Authors: Mary Stewart
He lifted a hand about an inch from the arm of the chair, and I stopped. "No, let me say it first. I'm not often stuck for words, but I find this very, very hard. We owe you an apology, that goes without saying, and Miss Ashley, you have it. I must say this as well: if there is anything we can do to put this thing right for you, you have only to ask. That is the least I can say. I'll get those items back, and into their places, just as if this had never happened, if it takes all I've got."
Coming from someone like Jeffrey Underhill, it was quite an offer, but somehow it didn't seem in the least absurd. And he meant every word of it. As for the apology, there was no point in my disclaiming, since for once my honest opinion was probably the exact one that it would comfort him to hear. But before I could speak he said, with another of those probing looks that seemed to get right past the eyes and into the mind: "You don't seem very surprised by what I have been telling you. You knew how the things were taken." "Yes. My cousin told me last night." "And it troubles you a whole lot, I can see that." "Not really. Other things trouble me, but not that. Honestly. I'll tell you exactly how I feel about it, Mr. Underhill. When my cousin told me, I was shocked. It was wrong, though perhaps it wasn't quite as dishonest as it seemed. But what I was really angry about was the fact that they'd used Cathy. I don't have to go into the reasons for you—and I certainly didn't know what you've just told me about her trouble, or I'd have been angrier still—but it seemed to me a terrible thing to do, and I said as much. My cousin would pass that on to his brother. As for the horse and the other things, please forget them. No, I mean it. Officially they will belong in the end to Emory's family, and if we start looking for them now to buy them back, all this might have to come to light, and that wouldn't help anybody. It might even put us on the wrong side of the law." I remembered something. "Mr. Underhill, did Cathy say anything about a church register?"
"A what?" He sounded blank.
"One of the parish registers they keep in the church. It's gone missing."
"She certainly said nothing about that. I'll ask her. But why should anyone want to take a thing like that? Is it valuable?"
"Not intrinsically. It is very old, and I suppose it's interesting, but only to local people, one would think."
"Maybe someone borrowed it for research, and forgot to bring it back."
"Probably. I only asked because when I saw—er, my cousin that night in the church, I thought he was carrying something like a big book, but it was probably the Rackham pictures."
"Yes, now, those pictures. They're a different matter from the other stuff, surely? Aren't they your own?"
I nodded. "And they're unique, and recognizable, I'm afraid. If you could get those back for me, Mr. Underhill, I'd be terribly grateful. There won't be any trouble, either, I promise you; I'll say I sent them for sale myself, but I thought better of it. That should put us all in the clear."
"You're very generous."
Here I did disclaim, but he insisted on thanking me, and then, as I had half expected, went on to tell me that he and his wife had decided to cut short their tenancy of Ashley Court. They had, he assured me, been considering going well before November, because of my father's death and the legal business which would ensue. Now they had decided to move immediately to London, staying there for just as long as it took Mr. Underhill’s agents to find him a house to rent in Paris. They were going, he said, with a quick look at me, tomorrow. He had talked with Mr. Emerson, and all was settled. The rent of the Court was paid till the full term . . . and so on and so forth. Everything but the real reason for the sudden departure.
He finished. Then, because this was Jeffrey Underhill, and because I respected him, I came straight out into the open with what, in delicacy, he had not said.
"You're taking Cathy away from Emory."
This time a pause that could be felt. Then he said, flatly: "Yes, I am. I think it best. I'm sorry."
"You needn't be." I said it equally flatly. "I respect your reasons, and what's more, I think you're perfectly right. But what will Cathy say?"
"That I can't tell." He spoke a trifle heavily. "She's been in and out of love, the way these kids understand it now, ever since she was fourteen years old, so well hope this is no more serious. Right at this moment the only thought she seems to have in her head is that we're going to live in Paris, France. I told you that it makes no difference to me where we live, and it will certainly be more convenient to live in Paris than in the village of Ashley. I've given that as the reason, and I'm just hoping that Nature will do the rest."
I laughed. "You're a clever man, Mr. Underhill, and she's a lucky girl. I doubt if even Emory can compete for long with Paris, France."
He got to his feet, and I followed suit. He stood there on the hearthrug, seeming to dwarf the little room. He looked down at me. "I find it a great pity that we should leave the Court just when you come home, Miss Ashley. You are a very lovely girl, and I'm proud to have met you. I reckon you know how hard this has been, and it's good of you to understand. May I hope that you will come and visit with us in Paris? I know the girls would appreciate that very much."
I didn't point out that I wasn't quite in the bracket that makes weekend visits to Paris. I just thanked him, and saw him to the door, and down the flagged path towards the wicket gate.
"Shall I be able to say good-bye to Mrs. Underhill? I expect she'll be far too busy packing and so on, but perhaps I could telephone her in the morning?"
"She's certainly hoping to see you soon. I'm not sure how she's fixed tomorrow, but she'd like to have you call her, I know. She had some plan that she wanted to put to you, and I was hoping that Cathy—" He paused with a hand to the gate, and turned his head. His face changed subtly, and he cleared his throat. "Why, here's Cathy coming now. I kind of thought she would."
Cathy was coming down through the orchard. She had a frock on this time, of some pale summery stuff that gave a floating movement to her walk as she came slowly through the dusk of the old grey trees. The effect was romantic and ethereal, like those soft-focus films they use for television advertisements, but when she saw us at the cottage gate and waved, the halfhearted quality of the gesture gave her away. She was taking her time, and being self-conscious about it, because she was nervous. In other words, she was coming down to apologize.
As I waved back and called out a cheerful greeting, I realized that Jeffrey Underhill had left me. He had melted from my side as quietly as a real jungle cat, and was standing over by the ruined wall, looking out at the sunset light on the water, and making quite a ceremony of lighting a cigar. He was just nicely out of earshot. Yes, a smooth performer, Mr. Underhill. I liked him very much.
. . . "Had to come to tell you I was sorry." Cathy hurried it out in a small, breathless voice, like a child who wants to get it over, and is not sure of her reception.
She had stopped on the other side of the wicket gate, and was gripping the top with both hands. I dropped mine over them. I was almost four years older than Cathy, and just at that moment felt about four hundred. "It's all right," I said quickly. "You don't have to say any more. Your father's been talking to me about it, but I knew already. I know you only did it because you were fond of Emory, and it's his fault and not yours. I mean it, really. I'm not just saying it to comfort you. . . . How could you be expected to know what's right or wrong in English law? And besides"—I smiled—"I know my cousins rather well. If I started to tell you now about the things they'd pressured me into doing that I knew I never should have done, we'd be here till midnight. So forget it, please."
"Oh gosh, I wish I could! You're just sweet, but honestly, you don't fully understand." The pretty Pekinese face was intently earnest. She hadn't put on the mink eyelashes, and her eyes looked oddly unprotected. I thought there were tears there. "Honestly, Bryony," she repeated, "I wouldn't have done such a thing to
you,
but I thought it was all on the level, and it was just a case of getting a few things out for the boys to use, to save all the fuss with those people who fix the tours. And then I found those pictures upstairs, in the cupboard along with the books, and when I found they were valuable, too, why, I just took them as well. . . ." She swallowed. "And then you came and started asking about the things, and I began to think it wasn't O.K. after all, and then I found the pictures were really yours, your very own, all along. . . . And honest, Bryony, I just feel so awful I could die. Will you ever forgive me?"
"I did, just as soon as they told me about it. Hey, Cathy, don't cry." I slid my hands up to her wrists and gave her a little shake. "I told you I never thought it was your fault. It's all over and done with, and there's no harm done, and your father's going to get the pictures back for me, so let's forget it, shall we?"
I talked on for some time, reassuring her, being careful not to throw too much of the blame on Emory, for fear of putting her on the defensive for him, though I thought that she was a little less than starry-eyed about him herself; in fact, I got the distinct impression that she would rather not have talked about him. So far, so good. The very fact that she had come to talk to me like this, when it would have been so easy for her to go tomorrow and never see me again, showed that Cathy Underhill must have a grain of her father's toughness in her after all. I didn't share her father's fear that she might revert to her teen-age "problem," but it was no thanks to Emory that she had not done so. I found myself feeling a little better about mailing that photograph to Bad Tolz. About James, I refused to think at all.
Cathy, however, had him on her mind. "You know, James didn't have anything to do with it. Truly he didn't. And I know that when he saw those pictures he would have wanted to come straight and make me put them back. James is very, very fond of you, and he wouldn't do a thing that would hurt you."
"I know."
One freak shaft of sunlight, molten red, shot through the horizon clouds and touched the highest tip of the pear tree. The thrush was there, sitting preening his breast feathers, ready for a song.
I looked back at Cathy, watching me with those vulnerable, anxious eyes. "And now," I said, smiling, "what's all this about Paris?"
Jeffrey Underhill’s cigar was about half smoked through before Cathy, talking now about Paris, and her mother's plans, came gradually back to her sparkling norm.
"And we're going tomorrow, and there's this fabulous party, and we want you to come! Please say you will, Bryony! Mom particularly told me to ask you."
"Well," I was beginning doubtfully, when Mr. Underhill, catching the new tone of his daughter's voice, turned away from his scrutiny of the Pool, and came back to us across the grass.
"Cathy means to London, Miss Ashley. I left her to invite you herself, but I don't think she's explained. We're giving a party tomorrow night. It's been planned for quite a while; it's our anniversary, so we're having a few friends along to celebrate, and we'd be honoured if you would join us.
As I told you, we're settling down in London for a few days before we go on to Paris, so we thought we'd make this a good-bye party at the same time. Stephanie's been on the telephone all afternoon, and she's wild for you to be there, too. Say you will come."
"Please say you will!" urged Cathy.
"It's terribly kind of you, and thank you very much. I'd love to, of course, but—" I hesitated.
Cathy immediately looked anxious. "Bryony, we wouldn't want to pressure you into doing anything you didn't want. Maybe it's too soon after losing your father?"
"No, it's not that." I was thinking that if the party had been arranged some time back, then no doubt Emory and James would both be there. Unless, of course, Jeffrey Underhill had let Emory know that he would no longer be welcome? I thought him quite capable of it.
"Then please do come," urged Cathy. "It'll make me really feel as if you forgive me for the awful thing I did. When I
think
about it—"
Jeffrey Underhill, at my shoulder, intervened. "Perhaps Miss Ashley has too much to do here, Cat.
Remember, she has only just got home." Then to me: "It would be wonderful if you could spare us the time, Miss Ashley, but you mustn't let Cathy pressure you. I know she and Stephanie would feel very honoured if you could come, but please don't trouble to decide now. If you like to call us in the morning, when you've had time to think it over—?"
"Look," I said warmly, "I'd love to come, I really would. I can get the late afternoon train."
At this they both joined in, with such enthusiasm that you would have thought the party was being given solely for me. They would drive me there themselves in the morning; they would put me up—"hire a suite for you" was Jeffrey Underhill’s way of putting it—at the Dorchester; they would bring me down again next day, or whenever it suited me. They would do anything, if only (they seemed to be saying) I would grace their party by being there. I could hardly tell them what was in my mind: that if my two cousins had indeed been invited earlier, and if Emory, who could be as impervious to snubs as he wished to be, took the trouble to come, and to lay on the charm . . . It was for Cathy's sake as much as anything else that, in the end, I accepted, thinking grimly that, even if I had to use blackmail again, I would see that my eldest cousin kept his distance from her, and gave her breathing space. Then, glancing at Jeff Underhill, I saw that he had read my thoughts. He gave a half nod, threw his cigar away towards the water, and said: "Don't you worry; I can take care of that."
"Take care of what?" demanded Cathy.
"I'm sure you can," I said.
She looked from one to the other of us. "What are you two talking about?"
Her father let himself out through the wicket, put an arm round her, and scooped her up towards his side. "Nothing to do with you. Now say good night, and we'll leave Miss Ashley in peace."