Dark inheritance (3 page)

Barbara answered her smile. "I could cat a horse!"

"You'll not be getting that here, miss. There's plenty of everything from the farm—bacon and eggs for break
fast and good English meat for dinner. None of that frozen foreign stuff here."

"I didn't know Mr. Rockwood was a farmer," Bar
bara said curiously.

"Indeed, he isn't—the home farm is run for him
by a manager—but Mr. Rockwood supervises the whole
estate." As she spoke she led the way to the dining-room, pausing with her hand on the door when Barbara had gone in. "Make yourself comfortable, miss, and I'll see your breakfast is sent up right away."

After breakfast Barbara wandered into the hall again, ^^ and seeing the front door open, strolled out on to the steps, her breath catching as for the first time she saw the view. In that instant she realized that Crags' Height had been built on a small, natural plateau half-way up the mountain, the first fifty yards in front of the house being razed to form a driveway and bordering lawns which reached to a narrow road twisting down into the village; while beyond the road the mountainside fell gradually down into pasture behind which sloped to the edge of the distant sea, scarcely visible in the mists of morning.

Barbara wanted to explore then and there, but knew she would not have time, and was just turning to go back into the house when she saw the figure of a man coming towards her across the fields to the left of the house. As he passed through the belt of trees and came on to the drive she recognized Rockwood and stood waiting for him in case he might have some in
structions for her.

He strode with the easy gait of a man unconscious of his surroundings, his eyes on the ground and his
expression preoccupied until he looked up and saw her
slender figure in the doorway. But his face did not change, and even when he came up to her his "Good morning" was as aloof as if they had never met before.

"You'll catch cold standing out here without a coat," he said curtly.

"I was just admiring the view, I'm not a bit cold."

"Possibly not, but tie air is treacherous and you'd be wise not to go out unless you wear something warm." He glanced at her thin skirt and white blouse. "Haven't you anything more suitable?"

"Several things, but this is warm enough for me at the moment, thank you."

His eyes flickered at the firmness of her tone but he made no reply, and afraid she had sounded rude, Bar
bara added: "I have a jacket to this skirt upstairs". Ill put it on when I go and wake your aunt."

"Put the jacket on by all means, but don't bother with
my aunt yet. The housekeeper washes and dresses her in
the mornings."

He moved past her across the hall and into the dining-
room and Barbara followed, her footsteps lightly echo
ing his heavy tread on the stone flags.

"When would you like me to go up to Miss Berres
ford, then?" she asked.

"Not until eleven o'clock. She has a long day to fill."
He went to the sideboard and lifted the lid of the silver
coffee-pot. "Ah, I see you've left me some."

"I didn't know you hadn't had breakfast," she re
torted defensively.

"I had my breakfast about six o'clock this morning before I went round the estate," he said drily, "so I feel entitled to this."

He poured himself some coffee, and with the cup in his hand went and stood in front of the fire. Barbara looked at him enquiringly but he said nothing further, and she decided to take the opportunity of asking him about her duties.

He seemed faintly irritated at her question. "Haven't I already made them clear?"

"Not entirely. Apart from your aunt telling me she would like me to read and talk to her, I've no idea what I'm expected to do."

"On the contrary, you seem to have a very good idea. If you keep her occupied you'll be doing your job." "Is that all?" "You seem surprised."

"Yes. I can't understand why you needed to
employ
someone to do it. Surely the housekeeper or a friend—" "The housekeeper has the house to run and we have no friends. Apart from which, even if we had, they would find it no pleasure to stay with my aunt all the time."

Barbara was stung by the hardness of his tone. "I think Miss Berresford is a sweet old lady."

"Then you're well suited to each other," he said calmly.

Not trusting herself to make a retort, Barbara mur
mured an excuse and went out of the room, feeling as she closed the door that she had never met such a boorish, sour-tempered man.

As she went up the stairs she saw the housekeeper disappear into the main bedroom overlooking the gal
lery and decided she would have time to unpack before Miss Berresford was ready. By the time she had put her clothes away in the large wardrobe and capacious drawers it was just after eleven o'clock, and she went along the corridor and knocked at the old woman's door.

A light voice bade her come in, and she found herself in one of the loveliest bedrooms she had ever seen. In contrast to the rest of the house it was incongruously soft and feminine, for although she had not yet seen all the rooms at Crags' Height, the general atmosphere was one of oppressive grandeur. But this room was light and airy, the shimmering blue curtains and thick pile carpet bespeaking the taste of a woman used to luxury. The furniture was ornate; the delicately shaped dressing-table and chairs elaborately carved and gilded.

"Are you admiring my bedroom?" Miss Berresford enquired proudly. "If so, you're not the first. Everyone who sees it is surprised that there should be anything like this at Crags' Height."

"It
is
rather an anachronism," Barbara admitted. "I can imagine it as a setting for Lily Langtry or the Dolly sisters."

Miss Berresford chuckled. "How clever of you, my dear! It was originally my sister's—Dominic's mother, you know."

To Barabara it did not seem possible that anyone so obviously feminine could have been intimately related to the stern, hard-faced man who now owned the house, and she looked round with even greater interest.

"Is there a picture of Mrs. Rockwood?" she asked.

Miss Bcrrcsford's face suddenly became vacant and evasive. "There used to be, but it disappeared a long time ago. Things have a habit of disappearing, you know. I can never find anything when I want it." She fluttered her hands. "But don't let's waste time up here. If you'll give me your arm and help me downstairs we can go for a little walk before lunch."

Barbara helped her to her feet and wrapping a shawl round the frail shoulders they went out of the room, down the stairs and across the hall into the garden, where they strolled quietly on the gravel paths surround
ing the lawns. Rockwood joined them in the dining-room
for lunch, but apart from a cursory nod to Barbara and a few terse sentences to his aunt he ignored them both and hurried through his meal, excusing himself before coffee was brought in. In his presence the old woman

seemed to shrivel into herself, and it was not until the door closed behind him that her unnatural gaiety returned and she became talkative again.

Barbara took her back to her room immediately lunch was over and read snippets of news from the
Daily Telegraph
until the papery lids began to droop and the old face relaxed in sudden sleep. Then she walked over to the window and looked out at the garden, longing to go for a walk yet afraid she might awaken Miss Berres
ford if she left the room.

At half past four the housekeeper came up with tea and Miss Berresford woke up and leant back against the pillows, surprised to find Barbara still sitting there.

"Oh, my dear, you should have gone out for a walk. It's such a lovely afternoon and you've been missing it."

"I was afraid of waking you."

"You needn't have been—nothing wakes me after lunch." The faded eyes twinkled. "You'll realize that by and by. Come and pour out for me, Barbara—I hope I may call you Barbara? It's so much more friendly than 'Miss Mansfield'."

"Of course you may," Barbara smiled.

"Good! And you must call me Aunt Ellie, just as Dominic docs."

Never having heard her nephew refer to her as any
thing but "Aunt", and that in the coldest tones, Barbara
decided the statement was a pathetic symptom of wishful
thinking. "I'd like to call you Aunt Ellie very much," she said gently, "if you're sure Mr. Rockwood won't object."

Momentary uncertainty came into the old face. "Do you think he might?" Then: "No, I'm sure it'll be all right—hell want us to get on well together. No milk in my tea, thank you. I have one lump of sugar and a slice of lemon." She took the cup and sipped. "Just the way I like it! Now come and sit beside me and I'll tell you what I want you to do for me."

Barbara perched herself on the foot of the bed. "Mr. Rockwood has already given me some idea."

"Has he? Oh, well, if Dominic has told you I'd better not interfere."

There was a short silence and Barbara began to feel that the man's influence over his aunt was even more insidious than she had imagined.

"Mr. Rockwood only gave me a general outline," she said quietly, "and I'm sure there must be one or two personal things you'd like me to do which he wouldn't know about"

"Of course, I never thought of that. Well, there isn't very much really. Just that I'd like you to put flowers in my room—Emily never has time to get them for me— and to change my library book every week, as well as one or two other little things, which I can't quite remem
ber at the moment."

"Never mind," Barbara soothed, "tell me them when you think of it."

"Thank you, my dear, I will." And with this Aunt
Ellie seemed to dismiss the subject and settled down to
enjoy her first afternoon with her new companion.

During the next few days the old lady stayed in her room except for lunch, for the long journey from Lon
don had tired her, and although she recovered her spirits quite quickly her state of health was so precarious that
it did not take much to bring on a condition of weakness
which, Barbara found, would often last for several days. A week after their arrival in Wales Rockwood went to Hereford to buy cattle. Barbara learned of his depar
ture from the housekeeper, and felt a little piqued that he had gone without informing her himself. But Aunt Ellie expressed no surprise and was obviously quite used to her nephew coming and going without a word. In his absence the house seemed to take on a different air. Aunt Ellie lost her frightened manner and became more rational, although it did not take Barbara long to
discover that the old lady was very forgetful and would
ramble on indefinitely unless she was gently stopped.
Even the servants seemed less constrained now that their
master's dominating influence was no longer felt, and Barbara could not forbear to hope that he would stay away for some time.

At the end of a week Barbara received a short note from Rockwood, the boldness and heavy down-stroke

of the decisive lettering bringing him vividly to mind.'
Without preamble or any enquiry after their well-being, he informed her that he would be away for longer than he had expected and if for any reason she wanted him urgently she could contact him through his London club.

Slowly the days lengthened into weeks and the routine
by which Barbara lived became almost a part of her. The mornings passed quickly, for she would help Emily to sort the linen or dust the fragile ornaments in the drawing-room which was the only cheerful room in the house apart from Aunt Ellie's bedroom. Even so, it
struck her as having an unlived-in air, although here too
she sensed the same influence as the bedroom; the deli
cate Dresden figures repeating themselves in gilded,
glass-fronted cabinets, and the elaborately tasselled furniture and faded velvet curtains echoing the Ed
wardian motif of the room upstairs.

There were numerous pictures on the walls, some of
them valuable, and one afternoon when Aunt Ellie was sleeping she inspected them with interest. But it was not
until she turned to have a last look round that she got the impression that there was something missing, and walked back into the centre of the room, her eyes scan
ning the walls.

Suddenly she knew what it was. Over the mantelpiece
a large square of wallpaper was less faded than the rest, as though a mirror or picture had once hung there, and moving closer she saw that it must have been taken down after a number of years, for the outline was quite distinct, the paper within it several shades lighter than
the rest. She examined the faded patch with interest, but
could find no clue as to what had hung there, and her curiosity remained with her long after she left the room.

Sometimes in the afternoon when the weather was fine she would go for long walks in the countryside, taking Dominic's two red setters, Nelson and Napoleon,
to explore the woods and hills, returning with a glow of
health in her cheeks which had not been there since her childhood. After tea there was the pleasant labour of reading to Miss Berresford and at seven o'clock there was dinner, followed by another hour of reading o watching television, until it was time for the old lady to go to bed.

When Miss Berrcsford retired, Barbara would go
downstairs again and in the sombre book-lined study play a few of the gramophone records she found there; the heavy magnificence of Wagner, with its lush sweep of strings, or the crashing drums and rugged splendour
of Sibelius seeming to recreate the scenery in which the
brooding house was set.

She thought Rockwood's choice of music was signi
ficant of the man, for it mirrored the very qualities she had come to associate with him—bitter strength, taut vitality and a curious streak of quietude running beneath the fury. Often she would shut the gramophone almost
with a sense of relief, as if she were closing the door on
something upon which she had no right to intrude, and mounting the stairs to her room, the ghostly moonlight
falling upon the grey stone steps, would wonder what in
fluence had made him into the tortuous individual he was, glad to reach her own room with its warm, rose-tinted lamps, and shut out the aura of tragedy pervading Crags' Height,