by Mira Stables
“I will walk back to the house with you,” she said hospitably. “Papa has been called away, but you must take some refreshment before you go.” She turned back for a moment to the tinker woman. “I will send some milk for the little boy,” she promised, as the big barn door was flung open and an irate Jasper appeared on the threshold, followed by one of the stable boys.
“By your leave, Miss Katherine,” he jerked out. “There’s a whole heap of tackle gone missing. I had it spread out on the bench in the harness room, all ready for cleaning, when I was called away to help fig out the master’s carriage. When I went back, there was a headpiece missing and some girths and traces. I’m just wondering if any of them’s found their way down here.”
The tinker looked up from his task with all the resignation of one who is accustomed to being falsely accused. “Search if you please,” he said indifferently. “You’ll find no harness here, save our own bits and pieces.”
Dermot thought that was probably true. It was pretty certain that the tinkers knew all about the missing tackle, but they were too wily to have hidden it where the most superficial search must discover it at once. It was probably already tucked away under some hedge, where they could pick it up at their leisure after leaving the precincts of Hays Park. No wonder that the tinker appeared quite unperturbed by Jasper’s methodical search. The only suspicious article that was found in the cart was a bucket—which Jasper had not even missed—half full of corn. But the man said it was to feed the horses, and that he had put it in the cart to prevent them from getting at it unbeknownst. It might have been true, though Dermot wondered cynically when those miserable broken down animals had last tasted corn. Certainly no one could disprove it.
The tinker, however, had reckoned without his female colleagues. Jasper, flushed and annoyed at having failed to make good his case in front of his young mistress and Mr. Winfield, made a last desperate cast. He bent over the basket which was serving as a crib for the tinker baby, handed the child to its mother and lifted out the bedding. Underneath lay a bundle wrapped in a towel, which, upon being unrolled revealed not, indeed, the missing harness, but a collection of spoons and knives, a small silver mug that Katherine had used as a child, and a scarf that she did not even know she had lost.
The tinker mother burst into voluble explanation, but Dermot cut her short. “Best leave me to deal with this,” he told Katherine. “And you—Jasper, is it? Take these things up to the house. Do you want to bring the law into the business?” he went on, turning back to Katherine.
She shook her head, unable to trust her voice in her distress at having been made to look so foolish.
“Very well. Then if you, too, will go back to the house, I’ll get rid of these rogues for you.”
Katherine went meekly enough, though she felt some resentment at this high-handed dealing. One of the older women began to whine about having nowhere to go. “There’s cruel you are,” she told Dermot reproachfully, “turning women and children out into the storm, and Eily there with a sick wean.”
Dermot hid a grin for her impudence. “It seems to have escaped your attention, granny, but the sun is shining. However, if you insist on shelter you may lie snug enough at the nearest round house. I’ll get Miss Martenhays to lay an information against you.”
The old dame swore at him with vigour and freedom, but he said only that they might think themselves fortunate that the lady they had imposed upon was of so kindly a disposition; and she began reluctantly to gather clothing together and bundle it into the cart, not forgetting to curse the woman called Eily for being unable to keep her fingers from picking and stealing for a few days longer. “T’wouldn’t have hurt you to wait,” she grumbled. “We could have lain here snug for a week with all our food given us, and plenty of gleanings from the fat farm lands.”
Strolling up to the house, with a final injunction to the stable boy to oversee the rest of the packing and escort the party off the premises, Dermot felt himself slightly more in charity with Miss Martenhays. He had not done very much, but he had lent her his support in an uncomfortable situation. His debt to her did not seem quite so burdensome, and although he could not entirely bring himself to forget the way in which she had insinuated herself into the Priory, it seemed to make matters better that he had seen her taken completely at fault. Women, he thought. Sweet and soft and gullible; but he thought it kindly, for little Miss Martenhays had looked rather charming in her embarrassment.
Katherine’s own feelings were divided. On the one hand she was grateful to the gentleman for the masterful way in which he had dealt with the tinkers, yet at the same time, she had not liked feeling small and foolish in his eyes. Papa had already taken her to task for her impulsive folly in offering to shelter the tinker clan, and had warned her of its probable outcome; so she was sensitive to further criticism. Not that it was Mr. Winfield’s place to criticise any of her actions, she decided, putting up her chin. She found it soothing to her sore pride that he did not even refer to the tinker incident, but spoke instead of the prompt help that her father had furnished during the flooding; passing naturally enough to the present state of affairs in the village, the tale enlivened by one or two small comical incidents that had occurred during the hurried selection and packing of household treasures before they were swept away.
By the time that he referred to their meeting on the morning that Ajax had thrown her, they were getting on quite comfortably together, and she answered his interested enquiries about Ajax readily enough, explaining about Nelly’s lameness on that particular day. In fact, she felt herself so much in charity with him for not teasing her over her misguided benevolence, that she actually reminded him of that long ago incident of their first meeting; explaining how she had named Nelly for “The first horse that did not terrify me,” his own much loved mare. Fortunately Dermot remembered it too, and they spent some time in discussing the recent history of the Dorsey family. Dermot was no hypocrite to dress up unpalatable facts prettily because convention demanded that he speak well of the dead. He said, frankly, that young Thomas had only come by his just deserts. “A sad waste of a life,” he said curtly. “Spoiled from babyhood because he was the heir. Heir to debts and mortgaged estates, decayed farms and tumbledown buildings,” he put in bitterly. “And encouraged to think that his overbearing ways were manly.”
He realised that youthful memories of those overbearing ways had caused him to speak more harshly than was perhaps just, so he added apologetically, “I need not stand upon points with you. Perhaps I exaggerate, but you yourself suffered at the hands of that pretty pair, so you will understand what I mean.”
“I certainly suffered at Emma’s,” smiled Katherine, now feeling quite at ease. “She always blamed me for the fact that they were found out that day, though actually it was none of my doing. Someone had seen them in the village, and had told the Countess. I don’t suppose she minded about my being neglected,” she elaborated, “but she was furious that her orders had been disobeyed. I was truly thankful when Emma left school.”
“She seems to be pretty comfortably established now,” said Dermot thoughtfully. “At least I suppose it suits her. Heaven knows she had plenty of offers. But old Perceval is as rich as Midas and dotes on her, so I presume she is satisfied with her bargain.”
Under this easy exchange of views Katherine had grown so relaxed that she did not stop to think. “It would not do for me,” she said slowly. “To be married for one’s money is quite bad enough. When there is such disparity of age as well, it must disgust any one of principle.”
The words were scarcely uttered before she realised what she had said and flushed scarlet, her fingers flying to her lips. To utter such scathing condemnation of one who was related to her listener was scarcely the behaviour of a well-bred hostess. For a moment she was irrationally angry with Dermot because his easy manners had led her to speak her mind without thought. But he was swift to recognise her embarrassment, and to soothe it.
“W
ell you must agree that it is impossible to imagine Emma married to a poor man,” he pointed out, reasonably enough. “I should be very sorry for the gentleman concerned if that were the case. But enough of the Dorseys. When are you going to persuade your Papa to bring you over to see the alterations that I am putting in hand at the Priory? I would be glad of your advice as to which of the hangings and tapestries are worth repairing, and which are damaged beyond recovery. Which reminds me, Miss Martenhays, that I have a crow to pluck with you. You vanished so promptly and so completely after your discovery of the jewels that almost I began to wonder if you were the good fairy who figures so prominently in nursery tales. Luckily, Hilda was able to reassure me as to your existence, though she would tell me nothing else. And somehow, somewhere I felt that we would meet again. You could not have been permitted to bestow such benefits upon me and then go out of my life completely. I confess, however, that I did not recognise you at first. It was only when I saw you in the barn this morning that I realised you were my shy benefactress. You may like to know, however, that you were not forgotten. I kept the sapphire pendant when I disposed of the other jewels. As I told you, I counted it yours. For the second time I humbly beg you to accept a simple keepsake of the whole bizarre incident.”
Katherine lost herself in a tangle of half sentences. She did not wish for reward. Every feeling must rebel. It would be quite improper to accept a gift of valuable jewellery from one who was not a relation. She had taken great delight in her work on the tapestry, and the discovery of the jewels was purely fortuitous.
Dermot listened gravely until she ran out of breath. Then he said pleasantly, “As for the impropriety of accepting a gift of jewellery from a gentleman, I think that your Papa must be the judge of that. Does he know the circumstances?”
Katherine nodded dumbly.
“Then we shall ask his permission. I do not think that he will refuse it. I am happy to hear that you enjoyed your work on the tapestry, since it encourages me to hope for your advice in the future. Your other arguments are absurd, and you know it. If your Papa agrees to it, will you accept my pendant?”
She made one last attempt. “But do you not see, I could not possibly wear it? How if I were to meet the Countess or Emma, and they were to recognise it as family jewellery?”
He gave her the kind of tolerant smile that a benevolent uncle might have bestowed upon a rather dim niece. “My dear girl!” He, too, had forgotten to mind his tongue. “The jewels have been missing for some fifty years. Emma, certainly, could never have seen them. The Dowager”—his mouth curved in amusement—“will certainly never admit to having done so, unless it was in her cradle. There can be no one alive today who could actually identify one insignificant pendant.”
Driven against the wall, she said stubbornly, “Is it not enough that I do not wish to accept it?”
He looked at her steadily for a long moment. Her head was well up and she returned his gaze without flinching.
“No,” he said deliberately. “It is not. I did not wish to have an unknown female insinuating herself into my house. Spying out the poverty of the land, for all I know; mending my cherished tapestry—beautifully, I admit, but without my knowledge or consent. The discovery of the jewels I cannot resent, since it has enabled me to do so much for the estate and all who are bound up in it. But that, by your own admission, was purely accidental. Since I was obliged to accept your intrusion into my affairs, I think that you should pay forfeit by accepting the pendant.”
He saw the irresolution in her face and hastened to throw in a clincher. “I daresay your jewel case is amply stocked, Miss Martenhays, but surely you could find room in it for one more small trifle.”
It was enough. The suggestion that she was so high-nosed as to despise his jewel brought her to submission. If she were honest she could have told him that the sapphire pendant would remind her of pleasant useful days which held a faint spice of excitement. She would like nothing better than to accept it if she might properly do so.
“Very well, sir,” she said, stiffly formal. “I will agree to abide by Papa’s decision.” And bade him a cool good morning.
Chapter Eight
Mr. Martenhays roundly informed his daughter that she was being foolish beyond permission. There was no reason why she should not yield to Mr. Winfield’s wishes, since he felt so strongly on the matter. It was only natural that he should wish to make some gesture of appreciation, and surely the gift of one of the romantically discovered jewels was just the thing to appeal to a sentimental female heart. Its value was of no particular consequence—when one was as wealthy as Mr. Martenhays it was easy to take a large-minded view of such matters—and as for propriety, only the three of them would know of the gift, and Winfield was certainly not the type of fellow to brag about it.
Katherine yielded to the view of the majority and accepted the pendant with an outward show of decorous but restrained appreciation. Secretly, it delighted her. She loved everything about it, from its faded velvet case and antique setting to the deep blue fire of the central stone. She wondered why she had never thought to choose sapphires among the many trinkets that her father had bestowed upon her. To be sure, she did not often wear blue, Aunt Julia having declared that it was a colour more suited to a blonde, while she was beech-nut brown. Her eyes were blue, though. Or it might be more truthful to admit that they were of that indeterminate shade of blue-grey that could look blue in certain lights and certain moods. They looked blue when she wore the pendent; and wear it she did, though never in public. Often at night, her maid dismissed, she would take it out of her jewel box and clasp it about her throat. But despite these private sessions of gloating, despite the pendant’s manifest suitability for modest functions, such as the informal evening gatherings with which the country gentry beguiled the time now that the roads were passable once more, she could not bring herself to wear it when she was likely to meet Mr. Winfield. And she met him more and more frequently as the weeks passed. There might be a whist party, for the devotees, with some hilarious round game for the younger guests. Sometimes they would dance—eight or nine couples performing country dances and the occasional quadrille with more enjoyment than artistry; or there would be music and charades. Katherine found herself enjoying these simple rustic festivities with considerably more enthusiasm than she had recently brought to the far more polished entertainment offered to her in Town. She even acknowledged—to herself—that the presence of Mr. Winfield at a good many of them added just that degree of piquancy that lifted them above the commonplace. She danced with him; played loo and charades with him; permitted him to turn over her music when she found herself unable to escape the obligation of playing for the company; but she would not wear his pendant. To do so, would be to give him best in the silent duel of wills that was still being fought between them behind the polite social façade.
Even apart from social encounters she saw a good deal of Mr. Winfield. Her father regarded him as a promising convert to his own notions of modern farming, and was forever inviting him to Hays Park to see some new machine in action, or to seek his advice on the selection of stock, where, he frankly admitted, the younger man was his master.
“We ought to work in partnership,” he announced one day. “Between us we’d clean up a handsome fortune.”
These sessions with the agricultural mysteries usually ended with the pair of them coming back to Hays Park, muddy and contented, despite their fierce arguments; extremely thirsty and often hungry, too. Katherine grew accustomed to her father’s demands for tankards of ale at unseasonable hours, and his requests that another cover should be set at their dinner table. She told herself that she was glad that he found so congenial a friend with whom to share his interests. More and more often she rode with him when he went over to the Priory, giving her views on the restoration work that was in progress when they were requested, spending a comfortable hour cosing with Hilda when the men were engrossed with farming matters.
If Hilda w
as busy, she would amuse herself by strolling through the big bare rooms, planning how she would furnish and decorate them if they were hers. As an invited guest she was free of the whole house, and she explored it thoroughly. That was delightful, but it was frustrating to have to keep her eager fingers from attempting the dozens of tasks that challenged the skilled needlewoman. It was abundantly plain that for years there had been a sad lack of household management at the Priory. In the days of its affluence, anything that was a little worn or damaged had been relegated to the lumber room in the attics. In the lean years, when expensive replacements became impossible, there had still been no attempt at the repairs that could have prolonged the life of curtains and hangings. Matters were a little better under the present regime, but most of Mr. Winfield’s time and care were still devoted to his outdoor pursuits. Mr. Martenhays approved such conduct—long-headed, he pronounced. Naturally the land must come first. Katherine, however, held that the house merited a larger share of its owner’s attention. Indoors there was no one to see what needed to be done and arrange for the necessary attention. From this, it was but a short step to the discovery that what Mr. Winfield required was a wife. She left off furnishing his rooms and set herself to list the salient features of a suitable helpmeet for him.
She would have to be a woman of character—in fact distinctly strong-minded. Otherwise she would never be able to hold her own against the determined Mr. Winfield, decided Katherine, still smarting from her defeat in the matter of the pendant. On the same grounds, it would probably be better if she were not in her first youth. Yes, certainly better. A young girl would expect him to be dancing attendance on her, when any one could see that he was much too busy. She must be a capable housekeeper, too, accustomed to the management of a large household, with a due eye to economy. And speaking of economy, it would be a good thing if she was possessed of a handsome portion. The Priory could use all the money it could lay its hands on.
