But Christine was hardly attending. Beyond, the sunken gardens, beyond their walls, the park; beyond that park was Frome. ‘Sapphire, you must ride with me this afternoon. We are to go up behind the Castle; my cousin will suggest that we call there. Edward last night was angry, I know it: he cannot bear women to make scenes; he left the ball because of what I did and, oh, Sophia! I know he won’t come back. So I must go to him.’
‘You go to him! Christine, you have no pride.’
She flushed. ‘I think I have; and yet—when one is in love, it is true that pride seems a small thing, insignificant.…’
‘Not to me,’ said Sapphire.
‘But you are not yet in love.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Sapphire. ‘I had forgotten that. Well, so we have to run after this paragon of yours who, I must say it, Christine, seems to me a monstrous prig and that is all.’
‘He is not.… You don’t understand.… Well, at any rate, Sophia, I want to go to Frome. If my cousin takes us all there, no one can suspect me of—of pursuing—’
‘If your cousin takes you, there’s no need for me to ride.’
‘But supposing he does not think of it, then you could say—could express a wish to see the Castle.…’
‘The simple answer is, Christine—I have no habit.’
But Christine had a habit, had spare habits, half a dozen habits left hanging in various closets from a lifetime of cousinly visiting at Starrbelow. And so Sophia must ride and did ride, sitting like a proud, disdainful young queen on the pretty mare Lord Weyburn, triumphantly smiling, chose for her. There were a dozen riders; close, divided, strung out, close again, they cantered jingling through the park, clattered across a road newly cut through the valley, climbed, the ponies pecking gamely with their gentle heads, up the steep hill that brought them out at last to the ridge above Frome. A lone rider met them there and stared with frankly appraising eye at Sapphire. ‘Who is the pretty puss on Weyburn’s new mare?’
‘A puss indeed,’ said Lord Greenewode, reining in beside him. ‘And with claws to scratch. Beware of her.’
Red Reddington looked closer. ‘Is she not the girl—’
‘Yes. Last night at the ball. His lordship wastes no time.’
‘Neither would I,’ said Sir Francis Erick, laughing, ‘had I made the bet.’
‘But will she have him?’ They sat their horses casually, long, easy in the saddle, the reins held slackly, looking out across the lovely hills and valleys, down on to Frome Castle. Squire Reddington was square and thickset, reddy-brown as to complexion from exposure to all weathers, hard-riding, hard-drinking, hard-living, some said dissolute; and yet he looked at Sapphire with a sort of gentleness about his bright brown eye. ‘She looks—a cut above these scheming city wenches.’
Lord Greenewode shrugged. ‘She plays it like a veteran, however. She’s cat-and-mousing with poor Charles already: tosses her head and flirts her fan and does not mince her language; and will not dance, or won’t converse, or deigns not to take his arm—but in the end is seen to dance and talk and hang on him. I wagered today she would not ride with him—yet here she is!’
‘And yet, I’ll swear, knows nothing of that other bet.’
‘No, no: there I agree. The aunt’s been long set on poor Charles—she’s told the girl what game to play, that’s all.’
‘Somehow,’ said Reddington, ‘one grieves to see her quite so apt a pupil.’ He gathered up his reins and clattered off. Sir Francis, smiling blue-and-blond, said to his friend, ‘I’ll say Amen to that.’
‘Alas for dreams,’ said Lord Greenewode, ‘I’m a cynic.’
Prince Anton sat slouched loosely in the saddle, his feet slipped out of the stirrups, his long legs dangling. He had ridden out beside Christine Lillane and all the while had struggled with the longing to tell her of the danger he had brought to her friend. Fear held him back; fear of his mistress’s reprisals, fear of the blackmail she had hinted, fear that she would indeed inform his father of what would bring an end to all his future hopes. Life at home in Hanover was very simple: what passed here for competence, there was wealth; what here was tedium inexpressible, at home was ease, position, comfort, self-respect; and he knew that there could be, ultimately, no other life for him: nor, when he returned there, could he support any other. At home it was all or nothing—for those who were of the Royal circle and yet not in it, literally nothing: no gay fringe of society as there was in England, where a man might be a gentleman and rich and respected, though he be hardly tolerated, if at all, at court. And if all this came out … Impossible to explain: impossible to explain in Hanover, where the court was the very crown and centre of social attainment and joy, that here in the circles in which he had moved it was all as nothing, not important enough to be even a laughing-stock: where one must put in an appearance now and again for loyalty or expediency’s sake (stifling one’s yawns through the long, dull, homely evenings with the widowed old king and his family of squat, ugly mistresses, all of them advanced in age before he had ever aspired to them); dressed in clothes specially kept for such occasions, of a fashion ten or fifteen years outmoded, so that one might not outshine the sartorial ambitions of His Majesty.… When he went home, he knew, easy-going and mercurial, he would sink back happily enough into the ways of home: would accept with simple happiness the rich, dull, well-born wife, the annual baby, the succession of openly acknowledged mistresses; nothing else—when he went back home—was thinkable. But if Marcia carried out her threat, it was lost to him for ever—and he had nothing else. And if he confided in Christine, Marcia would carry out her threat.
Christine, innocent of his musings, rode silently beside him, preoccupied with troubles of her own. Would Charles suggest riding down to the Castle? The Earl would be alone there, he had accommodated only such guests as had come only for the ball and were returning home the following day. Those that were staying for Christmas formed the party at Starrbelow. She looked imploringly at Sapphire, sitting in her green velvet habit, silent, among a group of gentlemen (all of whom had laid wagers, had she known it, as to who would be first of their number to induce a flash of those blue eyes of hers). Sapphire met the glance, shrugged, turned to Lord Weyburn. ‘May we not ride down nearer, and look closer at this wonderful house?’
He was faintly astonished; it was the first time she had so much as expressed a preference—unless it be a not very flattering negative one. ‘Why, of course. We’ll all call upon Edward.’ But the slope was steep immediately below them and the going difficult. ‘We had better cut across through the field here and take that path by the wood.…’ He pointed it out to the gentlemen, gesturing with his crop.
Mrs. Forgard was with them, a noted horsewoman. ‘For my part, I’ll take the slope and go down and across the big meadow; we can really let out our horses there.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Squire Reddington. One or two more said, ‘And I.’
‘Perhaps it will be best,’ said Lord Weyburn, ‘if we divide, then, and I’ll take the less experienced while you ride on.’
Everyone looked briefly at Sapphire. She glanced at Christine. Christine had ridden this country from her childhood. She said, not sufficiently masking her charitable intention, ‘I’ll ride with Sophia.’
Sapphire sat very taut on her little dancing mare. She said, after only an infinitesimal pause, ‘Very well—come with me,’ and just touched her beast’s flank with her heel and plunged straight down the slope.
Red Reddington caught up with her three fields beyond the foot of the hill, galloping beside her on his great chestnut, outstripping her, riding a little across her horse’s nose to shout back at her: ‘Rein her in! Pull her up! You’re putting her at it too fast!’
Sapphire sat truly in the saddle, but her hands in their leather gloves were white with strain. She shook her head dumbly. The little mare flew on.
He understood. He shouted, ‘Can’t you slow her?’
She shook her head in return; two tears of
something like terror welled up in her eyes, rolled down her white cheeks, were dried in an instant by the rush through the keen wind. If I fall, if I injure the mare, if I disgrace myself before them all once more …!
They took a small ditch, walled on one side with honey-coloured stone; she sat her mare like an angel, but her heart was in her mouth. They were in the big meadow now, a great humped, close-cropped, hard-surfaced field: there was room to manœuvre and, before the further wall was reached, he had edged his horse again across the mare’s nose, slowed her down, steadied her: would not stop her, but cantered his chestnut comfortably beside her. And he looked into Sapphire’s white face and gave her a wink and said, ‘Bless you!—I won’t tell!’
He was not of the world she had learned so soon to distrust: she found herself saying, simply, ‘That would be kind.’
‘You ride like an angel; but she’s difficult.’ He jerked his head towards the little mare. ‘Weyburn shouldn’t have put you up on her.’
‘He hoped I would come down off her,’ said Sapphire, wearily.
‘Hoped you would fall! My dear madame—’
‘Oh, not so as to hurt myself: just to look a fool. Baiting Sapphire Devigne is the current amusement. Where have you been that you haven’t yet found that out?’
He wondered if she knew the full truth of what she said; whether she knew of Lord Weyburn’s bet. A monstrous business, he thought, if she did not; yet, strict in the code of his time, he must himself keep silence. He led the conversation into safer channels. ‘You come from Italy, signorina, I believe?’
She swung round upon him in the saddle, all her face suddenly lit to happiness. ‘Oh, to hear you say that word—“signorina”! It is such a long time since I was “signorina” to anyone. Only to hear you say it is like—’ She broke off. She said, ‘Forgive me—I am being foolish.’
‘It doesn’t seem very foolish to me,’ he said.
‘Does it not—such an outburst?’ she said wistfully. ‘I am so sick with longing for my home. Just a word and—it was like—like a candle-flame suddenly lit in one of our dim old churches.’
He looked round at the broad rolling meadows, lying grey-green about them in the thin winter sunshine; at the bare grey branches of the trees; at the great grey castle, brooding grimly over all. He said, smiling at her, ‘Do you find our England like a dim old church?’
‘Why, no,’ she said, laughing outright. ‘Indeed, it was a bad comparison; for though our churches are cold and grey when they are empty, in Italy they are very seldom empty; and when they are not, why, then they are filled with light and colour, the music rolls forth, the air is delicious with incense, and all the people come with their families and talk and chatter and say their prayers and talk and chatter again; and the children run about amongst them and it is all warm and familiar and—kind; their churches are their homes to them, their second homes; they are in their Father’s house.’
‘That is not the way with us in England.’
‘Neither in nor out of your churches.’
‘You are severe on us, Miss Devigne.’
‘Not upon you, I hope,’ she said quickly. ‘You have been nothing but kind.’ And she smiled at him, the old warm, gay, confiding smile of her girlhood in Venice a thousand shames ago.
Lord help me, he thought, if she turns those blue eyes on me one instant more with a look of such sweetness; I’m a lost man.… But the drum of hooves in the meadow was heard coming up behind them, and the look was gone. ‘Here come the horses,’ he said.
‘And the hounds,’ said Sapphire.
The party of riders overtook them, all lost in frankly surprised admiration of Miss Devigne’s prowess on horseback: none among them would have dared put his mount at such a pace down that steep and across that meadow. Lord Weyburn came last; seeing her safe, with Reddington always close behind her, he had held back to assist another guest, Prince Anton, who had perforce ridden with the rest but whose experience was hardly sufficient for such hazardous going. He left him now to laugh over his discomforts with Christine and cantered up after Sapphire. ‘You were magnificent!’
Gone was the gay and simple smile. She lifted an eyebrow, faint astonishment tipped with scorn. ‘Because I could cover a couple of fields and yet keep myself in the saddle?’
He had been unaffectedly delighted. In face of her stony unreceptiveness, however, he resumed immediately his accustomed manner: that manner that was but a carefully studied, pale reflection of the exaggerated fashion of the day—the hint of a drawl imposed upon his own quick, decisive way of speech, the set periods which became second nature, the studied compliments which were the mode—the gesture of a well-kept hand half buried in snowy-white cambric frills. ‘Keep your saddle! Why, you ride like a goddess; you were Artemis, Diana the Huntress.…’
‘That would be a reversal of rôles for me,’ said Sapphire, bitterly.
He missed her meaning. He said, laughing, ‘Why, in fact, it would; for Diana, I believe, hunted afoot and rode no horse.’ He looked appraisingly at the mare, now trotting gently beside him. ‘She is new and as yet unchristened for our stables. Have I your permission to name her Sapphire?’
‘You will name her what you like, my lord. I give and withhold no permission.’
Squire Reddington, his knight errantry accomplished, had fallen back with the other riders; a wager had been laid and it was commonly accepted that each side must be afforded fair opportunity of winning. Lord Weyburn said, ‘You are unkind, madame.’
‘I am indifferent,’ said Sapphire.
‘You are at least not gracious. I intended a compliment.’
‘A sapphire is a gem, sir; you may call your horse so without consulting me.’
‘So is a ruby a gem, or a diamond or emerald. But I wish to call my horse Sapphire. Come,’ he said, laughing a little, pleading, ‘it is not a great favour to ask.’
‘I have not refused it: you may call your horse what you will.’
He considered. ‘Well then—a wager! What shall we wager?’ A gate to Frome Castle gleamed, gilded wrought-iron, ahead of them—not the great main gates that opened out on to the village, but smaller gates, at the end of an oak avenue leading to a path through the woods. ‘A race—I will race you to the gates. And if I win you shall give me permission to call my mare after you; and if you win—why, if you win,’ said Lord Weyburn, ‘I’ll give you the mare herself. Come! What do you say?’
The going here was easy enough. ‘I’ll ride to the gates and get there first,’ said Sapphire. ‘But I’ll wager nothing upon it.’
‘What, not wager my beautiful mare to the use of your name!’
‘It is not my name; and I would not accept your mare.’
‘Very well then: if not your name …’ He shouted a word back to her but she did not catch it; already his horse with the little bay mare after him was galloping wildly up the long avenue that led to the gate, leaving the rest behind, trotting idly, weary from the long downhill, difficult ride, gossiping among themselves as to what this sudden dash might portend. The ground was spongy, soft, yet resilient with its bed of damp, dead leaves, the horses’ hooves made only a heavy chuff-chuff as they thundered between the double line of oaks with a scatter of rotting acorns and dankly-snapping twigs; the air was full of a scent that was new to Sapphire, the scent of the woods in winter; it was cold and keen on her tingling cheeks and suddenly the greys and browns of the chill countryside seemed drear to her no longer, but alive with colour of their own, with silver and gold; and here and there the dark green of mistletoe, sucking the oak’s blood to feed its pearly white berries, clinging to the bare old branches with little, green, elbowed arms. Her velvet hat tumbled back as she thrust on the mare after the thundering big black horse ahead; she pulled it off with one hand and flung it away from her, and the startled mare tossed up her wild head and rolled her wild eye and this time fairly took the bit between her teeth and bolted, uncontrolled, up the straight avenue and veered and jumped the shallow d
itch and fled off across the tree-scattered, hilly parkland, was wrenched round, found the avenue again and, exhausted after two such escapades in the space of an hour, came to a shuddering standstill at the gilt gates where Lord Weyburn, sitting the big black horse, calmly awaited them.
‘For a moment,’ he said, easily catching at the mare’s bridle close to the bit and holding her still, ‘I thought she was too much for you; but just as I would have come after you, you had her in control again.’ And he edged his horse round until they sat close, knees touching, half facing one another, and said, laughing, ‘At any rate, I win!’ and put up a hand and caught her by the tumbled bright gold hair and lightly pulled back her head and, leaning forward, as lightly kissed her lips.
She had steeled herself against that grey glance of his—half admiration, half disdain; against the too rare flash of his smile, the ring of his voice, the cool, formal touch of his fingers when they met or parted. But this—there had been no preparation for this. She felt his hand hard against the swift, backward, evading jerk of her head; she felt his firm mouth, dry-lipped, brush against her own—felt herself caught suddenly and held, her breasts crushed hard against his breast, felt her lips open under his lips: open, relax, respond, seek and receive.… Her blue eyes flashed up into his, drowned in an all-unlooked-for longing, a new, purely physical, deep, sweet agony of only half-understood desire; weak with the will to succumb, to resist no longer, to answer the call of his own swift flame of demanding passion, as unlooked-for as her own. For a long, long moment she lay against his breast, held close in his arms; and dragged her mouth at last from his, only for the sweetness of offering it to his kiss again, and, with all heaven in her great blue eyes, looked up into his face.…
Starrbelow Page 7
