The Ivy Tree by Mary Stewart

ever started.’
    She gave me a glance I couldn’t interpret. ‘Can’t you? With Con so handsome, and Annabel, from what I hear—’ an infinitesimal pause. ‘She was very young, after all. I suppose it was one of those short, wild affairs that can blow themselves out as violently as they start. She’d never let on in public that she cared for him. No one knew – though people must have guessed, I suppose. But it seems she was never prepared to settle down, not with Con. And when this happened, and she blamed Con, and said that she still wouldn’t marry him, she could never live with him, and now one of them would have to leave the place . . . well, Con had had a shock, too, and he’s terribly hot tempered, like all the Winslows, so I gather that the scene just went from bad to worse. Eventually she broke away from him, and ran home, shouting that she’d tell Mr Winslow everything, that it was all Con’s fault, and that she’d see he was thrown out.’
    â€˜But, in fact, she didn’t tell Mr Winslow “everything”.’
    â€˜No. Her nerve must have failed her when it came to the point. It seems that all she did was cry, and rage about Con, and say he must be sent away; and because Mr Winslow wanted her to marry Con anyway, all he would do was tell her not to be a fool, and that the sooner she made it up with Con the better. I think he suspected, even then, that Con was her lover. That’s all I know.’ Her hands moved on her lap in a little soothing movement, as if wiping something away. ‘And all I want to know, I must admit. But I think it’s enough, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Quite enough.’ I sat looking down at the table in front of me. I was thinking: ‘And I know, too. Something you don’t. Something Con never told you. I know just what did happen that night, in the dark, above the edge of the deep river . . .’ I remembered Con’s face, and the smooth voice saying: ‘ It doesn’t necessarily have to be midnight, does it, when you and I go walking at the edge of a cliff with water at the bottom? Remember? ’ I remembered the look in his eyes as he spoke, and the poison-bubbles of fear pricking in my blood; and I wondered how Con would equate that with the story he had told Lisa and Mr Winslow.
    I looked across at Lisa, who was watching her hands. Yes, for her it was enough. Whatever Con had done, Lisa would accept it, shutting her eyes. Even if there had been no subsequent letter from New York, to show that the girl was still alive after she vanished from Whitescar, Lisa would still not want to know more.
    The silence drew out, while I watched the flickering of the flames in the grate. A coal fell in with a dry, crumbling sound. A rocket of yellow flame shot up past it with a hiss, and died.
    â€˜That was all?’ I said at length.
    â€˜Yes. People talked, but it’s forgotten now, and nobody ever actually knew anything. Only Con and Mr Winslow. Con never even told me, till now.’
    â€˜I see.’ I straightened up, saying briskly: ‘Well, that’s that, as far as it goes. All right, Lisa, I’ll play; but on my own terms.’
    â€˜Which are?’
    â€˜The obvious ones. I’ll accept everything, except this last thing; and that, I’ll deny.’
    â€˜But – you can’t do that!’
    â€˜Meaning because it might make Con look a fool? All right, you tell me, where’s the baby?’
    â€˜Dead. Stillborn. Adopted. We can easily invent—’
    â€˜No.’ At my tone, I saw her eyes flicker, and that wary look come into her face. I said slowly: ‘Lisa, I’ve said I’ll go the whole way with you and Con. But I can’t, and won’t, take this. I’m not going to invent for myself the sort of tragedy that – that’s totally outside my experience. Apart from everything else, it would be too