The Devil And Drusilla

Drusilla returned to the present with a start. Miss Faulkner was staring at her. She put her work down. ‘I’m sorry, aunt, I was wool-gathering. But you already know that the polite world does not interest me, and I have no intention of marrying again.’

‘So you say now,’ remarked Miss Faulkner shrewdly. ‘Later, you will surely change your mind.’

She sat down opposite Drusilla and said, her voice a trifle sad, ‘I cannot recommend the single state, my dear. When I was young and foolish I turned down a man of solid worth because he was not romantic enough for me—my head was stuffed with cobwebs.

‘By the time I realised that I was neither pretty enough—nor rich enough—to catch the handsome young fellow I thought I loved, and would have settled for solid worth, he had found another bride. And I, I never found anyone else who wished to make me his wife, and I led a lonely life until Jeremy kindly asked me to be your attendant when you married him. Do not reserve my sad state for yourself. You are younger, prettier and richer than I ever was. Find a good man and marry him.’

Picking up her canvaswork again, Drusilla told Jeremy’s aunt what she had never thought to tell anyone. ‘This time I would wish to marry for love. Oh, don’t mistake me, my parents arranged our marriage and I was happy with Jeremy.’

Until the last six months, said her treacherous memory.

Repressing it, she continued, ‘I’m not hoping for a grand passion, just a homely love. The kind of love my parents shared. What Jeremy and I had was friendship. I may be foolish, and I may have to settle for less again, but not yet, please.’

‘Very well, my dear, so long as you don’t wait too long—or settle for a fortune hunter.’

‘Oh, I shall ask for your advice if one arrives. Would you forgive me if I settled for one who was young, handsome—and kind?’

Miss Faulkner smiled. ‘Ah, you mean like Miss Rebecca Rowallan’s Will Shafto, I suppose. There are not many of those on offer, I fear.’

Further conversation was stopped by an agitated rapping on the door, and the entry of Vobster, Drusilla’s chief groom.

‘Yes, what is it, Vobster?’

‘It’s Master Giles, ma’am. He’s trying to persuade me and Green to allow him to ride Brandy instead of Dapple. I fear that, unless you have a word with him, he won’t take no for an answer.’

Drusilla rose, shocked, her face paling. Behind her Miss Faulkner was making distressed noises. Giles was Drusilla’s eighteen-year-old brother, who had a badly crippled leg as the result of a strange childhood illness which had kept him bedridden for months.

Dapple was a mild and well-behaved nag whom the doctor had reluctantly given him permission to ride, but Brandy was quite a different matter. He was the most high-spirited horse in the Faulkners’ small stable.

‘I’ll come at once,’ she said quickly. ‘We can’t have him trying to ride Brandy.’

‘And so I said, but he wouldn’t be told.’

‘Well, he’ll listen to me, I hope. I don’t wish to ban him from riding at all, for I believe that it keeps him well and happy, but we can’t have him risking his neck on fliers like Brandy.’

She arrived in the stable yard to find that Giles had finally persuaded Green to allow him to mount Brandy, by promising that he would not ride him, but would allow Green to hold him steady in the stable yard.

‘I should so like to sit on a real horse for once,’ he had said pathetically, ‘instead of that rocking chair which is all Dru will allow me.’

‘And rightly so, Master Giles, for you have not the strength to control Brandy. It was all Mr Jeremy could do to hold him.’

Giles knew that Drusilla did not wish to sell Brandy, although she could not ride him, because it would mean that her happiest memories of her husband would have disappeared with him.

He looked proudly down at his sister. ‘See how well I sit on him, Dru,’ he said. ‘Pray allow me to ride him—if only for a few yards.’

Drusilla looked sadly at Giles. On horseback he appeared to be a handsome and well-built boy for his withered leg was hidden by his breeches and his spotless boots. She also saw a masculine version of her own face. Parson Williams had nicknamed them Sebastian and Viola, the beautiful brother and sister in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, who were so alike that in boy’s clothes they could be mistaken for one another.

‘You know very well that you cannot do that. It is against the rules which the doctor insisted on for your own safety.’

‘Oh, pooh to him! My arms are strong enough for me to control any horse. I refuse to be namby-pambied any more. At least allow Vobster and Green to walk me on him for a short distance. You may watch me and see how well I do.’

He looked down at her, his face on fire. Drusilla knew how much he resented not being like other boys, particularly since it was plain that if his leg had been normal he would have had the physique of an athlete.

‘Very well,’ she said, relenting, ‘but you must promise to be good.’

His smile was dazzling. ‘Oh, I am always good, Dru! You know that.’

‘No such thing,’ she told him ruefully, but gave Green and Vobster permission to lead him and Brandy out of the yard and on to the track which led out of Lyford House to join a byway which led to Tresham Magna. Vobster was shaking his head a little because she had, as usual, given way to headstrong Master Giles and nothing good would come of that.

He was right. For the first hundred yards Giles behaved himself, trotting along equably, with Brandy showing his annoyance at being curbed by tossing his head and snorting. One of the stable lads, Jackson, mounted on Drusilla’s own horse Hereward, accompanied them. Drusilla herself, despite wearing only light kid sandals, brought up the rear.

The path was firm and dry and the July sun shone down on them. From a distance they would have made a suitably charming scene for the late animal painter, George Stubbs, to celebrate.

And then, as Drusilla afterwards mourned to Miss Faulkner, Giles had to spoil it. Without giving any warning of what he was about to do, he put spurs to Brandy who, nothing loath, reared his haughty head, and set off as though he were about to charge into battle or win the Derby.

Green let go of his leading rein immediately. Vobster, more determined, hung on a little by one hand before prudence had him follow suit, lest he be injured. Jackson, urged on by the horrified Drusilla, tore after Giles in hot pursuit, for it was plain that the delighted Brandy, given his head, was going to be too much for his rider to control.

As though to demonstrate that he was in charge, Brandy immediately left the path, and charged across country towards Tresham Hall until he came to a tall hedge which he promptly jumped. Jackson followed suit, whilst Drusilla, Green and Vobster panted along behind them, delayed by having to push their way through a gap in the hedge.

Once through they saw that Hereward had unshipped his rider, but that Brandy had not, although Giles was slipping sideways in the saddle. Only his courage and his abnormally strong arms were preventing him from following Jackson’s example as Brandy made for the next hedge.

But not for long. A final lurch to the right by wilful Brandy had him out of the saddle, too. Unencumbered by Giles’s weight, Brandy tore madly on towards another horseman who had jumped the hedge from the other side and who only avoided being struck by the oncoming Brandy by swerving sharply.

He then had to swerve sharply again to prevent himself from trampling on the prostrate Giles—which manoeuvre almost had his own horse unshipping him! The happy Brandy, meanwhile, was bolting into the far distance.

Drusilla opened her eyes, which she had closed after Giles’s fall and Brandy’s near accident, to see that the new horseman had stopped, flung his reins to a drop-jawed Vobster, who had outpaced herself and Green, and was running towards Giles who was trying to sit up.

‘No, don’t,’ said the stranger sharply, falling on to his knees beside the dazed boy and beginning to feel his arms and legs to check whether any bones were broken.

He had just discovered Giles’s withered leg when Drusilla arrived—Green had gone to try to catch Hereward so that he might pursue Brandy, whilst Jackson was limping homewards.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ gasped Drusilla who had not run so far or so fast since she had been a hoydenish young girl.

The stranger looked up at her. ‘Apparently not—and no thanks to the fools who let him ride a half-broken horse. You were lucky that he didn’t kill himself.’

Drusilla could not help herself. She stared at him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He resembled nothing so much as the statue of Apollo which Jeremy’s father had brought from Greece. His hair, cut short in the latest fashion, was golden, and slightly curling. His eyes were as blue as the sunlit sea and his mouth was long and shapely: but for all his classic beauty there was nothing feminine about him.

On the contrary, he gave off an aura of cold strength and assured masculinity which was reflected in a voice so hard and measured that it shocked Drusilla into silence.

Not so Giles. He struggled upright and said indignantly, ‘You go too fast, sir. And you’re not to talk to my sister like that. My accident wasn’t her fault, it was mine. I was stupidly disobedient and paid the price for it—and who the devil are you, anyway?’

The stranger laughed and rose. ‘You might say the devil himself if you wished. But I would prefer you to call me Devenish. I apologise to your sister—and in the name of all that is holy, who are you, anyway?’

Brother and sister both stared at him. Giles croaked, ‘Forgive me, m’lord, I had no notion that you were staying at Tresham, or I should not have been so short. I am Giles Stone, and this is my sister Drusilla Faulkner, the widow of the late owner of Lyford House.’

‘Are you, indeed! If you were my young brother and responsible for riding a horse you couldn’t control then I would think up a suitable punishment for you. I trust your sister will do the same.’

‘But you ain’t,’ retorted Giles, struggling to his feet, to be helped by Devenish when he saw the lad’s determination. ‘And it’s up to her to decide on my punishment, not you. Ain’t it, Dru?’