by Mira Stables
“It was you who said that once I was suitably equipped for my journey your responsibility would be at an end,” she reminded him. “Mr. Dickensen’s death does not alter that.”
“Of course it does,” he said brusquely. “I made that statement in the belief that you were seeking shelter with a responsible guardian. Where, now, will you turn?”
“I shall go to the Shapleys. My father left me with Mrs. Shapley when he went to Afghanistan. Rose Shapley and I were school friends and we made our come-out together. It was only after Papa’s death that I went home to the Court. There was no reason why my bereavement should be permitted to spoil Rose’s chances. But my year of mourning is past, so I daresay Mrs. Shapley will be quite willing to take me in.”
“Is there a Mr. Shapley?”
She shook her head. “He died when Rose was quite a small girl. She scarcely remembers him.”
“Then I do not think it a suitable home for you under present circumstances. If there is indeed a plot to trap you into marriage with your cousin, then some effort will be made to persuade or even force you to return to your home. The death of your other guardian leaves you in a very vulnerable position, since you are not, I assume, of age.”
Her anxious air, the lower lip caught between her teeth, admitted the force of his argument.
“Very well, then. How do you think this Mrs. Shapley of yours would stand up to pressure from your relatives? Perfectly reasonable, legitimate pressure, remember, probably backed up by a hint that you are too high-strung and sensitive to be the best judge of what is good for you.”
The big grey eyes, enormous and shadowed in her strained face, gave him his answer. He nodded. “In such a case you need a man’s firmness to support you.”
“Well I shall have to make do as well as I may without it,” she retorted tartly. And then, a hint of mischief lightening her expression, “But pray advise me, sir. If you were the head of the Shapley household, how would you set about so awkward a business?”
If she had thought to take him at fault she was disappointed.
“Keep you close hid, for a start, and deny all knowledge of you. To all intents and purposes you would be a prisoner, but it’s the only safe way. What’s more I’d shift your quarters every month or so, so that no rumour of a strange female seen strolling in the gardens or glimpsed through a window could bring suspicion upon me. You would have to co-operate, of course. Such close confinement might not suit the wilful Lady Chantal.”
She studied him, intrigued. Outlining his plan, he sounded quite different, crisp and competent, the man of action rather than the idle dilettante of her first impression.
She said slowly, “You make very free with my name, sir, but have not seen fit to entrust me with yours. Perhaps I trespass. Perhaps you are some great gentleman – travelling incognito. I should beg pardon for my presumption – and congratulate you on the disguise. It is excellent.”
He eyed her levelly. “Throwing your tongue, aren’t you, my girl? Don’t forget that you still depend on my help. That’s unless you choose to walk into the village barefoot and clad in that rather exotic dressing gown. I can think of nothing better calculated to draw attention to your presence here, but if that is your wish –” He shrugged.
Chantal flushed. Her words had been scarce uttered before they were regretted for the jibe was undeserved. If he had not displayed any marked courtesy towards her, he had certainly not behaved ungentlemanlike. She could not imagine what had made her rip up at him like that and words of apology were already clotting her tongue.
Again he surprised her. “And that was as near to blackmail as makes no difference,” he said ruefully. “You seem to have a deplorable effect on my moral principles. Please believe that I did not intend to implement my threat.”
That made it easy. “If you, in turn, will forgive my shocking rudeness,” she said impulsively, and turned to smile at him, a little shyly. “It was horrid of me, for you had done nothing to deserve it. Indeed I have felt very comfortable while I have been in your care.”
He smiled at her delightfully. Whether because of her frank apology or because she had given him just the opening that he desired, she was not afterwards quite sure.
“Then you are not really so anxious to be quit of me, are you?” he suggested gently. And before she could protest went on, “I’ll tell you what. We’ll tell the whole tangled tale to Oliver and let him decide what’s best to be done. You don’t know him yet, but I can honestly say that if I was in any kind of a fix there’s no one I’d rather go to.” He seemed to consider this pronouncement for a moment, then went on, “He’s perceptive. Shut away from the world as he is, you might not expect it. But it seems as if all his energies have been channelled into his mind. Do I sound maudlin? You’ll understand when you meet him. As for my name, I’m Dominic Merriden. Oliver always calls me Nick, but despite my lack of manners I am not, I trust, wholly devoted to evil. Indeed I always understood that the devil was a rather polished creature, so perhaps my boorishness is my best advocate.”
The name had a familiar ring though she could not immediately place it. That was hardly surprising. If Mr. Merriden had been fourteen in the year of the great battle he must be past thirty now, and was hardly likely to frequent the circles which Chantal had known during her one brief season. But the warmth of his smile, the frank friendliness of his new approach, combined with her own instinctive desires to win her agreement.
“Very well, sir,” she conceded. “It shall be as you wish.”
He urged the horse to renewed activity. “I think you are wise,” he said. “I will send a servant to engage rooms for you at the White Hart, and one of the maids shall go with you to appease the proprieties. Mrs. Baxter – Oliver’s housekeeper – will know which wench to choose. One that can be trusted not to tattle.”
Chantal protested that she was giving a great deal of trouble. Surely it was unnecessary to take an abigail with her for so short a stay as she would be making.
“We wish your appearance to be as unremarkable as possible,” he reminded her. “Even when you are decently gowned and have purchased such articles as you require for your toilet, you still have no luggage. I could lend you a valise, but trunks and band boxes such as women use are beyond my touch, while to have everything brand new would in itself be suspicious. So you have a maid, and you can scold her if you so wish for her carelessness in losing your baggage. That will serve to explain your forlorn state to the landlord’s satisfaction.”
“Your talent for intrigue is admirable, sir,” she told him politely. “Does it also furnish me with a credible reason for being in the neighbourhood?”
“Not at the moment,” he admitted. “Perhaps Oliver will think of one for us. And since you seem unduly concerned over the trouble you are making, let me assure you that where Oliver is concerned your arrival is an unmitigated boon.”
She raised her brows a little at that, and chose her words carefully. “Your brother does not, then, share your aversion to my sex?”
“Oliver just likes people, regardless of sex, as also of wealth or social consequence. A new acquaintance, especially one with a problem, is to him like some rare volume to an ardent bibliophile. As you can imagine, his activities are sadly limited, and it is an object with all of us to keep him as well entertained as possible. In distracting him from the tedium of his days you will be performing an act of pure charity.”
She could not help laughing a little. She understood his motive in telling her what must serve to ease the burden of obligation and liked him the better for this thoughtfulness, but need he have been quite so blunt? To be likened to a book provided for the distraction of an invalid was not calculated to set any woman up in her own esteem! Prolonged association with Mr. Merriden seemed likely to prove a salutory experience for one who had been more accustomed to hear subtle compliment and soothing flattery than straightfoward truth!
From speaking of his brother he passed easily to talk of the Claverton
house whither they were bound. She learned that both boys had spent a good deal of time there as children and were still fond of the place. A simple question set him off again on the breeding and personality of the thoroughbred mare trotting so obediently behind them, and since this was a subject with a strong appeal for Chantal the talk ran easily and they were quite in charity with each other when the caravan finally creaked through the gates of Old Hall. Not the main gates, of course. Such a vehicle – and such a passenger – passed modestly through a farm gate that was more generally used for the delivery of straw and fodder to the stables.
Two grooms came running out to take the horses. Mr. Merriden gave brief instructions as to their disposal and ended by saying to the older of the two, “And then come up to the house. I’ll want a note taken down to the White Hart.”
He then turned to his passenger. “Better let me lift you down,” he told her carelessly. “These cobble stones are hard on the feet.” And as she gave herself into his hold, carried her easily through the arched stable entrance and set her down on the soft turf that stretched smoothly towards the house.
Now that they had reached civilisation – and civilisation expressed in all the gracious dignity of an old and well tended house – Chantal was very conscious of the deficiencies in her raiment. She was thankful that her host led her to a small side door which gave access first to a conservatory and then to a morning room, where her sartorial shame could be decently hidden from curious eyes.
“Now for Oliver,” he said cheerfully. “He usually sits in the library at this hour of day.”
She would have known them for brothers, Chantal decided. Not so much from physical resemblance, for though their features were cast in a similar mould, Oliver’s colouring was more subdued – his eyes grey where his brother’s were blue, his hair a lightish brown and his hands and complexion inevitably betraying the mark of his indoor existence. But their voices held the same intonations, their mannerisms were similar and their thoughts chimed so easily together that much of their talk was conducted in half sentences.
Her first impression was that there was nothing in the older man’s appearance to shock or disgust even a sensitive person. Apart from the neat black patch over one eye and the fact that he was seated in a light wheeled chair with a rug cast over his knees, there was no suggestion of invalidism. His coat was a good deal better cut than the one for which Dominic had exchanged his paint-smeared smock, his hair and his neck-cloth arranged with exquisite neatness. So much she had time to assimilate as she heard Dominic say, “You will permit me to present my brother Oliver, Lady Chantal? Oliver I have brought you a fugitive in need of wise guidance. Lady Chantal Delaney.”
She curtsied and held out her hand. It was taken in a firm clasp, a look of half-amused concern was bent upon her as the gentleman said quietly, “How seriously am I to take that, Lady Chantal? With my brother one can never be sure. He delights in making game of me. Then when he has me fooled to the top of his bent, he will admit it was all a hoax. I know of you by repute, of course, and I was a little acquainted with your father. I cannot imagine that his daughter would stand in any need of advice from me, honoured and delighted as I would be to serve you.”
“It is true enough, sir,” she told him. “Your brother has been so good as to promise his help in my immediate necessities” – she indicated her dress – “but there are other problems. Mr. Merriden was insistent that you were the very man to advise me, and though I am naturally loath to burden a stranger with my troubles I am bound to confess that I myself cannot hit upon a solution. I would be grateful indeed for any advice that you could offer.”
He studied her gravely, a slight frown furrowing the white brow, as he begged her to be seated and asked if she would partake of any refreshment.
“Your brother was so kind as to feed me,” she explained, “but I would be glad if he could make the necessary arrangements to buy me some shoes and a gown as soon as may be. It is odd how defenceless one feels when one is improperly dressed.”
He smiled a little for that and looked enquiringly at Dominic. The latter had risen and moved towards the window. “Someone coming,” he said over his shoulder. “A coach and four, too, with outriders and at least one other vehicle by the sound of it. Now who is coming a-visiting in such state? Can Lady Chantal’s family have picked up her trail already, and arrived with reinforcements to bear her off in our teeth?”
The girl whitened a little at the mischievous suggestion. Oliver said quite firmly, “That’s enough of your nonsense, Nick. You know very well that it isn’t so – and even if it was, we are quite capable of holding our own.”
“Only she isn’t our own,” retorted Dominic, turning with interest towards the library door where footsteps could be heard approaching. The door was thrown open and a lady came hurrying in.
Chantal, only too well aware of the appearance she presented, shrank back in the shelter of her winged chair. Dominic started forward in welcome and Oliver exclaimed delightedly, “Mama! How perfectly splendid! We didn’t expect you till next month.”
“Is all well at home? Papa in pretty good shape?” enquired Dominic.
His mother hugged as much of him as she could manage in one arm since Oliver was still clasping her other hand. “In very good shape,” she assured him briskly. “But I had to do something quickly to ward off one of his worst attacks.” She smiled mischievously. “Your Aunt Arabella wrote that she planned to spend a month with us this year! You can imagine Papa’s sentiments! Last year was nearly the end of him, he vowed, and she only stayed a week. Isn’t it fortunate that she is his sister and not mine! He made me write at once and tell her that I would be out of Town for the whole of May. I told him it would never serve to hold her off, and of course it didn’t. She wrote back immediately and said that she would be delighted to take charge of the household during my absence! So now poor Papa is having to put up at the Clarendon and at last I am to have all my cherished alterations put in hand. How many years have I spent in trying to persuade him?” And she hugged both sons impartially.
“Mama, you are a minx,” said Oliver fondly. “Confess that you guessed how it would fall out!”
“Of course I did – and warned your father, too, but he wouldn’t listen. So at last Aunt Arabella is made to serve a useful purpose, and my one regret is that I cannot be there myself to oversee the work.”
He smiled. “Well, you are come in a very good hour. Do you not see that we have a visitor?”
Chantal dropped an embarrassed curtsey and wondered how to explain her presence and her unconventional appearance in a few brief words. A pair of wise and kindly eyes met hers.
“But I know you,” announced the lady in friendly fashion. “You’re the Delaney child, and grown almost out of recognition. What have you done with your shoes?” And then, in sudden concern, “My dear girl! How did you come by that shocking bruise?”
“Just what I was about to explain to Oliver when you broke in on us,” said Dominic. “Pray join our council of war, Mama. You may be able to suggest a solution to Lady Chantal’s difficulties.”
But as she listened to the story, outlined by her son in laconic fashion wholly devoid of the melodramatic, her face grew more and more sober. It was a face that nature had designed to express joy, but much sorrow had warped its lines. With no claim to beauty, when its owner was happy it was wholly enchanting. In anxiety or grief, it fell all too easily into the lugubrious mask of the clown. For a moment Chantal was puzzled by an elusive resemblance. Then, on a hastily swallowed choke of laughter, realised that it was a resemblance to the hound, Jester.
“So I suggested that she should put up at the White Hart for a day or two until we decide what is best to be done,” Dominic ended.
“Well that, at least, may be avoided,” said his mother soberly, “now that I am come. You shall stay here, my child. You make light of the business, Dominic, but it is a very nasty one. Dangerous, too, I make no doubt.” She turned to Chantal
and put out one slim hand to touch the girl’s battered ones. “I’ve no wish to alarm you, but it is better to face the truth. I am new come from Town and it is generally acknowledged that Roger Dickensen was murdered, though no one as yet has been able to suggest a motive. There was no robbery, you see, and he was not a man to make enemies. It could be” – the gentle hand clasped the girl’s fingers – “that his concern in your affairs has some bearing on the case, for from what you have suffered at your cousin’s hands he seems to be a thoroughpaced villain.”
“It is true that I would not put murder beyond him,” said Chantal quietly, “but he has not left the Court these six weeks past, as I am all too well aware. He could not have compassed the deed himself.”
“I would not have expected him to do so. He seems to be the sort of man who stands aside while others pull his chestnuts out of the fire. But it would be all too easy to procure a hired assassin. However, we waste our time on what can only be surmise. We must contrive a new identity for you. How many of the servants here have seen you?”
“I think only two of the grooms,” said Chantal, looking doubtfully at Dominic.
He nodded assent. “But I’m afraid they would take particular notice,” he admitted ruefully. “First because your appearance in itself is slightly unusual, and secondly because it is highly unusual for me to be driving any sort of female.”
His mother sighed. “What a careless boy you are! You should have found some kind of disguise for her before you brought her home. Now we shall be forced to tell a great many lies, and I daresay they will prove our undoing, because I never can remember which particular story I preferred.” She nibbled one knuckle pensively while Chantal stared in some awe at a woman who could take a casual stranger under her wing, albeit in light-hearted fashion.
Presently the jester-face lit to amused enthusiasm. “I have it,” she announced, “and a simple enough tale, too. You shall be the naughty little daughter of a friend of mine. You have run away from the strict Grandmama with whom you were placed after some social faux pas – no need to make up a tale about that, I shall just draw a sober mouth and say that it is better forgotten. An escape from your bedroom by a conveniently placed tree will explain the loss of your shoes, and we can only hope the servants were incapable of distinguishing between a dressing gown and the latest high kick of fashion. I have come seeking you, your Mama being prostrated by this latest naughtiness, and am relieved to discover that you have fallen in with my son, who is, of course, well known to you. I shall attend to the matter of your wardrobe myself. The servants will believe that I brought your clothes with me from Town. Dominic, you shall escort me on a shopping expedition at once.” She quelled any possible objections to this suggestion before they could find utterance. Fixing her indignant son with a minatory eye, she said gently, “Have you never heard, my son, that when you save a person’s life, they become your responsibility? You, my child,” she turned her attention to Chantal, “shall retire to your room – the Lilac room, I think, Oliver, next to mine – and repose yourself after your unpleasant experiences. And we must find another name for you. Your own is too distinctive.” She brooded over this for a moment, then said, “Do you think you could remember to answer if we called you Janet, or Jan? I remember that your Papa spoke of you as his ‘little Shan’, so it should not be too difficult. Yes?” And assuming Chantal’s agreement she swept her off to her room, where she made notes of measurements and lists of necessities and brushed aside the girl’s protests about the cost of the wardrobe that she deemed essential.
