LITMIR.BIZ

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Catherine saw the way Owen glowered at him.

      ‘Oh, no.’ Aunt Margaret shook her head. ‘Just a few cows for our own use, that’s all.’

      ‘This is a sheep farm,’ Owen told him shortly. ‘Or at least, it was.’

      ‘Owen!’

      His mother gave him a warning look, but it was too good an opportunity to miss, and turning on Catherine, he added: ‘We’re all indebted to my dear cousin here for removing the uncertainty.’

      ‘It’s not Catherine’s fault.’ It was Gillian, his wife, who defended her. ‘She only told you what Mr Glyndower had told her.’

      Owen snorted. ‘That bastard! I wouldn’t believe a word he said. If he’s so desperate for cash, how come that son of his goes to public school? And what about the servants they employ—–’

      ‘Would you have him dismiss old Percy Laurence?’ demanded Catherine, stung by his indifference to anyone’s well being but his own. ‘And what about the butler? Morgan, isn’t it?’ She appealed to her aunt for confirmation. ‘Neither of them would get any other employment, you know that.’

      ‘They still have to be paid,’ insisted Owen moodily, pushing his pie round his plate. ‘And I know Linda Jones works there, too.’

      ‘Penwyth is a big place,’ retorted Catherine. ‘Someone has to work there.’

      ‘Then why doesn’t that wife of his get herself off her backside and do something?’

      ‘Really, Owen! At the supper table!’ His mother looked apologetically at Robert. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Brooke. My son isn’t usually so objectionable.’

      ‘Oh, really …’ Robert was seldom embarrassed, and his smile was reassuring. ‘Don’t apologise, Mrs Powys. I come from a large family, so I’m used to family squabbles. Besides, I’m enjoying myself. You’re an excellent cook, if I may say so. This flan is delicious!’

      Aunt Margaret flushed with pleasure, and Catherine felt a surge of warmth towards him. Robert could always be relied upon to smooth over any difficulties, and Owen was forced to apply himself to his supper, aware that any further comment on his part could only be construed as boorishness.

      When supper was over, Catherine offered to wash up, and she and Gillian shared the dishes while her aunt showed Robert the family photograph album.

      ‘Don’t take any notice of Owen,’ his wife urged her awkwardly. ‘You know what he’s like. He always expected to take over here.’

      ‘I know that.’ Catherine cast a sympathetic glance in the younger girl’s direction.

      ‘It’s different for you,’ went on Gillian. ‘You don’t live here. I know you like coming here, but you have your own life outside the valley.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to marry Robert?’

      ‘Heavens, no!’ Catherine was vehement, and Gillian looked at her strangely.

      ‘No?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why not? I saw the way he was looking at you during supper. Hasn’t he asked you?’

      Catherine was amused, and her gurgling laughter rang around the stone-flagged kitchen. ‘Oh, Gillian,’ she exclaimed, ‘I don’t want to marry anyone. Not yet, at least,’ she added, sobering as an image of Rafe Glyndower’s dark features swam unexpectedly before her eyes.

      Gillian was affronted. ‘I expect you do things differently in London,’ she mumbled, clattering two plates together, and Catherine sighed.

      ‘I expect we do,’ she conceded. Then, encouragingly: ‘You’re looking well. Being pregnant evidently agrees with you.’

      Gillian nodded, obviously still brooding over what Catherine had said, and presently she pursued: ‘Do you sleep with him?’

      Catherine didn’t pretend not to understand. ‘With Robert?’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

      Gillian frowned. ‘But he’s staying with you tonight, isn’t he? I heard Owen’s mother asking where he was staying, and he said at your cottage.’

      ‘There are two bedrooms,’ Catherine pointed out patiently. ‘Gillian, I know this may not be easy for you to understand, but a man and a woman—they can be just friends.’

      Gillian looked sceptical. ‘Can they? All the men I’ve known want just one thing—Owen included.’ She flushed. ‘And you’re not getting any younger.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Catherine’s tone was dry.

      ‘Well, it’s true. You’re not. I’m twenty-two, and you were always three years older than me.’

      ‘Well, that’s one thing that doesn’t change,’ remarked Catherine wryly, reaching for the towel to dry her hands. ‘It’s nice of you to be so concerned, Gillian, but there’s really no need. I guess I’m just a career woman at heart.’

      ‘Mmm.’

      Gillian didn’t sound convinced, but Catherine had had enough of this particular conversation. Nevertheless, as she crossed the stone flags to the door leading into the passage beyond, she wondered if she would have felt differently had she been born to this environment. She had always been happy in the valley. Those summer weeks still possessed a dreamlike quality that she had never been able to duplicate anywhere else. Waking in the mornings in her little room under the eaves, hearing the wood-pigeons crooning on the chimneys, smelling the pervading scents from her aunt’s flower garden; all these things had imprinted themselves on her memory. But, more significantly, she associated Penwyn with her awakening from girlhood to womanhood, and the painful realisation that dreams were no substitute for reality …

      It was a little after ten when they drove back to Pendower. Catherine would have left earlier, but Robert had shown a genuine interest in her aunt’s reminiscences, and with some misgivings she went to find her uncle in the cowsheds. Mervyn Powys was uncommunicative, however, and as the local vet was with him and she was obviously in the way, Catherine soon returned to the house.

      ‘I like your aunt,’ remarked Robert, as she drove up the winding road that led out of the valley. ‘She’s quite a character. Is she your mother’s sister? I must say, she’s not very like her.’

      ‘No.’ Catherine shook her head, concentrating on the narrow road ahead. ‘Uncle Mervyn is my mother’s brother. But Mummy left the valley nearly thirty years ago, and unlike me, she’s never wanted to come back.’

      Robert shrugged. ‘You can’t blame her, I suppose. Life on the farm was probably pretty spartan in those days.’

      Catherine nodded, changing into a lower gear as the Renault laboured up the steepest part of the pass, and then stepped automatically on the brake as some small creature flung itself across the road ahead of them.

      ‘What the devil was that?’ exclaimed Robert, gazing at her profile in the semi-darkness, and she made a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘It almost looked human to me,’ he added, rolling down his window and staring towards the ditch that dipped beside them. ‘What did you think it was?’

      Catherine was still shaken by the immediacy of her reaction, but she managed to say weakly: ‘I thought it was human, too. It had legs.’

      Robert grimaced. ‘So do animals, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

      ‘No. I mean—two legs. I thought it was a child.’

      ‘A child! Up here? At this time of night?’

      ‘I know it seems crazy.’ Catherine removed her moist palms from the wheel. ‘Should we—should we look?’

      But even as she said the words, they heard a whimper which sounded suspiciously like a sob, and without waiting for Robert’s answer, Catherine thrust open her door and got out, circling the car to reach the ditch.

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