John Summer and a party of men came along the road. The vicar waited for them impatiently and then rapped out instructions to fill in the hole and ‘make it look as if it weren’t ever there’.
‘For,’ as he explained to Lady Godolphin and Daphne while they all walked off together, the vicar leading his horse, ‘we can always deny that such a thing happened, and we can all stick together and swear that he took a toss when his carriage wheel hit a rock.’
On their return to the vicarage, Daphne and Lady Godolphin both announced their intention of retiring again to bed.
The vicar climbed the stairs and cautiously pushed open the door of the boys’ room. The twins, Peregrine and James, were staying with their sister, Minerva, in Brighton. Their room had once been turned into a dressing room for the girls, but they had objected very strongly to this, saying that when they returned for the holidays, they did not want to bed down among a lot of fripperies and so it had been turned back to its former state.
The twins shared a large fourposter bed. In the middle of it lay the still form of Mr Garfield.
He was lying on top of the covers. His face had been washed but he was still dressed in his muddy clothes. Despite the mud, the vicar’s worldly eye recognized the genius of Weston’s tailoring and his heart sank. The richer they came, the more likely they were to make trouble. As they had passed through the village he had called at the doctor’s house, and the doctor had promised to step along.
John Summer was helping fill in the pit.
The vicar decided to summon the odd-man, Henry, and the pot boy, Billy, to help him strip the visitor and get him into a clean nightshirt before the doctor came.
This being achieved and the doctor closeted with the patient, the vicar, still worried about the possible importance of his unexpected guest, decided to rouse Daphne.
He stood looking down at the sleeping girl. Her hair was tumbled over the pillow and she looked, in repose, very much like the little girl who used to go rioting around the woods with Diana. For the first time, the vicar wondered uneasily what Daphne really thought about. He was very proud of her beauty although her calm, almost bovine expression exasperated him.
He realized he rather missed the old Daphne. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and she came awake with a start, her eyes wide and clear, and then their expression suddenly shuttered as she focused on her father.
‘I am monstrous sorry to wake you,’ said the vicar. ‘Did the gentleman tell you his name by any chance?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Daphne sleepily. ‘You see, it was awful. I thought he was the bishop and asked for his blessing, and … and … he kissed me.’
‘He did, did he?’ said the vicar grimly. ‘I’ll have a word with that gentleman as soon as he’s on his feet. He’ll soon learn that he can’t play fast and loose with my daughters. That Guy Wentwater was enough!’
Daphne struggled up against the pillows. ‘I remember his name, Papa. Garfield, he said it was. Mr Simon Garfield.’
The vicar’s little shoe button eyes stretched to their widest and his mouth fell open.
Then a look of cunning mixed with one of satisfaction spread across his chubby face.
‘Well, well,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘I wonder what brought him to Hopeworth.’ He pinched Daphne’s cheek. ‘Clever puss,’ he grinned. ‘What’s in a friendly kiss, hey?’
Daphne looked at her father in amazement. ‘But, Papa, a moment before you were going to speak to Mr Garfield about his bold manners and …’
‘Just a joke,’ said the vicar. ‘You’re looking a bit bagged, Daphne. Not your usual pretty self. When you rise, wear that pretty blue thing of yours with the silk ribbons and get Betty to help you with your hair.’
Fully awake now and beginning to feel dimly alarmed, Daphne ventured, ‘If you recall, Papa, I am about to become affianced to a most suitable young man. A Mr Archer.’
The vicar’s brows snapped down. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said grimly. ‘You’re too young to choose a husband for yourself. Best leave that job to your father.’
‘But Papa! You said we were in funds. You said you no longer believed in arranged marriages. You said I could have any suitable man that took my fancy …’
‘Don’t recall,’ said the vicar, strutting up and down the room. ‘Let me see. Hope he ain’t very ill. Now, remember Daphne. Not a word o’ that there pit. As far as us Armitages are concerned, he imagined the whole thing. Well, well, well …’
The vicar bustled off leaving Daphne very confused and worried. This Mr Garfield must be very rich. Papa must already be viewing Mr Garfield in the light of a possible son-in-law. Daphne was therefore to forget about Mr Archer.
Now, in truth, Daphne had not entertained very warm feelings towards the beautiful Mr Archer. She enjoyed the admiration both of them excited, she felt at ease in his undemanding company. Mr Archer would never grab hold of her roughly and kiss her on the mouth. Mr Archer had never even shown any desire to kiss her on the mouth at all!
But at the thought that she had no free will as far as her father was concerned a slow ice-cold little stone of rebellion started growing somewhere in the pit of Daphne’s stomach.
She, Daphne, had been a biddable, dutiful daughter. She had done her utmost to please her father by turning herself into a fashion plate – although, she admitted, it had also been to please herself.
She had felt that by armouring herself in beauty, she could escape her father’s machinations and the occasional lash of his tongue. Now it seemed as if she were to be thrust willy-nilly into a marriage she did not want, before she had even had a Season or enjoyed any real balls or parties. And now Daphne wanted a Season, now that it seemed she wasn’t going to have one.
Gradually Mr Archer grew in her mind into a passionate, romantic lover. She dwelt on his perfection, beginning to read wit into his every remembered vague utterance, and passion into the calm, blue, empty gaze of his eyes. No longer did Mr Archer appear as a marital refuge from the turmoil of this naughty world, but rather as a strong, noble, dream lover so soon to be lost.
Ah, but what did Mr Garfield think? Mr Garfield had obviously thought her, Daphne, insane. Therefore might it not be a good idea to foster that idea?
A wicked grin lit up Daphne’s lovely features, which she immediately suppressed.
Excess of emotion caused wrinkles. She carefully arranged her face into its usual calm mask and decided to dress and go downstairs and start the first act of the comedy. Perhaps Mr Garfield would keep to his room. But if not, then she would be ready for him.
It is very hard for a gentleman to look formidable in a vicarage nightshirt but that is exactly what a shaved, washed and barbered Mr Garfield managed to do.
The vicar stood at the end of the bed, shuffling his feet, and looking like a guilty schoolboy. Mr Garfield had already despatched John Summer to the Chumleys on the other side of Hopeminster, with whom he had been staying, to fetch his travelling carriage, his servants and his clothes. As soon as they arrived, he pointed out in chilly accents, he would take his leave and would no doubt further his acquaintanceship with the reverend in court. The fact that he was dealing with a member of the clergy made Mr Garfield’s anger the more severe.
Mr Garfield had not believed one word of the vicar’s rambling explanation that he, Simon Garfield, had been momentarily touched in the upper-works and had imagined the whole thing.
A silence fell while the vicar wondered how to extricate himself from this coil. He wished he had sent for Squire Radford whose good sense had helped him out of so many scrapes in the past.
The pale light from a tall candle beside the bed shone on Mr Garfield’s handsome, stone-like features. He was a very tall, very muscular man with peculiar yellowish eyes set under heavy lids. He had an autocratic high-bridged nose and a way of tilting his head back and staring awfully down it. His mouth was well-shaped, if a trifle thin. He had a strong chin and the powerful column of his throat rose above the lace at
the neck of the vicar’s best nightshirt.
‘Furthermore, reverend,’ he drawled, fixing the vicar with the yellow gaze of a hawk about to devour its prey, ‘you can talk till doomsday about rocks and accidents but the fact remains that for some insane reason you dug a ditch across the road into which I fell, shattered my carriage, and nearly broke my neck.
‘It is only by some miracle that my horses weren’t badly hurt. I know you have offered to pay for the damage, but I feel you should be taken to court and charged with your malicious folly. I came, as I told you, to buy a couple of hounds for a friend. I now would no longer deal with you that I would with a horse thief.’
‘Be damned to you, sirrah,’ said the much-plagued vicar suddenly losing his temper. ‘Who are you to lie there in my bed, in my house, looked after by my servants, and preach at me? A fine gentleman you turned out to be. Trying to seduce my daughter.’
‘I never met your …’
‘Oh, yes you did. Yes you did!’ said the little vicar, jumping up and down. ‘You were mauling her and kissing her and all because she took you for the bishop.’
‘Oh, that was your daughter. Well, more shame to you. That poor demented child should not be allowed out without a keeper.’
‘What! My Daphne’s as sane as I am.’
‘Evidently,’ said Mr Garfield acidly.
There was a rumbling of wheels outside. Mr Garfield climbed down from the high bed and crossed to the window and twitched aside the curtain. ‘My servants and clothes at last,’ he said. ‘Be so good as to send my man up to me.’
‘Send for him yourself, you … you … coxcomb!’ howled the vicar.
‘Very well.’ Mr Garfield opened the window and called to his servants below.
The vicar marched from the room.
An hour later, Mr Garfield descended the narrow stairs of the vicarage. The house seemed very quiet and empty. He pushed open a door in the hall and discovered a cluttered study. He tried a door across the hall and found himself in the vicarage parlour. He was about to retreat when he realized there was a young lady present. And what a young lady! Midnight-black hair in rioting curls framed an exquisite face with wide-spaced dark eyes. He caught his breath and moved further into the room.
The gaze she turned on him was completely empty and he recognized with a pang of disappointment that he was looking at the poor Ophelia he had so mistakenly kissed by the roadside. He hoped she was not going to start mistaking him for a bishop again.
By the vicar’s very guilt and denials, he felt he had come at the truth which was that the vicar had had a hole dug in the road to effect some repairs and then had gone off and carelessly left it. For which he heartily deserved to be punished. He was not like a vicar at all. But what were vicars supposed to be like? There were so many of these ‘squarsons’ around, so called because they were more squire than parson and cared more for hunting than they did for their parish duties.
Daphne lowered her eyes over the sewing in her lap, her heart beating hard. She had not realized Mr Garfield was so very imposing. He was impeccably dressed in a blue swallowtail coat with a high velvet collar. His biscuit-colour pantaloons were moulded to a pair of powerful thighs and his hessian boots shone like black glass.
A quizzing glass was dangling from his lapel.
‘What is your name, my child?’ he asked gently.
‘Daphne Armitage,’ answered Daphne, thinking hard of something really mad to say.
‘Is your mother at home?’
‘Mother approaches. Hark!’ said Daphne, putting one delicate little hand to her ear. She had just heard the heavy approaching tread of Lady Godolphin. Mrs Armitage was still prostrate abovestairs. The fact that she, Daphne, obviously did not know her own mother would surely confuse Mr Garfield and then convince him that she was truly mad.
Lady Godolphin came waddling in. She stopped short at the sight of Mr Garfield, her bulging eyes fastening almost greedily on his legs.
‘I’m glad to see you’re recovered,’ she said. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘If you mean, am I the gentleman who was so very nearly killed by Mr Armitage’s carelessness, then I am that gentleman.’
‘You’ve cleaned up a treat,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘Don’t you think so, Daphne?’
‘Who is a treat?’ asked Daphne vaguely. Then she began to hum to herself, rocking backwards and forwards slightly on her chair.
‘Mrs Armitage …’ began Mr Garfield sternly.
‘Don’t Mrs Armitage me,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘When I think of the sheer folly. Purging herself. Trying to clean her bowls with an excess of rhubarb pills. Follicles! She won’t say so but she’s trying to get thinner. Thin isn’t fashionable, and so I told her. I’ve always been a good armful.’ A wistful look crossed Lady Godolphin’s face. ‘My Arthur, that’s Colonel Arthur Brian with whom I had an understanding but he ran off and left me for some Cit, well, he used to say it was as comforting as holding a feather pillow on a winter’s night. He was always a bit of a poet, Arthur was.’
‘Madame,’ said Mr Garfield, putting up his glass. ‘Am I to understand you are not Mrs Armitage?’
‘Her name is Lady Godolphin,’ said Daphne in a thin, high voice. She then looked sideways at Mr Garfield and rolled her eyes insanely, stuck her fingers in the corners of her mouth and pulled a horrible grimace.
Mr Garfield hurriedly averted his eyes. Godolphin, he thought. Of course! And Armitage. Now he remembered. This was the famous vicar who had successfully married off three beautiful daughters.
He felt suddenly dizzy and with a murmur of apology he sat down.
The physician had strongly advised him to rest in bed for three more days in order to recover fully from his concussion. But Mr Garfield had been so enraged at his treatment at the hands of the vicar, who he had damned as a cunning yokel, that he had been determined to leave. His head began to clear and he admitted ruefully to himself that part of his rage had been caused by loss of dignity.
Although he did not venture out much in society, Mr Garfield had already seen the three married Armitage sisters since they were invited everywhere.
While he recovered, Lady Godolphin studied him with interest. She had seen him before, of that she was sure.
‘You have not introduced yourself, young man,’ she said at last. ‘But I am sure we have already met.’
‘We did meet some time ago,’ said Mr Garfield, searching his memory. Lady Godolphin. At last he remembered. She was much more subdued than the last time he had seen her when she had been wearing so much paint she had looked like a particularly noisy sunset. She was accounted something of an eccentric, but definitely not insane. ‘It was at the Courtlands’, eight years ago,’ he said. ‘I came with Tommy Mercer. My name is Simon Garfield.’
How delighted Charles will be, thought Lady Godolphin cynically. That man does have the luck of the devil.
Probably singled him out for Daphne already. Garfield is as rich as Golden Ball. Richer! And a fine old family. One of those old families too grand to even bother to stoop to curry favour with royalty in order to get a title. But what on earth had come over Daphne? She looked half-witted.
Daphne had extracted some silks from her work-basket and was busily weaving the threads in her hair.
‘Don’t do that, Daphne,’ said Lady Godolphin sharply. ‘Anyone would think you was crazy.’
‘Shall you be returning to town soon, my lady?’ asked Mr Garfield, who thought Lady Godolphin a very cruel sort of person. There was no need to point out the girl was crazy when it was all too evident.
‘I have only just arrived,’ said Lady Godolphin. ‘I’m rustyfacting.’
‘Rusticating.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Creditors?’ suggested Mr Garfield tactfully.
‘No, men.’ Lady Godolphin sighed gustily. ‘After me like wops round a honey pot. But I’ve given ’em up for Lent.’
‘But Lent was some time ago.’
&nb
sp; ‘Odso! But I am a very persistent person.’
Lady Godolphin sighed again and cast a roguish look at Mr Garfield’s legs.
‘I have perhaps been too harsh on Mr Armitage,’ said Mr Garfield. ‘I threatened to take him to court for his carelessness but I have decided to forget the matter. It will, however, suit me very well if I never see him again.’
At that moment he looked across at Daphne and surprised a look of distinctly intelligent relief on that young lady’s face.
Becoming aware of his gaze, Daphne immediately assumed an imbecilic look and started to weave the threads in her hair again. Lady Godolphin began to gossip about the thinness of company in London out of Season and the appalling condition of the drains. Mr Garfield listened and nodded while all the time his mind was busy. He had a feeling Daphne was acting. If so, why? But she had seemed so crazed, taking him for the bishop and asking for his blessing.
‘Bishop,’ he said suddenly. ‘Miss Armitage mentioned a bishop. What bishop?’
Daphne began to sing very loudly indeed. ‘Stop that row,’ said Lady Godolphin, turning red. ‘I’m surprised Charles told you, Mr Garfield, for he made us all swear to tell you you had imagined the whole thing.’
‘What bishop?’ repeated Mr Garfield.
‘Why, the Bishop of Berham to be sure,’ exclaimed Lady Godolphin. ‘Stop winking like that, Daphne. Charles was told the bishop was calling to tell him to give up his pack, it not being a spiritual sport, so, as Charles told you, he went out and dug that pit in the road.’
Mr Garfield felt himself becoming very angry again. ‘Do you mean to say that irresponsible vicar dug a pit to stop his bishop’s visit?’
‘Oh, you didn’t know,’ said Lady Godolphin sadly, ‘And now I’ve let the pig out of the poke. Charles will be mad.’
‘I think you are all mad. Where is the vicar?’
‘Gone to call on Squire Radford.’
Mr Garfield turned his yellow gaze on Daphne. ‘I think I will wait until he gets back,’ he said evenly.
A flicker of panic darted through Daphne’s wide eyes, and then it was gone. She decided to escape and rose to her feet.
Daphne Page 3
