The Black Benedicts Page 7

  Already the sap was bubbling in the bare branches of the trees, and in some cases Mallory could almost imagine a film of green overhanging them. A lark soared into the air and well-nigh burst its little throat with song when they slowed down to negotiate an unexpected sharp turn which actually brought them to the white gates of the house, beyond which rose twisted Tudor chimneys.

  “This,” said Mallory, “is another very old house, isn’t it?”

  “Old, yes, but not so old as Morven,” Adrian told her, “and of course not nearly so big. In fact it’s just an enlarged and fairly recently modernized farmhouse, which was left to me by my great-aunt.”

  “But you’ve never lived here?”

  “No, never. I did plan to live here—once...”

  His voice trailed away, and Mallory thought it wisest to say no more on that subject, for the time being at any rate. Instead she didn’t wait for him to open the car door but got down and assisted Serena to alight. Serena had not neglected to bring Belinda with her, and she was experiencing some difficulty in grabbing her by her always rather slippery middle and attaching a lead to her collar, to prevent her from wandering off and getting lost.

  The house was unoccupied, even by a caretaker, and no sooner were they inside it than Mallory realized that it was badly neglected, although it possessed great possibilities. The floors were all of solid oak, and most of them had a slight list, and there were deep-set windows with diamond-paned lattices. The fire-places were huge and open, and the ceilings crossed by heavy beams. In the room which had once been used as the dining-room there was some fine linenfold panelling, and the drawing-room at that hour of the day had a lovely light from two windows which faced each other at opposite ends.

  Mallory looked about her with appreciation, and Adrian watched her as if her reactions to what she saw were important to him just then. Serena raced about what had once been a child’s nursery and discovered an old rocking-chair which she misused very happily for several minutes.

  The garden had once been laid out very attractively, but was now mostly given over to weeds. Mallory stood looking down at the face of an old sundial and traced the inscription upon it with the tip of her little finger.

  “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...”

  The usual inscription, and the usual injunction to make the most of life that is all too fleeting...!

  “I thought,” said Adrian, beside her, “of having something done to this place—of having it put into order again...”

  “It would be a good idea,” Mallory replied rather absent-mindedly, for she was studying the shadow cast by the declining sun and trying to work out the time of day without consulting her own watch. “A very good idea...”

  “You think so?”

  His eyes were on her face, with its fair skin and its clear colour, her feathery-light eyebrows, that she darkened a little, although her eyelashes were exactly as nature intended them, long and much darker than her eyebrows, and dusted at the tips with something which looked like gold-dust. The way her soft hair, growing out of its short cut, turned upwards on the nape of her neck fascinated him.

  “Oh, yes—oh, yes, of course I do!” She suddenly realized that he was talking to her seriously, and roused herself to return serious answers. “It’s a beautiful old house, and if it belonged to me I wouldn’t let it remain like this for another day. At least, I’d start doing all I could to restore it with as little delay as possible. Why, there must be hundreds of people in the world who would go quite crazy about a place like this...”

  “I did think of selling it at one time,” he admitted.

  “But why should you sell it? Your own house—an enchanting old house in an absolutely perfect setting! Do you realize that this would be a kind of house agents’ dream, particularly if there is any land going with it...?”

  “There is quite a lot of land, but some of it is leased to neighbouring farmers. Even so, there are still a good many acres which actually go with the house, and could be put to quite profitable use.”

  “Have you ever thought of making use of them yourself?” she inquired.

  “What, farming, you mean?”

  “Yes, farming. With someone to do the actual work, of course—but it would still be an interest...”

  “It would,” he agreed, and she could see that the germ of an idea had been born in his head. “It certainly would.” He looked at her again, his dark eyes lightening. “Miss Gower, do you like living in the country?”

  “I love it,” she confessed.

  “Even in such an isolated spot as this?”

  “I think an isolated spot is more attractive than a densely populated one...” She paused. Something in the way he was looking at her made her suddenly decide to proceed a trifle more cautiously. It was not impossible, of course, that he could find her rather attractive, but if he did—she wouldn’t ever want to hurt him. No man who had been hurt as he had been hurt—once—must ever be hurt again...!

  She said rather quickly:

  “I’m so sorry, but I’ve suddenly remembered I’m going out to supper to-night with the Hardings. Do you think we could get back now? I don’t want to be late...”

  “Of course not,” he agreed at once, and led the way out to the car.

  But when they had collected Serena and Belinda and were actually on their way back to Morven, Adrian Benedict still appeared much more cheerful than those who knew him well were accustomed to seeing him. And he was burning over in his mind schemes for the restoration of the White Cottage.

  Mallory just had time to effect a few necessary alterations to her appearance before setting out to walk the not very considerable distance to the doctor’s house in the village. It was a lovely evening, as it had been a lovely day, and she chose to take the short cut through the park.

  Walking between the magnificent straight aisles of beech trees, she caught a curious drumming sound behind her which she decided immediately was the sound of galloping horses’s hooves. She looked back over her shoulder, and in the faint blue dusk which was deepening moment by moment, in the shade of the trees she made out the shape of a horse and rider coming towards her at speed. Instinctively she stepped aside, and then halted, but when the thunder of hooves grew louder and the man on the powerful black was almost abreast of her, unthinking she threw up a hand to greet them in passing and her white glove gleamed ghostlike in the gloom.

  There was a sudden, abrupt abatement of the horses’s speed, a kind of wild plunging of its iron-shod feet, and the next thing she knew was that its forefeet had actually left the ground and that it was rearing upwards like a black fury. When it came down its rider also came down clean over its head, for he had had no opportunity to adjust himself or his balance to the suddenly altered pace and angle of his mount, and to Mallory’s horror, there in the deep gloom of the trees, she discovered that it was her own employer who was lying, apparently unconscious, almost at her feet.

  Having relieved himself of his rider, Saladin trotted off quite happily apparently until he was lost amongst the trees, and Mallory knelt down fearfully beside Raife Benedict. She touched his face, which was, of course, still quite warm to her touch, and even in such a moment as that she noted how thick and crisp was his hair, and particularly the wave which persistently tried to dip down towards one eyebrow. His eyelashes lay thick and black on his cheeks, making him look much younger, and rather devastatingly handsome.

  But he showed no signs of life. She made up her mind that this was no time for nice feelings and slipped her hand inside his shirt, which was of thick, soft silk, and endeavoured to ascertain whether his heart still beat. And just as she did so he opened his eyes and looked up at her, coolly, calmly, with a hint of a smile in the sherry-brown depths.

  “I am neither dead nor dying, Miss Gower,” he told her. “So pray do not upset yourself or prepare to shed tears over me. Instead, give me a hand and help me up!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  When she had helped him up, and he was
standing leaning against a tree-trunk, as if despite his light words he felt the need of some support, Mallory realized by the feel of her cheeks that her colour was high, and all that she kept thinking was that there had been no necessity for her to ascertain whether his heart was beating, and even at such a moment he had succeeded in mocking her a little.

  “Why in the world did you want to stick your hand out like that just as we drew level with you?” he demanded, a little irritably. “It was your white glove that upset Saladin. And, by the way, where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “He trotted off somewhere amongst the trees.”

  “Then do you think you could find him? Confound it, but I seem to have wrenched my shoulder!” He was certainly looking rather pale, and his temper was appreciably not so good. “Don’t try any tricks, but if you could just manage to catch hold of his bridle and give me a heave up into the saddle I’d be grateful to you. I don’t think I can manage to walk back to the house.”

  Mallory was immediately filled with concern for him.

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt anywhere else apart from your shoulder...?”

  “No; of course I’m not,” he answered, with a bite in the words. “Now, please don’t waste any more time, but try and catch that black devil of a horse of mine, but don’t go anywhere near him if he looks in a nasty mood. You’ve told me you’re used to horses, so now let’s see whether you really are.”

  Mallory uttered no further words but turned from him in the direction from whence the faint, musical jingle of bridle reached her ears, and a few seconds later she was talking coaxingly to Saladin, who appeared to be returning to look for his master, and made no objection at all when she laid hold of his reins. With perfect composure, and secret satisfaction, she led him up to her employer, and the latter raised his eyebrows in faint surprise.

  “So you did catch him! Good for you!”

  He seemed to wince a little, and turn even paler, when he was forced to desert the support of the tree; but with Mallory’s assistance he soon found himself in the saddle once more, and she gave the reins into his hands.

  “All right,” he said, nodding at her rather abruptly, “you can go now.”

  But Mallory decided that nothing would induce her to leave him until she had seen him safely back to the house.

  “I will walk beside you,” she told him quietly, “since I don’t suppose you will risk cantering.”

  “Certainly not!” he replied. “If you had my shoulder...!” He caught back a little half-groan which had tried to force its way through his lips. “But you were going out to supper. I heard you accept an invitation this morning.”

  “It is not in the least important, she assured him, “and the Hardings will understand perfectly. In fact I shall get on to the doctor as soon as we get home and he must come out and see to your shoulder.”

  “Hang it,” he muttered, between his clenched teeth, “I detest doctors, even old Harding—and he needn’t think he’s going to turn me into an invalid!”

  “Of course he won’t turn you into an invalid,” Mallory said to him soothingly. “But he may have to set your shoulder.”

  His eyes glimmered down at her with a faint smile in their depths.

  “What a girl you are!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got quite a way with you, haven’t you?—with children, horses, and Siamese cats...! And now I do believe you’re trying it on with me!”

  “I’m not trying anything on with you,” Mallory retorted, with a touch of cool primness, “but I do think it would be much easier for you if you didn’t attempt to talk until we get home. I’m quite sure you’re suffering a good deal of pain.”

  “Most intuitive of you,” he observed, but he took her advice and said nothing further until they were half way up the drive which led to Morven Grange, and then he remarked, as if apropos of nothing at all: “And there’s Adrian, of course—I forgot to mention Adrian...!”

  Mallory looked up at him but said nothing. She hoped he was not beginning to ramble a little.

  Once inside the house everyone seemed to be thrown into a state of great excitement and much confusion. The guests appeared from various corners of the house, and Sonia Martingale, who had only just come downstairs after resting in her room, and was looking particularly alluring in a floating creation of transparent black net, with high-heeled slippers of scarlet satin, and some blood-red stones at her startlingly. white throat, uttered a little shriek at sight of Raife, looking so white and unlike himself, and accompanied by Miss Gower, the governess.

  “What on earth has happened?” she demanded. “You haven’t had an accident, have you? Raife, your coat is all stained and torn...”

  “Mr. Raife!” exclaimed Mrs. Carpenter, holding up her hands in horror. “What has happened? Don’t tell me it was that black devil...?”

  “It was,” Raife answered shortly, and found his way through the press to the foot of the stairs without another word.

  Mallory went straight to the telephone in the library and asked Dr. Harding to come at once. Then she beckoned Phipps, who was hovering uncertainly in the doorway, and told him to take a stiff brandy and soda to his master’s room.

  “His horse threw him,” she explained. “Go and see what you can do for him.”

  “But he’s never been thrown by a horse in his life!” Phipps exclaimed, as if he simply couldn’t believe it.

  “Well, he’s been thrown this evening,” Mallory told him. “And hurry,” she added, “with that brandy!”

  The following morning, about eleven o’clock, while she and Serena were ploughing through multiplication tables in the school-room, a knock came on the door. Phipps stood there when Mallory opened it.

  “The master’s compliment’s, Miss,” he said, “and he would like to see you in his room.”

  “The master?” Mallory echoed. “Mr. Benedict?—in his room?” And then, more hurriedly: “How—how is he this morning?”

  “As well as any gentleman can be who has had his collar-bone broken and one wrist badly sprained, to say nothing of an ankle injured as well,” Phipps answered importantly. “He wishes to see you, Miss, in his bedroom. Will you come this way?”

  “And me?” called out Serena, preparing to follow them, but Phipps waved her away.

  “Not you, Miss Serena. The master is in no mood for children this morning.”

  He was, Mallory decided, when at last she entered the main bedroom of the house, in no mood for anything at all, save complete rest, and perhaps a little understanding sympathy as well. He was propped up against his pillows in quite the most enormous four-poster bed she had ever seen in her life, in a room that was dark with mahogany and rich crimson hangings. There was an odour of antiquity in the room, too, as if much of the furniture and all of the hangings had been bequeathed to him from a far, far distant age, and above it rose the protecting perfume of mothballs, which seemed actually to catch at the breath.

  “Good morning, Miss Gower!” Raife Benedict’s voice, with a rasp in it, reached her from amongst the bed curtains. “Do you mind trying to introduce a little more light into this room for me, please? Mrs. Carpenter seems to be labouring under the delusion that light is injurious in a case like mine. But as I’ve already explained to her at least a hundred times, I am not an invalid...!”

  “Of course you’re not an invalid,” Mallory agreed quickly, in a voice that had all the sedative qualities of a turtle-dove in it, and going at once to the great windows she drew back the heavy brocade curtains as far as their cumbersome curtain-rings would permit, whereupon the morning sunlight actually found its way into the room. Then she went back to the bedside and looped back the bed-curtains so that the occupant of the bed was suddenly plainly revealed in striped silk pyjamas, his right arm in a sling, and the eiderdown littered with the mornings correspondence.

  “Is that better?” she inquired gently, looking down at him.

  “Much better,” he told her. He grinned suddenly, a rather boyi
sh and faintly apologetic grin. “I felt as if I was imprisoned in a cage. These four-poster beds are the very devil when you’re not well—or, at least, confined to bed, as the saying goes. And Mrs. Carpenter hasn’t got a large amount of imagination, poor soul, and she venerates anything which belonged to my ancestors.”

  Mallory stood looking down at him, and she decided that he had had a sleepless night because there were heavy rings under his eyes, and tiny lines of pain at the corners of his mouth.

  “What else would you like me to do for you?” she asked. “I’m quite sure you didn’t send for me just to pull back the curtains.”

  “Sensible girl!” he approved. “But, strangely enough, there is no one else in the house who could have done it as well as you, Miss Gower. You are nothing if not thorough. I like the way you set about things, too, as if such a word as defeat would never be included in your vocabulary.”

  Mallory smiled faintly. She had started to tidy up the litter on his bedside table—his ash-tray choked with ash, cigarettes lying open in a silver cigarette-box, a volume of poems lying face downwards, a tumbler and one or two medicine bottles, amongst which was probably a sedative which had not entirely worked.

  “I suppose the housemaid hasn’t got around to your room just yet,” she remarked.

  “She got around, but I wouldn’t let her in,” he confessed. “Mrs. Carpenter was more than enough, with her revolting suggestions for a hearty breakfast.”

  “Well, if you’re not an invalid you should eat,” she pointed out. “You must keep your strength up, you know.”

  “My strength is still quite sufficient to frighten anyone who finds their way into this room without first receiving my permission,” he told her, rather a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Mallory could not prevent her smile from growing wider.

  “Well,” she asked again, “what is it that you wish me to do for you?”