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“I love it. It is the loveliest of all my presents.” She fondled the mare, and she knew she understood that this was no reflection on her value as herself, but merely as a birthday present.
“It is not really very good,” said Everard, and showed her a flaw in the wood.
“I love the flaw,” she persisted stubbornly, and he laughed and noticed, as the squire had done, that her eyes were deep green as the sea sometimes is.
He said slowly: “If Charles ever hurts you, Carolan, you are to come and tell me. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“I will tell him what you said,” she promised him, looking up at Everard’s tall figure and hunching her shoulders in delight.
“I think he will take very great care when I tell him that.”
“It will be better for him if he does.” boasted Everard, and she played with the idea of telling him about the shrew mouse. How angry he would be, and what delight in seeing his anger! But her pity for her enemy was strong within her, for he was a vanquished enemy; today he had already been beaten for his cruelty and, worse still, humiliated. So she did not tell.
Mrs. Orland and the squire watched them coming across the lawn, Carolan dancing beside Everard, dancing round him a dainty creature with flying hair and uncurbed spirits. Quite the most attractive of the Haredon children, though Mrs. Orland, and Everard obviously liked her more, it seemed, than he liked Margaret. But what did that matter, they were young yet. He would marry Margaret; both she and Edward had decided on Margaret for Everard, for Margaret would make an ideal parson’s wife, a sweet girl, skilled in the domestic arts, gentle and pliable. Mrs. Orland foresaw a happy life for her son. This living would be his and two others besides; a life of leisure should be Everard’s, with curates to help him. But Margaret was of course the wife for him, so he must not get too fond of the little girl. Her birth for one thing was against her; people in a small place did not forget these things; besides, her high spirits, her lack of decorum -charming as it was were not suitable for a parson’s wife. One had heard stories of a certain blacksmith’s daughter who had married a parson. History must not repeat itself as neatly as that.
The squire watched them too, and wondered why anyone with as much spirit as his Carolan could admire a pale-faced scholar as this boy seemed to be. He felt jealous too. Dammed, there will be a bit of trouble with her when the time comes, he thought, and he did not know whether he was pleased or angry that there would be this trouble. He was disturbed anyway.
“We must be going.” he said, and he roared: “Carolan! Come here, girl. Come and say goodbye to Mrs. Orland, for we are going!”
Mrs. Orland and Everard walked to the gate with them. They stood waving as Carolan and the squire trotted down the lane.
“Bah!” said the squire.
“White-faced milksop of a boy that! A parson in the making!”
He began to laugh derisively, looking at her from under his bushy brows as he did so.
She flushed a little.
“He is not,” she said.
“He is very brave. Why…” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him how once, quite a long time ago, he had fought Charles for locking her in with the dead, and how, ever since Charles had been afraid of Everard. But how could she tell that story without telling of the part Charles had played in it?
“What?” said the squire. But she would not tell; she merely repeated: “He is very brave.”
The squire chortled uneasily.
“Dammed if you are not impressed by his pretty face!”
She said: “He is not pretty, is he?”
“I saw you,” blundered on the squire, ‘playing the coquette there on the lawn. Dammed if you were not flirting with the boy!”
She turned a look so cold upon him that he was faintly alarmed, which was of course absurd. He had given her a magnificent present; she was his daughter; she should be fond of him. He would beat her till she was black and blue if she was not. She had ridden on a little ahead of him, like a queen showing her displeasure. By God, he thought, will she be haughty with me, eh! He spurred his horse until he was level with her; but the delicacy of her child’s profile turned his anger into something he did not understand. Harshness was no way to win these creatures; he had to learn to be soft. For here was Bess and Kitty all over again; he saw it in the tilt of her head. Damn her! If he took the horse away from her she would doubtless toss her head and let it go rather than hear a word said against her friend Everard. They were like that, these female creatures who fascinated him. This was his third chance and he had to learn his lesson. If he wanted their affection and God damn him he would be a lonely man to the end of his days without some affection he had to win it, not stretch out and take it; it had to be given, not grabbed.
“There!” he said, with his voice soft enough to please her.
“You have a silly old man for a father, Carrie that’s what you’re thinking?”
She turned towards him. Here eyes were like green jewels and her brow above them was like ivory. All anger had faded before the softness in his voice. She said indignantly.
“Of course you are not silly!”
“Father!” he said.
“You talk to me as though I am a post. Am I to have no name?”
Now the colour rushed into her face. She knew then, did she. That sly Je
“Carrie,” he said, ‘why should you not call me Father?” She said: “I will, if you wish.” And he was not at all sure then that she knew.
“Well see that you do in future, and begin now. Come on!”
“Yes … Father.”
“Look here, Carrie, we are friends, you see. I like you, Carrie.” His horse was so close to hers now that he leaned over her and she could feel his breath against her cheek.
“If anything goes wrong up there in the nursery, you come and tell me all about it, understand?”
Two champions in one naming!
Her lips parted and she nodded.
“Thank you… Father I” He roared with laughter. He slapped his thigh. She wished he would not do that; it irritated her strangely. But he was constantly doing it; it meant he was pleased in a particular way.
Lightly she touched the strawberry roan with her heel, and together she and the squire broke into a canter up the slight incline.
“Carrie!” he cried.
“I’ll tell you what we will do! We will pay a call on your Aunt Harriet.”
He was full of fun and mischief. Fun to see old Harry again! Besides, she had a present for the child; she had sent a note over to say so. He would enjoy comparing this young beauty with that dry old spinster, particularly as Harriet did not like the child.
“She has a present for you.”
“Another present!” Carolan brought her mare down to a trot. Those little hands, he thought, who would believe they had such power in them!
He put his face very close to hers to see more clearly the soft texture of her skin, for his eyes were not what they had been.
“Hey, girl,” he said, ‘it will not be a strawberry roan she has for you. What do you think?”
“A Prayer Book.”
“Or a Bible!”
It was good fun to share a joke with your young daughter. Damn it. she was his daughter; she was a seven months child. Had not Kitty had some trouble in rearing her? His daughter! His! There would be trouble for anyone who dared suggest she was not!
Oaklands looked neat and trim, and the blinds had been drawn to shut out the sunshine. Emm from the workhouse opened the door; she was not a bad-looking girl. Possibilities there, the squire had often thought, if one had the time to develop them; he certainly had no time this morning; he was paying a call with his daughter.
Harriet came into the drawing-room.