Breakfast at Midnight

by Fiona MacFarlane

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Accusations

  Agnes immediately let go of the racquet, and with an anguished cry, she drew both hands protectively to her left cheekbone. In the next moment, she lost her balance and toppled over, landing heavily onto the cushiony grass beneath her. It was rather an undignified exit for an elegant young lady like Agnes Wentworth, and to the amusement of her enemies, particularly George Brearly, she slumped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  Frances ignored her partner’s chuckling, and stared panic-stricken at her injured cousin. ‘Oh heavens,’ she cried, turning towards George, ‘I, I think I might have injured her, or worse.’ She made a move forward towards Agnes, but George’s restraining hand on her arm stopped her.

  ‘She’s all right, Miss Norwood,’ George reassured her. ‘She’s not dead. Well not yet, anyway. One generally doesn’t die from being hit in the face with a ball. Agnes is a bit bruised, that’s all. You never know, you might have actually knocked some sense into her.’ He watched the distant proceedings with evident amusement. ‘Oh look, big brother the doctor has joined her. She’s definitely in good hands now.’

  Sure enough, Michael had just reached Agnes’s side, and was kneeling down beside her, examining the reddened cheek. By the time Frances and George crossed over to the other side of the court to see how Agnes was, a tearful Agnes lay cradled in Michael’s arms. By this stage, Louisa and Charlotte too had sensed that something was wrong on the court, and abandoning their wicker chairs, had hurried over to where Agnes was.

  ‘What happened?’ Louisa gasped. ‘Whatever has happened?’ She cast Michael a sideways glance. ‘Shall I fetch my bottle of smelling salts?’

  George snorted a laugh and was rewarded for his efforts with a hateful look from Michael. ‘Now, now,’ George ventured, ‘don’t look at me like that. It was only an accident. Agnes was clearly not fast enough on her feet.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Louisa added, ‘why has my darling got a red mark on her face?’

  ‘An accident?’ Michael cried, ignoring Louisa and seizing upon George’s words. ‘What a load of rot and poppycock! Anyone could see that Miss Norwood hit her deliberately.’ Having said this, he shot Frances a heartfelt look of disgust.

  ‘Is this true?’ Louisa whispered accusingly. ‘Did you strike your cousin?’ She too watched Frances with cold, censorious eyes.

  Frances grimaced. ‘I’m afraid I did, Aunt Wentworth,’ she admitted. ‘But I didn’t do it intentionally! I, I was aiming for something else!’

  ‘Come on, Nessie,’ Michael was saying in a loud voice. ‘Let’s get you back inside, where you’re safe.’ He helped her to her feet and began brushing away grass blades from his fiancée’s grass-stained gown. ‘And as for you, Miss Norwood,’ he said, wheeling around to face Frances, ‘I’d make myself very scarce if I were you.’ He then turned his back on her, and with Louisa and Charlotte in hot pursuit, proceeded to guide Agnes unceremoniously back into the house.

  As soon as Frances and George were alone together, George spoke. ‘Well I must say, Miss Norwood, that that shot of yours was a beauty. Not only were the timing and speed perfect, but the application and execution were superb. I don’t think I could have done better myself. In fact, Miss Norwood, it has been quite a pleasure to have been your partner today.’

  Frances stared at her tennis partner with incredulity. She was already smarting from the doctor’s accusation, and George’s comment did nothing to improve her spirits. ‘Mr Brearly,’ she began tersely, ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I meant to hit my cousin. If you are, then you are mistaken.’

  ‘Oh come now, Miss Norwood, there’s no need to deny it.’ He gave her a look of particular meaning. ‘I saw that malicious glint in your eye before you hit that ball.’ An indignant Frances remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. ‘You had all the time in the world to hit that ball, and all the court in which to hit it into, and yet you hit it directly at her. In my book, it was unmistakably intentional.’

  By this stage Frances was beginning to get quite angry. It was true that she had wanted to get revenge on Agnes, but her plan was never to injure her physically. She therefore did not appreciate George’s inferences. ‘Now look here, Mr Brearly—’

  ‘Call me George,’ George said smilingly.

  ‘Very well, George. You should have been watching the ball, not me. As for my alleged tennis skills, please do not suppose that I have enough mastery of the game to be able to direct my shots where I wish them.’

  ‘Frances,’ he said with a laugh, ‘you have exceptional talent on the tennis court, and I strongly doubt your last assertion. You hit that ball, like most of your other shots, with control and with the full face of your racquet. In fact I don't think I’ve seen a more energetic player than you. You were a delight to watch. I’m sure that my brother shared my admiration. Before you hit Agnes, that is.’

  A servant, bearing two glasses of freshly made raspberry vinegar, interrupted the conversation at this point and handed them both a glass. As the girl retreated, George slurped down most of his drink and sighed happily.

  ‘What an awfully good morning this has turned out to be,’ he declared, using his sleeve to wipe away the perspiration from his forehead. ‘Good, competitive, hard-hitting tennis, with a few suspicious line calls, a bit of cheating, and best of all, an injury and public humiliation thrown in for good measure. Oh, Frances, did you see that look Agnes gave when that ball impacted with her face? It was a look of horror, mingled with surprise. I can never thank you enough for that moment.’

  As Frances listened to these uncharitable comments, her curiosity began to grow. She wondered what George had against Agnes and wondered why he spoke of her with such disrespect and disdain. She was on the verge of asking him these questions, but checked herself at the last moment, realising that the question she was about to ask him might be considered impertinent.

  George noted her silence and sought to explain himself. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Frances,’ he ventured quickly. ‘You’re thinking that I am an awfully cruel and callous man for wishing Agnes to be humiliated.’ He looked towards her, earnestly awaiting her answer. She made him none. ‘I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes’ then. Let me explain to you why I despise Agnes Wentworth.’ He faltered and began nibbling his bottom lip nervously. ‘Agnes is a woman of contradictions. On the one hand, she can be charming, witty and generous—’ For a moment he seemed to have difficulty in choosing his words and he looked away. ‘But, on the other hand, she is one of the weakest people I have ever known, particularly when it comes to her mother. I can appreciate that they have a close relationship, but don’t you think that Agnes is old enough to make her own decisions?’

  Frances could no longer remain quiet. ‘And is that the only reason you don’t like her?’

  ‘No,’ he said quickly, swallowing the remains of his raspberry cordial. ‘There’s another reason.’ He could not bring himself to look at her. ‘Agnes Wentworth is the wrong woman for my brother. It’s as simple as that.’ Once his awkwardness abated, he addressed her again. ‘Actually, Frances, I should very much like to hear your opinion of her. Are you fond of your cousin, or have you always had the desire to hit her in the face with a tennis ball?’

  Frances stared. She found the question insulting, and while she took a sip from her glass, she thought about what she was going to say. It would not do to speak ill of Agnes at this point, particularly to someone like George. With him there would be no assurances of his discretion.

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot answer that,’ she eventually replied. ‘I have not seen enough of Agnes to form an opinion.’

  George acknowledged her lie with a smile. ‘Ah, that will not do, Frances. You obviously do not trust me, otherwise you would have told me your real feelings.’

  ‘Trust has nothing to do with it, now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I must go inside and make inquiries about my cousin’s welfare.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. You hear
d what Michael said earlier. Do yourself a favour and stay out here with me. We’ll have a single’s match and then we’ll return to the house in time for morning tea. By then, hopefully, Michael will have regained his composure.’

  Frances considered his proposition. George was right. It was better to wait outside until everyone had sufficiently calmed down. ‘Very well then, George. But I’m warning you. No cheating, otherwise I’ll use you as target practice.’

  George smiled. ‘How dare you accuse me of cheating. I am most awfully offended.’

  Frances returned his smile, and without saying another word, the young couple separated and made their way in thoughtful silence to opposite ends of the court.