The Light Heart (35 page)

“You are very exciting,” he murmured. “You should learn to enjoy yourself a little.”

As his arms slackened she wrenched herself out of his hold and stood back away from him, wondering how on earth she could convince him that she was not to be treated like this. He had her at a hopeless disadvantage, and he knew it. She could not make a scene. She could not return, angry and upset, to the drawing-room and give him away before his wife. She had to accept his presence amiably, and it would be difficult to
extricate
herself from her visit and leave the house for the rest of his stay there, without being obvious and calling attention to the situation he had made, which was the last thing she intended to do. Meanwhile, everything she could think of to say sounded like quotes from the sort of novel she would have scorned to
write, and she suspected that in common with the rest of his countrymen Conrad had complacent doubts about her spinsterhood.

“We’ll go in now,” she said shortly, “since you can’t be trusted to behave for five minutes. I wasn’t brought up with your kind of man, and I keep forgetting that you’re not a gentleman.”

He chose to be amused, as always, at her insults.

“With a beautiful woman, there is only one kind of man,” he remarked, falling into step beside her.

“In your experience, no doubt,” she admitted. “But you might have the decency not to risk humiliating Rosalind before her friends. The music has stopped and they’ll be coming out. For her sake, we’re going to be found here making polite conversation.”

“And how does our friend Major Laverham employ himself these days?” Conrad began obediently in the most casual tones. “He is no longer with his old regiment, I understand?”

“He’s at the War Office.”

“Oh? A Staff Officer, perhaps?”

“I really don’t know,” she said curtly.

“And does he still play polo in that so dashing way?” There was just an edge of irony in his voice.

“Probably. I haven’t heard.”

“He must ride around fourteen stone,” Conrad remarked. “It must be difficult to find ponies up to his weight. I hear he has spent much of his time in Germany lately.”

“Has he?” said Phoebe in genuine surprise, for when they had talked of Germany together Charles had never mentioned to her that he had any first-hand knowledge of the country at all. “Have you seen him there?”

“No. I thought it was odd I hadn’t.”

“Did he say he had been there?” she asked, puzzled.

“No. But we know in Germany that he was there. I thought it was odd he says nothing of it. Why do you not compare notes with him sometime, on
your travels in my country?”

“Well, I’ve seen very little of it myself,” said Phoebe, and thought, Good Lord, he’s stalking Charles! What
are
they up to?

“If the subject were once opened,” Prince Conrad
murmured
close to her ear, “I could then invite him to Heidersdorf, on his next visit. Do that for me, will you?”

“Why should you ask him to Heidersdorf?” Phoebe asked bluntly, looking him in the eyes, and Conrad’s shoulders rose in the Continental way.

“His views are always interesting. One feels he is in touch with things here. A responsible man, shall we say?”

And one wants to pump him, thought Phoebe. I’d like to see it done. He’s after Charles, even to the extent of throwing Rosalind at him. What
is
going on?

They all went off to bed early that night, as tomorrow was the first day of cubbing, and everyone who meant to go out had to be up at an unearthly hour. Rosalind had not ridden to hounds for years, and had persuaded Conrad to go too, and Archie was mounting them on his best. Phoebe was to ride Clare’s bay mare from the Hall, and everyone said what a pity it was that Oliver and Maia had not arrived in time. Charles was to have one of the Earl’s weight-carriers, and the
Chetwynds
always rode anything that was given them and stayed on no matter what happened.

The morning was cool and misty with sparkling cobwebs on the grass. The hounds were young and excited. The foxes were young too, and plentiful. The Field was small, and there were only a few motors and foot people at that God-forsaken hour. Prince Conrad made no secret of his preference for shooting grouse to killing foxes, but in order that Rosalind might enjoy herself he was now magnanimously allowing days to escape him which might have been passed at Scottish houses out with the guns. He rode correctly but without enthusiasm well back among the Field, while Rosalind had become in her pathetic joy almost a thruster, and was sometimes quite out of sight ahead of him on a long run. Penelope Chetwynd usually
kept up with her, and Charles was always there on a big
compact
roan, and once when Rosalind took a ditch with a reckless flying leap he cried “
Over!
”
in a mixture of praise and relief which startled him into hoping no one had heard, as he
followed
. She glanced across her shoulder with a grin which rolled time back, and they might have been boy and girl again, and Germany only a place on the map.

Their quarry having successfully gone to earth that time, they were ambling on towards Moreton on the way to the next covert when they came to a road with a stone wall either side and a sharp turn beyond some grey farm buildings huddled in the pale morning sun. Charles was just thinking that it was still early for motor cars when one shot round the bend to find the road ahead full of horses, and the fool who drove it let out squawks with its horn.

Charles’s horse promptly stood on end and tried to fall over backwards on him, and when he had righted things there Penelope was saying with a rather hysterical giggle, “
Rosalind’s
halfway home.” He saw the small flying figure in the next field, riding cleverly but pulling on a horse which was clearly out of control. He sat still at the edge of the road, watching. His teeth were set, but in the old days if he had gone after her and tried to help she would not have spoken to him for a week.

Most of the Field were still behind them. Archie came up at a trot, took in the situation, and went so far as to jump the further wall and pause there. Just then Rosalind’s horse put its foot in a rabbit hole and went down, pitching her over its head. Simultaneously Charles shot out ahead of Archie, going full tilt, and reached her first.

She lay just as she had landed, half on her side, oddly crumpled, with her hat jammed on her head. She did not move as he knelt beside her, but when he turned her very carefully on to her back and straightened out her legs, running an expert hand along the bones, he saw that her eyes were open. She looked up at him silently.

“Where does it hurt?” he demanded. “Lie still, and tell me where it hurts.”

“It—doesn’t,” she said with an effort, and her face contracted not with pain but with terror. “Charles, something’s broken, I—haven’t got any legs.”

“Yes, you have, I’ve just counted ’em. You’ve knocked your head, I expect. I’m going to try to get your hat off now. Say if I hurt you.”

The hat came off. Her head rested in his hand, the heavy dark hair loosened. The rest of the Field was arriving now, Archie first, then Penelope and Phoebe, Prince Conrad among the last. He ran from his horse to kneel beside Rosalind and laid urgent arms around her lax body.

“My treasure, speak to me!” he entreated at once, and
everyone
who heard him winced and thought
Germans!
, and Charles said sharply, “Don’t move her, please, until we find out where she is hurt!”

Conrad brushed him aside and raised Rosalind in his
embrace
to a half sitting position, gathering her up against his shoulder. Charles made an instinctive gesture to prevent him, crying, “No,
don’t!
”
and Conrad said coldly, “Kindly keep your impudent hands off my wife!” Charles sat back on his heels and they were all forced to watch in helpless silence while Conrad put his right arm under Rosalind’s knees and lifted her from the ground.

“I shall carry her down to the road,” he said harshly. “Please find some sort of motor car to take her to Farthingale.”

“It’s over ten miles,” said Archie. “Take her as far as the farm there, if you like, and we’ll put her to bed and send for a doctor.”

“I prefer to take her back to her own bed at your house at once.” Conrad started down the slope of the field with his light burden, and as they went Charles saw that she hung limp and unconscious across her husband’s arms.

Phoebe moved to Charles’s side, where he still knelt on the ground, and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“Archie will see about a car,” she said. “It’s never any use to argue with Conrad when he’s made up his mind.”

Charles rose slowly and stood with his head down, brushing off his knees. His horse moved in a step and nuzzled at his elbow, sensing disaster. Charles laid hold of the reins blindly, but made no move to mount.

“They’ll telephone ahead for a doctor to be at Farthingale,” said Phoebe beside him.

“He’s killed her,” said Charles through his teeth.

“Oh, Charles—she only fainted, surely.”

“It seemed to be her back. The only safe way to move her was flat on a stretcher. It was murder to pick her up like that. But I couldn’t stop him.
Could
I have stopped him?”

“No.’

“No. I tried.” He stood staring at his stirrup leather, his big fingers fumbling at the buckle. “Try to go along in the car with her, will you? Try to be there when the doctor—” He raised his head and met Phoebe’s eyes. “Try not to leave her. Make a blooming nuisance of yourself—but stick to her.”

“I’ll try, Charles.” Phoebe turned to go, and hesitated. “You all right?”

“Yes. I’m all right.”

With a glance which turned Charles over to his sister Penelope, Phoebe led her horse down the slope after Prince Conrad.

The doctor was waiting at Farthingale, and Phoebe,
unaccustomed
to illness and accidents, steadied herself with fervent inward prayers for strength, and helped Rosalind’s maid
undress
her on the big bed. Her hands and knees were shaking, and she felt sick with shock and apprehension as Rosalind failed to regain consciousness. She remained resolutely in the room while the doctor made his examination, and he soon confessed himself to be in need of another opinion.

By that time the rest of the household had arrived back in other motor cars, and Archie led the doctor away to put in trunk calls to London for two other physicians he knew there,
one of whom agreed to catch the noon train and bring nurses, the other to follow that evening.

Meanwhile Rosalind lay small and white and broken in the bed with her eyes closed, seemingly scarcely to breathe.
Leaving
Virginia to watch, Phoebe slipped away to change her clothes and prepare for her vigil, nurses or no nurses. Charles had vanished at once into his bedroom, and Tommy was with him there. Conrad was in the gun-room drinking a whisky and soda. Once he had laid his wife on the bed and seen Gibson, her maid, in charge, he showed no further desire to intrude.’ In fact, he appeared rather anxious to avoid Rosalind’s room, and himself chose the refuge of the gun-room, saying that he would await the doctor’s verdict there when he had bathed and changed. Phoebe saw the door close behind him with relief, but must have looked surprised, because Gibson said, bending over her mistress, “He is no trouble when she is ill. We have things all our own way then, praise be.”

T
HE
first doctor from London was unable to bring Rosalind back to consciousness, and the room was rapidly turned into a hospital by the two starched nurses working with silent
efficiency
while Phoebe sat on the window seat to be out of the way, with an open book in her lap, of which she did not take in one word. The second doctor arrived after dinner, which was brought to Phoebe on a tray, and they worked over Rosalind until midnight, while Phoebe dozed uneasily in an armchair in the corner, and woke with a start to find the first London doctor standing over her. She stared at him
uncomprehendingly
, and he repeated his question.

“Who is Charles?” he asked.

“Charles Laverham.”

“Is he here in the house?”

“Yes, he—”

“Send for him,” said the doctor, and turned away.

“I c-can’t,” said Phoebe, and scrambled to her feet to catch the doctor’s arm. “What is it? Did she ask for him?”

“She is half-way conscious now. Twice she has said the name Charles, and that’s all. If Charles will come and try to make her respond to him, we may get some results.”

“B-but he isn’t her husband,” Phoebe threw out both hands against the doctor’s sharp, cynical glance. “Oh, no—you mustn’t think—she and Charles grew up together, and he got to her first when she was thrown.”

“Then surely her husband would have no objection—”

“But he
would,
”
said Phoebe desperately. “Her husband is Prince Conrad zu Polkwitz-Heidersdorf. He—makes scenes,” she added, and blushed miserably for Rosalind.

“Then keep him out of here,” said the doctor, and walked back to the bed.

Ten minutes later he was standing over her again.

“Let’s find out if Prince Whatshisname has gone to bed,” he said. “See if you can get hold of Archie Campion and ask him to smuggle this fellow Charles in here. It’s a chance to hold on to her, and we need to take it.”

Archie reconnoitred and found that Conrad’s light was out in the small room over the back garden to which his belongings had been transferred earlier in the evening. Then Archie tiptoed to the other end of the corridor, routed out Charles, who was reading in bed, and hustled him in dressing-gown and slippers to Rosalind’s door, where they found a nurse on guard. She remained there when Charles had gone in, to ward off nuisances, Archie thought, trailing back to his own room and an anxious-faced Virginia.

The doctors appraised Charles with a glance as he approached the bed.

“Try and rouse her,” one of them said, and vacated his own chair at the bedside.

Charles sat down in it, utterly composed, and took one of the small quiet hands in both his.