Gay Cavalier

by Alex Stuart

  Deirdre stared at her. "But Sean doesn't dance!"

  "He was dancing at a party I went to, in town," Penelope asserted. Her eyes widened. "Didn't you know?"

  Deirdre shook her head. "No. He didn't mention it. I mean, it never occurred to me that he — why, that he'd be able to, with that leg of his."

  "He was managing quite well when I saw him. Deirdre, I—perhaps I oughtn't to say this, but"—Penelope flashed her a sidelong, confiding glance—"I think you should try to get Sean down here more often, you know. I'm sure London's not the place for him, not really."

  "He seems to like it," Deirdre defended. "I wanted him to stay on this time, mostly on my father's account, I admit, but he insisted he couldn't. Though he did promise he'd come at the weekends. Or any evening, if I needed him."

  "Needed him?" Penelope echoed. "Oh, you mean to help you with your stables, I suppose. I wasn't thinking of that but—" She broke off, to enable Deirdre to open the gates for her. As they drove towards the house, she went on earnestly: "Sean is an awfully good artist, you know-when he's allowed to paint the way he wants to, not the wretched commercial stuff he's doing now. If he came here more often—if he lived here, instead of in London, and didn't have to worry so much about how to pay the rent, he'd do good work, I'm sure he would. I really do think you ought to do what you can to make him, Deirdre—after all, you're his sister. If you made it look as if you did need him, I mean—he's very proud and that would be a way of getting round him, wouldn't it? Of course, it's only a suggestion. But it might work, if you were tactful about it."

  "Yes, it might," Deirdre agreed doubtfully. Penelope's concern with her brother was as puzzling as her offer of a lift. Or… was it? Hadn't the one been a result of the other?

  They pulled up in the yard and Deirdre, whilst thanking her for the lift, found herself studying Penelope with new interest. Sean had said he'd taken her out to lunch, after the exhibition of his pictures, had mentioned that she had purchased one of them.

  But—Sean and… Penelope Hollis? Penelope, who had everything and went everywhere and who had once spoken in her hearing of "that Irish horse-coper, who calls himself Captain Sheridan"—oh, no, surely Penelope wouldn't look at Sean! He wasn't her type, couldn't possibly be. And yet—

  "Well, I'm off," Penelope announced abruptly, cutting short Deirdre's thanks. "I hope your father continues to improve. 'Bye!" She was gone before Deirdre could say another word. The little red car skidded round a corner of the drive on two wheels and vanished. Deirdre watched it go and then made her way, still thoughtful, towards the house.

  The setting sun turned the twisted Tudor chimneys to reddish-gold, casting long shadows across the yard, with its rows of white-painted looseboxes, its ordered neatness. Already the trees beside the paddock were in bud.

  Spring was here—spring, when a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. As, perhaps, Sean's had turned.

  Well, hers mustn't, Deirdre told herself, as she entered the hall. She had to go through the books this evening, make sure how things stood. Her father had always done the accounts and attended to the breeding records, but now that she was responsible for the Stud, she would have to be responsible for these too. If she found the book-keeping beyond her, she could always ask Colonel Carmichael's advice when he called with his cheque later in the evening. He had offered to help…

  Bridget brought her supper on a tray to the study, and she got out the heavy, leather-bound Stud record book and the lined account books and filed bank statements, spread them over her father's massive, old-fashioned desk and began to study them.

  She worked for over an hour, not making a great deal of progress. Her father kept very exact records, yet—try as she might—Deirdre could not make sense of them. Again and again, the debit columns seemed to total so much more than those on the credit side that she became convinced that, somewhere, she must have made a mistake in checking the totals. The Bank Manager's words came back to her as she pored over the pages of figures—"Your father is spending money like water, Miss Sheridan."

  It couldn't be true but—the figures blurred before her eyes—it was! Quite apart from the overdraft, which was larger by several hundred pounds than she had expected it to be, there were numerous other debts, some big, some quite small—a pile of unpaid forage bills, the farrier's account from the beginning of the year, the vet's account, a large bill from Marchmont, the Carfield saddler. She was so appalled by what she had learnt that she scarcely heard Bridget come in.

  It wasn't until the old housekeeper touched her arm and whispered a warning that she realized, with a start, that Colonel Carmichael had arrived.

  He was standing smiling down at her in friendly fashion, but his gaze, Deirdre saw, went from her face to the piles of unreceipted bills, rested for a moment on the tell-tale red figures at the foot of the last bank statement. Too late, she put out a hand to cover them.

  He said sympathetically: "Having trouble with the books? That's no job for a woman. How about letting me see if I can straighten them out for you?"

  Looking down at her, seeing her small, worried face and weary eyes, the ruffled curls and ink-smudged fingers, Alan Carmichael experienced the almost irresistible desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. She was so young, so vulnerable and defenceless, and all this responsibility was quite obviously too much for her. And, he thought, the stories he'd heard about her father hadn't been exaggerated —a fine horseman but a hopeless hand at any sort of business dealings: the glance he had given to the Uttered papers on the desk had been enough to tell that the Sheridan Stud was badly in the red.

  "Won't you let me help?" he asked gently. "Because it looks to me as if you need help."

  All Deirdre's fierce Irish pride was instantly up in arms at his words. The thought that her father might be in financial straits was appalling enough in itself: that a stranger should learn of it filled her with horror. She thrust the papers into a drawer, out of sight, piling them on top of each other, crushed and crumpled and in hopeless confusion, bills and bank statements alike, threw in the largest of the account books after them and closed the drawer, breathing hard. With what dignity she could muster, she said discouragingly: "Thank you, Colonel Carmichael, but I'm managing perfectly well on my own."

  His brows rose in a sceptical curve but he went on smiling.

  "I'm delighted to hear it, Miss Sheridan. Needless to say, I didn't mean to pry into your private affairs. It was just that I thought you looked tired and worried and it occurred to me, since I have considerable experience of keeping accounts, that I might be able to relieve you of one, at least, of your burdens. If I can't, then there's no more to be said. Except that I've brought the cheque for Moonbeam."

  He held it out to her and Deirdre accepted it, feeling the hot, embarrassed colour rush to her cheeks. In Bridget's presence she did not want to argue with him. Bridget looked from her to Colonel Carmichael and asked uncertainly: "Will you be wanting anything? Tea, perhaps?"

  Colonel Carmichael turned to her. "Not for me, thank you," he said politely and waited for her to go.

  Bridget went, with visible reluctance.

  There was silence for a moment after the door had closed behind her. Deirdre looked at the cheque, saw that it was for the price she had originally been instructed to ask, hesitated and then burst out:

  "You—you said that this was a fancy price. Don't you —I mean, don't you want to—well, discuss it?"

  He shook his head. "No, Miss Sheridan. You told me the horse was worth every penny. I'm taking your word for it."

  "Oh." Deirdre opened her mouth and closed it again. But the unpaid bills weighed heavily on her conscience and left her with no choice. He had made out the cheque, it would be quixotic to refuse it—and Moonbeam was worth the price her father had set on him. She folded the cheque with fingers that trembled a little, and put it into the pocket of her blouse. "Thank you, Colonel Carmichael."

  He said gravely: "If I might have a receipt—
"

  "Oh—oh, yes, of course." It meant hunting through the chaotic mess in the drawer, Deirdre realized, her cheeks pinker than ever. But, tactfully, Colonel Carmichael strolled over to the open french windows and stood there with his back to her, apparently looking at the view across the lawn to the rose garden.

  After a frantic search amongst the disordered bills, Deirdre found a printed receipt book, entered up the transaction and, rather hesitantly, signed her name at its foot.

  "Er—does it need a stamp on it?" she asked.

  Without turning round, he answered briefly: "Yes, it does. If you don't mind."

  Ashamed of her own inadequacy and ignorance, Deirdre began another hunt for stamps. Colonel Carmichael turned to face her.

  "I've got one on me, if you haven't any handy."

  "There ought to be some somewhere," Deirdre protested, "only I can't find them." Why, she asked herself bitterly, hadn't she paid more attention to the business side of the Stud?

  Alan Carmichael returned to the desk, a stamp out-held. Silently, Deirdre affixed it. "Thanks." He took the receipt. "That's all in order. I'll send my man round to collect Moonbeam tomorrow morning."

  "I could deliver him to you. To—to repay you for the stamp."

  He laughed then. "Don't worry about the stamp, Miss Sheridan. What's a stamp between friends? And we are friends, aren't we?"

  "I—yes, I hope we are." Deirdre avoided his gaze. Moonbeam's cheque, she thought, would at least reduce the overdraft quite considerably and enable her to pay some, if not all, of the bills. She felt happier than she had felt all evening—found herself, suddenly, looking up at him and returning his smile.

  "That's better," he approved. "It's the first time you've smiled at me since I came in. I was afraid I'd offended you."

  "Oh, no! No, of course you haven't." Deirdre again felt ashamed of herself. "Please don't think that, Colonel Carmichael. It—I was depressed. It wasn't anything to do with you."

  "You've taken a weight off my mind," Alan Carmichael told her gravely. "Now then"—he was conscious once again of the desire to comfort her, and made a play of looking at his watch—"the night is young. I'd like to suggest your coming out for a drink with me, to celebrate our transaction. But I'm not very well acquainted with the night spots in this locality, so I'll have to ask you to tell me where we can go."

  Deirdre hesitated. "There aren't any night spots here, I'm afraid." She wondered what sort of place he meant and went on uncertainly: "Except the Four Horseshoes, in the village. Daddy goes there sometimes,"

  "And you don't?"

  "I have been. But it was ages ago—before Christmas, I think. I went with Sean. Of course, it's only a pub but —well, I mean, we could have a drink here, if you like, We've got some sherry. Or—or whisky." She looked at him doubtfully but he shook his head.

  "No, no, that wouldn't be a celebration for you. Look, surely there must be somewhere in Carfield? Let's drive over, anyway, and see."

  "Oh, yes—there's the George in Carfield. But I ought not to be late, really. Bridget will worry if I go out, I never do, you see. At least, not—well, spontaneously, like this."

  Colonel Carmichael's lips twitched but he managed to say gravely: "I'll reassure Bridget and I'll get you home well before midnight. Or"—he was struck with an idea—"I tell you what, we'll make a real celebration of it, shall we— have dinner together in Carfield tomorrow evening? And perhaps go on to the cinema, if you'd like to. Would that be better, do you think, than springing a spontaneous celebration on Bridget tonight?"

  Deirdre was relieved. She was feeling tired, it would be an effort now to change and go out. And the prospect of dining in state at the George with Colonel Alan Carmichael was rather an exciting one. Deirdre had been squired, at various times, by one or two of the young men living in the district, but the only one who had ever taken her to dine at the fashionable and expensive George was Rodney Chase, who was a friend of Sean's and in the Navy. But Rodney didn't get a great deal of leave: she hadn't seen him since— goodness, since last November.

  She accepted, with guarded enthusiasm, and Alan Carmichael, having expressed his delight, bade hex au revoir and took his leave.

  Deirdre saw him off and returned to her father's littered desk to attempt to sort out the confusion she had created there.

  She was still working at midnight, when Bridget—a fearsome apparition in red flannel and with her long white hair in pigtails—came with a glass of hot milk to drive her off to bed.

  Contrary to her expectations, Deirdre slept soundly and woke, refreshed and rested, soon after six.

  It was a glorious spring morning, crisp and with a hint of frost in the air. She joined Paddy and his string at exercise and, after breakfast, went out again to supervise Moonbeam's departure for his new home.

  Colonel Carmichael's man, a cheerful Cockney who, she gathered, had been his batman, arrived at nine to fetch the young horse.

  He introduced himself as Oxbarrow and immediately made himself popular with old Paddy—usually something of a feat—by his knowledgeable and approving comments on his employer's latest purchase.

  He handled Moonbeam with quiet competence and, having been regaled with tea in the kitchen, he swung himself lightly on to the grey, touched his cap to Deirdre with a friendly: "Good-morning, miss, and thank you!" and went clattering off out of the yard.

  "A good enough lad, that one," Paddy said approvingly. "Well trained, too, by the looks of him. He was after telling me, Miss Deirdre, that he was with the Colonel's brother, before he joined up—or brother-in-law, was it? Onyway, 'twas he owned Lancer, that jumped for the British team at Helsinki."

  "David Maxwell, do you mean?" Deirdre asked, surprised. David Maxwell was a well-known figure in show-jumping circles: his clever jumper, the fifteen-hand Arab gelding, Lancer, had distinguished himself at shows all over Europe and had been third in the George V Cup the previous year.

  Paddy nodded. "Sure, Miss Deirdre, that same gentleman. Oxbarrow was saying that he'd gone to foreign parts—Malaya, I think—with his regiment, and that the Colonel's to have the care of Lancer whilst he's abroad. The horse had a bad fall at Harringay and pulled a tendon, seemingly —he's not been sound since and they've put him out to grass. They're not wanting to have to fire him, ye see, if they can help it, and I said 'twould be a pity to do that, when there's other things we can try that would be less drastic, ye understand."

  There was a gleam in Paddy's faded old eyes as he spoke, and Deirdre guessed, though he did not tell her so, that the old groom had promised his new acquaintance a visit and his opinion on the injured horse.

  Paddy was a genius where sickness and injury were concerned: a succession of vets had scoffed at his methods, which smacked of witchcraft, but these succeeded where modern veterinary science had failed. Both Deirdre and her father viewed them with proper respect and even Sean admitted that "old Paddy had a way with him." But Paddy himself was secretive about his powers and would never speak of them, if he could avoid it—still less demonstrate them in public.

  So she asked him no more questions but volunteered instead:

  "Paddy, I'm going into Carfield, to the Bank. Is there anything you need?"

  It appeared that there was. Paddy reeled off a long list and Bridget, overhearing them, contributed a list of her own, ranging from coke for the furnace to polish for the floors.

  Shopping took up most of the morning. Deirdre, using the Power of Attorney her father had given her, paid in Colonel Carmichael's cheque, thrusting it, with a flourish, across the counter to the bespectacled cashier, who received it without apparent emotion. She avoided the Bank Manager, lest he lecture her again, and set off on a round of bill-paying which eased her nagging conscience, but, when she totalled up what she had spent, over a cup of coffee at the Corner Cafe, she was appalled. And these were only local bills…

  She lunched frugally at the same cafe, which, though crowded and not over-clean, was at least cheap enough to satisfy
her newly formed resolve to economize. Then, having lopped off all extravagant items from Paddy's list, she left orders for what remained and drove up to the hospital to visit her father. As she drove, at the wheel of Dennis Sheridan's big, post-war Armstrong it occurred to her that one of the ways in which she could cut down expenses would be by exchanging this car for a small Ten. But, she reflected apprehensively, that would mean discussing financial affairs with her father and she was loth to worry him when he was ill and helplessly tied to his bed. Later, when he had recovered from his accident, the whole situation would have to be reviewed, for clearly matters couldn't be allowed to continue as they were. And in the meantime, there would be no harm in asking at one of the Carfield Garages about the possibilities of selling or exchanging the Armstrong.

  Deirdre was not kept waiting long to see her father. A nurse ushered her into the ward and left her there, with a warning that her visit should not exceed the prescribed half-hour.

  Dennis was cheerful enough and seemed pleased to see her, but, beneath his banter, Deirdre sensed an odd constraint. Several times, when their eyes met, she saw that his were worried and questioning and, just before it was time for her to go, he said, his smile fading: "Deirdre, child, now that you've the cheque for Moonbeam, there are a few bills I'd like paid. The farrier's and one from Milligan, for forage."

  Deirdre met his gaze without shrinking. "I've paid them, Daddy. Not only those, all the Carfield ones. I—I found them last night, when I went through the books."

  Her father sighed. "Then you know the worst?"

  "Yes," she agreed, "I know the worst. It—it seems pretty bad."

  "Ach, now, 'tis not as serious as all that," he put in swiftly. "Just a temporary setback, nothing to break your heart over. I've more horses on my hands than I'd meant to have, so late in the season—too many young, half-schooled hunters, really, that I'd have been better to sell unbroken, since they'll be eating their heads off now until next winter. You'd better rough them off, most of the babies, Deirdre—they'll cost nothing at grass and you'll not find the time, now you're on your own, to school them. You'll have to keep Marigold up, for I'm depending on you to win the Ladies' Race on her. If you do—and I've no doubt you will—I've an idea that I'll be able to interest Penelope Hollis in her, next cubbing season…"