by Mira Stables
“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “It was the thankfulness, you see. We could not be sure you were together. And when I heard the whistle and saw only Philip, I feared for a moment”—and his arm tightened about her as though he was still not wholly sure of her reality.
Ann turned her cheek into his shoulder and snuggled into it with perfect confidence. “Pray don’t apologize,” she said, on an irrepressible bubble of laughter. “I enjoyed it of all things. But I could think of more suitable surroundings in which to—er—pursue the matter further.”
A snort of amusement from Robert at this sally served to bring Patrick to his senses. “Yes, indeed,” he agreed cheerfully. “The sooner we’re out of this grisly hole, the better. Will you go first, Robert? Then Philip. One more big effort, brat. You can do it, I know. Keep close to Robert and he’ll look after you. Our turn next, sweetheart. We’ll soon have you safe.”
Ann was a little startled to see Robert wriggle himself backwards into the passage, but Patrick explained that in this way he could help the child better, taking his hands or his shoulders to ease him over the roughest places. “We shall use the same method. But first”—He stripped off his jacket and buttoned her into it despite her protests. “Do as you’re told,” he said calmly. “It will save a few grazes—and you need the extra warmth.”
“Not now,” she murmured demurely, an audacity that was acknowledged by a swift, hard kiss. Then, as Philip’s feet vanished from sight, he gave her an encouraging grin and backed into the passage.
Despite his cheerful promise it was a slow and awkward business. But it was surprising how much difference it made to have the rather wayward illumination of the lanterns, and, far more vital, the firm clasp of Patrick’s hand on hers. She even found time and breath to tell him so—only about the lanterns, of course—as they waited for the pair ahead to negotiate a tricky turn.
“You came this way without a lamp?” And before she could answer, “But of course, you must have done. I had not thought”—and then, very softly, “And I almost let you go. Through stupid pride.”
It was a shock to emerge into the main cavern to find that it was still daylight. Patrick lifted her, now, and carried her out into the blessed sunlight, ignoring assurances that she could perfectly well walk, and set her on her feet beside the horses. Robert was rolling a disgusted Philip into a blanket cocoon. “Like a baby,” protested that young gentleman.
“And no more sense than one,” retorted Robert. “Just you bide quiet. You’ve given us trouble enough for one day.” And then, relenting at the sight of a trembling lip, “Though you showed good sense blowing that whistle.” He lifted the little boy on to Jigs’s back and set off at a gentle amble, leading the pony with one hand and holding Philip safely in the saddle with the other.
One horrified glance at her own appearance and Ann was only too thankful to accept her own enshrouding blanket. Her dress was in rags, her hair had come down and her plaits were liberally bedaubed with mud, while bare pink toes were peeping through the wreck of one shoe. Not at all the image that a young lady would choose to present to a newly declared lover. Any lingering doubts that she might have entertained on that score were removed as he wrapped the blanket round her. He had resumed his own jacket, to reveal the sleeve of her gown ripped from shoulder to elbow and a purplish weal, the blood already dried on it, disfiguring the soft curve of her arm. A swift little murmur of pity escaped him and he set gentle lips to the bruise.
“More honourable scars for a Beverley,” he said slowly. And then, “Will you change your name for mine, beloved? For indeed I cannot bear to let you go.”
The glow in the big brown eyes was answer enough. She said steadily, “To be your wife is the greatest good that I could desire. I shall be proud and happy to take your name and to share your life. Why should you let me go, when all I want is to be with you always?”
His lips twisted ruefully as he tucked the blanket firmly round her. “I’m not much of a match, you know. You could do a good deal better for yourself. I had meant to let your step-papa have his way and present you in Society, but I find I cannot do without you after all.”
“Oh, I daresay Papa Fortune will raise every kind of objection,” said Ann cheerfully. “He was talking of this scheme for firing me off, only this morning, but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention. In any case I’m of age, so he can’t forbid the banns.”
Patrick hid his surprise. It had seemed to him that Papa Fortune was only too anxious to hear the publication of those particular banns. But it would sound shockingly conceited to say so. Besides, it was more important at the moment to get his promised bride to warmth and shelter, where her hurts could be properly looked to.
“Can you manage to cling to the pommel if I lead Donna?” he enquired, lifting her into the saddle and looking up at her lovingly, bruises, mud and all. And the independent Miss Beverley meekly admitted that her hands were very sore, and that she was thankful that she was not obliged to control even the gentle Donna.
Chapter Nineteen
“I gathered that she knew nothing of the financial settlement that you proposed,” said Patrick.
Mr. Fortune regarded him with indulgent pity. “What! Tell a woman anything about money matters? It’s more than most of them can do to balance their household books. Of course she doesn’t know. It’s you and me that must put on our thinking caps and decide what’s best to be done. I know of one or two nice little businesses that could use a bit more capital. It’s just a question of choosing the right one and buying an interest, and though I say it myself there’s nobody can advise you better than me.” And he began to enumerate the various snug little enterprises that would richly repay the investment of money and energy, until a knock on the parlour door heralded the arrival of Meg with a supper tray.
As soon as the rescue party had reached the farm, Janet had taken charge, banishing the menfolk from the kitchen. Philip was swiftly dealt with, by the simple process of popping him into a washtub in front of the fire. By the time that he had been dried off and had devoured a basin of bread and milk he was already nodding, and his objections to being put to bed so early trailed off into a huge yawn.
While Janet and Jenny attended to Ann, Meg served the gentlemen in the parlour with a hastily assembled meal, apologizing that she could only offer them pickled beef with apple pie and cheese to follow as there had been no time to dress a proper supper.
Meg was very happy. Robert had gone home, rather reluctantly, before the darkening, but he was sure that his father could spare him again tomorrow. It was clear—to Robert and Meg, at any rate—that High Garth stood in great need of neighbourly support. Apart from their natural delight in being together, not for worlds would Robert have missed the unfolding of the drama in which he had played so useful a part. He was consumed with curiosity as to its outcome. Meg thought it was very probable that he would arrive in time to help with the morning milking.
Mr. Fortune, too, was in his most expansive mood. The irritability consequent upon the inevitable delay in his journey—and all on account of a headstrong girl’s foolish cantrips—had vanished like magic when Patrick, doing the thing in style, formally requested his consent to the marriage. He had given it with enthusiasm. Not knowing the countryside, not understanding the appalling risk that Ann had taken, he was inclined to ascribe this happy issue to his own persuasive abilities and to Patrick’s good sense. At any other time Patrick might have found his slightly smug delight infuriating. But he, too, was in happy mood. His beloved girl had consented to marry him, not for the problematical wealth and rank that he might some day be able to bestow upon her, but because she loved him and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. In such a case he could afford to ignore a few minor rubs.
So Mr. Fortune spent a very pleasant evening working out wedding plans and future domestic arrangements for the young couple, while Patrick, apart from a few moments spent in wondering in just what relationship he would stand to this b
enevolent despot when he and Ann were wed, allowed them all to flow over him and gave himself up to his own reflections.
Neither gentleman was permitted another glimpse of the heroine of the occasion. Upon enquiry they were told that Janet had persuaded ‘the young mistress’ to swallow a few drops of syrup of poppies, and that she was now tucked up in bed with a hot brick to her feet. Mr. Fortune commended this treatment. Not that he was, in general, an advocate of young folks quacking themselves, but it would not do to have the girl taking cold just now, with so much to be set in hand.
Patrick, cocking an amused eyebrow at Janet, wondered just how long Ann had been ‘the young mistress’. He had not thought it proper to take his old nurse into his confidence before he had approached Mr. Fortune, and he considered it unlikely that Ann had done so. It seemed that Bridie was not the only one who could foretell the future!
The thought of Bridie recalled to mind certain problems with which he had been much preoccupied until the news that Philip and Ann were missing had driven every other thought from his head. Having seen Mr. Fortune safely bestowed for the night, he returned to the kitchen to consult with Janet.
“I had news of Will and Bridie while I was in Dent,” he began. “Will had sent a message with the carrier, wanting to know if he can bring Bridie to us when she can be moved, which will be any day now. And thinking that we would have room and to spare, I sent back word to come as soon as they liked. To speak truth, I doubt if Bridie’ll be fit for the road again before spring. If then. She might settle here—with Will.”
Janet pursed her lips. “We’ll be a bit pushed,” she said thoughtfully, “till the gentleman goes. Philip had best move in with me and Bridie can have his room. Is Miss Ann staying on after all?” she added, innocent faced, unaware of her earlier slip of the tongue.
Patrick hugged her. “That seems to be the general idea,” he told her solemnly, eyes full of laughter. “You see Philip can’t do without her.”
“Oh! So it’s Philip that can’t do without her is it? I’ve a notion he’s not the only one,” retorted Janet tartly.
“No. But he went to considerable lengths to prove his point, didn’t he?”
Janet sobered. “Aye. That was a fearsome thing Miss Ann did. I’d not have ventured in there alone and without a light for a thousand pounds—and her afraid of caves from a child, she was telling me.”
“We’ll need to take better care of her in the future,” agreed Patrick gravely. “What’s more there is a little matter of disobedience to be dealt with. Both of them had been straitly forbidden to leave the valley. But they were in no case for scolding.”
“I should think not, indeed,” said Janet indignantly. “Better you went down on your knees to thank God.”
“Do you think I didn’t? And will for the rest of my life. But there is no excuse for Philip’s disobedience. And to put another life in danger—”
“Well, you can’t blame the child for that,” said Janet fairly. “Once he was in trouble, he did exactly as you told him. ’Twasn’t his fault that Miss Ann went in after him. And from what she says it was thanks to him that she didn’t try to make her way back. So don’t be too hard on him.”
Patrick was in no mood to be hard on anyone. Nor did he believe in keeping retribution hanging over a sinner’s head for ever. Justice should be prompt, especially where a child was concerned, and Philip’s subdued mien at breakfast next day would have touched a harder heart than his brother’s.
It was an unusually late and leisurely breakfast for a farmhouse, and except for Jim, busy with the sheep salving, they were all gathered round the big table together. Robert, enjoying a second breakfast, looked from face to face and tried to catch Philip’s eye to give him an encouraging wink, but Philip’s gaze was bent on his plate, and despite the cream that Janet had surreptitiously poured on his porridge he was making slow progress.
Kindest to put the poor little devil out of his misery, thought Patrick. “Well, young Philip,” he said briskly, “and what took you into Kingsdale yesterday? Against orders, too. And into the Gullet, of all places.”
Philip’s spoon went down with a clatter and the childish chin quivered, but he held his head up and met his brother’s eyes bravely enough.
“I knew if I asked you, you wouldn’t let me go,” he admitted in a rather wobbly voice. And then, the worst over, went on more confidently, “And I wanted to find the gold. I thought if we could find it, we could all go back to the Court to live and then Miss Beverley needn’t leave us. Janet said it was too cold for her to stay here in winter when the snow comes, but she’d be nice and warm at the Court, wouldn’t she?”
There was a gasp from Janet, and a sound somewhere between a snort and a choke from Mr. Fortune. “Why, you young rapscallion!” he said, almost admiringly. For you couldn’t deny that the lad had gone straight to the nub of the matter and shown both business acumen and enterprise. “What gold is this?”
“Oh—some fabulous hoard—Viking or Jewish—reputedly hidden in the caves,” Patrick said impatiently. “Probably non-existent, and in any case nobody knows which cave. But what possessed you to go into the Gullet, brat? You knew it was a bad place.”
Something in voice and face informed Philip that justice was to be tempered with mercy. He took courage to defend himself.
“That’s why,” he said simply. “Because it is a bad place. If I wanted to hide a treasure, I’d put it in a bad place, so that people would be afraid to go and look for it.”
There was no mistaking the admiration on Mr. Fortune’s face. “Well I call that good sound sense,” he said approvingly. Patrick broke in swiftly before discipline was irretrievably wrecked.
“Perhaps you should first understand just how ‘bad’ a place the Gullet is,” he said drily. “There are several connecting passages that lead to it. The Gullet itself is a sink-hole.”
Mr. Fortune looked puzzled. The word, in this connection, was new to him.
Patrick said, “There is an underground stream which plunges some forty feet into this funnel shaped hole—the Gullet—and then disappears underground. There is a whirlpool which could drag down the strongest swimmer. After heavy rain the whole system is full of water—and it can fill in half an hour. When that happens there is no hope of escape for anyone caught in the passages.”
There was a nasty little silence. Mr. Fortune looked crestfallen, Philip crushed.
Ann said gently, “It was very wrong of us both to disobey orders. I disobeyed too, Philip. But perhaps if we are truly sorry, your brother won’t be so very angry with us.” She looked up at that brother, a little shy still of her new-found happiness, and added softly, “And after all—we did find the gold, didn’t we?”
Patrick’s rather harsh features softened almost unbelievably with mingled love and laughter. “Now see what you’ve done,” he chided. “Raised poor Philip’s hopes. He thinks we must have stumbled on the hidden treasure. No, Philip, we didn’t. We were thankful enough to get out with whole skins. But the lady is in the right of it. We did, in a sense, find gold. Of a kind worth more than any mythical metal. And thanks largely to your intervention, Miss Beverley is going to stay with us. For always, because she is going to marry me. And we are going back to the Court, though we shall often be at High Garth too, especially in summer.”
Among the babel of joyous exclamation and congratulation that broke out at this, the only dissident voice—and the most easily heard—was that of Mr. Fortune.
“But you can’t conduct a business from an out-of-the-way place like the Court,” he protested, “however fine and comfortable it may be.”
“Oh, yes you can, sir!” retorted Patrick cheerfully. “What’s more, it’s the only business for which I’ve any aptitude. Farming. Now don’t pull a wry mouth. I’ll hope to bring you round to my way of thinking when we have the chance of a little rational talk away from this noisy rabble. I’ve known for some years what I’d like to do if ever the chance came my way. Thanks to you it
has come, since you insist on making my wife a wealthy woman. You’re used to the fat corn lands of the south, sir. But there’s good farm land here, too, for all its harsh seeming. Best pasture in England for cheesemaking, because of the herbs that grow on the limestone. Good, too, for horse breeding and breaking. But what I’d chiefly rely upon is trading in cattle. Buying in the Scots beef cattle and fattening ’em up for market. There’s a growing demand in the towns for beef and butter and cheese. And when these wonderful railways that we hear so much about are all built, there’ll be no trouble about getting our produce to market, will there?” he finished, with a twinkle that drew a reluctant grin from his adversary.
“There’s some sense in what you say,” that gentleman allowed. “But I doubt your wife won’t like it. Buried in the country all the year round when she could be queening it in the parlours and ballrooms.”
“Oh! Am I concerned in this?” demanded a suspiciously innocent voice.
“Well—it’s your life, isn’t it, as well as his?” returned Mr. Fortune bluntly.
Ann considered this carefully. Then she said, “I don’t care above half for balls and parlour parties. But I do like pretty clothes and going to the play and watching the notables parade in the Park. Perhaps if we get rich in this new kind of farming, we can go up to Town sometimes. And then we can come and visit with you and Mrs. Fortune,” she told her step-father kindly. “But if I must choose between Town and country, there can be no question which I prefer. And won’t Will love it?” She turned a radiant face on Patrick. “All those cattle to look after! Though I must confess,” she added pensively, “that I don’t care much for Scots cattle! They have such very sharp looking horns. Must we have that kind?”
