A PLACE CALLED PARADISE  Essie Summers

Annabel Lee had been brought up in an orphanage, but had always longed to be able to trace her father, and at last she decided to follow the few slender clues she had to her real identity. They led her to the most beautiful place in the world ― where Annabel not only found what she was seeking, but met the most wonderful man in the world, too!

CHAPTER     ONE
MERVYN said, oh, so patiently, "Annabel, you aren't really serious? You couldn't be!"
The "couldn't be" maddened Annabel. She lifted her chin and said:   "Why not?”
Mervyn sighed. "Because people don't go chasing off to the bottom of the world for such a ridiculous reason!"
The chin lifted a little more. "Is it ridiculous to want to know who you are ... to want to find your family ... to find the place where you belong?”
He said, and his gentleness infuriated her still more, "The idea of wanting to find out is all right. Very natural and proper. But to spend that amount on something that isn't even a clue . . . just a faint memory that sprang to life in an emotional moment, a memory deliberately fostered in your mind ... is just plain foolishness. You've really nothing to go on. ”
"I didn't foster it. It came into my mind unsought, flashed into it. It was wonderful, like someone regaining their memory after amnesia."
Mervyn sighed again.
"But you haven't been suffering from amnesia. Let's be realistic. You heard the Londonderry Air for the first time in your life. You remembered some words you thought your mother had written to that music. You --”
She interrupted him fiercely. "Let's make a correction there, Mervyn, seeing we're being realistic. Some words my mother did write to that music. I didn't just imagine them."
His look was judicial, weighing up. "Annabel, would you get the Stardust out of your eyes for just a moment ? You have a sudden flash of memory ― as you suppose. You recall a line or two of a song whose words anybody ― not necessarily your mother ― could have put to that tune. You can't tell me you really remember your mother singing it to you!
"Now, don't look so white and intense, Annabel. You're making far too much of it. The whole thing is so silly. Just because that song mentions a place called Paradise, you have to take it that it means a specific place. It's a general term, girl. We all say of idyllic spots at some time or another, 'What a paradise!' or 'Regular Garden of Eden isn't it?' But it doesn't mean there really is a Garden of Eden. So to pin your faith on a phrase like that, and to even think about spending your legacy on finding out, is sheer folly."
Annabel looked at him ... at the regular features, the solid reassuring bulk of him. She tried to recapture all he had meant to her, her first romance, apart from schoolgirl crushes, her first glimpse into the shared delights of a world of two . . . the promise of security there had been in it for her, the chance of a real home, something she had never known.
She tried to recapture it - and failed.
Mervyn added: "If you'd never gone into New Zealand House with Linda Murchison, if you'd never picked up that pamphlet about the Southern Lakes, you'd never even have known such a place as Paradise even existed. Your trouble, Annabel, is a too vivid imagination. You don't have to worry about a background any more. I'll supply that for you. You'll be Mrs. Mervyn Hamilton."
Annabel smiled crookedly. "I haven't said so - yet."
He made an impatient gesture. "Darling, of course you will. If this business hadn't cropped up we'd have gone shopping for that ring, before now. Dear, don't be difficult, just when things have smoothed themselves out."
Annabel knew exactly what he meant. Now that Joan approved her as a wife for her precious Mervyn.
As she didn't answer, he blundered on. "So put this right out of your mind. This is certainly no time to be thinking of squandering Mrs. Dalbrook's money on an expensive trip like that."
Annabel's eyes suddenly went like chips of glacier ice, coldly green.
"I've got beyond thinking, Mervyn. I'm planning!"
He looked genuinely bewildered. "Annabel!  But we've not discussed anything like that."
"Discussion, Mervyn, is something that takes place between two people. This is something to decide entirely by myself."
He said, losing his patience,  "When two people are going to marry and settle down together, they naturally discuss every major move either one of them thinks about making."
Annabel's voice was silky with rage, so silky Mervyn could not quite believe it was rage. "But who said we were going to be married ?"
He fell into a trap, because it was purely a rhetorical question.
"Well, didn't Joan say so ?"
Annabel laughed, and Mervyn didn't like the sound of it one bit.
She said, "You know, Mervyn, I didn't really consider that a proposal . . . Joan saying: 'When you two settle down, would you like to take this house over?' Most romantic. A memory to tuck away with lavender and treasure all one's life!"
Mervyn's voice became stiff and restrained. For once in his pompous life, Annabel thought with detached amusement, he'd like to shout. But you can't in St. James's Park.
He said: "Annabel, I know you cherish all sorts of romantic and unrealistic notions . . . but honestly, I didn't particularly want it that way myself.  Joan jumped the gun, that's all. I couldn't help my sister saying it."
"No." Her tone was dry. "But you showed no resentment. I gave you every chance to do so, Mervyn. I even despised myself for doing so, later. You could have signed and sealed it under a moon, you know." She laughed, and her laugh held little merriment, only wry amusement. "You could have been genuinely annoyed with her. Oh, not to her face, but to me, afterwards. But you didn't. And ever since, you've taken it for granted I was accepting you."
Now she really had scared him. "Annabel .. . but we are going to be married. Darling, I can assure you there's nothing would suit me better than to marry you - nothing I desire more," he added rather hastily.
Now her tone was sombre. "But it doesn't suit me\ What a term to use! Have you no good red blood in your veins at all? It doesn't suit me and there are heaps of things I'd like better."
Mervyn moved up closer. He was getting the message. "Darling, this is a public park, and it's the dinner-hour, not a moonlit scene. I'll make it up to you. Look, tomorrow night let's go to - "
Annabel shook her head. "No, it's too late. The prospect doesn't appeal one bit. I don't want the sort of husband I'd have to prod into being romantic. I certainly don't want one content to live under his sister's domination all his life. One who is so blind he doesn't even begin to realise how much this quest means to me. Mervyn, before I link up my life with anyone, I must find out who I am."
He so far forgot himself as to seize her hand. "Oh, Annabel, it doesn't matter who you are. I'm willing to marry you whoever you are. If you're somebody or nobody. Just think . . . you might spend every bit of that legacy only to find out you weren't. . . you weren't. . ."he hesitated, then plunged on, "only to find you weren't the daughter of a belted earl miraculously restored to the family. You could be an - er - embarrassment to your connections, even if you did manage to trace them."
"You mean, don't you," said Annabel slowly and clearly, "that if I did find the New Zealand family my father came from, he might be married, with a family? That I might be only the unfortunate reminder of a wartime folly, best forgotten ?"
"I do. We've just got to be sensible about this, Annabel. You were found - after heavy blitzing - injured, distressed, beside all that was left of your mother. The other occupant of the house was identified and she seemed to have no connection with your mother at all. Not a neighbour knew if she was expecting a visitor, or anything. They thought your mother must have sought shelter with her. You had only that little tartan purse and that one snapshot of yourself."
"And my name," interrupted Annabel. "I had my name on the back of it. And not only that, but I knew my name too."
"Yes, it's in the records that you said you were called Annabel Lee. At least you had some confirmation of that  -  as it was written on the back. Pity it hadn't carried your mother's name too."
"It didn't need to have her name ― her husband would know it. If it hadn't been that my mother evidently liked writing little rhymes to her soldier husband, my name wouldn't have been there, either, I suppose."
She repeated in a low voice,
"This snap is, you'll see. Of your daughter and me, Your naughty, adorable Annabel Lee !
and beneath was scribbled: February 1944. That's why I'm almost certain they were married. That's why I've got the courage to try to trace my father now that I've got a clue as to where he might live."
Mervyn made a brushing-away gesture. He said slowly, "I suppose that snapshot was of you ? It could be anybody."
Annabel gave a choking cry. "Mervyn, how could you ? Don't take even my name away from me. It's all I've ever had!"
He said reluctantly, "Well, why wasn't it sent to your father ? Why write on it and keep it ? Why give it to a little girl to play with ?"
She said in a tight voice, "Do you think I haven't pondered that over and over myself ? There was red ink spilled across the photo. I expect she had two prints - one to keep - so sent the unspoiled one to him. And perhaps I wanted it.   Children often love a snap to look at. And I was allowed to keep it in my little bag."
"That's quite feasible. Perhaps that's the way it was. But let's look at it fairly and squarely. Even if you do succeed in tracing your father's family ... if he was a New Zealand soldier, and he did come from this place called Paradise, and suppose your own father and mother were married ― by now, if he did return safely from the war, and believed his wife to have been killed, he'd most likely be married again. You might be most disillusioned. Better not to know."
When she went to speak, he waved her to silence. "You and I could be so happy. We haven't even got to hunt for a house. It's there, furnished. Some sisters - especially Joan, with such a sense of family - might have looked askance at anyone with no background. But she's made no difficulties. In fact, she has encouraged us to marry."
Annabel wanted to say all kinds of cruelly frank, biting, true things. She wanted to say, "Yes, she's encouraged us ― because it suits her. She's encouraged us only because now, at thirty-eight, she's getting married to her boss."
But because she was hurt herself, there was no excuse for wounding Mervyn, who was quite well-intentioned, if rather stuffy and dull. She must have been mad to have ever entertained the thought of marrying him.
So she said quietly but convincingly, "Mervyn, I know all these things. I know I could come back having found out nothing at all. Or if I do succeed in tracing my father, I might wish I hadn't . . . but all those things considered, there's something in me that won't rest till I've tried it out.   I'm going!"
There!   She'd said it. What a relief.
But what an anti-climax. Mervyn simply didn't  -  wouldn't believe her. Finally he looked at his watch and said, "Darling, I'll have to fly. Sorry I can't see you tonight to get this settled sensibly, but I've got that meeting. But you are coming to dinner with us tomorrow night. And, darling, be on time, won't you ? Joan is making this a special occasion and she so hates good food to spoil with waiting."
"I'll be on time," promised Annabel quietly, and watched him go.
She watched him  cross the park,  disappear into the lunchtime crowd. She had the whole afternoon off. And she knew exactly what she was going to do ... go back to New Zealand House!
An unreal feeling accompanied Annabel as she walked across the Mall, up the steps past the statue of the Grand Old Duke of York into  Waterloo  Place   and into  Pall Mall.
The unreal feeling wasn't that she should be contemplating going thirteen thousand miles away in search of her family tree, but somehow that she was still here. That proved to her how strong was this feeling that she belonged to New Zealand.
It had never been a matter for consideration and decision with her . . . she had known she had to go. All the arguments Joan and Mervyn had battered her with had never swayed her in the least.
Mervyn had said: "I suppose if we went hunting through some atlas that gave every tiny place that ever existed, we'd find dozens of Paradises. For instance," triumphantly, as it dawned on him, "Why not Surfers' Paradise on the Australian Coast ? There! It would be just as sensible to start looking there."
"Where's your masculine logic ?" Annabel had retorted. "There are no mountains there . . .just sea and sand, if the posters are to be believed."
"That's beside the point," he had argued, rather red in the face, since logic wasn't supposed to be a woman's forte. "The idea is right, and you know it, Annabel."
The clerks at New Zealand House knew her by now, as well they might.
Once more as she went through the swing doors Annabel felt as if the Londonderry Air accompanied her feet, her heart fitting the remembered words to her steps.
At least it was through Mervyn she had first heard it. A friend of his had invited them round for the evening. The young wife, ready too early for her visitors, had been playing her piano, sitting in the twilight of a hot day, with the french windows open on to her porch.
Perhaps if she had been singing the words, Annabel's heart and memory might never have silently repeated long forgotten words to fit the tune, but Karen had been dreamily playing it over and over. Annabel had caught hold of Mervyn's arm.  Mystified, he had waited, his attention held by the strange look on Annabel's face.
She had gone back the next night, alone. Karen had played it over and over again till she had got all the words. She could not have imagined them. It was just the sort of song that somebody's mother might have written, out of loneliness and longing, to copy out for her husband in the theatre of war and, to amuse her little girl, she had probably sung it to her many times.
Annabel had the feeling now, that other memories too, might stir.
The words rang in her brain.
"O Danny dear, when all the warring's over,
And you come back in peace and joy to me, 
We'll pack our bags and take our precious daughter,
Where you belong... a land beyond the sea.
And there, where mountains rim the sapphire waters, 
That mirror back the ever-changing skies, 
We'll find our   happiness-for-ever-after, 
Beside a place that, darling, you call Paradise.”

She couldn't have thought it up herself. It had come unbidden. Remembered, not fancied, she was sure.
Mervyn had said exasperatingly: "You even think your father's name must have been Daniel. It's plain ridiculous. That's the name in the song."
Annabel had said: "I know that's farfetched. And I'm not really sure of that. I just wondered why she'd changed Danny boy to Danny dear, that's all. Forget that. It's not a bit likely. But when I suddenly saw that brochure in New Zealand House:
" 'Glorious one-day steamer and bus trip! Visit Paradise at the head of Lake Wakatipu . . . enjoy the scenic beauty of lake, mountains, and native bush . . .' I felt I couldn't rest till I found out if my father came from there ― if he might still be there. And the rest fits. The lake, the mountains ... I feel it in my bones."
But Mervyn had no time for intuition. His was a world of reason, of cause and consequence, a prudent, predictable world. Never a world where you tossed your cap over the windmill ... or spent a legacy in pursuit of a dream.
The receptionist beamed on Annabel. "What do you think? I've actually got a New Zealander from Paradise ― well, as near as makes no difference ― coming to meet you. They all drop in sooner or later ― Kiwis visiting England, I mean. And when he signed the visitors' book 'Canaan, Glenorchy', I knew he was my man. I sort of leapt at him and told him about you. So he's going to be here at two-thirty. Will you be able to wait ? He's flying back in a few days."
Annabel said warmly, "It's very good of you to take so much trouble. Yes, I can wait. What is he like, in case you're engaged when he comes in ?"
"Oh, for all the world like a Red Indian. Chestnut hair, reddish eyes, tall and lean ― well, broad too ― but sort of spare. Rather a hooky nose and craggy sort of look. Real high-country man. His name, believe it or not, is Gideon Darroch. They seem to be given to Biblical names up lake. Must be because of that part being called Paradise."
Annabel's thumbs pricked. Was it so farfetched, then, to think her father's name might have been Daniel ? She reined in her galloping thoughts. Steady now, take it easy. Prepare yourself for disappointment. One thing she mustn't do, since her family, if found, might not welcome her, was tell this man why she wanted to come out. Dreadful to start a scandal  -  or even if not a scandal  -  to revive a relationship that might not, now, be welcome.
Her red-headed receptionist came over to her. "There's been a phone call from Mr. Darroch. He'll be half an hour late. He hopes you'll be able to wait, but if not, to be sure to leave your phone number."
Annabel waited, reading a brochure, and became so absorbed it was not till his shadow fell across her that she stirred.
He was younger than she had expected . . . thirtyish, and the Red Indian description had been very apt. He said: "Miss Redmond is busy, so I'll introduce myself. I'm Gideon Darroch." His eyes appraised her without a hint of apology. "I believe you are interested in coming to Glenorchy. Why ?"
"No reason at all beyond fancying New Zealand as a country to emigrate to. And it's not so much Glenorchy I'm interested ir. as Paradise, really." She waved the brochure at him.
His air was most forbidding. One side of his mouth twisted in a sort of derisive amusement. "Is it just the name that has attracted you ? Because I'd better tell you here and now that Paradise wasn't named that because it's out of this world for beauty but because of the Paradise ducks that abound there."
"Then what is it like  -  in cold,  sober truth ?"
The mouth twitched again. "Like something out of this world . . . beauty unsurpassed!"
Annabel heaved a sigh. "Then why the dash of cold water ?"
"Because it doesn't do to get all starry-eyed over a place simply because it's beautiful and has a romantic name! It's really isolated, even now with the road. It's thirty miles by road to Queenstown ― and the nearest doctor ― forty-two from Paradise. Does that set you back ?"
"No, I know that. The only thing that worries me is a job. I'm going just for a working holiday at first. Then if I decided to   stay  I'll  apply  for permission."   ("If I find my family," she said to herself, "and if they want me.")
The mouth had tightened up again. "My advice to you, then, is to take a job in a New Zealand city first. Break yourself in gradually."
"You mean you don't think I'd stick it at Paradise ?"
"I don't think for a moment you can go to Paradise. There are a few large sheep stations, but they don't even bother with maids these days. They used to ― but the maids inevitably married the shepherds. So they cope themselves ― the runholders' wives. New Zealand women are very hardworking."
Annabel lifted her chin a shade aggressively. "They haven't the monopoly of hard work. I've never known anything else."
He disregarded that, the lofty creature! He said, almost as if she had not spoken, "But of course you ―" He stopped, frowned.
Annabel prompted him. "But of course I  -  ?"
The eyes with the definitely reddish tinge to their brown probed hers. "But you could  come to  Canaan   ...   if you're really sure you want to work in a place so isolated. It's a valley really, but its called the Land of Canaan. My mother owns a guest-house in the Valley. She's often longed for a permanent waitress ― a trained one ― from overseas there, one who would train the summer waitresses. The thing is I reckon the loneliness would send you scuttling back here in a brace of shakes."
"I'd like to prove you wrong on that." "I'd like to be proved wrong.   Only it could be a costly experiment." "How ?"
"Well, have you any idea how much the passage costs? I could bind you over to stay a couple of years, but I doubt if it would be worth it ― if you hated the place you'd make everybody miserable ― and in a small community we're so dependent upon each other."
Annabel couldn't help it . . . she gave him back look for look and flashed: "You don't strike me as being the dependent type. In fact quite the reverse! Self-sufficient, I'd say, Mr. Darroch, I'm not applying to you for a job. It so happens I want to go to New Zealand.  I've a yen to live in this place called Paradise. But I'll be beholden to nobody."
She went to turn away, but he caught her arm, "Not so fast. I rather like the cut of your jib." He laughed outright at the look on her face. "And I'm sure my mother would too. They may have only summer staff at the hotel. I'm not sure. But if you really want to go there, we'll give you a trial. Miss Redmond told me that you have no relatives, that you're sub-matron of an orphanage, know a good deal about household management, and are a first-rate cook. The job is yours, at standard rates, plus your keep, and plus isolation allowance. Can you meet me here on Thursday ? That'll give you time to think it over ― even to take advice if you need it. Same time, two-thirty? Okay?" and he was gone.
Annabel knew she did not need that time, that her mind was made up. Despite Mr. Gideon Darroch's somewhat forbidding air, she felt as if someone had handed her a birth certificate on a gold platter. If her father had come from Paradise, and if it was as sparsely populated as Gideon Darroch said, it should not take long to trace her family. It was almost too good to be true. A job waiting for her. She would have enough money for her return trip, in case she thought it was better not to claim relationship, and for a modest tour of New Zealand as compensation, if she worked. Too good ? Annabel shivered suddenly. Was she taking a step she might regret all her life? She didn't know. But take it she must.

CHAPTER      TWO
MAKING the break with Mervyn hadn't been pleasant, but through it all Annabel had known, with never a tremor of doubt, that she was doing the right thing ...
The fact that by the time she'd reached his sister's home that night he was in a bad temper had made it easier.
"You'll just have to discipline yourself, Annabel, not to get involved with people unnecessarily," he had said.
Annabel had looked at him, and at Joan, who was ostentatiously bending over a casserole she was taking out of the oven and saying: "I do hope it isn't too dried up."
Then Annabel had said gently, "Mervyn, I'm afraid your idea of necessity and my idea of it would always be poles apart. He was such a dear old man. He told me that when he got married he'd clean forgotten to order the bouquets for his wife and her bridesmaid. So ever since  -  for forty-three years  -  he'd made sure he had taken her flowers on their wedding anniversary. They were so beautiful . . . yellow roses and maidenhair fern, all sprinkled with water like dewdrops. And he had an iced cake in a box and a bottle of champagne in his pocket . . . and somehow he left the flowers on the seat. The bus-driver was so good he stopped and let me off But of course he couldn't wait and the old man had gone round a corner. And he'd disappeared by the time I got round it. I went into half a dozen houses before I found him. I just couldn't bear the thought of his chagrin and disappointment when he arrived home without them. And I was glad I had. She was in a wheelchair and looked so frail. It could easily have been their very last anniversary spent together."
Mervyn had said stiffly. "I'm afraid I was brought up to regard unpunctuality as a major sin."
Annabel had said gently, "Mervyn, so was I. You are in an orphanage. But there are times when the best of rules have to be broken. And this was one of them. But it just proves, doesn't it, that I wouldn't fit into this family!"

Now, three months later, Annabel, remembering it, wanted to giggle. She had no regrets at all. It really had been funny how Joan had changed her tune, assured her it didn't matter in the least, that perhaps she herself was too set in her ways, and would Annabel please forgive them.
But despite the two-hour-long discussion which had raged after the dinner Annabel had come away with a glorious sense of freedom... she had cut the ties.
And here she was . . . having flown over the South Island of New Zealand to Dunedin, the capital of Otago . . . embarking on the bus that was just a day's journey from Queenstown. Not that she was going as far as that. At Wellington, where she had left the ship, there had been a long telegram for her. She was to go as far as Alexandra in Central Otago, and Gideon Darroch would meet her at the bus depot there and would take her up to Canaan himself.
Annabel was glad. After all, Gideon Darroch was her sole known link with this new, strange, beautiful country. It would be just that much less of an ordeal.
The miles flew by . . . rolling hills, glimpses   of far-distant mountains,   everywhere relics of gold-mining days . . . huge fruit-farms, a glimpse every now and then of a steep-sided rushing river, with waters of peacock green on this glorious October day.
October, not clad in the glowing tints of autumn, but tender with spring green, with lilac and hawthorn, with guelder roses snowballing the gardens and a bridal radiance on the branches of the orchard trees. An upside-down land this, but already Annabel felt sure it was her land . . . that her father had spent his boyhood among these tussocky hills looking as if they had been spewed up from unfathomable depths in some mighty upheaval in a dim, forgotten age.
They crossed the huge bridge, saw a red jet-boat rapidly disappearing up the upper reaches, and drew up in the town at the bus depot.
A man came out of the office and to the bus door. "Hullo, Sandy. Have you got a Miss Lee on board ?"
Annabel looked startled. She couldn't see Gideon Darroch anywhere. The bus-driver turned. "Right here behind me. All the way from London."
The other man said:   "We've got a message from Gideon Darroch. He's been delayed. He'll be here in about three-quarters of an hour. He suggests that you wait for him in the library after you have a cup of tea."
Everyone was having a cup of tea here, and the bus driver good-naturedly ran her along to the library and deposited her luggage there for her. The librarian didn't seem to mind, either.
It wasn't a busy period and they began to chat. The librarian was interested to know she was going up to Glenorchy and Canaan and knew of the Darrochs though she had never met them. She got a map out and began to show Annabel just where she was going.
On a sudden impulse Annabel said: "If you wanted to find out about families ― old estates and so on ― how would you go about it ?"
The librarian didn't look a bit surprised. "Well, if you want information, you're in the right building  -  the Town Clerk's offices are right here. He's in at the moment," and to Annabel's dismay, she swept her through a door and into the Town Clerk's office.
She had to try to extricate herself. "N-no, I didn't want to look up anything specific, really. I mustn't take up your time. I'm ― I'm just on my way up to Glenorchy. I'm taking a job up there. Only this seems very interesting country. I ― I thought later on I might make a ― a sort of study of the area."
The Town Clerk knew his territory well and had a thing for local history himself. He began spreading out maps.
Annabel gazed at them with fascination, even though she felt she ought not to be there. It wasn't wise to display too much interest in the place before she even got there.
"It certainly does seem like the back of beyond," she said, as he traced the road with his finger. "Apart from tourism, which I realise as yet is in only a minor way, what do the people do up there ?"
"Oh, there are some big sheep-runs, not many, and a store, garage, and post office. There's a district nurse, a coffee bar, a dining-room for the bus people. That's all. Oh, of course there's the scheelite mining on Mount Judah."
"Scheelite ?"
"It's a mineral from which tungsten, used in the hardening of steel, is extracted. During the last war, of course, it was in great demand, then the bottom dropped out of the market. But now it's rising and it's gone up to a thousand pounds a ton."
At that moment the door opened and in came Gideon Darroch. He wore, Annabel thought, a slight air of surprise.
"Hullo, Miss Lee. The librarian told me you were in here,   looking   something up."
Annabel knew her cheeks had flushed. "Oh, the librarian and I got talking about Central Otago and she brought me in here to meet the Town Clerk. He began showing me some maps of the area."
The Town Clerk said: "Gideon Darroch, is it ? Of course I've heard of you ― and of Mount Olivet House. Glad to meet you." They shook hands. "I was telling Miss Lee of the scheelite mines. It's going up in price, isn't it ?"
Gideon Darroch said abruptly, "Yes, but I don't suppose there'll ever be any fortunes made. Now, Miss Lee, we'll be on our way, if you don't mind. I've got some business to  do over in Wanaka, unfortunately, and I always prefer going over the Crown Range before dark."
The Town Clerk put out his hand to Annabel. "Well, goodbye. I hope you like New Zealand ― and stay."
Annabel told herself she was only imagining that there was a constraint in Gideon Darroch's manner that hadn't been there in England. What could have changed him?
He had bursts of small talk, evidently when the mood took him.
Finally she said: "Mr. Darroch, please don't feel you have to make conversation. It can be quite tiring on a long trip like this. It can be a strain having to be madly sociable when you like driving in silence."
He smiled a little at that. "Oh, I can talk a blue streak when the mood takes me. But I've got something on my mind."
Annabel certainly didn't suspect that it had anything to do with her ... that he was trying to forget a certain anonymous letter that had reached him a week before. In theory, of course, you ignored anonymous letters. And that was what he was trying to do. Only the devil of it was, one couldn't forget them. Well, perhaps it hadn't been a malicious one, only a warning one.
At Clyde, a small township six miles past Alexandra ― close as far as New Zealand went, they entered the Cromwell Gorge and drove sheerly above the river, close to the railway line that ended, Gideon said, at Cromwell where the two great rivers met, the Kawarau that ran out of Wakatipu, and the Clutha that was the outlet for Wanaka.
They turned left and suddenly below them lay the dreamy perfection of Wanaka, an azure blue, fringed with willows and poplars, with all about it, on the nearer hillsides, brightly painted cottages and piney-wood chalets, and a wide, low modern hotel with bright gardens where the Queen Mother had stayed, Gideon told her.
He was thawing out, she thought, under her genuine pleasure in the beauty of it.
They ran right round the shore, on the Glendhu road, to a homestead by the lake. The English trees seemed to welcome Annabel, and she was quite content to sit and drink it all in, watching pleasure craft out on the lake between the fringe of tall green poplars.
He was back with her in twenty minutes. "The womenfolk were all out, or I'd have taken you in. Besides, I want to call in at the Cardrona homestead."
About fourteen miles up the river flat, he slackened speed at a huge drum that evidently served as both mail box and stores receptacle and turned up a track.
Annabel blinked as she saw the two names painted on it. One was Scurr ... but the other was Lee!
Her thumbs began to prick with excitement.
Before she could speak, Gideon Darroch had said: "I've got to see a chap called John Lee here. Great friend of mine. He's coming up during January for a week or two."
Annabel managed to say: "Has he been here long ? I  -  I mean have his people been here long ?"
"His father got it in a soldier's ballot after the 1914 war."
"Oh," said Annabel, trying not to feel like a pricked balloon.   "You mean it was after World War One ?"
"M'm." He swung in over rattling cattle-stops and into a plantation of Douglas firs.
The track was cool and dim, crossed by a creek, and bordered by lupins just beginning to show purple, yellow, and rose-coloured tips.
The pricking in Annabel's thumbs subsided. After all, Lee wasn't a very rare name. How foolish to suddenly have felt Fate was guiding her here, the day of her arrival.
John Lee, talking to her at the side of the car, was interested to know that she was a Lee too. "From Northumberland ? That's where my folk were from originally."
She shook her head.  "No, from London."
John Lee laughed. "You find Lees everywhere. It's a gipsy name, isn't it ? I daresay you've got the family wanderlust."
They didn't stay long and started up the steep road again, rising to three thousand six hundred feet and more. The sun was moving over to the west now, had been for some time. But Gideon Darroch drew into the lookout point at the summit.
"We're proud of this view," he said. "It's said to be one of the finest in the world."
The only tribute Annabel could pay was silence. Down below, the Kawarau cut through its steep gorge, and looking into the heart of jagged mountains westward, she could see the long narrow arms of Lake Wakatipu, cornflower blue among the purple-bronze ranges.
If the scene hadn't been so beautiful she might have become nervous about the road. But vista after vista unfolded. There were no homesteads there on the heights just below the ring of rocks on the summit that really was like a crown. More and more of the lake came into view. The sun was dropping steadily now, till a dark hill in the centre hid it from view and split its rays with uncanny effect, streaming out each side and turning cultivated paddocks, huge ones, on the lower slopes to a more vivid green.
Suddenly they were running along flatter country, though still so high above the lake, and there were wealthy-looking farms scattered here and there. "These are the Crown Terraces," said Gideon, "then we go down the Zig-Zag ― a series of hairpin bends ― and we aren't far from Queens-town. We come into it from the Frankton end. Frankton was named after the first settler's wife ― she was Frances Rees. Her husband, William Gilbert Rees, came here in 1860. A marvellous man, who carried his sportsmanship into his pioneer life ― the discovery of gold robbed him of his station hands and made his gigantic tasks, shearing for instance, colossally difficult... the miners disturbed his lambing ewes and his sheep were stolen and killed ― foodstuff was terribly scarce of course, because there were no roads, and the gorges were unbridged ― yet he cheerfully sold stores to them, and supplied their needs as best he could, but in the end he just had to move to Frankton."
"Is there any gold still about?" she asked.
"The old-timers vow there is. But it's deep in ― not economic to get out."
"And what about the scheelite mining ? Any done on your property ?"
"No, but we've still got a claim or two ― being worked by other people just now ― in the family, but some distance from us. Interested in scheelite, Miss Lee ?"
There was something odd in his voice. Annabel looked up to find the red-brown eyes hastily returning to the road from a scrutiny of her face that she was sure had been probing. Why ?
"No, I'd never heard of it till that town clerk at Alexandra mentioned it."
"Had you not ?" Was there a faint note of disbelief in his voice ?
She turned to look at him. "You said that as if it were important, Mr. Darroch. How could it be ?"
"Search me," he said, "your guess is as good as mine."
She didn't know what to make of that, so didn't answer.
After a slight pause she said: "Anyway, you're solely concerned with running a guest-house, aren't you ?"
"Wrong. My mother runs the guesthouse. My pigeon is farming the land. But it's the breath of life to Mother, the tourist traffic. Anybody would think it had belonged to her family instead of to my father's. My father's grandparents were the pioneers. Beats me how all those years before there were even roads formed to Queenstown, those settlers at the Head dreamed of tourists."
"Are most of the homesteads still run by the original families? Their descendants ?"
"Some. Not all. Why?"
(Oh dear.)
"Nothing. I just wondered, with you saying your father's grandparents had first taken up the land there."
Then she stopped talking because they were on the Zig-Zag and he might need all his attention for the road, though he didn't appear to worry about it. They came down on to the main road and the country became more gentle, though still surrounded by impressive mountains.
The shadows were deepening now, but suddenly they came out beside a still, beautifully symmetrical lake that had caught in its waters all the glow and radiance of the sunset. Lake Hayes that in pre-pakeha times had been called Wai-whaka-ata, the water-that-reflects.
Annabel was amazed at the number of English trees clustered round the homesteads, testaments, she supposed, to the homesickness the early settlers knew, and something that had brought autumn to an evergreen land, to enhance its beauty.
They came to a straight stretch of road that ran between hawthorn hedges.
He pulled up a little, waved towards a horse trough, with a stone pillar and plaque above it. "A memorial to another early settler. One Robert Lee."
It felt to Annabel as if her heart lurched against her ribs.
"Goodness," she said lightly, careful to betray no personal interest in it, "Mr. John Lee was right. The Lees certainly seem to be gipsies. Perhaps that's why I suddenly developed itchy feet. Oh, perhaps this man is related to John Lee ?"
"No, no relation. Another crowd. Your desire to travel was sudden, then, was it ? I thought you might have been  -  er  -  planning it for some time ?"
"No. I was in New Zealand House with a friend, saw some brochures, and decided this was what I wanted to do ― travel. After all, I have no ties."
"No relations at all ?"
"No,"   said Annabel  firmly.   "I was a foundling."
He said no more on the subject. She knew he wouldn't. People always did close up when you said that, mostly because they felt an instant sympathy and sympathy was often throat-constricting. But that wasn't/ what was affecting him, probably.

Queenstown had  a  Canadian  air,  with larches and pines sweeping to the water's edge and pinewood cottages set among the trees.
"Where are we staying tonight? An hotel ?" Annabel asked.
"No ― no need. We've got a house right here. Right through the town and back towards the Shotover River and Arthur's Point, where a terrific strike of gold was found. At least it's in that direction. It's very handy for us. We often spend a few days down here, and it's meant that the younger children have been able to have their High School education without going to boarding-school. Beulah and Timothy and Paul all came down here and Rebecca will in a year or two, too. I'll be able to test out this claim of yours to being a first-rate cook!"
Annabel said stiffly, "It wasn't mine. It was Miss Redmond at New Zealand House who said that. Although I've certainly had some practice."
Behind what she was saying, her brain was working rapidly. She'd heard New Zealanders were very casual, but this, surely, was going a bit far! Gideon Darroch could stay in their Queenstown home, but she'd find an hotel for herself. It wouldn't cost him a penny!
But she didn't want to offend him too much. She must phrase it carefully. They were entering the township and the weekend bungalows were giving place to tourist flats and motels with great neon signs.
She saw one that said "Aurum GuestHouse, Bed and Breakfast". That would do. She said quickly: "Mr. Darroch, would you mind stopping here for a moment ? " She felt breathless. There wasn't, after all, any inoffensive way to say it, it would have to come straight from the shoulder.
He took a look at her face, and pulled in to the kerb. "What's the matter? Are you feeling car-sick? " He leaned over her to open the door. "Hop out, the fresh air will revive you. "
She put a hand on his wrist. "No, don't open the door  -  yet. I  -  it's just that. . . well, I'm not used to this casual way of doing things. In an orphanage you  -  you lead a very sheltered, rather restricted life. I know that probably New Zealanders look at things rather differently. I'm afraid I  can't take the change as quickly as all this. It's  -  too  -  too unconventional for me. I'll just stay here for the night. I've plenty of money. I'd rather. You can go on to your house here, and just pick me up in the morning. Or if it would inconvenience you, I'll get a taxi down to the steamer wharf. " There, she'd got it out, and uninterrupted too, which was more than she'd hoped for.
He gazed at her, blankly at first, then with comprehension dawning.
He said, rather patiently, "Believe me, we aren't as unconventional as that. We will be most properly chaperoned. My old governess runs our Queenstown house. There could be no . . , er . . . goings-on under Miss Mattie's eagle eye! She's the perfect duenna. "
She let a note of worldly disbelief crisp her tone. "Miss Mattie! Sounds too good to be true. I've read Cranford too, you know. "
He stared at her. "You know, Miss Lee, I rather think you're being insulting. Why should you doubt my good faith ? "
Annabel's eyes were wary. "A girl alone in the world has to be mighty careful. I was told by  -  by friends  -  I hadn't made enough inquiries. I suddenly had a cold feeling that they could be right." She paused. "It  -  sounds phoney. Miss Mattie. Your governess. Even in England govern-nesses went out  -  mostly  -  with bustles and elastic-sided boots. Miss Mattie who ?"
"Miss Matilda Clutterbone!" and he burst into uncontrollable laughter. "Miss Lee, I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do as far as names are concerned. If you could only see your face! It says as plainly as words that you don't believe there's any such person. It's a corker of a name, isn't it? And you're wrong about the governesses. We do have a few of the breed surviving in New Zealand, mostly on our high-country estates where there's no school. Let me explain. I was born in the nineteen-thirties and was school age in the very early days of the war when there was no petrol to take me to Glenorchy school ― and apart from that, the rivers and creeks that are bridged now weren't then. There were only fords. Most of the farmers' children in Canaan were members of families ― I was an only one for years ― and their mothers were often too busy to properly supervise their children's correspondence lessons, so two or three of them had governesses, when and if they could get them, and when they got them, if they could induce them to stay! I had Miss Mattie. But listen, you look as if you're now going to turn and rend me for not telling you all this. I didn't think I had to. It seems apparent to me now that you didn't get my mother's letter, telling you all about us, our family arrangements and so on. She thought you ought to have some assurance from her. There was plenty of time for it to reach you."
Annabel felt relief. "No, it didn't. I had nothing at all, till I got that telegram from you at Wellington."
He frowned. "Seems odd. Even if it arrived after you left, you'd have thought, seeing Mother always puts her address on the back of all letters, that the folk at the orphanage would have thought it important enough to fly it to you at Aden, or Colombo, or somewhere."
"Yes. I can't understand it. Unless somehow it missed connecting with the ports. Mr. Darroch, I must ask your pardon. I misjudged you."
He looked at her with mock severity.   "I should think so." Then suddenly he lost the twinkle and said, "You did leave a forwarding address with the orphanage, I suppose ?"
Annabel blinked. "Of course, Matron wouldn't have let me come away without it. Besides, I'll always keep in touch." Her puzzlement flared into anger. "Mr. Darroch, you seem to be treating me with suspicion. I can't quite understand it, unless to you  -  knowing all your own forebears  -  the idea of a person without roots, a foundling child, is likely to have bad blood in her and capable of doing anything! If this is the sort of attitude you're going to take up, I think I'd better just get a seasonal job in Queenstown meantime, and take my chances of a job at Paradise  -  well, at Glenorchy then  -  when the hotel is finished and taking on staff."
To her immense surprise he laughed again. "I thought when I met you that you looked the most even-tempered person possible ― the clear-eyed English type. Don't be so absurd. / didn't take offence when you thought I had wolfish tendencies. But perhaps I'm a little wary. I can imagine people wanting to emigrate to New Zealand, to one of the big cities ― but not particularly to Paradise, where the road ends against the mountains."
Annabel's one dimple cleaved her left cheek. "Put it down to the gipsy element in the Lees, Mr. Darroch. I fell in love with a name . . . and a description. Your publicity department does its job well; that's what it's for, isn't it ? To inveigle tourists to come and see."
He looked thoughtful. "But if you were a foundling, you wouldn't know your name was Lee, would you ?"
Annabel repressed the natural desire to tell him that she did indeed have a name  -  if nothing else  -  because this must be a secret mission. If indeed there were Lees at the Head-of-the-Lake, in a handful of population, she wanted to pursue her quest unknown to anyone, to find out first if the return of the lost one would be a matter for joy. She must arouse no suspicions on that score.
So she said lightly, "I expect that's true. They probably picked the names out of a telephone book for the foundlings. From A to Z, I suppose, to give variety of initials."
"More likely out of a book of verse, I'd say. Who was it ? Edgar Allan Poe, wasn't it?
"And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
Well, Annabel knew her name was her own, that it hadn't been picked at random for a foundling child, but she'd often wondered, naturally, if her father and mother had loved the poem, and as their name was Lee, had chosen the Annabel to fit it.
An awkward silence fell between them. Then Gideon Darroch pressed the self-starter. Before he drove off he said, in a quite expressionless voice, "We've squabbled so much, I think we've got beyond the formal stage, and certainly when we get home Christian names will be the order of the day, so better make it Annabel and Gideon, I think."
Annabel said stiffly, "You can please yourself what you call me, Mr. Darroch, but I don't feel I've known you long enough yet to call you G ― to call you by your firstname."
"Please yourself. You soon will."

CHAPTER     THREE
HE DROVE off; turning, not into the hills as he had said they would, but down towards the foreshore of the lake, till he pulled up beside a small, beautiful Anglican church that with its tower and creeper and lych-gate could have graced any English village. He leapt out and went round to her door.
"Come you out, my beautiful Annabel Lee," he said mockingly, "I'm taking you to meet our Miss Mattie without further ado. She's at a tea-meeting in the hall. I just dare not face taking you to Mattie's house to find it empty. You'd sit eating your tea with the greatest apprehension, sure she was never going to materialise. Come on. My reputation is at stake."
Annabel could have slain him, but wouldn't show her resentment. Meekly she followed.
Certainly it was reassuring from the moment they stepped into the hall. It was respectability plus. It could have been any of the   functions of the orphanage from Founder's Day to the Orphans' Yearly Treat. Tables scattered all over the hall, laden with savouries and sandwiches, cakes and scones ... each with a posy-bowl in the centre, and the stage decorated with huge urns of hawthorn and lilac, irises and tulips.
The same buzz of conversation prevailed, the same bustling activity. Most of the women greeted Gideon by his first name, looked with interest at Annabel. Gideon caught hold of the elbow of a woman in a neat tweed suit, with a no-nonsense apron over it. "Miss Mattie, here's Annabel Lee." He introduced them, then said, with a twinkle, "I just had to bring her here to convince her you really existed. Otherwise she was going to spend the night at Aurum."
Annabel flushed. Before she could speak Miss Mattie said: "And very proper too. A girl with sense. Annabel, would you rather stay here till this is over? It's supposed to be finished by nine. You could have tea with us. There's a short programme afterwards."
Annabel said hastily, "Oh, no, Miss Mattie.   I ― I was  quite ready to believe Mr. Darroch when he told me what the arrangement was. It wasn't my idea that he should bring me here to verify it. He simply didn't mention you when he first spoke of the Queenstown house."
Gideon chuckled. "Now, Miss Mattie, don't go for me ... I can see it in your eye, you old warhorse! I would have explained, but I knew Mother had written, so didn't think it necessary. It wasn't till Annabel Lee put her wolf-scaring defences that I found out! Mother's letter didn't reach her. We'll go off to the house now ― couldn't stand being as sociable as this affair entails. We'll rustle ourselves up something till you come home. I'd better call back for you, seeing I've got your car."
Miss Mattie shook her grizzled head. "No, the vicar will run me home. He's taking a few others. Annabel may not be used to being alone in a house, if she's been in an institution."
Annabel couldn't help smiling back at her, she was so comfortingly normal. "I never have been alone in a house, but I don't think I'd mind a bit. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have Mr. Darroch come for you ?"
But Miss Mattie ruled that out.
Miss Mattie's house was in a side street and its garden appeared to run up the hill. The moment Annabel entered it she knew that had she come here before she had met Miss Mattie all her doubts would have been stilledA It had an air of rectitude.
A house loved and scrubbed and polished. The light on the front porch had been left on, the stairs ran straight up from the front door and up they went, into a kitchen that  -  oddly enough  -  was upstairs, and where a coal range in red and cream enamel glowed cosily; a savoury odour rose from a pot of soup on the side of it and a kettle lid jiggled up and down, a comforting sound, indicating that their meal wasn't far away. Nothing streamlined and chromed about this kitchen ... a tapestry tablecloth hung almost to the floor on what was probably a plain deal table, and a supper cloth was spread on half of it and under an organdie throw-over was a crusty loaf on a board, ajar of apple jelly, a square of honey in the comb, cheeses on a board, butter, homemade scones, and beside the range, a blue crock of brown eggs.
Gideon took her into   a tiny hall   and opened a door. The bed actually had a white marcella quilt on it and a huge blue eiderdown. There were white sheepskin rugs on the floor, starched lace curtains at the window, and embroidered runners on tables and tallboy. Yet it didn't give an icy look ― it looked warm and welcoming. A great bowl of ranunculas and anemones glowed in glorious purples and reds and pinks on one of the tables, and, noticing a cord running from the side of the bed, Annabel realised Miss Mattie didn't spurn modern comforts ― that must be an electric blanket.
"Just open your case and get out your slippers  -  it's a cold night," said the man she'd taken for a wolf, and he dumped the case, with no regard for creases or soiling, on the white quilt.
Annabel gathered it up quickly and put it on the floor to open. "Marcella quilts have to be treated with respect," she reproved.
He grinned. "Miss Mattie is going to approve of you, I can see that!"
By the time she came through into the kitchen again he was ladling out the soup and the eggs were boiling in a pot. Not only the soup warmed her. Perhaps this man was more human than she'd supposed at first. Pity, though, that already he had his suspicions about her.
The houses in this area lost the sun early because of the hills (Annabel thought she'd have called them mountains) he told her  -  that was why they'd built the living-rooms up top. "We've got a couple of spare rooms down below, just equipped for bunks, that often get used by college friends of mine during the winter sports season  -  there's a tiny kitchenette down there, so they're no trouble to Miss Mattie  -  the rest of the bedrooms are upstairs. It gives Miss Mattie something to do and a home of her own. She does a spot of work still for the Education Department . . . remedial reading. She does a grand job for them, and certainly has done for our family. This is the first year she's not had anyone. Tim's at varsity and Paul's at Teachers' College in Christchurch, but Rebecca will be with her next year."
"Is she a good deal younger than the others ?"
"Yes  -  seven years younger than Tim  -  and the pride of the Darrochs."
"About thirteen ?"
"Twelve. Rebecca is the one who fights everyone's battles  -  humans and animals alike. The most tender-hearted kid you ever met. She's already made up her mind to mother you, so look out. She can't bear the thought of anyone without parents. She was horrified that I had come back here not knowing exactly how you lost your parents  -  if she finds out you're a foundling, she'll be quite sure that she can solve the mystery and restore you to your home  -  even from thirteen thousand miles away."
Annabel looked swiftly away, disconcerted. Not thirteen thousand miles away, Gideon Darroch. Near enough to be embarrassing, probably.
He caught the expression on her face. "I say, I'm sorry. I'm dropping clangers all over the place. It's not really romantic to be a foundling, is it ? Look, if Rebecca gets too curious, just head her off."
Annabel's nostrils went a little white. "Just because I'm a foundling, Mr. Dar-roch, it doesn't mean I'm necessarily illegitimate ― and I'm not in the least touchy about it. None of us can be held responsible for our parents. I ― "to her horror, her voice wobbled.
Gideon Darroch put down his spoon and caught her hand, "I say, I really have hurt you. Believe me, it was quite unintentional.
Annabel bit her lip. "I'm sorry to be so silly. It's just that people who have a settled background, who can go back hundreds of years in their ancestry, have no idea what it's like not to know, to be rootless. But I'm not asking for sympathy. I can manage fine by myself. And ours was a wonderful orphanage. We were loved, better off probably than some children with uncaring, quarrelling parents."
Gideon Darroch changed the subject.
They washed the dishes in a more friendly atmosphere, and went into the sitting-room off the kitchen, where Miss Mattie had left the fire banked with slack so that by now it glowed red to its heart. A lived-in room with one wall, at the far end, completely covered with books, and with the deep embrasures at each side of the stone fireplace book-lined too. One wall was covered with maps, the other with slightly old-fashioned oil-paintings, all of the lake. Miss Mattie's handiwork. It was a big room, holding two desks, one Miss Mattie's, one evidently used by a succession of High School pupils. There was certainly every reference book they could possibly want here. Annabel prowled among the treasures on the shelves.
Finally she settled on a big couch, with a book about Lake Wakatipu, Golden Days of Lake County by F. W. G. Miller. She became absorbed. They were very history-conscious in these parts. That ought to make her task easier. And the run-holdings seemed to have come down from father to son, since the first days. She turned to an index at the back. Although it took in the whole area, the entire lake country, there were plenty of names in the index. Although if her people had come here in later years, instead of a hundred-odd years ago, she might not find their names. Though she was bound to run across them when she got up there. But what if they had come long years after the pioneers, but moved away after the Second World War? She might never trace them then. Oh, but someone was bound to mention them sooner or later, and if only Gideon Darroch  got  it firmly  fixed  in his  mind that her name didn't belong to her, but had been picked out of a book of poems by some romantically-minded matron, he would never associate any would-be careless inquiry she might make with a desire to find her father.
There were no Lees mentioned in the book, apart from the Robert Lee of the horse-trough memorial, but she found that Robert Lee had had an interest in a mine at Glenorchy. Had he ever lived there? she wondered. Might there be descendants of his there now ?
By the time Miss Mattie came in, the long, tiring apprehensive day had taken its toll and Annabel was fast asleep, the book on the floor, and she woke to find a rug covering her and Miss Mattie's hand on her shoulder.
She sat up, confused, feeling it a breach of manners. Miss Mattie waved away her apologies. "You looked deadbeat when Gideon brought you into the Hall. I'm going to give you a cup of tea and get you to bed. It's an early start tomorrow, and there'll be more adjustments ahead of you. But you needn't worry. Miriam will be very good to you."
Annabel pushed the rug away. "You needn't have bothered, Mr. Darroch, the room was so warm."
He said solemnly, "Miss Mattie always impressed it upon me that we were never to sleep without covering. She has some quaint idea that you lose body-heat while asleep and catch a chill."
Miss Mattie gave him a quelling look.
He laughed. "Okay, Mattie, it's probably backed up by some scientific argument. I know better than to pit my wits against yours!"
All too soon it was seven o'clock in the morning. Annabel came into the kitchen and stood entranced. The blinds were up and the gingham curtains right back, and below them was the glory of the lake.
The little town clustered closely to the water's edge and an arm of ornamental gardens ran out into the lake, making a sheltered beach. Beyond and above reared the jagged contours of the Remarkables, and across a lake of waters so blue they could indeed be termed sapphire, the glorious peaks of Cecil and Walter were scarfed with chiffon mist half-way down.
There was no one in the kitchen with Annabel, something she was intensely thankful for. She wanted no one to share with her the utter joy of this moment when, she was sure, she was gazing for the first time on the lake her father had loved so, and her mother had longed to see.
"And there where mountains rim the sapphire  waters 
That mirror back the ever-changing skies."
she murmured to herself, scarcely knowing what she did, and cut off abruptly as she heard a step behind her. She swung round and was relieved to find it was Miss Mattie, who said in a tone of great interest, "What's that from, Annabel ? I can't remember."
Annabel said lightly, "I've no idea. Something dredged up from my schooldays, I suppose. Perhaps written of Switzerland or Canada."
"M'm. Probably. It will haunt me, I know, till I remember who wrote it."
Annabel knew she wouldn't. Couldn't! Not that poem.
Miss Mattie  looked out over the view she had seen not hundreds of times but thousands. "But it certainly fits this scene, doesn't it ? Though I daresay you're right, it could be any lake, any line of mountains, judging from the films I've seen. In any case I'm in no position to judge personally. I've never been beyond the shores of New Zealand."
"But you will some day," said Gideon, coming in and laying an affectionate arm on the straight shoulders. "None of this business of saying 'I'm getting too old, my boy' ― one of these days you're going to take off I've got plans for you. That's why I'd like Annabel to get well settled into the running of Mount Olivet ... by the way, good morning, my beautiful Annabel Lee . . . Mattie, one of these days I'm going to persuade you to take Mother for a trip abroad.  She deserves it."
He looked at Miss Mattie with a meaning expression, Annabel thought, and grinned. "You could take one of those trips that include Hong Kong."
Miss Mattie looked at him sharply. "You mean to see Johnny Bell." It was a statement, not a question.
Gideon nodded.   "If the mountain won't come to Mahomet, then . . . you know the rest of it."
Miss Mattie's eyes were reflective. "I don't know, Johnny is a stubborn man." She laughed. "Of course history could repeat itself. You could go along, Gideon, and do Johnny's proposing for him. It worked last time, didn't it ?"
To Annabel's mystified look Miss Mattie added: "Gideon proposed to Miriam for his father," then, seeing the look deepen, "He's told you, I suppose, that Miriam is his stepmother ?"
Annabel shook her head. "No, I'd no idea. Mr. Darroch, you simply said your mother."
"I suppose I did. I've always called her that. Though she's not really old enough to be. She was my first teacher after Mattie left to nurse her mother. By then I was able to go down to the school at Glenorchy. My mother died not long after I was born. I never knew her. Dad fell in love with Miriam Gray, but felt he was too old for her." He grinned reminiscently. "Must have been a precocious child. I took the law into my own hands. No, I won't do that with Johnny,  Mattie.   It's  much too  involved for me this time." He turned to Annabel. "Miriam and Johnny were school sweethearts, nothing more. But Mattie and I have always hoped they might come together again. Then Johnny Bell might stop his roving and make his father happy by settling down at home. Well, we'd better get cracking. Breakfast, and then Mattie's taking us to the steamer."
Mattie had just one moment alone with Annabel after that. She said, in a low voice, since Gideon was in the next bedroom, "Annabel, Miriam will probably warn you, but in case not ― watch  out for Venetia Bell. I don't trust her."
"Venetia Bell . . . sister of this Johnny ? But is she at Mount Olivet ?"
"No, at Carmel, the next estate, owned by the Bells. And she's not his sister, his sister-in-law, widow of Joseph Bell. Has one child by a former marriage. She's got her eye on Gideon ― and he's an innocent where women are concerned." With scarcely a break she said: "I do admire the way you've managed to travel lightly with regard to luggage. I suppose you're having more stuff sent on?" Gideon had come into the room.
Annabel shook her head. "If I decide to stay in New Zealand, yes."
Miss Mattie regarded her thoughtfully. "I think you'll stay, I think you'll lose your heart to Glenorchy.   Some women do."
Annabel thought her heart was already there.
But she didn't think Miss Mattie was completely omniscient. Not about Gideon Darroch. He didn't strike her as an innocent where women were concerned. More of a dark horse. And she wouldn't worry about this Venetia Bell. It might have been a different thing if she had been living at Mount Olivet. Gideon had told her their nearest neighbour was practically out of sight. And in any case, Venetia Bell was welcome to this coppery enigma of a man.

CHAPTER     FOUR
IT WAS like embarking for the sea voyage all over again, if on a minor scale. This was Friday, therefore stores day for all the lakeside sheep stations, and loading was still in process.
The captain wore the gold braid and uniform of the railways  -  this was a railways-owned ship  -  that brought goods up from Kingston at the bottom of the lake, where the railway from Invercargill ended. This graceful twin-screw steamer could take over a thousand passengers and in the height of the tourist season was crowded with people making a day trip, and it was beautifully fitted, with a huge lounge where comfortable padded seats were upholstered in pale blue leather.
The gangway came up, the siren blew ... and a woman hurtled out of a car without a goodbye to her driver, and made a spirited dash to the wharf. The crew put out a plank from the hold and she skipped nimbly aboard . . . "not the first time she's nearly missed it, " thought Annabel.
At Walter Peak they unloaded cargo and took aboard a whole stack of deer carcases freshly killed. Annabel turned her head away. Not more than three or four hours ago they had been full of the joy of life, graceful and proud . . . now they lay dripping blood, still, with glazed eyes that did not see mountain and sky.
Gideon surprised her by saying: "Pity, isn't it ? Yet we have to keep them down. It's not just a matter of the deer-cullers going out to keep their numbers down now and bringing out the skins. We've got very good markets for venison in the States and in Germany." He laughed. "Some of the men on the estate don't like going out with me. Occasionally I just watch them through the glasses, can't bear to bring them down."
So he wasn't all toughness. His outdoor life had just given him that hardbitten look.
Annabel's spirits began to soar. His unaccountable suspicions yesterday had dampened them. She mustn't pay too much attention, mustn't expect everyone to accept her as Miss Mattie had. It might have been just a niggling doubt at the back of his mind as to why any girl would suddenly decide to come out to this really remote area ― how remote she was just beginning to appreciate. It was scarcely possible that he could have any idea of why she had come.
And even if he had, why the slight animosity? Unless there had been some scandal, unless he feared she might upset people he liked and respected. But how could he? Well, she would go carefully. If it was going to be painful for anyone, she could pretend homesickness and go back to London.
Morning tea was served in relays in the spacious dining-room, and Annabel realised she had developed quite an appetite. The sandwiches were tasty, the scones deliriously fresh, the tea piping hot, and there was an adventurous tang to it all, with the spray swishing past the windows and the ship pitching a little in the trough of quite big waves as the wind rose.
When they came up on deck again the chiffon mists were thicker, barring the mountains, but leaving the peaks free.
"Storm coming ?" she asked.
"Just a bit of a blow . . . but it will be clear sunshine at Glenorchy."
Annabel thought that was probably local pride and might easily prove unjustified. Looking back at Ben Lomond, she saw huge clouds gathering, ready, she thought, to swoop down on the entire lake surface. At the stern the New Zealand flag streamed, back, deep blue, with a small Union Jack in one corner and four stars scattered on the blue.
What fascinating names . . . Pigeon, Pig, and Tree Islands, Refuge Point, Lake Dispute, Moke Creek, where copper was now being mined, Moonlight Creek, the Twenty-five Mile, Greenstone Station, then Elfin Bay where on terraces above the lake, red-and-white Herefords were grazing. An arm of the lake reached out here, thick with Australian gum-trees, and in an open river flat before the headland an air-sock was streaming for a landing strip. Back in the hills was the dark green impenetrable-looking native forest below the snow-line that was so clearly defined, it looked as if it had been ruled off. The hills were separated in some instances by huge shingle fans  -  treacherous terrain at mustering, Gideon told her  -  and with deep   gullies,   dry   now,   where   torrents would pour to fill the lake during winter and summer storms.
"It's snowing back in," said Gideon, pointing to a vast hinterland.
They came to Kinloch, the last call on the far side of the lake before they would go straight across to Glenorchy. Here, in water that was peacock-green, were men in berets ready to receive goods and a golden Labrador was running about. Two houses were visible, and a track led into the mountains and forest. The Estrellita, a launch, gleamed in scarlet against the green, and two buses were drawn up waiting for tourists to take them up the famous Routeburn Valley into great beech forests towering one hundred and twenty feet above them.
Annabel thought they'd never be done loading and unloading. There was even a car to come aboard. Then at last they reversed and headed across.
To Glenorchy. To Paradise. To Annabel would it be a homecoming ?
As they pulled away from the towering Humboldt Range, shafts of golden sunshine   split the   clouds,  the water turned more vividly blue ... a good omen, she thought.
By the time they reached the jetty, magic was stirring in her pulses . . . there before her lay the many-peaked Mount Earnslaw, the most beautiful mountain she had ever seen ... had her forebears known and loved it?
Gideon was still pointing out places . . . back on the Humboldt Range, the Kaiser's Helmet . . . the Seven Sisters that some folk called the Tooth Peaks . . . Bold Peak and right up beyond where the Rees and the Dart Rivers entered the Lake, the peaks of the Cosmos ... true end of the Southern Alps that ran like a great spine from the furthest tip north of the South Island, dividing the East Coast Provinces from Westland. There were other mighty mountains in the same line further south, but the Cosmos broke the chain.
Annabel, politely making responses, had no eyes for anything but Glenorchy. It was a wide valley and the dominant note was the yellow of tussock, with here and there patches of vivid green where there was cultivation.
Gideon noticed her absorption and began pointing out the local points . . . "See that big flat terrace ... a sort of plateau, below Mount Judah where the scheelite mines are?35 ― he looked at her sideways, but she didn't notice ― "Well, if you study it, you'll notice that it's cleft by a gully ― Kent Gully ― making it look just like an open Bible with the lower gilt edges towards you."
The woman who ran the dining-room on the steamer came up to say goodbye to Gideon and to wish Annabel well. "Come and see me in Queenstown some time," she said. "I live on Panorama Terrace. Gideon will bring you, or Miss Mattie."
At last they were on the long jetty, walking along the boards, and then ― momentous moment for Annabel, though Gideon Darroch was unaware ― she stepped on to the rough metalled road.
"My foot is on its native heath," she murmured to herself. She looked up at Gideon. "How do we get to Mount Olivet ? Do we take the tourist bus ?"
He   shook his head.   "It goes  only to Paradise. And they have lunch first." He jerked his thumb towards a row of cars. "The big Dodge is ours. I left it here before I came down. I'll just get your luggage off the trolley." It was being pushed along some railway lines to the end of the jetty by hand.
Tourists were piling on to the bus. Annabel said, as she caught sight of its destination sign, "Would it be possible for me to come here from Mount Olivet some time, and take that? I so want to see Paradise."
Gideon looked at her, rather searchingly. "I'd better let you get it out of your system, I think." He appeared to ponder. "Tell you what, I'll ring Mother at the Post Office and tell her we'll have lunch here and I'll run you up to Paradise. Then you'll have been as far as you can go."
Annabel felt she had to protest. But she was willing to be overruled. It was true enough, she'd settle better once she had seen Paradise. Till then it was remaining in her mind in tantalising doubt. She'd watch closely out of the windows for the mail boxes. They would probably be as far apart as the farms had been on the journey from Dunedin to Wanaka. Easy enough to catch a glimpse of the names.
It was .  .  . but how short a distance it seemed and how few and far between were the mail boxes. Never a sign of a Lee.
They were well ahead of the tourist bus ― didn't want their dust, Gideon said. The road was beautiful, with everywhere the silver shimmer of waters from creek and river ― though they called them burns here, not creeks like most other New Zealand places. A strongly Scots settlement. Annabel's hand closed on her travel-bag with a reassuring squeeze. That was where she had her little tartan bag, child's size, with the snap in it, her only link with her old life.
The only clue it afforded was that it was the MacMillan tartan, and even that needn't mean a thing. People with no Scots ancestry bought tartan bags for their children. The MacMillan tartan could be genuinely worn by the Baxters, the Bowns, the MacBaxters, and goodness knows how many others. And in any case it might have been her mother's tartan.
The road began to run through the Rees Valley, with a glorious plantation of pines and larches on the higher side, where once the school and the library and the Mission Hall that was used for a church by all the denominations in turn had once stood, till moved down to Glenorchy itself.
They dipped down towards the gateway to Paradise, climbed up the next hill and ran past the end of the road on to the green sward of an immense paddock above the Narrows, where the Dart forced itself through.
They got out and stood, in blazing sunshine that was so strong they had to shield their eyes against the glitter of the snows on peak after peak of mountains folding into the distance.
"You can only go further on foot on alpine tracks," said Gideon.
He named the peaks for her . . . Momus . . . Somnus . . . Nerius . . . Chaos . . . Poseidon . . . the Brideburn Icefields, blazing whitely against the burnished blue sky. Nearer at hand, just across from them, were the East and West Peaks of Earnslaw itself, and the mighty shoulders of it . . . Big Turret, Middle Turret, Little Turret. Annabel, strangely moved, felt as if the Great Designer must have sculptured Earnslaw lovingly, as a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. Here was a place for abiding, for eternal values,   for a  shedding  of all petty thoughts. She didn't care if it had been named for the Paradise ducks they had seen flying over Diamond Lake. It was Paradise, the Land of Heart's Desire. Annabel knew she had come home.
But if there had been Lees here, they had gone.
They called in at the Silver Valley Station, between lovely gates and English trees, to a hidden homestead that lay in a pool of sunlight, green and golden, and looked across to the Humboldt Range.
Gideon had a packet of books for Mrs. Silver that he'd brought from Miss Mattie.
Mrs. Silver fell on them with cries of joy. "Manna in the wilderness," said she. "I'm almost out of reading." She brought them in, insisted on a cup of tea, told Annabel she'd love it here.
"I do already," said Annabel, her eyes alight, as green and golden as the sun sifting through the trees outside.
Mrs. Silver got a couple of books from her own well-filled bookcases. "Gideon, you'll see Margot Templeton before I will, I guess ― I won't be down to the Head till next week, but Miriam said you would be on Monday. Give her these, will you ? And as you're passing perhaps you'd drop this in the Lees' mail box."
The most curious wave of feeling washed over Annabel. It was positively physical. She made an involuntary sound.
They both looked at her. She had to say something. "I didn't realise you had any Lees up here. There seemed to be a number on the way up ... at Cardrona Valley   and   that   monument   in   Ladies' Mile."
Mrs. Silver shook her head. "It's not even spelt the same way. This is L-e-i-g-h. Theirs   is   L-e-e.   Which  way   is   yours spelt ?"
Annabel had to control a shudder as disappointment succeeded the wave of joy. It had been plainly written on the snapshot L-e-e.
But when they were on their way back towards the Canaan Valley turn-off, hope began to revive. What if her name had been Leigh and her mother had scribbled it as Lee because of that poem ? There was still a faint chance.
Over the Rees River Bridge they turned left towards  a huge  cleft in the heights.
Half a mile up Gideon stopped at a mail box that said: “D. G. Leigh."
Annabel said in as casual a tone as she could manage,
"Is it Daniel ? Following the custom for Biblical names ?"
"No. David. David Gabriel. Though they had a son Daniel."
Her mouth was dry again.  "Had ?"
"Yes, they've had a sad life in many ways, though you wouldn't get a happier couple. They lost a son overseas ― Mark. In the war. And Dan died later ― in Dunedin. But their grandchildren come up here a lot."
"Grandchildren? Dan's children? Or was Mark married too ?"
"No, he was single when he went away."
"When he went away ? Do you mean he married over there?" Her heart was thudding painfully.
"No. The grandchildren are Dan's and Mary's. Mary, the daughter, lives in Dunedin. Dan had three little girls."
Annabel knew she must end the questions here, mustn't ask any more about Mark. She must wait for the rest of the story to unfold. No doubt Mrs.  Darroch, Gideon's   stepmother,   would  visit  here.
"Do they farm ?"
"No, he's got a scheelite mine. Quite a good one."
Annabel strained her eyes to see if she might see any sign of life about the house set back against the hill, some glimpse of someone who might  -  if dreams came true  -  be her grandmother or grandfather. She could hardly bear to leave it behind her.
They passed the Bell homestead, in a commanding position on Mount Carmel, and knew they were near Olivet. It, like Paradise House, was at the end of its road. Beyond that, just the mountains and the mountain torrents and burns.
They turned a corner ringed with the delicate green of spring larches and poplars, and swept between curving gateway walls of the colourful Wakatipu stone, lilac, faint rose, slatey-blue and silver-green, over rattling cattle stops, up the drive bordered with Douglas firs, towards Olivet House. Instead of driving up to the imposing front, they turned left and ran into a huge old stable-type building. "There's a short cut to  the  house   from  here,"   said   Gideon.
He came to a stop, switched off the engine and they were instantly aware of the most appalling din from above them.
They listened, aghast.
A child's voice, raucous with rage, bellowed, "He will so marry my mother ... you'll see, of course he will. And the Bell property is bigger than your place, see! Think you're the king of the castle round here, don't you! Of course he'll marry her. He's dying for that station. He's never liked the guest-house. Likes his home to himself. Mum said so. Besides, he's mad about her."
There was a wild rush of feet across the loft floor and a thud and a grunt that sounded as if someone had been winded. And another child's voice that jerked as it uttered, as if the owner of it was shaking someone.
"He will not, see, she's far too old. It wouldn't be romantic at all. My brother's crackers about this girl he's bringing out from England, see, he's absolutely batty about her. And my mother can't standyour mother, so Gideon wouldn't marry your mother. And the Bell property will never be yours. It will go to Johnny. He's bound to come home some day, when his heart's healed up. Even if your mother was married to Johnny's brother,Au aren't a Bell! Just take that!" Slap!
Gideon recovered, got out of the car, said grimly to Annabel, "I'll sort this out. The little fiends . . . would you mind scramming ? There'll be enough red faces . . . and sore bottoms ... in a moment, without a stranger witnessing their discomfiture. Walk slowly uphill and I'll catch you up. Don't go in till I catch up with you ― I don't want Mother to know a thing about it."

CHAPTER     FIVE
As Annabel got out of the door into the sunshine she heard him yell threateningly: "Becky! Lilian!" and start scrambling up the ladder.
She got out of earshot, tempted though she was to listen, and waited round the bend in the track, screened by the trees.
Presently she saw a flaxen-haired child start off in the direction of Mount Carmel, on a bicycle, and Gideon Darroch reappear, carrying two cases, but unaccompanied.
She felt most embarrassed. They couldn't have made worse timing.
His face was like a thundercloud.
She must treat it lightly. As he came up to her, she said laughingly, "The tender hearted Rebecca, I suppose ?"
To her great relief, he grinned. "Phew! Those brats! I admit that Lilian is a tantalising little devil, but I'm afraid Becky went in boots and all. Mattie’ll straighten her up next year. She must learn to control her fists. And not to let Lilian  -  a precocious brat if ever there was  one  -  get under her skin." He stopped, looked uncomfortable, and said: "I don't know where she got that idea from  -  about you, I mean. Don't let it bother you."
Annabel said dryly, "Oh, I'm quite sure you'll disabuse Becky's mind of that notion very promptly, Mr. Darroch. Nothing in your manner towards me would give me that idea."
He stood quite still and looked at her. Then he said reflectively: "It mightn't be a bad idea at that... if everyone thought just that. I mean if notions like the one Lilian mentioned are becoming common knowledge. I don't want it to get round  -  especially to old Mr. Bell. The situation is complicated enough as it is. Becky's idea might serve very well."
Annabel's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Well," she said finally, "of all the cool cheek! What makes you think I would play ball ? I have no wish to be caught up in anything like that. What would your mother think? She'd think I chased you clean across the world! It would put her against me to start with."
"It wouldn't, you know."
Annabel   sighed.    "I   don't  think  you know much about women. As far as their menfolk are concerned they're very wary."
"Not Miriam. Miriam is a born matchmaker. She and Dad were so happy she's dying to get me married off."
Annabel's tone was tart. "But not, presumably, to Venetia Bell."
He stared.  "Who told you her name was Venetia?"
Annabel felt her colour come up. But she would have to answer him. "Miss Mattie happened to mention it."
"Did she now ? In what connection, may I ask?"
"I forget. Just in passing."
His eyes were probing. "Miss Mattie doesn't like Venetia either."
Annabel said firmly: "Well, it's nothing to do with me. Don't involve me. Why don't you look upon it as just two silly kids fighting? Kids say ridiculous things. I ought to know, we had ninety-eight. You ought to ignore it."
His mouth twisted. "It came too close to the bone for comfort. All right. But remember, I can't help the construction people will put upon your coming here. Don't blame me for the ideas that get around."
Annabel said a little wearily, "I'll ignore them. A lot of things die a natural death if ignored. I'm here to assist your mother run the guest-house. I don't want any personal complications, thank you. And I will not be used."
Gideon Darroch picked up her suitcases and motioned her to precede him along the narrowing path.
Olivet House was breathtakingly beautiful. Someone in the long ago, homesick for England, must have designed this.
Even coming to it, as they were, from the side, it burst upon you with splendour.
It was stone, but not the cold grey of many stone houses; this was local to Olivet and had an almost ochre tinge that blended perfectly with the tussocky heights above it. It stood four-square to the elements and had a curious battlemented look, due, no doubt, to the fact that at each corner of the two-storey building, a square tower rose with a crenellated top. What views there would be from those towers!
It faced nor'-west and was therefore bathed in the gloriously dry sunshine, and every window sparkled. A flight of shallow curving steps rose from a formal garden where shrubs were carved into perfect shapes and . . . Annabel blinked because she didn't somehow quite believe it ... a peacock stood half-way up, his iridescent tail spread for the benefit of the peahen below, who was completely ignoring him.
It halted Annabel dead in her tracks. Gideon stopped and looked at her. She was no more aware of him in that moment than the peahen of her mate. Then she gave her head a little shake, said, "It's so darned unexpected .   .  . like walnuts in a lettuce salad!"
He said slowly, "Is it ? Is it really ? You know, I was under the impression you knew a good deal about this little old neck of the woods."
Annabel was amazed that the thudding of her heart wasn't echoed in her voice. She was proud of its steadiness as she answered lightly, with no hint of resentment or evasion. "Oh, I do. I borrowed quite a few books on the Southern Lakes before coming out here, but nothing prepared me for this magnificence. It's like finding a manor-house in Africa."
He grunted. And what the grunt meant, she had no idea. Then he said, "Well, I daresay some nostalgic English settler there may have built a replica of his former home as well as here  -  though it would hardly be suitable to the climate. This one is definitely English."
"And what about the Bells' homestead ?
Is it like this ?"
"Not really, though it's still Northern Hemisphere style. It's purely a sheep station, not a guest-house, but it's Scottish, not English, with crow-stepped gables. I believe that comes ― in Scotland ― from its former close association with France, when the Stuart dynasty was so closely connected there." He looked at her. "You wear an air of faint surprise, Miss Annabel Lee. We may live at the Antipodes, but we aren't barbarians, you know. Or uneducated."
Annabel said nothing, but began walking again.
How foolish she had been to imagine she could come here without arousing some suspicions. Anyone, evidently, could emigrate to Auckland or Wellington, Christ-church or Dunedin without arousing suspicion. Or to dozens of other towns, but this was so remote, it seemed fantastic to them.
Yet what could she have said or done to warrant suspicion? After all, her quest had roots that lay so far back in the past that it ought to have been forgotten. Or was there some reason why people here might dread the sudden reappearance of one they had never been sure was dead, and whose reappearance might mean trouble with an inheritance ?
They need not worry. If it was going to mean sorrow, or financial hardship for anyone, she would make no claim. Enough to know where her roots were. Anyway, there was definitely something wrong. She must go carefully. Even that scene ― or rather that overheard quarrel ― in the loft had been disturbing. There was something ugly about it. This place might appear an earthly Eden ... but there was evidently a serpent somewhere.
They didn't go up the steps where the lordly peacock strutted, they went round the side of the house to the back entrance.
As they came fully out of the trees Annabel could see that all along the length of the terrace on the far side from the stables were dotted cottages, with here and there a new-looking chalet among them.
Gideon said briefly, as one who must do the honours, "Those are for the summer visitors who like to cook for themselves. I rather wish they were the only kind we had. Mother gets worn out looking after the others."
They went on to a large concrete-floored veranda and in through a centre door that stood open. This was a back hall, with a narrow stair that went sideways up from it ― not the main staircase, she guessed. Gideon pushed open a door into a huge kitchen with his foot, seeing he had a case in each hand, and found no one there.
He dumped the cases down, went to a door at the far end, opened it and bellowed: "Mother ?" When there was no answer he went right through, calling repeatedly. Still no answer. She heard him run upstairs and call and run down again. In the kitchen he picked up a phone, pushed in a button, and said, "Aunt Nell? Mother there ? We've arrived."
A pause. Then, "How long ago did you hear her ride off? .   .   . What? Just after lunch? Then you'd think she'd be back, wouldn't you? I mean, expecting us. I'll bang the gong. That'll bring her. I'll bring our   new   arrival   over   after   she's   met Mother, Aunt Nell."
He said to Annabel, a line between the coppery brows, "She's gone off on Hector, her horse. She half lives in the saddle, of course, but it's strange she's been away so long."
Annabel said, hesitantly, "She ― she couldn't have been thrown, I suppose ? Oh, perhaps you think that's silly, when she's such a good horsewoman."
"No, I don't. It's always on the cards, one of the hazards. But it's not likely. Oh, she'll be back in a moment."
"You don't think she went right over to the Bells' place ? And stayed for a cup of tea ― you know how time gets away ?"
He said slowly, "She's not been over much of late. And I doubt if she would, knowing you were coming. Miriam's casual, but not as casual as that. She's fussed enough about a girl coming all that way alone as it is, sure you'll be homesick and a bit appalled at the isolation. Miriam's always putting out a wing  -  like a motherhen to gather in still another stray chick." His grin faded. "Some of her swans turn out geese, of course, that's why I'd hate to see her disillusioned once more."
Everything in Annabel made her want to jerk her head up, demand what he meant, assure him she would disillusion no one. But she didn't want to be asked outright if she had any other motive than the one she had given ― wanting to see this place called Paradise, wanting to satisfy a wanderlust ― because if she precipitated things, she had an idea this man, fiercely protective about the harmony of this tiny settlement at the Head-of-the-Lake, would bundle her straight back on the next steamer in two days' time. In fact, he might be so incensed, he would take her back to Queenstown over the new road.
So she said smoothly, "I'm sure you would. I expect you always hope you'll get really nice students to help with the summer boarders. And I'll do my best to supervise them and keep things running smoothly."
He looked at her sharply, but said no more.
The big double-oven range, a really old-fashioned black-leaded one, was glowing red between its bars, and a heavenly smell arose from the oven. Chicken, perhaps ?
Gideon Darroch seized an oven-cloth, opened the door, and had a look at it. "Duck," he said, with great satisfaction.
There were vegetables sitting round the birds and a bowl of soup was pushed to the back of the stove. Suddenly Gideon went through the hall and into a little room on the far side that seemed bathed in sunlight.
He beckoned Annabel in. "She's got afternoon tea set out here, I thought she might. Well, she won't be long. I'll take you up to your rooms. Come on."
He must mean room. But she was wrong. The bedroom she was shown into was a corner room, under one of the towers, and it faced down the way they had come, to the Head-of-the-Lake that lay, sapphire flecked with silver, beneath the carved heights of the Humboldt Range, and from one corner of the room a tiny staircase in white wrought iron led to the tower.
Gideon said casually,   "Mother thought you'd like the wee tower for a sitting-room ― said when you lived at the place you worked at you needed a retreat of your own."
Annabel blinked and turned away swiftly. A place of her own . . . something she'd never had. At least not one place to sleep and another to read and sew in. Well, at least she was going to like Miriam Darroch. She got control of herself, turned, and was about to voice appreciation when she became aware that Gideon Darroch had stiffened and was listening.
He gave an exclamation and suddenly dashed up the narrow stairs. Annabel was too startled and puzzled to follow him. It was beyond her.
The next moment he was racing down, the bronzed face oddly whitish. "Thought so . . . thought that didn't sound like a horse being ridden. It's Hector, and his saddle's gone!" He gulped. "For the girth to be snapped, he must have been over a cliff or something. My God, what's happened to Miriam ?"
He raced out, Annabel after him, and charged down the back stairs.
They fled across the veranda, through a gate and out towards a white-railed paddock where a chestnut horse was racing up and down trying to get in.
Gideon seemed only to take seconds to catch him, hold him, speak a soothing word or two, open the gate and let him in.
He said to Annabel: "The first cottage over there is Aunt Nell's. Don't be too dramatic telling her, but you'll have to let her know I think Miriam's been thrown. Tell her Hector came from the direction of Hell's Gully and to alert the Bells  -  Old Bell and Venetia and the men will start out immediately from their end ― and I'm off from this. Tell Aunt Nell to contact the district nurse to stand ready in case Miriam's injured ― we'll let her know as soon as she's found. Aunt Nell will know what to do and what to have ready at the house.  I'm off."
Annabel, in a fleeting glance over her shoulder, saw him mount  -  bare-backed  -  a chestnut with four white feet and a white blaze on its nose, and take off.
She found her way through various gates and up to a cottage she had no difficulty in identifying, as not only was it the first, but there was smoke coming from a chimney and its door was standing open to the sweet mountain air.
As Annabel unlatched the gate into the old-world garden she was incapable of appreciating, out came Aunt Nell.
It didn't matter, after all, how Annabel broke it. Aunt Nell said: "Miriam's been thrown, has she ?"
Annabel stared.
The little old lady said: "I was up in the dormer. I saw Gideon going hell-for-leather, bareback, and Hector charging round. I'll get the Bells," and she disappeared inside with Annabel following.
Within seconds Annabel had decided that here was no frail little old lady. Aunt Nell was as tough as a nut, a real high-countrywoman. She guessed she was probably a great-aunt of Gideon's, and a contemporary of old Mr. Bell's.
"Luke, it's Nell. Miriam's been thrown. Gideon's gone up towards Hell's Gully. You and your crowd go from that end. Right. Goodbye."
She turned round to Annabel. "Back we go to the homestead. We'll alert the district nurse from there. I want to be there in case any other homesteader rings to say they've found Miriam. She may not be where they think. Hector could have jumped any amount offences to get home. And where's Rebecca ?"
Annabel, keeping up with Aunt Nell's short, quick strides, panted out: "She was in the stable-loft when we got home. She hadn't come to the house yet."
Aunt Nell, striding on, said, "Strange. The gong went. That means everyone come but me. Why didn't she come ?"
Annabel said weakly, "Perhaps she felt shy with a stranger about."
Aunt Nell gave a snort. "Shy? That child ? No, whatever reason she had for not putting in an appearance, it wasn't that. Doesn't know the meaning of the word. But as a rule she's not disobedient, whatever else her faults."
But as they came on to the veranda, Rebecca met them. Hair like Gideon's, though hers was copper, where his was chestnut. But her eyes were darkly blue and her brows and lashes almost black, even if it wasn't till later that Annabel took all this in.
She appeared squarely in their path, legs braced apart, defiance in every inch of her.
"Where's Mum ? What's happened to her ? No nonsense about telling me. Where is she ? Hector's back ... without his saddle."
Aunt Nell did no dodging. "She may have been thrown. But she's probably unhurt and just trudging home. She aye falls soft, that one." She thrust Rebecca out of her way and got to the phone, to contact the district nurse at Glenorchy.
When she had done she looked out of the window and said: "Hector's calming down. Rebecca, you go out there and soothe him. Look at his knees and see if he's been down, or any other signs of injury. I daresay Gideon looked ― to give him a clue as to where she'd been ― but it won't hurt to work it out for ourselves."
Rebecca wasted no time and reported back that his knees were all right, but one side was scratched. "Looked to me as if something tore the girth off. How could that be, Aunt Nell ? It didn't look to me as if he'd scraped up against a gully side  -  there'd be traces of rock dust if he had. Could Mum have let Hector get away with her, and a low branch have caught the girth and bust it ? But they're so tough."
Aunt Nell said: "If it did, then Miriam's leg would be injured. Better than her head. Rebecca, where're you going ?"
Rebecca folded her lips in till they were invisible and just looked at her aunt. Then she said in a level tone that held only a determination, not impertinence, "You can't stop me, you know. I'm off to look for my mother."
Aunt Nell recognised the immovable force, she simply said, "Well, saddle up tightly ... no excuse for careless haste . . . and no jumping places you can't see over. And keep to the high ridges, you'll likely see her better from them. She may be limping home."
She turned to Annabel. "Better for her to be in action. It's the waiting that kills."
That wasn't imagination, it was knowledge. Aunt Nell had waited before. The hardest part.
They kept extra kettles boiling, got out a stretcher, put blankets on the rack above the range, filled hotties.
"We hope we won't be using them," said the old lady, "but we mustn't be caught napping. I'll gladly waste the effort if Miriam is safe."
She lifted a teapot and began rinsing it.
"We'll have our tea while we're waiting for them."
Annabel swallowed. "I  -  I don't think I feel like any."
Aunt Nell pushed her pepper-and-salt hair back off her forehead and took a hairpin out of her little topknot and skewered it in. She twinkled. "Whether it's a false alarm or not, we'll be the better for a cup of tea and something to stay our stomachs. Sit you down on that form, lassie, and I'll be pouring it out."
Annabel meekly sat. Aunt Nell bustled across the back passage to the little room and brought back the laden plates. Annabel felt her eyes mist over as she saw the Scots pancakes (which Aunt Nell referred to as pikelets) spread with raspberry jam and topped with cream, the chicken sandwiches, the asparagus rolls, the lemon honey tartlets that Miriam Darroch had prepared for her.
Aunt Nell saw the tears, leaned across and patted her hand. "Dinna you fash yourself, lassie. I've seen a lot of this sort of thing in my lifetime in the high country. We'll meet it when it comes."
All of a sudden the smile faded and she jumped up and went into still another room across the hall and came back a little tighter and blanched about the face.
She said slowly, "She took a rifle with her." Then almost to herself, "But it would never be Miriam to be careless with one. The way she dins it into everyone to keep the safety-catch on." She paused, her greenish eyes looking unseeingly out of the window. "Come to think of it, I did hear a couple of shots, but I thought it would be the men over at Bells'. It was in that direction, so maybe they've been wise going that way."
At that moment they heard hooves and rushed out on to the veranda. Rebecca, her pony-tail flying, her mare's mane streaming out. Annabel's heart was in her mouth, but the little girl took the fence perfectly and rode up to them, her face white but with a spot of scarlet on each cheekbone.
She seemed to slide off at the very moment she pulled the mare up.
"She's alive but hurt. This side of Sawtooth Grag.   Gideon reached her first and she was out to it then, but she came round just as I got there.  She's got a cut face and seems to have  split her shoulder, but we don't think there  are  any bones broken."
Tears began to roll down Aunt Nell's furrowed cheeks.  "And we're to do what ?"
"Bring the Land-Rover. Come on!"
Rebecca turned her mare into the paddock and she and Aunt Nell began to pick up the stretcher. The child said: "If she's too bad to sit in the cab she can go in the back."
Annabel said: "But who's going to drive the Land-Rover ? I can drive a car, but  -  "
Aunt Nell said calmly, "I'll drive it. If not Becky would. Naturally she doesn't have a licence so she isn't allowed out on the roads, but it's necessary here for anyone to be ready to drive the Rover and the tractors."
They got in with a minimum of fuss. Annabel hesitated. "I would like to come, to help, but perhaps you'll need the room."
Rebecca, strangely adult, said decidedly, "No, you come. You and I can ride back on the tray with Mother, if she's to come back that way. We can hold her against the jolting."
To Annabel it was a hair-raising ride. She didn't think the others even gave it a thought.
They left the fenced paddocks and bore towards a creek bed, which made a natural boundary, Annabel guessed, because one bank was higher than the other. They came to a part where the gully widened and the track became more defined where another one, from Bells', Aunt Nell said briefly, joined it. They bumped along over the stones that had worked up through the tracks, skirted a stand of magnificent native beech trees and swung round under some rocks, took a steep rise and came out on to a ridge under some rocks, jagged and ugly, and there was a group of people.
Rebecca said: "That woman's there! I might have known."
There were two other men beside Gideon, one a tall, broad man with a head, leonine-shaped, of silver hair, the other evidently a farm hand. And Venetia Bell, trim, in a yellow jersey over a cream shirt, wearing fawn gaberdine jodhpurs and with a riding crop in her hand. She turned her face towards them and Annabel had an impression of a flawless complexion, dark eyes and straight black hair drawn back from an exquisite profile.
But it was only a fleeting glance; Annabel's eyes were searching the figure on the ground. Miriam Darroch was lying back on a rolled-up jacket  -  Gideon's  -  and two other jackets were spread beneath her body. Her nut-brown hair was tumbled down to her shoulders. Gideon was holding a handkerchief against one cheek, but she was smiling, though her face was robbed of colour.
"Nice welcome, Annabel," she said. "Believe me, we don't often have accidents like this."
They all three knelt down. Annabel said hurriedly, "Never mind about the welcome, Mrs. Darroch, thank goodness you're not too badly hurt."
Aunt Nell was talking to Gideon, asking about the extent of the injuries. Miriam Darroch winced as Gideon took the handkerchief away. But only because it was sticking to the wound, she hastened to tell them. It looked nasty but wasn't deep or gaping, more a deep scratch.
Gideon said: "We'll leave the shoulder till we get her home. She's incredibly lucky not to have broken any bones."
Miriam nodded. "Well, you know what I am, always fall softly. Like india-rubber.
I think Hector must have put his foot in a hole because suddenly I lurched  -  so he must have  -  and I think my left foot shot out of the stirrup, and as I realised I was going over his shoulder, not his head, I kicked my foot free and sort of let myself go with it. But I must have struck my head on that rock because I knew no more. I saw my rifle not far away and the saddle, so the girth must have broken. Reckoned you'd all come looking when Hector made it back to Olivet, and decided I'd crawl and get the rifle  -  and bless me if I didn't pass out before I could get to it. I suppose it was shock, plus the pain in the ankle. I had planned on waiting till I thought Hec would have got there  -  and would then fire the rifle three times in succession to guide you here. Though I did think there might be only Aunt Nell and Rebecca home. And then  -  "
Gideon gave her a smile of a quality Annabel had never seen on his face before. It was all love and amusement. "Now, Mother, it's all very interesting, and like everything else, you'll probably get quite a kick out of your adventure in the long run, but would you hold your  wheesht  long enough, pet, to get you into the back of the Rover ? I know you could sit, but as far as that shoulder is concerned, you'll be better lying."
Rebecca spoke very quickly. "Mrs. Bell, perhaps you'd bring Gideon's horse back to the house, would you? I've asked Annabel to ride in the back of the Rover with us. That's why I asked her to come."
Venetia Bell said easily, "Why, of course, Rebecca, just whatever I can do to help, I will."
Annabel noticed Miriam bit her lip when they lifted her and lost her colour, but she looked better immediately they got her on to the tray of the Rover. Gideon drove this time, much more carefully and slowly than Aunt Nell had.
They took her straight on to the day bed in the kitchen that Aunt Nell had prepared. Annabel helped Aunt Nell remove Miriam's jacket and shirt while Gideon rang the district nurse. Aunt Nell said: "We'll put a pad on her shoulder till she comes. Meanwhile, a cup of tea, and a little scrap of bread and butter."
They heard horses, then voices outside and in came Venetia and Mr. Bell and the hand, who proved to be Douglas Farrier.
Gideon took one look at Rebecca's face and said, very hastily, "Look, there's some tea set out in the little room. How about going in there and helping yourself? Mother looks all in now."
Venetia said sweetly, "Of course, Gideon. And you come and have some too  -  I wager you're the only one who hasn't had one."
"No, thanks ― I've things to attend to."
Venetia went across to Miriam. "Mrs. Darroch, you know you can rely on me all you need to. Don't worry about this happening the moment Miss Lee has got here ... I know it can be awkward with a stranger staying, and Aunt Nell not up to doing very much, but I know Mr. Bell would spare me for a day or two, till you're fit enough to take over the reins."
Rebecca got as far as: "Aunt Nell not up to things ? Why, she ― she can run rings round people a quarter of her age. And even act as fleecy in the shed if need ― " Her half-brother's hand came over her mouth.
"Okay, Rebecca, let the grown-ups get a word in  -  it's   sweet  of you,   Venetia, but we can manage fine. It would be much more difficult at Bells' without you there. But we appreciate the offer."
Miriam's eyes suddenly took on the guilelessness of Rebecca's, "And it's not like having guests arriving, Venetia . . . Annabel's going to be a spare part of the family's. A permanent fixture. She'll find her way round the kitchen much better than with me breathing down her neck all the time."
Venetia turned with a smile to Annabel. "Well, if you want to know anything, just give me a ring. Or if you want any help. And don't worry one bit."
"Worry?" Annabel looked puzzled. "You mean about the cooking? Oh, I'm used to it. I cooked for an orphanage."
"No, I didn't mean that. I just mean not to reproach yourself in any way."
They all stared.
Venetia said, "I  -  I just meant not to worry about getting here late. I thought you might be sorry thinking that if only you'd got home for lunch, as Gideon had arranged, Miriam might not have gone off on Hector."
Annabel felt the colour run up into her face.    "Oh,   it  hadn't   occurred  to   me."
Venetia smiled sweetly. "Well, it was only natural you wanted to see Paradise. Don't give it another thought."
Miriam opened her eyes. "She didn't need to give it any in the first place. A letter for you, Venetia, had got into our bundle. It's in the pocket of my jacket. That's why I took Hector out. When I got so far, I realised the keas were striking again up in Hell's Gully, so I came back for my rifle. I got the two of them, thank goodness."
Annabel was glad when they had the house to themselves when the district nurse arrived to dress the wounds. She prescribed quietness for Miriam and two to three days in bed.
To Gideon, privately, she said his stepmother might be wise to go down to Queenstown later for an X-ray. "You never know, with an injury to the head. Though I mink she's all right, really."
Aunt Nell bustled round, got a bowl of potatoes and set Annabel to peeling them. "You'll feel more part of the place with something to do." And to Rebecca, "Pod those peas,  and then get out to feed the fowls. Miriam, what had you in mind for a pudding ?"
"I made it this morning; just wants heating up." Miriam stretched a little gingerly. "I don't think I'm too bad. I'm very tough and resilient. I'll probably be up and doing tomorrow."
"You will not, Mother," said Gideon, bringing in an armful of rough-barked manuka logs and piling them on the rack. "You're definitely there for a couple of days or so. It's a golden opportunity, with Annabel here, for you to have a break  -  and no guests for a fortnight." He turned to Annabel. "We usually have a break about now and Mother thought it a good idea to have it your first two weeks. You'll get into the running."
Miriam said: "I'd planned to show you round. I had a feeling in my bones you'd be a kindred spirit. And so you are."
Gideon burst out laughing. "My dear naive stepmamma! How could you possibly know as soon as this ?"
Miriam gazed at him reflectively from her pillows. "I know that's not a question, but I'll answer it just the same, my lad! There  are things we just do know.   We can't tot them up like a sum, but they're just as concrete just the same! Annabel belongs to the 'race-that-knows-Joseph' just as surely as Venetia doesn't."
Gideon's face darkened. Annabel, watching, thought: "She's got him on a sore spot. It doesn't do to criticise a woman that a man has a fondness for."
Gideon swung round on Rebecca. "Run up to my room and see if I've left my pipe up there, will you ?"
Rebecca got outside the door and Gideon said, "Mother, I think it's time you  -  "
He got no further. Rebecca came back in with a rush. "Gideon, it can't be upstairs ― you've not got as far as your room yet ― your suitcase is here in the passage. What did you want to get rid of me for ?" Two saucy dimples flashed out. "I think, you know," she said to Annabel, "he's about to say to Mum: 'It's time we were a little more guarded in what we say in front of Rebecca. She's carrying candour a little too far!' " The blue eyes, so like her mother's, gleamed fun.
Annabel expected an explosion. But Gideon laughed and for a moment he looked very like his little sister. Those lean cheeks could never harbour dimples, but every crease deepened and the crowsfeet at the corners of his eyes widened.
"Rebecca, candour is very fine. We can pride ourselves on not being evasive, on calling a spade a spade, but we still have to have regard for other people's feelings. And just because Lilian was a silly little girl you didn't have to fight back with the same weapons. Neither of you can forecast the future of adults ― and if you can't hold your tongues, you'd better keep away from each other. I want no ill-feeling between Carmel and Olivet."
Unexpectedly Miriam ranged herself alongside Gideon. "I don't know what all this is about, my chick," she said to Rebecca, "and it sounds to me as if Gideon will keep his own counsel, but if you were so sure of what he was going to say, I realise that if I don't want mischief made, I'd better watch my words. Only it's tiresome to have to do it in the bosom of the family, Becky, and I've talked freely in front of you because I thought you had enough sense not to repeat it. But if you haven't, then we'll have to stop treating you as if you were an adult."
Rebecca took no offence. She grinned. "It's okay, Mum, I've got it all out of my system. Lilian knows my views on ― " she caught Gideon's eye and hastily amended it, "Lilian knows where I stand. So it won't just burst out of me again."
Miriam half sat up.   "What burst out of you?"
Gideon said hastily, "The fact that Rebecca doesn't like Venetia. Now shut up, Rebecca. Topic's closed."
It was quite evident he didn't want Miriam to know Rebecca had said her mother couldn't stand Lilian's mother, and dead sure he wanted no hint of the cause of the quarrel to leak out. The fact that Lilian had said Gideon was going to marry her mother.

CHAPTER     SIX
AFTER dinner Miriam said in a flat tone, "I did so want to see Annabel's face when she saw her little tower."
Gideon looked at her. "Well, if you like to lean on the two of us, you can come up while she gets her first peep at it. We got no further than her bedroom  -  when I heard Hector. But don't put too much weight on that foot."
Annabel realised that Gideon Darroch might be a headstrong, enigmatical man, but Miriam, his stepmother, was the chink in his armour. Or had been till now. But the love a man had for his mother couldn't stand against the enchantment and power a woman like Venetia could exercise.
They came up into the bedroom, Miriam between them, and with Aunt Nell and Rebecca bringing up the rear.
Gideon grinned, "Quite a retinue! This is the Darroch way of doing things. Never knew a family like them! It's all for one and one for all."
Aunt   Nell    said   from   behind   them,
"There was another family like them. But not now. The Bells. Now, the Bells are divided. And always will be divided while that woman and her daughter stay there."
Gideon groaned. "Et tu Brute I" he quoted. "Aunt Nell, enough bricks get dropped round here without you joining in. Everyone's done more harm than good by persistently regarding Venetia as an interloper. She was, after all, Joe's wife. If she had had a youngster by Joe, everyone would have accepted her. Or even if she had lived there with Joe. If he had lived longer she'd have been accepted as one of the family. And at least she's made a good housekeeper."
Aunt Nell snorted. "But not a home-maker. And she's keeping Johnny Bell away."
Annabel felt Miriam grow rigid. Going three abreast up the stairs forced them close.   Gideon looked swiftly  at Miriam.
"Ankle sore ?"
"No."   Miriam's   tone   was   light,   too light.    "Actually   the   ankle   is   scarcely hurting at all. I'll take the wee stairs on my own. My shoulder is hurting, that's all." Annabel thought it was strange that she herself should be so sure that that sudden rigidity, that flinching, had nothing whatever to do with any physical pain.
They let Miriam take her way carefully up the little staircase, saving her ankle, with Annabel close behind.
The tower room was square, with four windows. One faced down to the lake, purple with dusk, one looked to Earnslaw, with its twin peaks now hidden in mist, one looked across to ranges Annabel would come to identify in time to come, and one held a perfectly centred view of Stoney Peak above Glenorchy township. More lilac scented the air.
Miriam said softly: "That's the view I get from my bedroom window ― it's next to yours, Annabel. There's never anything more beautiful to me than the moon rising over my Old Stoney!"
Annabel gazed round the little room. Hers, all hers, in a way no other room had ever been. There was an old-fashioned warm red Persian carpet on the floor, a couple of shabby, deep armchairs, an electric heater, bookcases wedged into the tall narrow space between the  windows, and beneath two of the windows, cunningly contrived seats. There were books old and new on the shelves, and a work-basket swung on a tripod frame, just the thing to hold one's sewing and bring near to one's armchair.
Annabel swung from one corner to the other, drinking it in, then became aware they were all waiting for her first comment. Miriam Darroch's eyes were fixed on her, confidently, eagerly.
Annabel felt as if she spoke to her alone. "All I can say," she said, and there was a shake in her voice, "the only thing that fits this is: 'All this . . . and Heaven too!' Mrs. Darroch, I  - " and got no further.
"Oh, bless you," said Miriam, "this is just how we wanted you to feel. Gideon, you're much more clever than I thought you were, choosing us a girl like Annabel."
Gideon laughed with the others, but Annabel, of them all, knew he had his reservations about his choice. Reservations that hadn't been there, she was sure, when he had engaged her. Then his only doubts had been, would she be able to stand the solitude.
Miriam's    eyes     suddenly    narrowed. "Why, Annabel, looking at you like that, you   remind   me    strongly    of  someone. Aren't    chance    likenesses    the    oddest things?   It's   something   about your eyes, I think."
Annabel laughed, to cover up her feelings. "Now don't tell me anyone else here has my mustard pickle eyes!"
Miriam looked amazed. "Mustard pickle ? What a dreadful thing to compare them to. They're hazel. . . yellowish-green hazel."
Annabel chuckled. "It was meant to be a compliment. One of the orphans. She would have lived on mustard pickle had we allowed her to. But we must go down, Mrs. Darroch, to get you off this foot  -  or would you like to go to bed now ?"
"No, thanks all the same ― but I can't bear to miss anything. Though I'll go early ― about half past nine."
When Annabel found there were twin beds in Mrs. Darroch's room she decided to sleep there in case Miriam felt worse through the night. She looked up to find Gideon's eye on her. An approving eye. He said to her later:   "Thank you.  I don't want to make too much of it, but there is such a thing as delayed concussion, that might get her during the night. And she may become very stiff and sore."
Miriam Darroch vowed it took a lot to keep her awake and that she'd sleep as usual, like atop. But she didn't.
Annabel was lying awake herself, her thoughts milling ceaselessly round all that had happened this last two days. Wondering were the Leighs related to her. Wondering whom she reminded Miriam Darroch of. Would she ever remember, unprompted ? Wondering what had prompted Gideon's distrust. And if Miriam Darroch ever did pinpoint the likeness, would it mean anything ? Probably not.
When Annabel was certain that Miriam's restlessness was an awake one and not the restlessness of uneasy slumber, she said softly, "Mrs. Darroch, shall I put the light on? I'm so wide awake myself. It's the strangeness, I suppose."
Miriam was happy about it. "I'm beginning to find out the sore spots. Every muscle is aching. And I keep thinking how strange for a girth to snap. Though that's silly. It did snap and that's all there is to it.
And thank goodness it was me and not Rebecca. I think I'll read for a bit. Don't try to stay awake, though, Annabel. If you drop off, I'll read till I feel sleepy and then turn the light orf. But first of all, since this is a grand opportunity for uninterrupted chatting, tell me something about yourself ― at least about the bits you want to."
Annabel stuck to the foundling story and because Miriam evidently felt it might evoke painful thoughts, she allowed her to skim over her early years very quickly.
"It was a marvellous orphanage," said Annabel. "We were given every opportunity possible. Not that we didn't miss some things, but we were loved, even if we didn't belong."
Miriam said: "Yet you left it all and travelled thirteen thousand miles here to start a new life that's really different."
Annabel said lightly, regretting that confidence, "Yes . . . well, we all change. I felt that way at nineteen, but later I felt I wanted to get out of the rut."
An hour later Annabel, still wide awake, noticed that Miriam had at last fallen asleep.   She slid out of her own bed, very quietly, and gently slid Miriam's book out from under her cheek. She looked down on the sleeping woman ... the nut-brown hair was spread out on the pillow, and her lashes were thick straight fans on cheeks that hadn't lost their youthful bloom, and her mouth, in sleep, had a full, passionate curve. Her nightgown was a deep rose nylon, a young, frivolous, extremely feminine garment.
And this woman had tightened up when Johnny Bell's name was mentioned . . . Miss Mattie had said that Johnny Bell was a stubborn man, and had added teasingly that Gideon could go along and do Johnny's proposing for him. Why wouldn't this Johnny do it for himself? The Bells were a queer family. Venetia wasn't the type for Glenorchy . . . she was sultry and sophisticated and . . . and something less than straightforward. Not a mountain type at all. The mountains demanded an integrity. Annabel was sure Venetia didn't have it. Miriam disliked her. Rebecca had said so. Well, she wasn't a woman's woman. But she was very much a man's woman and Gideon Darroch would have nothing said against her.
Annabel climbed back into bed, her mind still active, sure she'd see the dawn come in, but the long and difficult day finally took its toll and she dropped into dreamless slumbers.
She woke to find Rebecca, in slippers and dressing-gown standing over her with a tray of tea. Annabel was aghast. "I should be doing this, Rebecca!" she exclaimed remorsefully.
Rebecca giggled. "Gideon is taking a firm hand with me from now on. He has said so. It never lasts, of course. It's a heavenly day, Annabel. We'll go out on the horses this afternoon and I'll show you over the place."
Annabel  looked  startled.   "But  I  can't ride."
Rebecca's eyes widened. "Not at all . . . not ever?" Then, "Gosh, what you've missed. Never mind, we'll soon teach you. You'll miss a lot otherwise."
Annabel hoped she didn't look as scared as she felt.
Miriam turned on her back, stretched, said, "Ouch!" Then laughed and said: "Good morning, my children." It gave Annabel a warm feeling of belonging.
Then Miriam added firmly: "You aren't rushing Annabel into anything, there's all the time in the world. I'm not having either you or Gideon having her chasing half-wild steers up rock-strewn gullies or anything. Well, I'm a bit more sore than last night, but I'm coming downstairs. I'll have a bath and then get dressed. I'll rest on the couch if that will satisfy everyone."
Annabel,    sipping   the   hot   tea,    said, "Rebecca, if you'd help your mother with the  bath,   I'll   dash   down   and   start  the breakfast."
"Oh, it's okay. Don't worry. Gideon's got the porridge on. I'll help him. You help Mum."
Miriam laughed at the look on Annabel's face. "We aren't expecting you to get straight into harness, you know. And I would be glad of your help."
But she found it too awkward to get into her clothes and had to content herself with a dressing-gown. By the time they got downstairs Gideon was serving the breakfast. Annabel felt at a disadvantage. But Miriam dispelled that by forestalling any frown of censure, saying: "I told Annabel I'd rather have her help me than cook the breakfast. You're a good cook, Gideon, but you're a mighty poor nurse."
Annabel looked in dismay at her plate. "I just couldn't . . . after that huge bowl of porridge."
"Oh, rubbish, girl. You will up here. You'll develop a mountain appetite."
"Well, take one sausage back."
He did, and she found to her amazement that the rasher of bacon, the egg and the fried-up vegetables did disappear. Aunt Nell, it appeared, never came over for breakfast or lunch. She always had dinner with them.
"She loves her little cottage," said Miriam. "You see she used to keep house for old Mr. Bell till Venetia and Lilian came. There's not room for two women in a kitchen  -  at least not if they're both used to having their own way, and old Mr. Bell afraid of offending either of them."
Annabel saw with amusement ― and a little sympathy ― Rebecca absolutely rein in the words she was dying to interject. She probably wanted to fly to Aunt Nell's defence but didn't dare, with Gideon there.
Gideon said: "Mother, did you notice Hector behaving peculiarly yesterday  -  I mean after you saddled him ? Did you come back into the house at all  -  and might he, for some reason, have tried to rub his saddle off? It's not likely, he's never done it  -  but his side is very rubbed."
Miriam looked thoughtful. "That was the second time I was on him. I saw Venetia go orf to Glenorchy earlier, in the car ― so I took the opportunity to go over. Mr. Bell had a letter from Johnny on Wednesday and he always reads them to me. And when I came back I left Hector saddled in case there was any sign of the keas attacking the sheep again. Do you think he might have rubbed up against a post or something ― and caught one of the holes on a nail-head and ripped it when he pulled away ?"
Gideon said: "It's the only explanation, isn't it ? It had broken at a hole. Well, it will make us more careful in future."
He   paused,   added:  ccNow,   will   you promise to rest, Mother? I won't go off with an easy mind unless you do. It won't be fair to Annabel and Rebecca unless you stay put on that divan."
Miriam's dark blue eyes laughed up at her stepson.   "Very cunning, my Gideon.
But I will promise. I'm sure Annabel will find her way round. Isn't it heavenly to think no guests for three weeks ? Cheerio, Gideon."
He turned at the doorway, the bronzed aquiline face silhouetted against the cobalt patch of blue sky it framed, and he grinned, "You're dying to get rid of me, aren't you, so that you no longer have to censor your conversation. If I were you, Mother, I'd let Annabel form her own opinions of the people around here. We can't all like the same people, you know, or see the same faults and virtues in them. There is something to be said for taking people as you find them."
Miriam sounded cross when she spoke after he'd vanished from sight. "Men have a knack of putting women in the wrong. Now I'll feel a gossip if I put you wise about Venetia. A plague on Gideon!"
Annabel said lightly, "I've heard  -  and seen  -  enough to make me very wary of her, Mrs. Darroch." She smiled in a way that loosened up Miriam's frown immediately. "And there are more pleasant topics. It's such a well-named place ... a real Eden."
"Even Eden had a serpent/' muttered Rebecca with relish.
"Rebecca!" warned her mother. "You'd better cut it out. It's getting to be a habit with you, and Gideon doesn't like it. And you know what Gideon is . . . he'd find an excuse for the very devil himself! He'd probably think Old Nick hadn't been brought up right!" And Rebecca and her mother laughed with real mirth.
Annabel hadn't much time to dwell on the things that teased her mind. Just as well. Otherwise she would have made too much of them, she knew. After all, Gideon's affairs of the heart had nothing to do with her. She was out here with but one purpose in mind ― to find her father's people. With luck, even her father himself. Just the same, she was going to play fair with Miriam Darroch. She was determined to give her good service, to really earn her money, and to make Miriam's life, in the busy tourist season ahead, a little easier.
Rebecca had told her something of the family now. Her father, Peter Darroch, had carried on with the guest-house after his young wife died, because staff, in those days, were a little easier to obtain and to keep. When the school bus had made it possible for him to go to the Glenorchy school, the little Gideon had formed a strong attachment for his teacher, Miriam Gray, who had been born and brought up, in her early years, at Glenorchy, as the daughter of the postmaster. She'd never ceased to be nostalgic for the Head-of-the-Lake when her father had moved on, and always came back for holidays right through her training college days.
Gideon's father had fallen deeply in love with her, but had thought himself too old. "Mum admits she did her utmost to egg him on," said Rebecca, "but it wasn't till Gideon took a hand that they got things sorted out. Mother said that she was just wondering how to reply to Gideon when he had planted himself squarely in front of her and said, 'But would you marry Dad if he asked you ?' then she looked up and saw Dad in the classroom doorway ― this was after school.
"She went all colours of the rainbow, but said she couldn't quite hide her confusion. And Dad gave Gideon money for a chocolate ice-cream and he rushed over to the store  -  and by the time he'd finished it and got back, Dad and Mum were engaged. Then they had Beulah and Tim and Paul. And they thought that was all. I was an afterthought."
Annabel hid a smile. She put an arm round Rebecca's shoulders and said: "The very nicest sort of afterthought, I'm sure."
Rebecca said solemnly, "I don't know. I'm not always nice. I try to be, but my temper trips me up. I want to be nice, Annabel, but I hate pretending I like people  when  I   don't.   How  do you  feel about that?"
Annabel said slowly, "It's difficult. I find it hard to hide my feelings sometimes. I do try to reason with myself, though. Ask myself what makes people behave like they sometimes do ― very shabbily. I tell myself they're like snappy dogs . . . they've been teased, or beaten. So they cringe, or snarl."
Rebecca heaved a sigh and looked rueful. "That sounds good  -  but it's awfully hard to do, Annabel. Gideon talks like that  -  but Mum says he carries the thing to extremes. That some virtues can almost become faults."
Annabel   kept   a   straight   face.    Only children, or children that came a long time after the others, were so much with grown-ups that they did talk in an adult fashion.
Rebecca went on, "But I've told him I just can't stand Mrs. Bell and that's all there is to it."
Annabel said seriously, "Rebecca, you mustn't let your feelings run away with you. Mrs. Bell hasn't had an easy life, evidently. After all, Lilian's father died in Australia. Then Joe Bell married her and he died so soon after the marriage. I don't suppose it was easy for her, after a city like Sydney, to come up here, but she had a little girl to support, you know. And I think you make the situation a bit difficult for Gideon. No man can be outspoken about a woman ― even if he wants to be."
"Oh, I don't know. I heard Uncle Luke being very candid to Mum one day. They shut up when I came in. Pity."
Annabel decided she'd better change the subject. "Is he your real uncle ? Or do you just call him that ?"
"I just call him that. He's no relation at all. A lot of the families up here are related to  each other  -  through marriage  -  but not the Darrochs and the Bells. They've been neighbours for nearly a hundred years, though. When's Mum going down to have her X-ray, Annabel ?"
"I think they're going on Tuesday. Your mother will be well enough to stand up to the trip then."
Rebecca nodded, "Yes, they can go down in just over an hour and get back the same day. You going with them? I can't, worse luck, I'll be at school." An idea struck her. "Jingoes, I believe one of my fillings is working loose. I'm sure the dentist ought to have a look at it."
Annabel swung her round, looked her straight in the eye. "I thought you didn't like evasive people, Rebecca. If you want to go, ask ― and if they say no, take it in good grace."
Rebecca heaved a prodigious sigh and said: "You're horribly like Gideon. He's so logical. Okay, but I won't ask  -  there's no hope of them letting me."
Miriam was disappointed Annabel wouldn't go with them. "I'd have enjoyed pointing out all the local landmarks ― it's quite different from the trip up on the steamer."
Annabel shook her head. "Sorry you're disappointed, but I feel I could get such a lot done. You're spoiling me. I'd expected to pitch straight in with a houseful of guests. I'd like to get the tins stocked up with shortbread and fruit cakes and a few pie-shells, and it would be a grand opportunity  -  I could save a whole day on the baking."
"Annabel's right, Mother," said Gideon from behind his paper. "And there's plenty of time to show her things. She's not just a fly-by-night. And Aunt Nell will be over in the cottage."
Well, it was evident he'd prefer the trip down with no one but Miriam to talk to.

CHAPTER     SEVEN
ANNABEL had just put in her second batch  of shortbread  when  Venetia arrived.  She walked into the kitchen and made Annabel jump when she spoke to her.
Annabel said: "Oh, I didn't hear you knock. Sorry. I must have been banging things round."
Venetia laughed, a tinkling, not unpleasant laugh, but one that had no merriment in it. "You're so funny, Annabel. I don't knock here." It made Annabel feel awkward. She'd felt strained whenever Venetia had called to ask after Miriam.
Venetia glanced around the kitchen. "My, you certainly are making a good impression, aren't you? Stacks of pie-shells, custard squares, shortbread . . . and do I notice the makings of a fruit cake ?"
"Yes." Annabel couldn't seem to help her tone being just a little short. No wonder Rebecca failed to be tactful. "The oven ought to be cool enough to put the fruit   cakes   in   after   the    shortbread   is finished.   Would you like a cup of tea?"
"No, thank you. I'm going down to the Head. I've got the car outside. I knew Gideon and his stepmother were going down to Queenstown. Gideon asked me to go with him, of course, but I thought it would give me a golden opportunity to have a word with you."
Alarm bells were ringing in Annabel's mind. But she showed no sign. She was glad she was doing something. It took away the necessity to look at Venetia Bell.
Venetia took off her gloves, smoothed them and put them on the divan. She stood leaning with both hands on the table and seemed to be picking her words with care.
"It's not easy, Annabel, coming into a difficult household like this, with all its complicated relationships. I thought a word from me might help you."
Annabel resisted two temptations. One, to say: "My name is Miss Lee." The other, to ask how the relationships were complicated. But she would give this woman no opening like that.
Venetia paused, obviously expecting the question, then went on.
"You see, Miriam, although she appears so sweet, does try to influence Gideon."
Annabel, shaking a little, but unable to let it pass, said in a tone of mild surprise, "Can anyone influence Gideon ? He strikes me as a very strong, tough character."
Venetia's fine dark eyes looked a little troubled. "That's true  -  but even strong characters have their vulnerable spots. Miriam takes advantage of the fact that Gideon owes her a debt of gratitude. Gideon is a very fine character, Annabel, and ean can never forget that she looked after him when he was small, a little motherless boy. And naturally she wants to keep him here. Especially with her own sons mapping out their chosen careers."
Annabel said hesitantly, "But this is Gideon's home ― he's the eldest son. I expect in the natural course of events, it will come to him eventually. So why should he want to leave ?"
"Farming is in Gideon's blood  -  he's never wanted to fall heir to the guest-house life."
Annabel frowned, "Well, I'm sure they'll be able to work it out for themselves. I expect when Miriam feels she's past running it ― though I shouldn't think that would be for years ― Gideon could get a manageress in, even a married couple to run it. There's such a lot of room here. Gideon could have a suite of rooms, or move out to one of the cottages, even build himself a house, away from here, if he got married, and he could just run the farm."
Venetia laughed.  "It's not big enough."
Annabel stared. "Not big enough ? Well, it takes in a whole mountainside!"
Venetia laughed again, but not nastily, only gently. "It's natural it should seem large to a girl from London. But it's only a few thousand acres, and a third of that's above the snow-line. The winter snow-line. You're allowed to carry just as many sheep as you can winter. And half what's left is to be preserved  -  according to Gideon's father's will  -  for its scenic beauty. Gideon wouldn't fell as much as one tree that could be saved."
Annabel felt hot all over. This was very distasteful to her.
She'd have to be firm, without being too antagonistic. "Mrs. Bell, I can see that all this  matters  very much to  you.   But it doesn't to me. I'm just an employee. And I'll be candid, this makes me feel disloyal, discussing my employer's affairs. I don't really think it concerns me in the slightest."
Venetia put her head on one side in a considering sort of way, sat down suddenly, smoothing her cream sponge-cloth sheath skirt with one long, rosy-pointed finger. Then she looked up with a pretty air of taking Annabel into her confidence.
"Annabel, I  -  I rather hate baring our  -  my  -  feelings to a stranger, but it was only that I felt that Gideon, in his blundering, well-meant way, might involve you, and you could get hurt."
"I could get hurt ? Why, Gideon  -  "she had been going to say "Gideon doesn't even trust me," but she caught it back. She added rather lamely, "Gideon's just my employer's son," and was chagrined to find her colour rising. She thought Venetia's eyes narrowed.
Venetia said slowly, "Miriam is very transparent. She's terrified her precious Gideon will marry me. Just because I was married very young the first time, as a young, romantic foolish girl, she thinks I'm too old for him.  But I'm exactly his age. Gideon needs someone mature. I could do a lot for Gideon.
"However, we're not doing anything hastily. Johnny Bell will never come home to settle now. I've made a very comfortable home for Mr. Bell, and he looks on my Lilian as his own grandchild. So Gideon and I are just marking time."
The low, huskily charming voice went on, "I can see through Miriam very easily. As soon as she knew you were coming out here she made up her mind you would be the girl to charm her Gideon away from me. It isn't fair to you. And I'm afraid Gideon, to throw dust in his stepmother's eyes and stop her persecuting me  -  because that's what it amounts to  -  is going to encourage her to think so by paying you little attentions." She checked Annabel's attempt to talk with an upheld hand.
"I really did feel I ought to warn you not to take Gideon seriously." She bit her lip and Annabel caught the shimmer of tears. "I'm really risking Gideon being very angry with me ― which is rather brave of me, because I love him so ― but even though I love him, I just couldn't admire the way he is prepared to use you. That's why I wouldn't go to Queenstown with them today. I thought I could see you before Gideon impressed you at all. And I'm going to ask you to say nothing about it . . . for my sake, and for Gideon's, to him, or to his mother."
Annabel's face felt tight. She said, "I can assure you I won't bring the subject up with anyone. And you need not worry at all, Mrs. Bell. I shan't fall willing victim to Gideon Darroch's charm  -  it just doesn't exist for me."
Venetia stood up, picked up her black bag and gloves. Her jet necklace glittered above the plain cream neckline. Her eyes were pansy dark. "It's very sweet of you. I knew I could confide in you, trust you, the moment I saw you. And if anything bothers you at any time ― if you too need a confidante, please just call on me.
Annabel's eyes met hers in a straight look. "Thank you, Mrs. Bell. I very much appreciate the offer, though I find life quite uncomplicated here, and I'm very much used to making all my own decisions, thank you."
"Of course." The tone held nothing but sympathy. "You poor child. You've got no family at the back of you, have you ?"
Annabel's tone suddenly went dry. But she grinned. "No, I haven't, but do you know, I think I might prefer it that way . . . these involved relationships are, at least, spared me."
"How right you are," said Venetia sweetly, and to Annabel's great relief, departed. "Goodbye, Annabel, and thank you for being so understanding."
Annabel slid the two cakes side by side into one of the great ovens, gently closed the door, noted the time, and began to wash up her cooking dishes.
She was just finishing when she heard a tap at the door, and went out to the back veranda. Mr. Bell.
This time Annabel felt genuine pleasure at the sight of a visitor. "Come in, Mr. Bell  -  I'm afraid they're all away except Aunt Nell, who's having forty winks over at her cottage. I was just going to make myself a cup of tea. Will you have one with me?"
"I will that, lassie. If that's a sample of your cooking, I'll be glad to be guinea-pig."
He cocked a blue eye at her. "Is there anything still in the ovens ? I don't want to get blamed for the cakes getting burnt."
"I've got two trays of gingernuts in the oven. I'll whip them out, and we can have our tea. Now, where did I put my coarse-towel ?"
She brought them out and looked up from the table she set them on to surprise a faint grin on the old man's face. She looked inquiringly at him. "Just that I've not heard that expression for years. My grandmother always called it that. She came from the North of England. Everybody else calls them oven-cloths. I'd almost forgotten it myself. Where did you pick it up? You come from London, don't you ?"
She said lightly ―and truthfully, "I expect I picked it up from a north country assistant at the orphanage. We had quite a number through the years."
They'd almost finished their afternoon tea, when old Luke Bell said: "You had a visit from Venetia, I noticed."
Annabel retained the light tone. "Yes, she called in to see if we wanted anything down at the Head."
His tone was dry.   "Did she ? She's not usually as fond of visiting over here if Gideon is away."
"Oh, horrors," Annabel thought, "here we go again!"
She looked at him apprehensively, at a loss for words. He smiled at her. "I'm not wanting to embarrass you, lassie . . . not asking you what she said to you, but watch her. She's deep. And she might have it in for you if she thinks Gideon might be looking your way."
The colour rushed into Annabel's face. "Mr. Bell, I rather think Mrs. Darroch would like to see Gideon married, and she made up her mind he'd taken a fancy to me. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's put me in rather a funny position. I just love Mrs. Darroch, and I can understand her feelings, but Gideon is a man, and he'll go his own way."
Mr. Bell looked at her, put out his gnarled old hand and patted hers.
"Don't fash yourself, lassie. I just wanted to put you on your guard." He sighed. "Mount Carmel hasn't been the same since Venetia came here. Oh, well, never mind. But just as long as you know." The twinkle  came back into the intense blue eyes again. "I'd like to show you over my place some time. You'll not have had a chance to meet any other folk yet, I suppose ?"
Annabel shook her head. "No, apart from Mrs. Silver at Silver Valley Station, no one. We called at the Leighs' that day, with some mail, but we didn't see anyone.3'
"Was that the day you arrived? Yes? Well, they'd gone across to Kinloch on the launch in the morning. She's a nice woman, Miriam'll take you over some time."
Annabel decided she'd rather ask this pet of a man than Gideon. She didn't want to raise any suspicions with him.
So she said: "Gideon told me they lost a son in the war. That would be in Egypt, I suppose? Didn't most of the Kiwi soldiers go to Egypt ?"
"Yes, Egypt and later the islands when the Japanese came in, but Mark got his in Italy, rather later in the war. At Cassino. He was with the Second Echelon. They went to England first."
Annabel had known first disappointment, but then at the mention of England, a succeeding wave of feeling ran up her pulses, something that was quite physical.
"Did he leave a family ?"
"No. A single fellow. Pity really. Well, I must be off. I'll call and see if Nell's finished her nap. We like a crack."
Old Luke called back half an hour later. He'd meant to borrow a book. He got one, and just as he went to say goodbye again, paused, regarding her in a slightly puzzled fashion. "You do remind me of someone, but I can't think who. Someone I've seen quite recently. I'm sure. Strange things, likenesses, aren't they?" He studied her again, then shook his head. "Can't get it... never mind, it'll pop into my mind when I'm not thinking about it, I suppose."
"But will you remember to tell me?" thought Annabel forlornly, resisting a mad impulse to clutch him by his revers and demand who she reminded him of. To implore him to try to remember.
Dogs began to bark in welcome . . . the master and mistress of Olivet were arriving home. The house came to life, joyous life, with Miriam back in it again. Now she'd recovered from her stiffness she looked ten years younger. She had the walk of a young girl, a spring in her step.
"How  heavenly   to   be   coming   home knowing there are no guests!" She stopped short, laughed, said, "I'm acting out of character . . . the guest-house is the breath of life to me. But just once in a while, it's nice to be alone ... no one here but the family."
Gideon quirked a tawny eyebrow at Annabel. "Didn't I tell you Miriam would gather you under her wing? If you're afriad of being absorbed into this family, my beautiful Annabel Lee, you'd better take flight now. What with Miriam's penchant for adopting stray chicks, plus the fact that the beauty of Glenorchy casts a spell upon you, if you stay too long you won't want to go. A sort of Lotos-land."
Miriam elbowed him away from the table to put her armful of parcels down. "Gideon Darroch, you must be crazy! Haven't you always rued the fact that whenever we get an efficient girl, she doesn't stay ? Or else marries a runholder's son ― which is a dead loss to us!"
Gideon said deliberately, holding Annabel's eyes, "That last remark of my dear stepmamma's is really a dig. She thinks I let them all slip through my fingers. So watch out, Annabel... it's a fair warning."
He flipped a package towards Annabel. "But nevertheless, I thought of this all by myself... it was not suggested by Miriam. Might make you feel not quite so cut off from the niceties of life in London."
Annabel, recovering from surprise, said lightly:   "Have you noticed me pining for London ?"
"No, but the rot sets in later when the novelty wears off. I've always believed prevention was better than cure. Open it, girl. "
She'd better be nonchalant about it. There was a box of chocolates on top, and under it a book. She slid it out. Beyond the Skipper's Road by   Terri McNicol.
"Story of a woman's life in an even more isolated spot," said Gideon.
Annabel was looking at the cover, painted by one of New Zealand's foremost artists, Douglas Badcock, a Queenstown man. "It's in the Lake Country, isn't it? Way up in the mountains ? Didn't we pass a signpost ?"
"We did."
Gideon continued, "But I didn't dare just give you the book ― must underline the fact that even here, where the road ends against the mountains, we still give girls chocolates."
Annabel didn't know how to take all this. She looked up and saw the delight on Rebecca's face and her heart sank. Rebecca would report this, with glee, to Lilian. Not only with glee, with embellishments.
She felt a slow white-hot anger burning in her. Because Miriam was there she had to appear normal, thank Gideon with every appearance of pleasure in his gift. And only she knew it was to put Miriam and Mr. Bell . . . two of the finest people she had ever met . . . off the track. For the first time Annabel could be grateful to Venetia Bell; even though she didn't like her ― never would like her ― at least she'd been frank. Though Annabel knew that in Venetia's case it wasn't really solicitude for a girl who might get hurt, but a very real fear that Gideon might really find Annabel attractive. As if she'd ever be attracted to anyone so devious and cunning. She'd already noticed, in just a few days, how Mr. Bell seemed to depend upon Gideon's judgement, his practical help. Gideon spent a good deal of time over there.
Annabel supposed the idea was that he would  -  given time  -  make himself indispensable to Mr. Bell, and, with one son dead, and the other apparently without intention to return home permanently, Mr. Bell would make the best of things, and even if he left Johnny Bell a share in the estate, most of it would pass to his son's widow, and his neighbour's son when he married her.
Annabel knew what she'd like to do . . . confront Gideon, privately, with the fact that she knew what he was up to . . . but it wasn't as simple as that. For one thing, Venetia would be livid that she had told him, and for another, she didn't want to have a showdown with Gideon Darroch.
So Annabel managed to hide her feelings, and if Miriam Darroch noticed anything strange in her manner, she put it down to a natural shyness at Gideon's gesture.

CHAPTER     EIGHT
THEY plunged into work, once they got   the   telephone   message   from the Queenstown doctor that Miriam's head had suffered no damage from the fall.
Curtains were washed, and cushion covers, rooms given a thorough cleaning and aired. Miriam was capable of the most amazing energy and staying power.
After lunch that day, Gideon said, pushing away his dishes, "Mother, can you spare Annabel this afternoon? I'd like to take her for a walk  -  I'd like to show her the valley of the Darroch Burn and go down the other  side to the back of Carmel.   How about it?"
Annabel had a feeling that even if Miriam had planned urgent work she'd have waived it all. As it was she simply said: "Better stick some eggs on to boil, Gideon, you'll work up an appetite. I've got plenty of ham and tomatoes."
Neither of them asked Annabel if she would like to go. But suddenly, despite her resentment of Gideon's lordly assumption that she wouldn't hesitate to say yes, she wanted to very much. This wasn't the sort of place where you could plead a former engagement! It was all part of his plan for putting them off the scent as far as Venetia was concerned  -  they were both afraid  -  evidently  -  of a showdown, if they announced an engagement too quickly. Perhaps Venetia was trying to live down the unfortunate first impression she had made.
Annabel got into stretch corduroys in green, donned a tan coloured shirt and a golden yellow jerkin that would give her chest protection and warmth, while leaving her arms cool and free in the shirt-sleeves. Her suede windcheater was russet-coloured.
She wouldn't have been a woman if she hadn't appreciated the instinctive gleam of appreciation in Gideon's eye as she ran down the stairs. He had a knapsack on, well stuffed. They set off. . Three paddocks away, Mount Olivet began to rise. The mountain was seamed with tracks, some sheep tracks, others tramping tracks.
Annabel decided to  let herself go  and really enjoy it. This was what she liked doing more than anything else on earth. For the time being, her quest could wait.
As far as Annabel was concerned it was idyllic. They had come up through tussock where the half-bred merino ewes grazed placidly with their snowier lambs, climbed up the dry course of a stream that was very rough going, turned across a shoulder that levelled into a terrace and then beyond that, struck into beech forest.
Annabel was enchanted. The trees, reaching up towards the sunlight, through hundreds of years, met in arches at the top, shutting them into a world of green underwater twilight and looking up, she could find in their tracery the exquisite fan vaulting of some of the English cathedrals she had seen.
The track narrowed, forcing them together, and she couldn't fault Gideon for his consideration for her, always the helping hand, the quick warning. She kept stopping to listen to the bird-song, trying to identify the calls herself c trying to catch a glimpse of them as they flitted through the branches. Several times Gideon's hand,  warm through her  shirtsleeve, brought her to a halt to watch a rock-wren, cock tom-tit, jet black, with splashes of white on wings and tail, the grey warbler whose plaintive, sweet song fascinated Annabel.
"Its scientific name means born of sound," said Gideon. "It's very fitting. Look, on that fallen log there ... a rifleman."
Annabel swung round, gazed blankly. "Where ? ... I can't see a soul."
Gideon laughed so suddenly a tiny bird, busily seeking for insects on the lichen-clad log, flew away startled. "I didn't mean a hunter ... a rifleman is our very tiniest bird. Sorry, but we'll see plenty more."
He stopped as the path branched, said, "Look, we'll go round here . . . it's not along the way we're going, but you ought to see it while you're here."
Annabel stopped dead. "You said that as if you thought I was merely a fly-by-night. I'm not just on a working holiday, Gideon, I'm aiming to stay here."
He put up a hand to an overhanging branch, and remained towering above her. "Are you ? I wonder why ?"
Annabel said slowly, "Gideon, is there any reason why I shouldn't ? Look, if you don't like me ― if for some reason you find me a disturbing influence in your house, I won't stay after the tourist season ― stay at Olivet House, that is. But ― "
He interrupted her, the red-brown eyes intent on hers. "I like you very well, Annabel . . . perhaps too much for my peace of mind."
Annabel blinked. "I didn't ask for that, Gideon. I'm not looking for would-be gallant responses when I make a remark like that, but sometimes you puzzle me. You ought not to say things like that, you know ― some time some girl might take you seriously!"
"Oh, they often do," the crowsfeet deepened. "But years of summer visitors have made me an adept at not falling prey to any."
Annabel knew he didn't mean to be taken seriously, but she couldn't help it. She made a little gesture of distaste. "That sounds abominably vain."
He was unperturbed, his eyes twinkling. "It wasn't meant to be. I know it's only because  young  -  youngish   -  unattached males  are few and far between up here."
Annabel said: "Besides, you're sidetracking me. I wanted to say that if it should so happen you'd prefer me not to stay on permanently at Olivet House, I'm still staying in Glenorchy ― whether you like it or not. You know, even if your family have been here almost as long as white civilisation has been at the Head-of-the-Lake, that doesn't mean you own the whole place!"
It was maddening not to be taken seriously. Annabel had to resist a temptation to stamp her foot on his as it rested on the peaty forest floor, as he put his head back and laughed.
He sobered up. "I oughtn't to laugh at you, but I can't help it. Your sudden bursts of temper are so surprising. I thought, heaven help me, that taking on an orphan we'd have someone rather meek and mild, not assertive at all. But from whatever stock you sprang, my beautiful Annabel Lee, they were surely fighters. Probably from cavemen days on. Crusaders, Royalists, Jacobites, and all the rest. I bet they were with Wellington at Waterloo, fought on the Somme and in the Battle of Britain." He looked at her sharply, then quickly, "Annabel, perhaps I'm tramping where angels fear to tiptoe. Sorry. But just because you don't know who your parents are, it isn't to say you wouldn't have been proud of them if you did know. I'm afraid that all unwittingly I might have come close to the bone. Did I? Were you born in wartime ? I think you must have been."
She couldn't speak for a moment, then she nodded. She drew in a deep breath, then said: "You didn't hurt me. I'm not as sensitive as all that. I've lived for a long time with the knowledge that ― that I was a foundling. To be quite candid, I ― er ― rather liked what you said. I've always felt that although I know nothing of my forebears, there were probably some quite decent ones among them! Just as there are shady characters in every family tree."
She held his eyes, willing him, if he did have any suspicions as to her errand, to come out into the open with them, to voice his doubts, tell her why she would be best to forget all about finding her people.
He took hold of her elbows, holding her still. His face came a little closer. Annabel's face flamed. Surely he wasn't going to kiss her! She brought her arms in front of her, and twisted them free, stepping back and rocking as she stepped on to a layer of rotted branches.
He caught her, steadied her, said, "I wasn't going to, you know," and there was a smile in his voice. "It was just sheer amazement. No wonder Luke Bell and Miriam thought you had the look of someone they knew. You aren't like her in any other way, but  -  " Annabel held her breath. It was coming. A likeness to someone up here. A specific someone!
He finished up:   "Your eyes are just like Aunt Nell's!"
Even as he uttered the words, Annabel knew it was true. It wasn't anything but a chance likeness after all. These things happened. Likenesses were tantalising till you tracked them down. She had hoped that this resemblance would assist her in her search. But it didn't mean a thing. Just as well.
Her thoughts halted. What had she meant by that ? Why didn't she want to be related to the Darrochs ?  It ought to be desirable. Miriam and Rebecca and Aunt Nell were kindred spirits. Aunt Nell would be a wonderfully comforting aunt to have. Suddenly Annabel knew she didn't want to analyse her reluctance to be related to the Darrochs. There were feelings involved she didn't want to admit to harbouring.
Anyway, it wasn't likely. There didn't seem to be any relations on the Darroch side who could be father to a girl born in England. And there was no Darroch on the war memorial.
But Gideon was looking at her strangely. How long had she gone into this trance? She mustn't appear to attach any significance to this likeness. The side of his mouth quirked up and before she could say a word he said: "But if you keep looking at me long enough like that, Miss Lee, I might very easily kiss you."
Annabel turned and plunged into the narrow track ahead. "Come on, Gideon, this is ridiculous. I wanted a tramp, not trifling."
He laughed and followed.
A few yards further on, he said: "Better let me lead the way now . . . it's a bit tricky."
There was the sound of running water, cascading, tumbling. "Waterfall?" she asked.
He nodded. "The Falls of Zion. And we call the miniature canyon it's cut through The Walls of Salvation."
Presently Gideon parted some branches and drew her forward. He said: "I'm keeping hold of your hand. It's very slippery and dangerous. I don't allow any children to come here unescorted, and even when parents come with them here, I have the jitters."
There, at their feet, leapt and foamed the falls, the spray touching their faces with delicate silver lingers, diamonding their hair. They fell an awesome depth, in a gash that looked as if it had been sliced out by some mighty weapon of the Water-swallower, in his greed to reach the source.
Annabel instinctively pressed closer to Gideon. "Isn't it strange, this seems to dwarf me even more than the mountains do ? I wonder why."
Gideon nodded. "I've always felt that way. I never feel I can cease to respect or fear the falls. It must be the sheer force of them."
"I suppose this is so dangerous that everyone is careful and there'll never have been an accident ?"
"Only one. My father fell over when he was a young man. He was permanently lamed because of it. But it could have been much worse. He and Mark Leigh were trying to find out if there were any caves behind this. They thought they might find some glow-worm caves that would make another tourist attraction  -  a big one. Well, they'd proved there were not  -  praise be  -  or we'd always be trying to find out; and they'd managed to get right round behind that big fall, see, about one-third of the way down, when Dad slipped. Mark was magnificent. He somehow climbed down  -  he couldn't go back up and round and down  -  he thought Dad would drown, he was lying half in a pool, and he revived him and went for help. Because of that limp Dad didn't get away to World War Two."
Something eased in Annabel. Well, at least Peter Darroch had not been her father. She wasn't related to Gideon.
They found a sun-warm rock to rest their backs  against and were  glad of the rest.
The tea was delicious, piping hot, and the hard-boiled eggs and tomatoes and ham, eaten with sandwiches of bread and butter, were like nectar and ambrosia.
"Want to go back the same way? Or would you like to go down there through Beithe Gully and round home by the road ? It's a bit longer, but very interesting, and if you felt too tired, I think Mr. Leigh would run us home. We'll come down through his property, anyway, and we'll have to call in just to pass the time of day."
There was no doubt at all what Annabel would rather do. The first step in finding out if it were possible that she was Leigh, not Lee.

CHAPTER  NINE
AS THEY came out by Leigh's cow-byre, Annabel said, gazing at her shoes that had come off second-best at the last ford, "Do you really think we'll be welcome ?"
Gideon laughed. "We'd never be forgiven if we sneaked through. Elspeth Leigh is the soul of hospitality."
The moment Annabel saw Elspeth Leigh she coveted her as a grandmother. Anybody would have. Wholesome and sweet, she was, with a house that twinkled and shone, even to the brass door handles.
Gideon was a favourite with her, you could see that. She put out both hands to Annabel. "Come awa'in. I've been wanting to meet you. Miriam told me on the phone that you were the right kind for here. You might like to come over sometimes on your days off We've no young folk here, of course, except at holiday time, but it might be making a wee change for you."
Annabel was fascinated with the place.
The stove purred and glowed, there was a dresser in the chimney recess set out with with willow-ware, two really old-fashioned rocking-chairs by the hearth. Annabel was given one. Plant-pots filled the window, fuchsias and geraniums and wandering Willies. Yes, she could come back here and gradually, without raising any suspicions, she would find out about Mark.
But, after all, Gideon did it for her. Evidently Elspeth had too well-balanced a philosophy to avoid the subject of the son she had lost in the war.
"We went up to the Falls of Zion, Mrs. Leigh. I was telling Annabel of Mark's epic climb down them."
Annabel said, "It made me so giddy to look down I could scarcely imagine it. I suppose he was so scared for Gideon's father, he took risks one wouldn't normally."
Elspeth Leigh rinsed out the teapot. "It was sheer desperation. He thought Peter would slip right into the pool if he took the long, safe way round. I think times like that, you accomplish things you'd no' be daft enough to contemplate otherwise.   Though   of course  Mark was always a dare-devil and a first-class mountaineer."
She turned and glanced briefly at the far wall. Annabel followed her eyes and had to restrain an impulse to leap to her feet and look closely, hungrily, at the photograph of the young lieutenant in the New Zealand uniform.
Gideon got up and stood under it, looking. He glanced back over his shoulder. It was an invitation to Annabel to show interest in it. She got up and moved across the hearthrug to join him.
She was looking at a young man of about her own age. Hard to think of anyone as young as that as one's father. What would he have been like now? He looked dark, though you couldn't always tell, with a photograph, and he had fine, wide-set eyes and a strong chin. There was a twinkle in his eye.
"Was he dark, Mrs. Leigh ?" she asked.
Mrs. Leigh laughed. "Anything but! He was fiery red, like most of my side. It always photographs dark. But he had dark eyes and brows. My, but he was a freckled little boy. And so full of go and fun.  It's never seemed to me that anyone so full of fun could be dead. It's never been hard for me to believe in life after death, but I believed in it more strongly after Mark was killed at Cassino. His sort of spirit could never suffer a total eclipse. It's just not logical."
Elspeth Leigh lifted her eyes to the opposite wall.  "And that's our Daniel."
Annabel got a shock. He, too, was in uniform. "Oh, was he at the war too?" In that case... ?
Elspeth said, "Yes, but he came back, married and had two bairns. His death had nothing to do with the war. He was back for many years after."
Annabel said, without letting any hint of her feelings creep into her tone, "Was he with the Second Echelon too ? Did he get to Britain ?"
"No. He didna' get away till much later. Not till the Japanese came into the war. He was in the Pacific."
Annabel relaxed again. Better to be Mark's daughter, if Daniel had a widow and children.
Going home, Annabel said to Gideon, as they  walked up  the   drive.    "When  was Cassino, Gideon? I can't remember. It was late on, wasn't it, in the war ?"
He thought, "There are some dates that stick in New Zealanders' minds ... El Alamein, that was 1942 . . . um, let me see. Yes, early 1944, Cassino."
Annabel said, "Then he'd been away a fair while. His mother must have hoped he'd make it to the end. Because she said he went away with the Second Echelon and that he was in Britain at the time of the Battle of Britain and met his grandparents in Scotland."
She was talking to cover her own growing excitement. The snap she had in her deed box said February 1944. It could be. But that didn't make her age quite right. If Mark was her father and had married secretly, he must have done it during the months the Second Echelon was in England. Probably she had been born after he'd gone to Egypt. After all though, the authorities had only guessed at her age. She could have been months older, even a year. But why would Mark, a straightforward-looking young man, have kept a marriage secret? There was only one answer to that .   .  . there hadn't been a marriage. All sorts of things happened in wartime. Her young mother might have found out about the baby after he had left. They might have planned to marry when the war was over. Annabel felt a load settle on her spirits.
She said, "How nice for Mrs. Leigh that he did meet his Scottish relations. Would he get back to Britain again, do you think? I mean for furloughs or anything. Would he see them again ?"
"No, the New Zealanders were too far away and communications too iffy, with so much enemy action. Some of the boys from here were away the full time."
(So he wouldn't have been able to get back to marry her.)
Gideon glanced at Annabel, smiled a little. "You enter right into other folk's feelings, don't you? I've noticed the way you love Miriam to talk of her early days here.   It's rather endearing.   I think Mrs. Leigh liked it."
Annabel realised that if she didn't know what she did know about Gideon, she'd appreciate what he was saying. But he was just trying to cover up his first animosity towards   her.   Disarming   her  with   charm.
Just till Venetia had softened up old Mr. Bell enough for him to approve his son's widow marrying Gideon and Gideon running Mount Carmel station. Outwardly, it was better for Annabel to be friendly with Gideon. Inwardly, she would be on her guard.
Annabel spent her next day off at the Leighs'. Mr. Leigh carried her off to look at his scheelite mine, interesting, but giving her a slight claustrophobic feeling. No doubt you'd get used to it. After lunch David Leigh went back to the mine and Elspeth brought out the family photograph albums.
"Now, if these would bore you, lassie, just say the word and awa' they'll go. But I thought you seemed interested last time you were over."
Annabel felt she could be more natural this time, when Gideon wasn't around. Mrs. Leigh said, bringing out still another, "I've never known anyone your age so interested in an old body's memories. This one's more of a scrapbook. Mark was a great one for writing poetry. I think if he'd lived he'd have done something with it."
She sighed. "There have been times when I've resented the fact that we have no grandchild by Mark. But Mark was never one for girls. He wanted to travel first, to see the world. So he did, but not the way he wanted to see it. There was a girl he met in England. But I think it couldn't have been serious. I never even knew her name. But I'd have loved to have had a son or daughter of his growing up with his red hair and his mischievous ways."
Up in her turret that night, Annabel faced it fairly and squarely. There was quite a good chance that Mark Leigh was her father. He loved and wrote poetry. He'd probably be drawn to Annabel's mother because she too had the knack of writing verse . . . light little lyrics, anyway. They'd very likely both loved Edgar Allan Poe's poem and had called her Annabel because of it. That was probably why it was spelled Lee on the snap.
But if they had married Mark would have told his family. It looked as if he had not managed to get back to England to marry her mother,  but had intended to.
So, even if she was Mark's daughter, and even if it were possible to prove it, Annabel would not be able to claim her grandparents. Even if Elspeth Leigh did long for a child of Mark's, Annabel would not bring a shadow on her father's memory. Her mother must have called herself Mrs. Leigh.
Elspeth hadn't even known the name of the girl he'd taken a fancy to. There had been no snapshot of Mark with a girl. The only chance would be that of going to the War Records Office and trying to trace his fellow-soldiers who just might know the name of any girl he'd been interested in and make it possible for Annabel to trace her forebears.
However, it wouldn't be wise to arouse any interest in the matter here. The only way she could ever do it would be if she went back to England. And even then, would it be fair to Mark Leigh? If she found any friend of his here who knew the girl well enough for Annabel to return and take up the search there, that friend might not hold his tongue and New Zealand was small enough for it to matter.
Annabel   realised   the   only   thing   she could do was keep quiet and hope that some unforeseen chance might give her the satisfaction  -  even if it had to be kept secret  -  of knowing who her ancestors were.

CHAPTER     TEN
MIRIAM came in with her eyes alight. Gideon stared. He said, in a tone of deepest apprehension, "Now what ? You're all starry-eyed. What bright idea has suddenly hit you ?"
Miriam did not let his obvious disapproval dim her sparkle. She flung a lock of brown hair out of her eyes. "I never let Gideon worry me, Annabel... I mean his lack of enthusiasm in the initial stages of the things I plan. He always comes round and pitches in. Men are like that ― can't bear departing from their usual routine but finish up enjoying everything so much they usually take all the credit for such things."
"What things?" Gideon's tone was insistent.
"Things like planning a ball, for instance."
"Oh, that . . . good heavens, we always have a Hogmanay Ball. It's traditional."
"Oh,  I  don't mean then.   I mean next week. A real old-time ball, to welcome Annabel. For supper  -  "
"I know, I know! For supper you'll use up everything that Annabel had baked against the invasion of the guests. I thought that for once we were going to be forehanded. Now, don't be ridiculous. Let's just take things sensibly. We have this break to set ourselves up for the season as you ― "
"Gideon! You're always saying I interrupt you and involve you in needless and lengthy arguments. You've done exactly that. If you'd allowed me to finish I'd have said we'll just ask  everyone  to  bring  a plate."
It was Annabel's turn to stare. "Bring a plate? But I've never seen so much china. You've enough plates to serve all Queenstown as well as Glenorchy and Paradise!"
To her amazement they burst out laughing. "We mean it will be a ladies a plate' affair. Everyone brings a plate of cakes or savouries for supper. It's so easy that way. Oh, well, that laugh's done Gideon good. I can see his resistance lessening."
"It's not that, my dear mamma. It's just that through the years you always get your way, my gentle dictator. Okay, if you want a slap-up ball, love, you'd better have it." He turned to Miriam. "By the way, how about letting Venetia do the decorating, seeing she's such a wizard at it?"
Miriam looked things unlawful to be uttered. Then she said as bluntly as Rebecca would have, "You think because you've yielded a point I can't do anything but consent. But I won't have it, Gideon. I want to enjoy this ball, not get all irritated beforehand. Venetia would make it look like a nightclub. No, Venetia is not going to be in charge of the flowers. Besides, son, this is going to be a Darroch family ball, not a Bell one."
Annabel felt herself tense up. Miriam was too blunt. If she and Rebecca didn't antagonise Gideon so over Venetia, he wouldn't be so determined to include her in everything.
Gideon's voice was quiet but had the suggestion of leashed anger in it. "Carmel and Olivet have always worked together. I thought it might give her an interest and take   her   out  from under Luke's   feet   a bit."
("And bring her over here," thought Annabel.)
Miriam said in a not-yielding-an-inch tone, "It's time Luke took a stand. If he made over Joe's share of the estate to her, on condition she left here, she'd be satisfied. She'd go back to Auckland, where she belongs, or to Sydney which she likes better, I know. He could give her a lump sum and an income. She'd be remarried in no time. She's not the sort to exist for long without a man in her life. Doesn't Luke realise that if Venetia left, Johnny would come home ?"
There was something strange in Gideon's voice as he answered. A restraint. As if he were trying to keep an undertone of pity out of it. He said: "Mother, Johnny stayed away long before Venetia came here. Johnny is still trying to get his life sorted out."
There was a bitter throb in Miriam's voice. "How long does he want, for goodness' sake ?"
Well, it had achieved something. Gideon said briskly:   "Well, we're having a ball.
What day ? Let's have it soon, unless you and Annabel want to go down to Queens-town for some glad rags. Do you ?"
Miriam looked at Annabel. "You'd have something for shipboard, wouldn't you ? It would be new to everyone here."
Annabel nodded. "Is it a slap-up affair ?"
"It will be mixed. Everyone comes. Even non-dancers. Some of the matrons will just wear their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks and the rest of us evening frocks for the sheer joy of wearing them ― but they can be short or long."
"Good! I've a gauzy sort of thing . . . short, but quite glam."
Miriam had her running upstairs to inspect it and was captivated. "Oh, it's as lovely as the sun shining through our wattle tree. You were too late for our wattle, but you'll see it next year. Despite the cold it does well here. We put it in a sheltered spot. It's an Australian tree, but they grow all over New Zealand. I expect you'd call it mimosa."
Annabel was transported on the word, back to a London street, with flower-sellers holding bunches of mimosa from the South of France.
She felt a little staggered at the amount of work that was achieved in so short a time and with so little fuss. It was sheer enjoyment. This was the sort of occasion Olivet had been famous for, back in the old days.
Never had she felt, as far as Miriam and Rebecca were concerned, so loved and so wanted. Gideon's attitude puzzled her and shadowed her horizon. But his antagonism or distrust of her, or whatever it was, was carefully hidden under the bogus camaraderie that was deceiving Luke Bell and Miriam alike; outwardly it was all very pleasant.
"Oh, Annabel," said Miriam, "to think that I worried when Gideon wrote from London. I told him if he'd had any sense he'd have picked a girl from the Orkneys or the Western Isles and made sure she was used to isolation. I thought I'd be for ever devising something to stop you becoming bored and lonely. That's why I'm giving you the ball," she added obliquely, but Annabel knew exactly what she meant. "And instead of having to entertain you and think up things to make you feel we have some  sophistication,  the  days   aren't long enough, seemingly, for all you want to do and explore."
Venetia rode over to see if she could help. "I wondered if you would like me to do the flowers? Given the right touch, that ballroom could be really something. I wouldn't mind the hours I'd put in, if it really gave you a few ideas, Mrs. Darroch. And by the way, I know of a good four-man dance band in Dunedin who are quite keen on out-of-town engagements. The young ones would love something different and more modern  -  and they have splendid amplifiers."
Miriam controlled a shudder. "Sorry, Venetia. It's sweet of you to offer, and I realise the ideas are fine if any of our young folks should want a do like that ― down at the hall some time. But I've set my heart on giving Annabel the old-time type of dance we've always had at Olivet. I know we're practically in the last century when it comes to that sort of thing, but people seem to like it. And, Venetia, it's good of you to offer to help with the flowers, but as a matter of fact, Elspeth has offered to do them.  So I must leave it that way, or hurt her. But I did wonder if you would make me some of your incomparable pavlova cakes, filled with cream and fruit salad? They're almost as decorative as flowers and I'm going to be too busy to spend any time on extras. Besides, I just haven't got your touch with the pavs. Gideon said so just the other day."
Which was very clever. Annabel hid a smile.
"Phew!" said Miriam, sinking down into a chair the moment Venetia left. "What an escape! Life was so uncomplicated before that woman came here. What is it about some people, Annabel? She brings out the worst in me. I tell myself I will not allow myself to become ruffled again. But it's a losing battle. I really do despise myself for using the enemy's feline tactics. It's quite horrible. Trouble is, things flash into my mind and before  I  know where  I   am,  they're out."
Annabel hugged her. "It's such a relief to me. I know exactly where I am with you. I feel that if you didn't like something I did, you would tell me I mustn't do it, just as if I were Rebecca. It makes me feel wanted, belonging. You never fend me off or dodge an issue. If you were too polite, I'd feel a stranger still. Oh, I don't think I even began to live till I came to Canaan. And to think of the fears I had! "
Miriam leaned forward and took a hard Sturmer apple from the bowl. "I don't know why, but when that woman goes I feel like digging my teeth into something hard and astringent. Don't you sometimes think that the thing we call chance is more the Hand of Fate? You going into New Zealand House with that girl and absent-mindedly picking up the pamphlet on Paradise, then deciding to come. I don't think it was just chance. By the way, how was it that friend of yours was in New Zealand House? Does  she have relations here ? "
"No. It was only that someone in her office asked her to pick something up in her dinner-hour. It was my day off, and we ate our sandwiches in St. James's Park. We had to wait, so I started to turn over the brochures. It's as simple as that. But I'm like you. I like to think there is a Plan. Even if at times we have to help it along. "
Miriam jumped up. "Exactly what I think. You were meant to come. "

She dropped her eyes. Annabel knew what she was thinking. She hoped Miriam didn't get too set on the idea. Though no wonder she thought it. Gideon had been most attentive, even though teasing and sarcastic. But then that was his way, even with Venetia. Miriam wouldn't dream his attentions to Annabel were always more marked when Mr. Bell was about, which was often.
As Miriam began to speak again, Annabel said hurriedly, "Mrs. Darroch, is Johnny Bell afraid he might get trapped into marriage with his brother's widow? Is that why he stays away ? "
Miriam stooped and picked up Rebecca's sandals. "Really, that child must be told again to do her own putting-away. I must not spoil her. " Her voice was would-be careless. "Yes, that must be it. No other reason  -  now. She did make a deliberate set at him when he came home for three months the other summer. There's no other reason for him to stay away. "
It gave Annabel much food for thought. What could be keeping the two of them apart? Did Johnny Bell think Miriam would not follow him to Hong Kong? Was he one of those dedicated types who felt he worked best alone? Perhaps he had never liked the life at Glenorchy.
Johnny sounded just a little bit hard. Sometimes these dedicated people were a little ruthless. In their desire to serve the masses, they forgot the ones closer at hand. Annabel decided she wouldn't like Johnny Bell. Not if he continued to cause Miriam Darroch anguish.
Rebecca and Gideon took Annabel out with them on their climbs to get the decorations for Elspeth.
The forest floor was covered with fallen branches that, damp and rich, had acted as hosts to myriads of tiny ferns, mosses, seedlings . . . enabling them, when carried back to the immense ballroom, to recreate the grottoes that held all the charm of fairyland.
Under Elspeth's directions Gideon tacked up some trailing vines, some festooned with the white stars of the native clematis. He got down and began jamming into a barrel covered with moss, huge gnarled branches of the native fuchsia, with its bark that was so pale a tan it was almost apricot.
The pongas, or tree-ferns, stood in water, graceful and cool, and the big shallow troughs of stones they had brought in from the shingle fans in the mountains, ground down through the aeons by glacial action, had paths of moss on plastic between them.
Snow-grass sprang from under boughs of native beech, and alpine daisies and heaths mingled with them and the red of rata and mistletoe  -  Annabel found that too was red here  -  was twined round totara and rz-tree.
Venetia said: "What's this small round trough here for ? It's empty. You could ― "
Miriam got in very quickly: "That's for the piece de resistance. We'll put it in at the very last."
Both Annabel and Venetia looked a question. Gideon, from his step-ladder, with his face in a tuft of cabbage-tree, said: "I'm not getting it till the day itself. I'm  going up  early Wednesday morning for it. Want to get it with the dew on ― a huge clump of mountain lilies. I've got it ringed now for lifting. All I can hope is that Josh doesn't shy coming downhill with a clanking bucket."
Miriam gave a disappointed cry. "Oh, Gideon! I wanted that as a surprise for Annabel!"
He laughed, descending. "Oh, have I put my big foot in it? Sorry . . . I'm evidently not meant for high intrigue."
Venetia spoke directly to Miriam. "Why for Annabel?   Hasn't  she   seen mountain lilies yet?"
Miriam said calmly, "Yes . . . Gideon took her up the flank of Carmel to see them the other day. They reminded him of the frock Annabel's wearing for the ball . . . the gold of the centres and the green of the leaves. My own thought had been that it made me think of wattle. But the wattle is over long since."
Gideon took a quick look at Venetia's face and said lightly, "What can we arrange in the way of floral compliments for you, Venetia ? We may lack a florist, but perhaps nature can provide something for you too."
She took it rather well,  laughed,  said,
"You'd find it hard to get orchids, though, Gideon. That's the only thing that would suit my frock. Better wait till we go down to Dunedin next month." She turned to Miriam. "I said I was going down for early Christmas shopping and Gideon offered to take me. Poor man, he'll want a break from the guests by then."
For once Miriam did not hit back. "Oh, good. He can do some of my preliminary shopping then too."
Venetia wangled a moment alone with Annabel. "Gideon's putting up a good show. It's certainly deceiving his stepmother. Not that I approve  -  as I told you. I hate deceit. And I should hate you to take him seriously and get hurt."
Annabel managed to look unperturbed. "You oughtn't to worry, Venetia. He's all yours. You're welcome to him. I'm very fond of Rebecca and Mrs. Darroch, but I just don't like Gideon. I like men who are above-board, obvious, blundering creatures without guile."

Venetia looked down on her strangely. "Not the type to love in spite of everything, Annabel? I think I envy you. It must make life so simple. You mean you'd have to respect before you let yourself love? Well, we're all different. It looks as if I'm one of the passionate, foolish ones. I always fall for the rotters."
Rebecca and Gideon went off on the horses after school. Gideon looked back at Annabel, laughing. "You miss all the fun by dodging learning to ride. We must fit in the time somehow."
For the first time Annabel felt the desire to learn. Tramping was all very well and dear to her heart, but if you wanted to get the distance into these river valleys, there was nothing like a horse. Not that she'd ever look as well, mounted, as Venetia. Annabel reined in her thoughts. What a petty sort of thing to spur one to try out the thing one was secretly afraid of! She, who demanded from others so high a standard, who had always despised jealousy, was now experiencing it for the first time.
And why ? How stupid to be jealous of Venetia, whom so few people liked. It boiled down to being envious of her looks. Poor Venetia, perhaps all her life she'd found it easier to get on with men, simply because  other women had  distrusted  and feared her beauty and charm. It was silly to think of competing with her, for no one could hold a candle to that exquisite chiselling of face and figure. Annabel didn't like her thoughts much. Time for some exercise.
She went in search of Miriam and found her letting down a white broderie anglaise frock of Rebecca's.
"Mrs. Darroch, would it be all right if I went over to Bells' ? Venetia said she was going down to the Head for the afternoon. In fact I saw the dust of the car, so she's on her way. Mr. Bell asked me to go over some time and look at his collection of Maori artifacts."
"Oh, that would be lovely  -  for you and for him. He's taken a great fancy to you. Take the car."
Annabel said quickly, "Mrs. Darroch, I've a yen to go over on Balaam. Would it seem too, too silly? But I could take the lower track. I do love old Balaam and it would get me used to the feel of movement under me. Balaam's nearer the ground! I don't feel scared on him. But I can see Gideon's going to make me learn to ride."
Miriam  chuckled.   "I  think it's   sweet, the way you ride the donkeys. And Luke wouldn't care if you rode the goat over! Don't hurry back. I'm going over to Aunt Nell's for afternoon tea and the next couple of days will be busy. We might as well enjoy what leisure we can catch now."
Annabel bent over and kissed Miriam's cheek. "That's for the lovely thought about the mountain lilies."
She was at the door before Miriam got out: "But that was Gideon's idea." Annabel turned, looked over her right shoulder, smiled crookedly. "Was it?" she asked, and was gone. Miriam was deceiving herself. She was very transparent.
It was glorious jogging along the track, out on the safe, tussock-gold hillside, the sun beating down on her, her legs hanging to six inches above the tussock, Balaam's dark ears twitching ahead of her.
Annabel leaned forward and caressed them. The ass took his sure-footed way through the creek that made the natural boundary between the two properties and came through what she called a spinney and everyone else here called a stand of trees, into the home paddocks.
There before her lay Mount Carmel Station. Annabel could appreciate it to the full today. Before when she had come, it had been with conflicting personalities, aware of the tensions between Miriam and Venetia, the secret designs of Gideon, and a certain apprehension she had herself of Joe Bell's beautiful widow.
It was built on a terrace, with rocks where aubretia foamed in purple cascades that lost themselves in a Persian carpet of colour that was made up of late-blooming anemones and ranunculas, alyssum, and snow-in-summer, pansies and fuchsias, spread under standard roses and dozens of shrubs. Beyond the garden were thick macrocarpa hedges sheltering in from the south-west winds and breaking the force of the late, fierce frosts.
It was Luke Bell's pride and joy and it was here he spent many hours, a compensation for the loss of the heavier station work that was now a little beyond him.
Annabel rode into the yard, tied Balaam up at the white-painted rail and cooeed. Luke came out, his eyes lighting up at sight of her.
Luke had a courtliness that was natural to him. He came to her, took her elbow. "I hoped you'd come today when I was alone, but I wouldna have suggested it, knowing you'd be busy wi' yon ball coming up. Come awa' in and we'll have a cup of tea before I show you my treasures."
Annabel supposed that it was because she had no family ties of her own that she so enjoyed the company of people the age of Elspeth and David Leigh and Luke Bell.
She liked being entertained in kitchens. This one combined the homeliness of an old home with all the convenience of the new. It had an electric stove and a bright red enamel coal range, most necessary in an area where snow could disrupt power. There was a wide fireplace at the opposite end built of the multi-coloured Wakatipu stone and in front of it a huge rag rug with Scots thistles and roses in the design.
"My wife made that not long before she died," said Luke, "to replace the one she made before we were wed. Venetia would like to be rid of it, but I put my foot down. I dinna think I'm as cross-grained as she likes to make out, Annabel, I certainly hope I'm not.
"I've tried to make her content by giving her a free hand in her own quarters ― she's got two bedrooms and a sitting-room. But I felt I had to do it for Joe's sake. He must have loved her, even if for so brief a time. Maybe she'd have been different had he lived. But I'd ha' thought my lad would have had more discrimination than that. But one thing I've put my foot down about . . . she wanted Lilian to have her name changed by deed poll to Bell. I wasn't having any.
"Actually I'd not think it was fair, anyway, to her own father. I think everyone's entitled to their own name." He stopped short, and the colour ran up into the old cheeks. "Eh, but I'm being careless. Lassie, you'll realise that was a slip of the tongue. Miriam told me you didn't know who your parents were." He looked at her keenly. "I'd say they were quality. It's there, somehow, in the set of your jaw and the turn of your head."
Annabel put out a hand to him. "Mr. Bell, I'm not in the least sensitive about it. It's something one can't help, so I don't worry about it."
He grinned at her. "You're the kind I like. A yes-no person, not an evasive one.
Very open. But that likeness still bothers me. I wish I could track it down."
"It's been tracked down. Gideon says my eyes are like Aunt Nell's."
Luke Bell peered at her and smiled. "They are, too. But it's not just the eyes. It's the way you walk, the way you turn your head. Even the way you carry your head. It's very fleeting and tantalising. I keep thinking I'll get it soon, but I never do.
"Well," he changed the subject, "time we went to look at my collection."
He had it housed in a room that opened off his bedroom. Here, there were none of Venetia's touches. Annabel guessed he'd put his foot down about this room and probably looked after it himself. The photographs had heavy oak frames; the furniture was old-fashioned. It was crowded with ornaments. There were three glass cases. One held stuffed native birds, quite artistically arranged in their natural settings; one was full of stone age tools and weapons, ploughed up on the homestead, meres, patus, chisels and adzes. There were choice ornaments of greenstone, a whalebone   comb,   fish-hooks   of bone,   and  a calabash remarkably well preserved. There was even a ceremonial mat with kiwi feathers, found during the eighteen-seventies.
The other case held samples of quartz, gold, scheelite, copper, greenstone. They had an absorbed hour.
Finally Luke Bell went across to an old-fashioned Scots chest of drawers that had a miniature chest on the top. He pulled one of the drawers open after unlocking it and took out something wrapped in tissue paper.
He took her hand, turned it palm uppermost. "Annabel, I've a present for you. I'd like you to wear it at the ball. This is one Venetia doesn't know about. I had it made for my wife many years ago. I never know what's ahead of me. I've lived on borrowed time many years now. Johnny's a long way off. If anything happened to me suddenly Venetia would get at everything she could before he got here. I have no illusions concerning her whatever. I've found her out in too much.
"Take it and say nothing to Venetia. I'd not like her to vent her spite on you. But you'll have to  explain it  at  Olivet House. They know it. Tell them. Even young Rebecca knows when to hold her wheesht."
He loosened the tissue, tipped the contents into her palm. "Not a great deal of intrinsic value in it, lassie, mostly sentimental value. But some very good workmanship. It was made by one of the last of the old goldminers, a Swiss."
It was a necklace of New Zealand gem-stones, linked together with gold from the Wakatipian rivers, and highly polished so that the stones looked wet and shining as they did when the sun shone on them as they lay in the beds of the peaty streams in the beech forests.
Old Luke's gnarled fingers separated them, as he named them for her. "Agate, rhodonite, carnelian, red jasper, green jasper, banded jasper, karena agate . . . and these two are wood, believe it or not, agatised wood and petrified wood."
Annabel ran them through her fingers, loving the feel of them. She looked up, tried to say something, and choked. Instead, she did what was better . . . put her two hands about his face, smiled into the blue eyes mistily, and kissed him.
"Mr. Bell ... oh, I can't tell you what they'll mean to me. I'll always treasure them. I've never had an heirloom. Not of any kind." (Well, you couldn't call a MacMillan tartan bag an heirloom, could you? Or the box of clothing that had belonged to your mother, torn, bedraggled, the momento of a bomb that had fallen ?)
She blinked the tears away. "I'll hand this down to my children's children, and tell them of you. You knew the old miner who made it ?"
"Aye. He was a well-read old man, even if he still talked rather broken English. He was a forebear of David Leigh's, but on his mother's side. He lived all alone, independent to the last. He's buried in the cemetry at Glenorchy."
Annabel felt a strange thrill run through her. What had possessed Luke Bell to make her this gift ? He would never know that he might, all unwittingly, have given her a real link with her own past...
She said, looking at her watch, "I think I'll get away now. I've had a wonderful time."
He nodded, their eyes meeting. Neither voiced what was in their minds. Best to get away before Venetia came home. She knew Luke Bell would wash those cups and saucers up, say nothing.
She got in just as Gideon and Rebecca came home, laden with forest spoil. She was sure they had enough to decorate twice as large a ballroom.

CHAPTER     ELEVEN
THERE were no awkward comments when she told Rebecca and Miriam. She didn't make the mistake of telling Gideon in front of them.
She said to him on the quiet, "Gideon, I'd like a few moments alone with you, after dinner, please."
He looked at her curiously, then said lightly, "All right, my beautiful Annabel Lee. You have the air of wanting to confess something."
"It is a bit like that ― but I'd rather not say what at this moment. The others are coming in and out."
"Very well. After tea I'll go across to the stables. You can follow me. Anything to do with Venetia?"
His first thought!
"In a way, yes." She managed a wry smile. "But nothing to worry about."
She'd changed into a simple green-checked gingham frock, braided at the square neck, the armholes and hem, in bright peasant fashion, for dinner.  She had her hands hidden in the big patch pockets as she came into the stables.
He wasn't waiting impatiently for her footfall as he might have done had she been Venetia. He was at a bench, mending a piece of harness, standing anglewise to it so that she could see his profile, intent on what he was doing.
He heard her step as she neared and turned. His tone was light.
"Well, what's the mystery ?"
She hesitated, then, "Gideon, please don't be cross with me. Sometimes things happen you don't foresee and can't prevent. I ― there's just something about Mr. Bell I love. He's more than three times my age, yet he's a kindred spirit."
Gideon put down his leather punch, nodded, his eyes on hers. "Of course. Age has nothing to do with it. Like Rebecca and David Leigh. They're buddies just as if they'd been kids together. They even sit silent for ages, on a fence, watching the horses. And for Rebecca to be silent is really something."
That made it easier. She continued, gratefully, "Well, he was showing me his collections this afternoon.  And ― he gave me this. To wear at the ball. I know they aren't precious stones, but I love them more than if they were. They belong ― some of them ― to Wakatipu. And handmade, from gold mined here. He said he'd no one to give them to. I felt I couldn't thrust them back at him. Indeed, Gideon, I didn't want to. I loved them. But ― but there's Venetia. She is ― even if they don't get on ― his son's widow. He assured me she wouldn't care for them and that she hasn't seen them. But ― " the twisting of the truth stuck in her throat like a lie, but she couldn't, she just couldn't say exactly what Luke had said about Venetia to this man who, presumably, loved her ― "I wouldn't like Venetia to be hurt about it. I thought you'd know where they came from ― I expect you've often seen old Mrs. Bell wearing them ― so please say nothing to Venetia."
Very hard to read that coppery face. Then the cheeks creased, the crowsfeet deepened. He put out a hand and caught hold of her arm just above the elbow, as a brother might have done.
"Poor Annabel, you're all worked up about it,  aren't you? There's no need.  I can see the situation you were driven into. You couldn't have hurt old Luke like that." He took the necklace from her, weighed it in his hand, said, "Marvellous workmanship. Beautifully and lovingly done. My father remembered old Enrico Lafranchi well. I wonder how many hours went into the polishing. Yes, I often saw Nan Bell wearing it. Warn Mother and Rebecca and Aunt Nell to say nothing. Better not to hurt Venetia over it." Suddenly his eyes glinted with amusement. "Anyway, it so happens I've given her a greenstone pendant to wear at the ball. I had it sent up from Queenstown, to make amends for Miriam's faux pas about the mountain lilies."
Annabel's feet dragged as she went back.
Later that night she sat on the tiny red velvet window-seat of her tower and watched the moon rise over Miriam's Old Stoney. It bathed the dark, sleeping waters of the lake with a cold silver, reflected back off peaks that still held snow. It flooded down over the ridges of the Bible Terrace that were almost lost in the darkness and over the flat triangle where house-windows, like amber eyes, showed where the township of Glenorchy lay.
It gave a sad loneliness to the scene, remote, grand, uncaring. It touched Annabel with loneliness too, a greater loneliness than she had ever known. Because there, in the darkness of the unlit room, she faced the unpalatable truth.
She loved Gideon.
And he loved Venetia. Or even if he didn't love her, was prepared to scheme with her, for the land he loved, the life he loved . . . Luke Bell's forty-five thousand acres ...
It was a moving experience to see just what a ball like this one meant to the people at the Head. Wonderful to run up to the tower and see lights coming across the twilit lake, private and public launches, bringing loads of happy folk to Olivet House. Annabel couldn't believe it was all for her. Cinderella's Ball all right. She, the orphan. In fact, as they all believed her to be, the foundling.
There was a flake of carnation pink on Annabel's high cheekbones. Her eyes, above the misty mimosa frock, were green one moment and golden the next, and the necklace lay caressingly against her skin.
Miriam wore a deep blue with a glint of silver thread in it and Rebecca looked like something out of a Victorian day, not a bit like the tomboy who raced round barelegged and in boy's khaki shorts; who shinned up trees regardless of sticky resin, who thought nothing of paddling in the black ooze of the swamps or rolling down a grassy hillside.
Miriam had tied a coral taffeta sash round the waist of the white broderie anglaise and had bought black pumps for her little daughter. She wore an old-fashioned coral necklace twisted round her throat and Miriam had curled the ends of the tawny ponytail.
Miriam said to Annabel, "By next year, when she's at High School, she'll want a shift style, but for tonight she's the little daughter Peter doted on. Oh, how I wish he could see her!"
The mountain lilies, a huge clump of them, like waxen white shallow cups, centred with gold and green, sat in their shingle bed, looking as if they were indeed growing in their mountain fastnesses.
Gideon looking down on them, heart-stirringly handsome  in his  formal  dress, said, "They don't, of course, belong to the lily family. It's a misnomer."
Annabel, sinking down beside them in a spread of shimmering tiny pleats, said, putting a finger under one green lacquered leaf, "They're more like outsized white anemones, aren't they ? And the leaves are so beautiful. Almost the texture of arum lilies, but round ... so fleshy and curved and symmetrical. And each of these has still a huge drop of dew in it."
He nodded. "Yes, many's the drink I've had out of them, after a tough climb."
It was idyllic. Annabel could suddenly see it. . . the white peaks, the arid-looking tussock, the men panting a little, hot and tired. And, sheltered by a mighty rock from the fierce sun, pools of dew from early morning, to slake their noonday thirst.
She looked up, her thoughts ― or the enchantment of her thoughts ― still lingering in her eyes. She met Gideon's red-brown eyes. Their looks locked, held. Then they both swiftly turned away, muttering, each of them, something about, "Well, the guests will soon be here," and, going out into the great hall, with its glittering chandeliers and brasses, its heads of Virginian deer, or red and fallow deer, lost the moment.
There had been a fleeting sweetness in it, a breathlessness, a recognition ... something that might never come again. By the time Annabel would be alone to savour it, the hours would be so overlaid with crowded happenings, with other contacts, that she might never recapture it. She knew a swift regret that she had not come here earlier, before Venetia had come to Carmel. Why had she not gone into New Zealand House a couple of years or more ago? Perhaps that Hand of Fate had let her down, after all.
Suddenly she made up her mind to forget it all, to enjoy tonight. She must repay Miriam by loving every moment. A ball in one's honour ... it made you believe in fairy godmothers.
It wasn't hard to do. She felt caught up in the lighthearted revelry. This was the very best kind of dance ... a sort of family affair.
Annabel guessed that Miriam had asked Gideon to be sure to lead her on to the floor for the first dance and told herself it didn't matter, that it was sheer delight to be in his arms, to pretend that she, and only she, occupied his thoughts.
Gideon danced with the assurance that was part of him, the sheer health and vigour of the man, co-ordinated in every respect. She could feel his muscles, hard, under her hand.
"Where did you learn to dance like this, Annabel ?" he asked as they danced.
"At school first. All the orphans went to dancing classes the same as the others."
"And after ?"
The one dimple flashed out. "Oh, with all the men in my life. They queued up every Saturday night, you know."
He guided her to a less crowded corner of the floor. "I sometimes wonder how you got away from England."
She lifted a puzzled eyebrow.
"You know what I mean, Annabel. Wasn't there any chap there who felt you ought to   stay,  that he   couldn't  let you leave ?"
Her heart was beating fast. Just his proximity, she told herself. This is only badinage, the currency of small talk, exchanged in the mood of the moment.
"I had no ties of any kind," she said.
His eyes looked deeply into hers. "You weren't running from anyone, then ? Trying to forget someone, seeking new places as so many do, to heal a bruised spirit ?"
She shook her head. "I was quite heart-whole." She looked up into his face. "There was nothing to bind me to England, Gideon. No ancestral halls, no ties of kin. No painful pulling-up of roots. There are compensations in everything."
"Philosophical little thing, aren't you ?"
Warmth flooded Annabel. This was Gideon at his most sincere. And, as she was tall, she rather liked being called little. Since it was purely figurative, it sounded like affection.
Perhaps Gideon was coming to his senses, perhaps the spell Venetia had cast on him had been fleeting. Perhaps he had come to terms with himself, had realised she was too old for him, too experienced. He might even yet turn his back on the idea  -  the temptation  -  of marrying into the Bell family for the Bell acres.
Annabel danced on in a dream and he said suddenly: "Did you hear that briefing Mother gave me ?"
"Briefing ? What on ?"
"My dancing schedule. Poor Mother! She just can't bear anyone to be a wallflower. I'm to seek them out. Though I'm not dancing the next. Luke is having that with you, he tells me. It's a Scots reel and I'm to take over the pipes. I hope you have a reservoir of breath ... it's pretty vigorous and Luke can dance anyone off their feet."
Annabel laughed. "Don't I know it ? He came here yesterday when you were out and went right through it with me."
"Good. He's a cracker jack. It's good to see him like this. He's not been himself for sometime."
Annabel looked up.   "You mean  since Joe died ?"
"Yes. Joe ran the station. Grand chap. Suddenly decided he'd not seen anything of the world and thought he'd start on Australia. Thought he was a confirmed bachelor, but he met Venetia and got bowled over. It's not to be wondered at. He was killed while on their honeymoon ― an accident on the Pacific Highway, at Coolangatta."
"Was Venetia hurt ?"
"She wasn't with him.  They were staying at a motel. He'd gone out for the makings of a meal. Tragic for everyone."
The music stopped and, still in a dream, Annabel was claimed by old Luke Bell, his silver head shining like the buckle in his plaid. How well he wore the kilt for a man so old. He smiled as his eyes rested on the necklace.
During a foxtrot, Gideon steered Annabel into a corner near the Alpine garden and behind his arrangement of tree-ferns. His eyes gleamed mischief. "No one's found this door. Let's sit this one out. I can't stand the pace of these old-time dances much longer."
Annabel stared. "That was a slow foxtrot," she accused.
He grinned, then looked mock reproachful. "It's not good technique that, Annabel. To bowl a chap out! I like women to be clear-eyed and guileless... unsuspicious."
It was out before she thought Her eyes gleamed and she said crisply, "Do you, indeed ? Well, I'd never have guessed it!"
He shut the door behind them and they were out in the hall at the back. He grimaced.   "You   certainly   say  what you think, don't you ? Exactly like my beloved but trying step-mamma. Let that slide. Consider your sarcastic remark unspoken. It's not the topic for a night like this. Up with you!"
"Up with me ? Where ?"
"To your eyrie. To your turret, Rapun-zel. Away from everyone."
In a dream she allowed herself to be propelled towards the back stairs. He had hold of her hand. They went through her bedroom.
"I know it's highly irregular," said Gideon, "and I had a great difficulty in sneaking the stuff up  -  had to wait till you went over to Aunt Nell's." He added quickly, "Don't put that light on yet." He crossed the tower room, drew the red velvet curtains over all four windows, then came back to switch the light on.
Annabel stayed where she was, one hand on the door jamb, poised for flight.
He burst out laughing. "Don't look like that... it's very innocuous! Just lime-and-soda." He went across to the little glass-fronted cabinet and drew out a bottle of lime juice, a syphon, a wide-mouthed Thermos that proved to hold ice  cubes and a huge plate of sausage rolls. "I always get hungry half-way through these affairs."
Annabel began to laugh, indulgent laughter. It was fun. Even if― at first ― it had sounded as if he had had a cache of drink up here, to be followed by ― well, she let that go.
She laughed again and said, "Not sitting out the dance, but eating it out!"
He looked at her keenly, even derisively, and said, "What did you think I was up to?"
Her colour rose. "I just didn't know," she said quickly, "you had me bewildered."
His mouth twitched at the corner nearer her. "Had ideas, didn't you? Thought I was after a romantic interlude."
"Yes. I'm quite relieved to find it food."
The mouth twitched again. "I do so enjoy fencing with you ... but you're lying in your teeth, madam. You were disappointed. Now, now, no temper! And don't tell me I'm vain. Any girl would be spoiling for a bit of romance on a night like this."
Annabel turned quickly, but not quickly enough. He caught her at the door, snapped off the light, drew her across to the east window and pulled back the curtain.
Annabel's pulses were thudding, her breath uneven. His arm was like steel, holding her. She put up an unavailing hand against his chest. He merely caught it, held it against him.
The moon was higher over Old Stoney than it had been the other night and it came right into the room on a broad white beam. "Am I vain ?" he asked her. "Or am I just a little surer of my self... and you . . . than I was at first, my beautiful Annabel Lee ?"
She wanted to postpone the moment. It had taken her so unawares. She said, not resisting him now, but curious, "Gideon, what do you mean... surer of me?"
He said soberly, "I was tough on you to begin with, wasn't I ? Suspicious beggar that I was."
Her look was clear, candid, searching. "Gideon, tell me, why were you suspicious of me?"
He said, "I didn't want to be. But I had an anonymous letter sent to me, hinting you had an ulterior motive in coming out here. I tried to forget it, that the only thing to do with such letters is to burn them. I did burn it. But it's very hard to forget what's been written.   That's where the beastliness comes in. I couldn't decide whether it was a friendly warning  -  it sounded that way  -  or something devlishly clever in making me think it was just that.
"I didn't want to believe it, Annabel, I'd liked what I'd seen of you in London. But catching you in the Town Clerk's office in Alexandra, asking about scheelite mining, really made me wary."
She put her head on one side, a line between her delicately winged brows. "Asking about scheelite mining? I was being told. Look, I'd never even heard of scheelite till I read Golden Days of the Lake Country. Even then it hardly registered. But how could that make you suspicious ? I wasn't thinking of prospecting."
He nodded. "It so happened that, though my trip Home had been purely for travel, while I was there George Ninson asked me to investigate something for him ― a claim. Years ago he had a partner in his mine. When the price dropped after the war, he sold out his share to George and went back to England and died there. A documentary T.V. film was done up here on the scheelite mining ― mentioning of course that the price is rising ― and a niece of the partner's, a real go-getter, tried to horn in. Vowed her uncle had simply walked out on the shared claim and had received nothing for it.
"As I couldn't imagine what else would bring you here, I came to the conclusion  -  after the letter  -  that you could be a friend of this girl's and at her instigation had come out to see if there was any way of getting round things. It was quite ridiculous, so forget it."
Annabel went to speak. It must have been Joan, Mervyn's sister, who had written it. Written it out of sheer malice. There were some things you knew, without proof, but beyond doubt.
But she wasn't allowed to speak. Over Gideon's shoulder she saw the moon over Old Stoney. Then it was blotted out. She was sure she was dreaming. This way Cinderella's Ball... the clock would strike twelve and she would find herself back in the orphanage in her uniform. It just couldn't be happening to her ... but it was. This was what she had expected to find in Mervyn's kisses and hadn't. A yielding and a giving and a sweetness she had never known before but had expected to know.
Then it was true, love was magic. It was all the poets wrote about.
Gideon lifted his mouth from hers at last. He smiled the sort of smile that made Annabel's heart turn over. She was almost sure there was a shake in his voice. "Annabel Lee, you're full of surprises. Who'd have thought you could kiss like that? You look so cool. Like a water-lily."
He turned his head, cocked it on one side.  A listening attitude.   "Do you hear that?"
His name was being called over and over. "Gideon ? Gideon ? Gide-o-o-n ?"
"Rebecca!" he said disgustedly. "And she never gives up. I'd better go. I'll go first. She'd never be able to resist telling Lilian we were sitting it out in your tower and would have no idea of how it would sound!" He aimed a kiss at her forehead, and disappeared, very silently for so large a man.
Annabel, bemused, stood by the window, the scents of the garden drifting up, night-scented stock, the Crimson Glory roses that twined round the pillars on the great central porch, the spicy, heady fragrance of the cinnamon pinks.  All part of the language of love and this enchanted night.
She must go down. Miriam would wonder where she was, though had she known where and with whom, she'd be delighted.
She had only one more dance with Gideon. The supper dance.
"You've done your duty nobly," she said to him. "It's probably made the night for a few lasses ― not knowing if they'd get partners or not. It will be another star in your crown."
"Don't," he begged her. "You're making me feel smug. And I've no right to be. When I was young I had to be forcibly hauled on to the dance floor. Miriam said: 'It's a social grace and you're going to learn, my lad.' Now I'm glad I did, but how I hated it at first." A teasing gleam shot into his eye. "I've even danced twice with Venetia!"
She returned the glance with an answering gleam, but shook her head at him. "Idiot! No man would think that merely in the round of duty. And I do admit she's looking ravishing tonight."
"I suppose so, even if not exactly dew fresh .   .   .   like   a  mountain buttercup."
It was very heady. And satisfying. Venetia simply ceased to matter. Just as well that most of the night belonged to other people.
At last it was all over.
Rebecca was rocking on her feet and was bustled off upstairs. Miriam closed the doors on the ballroom and supper-room. "There are seven women coming over at ten tomorrow morning to help with that lot. I'm not giving it another thought. Bed for us all now."
Miriam reached the first stair that led to her quarters and Annabel's. She paused. "Goodnight,  Gideon."
He was going along to his own quarters. He had said goodnight in front of Miriam to Annabel, but their eyes met briefly, a knowledge of a secret shared in both pairs. They disengaged their look quickly.
Miriam said: "Oh, I must just have a look at tomorrow's clotted cream," and ran back to go into the kitchen. Annabel put out a hand, caught hers, leaned forward and kissed Miriam's cheek. "Thank you, fairy godmother," she said softly.
Pleasure sent the colour up in Miriam's face. "Oh, thank you, Annabel, that says everything." She disappeared into the kitchen.
Gideon had paused at the door that led into the great hall. Annabel knew he dared not risk coming back to kiss her goodnight. Miriam would reappear in a moment. But he looked. And she looked back. Neither even smiled. Then they both went on.

CHAPTER     TWELVE
THE aftermath of the ball kept them busy. They slept in till eight and Gideon rushed Rebecca and Lilian down to school at Glenorchy in the car as they were too late for the school bus. He had some stuff ready to dispatch on the next day's steamer, stayed to see to it, and by the time he got back the women had arrived and were in full spate talking.
"It was just like old times," declared Aunt Nell, removing glass rings from the window-sills. "I stood on my lawn for ages, watching the lights of the boats coming across-lake. The ball I remember most was one in 1920. I wore a flowered voile with panels of frills on each side. Luke had a new kilt and looked fine in it.  We danced till four."
Elspeth Leigh remembered it too. "I had the three children with me, of course. We stayed the night. Nell, will you ever forget how lovely Nan looked that night ?"
"I will not. She and Luke made a magnificent  couple,   didn't they?   There  was just something about Nan that set her apart. She had a wonderful dress sense, Annabel. Could make up a frock from a sale remnant that looked like Dior . . . only we didn't have Dior then." Aunt Nell laughed merrily. "You'd never have taken Nan for the mother of those two great boys. More than one of the attaches fell for her, in their day. But Nan had no eyes for anyone but Luke, and she was an adept at dodging the issue and doing it in so kindly a fashion, no one lost face or got hurt. Luke was a very lucky man."
Annabel felt she'd better drop her matchmaking plans about Luke and Nell perhaps comforting each other in their old age. It had obviously never caused Aunt Nell a pang that Nan Bell had been so beautiful. And Luke could never have had a fancy for Nell. Annabel had known that when he'd said Nell waddled.
Her ears were straining for the sound of Gideon's return all the time. Suddenly he was in the doorway and his eyes sought hers first, though it was to Miriam he spoke.
"Mother, I'll have to go to Alexandra. I met George Ninson at the Post Office collecting the mail.  He'd just got a letter from the mining commission about that business. The court is sitting tomorrow morning and George wants to look up some old records first. I'm driving him down.
"I'm afraid we'll have to get away now. The court sits early. Looking things up will take the rest of the day after we reach Alex. Can you manage? If you give Doug a ring he'll fix the milking ― and he and Joss ought to be able to get round my sheep tonight. Goodbye, all." His last look was for Annabel.
She was disappointed, but it didn't really matter. The long lovely summer was ahead of them.
The atmosphere dropped several degrees when Venetia came in. It seemed to be instinctive, automatic. But they were kindly folk, and after the first drying-up of talk, they hastened to chat with her.
You had to hand it to Venetia, she was quick and efficient, working with an economy of movement and maintaining an elegance few of them could achieve. There was something as provocative and chic as a maid in a French farce about Venetia, Annabel   decided.   The   oddest person to find in a place like this, where the road ended in mountains. Annabel was sure she just bided her time. Once Mr. Bell was gone, and whatever money there was to come to her was handed over, Venetia would make for Auckland or Sydney.
What would have happened had she succeeded in captivating Gideon? Annabel felt she knew the answer. She would have tried to uproot him too. Mount Carmel Station didn't mean a thing to her. It only meant forty-five thousand acres and the income it brought in from seven thousand sheep.
Venetia helped Annabel take out all the alpine plants, the troughs of shingle, the larch and fuchsia boughs, the ferns. She picked up the deep dish Gideon had set the mountain lilies in. They went outside.
Venetia looked at the flowers, waxen-white, exquisitely curved as to petals, centred with bright saffron and green stamens.   "Not a bit of good keeping these.
They don't last."
Annabel put out a quick hand. "Oh, don't throw them away. I'll see how long we can keep them. Perhaps they won't transplant, but I can try."
Venetia laughed. "Oh, well, nothing like learning by experience. I'll put them here in the shade." She stood up again, said, "Now, my orchids will last for ages, in a dish, embedded in moss."
Annabel blinked. "Oh, were they real? I thought being up here they would have to be artificial. It's so far from a florist's."
Venetia's lashes dropped to her cheeks, and she looked up and said, "How naive you are, Annabel. Didn't you guess? I thought, seeing you're on our side, you'd have realised. Not that I'd dare let Gideon know I've confided in you. He hasn't much opinion of women's ability to keep a secret. We don't want Miriam to know. They were little bush orchids ... the spring-flowering kind. Gideon could not rest till he got me some."
Annabel said lightly, "Quite the gallant, isn't he ? They were very lovely, Venetia. Not as exotic as some, or as large, but really exquisite. How about taking these daisies ― did you call them celmisias ? ― to the burn ? There's a shady spot where they'd last for days. I'd hate to see them shrivel."
Venetia   laughed,   but   not   mockingly.
"All right. Let's just put them in that old baby bath and take a handle each, my dear sentimentalist."
Annabel, momentarily, though not noticeably, dismayed at what Venetia had said, recovered herself quickly. Sometimes intuition helped you see more clearly through a situation than cold reason. Suddenly she had felt gloriously certain that Venetia was lying, that she'd got those orchids herself. She was sure, now she had come to know Gideon better, that he wouldn't stoop to all this petty intrigue.
He was the sort to brave his stepmother's displeasure ― even while, because of his love for her, he would hate to upset her. She was also sure that if he craved the chance of having Mount Carmel Station if Johnny didn't want it, he wouldn't go to this underhanded way about it. After all, Gideon was part owner of Mount Olivet. He could put a fair amount of money into any property he was interested in, surely.
He'd been attracted, in a purely superficial way, to Venetia, and Venetia, wishfully thinking, had read more into it. The whole thing could be a tissue of lies. After all, everyone, Miss Mattie, Miriam, Luke Bell, and Elspeth Leigh, had warned her about Venetia.
She must not judge Gideon on what Venetia was trying to build up in her mind. There was a time coming ― not far away, she thought ― when she and Gideon would be quite frank with each other. Look how suspicious he'd been of herself for a start. At the thought of the letter she was sure Mervyn's sister, Joan, had sent, Annabel began to feel hot. That had been sheer spite because Annabel had upset Joan's plans. Pity Gideon had burned the letter. Annabel could have told from its phrasing, if Joan had been the author. But Gideon had finally told her of his former suspicions. She must be equally frank with him, tell him ― though only him ― why she had come.
It was good when all the women had gone and she and Miriam were alone again.
"It was just what I wanted for you," said Miriam happily. "You didn't miss a single dance, did you ?"
"N-not really," said Annabel, and found her colour rising.
Miriam's   dark   blue   eyes   went   mischievous. "Except, of course, the one you sat out with Gideon!"
Annabel looked mischievous too. "He was hungry. He'd hidden some lime-and-soda and a whole plate of sausage rolls up there."
Miriam looked horrified. "Oh, how un-romantic can men get ? Really, I ― " she stopped, looked sternly and suspiciously at Annabel's face. "You're having me on! It wasn't all eating, was it ?" Her tone became more positive. "No, I can tell by the look of you it wasn't."
Annabel held up a finger admonishingly. "Mrs. Darroch, stop! All I'll admit was that we did watch the moon for a little while over your Old Stoney. But you're going too fast for me. Please don't."
Miriam continued to beam. "I won't now I know . . . well, all right, I know nothing. But I feel happier. I'll sit back now and let you dree your own weird, as Luke Bell always says. That's the trouble with us older folk. We get the feeling life is rushing by. Like that proverb of the Chinese . . . that it's later than we think. It is, you know, and some of us don't realise it till too late."
Annabel swallowed. She knew Miriam was thinking of Johnny Bell who was wasting these fleeting, lovely years, grieving, presumably, for his dead wife. Or was she doing him an injustice and was it all on Miriam's side ? It was ridiculous to harbour this grudge against a man she had never seen, just because she loved Miriam so.
Miriam leaned forward, "Annabel, you still call me Mrs. Darroch. Would you like to make it Miriam ?"
Annabel smiled. "That's a great compliment. I think of you as Miriam, Mrs. Darroch, but I think it would be just as well not. When the summer staff get here, I would be better not to be in the habit of it."
Miriam nodded, conceding the point. "You're right, of course, but I do want you to know, Annabel, that quite apart from Gideon and what I hope will happen, I regard you as one of us. Belonging."
Annabel's eyes were misty. She smiled crookedly because she couldn't keep her lips steady. "I feel that way, too, and you'll never know what it means to me."
"You were a big success last night, Annabel, because you entered right into the spirit of the dances up here. I couldn't take my eyes off you when you were waltzing with Luke. You did remind me of someone. It's not your looks or your colouring. I mean I can't think of anyone with your colouring ― except Aunt Nell. But the way you held yourself when dancing with Luke ― your head a little back. I'm sure one of these days I'll remember who it is. Perhaps some girl I went to school with here."
Annabel said slowly, "Oddly enough, Mr. Bell said the same. Not about the dancing. The day he gave me my necklace. Said it was the way I walked. Isn't it funny how chance resemblances crop up ?"
Some day, some day, dear God, please, please let them remember. It would make me so sure. I wish, oh, how I wish I had had Mark Leigh's red hair. Then I'd be pretty sure.
Naturally Venetia's words about the orchids returned now and then to haunt and to taunt her, but she was resolute and wouldn't brood. When she and Gideon again had some time alone together, she would pluck up the courage to ask him. And of course,  if he  declared himself,  it would give her the right. Every time she niggled at the problem, telling herself that the turret room episode could have been nothing more than moonshine and a pretty dress, the remembered sweetness of it swept over her and convinced her that it was but a beginning.
Time dragged. The business in Alexandra took longer than thought. Gideon rang to say they would have to spend another night there, then, of all things, that he was taking George down to Dunedin to see the lawyers.
Miriam, though she didn't put it into words, was disappointed for Annabel's sake too, Annabel guessed, even if all she said was, "Oh, bother. That means some of the guests will be up by Monday's steamer before he gets back."
It was almost dusk on Monday when he came home. Annabel had been secretly worrying lest he might drive home in the dark, even if he knew it, as he had said once, like the back of his hand.
But things could go wrong ... terrible gusts could batter a car coming round some of the bluffs; there could be landslides in heavy rain; a car could go into a skid on the heavy shingle, and it was a long way down to the lake.
But here he was. He came round by the front, doing the thing properly, and greeting the guests walking round the garden. Annabel took as long as she could, wiping the tables on the terraces, plumping up the cushions in the empty chairs.
He reached her just as a voice floated up from down below, "It's so delightfully quaint, Flossie. I just didn't dare hope to believe it was all the brochure said. And these Biblical names, so fascinating. Even » the people here have names to match. Just imagine, Mrs. Darroch said  -  and she's Miriam, by the way  -  that her stepson is Gideon and her daughters Beulah and Rebecca."
Gideon, his tawny eyes alight, said, "What did I tell you ? Didn't I say quaint was the most overworked word up here? But how can we fit you in, Annabel ? Perhaps we could say we have a poets' corner. Make a brand-new tradition. By Jove, it's an idea. One of the waitresses coming up is Rosaleen. Wasn't there a poem about a dark Rosaleen? Let me see, Miss Mattie ought to be here . . . she can always give chapter and verse. Yes, one of James Mangan's. Know it ?
"O there was lightning in my blood! 
Red lightning lightened through my blood, 
My dark Rosaleen!  

and we've got a Maude. Maude's been coming up here for years. We'll have to lop the V off her name.
"Come  into the garden,   Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown...

And now we have you, my beautiful Annabel Lee!" His eyes held mischief. "Annabel, you blush delightfully. You're worth teasing!
"For the moon never beams without bringing me  
dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 
Of the beautiful Annabel  Lee..."

He turned quickly and looked over his shoulder.   "Good life, guests on our heels ... imagine if they had heard that! I'm off."
Oh, how she loved him! This had been her destiny. To come here and if not to find her father, or her grandparents, to find her true mate.

CHAPTER     THIRTEEN
IT DIDN'T matter, somehow, that they didn't get a moment to themselves. Because there were the fleeting moments when across the crowded room she could catch Gideon's eye. Another when he had to brush past her and touched her shoulder lightly.
There was no time for much discussion of the mining business the next day, though Gideon did manage to tell Miriam and Annabel that they had uncovered all the old records that proved beyond doubt that George Ninson was sole owner of the claim.
Annabel realised that Gideon would ask her, whenever they could snatch a reasonable and unlikely-to-be-disturbed time together, just what could have been behind that anonymous letter.
What a relief to tell someone here, and how marvellous to have him to help her pin things down. Because although she was almost sure she was Mark Leigh's daughter, there   was   a  faint possibility   she   could belong to another family, and with that, was the happier chance that the circumstances might be such that they would be proud and glad to acknowledge her.
It was Miriam who tried to make the opportunity for them, purposely, Annabel was sure. Not that Miriam knew how badly they needed time alone, but just that she wanted to further her own dreams for them.
Immediately after lunch Miriam said: "Oh, bother! I told Gideon not to forget this note for Luke  -  he's gone over to see him. I don't know what's come over Gideon ... or perhaps I do." She grinned wickedly. "He's been so absent-minded! Look, Annabel, chase over there, will you ? Take the wee car. It's about the Hall. Someone is going to ring Luke about it, and I said I'd let him have this list of functions."
Gideon had gone over on Josh. Annabel thought how lovely it would be to ride back with him. They might even take the long way round by Hell's Gully. This could be the time and the place.
So she said, "I think I'll ride my little donkey. The more practice I get the better
I'll be when we do find time for lessons on something bigger. Besides, I do love Balaam."
Miriam giggled. "When the guests see you  they'll   say,   'Well,   now,   isn't  that quaint ?'"
They did. She had to pose for the cameras. She wore corduroy trews with a green shantung shirt over them, and pushed her big straw hat, with its elastic under her chin, to the back of her neck for the pictures. Then off she rode, Balaam taking his sure-footed way.
Nice if Venetia was away from home. She could so easily put a spoke in their wheel, suggest she rode back with them on some pretext or other. Annabel felt it was in the lap of the gods. She must not count on it.
It was while she was tying Balaam up that she heard the voices. Venetia's low-pitched attractively husky voice. Goodness, it was a seductive voice, and it held the tone that was almost caressing ― something she never wasted on women.  Or old Mr. Bell.
"You really are a past master at compliments," it said.
Annabel's eyes looked disgusted. Surely Venetia wasn't trying her wiles on one of the boys ? They were only youngsters. But of course Venetia couldn't help herself.
But the voice that said in answer, "Women like you make it easy to pay compliments," wasn't either Doug's voice, or Joss's. It was Gideon's.
Annabel felt herself go rigid. Then she told herself not to be foolish. That was just the light, jesting coinage of conversation that men did exchange with women of Venetia's type.
She knew she ought not to eavesdrop, but she felt rooted to the spot, just as if her sandals had turned into suction caps, holding her to the turf.
Venetia's voice changed to deadly seriousness. It held a throbbing note. "Gideon, what's the matter? You're breaking my heart.   You've withdrawn from me lately.  Why?"
Annabel felt she could have told her why. She might have felt badly about it, had it been anyone but Venetia Bell. But she was no good. Not for Gideon. Not for anyone, really,  scheming and devious as she was.
She held her breath, certain in her bones that Gideon would be frank. Or could he be  -  yet ? Knowing he hadn't, in so many words, declared himself to Annabel. Yet she had perfect trust that he would handle this situation as it should be handled.
So she didn't at first believe what she heard him utter.
He said: "Can't you guess why, Venetia ? Can't you really ? If the boot had been on the other foot and I'd been the one to be married twice before, wouldn't you have felt a few pangs of jealousy about the two other women in my life? Once would be bad enough, but twice! It's quite true that love is essentially jealous. Oh, I know that your first marriage goes back to your late teens, when you wouldn't know your own mind, so it doesn't matter to me  -  but being married to Joe is quite different. I  -  I just can't quite take it  -  "
Annabel came to. She didn't want to hear any more. Besides, apart altogether from the blow this had dealt her, she must get away. Neither of these two, these two despicable people, would want that conversation overheard. It was essentially private.
She took Balaam  so much by surprise that he let go of the succulent willow he was nibbling and allowed himself to be led away, his tiny hooves making no sound on the green turf.
Annabel tied him to the house rail, on a short rein so he could do no damage, and knocked on the back door. Luke's vivid blue eyes lit up at sight of her. "Why, come awa' in, lass, surely you aren't needing to knock on my door, still ?"
Annabel managed a smile. Strange how you could. "Oh, I'd never walk in on anyone unannounced," she said.
Luke tucked his hand in her elbow. "No, you'd never be the one to overstep the mark. That's why I'm making you free o’ the place. But could you not just tap, sing out: 'It's only me,' and come on in ?"
Annabel squeezed his hand against her side. "I can't forget my bringing up," she laughed, and was proud to find her voice sounding normal.
Luke said: "Oh, that's the list. Gideon said he'd go back and get it, but he's away up the stand of trees with Venetia. Trust that one! She whisked him off to have a look at some fernery she says she's making in the middle of it. Never mind, he'll soon shake her off. She's making about as much impression on him as trying to scratch your initials on greenstone with a piece of manuka   bark."
Annabel thought: "If only you knew !"
She got herself away smartly on the plea that she wanted to assist Miriam with the three o'clock afternoon tea. "We're serving it in four of the rustic huts as well. It takes a little longer. Tell Gideon when you see him that I dropped the note in."
Luke let her depart with his never-failing Scots word of farewell for her, "Haste ye back", and soon she was blessedly alone, with no one to remark on the tears in her eyes. By the time she got back to Olivet, she knew exactly how she was going to react.
This time the opportunity was tailor-made. Gideon had been most attentive to the guests in the leisurely coffee-time after dinner, and, having done his duty, was now prepared to escape.
He came into the kitchen just as Miriam and Annabel were drying the last of the cups, tall, bronzed, confident.
"We're having an hour off," he announced to Annabel. "Take off that smock." His fingers pulled its ties undone. "And get a cardigan in case it's cold later. We're sneaking off for a drive. Come on, before anyone asks me to take a cue. And no shenanigans about it being your duty to help Mother. She doesn't need you ― she told me so. Now, quick, girl, and not too long to put on make-up."
Annabel took a perverse satisfaction in being extremely particular over her makeup. She wanted to be cool and poised too, like Venetia. Her frock was turquoise nylon and the bodice was beautifully draped with a softly cowled neckline that dipped down at the back. She put a short fluffy jacket over it and brushed her hair back from her temples and caught it in a clasp at the nape of her neck. She'd been letting it grow ever since leaving England.
She wore Luke Bell's necklace of New Zealand stones. She put up a hand and touched them. They were to remind her that there were people here who were decent, warm-hearted, without guile. Gideon didn't matter, mustn't matter. He was just a contemptible deceiver and she would not break her heart over him.
He must never suspect that it meant anything to her. Because she just had to stay here. She couldn't go back to London, because her roots were here. She belonged to the Lake people now. And to the Lake.
She ran lightly downstairs, wondering at her capacity for acting. She was farewelled by Miriam with a benign smile. Oddly enough that hurt. Miriam was going to be very disappointed. She must see to it that Miriam did not suspect anything wrong.
Gideon had the car out of the garage, and didn't say much till they were on the road.
"Where are we going ?" asked Annabel.
"Up on to the Bible Terrace. I've not had you up there yet. Under old Stoney and looking out over Wakatipu."
"Can you get to it from here, or do we have to go to Glenorchy first ?"
"We go through Glenorchy, along the road to Queenstown, just a short distance, then leave the car and take to the track and the tussocks. Great Scot, I should have said no high heels." He glanced at her foot; she had one leg crossed over the other. "Oh, they aren't too bad, it won't improve them, but you'll manage. Does it matter if they get scratched ?"
"No, not a bit." (Nothing mattered.)
His mouth lifted at the corner in the way it had. He wore a cream silk shirt with a brown and cream cravat tucked carefully into the collar. Nothing to him but looks, Annabel decided. His quirk widened into a smile and he glanced into her eyes. "There are times when one can have a lofty disregard of wear and tear, eh ?"
Annabel smiled in a way that gave no hint of her real feelings.
"Can't let such mundane things interfere with scenery on the grand scale like this, can we ?"
He laughed outright. "Oh, Annabel, you funny little thing ... it wasn't scenery I was thinking of."
She didn't meet his eyes this time. "How can he ? How can he ? Surely he realises it isn't fair to me. He wants me to respond just enough, and naturally enough to take everyone's attention off the fact that he has fallen deeply and seriously for Joe Bell's widow, whom nobody wants him to marry.
"And I, poor sucker, carried away by the Cinderella atmosphere of the ball Miriam gave for me, allowed myself to be hoodwinked." Annabel's hands were water-lily cool, but inwardly she was like one of the red-hot pokers in the garden at Olivet.
They parked the car and Gideon lifted Annabel clean over the fence, then vaulted it himself. Grazing sheep fled before them in the twilight. They began to climb the track up the ridge.
Gideon took her hand and turned her to look at the lake, purpling now in the dusk, but the far shore, looking like the land of all lost dreams, in a shimmer of rose and coral, lay bathed in the last rays.
In spite of the pain in her heart, its beauty moved Annabel. There was a poignancy in it. How strange that in the midst of such beauty could be such ugliness of deception. God's lovely world.
Annabel turned quickly, began climbing again. They came up on to the edge of the bleached yellow tussock that looked so like the pale gilt edges of an open Bible, and the upper reaches of Wakatipu came into view.
The Humboldt Range was catching the sun's last rays now, striking turquoise and violet and green lights from glacier pockets deep in the upper ravines. Beauty almost unbearable. Below them was the rich alluvial flat, with Diamond Lake glittering and the dark shadows of the beech forest closing in on it.
She put a hand up to her necklace. She steeled herself not to let the touch of his hand under her elbow stir her, as he assisted her across the cracks and hollows of the Terrace.
They came to the fence, a few feet from the broken edge that overhung the road and the shore of the lake. Suddenly it was night, with stars pricking out, and the light being switched on in the moon that had been white and pallid moments before.
Below them the Bucklerburn ran out into Wakatipu. Lights began to gleam out in the dark patch that was Glenorchy. Across the waters glimmered the lights of remote homesteads.
Gideon turned her round by the elbows, away from the lake.
"Look, Rapunzel, a different view of Old Stoney from what we saw from your turret the other night, but it's the same moon and the same two people." He drew her to him, smiled, bent his head ...
Annabel turned hers sharply away. "But not the same mood, Gideon, not the same mood!"
"What ?" his voice sounded incredulous. "Annabel! What's got into you?" His fingers bit into her arms. "Look, what's the matter ? Have I offended you ? If so, it was quite unintentional. Come on, out with it. I can't stand sulks."
Annabel felt fury bubble up in her and sounded it, forgetting she had meant to be cool, cutting, distant. "Sulks? I've never sulked in my life! Only spoiled brats sulk. Orphans aren't allowed that luxury, believe me!"
He laughed, right down into her face. "Annabel darling, that's much better. Much, much more like you. Now, come on, there must be something."
Annabel got her voice back to normal, steadied her temper.
"Gideon, you're making a mountain out of a mole-hill. There isn't a thing. But ― but what made you think I'd want to go on ? At least I mean I ― didn't expect you to carry in any further."
His voice went tense and grim. "Go on, Annabel. Carry what any further ?"
Annabel felt horribly embarrassed. This wasn't going quite as she had planned. His voice sounded quite implacable.   "Go on, Annabel.   You  can't just leave  it there."
She swallowed, "Well, I thought this was going to be a sight-seeing walk. Just to get you away from the guests. Not for  -  " She came to a full stop.
The fingers did not lessen their pressure. He shook her.  "Not for what ? "
She regained her composure. She lifted her pointed chin. Her cheekbones seemed to stand out. "You know, Gideon, every girl doesn't expect to be made love to whenever a man takes her out. I've not got much time for casual love-making."
His voice crisped. "I didn't intend it to be casual. I'm not in the habit of that myself."
Annabel longed to call him a liar.
When she said nothing he continued, more gently, "I think you've got me wrong, Annabel, or else Venetia was right."
Her head came up.  "Venetia ?"
"Yes, now don't take on. It was just an idle comment. Said she thought you were a bit green about men. Laughed and said she supposed the orphanage had been rather like a nunnery and that with continuing to work there, you'd never had much experience of men."
Annabel felt a pure rage. She almost felt he'd feel it beneath his fingers. "Well, I'd rather be green ― in that way ― than as experienced as  Venetia!"
She was ashamed the moment she had said it.
Gideon laughed. "A bit of the cat in all women," he said, unforgivably. Then, more unforgivably still, "But don't worry, I won't think any the worse of you for it. I like girls with spirit."
Annabel felt as if the breath she drew, fighting for control of herself, came from her feet. She freed herself with one swift movement. But only for a moment.
He grabbed her again, looked down on her, smiled in a challenging sort of way, trying to   force  her to   smile  back.   She didn't.
But his eyes still held hers. She couldn't seem to look away.
"Are you going to tell me," he demanded, "that that moment we shared up in your turret meant nothing more to you than the mood of the moment? The dancing, the moonlight, your prettiest frock? Was that all it was?"
At last she achieved the tone she'd meant to use from the first. "Just that, my dear Gideon. I'm awfully sorry ifyou took me seriously, or thought I expected you to follow it up. I didn't think it had meant any more to you than it meant to me. And Venetia isn't quite right about the nunnery, you know. I'm not a green girl. We were encouraged to have a life of our own. It was just a nice little romantic interlude to me. No more. Nothing to make heavy weather of. I hope to quite enjoy myself here, you know, be pleasant to all the guests ― men as well as women ― but I wouldn't dream of getting involved seriously with any of them. I think you'd better take me back, Gideon. Sorry if I gave you any wrong ideas."
It must have been the moonlight that made his face look blanched. It certainly looked less ruddy for once.
There! She had done exactly what she had intended to do… wounded him in his masculine pride. This man who used women to get what he wanted had got what was coming to him. He had thought she couldn't see through him!
In silence they walked through the tussocks  and in the  absence of conversation the swishing sounded abnormally loud. He let her stumble and slip in the boggy patches, not putting out a hand to help her. He veered away from the part of the fence where he'd lifted her over, walked with never a sideways glance at her, to a five-barred gate. He let her through. They came back towards the car. He opened the door for her, went round and got in.
All the way home Annabel kept her mind inflexibly on the words she had heard him speak to Venetia this afternoon. They had not been ambiguous words. She had made no mistake in their meaning. She was right in what she was doing. He was only pretending he was so hurt so his behaviour could tie in with the fact that he'd hoped to deceive Miriam and Luke into thinking his fancy for Venetia was over.
They came out of the stables where he garaged the car, walked toward the house in a continuing silence. But at the gate into the back garden, in between the tall poplars and the sycamores of the copse, he paused, his hand on the latch, so she could not go through.
He turned and looked at her, his face in the  dappled shadows that the leaves and moonlight made, looked all planes and angles.
He   said,   "I  think  I'm  the   greenhorn. And  not  half as   discriminating   as   I'd thought I was."
He opened the gate and let her go through. She heard the gate click behind her and knew, without turning, that he was still on the other side.
It wasn't late. Annabel went in, helped serve supper, stayed and chatted to the guests. Gideon didn't appear. She supposed he had gone to Mount Carmel ... and Venetia. If he said to Venetia that his idea of using Annabel as a smoke-screen wasn't going to plan, Venetia would just laugh at him. If only, if only she could despise Gideon as she despised  -  and detested  -  Venetia. The attraction of the opposite sex was very confusing. It destroyed one's judgement.
Anyway, what did it matter? She was really here to find out her parentage. And Gideon Darroch could go jump in Wakatipu for all she cared!

CHAPTER     FOURTEEN
THE days were so full she did not progress very quickly with her search. Guests came first and last. One thing, they made it so busy you couldn't brood in the hours of the day, and when you finally trailed up your stairs at night, you were so weary sleep overtook you before the ache could set in properly. But a certain numbness accompanied Annabel all the time. Like seeing life through a curtain of mist.
It would be busier still soon with Christmas growing so near. Then the campers would arrive, to stay in their little huts, and certain prepared foods would have to be available  -  that had always been a speciality of Olivet House.
Miss Mattie came to help. She left the cooking to the others, but helped change beds and do the flowers. The lucerne was ready early, which kept Gideon busy. There was haymaking, in which the guests joined, thinking it idyllic to start with and back-breaking after the first hour, when most of them faded out. Gideon didn't bale the hay, he put it into stacks, and covered them with black plastic. He preferred it that way and it saved a lot of expense. The shearing gang arrived, staying in their own quarters and bringing their own cook, a much harassed but tough individual. He needed to be tough.
Miriam said wistfully once, "You and Gideon don't get much time off, now. It's really a mad rush from now till March. It is a pity." Annabel knew she meant: "You don't get enough time  off together."
So she just laughed. "Look, Mrs. Dar-roch, I'm so thrilled with the charm of my surroundings, it's more like play to me."
Miriam did see to it, though, that Annabel was included in the outings most days. The expeditions to the glow-worm grotto, an enchanting sight, with the curved arches of the shallow caves in the corrie, overhung with tiny webs where thousands of green-blue dots of light shone out, were favourites with the guests. There were climbs to the Falls, personally conducted by Gideon, picnics and minibus rides to all the accessible spots of local interest.
Gideon took the men out deer-shooting, and helicopters flew in to take the deer-meat to the canning factories. A chosen few he took bird-watching.
Annabel did manage to see a little of the Leighs. It was her favourite place on her day off.
"I'm so glad," said Miriam. "Elspeth's grandchildren are a little too far off to come often, but they'll be up for Christmas. She and David don't get enough young company through the year. She's got extremely fond of you."
"And I of her and Mr. Leigh," said Annabel. She loved to sit and listen to tales of Mark and Dan and Mary, always hoping for some clue. "If only I had a birthmark," she thought to herself, despairingly. If only all the Leighs had some small peculiarity, webbed toes, or pointed ears or something. But they seemed so normal!
Gideon managed to retain the sort of footing with her that combined a surface friendliness for comfort's sake, with an underlying irony that flicked her on the raw at times, because it seemed to put her in the wrong, when it was he who was at fault.   It must be  a masculine perversity.
He must resent the fact that she hadn't fallen for him.
Venetia was present far too often. Annabel knew why. She was afraid Gideon might be attracted to some of the guests or waitresses. In looks, of course, Venetia outshone them all  -  but naturally, since Gideon had expressed himself as jealous of the fact that she had had two husbands, she would dread the thought that he might be attracted to someone with an uncomplicated   background,   some   fresh  young girl.
Also, Venetia still watched Annabel closely. Gideon must not have told her Annabel had brushed him off.
Tim made things easier when he got home from Varsity. He was a mixture of Gideon and Miriam, like both in looks and nature but brimming over with fun. It was evident that he loved both guesthouse and farm. He was taking a science course, then going on to Lincoln, the Agricultural College in Canterbury, where Gideon had spent a couple of years.
Annabel said to Gideon, "Will he come back here to help you run the farm ?"
She wanted to know, without appearing curious on that score, if Gideon planned, for the years ahead, to be farming at Mount Carmel Station instead of here.
Gideon shook his head. "I doubt it. Tim will probably go on in research work. Animal husbandry or pest control or some such. His practical work here has been of great help to him, naturally, but I don't see Tim settling at Olivet. Isn't quite big enough to hold his interest."
("And not big enough to hold the ambitious Gideon Darroch, either," Annabel thought.)
Most of their encounters were like this. Perfectly, deadly polite, with no fire and warmth. Not even any petty irritations. They were too careful not to let their emotions betray them into real feelings.
It didn't seem possible this could be the Christmas season, even with all the old-time customs being maintained here in the Antipodes. The geese were fattened  -  though of course there would be homegrown lamb on the menu too  -  the puddings boiled, rows of mince-pies and shortbread made, huge Christmas cakes stored.
Miriam, though frantically busy, had a new light in her eye, a more spontaneous ring to her laughter. All her children, save Beulah, were gathered under Olivet's roof.
"Nothing to compare with it  -  or very little," she amended hastily. "I always feel as if something of myself is missing when they're away. When Gideon was at Lincoln, the first to be away, I had a constant ache. I got used to it, but oh, how I love them being home!"
Tim came in. "Mum, what are we going to get Paul for his birthday? Had any thoughts about it yet? Because it comes so soon after New Year, we might not be down in Queenstown in time to get it if we leave it any later. It's always so busy just then." Without giving his mother time to answer about the present, he added: "By the way, Annabel, when's your birthday ? Mum thrives on celebrations. Any excuse for a picnic or party."
Annabel hesitated, then, "Well, we always celebrated it in April."
Tim stared, then reddened. "Oh, I see. Sorry, Annabel, that was clumsy of me. But since you were left on the doorstep, it'd be pretty near your actual birthday, wouldn't it ? I mean foundlings are nearly always just a few days old."
Annabel had to agree, but being Annabel, she added quickly, "Don't feel bad about it, Tim. It truly doesn't worry me."
Tim flung an arm round her shoulder, said, "You're a great girl, Annabel. No self-pity. So uncomplicated. Some girls in your position would be a mass of complexes but not you. And you sort of suit this family. Good for old Gideon picking you. He knew the kind for here."
Annabel beamed on him, then turned her head. Gideon was watching from the passage, looking sardonic.
Later, she found herself alone with him. Gideon  looked her   straight  in  the   eye. "Annabel,   Tim's my young brother.   I'd hate to see him get hurt. Just watch it, will you ? Just don't lead him on."
Annabel blinked,  then   said  scornfully: "You're way off beam.   Tim thinks of me much as he thinks of Rebecca, as a sister."
Gideon said quietly, "But you aren't a sister. And you enjoy playing with fire."
He was quite impossible! Annabel walked off and left him.
Paul came back from Mount Carmel Station later, with Rebecca, and with news.
Miriam  was   stacking   dishes   into   the dish-washer.   She had her back to them.
Paul said, "Old Luke's madly excited today. Just got a cable from Johnny. He'll be home for New Year."
The next moment Miriam was saying: "Oh, dear, whatever's the matter with me ? That's my third breakage this week. Paul, what did you say ? Something about Luke."
Paul bit into a scone. "Johnny is coming home. For New Year. Cabled that he'd be up on the noon steamer New Year's Eve."
Miriam's tone was offhand. "I hope that doesn't mean Luke won't be able to come to the Hogmanay Ball. He enjoys it so. In fact, I heard him asking Annabel to save him some dances."
Gideon, who'd come in on Paul's heels, said, "Oh, old Johnny won't miss out on the party. He's like his father, a rattling good dancer." His eyes lingered on Miriam's back.
Miriam said: "Well, he never stays long. I suppose it would give him the chance of meeting everybody at the one time. He certainly gets about the world. No ties. Well, I suppose it's true that he who travels alone, travels fastest."
The resultant silence was so marked that
Annabel realised that most of them knew Miriam still carried a torch for Johnny Bell. Aunt Nell had once said they had been teenage sweethearts  -  had fallen out about something, and had each married someone else. That was all, because then they had heard Miriam coming and had changed the subject.
Miriam threw herself into the last-minute preparations for Christmas with such feverish energy Annabel knew she was disturbed. When she and Tim and Gideon went down to Queenstown one day by car to get Paul's birthday presents, she came back with a new frock for the Hogmanay Ball.
The weather was gloriously hot, but never oppressive because there was almost always a breeze off the lake and the air was sweet and calm, with the tang of the mountains and beech forests in it. The guests were enchanted. They woke to birdsong and the singing of the burns and went to sleep at night in a velvety silence undisturbed by traffic noises. An arcadian, idyllic life.
The garden rang with the happy laughter of children from daylight till dusk, and occasionally of course to the sound of pitched battles, though Rebecca, oddly enough, was a wizard at keeping the peace among the younger ones.
An American woman from New Hampshire said one night, "This is something I'll remember all my life. I'm so glad we came right up here. We so nearly didn't. I've always loved that phrase, with the mind's eye. Well, I'll be able to close my eyes any time, anywhere, in a New York Street, or in one of our New Hampshire woods, and recapture all this in my mind's eye. The mountains, the sapphire lake, the stillness and the birdsong. So will you, I suppose, back in London ?"
Annabel said slowly, "I'm not going back. At least, if I do, in years to come, it will be only for a visit. I feel I belong here."
There was a hectic gaiety about Miriam on New Year's Eve. As if she were determined not to be caught listening for Johnny Bell's footfall, Johnny Bell's voice. As if she must fill every moment to the brim lest she fall into a day-dream and have anyone notice it. Annabel  tried to   tell  herself she   was being unfair to resent Johnny Bell so. He might not even guess Miriam still carried a torch for him. But she couldn't help it. Miriam was so sweet of heart, so thoughtful for others. How could a man be so blind ?
She hoped when she met him she'd be able to disguise her animosity. She must be fair. Johnny had evidently never got over his wife's death. He must have loved her dearly to have been unsettled so long. Annabel had an idea he had been a widower for years, long before Gideon's father had died. Perhaps the youthful attraction Miriam had had for him all those years ago had never revived. It could be as simple as that. She must not let her love for Miriam and her desire to see her perfectly happy cause her to err in judgement. Yet she still felt this unreasoning prejudice.
Beneath all the flurry of preparation, Annabel was aware that Miriam tensed every time the phone rang. But it was never Johnny.
Gideon went over to bring Venetia across. Annabel watched him leave, his kilt swinging as he strode towards the garage. Was there ever a garment so becoming to a man as a kilt ?
The guests entered right into the spirit of it. Half-way up the big stairs, on the centre landing before it branched right and left, was a big carved cedar chest. Annabel had never seen it opened, but it proved to hold dozens of tartan shoulder sashes.
Earlier Miriam had said to Annabel, "Gideon made discreet inquiries among the guests to find out which of them will want their own tartans. Quite a number of the Americans and Canadians know their ancestors' tartans. So I put those aside, marked with their names. The rest will wear them too, mostly, so they can choose what they fancy. But I'd like you to have first choice of what's here. It won't matter to you which tartan it is, will it, Annabel ?"
"No, not really," Annabel made herself answer, carelessly turning them over as if looking for a colour to suit her frock. But she was really tumbling them over in search of what she hoped, with a sudden intensity, she would find. The replica of that tartan in the little child's bag that had belonged to that night of horror years ago. It might mean nothing, but she would still like to wear what might prove to be her own. It was there  -  a glorious combination of greens, yellows, and a red. She turned the corner over to see the identifying tag, to be quite, quite sure. Yes. The Ancient MacMillan. "This one will do," she said.  "I'm wearing that primrose lace."
She thought of the MacMillan motto, "I learn to succour the unfortunate." Her thoughts, for once, were sombre. She was one of the unfortunate. Perhaps some day a MacMillan would succour her. Or some branch of the clan bearing another name. But it was most likely that that tartan had been her mother's.
Almost every girl and woman at the Ball wore a shoulder sash. Miriam fastened Annabel's with a cairngorm brooch. The yellow quartz was lovely with the yellow frock.
The revelry was in full swing, had been for long enough, and still Annabel, keeping a sharp eye on Miriam, hadn't noticed her dancing with anyone who could possibly be Johnny. Though perhaps he wouldn't be a bit like Annabel imagined. She was thinking of him as cast in the hero's mould. Perhaps because he was Miriam's true love.   That was  sheer absurdity.   Miriam would always see him as he had been, but a man of his age could be balding, portly, very much middle-aged. Anyway, there were dozens of strangers here, many of them owners of summer cabins, whom Annabel had never seen before.
Venetia looked especially beautiful, in a dull crepey gown that was neither pink nor lilac but a blend of both, one of the delicately muted colours that her own vivid darkness so enhanced. She'd declined a sash. "Not tartan with this, please," she had said laughingly. And she was wearing bush orchids again. She and Gideon danced beautifully together.
He didn't come to Annabel for a single dance. In an exchange waltz she was whirled away by someone she didn't know, one of a long line of strange partners. No time, usually, to find out who they were.
But this one talked as expertly as he waltzed. Men his age were better at waltzes than the younger ones. He had an angular jaw and deep-set blue eyes and a very bronzed face. His chin, squared at the base, had a faint cleft in it. He had an assured air and finely-drawn look.
"On holidays up here ?" he asked.
"No, I'm working here."
"You are English, aren't you ?"
Annabel's one dimple flashed out. "I was. I'm regarding myself as a New Zealander now."
He smiled back, deftly swinging her away as someone attempted to cut in; he whirled her quickly into the middle of the throng. "Ah, foiled that one. You mean you're not on a working holiday? You're an immigrant ?"
"Practically. I paid my own way out to see how I liked it and have decided to stay."
"Good show! So I suppose you're working your way round all the beauty spots before deciding where to settle. Good idea."
Annabel smiled into his eyes. She liked men of this age. They didn't think you were trying to attract them, therefore you could be simply and naturally yourself and it gave you a very comfortable feeling. He had a kind and compassionate face, this one, despite that so angular jaw.
"It would be a good idea," said Annabel, "but this was the first place I made for, and it's where I'm going to stay for the rest of my life."
He looked surprised and delighted. "Really ? Some would think it the back of beyond. Where were you from? Some remote village, perhaps? I mean you're not scared off by solitude."
The dimple flashed again and his own cheeks creased in response. "You're well off beam, sir. I'm from London."
He laughed outright. The end of the music found them right by Miss Mattie. He caught her arm. "Mattie, do the honours. We've not got round to names yet and I'm very intrigued to find my little partner is from London yet wants to settle here."
"Certainly, Johnny," said Miss Mattie. "I thought perhaps you knew. This is Miss Lee, who by now is Miriam's right hand here. Mr. Johnny Bell, Annabel."
Annabel saw a strange look pass over Johnny Bell's face. She told herself later that it was wishful thinking . . . sheer imagination . . . that she'd wanted him to whiten and tauten at the sound of Miriam's name. But the feeling persisted that he had. She was glad. She hadn't wanted to think Johnny indifferent to Miriam.
Luke Bell, magnificent in his kilt,  appeared beside him. "Ah, you got over, Johnny. Got your unpacking done? And you've met Annabel ?"
There was sheer affection in the old man's voice. It warmed Annabel. She smiled back just as warmly. Johnny Bell gave her an appraising look, she thought. Old Luke said, "This is my dance," and held out his arms to Annabel. Johnny Bell took Miss Mattie on to the floor.
Two dances later Annabel noticed Miriam and Johnny were dancing together. Miriam had a curiously shut-in look, and Miriam was never like that. Could it be that to Johnny she was afraid to show her feelings? Annabel found herself hoping passionately that he would take Miriam up for the midnight waltz. Miriam had warned her to watch who she accepted for that. At a minute to twelve the lights would go out and most of the girls would get kissed. Miriam had added, "So be careful it's not that odious little man with the black moustache who's taken such a fancy to you. Isn't he the most crashing bore ?"
Annabel had laughed. "I'm having it with Mr. Bell. He asked me ages ago. I'd rather be kissed by him than anyone."
A glaring untruth, but face-saving.
But when the music for it started, it was Luke's son who stood before her. "I'm taking Dad's place," he said with a little smile playing round his well-cut mouth.
Annabel knew a poignant disappointment for Miriam's sake.   She said quickly,
"Oh, isn't Mr. Bell well ? Because I'd sit it put with him. I'd get him something. I've never seen him anything else but hale and hearty. But he must be tired at his age and at this hour. Where is he ?"
Johnny Bell laid a hand on her arm. "No, he's just being a good sport, that's all. See, he's getting Miss Mattie up. I wanted to dance with you again."
Oh no! Annabel knew a throbbing resentment for Miriam's sake. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it.
As Johnny Bell swung her on to the floor, he added, "You see, I asked Dad how it was you were wearing Mother's necklace. I thought I must get to know the girl that he would part with that to better."
Annabel felt completely dismayed. "Mr. Bell, I'm not regarding this as permanently mine, believe me. But your father made such a point of my having  it,   I   couldn't refuse him. Oh, I know that sounds phoney, but it's true. I  - "
He interrupted, "Good lord, Annabel... don't mind me calling you that, do you? It's a name I like. I've no one to leave it to and Joe left no family either. He married so late in life  -  and so unsuitably  -  and it lasted so short a time. I recognised the necklace immediately. Realised Dad must know you very well and think a lot of you. I sought him out and asked him. Seems you and he are very good friends. In fact you're very popular here with the older set, I'm told. Elspeth Leigh says you're just like one of her own grandchildren to her. "
Annabel crimsoned with pleasure. She looked up at him a little shyly. "They've all been so good to me. In some small communities one could stay an incomer for years, but not here at the Head. No wonder I want to stay. And I do love your father. When the rush is over he's going to teach me to ride a horse. I can only ride a donkey. "
Johnny Bell burst out laughing. Then he said, "It's a wonder Gideon hasn't taught you. "
Annabel found herself flushing again. "There never seems to be time, " she said, and changed the subject.
She thought of something. "Mr. Bell, I suppose your father did warn you that Venetia doesn't know he gave me this ? "
He nodded gravely. "That was very wise. She's a strange woman. "
Annabel was glad he said that. It meant he saw through Venetia. It would have been terrible for Miriam if he had felt an attraction there, and he was so personable that if Venetia thought it expedient, she could easily ditch Gideon for Johnny,
She said, "I've never said to your father that I felt I just held this necklace in trust. Mr. Bell, but I want you to know that that's how I feel about it. If ever you should want it, you must ask for it back. "
He smiled down on her. "It's yours for keeps. Dad would never have given it to anyone he didn't love. Dad's taken some very hard blows in his time and he's no one left now ―on the female side ― to leave it to. I happen to know he gave it to you for the best of all possible reasons ... sheer sentiment. " He went on to say something else, but checked himself.
At that moment the lights went out, the dancers stopped. Johnny Bell said to the top of her head, "I always think it's a bit of a nerve for a chap to kiss a girl he's just met for the first time, but I feel  -  because of my dad, I suppose  -  that I've known you for years, and besides, I'm old enough to be your father. So here goes," and he dropped the lightest of kisses on her forehead, just where her hair swept back from its side parting.
It wasn't till the next morning that Annabel remembered she had meant to detest Johnny Bell.
Oddly enough, since she had imagined him a gipsy-footed idle sort of fellow, he was a terrific worker. Even when he came to Olivet House he was always pitching in.
"The men have got everything up to date at Carmel," he said to them one morning, "and to be quite candid I can't stand Venetia or that insufferable little daughter of hers, so I'm better over here. Where would you like this thawed-out venison put, Miriam? In this tureen? Right. Now, next job, please. And by the way, you're looking a bit peaky. How about the family giving you tomorrow afternoon off and we'll dodge the crowd and go fishing in the Lake of Lebanon ?"
Miriam said quickly, "Oh, I'd love it. Just to get away from everyone for a spell. Annabel, you've never been up there yet. You could do with a break too. The others can manage with Gideon in charge."
Annabel sought wildly for an excuse, but was saved by ― of all people ― Gideon. He laughed, said, "Sorry, but great minds think alike, as they say, and I've already decided Annabel needs a spell. I've asked her to come down with me to Queenstown tomorrow. Meant to tell you, Mother. She seems to have a rooted objection to leaving the Head for some unknown reason, but I've battered her defences down at last." His tawny eyes dared her to give the show away.
Annabel knew he was motivated by only one desire, to give Johnny time alone with Miriam.
It was a glorious day, blue-gold-and-white. As they crossed the Bucklerburn, Annabel decided she might as well give herself up to the delight of it. She had no illusions left about Gideon, but this was scenery at its best, and after weeks of guests, it was heaven to just be oneself.
The day had a dream-like quality. Gideon had done it solely to give Miriam and Johnny a chance to be by themselves, she knew, but it was very sweet, even though she told herself she must guard against being lulled into trusting Gideon again.
Queenstown had that vaguely Continental air that was probably a legacy from the cosmopolitan associations of the gold-rush days. The streets were narrower than most New Zealand towns and even the buildings had a Lilliputian air. She supposed they had huddled together in the lawless days of the rush.
Gideon immediately booked them in for a run up to the Chalet on the heights above the town. It was a private road, just a few years old, that scared the life out of Annabel as they were expertly driven up in the minibus. "Fifteen hairpin bends!" she whispered shakily to Gideon. "And so steep! How did they make it ?"
He chuckled. Familiarity, evidently, bred contempt.   He  said,   "It's  got an  average gradient of one in seven, but the maximum is one in four-point-five. But when you see the view you'll think it was worth it."
It was ... once Annabel's knees stiffened up again. The Skyline Chalet was two thousand five hundred odd feet above sea level and the extent of the view it commanded was incredible. A three-hundred-degree view, according to Gideon. He proudly waved a hand at the vast expanse of lake, the ranges backing it that melted into infinity, the skiing fields and the far, lakeside homesteads.
They sat by a huge window, eating hot cheese rolls with the glorious sunshine dazzling their eyes.
Gideon said, when they had taken enough colour slides to satisfy even Annabel, "We're going to Miss Mattie's for lunch. She gave me the key and Mother put in a basket of provisions. I must get some milk, that's all." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I gather you won't be as suspicious of me as you were last time  -  even if you don't like me much." He paused, looked at her, daring her to refute that.
Annabel swallowed, said in a tight voice.
"Well, you've planned the day. I can't very well object, can I ? And even if we're not exactly kindred spirits, I suppose we can spend a day together without quarrelling. I quite realise you acted on the spur of the moment to give Miriam and Johnny time alone together. So let's keep off the subject of ourselves. It seems to me, Gideon Darroch, that the only subject we agree on is the subject of Miriam. Who could help loving Miriam?"
When they were eating their chicken and potato salad at Miss Mattie's kitchen table, she brought it up again. "Is it coming to anything, do you think ? They aren't quite natural with each other, so I'm sure they're both fighting a strong attraction. I was determined not to like Johnny, because he had caused Miriam pain. But I saw him look at her the other day.
"Miriam was talking to that couple from Vancouver  -  she had on that striped linen suit  -  the black and white one. There was something in his look. I wanted to run up to him and say, 'Go on . .. ask her. You're wasting time you can both ill spare.' Gideon, why doesn't he ?"
He took a few moments to answer, spreading butter on a roll with great deliberation. "It's beyond me, Annabel. I feel sure, as you do, that he cares. Yet it also seems as if he never got over his wife's death. With some people it's for ever. There's nothing we can do but leave it to time."
"But there isn't much of that, is there ? He won't stay very long, I suppose."
Gideon said quietly, "Look, keep this to yourself, will you? I'm the only one who knows so far. He isn't going back. Last year he developed a periodic rash that's aggravated by ,heat. The Hong Kong summers make it much worse. It would disappear altogether in New Zealand, his doctor thinks."
"But why does it have to be a secret ?"
"He's not sure what he's going to do. He'd like to have done something for the organisation he's working for in Hong Kong, but it would mean living in Wellington. He doesn't want to raise his father's hopes, only to dash them, if he doesn't stay home. He'll have to decide fairly soon though, but thought he'd let it ride for the holiday season."
He looked up, caught the look on Annabel's face, said, "But not a word to Mother. I'm doing my very best to bring things to a head before she knows. She's been uncertain of Johnny for so long, she could easily feel he'd never have asked her had he been able to carry on with this refugee work that seems to have meant so much to him, work that has filled in the gap in his life."
Annabel could understand it. It was bitter-sweet to have Gideon's confidence in this. But she had her own reservations. She thought Johnny Bell didn't want to settle at Mount Carmel Station because he hated Venetia's uncongenial personality in his old home.
They went home in the sunset, with every high bend in the road giving fresh vistas of incredible beauty, the last rays of the sun catching prism-like glints in every pocket of snow on the peaks. The long twilight was filled with the goodnight chorus of thousands of bush birds, whistling down the gullies and competing with the matching music of waters rushing to join the blue of the lake from foaming cascades and ebullient springs.
But apparently all that had happened at Olivet was that Johnny and Miriam had had a record catch of both brown and rainbow trout and the guests had fish for breakfast! Gideon surveyed the catch with disgust and said to Annabel privately, "Well, nobody could catch that number and still find time to make love! So much for our efforts."
Annabel said, "Sorry you had such a wasted day." She looked up as he turned sharply to look at her. He appeared really fierce. Why? Annabel went hurriedly out of the room.
The next day the two of them took the Volkswagen bus down to meet the steamer. It appealed to Annabel, this chore, standing dreamily on the primitive wharf, watching the graceful Earnslaw come across the mirror-still waters. By now she could meet guests without any apprehension. Most were delightful to entertain, people who liked solitude.
She knew the captain, the crew, and always enjoyed meeting the woman in charge of the catering and the girl who helped at holiday times.
Off came the tourists, slung round with cameras, laden with bags. Gideon and Annabel were both sorting out Olivet tourists from day trippers. Annabel relieved a middle-aged woman of her smaller bags.
Then, in her ear, without any warning, a most familiar voice said, "Hullo, Annabel darling . . . big surprise!"
She straightened up, gazed unbelievingly into a face and gasped: "Mervyn ? How on earth did you get here ?"
He grinned. "Bus to London Airport, jet to Auckland, Viscount to Dunedin, and Dominie to Queenstown. Then the S.S. Earnslaw,   as you can see!"
Annabel got her breath back. "Mervyn, you aren't ― but perhaps you are ― or is it  a  coincidence ― the  Hamilton  booked for Olivet House ?"
"The very same. I did wonder if you'd guess. I wanted to surprise you, so just put my initial. I thought there were enough Hamiltons    for   you   not   to    even   think of it."
Annabel shut her eyes for a moment, but when she opened them again she found he was still there.  She turned to Gideon.
"Gideon, this is a  -  this is someone I knew in London  -  Mr. Mervyn Hamilton. Mervyn, this is Mr. Gideon Darroch, one of the owners of Olivet House. Mervyn, I'm afraid I must see to some of the woman guests. Excuse me now."
Gideon shook hands with Mervyn, said, "I  suppose this is where we trot out the cliche that it's a small world,  or what a coincidence. It will be nice for Annabel to have someone she knows here."
Mervyn's voice was suave. Hatefully so. He laughed. "Oh, there's no coincidence, Mr. Darroch. I came to see Annabel."
The silence was necessarily brief, because of the waiting guests, but it was an awkward one.
Annabel began shepherding the guests along the jetty to the minibus. Her heart was thumping so rapidly it hurt. One thing was sure. She was going to see Mervyn in private as soon as possible and tell him he was not to tell anyone why she had come here. It would be exactly like him, who never knew when he trespassed on sacred ground, to say: "Well, have you found your long-lost ancestors yet?" How dared he come here! She'd have something to say to him all right!
It had to wait till almost tea time. She was frantically busy and all strung up. Mervyn was smoothly cordial to all.
Miriam said, carving slices of cold tongue for lunch, "Gideon tells me you know Mr. Hamilton."
"Yes, I do," said Annabel shortly.
Miriam looked at her sharply. "Annabel, did he come here all that way from England, simply to see you ?"
"I'm afraid he did," said Annabel unhappily.
Miriam picked up her board and expertly slipped three slices on to each plate. But there was an unsteadiness in her voice as she said, "Then that's the sort of romantic gesture that would appeal to any girl...  coming thirteen thousand miles."
Miriam didn't give up easily. She still cherished the idea that Annabel would do nicely for Gideon. "And that," Annabel thought, "is just as unlikely as my ever marrying Mervyn." Aloud, she said, "It's not the sort of gesture likely to sway me. I made it extremely plain to that young man before I left England that there was no likelihood, ever, of making it up."
She turned to the trolley with the plates, and saw Gideon in the passage, looking, as usual, sceptical. What had it to do with him ?
And of course he had to be near when Annabel finally managed to separate Mervyn from the peacock-admiring crowd on the terrace.
But she didn't care. Mervyn looked gratified when Annabel said to him in a low voice, "Care to come for a walk, Mervyn ?"
Mervyn talked easily as they went, of the grandeur of the scenery, the experiences of the flight across, of how well she was looking, what a charming place this was, even though it must be deadly in winter.
Annabel came to life. Nobody was going to criticise this place where her father had been born and brought up. She looked at him coldly.
"Mervyn, you may change your mind about that when Gideon puts on a colour slide show in the smoking-room some night. I can hardly wait for winter . . . skating on the Pool of Siloam, the ground so hard Miriam vows you can hear the cats putting   their   feet   down,   the   mountains white to the bush line and the air like wine. And dry, golden sunshine."
He gave her an ardent look. "I'm hoping that by the time winter sets in, I'll have you back with us in London. This is only a fairy-tale existence, no reality to it. To you, used to all that London can give you, it will pall as soon as the novelty wears off. You'll long for the Christmas decorations in Regent Street, the sort of shopping you could never do here . . . did you ever see anything so funny as that little one-horse store ? . . . you'll want theatres and gorgeous dresses . . . and some meaning to life."
Annabel stopped dead, her hand on the gate that led into the spinney this side of the stables. She turned an astonished face to him, "Mervyn, I love London, but it belongs to my early life. This place is in the very marrow of my bones."
She flung open the gate and stalked into a side-track that led into a glade, ringed round by huge Australian gums. There was a gigantic trunk here, fallen, that lovers had used as a seat for more than a score of years.
She sat down on it, gestured him to sit beside her. He did and took her hand. Annabel recoiled and he had to let it go.
Her voice bit. "This was no romantic assignment, believe me. It was merely to tell you something. You're expecting me to be flattered you've come so far. At the moment, I'm afraid, I'm only puzzled."
Mervyn stood up, put a foot on the tree-trunk, looked down on her. "Annabel dear, at the moment I've given you a bit of a shock. I understand that. I'll give you time to get used to the idea. But I never meant to let you go out of my life completely. It wasn't till you went away that I realised how much you meant to me. Would I have chased you right across the world otherwise ?"
Annabel blinked, looking up at him with an expressionless face, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. That was true ... on the surface. Mervyn had always been so careful, so prudent. Now he had not only flown thirteen thousand miles across the oceans to find her again, but he must have spent a terrific amount of money to do so. Mervyn had always counted the cost of things. So his feelings had been deeper than she had ever imagined.  Deeper,  as he had said, than he had himself known.
She stood up and her face began to mirror emotion again.
"Mervyn, I'm sorry. That's all I can say  -  that I'm sorry. Because it would be unkind to let you think there's any chance at all. I closed that chapter of my life, you see, when I sailed from Southampton. I belong here, Mervyn. For the rest of my life. I belong. My roots are here."
"You ― you mean you've found your people? Do you only work at Olivet? Have you found your father ― your grandparents ?"
Annabel said slowly, "I have  -  in a way. But they don't know it. It was like you said, Mervyn. You can say you told me so if you like. It doesn't matter, though. It's enough to know them. My father was killed. That's why I'm asking you not to say a word to anyone about my real reason for coming here. They think I took a whim, after reading about the beauties of this place in New Zealand House, to come. I wouldn't bring any breath of scandal on my grandparents, or let them think that the son they idolised, and who died a hero's death, had succumbed to the temptations of wartime. I know they would take it, but they would suffer over it. I may, some time, in complete secrecy, make sure there wasn't a wartime marriage that my parents kept secret, but I won't let myself even hope that. There wouldn't appear to be any reason for them not to have told the world."
That reminded her. "And Joan nearly upset the apple-cart. I can't help but be glad that she never became my sister-in-law. She wrote an anonymous letter to Gideon Darroch, hinting I had ulterior motives in coming out here."
"Yes, I know," said Mervyn, "but you -"
Annabel's cheeks flamed. "You knew Well, I wouldn't have believed that of you. Why didn't you stop her if you knew ? If you'd really loved me you'd never have wanted to harm me like that!"
Mervyn stepped forward, caught her hands in a grip she could not break and said, "That was the measure of my love for you, Annabel. I was desperate, darling. And anything that might send you back to me, I'd have approved."
Annabel felt absolutely horrified.  "Look, I regard anonymous letters the way I should rattlesnakes! Mervyn, if you say one word about my real reason for being here to anyone, I'll tell Gideon that your sister wrote that poisonous letter. And he'll make you leave. It's a punishable offence, you know. In fact, the sooner you do leave, the better I'll like it." This time she got her hands away. She put them behind her back, clasping them tightly to stop their trembling.
She had about as much effect on him as trying to push a train over with a drinking straw.
He even smiled. "I won't give you away. I'll bide my time. I'm here for a fortnight. You'd better get used to the idea of me being back in your life. I intend to stay in it. You wouldn't admire me much if I just took you at your word and floated out of the picture."
Annabel choked, "I don't admire you at all. I'll just endure it till you go."
Mervyn's eyes looked positively sly. How on earth had she ever fancied him ?
He said, "Exactly what is this Gideon Darroch to you ?"
"Nothing!" said Annabel, but her colour ebbed completely. "Nothing at all." Suddenly she knew she could stay no longer. She turned and ran out of the glade, between    the    trees,    and   reached   the gate.
As she got there, Gideon appeared, on his way to the stables. Annabel dropped her pace to a walk, trying to appear leisurely.
Gideon looked at her curiously. "Are you all right, Annabel ?"
She tried to speak without sounding breathless. "Yes, of course." She managed a note of surprise and passed him quickly.
She heard the click of the gate, but was sure he had halted and was staring after her. She would not let herself glance back.
Straight up to her turret she went, where she could regain her composure and think things out. She subsided on the window-seat and gazed out. At first she looked, as always, towards Old Stoney for comfort. Then she turned her head to the right and looked down to the spinney where she had left Mervyn.
But he was out of the trees and on the path to the stables. So was Gideon. They were deep in conversation together. It made her very uneasy.

CHAPTER     FIFTEEN
ANNABEL lived for the day when Mervyn would be away from Canaan. Naturally, since she wanted no undue curiosity about their former relationship, she dared not pointedly avoid him. Gideon included her in all the outings on the pretext that she was needed to serve the contents of the hampers. Annabel was sure it was because he wanted to watch her with Mervyn. What with that horrible anonymous letter, which Gideon had finally ignored, and now Mervyn's appearance, she couldn't blame Gideon if he thought there was something odd about her fancy for the Head-of-the-Lake.
Mervyn wouldn't  -  couldn't stay on too long. He'd asked Miriam for another week. There had been no reason for Miriam to refuse. He had been careful not to ask for it in Annabel's hearing.
Annabel was completely dismayed when she heard. She felt she couldn't bear it. "I do hope, Mrs. Darroch, we're too full up the next week for him to stay on still longer ?"
Miriam's deep blue eyes were troubled. "He caught me unprepared. Yet all along I've felt you hated him being here. Some girls might have been flattered by being chased across the world, but not you. I don't know why, because his behaviour is impeccable, but that young man rubs me up the wrong way. What's behind it, Annabel ? I don't want to pry, but you're so alone."
Annabel gave her a look of sheer affection. "Mrs. Darroch, you'd never pry. It's just that Mervyn and I did keep company for a few months. Then I realised I couldn't marry him and broke it off and came out to New Zealand. Oddly, I never felt it went very deep with him. Only someone who was very good to me ― a sort of courtesy aunt ― left me her house and a very tiny nest-egg. Mervyn's sister, much older than he and perfectly poisonous, suddenly dropped her opposition to me because of being a charity brat, and because she was getting married herself, decided it would be ideal if I married Mervyn,  buying her house  off her,   and relieving her of the responsibility of looking after him. The man she was marrying wasn't very fond of Mervyn. Mervyn and Joan were both very canny about money and couldn't bear to see Mrs. Dalbrook's modest legacy slip through their fingers. Most romantic!   So I upped and off!
"The money was enough to get me here and give my return fare and a bit over if I didn't  -  " Annabel stopped dead. She'd almost said "If I didn't find my people." Oh, how hard it was to remember to be constantly on one's guard.   She amended: "If I didn't like the life out here."
Miriam considered it, said slowly, "But he must have thought more of you than that if he was prepared to fly out here after you. Air fares are costly. He's tried to persuade you to accept him, I take it?" Before Annabel could answer she added hurriedly, "But while it's enough to boost your ego, Annabel, I hope you won't get carried away by it. Perhaps this is selfish, but I couldn't bear you to leave here. I feel as much of a mother to you as I do to Gideon."
Annabel smiled at her a little mistily. "Mrs. Darroch, you're a universal mother.
I ― you don't know what it means to me." She put her arms round Miriam and kissed her. "And don't worry. I wouldn't marry Mervyn Hamilton if he were the last man on earth. I'm just staggered, not flattered." She swung round and gazed out of the kitchen window where above Mount Olivet, the twin triangles of the East and West Peaks of Earnslaw rose against a cobalt sky. "I'm here for keeps."
Later that day Gideon tapped on her bedroom door when she was up in her turret having the hour's rest Miriam insisted they all got at staggered intervals. She ran down her wee stairs expecting Miriam.
Gideon said, "May I come up to your turret ? I want to tell you something."
Annabel hoped he didn't mean he wanted to ask her something. That would mean Mervyn had let something out.
He wouldn't sit, preferred to stand. She thought that sounded ominous. But it had nothing to do with her and her reasons for coming here.
"Look, Annabel, I've got to go to Australia,   but   I   don't   want   it  known, either here or at Bells'. Mother thinks I'm off to Wellington on business connected with that scheelite mine claim. Mother's very vague about things like that, easy to deceive. Fact is, it's to do with Venetia."
Annabel felt as if she had a nasty taste in her mouth. She simply said: "Yes, Gideon. But why tell me ? If it should leak out I'll be blamed for not keeping it secret. And I hate having secrets from Miriam."
He gave a wry smile. "Do you? That makes you sound so open and above-board. Yet you don't hesitate to twist the truth yourself, even to lie straight out. You said you weren't running away from a love affair in England. Yet you were  -  this chap Mervyn."
Annabel lifted her chin. "Gideon, I can't have you thinking that. Mervyn and I quarrelled over my decision to come to New Zealand, but even before that I knew he was not the man for me. We were never engaged. I was attracted for a very short time. I soon found out my mistake. I'm going to be a very happy girl when he goes. It can't be too soon for me. Now, you can believe that or not as you choose. But perhaps you could come to the point and tell me what this is all about. " She held up a hand as he went to speak. "Not what you are going to Australia for but why you're telling me ? I'm certainly not interested in the reason.”
She thought he whitened a little.
"I know that, Annabel. You've made it only too plain. You like everyone else at Olivet but me. "
She looked at him without giving anything away. If he only knew!
She said: "The others have accepted me, have never given me any cause to dislike them. "
He was leaning with one hand on the table, and she distinctly saw his knuckles whiten. Then he said in a controlled voice, "I'm only telling you because one thing I've learned is that you can keep your own counsel. It's not always something to admire, but at least you won't be likely ― as Miriam would ― to give me away. I never think one should be distant from one's family without leaving an address. When Joe Bell went off for this tour of Australia, he was on the move for ages. Just wrote from wherever he was. Most unsatisfactory.
"When he was killed, Luke Bell was in hospital. Even if he hadn't been he couldn't have got there in time for the funeral. Joe apparently hadn't had his father's address on him. Had it not been that he'd married Venetia so suddenly, I guess it would have been a case of the Australian police having to trace his New Zealand next of kin. With a name like Bell it would have been some task. And he couldn't have told Venetia much, because the news didn't reach here till after Joe was buried.
"That's why I want to leave you an address where I can be contacted. It's as simple as that. I've told Mother I'll be staying with a friend in Wellington. So I am ― for one night. If she happened to ring him, he'd stall. But if anything happens here that I'm needed urgently, you can cable me. But not unless it is an emergency. Understand? I want no one here to know I'm out of the country. Especially that I've gone to Australia. "
Annabel couldn't help it. She lifted her head, gazed at him steadily, said, "But of course that no  one here  doesn't include Venetia?55
He looked alarmed.   "It most certainly does include Venetia. Least of all do I want her to know ― yet."
Annabel bit her lip. Sounded like a surprise for Venetia. Was Gideon besotted enough to bring some of her people across here ? She gave it up. It was no business of hers. She held out her hand. "All right. I say nothing to anyone, I promise. Now give me the address."
He   put  it  into   her  hand.    "Annabel, I ― "
She stepped back, put up a hand. "You don't have to explain anything. After all, what can it matter to me ? I couldn't care less. I know only expediency forces you to use me. I'll put this away in  -  in a place where I keep my treasures. Okay, Gideon."
He turned and went down the turret stairs. She hadn't even wished him a pleasant trip and a safe return.
She came to, looked down at the paper in her hand unfolded it. It bore the address of a motel in Coolangatta.
Annabel didn't like Mervyn's growing friendship with Venetia, but Miriam, laughing, said, "That's a solution, Annabel. How wonderful if they married each other.
Your unwanted suitor and Luke Bell's thorn-in-the-flesh. He could whisk her off to England and we would all be so happy."
Annabel queried that "all" in her heart. Miriam was turning a blind eye to the fact that Gideon's feelings were involved.
Miriam  continued,   "It would be ideal .   .  . neither would get a good bargain, of course, but then it's  a pity to  spoil two homes,   I  mean  if each  of them  married someone else."
Annabel couldn't help but laugh.
Miriam added, "But for all that, if anything is to happen between those two, it will have to happen quickly. Mervyn asked me this morning if he could stay another week. I told him no, that we will be jam-full next week. Not that I couldn't wangle things if I wanted to. My real reason was simply that I think you've had more than enough of him."
Time dragged for Annabel. Not solely because of longing for Mervyn's departure, for the freedom of knowing he'd gone without betraying her secret, but because Gideon was away. Because however devious Gideon might be, she loved him. And she was going to have to stand helplessly by while he ruined his life. Venetia would bring him no happiness. Although she herself might not be the best judge of that. Was this deep distrust Annabel had of her nothing more in reality than an unworthy jealousy ?
Johnny Bell spent more and more time at Olivet. Miriam was a little less stiff with him now. She said teasingly one day, "Good heavens, Jonathan Bell, are you here again ? Can't you find enough to do at Carmel?"
He leaned over her shoulder and put his finger into the pudding she was mixing, scooped up a twist of the silky mixture and conveyed it dexterously to his mouth. "Ah, plenty of spice and syrup . . . just what I like. Miriam, if that's one of your apple whirls, I'm staying to dinner. I like a good substantial steamed pudding. I'm woefully tired of Venetia's fluffy bits of nonsense that pass for puddings. Lemon chiffon pies and pavlovas . . . they're like her, rich and sickening. And that's my reason for being here so much, you inhospitable woman . . . because I can't stand too much of her. I only stick it because of Dad.  He spends far too much time in the saddle for his age, but I know why. Because he's never felt the place his own since she came into it. "
Annabel wished she could fold her tent like the Arabs and silently steal away. Johnny and Miriam usually kept their conversations on a lighter, less personal note. Time they got down to serious things.
Miriam rapped Johnny's fingers with her spatula as they came towards her basin again. "Enough of that, Johnny. Wait for your share till it's cooked. And really, if my guests saw you they'd wonder if we had a high enough standard of hygiene, so keep your distance, my lad !"
"Oh, rot. It's going to be cooked for at least two hours ... no self-respecting germ could survive."
To Annabel's delight, Miriam switched back to the more serious topic. "And in any case, Johnny, Venetia shouldn't worry you so much  - you're only here for a short time. You don't have to live with her permanently as your father does."
But Johnny didn't say anything about staying. He said: "Oh, well, the situation may resolve itself yet. I've been telling Dad he ought to pension her off.   She'd be far happier in a city. She'd fall for it all right, but Dad has this stern Scots conscience towards her. She was Joe's wife ― even for so short a time ― and he can't turn her adrift."
Annabel had got into the passage. She stopped and listened.
Miriam said: "I think that's a wonderful idea. I'll talk to your father about it, Johnny. I'll tell him he has a duty towards you too. Tell me, Johnny, and tell me true. It isn't just idle curiosity. I've an idea that if Venetia was out of it, you might stay home. Right ?"
Johnny said slowly, "I'd better tell you that I'm not returning to the East in any case. I developed a skin irritation, Miriam, that completely disappears here. But I'm not aiming to settle in Glenorchy. I'm probably taking an administrative job with the organisation in Wellington. But it isn't because of Venetia."
Miriam dropped her pudding into the boiling water, put the lid on, and rinsed her hands under the tap. "Well, just as well for me to know. Never do for me to use that as a lever for spurring Luke into action, if it's like that. You know your own affairs best, and I suppose after all those years in a place like Hong Kong, life here is pretty dull. Where's Annabel gone, Johnny? I wonder if you would tell her I'd like her to make a double batch of her caramel sauce and one of butterscotch ?"
Annabel disappeared quickly, then allowed herself to be found. She wished she didn't like Johnny Bell so much. She ought to detest him for what he was doing to Miriam, but she couldn't.
Johnny had a very sad face in repose. And every time she caught him looking at Miriam when he wasn't aware anyone was watching him, she felt absolutely certain he was not indifferent to her.
Of course she was judging things from only the onlooker's point of view. No doubt there were things in both Miriam's and Johnny's lives that kept them apart.
She was tremendously grateful to Johnny for the way he helped her keep Mervyn at a distance. He seemed to purposely foil all Mervyn's attempts to get Annabel alone. Johnny must be keenly perceptive (in all things but one) to have noticed how repugnant Mervyn's attentions were to Annabel.
Annabel was counting the days now. Soon Mervyn would be gone and Gideon would be home, though she had no idea of the real day of his return and was most apprehensive, in any case, about what had taken him to Australia. It was tied up, she was sure, with Joe as well as Venetia, for Coolangatta was where they were honeymooning when Joe was killed. She felt disgusted with herself that she couldn't feel any natural sorrow for Venetia that it had happened that way. One ought to feel the poignancy of it. Perhaps it was because she doubted Venetia had ever loved Joe. He must have been so much older. Older than Johnny, who was nearly fifty. Annabel was well aware that everyone thought Venetia had simple married Joe because he was a wealthy landowner.
Annabel decided not to go with the crowd across to Kinloch for an all-day picnic. A day at Olivet, all alone, would be heaven. No dodging of Mervyn. They were going in a launch, to join up with the day trippers coming off the Earnslaw at Kinloch, and joining the bus expedition to the Routeburn Valley.   Aunt Nell wasn't going. She was going to enjoy a quiet day in her own cottage and do some preserving.
Miriam wanted Tim and Paul to go, so Douglas Farrier over at Carmel was going to keep an eye on the livestock. No new guests were coming by the steamer, so Annabel would have the time to herself. She warned Miriam not to say till the very last that she wasn't going, or Mervyn would cook up some excuse to stay too. Miriam said, "I won't tell Rebecca till then, either!"
It was to no avail, though. Mervyn announced at breakfast that he wasn't going. "I've a chance to see over a scheelite mine. Mr. Leigh's. It's always useful to a stockbroker."
Annabel thought derisively: "Sounds grand! A stockbroker! He's a very junior member of the firm as yet!" Then she paled. What had he said ? With Mr. Leigh. And she had so hoped he might get away from here without hearing the name. She had no doubts that he would have scanned the Glenorchy page in the directory as soon as he got here to see if there were any Lees! Oh yes, she was sure of that. Typically odious of him. But there was nothing  -  now  -  that she could do. She felt numb.
She said to Miriam as she swiftly packed hampers with her, "I didn't think Mervyn had had any contact with the Leighs. How come he's going to the mine ?"
"Oh, he asked me the other day if there was any chance of seeing over one before he left. Natural enough when he's in that sort of firm. Scheelite is becoming more and more an important mineral. Hope he spends most of his day with David. I don't want him annoying you."
She didn't want to display uneasiness she could not explain, so said lightly, "Oh, I won't let him. I've had a fair bit of experience now in heading him off. It's breathlessly hot―it will be a glorious day."
"Yes, and we'll get enough breeze on the lake to make it bearable, I should think. Annabel, mind you do relax. It's all cold tonight, as you know. That's all they'll want when they return sunburned and tired out. Just take the potato salads out of the fridge about an hour before dinner, won't you ? They ice up too much otherwise."
Annabel would have enjoyed the day had she not known Mervyn was with Mr. Leigh. Would he, like herself, suspect that her name could have been spelt that way and her mother have dubbed her Lee because of the poem? It was likely, too, had she been born out of wedlock, that her parents, snatching hours together in precious leave-times, had passed themselves off as Mr. and Mrs. Leigh.
She had a lazy hour on her turret window seat. She tried not to worry. Even if, out of sheer curiosity, Mervyn found out she was probably Mark Leigh's daughter, she didn't think he'd have any reason to disclose his knowledge of what had brought her here to David Leigh.
She glanced up from her book to see a cloud of dust coming along the road. One of the tourist buses, delivering the mail as it went, she supposed. She'd go down soon and collect it. But it stopped at the gate of Carmel, that you could see, from here, over the brow of the hill. Someone got out, and when the dust settled she realised it was David Leigh's car and he was dropping Mervyn, who was now walking up the Carmel drive.
What was Mervyn doing at Carmel? The answer was obvious. Seeing Venetia! Had Gideon been with the Kinloch party, no doubt Venetia would have gone. Miriam, always sorry for Lilian, even if she didn't like her much, had invited her, and warned Rebecca she was to treat her as a guest, not fight.
Well, it was nothing to do with Annabel if Mervyn visited Venetia. In fact, perhaps there was more to what Miriam hoped than Annabel had thought. Though she doubted if Mervyn had enough money to attract Venetia.
Annabel collected the mail. She sauntered back with the bag, enjoying the sunlight, tall and slim in her sheer nylon frock, sleeveless, in a blurred design of her favourite green and gold. The skirt, stirring in the slight breeze, fanned out behind her in infinitesimal pleats.
She sorted out the letters, put the ones for the guests into the letter rack in the hall, and took the family's into what they called the Sanctum, the small room at the back of the house where no guests ever ventured.
Annabel   put   them   into   neat   stacks.
Almost everyone had letters today, even Rebecca. There were three airmails from the orphanage staff for herself, plus a larger letter, also airmailed, and typewritten.
She slit it open. The next moment she was staring at it incredulously. It was from the solicitors who had handled Mrs. Dalbrook's affairs. But that had been finalised long ago.
She read quickly. Good heavens, how wonderful! Some seemingly worthless shares had turned out trumps. Old mining shares in Australia, long since worked out, but now some mineral Annabel had never ever heard of had been found there in large quantities. It was going to bring her quite a large sum of money and a permanent income!
When she had taken it in, Annabel knew one thing for certain. What she would do with part of it. She would fly to England and try her level best to find out if Mark Leigh had married there. She could keep it secret - just say she wanted to fly home to see her friends, but would come back.
All of a sudden the implications struck her .   .   . Mervyn had helped her with the business side when Mrs. Dalbrook left everything to her. And he was a stockbroker. It simply wasn't possible that he didn't know about the lucky strike, the changed state of affairs.
So it wasn't love of her that had brought him thirteen thousand miles! It was love of money. Well, Annabel knew what she was going to do. She was going to confront him with the fact that she knew he must have known. He must have hoped to have won her over before the news reached her. No wonder he had come by air! Right!

CHAPTER      SIXTEEN
THE donkey wouldn't be fast enough for her today. Besides, it would have meant changing. Annabel went straight to the stables and took out the Mini Minor that Miriam used for running round Glenorchy. She couldn't wait till Mervyn came home, because the picnic crowd would be here before long and there was never a chance of uninterrupted privacy then.
She parked the car in the Carmel drive and crossed the rose-garden to where the french windows of the lounge stood open on to the veranda. Her rubber-soled sandals that were little more than gilt thongs attached to a sole made no sound, and as she raised her hand to tap on the glass she heard Venetia say: "Go to it, Mervyn, I'm all in favour of that limpid-eyed innocent being removed from my path. Threaten her that you'll spread the story round unless she leaves here with you. She'll fall for it. Rather than hurt the Leighs she'll give in. Take my advice and get her to leave secretly with you. She's so bewitched the whole bang lot of them here, they'd never let her go if they knew. So play it cunningly. She'll do anything not to hurt them. But for heaven's sake don't tell her I know."
At which moment Annabel made her entry. Her chin was up and her hands were clenched.
"Well, I do know," she said, "so that's at least one thing that's gone wrong. And the other is that at last I have your full measure, Mervyn, you hypocrite! I wondered why you came all this way."
She waved a long envelope under his astonished nose. "From the solicitors who handled Mrs. Dalbrook's business. About those shares. Poor Mervyn, you must be gnashing your teeth and wishing you hadn't been so cautious last year. If only you had popped the question sooner!
"But about that other business ... there's nothing proved at all. It's only surmise on my part. Probably nothing in it. I may be no relation to them at all. Lee may have been my mother's name. And if― " She got no further because there was a commotion on the veranda.   She swung round, her heart in her mouth, because the fewer people to know about this, the better...
They crowded to the wide doorway and stood looking in, and Gideon was dead centre. Annabel stood turned to stone. How much had they heard ? What exactly had she said ?
She looked at them, her breath coming pantingly, eyes wide with alarm . . . Luke Bell, Miriam, Johnny, Miss Mattie ... all looking most strange.
Gideon stepped in and the others followed. He said: "Something appears to be going on. Something nasty, I've no doubt." His eyes met Annabel's. "These two people worrying you, Annabel ? If so, let me deal with them."
Annabel came to life a little. Then she said, a little weakly, "Gideon, it's a very private matter ― I'd rather not discuss it. It ― it was entirely between myself, Mervyn, and Venetia. I ―" her voice broke.
Gideon's face looked taut, grim, and purposeful. "All right. I'll get it out of you later. But what I've got to say to Venetia isn't at all private, so Mr. Hamilton can stay too. Everyone is going to know sooner or later, and as far as I'm concerned, the sooner the better."
He swung round on Venetia, who had been looking at Annabel with a faintly cruel smile. It instantly changed to alarm.
Gideon took a step or two forward to isolate himself from the others and said in a firm tone, "You are leaving here, Mrs. Tenningtonl You are leaving tonight. Not another night are you spending under this roof. I've been in Australia all week  -  to be precise, at Coolangatta. Oh, the risks you took! Risks that nearly paid off. You were never married to Joe. He did become engaged to you  -  yes. But when he found out it was solely for his money, he broke it off and decided on a trip up north to get over it before coming home. He'd got as far as Coolangatta when he had that accident. You'd known his father was in hospital  -  that he couldn't possibly get across for the funeral. You staked everything on the fact that Joe's father would be a decent upright man like himself, unlikely to suspect fraud, and pretended you had married him in secret.
"But I got suspicious.   So would Luke have done had he heard what I heard. But I had no proof. I did everything I could to get you to admit you hadn't been married to Joe, but you were not to be tempted to betray yourself." He swung round as he heard Annabel gasp and said, "What is it, Annabel?"
And something in the way he said her name,  and met her eyes, made her heart lift.
She said quickly, "Nothing, Gideon. Nothing that matters now."
He went on to a silent, aghast Venetia, "We aren't going to keep it quiet. We're going to tell all Glenorchy. You've made enough mischief in this district to make us realise that if we expose you, it will undo some of the harm. Besides, people will have to know. You are going to pack right now. We've sent Lilian over to Olivet with Rebecca. Neither of them knows a thing  -  yet.
"And when you're packed ― under Miss Mattie's eagle eye, I might say, because I wouldn't trust you as far as I could see you, Mrs. Tennington ― we're sending you to Queenstown in the taxi, You ought to have saved a fair bit out of the generous allowance Luke made you, but in case not, I drew a lump sum in cash for you, as I came through Queens-town. It will get you and Lilian to Auckland, even to Sydney if that's what you want. We are not prosecuting. Unless you play up in any way. We just want to be rid of you. Well?"
Venetia's face was convulsed with rage. "Well, indeed! And seeing showdowns are the order of the day, let me tell you something. This girl you are so fond of. . . let me tell you who she is. This'll rock you! She's the illegitimate granddaughter of Mr. and Mrs. Leigh. Mark Leigh's daughter. Mark of hallowed memory. You all swallowed it, didn't you? Hook, line, and sinker! That pathetic story about the foundling. She wasn't any foundling. She was about three years old, picked up after an air raid. Mervyn knows the whole story. Ask him. I'm not making it up.
"She had nothing but a little tartan bag with a snapshot in it with her name ― the name that doesn't even belong to her ― written on the back. And a stupid little rhyme . . . what was it, Mervyn ? Go on, tell them. They don't believe me. Look at their faces. Go on.   Tell them /"
Mervyn's face was appalled. He'd no wish to be embroiled in this. He knew Venetia was on the losing side.
Annabel turned away from Venetia. She couldn't bear to look any longer at the malice and fury on her face. It was indecent, this tearing of people's lives to shreds. Her face swept the group . . . Miriam, tears standing in her eyes, Miss Mattie, Johnny, Luke Bell . . . Gideon. Her eyes held a confident appeal. Confident because she knew now that Gideon had never loved Venetia. He had been trying to trip her up, to find out the truth, that day in the spinney when he had been pretending to be jealous.
Annabel's chin was up, her voice calm.
"Well, it's out," she said clearly, "but I wouldn't have picked a better audience to tell it to. People I can trust, all of you. Venetia will be gone. Gideon, Mervyn can go down to Queenstown with her. I'm proud to be Mark's daughter. I might even find he was married to my mother. But even if not, I'm still proud, though I'll never tell my grandparents.   Yes,  I was found after the bombing. My mother was killed. Nobody knew who she was. She was in the home of a Mrs. Milmine in a village called Ethelstane in Northumberland. Nobody could imagine where we could have come from. I told the people who rescued me that my name was Annabel Lee. I had a little tartan bag  -  a MacMillan tartan bag  -  with a snapshot in it and on the back was written:
" This snap is, you 'll see 
Of your daughter and me, 
Your naughty,    adorable Annabel Lee.

and beneath was scribbled 'February, 1944'."
She became aware that Johnny Bell had made a strange sound, almost a choking sound. She got no further with her explanation. She wanted to tell them about the song, about New Zealand House, about her growing certainty that she belonged to the Head-of-the-Lake, but Johnny came towards her, his arms outstretched, his face drained of colour.
She stared. Tears were running down his face.   She gave a quick look at the others.  Luke wore the same look. Luke was crying too.
Johnny said, "Anna . . . Oh, Anna, Anna, our Annabel Lee!"
Her face lifted to his, searching, puzzling. She said:   "But I don't understand.  What do ― "
He put up an impatient hand and dashed away the tears so he could see her clearly. Then the most tender smile curved his lips, banishing from his face the deep sad lines.
He said, "Not Annabel Lee, darling. Anna Bell. Anna Bell. My little girl. My daughter!"
He had hold of her upper arms, looking at her hungrily, scanning every feature. "Of course ... of course! The first time I heard your name it was almost too much for me. But never could I have dreamed it could be you. Oh, Anna, Anna! Ethelstane . . . Frances had an old friend of her mother's' living there, her godmother. Aunt Sadie she called her, Sadie Milmine   ... "
Annabel was gazing up into his face. Nobody else existed for her at that moment.  She gave a broken cry . . . "Frances ? Oh, was that my mother's name ?"
Jonathan Bell was gazing down into his daughter's eyes. "Yes, my little one. Frances Lorraine. What made you think you were Mark's daughter ? Oh  -  the name. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the fact that I've found you  -  or that you've found me. We both loved that poem  -  Frances and I. We tacked the Lee on just for fun." He stopped, he couldn't go on.
Venetia's voice cut in. "Sounds pretty queer to me . . . how do you know for certain? It's nothing you can prove. She doesn't have a strawberry mark on her left arm, or a heart-shaped mole on the back of her neck!"
"Oh, hasn't she?" cried Johnny Bell. "Sit down, my daughter. Right in that chair."
Annabel, dazed, obeyed. Johnny knelt down and took her right foot in his hand. Her feet were bare except for the gilt-thonged sandals.
"This is Anna. I don't have to prove it. She has no birthmarks . . . but she has a scar  -  it   ought   to   still   show  -  on   the sole of her foot. Frances lost a needle one day and Anna stood on it. Frances suffered agonies of remorse over it. Anna was in hospital for a month. They had to operate. I don't suppose you've ever given it a thought, Anna ... " His fingers, lean and brown, were undoing the buckle. He turned her foot up for them all to see . . . traced a faint white line that ran from the arch right to the heel, with a tender, triumphant finger.
Annabel stood up, held out her hands to him, said, "Oh, Dad, Dad!" and buried her face on his shoulder.
Suddenly she pulled away, said in a strange voice, "I've got a bit of proof myself." She whirled round, crossed to the old-fashioned piano, flung up the lid, tossed her hair back, and, running her fingers along the keys, began to play softly, the tune that had haunted her so and sang in a sweet, low voice that gradually grew stronger and clearer,
"Oh Danny dear, when all the war ring's over,
And you come home in peace andjoy to me, We'll pack our bags...  "
at that moment another voice joined in. A baritone ― Johnny's. Together they sang the rest of it.
"...   and take  our precious daughter,
Where you belong,   a land beyond the sea, And there,   where mountains rim   the
sapphire    waters, That mirror   back the   ever-changing skies, We '11find our happiness for ever after Beside that place that, darling, you call Paradise."
They finished and into the silence that succeeded the song, Miss Mattie said: "If only, if only I'd remembered where I'd heard that. Annabel was singing the last line or two to herself when she and Gideon stayed with me in Queenstown. Oh, what heart-burnings I could have saved you all. Luke was so delighted with that poem when Johnny sent it to him when he was flying in India, saying Frances had written it."
Annabel said, "If only Mother had said Canaan ... I looked for you in Paradise, Father."
Johnny    smiled   crookedly.    "You   try rhyming Canaan, my darling daughter . . . Paradise is much easier!"
Annabel went forward on a little run, to Luke, eyes shining. "I can't believe it . . . yet I always felt it must happen, had to happen. From the time when, for the first time in my life, I heard Danny Boy being played and those words came back to me, I felt that someday, somewhere, I would find my father if he still lived. And when I went into New Zealand House and found that there really was a Paradise that fitted that description, I knew it couldn't be just a coincidence. I felt it was the Hand of God." She smiled at Luke. "I've got myself the nicest family I could possibly have . . . Grandfather!" She kissed him, rubbing her face against his wet one.
Gideon took a step towards her, then stopped. Then, casting about for something to say, he came up with, "No wonder her eyes were like Aunt Nell's."
Annabel stared. "But that's only a chance likeness. I mean  -  she's no relation.  She's  -  "
Gideon   interrupted. "I get it."   He grinned broadly.   "Bet you what you like she thinks Aunt Nell is our aunt.   Aunt Nell is a universal aunt, Annabel. She's Luke's sister."
Annabel wanted to laugh. And to think she'd once imagined Luke might marry Nell! "Well, no wonder I got mixed up there. It was the most crashing disappointment I ever had ... all of you wondering who I reminded you of. . . and when it was Aunt Nell, who I thought had been a Darroch before she married, my hopes crumbled. You see, she was ensconced at Olivet."
That reminded them of the reason Aunt Nell was at Olivet and not keeping house for her brother. They turned and looked at Venetia. She still managed to look at them scornfully.
"Well, now that we're done with these heroics, I expect I'll have to pack my bags. I'm sorry I tried it. It could have come off. But you ― " she looked at Gideon with eyes that suddenly blazed " ― you had to put your oar in."
Gideon looked at her levelly. "I wouldn't advise you to take that tone, Mrs. Tennington. Don't goad us into changing our minds about prosecuting. And there's also the matter of the girth on Mother's horse. Your interference with it."
Venetia lost all her colour and her bravado. Miriam looked completely startled. Gideon merely looked grim and implacable.
He turned. "Right, Miss Mattie. Will you go upstairs with her? She's to take nothing that's not hers. I give you exactly half an hour." He turned to Mervyn, looking vastly uncomfortable and completely ashamed. "And as for you, Hamilton, you can keep Mrs. Tennington and her daughter company from Glenorchy to Queenstown. I don't envy you that trip one bit. We'll get your bags when we pick Lilian up at Olivet."
He turned back to Annabel. "Do you have anything to say to him?" There was a smile at the back of his eyes. Gideon was himself again.
"No," Annabel's tone was as dry as his. "Except for a heartfelt word of thanks."
They all looked startled. All said: "Thanks?"
She laughed. "For starting the ball rolling. It was a friend of his we were visiting when I heard the Londonderry Air   and   the    long-forgotten   words   my mother had sung me came back to me. But for that I'd never have come here. And his plotting with Venetia today brought the whole thing out into the open."
Miriam too, was wiping tears away. She was shining-eyed.
"Oh, I knew that you belonged here, Annabel, but I thought it was only that you were a kindred spirit."
She turned to Johnny. "Johnny, you won't go to Wellington now, will you? Don't take Annabel away from us ?"
Johnny looked at her in front of them all, said, "No, Miriam, I'll have two reasons for staying now. I didn't dare stay near you before. You see, although Frances and Anna were presumed dead, how could I be sure? For years I've lived with the thought that she might be somewhere, perhaps suffering from a lasting amnesia ... perhaps maimed or blinded or mentally impaired. That she might suddenly be restored to me and need me. It didn't matter, of course, till after Peter died ― but it's mattered horribly these last few years."
Across   the   room  Miriam's   eyes   and Johnny's met. Annabel had never seen Miriam look like that before. As if candles had been set behind her eyes. No one knew quite what to say.
Then Gideon laughed, breaking the tension. "I make a habit of it, don't I? Being present at Miriam's proposals!"
They all laughed, but when the laughter had died away, Johnny said, smiting Gideon on the back, "You've got it wrong, Gideon. That's not a proposal. That'll come later. Without witnesses. Meanwhile  -  "
"Meanwhile," cut in Miriam, her face like a rose, "I'm going home. This, tonight, here, must be a family party, solely for the Bells."
Annabel crossed to her, took her hands. "No, please, Mrs. Darroch. You've been a mother to me ever since I came and"  -  the dimple flashed out and the greeny-golden eyes looked mischievous  -  "and it looks to me as if you'll be just that in actuality soon."
Miriam shook her head with a finality there was no brooking. "Annabel, tonight you belong to your father and grandfather . . . and Frances. You have so many years to catch up. Your father will have to fill in the gaps for you . . . show you photographs, letters, tell you of your childhood. No, dear, as soon as Miss Mattie comes down I'm going to take her off home. I'll see you tomorrow."
In a little while the three Bells were left looking at each other. Gideon had piled Venetia's suitcases into the mini-bus and gone over with her and Mervyn to collect his luggage and Lilian, and when he had seen them on to the taxi, he was going, he said, to Olivet.
There was so much to be said. Her grandfather, his arm round her said, "Child, if only I'd called my wife by her proper name, Anna, instead of always Nan, you might have guessed. Or if I had ever talked to you about Johnny being overseas. He was in the Air Force in the early part of the war, in England. During the Battle of Britain, and for some time. Then, later, he was sent to India and Burma. It was very dangerous, but he seemed to bear a charmed life. He saw a lot of you when you were tiny. I've always been glad that at least he and Frances  and you had that much of each other. We wanted your mother to come here with you, but she couldn't leave her own mother, who was bedridden the last year. Then she died and Frances was making arrangements to come out here. We were very worried, of course, because of the shipping hazards. I think she must have gone north to say goodbye to her godmother."
Annabel, one hand in his, one hand in her father's, said: "But there was never any photograph    of my    father    in    uniform. Why not?"
Old Luke Bell said slowly, "One furlough of Johnny's from Hong Kong, Venetia made a dead set at him ― and of course failed. Hell hath no fury, and all the rest of it. She was so furious she smashed his picture ― our favourite. Pretended it was accidental. I had her measure and removed the others. Oh, that reminds me. You said the snapshot was splashed with red ink. I think we've got a duplicate. Frances sent Nan and me one. I remember the writing was in red. The last one we ever got. I'll go look for it."
Johnny said, "You needn't bother, Dad. Mine never leaves me."
He dipped into the breast pocket of his sports jacket and brought out a three-fold soft leather photograph case. He opened it out. On the left side was a photograph of Frances Bell, little more than a girl herself; on the other a photograph of a baby in a pram, and in the centre the duplicate of the snap in Annabel's little tartan bag. He drew it out from under the celluloid and turned it over. It said exactly what was on the one in Annabel's possession. "She must have spilt the ink on the other ― or perhaps you clutched the pen, my naughty little daughter. Anna, there are letters I'll share with you so that you can get to know your mother as she was. They were full of your doings. Your first words, your first steps, your funny little ways. All the things she felt I was missing when I was away."
Annabel said, "Tell me, Dad, did Mother write that song as Danny dear, or did I imagine that bit ? I thought when I heard David Leigh had a son Daniel it might have been him at first. Then I found out Daniel had been in the Pacific war."
Her father smiled. "It wasn't imagination.   I'm Jonathan Daniel.   That tickled Frances. So she called me Danny dear, not Danny boy."
Luke said, "I noticed you had a MacMillan tartan sash on tie night of the Hogmanay Ball, but never dreamed you'd picked it out purposely. The Bells wear the MacMillan."
Annabel said, "I wonder if I might have got an inkling if your kilt had been MacMillan. Why wasn't it, Grandfather ?"
"Because it was the tartan that the Pipe Band I belonged to in Queenstown wore. To think I gave you that necklace of Nan's for sheer sentiment's sake! Because your name began with Anna . . . and because I loved you... not knowing you were ours."
He added: "Remember that time I chuckled over you calling the oven-cloth the coarse-towel? I think you must have picked it up from Frances, who caught it, I suppose, from our Johnny. And of course you have Anna's walk; the way you hold your head even is hers. I still can't believe, now, that we didn't put two and two together."
Annabel laughed. "But there was no strong likeness . . . my mother's dimple, Aunt Nell's eyes, Grandmother's walk... and my father's chin. What a patchwork! Oh, how glorious to really know. We'll go on  discovering things   for weeks.   Who's that?"
She had heard a car. Johnny walked to the french windows. "Oh, Aunt Nell. She'll have heard the news."
When Annabel had recovered from Aunt Nell's hug, the two women made the tea between them. They found themselves surprisingly hungry. What fun it was, all four washing up and all talking at top speed.
Then Luke said to Johnny and Annabel, "Well, now Nell's here to bear me company, I think you should both go over to Olivet. Some of the guests are leaving in the morning and they're bound to want to congratulate you. This is going to be big news . . . both here and overseas. They'd feel very cheated if they did not see you together . . . father and daughter. And, Anna, you'd better bring your night things over. Your father will want you under his own roof tonight, even if you feel you must go over to help Miriam tomorrow. Next week we'll throw the biggest party Mount Carmel has seen for years."
Annabel blinked. "What for ?"
Her father took her chin in his hands. "What for, she says! What a lass! You're like your mother . . . she aye wanted the t's crossed and the i's dotted. I'll give you the reason, my Anna. You'll find it in the Bible . . . For this, my daughter, was dead, and is alive again; she was lost . . . and is found."
On the way across Annabel said to her father, "Does Miriam have to wait, Dad ? She's waited so long. And"  -  her voice grew mischievous  -  "she has always loved to watch the moon rise over her Old Stoney. Look, Dad!"
It was a full moon, pale, so that it silvered the whole range of mountains.
Johnny took a hand from the wheel to squeeze his daughter's.
"Anna, you wouldn't mind ? I mean you wouldn't feel it overshadowed in any way finding you?   Because  nothing could do that."
She returned the squeeze. "How could I mind? If you only knew what Miriam has meant to me. I'd like to think that when Miriam goes to sleep tonight she's as happy as I am."
"Bless you, child."
Annabel said anxiously, "But get her right away from the guests, won't you? They're always underfoot."
"I certainly will. Where would you suggest ?" he laughed boyishly. The years were falling away from Johnny Bell. "What fun to be asking my daughter where I should go to propose to her stepmother-to-be. No, don't tell me, I've decided for myself. The Pool of Siloam. You get a good view of Old Stoney from there. So keep clear, won't you ?"
Annabel chuckled. "Oh, I won't be wandering in the moonlight. Rebecca will be talking my head off. I'll be lucky if I ever get an overnight bag packed. She'll be moaning that if only I had told her she would have solved it in a j iffy."
She wouldn't let herself think of Gideon. She had misjudged him cruelly, though it had been understandable. He'd been trying to get Venetia to confess she had not been married twice. He'd told them while Venetia and Miss Mattie were packing that it was something that Lilian had said once that put him on the track. He had realised Venetia had not actually been in Coolangatta when the accident happened. And had added, Gideon-like, "But I wouldn't tell Venetia that. She would take it out on Lilian."
Annabel thought of the night of the Cinderella Ball and the sweetness of the interlude in the turret room. Of how she had set Gideon back when he had tried to take up from there. How hurt he must have been. Had the damage been irreparable? She dared not read too much into a look exchanged in an overcharged moment this afternoon . . . into the way he had said her name.
They slipped up first to Annabel's tower where Johnny looked at the bag, at his wife's clothing, which he recognised. Then they dried their tears and gave the guests their hour.
Miriam was shining-eyed and serene. As well she might be.
Finally, the excitement dying down, Annabel said to Rebecca, who had clung to her the entire hour, "Well, chick, come on up and help me pack my night things. It looks as if I'm going to spend my time  between the  two  houses.   I   won't desert  Olivet during the tourist   season."
They slipped out of the room and the guests dispersed to card-tables, to the billiards-room, the smoking-room.
Annabel showed Rebecca her treasures. Rebecca was saucer-eyed with the romance of it all. She was sitting on Annabel's bed, cross-legged, when the door suddenly opened and Gideon appeared.
He looked at his little sister. "Come on, brat, you've had your fair share of her. Now it's my turn. Listen, I've got some instructions for you. Nobody is to know where we are . . . Annabel and me. We're going on up to the turret, and if you as much as let one guest know where we are, much less Tim or Paul, I'll break every bone in your body. I've things to say to Annabel."
Rebecca slid off the bed, stood up, and said, "Gideon, you can depend on me."
She turned at the door, tossed her pony-tail back over her shoulder and grinned her gamin grin at Annabel.
"What colour stones do you fancy, Annabel ? For your engagement ring, I mean ?"
Gideon grinned back. Really, they were alike.   "What do you think, with eyes like hers? Emeralds, of course. Now scram!" She scrammed.
Gideon turned the key in the door, said, "Up with you to your tower, Rapunzel."
Annabel, heart beating crazily, went up ahead of him. She had nothing to say. Gideon was going to have things his way. The set of his jaw promised that.
He snapped the turret light off. His arm came about her, propelling her to the window. The room was full of the scent of the February roses Miriam had put there. They looked out of the window. The moon was higher over Old Stoney now. Gideon was breathing heavily, and his arm tightened round her shoulders.
"We're recapturing our moment, Rapun-zel. You're going to let your hair down . . . figuratively, of course, not for a prince to climb up by. You're going to tell me what went wrong. Between you and me, I mean. You may think I'm taking a lot for granted, that I'm being abominably vain, but I still can't believe that that moment we shared here wasn't just the forerunner of many more. I want the truth, Annabel. What went wrong ?"
She lifted her face towards him a little. She answered him simply. "I won't think you vain. You'll understand when I tell you. I overheard you that day in the spinney after our ball. With Venetia, I mean. I knew this afternoon it had been all play-acting with you, to force Venetia to confess she was not married to Uncle Joe. But, oh, Gideon, Gideon, it nearly killed me . . . after what had happened up here. You were telling her you couldn't bear the thought of her having had two husbands. But, Gideon, no explanations are needed now. I was going to sink my pride, as soon as I could get you to myself, and ask you ― tell you ― what had happened. I hoped that then you might take up from where we left off that night... "
His eyes were burning into hers, alight with wonder and delight. “Oh, Annabel. Oh, Annabel . . . I'm sorry, but you'll never be Anna to me . . . what was that poem I quoted to you . . . about the dark Rosaleen? It fits my mood tonight even better than your own sad poem . . . 'Oh, there was lightning in my blood! Red lightning lightened through my blood' . . . my beautiful Annabel Lee! "
His fingers found her chin, held it. She laughed, a low, exultant laugh, her hands creeping up his shoulders. "My father tells me," she said, "that, like my mother, I like all the t's crossed, and the i's dotted. Haven't you      forgotten something, Gideon?"
He looked puzzled though his eyes were laughing. Then he smiled. "Idiot! As if you needed to be told! I love you, Annabel."
His fingers forced her chin up, he bent his head. Annabel got a little glimpse of the moon above Old Stoney, then closed her eyes beneath his betrothal kiss.
The moon sailed on. It still had work to do. It went behind a bar of cloud, then graciously illumined the feet of two people walking hand in hand through dark beech trees, on their way towards the Pool of Siloam. It heard one voice say: "We'll run Olivet together, Miriam, keep up the old traditions," and the other one answer: "The perfect ending... Gideon can manage Carmel. Luke's granddaughter can keep house for him and Gideon."
The moon stayed out just long enough to light them to the water's edge, then as the two figures merged into one, it found another cloud.
THE   END