Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  “Who is Fiona Macdonald?” she asked him, puzzled.

  “A girl from the islands who married a Merriden back in 1715,” he told her, smiling. “There is a portrait of her in the music room. And yes, there is a likeness. Trust Aunt Celia to notice it right away. Something about the modelling of the brows and temples and the shape of your mouth.” He chuckled. “By all accounts she had the devil’s own temper, too,” he said provocatively.

  But Chantal declined the challenge and said demurely that she was rather tired and would be grateful if he would summon one of the maids to show her to her room. He preferred, however, to perform this service himself, explaining that, knowing her love of antiquities, he had suggested that she be given one of the upper tower rooms.

  “Though I fear your maid will not share your enthusiasm,” he warned her. “Oliver and I are housed in the other tower. We always preferred those rooms when we were children and many’s the phantom fleet we’ve espied from our beleaguered fortress. Alas for the onset of old age that such imaginings have lost their charm! And here we are.” He held open the door for her. “And here is Hilda. I leave you in good hands. Sleep well. You will have the sea to sing your lullaby.”

  “I know naught of sea lullabies,” said Hilda practically as the door closed behind him, “but it’s a Sabbath day’s journey to bring you a can of hot water, miss. Though I will say there’s plenty of willing hands to help a body. And maybe it’s as well for you and me to be together in this tower with the two gentlemen in the other and her ladyship in between. More proper that way. And it’s thankful I am to find I can understand the way they talk – mostly, any way, though there’s one or two words that are strange to me. You’d scarcely know you was in a foreign country, would you?” she ended in a burst of confidence.

  Further investigation revealed that Hilda had never before travelled north of Trent. Chantal realised that it had required quite a degree of courage to agree to such an adventure.

  “But I likes it pretty well,” the girl told her, encouraged by the friendly interest. “Let me do those buttons, miss. The bath water’s going cold and it’s stiff and sore you’ll be tomorrow after all that riding unless you takes your bath good and hot.”

  Chantal was indeed tired – too sleepy to devote much attention to the delightful room that had been allotted her except to decide sleepily that with the walls hung with tapestries and a screen to keep out any wandering draughts it was really very cosy. She had not even finished the glass of hot milk that Hilda brought before sleep claimed her. The abigail, tiptoeing about the room as she hung out the last of the travel-creased garments, put out the candles and stole away well satisfied.

  Chapter Seven

  The weeks that followed were the happiest that Chantal had ever known. The country way of life suited her to a nicety. Far from breakfasting in bed, she and Dominic rode together very early each fine day. That meant crossing to the mainland of course, but there was a neat little dinghy that made light work of that. Sometimes they rode along the coastal track that ran south towards the headland, sometimes on the sands themselves, Dominic warning that it was dangerous to ride, or, indeed, to walk on the sands to the north and west of the bay as there were treacherous quicksands in that area, and emphasising the warning with grim tales of shipwreck.

  They would go back ravenously hungry to consume an enormous breakfast in company with Oliver and make plans for the day. They would go sailing or swimming or fishing. Chantal took but a modest part in the fishing expeditions. It seemed only fair to make some effort after the pains they had taken over her instruction, but when, with much urgent advice and a little assistance she actually caught a small sea trout she could only regret the poor thing’s demise. It was scarcely big enough to eat, and she could see little satisfaction in killing just for the fun of the thing.

  A statement to this effect provoked fierce argument, the men urging the delights of pitting one’s wits and skill against a wary adversary, Dominic administering a clincher by asking why she went hunting if that was how she felt.

  “For the excitement,” she admitted honestly. “And because my father was pleased and proud if I could keep up with him. I’m afraid I never thought about the fox. I just loved the speed and the feel of a good horse under me. Any way, foxes are vermin,” she added defensively, realising that her candour was playing into their hands. “This poor thing was doing no harm.” She nudged the trout gingerly with her toe.

  “You should enquire the opinion of the smaller marine creatures about that,” suggested Oliver with an amused twinkle.

  She raised her brows enquiringly.

  “He eats them, you know. Not only insects and worms, but little fish and even fish eggs. I daresay every mama fish for miles around is calling down blessings on your head for so gallantly removing this menace to her young.”

  Chantal looked aggrievedly at her trophy. He had only helped Oliver to demolish her argument. And Dominic had pulled out a sketching block and a stick of charcoal and with swift economical strokes was depicting a row of assorted fish standing on their tails, fins upraised in praise or supplication, all addressing themselves to a Chantal who had mysteriously acquired a mermaid’s tail. She had to laugh at the comical caricature, though she was firm in her refusal to fish again.

  Sometimes they went further afield, foregoing the morning ride and setting out early to visit some ancient abbey or castle – none, vowed Chantal loyally, one half so lovely as Dorne – or the bustling little port of Stranraer with its magnificent views over Loch Ryan towards Arran and Kintyre. The days fled all too swiftly. So did the long leisurely evenings when it was never really dark. They would open the long windows of the music room and the scent of the sea would drift in to them, mingled with the sweetness of stocks and roses and mignonette, as they talked over the day’s events, or argued, as they had done about hunting and fishing, or lit the candles and made music together if the mood so took them.

  When it was really too hot to venture out even on the water, they lazed in the coolness of the garden. Generations of Merridens had given their care to the making of that garden. Soil had been brought from the mainland to supplement the light sandy covering bestowed by nature. There was one garden that was all blue and silver, where sea lavender and sea holly grew in the shelter of a buckthorn hedge and hydrangeas queened it proudly. There were hedges ablaze with the gold of hypericum, or Rose of Sharon, its prettier name with Chantal preferred. The turf was green and springy, gemmed with rosy flowers of thrift; the sea so smooth it might have been a lake, save for the tiny ripples that betrayed the incoming tide. Somehow argument arose about the reading matter appropriate to the female intellect, but it was too hot to argue properly. Chantal dropped down on the grass by Oliver’s chair and yielded to the languor of the still afternoon. Dominic, having wedged the chair securely, announced that he must go back to the house.

  “Letters to write,” he groaned, “that must catch tomorrow’s mail. Deal faithfully with this wayward chit, won’t you, Noll? Next we shall have her demanding the works of Mary Godwin.”

  He strolled off. As they watched him go, the moment seemed to Chantal opportune to satisfy a growing curiosity.

  “It’s a very odd circumstance,” she began. “When we were at Claverton, you were forever engaged in business and letter writing. Your brother and I almost came to cuffs because I took him to task for leaving all the work to you. Here at Dorne it is the other way about. You are the one who idles in the garden while he is for ever excusing himself on the plea of letters to write.”

  There was a glint in Oliver’s eyes. This was interesting. For a girl of Chantal’s breeding to express such a degree of concern over his brother’s affairs was surely significant. He could have told her that some of the time that Nick spent shut away in his room was devoted to painting a portrait of herself. He did not do so. Instead he said carelessly, “Oh – I daresay you have realised by now that Nick is by no means the idler he would have you believe. He is con
cerned in a great many affairs and gets through a vast amount of business in his lazy-seeming way.”

  With that she had to be content. It did not prevent her from spending a good deal of time in speculation as to the nature of the business in which his lordship was concerned.

  Oliver, too, was indulging in a certain amount of speculation. From what he had heard, the portrait that his brother was painting was unusual to say the least of it. He would have given a handsome sum for a glimpse of it.

  He had come by his knowledge innocently enough. He had salvaged the charcoal sketch of Chantal and the fish and directed his man to pin it up on the wall because it amused him. Some days later he had sent Bateson up to Dominic’s room with a letter which had been accidentally included with his own mail. On his return the valet had volunteered the information that his lordship was engaged on an enlarged version of the sketch in oils.

  “Only it don’t look the same,” he had said in a perplexed sort of way. But when pressed he could only say that the fish looked different – “not comical, like those” – and that he had not seen very much because milord had swiftly stepped between him and the painting. The situation, decided Oliver, was developing nicely.

  Dominic was less satisfied with the course of events. If he had dreamed that his sentiments towards Chantal could undergo such a change, he would never have agreed that she should take refuge at Dorne. To be sure he had developed quite a liking for the girl on the journey north. Once or twice he had even found himself reflecting that it might have been rather pleasant to have a young sister to tease and to cosset.

  It was only since their arrival at Dorne that warmer feelings had sprung to life. Her complete capitulation to the charm of the place had pleased him greatly. He found himself studying her face as he showed her some corner of his home beloved since childhood; even asking her opinion of projected innovations. At first this had been all. But constant propinquity and an unconventional degree of freedom had wrought an insidious spell. Of late he had found himself obliged to keep the lady at a distance. One could resist the temptation to kiss the nape of her neck where the soft hair curled in little feathery tendrils as she stooped to examine some sea creature or strange flower, but her mouth, with its full upper lip and its unconscious pathos in repose, tempted him maddeningly. Dominic was no monk. He had enjoyed occasional light affairs with a variety of young ladies who understood perfectly well what they were about, but never before had he felt any desire for a more serious attachment.

  Chantal was no lady of easy virtue to whom he could offer a carte blanche. This time desire must be kept within bounds. Not only was she a guest in his home but she also had a claim on his protective chivalry. And it did not make matters easier that she treated him with a warm friendliness that was the mark of her innocence. When she had stretched up, laughing, to remove a large furry caterpillar that was painstakingly ascending his shoulder, he had been hard put to it to refrain from catching her in his arms and kissing that inviting mouth. Chantal had been quite unaware, concerned only for the caterpillar, and had run off with it cradled in her palm in search of Oliver who would undoubtedly be able to name its species and describe its life cycle.

  He had hoped, by painting her portrait, to ease a little of his pent-up restlessness, but in this he had lamentably failed. Some last upsurge of the bitterness that he had nourished for so many years had caused him to paint a Chantal who wore a cold, inscrutable half-smile as she gazed through her mirror at the adoring fish. Small wonder that poor Bateson, after one brief glimpse, had said that the fish looked different. They had been given the faces of men. Dominic had enjoyed painting those fish. Several notorious men-of-the-town might have found them cause sufficient for libel action, for each face depicted a different form of desire, from the sheep-eyed yearning of a loose-lipped weakling to the rampant lust of a middle-aged rake.

  He stood back to study the finished effect. It was vile. Exhibited at Somerset House it would bring him overnight notoriety. Society would be all agog to identify the ‘fish’. And Chantal – confiding, innocent Chantal – would be smeared by every kind of foul insinuation. It would be a kind of rape, he thought furiously, and quite without justification, for the expression of cynical calculation on the painted face was a lie. Chantal had never looked so in her life. Could not look so. Mistakes she might have made – been guilty of any number of youthful follies, but in that moment he knew he would stake his life on her truth and her loyalty.

  He gave the picture one last long look and then, very deliberately, picked up the knife that he used for scraping his palette and slashed it across and across until it was reduced to unrecognisable shreds. Satisfied at last, he stretched, yawned and shook himself as one awaking from some evil dream and began, with the utmost care, to prepare another canvas. A little smile curved his mouth as he worked. How should he paint her, his rebel maid? Sailing the skiff, as she loved to do, or riding Pegeen? Frolicking with Jester, perhaps. No hurry to decide. He could count on two more months are least unless winter set in uncommonly early. That should be sufficient, not only for painting a portrait but also to woo a girl as independent and virginal as Diana’s self. It might not be easy. After her experience with her unpleasant cousin she would naturally be wary.

  No thought of the possible activities of that gentleman disturbed his happy frame of mind. So light-hearted and relaxed was he over dinner that they were all affected by his mood. When Aunt Celia asked, interpreting his gaiety by her own feelings, if his painting had gone well, his answer was prompt.

  “At least it has gone. And a deal of spite and ugliness with it.” He smiled at their puzzled faces. “I have been trying my hand at a rather fanciful allegory,” he explained. “In the process a good deal of poison was transferred to the canvas, and I confess to feeling the better for having voided it. I have destroyed the unpleasant result and mean to start again. If you will permit me, Jan, I would like to attempt a portrait of you. See if I can beat Aunt Celia at her own game,” he teased that lady, who was already engaged on a portrait of Chantal dressed in a charming costume of early Georgian times that might well have been worn by Fiona Macdonald herself.

  Chantal coloured delightfully at the implied compliment but demurred, saying that to be sitting for two artists would take up a great deal of time, and with the weather so fine it seemed a pity to spend so long indoors.

  “Oh, but I have nearly done,” protested Lady Celia helpfully, “and I can very well work on the costume and background without you.”

  So Chantal, who had instinctively sought to evade an assignment that would mean long periods alone with Dominic, was compelled to agree. She did not know how clearly her expression mirrored her inward doubts and so was considerably comforted when he said meditatively that he rather thought he should paint her in an outdoor setting and that Oliver could make himself useful by entertaining the sitter.

  He was careful, too, to avoid Chantal’s eyes when he sang for them that night. Lady Celia had offered to play his accompaniments so that it would have been easy to sing at the girl, but though he might be deep in love he had sufficient good sense remaining to realise that such particularity could only embarrass her. So he sang ‘Drink to me only’ and ‘The Bonnie Earl o’ Moray’ in his smooth beguiling baritone, and only when he came to the last line of ‘There is a lady sweet and kind’ did he permit his glance to rest briefly on the girl’s rapt, upturned face. For a long moment blue eyes, at last unguarded, looked steadily into startled grey ones. Some wordless message passed between them. Chantal’s hands flew to her lips, a betraying gesture which she hurriedly covered by making pretence of polite applause. Her heart was racing as though she had been running. Across the space that divided them she had felt the kiss that he would have pressed on her mouth. Through her confusion she heard Oliver placidly remark that his brother was in good voice. Lady Celia, fingers idling over the keys, presently strayed into a dance tune, an old Scottish air in waltz rhythm, and some imp of mischief prompted Olive
r to suggest, with a grandfatherly air, that the young folk dance. Since Lady Celia immediately supported the notion, Chantal submitted with the best grace she could muster. In the general way she loved dancing, but to be taken in Dominic’s arms at that precise moment was an ordeal that demanded all her self control.

  He contented himself with two or three circuits of the limited space at their disposal, thanked his partner gravely for the pleasure of the dance and asked if she would be willing to play a measure so that he could dance with Aunt Celia.

  Nothing could have served better. Chantal promptly decided that she had refined too much on that oddly intimate exchange of glances. Thankfully she played the delicate minuet that Lady Celia requested; was even sufficiently recovered to watch over her shoulder the charming picture that the dancers made as they performed the old fashioned measure with grave precision. But when Dominic suggested that she dance with him again, she begged off, saying that she was really too sleepy to mind her steps.

  He did not press the request. He was pretty well pleased with his progress but he knew it behoved him to tread warily. When the tea tray was brought in he carried her cup to her but did not seek to engage her in conversation. Oliver mentioned idly that Murdoch had reported tinklers camping in the glen and the men discussed the plague of petty pilfering and the depredations on the local poultry population that would probably follow. Gentle Lady Celia said she thought tinklers were often blamed for sins they did not commit. Every poacher for miles around would take advantage of their presence to step up his own activities.

  “And they are so picturesque,” she told Chantal, as though this was excuse sufficient for lack of moral principle. “You must be sure and pay a visit to the encampment.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Oliver, at his most mischievous. “Get one of the old dames to tell your fortune. Cross her palm with silver and she’ll promise you a fine handsome husband.”