Gay Cavalier Page 12

  "I—have you?" Deirdre's throat was suddenly so constricted that she could hardly speak and the colour came rushing wildly to her cheeks. Bitterly ashamed of her own weakness, she drew away from him. "Why? Why did you want to see me?"

  "Why?" he echoed, surprise. "Because I wanted to talk to you, to dance with you—because I've missed you. I—" He broke oft at the sight of Deirdre's expression.

  "Oh, my dear, what's wrong? What have I said?"

  She could not answer him, could only hold herself stiff and erect in his arms, her feet scarcely moving. She could not even look at him but she heard his voice harden as he asked:

  "Has Sean told you? Is that it?"

  "Yes," she admitted at last. "Sean has—told me."

  The dance came to an end and he gripped her arm. "Deirdre, let me explain, won't you? There is an explanation, you know."

  "Is there?" She faced him then, saw the pain in his eyes and her heart turned over. And then a small, frail, white-haired woman was standing smiling at them, looking from her face to Alan's with twinkling, bird-like dark eyes.

  "Alan," she said, "aren't you going to introduce me to your partner?"

  Deirdre recognized the gentle, breathless, cultured voice, and Alan Carmichael said quickly: "Most certainly I am, darling. This is Deirdre Sheridan—Deirdre, my mother."

  A tiny, bejewelled hand clasped Deirdre's. "I think we spoke to each other on the telephone, didn't we? The night my son went away?"

  "I—oh! Yes, we did." Deirdre's confusion was in her startled glance, in the ebb and flow of colour to her cheeks, and Alan saw it and was puzzled. But he covered up the awkward little silence that fell between them and, when Mrs. Carmichael's partner came to claim her for the next dance, he looked at Deirdre enquiringly.

  "Shall we follow my mother's example? Or would you rather not dance with me?"

  Deirdre's eyes were on the small, elegant figure in the green brocade dress, waltzing with dignified grace in the arms of one of Sir Henry's dinner guests. Mrs. Carmichael. … Alan's mother, not his wife! Was it possible that Sean had been mistaken? Was it?

  She asked impulsively: "Your—your mother—is her name the same as yours? I mean, is she Mrs. Alan Carmichael?"

  His fair brows came together, for he had not expected the question. "Why, yes," he admitted, "she is, as it happens. We're not very original in the matter of Christian names, in my family—the eldest son is always called Alan."

  "Then you"—Deirdre bit her lip and again the hot, embarrassed colour flooded her cheeks, but she had to ask, she had to be sure—"you aren't—married?"

  "Good Lord!" Alan was visibly shaken. "No, of course I'm not. Surely you didn't imagine I was? Why, I—oh, look here, Deirdre, do you- suppose I'd have taken you out, behaved towards you as I have, if I'd a wife hidden away in the background? My dear child, I'm not married. Nor have I ever been married, I—" He was gazing down at her, his eyes grave and searching. "I think," he said at last, "we'd better try to find somewhere where we can have a little quiet talk, don't you? Because there are one or two things that need straightening out. Well?" He offered her his arm. "Will you sit this one out with me?"

  She inclined her head wordlessly and he took her arm.

  They found a secluded corner, in a passage off the hall, where a sofa had been provided for sitting out, and Alan released her arm. "Shall I get you a drink?"

  "No, thank you, I'm not—not thirsty." Deirdre's heart was pounding again and her eyes would not meet his.

  He said gently: "Now then, let's deal with your brother's case first of all, shall we? What has he told you?"

  "That you—that you put him under arrest, on a charge that wasn't true—a charge of refusing to fight, of—of cowardice, he said. I don't pretend to understand the military implications of it, but he—Sean isn't a coward. He may have other faults but cowardice isn't one of them. He's my brother and I know him. Why, he—was wounded and—"

  Alan caught at her hand. "Yes, Deirdre, I know that now —I didn't at the time. Oh, I admit that Sean's got every reason to feel bitter about what I did to him. In his place, I'd feel the same. But for all our sakes, I ask you—as I shall ask him—to believe that, in acting as I did, I was doing what I conceived to be my job. I'd not idea that Sean had been hit, he didn't appear to be and he didn't tell me. Listen…"

  Using brusquely clipped words, Alan Carmichael told her the story of that desperate battle in which, more than four years before, he and Sean had met. It was vivid in his mind, and it always would be, for as long as he lived: an indelible image imprinted on his memory, hideous and unwanted, yet always to be recalled and relived, with nightmare clarity, at such moments as these when he was forced to speak of it.

  Deirdre, listening to him, was aware that he was deliberately minimizing the horrors, as he was minimizing his own part in the heroic defence of a barren, far-away hillside which had cost the lives of so many brave men of different races and creeds. The lack of emotion in his voice somehow made the picture he painted the more vivid, and her heart contracted and tears pricked at her closed eyelids because, for the first time, she understood the bitterness which had seared her brother's soul, understood his reticence, his silence—and, at the same time, understood and sympathized with the man who had been the cause of it all. Alan did not excuse himself, nor did he seek to enlist her sympathy—he simply stated the facts as they had appeared to him and left her to judge him for herself.

  "You may think," he ended, his tone apologetic now, "that I should have tried to find Sean, when it was all over, in order to tell him what I've told you. We only met once, as prisoners, but I did try to find him after the armistice; only we were both in hospital—in different hospitals, as it chanced—and he wasn't in my regiment, he wasn't even in my brigade, added to which I knew him simply as Corporal Sheridan, without either his number or his initials, which didn't make my attempts to trace him any easier. But"—he rose and faced Deirdre—"I've found him now and I intend, if I can, to have a word with him this evening. I'll let you know what he says—or he may want to tell you himself. So shall we leave matters as they are until after I've seen him?"

  Deirdre nodded. "Yes, if you—if you think it's best. Thank you for telling me. I—I'm glad you did."

  He smiled. "Actually, so am I, now that I have got it off my chest." The band struck up again and Alan glanced at his programme. "I've booked this with my mother but I think she'd forgive me if I cut it, so that I can dance with you. What do you say, Deirdre?"

  "Well—" She looked about her but there was no sign of Dwight. Or, for that matter, of Sean or Dan. "If you're sure she wouldn't mind—"

  "Shall we ask her?" he suggested.

  "All right. Because I've left my partner in the lurch too. The Paul Jones started and I got whisked away from him, before I had a chance to explain what it was all about."

  "Oh, yes—the young American." His smile widened "I gather, since he's here with you, that all is forgiven and forgotten? About the Cadillac, I mean."

  "Yes, thank goodness—we're the best of friends now, they've been over a lot, Dwight and Major Haines, who owns the Cadillac. In fact, he drove us over in it this evening. He's bought one of our horses, Snowgoose, the mare which ran into the Cadillac, and he's thinking of buying two of the point-to-point horses, Martin's Luck and Gay Cavalier."

  "Oh, indeed!" Alan's brows rose. "That's extremely interesting. You know who he is, of course?"

  "Dan Haines?" Deirdre looked a question.

  "Yes."

  "Well, I know he's pretty good on a horse and Dwight said he'd been reserve for the American jumping team at Harringay last year. Is there more to know?"

  Alan laughed. "Quite a bit. He comes from the Blue Grass country, owns a racing stable and has something of a reputation, one way and another. If he rides in any races over here, he'll make one or two people sit up, believe me! I don't know him personally but, as I think I told you, his CO. is a very good friend of mine—he's here tonight, too, and"�
�they re-entered the ballroom and he pointed to a small, round-faced man with greying hair, who was talking animatedly to Mrs. Carmichael—"there he is! So we need have no reason to reproach ourselves if we have this dance together. Because, if I know my mother, she's enjoying herself enormously, talking American politics with Colonel Hayter, and she won't thank me for interrupting her. So"—he held out his arms to her and there was a strange, soft light in his grey eyes that Deirdre had never seen in them before—"will you dance with me, Miss Sheridan?"

  "I'd love to," she confessed, with what was simple truth, and went into his waiting arms.

  He danced extremely well and, held close in his embrace, Deirdre was very much aware of him, aware, too, of her own leaping pulses—of the fact that, as they danced, he was watching her, his eyes never leaving her face.

  The band was playing a tune that was a favourite of hers, a haunting, absurdly sentimental thing called "If I Give My Heart to You" she had heard many times on the wireless.

  "Deirdre—" Alan's voice was deep and vibrant and she looked up to meet his gaze, her throat suddenly constricted again.

  "I—yes, Alan?"

  His arms tightened about her. "You did think I was married, didn't you?"

  "I—" She lowered her gaze. "Well, yes, I did."

  "When you said, just now—'Sean has told me,' you meant that he'd told you I was married?"

  "Yes. He thought you were. It was something to do with a letter you gave him, when you were prisoners—a letter addressed to—to Mrs. Alan Carmichael."

  "I remember it." Alan's firm mouth tightened. "So that led him to suppose the letter was to my wife?"

  "Sean genuinely believed it was," Deirdre defended. "I mean, he wasn't just saying that to—to—" She broke off in confusion.

  "To what, Deirdre?" She could feel his eyes on her. "To what?"

  She lifted her head. "To explain his reluctance to ask you to the house."

  "Oh, I see. It wasn't because he thought I was trying to pay court to you?"

  Deirdre's cheeks burned. "He—perhaps he did think that."

  "Did you?"

  Her heart leapt in her breast. "I—wasn't sure. I mean—"

  "I was, you know." He said it softly. "Do you mind —now that you know my intentions are strictly honourable?"

  She was silent and he went on gently: "Look, I understand how you feel. I'm speaking out of turn, rushing my fences a bit. I must make my peace with your brother. My explanations are long overdue, as far as he's concerned— it was a pity I had to dash off to London like that, before I'd had a chance of seeing him. But I had some rather urgent business to attend to that simply couldn't be shelved, so I had to go, unfortunately. Look"—the dance ended and he swung her expertly towards the chair where his mother sat—"I think, if you'll talk to my mother now, I'll go and find Sean and see what I can do to put matters on a better footing between us."

  Deirdre inclined her head. She couldn't speak, her lips would form no words.

  Alan took her programme from her, scrawled his initials opposite half a dozen dances and smiled. "I'll be back to claim those," he promised, "wait for me, won't you?"

  Again she nodded. She had forgotten Dwight, until she saw him striding across the floor towards her. His face was rather white, but he waited until Mrs. Carmichael had introduced her to Colonel Hayter and they had shaken hands. Then he bowed to Mrs. Carmichael, asked the colonel to excuse him and said, his tone flat: "Deirdre, can I talk to you? It's kind of—important."

  "Yes, of course." Her conscience smote her. Obviously he was angry because of her desertion of him, she thought, and summoned a smile. "Oh, Dwight, I'm so sorry I disappeared but—"

  "That's okay." He wasn't angry, she realized then, but he was upset.

  "Is anything wrong?" She caught at his arm.

  He sighed. "I guess it may be. Sean sent me to tell you he was leaving."

  "Leaving?" She stared at him incredulously. "But, Dwight, why? We've only just come!"

  Dwight took her arm. "Sure, I know we have. I guess Sean will tell you what it's all about, I don't pretend to know. I think—" He hesitated, reddening. "I think he's had words with someone. You'd better come."

  Alan! Deirdre thought wildly. But Alan had only that moment left her, he could scarcely have had time to find Sean, much less… have words with him. She studied Dwight's strained young face anxiously. "Dwight, there's no need for you to leave—"

  Dwight's grasp on her arm became protective. "The way I figure it," he asserted, "anything that concerns you—and Sean—concerns me too. Let's not argue about that, honey. You go get your cloak, will you? Sean's waiting for us in the car."

  Sean was sitting in the back seat of the Cadillac, smoking a cigarette. Hearing the. crunch of footsteps on the gravel, he turned to smile at Deirdre and her escort.

  "Thanks, Dwight," he said gruffly. "Sorry to drag you both away from the party, but it couldn't be helped. Dan's staying, he says we can take the car, he'll get a ride home with Colonel Hayter. Which," he added, leaning forward to open the door for Deirdre, "is pretty decent of him."

  "He's a good guy," Dwight said. He slid into the driving seat and pressed the self-starter. "Back to the Stud, Sean? Or shall we call in at Barminster for a drink in our mess?"

  "Home, if you don't mind," Sean answered briefly.

  Deirdre turned to look at him as the big car moved smoothly down the drive, but in the darkness his face was a dim white blur and she could not make out the expression on it.

  Sean shook his head in reply to her apprehensive: "Did you see Colonel Carmichael before you left, Sean?" and a weight was lifted momentarily, from her heart. Whoever her brother had had words with, at least it wasn't Alan. Dwight's presence prevented her questioning him further and Sean sat in moody silence throughout the drive back to the Stud.

  On arrival, Dwight excused himself with sympathetic tact, refusing Sean's offer of a drink and laughing off his thanks.

  "No, I guess I'd better be on my way. But I'll be over to ride exercise in the morning—if you want me?" His blue eyes went to Deirdre's face as he asked the question and were so pleading that she answered, with unaccustomed warmth: "Yes, do, Dwight, I'd love you to come. And thank you—for everything."

  It had been, she was uncomfortably aware, a disappointing evening for Dwight, but he brightened at once at her words and said eagerly, her hand clasped in his big one: "Think nothing of it, Deirdre. Good-night—and I'll be seeing you!"

  Sean had turned, with his back to them, preparatory to going into the house and, greatly daring, Dwight bent his head swiftly and his lips brushed hers. Then he was gone and the Cadillac's tail lights vanished behind the screen of chestnut trees which bordered the paddock.

  Sean said abruptly: "I'm sorry if I spoilt your party, child. But let's go in—I expect Bridget's left us a thermos —and I want to talk to you."

  Over coffee, which Bridget had set out for them in the study, Sean told her what had happened. His voice was quite devoid of emotion but, crouched at his feet beside the dying fire, Deirdre sensed that, for all his appearance of calm, he was so tense and strung up that he hardly knew what he was saying.

  "I've been warned off, Deirdre," he said. "Ach, no doubt I asked for it, I should have known better than to stick my neck out! But Penelope wanted me to speak to her father, so I did. I started off all right, just told him straight out that I was in love with the girl and wanted his consent to our engagement—you guessed how I felt about her, didn't you? In spite of my trying to pull the wool over your eyes and pretend there was nothing in it?"

  Deirdre snuggled her head against his knee. "Yes," she admitted, "yes, Sean, I guessed."

  Sean's smile was wry. "Sure, I didn't expect Sir Henry to be delighted and welcome me with open arms. But he lost his temper and told me, in no uncertain fashion, exactly what he thought of me as a prospective husband for his daughter. I'll not repeat what he said, 'tis better that I should not." She felt him tremble against her and kne
w that he was controlling himself with a tremendous effort of will. "But the upshot of the matter was that I lost my temper too and that was that. Young Dwight came along as I was being told to leave and I sent him to get you. I didn't think you'd want to stay, under the circumstances."

  Deirdre found his hand and held it. His fingers were icy, in spite of the fire. "Of course I didn't want to stay, darling. But I'm so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. Oh, Sean, what's going to happen now, about you and Penelope?"

  Sean shrugged. "I don't know," he answered, with weary resignation. "I've been forbidden to see her again. Or write to her. I—oh, divil take it, he's justified, I suppose. I'm not much of a catch for a girl like Penelope. I'm a cripple, as he took care to remind me. I haven't a bean and my chances of succeeding as an artist aren't worth a snap of the fingers! I shouldn't have lost my temper, of course —that finished things most effectively. But sure, when he started bringing Father into it—and you—I blew my top, as Dwight would say. I couldn't help it."

  Painfully, Deirdre asked: "What did he say about us— about Daddy and me?"

  "Ach, the usual. That himself is a horse-coper and you're little better. One would think that selling horses was a dishonest way in which to earn a living." Sean was white to the lips with anger. He lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled perceptibly and his expression was bitter, as he looked down at his sister. "Well, 'tis the finish of my romance. Penelope will not go against her father's wishes."

  Deirdre drew a quick, uneven breath and ventured, forcing a smile: "Are you so sure? Penelope isn't a child. And she—she believes in you, as an artist, I mean."

  His expression softened. "Does she so? But she'll need more than faith if she's to throw in her lot with me. How could I ask her to do that, as things stand? Sure, hasn't she had everything she's ever wanted, all her life? Money, clothes, social position—things I can't give her—"

  "But if she loves you—" Deirdre began.

  Her brother made a despairing gesture. "Yes, she loves me, child. But not enough to defy Sir Henry, let him cut her off with the proverbial shilling. I'd not expect her to! No, it's over. I've been every sort of an idiot, I should never have said a word to her father. But I didn't like going behind his back and I thought—ach, never mind what I thought! I was wrong, that's all." He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and from it to Deirdre's small, worried face. "Perhaps we'd better go to bed. I—" He hesitated. "Look, I think I'll go to Newmarket tomorrow, if you don't mind. I want to get away from here, even if it's only for a few days. You'll manage, won't you? You'll have Dan and Dwight—and Fergus O'Ryan said he'd be over tomorrow."