But if she went to him now, with all her doubts and her troubles, he might interpret her need for comfort and reassurance rather differently, and that would simply create more problems.
‘And just now I have as many as I can handle,’ she muttered against the moan of the wind.
She buried her hands in the pockets of her cape, her fingers closing round the familiar shape of her small pocket torch, and it was that which decided her where to go for her walk. Her original intention had been to follow the lane round, perhaps even as far as the village, but now she knew she wanted the open spaces of the stretch of moorland behind the house. Even in summertime, it seemed bleak, the few trees bent and stunted under the power of the prevailing westerly gales, but Morgana loved it, in particular the great stone which crowned its crest.
It was an odd-looking stone—a tall thick stem of granite with another slab balanced across its top. In some guide books it was referred to as the Giant’s Table, but locally it was known as the Wishing Stone because it was said that if you put your hand on the upright and made a wish, and then circled the stone three times, the top slab would rock gently if the wish was to be granted. At all other times, of course, it was said to be immovable, but Morgana had always thought that a really desperate wisher could probably give fate a helping hand with a quick nudge at the cross-stone.
Sometimes she’d wondered if there had once been other stones there, so that the hillside above Polzion had resembled Stonehenge or Avebury, until people had come and taken them for building. Yet it was intriguing that they had left this one, and she had asked herself why often. Maybe it was because they sensed its power, or more prosaically perhaps it was because the cross-stone had proved more difficult to shift than anticipated.
Anyway, there it stood, like a mysterious signpost to a secret in the youth of mankind, surviving the initials which had been carved on it, the picnics which had been eaten in its shadow, and all the attempts of vandals to dislodge it, squat and oddly reassuring in its timelessness.
As she picked her way across the thick clumps of grass and bracken, the wind snatched at her hood, pulling it back from her head, and making her dark hair billow round her like a cloud. She breathed deeply. This was what she had wanted—the freshness of damp undergrowth and sea salt brought to her on the moving air. Rob would think she was mad if he could see her now, she thought, stumbling a little on a tussock of grass, but then he hadn’t been born here as she had. In fact she’d often wondered what had prompted his father to buy the Home Farm in the first place. Perhaps under his rather staid appearance he was really a romantic at heart, remembering the pull of the boyhood holidays he mentioned so often. Certainly Morgana doubted whether his wife’s wishes had much to do with his decision. Mrs Donleven’s roots seemed firmly grounded in the Home Counties.
Morgana was out of breath by the time she reached the wishing stone. The wind had been blowing steadily against her all the way, and by all the natural laws the stone should already have been rocking precariously on its pediment. But it wasn’t, of course. She leaned against the upright, regaining her breath, and looking about her. She could see the lights of Polzion House below her, and away on the right those of the Home Farm. She couldn’t see the village, because it was down in a hollow in the edge of the sea, where the surrounding cliffs provided a safe harbour for the fishing and pleasure boats.
She thought suddenly, ‘This could be the last time—the very last time that I stand here.’ She put her hand on the stone and it felt warm to the touch, but perhaps that was because she herself suddenly felt so cold.
It couldn’t happen, she told herself passionately. This was her place, her land, and she refused to give it up to an uncaring stranger.
She said quietly, but aloud because that was the rule, ‘I wish that he may never come here. I wish that he may renounce his inheritance, and that we may never meet.’ Then she began to walk round the stone, slowly and carefully, the wind whipping her cloak around her legs, her head thrown back slightly, her eyes narrowed against the gloom as she watched for a sign of movement.
She had never really believed in the Wishing Stone, had always dismissed it as an amusing local superstition, but now she desperately wanted the legend to be true, and to work for her.
But when her circuit was completed, the great stone remained where it was implacable, immovable. Her wish hadn’t been granted, and she could have thrown herself on to the ground and wept and drummed her heels like a tired child.
She stared at the stone, and sighed despairingly, ‘Oh, why didn’t you work?’
And from somewhere behind her, but altogether too close for comfort a man’s voice said, ‘Perhaps you used the wrong spell. Or simply asked for the wrong thing.’
Morgana spun round, her hand going to her mouth to stifle an involuntary scream, and found herself caught, transfixed like a butterfly to a cork, in the merciless, all-encompassing beam of a powerful torch.
HER heart hammering, Morgana stared back, lifting her chin defiantly. She didn’t recognise the voice. Low-pitched and resonant, with a trace of an unfamiliar accent, it struck no chord in her memory. And she couldn’t see him either, although she had the impression that he was tall.
She wondered why she hadn’t heard him approach, but supposed it had been partly because of the noise of the wind, and principally, because she had been so totally absorbed in what she was doing. All of which he had observed, judging by his opening remark. She felt the blood rush into her face with embarrassment, and her temper rising at the same time as she visualised him skulking up through the bracken, deliberately not using his torch, giving her no hint that she was no longer alone until it was too late, and she had made a complete and utter fool of herself.
She demanded sharply, ‘Do you enjoy spying?’
‘Not particularly, although I must confess it can be most instructive,’ he said. ‘And it’s not every day one gets the paces. But isn’t it a little early for this sort of thing? I always understood the witching hour was midnight.’
There was a trace of amusement in his voice which he wasn’t at all concerned to hide, and it stung.
She said stiffly, ‘I am not a witch.’
‘I think that’s just as well.’ The laughter was open now. ‘I don’t think you’d be very good at it. That stone’s supposed to rock, isn’t it?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘From a book I bought in the village. I hope you didn’t think it was a closely guarded secret.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ The fright he had given her, and her own anger, had knocked her slightly off balance, and she hated the way he kept her trapped in the damned beam of light, so that he could see her, but she could know nothing about him, except that impression of height.
Her voice sharpened. ‘Did your book also tell you that this is private land?’
It was only a technicality, and no one at Polzion House had ever dreamed of debarring any of the interested tourists from visiting the stone, but there was something about this man that flicked her on the raw, that made her want to put him down—to make him feel small in his turn. It was abominable the way he had stood there in the darkness and watched her, and listened, and then added insult to injury by laughing at her.
He