Ivy Tree (18 page)

I knew he couldn't see my face, but all the same, I looked away. I said shortly: "I'm a woman. That should answer it."

Through the ensuing silence I heard a horse's steady cropping, now quite close at hand. At the bottom of the pasture the river glimmered. Something drifted across like a shadow, shimmering at the edges, shapeless and quiet as a ghost. The yearling, moving up nearer, beside his mother. I had just had time to realise how Con could have interpreted my last remark, when he spoke again, mercifully ignoring it, and coming sharply back to the matter in hand.

"And there really was nothing more about Julie?"

"Nothing." I dropped my cigarette, and trod it out. "Well, there it is. I think it's true. For one thing, he told me not to tell you anything about it."

I caught the gleam of a grin: "Did he now?"

I said tartly: "And don't just accept it as if you expected me to let him down automatically. I wouldn't have told you if—if I hadn't wanted to ask you to change our... plans."

He didn't follow this up. He seemed to have a truly remarkable power of only attending to what he wanted to. He was saying thoughtfully: "I can't quite understand it, if it's true. Ironic, isn't it, how our little conspiracy has turned out? I find you, import you into Whitescar at great trouble and some risk, expose myself and my ambitions to your uneasy female conscience . . , and all for nothing. He'd have left it to me all along." His cigarette went fizzing down into the damp grass. "Funny, you'd have expected it to act the other way. I mean, it seems absurd to have kept you in his Will all these years, in spite of me, only to cut you out when you actually do turn up. I—well, I don't get it. I wish I understood."

"I think I do. I think—how shall I put it? —he's been keeping a sort of dream alive all these years, almost in spite of what he suspected to be the truth. You've all insisted that Annabel was dead, and, being who he is, and also because he must know you wanted Whitescar, he's simply got stubborn about it. He's hung on to his dream and his belief out of sheer obstinacy, even though probably in his heart he's known it wasn't true... And perhaps, partly, to keep some sort of hold over you, too. Yes, I think that might have come into it..." I paused. "Well, now I've come back; he finds he was right all along. But also, mark you, he finds himself facing the reality of the dream that he's been using as a threat to stop you getting too sure of yourself. He's kept telling you that he'll leave the place to Annabel, come what may. Well, now she's here, having pretty well demonstrated that she doesn't give much of a damn for Whitescar, disappearing for eight years without a trace. You, on the other hand, have proved yourself the obvious legatee. So he's had to make his mind up in a hurry; and he's going to do, at last, what he knows he ought to have done all along."

"You may be right. It's illogical enough to be likely."

"What's more," I said, "there's one thing I'm pretty sure of."

"What's that?"

"I think you've been a residuary beneficiary all along. Maybe with Julie, maybe not. I think that, underneath it all, he's believed Annabel was dead. He's obstinate enough to have left her named as his heir, but it's my belief he's expected you to inherit any time these last few years. But my coming home has given him a jolt. He's realised he's got to do something quickly, and make it stick."

"You might be right. My God, you might be right,"

"I don't see why not."

"If only we knew where Julie comes in."

"Yes, Julie's the unknown quantity. Did you hear when I told you he sent for her? He did invite her, as Lisa thought. He wrote to her. Did you know?"

"No." I heard the twist to his voice. "You see? You've been back here—twelve hours, is it? and, claim or no claim, he tells you more than he'd tell me in twelve months."

"Con, please. Don't tear yourself up-so."

I spoke quite without thinking. Unexpectedly, he laughed, and his voice lightened. "All right, darling, what the hell. We'll wait and see, and pray you're right. And irony or no, I still say you're my lucky star!"

"I don't know about that. If I'd never come, your luck would have still been in. You'd have got what you wanted the way you've got everything else; just as you said, with your two hands." I half-turned towards him. In spite of myself, my voice tightened. "Con ... you still haven't heard what, I came to say."

"What else? Oh, lord, you're still upset, and now you feel it's all been for nothing. It that it? Or arc you beginning to worry in case I get what I want without you, and don't keep my side of the bargain? Relax, honey. I'D keep it, never fear. Vou'll get your cut, just the same." I heard the smile in his voice. "I'd not trust you else, sweetie, you could do me too much damage."

"No, I'm not worried about that. I'd do you no harm. I only want to go. I told you, didn't I?"

"Go?"

"Yes. Cut right out. Leave, straight away."

He said blankly: "You're—crazy!"

"No. It's obvious that I'm not needed any more, so—"

"Now look-"

"No, Con, listen to me, please I It's true that you might have got all this without my coming at all, or, on the other hand, my coming may have forced the decision on Grandfather. We weren't to know which way he'd decide. The game was worth playing, as far as it went. But now it isn't necessary. We've seen that. And since I'm not needed here any more, I really would rather go. No, please don't be angry; you know I'd never have let you down if I'd been needed, but I'm not. I—I want to go. Don't ask me to explain any more, I can't, you'd only laugh at me for—for scruples or something, and I couldn't take it, not tonight. Won't you just accept the fact— ?"

"I'll accept nothing!" We were back where we had been, with enmity sharp and open between us. "If it's your conscience that's bothering you, for heaven's sake forget it! You've just found out that you're not robbing anyone after all—you're not even going to have to hand Annabel's share of Whitescar over to me!

You came into this with your eyes wide open, and if this is the way you intend to react after one day, then I can only say it's turned out better for you than you deserve!" He paused, and added, more pleasantly: "Now relax, for pity's sake. You're hurting nobody, and the old man's as pleased as a dog with two tails to have you here."

"I know, but —"

"And how could you walk out now? Tell me that. What d'you think people—let alone Mr. Winslow—would say? What possible excuse could there be, short of the truth?"

"It's simple enough. I've only to go to Grandfather tonight and tell him that I came back to see him, but that on second thoughts I can see how silly it was of me to come . . . because of you, I mean. After all, Con, he can't expect me to find it easy to face you, can he? He'll accept that; he might even think I'm sulking because of his decision to leave Whitescar to you."

I waited a moment, but he didn't speak. I turned to face the gate, gripping the top bar hard with both hands. "Con, it's best, really it is. It'll work. The luck's running our way; today's proved it. We'll think up what to say to Grandfather, then I'll go, tomorrow. I can stay in Newcastle till Wednesday—it'd look queer if I didn't stay to meet Julie—and I can come for Grandfather's birthday. Then I'll go to London. I can always come back if—if he's ill or anything." My voice was going out of control again. I stopped and took a steadying little breath that caught somehow in my throat, and must have sounded like a sob. "You—you can't want me here, Con. Can't you see, if I go, it'll do you nothing but good? If I go straight away again, now, that'll clinch it as far as Grandfather's concerned, surely? He'd never leave me anything at all, not even money. You'd get the lot, you and Julie."

He had made a quick movement in the dark. His hand came down over mine in a kind of pounce, and gripped it hard against the bar. "Stop this!" He spoke sharply. "You're hysterical. Think, can't you? What the hell's the matter with you tonight? You know quite well this is nonsense. If you go now, what sort of questions d'you think will be asked? Then heaven help us both, and Lisa too."

"I don't see how they could find out—"

"Another thing. There's no possible excuse you could give for going now. You'd see that, if you'd behave like a reasonable human being instead of a hysterical girl,"

"I told you-"

"Oh, don't be a fool." He sounded exasperated, and thoroughly angry. "When you came back here—you, Annabel, I mean—you must have known you'd have to face me. If, after twenty-four hours, you decide you can't 'take' me any more, what's Mr. Winslow going to think? He's no fool. He's going to assume that I've made myself objectionable—made another pass at you ... raked up the past and upset you ... something, anyway—and this time he mightn't be prepared to forgive me. No."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, I do see that. Well, we could think of something else—"

"I tell you, no! For one thing, we still don't know for certain about the terms of this Will, or even if there is to be a new Will. Even if you're right, do you think I want him cutting you right out, as he certainly would if you left tomorrow?"

I stared painfully at the shadow beside me. "What do you mean?"

"My dear little conscience-stricken nitwit, do you think I want to see him splitting his capital two ways instead of three? If you stay, I get your share as well as my own. If you go, I go halves, if I'm lucky, with Julie . . . I'm talking about money now. I need the money to run the place. It's as simple as that." His hand moved over mine, holding it hard down on the bar. "So, darling, you'll stay. You'll go on playing the sweet repentant prodigal. And you'll play it till you collect at least Annabel's rightful share of what money's going. Is that clear?"

"No."

"Girl dear, do I have to give it to you in a children's comic strip? I can't put it any clearer. And in any case, it doesn't matter. You'll do as I say."

"No."

Silence.

I said shakily: "I didn't mean I didn't understand. I just meant no." For a moment I thought his stillness would explode into violent anger. I could feel it running through his wrist and hand into mine. Then the tension changed in quality. He was peering at me, as if he would pierce the dusk to read my face.

He said slowly: "You still haven't told me the reason for all this. Now, supposing you do . . . Well?

Something's scared you, and badly, hasn't it? No . . . not the horses; something important. .. And I'd give a lot to know just what. .."

His voice had altered completely. The anger had vanished, and in its place was only a kind of curiosity; no, more than that; a kind of speculation.

Where his anger had failed to frighten me, it was absurd, now, suddenly, to be afraid. I said hurriedly:

"Nothing's scared me. It's just... I told you, I've had a rather ghastly day... I'm sorry, I—oh, don't ask me any more questions, please! I—I've done quite a lot for you today. Do this for me. We can think of some way, I know, if you'll only help . .."

For the first time, I touched him of my own volition. I reached my free hand and laid it over his, where it held mine over the bar of the gate.

Then, suddenly, the moon was there, swimming up behind the tree-tops into a milky sky, and the shadows of the trees bored towards us, blue and hard as steel, across grass awash with silver. I could see his face clearly, bent to mine. The expression of his eyes was hidden; the moonlight threw back a glint from their curved, brilliant surfaces, hiding everything but an impression of blackness behind. I was again sharply aware of that terrifying single-track concentration of his. The bright, blank eyes watched me.

Then he said, quite gently: "You mean this? You really want to give it up, and go ?" "Yes."

"Very well, my dear. Have it your own way."

I must have jumped. He smiled. I said, incredulously: "You mean, you'll help me? You'll let me go—give it up, and you'll just wait and see ... fair means?"

"If that's the way you want it." He paused, and added, very kindly: "We'll go straight in now, and tell your grandfather that you're not Annabel at all. We'll tell him that you're Mary Grey of Montreal, an enterprising tramp on the make, who wanted a peaceful niche in life in the Old Country, and a spot of assured income. We'll tell him that the three of us, Lisa, myself and you—all of whom he trusts—have plotted this thing up against him, and that we've been laughing at him all day. I don't know what passed between you in his bedroom this afternoon, but I imagine that he might be quite sensitive about it, don't you? .. . Yes, I thought so. And when we've assured him, at the end of this long, happy day, that Annabel's as dead as mutton for all we know, and has been this last five years ... Do you see?"

The horses moved nearer, cropping the long grass. Through the hanging trees the river glittered in the growing moonlight.

Across it a heron lumbered up on to its wings, and flapped ponderously down-river. Eventually I said: "Yes. I see."

"I thought you would."

"I should never have started it."

"But you did. With your eyes open, sweetie."

"It would kill him, wouldn't it? Whatever sort of scene . . • I mean, if we told him, now?"

"Almost certainly. Any shock, any sudden strong emotional reaction, such as anger, or fear . . . Oh yes, I think you can be sure it would kill him. And we don't want him dead—yet—do we?"

"Con!"

He laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart, that's not the plan at all. I only said it to wake you up to the—er—realities of the situation."

"To frighten me, you mean?"

"If you like. If I want something badly enough, you know, I get it, I don't count small change." I said, before I thought: "I know that. Don't think I haven't grasped the fact that you once tried to murder Annabel."

A long, breathless pause. Then he straightened up from the gate. "Well, well. You have put two and two together and made five, haven't you? Well, go on believing that; it'll keep you in line . . . That's settled then. We carry on as planned, and you, my lovely, will do as you're told. Won't you?"

"I suppose so."

His hand was still over mine. The other hand came up under my chin, and lifted my face to the moonlight. He was still smiling. He looked like every schoolgirl's dream of romance come true. I moved my head away. "Don't hold this against me, honey, will you? I've said some pretty hard things to you, but—well, you know as well as I do what's at stake, and it seemed the only way. I'm not worrying really that you'll let me down when it comes to the push . . . This was bound to happen; I was expecting it. It's reaction, that's all. It's a highly emotional set-up, and you've taken more than enough for one day. So we'll forget it, shall we? You'll feel fine in the morning." His hands touched my cheek, and he gave a little laugh. "You see how right I was to choose a nice girl? That conscience of yours does give me the slightest advantage in the mutual-blackmail pact of ours, doesn't it?"