Usually Pamela found dress an absorbing subject, but somehow today it was difficult to concentrate on the relative merits of Belgian lace over French or to conceive of a particular gown trimmed with bows of ribbon instead of tucks. Still, it was a source of satisfaction to her that Hetty had learned so quickly. The models she chose for morning dresses were entirely appropriate—simple and elegant. Even her choice of evening dress was restrained, showing no indication of the tendency to overdressing she had originally displayed.
"I shall have these four made up," Hetty said finally. "That will be sufficient. Now you must choose some for yourself."
"You are very kind, Hetty, but since we do not entertain, it seems useless." Pamela laughed at Hetty's frown. "When we get to London, I will sing quite another tune. That is when I shall become an expensive luxury. I will remind you then of my present restraint."
"You make me sound so cheese-paring, as if I would grudge you a dress or two. I can buy what I like for people who please me."
"I am sure that is true, Hetty, and that you mean to be generous, but you must not throw your wealth in people's faces." Pamela mitigated the criticism with a smile, although her pride was stung, because she believed Hetty meant well.
The countess tossed her head. "Oh, look," she said, ignoring Pamela's reprimand, "the rain has stopped. I am glad of that. I think I will go out driving this afternoon." She hesitated, then said, "Would you like to come?"
Pamela also hesitated. She had no desire at all to remain in Hetty's company, but she did not wish her to think she was still annoyed about the offer of a dress.
"Will you be offended if I say no?" she asked. "I am really pining for some exercise, and that carriage you have, charming as it is, rather cramps me. Shall I accompany you on horseback?"
"No, indeed," Hetty said, but with a very sunny smile. "It will make you cross as two sticks to be held to a walk when you wish to gallop. Vyvyan could never abide it. I don't mind going alone. I will have my groom, of course."
It was only with the brightening of Hetty's eyes and the relaxation of her expression that Pamela realized how reluctant the invitation had been. Hetty did not want her to come. All the irritability she had displayed must be connected with some plan with which the rain had interfered. Pamela wondered idly what purpose Hetty could have.
By mutual consent they walked through the corridor to the saloon that fronted on the gardens. Here there was a sheltered porch, and, having stepped outside, they could see that the sky was clearing and the weather promising fair. With a lift of spirits, Pamela followed Hetty upstairs to change to her riding habit.
Usually she rode along the cliffs to watch the sea. The scene was fantastic in its variability. On a clear, soft day, the water was as green as St. Just's eyes, translucent, with the wavelets sparkling like light laughter on it. When the sky was bright but the wind high, there would be bands of whitecaps, like lace, on the swelling bosom of the waters as far as the eye could see. And sometimes it was true witch-water, a ghostly gray shimmering substance that looked as if you could walk into it, still breathing, and be wafted away into some mysterious otherwhere.
Today, however, Pamela soon turned Velvet's head inland toward the arid hills. The sea was sullen and merely reinforced her bad mood. Following a well-marked track, which led northeast, she came to a low ridge. Above her the ground grew more and more tortured, rising in sharper ridges that were broken by steep gullies.
Pamela knew that if she did not soon turn back she would be late for dinner, but she could not yet bring herself to face the querulous complaints about the cooking, the service, and everything else that Hetty, no matter what her earlier mood, never failed to utter in St. Just's presence. If she were tired enough physically, Pamela knew, she would not have so difficult a task in keeping her temper.
She went down into another dip, and up another ridge. Just as she was heading into still another hollow, a rider came around an outcrop of rock farther up, perhaps a half-mile away. It was too far to see the horseman's face, which was hidden by his hat in any case, but it was impossible to mistake the action of St. Just's big gray or the way his powerful body seemed almost a part of his mount. Pamela stopped and waited, conscious of an easing of her tension.
They could ride home together, and she could tell him of Mrs. Helston's problem. She knew she was on the easiest and most direct path to the house, and St. Just was riding quickly, obviously anxious to get home. He would certainly come that way.
There was another outcrop of rock between them. Suddenly St. Just's horse swerved as if he had intended to go around and then decided to come down on the near side of it; and horse and rider disappeared.
For a few minutes Pamela continued to wait, assuming that the faint scrambling she heard was the horse making its way down and up a hidden gully. She even smiled. St. Just must have seen her and decided to take the shorter, though harder path. The horse appeared. Pamela took an expectant breath, ready to call a greeting, then cried out in fear.
The big gray had no rider.
Chapter 4
He was lying in the gully with blood on his face.
"St. Just," Pamela shrieked, conscious of a tearing sense of loss she could not explain.
He did not stir, and Pamela bit her lips when she saw how deep and precipitous the gully was. It was impossible to leave him there, not knowing whether he was dead or badly hurt, and Pamela did not lack courage. She looped Velvet's reins around her arm and slid and scrambled toward him. An eternity passed before she knelt and saw he was still breathing, that his eyelids were already fluttering open. The green eyes were dazed, unfocused.
"Thank God," Pamela breathed.
St. Just's hand twitched, moved uncertainly toward his head. Pamela caught it, bent to lift him, and stopped. It was better not to touch someone who had taken a bad fall until the damage done was known.
"Don't move, my lord. Can you hear me?"
"Pam?"
"Yes, don't move. Where are you hurt?"
"Sergeant? Where's Sergeant?"
"He's all right. Gone off home. St. Just, where are you hurt?"
He closed his eyes again, and Pamela could see him fighting sickness. He moved slightly, bit his lips. "My head. I must have hit it. I think that's all."
"I'm going to lift you up. If I hurt you, tell me."
His eyes snapped open, focused this time, and an expression of incredulity mixed with the pain on his face.
"Don't be silly. It takes a winch to lift me."
Pamela smiled. "I'm as good as a winch any day. Strong as a horse." She released his hand and put her arms around him. St. Just went rigid, put out a hand to push her away, and groaned softly. "Where does it hurt?" Pamela asked anxiously.
St. Just ignored her hesitation, drew convulsively away from her, and sat upright.
"It's all right," he said, struggling to steady his breath. I've only sprained my wrist."
He lifted the hand to look at it. There was a jagged cut in the palm, which made Pamela wince, and the wrist was already swollen.
"I suppose I broke my fall with it," St. Just continued indifferently. "I cut it on a rock, I daresay. I'm lucky it's no worse." He reached out toward the side of the gully with his good hand and rose to his feet, wincing. "All right and tight," he announced.
The next minute, however, he would have fallen, had not Pamela leaped to support him. She eased him to a sitting position, troubled by the set look of misery he wore. It was plain that his expression had little to do with his physical condition and that he was not much hurt, for his color had come back to normal, and his eyes were perfectly clear. A mixture of relief and an inexplicable feeling that she must ward off something made Pamela furious.
"Whatever made you think you could careen down a gully like this at the pace you were going?" she snapped.
St. Just started to shake his head, groaned again, and touched his scalp gingerly. "I didn't. I saw you, and maybe I touched Sergeant up a bit, but I intended to g
o around by the path. I swear I didn't move the reins. I don't know what happened. I was looking at you, damn it. Maybe there was a shadow or something, but I've ridden this way a dozen times, and Sergeant never shyed before. He's not a nervous horse. Are you sure he's all right?"
"There couldn't be much wrong with him at the rate he was making off for the stables. Perhaps he cut his knees. I was not worrying about the horse."
"Just like a woman," the earl said with mock disapproval. "After all, a broken leg or a couple of marks on my hide would scarcely be a tragedy, whereas a horse…"
Pamela chuckled, although she was still much shaken. "I was thinking more along the lines of a broken neck or mashed brains, although I suppose I should not have worried. The latter certainly wouldn't have done you any harm, my lord."
He uttered the little choke of laughter so characteristic of him, and Pamela's heart contracted.
"That is no way to talk to your employer," he said, but there was a caressing note in his teasing that made Pamela climb hastily to her feet and move away.
"I am very sorry," she said stiffly; and then, bitterly regretting her coldness because of his suddenly stricken expression, she added, "How can you tease me when you are bleeding like a stuck pig?"
"But I'm not." St. Just held up the blood-clotted hand as evidence. His tone was light, but his eyes were wary.
Pamela shook her head impatiently. "Bleeding or not, you should be attended to. There is not even any water here to wash the dirt from those cuts. We will be dreadfully late for dinner, too, and Hetty will be frantic."
At the mention of his wife's name, the life drained out of St. Just's face. 'Very well" he said dully. "Ride back and let them know what has happened. One of the grooms can come back with a horse for me."
"Leave you here alone?"
"I shall be perfectly safe. There are no fierce wild animals to attack me. After all, I suppose I deserve an hour or so of discomfort and boredom for being such a fool as to look at a pretty girl instead of my path, not to mention being so careless as to part company with my saddle and then commit the greater sin of leaving go the rein."
An inexplicable and wholly unreasonable reluctance to part from him clutched at Pamela. "No!" she exclaimed, and then, seeking a reason for what she could not explain, she added, "I am afraid I would never find you again. There are thousands of gullies like this."
St. Just frowned consideringly. "I suppose if you don't know the land, all of these sheep tracks look about the same." He hesitated, glanced sidelong at her. "Were you looking for me, Pam? Is something wrong?"
"Nothing is really wrong, just a household problem that is beyond my authority to solve." Pamela's color rose slightly in spite of the innocent words. "I was not looking for you," she said with a little too much emphasis.
St. Just made no reply, merely dropped his head into his unhurt hand. He had been unhappy for years, ever since need had tied him to Hetty, but he had learned not to chafe too much in his bonds. When he had come to England, he had thought life was offering him an escape, that his love for his home and lands could fill his emptiness.
On the ship, during the long weeks of voyage, he had tried to make up his differences with his wife. She would never be a woman he could love, but they could live at peace. And now he wanted children. He needed a son to inherit Tremaire.
He knew now that he would not have even that—not out of Hetty. And in his first reckless rush of despair, to make his misery complete, he had hired Pamela to be Hetty's companion. With his eyes closed, he could see her—her rich warm body, her generous mouth and kind eyes.
He could no longer bear to be in the house with her. He dared not open his lips at his own dinner table for fear his desire would show. And Hetty stood in the way. If he could be rid of Hetty! But he could not give up Tremaire—not even for Pamela; and it was Hetty's money that kept Tremaire from being swallowed by those who held the mortgages on it.
"My lord," Pamela said softly, coming back toward him, "do you feel worse?"
She had a softness for him, she did! St. Just raised his head and smiled. "No, no worse than could be expected." When she was thoroughly trapped, perhaps…
"Come, St. Just, try your legs again and let us see if we can clamber out of here. I cannot leave you down here alone."
She stretched a hand to help him, as if defying a private fear. St. Just, afraid of the reaction even so casual a touch might set off, ignored the gesture and got to his feet unaided. He stood steadily, although his brows contracted against the suddenly increased pangs of headache.
"Very well," he said, taking himself firmly in hand, "I will push you up as far as I can. Then you can reach down and help pull Velvet up."
"But you will still be down, St. Just, and with a bad hand and a bad head, I cannot see how you will manage. You go first. I think I am strong enough to give you a boost."
Every word she spoke made him love her more. This was what a woman should be, forthright and strong. In self-defense St. Just burst out laughing.
"You certainly don't suffer from die-away-missish airs, do you? Do you propose to lift me in your arms like a baby, or to put your shoulder under my…er…bottom?"
"Missish airs would suit me about as well as an ostrich feather stuck up my… Oh, dear!" Pamela exclaimed in embarrassment as she realized what she had been about to say.
St. Just, who realized too, roared.
"My father always said that. I wish I could remember to guard my tongue," she said desperately.
"You simply must stop making me laugh," St. Just reproved weakly. "It is most unkind in you, knowing the headache I have. Now, I know you are a strapping big wench. Lady Pam, but not quite big enough to have me sit on you. Up now. No more argument."
The climb was not as bad as it looked, except that the rocky earth had a disconcerting tendency to slip away from under Pamela's feet. With St. Just supporting her from behind, however, she soon had a grip on the bracken at the top of the gully. She struggled up and over, lying breathlessly on the level ground for a few minutes.
Velvet was then urged to put her forefeet as high as she could, and Pamela, after some straining, grasped the end of the rein. When she heard St. Just strike the mare, she tugged and crawled backward. Once she was nearly jerked down, but a shout and another blow startled the horse into frantic activity, and Pam leaped to her feet, still pulling, as Velvet made a convulsive effort that took her over the lip.
Pamela then had to spend some time soothing the frightened animal, and even when Velvet stopped rearing, she dared not let go of the rein. St. Just had still not appeared.
"My lord," she called. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm coming."
"Wait a minute. I'll find something to tie Velvet to. Then I can reach down and help."
There was nothing large enough to hook the reins on where Pamela was, and she moved around the irregular outcrop of rock. On the other side, where the path bypassed the gully, a stunted tree grew in the shelter of the boulders. With a sigh of relief, Pamela tugged the mare over and bent to fasten the reins to one of the lower branches, which were stronger than those at eye level. On the ground a decorative fob glittered against the dull earth. Pamela picked it up and slipped it into a pocket of her habit. She went back and lay down on the edge of the gully again.
Now Pamela had cause to bless her size and strength. Halfway up, St. Just went dizzy. Pamela's arm was nearly wrenched from her shoulder, but her grip on his wrist never faltered, and she drew him up. He was white with pain, and the cut on his hand had started to bleed again.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she murmured, kneeling down beside him as he rolled over and lay flat on his back in the bracken. "I should have ridden home and left you. I don't know why I was such an idiot as to think this was better."
"It is better," he gasped. "I could have made you go if I wanted to. Just let me catch my breath."
He opened his eyes to gleaming slits and saw Pamela's anxious face. To remain silent or
to thank her for her concern would only increase his torment.
"I'll never say you aren't as good as a winch again," St. Just said, laughing. "God forbid I should ever give you cause to be angry with me. You could knock me endwise, I daresay."
"If you are going to make fun of me—and after nearly tearing my arm off, too—I shall just roll you over and drop you down there again."
"Did I hurt you, Pam?" the earl asked quickly, lifting himself on an elbow.
Pamela felt acutely uncomfortable again, but she pushed him down gently, wiggled her fingers, and thrust both hands in her pockets with an exaggerated gesture to show she could move her arms. Her fingers touched the fob.
"Oh, here, St. Just, before I forget to give this to you. You must have lost it when Sergeant reared."
"An honest woman, too." He smiled and held out his hand. Then, just as he was about to thrust the trinket into his pocket, he sat up and looked at it. "This is not a coin, it's a fob. It isn't mine, Pam. I wouldn't wear a fob with these clothes. Who the devil…?"
The mystery was all too easily solved. Chased in elaborate tracery on the fob were the initials G.G.T.
"George Gillespie Tremaire," St. Just muttered.
"George? But George went to Penzance yesterday. I thought he would be away for a week. Why do you look so troubled, my lord? The fob could have been here for a long time."
"Show me where you found it."
She took him around and pointed to the spot. St. Just knelt and examined the earth. Nothing grew under the scraggy tree, and the morning's rain had washed loose dirt and pebbles from the rocks down around its roots.
"Did you clean it, Pam?"
"No, I only noticed it because it shone. I was tying the horse, not looking for treasure."
"Then it cannot have been here before the rain. It would have been covered, you see, or at least there would have been a dry spot on the ground. And Sergeant was badly startled. He's not a shy horse, you know."
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