Page 54 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

It was not much of an amusement but, then, he hadn’t much to be amused about.

When Rose turned in at the gate of Hundon’s, she heard Jess bark from the barn. She would have expected Fly to come running out, warning Woodrow she had arrived: the dog’s absence suggested he was not at home. She frowned. It was the right day and the right time. If he had forgotten, he’d get the sharp edge of her tongue. She would not tolerate being messed around.

She crossed the yard and rapped at the kitchen door, and it was opened by Martha, clutching a rolling-pin, letting out a gust of baking smell, and a glimpse of steam from the nose of a kettle on the range. But Martha herself was not welcoming. She scowled at Rose, and said, ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to tea,’ Rose said stiffly. ‘He invited me.’

‘He’s not here. So you can go away.’

‘What d’you mean, he’s not here? He said Thursday at four, and it’s Thursday, and it’s four o’clock.’

‘He’s out with the cows. And he doesn’t want to see you.’

Rose’s eyes narrowed. ‘He does too. You mean you don’t want to see me.’

‘I know your sort!’ Martha said, glaring at her, folding her arms across her front. ‘You and your wiles!’

‘Wiles?’ Rose was genuinely surprised. ‘I haven’t got wiles.’

‘Luring men to the bad with your wanton ways! You want to take him away from me. Well, you can’t have him! Clear off out of it, and don’t come here again! He’s not interested in you. He’s a good man, and you’re a bad sort, and I won’t let you take him.’ She unfolded her arms to wave the rolling-pin. ‘Go on, clear off! Or I’ll fetch you one upsides the head, you hussy!’

There was a bark from the gate, and Rose glanced round to see Fly running towards her, and Michael Woodrow coming in the gate behind him. ‘Martha!’ he said sharply.

Martha looked at him for a moment with her jaw jutting, then seemed to wilt. ‘She’s – she come here—’

‘I know. I invited her,’ he said, reaching them and gently removing the rolling-pin from Martha’s hand.

Rose looked at him, uncertain and angry, a blush of chagrin warming her face. ‘Your sister’s threatening me. She’s been saying shocking things about me,’ she began.

He lifted a hand to stop her, but with a pleading look, and turned to Martha. ‘Go in, Martha dear, and mash the tea. Everything’s all right. Rose is a friend. Go on, now, all’s well.’

Martha gave him an uncertain look, then went meekly in. Woodrow waited, then turned to Rose. ‘I’m so sorry. I meant to be here when you arrived but one of the cows got her head stuck through a fence and I couldn’t leave her. Please forgive me.’

Rose was not ready to let go of her anger yet. ‘But what your sister said—’

‘She doesn’t mean those things. I told you she was a bit strange, ever since her mother died. Strangers unsettle her.’

‘She should be locked up, threatening folks.’

‘Oh, no,’ he pleaded gently. ‘She’d never do anything. It’s just that she’s frightened I’ll go away and leave her. When a new person comes along, she thinks they’ll take me away from her. Once she gets used to you, she’ll be all right. She would never hurt you.’

Rose sniffed and tossed her head. ‘I don’t have to put up with that sort of thing.’

‘Please,’ he coaxed, ‘won’t you come in and have tea? You’ve come all this way. I promise she won’t be difficult now.’

She allowed him to urge her through the door. ‘Why d’you put up with it?’ She gave a last retort.

‘She’s my sister.’ He followed her in. ‘Did you never have a sister?’

‘Two brothers,’ Rose said shortly. She looked warily at Martha, who was pouring boiling water into the teapot. The kitchen table was spread with a cloth with three places laid, and there was a plate of bread and butter, a dish of jam, and a cake stand at present unoccupied. All as nice as could be.

Woodrow pulled out a chair for her. ‘Please sit. Guest of honour.’

Martha brought the teapot to the table and put it down gently, raised uncertain eyes to her brother’s face, and seemed to be reassured by his smile. She didn’t smile herself, but the fearsome scowl was gone.

‘Is that your scones I can smell?’ he asked her. ‘Lovely! Martha makes the best scones in the whole of England,’ he told Rose. ‘So light you’d think they’d float off the plate.’

‘Silly nonsense,’ Martha snorted, but it was clear she was pleased. She went back to the range and brought out from the cool oven a plate of scones that were keeping warm there, and put it down with almost exaggerated care on the cake stand, then looked at her brother.