Marriage at the Manor

by Amanda Grange

  ‘And now I suggest we go out and watch the cricket,’ she said.

  Cicely and Alice agreed. By this time Cicely had regained control of her emotions, and she was determined not to let her foolishness spoil the joys of the party for Alice and Mrs Babbage. She would have to spend the next five days in Alex’s company, it was true, but given his interest in Miss Postlethwaite it was unlikely she would see very much of him.

  But that prospect, so satisfactory to her head, made her spirits sink.

  * * * *

  The succeeding days quickly fell into a regular pattern. In the mornings the ladies kept to their rooms, writing letters or gossiping, or - in the case of Cicely’s party - altering their evening gowns. In the afternoons the guests, both ladies and gentlemen, played croquet or tennis, or sat beneath the spreading chestnut trees that dotted the lawn, enjoying the shade. And in the evenings they met for dinner, and afterwards whiled away the time by playing bridge.

  Cicely saw little of Alex. He was a courteous host and enquired after her welfare several times, but his manner was preoccupied and he spent most of his time with Miss Postlethwaite, so that Cicely was relieved when her week at the Manor drew to an end. She had only to endure the ball, she told herself on the Friday morning, and then it would all be over. On the following morning she could go back to the Lodge, which had now been repaired, and forget all about Alex - at least, until Monday morning, when she would have to take up her duties again.

  ‘I’m so glad we saved our best gowns for this evening,’ said Alice as she wafted into Cicely’s room, dressed in a beautiful dress of lavender tulle with a delectably swishing train. ‘I would not have liked to wear an altered gown tonight.’

  Both girls had saved their best dresses for the festivity. Cicely was already dressed in a most beautiful gown. Cut off the shoulder with narrow ribbon straps to hold it in place, it was the height of elegance. It was made of pale blue mousseline de soie which perfectly suited Cicely’s ash-blonde hair and fair complexion, bringing out echoing flashes of blue in her grey eyes. The silky fabric draped itself elegantly around her curves. It was nipped in at the waist with a decorative sash before flaring out into a long skirt which trailed elegantly into a flounced train.

  Cicely pulled on her long gloves and accompanied Alice downstairs, together with Mrs Babbage. As she reached the foot of the staircase, she was glad she was wearing her best gown. It gave her a boost of confidence, for which she was grateful, as the idea of watching Alex drifting round the ballroom with Miss Postlethwaite in his arms filled her with dread.

  She had no time to dwell on it, however, as the guests from the surrounding neighbourhood were already beginning to arrive. Most of them were old friends, and she was soon absorbed in interesting conversations about local life.

  And then the music started. Her hand was claimed by Roddy, who had clearly been enjoying the house party, and after that it was claimed by Lord Chuffington. Chuff Chuff was looking splendid in evening dress. He was a good dancer, being light on his feet, and Cicely found it a pleasure to be whirled around the floor by him.

  More dances followed, and then, just as she left the floor with Mr Carruthers, she found herself whisked back onto it as the orchestra struck up the opening chords of a waltz.

  ‘May I have the pleasure?’ asked Alex, smiling down into her eyes as one arm glided round her waist whilst the other took her hand in a firm, sure grasp.

  ‘It seems I have no choice,’ said Cicely apprehensively. Although she knew that dancing with Alex would be glorious, she also knew it would not be wise.

  ‘Only object, and I will escort you to the side of the room,’ he said teasingly.

  For one moment she almost asked him to do so, but the temptation to feel his arm around her was too much for her and she smiled, caution forgotten as she looked up into his velvety brown eyes. ‘I fear, I cannot.’

  He smiled. Then, settling his arm more possessively round her waist, he whirled her onto the floor. Cicely had just enough time to catch up her train before they joined the other dancers. His hold was so sure and his guiding arm was so strong that she felt herself relax.

  ‘And how are you enjoying the ball?’ he asked. ‘You are not sorry I persuaded you to come?’

  ‘Persuaded?’ she said. ‘As I remember it, you traded with me.’

  ‘So I did. Well? Was it a bad deal?’

  ‘I will let you know after the Sunday school picnic,’ she said.

  He laughed, and she felt her spirits lifting. Her head knew it was madness to forget about Eugenie, but her treacherous heart told her to live for the moment and enjoy the dance.

  ‘The picnic will be held her in the last week of September, as usual. You see, I kept my side of the bargain. But you still haven’t answered my question. Are you enjoying the ball?’

  She hesitated. To admit that she was seemed madness, and yet in all honesty how could she do anything else?

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  There was a profound satisfaction in his voice, far more so than she would have expected, and it sent a tingle down her spine and she hoped he had not felt the tingle as it passed through her.

  Whether he did or not she could not tell, but the pressure of his hand in the small of her back increased and she felt a smouldering heat radiating from it. She had a sudden urge to pull away from him and run out of the ballroom, coupled with a an equally strong yet contradictory wish that he would pull her closer still. It was these kind of confusing thoughts that made it so difficult for her to be with Alex, and yet made it so exhilarating at the same time.

  ‘And how have the repairs been coming along at the Lodge?’

  ‘Very well,’ she said, glad to seize on this ordinary topic of conversation. Having Alex’s arms around her was proving even more unsettling than she had anticipated, and the practicalities of the Lodge formed a much-needed diversion. ‘The kitchen has been thoroughly cleaned and the hole in the wall has been repaired. The range itself has been disposed of, as unfortunately it was beyond rescue.’

  ‘A good thing. It was old and unsafe.’

  Cicely sighed. A good thing in a way, perhaps, but in another way a sad blow, because now she would have to find the money to replace it.

  He looked at her in concern. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said quickly. She had no desire for him to learn how poor she was.

  He looked at her closely. ‘If something is worrying you, I hope you know you can tell me,’ he said. ‘If you need any help . . . ’

  ‘What help could I possibly need? It is simply that . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’ he asked.

  She thought hard for an excuse. She did not like misleading him, and yet her pride demanded that she come up with some innocuous reason for her sigh.

  ‘It’s just that it seems such a pity the party will be over tomorrow.’ Adding hastily, in case he read anything particular into it, ‘Alice was saying so as we came downstairs, and her mother and I both agree.’

  He looked at her intently, as though realizing she was hiding something, but then decided not to press her.

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way. And Alice and her mother, too,’ he added with a wicked smile.

  The music drew to a close. Alex bowed over her hand then led her to the side of the room. Cicely’s heart sank as she saw that Eugenie Postlethwaite was waiting for him and the poisonous memories, pushed aside during the waltz, returned with full force. But the sight had come as a timely reminder. She would be unwise to allow herself to entertain feelings towards Alex that could not possibly be returned.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said formally. ‘That was most enjoyable.’

  He frowned at her cool manner, but made a polite rejoinder before she excused herself, greeting Lord Chuffington who had just wandered over to her and accepting his hand for the next dance.

  * * * *

  The evening was almost over. Cicely felt a flood or relief. Althou
gh it had been enjoyable, it had also been something of a strain, and she would be glad when she could return to the safety of the Lodge. There were no perplexing feelings there. Everything was straightforward and safe.

  She went out onto the terrace. Though late - supper was over - it was not yet completely dark. A dusky light still lingered, enhanced by an almost-full moon and the yellow gas light that streamed out from the Manor. A number of other people had also taken to the terrace. Among them was Alex.

  Cicely was about to draw back when one of the group, Mrs Weston, hailed her.

  Realizing she could not slip away unseen she went forward to join the small party.

  ‘ . . . take it down altogether,’ young Mr Phelps was saying. ‘It blocks the view, Evington, you know it does.’

  ‘Perhaps. I might do that,’ replied Alex, as he smoked a cigar and swirled a brandy in his glass.

  Cicely looked enquiringly at Mrs Weston, wondering what they were talking about.

  ‘The chestnut,’ said Mrs Weston.

  ‘Ugly thing, and completely unnecessary,’ said Mr Phelps, waving towards a magnificent chestnut which had stood in the centre of the lawns for time out of mind.

  Cicely felt her stomach lurch. Not the chestnut, she wanted to cry, but she had no right to do so. Alex was entitled to do whatever he wanted with the house and grounds. The Manor belonged to him.

  Even so, Cicely could not remain to hear her beloved chestnut tree talked about in that way. It had too many memories for her. Mumbling an inarticulate excuse she ran down the steps of the terrace and onto the wide lawns, away from the chattering group. But she had not gone far when she became aware that there was someone behind her. She began to run more quickly: she knew without looking who that someone was, and she did not feel equal to talking to Alex whilst her emotions were running high. Lifting the hem of her gown with one hand she sped across the lawns. But the sound of footsteps grew louder behind her and she began to fear she would not escape.

  ‘Cicely!’

  She ignored his voice and ran on.

  ‘Cicely! Stop!’

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was almost upon her. She ran forward again but it was no good. He caught her arm and spun her round.

  ‘Cicely, what is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Not nothing,’ he returned. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. And you’ve been crying.’

  ‘No. You’re mistaken.’

  He pulled her close, taking her chin in his hand. Turning her face he revealed the remains of her tears glinting on her lashes in the moonlight.

  ‘Something’s upset you.’

  ‘No. I assure you it hasn’t.’ She spoke sharply, not feeling equal to having a conversation with him until she was in control of herself once more.

  ‘Yes, it has,’ he said, matching her sharp tone with one equally harsh, ‘and I’m not letting you go until I know what it is.’

  ‘You have no right to keep me here,’ she said, shaking her arm free and picking up the hem of her gown once more.

  ‘To hell with rights,’ he said, his eyes locking onto her own. Such was the intensity of his gaze that she was held motionless. ‘I want to know what made you go pale back on the terrace just now, and you are going to tell me.’

  ‘I am . . . ’ she began, intending to say I am not, but suddenly her feelings got the better of her. ‘How can you do it?’ she suddenly burst out, no longer able to contain herself.

  He looked taken aback. ‘How can I do what?’ he asked.

  She dropped the hem of her gown. ‘Cut down the chestnut tree.’

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly. ‘You’re upset about a tree?’

  ‘It isn’t just a tree,’ she said rashly. ‘It’s the tree my great-great-great-grandmother planted when she was a little girl of three years old. My family have played in it and sheltered under it for over two hundred years, generation upon generation of them. My mother and I hid in it when we played with my father. She lifted me into the branches and then climbed up beside me, whilst my father searched for us high and low, and in the end we had to call to him or he would never have found us. It was summer, and the leaves were thick,’ she said defiantly. Then her face paled again. ‘But you wouldn’t understand.’

  She turned to go.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said.

  She was already walking away from him, but his words halted her. She hesitated. Then turned.

  His eyes were burning with a strange intensity. ‘I do understand,’ he said.

  She almost believed him. But then she said, with a shuddering sigh, ‘No, you don’t. You are going to cut it down.’

  The air was suddenly still. Not a tree rustled. Not a leaf stirred.

  ‘No.’

  ‘N . . . no?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘No.’

  He shook his head, and the gesture caught the moonlight, which lit the side of his face and painted silver streaks into his hair. ‘I’m not going to cut it down.’

  ‘But you said . . . ’ she began.

  ‘That’s before I realized what it meant to you.’

  There was a light in his velvety eyes that neither she, nor anyone else, had ever seen there before.

  ‘You would spare it . . . for me?’

  He reached out his hand and pulled her gently into his arms. He stroked a stray tendril away from her face. ‘Yes. I would.’

  She relaxed against him, and felt him pressing his lips against her hair, then against her forehead. He lifted her chin, and his eyes roamed over her face. Her hands rose of their own volition against the lapels of his dinner jacket. The fabric was warm and soft to the touch. Beneath it, his muscles were firm.

  She shuddered, overcome with his nearness. She was unnaturally aware of him: his hair, with one lock falling across his forehead; his eyes, with their fine lines at the corners; and his chin, with its day’s growth of beard.

  And he was unnaturally aware of her. She could tell by the way his eyes trailed over her body, lingering on the whiteness of her shoulders.

  He took her face between his hands, and -

  ‘Thief!’ The cry cut into the night like a knife. ‘Someone has stolen my necklace!’

  Cicely’s eyes flew open.

  Alex cursed under his breath. His eyes held Cicely’s as though unable to let them go.

  Then, ‘Thief!’ The cry came again. It could no longer be ignored. Nor could the hubbub coming from the direction of the house as more voices took up the cry.

  ‘I have to go. But you’re coming with me,’ he said. He took her by the hand and ran towards the Manor, with Cicely running alongside him.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he said, playing his part, as, dropping Cicely’s hand at the last moment, he strode into the house.

  ‘My necklace,’ said Miss Postlethwaite, playing her own part to perfection. ‘My beautiful emerald necklace. Someone has stolen it.’

  By now, all the guests had assembled in the ballroom, drawn there from the terrace and the supper room by Miss Postlethwaite’s cries. They were busily exclaiming over the theft, and cries of, ‘Her necklace!’ and ‘Those magnificent emeralds!’ pierced the night.

  ‘If I could have your attention,’ said Alex, taking control. He strode into the middle of the ballroom and addressed his guests. ‘It seems that a most unfortunate incident has occurred.’ He turned to Miss Postlethwaite. ‘You are sure you were wearing your necklace tonight? Forgive me for asking, but it as well to examine every possibility before we consider theft.’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Miss Postlethwaite.

  ‘And the necklace could not have slipped off?’

  ‘No.’ Miss Postlethwaite spoke definitely. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Alex, looking round the company, ‘if I might ask you all to remain in the ballroom. Unfortunately I feel it is my duty to call the police, and that being so, I feel sure they wil
l be able to clear this matter up more speedily if we are all in one -’

  A rustle of conversation, which had started as a whisper at the back of the room, now found full voice, and someone said, ‘The maid. The maid took it.’

  All eyes turned to the hapless maid who stood with a tray full of oysters in the middle of the room.

  ‘Who said that?’ demanded Alex.

  But no one knew where the voice had come from.

  ‘Might as well search her, just to be on the safe side,’ said Mrs Yarrow sensibly.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Gladys, the maid. ‘I ain’t got nothing to hide. Look, all I’ve got in my apron pocket,’ she said, plunging her hand deep into that article of clothing, ‘is . . . ’ Her face changed, and out of the pocket she drew . . .

  ‘Miss Postlethwaite’s necklace.’ Mrs Yarrow’s voice broke the silence that had filled the room.

  A hubbub of voices broke out.

  ‘I shouldn’t stand for it, Evington,’ came a voice from the crowd.

  ‘Dismiss her!’ came another.

  Alex felt himself rapidly becoming caught up in a nightmare. He had no wish to dismiss Gladys, but he knew that unless he did so - or at least appeared to do so - the Honourable Martin Goss would not relax.

  Inwardly cursing, Alex said, ‘Gladys, you are dismissed. You will wait in my study until the police arrive.’

  ‘But I never . . . ’ began Gladys, before she realized it would do no good, and her voice tailed off in a sob. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said brokenly.

  ‘Take over here,’ said Alex in an aside to Roddy, as Gladys left the room. ‘Soothe everyone’s ruffled feathers and get the evening back on an even keel. It’s no good. Goss has been too slippery for us - this time.’

  ‘But we will get him?’ asked Roddy anxiously.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Alex’s voice was steely. ‘We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.’

  * * * *

  Seething, Cicely followed Gladys from the room. How could Alex have treated the girl so disgracefully? she thought angrily. Following Gladys into the study, she found the poor girl wiping her eyes on her apron and sobbing bitterly.