Gay Cavalier Read online

  "Yes, of course I'll manage." She wanted to speak to him about Alan Carmichael, but a glance at his strained, tired face decided her against it. Sean rose and held out both hands to help her to her feet. He said gently: "Deirdre, you like young Dwight, don't you?"

  She smiled. "Oh, yes, you know I do. He's a dear. I like him very much."

  "You realize that the boy's fallen for you, I suppose?"

  "Well, no, I—" Deirdre bit her lip. How could she think of Dwight, nice boy though he was, when Alan… when Alan had said that he wanted to pay court to her? How compare them? It was impossible… "I'm not in love with Dwight."

  "Because you've not forgotten that damned fellow Carmichael? Is that it, Deirdre? I saw you dancing with him this evening."

  "Yes, I danced with him." There was a hint of defiance in her tone. "But you were wrong about him, Sean—wrong in so many ways. Why—" Her words falling over each other, she told him what Alan had said to her, told him of Mrs. Carmichael and of Alan's desire to see him and explain.

  Sean shrugged. "In that case, there's no more to be said, is there? Except that I hope your love affair will be more fortunate than mine. I hope that with all my heart— though I can't agree so wholeheartedly with your choice."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Ach, child!" Sean drew her to him and kissed her affectionately. "We'll not quarrel over it, eh? I've had as much as I can take, one way and another, this evening. If Carmichael's the man you want, then I'll not stand in his way. We'll settle what's been between us. I've misjudged him, I confess. But if he's free—as obviously he is—and you care for him and he for you, well then, that's all that matters, is it not? I'm just sorry it's not Dwight, for, in spite of his brashness, I like the lad. Well?" A hand under her chin, he raised her face to his. "Let's call it a day, shall we? Perhaps, after a few hours' sleep, I'll begin to see things with a less jaundiced eye. I'll try to, for your sake. Good-night, Deirdre." Deirdre clung to him. "Good-night, Sean. And thank you—"

  "For what?" Sean scoffed. He went with her to the door, sent her, with a little push, into the dimly lit hall. "Off with you and get some sleep."

  "But"—she glanced back at him—"aren't you coming up?"

  Sean shook his head. "I'll sit here for a while. I want to think things out. And maybe I'll drown me sorrows in Father's whisky, seeing it's here. 'Twould not be the right thing for you to see me doing it, so leave me be, will you? I'll come to no harm." His smile was as gay as ever but it belied the hurt in his eyes. He closed the door firmly on Deirdre and she heard him limp back to his chair. Poor Sean, she thought, poor, proud, gentle Sean! He had had his pride trampled in the dust this evening, his love flung back into his face as unworthy and unwanted.

  But, whatever Sir Henry Hollis did or said, would Penelope meekly give in and allow her father to dictate to her? She was twenty-five—and she was very much in love with Sean. Apart from this, Penelope was, in her way, as self-willed and determined as Sir Henry himself.

  Deirdre was thoughtful as she undressed. Her thoughts were of Sean, her sympathy and compassion for him, and she wished, now, that she hadn't been so selfishly engrossed in her own affairs at the dance. Because if she'd stayed with Sean, she might have been able to prevent what had happened or, at. least, have been at his side when it had. But she hadn't realized, hadn't understood, and Sean had given no hint of his intention to speak to Sir Henry. They had always been so close to each other, she and Sean. Had she, Deirdre asked herself miserably, had she failed him, when he needed her? Was her… friendship with Alan Carmichael the reason why Sean hadn't confided in her, as he had always confided in her in the old days?

  Her mind was full of doubts and she reproached herself bitterly. But when at last she lay snugly tucked up under the bedclothes in the soft, warm darkness, her thoughts, despite all she could do, went winging back to the ballroom at King's Martin Manor and she saw him again, in memory, Alan Carmichael's smiling grey eyes, his dark attractive face… and heard him say, as she drifted into sleep: "Did you think I was trying to pay court to you? I was, you know… and my intentions are strictly honourable."

  Deirdre slept and there was a smile on her lips, because Alan's words had been a promise and the promise was part of her dreams…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sean had gone when Deirdre returned, with Dwight in attendance, from their early morning ride. Terence, who was polishing the horsebox in a corner of the yard, told her that the "young master" had taken his car soon after seven, and Bridget, distressed, added the information that he hadn't waited for breakfast.

  Dwight, who was on duty at Barminster at nine, looked at his watch as he followed Deirdre into the dining-room: "Gee, he's early, isn't he? Where's he gone, Deirdre, huh? D'you reckon he's got some idea of kidnapping Miss Hollis, maybe?"

  His face fell when Deirdre shook her head. But he persisted: "You're sure he hasn't?" in so serious a tone that she laughed.

  "Oh, no—he's gone to Newmarket, to do a commissioned painting of one of Lord Meikle's racehorses. He'd intended to go down at the end of the week but"—her smile faded—"he's gone today instead, that's all. He told me he wanted to get away from here for a bit for—well, for obvious reasons."

  "They wouldn't be obvious to me," Dwight retorted, "gosh, no! Isn't he even going to put up a fight for the girl then?"

  "What sort of a fight could Sean put up?" Deirdre argued. "Penelope's an heiress and Sean hasn't a penny. Sir Henry won't hear of her marrying him—"

  "If I were Sean I wouldn't let that stop me," Dwight asserted, his firm young jaw jutting aggressively. "If I loved a girl enough to want to marry her, I'd marry her— if it killed me. Heiress or no heiress and no matter who her father was!" His eyes, fixed on Deirdre's face, said much more than his words, and he came to her, making to put an arm about her shoulders. "If it was you, Deirdre, why I'd—" Deirdre was spared the revelation of what he would do in such a case by the arrival of Bridget with their breakfast. Dwight grinned and released her, going to sniff hungrily at the dishes on the hot plate. "Gee, Bridget, this smells just wonderful, you know that? And am I starving?"

  "Then eat it, Mr. Dwight," Bridget replied tartly, "for isn't that what 'tis there for? And you, too, Miss Deirdre dear—be sure and make a good breakfast now, for there's that O'Ryan coming this morning, don't forget, and 'tis yourself will have to deal with him, now Mr. Sean's away."

  "Are you going to ride any gallops this morning?" Dwight asked wistfully as, in response to Bridget's invitation, he helped himself to a lavish supply of bacon and eggs.

  "Fergus O'Ryan is, but I have to go into Carfield to visit my father. We're going to school Petitioner and Marigold over the practice fences this afternoon, as soon as I get back. I told you, didn't I?"

  "No, you didn't tell me." Dwight was silent, his expression thoughtful. Finally he said: "I—look, Deirdre, how's about letting me come over this afternoon and ride with you? I've never ridden over fences with a professional jockey before, and Fergus told me I could, next time he came here."

  Deirdre hesitated, looking at him doubtfully. "Oh, but Dwight, both Petitioner and Marigold are being raced next week. This'll be about our last chance to give them a gallop together. I mean—"

  "Sure, I know what you mean." Dwight's mouth tightened obstinately. "You think I'd get in your way. Well, I wouldn't, I know enough not to do that. And if Sean's going to fix a ride for me at the point-a-point, like he said he would—well, I've got to get in some practice, haven't I? I'll just tag along behind you, I won't interfere, I promise."

  "But what can we put you up on?" Deirdre demanded.

  "One of Dan's horses—he won't mind. After all, he lets me ride them at exercise."

  "This is different." Deirdre pushed her plate aside. "They're big fences, you know. And unless Dan comes over, I can't let you jump any of his horses. Is he coming over, did he tell you?"

  "He didn't say. But I'll ask him when I get back to the station—I guess he'll come. And if he says
I can ride one of his horses, then you wouldn't have any objection, would you? Aw, come on, Deirdre"—Dwight was already on his feet—"how am I ever going to learn, if you won't even let me try? I tell you, Dan won't mind. Anyway, he hasn't bought Martin's Luck or Gay Cavalier yet, has he? So technically they're both still yours."

  "He has first refusal of them and he told Sean last night he wanted them—"

  "Okay, then let me ask him! Hell, if he says no, there's no harm done. Dan's a friend of mine, isn't he? Hey"— he looked at his watch again and sighed—"it's time I wasn't here, we've got a parade this morning. I'll have to go, Deirdre, but—what about it, huh? If Dan says yes, can I come along after lunch?"

  In the face of his eagerness, Deirdre gave in. After all, it was up to Dan Haines to refuse, if he wanted to, and Dwight couldn't really come to much harm over practice fences. She told him so and he grinned. "You wait," he said, making for the door, "you just wait, honey! I'll show you the stuff Texas cowpunchers are made of—and then some! So long for now, I'll be seeing you. And don't forget you're coming to the movies with me this evening, will you?"

  He was gone before Deirdre could think better of her decision or regret the promise she had made, a week ago, to dine with him at Barminster and go to the Camp Cinema —an invitation which, originally, had included Sean.

  She was piling the breakfast dishes for Bridget when the telephone rang. To her surprise, it was Penelope. "Deirdre"—the voice was high-pitched, brittle with strain—"Deirdre, can I speak to Sean, please?"

  "He's gone," Deirdre confessed unhappily and heard Penelope draw in a deep, sighing breath. "Gone?" she echoed. "Gone where?"

  Deirdre gave her the address of Lord Meikle's trainer, which Sean had scrawled for her on the message pad, and waited for her caller to write it down. Then Penelope asked: "He—Deirdre, Sean told you what happened last night, I suppose?"

  "Yes," Deirdre answered. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Penelope, I—"

  Penelope cut her short. "It was my fault," she said bitterly, "all my fault. Father was—oh, he was furious. You see, he—well, he and Mummy really had got the idea into their heads that I was interested in Alan Carmichael. I think Father imagines that if I don't see Sean any more, I'll forget him. But I—oh, Deirdre, I love Sean and I'll never forget him, as long as I live I Was he—was he upset, last night? What did he say?"

  "Yes," Deirdre told her sympathetically, "he was awfully upset. You see, he feels that you—I mean, you're rich, and if you marry him he won't be able to give you all the things you're used to and—"

  "As if that mattered!" Penelope interrupted fiercely. "As if I cared about money! Don't you understand, I'm in love with Sean, I want nothing better than to marry him? Oh, goodness—" She was silent for a long moment. At last she said, her tone suddenly resolute: "And I will marry him. Father's not going to stop me—he can't, I'm of age. Deirdre, how long's Sean staying with the Barlesses?"

  "Only for two or three days, I think. But—"

  Again Penelope interrupted her: "All right. Thank you, Deirdre. I know what I'll do. And if anyone asks you where I am, you don't know—understand? I'm ringing from a call box in the village, so if Father should ask, you'd better tell him you don't know a thing and haven't heard from me. Will you?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "And don't tell him where Sean is either," Penelope ordered. " 'Bye. And thanks, Deirdre, thanks awfully!"

  The receiver was replaced with a sharp click. Deirdre waited for a moment, staring rather dazedly at the instrument in her own hand, and then, catching her breath in a sigh, she returned to the dining-room to complete her interrupted task. But she had been right in her assessment of Penelope's character, she reflected. Penelope had courage and she was very much in love with Sean… yet she hoped, for her brother's sake, that the girl wouldn't do anything foolish. Because Sir Henry Hollis would be a dangerous and implacable foe, if his enmity were aroused.

  During the drive into Carfield, Deirdre worried a good deal over what Penelope had said to her. Though it was really no use worrying, there was nothing she could do. And it was Sean's affair, not hers. Nevertheless, she pulled up beside a telephone kiosk on the outskirts of Carfield and dialled the Hollises' number, only to be told by the butler, who answered, that Miss Penelope was out and he was sorry, he could not say when she would be back—could he, perhaps take a message?

  "No," Deirdre said, "there's no message. It doesn't matter."

  She drove on to the hospital, praying that her fears might prove groundless.

  Dennis, when she was taken into the ward, greeted her with a warm, eager smile, plying her with questions about the Stud, the horses, and the Ball at King's Martin Manor, almost before she had had time to sit down and gather her scattered thoughts. She managed, by dint of considerable evasion, to give him a cheerful account of the Ball, and then, using Dan Haines' purchase of the two point-to-point horses as a red herring, to avoid the subject for the remainder of her visit. Dennis was delighted about the prospective sale and congratulated her happily on having made it, despite her insistence that the credit belonged, properly, to Sean.

  "Sure, I know who's running things, in my absence, child—'tis you. You and nobody else! You've done well, Deirdre, very well indeed. With Martin's Luck and Gay Cavalier sold, that will be the end of the overdraft, will it not?"

  "Yes," Deirdre agreed, thinking what a weight would be lifted from her conscience when she paid the cheque into the bank, "yes, our account will be in credit then, Daddy. And all the bills paid too. But really, it is Sean you've to thank—he took over the books from me—I made a frightful mess of them. And it was he who sold the horses."

  "Ach, well, I'm glad he did. And where is it you say he's off to now? Johnny Barless' stables? For heaven's sake, what for? Has he not enough to do in our own?"

  Patiently, Deirdre explained about the painting of Thunderbird and her father's frown relaxed. "A hundred guineas he's to get for it? Well, now, then I'll not hold it against him, for that's a good price for a picture of a horse. A very good price indeed. But he'll be back for the point-to-point, will he not? I don't want you left on your own when you've to ride in it yourself."

  Deirdre reassured him and prepared to take her leave.

  Dennis said, as she bent to kiss him: "You may be having me home next week, Deirdre, if all goes well. I'm to see the specialist today—Carruthers, you know, from Reading, Sir Basil Carruthers. They say he's a first-class man at fracture work. I must say," he added, with a wistful smile, "whilst they've been kindness itself to me in here, I'll be glad to get home. To you and to Bridget's cooking—and the sight and smell of horses!"

  "Oh, Daddy!" Deirdre whispered, arms round his neck, "and I'll be so glad to have you back—you've no idea."

  Dennis held her close to him. "Will you?" he teased her fondly. "Sure, I understood from Frank Chalmers that you'd a whole host of fine-looking gallants dancing attendance on you! An American Air Corps Lieutenant and the Colonel Carmichael among them—"

  "Dr. Chalmers is an old gossip!" Deirdre returned, flushing, "and you know he is."

  Dennis patted her cheek. "Carmichael's a decent fellow, by all accounts, child. But don't be rushing into anything yet awhile, will you now? You've time yet and I'm not wanting to part with my daughter in a hurry, so don't be forgetting that, if you please."

  Deirdre hugged him and made her escape.

  She tried to telephone Penelope again on the way home, only to be told that she was still out. The butler sounded agitated and asked if she would speak to Sir Henry, but Deirdre hastily excused herself and rang off. Why, she wondered, should Sir Henry wish to speak to her? Unless… but that didn't bear thinking about. Resolutely, she banished the thought from her mind, but it returned half a dozen times during the remainder of the short drive.

  Alan Carmichael's car was parked in the front of the house when she reached it and her heart gave a leap as she recognized the rakishly low-slung green body.

  Alan himself was
waiting for her in the study. He said, smiling: "I hope you'll forgive this intrusion, Deirdre. I came to try and get a word with Sean, as well as to see you. But Bridget told me he went off to Newmarket at crack of dawn and that you'd gone into Carfield to visit your father. So I waited—" He was looking down at her with that same light in his grey eyes that she had seen in them the previous evening, and Deirdre's heart began to beat so violently that she was sure he must hear it.

  "I—I'm glad you did," she told him, in a small, choked voice. Her gaze was on the floor.

  "Are you?" He came to her side. "You disappeared last night—I hunted for you all over the place. You'd promised me some dances, if you remember. And then Dan Haines told me you'd left, with your brother and young Nelson. He seemed to think there'd been some sort of an upset but he either didn't know or wouldn't tell me what it was." He paused, watching her. "Was there?"

  "There—was," Deirdre admitted. She looked so small and hurt and defenceless that Alan longed to take her into his arms, as he had longed so many times during their short acquaintance.

  He said gruffly: "Dash it, everything seems to fall on your shoulders! And they're just not strong enough to bear the weight. Are they?"

  "Oh—" She lifted her face to his then and she was smiling. "Oh, I don't know. I think they are. I'm tougher than I look, you know. Honestly."

  "I don't believe it, Deirdre. I wish you'd let me help. Because I really am tough and I really do want to help— more than I can possibly tell you." He took her hand in his. "Well, what did happen last night? It must have been pretty bad, to make you run away."