Christmas in the Country

by Carola Dunn

  “Let me go!” she exclaimed. “You go too far, sir, indeed you do.”

  “I shall let you go,” he assured her, sounding amused, “as soon as we are discovered. I daresay your parents will be glad to accept my suit when you are found out here in my embrace.”

  Prudence stifled a chuckle. Lady Anne was caught in the net she had cast for Rusholme.

  “But I don’t want to marry you!”

  “I’m not eager to tie the knot myself, but you’ve a devilish attractive fortune, my dear. Come, I’ll teach you to love me.” He drew her closer.

  “No!” she cried, beating on his chest as he bent his head to kiss her.

  Deciding matters had gone far enough, Prudence stood up and took off her cloak. She folded it over her arm and approached the couple.

  “My lady, your wrap,” she announced in a loud voice. “You’ll catch your death.”

  Ffoliot jumped back. “What the deuce?”

  Prudence draped her cloak around the sobbing girl and thrust a handkerchief into her hand. “Go on in,” she said gently. “I shan’t tell.”

  Lady Anne fled. Prudence watched to be sure she was safe inside.

  “You’re no abigail,” said Ffoliot. “Who the devil are you?”

  Not deigning to respond, Prudence turned away.

  He seized her arm and pulled her into the light. “The other actress, by all that’s holy! Miss Savage, isn’t it? Well, you’ve savaged my chances with Lady Anne. You can’t compensate me for loss of her fortune, but a little compensation for loss of her person will not come amiss.”

  “You already have Aimée,” Prudence pointed out. “You cannot want two mistresses at once.”

  “You’d be surprised.” He reached for her other arm.

  She wrenched herself free and dashed towards the terrace steps. As she reached the top, he caught her. Grasping her shoulders, he swung her around and backed her against the pedestal. His body crushed her against the stone.

  “Not so fast, little savage. I want compensation and if you won’t give it, I’ll take it.”

  Struggling in vain, Prudence knew the helpless fear Lady Anne must have felt. In saving the girl she had ruined herself.

  * * * *

  Last in the procession, his sister on his arm, Rusholme scanned the supper room. He didn’t want inadvertently to find himself seated beside Lady Anne, Lady Estella, or Miss Wallace after taking so much trouble to avoid them in the ballroom.

  There was Kitty Wallace, with David and Mrs. Denham as usual, poor little mouse. There was Lady Estella, apparently quite content with a noisy group of hunt-mad fellows. No sign of Lady Anne.

  Nor any sign of Henry Ffoliot. He had seen them dancing together. What the deuce was Ffoliot up to? He could not be trusted to observe the proprieties. Perhaps Lady Anne deserved to be trapped into marrying him, but she was a guest at Easthaven. Rusholme acknowledged a certain responsibility for her well-being in his parents’ house.

  He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m going to abandon you, Maria. I daresay I’ll miss the toast to the new year, but if Mama asks, I’ll be back shortly.”

  As he reached the empty ballroom, a female figure rushed in from the terrace, wrapped in a leaf-green cloak and weeping into a handkerchief.

  “Prudence!”

  She raised her head: startled blue eyes awash with tears, framed by golden ringlets.

  “Lady Anne? What’s happened?”

  “Mr. Ff-f-foliot,” she wept. “He tried to k-kiss me. Miss S-Savage saved me.”

  “She’s out there?” Not waiting for an answer, he strode past her, his heart in his throat.

  Beyond the wedge of light from within, the night was inky black. For a moment Rusholme paused, wondering which way to turn, afraid he was too late. Then his eyes adjusted. Against the pale stonework was a deeper shadow, Ffoliot’s black coat and Prudence’s dark dress, merged into one silhouette.

  Oh God, did she want Ffoliot?

  “No!” A strangled cry. “Let me go!”

  “Let her go.”

  Ffoliot jumped. Slowly he turned, still gripping Prudence’s arm. “Rusholme? What the devil is it to you?”

  “Let her go.”

  “Oh, so that’s it, is it? You’re not usually so possessive of your bits of game.”

  “I said, let her go. Unless you wish to make the intimate acquaintance of the goldfish pond at the foot of the steps.”

  “I fancy you’d not have it all your own way if we came to cuffs!” said Ffoliot, piqued. “Still, she’s hardly worth a darkened daylight to either of us. She’s only another actress.”

  “An unwilling actress, and a guest in my home.” Rusholme stepped forward and at last Ffoliot hurriedly let go Prudence’s arm. “To my sorrow, you also are a guest in my home. However, I have an odd premonition that in the morning you will suddenly recall an urgent appointment elsewhere. Do I make myself plain?”

  “Quite plain. What a tempest in a teacup over a tuppenny lightskirt! I wish you joy of the doxy.” He sauntered past Rusholme and into the house.

  Prudence huddled by the gryphon, her face hidden in her hands. Gently Rusholme pulled her into his arms and held her like a frightened child. How had she grown so dear in so short a time? He stroked her rosemary-fragrant hair until her shaking ceased.

  “Better? I shan’t let him harm you.”

  With two fingers he raised her chin, scanning her pale face for signs of fear. No glint of tears in the faint light from the windows. Her mouth trembled. It was the most natural thing in the world to bow his head and kiss her.

  She twisted from his embrace. “Don’t! I thought you were different. You’re all alike, every one of you!”

  Sobbing, she stumbled down the steps and disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter 9

  After sinking into blessed oblivion the moment her head touched the pillow, Prudence woke at daybreak. She felt stifled. She had to get out of the house, his house, where somewhere in the distant unknown corridors he lay sleeping—or plotting her downfall.

  She turned her head. Aimée was lost in slumber, a sweet, innocent smile curving her lips. How could one ever guess what lay behind another’s mask?

  Prudence slipped out of bed and quickly dressed. Lady Anne had her green cloak, the one he said made her look like a wood elf. No matter, she had thriftily kept her old brown cloak, as drab as she felt. Wrapping it around her, she made her way to the side door and stepped out into the grey dawn.

  To her right lay the lake, to her left the Yule log’s path, straight ahead the woods where the holly grew. Haunted by the memories they held, she would never be able to decide what to do. She trudged around the vast mansion and set off down the drive.

  Today was a holiday. She need not see Rusholme until tomorrow, Act V, when he’d take her hand only to reject her. That would be bad enough. She had rather never set eyes on him again. But in the days to follow, again and again she must flirt with him, pretend to fondle, smile and pretend she didn’t care.

  She couldn’t! Somehow the company must manage without her.

  They had been so kind to her, giving her a chance when she had never acted in her life, teaching and encouraging, applauding her successes and glossing over her failures. How could she let them down?

  She came to the end of the drive. The gryphon-posted gates stood hospitably open, as always when the family was at home. The brick lodge to one side was silent, still, the only hint of life a thin wisp of smoke from the chimney. Prudence crossed the lane and started along a grassy ride through the bare woods on the other side.

  A light rain began to fall. She scarcely noticed. Lost in doubt and misery she plodded on.

  A squirrel chattered at her from a tree. Somewhere a woodpecker drummed briefly, paused, and drummed again, a hollow tock-tock-tock. Closer, behind her, a muffled thudding sounded like a subdued echo.

  Not an echo, hoofbeats on damp grass. Prudence swung round as the tall bay slowed to a stop beside her. Her gaze traveled
up the glossy top-boot, the muscular thigh, the straight torso clad in a caped greatcoat. She knew who it was long before her eyes reached his face, before Rusholme’s voice said roughly, “So it is you.”

  She backed away, clasping her arms protectively across her breast.

  “Don’t run from me!” His words emerged as a cry of pain.

  On the verge of turning to flee among the trees, she stopped. She was tired of running away. Somehow, however hard it was to say it outright, she had to convince him that she would never be his mistress.

  “Look, I’ll dismount. We’ll walk with Salamander between us. He’s a pretty effective barrier.”

  “Salamander? Not named after the lizard, surely. A fire elemental?”

  “For his colour and spirit.”

  “He should have taken the part of the dragon in the mummers’ play.” It was all too easy to fall into friendly conversation with him, to forget past and future in the pleasure of his company.

  “I’d give a monkey to have seen my mother’s face if Salamander had pranced across her drawing room. No, I suspect he’d be an even worse actor than I am.”

  Prudence wished she could see his face, but the horse’s nose was between them. She took a deep breath. “I shan’t be acting any more after Twelfth Night.”

  Rusholme was silent for three paces. Then, “It’s my fault, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

  “Only in part. As Aimée said, if it were not you it would be another. I was woefully naïve to think I could become an actress without sharing the general reputation of actresses.”

  “You have not been with the company very long, have you? I couldn’t sleep last night. I went over and over everything you ever said to me. I remembered you told me you had too little experience to play Kate Hardcastle.”

  “Just a few months’.”

  “What will you do next? You have relatives to turn to?”

  “No.” Prudence could scarcely speak for relief that he had asked such a question rather than offering his protection.

  “Then how will you live?”

  “I shall go back to being a governess.”

  “A governess!” He stopped stockstill and bent to peer at her under Salamander’s neck. “You!”

  She smiled, at the picture he presented and at his disbelief. “A life of the utmost respectability, and dullness.”

  “You were a governess?”

  “For nearly ten years.”

  “That explains a good deal, your clothes, your way with children, your manners, your education.”

  “I was educated to be a governess. I had a choice of that or finding a curate to marry. My father was a clergyman, you see.”

  “I do indeed begin to see,” he said thoughtfully. Salamander tossed his head and Rusholme started walking again. “I don’t blame you in the least for champing at the bit, but what on earth made you kick over the traces?”

  “I suppose I’d have to say coincidence and caprice. The youngest child of the family who employed me was sent off to school. Seeking a new position is always an uncomfortable business so I was rather moped. On my way to London I had to change stagecoaches in Cheltenham and I happened to see a theatre bill, which happened to have a notice in small print saying the company needed an actress. Much as I like children, it sounded far more interesting and exciting than being a governess.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “I must have been mad.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No....” Prudence said uncertainly. She thought for a moment of all that had happened since that day, then said more decidedly, “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m glad. But what made you imagine you could act?”

  “I had been acting all my life! My father thought me pious and dutiful. My employers thought me humble and obedient, and grateful for the pittance they paid me.”

  “As any number of tedious and exasperating ladies and gentlemen think I am delighted to welcome them to Easthaven.” He stopped again as they reached the edge of the wood. “All this will be mine one day,” he said with a sweeping gesture.

  The track had gradually risen. Before them spread a wide valley, a tidy hedged chequerboard of pasture, dotted with fat cattle, and brown ploughland, some striped green with winter wheat. Spinneys and copses, a stream lined with willows and alders, a prosperous-looking whitewashed farm house with barns and stables, all would be his one day.

  Lord Rusholme could not have found a more tactful way of making his point: he was heir to a marquis. Whether Prudence was actress or governess, she belonged to another world.

  “Will it be difficult to find another post?” he asked abruptly.

  “I doubt it. I am an excellent governess and I have first rate references.”

  “No one will question the missing months?”

  “Unlikely. If they do, I shall say I had to nurse my father on his deathbed. It’s true enough, only it happened several years ago.”

  “So you have no relatives to take you in.”

  If Mr. Ffoliot had spoken thus, in that meditative tone, Prudence might have feared abduction. Perhaps she was a complete addlepate, but she trusted Rusholme. From his point of view, last night had been no different from the night on the lake, when she had so nearly welcomed his kiss. Had she not just been assaulted by Ffoliot, she’d not have reacted so violently.

  Now the earl knew who she was, she dared to hope he would not try to take advantage of her susceptibility, of which he was certainly well aware. For the next few days they could be friends, working together to produce the best performance of which they were capable.

  Then she must return to the staid tedium of the schoolroom, but at least she’d have memories to sustain her through the endless years to come.

  “You were never on stage in London?” Rusholme asked.

  “Only in Cheltenham, and here, of course.” Roused from her musing, Prudence realized the mizzle had slowly but surely seeped through her threadbare cloak, damping the shoulders of her gown. She shivered.

  “My dear...Cousin Con, you will be soaked to the skin! I’ll not offer to take you up on Salamander, but we must turn back.”

  “I don’t want to cut short your ride.”

  “I can ride later, if you will allow me to escort you.”

  He said no more while he turned the horse. Prudence fell into step beside him. She no longer felt any need to keep the great beast between them. They started down the slope between the dripping trees.

  “I haven’t yet apologized for last night,” said Rusholme, his gaze straight ahead. “I’m not really like Ffoliot, you know.”

  “I know. If he had not just frightened me, I wouldn’t have been so angry and I’d never have said that.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “I already have, if there is anything to forgive. You had no reason to believe me different from any other actress.”

  “I had every reason!” He turned his head to smile at her. “Did I not say the first time we met what an unusual actress you are? Nothing since has given me any cause to change my opinion, and now I know I was right. You are no more an actress at heart than I am an actor.”

  “I have enjoyed it, most of it, but I realized some days ago that I’m not really suited to the life,” Prudence admitted.

  “Which is not to say you are as bad at it as I am. Though I cannot regret it, I ought not to have insisted on taking Tony’s part. I shall let you all down.”

  “Not at all, it’s just.... Oh, I have an idea. Your trouble is you cannot bring yourself to be rude to your mother—Mrs. Hardcastle, that is. Suppose you pretend to yourself you are speaking to Mr. Ffoliot?”

  “Ffoliot!”

  “I’ve never in my life heard so insolent and contemptuous a tone as you used to him last night.”

  Rusholme stared at her, then laughed. “It might work.”

  “Then at least something good would come out of my unpleasant experience.”

  “Something good already has,�
� he said softly. “I have found a new friend.”

  Which was precisely what Prudence had wished for, so why was she filled with discontent?

  The rest of the way back to the house, they talked of a myriad subjects. When they parted at the arched entrance to the stableyard, Rusholme said sternly, “Go straight to change into dry clothes.”

  Prudence curtsied, smiling. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Baggage! Please go and change. If you take ill, how shall I play Tony without my Cousin Con? And have a hot drink.”

  She glanced back as she walked on to the side door. He still stood there, rubbing Salamander’s nose but watching her. He waved and turned away.

  When she reached the bedchamber, Aimée was dressing. She swung round, her face agog with curiosity.

  “Don’t tell me you been out for a walk already,” she exclaimed, “and in the rain! You’re sopping wet.”

  “Just damp.” Prudence took off her brown cloak.

  “You’re crazy. Sera, what the deuce happened last night? Ffoliot was in a devilish temper and said he had to leave today, but he wouldn’t tell me why. Then a few minutes ago Lady Winkworth’s abigail brought that, for you.” She gestured at the dressing table.

  Thankfully, Prudence saw her green cloak, which she had feared might be gone for good. On top of it lay her handkerchief, a plain square of white cotton, washed, ironed, and neatly folded.

  “Your Ffoliot tried to compromise Lady Anne,” she said as she picked up the handkerchief to put it away. Beneath it was another, a dainty thing of finest linen, lace-edged, with a posy of violets embroidered in one corner. “Oh bother! Here’s one of her handkerchiefs. I shall have to return it.”

  “You caught them on the terrace and foiled his plan?” Aimée laughed. “Poor fellow, he’ll have to look elsewhere for a fortune.”

  Prudence nodded absently as she discovered, under the second handkerchief, a sealed letter and a tiny package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a scrap of ribbon. She opened the package first, and sat down on the dressing-table stool with a gasp. “A brooch,” she said blankly, staring down at a gold butterfly with amethyst eyes, its wings set with seed pearls.