Summer at Dorne by Mira Stables

Author:Mira Stables [Stables, Mira]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2018-08-30T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

The weeks that followed were the happiest that Chantal had ever known. The country way of life suited her to a nicety. Far from breakfasting in bed, she and Dominic rode together very early each fine day. That meant crossing to the mainland of course, but there was a neat little dinghy that made light work of that. Sometimes they rode along the coastal track that ran south towards the headland, sometimes on the sands themselves, Dominic warning that it was dangerous to ride, or, indeed, to walk on the sands to the north and west of the bay as there were treacherous quicksands in that area, and emphasising the warning with grim tales of shipwreck.

They would go back ravenously hungry to consume an enormous breakfast in company with Oliver and make plans for the day. They would go sailing or swimming or fishing. Chantal took but a modest part in the fishing expeditions. It seemed only fair to make some effort after the pains they had taken over her instruction, but when, with much urgent advice and a little assistance she actually caught a small sea trout she could only regret the poor thing’s demise. It was scarcely big enough to eat, and she could see little satisfaction in killing just for the fun of the thing.

A statement to this effect provoked fierce argument, the men urging the delights of pitting one’s wits and skill against a wary adversary, Dominic administering a clincher by asking why she went hunting if that was how she felt.

“For the excitement,” she admitted honestly. “And because my father was pleased and proud if I could keep up with him. I’m afraid I never thought about the fox. I just loved the speed and the feel of a good horse under me. Any way, foxes are vermin,” she added defensively, realising that her candour was playing into their hands. “This poor thing was doing no harm.” She nudged the trout gingerly with her toe.

“You should enquire the opinion of the smaller marine creatures about that,” suggested Oliver with an amused twinkle.

She raised her brows enquiringly.

“He eats them, you know. Not only insects and worms, but little fish and even fish eggs. I daresay every mama fish for miles around is calling down blessings on your head for so gallantly removing this menace to her young.”

Chantal looked aggrievedly at her trophy. He had only helped Oliver to demolish her argument. And Dominic had pulled out a sketching block and a stick of charcoal and with swift economical strokes was depicting a row of assorted fish standing on their tails, fins upraised in praise or supplication, all addressing themselves to a Chantal who had mysteriously acquired a mermaid’s tail. She had to laugh at the comical caricature, though she was firm in her refusal to fish again.

Sometimes they went further afield, foregoing the morning ride and setting out early to visit some ancient abbey or castle – none, vowed Chantal loyally, one half so lovely

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