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She took care to make it clear that she regarded his presence as just the final straw in a situation which she had already shown didn’t please her. She made herself difficult in every irritating way that was possible without actually laying herself open to a reprimand from Mrs Laidlaw. For one couldn’t accuse her of being exactly rude. It was simply that she was completely unco-operative. Particularly at meal times she would listen with studied politeness to any remarks addressed directly to her, but her replies were so brief and her expression so puzzled that the topic invariably died
a
quick death. Nor did she ever make any attempt to keep the conversational ball rolling. She would sit silent, her eyes downcast, her mouth drooping in a way which suggested that she felt she was being deliberately ignored and left out in the cold. Not unnaturally this had a quelling effect on conversation in general, until at last Mrs Laidlaw was driven to remonstrating with her. But without effect. Fiona simply looked at her with sad, puzzled eyes and said she was sorry, but after all, they weren’t her friends and it really wasn’t her fault that they and she had so little in common.

It was difficult to get round that one, for it was quite true. The Farmers and Meg had wide interests, while Fiona’s whole interests were bounded by the limits of topics which were of personal interest to her. And they, in any case, were not very many.

It was Hector who ultimately took her in hand. He had dinner in the flat one evening and though he made no comment about Fiona’s behaviour at the time, later, when he was just leaving to return to his part of the house, he trimmed her ruthlessly to size.

“I’ll be delighted if you’ll all come with me tomorrow,” he remarked, and then, without the least change of tone, he turned deliberately to Fiona. “I won’t include you in the invitation, Fiona, because I’m sure you’ll be much happier if you make some alternative arrangement for yourself.”

Fiona’s face was a study. She stared at Hector in incredulous bewilderment, unable to believe the evidence of her ears. For a moment it looked as if she was going to storm at him. Then suddenly her face crumpled like a child’s and pushing past Meg, she dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

There was a brief, embarrassed silence. Then, just as if nothing untoward had happened, Hector went on easily:

“Would you care to come over as early as half-past six? Then I can show you over the house. It’s not, of course, one of the stately homes, but I think you’ll find it quite interesting,” he concluded, speaking directly to Mr Farmer.

“As an architect, I’m sure I shall,” Tom Farmer said heartily. “How old is it—your part, I mean? The wings are newer, I imagine.”

“Yes,” Hector agreed. “They’re middle eighteenth century. The original part is a century older than that. Right, then six-thirty it is.”

He left then and for a moment no one spoke. Then Mrs Laidlaw said apologetically:

"I'm sorry you got let in for that, but I'm afraid something of the sort was inevitable sooner or later. Fiona is really very difficult—and yet, you know, one can't help feeling sorry for her. As a child, when her parents were alive, she was completely spoilt and she grew up quite unable to see any point of view but her own. And of course it’s got worse with the years. Inevitable, I suppose. When a girl is young and very pretty and extremely rich, it must seem as if the world has been created especially for her benefit. The trouble is, I don’t find it easy to deal with that sort of temperament, but sometimes she comes up against someone who simply won’t stand for her nonsense. Hector, for one. In fact, he’s the only person who can deal with her adequately. Not that he enjoys doing it,” she added hurriedly. “But that doesn’t mean that he shirks it. Of course, he is her guardian and there are—other reasons why he’s greatly concerned on her behalf, but all the same, I’m sorry it had to happen just now—”

There really seemed to be nothing to say to that, but later that night, when sleep absolutely refused to come, Meg lay thinking over the episode. There was no doubt about it, Fiona had been asking for trouble and it seemed probable that Hector had not resorted to such drastic means without having tried less brutal methods earlier. All the same, Meg had shrunk within herself as if that terrible public snub had been directed at her instead of Fiona. It was so utterly ruthless and quite unanswerable, but Meg had seen the expression on Fiona’s face just before her downfall. She had looked thoroughly complacent and confident. Her eyes had sparkled and she had smiled—it wasn’t very difficult to guess that she had seen herself acting as hostess for Hector, taking the place which was rightly hers—or so she thought.

And so the blow, when it came, must have been quite devastating, and though Meg knew that the last thing Fiona would welcome would be her sympathy, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the girl who, as Mrs Laidlaw had said, had been encouraged from her childhood to be self-centred and inconsiderate.

Yet Meg couldn’t find it in her heart to blame Hector entirely. He had been quite ruthless, but on the other hand he had left Fiona with a way of escape. She had only to take what he said at face value and say something like:
“How thoughtful of you, Hector. Yes, I think you're right. I'll do that!”
and where would Hector have been then? Feeling rather that he had let off a damp squib and even that he agreed with Fiona that Mrs Laidlaw's guests were boring. But that had evidently not occurred to Fiona and it didn’t linger very long in Meg’s mind.

What she couldn’t dismiss from her thoughts was what Mrs Laidlaw had said. Hector was Fiona’s guardian, but there were
—other reasons
why he was greatly concerned on her behalf.

What other reasons? Was it true that he had decided to marry Fiona but had no intention of having a wife who didn’t observe even the rudiments of good manners?

In the darkness, Meg screwed up her face. It sounded rather horrible. Cold-blooded and calculated—she wished she hadn’t thought of it.

The next morning Hector told Meg that he wouldn’t be needing her help that day.

“So why not take Mr Farmer on a tour of exploration?” he suggested. “It’s a pity to waste a lovely day like this indoors.”

“Yes,” Meg agreed dubiously. “But—”

“Oh, come!” To Meg’s surprise he was grinning at her in a positively mischievous way and there was a teasing quality in his voice. “I know you once said that you wouldn’t set foot on my land even if I begged you on bended knee, but that’s ancient history now. Something that I’d hoped we could both forget. Is it, Meg?”

It was the first time he had ever called her by her first name and the colour flared up in her cheeks.

“Yes—I’d like to,” she said breathlessly. “But actually, that wasn’t what I was thinking about.”

“No?”

“No. It was just that—I wondered if you were—well, providing an excuse so that I could go off with Uncle Tom without feeling guilty,” she explained.

“Nothing of the sort,” Hector assured her briskly. “If it had been that, I’d have told you straight out. You’re not the sort of person with whom one deals in lies or even half-truths, no matter how good the reason might seem. The honest fact is that at this time of year I do a round of the farms, and as I go on horseback, I prefer to choose good weather for it. And as it happens, I haven’t any work I can give you that you could get on with in my absence. But don’t let that worry you. As a result of these visits, I’ll very shortly be working you like a galley-slave, so you’d better get your strength up!”

Meg laughed and promised that she would. Then, with a light heart, she went off in search of Tom Farmer and explained the situation to him.

“Yes, my’ dear, I’d like to go exploring with you,” he said with alacrity. “Could our tour possibly take in Nanny’s cottage, do you think? I promised Andra I’d have a look at it and this seems a good opportunity.

“Yes, of course,” Meg agreed, though she wished he hadn’t made the suggestion. Since Uncle Andra’s illness she had shunned the cottage feeling that still another shadow hung over it. After all, but for it Uncle Andra would never have been ill, and what with that and the fear that he might never be able to make use of his rather doubtful inheritance, she had felt that it might even be unlucky to go there. There was another reason, too. Now that Uncle Andra and Hector were on good terms, the importance of the cottage had seemed to fade almost into insignificance. She didn’t want to do anything to reverse the process. But she couldn’t explain all that to Uncle Tom, so she suggested that they should drive to the cottage, have a look at it and then go for a walk.

It was, as Hector had said, a lovely day, but even the brilliant sunshine and the keen, fresh air couldn’t make Nanny’s cottage look anything but desolate and depressing. Tom Farmer gave a quick, comprehensive look at it and whistled lugubriously.

“What a wreck!” he exclaimed. “At a glance, I’m not sure it wouldn’t pay Andra to cut his losses and let time and the weather complete the job! However, he wants something more than a snap judgment. Let’s get cracking!”

They forced open the door and went in. The room didn’t look quite as forlorn as it had, for Meg had cleared away all the paper on the floor and burnt it. However, it was still sufficiently depressing for her to be glad that she wasn’t on her own, and she watched Uncle Tom with interest. He made a very thorough examination of the woodwork, prodding it with the blade of his penknife, and grimaced expressively.

“Woodworm, dry rot—the lot,” he commented. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to see just what’s caused that roof damage. It could be something serious.”

“Fiona said that it was caused by a mob of local people who were angry with Nanny,” Meg volunteered as she followed him up the creaking stairs. “Apparently they threw stones at it and were only stopped because Sir Hector turned up.”

“Oh, she said that, did she?” Uncle Tom said disparagingly. “Then on principle, I don’t believe it! As well as being an exhibitionist, that girl is a confirmed mischief-maker. However, we’ll see.”

It was the first time that Meg had gone upstairs and she gave a little exclamation of dismay at the sight that met their eyes. Part of the ceiling was down, slates lay broken on the floor and through the sagging rafters one could see the sky. There was a bed, unmade and smothered in debris and dust, and an unpainted white-wood cupboard. Two small mildewed mats lay on the floor—and that was all.

“Don’t come in any further,” Uncle Tom advised. “I’m not too sure of this floor. Yes, I thought so!” As despite the wariness with which he advanced, the floorboards crackled ominously. As Meg watched with anxious eyes, he reached the spot directly under the hole in the roof and again produced his penknife.

“H’m!” he commented as he returned cautiously to Meg. “And our little friend said the damage was caused by a gang of roughs chucking stones at the roof! Well, my instinct was right. That’s sheer piffle! Oh, perhaps a few stones were thrown, but the real cause of the trouble is that the roof timbers are as rotten as all the rest of the woodwork. This is the result of years of neglect, Meg. What surprises me is not that the roof has begun to collapse, but that it hasn’t gone altogether. Well, it won’t be long before it does,” he concluded grimly, “so we’d better get out while we’ve got whole skins. Come on!”

But once downstairs, he paused.

“I’m going to take that clock away,” he remarked. “I don’t know much about such things, but there’s no doubt but that it’s pretty old. It might be valuable.” He looked round for something to stand on, pulled out the two wooden beer-crates which had supported one comer of the table and balanced them carefully on one another. He lifted the clock down, and with Meg providing a steadying hand reached the floor in safety.

“My guess,” he commented as he got his breath back, “is that the movement is a lot older than the case and that it’s probably the work of a local carpenter. Someone who was a skilled workman but not a craftsman. Well, come on, whatever its history, the darned thing’s heavy! Let’s put it in the back seat and then walk to blow the cobwebs away. I’m beginning to feel as if I’ve got dry rot myself!”

Meg followed him in silence to the car, but when the clock was safely laid on the rear seat and locked in she rather hesitantly asked a question.

“Uncle Tom, you’re quite sure--about the roof, I mean?”

“Quite sure? Of course I am,” Mr Farmer said rather testily. “I’m an architect, let me remind you, and a thorough knowledge of the condition of woodwork and old buildings in general is an essential part of my job. The woodwork of that cottage is rotten to the core and every last scrap of it ought to be pulled out and burned. I must say, I don’t envy Andra his inheritance. He’ll have to dip very deeply into his pocket if ever he’s going , to restore the place. Come on, let’s forget it and go for that walk. I feel depressed!”

Meg, however, didn’t feel so much depressed as curious and even, perhaps, a little relieved. It was sad that the cottage had got into such a state of dilapidation, but to find out that it was due not to spite and vandalism but to the natural decay of those years of neglect relieved that lurking feeling of superstition. Not that she believed that a building could exert an evil influence, but—

She left it at that, but made up her mind that she must do something definite about those other questions she so wanted answered. Accordingly, having dropped Mrs Laidlaw and her aunt off at the hospital that afternoon, she drove back to Blytheburn village, hoping to find Nurse Heyward at home. If she wasn’t, then she would try to make a definite appointment to see her.

As it happened, she was lucky. When she went into the chemist’s shop she found the little redheaded nurse serving a customer. She smiled a welcome at Meg and when she was free, came out from behind the counter.

“Well, this is nice, Miss Ainslie!” she declared warmly. “I’ve missed seeing you all at the hospital— though I do keep asking after Mr Ainslie and I’ve managed to pop along and see him once or twice. I’m so glad he’s doing so well. Now, I do hope you’re not in a hurry, because I’d just love to give you tea as soon as Dad’s back. He’s taken Mum over to Callerton to see a cousin of hers—I expect you’ve heard of her. Her name’s Jeavons. She was hurt in a car accident a little while back, but she’s home now and doing well.”