by Pamela Kent
It was one thing to admire horseflesh, and to look on while others performed equestrian feats, but it was quite another to know that in a very short while she would be in the saddle herself—or assisted to the saddle! How long she would remain there she had no idea, for there seemed to be little or no resemblance between the mounts provided by the Zor Oasis and the infinitely tamer specimens she had seen cantering in Rotten Row.
Not if the mounts Ayse and Raoul liked to feel between their knees were anything at all to go by.
But one thing she had made up her mind about, and that was that even if it caused her a broken neck she was not going to back out. Mehmet Bey had described her as “very English,” and she was sufficiently English to be determined to go through with a thing to the bitter end.
She was prepared, when she joined Mehmet Bey in front of the stables, to see him look at her with that mocking, depreciating look of the night before, but instead, he barely glanced at her when she crossed the open space, in Ayse’s jodhpurs, and with one of her own thin silk blouses making the most of her slender proportions. He was preoccupied with one of the grooms, and they both appeared to be lavishing admiration on a dainty little three-year-old mare with a white star in the middle of her bay forehead, who was standing docilely enough while being approved.
Susan, once her eyes lighted on the mare, felt admiration leap to life in her, also, and overcoming tension and shyness she voiced her approval aloud.
“Oh, what a beauty!” she exclaimed, and instinctively her hand went out to caress a velvet side. The mare turned her head and looked at her out of even more velvety eyes, and from that moment Susan’s fears retreated.
“You like her?” Mehmet Bey asked her. He still seemed to have no eyes for Susan, but his look dwelt almost tenderly on the bay mare. He patted the proudly arched neck. “Ferida is a little beauty, and you’re just about the right weight for her. Otherwise I wouldn’t allow you to ride her.”
“Why not?” Susan asked, somewhat unthinkingly, as she stroked the satin-smooth muzzle.
“Because I happen to value my horses,” he replied. “That’s why.”
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Too much weight is an unfair thing to expect a horse to carry,” he explained. “If you were heavier than you are, I wouldn’t risk Ferida beneath you.”
And Susan hardly knew whether to feel annoyed or amused, because it was not her own safety he was concerned with—not noticeably, at any rate—but the well-being of his mare. He didn’t even attempt to assure her that the latter had no vices.
That first experience of being in the saddle left Susan with the very genuine desire to repeat it. No doubt it was because Ferida was such a well-chosen mount, but from the moment the reins were placed in her hands—with the instruction that she was not to regard them as something to hold on to—and the use of her knees for gripping the saddle was explained to her, she began to be certain that from the moment she was born it was Fate’s intention that she should one day learn to ride. But that for her first essay as a horsewoman she should be provided with such a delectable and disciplined mare was a piece of extreme good fortune.
In spite, too, of Madame Dupont’s malicious prediction that she might regret having Raoul to give her first riding lesson, he proved to have a good deal of patience, and although his attitude towards her was that of an instructor and nothing more, she was almost grateful for his detachment at such time. It gave her confidence to know that, although he rode so close beside her, and no movement she made escaped his vigilance, he was not really observing her—not even, apparently, aware that she looked so well in riding-kit—and, having confidence, she did nothing to bring down any criticism on her head. Although she had the feeling that the criticism would not have been withheld if she had proved a less apt pupil.
They cleared the palm grove, and he even permitted her to canter for a short distance once the open desert was ahead of them, whilst still keeping close beside her—although this morning it was not the handsome chestnut he bestrode, but a more amenable beast. But, apart from that brief canter, the first lesson was not prolonged, absolutely no conversation was indulged in, and when they returned to the stables the sun was still without any of the fierce warmth it would have later in the day.
But Susan’s cheeks were tingling and glowing as if she had galloped for miles, and she felt infinite satisfaction because she hadn’t disgraced herself—or, worse still, backed out at the last moment—and she felt she loved the bay mare, Ferida.
Mehmet Bey helped her to dismount, and when she was on the ground he looked at her for the first time with a glimmering of approval.
“You did well,” he said. “Very well! Do you wish to repeat the experiment?”
“Why, of course,” she answered, looking up at him, and her eyes were wide and very blue and shining. Her lips had fallen a little apart with excitement, and although they were only very lightly lipsticked they glowed, like her skin, in the sunlight.
“Very well,” Mehmet Bey said. “I’ll see that you’re called in good time again tomorrow morning.”
Ayse joined them the following morning, but even her presence—which, in any case, was not in the least critical—didn’t rob Susan of her confidence. She felt that confidence expanding as Ferida carried her over the sandy ground, beneath the shelter of the thinning palms, with a warm desert wind fanning her cheeks, and when Ayse allowed her more mettlesome mount to whisk her away in a madcap gallop towards distant dunes longed for the day when she would be able to emulate such an example. But, as it was, no more than a very sedate trot was allowed her, and she was amazed that the man who kept pace with her didn’t betray impatience to be off and away like his sister.
The next morning they were alone again, and this time he failed to keep quite so close to her. Also he was once more riding the chestnut, and for an instant Susan’s courage had quailed when she had seen that a groom was holding it before they started off, and realized that such an animal at close quarters could be a little alarming.
Therefore she thought she understood why Mehmet Bey maintained a more or less discreet distance, although he kept her under close observation. Feeling capable now of looking about her occasionally instead of concentrating all her attention on the white star between Ferida’s ears, and the reins in her hands, Susan could not help but admire afresh the magnificent seat he maintained in the saddle, and the ease with which he curbed the chestnut’s impatience to be given its head.
She felt certain that during a normal morning’s ride the stallion’s fierce energy was given every opportunity to burn itself up, and the knowledge that only a pair of iron hands were keeping it in check aroused a feeling like awe in the English girl’s breast. Also, every time she looked at him in his kufiyya, with his highly polished riding-boots glistening in the sunshine and the ornamental spurs attached to them glittering also, a, different kind of admiration stirred in that same breast, and when she caught his eyes looking towards her a sudden flush stained her cheeks.
He rode a little nearer to her on the homeward trot, and just before they came in sight of the house he asked:
“So you think you’ll turn into a horsewoman before very long, do you?”
“What do you think?” she asked, and waited almost breathlessly for his answer.
“I think you’re doing very well, as I told you before,” he replied, rather dampingly, when what she desired was wholehearted encouragement. “You’ve fulfilled my belief that your wrists are not as fragile as they look, and you sit a horse well. Also you look well”—with his eyes on the light blue bandanna handkerchief that was knotted about her curls of palest wedding-ring gold.
She felt herself flushing more deeply, for there was something in the expression of his eyes that was difficult to analyze.
“Perhaps in your opinion I haven’t much chance of becoming a real horsewoman because I didn’t learn to ride when I was young, like Ayse,” she said.
“I didn’t s
ay so.” But she detected the old mockery back, not only in his look but in his voice. “But you mustn’t become too impatient, and you mustn’t expect the impossible. Ayse has ridden since she was a child—a very young child—and horsemanship is in her blood. Just as it is in mine. We share the same blood—the same mixture”—with a rather one-sided display of gleaming white teeth. His eyebrows lifted cynically. “You see there are advantages to being a mongrel.”
Susan felt curiously abashed, and curiously disappointed that his voice should suddenly become quite harsh.
“Well?” he said, as she remained silent. “Haven’t I encouraged you enough?”
She sighed.
“There are other advantages to being born someone like your sister,” she told him. “When I was a child there were no horses around—at least, not for people like me to ride. There never have been any opportunities up till now to find out what pleasure there is to be gained from exercise of this kind.”
This time his eyebrows drew together in a frown.
“I have been wondering about you,” he admitted. “Wondering what sort of life you lead when you’re in England. What you do to amuse, yourself, and so forth ... Your father gave me to understand that you had some sort of a job before you came out here?”
“Yes,” she answered, smiling faintly, “I worked in an antique shop, and I lived over the shop premises. I don’t think either you or Ayse would have found it exciting.”
“You mean you lived alone?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered again, “quite alone! But that, of course, is the common lot of thousands of girls in any big city.”
“Western city,” he corrected her. “It is the same, I know, in Paris.” But he was frowning more heavily. “And so there was no one to look after you, or who was in the least responsible for you?”
“No one,” she admitted. And then her eyes twinkled as she looked at him sideways. “Does that disturb you for some reason? Are you shuddering at the thought of Ayse being entirely responsible for herself?”
His eyes met hers, and then drifted upwards and downwards over the whole slight shape of her—noting the girlish hollows at the base of the slim throat, the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin silk blouse, the slender inadequacy of the hands grasping the reins. Her shoulders were well held, but there was no real breadth to them, and the transparency of her skin lent her an air of delicacy. And yet her eyes were clear and straight-gazing, and her little chin had a square look.
“I wasn’t thinking of Ayse,” he said, and frowned down at his horse. “What did you do for amusement?” he asked. “Had you many friends?”
“A few.”
“Nicholas Carlton amongst them?”
She hesitated.
“Nicholas Carlton has been out here in Iraq for some time.”
“He was at home less than a year ago.”
“I—I didn’t see him then.”
“Didn’t you?” But she decided he was looking at her doubtfully. “Then how—?” But a slight lessening of control caused his mount to get suddenly out of hand, and it made such a wild plunge that when he brought it down at last Susan’s cheeks had blanched and her eyes were wide with apprehension. He smiled in the way she least liked because it was slighting and undervaluing. “Do you think you’ll ever get used to horses?” he demanded. “Or will you always be afraid of them?”
“I’m not afraid.” But the denial was feeble, whereas the resentful flush in her cheeks was unmistakable. She felt that for some reason he held her in a certain amount of contempt, and the knowledge made her indignant.
“So you said before,” he reminded her. “You’re not afraid of anything! But we haven’t proved that yet, have we?”
When he helped her dismount in front of the grooms she knew that he was still smiling in that unpleasant way, but she declined to look at him. She only felt the strength of his arms as he lifted her clear of her saddle.
When they went in to breakfast she discovered that some mail had been delivered, and that there were two letters for her. One was from her father, and the other bore an English postmark. The letter from her father was brief, as usual, but announced cheerfully that he was immersed in an entirely new discovery, and hoped that she was settling down happily in her new job. Her English correspondent was none other than Nicholas Arnwood, and his news filled her with an instant sensation of pleasure.
Dear Sue, he wrote, in the precise hand she remembered. By the time you get this I shall be in Vienna, where I am attending a medical congress. It’s only a matter of a couple of days, and then I’m flying on to Baghdad to see a friend who has started up a new clinic specializing in tropical diseases. As you know, that is a sideline of mine, and it’s quite on the cards that I shall remain in Baghdad for a few weeks. If so, I shall certainly expect to see something of you. And even if my visit is only fleeting I shall still expect to see something of you.
Yours, Nick.
“Oh!” Susan exclaimed, and looked up from her letter with blue eyes beaming.
Ayse, who was studying a French fashion magazine which had just reached her, looked up from its glossy pages to send a gentle glance of enquiry in her direction.
“Is it good news?” she asked. “Something which pleases you?”
Susan nodded emphatically. The Bey had just left them, carrying in his hand the large parcel of his own mail, amongst which Susan had noticed a bois-de-rose-colored envelope which she vaguely recognized as one she had seen before. Or she had seen a similar envelope.
“Oh, definitely! It’s from a friend in England, and he’s coming out to Baghdad. He’s a doctor, interested in new clinics, and things like that, and I shall be able to see him. Isn’t it splendid?”
“It is not your doctor—the one you called Nicholas, whom you described as a Harley Street specialist?” Ayse asked, astonishing Susan by remembering.
“Yes, that’s Nick. And he’s terribly nice.” She sat down, looking at Ayse across the table, with its usual enormous mountain of luscious fruits, rolls and preserves. “Really terribly nice!”
She studied Ayse thoughtfully, seeing while she did so Nick Arnwood’s thin, dark, clever face, with the light touches of frost at his temples which made him look very distinguished, and his kind grey eyes. Nick was a bachelor, and he was not particularly interested in women—or that was the impression he managed to convey—but he was not yet forty, and Ayse was not merely lovely, she was beautiful. True, she no doubt still imagined herself in love with another Nicholas, but...
“What is it?” Ayse asked, amused because the blue eyes facing her seemed to be absorbing every detail of her appearance as if it was something completely new and highly intriguing. “Why do you look at me like that when you have just heard from a friend who has so much to commend him?”
“I—” Susan looked down at the letter in her hand, and decided she would have to be more cautious. “Oh, no reason, except”—she smiled up at the other girl swiftly—“I find you very attractive, and I was wondering. ... Is it true what my father told me, that there is someone you are more or less pledged to marry in Istanbul?”
Ayse’s exquisite face flushed delicately.
“Not pledged to—otherwise arrangements for my marriage would have gone ahead long before this. But Raoul did hope at one time that I might be led to look upon a very close friend of our family as a man I could bear to accept as a husband. But”—and the large eyes grew distressed—“I know I never could, and Raoul will not force me. He has promised.”
“Then that, at least, is something,” Susan observed, but she was shocked afresh at the power of life and death which the brother in this particular case seemed to exercise over his sister. No wonder he found it impossible to refrain from interfering in Susan’s affairs also!
He returned to the patio at that precise moment, and in his hand was the bois-de-rose-colored note he had received. He sat down on a marble bench heaped with rich crimson cushions and looked at the two girls.
“Jacqueline has invited us for the week-end,” he said. “She is bored, and she thinks we can relieve her boredom. I’ve sent a return note to say that we will do our best. Is that all right by the pair of you?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Ayse answered, with that gentle tone of acquiescence in her voice that was seldom absent from it, but Susan felt mutely rebellious on her behalf. As a mere employee she had no right to disagree with any arrangements that were made for her, but she did think Ayse might be consulted more than she was.
“Well?” Raoul asked, looking directly at her, and there was that mocking lift to his eyebrows and that mocking gleam in his eyes that aroused the most conflicting sentiments in her breast. Amongst them was a strong desire to defy him, and a feeling of exquisite fear lest she ever found the courage to do so. “Don’t you find the prospect entertaining, pupil Susan? You are a very promising pupil—at least, in so far as your ability to ride Ferida is concerned—but you don’t realize what an excellent hostess Jacqueline Dupont is. She has a natural aptitude for making herself and others superbly comfortable, and in addition to exuding the kind of gay vivacity I like, she’s mentally far brighter than any woman I know. Certainly more amusing.”
“Really?” Susan said, and wondered whether this catalogue of charms was intended to make her feel very inferior.
“Also, of course, she looks—as the Americans would put it—like a million dollars! Don’t you agree?”
“It all depends,” Susan replied carefully, “just how much importance you set upon a million dollars.”
At that he suddenly laughed with real amusement, flashed her glance which could have been appreciative, and then requested his sister to pour him out some coffee.
When she had done so, Ayse looked across at the English girl and said gently, as if afraid that she was feeling slightly disparaged:
“I think you will like it at the Villa of Stars, Susan. It is a much more modern house than this—Jacqueline’s husband had it built to her own design—and she really does look after her guests very well. There will probably be one or two other people staying there, and it will be a pleasant change. I always find it so.”