could.
“And so you see, Mr Rowley, I couldn't help hearing what was going on. Really, you could have knocked me over with a feather -”
A pretty substantial feather, thought Rowley, would be needed.
He listened, with an impassive, almost bovine face, to Beatrice's succinct account of the conversation she had overheard.
When she had finished, she waited expectantly.
It was fully a couple of minutes before Rowley came out of his trance. Then he got up.
“Thanks, Beatrice,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
And with that he went straight out of the room. Beatrice felt somewhat deflated. She really did think, she said to herself, that Mr Rowley might have said something.
Taken at the Flood
Chapter 12
When Rowley left the Stag his steps turned automatically in the direction of home, but after walking a few hundred yards, he pulled up short and retraced his steps.
His mind took things in slowly and his first astonishment over Beatrice's revelations was only now beginning to give way to a true appreciation of the significance.
If her version of what she had overheard was correct, and he had no doubt that in substance it was so, then a situation had arisen which concerned every member of the Cloade family closely. The person most fitted to deal with this was clearly Rowley's Uncle Jeremy. As a solicitor, Jeremy Cloade would know what use could best be made of this surprising information, and exactly what steps to take.
Though Rowley would have liked to take action himself, he realised rather grudgingly that it would be far better to lay the matter before a shrewd and experienced lawyer. The sooner Jeremy was in possession of this information the better, and accordingly Rowley bent his footsteps straight to Jeremy's house in the High Street.
The little maid who opened the door informed him that Mr and Mrs Cloade were still at the dinner table. She would have shown him in there, but Rowley negatived this and said he would wait in Jeremy's study till they had finished. He did not particularly want to include Frances in the colloquy. Indeed the fewer people who knew about it the better, until they should have determined on a definite course of action.
He wandered restlessly up and down Jeremy's study. On the flat-topped desk was a tin dispatch box labelled Sir William Jessamy Deceased. The shelves held a collection of legal tomes. There was an old photograph of Frances in evening dress and one of her father, Lord Edward Trenton, in riding kit. On the desk was the picture of a young man in uniform - Jeremy's son Antony, killed in the war.
Rowley winced and turned away. He sat down in a chair and stared at Lord Edward Trenton instead.
In the dining-room Frances said to her husband:
“I wonder what Rowley wants?”
Jeremy said wearily:
“Probably fallen foul of some Government regulation. No farmer understands more than a quarter of these forms they have to fill up. Rowley's a conscientious fellow. He gets worried.”
“He's nice,” said Frances, “but terribly slow. I have a feeling, you know, that things aren't going too well between him and Lynn.”
Jeremy murmured vacantly:
“Lynn - oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, I - I don't seem able to concentrate. The strain -”
Frances said swiftly:
“Don't think about it. It's going to be all right, I tell you.”
“You frighten me sometimes, Frances. You're so terribly reckless. You don't realise -”
“I realise everything. I'm not afraid. Really, you know, Jeremy, I'm rather enjoying myself -”
“That, my dear,” said Jeremy, “is just what causes me such anxiety.”
She smiled.
“Come,” she said. “You mustn't keep that bucolic young man waiting too long. Go and help him to fill up form eleven hundred and ninety-nine, or whatever it is.”
But as they came out of the dining-room the front door banged shut. Edna came to tell them that Mr Rowley had said he wouldn't wait and that it was nothing that really mattered.
Taken at the Flood
Chapter
“And so you see, Mr Rowley, I couldn't help hearing what was going on. Really, you could have knocked me over with a feather -”
A pretty substantial feather, thought Rowley, would be needed.
He listened, with an impassive, almost bovine face, to Beatrice's succinct account of the conversation she had overheard.
When she had finished, she waited expectantly.
It was fully a couple of minutes before Rowley came out of his trance. Then he got up.
“Thanks, Beatrice,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
And with that he went straight out of the room. Beatrice felt somewhat deflated. She really did think, she said to herself, that Mr Rowley might have said something.
Taken at the Flood
Chapter 12
When Rowley left the Stag his steps turned automatically in the direction of home, but after walking a few hundred yards, he pulled up short and retraced his steps.
His mind took things in slowly and his first astonishment over Beatrice's revelations was only now beginning to give way to a true appreciation of the significance.
If her version of what she had overheard was correct, and he had no doubt that in substance it was so, then a situation had arisen which concerned every member of the Cloade family closely. The person most fitted to deal with this was clearly Rowley's Uncle Jeremy. As a solicitor, Jeremy Cloade would know what use could best be made of this surprising information, and exactly what steps to take.
Though Rowley would have liked to take action himself, he realised rather grudgingly that it would be far better to lay the matter before a shrewd and experienced lawyer. The sooner Jeremy was in possession of this information the better, and accordingly Rowley bent his footsteps straight to Jeremy's house in the High Street.
The little maid who opened the door informed him that Mr and Mrs Cloade were still at the dinner table. She would have shown him in there, but Rowley negatived this and said he would wait in Jeremy's study till they had finished. He did not particularly want to include Frances in the colloquy. Indeed the fewer people who knew about it the better, until they should have determined on a definite course of action.
He wandered restlessly up and down Jeremy's study. On the flat-topped desk was a tin dispatch box labelled Sir William Jessamy Deceased. The shelves held a collection of legal tomes. There was an old photograph of Frances in evening dress and one of her father, Lord Edward Trenton, in riding kit. On the desk was the picture of a young man in uniform - Jeremy's son Antony, killed in the war.
Rowley winced and turned away. He sat down in a chair and stared at Lord Edward Trenton instead.
In the dining-room Frances said to her husband:
“I wonder what Rowley wants?”
Jeremy said wearily:
“Probably fallen foul of some Government regulation. No farmer understands more than a quarter of these forms they have to fill up. Rowley's a conscientious fellow. He gets worried.”
“He's nice,” said Frances, “but terribly slow. I have a feeling, you know, that things aren't going too well between him and Lynn.”
Jeremy murmured vacantly:
“Lynn - oh, yes, of course. Forgive me, I - I don't seem able to concentrate. The strain -”
Frances said swiftly:
“Don't think about it. It's going to be all right, I tell you.”
“You frighten me sometimes, Frances. You're so terribly reckless. You don't realise -”
“I realise everything. I'm not afraid. Really, you know, Jeremy, I'm rather enjoying myself -”
“That, my dear,” said Jeremy, “is just what causes me such anxiety.”
She smiled.
“Come,” she said. “You mustn't keep that bucolic young man waiting too long. Go and help him to fill up form eleven hundred and ninety-nine, or whatever it is.”
But as they came out of the dining-room the front door banged shut. Edna came to tell them that Mr Rowley had said he wouldn't wait and that it was nothing that really mattered.
Taken at the Flood
Chapter
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