In Sunshine Or In Shadow Page 26

  ‘I want to hear what this old woman told you,’ Ellie whispered, when Hugo had stopped kissing her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hugo said. ‘All you need to know is that I never knew, I never thought for one moment – never. That making love could be like that.’

  ‘I did,’ said Ellie.

  ‘How?’ Hugo asked in astonishment. ‘You couldn’t possibly!’

  ‘But I did, Hugo,’ Ellie replied. ‘I knew it the moment I saw you.’

  It was late morning, and the sun above them filtered through the trees as they walked in the forest. There were still bluebells out, great drenches of sudden blue in the glades among the greening beeches, filling the air with the scent of late May.

  ‘You know I love you, don’t you, Ellie.’ Hugo stated rather than asked.

  ‘Yes, Hugo,’ Ellie replied. ‘As you know that I love you.’

  They walked on hand in hand, along paths of hard red earth, past banks of wild indigo rhododendrons, until they came to a track where the trees met overhead, to form a long tunnel of dark green, a shade only occasionally relieved by the flicker of sunlight.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Ellie asked, holding his hand a little tighter as though this part of the woods might be dangerous.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Hugo replied. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  Ahead of them a deer suddenly crashed out of the woods, scattering birds and rabbits in its bolt. When it saw Ellie and Hugo, it became momentarily transfixed, staring at them with black-brown eyes. Then it leaped into the other side of the woods, and Ellie watched enthralled as it made its escape, jumping up the slope in a series of extraordinary bouncing bounds.

  ‘I always imagined deer just ran. I never knew they bounced.’

  ‘They’re like humans,’ Hugo told her solemnly. ‘They only bounce when they’re in love.’

  By now they had reached the end of the tunnel of trees, and Hugo led Ellie into a sun-filled clearing, along the edge of which Ellie could see the tops of some trees.

  ‘We must be very high up here,’ she said, not venturing any further.

  ‘You’re perfectly safe,’ Hugo told her, keeping firm hold of her hand. ‘And yes, we are high up. And you’ll be amazed. This is one of the most wonderful views in England.’

  Hugo led her on, up a little path and round a corner, till they both stood on a plateau. Ellie caught her breath when she saw what lay below her, and as she did so, Hugo turned and just smiled.

  It was a vision from a dream, a picture from an age long gone, an image of perfection. Far below them was an ornamental lake, bordered along one side by specimen trees, and surrounded by azaleas in flower, whose vivid colours were mirrored in the calm waters they adorned. A stone bridge spanned the lake, leading from a carriage drive which long before it reached the gates disappeared out of sight behind a line of tall trees. On the other side of the bridge the drive ran up to a pair of enormous iron gates hung on decorated iron pillars, before ending in a carriage sweep in front of the most beautiful house Ellie had ever seen.

  Built of a stone which glowed warmly in the sunshine and lying in the folds of the rolling park as if resting in the palm of some vast green hand, the house was fronted by a magnificent double exterior staircase, either side of which ran two gently curving colonnades which connected the main house with its two wings.

  It seemed that it even had its own church, for Ellie could see, half hidden behind the left wing and seemingly part of the house, a spire rising above the roof.

  ‘What a wonderful place,’ Ellie said, after staring at it in amazement. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Brougham,’ Hugo told her. ‘Pronounced Broom.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Ellie. ‘And who lives here?’

  ‘We do,’ Hugo replied.

  On 4 June, Artemis received a letter at Caragh Lodge from her godmother. It read:

  Darling Artemis,

  Have you heard? I’m sure you must by now but anyway, in case you ain’t, the old family home was sold again. Did you know? Some chap called Tanner bought it, he of the big brewing family. But then he fell off the perch rather suddenly and his son’s living there now with his new American bride. Odd to think, don’t you find?

  The only juicy bit is the bit about the chap who bought it off you. Wilfred Brooke he was called, and word has it that there was some kind of dirty dealing going on, because Brooke apparently was one of those beastly estate agents who does all his business with – guess who? The famous old family firm of Grafton, Grafton and Grafton. It doesn’t take a lot of reading between the lines to see how you could have been ‘talked out of the place’, for it to be bought cheap and then sold on well. Anyway, that’s what everyone’s saying at dinner-time. I can’t honestly believe those lawyers of your father’s were acting in what’s known as ‘your best interests’. But then which lawyers ever do!

  And when are you coming back to civilization? Not turning feral are you, taking to the bogs for good? That would be simply too much!

  And besides, I miss my goddaughter.

  Love

  Diana.

  Artemis sat in her drawing room overlooking Lough Caragh, and read and re-read the letter. Then she called Brutus, and piling him into the back of her little car, drove off up the mountains, not returning until nearly midnight. At a few minutes after twelve she sat down and replied to her godmother’s letter. On the back of a postcard she finally wrote:

  Thanks for yours, and please excuse postcard, but have only just returned from abroad. Yes I’d heard about Brougham. Guess what? I know the new owners! Ah well. It’s only a house.

  Love Artemis.

  In the morning, as Artemis slept on, the housekeeper began to tidy the downstairs drawing room. She found endless piles of screwed up writing paper scattered on the floor around Artemis’s desk. Naturally she unhesitatingly flattened most of them, and then stood with interest trying to decipher the writing on them. Some began ‘Darling Diana’, others ‘Dear Hugo’, and yet others were addressed to someone by the name of Eleanor. There was little of interest written after that. Only each bore a date, and some got as far as ‘How are you?’. Or ‘Guess what?’ Or again ‘I thought I must –’

  And that was all. Nothing of interest, nothing scandalous or even vaguely passionate. The old woman gave a small sigh of disappointment, and then carefully laid the pieces of writing paper under the logs in the kitchen stove, before setting a match to them.

  12

  The invitation came as a complete surprise. Through her success at racing Artemis had quite naturally made many new acquaintances, but she’d also made quite sure that was how they stayed, as casual relationships rather than possible friendships, preferring instead to return home to Caragh Lodge alone, where her housekeeper, Mary, arrived every day from out of the hills behind in a donkey cart driven by Tim, her only unmarried son, who would then tend to Artemis’s garden, or row her out on the lake for a morning’s fishing.

  Artemis never entertained, nor was she ever entertained. At first everyone tried to get her to their tables, or failing that at least into their drawing rooms for drinks. Artemis politely but firmly refused all such solicitations, and gradually, when it became obvious that no-one could tempt her out, everyone stopped asking her. Thus she was able to confine all socializing to the outdoors, which worked most satisfactorily, since it seemed that everyone in the south-west of Ireland either owned horses, rode horses, trained horses, sold horses, or bred horses, or if they did none of these things, then either they were just about to or had just done so. In this way Artemis’s was the name on everyone’s lips, but an absentee at all their parties, an arrangement which happily appeared to suit everyone.

  Except the sender of the newly arrived invitation. He was not a man to be bested, as Artemis was about to discover. He was not a man who took no for an answer. And he had a determination equalling that of his quarry’s.

  It was a printed invitation to dinner, with Artemis’s name handwritten in copper
plate in one corner, delivered in a sealed envelope which bore no postage stamp.

  ‘Did you see who brought this?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I did not,’ Mary replied, bent over her pastry making. ‘The dog barked, but when I opened the door, they was gone.’

  Artemis looked at the invitation again, pondering on its formality. Most people who had tried coaxing her out had done so by telephone, or by direct contact. The only printed invitations she had ever received in Ireland were for dances and hunt balls.

  ‘Do you know anyone called Masters?’ she asked her housekeeper. ‘The Honourable Mr Sheridan Masters?’

  For a moment Mary stopped rolling out her pastry, leaning her hands on both ends of the pin. ‘That I do, ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘Who is he?’ Artemis enquired.

  ‘Mr Masters is yer landlord, ma’am.’

  Artemis had never given any thought to who might actually own Caragh Lodge. Having signed an agreement with the lawyers in Cork, she had simply paid her rent each month and considered the house as her’s. Nothing in life had ever prepared her to think of herself as a tenant, so it came as a shock to realize that someone out there, some total stranger, had rights over her. She threw the invitation on the fire, without even bothering to answer it.

  A week later, he called. Brutus heard him first, cocking his boss-eyed head and curling up one corner of his brown lipped mouth in a low growl. It was late, past nine o’clock at night, and no-one ever called at that hour.

  Artemis put down her book and listened. Brutus was still only growling, so she thought perhaps it was only an animal the dog had heard moving about outside, because if it had been a human he would have thrown back his big shaggy brown head and started to bark it off. But he hadn’t. He was just sitting there, with Artemis’s hand on his neck, where she could feel the risen hackles.

  Even when the sudden knock came on the door, which made Artemis stiffen, Brutus still didn’t bark. The dog just backed off from the drawing room door and hid under the table, where he lay still growling.

  Artemis lifted an oil lamp, grabbed her stick and went to the front door. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

  ‘Hullo!’ came the reply. ‘It’s your landlord!’

  The voice sounded cheery enough, so Artemis turned the big key in the lock and opened the door, holding the lamp up in front of her. A very tall man stood on the threshold, staring at her with piercing light-blue eyes, while the wind which had got up that night ruffled a head of blonde hair. He was wearing a full length dark-green cloak, with a high collar, fastened at the neck with a gold chain, and if he had not been smiling such an engaging smile, Artemis knew she would have been frightened.

  ‘I do have a telephone.’

  ‘I know you do,’ her landlord replied. ‘But old Maggie Tomelty’s husband is fighting drunk again, so she’s had to abandon the switchboard and go fetch him on home.’ He lifted the phone off the wall by the door and handed Artemis the earpiece. ‘You can try for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  Artemis replaced the receiver without bothering to double check. There was something so good humoured in her visitor’s manner that it would have been impossible not to believe him.

  ‘I’d never have called without telephoning,’ he smiled, ‘but I was driving this way and I was curious to know whether or not you received my invitation.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Artemis replied. ‘I did.’

  ‘You haven’t replied.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t really know as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Perhaps you forgot.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps that’s it.’

  Not once had his eyes left her face as they exchanged words. A silence fell.

  ‘My name is Sheridan Masters,’ he said eventually to break it. ‘May I come in?’

  Artemis didn’t want to let him in. She didn’t know why, but everything in her wished to forbid it. She seemed to sense in some strange way that once he was over her threshold she would never be rid of him. Nevertheless she found herself standing aside and admitting him, and following on without a word as he led the way into the drawing room.

  ‘How charming,’ he said, swinging off his cloak to reveal a perfectly cut velvet smoking jacket. ‘You’ve made this old place so – snug.’ He turned and looked at her and Artemis was fascinated to find she was quite taken with his looks. He was strong, very much the Viking, with a cleft in his chin, and blonde hair swept back from a fine high forehead. But still she said nothing, just watching him, leaning on her stick.

  Brutus spoke for her, suddenly erupting under the table into another rumble of growls.

  ‘Ah,’ Masters said, ‘the dog that barked.’

  ‘He’s not barking now.’

  ‘No,’ Masters smiled at her. ‘He’s not, is he?’

  ‘He barks at everyone else.’

  Her visitor nodded, but said nothing in reply. Instead, he looked round the room, appraising the way Artemis had furnished it.

  ‘This was a terrible damp old place.’

  ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘You’ve done great things. Great things. Who did this painting?’

  ‘A friend of mine,’ Artemis replied, wishing for some unknown reason that it wasn’t one of Hugo’s delicate watercolours which had taken his attention.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s very good. I might like to buy one.’

  ‘He doesn’t sell,’ Artemis informed him. ‘He only gives.’

  Masters nodded without looking round at Artemis and examined the rest of the paintings and drawings Artemis had collected since she’d been in Ireland.

  ‘So, you’ll come to dinner then?’ he asked eventually, after he had made his way slowly round the room. ‘It’s Saturday. This Saturday.’ He put his hand out towards the dog to pat him.

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘You shouldn’t what? Come to dinner?’ Masters smiled at her.

  ‘No. I shouldn’t touch the dog,’ Artemis replied carefully.

  Masters just smiled, no longer looking at the dog, but watching Artemis. After a moment, Brutus crawled out on his stomach from under the table and licked the stranger’s hand. Masters ruffled the top of the dog’s head, and Brutus rolled over on his back, offering him his throat.

  Artemis pushed at Brutus in an effort to make him get up. ‘I’m going to the races on Saturday.’ She ran a nervous hand through her now longer hair.

  ‘That’s all right, we won’t be eating until late,’ Masters replied. ‘I’ll send a car.’

  ‘I haven’t said yes,’ Artemis reminded him.

  ‘And you haven’t said no,’ Masters smiled. ‘So unless you do, I’ll send a car at eight.’

  The headlights of the car and the glow of the dusk revealed Shanangarry House to be a long low dwelling, built on two floors, and painted a dead red. The drive ran up straight in front of it, past lawns either side on which peacocks roamed, to end in a rectangle where a number of cars were already parked. Artemis, sitting as far back as she could in her seat as if afraid to be seen, now regretted her acceptance of the invitation even more. She had a sudden urge to tell the driver to turn and take her back home, but it was too late. A servant was already on his way out to escort her in from the car.

  There were lights in all the windows Artemis noticed as she walked to the front door, and the noise of laughter and chat. A maid took her coat, and a butler, who must have stood nearly seven feet, led her into the party.

  ‘Lady Artemis Deverill!’ he announced, in a very high voice, to which no-one paid the slightest heed, except a small and pretty middle-aged woman dressed in bright red velvet, and wearing a magnificent set of Edwardian garnets, who at once flew over to Artemis’s side.

  ‘I’m delighted,’ she said. ‘Absolutely delighted. And you’re every bit as pretty as they said you were. I’m Sheridan’s mama, and please call me Leila. Everyone else d
oes. So you will as well, won’t you? I know you will.’

  Artemis liked her hostess at once. She was a woman in her fifties, with silver hair, small delicately chiselled features, and pale slender hands which she kept anxiously putting up to her face without, so it appeared to Artemis, any due reason.

  ‘Now then?’ Leila Masters wondered aloud, taking Artemis’s arm and leading her across to a group by the fire, ‘I wonder who you’d like to meet? It won’t really make much difference,’ she laughed. ‘They’re all talking horse.’

  As she made her way across to the appointed group, Artemis looked round the beautiful room, which was decorated and furnished predominantly in muted reds and pastel pinks.

  ‘Do you live here?’ she asked her hostess.

  Leila Masters stopped and looked round at her. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I love this red,’ Artemis replied. ‘We had a room this colour at home.’

  ‘Sherry is mad for it. He’s mad on anything red, pink, scarlet, what have you.’

  They were with the group by the fire now, but Artemis was back in Brougham, in the state bedroom, as it once was. Brougham which was no longer her home, but which now belonged to Hugo. And to Ellie.

  She was so busy wondering about them, imagining them in the rooms at Brougham that she didn’t catch anyone’s names, but then Artemis doubted if anyone caught hers, such was the level of the ever increasing din. Nevertheless, she was soon involved in the conversation, caught up in an argument as to which was the best pack of fox-hounds in the south-west corner. Her fellow guests were what Artemis had come to recognize as typically Anglo-Irish, handsome in an almost mournful kind of way, with a debonair manner born from bravado, a devil-may-care attitude adopted from being residents in an alien land. It went without saying they were all hunting mad.

  ‘I just can’t wait, can you?’ a slim and tough looking woman in the group asked Artemis, ‘until the dahlias are dead, yes?’