Читать книгу High of Heart - Emilie Loring - Страница 5

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Soundlessly, as if touched by a magician’s wand, not by human hands, the great oak doors of Trentmere Towers swung open. Con’s heart mounted to her throat and beat its wings. Somewhere inside the house her father’s father was waiting. He had asked her to come alone. Little he suspected that wild horses couldn’t have dragged a member of the Corey family with her to this, their first meeting. She had refused Tim’s offer to drive her, thinking that the walk from Cherrytree Farm would give her time to plan what she would say to her grandfather, something casual with a light touch to break the ice which would be wide as a pond, deep as a well, between them. Just as if she had thought of much else since she had set sail for England on a fast ship a week ago, she derided herself. Then it had been March. Now it was April.

The walk hadn’t helped. All the way she had felt as if she were moving in a dream, that she would waken and find herself in her own white-canopied bed at Red Maples. If it were a dream she wouldn’t feel jittery inside and her mind wouldn’t seem like a great empty room without even the echo of the footstep of an idea, would it? She lingered on the terrace trying to get her emotions under control.

Above her the historic house wrought of limestone and granite reared massive turrets slitted by narrow windows, which frowned like battlements against the turquoise and white of an April sky. Round and round the tallest towers, ivy-covered to their finials, rooks were circling. Below her lay the gardens. The warm sun sucked the breath from the box hedges till it scented the air. The yellow centers of narcissus in the white flower border shone like gold coins. A fountain shot up thousands of glittering diamond drops to shimmer down into a glinting sapphire pool. Great oaks spreading low their mighty branches, tall elms faintly green and gold tipped, the more slender larches, cast drifts and pools of purple shadow on emerald velvet lawns.

The distant river curved like a silver sash trailing from a woman’s frock through fields which had the lovely warm tint of green gold. A slim Wren steeple in dramatic contrast to the belt of dark firs above which it loomed pointed the way to the azure sky and Heaven. Gray stone farmhouses with mossy roofs napped in the mellow sunshine. Cream-colored cattle lazily chewing their cuds in the lulling shade dotted a smooth pasture. The faint haze above the river through which she could see the sloping hills, soft green at the base, purple-blue at the top, made Con think of a gossamer screen hung before tableaux vivant to soften the effect.

The peace and scented quiet stilled the tumult in her heart. She must go in. She would trust to luck to say the right thing when she faced her grandfather.

She took a reluctant step forward. Stopped. What was that sound? She turned. A black and white head with brilliant beadlike eyes was poked above the upper step to the terrace.

“Whiskers! You bad dog! Have you followed me all the way?” The terrier stood on his hind feet and laid dusty forepaws on her skirt in answer.

“Down! Down!” As he sat back on his haunches and gazed up at her in quivering expectancy, she regarded him thoughtfully.

“You trail me every minute now that Peter isn’t here, don’t you, young fella? I miss him too. Perhaps you are the ice-breaker-answer to a maiden’s prayer, Whiskers. If Lord Gowan happens to like dogs, he’ll recognize you as a Best of Show and remarks about you will get conversation away to a good start. Come on! Remember, you are to be a perfect gentleman. A credit to the house of Corey.”

Smiling a little, head high, pulses fairly steady, feeling reinforced for her foray into the enemy’s country by the presence of the dog trotting behind her, she entered the house. Crossing the threshold was like opening a long-locked door in her life from which she would fare forth into unknown country, on an unknown road which might prove adventurous, exciting, perhaps dangerous. Whatever it was, she could take it. She had been longing for a change, for a break which would give her a new and broader outlook on life. And here it was.

A footman in maroon livery appeared as if by magic. He bowed almost to the silver buckles on his shoes.

“His lordship is waiting for you in the hall, my lady,” he said. “This way.”

As Constance followed him she caught a reassuring glimpse of her slim self in a huge mirror at the foot of the historic white marble staircase, its wall hung with Romneys and Gainsboroughs, upon which, her father had told her, the great of centuries had passed up and down. To switch her thoughts from him and the meeting ahead she told herself she was glad she had worn the rose-color linen frock, matching shoes and large hat of fine straw. The triple strand of silver beads and broad bracelet were perfect accents. Her eggshell-color bag and gloves gave the last perfect touch to her costume. The servant paused:

“The Honorable Miss Trent, your lordship.” She had been so absorbed in thought that his voice startled her.

In the still moment which followed the announcement, through Con’s mind echoed Tim’s teasing admonition as she left Cherrytree Farm:

“Keep your chin up, Slim. Wait till you see the whites of his eyes before you shoot. The Major General at the Towers won’t gobble you even if you do look good enough to eat. You’re a knockout in that rig.”

The memory of his words braced her spirit. There was a hint of a smile on her vivid lips as she entered the great hall. She had seen it all before through her father’s eyes; the richly blended gold and crimson of the vaulted carved ceiling; the rays of color slanting down from the jeweled tops of the narrow windows in the gallery; the Spanish-leather walls, the portraits of knights in plume and armor, of lords and ladies, dead and forgotten these many years, the rich oak and walnut furniture, the Trent-Gowan crest surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves carved above the huge mantel.

But, she had had no adequate picture of the gray-haired man who stood straight and tall in front of the fire. Not so old as she had imagined him. A hawkish nose was the dominating feature in a face which was alert, powerful, austere. A monocle was screwed in one eye. His attitude was that of an aristocrat convinced of his superiority.

For an instant only she saw him. With a snarl and a fierce growl something hulking, something with rolls of fat about its short neck, with a jaw like a heavyweight champ in defense of his title, shot past the man in front of the fire and presto! something white and black and furry shot from behind her. The two forces met with an impact which bounced each one back, then plunged forward and clinched.

“Whiskers! Whiskers!” Con cried and grabbed the terrier’s upright tail.

“Let him go! Keep out of the fight!” roared a voice. Even in the excitement Con wondered if that were the tone in which a Major General shouted orders. “Sacks! Gore!”

A man in maroon livery and one in the smart black of a butler rushed in. The footman grabbed the bulldog’s collar and choked him till his hold broke. The butler danced around the edge of the melee like a referee at a prize fight. Con still gripped the terrier’s tail. Shaking with excitement she sank into a large chair while he growled and snarled and tugged for freedom. Blood was trickling from his right ear and red spots were oozing from his breast.

“Sacks. Send the vet here at once.”

“Very good, your lordship.” The butler left the room in quickstep time. The footman dragged away the growling, straining bulldog by the collar. As the two disappeared Con struggled to keep down the rising storm within her. One second she wanted to cry, the next she felt she must shout with laughter. Hysterics? She never had had even a touch of them in her life. She wouldn’t disgrace herself before the stern man looking down at her with piercing blue eyes which made her think of hunks of aquamarine.

“Those dogs broke the ice for the return of the Prodigal, didn’t they?” she asked unsteadily and sternly swallowed something in her throat which was a cross between a sob and a giggle.

Lord Gowan did not answer. He dropped the monocle and readjusted it. He stood immovable before the fire as somewhere a clock ticked off the minutes. The terrier whined and began to lick his breast.

“Oh, Whiskers, did that brute hurt you terribly?” Con crooned and dropped to her knees beside him, while not for a second relaxing her hold on his tail. “Why did you fight? Do you call that being a perfect gentleman?”

“Don’t put your face so close to the dog,” Lord Gowan warned. “He may snap at you.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me, he’s so friendly and gentle-hearted.”

“He gave every indication of it,” Lord Gowan observed sarcastically.

“You wouldn’t have had him roll over and paw the air while John Bull attacked him, would you? Americans don’t knuckle.” Her eyes burned with indignation and her cheeks felt like the red spots on a clown’s chalked face.

“I begin to believe you. Here’s the vet. Jaggers,” he spoke to the horsy-looking man, with a rubicund face, attired in a suit whose design was a steal from a checkerboard, who trotted into the room at the heels of the butler. “Take out this dog, dress his wounds, and see that he is returned to Cherrytree Farm. Then take a look at Roustabout.”

“Yes, your lordship.” The vet regarded Con with a kindly understanding smile. “Better let go ’is tail, my lady. ’E’ll come along with me, all right, won’t you, boy?”

Whiskers sniffed at the hand he extended, then laid his nose against the checked sleeve with a sigh like that of a tired child. The man picked him up.

“ ’E’ll be all right, in a day or two, my lady. Don’t you worry none.”

He talked in a soothing undertone as he carried the dog from the hall. Con’s eyes which had been following him came back to the man before the fire.

“I suppose you are my grandfather?” She had difficulty in keeping the inquiry steady. “I really didn’t have a chance to introduce myself formally.”

“Quite so. Quite so. And you are my son’s daughter, Constance. Your voice is still shaking from nervousness. I don’t wonder. Take off your hat. Lean back in that chair. Sacks, serve tea at once.”

“Very good, your lordship.”

Lord Gowan’s eyes followed the butler until he left the hall, came back to the girl.

“I apologize for Roustabout, Constance. Usually he is a peaceful citizen, but in years past the bulldog was bred to be the prize fighter of the canine world and sometimes he reverts to type. Fortunes changed hands because of him until 1835 when dog fighting became illegal in England.”

She realized that he was talking to give her a chance to calm down. Her nerves still tingled as if they were in contact with an electric battery.

“How can you endure anything as ugly as that creature about this adorable place?” she asked.

“I am glad that you like Trentmere Towers—at least.”

“Did you expect me to like you?” There was no bitterness in her voice, only surprised inquiry.

“You are frank. Dash it all, that word ‘expect’ would be better changed to ‘hope.’ ”

He was frowning at her from beneath heavy iron-gray brows. She noticed the deep radiating lines about the corners of his blue eyes, the hard set of his mouth which bespoke an embittered man. She remembered what her father had told her of the dissipations and extravagances of his elder son. Through the corridor of memory echoed Gordon Trent’s regretful voice admitting:

“Perhaps I should have stayed at home, Connie. Maybe had I had patience Father might have come to see things my way, but I was young and could see only one side of my fight for freedom.”

He hadn’t stayed at home, if he had she wouldn’t be sitting here, with her heart shaking like jelly and her hands thoroughly iced and a perfectly insane feeling that she had been here before, that she belonged, was a part of it, that she had returned home from a far country.

“I hope Mrs. Corey and her sons have found Cherrytree Farm comfortable?” Lord Gowan inquired with chill courtesy.

Con forgot her bitterness, forgot that in a way she was the stand-in for a Prodigal who had not returned. She remembered only the original oak-timbered first floor in the stone house, the fireplace in the great lounge blazing with logs the day of their arrival; the flowers everywhere, the charm of the chintz-hung bedrooms, the clockwork smoothness of the service rendered by the welcoming staff, the unbelievable beauty of the garden.

“It’s perfection!” With the exclamation went all her fear and embarrassment. It was like breaking through a tough skin in which her real self had been sealed.

The butler entered. Behind him, Gore, the footman, propelled a laden tea wagon.

“My granddaughter will pour the tea, Sacks,” Lord Gowan instructed and seated himself in a massive carved chair near the fire.

“Very good, your lordship.”

Con was not so preoccupied with the manner of her presentation to the servants that she did not note the richness and heaviness of the Georgian tea service. She had thought Angel’s wedding silver fit to adorn the home of a multimillionaire but this fairly shouted of pomp and ermine, empires, kings, queens, palaces, and cloth of gold.

“That will be all, Sacks.” Lord Gowan dismissed, after the butler and footman had solicitously served him.

“Very good, m’lord. The bailiff would like to see you when you are at liberty. Important, he says.”

“As ‘faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null’ as if you hadn’t pulled a fierce dog out of a fight,” Con thought.

It frightened her a little that the line from Tennyson’s “Maud” should flash through her memory as she watched the wooden-faced footman depart. She hoped her mind hadn’t split to run on two tracks, for she thought it had been entirely occupied with the problem of what to say next. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep the shuttlecock of conversation in the air.

“I don’t like the publicity the American newspapers gave your coming to your father’s people. Here, only Ivor and my solicitors knew you had been found, until after you had sailed,” Lord Gowan declared irascibly. “They even played up the fact that your mother left you before you were old enough to know her. Dangerous. Very dangerous!”

“Dangerous! Why?”

“Blackmail. Some woman may come forward and claim she is your mother.”

“Perhaps she would be telling the truth.”

“Nonsense. She is dead. I have proof.” He attempted to smooth his corrugated brow and lighten his voice. “Are you music-mad, too?”

“If you mean have I my father’s gift for conjuring pure beauty of sound from the piano, no. Men who know, have said that he would have been a great artist had he had a chance.” Realizing from Lord Gowan’s expression that she was on skiddy ground she added hurriedly, “Of course I play, enough to accompany Tim and Peter. Peter has a marvelous voice. Not big but oh so—so heart-stirring.”

“He has, eh? Peter is Mrs. Corey’s son, isn’t he? Why didn’t he sail with you?”

Con was quite unaware of her little sigh of relief. Peter was a subject about which she could talk for hours. She observed her fingers as they picked up a slice of the richest, darkest, most delectable fruit cake she ever had seen—thank goodness, the shakes had left them.

“Peter is arriving tonight. He is a lawyer. Business came up at the last minute to detain him. He hasn’t had a vacation for years. He was all set to take three months for his wedding—” she bit off the sentence. She had no right to chatter of his personal affairs.

“Wedding!” Lord Gowan blustered and Con could imagine him roaring commands in the army, if a Major General gave commands except through a staff officer.

“Whom was he planning to marry? You?”

“Marry me! Peter! Don’t be foolish! He is my foster brother!”

She saw his color rise before he growled:

“I’ve heard that American girls had no respect for rank or age or—”

Con’s flash of temper had evaporated. Perhaps a perfect lady didn’t tell a baron of the realm not to be foolish. She smiled and apologized:

“Sorry I was rude, but your question was so ridiculous. You haven’t picked up the age germ, have you? We Americans,” she imitated his inflection of the word to a nicety, “think that a man who looks and stands and walks as you do, is in the very prime of life. What’s more, we consider references to our advancing years to be in as poor taste as wailing about a diminishing bank account.”

He rose, squared his shoulders as if casting off a burden and adjusted his monocle more to his liking. There was a twinkle like her father’s in his eyes.

“By Jove, I can see that the possession of an Americanized granddaughter will prove a liberal education.”

That brought Con to her feet. With difficulty she kept her tone light and slightly amused.

“You may be surprised but I don’t care for that word ‘possession.’ I belong to myself and the Coreys. I am not ‘Americanized,’ but, to use a hackneyed expression, ‘one hundred per cent. American.’ ”

“Stuff and nonsense! You’re an Englishwoman and my granddaughter,” he contradicted in high-tempered protest.

His tone was maddeningly dictatorial, his face was a choleric red, his blue eyes emitted sparks. She knew now what her father had been up against when he made his fight for freedom.

“I’m not and what’s more—”

“Did you ring, m’lord?” a soft voice interrupted.