Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  “’Twasn’t my place to speak of it, but it was always there plain to be seen. I’ve heard tell he laughed when Mary Rogers drowned herself and her poor mother followed her to the grave. Wanted their cottage for a summer house or a Folly or some such whim.”

  Chantal stared. She had forgotten Mary, though perhaps the memory had been dimly in her mind when she had spoken of throwing herself into the lake. Mary had only been fourteen. “But surely it was not he who” – she began, and broke off in contemplation of a cold-hearted cruelty almost beyond belief.

  “Was responsible?” finished Hepsie. “No. I doubt poor little Mary was beneath his touch. By all accounts it was that nasty sneaking London valet of his that was responsible. And not every girl would have taken her shame to heart like Mary did. But she and her mother were as proud as the Delaneys in their own way. Proud of being freeholders and of being honest folk who paid their way and asked no charity. But talking pay’s no toll. Mary’s dead and gone and beyond further hurt. It’s how to get you to safety that we’ve to think about.”

  And that seemed to be an impossibility. It was easy enough to decide that Chantal should make her way to London and put herself under the protection of her other guardian, her father’s attorney and friend, Roger Dickensen. Between them they had more than sufficient money for such a journey, and it would be better to go to a man of law who was accustomed to sifting evidence rather than to friends who might have been gulled by cunning lies. But how could she bring herself to desert Hepsie, who certainly could not stand such a journey, and how was she to escape from the Court?

  “As for leaving me,” said Hepsie to this, “how do you think I could face your father in the next world if harm came to you through me? If we can but think of a scheme to trick these watchdogs your cousin’s set on you, you’ll go without any more argument, my girl.”

  And in the end it was Hepsie who found the way out. With much misgiving, because the escape route was not without its dangers, she suggested that the girl should climb down the old quarry face that formed part of the estate boundary. Much of the stone that had gone into the original house had been taken from the quarry, but it had not been worked for years. It was considerably overgrown with shrubs and young trees, which would afford handholds in the descent, and surely, because of its precipitous nature, it would not be guarded. No one would dream that a girl would adventure so perilous a route.

  “But there is a track, that I do know,” insisted Hepsie, “for many’s the time I’ve taken your father a picnic dinner to the old tree at the quarry edge when he was a boy. Hours he would spend there, watching the birds. And you can’t mistake the tree because it has two trunks.”

  Chantal knew it at once, and was sure that she could find her way there by moonlight. She was a good deal less confident about the rest of the adventure. She was not over fond of heights, and what was perfectly possible for an active lad in broad daylight might not be so easy for a girl and in the dark. But it was the only way that they could think of, and better to fall and break her neck than to lie helpless here like some trapped bird awaiting the approach of the fowler.

  “Then if you’re going, best go at once,” said Hepsie firmly. “Tonight. The moon will serve well enough. I don’t know when his lordship’s expected back, but the nearer the time the closer you’ll be watched.”

  And so it was agreed. They spent the afternoon in quietness, each knowing that they were unlikely to meet again in this world, each trying to hide the knowledge from the other. Only at the end, her few preparations made, Hepsie’s kiss still warm on her cheek, did Chantal falter for a moment when the old woman whispered, “I’ll tell him that you faced trouble bravely, as he would have wished.”

  Then the door closed softly behind her and she was slipping through the familiar corridors, blessedly dark at the moment, to a little-used door that opened on to the terraces at the side of the house.

  The first part of her journey was uneventful. The grounds were as familiar as her own rooms, and she slipped softly from tree to tree, only her face and hands briefly visible in the moonlight. Hepsie had suggested that she wear a black dress, and together they had cut off the skirt almost up to the knee so that it should not hamper her. “Though what they’ll think of you at the Pelican I shame to think,” Hepsie had grunted crossly. “You look like some gypsy hoyden.” And Chantal had retorted cheerfully that as long as the gold was good, mine host at the Pelican would hire his vehicles to an escaping criminal still dangling his fetters.

  “Well, it’s to be hoped he doesn’t think you stole the money and send for a constable,” sighed Hepsie, testing the knots that secured the money bag about the girl’s waist to leave her hands free.

  The sovereigns jingled softly in their leather pouch, but now there was only herself to hear the tiny noise. So far the plan had worked well. But here was the twin-trunked tree that marked the beginning of the track, and now she must face a new danger.

  The moon, which had so far befriended her, was of no help here. Its light did not penetrate into the abyss. Perhaps that was as well, she decided, trying to ignore the nervous dread that possessed her.

  “Papa would be ashamed of you,” she told herself severely. And was startled at the sound of her own voice, loud in the quiet night.

  It frightened her into beginning the descent. Suppose any one had been near enough to hear her! It would be dreadful to be recaptured having got so far. And after all it wasn’t so bad as she had expected. There was no hope of picking out the track in the darkness. All she could do was feel her way forward and downward, clinging to trees and rocks for security. Once or twice she had to make a traverse to avoid ledges that dropped sheer – it might be two feet, it might be twenty. In the darkness she had no means of knowing. Her progress was erratic and undignified. She slid and crawled rather than walked, and once or twice some seemingly secure handhold gave way under her weight and she rolled over and over, clutching fiercely at bushes and brambles, anything that would check her headlong passage. But already quite a comforting proportion of the cliff loomed above her. She took heart and pressed on.

  She was, in fact, quite close to the bottom when disaster overtook her. She had reached a stretch of scree. The slope was steep and the stuff moved under her feet, but there seemed to be no way round it. Anxiously she embarked on the treacherous crossing, starting a small avalanche of stones at each hesitant step. There was nothing here to cling to, and now there were bigger stones on the move. She lowered herself to the ground and tried sliding. It felt safer, but it moved more stones. The noise must be audible for some distance. Desperately she struggled on, praying that she had not yet been missed, for if there were search parties out looking for her the racket she was making would bring them like hounds to a view. Down, down, until a pursuing boulder, disturbed in her struggles, struck her a glancing blow on the side of her head and dropped her neatly into the pool of water that lay at the quarry foot.

  Chapter Two

  Chantal opened her eyes to clear sunshine, and promptly closed them again as pain stabbed through her temples. The pain subsided a little and she put up a tentative hand to her head. It felt bruised and tender. She lay trying to recall what had happened to her, but she could remember nothing after her struggles with the scree. With a shiver of fear she wondered if her cousin’s servants had found her; if she was even now being carried back to captivity. For she was certainly travelling in some kind of vehicle, though by the bumping, lurching nature of its progress she doubted if it was one of the carriages from the Court.

  She put up a hand to shield her eyes from the light, which came through a tiny window no more than a foot square, and peeped cautiously through her fingers. She was lying in a narrow bed, rather like the sleeping berths in the cabin of her father’s yacht, and the further she looked the more marked grew the resemblance to a ship. The vehicle was a little house on wheels, its furniture and fittings of the simplest, and most of them seemed to be screwed to the floor, which was just
as well in view of the roughness of transit. The lamp that was affixed to the wall over the bed was swinging wildly and a clatter of crockery sounded a protest from a cupboard. There was a mirror fitted over a chest which had a padded top and obviously served also as a stool, and a curtain over one corner which might conceal clothing. A piece of heavy canvas covered a doorway at one end which presumably led to the box or the driving seat or whatever one called it in this type of vehicle. Chantal thought it must be some type of gypsy van, and for one fantastic moment wondered if she had actually been carried off by a band of these strange folk for the sake of the gold she carried. But that must be nonsense. If they had found her unconscious they had only to take the money and leave her to her fate. It seemed more probable that some kind Samaritan had stumbled upon her and was, perhaps, taking her to some place where her hurts could be attended to. Now that she came to consider the matter, she discovered quite a number of hurts. Her arms were covered with grazes and bruises, though only the bump on her head caused her any serious discomfort, and every muscle shrieked a protest at the unusual exertions to which it had been subjected.

  It was at this stage of her investigations that she discovered that she was naked. A blanket had been tucked round her, but some one had removed every stitch of her clothing. Thoroughly startled and not a little frightened, she tried to sit up. The effort made her feel giddy and sick. It also produced an upheaval from under the bed on which she was lying. A dog – she could only suppose it was a dog, though never before had she seen such an impressive specimen – had evidently been sharing her slumbers, and now emerged with some difficulty from the confined space to rear up and plant heavy forepaws on her body. A massive head, with deeply wrinkled brow and long drooping ears was inclined towards her as the creature snuffed at her face. But its disposition seemed to be amiable, and presently, as though satisfied that she meant no harm, it settled itself beside the bed, its great jowl resting on the quilt that had been thrown over her, its mournful eyes fixed on her face. She put out a timid hand to smooth the silken head. The caress was accepted with enthusiasm, the head nudged forward for further favours. Plainly it would be quite safe to venture out of bed and explore further. But there was no sign of her clothes, and to be parading about exiguously attired in a blanket was not quite to her taste.

  At this point the van lurched to a halt. The dog got up, nosed aside the canvas door-cover, and disappeared round it. She heard a man’s voice say, “And has your wretched bit of flotsam recovered its senses yet, Jester?”

  It was an attractive voice, a cultured voice, and certainly not what one would expect of a gypsy or pedlar. Flotsam was floating wreckage. If she had been pulled out of some stream or lake, that would account for her present attire – or lack of it – though it did nothing to diminish the consequent embarrassment. She pulled the quilt up to her throat and waited for the owner of the voice to appear. Instead she heard sounds indicating that he was attending to his horse. She began to feel slightly indignant. Surely a girl was more important than a horse, especially a girl who had been saved from a watery death and who must pose something of a mystery. She waited in a growing impatience which helped her to forget her shameful nakedness.

  The wait was a very long one. There was no sound now from outside. Had he gone to summon a physician? Or, terrifying thought, a constable? The pain in her head was much better, but she was beginning to feel faint with hunger. She lay watching the shadows lengthen until she could endure no longer. If her rescuer would not come to her, she would go to him. She folded the blanket in half and draped it over her shoulders, toga fashion. A search for some belt or tie to hold it in position produced only a long leather leash. It would have to serve. She wound it two or three times round her slender middle and knotted it as firmly as the leather would permit. Then, with fast beating heart, she pushed aside the canvas cover and looked out.

  There were two horses grazing in the forest glade in which the caravan had come to rest. One was a sturdy dapple grey, some sixteen hands she estimated, young but of heavy build. The other was the finest thoroughbred mare she had ever set eyes on. Of human presence there was no sign. She lowered herself painfully to the ground and walked round the van, one hand resting on its gaily painted panels for support, to stop short, aware of rising anger, at the scene that met her eyes.

  An easel had been erected at the other end of the glade, and standing in front of it was a tall man, dressed in rough fustian breeches and a shepherd’s smock, liberally splashed with paint. So absorbed was he in his painting that he did not even notice her approach until the dog got up and came to greet her. Then he did look up briefly, gave her one quick, frowning glance and said curtly, “You’ll have to wait. The light’s going.”

  Whatever Chantal had expected, it was not this. But strangely enough the abrupt dismissal had an unexpectedly reassuring effect. In the few minutes that elapsed before he threw down the brush with a grunt of annoyance, she had time to notice several things. First, that the view he was painting was entirely strange to her, and since she knew the countryside in the neighbourhood of Delaney Court pretty well, she could only assume that they had travelled some distance. A comforting thought. From the outset she had been anxious about the journey to London, fearful that she might not outstrip a really determined pursuit. But no one was likely to look for her here.

  Secondly she was thankful to discover her clothes, spread on some bushes in a patch of sunlight, and to find that her under-garments, at least, were very nearly dry. She busied herself with turning the dress so that the damp breadths were exposed to the sun, though by the look of it she was unlikely to be able to wear it again.

  Presently the artist, having put his gear in some sort of order, came towards her, according her a cool assessing gaze. In a ballroom she would have given him a smart set-down for that, she though inconsequently, and smiled a little at the recollection of her incongruous attire. Quite what she expected him to say, she did not know. Probably some polite enquiry as to her health, and in what way he could be of service to her. After that it might be difficult. She had no thought of taking a stranger into her confidence, even if he had pulled her out of the water. So it was disconcerting, to say the least, when the gentleman said indifferently, “Your duds are about dry. You can get dressed in the van and then be on your way.”

  Any lingering doubt that her rescuer might be inclined to take advantage of her defenceless position was promptly banished. Indeed it seemed slightly surprising that he had put himself to the trouble of pulling her out of the water, and it was this thought that found expression.

  There was a flicker of surprise in the gentleman’s blue gaze, a faint lifting of the dark brows. Even in indignation, Chantal’s voice was low and musical. It was his turn to be surprised at a purity of accent that matched his own in one whom he had taken to be some wandering gypsy lass. Curiosity stirred within him, but he refused to admit it.

  “You may thank Jester for that,” he said lightly, dropping one hand on the head of the animal that stood beside him. “It was she who heard your descent into the pool and was insistent that you be rescued.”

  Perhaps it was the very unconcern in the gentleman’s voice that drove Chantal to some attempt at justification. “I managed the quarry face pretty well,” she said, a hint of defiance in the tilt of her chin. “It was the scree that proved my undoing.”

  “As many a rash mountaineer has found before you,” he agreed. And then, his interest now fully engaged, for if she had indeed come down that quarry face there must have been an urgent reason, “Had it not been for Jester you might have drowned. Your escapade was both ill-judged and reckless.”

  Such scathing criticism from one who knew nothing of the circumstances stung her to prompt retort, as he had expected.

  “It was not an escapade,” she told him hotly. “I was running away from the most odious persecution. Nothing less would have driven me to the attempt, for I hate heights.”

  From in-bred courtesy he
hid his amusement. These schoolgirls! His cousins were just the same. He wondered what small domestic injustice had driven this one to such lengths, for say what you would, it had taken courage to attempt that descent. He supposed he would have to spend a little more time and trouble on the chit than he had at first intended.

  “Then I owe you an apology,” he said politely. “Pray tell me how I can be of service.”

  “Well you could give me something to eat,” she suggested practically. “I’m starving of hunger.”

  The remark confirmed his estimate of her youthful status. He relaxed. “Into the van with you, then, and get dressed, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  She gathered up her possessions and obeyed him promptly, but nothing would make her gown fit to wear. The skirt was in tatters. Her shoes were missing and her stockings were in holes. When she emerged from the van she looked much the same as when she had gone in, barelegged and blanket-clad.

  He frowned at this but made no comment, proffering a plate of bread and cold meat and a glass of milk. He had made no preparations to eat with her. She hoped she was not robbing him of his own lunch but she was too hungry to waste overmuch sympathy on him. He watched her for a moment, deciding that she had not overstated the case when she had claimed to be starving, and then turned away, leaving her to eat in peace while he packed away his painting materials and began preparations for moving on. Presently he came back, her money bag in one hand, a couple of apples in the other.

  “Better check your money,” he suggested stiffly. “And as soon as you are done I would like the blanket. I want to reach Claverton before dusk. If you follow that track” – he pointed it out – “you will come to Trowbridge where you can either find accommodation or book yourself a seat on the stage.”

  She looked up at him in startled dismay. Surely he did not mean to abandon her here? She said desperately, “Oh – please – you said you would help me. I can’t walk into a village without any shoes and my gown in ribbons. Indeed I don’t mean to be a trouble to you, but you must see that I can’t.”