The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  The cool stare lifted to her. “I presume you intend that as a compliment.” His mouth curved into that twisted smile, but his eyes were bleak. “At least, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  She was unutterably shocked that a man could speak thus of his father, and asked with a lift of the brows, “Where would you prefer to hang his picture? In your portrait gallery?”

  “Oh, no. I had thought rather the place of honour atop a large bonfire.” The ice in his eyes melted, and laughter crept into them. “Poor Miss Ramsay. How I do destroy your faith in human nature. Never mind, your fine handsome lover—ah, friend, will soon be able to reclaim you. Meanwhile, pray forgive, but some of my people are waiting to consult with me. Your brother is already out at the stables, and if you would not mind riding slowly, I’ll contrive to come up with you just as soon as I can.” He bowed and strode off.

  Phoebe stared after him, then turned to gaze up again at the likeness of Paul Carruthers. One might suppose that any family would have been proud to hang the portrait of so splendid a gentleman where it must instantly impress any visitor to their home. Yet here it was, hidden away in a corner, as though displayed more from a reluctant sense of obligation than from affection or pride. ‘What an odd lot they are,’ she thought, and walked slowly to the stableyard, puzzling at it.

  * * *

  “You have to admit it is beautiful country,” said Sinclair, as he and his sister walked their horses slowly to the top of the broad hilltop.

  Scanning sunlit, rolling woodland, verdant meadows dotted with fat cattle, and the distant charm of Dewbury Prime, Phoebe agreed. “And the Hall, so inspiring.” She had spoken in jest and was taken aback when her brother endorsed the remark with enthusiasm.

  Sinclair was less enthusiastic as the minutes lengthened into a quarter of an hour. Percent was fidgeting with impatience, and Sinclair said at last that he could wait no longer, but would explore the estate alone. “As well to leave you two love-birds together,” he added, and galloped off, laughing at the indignant comment Phoebe sent after him.

  She watched him out of sight, her eyes fond, very aware that, despite his teasing, he blamed himself bitterly for having pulled her into such a fiasco. That it was a fiasco, she could not deny, but she would have endured many such fiascos rather than have him changed by one iota. Besides, she had no real fear that she and Carruthers would be forced into matrimony, since he wanted it no more than did she.

  Rapid hoofbeats announced the approach of Carruthers, and she turned about to see him coming full tilt across the meadow, mounted on a tall black horse. The meandering stream with the low wall just beyond it was a treacherous jump, but horse and man cleared it in a style that drew an admiring exclamation from Phoebe. ‘My goodness,’ she thought, ‘but he can ride! Small wonder he was a cavalryman,’ and her smile was genuine as he cantered to join her. “I’d say he was a beautiful creature,” she said, twinkling at him, “save that I’ve found it to be a dangerous remark.”

  He had expected recriminations and, pleased by both the lack of them and her admiration of his mount, he patted the arched neck of the black and responded, “I’d have to agree with you, but alas, part of my qualification still applies. He is excessive vain and inclined to be ill-mannered.”

  “How is he called?”

  “Rogue.” He reined the stallion away as Phoebe leaned to stroke him. “Careful, ma’am. He tends to live up to his name.”

  “Is that why you named him so?”

  “No. I named him for a friend.”

  They started off, side by side, and Phoebe said, “So you have rogues for friends, have you?”

  “Don’t we all? But the nice thing about this particular friend is that there’s no doubting his reprehensible qualities. He makes no bones of the fact that he’s a rascal, which simplifies matters. You’ll likely meet him sooner or later, for Roland usually stays at the Hall, is he in the vicinity. Has your brother decided against riding today?”

  She replied demurely, “Say rather, he decided against waiting today.”

  At once his chin lifted. “My apologies to him. I’m not usually so beset, but I was away, as you know, and there were a few things—”

  “A few! Good heavens, sir, I’d have said the entire village waited for you! I never saw such a mob. Whatever have you done to cause such an outpouring of woes?”

  His glance darted to her, the pale eyes flashing. “They’re a worthless lot,” he gritted. “Expect all the luxuries. Roofs, paint, glass in windows, chimneys that draw! There’s no end to their demands!”

  Phoebe stared, her eyes very round, but despite his grim scowl she glimpsed a furtive twitch beside his mouth and could not restrain a laugh. “Horrid man! No, but the village looked lovely from what I could see. Why do they pester you so?”

  “Race you to the hill,” he said, and was away with a thunder of hoofs and a creak of saddle leather.

  “Oh!” she cried indignantly and followed. She came up with him halfway across the meadow and went past with a triumphant shout, the orange feather fluttering, the air rushing at her face, her blood exhilarated. But when Carruthers came galloping to the hilltop, she frowned at him. “I do not care to be allowed to win, Mr. Carruthers.”

  “Then you would ever lose against this fellow,” he grinned. “There’s no horse in the south country can equal him, save Roly Otton’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

  “Never mind about your roguish friend,” she said sternly. “I shall not be fobbed off so easily, sir. Tell me about your villagers.”

  He gazed down to where Dewbury Prime spread in tranquil loveliness under the cool morning sunlight. “We’ll go down,” he murmured, “and you can have a closer look. We’ve done a lot these four years. I’ve a fine steward, whose help is invaluable, but if you’d seen the state it had come to when I inherited!” His lips tightened and the dreamy look vanished from the light eyes.

  “Was it mostly a matter of roads and roofs, and suchlike?”

  “It was a matter of twenty years of neglect! Not one roof that did not leak; scarce a window not boarded; no paint left; wood rotten; chimneys that could not draw; fields and farms gone to rack and ruin!”

  She looked down at the well-kept road, the sturdy roofs, bright paint, and gleaming windows. “Then you have certainly worked miracles. But—surely you need more help. Could not your brother—”

  He took up the reins and started down the hill, saying with some impatience, “Jeff’s away at school.”

  “I hear,” she murmured tentatively, “he is often rusticated.”

  “Do you?”

  “Perhaps,” she persisted, “he doesn’t care for school. Perhaps he would prefer to be helping you here; learning about the estates, and—”

  “And the local belles,” he said with a brittle laugh. “No, he’s no interest in business or management, I’m afraid.”

  “Have you given him a choice?”

  He frowned and said grimly, “I mean to do so. He may choose between some steady application at University next term, a pair of colours, or a sojourn on our plantation in Jamaica!” Phoebe gave him a shocked look, and he went on jeeringly, “You are thinking me the Tyrant, I see. But he’ll not ruin himself as so many of these young bucks do today, can I help it! One more—” He caught himself up, flushing. “Gad, but I should not talk so.”

  “To the contrary. I think you should talk more often, Mr. Carruthers. To Jeffery. If he understood your concerns, he might—”

  “Judge me a proper grim and gloom, as he does already.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “Observe—and see how right he is!” He drove home his spurs. Rogue was away like a black streak to the picturesque hump-backed bridge whereon two villagers argued beside a heavily laden cart.

  Phoebe took the hill in more sedate style and came up in time to hear Carruthers snarl, “… see some more work done, or I shall cease to rent you a cottage of any description and you’ll be obliged to leave the Prime!”

  The big man he add
ressed so scathingly stood with dark head bowed, his gaze fixed on the shabby hat he wrung between powerful hands. “I know we’ve not pleased yer, sir,” he said humbly, “though we’ve tried, Mary and me. If ye’d just give us a bit more time, Mr. Meredith.”

  “I gave you time, Hessell! I’ve instructed Mr. Boles to look into the matter of the supplies. I shall await his report. Until then, do not be piling a double load onto the cart only to save yourself an extra trip!”

  The big man began to plead in a hushed, broken voice. Uncomfortable, Phoebe guided her horse over to the ancient little man who held Rogue’s reins. As she came closer, he snatched off his straw hat, threw her a quick, bright-eyed glance, and returned his attention to the two men.

  Having no wish for a further demonstration of Meredith Carruthers’s harsh disposition, Phoebe said pleasantly, “Good morning.”

  “Sssh!” hissed the ancient, his eyes glued to the fray. “Nor Oi doan’t mean no disrespec’, marm,” he went on in a hoarse whisper. “But—d’ye hear that? Oh, j’y! Oh, bliss!” He hugged himself ecstatically and did a small tottery dance in the one spot.

  Amused, Phoebe turned in time to see the big man walk away with dragging step and shoulders slumped. ‘Poor thing,’ she thought, and viewed her betrothed without delight.

  Carruthers gave her his satyr half-grin, pressed a coin into the old man’s hand, and swung into the saddle.

  The villager tugged at his booted leg imperatively.

  Carruthers leaned down. In a very different voice, he asked, “What now, Joseph?”

  One arm waved, the sleeve of the smock flapping about its frailty. “Oi doan’t want this here, Mr. Meredith,” he piped, holding up the shilling. “No, no. Oi’ll not take payment when Oi were treated to a foine show like that ’un.” He cackled and slapped his fragile knee. “Oi been a’watching Ben Hessell fer years an’ years, ever since he come down from Lun’on Town and married silly Mary Wells. Watching and waiting and praying as how some’un would give he a smash in the face.” His own gnarled old face radiant, he exulted, “Ye done it, Mr. Meredith! By goles, but ye did!”

  “You’re a rascal. I laid no hand on the man, and well you know it.”

  “Not a hand, p’raps, but ye tongue-lashed him good and proper, so ye did. ‘Oi’ll cease renting ye a cottage,’ says you. Hee, hee, hee! Look how he goes yonder. Stamping and so surly as any bear, he do be. And a grizzling bear, at that. And they be the surliest of all. Oi knows a lot about bears, Oi do. Oh, but this be a j’yful day. Proper j’yful!”

  Carruthers frowned. “Has Hessell been intimidating you?”

  The radiance died from the wrinkled features. Drawing himself up to his full fifty-five inches, Joseph said proudly, “Oi? ’Timidated? Ye’d oughta know better nor that, Mr. Carruthers. Ain’t no man living can ’timidate the loikes o’ Joseph Smith!”

  Phoebe held her breath, dreading another display of the Carruthers temper, but he only said, “No. I certainly should have known better.”

  “Ar, so ye should.” But the old man unbent sufficiently to add, “Now, me granddarter be another matter. So pretty as any pitcher be my Rosalie, bean’t she? Oi’ll never ferget when my John and his Grace, God rest ’em, brung her from Lun’on Town. So wee, she was. Best s’prise o’ me life, it were. An’ look how sweet she growed. So sweet as any flower. Many’s the foine young chap do have come smiling an’ smirking arter her.” His seamed face took on a crafty look. “Oi doan’t need ter tell ye that, now do Oi, sir?”

  Phoebe thought, ‘Rosalie, again. So that’s why Carruthers looks so cross.’

  Joseph was saying, “And my Rosalie wasn’t born to be no rich gent’s toy, and so I tell ’ee! ’Sides, she be too young, and her pretty head all full o’ they books as yer mama loans her. Reads ’em ter me every night, so clever. Not,” he added hastily, “as Oi cannot read me own self, but ’tis me eyes. Not just as young as Oi used t’be.”

  “You go on remarkably well, even so,” Carruthers said. “Now, tell me what Hessell has been about.”

  Joseph hesitated. “Oi doan’t like the way he looks at her.”

  “She’s a lovely sight, Joseph. There’s small harm in a look.”

  “Maybe not. But Oi got me blunderbuss loaded, Mr. Meredith! Were Oi in me prime, now, Oi’d take that Ben Hessell by the ear and throw ’un clear over the smithy, and then Oi’d go and jump on his weskit till he were all one with the mud, so Oi would.” Having uttered which fearful threat, he nodded reinforcingly and took his frail self off, weaving unsteadily up the picturesque bridge and into the serenity of the village known as Dewbury Prime.

  * * *

  They came at the gallop to the top of the rise, with no talk between them as there had been none since they left the village half an hour ago.

  Carruthers reined up and turned Rogue so as to face Phoebe. Almost knee to knee with her, he enquired, “Do you mean to sulk all day, or will you get it said before we go back?”

  “I am not sulking,” she denied loftily. “Faith, but I’ve no interest in the way you handle your people, or your properties, Mr. Carruthers.”

  “So I should hope. It would be most improper, under the circumstances. Still, I would prefer not to return to the Hall while you behave like an outraged virgin I’ve attempted to seduce.”

  She gave a shocked gasp. His leering grin taunted her.

  “What is it, ma’am? Do you fancy me to have been playing a little slap and tickle with a pure village maid?”

  She said through her teeth, “You may play at whatever you choose with—with your vicar’s wife, for all I care!”

  “How generous in you. I shall tell him I’ve your permission. She’s a shapely woman, for all her thirteen stone!”

  “If you are quite done with your crudities,” she said, nose very high held, “I expect you will be anxious to check on poor Lieutenant Lascelles.”

  “I am not done with my crudities, and ‘poor Lieutenant Lascelles’ will be the better for not having a constant stream of visitors drawing attention to his hiding place. Now, if you’re consumed with jealousy because Rosalie and I are—”

  “Jealousy! Oh, now really! That is too much!”

  “I agree most emphatically. You have a fine handsome lover, so why should not I have—”

  “I think I did not say anything so crass as to imply that I have taken a lover, sir,” she said glacially. “What kind of girl you fancy me to be I cannot guess, but I assure you the closest I have ever been to bringing down scandal upon my family was when you…” And she stopped because his face was suddenly dead-white, his eyes a savage blaze of steel.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he rasped. “Go on. Pray do not cease your ugly little insinuations on my account!”

  For a moment her own rather bewildering rage was checked. What on earth did he mean—‘ugly little insinuations’? Good heavens! Did he imagine she had referred to the scandal that had involved his mother? Her breath checked briefly from the shock of it. Then her shining white teeth fairly snapped together. She took up her reins and leaned forward in the saddle to glare into his suddenly remorseful eyes.

  “How—dare you believe I would say so spiteful a thing?” she hissed furiously. “Were I a man, sir, I would—I would call you out for—for even—”

  He grasped her reins. “Phoebe, I did not—”

  “Liar!” she raged, and brought her riding crop down with all her strength across his hand.

  He flinched, drawing away instinctively, and Phoebe, driven by a fury such as she had never before experienced, kicked home her heels and sent the fine roan mare racing down the rise and across the lush green meadow. Almost at once she heard the black start in pursuit. Her rage was such that she lashed the mare to greater efforts. They fairly flew across the meadow and Phoebe crouched, preparing the mare for the upcoming hedge and taking it at a speed that mildly astonished her. She heard Carruthers shout at her to stop, and with a little snort of contempt, she rode on. They were coming to another hedge, with b
eyond, she supposed, either another field or a lane, but it was high, and she eyed it dubiously.

  A thunder of hoofs. Carruthers was alongside. His arm flashed out. His gauntleted hand closed on her reins again, and the roan was drawn to a plunging halt.

  Breathless and defiant, Phoebe turned on him. “Brute! You hurt her mouth!”

  “No. You did. I told you to stop.”

  “And I stop when it pleases me to do so, sir!”

  “Do you indeed? And would it please you to join Sir Malcolm under his carriage, or on his roof?”

  Through a break in the hedge she could now glimpse a lane and a luxurious coach. A florid-faced, powerful-looking gentleman of middle years was advancing through the break, waving his cane at them. Flushing, she said a rather feeble “Oh.”

  “Just so,” drawled Carruthers. “Can you find your way back to the Hall from here, ma’am?”

  She thought, ‘He does not want me to meet this gentleman.’ And she responded perversely, “No.”

  “Pity,” he murmured, and dismounted.

  The newcomer stamped across the grass to confront him. “Glad I found you, Carruthers,” he observed in a growl of a voice. “Saves me a journey.”

  “By all means, join us,” Carruthers invited.

  “Devil take you, sir! I do not—”

  Carruthers lifted his hand. “Allow me first to present my betrothed. Miss Phoebe Ramsay—Sir Malcolm Lockwood.”

  The hard dark eyes flashed to Phoebe and widened a trifle. Sensing the dislike between the two men, she smiled warmly and bent to hold out her hand. “How do you do, Sir Malcolm?”

  He stamped over, perforce, touched her fingers, and swung back to Carruthers. “You had the colossal impudence to complain because my hunt dared to cross a corner of your land last week.”

  “To trample a broad swath through my south cornfield. Yes, I complained.”

  “And I told you to—” Lockwood champed his jaws, glaring furiously at Phoebe, and reworded, “I said it had been unavoidable.”

  “To which I responded—rubbish! Have you now come to apologize, sir?”