by Mira Stables
This sparkling exchange apparently exhausted their conversational resources, and since Phoebe, having curtsied her greetings to her master, was engaged in furnishing Herrick with a long list of stores that she wanted the undergroom to purchase for her, there was an awkward little hiatus. Fortunately the pup did not appreciate the tension of the situation. She had become accustomed to being the centre of attention and when an imperative, “Yip!” failed to recall her humans to their duties, she proceeded to remedy matters by launching a growling attack on Mr Cameron’s riding boots. His explosive, “No!” and Russet’s, “Stopit, Jai!” came together, and so abashed the culprit that she rolled over on her back and, with all four paws waving helplessly in the air, endeavoured to explain that it was a complete misunderstanding. She had intended merely to polish the gleaming leather by the assiduous application of a small pink tongue. They had to laugh. Whereupon a pair of big dark eyes gleamed mischievously at them and the pup raced off after a leaf that was drifting in the gentle breeze.
“What did you call her?” asked Mr Cameron, still smiling. “Jay? Well—at least it has the merit of being short.” He studied the pup, now rolling rapturously in the sunshine which showed the golden beige of her coat, barred and dappled with black, in all its gleaming beauty. “I suppose it was her colouring that gave you the notion,” he conceded dubiously, “but I trust she will not prove so noisy as her namesake.”
“Not Jay! Jai,” she corrected, giving the initial ‘J’ its soft French pronunciation. And as he still looked puzzled, “Because she will never let go. What I have, I hold, might well serve as her motto, so J’ai seemed a good name for her.”
“You speak French?”
She laughed. “Because I know the first person singular of the verb avoir? Schoolgirl French, only, and spoken with a very English accent, I am told.”
“My mother preferred it to English,” he explained, “so to me it is the language of childhood. Very apt—your name. I like it. And has Jai proved a satisfactory companion for you?”
“So much so that I hope you mean to sell her to me when I go. I should be loath indeed to lose her now.”
He smiled, but shook his head slightly. “She is not really a lady’s dog, you know. Not smart or fashionable. You could not tuck her into your muff even now, and she is growing apace. Nor do I think she would really care for the social round. But we need not concern ourselves with that question at the moment.”
Russet, however, refused to be hinted away. She said resolutely, “It is close on a month that you have held me here. The time when you could count on doing so without awkward questions being asked is running out. When do you propose to let me go?”
His expression hardened perceptibly, but his voice was still pitched in a pleasantly conversational tone as he said, “That I cannot say at this present. Perhaps I shall be able to give you more precise information at the end of the week. In the meanwhile I will do what is possible to make your captivity less irksome. Though from what I can see”—his face was transformed by that characteristic grin—“you already enjoy the status of honoured guest. Quite one of the family, in fact.”
She said defensively, “I have kept my promise. It is true that I have had a great deal of liberty, but it was for Jai’s sake, and I have not abused it. I have not even attempted to spy out the land—to discover in what direction the nearest village lies, for instance, and that, you know, I might very well have done without breaking the actual letter of my promise.”
“You are a very unusual female, ma’am,” he told her. And now there was laughter mellowing the timbre of the deep voice. “So much so that I will venture another suggestion. Give me your—your parole d’honneur, and I will permit you to drive out—or to ride if you prefer it—for a little while each day. You must be heartily sick of this restricted scene.”
She hesitated. The offer was tempting—he was perfectly right about the monotony of the garden, delightful as it was—but acceptance would still further limit the time in which she could legitimately attempt escape.
He said thoughtfully, “I could not permit you to go into the village, of course. Not that I imagine you would use such a visit to further an attempt at freedom. It is just that, in your own interest, it would be better for your presence in my home to remain a secret.”
“It is rather late in the day for you to be considering my reputation,” suggested Russet tartly. “For I must suppose that that is what you mean. Very well, sir. I will accept your kindly suggestion, but only because I believe that you will very shortly be obliged to let me go without any particular effort on my part.”
“That we shall see,” he returned pleasantly. “As I informed you at the outset, you will be free to go as soon as my ward has settled her affairs, which must, I think, be very soon.”
“You are certainly a very conscientious guardian,” she said drily. “When I consider what I have been called upon to endure merely because you imagined that I had come between Letty and Staneborough, I must confess that I would not lightly choose to cross your will.”
“Then you will oblige me by taking Herrick with you if you wish to drive,” he retorted promptly. “Either the phaeton or the whiskey, whichever you prefer, and I have no objection to you driving yourself so long as you have someone reliable with you. If you prefer to ride, perhaps you would permit me to accompany you—at least until I can be sure that my horses are not too strong for you.”
“Your concern for my well-being is most commendable, sir. Or is it, perhaps, concern for your horses?”
He looked her straight in the eyes. “You deal shrewd blows, Miss Ingram. I am well aware that I deserved that one. I can only plead that you stood in little real danger from the ‘accident’ that delivered you into my hands. The place had been most carefully chosen, the timing well rehearsed. And may I further suggest that if my concern was only for my horses I might well hesitate before entrusting them to so daring and reckless a lady as you have shown yourself.”
For a moment the issue hung in the balance. But Russet’s longing for a wider liberty and a certain justice in his remarks eventually won the day.
“Shall we agree that honours are evenly divided?” she suggested, with a lurking twinkle. And added, as the grave countenance relaxed to an answering smile, “I shall be happy to accept of your escort. No doubt you will be tired today, after your journey. But if you should feel inclined to ride with me tomorrow I will be grateful.”
Chapter Eight
That first ride had been arranged for the early morning, since they were agreed that the cool of the day was better for the horses and pleasanter for the riders. It had been rather longer than the usual hour’s exercise. Once he had taken stock of Miss Ingram’s equestrian capabilities there had seemed to be a great deal to talk about. Beginning impersonally enough with the beauty of the countryside and the vagaries of an English summer, they had moved swiftly to an animated discussion on horses, the different methods of breaking and training them and the suitability of hunting as a sport for females. But the horses grew restive, unaccustomed to such lazy loitering, and had to be let out to shake the fidgets out of them. Mr Cameron was granted an excellent opportunity of noting that, though Miss Ingram might not care for the notion of females in the hunting field, it was not from lack of pluck—though that, of course, he already knew—nor from incompetence. Though she made no parade of her skill she might have been born in the saddle. The mare that he had, with some misgivings, selected for her use, was a rare handful. No vice, of course, but full of spirit and playful tricks. Naturally there were no animals in his stable that could truthfully be described as ladies’ mounts, which was why he had insisted that he himself should escort Miss Ingram if she wished to ride. It had been plain from the outset that the lady was no novice. The sympathy between rider and mount had been allowed to develop naturally. The slender hands were firm and capable. Mr Cameron, watchful and alert as the horses broke into a canter, saw the little smile of content as Miss Ingram g
ave herself to enjoyment of the rhythm and presently suggested that the stretch of smooth turf at the top of the down would be ideal for a short gallop. She nodded briefly and touched the mare with her heel.
By the time that the pair trotted sedately back into the stable yard, Mr Cameron had stopped concerning himself with his companion’s safety and, save for such courtesies as opening and closing gates, left her to manage for herself. When he held up his hands to help her dismount she accepted the attention unselfconsciously and thanked him with patent sincerity for the pleasure of the ride. It seemed perfectly natural to suggest that she should breakfast with him, and if her slight hesitation reminded him briefly of their respective rôles as prisoner and jailer it was soon over. She accepted without comment, since she felt it would be ungracious to refuse when he had exerted himself to be kind. Besides—she wanted to accept. Breakfast with Mr Cameron promised more entertainment than her usual solitary repast.
But the morning ride had now become a daily occurrence which neither of them would have dreamed of missing. Indeed, each day as they returned they would plan where they would go tomorrow. And somehow it seemed to be more convenient for Mr Cameron to share the pleasure of tooling the phaeton about the lanes in the drowsy afternoon heat rather than for Herrick to neglect his other duties. Sharing breakfast after the morning ride seemed only sensible and it was really Phoebe who was responsible for initiating their practice of dining together. Their breakfast table conferences grew longer and longer until one day she came to enquire, with due deference, if they would mind removing to the drawing room or the library, as the maids were waiting to put the room to rights for luncheon.
They had been discussing agricultural practices in Scotland, in particular the ‘run-rig’ system, in which a number of tenants shared and worked a communal farm. Russet had never heard of it, and Mr Cameron had been condemning it with fluency and fervour, for the prosperity of the land of his forebears was very dear to him. He accepted Phoebe’s interruption absently and suggested that they remove to the library where he could produce documents to show how desperately reform was needed, how rewarding were the results when a stubborn and tradition-ridden native populace could at last be persuaded to try modern methods.
“It doesn’t help, of course, that originally they had to bring in English farmers to teach the new methods,” he said teasingly, as he pulled out Russet’s chair. “But the way things are going now, they’ll soon be beating the Southrons at their own game.”
He had opened the dining room door and stood aside for Russet to precede him when Phoebe spoke again. “You’ll not be keeping Miss Russet over-long, will you, sir? There’s that blessed pup yammering to go out and near driving poor Ameera crazy. Keeps running off with your slippers, miss, and as fast as Ameera gets one out of her jaws she makes off with another. Proper little madam she’s getting to be.”
Russet stopped, a dismayed hand going to her lips. In the interest of their talk she had forgotten all about the pup and it was long past the time for her morning walk. “If you will hold me excused, sir,” she said guiltily, “I really ought to take Jai out. It is turned eleven.”
Mr Cameron cast a startled glance at the hall clock. Phoebe said encouragingly, “Could you not let the Scottish farmers be until this evening? If you was to take dinner together you could sort them properly with none to hinder, but it’s a shame to keep that pup indoors on so fine a day. All growing things need sunshine.”
Since neither the lady nor the gentleman raised any objections to this proposal, that seemed to settle the matter, and Phoebe retired to her own domain, well pleased with her meddling in her employer’s business. The affair was progressing very nicely, she decided. Mr James had not been so contented nor so cheerful since his mother’s death. It was obvious—to Phoebe, at any rate—that a nice little wife was just what he needed. Maybe, after all, it had been a good day’s work when she and Matthew had carried off Miss Russet.
They led an oddly isolated life at Furze House. It was natural enough, in view of their peculiar relationship, that Mr Cameron should choose the quiet tracks for their rides and make wide detours if they saw anyone about. When they were driving they did occasionally meet other vehicles but it seemed that he had few acquaintances in the neighbourhood for he never stopped to exchange greetings in the easy-going country fashion that could develop into a rambling discussion on local news until some other vehicle demanded the right of the road.
Once they drove along that narrow lane where Russet had met with an ‘accident’. Mr Cameron did not remark on it, but she caught his swift sideways glance and, she thought, a hint of embarrassment in his bearing. She said impulsively, “Even in that horrid moment I had time to admire your command of your horses. But you will forgive me for saying that I prefer to be in the carriage with you!”
Though the remark was complimentary it was spoken with the blunt simplicity that a schoolboy might have used. Mr Cameron accepted it with a brief nod. But presently he said quietly, “Miss Ingram, your generosity puts me to shame. I shall never again use this particular lane without feeling a twinge of remorse for the risk I took.”
“Well that is being foolish beyond permission,” she said practically. “The lane is quite charming, if a trifle narrow. I took no hurt from being tipped into the ditch, except perhaps to my dignity, and am thoroughly enjoying my drive this afternoon. You might just as well decide, while you are indulging in this orgy of mortification, to pull down the balcony from my room. I’m sure I gave you quite as bad a fright as you gave me!”
He did not answer. She ventured a sideways peep, but he appeared to be concentrating on his horses—those same magnificent chestnuts—and his expression was unwontedly stern, even for him. Perhaps her frank remarks had reminded him, unpleasantly, that she was his prisoner and not his guest. She took refuge in a placid silence, having no patience with the theory that one must always maintain a flow of light, if meaningless, chatter. If she could have read his thoughts, she might have decided that it would be kinder to distract him, however frivolous the topic, for Mr Cameron was wrestling with devils.
One of them was an old acquaintance. How many times had he fallen into error through his overweening pride? But this time pride was fighting a losing battle. Mr Cameron was ready to admit that he had been wrong. The girl beside him was all that Phoebe had claimed and more. She was as direct and honest as the wide-eyed pup sitting between them. Letty might have misled him in all innocence, but she had misled him. This was not the kind of girl to filch another’s lover. There was no greed in her, though there was a deal of warmth and zest for living. He remembered anew all that he had heard of her and in particular the innumerable conquests that were credited to her name—and wondered if any of those urgent suitors had ever kissed the soft red mouth.
For that was his second devil—a newcomer, this one, of untried strength. Later, perhaps, Mr Cameron might be grateful that his hands had been fully occupied with his horses; that it had been impossible to yield to the fierce, sweet temptation to gather Miss Ingram in his arms and seek forgiveness for his follies and a promise of future happiness. At the moment he felt only an irrational anger with the farmer whose gig caused him to call upon all his skill and judgement as they met and passed in that narrow way. Fortunately he was able to justify Miss Ingram’s expressed confidence in his ability, but he said abruptly, “That was careless of me. I should have remembered that it was market day. We had best turn off at the cross roads or we shall be meeting quite a few vehicles whose drivers know me.”
A captive must have some form of mental stimulation. Prisoners in less comfortable circumstances had been known to tame rats; to write poems on their dungeon walls, or even to carve grotesque heads on the crude furniture of their cells. Miss Ingram’s fancy had lighted on the notion of making her jailer laugh—or at least smile—as often as possible. She even played a little game with herself, counting up the day’s score each evening, pondering long over the vexed question of whether
a half-smothered chuckle could justifiably be reckoned as a laugh, because a laugh counted two points and a smile only one.
It was doubtless in pursuit of this innocent form of entertainment that she now said demurely, “I make you my apologies, sir. I am sorry that my appearance should put you to the blush. May I plead, in extenuation, that it is some time since I have had the opportunity of going shopping. Do I really appear such an antidote that you are ashamed to be seen in my company? Perhaps in future it would be better for me to stay at home if you are likely to meet any of your friends.”
This hopeful sally quite failed of its intent. Not a muscle moved in the grave countenance as he checked the horses and turned to survey her with every appearance of careful assessment. She was wearing a severely plain carriage dress of honey-gold sarsenet, quite devoid of trimming but beautifully draped about the shoulders to expose the slender column of her throat. Her hair was swept back from her face and allowed to fall in one gleaming curl on the left shoulder. A wide-brimmed shallow-crowned hat of fine Italian straw exactly matched the dress in colour. It was trimmed with narrow brown ribbon that fastened under her chin in a neat flat bow. Displayed in a shop window the entire toilet would have passed almost unnoticed, save by a very discerning eye. As Miss Ingram wore it, it was so exactly right that one was inclined to wonder why no other woman had made so happy a choice.
