a smile, ‘But, of course, you service girls will find it hard to settle down at home.’
She said irritably, ‘Oh, don’t be stupid, Rowley.’
(But why be irritable? Why—unless, because his words touched a raw nerve of truth somewhere.)
‘Oh well,’ said Rowley. ‘I suppose we might as well consider getting married. Unless you’ve changed your mind?’
‘Of course I haven’t changed my mind. Why should I?’
He said vaguely:
‘One never knows.’
‘You mean you think I’m’—Lynn paused—‘different?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Perhaps you’ve changed your mind?’
‘Oh, no, I’ve not changed. Very little change down on the farm, you know.’
‘All right, then,’ said Lynn—conscious, somehow, of anticlimax, ‘let’s get married. Whenever you like.’
‘June or thereabouts?’
‘Yes.’
They were silent. It was settled. In spite of herself, Lynn felt terribly depressed. Yet Rowley was Rowley—just as he always had been. Affectionate, unemotional, painstakingly given to understatement.
They loved each other. They had always loved each other. They had never talked about their love very much—so why should they begin now?
They would get married in June and live at Long Willows (a nice name, she had always thought) and she would never go away again. Go away, that is to say, in the sense that the words now held for her. The excitement of gangplanks being pulled up, the racing of a ship’s screw, the thrill as an aeroplane became airborne and soared up and over the earth beneath. Watching a strange coastline take form and shape. The smell of hot dust, and paraffin, and garlic—the clatter and gabble of foreign tongues. Strange flowers, red poinsettias rising proudly from a dusty garden… Packing, unpacking—where next?
All that was over. The war was over. Lynn Marchmont had come home. Home is the sailor, home from the sea… But I’m not the same Lynn who went away, she thought.
She looked up and saw Rowley watching her…
Aunt Kathie’s parties were always much the same. They had a rather breathless amateurish quality about them characteristic of the hostess. Dr Cloade had an air of holding irritability in check with difficulty. He was invariably courteous to his guests—but they were conscious of his courtesy being an effort.
In appearance Lionel Cloade was not unlike his brother Jeremy. He was spare and grey-haired—but he had not the lawyer’s imperturbability. His manner was brusque and impatient—and his nervous irritability had affronted many of his patients and blinded them to his actual skill and kindliness. His real interests lay in research and his hobby was the use of medicinal herbs throughout history. He had a precise intellect and found it hard to be patient with his wife’s vagaries.
Though Lynn and Rowley always called Mrs Jeremy Cloade ‘Frances,’ Mrs Lionel Cloade was invariably ‘Aunt Kathie.’ They were fond of her but found her rather ridiculous.
This ‘party’, arranged ostensibly to celebrate Lynn’s home-coming, was merely a family affair.
Aunt Kathie greeted her niece affectionately:
‘So nice and brown you look, my dear. Egypt, I suppose. Did you read the book on the Pyramid prophecies I sent you? So interesting. Really explains everything, don’t you think?’
Lynn was saved from replying by the entrance of Mrs Gordon Cloade and her brother David.
‘This is my niece, Lynn Marchmont, Rosaleen.’
Lynn looked at Gordon Cloade’s widow with decorously veiled curiosity.
Yes, she was lovely, this girl who had married old Gordon Cloade for his money. And it was true what Rowley had said, that she had an air of innocence. Black hair, set in loose waves, Irish blue eyes put in with the smutty finger—half-parted lips.
The rest of her was predominantly expensive. Dress, jewels, manicured hands, fur cape. Quite a good figure, but she didn’t, really, know how to wear expensive clothes. Didn’t wear them as Lynn Marchmont could have worn them, given half a chance! (But you never will have a chance, said a voice in her brain.)
‘How do you do,’ said Rosaleen Cloade.
She turned hesitatingly to the man behind her.
She said: ‘This—this is my brother.’
‘How do you do,’ said David Hunter.
He was a thin young man with dark hair and dark eyes. His face was unhappy and defiant and slightly insolent.
Lynn saw at once why all the Cloades disliked him so much. She had met men of that stamp abroad. Men who were reckless and slightly dangerous. Men whom you couldn’t depend upon. Men who made their own laws and flouted the universe. Men who were worth their weight in gold in a push—and who drove their C.O.s to distraction out of the firing line!
Lynn said conversationally to Rosaleen:
‘And how do you like living at Furrowbank?’
‘I think it’s a wonderful house,’ said Rosaleen.
David Hunter gave a faint sneering laugh.
‘Poor old Gordon did himself well,’ he said. ‘No expense spared.’
It was literally the truth. When Gordon had decided to settle down in Warmsley Vale—or rather had decided to spend a small portion of his busy life there, he had chosen to build. He was too much of an individualist to care for a house that was impregnated with other people’s history.
He had employed a young modern architect and given him a free hand. Half Warmsley Vale thought Furrowbank a dreadful house, disliking its white squareness, its built-in furnishing, its sliding doors, and glass tables and chairs. The only part of it they really admired wholeheartedly were the bathrooms.
There had been awe in Rosaleen’s, ‘It’s a wonderful house.’ David’s laugh made her flush.
‘You’re the returned Wren, aren’t you?’ said David to Lynn.
‘Yes.’
His eyes swept over her appraisingly—and for some reason she flushed.
Aunt Katherine appeared again suddenly. She had a trick of seeming to materialize out of space. Perhaps she had caught the trick of it from many of the spiritualistic séances she attended.
‘Supper,’ she said, rather breathlessly, and added,
