Gay Cavalier
Page 10
Deirdre would not allow him to ride gallops, but together they rode out for long hours of walking exercise on the roads, sometimes alone but more often with the whole string behind them.
Spring was in the air and already the chestnut trees in the drive were in bud, the hedgerows gay with primroses and wood violets, the grass—in fields and paddock—taking on a new, fresh green luxuriance that promised well for summer grazing.
The weather too, was kind. All that week and well into the next, the sun shone in a blue, cloudless sky and the depression which had lain on Deirdre's spirit began, at last, to lift a little.
What did it matter, she asked herself, that Alan Carmichael was married? When had he ever led her to suppose that he thought of her in any other way than as a lost, bewildered child, whom he had tried to help? His silence since he had gone to London, and his continued absence there, were proof enough. If she needed proof…
In the meantime, things were going well. Sean, save for one brief visit to his studio, to fetch brushes and canvases, had kept his promise to remain and help her. Her father was improving rapidly—so much so that there was talk of his being released from hospital, on crutches, sooner than any of them had dared to hope: perhaps even within the next three or four weeks, if there were no complications. And last—but by no means least—Dan Haines, having bought and paid for Snowgoose, was now toying with the idea of buying a couple of point-to-point horses and keeping these, with Snowgoose, at the Stud.
If he did so, the overdraft that worried her so much could be paid off, and Joe's and the other lads' wages would be amply covered by the amount Dan paid in board. Her troubles were over, or so it seemed, and her father would be able to start his convalescence knowing that, financially, at all events, the tide had turned in his favour.
And yet, despite this reassuring conviction, Deirdre felt restless and strangely apprehensive, and her uneasiness increased when, on the morning of the Hunt Ball, she received a brief, friendly note from Alan Carmichael. Written from his London club, it announced his return and begged her, of her charity, to save him some dances. It was signed, in his neat, masculine hand: "Yours, Alan."
She read it at breakfast, with Sean seated opposite her, and, guiltily aware that she ought to show it to him, nevertheless refrained from doing so.
Sean, busy with his own correspondence, noticed nothing untoward. The last meet of the season was being held, traditionally, that morning at the Four Horseshoes in King's Martin, and Deirdre, who had planned to take one of the young horses out for an hour to improve his manners, was about to rise, with this as her excuse, when Sean said excitedly: "Well, now—what do you know?" He motioned to the letter he himself had just been reading and went on, his tone jaunty: "I've been asked to do a painting of Lord Meikle's Thunderbird, the Oaks winner. He wants to hang it in his board room or something. One hundred quid, plus an invitation to stay with Johnny Earless, his trainer, for as long as I need to do the sketches for it."
"Oh, Sean!" Deirdre went to him and hugged him impulsively, her own troubles forgotten in her delight at this unexpected stroke of good fortune which had come to her brother. "Sean, that's absolutely wonderful! Have you ever been paid as much as that for a picture?"
Sean grinned. "I have not! 'Tis my big chance, Deirdre, my child, and one I can't afford to miss. D'you think you'd be able to manage without me for three or four days? Barless's stables are just outside Newmarket, so I'd not be far away, if you needed me."
"Of course I can manage, Sean." Even as she said it, Deirdre's conscience pricked her. She could manage and she was genuinely glad, for Sean's sake, that he had been given this chance. Yet it was for neither of these reasons that her heart had quickened its beat. Bitterly she reproached herself as Sean began to make plans for his departure—she had no right to feel even mildly excited at the prospect of seeing Alan Carmichael again, at the thought that, in Sean's absence, he would probably come to the house. And he—he had no right, no possible right, to expect her to be interested in his return, to save him dances at the Hunt Ball, to sign himself, so casually, hers, when he was not hers and never could be…
Tears burned suddenly behind her lids but pride came, if belatedly, to her rescue and she would not let them fall. Better not to go to the Hunt Ball than to risk making a fool of herself and worse.
She said, her voice strained and unnatural: "Sean, when are you going? Surely not today? I thought—"
"Child, child, have you not heard a word I've been saying?" Sean reproached her. "Sure, I'd not miss the Hunt Ball tonight for all the tea in China! Old Meikle's in a hurry, it seems—that's why I've the commission offered to me, instead of Gerald Hartog, who's away. But 'twill be time enough if I go down to look at the filly at the weekend, leaving on Friday night, perhaps, or first thing Saturday morning. I'll give Barless a ring and see when it will suit him best to have me. And whilst I'm away, Deirdre, ask Dan for any advice or help you need—he's a grand fellow and he knows his stuff. He'll be most willing to do anything he can to lend a hand and he said he'd be over most days next week, for an hour or so." He patted Deirdre's hand. "Ach, now—you're looking worried! Why, for mercy's sake? You're the one who's doing all the work around here—you and Paddy, of course. I'm just a figurehead. You don't need me here at all, not really, for I'm doing nothing."
"You're taking the responsibility," Deirdre reminded him, and he smiled.
"Well, if you say so, perhaps I am. But you'd have a hard job to convince himself that I've done it, for hasn't he always maintained that I can't?"
"I think he's changed his mind about that now, Sean," Deirdre objected. "He told me last night that he thought you'd done wonders."
"Did he now?" Sean looked pleased. He drained his coffee cup and rose stiffly to his feet. "Well, I suppose it's time I performed a few more wonders, before I go into Carfield General to boast to my father about them. I'd like to be able to tell him I'd sold Martin's Luck and Gay Cavalier to Dan Haines before I return to my Bohemian existence."
Deirdre went with him to the door. "Do you think you will? Sell them to Dan, I mean?"
"I'll have a damn good try, anyway," her brother promised. He hesitated, regarding her with puckered brows. "You're hunting today, are you not?"
Deirdre nodded. "Yes, they're meeting at the Horseshoes, so I thought I'd take Gold Dust out for an hour, just to let him look at hounds and potter about. It would do him good, he's apt to play up when he gets in a crowd. I'll have to hurry, Sean, because I've Marigold to exercise before I go."
"Wait a minute," Sean begged, "I've got an idea. Take Martin's Luck instead and enjoy yourself for once. You've not had a hunt in weeks and if anyone's earned a break, you have. You know what they say about all work and no play!"
"Yes, but—"
"Wait, child, wait? There's method in my madness. I'll give Dan a ring and suggest he might like to come to the meet—he's always saying he'd like to see a fox-hunt. It's just possible that if he sees Martin's Luck in action, it might make him clinch the deal. I'm taking a leaf from Father's book, in case you hadn't realized it." He grinned at her impishly. "Well, what about it? If Dan can't come, there's no harm done, and you'll get a decent hunt instead of having your arms pulled out by one of your ill-mannered youngsters. Sure, it'll put you in the right mood to enjoy the Ball tonight, won't it?"
At his mention of the Ball, Deirdre's conscience began, once more, to plague her. Her face clouded. "Sean, I—"
Sean's smile faded as he looked down at her. "For pity's sake, you still don't look happy! Is anything wrong, Deirdre?"
Deirdre was silent for a long moment. Finally she said: "No. Nothing you can help, Sean. It's just that I—well, if you wouldn't mind, I think I'd rather not go to the Hunt Ball. You see—" She drew a deep, painful breath and Sean put in reproachfully:
"Ach, come now, Deirdre child, you can't let me down at the last minute like this."
"Let you down?" Deirdre protested. "But you'll have Penelope to dance with, you
won't need me."
"Much dancing I shall get with Penelope, and her father there," Sean returned ruefully. He put his arm round Deirdre's slim shoulder, drew her to him. " 'Tis not on my own account I want you to come entirely, you know. I've got tickets for Dan and young Dwight—they've never been to an English Hunt Ball. We were keeping it as a surprise for you, at Dwight's modest request. You'll break the poor lad's heart if you don't go with him—not to mention offending Dan, which we can't afford to do. Change your mind, Deirdre, will you not? Sure, you'll enjoy it when you get there, you know you will."
"I—" Deirdre avoided his searching, puzzled gaze.
"Oh, yes, all right. I was being stupid, I suppose. I'd like to go."
"Fine." He kissed her and added, very gently: "If it's Carmichael you're worrying about, I don't think he'll be there. I've heard he's in London and hasn't come back yet. But, even if he has—sure, I'll be with you—and Dwight. Incidentally"—he was watching her narrowly—"they say there's a Mrs. Carmichael at Manor Farm… just in case you were still wondering."
"Yes," Deirdre answered. Her voice was quite steady. "Yes, Sean—I know."
"Well then," Sean persisted, "why worry? If I can meet him—"
"I'm not worrying." But the letter she had received burned a hole in her pocket. She wanted to tell him of it but could not bring herself to the point of doing so. "Honestly, I'm not."
"Good child!" Sean approved. "That's the only way to take it, you know—on the chin."
"I—I suppose it is. But—oh, Sean, tell me just one thing, will you? How did you know that he—that Alan Carmichael had a wife? And why do you dislike him so much?"
Sean stiffened, and a spasm of pain twisted his features into a bitter smile. "You'll not rest until you've the whole damned story wormed out of me, will you?" he accused.
"If you'd rather not tell me, that's your affair. But how did you know he was married? Because no one else did."
Sean was silent. When at last he spoke, his voice was cold. "Because," he said, "we were in the same P.O.W. camp in Korea, and when Carmichael made an attempt to escape, he left a letter with me, in case he didn't make it. The letter was addressed to Mrs. Alan Carmichael."
"Oh—" Deirdre stared at him in some astonishment.
"But you—I thought you said you didn't know him well?"
"I didn't."
"But he left his letter with you—"
"So did the others who made the escape attempt with him. I'd a place to hide the letters, you see—" He gestured towards his injured leg and his expression was grim. "Would you really like to know why it is that I can't breathe the same air as Colonel Almighty Carmichael, Deirdre? 'Tis not a pretty story."
"I—" Deirdre hesitated. But she had to know, she had to understand. "If you—Sean, if you feel you can tell me."
"I suppose I shall have to," Sean said wearily, "for I don't imagine Carmichael will keep his mouth shut about it for ever and I'd rather you heard it from me than from him. The ugly truth is, little sister, that I was under open arrest when our position was overrun and we were captured by the Chinese. But for that I'd have been court-martialled on a charge of cowardice in the face of the enemy—I'd probably have been given a prison sentence and discharged with ignominy, if the case had ever been heard. And the man who brought the charge and ordered my arrest was Carmichael. We were captured together and we only met once afterwards—when he made his escape attempt, which wasn't successful. After that, they kept him in solitary confinement." He shrugged. "I expect that taught him a thing or two, it wasn't pleasant. Anyway, when we were finally released, after the Armistice, Carmichael didn't proceed with the charges, presumably on humanitarian grounds, since I was wounded and in hospital."
"Oh, Sean!" Deirdre looked up into her brother's white, bitter face and her heart contracted. "Oh, darling, I'm so dreadfully sorry I asked you, I—I'd no idea."
"No," he agreed and there was a wealth of scorn in his voice, "you always thought I was a hero, didn't you? I told you that you wouldn't like it when you knew."
"But"—she clung to him—"Sean, the charges weren't true, were they? They couldn't have been—"
"No, they weren't," Sean answered flatly, "or, at all events, they weren't justified. I was wounded. I couldn't have obeyed his orders if I'd wanted to, damn him! But he accused me of cowardice, of refusing to fight. I remember I just sat and stared at him and didn't answer. I was out to it, sort of half-way round the bend, I think, and nothing seemed to make any sense."
"I suppose"—Deirdre ventured, trying vainly to reconcile this story with what she knew of Alan Carmichael—"I suppose he knew you were wounded, Sean?"
Her brother lifted his head and his very blue eyes had a bewildered look in them as they met hers. "You know," he said softly, "that possibility never occurred to me! Divil take it, I wonder if he ever did?"
He turned on his heel abruptly and went limping from the room.
Deirdre stood miserably where she was, her heart feeling as if it had been turned to stone. Pity for Sean and agonizing self-reproach added to her wretchedness. Poor Sean —poor, proud, unhappy Sean—was it any wonder that he had refused to speak of what had happened, of the humiliation he had endured? Was it any wonder that he hadn't wanted her to have anything to do with Alan Carmichael, that he had revolted at the thought of her asking him to the house? And she—she in her ignorance and selfishness, her lack of understanding—she had hurt her brother unbearably. She had—almost—lost her heart to the one man, above all others, whom he hated. A man who, amongst other things, was married…
Deirdre buried her burning face in her two trembling hands and wept until she could weep no more.
And then, because she was no coward and because she had a job to do, she went up to her room to get ready to go hunting, hiding the traces of her tears as best she could under a film of powder.
When she reached the yard, she found that Martin's Luck had been saddled for her and that there was a message from Sean to say that Dan Haines would be at the meet and that Joe was exercising Marigold. Of Sean himself there was no sign…
Well, she thought, she deserved that. She mounted the big chestnut and rode out of the yard, her head held high.
CHAPTER NINE
The village street was crowded when Deirdre reached it. Cars lined both sides of the open space in front of the inn, and people on foot and on horseback were milling about busily in the yard and in the field behind it. Grooms in shirtsleeves bustled about their be-rugged charges, tightening girths and adjusting tackle; horseboxes arrived, crawling at snail's pace through the crowd, to halt wherever they could find parking space, impeded by a jostling, good-natured throng of followers on foot and schoolchildren, released temporarily from the school playground in the centre of the village.
The Pony Club was well represented and Deirdre was greeted on all sides by eager smiles and excited, high-pitched, childish voices; a flat, unclipped Shetland pony blocked her way for a moment or two, its owner, a diminutive but determined small boy, scarlet with shame, kicking frantically but ineffectually at the sides of his indifferent mount, his small crop raised threateningly above the obstinate creature's lowered head.
Hounds, having hacked out from the Kennels, arrived just as Deirdre entered the inn field and somehow, miraculously, the street cleared to let them pass, to cries of: "Hounds, gentlemen, hounds, please!" from the First Whip. They made a brave spectacle, with their waving sterns and twisting, mottled bodies, with Joe Tyler, the Huntsman, in their midst, whip dangling and bony, weather-beaten face wreathed in smiles as he touched his cap to those who gave him "good-morning." The children and foot followers fell in behind, seizing their opportunity to escape from the congestion.
Deirdre saw Dan Haines' Cadillac parked some distance from the road, but Dan wasn't in it and she set off in search of him, finally running him to earth amongst the admiring circle of schoolchildren clustered about the terrier-man, with his two small, fierce White West Highlands.
Dan grinned. "He's a great horse, isn't he? I think I'll have to have him, Deirdre. I was solid on Gay Cavalier before, but I wasn't sure about this feller, for various reasons. But now—" His grin widened.
"Wait," Deirdre suggested, "until you've seen him in the hunting field."
Dan glanced at his watch. "Sure I will, for as long as I can. But that's not very long. I must be back in the mess by lunch-time without fail."
"They're moving off now," Deirdre told him, pointing to the First Whip's black velvet cap, bobbing up and down among the crowd. "I expect they'll draw Brett's Wood first, they usually do from here. It's about a quarter of a mile from where you left your car."
"Oh, heck!" Dan exclaimed, "I wonder if I'll ever get to my car in this? It's as bad as a baseball crowd."
"Hang on and I'll go with you," Deirdre offered. Dan grasped her ankle and they set off in the wake of the field.
When they reached his car, Dan smiled his thanks.
"I hope I haven't held you up," he said apologetically, "you were a big help, anyway. Enjoy yourself. I'll keep along the road after you, but if I shouldn't see you again —so long and thanks a lot. See you this evening." He saluted and got into his car. Deirdre waved and, turning Martin's Luck sharply right-handed, put him at the low brush fence which bordered the road. He took it neatly, almost from a standstill, as she had known he would, and she cantered off after the rest of the hunt, well pleased with him. It had been a showy little trick, worthy of her father's tactics, but Dan, she was aware, set much store by well trained horses and would, undoubtedly, have been impressed.