Was it possible, Haidee asked herself incredulously, that the Desmond blood was showing itself? Could fate be so cruel as to repeat Rory's tragedy?
Today he was driving Jennie to the airport on the first stage of her journey back to school and had suggested that Haidee accompany them. She had declined. It would be a golden opportunity for them to get back on the old footing. Besides, as she reminded him, she too was leaving Glenglass that day.
'No rush, surely,' he had said.
'Paul's calling for me.'
'But you'll be in Dollymount?'
'I don't know. I don't think so.' She wished lies did not make her feel so guilty. 'Paul said something about going away for a bit.'
'I see.' His narrowed eyes recalled the night of the fire and how violently he had reacted to her quite innocent meeting with Paul. A repetition? She prayed not, and yet it was extraordinarily deflating to hear merely a tetchy: 'I'll have to know where to get in touch with you.'
'You mean ...' she'd quavered, 'about the divorce?'
'That and other things. The will, principally. You do realize you'll be a beneficiary?'
She could not pretend this appalling possibility had escaped her.
'I've thought about that. But naturally I couldn't touch a penny.'
'Naturally?' He peered at her.
'Oh, you know,' she said hastily. 'Leaving home, not writing, that sort of thing. There won't be much, I daresay, but Jennie must have it all. You can arrange that, surely?'
'Me?' he had echoed. 'Talk sense, girl. You fight that one out with the solicitor. But I'll go with you if you like. Kill two birds with one stone.'
They were to talk about it again when he returned from the airport.
'Ready, Jen?' she asked gently at the door of the shabby room, and Jennie in the distinctive cloak and bonnet of her-school ran over touchingly and hugged her.
'I'll miss you terribly,' she said.
You had to tread warily. Haidee did so, pointing out how important school had now become. Jennie agreed very seriously. Not alone O-levels. There was the Christmas play. Fry (the name of her house) were in charge of the wardrobe and there was masses to do. Marianne (the friend with whom she shared a room) had said so in her last letter.
'Will I see you again?' she asked suddenly.
Between sisters it was an odd question, even taking account of the fact that Jennie's uncle, Jack Whittaker's brother, had telephoned from Ontario insisting that she spend the Christmas holidays with him and his family. Best thing for her, Rory had said heartily, new roots, a new country, cousins of her own age. It showed a fine unselfishness. Haidee's own position was more delicate. Eventually, of course, Jennie must know the truth, but was this the right time?
'You will, if ever you need me.'
'Of course I'll need you,' Jennie said quite naturally. 'You're my sister, aren't you?'
Fate must really be laughing, Haidee thought. When deception had been all-important Jennie had so often made her walk the wire. The day they'd visited the convent, for instance, only Mother Mary's finesse had saved her from being denounced.
'I'm only a sort of sister,' she amended carefully. 'And I certainly can't trade on it. If anyone carried the can it was your father-and you.'
'That doesn't matter.' The bonnet made Jennie look a bit like a nursing sister. Her grave eyes enhanced it. 'It doesn't matter what sort of sisters we are. Even if we weren't sisters at all it wouldn't matter. We're like each other.'
It could mean nothing or everything. Haidee thought it meant the latter. She thought that what she had not been brave enough to say had been said for her. And wasn't there something about the truth making you free?
She blinked unashamedly and felt Jennie's arms go round her yet again.
'Write,' the younger girl commanded.
'I will,' Haidee promised.
Down on the loading bay, Rory tapped the horn, and a few minutes later the long topaz brown car slid gently away, Jennie's hand fluttering from the window.
Haidee glanced at her watch and hurried back indoors. The bus to Dublin from a town in Wexford passed through Glenglass morning and evening. It was due at ten-thirty. Her case had been packed since the night before.
She scribbled a note: 'Paul came early. Sorry. Will write. Suzanne.' She would have liked to add her thanks, but it was likely Suzanne would have taken all kindnesses as her due. This done, she moved the green suede jacket to the centre of the now empty wardrobe, put on her own camel reefer and picked up her case and Brand's basket.
The first day she had come into this old room whose only real comfort had been the new well-sprung bed that did not belong to it, the sense of Suzanne's presence had been startling. Now it came again as she took her last look across the clearing to the polished grey of the beech trunks and the eggshell blue sky.
No one had ever mentioned what time of year it had been when Suzanne had fled from her home. Had the forest been green or bare and brown? How had she gone? How had she felt?
Today no men were working on the near side of the woods, so the view was just as Suzanne might have seen it, orange leaves piling on the ride, deserted nests showing in the web of branches. It was a feeling too deep for words that as she stood there, saying goodbye to Glenglass, she was not alone. Somehow it came between her and the baldness of her note so that what she had wanted to say no longer seemed out of place.
'Say goodbye to Toby for me and give him my love,' she added. 'And thank you, Rory, thank you again.'
Brand was in an outhouse. He had been indignant when she had swooped on him waddling across to the wood. That had been nearly an hour ago so by this time he would be seething. She hurried across what had once been the stable yard of Glenglass House and stopped dead. The outhouse door was open.
Looking inside became a mere matter of form. She did so with annoyance. Brand was not there. Whose fault? Had she not latched the door properly? Had he managed to open it? He was a long cat and a great one for fiddling. She wouldn't put it past him. Speculation, however, was futile. He had to be found and quickly. It was nearly ten.
'Brand!' she called briskly. 'Here, Brand! Pish-wish! Dinner!' He had had no breakfast, so he would be hungry.
Twenty minutes later and now hoarse with her efforts, she was still calling. It added up to what she already knew. With his tummy empty he would come-if he were in earshot. His non-appearance could only mean that he wasn't.
There was one other bus through the village around midday, unfortunately a bus outward from Dublin going south. But at least it would take her somewhere. Indeed if she were to spend the night in Wexford or Waterford and write her explanation to Rory from there it could serve as a red herring. It only remained for Brand to appear, and she wished he would.
She was very conscious that she was on edge, perhaps fussing unduly, but it was unusual not to see him around. He loved his new-found haunts, but he also loved showing himself. He would be an image on the parapet or a clucking weaver through legs in the kitchen. He was seldom off-stage for more than an hour and now-a cold hand touched the pit of her stomach-almost two had elapsed. He would be starving, he would be sure to come-he would want to come-unless ... unless something had happened to him.
Deliberately she made herself face it. During those first few days she had been so anxious about traps, but since then, immersed in other matters, she'd taken his safety for granted. And how often that was the way it went. The one thing you'd been casual about turned into an eleventh-hour accident.
'Brand!' she called beseechingly, and struck out into the wood.
The squirrels were active and cheeky. A bushy tail raced down the path ahead. An arc of red fur, rusting with the onset of winter, leaped backwards and a branch swung like a trapeze.
She went on letting herself be swallowed by the dark mouth of undergrowth. With the men on the far plantation and Rory's office shut, it was a little like Sunday, and if you thought too much about them the branches became menacing outstretched arms.
When suddenly a head popped over one and a voice said 'Hello, Johnny!' she all but jumped out of her skin. The head was brown and tousled, the ground-floor teeth slightly crooked, the grin a little sheepish. As well it might be.
'You should be at school,' Haidee said uncompromisingly.
'I didn't feel like it,' Toby returned as directly.
Burdened as she was, this could not be ignored. 'Do you do this often?'
Rory had troubles enough without Toby adding to them.
The eyes dropped. 'No. Today's different. I-I was coming to get you. I thought we could go for a walk.' Beautifully simple and knavish. He was a politician, this boy. He twisted you round his little finger. And she loved him dearly.