With this ring, p.7
With this Ring, page 7
For the saga of the Shaws, which embraced a multitude of families covering hundreds of years, she recorded the facts about each clan on cards of a certain color. As a result Cynthia, who had to refer often to them in copying the manuscript, labored amid a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of every rainbow hue.
Eva Shaw usually sat at an adjoining table, attired for writing in a well-worn but still resplendent Chinese coat heavily embroidered with golden dragons and leering gods. The Oriental effect was heightened by several spare pencils stuck haphazardly into her swirling white hair. She used dozens of pencils, discarding one the moment its point became too dull for her elegant Spencerian script, as smooth and even as copperplate engraving.
Usually they followed the same pleasant routine. When the French clock on the living room mantel tinkled the hour with truly Parisian gaiety, Mary appeared in her morning uniform of gray and white. She bore a tray with two steaming cups of coffee.
“Ten o’clock, ma’am!” she announced firmly, pushing away a pile of papers to place a cup beside her mistress.
“Be careful, Mary! If you mix my pages I will be lost!”
“I didn’t hurt ’em. You drink your coffee and eat your crackers or you will be lost.”
The maid served Cynthia and paused, nursing the empty tray.
“S’pose I was to make you each a nice sandwich? You’ve got to keep your strength up.”
“Haven’t time. And my strength is holding up quite well, thank you.” Miss Shaw corrected manuscript while she sipped her coffee. “Where is Michael?”
“Washing the car, of course!” Mary snorted. “Does he ever do anything else, when he isn’t driving you?”
“I shall want him at four-thirty. Finished, Cynthia? Run along, Mary, and let us work.”
The hours that followed would be interrupted only by a brief luncheon period.
How fortunate, Cynthia thought, to have found just this job, work which she could do acceptably in spite of her inexperience, for a woman she admired more with every passing day. Interesting work, too; the family history of the Shaws, at least as Miss Shaw chose to tell it, was a sprightly chronicle of delightful, if sometimes unrighteous, characters.
Even the room where they labored added its charm. Adjoining the living room it, too, looked out on the ever-changing and fascinating shore and sea, through windows brightened by ivy and African violets. Among the flower pots Topaz lay curled in peaceful slumber. And best of all, Cynthia was completely remote from any connection with her former life. Eric Crane would need to be clairvoyant to trace her here.
Only Alonzo knew her present location, or would as soon as he received the excited airmail letter which she had dispatched to Japan on the evening she was hired. This assumed character of hers should be suspicion-proof when she could carelessly display a missive addressed in his masculine hand to “Mrs. Alonzo Farley.” That, she reminded herself cautiously, would depend on whether he approved of her venture. If he shouldn’t, thank Heaven he was too many thousands of miles away to do more than protest by mail.
The usual routine was abruptly cast to the winds at noon on her third day. Miss Shaw bundled together her sheets of manuscript and began plucking pencils from her coiffure.
“Cynthia, I am—what is Cousin Alexander’s expression—oh—bushed!” she admitted. “A wonderful word that, so much more descriptive than worn out or exhausted. Whenever I have to struggle to write, I know I am tired. And you must be equally bushed, my dear; I know I have been working you too hard. So, no more today—and that is an order! Quoting Alexander again.”
“You are not working me too hard. I love every minute of it!” Cynthia protested. “And it is very agreeable to my ego, after wasted years, to find that someone really needs me.”
Miss Shaw tilted her chin to peer at the girl over her glasses.
“Didn’t your husband need you?” she inquired sharply.
“Oh, of course!” Cynthia gasped, searching frantically for a believable explanation. “I didn’t mean—but you see, he is away now—and—it left me terribly at loose ends.”
She arranged the pages she had typed in a folder and clipped the pencil-written sheets to the front so that Miss Shaw could refer to them when she edited the final draft.
“If you are sure you want to stop now, I’ll go for a swim before lunch, and be back at two—”
“I said no more for today, and I meant it! I have to call on a deadly dull relative this afternoon and you are not to stay cooped up here alone. Get out in the sun before you grow as dried up and yellow as I am.”
Cynthia laughed. “If I look one quarter as well at your age—”
“Leave my age out ot it!” snapped Miss Shaw. “Run along now.”
The girl departed, not at all depressed by the curt dismissal; she was becoming familiar with the waspish side of her employer, and beginning to realize that it was sheer camouflage, probably a defense mechanism against those who might take advantage of her.
“As I am doing?” Cynthia asked herself. “But she does need me!” came the somewhat comforting afterthought.
The need was demonstrated within a few minutes. Miss Shaw, with the inconsistency which Cynthia had come to expect, having ordered her to take the afternoon off, immediately called her room and begged her help in finding a missing page of manuscript.
Ordinarily Cynthia would not have appeared in that decorous apartment wearing a yellow and tan plaid swim suit partially draped by a white terry beach robe. But because of the desperation in Miss Shaw’s appeal she flew to the rescue like a fireman responding to a third alarm. The Annex elevator was somewhere in the upper regions, so Cynthia ran up the stairs, found the wanted page under a pile of Miss Shaw’s notes and retired to the hall triumphant. Because she was breathless, this time she punched the button and heard the elevator come complaining down the shaft.
As it reached her floor she saw the shadow of a man’s figure on the frosted panel of its door. The car jerked to a stop, the doors slid open and a jovial voice boomed, “Won’t you come into my parlor?” A man in a hound’s-tooth check sports coat and lemon yellow tie leaned out and stared at Cynthia.
“I beg your pardon, I thought it would be Miss Shaw. Say—you’re her secretary, aren’t you? I’ve seen you—Miss Farley. Right?”
“Mrs. Farley.” Cynthia stepped in.
“Excuse me again.” He closed the doors with a flourish. “Going down?” At her nod he pushed a button. He was only slightly taller than Cynthia, stout and beginning to acquire another chin. There were puffy pouches under the eyes which sparkled with friendliness. “I’m a neighbor, Neal Bruce, up in Number Three.” He offered a tentative hand.
“So nice to meet you, Mr. Bruce.” Cynthia shook hands gravely and was surprised at the strength of his grip. Mr. Bruce must be less flabby than he appeared. “You are the first of the Annexites I’ve met, although I have seen Mr. and Mrs. Whitehead in the dining room. Miss Shaw told me who they were.”
“That’s right, they are in Number Five, the top floor. Probably Miss Eva, who knows everything about everybody, warned you to read a book on tropical fish before you meet them, because they are cracked on the subject. Speaking of fish,” he eyed her costume with a grin, “going for a swim—or just been?”
“On my way.”
“Blast the luck!” Bruce growled. “I have an appointment at the Summer Theater or I’d join you. If invited,” he added, winking.
“This being my first venture in the Atlantic I welcome advice.” Cynthia stressed the word lest she appear to be angling for him to ditch his appointment. “Any dangers to avoid, I mean?”
“Not a thing, this is a great place for even children to swim. Absolutely no risks. Too early in the season for the floats to be put out, but if you like diving, go over on the rocky point.” He consulted his wrist watch, then shook his head. “Sorry I can’t go along—this time, anyway.”
Cynthia noticed that the car was motionless. How long had they stood here? She reached for the door handle.
With a muttered apology Bruce opened the doors and walked with her to the entrance. Passing the first floor apartment door he nodded toward it.
“Doctor Ferguson, the other—what did you call us—Annexites? That’s pretty good! He completes the roll call, because Number Four is empty at the moment and being redecorated—a frightful mess! Ferguson is at one of the big defense plants out in the country from here. Something to do with guarding the workers against radiation poisoning, I think.”
“And you, Mr. Bruce? You mentioned the Theater. Are you one of the actors?”
He laughed. “Thanks for the compliment—if you aren’t ribbing me. No, unfortunately I am one of those stage-struck dopes who put money into such things just so I can hang around show business. And since I have been summoned there today, I suppose they have run out of cash again. Be seeing you, Mrs. Farley.” He went off toward the parking lot behind the hotel.
The long beach curving between rocky points was deserted, but the hotel piazza held several observant guests in rocking chairs. Cynthia felt decidedly conspicuous as she adjusted her cap and waded out into the surf. That, she supposed, was what the people here called the low, slow waves which were surging heavily up across the sand, although they were only distant relatives of the racing combers she was accustomed to on the Pacific coast. The water, too, had an unfamiliar feel, warm enough but with a sort of latent bite that was exhilarating.
She swam expertly out toward the northern point as Mr. Bruce had suggested, for she did enjoy diving. Climbing the steep, weed-covered rocks she searched for a level spot from which to take off, but without success. Perhaps one dived from any cleft or outcrop where there was a foothold. Up here the stone was bare of slippery weeds and up here, also, the sea breeze blew stronger—and colder—against her dripping body. She faced the water and braced her feet.
“Don’t jump, Cynthia!”
The urgency in the low-voiced order compelled obedience. Startled, Cynthia looked over her shoulder. Alex Houston stood at the top of the rocks a dozen feet away, staring down at her. Like a Viking on the prow of his marauding galley, was her instant comparison. Except that Vikings were blond and the wind was fluttering shining black hair. And instead of armor he wore a mahogany brown sweater and tan slacks.
Nevertheless, the girl decided, looming against the cloud-splashed blue sky he was the handsomest figure she had ever seen. Following which thought she told herself severely, “Hold everything, gal, the cousins are tired of pursuing secretaries!” And in order to make her own attitude clear said aloud—and with indignation—“What do you mean by yelling ‘Don’t jump,’ I was going to dive!”
“Please don’t do that, either. Let me explain,” Houston began.
“That I am much too far up for safety?” she demanded sarcastically, the memory of two domineering brothers putting an edge on her voice. “I’m not a beginner.” She turned away and again poised to spring.
“Cynthia! Stop!”
Really! she thought, this is too much like Alonzo to be borne. Over her shoulder she favored Houston with a frigid glare and arched eyebrows.
“ ‘Cynthia’?” she repeated pointedly. “And just whom do you think you are ordering about?”
He flushed. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Farley, but under the circumstances I thought only of your safety. I am sure that you are capable of diving from any height, but you shouldn’t do it into unknown waters.”
“Oh!” Belatedly she realized her carelessness. “You are right, of course and I beg your pardon. I didn’t check the bottom. How did you know?”
“I didn’t, but I wanted to be sure. I happened to meet Neal Bruce in the hotel parking lot. He mentioned meeting you—and that you were going for your first swim here. When I saw you climbing the rocks, evidently without a look at the bottom, I—” He shrugged and spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “There are plenty of ledges down there. To be honest, the thought of what could happen to you scared politeness out of me and I guess I was a bit arbitrary without thinking.”
“I’m very glad you stopped me,” Cynthia admitted. “If you hadn’t, a foolish girl might have dented a hidden rock with her head.”
“Please don’t mention it!” Houston grinned, with a dramatic shiver. “Am I forgiven?”
“And heartily thanked. There was nothing to forgive, anyway. You saved my life and Miss Shaw calls me ‘Cynthia,’ so why shouldn’t you, Cousin Alexander?”
“Oh, come now! Make it Alex and we’re all set. If she calls you by your first name you must have made a hit with her. Do you have every afternoon off for dunking?”
“By no means, but Miss Shaw decided she’s working me too hard, and turned me loose for the rest of today.”
“And I,” said Alex solemnly, “am also at liberty by some lucky chance. Shall we combine forces? As a starter, how about lunch in some picturesque shack frequented by lobstermen and other town characters, followed by a brisk drive along the scenic shore line beyond Cape Ann, then dinner in another—”
“How about just lunch?” Cynthia interrupted the inviting catalog, “and see how we get along? I may bore you, so don’t commit yourself too far.”
“That shoe is more likely to fit me—but whatever you say.” He pointed behind him. “My car’s up there, can I run you back to the hotel to dress or are you still determined to risk a dive?”
Cynthia looked down at the water and shook her head.
“Frankly, I’ve lost the urge for the moment. If you will stop at the beach I’ll pick up my robe. I hope you don’t mind a rather wet passenger.”
“Not this particular one,” Houston said gallantly and led the way to his car.
The picturesque shack he selected turned out to be a charming tearoom perched at the end of a wharf in Newbury Harbor and aptly, if not too originally, named Land’s End. The exterior was lavishly decorated with festooned fishing nets and brightly painted lobster pot buoys, while two enormous crossed oars framed the entrance. Within, however, the proprietor had curbed his passion for marine effects; turquoise walls only suggested the sea, and the plain white tavern curtains at every window were pulled wide to give a view of the harbor.
“Lobster of course?” Alex suggested when a young dark-haired waitress presented the menus. When Cynthia agreed enthusiastically he began to order, suggesting several changes in the advertised side dishes.
Cynthia noticed how intently the girl listened, her brows puckered and lips forming soundless words. As Alex looked up to emphasize a point he must have caught the expression, for he paused and leaned back.
“You are not a Newbury Harborite, are you?” he asked interestedly.
The waitress pondered that. Cynthia could almost see the words being examined, sorted out with intense concentration, and finally identified.
“Newbury Harbor is here, yes?” Her voice was soft, with a throaty accent. “Then, no—I am Hungarian. I don’t always understand, sometime. Excuse me.”
“You are doing fine,” Alex encouraged kindly. “Look, here on the card. Number Two, Broiled Lobster Dinner. One for her, one for me. O.K.?” He smiled at her. “I’ll bet you understand that slang already.”
“Yes! But you say,” she protested with frowning intentness, “Hash potato instead of—”
“Forget all that.” He tapped the card. “Just bring each of us a Number Two, no changes.”
“O.K.” The girl smiled and went away muttering.
“Hope you don’t mind taking it as it comes?” Alex asked. “I thought we wouldn’t confuse her with complications. She is nervous enough anyway.”
“If you had pounded the table and insisted on the changes,” Cynthia assured him, “I would have stabbed you with a butter knife. The poor girl can’t have been over here very long, no wonder she’s nervous. Imagine landing in a strange country and having to earn a living!”
“More or less your own position, isn’t it? Alone among strangers and forced to earn a living. But perhaps that isn’t a real necessity with you?”
Cynthia didn’t care for the subject, and even less for the penetrating look which accompanied its introduction.
“A necessity for the present,” she temporized while she groped for a plausible explanation. “You see, Lon needs every cent we were able to scrape up for this Japanese business. If he puts it over, we will have clear sailing. But why bring up dull shop talk,” she admonished brightly, “when there is much more interesting sailing to watch in the harbor?” And throughout the four mouth-watering courses of the Land’s End Lobster Dinner Number Two she succeeded in holding the conversation firmly away from further discussion of any and all Farleys.
That she achieved her objective without sacrificing any of her charm was attested by Alex Houston’s insistence on carrying out the full program he had previously outlined. There was no objection from Cynthia, in spite of secret misgivings as to the wisdom of becoming entangled with Miss Shaw’s cousin. She was enjoying herself far too much to call a halt. If the pursued relative chose to turn pursuer, that was his affair—and her gain.
They started for the suggested drive along the shore, but chance postponed the trip. The car was threading through the last of the village’s haphazard traffic when a small yellow airplane droned overhead, dropping lower and lower as it flew westward.
With an exclamation of surprise Alex suddenly swung off the main street into a lane and gunned the motor.
“You don’t mind a side trip, I hope,” he said. “That looked like the new plane of a friend of mine in Beverly. Let’s see if it is.”
“You expect to catch him in this car?” Cynthia jeered.
“Just that. He was heading for the airfield outside town, it’s not far from here,” he explained as the car climbed a slope between arching elms.
“An airfield in Newbury Harbor? Nobody has ever mentioned it and I haven’t seen any planes around here.”
Alex laughed. “That’s not surprising. Don’t get the idea that this is a La Guardia Terminal. So far it isn’t much more than a big level field with a hangar and a couple of part-time mechanics. Quite a few people around here own planes now, or fly occasionally, and they hope to work up into a permanent association that can support a proper field at least.”
