Huntsman's Folly E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 270

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

INTRIGUE. TENSION. LOVE AFFAIRS: In The Historical Romance series, a set of stand-alone novels, Vivian Stuart builds her compelling narratives around the dramatic lives of sea captains, nurses, surgeons, and members of the aristocracy. Stuart takes us back to the societies of the 20th century, drawing on her own experience of places across Australia, India, East Asia, and the Middle East.  Becky managed a riding school, and Jamie was an excellent vet and her best friend; "just Jamie", whom she had known all her life. Would he ever be anything more, or would she be won by the handsome stranger whom she had met so short a time ago?

Leseprobe

Huntsman’s folly

Huntsman’s folly

© Vivian Stuart, 1956

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

ISBN: 978-9979-64-411-8

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

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For Vary and Valerie

Chapter one

Becky manners heard the sound of the approaching car as she finished rubbing down Gallant Donald and reached for his blanket The young horse nuzzled her gently as she made to leave him to his oats and, her smile indulgent, she fumbled in the pocket of her breeches for the lump of sugar he expected.

“Greedy!” she accused him. “How did you know I had a lump left?”

Donald took the sugar from her outstretched palm and munched it complacently, his expression that of a horse who was well aware that his mistress was pleased with him.

Indeed, Becky thought, giving him a farewell pat, Donald had excelled himself over the practice fences this morning. He stood a good chance of winning the Open Jumping at the Carsdale Show on Saturday, especially if Philip were able to get leave in order to ride him.

Her brother Philip was at the peak of his fame as a show-jump rider now — reserve for the British team at the White City last year, a winner at Windsor two months ago and likely to be chosen for the team this year, if the exigencies of his military service allowed it. Although his call-up, twice postponed, could scarcely have come at a more inconvenient time from her point of view, Becky reflected ruefully.

It was a struggle to manage the riding school and the shows on her own, with only young Joe Stacey — who was willing but not over-intelligent — to help with the stablework. But still, she was managing, and Phil was fortunately in camp less than a dozen miles away, able to spend most of his weekends at home. If the riding school could just tide them over financially until he was demobbed, then Huntsman’s Folly, which had bred so many generations of the Manners family, wouldn’t after all have to be sold. Phil would be able to live there and, in due course, his son would inherit it.

Becky sighed. As she emerged from the loosebox, her eyes went lovingly to the sturdy old house, dreaming serenely in the noon sunshine. A Tudor farmhouse, Huntsman’s Folly was built on the green slope of a wooded Sussex hillside, and its mellow red brick and twisted chimneys tore at her heartstrings, as they always did, and she knew that, even if it meant working till she dropped, she wouldn’t ever let it be sold to strangers — she couldn’t. This was her home, hers and Phil’s and she loved every stick and stone of it as much as he did.

Perhaps even a little more, despite the fact that in the end it would belong to Phil and not to her, because Phil was the heir and she only his sister, though the elder by two years. One day Phil would marry and he would bring his wife to Carsdale as mistress of Huntsman’s Folly, but . . . that day hadn’t dawned yet, and, in the meantime, it was up to Becky to make it possible for him to do so. She was very fond of her brother Phil. . . .

The car — the sound of whose labouring engine had brought her into the yard — now rounded the last bend in the road, and Becky recognized it gratefully as Jamie Fraser’s old de Dion, known affectionately as “Arabella” to the entire district.

Jamie, apart from being one of her oldest and closest friends, was now in partnership with his father, who was the veterinary surgeon for the district, with a surgery in Carsdale and a smaller one in the village which Jamie controlled.

Becky had sent for him this morning — reluctantly, because she hated to trouble him and because he never would send her a bill for his professional services — in order to ask his advice concerning one of the children’s ponies which had gone inexplicably lame. She called out a greeting and, sliding back the bolt on Donald’s box, crossed the yard to meet him.

Jamie responded with a cheerful: “Hullo, there!” and set about extracting his long body from the small car — always something of a feat, for the car was very small and there was a great deal of. Jamie.

When at last he had succeeded in disentangling himself, he stood before her, an engagingly ugly young man in shabby flannels, shirtsleeves rolled up over strong, tanned arms, his grey eyes regarding her with a hint of mockery in their depths. His hands, Becky saw, as he passed one of them through his thick fair hair, were dust-stained and streaked with grease.

“Oh, dear,” she said sympathetically, “not another breakdown, Jamie?”

“Puncture,” Jamie returned. “Arabella’s on her last legs, I’m afraid, poor old girl. I shall buy myself a decent car one of these days — it’s hardly fair to expect Arabella to carry on like a two-year-old at her age. But in spite of dreaming dreams of a chromium-plated monster that will fairly eat up the road, I’m strangely attached to Arabella, you know, for all her faults.” He grinned, “And proud of her, too. There aren’t many cars of her vintage on the road now.” He crossed to the tap by the harness-room door and began to remove the dirt from his hands. “Excuse me, but I can’t visit my patients in this state, especially—” the mockery in his gaze became open — “especially since you have done me the honour of calling me in for consultation, Miss Manners! It very seldom happens.”

“Look,” defended Becky, “you know perfectly well why I don’t call you unless I can help it. If you won’t send me an account——”

Jamie reddened beneath his tan. “I can’t charge my friends, Becky.”

“Then you’ll never get a new car,” Becky pointed out with unanswerable logic, “since at least half the country seem to be friends of yours. And you’re supposed to be a Scotsman!”

“I am a Scotsman,” Jamie insisted, his tone belligerent but his smile belying it. Becky passed him a towel.

She said: “Then you’re a Scotsman with all the wrong instincts.”

“My instincts,” Jamie assured her, “are all right, believe me. Thanks——” He took the towel, dried his hands carefully and turned to face her. “Do you,” he asked diffidently, “really object to Arabella?”

“Of course not — why should I? I don’t have to cope with her temperamental behaviour.”

“Well,” said Jamie, “come out’ to lunch with me, then. I’ve got one more call to do over at Dale Farm, but if you don’t mind doing it with me, we could have a meal at that new place they’ve opened at Hatton — the Country Club.”

Becky glanced from her own workmanlike breeches to Jamie’s shirtsleeves and sighed.

“I’d love to, Jamie, but we aren’t exactly dressed for the Country Club, ate we, either of us? Besides, I’ve got a lesson to give at three.”

“You could change while I look at the pony, and I’ve got a resplendent new jacket in the car. Do come, Becky — you never come out with me now and I promise I’ll get you back in loads of time for your lesson.”

Becky hesitated. It was true, she hadn’t been out with Jamie for a long time; she hadn’t been out with anyone, she had been too busy. And Jamie, she recalled, hadn’t asked her: he had been very much occupied with his courtship of Barbara Huntford until a few months ago. Rumour had it that they had quarrelled, but, well as she knew him, Becky didn’t like to ask him about this — Jamie was proud and he could be very difficult and sensitive at times.

But she’d heard about the new Country Club. It had a swimming pool and a wonderful garden and, on a day like this, they would probably serve lunch outside on the terrace, which would be extremely pleasant.

Besides, she was fond of Jamie Fraser and grateful for his kindness — the least she could do in return would be to have lunch with him when he asked her. He was probably still feeling unhappy about Barbara and it might cheer him up.

So she nodded, bright-eyed, and was rewarded by Jamie’s slow, delighted smile.

She walked with him to the pony’s stall, detailing symptoms as she went, and, leaving him to make his examination alone, she hurried into the house to change.

On her way downstairs, a quarter of an hour later, a small, slim, dark-haired girl, clad in the newest of her last year’s linen frocks, she paused by the kitchen door to warn Mrs. Marchant, the daily, that she would be out for lunch. Old Nannie, who normally kept house for Philip and herself, was away for the day, and she reflected — glimpsing the unappetizing plate of cold meat and salad which Mrs. Marchant was in the act of preparing for her — that Jamie couldn’t have chosen a better day to take her out to lunch if he’d tried.

She told him so when she rejoined him in the yard, and was surprised to see him flush. “If,” he said, “you’re only coming out with me so that you can avoid Mother Marchant’s cooking, then I shall withdraw the invitation.” He eyed her quizzically, and though he made a joke of it Becky sensed that he was hurt and instantly regretted her thoughtlessness.

“Oh, Jamie,” she said quickly, “you know it’s not that.”

“Isn’t it? Well” — he brightened — “you look very charming, anyway. I shall be proud to be seen with you at the new rendezvous of Carsdale’s smart set—you will more than hold your own with the local beauties, Becky my dear. It’s a pity you don’t dress up more often, because you’re really rather a stunning-looking girl, you know.”

“Am I?” Becky was pleased, but her pleasure in the compliment was mingled with astonishment. Jamie didn’t often pay her compliments. But he changed the subject hurriedly and began to give her his opinion of the injured pony as they walked over to the car.

“I saw Joe and told him what to do,” he added, “and” — forestalling Becky’s question — “I also told him you’d be going out and that he was to hold the fort till you got back. So there’s no need for you to worry.”

“Yes, but——” Becky’s smooth brow furrowed. She hadn’t told Joe about repairing the in-and-out in the paddock, and there was The Monarch to be got ready for this afternoon. Jamie, scenting the possibility of further delay, put her gently but firmly into the passenger’s seat and went round to the front of the shabby old car to crank the engine. Arabella started at once, but she made such a noise about it that Becky’s halfhearted protests were drowned in the wheezing rattle of the outworn tappets.

Jamie, a trifle pink from bus exertions with the starting handle, threw it into the back and himself into the front, almost in one movement, and before Becky had quite realized it, they were descending the hill at a reckless thirty and Jamie said breathlessly, his mouth close to her ear:

“Well, we’re on our way!”

“Yes,” Becky agreed with restraint, “we do seem to be. But I wish you’d let me speak to Joe before we left. I mean——”

“Joe’s all right, he’s a good lad. Dead reliable.”

“I know he is. He does everything you tell him. But you do have to tell him.”

“You flap too much, Becky,” Jamie told her, with brotherly frankness. “Look at me — I never worry.”

Becky looked at him. Jamie was a dear but he didn’t understand. And what had he to worry about, in any case? He had only himself to think of; his father’s practice was the largest and best established in the county; it would be there for Jamie to step into when his father retired in a few years’ time. And old Mr. Fraser, unlike his son, always sent out bills with unfailing regularity on the first of every month. So she sighed, and Jamie, negotiating the sharp turn into the village, heard her above the protesting roar of Arabella’s engine, and glanced at her enquiringly.

“Things not going as well as they should?” he suggested.

“Oh, they’re not going badly,” Becky evaded.

“I expect you miss Phil?”

“Oh, yes,” she confessed, “I do. Terribly. I mean, not only for the practical things, like riding in shows — he does that now but because now the responsibility is all mine. If the riding school fails, it’ll be my fault.”

“But why on earth,” asked the practical Jamie, “why on earth should it fail. You’ve built up the most enviable reputation. Why, you’ve even become fashionable, according to the reports I’ve heard. Isn’t little Caroline Lucas a pupil of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Her mother is rolling in money.”

“I know she is. But I don’t charge Caroline more than I charge any of the others.”

“Then you should, my dear.” Jamie’s tone was dry. “Mrs. Lucas wouldn’t notice what you charged her.”

“No, but I should. Anyway—” Becky laughed at him — “you’re a fine one to talk about how one should or shouldn’t charge, aren’t you?”

“All right, you don’t have to rub it in. I’ll send you in an enormous bill one of these days — enough to cover the down payment on my new car!”

“Judging by the ominous sounds Arabella is making, you’d better send it soon. Are you sure she’s not going to blow up?”

“Absolutely certain,” Jamie asserted. They left the village behind them and he changed down for the steep ascent to the main Carsdale road. From this point it was possible to look back and catch a fleeting glimpse of Huntsman’s Folly, and Becky, from force of habit, did so. She saw it across a sea of lush green grass, and the sun’s rays, striking obliquely through the encircling trees, gilded the worn red bricks and were reflected with dazzling fidelity from a dozen windows. It looked so peaceful and lovely that, for an instant, tears misted her eyes and her throat contracted, so that she couldn’t speak.

Jamie — who was being unusually perceptive this morning —said softly: “You love that place, don’t you, Becky?”

“Yes,” Becky admitted, “yes, I do. I suppose I always did, but I hadn’t realized how much it meant to me until Phil thought we might have to sell it.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Jamie, shocked. He stared at her, letting Arabella wander alarmingly on to the wrong side of the road. “Surely you’re not going to sell Huntsman’s Folly? Why, why——”

“Look out!” Beck warned, as a baker’s van came unexpectedly round the next comer with a furious blaring of its horn.

Jamie, quite unperturbed, nursed his own vehicle back to its allotted side, waving a casual hand in apology to the elderly roundsman. “It’s quite all right,” he said soothingly, “there was loads of room. I don’t know why old Hawkins had to get so excited — there are far too many nervous drivers on the roads, that’s half the trouble and why there are so many accidents. But about the house —Phil wasn’t serious about selling, was he?”

Becky slowly relaxed her grip on the seat arm. She knew, from long experience of him, that it was no use remonstrating with Jamie about his driving, but it was a moment or two before she could recover sufficiently to reply to his question.

Finally, she shook her head. “Not really. It was just that he was worried, first about the death duties and then about his call-up. He didn’t think I’d be able to carry on alone, for one thing. But I persuaded him to wait and let me try. And then he was able to get into the Guards, as he’d hoped, and as you know they’re in camp down at Carshot, so he’s able to get home fairly often — his C.O. is very sympathetic about leave. Phil explained the position, and that helped, I think. You see, he had to give up the farm when he was called up——”

“But I thought old Palmer was running it for him?”

“He is, yes. But Phil has to supervise.”

Jamie sniffed. He hadn’t a high opinion of Philip Manners’ farming, but he could scarcely tell Becky so. He said mildly: “I see. All things considered then, it’s really worked out quite well?”

“I think it will, so long as Phil isn’t sent abroad — to Germany or Cyprus, as he might be. I can carry on, and we paid the death duties out of Daddy’s estate in the end — they weren’t as high as we’d expected them to be, because there was an insurance policy which Daddy took out for me and——”

“Do you mean,” Jamie asked sharply, “that Phil used your insurance policy to pay his debts with?”

“Well——” Becky flushed. She wished Jamie were less outspoken, that he wouldn’t ask so many shrewd, unexpected questions. She hesitated. “It was better than having to sell Huntsman’s Folly. And after all, death duties aren’t the same as personal debts, are they? It sounds so awful when you talk about Phil’s debts, as if he’d been gambling or something.”

“They’re his debts to the extent that the estate is his,” Jamie’ pointed out reasonably, “and the estate includes the house, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Becky, “of course it does,” She was relieved when the huddled buildings of Dale Farm came into sight at the end of a narrow cart track. Jamie would have to attend to his case, and with any luck, by the time he rejoined her in the car he would have forgotten what they had been talking about.

They drew up in the yard and Jamie got out, frowning.

“I seem,” he said regretfully, “to have missed everything that’s been going on here, don’t I?”

“You couldn’t help it You were at Cambridge, after all.” Becky wished he would go, but he seemed in no hurry to leave her.

“Yes, when your father died I was — taking my finals, too, or I’d have come back.” He sighed. “But I’ve been in practice here for almost three months and I haven’t really Seen much of you, have I? Not to talk to, I mean.”

“N-no. Jamie, it’s nearly a quarter to one. Hadn’t you better hurry? Otherwise we’re going to be awfully late for lunch.”

“Yes, all right — I shan’t be long.” Jamie reached a long arm into Arabella’s back seat for his bag, smiled at her and was gone.

Becky watched his tall, loose-limbed figure out of sight and then leaned back, closing her eyes. It was very hot and she had been up, riding exercise, since five. To sit here, in this peaceful, deserted farmyard with nothing to do until Jamie came back, was, she discovered, rather pleasant for a change. At home, she never sat still because there was always something waiting to be done — young horses to be schooled, fed, groomed and exercised; small, eager boys and anxiously solemn little girls to be initiated into the rudiments of horsemanship and stable management; and a few adult pupils, too, who were much more difficult than the children, because they expected so much more and achieved so much less.

But, as she had told Jamie, the riding school wasn’t going badly. Thanks to the good offices of the rich Mrs. Lucas, all the boarders from Caroline’s school now came out to the stables on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, in addition to Caroline’s private sessions on Saturday mornings. These lessons, being regular and paid for promptly, enabled her to budget for Joe’s wages and the feed bills. She was also able to employ Mrs. Marchant for what old Nannie termed “the rough” and thus herself be free of all domestic calls on her time.

The stable was paying its way: a few wins at local shows might bring her in the extra pupils she needed to make a really good thing of it — might even enable her to put into effect the idea she had of holiday paying guests, so that the house needn’t be empty and half its rooms shrouded in dust sheets. Because it was a lovely house, it ought to be lived in, it ought to echo to the shrill sound of children’s laughter, as it had always done in the past. If Phil were sent abroad . . . oh, well, that hadn’t happened yet. At least he would be at Carshot for most of the summer. He’d told her that he couldn’t be posted before September at the earliest.

Lulled by the warm sunshine and the undisturbed peace of her surroundings, Becky’s small, dark head began to nod. . . .

She was wakened with a start by the sound of a man’s voice, coming from a few feet away and presumably addressing her, for it said, very apologetically: “I’m most awfully sorry if I startled you — I didn’t realize you were asleep.”

Struggling to sit up, Becky saw a tanned, smiling face close to her own, two bright, amused blue eyes regarding her with interest and — drawn up beside Arabella — the chromium-plated monster of Jamie’s dreams, from which the intruder had evidently just alighted, for its engine was still running and he retained a proprietorial hand on its gleaming silver-grey bonnet.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, blinking at, him dazedly. “Was I asleep?”

“You were indeed. And very delightful you looked, if I may be allowed to say so,” the stranger returned, his smile widening. “I thought for a moment I was dreaming myself, or had strayed into fairyland and come on the Sleeping Beauty all unawares. In fact I was seriously tempted to play the Prince, but you spoilt it by waking up without my assistance.”

Colour flooded Becky’s cheeks. He was extremely good-looking, she realized, studying him. He was tall and very slim, his hair dark — in striking contrast to the blue eyes— faintly tinged with grey at the temples and rather short. A soldier’s haircut, her mind registered, with memories of Phil’s cropped head returning. The newcomer’s correct pinstripe suit and his navy-and-red-striped tie suggested the Brigade of Guards, and she found herself wondering if he came from Carshot and whether he knew Phil. But of course, with a car like that, he must be an officer — probably a fairly senior one and a regular, since he looked about thirty-three or four — and Phil, for all his fame in the world of show jumping, would be just another young National Service recruit at Carshot. It would be absurd to ask this man if he knew Guardsman Manners. . . .

So she ventured shyly: “I suppose you were looking for Carshot Camp?”

The tall stranger shook his head. “No. But I came from there. How did you guess — is it written all over me?”

“Well——” Becky’s cheeks were pinker than ever.

He laughed. “All right, I suppose it is. They say we’re all cast in the same mould, don’t they? Actually, I’m looking for the new Country Club at Hatton, where I’m supposed to be meeting an aunt of mine for lunch. I left the main road about a couple of miles back and I’ve now got myself hopelessly lost. I spotted this farm and your car from down below there, so I thought I’d better come up and ask for directions. If you’ll forgive me for having disturbed your siesta so rudely, I’d be most grateful if you’d tell me where I am.”

There was a map under the dashboard of Jamie’s car and Becky took it out. She opened it and held it out to him.

“This,” she told him, pointing to its position on the map, “is Dale Farm. The Carshot road is there and Hatton’s over here. You turned left when you should have turned right, I expect.”

“Ah!” Her new acquaintance was following her pointing finger with his own. “That’s exactly what I did, like an idiot. I’d better go back, hadn’t I, to the crossroads?”

“There is a short cut this way,” Becky explained, indicating it. “As a matter of fact, we’re on our way to the Country Club too, so we can show you, if you’d like to wait till my — until Jamie — oh, here he is now,” she added, relieved, as she saw Jamie hurrying across the yard towards them, his bag swinging against his long legs. He grinned good-naturedly when Becky explained the presence of the sports car and its owner.

“Of course,” he said, “I’d be delighted to act as pathfinder. But if you’re in a hurry, you’d better leave us when we get to the main road again, because I’m afraid thirty is about my limit.”

A ghost of a smile hovered about the soldier’s mouth as he looked from Jamie to Arabella, but he said gravely: “That’s extremely decent of you. As I’m a bit late I will have to make up for lost time, but I hope that you — both of you — will have a drink with me at the Club when we get there. My name’s Bulmer, by the way — Giles Bulmer — and, as your charming wife has already guessed, I’m stationed at Carshot. And you’re . . .?” He looked at Jamie enquiringly.

“Oh,” said Jamie, “I’m James Fraser.” He got into the driving seat, his eyes avoiding Becky’s though she guessed the impish gleam in them, and Arabella, responding — contrary to her usual habit — to his violent assault on her self-starter, woke to ear-shattering life, which effectively prevented all further introductions. Or explanations, Becky reflected indignantly.

She rounded on the grinning Jamie as the stranger returned to his own car. “You — you let him think that I was your wife!”

“Well,” countered Jamie, “why not? When I came along he was looking at you in what I can only describe as a decidedly wolfish manner” — he swung Arabella in a tight circle, and made a racing change as they reached the hill — “and,” he finished, “I don’t like strange Guards officers looking at you like that.”

“It’s absolutely no business of yours how anyone looks at me,” Becky told him icily. “Besides——”

“We could make it my business,” Jamie interrupted, “couldn’t we? I mean——”

Ignoring the interruption, Becky finished her sentence. “besides, Major Bulmer happens to be Phil’s company commander. I remember the name now. I suppose that didn’t occur to you when you let him make such a stupid mistake?”

“No, I’m afraid it didn’t,” Jamie confessed. He could see, in his driving mirror, the big, sleek Jaguar crawling in low gear behind them, the driver, one hand on the wheel, nonchalantly lighting a cigarette with the other, and for some reason he didn’t attempt to analyse, the sight annoyed him.

“What is more,” Becky went on, “Phil has told me quite a lot about him. He is a very remarkable man. He served in the French Foreign Legion and won the Croix de Guerre in Indo-China.”

“Oh” said Jamie disgustedly, “a foreigner!”

“Of course not — he’s an Englishman. Englishmen do join the Legion.”

“Not unless they’re in the most frightful trouble — on the run from the police or something.”

“Well, he wasn’t. He couldn’t possibly have been or they wouldn’t have taken him back into the Regiment.” Try as she would, Becky couldn’t remember a great deal of what Phil had told her about Major Giles Bulmer. Phil’s conversation was very military nowadays: he was always telling her about his officers and the men with whom he was serving, and odd bits of information had stuck in her mind. She had thought his story about Major Bulmer and the Foreign Legion a romantic and exciting one, but, as she had never imagined that she would meet the hero of it, she hadn’t paid much attention to the details, so she couldn’t defend her new acquaintance with any accuracy against Jamie’s unexpected attack. Nevertheless, his smug and prejudiced attitude was irritating, and, having known him all her life, Becky had no hesitation in making her feelings plain.

Jamie shrugged. “I still maintain,” he said obstinately, “that a man has to have a pretty compelling reason to join the Legion, and it’s not one he’d care to talk about, you can be sure. Why, even the French call it ‘the Legion of the Lost’, don’t they? They take anyone — even dangerous criminals — without asking questions.”

“Can you imagine a dangerous criminal in the Brigade of Guards?” Becky retorted scornfully. “Commanding a company!”

Jamie smiled without amusement. “Well, perhaps not. I was only speaking generally. But he could have run away with another fellow’s wife, couldn’t he, and caused the most appalling scandal? He could have committed a crime against society, as the Sunday papers put it — been cited in a Cabinet Minister’s divorce cape or something of that sort. I’m sure I’ve heard his name in some such connection.”

“Oh, honestly, Jamie” — Becky was exasperated with him — “you’re being most unjust, making up things as you go along. And you don’t know anything about Major Bulmer — you only exchanged about two words with him, so how can you?”

“I suppose you spent all the time, while I was saving the life of a valuable pedigree heifer, listening to his life story?” Jamie suggested sarcastically. He increased the pressure of his foot on the accelerator, so that Arabella hurtled along, raising a cloud of dust in her wake and another, more ominous, cloud of steam from her tattling bonnet. But she was doing thirty-five and he Was pleased with her — the Jaguar had dropped well behind now, in order to avoid the dust, and the driver’s dark, smiling face no longer filled Jamie’s mirror. He glanced at Becky and realized from her frown that he had gone too far, so he said, his tone placatory:

“Anyway, what does it matter? He’s probably quite a decent chap, but he doesn’t concern us and I don’t suppose we’ll either of us run into him again after today.”

“No,” said Becky, “I don’t suppose we shall.” She couldn’t suppress a tiny sigh, but Jamie, concentrating on getting the last ounce of speed from his veteran car, did not hear it this time.

They reached the main Hatton road and, with relief, Jamie waved the Jaguar on. It passed them with effortless smoothness, the driver’s hand raised for an instant in a gesture of thanks, and then both vanished from sight at a bend in the road.

Jamie’s foot eased from its cramping pressure on his own accelerator, and Arabella settled down to a more matronly speed on the extreme left of the road. He smiled at his passenger.

“You know,” he said, “I jolly well will send out some bills next month, Becky. Arabella’s rather had it, I’m afraid, and if you’re going to come out with me regularly, I ought to get myself a new car.”

“I didn’t know,” Becky answered mildly, “that I was going to come out with you regularly.”

“Well, you are. Your friend Bulmer’s started something, thinking you were my wife. It’s an idea, isn’t it, Becky? Eh? We’re awfully good friends, we always have been and——” His hand found hers and his grey eyes were tender as he looked down at her—tender and strangely vulnerable. “Becky, I’m terribly fond of you,” Jamie said softly.

Becky knew she couldn’t hurt him. She stifled her vague misgivings and her chin lifted. “I’m awfully fond of you, Jamie. But I — that is, I can’t commit myself to anything until Phil comes out of the Army. There’s the house, you see, and there are the horses.”

“I know,” Jamie assured her, “and I understand. But there’s plenty, of time, isn’t there?” He released her hand. “How would it be,” he suggested, “if we had lunch at the Silver Teapot, in Hatton, instead of the Country Club? Because I’m beginning to wonder if I am quite dressed for gadding about in high society. I think my jacket smells a bit of cows.”

Becky nodded. “All right,” she agreed, “I understand too.”

Jamie had the grace to blush, but he was grinning as he parked Arabella, with a flourish, outside the Silver Teapot.