Dear Intruder Page 10

  Bridget, with bent head, was brushing the brown curls up from the nape of her neck. She said quietly, ‘Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? Dion must have asked them.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Only I’d thought it was to be you and Dion and me and—well, Gordon perhaps, if Dion didn’t mind.’

  ‘And now we’re one female too many?’

  ‘No, we’re not. Because while, I suppose, we were all making calculations about it, Dion looked across at me in his odd, direct way and said, “We’re going to need another man for a six-sided party. So Bridget can invite her friend Trent.”’ Jenny paused, then repeated, ‘Your friend, Bridgie. Did you hear?’

  ‘Yes, I heard. What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. I wanted to say, “He’s my friend, not Bridgie’s.” But it had got him into the party without Dion’s being wooden about it, and I did want to ask him ... We shall have to start about five as we’re driving up, so I suggested they should foregather here for a drink first. Gracious—we’re going to be able to leave Mrs. Kate with the children by then, aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh yes, I hope so.’

  Jenny yawned luxuriously. ‘I should sleep if I were pegged to a clothes-line,’ she exclaimed, kissing Bridget good-night. But at the door she paused to listen to the incessant drumming of the rain. She said, ‘I think the children enjoyed themselves, but on the whole what with the rain and Kate’s accident, this hasn’t been one of our nicer days since we came to Eire, has it?’

  Bridget reached a finger to her bedside light. ‘Not one of our nicer ones,’ she echoed to the darkness. ‘No...’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kate seemed none the worse the next day and as her hand was healing well by Wednesday, Bridget had no scruples about the Dublin expedition. But she took the precaution of sounding Miss O’Hanlon, newly returned from Londonderry, on the subject of sitting with Kate for the evening.

  Miss O’Hanlon accepted with alacrity. Kate was less pleased.

  ‘You will watch Mr. Dion, won’t you?’ asked Bridget.

  ‘We will indeed,’ said Kate, adding darkly, ‘If so be, our set is good enough for the O’Hanlon woman. They’ve got colour!’

  The party from Cion Eigel came in two cars—Patrick Byrd’s small one and Mr. Steven’s, lent again to Gordon Trent. Tara—more gipsy-like than ever in a sheath of a scarlet dress offset by hooped earrings swinging nearly to her shoulders—had driven her father’s car so far. But that she would be relinquishing it to Trent in order that she should be driven the rest of the way by Dion seemed a foregone conclusion. And when, over their drink before setting off, Patrick buttonholed Bridget with an enthusiastic whisper. ‘Jolly good of you and Dion to invite me. I’ll take good care of Jenny ...’ Bridget saw that her own fate—of being regarded as Trent’s companion for the evening—was also sealed.

  She had expected Jenny to mind the arrangement even more than she did herself. But to her surprise, when Dion and Tara had left, Jenny joined Patrick with only one glance in Trent’s direction.

  Trent laughed as Bridget took the seat beside him. ‘I declare,’ he said lightly, ‘Jenny putting on an act of high dudgeon, contrives to be prettier than ever! Did you hear about our little brush?’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything to me.’ But Bridget remembered that, on last night’s return from her Rowan Castle music lesson, Jenny had not asked him in for a drink as she usually did.

  ‘Oh. Well, it all came about because I happened to admire a neat little number in black jeans and a plunge neckline stepping from a car outside the Rowan Castle Arms. I said “That girl’s got oomph galore!”—upon which Jenny took to being plaintive and hurt. You know the line—“I suppose you think she’s prettier than I am.” And when I said there was no comparison, that was wrong too! But it was only a spurt of temper. She’ll come round,’ he added complacently.

  Poor Jenny! Bridget said defensively, ‘If she made a scene over such a trifle, haven’t you only yourself to blame? She couldn’t possibly have minded if she hadn’t a false idea of your feeling for her, so that she thinks she has rights over you.’

  Trent looked injured. ‘I’ve given her no ideas—except that she is an extremely pretty wench, which she must have known already. Also I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ve always preferred feminine company to my own, though naturally I wasn’t tactless enough to let her see that I’ve found hers pleasant only while I’ve lived in hopes of yours. As for a few stray kisses giving her rights over me—that’s just absurd.’

  ‘Of course it is—if you’ve always been careful to label them “stray,”’ agreed Bridget drily.

  ‘But Jenny isn’t a child! She has been around, and all girls understand such things!’

  ‘I think they do—only for as long as they give their own kisses lightly. But once they fall in love, as Jenny, for some reason, has fallen in love with you—’

  ‘You needn’t say “For some reason” with such scorn! But go on—how does it alter the case?’

  ‘But it must! She reads into a man’s kisses all that she puts into her own.’

  For the first time in their acquaintance Trent’s quick glance at Bridget held an interest that was neither an appraisal of her looks nor of his chances with her. He said, ‘You sound as if you speak from experience, though only from the girl’s side. A man is expected to experiment around!’ Suddenly he shot her another glance, this time almost an alarmed one. ‘About Jenny—she hasn’t really gone as serious as you are hinting? I mean, she hasn’t a notion that I’m thinking of marriage, has she?’

  At the anxious question Bridget saw his alarm, which she would have found comical if she were not so concerned for Jenny, as a weapon put into her hands. If only she could use it skilfully! It meant a somewhat elastic enlargement upon Jenny’s confidence, but a good fright for Trent might best save Jenny from his further philandering. Carefully serious, she said, ‘As a matter of fact, she does believe you want to marry her.’

  ‘This is fantastic!’ Trent thumped both fists on the steering wheel. ‘Look, I swear to you there’s been nothing—’ His voice became ugly with suspicion. ‘What is this, anyway? I haven’t promised her anything. I haven’t given her a ring. You can’t make a case out of her word against mine.’

  ‘All right. There’s no case, and I must have misunderstood Jenny. But if you aren’t happy about the situation, the remedy lies in your hands.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve a good mind to take it!’

  ‘By leaving Jenny alone? That is, if it’s not too late?’

  ‘Will you realise that it’s not too late? But it’s not going to be easy, either. These journeys to Rowan Castle, for instance. The kid is going to be awfully hurt...’

  The false pity of that sickened Bridget. But because she had won she contented herself with reminding him that, with term-end near, Jenny would go to Rowan Castle only once or twice more.

  ‘Yes, but she’s going to hate it if I back out without reason or go suddenly cold on her.’

  Haven’t you ever had to manage such a situation before?’ asked Bridget sweetly.

  ‘Oh, cut it out. You’ll have to help. To-night, for instance. Jenny will be expecting to make up the quarrel, but if I lay on my attentions to you and you’ll co-operate, that should give her a hint—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s the easiest way!’

  ‘I’ve told you, I won’t have Jenny made jealous on my account! Besides, after Dion’s programme, we shall only be dining.’

  ‘And do you think I can’t convey across a restaurant dinner-table that I find you the only attractive woman there?’

  ‘I think you could convey anything, so long as it called for no sincerity! But on this occasion, please don’t single me out.’

  He sighed. ‘You do dislike me, don’t you?’ Oddly, the note of prickled vanity in his voice caused Bridget momentarily to dislike him less than she had ever done. She said quietly, ‘If I do, let’s leave it that it’s something which won’t cause conce
rn to either of us in the future, shall we?’ And when he did not reply she went on more conventionally, ‘I suppose you’ll be going back to England for the school holidays?’

  ‘You bet. London for me—just as soon as I can make it. Any hope of a date? Dinner?—dance?—show?’

  So the man’s incredible vanity was airborne again! Bridget had to conceal a smile as she said, ‘I’m afraid not. We shall be staying here. There are the children, you see.’

  At the Shelbourne Hotel, where they were going to dine, Dion had left Tara in a small lounge where they would watch him on TV. Patrick and Jenny were not yet there but arrived soon after Bridget and Trent.

  ‘Gracious—doesn’t he sound different?’ Jenny exclaimed as Dion was introduced and began to speak. Bridget agreed that Jenny was right. For one thing, the faint brogue in his voice came through much more strongly. For another, he sounded more mature and authoritative than in person. And though his sincerity and enthusiasm for his subject emerged most successfully, for her he was remote from the Dion she knew.

  When his talk was finished they exchanged their comments while they waited for him to join them. Then they went in to dinner, and Dion began to try to sift some constructive criticisms from the general chorus of congratulation.

  Only Patrick Byrd claimed that he would have known Dion’s voice anywhere; Tara told him that he had put over a ‘devastating attraction’ which would be reflected in his fan-mail; Bridget and Jenny agreed that he sounded so different as to be almost unrecognisable.

  ‘But what about the show itself? How was it?’ Dion asked.

  Jenny stared in wide-eyed embarrassment. ‘Oh, Dion, I was so busy listening to you that what you were saying didn’t convey much!’

  ‘Tara?’

  Tara groped vaguely, ‘Oh dear—quite a lot about the fantastic distances that birds do when they’re migrating, but I’m afraid I was concentrating on your voice too.’

  ‘Nice bunch of critics you are!’ Dion’s eyes went enquiringly to the other three. Trent said, ‘Interesting, I suppose, but bug-hunting and bird-watching aren’t much in my line.’ And Patrick’s sheepish, ‘Reminds me of a book written by a chap I’d known well. The first time I read it I was so occupied with saying, “Bless my soul—never knew he had it in him” that I had to read it again from cover to cover to get the sense of it!’ evoked so much laughter that Bridget’s opinion escaped being asked.

  They dined at leisure and took their coffee in the main lounge, after which, with the long return journey before them, they made a move for home.

  Jenny had not appeared to be wanting in gaiety during the evening, but she had maintained her aloofness from Gordon Trent, speaking to him only in general conversation and otherwise avoiding him. In the cloakroom Bridget wondered whether Jenny would make a move to suggest they should exchange partners for the drive back. But she went to join Patrick without a word, and as his small car shot away Trent commented to Bridget, ‘Looks as if it’s Jenny who’s standing me up! I never thought she’d last out so long. But it makes things easier all round...’ In his tone wounded self-esteem mingled with a relief which Bridget could not share. For she suspected that Jenny’s show of indifference was no more than a mere facade of courage; her infatuation for the man could hardly have blown out overnight.

  It was nearly midnight when they reached Tullabor, the three cars drawing up within minutes of each other. The house was dark and silent; evidently Miss O’Hanlon had been ‘hunted home to her bed’ when Kate had felt need of her own!

  On the doorstep Bridget whispered to Tara, ‘You’ll come in for some coffee, won’t you? If we’re awfully quiet we shan’t wake the children, and I’ve got some beer in the fridge for the men.’

  The children’s playroom was farthest from their bedroom so the party adjourned there and promised to be very quiet while Bridget and Jenny made coffee and brought in the bottles of beer.

  But when they were alone together in the kitchen Jenny’s pride gave in. In a voice which shook a little she asked, ‘Bridgie, did—did Gordon tell you that we quarrelled last night?’

  ‘Yes. He said you hadn’t liked it when he admired another girl’s looks...’

  ‘Admired! I wouldn’t have minded if he’d said she was awfully pretty and left it at that. But I suppose I showed I minded a bit, and then he seemed to take a delight in comparing the two of us, implying that I couldn’t hold a candle to her.’

  ‘I gather you invited comparisons,’ Bridget suggested.

  ‘Well, I had to know. I just said, “Is she prettier than I am?” But I never expected him to enjoy telling me Yes.’

  ‘Dear, where is your sense of proportion?’ Bridget protested gently. ‘It’s quite possible that she was a lot prettier, and men aren’t blind!’

  ‘He needn’t have bent over backwards to tell me so!’

  ‘I agree. You were too sensitive, I think, but a man who really cared for you wouldn’t make comparisons to hurt you, even in fun.’ Bridget’s thoughts went fleetingly to Dion’s dismissal of any likeness between herself and Tara. But that had been unwittingly done, and she had no right to be hurt, no right at all...

  Jenny said slowly. ‘I don’t know why you’re so sure that Gordon doesn’t care for me. Actually he was quite sweet afterwards and wanted to make it up. But I wouldn’t. I knew Patrick wanted to drive me up to Dublin to-night and I told myself I’d teach Gordon a lesson.’

  ‘Not quite fair on Patrick, was it, using him to score off Gordon?’

  ‘Somehow Patrick is such an understanding person that I believe he’d forgive me, even if he knew. Only—’ Jenny’s lip quivered, ‘I never thought Gordon wouldn’t notice or not seem to mind at all. I don’t know what to do now. Have I got to wait for him to make the first move?’

  ‘I should, if I were you.’ Trent was frightened enough to snatch at making the tiff his first move towards his escape from the entanglement and Jenny would wait in vain. But Bridget was sure that it was better so. ‘Suppose he doesn’t make it?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, I think you must accept that he hasn’t been serious. If he were, he would never let a trivial quarrel come between you for good.’ Not wanting to face the bewildered pain in Jenny’s eyes, Bridget was glad that the kettle was boiling and that she could busy herself with making the coffee, bringing it to the tray. Jenny stood very still, watching her as she checked cups, saucers, spoons and bent to take up the loaded tray. Then Jenny said in a different, harder voice: ‘You don’t want him to be serious about me, do you?’ Bridget looked up and their eyes met briefly before Jenny’s dropped. Then she straightened with the tray and, turning towards the door, said, ‘No—I don’t.’ She believed then that in the three blunt words she had expressed all that she need of her dislike of Trent. She did not realise that later she was to regret for her own sake having answered Jenny’s question without having answered the seed of doubt already sown in Jenny’s heart.

  When they returned to the playroom they found the others discussing the poetry-reading which had preceded Dion’s programme but which, waiting for his own signal in another studio, he had not heard.

  He was asking Tara, ‘Whom did they read? Yeats for one, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, Yeat’s The Lake Isle of Innisfree, a poem by Padraic Colum and some Synge...’

  ‘And the earlier stuff?’

  ‘Among others, Thomas Moore—She is Far From the Land...’

  ‘What about The Light of Other Days? It’s singsong and hackneyed, but I’ve always liked it.’

  ‘I know—“Oft in the stilly night—” That one?’

  Dion nodded. ‘Yes Go on—’

  Tara’s brow puckered. Then slowly, her soft attractive voice seeming to caress the simple words, she began:

  ‘Oft in the stilly night,

  Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,

  Fond memory brings the light

  Of other days around me;

  The smiles, the tears

  Of boyhood’s years,<
br />
  The words of love then spoken;

  The—the—’

  She broke off, shaking her head. ‘I can’t remember the next bit. Do you know?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got the whole thing somewhere. In a book of all the old ballads which travelled across the world and back with Bridget’s Uncle William and which he gave me as a great treasure years ago. If I fetch it will you read the Moore thing to us?’

  ‘If you want me to.’

  Dion left the room, the others went on talking and no one noticed that Bridget’s coffee had been set down untasted.

  The ballad-book in Dion’s study! Would he remember that he had left that fragment of a letter to Tara between its pages? If not, would he look through the book before he brought it from his room? Or was it her own apprehension that was making an embarrassment of the chance that he might come upon that paper scrap in front of them all?

  He came back with the book and stood in the middle of the room, flicking through the leaves. ‘Let’s see—The Minstrel Boy ... Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms ... Kathleen Mavoureen ... Ah, here we are...’ With a thumb at the place he made to hand the book to Tara but, turning, collided with Gordon Trent who had crossed to give Patrick a light for his cigarette.

  Both men recoiled with a mutter of ‘Sorry.’ But the book had been jerked from Dion’s hand and Bridget saw that the paper she recognised only too well had drifted to Trent’s feet.

  He bent to retrieve it. She supposed good manners would dictate that he would return it to Dion without glancing at it. But seemingly they did not. He smoothed the sheet, glancing at it curiously with raised brows before he looked across at Tara, his mouth widening in the knowing, man-of-the-world smile which Bridget hated.

  ‘Here’s richness—and all for you!’ he exalted. ‘This is really good. Want to hear? Listen—Dearest Tara, Last night was—’ Bridget glanced quickly at Dion’s face, saw the dark storm of anger mounting there and thought, Thank God, that’s all there is of it! But with almost no perceptible pause Trent was continuing ‘—the best yet. What a girl! Can you make love? Or can you? No wonder you said “Why don’t we do this more often?”—’ He paused, then sniggered. ‘No, perhaps the next part is a bit too much.’