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To cover herself she commented on a small wall cabinet which was on the wall above her. It was finely carved and she guessed it was another example of the old Scotsman’s work. Ian explained the different pattern to her and she listened to him, absorbing the detail.

Seeing her interest, he went off to fetch a box he kept in his study. He came back with it in his arms, and even from across the room Frances could see its detail.

‘It looks fantastic! It’s like a Maori design, almost,’ said Frances.

‘That’s observant of you! As a matter of fact my granddad told me that the old Scot admired the symmetry and abstract nature of the Maori carvers. This box was his last work and he called it his life box. He kept all his important papers in it. Before he took ship he gave it to my great-grandfather. It’s one of my special treasures.’

Ian picked up her hand and pressed the imprint of the design on her finger. She looked at it carefully, not thinking of anything except the awareness of' physical contact with Ian. He was waiting for her comment, though, so she asked him to explain the design. ‘Well, it’s based on a vee pattern really, the first line refers to the line of hills the old man came from in Scotland, the second line is a smoother and almost curled vee shape and that represents the waves of the sea. The gap after that is much wider and represents the emptiness and desolation he suffered after losing his wife and child, then the next line, almost flat, is the line of the Rakaia, the line behind that in very steep angles represents the mountains.’

Frances nodded, her eyes going immediately to the centre of the pattern. The flat line seemed to sum up the agony of the old Scot. Her finger strayed to the line of the mountains. Was that a stronger line of triumph after the quietness of the line of the river, or was it just imagination? Ian’s eyes were on her and it almost seemed as though he knew what she was thinking, there was such a communion between them.

‘You’re a perceptive lady,’ he muttered, taking the box and striding with it back towards his study. He was back in a minute, suggesting he take her for a walk. Surprised, Frances found that she could manage by holding onto Ian’s arm. They only walked about the room for a few paces, then Ian lifted her up and deposited her back in the chair. ‘You ate too much dinner,’ he laughed. ‘You’re heavier.’

It covered her embarrassment and she made a retort about his lack of strength which was equally absurd. They had fun testing each other’s humour in this way and when Gam called out that afternoon tea was ready Frances held out her hand naturally for his help. Quite unnecessarily he scooped her up, doing it neatly so she was forced to cling on to him. They had afternoon tea surrounded by a bubbling cauldron which smelt delicious. Already there was a stack of plum jam glowing on the bench and it would not be too long before another lot was ready. Gam sent them out of the kitchen speedily and once again Ian carried Frances back to the sunroom.

The rain had stopped and although there were a lot of grey clouds around the sunshine was flickering through. Ian put on a record and they listened to it together, both content to be quiet. When it came, to the finish Ian saw that Frances looked pale again, so he bowed elaborately and did an impromptu charade of a coachman and horse which left her laughing. She snuggled against him as he climbed the stairs, his voice saying softly, ‘The daring cavalier whisks the lady of his choice to the boudoir.’ She joined in with mock sighs and lamentations, then nuzzled her mouth against his throat with an abandoned sigh.

‘Forward young hussy,’ he whispered in her ear, his voice sending deep ripples of feeling down her body.

Suddenly it was not funny any more and they looked at each other as if they could see the true feeling reflected there. Ian put her on the bed quietly and gently, then stooped to pull out her suitcase. He selected a white nightgown and threw it on to the bed, his foot pushing the suitcase back under the bed.

‘Here, you can change O.K.? I’ll come back in ten minutes and give your leg the treatment.’

Frances nodded quietly, relieved to be back on an even keel with Ian. When the door had closed behind him she glanced ruefully at what he had put on the bed. It was a white silk nightgown cut Grecian style with a tie on one shoulder, leaving the other bare. An embroidery of gold thread cunningly wove itself into a key pattern and followed the shoulder line from the tie around the neckline and under the breasts. The silk fell dramatically from there until it reached her feet where the gold embroidery resumed its chase. It was a beautiful garment, but definitely not one she wanted to wear in front of Ian.

She wondered if she could pull another out and tried to reach the bag. However, it was quite impossible, so she looked around for a substitute and was relieved to see her dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. At least she could put that on and be respectable. She changed quickly, lightly creaming her face and rubbing in some perfume behind her ears. She brushed her hair into a mass of curls and slipped the silk over her body. A glance in the mirror reconfirmed her fears. She did look pretty, and the gown was ridiculously revealing, hinting as it did at the curves of her body. She flung the brush down and began to inch her way towards the door and the dressing gown. It was such a vast room, she thought crossly as she moved from bed to table to wall. If she stuck to the wall she would have support, but it would be twice as long. She decided to risk cutting across. Halfway there the door opened and Ian walked in. His hands were full of disinfectant, towel, and gauze strips, but he stood and eyed her appreciatively. She froze, not wanting to move, aware that she looked like a statue but unwilling to reveal herself more by movement. Ian laughed. ‘You look beautiful, Frances, very desirable.’

He passed her and she heard him put the bandages down on the table. However, he made no attempt to help her, so she steeled herself to walk the remaining few steps and thankfully grabbed her dressing gown. She felt it slip, then it caught in the sleeve and she could have wept with rage at her predicament, knowing the wretched creature behind her was thoroughly enjoying himself.

She leant against the door and turned to face him. ‘My gown, please, Ian.’

‘I think not, my Greek princess,’ he spoke quietly and his eyes caressed her. ‘It would go against all my artistic principles to cover that sight.’

Anger flashed from Frances and she tugged again at the gown. If she could put weight on one foot and jump at it she knew it would probably slip off. Tantalisingly it swung above her; obviously the hook had been made for a tall man originally. She pulled at it and behind her heard Ian’s dry laugh. It taunted her to action and she jumped on her good foot, reaching the gown, only to collapse as her weak ankle took the unaccustomed weight and she staggered, crying with pain.

Ian picked her up. ‘I’m sorry, Frances—I’m a brute.’ He kissed her gently. ‘You just looked so much a woman I couldn’t resist. I forgot myself.’ He put her down on the bed. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

It seemed only a minute or two before he was back and holding her gently, encouraging her to sip the fiery liquid. He soothed her, holding her slim form against himself. When she was recovered he turned his attentions to her leg, carefully examining her ankle first. He seemed relieved that it was not damaged by her fall, but he strapped it again quite firmly. Her bad leg was painful. He bathed it in disinfectant that stung so dreadfully big tears formed in her eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks. The soothing ointment he put on helped considerably as he applied it carefully. He had looked up and seen the tears, but had not commented until he was ready to wrap it up again. ‘Worst is over, water baby.’ He pinned it into place, then lifted the blankets carefully over her, tucking in the side.

Frances was glad to rest. She felt weak and her leg still hurt and her ankle throbbed. Dimly she heard Ian clean up the basin and replace the bandages on the cabinet. She mopped her face, glad to be alone. She heard Ian close the door and shortly afterwards heard the roar of his motorbike. Afterwards she had a light tea, only forcing herself to eat to avoid hurting Gam.

Lying in bed, she could see the reflection of the sunset colour the room. The small figures on the ceiling seemed to be washed in pink and gold. There was a deep quiet over Coppers. Frances moved in the big bed. Suddenly it struck her that now she was quite well enough to return to Jenny and Rupe. At least she wouldn’t have such a humiliating episode happen again as she recalled the look on Ian’s face. She knew she would ask to go home the next day. Strangely the thought did not please her greatly and she sighed restlessly. Why couldn’t she make up her mind? she thought.

When she woke it was dark, but a light was burning in the dressing room. It was just after twelve, so obviously Ian could not sleep. She stirred restlessly, trying to find a comfortable spot for her ankle. Her eyes opened to see Ian standing there.

‘Nightmare?’ he queried, sitting easily and naturally on the bed.

‘No. Just woke up, I guess. My ankle is playing up a bit.’

‘I’ll restrap it for you.’ He lifted the bedclothes and eased the bandage off, doing it carefully. The small light in the dressing room behind him silhouetted his figure so the shadow seemed giant size, overwhelming her.

He sat beside her again as he rolled the crepe bandage slowly while she wriggled her foot. His physical presence was so overpowering that she had difficulty in keeping her breathing steady. Absurdly conscious of her appearance in the wretched nightgown, she could only admire Ian’s self-control as he calmly restrapped her ankle and replaced the blankets.

‘I'll get you a mug of cocoa and get one of the pills the doctor left for you,’ he said evenly. It was not long before he was back handing her the warm drink, Frances was reluctant to take the pills but with Ian’s gaze on her she swallowed it obediently. She finished the cocoa and snuggled down into the big bed.

‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’ she asked, her eyes moving over his face.

‘No!’ He grinned. ‘Make the most of that bed, water baby, I’m afraid my legs don’t react very well to the one in the dressing room.’

‘Never mind. I’ll be gone tomorrow, so if you can put up with that bed tonight you can sleep tomorrow. This is a lovely big bed.’ She smiled sleepily, her eyes struggling to keep open.

His hand gently brushed the curls from her face. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to go, water baby. Gam likes having you here.’

He turned and walked back to his dressing room. Frances suddenly felt near to tears. He had not asked her to stay for his own sake but for Gam’s. She struggled to remember what he had said. It had been a joke, but perhaps it was the truth disguised. He didn’t want her; even though he had been so kind and gentle while she was sick, it would be the same for anyone. A big sob wrenched from her and she muffled the sound in the pillow. ‘Oh, why did I have to fall in love with Ian?’ she thought glumly. Why should he affect her so powerfully, when she meant nothing to him? In fact he despised her as a woman. She sobbed again. If only she hadn’t seen this other side, loving and gentle and fun-filled. It had been so wonderful play-acting with him this afternoon, and when he carried her downstairs her heart had raced. She sobbed again and the tears came in earnest.

‘Frances, what is it? It’s O.K.’ Ian’s voice in her ear, his arms round her, were some fantasy her mind had dredged up. She sobbed against him as though her heart would break, in an agony of loss. Eventually the storm passed and she was still held safely until she slept dreamlessly.

It was late when she woke in the morning and the house was quiet. She touched her head; it felt woolly and her tongue felt dry and horrid. She edged over to the side of the bed and gingerly put her foot to the ground. To her relief she could walk on it, and she hobbled carefully to the' bathroom. She had a shower and dressed, then fixed her leg. The end result was quite neat, but not the professional neatness that Ian had shown. Thinking of him sent stabbing thoughts through her, a recollection of loss, and she sighed deeply. Ian didn’t want her here, so she must leave today.

Getting downstairs was an effort and she sat down on the bottom step to recover herself, before she saw Gam. After a few minutes she braced herself to pretend that she felt wonderful and walked into the kitchen with a gay, ‘Good morning, Gam.’

‘Good morning, Frances. How are you, my dear? Ian told me not to disturb you. He said you had a bad night.’ Gam eyed her anxiously.

‘Oh, nonsense, Gam,’ she said brightly. ‘I did wake up, but Ian was very good. He brought me some cocoa and one of those pills to help me sleep, so I was out like a light very quickly.’

‘Well, sit down, Frances, and I’ll get you some breakfast.’

Gam finished putting away the gleaming golden jars of plum jam and then put the kettle on. Frances made herself some toast. She didn’t want to eat at all, but unless she did Gam would be suspicious. As she ate Frances told Gam that she was well enough to return to Jenny and Rupe.

‘I’ll need help going over there, I’m afraid. It’s a bit far to walk and of course the wee Mini is over there. Would you mind taking me later on?’

‘Certainly! I’m not too sure you’re fit enough, but if you insist, I’ll let you go.’

‘Thanks, Gam! Every day my ankle is improving so much more. My only worry is driving into town before Christmas.’

‘Don’t worry! Someone is bound to be going into town. Perhaps after Christmas your parents could bring you back. That reminds me—what about inviting your parents to Coppers one day in the New Year? You told me your father was a barbecue king. Perhaps we could have a barbecue at the river and Ian could take them jet boating at the same time.’

‘Oh, Gam! What a lovely idea!’ exclaimed Frances, giving Gam a quick hug.

‘Now let me look at my diary and I’ll give a definite date. I do hate vague invitations. What about the Saturday the sixth or Sunday the seventh? Ring your mother and ask her and perhaps in a day or two you could let me know her answer.’

‘Oh, Gam, I know she’d love to come. I’m sure it will be yes.’