Part 6 (1/2)

'He is very kind,' she told herself as, doing what the Marquis had suggested, she undressed and lay down on the bed.

She was so tired after such a frightening night that she fell asleep and was only awakened when the maid brought her a can of hot water at seven o'clock.

Torilla got up quickly, washed and put on a different gown from the one she had worn for travelling.

It was another cheap muslin dress which had been made by Abby and was certainly not the sort of evening gown, she thought, that Sir Alexander would expect a guest of his to wear.

Abby had put a little frill of crisp white muslin around the neck and had arranged it with narrow blue ribbons with similar frills at the wrists to match.

The gown itself was pale blue and Torilla had in fact packed it for the journey, because it was old and she was certain it would not be smart enough to wear at Fernleigh Park.

She wished now that she had one of her mother's gowns to wear, then she told herself she was being absurd.

Sir Alexander was obviously very grand and had only invited her to dinner because he was kind and he understood how frightened she had been the night before.

He would certainly not notice what anyone as insignificant as herself wore and she only hoped she would not prove, as Abby had warned her, a bore by talking about the things that did not appeal to him.

'I must be very careful to keep to subjects he may be interested in,' she told herself.

She knew already that one thing they had in common was horses.

She brushed her fair hair until it shone, then she went down the stairs to find the landlord waiting for her.

”You are dining with Sir Alexander Abdy, I believe, ma'am,” he said.

Without waiting for Torilla to answer him, he went ahead of her and opened a door at the far end of the pa.s.sage.

Torilla entered the room rather shyly.

It was not large, but at a quick glance she saw it was comfortable and attractive with an oak-beamed ceiling and walls decorated with ancient oak panelling.

There was a large open fireplace with a log fire.

A round table, covered with a spotless linen cloth, was set for two and there were several bottles of wine in a large ice bucket.

Torilla had expected her host to look impressive since she had already been overwhelmed by the fit of his whipcord riding coat, the intricate folds of his cravat and the angle at which he wore his high-crowned hat on his dark hair.

But she had never known that any man could look as magnificent as the Marquis did in his evening clothes and for a moment she could only stare at him in admiration.

Then, remembering her manners, she curtsied, the Marquis bowed and indicated a chair by the fireside.

”Come and sit down, Miss Clifford. I hope you feel rested.”

”I fell asleep,” Torilla confessed.

”Then you will be looking forward to your dinner as much as I am,” the Marquis said. ”May I offer you a gla.s.s of Madeira?”

”I have not a drunk anything for a two years,” Torilla replied.

At home in Hertfords.h.i.+re she had occasionally been allowed a few sips of Madeira from her mother's gla.s.s.

”Then I will give you very little,” the Marquis smiled.

He handed her a gla.s.s as he spoke and Torilla, sipping the rich wine, felt that it took her back to happy golden days when there had been none of the pinching and saving that there was at Barrowfield.

Then her father and mother always drank wine at dinner and there had been plump chickens, well-roasted pigeons and large joints of beef to eat.

Torilla told herself that she must obey Abby and not keep thinking of what lay behind her.

But as the landlord with two mob-capped maids brought in what seemed to her a gigantic meal, she could not help remembering the children with their hollow cheeks and hungry eyes.

Resolutely she put such memories from her and enjoyed each dish that was offered, even though she could eat very little in comparison with her host.

”Tell me about yourself,” the Marquis said as they were sampling a fine turbot that the innkeeper a.s.sured them was as fresh as if it had just jumped out of the sea.

”I would much rather talk about your horses, sir,” Torilla answered. ”You said you had racehorses. Are you entering for any of the Cla.s.sics this year?”

The diversion was successful.

The Marquis started talking of his ambition to win the Gold Cup at Ascot and discussed which owners were likely to defeat him in this objective.

Then he found himself telling Torilla about his Arab thoroughbreds, which had come from Syria and the horses that his mother had admired from Hungary.

He talked at times almost indifferently, drawling his words while his eyelids dropped lazily, but Torilla was not deceived. She knew his horses meant a great deal to him.

”I imagine you can ride well,” he said a good deal later, bringing the conversation back to Torilla.

”I have not ridden for two years,” she answered. ”Please tell me what horse you are entering for the St. Leger then, when September comes, I can look for its name in the newspapers.”

The Marquis accepted the change of subject, but he was astute enough to realise that the two years that Torilla had just mentioned had something significant about them.

At the same time, if she thought she was preventing him from questioning her, he was equally aware that she did not desire to talk about herself.

Because he had no wish to upset her, he therefore did not press the subject, but merely watched the different expressions, which succeeded each other in her large and extraordinarily beautiful eyes.

As the meal drew to a close and the Marquis sat back with a gla.s.s of port in his hand, he thought it was the first time he could remember dining alone with a woman and talking entirely about himself.

Always those with whom he had spent so many idle hours had wanted to talk about themselves a granted in connection with him a but they were never loath to express their feelings, their emotions and indeed their ambitions extremely volubly and sometimes it seemed unceasingly.

'There is a mystery about this girl,' he told himself.

As they moved from the table back to the fireplace and the landlord, having set the decanter of port at the side of the Marquis's chair, withdrew from the room, he found himself curious.

”You are travelling South to be married or betrothed?” he enquired.

”No, nothing like that.”