Above Rubies (2 page)

Though her wardrobe was fairly small, she had always bought wisely, and had often turned out to parties looking every bit as elegant as Sylvia. In fact, many people considered Merry’s dark chestnut-brown hair, contrasting with vivid blue eyes and a peaches-and-cream complexion, even more lovely than Sylvia’s fair beauty, and Aunt Elizabeth had often been infuriated over hearing comparisons made in Merry’s favour.

She would have no cause for jealousy at the moment, thought Merry, as she slid her long legs into olive green slacks and slipped on a pale primrose jersey. Strong walking brogues and a brown suede jacket completed her outfit, and she slipped quietly downstairs for a short walk before breakfast.

“You’re never going out at this time, Miss Merry,” cried Mrs. Cameron, scandalised. “After a day like you had yesterday! You’ll have yourself worn away to a wee shadow. You’ll need some good porridge to stick to your ribs first.”

“I was only going a short way, to work up an appetite,” explained Merry.

“Oh, aye. You’ve gone a ‘short way
’
before and we’ve had to come seeking you for your dinner. Now come on, Miss Merry, and eat up a good breakfast, there’s a good lass.”

Merry sighed. She had often heard Aunt Ellen being lectured just like this, and had caught the twinkle in her eye. Now the mantle had fallen on her, yet there was a quiet and relaxed feeling of well-being in having Mrs. Cameron look after her. She began to appreciate how Aunt Ellen had felt. It was
so
nice to be cherished by someone.

“I tho
ugh
t you’d want to see the house, too,” said Mrs. Cameron, “now that it’s yours.”

“We’ll leave that till later.” This time Merry’s tone was decided. “I’ll get some fresh air first.”

It was after ten by the time Merry felt energetic enough to go for a walk through the village. Kilbraggan was a tiny place with two rows of small whitewashed cottages interspersed with wee shops which sold most commodities for daily needs. Houses straggled on the outskirts, standing in their own grounds behind trees and hedges.

Beau Ness was fairly small, with only six rooms, but it had been substantially built and its patina was delightful. Merry stuck her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and felt the pride of ownership surge through her as she looked back at its ivy-covered-walls and twinkling latticed windows.

A few yards up the road she could see the cottage which housed the “funny one”, now known to Merry as Benjamin Brendan, commercial artist, and behind the trees she could see the tall chimneys of Rossie House which had belonged to the Ross-Findlaters for so many years, but now housed the Kilpatricks, jewellers, of Hillington.

“Jeanie Lumsden says they’ve shops in all the big towns,” said Mrs. Cameron, “but the biggest is in Hillington. Fair fu’ o’ diamonds, so it is, just like Aladdin’s cave. Could you believe it? Mr. Nigel’s running the big Hillington shop now, for old Mr. Kilpatrick has the notion to retire in a year or two. Mr. Nigel’s a young chap, and very handsome, though Jeanie says he fancies himself, but Jeanie could find fault with her own pinkie. She’s my cousin, and whiles I couldn’t thole her when we were wee.”

“What about Mrs. Kilpatrick?” asked Merry, all agog to hear about her fascinating neighbours.

“Dead, poor sowl,” said Mrs. Cameron, solemnly. “There’s a daughter, too ... Miss Stephanie, and she’s a right young madam, though she works for the firm too. She’s very smart, but you wouldna call her bonny, if you know what I mean.”

Merry had a fair idea what she meant, though “bonny” often covered a variety of descriptions from pretty to plump.

“And what about Mr. Brendan?” she asked, curiously. “How long has he been here?”

“Just about a year—not long after your last holiday. Though, of course, he’s no stranger, like the rest. He was supposed to be here on holiday, but he just stayed. Och, but he’s a one, I must say.” There was a faint softening in Mrs. Cameron’s manner. “He once stopped by and asked if he could have my hands for a wee while.” She spread out the strong, roughened fingers. “I was just to keep peeling my vegetables, and he’d sketch them. Dear knows how it turned out, for he never thocht to let me see. He’s a funny one, but there’s a gentleness to him, too, for I’ve seen him calm a frightened dog, and he even risked his hands, once, to help his wee cat when it got stuck after Kilpatrick’s dog chased it up a tree. His hands are very sensitive, you see, so that he can use his brush skilfully. He used to have to get Joe Weir to chop wood for him in case he got blisters.”

“Really?” commented Merry, interested.

“Aye, your Aunt Ellen was fond of him, and he was often over here at Beau Ness. I’ve had the job of cooking for him many a time.”

Now Merry craned her neck as she came within sight of the Cot House. She’d have liked to ask Mrs. Cameron if she had any message for Mr. Brendan, but she knew better. She mustn’t appear a forward young lady, or she’d be falling in Mrs. Cameron’s estimation!

The Cot House looked like a tea-cosy with a riotous but colourful garden, and a warmth and friendliness which was very appealing. Merry’s steps slowed and she stood on tip-toes to peer over the hedge.

“You’ll see a lot more from this side,” an amused voice informed her.

“Oh!”

Merry flushed scarlet as a tall and rather untidy-looking man rose from a rustic seat in the garden and regarded her with steady dark eyes. He wore stained blue jeans and a rust-coloured jersey with a hole in the front. His hair was slightly ruffled, but had been well cut, and the traditional bearded artist appearance was missing. Merry judged him to be around thirty, and felt taken aback because he looked so ordinary. She had been much too influenced by Mrs. Cameron’s description of him as a “funny” one, though she should have known better. Mrs. Cameron used “funny” to describe as many things as she used “bonny”.

Yet now she was finding herself the object of his scrutiny, and a flush stained her cheeks.

“Miss Merry Saunders,” he said, “new owner of Beau Ness and goddaughter to Miss Ellen Blayne who was one of the sweetest ladies I ever knew. Good bones and colouring, and quite good expression if you like a shy fawn coining out of the woods. Won’t you step into my parlour for a moment, and we’ll introduce ourselves properly over a brew-up?”

“No, thank you,” said Merry
primly. “I really haven’t time. I...
”

“Haven’t time? In Kilbraggan? What could you be doing which can’t spare fifteen minutes? We’ve got to meet each other some time.”

Merry felt his gaze mocking her, and bit her lip. Benjamin Brendan made her feel like a gauche schoolgirl caught stealing apples. Swiftly her chin rose.

“Very well, Mr. Brendan, I shall be pleased to drink tea with you.”

With quiet dignity she opened the gate and he showed her into a living-room which made her eyes widen with interest. It seemed as though the room had been divided into two distinct sections. At one end he had a long table drawn up so that the long low window was directly behind it. Bookcases full of reference books lined the walls, and in a corner stood a large filing cabinet. The remainder of the room was furnished with comfortable armchairs, lovely old rugs and well-polished furniture.

“It’s very
... tidy
,” she said, a frank note of surprise in her voice. “One thinks of an artist as ...
well...”

“A dirty, untidy creature who throws paint on the floor and wipes his brush on the cat,” suggested Benjamin, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. “Let’s hope all your ideas aren’t so firmly fixed, little Miss Merry.” He picked up an electric kettle and began to fill it in the small kitchenette. “Commercial artists have to be surprisingly methodical, and we need lots of files for reference. I mean, suppose I were doing a cartoon strip and I find that jungle natives have killed a Kongoni. What is a Kongoni, and what does it look like? Maybe I ought to know, but quite often I don’t. So I look it up.”

“I see,” said Merry, interested in spite of herself. “So you do cartoons.”

“Cartoons, book jackets, children’s annuals, magazine illustrations
... whatever brings me in some bread and butter. And don’t ask me if I ever try some
real
art, or I shall want to strangle you, Miss Merry. I’m not ashamed of being commercial, and I might dispute that any one form of art is any greater than another. My African native’s hand needs as much care in drawing as ...
as...”

“Mrs. Cameron’s at the vegetables,” suggested Merry, and he shouted with laughter and lifted down a detective novel entitled
With These Hands.

Merry grinned as she recognised Mrs. Cameron’s white enamel bowl and strong fingers grasping a carrot.

“No wonder you never let her see it,” she commented, handing back the book, “and don’t keep calling me Miss Merry!”

“Merry, then, and I’m Benjamin. Not Benny. Benjamin.”

“Benjamin,” she agreed, accepting a piece of fruit cake with her steaming hot mug of strong tea.

"Who keeps house for you?” she asked, biting into the cake.

Benjamin gave her a cool look.

“Who else but
myself?” he asked, squatting down beside her on an ample pouffe. “I’ve been my own master since my grandfather died, and I’ve learned how to live alone, and like it. Once or twice I might have been tempted to change that happy state of affairs ... though I usually manage to resist temptation!”

He drank his tea, his eyes twinkling, and she felt again that he was laughing at her.

“Joe Weir and his wife come along three times a week and keep my house in order, when Joe hasn't a taxi job. But that’s enough about me, Merry Saunders. What about you? What do you intend to do with yourself in a quiet place like Kilbraggan?”

Merry considered before answering. Her efforts at writing were still fairly new to her and rather precious. She hadn’t yet grown tough enough to take all criticism, and her rejection slips often hurt for longer than they need; She couldn’t bear it if this professional artist, used to doing book jackets for professional writers, laughed at her efforts. But as she looked into his strong square face, the broad forehead, the firm mouth, and the eyes bright and alert, she felt that he might understand.

“Well, do I pass?” he asked softly, and she laughed and coloured rosily.

“I hesitate to tell you, but I want to write.”

“What kind of writing?”

“Oh, various things ... short stories, articles,
and I would like to try a novel.”

“Then I can only wish you every success and hope you will still speak to me when you’re famous.”

Merry coloured angrily, feeling that he was
laughing at her again.

“I must go,” she said, rising swiftly, then hesitated, feeling that she was being rather abrupt.

“Thank you for the tea and cake. Perhaps you would come over for a meal one evening soon?”

“Next Wednesday,” said Benjamin promptly. “It’s the day I send off my weekly cartoon series, a
n
d I’ll be
free in the evening. Drop in when you want someone to talk to, though my guess is that you’ll soon have plenty, of friends.”

“Who, for instance?” asked Merry curiously. “Is there a busy social life in the village?”

“You’ll see,” promised Benjamin, ushering her through the solid front door. “Cheerio, little Merry.”

She turned to wave and watched, him shut the door, then stepped out into the road, only to leap back again as a low white Jaguar turned the
corner
and pulled to a stop.

Merry saw that the driver was a fair young man, beautifully groomed in spite of being slightly windblown. Beside him sat a beautiful girl, so like him that she could be his twin sister. Her elaborately-styled hair was protected by a silk scarf, but her vivid blue eyes, set in near-perfect features, regarded Merry coolly as the driver came round to talk to her.

“It’s a girl!” he said, steadying her with a strong delicate hand. “I thought I’d run over a wood nymph.”

“I ...
I thought this was a private road,” she said shakily.

“It is,” drawled the girl. “If you’re going to take all day, Nigel, I want a word with Benjamin.”

“Go ahead, Stephanie. I suspect this is Miss Saunders, our new neighbour, and I want to get acquainted. I’m Nigel Kilpatrick, and this is my sister Stephanie.”

“H ... How do you do,” said Merry shakily, while Stephanie acknowledged her with a cool nod, and strolled up to the front door of the Cot House, which opened suddenly.

“Well,” said Benjamin, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he looked at all three, “it took less time than I thought, Merry.” His eyes sobered as they rested on the lovely girl on the
doorstep.
“Hello, Stephanie. Am I being
honoured with a visit?”

“Of course, darling,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I expect Nigel will want to take Miss
...
er
...
home after nearly knocking her down. He can pick me up on the way past.”