“Hello, Daddy. Hello, Uncle Renny!”
Piers gave Renny a sidelong glance of pride. “Not a bad-looking pair, eh,” he muttered.
“Fine — both of them,” said Renny. He called out — “Hello, young Philip. I’ve a present for your mother. Come and see!”
“A present!” cried Pheasant. “There’s nothing so rare in these days. I’m mad to see it.”
“Don’t be excited,” said Renny, as she ran along the flagged walk and opened the gate. “It’s only sweets from The Daffodil.”
But Pheasant had expected nothing more important. She took the box in one hand while with the other she clutched her child to her.
“Oh, thanks! How perfectly lovely! Pauline is a marvel at making sweets.”
Piers asked — “How are they getting on with the tea shop?”
The line between Renny’s brows deepened. “Well, the season has just opened. It’s hard to say what it will be. Two people came while Wake and I were there.”
There was something self-conscious in the way he mentioned the fact that Wakefield had been with him when he visited The Daffodil. His thick bronze lashes flickered over his eyes. Pheasant thought — “If I were Alayne, I’d see through all this. But she doesn’t — she doesn’t! She’s never really understood him though she loves him terribly. I’m glad Piers isn’t so attractive to women. And, even at that, he is handsomer.” Her eyes flew to Piers’s face.
“Coming in?” she asked.
“No. I’ve work to do. Where is Mooey?”
“He has a headache, Piers. I think he concentrates too much at school. He’s so eager to learn!”
“Good Lord! Concentrates! An eight-year-old, at a little private day school!” His face darkened. “These Saturday headaches — they make me tired. What they mean is simply that he funks coming over to Jalna to ride. He funks it, just because he’s had a fall or two. And here I am with a fine pair of ponies to show which must have a child rider.”
Renny said — “Promise him a present if they win at the Show.”
“I’ll promise him a damned good hiding if he doesn’t toe the scratch. Where is he?”
“I sent him out for a walk. I thought it would do him good.”
Piers made a sound of disgust. “Upon my word, the only Whiteoak among my three is this one. No mistake about him.” He tickled the baby whose resemblance to himself was remarkable. “And, in our family, I am the only one who takes after our father, and he was the spit of his dad. It’s the authentic face for four generations straight.”
Renny looked critically from father to son, then, cocking an eyebrow, he said:
“One like Piers is enough, eh, Pheasant?”
“Well, I do think,” she returned, with her air of a sedate child, “that Piers might be more lenient with Mooey and Nook. It’s not their fault if they don’t take after him. Knowing what I do of horse breeding, I should say it is his own.”
Renny grinned derisively at Piers. “A dud sire and no mistake.”
Piers looked as nearly sheepish as was possible to him. He said gruffly — “Well, I can’t waste any more time,” and started the engine. The baby, at the same moment, tugged at the necklet of red beads that Pheasant was wearing and broke it. The beads flew in all directions.
“Oh, oh, my precious necklet!” cried Pheasant. She set her baby down and began a search for the beads. Suddenly Nook’s voice called from an upper window — “Mummie, he’s eating one!”
Pheasant snatched up the child, held him head downward and extracted the bead from his mouth, he immediately looking as though nothing had happened.
“A close shave!” ejaculated Renny.
But Piers had seen two heads at the window. His face flushed and he rapped out sharply:
“Mooey, come down here!” He stopped the engine.
“Now, Piers,” implored Pheasant.
He turned on her. “What did you mean by telling me he was out?”
“I thought he was. He must have just come back. Don’t be rough with him, please.”
Young Maurice now appeared in the doorway and came slowly toward them, followed by his shadow, little Nook. It was true that neither boy showed any resemblance to Piers. Nor did they particularly favour their mother, though both had her quality of elusiveness, the look of sensitive woodland creatures, defensive yet vulnerable. Mooey was too tall for his age, thin, and rather pale. His brown hair fell in thick locks on his forehead, giving him a gypsy air. He was physically timid yet spiritually he could show great fortitude for his years. Nook had a look of real fragility, an exquisite skin, sleek fair hair, and hazel eyes, one of which showed a slight cast.
Piers stared at his first-born.
“Well,” he said sarcastically, “I hope your headache is better.”
Mooey answered, not without dignity, “Yes, thank you, Daddy.”
“I hope you feel able to come to Jalna and help school the ponies.”
“Yes.” He stood hesitating as to whether he should get into the front seat with his father and Biddy or into the back with his uncle and the spaniels. Renny settled it by opening the door next him. “In you get,” he said, “mind you let me have a good account of your riding.”
Piers looked at his wristwatch and exclaimed at the hour. The car started with a jerk. Pheasant and Nook were left searching in the grass for red beads.
Renny, indicating the boxes of sweets, said, out of the side of his mouth — “Make a good showing with the ponies, Mooey, and I’ll leave one of these in the saddle-room for you, on the shelf below the ribbons.”
Mooey smiled soberly and nodded, then looked straight ahead of him at his father’s stalwart back.
Piers stopped the car at the gate of their sister’s low-set rambling house and Renny and his dogs alighted. The dogs were met by an Airedale who greeted them as friends. An elderly lady, sitting in a deck chair on the lawn, called out — “Good morning, Mr. Whiteoak! Won’t you come and talk to me?”
He gave her a somewhat surly nod and strode quickly toward the front door. Here he had to make way for an incredibly sallow man coming out. The man stared at him almost aggressively.
Followed by the dogs he went straight to his sister’s sitting room. He found her there alone.
The eldest of the family, she was now aged forty-nine, would be fifty before the year was out. Her complexion had the clear freshness of Piers’s, only paler, her grey-blue eyes had an expression of innocent candour, and her pouting pink lips were girlish in their stubborn sweetness. Only greying hair, her thick waist, and over-plump neck showed her years. Her voice was caressing when she greeted him. She put both short arms round his neck and drew his hard-bitten, high-coloured face down to hers.
“Dearest, dearest boy — I haven’t seen you for days and days! What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Who the devil are those people?” he growled against her cheek.
“My P.G.s! You’ve met the old lady before — Mrs. Binkley-Toogood. I hope you weren’t as rude to her as you were the last time. The yellow gentleman is a newcomer.”
He drew back and scowled at her. “Meggie, how can you take these people into your house?”
She folded her arms across her full bosom and said reproachfully — “What can I do? With Maurice’s stocks going down and down — with my child growing older?