Carola Dunn Read online

  The Jinnee gave her a nod of approval. “I put down earnest money on all the plots,” he told Alan. “I shall take you and Lady Beatrice to inspect them and make your choice. You have only to give the word.”

  “You’re waiting for me to give the word?” Alan said a trifle sourly. “That makes a change!”

  Mrs. Dinsmuir took him severely to task for ingratitude. The Jinnee—his servant!—had not the grace to make himself scarce but listened with a bland smile to the scolding. Alan was rescued by a knock on the door, heralding the arrival of Bea and Miss Dirdle.

  Bea rushed into his arms. “Alan darling, did it work?”

  She did not seem to mind that he was too busy kissing her to answer. Mrs. Dinsmuir took it upon herself to enlighten Miss Dirdle. “My son is made viscount!” she announced proudly.

  Drawing back, Bea cried, “A viscount? Oh, Alan, how simply splendid. Papa cannot possibly object to a viscount.” She ran to the Jinnee and kissed his cheek. “It is all due to your magnificent spectacle, Mr. Jinnee. How can we ever thank you?”

  The Jinnee kissed her back, with more enthusiasm than Alan considered proper. He frowned. Suppose the Jinnee fell in love with Bea? It was practically inevitable, irresistible as she was.

  In the old tale, a wicked magician had stolen Aladdin’s wife and palace. What if the Jinnee decided to emulate his example? As soon as his three months’ service was up, he could fly away with her to anywhere in the world—or out of it.

  If only Alan had never mentioned Lord Mansfield’s ruling on slavery, the Jinnee would still be bound to the lamp and forced to obey its owner. Now the lamp stood useless on the mantel shelf, while the insubordinate Jinnee no longer waited for orders before acting as he saw fit.

  At least he still had to obey direct orders, for the next two months. All Alan could do was ensure he and Bea were wedded by then, make his last command a prohibition against parting them, and hope everything would not vanish the instant the Jinnee was free. Including Bea.

  * * * *

  Bea sensed Alan’s uneasiness. Though he was now Viscount Dinsmuir, he still seemed to doubt a happy ending to their love. The best way to cheer him was to marry him as soon as possible, and she was nothing loath.

  The Jinnee flew them, along with Mrs. Dinsmuir and Miss Dirdle, all over the country to choose a place to live. Not surprisingly, the most safely secluded tracts of land were in the outer reaches, the Lake District, Northumberland, the Welsh mountains, even the Scottish Highlands. Most were beautiful, but not at all what Bea had in mind.

  “We need somewhere within reach of London,” she said. “Alan is going to be an important member of the House of Lords. There are few with legal training! Besides, I should like Papa and Mama to see our house before we marry, just to reassure them, so it must be not too far from Oxford. I refuse to wait until they can travel to Scotland!”

  “I believe I have the very thing,” said the Jinnee, grinning. “I didn’t take you there first in case his lordship suspected me of trying to influence you.”

  Shortly they stood on a south-facing hillside in the Cotswolds, looking down into a wooded valley. Clumps of harebells dotted the short turf. No house was visible, no cottage or shepherd’s hut, no chimney-pot, not even a plume of smoke. The only sounds were the distant bleating of sheep, and a lark trilling its heart out overhead.

  Bea gripped Alan’s hand tighter. “Do you like it?”

  He looked down at her. “If you do.”

  “It is perfect! We shall call it Lark Hill.”

  “The contract is ready to be signed, my lord,” the Jinnee said, now playing the businesslike secretary. “If you do that tomorrow, I shall build your house the following night.”

  “Then a carriage road must be constructed to the nearest public lane,” said the practical Miss Dirdle. “Flying is all very well in its way—indeed, most enjoyable—but a more generally accepted method of ingress and egress is required.”

  “And you must choose your furnishings, Bea dear,” put in Mrs. Dinsmuir. “It is no good leaving that to the gentlemen.”

  “First you must choose the kind of house, Bea,” Alan said. “Do you want a grand mansion like your father’s?”

  “Heavens no! But it must be large enough to hold political house-parties when you have made your name in Parliament. And nursery space for plenty of children, too.”

  Alan blushed. “You hear her, Jinnee?” he said hurriedly.

  “I hear and obey, my lord.”

  “Don’t stud the windows with emeralds and rubies, like Aladdin’s. Or any other precious stones! Ordinary wood and glass will do. Nor do we want the house built of jasper, carnelian and alabaster.”

  “Might I suggest Cotswold stone?” Miss Dirdle proposed.

  “Yes, Cotswold stone,” Bea agreed. “It is a very pretty colour, and it should please our neighbours.”

  Recalling the Jinnee’s admiration of Prinny’s Brighton retreat, Alan said firmly, “Not a copy of the Royal Pavilion.”

  “No,” said Bea, wrinkling her nose, “but I believe His Highness has all the latest in plumbing and steam heating, and kitchen contrivances. Can you provide those, Jinnee?”

  “Certainly, my lady. I shall study the subject tonight.”

  “Darling, how practical you are,” said Alan adoringly.

  Bea kissed him, and the world whirled about her—not that his kisses did not always make her head whirl, but this time the Jinnee chose the moment to take them back to Cherry Tree Cottage.

  * * * *

  Next day the papers were signed; Lark Hill became the property of Viscount Dinsmuir. At sunset, the Jinnee vanished to set about constructing the house.

  In the morning, when Alan came down from his tiny chamber under the eaves, the Jinnee was sitting at the breakfast table, digging into a vast plateful of ham and eggs—he had adopted English notions of breakfast with delight. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

  “Sausages and muffins, my lord?” he enquired.

  “No, what you’re having smells good. I’ll have the same, please, but not quite as much!”

  The Jinnee shimmered momentarily. A maidservant popped into existence, properly dressed in grey with white cap and apron. Setting down on the table a tray with a covered plate, rack of toast, and pot of coffee, she disappeared again.

  “Well?” asked Alan, sitting down.

  “Very well! The house is ready for painting, papering, and furnishing, unless her ladyship desires to make any alterations. It is built of Cotswold stone—an attractive material, I may say—and not at all in the style of the Royal Pavilion.”

  “No jewels around the windows?”

  “None, my lord. Nor the least trace of alabaster, carnelian, or jasper, though I did venture to use some marble, having observed that stone at Hinksey Hall.”

  “Excellent! We’ll go and see it as soon as Bea and Miss Dirdle arrive.”

  Bea had to wait to see her parents off for their house party before she and Miss Dirdle could set out for Headington.

  “Bring Dinsmuir back with you,” demanded Tom, eager for male company after Lord Wendover’s departure.

  “I shall,” Bea promised, as he handed her into the barouche, “and his mother, too. It turns out she and Miss Dirdle have been acquainted this age.” Several weeks, at any rate.

  “Another ex-governess, is she? Pretty good to find herself the mother of a viscount! Never fear, Bea, I’ll do my best to teach the fellow what he needs to do you credit.”

  Bea bit her lip. It was no good pointing out Alan’s manifest superiority in everything but riding, driving and shooting, since those were all that counted with her insouciant cousin.

  Alan awaited her arrival with his usual impatience, but the Jinnee was even more impatient to display his handiwork. He allowed scarce a moment for greetings before he whisked them all off to Lark Hill. They landed on a levelled space before the— house? Bea gasped and Alan groaned. A pagoda?

  No, not quite, for the bui
lding was not tall and narrow, like the pagoda in the Queen’s Gardens at Kew. A Chinese palace, perhaps. Unmistakably Chinese, with the turned-up corners of the curved roofs, like the points of a tricorne hat. Roofs plural; the four storeys, each smaller than the one below, were clearly marked by lines of roofing protecting pillared verandahs.

  “It is beautiful,” said Mrs. Dinsmuir stoutly.

  “Yes, it is,” Bea admitted, “but I fear it will not do.”

  “Not do?” thundered the Jinnee, and he grew by several inches in all directions. “I observed your every stricture! It is like neither Hinksey Hall nor the Brighton Pavilion. I used local materials, save the marble pillars. No gems or semi-precious stones, not even a mosaic or a single painted tile! Why, I—”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Jinnee!” cried Mrs. Dinsmuir. She laid a hand on his agitated arm, and he promptly shrank to his usual size. “I am very much afraid dear Bea is right. You see, Alan’s rise to his present position has been decidedly unconventional, so anything which draws attention to its oddity must be avoided.”

  “Like the plague,” growled Alan.

  “Also,” put in Miss Dirdle, “anyone might suppose they had simply not noticed a perfectly ordinary house in this spot, but no one could overlook the sudden appearance of so impressive and unusual an edifice.”

  The Jinnee sighed, and trees bent before the gale of his breath. “If you say so, ladies. But I put my heart into it.”

  “I am so sorry.” Bea squeezed his hand. “It is perfectly splendid. Perhaps later...a summer house, Alan?”

  “An excellent notion,” Alan said, with what struck Bea as a false heartiness. “Jinnee, can you rebuild tonight, in the local style as well as the local stone?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the Jinnee mournfully, and vanished. An instant later the Chinese palace vanished, too, along with every last sign of its existence save the levelled space on the hillside.

  Still sad, the Jinnee reappeared and took them home to the cottage, whence they repaired by normal means to Hinksey Hall.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, Bea had to force herself not to hover anxiously over Alan’s first riding lesson. She spent the time showing Mrs. Dinsmuir around Hinksey Hall and discussing the decoration and furniture she wanted in her own new home. The Jinnee accompanied them, taking careful note of her every word. No more disastrous misunderstandings!

  On the morrow, with Alan appropriated by Tom, the ladies went to see the Jinnee’s second effort. They all warmly applauded the charming manor house. Bea had one request:

  “Would you mind weathering it a bit? Just so that it looks fifty or a hundred years old, but very well kept up, of course.”

  “Done!” He waved his hand. The edges of stones blurred and softened, and patches of lichen appeared on the roof.

  The decorating and furnishing took several days; then the Jinnee planted gardens and kitchen gardens to order. Next, Mrs. Dinsmuir and Miss Dirdle set about hiring servants, while the Jinnee filled the coach-house with carriages and the stables with riding and carriage horses.

  By then, Alan had ceased to stagger around stiff-legged as a stork after each riding lesson. He even foresaw the prospect of one day enjoying being on horseback. Tom was pleased with his driving too, though partly because he was confident Alan would never surpass his own skill.

  Two weeks had sped by. The Hinkseys came home.

  Bea wanted Alan to let her parents get to know him before he approached her father to ask for her hand. She was as eager as he to be married, but she saw no real need for haste. Alan did not explain his fears about what the Jinnee would do once his quarter’s service was finished. The morning after the Hinkseys’ return, he begged a private interview with the marquis.

  Lord Hinksey raised his eyebrows in surprise, but silently led the way to the library, a large room walled with unread books collected by generations of noble ancestors. “This is very sudden!” he said, waving Alan to a chair.

  “Not really, sir. I was acquainted with Lady Beatrice before Tom invited me to stay. In this past fortnight, a slight acquaintance has blossomed into...something warmer. I wish to request your permission to make her my wife.”

  “Hmph! And she is not averse to your suit?”

  “So she has given me to understand, sir.”

  “You had best believe it then. My girl ain’t slow to say no! Lord Dinsmuir...a viscountcy, eh? Well, it’s not a dukedom,” muttered Lord Hinksey, “but it seems that wretched fellow has already got himself betrothed to some other female!” Aloud, he said, “Don’t believe I ever knew your father.”

  “He died young, sir,” Alan said cautiously.

  “Ah, before he inherited the title, of course, hence your mother’s lack...Not that I mean to cavil at that, my boy! Charming lady, Mrs. Dinsmuir. I daresay you are able to support Bea in the proper style, ha ha?”

  “Certainly, sir. I have a house at Lark Hill, near Ascott under Wychwood, which Bea has seen and approves.” As she should, having helped to plan it. “And I have a large income from the Funds. My secretary will be pleased to give you the details—”

  “Gad no!” said the marquis in horror. Apparently Miss Dirdle was right again when she advised against Alan proffering too exact a knowledge of his own wealth. “Leave settlements and such to the lawyers! Well, well. I’ll have a word with Bea’s mama, but she’ll be only too pleased. Several ladies at the Orfords’ dared to doubt that... Well, no matter. This will put such talk to rest. I’ll send a notice to the Morning Post at once!”

  * * * *

  For Bea, the last month before her wedding raced by. She knew Alan was fretting.

  He wanted to send the Jinnee to purchase a special licence, so as to marry her immediately. He did not understand the need for a trousseau, when the Jinnee could instantly provide all she desired. Nor did he appreciate the propriety of having the banns read in Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford, especially after such a brief courtship and betrothal.

  At last the day came, a bright, warm Saturday morning in August. Entering the cool dimness of the cathedral, Bea was scarcely conscious of her father’s sleeve beneath her fingertips, nor of the tenants and servants in the back pews and the dukes, duchesses, marquises and marchionesses, earls and countesses in the front. She saw, but her mind did not register, the grinning groomsman—Cousin Tom. All her awareness was on the tall, lean figure at his side.

  Alan was tall, lean, and elegant in his perfectly fitted blue morning coat and buff Inexpressibles. Memory took her back to the Cherwell, that morning just three months past, when a poor, shabby scholar had rescued an elderly gentlewoman from drowning. He was titled now, and wealthy, but he was still the same gentle, unassuming man she had fallen in love with on the spot.

  And as she approached, their eyes met with the same shock of recognition, the instant affinity which had made her decide that same day that she was going to marry him.

  Alan’s eyes met Bea’s, and nothing else had any importance. He touched her hand, and all his worries fell to ashes as a flame of tenderness and desire scorched through his veins. His heart soared to the vaulted roof and fluttered there, singing like a skylark.

  Throughout the service, he saw only her face. The walk back down the aisle, the drive to Hinksey Hall, the wedding breakfast, all passed in a haze.

  Then they were in the carriage taking them to Lark Hill, alone together at last, and all that mattered was the warm, responsive body in his arms, the soft, sweet lips meeting his. The world whirled about them, but neither spared a thought for the Jinnee.

  Not until morning. Waking, Alan recalled his fears. How could he have forgotten to forbid the Jinnee to part him from his wife, his love, his life? Bea was at his side, still asleep, locked in his embrace—but the Jinnee was now free.

  She might vanish at any moment.

  He held her close, made passionate love to her when she awoke, refused to let her leave his sight.

  It was near noon when they left their chamber and
went down to break their fast. Their new butler bowed them into the breakfast room. At the table sat Miss Dirdle, Mrs. Dinsmuir, and the Jinnee.

  The two ladies rushed to embrace the blushing bride. The Jinnee heaved himself to his feet and came over to Alan, to shake his hand and slap him on the back.

  “Sorry to interrupt the idyll, my boy,” he said heartily, “but your mama and I have news we didn’t want to keep from you any longer. I trust you have no objection to a Jinnee for a stepfather?”

  Epilogue

  Mr. and Mrs. Jinnee settled in a cottage ornée à la chinoise on the grounds of Lark Hill, where they lived happily together for many years. In pride of place on their drawing-room mantel shelf stood a brightly polished copper lamp.

  The Jinnee was a great favourite with his step-grandchildren, of whom he had many (educated, of course, by Miss Dirdle, still hale and romantic at heart at eighty-five). Grandpapa Jinnee, after all, could be relied upon to supply quite the most marvellous birthday presents imaginable!

  *****************************************

  THE FIREBIRD

  Chapter I

  Silent as the owl floating overhead, and as nearly invisible to human eyes, Reynata slipped along the woodland path. Though the waning moon, shining down through the trees, turned the ground into an intricate tangle of light and shadow, she had no fear of losing her way. The maze of rabbit and deer tracks was as familiar to her as the pattern on her counterpane.

  She paused as a dog-fox came round the bole of a gnarled oak tree. He stopped and stared, one paw raised, his nostrils quivering as he strove to catch the expected scent. Reynata looked like a vixen—but she smelled human.

  Bewildered and wary, the stranger braced to turn and run.

  “Good-day, sir,” Reynata called softly in his own language. “Do not fear, I mean you no harm.”