‘An Amazon, no less. Charlotte my angel, you must come and admire Miss Cash. She is quite the thing.’ Odo waved a gloved hand at his wife. The blond head turned; Cora got the impression of wide-set blue eyes and a certain hardness to the mouth. Her voice was unexpectedly deep for a woman.
‘Come, Odo, you mustn’t tease Miss Cash. You don’t want to spoil her first impressions of the Myddleton. It must be quite unlike anything you are used to, Miss Cash, although I know that American girls like nothing better than to give chase.’
Cora heard the sneer and narrowed her eyes. ‘Only when there is something worth pursuing,’ she replied.
Further hostilities were halted by the yelping of the hounds picking up the scent.
The huntsman blew his horn and the riders followed Lord Bridport as he cantered up after the hounds. Cora dug her heels into Lincoln’s side. He took off at a smooth pace, pushing his way to the front. He cleared the first hedgerow without hesitation, and Lord Bridport gave her an encouraging wave.
The hunting country of Virginia where Cora had learnt to ride was flat and open, but here the landscape was thicketed with fences and coverts. The pace was hard and Cora was soon breathless. But Lincoln was enjoying himself, he took fence after fence without even breaking his stride. He, at least, had no reservations about this unfamiliar terrain. The field began to thin out. Cora found herself alone at the front, until a substantial young man in a pink coat came alongside her.
‘Pleasure to watch you taking those fences. Lovely, quite lovely.’
Cora smiled but spurred her horse on. It wasn’t altogether clear from the young man’s tone whether his pleasure was directed at her or Lincoln and she didn’t care to find out. But her admirer kept his horse abreast of hers.
‘I’ve been hunting with the Myddleton since I was a nipper. Best pack in the country.’
Cora nodded in her most dismissive manner. The man in the pink coat was not be rebuffed, though.
‘Saw you from the off. There’s a girl with spirit, I thought. A girl who could appreciate a sportsman like myself. A girl who would like nothing better than to see what I have to offer.’ He caught Lincoln by the bridle and slowed the animals down to a walk. Cora began to protest but he shushed her and, holding her bridle tightly, took off one glove and began to roll back his sleeve. To her astonishment she saw that his hand and arm were covered by a detailed tattoo of the huntsmen, the riders and hounds of the Myddleton. The portly figure of Lord Bridport was unmistakably cantering up the man’s forearm. Cora could not help but laugh.
‘Fine piece of work, eh? Took three days and a quart of brandy. The work is remarkably detailed. Can’t see all of it myself of course, covers my whole back. Take a closer look if you like. Don’t be shy.’
‘I can appreciate the detail quite well from here, Mr…?’
‘Cannadine’s the name. Won’t you at least have a look at the fox? People tell me it is remarkably true to life.’
Mr Cannadine put the reins in his other hand and started to pull off the other glove. Cora could see the red nose of the fox peering out from the man’s sleeve.
‘I’m sure it is, Mr Cannadine, but perhaps some other time, I don’t want to lose the scent.’
Cannadine looked downcast. ‘Giving me the brush-off, eh? People say the fox is worthy of Landseer. Don’t show it to everyone, of course. But don’t often see a gel who can ride like you.’ He let go of Lincoln’s reins to put his glove back on and Cora took the opportunity to pick them up and pull the horse’s head up.
‘So nice to have met you, Mr Cannadine.’ And she dug her heels into Lincoln’s side so that the horse went straight into a canter. Cora heard Mr Cannadine shouting as he set off after her.
The hunt was approaching a spinney. Mr Cannadine veered left after the rest of the pack, so Cora took her chance and turned right. She had no desire to see any more of Mr Cannadine’s fox. If she went round the wood from the other side she would lose him.
It was a handsome beech wood, the trees were mostly bare but the lower branches were hung with mistletoe and ivy. A pheasant suddenly shot up in front of Lincoln. He stumbled and slowed. Cora let him walk for a while to check that no harm was done. She steered the horse into the wood itself, thinking she would catch up with the others faster. The air was quiet apart from Lincoln’s heavy snorting and the strange rattle of the leaves still clinging to the branches. And then she heard it: a low exclamation, somewhere between pain and pleasure. Was it animal or human? she wondered. Cora rode on a few paces and then she heard it again, louder this time and somehow thrilling. It was coming from a dense piece of undergrowth towards the centre of the wood. She could see green fronds of bracken and the handsome smooth trunk of a great beech tree. Without quite understanding why, Cora turned her horse towards the sound. It was more urgent now, then there was a sharp cry that made her start. It was a sound she recognised even if she had never heard it before. She should not be here, this was a private place. She tugged Lincoln’s reins, pulling his head sharply to the right and dug her heels into his flanks, desperate now to get away. The horse responded to her urgency and took off so swiftly that Cora had no time to avoid the low-lying branches coming towards her. The first knocked her hat off and the second struck her on the forehead and she knew no more.
The first thing she saw were the branches arching over her like a ribcage. Stunned by her fall, she sensed every detail sharply but she could not put them together. Bones and the smell of leaves and a hot wind blowing in her ear.
Wind? Cora turned her head. She realised she was lying on the ground. The breath tickling her cheek was from a horse, her horse, she fancied, who was pawing the ground impatiently, and snorting. The sound reminded Cora of something else, another noise she had heard but she could not place it. Her head felt muzzy, why was she lying on the ground? She saw a dark shape lying next to her. A bucket, or a chimney pot – no, it was a hat. Cora tried to raise her head but the effort was too much. She lay back and closed her eyes but at once opened them again. She must not sleep, there was something she had to remember. The horse whinnied. Something about a play, how did she enjoy the play, Mrs Lincoln. Lincoln was the name of the horse, her horse. But why was she lying on the ground? What was the sound that was pushing against her consciousness? She couldn’t grasp it, it kept slipping out of reach. Other things were crowding in now – a crown of flames, a face she couldn’t see behind a veil, a kiss that was not a kiss, a half-glimpsed fox. And then a voice.
‘Can you hear me?’
Was is it a real voice, or just part of the jangle in her head?
‘Are you hurt? Can I be of assistance?’
Cora tried to find the voice, and there was something leaning over her – a face, she thought, not the fox man, someone different. His eyes were looking at her, looking for something, she thought suddenly, but then he spoke again.
‘Can you hear me? You have fallen from your horse. Can you move your limbs?’
My limbs, thought Cora, in limbo. I am in limbo, always in limbo. She smiled and the man, who she saw now was a young man, smiled back. It was not an easy smile, but a hard-won smile of pure relief.
‘Oh, thank God, you are alive. I thought for one minute when I saw you that you were…Here, let me help you.’ He put his arm under Cora’s back and helped her to sit.
‘But this,’ she said, ‘is not my country. I shouldn’t be here. I am an American girl.’ She didn’t know why exactly but for some reason it was very important to say that now. There was something she knew that she did not want to be taken for. The young man nodded his head in acknowledgement.
‘No indeed, this is my country. This is my wood, my land. My family have lived here for seven hundred years. But you are most welcome, Miss…?’
‘Cash. I am Cora Cash. I am very rich. I have a flour fortune, not flower you can smell but flour you make bread with. Bread, you know, is the staff of life. Would you like to kiss me? Most men want to, but I am just too rich.’ And then she f
elt the darkness coming again, and before the young man could answer, she fainted into his arms.
Chapter 4
Hot Water
THIS TIME WHEN CORA OPENED HER EYES SHE saw a wooden angel looking at her with vacant eyes. She was in a bed, a bed with a roof and curtains. But she awoke clear-if sore-headed. She was Cora Cash, she had fallen off her horse and now she was where? And wearing what? She gave a little scream of dismay and suddenly there was a flurry of movement and heads male and female bending over her.
‘Miss Cash – you are Miss Cash, I think,’ said a voice she recognised. It was the man in the wood. Something had happened there. But what? There were things there she could almost feel, sounds she could almost hear, shapes she could almost distinguish but they lay behind a veil she couldn’t penetrate. This was irritating, there was something important there, if only she could remember. Like her mother, Cora had no patience for obstacles.
‘Miss Cash from America I believe,’ said the voice again with a suggestion of meaning that Cora found vaguely troubling. This man with dark hair and clear brown eyes seemed very wellinformed, and why was he smiling?
‘I found you lying on the ground in Paradise Wood. I carried you back here. I’ve called the doctor.’
‘But how do you know my name?’ Cora said.
‘Don’t you remember our conversation?’ The man was teasing her, but why?
‘No, I don’t remember anything since riding out this morning – well, nothing that makes sense anyway. I remember your face but that’s all. How did I fall? Is Lincoln all right?’
‘You mean the fine American horse? He is in the stables where his Republican opinions are causing my groom much anguish,’ the man said.
‘And how long have I been here? What about Mother, does she know where I am? She will be furious. I must go back.’ Cora tried to sit up, but the movement made her feel nauseous, she could feel hot bile flooding into her mouth. To vomit in front of this strange Englishman would be unbearable. She bit her lip.
‘My dear Miss Cash, I’m afraid you must stay here until the doctor arrives. Head injuries can be treacherous. Perhaps you would like to write to your mother.’ The man turned to the woman beside him; Cora guessed that she was some kind of servant.
‘Perhaps you could get some writing paper for Miss Cash, Mrs Softley.’
The housekeeper left in a rustle of bombazine.
‘You know my name, but I don’t know yours.’
The man smiled. ‘My friends call me Ivo.’
Cora sensed that he was holding something back. She felt annoyed. Why was nothing in this country straightforward? She felt as if she was being forced to play a game where everybody knew the rules but her. She decided to attack.
‘Why do all you Englishmen have names that sound like patent medicines? Ivo and Odo and Hugo. Bromides and bath salts, every one of them.’ She waved her hand dismissively.
The man made her a little bow. ‘I can only apologise, Miss Cash, on behalf of my compatriots. Men in my family have been called Ivo for many hundreds of years, but perhaps the moment has come to move with the times. Would you like to call me Maltravers? It hasn’t been my name for very long, but I suppose I must get used to it, and I don’t think it has any medicinal properties.’
Cora looked at him in bewilderment. How many names did the man have?
His voice was not the strangulated roar that she had begun to think was handed out to all upper-class Englishmen at birth. It was very low and he spoke quietly so that the listener had to lean forward to catch every word. Cora realised that this man must be important, not many men could mutter and be completely confident that every word would be listened for and understood. She felt awkward. Did this man know who she was, that she was not just any American girl? She came back at him with as much dignity as she could muster.
‘You are laughing at me for daring to question perfectly ridiculous things about your country that you take as quite normal. You do what you do not because it is the best way but because that is the way you have always done it. Why, in the house where I am staying, there are ten housemaids whose job it is to carry hot water up long staircases and endless corridors every morning so that a guest can take a bath in front of the fire. When I asked Lord Bridport why he didn’t have bathrooms like we do in the United States, he said they were vulgar. Vulgar! To wash. No wonder all the women here look so grey and dingy. I have seen girls, quite pretty girls, with dirty necks. At least where I come from we keep ourselves clean.’ She looked at her host defiantly. She might be confined to bed in a strange house but she would speak as she found.
Her host did not look offended by her outburst; in fact he was smiling.
‘I will have to take your word for that, Miss Cash. You were not at all clean when I found you in the forest and I regret that I have never visited your country. I am afraid you will be equally disappointed with the washing arrangements here. I have no moral objections to bathrooms, quite the contrary, I only object to their cost. But I can assure you that I wash very thoroughly. Perhaps you would care to inspect my neck?’ He leant forward and proffered his neck to Cora as if to the scaffold. It was indeed clean and though the dark curls were longer than would have been acceptable in America, Maltravers did not smell, as so many Englishmen seemed to, of wet dog. No, he had another scent entirely. Cora couldn’t quite describe it. She felt an urge to push her fingers through his hair. Again she bit her lip.
‘Your neck is immaculate. I congratulate you.’ Cora tried to hang on to her indignation. She was definitely not going to be charmed.
‘But tell me, how many housemaids do you need to bring the hot water for the hip baths? How many steps do they have to climb? How long are the corridors they have to struggle down? Surely piped water would be more economical in the long run, not to mention kinder to the servants?’ She tried to sit up so that she could hear his answer clearly and in an instant he was behind her with another pillow.
‘Is that better? Excellent.’ He paused. ‘If we had running water, we wouldn’t need so many housemaids and that might upset them mightily, not to mention their families who rely on them to send them money.’
‘There are plenty of things for girls to do these days besides carry hot water and lay fires. They could teach or make hats or learn to use typewriting machines.’ Cora knew that her mother was always losing her maids to shops and offices. The wages were better and they could have all the admirers they liked.
‘Indeed they could, Miss Cash. But I suspect that most of them just want to earn a wage until they get married, and a big house like this is a very good place to find a husband.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard about the marriage market in the servants’ hall from Bertha.’
‘Bertha is your maid?’ The man’s tone was amused.
‘Yes, she came over with me from the States.’
‘And as an American girl, she has no objections to being in service?’
Cora almost laughed. Hadn’t she given Bertha three of her old dresses last month? How could Bertha be anything but happy.
She said in her most dignified tone, ‘Bertha, I assure you, is very grateful for the opportunity to work for me. I wonder if you can say that about any of your maids?’
Maltravers’ reply was lost as the housekeeper came in with a writing desk which she arranged on the bed in front of Cora. She had brought a quantity of thick cream paper. Cora picked up a sheet with a crest at the top and the single word Lulworth underneath. She had been in England long enough to understand that understatement was all. Lulworth was clearly an ‘important’ house and its owner must have some kind of title. But then why hadn’t he told her when he gave his name? The English were infuriating. Everything was designed to put an outsider at a disadvantage. If you had to ask, you didn’t belong.
The man walked to the end of the bed and looked down at her. ‘I shall leave you to write to your mother in peace. But before I go, satisfy my curiosity on one point. Why, if you find the English s
ystem so distasteful, are you here? I thought you Americans rather liked our quaint customs and antiquated ways, yet you don’t seem to find us charming at all.’
Cora looked at him. His tone was light and yet there was an edge to his voice. She was pleased that she had nettled him. He had the advantage, but still she had piqued him.
‘Oh, I would have thought that should be obvious. As an American heiress I have come here to buy the one thing I can’t get at home, a title. My mother would like a prince of the blood, but I think she would settle for a duke. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’
‘Perfectly, Miss Cash. I hope you will invite your mother to spend a few days here at Lulworth. I won’t hear of you leaving until the doctor has given you a clean bill of health. And I rather think your mother will like it here, despite our lack of bathrooms. You see, while I may not be a prince, I am the Ninth Duke of Wareham.’
Cora felt the bile rushing into her mouth again. She waved her hands in front of her face.
The Duke was all concern. ‘Mrs Softley, I think Miss Cash is feeling unwell.’
Cora managed to contain her nausea until the Duke had left the room.
Chapter 5
The Black Pearl
MRS CASH WAS ARRANGING FOLDS OF TULLE around her neck. By candlelight, in the foxed silver of the pier glass, the effects of the accident were almost unnoticeable; only the shiny tautness where the flesh had been burnt showed up in this forgiving light. For anyone sitting on Mrs Cash’s right side there would have been no reason to suspect there was anything wrong; it was only when she turned her head that the ravages of the fire were revealed. At least, thought Mrs Cash, her right profile had always been generally the more admired. She had been lucky, the flames had not actually reached her left eye, although the area around it had been singed. The scars as they formed had pulled the skin tight, so that in this half-light the damaged side of Mrs Cash’s face was a grotesque facsimile of youthfulness. She half closed her eyes and through the blur she could see the spectre of the girl she had been. She pulled at the hairpiece of curls she wore so that the tendrils covered the misshapen lump of flesh that had been her left ear. As she felt the waxy smoothness of the scarring, she flinched. The doctors had told her that she had been fortunate that her skin had healed so quickly, but she hated touching its smooth deadness, which she minded even more than the shooting pains she still felt. She straightened up and began to dust her face with powder.
The American Heiress Page 4
