remarked, “or I shall scarcely think it worthwhile keeping up those lessons. Let me see your hands.”
It was the moment Jennet had been dreading. She proffered him her hands, curling the fingers inwards, trying to hide their roughness.
He took them in his, straightening out the fingers and frowning as he turned them over.
“Your nails are better,” he admitted, “but what have you been doing to get your hands in this state? Mrs. Dingle doesn’t persuade you to help in the kitchen, does she?”
“Oh, no,” said Jennet, alarmed. “I never help Mrs. Dingle.”
“Then how do you account for these?” She shook her head dumbly, and he went on: “You can’t have been paying them enough attention. Wear gloves and attend to them properly at nights.”
“ Yes, Cousin Julian,” she said, and escaped from him before he could think of a fresh criticism.
Emily noticed her nephew’s shortness of temper, but she saw, too, that he was nervy and on edge with pain.
“ Is your leg worse?” she asked him in the evening as he stood in front of the fire, seemingly unable to sit still for any length of time.
“Yes, it’s been damnable this last week,” he admitted. “Gregory thinks they’ll have to operate again. I wish to God they’d take it off and have done with it.”
She was silent for a little, wondering if it would come to that eventually.
“Why don’t you stop here for a few months and see what rest and the moorland air will do for you?” she proposed at last.
“No, Aunt Emily, I won’t upset your household arrangements to that extent,” he told her with a grin. “Though it’s a kindly thought and I appreciate it.”
“Well, after all,” she said a little apologetically, “Pennycross is to all intents and purposes your house. I think you have a right to use it as your home.”
“And so I do. No, Aunt Emily, what would I do here? I can’t walk any distance, I can’t ride, I’ve never got very interested i n gardening. I’m best off in London where I have my friends and my flat. But I may stop for a week or so next month and have a bit of a rest if you’ll have me. We’ll hire a car and take the child round a bit, shall we?”
Emily smiled.
“ You can take the child round,” she retorted. “You know I loathe motori n g. Are you pleased with your orphan, Julian?”
He passed a hand rather wearily over his thick black hair.
“I’m afraid I rather jumped on her this afternoon,” he said regretfully. “I must try and not let this blasted pain get on top of me so much. I want to hear her sing before I go. One day she must have decent lessons.”
But when, on Sunday afternoon he asked Jennet to sing something for him, she felt her throat immediately constrict.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said quickly.
He frowned.
“ Why not? It’s some time since I’ve heard you. ”
He played better than Luke, she realized, with a surer, more sensitive touch. “ Don’t you think that, as I provide the lessons, I have the right to hear the results? ”
“Yes.”
“Well, come along then.”
She came unwillingly to stand beside him, and he stopped playing and glanced up at her.
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
She lowered her eyes.
“No.”
“Shy, then?” He knew she was shy.
She nodded.
“A little. You’re very critical.”
“Am I? But criticism’s valuable when one is learning.”
He held out his hand. “Well, sing me something, anyway. Here, give me your music.”
She chose “Searching for Lambs” because the wistful, nostalgic little air required no volume, and because she loved the words:
“... I’d rather rest on a true love’s breast,
Than any other where...”
She stopped. She had forgotten her nervousness and Julian, and thought only of the meaning of the lines. “Go on,” said Julian softly. “There’s another verse.” She knew there was another verse, the best of them all.
“For I am thine and thou art mine,
No man
It was the moment Jennet had been dreading. She proffered him her hands, curling the fingers inwards, trying to hide their roughness.
He took them in his, straightening out the fingers and frowning as he turned them over.
“Your nails are better,” he admitted, “but what have you been doing to get your hands in this state? Mrs. Dingle doesn’t persuade you to help in the kitchen, does she?”
“Oh, no,” said Jennet, alarmed. “I never help Mrs. Dingle.”
“Then how do you account for these?” She shook her head dumbly, and he went on: “You can’t have been paying them enough attention. Wear gloves and attend to them properly at nights.”
“ Yes, Cousin Julian,” she said, and escaped from him before he could think of a fresh criticism.
Emily noticed her nephew’s shortness of temper, but she saw, too, that he was nervy and on edge with pain.
“ Is your leg worse?” she asked him in the evening as he stood in front of the fire, seemingly unable to sit still for any length of time.
“Yes, it’s been damnable this last week,” he admitted. “Gregory thinks they’ll have to operate again. I wish to God they’d take it off and have done with it.”
She was silent for a little, wondering if it would come to that eventually.
“Why don’t you stop here for a few months and see what rest and the moorland air will do for you?” she proposed at last.
“No, Aunt Emily, I won’t upset your household arrangements to that extent,” he told her with a grin. “Though it’s a kindly thought and I appreciate it.”
“Well, after all,” she said a little apologetically, “Pennycross is to all intents and purposes your house. I think you have a right to use it as your home.”
“And so I do. No, Aunt Emily, what would I do here? I can’t walk any distance, I can’t ride, I’ve never got very interested i n gardening. I’m best off in London where I have my friends and my flat. But I may stop for a week or so next month and have a bit of a rest if you’ll have me. We’ll hire a car and take the child round a bit, shall we?”
Emily smiled.
“ You can take the child round,” she retorted. “You know I loathe motori n g. Are you pleased with your orphan, Julian?”
He passed a hand rather wearily over his thick black hair.
“I’m afraid I rather jumped on her this afternoon,” he said regretfully. “I must try and not let this blasted pain get on top of me so much. I want to hear her sing before I go. One day she must have decent lessons.”
But when, on Sunday afternoon he asked Jennet to sing something for him, she felt her throat immediately constrict.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said quickly.
He frowned.
“ Why not? It’s some time since I’ve heard you. ”
He played better than Luke, she realized, with a surer, more sensitive touch. “ Don’t you think that, as I provide the lessons, I have the right to hear the results? ”
“Yes.”
“Well, come along then.”
She came unwillingly to stand beside him, and he stopped playing and glanced up at her.
“What’s the matter? Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
She lowered her eyes.
“No.”
“Shy, then?” He knew she was shy.
She nodded.
“A little. You’re very critical.”
“Am I? But criticism’s valuable when one is learning.”
He held out his hand. “Well, sing me something, anyway. Here, give me your music.”
She chose “Searching for Lambs” because the wistful, nostalgic little air required no volume, and because she loved the words:
“... I’d rather rest on a true love’s breast,
Than any other where...”
She stopped. She had forgotten her nervousness and Julian, and thought only of the meaning of the lines. “Go on,” said Julian softly. “There’s another verse.” She knew there was another verse, the best of them all.
“For I am thine and thou art mine,
No man