Beauvallet (18 page)

Above the sound of the rebecks, above the subdued chatter of guests gathered in the hall, sounded the steward's voice. There was a stir at the door. ‘M. le Chevalier de Guise!’ called the steward, and bowed in this late arrival.

Dominica looked towards the door, wondering who the Frenchman might be. A knot of gentlemen gathered there parted to let the newcomer pass. There was a quick, decided step; no Frenchman came in, but Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, as though upon his own quarter-deck.

Dominica almost let fall her fan; the breath caught in her throat; she stood staring, first pale, and then red, and through the mad riot in her brain ran only one clear thought: He has come! He has come! He has come!

Across the hall he came, with that graceful, careless step she knew so well. He was brave in silk and velvet, with a neat, small ruff such as he had always worn clipping his throat about. He had a hand laid lightly on his sword-hilt and his eyes looked straight at Dominica. She saw them fearless, with a kind of mocking challenge in their blue depths, as though they would signify ‘Well, did I not say I would come?’ Everything in her responded to the daring of him. Ah, what a man! Ah, what a lover for a girl! what a brave, laughing lover!

He was close now, bowing to her aunt.

‘Ah, so you have come, Chevalier,’ said Dona Beatrice, giving him her hand. ‘We shall talk a little, but later on. Let me present you to my niece, Dona Dominica de Rada y Sylva. This gentleman, my dear, is a Frenchman strayed by some good chance into Spain. The Chevalier de Guise.’

Dominica, still hardly daring to trust her eyes, saw his hand held out, and knew his gaze to be upon her. She put out her own little hand, and his long fingers closed over it. She looked down at his black head as he bent to kiss her hand; she thought if she spoke her voice must betray her agitation.

It was a real kiss pressed on her hand, no formal brush of the lips. He stood straight again, and released her slight fingers. ‘Señorita, I am enchanted,’ he said. ‘But Dona Beatrice is wrong: I did not come by chance into Spain. I had a set resolve to journey here.’

Her long lashes fluttered downwards. She knew herself to be blushing. ‘Indeed, señor?’ she said faintly.

‘Such an odd resolve!’ commented Dona Beatrice. ‘What can you hope to find here to amuse you?’

Dominica looked up to see his eyes crinkle at the corners. He addressed himself to Dona Beatrice, laughingly. ‘Oh, I come on a quest, dear señora,’ he said. Then he seemed to become aware of Don Diego, upon Dominica's other hand. ‘Well-met, señor! I give you joy of your anniversary.’ The mockery in his eyes deepened. ‘But you are bridal, señor! bridal!’

Don Diego stiffened, but a moment after shrugged slightly at this deplorable lack of formality. ‘My attire does not like you, Chevalier?’ he said disdainfully.

‘On the contrary,’ said Sir Nicholas gaily, ‘it reminds me of my own nuptials, which draw close.’

Dominica's hand, slowly waving her fan to and fro, faltered a little. What a game to play with fire! Oh, he was mad indeed, divinely mad!

‘I felicitate you,’ said Don Diego. ‘Permit me to find you a partner for the
coranto
.’

Sir Nicholas turned. ‘I shall crave the hand of Dona Dominica,’ he said.

Don Diego spoke before she could reply. ‘My cousin does not dance, señor.’

‘How foolish!’ said Dona Beatrice, turning her head. ‘Let the Chevalier lead you out, my dear. There are no men to rival Frenchmen at dancing.’

‘If you will dance, cousin, let mine be the honour of leading you out,’ said Don Diego.

Sir Nicholas had taken her hand; the pressure of his fingers was insistent. ‘Ah, but I was before you, Don Diego,’ he said.

Don Diego looked angrily, and took a quick step forward, as though he would snatch Dominica's hand from its resting-place. His rose dropped unheeded to the ground. ‘Cousin, I understood you would not dance!’

‘You have let fall your pretty flower,’ Sir Nicholas pointed out gently.

Don Diego turned with an ugly look in his face, forgetting his duty to a guest. His angry stare met an amused glance from cool blue eyes that did not waver. Sir Nicholas still held Dominica's hand, but one eyebrow was quizzically raised, as though to say: ‘Do you wish to quarrel? Say but the word!’

Dona Beatrice interposed to put an end to an awkward moment. Her fan brushed Dominica's shoulder. ‘Be advised by me, my dear, and go with the Chevalier. Resolutions are made to be broken only.’

Don Diego seemed to recollect himself. He recovered his
sosiego
and bowed. ‘I am less fortunate than the Chevalier, cousin. I shall ask for your hand later in the evening.’

‘As you please, cousin.’ Dominica sent a fleeting glance upwards to Beauvallet's face, and dropped her eyes again. Obedient to the pull on her hand she went with him across the hall to the ballroom.

‘God pity me, I have borne a fool!’ sighed Dona Beatrice. ‘You do not go well to work, my poor son.’

‘She did it to flout me!’ he said hotly.

‘If she did it promises very well,’ she replied. ‘But when a man like the Chevalier craves a boon there are few women will not grant it. For where he craves he might take, look you.’

‘He is insufferable!’ Diego said. ‘My sword itches to taste his blood.’

Dona Beatrice smiled more broadly. ‘I dare say the Chevalier has some skill with swords,’ she said. ‘I do not think – no, I do not think that you would be well advised to send him a challenge.’

Don Diego stayed glooming a moment. ‘One would think you wanted her to go with him,’ he complained.

‘I did,’ said his mother imperturbably. ‘The girl saw a very personable man, with more charm in his lightest smile, my poor son, than any other here tonight. She was tempted to be forsworn, and I bade her go. Had I intervened for you she would not have danced at all. Now you are sure of her, for she cannot refuse, having danced once.’

In the ballroom Dominica had little opportunity to speak to Sir Nicholas. She dreaded lest some overheard phrase might betray him; for the first few steps of the dance she could only look up eloquently into his face. They drew together a moment, and she whispered: ‘You have come! How could you dare?’

‘Had you not my word, little doubter?’

They drew apart again; another couple was too close to allow them to say more. The music stopped; Sir Nicholas was bowing, and Don Diego was possessively at Dominica's elbow.

She lived through another hour in a fret. Don Diego stayed close at her side; she could only watch Beauvallet across the room, and long to be alone with him. It seemed she would never find the opportunity, but presently her cousin's attention was claimed, and he had to lead another lady out to dance. Dominica cast a quick look round, saw her aunt at the other end of the room, and drew back behind the ample form of a portly dowager. She slipped along the wall then to where heavy curtains hung, shutting off a small antechamber. Knowing Beauvallet's eyes to be upon her she went through, and stood breathlessly waiting.

The curtains moved; he was before her. She went to him in a little run, with both her hands held out, and her eyes full
of happy tears. ‘Oh, to see you again!’ she whispered. ‘I never thought it possible!’

He gathered her hands in his, and held them clasped against his breast. ‘Softly, my heart! This is dangerous work.’ His voice was quick and decisive for all he spoke so low. ‘I must have speech with you alone. Which way looks your chamber?’

‘To the garden. Ah, Nicholas, I have wanted you!’

‘My fondling!’ His hands pressed her closer. ‘Does your woman sleep with you?’

‘Nay, I am alone.’ She looked wonderingly up at him.

‘Set a lamp in your window when you judge all to be asleep, to give me a sign. Can you trust me?’

‘Ah, you know! You know I can trust only you. What will you do?’

‘Climb up to you, sweetheart,’ he answered, and smiled at her face of amazement. ‘What windows look out that way?’

‘My woman's – my cousin's closet – some servants.’

‘Good.’ He kissed her hands. ‘Expect me then when you show a light. Patience, my bird!’

He released her, and stepped back. The curtains parted for a moment, and he was gone.

The rest of the evening passed in a bewildered haze for her. She was conscious only of Beauvallet's presence, but he did not come near her again. Her cousin besought her to dance with him again, and when she would not, stayed by her, teasing her ear with his soft speech.

‘Who was the Frenchman?’ she asked. ‘The Chevalier. Is he of the Ambassador's court?’

‘De Guise! No, my dear cousin, the Ambassador owns him not. Some idle traveller swaggering abroad. I trust he will soon be gone from us. It was no wish of mine that he should be invited here tonight. A trifler, no more.’

‘You do not like him, cousin?’ she said, looking sideways.

He raised those expressive shoulders. ‘An arrogant Frenchman who bears himself as though he would snap his fingers in one's face! No, I do not like him, cousin.’

A gleam of mischief shot into her eyes. ‘It is to be hoped he will not snap his fingers in your face, cousin,’ she said demurely.

‘I should have but one answer, Dominica.’ He touched his sword-hilt. ‘I do not think the gay Chevalier would return to France.’

Twelve

I
t seemed an age before the house was quiet, and all lights put out. Dominica sent her sleepy tirewoman away as soon as she came up from the ball. The woman made little resistance, she could hardly keep her eyes open, and was glad to be sent back to bed. Dominica let her unlace her gown, and put away her jewels. She put on a loose wrapper, and laid another log on the fire. As ill-luck would have it her aunt came in to bid her good-night, and stayed to talk over the ball. She professed herself thankful that the affair was over; it had been very dull, she thought, and the Chevalier de Guise was the only relief she had had from utter boredom. Dominica, very much on her guard, stifled a yawn, and allowed the Chevalier to be well enough.

‘Do not lose your heart to him, my dear,’ remarked her aunt lazily. ‘Frenchmen are sadly fickle, and I believe this one is betrothed already.’

‘Yes, so he said,’ Dominica answered. An imp of malice prompted her to add: ‘So my cousin need not be jealous of him, señora.’

‘Diego is too much in love with you to forbear jealousy of any man who looks twice at you,’ said Dona Beatrice, a hint of cynicism in her voice.

‘Or is he in love with my money?’ asked Dominica sweetly.

‘Very much, my dear. We all are.’ Nothing, it seemed, could disturb Dona Beatrice's composure. She got up out of her chair, and tapped her niece's cheek. ‘No more of this seclusion, child. You will show yourself abroad a little, and remember that we shall soon leave this tiresome town for a little quiet and peace.’

Dominica's eyes were cast down, but the breath was stayed in her throat. ‘Very well, señora,’ she said submissively. ‘But do we leave Madrid indeed?’

‘Shortly, my dear. We shall go north to Vasconosa as soon as may be, and we hope that Diego in the country will like you better than Diego in town.’

Dominica dropped a curtsey. ‘I don’t think it, señora.’

‘No? But you can try to, my dear.’ Dona Beatrice went out with her slow tread, and a minute later a door shut in the distance.

Dominica sat down by the fire to wait. Presently she heard her aunt's tirewoman pass by her door to the stairs that led to the servants’ quarters above. Don Rodriguez, coming up from downstairs, called a good-night to his son, and went into his room. But Don Diego must needs go into his closet, and stay there for what seemed an interminable time to his impatient cousin. At length he came out, and went across the hall to his bedchamber. Dominica heard him speak sharply to his man, and shut the door with a snap. There was silence for a while, and then the same door opened and shut again: his servant had put Don Diego to bed at last.

The man's footsteps died away on the stairs, and silence settled down on the house. Still Dominica waited, counting the slow minutes. She went presently to her door, and softly opened it. All was dark in the passage. Holding her gown close about her that no rustle might betray her presence she stole down the short corridor to the upper hall. A bar of light beneath one of the doors showed that Don Diego was still awake. Dominica stayed where she was, motionless against
the wall. In a few minutes the light disappeared. She crept back to her chamber, put more wood upon the fire, and went to arrange her curls in the mirror. When she judged that Don Diego had had time to fall asleep she went out again into the passage, and this time took the precaution of listening at her tirewoman's door. She heard a snore, and was satisfied, knowing how very hard to wake was Carmelita. Flitting silently in her stockinged feet she reached the hall, went ghost-like to three doors, and at each listened intently. She must be sure, very sure, that the whole house slept before she signalled to Beauvallet, for he came to certain death if he should be discovered.

No sound reached her straining ears; she crept back to her room, stealthily shut the door, and little by little turned the key in the lock. It went home with a click that seemed to din through the stillness. She stayed, breathing fast, her ear to the crack. No answering stir sounded; nothing but the grating of a mouse nibbling at the wainscoting somewhere down the passage.