It would not be a good introduction to his new Master if he flew up onto the top of the pelmet and would not come down.
“They are very late,” Mrs. Dawkins said, standing by the cake stand that she had set down on a small table. “Something must have happened to delay his Lordship.”
Next to the cake stand stood a large plate of thin cucumber sandwiches, from which Mrs. Dawkins herself had carefully cut the crusts and they were beginning to curl up in the heat of the afternoon.
Rosella looked at the gold clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was almost half-past five.
The housekeeper twisted her hands nervously.
“What do you suppose has happened to them?” she moaned. “I do hope that nothing is wrong.”
“I am sure his Lordship will be here very soon,” Rosella replied encouragingly.
What had happened, she was quite sure, was that someone at the inn had bought another round of beer for everybody and then someone else had done the same thing and this had detained Lord Brockley.
Pickle suddenly shook himself and sneezed loudly,
“Bless you, my dear!” he called out.
Rosella laughed at him, then she noticed that he had his head on one side as if he was listening to something.
His hearing was particularly good, often very much sharper than Rosella’s and after a moment, she realised that he had now picked up the clatter of hooves in the distance.
“They are coming!” she said and her heart fluttered nervously.
“I shall call the servants out onto the terrace,” the housekeeper said, looking pale. “We must all be there to greet his Lordship and you as well, Lady Rosella.”
It was very hot out on the terrace in front of The Hall and the maids’ white aprons fluttered in the breeze as they stood beside the footmen, the gardeners, the grooms and all the other servants, forming a wide avenue to greet their new Master.
At the very top of the steps, Mrs. Dawkins and Hodgkiss, the ancient butler, took their places by the stone pillars that flanked the front door.
Rosella felt very awkward.
She was not sure where she should stand out there on the hot terrace and was thinking that perhaps she should wait inside in the cool of the hall, when a large coach with the Brockley family coat-of-arms emblazoned on the door careered up the drive at breakneck speed and came to a sudden halt, scattering pellets of gravel everywhere.
Sitting up on the box, clinging tightly to the reins, was the fair-haired man who had winked at Rosella earlier.
“Whoa, there!” he shouted, even though the horses had already come to a standstill. “Mettlesome brutes, hey? But then I’ve got the measure of them all. That was a fine run, wasn’t it, coachman?”
The coachman touched his hat politely.
“Yes, indeed, sir,” he murmured.
He was very red in the face and seemed relieved, Rosella thought, when the fair-haired gentleman let him take the reins back into his own hands.
“Is that him?” Mrs. Dawkins whispered to Rosella, staring at the fair-haired gentleman.
But the footman who rode on the back of the coach had jumped down and was opening the door.
The angry man with the mutton-chop whiskers then emerged from the coach, his face like a thundercloud.
“Merriman, you clown!” he growled. “You damn near got us all killed.”
Rosella touched Mrs. Dawkins’s arm.
“That’s Lord Brockley!” she whispered.
His Lordship walked slowly towards the steps that led up to the front door and there was a ripple of white aprons as the maids all dropped into deep curtseys.
Hodgkiss then bent into a respectful bow and Mrs. Dawkins dropped such a low curtsey that she was almost on the ground.
As Lord Brockley mounted the steps, he scowled at Rosella, his dark eyes flashing under his hooded lids.
“What’s this?” he grunted. “Get back to your place, miss!”
He jerked his head at Rosella, indicating that she should go down and join the maids.
Then he pushed past, almost knocking her aside and went into the hall with Mrs. Dawkins scurrying after him.
Rosella caught hold of one of the stone pillars to stop herself from falling.
She might be wearing a dark blue dress, but, even so, how could her uncle have mistaken her for a servant? Could he not see she had no apron?
“Out of the way, young lady!”
A blast of beery breath struck Rosella in the face.
The fair-haired gentleman too had staggered up the steps and he went to push past Rosella, muttering,
“We’re here just in time, that’s for sure. Servants soon get above their rightful place when there’s no Master in the house!”
Then he gave a violent hiccup and grabbed at the stone pillar to steady himself.
“Pardon me!” he said and then his little blue eyes grew wide with surprise. “Well! This really is my lucky day. It’s the divine little angel from the inn!”
He reached out as if to catch Rosella’s hand, but she backed away and he swayed on his feet and almost fell.
She longed to run away, but she must not be rude to this gentleman, her uncle’s friend, so she smiled politely at him and said,
“Welcome, sir, to New Hall. I am Lady Rosella Ryland, the niece of Lady Beatrice.”
His eyes looked as if they would pop out of his head.
“Well I never!”
He then made a wobbly bow, almost overbalancing.
“Would you care to step inside?” she said, going into the hall. “Mrs. Dawkins has laid tea for you in the drawing room.”
Algernon made a smacking noise with his lips.
“Delightful!” he exclaimed. “And just the ticket. I heartily approve of your Hampshire hospitality. Had a nice taste of it already – at that excellent inn,” he added and gave another loud hiccup.
Rosella led him to the drawing room, hearing his unsteady footsteps behind her on the tiled floor.
Lord Brockley was seated in an armchair close to the fireplace with a disparaging look on his dark face.
“Oh, there you are, Merriman,” he said, taking no notice at all of Rosella.
Algernon stood by the sofa, swaying a little as he gazed around at the room.
“Marvellous place,” he said. “Absolutely top hole, your Lordship.”
Lord Brockley sniffed.
“A modest little country seat. My house at Epsom is vastly superior.”
It was as if Rosella did not exist.
She looked around anxiously for Mrs. Dawkins, but the housekeeper must have gone to bring a pot of fresh tea.
What should she do? Should she quietly slip away and leave the two gentlemen alone or should she introduce herself to Lord Brockley?
The matter was taken out of her hands.
“Look who I’ve found,” Algernon was now saying. “The little beauty from the inn!”
Lord Brockley scowled.
“What? I let you out of my sight for one moment, Merriman, and you are off chasing some female again.”
“Not guilty, your Lordship. This little sweetheart is part of the fixtures and fittings! She’s the niece of old Beatrice, your sister-in-law.”
Lord Brockley looked annoyed.
“I do remember now, some mention of a girl living here. A useless encumbrance, no doubt, that I must now be responsible for.”
Rosella felt her face grow hot with embarrassment, but she was saved from any further unpleasant comments by the arrival of Mrs. Dawkins with a silver teapot.
“Here, my Lord,” the housekeeper said and Rosella noticed that the tray was trembling slightly in her hands. “Will you take cream and sugar? And a slice of cake?”
“Cake!” A small voice spoke up from the corner of the room, where Pickle’s cage stood. “Yes, please!”
Lord Brockley did not seem to have noticed a thing, but Algernon looked surprised. From his seat on the sofa, he could not see the parrot’s cage.
>
“What was that?” he asked and then he hiccupped loudly. “Pardon me!”
Rosella was just about to explain about Pickle, but Algernon was now being distracted by Mrs. Dawkins, who was standing by his elbow with the teapot.
“Cream or milk, sir?”
“Cake!” Pickle screamed a little more loudly. And then he gave a loud hiccup – exactly like Algernon’s.
“Quite enough of that, Merriman!” Lord Brockley muttered. “You are being ridiculous.”
“But I – ”
Algernon looked rather confused as he accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Dawkins.
“Hic!” Pickle squawked again and gave a raucous laugh. “Ha ha ha!”
Lord Brockley’s expression was thunderous now.
“Merriman, I am not amused.”
Pickle copied his Lordship’s angry tone, shouting,
“Stop it! You naughty boy!”
Algernon jumped up, spilling his tea on the carpet.
“What the devil – ” he began, and then he saw the parrot cage. “It’s a talking bird! A stupid parrot.”
He went over to look at Pickle, who jumped off his perch onto the floor of the cage, growling like a dog.
“He isn’t used to strangers – ” Rosella began, but it was too late.
“Little devil!” Algernon exclaimed.
He poked his finger through the bars of the cage.
Pickle gave a loud scream and bit it.
Algernon then staggered backwards over the carpet, shaking blood from his finger.
“Ouch!” he gasped.
“I’m so – sorry,” Rosella stammered, hurrying over to Pickle’s cage. “I had better take him out.”
“Yes, and shoot the damn thing, while you’re at it!” Lord Brockley grunted. “Pull yourself together, old man – it’s just a flesh wound.”
Algernon collapsed on the sofa, mopping his finger with one of the silk cushions.
Rosella lifted Pickle’s cage down from the table.
She must take him out of the room as soon as she could before Lord Brockley became any more irritated.
“Sweetheart.” Algernon sighed in a wheedling tone. “I’m wounded. Leave that horrible bird and tend to me!”
“Pull yourself together, Merriman,” Lord Brockley snapped.
Then his Lordship stood up from the armchair and stared at Rosella with his dark hooded eyes and something about his expression sent a little shiver down her spine.
“You seem a good girl, whatever your name is.”
“Rosella.”
Her voice was shaking, but she hoped that he would not notice.
“Hmm. Modest. Quiet. Sensible.”
Lord Brockley’s lips twisted in an unpleasant smile.
“Not exactly what I would have expected. No doubt my silly sister-in-law Beatrice spoiled you dreadfully.”
“She – was very kind to me.”
“I daresay, but she is not here now. We must have a little discussion about your future before too long.”
Lord Brockley was still smiling and Rosella could see that his uneven teeth were stained brown from tobacco and wine.
“Go,” he said, “and get rid of that wretched bird. I don’t wish to see or hear anything of it ever again. You, Rosella, I shall expect to see at dinner.”
His eyes glinted at her from under his heavy lids, but he was still smiling, so that she could not tell whether he was angry or amused.
It was difficult to curtsy while holding the heavy birdcage, but Rosella did the best she could and made her way to the door.
Algernon looked up from winding his handkerchief around his hand and gave her a swift wink.
Then he turned to Lord Brockley.
“I need a brandy,” he asserted.
Mrs. Dawkins, who had been standing by the door, looked shocked. In all the years she had worked at New Hall, no one had ever asked for brandy in the afternoon.
“Dawkins!” Lord Brockley’s harsh voice rang out. “Have the butler bring the best brandy. And a card table. We wish to play.”
Mrs. Dawkins nodded and curtseyed, but her grey eyes were full of anxiety as she and Rosella silently left the drawing room.
“Brandy, Brandy, Brandy!” Pickle shouted out, as Rosella carried him up the stairs. “You’re a very naughty boy! Give me some cake!”
“Hush, you bad bird,” she whispered, “I don’t think there’ll be any cake for you today.”
She would have to go back into the drawing room to fetch it and she would do anything rather than face Lord Brockley and his friend again.
From now on, she would keep Pickle in her room, for he would come to harm, she was sure, if he caused any more trouble.
Her life at New Hall was certainly going to be very different now that its new owner had taken up residence.
*
The sun had just gone down and a cool breeze was blowing along Piccadilly as Lord Lyndon Brockley strolled along the wide pavement.
The long black cloak swirled around his ankles and the big hat was pulled well down over his forehead.
It was daring of him to come here, but who could possibly recognise him in this Bohemian get-up?
If any of his old school-friends or, worse, any of his Papa’s dissolute drinking and gambling associates were to bump into him, they would think he was an eccentric actor, strolling off to an engagement at one of the theatres.
Or perhaps a musician, like Signore Goldoni, the original owner of the cloak and hat – heading to a café to play to the assembled diners.
An enticing scent of coffee and newly-baked cakes wafted across the pavement from the open windows of one of the tall hotels that lined the pavement.
He had not eaten anything since a hurried breakfast at the inn where he was staying down by the docks and he knew how good the fare was at this particular hotel as he had sampled it many times in the past.
Why should he not go in and sit down at one of the tables and celebrate the ingenious disguise he had found?
It was a daring thought and he longed to carry it out, but he would have to take the hat off once he was inside and that would be too risky.
“Sir?”
The hotel doorman had seen him lingering and was looking at him suspiciously.
‘Oh, what the hell! Why not go for it?’
Lyndon took a deep breath and replied, keeping his voice low and adding a slight Mediterranean accent.
“I should like to take some coffee, but I must have a quiet table as I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
The doorman, who had ushered both Lord Lyndon Brockley and a party of his friends into the hotel only last month, hesitated a moment, as if he was not sure whether this strangely-garbed person should be allowed into such a respectable hotel and then he answered,
“Of course, sir. May I take your hat and er – coat?”
Lyndon shook his head and then was inspired to say in the same accent,
“I must keep them with me. I have been unwell.”
The doorman raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. I have recently come from a hot climate and I must not take cold, particularly to the head.”
“Of course, sir,” the doorman nodded. “India, was it? We will find you a nice quiet corner, sir.”
Lyndon’s heart beat jubilantly as he walked across the marble floor of the hotel lobby. His ruse had worked and, what was more, the doorman had not recognised him.
The hotel café was almost empty as Lyndon settled himself at a small table, which was partly hidden by a large palm tree and ordered some food.
As he ate, several groups of other diners arrived, and, by the time he was drinking his coffee, the café was almost full.
It felt good to be in the middle of so much noise and activity with all these people out enjoying themselves, even though Lyndon had to keep himself apart.
But something was making him feel uneasy. There was one voice amongst all the shouts and the laughter that kept nagging at his attention.
A high clear girl’s voice, as sweet and melodious as a flute, rang out from a table not too far away,
“Champagne! Julius, you really are too kind.”
Marian. It could not be!
Lyndon parted the branches of the palm so that he could peer through.
It was her!
His ex-fiancée, sitting a couple of tables away with his best friend from his schooldays, the redheaded rowing champion, Julius Maberley!
Marian looked strikingly beautiful with her glossy brown hair piled up like a Grecian Goddess and her cheeks and lips glowing pink in the light of the candles.
Lyndon felt his heart melting as he watched her.
He had forgotten how exquisitely beautiful she was, with her delicate heart-shaped face and her long eyelashes that fluttered like the wings of a tiny bird.
But what was happening now?
Marian was reaching out across the table to lay her white-gloved hand over Julius’s.
Lyndon’s heart contracted painfully in his chest.
How could this be? Only a few days ago she had still been insisting that she loved Lyndon and that she was determined to win him back and marry him.
He fumbled in the pocket of the cloak and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, one of the many letters she had written to him.
“Darling,
You are being an utter fool to make so much fuss about something so silly.
Your Papa’s good friend, Mr. Merriman, was an absolute poppet – if he hadn’t been there on the stairs to catch me, who knows, I might have had a horrible fall.
I didn’t mean to kiss him, it just sort of happened and anyway, darling, I know you will come round. All girls love to flirt a bit, we just can’t help it. It’s you I love, Lyndon. There will never be anyone else for me and I shall die if I don’t see you.
Please, please, darling boy, stop being so silly.”
Lyndon pushed the letter back into his pocket.
Was it really so silly of him to be upset that the girl he loved had allowed one of his Papa’s drunken cronies to take her in his arms and then press a horrid lecherous kiss against her lips?
His stomach tied itself in a knot as he remembered Marian’s pretty face, laughing at him there on the stairs of his parents’ Mayfair home, when he had tried to pull her away from the clutches of Mr. Algernon Merriman.
100. A Rose In Jeopardy Page 4
