by Mary Nichols
As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop outside the stables, he left it to the care of the coachman and grooms and hurried indoors. There was no one about. He supposed his grandfather was at the racing stables and his grandmother was out paying calls. He went to find the dowager.
‘So you are back,’ she commented from the winged chair by the window of her boudoir. ‘You wasted no time. What did you find out?’
‘It is as you expected. James Bywater’s mother was Susan Bywater. The Principal of the Foundling Hospital was sure she was not married.’
‘Aah…’ The old lady sat back in her chair with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘At last.’
‘What difference does it make? He is what he is and it is not fair to Diana to expose him. She does not deserve to have the ignominy heaped upon her. She has been through enough already.’
She looked sharply at him. ‘I would not dream of doing so.’
‘I had supposed that was what your party was all about.’
‘Then you supposed wrong. I did not know who she was when I first thought of the party. And it was Stephen who asked me to include her.’
‘Ah, Stephen. What do you think he’ll make of it?’
‘Have you spoken to him about it?’
‘No, it is up to you to decide whether anyone should be told. It might be better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘I do not think that is possible now.’
He supposed not. ‘Why did you decide to hold the party?’
‘Why should I not? I am coming to the end of a long life and I thought what a pity I would not be alive to see the reaction of my family on the reading of my will, and so I shall implement it before I die and have some fun watching my offspring making use of their inheritance.’
‘You are a wicked old woman, Great-Grandmama,’ he said, laughing.
‘You are not to say a word.’
‘I won’t. But what about Diana?’
‘Go and find her, send her to me. I will tell her everything myself.’
‘Be careful of her,’ he said. ‘It will be a great shock and I am not sure how she will react. Leave her with some pride.’
‘I do not need a lesson in tact from you, boy. Now, off with you.’
He took his leave and went in search of Diana. She was nowhere to be found. Going out to the stables to see if she had taken Mayfly out, he was told by Soames that he had that morning taken her to Ascot to catch the stage to Staines.
‘What has she gone there for?’ he asked, remembering he had passed the Staines coach on the road. If only he had known she was in it!
‘It is not my place to ask questions of that nature, sir,’ Soames said. ‘You had better ask Miss Harecroft.’
He found his great-aunt supervising the servants polishing the ballroom floor. ‘Why has Diana gone to Staines?’ he demanded, forgetting the usual courtesy of a greeting.
‘I sent her to fetch Mama’s birthday present. She will stay with the Proudfoots.’
‘You could have sent a servant to do that.’
‘I could, but as she was intent on leaving…’
‘Why? Had someone upset her?’
‘I rather think you might have.’
‘Me?’ Even though he feigned astonishment, he was reminded of that stolen kiss. Was it his shame or her own she was worried about?
‘Yes. Can’t you see what has happened? She came to Borstead to consider Stephen’s proposal and finds herself in love with you.’
‘In love with me?’ He was astonished. Was she such a simpleton as to think one kiss constituted love? ‘Did she tell you that?’
‘No, of course not. I guessed. She said she was here under false pretences and had been mistaken for someone else.’
‘I hope you told her that was not the case.’
‘Of course I did, but, without betraying Mother’s interest, I could not convince her.’
He looked startled. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Mama told me. So what did you discover?’
He repeated what he had told the dowager. ‘Do you think Diana will come back?’
Alicia shrugged. ‘She might. It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what you do about it.’
‘Me?’ He looked searchingly at her. Was he expected to go rushing after her and persuade her to stay? But wouldn’t it be better if she were not at Borstead when Stephen came down? He had said all along the marriage was a bad idea. Would that not solve the problem? But would it? Great-Grandmama had set her heart on welcoming Diana into the family. Irrespective of whether she married Stephen, being part of the family would mean the end of her penury, the need to earn a living for herself and her father, the terrible living conditions—Great-Grandmama would see to that. And what had her father said about wanting a family for her. At that moment his concern for her overrode his consideration of his brother. He had talked to Stephen long and hard when he was in London, though whether his words had had any effect he was not sure. All he could think of was that he had to go to Diana and stop her doing something irrevocable.
His hesitation was only momentary. ‘I will leave you to tell Great-Grandmama I could not find her and why,’ he said. Then he turned about, went to the stables, where, to Soames’s annoyance, he had fresh horses put to the coach and ten minutes later, with young Archie Sadler on the driving seat, they were careering down the drive.
Diana looked out of the window of the coach, but she hardly saw what was passing in front of her: the villages with churches, houses and cottages straddling the road, the cattle grazing in meadows, the River Thames glimpsed now and again between the willows that lined its banks, the undulating countryside dotted with farms, and here and there the mansions of the rich, though not one of them was equal in size to Borstead Hall. She had left Borstead, she told herself, for ever, but she had left her heart behind. It was in someone else’s keeping.
As if in sympathy with her dismal thoughts, the weather had changed. The sun, which had been scorching everything, had disappeared and dark clouds rolled up from the south-west, presaging rain. She hoped it would hold off until she had done what she intended to do, because she had not brought wet-weather clothing with her. To have packed more clothes than would be needed for a stay of one night would have made Miss Harecroft suspicious. She would have to send for the rest of her belongings when she came back for her father.
When the coach drew up at the Bells in the market square at Staines, she was down almost as soon as the wheels had stopped turning and, after asking directions, hurried to find the shop where Miss Harecroft’s gift was waiting for collection. It was only a very tiny parcel and would have cost very little to send by mail; the whole errand was, as she suspected, a ruse to keep her. It made her feel a little better about what she was going to do, but only a little. She would write later and explain.
Her next stop was the home of Mr and Mrs Proudfoot where, instead of producing the letter Alicia had given her, she introduced herself as a friend of Miss Harecroft who had asked her to pick up her mother’s birthday gift and to ask them if they would be kind enough to take it with them when they went to the party on Saturday afternoon. They were an elderly couple and anxious to please and did not question the truth of what she said. She handed over the parcel, thanked them and returned to the Bells. She was a free woman again. But her freedom had been purchased at a terrible price. And now it was raining. By the time she was back at the inn, she was drenched. She bought a ticket to London and then, too nervous to go into the inn alone, sheltered beneath the overhanging eaves to wait for the coach to arrive.
She spent the time mentally making plans. Her first task when she arrived in the capital must be to visit Harecroft’s and tell Stephen her decision; she could not let him go all the way to Borstead in anticipation and not find her there. Then she would look for work, any work that provided her with enough for her and her father to live on. After that, she would know how much she could afford to pay for lodging
s. It sounded easy listed like that, but she knew it would not be. Where would she ever get employment as congenial and well paid as Harecroft’s? Sheltering from the rain, deep in thought she hardly noticed that the inn yard was full of people: drivers, guards, ostlers and passengers alighting from an incoming coach and those, like her, waiting for the London coach which was expected at any moment.
Richard left Archie with the coach at the Clarence Hotel and went to the home of Mr and Mrs Proudfoot, only to find Diana had been and gone again. ‘She said she was going to London,’ Mrs Proudfoot told him. ‘She gave us a little parcel to take with us on Saturday, but now you are here, you might as well have it.’ She fetched it from a drawer and handed it to him. He slipped it into his pocket and made for the Bells where he knew the London coaches called on their way from the west country, praying he was not too late. It was raining hard and he was glad that he had had the foresight to include his old army cloak in his bag when he left for London.
The inn yard was crowded but there was no mistaking that slim figure, those red-blonde tresses, now bedraggled, the proud carriage. She appeared to be making her way towards a coach that was then drawing into the yard. He hurried forward before she could escape him. ‘Diana!’
She whirled round. ‘Mr Harecroft!’
He doffed his hat and bowed, noticing the thin summer cape she wore and the rain dripping off the feather that curled about the edge of her bonnet. Some of it lay on her cheeks. She had never looked more lovely or more vulnerable. ‘At your service, Miss Bywater.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Passing through,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘Passing through,’ she repeated his words. ‘On my way to London.’
‘Running away.’
‘No, I am simply leaving.’ She had left Borstead to escape him and instead had run straight into him. What imp of mischief had made that happen?
‘Leaving?’
‘Yes. I told you a long time ago that I meant to find lodgings for my father and myself in London. Now is as good a time as any to do it.’
‘It is a very bad time,’ he said. ‘We cannot stand here in the rain; come inside and let us talk about it.’ He took her bag with one hand and put the other under her elbow to steer her towards the inn.
‘Mr Harecroft.’ She tried to resist, to pull herself from his grasp, but he tightened his grip and, short of making a scene, she had to go with him.
The room was as crowded as the yard and there was nowhere to sit. He marched up to the landlord who was directing a waiter, and demanded a private room, handing him several coins, three of which she noticed were guineas. In no time at all they were conducted upstairs to a large bedroom where a servant lit the fire that was already laid in the grate.
‘Sir, this is nothing short of abduction,’ she protested, when the innkeeper and the servant had gone.
‘You could have called for help.’ He took off his cloak and threw it over a chair. ‘You could still do so. I doubt mine host has reached the foot of the stairs.’
He was mocking her, playing with her like a cat with a mouse, and she was allowing it! Furiously she tried to regain her dignity. ‘You have made me miss the coach and now I shall be stuck here for hours until the next one arrives.’
‘Good.’
‘How can you say so? Have you no care for my reputation?’
‘At this moment, I care more for your health. Sitting in those wet clothes in a draughty coach could be the death of you and I cannot be held responsible for allowing it. Take off your hat and cape and your shoes.’ He pointed down at them. ‘You are making puddles on the carpet.’
She was very wet, having remained outside even when the drizzle turned to a downpour. And when he had spoken her name she had turned so suddenly she had put her foot into a puddle; she could feel the water squelching in her shoe. She looked down at her feet and then up at him. He was evidently not going to leave her in privacy. ‘Don’t be a fool, Diana,’ he added when she made no move to divest herself of her damp outer garments. ‘Now is not the time to climb on your high horse.’ He reached forward and tugged at the ribbon that fastened her hat.
She made no move to stop him. Could not. His touch on her throat set her pulses racing, making her heart beat so hard and so fast she was sure he could hear it. This was not how it was meant to be. She was meant to be in control, but his gentle touch was throwing her insides into a spin while her body seemed melded to the spot where she stood. Even her hands had fallen uselessly to her sides.
He caught her hat as it fell back and put it on the table. ‘Now that cape. I am surprised you should wear such a flimsy garment on a day like today.’ He began undoing the row of buttons down the front of it. She wondered idly if undressing young ladies was something he did frequently; he did not seem to be finding it difficult.
‘It was not raining when I left.’
‘Why did you leave?’ The garment undone, he helped her off with it and draped it over a chair near the fire, revealing a yellow-and-green striped gown with its mud-spattered skirt. Surely he would not insist she take that off as well? ‘Did you fall out with Great-Grandmama or my great-aunt?’
She was indignant. ‘I am not in the habit of falling out with people.’
In spite of her sharp tongue, he sensed her distress. ‘Sit down.’ He propelled her backward into a chair and then knelt on the carpet to take her foot in his hand. She held her breath. Surely not? But he was; he was gently removing her shoes and she was curling up inside and something extraordinary was happening in the pit of her stomach. ‘Your feet are soaked. I suggest you remove your stockings too. There is a screen in the corner.’
She laughed to cover her confusion. ‘And if I refuse, will you take those off as well?’
‘You think I would not dare?’ he queried, sitting back to look into her face.
She was taken aback. Their repartee to that point had been lively, just within the bounds of propriety, if being alone with a man in the bedroom of a inn could be called at all proper, but now she became alarmed and pulled her foot from his hand. ‘No. I think you have audacity enough for anything.’
‘Oh, I see. I kissed you. And you feel insulted. But let me remind you, there were two of us and—’
‘I know,’ she said miserably, reliving that kiss and breaking her heart over it. She scrambled to her feet and rushed behind a screen, which stood to one side of the hearth, to escape his searching look. Once out of his sight, she tried to calm herself.
‘Then you must share the blame,’ he said.
‘You took me unawares. I was…surprised.’
‘So was I,’ he said. ‘But if you are worried about what Stephen will say…’
‘I am sure he will say that it was no more than he would expect of you.’
He acknowledged the truth of this and smiled ruefully. ‘I shall not tell him.’ He paused. ‘You do not seem to be doing anything behind that screen,’ he said, throwing a blanket over the top of it. ‘Are you removing your stockings?’
‘No.’
‘Then hurry up and do so and your dress too. I ordered a meal and I am hungry, even if you are not.’
Glad that he had decided to stop quizzing her, she pulled off her stockings and dress, wrapped herself securely in the blanket and emerged from the screen with her clothing in her hand.
‘Good,’ he said, taking them from her and hanging the dress over another chair and the stockings from the mantelpiece, holding them there with a cracked vase and an ugly figurine of a cow. She watched this little piece of domesticity and her heart contracted with pain. To stop him seeing it in her face, she sat down and took a towel from a stand to rub her hair dry, hiding her head in its folds.
He watched her until her head of red-gold tresses emerged from the towel and he was suddenly filled with a great tenderness towards her. For all her hauteur, she was very young, little more than a wilful, exasperating, loveable chit. Did she really imagine she was in love wi
th him? It was flattering, but he could not believe it was so; they did nothing but argue. Did she imagine he was in love with her just because he kissed her? He was wondering how to disabuse her of that idea when there was a knock on the door. Sighing, he went to open it to the waiter, who stood outside bearing a tray. He thanked him and took it from him, saying they could manage, before shutting the door on him.
‘Mr Harecroft, that waiter was owl-eyed with curiosity. My reputation will be in shreds.’ Her belated attempt to regain her dignity was only half-hearted. The damage was done.
‘If your reputation is in danger, then it is you who have made it so. How can you have been so foolish as to try to leave alone and inadequately clothed? Surely you could have talked out your problem with my great-aunt.’ He brought the tray to the table and set it down. The smell of bacon and coffee wafted to her nostrils and she suddenly realised that she was very hungry.
‘I did. I told her I was at Borstead Hall under false pretences. I am a nobody, the daughter of a sea captain and a seamstress—why should someone like Stephen want to marry me, unless he is mistaken about who I am?’
‘Do you still think that?’
‘Yes. I can think of no other reason.’
‘You underestimate yourself, my dear. And I do not think it is the only reason you are leaving.’
She looked into his eyes. They were searching her face, no longer full of amusement, but seriously considering her, as if he could read what was in her heart without her having to speak of it. But she must convince him. ‘I must consider my father…’
