Prue Phillipson - Hordens of Horden Hall

by Height of Folly

  “Surely, John,” she said, “you would not want to wait till January. We could explore the Loire valley as we intended, see Orleans and perhaps go by water to Nantes on the coast. I have heard of no fighting in that area and we could be there and back before winter sets in.”

  John crinkled up his face in just the way he used to do as a boy when she tested him on his Latin irregular verbs. “I’ll talk it over with Netta.”

  A few days later on a wet day when Deborah had wearied of reading in her room she sought John for his answer and found him in the billiard room directing his young brothers-in-law, in a game. His function seemed to be to prevent them from quarrelling as they constantly accused each other of cheating.

  “Oh leave them to it,” she said to John, “and tell me what Jeanetta said to our travelling again before winter.”

  “I haven’t asked her. I know she doesn’t want me to go.”

  “Then Ishall ask her. We have been here an age and time hangs heavily.”

  She went to the billiard room door and opened it just as a footman was lifting his hand to knock.

  “Ah my lady, Madame la Comtesse is sending all over to seek you. An English m’lord has come with letters of introduction desiring to make your acquaintance and that of your brother.”

  Deborah exchanged glances with John. To her dismay she found her neck and cheeks burning.

  “Why John, it must be that Lord Frederick Branford.” She was laughing to cover her confusion. She had shown John Grandmother Bel’s letter and he had teased her at the time but had evidently forgotten all about it.

  He slapped the side of his head. “Oh yes. You think the old folk are after a husband for you.”

  Deborah flapped her hands at him. “Nonsense, don’t say such things.”

  But she couldn’t help a sideways glance at the large mirror in a gilt frame along one wall of the billiard room. Suzette had piled her abundant flaxen hair on top of her head which was how she had been taught to create ladies’ coiffeurs but it gave Deborah even more height. She wished now she had arranged it herself. Her gown was a simple light green silk over a flecked petticoat. The big cream collar and cuffs contrasted with the natural colour of her sun-bronzed face, while the close-fitting bodice only emphasised the flatness of her chest.

  I would make a handsome man, she thought, with my hair cropped and a coat and breeches. Well, Lord Branford will hardly see in this towering Amazon the dainty, amenable second wife he may be seeking but I suppose I must go and meet him. She beckoned John to come too and they followed the footman to the salon.

  Four Rombeau ladies were sitting in a semicircle, Madeline de Neury, her daughter Sophia, Comtesse Diana and Jeanetta. The gentleman they were facing was seated in a high-backed chair and Deborah could see nothing of him when she entered the room except for one foot in a highly polished shoe.

  Diana waved a gracious hand. “Ah, here is my dear Jeanetta’s husband and her English sister-in-law. Deborah, my dear, may we present Lord Branford?”

  The gentleman leapt to his feet and faced them. Deborah needed only one glance before she was struggling not to burst out laughing. She saw his eyes lift from her chest to her face and the blood rush up his cheeks. Oh the poor man! Her heart went out to him in his horror and confusion.

  Graciously she held out her hand and he bowed over it. She could see he would have liked to sink through the floor. She noticed how red even his forehead glowed against the white of his neatly curled wig.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Branford. And here is my brother, John Horden.”

  John, shaking his hand, evidently did not recognise him as the man in the carriage, which was a relief to Deborah. Her task now was simply to put the poor man at his ease and pretend to everyone else that they had never met before.

  They all sat down and refreshments were brought in. Deborah deliberately placed herself next to Lord Branford while John shared the couch with Jeanetta.

  Amidst the bustle of questions about coffee, chocolate, fruit cordials or wine she made Lord Branford meet her eye and put into her steady look a wealth of humour, reassurance and kindly feeling. She was rewarded by seeing his face return to a healthy English colour and his eyes lose their shock and embarrassment. He even managed to lift his head and give her back an apologetic smile. She could read much in those expressive eyes. They were a pleasing light blue, honest and guileless as a summer sky. They told her he was overwhelmed by shame but mightily thankful for her tact and thoughtfulness. She creased up her own eyes in a mischievous wink.

  When he was engaged with the footman over his choice of beverage and sweetmeats she was able to study his profile. Why, he is the very opposite of me, she decided. My forehead is too high, my nose too long and my chin too square. His features are neat. Perhaps his nose is a little short compared with his upper lip. His chin is smoothly rounded and very precisely shaved. He has small hands and clean nails. And yes, he is small. He is an inch at least shorter than John. He can never compare with Ranald in manliness but I believe I could enjoy his company.

  There was some general talk then about where he had been so far, what he had seen and what had most impressed him. Although it seemed that his French was passable the ladies did him the courtesy of speaking in English. As always it was Diana who dominated the conversation. Her sister Madeline, the Vicomtesse de Neury, Sophia’s mother, hardly spoke and Sophia too was usually quiet in company.

  Diana fluttered her fan at their guest and excused the absence of her husband, the comte. “He is at Versailles. His Majesty must have his favourites about him, you understand, my lord. It can be trying but duty is duty you know. You will stay a while of course and I shall send word that we have another guest and he will beg leave to come home and make your acquaintance. It matters nothing that our countries are at war. My grandfather was English. John and Jeanetta are second cousins as well as husband and wife. Is that not charming? Later you will meet the Vicomte de Neury, the husband of my silent sister here. He is the only one of us who dislikes the English – for borrowing a Dutch king, but then he dislikes all foreigners, the Dutch above all. But you will be wise and ignore him as we all do.” She sprinkled this speech with so many laughs that Lord Branford could only smile and bow in reply.

  He is shy, Deborah decided, but whether that is because he is still recovering from the encounter with me, I can’t be sure. He certainly doesn’t swagger like an English nobleman in the presence of French aristocrats of equal rank.

  The Vicomte de Neury appeared when a lavish dinner was served at two o’clock. As they were introduced Deborah was pleased to see that Lord Branford overtopped the little vicomte.

  John had already teased her about their new friend’s small stature. “If you hoped for another six-foot-five giant you must be sorely disappointed.”

  “Now look,” she whispered to him, “Lord Branford is not so insignificant.”

  He had changed from his travelling clothes and presented a smart trim figure in a purple coat and embroidered waistcoat which Deborah was sure he must have purchased in Paris. John just raised his eyebrows at her which was infuriating.

  There was no chance at the dinner table for any private talk with Lord Branford but afterwards everyone noticed that the rain had stopped, the sun had been shining while they ate and the garden paths were dry.

  “We must let our English family learn all the latest news from England,” Diana announced. “John and Deb, pray show Lord Branford the gardens.”

  “I shall come too,” Jeanetta declared, grabbing John’s arm.

  “Should you not rest, my pretty?” her mother cooed.

  “No indeed, I have never felt so alive.”

  Deborah found this was a happy arrangement. Only the very broad walks permitted them to walk four abreast and she and Lord Branford soon strode ahead of the young couple. Deborah was pleased to find that though he was not tall he had a good stride and walked as one accustomed to the exercise.

  T
he moment they were out of hearing of the others he turned to her.

  “I cannot tell you, Madam, how grateful I am for your discretion over our first unlucky meeting. I was wretched when I realised I had manhandled a lady. Did I cause you any hurt?” He was blushing again. “My serving-man gave me no chance to apologise – ”

  Deborah checked him, “It was nothing, my lord. Pray, let it not be mentioned again between us, except –” she hesitated and looked laughing into his eyes – “do tell me the reason for your exclamation of ‘not again!’ Can it be that you had recently been attacked and robbed by a man in woman’s clothing?”

  “I had indeed – it was in Paris – but that in no way excuses my disgraceful conduct.”

  “But it does. We were all in confusion. I was thrust against you by the mob.”

  “Were you not angry with me?”

  “Not in the least. I was angry for that poor woman and her boy, but your mistake was only comical. I told the tale to my brother, convulsed with laughter.”

  “And he doesn’t know the blackguard was I?”

  “Not at all. He was not close enough in the crush.”

  “And you are telling no one of my shame?”

  “Certainly not. Perhaps your serving-man will know me if he sets eyes on me but I am sure he is discretion itself.”

  Lord Branford nodded. “I am afraid Will Smyth is all too ashamed of me as his master. I do not meet his standards in any respect and he is only too anxious to keep my escapades from the public eye.”

  This revealed a very intriguing aspect of Lord Branford. The sentiment chimed neatly with her own inability to play the great lady and keep Suzette happy. She looked down at him with deepened interest.

  Perhaps her failure to reply at once struck him because he asked suddenly, “I know not how much you may have learnt of my history from your family in Northumberland. I am aware that my grandfather wrote a long letter to your grandmother. Did she tell you I am a mere novice among the aristocracy?”

  “She described you only as a member of the Branford family.” If Earl Branford is his grandfather, she reasoned, how can he be new to the aristocracy? Is he perhaps illegitimate, like my poor Ranald who was a bastard Gordon?

  Lord Branford hesitated. “Your grandmother was being very discreet.”

  Ah, perhaps I am right. Deborah encouraged him with a little chuckle.

  “Discretion is unusual in Grandmother Bel. She is the most open and frank character I know.”

  “Then I should say she was being thoughtful, leaving it to me to speak of my true status if I wished. Perhaps I should not allude to the circumstances on so short an acquaintance but I thought you might already know – but if you did not –” He tapped his cane against his calf in his confusion – “The truth is I fear I must betray myself constantly among high society.”

  Deborah was more and more intrigued. They had come by chance to her familiar reading bower. John and Jeanetta were not in sight. They are deliberately throwing us together, she realised, and later John will tease me without mercy about my ‘petit gentilhomme.’

  “Let us sit down for a moment, my lord. You have roused my curiosity.”

  He seemed happy to talk, but first he begged her not to call him ‘my lord’.

  “It is a relief to speak with a friendly English person. Will Smyth is my sole companion and I cannot cure him of the habit of punctuating every sentence with ‘my lord’. The truth is I have not grown-up with it. I did not know I was the heir to an earldom till recently. My mother was a farmer’s daughter called May Haywood.” He glanced at her to see if this shocked her.

  “How delightful.” She said it heartily but her imagination was busy. Earl Branford had only had one son, Henry, killed in a naval battle. Had he had some escapade with a farmer’s daughter? Ranald was a Gordon only because a despicable member of that clan had taken advantage of a serving-girl and then abandoned her. Surely, she thought, Father’s friend would not have behaved like that. And this gentleman is not hesitating over a shameful secret. He wantsto tell me. He has just admitted how short he is of friendly English company. As there cannot possibly be any attraction of a romantic sort between us I see no harm in lending an ear to his revelation. His candour is refreshing and I am enjoying it after the horrid mysteries of Monsieur le Vent.

  Lord Branford was regarding her with his eyes alight with eagerness.

  “May I really tell you the story as my mother told it to me?”

  “Of course.”

  So there unfolded a pastoral idyll of a girl on a day in early summer seeking eggs in the hen-run, the men of the farm in the fields and her mother at market. She saw a young rider showing off to her by jumping a hedge into the lane. Thrown into the ditch he got out unharmed but wet and muddy. Her laughter triggered his and from that moment mutual laughter bound them together and grew swiftly into love.

  Deborah listened wistfully to the tale of their secret meetings at an anglers’ hut by a stream. She was thinking, did not Ranald and I fall in love as swiftly? Did we not laugh together too? She had not expected to be stirred so deeply by Lord Branford’s story. So she asked casually, “Was this when your father was a student at Cambridge? For that is when my father knew him.”

  “Yes, he had a fine mount from home and loved to exercise it when he should have been at lectures. Your father perhaps had no horse there and couldn’t accompany his friend?”

  “Indeed he hadn’t. His family then kept only the horses needed on the land. My parents didn’t set up a carriage till the day I was born.”

  “And my mother and I had no access to any but the plough horses on her father’s farm.”

  She laughed. “We seem to have got into a competition for the humblest origins which is not the usual way of the world. Despite all, you are the heir to an earldom. Pray fill in the rest of the tale. I know our fathers graduated and then joined the navy.”

  So he told her how his father had feared that he might not survive the navy and was desperate to secure his lovely girl as his wife. He described a secret marriage and then his mother’s heartbreak when her Harry went to war and did not return.

  Deborah stared at a faded rose hanging over the back of the marble seat. I am like that flower, she thought. Ranald and I also had our secret wedding and he was dead the next day. But this man’s mother was trulymarried and blessed with a child. What would my life have been if I had borne Ranald’s bastard son? She began pulling apart the browning petals of the rose and scattering them at her feet.

  Lord Branford went on to explain how his mother had been long finding out what had happened to his father since the navy had no record of his marriage. He himself was born by then and her family had accepted her situation as a widowed mother. He was animated in his devotion to her for the happy childhood she had given him. Laughter had quickly come back into her life and his memories were all of joyous days on his grandfather’s farm.

  She watched him as he talked. He had sat back on the seat and was gazing up through the bower of roses. Why, he is far away, she realised. He hasn’t noticed me destroying this sad flower. Studying his face she saw a tear at the corner of his eye ready to drop. He must have become aware of it too because he suddenly brushed it away and looked at her as if he had just remembered where he was.

  “Oh forgive me, Mistress Horden. I had become lost in my memories. The truth is I miss my mother very much. I was sad to leave her and she was sad to see me go. I was never apart from her in my life before. During my short but lovely marriage she was nearby and ever since my wife died we have lived together again.”

  There we differ, Deborah thought. My closest bond is with my father. But she was now very curious about his story. “Do I understand that your mother knew the true identity of your father but had no wish to restore you to his family?”

  “Yes, she was sure they would reject us as lying peasants or, if they believed the evidence of the marriage certificate, would take me out of her life altogether, send me awa
y to Eton and perhaps into the army and she would never see me again.”

  “So what changed her mind?”

  “Well, I was a grown man, had married and sadly lost both wife and child. And then she read in the papers of the death of the one remaining heir to the earldom. She believed it was her duty to approach the earl, my grandfather, and reveal that he had a legitimate heir after all.”

  Deborah clasped her hands under her chin and cast him a look of true sorrow.

  “I should have said before how sad I am that you had such a grievous loss not so very long ago. But I believe you are going to tell me that your dear mother’s fears about the Branford family were unfounded.”

  He acknowledged her sympathy with a bow and a sweet smile before readily plunging into the concluding part of his story.

  “You are right. My grandfather is a most kindly soul. He was very alone at his country seat in Hertfordshire, his wife having died some years after they lost their son, and his daughters married and living at a distance from him. He took both me and my mother to his heart and his home. But of course I needed” – he hesitated – “grooming, shall I say – for my future role and this travelling is part of it. Mother has had to accustom herself to a changed life, not in our own little home in Cambridge, but in a private wing of her father-in-law’s grand mansion. And I” – he lifted his shoulders and gave her a rueful grin – “have given up my work as a lawyer and must learn to be an earl. Now you see why I am a novice at the business.” He laughed and blushed. “I fear I have talked far too long. A true aristocrat would be courteous but aloof on so brief an acquaintance.”

  “And I wouldn’t have enjoyed his company half so much. Pray do not let anything groomaway your natural self, Lord Branford. Ceremony is not something we Hordens have ever stood upon.”