‘I don’t think he’s forgotten anybody, do you?’
Frances smiled, and agreed. Benson arrived with a tray loaded with food, and stood over Miss Chard until she had eaten some of it. Then she went to bed and slept, and slept, and slept, undisturbed by nightmares.
The following morning Agnes knocked on Miss Chard’s door. Frances welcomed her, saying that she was just in time to help choose which of the new dresses should have an airing.
‘You are going downstairs?’ Agnes tore to the door and shouted for Polly, to come to help Miss Chard dress. Then Agnes rushed back into the schoolroom and hugged her governess.
‘Steady!’ cried Frances, laughing. ‘I’m still very shaky on my feet.’
The word spread through the Court that Miss Chard was dressing and proposed to come downstairs in less time than it took her to decide which frock to wear. Lord Broome heard the news and abandoned his papers to change from one perfectly good suit into another, which he thought made him look less like a soldier in civilian clothes. The ladies of the Court practised welcoming smiles, the servants flew around with dusters, and the head gardener anxiously refurbished the flowers in the reception-rooms.
Frances came down the turret stairs slowly. Her legs trembled with the strain, and she had to hold on to the stonework to keep her balance. Agnes and Polly hovered around her, but in spite of their efforts Frances stumbled on the last step, and almost fell.
A wild-eyed man flew down the Gallery and thrust Agnes and Polly aside to take Frances in his arms. ‘Idiots!’ he said to Agnes and Polly. ‘What do you mean by letting her try those stairs by herself? Has nobody around here any sense except myself?’
Frances put her hand over his mouth. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. She was crying, but this time for joy.
‘Is it?’ The fierceness left his expression. He allowed her to stand upright. He ran his hands over the soft blue silk of her bodice, and hugged her till she protested.
‘Truly, I am not hurt, my lord. I can stand by myself.’
‘Not till you agree to marry me. Say yes, and I’ll put you down.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You only call me by my title because you know it annoys me. Say it properly!’
‘Say what?’ But the downward sweep of her eyelashes and a fleeting smile betrayed the fact that she knew perfectly what he wanted her to say.
He shook her, but remembering her weakness, did it gently. ‘Call me by my own name.’
She hesitated, and then went into his arms. ‘Yes, Gavin.’ His lordship kissed her, and if there was more of triumph than tenderness in his kiss, be sure that Frances did not object.
‘All!’ sighed Agnes and Polly, as one.
‘I knew you’d see it my way in the end,’ said his lordship, and bore Miss Chard off to be congratulated by his family.
If you enjoyed reading Fear for Frances you might be interested in Scream for Sarah by Veronica Heley, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Scream for Sarah by Veronica Heley
CHAPTER ONE
Everything was all right until the tramp arrived. Or was it? Had things started to go wrong before that, with Toby’s arrival?
I am not quite sure how it was that Toby got himself invited to Elm Tree House in the first place. Apparently I’d asked him at the office party, although I couldn’t remember having done so. It wasn’t as if I knew him well, although I had been out with him a couple of times in a crowd for a drink after office hours, and I had danced a lot with him on the night of the party. I wouldn’t have thought he was serious about me, but he must have been to have travelled some eighty miles from London to visit me. I knew he’d had to take special leave to come, and it wasn’t even as if I were there on holiday, but to clear the place of my grandmother’s belongings.
I suppose I was flattered, for at the age of twenty six I, Sarah Long, felt I was in no position to turn a prospective husband from the door. That is, assuming that Toby was a prospective husband, and he had certainly been acting like one.
Elm Tree House was the grandiose name given to the pair of ancient cottages which my grandfather had knocked into one dwelling and modernised some twenty years ago. There was the stump of an elm tree at the far end of the garden, which was large enough to occupy my grandfather almost exclusively in the years of his retirement. It was the garden which had killed him in the end, since he had insisted on digging a trench for his sweet peas while recovering from a bout of bronchitis. My grandmother could never bear the scent of the flowers afterwards.
And now my grandmother had also died, and hens scratched wild in the cobbled yard and neglected garden.
There was a Family Council after her funeral, and it was decided that as I was the only unmarried member of the family, and as I had inherited my grandmother’s jewellery, I should clear Elm Tree House of her belongings, prior to its sale. I didn’t fancy the task, but I had been my grandparents’ favourite, and I owed them something, because I had spent nearly all my holidays with them when I was a child. My father and mother have never been able to have a discussion about anything without it developing into an argument, and in my youth I had deliberately chosen to spend my free time out of reach of their clacking tongues. This time my parents were actually at one on the subject; they would pay my air fare to go abroad on holiday, if I would first clear out Elm Tree House. It was high summer, and I was feeling jaded; I agreed, and wangled an extra week’s sympathy leave from the office. I didn’t think I’d done too badly out of the deal, until Toby came to join me.
I hadn’t really expected him to come. He’d said he would muck out the hen-house for me—a job which I detested—but I couldn’t imagine him doing it. ‘For you, I would!’ he’d said. I disliked Granny’s hens, and one of my tasks that week was to be to sell them to the neighbouring farmer who had been keeping an eye on them since her death.
I got away on Wednesday night, and spent all day working at the house on Thursday before Toby arrived, bearing a ready-cooked meal for supper. I blessed him for that, and we opened some of Granny’s home-made wine to go with it. Yet I was uneasy; I hadn’t any good clothes with me, and I didn’t feel I showed to advantage in a sweater and jeans. Then Toby took my car out and dented the wing; I still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t taken his own car when he went to get some cigarettes after supper; he said it had been giving him trouble, but it started all right when he drove it into the garage on Friday morning. We use a solidly-built converted stable as a garage, but there is only room for one car in it, and I didn’t see why his car should be housed there, instead of my Mini.
Another thing; he kept on saying how perfect the house was, but he didn’t seem interested in the building itself; he wanted to know how often tradesmen came down the long muddy lane from the road, and how far away we were from our nearest neighbours. It did cross my mind to wonder if he wanted to be sure no-one would hear me if I screamed when he made advances to me, but of course that was nonsense. In the first place, I’d have liked him to make advances to me, because I felt it was about time I lost my virginity, and in the second place I don’t consider myself the screaming type. The fighting type, yes; I’ve brought my knee up once or twice when men have got too fresh with me, but screams are definitely out. They are a waste of time and energy. Besides, I didn’t make a habit of getting into situations where I needed to scream for help.
Why, then, did I feel so uneasy?
Toby was Mr. Good Manners himself on Friday morning. He helped me wash up after breakfast, and promised to muck out and feed the hens for me, after he’d had just one more cup of coffee. That was nice of him. Of course by that time in the morning I’d already let the hens out and fed them, but he could clean the henhouse for me with pleasure!
He was charming. He was everything that I’d always wanted in a man. He called me pretty names, such as Butterfly and Quicksilver, and said he’d always liked his women to look fragile. He measured my height against his, and tucked me
under his shoulder to give me a hug. I had daydreamed of his kissing me, but when he did, I pushed him away. I said it was too early in the day for canoodling, and that I had come down to the house to work, and not to play. I could have hit myself afterwards, for instead of looking hurt, he shrugged and asked for another cup of coffee.
Fool! I told myself, but I didn’t try to kiss and make up. There was plenty of time for that, I argued, as I went upstairs to make the beds. Elm Tree House boasted two bedrooms, one big double bedroom at the head of the stairs, in which Toby had slept the night before, and a smaller single room leading off that. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, especially since the bathroom also led off the main bedroom, and there was no access to the bathroom from the smaller bedroom without going through the master bedroom. Last night I had slept in the small bedroom, as I had done as a child, and wondered if Toby would try the door. He hadn’t. I suppose I was disappointed about that, too.
A dealer in antiques had been to see me the previous afternoon, and had taken away an old desk and a set of dining-room chairs, together with the best of the china and a brass lamp. He said the rest was junk, but that he’d give me a price for it when I was ready to leave. In the meantime I had to clear cupboards, a chest of drawers, cabinets and shelves of knick-knacks, ancient bottles of medicine, and a mountain of old clothes. Also the kitchen. I started on the wardrobe, carrying piles of old clothes down to the yard to burn. They smelt fusty and after a couple of trips I felt dirty and tired. The morning sun promised a hot day.
‘And is my little kitten in a better temper now?’ Toby asked, beaming at me over a cup of coffee.
‘Worse!’ I said shortly.
‘Have a drink,’ he suggested. He was intrigued by the shelf of home-made wines in the kitchen. I declined on the grounds that it was too early in the day for me to drink anything but coffee.
‘You haven’t a cigarette?’ he asked.
‘You know I don’t smoke. Anyway, I thought you went for some last night.’
‘Yes, but … I couldn’t get my favourite brand. I went from one pub to the next, but no luck. I told you.’
‘The Swan down the road usually stocks the lot. You must have been drunk …’
‘You know I wasn’t. I was sober when I came back, wasn’t I?’
‘After one and a half hours! All that time to look for cigarettes … Come off it! And that edgy, with it!’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Bad-tempered. On edge. You might have been apologetic about it …’
‘About what? The dent in the car? Well, I am sorry about it, but I couldn’t help myself. I just didn’t notice that gate post at the end of the lane …’
‘It’s painted white, and has a reflector on it. Besides, you didn’t make that dent by bumping into a gate post. You can see it must have been made by something … well, not something with a hard edge to it, like a gate post.’
‘What, then?’
I shrugged. We were sitting in the big living-room of the cottage, with the front door open onto the yard. Clucking hens bustled between us and my little Mini, sitting full in the sun.
‘Another thing,’ I said. ‘Why should your car be parked under cover, and mine be left outside?’
I stumped out to inspect the damage, intending to change the cars over. Toby followed me, trying to jolly me back into a good humour.
‘Look at it!’ I shrieked. I was buying the Mini on the never-never, and it was the pride and joy of my heart. The nearside wing was badly dented, and this in turn was affecting the cant of the headlight.
‘I said I was sorry! Come on, now. I’m concluding a very big business deal at the moment. In a few days we’ll go back to town together and I’ll buy you a brand-new Mini, instead of this second-hand heap. Then you can have this one broken up for scrap, which is about all it’s good for, if you ask me.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
It seemed he was. Charming, generous Toby. Only I was no grateful yes-woman, ready to cast myself into his arms and tell him that I’d love to have him take care of everything for me. As my mother has always said, I have no tact at all where men are concerned. Besides, I loved my Mini, second-hand or not.
Aware that I was once more jettisoning my chances of marriage, I refused his offer. One part of me was always wanting to swoon at a man’s feet, but the other part wouldn’t allow me to do so. Regretfully, I decided I’d made a mistake in inviting Toby down, and equally regretfully I saw it would be a bad idea to allow him to stay on during the coming week. Now we both knew I wasn’t going to hop into bed with him, the situation would be embarrassing.
‘Just get it repaired,’ I said. ‘And as for staying on here, don’t you think you might find it boring …?’
At that moment the tramp pushed open the garage door and fell into the yard.
I screamed.
I didn’t actually leap for Toby’s arms but he got them round me somehow.
‘Christ Almighty!’ breathed Toby. ‘Where did that come from?’
That uncurled itself and staggered to its feet. One dirty claw was extended towards us while he shielded his eyes from the sun with the other. He was filthy; mud-caked and bloodied. His boots were enormous and without laces. His coat and trousers hung on him in concertina folds, patched and torn, allowing glimpses of brown skin here and there. He might be any age from twenty to sixty, a stunted, stick-like, mop-headed monstrosity.
I’ve always been terrified of tramps. I clung to Toby and begged him to protect me. ‘Don’t let him come near me!’
‘Of course—I’ll drive him away!’ But he took his time about releasing himself.
The tramp’s eye alighted on my car. To tell the truth, he acted as if he were uncertain where he was. He stared at my car as if he were seeing a ghost. From the back he looked even odder than from the front; he clutched at his trousers with one hand, so as to prevent them from falling down.
‘The road’s that way,’ said Toby, advancing on him.
The tramp turned his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His eyes swivelled, looking for an escape route. He looked like a trapped animal, awaiting the coup de grâce.
‘Wait a minute!’ said Toby, in a hard, surprised voice.
The tramp began to run, lurching and slipping in his ludicrous boots. Toby overtook him without effort, and tried to stop him by grasping at his coat. The tramp lashed out with claw and boot, but only succeeded in infuriating his pursuer.
‘Like that, eh?’ Toby laughed, and disregarding the tramp’s feeble attempt to dodge, dropped him flat on the cobblestones.
The tramp moved feebly and then lapsed into unconsciousness. The hens squawked and flapped away from us, disturbed.
‘Why did you do that?’ I cried.
‘He was here to steal, wasn’t he?’
Toby checked that the tramp was out for the count, and then went to the garage to fetch the chain and padlock which had been used years ago to restrain my grandfather’s dog when she was on heat. He dragged the tramp, legs trailing, to where an iron boot-scraper had been sunk into the flagstones at the side of the front door. He clipped the chain round the man’s ankle, and secured it to the scraper.
‘Better check he didn’t steal anything last night,’ said Toby, going through the tramp’s pockets. I looked away. Much as I hated tramps, I didn’t like to see a man treated like a parcel of fish, to be trussed up and turned over and prodded like that. Toby was so big and the tramp was so small that my sympathies began, little by little, to alter direction. Now that he couldn’t harm me, I began to see that the tramp was such a poor specimen of a man that if he had molested me, I would have been able to deal with him.
‘That’s enough!’ I said, as Toby wrenched off the tramp’s remaining boot, and stripped off his jacket. His torso was bare and brown, splotched with blood and mud. His right arm and the back of his leg were badly bruised. There was a pale, broad band of skin around his left wrist which argued the a
bsence of a wrist-watch.
Toby agreed that it was indeed enough, but he stood looking down at the man for a long moment before he joined me indoors.
‘He came to steal eggs I expect,’ I said. ‘The sooner I can get rid of those hens the better. If you’d mucked out the hen-house as you promised, you would have found him earlier, because the tools are in the garage.’
‘I wish I had,’ said Toby. He helped himself to a beer and sat down, drying his forehead with the back of his hand.
I was trembling, too. I don’t like violence, and I don’t like tramps. One had followed me on a country walk once, and I’d never forgotten him; a great shambling brute of a man with a vacant expression on his face. My adult mind knew that such men were more to be pitied than feared, but childhood fears die hard. I got out the telephone directory and looked up the number of the local police station, thinking that it was a blessing that Granny had insisted on having the phone put in.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Ringing the police. They’ll deal with him.’
‘Lock him up? No, don’t!’ He broke the connection. ‘I’ve a better idea.’
I had never liked him so much as when he explained how he felt about locking up the unfortunates of this world. Toby believed that he, and other educated people ought to try to help those who were unable to help themselves, and not just hand them over to the authorities to be locked up. He said we ought to try to help them, instead.
‘But it was you who knocked him out when he was trying to run away!’
‘My first instinct was to protect you, and make sure he hadn’t stolen anything. Then I got to thinking that I’d acted dead against my principles, and that if the tramp got into the garage for shelter, or needed to steal eggs because he was hungry, then we ought to help him. We have so much, and he has so little. He had no money on him, you see. Not a penny.’
‘The police could give him a hand-out, couldn’t they? They could give him better clothes, and a chit to the Labour Exchange …’
Fear for Frances Page 18
