The Dollar Prince's Wife. Paula Marshall
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she had told the American gentleman, Mr Grant, who had arrived before the rest of the house-party, that Dinah was expected and he had immediately arranged for her to be collected when he had discovered m’lady’s oversight.
There had been something odd in Mrs Greaves’s expression when she had spoken of Mr Grant. Could he be one of Violet’s admirers? Surely not—she preferred young and handsome men.
Chesterman, the butler, arrived to say, ‘You would like some tea after your journey, I am sure, Lady Dinah, before you change out of your travelling costume. May I express my regret for the oversight. Mr Grant was most…exercised by it.’
Yes, Lady Dinah would like tea. And why were Chesterman and Greaves being so mysterious about the American? It was bad enough working out what to say to a house full of Violet’s cronies without wondering how she ought to address an odd, old American, who had arrived early. Why?
Later, after she had drunk her tea, she allowed Pearson to dress her in a little girl’s frock of white-dotted Swiss with a blue sash, her long dark hair tied back by a blue velvet ribbon. It was an outfit which Dinah glumly decided made her look about fifteen, but which would certainly protect her from unwanted masculine attentions!
What to do now in this great empty barracks? She decided to visit the library and spend a happy hour there, forgetting Violet and at the same time avoiding elderly American gentlemen who would not be likely to find the library at all attractive.
Her notebook and her pencil-case in her hand, she made her way towards it down the main staircase. On the way she walked past the portraits of Lord Kenilworth’s predatory-looking ancestors—he must be a great disappointment to them, she decided. Her mother always spoke of him as a pussy cat who allowed Violet far too much of her own way.
Finally she reached the library’s double doors—to discover that she was mistaken. Someone was already there. A someone who, improbably, was playing the guitar. Equally improbably what was being played superbly was a piece written for it by Vivaldi, which she had once heard at a concert in Oxford she had attended with Faa.
For a moment Dinah hesitated, thought of retreating, and then, clutching her notebook and pencil-case to her, she made a decision which was to alter her life forever. She opened the door and walked into the library in order to discover who the unknown musician was…
He was seated on a long, low bench in a huge bay window facing the door, his head bent over his guitar. He lifted it to look at her whilst continuing to play…and Dinah stopped dead at the sight of him.
He was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. So beautiful that she swallowed unbelievingly. He was like the statue of the Apollo Belvedere, a copy of which she had seen at Oxford. He possessed the same classic perfection of both face and figure. His eyes were blue and the hyacinthine curls of his hair were of the palest gold.
His clothes were perfect, too. He made Dinah feel untidy. It wasn’t fair that he should look like that—and to be able to play so well—she thought in anguish. No one person should possess so much when so many possessed so little.
His amazing eyes were steady on her while the music began to wind in on itself to reach its ending, which it did in a cluster of phrases of the utmost purity. What was more amazing was, that although the complex series of notes flowed from Apollo’s fingers with such divine accuracy, there was no music before him.
It was over. He rose, placed the guitar on the bench, and walked across to where she stood, mesmerised, registering his height and his compelling presence.
He said, bowing, ‘You must be Lady Dinah Freville, Violet’s sister. You will forgive me for remaining seated and continuing to play when you entered, but the music demanded my homage, and yours, too, I hope.’
He took her unresisting hand, kissed the back of it, and relinquished it gently. He retreated a little but still continued to speak, since he appeared to realise that she had been struck dumb by shock.
The moment that he had taken her hand in his, Dinah had suddenly been transported out of the library and into a vast open space, with a multicoloured sky above it, banners of light weaving in the warm air. He was there beside her—how?
Then, when her hand became her own again, they were back in the library, and she was listening to his beautiful voice.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jacobus—Cobie— Grant from New York. Lord and Lady Kenilworth have kindly invited me to Moorings. We meet unconventionally, but I hope that you won’t hold that against me.’
So this was her Yankee rescuer whom she had supposed to be middle-aged and odd!
So strongly did his mere presence affect her that Dinah felt as though she were under a spell, or had been hypnotised. She suddenly knew why the servants had spoken of him as they did. He was an enigma…yes, that was it. An enigma—and Violet’s latest lover: she was sure of that, too.
She almost croaked at him. ‘Indeed, I don’t, seeing that you did me the kindness of making sure that the dog-cart was sent to rescue me at Moorings Halt. Besides, I don’t mind unconventionality, and oh, how beautifully you play!’
Unable to stop herself, she added, ‘But why in the library, Mr Grant?’
Her reply amused Cobie. She was so unlike Violet, so unlike anything which he had expected after listening to Violet’s cruel descriptions of her. She reminded him of the young Susanna. There was the same quality of vulnerability about her, something in the defensive way in which she held herself. But Susanna had always known that she was valued—and this girl knew that she wasn’t.
Besides, Susanna had always been beautiful, and Dinah plainly thought that she wasn’t. She was still unformed, half a child, but Cobie judged that the promise of beauty was there.
He answered her gravely in order that she might think that what she had just said was important enough to deserve a reasoned reply. ‘It seemed a convenient place, Lady Dinah. Few appear to use it—or so the butler told me—which meant that I was unlikely to be disturbed.’
‘You were playing Vivaldi, weren’t you? I like Vivaldi. I always think…’
Dinah hesitated, not sure whether to continue. He might laugh at her behind her back: she knew that Violet often did when she was foolish enough to reveal her inward thoughts to her…but…but…she decided to go on…
‘His music always reminds me of a fountain playing. The water is rising and falling, spreading and narrowing, until finally, just before it ceases altogether, there comes a great burst when the last drops fall into the basin… Only…only…those last notes still remain with you—unlike the water drops.’
She must have been mad to offer her secret imaginings to a Yankee barbarian—which was what her brother Rainey always called them—and one of Violet’s confidants into the bargain. Only he had played the Vivaldi concerto so beautifully that he must have had some real feeling for it.
If Cobie was surprised by what she had just said to him, he didn’t allow it to show. Instead he picked up the guitar—it was Violet’s—and still standing, holding it high and upright against his left shoulder, he began to play the concerto’s coda again.
This time with even more feeling so that the last few notes seemed to hang in the air even longer—like the drops of water of which she had spoken, slowly falling into the basin of which she had spoken.
He said nothing, simply raised his beautiful eyebrows questioningly.
Dinah shivered.
‘Yes, like that,’ she finally achieved. ‘I wish that Faa could hear you play.’
Cobie inclined his head. He didn’t ask who Faa was, but he could guess. Violet had told him her half-sister’s sorry story earlier that day as though it were something of a joke. He was more than ever relieved that he had discovered Violet’s careless treatment of the poor child. She had allowed her half-sister to be abandoned at Moorings railway station as though