Mistress of Brown Furrows

by Susan Barrie

  On Christmas morning they all went to church, and as always Carol joined in the singing of the Christmas hymns. She did so without any effort, and also without being aware that her voice was soaring upwards to the very roof of the church, light and smooth and sweet as the flight of a bird to the ancient rafters. Her husband, standing silent, close to her elbow, looked down at her with a faint hint of wonder in his eyes, and Carol glanced upwards and met them in some confusion. Instantly she stopped singing.

  “Go on,” he whispered urgently, and gently he squeezed her arm. “Go on, Carol!”

  And to encourage her he joined in himself, his rich baritone and her clear soprano mingling in perfect harmony, while the organ thundered away magnificently and the villagers around them all poured forth the words:

  “Christians awake, salute the happy morn,

  Whereon the Saviour of mankind was born!...”

  Afterwards, when they were outside the church, and were walking towards their car, parked beside a lynch-gate smothered in sparkling rime, while clear, cold sunlight fell around them— filling Meg’ s heart with hope for the morrow, and the meet she so much looked forward to—Timothy remarked quietly:

  “Last Christmas I was in East Africa, and I certainly didn’ t hear any carols. This Christmas I actually added my mite to the singing—and Carol’ s voice could be heard above all the rest. It was perfect! I shall always remember this Christmas morning.”

  Meg glanced at him and smiled a little deprecatingly.

  “Carol certainly has a very nice voice,” she admitted, “but I’m not so sure the choir would enjoy having the lead taken away from them like that. It was really very noticeable.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Carol, instantly covered in confusion.

  But Timothy reached down and grasped her hand, although they were at that moment being approached by the squire and his party, and the squire’s good lady would be certain to notice.

  “Nonsense!” he said. “It was wonderful.”

  And Carol felt as if a bird had started singing suddenly in her heart.

  That night they had dinner with Viola Featherstone, in accordance with a long-standing arrangement. Viola’s house was filled with flowers and bright with holly and other decorations, and she had a large house-party who were all enjoying her hospitality, which was on a most generous and seasonable scale. Nat Marples was one of her guests, and he sat beside Carol at the dinner-table, while Brian Winslow occupied the seat on her other hand, and Timothy was placed somewhere near the top of the table and very close to Viola.

  Nat subjected Carol to a rather curious scrutiny when he first came face to face with her, and then smiled in his faintly quizzical fashion and unexpectedly shook his head.

  “Just the same,” he remarked, confounding her a little. “Just exactly the same as when I saw you last! If I hadn’t been present at your wedding I would certainly never mistake you for a matron! ”

  Carol, who looked altogether charming in her new dress of misty blue net worn with a scarf of the same color and materials scattered with tiny gold sequins, flushed and looked as if she was not quite certain whether this was intended as a compliment or not.

  But Brian Winslow came quickly to her rescue.

  “Another ten years and she’ll still look less like a matron than any you’ ve ever seen, my dear Nathaniel! ” he predicted.

  Whereupon Nat instantly agreed with him.

  “That’s what I meant,’’ he said. “There are certain types whom Nature never intended to grow old, and Mrs. Timothy Carrington is one of them! She will be for ever young—or she will if her eyes never lose the expression they have in them at this moment! ” But despite the gallantry of his speech, and the gentleness of his smile as he made it, Carol could not help feeling that that was not precisely what he had meant at first.

  What, then, had he meant, she, wondered?

  Was he suggesting that she still looked completely unawakened? That there was something about her which gave away the secret that she was still a wife in name only? Mrs. Timothy Carrington to the world, but Miss Carol Inglis to the penetrating gaze of Nat Marples! Carol felt suddenly as if she was hiding a guilty secret.

  Nat’ s smile grew even more gentle, and he leaned over her and patted her hands where they rested in her lap.

  “You mustn’t take any notice of my nonsense, my dear,” he said. “And one of these days you’ ll be glad, when I’ m proved correct, that the world could mistake you for your eldest daughter, and if she’s as pretty as her mother she’ll have something to be glad about, too! ”

  “What, however, if it’s an eldest son?” Brian wanted to know with a grin.

  Nat decided to change the subject.

  “It’s Christmas,” he said, lifting his glass. “Let’s drink to a happy one, shall we?”

  Carol noticed that Meg, on the opposite side of the table, avoided looking directly at Nat, although he plainly meant to include her in the toast, for he looked very keenly towards her as he lifted his glass.

  “A happy Christmas, everyone! A Happy Christmas, Meg! ” he called.

  Meg appeared suddenly confused and hurriedly lifted her glass. But still she avoided looking at him, and Viola broke in from the end of the table, waving her own glass aloft.

  “And lots of fun in the New Year! ”

  After dinner they played bridge and talked until midnight, when the gramophone was set going, the carpet rolled back, and they danced until the small hours. Viola seemed determined to monopolize Timothy, although she was also particularly sweet to Carol, and the inexperienced wife thought her, in her wonderful Paris gown, the most enchanting-looking creature she had ever seen. Brian danced with Carol several times, but, perhaps because

  Timothy seemed particularly aware of them tonight, he did not attempt to emulate the example of his cousin and annex her completely, and instead he left her a good deal to Nat, who, in addition to being very fond of Timothy, was old enough to pay her compliments without having his motives suspected.

  At last Timothy decided that it was high time they went home, and Carol and Meg both collected their wraps and said their good nights to their hostess. Timothy drove them back to Brown Furrows through a world that was white with the glimmer of frost and the rays of a waning, late-rising moon, and where the stars were withdrawn but clear in the dim and distant blue, and a Christmas peace lay like a benediction over everything.

  And snuggled down in the seat beside Timothy at the wheel Carol wished the drive would go on for ever, although the hour was late, and they had to be up early, as Meg constantly reminded them. And when they did enter the house and she looked up at the great swinging lantern in the hall she saw that a handsome bunch of mistletoe was suspended from it, and it was certainly not Meg who hung it there.

  “Why—who—?” she began, and wheeled round to find herself staring up at Timothy.

  She wore the white fur coat he had given her, her hair was silvery pale beneath the rays of the lantern, her small face paler yet from the cold of the still, outside world. And her lips were pale as the petals of a flower which was drooping a little after blooming only a very short while, and they were slightly parted in surprise.

  “Me, of course,” Timothy answered, quite heedless of his grammar as he swept her right into his arms, and his lips came down upon hers. Hard, and intensely masculine, they exacted more than a just penalty.

  Carol was no longer pale when he let her go. She was rosy and confused. Meg stood watching them with an odd, intent and quite inscrutable expression on her face, and she said quickly to her sister-in law:

  “I shouldn’t waste any time in getting to bed, Carol. You’ve not got more than a couple of hours sleep, and it’s already nearly dawn. ”

  It was true. Carol was not slow in making good her escape and fleeing away from them up the stairs to her room, and they heard the quick opening and shutting of her door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  IT seemed that she had no so
oner laid her head on the pillow than she was awakened by Agatha with her early tea. Unwillingly she struggled up into a sitting posture, and even more unwillingly did she get out of bed when Agatha drew back the curtains and disclosed a world that was iron-grey and dismal, with lowering clouds hanging close above the earth and a chill and niggling wind finding its way into the room through the open crack of her bedroom window. An icicle hung down inside the window and was beginning to melt a little and to drip on to the carpet; but the frost was, plainly, not hard enough to make hunting impossible.

  Carol shivered, and longed for several more hours’ deep and restful sleep beneath the warm cosiness of her blankets. But she had no doubt at all that Meg was already up and dressed and simply yearning to be in the saddle, while Timothy also was probably up, and the pair would be awaiting her downstairs in the dining-room.

  She drank her tea, but there was no time for a bath, and a quick wash had to suffice. Then she struggled into her new buff riding-breeches and the black coat, and fastened her stock with fingers which refused to thaw. Her riding-boots were very easily pulled on, and they looked very beautiful, she had to admit. The bowler hat insisted on tip-tilting a little forward on her soft fair curls, but there was no question whether it suited her or not—she looked, as she realized, quite extraordinary attractive.

  Ellen James was serving hot rolls and coffee, and hot sausages and bacon as well in the dining-room when she got down to it, and Meg and Timothy were both making a hearty meal. Timothy looked up at Carol, and his eyes told her at once that he approved her appearance—although the memory of that kiss under the mistletoe in the early hours of the morning prevented her from meeting his regard in a completely unself-conscious fashion. Meg, while he jumped up to pull out her chair at the table, looked at her also and nodded her head to express her approval.

  “You look nice,” she commented. “I hope you feel quite comfortable? It’ s always fatal if one’ s boots are tight and pinch a bit, especially on a cold morning like this.”

  Carol assured her that she was perfectly comfortable, but she thought it was a terribly cold morning. She looked cold, and her teeth were actually chattering a little before she gulped down a cup of hot coffee.

  “All right when we get going,” Meg condescended kindly to comfort her. “You’ ll be as warm as toast in an hour from now. ”

  Somewhat to Carol’s surprise she was dressed for riding sidesaddle, and although she looked exceedingly handsome—and impressive—in the long cloth habit, with a top hat resting at an entirely correct angle on her tucked-away brown hair, she also had an air of being very much out of the present fashion and not caring in the least, since she was well aware that it suited her.

  Timothy looked exactly right, and warmed Carol's heart every time she stole a half-shy glance at him. His white stock was so ultra-immaculate, and his blue eyes gleamed above it, and if his pink coat was a trifle faded it fitted him beautifully.

  Carol declined to partake of any more breakfast than a cup of coffee, although Timothy tried hard to persuade her. But when he saw that she simply had no appetite he gave up, and instead he placed a hand lightly over one of hers as it rested on the table.

  “Not nervous, are you?” he asked, watching her with a half quizzical, half curiously tender look in his eyes.

  “No, of course not,'' she answered instantly, aware that Meg's eyebrows were lifting.

  “What on earth has she got to be nervous about?” the older woman demanded. “Don't be so absurd, Timothy! ”

  “Of course I'm not in the least nervous,” Carol repeated, affected as she always was by that faint air of impatience, and suggestion of the mildest form of contempt, which her sister-in-law sometimes found it difficult to conceal. “I'm a bit tired, that's all, because we went to bed so late, and as you know I simply can't keep late hours. It's one of my weaknesses,” she added, smiling apologetically.

  “You’ll have to outgrow that sort of thing,” Meg remarked rather cryptically, helping herself to marmalade. “I'm never tired, and I sleep less than most people. But I believe in plenty of exercise.”

  “Meg always was almost painfully energetic,” Timothy declared, rising and placing his hand on Carol's shoulder. “Well, come along, young woman! To horse, my brave girl, and away! ”

  The meet took place outside the delightful old grey-walled manor-house belonging to Colonel Dennison, and half the local countryside had assembled to watch it get clear away to a really first-class start. Hounds scented almost immediately, and the field enjoyed a splendid run across some perfect hunting country for a distance of several miles, until brought up short by the first false scent. Meg, who was in the lead, was completely in her element, and the only other woman who could come anywhere near to rivalling her as a magnificent horsewoman was Viola Featherstone, who sat astride a grey as fine-drawn and perfect as

  herself.

  Compared with Carol, whose looks had the gentleness and the vague charm of a picture viewed through a sheet of gauze, Viola was something more than beautiful. She outshone her in the same way as a diamond will always outshine the softer beauty of a pearl, and in addition she was so completely sure of herself, so much aware of her own attractions, that she accepted admiration as her due, and was never anything but at her ease. Her coat was absolutely faultless and it fitted her to perfection, and her oval face beneath the trimmest of bowlers looked as serene and as completely ‘right’ as it would have looked beneath the choicest of choice tiaras. And combined with her ability to sit a horse as if she had been born upon its back—a thing which Meg also was able to do, without the same devastating effect upon those who observed her—her battery of charms was such that it shook Carol a little, when she looked at her.

  Especially when she noticed Timothy gazing at her with a most frank expression of admiration on his face, for Viola had not been slow in seeking them out while they were still waiting for that first warning ‘Tally-ho’ to break upon the wind. And pursuing her policy of the night before she had been all charm and sweetness to Carol, admiring Beauty’ s satin coat, and letting the girl herself feel that she considered she made a most attractive picture.

  “Timothy is always lucky! ” she added, looking at Timothy with her large and melting eyes in which some other expression struggled to remain subdued, although he at least did not miss it. “How fortunate you are, Timothy! ”

  And how fortunate you are, thought Carol! Poise, sophistication, money, position, looks—looks spelled in largest capitals! —and the admiration of all who came in contact with her! All these things she had, and yet she gave the impression of wanting something more—something very much more!

  Was it, Carol wondered, with a dreadful sinking of her heart, Timothy... ?

  And was Timothy the least bit interested...?

  But fortunately they were away before she could form the rest of that thought, and the pace which was set allowed her no time to dwell upon it, even forced her to forget it altogether for the early part of the day, although the last that they saw of Meg was when she took a flying jump over a blackthorn hedge and landed in a field of turnips, after which she was away in pursuit of the M.F.H. And the rest of the field was by that time thinning out, and the distant halloos were growing fainter and fainter, they decided to walk their horses and take—for the time being at any rate—no further part in the chase.

  That was the part—and the only part—of the day Carol could honestly say that she enjoyed. With the sun breaking through and the grey clouds dispersing sufficiently to reveal little patches of wintry blue above their heads, and the niggling cold wind dying away—except when they were up on the exposed heights—it was pleasant to move forward neck and neck with Timothy, and to exchange odd little scraps of unimportant conversation while they soaked themselves in the new and welcome warmth. Timothy let his hand rest on Beauty’s neck, and even the sleek little mare seemed to appreciate his touch. His own mount was more restless, and kept pricking up its ears every time the view
halloo sounded, and was plainly anxious to take a more active part in the hunt.

  About lunch time—or a quarter to one by Timothy’ s watch— they came up with Nat and some others on the bank of a stream which was still partly frozen over, and protected by a thin screen of alders from the open country beyond. Everyone produced sandwiches which contained sliced ham and chicken and succulent portions of turkey. They remained in the saddle to consume these dainties, which were afterwards washed down with the contents of sundry flasks—Nat, in particular, declaring that a little nip was essential if he was to keep his blood circulating freely—and offering his flask to anyone whose need was the same.

  After that the day closed in rapidly and the sun retired determinedly behind a bleak wall of cloud. The earth, which had partly thawed, started to freeze again; a cotton-wool-like vapor rose above the low-lying woods and valleys, and on the heights the wind arose with a chill like an arctic breath. But still the hunt went on, for they had changed foxes once or twice, and a good many false scents had scattered the main body in as many directions as a revolving signpost would indicate.

  Timothy and Carol had been caught up by a party of enthusiasts who had charged upon them suddenly from the shelter of a wood, and as Viola Featherstone was amongst them it was not long before Timothy found himself inveigled to ride beside her. Carol felt Beauty slither rather badly as they went down a particularly steep descent, and she held her in to discover whether any serious damage had been done. While she did so the rest went by her like a flash and became swallowed up in some deeper woods at the bottom of the hill.

  She reined Beauty in altogether, dismounted and knelt down to examine the mare's white foreleg, but there was nothing to cause alarm, and she patted the arched and quivering neck and then climbed back into the saddle.

  But she had already lost her sense of direction, and the noises of the hunt were so faint now that they seemed to have died away altogether. One muted sound of a horn fell on her ears, but it seemed to her to be miles away, and she could not be entirely certain that it was not a figment of her imagination. She was wondering whether to go forward or to return by the way she had come when a loud thunder of hooves sounded on the other side of the hill on which she was hesitating, and down over the brow swept a sweating, mud-caked, thoroughbred chestnut whose rider was maintaining a magnificent sidesaddle seat, and whom Carol instantly recognized as her sister-in-law.