Touch Not The Cat (13 page)

I did.
I sent him as clear an image as I could, and felt him accept it.

Oh, that one. Yes. It's gone?

That, and other things as well. And now I've found some pictures gone from the
schoolroom, valuable ones
. . .

He had already picked it up, before I even knew I had formulated it.
And you think they
were stolen. Is he phoning the lawyer?

You knew that? How?

Oh, from you. You're as open as daylight when you're upset.

Am I? Then why didn't you come when I was in the cottage?

Because it was time you cried it all out, and that's a thing one wants to do by
oneself. I left you alone. But you should have known I was there.

Yes.
It was resigned, almost flat. J
should have known. But I'd have liked you closer.

Bryony—

Yes?
'

Sweet Bryony.
The patterns came through delicate and warm, like gentle hands touching my cheeks.

Oh, God.
It went out with all the longing of loneliness.
I want you so.

The touch changed, no less gentle, but now electric, thrilling as live wire. There was a quick burst of something as strong and deafening as static, which grew in intensity like pain growing, like sound increasing up to the very limit of tolerance.

Then it shut off abruptly, and the door opened, and my cousin stood on the threshold.

Ashley, 1835

"I was afraid you'd missed the way."

"Oh, no, it's easy, now I've got the key."

"I thought you might have said, I'd always find the way to you, my lover.'"

"So I would, so I would. I didn't have to use the key tonight. I remembered every turning, just as you drew it for me on the map."

"There you go again. Well, I shall say it for you. If you were hidden at the center of the darkest and most tangled forest in the world, I'd find you."

"Like the prince in the fairy tale?"

"Or like the lover in the play. 'There is my north, and thither my needle points.'"

"Eh, now you're laughing at me. That would be dirty meant, surely?"

"It would. Do you mind?"

"Why would I? There's neither dirty nor clean between thee and me, just what's true, and what could be wrong wi' that?"

"Nothing. Nothing ever was, and now, why, now . . ."

Why, how now, kinsman!

—Romeo and Juliet,
I, v

"Hullo, Bryony."

"Why, Emory, how lovely!" To my own surprise, my voice sounded quite normal as I greeted him.

"I could hardly believe it when they said you were coming to lunch today! And to meet you here, of all places, just like this, out of the blue . . . Doesn't it seem ages?"

"If you knew how guilty we all feel about 'here,"' said my cousin. He smiled at me. "You're looking wonderful. I was talking to Bill Emerson, and he said you'd taken it all marvellously. How are you really?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Everyone's been sweet to me, and it's been easier than I ever thought it could be.

You mustn't any of you talk about 'guilt'! That's just silly. We've known all along just what would happen, and—"

I broke off. He had come into the room and was approaching me, threading his way along the row of desks. They looked very small beside his height; his fingertips barely brushed them. It put time in remembrance. He caught the look, and paused. "What is it?"

I said, uncertainly: "James? It
is
James, isn't it?"

I faltered to a stop, meeting the amusement in his eyes. Thrown off guard by the recent exchange with my lover, and by the mental dramatics preceding my cousin's entrance, I felt myself colour as I stared up at him, absurdly at a loss.

The only thing certain about this man was that he was one of my cousins. He was a tall man, fine-boned, with the pale skin that tanned (even in the Spanish sun) no more than sallow; fair straight hair, thin-bridged nose, grey eyes. His shirt and tie were in complementing shades of grey that, either by accident or design—and with him I knew it would be design-exactly matched his eyes. But any impression of the over- trendy or the effete was wiped out as soon as you looked into those eyes and saw the set of the mouth. His mouth was the only feature that was not Ashley; a close mouth, long-lipped, folded at the corners as if it liked to keep secrets, or keep control. It gave him a withdrawn and wary look, rather at vari ance with the Ashley part of him. I remembered his mother; a child's view of her was all I had had, but I could still vividly recall a clever domineering woman who kept her own counsel, and secured her ambitions in her own way. If she had passed that driving side of herself to her sons, it might augur well for Ashley Court. There was more character, I thought, in this clever and wary man than there had been in my own gentle father.

Maybe, by that token, these Ashleys would do better here than we had done.

His smile put time in remembrance, too. It held a very familiar sparkle of mischief. "Don't tell me you're slipping, Bryony darling! We never could put one over you. No, it's Emory. Aren't I the one you wanted?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Didn't they tell you I was coming over from Worcester with Cathy?"

"Yes, they told me, but . . . Oh, all right, so I'm slipping." I returned the smile. "Well, whichever you are, it's up to me to say welcome to Ashley Court. And of course I mean welcome.

This 'guilt' thing is nonsense, and Daddy would have been the first to say so. Don't let's hear about it any more, please."

I uncurled from the window seat, got to my feet, and held out both hands for his. He took a couple of quick steps forward, and his hands closed round mine. He drew me into his arms and kissed me, a cousin's kiss, on the cheek.

I pulled away sharply, an instinctive movement that he tried to stop, then he let me go. He was laughing. I drew breath to speak, but before I could say anything, he put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"All right, all right, don't say it. I admit it. I should have known we still couldn't fool you."

"Then why did you try?" For some reason I didn't stop to analyze, I was angry.

"For fun," he said lightly, and waited, as if challenging me to say more. I was silent. It was not just the moment to start explaining that, even had I found it easy to confuse James with Emory, I could not confuse a touch, much less a kiss. The moment he had taken my hands, I had known who it was. The hazy sunlight drifted between us, dazzling. Through it I saw his eyes, still smiling, and—I was sure—aware.

But he began to talk about my father. I listened, and thanked him, and made some sort of reply, as well as I could for the crowding thoughts that just then were overriding all else. I found suddenly that I couldn't meet his eyes, and turned away to sit down on the window seat again.

The cool, pleasant voice paused. When he spoke again it had changed, subtly. "Bryony. Try not to be too sad. We'll look after you." He hesitated, then added, as if he were answering something and dismissing it, as indeed I supposed he was: "It's not time to talk yet, but don't worry, we'll work something out."

The words were gently spoken, but to me they seemed to go ringing on and on. I said something, I'm not sure what, and then asked quickly: "How's Cousin Howard?"

He half sat down on one of the desks. He seemed completely relaxed. "He's a little better; at any rate, he's out of danger, they say, but he's still very ill. He'll have to retire, did you know? Things have been a bit difficult all round . . . I'm afraid there'll be no question of his coming over for a long time.

When did you think of having the memorial service for Cousin Jon?"

"I haven't talked to the Vicar yet. It could wait, I imagine, till Cousin Howard's mobile. That would be better, wouldn't it?"

"I know he'd like to be there."

"I suppose Emory's over with him in Jerez," I asked, "since you're here?"

"He did go over a couple of times, to see Father, but he's been here most of the time—in Bristol, that is, or London. Father's retirement has been putting the pressure on a bit."

"And you? When did you come over?"

"The last week in April. Miguel coped for us in Jerez, so I could help out here with Twin. We felt pretty bad about not getting over for the cremation, but it simply couldn't be done. I'm sorry about that."

"It's all right, I understand. Have you heard from Francis yet?"

"Not a word," he said. "I gather you haven't, either? He must still be incommunicado in Derbyshire. Who's he with, do you know?"

"No idea. I thought, knowing Francis, that he'd be on his own."

He lifted a shoulder. "Probably. Well, no doubt he'll turn up soon."

"James-"

"Yes?"

"James, was that you in the vestry last night?"

He straightened, startled. I saw the pupils narrow in the wide grey irises, then his eyes went momentarily blank, as if he were making some lightning calculation. Then he said: "Vestry?" as blankly.

"Yes, vestry. It wasn't?"

"It was not. Why the hell should I have been in the vestry?"

"I've no idea. I went to the church late last night, and I saw someone in the vestry. He was leaving just as I went in. He went out across the churchyard wall and into the walled garden. He saw me, but he didn't stay to talk."

"Sounds crazy. Why should you have imagined I'd run away, from you of all people?"

"I don't know. Could it have been Emory?"

"Well, the same applies, I would have thought." He looked at me. "What makes you think it was one of us?"

"I got that impression. Only vaguely—but I thought it was one of you."

"Well, didn't you try speaking to whoever it was?"

He waited for my reply, his eyes wide now, and guileless. I knew that look. It was the "I was never even near the orchard" look, with the apples literally tumbling out of his trouser-pocket. I smiled to myself, and let him see the smile, and watched the flicker in his eyes, and was certain. I turned away towards the window, picked up Pot, and set him on my knee. "No. Oh, well, never mind. What would you be doing there anyway? I just thought it must be one of you, and I got the impression it was you.

And talking of Emory, what's all this about him and Cathy Underhill? Have they really got a thing going?"

"Yes. They met, quite by chance, at some do in town, and when they got talking they found the connection with Ashley. Then one thing led to another, and—yes, you might say they had something going."

"Serious?"

"I'm not sure. That is, I'm not sure from Twin's side of it."

"Then you are sure from Cathy's?" I asked.

"As far as one can judge, yes again."

"You and Emory used not to have secrets from one another."

"We're big boys now."

"Not too big, apparently," I said, rather sharply, "to go in still for all that 'Twin' stuff that used to annoy everyone."

"It's convenient," he said, with a slant of the eyebrows that he didn't attempt to explain. Didn't have to. I knew just when it had been "convenient"; when he and Emory were standing in for one another, either for fun and confusion's sake, or even for pay. One twin, who had pressing business elsewhere, or who was avoiding trouble, would cajole, blackmail, or just plain pay the other to substitute for him. It was significant that as often as not James was the one who was blackmailed into ringing for Emory. The maddening way they had had of calling each other "Twin" had made it desperately hard to catch them out when they wanted to confuse the issue. It was also typical that the habit had been deliberately cultivated. Even as boys, my cousins were to be reckoned with.

"Do you mean," I said slowly, "that you haven't just come here today with Emory and Cathy? That you brought Cathy yourself, and that
she
thinks you are Emory?"

He gave me a sideways glance, half amused, half wary. "You sound very fierce."

"Well, damn it, it could matter. Why did you do it, James?"

"Oh, nothing deadly. Just that he'd had to stand her up once before, and didn't care to do it again. Besides, I wanted to see you."

"Surely you could have come anyway?" I asked. A pause. "Who told you I was here?"

The fair brows lifted a fraction. "Why, Emerson, of course. How else would I have known?"

I glanced up, but he was looking out of the window over my head. "Have you stood in for Emory before—with Cathy, that is?"

"Only once."

"And now here, today, in front of her parents. Do you really expect me to back you up?"

"You always did."

"This could be different. I haven't met her, but it sounds like the sort of situation one ought not to play about with. If she is serious about him, she might get hurt."

"Why should she get hurt if she doesn't know? She'd be hurt if she knew she'd been stood up again."

"Oh, all right," I said resignedly. "Damn you, James, you've no right to put me in this kind of position. We're not children any more. It's a bit late to tell the truth now, so I'll try not to give you away."

"That's my girl." There was nothing in his tone but the offhand approval that there had always been when I helped him. I smiled, and pulled Pot's ears, and thought how little he'd changed, and how much.

"Penny for them," said my cousin.

"I was just thinking that we might never have been parted at all."

"Meaning?"

I sidestepped the question. "Oh, only that it seems like yesterday, you and Emory playing your games. James, I meant what I said. Don't ask me to do it again, because I won't."

But he wasn't listening. He was looking out of the window over my head, and I saw his gaze sharpen.

"Did you know one of the beeches had gone?"

"Yes. Rob told me it had to come down after a storm in February. It's an awful pity, making a gap like that."

"Yes, but have you noticed what you can see through the gap?"

I turned. "No. What?"

He nodded downwards. "You can see the pavilion now, and almost all the layout of the maze. You could never see any of that from the house before—Bryony!"