pile the stack of wood and brush high so that it didn’t fall over.
Ready to return to the house, she eyed the hill with misgivings. It was all very well coming down, but as she had said last night, going up was a different kettle of fish. She was about to hail Jack to request his aid on the ha-ha steps, when a “Hulloo” came from behind her, from the direction of the village. Miller appeared on the footpath through the belt of trees.
“I’ve brought my car down to give you a lift, Mrs. Fletcher. It didn’t seem like such a good idea you climbing all those steps.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Miller. I was just thinking I didn’t much fancy the climb.”
Miller’s car was a Jowett. “Not the most elegant of vehicles,” he said, apologizing, “but the engine is unusually reliable, and when you build aeroplanes, reliability is what you tend to look for in an engine. Mrs. Fletcher, may I ask you something?”
Daisy turned on him her “misleadingly guileless blue eyes,” as Alec persisted in describing them. “Ask away,” she said hopefully, as she had said to Jack last night. “I won’t promise to answer until I’ve heard the question.”
“It’s no good asking any of the family, because they’ve got their own axes to grind, one way or another. You’re looking in from the outside, yet you grew up with all this tradition stuff, father to son in an unending line century after century.”
“Well, the Dalrymples didn’t quite manage that, but I know what you mean.”
“Do you think it’s wrong of me to encourage young Tyndall to break with tradition?”
“Oh dear, I’m not really the best person to ask. I’m not exactly a traditionalist myself. If you’d heard what my mother said when I decided to work for a living . . .”
“Your writing isn’t a hobby?”
“Certainly not!”
“Sorry! Sir Harold seems to think—”
“It’s not worth the trouble of correcting him. Not that I need to write for money now, but it paid the bills before I married. And that’s another thing: Mother was just as upset by my choice of husband. Alec isn’t at all ‘ suitable.’ ”
“You mean you . . . No, I’d better not ask.” After a glance at her, Miller drove on in a thoughtful silence. A slight smile played about his lips.
While Daisy hadn’t exactly intended to encourage him to pursue Gwen, she was not at all sorry if that was the result. She liked him and didn’t believe he was only after Gwen’s money— not that she’d have any if Sir Harold carried out his threat.
When they reached the house, Miller handed Daisy out and she thanked him for fetching her from the bottom of the hill.
“Not at all,” he said. “Thank you. You’ve given me considerable food for thought.”
“If you really feel obliged to me, may I ask a favour? I was going to ask Jack or Gwen to drive me down to the meadow this evening, just for a quarter of an hour or so, to take a peek at that side of the festivities. But I expect they’ll have their hands full helping to entertain the invited guests and—”
“Not to mention trying to keep the Gooches away from their parents!”
“That, too.”
“I’ll be happy to run you down, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll make sure the car isn’t boxed in by guests’ motors, and you just tip me the wink when you’re ready to go.”
Daisy had enough information now to plan her article, so she spent the rest of the morning at her typewriter. At lunch, Sir Harold was still in an excellent humour. He told Daisy about some Guy Fawkes disasters of the past, like the time an insecurely fastened Catherine wheel had flown from its place and rolled along a row of rockets, prematurely igniting the lot.
After lunch, she again asked Gwen if she could lend a hand with anything.
“You already have.” Gwen exchanged a meaningful glance with Miller, making Daisy hope her unspoken but clearly implied encouragement of the engineer would not lead to disaster. “This afternoon
Ready to return to the house, she eyed the hill with misgivings. It was all very well coming down, but as she had said last night, going up was a different kettle of fish. She was about to hail Jack to request his aid on the ha-ha steps, when a “Hulloo” came from behind her, from the direction of the village. Miller appeared on the footpath through the belt of trees.
“I’ve brought my car down to give you a lift, Mrs. Fletcher. It didn’t seem like such a good idea you climbing all those steps.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Miller. I was just thinking I didn’t much fancy the climb.”
Miller’s car was a Jowett. “Not the most elegant of vehicles,” he said, apologizing, “but the engine is unusually reliable, and when you build aeroplanes, reliability is what you tend to look for in an engine. Mrs. Fletcher, may I ask you something?”
Daisy turned on him her “misleadingly guileless blue eyes,” as Alec persisted in describing them. “Ask away,” she said hopefully, as she had said to Jack last night. “I won’t promise to answer until I’ve heard the question.”
“It’s no good asking any of the family, because they’ve got their own axes to grind, one way or another. You’re looking in from the outside, yet you grew up with all this tradition stuff, father to son in an unending line century after century.”
“Well, the Dalrymples didn’t quite manage that, but I know what you mean.”
“Do you think it’s wrong of me to encourage young Tyndall to break with tradition?”
“Oh dear, I’m not really the best person to ask. I’m not exactly a traditionalist myself. If you’d heard what my mother said when I decided to work for a living . . .”
“Your writing isn’t a hobby?”
“Certainly not!”
“Sorry! Sir Harold seems to think—”
“It’s not worth the trouble of correcting him. Not that I need to write for money now, but it paid the bills before I married. And that’s another thing: Mother was just as upset by my choice of husband. Alec isn’t at all ‘ suitable.’ ”
“You mean you . . . No, I’d better not ask.” After a glance at her, Miller drove on in a thoughtful silence. A slight smile played about his lips.
While Daisy hadn’t exactly intended to encourage him to pursue Gwen, she was not at all sorry if that was the result. She liked him and didn’t believe he was only after Gwen’s money— not that she’d have any if Sir Harold carried out his threat.
When they reached the house, Miller handed Daisy out and she thanked him for fetching her from the bottom of the hill.
“Not at all,” he said. “Thank you. You’ve given me considerable food for thought.”
“If you really feel obliged to me, may I ask a favour? I was going to ask Jack or Gwen to drive me down to the meadow this evening, just for a quarter of an hour or so, to take a peek at that side of the festivities. But I expect they’ll have their hands full helping to entertain the invited guests and—”
“Not to mention trying to keep the Gooches away from their parents!”
“That, too.”
“I’ll be happy to run you down, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll make sure the car isn’t boxed in by guests’ motors, and you just tip me the wink when you’re ready to go.”
Daisy had enough information now to plan her article, so she spent the rest of the morning at her typewriter. At lunch, Sir Harold was still in an excellent humour. He told Daisy about some Guy Fawkes disasters of the past, like the time an insecurely fastened Catherine wheel had flown from its place and rolled along a row of rockets, prematurely igniting the lot.
After lunch, she again asked Gwen if she could lend a hand with anything.
“You already have.” Gwen exchanged a meaningful glance with Miller, making Daisy hope her unspoken but clearly implied encouragement of the engineer would not lead to disaster. “This afternoon
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