Daughter of the River

by Daughter of the River (retail) (epub)

  ‘Then maybe a change of air?’ suggested Mrs Fitzherbert hopefully. ‘It would do you good, that and a change of scene. Perhaps a stay by the sea?’

  ‘You are by the sea, madam, or as good as,’ retorted her husband. ‘We are only three or four miles off. How much closer do you want to be? If the girl needs sea air that much then order the carriage and take her to Paignton. She can wander up and down along the esplanade in her finery, that should satisfy her.’

  ‘What good is going to Paignton for an afternoon when we know no one there?’ protested Victoria. That’s no solution.’

  ‘Nor is hiring a house for the summer at Sidmouth or Bournemouth, which is what the pair of you are angling for,’ snapped Mr Fitzherbert. ‘When will you both get it into your stupid heads that we are here to stay until our circumstances improve?’

  ‘You would sacrifice your daughter’s health because a few miserable tradesmen are dunning us?’ Mrs Fitzherbert cried.

  ‘It’s more than a few, it’s a damned lot! And there’s nothing wrong with Victoria’s health. She is simply an ill-tempered young madam, and always has been, as I remember, since the day of her birth. Having only one child, I would not have thought it too much to expect my daughter to be at least amiable, but no. I have been saddled with a female who promises to be such an out and out virago that no man would be fool enough to take her off my hands. Was ever a father so unfortunate?’

  ‘You are blaming me again,’ wailed Mrs Fitzherbert. ‘You always blame me for everything that goes wrong in this family, and it isn’t my fault, truly it isn’t.’

  As his wife burst into familiar tears, Mr Fitzherbert did what he always did in such circumstances, he gave a snort of mingled fury and disgust and stalked from the room.

  Victoria was not far behind him. She went to her room and flung herself on a chair by the window, gazing onto the garden with unseeing eyes. She felt restless and irritable and also depressed, which was unusual for her. Boredom was the label she had put upon her malaise, but now she recognised that it was far more than that. No matter how she tried to divert herself or how hard she tried to occupy her mind, her thoughts kept coming back to the same subject – Calland Whitcomb.

  The way he had spoken to her still shocked and angered her. During her young life Victoria Fitzherbert had never bothered to curb her tongue, not caring whom she upset or hurt. Now, for the first time, someone had replied in kind. If it had been a woman who had said such things to her Victoria would have parried the insults with scorn, and doubtless won the verbal battle. Having heard such insults from a man’s lips had really shaken her. In her experience, men did not answer back to a lady – at least, gentlemen did not. They were bound by the timeless unwritten code of chivalry. But Cal Whitcomb was no gentleman, he had admitted it freely, and somehow to have heard such disrespect uttered in his countrified tones had affected her strangely. She was angry, certainly, but inside her something else stirred. An excitement at having met with something – or someone – quite beyond her experience.

  A sudden urgent screaming from the drawing room cut through Victoria’s thoughts.

  ‘Victoria! Mr Fitzherbert! Come! Oh, for pity’s sake, come quickly!’

  There was such a desperate appeal in the cries that Victoria sped down, hard on her father’s heels, fearing some terrible catastrophe. They found Mrs Fitzherbert standing in the middle of the drawing-room floor, a look of near delirious delight upon her face and an envelope clutched to her bosom.

  ‘Such news! Such news!’ she cried at their entrance. ‘We have an invitation to take tea with the squire and his family at Hill House tomorrow.’

  ‘An invitation to tea? You scare us out of our wits for an invitation to a tea party?’ Mr Fitzherbert glared at his wife. ‘Really, woman, I sometimes wonder how you manage with so few wits. I thought the house was on fire at the very least.’

  ‘But aren’t you pleased?’ Mrs Fitzherbert asked in puzzlement. ‘Don’t you realise what it means? We are accepted back in local society again.’

  ‘Of course I realise what it means,’ retorted her husband. ‘I’m no fool – one in the family is quite enough. But that is no excuse for shrieking like a steam whistle.’ He made to leave the room, only to find himself confronted in the doorway by several of the servants who had also come running at Mrs Fitzherbert’s scream. ‘Have you no work to do?’ he roared at them. ‘I don’t pay you to stand around and gawp at your betters.’ The thought that he did not pay them at all never occurred to him as he stamped back to his study.

  ‘Can I write and accept?’ cried Mrs Fitzherbert after him.

  ‘You can do what the blazes you like!’ was the reply.

  ‘You are pleased, though, aren’t you, Victoria?’ asked Mrs Fitzherbert. ‘You can wear the pink and white poplin. It is very becoming and you haven’t worn it since we came here that I recall. You are pleased, aren’t you?’ she persisted when her daughter made no reply.

  ‘Yes, Mama, I am quite delighted,’ answered Victoria in tones that suggested otherwise.

  ‘How strange. It was so tedious being ignored by everyone that I thought you would both be over the moon at receiving this invitation. Well, I am pleased, if no one else is. I shall write an acceptance this very minute and then I shall go upstairs and consider what I shall wear. The lilac I think… or would that seem too much like half mourning? Perhaps it had better be the peach… unless the bolero top would not be quite appropriate for a tea party…?’

  Victoria left her mother to her letter-writing and her uncertainty. She had to admit that she, too, had been quite surprised at her reaction to the arrival of this first invitation. For weeks past it had been eagerly anticipated, but now it had come she was strangely indifferent. All she could think of was how she could see Cal Whitcomb. This was the conclusion she had reached during her morning of alternate irritability and deliberations, that she had to meet him again, and this time she would be the one to win the battle of words. She was better prepared now, she would not rely upon gentlemanly conduct or any such nonsense. It would be a battle with no holds barred, find she would be the victor, bringing Cal Whitcomb to his knees before her.

  Returning to the privacy of her room once more, she began her plan of campaign.

  Next morning, long before the usual fashionable hour for young ladies to go riding, Victoria was booted, spurred, and in the saddle, making towards the lanes which surrounded Oakwood. She met up with Cal Whitcomb on the main road as he was coming from the direction of the village. She was so surprised to encounter him in such an unexpected spot that she demanded, ‘Where have you been?’

  His eyebrows rose in a way that inferred it was none of her business.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Fitzherbert,’ he said politely. ‘I trust that you are well?’

  His reproof was silent, and she found herself saying, ‘Good morning, Mr Whitcomb. Yes, I am well, I thank you, and I beg your pardon for my rudeness. You took me quite by surprise, coming out of the turning from Stoke Hill like that.’ She listened to herself with astonishment. She was actually apologising.

  ‘I don’t know why you should be surprised. As I understand it, Stoke Hill continues to be the public thoroughfare it’s always been.’

  ‘Yes, but you usually do the rounds of Oakwood this early in the morning.’

  ‘My, you have made a thorough study of my habits. I shall have to behave more erratically in future, if only to make your life more interesting.’

  ‘My life is interesting, I thank you,’ she answered sharply, furious at having given herself away. This was not at all how she had intended their confrontation to be.

  Then he smiled at her, not sardonically but with genuine amusement, and she thought he was not ill-favoured for a clodpoll. He wore his working rig of kerseymere jacket and twill breeches with style. She tried to imagine how he would look in evening dress, attending a soiree at the White House perhaps, and decided that he would not be at all out of place. One could quite take him for a g
entleman, and an elegant one at that, until he opened his mouth.

  ‘Since you are interested and obviously think I was up to no good, let me explain that I went to inspect some damage at my lower orchards,’ he said. ‘Someone has broken down a couple of gates.’

  ‘How dreadful! Who would do a terrible thing like that?’ she asked. Although she tried to make her concern seem sincere, it sounded stupidly false.

  Cal did not seem to notice. ‘I have a good idea who did it,’ he said grimly, then he relaxed and smiled again, this time with more than a hint of mockery. ‘Having come this far I would hate to deprive you of your customary tour round my fields. Will you please let me escort you?’

  Her first reaction was to refuse and pretend she intended to ride straight on. Then she reconsidered. She had taken great pains thinking out how she would behave when she met him and what she would say, yet so far matters had been takenof her hands entirely. Cal Whitcomb had dominated the situation for quite long enough. This would be her chance to get things under her control.

  ‘Thank you, I would like that, if it won’t be too much trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble. I am going in that direction anyway.’

  They rode on in silence for a while, then Victoria made her opening gambit, a show of interest in his work.

  ‘How is it that you have portions of land so far apart?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re two separate farms. Oakwood was my mother’s dowry; Church Farm, in the village, was my father’s land. They chose to live at Oakwood when they married, and the other farmhouse has been let ever since.’

  ‘I expect your mother was too attached to her old home to leave,’ said Victoria in a sentimental voice. ‘How fond of her your father must have been, to please her by living at Oakwood.’

  ‘I fancy the reasons were more practical than romantic,’ said Cal with amusement. ‘We’ve always kept more stock up at Oakwood than at Church Farm. It was more convenient to reside close to the animals rather than to slog up and down the hill goodness knows how many times to see to feeding and milking. Besides, Oakwood has the better house.’

  ‘Could your family not have employed people to do the work?’

  ‘Certainly, but farm workers have a most annoying habit, they insist upon being paid. Otherwise they wander off and work for someone else.’

  Victoria sat very upright in the saddle, uncertain whether he was making a pointed reference to the financial arrangements at the White House. He was just the sort of man who would be so indelicate. But when he changed the subject of conversation entirely, she decided she had been mistaken.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘it has been intriguing me these last ten minutes. If we had not met by chance at the road back there, what ploy would you have used to attract my attention this time?’

  ‘You seem confident that I would have wanted to attract your attention,’ she retorted.

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you? I’m still far from convinced that you found my old dog frightening that time we met in the lanes. However, my guess is that you would have used a variation upon the same theme. Something frightening your horse, perhaps. I daresay you have a spare scarf secreted about your person ready to throw into the hedge, for it to flutter in the breeze. Then, of course, that superbly schooled animal of yours would naturally take fright and refuse to pass the strange object the minute I came upon the scene.’

  ‘You are insufferable,’ declared Victoria, tossing her head, and hoping the silk scarf in her pocket remained hidden.

  Cal laughed. ‘I am, aren’t I?’ he agreed. ‘Shall we begin our survey of my land? Today, as well as my usual checking of the animals, I wish to look at the hayfields. You’ve not seen them recently, have you? You see, I have noticed your absence. So had my mother, incidentally. She hasn’t seen a decent hat in ages.’

  ‘Oh really!’ protested Victoria indignantly. ‘If you insist upon being rude, I shall call up Robbins and ride on by myself.’

  ‘There’s no need for that. You are quite right, I shouldn’t tease you, not when you’ve only just ceased punishing me for the last time I was rude to you. That was why you haven’t been riding around Oakwood recently, I presume?’

  ‘I have not been riding in these lanes recently because I wished for a change,’ Victoria said with careful dignity. ‘I was bored by the scenery.’

  This encounter was not going the way she planned. Try as she might, she could not gain control of either the conversation or the situation. Cal Whitcomb seemed to dominate her at every turn. For a simple farmer there was an elusive quality about him she had not anticipated. She was not sure she liked it, for it meant she did not know how she stood with him, and this was a new and unpleasant experience for Miss Victoria Fitzherbert. There were well-bred young men in London who would have been eating out of her hand by now, yet she was still sparring with this rustic, and coming off worse too often for her comfort.

  If Cal was aware of her displeasure he gave no sign. ‘After your absence, brief though it has been, I think you’ll see many changes,’ he said. ‘The hay in particular. This is the first field I want to look at.’

  Remaining on horseback, he leaned over and unhooked the gate, holding it open for her. Together they rode in. If Robbins was anywhere in the vicinity, he remained discreetly out of sight in the lane. Cal dismounted and, with a raised eyebrow by way of enquiry, lifted her out of the saddle too. Now was her chance. They were alone in the secluded field, his hands still about her waist.

  ‘Mr Whitcomb,’ she said in a demure voice, her eyes lowered.

  She was wasting her time. He let go of her, not seeming to have heard her, striding along the field border looking out across his hay as a sailor might look out to sea. Then he plucked a few strands of grass, rolled them between his finger and thumb and appeared satisfied with the result.

  ‘It’s ready for cutting,’ he said, walking towards her but with his eyes looking heavenwards instead of at her. ‘This weather will hold for a few days, if I’m any judge. We will start cutting tomorrow first thing.’

  ‘How gratifying,’ she said in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

  He chewed his lip, as if trying to contain a smile. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘An early start to haymaking is always good news. Who knows, we might manage a second cut this year. Miss Fitzherbert, I think you started to speak to me just now. I’m afraid I was a churlish fellow and scarcely noticed, for my mind was completely on the hay, but now my attention is entirely yours. What was it you wanted to say?’

  He was doing it deliberately! Ignoring her! Teasing her! How dare he imply she was less interesting than a field of stupid grass! Victoria was conscious that her lower lip was beginning to protrude sullenly. With difficulty she controlled it. He was not going to defeat her. She would gain the upper hand!

  ‘Mr Whitcomb,’ she said, her voice demure once more, her eyes lowered exactly as before, ‘I am glad of this opportunity to speak to you alone. I was not being quite honest when I said I found these lanes boring. To tell the truth I was too ashamed to ride this way in case I did indeed meet you again.’

  ‘You were?’ Cal’s voice was grave.

  ‘Yes. You said some terrible things to me that day – no one has ever spoken to me in such a way before, and I confess I was frightfully angry with you. But gradually, as I calmed down, I began to realise how right you had been. I did behave abominably to that poor woman, didn’t I? I don’t know what makes me behave so. It’s as if there is a wicked imp inside me which gains control at times, and then I do things I’m truly sorry for afterwards. I am, you know. Truly, truly sorry, and it was you who showed me exactly how nasty and unpleasant I’d been. If only I had someone wise and sensible like you to guide me and to teach me…’

  ‘To teach you how to control that wicked imp, I think you said it was?’ said Cal, his voice serious. ‘But, my dear young lady, you have parents.’

  ‘I have, but I fear I can’t turn to them. Mama is the dearest creature, but in all honesty h
er understanding isn’t great. As for Papa, he doesn’t like me, and never has.’ Victoria produced a handkerchief and applied it to her eyes with a facility learned from her mother. ‘He wanted a boy, you see, and he has never forgiven me for being a girl.’

  Cal cleared his throat. ‘I understand now how you need help in controlling that imp of yours,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t think I have the proper experience to assist. The person you need to speak to is my mother.’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Victoria in alarm, her handkerchief falling from dry eyes. ‘It’s you,’ she went on hurriedly, resuming her winsome voice. ‘You’ve already proved to be so wise. This unfortunate woman I sent sprawling in the mud, how do you think I should compensate her? I believe she lives in some cottages by the river. Shall I send Robbins to her with half-a- crown?’

  ‘Not unless he can swim,’ said Cal, his face still a picture of seriousness. ‘I would bet that her brothers would throw him and the half-crown in the river. Come to think of it, Miss Shillabeer is quite capable of throwing him in herself.’

  Victoria’s small face was raised, her eyes, large and luminous, looked up at him. ‘Then what shall I do?’ she asked plaintively.

  ‘This,’ said Cal. Grasping her by the waist he pulled her hard against him and kissed her.

  It was not a gentle gesture, there was no tenderness in it. As his mouth pressed on hers, taking away her breath, bruising her lips, Victoria was aware of a sense of impeding victory and a growing excitement.

  Abruptly he released her. ‘There,’ he said. ‘That was what you were angling for, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you just ask, instead of going through all that rigmarole? You aren’t really sorry one bit about Maddy Shillabeer, are you?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Victoria, buoyed up by her triumph. She was on surer ground now. ‘I said it because I want you to like me. You aren’t at all like the young men I usually meet. Compared to you they seem silly and insipid.’