“Like ’em?”
“Love them.”
“Don’t waste your love on flowers. Bridie has orders to look after you. If you’re not a good, obedient girl, B.D. and I will kidnap you and bring you back here. Get that?”
“That threat will keep me toeing the mark.”
“Don’t you like Stone House?” There was an absurd tinge of anxiety in the question. A little demon of contrariness seized Sandra.
“It’s very nice—but …”
“But what?”
“I have a single-track heart. I came to Seven Chimneys first. Naturally I am loyal to that.”
“Same way about people?”
Sandra remembered her curious suspicion of Philippe Rousseau. “Yes. Until—unless I lose faith in them.”
“I understand. Haven’t commenced to believe in me yet, have you? I’m waiting,” the authoritative voice reminded.
Sandra evaded. “It takes me a long time to make friends. I have seen you so few times …”
“Is that it? That’s easily corrected. From now on I’ll see that that excuse isn’t valid. You’ll be seeing me.”
How could he be so gay and light-hearted with those two letters in his possession? Apparently he wasn’t in the least troubled—but shouldn’t he know that she had not as yet told Philippe about Emma? She said quickly:
“Mr. Hoyt.”
“If Nicholas is too long to pronounce, try Nick.”
“Please. Be serious. I want to tell you something.”
“Where’d you get the idea that I am not serious? What is it? Shoot.”
“I think you ought to know … Come in!”
“I wish I could.”
“I didn’t mean you. Some one knocked. It is Emma with my dinner.”
“Hope it’s a good one.”
“It looks luscious. Essence of tomato, mushrooms under glass. A squab and—”
“What had you to tell me?”
Sandra looked at the maid who was arranging the dishes on a small table. Were her ears pricking with curiosity? She said quickly:
“Thank you for calling. Good-bye.”
She placed the instrument on its rack. “That looks delicious, Emma. You and I seem to be meeting constantly lately.”
The maid came closer and said under her breath, “Please don’t tell any one here that I took those letters to Mr. Hoyt, Miss Duval. I’d be frightened for my life if that butler Huckins found out. I have a hunch he’s working tooth and nail for that Rousseau fella.”
CHAPTER XIV
“Two championships, eight blues, six reds, four yellows. Not too bad a collection of ribbons to take in one show. It made the snooty smart set here sit up and take notice. The committee has asked me to stand in the receiving line at the Hunt Ball tomorrow, Curt.”
Mrs. Newsome’s voice oozed satisfaction as she stood before the fire-place in the living room at Seven Chimneys. The late afternoon sunlight gilded the mimosa trees which framed the great window, streamed in to illumine the gold letters on the heap of rosettes of colored ribbons lying on a table, before it shattered into a pool of light at her feet.
Sandra looked from her tweed-suited employer to the frowning man slumped in a chair. His clothes were of the latest cut and fashion, but the ensemble was mussy. Curtis Newsome was in a black mood indubitably. Hands in his coat pockets, legs outstretched, a telltale vacancy in his eyes, apparently his thoughts were anywhere but upon his wife at whom he was looking. She made an effort to clear the atmosphere.
“It’s grand about the ball, Mrs. Pat. Of course you should be there. Did any one else take so many ribbons at the show?”
The mistress of Seven Chimneys preened. “No. I would have taken another blue had Curtis ridden Rovin’ Reddy. The groom who showed him in the five-gaited class made the horse nervous; he cooked him.”
“What possible use can a horse have for five gaits,” Sandra asked, not because she cared, but one had to say something, one had to act as shock troops to draw fire, when husband and wife returned to the glacial age.
“That’s what the Englishmen asked. They have nothing like it over there. What is it, Huckins,” she demanded irritably as the butler appeared on the threshold. His eyes seemed to search the room before he answered:
“A note, Madame.”
“Who from?” Mrs. Newsome’s finger already was inserted under the flap of the envelope he had given her.
“I do not know, Madame. A man from Stone House brought it.”
“What are you waiting for, Huckins?”
“In case you had orders for more places to be set at table, Madame.”
“If there is to be a change, you will be told. That’s all.”
The man backed from sight as soundlessly as he had appeared. Sandra rose and picked up the cape of her rose-color wool suit. Mrs. Newsome, who had been scowling at the note, detained her with an imperative wave of her large, capable hand.
“Don’t go. I want you and Curtis to pass judgment on this. The ribbons are not the only victories I’ve won.” She twisted the sheet of paper; her voice was sharp with triumph. “This is from Nicholas Hoyt asking if he may dine here tonight.”
Sandra’s heart tripped on a beat. During the two weeks which had passed since her return from Stone House she had met Nicholas Hoyt several times on the road; he had stopped her to inquire for her shoulder. The days he had not met her he had called her on the phone. He looked thin, his eyes were hard and strained, but he had made no mention of the estate fight. Each time she had heard his voice she had fought his attraction for her. She would not be a “hound on his trail.” Sometimes she felt as if she were struggling in an irresistible current, and like an almost spent swimmer, catching at anything which might hold her back. Mostly she clutched at Philippe Rousseau, clutched, figuratively speaking. Her conscience pricked. She had not as yet told him of her suspicion of Emma.
Had Nicholas adhered to his plan to say nothing about those letters until he faced the claimant to the Hoyt estate in court? Only two persons besides himself, she and Mr. Damon, knew what was in them. Suppose he did not produce them? Would it be her moral duty to tell Philippe about them? No! He was quite capable of managing his side of this fight. Hadn’t he a lawyer? She remembered her flash of suspicion the day he had brought her from Stone House, and reiterated with a little shiver, “Quite capable.”
Mrs. Newsome’s angry voice penetrated her reflections.
“Nick makes no apology for weeks and months during which he has ignored us. You’d think from that note that he was here yesterday. He begins, ‘Dear Pat’; then he writes that Jed Langdon is back from abroad and asks if he and Jed may come to dinner, and ends, ‘May I come?’ Just like that! Perhaps he thinks that at this late day he may persuade me to back Fortune. I won’t; I’m all for Iron Man. If I did what I want to do, I’d send this note back torn into a hundred pieces, but, cheap and showy and common as he thinks me, I hate rowing families, I think they’re the lowest form of animal life, and he and I represent the same family, if only by marriage. What shall I do, Curtis? It’s up to you. He stopped coming because I married you; you are the one who has been insulted.”
Newsome pulled himself up from the chair in which he had been slouched. His fair skin was crimson.
“Why bore Miss Duval with this discussion, Pat?”
“Because it is part of her job to help me make decisions—of a social sort. Well, what shall it be, Curtis?”
“Does Nicholas know that that slick Rousseau, who claims he is Philip Hoyt, is still here?”
His wife grunted derision. “Now I ask you, is there anything that goes on on this estate that he doesn’t know? He’s the manager, isn’t he?”
“Say, listen, Pat, pipe down! I’ve nothing against Mr. Nicholas; he’s a grand fella. I liked him when I rode for his uncle’s stables. He treated me as if I was his own kind, even if I was a professional jock. Tell him to come on; it’s the only sporting thing to do when he waves the white flag. Can’t you s
ee his hand in that Hunt Ball invitation you’re so set up about? He’s the big noise in this town. He probably said to his set, ‘Lay off Mrs. Pat! Count her in!’—and you were invited.”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t go to the ball!”
“Oh, yeah? You know wild horses wouldn’t keep you away. Of course you’ll go. Of course you’ll have Nicholas Hoyt here. If you ask me, I’ll say he is the one to do the forgiving after the way you’ve backed up the man who is trying to steal his jack—to say nothing of taking Rousseau’s horse, which, with Hoyt’s Fortune, will make the race competing for that twenty-five grand day after tomorrow.”
His wife watched him as he left the room. The pitiless sun intensified the crow’s-feet at the corners of her troubled eyes as she appealed to Sandra.
“What do you say?”
“I think there will be an explosion of red-hot sparks when Nicholas Hoyt and Philippe Rousseau get together, but I agree with Mr. Newsome, the sporting thing to do is to send word to Stone House that you will be delighted to see him.”
“Sure you’d say ‘delighted’?”
“Or words to that effect.”
“Here’s Philippe!” Mrs. Newsome’s voice and eyes were spiced with malice as she announced: “Your cousin Nicholas dines with us tonight.”
Did the hand with which he held a lighter to his cigarette shake? It was a second only before he laughed:
“The heir and the Pretender. Which is which?”
Would Nicholas Hoyt come early to make his peace with Mrs. Pat, or would he come late to avoid the possibility of reproaches? Sandra’s thoughts were on the dramatic potentialities of the meeting as, two hours later, she slowly descended the stairs. She paused a moment before the Chippendale mirror to note if the quivery sensation, which had persisted since she had heard the contents of his note, were visible in her appearance. No, her red lips were steady, her dark eyes gave no evidence of turmoil within. She lingered to adjust the ragged chrysanthemums, as golden as her satin frock, in a tall vase on the console. For some unknown reason she balked at entering that room. What use stalling? Hadn’t she learned yet that the best procedure when one dreaded a thing was to get it behind one as soon as possible?
She stopped on the threshold of the library, her surprised eyes on the picture above the mantel. The too, too fleshly coryphee had given place to a portrait in a massive gold frame, the portrait of a young man in pink coat, soft yellow waistcoat, white breeches, white stock and tie. A polished boot-top was visible, one hand was in his pocket, the other held a whip. A Master of Fox Hounds, Nicholas Hoyt. No mistaking the extraordinary clearness of the gray eyes. A much younger, gayer Nicholas Hoyt, with a more sensitive mouth, than the man whom she had seen breaking the black stallion, yet a man already showing those essential qualities of firmness and responsibility which go to make up a good M.F.H.
Mrs. Pat must have had the pictures changed when she decided to welcome the original of this one. She was a good sport, no half way measure with her, Sandra thought as she entered the library. Nicholas Hoyt was not there. Estelle Carter, for once ahead of time, was perched on the arm of a chair which faced the door. Had she dressed early that she might not miss the comedy of his entrance? Her slim body, in a black sequined frock, glinted like a lithe Harlequin with every movement. Her cigarette holder, sandals, and sheer handkerchief matched the jade of her earrings. Jed Langdon and Curtis Newsome were bending over the puzzle table. Across the room Mrs. Pat, in a deep horizon-blue chiffon, magical in its slenderizing effect, was chatting with Philippe Rousseau.
Sandra was aware of electricity in the atmosphere. After an instant of hesitation she joined the two men.
“Welcome back, Mr. Langdon! You two have the air of dark and dour conspiracy in spite of your apparent absorption. Something is about to happen to somebody. I—”
“Mr. Nicholas Hoyt.” The butler’s voice, a trifle more suave, a trifle more impressive than usual, interrupted her gay prediction.
There was a slight hush like the instant which precedes the bursting of a shell—then Mrs. Newsome took a step forward; her chin quivered like a hurt child’s. Nicholas met her with outstretched hand.
“It was mighty nice of you to let me come, Pat.”
The color, which had darkened his face as he greeted his hostess, faded as Philippe Rousseau said easily:
“How are you, Nick?”
Apparently he had decided to ignore his ejection from Stone House on the day of the accident. He could be counted on for superb confidence. He had had the sense not to offer his hand, Sandra approved, as she watched the two. Nicholas Hoyt’s eyes were blazing; she could see the muscles of his jaw twitch, but his good manners held.
“How are you!” he responded with a faint touch of warmth before he turned toward Estelle Carter. She exhaled a long breath of smoke and laughed.
“Looks like a good party! Enter the rightful—interrogation point—heir. What a man! You certainly know the dramatic value of a late entrance, Nick.” She flung her arm about his neck and kissed him squarely on the mouth. “Priceless boy! It’s a lifetime since I’ve seen you!”
Sandra’s world whirled and steadied. She knew the woman’s kiss meant nothing, knew that probably she had seen Nicholas Hoyt every day, but it made her furious. How could he stand there smiling down at her? Did he love her? Except for the fact that his color had deepened, apparently it was an every-day occurrence for him to be kissed. Thank heaven she had seen the demonstration! She would no longer have to fight his attraction; probably that had been nothing but a feverish hang-over from her fall, anyway. How she hated his type! He removed the clinging arm.
“Can’t take the credit for that dramatic entrance, Estelle. Jed and I arrived twenty minutes ago; I had hoped to have a heart-to-heart with Mrs. Pat before the rest of you came down. Bud and Buddy were the real directors of my late appearance in person. They were lying in wait outside. In their exuberance they planted four great paws on my, until then, immaculate shirt-front. I had to go back to Stone House to change. Better keep those dogs shut up after dark, Curt.”
Curtis Newsome’s sensitive lips twitched, his eyes glowed with fervent admiration at the friendliness of Nicholas Hoyt’s smile and voice, at his tactful assumption that he would be the one to give orders, not his wife.
Mrs. Pat’s despotism did not admit of authority contrary to her own. She promptly caught up the reins of management.
“I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again. You know every one here, don’t you, Nick? Miss Duval has been your guest, so you may have caught the idea that she’s a treasure. She ought to be secretary for some hundred thousand dollar a year man, she has executive ability and then some.”
“Executive ability—and how! A girl who can manage to come a cropper at the door of a rich, goodlooking bachelor.…” Estelle Carter ended the sentence with a laugh.
The suggestion had been made so lightly that resentment seemed out of place, yet Sandra felt the prick of malice in the words. She protested gaily:
“Please don’t discuss me. I feel like—like a germ which has been isolated for observation under a microscope.”
Philippe Rousseau slipped his arm in hers. “If you are, you’re a rare and precious germ. Come out on the terrace until dinner is announced. You and I are outlanders at this—family reunion.”
His smoldering eyes betrayed the blandness of his voice. Unless she wished to precipitate a scene she had better go with him, Sandra decided. Once outside on the shadowy terrace above the pool, he resented:
“Nicholas Hoyt didn’t look at me when I spoke to him—I, who was ready to overlook his rotten treatment the day you were hurt! He’s a fool! I could be generous to him—but, after that, do you think I will be when … when all this comes to me?”
He nodded toward the dusky shapes of the stables with their winking lights. A middle-aged moon was rising among fleeces of cloud. A drift of dance music from a distant radio floated past on the scented breeze which set little noi
ses creaking in the shutters, whipped white ribbons on the surface of the dark river. To Sandra the world seemed unreal in the dim light and the man beside her the most unreal thing in it. Had he by any chance heard of those letters?
“Are you so sure that it will come to you?”
He squared his shoulders, looked down at her as one might at a foolish but very dear child.
“I am. The proofs that I am the son of Mark Hoyt are incontestable. Only three days now before the date set for the hearing. They have been trying to find some papers, letters of my mother’s they claim Mark Hoyt had.”
“Your mother!”
“My foster-mother; not surprising that I should think of her as the real thing, is it? Remember, I didn’t know the truth about her until she was dying and gave me her diary and an old letter of Mark Hoyt’s. They won’t be able to disprove that little book.”
He caught her hands. “Do you wonder that I want all this which is rightfully mine? What a home! What a home in which to live, to which to bring a wife! Sandra—the moment I am acknowledged the heir—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Duval, but it has been several minutes since Huckins announced dinner,” Nicholas Hoyt suggested from the French window.
For all the notice he took of Philippe, the claimant to the Hoyt fortune might have been a flagstone in the terrace. There was an unpleasant glint in Rousseau’s eyes. Sandra hurriedly slipped her hand within his arm.
“Come, Philippe. Mrs. Pat is a forgiving soul, but lateness at dinner is the one thing she won’t stand for. Unless we want to be sent to our rooms without anything to eat, we had better go in.”
Nicholas Hoyt stood aside for them to enter the dining room. Sandra gazed up at him defiantly as she passed. Did he believe that laughter-veiled insinuation of Estelle’s that her accident had been planned to excite his interest? Conceited as he may have been made by pursuing females, he couldn’t be so brainless as to think that. In case he did, she would make it her life work from this minute on to smash the supposition.
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