by Peter McAra
‘I should very much look forward to such a visit, sir. I planned to return to my Dorchester rooms this evening, but I have no pressing need to do so.’
Now Hailsham’s smile almost split his face in two. ‘Very well, my lady. Say we depart the inn at eight o’clock tomorrow morning?’
‘Excellent. I shall stay at the inn tonight. Meet you at eight o’clock.’
‘And perhaps you might wish to stay at Brierley Hall for a few days? If it transpires that Harry is still enraptured by his new passion, gardens, and hasn’t yet returned.’
He bowed towards Eliza. This time she fancied his eyes burned into hers. Could he be thinking she was unattached, a rich gentlewoman? Which indeed she was, in the letter of the law.
‘Does that accord with madam’s plans?’
‘Why, thank you,’ Eliza smiled. ‘I am very grateful, sir, for your kindness.’
By the time the coach rolled away from the inn next morning, Eliza had coped with her nervousness at the prospect of spending the day with Hailsham. Time passed pleasantly enough as the coach rolled through towns and fields. Hailsham conversed interestingly about his passions for all things scientific, finding connection with Eliza across a diversity of subjects from astronomy to steam engines.
At four o’clock, the chariot rolled to a halt outside the grand staircase of Brierley Hall. As the butler met them, Hailsham enquired after Harry’s whereabouts.
‘Why sir, he departed for Marley, a week and more gone. He lately sent word that his father was poorly. He apologised for his departure, and left a letter. He told me it was to thank you for your kind hospitality and explaining his doings in more detail.’ The butler looked nervously at Eliza. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, I understand he has long talked of taking ship to Botany Bay one day.’
Eliza fought tears. To have glowed with joy at the prospect of meeting Harry, then spent much of the night imagining their reunion; and now to have that joy suddenly hacked away by a machete… As soon as she enjoyed a moment of privacy, she must lay plans. For the moment, she should hide her disappointment and act the disinterested lady on an errand of mercy for her fictitious friend, the lovesick Miss Myrtle Forsyth. Then on the morrow she must make swift departure for Southampton. And she must hide her shock while ever she spent time in Hailsham’s company.
As they walked from the coach, he summoned a maid to take Eliza to her chambers in the rambling building.
‘Join me on the veranda for a spot of tea after the maid has shown you to your chambers,’ Hailsham offered, ever the easygoing gentleman.
A few minutes later, Eliza made her way to the veranda, dressed in a modestly beribboned afternoon frock of pale gold muslin, lately bought in Dorchester. As an afterthought as she finished dressing, she wore the new boots she had lately bought, admitting that she had already owned more than enough footwear for the journey. Though pretty enough for taking tea, the boots might also serve for a walk through the famous gardens if Hailsham offered.
‘My dear Mrs Bentleigh,’ Hailsham rose from his chair and bowed. Eliza had noticed during their first meeting that for a young viscount apparent, he bowed very often and very low. Was this his habit, or had he behaved so simply for her benefit? Again, she flinched at the directness of his gaze.
‘I’m glad you arrived promptly,’ her host said. ‘So that we can spend a moment in private. Without servants taking in our every move.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Pardon my directness,’ he said. ‘But I simply must say it. I find your company quite…delightful, Mrs Bentleigh. And I hope to enjoy more of that company while you visit.’
His intense blue eyes burned into hers yet again. Was he scrutinising her hair? Her dress? Her smile? She hoped she would appear demure. Whatever, the look told Eliza that he was indeed enjoying her company. As they sat in the afternoon shade of the veranda with its view of the sweeping gardens, the sound of a carriage broke through their amiable chatter. Hailsham looked towards the drive.
‘Lucinda! My sister. She’s come home from her season in London. Bringing her fiancé. And our aunt as chaperone, of course. She plans to introduce him to the delights of Brierley Hall.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the spacious garden-fringed lawn. ‘Like Harry, he is lately become rather enchanted by gardens, as would seem to be the fashion among young blades these days. Excuse me. I must greet her.’ He ran across the lawn. Eliza watched as a young lady and gentleman, then an elderly woman, descended from the coach. A few minutes later Lucinda and the gentleman, name of Eustace, joined them on the veranda.
A maid appeared with trays of tea and cakes. Eliza found herself blending with the happy, lighthearted atmosphere, with her companions. It was as though she were indeed a titled lady passing the time of day with her equals. She smiled to herself. If only her mother could see her now. After they’d enjoyed a merry hour of conversation, a chill in the breeze reminded them that evening had come.
‘Why, this jollity is too pleasant to be ended so soon,’ Hailsham said. ‘We should take a turn through the gardens. You told me, Eustace, that you have toured the southern counties with the express purpose of studying gardens. Meantime, I’ll tell Cook to organise a splendid welcome home dinner in Lucinda’s honour.’
The foursome met a half-hour later. Hailsham led them along a paved path to a belt of ornamental trees bordering a lake.
‘We mustn’t miss the waterfall,’ he said. ‘Let’s make haste. It will be dark soon.’ Soon Eliza noticed that Hailsham stayed close to her while Eustace and Lucinda walked on ahead. He held out an arm to her. After hesitating for a moment, she took it. In the poor light, she might stumble.
‘Isn’t this perfectly delightful,’ her host said. ‘Let us not hurry back. We should give a little breathing space to Eustace and Lucinda. What say you, Mrs Bentleigh?’
Eliza winced at the thought. At this very moment, the pair would be walking side by side in the dark, very likely arm in arm.
‘So I’m wondering,’ he continued, ‘What might be happening a little way ahead of us on this very path.’ He chuckled. This time, a pang of jealousy bit at Eliza’s heart. Soon they would reach the house. Romance between Eustace and Lucinda would highly likely blossom in this beautiful setting.
‘May I suggest, Mrs Bentleigh, that we give our dear guests a little space?’ Hailsham took her hand and steered her towards a bench she hadn’t noticed. It offered views across the now glassy waters of the lake. They sat side by side on the bench. In moments, she felt him move closer.
‘Upon my word! Look there, Mrs Bentleigh. Next to the tall tree.’
He pointed. An orange glow shone through the leaves. The moon was rising. Soon its reflection would grace their view of the lake. Eliza held her breath at the thought. Silently, Hailsham took her gloved hand, meshed his fingers with hers.
‘My dear Mrs Bentleigh, I must tell you; I’m smitten.’ His voice was a croaking whisper. She looked into eyes which seemed too close to her own. ‘From the very moment I first saw you, you…stole my heart. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Ever imagined. The most sweet natured, the most agreeable. I should like to woo you.’
Benumbed by his words, his earnest face which seemed to be closing on her second by second, she could only smile up at him. It occurred to her to move away, but she chose not to. She felt in command of her situation, comfortable. Not romantic, merely at ease. She could never love anyone but Harry. Her detachment gave her a feeling of independence.
‘Thank you, sir. Please call me Alice in…moments like this. You flatter me. And I like it. But we really shouldn’t tarry here.’
‘Very well, my dearest Alice.’ He paused. ‘And I beg you, please use my name, Maynard, when we converse like this. But…’ In a second, his lips found hers. She felt their hungry searching as they brushed her closed mouth. The feeling was pleasant enough, flattering even. But no magic explosion rocked her being. Maynard was not Harry. Slowly, she lowered her head.
‘Forgive me!’ Maynard slipped aw
ay, pulled his arms to his sides. ‘My dear Alice. I shouldn’t have done that. You’re too much a lady.’ He paused again. ‘We should go. As you asked. I simply want you to know that I…care for you. Will likely always care for you.’
‘Shouldn’t we walk back?’ Eliza said. ‘It would be extremely rude of us to be late for Lucinda’s special dinner.’
He sighed; a long, sad sigh which might have been heard at John O’Groats. She stepped onto the path. He followed. The rising moon now lit the way. She could walk briskly without fear of accidentally falling into Maynard’s arms.
But Maynard was not to be rushed. Placing her hand on his wrist, he led her slowly — and a touch awkwardly, Eliza thought — to the house.
‘I beg one last favour of you, Alice,’ Maynard said as they closed on the house. ‘That you don’t say a word about things to Eustace and Lucinda.’
‘Very well. It’s our secret.’ She smiled at him, imagined herself squeezing the hand he’d kept clapped to his side since they’d left the bower. Then she thought better of it and quickened her pace along the path.
After dinner, the quartet adjourned to the living room. In moments, Lucinda seated herself at the pianoforte and began to play a doleful love song.
‘May we not have something a little more spritely now, Sister?’ Maynard asked after Lucinda had bowed and smiled at the end of her piece.
‘Presently, Brother,’ she said. ‘For the nonce, love songs suit my mood.’ Eliza winced. Was that a sad look of longing Lucinda slid in Eustace’s direction? ‘Mr Eustace, what music suits your temper?’ Again, she fixed her eyes on her fiancé.
‘Why, something perhaps a trifle more lively, I should think,’ he smiled. ‘But pray, my dear lady, indulge yourself. Perhaps you pine for someone in faraway London?’ He smiled at his own joke. ‘Now that the Season is over?’
‘Hardly, sir. My pining might be for someone not so far away. But no matter.’ She attacked the keyboard with an energy that surprised Eliza. Maynard began to jig one foot as he sat. Then he stood, walked over to Eliza, and bowed. ‘Would madam care to join me in a little dance?’
Before she could answer, the music stopped.
‘Aha. My dear brother wishes to prove his mettle.’ Eliza saw that Lucinda had read her brother’s mind. ‘Methinks a waltz might suit. Provided, of course, you are broad-minded enough to indulge. You will know, Maynard, that the waltz is frowned upon in polite society. Though I suspect it will be all the rage next season. You understand, do you not, that the partners must embrace each other as they dance?’
‘Well, er, indeed.’ Maynard smiled at the gathering. ‘I was hoping that Mrs Bentleigh might wish to escape from the fuddy-duddies of polite society for a moment. What say you, madam?’
‘Why, thank you, sir,’ Eliza smiled. ‘It seems I’m always escaping from something or other. But I must confess, I do not know the waltz.’ Or any other dance for that matter, she admitted to herself. While she had read much of the nobility’s daily comings and goings, she had never so much as set foot in a gentleman’s residence at night. She had absolutely no knowledge of how they entertained themselves in the evenings other than what she had read in novels. And if the real-life situations she’d encountered in the last few days were representative, then they were somewhat different from the world revealed by those novels. If Maynard persisted with his invitation to dance, she would find herself in deep, unknown waters. She must hope that she could swim.
‘Then I must become your dancing instructor.’ Maynard beamed, reaching for her hand. ‘Music, Maestro!’
The pianoforte exploded with a lively melody. The moment Eliza stood, he took her hand. With one arm round her waist, the other held high, he looked at her feet.
‘Now follow me — so. Left foot first. One-two-three, one-two-three. So, and so.’ Copying his movements, she slid her feet in time to the music, helped by the pressure of his hand in the small of her back. After a turn round the floor, she had slipped into the catchy rhythm. Maynard glowed. When the music dictated, he took her hand in his and swung her in time with the melody’s seductive pulse. As they reached one end of the floor and turned about to return to the other end, he pivoted her so hard she feared she might fall. Anticipating her need, he held her tightly in his arms. She flowed into the moment, found it literally breathtaking. Each time they turned at the end of the floor she found herself enfolded in his steamy embrace.
So this was the purpose of the waltz: to create a socially acceptable excuse for a couple to fall passionately into each others’ arms every thirty seconds.
‘Enough!’ After a couple of circuits of the floor when Lucinda accelerated the music to a feverish pace, Maynard raised a hand. ‘My leg! The pain is too much. A brief rest, if you please.’
He bowed to Eliza, then limped to his chair. The music quietened, stopped. With a bow to Lucinda, a smiling nod to Eustace, Eliza sat, relieved that she now had some distance from Maynard.
Next morning, as arranged the night before, Eliza took her leave. Lucinda had not left her bed, having explained the previous night that she was still tired from her hectic London sojourn. As Eliza left the breakfast table, Maynard rose and followed her.
‘Please, Alice. Write to me,’ he whispered as she walked briskly to her bedchamber to pack.
‘What should I write about, Maynard?’ In answer, he reached for her hand as she kept her brisk pace. She flicked it out of his reach.
‘Why, to tell me you…might allow me to visit. May I hope?’
‘We must abide by polite convention, Maynard.’ She hastened her pace a little, but Maynard was too quick for her. He took hold of her hand, then, dropping onto one knee, kissed it slowly, lovingly. She patted his head as he stooped.
‘Goodbye, kind sir.’ She smiled down at him. ‘Now please excuse me.’ She opened the door to her bedchamber and disappeared.
Soon a footman appeared and took her luggage to the courtyard. She followed him downstairs and climbed into the coach. Late that evening she reached her inn at Dorchester and fell into bed to dream again of the loving arms she had so nearly reached.
‘Open up! Open up!’ The crashing knock on her inn room’s door, the bellowed order, woke Eliza from blissful sleep.
CHAPTER 34
Memories of her arrest at Marley two years before cascaded through Eliza’s half-asleep brain. She slid out of bed, staggered to the door, opened it. In a trice, two constables had grabbed her arms.
‘…arresting you for escaping from lawful custody.’ The man’s gravelly growl was enough to shock Eliza into wakeful reality. Somehow, someone had recognised her, perhaps as she strolled through the village that recent afternoon. But who?
With a constable holding each arm, she was dragged down the inn’s staircase and shoved onto a cart. The stench of old horse dung stung her nose as she lay with her face pressed to the cart’s splintered floor. As she lay, her arms pinioned by the two burly men, she braced herself for the inevitable — to be locked in a windowless cell, with hay for a bed, until the next assizes.
Her sleepless hours passed exactly as she had imagined. Dawn came. As shafts of daylight filtered through the cracked roof, she realised she had been cast into the very same cell she had endured two years before. She clenched her teeth, determined not to give way to tears of hopelessness. She would have all the time she needed to consider her fate.
Unless she could find a messenger to collect her belongings from the inn, she was once more a penniless waif. Ah, Meg, the little maid who had shown her to her room. She would try to send a message to her. Then her day in court, and its aftermath. Would she find herself again on a convict transport ship, subjected once more to that hellish journey to the other side of the world? Unlikely. The law would expect that if she had escaped the somewhat lax imprisonment system of New South Wales, she could do so again.
Would the judge sentence her to be hanged? That was the fate of most hapless convicts caught after their escape from custody. She lay back o
n the pile of straw she had scraped together, daring to hope that her wait for the next assizes would be brief.
Mercifully, her gaoler agreed to send a message to Meg, and soon afterwards the young woman appeared with some more respectable clothes, and Eliza’s reticule — including the purse which held her supply of golden guineas. She was to enjoy at least that token comfort.
Six days after her arrest she was taken to the courthouse and led into the dock.
‘…prisoner, thought to be one Eliza Downing, teacher…charged with escaping lawful custody,’ the clerk mumbled.
‘Can the prisoner be reliably identified?’ The moment she heard his voice, Eliza recognised him as the judge who had sentenced her last time she stood in this very same dock. She waited, staring up at his bewigged face, struggling to control her ragged breathing, as the man read and shuffled the papers on his bench. Indeed, he was Judge Charles Fortescue.
‘The prisoner will tell the court her name.’
‘Alice Bentleigh, widow.’ She spoke slowly, clearly, in the gentlewomanly accent which had lately become her habit. The judge peered down at a paper on the bench.
‘You were thought to be one Eliza Downing, peasant maid, inhabitant of the village of Marley. If you — ’
‘That she is! I can prove it!’ The judge, the prosecutor, the lawyers clustered before the bench, all turned. Louisa De Havilland stood in the gallery, dominating the room.
‘Milud. My witness has something important to reveal.’ The prosecutor’s dry voice, his sere complexion, fed Eliza’s memory. The man, still wearing the tall hat which had distinguished him at her earlier trial, was Obadiah Shaw. He had been the viscount’s lawyer, a damning witness. And — yes! He was the man she had consulted but days before, in his Dorchester rooms, as to Harry’s whereabouts. Her heart sank at her naïveté — at her innocent stupidity.
‘Very well. With what secret does your witness wish to assist the court?’
‘Something which may save the court much confusion.’
