Shock kept her quiet, so that he had no idea that she had seen him. She had known, of course she had known, that he had been invited for Violet’s pleasure. She had known it since she had first seen him in the library. She had tried to put the knowledge out of her mind in those few, early days when she had walked and talked with him. I like him, she told herself firmly, not because he’s beautiful, but because I like talking to him. He’s so clever, it’s like talking to Faa.
Listening, always listening, because no one ever included her in their conversations, she discovered that he was thought to be something of a charming fool. How could anyone think any such thing? It wasn’t simply that he knew a lot, could play the guitar and the piano divinely, but she had grasped at once that even his most innocent remarks frequently carried a double meaning.
Listening, always listening, she noticed that he was particularly good with Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, whom Dinah disliked intensely. He wasn’t bad with poor Rainey, either. Dinah knew that her half-brother was dissolute and not very clever. It was not that Mr Grant made fun of his hearers, but that he tailored what he said to what they were. Of course, he did it with everyone—except Mr Van Deusen.
Dinah wasn’t sure that she liked Mr Van Deusen. He had an eye which frightened her. An eye which saw into people. She had watched him play at chess with Mr Grant one afternoon before Mr Grant had begun to avoid her, and she had expected him to win.
He had said something odd when he swung the board round to give Mr Grant the Black pieces without even tossing up, or asking him which he wanted, ‘Play me properly, Nemo, that’s the only condition on which I will give you a game.’
Nemo. Nobody. She wondered why he called Mr Grant that. Mr Grant had laughed his charming laugh, and said, ‘If you are sure that is what you want?’ Mr Van Deusen had nodded, and said, irascibly, as though he were cross, ‘You know dam’ well it is.’
After that they played, and Mr Grant had won easily. Once or twice he offered to let Mr Van Deusen replace his piece and make another move because the one he had made was disastrous, and each time, Mr Van Deusen said irritably, ‘Oh, be dam’d to that, Nemo. Play properly for once.’
Dinah thought that neither of them had seen her. She was scrunched up small behind a curtain on the window seat near the table where the chessboard was set out.
After Mr Van Deusen, neatly mated, had stared in disgust, first at the board and then at Mr Grant, and snarled, ‘Always the same, dammit. You’ve got better, not worse,’ he strode off to commit suicide, or so he said.
Mr Grant had laughed and leaned back, remarking to her around the curtain, ‘He doesn’t mean that, you know, but chess brings out the worst in people.’
‘Only if they lose,’ Dinah offered.
‘Not invariably,’ he replied gravely.
‘Is that why you let them win?’ she asked him, because that was the only thing which made sense of Mr Van Deusen’s remarks. He was telling Mr Grant to play up to his paper, a phrase which Faa had once used.
‘It’s bad for me to win or lose,’ he told her.
‘Did you know that I was there all the time?’ she asked him.
‘That would be telling,’ he said, just like a nurse whom she had once had.
‘Why did he call you Nemo?’
‘That would be telling, too.’
Dinah considered him. It was, she later remembered sadly, the last conversation which she had had with him. After that he had avoided her, and she wondered what she had said or done to make him do so.
‘Nemo means nobody.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not nobody.’
‘True.’
Dinah gave up. He was laughing at her, kindly and gently. It was at that moment that she knew that she loved him. Not simply because he was kind to her, although that was part of it, and, of course, she must never let him know.
‘Would you play chess with me again? I’m not such a good player as Mr Van Deusen.’
She thought for a moment. ‘You could teach me. It’s more than just knowing the moves, isn’t it?’
He taught her that afternoon. Carefully and patiently. She had thought at the time that she might use what he told her against him the next time that they played, but it was to be the last game he played with her at Moorings.
He had just finished explaining to her the importance of protecting her centre when she saw, over his shoulder, Violet looking at them. Dinah didn’t like the expression on Violet’s face. It was one which meant that she was doing something wrong, and for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was about playing a game of chess against Mr Grant which could be wrong.
‘Dinah!’ Violet called, irritation in her voice. ‘I thought I told you not to trouble the guests. Kenilworth particularly wanted Mr Grant to ride out with him this afternoon, but he couldn’t find him.’
Cobie swung round. ‘My fault, Lady K.,’ he said cheerfully, ‘not Dinah’s. I felt lazy this afternoon.’
Violet had shown him her sweetest smile. ‘Oh, you weren’t to know. Besides, Dinah ought to go to her room and do her piano practice. I particularly promised Mama that she would do at least an hour every day. I don’t think you’ve done any at all for the last two days. Off with you now.’
There was nothing for it but to leave him, and since then Mr Grant, to please Violet, because she plainly didn’t want Dinah to call him Cobie, had hardly spoken to her. He hadn’t looked at her, either. All because he was so besotted with Violet that once she had taken him over so completely he had had no time to look at anyone else.
Worse, Violet was being particularly nasty to her these days. And if it went on she would ask either to go back to Mama’s, or to Faa. And if Violet said no, she had a good mind to take Pearson, herself and their bags, go to the station and buy tickets to take them to Oxford—and Faa.
She had just reached this point in her musings when she saw Mr Grant walking along the path which skirted the top lawn and led to the garden in which she was sitting. He was wearing a black-and-gold striped blazer with a white shirt and cream flannel trousers, a turn-out which made him look more handsome than ever, and made Dinah in her child’s dress of blue-and-white striped cotton feel more of a frump than ever.
He had seen her and was walking towards her.
But he wasn’t giving her his white smile. His face was stern and shuttered, as though she and the rest of the world didn’t exist.
She remembered that she had seen him looking like that the other day. Violet had just left him and he was standing alone. He had been laughing with Violet, looking particularly handsome, and then, suddenly, he had turned away. Before he had done so, however, she had seen his face change for a brief moment into that stern impassive mask, and she had wondered what had caused such a transformation.
He saw her, and hesitated. She thought that he was about to change the path he was taking in order to avoid her. In the distance, through a gap in the hedge, she could see Violet walking along yet another path, exquisitely turned out, a parasol in her hand, even though the sun was watery today.
Perhaps it was her he wished to join, and Dinah Freville was only an unconsidered nuisance in his way. He must have changed his mind again, for after that infinitesimal pause he was continuing his walk towards her. Dinah smiled at him, a strained smile, not sure of its welcome.
‘Lady Dinah,’ he said, bowing. ‘It is not quite so warm today, I think. The weather is hardly suitable for sitting outdoors.’ And then, after this cold beginning, so unlike the warmth of their earlier conversations, he asked her, still in the same distant tones, ‘Were you waiting for me?’
Why, she didn’t know, Dinah began to tremble. Had she been waiting for him? Of course she had. Not consciously perhaps, but she must have known that he walked this way each morning, through the Knot Garden, through the wicket gate at the end, and out into the park, going as far as the lake whose waters sparkled in the distance, before he turned back.
Some of the gues
ts had expressed a lofty amusement at this uncharacteristic energy in a man who usually appeared to be languid. ‘Perhaps he’s a true Yankee after all,’ had been Sir Ratcliffe’s sneer, ‘in that if in nothing else!’
‘You shouldn’t, you know,’ he told her, still in that same bored voice. ‘You are still a very young lady, Dinah, and forgive me, but you ought not to appear to be chasing after an older man—that way reputations are ruined. I hope you won’t mind my giving you this advice. It is what I would offer you if you were my sister.’
It was not the words themselves which hurt her, suggesting as they did that she had been immodest, but the manner in which he uttered them, so unlike the charming friendliness he had previously shown to her.
Dinah flushed an unbecoming scarlet, which was rapidly succeeded by an ashen grey. She rose, twisting her hands together, and stammered, ‘I thought that we were friends…Mr Grant.’
‘There,’ he said, and the frost in his voice was as plain as though icicles were coming out of his mouth. ‘That is exactly it. You are not yet out, your sister tells me, so one must forgive you a certain gaucherie.’
He watched her face change again, both felt and saw, the pain on it—and cursed the necessity to do what Violet had cruelly ordered. He had to remember that by doing so he was saving the child before him from even greater humiliation—and permanent exile.
Dinah was shaking now and, to make matters worse, she saw Violet bearing down on them, an expression on her face which she had seen before, and which boded no good.
‘So, there you are, Cobie,’ she exclaimed to his back before Dinah could answer him. ‘Is this wretched child still pursuing you? She is becoming the talk of the house party. I really must have a word with you, Dinah, about the correct way for a girl who is not yet fully out to behave.’
Dinah, still mute, looked at them standing side by side, impregnable in their beauty. She had never before been so conscious of her plainness and her lack of the savoir faire which her sister and her lover possessed in such abundance.
They were both so…handsome.
She found herself saying, rather like her old nurse, ‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ and was surprised how level her voice was, although she was white to the lips. ‘And, Mr Grant, I think that I hate you more than I hate her.’
She waved a shaking hand at Violet. ‘She, at least, never pretended to like me. What a whited sepulchre you are…Mr Jacobus Grant!’
‘Such melodrama, darling,’ drawled Violet mockingly, ‘and all because a silly little girl mistook common courtesy for something…more…shall we say…?’
Cobie, hardly able to endure this, agonisingly aware that to defend Dinah would result in an even crueller punishment for her, put a hand on Violet’s arm to try to silence her. He would have preferred to put both his hands around her neck and strangle her.
Violet flung the hand off, and stared hard at him to try to compel him to say something more.
‘I wasn’t having you leave all the dirty work for me to do, darling,’ she told him later. Cobie saw the anguish on Dinah’s face but there was nothing he could do to staunch it without causing her future pain.
He bowed to the white-faced child, whose very courage in the face of the insults being put upon her were a reproach to him.
‘I can only say that I am sorry that you might have mistaken what your sister calls common courtesy for something more. Put my thoughtless behaviour down to my Yankee ignorance…’
He paused, added, his eyes on her, ‘It might be useful for you to remember in future that appearances often deceive.’
This last cryptic statement reminded Dinah of some of his other utterances which possessed a double meaning, although what he was trying to say to her—if anything—she couldn’t think. He had made his own revulsion at her importunate behaviour sufficiently plain, and the pain he was causing her was making it difficult for her to think clearly.
What was also plain was Violet’s scarcely disguised glee at what was happening.
‘I think that it would be a good idea for you to go to your room, my dear,’ she said peremptorily, as though to a servant.
She had put her hand on Cobie’s arm, and was leading him away. Dinah watched them go. Violet’s reproaches, crueller than ever, had stunned her. But not so much as his had done. She had fallen in love with him and what a dreadful mistake that had been. She had never known him. That hard face she had glimpsed once or twice was the true Cobie Grant—and when she had become troublesome to him he had not hesitated to rid himself of her, however much he hurt her in the doing.
All the way back to her room Dinah was crying inside.
If he had meant at the end to be so cruel, why had he been so kind to her in the beginning? Far better if he had ignored her as the other guests had done. But she would not let anything show, she would not. She would take what had happened as a valuable lesson, and would never trust anyone again. Nor would she fall in love again, since her first encounter with that emotion had been so disastrous.
She thought of his last words, ‘Appearances often deceive.’ Well, his appearance and his behaviour had deceived her—but never again.
Cobie excused himself after his brief walk with Violet—much shorter than his usual morning constitutional—was over. He smiled his charming smile, told her that he had received a large budget of business letters that morning and must see to them.
Violet was not sure that she believed him. She watched him go with a frown on her lovely face. He had been as harsh with Dinah as she had hoped that he might be, but she did not feel quite so pleased with him—or with herself—as she had expected.
She walked thoughtfully to her own rooms, unaware that, for once, Cobie had not been lying to her. He had received a large number of letters which he needed to deal with quickly, and on his way upstairs he knocked at the door of the room which his temporary secretary, Rogers, had been given and told him to report to his suite at once.
He was reading a letter when Rogers entered. It was from Ebenezer Bristow, addressed to Mr John Dilley, care of the shabby office in the City which he had hired in that name together with a clerk to run it for him. The letter told him that a suitable house—the one next door to 21 Sea Coal Street—had been bought, and was being furnished and staffed, ready for more abandoned and homeless children.
He also added that Miss Lizzie Steele appeared to be happy in her new home. Her stepfather had not tried to trace her and make trouble, and was probably lying low, fearful of the law.
‘Take some dictation, Rogers, if you would,’ he said abruptly, and rapidly answered Bristow’s letter, before picking up another, and saying, ‘I fear that our time here is up. I have a mining expert from the States waiting to see me in London, and news in from Paris which may necessitate me travelling there. Notify my valet that we shall be leaving tomorrow, and make all the travel arrangements necessary for the three of us.’
Rogers raised inward brows. He could have sworn that Apollo, for he was aware of Cobie’s nickname, was nicely settled in at Moorings until the Season began, what with Lady K. being so available, and Lord K. apparently a congenial and obliging host ready to turn a blind eye on Lady K.’s interest in the handsome American.
He wondered what had happened to change his new employer’s mind.
So did Hendrick Van Deusen, to say nothing of Violet, when Cobie told her his news.
‘Oh, really, is this necessary?’
‘My dear Violet, wild horses would not drag me away if there were any means by which I could stay. But, alas, I am needed elsewhere. I did not inherit wealth, Violet, I make my own, and dare not neglect my interests lest I end up a poor man unable to visit Moorings. I shall be back in town for the beginning of the Season, you know. I don’t intend to abandon you.’
No, it’s only poor Dinah I’m abandoning. But God help you if I discover that you have persecuted her further because of my rapid departure, but God help me, I cannot endure to stay here longer and see a helples
s child suffer because I was foolish enough to try to lighten her life a little.
Violet said nothing more, merely pouted. Mr Van Deusen by contrast, was blunt.
‘Had enough of Lady K., have you?’
‘Now, what on earth should make you think that?’
‘Oh, I know you, Jumpin’ Jake. Nothing you ever do is unconsidered. Jealous of the kid sister, is she?’
Mr Van Deusen had seen far too much. He wondered if others had. Mr Van Deusen now did a bit of mind-reading of his own.
‘No, my friend, I don’t think anyone else has noticed. They don’t know you well enough. Reminds you of Belita, does she?’
The face Cobie offered him after he had said that was one which the Professor had not seen since his days as a desperado in Arizona Territory. They were alone: Cobie took him by the lapels of his expensive and beautiful coat and put his savage face into his friend’s, his teeth and his temper showing, the rage almost on him.
‘By God, Professor, don’t take advantage of our friendship by reminding me of Belita. I can only live in peace when I forget what I unwittingly did to her. To satisfy you I’ll say this: that, yes, the situation has its similarities, but speak of Belita or Dinah Freville to me again, and I won’t answer for the consequences.’
Mr Van Deusen freed himself, and murmured wryly, ‘Oh, you’ve not changed—except to become even less civilised. I’ll give you a piece of advice, because I think that you may be about to try to set the world to rights in your own inimitable fashion. Don’t fly too near the sun. You’ve cut a swathe in the States and here which many men might envy, but the over-reacher always goes too far. You fly high, but the higher you go, the greater the fall.’
It was the second warning! The Salvation Army Captain had given him the first. He remembered what Lewis Carroll had said in his riddling rhyme The Hunting of the Snark: ‘What I tell you three times is true!’
Well, no one was more aware than Jacobus Grant of the dangers of hubris: that in every venture he had ever undertaken he had always followed a narrow path between triumphant success and dismal failure. He would not have it otherwise.
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