Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  “You are well able to afford some pretty things,” she said firmly, “and you will repay me when your affairs are settled. You will feel very much better when you are becomingly dressed. I shall not put you to the expense of a vast quantity of gowns, because your supposed naughtiness will furnish me with an excuse for not taking you about in local society. We don’t entertain a great deal ourselves. Oliver finds large parties wearisome, while as for Dominic, I have only to suggest any kind of party and he promptly vanishes on one of his painting expeditions. So we shall be able to keep you close without attracting any particular notice.”

  Which was all very well as a temporary measure, thought the slightly dazed ‘Jan’ when her kind hostess at last hurried off on her mission. But one could not lie hid for the better part of a year. She was fortunate to have fallen in with such kindly folk, but she could not possibly be such a charge on them. It was not just a question of money, though that was quite sufficiently embarrassing. It would be very wrong to expect strangers to devote their time and attention to her troubles. For tonight she would accept their generous hospitality, but there it must stop. By tomorrow she would be sufficiently restored to face her problems herself.

  But when she joined the family for dinner that night, charmingly attired in a dress of amethyst-hued watered silk that was, she suspected, as expensive as it was becoming, she soon discovered that her new friends had quite other ideas. They dined very simply, and as soon as the servants had brought in the second course they were dismissed so that conversation could flow freely. Both gentlemen were full of ingenious schemes for keeping their young guest well hidden. These ranged from sending her on a feminine version of the grand tour to employing her as governess companion to their young cousin Helena, at present an unwilling pupil in a select seminary in Kensington.

  Their mama listened indulgently, occasionally pointing out some circumstance that rendered a particular scheme ineligible, and presently announced firmly that this was all very entertaining but that she could see no reason why ‘Jan’ should not remain exactly where she was for the duration of her own visit. “I shall be very glad of feminine society,” she said, smiling at Chantal, “and since we live so retired it should be quite safe. When I go back to Town it will be a little more difficult. I think, then, it would be best for her to go to Dorne.”

  There was a short silence as the brothers considered this suggestion. Oliver nodded thoughtfully. Dominic said, “That’s quite a sound notion, Mama, in some ways. Certainly I cannot call to mind any place that offers greater privacy, and I don’t suppose Aunt Celia would mind. But Dorne is very isolated. If Lady – if ‘Janet’s’ family did succeed in tracing her, it would be the simplest thing in the world for them to abduct her, and it could be days before we knew anything about it.”

  “I was not suggesting that she should go alone,” said his mama placidly. “She must be carefully guarded. Since it is two years since any of us were at Dorne, it would be a very suitable opportunity for you to visit Aunt Celia and assure yourself that she goes on comfortably. Murdoch is a very reliable steward but it is advisable for one of the family to look into matters from time to time. Oliver might like to go with you. The change of scene would be good for him – you were always very well at Dorne when you were a small boy,” she smiled tenderly at her elder son, “and it would give Aunt Celia great pleasure to have you with her again.”

  Chantal, glancing from face to face, noted the amused interest in Oliver’s, the demure innocence of his mother’s. Dominic’s frown was only what she had expected. Naturally he would not want to spend his summer playing watch-dog to a foolish female who had already wasted far too much of his time. It was surprising, then, that before she could find words to reject the whole scheme, though with becoming gratitude, he should say, “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be managed. Would you care for it, Noll? The journey might be tedious, but the roads should be reasonable in June, and we needn’t hurry ourselves: What do you say?”

  “Rather, what does Lady Chantal say,” returned Oliver. “I’m sorry, Mama. Jan, then. Though it is not near so pretty, besides seeming deuced familiar on such short acquaintance. It is asking a good deal, you know, to invite her to entrust herself to two strange gentlemen and their Aunt Celia who, darling though she is, is also, to put it mildly, a little eccentric. To live, moreover, on what amounts to a desert island which can only be reached by boat.”

  “But that’s the best part of it,” interrupted Dominic eagerly. “The island bit. Easy to deny access to strangers. Murdoch dislikes them any way – says they disturb the birds and leave farm gates open. We could fish and sail and swim. I’ve been wanting to make some sketches of Dorne and this would be an ideal opportunity, while you, milord,” he grinned wickedly, “can delve into estate matters with old Murdoch. An excellent scheme, Mama, and far more to my liking than to be spending the best weeks of the summer in Town, trailing from one intolerably dull party to the next” –

  – “in attendance on no one more exciting than your mama,” interrupted that lady with a gurgle of laughter. “My very dear son! Always the essence of courtesy.”

  She turned to Chantal with a shrug of laughing apology. “Will you trust us, my dear? Though there is no need to make up your mind as yet. If the scheme mislikes you we have a whole month in which to devise something else.”

  Chantal smiled back at her. “Indeed I will,” she said simply. “It sounds quite delightful. The more so” – she glanced thoughtfully at Dominic – “since Mr. Merriden finds it appealing in itself and not just a safety measure taken in my interest. But will you not tell me more? Where is Dorne? The name has a familiar ring, yet I cannot exactly recall” –

  There was a gleam of wary amusement in her hostess’s eye. “Dorne?” she said slowly, her gaze turning to Dominic, quizzing him unmercifully, “It is our Scottish home. It is very small and rather inconvenient, being little more than an ancient castle perched on a rock with few modern comforts. My husband’s youngest sister, Celia, lives there. She, too, is an artist, like my heedless son. I think she finds solace for the great loss that wrecked her life – her husband died in the retreat to Corunna – not only in her art, but by dwelling in the romantic past of her ancestors. As Oliver said, she is a darling, and I think you might come to love her dearly, but one is never quite sure which century she is living in, for she speaks of folk long dead as though they were dear familiar daily friends.” She hesitated for a moment, her glance turning from Chantal to Dominic, and back again, then went on resolutely, “But small as it is, Dorne was the first seat of the Merridens, and my husband takes his title from it.”

  So that was it. The careful avoidance of formal introductions; the vague hints that had teased her memory from time to time; the unobtrusive wealth, the very obvious arrogance, all were explained. The Marquess of Dorne. Of course she had heard of him, though Oliver’s tragedy had occurred when she was a mere infant, been forgotten by the time that she made her début. And Dominic – She coloured painfully as she recalled her foolish jibe about a great gentleman incognito. There, at least, he had been sensitive, considerate. Perhaps he had felt some embarrassment. Certainly he had made no parade of consequence.

  At this juncture her hostess put an end to any possible awkwardness by giving the signal for the ladies to withdraw.

  “Not that either of them cares overmuch for their wine,” she confided cheerfully as she led the way to the drawing room, “But it will give my poor Dominic time to recover his countenance. Men are quite idiotish, aren’t they? I guessed, when I heard you address him as Mr. Merriden, that he had boggled at telling you who he was. And it does make things awkward when you are expected to know all about a host of new acquaintances and actually you haven’t an inkling. Pray forgive him. It isn’t conceit, you know.”

  “And I made matters worse,” confessed Chantal, appeased by this sympathetic attitude. “In all the business of pulling me out of the water and awaiting my return to consciousness, it is
scarcely surprising that he had not thought to tell me his name. And I’m afraid that I did not show a proper gratitude for his services. Forgive me, ma’am, but his manners are not conciliatory, and though he did all that was needful for my comfort he made it very plain that I was a pesky nuisance. Since my own temper is not of the meekest, we were soon at outs, and I flung some cheap jibe at him about the behaviour proper to a gentleman which made it impossible for him to admit his rank without sounding like an out and out coxcomb. The confusion was quite as much my fault as his.”

  Her hostess said gently, “That is generous in you. It is never easy for a mother to admit to any fault in her child, however plainly she may see it. But now that the situation is resolved, let us consider your case a little more closely. It is all very well, you know, for you to stay here just now, and I was quite sincere when I said that I would enjoy feminine society. My sons are darlings and I love them dearly, but men are not very conversible, are they? But though you will, I trust, be safe enough here, and pass the summer in similar fashion at Dorne, you cannot lurk in hiding for ever. Something must be done to scotch this absurd rumour about your sanity.” The Marchioness of Dorne was not one to shy at an ill-sounding word. “Yes. I had heard of it. And disbelieved it, my family and yours having been well acquainted for generations past. I knew you only by sight, but your parents I knew well, and there was nothing in your breeding to give substance to such a tale. It must be dealt with legally. The boys may have their romantic notions of defending you and challenging all your enemies. It will amuse them and may serve very well for a time, but it cannot endure. I think you should write to Mr. Dickensen’s partner, explaining the persecution to which you have been subjected and how you have only just learned of the rumours that are being spread. Tell him that you have taken shelter with us for the time being, but insist that no one is to be furnished with your direction on any pretext whatever.”

  Chantal found this sensible suggestion distinctly comforting. And when her hostess went on to speak of her father and of the mother she could not remember she began to feel, as she was meant to feel, that she was with friends of long standing, no longer an intruder or a nuisance. For the first time since her father’s death she found herself speaking freely about him to someone other than Hepsie. She talked of Hepsie, too, and of her concern for the old woman’s fate. “For there are none of the old servants left who were there in my father’s time,” she explained, “though the little maid who waited on us seemed kindly enough.” And at last, drawn out by skilful and sympathetic handling, she spoke of her father’s death and of the manner of it, pouring out all the hideous details that her cousin had told her.

  The marchioness listened to this part of the story with a horrified revulsion that matched Chantal’s own. “I don’t believe it!” she declared stoutly. “Had it been so, some word of it must have been generally known. And there was not so much as a whisper. I believe the whole thing is an invention of your cousin’s, deliberately planned to distress you so that you would shrink from a return to normal living.”

  Chantal looked at her in mingled doubt and hope. “Is there any way we could find out?” she asked. “His death I could accept, for he died as a soldier would wish, in the service of his country. I need not hide it now. The expedition was designed to discover the extent of Russian influence in Afghanistan. My father was invited to join it because he knew the country well, having served in India for many years under Lord Wellesley. He explained this to me himself. It is only the thought that he might have suffered so horribly that I find unendurable.”

  “Those who planned the expedition must know the truth. They may be reluctant to admit responsibility openly but I am sure it should be possible to set your mind at rest. I shall write to my husband and see what he can discover for us. But here come our tardy gentlemen – after I gave them such good characters, too. I’m ashamed of you both – succumbing to the lure of the grape when we have such a charming visitor.”

  “No such thing, Mama,” defended Dominic promptly, as he steered the wheelchair over to the hearth where the two ladies were sitting. “In fact we have been engaged in the service of that same guest. We have been in the library studying the best route for our journey north. I trust that you have succeeded in persuading her that Dorne will be a secure refuge.”

  “Oh, she has no doubts about that,” announced his mother. “But we had best warn the poor child exactly what she is in for before she commits herself to the venture. Do you take her to the library, my dear, and show her Celia’s sketches of the place and such maps as we possess, while I enjoy a comfortable cose with Oliver.”

  Oliver twinkled down at her as the door closed behind his brother. “Don’t overplay your hand, Mama,” he cautioned. “That was a little too obvious.”

  “I’m afraid it was,” she agreed guiltily. “But I was so pleased. She is the first girl to whom Dominic has paid any attention since you were hurt.”

  “I daresay. But his attentions are not of an amatory nature, you know. Which is perhaps as well. Her reputation scarcely recommends her as a possible bride for him – not, certainly, in my father’s eyes. If one believes even half the tales that are told of her, she is wickedly extravagant and wild to a fault.”

  “That I do not believe. Why! She would have chided me for extravagance in my buying if gratitude and good breeding had not forbade. As to her outrageous exploits – at least they were never sordid not underhanded. And no man’s name was ever coupled with hers. But if she succeeds only in curing Dominic of his warped distrust of women, I shall be more than satisfied. She does not have to marry him,” she conceded kindly.

  Oliver laughed outright. “That, too, is perhaps fortunate. She is very lovely, which would probably appeal to his artist’s eye, but if I’m any judge she has a will of her own and a temper, too. That would never do for Nick, who is fiery enough for two. I should think something clinging and sweetly docile would be more to his taste.”

  His mother eyed him thoughtfully. “You may be right,” she said gently. “At least we shall have all summer in which to find out.”

  Chapter Four

  “Jan tells me that this is yours,” said the marchioness, handing Dominic a neatly folded crimson silk wrapper.

  He took it from her, frowning. “Do we have to call her by that absurd name?” he said abruptly. “Surely there is no one here to carry tales to her cousin. It makes me feel like a stage conspirator. I shall never remember.”

  “Which is why you must practise now, where there is no one to carry tales. Think of the long journey north. You must lie overnight at half a dozen different inns, as well as stopping to change horses and to refresh yourselves at twice as many more. A name so unusual, carelessly dropped, could betray you all. Some curious fellow traveller has only to mention to his acquaintance that he met the Marquess of Dorne’s sons escorting a Lady Chantal something or other on a journey north, and there is an end of your fine plan. At the moment I am more interested in this exotic garment. I do not think I am, in general, a prying parent, but for once I confess to a certain degree of curiosity.”

  Her son eyed the incriminating garment blandly. “That? Oh – I rather think Kate must have left it behind. Or was it Lucy? Yes it looks more Lucy’s style. It was fortunate that I had it by me, wasn’t it?”

  His parent regarded him severely. “You may gammon Oliver with your taradiddles,” she informed him with regrettable vulgarity, “but don’t try to come that game on me. I know you too well. Would you care to tell me the truth, or am I to believe that you bought this exceedingly feminine garment for your own use?”

  He laughed and hugged her. “Very well, Mama, but I’m afraid you won’t like the truth any better than my taradiddles. I bought it for the colour.”

  She tapped her foot impatiently. He said carefully; “It is a very difficult colour to paint, and I wanted to get it absolutely right, which can only be done if you have the actual fabric before you.”

  “Do you reall
y expect me to believe that you meant to paint a picture of a dressing gown?”

  “Well no. There is a little more to it than that,” he admitted. “Do you remember last summer, when Aunt Arabella was for ever teasing me to paint Helena’s portrait? I consented at last for the sake of peace.” His lips twitched slightly but he went on solemnly enough, “I had it in mind to paint her as a Spanish gipsy. A Catalan, I thought. They are very picturesque, you know, and Helena’s colouring would have lent itself admirably to such a personification. Unfortunately the wretched child took the measles, so the whole scheme came to nothing. But I kept the wrapper in case Aunt Arabella had thoughts of reviving it.”