The House Of Lanyon. Valerie Anand

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СКАЧАТЬ girl.” Margaret’s tone was kinder. She could not, she found, turn against her own daughter as she had turned against the Webbers. “You think you’ll never love Peter, but you wait till you’ve lived with ’un awhile. The day’ll come when he’ll be tired and frettin’ over something and you’ll look at his weary face and your heart’ll ache inside you with sorrow for him, and wantin’ to put it right, whatever it is. Marriage has its own power. Now, you comin’ downstairs?”

      “I don’t want to go to Allerbrook,” said Liza dismally. “It’ll never be home.”

      “You’ll be surprised. Now, there’s things to talk about—or do you mean to take your vows in old clothes?”

      There was a silence. Then Liza sighed and, at last, sat up. She did it because she had to. To get up from this bed meant giving in; it meant yielding herself to the stream of wedding preparations and, ultimately, to Peter Lanyon, but she had known her fate from the moment her father had caught up with her and Christopher outside Nether Stowey. Nicholas hadn’t had to explain; there were things one knew. If she refused to marry, she would either be shut up in this room until she gave in, or else she would be deposited in a nunnery. Those were the customary methods of dealing with wayward daughters. Her face was stiff with unhappiness, but nevertheless, she slid off the bed and stood up.

      “All right,” she said.

      She didn’t say it gladly or willingly or even submissively. It came out in a flat tone that might have meant anything. But she said it.

      

      The week that Liza had spent in her parents’ attic, Richard Lanyon had spent making his mind up and then unmaking it again.

      It was all very well to rearrrange the future inside his head, but what if seventeen-year-old Marion didn’t take to the notion of marrying thirty-eight-year-old Richard Lanyon? Or even if she did, would her parents allow it? And if she did and they did, what if Peter kicked up, refused to marry Liza, and set about wrecking his father’s new marriage?

      Well, let him do his worst! Good God, no decent lad ever made eyes at his own stepmother; it was against all the laws of God and man. Peter might rage and scowl and slam doors, but he’d know that Marion was out of reach. He’d come around.

      At this point in his inner dialogue, something inside Richard would snap ferocious jaws, like a pike catching a minnow. Peter would damned well have to come around. Peter was going to marry Liza Weaver, and why should he object to her? He’d known the girl most of his life and she was a fine-looking, good-tempered wench. He was lucky to get her and it was to be hoped that he would have the simple good manners not to sulk to her face. Liza was for Peter and Marion was for Richard and that was that.

      Whenever he thought of Marion, he felt as though a hot, damp hand had clutched at his innards, both maddening and weakening him. At the idea of approaching her, he became anxious, wondering what to do, what to say to her, how to please her. He was like a youth again, bewildered by those strange creatures, girls.

      On the Monday following Richard’s visit to Lynmouth they fetched the sheep in from the moorland grazing, and having done so, counted them, because on these occasions there were nearly always a few missing. Sure enough, the count was half a dozen short. Good, thought Richard. I can make use of that.

      That evening, in the farmyard, he took Higg into his confidence.

      “Tomorrow I’m sending Peter out to look for the strayed sheep and I want you to go with him and make sure he looks for the sheep and don’t go slipping off anywhere. I’ve had a bit of worry with him. There’s a girl in Lynmouth that he’s being a bit foolish about.”

      “Yes, Master Lanyon,” said Higg, and from his tone, Richard gathered that Higg, Roger, Betsy and Kat all knew the situation and were probably discussing it avidly out of his hearing.

      “Most young men have their adventures before they get wed,” Richard said offhandedly. “But Peter’s getting married soon and it’s time this stopped. Tuesdays are likely days for him to go dodging off to Lynmouth, so I’m charging you to see he doesn’t. Understand?”

      “Ah,” said Higg, grinning, and added a comment for once. “Could work out well. A bride’s best off with a groom as knows what he’s about.”

      “I daresay,” said Richard coldly. “Go over Hawkridge way and search there. I’m going the other way, up to the high moor. Between us, we’ll find them, I hope.”

      In the morning he gave his orders, watching Peter intently. Peter glowered, opened his mouth as if to protest, but then shut it again as he met his father’s stern eye. He shrugged, and after breakfast went off with Higg as instructed, taking Silky, the sheepdog bitch, with them. “She’s still mournful, missing my father,” Richard said. “The more work she does, the better. Leave Blue to guard the house.”

      When Peter and Higg were out of sight, Richard asked Betsy for some bread and cold meat—“I could be out of the house at noon, if the sheep have wandered far.” He then saddled Splash, swung himself astride, called his own dog Ruff and set off westward, to the coast and Lynton.

      It was a mild day, the sky a mingling of blue patches and good-natured brown-and-white cloud, carried on a light west wind. The rolling moors, which from a distance looked so smooth that their colours could have been painted on them, were patched pale gold with moor grass and dark where the heather grew. Here and there were the green stains of bogs, and in places there were gleams of bright yellow, for always there was gorse in bloom somewhere.

      Splash was fresh and they made good time. Richard found himself almost at the Valley of the Rocks while the morning was still quite young. He drew rein and looked round. That must be the cottage where the grandmother and aunt lived, standing a little back from the road; he could see its thatched roof, just visible above some apple trees. He hesitated. Would Marion be here yet? She would have quite a long walk from home, up the steep path which linked Lynmouth to Lynton, and then through Lynton itself. Should he wait, or go straight to the cottage and knock, or…?

      Then he saw her, walking toward him, her basket on her arm. He knew her at once. It was as though during that one brief meeting a week ago he had memorised her, head to footsoles, every line and movement of her. He rode toward her.

      “Marion Locke!”

      She stopped, looking up at him in surprise, and he saw that she didn’t recognise him and was startled, although, as she looked into his face, he also saw appreciation there. Marion responded to the sight of a handsome man as instinctively as a flower opening in the sun. Ruff ran up to her, wagging his tail, and she stooped to pat him.

      “I’m Richard Lanyon,” he said. “Peter Lanyon’s father.”

      She’d recognised him now. She straightened up and smiled and he doffed his cap. “You saw me last week, when I called at your parents’ home. I brought you a disappointment, I think. My son is betrothed already, my dear. But I wish to talk to you. Will you ride with me a little way before you go to see your grandmother?”

      She got up behind him without the slightest hesitation and neatly enough, despite the basket on her arm, putting her left foot on his and accepting a hand to help her on. For the first time he touched her, and the contact burned him like white fire. More prosaically, a smell of fish arose from the basket and Splash snorted disapprovingly. “Your horse don’t like the scent of herring,” said Marion, laughing. “But they taste all right.”

      “Not to him,” said Richard, also amused. СКАЧАТЬ