A Song Twice Over (17 page)

But Daniel Carey continued to smile, his manner changing so visibly into the jaunty young Irish vagabond, the Paddy O'Riley of her father's imaginings, that she could have wept for shame.

‘Well now, Miss Dallam, and so I might at that, one of these fine days when I chance to be passing …'

She knew he never would. ‘I won't forget your kindness.' She was speaking the truth.

‘To be sure, and think nothing of it at all. Just get your father safe home.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

And with her father still hunched in his pain, still breathing what might be his last on the seat behind her, was it really the moment to concern herself with whether or not she had offended a stranger?

There followed an anxious afternoon and evening, a doctor for John-William, a nurse for Amabel who, having suffered an attack of her own at the first sight of his, lay shivering on her bed, the spectre of widowhood leering at her from its foot, Linnet Gage being splendid, making sure that afterwards, whatever the outcome, somebody would be sure to say ‘Whatever would we have done without Linnet?', rustling from one sickroom door to the other, thinking of everything, somewhat to the annoyance of the housekeeper, Mrs Drubb, who had usually thought of it, whatever it was, already. And when it became apparent that John-William would live, Linnet stood beside Gemma, to support her in her emotions, while the doctor explained that it had been a warning, no more, but one which should be heeded nevertheless. His hours at the mill should be considerably shortened. Fresh air and moderate exercise were to be recommended.

‘How wise,' murmured Linnet, smiling as she tiptoed to Amabel's bedside to whisper the glad tidings and tell her that the doctor had as good as recommended a move to the country.

By morning the crisis was over, Amabel, still pale and tearful, had been installed on a chaise-longue by her husband's bed, while Linnet, her private thoughts running with some excitement on the prospect of country houses and Sir Felix Lark who had been looking at her lately in a way she recognized, now found the time to direct her brother's behaviour towards Gemma. The girl had had a shock. She needed affection, a manly shoulder, the support of a manly arm. Never more than now. For although her engagement to Tristan had been already announced with fitting celebrations, a death – should one occur – would necessarily delay the wedding. And since Aunt Amabel would certainly wear her widow's weeds for the full two years and keep Gemma in black as long as she was able, Tristan might have to woo his bride all over again, or to make very sure of her now, if he wished to keep her. No doubt about it. Not that Gemma, being such a plain little thing, was in any way flirtatious. But, with John-William out of the way, other men, the downright ‘undesirables'he had kept firmly out of his daughter's sight, would surely come flocking. And Linnet, whom no stern father had ever protected, had good reason to know the dangers of that.

‘Let her lean on you, darling,' she now told her brother. ‘Just as hard as she likes. And, of course, if you felt inclined to take a little advantage – you know, whatever men do when they find themselves alone with a girl who happens to be
leaning
– then I'm sure no one could blame you. And most girls would appreciate a kiss or two at a time like this. It might take her mind off her miseries.'

It would also fix Tristan irrevocably in Gemma's affections, Linnet felt sure of that. For a girl who did not kiss lightly, who may never even have kissed before, would see a kiss as something quite tremendous, something that would bind her very fast.

‘Just
comfort
her, Tristan.'

He grinned and kissed his sister, instead, on her cool cheek.

‘Are you a schemer, my darling?'

‘I do what circumstances force me to do, Tristan. For both of us.'

Yes, he knew that. Had she succeeded in getting any of those old men to marry her, the ones who'd been ogling her and pawing her and making her skin crawl throughout every London season since she'd turned fifteen, she'd have gone through with it happily, gritted her teeth and done whatever the old codger might have asked her, to provide a home for herself and her brother. And now that things had turned out this way and he was the one who'd got the chance of a good match, then he'd just have to stir himself. For her. His sexual experiences had been adequate – even plentiful – for a man of his age and class but his emotions had never been touched by anyone – so far – but Linnet.

Not that he had ever put it into words or found it in the least unnatural. A fellow was supposed to love his sister, after all, and since he and Linnet had had to rely on one another more than most, it stood to reason that they should want to look after each other. Since who else would? And she was a splendid girl, who deserved the best. If he could pave her way to one of these rough and ready millionaires then he'd be the happiest man alive. And she'd make herself the leading light of Frizingley, no doubt about it, since there was nobody here to hold a candle to her. Yes, she'd show them all a thing or two – or half a dozen. A triumph he'd be overjoyed to see.

So he'd start right now by making a little love to Gemma, nothing that would offend or frighten her but enough to convince a virginal young lady of narrow upbringing that she had made a physical commitment. And he'd be as charming and gentle about it as he could, a pleasant experience for both of them if he could manage it, both now and later when, as her husband, he'd have the right to do anything he liked.

Not that his desires, physical or otherwise, were in any way unusual. Peace of mind, mainly. The comfortable, rather graceful life of his childhood before money and his father's temper had both grown so damnably short. And if Gemma could give him that delightful time back again then he'd do his level best to make sure she never regretted it. Good old Gemma. A pity, of course, that she hadn't the looks of that glorious Irish creature he kept seeing about the house with her sewing. No chance at all that Linnet would ever send him to make love to
her
. And if it ever happened – her or somebody like her – then he'd take good care that Gemma never got to know.

So now he would go and kiss her, pretend to lose his head a little, proceed just as far as she would allow – not far, he suspected – so that she would be aware, no matter what became of John-William, that she already had not just a fiancé, but a lover.

‘Where is she?' he said.

She had gone into the garden to escape, not him precisely, not Linnet, nor the pair of elderly, ailing lovers holding hands in the sickroom upstairs; rather a blending of all these things, which she found oppressive. And so she had gone to walk among the October leaves already scattered about the pruned, ready-for-winter garden where, to her considerable astonishment, she saw the young Irishman of yesterday coming towards her.

She did not know his name.

‘Good morning,' she called out, meaning ‘Good Heavens.' And then, thank God she had met him here, on his way to the house, to avoid all that terrible business of the tradesman's entrance or the front door, the servants eyeing him askance, not knowing what to make of him, offending him once more.

If he
had
been offended. Just amused, perhaps. Or scornful. That seemed rather more likely.

‘Good morning, Miss Dallam. How is your father?' His voice, to her intense relief, had shed that mocking imitation of an Irish tinker, no Paddy O'Riley this morning but himself – whoever he was – a young man of some education, she was sure of it, despite the shabbiness and thinness of his green jacket, the collar turned up, just a little in tinker fashion, against the bite of the wind. Had he no overcoat? She supposed not.

‘My father is much better, thank you.'

She realized, with some amusement, that he did not wish to know any more about her father than that. And, far from being offended by his lack of interest, his relegation of the august John-William Dallam to the store of tedious matters which have to be mentioned and then forgotten, she found it – what? Yes. Refreshing. Honest. Ben Braithwaite and Uriah Colclough would feel exactly the same when they came to call, except that
they
would pull grave faces, and pretend.

‘Good. I think you lost this.'

And opening his hand he held out the small amethyst and diamond cat she had worn on the shoulder of her cape yesterday.

‘It was near the slope where you were sitting.'

He had picked it up with a flicker of irritation. Dear God, hadn't he done enough by rescuing the father without having to go off now delivering the daughter her jewellery? He had no wish and saw no point to meeting either of them again. And if the brooch had been less valuable he'd have been much inclined to forget the Dallam girl altogether – who had jewels in plenty, he supposed – and give this one to Cara, who might never get another chance to own an amethyst and a few little diamonds in her life. A parting present.

But the brooch was obviously worth a fortune. Enquiries might be made about it which could lead Cara into trouble if she tried to sell it, or pawn it, as he supposed she would. And so here he was with the amethyst cat in his hand, standing in a wind-raked garden with this little brown cob of a girl who all too clearly had no idea what to make of him.

‘My name is Daniel Carey,' he said, taking pity on her confused proprieties. ‘I am a schoolmaster sometimes – a journalist sometimes. Sometimes I make translations from the French.'

Perhaps now that he had established himself as an educated man, not a digger of ditches who might suddenly use a rough word or beg a shilling, she would be more at ease with him.

She was.

‘Mr Carey – indeed I
do
thank you, once again. I should have been sorry to lose my little cat. I believe I have had him since I was fifteen.'

Ten years ago, he wondered? Perhaps less, for although her sturdy little figure in her dark, rather severely cut wool dress, her voluminous cashmere shawl, looked quite matronly, her cheeks were smooth and young without being in any way girlish, her brown eyes thoughtful and quiet, her hand, when it took the jewel from him, small and square and sensible,
capable
even in an untried, untested manner; completely unblemished.

‘Will you come into the house, Mr Carey, and take some refreshment?'

Perhaps it was daring of her to ask him. He had not moved in these polite, class-conscious, self-conscious circles for so long that he could hardly remember. Yet the house must certainly contain a silk-and-lace dragon of a mother, a hawk-eyed governess, a stiff-necked brother, perhaps, to question his intentions or imagine he had come to claim a reward. And since he had no intentions, no claims and could not be bothered with social posturings and pretensions at any time, he shook his head.

‘I wish you would.'

She seemed to mean it.

‘Why? Is it gloomy in there?'

She smiled, and although it did not transform her face nor endow it with any more beauty than Nature had intended, the smile itself was frank, intelligent, open, not at all displeasing.

‘Well, they are all at sixes and sevens a little. My mother collapsed when she saw my father …'

‘Poor lady. I expect she thought it obligatory.'

Incredibly Gemma could not suppress a peal of laughter, of which she was instantly, although not wholly, ashamed. How could she? Had he questioned her mother's sincerity? Insulted her? But his eyes were alight with an amusement she could not believe to be unkind. No. Of course he had not insulted Amabel. He had simply, tolerantly,
understood
. Had spoken aloud, in fact, the thought which had been in Gemma's own mind all the time. Because Amabel
had
considered her collapse obligatory, an absolutely essential display of affection between husband and wife. She had, of course, been deeply shocked and grievously alarmed. But Gemma knew – and Daniel Carey knew – that she would have fainted anyway.

‘My parents are much attached,' she said rather stiffly although her smooth, oval face still retained the quiet harmony of her smile.

‘Then they'll be busy enjoying each other's company, which makes it dull for you …'

‘A little.'

Was the expression in her eyes hopeful? He thought so. Good Lord, then she must
really
be lonely. But the last thing he wanted was to sit on a rigid straight-backed sofa drinking weak tea from paper-thin china and making small talk –
very
small he imagined – with her tedious relations. He didn't want to disappoint her either.

‘This garden is rather unusual, isn't it?' he said, by way of compromise.

‘Oh yes.' It was an invitation to show him the old trees, the rosebeds planted by some long-ago Goldsborough, the sun dial, the sunken Italian garden with its empty fountains and sooty stone cherubs, looking so incongruous in this cold climate, to which she at once responded.

‘Do you care for gardens, Miss Dallam?'

‘I care for this one. And for the house. My mother thinks it small and inconvenient and poorly situated. She longs for rooms a mile high and a marble hall with a great turning staircase in the middle, lit by half a dozen chandeliers. But I think this house has – well –
character
.'

‘Charm,' he said. And to stifle what felt suspiciously and incredibly like the beginning of a blush –
she
who never blushed – she said quickly ‘What part of Ireland are you from, Mr Carey?'

‘Ballina in County Mayo. Do you know it?'

She shook her head.

‘Nor I, if it comes to that – since it must be a dozen years since I went away.'

‘Are your family still there?'

He smiled at her, intending to make a simple negative reply, or even to say ‘Yes, indeed,' since to agree was quicker and required no further explanation. Why tell her what had really happened to the Careys of Ballina when it had already
happened
, when he had coped with it and felt not the least need for anybody's pity. Why hers? Intelligent she may be. More so, in fact, than she had been encouraged, in this cloistered atmosphere, to show. Lonely too – which, since she could rarely ever have been physically alone, must imply a lack of understanding in those around her. But how much might
she
be expected to understand? Could she, with her quiet, sheltered eyes, endure even a glimpse of reality?