by Mira Stables
She need not have been anxious. As the pair returned she heard Benedict’s voice, pitched higher in his excitement, announce, “And you can ride Boxer. He’s not really quite big enough for you, but I expect Uncle Ross will let you ride some of his horses as soon as he sees you’re to be trusted. I shall tell Mrs Palmer to give you the room next to mine. I’ve got old Read on the other side, but he won’t bother us much. I just wish your sister liked riding. We could have some splendid picnics.”
Dominic looked incredulous. For the moment he had forgotten that he was pledged to secrecy about his sister’s peculiar activities. “Not like riding? Rainey? You must be joking. Why she’s an absolute –” There he remembered and broke off short. Fortunately his hearer’s attention had been distracted by the use of the pet name.
“We thought she might be afraid of horses. Perhaps because of her lameness,” said Benedict awkwardly. And then, eagerly, “What did you call her?”
“Rainey? We’ve always called her that, ever since she was about four years old.”
They had now joined the group in the paddock which was happily engaged in feeding carrots to Adam’s pony. Dominic looked up at his sister with a wicked glint worthy of Benedict himself.
“Yes, tell them,” she said resignedly. She might have known that these two would get on together. There was a matching streak of devilment in both.
“She had such a tender heart,” Dominic told the delighted children. “She couldn’t bear the pigs to be killed or the chickens to have their necks wrung. If she herself fell down and cut her knees or bumped her nose, she would like as not grin and bear the pain bravely. But if her pet mouse died or the gardener drowned a litter of unwanted kittens, there were floods of tears. Truly floods. They just poured out – like rain. So because she was christened Graine, we called her Rainey. And of course it stuck.”
For once it was not Benedict who made the obvious move. Young Bridget, emboldened by the glorious fact that her godmother was sister to these two interesting creatures, which seemed to give her some sort of claim to their attention, said timidly, “Couldn’t we call you Rainey? It’s so much more friendly than Miss Ashley. And you are a friend, aren’t you? You told Uncle Ross so only yesterday when he was asking if we were well behaved.”
Graine flung an arm round the slim shoulders and hugged the child.
“I would like it very much,” she said, “if your uncle does not disapprove. Governesses are supposed to be dignified, you know, and he might not care for the idea of pet names for them.”
A chorus of expostulation assured her that Uncle Ross was not so stuffy. “After all,” said Benedict reasonably enough, “he lets us call him Uncle Ross, and it’s not his name at all. Only he was Lord Rossingdon before he succeeded to the title, and all his friends called him Ross. He’s got half a dozen names that I can’t remember except that the first one’s Mervyn. But it wouldn’t seem a bit right to call him Uncle Mervyn. So you see.”
Graine – now Rainey – did. It seemed that she was to enjoy a lively summer, full of temptations to which she must not succumb, steering a difficult course between the stiff, prim governess and Rainey, friend and confidante of the family. It was too soon to say whether her own brother would be a help or a hindrance in her delicate rôle.
Chapter Four
The holidays came, and Dominic with them. His visit was an instant success. He fitted into the Browning family as though he had been born to it. But he was soon to find his rôle beset by difficulties. It is not easy to be the confidante of opposing interests, especially when both Bea and Benedict had taken the precaution of pledging him to secrecy where his sister might be concerned by their schemes. The time came, regrettably soon, when he felt that his new position of adult responsibility demanded that he break this pledge. It cost him a severe struggle. A fellow did not lightly break his given word. But he felt that Bea’s affairs were moving out of his control, and he scented danger.
He came to his sister one afternoon, soon after schoolroom tea. Benedict and Adam had gone out to fish for the evening rise. Bridget had gone to take tea with one of her new friends.
“Where’s Bea?” demanded Dominic bluntly.
Graine looked surprised. “She went out to finish her water colour sketch of the fountain,” she replied.
“Well she’s not there now,” returned Dominic. “I came up through the rose gardens and she was nowhere in sight. I’m afraid the silly little idiot may have gone off on this ridiculous ploy of getting her fortune told.”
Graine was roused to instant alarm, but there was no hurrying her brother. He must tell his story in his own fashion.
“It started when you went to the fair,” he began. “Seems there was some gypsy woman that was telling fortunes and she wanted to have hers done, but Uncle Ross would have none of it. Which only made her all the more set on it, of course. That wouldn’t have mattered a scrap, but the old dame’s grandson had got himself a job in the stables. She – the grannie – took poorly after the fair, and they didn’t move on with the rest of the tribe. The boy, Jake, seems to be quite a handy sort of lad. Even Jenkinson says that he shapes well, though he doesn’t expect him to stick to the job for long. Seems that’s the trouble with gypsy blood. They’re born wanderers. However, the difficulty at the moment is that he’s for ever hanging round Bea, when he gets the chance. And she, the young minx, encourages him because she hopes he’ll take her to see his grannie and she’ll get her fortune told. No harm in it, mind you. She just smiles at him prettily when he brings her mare out, and he moons after her. All a pack of silly nonsense but it’ll have to be stopped. It’s not fair to the lad, and Bea doesn’t realise what a peck of trouble she’s stirring up. I promised I wouldn’t tell you, but if she’s really gone off to this wretched caravan, someone must go and fetch her back.”
“Indeed yes,” agreed his sister. “But are you quite sure that she has gone?”
“Soon find out,” said Dominic.
“But don’t betray her to anyone else,” cautioned his sister. “The less noise we make about such an escapade – if she really has gone – the better.”
“I know that much, stupid,” retorted Dominic with affectionate scorn. “Why else d’you think I came to you?”
He strolled off down to the stables with the negligent air of one who was merely filling in time, assured himself that the gig was missing and fell into casual talk with the head groom, Jenkinson, asking if the new boy was still giving satisfaction. Jenkinson was non-committal.
“Got a good eye for a horse, I’ll not deny. And give him something that he likes doing and he works with a will. He’s gone off now, driving Miss Bea over to visit old Nancy that used to be her mother’s nurse, and he’s got the gig spruced up like it was the coronation coach.” He chuckled. “Helps the work nicely, Mr Dominic, when a young fellow’s mooning after one of the ladies of the house. Only the best is good enough for them. I well remember how I carried on myself in similar case.”
He pulled himself up short, recalling that his auditor was rather young to be the recipient of such confidences. “But he’s a fly-by-night – a light-weight – no bottom. No, that’s not quite right,” he ruminated thoughtfully. “He’s got plenty of pluck.” And then, suddenly inspired, “He’s a here-and-thereian, that’s what he is.”
Dominic grinned, added one or two favourable comments on Jake’s general smartness and cheerful air, and strolled away as casually as he had come. Once out of sight of the stable he quickened his pace considerably.
“Just as we feared,” he burst in upon the anxious Graine. “They’ve gone off together in the gig. Supposedly visiting her Mama’s old nurse, who, I’ll lay you odds, is already in bed if not asleep. No. They’ve gone to visit Jake’s grannie. Luckily he happened to mention the fact that the caravan is standing in Prince’s Glen, just at the far end of the Royal Ride. He was telling me that the gypsies have claimed the right to camp there for over a hundred years, and his lordship has never disputed
the privilege. It’s no more than half a mile, and if you want the business hushed up, we’d better walk it.”
They were both good walkers and anxiety lent wings to their heels. In less than quarter of an hour they were approaching Prince’s Glen. And there, sure enough, stood the Valminster gig, the sturdy brown cob tied to a tree near a shabby gypsy caravan. An ancient piebald horse was cropping the short turf. He did not even raise his head at their approach. An iron pot suspended over a small fire was giving out savoury odours. There was no other sign of habitation.
They advanced rather tentatively, Graine trying to steady her hurried breathing. The door of the caravan stood open, and as they approached the sound of voices reached their ears. One was young and feminine and sounded fiercely angry, but since it spoke in a strange language they were given no clue as to the reason for that anger. Jake’s voice, deeper, slower, answering in the same language sounded half apologetic. They heard him go on in English, “She says Grandma is too ill to be bothered with the likes of you, and that I was wrong to bring you. The sooner I take you home again, the better.”
Bea’s voice, a little timid, but with a note of determination in its soft cadences, said, “I don’t wish to be a trouble to anyone, but she doesn’t look very ill. Perhaps I could come again in a day or two, but it is very difficult to make excuses to slip away.”
There came a crack of aged laughter. “It’s in the right of it you are, milady, and not such a ninny as you look. I’m none so sick as Margarita here makes out. It suited her, you see, to stay behind and tend me, and her and Jake as good as tokened. You couldn’t expect her to welcome a visit from the young lady that’s got her chal fairly beglamoured.”
Graine felt slightly sick. An unpleasant situation indeed. But there was no help for it. She climbed the two steps to the open door and knocked. There was immediate silence. She stepped inside. “May we come in?” she said pleasantly. “I must apologise for this intrusion, but we have come to take Miss Browning home, and it is already growing late. Are you ready, Beatrice?”
The gypsy girl had swung round with a belligerent air at the sound of the new voice, head flung back and arms akimbo. But evidently she understood English well enough for she relaxed visibly at these words. Jake looked shamefaced and Beatrice coloured to the roots of her hair. Only the old lady propped up in the narrow bed seemed unperturbed.
“That will be best,” she commended calmly, and then turned to Beatrice.
“You don’t need the likes of me to tell your fortune, child. You have gold and silver a-plenty, and noble blood and a pretty face. Good friends, too.” She glanced with regal approval at Graine and Dominic. “Those are your fortune. But one more word I have for you. Keep to your own kind and don’t meddle with a world that’s strange to you. That way danger lies. There. That is all the fortune you will have of me. Pay heed to it.” She turned to Graine. “No need to be anxious, lady. No harm has come to the girl, nor will. By tomorrow we shall be gone from here.”
Graine could only mutter slightly incoherent thanks and good wishes for the old woman’s complete recovery. She had no money with her, and in any case she felt that any offer of reward would be an insult in the face of that calm dignity. She could only press the wrinkled hand and repeat her thanks.
The old woman’s clasp on her fingers tightened, the intent dark eyes gazed earnestly into hers. “You are the one with the fine fortune, lady,” she said slowly. “A long way off yet, but sure as tomorrow’s dawn. Danger I see, and difficulty and sorrow, but great happiness to amend all.” She almost flung Graine’s hand away from her and said in quite a different voice, rough and harsh, “Be off with you now. We’ve much to do if we’re to be on the road at first light.”
They went thankfully. Dominic had a few shillings in his pocket which he finally persuaded Jake to accept, since by leaving in such a fashion he was forfeiting his wages. Then the boy untied the cob while Dominic helped the girls into the gig and took the reins. They did not talk until they had left the track and the caravan behind them. Then, as Dominic shook the cob into a gentle trot, Beatrice said penitently, “I’m sorry, Miss Ashley. I didn’t think there was any harm in it. I didn’t know about Margarita and that I was making trouble between her and Jake. I only wanted to hear my fortune. I was very thankful when you and Dominic came. They were so cross, and not even Jake would take my part. I was never so glad of anything in my life as when you knocked on that door.”
She did indeed look pale and tired. Obviously the evening’s events had shocked and frightened her. Graine thought she might well take the old gypsy woman’s warning to heart, and could not bring herself to add a scolding of her own.
“The thing we must think about now is how to smuggle you back into the house without any one being the wiser,” she said cheerfully. “The fewer people to know about this prank, the better. I am sure you will behave more sensibly in future.”
Dominic could not foresee any particular difficulty about their return. He would see to the gig and the cob and engage himself to make all right with Jenkinson about Jake’s departure. All that the girls had to do was to slip into the house unobtrusively. It was most likely that they had not even been missed.
It was unfortunate that Jake had not bestowed the same care on the state of the brown cob’s shoes as he had devoted to the polishing of the gig. One of them had worked loose, and Dominic was obliged to get down and lead him to avoid the danger of a serious stumble. The delay was considerable, and to add to their discomfort it came on to rain. Graine decided that it would be quicker to take a short cut through the formal gardens instead of going all the way round by the stables, so leaving her brother to deal with the unfortunate cob, she and Beatrice hurried along the damp paths to the house and slipped in through the conservatory, thankful that Bosworth had not yet locked up for the night.
This relief was short-lived. The conservatory opened into the large drawing room, an apartment which, during the period of Graine’s residence at Valminster had never been used. It was in use tonight. The Earl was showing his collection of miniatures to a lady and gentleman whom she had never seen before. It was impossible for the guilty pair to escape unseen. The Earl presented them casually to Mr and Mrs Barrington – his niece, Beatrice, and her governess, Miss Ashley – and all the time his eyes were roving thoughtfully over the two damp, dishevelled figures from untidy hair to muddy slippers.
“You are very wet,” he said quietly. “Better put on some dry things. I would like a word with you later, Miss Ashley. I will come up to the schoolroom. Good night, Beatrice.”
“He’s going to ask where we’ve been,” exclaimed Beatrice on a half sob as they went upstairs. Tears were not far away.
“I don’t suppose so for a moment,” lied Graine valiantly. “It’s probably something quite different. Away to bed with you, and get Ellen to bring you a hot drink, or you’ll be taking a chill. See, you’re shivering.”
Beatrice turned and hugged her impulsively. “If Benedict was here he’d say you were a regular trump. You won’t let me say it, but you are, just the same.”
Graine changed hurriedly into dry garments, smoothed her hair and repaired her ‘complexion’, which had not been improved by the rain. She settled down to await his lordship’s arrival with considerable apprehension.
It was not unfounded. He attacked immediately.
“Nine o’clock is far too late for Beatrice to be out, Miss Ashley, unless the expedition has her Mama’s approval, or, in the present circumstances, mine. Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me where she has been.”
Graine hesitated. Then she said levelly, “She took a fancy to visit her mother’s old nurse.” That was at least partly true. It was the excuse that Beatrice had given for ordering the gig.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said sternly. “Old Nancy has been in her bed these two hours and more. You must think me a slow-top to swallow such an unlikely tale.”
He surveyed her in silence for what seemed an age,
the grey eyes raking her face with merciless directness. She faced his inquisitorial stare bravely enough, but she could not prevent her colour from rising. Fortunately the full effect was masked by her grease paint. She also put up a nervous hand to brush back a curl of damp hair that had escaped its restraining pin. His face softened a little. He said calmly, “Beatrice is in some scrape and you are trying to cover up for her. Pray don’t. I appreciate your loyalty and am happy to know that you have taken your charges in affection, but if she is in a scrape it would be much more sensible to let me deal with it. I promise not to scold her beyond what is reasonable.”
“Beatrice was in a scrape, and all of her own making,” interjected a new voice. Graine and his lordship swung round to face the little figure in the doorway. Very small and young she looked, a wrapper over her nightdress, her hair in two thick plaits, but very determined, too. She stood there for a moment surveying them, then ran across the intervening space to cast herself into her uncle’s arms.
