CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

Blair ushered Lynn across the hall and into the dining-room, which was through the wall from the kitchen. Steaming dishes stood on mats placed to protect the mahogany table, and this was surrounded by matching chairs. He pulled out the one which seated her on his right, then took his place at the end of the table.

Maisie and Sandra were opposite Lynn, while Bert sat beside her. Only Gary was missing, but apparently he was out visiting friends. She knew that these people were Blair's servants, yet it was obvious he did not treat them as such. A family gathering, he had said. Tonight we eat in the dining-room. Even Tony was permitted to stay up later than usual.

It was then that Lynn realised that she was being honoured, although at times the agreeable atmosphere of the evening had almost flown out of the window. Nevertheless the pleasure of sitting beside Blair at his table was not to be denied, and she became aware of the quiet satisfaction that filled her. Satisfaction? No—it was more than that. It was verging so close to happiness she was afraid to examine it too closely.

Its effect caused her to brush the irritations of the past hour from her mind, and to chatter with animation. Tactfully, and without holding the floor, she drew the others into the conversation while telling them about her life in Wellington, and the tasks involved while working in her father's surgery.

She knew that Blair watched her intently, a half-smile playing about his lips, and she also suspected that Sandra's faintly bored air was deliberately displayed.

However, she did not allow this to provoke her until she explained that there were times when a child needed to be kept amused while its mother was being examined.

Sandra's sneer then became more evident. 'Are you trying to tell us you know how to entertain children?' she asked with derision.

Lynn refused to be drawn into open hostility; therefore she said smoothly, 'Believe it or not, there are occasions when I make an attempt to do so.'

Sandra was amused. 'Really? How do you begin?'

The question brought a sharp retort from Blair. His lips becoming tight, he turned cold eyes upon Sandra as he spoke icily. 'It might interest you to learn that Lynn is a published author of children's books.'

'Children's books?' Sandra refused to be impressed. 'Well, I suppose writing for the juvenile market should be easy enough. If Lynn can do it—I dare say anyone can.'

Lynn continued to remain unruffled. 'Quite correct,' she agreed. 'The writing is easy enough—but getting it published is a different matter altogether.'

Maisie said, 'I believe it's a specialised craft because of the words to be used for different age-groups.'

Bert grinned. 'Even simple words are beyond Sandra.'

'Are you hinting that I can't read?' Sandra bristled with anger.

'If you could you'd see the writing on the wall,' Bert drawled.

His words puzzled Lynn, although she heard them bring a chuckle from Blair. She also realised that Bert had said very little during the meal, yet she was well aware that his observant blue eyes had moved watchfully from Blair to herself. So what did he mean by 'the writing on the wall'? Had her face betrayed her inner feelings towards Blair? Or had Blair looked at her in such a way that Bert had imagined an alliance between them? But even as she waited for Bert to explain his words the ring of the telephone echoed in the hall.

Blair said, 'I'll answer it in my office.' He stood up and left the room, his departure seeming to denude it of a vital presence.

Sandra then turned to attack Bert. 'I want to know what you meant by saying I can't read ‑'

'Work it out for yourself,' he snapped.

'That'll do, Bert,' Maisie said, then turned to Lynn. 'You are fortunate to have such a hobby. It's a pity a certain party's mother couldn't have had a similar interest.' Her words ended with a sigh as she sent a glance towards Tony, who sat on the mat before the leaping flames in the open fireplace.

Lynn hesitated, then told them a little about her association with Delphine, and how it was through this friendship that she had become published. Then her words trailed away to silence as Blair came to the door.

'Stan is on the phone,' he announced, then spoke to Tony. 'Come and talk to Daddy—he's in London.'

Maisie beamed. 'Well, isn't that wonderful? Fancy talking to someone in London,' she exclaimed as Tony sprang to his feet and followed Blair.

They returned a short time later, Tony shouting with excitement. 'I talked to my daddy—I talked to my daddy—he's coming home!'

Blair added, 'He's searching for Delphine but has been unable to find her.' He looked directly at Lynn. 'Didn't you say something about a change of address?'

'Yes—but she hasn't given me one. At least, not yet.'

Sandra put in acidly, 'Perhaps she knows Stan is searching for her and has no wish to be found.'

'Sheer supposition,' Bert argued, sending a cool glare towards Sandra.

After that the conversation became general. Sandra put Tony to bed while Maisie cleared the table. Lynn tried to help her but was led back to the lounge by Blair where they stood before the glowing embers of the fire, yet despite its warmth the atmosphere between them seemed to have cooled.

Searching for a reason, Lynn blamed the phone call from London. It had put Blair into a morose mood which was making their relationship so strained that she could almost sense the spectres of Stan and Delphine hovering above their heads. And this was proved to be a fact when his scrutiny became penetrating.

'You're sure you've no idea of Delphine's new address?'

She noticed the hardness in his voice. 'Quite sure.'

'Would you tell me if you did know?' He sounded sceptical.

'I see no reason to keep it from you. However, I must say I'm surprised to learn that Stan is seeking her whereabouts.'

'I suspect it's because he still loves her. It's possible he wants to bring her home.'

'Don't you mean he wants to whistle her to heel? He wants her to continue to be his slave.' Her voice held an edge to it because, despite her own reservations, her sympathies were still with her friend.

He became irritable. 'No, I do not mean that at all.'

Surprise caused her to say, 'You're really anxious to see them together again?'

'Wouldn't it be better for the boy? Tony needs his own parents.'

'He needs parents who love each other,' Lynn pointed out. 'Do you think it's possible for Stan to change his attitude towards Delphine by being more understanding and less domineering?'

'I'd say anything is possible—from the sound of his voice on the phone,' Blair said thoughtfully.

'I can understand your sympathies being with your, cousin,' she said, giving vent to a small sigh. 'Apart from a man seeing only a man's side of a problem, blood is thicker than water.'

'Which means you consider I'm totally one-sided,' he gritted.

Later when he drove her home the short journey was achieved almost in silence. At the cottage he left the driver's seat, then walked round the car and opened the door for her. As they stepped up on to the veranda he looked down into her face and said, 'I'm afraid this evening has had its ups and downs.'

'Maybe—but I enjoyed it. Thank you for inviting me to sit at your table.' She smiled up at him, her heart beating at a slightly faster rate. Was he about to kiss her goodnight?

He made no move to do so. Instead his face remained serious as he said, 'It was a sight that pleased me. One I'll remember.'

'Or is it one you're more likely to forget?'

'Why have you so little faith in me?'

'Perhaps because your lack of faith in me is apparent. You think I'm holding back on Delphine's address. I know you do. I can feel your doubts about me.'

He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a slight shake. 'That is your imagination entirely,' he declared, staring down into her face. 'I've a good mind to ‑' But before he could say more the deep-throated croak of a bullfrog rose on the still air. It was like a cue, causing Blair to say, 'I do believe that's Freddie taking his singing lessons.'

The giggle that escaped Lynn relieved her tension.

Blair took her hand and drew her towards the end of the veranda. 'Freddie is singing a song about the moon's glow on the water. It tells that now is the best time to walk round the lake.'

'I distinctly heard him say something about moonlight being dangerous. He also said I'm wearing the wrong shoes.'

'Then change them.' It was a cryptic command until he added, 'Unless you have no wish to walk in the moonlight with me.'

A walk in the moonlight with Blair? How could she resist? 'I'll be quick,' was all she said.

She also moved silently, hoping her grandfather would not be disturbed. His car in the garage gave mute evidence of his return from his Rotary meeting, and his darkened window indicated the possibility that he now slept. Therefore she tiptoed through the living-room to the laundry where she kept a heavier pair of shoes for wearing outside in the damp grass.

When she rejoined Blair he had left the veranda and stood waiting for her on the drive. He took her hand, his fingers entwining with her own to give a feeling of sweet intimacy, and together they walked towards the water. When they were within a few feet of it another croak came from the rushes growing near the edge.

The sound drew a comment from Blair. 'It's OK, Fred—we're taking your advice.'

His hand left hers but made its way up her arm while leading her across the soft damp ground where long grass caressed her ankles. On their right the shadowy hawthorns dropped white petals tinged with pink. On their left came an occasional plop into the water, or a flapping of wings from one of the lake's feathered residents.

They walked in silence, his hand continuing to hold her arm, its pressure through the wool of her cape giving her a sense of security. Even so the moon's rays, which lit the water while throwing eerie shadows into the surrounding valleys, made her feel they were in an enchanted hollow where dreams were made, and she feared that if she spoke the spell would be broken.

Was Blair wrapped in a similar fantasy? she wondered. Apparently not, because her illusions were shattered when he brought her back to reality by asking a mundane question. 'How do your stories progress?'

'I've been busy,' she admitted, then gave him a brief outline of her present work on the typewriter.

'It sounds suitable for the age-group.'

'I'm glad you think so. Normally I do not tell anyone about a story I have in mind.'

His hand tightened on her arm. 'Am I just anyone?'

The question caused her heart to leap, but she did not answer it. Instead she went on in a matter-of-fact voice, 'In some strange way the recounting of it tends to kill it.'

'Have you attempted any young adult stories yet? You know the sort of thing—boy meets girl, the inevitable quarrel and the happy making-up.'

'No.' The reply came abruptly.

'You're deliberately avoiding them?' His tone was teasing.

'Not exactly.'

'I believe you are. I'd even venture to say it's because you are not yet ready for them. You know so little about love.'

She laughed. 'While you are the great authority? You're still in the midst of sowing your wild oats.'

'I've been around,' he admitted nonchalantly. 'I could give you a few lessons.'

'Thank you, I—I don't think I need them,' she said faintly, her lips trembling. 'At least—not for the stories I'll be writing.'

'Nevertheless it's advisable to have a little knowledge sitting in the background,' he commented drily.

'Isn't a little knowledge supposed to be a dangerous thing?' she asked, misquoting a well-known poem.

'Only if one refuses to allow it to expand,' he pointed out.

His suppositions irritated her. 'You've no right to hint that my knowledge of romance needs to expand. I'm not completely naive.'

'I doubt that your own personal history has seen much of it.'

Surprise caused her to look up at him. 'What makes you so sure about that? You make me sound as though I've never had a real boyfriend.' Her last words echoed her indignation.

'Well—have you?' His tone had become slightly mocking.

'That happens to be my own personal business,' she retorted.

'Something tells me your emotions could do with a sharp shot in the arm—an injection of emotional upheaval.'

'Administered by whom?' she queried derisively.

'By myself, of course. You could look upon me as Dr Blair.'

She laughed, falling in with his mood. 'Dr Blair, noted for his bedside manner! Something tells me the cure would be worse than the complaint—if you'll pardon me for saying so.'

'What makes you so sure about that?' He sounded nettled.

'Because doctors don't remain with one patient. They move away to other patients—if you get my point—which means that this one would be left lamenting.'

He was quick to pick up the last word. 'Really lamenting?'

'Only temporarily, of course,' she amended hastily, at the same time endeavouring to assure herself of this fact.

They had reached the end of the water where the fence barring their way caused them to turn and retrace their steps. As they did so the moonlight illuminated Blair's face, making Lynn acutely aware of his handsome features and the aura of vitality that radiated from every pore of his athletic form. It was a charismatic vapour that reached out to envelop her, silencing any protest she might have in mind as he drew her towards the shadows of the hawthorn trees where he took her in his arms.

Nor did she protest when his hand in the small of her back pressed her against his body and his head bent to find her lips. The heat of his palm through her clothes seemed to creep up her spine, causing her heart to thump and her pulses to race as she gave herself up to the joy of being in his arms.

But despite the ecstasy one small part of her brain remained cool, warning her that these were kisses without commitment. She was only the means of a temporary affair to Blair Marshall. Somebody new to the district— somebody who would be returning to Wellington, thus leaving him free.

Even so the deepening of his kiss sent her senses reeling, and of their own accord her arms reached to enfold him, finding their way to twine about his neck while her fingers fondled the hair at the back of his head. Her lips parted, her eyes closed and she became aware of a smouldering fire somewhere in the pit of her lower regions as his hand cupped her breast.

Her response caused his breath to quicken. He crushed her even closer to him, making ho secret of his own inward fire and the depth of his longing. 'Lynn... Lynn... I want you,' he murmured, his lips trailing a line along her jaw. 'You know I want you?'

She nodded wordlessly.

'And I know you want me. Here and now. But the grass is too wet.' A sudden movement of his arms lifted her effortlessly, and, cradling her like a child, he carried her towards the cottage.

She was gripped by panic. Did he intend to stride into her bedroom? Had he forgotten her grandfather was just through the wall? But her fears were groundless. When they reached the veranda he set her down and said huskily, 'Goodnight, Lynn. I'll see you again... somewhere... some time.'

She stood in a daze, watching him go to his car. The lights blazed as he backed towards the road, then she stood immobile until the brilliant red tail-lights had disappeared round the first bend. 'Blair, oh, Blair... when will you come back?' she whispered to the surrounding darkness. Somewhere...some time, he'd said. It sounded so very remote—so very indefinite.

Sighing, she went inside, but despite her efforts to move silently Max's voice called to her when she went to the bathroom.

'Is that you, Lynn?'

'Yes, Grandy. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.'

'I wasn't asleep. I heard the car arrive some time ago. You took your time coming in.'

'Oh, well... we talked a little...'

There was a pause, then Max asked, 'Kissed you goodnight, did he?'

Her breath quickened at the memory, but her answer came casually. 'Yes, actually—he did.'

'Just a brief goodnight peck, was it?'

'Yes—something like that,' she lied.

'I don't believe you.' The retort that came through the wall was accompanied by a chuckle. 'You can't fool me, my girl. I've seen the way he looks at you.'

'Have you, Grandy? I can't say I've noticed anything special. When I do, you'll be the first to know. Now, goodnight.' The last words came firmly. She was not in the mood for further discussion with her grandfather, nor did she wish him to see her cheeks, which still felt warmer than usual.

Later, as she lay in her bed; her grandfather's words echoed in her thoughts. 'I've seen the way he looks at you,' he'd said. Was it possible that Blair's feelings for her were deeper than she realised? Did he love her, but refused to admit it even to himself? Was this because he had no intention of risking involvement with a city girl— especially one who was friendly with Delphine? Birds of a feather, et cetera.

But what of herself? Did she love him? The answer hit her with force. Yes—she knew without a shadow of doubt that she loved him. Previously the suspicion had been pushed from her, but now she was ready to face it. She was ready to bring it out into the open and admit she'd found the man she wanted—the man with whom she longed to spend the rest of her life.

The knowledge gave her a feeling of warmth. Blair's face hovered above her in the darkened room as she relived the moments in the gloom of the hawthorn trees. A goodnight kiss? Oh, no—it had been much more than that, she told herself on a high wave of wishful thinking. The call to each other had been loud and clear, and possibly the time would come when the call would be answered. That would be the time when Blair was ready for commitment.

When she woke next morning the feeling of elation was still with her. A light song escaped her lips and the cottage was tidied in record time. The wholemeal scones were almost ready for the oven when her grandfather's voice spoke from behind her.

'I notice young Tony hasn't been near us lately. I suppose he's grown past the tadpole stage.'

'You're forgetting his pony,' Lynn said. 'He goes riding every day with Sandra. Last night I was told he's a natural on horseback; at least, that's what Sandra says.'

Last night. The mere mention of last night brought the memory of Blair's kisses crowding back into her mind, causing her to catch her breath. But that was last night. What of today? Would he come to see her?

'What are your plans for today?' Max drawled, almost as though reading her thoughts.

She felt he was watching her closely, therefore she kept her back turned to him. 'Oh, I suppose I'll spend it at the typewriter.'

'I thought you had something ready to post.'

'No, I... I feel it needs a little more polishing.' No way would she go out today, she decided. Blair might come to see her. Surely last night's kisses meant something more than a casual embrace?

Filled with hope and anticipation, she spent the rest of the morning in the area of her room she now called her office, but as the hours passed into afternoon concentration became difficult. Her ears remained stretched for any sound that could herald Blair's approach, while every passing vehicle caused her to freeze as she listened for it to slow down. When none did, her work began to suffer.

By late afternoon she was fighting disappointment, and by the time she was preparing the evening meal she had accepted the fact that Blair had no intention of coming to see her. Or was he waiting until evening when the moon would again shine on the lake?

But the evening passed without a sign of him, and, gripped by a deep despondency, she realised that this was what had happened after he had kissed and held her closely on previous occasions. He had kept away from her. It was obviously his method of telling her she needn't expect too much involvement because it hadn't' meant a thing. At least—not to him.

Max sensed her depression. 'So he didn't turn up today, huh?'

'You mean Tony?' she prevaricated with a forced smile. 'Didn't I tell you he rides Taffy every day after school?'

'You know I don't mean Tony,' he growled, then, as though making excuses for Blair, he went on, 'You must remember his days are fully committed to running a property.'

'And his nights?' The question slipped out.

Max shrugged. 'He's probably in his office. All good farmers keep records. They fill in a daily diary of the work being done, and they attend to their accounts.' He paused thoughtfully before asking, 'How is your own work progressing?'

'Not very well. I'm afraid it's in rather a chaotic jumble. I have several stories half finished because my mind keeps jumping from one to the other. I find myself doing a bit of this and a bit of that—which is really quite unlike my method of work.'

He eyed her shrewdly. 'That's because your mind is unsettled. It is not completely on your job. It's wandering over the fields in the direction of Marshlands.'

He was right and she knew it, but rather than admit to the truth of his accusation she said, 'Tomorrow I shall take myself firmly in hand. I shall return to my old system of taking one story at a time and getting it finished. I say it with my right hand raised.'

Max laughed. 'In other words you'll push that fellow out of your mind and get down to good solid work so that soon you really will have a packet to post.'

'That's right. Unless I send a ship out, it won't come home.'

Nor did she veer from this plan, and, although she longed for the sight of Blair's face and the sound of his deep voice, she saw and heard them only at the back of her mind. His continued absence caused an ache that sat like a lump of ice somewhere within the region of her heart, and in an attempt to override its cold depression she drove herself to a daily routine of work.

Her efforts resulted in the completing of all her half-finished stories, and seven days later she was rewarded by the sight of a packet ready to post to her publishers. It gave her a feeling of achievement, and despite the almost gale-force winds sweeping round the cottage she took it to town and handed it across the counter just before the mail closed.

Returning to the car, she glanced at the petrol gauge, then drove to the garage beside the bridge spanning the Waipawa river. The attendant filled the tank and also checked the oil, water and tyre pressures, and while he did so she left the car and went to gaze at the water flowing between the wide shingle banks.

The willows bordering the river, still bright with their spring green, were bent against the force of the wind, and beyond them the fields rose to higher ground. A few houses of the Tapairu settlement could be seen, and eye-catching among them was the small church, its white walls and red roof highlighted by the rays of the late afternoon sun.

The sight of it caused her to recall the evening at Marshlands when she had been told about the statue of Ada, and impulsively she decided to take the short drive to see it. There was no need to hasten home because it was Wednesday, which meant that Grandy would be having an evening meal at his Rotary Club meeting.

She paid for the petrol then left the garage to drive across the long bridge. A short distance beyond it a left-hand turn led her towards the higher ground of the Tapairu settlement, and within a few minutes she had stopped outside the church with its fenced enclosure of neatly kept graves.

Towering above them on a raised pedestal was the life-sized figure of Ada Erena Maihi, and although the engraved wording below her was in Maori, it was easy to understand that she had died in 1912 at the age of twenty-two.

Shadows were forming on the embroidered blouse with its gathered three-quarter-length sleeves, and in the folds of the long marble skirt from which peeped bow-topped shoes. Her left hand clasped a prayerbook against her breast.

Walking round the statue, Lynn saw that the thick wavy hair with its centre parting was worn in a coil at, the back of the head. It would have been black, she thought, while the complexion would have been like coffee with cream. But it was the serenity of the face that caught and held her attention. Ada had been beautiful, she realised, feeling sure that the skilful Italian craftsmen had faithfully captured the good features and sweet expression from the photo sent by her parents.

But now she was home, where she stood in remote loneliness while all around her slept. Something of that same loneliness conveyed itself to Lynn, overwhelming her with a deep sadness that brought tears to her eyes. She tried to shrug it off by reminding herself that she was alive, and that she had her parents and Grandy. But she also knew they were not sufficient. She wanted Blair with an intense yearning, and she also knew that life would be nothing without him.

The knowledge caused her to stare at the statue through blurred eyes. 'What shall I do, Ada?' she whispered in a low voice. 'You came home but I...' She fell silent, gazing up at the marble face, then she took a deep breath as she went on, 'Thank you, Ada—I believe you've told me what to do. I'll go home. Perhaps the fact that I've had the car filled and checked is an omen. And, while I know Grandy will be disappointed to see me leave, he doesn't really need me now. Besides, I can't sit moping at Frog Hollow forever. So, just as you've come home to Tapairu, I'll go home to Wellington.' The resolve sent her hurrying back to the car.

Tears continued to trickle down her cheeks as she drove through the Waipawa township, and by the time she reached the cottage she was filled with even more determination. She would pack as soon as she'd lit the fire and had given herself a meal. Grandy would not be there to dissuade her, so the sooner she had her papers and clothes in her cases, the better.

Yet despite these intentions she found herself in no hurry to begin, and, after preparing a light meal, which she found difficult to swallow, she dragged her suitcases from where they lay hidden under the bed. Further, the more she put into them, the more concerned she became over what reason she should give her grandfather for her sudden departure.

She was still mulling over this particular problem when the phone rang, its shrill peal echoing through the cottage in a demand to be answered. Her heart leapt with a wild hope that it would be Blair ringing her at last, and she almost fell over one of the cases in her rush towards the living-room.

Day after day during the past week she had listened for a phone call from him, but it had not come, and now her hand almost shook as she lifted the receiver. Nor was her voice quite steady as she said, 'Hello?'

But the voice that floated over the line held nothing of Blair's resonant tones. It was a feminine voice, which said, 'Is that you, Lynn? It's Delphine.'

She was gripped by shock, and then amazement overrode her disappointment. 'Delphine? Where are you? In London?'

'No, I'm in Napier. How is Tony? Is my little boy all right?'

'He's fine as far as I know, although I haven't seen him during the past week. Blair bought him a pony which he rides every day. Are you making a trip to see him?'

'More than that. I've come home.' The words were accompanied by a happy laugh.

Again Lynn could scarcely believe her ears. 'You mean—home to Stan?'

'I mean with Stan. He's here with me.' She named a motel. 'He came all the way to London to find me, and he's brought me home. Lynn—we're together again.'

'That's marvellous. Del, I'm so glad. I hope it will work out this time.'

'Oh—it will. This time everything is going to be different.' Delphine's voice rang with confidence.

'Are you saying he'll allow you to take a job?' Lynn tried to keep doubt from her voice.

'Actually I'll be working at home. Instead of assessing manuscripts written by other people I'll be working on my own. I've taken up writing romance.'

'That's wonderful. I hope you'll find success.'

'Would you believe I'm already on the way? The first has been accepted, the second is being assessed, and now I'm working on my third romantic novel. All this despite the daytime job I've had.'

Lynn felt excited for Delphine. 'Tell me, how did you get started on romance?'

'I tried it as a means of combating the troubles that assailed me every evening. During the first few weeks in my parents' home I was terribly unsettled in my mind. I suppose I was fretting for Tony. I was in a turmoil at having left him.'

'Yes, I understand.' She herself was in the throes of having her own private turmoil.

'It was my mother who suggested I should be doing something to channel my thoughts, and that it was time I tried writing my own manuscripts.' Delphine paused to laugh. 'You've heard the old saying about mother always knowing best? For the first time in my life I listened to her, and it has certainly paid off.'

'Stan won't mind your interest being tied up with heroes and heroines?' Lynn asked, recalling Stan's possessiveness.

Delphine giggled. 'He's delighted. Believe it or not, he's promised to set me up with the latest word processor, although I don't really need more than my portable typewriter.'

A question leapt into Lynn's mind. 'Does Blair know about all this and—and that you and Stan are together again?'

'Not yet. We've tried to phone him but their line seems to be out of order. Stan says the trouble will have been caused by one of those oaks or elms growing near the place where the line comes on to the property. Have you had a high wind?'

'Yes. It was blowing a gale this afternoon. Perhaps they don't even know it is out of order.'

Delphine's voice became urgent. 'Lynn, would you be a dear and do something for us—like taking a message?'

'Yes—of course.'

'Would you please go to Marshlands and tell Blair we're home? Tell him our plane got in this afternoon and that we'll drive home in a rental car tomorrow morning. Would you mind?'

Lynn caught her breath. Would she mind grasping at a legitimate excuse to go to Blair? 'I'll go at once,' was all she said.

'Thank you, Lynn—see you tomorrow,' Delphine said gratefully.

Lynn cradled the receiver, her thoughts in a whirl as she realised that Delphine and Stan were together again. They would be home tomorrow, but what sort of reception would her friend receive from the Marshlands household? Would she be made to feel an outcast?

Blair, she felt sure, would welcome her for Tony's sake, and also because Stan wanted her to be there as his wife. Maisie and Bert would be pleased to learn that the marital problem was being resolved in a satisfactory manner— but what would be Sandra's attitude?

No doubt her job of caring for Tony would be at an end, but Blair would probably consider that Maisie still needed her help in the house—therefore everything would go on as usual, except that she herself would not be there to see Tony living happily with his own parents.

But now the message must be delivered to Blair, the thought causing her to hasten towards the mirror and again almost tripping over, a suitcase. She put a touch of lipstick to her mouth and raked a comb through the mass of unruly hair that had become windblown at Tapairu. The safety screen was placed before the open fire, and moments later she was driving to Marshlands.

As she approached the homestead she saw Maisie pacing the front veranda. The sight of her gave Lynn an apprehensive feeling that all was not well, and as she parked near the steps Maisie hurried to meet her.

The older woman reached the car almost before Lynn had unbuckled the seatbelt, her agitation more than obvious. 'Have you news?' she queried anxiously. 'Blair and Sandra have just arrived back, but Bert and Gary are still searching for him out there.' Her gaze wandered towards the fields.

Lynn looked at Maisie's pale face and tear-blurred eyes. A chill gripped her as she realised that something must be terribly wrong. 'What do you mean? Searching for whom?'

'For Tony, of course. He went riding with Sandra and—and somehow she lost him.'

'Lost him? That's ridiculous,' Lynn exclaimed.

'Well, that's what she says. You'd better come inside.'

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