Stranger within the Gates Read online

  STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES

  Mira Stables

  © Mira Stables 1976

  Mira Stables has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1976 by Robert Hale & Company Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  MR. DEVELYN watched the fourgon pull out of the inn yard with an appreciative eye for the well-muscled team that Gibb had selected for this arduous task. His overnight bag was carried down by the porter and added to the pile of well-worn luggage already stowed in the chaise. A silk-smooth head nudged his wrist and a pair of eloquent amber eyes were lifted yearningly to his. He caressed the boarhound’s head absently, watching the chaise roll out of the yard in the wake of the fourgon. Ten o’clock. Even at the pace of the slower moving vehicle they should reach Saxondene before dusk.

  The day was beginning to warm up a little. Mr. Develyn, accustomed for some years now to suns considerably warmer than those of an English September, stretched himself gratefully in its gentle benison and decided that he would ride rather than drive. If memory served him aright it could be no more than fifteen or sixteen miles across country — a first-rate opportunity to try out his new hunter. There was just the shadow of doubt about the wisdom of that extravagant purchase. A handsome head and well set-on shoulders that no one could fault, and by the look of those powerful quarters he could leap anything that they were likely to encounter in this sort of country. But was he a trifle short in the back? Had he allowed his preference for a chestnut to lead him astray? To be sure, despite his name, Rustic’s manners were perfect. Henshawe had vowed that a child could ride him. But it might be that he was short on staying power. Yes, Gibb should drive the curricle and he himself would essay Rustic’s performance.

  “But not you, my girl,” he addressed the hound severely. “Not till you’ve learned English manners. We had enough of your barbaric behaviour yesterday.”

  Ears and tail sank in depression at the tone. The huge creature looked the picture of guilt. Mr. Develyn grinned. “Well — you were not to know the difference,” he acknowledged kindly. “But until you have learned to distinguish between the domestic English sow and your hereditary enemy it will be both simpler and less expensive to keep you in leash. By the value he set on her, that sow must have been the prize specimen for the whole of Kent, though I agree with you that there was nothing in her appearance to justify such an assumption.”

  At this point his monologue was interrupted by the arrival of his curricle, Gibb fully occupied with the high spirited pair who appeared to be dancing in their eagerness for the open road.

  “Keep ’em in hand,” he called, as the groom drew to a halt beside him. “And take Tara up with you. I’ll ride. Tell them at Saxondene I’ll be there in time for an early dinner. I’ve taken a fancy to visit the haunts of my mis-spent youth. And it’s the grand day that’s in it entirely for doing just that,” he added provocatively.

  Gibb maintained an impassive front. Master Robert always adopted that exaggerated Irish lilt when he wanted to tease. It made no odds. Irish the Finmores might be, that dour man grudgingly admitted. The Develyns — never! Mr. Robert Develyn — this Mr. Robert’s father — might have seen fit to marry the Lady Mary, sister of the Earl of Finmore, but he had been born a Man of Kent and his sons likewise. Mr. Robert was in spirits it seemed, and a pleasure it was to see him so content in his native land. Gibb, for one, had had more than his fill of foreign parts. Let Master Robert just settle down in a decent Christian country where a man could rely on the folk and the weather and the ale being just as he expected, and Gibb would have no complaints. He waited while his master stripped off his long driving coat, tossed it up into the curricle, and ordered the boarhound up beside him.

  “It’s my saddle that’s on Rustic, sir,” he reminded, “and your own is away in the chaise with the rest of your gear, seeing as how I thought you was meaning to drive. But it fits him comfortably enough. You’ll do.”

  His employer nodded and waved him off, with a recommendation that Tara should be fastened up upon arrival lest she commit further crimes. He watched the dashing departure of the light vehicle, the horses settling to their work contentedly, Tara a melancholy bronze statue beside the stolid Gibb, and turned back in leisurely fashion towards the inn. For the first time in years he found himself well content to be in England, with no over-riding urge to be planning a new expedition, able to savour the beauty of a quiet countryside already touched by autumn’s golden fingers and looking forward with a surprising degree of pleasure to an unexpected home-coming.

  He had never thought to inherit Saxondene. And what had possessed the Earl of Finmore to leave it to him was a mystery that would never now be explained. He had not even been particularly well acquainted with his uncle though he had spent several holidays at Saxondene when the Earl had paid periodic visits to this very far-flung and insignificant portion of his vast estates and, as a boy, he had liked it very well. But it must be close on five and twenty years since last he had seen the place. He was pretty sure that he had still been at Harrow — and on his next birthday he would be forty. The mobile mouth twisted into a sardonic grimace. Perhaps it was the onset of old age that had so easily reconciled him to the abandonment of his nomadic existence!

  He settled his reckoning, exchanged a few civil remarks with the landlord on the state of the weather and the weight and quality of the hop harvest, and strolled out again to the stable yard.

  His new purchase looked even better than he had remembered. The lean well-bred head turned to greet the ring of his footsteps, the ears flickering forward attentively. In the warm sunlight the chestnut hide gleamed and rippled over powerful muscles. The lad who had been left in charge of him was enthusiastic.

  “E’s a beauty, bain’t ’e, sir? And kind with it,” he said reverently, running a loving hand from proud crest to shining withers. “Not a mite o’ trouble ’e bain’t.”

  Mr. Develyn nodded thoughtfully, his eyes acknowledging that, despite the obvious splendour, there was a doubt about that back. A coin slid into the boy’s grubby fist as he surrendered the reins. Despite his advancing years Mr. Develyn swung lightly enough into the saddle, and Rustic walked sedately out of the yard.

  At the end of an hour he was satisfied that he had not wasted his money. Rustic was a smooth easy ride with quite a pretty turn of speed. Nor had Henshawe over-praised his manners. He actually seemed to anticipate his rider’s wishes so that only the merest hint with hand or heel was required to ensure his prompt co-operation. How he would stand up to a gruelling day’s hunting over heavy country was yet to be seen, but in every other way he was all that a man could desire. Well pleased, Mr. Develyn let him drop to a walk and permitted himself to admire the countryside.

  It was, admittedly, the country of his birth; of his earliest, happiest memories. Perhaps that accounted for its insidious appeal, for the unaccustomed sense of lazy well-being that soothed and drugged his normal restless energy. Or maybe — once more the thought crossed his mind — he was growing old. He smiled and shrugged. Well — at least he had an interest for his declining years, a comfortable down-setting for his agei
ng bones. There might even be archaeological discoveries to be made in Kent as absorbing, if less dramatic, as those that had taken him to Crete and Greece and Egypt and even as far as South America. Never was an inheritance so well timed, he thought cynically. There was something very suggestive about the bare hop poles standing lonely and undraped in the gardens, the hints of crimson and gold and brown that already touched the trees. A definite atmosphere of the sere and yellow.

  His mood was unusual — but so were the circumstances. He had grown accustomed to living each day as it came. There had been no particular need to plan for a future, and at times — in Crete, for instance, in ’21, there had seemed small likelihood that there would be any future. He recalled that on that occasion he had felt a certain degree of anxiety for his daughter’s future. But financially she was well provided for, and what could a man do with a three year old daughter save leave her in the care of grandparents?

  It had worked well enough, he reflected, giving Rustic the hint that a little more speed was required. Robin was eleven now, well grown for her age if rather pale and subdued. But that came of living in Town. A few months at Saxondene would soon put the roses in her cheeks, the animation in her bearing. Grandparents and a strict governess had suppressed her spirits more than he cared for, but that, too, could easily be mended.

  The countryside was becoming more familiar. From time to time he passed a cottage — a crossroads — a stream that stabbed memory awake. He reckoned that he must be within two or three miles of Saxondene. At the crest of the gentle rise he checked Rustic and surveyed the prospect set before him. Away to the north was the sweep of the Downs, the rich mosaic of farmland and forest, of park and marsh held secure in their keeping, the lines of the sunken lanes that once had seen the passage of the heavy wagons carrying cannon for the fleet still deeply incised.

  He took his bearings carefully. That would be Brenchley below him. He recognised the church. And far away to his right was Linton, perched on the very edge of the stone hills. He was almost home. He stirred Rustic to a gentle trot and went down the green ride that led to the turnpike. In his preoccupation with his mount he had deviated considerably from the direct route, but he remembered a short cut that would bring him out by the south lodge of Saxondene. Neither he nor Rustic cared for the turnpike and were thankful to abandon it for a farm track leading in the right direction. A convenient gap in a hedge admitted them to a stubble field but the hedge at the other side was both sturdy and thick. However it was no more than breast high and they had already cleared far stiffer obstacles with ease. Mr. Develyn set Rustic going, a little careless now, such was his confidence in the chestnut, with no thought for what might lie behind the hedge.

  Too late he discovered his error. Beyond the hedge was a ditch, both deep and wide, the bank soggy and crumbling. Rustic had jumped big, but no horse can be expected to collect himself neatly when landing fetlock deep in a bog. He stumbled, recovered, and hauled himself into the lane, going dead lame on the near fore. Mr. Develyn slid from the saddle and stooped to assess the damage, cursing his own stupidity. Only an over reach, thank heaven, and no fault of the poor brute’s. He had done well not to come down — and maybe a mud bath would have served his careless rider right. He fondled the drooping head and made much of him, explaining in the slow deep tones that he kept for Tara and his horses how it was that men had less than horse sense and must be pitied and tolerated by the nobler creation. He then proceeded to lead the limping animal slowly up the lane, expounding the while on the comfortable stable, the fresh straw, the warm mash that awaited the sufferer upon arrival, and thankful that he had made for the south lodge. The main gates of Saxondene faced east, and nearly a mile of winding avenue separated them from the stables, whereas the south lodge stood no more than two hundred yards from that desired haven.

  He wondered idly if there was anyone living at the lodge. In his boyhood it had stood empty, a quaint whimsy of some long dead builder which looked more like a giant’s pepper pot than a human habitation and offered much the same amenities as a mediaeval dungeon, being damp, dark and airless. Since the south entrance was rarely used save by vehicles delivering such commodities as hay and straw to the stables, his uncle had allowed it to fall into disuse. The gates generally stood hospitably open, and certainly were never locked.

  But it was twenty five years since his last visit and he was to discover that many things were changed. Over the high wall that bounded the park at this point he could see several chimney stacks. That was new. There had been no houses there in his day. And the gates — new ones, handsomely wrought in iron — were not only shut but locked. However they were furnished with a bell pull which proved to be in excellent working order. His vigorous tug produced a clangour that could not fail to arouse the sleepiest of gate keepers and no doubt some one from the new cottages was charged with the duty of attending to its summons.

  He waited. Nothing happened. He surveyed the new south entrance with the disapprobation natural in one whose boyhood memories had been betrayed, though no sensible man could deny that the elegant gates and the sweep of well kept drive that curled away out of sight to his left were a vast improvement on the picturesque but useless lodge of his recollection.

  But at least, in the old days, he had never been kept waiting outside he reflected, annoyance growing within him. And now that he was master here he would see that it did not happen again. No doubt the servants had grown slack during the months that had elapsed since his uncle’s death. The gate keeper, at any rate, was in for a rude awakening.

  He pulled the bell again, with a force that was promptly transmuted into imperious summons. Even Rustic tossed his head nervously, sensing his master’s displeasure. A little way off a door slammed and a moment later a boy stepped out on to the drive and strolled towards the gate.

  There was no sign of haste or penitence in that leisurely approach. Mr. Develyn allowed mounting annoyance to blind him to the fact that the newcomer did not look in the least like an estate servant. Tall and slightly built, coatless, in white shirt and dark pantaloons, he bore himself with an insolent grace that never stemmed from peasant stock. Mr. Develyn, more concerned for his horse than with such trivialities as these, brushed aside a hovering wasp that was irritating Rustic and said sharply over his shoulder, “Would it be asking too much of you to stir your stumps, you idle whelp? That is the second time that I have rung for admittance and I am in no mind to wait any longer upon your pleasure.”

  “And I am in no mind to open my gates to any ill-bred lout who has not even the manners to ask it pleasantly,” was the prompt response.

  Mr. Develyn’s head came up with a jerk and he stared in amaze. The voice was undoubtedly feminine, low and musical despite its vibrant indignation, its accent as pure as his own. Was he dreaming, or fevered? For a moment he actually glanced anxiously about him, half afraid that he had made some ghastly mistake. Surely this was Saxondene? Yes. Of course it was. There was the oak tree that he had climbed as a boy, and there, though it was scarcely recognisable, was the old lodge itself, now transformed into some kind of summer house.

  Then if he was in his right mind, the woman must be crazed. It was the obvious explanation. Who but a lunatic would walk abroad quite unashamed in male attire? And she seemed to have some peculiar notion that this was her house. He wondered whether he should try to humour her and persuade her to open the gate for him or beat an ignominious retreat and subject poor Rustic to the weary plod of the long way home.

  While he still hesitated, the cause of his dilemma produced the key from her breeches’ pocket and inserted it in the lock. “However, since I perceive that you have lamed your horse, I will open the gates for him. Why should the poor beast suffer for his master’s discourtesy? It would seem that he has already suffered from lack of horsemanship.”

  The gates swung back smoothly, silently. Mr. Develyn glared at the impudent hussy who dared to outface him as she held the gate for him — to lead Rustic through,
standing in an attitude of exaggerated subservience that made him itch to slap her. There had been nothing crazy about that remark! He would dearly have loved to turn on his heel and reject her charity — but not at the cost of Rustic’s suffering. And she was right, damn her, about his horsemanship.

  His gaze swept her from head to heels with a suggestion of faint surprise, amusement, dismissal. Any modest female should have blushed and shrunk from so flagrant an assessment. This one gave him back glance for glance. Only when she had shown him exactly how little she valued his opinion did she lower her gaze deliberately to Rustic’s near fore. She shrugged infinitesimally, sighed rather more obviously and then allowed an expression of patient boredom to obliterate all other emotion.

  Mr. Develyn conceded defeat. He touched his hat stiffly, said, “Thank you, ma’am,” rather as though the words had been racked out of him, and walked steadily up the drive, aware in every fibre of his being of the cool mockery of the gaze that must be bent upon his ignominious retreat. He could not even make haste. Faintly, behind him, he heard voices and, he fancied, laughter. The shameless Jezebel was probably recounting the tale of his humiliation. He gritted his teeth and trudged on stablewards, resolved that before many days were past there should be a further accounting.

  Chapter Two

  “I DON’T like it,” said Geoffrey Thornish slowly.

  His sister surveyed him with amused affection. He might like it as little as he pleased. The fact remained that there was nothing that he could do about it. But because she valued the loyalty that had brought him to visit her and guessed that in the face of all the circumstances the visit had demanded a certain degree of moral courage, she did not stress this undoubted truth.

  Encouraged by her forbearance her brother went on, “It must have been awkward enough while the old Earl was alive, but even Aunt Maud admitted that of late he rarely visited Saxondene, though still she vowed that you was living under his protection and that it was an open scandal.”