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A half-forgotten quotation drifted through her head as they drove on up the road. 'He only does it to annoy because he knows it teases.' She couldn't remember where it came from, but it summed up Josh Killane! He was, after all, his mother's son; and hadn't her own mother always said that Lucy Killane was a born flirt and an inveterate mischief-maker? Prue had often doubted her mother's judgement about the other woman, not because of anything she herself remembered about Lucy Killane, but because of what she knew about her mother's jealousy and capacity to hate. Maybe she owed her mother an apology?
She forgot all that though as Josh slowed the car to turn in between the open gates of High Hallows Farm. A- high, mossy stone wall ran along beside the road, hiding the house from the view of casual passers-by. Josh drove up the narrow drive between banks of untidy laurel and rhododendron bushes above which stooped bare whitethorn trees, their branches creaking and moaning in the wind.
The house appeared and disappeared as they drove; an old house, square-built, of greyish stone, with a slate roof, a well-weathered oak front door with a great iron ring set in it for a doorknocker, wind-blistered white and green paint on the window-frames, and a look of endurance as it faced the onset of another winter.
Josh pulled up and Prue got out of the car, staring, up at the house, remembering.
Her father appeared from around the corner of the house. He was wearing an old tweed jacket, his trousers tucked into muddy Wellingtons, an old tweed cap on his head. 'Has it changed much?' he asked as he joined her.
'Not at all,' she said, and couldn't stop herself giving Josh Killane a glance, but he apparently wasn't listening. He hadn't even got out of the car. He still had the engine running, and nodded to her father in a friendly way.
'I'm in a hurry, Jim. See you.'
'Hang on, Josh—Lynsey's here!' her father said hurriedly as the car began to move again, and Josh braked, a black frown dragging his brows together.
'What?'
'Josh, don't be too tough on her,' James Allardyce said softly, standing beside the car and lowering his voice so that Prue only just heard what he was saying. 'She's very young and she's finding it hard to cope.'
'It won't make it any easier if she keeps running away! And why come to you?' There was a grimness to that question, a resentment, which made Prue turn away. This was obviously a very private matter they were discussing and she shouldn't be eavesdropping, but she couldn't help wondering—who were they talking about?
As she walked towards the oak front door she saw a girl standing on the threshold; a girl in jeans and a T-shirt—very ordinary, everyday clothes for someone whose beauty made Prue stop and stare. Was this the girl her father was talking about? She couldn't be much more than twenty, but her bone structure was so perfect that, if she had been sixty, Prue suspected she would still be lovely.
'So there you are!' Josh muttered, grabbing the girl, and hustling her towards the car.
'Don't push me around, Josh!' the girl burst out, fighting him all the way. 'I've had enough, I can't take any more!'
'Snap!' he said, pushing her into his car in spite of her struggles.
'Josh!' protested James Allardyce unhappily, trying to intervene, but he was ignored. Josh slammed the door on the girl, strode round, got back behind the wheel and started the engine. A moment later the car shot away, making a racing noise and grinding up the gravel on the drive. Prue and her father stared after it in silence, then James Allardyce sighed.
'Oh, dear. I didn't handle that very well, did I? I promised Lynsey I'd try to make him see her point of view, but I didn't get the chance. Josh can be a difficult customer.'
'Not can be—is,' said Prue rather blankly, for some reason taken aback by the way Josh Killane had acted towards the other girl. Was she his girlfriend? She couldn't be his wife, could she? Prue hadn't looked for a ring on the girl's finger; she hadn't even thought of that until now, but for some reason she hadn't pictured Josh Killane as a married man. He certainly didn't act like one! Or, did he? Married men could flirt, after all, couldn't they? Some men didn't let a little thing like marriage stop them chasing other women.
Her eyes flickered to her father, a frown crossing her face. Her mother had always suspected him of chasing other women—one of them, at least. But had he? Prue simply didn't see him as the type, but how could she be sure?
'He can be formidable!' James Allardyce grimaced, watching her troubled face. 'Is something wrong Prue? Was Josh offhand with you? He isn't still furious over the accident, is he? But he can't blame you—your fiancé was driving, not you! I'm sorry I couldn't pick you up myself, but...'
'I know, he explained—wandering sheep!' She wound a hand through his arm, leaning on him. 'I understood. I'd have done the same in your place.'
He looked surprised, staring down at her. 'Would you?'
'I know I'm my mother's daughter, but I'm also yours, Dad—don't forget that!' She smiled reassuringly, and he put an arm around her, hugging her.
'I won't! Now,, come and see your room. I've put you in your old room—I wonder if you'll remember it?'
'Of course I will. I remember everything,' she said, following him into the stone hall. The floor had highly polished red tiling; there was a fireplace big enough for a child to stand up in, in which she remembered hiding. On either side of it, in alcoves, were wooden benches and above them dark oak bookshelves. She stood there, inhaling the remembered scent of lavender polish, beeswax, flowers.
Her father went ahead, carrying her case up the winding, creaking stair leading to the first floor. She followed slowly, and now it was a sound she remembered. How many times as a child had she lain in bed and listened for the creak of her father's footsteps on the stairs?
Farmers went to bed early, rose early—that was something else her mother had hated about the life here.
James Allardyce put her suitcase down and Prue stood in the doorway, looking around her at the dark- beamed ceiling, the neat little bed with a pink satin quilt and a pile of crisp white pillows, the polished oak floorboards on which home-made tufted mats were scattered, the chintz curtains sprinkled with apple-blossom print. She recognised it all; even the dressing-table fittings were the same.
'Nothing has changed!' she said wonderingly, and her father smiled at her, then his face changed, a sadness in his smile.
'A lot of things have changed, I'm afraid. You, for instance—you're all grown up, not my little girl any more . .. and your mother ...' His voice broke off, he turned and looked out of the window, his back to her. After a moment he said, 'I'm so happy to have you back here, Prue. I don't wish your fiancé any harm, I'm sure I'll like him very much, but I'm not sorry to have you to myself for a while instead of having to share you with him.'
