By the time Pauline came in Sarah had forgotten her anxiety.
The phone rang. Grant answered it. Everyone in the kitchen was immediately aware that the muffled sound that came from the phone was an angry one. Sarah, looking up, caught an odd look on Pauline’s face, a mixture of apprehension, bravado, satisfaction. She’d seen it before, often.
She wasn’t left in ignorance long. Grant’s voice, amazed.
“What? ... let all your hens out of their battery cages? ... No ... surely not ... oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t. What makes you think it was Pauline? ... What? Left a note saying what she’d done?” The voice became a splutter. It sounded as if the owner was having an apoplexy.
Sarah turned and looked at the culprit, who did not drop her eyes, but held hers. Sarah realized Grant would be—justifiably—furious. His unwelcome partner’s sister taking the law into her own hands. At least not the law ... it would be against the law. His voice was shaking. Sarah knew a dread of the moment when he’d put the phone down and the vials of his wrath would fall on Pauline, on Sarah, on them all.
She heard Grant say, “Look, Angus, I’ll investigate, and I’ll ring you back.” He put the phone down and turned to look at the three of them.
“Pauline,” he said, “did you go over to Stewart’s and let all Angus’s hens out of their batteries?”
“Yes,” said Pauline.
“Why?”
“Because I think it’s all wrong to keep hens cooped up all their lives just because they lay more.”
Grant said sternly, “But, Pauline, other people don’t think it’s wrong, and they have a right to their opinion too.”
Pauline’s eyes met his, clear, unafraid, slightly scornful.
“Lots of people thought slavery was all right. Lincoln didn’t.”
Grant turned slightly away. He muttered under his breath, “Ye gods! Out of the mouths...”
He tried another tack. “Pauline, it has been proved that batteries are not cruel. If it harmed the birds they wouldn’t lay, it’s as simple as that.”
Pauline said stoutly, “I don’t think it harms them ... physically ... but they can’t be happy.”
Grant sighed. “Pauline, what good has it done ... your letting the hens out for about an hour? What have you accomplished?”
“Nothing, I s’pose but—” the tawny eyes were serious—“at least they’ve had their hour. You know ... ‘One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name.’—Scott.”
Grant looked at her solemnly. “One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age within a cage!—Alexander.”
Pauline’s pointed face lifted towards him, the mobile eyebrows flew up, her lips quivered. Grant burst into a great roar of laughter, she joined in much relieved. Sarah and Rory followed suit.
Grant was wiping tears away. “Now, mind, Pauline, I’m not saying it was right, but I hate the blasted things myself. It looks so damned unnatural. Look ... you’ll have to go over and apologize for taking the law into your own hands, but I’ll go with you. Angus is a crusty old beggar. And we’ll offer to round them up for him. Come on. We’ll go on the horses.”
Amazed, Sarah watched them go. She felt weak with relief.
They were not back for an hour. By that time, the table was set and they were all waiting tea for them.
As the pair of them entered the kitchen, Sarah was aware that both faces wore the same look. What was it? Oh, yes ... smug. But what would they look smug for? She was soon to know.
Grant said, with a twinkle, as they sat down, “Round one to Pauline. Old Angus’s rages are mighty but momentary. By the time we got there he had decided she was pretty game to leave the note. And—” Grant started to laugh—“he said to her he hates the blamed batteries himself, only he spent so much money on them, he wouldn’t chuck them out. He said the sight of the hens scratching madly round the trees and farmyard had done something to him. It looked like old times.
“He said with a sigh that he supposed he’d have to put the darned things in the fowl-houses again, and if there’s one thing he hates, it’s cleaning dropboards, so—”
Sarah interrupted quietly, “—so Pauline offered to do it for him on Saturday mornings?”
“Yes,” agreed Grant. “So now she’s committed. Oh, well, if she will crusade, she’s got to be prepared to back it up with a spot of hard work.”
But Sarah thought the look he rested on Pauline was—for Grant Alexander—quite indulgent.
Suddenly, despite the fact that this afternoon her heart had warmed to him over the way he had treated the incident, Sarah felt bleak. They were such good pals, Rory, Pauline, Grant ... Sarah felt lonely, shut out. She got up to help serve the salad.
The day before the shearing was fine and cloudless. The, luck was holding—as far as the weather was concerned.
“Have an easier day the day,” advised Mrs. Mac. “I’m going to. I’ve put my best foot forward these last few days. I’ll have a wee rest after dinner today, and then I’ll be in fine fettle for the rush tomorrow. After I’ve had my rest, I’ll make the pastry for the apricot pies.”
At two in the afternoon, Sarah, was reading an English magazine in Pauline’s sun-porch, and drowsing a little. She admitted she was tired, now she had ceased her labors.
Suddenly she heard a strange thing ... Grant Alexander calling her urgently, and, by her Christian name. Since he’d called her Miss Isbister ever since the afternoon he’d made it Sarah, she had come to the conclusion it had been a lapse, and no intention of getting on to more friendly terms was in his mind.
But now he was calling: “Sarah! Sarah! Where are you?”
She met him at the door. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Mac. She was getting the jars of apricots down for the pies, when the steps gave way. Her arm’s broken, quite a bad break I should say, and there may be other injuries. I’ve rung the doctor, but his wife says he’s twenty miles away. She’s going to try to contact him.”
Sarah flung open a cupboard, grabbed a neat-looking emergency case.
“Right,” she said, and wasted no more time.
Grant said, “I came over on Mandy ... she was ready saddled in the yard. Come up before me.”
Sarah had slacks on, so came up neatly, without fuss. Her mind was concerned mostly with Mrs. Mac and how serious the injury was, but she was aware too that it was very odd to be sharing an experience like this with the antagonistic owner, or part-owner, of Challowsford. His arm was warm about her, holding her firm, so firmly she could feel his heart beating against her left shoulder-blade. Not so much beating as thudding ... He must be alarmed about his house-keeper.
For the first time Sarah felt a wave of real pity for him. It must have been a bitter pill. He’d lost his only relative too—a man he’d loved and relied on. Naturally, he’d thought that on his uncle’s death the other half of the estate would come to him ... but they were at the homestead.
Grant Alexander swung down, put out his arms to Sarah, lifted her down, turned Mandy loose, took Sarah’s arm and raced with her into the house.
He’d put a rug over his housekeeper, but had been afraid to lift her, so she was still on the concrete floor of the storeroom. Sarah went down on her knees. Her expert fingers soon ascertained the extent of the damage to the arm, but she was exceedingly careful to make sure other bones were all right.
She looked up. “We can safely move her. I’ll immobilize the arm first and get the kitchen couch ready.”
“Right. I’ll call one of the men to help.”
Sarah shook her head. “No. I’m used to lifting. I’d sooner just have you. I’ll tell you exactly how to do it.”
She had blankets on the couch in no time, and a couple of hot water bottles. Fortunately the storeroom was off the kitchen and they had no distance to lift her. Mrs. Mac’s usually ruddy face was ashen, but her color began to come back when Sarah made her a cup of tea.
She looked anxiously and pathetically at Sarah.
“What will they be doing wi’ me, lass? Will it mean very long? Don’t fob me off with comforting things that mean naught. I’ll be happier if you tell me the worst.”
Sarah smiled. “I’ll tell you what it will probably mean. You’ll have to go to hospital for a few days. Not really long ... to get X-rays taken. It will swell at first, and they can’t do much till the swelling goes down. Then you’ll have it very comfortably wrapped in plaster and come home.”
Mrs. Mac looked properly horrified. “That’ll mean Christchurch—in an ambulance—and being away right through the shearing. And a fat lot of use I’ll be to anyone for long enough after that!”
Sarah smiled again. “It’s all right. The skies won’t fall. Isn’t it a good thing I’m here? I’ll cope.”
She received support where she least expected it. “It certainly is a good thing you’re here,” said Grant Alexander.
Sarah felt the strangest sensation. She subdued it instantly. What did it matter to her, if, for once, her reluctant partner admitted she’d be of use? That was no reason to feel the leap of the heart that was a traitorous gladness.