Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  “And what, exactly, do you expect me to do about it?” he enquired grimly.

  “Well I thought perhaps you could buy me a dress – any kind of dress, just so that I look respectable – and some shoes and a shawl. I’ve got plenty of money,” she placated eagerly.

  He could scarcely have looked more horrified if she had asked him to buy her a shift, but she was too concerned to see anything humorous in his expression of dismay. He looked down at the slender bare feet that peeped beneath the blanket. It was no good telling himself that her troubles were of her own making. He could not bring himself to drive off and leave her in such a case. But neither did he intend to venture into some haunt of female fashion.

  “Not for all the money in your purse,” he told her firmly. “There’s only one thing to be done. You’ll have to come home with me. Then one of the maids can go shopping for you. And the next time you insist on rescuing a half-drowned kitten,” he told the dog, “I shall throw it back again.”

  It seemed to Chantal that a meek, appreciative silence was her best role. She applied herself to an apple.

  Her reluctant host said suddenly, “What’s more I’m not taking you up in front in that rig. It only needs a feather in your hair and you’ll pass for Pocahontas herself. You’ll have to travel in the van and you’ll be devilish uncomfortable. But wait a minute! I believe –” He sprang up into the van and came back in a moment carrying a wrapper of crimson silk which he thrust into her arms. “There! Put that on. No one will see your feet, and at a distance it will pass for a dress.”

  Chantal accepted the proffered garment before he could change his mind. She was mildly intrigued by the wrapper, a very feminine garment indeed, which looked exactly what it was – a luxurious dressing gown. But if her benefactor thought it would pass as a dress, she didn’t mean to disillusion him. She studied her reflection in the inadequate looking glass and tied the girdle about her waist, spirits rising insensibly at the caress of the silken stuff against her skin, then folded the blanket neatly and laid it on the bed, dropping the money bag on top of it. That done she pushed aside the canvas screen.

  The driving seat did not offer much greater comfort than the inside of the van. It was just a plain wooden bench. But at least one could see the country-side, and every mile towards Claverton was taking her further from the Court. The start was slightly delayed by the dog’s desire to share the narrow bench, but a stern word from her master sent her to sit on the floor between them, where she heaved a reproachful sigh and laid a heavy head on Chantal’s lap.

  Until they left the woods behind conversation was impossible, but after a few minutes they emerged into a narrow lane where the surface was reasonably smooth. Of an open and friendly disposition herself, it did not occur to Chantal that her companion might prefer to travel in silence. The journey must take some three or four hours and there was nothing to see but flowering hedgerows and an occasional farmhouse. She sought about her for some impersonal topic and found it in the heavy head that rested on her knee.

  “What made you call her Jester? She looks so mournful that it is the last thing I would have thought of.”

  He considered the trivial question gravely. Then said, “Well – she is parti-coloured – black and tan for a jester’s red and yellow – and as for her sorrowful looks, do not all jesters traditionally suffer from broken hearts?”

  She fondled the silken ears. “You’re a beautiful dog, aren’t you, my rescuer,” she crooned, “despite your jaundiced expression.”

  “Not dog. Hound,” corrected the animal’s owner. “Have you never seen a bloodhound before?”

  She shook her head. “Foxhounds and otterhounds, but never a bloodhound. I’ve heard of them, though. I thought they were very fierce and savage. Are they not used to track down fugitives? Escaped slaves in the Cotton States, and dangerous criminals?”

  Her random choice of topic had been an excellent one. She was promptly enlightened as to the temperament, habits and usefulness of the bloodhound and the methods used in training, a lecture which only terminated when the specimen beside her raised that intelligent head and yawned her boredom, which had the beneficial effect of making her master laugh.

  The transformation was surprising. Chantal had thought him quite a good looking sort of man in his loose-limbed untidy way, but she did not care for his expression. She thought him supercilious. Perhaps it was the effect of the narrow black moustache and the neatly pointed beard that he wore. They gave him the air of some lofty grandee in a Velasquez portrait. Chantal, who preferred her men clean-shaven, like Papa, privately described it as ‘sneery’. But when the blue eyes lit to laughter and the firm lips parted to show excellent white teeth, he looked years younger and much more approachable.

  She was emboldened to ask one or two questions about his home. Would there be shops close at hand, where she could purchase what was needed to supplement her scanty wardrobe? Was there a regular mail coach service or would it be better to hire a post chaise? And would she need to stay overnight at an inn or would they reach Claverton in time for her to continue her journey?

  “Because, you see, until I reach London I must make do with the money that I have with me, and I am not very sure about the cost of the journey,” she ended diffidently.

  The talk about Jester had broken the ice. Her questions stirred his curiosity. He answered them to the best of his ability, explaining that it was his brother’s house. His knowledge of the shopping facilities was naturally sketchy, but the housekeeper would know. “And you couldn’t reach London without spending at least one night on the road,” he ended, “so you might just as well stay in Claverton. I would offer you over-night hospitality – my brother’s – but it would not do for you to be staying in a bachelor household.”

  His expression of grave concern was the last straw. To think that he should be worrying over her reputation after all that she had gone through during the past twenty four hours induced a paroxysm of irresistible mirth. She bowed her head over Jester’s and gave way to helpless, healing laughter. His puzzled face when at last she stopped to draw breath nearly set her off again but she managed to control herself sufficiently to explain her sentiments.

  “Naturally I realise that after spending the night in your van I haven’t a shred of reputation left to me,” she ended calmly, “but as an alternative to marrying my cousin it seems a light penalty. Indeed, even drowning would have been preferable.”

  “You certainly spoke of persecution,” he said slowly, “but I had not realised that you were bent on avoiding a distasteful marriage. It is quite your own affair, of course, but if you have cut yourself adrift from your home, are you assured of some shelter and some means of support? You speak of going to London. Have you friends there?”

  For a moment she hesitated. He seemed quite trustworthy, but her confidence in her own judgement had been rudely shaken of late. On the other hand he had treated her kindly, if brusquely, and she still needed his help in arranging her journey. It might be interesting, too, to see how a stranger reacted to her story.

  “I plan to go to my father’s attorney,” she explained. “He is one of my guardians and has charge of all my financial affairs. Once I can place myself under his protection I shall be quite safe. But my situation is complicated, partly by my own past follies.”

  She proceeded to outline the circumstances leading to her present difficulties. He listened attentively and, she thought, with some sympathy. Coming to an end she said, “It seems odd to be telling all this to a stranger. We do not even know each other’s names. Mine is Delaney. Chantal Delaney. My father was the Earl of Hilsborough.”

  She sensed immediately the withdrawal of his sympathy. He said grimly, “I have heard of you, ma’am. Or perhaps I should rather say that I have heard tales of some of your – exploits. One can well see how they lent substance to your cousin’s fabrications. You have been taught a sharp lesson – not undeserved – and will be more circumspect in future.”

&nb
sp; He did not volunteer his own name, nor evince any further interest in her plans or her difficulties. Chantal bowed her head over the hound. She had undergone a considerable ordeal. The future was still uncertain, promising a difficult and lonely road. Moreover her head was beginning to ache again. But not for worlds would she let him see the tears that his harsh words had brought to her eyes. She made pretence of being fully occupied with the hound.

  His hearing was sharp. She did not sob or gulp, but he caught the quivering indrawn breath and a swift glance showed bright drops sliding down Jester’s neck.

  He said impatiently, “You think me unfair. Well – I have good cause to detest your kind. Frivolous empty-headed society maidens with no other thought than to entrap or befool the men their pretty faces have dazzled. One of your stamp was responsible for wrecking my brother’s life. I have not forgotten – or forgiven.”

  It was some time before she could trust her voice to answer and she still kept her head bowed. She said quietly, “It would certainly seem unfair to condemn an entire social group for the failings of one or two of its members. I am not defending myself. I am well aware that I behaved foolishly. But I know many girls of my class who are loving and loyal wives and devoted mothers. They are not all frivolous and selfish.”

  Since he knew very well that she was right there could be no answering her calm good sense. He said savagely, “Very well, then. I listened to your story. Now hear mine. My brother was just twenty two, a fine athlete, a first-rate shot – in fact a capital good fellow when he lost his heart to a silly simpering miss with a passion for anything that wore regimentals. Oliver was no soldier. His days were fully occupied in managing my father’s estates, to which, incidentally, he is heir. Doubtless his prospective rank and wealth outweighed his shortcomings in the way of military glamour and his inamorata consented to a betrothal. This was in ’15. When Boney got loose and the whole thing looked like being to do over again, nothing would serve for Isabella but that Oliver should join the army. This time he agreed with her. The need was urgent. He rode well – was a good shot – and so forth. But the idea would never have entered his head if she had not put it there, and all for vanity and to gratify her foolish whim. To be brief, in his first engagement – and that no glorious battle but a mere clash between patrol and outpost – he was struck in the face by a spent bullet. As a result he lost the sight of one eye. Worse than that, in falling from his horse he injured his spine, so that he is now a helpless husk of a man. How do you think Isabella’s military fervour stood the test? Naturally Oliver insisted on releasing her from their engagement. Such a marriage could be no marriage. I do not blame her for feeling herself inadequate to that sacrifice. But within the month she announced her engagement to one of the ‘Gentlemen’s Sons’ – a pink-cheeked halfling who never even got as far as Brussels, but who looked extremely picturesque in his scarlet and gold. Nor was that the end of the mischief. My father, upon seeing the condition of the son in whom he had taken such loving pride, succumbed to an apoplectic seizure and lay helpless for months, though he is now somewhat restored. But the sight of Oliver’s affliction worked so powerfully upon him that the physicians insisted that they be kept apart. So my father spends most of his time in Town while Oliver divides his between our Midlands home and Claverton – it was hoped at one time that a course of the waters at Bath might prove beneficial – and they rarely meet. Poor Mama is torn between the two of them. When she is with Papa she worries about Oliver – and vice versa. Do you wonder that I have little time for shallow-pated débutantes?”

  Chantal considered her reply with care. Her tender heart was wrung with pity for a young man struck down in the flower of his youth, but it was obvious that expressions of sympathy would be ill-received. She said quietly, “How old were you at the time of the tragedy?”

  His reply was almost sullen. “Fourteen. And what has that to do with anything?”

  “Only that it seems unlikely that either party confided in you at the time,” she pointed out. “So you are basing your judgement on hearsay evidence.” And just the right age for hero worship of a splendid elder brother and – possibly – jealousy of that brother’s preoccupation with a mere female. Though of that one could not be sure.

  He did not deign to answer this very patent truth but turned the attack neatly by saying, “At least I need not lay myself open to that charge where you are concerned, since you may speak in your own defence. I will not ask if you were the toast of the town, your admirers legion, your name on everyone’s lips. So much is common knowledge and modesty might compel you to dissimulate. Tell me instead, is it true that you appeared at your début in cloth of gold and emeralds? That during some ball or other you were seen to smoke a cigar in the conservatory? Do you not always ride astride in male attire? and were you not the cause of two duels?”

  Her head titled defiantly. “The first three, yes. And many more foolish pranks, the evidence of ignorance and youthful high spirits, for which, as you pronounced, I am being well punished. Though as regards the riding I had my Papa’s approval. He said side saddles were an invention of the devil – unkind to the horse and dangerous for the rider. The duels are a different matter. Are you not old enough to know that if gentlemen in their cups choose to quarrel, they will find some cause, whether it be a notorious débutante or the suspect running of a fancied horse. I knew nothing of either meeting until it was over, and could not have stopped them if I had, since I was barely acquainted with the protagonists. Any more than your brother’s betrothed could have deflected the bullet that struck him down. You may say that she was foolish – shallow – fickle – but you cannot in honesty blame her for the other misfortunes that befell your family. Your brother might have suffered just such an incapacitating fall in the hunting field. Neither have you the right to condemn me as equally beneath your contempt, just because you have heard gossip about a headstrong girl’s follies. Did you never kick over the traces yourself when you were young, or were you always a model of decorum?”

  “At the moment it is not my conduct that is in question,” he reminded her. “But I confess myself at fault in taking you to task for yours. I beg your pardon. On this head we are unlikely to agree. Perhaps you will just accept the fact that, since I dislike women, more especially the useless ornaments of society, I am not inclined to put myself to any particular trouble on your behalf. Once you are adequately equipped for your journey, my part is played.”

  “In that case I will thank you now for your share in my rescue,” she said equably, and then recalled that his services had included the removal of her soaked clothing. Her lips twitched slightly. “In face of your expressed views it must have been a most distasteful task,” she said thoughtfully. “I am most truly grateful.”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand her. One did not expect proper modesty from such as Lady Chantal, but this impudence passed all bounds and merited swift punishment.

  “Extremely distasteful,” he told her languidly. “But I really couldn’t permit you to soak my bedding. It was only that thought that steeled me to the task of stripping you.”

  It should have reduced her to blushful silence. Instead he distinctly heard a smothered chuckle. She said gently, “Now you may rest content. You have certainly paid off any score you had against me. How thankful I shall be to exchange your protection for dear Mr. Dickensen’s.”

  The placid dapple grey checked abruptly. Chantal glanced up in surprise. Her companion was frowning grimly and staring ahead of him, apparently unaware that he had halted the beast.

  “Who did you say?” he demanded sharply.

  “Mr. Dickensen. My father’s attorney.”

  “Mr. Roger Dickensen? Of Albemarle Street?”

  “Yes. That is he. Do you know him?”

  He did not answer immediately. Instead he turned towards her and somewhat unexpectedly put one warm strong hand over hers. He said quietly, “It distresses me to have to give you bad news, but it is better that you should he
ar it now before you embark on a fruitless journey to London. Your old friend is no more. He was the victim of a brutal attack in the street as he made his way home from his club, and he died of his injuries:”

  Chapter Three

  “Under the circumstances, my good girl, your scruples are perfectly ridiculous.” The words had a familiar ring in Chantal’s ears. Cousin Giffard, she recalled, had voiced similar sentiments. Could it be only twenty four hours ago? But the speaker and the circumstances to which he referred were vastly different. Nor was there any sneer in the voice, though a good deal of impatience with feminine foibles.

  And to speak truth she would dearly love to yield to his guidance. The news of Mr. Dickensen’s death had been a severe shock. She had never known the lawyer intimately for he was older even than her father and was, moreover, a bachelor, so that during her schooldays she had not come much in his way. But when they had chanced to meet his manner towards her had always been kind and gentle and he had been there, in the background of her life, a man of wisdom and experience to whom one could turn with confidence in time of need. Now he was gone. And at the edge of her mind was the first faint suspicion that his death might in some way be connected with his responsibility for the affairs of one Chantal Delaney. Her cousin had shown himself quite unscrupulous. He had said something about fobbing off enquiries from her friends. Mr. Dickensen was not one to be easily fobbed off where his duty was concerned. How if stronger measures had been used?

  She shook herself impatiently. This was – must be – the merest hysteria. She might have endured a good deal, including a blow on the head, but that was no reason for yielding to morbid fancies, she told herself firmly. The unpleasant idea refused to be banished entirely. It strengthened her desire to fall in with her rescuer’s plans, while at the same time she was more than ever determined that he should not be involved in her unsavoury affairs.