Beyond The Blue Mountains - Plaidy Jean - Страница 2
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“War with America!” went on the merchant.
“War with France! War with Spain!” Oratorically he began to enumerate the events of the past year.
“It is true Rodney put the French to flight, but what of the Americans and their independence …?”
The knees of Darrell Grey touched the green cloak momentarily, and hot colour crept up the fair neck and was lost in the biscuit-coloured straw of the hat.
“War is indeed a terrible thing, sir I’ said the matron.
“Why, I can assure you, sir, that were it not for the wars my daughters would be married. Betrothed, both of them, to sailors and gentlemen of the quality at that! I will not mention names. Were I to, I should startle the company. Great names! Fine names! And both fallen in battle! Ah, sir! You cannot tell me anything I do not know of the horrors of war!” She turned to the merchant’s wife.
“Have you any daughters?” she inquired, but the merchant’s wife merely shook her head and glanced from her questioner to the merchant as though to say: “Do you not hear that he is talking? How can you interrupt!” The matron was, however, so sure of her own importance that she had little respect for that of the merchant.
“It is good to have daughters if they are a credit to you!” she said.
The coach lurched suddenly; the girl in the poplin dress was thrown forward and Darrell Grey stretched out to catch her. For a moment his hands touched her shoulders. She smiled and he saw that her eyes were blue, her lashes golden as her hair.
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Please do not be,” he answered.
“You are staying with the coach for its entire journey?”
“Yes.”
“And after?” he asked.
“I shall be met. My aunt perhaps, or her servants, will meet me.”
He leaned back in his seat. She travelled alone, but she was not easy to know. He could wait. She was travelling all the way to Exeter, and Exeter was quite four days off.
The coach stopped suddenly. The matron and her daughters moved closer to each other. The merchant looked out of the window and cursed.
“We are stuck in a rut!” he said.
“Confound it!” And his wife looked wretched, as though it were her fault.
“We shall not cross Bagshot before dark if we stay here long,” said the elder of the daughters, and shivered.
“And they say,” said the merchant’s wife timidly, ‘that there is a very good inn on the other side of the Heath.”
“I could not bear to cross the Heath at dusk!” said the second daughter.
“They say there is much boldness in those rogues nowadays.”
The girl in the poplin dress raised scared eyes to Darrell. He smiled reassuringly; he rather hoped they would cross the Heath in twilight. He would look after her and she would be very grateful.
“I do hope…” she began.
He leaned towards her.
“They are desperate fellows, but you need have no fear of them.”
“Nonsense!” said the matron.
“Of what use are fine words when a man is armed! I tell you that Bagshot Heath is the most notorious hunting-ground for these men.”
“My good lady,” said the merchant, ‘it is obvious that you are unacquainted with my part of the country.”
“They say,” put in an elderly woman from a cornet of the coach, that they play odd tricks.”
“They well may. Madam,” boomed the merchant, ‘but they never forget to relieve one of one’s purse, and they are always ready with their pistols.”
One of the daughters shrieked, and at that moment the coach began to move forward. There was a little laughter then, but it was uneasy laughter. There was silence for some little time. The sun was a red ball declining westwards as they came to the edge of Bagshot Heath.
Darrell leaned forward, and the straw hat lifted momentarily.
“It is fortunate that there are so many of us,” she said softly.
“I
confess I should be frightened were there less.”
Fear was unleashing her reserve. She lay back against the woodwork of the coach. The cloak opened slightly to show the tiniest of waists and a ripe young bosom under striped poplin.
Darrell said: “You are on a visit?”
“No.”
Then you are staying… near Exeter?” She nodded. The coquetry faded from her eyes; she had the tremulous mouth of a child. He found her enchanting.
He said: “That is good.”
“Why good?”
“Because I am returning to my home near Exeter. Perhaps you are staying near my home.”
“Perhaps.” She turned her head now. He saw her girl’s profile and her woman’s throat; there were already signs of a voluptuousness to come.
Where was she going? he wondered. Who was she? She might be a young gentlewoman. Was she a lady’s maid? He tried to think of someone in his neighbourhood who might be requiring a lady’s maid. The only person who, to his knowledge, had ever had one, was the squire’s lady, and she had been dead two years. Mystery surrounded the young woman. Was she innocent or sophisticated? A gentlewoman or a serving woman dressed in her mistress’s clothes? And why was she travelling alone?
He had to find out, and here on Bagshot Heath was the place for boldness.
He said: “My uncle is a lawyer. I work with him.”
“You have no parents?”
He shook his head. His mother had died of the smallpox when he was five, he told her; his father, of he knew not what.
“My father?” she said, and wrinkled her nose very prettily.
“He died long ago. I never knew him. My mother?” Again her mouth trembled.
“She has just died … of what I know not.” She added: “I go to my Aunt Harriet, five miles out of Exeter.”
“Your Aunt Harriet!” he cried excitedly.
“Can it be Miss Harriet Ramsdale who is your aunt?”
“The very same.”
He was laughing, not with amusement but with pleasure, and his pleasure changed suddenly to concern. Harriet Ramsdale the aunt of this charming creature! It was impossible to believe. And she was going to live with her. He was delighted and dismayed.
“Her house,” he said, ‘is but a few miles from my uncle’s. We shall meet, I hope.”
“It is good,” she said demurely, ‘to have found a neighbour already.”
“It delights me,” he told her, leaning forward. This explained everything. Harriet Ramsdale would rather let her young niece face the dangers of lonely travel than spend the money to go and get her. He was filled with tenderness. Poor little girl! To live with Harriet Ramsdale!
She said eagerly: “If you know my aunt, you can tell me something of the life that is before me.”
He answered with a question: “Will you tell me your name?”
“Kitty Kennedy.”
“Mine is Darrell Grey.”
The golden lashes shone against her pale skin for a moment. It fascinated him to see the way she could play coquette and frightened child at the same time.
“I… I am glad we know each other.” he said.
“Shall you call on my aunt?”
He smiled, thinking of calling on Harriet Ramsdale.
“We shall meet be sure of that!”
They fell silent, not because they had nothing to say, but because there was so much to say. and they did not know how to begin to say it.
The Heath lay behind them; the passengers had ceased to talk of the terrors of the road; they talked of inns, inns they had heard of and inns they had stayed at. And then they talked of war… and uneasy peace.
The sun was setting as they drew into the yard of the inn.
Kitty was too excited to sleep much that night. The depression of the last weeks had left her suddenly; life was not going to be so dreary after all. She had some idea of what life in Aunt Harriet’s house was going to be like. Her mother gay, attractive, clever, beautiful, laughter-loving had told her about her sister. How she had imitated Aunt Harriet! Though, as she said: “Bless you. Kit, it’s nigh on twenty years since I last saw her. But I can imagine what twenty years have done to Harry, poor soul!” And she would purse her lips and frown, and her face would cease to be her own, becoming that of another woman, a woman who had not been blessed with her own gay spirit.
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