“Is that the rule?” he asked, going to her horse’s head.
“Of course!” She transferred the bridle to her right hand, brought one leg neatly over the pommel, and slipped to the ground. Shaking out the folds of her shabby riding-dress, she glanced up at John. “Heavens, how big you are!”
He smiled. “Why, yes! You told me so, this morning!”
She laughed, blushed faintly, and retorted: “I did not know how big until now, when I find myself on a level with you. You must know that in general I look over men’s heads.”
He could see that this must be so. She did not seem to him to be an inch too tall, but he realized that she was taller even than his sister, and built on more magnificent lines. Hitching her horse to the gate post, he said sympathetically: “It’s a trial, isn’t it? I feel it myself, and my sister tells me it has been the bane of her existence. Do you always ride unattended, Miss Stornaway?”
She had seated herself on the bench outside the tollhouse, under the fascia board, which bore, in staring black capitals, the name of Edward Brean. “Yes, invariably! Does it offend your sense of propriety? I am not precisely a schoolgirl, you know!”
“Oh, no!” he replied seriously, coming to sit down beside her. “I like you for it—if you don’t think it impertinent in me to tell you so. I’ve thought, ever since I came home, that there’s a deal too much propriety in England.”
She raised her brows. “Came home?”
“Yes. I’m a soldier—that is to say, I was one.”
“Were you in the Peninsula?” He nodded. “My brother was, too,” she said abruptly. “He was killed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Where?”
“At Albuera. He was in the 7th.”
“You should be proud,” he said. “I was at Albuera, too. I saw the Fusiliers go into action.”
She lifted her chin. “I am proud. But he was my grandfather’s heir, and——Oh, well! What was your regiment?”
“3rd Dragoon Guards. I sold out after Toulouse.”
“And your name?”
“John Staple. I have told Ben to set it about that I’m a trooper—an officer’s batman. He says I talk flash, you see.”
She laughed. “Perfectly! But how do I address you?”
“In general, my friends call me Jack.”
“I cannot be expected to do so, however!”
“Well, if you call me Captain Staple you will undo me,” he pointed out. “I’m only a gatekeeper. Don’t be afraid I shall encroach! I won’t—Miss Nell!”
“You are certainly mad!” she said. “Pray, how do you come to be a gatekeeper?”
“Oh, quite by chance! I had been staying with one of my cousins, up in the north—the head of my family, in fact, and a very dull dog, poor fellow! There was no bearing it, so I made my excuses, and set out to ride into Leicestershire, to visit a friend of mine. Then my horse cast a shoe, up on the moors, I lost my bearings, became weather-bound, and reached this gate in darkness and drenching rain. Ben came out to open it for me. That seemed to me an odd circumstance. Moreover, it was easy to see he was scared. He told me his father had gone off on Friday evening, and hadn’t returned; so I thought the best thing I could do would be to put up here for the night.”
“Ah, that was kind!” she said warmly.
“Oh, no! not a bit!” he said. “I was deuced sick of the weather, and glad to have a roof over my head. I’m curious, too: I want to know what has become of Edward Brean.”
“It is odd,” she agreed, knitting her brows. “He is a rough sort of a man, but he has been here for a long time, and I never knew him to desert his post before. But you surely don’t mean to continue keeping the gate!”
“Oh, not indefinitely!” he assured her. “It’s not at all unamusing, but I expect it would soon grow to be a dead bore. However, I shall stay here for the present—unless, of course, the trustees find me out, and turn me off.”
“But your family—your friends! They won’t know what has become of you!”
“That won’t worry ’em. I’ve done it before.”
“Kept a gate?” she exclaimed.
“No, not that. Just disappeared for a week or two. I don’t know how it is, but I get devilish bored with watching turnips grow, and doing the civil to the neighbours,” he said apologetically.
She sighed. “How fortunate you are to be able to escape! I wish I were a man!”
He looked at her very kindly. “Do you want to escape?”
“Yes—no! I could not leave my grandfather. He is almost helpless, and very old.”
“Have you lived here all your life?”
“Very nearly. My father died when I was a child, and we came to live with Grandpapa then. When I was sixteen, my mother died. Then Jermyn went to the wars, and was killed.” She paused, and added, in a lighter tone: “But that is all a long time ago now. Don’t imagine that poor Grandpapa has kept me here against my will! Far from it! Nothing would do for him but to launch me into society—though I warned him what would come of it!”
“What did come of it?” John enquired.
She made her mouth prim, but her eyes were laughing. “I did not take!” she said solemnly. “Now, don’t, I beg of you, play the innocent and ask me how that can have come about! You must see precisely how it came about! I am by far too large. Grandpapa compelled my Aunt Sophia to house me for a whole season, and even to present me at a Drawing-room. When she saw me in a hoop, we were obliged to revive her with hartshorn and burnt feathers. I cannot love her, but indeed I pitied her! She can never have enjoyed a season less. It was so mortifying for her! I had no notion how to behave, and when she took me to Almack’s not all her endeavours could obtain partners for me. I don’t know which of us was the more thankful when my visit ended.”
“I expect I must have been in Spain,” he said thoughtfully. “I never went to Almack’s till after I had sold out, and my sister dragged me there. To own the truth, I found it devilish dull, and there wasn’t a woman there, beside my sister, whose head reached my shoulder. It made me feel dashed conspicuous. If you had been there, and we had stood up together, it would have been a different matter.”
“Alas, I’m more at home in the saddle than the ballroom!”
“Are you? So am I! But my sister can keep it up all night.”
“Is your sister married?”
“Yes, she married George Lichfield, a very good fellow,” he replied.
“I think I met him once—but I might be mistaken. It is seven years since my London season. Do you feel that Lady Lichfield would approve of your present occupation?”
“Oh, no, not a bit!” he said. “She and George don’t approve of any of the things I do. I shan’t tell her anything about it.”
“I think I am a little sorry for her. And still I don’t understand why you mean to remain here!”
“No,” he said, “I don’t suppose you do. I didn’t mean to, last night, but something happened today which made me change my mind.”
“Good gracious! What in the world was it?”
“I can’t tell you that now. I will, one day.”
“No, that’s too provoking!” she protested. “Is it about Brean? Have you discovered something?”
“No, nothing. It wasn’t that,” John replied.
“Then what, pray——”
“I must own I should be glad if I could discover what has happened to the fellow,” he remarked, as though she had not spoken. “If he had met with an accident, one would think there would have been news of it by now. He must be pretty well known in the district, isn’t he?”
She nodded. “Yes, certainly. He is red-haired, too, which makes him easily recognizable. You don’t think, I collect, that he can have gone off, perhaps to Sheffield, and drunk himself into a stupor?”
“I did think so,” he admitted, “but Ben assures me his dad don’t go on the mop. He is quite positive about it, and I imagine he must know. According to his story, Brean went out on Friday evening, saying that he would be back in an hour or two. He was not wearing his hat, or his best coat, which, in Ben’s view, precludes his having had the intention of going to town.”