Read Online Ivy Tree by Mary Stewart - Free Book Online Page A

beginning to realise it."
    I looked up quickly. "Is he ill?"
    "He had a slight stroke three months ago, and he refuses to take very much care. He's always been strong and very active, and he seems to resent any suggestion that he should do less. He takes it as an encroachment . . ." Her lips tightened over whatever she had been going to say, then she added: "The doctor has warned him. He may live for some time, but he may, if he does anything silly, have another stroke at almost any moment and this time it might be fatal. So you see why this is so urgent? Why meeting you like that seemed, to Con, like a gift from heaven?"
    I said, after a pause: "And when he's gone?"
    She said patiently: "It's all thought out. We can go into details later. Briefly, all you have to do is to establish yourself at Whitescar, be Annabel Winslow, and inherit the property (and her share of the capital) when the old man dies. I tell you, there'll be no question. Don't you see, you'll not actually be coming back to claim anything, simply coming home to live? With luck you'll be able to settle quietly in and establish yourself, long before there's any sort of crisis, and by the time the old man does die, you'll have been accepted without question. Then, after a decent interval, when things seem settled, you'll turn over your legacy to Con. You'll get your cut, don't worry. Annabel's mother left her some money, which she could have claimed when she was twenty-one; it brings in a nice little independent income. You'll have that—in any case, it would look absurd if you attempted to hand that over. As for the main transaction, the handing over of Whitescar, that can be arranged to look normal enough. You can say you want to live elsewhere . .
    . abroad, perhaps . . . whatever you'd planned for yourself. In fact, you'll be able to lead your own life again, but with a nice little assured income behind you. And if 'Annabel' decided to live away from Whitescar again, leaving the place to her cousin, who's run it for years anyway, there's no reason why anyone should question it," "The young cousin? Julie?"
    "I tell you, you needn't be afraid of her. Her step-father has money, there's no other child, and she'll certainly also get a share of Mr. Winslow's capital. You'll rob her of Whitescar, yes, but she's never given the slightest hint that she cares anything about it, except as a place to spend a holiday in. Since she left school last year, she's taken a job in London, in the Drama Department at the B.B.C., and she's only been up here once, for the inside of a fortnight. All she could do, if the place was hers, would be to sell it, or pay Con to manage it. You needn't have Julie on your conscience."
    "But surely—" it was absurd, I thought, to feel as if one was being backed against a wall by this steady pressure of will—"But surely, if the old man realised that he was ill, and still Annabel hadn't come back, he would leave things to Con? Or if he left them to Julie, and she was content to let Con go on as manager, wouldn't that be all right?"
    Her lips folded in that soft obstinate line. "That wouldn't answer. Can't you see how impossible—ah, well, take it from me that it wouldn't work out like that. No, my dear, this is the best way, and you're the gift straight from the gods. Con believes he'll never get control of Whitescar and the capital except this way. When you've said you'll help, I'll explain more fully, and you'll see what a chance it is for all of us, and no harm done, least of all to that stubborn old man sitting at Whitescar waiting for her to come home..." Somehow, without wanting it, I had taken the cigarette, my hands fidgeting with carton and lighter in spite of myself. I stood silently while she talked, looking about me through the first, blue, sharp-scented cloud of smoke . . . the sagging bed, the purplish wallpaper, the wardrobe and dressing-chest of yellow deal, the table-cloth with the geometric flowers of Prussian blue and