Authors: Unknown
'I think I'll round off this leaf a bit more, it's too sharp for a cowslip.' She set to work taking wafer-thin shavings from the leaf until she was absolutely satisfied as to its shape. She stepped back to get it into better perspective. 'A bit more off this side, and it'll be just right.' Her chisel poised, she began to apply pressure.
'So this is where you work.'
She spun round. The chisel flew from her nerveless fingers, but the pressure she had begun to apply to the handle took its toll, and the razor-keen blade caught her wrist as it fell.
'You again!'
The tool clattered noisily on to the quarry floor, and blood welled from a diagonal gash across her wrist. Reeve stepped forward quickly.
'Never mind that.' She tried to pull her hand away.
'Don't be silly,' he said abruptly, and caught her firmly to him. 'Sit down,' he ordered, and pulled a nearby wooden
stool towards her with a deft kick of his foot. 'Let me see how bad it is.'
Marion sat down suddenly, and let him see. Without warning she began to feel distinctly odd. She tried to tell herself that it was the cut, but the sight of blood had never affected her before. She refused to acknowledge that it could be the feel of Reeve's fingers on her wrist, his other hand on her shoulder, holding her against him lest she should fall. The stable walls seemed to be trying to perform some sort of dance. Vaguely she could feel Reeve doing something to her wrist with what felt like a piece of soft cloth. He tipped her face upwards towards him, with his fingers under her chin, and she gave a murmur of protest, but he ignored it and propped his foot on the bars of the stool to make a back for her with his knee.
'You're as white as a ghost. Lean against me,' he commanded her.
She closed her eyes and did as she was told. The stool had no back to it, and she had to lean against something or topple over. His knee dug into her spine and she moved restlessly, seeking a more comfortable position. He stopped whatever he was doing with the cloth, and pulled her more firmly against him.
'Is that better?'
She nodded wordlessly. The faint spicy tang of expensive after-shave lotion permeated her consciousness.
He doesn't smoke. The thought crossed her mind, vaguely noticing! She did not like the smell of smoke. It clung to her clothes and hair and skin with a rank, all pervading odour that offended Marion's fastidious nostrils.
'No, I don't smoke. Why?'
She did not realise she had spoken aloud. She opened her eyes. The walls of the stable obligingly resumed their solid stance.
'Did you want a cigarette?' Reeve persisted.
'No, I don't either. Smoke, I mean.' She felt his voice vibrate through his chest under the softness of his sweater, and it dawned on her that the reason the vibration came
through so clearly was because her right ear was leaning against the sweater in question. She sat up abruptly, her former pallor giving way to a rising tide of pink.
'Don't stand up suddenly,' he warned her quickly, 'you might keel over.'
'I'm all right now.' She had to get up—quickly. Whatever he said. Sitting on the stool, with his knee at her back, and her head leaning against his shoulder, with his one arm round her and his hands tending her injured wrist, was creating more chaos with her circulation than the cut itself. Her heart beat rapidly, making up for its dereliction of a moment ago, and although the stable walls stayed still she felt dizzy, and she felt herself sway.
'I told you not to stand up suddenly,' he said sharply, and put out his hand to steady her.
'I said I'm fine.' She resented Reeve ordering her about, and showed it. Why did she have to feel faint now? she wondered desperately. With a supreme effort she pulled her reeling senses together and moved out of reach of his hand. She had never fainted in her life before, and she had to choose a time when Reeve was around to disgrace herself, she poured silent scorn on her weakness. The fact that Reeve was there in the first place was the sole reason she had cut herself. Remembering it goaded her to anger.
If you hadn't come creeping up behind me like that, I shouldn't have cut myself,' she accused him. She inspected her wrist. It was swathed in soft lawn, its erstwhile snowy whiteness dotted here and there with dark smudges that —she narrowed her eyes and watched them keenly—did not seem to be getting any bigger, so it must have stopped bleeding, thanks to Reeve's prompt first aid.
'I didn't creep up behind you,' he denied, 'you were so engrossed in your work that you didn't hear me come in.'
'You shouldn't have come to this part of the stable block at all,' she threw back at him, 'the garages are clearly marked at the other end of the yard.'
'I didn't come to get the car.' He eyed her coldly, stung by her tone. 'I came to give you this—-though I wish now I hadn't bothered,' he added bitingly, and held out her hairband towards her.
'I thought you said I shouldn't wear it.' She eyed it with disfavour. This was the third time he had given it back to her.
'No more you should,' he stated flatly, 'but it's your property. I don't purloin other people's belongings. Besides, a hairband wouldn't be of much use to me.' His lips tilted slightly, and Marion's tightened.
'In that case I'll relieve you of it,' she said sarcastically, and grasped at the length of brown velvet ribbon with impatient fingers. Her haste was her undoing. She turned away before Reeve could loose it, and she felt a tug. She turned back with a frown.
'It's caught on my finger. Wait a minute, while I loose it.' The elastic part of it had twisted round his finger and tightened at her pull, and he proceeded to remove it with a lack of haste that flooded Marion with impatient irritation. She did not know whether to continue to hold her side of it, or release and risk it dropping to the floor when he freed himself. She felt like a puppy caught on the end of a lead. The thought annoyed her irrationally, and she gave the velvet band a tug.
'Now you've tightened it again,' he observed, and started to unloosen it again with maddening deliberation.
'I can't stay here all day.'
'There's no need for you to.' He released it at last, and the elastic shot back with a sharp flick against Marion's fingers. It did not hurt her, but the suddenness of it made her jump, and the ghost of a grin turned the corners of Reeve's lips upwards.
'That wasn't funny,' she snapped, and thrust the hairband angrily into her slacks pocket. Without waiting to see if he would come out of the stable with her, she turned on her heel and hurried towards the kitchen quarters on the other side of the yard. He would not follow her through into the domestic quarters, she felt sure. Or did she? Reeve had a disconcerting habit of doing the unexpected.
She risked a glance over her shoulder as she turned the handle of the kitchen door, but he was nowhere in sight. She hesitated, uncertain whether to carry on indoors or to go back. Why hadn't he followed her out of the stable? Perhaps he had remained to look at her woodcut. He might conceivably be interested. She shrugged. Doubtless he was finding fault with that, as well She turned indoors.
'Is that you, Marion?'
'Yes. I'm just going upstairs for something, then I'm off back to the stable.' With typical lack of pride it did not occur to Marion to relegate her transformed workroom to the status of a studio.
'I'll call you when it's time for lunch.'
Marion breathed a sigh of relief that the housekeeper had no opportunity to see her swathed wrist. Mrs Pugh had more than once voiced her unease at the razor-sharp tools she used, and she did not feel she could cope with another argument on the subject now. She reached her room and sank thankfully on to the side of her bed, until she realised she still had her hairband in her hand. With a grimace she got to her feet and pulled open one of her dressing table drawers. With a gesture of rejection she flung the hairband to the back of the drawer and slammed it shut with a decisive bang.
'I don't want to see the wretched thing ever again,' she muttered, and wondered as she said it whether she meant the hairband or Reeve. The thought of him brought her attention back to her wrist. She unwrapped his handkerchief gingerly, and gave a small puff of relief as she surveyed the cut. It was a long one, but it was not deep, she saw gratefully. Her hands were a precious asset, and the thought of severing a guide that might put her fingers out of action turned her cold with dread.
'A plaster will be enough for this,' she told herself, and turned once again to her dressing table. The drawer that now housed her hairband produced the required first aid, and she smoothed an unobtrusive dressing over the evidence of her accident.
'I'll soak this hanky in cold water, it's a shame to stain it.' She seemed to be making a habit of washing out things for Reeve, she thought impatiently, noting the neatly monogrammed initials in a corner of the fine lawn. R. H. intertwined, and beautifully worked. First it was his duster, and now his handkerchief.
'Have you cut yourself, Miss Marion? Is it bad?' A homely country voice interrupted her, and an equally homely face appeared round the door, and Marion summoned up a smile at the sight of their daily help.
'Sssh, not so loud!' she warned. 'It's only a scratch really, but you know how nervous Mrs Pugh is of my chisels.'
'She does go on a bit,' the newcomer agreed cheerfully. 'It's bad enough to stain your hanky, though,' she eyed the contents of the washbasin with a perceptive glance.
'It's Mr Harland's hanky.' She could not hide its size. Rose had keen eyes, and would instantly put the wrong conclusion on her action if she tried to cover up what she was doing. 'He saw the chisel fly, and came across to find out what damage I'd done.'
'Ah well, it's lucky it was no worse,' Rose said philosophically, her curiosity satisfied. 'Let me take the hanky downstairs with me, I've got some towels to iron for Mrs Pugh, and I can iron the hanky at the same time.'
'That's kind of you.' Marion wrung it out and handed it over without regret. Rose could iron it, and she could also give it back to Reeve, and no doubt he would say thank you—properly—to Rose if he wanted to, she added to herself witheringly.
'Oh, by the way, miss,' Rose baited on her way to the door, 'I've put a bundle of papers on your chair—the one by your bed,' she pointed.
'Not more betting slips found behind the bar?' Marion smiled.
'Not this time.' Rose did not return her smile, in fact she looked troubled. 'These papers were in Mr Harland's room, in one of those plastic folder things like they use in offices. It was on his dressing table, and I picked it up to dust underneath, and all the papers slipped out. Them plastic things are that slippy, the papers shot all over the place, and I don't know which one's which to put them back again,' she finished worriedly.
'I'll sort them out for you, and return them to Mr Harland.' Marion owed her that for ironing the handkerchief.
'He might wonder where they've got to if he comes up to his room,' the file of papers was obviously worrying the daily help.
'I'll see to them right away,' Marion promised, and reaching over she picked them up from the chair. 'No wonder you dropped them.' She gave an exclamation of annoyance as she grasped the end of the dark blue, opaque plastic folder, and the sheaf of papers it contained suddenly hurtled out of it without warning, and scattered across the carpet. 'This folder is as slippery as if it's been greased!' She bent to pick up the closely written sheets, and spread them out on her bed.
'I'll go and do Mrs Pugh's ironing, and bring this hanky back in a while.' Rose left her to the incomprehensible task of file sorting in favour of more familiar ground, and Marion bent her attention to her self-imposed chore.
'It's a good job the pages are numbered,' she muttered thankfully. It was not a particularly onerous task. There were about twenty-five sheets in all—no, twenty-six. She pulled what seemed to be the end sheet out of the pile triumphantly. It was signed and dated. She glanced at the signatures. There were two. One, in a spidery sort of script, said 'William Mills.' So that was Willy's other name. Marion smiled. She had not caught it when they were first introduced, and did not bother to look in the hotel register afterwards. 'Willy' seemed appropriate enough on its own for the friendly little pilot.
The other signature belonged to Reeve. Although the
sheets she was handling were merely a carbon copy of an original, probably the one he had posted that morning, the bold, clear strokes of his name stood out, indicative of the confident, decisive nature of the writer. The whole report seemed to be in Reeve's writing. She riffled through the pages.
'Oh no, there's an attachment.' There were only about five pages written in Willy's spidery hand; the rest had been done by Reeve himself. Probably after he left her the evening before, after he had kissed her. She scowled at the offending pages. It showed how casual his caress had been, that he could dismiss it so lightly in order to concentrate on a complicated report such as this. She closed her mind to the sleepless night she herself had endured as a result of his kisses, and the feelings they had aroused in her, and forced her attention back to the papers.
There were sketches and tables of figures among them that looked as if they might be the results of a geological survey. Perhaps, after all, the report had nothing to do with his work, whatever that might be. Perhaps Reeve was compiling a book or something of the same nature as her uncle—their interests seemed to run parallel. She looked at the papers with keener attention. The top page still lay on the counterpane, and she picked it up and tapped the bundle into a neat pile between her fingers. The paper clip that originally held them was caught on the top of the folder, which was probably why they had come apart and slipped out in the first place. She retrieved it and gripped the bundle securely together again, smoothing it flat with her hand. Her finger traced the underlining of the title—a single, thick black stroke, drawn by a writer who was in no doubt of what he wanted to say. But it was the wording of the title that arrested her attention.