her.
“What do you mean, little green duck?” he asked.
She looked at him squarely. This thing had to be said, she thought.
“There are six rooms and a kitchen in this house,” she told him.
“We will want two of the six,” he told her back. “I said that. I said ‘without obligation.’ Now do you understand?”
“N — not quite.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s hard to.”
“Tell me all the same.”
“For — for how long?”
He shrugged carelessly, almost uninterestedly. “Since you’re so determined I’ll make a deal with you. That fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” she nodded.
“All right, then—until you say.”
“Very well,” she nodded. “I—I hope you don’t mind all this, but it had to be said.”
“Any more has-to-be-saids?”
“No, Nor.”
“No change of mind—I can scarcely say change of heart, can I?”
“No, Nor.”
“Then I’ll go down to Ridge. I’ll tell you what’s doing when I come back.”
She was in her bed when he came back. Mrs. Jessopp was already bedded along the corridor. Laurel could hear the deep breathing.
He did not come in. He stood outside and called in a soft voice.
“Asleep?”
“No.”
“Still no change of mind?”
“No.”
“Good. The Island would be disappointed. First wedding in Humpback history, I believe. All the rest of the Larsens were tied up on the coast.”
“When?” breathed Laurel unevenly.
“Tomorrow,” Nor said.
CHAPTER NINE
GOLD!
It was in the sky on Laurel’s wedding morning. It edged the little pink clouds, it was a dreamy haze over the hills, it was on the buttercups sprung up already on the banks of the left-over rain puddles. Some time in the night the storm had slammed away, and now it was a shining golden day. There was even gold in Laurel’s red hair as she brushed it hard, glancing downward every now and then at the circlet of pink frangipani that Mrs. Jessopp had arranged for her to wear round her head.
When Nor had questioned her as to what she would wear for their marriage she had said, “I have a good white blouse, and my suit is nearly new.”
The brows, salt-bleached like his hair, had met above the sailor blue eyes.
“Surely you have something more festive than those in all that vast baggage you fetched along.”
“I fetched nearly all cold weather things. You warned me not to expect a coral atoll, remember?” She had laughed more to herself. “Even neck-to-ankle pyjamas, cosy flannel. What a strange trousseau!”
He had ignored that. “You must have some sort of social dress,” he persisted.
“A pink ballerina.”
“It will do.”
“But my blouse and skirt—”
“This is a wedding, not a shopping tour. I want you to carry a bouquet, wear flowers in your hair, as far as possible at such short notice I don’t want the women deprived of one moment of glamour, understand?”
“But—”
“That’s what I want,” he had ordered, and had stamped out.
Laurel was reminded of Mrs. Reed and how she had said of this man that even as a little boy he would get something set in his mind and never let go of it.
She had gone to the trunk and taken out the ballerina dress. It was the one and only pink for her ripe hair, pale yet rosy somehow, warm, glowing, like the warm glow of a pearl. She shook it out.
She had brought the shoes to match. Gloves would not matter, she thought. The frock had tiny cap sleeves and a voluminous skirt.
When Mrs. Jessopp saw it she called aloud in admiration, and in that instant Laurel could see why Nor was so anxious that these women were not “deprived,” as he had said, of one moment of what women hold dear.
“It’s lovely. You must wear a wreath of frangipani. Myra Jensen has a pink bush. And you must carry a spray as well.”
Mrs. Jessopp touched the frock reverently.
“All the women are working on the reception,” she beamed.
“That’s very good of them”
“They’re loving it. There hasn’t ever been anything like this
“What do you mean, little green duck?” he asked.
She looked at him squarely. This thing had to be said, she thought.
“There are six rooms and a kitchen in this house,” she told him.
“We will want two of the six,” he told her back. “I said that. I said ‘without obligation.’ Now do you understand?”
“N — not quite.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s hard to.”
“Tell me all the same.”
“For — for how long?”
He shrugged carelessly, almost uninterestedly. “Since you’re so determined I’ll make a deal with you. That fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” she nodded.
“All right, then—until you say.”
“Very well,” she nodded. “I—I hope you don’t mind all this, but it had to be said.”
“Any more has-to-be-saids?”
“No, Nor.”
“No change of mind—I can scarcely say change of heart, can I?”
“No, Nor.”
“Then I’ll go down to Ridge. I’ll tell you what’s doing when I come back.”
She was in her bed when he came back. Mrs. Jessopp was already bedded along the corridor. Laurel could hear the deep breathing.
He did not come in. He stood outside and called in a soft voice.
“Asleep?”
“No.”
“Still no change of mind?”
“No.”
“Good. The Island would be disappointed. First wedding in Humpback history, I believe. All the rest of the Larsens were tied up on the coast.”
“When?” breathed Laurel unevenly.
“Tomorrow,” Nor said.
CHAPTER NINE
GOLD!
It was in the sky on Laurel’s wedding morning. It edged the little pink clouds, it was a dreamy haze over the hills, it was on the buttercups sprung up already on the banks of the left-over rain puddles. Some time in the night the storm had slammed away, and now it was a shining golden day. There was even gold in Laurel’s red hair as she brushed it hard, glancing downward every now and then at the circlet of pink frangipani that Mrs. Jessopp had arranged for her to wear round her head.
When Nor had questioned her as to what she would wear for their marriage she had said, “I have a good white blouse, and my suit is nearly new.”
The brows, salt-bleached like his hair, had met above the sailor blue eyes.
“Surely you have something more festive than those in all that vast baggage you fetched along.”
“I fetched nearly all cold weather things. You warned me not to expect a coral atoll, remember?” She had laughed more to herself. “Even neck-to-ankle pyjamas, cosy flannel. What a strange trousseau!”
He had ignored that. “You must have some sort of social dress,” he persisted.
“A pink ballerina.”
“It will do.”
“But my blouse and skirt—”
“This is a wedding, not a shopping tour. I want you to carry a bouquet, wear flowers in your hair, as far as possible at such short notice I don’t want the women deprived of one moment of glamour, understand?”
“But—”
“That’s what I want,” he had ordered, and had stamped out.
Laurel was reminded of Mrs. Reed and how she had said of this man that even as a little boy he would get something set in his mind and never let go of it.
She had gone to the trunk and taken out the ballerina dress. It was the one and only pink for her ripe hair, pale yet rosy somehow, warm, glowing, like the warm glow of a pearl. She shook it out.
She had brought the shoes to match. Gloves would not matter, she thought. The frock had tiny cap sleeves and a voluminous skirt.
When Mrs. Jessopp saw it she called aloud in admiration, and in that instant Laurel could see why Nor was so anxious that these women were not “deprived,” as he had said, of one moment of what women hold dear.
“It’s lovely. You must wear a wreath of frangipani. Myra Jensen has a pink bush. And you must carry a spray as well.”
Mrs. Jessopp touched the frock reverently.
“All the women are working on the reception,” she beamed.
“That’s very good of them”
“They’re loving it. There hasn’t ever been anything like this
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