The Black Benedicts

by Anita Charles

  It was the evenings when Mallory felt at her loneliest, and when she wished that there was someone with whom she could share the long, frequently oppressive hours once her solitary evening meal bad been served to her and was over, and night like a stealthy mantle crept down over the tall trees in the park. It was at that hour that the old house, although so filled with luxury, seemed to come alive with a spirit of brooding which emphasized her aloneness, and when she looked back on that short period when the house had been filled all at once with the laughter and the movement of guests, and when lights had streamed from the drawing-room windows, and had spread across the velvet lawns, and even although she herself had been offered little part in the purely temporary festivities, it had been something to feel that others were enjoying themselves around her.

  At least, that was what she told herself when she stood behind the heavy curtains in her room, listening to the lonely hooting of owls in trees crowding close to the house, and watching the golden crescent of a young moon rise into the clear blue above the tops of those trees.

  In reality, the picture she saw most often was the picture of a tall and rather elegantly spare man who moved with a pantherish ease, and looked at his best in regulation evening clothes, who stepped from the lighted windows with a slender figure in a golden gown keeping close to his side. And the two figures always moved across the terrace to the head of the time-worn steps which led down to the dimly-seen emerald lawn, and whether this picture gave her any satisfaction or not she could not tell—but for some reason it clung to her, and the hooting of the owls sounded lonelier than ever whenever she recaptured it.

  Sometimes she caught the sound of Adrian entertaining himself throughout the long hours at his piano, and once or twice he sent down an invitation for her to join him in his room. She felt it was a slightly unconventional thing to do to sit there with him while his fingers glided tirelessly over the ivory keys of his piano; but when he elected to cease playing and sat instead in a chair quite near to her studying her in a fashion which always covered her in a certain embarrassment, while they talked desultorily of such things as music, then she felt that it was still more unconventional, for there was a look in his wonderful dark eyes which definitely disturbed her at times. It was a brooding look, a thoughtful look—and it seemed to take in so much of herself, with her soft hair and her smooth, soft cheek and slender throat, and the girlishly slim figure relaxed in something neat but cool as the evenings grew steadily warmer.

  Once Jill Harding telephoned and asked her to spend the evening at the doctor’s house in the village, and Mallory accepted gratefully, and for the first time for many weeks she felt that she was not utterly alone and unwanted when the sun went down. Jill was spending a long week-end with her parents, and she recalled the occasion when Mallory was to have had supper with them before, and when her employer’s unfortunate accident had cancelled the evening for her.

  “I always thought that brute Saladin was too much for even Raife Benedict,” Jill observed, when the two girls were sitting comfortably together in her sitting-room after they had helped to clear away the remnants of the evening meal—a much more homely evening meal than the one to which Mallory was now accustomed. “Tell me,” crushing the end of a cigarette into an ash-tray and immediately selecting and lighting another, “has that ballet-dancer got a hope of catching him, do you think?”

  Mallory was a little taken aback, and also this was not a subject she was altogether happy at hearing discussed—although why she should shrink from it she hadn’t really at that stage of her existence the least idea.

  “How would I know?” she asked, rather helplessly. “Mrs. Carpenter, I know, is a little afraid that—that...”

  “That she has?”

  Mallory made a small, barely noticeable movement with her slim shoulders.

  “Why, otherwise, does he bring her all the way to Morven...? And the best bedroom is always got ready for her, apparently, and he is very attentive...” She was recalling the fact that, although he had obviously felt very much more like remaining in his bed and the seclusion of his own room, while recovering from the effects of the tumble Saladin had occasioned him, Raife, the master of so much—and surely of his own inclinations?—had decided that he had better make an effort and rejoin his guests, otherwise one particular guest might take it amiss!

  Jill shook her head, and stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette.

  “And yet I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t really believe that a man as case-hardened—as impervious, I always thought—as Raife Benedict would succumb quite easily to the rather obvious charms of a dancer. Admittedly she is lovely, and she dances like a dream, but...” She shook her head again. “Somehow I can’t quite see the thing coming off.”

  She lay back in her chair and looked across at Mallory as if something—something far more urgent than the elder Benedict’s matrimonial concerns was occupying her mind, and whatever it was it made her pleasant brown eyes look shadowed, and Mallory had already decided that she was a nervous bundle of energy, who dared not relax because she was always seeking to escape the agitation of her own thoughts. And yet, at the same time, she looked so slim and elegant— so much the sophisticated London model with so much to occupy her time away from the limited horizon of her own home. It was difficult to believe that in an active and interesting life there was something else she desired.

  “Tell me—tell me about Adrian,” she said softly, all at once. “Is he—how is he?”

  Mallory looked at her in a slightly worried fashion. There was so little she could tell anyone about Adrian, save that he was apparently immersed in his music, and that nothing else—not even his own daughter—made any real impact on his life. At least...

  Jill said slowly, looking at her, “He likes you, doesn’t he? Mrs. Carpenter told Mother that you’re the first person he’s taken any real notice of for years, and that Raife was amazed because he displayed so much interest in you.” Her lips twisted a little wryly, and suspecting what she suspected Mallory felt as if she had been accused of a crime, and she looked uncomfortable.

  “I can assure you,” she answered, without any real conviction in her tones, “that if he’s interested in me it’s simply because—simply because of some link with Serena...”

  “Nonsense!” Jill exclaimed, with gentle amusement. “Serena has had more than one governess in the past, and to the best of my knowledge Adrian has scarcely even acknowledged their existence. No,” her smile at Mallory was wistful, but definitely kind and approving, “it’s something about yourself—something to do with yourself. You’re not an obvious beauty like Sonia Martingale, and possibly anyone as sophisticated as Raife would overlook it altogether. But Adrian, with his appreciation of music, and his strange, mystical mentality and need of something real and comforting, and consoling—to him you’ve probably got something far more important than beauty.”

  She stood up as Mallory looked still more uncomfortable, even rather acutely embarrassed, and looked at the clock.

  “My dear; it’s getting late, and Daddy’s had to take the car out, and that means he can’t drive you home. You’d better let me walk back with you at least a part of the way, and we can thank goodness it’s a moonlight night. And, in any case, I think I can do with, some fresh air.”

  But Mallory declined to allow her to do more than walk to the end of the village street with her, and then she cut across the park, which she knew would shorten her homeward journey by nearly three-quarters of a mile. And it was, as Jill had said, a moonlight night—a breathlessly beautiful moonlight night, with very little air and hardly a leaf stirring as she walked beneath spreading branches that interposed a kind of canopy between her and the brilliantly clear June sky, sewn with far away stars like millions of tiny, twinkling jewels.

  And the one thing which spoiled the peace and the loveliness of it all for her was the recollection of something Jill Harding had said:

  ‘You’re not an obvious
beauty like Sonia Martingale, and possibly anyone as sophisticated as Raife would overlook it altogether...’ Whatever it was about her that Adrian found attractive, she was quite certain in her own heart that her employer was not in the least aware of it—and Jill had put that certainty into words... She had made her feel that she was very ordinary clay indeed, compared with Sonia Martingale...

  She had emerged from one of the denser thickets, and had just arrived at the edge of the broad, well-cared for stretch of road which cut diagonally across the park and presently joined the main drive which led to the entrance of Morven Grange, when the head-lights of a car sent a sudden, dazzling beam across the whole width of the road, and the unmistakeable soft humming noise of the car itself fell on her ears.

  There was no need for anyone to inform her that it was a powerful car, and that it was travelling at speed, and she drew back a little out of the glare of the lights and waited for it to sweep past her and onwards. But, considerably to her surprise, as she stood there like a shadow in the gloom of the trees, there was a sudden harsh grinding of rather ruthlessly applied brakes, and the car came to a standstill a few yards ahead of her. The door beside the driver was flung open, and a man s voice called to her:

  “Miss Gower! What in the world do you think you’re doing wandering about the park at this hour?”

  Her employer descended from his place behind the wheel, and she realized now that it was his long grey car in which she herself had once been driven from the Station, and that from the glimpse she had had of it as it swept past her he himself was its only occupant.

  For no reason whatsoever that she could think of just then she felt all at once covered in guilt and confusion as he came striding purposefully towards her, and when he reached her she saw that he was hatless and wearing a light grey suit, and there was something almost intimidating in his eyes.

  “Don’t tell me you’re taking a moonlight stroll?”

  “No, I”—the sight of him affected her for a few moments, so oddly that she found it difficult to conjure up a voice—“I’ve been spending the evening with the Hardings.”

  “And couldn’t one of them have the decency to see you home?” His voice was harsh, and he sounded almost furious about coining upon her like this.

  “The doctor was called out, and—and there was only Jill...”

  He walked back to the car and went round and held open the door beside his own seat at the wheel.

  “Get in,” he said curtly.

  And when she had obeyed him and he had also climbed back into his place and was in the act of engaging his gear, he looked sideways at her for a moment, and she could see that there was no softening of his expression.

  “Don’t you know that this is a very lonely walk at night, and that for young women like you it should be out of bounds after ten o’clock, even on a summer evening?” He thrust impatiently at the gear lever, although the gear wheels would have engaged easily without the slightest effort, and she could see his dark, strong hand gripping it almost violently. “Please bear it in mind that I don’t approve of you accepting invitations to other people’s houses unless they can give you a guarantee beforehand that in the event of it being late when you leave someone will see you back to Morven. Is that quite clear?”

  “Y-yes—quite clear,” Mallory answered, in a very small and thread-like voice, and then subsided into complete silence beside him.

  They sped across the park with only the faint purring of the engine making any sound at all in the otherwise almost uneasy hush of the night, and a faint breeze stirred up by their passage coming in at the open window lifted Mallory’s soft fair hair off her brow. She was aware that there were suit-cases piled up on the seat behind her, that there was a faint masculine aroma of shaving cream and pipe tobacco floating in the enclosed space around her, and that the man beside her was concentrating on the road ahead with so much frowning concentration that his thick black brows, she was certain, were actually meeting above the somewhat arrogant bridge of his nose, and his thin lips appeared to be clamped together, obviously because he was filled with displeasure.

  And then all at once she felt him relax a little on the seat beside her, and to her further amazement he suddenly gave vent to rather an amused laugh, and one of his hands deserted the wheel for an instant and lightly—very lightly—patted her knee.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “if my burst of annoyance has petrified you, but I was quite genuinely horrified when I picked you up in my head-lights just now, and I really do mean it when I say that you are never to repeat this sort of thing again. But I appreciate that you’ve been cooped up at Morven for some time, and that you must have some kind of an outing sometimes...”

  “It was a very harmless outing,” Mallory returned quietly, “and the first I’ve made since you’ve been away.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised, and then his voice softened still more. “In that case you must have been finding life a little—well, dull! But it’s a pity Jill Harding didn’t have the sense to keep you for the night if her father couldn’t drive you home.” He looked as if he was ready to frown again, but they were nearing the house by this time, and he asked, rather more abruptly: “How’s Serena?”

  “Oh, she’s very well, thank you.” Her voice was a little formal, because she was not sure that she approved of being treated like a housemaid who had made too much of her off-duty, and was in any case a little irresponsible herself. “In fact, she’s completely well.”

  “And she likes the new pony?”

  “Yes; very much.”

  “Then you can both ride with me to-morrow morning before breakfast, if it’s a good morning, and we’ll see how well you manage Shamrock.” He brought the car to the smoothest of halts before the great front door, and Mallory spared a moment of sympathy for Mrs. Carpenter when she discovered that her employer had returned and that there had been no warning of his return, although his rooms were—as always—quite ready for him. But it was the least little bit inconsiderate, Mallory thought, not to give warning—even if he was not accompanied this time by Sonia Martingale!

  But when he descended and held open her door for her to alight, and she caught him looking down at her from his superior height with something queerly searching, and at the same time slightly quizzical, in his regard, that curious, breathless sensation that had attacked her before when she had first realized that it was he, and recognized his big grey car, caught, like a human hand, at her throat again, and she forgot to be critical. And deep down inside her something was even glad that he was back.

  “Don’t forget,” he called, as he watched her turn away rather hurriedly towards the steps, “that you’ve an early appointment for to-morrow! And Serena, too, if she can be persuaded to wake up in time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Serena, when awakened the following morning, thought it the nicest thing that had happened to her for a long time that her uncle should want to ride with her—and Mallory, which was perhaps a little more surprising, in her childish opinion.

  “For he’s never seen you on a horse, has he?” she said, as she scrambled out of bed and allowed Mallory to assist her with her dressing. “And he doesn’t know how beautifully you manage Shamrock. I do believe you could even ride Saladin if he’d let you, but he wouldn’t, of course.”

  “No, and I’ve no intention of ever asking his permission to ride Saladin,” Mallory answered “And now do hurry, because it will never do to keep Mr. Benedict waiting.”

  Serena sent her a somewhat arch glance as she tugged on a small brown riding-boot.

  “Why do you always say Mr. Benedict,” she asked, “when Sonia calls him Raife? It would be easier to say Raife, wouldn’t it? But perhaps he wouldn’t like it.”

  “Perhaps not,” Mallory agreed, and turned quickly away.

  Outside, it was a perfect early summer morning, with mist clinging to the tops of the trees, and a brilliant sunrise sending streaks of flame across an otherwise perfect
ly clear sky. There was already a feeling of heat in the air, promising much greater heat as the day advanced, and Mallory had dressed herself suitably in a thin silk blouse the colour of a blaze of blue larkspur, and her hair looked pale and neat as a primrose in the early light. She found her employer waiting at the foot of the steps once they had crossed the silent, echoing hall and passed through the great entrance doorway, and he was sitting astride Saladin while a groom, who also acted the part of a gardener when he was not looking after the horses, held Shamrock and Felicity, Serena’s pony.

  Mallory was aware that when she first met Raife Benedict’s eyes they were appraising her quite coolly, but in a way that instantly brought a faint blush to her cheeks. She was not sure what it was in his look that caused her to behave for an instant like a susceptible schoolgirl, but as they all three rode away down the drive, and the mellowed beauty of the old house was left farther and farther behind them, she was conscious of the fact that as she was a little ahead of him he still found it possible to study her, and he was doing so.

  Her impressions of that morning ride, after it was all over, were on the whole extremely pleasant, however, and the pleasure was not entirely derived from the sparkling beauty of the morning, and the fact that her little mare was such a beauty, and carried her superbly. The gauzy loveliness that lay over this enchanting corner of England was enough to make one feel lyrical at that hour, it was true, and there was something alluring and provocative about the occasional glimpses of the distant Welsh hills. And Serena, gay and abandoned, in a canary yellow blouse, and with her dark elfin locks streaming out behind her like a silken dark cloak as she dug hard little heels into her pony’s flanks, flying always ahead of her, created an illusion of carefree and effortless speed which was infectious.

  But behind her her employer rode Saladin almost sedately, as if he had no wish to give vent to any wild enthusiasms, and Mallory suited her pace to his, and when they were picking their way daintily along narrow woodland paths, or plunging into a tunnel-like lane which made it impossible to ride abreast, her mount was usually a length ahead of his, and whenever he addressed her deliberately she had to turn her head over her shoulder and look at him.