His was not a noisy kind of appreciation, however. He nodded, looked across at Lord Ransome, and nodded again. ‘A real painter,’ he said. ‘A great talent. Why have we not heard of him, I wonder? Does he exhibit?’
The three heads pored over the painting in an intimate moment that somehow brought together so many loose strands of Phoebe’s life, holding them ready to be tied. The Earl would have to be told of Leon’s circumstances, and hers too, before they had any right to expect an offer of help from him. Yet having reached the point where someone, at last, had recognised Leon’s one and only talent, the moment for Phoebe was so charged with emotion after seeing and meeting the first Phoebe that she found it difficult to speak. One hand rested on the gathered bodice of her green-striped gown and pressed, trying to still the pounding there. Her lips parted to breathe in deeply, settling the words into line. She could scarcely stifle the sob.
The Earl saw her struggle. Tenderly, he laid a gnarled hand over her arm. ‘Yes, I see, madame. Talent doesn’t always walk in a straight orderly line, does it? All we can hope for is to have a share in it while it still burns. While your brother lives, then there is hope. Will you…can you… tell me about it?’
So she did, sparing nothing except the shabby facts of how Ferry House came to be owned by the man who sat beside her. About Leon’s gambling and drinking, however, and about Lady Templeman’s apparent inability to help her eldest son, she told him all, though whether that was more distressing than his wasted talents she did not venture an opinion.
None the less, it soon became clear to the Earl that the youngest sister of Leon Hawkin owed him a great debt of gratitude and that she had been brought to Ham House to seek help for him. For the generous, able, and well-connected Earl of Dysart, this posed no problem except whether—or not—the young man in question would accept his offers of patronage and a cottage on the estate, if he wanted it. That he would need some kind of rehabilitation went without saying, if he were to recommence his painting. The Earl would be only too happy to help him.
The practicalities were discussed at greater length as Phoebe and Lord Ransome walked slowly through the Fountain Garden on their way to the Orangery. A high brick wall afforded them some privacy from the house, where a fountain rattled joyfully, providing a bath for a queue of birds. ‘I shall go to London tomorrow,’ he said, ‘to find him and bring him back.’
‘I know you said your friend would want to help,’ said Phoebe, untying the ribbons of her bonnet, ‘but his offers are unbelievably generous. Commissions. A place to live, rent free. Could this be because he’s found a descendant of the Hawkynne family, do you think?’
‘I doubt it. It’s because he’s like that. He’ll help anyone out, especially artists. He’s a great philanthropist, too. He keeps open doors here at Ham, all the time. His servants idolise him.’
Phoebe pulled off her bonnet, swinging it by its ribbons. Her hair had caught on some of the rough bits and now, instead of being neatly bundled into a chignon, the curls bounced out like escaped watch-springs. Walking along the shady parts where the trees overhung the wall, she became aware of Lord Ransome’s closeness, his scrutiny. She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Why are you doing this for Leon?’ she said, quietly. ‘You were the one to benefit by his gambling and to find little sympathy for him.’
‘Oh, for all the wrong reasons,’ he said, without conviction.
‘Not to make amends, then? Not guilt?’
Swiftly and without warning, he took both her shoulders in his hands, pulling her towards him with a suddenness she had no time to evade. Her arms had nowhere to go, bonnet in one hand, reticule in the other, her head pushed back and held under his, her skin already responding to the dangerous warmth of him, the hard pressure of his thighs enclosing her. With a hunger she had not anticipated, his mouth sought hers and tasted greedily, as if he could wait no longer to make his claim on her, this time without the excuse of anger for her harsh words.
His hands slid quickly across her waist and shoulders, fingers sinking deep into her hair, twisting her under his mouth, and the fire deep in her belly roared to meet his like a forest blaze, searing and scorching. Whether it was the emotion of her discovery, relief for Leon, or simply a release of denied longings, Phoebe had no way of knowing, but now it was as if, for the first time, the deep underground well of her desire burst upwards to flood her reasoning with an unstoppable energy, demanding whatever he had to give, without restraint.
She had taunted and rebuked herself, since his reappearance, about how reprehensible he was, how she could never want him, how imaginary her sneaking lust for him was. But now, like this, held hard against his chest, her body would take no more of her cowardly lies and rebelling against her anger and caution, bent into him and softened, pressing her aching breasts against him, giving him her mouth to search, explore and plunder. Eagerly. Wantonly.
She felt the steel of his arms shift across her, his hand splay across her buttocks, his mouth lift from hers just enough to speak. ‘For you, woman,’ he said, hoarse with emotion. ‘For no one but you. Not for guilt, either. I have none. Only a need for you, that’s all. Expect no apologies. When I find what I want, I take it. I’ve found you, and you’ll be mine.’
Shards of fear mingled with her excitement. Hard words. Possession, not love. Ruthlessness, not tenderness. She had what he wanted, and he had what she wanted, but bargaining was out of the question when he had the upper hand, and already he was winning. Like any woman, her perfectly understandable objections melded with her body’s hunger for loving, and because men’s minds are not tuned to exactly the same pitch, he stood no chance of understanding her when she struggled furiously against him, balking at the reasons for his desire. It mattered. Beating his back with her fists, her submission turned into instant attack.
‘Just like that!’ she hissed, furiously. ‘You’ll be mine! No, I won’t, my lord. You didn’t find me. I was not lost. And I won’t be taken. I am not any man’s for the taking. My needs are not so simple as a tavern girl’s. Now let me go!’
He did let her go. Almost. Keeping hold of one wrist in a grip of steel, he made her listen to him while she, with head turned defiantly aside, was somehow relieved to know that he was not in the least bewildered by her about-turn after letting down her guard in a moment of weakness. ‘Listen to me first. No…stand still…and listen! Your feathers are ruffled, but that’s no reason to deny what you feel. All right, you expected…would have preferred…me to talk of love, but would you have believed me? No, I thought not. So what I said was the honest truth, no more, no less. I thought you could deal with that.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re a woman, Phoebe, not a girl. There’s no need to be angry with yourself for letting it all out, once in a while.’
‘Don’t patronise me. I didn’t let it out. It came out. I had no choice. And if you think I do that once in a while, then let me put you straight on that, my lord. Nine years is not a while, it’s an eternity. My husband made love to me three times in all. Yes, less than the fingers of one hand. He had a mistress in France, I discovered afterwards. He could hardly wait to get back to her, after he’d done what he needed to with me, an ignorant girl of sixteen.’ The words came out in gasps, as if she’d been running, and by the time she had finished, his arms were once again around her, his hands smoothing over the green silk pelisse.
‘Don’t pity me,’ she said into his shirt-front. ‘I don’t need anyone’s pity, least of all yours. I have my daughter. And my life. I don’t think I care any more, after this, whether my family discover the truth about him or not. Not one of them has lifted a finger to help us. They deserve to be shocked. Shocked to the core. It now seems that I have to turn to complete strangers for help, my lord. You, and the Earl. Ironic, isn’t it? Complete strangers.’
‘Well, from now on,’ he said, gently brushing back the coils of hair, ‘I’m not a stranger to you. I’m in your life, and I’m staying. But you need more time. I can see that now. If I’d known
what you’ve just told me, I’d not have rushed you into a decision. So if you prefer to be my mistress for a while, then I shall accept that. Shock your family to your heart’s content, it’ll make no difference to my plans for you. Heaven knows, I’ve spent most of my life shocking people. I’m a dab hand at it. Come to me for advice on it, sweet nymph.’
Her shaky huffs of laughter made him smile and hold her closer, and for a few more moments she was content to stay there in his arms, listening to the tinkle of water and wings splashing, and somewhere the whinny of a horse. ‘You’re quite determined then,’ she said, drawing away at last.
‘Oh, yes, Madame Donville. Never more so.’
‘Not shocked by my behaviour just now?’
‘On the contrary, I’m delighted by it. I intend to provoke you again.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll find that at all difficult, my lord.’
‘Excellent. I look forward to it.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I think we’re getting into deep waters here. You were supposed to be showing me the Earl’s newly planted Orangery.’
However, round the corner of the archway into the garden, a slender figure came to greet them with apologetic smiles, a rustle of brown-figured silk, and a Paisley shawl slithering off her narrow shoulders. Phoebe caught it just in time and handed it back, already smiling.
‘Buck Ransome!’ the lady piped in a reedy voice. ‘And Madame Donville. I could not be there when you arrived, but trust a husband like mine not to offer you tea. Come inside, dears. It’s waiting for you in the drawing room.’ Chattering like a bird, she pecked the Viscount on each cheek, holding out a frail hand as if to make sure Phoebe did not run away.
‘Lady Dysart, allow me to present Madame Donville to you. Phoebe, my dear, this beautiful lady is the Countess of Dysart.’
Nobody, but nobody, had ever called her ‘Phoebe, my dear’ in such an elegant and lover-like manner, and the sound touched her heart and plucked it like a harp string, vibrating its resonance through her body to comfort it. She made her curtsy in a daze, already loving the sweet elderly lady who had come out to find them instead of sending a servant, who took her by the hand like a mother with her daughter and stumbled over the grass until Ransome drew her hand through his arm like a son. Phoebe thought she had never met a more delightful couple than the Earl and Countess of Dysart.
Having made his wife aware of his newest discovery in Leon Hawkin, direct descendant of Sir Leo and Lady Phoebe, the Earl talked animatedly about his other young protege, John Constable, who was doing work for him at the house in London, about his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds who’d had a house built up on Richmond Hill before his death ten years ago, about the Gainsboroughs he’d bought and the Van Dycks he’d inherited. About his own talent for painting he was less forthcoming, and it was Anna Maria, the Countess, who showed them his portfolio of watercolours in the library.
Since their arrival at Ham, much of their time had been spent in tending the estate and in making necessary repairs to the house, having found it overgrown and neglected. ‘Did you notice our new River God on the forecourt?’ the Earl asked them.
‘Anna Maria, you must show Phoebe your Duchess’s bathroom. Everybody should have a bathroom like that, I believe, yet I cannot persuade my wife to use it.’ His enthusiasm was a joy to see, but it was when the conversation turned to the subject of families that voices chose a minor key, for the Dysarts had had no children and the nephew so loved by the Earl had been killed, aged eighteen. Naturally, Phoebe wondered whether that had something to do with their eagerness to sponsor young talent whenever they could find it.
Even as the two guests prepared to climb into the phaeton, information and instructions continued unabated. ‘We’re having a musical evening on Friday,’ the Countess said, planting a farewell kiss on Phoebe’s cheeks. ‘You will come, won’t you? Get Buck to bring you, my dear. Some string players from London. Some pieces by Mr Haydn and a bit of George Frederick Handel. A few singers. Starting at seven. A little supper.’
‘Thank you, my lady. We shall be honoured.’
It was the first time for years she’d said such a thing, as if she was once again part of a pair. But as they bowled out of the gates and turned towards Ham, she knew in her heart that a giant step had been taken in a direction which, only a few days ago, she would have thought utterly impossible. Her anger in the garden just now had reflected the way she had set herself to think since Claude’s death, that never again would she belong to any man, that no man would take her. Yet her impulses had clearly shown how outdated her protests were. Buck Ransome, that great arrogant, high-handed, handsome creature sitting close to her, taking up too much of the seat, had forced himself into her life and insisted on being part of it, and it was just such occasions as this that made her realise what she’d been starved of for so long. Companionship and conversation, gallantry, a man’s protection, and yes…that, too. Madly, wildly, she had responded to him like dry tinder to a spark.
She had been shown another side to him too, one she would never have associated with the man whose exploits had often been the talk of the beau monde, gambling, womanising, all the usual excesses of youth. There at Ham House, he had talked knowledgeably about the newest alterations, materials and styles, about places he’d been and people he’d met, artists and scientists he knew, politics and literature, as easy with the older generation as he was with her. Courteously, he had commended her brother Leon to the Earl in a way she could not have done, personally vouching for his dedication to a commission which, the Earl suggested, would be to paint views of Ham House as the renovations took place. A pictorial record for his private collection. For posterity.
‘How could you guarantee that?’ she asked him as the trees sped past them. ‘Wasn’t that rather a risk to take, knowing Leon’s habits?’
‘It’s not too late to change him round,’ he answered, keeping his eyes on the twists of the road. ‘In London, he appears to have no support, only parasites. Here, with us, he’ll have all the support he needs. He’s not past redemption, madame.’
‘Earlier, you called me Phoebe. I seem to have committed myself, don’t I?’
‘Don’t take it too hard. It had to happen. And I’m not gloating. If it happened rather too quickly for your comfort, that’s due to circumstances and my impatience.’
And his other mistress? How much will she know about me, I wonder? Yet he had said he had no mistress. Having seen what she had seen, how could she believe him? Why did he need another home at Mortlake?
‘They called you Buck. Is that how they’ve always known you?’
‘Buckminster Percival Ransome at your service, madame. Now you have it.’
‘Buckminster?’ Like dark orbs, full of laughter, her eyes turned to him.
‘Yes,’ he said, not returning her look of disbelief. ‘I never thought the name Percy was one I could get used to. Not quite for me. Would you not agree?’
She hiccoughed as the phaeton bounced over a bump in the road. ‘Oh, I do indeed, my lord. And I could never be the mistress of a man called Percy.’
‘I think I must have known that, somehow,’ he said, permitting himself a smile.
The drive home, made in companionable silence, gave Phoebe time to reflect on what else Buck had known. About the portrait, for instance. That had been a shock, to find that she had worthy ancestors whose employer was fond enough of them to have their portrait painted. A Duchess, no less—an ancestor of the Earl of Dysart had known her ancestors, Sir Leo and Lady Hawkynne. And Buck Ransome had known all along of her ancient lineage, seizing the chance to show her the famous side of her family while playing down the infamous side. And then, to give the comparison a touch of humour, he had revealed to her the glorious name of Buckminster Percival. What an amazing man he was.
Chapter Five
The low sun filled every window pane with an orange blaze, fading to yellow, then silver, as it sunk and dipped below the horizon, leaving Ferry H
ouse to its own grey-orange hues and a last squawking flutter of roosting starlings. In the garden, Phoebe walked alone with her thoughts, her grey-and-white cat moving alongside as if their direction was entirely coincidental.
Lord Ransome had not stayed long enough to discuss the new agreement with her, although he had allowed Claudette to lead him down to the river to be shown the baby frogs in the reeds, the cygnets and the ducklings. His manner with her was easy, more brotherly than fatherly, and it was clear that in each other’s company, they had found something to fill a void. To Phoebe, that was more important than discussing the finer points of a relationship which had not quite begun.
Touching the fragrant tips of lavender as she passed, she wondered for the twentieth time how it had come to this so quickly, and why she had told a man of whom she could not approve the humiliating details of her brief marriage when she’d shared that information with no other person. Even now, after all these busy years, the seamy side of it wrinkled her nose with disgust for, as an innocent girl, she had been bitterly disappointed by her young husband’s impatience with her ignorance. Teasing and boyish ridicule had quickly dampened the tender flame that had burned for him, and though she had assumed that, in time, this would mend under his instruction, his three attempts to stir her to great heights had been dismal failures. She had loved him, blaming herself, setting the scene with soft scented candles, satin sheets, all the trimmings of wifely seduction she’d been told were necessary. Perhaps she had expected too much. Perhaps they both had. Her later discoveries, when it was too late, had shed a dark and sinister light on the experience, and time had not softened its sharp edges.
It was therefore doubly astonishing that, after such a disappointment, the flame that had burned so low should suddenly and without warning be whipped to a conflagration by Ransome’s first kiss taken, not given, yet fuelled by real passion instead of duty. For all her personal lectures to the contrary, this afternoon she had been sure he desired her. Satin sheets and scented candles would be an irrelevancy for them both. But was she not stepping into yet another three-sided set-up doomed to failure? How could she trust him when she’d seen the proof with her own eyes? Did she have a choice, when it was all about bargains?
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