Candles in the Storm

by Rita Bradshaw

  William was very careful not to catch the eye of either of the Wynford sisters who had giggled their way through the ten courses presented to date, consisting of soup, fish, two hors d’oeuvres, two rélèves and four entrées. The girls were now partaking of the sorbets the footmen were serving to refresh the guests’ appetite before they turned to the six roasts and accompaniments, which would be followed by a variety of puddings, ices and savouries, followed in due course by dessert, coffee and liqueurs.

  The guests had been seated according both to the strict protocol their titles and wealth demanded, and - in the case of girls like the Wynfords sisters - their suitability to become the wife of the heir to Greyfriar Hall. The seating plan had accorded his mother sleepless nights William understood from his father, who had told him in no uncertain terms hours before that he was an ungrateful pup who didn’t know how lucky he was.

  This might be so, William acknowledged, his gaze drifting over Camilla Routledge who resembled the horses she loved so much but whose father was a lord, and Priscilla McKenzie who was as pretty as the Wynford sisters and just as empty-headed, but came with a higher pedigree. However, this was the third elaborate dinner party seating over thirty guests in as many months, and he was tired of them.

  His eyes finally came to rest on Francis whom Gwendoline had seated opposite her son, much as she would have liked to banish her brother-in-law to the less important end of the table. But Francis was a Fraser.

  His uncle was slobbering over a sorbet, his heavily embroidered waistcoat already stained with food. Not for the first time in the last few days William felt his stomach clench in protest that he was related to this pig of a man. It was unfortunate that Francis chose that precise moment to raise his head. The older man looked at the younger from under his heavy eyelids, reading the disgust etched on the handsome features before his gaze returned to his plate.

  Insolent pup. Francis continued eating but he had ceased to taste the sorbet. William might not look like a Fraser but he was a chip off the old block all right, looking down his holier-than-thou nose at all and sundry just like Augustus, damn his eyes. Francis swore in his mind, the basest of oaths, but it afforded him no release. His nephew could justify playing the grand gentleman, couldn’t he; William was going to be extremely wealthy one day, and through what? Purely an accident of birth.

  Francis pushed his plate away, settling back in his chair as he drained his glass. He gestured to the footman standing behind him to refill his glass, and when the man hesitated for a moment before doing so, Francis ground his strong and surprisingly white teeth. So orders had been given to the servants to limit his intake? Damn it but he’d see his day with Augustus, with the lot of them.

  He belched loudly, draining the glass again and indicating to the footman once more who this time obeyed instantly. So the man thought he might cause a scene, did he? Spoil his master’s dinner party? Well, he might have at that. Although . . . Francis’s eyes narrowed. If he went about this the right way he could teach them all a lesson they’d never forget without jeopardising his own position in the process. Kirby seemed to think that his master’s son was taken with the fishergirl but that she was playing him for a fool, along with the parson fellow and plenty more greenhorns besides he didn’t doubt. But exactly how far did William’s interest in the chit go? Far enough to set her up in her own place so he had exclusive rights? He was still young enough to be idealistic, was William, and the fishergirl seemed wily enough to make the most of any opportunity, from what Francis had seen of her.

  He sipped at the wine now, his mind - slightly befuddled by the numerous glasses he had consumed with his dinner to date, and not least the brandy from his hip flask which had been refilled twice during the day - struggling with half-formed thoughts. The first thing was to gauge how badly William was smitten, he’d find some opportunity to do that or contrive one. And he might get Kirby in on this, under the guise of being concerned for the young master’s well-being of course. It wouldn’t do to overplay his hand with the valet. If nothing else Augustus’s man was devoted to his master and the family, although that was a weakness he might well be able to use to his advantage in this matter.

  Francis smiled, feeling suddenly much more satisfied with life. He had an interest to keep him occupied in this wretched backwater, and one with the potential to provide him with some entertainment at that.

  It had turned midnight. Daisy had just left her mistress’s quarters after reading to the old lady until Wilhelmina had fallen asleep. The windows had been closed in both bedroom and sitting room and the suite had been stifling. Now, as Daisy crossed the hall, she suddenly rebelled against the thought of going straight upstairs.

  On a night like this at home she’d often sat outside the cottage door and let the sea breeze tease her hair and skin once the chores were finished and her granny settled. Although the gardens of Evenley House were scented with the perfume of flowers and had no remnant of saltiness in the air, she needed to be out of doors again.

  Her mind made up, without stopping to fetch a shawl from her bedroom, Daisy slipped quietly along the corridor towards the kitchen. She left the house by the back door, locking it after her and slipping the key into the pocket of her skirt.

  It was cooler outside and Daisy breathed in the clean fresh air gratefully, staring up into the dark sky studded with stars for a moment before she began to walk. The events of the day crowded into her mind after a while - Alf, the talk with her granny, Francis Fraser - and she sighed deeply. For some reason life seemed complicated. And then she made a sound of annoyance low in her throat. For goodness’ sake, what was the matter with her? She’d landed on her feet in a way that happened to few lasses, they were all in clover now. At home there was food in the cupboards and security in the knowledge that they could afford to buy more. What else could she ask for? Her granny, Tilly and the bairns, Tom’s lass - she could make sure they wanted for nothing. Look at them poor devils in the workhouse . . . She shivered in spite of the warm air. Or even the folk stuck in the towns where blackened factories, slag heaps, running filth in the gutters and verminous dwellings were commonplace.

  And then all other thoughts went out of her mind as, having skirted the main lawn, she stepped through the archway of willow which led to the rose garden. She had intended to sit awhile in the quiet of the night but in front of her, lit quite distinctly by the light of the full moon, was the figure of a man. She couldn’t see clearly enough through the shadows to ascertain who it was, but from the height and breadth of him it was not Harold.

  She hadn’t thought she’d made a noise, but in the next moment she saw the figure turn towards her and experienced a second of real terror before William’s voice said, ‘Daisy? Daisy, is that you? I don’t believe it.’

  He didn’t believe it? Her fright made her respond just as she would have done to Alf or any of the other fishing lads as she said, her tone sharp, ‘What on earth are you doing here at this time of night?’ It was only after she had spoken that she realised fully William was actually here, right now, in this beautiful moonlit place, and her heart began to pound as he came towards her.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ His tone was apologetic but amused too, and she couldn’t help but smile back. And then he was at her side and she felt something similar to a punch in the stomach when she saw he was dressed only in a pair of dinner trousers, shoes, and a white shirt that was open down to his waist and showed the thick blond hair on his chest.

  She said again, ‘What are you doing here?’ but even to herself her voice sounded breathless.

  ‘Escaping from one of my mother’s confounded dinner parties.’ It was rueful. ‘I stood it as long as I could, but when the ladies withdrew I took the opportunity to decamp.’ He didn’t add that he had been drawn to Evenley House like a moth to a flame, all the time telling himself he was acting like a lovesick adolescent. If anyone had told him a few months ago that he would find himself riding miles at midnight just to stand outside a
house wherein slept the object of his desire, he would have laughed in their face. Though Daisy wasn’t asleep. She was here, in front of him, and he didn’t know how to stop himself blurting out what he felt. But he must not. There were a thousand and one obstacles in the way of any liaison between them and he knew it.

  ‘You rode here on Lightning?’ In spite of the name Daisy had found William’s pure-blooded black stallion a gentle creature, even going so far as to stroke the great velvet muzzle on occasion. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Tethered outside the grounds. I came in by way of the far wall.’ Again he didn’t feel it prudent to add it wasn’t the first time he had been attracted here at night since Daisy had taken up residence with his aunt, and that he’d now perfected the art of a silent entrance and exit.

  ‘Won’t you get into trouble? For leaving, I mean?’

  Probably. Very probably.

  ‘Of course not. My father and the others will continue to enjoy their port, brandy and cigars for some time, and the ladies will twitter over their tea or coffee and liqueurs for even longer. No one will know I’m missing.’

  Daisy’s expression suggested she was not fooled and William’s blue eyes laughed at her. She stared at him, terribly conscious of the naked flesh below his throat. Why had he come here to Evenley House to escape the dinner party? Why not the grounds of Greyfriar Hall, or if the need to put more distance between himself and the house was paramount, why hadn’t he simply taken Lightning for a midnight gallop in the surrounding countryside? It . . . it couldn’t be anything to do with her, could it? And then she told herself not to be so silly. This was his aunt’s house, perhaps he had always used it as a retreat from the stiff formality of his home?

  ‘Everything looks different in the moonlight.’ His voice was soft, throaty, and then, as her long, dark lashes swept down to hide the expression in her eyes, he made the effort to sound more matter-of-fact when he added, ‘It’s a real bonus, meeting you like this. I do enjoy our talks when no one else is around. Do you know what I mean?’

  Daisy didn’t say, ‘Aye, I know exactly what you mean,’ as she wanted to, but, ‘I . . . I should go in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Miss Wilhelmina would say this wasn’t proper.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ William pointed to a bench a few yards away. ‘Come and sit for a while, just a few minutes. Look at the sky, have you ever seen such a beautiful night?’

  Daisy glanced up into the star-laden sky. It was beautiful, but it could have been pouring with rain and blowing a gale and still this would have been the most enchanting night ever.

  She noticed William was rebuttoning his shirt as they walked across to the gnarled wooden bench which was a relief, although her cheeks continued to burn as she seated herself on wood which was still warm from the heat of the day. She felt almost light-headed with excitement, but afraid too, of what she wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘How is your grandmother?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  ‘And the rest of the family? You went to see them today, I presume, it being a Sunday?’

  Daisy nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on a rose bush a few feet away which was covered with rich full blooms. ‘They’re all well.’

  ‘Daisy,’ said William, leaning towards her a little, ‘don’t be frightened of me. Don’t you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you? We’re friends, aren’t we?’ His heart was pounding like a sledgehammer. He was close enough to catch the faint flower smell emanating from her skin and recognised it as the scented soap his aunt insisted on. But it didn’t smell like that on Wilhelmina. His throat felt tight and his stomach muscles had knotted. It took all of his self-control to lean back on the bench and say quietly, ‘It’s just that I was so sick of all the talk back at the Hall, an evening of conversation but without anything being said. Do you understand?’

  She nodded again, turning to look at him.

  ‘When you speak you say something, you always have.’

  Daisy wrinkled her nose and it was all William could do not to pull her to him as she said, ‘I say too much most of the time. My granny isn’t one for beating about the bush and I take after her, I suppose.’

  ‘Then she must be a wonderful woman.’

  The pounding of Daisy’s heart threatened to suffocate her and she told herself she must go back to the house now. But she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. In an effort to bring things back to normal, she said, ‘She’s wise, I think. She has never had the learning to read or write but her wisdom comes from deep inside.’ She shook her head once. ‘Does that sound silly?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Nothing she could ever say would sound silly. When he thought of the aimless prattle of Camilla Routledge or the Wynford sisters . . .

  ‘I’ve just read H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine and I was telling her about it, and do you know what she said?’

  Daisy turned to him, her eyes bright, and William thought, She’s adorable. Utterly adorable. He shook his head, ‘What did she say?’

  ‘“Life is a time machine, lass. You have to make sure the buttons are set for where you want to go, and once having set them you don’t alter course”.’

  ‘She is a wise woman.’ Had he set any buttons? Or had he accepted that they were all set for him?

  ‘Mind, she said not everyone has the privilege of being able to pick and choose which buttons they press. If you’re out on the boats at twelve years old, or down a mine, you don’t have the time to think about where you want to go, do you?’

  William shook his head, his eyes riveted on her face. ‘Do you know where you want to go, Daisy?’

  She turned from him, her lashes drooping, and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’

  He gazed at her averted head, and found he was shaking slightly when he said, ‘I think I am beginning to.’

  She didn’t answer and the moment stretched and lengthened before she rose quickly, saying, ‘I ought to get back.’

  This time he didn’t detain her. ‘Can I walk with you as far as the entrance to the house?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t think that’s wise.’

  Where did wisdom come into all this? ‘Please?’

  Her silence was acquiescence enough, and when he reached out for her hand as they began to walk he felt it quiver beneath his.

  He walked her to the kitchen door and wasn’t surprised when, on reaching the house, she deftly removed her hand from his as she drew the key out of her pocket. ‘Goodnight, William.’ It sounded almost prim and for a second the urge to crush her to him was almost overpowering.

  ‘Goodnight, Daisy.’ Dear, dear Daisy. And then she had opened the door and slipped inside, and he was alone.

  To Francis’s delight, the opportunity to probe William’s feelings concerning the fishergirl came far sooner than he had anticipated, namely at breakfast the morning after the dinner party.

  He had not slept well, an over-indulgence in food and drink causing acute indigestion which had kept him awake until a pink dawn began to lighten the sky. Consequently he slept later than he had intended.

  A large number of the dinner guests of the night before had stayed overnight at Greyfriar, a regular occurrence. The males in the party had enjoyed an early-morning ride over dew-drenched meadows. Consequently the atmosphere in the dining room was loud and jolly when Francis made his appearance just after nine o’clock.

  Breakfast was always a substantial meal at Greyfriar Hall. A range of hot and cold dishes including cold game pie and devilled kidneys, ham, steaks, eggs, cheese, fried potatoes and onion, and a variety of bread and rolls, was always at hand, with a separate table of prepared fruits and another of beverages at either side of the main spread.

  Francis joined one of the ladies of the party who was obviously another latecomer, making light conversation as they both helped themselves to a variety of dishes before taking a seat at the long dining table. Immediately one of the line of servants who stood hovering behind the chairs appeared to t
ake orders for Indian or China tea, coffee, toast and preserves.

  Cecilia was on his right, and after a cursory, ‘I hope you slept well, Uncle?’ his niece turned back to talk to Felicity seated on the other side of her before Francis had a chance to reply to the duty enquiry. He began to eat his breakfast without responding. The two girls were whispering, their voices inaudible to those around them, but Francis, who had always been exceptionally keen of ear, could hear every word in spite of the buzz of conversation and occasional laughter and high shrieks in the room.

  ‘And Mother said Father told him he won’t get anyone better than Priscilla. She’s a beauty, she dances wonderfully and she’s been fêted, feasted, courted and adored in one continual round of gaiety from the moment she came out. And William said’ - here even Francis’s acute hearing failed him as Cecilia bent closer to Felicity and murmured in her ear, but from the scandalised ‘ohhh’ which resulted William clearly hadn’t minced his words - ‘and they had the most dreadful row.’