14

 

 

THEY HEADED INLAND, away from the estuary and the village, the sun now pushing the shadow of the truck along in front of them.

“Just watch out for Giles, is all,” Colin warned as he turned left down a long farm track. A five-barred gate blocked the way; Colin climbed down from the truck, opened it, drove through, closed it behind them. “He fancies himself a bit of a ladies’ man.” The look he cast sideways at her was unreadable.

They bumped along the track toward a low stone farmhouse in the midst of a cluster of outbuildings; as they neared, two geese lifted their wings and made an angry show of getting out of the way. Colin tapped the horn twice, but did not stop at the house. He skirted the barn, where an elderly man in an overall raised a hand—the ladies’ man’s father?—and followed the track up the hill toward a pile of wooden scrap and litter. He swung the truck around and backed up to the mound.

“For Bonfire Night,” he explained as she came around to join him at the bed of the truck. “Giles always throws a good one.” Colin reached under the pile of canes and pulled out a rake. “Stand clear.” With a couple of sweeps, he pulled the canes from the bed of the truck and into the pile.

Gwynn reached in a gloved hand, pulled out a few stragglers, and tossed them with their brethren. “Party?”

Colin nodded, closing the truck gate. “Ceilidh. After a fashion. Bonfire. A bit of cider.”

The elderly man was stumping up the track toward them, a border collie to heel. Colin raised his hand, and remained standing next to the truck.

The old man wore a cap and had a snowy beard, and, Gwynn noted, fingerless gloves, as though his hands were cold, but he needed his fingers for fine work. He leaned against the side of the truck and appraised her with black eyes like currants. The dog lay down at his feet.

“You’re Gwynneth, then,” he said, nodding. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

Colin shook his head sadly. “I warned her, Giles.”

Not Giles’ father.

The farmer threw up his hands.

“You’re Giles,” Gwynn said. “You’re the ladies’ man.”

He held out his hand, and when she put hers into it, he covered it with his other one. The grin split his wide red face. “He spoils everything, does our Colin. Can I help it if I’m full of charm?”

“Full of something,” Colin retorted, tossing his gloves into the cab of the truck.

Still Giles held onto Gwynn’s hand as though on to some sort of lifeline. “Giles Trevelyan. Of Trevelyan Court Farm since the dawn of time.” He nodded to the dog, who lay still save her brown eyes, which studied each of them in turn. “This is Star. And you’re Gwynn Chelton’s niece, come to live in her house now, I hope.”

Gwynn shrugged, smiled noncommittally. “We’ll see how things sort themselves out. I’ve just been here a few days.”

The snapping dark eyes widened, and then the farmer winked at Colin. “A few days, and already fallen into the clutches of our Colin.” He laughed. “And he calls me a ladies’ man, does he?”

“Just cleaning up the back garden at Gull Cottage,” Colin said. His voice was still pleasant, but he shifted slightly. “Mrs. Chelton—it got away from her. Brambles.”

Finally Giles let go of Gwynn’s hand, but only to reach into his side pocket and withdraw a short-stemmed pipe. He searched his other pocket, then patted his trousers. “Blast. You haven’t got a match anywhere about, have you?”

Gwynn shook her head, and Colin laughed.

“Best you find a match by Bonfire Night, then, Giles.”

“You be coming, then?” A second time Giles searched all his pockets, as though certain he had had matches only moments before. Perhaps he had. “And you’ll be bringing your lady here?”

Again the shift. “Gwynn’s not my lady, Giles.”

Again the wink. “Then the field’s wide open for such as me.” Giles leaned closer to Gwynn. “You’ll be coming? Fine craic.”

He was charming, that was for certain. She smiled at him warmly.

Giles jerked his beard at Colin. “Get the lug to give you a lift. Least he can do, the unchivalrous bastard.”

Now Colin looked up at the sky, where the weak sun was drawing the afternoon along. “Have to get going. Give you a ride back down?”

Giles shook his head, the pipe stem clamped between his teeth. “Best not. I’d just cramp your style. I’ll walk.” But instead of heading downhill, he turned up to circle the burn pile, raising a genial hand over his head in farewell.

They climbed back into the work truck, and Colin turned the key.

“What’s your style, then?” Gwynn asked as they bumped back down toward the farmyard.

He kept his eyes steady on the track. “Haven’t got one.”

 

WHEN THEY PULLED back up in front of the Gull Cottage, the first thing Gwynn saw was Paul Stokes, leaning against the stone front of The Stolen Child, smoking his ever-present cigarette. He kept his eyes on them as they climbed out of the truck; Gwynn could feel his angry gaze on the back of her neck all the way up to the terrace. Her hands fumbled as she attempted to unlock the front door. Then she turned, and found him staring at her. As she met his eyes, he took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it away contemptuously. His expression, even from this far away, was clear, making plain he’d like to do the same with her: flick her away contemptuously, like so much trash.

“Ignore him,” Colin murmured, leaning close to her ear.

Inside, she offered Colin coffee, knowing he’d refuse, knowing what he’d say.

“Best get back to work. Not much time before sundown.”

They had, she realized as she opened the kitchen door to the back garden, forgotten to shut the gate in the stone wall; but then, since they’d pried it open, it had refused to close all the way anyway. Still—and somehow she had expected it—somehow she had feared it—the brambles seemed to have returned, growing closer now to the kitchen door, growing more thickly across what formerly had been the path to the gate.

“How can this happen?” she whispered, dumbfounded.

“More things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” Colin said thinly, pulling on his gloves once more and stepping outside.