“And this is his namesake horse, Sammy also,” Flowerdew responded, indicating the first horse in the line-up. There was utter silence from the crowd but a series of squeaks and murmurs fluttered up from the newly arrived guests behind Joe as the baby was held with a confident smile by its mother right up to the muzzle of the great horse. The baby was tiny, the horse had a head with all the rounded bulk of a butter-churn. Even Joe tensed and swallowed nervously.
“Sammy, meet Sammy,” the mother said with a giggle. She held her baby steadily while the saucer-sized inquisitive nostrils descended on the child. The horse snorted gently and with its grey-velvet lower lip nibbled delicately at the hand the baby was holding out to it. “Good old ’oss!” the mother commented and she scratched his nose and passed on with her gurgling child down the line.
Mrs. Bedford’s William met William and so on until the corresponding names gave out. Then Baby Frank met Joker and Baby Poppy met Blossom, or was it the other way around? No baby cried. No horse showed its yellow teeth. As the last child was carried to safety, a female sigh of relief escaped from someone in Truelove’s party. Not from the dark-haired beauty in the yellow dress, Joe thought. A sideways glance had shown Dorcas Joliffe, enraptured, standing next to Truelove and smiling at the spectacle. She of all people would have understood that the babies were in no danger from these gentle beasts. Joe looked away quickly.
The completion of the ceremony, which Joe guessed had deep roots going back to the tribes of horse-rearing Celts, was the signal for a party to break out. The horses were led off into the freshly mown meadow to offer a little bareback riding by the older boys. Some bold ones, apprentice grooms, Joe guessed, performed circus tricks, standing and pirouetting on the horses’ broad backs. Three donkeys and a pair of elderly ponies made an appearance to entertain the younger children. Joe was surprised, this being the Sabbath, to hear the sudden blare of an old-fashioned wind-up gramophone. But then, this was non-conformist Suffolk, their vicar was not only present but turning the handle, and this was Midsummer, when a little madness was expected. A dozen children formed themselves into an impromptu chorus line and galloped about to the sound of ‘Light Cavalry.’
Looking on, Joe’s mind was suddenly filled with the image of his young son. Already a useful horseman, Jackie would have overcome his shyness and joined in the fun, Joe hoped. He turned with a sigh from the sunlit innocence of the scene, catching a wistfulness chiming with his own in the eyes of Cecily. She too was looking with the fondness of old age at the romping children. All from the village. No contribution from the empty nest at the Hall. She caught his gaze on her and, understanding, gave him a wry smile.
Hanging back, Joe braced himself to observe and then meet Truelove’s guests. He thanked Lily silently once more for her phone call. All three were expected by him and he had even had time enough to calculate reasons for their appearance. None he could come up with was edifying.
From her manner, Cecily could well have been expecting these very guests with keen anticipation for a month.
“Mama, may I present Mr. Guy Despond and his daughter, Miss Despond: Dorothy. The Desponds are over on a visit from New York. Miss Joliffe you will remember, of course …” Truelove went through the many introductions with flawless manners and easy good humour.
Guy Despond, art dealer extraordinaire and cosmopolitan charmer, was suave and eager to enthuse about the horses. He was ready for any rural challenge, clad as he was in tweed knickerbockers, matching jacket, flat peaked cap and brogues. The man had taken over-enthusiastic advice from a Savile Row tailor, Joe thought. Or the Prince of Wales.
Daughter Dorothy was less set on being charming. She had what Joe’s mother would have called a knowing eye—a pair of them, in a fetching shade of pale grey, and they were ranging over everything from Lady Cecily’s pearls to the butler’s buttons. Her hair was thick and a very pretty light brown. With the help of a stout straw hat, the expensive marcel wave had survived the journey in an open Bentley very well. Her emerald green suit was exactly what a rich young lady with access to the salons and modern style of New York and Paris would have chosen to wear for an outing to the country. Serviceable, unrestricting and eye-catching. Her manner was reserved but not unfriendly.
As the new guests moved off into the house, guided by Styles and a phalanx of footmen, Cecily edged close to Joe, raised her eyebrows and hissed, “Heavens! If I’d had warning of this I’d have had the Canalettos nailed down!”
“I understand the gentleman to be a most welcome and congenial guest at the grandest houses in the land, your ladyship,” Joe said smoothly.
She grunted. “The fellow’s as rich as Croesus. Nothing wrong with that but they say he’s got the instincts of a magpie. Nothing precious is safe from a keenly judged offer if it catches his collector’s eye.”
“Will you require me to count the dessert spoons before he leaves, madam?” Joe asked in the tone of a stage butler.
“Not funny, Joe! A visit from that man can leave one of your grand houses looking as though a plague of locusts has blown through. I have a delicious little Lancret over in the Dower House … a Monet … a Seurat … Can I be certain that they are safe from his attentions? He’s a harbinger of doom and decay, Joe. The last step before the bailiffs are called in, for some. My friend Miranda Carstairs sold him her great-grandmama by Reynolds one week and the next she was calling in the Removers. Why is he here? What can James be thinking of?”
Cecily’s agitation was palpable. Joe set out to calm her. “I rather think you should look elsewhere for a reason for this visit. A chat with the delightful Miss Despond may reveal a completely different motivation,” Joe suggested blandly.
Cecily stared at him in astonishment. “You don’t mean …?”
“A very eligible young lady, I understand from my reading of the Tatler. A girl with one or two broken engagements behind her on both sides of the ocean and in Europe. ‘Choosy’ is the word normally associated with her if you’re her friend, ‘fickle’ if you’re a disappointed suitor. Indeed, it’s rumoured that the editor of the Times keeps a few inches of the ‘Forthcoming Marriages’ column in reserve in every edition to enable him to respond swiftly to Miss Despond’s changes of plan.” Joe sent up a silent prayer of thanks to his omniscient newshound friend, Cyril Tate, from whom he now took his script: “Since her mother’s death, Dorothy has travelled constantly with her father in the very highest circles, mingling with the cream of rich, art-loving society,” he confided. “She’s twenty-five and presently unattached.”
This exhausted Joe’s stock of knowledge but it had been enough. He watched conflicting emotions chase each other across Cecily’s expressive features. Astonishment, alarm and, finally, intrigue.
“Oh, my goodness! I say—do you really think there may be something going on?” Followed by a dismissive, “Surely not? There are wealthier gentlemen about in London and certainly more illustrious titles to be had, if that’s what she’s after.”
“But not, perhaps, titles attached to such a personable and relatively young man. Idle, elderly earls—two a penny—but an attractive man with an interesting employment and a considerable future?” Lord! What part was he playing now? Marriage broker?
Cecily was all ears and interest. “Yes, indeed. My son, who is all that you say, takes a pride in declaring that he is not a layabout but a working man.”
“A situation which Dorothy is very familiar with. Her father and brothers are all busy bees who know how to keep the hives well stocked.”
“You have a devious mind, Joe Sandilands. I begin to see the possibilities. But—gracious!—this is hardly the moment for James to choose to bring along his … his … raggle-taggle student, the Joliffe woman? Those two were sharing the back seat of the Rolls for sixty miles! What can they possibly have found to say to each other? What must Miss Despond think?”