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CHERISH THIS WAYWARD HEART

Margaret Malcolm

All her life Judith had tried to make up for not being the son her father had wanted. She was determined to be as good -as any man.

Now, with her father's death, Windygates Farm was hers. And right from the start she deeply resented the new estate manager, Charles Saxilby.

But, in the ensuing battle of wills between them, Charles taught Judith to be a woman!

CHARLES came quietly downstairs, fully expecting that his early breakfast would be a lonely one, but there were already two people at the table.

“Mary!” He dropped his hand lightly on his sister-in-law’s shoulder as he passed to his own place. “You shouldn’t have worried—but I admit I’m glad you have!”

“Couldn’t let you go off as if we were glad to see the back of you,” his half-brother Roger said gruffly from the other side of the table.

Charles’s glance towards him was full of affection— and a certain amount of wonder, too. After all, it was amazing that, in these days when everybody seemed to be doing their best to loosen family ties, they, in spite of the twenty years’ difference in their ages and the comparative slightness of the blood-tie, had always enjoyed each other’s company so much. Mostly their mother’s doing, of course. One had always known that there was room in her heart for both of them. And Mary was pretty wonderful, too. One of those rare women who could love her husband with all her heart and yet not resent his having a man friend. She’d been a good friend to him, too.

A silence fell on the three of them, as it will when one of such a tightly knit little group is going away. And nobody seemed to have the ability to break it. Until, when some of the marmalade that Charles had spread on his toast slid stickily over his fingers, he said “Confound it!” in a perfectly normal way and the tension eased.

“How long do you reckon you’ll take?” Roger asked, handing up his cup for a refill of coffee.

“Oh—five, five and a half hours,” Charles replied. “I want to get to Wyford about lunch-time. I don’t relish an interview on an empty stomach—besides, people don’t welcome an extra mouth to feed if it can be avoided these days.”

Roger got up and limped to the table. His limp was always more pronounced when he was worried, Mary thought anxiously. And he was worried about Charles and this venture. In a minute he would say so—and it wasn’t any good. Charles had made his mind up.

“I wish you weren’t going,” Roger said abruptly, just as she had known he would.

Charles unfolded his long legs from beneath the table and joined his brother at' the window. For a moment they stood side by side gazing out at the sunny Sussex acres that Charles loved no less because they were Roger’s and not his own. He knew every inch of them, had taken all the heavy end of the farming ever since Roger’s war injury had made it impossible for him to do as much as he would have liked. Now—he was leaving it all.

“Old man, honestly, it’s the right thing! No, listen! I’ve been thinking about it for a long time—ever since young Jerry started his last year at the Agricultural College. No, before that. We’ve both known this was a temporary arrangement. It was all right when Jerry was too much of a kid to take on the job, but now it’s his—and I’m not going to have him feel bad because he’s turning me out or resentful because he can’t!”

“I’ll give him something to think about if he tries that on!” Roger growled, but from his tone Charles knew that he was at least half convinced. He laughed.

“There’s another side to it! I’m only rule-of-thumb trained—Jerry will be all scientific. I don’t want my horrible ignorance exposed!”

“If he knows half what you do—” Roger began, and laughed. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “And there is nothing like pitchforking a young man into his responsibilities! It’s difficult to take a real interest when your hand is held in every emergency.”

“Exactly!” Charles could not entirely suppress the relief in his tone, and Mary looked at him sharply. An idea that had occurred to her more than once became established as a certainty, and a little later, when they had seen the last of Charles as he and his car vanished down the drive, she tucked her arm through her husband’s and said, thoughtfully:

“You know, Roger, while it’s true enough that Jerry is one of the reasons why Charles is going after this job, I don’t think it’s the only one!”

“Oh?” Roger looked at her questioningly. He had a profound respect for Mary’s intelligence and frankly admitted that she could get to the bottom of people better than he could. “Well, what else can it be?”

Mary hesitated for a moment.

“Charles is going on for thirty,” she said slowly. “It’s time he had his own place, his own interests ”

“You mean—you think he’s looking for a wife?” Roger said in amazement. “But there are plenty of charming girls round about here! Why couldn’t he have chosen one of those?”

“Because—perhaps I’m wrong, but I think Charles is the questing, adventurous type,” Mary explained. “And, in any case, I don’t suppose he has consciously decided that it is about time he got married. Just— what is unfamiliar has suddenly seemed attractive.”

Roger considered this for a moment. Certainly it had not occurred to him before, but . . .

“You may be right,” he agreed, and then, anxiously: “I hope to goodness he chooses a suitable girl!”

Mary smiled. Charles, she felt very sure, would choose exactly as he thought fit. And they would have to make the best of it.

But, as Charles drew near to Wyford, there was nothing farther from his thoughts than romance. The day that had started so promisingly in Sussex had gradually deteriorated, and now was grey and wet. None the less, he had made pretty good time. He had come by minor roads to Reading, from there through to Gloucester, and now he proposed taking minor roads again. But this part of the west country was comparatively strange to him, and he realised that if he took the wrong turning he could easily find himself miles out of his way.

At the next signpost he brought the car to a halt and got out. He grimaced a little as he caught the full impact of the chill, misty rain that had prevented him from reading the sign from the shelter of the car, and wondered if he was being a fool. He pulled the collar of his burberry closer round his throat and peered up at the signpost. Yes, he was all right. His sense of direction had held good.

He went slowly back to the car, but he did not drive on immediately. Suddenly, in spite of the weather, he was not anxious to get to the end of his journey. What had seemed like high adventure when he had started that morning now held no appeal whatsoever. For two pins he would have turned the car’s head round and beat a retreat.

But no sooner had the thought taken actual shape than it was rejected. The strong, square jaw jutted forward aggressively, the fair brows were knit in a scowl. Whatever might lie ahead, he was hanged if he was going to give anyone the opportunity of saying that he couldn’t take it!

He let in the clutch, put his foot down on the accelerator and, in spite of the winding road, made the best time that he had achieved all day for the rest of the trip.

In little over half an hour he was crossing the bridge, turning past the unexpectedly reddish cathedral into the town centre. And then he realised, for the first time, that he had, of all days, chosen market day.

He frowned. That might be a bit inconvenient. It meant that both car parks and hotels would be full; on the other hand, of course, meals would be served far later than on ordinary days. He had already decided to go to an hotel in Marsh Street, since his way to Windygates lay in that direction, and, taking his turn to pass the policeman on his neat little round platform, he made his way down the narrow street. It was a slow business. Farm carts, cars of all ages and sizes, pedestrians, a puzzled, frightened calf that had contrived to escape, all blocked his way and made it difficult to turn in under the hotel archway. And when he did, it was none too easy to find parking space.

When, at last, he made enquiries about a meal, he found that his guess had been correct. The restaurant was packed. Would be, so he was assured, for the next half hour. But if he could wait . . .

Charles decided that he could and would. In the meantime he could use up the time comfortably and profitably in the bar. Nothing like a bar on market day for getting a good cross-section of the community.

The place was crowded and it took him some time to get his drink and even longer to find a quiet spot where he could observe without being too noticeable.

None the less, as he slipped into a comer, he noticed that conversation momentarily halted and, outsider though it made him feel, he had lived far too long himself in a county where a stranger is still regarded as a foreigner not to appreciate that here, in this border town, there was to this day that inherent fear of invasion that one also found in Sussex—although perhaps with less cause here.

Then they appeared to forget all about him and the talk began again. It was mainly about farming matters and of to-day’s market in particular, although the few women there, he could hear, were discussing people rather than affairs. He grinned faintly. So long as there were market days, there would be gossip!

The women, he noticed, kept mainly to themselves, leaving their men to their own affairs. It was rather a pleasant picture. There was the hum of good-natured talk, an occasional laugh or so.

Then he realised that, not an arm’s length from him, voices were being raised. Fairly good-temperedly as yet, but— He studied the group more closely. Four or five men and a much younger lad with dark, close-cropped hair. Like the rest of the group, he was wearing breeches and a tweed jacket, yet without knowing just why, Charles realised that there was a difference in class. And then—the lad spoke. And Charles started involuntarily. It was not a boy at all, it was a girl! And she was very angry. Moreover, her anger was amusing the men and that was making her still angrier.

“But of course I am right!” The high, arrogant young voice, admitted no possibility of error. “Champion Garwin Master was the one that had to be shot! And Champion Garwin Major was the bull that Sir Garwin sold to Mr. Preece! It’s absurd ”

“No, Miss Judith, you’ve got it wrong!” If the girl was confident of being in the right, so equally was this big, black-browed man. There was obstinacy in every line of his face and grim determination in his voice. Charles felt a certain sympathy for him. Just who this girl was and how she came to be so knowledgeable he had no idea, but he Was firmly of the opinion that she wanted a good spanking. She was deliberately presuming on the fact that few men will flatly contradict a woman in public, least of all when their relative social spheres were so clearly defined as now. The man was obviously a farmer who would be the last to claim, or wish to claim, gentility. The girl—for the first time Charles took a good look at her.

Small and slim and very dark. That was his first impression. His second—was of elegant, tapering hands, of the perfect carriage of the young body and the arrogant tilt of the beautifully poised head. The arrogance was all to the fore now. The dark eyes flashed, the proud nostrils flared.

Some warning bell rang in Charles’s brain and an instinct even stronger than his sympathy for his own sex warned him that the girl was on the point of making a fool of herself—and that afterwards she would hate herself for having done it. He had got to do something.

“I think I can settle the discussion for you,” he said pleasantly.

They turned at the sound of the alien voice, regarding him not so much suspiciously as impartially. Giving him a chance to say what he had to say before judging him. They waited in silence.

“I’ve worked for Sir Roger Garwin for some years,” he explained. “And, actually, it was I who had to shoot —Major. It was Master that we—that Sir Roger sold.”

For a moment the silence remained unbroken. Charles saw the flash of satisfaction in the big farmer’s eyes, the covert grins of the other men. At the girl he was careful not to look.