CHAPTER SEVEN
IT HAD been an inspiration that made Meryl point out that she’d nearly brought disaster onto Jarvis and thus had a duty to him. The truth of this helped him relax in the following days.
He showed her over the castle. It took nearly a day and brought it home to her just how huge this place was. There were four towers, three hundred rooms, counting the tiniest closets, and four floors including the dungeons.
‘We can’t use the dungeons these days because of the damp,’ he informed her, straight-faced. ‘It’s very inconvenient.’
‘You made a joke!’ she accused him.
‘Good grief! I believe I did.’
He even took her out in the little sailing boat he kept in the boat house at the castle rear, where it faced the sea. Like everything else here it was shabby.
‘But don’t dare buy me a new one,’ he warned her. ‘I used to sail this as a boy.’
‘I won’t buy you a new one as long as you promise to take me out again.’
‘Word of a Larne.’
This was Jarvis at his best, at his most charming, she might have said, if the idea of charm didn’t sit so oddly on him. But he smiled, and seemed happier for being relieved of financial care.
She had the same feeling of peace and happiness she’d known before, but now it was as much to do with Larne’s master as Larne itself. She wondered what the feeling would turn into. Perhaps she would know by the end of this delightful day.
But her hopes were ruined when the inevitable happened.
‘Rain!’ she cried up to the sky. ‘I don’t believe it’s raining
‘I told you, it rains all the time here,’ he said, hurriedly wrapping her in oilskins. ‘You’ll soon get tired of it.’
Such remarks reminded her that he still didn’t really trust her, and his agenda was to secure the safety of his estate and bid her farewell. She put it aside for another day. It was foolish to think she was in love with him, anyway. Who could be in love with a man who lived in a permanent rainstorm?
Their trip around the estate was a triumph. Wherever they went people took Meryl to their hearts, not merely because she’d brought the good times with her, but because she exerted herself to charm them, and succeeded.
‘If the new Lady Larne doesn’t open our fete,’ the vicar of St Luke’s told her, ‘and judge the children’s fancy dress, everyone will be so disappointed.’
Meryl immediately promised and wrote the date on the back of her hand.
‘And what do I tell them when you leave?’ Jarvis demanded when they were driving away.
‘Say I didn’t come up to standard so you exchanged me for Sarah,’ she said blithely.
‘Can you be serious?’
‘What for? Jarvis, don’t you feel that any minute someone’s going to prick the balloon and you’ll find yourself back in reality?’
He nodded. That was exactly how he felt.
With the disconcerting change of weather that was normal in this country, the rain abruptly ceased, giving way to a pallid but valiant sun. In Little Grands Jarvis bought them beer, and they sat outside at a wooden table. He watched her leaning back to enjoy the sun on her face, and thought how at home she looked, how uncannily she fitted in. But it was a game, he reminded himself. To her this was like being on the hologram deck in
She’d agreed that it wasn’t real, and it was good to remind himself of that so that he wasn’t fooled by her air of joyous content. Otherwise he might have relaxed his guard enough to ask her where the joy came from, and how he could learn to share it.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, seeing her stare across the road.
‘That little shop-there’s a sweater in the window-’
She wandered across the road to gaze in the window of Sadie’s Wools. The shop sold wool, knitting needles and patterns, but also a few knitted clothes. One of these stood alone in the bow window, a staggering creation in five different wools, four textures and six colours. Meryl regarded it with awe.
‘That is really-’ she breathed. ‘Really-’
Anticipating her criticism, he bristled. ‘Let’s just leave it.’
‘I don’t want to leave it. You don’t see something like that every day.’
‘I know it probably looks very funny to you after New York, but up here we don’t go for high fashion. Life’s hard and serious. You’ve done wonderfully well today, why spoil it with a cheap laugh?’
She dug him in the ribs. ‘You ignorant man! That thing is hand-knitted by someone with real flair and creativity. It’s wild and wacky.’
‘Meryl, for Pete’s sake!’
‘I know. Life’s hard and serious.’
‘Well, we don’t do wild and wacky, that’s for sure.’
‘
She went into the shop where Sadie, a smiling, elderly lady, was seated behind the counter. At Meryl’s request she fetched the sweater and helped her try it on.
‘I design these,’ she explained, ‘and some local women earn pin money making them.’
‘How much is this one?’
‘I’m afraid-’ Sadie’s voice sank to a whisper ‘-it is rather expensive.’
She named a price and Meryl’s eyebrows rose. The same garment on Fifth Avenue would fetch fifty times as much. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said decisively. ‘And can you arrange for me to see some others?’
As the sweater was packed up Jarvis was fascinated to see Meryl once more scribbling on the back of her hand.
‘Do you normally do that?’ he asked as they drove away with her acquisition carefully stowed on the back seat.
‘Of course. Then I can be sure I don’t lose it. If the rest of the knits are as good as this there’s a perfect little cottage industry here. Those women can earn far more money than they’re doing now.’
‘Meryl, please drop this. I know you mean well, but filling their heads with pipe dreams isn’t kind.’
‘Once you said it wasn’t kind to give them false hopes, but they weren’t false hopes, were they? Maybe you don’t always know what’s best for them-’
‘I think I have a pretty good idea what my people need.’
‘Your people? You mean you own them? Nobody else is allowed an opinion-including them?’
‘I don’t suppose anyone could stop
‘Just as long as nobody asks you to listen,’ she said, getting cross.
‘I’ll listen, but I don’t have to be convinced.’
Her voice rose. ‘But we’re discussing fashion, about which you know sweet Fanny Adams!’
‘No, we’re discussing my estate, about which you know nothing at all.’ He added in a gentler voice, ‘Don’t let’s quarrel about this, Meryl. I’m truly grateful to you but-there’s a line I can’t cross.’
‘You mean a line you won’t let me cross, don’t you?’
‘Perhaps I do. The best business arrangements work with well-defined limits.’
‘So they do,’ she said with a sigh.
They reached home to find a press photographer and interviewer anxiously waiting. The marriage of an English aristocrat and an American socialite oil heiress was too good a story to be passed up. Jarvis would gladly have ducked out but he’d resolved to do the thing properly, so he smiled and responded with apparent good humour.
Nonetheless, he was glad to leave most of the talking to Meryl. In answer to ‘How did you meet?’ he could never have come up with her blithe fantasy of taking a driving holiday in the area and impulsively deciding to visit
