Uncharted Seas

by Emilie Loring

  “Yes. I suspected it the day she arrived. Something in her make-up. I slipped up on Sharp. I had tried to be fratty with him for his own safety, offered him a drink to test him. I ’phoned him about fifteen minutes before he was shanghaied to make sure he was at the stables. Felt sure he was safe. I should have stuck by him. I’ll be pleased purple to take you on as assistant any time you’re looking for a job, Miss Duval.”

  “Thank you. Good-bye and good luck, Mr. Huckins; I won’t forget your offer.”

  Sandra listened to the diminishing sound of his footsteps; his tread wasn’t so catlike now. A week had passed since Race Day, a tragic week. It seemed as if she could still smell the funeral flowers. They had come by the truckload, mostly in designs of horseshoes, saddles, trophies, jockey cap; they had crowded the lower floor. She shook off the memory.

  Philippe Rousseau had left Seven Chimneys a few hours after his deception had been discovered. Had Nick let him off without punishment? He had come to her to say good-bye. She had wanted to tell him that she had liked him, that it had hurt when she had found that he was a common imposter, but he had been so full of self-pity, of hatred of Nicholas Hoyt, of fury that he had been suspected of “pulling a dirty trick” in the turf world, that she had merely stood looking at him in amazement at his sense of values. To him impersonating a dead boy was an adventure, kidnaping a jockey was a crime.

  He had taken punctiliously polite, if slightly theatrical, leave of her. He had not told her that he loved her. Was Emma responsible for that omission? In the moment of parting she had liked him again; it was as if she had a sudden understanding of his weakness, his worse than fatherless boyhood, his wild youth.

  How much had happened since she had first entered this room not so many weeks ago! It looked exactly as it had then. The studio window framed by the gold of mimosa trees. Choice furniture. Touches of luscious orange-pink in the rug. Little licking flames reflected in the ebony and silver tea service. She restlessly crossed to the window. Shriveled blossoms in the garden. Great scarlet medicine balls on the breeze-ruffled surface of the azure-lined pool. A cold autumn sky. Wind in the clouds. White frills on the river.

  Her eyes rested on the worn violin case on the piano. She had liked Curtis Newsome; he had been a real person. Her lashes were wet as Jed Langdon entered the room.

  “Why the tears, Sandra? The rightful heir is in the saddle, yo ho! And the Peerless Pretender is trekking south.”

  “I had been thinking of the changes here. Have you found out who kidnaped Eddie Sharp?”

  “I still think Philippe Rousseau was back of it.”

  “He was so furiously angry when he was accused that I can’t believe he was acting.”

  “I know, there never has been a breath against him on the turf—but he needed money. Being a rightful heir is expensive. Well, that fight is all washed up now. We didn’t rely wholly on Anne Pardoe’s last letter; Nick insisted that the experts should pass on the diary. They went at it with their magic microscopes, proved by the handwriting, by the watermark, which was of a much later date than the paper on which the rest of the journal was written, that the pages which contained her alleged confession were forged. The letters that Emma person planted in the secret drawer were forgeries too. Boy, Rousseau had the nerve to try to put that stuff across these days!”

  “I haven’t recovered yet from the discovery that Huckins, whom I suspected was a racketeer on location, was really a plain-clothes man.”

  “And Nick hired him on the job! I didn’t know it. B.D. didn’t know it. I was red-hot when I found he had held out on his attorney, but he was right when he insisted that every person who shares a secret makes it so much less a secret. Huckins—to use his alias—had been employed by Mark Hoyt years before to follow up Raoul Rousseau. When Philippe set out to claim the estate, Nick sent for him, got him the job here. Luckily I’m a better lawyer—I hope—than a sleuth. The real heir is a great boy. And don’t people know it! I’ve been staying at Stone House this week. I’ve been on the jump answering the ’phone, congratulations and invitations for Nick, slews of them.”

  “All from ladies.”

  He looked at her quickly. “What has Nick done to you, Sandra?”

  “Nothing. I—I just am not interested in him.”

  Peter denying his Master. Why should that irrelevant thought flit through her mind? She had to be flippant to keep from being bitter. A week had passed since she had found the letter for Nicholas Hoyt, and he had not tried to see her once. Had he been so busy answering ’phone calls that he couldn’t come, or was he afraid that she had taken his invitation to drive to the ball—immediately withdrawn—his offer of the diamond and emerald clip to mean something which it didn’t?

  She had an instant’s temptation to unload her heart of its ache. Jed was sympathetic. Would he understand? She shut her teeth into her lip. Selfish! Wouldn’t Jimmy Duval say:

  “It should be ‘spare ye’ one another burdens, instead of ‘Share ye,’ Sandy.”

  She said hurriedly, as if she feared that her thought might flash across space to him:

  “Do you know that Mrs. Pat is leaving here?”

  “Leaving! Why? What becomes of you?”

  “Out of a job. I’ll strike my tents, be once more on the march. That’s been said before, but it’s still good. I’m off on the next train for town, with an offer from our late butler to be his first assistant, an extra month’s salary in my pocket and a new beret on my head.”

  “That-a-girl! The sparkle’s back in your voice. If only Nick weren’t ahead of me … Here he is! Nicholas Hoyt in person! I’ll be seeing you in town, Sandra.” He raised her hand to his lips in Philippe Rousseau’s most ardent manner. With a sigh which shook him from head to foot, he vanished into the library. Sandra’s eyes shone with laughter. Jed was a dear. She glanced at Nicholas Hoyt in the doorway. Did he see the humor of his imitation? Evidently not. Even his lips were colorless as he asserted:

  “So Langdon’s in love with you too?”

  In spite of the band which seemed tightening about her heart, Sandra retorted lightly:

  “Now that Philippe has gone, it would be wonderful to have someone like me.”

  “Like you! Why shut me out?”

  “You!” All the heartache, the strain, the disappointment of this last week, when she had hoped and longed for him to come to her, surged in her voice. “You have not been interested enough to ask where I found that precious letter! When I think of the way I raced to Stone House, sneaked behind the panel—I—I might had died there! A lot you would have cared so long as you had your fortune. You let me tear myself to pieces—”

  “You’re tearing me to pieces.” He caught her and kissed her roughly on the mouth. “Sandra …”

  She twisted free. “How—how …” Her laugh tightened his lips, darkened his eyes. “I almost said ‘dare.’ Good old melodrama. Do you know, if I had to have one of you kiss me, I would much prefer Philippe. He may have had his faults, but at least he knew how to make a girl like him.”

  She caught the back of a chair to steady her trembling body. His kiss had shaken her very soul. How could she have flared at him like that? Why ask? Hadn’t the sight of Estelle snuggling against him loosed a primitive self she had not known was in her? Estelle. She seemed a mere shade back in the dark ages.

  The man looking down at her was not the friendly Nicholas Hoyt of the last two weeks; he was the trainer with the inflexible mouth, burning eyes, voice which pelted like icy hail.

  “And you think I don’t know how to make a girl like me? In case you care …”

  “Oh, here you are, Nick. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Mrs. Newsome spoke from the threshold. Her deep mourning accentuated the grayness of her face, the tragedy in her eyes. “Don’t go, Sandra. Close the door, Nick—the doors to the library too. This house has a hundred ears and a million eyes. The servants don’t like me any better than they ever did.”

  “If this is a family conference, plea
se excuse me, Mrs. Pat. I don’t belong here.”

  “Nick may have views as to that. I want you to hear what I have to say, Sandra.”

  Nicholas drew forward the wing chair. “Sit down, Pat. You are shaking. Take your time. Remember, there is nothing you need tell me unless it will make you happier to get it off your mind.”

  “Happier! What’s happiness? You think you have it and it’s gone. Life is brutally cruel.”

  From behind her chair Nicholas Hoyt laid a tender hand on her shoulder. Was he standing there that he might not see the anguish of her face? It twisted Sandra’s heart unbearably.

  “Life itself isn’t cruel, Pat.” No ice in his voice now; it was protectingly gentle. “There are cruel hours, perhaps days, sometimes months, but there are radiant spots in between—otherwise we couldn’t bear it. Go on, let’s get this over.”

  Mrs. Newsome clenched her large, capable hands on her knees. She stared at the fire. “I told you, Nick, that I was leaving Seven Chimneys.”

  “But you are coming back. This is your home.”

  “Never!” She sprang to her feet as if inaction were unendurable. “I’m never coming back. This house is a nettle scraping my raw heart. I suffered the tortures of the damned here—seeing Curt—getting to—to—hate me. Don’t stop me, Nick! I’ve got to talk! I can’t live with this thing on my mind! I had Sharp kidnaped the night before the race.”

  “Mrs. Pat!” The horrified exclamation escaped Sandra’s lips before she knew she had spoken. Mrs. Pat had worked with Philippe? Incredible!

  “Swear at me, Nick, it will ease my mind. Do you know why I did it? To force Curt to ride for you. Hadn’t Estelle said she had no use for a professional jockey? I thought if he rode she would turn him down. He was always crazy about you and I counted upon his helping you. I fooled myself into thinking that the results of the race would be the same with either Sharp or Curt up, that the public betting on the horses would not be cheated. The rider in this case didn’t make any difference—say that you think it didn’t, Nick!”

  “I am sure it didn’t, Pat. Fortune would have won in either case.”

  “That makes it easier. I’ll tell you how it was done.”

  “Don’t! I know.”

  “You know! How?”

  “Mac Donovan has been limping since Race Day. Sharp kicked the man who kidnaped him. The Donovans did a good job with their falsetto voice, fake mustaches, and slouch hats—but—they should have tied the jock’s feet first. They are new at the racketeer business. Huckins found out. He was my man.”

  “I thought he was a rotten butler.” Mrs. Newsome’s voice was more normal than Sandra had heard it since the tragedy of the race track. “I’ve been almost out of my mind with regret, thinking how Curt would despise me if he knew.”

  She brushed her hand across her eyes. “I’m through with horses forever. The stables, everything at Seven Chimneys go back to you, Nick. Mac and Sam Donovan will stay until you get their successors. Don’t be too hard on them. They—they tried to help me.”

  “I’ll be glad to keep them, Pat.”

  “I’m sorry I took Rousseau in. I started something when I let him come. Everything broke into pieces like one of Curt’s puzzles and now—now the scraps have been put together in a different picture. It was giving you a mean break, Nick, but—well, I wanted to hurt you. That’s over too. Old Damon told me that you sent Rousseau off with a cheque big enough to pay his lawyer’s bill and to make a fresh start. Why did you help the fake heir?”

  “I owed him that for accusing him of having shanghaied Sharp.”

  “You needn’t go so red, Nick. Any one, who knows you, knows you’d do a thing like that. I’m leaving tonight. Decided this morning. What would a lone woman in the fattening forties do with this big house? Think I’ll spend my income running it, and the rest of my life fighting with servants? Not a chance! Bridie will pack my things and send them after me. I can’t stand this place and its memories another day!”

  She gripped Nicholas Hoyt’s arm. “Nick—Nick—Curt’s fall was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure, Pat. Something—something broke and—and he pitched over Fortune’s head.”

  Mrs. Newsome’s drooping mouth trembled; tragic skepticism hardened her eyes. She shrugged her heavy shoulders.

  “Something broke in equipment belonging to you? That’s a joke. Trying to let me down easy. I get you. Curt’s heart broke. Good-bye, Sandra. I’m giving you a raw deal to send you off on such short notice, but I can’t stay another hour. No, don’t come with me; I’d rather be alone. The chauffeur has orders to take you to your train.”

  Sandra listened to her heavy footsteps along the tiled hall. Instinctively she looked at Nicholas Hoyt. He smiled.

  “Blink those tears out of your eyes, beautiful. She’ll come through. In a year she will have another stable—she can’t keep away from it—and she’ll be happy again. Now you will listen to me. Nicholas Hoyt announcing. Do you think I wasn’t almost off my head when Bridie told me that you were missing? Ask her. Do you think I haven’t been mad to get to you this last week? I’ve been kept away. Haven’t had five consecutive minutes to myself. I had so much to say that couldn’t be said in the fog of tragedy which has been hanging over this house. Are you listening? Look at me. Don’t stand there as if poised to fly. Come back by the fire.”

  “But the car will be here—”

  “You’re not going by train. I’m driving you to town—in case you care.”

  “Oh, king, permit thy servant to pack her bag?”

  Flippancy camouflaging emotional ecstasy. That “beautiful” had set Sandra’s pulses racing. If she hadn’t laughed, she might have cried. Nicholas caught her shoulders.

  “You and I have been playing at cross-purposes long enough. You know I love you, don’t you? You know that I’ve been almost out of my mind with jealousy of Rousseau, don’t you? You wouldn’t rather have him kiss you, would you? Remember that you told me once that you’d better marry me?”

  “I! When?”

  “That night at Stone House when you were hurt. You thought it was—was someone else who held you in his arms, but it was I—it was I who kissed you.”

  Sandra glanced down at the hands gripping hers, looked up.

  “So it was you all the time! You know—I love you, don’t you …”

  Somewhere a clock struck. Sandra withdrew one arm from about Nicholas’ neck to hold him off the fraction of an inch. Her eyes fell before the eyes looking down at her.

  “If we are going to town, we really ought to start, Nick.”

  He caught her close again. “Believe in me now?”

  “Yes, and—and like it.” Laughter rippled her voice as she reminded:

  “We were about starting for town, weren’t we?”

  “We were—we are. Come on!” Nicholas kept his arm about her as they crossed the tiled hall. At the foot of the stairs he stopped.

  “How soon will you come back to stay? This is a big house for a lone man.”

  “How soon do you want me?”

  “How soon!” He caught her up in his arms, kissed her throat, her eyes, her lips. With his cheek against her hair, he admitted huskily:

  “That’s how soon I want you! Say, ‘I, Cassandra, take thee, Nicholas …’ ”

  With her eyes on his, Sandra repeated unsteadily:

  “ ‘I, Cassandra, take thee, Nicholas …’ ”

  Abruptly he set her on her feet. He cleared his voice. “That will do for now!”

 

 

 
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