by Annie Haynes
Joan shrugged her shoulders.
“White, that is all I can tell you. A young woman came down from town to fit me, but the frock itself I have never seen.”
“Joan!” Cynthia interrupted her with a little shriek. You have not seen it? You do not know whether it is a success? Where is it?”
“Granny is going to send it here in time for the ball,” Joan said demurely. “I can’t help it, Cynthia—she would have her own way about it.”
“But this is terrible!” Cynthia clasped her hands in real distress. “It may—nay, it probably will—be something appalling. I wish I had ordered another for you myself. Reggie said this morning I ought to have done so.”
“There is nothing to do but to make the best of it,” Joan answered.
The conversation took place in Mrs. Trewhistle’s bedroom. It was the day of the ball, and at Cynthia’s urgent request Joan had been allowed to come over in time for tea and to dress at her cousin’s. Now, Cynthia in her pretty chiffon tea-gown was eyeing Joan’s severe black frock with obvious disapproval.
“It is too bad,” she grumbled. “Just when I particularly wanted you to look nice, and all my things are much too small for you. Celestine”—as her maid came into the room—“see if you can find the Brussels lace I was looking at this morning. I want it for Mademoiselle. Is Aunt Ursula persisting in that absurd idea of hers, Joan?” as the maid departed on her errand. “Insisting on finding that sister of yours? It makes Reggie so angry when he thinks of it.”
“Finding Evelyn? Yes I think so,” Joan assented. “Don’t call it an absurd idea, Cynthia. Evelyn has as good a right to be at Warchester as I have. How I loved her years ago! And how strange it seems to remember that I was that lonely little child in the coachman’s house at the back of the mews!”
Cynthia made a little grimace.
“Your sister couldn’t have cared for you much, Joan, or she would not have lost sight of you all this time. I should not, I know.”
“I am sure she loved me,” said Joan with conviction. “Her letters used to be full of the happy time that was coming when we should be together again—her little sister Polly, she used to call me. I have sometimes wondered whether my stepmother kept back her letters after I came to Warchester, for I have never heard from Evie since.”
“Perhaps she did,” Cynthia replied indifferently. Her private opinion was that if Mrs. Spencer had kept back the letters she had for once done Joan a good turn. “But if Aunt Ursula finds her now and leaves Warchester to her it will be a wicked shame and I shall tell her so!”
Joan smiled, knowing that Cynthia’s brave speeches were seldom dangerous.
“I wonder whether she will? Certainly Evelyn has the better right to—to everything. She is the elder.”
“What does that matter when you have lived here so many years? But I hope that they will not find her. Ah, Celestine, that is right!” as the maid returned with a scarf of valuable lace. Mrs. Trewhistle draped it about Joan’s figure. “There, that is better!” she said, standing back to admire her handiwork. “Now come, Joan!”
Downstairs in the hall, before the big fire of logs, two men were standing. They looked up as soon as the sound of Cynthia’s laugh on the stairs reached them. One was Reginald Trewhistle, the master of the house, and the other was a tall, dark, broad-shouldered man, whose clean-shaven face had a look of strength and power, whose abundant dark hair was already thickly streaked with grey. As he glanced upwards at the two women, a gleam of admiration sprang into his deep-set grey eyes.
As she waited a moment at the bend of the stairs and smiled down at Cynthia, Joan made an exquisite picture; against Cynthia’s fluffy elegance the long, severe lines of her sombre gown had the grace of absolute simplicity; the dark oak of the wainscoting threw into high relief the small head, with its crown of waving hair, set flowerlike on the long throat.
To the man in the dimness of the hall below she seemed to be bathed in sunlight; he caught the brilliance of her complexion, her arresting, bewildering smile.
“Oh, Lord Warchester, this is kind!” Cynthia hurried down and greeted the stranger effusively. “Joan, dear, this is Lord Warchester—-my cousin, Miss Davenant.”
The look in Warchester’s eyes as he bent low over Joan’s hands did not escape Mrs. Trewhistle. With a little throb of congratulation she told herself that it would be all right, that things would go as she wished.
“You must bid Lord Warchester welcome home, Joan,” she said as she moved to the tea-table. “We are all so glad to have him.”
Joan gazed intently at the man’s dark face. She felt in a curious way that somewhere she and Lord Warchester had met before. Then, as he smiled, she told herself that she was mistaken; she must have seen a chance resemblance to his predecessor, the old Lord Warchester, whom she had met occasionally in the course of her walks and drives.
“I suppose you are very glad to be back,” she said simply.
“Very glad to be once more among my old friends,” he returned in his deep, pleasant voice. “Among them I used to be fortunate enough to count Mrs. Davenant. I am hoping to be allowed to call upon her soon.”
“Upon Granny!” Joan exclaimed in genuine amazement.
He laughed.
“Yes. Why do you look surprised? Your Uncle Guy and I were great friends. I believe that as Paul Wilton I had the honour of being a favourite of Mrs. Covenant’s. Of course I understand his death has made a tremendous difference in her mode of life, but I am hoping she will be persuaded to see me.”
“Joan! Joan! Come and have your tea! We have so little time to spare!” Cynthia called from her seat near the fireplace. “Lord Warchester, as soon as tea is over we are going to give Joan a dancing lesson—Reggie and I. Positively the poor child has never been taught. You will have to retire to the smoking-room.”
“Oh, but why should I be banished?” Warchester protested, his grey eyes smiling as they rested on his hostess’s vivacious face. “May I not help with the lesson?”
Cynthia looked at him for an instant with her head on one side as she rose.
“I remember that I danced with you two or three times before I was married, and you were splendid! Yes, you may come if you like, may he not, Joan?
Warchester’s dark face was unusually animated as he followed them to the ball-room. It was already prepared for the dance, and Mrs. Trewhistle looked at the shining expanse of floor with satisfaction. She seated herself at the piano and began to play a dreamy waltz.
“Now, Reggie,” she commanded, “I have taught Joan the steps, but positively the poor child has never danced with a proper partner in her life.”
Reggie Trewhistle came forward obediently. He was a stout, rather vacuous-looking man, already growing bald.
“Now, Joan, allow me—”
“If you please, sir, Mr. Cairns would be glad if you could speak to him for a moment; he desired me to say that his business was very important.”
The butler was standing in the doorway regarding them benevolently.
“Oh, bother!” exclaimed Reggie. “I had forgotten Cairns. I must see him for a minute or two. Warchester, take my place till I come back, there’s a good fellow!”
“With pleasure!” Warchester stepped forward and laid his hand lightly on Joan’s arm. “One, two, three—now!” He swung her round. Joan in her nervousness was inclined to forget all Mrs. Trewhistle’s carefully imparted instructions at first, but very soon her feet began to keep time to the music instinctively, the rhythm of the motion grew upon her, and she drew a deep breath of delight as they glided round the room. She was far too inexperienced to realize how much Warchester was helping her on or to appreciate how perfect a partner he was.
“Thank you, Miss Davenant! I shall always owe Cairns a debt of gratitude for coming when he did.”
The amber specks in Joan’s eyes were very apparent as she glanced at him.
“Cairns, I do not understand.”
“I have been your first partn
er. I shall remember that always,” he said, looking at her intently.
“Our pupil does us credit, Lord Warchester,’’ said Cynthia, coming towards him. “Do you know, Joan, it is later than I thought? We shall have to dress immediately.” She took the girl’s hand. “Hurry, hurry!”
Warchester moved forward quickly and intercepted them at the door.
“How many dances will you give me to-night, Miss Davenant?”
Joan hesitated a second; her colour was heightened by the unwonted exercise, and her breath came quicker through her parted lips.
“How many do you want?”
“Every one you can spare.”
“Do you not think you are rather rash?” asked Joan. “I do not expect to be in universal request. Quite possibly you will be the only person who will ask me to dance at all.”
“May I take the chance?” Warchester’s eyes were very eager as he asked the question.
“We will see later,” Joan said mischievously as she followed Cynthia.
“There is plenty of time really,” Cynthia confided to her as they went upstairs. “But I felt we must look at your gown. I believe it has just come, and in case Aunt Ursula has sent something perfectly frightful I want Celestine to see what she can do with it. Well, Celestine”—as the maid opened the door—“is it possible? Can Miss Davenant wear it?”
Celestine held up her hands.
“But, madame—possible? It is all that there is of superbe... magnifique!”
“What? Superbe! Magnifique!” Cynthia hurried across to the couch.
Joan’s gown lay there enshrouded in folds of tissue-paper but gleaming lustrously through them.
“Oh, Joan!” she gasped. “Who would have thought it of Aunt Ursula? Celestine, you must do your best for Miss Davenant to-night.”
“That will not be difficult, madame,” Celestine responded as she loosened Joan’s rippling hair.
Joan’s thoughts were very far away as she sat silent before the long pier-glass while Celestine’s clever fingers were busily at work. The girl would scarcely have been mortal if thoughts of Lord Warchester had not obtruded upon her.
She was trying to recall what she had heard of him from Cynthia. She knew that he had succeeded an uncle with whom he had been at variance for years and that, though he had been a friend of Reggie Trewhistle’s in their boyhood, of late they had seen little of one another.
She had heard that the new Lord Warchester had lived much abroad, and that rumour had been busy, as usual, with his past. She had a vague recollection too of having heard that a house called the Marsh, with a certain amount of property around it, had passed on the late Lord Warchester’s death to a cousin of the present peer, and wondered disconnectedly whether the cousins were alike—whether the younger one had the same kindly smile, the same, deep-set, haunting eyes as Lord Warchester himself.
“Now, mademoiselle!” The hair was finished, Celestine was waiting to help Joan with the gown, and for the time the latter forgot her speculations in the delight of seeing herself for once really well dressed.
Celestine stood back a few paces to survey her handiwork when all was finished.
“Mais, Mademoiselle is perfect—ravishing!”
The flush on Joan’s cheeks deepened as she looked at her reflection. Assuredly Mrs. Davenant had known what she was about when she ordered the gown. The ivory-like material, lovely as it was, was merely the background for the most exquisite embroidery of seed pearl and silver that lay like a delicate network of frost over the whole surface. The gown looked at first sight almost severely plain, but it had been designed by an artist to whom Joan’s wealth of colouring had been, an inspiration. Nothing could have better become the girl’s brilliant complexion, the scarlet of her lips, the warmth of her hair, than the soft ivory-white. The long, beautifully modelled throat rose from a cloud of priceless old lace. Celestine, too, had risen to the occasion. Joan’s hair was arranged with seeming carelessness, but with the hand of an artist. A necklace of pearls, which had been an heirloom for generations of Davenants, was clasped round her neck.
Cynthia, with diamonds twinkling in her hair and round her throat, coming into the room in her pale-green chiffon, looked at her cousin almost enviously.
“You are perfectly transformed, Joan! Of course I always knew you could look lovely, properly dressed, but really—that is really magnificent! It looks simple, unpretentious, and yet one sees it is exactly the thing. Beside you, I shall look atrociously overdressed.”
“You look perfectly charming!” Joan declared. “I feel very expensive, but it is nice to be properly dressed for once.”
“Of course it is!” Cynthia agreed heartily. “I am glad Aunt Ursula has behaved decently at last.”
Cynthia was a popular hostess, and dances being few and far between in the neighbourhood, her rooms filled rapidly. Joan, as a cousin of the host, and endowed with unusual good looks and with the reputation of being the greatest heiress in the county, found herself much in request. Warchester was early at her side. He claimed the first dance, and, looking at her programme, Joan felt a little alarmed as she saw how often his name figured. They made a splendid pair with their unusual height, for, though Joan was tall for a woman, her head barely reached to Warchester’s shoulder. Many eyes followed them as they circled slowly round the room, and many heads were close together when they passed.
Later in the evening they went into supper together. Warchester secured a table in an alcove a little withdrawn from the others. As she ate her chicken and salad Joan glanced across at her companion.
“How long is it since you were in the neighbourhood, Lord Warchester?”
He looked slightly surprised.
“Fourteen—no, fifteen years. I was twenty-three-the last time I stayed at Warchester. I had no expectation of succeeding to the title then. My cousin Basil, to whom my uncle left the Marsh and most of the unentailed property, was with me.”
Joan looked interested.
“He is an invalid, is he not—your cousin?”
“Yes.” Warchester’s head was downcast; his hand was absently playing with his watch-chain. “Some ten years ago he had an accident, and was frightfully smashed, up, poor chap. He has been more or less an invalid ever since, and his memory has been seriously affected.”
“How terribly sad!” Joan exclaimed. “And has he anybody—any sisters or a mother to live with him?”
“His mother died two years after the accident,” Warchester said slowly, “I think the shock of it killed her, for she had been so proud of him. But his tone changing to lighter vein—“why are you looking so puzzled, Miss Davenant? What is worrying you?”
“Because I thought—” Joan came to a stop. “But if you have not been here for ten years—”
“I have not been here for nearly fifteen years,” he corrected. “As a matter of fact, as you may have heard, my uncle was so seriously annoyed when I refused to fall in with his plans for my future that he vowed that I should not cross the threshold of the Towers in his lifetime, and he kept his word.”
“Then of course it must be my fancy, since it is only ten years since I came to the Hall, but I cannot help feeling the whole time that I have seen you before and that in some way you are familiar to me.”
Warchester leaned forward.
“I feel as if I had known you all my life. How shall we explain it? Perhaps,” with a laugh, “in another incarnation we met—-were friends.”
“Joan!” It was Reggie Trewhistle’s voice. His usually florid, good-tempered-looking face was pale and perturbed. “Aunt Ursula is not well; she—I think you had better go home.”
“Granny!” Joan stood up. The sudden revulsion of feeling from the thoughtless enjoyment of the moment before seemed to overwhelm her. She clutched blindly at the curtain behind her. Not for an instant did the apparent carelessness of her cousin’s words deceive her. Her grandmother had never been ill since her coming to Warchester, but she knew instinctively that it was no li
ght thing that had overtaken her poor grandmother now.
“What—what is it?” she asked. “Not—”
Warchester was standing behind; over the girl’s head his eyes met Reggie’s in a glance of perfect comprehension. The next moment he stepped forward and drew Joan’s hand within his arm.
“I think, Miss Davenant, we had better find Mrs. Trewhistle:”
Joan made no resistance. It did not seem strange to her that the music in the ball-room had stopped, that already people were leaving, so sure had she been from the first what had happened.
“Oh, Joan, my poor dear!” Cynthia took her from Warchester, drew her into the boudoir, and kissed her cold cheek. “I am so sorry, dear child.”
Joan drew herself a little away.
“I don’t seem to understand,” she said in an odd, tired voice. “Tell me, Cynthia, how it was?”
Cynthia’s pretty face was disfigured by tears. She had not cared for Aunt Ursula and had never pretended to do so, but it was dreadful to hear of this.
“It—it was quite sudden,” she told Joan, with a little break in her voice. “Bompas had given her milk and brandy as she always did last thing—it was later than usual, for she had been busy writing—and when she had emptied the glass she just slipped down among the pillows with a fluttering breath and was gone. Poor Bompas could not believe it. Now dear Joan, you—”
“I must go back,” Joan said calmly. “Poor Granny! She did not care much for me, you know, Cynthia, but I think she would have liked me to be there now.”
Chapter Five
“ACCORDING to the terms of my husband’s will, I bequeath Davenant Hall with its appurtenances and revenues to my granddaughter Evelyn Cecil Mary, elder daughter of John Spencer and Mary Evelyn his wife, and I appoint the said Evelyn Cecil Mary Spencer my residuary legatee. To my younger granddaughter Mary Ursula Joan Davenant, I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds a year, to be paid quarterly.”
