The Tyrant (22 page)

“It was that doubtful commodity,” he went on, “love at first sight. They were hopelessly forbidden, of course, but during the Siege of Acre he risked death many times to meet her. On the night before the great battle, she made him promise to wear her talisman next day, and she gave him a fine red rose. During the battle he fell, grievously wounded. While he lay helpless, a Saracen knight came up to finish him. At the last moment the Saracen saw the red rose. His sword was swung aside. Peter was taken prisoner instead, and nursed back to health. His attacker had been brother to his lady.”

“Oh,” whispered Phoebe, entranced. “What happened? Were they able to marry?”

“Yes, believe it or not. With her help he was able to escape, and together they fled back to England. Our climate, alas, did not suit her, and she died in his arms soon after the birth of their son. With her last breath she is said to have vowed that their love was immortal and that down through the ages they would meet again. He was quite inconsolable. He built a shrine to her memory and was found there one day, dead, but with the first smile on his face that anyone had seen since he lost her. His death was attributed to a broken heart.”

“Wretch!” she exlaimed, her own tender heart touched. “I asked you not to tell me if it was sad!”

He said absently, “Did you think it so? I find it beautiful rather, but there is more. The next instance we know of took place two hundred years later. The Carrutherses had for decades engaged in a fierce feud with the neighbouring Meredyth family. Thanks to the machinations of their enemies, the eldest Carruthers son, Anthony, was accused of being in league with the Devil, and was dragged off to be burned at the stake. The neighbour's daughter, Lady Clemency Meredyth, was arranging flowers for the church altar. She heard the uproar and ran out. (She left a journal, incidentally, in which she wrote that the instant she saw Anthony Carruthers, she knew he was her love.) She tried to intercede with the mob, but her pleas were ignored and Anthony was tied to the stake. When the torches were lit, Lady Clemency ran onto the pyre and declared she would burn with him. She still held in her hand one of the flowers from the church. A red rose. Not even the insanity of the mob could prevail against such devotion, and Anthony was spared. Lady Clemency's father, who had coveted the Carruthers estates, realized he could acquire them without bloodshed. The lovers were married, the estates joined, and the feud ended.”

Watching him, Phoebe saw the dreaming look vanish. He glanced up, went very red in the face, and said gruffly, “So much nonsense, probably. There are said to have been other instances, but I fancy the tales have been much romanticized. Still … that's the legend. A sword and a rose, and the gentler object prevailing.”

Phoebe's gaze drifted to the far hill whereon stood the ruins of
Abbaye Enfoncée.
“And was it Anthony Carruthers who had the abbey built?”

“Yes. On the site of the twelfth-century shrine. Their wedding was delayed, in fact, until the
Abbaye
could be completed. It became a family tradition for weddings to be held there.”

Phoebe turned to him. He was looking at the great house, but she was sure he had been watching her. She wondered if he resembled that earlier Carruthers, and decided that as soon as they returned, she would ask him to take her to the portrait gallery.

When they walked into the cool dimness of the Great Hall, however, her request was forgotten. A new arrival stood talking to Conditt; a tall, slender gentleman with a fine pair of shoulders. His back was to them, and when he turned, Phoebe was mildly shocked. She had thought never to see a man with finer features than Lambert's, but this individual, although rather wan-looking, was almost indecently handsome. He was clad in a superb black riding coat and black breeches, and a large carven onyx was set in his neat stock. Thick waving hair, immaculately powdered, was tied back with a black velvet riband. His eyes, long-lashed, brilliant, and near black, were set under heavy, slightly flaring brows, his nose was straight and classically slim, his cheekbones high, his chin resolute, the well-shaped lips above it curving now to an impudent grin.

“Roly!” cried Meredith, obviously delighted, and strode forward, hand outstretched.

Removing his admiring gaze from Phoebe, the newcomer returned the handshake, his dark eyes alight with affection. “Hello, you old war horse.” He flicked a finger at Carruthers's damaged mouth. “Brawling again?”

“Stumbled onto a glove. Speaking of which, you look awful! Have you been ill?”

“Stumbled onto a sword-point.” The laughing gaze turned to Phoebe once more.

“My apologies, ma'am,” exclaimed Carruthers. “Allow me to present Captain Roland—er, Otton. Roly, my betrothed, Miss Phoebe Ramsay.”

Phoebe curtseyed and Captain Otton swept her an impressive bow. “Can I believe this?” he said, his eyes twinkling at her. “However came you to be so taken in, ma'am? Or have you performed some great and noble deed, Merry, to win yourself so fair a flower?”

Phoebe blushed, and thought, ‘What a saucy rascal!'

“Never you mind what I've done,” Carruthers retaliated. “You see what I meant when I told you I had named my black truly, Miss Ramsay!”

Otton extended his arm, she slipped her hand onto it, and he led her across the hall to the stairs. “Never listen to him,” he whispered. “He's terrified for fear I might win you away from him.”

“Be off, varlet,” said Carruthers, stepping between them. “But—not too soon, I hope. You do stay with us, Roly?”

With a hand on his heart, Otton said, “Nothing could drive me away!”

Amused by such outrageous flirting, Phoebe excused herself and went up to her chamber to change for luncheon. Ada found her mistress unusually quiet, and having made a few attempts at conversation, she lapsed into silence.

Phoebe's thoughts drifted from the legend of the lady with the rose to Meredith's plans to renovate the old house and the castle. He loved his home. Pride for it shone in his eyes, and his voice held a caressing note when he spoke of it. Not that she could blame him. It was a monstrosity at the moment and could never be made into a conventional dwelling, but it had its own unique charm and, with a good architect and a great deal of money, could be vastly improved. There was no doubt but that Carruthers had the wherewithal, and what fun it would be to engage in such a large undertaking.…

Her reverie was interrupted when Sinclair scratched at the door and entered to say contemptuously, “Who is that jack-at-warts downstairs with Carruthers?”

“Jack … at-warts?” gasped Phoebe. “You
cannot
mean Captain Otton?”

“Well, he's a counter-coxcomb if ever I saw one. Did you mark the blacks?” He sprawled in the armchair. “Effective, I'll own, in a sinister sort of way.”

“No, really,” she cried, much diverted. “He is quite the most handsome gentleman I ever saw, and a very good friend to Meredith Carruthers.”

“And something of a dandy, eh?”

“A dangerous dandy, Mr. Sinclair,” Ada put in, “if that there colleychemardey is to be believed.”

All attention, Sinclair said, “Colichemarde? Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Me first lady was wed to a fencing master. I knows all the swords, I do. And that nasty murdering thing in especial. My lady's husband was used to say as it was designed by Count Königsmark, and the man as carried one meant to kill.”

Sinclair put up his brows. Phoebe looked at him curiously. “Is that truth, Sin?”

“An exaggeration, but there's no denying it's a fine duelling sword. I'll be dashed! So our—” He checked, springing to his feet as Lucille Carruthers peeped around the door.

“Do I interrupt?” she asked timidly.

“Of course you do not, dear ma'am,” said Phoebe, standing to welcome her. “My brother just stopped to chat for a minute.”

“And must go and change for luncheon, is he not to starve,” declared Sinclair, and with a smile and a little bow, departed.

“I hope I did not chase him away,” said Mrs. Carruthers. “But—I am most anxious to have a tiny cose with you, Miss Ramsay.”

X

Ada had closed the door quietly behind her. Mrs. Carruthers was neatly disposed upon the love-seat, and Phoebe waited expectantly.

Lucille fluttered her fan, smiled, and said shrilly, “How—how lovely you are in that blue gown, my dear.”

“You are very kind, ma'am. But—forgive … are you also rather troubled about something?”

Lucille closed her fan, gripped it between both little hands, and stared down at it. “Not that—exactly,” She peeped up at this beautiful creature she so very much wanted for her daughter-in-law, and quavered, “Frightened, perhaps.”

Phoebe crossed to sit beside her. “Is it— I mean, has Meredith—”

Lucille sighed, rose, and walked to the window. Gazing blindly into the sunny gardens, she said in a voice that shook, “It is of my son that I—I wish to speak, yes. There are—things you should know, since you are to be part of our family.”

Horrified by the deepening tangle of this deception, Phoebe sprang up. “Oh, no, ma'am! Please do not—”

Lucille turned a pale, stricken face. “You
are
still betrothed? You have not drawn back? His—his temper and brusque ways have not—”

‘Oh, heavens!' thought Phoebe, and said helplessly that the betrothal was unbroken.

Lucille's hand went to her throat. “Thank goodness!” She sat in the window-seat, but when Phoebe made as if to join her, she said quickly, “No—pray do not. What I have to say is—painful in the extreme, and—”

“Then I
beg
you will not so distress yourself. There is not the need.”

“You mean, I expect, that you have heard of my—disgrace.” Lucille bowed her head. “Then—my dear child, you
must
let me tell you the truth of it, for I fear you will have heard a rather—garbled version, at best.”

‘Poor little creature,' thought Phoebe. ‘She is telling me this because she thinks I am going to marry her immoral son, and how dreadful she will feel when she finds it is all a sham after all!' And because Lucille must not suffer such an embarrassment, she said boldly, “Mrs. Carruthers, I have no wish to pry, and—and surely all families have secrets, or things they are not perhaps quite proud of, and—”

“But I
am
proud!” declared Lucille, her head coming up. “I loved once, with all my heart. I shall never feel any shame for that. I want to tell you my story because I fear you may be cross with my son. And that my—manner also may have caused you to think— Oh,
please,
let me explain, as best I may.”

And so Phoebe listened perforce, cringing with shame.

The story was a familiar one. The lovely but timid girl, fresh from the schoolroom, the older man, already widowed, handsome, assured, much courted, so that Lucille had readily consented to become his bride, though he was more than twice her age. The idyllic happiness of the first few months; Carruthers's eagerness to show her his great country estate, an estate that proved to be sadly neglected and that he left as soon as he tired of the youthful innocent he had wed. He had visited her from time to time, and when she presented him with the heir his first wife had failed to provide, he had begun to warm to her again. But then—and this Phoebe had not known—had come the accident.

Paul Carruthers had become a devotee of the favourite sport of an Indian friend: a dangerous sport, unknown in England, called polo. It appeared to consist of two teams of horsemen in competition for a small ball which they pursued with vigour and long-handled mallets. Paul had enlisted some friends to try the sport. A reckless player, however, he had inevitably come to grief. He was struck in the eye by a flying mallet and rendered unconscious. Recovering, he seemed to have suffered no major ill effects, but from that day his slightly autocratic nature began to deteriorate. Occasional flashes of temper became more numerous and ever more violent. Whispers spread through the
ton
of scandalous
affaires,
yet his behaviour towards his lonely and neglected young wife was increasingly unkind. He became obsessed with the mastery of weapons, which was as well, since his quarrelsome disposition led to several duels, all of which he won. Lucille, who had looked forward to his visits, began to dread them, because now, if she displeased him, he struck her.

Despite her isolation, she was so beautiful that she attracted attention, and Paul returned one spring to find she had set up a small court of admirers. Enraged, he bullied one quite innocent, middle-aged gentleman into a duel and crippled him. The scandal plunged Lucille into isolation once more, the gentlemen staying clear of so dangerous a diversion. Paul, triumphant, went back to Town, and for several years Lucille was left to her child and her solitary life, only occasionally interrupted by visits from her husband.

And then she had met Edvard Hoagland, a soft-spoken, fair man of Norwegian ancestry. He had gazed at the sad-eyed beauty and given her his heart, and she, hungry for affection, had found at last a gentleman who adored her and could not seem to do enough to make her happy.

“I had seven years,” Lucille murmured. “Seven years of such happiness as I had never known. And then…” Her voice was almost suspended; she said threadily, “Paul found out.”

“My heavens!” said Phoebe. “How awful.”

“I expect—you may have heard … that Paul went to Town and challenged Edvard. But—first, he … he came after me.” She drew a trembling hand across her eyes. “He'd not been here for almost a year. I can see it, as if it was yesterday. I was in the drawing room, arranging some roses in a tall crystal vase. The sunlight was so bright, slanting through the windows. The house was quiet and peaceful. And then—
he
came in. Like a crazed savage. He began to scream at me—the most ghastly denunciations. I think I had always known that, sooner or later, it must come, but I was so terribly frightened, I could not say a word. I just stood there, unable to move, unable to cry out. Paul tore the vase from my hands and smashed it against the hearth. I ran then, but—he caught me and—and dragged me back by my hair. He snatched up what was left of the stem of the vase, and he said … he would so disfigure me that—that no man would ever look at me again!” She gave a muffled sob and jerked her head away.