‘Gently, Anne! You will be no help to Kit if you injure yourself dashing off in that neck-or-nothing fashion!’
‘But he may be lying hurt somewhere while we delay,’ she fretted.
‘I very much doubt it. Didn’t you admit yourself that this wasn’t the first time he had disappeared in this way?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted with a rueful smile. ‘Last year when his papa refused to take him to the prize-fight at Salisbury he started off, quite determined to run away to sea, but by the time he reached the village he had thought better of it and persuaded the carter to bring him back. We were all in a terrible state of alarm when he arrived, as happy as a lark, telling us that he had decided to forgive us after all.’
Although she could smile at the memory, her cheerful words masked a real fear—and a twinge of guilt. She could not help blaming herself, nor avoid the reflection that it was her broken promise that had caused Kit to embark on this escapade. She prayed that he had come to no harm; she would never forgive herself if he were injured—or worse.
At the end of the lane they halted, unsure of which path Kit would have chosen. Anne stared unhappily at the wood. Would Kit have ignored the danger? He was over-confident at times, too trusting, in his own ability to cope.
Then to her relief she caught sight of a scrap of brown nankeen dangling from the hedge opposite. Thankfully she pointed it out to her companion. ‘I’m sure that is off Kit’s jacket.’
‘Yes, and see the footprints in the mud on the far side. They are too small to have been made by an adult. He must have squeezed through the gap into the field in order to get to the path to the village that runs down the far side.’
The gap was small, but the horses managed to push their way through without too much difficulty. Soon they picked up the footpath along which an occasional small footmark in the soft ground indicated that Kit had indeed come this way. It was a relief to know that he had at least avoided the dangers of Bassett’s wood, but his prolonged absence was still worrying and Anne anxiously spurred her horse on.
They had almost reached the village when they saw a group of extraordinarily dressed people enter the far side of the meadow they had begun to cross themselves. A short plump man in a voluminous black cloak and battered top-hat was assisting two young women over the stile. Both were finding great difficulty in negotiating the obstacle, hampered as they were by the flowing trains of their gaudy dresses. The dazzling scarlet and emerald silk gowns were as inappropriate for a country stroll as the enormous bonnets, trimmed with billowing plumes and tawdry lace.
‘Excuse me, have you seen a young boy…’ Edmund began as soon as they were close enough, but broke off as a tousle-headed child in torn nankeen jacket leapt over the stile behind the young women, shouting,
‘Anne! Anne! Come and see who I’ve found. This is Mr. Delamare!’
Weak with relief Anne slid off her horse to hug her nephew. ‘Thank goodness you are safe!
Where have you been?’
‘With Mr. Delamare, of course!’
Sweeping off his rusty black hat, the portly gentleman made a profound bow. ‘I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, ma’am! Allow me to present my daughters, Imogen and Cordelia.’
The outsize feathers quivered and dipped as the two bobbed curtsies, twittering self-consciously. Close to they were younger than Anne had first supposed, their preposterous gowns loose on their half-formed figures. Before she could do more than nod in acknowledgment of the introduction, their father went on, ‘I am Horatio Delamare!’ He paused impressively as if this should mean something to them, then, when they made no response, continued with a hint of disappointment in his voice, ‘This young gentleman befriended us in the village in our hour of need. We were on our way to restore him to the bosom of his adoring family.’
‘That was very kind of you,’ murmured Anne, as overcome by Mr. Delamare’s booming eloquence as by the strong aroma of brandy that wafted towards her with his words. ‘I am sorry you were put to so much trouble. Whatever have you been doing, Kit? We were growing really anxious about you.’
‘There, young man, what did I tell you? Your sorrowing mamma has been imagining her ewe lamb gone for ever. “Was ever mother had so dear a loss?”
‘She isn’t my mother,’ Kit interrupted. ‘That’s Anne. She’s my aunt.’
‘Ah! And now, in the words of the noble Swan of Avon, you may— Make quick conveyance with your good aunt Anne!’ boomed Mr. Delamare, unabashed.
Anne dared not look at Edmund lest his appreciation of the ridiculous situation made her laugh out loud.
‘Mr. Delamare is an actor, Anne!’ Kit told her.
‘ A poor player,’ Mr. Delamare’s gesture of magnificent humility made the impossibly large jewel in his ring glisten richly in the sunlight, ‘ who struts and frets his hour upon the stage.’
‘Pa specialises in the works of the Immoral Bard,’ put in Cordelia helpfully.
‘ Immortal, child. Immortal!—deathless!’ snapped her father irritably. ‘Immoral is quite another matter, signifying that which is lewd and vile, unfit for the ears of the fair sex.’
‘In that case it is quite as fitting for him,’ she retorted, with a saucy look in Edmund’s direction from under her long lashes. ‘Else why did you kick up such a fuss when you found Ginny and me reading that old copy of Hamlet, and make us use Mr. Bowdler’s version instead?’
Imogen clapped her hands together, shrieking her approval of this sally. Their father goggled back in speechless indignation.
‘I had not realised, Mr. Delamare,’ observed Edmund, taking pity on him, ‘that there was now a theatre in this neighbourhood.’
‘Alas, sir, there is none. We are only stopped here by sad mischance. We are engaged to perform at Bristol tomorrow, but our conveyance has broken down.’
‘The wheel came off the cart when Pa hit the milestone,’ Imogen explained confidentially.
‘Rosy’s told him and told him he shouldn’t drive when he’s bosky, but he don’t ever listen!
And now we’re stuck!’
Glaring at her, Mr. Delamare continued, ‘So until it can be repaired we are unable to prosecute our calling unless we can find some temporary accommodation to represent our wooden cart.’
‘I told them they could use our barn,’ said Kit eagerly. ‘Ferdie said they often do that in country places, but Rosy said we must ask Mamma first. Please say it’s all right, Anne!’
‘Now, Kit, you must remember that we can no longer make that sort of arrangement. The barn belongs to Lord Ashorne, like everything else. It is for him to decide who uses it.’
‘Please!’ Kit’s huge blue eyes, so like Julia’s, were raised in entreaty to Edmund. ‘Ferdie told me all about the plays. I’m longing to see him act in one. Ferdie takes all sorts of parts —lords, princes, kings even!’
‘He is referring to my youngest offspring—“Ferdinand the Infant Prodigy”,’ explained Mr.
Delamare with manifest pride. ‘He was born while we were playing The Tempest at York.
Shall I ever forget that night? His poor mamma, God rest her soul, was a Miranda without peer. Her pains started in the first act, but like-a true trouper she soldiered on until the final curtain. She managed one call then collapsed among the scenery, so that my son and heir was born not merely to tread the boards, but actually upon them!’
Anne tried to visualise the scene but failed. She could only reflect incredulously that Mrs.
Delamare’s condition must indeed have presented a new dimension to the role.
‘And where is Master Ferdinand now?’ she asked unsteadily, still not daring to meet Edmund’s eye. He had always snared her strong appreciation of the ridiculous in the past, and must surely now be enjoying this ludicrous account as much as she was.
‘Ferdinand remained behind in the village to protect his eldest sister.’
‘Rosy don’t like to walk, so she stayed on the baggage cart,’ explained Imogen.
‘And won’t she be as mad as fire when she finds she’s missed meeting a real live lord!’
added Cordelia with satisfaction. ‘She had a baronet used to send her flowers and suchlike when we was at Bath, but she didn’t set much store by him.’
‘Well, he was nearly ninety and hadn’t a tooth in his head,’ her sister pointed out. ‘You didn’t fancy him neither!’
Kit tugged eagerly at Anne’s sleeve to attract her attention.
‘Ferdie says that Rosy dresses up as a boy in some of the plays,’ he told her, eyes bright with excitement. ‘I do so want to see one. Please say you will let me, Anne!’
‘Unfortunately, young man, it will be beyond your dear aunt’s power to indulge that whim.
We have nowhere to present our humble entertainment.’
‘I’m sure it will be possible for you to use the barn at Ashorne,’ Edmund told him. ‘We’d’
all like to see your performance. The barn is all but empty now, and the little that remains can easily be shifted to another store. I’ll have my steward arrange it as soon as possible.
Where is your luggage at the moment?’
‘Heaven reward you, my lord! Hourly joys be still upon you. They are at the Three Crosses with the remainder of our little band.’
‘Then if you return there immediately yourself, I will send one of my men with a cart to collect them and take you to look the barn over. I’m sure it will suit your purpose—I remember a troupe of players performing there each year when I was a child. You are welcome to sleep there too if you wish—unless you prefer to return to the inn.’
‘You are more than generous, my lord. Come, my loves, let us hasten to deliver these excellent tidings to our companions. Be sure that We’ll hear a play tomorrow!’
Giggling, his two daughters murmured their farewells before turning to scuttle after their father who was already half a field away in his eagerness to take back the good tidings.
‘No, Kit! You stay with us!’ commanded Edmund, as the boy made to follow them. ‘Up you hop in front of me with no arguments. We must get you home to your mother without further delay. She was dreadfully worried about you.’
‘Who? Mamma? I don’t believe it,’ Kit retorted. ‘She don’t care what I do as long as I don’t tease her. She told me to get out of her sight this morning because my noise was hurting her ears.’
That sounded more like Julia than the display of maternal fondness they had been given earlier, thought Anne, though she refrained from saying so. Let Edmund draw his own conclusions.
‘I want to see Ferdie again!’ Kit insisted, still hanging back. ‘He says…’
‘No arguments!’ Edmund repeated in a voice not to be disobeyed. With an ill grace Kit capitulated and let Anne help him scramble up in front of Edmund, before she remounted herself from off the stile. He was not subdued long. He waved enthusiastically after his new friends until they were out of sight, then settled back with an envious sigh.
‘Aren’t they grand! I wish I could dress so fine. Did you ever see anything like Mr.
Delamare’s diamond, Anne?’
‘Never!’ Anne admitted with feeling, and was oddly warmed to see Edmund’s understanding grin. It was good to be in sympathy with him once more.
‘Ferdie says he wears it on stage when he plays kings and such. Wait till you meet Ferdie.
He’s a great gun! He says he has been acting ever since he could walk. In fact he was born on the stage!’
‘So his papa informed us,’ said Edmund.
‘But not until after the final curtain,’ Anne reminded him with a chuckle. ‘It must have been a revelation to see that performance!’
‘You haven’t seen Rosy yet,’ Kit went on ignoring the hilarity he could not understand.
‘She’s beautiful! Even prettier than Ginny or Delia!’
‘Indeed?’ Anne observed, not considering this any great recommendation. A brief snort of mirth betrayed Edmund’s agreement.
‘Yes, she’s got long black hair and she laughs all the time. Just like that lady friend of Papa’s who used to come and stay in the village such a lot. You know, the one who hurt her back when Papa was killed.’
‘Hush,’ Anne exclaimed quickly, noting Edmund’s shocked reception of this innocent description. ‘I told you that you must not speak of her any more.’
‘Only when Mamma is by, you said. Because it makes her sad. Edmund don’t mind, do you?’
‘I mind, as you term it, considerably, when you disobey your aunt and are impertinent into the bargain,’ Edmund declared icily.
Kit, subdued by the unaccustomed set-down, prudently relapsed into silence. Anne thought the rebuke over-severe for the offence, but dared not say so in front of the child. Clearly Kit’s careless words had shocked Edmund into more warmth than the incident warranted.
She stole a quick glance sideways. The face that had been so carefree, lit up with amusement a few moments earlier, was set into stern lines once more, though, as ever, it was hard to guess exactly what Edmund was thinking. She had an insane impulse to lean across and smooth those frown creases from his brow, and clutched her reins tightly to prevent herself. Edmund would think her mad—quite rightly!
Once again silence strained uncomfortably between them. Anne felt forlorn—in need of comfort herself. For a brief space she had been able to forget all the difficulties that divided them but now the gulf gaped wide again. Chilled she remembered all the confused problems that sundered them. Would they ever be resolved?
Hopeless to raise any of them with Kit, a silent but intelligent listener, riding stiffly in front of Edmund. What good would talking do, anyway? Was friendship all she really desired from Edmund? Had that moment of delight when he kissed her not made her long for far more than he was ever likely to offer?
Miserably she rode beside him, horrified to find her eyes brimming with foolish tears, and resolutely kept her face averted lest Edmund guess at her foolish weakness. She was heartily glad to see the Manor gates appear at last.
Kit recovered sufficiently to wriggle down as soon as they reached the stable yard and scurry off in the direction of the house to spread the news of his new friends’ arrival.
‘Nurse! Nurse! Guess who I’ve seen! Mamma!’ the shrill voice faded into the distance.
Anne started to follow him directly the horses had been led off, but Edmund put out a hand to prevent her.
‘Is it—true—what the child says about his father?’ he asked hesitantly.
Anne was too conscious of that hand on her arm. His touch roused all those confused emotions she had tried so desperately to suppress. Why had Edmund this ability to make her pulse race, every nerve tingle? However much she despised herself for feeling this way about a man who cared nothing for her, she could do nothing to help it. Despairingly she tugged free from his grasp.
‘Well, yes—I thought you guessed that.’
‘Thomas was unfaithful to your sister?’
‘Of course he was unfaithful. You know what a wandering eye Thomas had. Marriage was not likely to alter that.’
‘I don’t know how he could look at another woman when he had a wife such as Julia.’
‘I’m afraid that I cannot understand male appetites in the least,’ Anne snapped. ‘But I assure you, Thomas certainly continued to do more than look. He had a string of mistresses.’
‘It is incredible!’
‘Perhaps, but it is true!’ Anne was torn between sympathy for his evident shocked dismay and exasperation at his naivety. Why did he imagine Julia would alter Thomas’s nature—and how? Did he suppose that she had lived like a virtuous wife herself, ignoring all other men to devote herself to her husband?
If so he was very mistaken. Her affaires had been more discreetly handled than his, perhaps, but Thomas had been well aware that he was not her sole bedfellow. That was not Anne’s idea of a successful marriage, but they had appeared content enough until squabbles over Julia’s extravagance produced a more serious b
reach.
‘Poor Julia,’ Edmund sighed. ‘How she must have suffered!’
This had been a difficult day for Anne. Shocks, misunderstandings and disappointments had combined to leave her tired and dispirited. In spite of all her good resolutions to remain calm, to view dispassionately Edmund’s excessive concern for her sister’s welfare, those words were the last straw. Why was Edmund so blind to the truth? Her resentment, bottled up for so long, boiled over.
‘There are some who would say it served her right for being so stupid as to run off with Thomas in the first place,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘Julia knew precisely what sort of man he was when she married him.’
She was tempted to go further, to tell him how lightly Julia in her turn had treated her marriage vows, of the flocks of admirers she gathered round her from the very beginning.
The shortcomings had not been all on Thomas’s side.
But the affection Anne still felt for her sister, faults and all, made her check the angry impulse. That would be too spiteful—and probably unwise, she told herself bleakly. Edmund would not believe it any more than he credited any other criticism of Julia. However clearly he saw everyone else’s imperfection, he had always possessed the ability to close his eyes to Julia’s. Now he shook his head incredulously.
‘I did not realise you could be so hard, Anne.’
‘Hard! Do you call it hard to be realistic? Julia’s treatment of you was scarcely blameless.
Why waste your sympathy on her?’
‘Oh, Anne! How lucky it is I know you well enough to understand that you don’t mean all these cruel words. You are tired and overwrought, but don’t let it cloud your judgment. Your sister is a warm impulsive creature. She told me how cunningly Thomas pressured her into that rash elopement—a mistake she regretted almost immediately, but too late. It is unjust to blame her for not possessing your calm good sense.’
‘So you grant I am sensible, although I am so unsympathetic. Perhaps it is my good sense which makes me hard,’ she countered.
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