‘Jolly good idea,’ said Chuff Chuff. He stopped suddenly and turned towards her. With unusual decision - for him! - he said, ‘Look here, Cicely old thing, what I mean is, don’t you know - that is to say, how about it?’
‘How about what?’ she asked, as she noticed a dead head on the roses and thought she must remember to cut it off.
‘You know, this marriage lark?’ He looked at her with hope in his eyes. ‘Can’t sit on the shelf for ever, you know. Got to get off it some time, Good Lord, yes! Parmiston’s not such a bad old place. And you’d have Antoine.’ Antoine was the Chuffingtons’ French chef. ‘Makes a marvellous kedgeree. And - ’
‘Chuff Chuff, we’ve been through this before,’ said Cicely with a sigh. ‘I - ’
‘And soufflé,’ went on Chuff Chuff, without taking any notice of her. He thrust his hands deeper into his trouser pockets. ‘Antoine makes a dashed fine soufflé.’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Cheese, and chocolate - not together, you understand - and -’
‘Yes,’ said Cicely kindly, ‘Antoine is a fine chef, and his soufflé are superb, but Chuff Chuff, I can’t marry you for a soufflé.’
‘Worse reasons to marry a chap,’ Chuff Chuff pointed out.
‘No, Lord Chuffington, it just won’t do,’ said Cicely, kind but firm.
‘Oh, well. Third time lucky, what?’
Cicely sighed. It was obvious she was not going to be able to persuade him that she could never marry him and it looked as though she would have to let him propose a third time, after which, perhaps, her refusal might sink in.
She turned the conversation, therefore, back to the garden, showing Chuff Chuff her more notable plants before taking him back inside and offering him some refreshment. He declined, however, saying he was expected back at Parmiston Manor.
Cicely rang the bell and Gibson, looking resplendent in his immaculate butler’s uniform, which he insisted on wearing no matter how small the household had become, showed him out.
Cicely gave a rueful smile as she thought over Lord Chuffington’s visit. Chuff Chuff was a dear, but it was difficult to get through to him sometimes. Ah, well! He would learn in the end, no doubt.
And with that hopeful thought she went upstairs and changed into her cycling outfit. A calf-length divided skirt was so much more practical than a floor-length skirt when she needed to do the gardening!
* * * *
The next two weeks were busy ones for Cicely. There were a lot of arrangements to be made for Mr Evington’s house party, and on top of that she had to find a boy to help Gibson around the house.
The latter proved to be easier than she had expected. Tom, Mrs Johnson’s oldest boy, was looking for work, and he soon took up his duties at the Lodge. Cicely’s earnings did not allow her to employ him full time, as she also wanted to buy an annuity for Gibson so that he would have some financial security when he retired, but they allowed her to employ him for three mornings a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were the days she settled upon, they being the mornings which would allow her to keep her employment at the Manor a secret.
Tom quickly became indispensable. He was friendly and willing, and what he lacked in experience he made up for in raw strength and enthusiasm. He fetched and carried, cleaned and polished, he chopped the wood and carried the coal, and all this he did with a cheerful air that made him a pleasure to have around the house.
As the house party at the Manor approached, Cicely spent more of her working hours visiting local families and inveigling them into offering their servants for the occasion, and less of them at the Manor with Mr Evington, for which she was thankful. Her unruly feelings had not subsided as she had hoped they would. If anything, they had grown worse. Every time she was with him her thoughts drifted back to their encounter in the barn, and she seemed to feel his hands on her face and his hot breath on her lips. It therefore came as a relief for her to be able to spend most of her working hours away from him.
Having finally arranged everything to her satisfaction, however, she was forced to spend the last Friday morning before the house party at the Manor, where together she and Mr Evington went through the week’s post.
He sat behind his desk as usual, and as he gave her instructions, Cicely could not help noticing the way the sunlight fell across his face, revealing its strength. The line of his jaw and the firmness of his chin gave evidence of his character, and she could understand how he had managed to rise from his humble beginnings to the position he now held. Reluctantly, she found herself coming to respect him. Whilst she might still resent the fact that he had treated the purchase of her beloved Manor as a business transaction, she realized that this same feel for business had enabled him to rise from being a dock hand to being the owner of Oakleigh Manor. She could not help but admire his energy and enterprise. He was so different from the men she usually met, either in Little Oakleigh, or on the one or two occasions when she had visited her aunt in London. They did not move her in any way. They were pleasant and amiable, and utterly unmemorable . . . whilst Alex was unforgettable.
Having dispensed with the last of the letters that had arrived in that morning’s post, he leant back in his chair. ‘I will be very busy next week, once the house party begins,’ he said. ‘I won’t have time to think about anything except entertaining my guests, so I am giving you a week’s holiday.’
Cicely felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. The relief she understood, but the disappointment . . . that was something she did not want to understand.
‘Very good,’ she said, pleased that her voice sounded business-like, instead of reflecting her contradictory emotions.
‘We will carry on as usual once my guests have gone.’ He hesitated, as though he were about to say something else, but then a formal mask dropped over his face and the moment was lost. He stood up. ‘Until after the ball, then.’
His hand began to rise in a reflex action, as though to shake hers, but then he suddenly dropped it again.
Cicely flushed. From the revealing expression that flashed across his face it was obvious he was remembering the electrical sensations their contact engendered and damaging as it was to Cicely’s peace of mind, she was remembering it, too. She hurriedly gathered up her things, and waiting only to wish him an awkward farewell she swept out of the room. Her exit would have been perfect, if only she had not dropped her notebook. She chided herself inwardly, but it had been inevitable, for she had been shaking so much at the memory of what his touch had done to her that she had not been able to keep hold of it.
She bent to pick it up, only to realize that he, too, had bent to retrieve it.
Her face turned towards his as though it were being pulled by an invisible string, and she found her lips almost touching his. Their eyes met, and held. She forgot to breathe, so transfixed was she by the sight of him. His rugged skin was full of light and shadow, and she had to fight an urge to reach out and touch the stubble that was deepening the shadow around his jaw. How would it feel? she wondered. Would it be rough, and prickle against her sensitive fingertips? Or would it be soft and silky, inviting her to touch him even more?
And if she did, how would he react? Would he take her hand and kiss her palm? Would he caress her, as she caressed him?
Her mouth dried, and her eyes locked even more deeply on his own.
This was dangerous. She felt the peril, and knew she must resist, regaining control of herself before the situation escalated into something uncontrollable. She tried to speak, knowing she must break the enchantment, but as her lips moved over dry lips, no sound came out.
As his eyes dropped to her mouth she felt a wave of tingles wash all over her body and her eyelids began to close. There was a moment of unbearable anticipation as she waited breathlessly for what was to come . . . and then she felt, rather than saw, him pull away from her. She experienced a moment of frustration, even as her mind felt a wave of relief. And then she heard him say, in a voice so throaty as to be al
most unrecognisable, ‘Allow me.’
She knew what the effort of speaking had cost him and was determined to play her part in bringing the situation under control. Fighting down the sensations that were threatening to swamp her, she made a decided attempt to salvage the dangerous situation. She would get up; take her things; thank him. And then she would walk out of the room.
She sent the command to her body, but it would not obey. She was held captive by the super-charged forced that bound her to him, and when she thought she had risen she found that she had remained as she was.
She saw a battle of emotions playing itself out on his face, and then with a seemingly enormous effort of will he wrested his eyes away from her own and his hands closed around her notebook.
Cicely, released from the spell that bound her, commanded her body once more to rise. It protested, but at last it obeyed her instructions, and she found herself standing in front of him. But now it was worse. She was so close to him that a piece of paper could not have been slipped between them. And then his hand rose and took her chin. His head angled; her own tilted in response. And then his mouth brushed hers.
His touch was so light it was almost non-existent, and it left her wanting more. She swayed towards him, even as a part of her mind, that tiniest part that had not yet fully succumbed to his magnetism, saw one of the gardeners, through the window, just coming into view.
But she paid the gardener no heed. She was too bound up in the moment to care about anything else; and whilst her tiniest remaining shred of sanity told her she must step back, and do it quickly, her body refused to listen.
His lips were tantalising, barely kissing her, and yet they were stirring things inside her she had never experienced before . . .
And then the gardener began to whistle.
Drawing on her last ounce of self control she stepped back, putting a hand’s breadth between them before the gardener could see anything untoward.
Once removed from the heady sensations produced by his mouth pressing so agonisingly lightly against her own, the full horror of the situation began to dawn on her. But whether she was horrified because he had kissed her, or because they had almost been seen by the gardener, she did not know.
Hastily taking the notebook Mr Evington held out to her, she bid him a garbled farewell, and walked with as much dignity as she could muster out of the room.
Once outside, with a closed door between her and her enigmatic employer, her thoughts began to clear. In the barn he had almost kissed her. In the study he had done so.
One thing was now certain, she thought as she hurried through the hall and out of the front door. If she wanted to retain her sanity she must never, ever let him touch her again.
* * * *
The arrival of Mr Evington’s London guests caused quite a stir in the village. Such a large party of fashionable people had not been seen in Little Oakleigh for quite some time.
Cicely was relieved that Mr Evington had given her the week off. There would be a lot of cheerful and harmless gossip in the village, occasioned by the arrival of Mr Evington’s house guests, and knowing how the villagers liked to visit each other on a daily basis when anything exciting happened in Little Oakleigh, Cicely was relieved she would not be away from home. At such a time, her prolonged absences would have been noticed and would have been bound to cause comment.
‘Such clothes!’ said Mrs Murgatroyd as she popped in just before lunch. ‘No, I won’t stay, thank you, I have too much to do, but I had to look in and let you know the news. Three Daimlers have arrived so far, carrying the most elegant people imaginable. Their hats! Feathers and ribbons and goodness knows what! Cicely, you have never seen anything like it. In fact, Little Oakleigh has never seen anything like it. I am beginning to think it is a good thing that Mr Evington moved into the village after all.’ Her face suddenly took on a stricken look. ‘Oh, Cicely, my dear, I’m so sorry. How thoughtless of me. Of course, I don’t mean it’s a good thing he moved into the Manor. Any other good size house would have done. But he has brought a breath of fresh air with him. And now that he has recognised he has duties to the village, I think we may make an Oakleighan of him yet.’
She hurried away, ostensibly to visit the butcher’s, but in reality to tell Mrs Sealyham that three Daimlers had arrived.
Her pulses stirred by talk of the visitors, Cicely found it even more difficult than usual to concentrate on her chores, particularly as a procession of cars drove past the Lodge on their way up the drive to the Manor. But the lunch had to be made, and after that the washing had to be done.
She went into the kitchen, where a smiling Tom was wiping his hands on his trousers.
‘Is Gibson back from the shops yet?’ she asked him.
‘Not yet. But he won’t be long,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve had a look at the range for you,’ he said, standing aside so that Cicely could see the blaze he had lit there. ‘Not giving enough hot water, Mr Gibson said, so I’ve banked it up good and proper.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Cicely, hearing the fire roar. ‘It is such a blessing you know what to do with the range. I am tired of taking lukewarm baths.’
‘There’ll be plenty of hot water by tonight,’ said Tom confidently.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Cicely.
‘Right, well, I’ll be off then,’ said Tom, who had already stayed beyond his hours, and he went off, whistling.
It was not long before Gibson returned from the shops and Cicely looked over the food items as he took them out of the basket. There were sausages and bacon, fruit and vegetables, eggs and cheese, as well as a loaf of bread - everything they needed to see them through the next few days.
‘That will do very well, Gibson,’ said Cicely.
The door bell rang. Cicely was annoyed as she really did not want to see anyone else at the moment, she had too much to do.
‘See who it is, Gibson, and if at all possible get them to come back later. I shall never get anything done today at this rate.’
‘Very good, miss.’
Gibson slipped on his frock coat and went to answer the door whilst Cicely washed her hands at the sink. A moment later, Gibson returned. ‘Mr Evington, miss,’ he said.
Suspecting he had a last-minute problem with the arrangements for the party, she knew she could not refuse to see him and so she said, ‘Show him into -’
But at that moment, he walked into the kitchen.
‘I showed myself in,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to take up too much of your time.’
‘Thank you, Gibson,’ said Cicely. ‘You may carry on.’
Gibson went out into the garden to pick some herbs for dinner.
Cicely looked at Mr Evington.
‘I just wanted - ’ He broke off as the range began making an ominous banging noise.
Cicely gave an exclamation of vexation, turning to look at it. ‘The range is such a nuisance,’ she began. ‘If it isn’t one thing, it’s - ’ But got no further, for Mr Evington had seized hold of her arm.
‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘Now.’
‘But -’
There was time for no more. He opened the back door and pushed her out.
‘What -?’ asked Cicely, as the banging grew louder, but the rest of her sentence was drowned out by the noise.
Mr Evington did not falter. He steered her down the path, and pushed her unceremoniously out of the gate. He had just done so when there came the most almighty explosion from within the house. Cicely turned round in shock. The kitchen window had been blown out and the air was full of the tinkling sound of breaking glass.
She turned to Mr Evington, eyes wide and questioning.
‘The back boiler,’ he said tersely. ‘It’s exploded.’
‘The back boiler exploded?’ asked Cicely, still feeling stunned. It had all happened so quickly. The explosion had been terribly loud and the breaking glass had momentarily frightened her; and Mr Evington’s man-handling, necessary though it had been, had shaken her nerves.
‘The fire was built up way too high,’ he said. ‘By the look of it the range was an old one. It was inevitable this would happen.’
‘If you hadn’t come in when you did . . . ’ said Cicely, turning to him, her face white.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said.
No, Cicely thought. Better not.
‘You’re shivering,’ he said.
He was right. The shock had taken its toll. She felt suddenly cold.
He took off his coat and wrapped it round her shoulders.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said. She felt foolish for having given way to shock and did not want him to think her a coward.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, leading her over to the grass verge. ‘But keep this on anyway.’
Cicely realized it would be useless to protest. And besides, the extra warmth was comforting. It wrapped her round, and so did the scent of Alex Evington. Faint but unmistakeable it clung to his jacket, a mixture of cedar after-shave and expensive cologne.
At that minute Gibson, looking considerably shaken, emerged from behind the house.
‘Ah. Gibson,’ said Mr Evington, taking charge of the situation. ‘I need you to go and get help. There’s going to be a lot of cleaning up to do. Not to mention the risk from the fire.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gibson.
Cicely, about to object to Mr Evington giving Gibson orders, suddenly realized that he had done it in order to settle Gibson’s nerves. By giving him something useful to do, Mr Evington had taken his thoughts from the explosion and directed them into more useful channels.
‘Right away, sir,’ said Gibson, disappearing down the lane.
‘Are you all right?’ Alex asked, taking her hands and chafing them.
‘Yes. Just a little shaken, that’s all.’
‘It’s not surprising.’
What was surprising was that, this time, his touch was not electric. It was comforting. She had a sudden longing to rest her head on his shoulder until she should have recovered from the shock. She fought against it, and in order to try and divert her thoughts, she asked, ‘You knew at once what was about to happen. Have you had a similar problem with your range?’
Marriage at the Manor Page 8
