Feather Castles (22 page)

There was no sign of the man and, with a look at those flailing hooves, Tristram asked, “Hurt?”

“Fatally, was you to ask my opinion,” offered a spectator. Remarkable for stiffly curling whiskers, this gentleman, who looked to be an affluent farmer, went on cheerfully, “Black brute backed him into a corner and stamped all over him. Dead as a mackerel, was you to ask—”

Coming up behind them, Devenish interpolated urgently, “Frank—let me try.”

The ostler ignored him, continuing his desperate efforts and succeeding only in further enraging the stallion.

“Frank!” said Tristram.

“Yessir!” Reacting instinctively to that crisp, authoritative command, the man swung about and handed the rope to Tristram, who at once passed it to Devenish. “Go on, Dev,” he urged. He was, however, considerably taken aback when Devenish began to open the gate to the stall. So were the spectators—they scrambled for safety as the stallion, a screaming, rearing fury, plunged forward.

Devenish doubled the rope and slipped through the gate into the stall. The stallion's ears lay flat against his head. Great, iron-shod hooves sliced the air above the slender man, and a scream of equine fury rent the air. Coolly unflinching, Devenish slapped the rope under first one, then the other of those flying hooves. “Up,” he said encouragingly. “Jolly good, old fellow. My, but you're splendid, ain't you?”

If ever a horse was capable of registering bewilderment, this one was doing so. There was a strangeness about this puny man-creature. No fear came from him; instead one sensed kindness so that there was no need to be afraid. The flattened ears of the stallion relaxed, the screams ceased. Staggering on his powerful hind legs, his rolling eyes surveyed the man uncertainly.

“Care to come down?” Devenish enquired.

The suggestion was accepted. There could no be abject obedience, of course, wherefore there was much stamping, snorting and head-tossing, but through this display there was no attempt to rend or maim.

Devenish began to speak, his voice soft and persuasive. The effect was remarkable. In very short order the proudly arched neck was being stroked, the velvety muzzle whuffled at the man's neck, and the stallion's capitulation was complete.

Realizing that he had been holding his breath, Tristram let it out in a long sigh. An awed muttering acquainted him with the fact that the onlookers had returned. “Dev,” he said quietly, “lead him out of there, can you? A couple of you men, bring a hurdle or something we can use to carry the groom.”

The men moved away again. Devenish left the stall and, meek as a lamb, the horse followed. Tristram slipped quickly inside and bent over the crumpled shape at the back of the stall. “My poor fellow,” he said gently. “Are you much hurt?”

A drawn countenance was lifted; blue eyes, narrowed with pain, peered up at him. A deep voice muttered, “So I found you … soldier! Is—is Sister Maria … Evangeline here?”

Tristram gasped an astonished, “Diccon!”

Chapter 10

Popping another fondant into her mouth, Madame Fleur said tragically, “But—
why
must you ride this afternoon, my love? It is so warm! How much more comfortable you would be beneath the trees in the garden. Or even laid down upon your bed, having a lovely little nap.”

Rachel drew on her gloves and laughed, “You can do those things for me, dear ma'am. I crave a change of scene, and with Claude away, there is no one to scold you.”

Madame Fleur brightened, but settling herself more comfortably upon the chaise longue in the small jade salon, pointed out that when she had begged Rachel to go with her to Rennes and shop, as Claude had desired her, she had refused such a “change of scene.”

“Because, I—did
not
desire it,” Rachel said lightly, knowing in her heart that she was unwilling to accept any more of Claude's bounty just now.

Madame shook a fat finger. “Beware, child. It does not do to provoke my nephew. Claude wishes you to choose your bride clothes, and—”

“And I shall choose my bride clothes in England, ma'am. As I have told him.” She smiled at the look of anxiety in the woman's face and assured her she would not be long. But turning towards the terrace, a small pucker of irritation was between her brows.

“Your woman is with Charity. As always.” Madame giggled suddenly. “Save when she is with the groom, Raoul, eh?”

Turning back, Rachel sighed, “So you have noticed it, too. I must speak to the wretched girl. I cannot think what Monseigneur would say did he suspect another wedding was in the offing!”

“La, he would be pleased.” Madame's hand hovered over the box of fondants. “He likes the servants to be happy—provided they please him, of course.”

“Of course.” Rachel drew the riding crop idly through her fingers. “Which reminds me: there was a gardener, a boy really, who splashed mud upon my gown last week, before Claude left.”

“Yes. Wretched creature. Claude told me of it. Have no fears, love—you'll not see him again. Claude sent them packing that very night.”

“Oh, no! It was an accident, merely. And I understood that the boy's grandmother had worked on the estate all her life, and the cottage was given her for her retirement.”

“And much fuss she made, foolish old crone. One might have thought she'd not another roof in all France to shelter her.”

“Perhaps she has not!” Rachel snapped, hotly. “She was frail, I heard. How very unkind to turn them out for so unimportant a thing!”

“Unimportant?” Madame looked at her in consternation. “But—he splashed mud on Claude's boots, my love!”

Rachel could have shaken her, but it was, she saw quite useless. She left before she lost her temper. Entering the stables, her eyes were stormy, and the frown in them deepened when she saw Gerard waiting beside her bay gelding, while Raoul led out a black mare.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” At once noting the vexation in her eyes, Raoul gave a minuscule shrug, his droll grin managing to convey both helplessness and apology.

Gerard said, “If one may be permitted to remark it, Mademoiselle is looking very beautiful this afternoon.” His admiring gaze flickered over Rachel's pale green habit in such a way that she at once feared Agatha had left a button unsecured somewhere. From the moment of their first encounter, this slight, watchful man had both frightened and repelled her. Now, she ignored his impertinence and said levelly, “I understood most of the guests had left.”

“Yes, and it is my fear,” he purred, very obviously waiting to throw her up into the saddle, “that monseigneur would not wish you to ride unescorted.”

“Is it?” The words dripped ice. Overcoming her aversion, Rachel placed her foot in his hand and he tossed her up, holding her little boot an instant too long as he set it in the stirrup. Infuriated, she jerked the reins and the fleet bay gelding danced back a few steps, causing Gerard to jump clear. Rachel said, “I do not feel the need of an escort, just the same.”

His mouth tightened, but he answered a soft, “Alas. Monsieur Benét must be quite shattered,” and watched her mockingly, knowing she had thought he himself meant to accompany her, and that she could scarcely refuse to ride with Claude's cousin.

Rachel bit her lip. The affected Macaroni was only a small improvement over Gerard, and she had so hoped to be alone this afternoon. She badly needed a brisk ride and a chance to try to order her thoughts. Now she would be engulfed by an endless flow of inanities and her brisk ride would degenerate into a sedate amble, for a gallop must disturb the style of Antoine Benét's hair and could not be contemplated.

Her fears proved all too well justified. Monsieur Benét arrived clad in a riding coat of puce, frogged to the throat, and having a short military collar. His breeches were cream, his riding boots with their white tops, gleamed, and he removed his curly-brimmed hat to reveal pale hair immaculately waved and pomaded so that not a single strand was out of place. Having bowed with a flourish, his soulful eyes scanned Rachel admiringly. She was, he opined, superb; a very poem of ecstasy. She would set Paris afire when Claude took her there as his bride. And how happy he was to serve as her escort during his cousin's absence, despite the heat of the afternoon, and the fact that he really should be working at his easel. Nonetheless, this one delightful task must take precedence over all. He would see to it that Miss Rachel was not lonely or bored. But it was, of course, impossible to be bored on this magnificent estate. Miss Rachel could never have seen anything to equal it. Miss Rachel might, in fact, did she wish to please her future husband, take out her sketchbook and attempt some simple scenes.

He paused for breath, and Rachel quickly inserted a suggestion that they leave the stables. Benét seemed rather surprised to discover they had not as yet done so, but having walked to the mounting block, he contrived to climb to the saddle without too seriously disturbing the set of his breeches. Masterfully then he led the way from the yard—at a saunter that caused Rachel to set her teeth. She was unable to protest, however, for his monologue flowed on as though it had never ceased. The Grecian Garden, he kindly pointed out, could provide inspiration by the hour to the artistically inclined. With an expansive gesture, he simpered, “A true artist, naturally, needs no elaborate landscape to inspire him, for beauty is in the most simple of things. Take—my hand, for example.” He eyed it admiringly, holding the fingers gracefully arched. “Like a winged bird,” he mused. “Is it not?”

Rachel battled a compelling need to laugh. “I had a pet bird once,” she said. “But it was full of mites.” Benét's complacent smile faded, and sternly suppressing a giggle, she relented and went on, “No, I do not think I would liken such talented hands to a bird.”

At once the artist's rather affronted expression mellowed. “Mademoiselle is too kind.”

“Mademoiselle is also curious. When may I see my portrait?”

He chuckled and raised one “winged bird” to emphasize an affected scold that she must be patient. “My estimable cousin having commissioned this great work, his shall be the first eyes to gaze upon its perfection.”

“Good God!” she thought, and asked aloud, “It is finished, then?”

He brought thumb and forefinger together. “The merest
pinch
have remain! A whisper only. Then—
voilà!
Claude he will see—and marvel.”

“How eager you are to win his approval,” she smiled. “You must be extremely fond of your cousin.”

Antoine's lower lip sagged in a manner that caused his negligible chin to totally disappear. “Fond…?” he echoed. “
Fond
—of
Claude?
”

“Good gracious,” she said mischievously. “Have I opened Pandora's box? You are enemies, perhaps?”

At this, the blue eyes all but started from their sockets. “
Mon Dieu!
Do not, I beg you, think such a thing! A man may make an enemy of kings or princes—of the Pope even. But—of
monseigneur?
Heaven forfend!”

Rachel gave an uneasy trill of laughter. “How merciless you make him sound.”

He caught her wrist, the color draining from his pointed face, and bleated, “You will not
say
this? He would never forgive! Miss Rachel—you jest, you laugh, but you do not perhaps, fully understand. Promise—swear to me that you will not repeat this thing to my cousin!”

His voice was positively shrill, his grip beginning to hurt. Freeing herself and striving for a lighter note, she said, “Shall we strike a bargain? You will take me up to see my portrait, and I will tell Claude you described him a veritable saint.”

Benét gave a sigh of relief. “
Très bien!
The portrait shall be carried downstairs. There—we have reach a happy compromise, no?”

“I do not wish to put you to all that trouble. I shall just come up, and—”

“No!” The note of hysteria was in his voice again. Meeting her startled glance, he wet his lips and muttered, “It is in Claude's private suite on the second floor.”

“I quite understand. You have a studio up there, do you not?”

“Yes. It would not be proper.”

“Why ever not? Claude is not in residence. And even were he, we do not go to a bedchamber, but to an artist's work room. Further, you are my fiancé's cousin. Now, what could possibly be—”

“You do not understand. It is not—
you.
It is anybody!
No one
is allowed up there. Not even my aunt—Madame Beauchard!”

The foolish creature was actually perspiring! What nonsense—and carrying the conventions beyond the bounds, she thought. Unable to resist teasing him, she said with a twinkle, “But—I am to be Claude's wife. It is, perhaps, that he has another lady hiding up there?”

“Horrors! No! Claude's mistresses are not kept at—” The amused gleam vanished from Rachel's eyes and her chin lifted, seeing which Benét produced a lace-edged handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Better you do not go up there, mademoiselle. I wish to God I had not, for he may think I would—” He bit the words off, his pallor increasing. “Ah! Pay me no heed. It is—just … the heat! It is this heat. You will not relay to him—that is, I did not intend—but my accursed tongue! It will prove my undoing, I know it! And I will end in the quiet pool, like—” He gave a little yelp and, clapping a hand over his mouth, regarded her with utter tragedy.

Rachel was put in mind of a scared rabbit. “You are unwell, monsieur,” she said kindly. “Perhaps you should return to the house.”

“Oui,”
he gulped, gratefully, a nervous twitch appearing beneath one eye. “You are all understanding. I am, as you perceive, distraught. You will excuse … I must seek my valet. I need rest, and a powder to calm me. You forgive that I leave you? A thousand pardons, but it is, you comprehend, my artistic sensitivity.” He swept off his hat and essayed a jerky bow. “Adieu, mademoiselle.”