by Mira Stables
Charles nodded. “Though I might phrase it more courteously in your presence, I am wholly in agreement with him. The tail of an army is no place for a gently bred female.”
“I told you gentlemen didn’t understand. If I were married to a soldier I could not endure to be left behind. How could one bear to be safe and comfortable at home, to wear fine clothes and go to parties, and even flirt with other gentlemen, because I know that fashionable ladies do so, and to know all the time that one’s husband was probably cold and hungry, perhaps even wounded, with not so much as a comfortable pillow for his head?”
But Charles shook his head, saying soberly, “Think of the other side of it, my child. How could a man do his work with all his mind and strength, how could he go into battle, knowing that the wife whom he had vowed to cherish was exposed to deadly danger through his own selfishness in keeping her at his side? And believe me, war is not romantic. The days of chivalry are done. There may be deathless courage on the battlefield—I have seen it—but there’s a deal of dirt and pain and loss. And when a city is sacked—if you had seen—” He broke off abruptly. “But I should not be speaking of such things. What matters more at the moment is that Sir Nicholas says he has sent to discover whether he is your guardian under your father’s will. It must be several days before he can expect an answer, but you should be on your guard. He is quite capable of producing some authentic looking document in an attempt to trick you into submission to his wishes. Since you are all so sure that your father would never have committed you to his care, it may well be that you will find yourself a ward of court. That would afford you some degree of protection.”
Nell understood very little of this legal phraseology, but if Charles said it was a good thing, she was prepared to accept his dictum. She found deep comfort in a growing conviction that her new ally would not lightly desert her, so that it was in a reasonably cheerful frame of mind that she retired to her room to the promised refreshment of a glass of warm milk, Sir Nicholas having pronounced that the tea served in these parts was quite undrinkable.
In spite of the mildness of the summer night a tiny fire had been kindled in her bedchamber, and though its warmth was superfluous its gay little flames were cheerful. The glass of milk, carefully wrapped, was standing on the hearth. She sipped it distastefully. She had never really liked milk, and determined in future to ask for coffee or chocolate. It was growing late. By the time that she had loaded the pistol and tucked it back into the workbag, she was quite thankful to prepare for bed.
But her sleep was restless and broken and she woke early to hear the grandfather clock on the turn of the stairs strike six. For a little while she lay relaxed, trying to recapture the comfort of drowsy forgetfulness, but it was no good. Sundry small sounds from the yard below announced that others were astir. There was the clink of pails and the sound of a horse’s hoofs. Feeling ever more wide awake, she finally decided to get up and go for a walk.
A rather scrambling toilet sufficed. She would make good deficiencies when she came back. She pushed open the casement and leaned out, considering the several paths that she might take and finally deciding on the one that led through the orchard, a decision not uninfluenced by the idea that ripe cherries would make an agreeable start to her explorations. Just below her window she noticed as she drew in her head, was a mounting block. It would have been almost possible to have made her exit from the inn by this unorthodox route. A year or two ago she would not have hesitated. Nowadays she thought sadly, feeling positively decrepit, the thought of ripped muslin and bedraggled petticoats was sufficient to restrain her, even if the impropriety of such behaviour was not. She turned her back on temptation and went sedately along the corridor and down the staircase to the front door. The little maid, busily scrubbing the steps, gave her a shy good morning as she went by, but there was no other sign of life about the inn’s frontage.
The orchard proved quite as rewarding as she had hoped. There were betraying stains about her lips and fingers when she finally left its confines and wandered down the lane that led towards Springbourne. And presently she found a companion. There was a rustling and a heaving in the overgrown ditch that bordered the lane, and a chestnut red head appeared followed, after another upheaval, by the shoulders and forepaws of a half grown setter pup. He was a friendly creature with most engaging ways, and to judge by the broken cord dangling from his neck, he too was playing truant. He lolloped happily towards Nell, flinging mud and water over her skirts. His legs were disgracefully mired and clotted, but his plumy flag of a tail waved in delighted circles at their meeting. It was impossible, mud or no mud, to repulse such a confiding fellow, and Nell made much of him, fondling the nobly domed head that shone almost blood red in the early sunlight, and petting his silken ears. He invited her to a game of stick retrieving, laughing up at her open mouthed each time he laid the trophy at her feet.
When, however, she wished to resume her strolling progress, the puppy dissented. There were, he assured her, far more attractive scents to be savoured towards Wintringham. She left him snuffling joyfully on some tantalising trail, and walked on towards Springbourne, her thoughts pleasantly concerned with the personality and provenance of the mare that was to arrive, as by magic, for her to ride this morning. She must be coming from Trevannions, some six miles distant, for without even considering the matter she was perfectly well aware that Charles would never put her up on some unknown, untried hireling. She supposed that Giles must have brought her over from Trevannions the previous evening.
It was time to be making her way back, for she would have to put off her muddied dress before breakfast. It was a great nuisance that she could not immediately change into her riding habit, but no doubt Sir Nicholas would taken exception to such casual behaviour. Besides, the habit was shabby, and not so becoming as she would wish. She really must make arrangements to be measured for a new one.
A bridle path diverged promisingly from the lane, veering back towards Wintringham. It meandered gently towards the crest of a low hill crowned by a clump of beeches, and should, she estimated, if her father’s teaching stood her in good stead, bring her out within two or three hundred yards of the inn. Forsaking the lane she climbed towards the modest summit. It was rougher walking than the lane, the dry turf deeply pitted by hoof marks, and the ascent steeper than it looked. Nor were her light sandals really suitable for such conditions. She grew warm and breathless, and was glad to rest a moment in the shade of the beech trees when she at last reached them. Her calculations, she was pleased to observe, had been quite accurate. Below her and a little to her left lay the Fleece. She had approached it from a fresh angle which presented her with an end-on view. It really made a charming picture she decided, viewing it critically from her vantage point on the hill. The gable end had been recently whitewashed and a climbing rose was flaunting heavy pink blooms against the whiteness. The windows twinkled in the sun, and the side door stood invitingly ajar. From it a cobbled path ran between low clipped hedges to a willow fringed duck pond. An old grey horse grazing beside an uptilted cart at the water’s edge completed the pastoral scene. It was a pity, thought Nell, that she had no aptitude for water colour sketching, for this was just the sort of picture that her more gifted friends loved to commit to paper.
But even as she gazed, the placidity of the scene was roughly shattered. An agitated squawking, audible even at that range, broke out from under the willows. The old grey horse raised his head to stare for a minute, then lumbered off to seek a more peaceful spot, and the stocky, aproned figure of the landlord appeared in the open doorway. At this point the cause of all the commotion passed briefly across the field of Nell’s vision. It was her friend of the ditch, now in hot pursuit of the ducks. No doubt the rivulet he had been investigating drained into the pond and so had led him naturally to the point where a new and utterly delightful pastime presented itself to his eager energy.
“Oh! You bad boy!” Nell smiled to herself, and watched to see what woul
d happen. She could hear the landlord shouting angrily at the dog, which rather understandably paid no heed, being now within inches of the madly paddling brood. Even as she realised that the landlord had stopped shouting and gone into the inn, she saw the dog hurl itself half out of the water and seize the nearest duck. She felt apprehensive. Bart Rudd was not likely to be merciful to a strange dog found raiding his duck pond. Certainly her mischievous young friend must be punished, but he was only a puppy and knew no better. Without realising it she began to run, with some idea of averting a punishment that might be out of all proportion to the sin. It was too late. The innkeeper had emerged once more. Standing beside the cart, one hand resting on its framework and the other held out to the dog, he was calling to it in commanding but friendly tones very different from his earlier shouting. The dog, trusting as ever, and obviously quite unaware of any crime, was advancing towards him with difficulty, his progress impeded by the heavy duck which he was carrying, his tail waving in triumph. He laid the duck at the landlord’s feet and looked up at him, just as he had done at Nell. The duck got up and waddled hastily away, apparently unharmed. Nell sighed her relief. The dog turned its head to watch the duck, and the landlord’s hand came away from the cart frame holding a heavy iron bar which he brought down with all his strength on the silken head which Nell had caressed. There was no sound, though she felt for a moment that she must close her ears to the horrible crunching of the shattered skull and the dying scream that had never been uttered. The splendid body, so eloquent of joyous living, lay in a limp huddle at the landlord’s feet, and even as she watched, unable to drag her gaze away, the man stopped and caught it up by the neck, the legs trailing pathetically as he went round the corner of the building and out of sight.
Chapter Ten
A wave of nausea swept over her. When she closed her eyes she could still see that sprawled shape. She clenched her hands, trying to fight down the sickness that threatened to defeat her. Then footsteps came crashing along the path behind her, and she heard through her sick daze Charles’s voice calling, “Nell! Are you here?”
She turned towards him blindly, her hands going out in unconscious appeal. Charles stared at her in shocked dismay. Having been advised by the little serving maid that she had seen the young lady walking down the Springbourne road, he had set out to meet her, and not seeing her on the road had taken the fairly obvious bridle path. Coming up behind her he had seen nothing of what had occurred, but the look on her face was all too familiar to him. He had seen just such a look of sickened disbelief on the faces of young raw troops brought face to face for the first time with violent death. What in heaven’s name, he thought, observing now her mudstained dress and generally dishevelled appearance, had befallen her?
Then she was in his arms, her small hands beating frantically at his breast, great tears raining down her cheeks as she sobbed out some disjointed phrase of which the only words he could make out were, “to kill him like that,” and something about “friendly” and “trusting”. Seriously perturbed and wondering what in the world the child had seen, Charles petted and soothed her back to coherence, holding her cradled against him in one arm while he mopped up her tears with his handkerchief and murmured sundry foolish endearments which later made him blush to remember.
He was considerably relieved when at last he managed to extract the story from a pathetically drooping girl, quiet now save for an occasional shuddering sob, for he had feared that she had stumbled unwittingly into the skein of murder and treachery that lay somewhere close at hand. He managed however to hide his relief, knowing that in her present state any attempt to make light of the incident would only convict him of heartlessness without in any way comforting her. Nor must he be too sympathetic. What she needed was bracing—something to give her thoughts another direction.
“Come now, my child, you’ve cried enough. Remember you’re a soldier’s daughter, and we have work to do,” he said kindly but firmly. She responded instinctively, drawing herself away from his supporting arm and searching for her own handkerchief to remove the last traces of the storm of tears.
He allowed her a brief space to recover her composure, then went on comfortingly, “Try not to grieve too much over the dog. Remember he cannot have suffered. To be snuffed out instantly at the height of his vigorous youth is not so bad a fate. Many a wounded soldier has wished it had been his.”
Nell sighed. “Must I stay in that man’s house? I’m sure I can never bring myself to speak to him.”
“I will explain that you saw from a distance his dealings with the dog, and that it has distressed you. Which is perfectly understandable. It will give you a reason for avoiding him, and you will be well advised to do so, for I believe him to be a very dangerous man. Now—we must go back before Sir Nicholas misses us and develops further moral scruples.”
They left the sheltering beeches and walked down the path towards the inn. “I trust that this sorry start to the day has not given you a dislike for the scheme of riding with me,” suggested Charles tentatively. “If you do not feel able for it I shall quite understand, but we shall have few enough opportunities for private converse, and there are several matters to be discussed.”
“I wouldn’t forego it for anything,” said Nell with convincing warmth. “I have been thinking about it this morning, and wondering about the mare. If she has any tricks you had better warn me. A nice thing it would be if she were to put me off under Sir Nicholas’s nose, such old friends as we are supposed to be. And I have not ridden for some months and am sadly out of practice.”
“From Giles’s accounts of your early prowess I doubt if even my Marquis would put you off,” returned Charles, thankful to see some of the animation returning to the woe-begone little face, “and certainly Martina would not. She is the gentlest creature, with perfect manners, though she dearly loves a frolic if you are in the mood.”
“She sounds perfectly delightful. Is Giles bringing her over from Trevannions?”
“He went over for her last night, so that she could get accustomed to her strange stable,” he teased gently, and was rewarded by a little smile.
“Is not Martina an odd name for a horse? I am sure I have never heard it before.”
“She is out of my grandfather’s stud,” explained Charles. “All of them have names that begin with MAR, to signify their descent from his great stallion, Mars. The two I have with me are Marshall and Marquis. But actually the lady you are to ride is generally known as Tina, and it will be more natural for you to call her so.” He went on talking gently of the horses and their names and personalities, of the bay Andalusian, Galoon, who liked a drink of ale, and such anecdotes as he could recall that were fit for a lady’s ears, and presently had the satisfaction of having her converse naturally without her earlier palpable efforts. Entering the inn was clearly an ordeal, but she faced it steadily, and by a fortunate chance she was able to make good her retreat to her own room without encountering either her uncle or the landlord.
Charles made his way into the coffee room where he found Sir Nicholas already at breakfast. To his polite greeting the baronet returned a cool nod and continued his application to the cold beef. Nor did Charles’s explanation of the reason for Nell’s tardy appearance seem to affect his appetite. He went on calmly consuming his breakfast, and not until he had done justice to the beef and was pouring himself a cup of coffee did he offer any comment on the tale. Then he said indifferently, “I have little patience with such sickly sentiment as females are wont to indulge in. If the brute was killing his poultry, Rudd did very right to knock it on the head. I daresay she will get over it,” and proceeded to drink his coffee, walking over to the window embrasure to do so, which permitted him to turn his back on Charles and so preclude the need for any further conversation.
When Nell finally appeared, with a murmured apology for her lateness, he offered no comment, merely saying that he was driving into Rye on business later in the morning, but presumed that she did not wis
h to accompany him. Nell only wished that he would set off at once, so that she might be free of the constraint of his presence. She was aware that her face still showed traces of tears, and she was having some difficulty in choking down a morsel of bread and butter. The hot coffee was good though. It steadied her, and soothed the ache of weeping in her throat. And Charles, in the intervals of eating his own breakfast, produced a sufficient flow of casual remarks to cover her silence, and managed eventually to draw her into a discussion of a suitable route for their morning’s ride. Even Sir Nicholas contributed his mite towards this topic, saying that he understood there was a very pretty ride along towards Pett, which he was sure they would much enjoy if it was not too far for a lady.
Nevertheless it was with relief that Nell left the breakfast table and went to put on her riding dress. The sound of horses clattering over the cobblestones in the yard brought her to the casement. There was Giles riding the big bay and leading the mare, a beautiful creature with a coat like black silk. Hastily she resumed her struggles with the tight habit, then crammed on her hat, snatched up her whip and ran downstairs. The mare and the Andalusion were hitched to rings in the mounting block and Giles was busy over Marquis in the stable. She could hear the murmur of the men’s deep voices as she walked across to the mare. Black ears pricked forward and soft dark eyes regarded her with intelligent interest as she put up a hand to pat the smooth neck. The mare blew gustily at her, tossed her head a little, then apparently decided to make overtures of friendship, dropping her soft muzzle on the girl’s shoulder.
“Tina,” said Nell contentedly, the morning’s grief temporarily forgotten, “my lovely, lovely girl. Oh! Aren’t you just a beauty!”
“Poor Galoon is quite cast in the shade,” said Charles’s voice behind her. “Haven’t you a word to spare for him? And how about Marquis here? He also appreciates a little attention.”