Agnes’s mind veered sharply to the man presently lying ill in bed in a small cottage only a mile or two distant and thought she knew to what the Marquess referred. Louisa had taken against the Baronet because of his transparent motivation in courting her but also, she suspected, on account of his degenerate way of life. She was certain that Danehill, in a much longer life, had behaved just as badly as Sir John, but his rank was higher and his manner more reserved.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that were she to bestow her affection upon a person, she would be ready to forgive past improprieties if she believed that – that the person meant to reform. It is not, after all, easy to remain upon the straight path – it is so very narrow that one cannot help but deviate from time to time.”
“That, if I may point it out, is your attitude, Miss Helman, but I am by no means convinced that it is Miss Newbolt’s.”
“I do not think it is an unusual attitude; the important feature is the degree of love involved,” Agnes countered.
“So, if I am to understand you right, you believe that, if Miss Newbolt were to fall in love with me, she would be able to forgive me for what you call my past improprieties but which I am afraid are of a graver nature than that.”
“Yes; but I think you would have to confess – not so much to the improprieties, which I assume concern your dealings with my sex – but to those graver misdemeanours about which you seem so exercised.”
“Thank you. You have given me some hope.”
“Well, I am glad of that at least but I should add that she will not be deceived by a courtly or flirtatious manner. If you are interested in her only because she possesses a fortune, she will despise and reject you at once – and I shall applaud her for doing so.”
“I can see that I was deceived by your apparent gentleness into taking fright at the wrong judge; it is you of whom I should be afraid.”
“You should certainly be wary if you intend to try to deceive or hurt my dearest friend for I give you notice, my lord, that I will rush to her defence at once.”
“Just so,” he replied, kissing her hand and reinforcing her opinion that he had danced with her – and talked with her – purely because he wished to ingratiate himself with the woman whose influence over the heiress he sought.
Louisa was a little cool as she escorted her friend to her bedchamber at the end of the evening.
“You seem to have annexed Danehill,” she said, adding with a pitiful attempt at humour. “I thought he had come to court me.”
“Oh, he has! His interest in me was purely as a means to approach you – he seems to think I have influence over you.”
“What perspicacity!” Louisa exclaimed sarcastically. “Is that what he told you?”
“Yes; in so many words. I can assure you that, although I was not in the least surprised, I was a little wounded.”
“I seem to remember you warned me against him. Am I to infer that, if he had been pursuing you for yourself, you might have changed your mind about his unpleasantness?”
“I do not recall saying that he was unpleasant, only that I considered him sinister – the two are not at all the same. The danger, to my mind, is that he presents himself as far from unpleasant and it is his power, partly caused by his high rank but also, I think, by his character, of which one should be careful. He is a man, it seems to me, who likes to have his own way and, while that is true of all of us, it strikes me that he would stop at little to get it. You are a woman who likes – and is accustomed – to get her own way. The two of you together would make an explosive combination.”
Louisa stared at her friend. Two bright spots of colour flamed upon her cheeks and her eyes glittered for a moment before she turned away to indicate the nightgown laid out upon the bed.
“That is for you,” she said. “I hope it will not be too long. You must take care not to trip over it.”
“I shall indeed. Thank you, Louisa. Do you truly like Lord Danehill?”
“No, I think I hate him. Do you like him?”
“Better than I did before this evening, but I still hold to my opinion that he would make any woman a bad husband – and you in particular.”
“Why me in particular? If he is a bully, I am very likely the one person who could stand up to him.”
“Dearest Louisa, pray do not see the matter as a challenge. It is not one that, ultimately, you will win unless you can bring him to his knees for love. I fear that you are well on the way to forming, I will not say an attachment, but a tendre perhaps, and if you should fall in love with him while he remains attracted mainly by your fortune, he will wipe the floor with you. I am sorry,” she added, tears springing to her eyes as she saw the spots of colour bloom alarmingly upon her friend’s cheeks, “I do not mean to hurt you but better I than he for I do love you and wish to protect you.”
“Do you think it impossible that any man would ever love me for myself?” Louisa asked in a dangerous tone.
“No, of course I do not; but Lord Danehill – I think he is conscious of his own faults and may be able to – to become a better man if his more tender side is touched, but I cannot conceive how that will be if you enter into a battle with him. Oddly enough, I think there is a part of him which is open to gentleness but it is a frail flame which will need to be cherished if it is to grow stronger.”
“Good God! Do you think to understand him so well after a couple of dances?” Louisa exclaimed, enraged.
“No, no, of course I do not. I put my view forward as a suggestion only. Pray do not be angry with me.”
“Well, I am!” Louisa almost shouted. “I suppose it is your gentleness that has touched his heart; I knew he was falling in love with you. Why in God’s name do men always prefer mousey women?”
“I suppose they like to have their own way and believe that will not be so difficult with a submissive female,” Agnes said mildly, trying not to take offence at being called ‘mousey’ again.
“Do you prefer Mr Armitage?” Louisa asked, tilting up her chin and glaring at her friend.
“He seems a pleasant enough gentleman,” Agnes said, “but, if you mean, as I think you do, am I nearer to forming an attachment to him than to Lord Danehill, the answer is ‘no’. He is a little too pragmatic for my taste – and in any event is not in the slightest degree interested in me.”
“Do you think him ‘mousey’?” Louisa asked sarcastically.
“I had not thought to apply such a term to him,” Agnes replied carefully, “but I suppose you mean to imply that we seem well-matched. I am not looking for a suitor and do not expect to find one. Neither man could afford to marry me in any event.”
“At least you will know, if any man does make you an offer, that it must be for love whereas I cannot be sure.”
“No,” Agnes agreed. “But, you know, when a man does fall in love with you, I daresay you will know. I don’t believe it is so very hard to tell genuine feelings from spurious ones.”
“I don’t see why Danehill could not marry you,” Louisa said, apparently determined to keep pressing on her own tender spot. “So far as I know, he is no pauper.”
Agnes shrugged. She could not tell her friend that the Marquess had already confided that he could not afford to marry her for that, she was afraid, would set the match to her friend’s smouldering fury.
“I will leave you now,” Louisa continued, going to the door. “Pray do not hesitate to ring if there is anything you require. Shall I send Annie to you?”
“No; I have never had the assistance of a maid to help me undress and am persuaded I do not need one now. Good night, my dearest friend.”
“Good night.” Louisa hesitated in the doorway, her body rigid with anger, before shaking herself and returning to embrace her friend.
“Good night, dearest Agnes. I know you have my best interests at heart and I am sorry to be churlish.”
When she had gone, Agnes sighed and sat down at the dressing table to remove the yellow ribbon and pins from her
hair, allowing it to fall about her shoulders in a dark mass. She picked up the brush and resolutely pulled it through the curls before plaiting it for the night. Then she stood up and, with a graceful twist of her arm, undid the buttons down the back of her dress and stepped out of it. She shook it out and laid it across a chair before removing the rest of her clothes and putting on Louisa’s nightgown.
Once in bed, she blew out the candle and composed herself for sleep.
In the morning she found that her dress had been removed from the chair on which she had laid it and a morning gown substituted. Louisa’s maid must have crept in either late last night or early in the morning. She supposed that it would be laundered and returned in time for whatever the next evening entertainment would be although, after last night, she rather wondered if Louisa would wish her to attend any other parties.
She dressed in the yellow muslin laid on the chair, wondering if Louisa had chosen it on account of the ribbon she had worn the previous evening. It did not fit perfectly because her friend was not only taller but larger in every direction although she noticed with pleasure that the hem had been turned up so that the skirt did not trail along the ground. Annie had not only swapped the dresses without disturbing her but had also found time to shorten the substitute.
When she entered the small dining room for breakfast she was relieved to see that the Marquess was not there; Louisa was, wearing a figured muslin, and so was Mr Armitage.
“I knew the yellow would become you,” Louisa said at once. “Although I can see that it is too big.”
“Only by the merest trifle,” Agnes replied. “And how thoughtful of you to have had it shortened; I will be able to walk back without its trailing too dreadfully in the mud.”
“There is no necessity to walk back at all. I can drive you in the curricle. But I hope you will not remain away for too long. Everyone will wish you to return as soon as possible.”
Agnes smiled warmly at her friend for she had not forgotten what had been said the previous evening and was by no means convinced that Louisa wanted her to come back.
“I will walk with you,” Mr Armitage said. “I believe I should visit my mama again as soon as possible and, if you will guide me across the fields from this direction, I shall be more certain of the route next time.”
Thus it was that, breakfast finished, she and Mr Armitage set off together. It was a fine morning although, when they stepped outside, it became apparent that there had been one of the first dews of autumn while they slept.
“Have you no boots?” Mr Armitage asked. “Perhaps you could borrow some from Miss Newbolt.”
“Her feet are several sizes larger than mine,” Agnes said, “so I do not think that it would be practicable to do so. Pray do not draw her attention to the dew for she would never allow me to walk in it for fear of spoiling my shoes. They will be very damp but it will not be the first time and they are bound to dry if they are placed before the kitchen fire. Come, let us go before anyone else appears to give us advice.”
Mr Armitage looked rather uncomfortable with this so that Agnes wondered if he was afraid that she would catch cold if she walked in damp shoes.
“Pray do not refine upon it,” she said briskly. “I am often outside in the dew and have never taken any harm. I daresay it would be a different matter if I was to spend all day in damp shoes, but I promise you I will not.”
Chapter 20
They beguiled the walk with comparisons between this part of Sussex and the area of Kent – not many miles distant – where Mr Armitage had grown up. In spite of not being entirely reconciled to the loss of his family home he was perfectly ready to speak of it and of how he and his brother had been used to swim in the river that ran a few hundred yards from the house. Agnes had grown up much further west so that the country there was very different.
“If it is warm enough and you are not engaged in some pursuit up at the big house I daresay you could swim here,” she suggested as they walked over a bridge.
“That’s a splendid idea. It might do John good to get into the water,”
He seemed so enthusiastic that she felt she ought to sound a warning note. “I do not know how long you are planning to stay but I should not think he could manage it just yet. He is far from well and not yet able to walk by himself.”
“No, but if I were to get him down here I daresay he would be able to swim and it would very likely revive him.”
“It might but the water would be cold, would it not? And how would you get him up the bank again?”
“I suppose I could carry him,” Mr Armitage said. “He looks pretty thin so I don’t suppose he weighs much.”
“No,” Agnes agreed, thinking that, when he had fallen on top of her, he had seemed to weigh a good deal.
“I suppose the water is clean, is it? I hope there is not a village upstream which might tip noxious substances into it.”
“No, I think it is quite clean but it might be advisable to ask Louisa; I have not lived here long and this is her family’s land.”
“Well, I will suggest it when he is stronger.”
When they reached the house, they went into the saloon to greet Lady Armitage, who called at once for coffee to be brought.
“I will run upstairs and change my shoes,” Agnes said. She had already removed the damp ones and handed them to Jess on the doorstep. Now she went up the stairs in her stockinged feet, noting as she did so that she must change them too for her feet were exceedingly uncomfortable.
It was as she made the turn at the top of the stairs to go up to her attic that she was arrested by Sir John’s voice calling out, “Is that you, Miss Helman?”
“Why yes! Good morning, sir!” she replied, pausing.
“Will you not come in and show me your face?” he asked.
“I have wet feet,” she protested but she went to the door and looked in.
He lay in his – or what had been her – bed, propped against the pillows. She noticed that he looked better already but was uncertain whether that was because he was on the mend or was merely a trick wrought by his bare face. His beauty without the beard was so astounding that she stood, almost transfixed, upon the threshold. His hair was tumbled, a lock falling across the broad brow, and his nightshirt, open at the neck, revealed a chest which, although skeletal, was undeniably masculine. The hollow at the base of his neck was deep and shadowed between the prominent bones but the skin looked as soft and fine as silk and she could see, even from this distance, the pulse which beat there.
“I wanted to see your face, not your feet, although I am certain they also are delightful,” he said.
“I did not suppose you would wish to see them,” she countered, blushing furiously. “But I wanted to remove my stockings, which are soaked, for fear I might catch a chill.”
“Of course; you must remove them at once; it would not do if you were to become ill.”
“No, for then there would be less attention to spare for you,” she snapped, believing, since Louisa had told her what an odious person he was, that he was only thinking of himself.
“There might be less,” he agreed, “but I would not want any if you were ill. I believe I would rather die.”
“Pray don’t exaggerate!” she exclaimed, irritated.
“I do not. Take off your stockings at once and then come and show me your face. But pray do not change your dress – you are a positive ray of sunshine in that yellow in spite of the mud around the hem.”
She nodded and backed away. So impatient was she to see his face again, that she merely ran up the stairs, removed her stockings and came down in her bare feet.
“They are as pretty as I thought they would be,” he said, noticing at once, “but the dress, although a cheering colour, is too big. I suppose it is your friend’s, is it?”
“Yes. Mine was an evening gown in which I could not very well have walked back across the fields. She has lent me this while mine is laundered.”
“What colour
is it? You did not bid me goodnight before you went yesterday.”
“Black.”
“Ah – like everything else I have ever seen you wear. Black becomes you but you are quite lovely in yellow. Will you not come a little closer? This is a very small house but it is still hard to see you over there.”
She advanced a step and stopped again.
“Are you afraid that I will ravish you? I do not think I am capable of such energetic action when I can still not stand firmly upon my own feet. You will be quite safe.”
She flushed again. It had not occurred to her that he might do any such thing but she could not avoid the anxiety that she might wish him to if she came closer. There was something so mesmerising about him as he lay against his pillows that she found her heart beating wildly. He really was astonishingly handsome; his skin was still faintly yellow and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes but the quality of it – the smoothness, delicacy and translucency - was, if not wholly unimpaired by his illness, not so much affected as to detract substantially from its essence. Beardless, the exquisite angle of his jaw was revealed along with a bewitching pair of lips just now curving into a smile that was at once teasing and self-deprecating.
He held out his hand and she noticed, not only its strength and grace, but, as his sleeve fell back, the extreme thinness of the arm above. Seeing it, she felt emboldened to come closer.
“I can see you are feeling much more the thing,” she said encouragingly.
“Indeed! And it is all because of you. I have been listening out for your footsteps for hours. Mama told me last night that you had gone to the big house for dinner. Was there dancing too?”
“Yes.”
“And I do not suppose you wanted for partners? Did you stand up for every dance?”
“Yes – and, since I have never danced before, I own I am excessively tired this morning.”
Agnes Or The Art 0f Friendship Page 16
