Gay Cavalier Page 8

  Alan's hesitation was slight but his brain was racing. It wasn't fair on the boy to say anything, at least not until they had had a talk. So he shook his head. "I think not, if you'll forgive me. If Sean wants you to know, he'll tell you. In any case, my dear, you mustn't let it worry you— the whole thing's past history now, for all of us."

  The waiter came then with their second course, and when he had gone Alan said gently: "We came out to enjoy ourselves, didn't we? In fact, we came in order to celebrate our recent deal—with which, I may say, I'm delighted. So delighted that I've entered Moonbeam for the South Kinsdale Open next month. Do you approve?"

  "Oh, yes, of course I do!" Deirdre's eyes lit up. "You'll be riding him yourself?"

  "That's the general idea. Though of course I'll have to do some rather strenuous training before I can hope to be any good."

  The evening sped past, after that, with talk of horses, of the corning point-to-point season. Alan found himself enchanted by his companion and had to remind himself, a dozen times, that they had only just met and he must not rush things, even if he was beginning to feel as if he had known Deirdre all his life. He wished suddenly that he had. She was utterly charming, fresh and frank and lovely, and when he let his thoughts stray to his newly acquired Tudor farmhouse it was all too easy to visualize her there, as the wife of his dreams, the girl he had been searching for all his life…

  But there was the brother to be considered. Sean couldn't be expected to welcome his courtship of this delightful young sister of his and, in any case, he owed the boy an explanation and an apology. That was the very least he owed him…

  It was after eleven when Deirdre, glancing at the clock in the foyer, announced regretfully that she must go. Alan rose at once. There was no sign of either Sean or his comas they left the hotel, and Deirdre decided, as she climbed into the car, that they had probably gone to the cinema. She hoped they had, for it would mean that Sean wouldn't be in the house when they got there and, in the circumstances, it seemed desirable that he shouldn't be.

  The drive back was swift and pleasant and she was conscious of a keen sense of well-being as she sat at Alan Carmichael's side in the soft, warm darkness. He was an attractive man and a charming escort: she liked him and had enjoyed her evening, finding his attentions at once flattering and strangely exciting.

  His hand brushed hers as he changed gear and Deirdre drew a quick, startled breath as he turned to smile down at her. By the faint light of the dashboard she could see that his smile was tender, his gaze very intent and compelling.

  "Deirdre—" he said softly and the name, on his lips, was a caress.

  Deirdre smiled back at him, caught up suddenly and without warning in the enchantment of a new and unfamiliar emotion, as if—without any other word being spoken—he had offered her the key to a magic world which had existed for her hitherto only in her dreams.

  It was so swift a transition from casual friendship to something deeper and warmer that it took her by surprise. And, as if he had sensed this, Alan said no more. They turned into the drive entrance and he got out to open the gate. The moonlight cast his shadow, tall and unwavering, across the gravel, lit up his lean brown face as he bent to raise the latch.

  He waved to her to drive the car through and, a moment later, joined her. But he was no longer smiling. There had been so much he had wanted to say to her, but—"Your brother's at home, I think," he told her bleakly. "I saw the lights of a car in the yard. I"—he slipped behind the wheel—"I'd better just drop you and go, perhaps. I'll give Sean a ring some time tomorrow and suggest our meeting and having a talk."

  "Yes, I—yes, all right." What had happened to change him so suddenly, Deirdre wondered. The spell was broken now, so abruptly that it hurt. They drove in silence into the yard and Alan did not linger over his farewells. As the tail lights of his car receded down the drive, Deirdre was conscious of an odd sense of desolation, of disappointment.

  It had been such a lovely evening but now it was over.

  Sean was waiting for her in the hall. His face was flushed, his lips grimly compressed. "Bridget tells me," he greeted her with brusque anger, "that you've been dining with that fellow Carmichael. Is this true, Deirdre?"

  At the disapproval in his tone, Deirdre's anger flared to meet his. "Yes, it is! Why shouldn't I dine with him, even if you don't happen to like him? I do! He's been awfully nice to me. And you were with Penelope, I saw you, I—"

  "Penelope," Sean interrupted savagely, "doesn't happen to be married. Carmichael is. Or perhaps you know that, perhaps he told you? Did he, Deirdre—did he tell you?"

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Sean!" All the colour fled from Deirdre's face, leaving her white and visibly shaken. "It can't be true. It—can't be!"

  "It is, then," Sean asserted. Seeing her distress, his anger faded and he came to her, took her into his arms as he had always done when, as a child, she had been hurt or afraid. "I'd not lie to you, Deirdre. I'm sorry if it's come as a shock. I'd have thought the man would have had the decency to tell you himself. But"—he studied her face, his eyes sympathetic and concerned—"you've known him for so short a time. Surely he's not made love to you? Because if he has—"

  "No," she cried wildly, "no, of course he hasn't, Sean."

  "I'd break every bone in his body if I believed he had! Before God I would—"

  "I tell you, he hasn't. He's behaved perfectly correctly and—and honourably."

  But… had he? Remembering Alan's words to her in the car, the way he had spoken her name, taken her hand in his and held it… the way he had looked at her, Deirdre bit her lip. Of course she had been every sort of a fool, it hadn't meant anything to Alan Carmichael. It had just been his polished, experienced way when he entertained to dinner a girl who… attracted him. He hadn't made love to her, hadn't attempted to kiss her. According to his or anyone else's standards, he had behaved perfectly correctly. Married men didn't consider it wrong to flatter and flirt mildly with a pretty girl.

  It was only she who had imagined—dear God, what hadn't she imagined? Certainly more, much more, than he had meant her to. And—dreams and illusions were flimsy things. She had been a gullible, conceited little fool, she told herself fiercely, and forced back her tears, that Sean might not see them.

  He held her close. "There now, mavourneen, so long as there's no harm done—"

  "There's none," she assured him, "none at all. How could there be, when I've known him less than a week?"

  "Sometimes," Sean told her soberly, "it takes less than an hour."

  "Does it?" She managed, somehow, to smile at him. "I suppose it was so with you and Penelope?"

  He reddened. "Ach, now, there's nothing between Penelope and me, so don't be imagining there is. Sir Henry would scarcely welcome it." He released her as Bridget called to them from the study. "Tea! Trust Bridget for that, bless her heart. All right, Bridget dear, we're coming. Go on, then, Deirdre. And you can tell me what it was you were wanting to tell me whilst we regale ourselves on Bridget's cake."

  Deirdre followed him into the study, making a brave effort to hide her feelings. She wanted very badly to question Sean about Alan Carmichael's marriage, about his wife, but could not bring herself to do so. Now that he was here, she would have to tell him about the Stud and the mess their financial affairs appeared to be in, ask for his help. Because she couldn't manage alone…

  Bridget fussed round them, pouring tea and urging Sean to eat the sandwiches she had prepared. When at last she left them, Sean said: "I suppose you dined at the George with Carmichael? That's where you saw me with Penelope?"

  "Yes," she admitted, "we dined at the George. I sold him Moonbeam, you see, and he asked me out to—to celebrate."

  "That was all?" He was watching her narrowly. "He said nothing about me?"

  "No, he said nothing about you. Except that—well, he said he wanted to see you, to talk things over with you. I—"

  "The devil fly away with the man, I've nothing to say
to him!" Sean exploded. "Even less, now, than I had before." He was silent for a moment or two, staring into the fire. Then he raised his head. "I'll not have him running after you, Deirdre."

  "You don't have to worry about that," Deirdre retorted bitterly. "I'm perfectly safe. I can look after myself."

  "Can you?" He said it tenderly, coming to sit on the arm of her chair, his cup out-held. Deirdre refilled it, her hands shaking a little, for all her efforts to control them.

  "Sean"—desperately, she sought to change the subject— "I—I'm awfully worried, about the Stud and our financial affairs in general."

  "Oh?" He was instantly alert. "Why? Is the Stud not paying?"

  "No. As far as I can make out, it's losing money. I went through the books last night. They're"—she motioned to her father's desk—"they're all in there and I've sorted them out as well as I could. And paid most of the local bills—this morning, with the proceeds of Moonbeam's sale. But there are lots of others and—well, paying off the local ones made a big hole in Moonbeam's cheque. Daddy's got an overdraft and the Bank Manager wants him to pay that off, too, as soon as he can."

  "Oh, he does, does he?" Sean crossed to the desk, his tea-cup in his hand. He was frowning as he sat down to examine the account books Deirdre pointed out to him. "I wonder—" He hesitated. "Look, Deirdre, have you spoken to himself about this?"

  "Yes. I wasn't going to, but he brought it up this afternoon. I didn't want to worry him by saying too much about it, but I'm worried, Sean. All those bills—"

  "Ach, I can imagine you must be." Sean's tone was bitter. He picked up the latest bank statement and his lips pursed in a silent whistle. "The Lord save us, but he's fairly in the red, isn't he? What did Carmichael pay for Moonbeam?"

  "Four hundred guineas. I paid the cheque in this morning."

  Impatiently, Sean's long, slim fingers ruffled through the bills. " 'Twas a drop in the ocean, then."

  "Yes, I'm afraid it was," Deirdre admitted wretchedly. "But I did pay the Carfield bills."

  "You'd have been wiser to let them hang on, so long as they were willing to!"

  "Well, I don't think they would have hung on much longer. Daddy told me to pay Milligan and the farrier himself."

  "What else did he say?" Sean wanted to know. "What did he suggest you should do, if anything?"

  Deirdre's brows came together in an anxious pucker. She repeated, as nearly as she could remember them, her father's remarks to her and ended despondently: "I even tried to sell the car or exchange it for a little one. I called at Carfield Motors, on my way home. They wouldn't look at it, they said it didn't have a good resale value or something."

  "No, cars of that type haven't—they're classed as luxuries." Sean spoke dryly. "And father's only suggestion was that you should try to sell off some of the young stock?"

  She nodded. "Yes. That—and win some races. The odd thing is, Sean, he—well, he doesn't seem upset about it. He kept on saying it was a temporary setback—you know, as if it wasn't anything to worry about."

  "You should know himself by this time—he never does worry. And he seems to make out in the end. I don't know, perhaps it is just a temporary setback. He's a lot of stock, some that ought to fetch a decent price. Listen" —he put out a hand and drew Deirdre down beside him— "I think we'd both better get some sleep. I'll go into these accounts tomorrow and we'll decide which of the young horses will have to go. Let Sir Henry have the two he wants and send some of the others to auction, that'll pay off the overdraft at least. And forget about the car for the time being—I'll see what I can do about it in London. Or we might shove an advertisement in one of the Barminster papers and see if any of the Yanks are interested."

  "Yanks!" Deirdre echoed. "Oh, goodness, Sean, that reminds me. We had an accident today—Snowgoose threw Terence and ran away. She made a terrible mess of a Cadillac belonging to an American officer from Barminster." She went into graphic detail and Sean groaned.

  "Not more trouble! Deirdre, for heaven's sake, you'll really have to supervise things a bit more. Paddy's a grand chap and I think the world of him, but he needs someone to keep an eye on him, you know. And Terence is a hotheaded young madman."

  Deirdre was stung by the injustice of his reproach. She said indignantly: "Well, I can't be in two places at once. I had to go in and visit Daddy. It was an accident, after all. And Alan Carmichael put things right, he—that is—"

  She broke off, at the sight of Sean's expression. "Sean, don't misunderstand about Alan. He's been awfully kind and—"

  "So 'tis Alan he is? From you, who've known him less than a week? And he's been 'awfully kind'! Have I not told you—the man's married?"

  "Yes, you have. But I didn't know it until you told me." Deirdre was very near to tears now. "Surely even if he is married, that needn't prevent his helping me, need it? Or—or prevent my—my being friends with him?"

  "No," Sean agreed dangerously, "if friendship's all he wants of you… and all you've given him. He is not the man I'd choose for my own friend, Deirdre, still less for yours. And if you see too much of him, if you let him come here too often, there'll be talk, you know. You'll not be able to stop it."

  "Where"—Deirdre had to steel herself to ask the question—"Sean, where is his wife? If he's married, why isn't she here with him? He's bought a house and a farm, he's come here to live—" She hesitated. "And you. Why do you hate him so? Why?"

  Sean gripped her hands tightly in his own. "Child, child, don't for pity's sake start picking a quarrel with me. All I've done is to warn you. I'm your brother and 'tis the least I can do."

  "Yes, but"—she looked up at him pleadingly, her eyes filled with the tears she could no longer hide—"I want to know."

  "Because you've fallen just a mite in love with him?" Sean asked gently. "Ach," he added, as he saw her hesitation, "you can trust me, you know it'd not go beyond these four walls whatever you told me. Surely you know that?"

  "Yes, I know." Some of Deirdre's tension went out of her and she let her head drop on to Sean's slim, tweed-clad shoulder.

  "Well then?" he urged, his lips on her soft hair.

  "I like him," Deirdre confessed. "I like him awfully and I—I just can't believe he'd behave dishonourably. He's been so kind. But I'm not in love with him," she ended defiantly.

  "I'm glad of that." Sean put a hand under her chin and raised her small, unhappy face to his. His smile was very understanding and affectionate. "Let's forget this, shall we? I've not the least idea what Carmichael has done with his wife, I only know that he has one. For all I know they may be separated, but even if they are, that doesn't make him, in my opinion, a man I'd want to go about with my sister. That's clear? Right, then we'll both sleep on it, for it's late, and I don't know about you, but my eyes won't stay open much longer. And Bridget will be after the pair of us if we stop in here talking—"

  "All right," Deirdre agreed. She was tired, she realized, tired and, for some reason, unutterably depressed. Which was absurd and unreasonable, because she wasn't in love with Alan Carmichael. She couldn't possibly be. Only… it had been a shock to learn that he was married.

  She forced herself to smile at Sean and he grinned back at her. "Off with you, then," he bade her, "and sleep well. I'll tackle these accounts first thing tomorrow and I'll go into Carfield as soon as I've done it, to talk things over with himself. For, you know, I don't think he'd thank us if we sold off too many of his horses, without so much as a by-your-leave—not to mention that car of his, and he in hospital, not able to do a thing about it. What time are your Americans coming?"

  Deirdre sighed. "I'm not sure. In the afternoon, I think."

  "Fine." He bent to kiss her. "I'll be here to help you deal with them. Good-night, Deirdre."

  She clung to him for an instant. "Good-night, Sean. I —I'm glad you're here. Awfully glad!"

  She left him in the hall and went upstairs. But when she had undressed and climbed rather wearily into bed, it was to find that sleep eluded her for a
long time.

  It seemed only a few minutes after she had dropped off that Bridget was shaking her shoulder. "Miss Deirdre, dear, 'tis half-pas six. Wake up now and drink your tea!"

  Deirdre sat up. Through the window of her room, as Bridget drew back the curtains, she saw that it was a grey, wet morning. But, at all events, it was another day.

  And last night's spell was broken—the shattered pieces of a brief illusion, no more than that: a childishly romantic dream which was best forgotten—a man's smile that, for an instant, had lit her heart, because she had believed it to be sincere and only for her. It was no use brooding over what had happened, no use regretting it, even though, for a moment or two, Alan Carmichael's good-looking face was all she could see, his voice—deep and pleasant and quite unforgettable, saying her name—all she could hear or, for that matter, all she wanted to hear.

  She drained her tea-cup and got out of bed. The spell was broken, she reminded herself—it was, it was! She wouldn't think of him again, she would force herself not to think, not to care…

  Twenty minutes later, in jodhpurs and mackintosh, she was riding Marigold across the slippery cobbles of the yard and down the wet drive, at the head of the string of Sheridan horses.

  This was her job and she had it still to do: it mattered because her father was depending on her to do it, there wasn't anyone else he could depend on, not even Sean, now—only herself.

  Marigold danced and pirouetted under her, shying at a wind-tossed leaf, and the rain dripped from the trees and fell softly on her face, mingled with a few foolish tears. Because of the rain, no one could see them, so she let them fall unchecked…

  It seemed a long day. Deirdre was busy for most of the morning schooling Marigold and another young 'chaser, one of Merry Marcus's progeny, a six-year old bay called Petitioner, which was to be Fergus O'Ryan's mount at the important Melford meeting.