Gay Cavalier

by Alex Stuart

  But he had thought over what he should do, during the time he had waited for her to return—restlessly pacing the yard and then, when he felt cold, going into Marigold's box to continue his fruitless vigil. He would have to go away. He couldn't go on seeing Deirdre like this, as matters now stood, because it hurt him too much and because he knew his own limitations, was aware that, sooner or later and despite the stern control he had imposed on himself, he would betray his feelings, if not to her, then certainly to others. And he had no right to embarrass her. She had made her choice: this had been abundantly clear to him, without Bridget's excited words to Paddy, earlier in the evening, which he hadn't been meant to overhear and which had shattered his hopes finally and irrevocably.

  Deirdre started to tell him about Sean but he didn't really hear what she was saying. Bridget's voice beat in his brain, her remembered words went endlessly round and round in his head. Loyal and fiercely partisan where her young mistress was concerned, Bridget had described, with a wealth of picturesque detail, how she had gone into the study without knocking and seen Deirdre in young Dwight Nelson's arms…

  And she hadn't been displeased, Alan recalled. What had she said? "Sure and they never heard me, they'd eyes for no one but each other, so they had not. What could I do, save creep out and back to me kitchen, quiet as a mouse? The shock of me life I had when I went back with the tray and found Sir Henry there, five minutes later. And Miss Deirdre with him, white as a sheet, and Mr. Dwight away in the ambulance and not a word said about his going so suddenly. I don't know what happened between them but"—and Alan tensed, as he remembered—"make no mistake about it, Paddy," Bridget had asserted positively, " 'tis a match they'll make of it, the two of them, if they've half a chance. And who's to say he's not the best man for her, all things considered? Not yourself, surely?"

  He hadn't caught Paddy's reply: he had moved away, swiftly, out of earshot, not wanting to hear any more. But he had heard enough, heaven help him—enough to know that the girl he loved was not for him. It was one thing to oppose a rival, quite another, by his code, to seek to destroy Deirdre's happiness, once she had given her heart to that rival…

  And he had nothing against young Nelson. The boy was a fine stamp of youngster: Dan Haines thought a lot of him, Bridget all too evidently approved of him, he had a good service record, according to his colonel. And if Deirdre loved him, well, he had everything to offer her.

  Alan said, breaking into Deirdre's description of her visit to the hospital with Sir Henry: "I'm glad that it's all worked out so splendidly for your brother. You must be relieved."

  "Yes." Deirdre turned to look at him, disturbed by the harsh note in his voice. But his face was in shadow and she could make out no detail of his expression. She managed uncertainly: "Would you like to come in for a—for a drink? I don't know why we're standing out here."

  "I think," Alan answered, "if you'll forgive me, I won't. Actually, I waited to see you for two reasons—the first was, of course to tell you about Marigold and to say that I'll have Moonbeam sent over tomorrow, so that he's available for you for the point-to-point on Monday. And the second was to make my adieux. I'll be going away for a bit."

  "Going away?" Deirdre echoed. Her heart sank. He'd said nothing about going away until this moment: at lunch, he had spoken of the South Kinsdale Point-to-Point as if he intended to be there—he'd mentioned going over to Mel-ford, too, to watch Petitioner's race. It must be a very sudden and unexpected decision. "You—" There was a catch in her voice. "Is there anything wrong, Alan?"

  "No," he returned steadily, "there's nothing wrong, my dear. And nothing to keep me here, at the moment. I can't begin farming until my buildings are passed for T.T. And we've struck a snag there! So I thought I'd take my mother up to London for a week or so—she's due to go back, in any case, and we haven't seen much of each other during the last few years. And I suspect that she's missed my sister since Maxwell married her and took her abroad. I think she'd enjoy a round of mild gaiety."

  "Oh, yes," Deirdre agreed numbly, "I expect she would. Only you—I mean, you did say you were going to the point-to-point. I thought—" She broke off, flushing.

  "I know you'll ride Moonbeam to victory most expertly for me." He smiled but he avoided her gaze.

  The colour drained from Deirdre's cheeks as suddenly as it had risen. "I'll do my best, of course. But I—oh, dear, now I know I'm depriving you of your ride! I'd much rather you kept him for the Open and rode him yourself. Why don't you?"

  Alan shook his head. "I honestly don't want to. You see…"

  He knew his explanation sounded as weak as it was but he had to get away. It would be more than he could bear to see her there with Dwight Nelson at her side, her accepted suitor. Whilst he was ready to relinquish her to Dwight, since the young American was obviously the husband she wanted, it was more than flesh and blood could stand, actually to witness and accept the fact of their engagement More than his flesh and blood could stand, anyway.

  Even now, as they stood side by side in the soft, moonlit darkness, it was all he could do not to touch her. His arms ached, in their futile emptiness—ached with the longing to reach out and enfold her in a swift, ardent embrace. She was so young and slim and lovely, with her face, white in the moonlight, upturned to his. He wanted her as he had never in his life wanted any woman. His lips were stiff with the physical strain of holding them into a semblance of a smile but, somehow, he did hold them. Somehow he managed to speak the trite, meaningless words that were his farewell and his renunciation, delivered so stiffly and unconvincingly that Deirdre felt them as a blow, stabbing her to the heart.

  It did not occur to Alan that he might be hurting her as bitterly as he was hurting himself or that she, listening to him, might misinterpret what he was saying to her. He stumbled on and finally, in the most prosaic and hurtful of gestures, held out his hand.

  Deirdre's, when he took it, was trembling and very limp. He held it for an instant and then his soul rebelled against this thing he must do and he released it as if her touch had burned him.

  "Well, good-night, Deirdre. And—good-bye, for the time being. I'll be leaving for town fairly early, I expect."

  "So," said Deirdre, when she could find her voice, "so shall I. Sir Henry and Lady Hollis are calling for me at nine. We're going up together."

  "To London?" he asked, startled. "You mean you're going to London with the Hollises?"

  Deirdre stared at him. "Yes, of course—I told you. We're going up for Sean's wedding. It's at a church in Chelsea—the one Sean attends when he's in London."

  "Oh. Oh, yes, I see." It was evident that he hadn't heard what she had been trying to tell him about Sean and Penelope. Deirdre's hurt bewilderment increased. Surely, since they were both going to be in London, Alan would suggest a meeting? But he didn't. He just stood where he was, looking down at her as if he didn't see her. And yet he'd waited for nearly two hours, in order to set her mind at rest concerning Marigold: he'd been friendly and sympathetic when they had discussed the vet's verdict. And now… this! What could she possibly have said or done to upset him? She could think of nothing to account for his sudden change of manner, his strange coldness. He'd been very stiff at lunch, but that had been because of Dwight… Surely he couldn't think that Dwight… Oh, no, that was absurd, because neither of them had mentioned Dwight. And the servants must have told him of the young pilot's sudden and ignominious departure—the servants, or Dan.

  It was, nevertheless, on the tip of Deirdre's tongue to ask him, when he turned and said abruptly: "I'm keeping you up, aren't I? I'm sorry, you must be worn out, after the day you've had. Good-night, Deirdre—all the very best to you. And to Sean and Penelope too, of course, tomorrow. I—it's still rather on my conscience that I never managed to have a talk with Sean. Not that it will matter to him in the least but—oh, one likes to put these things right, if one can. Still, I'll see him when he comes back, I hope."

  "Yes," Deirdre said, and the question she
had meant to ask died on her lips. "Good-night," she whispered and made blindly for the door, to drag it open with a shaking hand.

  It was no use. She didn't understand him, hadn't an idea what could be wrong, and she couldn't stay there with the tears coursing down her cheeks in mute and awful betrayal.

  The door slammed shut behind her and she didn't know, in her misery, whether her hand or Alan's had slammed it.

  She leaned for an instant against the door, letting her head rest against its cool, polished surface. And then she heard the engine of his car start and, above the slow, sad beat of her heart, listened to the sound receding into the distance, until she could hear it no more.

  She knew then that Alan Carmichael had gone—that he had gone, for some reason she couldn't understand, out of her life.

  For a long time she stayed where she was, silent, too tired and dispirited even to find relief in tears.

  And then the telephone rang and Bridget came into the hall to answer it and found her there, so that she had to force a smile and pretend that everything was as it should be.

  Bridget was not deceived. She stood with the receiver in her hand, automatically saying "Hullo" and repeating their number, but her eyes were on Deirdre's face, shrewd, kindly old eyes that saw behind the defiant smile and the pretence.

  She said: "Yes, sir," twice into the telephone and then hung up. "That," she told Deirdre, as she took her into a warm and motherly embrace, "was Mr. Sean. He's on his way here now. And not before time, I think…"

  Sean arrived twenty minutes later, having dropped Penelope at her parents' house.

  "It's odd, you know," he told Deirdre, as he bent to kiss her, "but when it comes to the point, we're all of us sentimental and a trifle old-fashioned. Penelope was wanting to spend her last night at home, with her mother. We were both of us ready to run away together and defy Sir Henry, so long as he opposed our marriage. Now he's given in, it's spiked our guns completely! But I've told him Penelope's not wanting his allowance. I'll support my own wife, with no help from him." He grinned engagingly. "And I can! With the Thunderbird picture commissioned, 'twill give me the start I need, and lead to other commissions, too, with any luck."

  "Did you go to Newmarket then?" Deirdre questioned and her brother laughed. "Ach, sure I did, child. I'd the sketches half done before Penelope found me. And, like a good girl, she waited until I finished them, before she told me what she'd come for—and produced the marriage licence out of her pocket! She'd had it a week, would you believe it? She knew her father's temper better than I did. But he's being as civil to me as he knows how, at the moment—he's offered us a house on the estate, if we're wanting it—to rent from him, of course. I'll need to spend part of my honeymoon working on the painting, but as soon as it's done, I'll take Penelope to Venice for a week, on the proceeds. And if I can't paint in Venice, then there's no hope for me, is there?"

  Under the spell of his enthusiasm, Deirdre's depression lifted a little. He was so happy, so like the old, gay, charming Sean she remembered that affection for him warmed her frozen heart. Penelope's love had wrought a miracle— Sean's bitterness had gone, leaving no trace: he was sure of himself now, he had faith in the future and in the girl he was so soon to make his wife.

  Deirdre put her arms round his neck and hugged him.

  "Dear Sean, I'm so glad, so pleased for you! It's wonderful but it's no more than you deserve."

  "Is it not?" His blue eyes were teasing her as he held her close. "And how are things with you, little sister? I was hearing from Sir Henry about young Dwight. Sure, the boy's impulsive and he needed to be pulled up short, but there's no harm in him."

  "Oh, no," Deirdre agreed tonelessly, "I don't think there is. I'm fond of Dwight but—" She sighed and, despite all she could do, tears stood in her eyes and she had to hide her face against Sean's tweed-clad chest.

  His arms tightened about her. "But 'tis still Carmichael with you, is it?" he suggested.

  "Yes." Her voice was muffled. Gently, Sean raised her face so that he might look into it.

  "Then why the tears, child? Is the path of true love not running smoothly then?"

  "Not very, I'm afraid." Her smile was a gallant attempt but it was rueful.

  "What has gone wrong?" Sean asked. "Tell me, will you not? Two heads are better than one—'tis possible I may be able to help."

  "Oh," Deirdre said, "I don't think you can, I don't think anyone can. You see, I—well, I'm in love with him but he —oh, I don't know, Sean, but I think he's changed his mind about me."

  "He's spent most of his time here, by all accounts," Sean argued. "I saw Paddy when I was putting the car away just now. And he said the Colonel was about beside himself this afternoon, when he realized what had happened to Marigold and that you were riding her."

  "Oh!" Deirdre roused herself to stare at him. "Are you sure? What did Paddy say?"

  Sean told her, his smile indulgent. "So you see, child, your fears are groundless, aren't they? A man would never behave as Carmichael did if he were indifferent. To me, it sounds as if the poor fellow's head over heels in love with you."

  "And yet," Deirdre objected, "he told me he was going away—to London, with his mother. And we'll both be there at the same time, but he didn't suggest we should meet. He said good-bye tonight as if—as if he meant it."

  Sean's brows came together. "Did he now? That's queer, I must admit. How would it be—" He glanced at his watch. " 'Tis only a little after ten, you know, and you say he's told you that he's wanting to have a word with me. How would it be, do you think, if I were to go and call on him?"

  "Tonight?" Deirdre echoed. "Oh, no, Sean, you can't." Colour flooded her cheeks. "Besides, I'd rather you didn't. I—it wouldn't be the thing, really, would it?"

  "Perhaps not. But if he's going away tomorrow and I'm getting married, 'tis now or never, surely?"

  "Yes, but—oh, Sean, you couldn't just go to him and— and—" She broke off, ashamed.

  "And tell him my sister's breaking her heart over him?" Sean finished for her. "Ach, Deirdre, I've more sense than to do that! Sure, I can be quite a tactful fellow when I try."

  "I know you can. But all the same, I'd much rather you left it alone. Honestly I would. He—if he cares anything about me at all, he knows where to find me."

  "All right," Sean said. He kissed her with tender concern. "If you say so, I'll not interfere. And now I think you should go to bed. You're looking very tired and I can't have you coming to my wedding tomorrow with great dark circles under your eyes! Be off with you and get some sleep. I'll drive you up tomorrow—Penelope's going with her father and mother, of course. And if you can be ready at half-past eight, instead of nine, we could pay himself a visit on our way through Carfield."

  "Yes," Deirdre agreed, "he'd like that, Sean. He—he's very pleased about your marriage, you know. I took Sir Henry in to see him this evening. I expect he told you, didn't he?"

  Sean smiled. "Bless you, he did. I gather they got on reasonably well too—thanks largely to you, I'm sure. My future father-in-law is not an easy man to deal with, but you seem to have won his approval, at all events. For which, little sister, I'm grateful! Well, bedtime for you now. I'll be up myself in a few minutes. But I promised Paddy I'd have a last word with him and I've a 'phone call to make, too, before I go to bed. Good-night, child."

  "Good-night, Sean," Deirdre answered.

  Sean watched her ascend the staircase. He waited until she was out of sight, and he had heard her bedroom door close behind her, before he crossed to the telephone. Then he opened the directory and leafed through it. Finding the number he wanted, he picked up the receiver. The exchange repeated his number and he waited, drumming his fingers on the rest as he heard the metallic "brr… birr… brrr" of the ringing tone, monotonously repeated.

  After a while, a man's voice answered him.

  "Hullo, this is Thorpe 216123. Carmichael speaking."

  Sean took a deep breath. "And this," he said, "is Sean Sher
idan—ex-Corporal Sheridan, sir. Would it be too late for me to call round and see you? I—that is, I've a favour to ask of you."

  There was the briefest possible hesitation. Then Alan Carmichael said warmly: "Too late? Good heavens no, of course not. I'd be delighted to see you, Sheridan."

  "Right. Then I'll be on my way. It shouldn't take me more than twenty minutes. I'm at the Stud now."

  "I'll be waiting for you," Alan assured him, "and I'm more pleased than I can possibly say that you got in touch with me."

  Sean was smiling as he returned the receiver to its rest…

  Miserably, old Bridget faced Paddy across the kitchen table. She asked him, despairingly and for the third time:

  "Paddy, are ye sure, man? Are ye sure he heard?"

  "Sure?" Paddy scoffed. "Of course I'm sure, for wasn't he less than a dozen yards from us when I turned and saw him? He'll have heard every last word you said, so he will."

  "Certainly," Bridget conceded, "it would seem that he must have, for why else would he be rushing away like he did, without so much as setting foot in the house? And then there was Miss Deirdre. Ach, the poor child was standing by the front door when I went into the hall, and it in darkness, and the tears streaming down her cheeks. It broke me heart to see her the way she was."

  "And she said," Fergus O'Ryan questioned, as he held out his cup to be replenished, "that the Colonel was for going to London in the morning?"

  "She said that," Bridget confirmed, busy with the teapot.

  "And that he'd not be back in time for the point-to-point at all?"

  Bridget shook her head. "No, he'll not be back."

  They looked at each other. "There's only one thing we can do," Paddy said. His eyes went to Fergus. "If you," he went on thoughtfully, "if, for some very good reason, you were to cry off the ride on Petitioner, Fergus, then would it not be possible that you'd ask the Colonel to ride in your place? For he's the only one that could ride him at Melford and leave the horse with a chance at all."