“Yes. Positive. Do you know his family, perhaps?”
“No. At least— It just seemed rather odd that he should be staying with Alain and the Colonel, and I wondered— But that is foolishness, of course.”
“At Aspenhill?” Yolande exclaimed, not having heard the exchange with Peattie. “Why, how very strange. I had fancied he and Alain took one another in the strongest aversion.”
The trouble returned to Lady Louisa’s eyes, full measure. “Oh, dear,” she muttered. “How very difficult that will be for poor Alastair!”
* * *
There was, among the saloons at Park Parapine, one rather smaller than the rest, and decorated throughout in shades of gold and cream. Cream brocade covered the dainty chairs and the Louis XIV sofa; cream velvet draperies were tied back by ropes of braided gold silk; and the fine Aubusson carpets were of cream, gold, and brown. It was to this saloon that Yolande repaired shortly after half-past two o’clock, by some happy circumstance clad in a robe of palest gold linen, opening below the high waist to reveal a paler gold silk slip. Her glowing curls were piled high on her head, the fine tendrils that curled down beside her ears emphasizing the faultless delicacy of her skin. For jewellery she wore the topaz necklace and matching topaz ring presented to her by Alastair Tyndale on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday, and a zephyr shawl of white with gold threads was draped across her elbows.
A very old embroidery frame stood in a well-lighted spot between two windows, a straight-backed chair before it. Yolande made her way to open the sewing box beside the chair, and spread several strands of embroidery floss across the inner tray, ready for use. She then seated herself (making sure that her draperies were gracefully disposed), and took up the needle that had been neatly tucked into the stretched linen.
It was here that her visitor found her, when a superior being in powder and satin ushered him to the saloon shortly after three o’clock. Pausing on the threshold, Mr. Winters gazed at the lady bending so gracefully over her needlework, and knew that never had he seen a more beautiful sight.
Yolande glanced up in pretty surprise and saw him standing tall and straight in the doorway, his head slightly to one side, watching her with an expression that took her breath away. She forgot affectation and came to greet him, holding out one hand in welcome. Winters strode to take it. For a moment, tongue-tied, he simply held her hand, looking down into her eyes with that faint, tender smile still lingering in his own. Then, he bowed and kissed her fingers lightly. “It was most kind in you to receive me, ma’am,” he said in his quiet, lazy drawl. “You cannot know how relieved I am to see you so well recovered. I was fairly terrified when you were driven away yesterday, looking so very shaken. Can you ever forgive me for having brought it all about?”
Yolande was finding it difficult to regain her breath, and she made a business of taking up the fan that hung from her wrist. “Far from chiding you, sir,” she said, opening the fan and studying the hand-painted parchment as though she’d not seen it a hundred times before, “I must crave your pardon for failing to properly thank you. Had you not galloped after me so gallantly, I am quite sure I should have perished.”
Shattered, he bowed his head. “And I the cause of such a tragedy! My God! It would have been past bearing!”
“And did not happen, so never blame yourself. The flowers are lovely. Thank you so much.” She glanced to the door, wondering what Mama could be thinking, to allow her to be alone with this young man. “Pray sit down, Mr. Winters,” she invited, indicating one of the gold chairs. “I understand you make a stay with Colonel Tyndale. We are related, you know.”
He waited until she had seated herself on the sofa, then occupied the designated chair. “Yes. And we also are related, Miss Drummond.”
With a surprised arch of the brows, she asked, “You and I, Mr. Winters?”
“Apparently, ma’am. You see, for—er, various reasons, I did not use my full name when first we met. Winters was my mother’s name. I am Craig Winters Tyndale.”
The fan shut with a snap. “You…?” she gasped. “But—but—” Mirth overcame her, and she relapsed into a flood of laughter. Daintily wiping away tears, she apologized. “Oh, whatever must you think of me! How dreadfully rag-mannered! I do beg pardon, Mr.—er, Tyndale.”
“Please do not,” he said, delighted at having caused her to be amused. “Indeed, I could not be more pleased than to discover I have such enchanting relatives.”
She had decided he was shy and bashful, but at this was startled into looking straight into his eyes, which she had guarded against doing. Her gaze was locked with his, and once more that heart-stopping breathlessness dizzied her.
Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale said nothing. There was not the need.
* * *
At the same moment, Lady Louisa sat beside her husband in the book room, as stunned as was her daughter, though for a very different reason. “It is as I feared, then!” Agitated, she placed one hand on Sir Martin’s wrist, as though for support.
He took up that small hand and, finding the fingers cold as ice, squeezed them reassuringly, then returned his attention to Alastair Tyndale, who stood before the fireplace, staring down at the large brass Chinese dragon which occupied the hearth when the fire was not lit. “Alastair,” he said, and paused to clear his throat. “Alastair, does Devenish know? Have you never so much as given him a hint?”
Tyndale passed a weary hand across his eyes. “Never.”
The Drummonds exchanged worried glances. Lady Louisa said, “But, you do mean to tell him? Surely, now. Especially now!”
He said wryly, “It is for that very reason, Louisa, that I dare not tell him now! He believes I am upset solely because of the news of my brother’s death. I’ve no need to remind you of how kind-hearted the dear fellow is. He was all eagerness to help, and more than willing to deliver a letter to my solicitor in Tunbridge Wells. He even invited Craig to accompany him. Not very heartily, but he did invite him. I succeeded in convincing him that Craig and I had much family business to discuss. Had he suspected we meant to come here…” He shook his head bodingly.
“And you say there was instant antipathy?” muttered Sir Martin. “How very strange.”
Frightened, his lady scanned his grave features, then uttered a bracing, “Not so strange, surely, Drummond? Two healthy young male animals, snarling at one another over a lovely female.”
“Perhaps.” The Colonel nodded, accustomed to her frank ways. “Indeed, I pray you may be right. But—if Yolande is attracted to Craig—” He stopped.
“Lord!” Sir Martin muttered, half under his breath. “Add that to all the rest…!”
Colonel Tyndale eyed him apprehensively. “What do you think, my dear?” he asked, turning to Lady Louisa. “You, of all people, know how Yolande’s heart is engaged. Is she in love with Devenish?”
My lady bit her lip. “She loves him, I know,” she said haltingly. “She always has, but— Oh, why did Craig have to arrive at this particular time!”
“I see. We have an undecided heart, have we?” Tyndale said with reluctance, “I suspected as much. And what of young Craig? They’ve only just met, of course, but—I’ve a suspicion the lad received a leveller.”
“Pshaw!” scoffed Sir Martin. “Love at first sight? I never believed in it! Attraction perhaps, but nothing lasting. Not in the wink of an eye! Fairy-tale nonsense! Do you not agree, my love?”
Again, Lady Louisa hesitated. “I feel sure you are right, Drummond,” she said quietly. But she avoided the Colonel’s searching gaze, and his heart sank. “Nonetheless,” she went on, “I cannot but think it would be best, Alastair, did Alain know the truth. If there is already antagonism between them … It would be so dreadful if…”
Colonel Tyndale stared in silence at the brass dragon. Lady Louisa did not complete her sentence, and Sir Martin looked from one to the other of them gloomily.
“Aye,” the Colonel sighed, at length. “You are probably in the right of it, Louisa. But … heave
n help me! How shall I tell him…?”
* * *
Yolande started as her name was uttered in a shrill, horrified screech. “Aunt!” she gasped, wrenching her eyes from Mr. Craig Winters Tyndale. “How you startled me! Whatever are you doing up and about?”
“Why, I crept from my bed so as to let out Socrates, for with little Rosemary so ill I would not dream of requiring anyone to come to my aid.” Mrs. Drummond gathered her voluminous dressing gown closer about her and, looking at the tall young man who had risen respectfully upon her entrance, said, “Thank goodness I did come, dear Yolande. How shocking that you have been abandoned!”
Craig blinked. Flushed with irritation, Yolande responded, “Scarcely abandoned in my own home, Aunt. You will have noticed the door is wide, and Mama will be here directly, I am sure.”
“I only arrived a few minutes ago, ma’am,” said Craig, colouring up. “At least,” he turned a betrayingly warm smile on Yolande, “I—er, think it was a few minutes ago.”
A dimple appeared briefly and, he thought, adorably, in her smooth cheek, but Mrs. Drummond moaned. He moved at once to her side. “May I assist you to a chair, ma’am? You do not look—”
A small fox terrier, quite old and very fat, tottered into the room and, upon perceiving this enormous individual reaching for his mistress, gave vent to a piercing spate of barking, rushed forward, and dealt Craig a hearty nip on the ankle.
The Canadian exclaimed an involuntary “Ow!” and stepped back hurriedly.
“Socrates!” scolded Yolande.
“Dear little fellow,” cooed Mrs. Drummond, bending to gather up her snarling pet. “He was only protecting his mama, wasn’t you, love?”
Tyndale bestowed a smouldering look upon the “dear little fellow.” Hastening to him, Yolande asked a concerned, “Did he hurt you?”
A tall grey-haired woman in a flowing grey gown and snowy white apron hurried into the room. “Is my lady here, miss? Oh! Excuse me, sir!”
“Nurse,” said Yolande anxiously, “Is Miss Rosemary not improved at all?”
“The fever gets higher, miss, no matter what I do. I fear she is sickening for something. There is the beginning of a rash, and—”
“Oh! My heavens!” wailed Mrs. Drummond, sinking dramatically into the nearest chair. “Never say it is the smallpox!”
Entering in time to hear those dread words, Lady Louisa blanched and clutched at the door-frame. “Smallpox? God in Heaven! Nurse—it isn’t—?”
“Of course not, Mama,” said Yolande, crossing to support her. “Aunt Arabella misunderstood.”
“Oh, that poor … sweet, child!” cried Mrs. Drummond, a handkerchief pressed to tearful eyes.
Nurse, having slanted a disgusted look at these histrionics, vouchsafed that she could not tell what ailed Miss Rosemary, but she doubted it was the smallpox.
“Nonetheless, I must go to her,” said Lady Louisa. “Yolande, pray ask your papa to send a groom at once for Dr. Jester.”
Craig had moved quietly back to stand out of the way beside the mantel and now came forward, saying with an apologetic smile that he would take his leave and would gladly relay the message to Sir Martin.
“Oh, dear!” Yolande exclaimed. “I have sadly neglected you, cousin! How is your poor ankle?”
Mrs. Drummond’s recovery was astonishing. “Cousin?” she bristled.
“What happened to his ankle?” asked Lady Louisa, distractedly.
“Socrates bit him,” Yolande supplied. “Horrid creature!”
“Mr. Winters may have brought great suffering upon us,” Mrs. Drummond said smugly, “but you really should not refer to him in such terms, my love.”
Craig grinned at this excellent shot, but Yolande was not amused. She blushed scarlet and turned to her aunt with such anger that Lady Louisa intervened with a vexed, “Really, Arabella! Cousin Craig, my apologies, but—”
“But you must be wishing me at Jericho!” He took her hand, patted it sympathetically, and said his farewells. His smile included Mrs. Drummond and Nurse, in addition to the brief but meaningful seconds during which it rested upon Yolande. Then he was gone.
An hour later, wandering onto the front porch in search of his wife, Sir Martin found her staring after the doctor’s departing gig. “Are you coming in, m’dear?” he enquired. “Not worrying over a simple case of measles, surely?”
“What? Oh, no, of course not, Drummond. Though the poor child is so wretchedly uncomfortable. Yolande is with her, which she will very much like, you know.”
He nodded, closed the door, and walked across the hall beside her. After a pause, Lady Louisa sighed. “She was right. He really does have very nice eyes.”
My lady was in the habit of occasionally speaking her thoughts aloud, sometimes to the complete mystification of her listeners. For once, however, her apparently irrelevant remark did not confuse Sir Martin. He was perfectly aware she did not refer to Dr. Jester.
* * *
Two days later, clad in a dark green fitted coat that closed to the waist with large brass buttons, Yolande tied the grosgrain ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin, surveyed her reflection critically in her standing mirror, and turned to the bed to take up her muff. “I cannot be easy in my mind about leaving you with Rosemary ill,” she worried. “Mama—perhaps I should stay.”
“And be the cause of a full-fledged duel?” Lady Louisa handed her an urn-shaped reticule of green velvet, embellished with pale green beads. “How very pretty this is. And goes with your coat and bonnet so nicely.”
“Thank you. Mama, you do not really think…?”
My lady smiled into her daughter’s aghast eyes, and sat down on the bed. “I think it would be as well for neither young gentleman to see you just at the moment. You look awfully fetching, dear. Come now, never be so worried, I was only teasing. They are likely the best of friends by now.”
“I doubt that,” Yolande sighed, pulling on one small leather glove. “Mr. Glick said that when he stopped to visit the Colonel yesterday, Alain was in a tearing rage because he had discovered that Cousin Craig had come here whilst he was in Tunbridge Wells!”
“Herbert Glick!” said my lady, with uncharacteristic impatience. “The poor moonling! He likely exaggerated the matter out of all proportion. I should forget all about it, were I you.”
Considerably troubled, Yolande argued, “Mama, I cannot forget about it. I am—most fond of—of both of them.”
Lady Louisa shook her head. She did not say anything, however, but sat staring down at her clasped hands, her expression so pensive that Yolande went and sat beside her. “Dearest, why have I the feeling that you and Papa, and Uncle Alastair too, are terribly upset? Is it because of my—my procrastinating? Shall I set the wedding date before I leave? If it will put your minds at ease, I will gladly do so.”
Her ladyship reached up to touch that loved and lovely face and say with a wistful smile, “Fate is very strange at times.”
“Oh, dear Mama! What is it? I have never seen you so!”
My lady summoned her brightest smile. “Then I must be behaving in a very silly fashion. Now—your papa would like to speak with you for just a moment.” Forestalling Yolande’s next question, she said, “And—no, it has nothing to do with Rosemary, I promise you. It is just … it is something you should have been told of, long ago. Only—well, we never thought it would come to this, do you see?”
“I am frightened,” said Yolande, a shiver creeping down her spine. “Is it very dreadful, Mama?”
Again, Lady Louisa looked down at her hands. They were gripped very tightly. She unfolded them. “I fear,” she said, a tremor in her gentle voice, “that it really is—rather dreadful, Yolande.”
Chapter IV
THE MORNING WAS MISTY, lacking any trace of the warm sunshine of the past two balmy days. There was a smell of rain on the cool air and, as if glum in the face of more damp weather, even the birds seemed disinclined to sing, so that a deep silence lay over the lush and plea
sant swell of the South Downs.
A large hare came hopping up the slope and at the summit stopped, suddenly very stiff and still, ears upright and nostrils twitching as it stared back the way it had come. It darted away then, moving so fast that it was only a tan blur against the rich grasses, swiftly vanishing. And in its wake came the sound that had frightened the small, wild creature. A muffled tremor that at first barely disturbed the air, growing to a distant throbbing, a rhythmic beat swelling ever louder until it became a rapid tattoo of iron-shod hooves racing headlong through the quiet morning. Up over the rise they came, neck and neck, the ungainly grey gelding, the sleek black mare, the riders flushed and breathless, leaning forward in the saddles, fair men both, but one much fairer than the other, and both heads bare, for the wind had long since snatched their hats, and neither would stop to reclaim them. A thunder of sound, creak of leather and jingle of spurs and harness; the earth-shaking pound of hooves, the snorting breath of striving horses. A buffet of wind at their passing. And they were gone, plunging down the slope, the grey gaining a little as they started up the other side.
They were out of the Downland now. A long hedge rose ahead, and Devenish grinned and glanced at his cousin as Craig bent lower. Lord, he thought, but the man could ride! And with a widening of that impudent grin he knew the Canadian would have to ride like a centaur to take this jump unawares. He leaned forward, patting the mare’s sweating neck, preparing her with hand and voice.
Tyndale, narrowed eyes fixed on the hedge, was sure this time there was no lane, for there was not another hedge beyond, that he could see. “Come on, Lazzy!” he cried, and felt the great muscles tense beneath him as the grey shot into the air. Too late, he saw the gleam of water below and knew that the jump was too wide. The grey snorted with fear, landed with a mighty splash, and fell. Tyndale flew over his head and landed hard on the bank.
Laughing, as Miss Farthing landed neatly on the far side, Devenish glanced back. His laughter died. He swore, reined back, and swung the mare in a wide circle, dismounting in a flying leap. He staggered, gripped his right leg and swore at some length as he limped to his cousin, who lay sprawled at the water’s edge.
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