitis. Now that she thought about it, she had never heard him meow. Perhaps the sound was not in his repertoire.

  Carrying the cat, she entered the house. Michael appeared from the direction of the kitchen, so promptly that she suspected he had been watching for her.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Did you talk to Fairman?”

  “Yes, I did.” Carla hesitated. She knew what Michael’s reaction was going to be, and she was in no mood to endure another outburst of masculine ire. “How is Mrs. Pendennis?”

  “She’s in the village, dining with a friend. I’m going to fetch her soon. What did he say?”

  “He said he’d buy the house himself before he’d let you have it.”

  “Oh, did he? I don’t suppose he mentioned that he’s no more affluent than I am. He must be up to his neck in debt for his car, and that ghastly house.”

  “He also said he has a potential buyer.”

  “Did he bother explaining why he’s so damned antagonistic to me?” She hesitated, and Michael went on, “I suppose he invented some frightful tale of vicious behavior on my part. You might do me the justice to tell me what he’s accusing me of, so I can defend myself.”

  “I don’t see what you could say,” Carla retorted. As always, his antagonism aroused the worst in her. “It’s not surprising that a man should resent his sister’s lover.”

  “Is that what he told you?” To her surprise Michael began to laugh. “And you believed him. You haven’t a great opinion of my taste, do you? I’m fond of the poor little thing, but I assure you—”

  “He said you would deny it.”

  She saw his face darken and the veins on his neck begin to swell, and braced herself for a roar of outrage. Instead Michael closed his mouth, rolled his eyes, and breathed deeply.

  “All right, forget it for now,” he said in a mild voice. “Are you making any progress with your query into the family curse? Don’t think I am just being inquisitive; I’m asking because of Gran.”

  “Is she getting worse, do you think? I’ve been avoiding her, since the sight of me seems to set her off.”

  Michael nodded reluctantly.

  “I can see her deteriorating. I swear, I don’t know what’s happened to her. She looks fragile and twittery, but believe me, she is a tough old woman without much imagination.”

  “Why the Hades don’t you get her into the hospital for tests? I mean, it’s ridiculous the way everybody sits around wringing their hands over poor dear Mrs. Pendennis, and nobody is doing anything to find out what’s wrong with her. It could be a simple physical condition, and you’re just letting her rot away while you mutter and mumble and shake your head.”

  “You’re a cold-blooded wench,” Michael said, staring.

  “I’m the only one who has proposed anything sensible,” Carla snapped. “My God, you men are exasperating! You’re all playing games—even John, he’s fascinated by his antiquarian research. If Mrs. Pendennis is suffering from a clot on the brain, we can talk to her from now till doomsday without making an impression.”

  “You may have a point.”

  “Then do something! I’d take her to the hospital myself, but I have no authority to make her go.”

  “I doubt that she’d go with me either,” Michael said. He added, with difficulty, “She doesn’t exactly trust me.”

  “I noticed that. I wonder why. Oh, for heaven’s sake, go and pick her up, if that’s where you were going. I’ll keep out of her way this evening.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “First I am going to dig in the garden. I feel the need of physical activity. Then I plan to spend the evening reading family papers in my room. Tomorrow I am going to explore the attic. Is that specific enough for you?” Michael nodded, as if mesmerized, and Carla finished, “I’m so glad you approve. Good-bye.”

  After changing to old slacks and sneakers, she came back downstairs. Michael had vanished. At least I got through to him, Carla thought, with satisfaction. I’ve been dying to tell him off for days. And all the rest of them, too; they sit around emoting, and speculating and theorizing…. Men!

  Having worked herself into this mood, she was not displeased to find Tim morosely tying up tomato plants. She had a few things to say to him too.

  The beaming smile that spread over his face at the sight of her softened her a little. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

  “I may live. Much as I hate to admit it, Mike is right about healthy outdoor exercise. It’s shaken some of the fumes out of my brain. Did you come to help? Angel!”

  “I don’t know much about gardens.”

  “Me either.” Tim leaned on one of the stakes he had been using and looked vague. “He said something about spraying the tomatoes. What do you spray tomatoes with? What do you spray tomatoes for?”

  “They get worms, I think.”

  They exchanged blank looks, and then both burst out laughing.

  “Poor Mike,” Tim said, recovering himself. “We’re lousy assistants, aren’t we? Sit down and let’s chat.”

  “No, I came to work. I don’t think I’ll take a chance with the vegetables, but I can cut some of the dead wood out of the roses. Have you got any garden tools?”

  “Whole shedful,” Tim said, waving a limp hand.

  Carla found a pair of clippers and got to work. After cutting the overgrown grass from around the bases of the plants, she began trimming the old dead stalks. That was safe enough, even for a nonexpert. From over the wall came a plaintive crooning. Tim had a pleasant tenor voice, and he went through a long repertoire of saccharine Irish love songs. Carla grinned as she listened, but did not yield. Finally she straightened up, sucking a scratched finger, and surveyed her work with pride. It really did look better. She had only cleared a small part of the rose garden, but the part she had done looked fine, at least to her inexperienced eyes. She returned to her work with renewed energy.

  After a time she realized that the tenor crooning had stopped. She straightened her aching back and looked around. Atop the wall, not far from her, was a weird apparition: Tim’s face, apparently balanced on top of the wall.

  “How did you get up there?” she asked.

  “I’m hanging by my hands,” Tim replied, in stifled tones. “Aren’t you ready to stop work? I’m exhausted. Anyhow, it’s getting dark.”

  “I guess I might as well. Ouch. I’ve got a million thorns stuck in me.”

  At her request, Tim checked to make sure Mrs. Pendennis was out of the way before she went in. When he came back, Michael was with him.

  “I persuaded her to lie down,” he reported. “She’s got some damned little white pill that Simon gave her….”

  “So what’s wrong with that? Simon is a doctor; I’m glad one of you male creatures is doing something practical.”

  “Oh, very practical,” Michael said. “When people get in your way, just dope them till they’re dizzy. I told her I’d take her some soup in a while, but she was looking pretty groggy.”

  “I could do with a little snack myself,” Tim said, just in time to avert a brisk exchange between Carla and Michael. Carla shrugged.

  “You can make me a sandwich while you’re at it,” she said pointedly. “I saw the remains of a roast in the fridge.”

  The three of them got the meal together, such as it was: sandwiches of rare roast beef and thick homemade bread, a can of Campbell’s soup, and beer. Michael took soup up to his grandmother and returned to report that she was ready to sleep. He sat down at the table and looked disapprovingly at Carla’s hands.

  “Don’t you have sense enough to wear gloves when you work around roses?”

  “I couldn’t find a pair that fits me.”

  Despite her protests, Michael insisted on operating. She was squirming by the time he had extracted the last thorn and painted the hole with iodine. When they had finished eating, Tim and Michael tossed to see who would do the dishes. Carla had pointed out that not only were her hands too sore to put in soapy water, but that she was the owner of the house. Tim lost. He did the job as badly as he possibly could, but neither of his companions offered to take over.

  The jokes and friendly insults and the casual food had created an atmosphere so relaxed that Carla found herself lingering, instead of returning to her reading. It was a glorious night, and she was in no mood for Squire Thomas’s wild stories. But nobody offered to take her for a walk in the moonlight, so eventually she got up from the table.

  “I’ll be in the library for a while,” she said.

  Tim caught his friend’s eye and gave a wide yawn.

  “I’m for bed, with a good book. I still haven’t recovered from last night.”

 

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