Dominic, who was sitting opposite the girls, paused in discussing with Judith the concert they had enjoyed and let his gaze drop to Tansy’s skirt hems with a twitch of his mouth in amusement. “Lost your shoe?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I have.”
“I’ll find it.” He dropped down to one knee and reached under the seat, finally locating the shoe in the opposite corner. Tansy would have taken it from him, but he shook his head and reluctantly she raised her foot, which swayed as the carriage wheels covered the rutted lane. Without ado, he took hold of her ankle under her petticoats with one hand and slipped the shoe on with the other. “There, that’s better.”
He took his seat again, not taking his eyes from her, but she looked resolutely out of the windows as if there were something of interest to see in the blustery, wind-blown night. Her face burned crimson. He had caressed her ankle with his touch. And her instep. Admittedly the caress had been light and it could have been accidental, but she herself had no doubts at all. Such an intimacy was unheard of. Skirts were at a length that protected the slightest glimpse of an ankle from public gaze and that he should dare to take hers into those stroking fingertips of his was an outrage not to be borne. He was treating her like a — like a demimondaine. Did he imagine that by living under the same roof as Amelia she was tarred with the same brush? But what could she do or say? If she challenged him he would no doubt apologize profusely and say he had not been aware of causing any offense, which would make her look and feel ridiculous, as though she were making a fuss about nothing. Or — worse still — being the man he was, he might admit to it and then whatever apology he offered could only make matters a deal more awkward in every way. She would ignore it. Ignore the whole incident and pretend she hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t noticed? Dear God! Considering that she had only to come near him for her pulse to race and every nerve in her to throb it was small wonder that contact with his fondling hand, however brief and passing, should make her body come alive. How was it possible to be physically attracted against one’s most stubborn will to a man for whom one felt only animosity and enmity?
The ride was already over, the short distance between the two houses covered at a good speed. Judith, sensitive to atmosphere, glanced unhappily from one to the other of them and gave her hand to Dominic on the doorstep, bidding him a hasty good night, and added:
“It was kind of you to bring us home. I’ll not forget what we talked about this evening. Good night again.”
Tansy would have followed Judith into the house without a backward glance in Dominic’s direction, but he caught her by the arms and drew her into the dark shadows of the deep doorway out of sight and hearing of the coachman and groom on his carriage.
“Listen to me, Tansy. No, don’t toss your head and look away. I understand that it goes against your pride to be in debt to anyone. I should feel the same if such a misfortune ever happened to me, but for you to create a feud between us over Young Oberon is neither sane nor sensible. You left Ainderly Hall in high dudgeon the other afternoon, but I hoped you would simmer down and at least come to accept the situation. I had looked forward to seeing you this evening, knowing from Sarah that you were to be there, but as soon as you saw me you made a mask of your face and I knew we were as far apart as ever.”
“That is how we shall remain,” she retaliated. “No matter by what impertinences you seek to make your desires known.”
He gave a soft, low laugh and moved in closer, still holding her. “Forgive me, I beg you. It was grossly unfair of me to take advantage of you over your lost shoe, but although I know you to be virtuous I hardly think you prudish.”
“You don’t know me at all!” she retorted, feeling trapped between him and the stone wall at her back. “Yet you are highhanded enough to make judgments about my character as if we had been long acquainted. I’ve not forgotten all you said to me the night we met. You were insufferable.”
“Ah,” he said sagely, “is that at the root of it all?”
“No, it’s not.” All anger against him seemed to ebb from her and she gave her head a weary shake, capitulating to her sense of fairness. “I must tell you that until Roger said something to me that opened my eyes I blamed you for my father’s death.”
“I?” He was incredulous. “Why? What possible reason could you have had?”
“You led him into drink.”
“You’re wrong. He had downed more brandies than I knew of when I came downstairs to the taproom from the accommodation in the tavern that I had taken for the night. He stood alone at the end of the bar, there being no one else there at the time, the hour early. He was weeping. I have never seen a man shed such tears. The landlord and his wife hovered helplessly, at a loss how to comfort him. It was a relief to them when I appeared and took over. After lining up a few more brandies they left us alone. Oliver told me the whole story, our differences forgotten. In truth I feared for his sanity, so wild-eyed was he and mad with grief and despair. After a while the brandy dulled pain and memory, which seemed to me the best thing possible for a man in such agony of mind, and then as others came into the taproom his mood changed to a drunken need for camaraderie on a wider, boisterous scale to help ease his torment. The landlord and I had arranged to haul him up to one of the upper rooms and put him to bed for the night, but he stayed on his feet, amazing us both, neither of us having seen a man drink touch capacity without passing out. I believe his grief counteracted the full effect of the spirit he consumed, because after your appearance in the bar he became sober in his mind if not in his body.”
Her head hung. “And I didn’t go after him when he came out of the tavern as I should have done. I was so angry with him — and with you.”
“That was very obvious. But I followed him.”
“You did?” Her head came up again, her eyes wide.
“I caught him up and talked with him. He appeared clear-headed. I told him that I would not be staying the night after all and he was to return to the tavern and take my bed. He said he would do that after he had been to the churchyard and made his peace with Ruth and been alone with her. That was the last I saw of him. I only knew of his death when the lawyer notified me, having found a copy of the agreement over Young Oberon among Oliver’s papers and wanting to check that the colt had not been mutually disposed of since the document was signed.”
“Sorrow must have overcome my father again at the graveside and that was why he wandered the night through.”
“I can see that some measure of blame could be mine through not waiting to see him back myself to the tavern, but I thought him safe to leave.”
“No, you acted with humanity and none could expect more. I only realized my folly in blaming you for what happened to him at the end when I discovered that Roger had been holding me responsible all the time. I was ashamed. I suppose I had saddled you with my own sense of guilt.”
“Now we have talked out this point may I hope that we find ourselves on surer ground for our relationship?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing else has changed,” she answered stubbornly. “I can have no freedom of spirit until all debts are cleared between us. I’ve learned that not even Rushmere is wholly mine. There are mortgage payments outstanding to add to all the rest.”
“I don’t care a damn about the money,” he responded fiercely in exasperation. “Such paltry, unimportant sums —”
“They are not paltry or unimportant to me,” she flashed back, not daring to add that owing money to a scoundrel contaminated the debtor and her hands would not be clean until every last penny was paid in full. Her voice took on a taunting note, and she prodded his chest with her finger. “I’m now going to share a secret with you and as a gentleman you will respect my confidence.”
“Naturally.” He sounded pleased. “You have my word on it.”
“I intend to lead a double life this winter. Nina and Amelia are so anxious to preserve a genteel façade that I am thwarted in my original plan to make some money out of R
ushmere and must wait for that until the spring. So in the meantime I shall take up some daily employment in one of the big mansions in Epsom or outside it as a cook or linen maid or some other domestic post where I can at least earn something in regions where the grand lady of the house won’t see me and there will be no chance of my bringing disgrace to those of my own household.”
He was angered and outraged. “You cannot do that! It’s unthinkable.”
She was well satisfied with his reaction. Now she had it in her power to cut herself free of his attentions once and for all. In the stress of sorrow her father may have forgotten momentarily that Dominic indulged in racecourse tricks that had been abhorrent to him and brought about the gulf between them, but she had uppermost in her mind that sinister meeting she had been witness to by chance. “I shall scrub floors if I have to. Think of that! You may pass me by in future without a nod and I shall understand. No person of standing in Cudlingham or anywhere else can hobnob socially with a servant girl.”
His grip tightened on her arms, which he was still holding, and he lowered his head to bring his face within an inch of hers. “You underestimate me,” he warned dangerously. “The sooner you drop such ploys the better. I’m not so easily discouraged.”
His arrogance dumbfounded her. Did he imagine she was playing some coquettish game of chase and capture? Or — worse — did he think to fix a price on her to level out the debts between them? Then, even as she drew breath to answer him, she was too late, for he had interpreted those seconds of her silence into some meaning of his own, and his mouth swept down to possess hers. In the cold blackness of the doorway and the rough night there was an explosive golden fire in his kiss, his lips moving with a demanding violence against hers, his passion a force so powerful that even had she wished it she could not have broken from the embrace of his arms that held her clasped to the full male length of him, body to body, thigh to thigh. With complete and utter abandonment she surrendered to the delirium of her pounding senses with a sweet and frantic wildness, all her reason flown, all her will to resist momentarily melted and gone.
When at last their long kiss that had been many kisses ended he still clasped her tight with his arm about her waist and would have touched her throat with tender fingertips, but she drew back sharply, breathless and dishevelled, and reached for the ring handle of the ancient door behind her.
“It is all still as it was between us,” she said emotionally. “Nothing can or shall be changed. I mean what I say.”
She entered the house with a rustle of her taffeta skirt and closed the door behind her, shooting the bolt home with panicky fingers as if she feared he might decide to come in after her. Then she leaned back against the door’s stout timbers, giving her heart a chance to ease its crazy beating and her limbs time to lose their trembling. The hall was in darkness. Only a chink of light escaped from the direction of the kitchen to show that Judith had not gone to bed, but was waiting for her, probably with a pot of tea ready or some other hot drink.
Outside, the clatter of departing hooves carried him away. Silence descended on the night again, except for the creak of branches outside in the wind. She knew she must make a move. It was not fair to let Judith sit waiting any longer. With both hands she smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, and went toward the baize-lined door.
In the lamplit kitchen she found that Judith was not alone. Roger stood with his weight lodged on the edge of the kitchen table, both legs straight, his arms folded. Tansy saw at once that all was not well. Judith looked white and Roger’s face held a defiance that was not far from immature tears.
“What is the matter?” she asked anxiously.
Judith spoke from the bench where she was sitting. “Roger has something to tell you. He has been given the chance to become a professional gentleman jockey.”
Tansy relaxed, releasing a relieved sigh. “Is that any cause for such glum faces? Edward told me this evening that his trainer had been instructed to offer you a place, Roger. Did you see the man while we were at the concert?”
Roger nodded. “I was there about half-past eight. Mr. Townsend had been expecting me back in the morning, but I called in again on my way home.”
Tansy supposed that the conditions laid down were more strict than her brother had expected. Perhaps at first he would be doing less riding than he had hopefully anticipated. Another possible reason sprang to mind. “Do you have to spend an initial period in the hunting stables? I know those horses mean more to Edward than the others.”
Roger’s freckles seemed to stand out on his taut face. “You don’t understand. I’m not going to be at Cudlingham Manor. I stopped by to tell Mr. Townsend I was already fixed up.”
“Where?” she demanded in a dangerous voice. “Tell me where!”
He gulped and swallowed. “Don’t be mad, Tansy. I’ve been taken on at Ainderly Hall.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t ask for a place there!” she exploded, hurt as much as wrathful. “We don’t break promises to each other or anybody else in our family.”
“I didn’t ask, really I didn’t. You must believe me. After I came back from the gallops this morning and had helped unsaddle and clean off Young Oberon, replaced his rug, and seen to some fresh bedding, I was called into Mr. Kirby’s office. He offered me a traineeship there and then. I accepted.” His voice shook. “I couldn’t refuse, Tansy. He told me that Mr. Reade said I was to ride Young Oberon at every opportunity — and if I prove myself I’ll be able to race him when the time comes.”
Tansy stood very still, the fingertips of both hands pressed against her closed eyes as though fighting to gain control of herself. When at last she lowered them she spoke very calmly. “Well, no harm is done. You can go right back to Ainderly Hall in the morning and tell them that you have reconsidered the offer and find you are unable to accept it.”
Roger straightened up from the table’s edge and squared his shoulders. “It’s too late for that. I signed the papers. Whenever I ride in a race I’ll be wearing silks in the Ainderly Hall colours and no other.”
Tansy made a little sound between a cry and a sob. Her indebtedness to Dominic was increasing every day. Was she never to be free of him! Turning on her heel she went from the kitchen, her heels clicking as she traversed the long passageway. They heard the baize door close with a thud after her.
7
In the winter months that followed, Tansy’s life dropped into a pattern. Every day she took the wagonette, starting out at six o’clock each morning, to travel some little distance to cook and housekeep for a retired Rector in one of the surrounding hamlets. Nina had wanted her to take employment under a false name, but that she would not do, and she confided to the Rector her need to earn money without offending the genteel aspirations of those with whom she lived. He was a kindly man, and he understood and sympathized, paying her fairly, not only for her domestic services, but for the writing she did for him in the afternoons when he dictated to her a book he was hoping to have published about the life of one of the lesser known saints.
It was not the work she did for him that played the real havoc with her hands, bringing on chilblains, but the hours she spent exposed to the bitter elements while tending the open-air stall she had taken at a brisk and weekly market in the little town of Epsom. There she sold eggs from the hens she now kept, the lace and other handiwork done by Judith — who spent the greater part of every day making goods for the stall — and the pots of cosmetic preparations that Amelia concocted with such skill, a talent developed from her theatrical days when she had found it cheaper to make her own than to buy them. It was Nina’s praise of Amelia’s hand lotion that had first given Tansy the thought of turning that talent to their mutual financial advantage. Unfortunately Amelia was basically lazy, forever wriggling out of doing the small chores allotted to her, and she had to be chivvied constantly into getting the next batch of scented creams and lotions ready in time, each consignment selling out on the stall before the market clos
ed. Invariably it fell to Tansy to pot and bottle it all in the late evening when her day’s work was done, but she knew it was worth it, most of the money brought in going toward food and fuel and other necessities, the small residue joining the unspent wages received from the Rector to swell the still minuscule nucleus of a first payment against the debt that burdened her. The hand lotion, in spite of its undeniable ability to soothe and soften — the reason for its rapid sale — could do little for chilblains renewed constantly, and daily Tansy longed for milder weather.
At parties and other social gatherings she felt compelled to wear white gloves or else kept her discoloured and often puffy hands hidden as best she could, never once accepting an invitation to play cards or spillikins when all eyes would be on her fingers. Once she met Dominic on the stairs in the home of a mutual acquaintance during a party, and knowing they were alone in the entrance hall he caught her hand and ripped it free of its glove, his face darkening when he saw its swollen state. Outside the family circle only he knew of the work she did.
“You’re a stubborn young woman,” he said impatiently.
“I have obligations to fulfil,” she answered, not unamused by his exasperation. She believed herself to be one of the few — perhaps even the only one — of the women he knew and had known who persistently went her own way against his wishes. She made to withdraw her hand, but he held it tight by the fingers and put his other hand under it to cup his palm against hers.
The Marlows Page 14
