House of Storms

by Violet Winspear

  'You're a real beauty, aren't you?' she murmured, for this was the horse which always stood out from the group that galloped along the sands in the morning. High-stepping and somehow joyous, he was exactly the horse she would have loved for her very own; she didn't dare to imagine how much he was worth.

  Suddenly she tensed as she caught the sounds of booted feet on the flagstones of the stable yard, then two men and their girlish companion swung into view and Debra felt her heart thud against her chestbone.

  'Sharon will be riding Palo.' The words struck loud and clear against Debra's ears. 'I want no damned novice on his back.'

  Her hand slid from the satiny neck and she stepped quickly away, her fingers clenching on her riding stick. In her white shirt, corded breeches and boots she looked the proficient rider that she was, and she tried not to show any feeling as she turned to say good-morning to Sharon and the Salvador brothers.

  'Hello!' Sharon smiled gaily. 'Are you going riding with us?'

  'I invited Debra,' Jack said at once. 'Grand start to the day, isn't it? Just breathe the air!'

  'I bet you think Cornish air should be bottled and sold as a balm for the nerves,' Sharon laughed. 'Horses don't make you nervous then, Debra?'

  'Not in the slightest, Miss Chandler.'

  'I thought they might as you're a Londoner and more accustomed to big red buses, black cabs, and traffic snarl-ups. How do you stand all that clamour?'

  'With difficulty.' Debra forced a light note into her voice even though she was desperately aware of Rodare looming over Sharon and herself as they waited for the groom to saddle up the four horses. She didn't dare to look at him directly; already his remark and his tone of voice had told her what to expect if she did look upward into his eyes.

  'It must make a marvellous change for you to be working at the seaside and in such surroundings as these,' Sharon continued in her sociable way. She seemed to Debra to be one of those girls to whom the word butterfly truly applied. The kind to be unaware of undercurrents who when the time arrived would make the perfect hostess for a man of means. She looked stunning in cream shirt and breeches worn with tan-coloured boots, the epitome of the type of girl whose photograph often appeared in The Tatler or Country Life.

  Her self-assurance was so complete that Debra felt slightly gauche by comparison, especially as she hadn't taken the trouble to apply make-up in order to take a gallop. Her own face felt schoolgirlish and scrubbed, and her hair was a horsetail secured by an elastic-band.

  'How different you are from Miss Tucker.' Sharon's inquisitive glance went from Debra to Jack. 'She was a little dumpling of a woman and she was scared out of her wits of the horses.'

  'Horses don't frighten me,' Debra rejoined. 'Though I lived in London and went to school there, my mother has a sister-in-law at Torquay and I used to go there for summer holidays. Her children always went riding so I used to go with them. Devonshire ponies are very mettlesome and those we rode at the local stables were moor-bred.'

  As Debra revealed this item of information about her younger days, she felt the look which Rodare flung at her. She felt it raking over her, burning her skin to the roots of her hair. With all her might she refused to look at him . . . the high-and-mighty hidalgo who had made her feel so low that she could hardly bear it. She wanted never to look at him or speak to him ever again. She wanted him to feel her contempt and deliberately she turned her back on him and smiled at Jack.

  'Which horse am I riding?' she asked him.

  'The chestnut, of course.' His eyes were upon her hair and for a brief moment they shared the secret of their midnight feast of strawberries and cream.

  The four of them mounted up and as Debra gentled the chestnut she noticed what a picture Sharon made seated in the saddle of the palomino, who was like moonlight beside the strong and satiny black horse that Rodare rode as they cantered out of the stable yard. Jack was on a dappled grey with a swishing black tail, named Motley.

  Jack sidled Motley closer to Debra's mount, who had the rather interesting name of Tidy Boy. After being in his saddle only a few minutes she realised why he had the name, he was smooth as silk to ride, with a grace to his movements which were transmitted to Debra. She realised with a sense of thrill that he would be swift as lightning if she let him have his head.

  'That glamour-boy is all show.' Jack pointed with his riding stick at the palomino. 'You realise you could beat him on Tidy?'

  'Yes.' She gave a sudden laugh, all the hope and beauty in the warmth of the sun dispelling any sense of gloom. All at once the joy in being alive and capable was racing through her veins. 'Yes, Jack, I can feel it.'

  They cantered along behind the two riders ahead of them, to the far end of the headland where it sloped naturally to the sands. The tide was. far out and the beach lay like a strand of tarnished gold that stretched all the way round the island ... a perfect track for a race.

  'Go on,' Jack encouraged with a laugh. 'Show your paces.'

  Debra was tingling with the need to show the hidalgo that she was no novice, as he had called her. There was enmity between them and in a strange way it was easier to deal with than those more subtle, more disturbing emotions he had aroused inside her. Now she lived to wrench back from him her sense of being her very own person.

  'Dare I?' Already her eagerness was transmitting itself to Tidy, who was tossing his head as if saying to her: 'Let me show that Palo there's more to being a horse than being beautiful.'

  Debra smiled at her thoughts. 'I can see why your brother wanted Miss Chandler to ride Palo, they do go well together.'

  'Like peaches and cream,' Jack murmured, a slightly teasing note in his voice. 'You didn't like it when Rodare called you a novice rider, did you?'

  'I took the remark from whence it came,' she said, her voice and manner cooling. 'What can anyone expect from a man so arrogant he sets himself above the rules of behaviour he makes for others?'

  'Wow!' Jack gave her a look that was slightly suspicious. 'You've a touch of the devil in yourself this morning.'

  'True,' she agreed, and her eyes were bright green as they dwelt on the broad-shouldered figure who rode ahead with Sharon. 'He wanted to make me feel small in front of Miss Chandler; he hoped I'd crawl away, back into the den where I belong, but you invited me to ride, you said this was a holiday and you are my boss.'

  'Ah, the Hartway spirit is rebounding,' Jack said, with approval. 'Any more surprises for me?'

  'Yes.' Quite suddenly, with the vibrant sea air blowing her cares away, she made up her mind. 'I'll dine at your table tonight, Jack. I'll put on my best bib and tucker and I won't give a damn!'

  'My dear,' Jack's eyes crinkled in a delighted smile, 'what brought this on—dare I make a guess?'

  'Guessing games can be dangerous.' And so saying she dug in her heels and set Tidy at a gallop, crying out as she reached Sharon: 'Race you!'

  Sharon at once took up the challenge and, as if by mutual, unspoken consent the two men fell into a canter side by side while the two girls raced their mounts along the beach.

  The thrill of the race lit a green fire in Debra's eyes, for Tidy was so fleet on his legs he was like silk streaming through the sunlit air. She could hear the pounding of the palomino and that meant he was in pursuit rather than leading, and with all her heart she wanted to be the winner.

  She wanted that word 'novice' hurled back in Rodare's arrogant face. And she also wanted to show these people that even if she was a working-girl she could match their skill when it came to the activities they regarded as their privilege as landed gentry.

  The rush of air had loosened her hair from its band and it blew like a pennon as she rode. How alive and renewed she felt this morning, so different from the sad creature who had wept upon the black-oak monk seat in the garden last night. A kind of energy poured through her system . . . the energy of the soldier going into battle she supposed it was, and a laugh broke from her as she realised that Sharon on the palomino had fallen well behind and that
she and Tidy were still going strong.

  Going too strong . . . the realisation hit her all at once. She tried to slow him down but his own speed had gone to his head and he was eating the air, churning the sand, the Arab strain let loose in him.

  'Whoa, Tidy!' she yelled, but he knew her to be a mere girl on his back, light in the saddle and barely a burden for him. That he was out of control didn't frighten Debra, and with tightly gripped knees she strove to get the upper hand, using every atom of her skill from those long-ago summers when she had learnt to ride those big, pinky-white Devonshire ponies who had strong wills of their own.

  The wind sang past her ears, bringing all at once the thud of hoofbeats bearing down strongly on her and the runaway chestnut. She cast a look behind her and saw Rodare's black mount streaking along in the tracks made by Tidy, Rodare himself low in the saddle, as she had seen the tough-legged Devonshire lads ride the moor ponies barebacked.

  Quite suddenly the powerful black horse surged alongside the chestnut. 'Swing him towards the ocean,' Rodare shouted at her. 'Get him into the water and he'll slow down!'

  As much as she wanted to defy Rodare, her common sense told her to obey him. Hauling on the reigns she managed to turn Tidy's head towards the sea and directly he found himself plunging up to his hocks in the water, he slowed his pace and she was in control again. A minute or so later Tidy was standing still and puffing his own foam from his nose.

  'You Arab devil!' Debra gave his neck a slap, then tensed in the saddle as Rodare's mount splashed his way to her side. She expected a reprimand and there was defiance in the look she flung at Rodare, her hair wildly tangled about her brilliant green eyes.

  'That was good horsemanship,' he said curtly, 'even though you could have broken your neck.'

  'As if you'd care.' She pushed the hair back from her damp brow.

  'I'd care if you broke the horse's neck,' he rejoined. 'I had no idea you could ride like that.'

  'I know you didn't.' She stared at the sea, crawling and winking in the sun. She refused to look at him again, though she was acutely aware of his scrutiny of her on the back of Tidy, who now managed to look as if he were meek and mild.

  'Allow me to apologise for calling you a novice.'

  'I'm only a novice when it comes to being rolled in the hay.' The words burst forth from her pent-up anger and resentment, then she directed Tidy out of the water and cantered him to where Sharon and Jack sat their mounts, farther up the beach against a backdrop of brilliant red squill cloaking the cliff side.

  'That was just like a scene from His Slave,' Sharon laughed, any chagrin she might have felt at being beaten by Debra compensated by seeing her lose control of her mount.

  'When did a spring chicken like you ever see an old silent like His Slave?' Jack wanted to know, leaning forward in the saddle to give Debra a congratulatory pat on the shoulder.

  'A friend of Mummy's video-taped it from a showing on American television.' Her laughter pealed out. 'Oh, Jack, you wouldn't believe what a giggle it is—almost as good as Laurel and Hardy.'

  Rodare rode up and he was frowning. 'I'm glad you're amused,' he said to Sharon.

  'Oh, don't be such a grouse.' She pouted her lips at him. 'It was really exciting watching you go chasing off along the sands, hell-bent to rescue Debra. I quite thought you were going to sweep her out of the saddle into your arms.'

  'My heroics don't extend into the realms of schoolgirl fantasy,' he retorted. 'The chestnut needed to be cooled down, that's all.'

  'Which chestnut do you refer to?' Sharon ran her gaze over Debra's windblown hair. 'I do like that colour; is it a L'Oreal tint?'

  Before Debra could reply, Rodare spoke and his voice was heavily silken. 'Miss Hartway's hair is naturally her own.'

  Sharon raised her eyebrows. 'What would a man know about it??'

  His lip curled slightly, and Debra agonised in silence as she watched him. Was he really going to tell Sharon how he happened to know that her hair wasn't tinted. 'I doubt,' he drawled, 'if a beautician could ever reproduce that shade of hair. There are some things that only nature is in control of.'

  'Such as?' Sharon's blue eyes were openly flirting with him. 'I know you Spaniards can be alarmingly frank in your opinions, so what else is nature in control of? Men and women?'

  'Unquestionably,' he replied, and shot a look at his wristwatch. 'I don't know about you people but I'm ravenous, so shall we make tracks and go and have breakfast?'

  'Egg, bacon and sausage, here we come!' Jack smiled sideways at Debra, but she saw in his eyes a questing look. A look that was still there when they dismounted in the stable yard and handed over the horses to the groom. Rodare ran a hand down the neck of Tidy Boy.

  'Larry,' he addressed the groom, 'have you clocked this castaña's speed along those sands?'

  'That we have, sir.' Larry broke into a grin. 'He's quite a goer and should be raced.'

  'I agree with you. I think it might be a good idea to enter him for the Staunton Stakes; see about it, will you?'

  'Happy to, sir.'

  'Did you catch that?' Jack murmured to Debra as they entered the house through the side way. 'Tidy Boy might turn out to be a winner, so you had better lay a bet on him when the time comes.'

  'He moves like silk through a loom,' she smiled. 'I'm just a little bit too light for him and my hands lack the strength he needs to keep him in control. I can see he's got Arab in him from the shape of his head.'

  'Have you noticed that similarity in Rodare?'

  'Yes.' She stood hesitant as Rodare entered the hall with Sharon. 'I won't join you for breakfast—'

  'Oh, but you will!' Jack caught her by the hand and marched her across to the diningroom which was flooded with sunlight through the open windows. An array of covered dishes stood on the sideboard and at Jack's insistence Debra helped herself to scrambled egg and kidneys, reflecting as she did so that life for the Salvadors on their island had stood still in time and the world of convenience foods wrapped in plastic seemed a thousand miles away. She somehow guessed that Rodare was responsible for this maintenance of a timeless, untouched atmosphere at Abbeywitch, as much in keeping with life in Spain as he could make it.

  As she followed Jack to the table, she couldn't help glancing round the room with a sense of appreciation. The proportions were superb, rising to a ceiling of such a felicity of detail it was almost Moorish, another reminder of what lay simmering in Salvador veins . . . there in Jack as well as Rodare, but buried deeper and not quite so close to the surface of his personality.

  Through the windows as they ate breakfast there stole the strong scent of flowers and watered flagstones drying in the sun beneath broad-leafed trees—camellia begonias, dusky red roses, and a great bed of mixed carnations and pinks. Larkspur stood tall and blue in companion with lupins, and gypsophila spilled around a pagola. It was the kind of garden Debra's mother would have loved, for in their narrow back garden at Newington Green she had grown as many shrubs and herbs as possible, with borders of flowers edged with aubretia, that heavenly mauve plant which was one of the reasons Debra was so fond of the colour.

  'That was a deep sigh?' Jack glanced up from his bacon and sausage, which he was greedily tucking into. At the other end of the long table Sharon was carrying on her flirtation with Rodare, who seemed in a mood to be charmed by her.

  'I was thinking how many flowers you have in the garden here at Abbeywitch, such an abundance of them, as if they thrive on the sea air.'

  'The island is in the same stream of climate as the Scilly Isles.' He broke a piece of toast and buttered it. 'It wouldn't have suited our infamous ancestor if it had been a cold island, for Spaniards love the sun.'

  'The desert in them,' she murmured. 'Shades of the sirocco and the seraglio.'

  His lips quirked. 'So you've noticed Rodare with his head inclined to Sharon's lively chatter. She does look the kind of bright flower he might want to lock up with the seven keys of Moorish legend, behind the iron grilles of his
granja deep in the heart of Andalucia. Those roses you can smell are from cuttings he brought from there, so deep red and velvety they hold their scent for hours, especially in the evening.'

  Jack paused to refill Debra's coffee cup. 'You haven't changed your mind about this evening?'

  'No.' But she had to brace herself to say it. 'I don't go back on my word if I can help it.'

  'You went back on your word where Rodare was concerned.'

  'Oh—that.' She buried her nose in her cup of delicious coffee which she knew to be percolated from Brazilian beans especially ordered for the household. 'The entire idea was farcical and I said so.'

  'You actually used that word in reference to his—proposal?'

  'Yes, I said it was a farce and that couples in this country cared first and foremost about each other.'

  'Brave words, my wench.' Jack spooned thick golden marmalade on a wedge of toast. 'No wonder there's such an atmosphere between the two of you—I noticed it this morning. You could have cut it with a knife.'

  'I daresay.' She managed to sound cool and casual. 'Anyway, he dredged up some of his Latin courtesy and apologised for calling me a novice where riding is concerned.'

  Jack gave a quiet laugh, but his eyes were thoughtful as they dwelt on her face and hair in the stream of sunlight through the windows. She felt her skin warming beneath his gaze and knew what was going through his mind . . . he was curious about Rodare's insistence that her hair was naturally castaña, as he had called the chestnut horse.

  Indelibly fixed in Debra's mind was an image of herself stretched upon the sand, quite nude beneath dark Spanish eyes which had not missed a detail of her person. How long he had stood regarding her before she stirred awake Debra would never know, but he had stood there long enough to have assessed each particle of her body, including such details as her natural colouring and the tiny mole on her left hip.

  'Does he consider you a novice at anything else?' Jack suddenly asked, almost as if he forced out the words.

  'I—don't quite know what you mean, Jack.' She wiped nervous fingers on her napkin.