Under Gemini (19 page)

The page was nearly full, but still she wrote:

Sheamus Lochlan,

The Crichtons

The McDonalds

She turned to a fresh page. She had not been so happy in years.

*   *   *

It was Isobel who broke the news to the rest of the Fernrigg household. Isobel, who had gone upstairs to say good morning to her mother and retrieve her breakfast tray, returned to the kitchen in what appeared to be a state of mild shock.

She laid down the tray on the table with something approaching a thump. Violence was so out of character with Isobel, that they all stopped what they were doing and looked at her. Even Jason, with a mouthful of bacon, ceased to chew. Something was obviously wrong. Isobel's wayward hair looked as though she had lately run distracted fingers through it, and the expression on her gentle face held part exasperation and part a sort of grudging pride.

She did not speak at once, but simply stood there, lanky in her tweed skirt and her best Sunday sweater, defeated, and apparently lost for words. Her very silence claimed instant attention. Mrs. Watty, peeling potatoes for lunch, sat, waiting with knife poised. Nurse McLeod, taking last night's glasses from the dishwasher and giving them a final and unnecessary polish, was equally attentive. Flora laid down her coffee cup with a small chiming sound.

It was Mrs. Watty who broke the silence. “What is it?”

Isobel pulled out a kitchen chair and flopped into it, long legs stretched out before her. She said, “She wants to have another party.”

Tuppy's household, with the debris of last night still very much in evidence, received this information in wordless disbelief. For a moment the only sound to break the silence was the slow ticking of the old-fashioned clock.

Isobel's eyes went from one blank face to the other. “It's true,” she told them. “It's to be next Friday. It's to be a dance.”

“A
dance
?” Nurse McLeod, with visions of her patient dancing reels, drew herself up with all the authority of her profession behind her. “Over my dead body,” she declared.

“She has decided,” Isobel went on, as though Nurse had said nothing, “that Mr. Anderson from the Station Hotel shall do the catering, and she is going to get Mrs. Cooper's husband to organize a band.”

“For heaven's sakes,” was all Mrs. Watty could come up with.

“And she has already drawn up a long list of people who are to receive invitations.”

Jason, who could not think what all the drama was about, decided to finish his bacon. “Am I being invited?” he asked, but for once he was ignored.

“You told her no?” asked Nurse, coming forward and fixing Isobel with a steely eye.

“Of course I told her no.”

“And what did she say?”

“She took absolutely no notice whatsoever.”

“It's out of the question,” said Nurse. “Think of the upheaval, think of the noise. Mrs. Armstrong is not well. She is not up to such carryings on. And she's not by any chance imagining that she's going to come to the party?”

“No. On that score you can rest easy. At least,” Isobel amended, knowing her mother, “I
think
you can.”

“But why on earth?” demanded Mrs. Watty. “Why does she want another party? We haven't got the dining room straight after last night yet.”

Isobel sighed. “It's for Rose. She wants everybody to meet Rose.”

They all turned their eyes upon Flora. Flora, who had more reason than any of them to be completely horrorstruck by this latest bombshell, found herself blushing. “But I don't want a party. I mean, I said I'd stay on because Tuppy wanted me to, but I had no idea she had that up her sleeve.”

Isobel patted her hand, comforting her. “She hadn't, last night. She thought it all up in the early hours of the morning. So it's none of it your fault. It's just Tuppy with her mania for entertaining.”

Flora searched about for some practical objection. “But surely, there's not enough
time.
I mean, a dance. If you're going to send out invitations, there's not even a week…”

But that, too, had been thought of. “The invitations are to be by telephone,” Isobel told them, and added in a resigned voice, “with me doing the telephoning.”

Nurse decided that this nonsense had gone on for long enough. She drew out a chair and sat down, the starched bib of her apron puffing out in front of her, so that all at once she looked like a pouter pigeon. “She'll have to be told no,” she announced again.

Mrs. Watty and Isobel, in concert, sighed. “That's not going to be so easy, Nurse,” said Mrs. Watty, in the voice of a parent with a brilliant but maddening child. “You don't know Mrs. Armstrong the way Miss Isobel and I know her. Why, once she sets her mind on something, then not
wild horses
will make her see differently.”

Jason took some toast and buttered it. “I've never been to a dance,” he observed, but again nobody took the slightest notice of him.

“How about Antony, could he not talk to her?” Nurse suggested hopefully.

But Mrs. Watty and Isobel shook their heads. Antony would be no use at all. Besides, Antony was still in bed, catching up on his sleep, and nobody was going to disturb him.

“Well, if none of her family can make her see reason,” Nurse announced, her tones indicating that she thought them a very poor lot, “then Dr. Kyle will have to.”

At the mention of Hugh's name, both Mrs. Watty and Isobel brightened visibly. For some reason, they had not thought of Hugh.

“Dr. Kyle,” repeated Mrs. Watty thoughtfully. “Yes. Now, that is a good idea. She'll take no notice of anything we might have to say, but she'll take a telling from the doctor. Is he coming to see her this morning?”

“Yes,” said Nurse. “He mentioned some time before lunch.”

Mrs. Watty leaned her massive forearms on the table, and dropped her voice, like a conspirator. “Then why don't we just humor her till then? There's no point, and I'm sure you will agree, Nurse, in upsetting Mrs. Armstrong with a lot of argument and fuss. Let's just leave it to Dr. Kyle.”

And so the problem was satisfactorily shelved for the time being, and Flora had it in her heart to be sorry for Hugh Kyle.

The morning wore on. Flora helped Mrs. Watty with the breakfast dishes, vacuumed the dining-room carpet, and laid the table for lunch. Isobel put on her hat and bore Jason off to church. Mrs. Watty started cooking, whereupon Flora, primed by Nurse, went upstairs to see Tuppy.

“And mind you're noncommittal about that dance,” warned Nurse. “If she starts on about it, you just change the subject.”

Flora said that she would. She was just on her way out of the kitchen when Mrs. Watty called her back, dried her hands, opened a drawer, and took out a large paper bag containing a number of hanks of gray with which she intended to knit a sweater for Jason.

“This'll be a nice little occupation for you,” she told Flora. “You and Mrs. Armstrong can wind my wool for me. Why they can't sell it rolled in those neat wee balls is beyond my comprehension, but there it is, they don't seem to be able to.”

Obediently bearing the bag of wool, Flora made her way upstairs to Tuppy's room. As soon as she went in she saw that Tuppy was looking better. Gone were the dark rings beneath her eyes, the air of restlessness. She sat up in bed and held out her arms as Flora appeared.

“I hoped it would be you. Come and give me a kiss. How pretty you're looking.” Flora, in deference to Sunday, had put on a skirt and a Shetland sweater. “Do you know, this is the first time I've seen your legs. With legs like that I don't know why you have to cover them up with trousers all the time.” They kissed. Flora began to draw away, but Tuppy held her. “Are you angry with me?”

“Angry?”

“About staying. It was very unfair of me to send you that message by Isobel last night, but I wanted you to change your mind, and I couldn't think of any other way of doing it.”

Flora was disarmed. She smiled. “No, I'm not angry.”

“It's not as though you had anything dreadfully important to get back to. And I wanted you to stay, so badly.”

She let Flora go, and Flora settled herself on the edge of the bed. “But now you're in the doghouse,” she told Tuppy, deliberately forgetting Nurse's instructions. “You know that, don't you?”

“I don't even know what a doghouse is.”

“I mean you're in disgrace for planning another party.”

“Oh, that.” Tuppy chuckled, delighted with herself. “Poor Isobel nearly fainted when I told her.”

“You're very naughty.”

“But why? Why shouldn't I have another party? Stuck in this silly bed, I must have something to amuse myself.”

“You're meant to be getting better, not planning wild parties.”

“Oh, it won't be wild. And there have been so many parties in this house that it will practically run on its own momentum. Besides, nobody has to do anything. I've organized it all.”

“Isobel's got to spend an entire day at the telephone, ringing people up.”

“Yes, but she won't mind that. Anyway, it'll keep her off her feet.”

“But what about the house, and the flowers that will have to be done, and the furniture moved and everything?”

“Watty can move the furniture. It won't take him a moment. And…” Tuppy cast about for inspiration. “… you can do the flowers.”

“Perhaps I can't do flowers.”

“Then we'll have pot plants. Or get Anna to help us. Rose, it's no good trying to put obstacles in my way, because I've already thought of everything.”

“Nurse says it depends on what Hugh says.”

“Nurse has had a face on like the back of a bus, all morning. And if it depends on Hugh, you can set your mind at rest. Hugh will think it's a splendid idea.”

“I shouldn't count on that, if I were you.”

“No, I'm not counting on it. I've known Hugh all my life, and he can be as pig-headed as the next man.” Tuppy's expression changed to one of amused speculation. “But I'm surprised you've found that out so quickly.”

“I sat next to him last night at dinner.” Flora opened the paper bag and took out the first hank of gray wheeling. “Do you feel strong enough to wind wool for Mrs. Watty?”

“Yes, of course I do, I'll hold it and you can do the winding.”

Once they had organized themselves and started in on this undemanding task, Tuppy went on, as though there had been no pause in the conversation, “I want to hear about last night, all about it.”

Flora told her, deliberately enthusiastic, making it all sound sheer fun from start to finish.

“And the Crowthers are so nice, aren't they?” said Tuppy, when Flora had finally run out of things to describe. “I really like him so much. He's rather overwhelming to meet for the first time, but such a really good man. And Hugh enjoyed himself?”

“Yes. At least, I think he did. But of course there was a telephone call for him halfway through the evening, and he had to go.”

“The dear boy. If only he'd get someone to help him. But there it is…” Tuppy's hands dropped and Flora stopped winding wool and waited for her. “… I think that for Hugh being so busy is a sort of therapy. Isn't that what they call it nowadays? A therapy?”

“You mean, because of his wife's dying?”

“Yes. I think that's what I mean. You know, he was such a nice little boy. He used to come here quite a lot to play with Torquil. His father was our doctor—I told you that. Quite a humble man, from the Isle of Lewis, but he was a splendid doctor. And Hugh was clever, too. Hugh got a scholarship to Fettes, and then he went on to study medicine at Edinburgh University.”

“He played rugger for the university, didn't he?”

“Antony must have told you that. Antony always thought the world of Hugh. Yes, he played rugger for the university, but what was more exciting was that he passed his finals with honors and he won the Cunningham Medal for Anatomy, and the whole wonderful world of medicine was open to him. Then Professor McClintock—he was professor of surgery at St. Thomas's in London—he asked Hugh to go down to London and study under him. We were all so proud. I couldn't have been more proud of Hugh if he'd been my own child.”

Flora found it difficult to equate all this brilliance with the dour dinner companion of last night. “Why did it all go wrong?” she asked.

“Oh, it didn't go wrong exactly.” Tuppy lifted her hands with the hank of wool looped around them, and Flora continued winding.

“He got married, though?”

“Yes. To Diana. He met her in London and they got engaged, and he brought her back to Tarbole.”

“Did you meet her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like her?”

“She was very beautiful, very charming, very well turned out. I believe her father had a great deal of money. It couldn't have been easy for her, coming up here and knowing nobody. Tarbole was a very different world from the one she'd been used to, and she didn't really fit in. I think she thought we were all dreadfully dull. Poor Hugh. It must have been a desperate time for him. I didn't say anything to him, of course. It was nothing to do with me. But I believe that his old father was a little more outspoken. Too outspoken, perhaps. But by then Hugh was so besotted by her that it would have made no difference what any of us said. And although we didn't want to lose him, we
did
want him to be happy.”

“And was he?”

“I don't know, Rose. We didn't see him again for two years, and when we did it was because Diana was dead—killed in a dreadful car accident—and Hugh had thrown everything up and come back to Tarbole to take over from his father. And he's been here ever since.”

“How long is that?”

“Nearly eight years.”