“My lamb—my lamb—” she sobbed, and held her as if she never meant to let her go. And yielding to the weakness that was growing on her, almost happy for the moment in the shelter of the tender arms wrapped around her, Marny laid her aching head on the shoulder of the woman who had nursed her from babyhood. But the transient happiness passed quickly and she freed herself with a single word of interrogation.
“Clyde?”
The old woman’s face hardened suddenly. “His lordship’s not back—thank God,” she said, grimly. With an inward prayer of thankfulness Marny dropped into a chair. The relief was tremendous, the respite more than she had dared to hope for. As Clyde was not yet back then there was no possibility of his arriving before the evening when she would have strength again to meet him. But there was still one thing that had to be arranged before he came. She put aside the trembling hands that were fumbling at the clasp of the enveloping cloak.
“Tanner,” she said, hoarsely, “fetch Tanner. I must speak to him at once.”
The woman made a gesture of protest. “Never mind Tanner, Miss Marny dear,” she said, soothingly. “Tanner can wait. Let me put you cosily into bed first and then I’ll tell him you are safe home. He’s close by and won’t take any finding. Give him his due, he’s been nearly as anxious as me, backwards and forwards between the house and the stables since yesterday morning—and worrying more about you, my precious, I’m bound to admit, than that nasty, vicious horse he’s so partic’lar about,” she added, trying again to unfasten the burnous. Marny guessed at the unspoken anxiety that made Ann’s fingers so unusually clumsy and smiled reassuringly.
“You don’t understand,” she said, with gentle insistence, “I must see him. Don’t fuss, Ann dear. I’m not hurt or damaged in any way, I’m only desperately tired. But I can’t rest until I’ve spoken to Tanner. Bring him here, and then you can coddle me to your heart’s content. But I won’t move from this chair until I’ve seen him.”
“But, Miss Marny, it’s your bedroom,” exclaimed Ann in horrified accents, “and you in that outlandish cloak and all, and your hair—”
“Oh, never mind my hair, you dear old propriety, and Tanner won’t trouble his head about it being my bedroom. Do as I ask you, Ann, if you love me,” said Marny, wearily. And muttering to herself Ann departed grudgingly.
She returned almost immediately followed by an undersized, sharp-faced man, who bore the marks of his calling stamped plainly upon him. Half jockey, half groom, Cockney from the top of his bullet head to the tips of his neat feet, he accepted the situation with the aplomb of his kind.
Saluting smartly, he waited for Lady Geradine to speak. And Marny who liked and trusted the little man did not hesitate.