by Alex Stuart
Deirdre sighed. "Sean asked Sir Henry to consent to his engagement to Penelope. Sir Henry refused. I don't know exactly what was said but from what Sean told me, it wasn't… pleasant. Sir Henry told him to leave and has forbidden him to see Penelope again!"
"Oh!" said Alan flatly. It wasn't what he had expected, and his surprise was in his eyes. "But surely—" He had been about to suggest that Penelope was of age and checked himself. He knew Sir Henry Hollis…
Deirdre moved away from him and he realized, as she did so, that there were tears in her eyes and that she had moved so as to hide them from him. For some reason, the thought that she wanted to hide her grief from him hurt quite unbearably.
"Deirdre," he said gently. "Deirdre, please don't run away from me. Don't you understand, I—"
She turned to face him and he held out his arms to her.
Deirdre hesitated for an instant and, in that instant, the telephone in the hall outside shrilled its impatient, metallic summons.
Bridget answered it. A moment later, she came to the door. " 'Tis for you, Miss Deirdre. Sir Henry Hollis. And 'tis in a fine rage he is, by the sound of it. Shall I tell him you're out?"
"No," said Alan. Very gently, he took Deirdre by the shoulders and made her sit down. "I'll speak to him, Bridget."
His hands on Deirdre's shoulders were very steady and strangely comforting. Then he relaxed his grip and was striding purposefully across the hall to the telephone. He picked up the receiver and turned to smile back at her.
"This is Alan Carmichael, sir. Perhaps—"
Deirdre waited, in a sort of frozen calm, for him to speak again…
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alan said, very politely: "Yes, sir, but I'm speaking for her, if you don't mind." Then he was silent, brows drawn together in a frown as he listened.
From where she sat, Deirdre could hear Sir Henry Hollis's explosive, disembodied voice and knew that he must be shouting his rage aloud at the other end of the line, though she couldn't make sense of what he was saying.
She waited, sick with apprehension.
Finally Alan cut in, his tone cold now: "I see. But Penelope is twenty-five, isn't she? In view of that, I don't imagine there's much you can do about it if she has… Yes, all right, I'll tell Deirdre. But it's nothing to do with her . . ."
Another silence and Deirdre let out her breath in a small, unhappy sigh. Then Alan said: "Very well, sir, if you insist, of course I'll ask her. But quite honestly I doubt if she'll want to—well, to interfere. Yes, I'll ring you back…"
He replaced the receiver and Deirdre rose and went to meet him. She knew what he was going to say before he spoke.
"Alan, is it about Penelope? Penelope and—Sean?"
Alan nodded. To her shocked surprise, he was smiling.
"Yes, my dear, it is. Perhaps I oughtn't to be pleased about this but—I am, all the same. Sir Henry says that Penelope has walked out—well, to be precise, she's gone by car—leaving a note to say she intends to elope with Sean. She hasn't told him where she's going or where she expects to find Sean. She hasn't told him anything. He wants— or rather he demands that you should tell him where they are, he seems to think you know. But you don't, do you?"
Deirdre shook her head, feeling the colour drain from her cheeks. "No," she said, "no, I've no idea. I—only know that Sean said he was going to Newmarket. But—"
Alan took her hand in his. "Don't look so worried, child! Don't you see, it's the best possible thing that could have happened? My dear, it's not your fault, it's absolutely nothing to do with you."
"But it is—"
He drew her to him. "Oh, Deirdre, Deirdre, stop trying to take the responsibility for everything that happens! Sean and Penelope are quite grown up, you know. What they do is entirely up to them, surely? You couldn't have stopped them, even if you'd known what they were planning to do."
Deirdre jerked herself free of his encircling arm. "I did know. At least, I mean—I guessed. You see, Penelope rang me up this morning, about half past eight. And I gave her Sean's address. I—" Her voice shook. "If I hadn't told her where he was—"
Alan sighed. "If you hadn't told her, Sean would probably have done so."
"Oh, no!" Deirdre spoke with conviction. "Sean would never have told her, he'd never have asked her to run off with him."
"Wouldn't he?" Alan's brows rose. "I shouldn't be too sure of that, if I were you. When a man's in love, he doesn't behave very rationally, my dear."
"Perhaps not. But Sean—oh, he's terribly serious about Penelope, very much in love with her, but he—he's sensitive because he hasn't any money and the Hollises have so much. We talked about that last night, when we got back from the dance—Sean said it was all over, that he'd never expect Penelope to marry him if her father refused his consent."
"Well," Alan pointed out dryly, "it doesn't look as if Penelope shares his views, does it? Sir Henry was talking about cutting off her allowance—I gather he used this as a threat to her, last evening, but evidently it didn't worry her unduly. And I should think your brother would prefer it —I should, in his place. Money isn't everything, and if Sean marries Penelope now, at least no one can fling any accusations of fortune-hunting in his face, can they?"
"No," Deirdre conceded. She felt suddenly much happier. If Penelope went to Sean now, he wouldn't think twice about marrying her, he wouldn't have to. Only… she looked up at Alan anxiously, "Alan, how can they get married, right away, I mean? I thought it took ages to get a marriage licence, unless one paid the earth for the kind that dispenses with banns? A—what do you call it? A special licence, isn't it?"
Alan answered with perfect gravity: "I'm afraid I've never gone into the question, my dear. I'll check up on it if you'd like me to, but"—there was a glint of amusement in his grey eyes—"knowing Penelope, I rather think she'll have done so before she left. Sir Henry probably has a Whitaker's in his library."
"I can't take this as—as lightly as you can," Deirdre told him reproachfully. "After all, Sean's my brother and—"
"Is it such a disaster?" Alan asked. "Oh, come now, Deirdre, it's not, you know. Honestly it's not. Sean wouldn't have asked Penelope to elope with him and defy her father. But since she has, since she's given so convincing a proof of her love and her faith in him, how can Sean be anything but proud and happy?"
He was right, of course. If Penelope went to him without the wealth which had been the only barrier between them, then Sean would be pleased, he must be! And Sir Henry's anger couldn't touch either of them… they would marry in spite of his threats, because they loved each other and because they both had courage.
Alan said gently: "I promised I'd 'phone Sir Henry when I'd delivered his message to you. What do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him—" Deirdre began and hesitated. Sir Henry had called her father a horse-coper, he had reminded Sean, cruelly, that he was crippled. Her chin came up. "Tell him," she said firmly, "that I've no idea of my brother's present whereabouts—which is perfectly true, because he may not be in Newmarket at all now. And—and say that if I had, Id not dream of giving him the information!"
Alan laughed aloud. "I think," he answered, "that I'd better tone that down a bit, my sweet, audacious child! But I shall, nevertheless, make your meaning quite clear to Sir Henry. If you'll excuse me, I'll do it right away. May I use your 'phone?"
"Yes, of course," Deirdre assented. She added shyly: "It's almost lunch-time—you'll stay, won't you? That's if you haven't got to get back."
"I haven't, as it happens. So if it won't upset Bridget, I'd love to stay."
"Oh, it won't upset Bridget," Deirdre assured him, "she always cooks enough to feed a regiment. And anyway, I mustn't eat too much, I'm riding a school this afternoon with Fergus O'Ryan. And I think Dwight's coming over, if he can persuade Dan Haines to let him borrow one of the 'chasers he's buying from us."
Alan stiffened. Young Dwight Nelson, he thought—the boy always seemed to be dancing attendance on her. He'd b
een her partner at the dance last night and Bridget had mentioned that he'd been over once today already.
Of course, they were much of an age…
"Dwight's becoming quite a friend of yours?" he suggested. He hadn't meant to speak as coldly as he did and Deirdre looked at him in surprise.
"Well, yes, he is—in spite of our unfortunate beginning!" She smiled and her tone was casual as she added: "He's been awfully helpful and he's so keen. I mean, he hasn't ridden a great deal but he's come over here every morning this week, before six, to help us at exercise. So when he said he'd like a ride over fences this afternoon, I felt I couldn't refuse. I hope he won't come unstuck, that's all —or lame Dan's horse. Because Sean wouldn't approve of my letting him ride."
"I see. When the cat's away…" He was making a joke of it and Deirdre said, relieved:
"Yes, of course. But I've thrust the responsibility for this decision on to Dan. You ought to approve of that."
"I do, my dear." But Alan wasn't smiling. Looking into Deirdre's shining eyes, he mistook the reason for their sudden eager radiance and a knife twisted in his heart. Had he, he asked himself bitterly, waited too long in his search for the girl of his dreams, only to find she had been claimed by this brash young American? He'd spoken, last night, of paying court to her; a pedantic, out-dated expression which—he searched her face anxiously—which had probably amused her. How old was she? Nineteen—twenty at the very outside. Dwight Nelson wasn't much more. He himself was thirty-four. He'd commanded a battalion when Deirdre had been still a schoolgirl, he'd spent all his adult life as a soldier, in the company of other soldiers.
It was odd, he reflected, with a wry twist of the lips, but he'd never paid serious court—hateful word, yet he could think of no other—he'd never paid serious court to a woman in his life. And perhaps he was going the wrong way about it, making a fool of himself. Deirdre probably found him very stiff and unbending by comparison with young Nelson. Perhaps she didn't want to be shielded and protected, as he was trying to shield and protect her: perhaps she hadn't understood his reluctance to kiss and make love to her, which stemmed, not from any puritan streak in his make-up, but from his fear of startling her. And from his deep-rooted conviction that, with youth, went innocence.
Since his return from the hell he had endured in the Korean prison camps, Alan Carmichael had been very much aware of his own social shortcomings. He had, for a time, shunned the company of his fellows, hiding his feelings under the cloak of a brusque unapproachability that had served to keep most people at a distance.
Until he had met Deirdre Sheridan… She, without hesitation, had found her way across the barriers he had erected between the world and himself, dissipating his doubts and his loneliness, giving him back his zest for life and a purpose and motive for living it. She had found her way straight to his heart…
But perhaps she didn't know, perhaps he hadn't used the right words to make his feelings clear to her.
Perhaps, even if he did, she wouldn't want his love.
He said, aware that his tongue, in its clumsiness, had never served him worse: "Deirdre, will you dine with me this evening?"
"Oh!" The light in her eyes faded swiftly. "Oh, I'd have loved to but I—I can't. I—I've promised to go out."
"I see." Alan forced himself to speak lightly. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter." But it did, it mattered a great deal.
Deirdre suggested unhappily: "I might be able to—to put it off." She wished, desperately, that she hadn't accepted Dwight's invitation. But he'd asked her several days ago—asked both Sean and herself—and it hadn't mattered then. But if she explained to Dwight, surely he'd understand? "May I—may I let you know?"
"Of course. But don't worry about it. I—" Alan looked at his watch. "I'd better ring up Sir Henry."
"And I'll have to see Bridget and tell her you're staying for lunch."
A curious sort of tension had sprung up between them, and awareness of it made Alan tread warily throughout their lunch together: he didn't intend to be stiff and aloof but knew that he was being both. He was so much in love with the slim, lovely child who sat at the table head and plied him with food he couldn't eat, that—for almost the first time in his life—he found himself behaving gauchely and at a loss for words.
And Deirdre, bewildered by the change in him, was chilled by it, so that she, in her turn, treated him distantly, afraid to betray her disappointment and her hurt. He couldn't, she told herself a dozen times, imagine that she wanted to refuse his invitation or that Dwight meant anything to her. He couldn't possibly—and yet that was, all too obviously, what he did think. And there wasn't any way in which she could explain, for he gave her no opening.
They were finishing their coffee in the study, still in an atmosphere of strained politeness, when Deirdre heard the blare of the Cadillac's horn in the drive. "Oh," she said, with more enthusiasm than she felt, "oh, that'll be Dan. And—Dwight. They're early. Will you"—she looked up into Alan's withdrawn, expressionless face—"will you stay for the gallop? Or—or join us?"
"Thank you," he replied, cursing himself for his inability to smile, cursing the demons of doubt that rode him, "I'd like to, Deirdre, but I've a man coming over to check my plans for the new cowsheds this afternoon, unfortunately, so I won't be able to stay. But I'll watch you start off. What are you riding? Your entry for the Ladies' Race on Monday?"
Deirdre nodded, biting her lip. "Yes—Marigold."
"Marigold?" He frowned, shocked out of his constraint. "Isn't she the little mare that put your father down? I shouldn't have thought she was a wise choice. After all—"
"She's my father's choice," Deirdre answered, on the defensive, "and she's come on a lot. She's fast, you know, and she'll be very good indeed when she's had more experience."
"Yes, I'm sure she will. Nevertheless—" Dash it, Alan thought furiously, what was her father thinking of, making her race a green, half-schooled youngster? Had he no consideration for the child's safety—he who had himself so narrowly escaped fatal injury, riding the same mare? "It's a pity," he managed, as the Cadillac drew up outside the front door with a screech of protesting tyres, "that you sold me Moonbeam. He'd have carried you magnificently in any race."
"Yes"—Deirdre's tone was wistful, for Moonbeam had always been her favourite and she had hated having to pan with him—"he was my original entry for the Ladies' Race. Which reminds me, I forgot to scratch him, I'll have to remember on Monday."
"Listen"—they had both risen and Alan grasped her arm —"listen, Deirdre, don't scratch him—ride him, instead of Marigold. For me. I wish you would."
"Oh but"—she stared at him in frank bewilderment— "aren't you riding him yourself, in the Open? I thought you said—"
He shook his head impatiently: "I'd be lucky if he got a place in the Open—especially if Dan Haines intends to ride. But he'd be a certainty in the Ladies' Race, with you on him—he's your horse, he always has been. Please. Won't you ride him?"
"Well—" Deirdre hesitated, struggling against temptation. Marigold was neither an easy nor a pleasant ride, she was too inexperienced, and in fact, since her accident, she hadn't been jumping well and Deirdre, fearing that it had affected her nerve, had been worried about her.
Besides, her father's object in entering the mare for the South Kinsdale Ladies' Race had been to sell her to Penelope Hollis… and Penelope wouldn't be buying any horses now. Not if she married Sean. So there was no longer any point in running Marigold, really: if the little mare had lost her nerve, it would be better to rest her till next season, she would do the Stud more credit then. And to win the Ladies' Race on Moonbeam had long been one of Deirdre's cherished dreams. She had trained and broken him in: he was, as Alan had pointed out, her horse.
Oh, if only she could ride him! But it was an absurd idea. Because Alan had bought Moonbeam for the sole purpose of riding in a few races himself. The South Kinsdale Point-to-Point would be his first chance of doing so, she couldn't let him give up his r
ide to her.
"Well," prompted Alan gently, "what about it, Deirdre?"
"I don't like depriving you—" Deirdre began. The sound of voices in the hall recalled her to her duties as hostess. She would have to go and meet the two Americans, see that the horses were ready for them, talk to Fergus O'Ryan and Paddy. And she would, in any case, have to ride Marigold in the gallop, to give Fergus O'Ryan the pacemaking lead he liked for Petitioner… "Let's see how Marigold goes this afternoon, I—"
"If you wish," Alan returned. He went to the door and opened it for her. As he stood aside to permit her to pass him, he added, with a slight edge to his voice: "You wouldn't be depriving me of anything, you know—except the agony I shall endure if I have to watch you ride that race on a green youngster."
"But—" Deirdre halted and spun round to face him.
From the front door, where they were unloading their kit, Dan raised a hand in salute and Dwight called out a cheerful "Hi!" Deirdre waved in response but she was scarcely aware of their presence. Alan's last remark had been an implied criticism and she resented it. She said: "But, Alan, it's my job, riding young horses, I've done it all my life. And Marigold's perfectly safe."
"Is she?" He sighed, sensing that he had gone too far but unable, now, to turn back. "She gave your father a nasty toss."
"That was an accident. Accidents do happen. I mean—"
Yes, Alan thought bitterly, they do. But not to you, not to you, Deirdre! I couldn't bear it. He wanted to say that to her, wanted to take her into his arms and beg her, for his sake, not to risk one hair of her head, because she was so precious to him. But Dwight was watching them from the door, waiting impatiently for a chance to join in their conversation. And Deirdre was looking both perplexed and ruffled. He had to remember that she was young and proud and sensitive. So he told her mildly:
