Under Gemini (16 page)

“But it wasn't about Tuppy. It was something else, something that was worrying me very much, but it wasn't about Tuppy. And I told you she was going to be all right. I told you, if I remember, that she was as strong as an old heather root, and she would probably outlive us all.”

There was a pause and then, Isobel admitted, “I didn't believe you,” sounding as if she were about to burst into tears.

Flora could bear it no longer. She walked in through the open door.

The drawing room at Fernrigg that evening had the aspect of a stage set, lit and furnished for the opening act of some Victorian piece. The illusion was heightened by the disposal of the three people who, as Flora suddenly appeared, stopped talking and turned to look at her.

She was aware of Antony, in a dark gray suit, occupied at a table on the far side of the room, and in the process of pouring a drink; and of Isobel in a long dress of heather-colored wool, standing at one side of the fireplace.

But she had eyes only for the other man. The doctor. Hugh Kyle. He faced Isobel across the hearthrug. He was so tall that his head and shoulders were reflected in the Venetian mirror that hung above the high, marble mantelpiece.

“Rose!” said Isobel. “Come close to the fire. You remember Hugh, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Flora. As soon as she had heard his voice, she had known that it would be him. The man she had met on the beach that morning. “Yes, I remember.”

7

TUPPY

“Of course,” he said. “We remember each other. How are you, Rose?”

She frowned. “I couldn't help hearing. You were talking about Tuppy.”

Antony, without asking what she wanted, brought her over a drink. “Yes,” he said. “There seems to have been some sort of a misunderstanding.”

She took the tumbler which was iced and very cold to her hand. “She's going to be all right?”

“Yes. Hugh says so.”

Flora felt as if she might burst into tears.

“It was my fault,” Isobel explained quickly. “My silly fault. But I was so upset. I thought Hugh was trying to tell me that Tuppy was going to…” She couldn't manage the word
die.
“That she wasn't going to get better. And that's what I told Antony.”

“But it's not true?”

“No.”

Flora looked at Antony and his steady eyes met hers. The two conspirators, she thought. Hoist with their own petard. They need never have come to Fernrigg. They need never have embarked on this maniacal charade. The whole carefully manufactured deception had been for nothing.

Antony had an expressive face. It was plain that he knew what Flora was thinking. They had made fools of themselves. He was sorry. And yet there was a sort of relief there, too, a lessening of the tension in his fine-drawn face. He was inexpressibly fond of his grandmother.

He said again, with the deepest satisfaction, “She's going to get better.” Flora found his hand and pressed it. He turned back to the others and went on, “The thing is, that if Rose and I hadn't believed there was a certain urgency to the situation, we probably wouldn't have come at all this weekend.”

“In that case,” said Isobel, sounding recovered, “I'm very glad I was so silly and misunderstood Hugh. I'm sorry if I frightened you, but at least it got you here.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hugh. “I couldn't have prescribed a more effective medicine. You've both done Tuppy a world of good.” He turned his back to the fire and settled his wide shoulders against the mantelpiece. Across the room, Flora felt his eyes on her. “And now that you're here, Rose, how does it feel to be back in Scotland?”

His manner was pleasant, but his blue eyes no warmer, and she remained wary of him.

“Very nice.”

“Is this your first visit since you were last here?”

“Yes it is.”

“She's been in the States all summer.” That was Antony, the alert prompter in the wings.

Hugh raised his eyebrows. “Really? Whereabouts?”

Flora tried to remember where Rose had been. “Oh … New York. And the Grand Canyon. And places.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging her traveled state. “How is your mother?”

“She's very well, thank you.”

“Is she coming back to Fernrigg, too?” He sounded patient as he persevered with the sticky conversation.

“No. I … I think she's going to stay in New York for a bit.”

“But she'll doubtless be coming over for the wedding. Unless you plan to be married in New York?”

“Oh, don't suggest such a thing,” said Isobel. “How could we all get to New York?”

Antony said quickly, “Nothing's been decided, anyway. Not even a date, let alone where it's going to take place.”

“In that case,” said Hugh, “it sounds a little as though we're crossing bridges before we get to them.”

“Yes. It does.”

There was a small pause while they all sipped their drinks. Flora cast about for some fresh topic of conversation, but before she could think of one, there came the sounds of cars arriving, the slamming of doors, and Isobel said, “There are the others.”

“It seems,” said Antony, “that they've all come at once.” And he laid down his drink and went out to greet the new arrivals.

After a moment Isobel said, “If you'll excuse me,” and to Flora's horror, she, too, put down her glass and followed Antony, doubtless to take the ladies of the party upstairs, to divest themselves of coats and perhaps comb their hair.

Thus, Flora and Hugh Kyle were left alone. The silence that lay between them was pregnant with things unsaid. She toyed with the idea of going straight into the attack—of saying,
I can see that you want to keep the good opinion of the Armstrongs, but you're being a great deal more pleasant to me now than you were this morning.
But, she told herself, this was neither the time nor the place for a showdown. Besides, it was impossible to defend herself when she had no idea what it was she was supposed to have done.

The possibilities, however, were daunting. Rose, Flora was beginning to accept, was not a woman of the highest principles. She had ditched Antony without a qualm of conscience, swanned off to Greece with some newly met swain, and deliberately left Flora to pick up the pieces of her broken engagement.

Who could guess at the horrors that Rose, at seventeen, would have been capable of committing? Flora had imagined her as young and frustrated and bored stiff. Was it so unlikely that in order to amuse herself, she had taken up with the first eligible man who came her way?

But Hugh Kyle did not look that sort of person. Not a man that any girl would consider playing fast and loose with. He was, in fact, formidable. Flora made herself look at him, standing as before with his back to the fire, his penetrating blue eyes watching her, unblinking, over the rim of his tumbler of whisky. This evening he wore a dark suit of some distinction, a silk shirt and some sort of a club tie with emblems on it. She wished that he were not so large. It was disconcerting having to stand there, looking up at him, and the expression she found on his face caused the very last of her courage to dribble away. She was confounded. She was without anything to say.

He seemed to be aware of her discomfiture and, surprisingly, to take pity on her, for it was he who broke the silence.

“Tuppy tells me that you and Antony have to leave tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you've had one lovely afternoon.”

“Yes, it was lovely.”

“How did you spend it?”

“We went for a walk.”

At that juncture they were mercifully interrupted by Antony, ushering in the two males among the newly arrived guests.

“Everyone came at the same time,” he told them. “Rose, I don't believe you've met Mr. Crowther. He came to live in Tarbole after you'd been here.”

Mr. Crowther was dressed in his minister's somber best, but with his red face, thick gray hair, and well-set-up figure he looked more like a successful bookie than a man of the church. He took Flora's hand in a hefty grip and proceeded to pump it up and down, saying, “Well, this is a pleasure. I've been looking forward to meeting Antony's young lady. How do you do?”

He sounded like a bookie as well. The very timbre of his deep voice made the crystal baubles of the chandelier knock together with a fine chiming sound. Flora imagined him preaching hellfire and brimstone from his pulpit. She was sure he had a fine reputation for meaningful sermons.

“How do you do?”

“Mrs. Armstrong's been so looking forward to a visit from you, as indeed we all have.” He caught sight of Hugh Kyle, let go her hand at last, and went toward the other man. “And it's yourself, Doctor. And how's life treating you?”

“Rose,” said Antony.

She had been aware of the other man, waiting for all the effusion to run its course. Now she turned toward him.

“You remember Brian Stoddart?”

She saw the brown face, the dark eyebrows, the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. His hair was dark, too, and his eyes a very pale, clear gray. Not as tall as Antony, and older, he nevertheless radiated a sort of animal vitality which Flora recognized as being immensely attractive. Unlike the other men of the party, he had put on semiformal evening clothes—dark trousers and a blue velvet smoking jacket—and with these he wore a white turtleneck sweater.

He said, warmly, “Rose, what a long time it's been.” He held out his arms and without thinking Flora moved toward him, and they kissed each other, circumspectly, on both cheeks.

He held her off. “Let me see if you've changed.”

“Everybody thinks she's got prettier,” said Antony.

“Impossible. She couldn't get prettier. But she's looking wonderfully happy and well. You're a lucky man, Antony.”

“Yes,” said Antony, not sounding particularly certain. “Well, having decided that, and kissed the poor girl silly into the bargain, come over and tell me what you want to drink.”

While they were thus occupied Isobel made her entrance escorting the two wives, and the whole scene was replayed, this time with Isobel making the introductions. This was Mrs. Crowther, whom Rose had not met before. (Big teeth, as Jason had warned, but a pleasant-faced person, dressed, as if for a ceileidh, in a tartan dress pierced by a Cairngorm brooch.) Mrs. Crowther was as enthusiastic as her husband. “So lovely that you were able to come and see Mrs. Armstrong again. It's just a shame that she's not able to be with us tonight.” She smiled over Flora's head. “Good evening, Dr. Kyle. Good evening, Mr. Stoddart.”

“… and Anna, Rose,” said Isobel in her gentle voice. “Anna Stoddart of Ardmore.”

Anna Stoddart smiled. She was obviously painfully shy and rather plain. It was hard to guess her age, and it was equally hard to guess how she had managed to collar such a devastating husband. She wore an expensive, if rather stodgy, dinner dress, but her jewelry was beautiful. Diamonds shone from her ears and her fingers, and trembled at the neck of the dull dress.

She put out her hand and then awkwardly withdrew it again, as though she had made a social gaffe. Flora, suffering for her shyness, quickly took hold of the hand before it disappeared altogether and held it firmly.

“Hello,” she said, feeling for clues. “I do remember you, don't I?”

Anna gave a little laugh. “And I remember you,” she said. “I certainly remember you. And your mother.”

“And you've come from…?”

“Ardmore. It's over the other side of Tarbole.”

“It's a lovely place,” Isobel told Flora. “Right out on the end of Ardmore point.”

“Are you very isolated?” asked Flora.

“Yes, a little, but I've lived there all my life, so I'm quite used to it.” There was a pause and then, as if encouraged by Flora's interest, she went on, in a rush of words. “You can see Ardmore from Fernrigg on a clear day. Right across the Sound.”

“It was clear this afternoon, but I never thought of looking.”

“Did you see the sunset?”

“Wasn't it fabulous? I watched it while I was dressing…”

Quite happy together, beginning to make friends, they were interrupted by Brian. “Anna, Antony wants to know what you're going to drink.”

She seemed confused. “… I don't really want anything.”

“Oh, come along,” he said patiently, “you must have something.”

“An orange juice, then…” He went away to fetch it for her.

Flora said, “Would you like a sherry?”

“No.” Anna shook her head. “I don't really like it.” With that the two of them were overwhelmed by Mr. Crowther's coming at them across the carpet like a ship in full sail, saying, “Now then, we can't let these two pretty girls spend their time talking together.”

*   *   *

Somehow, the evening progressed. Flora talked and smiled until her face ached, sticking close to Antony (so devoted, everybody would be thinking), and avoiding Hugh Kyle. Anna Stoddart found a chair and sat down, and Mrs. Crowther drew up a stool and settled herself beside her. Brian Stoddart and Antony discussed some mutual friends in Edinburgh, and Mr. Crowther and Hugh Kyle gravitated back to the fireplace and appeared, from their gestures, to be swapping fishing experiences. Isobel, making sure that all her guests were happily occupied, slipped away to speak to Mrs. Watty.

Presently the gong sounded, and they all finished their drinks and trooped out of the room and across the hall to the dining room.

Even in her present state of nerves Flora could not help but notice how charming it all was: the dark walls, the old portraits, the brightly burning fire. White linen and shining silver were reflected in the gleam of the mahogany table. There was a centerpiece of late roses, and pale pink candles filled the silver candelabra.

After some confusion on the part of Isobel, who had lost her plan and forgotten where everybody was meant to be, they were all finally seated in the right places: Hugh at one end of the table and Mr. Crowther at the other, while Brian and Antony faced each other across the middle. The women were placed in the four corners, Flora between Hugh and Brian, with Mrs. Crowther opposite her.