by Sandra Heath
After being so wan that morning, Margaret was now much brighter, looking soft and pretty in cherry sarsenet, and she linked her arm through her husband’s as they stood in the center of the immense stableyard, watching several fine horses being paraded before the impressive line of white stable doors. Helen looked on in admiration as the gray Musket and the chestnut Lexicon were led back and forth by their proud grooms.
Gregory was pleased enough with Lexicon, but more than a little unhappy about Musket. He ran his fingers through his fair hair, shaking his head slightly as the gray was turned yet again.
Margaret glanced at him. ‘Why are you so depressed? He looks in fine fettle to me, and I’m sure he’ll come right in time for the Maisemore.’
‘He just isn’t up to scratch, he wasn’t the tippy when he exercised this morning, and when I saw him being stripped and rubbed down in his loose box, he looked quite used up. His jockey on the day is one of the best, but is also a good half stone heavier than the rest, and if Musket is under the weather, that weight will tell. Damn it all, I could do without all this this year.’
‘Withdraw him then,’ advised Margaret, slipping her hand into his.
‘And be accused of being up to something again? Look at him, he seems in perfect condition, so how would it seem if he was pulled out? Besides, the Prince Regent’s horse is second favorite, and I don’t want any whispers that I’m currying favor by leaving the way clear for him.’
‘Gregory, I fail to see how withdrawing Musket because he’s unwell is going to lead to such a suggestion,’ protested Margaret.
‘After last year, I’m prepared to believe they’d say anything of me.’ His glance flickered briefly toward Helen, and Adam Drummond’s name hung almost audibly in the air.
Margaret hastily drew his attention back. ‘I’m sure all will be well in time for the race, and that Musket is only temporarily off color.’
He smiled then, putting his hand to her chin and bending to kiss her swiftly on the lips. ‘You’re good for me, Mrs Bourne,’ he murmured.
‘I should hope I am,’ she replied. ‘Now then, if Musket is worrying you, let’s talk about Lexicon instead. He’s looking quite magnificent.’ She looked toward the gleaming chestnut.
Gregory nodded. ‘He is indeed, and he’ll leave them all standing in the Odd Cup.’ He turned to Helen. ‘I paid a paltry thousand guineas for him at Tattersall’s, and am flattered that I showed excellent judgment that day.
‘How much is he worth now?’
‘He’s beyond price to a devotee of the turf, especially as he’s already proved himself as a sire.’
They watched as Lexicon was paraded up and down a little longer before being led back into his loose box, but then something made Helen glance toward the archway. She was just in time to see a dark blue barouche bowling up the drive toward the house, drawn by a handsome team of roans. As it passed out of sight, she touched her sister’s arm. ‘Margaret, I think you have a caller, a dark blue barouche has just gone to the house.’
Margaret turned quickly. ‘Was it drawn by roans?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Ralph St John. Helen, you will give him a chance, won’t you?’
‘I’ll be the soul of politeness,’ answered Helen truthfully, seeing no reason to add that she was also going to be discreetly discouraging.
She glanced toward the archway again, waiting for her first glimpse of the man who not only had exposed Adam’s apparent guilt in the Prince Agamemnon affair, but who was also prepared to regard her as a prospective bride.
CHAPTER 8
It seemed an age before Ralph St John’s fashionable figure appeared beneath the archway. He wore a fawn beaver top hat, a dark brown coat, and white twill trousers. A cane swung nonchalantly in his hand, and he was very modish; indeed, there was a little of the dandy about him, although he was far from being a fop.
As he came closer she saw that he had curly brown hair, long-lashed brown eyes, and was definitely to be described as good-looking, although to her mind his mouth was perhaps just a little too full and sensual. His glance raked her expertly from head to toe in the few seconds before he turned his smile upon Margaret and Gregory, bowing over the former’s hand. ‘Greetings, mes enfants, I trust I find you all in excellent heart.’
‘Why, Ralph,’ responded Margaret with pleasure, ‘what brings you here this afternoon?’
‘The delight of your company, of course.’
‘Flatterer.’
‘Fie, madam, I’m not a flatterer, I’m an ardent admirer.’ His glance returned to Helen, resting on her in a warm, appraising way that she didn’t entirely like.
Margaret hastened to effect the introduction. ‘Ralph, allow me to present my sister, Miss Helen Fairmead. Helen, this is Mr Ralph St John.’
He took Helen’s hand and drew it slowly to his lips, his lips touching her skin for a moment. ‘I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Fairmead.’
‘Sir.’
‘The reports preceding you failed to do you justice, Miss Fairmead.’
‘My sister is right, sir, you are indeed a flatterer.’ Although she smiled, her eyes remained a little cool. She didn’t like him, although whether this was an honest and instinctive reaction, or whether it was the result of her feelings for Adam, she really couldn’t have said.
Gregory was also pleased to see him. ‘And how goes it at the Golden Key with St John père?’
‘Wretchedly. The old man and I have never seen eye to eye – and never will. Still, needs must when the devil drives, and if I have to toady to him to get what I require, then toady I will.’
Margaret tapped his arm disapprovingly. ‘Sirrah, if you hadn’t plunged in so deep at the green baize, you wouldn’t have to toady to anyone.’
‘Point taken. Still, it isn’t for long, he’s returning to Jamaica soon and I’ll be a free spirit again. The Golden Key is handsome enough, I suppose, but not quite up to Bourne End standards.’
‘I should think not,’ replied Gregory.
‘Dear boy, having to sally forth to the races from a mere inn instead of these hallowed surroundings is a positively mortifying prospect.’
Margaret raised a critical eyebrow. ‘And is entirely your own fault.’
‘Moi? Mais non, je suis un ange!’
Margaret smiled. ‘Some angel,’ she murmured. ‘Gabriel, with a pack of cards in his pocket.’
‘Come now, blackening my character in front of Miss Fairmead isn’t the thing at all.’ Ralph smiled at Helen. ‘Don’t listen to them, for I am indeed an angel of the highest order.’
‘I’m sure you are, sir,’ she replied, still pondering her first impression of him. He was very charming, amusing, and confident, but it ill became him to speak as he did about the father from whom he required considerable financial assistance to fend off the duns.
Margaret linked her arm in his. ‘You still haven’t said why you’ve called, Ralph.’
‘It’s come to my notice that Hagman’s are serving the very first strawberries of the season at the boathouse, and knowing your disgusting appetite for such things, I’ve hied me here to whisk you and Miss Fairmead to sample the goodies. Gregory isn’t invited, I’m of a selfish mind to keep you both to myself.’ He grinned. ‘And in spite of having the duns at my door, you’ll be pleased to know the treat’s on me. A modicum of good fortune at the tables last night has put me in Tip Street for the time being, although that’s strictly between thee and me.’
‘Ralph St John, you’re incorrigible,’ scolded Margaret. ‘I vow you’ll plunge in so deep one day you’ll never surface again.’
‘The old man’s worth the ransom of half a dozen kings, so I can consider myself at liberty to continue plunging to my heart’s delight,’ he replied – rather arrogantly, Helen thought. ‘I can certainly consider myself able to entertain you and Miss Fairmead to the first mess of strawberries of the summer. Will you accept my invitation?’
‘Of course,’ Margaret repli
ed, glancing at Helen. ‘You’ll come, won’t you? You’ll love the boathouse.’
‘Is it really a boathouse?’ Helen asked.
‘Oh, most definitely. It’s at Eleanor’s Lake in Windsor Great Park. The lake is named for Lady Eleanor Parfait, whose unfortunate husband spent his entire fortune damming up a stream to make the lake for her at the beginning of the last century, only to have her promptly run off with his best friend. The boathouse has been there for ages, hiring out pleasure boats to the summer visitors who liked to spend time on the water. About four years ago the present proprietress married a certain Klaus Hagman, a confectioner from Vienna, and it wasn’t long before the clients hiring the pleasure boats found themselves lingering over delicious Viennese pastries, creams, and ices, and soon it was all the rage to be seen there. It’s a positive crush of Mayfair there all through the summer, especially close to Royal Ascot week, and last year the Earl and Countess of Cardusay actually got married there. It was so romantic, the bride and groom took their vows on a barge so covered with flowers it looked as if it was made of them, and all the guests were on barges too. I wouldn’t marry at dull old St George’s now, it would be a special license and Hagman’s boathouse for me. You’ll love it there, Helen, and it’s only half an hour away by carriage. Do say you’ll come.’
Helen found the thought of Hagman’s very pleasing, but not if Ralph St John was issuing the invitation. Nothing that had happened during the past few minutes had shaken her resolve to discourage him from all thought of marrying her, and she knew that her acceptance now might be construed as encouragement. She gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me, Mr St John, but….’
‘Oh, Helen!’ protested Margaret, ‘please come, for it really is delightful there, and I know you adore strawberries.’
To continue refusing. would look odd, and so Helen gave in reluctantly. ‘Very well. Thank you for including me, Mr St John.’
‘Not at all, Miss Fairmead.’
Margaret turned to Helen. ‘Come on, we must change, for only ladies of great style dare to be seen at Hagman’s.’ Snatching Helen’s hand, she hurried her away toward the archway.
Half an hour later, Ralph’s dark blue barouche drove smartly away from Bourne End, its hoods down because the weather was so very warm and fine, Helen was dressed in a bluebell silk gown and matching pelisse, with a gray straw bonnet tied on with wide bluebell ribbons that fluttered in the breeze as the open carriage came up to a smart pace. Opposite her, Margaret wore an orange spencer over a cream muslin gown, and an orange hat from which sprang tall ostrich plumes. Ralph sat next to Margaret, and Helen was conscious of how often his glance, still warm and speculative, moved toward her.
The barouche passed the racecourse, where activity seemed to have increased even since the previous day. The Windsor road led over the open countryside of the heath, and then into a forest where hawthorn bloomed sweetly. Rhododendrons as fine as those at Bourne End began to appear, and then the gates into Windsor Great Park loomed ahead. As the barouche drove through, Helen caught her first glimpse of the town and castle in the distance. The castle looked very white and impressive, framed by a gap in the trees, but then was lost from sight again as the barouche turned sharply northwest along another road.
The two thousand acres of Windsor Great Park were very beautiful indeed, a vista of majestic trees, wide rides, and landscaped perfection. Enjoyed by monarchs throughout many centuries, it now boasted a number of royal residences, including the Prince Regent’s fine new cottage orné, the Royal Lodge, and it was the delight also of the many ladies and gentlemen who rode or drove through its leafy splendor.
Margaret saw Helen’s admiring gaze, and smiled. ‘It’s very lovely, is it not?’
‘Very.’
‘But if you look across that way in a moment, you’ll see a huge copper beech that marks the way to somewhere less lovely.’
Helen followed her sister’s finger and soon perceived the copper beech, and beside it a winding track that swiftly disappeared between rhododendrons. It seemed very innocuous, and she looked inquiringly at her sister. ‘Where does it lead?’
‘To Herne’s Glade. You’ve heard of Herne the Hunter, of course.’
‘Yes. Wasn’t he a ranger in Henry VIII’s time?’
‘A wicked dabbler in things magical, it seems. He is supposed to have hanged himself from an oak in the park, and at times of national danger his ghost appears, complete with antlers, flowing green robes, and an attendant white hart. Our poor King George accidentally ordered an oak tree to be chopped down in 1796, and everyone said it was Herne’s oak, but the truth appears to be that the oak in Herne’s Glade is the real one. The glade is a rather dark and gloomy place, and so has been the natural choice for many gentlemen wishing to face each other in duels.’
Ralph tipped his hat back, smiling a little. ‘It isn’t all melancholy, Miss Fairmead, for there’s an amusing tale attached to the place as well. You’ll no doubt have heard of the letters from Prince Florizel to Perdita?’
‘Yes, they were said to be between the Prince of Wales and the actress, Mrs Robinson.’
‘Correct. Well, most people know of their romantic assignations on a boat moored on the Thames off Kew, but not so many know they also met at the boathouse on Eleanor’s Lake, before it became Hagman’s, of course. When returning at dawn in her carriage from such an assignation, they were startled by the pistol shots of a duel taking place in the glade. Thinking he was bound to be discovered, the prince took off on foot like a greyhound into the bushes, leaving poor Mrs Robinson alone in the carriage. She took fright as well, ordering her coachman to drive on, and as she vanished from sight, the prince saw a white hart coming along the track from the glade. Convinced Herne’s ghost was close behind, he took off again, and since Mrs Robinson had picked him up in her carriage somewhere in Windsor, he now had to get himself back there on foot, skulking into the castle by a postern gate. The humiliating incident is said to have heralded the end of the love affair.’
The copper beech slipped away behind them as the barouche drove on toward the lake and the boathouse. There were other carriages on the road, and many horsemen and women riding across the park, everyone apparently making for the same exclusive destination, the fashionable boathouse that was threatening to surpass Gunter’s of Berkeley Square for excellence.
Hagman’s proved to be a very elegant establishment, painted white and backed by gardens and ornamental trees, while to the front there was a long jetty extending into the lake, with pleasure boats and barges moored along it. Tables and chairs had been set out on the jetty and in the gardens, and most had been taken by the considerable gathering of ladies and gentlemen who’d sallied forth on this beautiful late May afternoon. Along the water’s edge there was a path, and several nurses were there with their small charges, who were feeding the ducks with crumbs purchased from the boathouse.
The barouche drew to a standstill behind the building, joining the line of waiting vehicles that had collected there. Ralph alighted, assisting Margaret and Helen down. An orchestra was playing somewhere in the gardens, the sound of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ drifting in the air to join the murmur of light conversation and laughter from the fashionable crowds. Spying a free table on the jetty, Ralph swiftly escorted his two ladies toward it, and as they sat down he beckoned to a waiter, ordering a bottle of champagne and extremely large helpings of strawberries and cream.
Margaret was as delighted to be at Hagman’s as she was to be in Ralph’s company, which she made no secret of finding very agreeable indeed. Helen tried not to be drawn into conversation very much, for she wished to keep Ralph as much at arm’s length as possible. He was behaving with all outward politeness and gallantry, but there was something about his constant glances that she found disturbing. She avoided looking at him, turning her attention to the arrivals and departures on the road. A young gentleman tooled an alarmingly high phaeton away at speed, the lady beside him clingi
ng on fearfully. A group of army officers, home on leave from Brussels, rode toward the boathouse, looking very splendid in full uniform as they paused to converse with some ladies in an open landau. Two carriages drew up one behind the other, disgorging a number of children and their nurses and nannies. Forming into a neat crocodile, they entered the boathouse to purchase bags of crumbs, emerging in line to walk sedately down to the lakeside to the waiting ducks. A large pleasure barge glided to the jetty, its cargo of elegant passengers disembarking so noisily that for a while their chatter completely drowned the sound of the music, which had now changed from Vivaldi to Haydn.
Helen felt Ralph looking at her again, and suddenly it was too much. She had to escape for a while, and feeding the ducks provided the perfect excuse.
Putting down her glass, she rose determinedly to her feet. ‘I fear I cannot resist a moment longer, I simply have to revert to childhood and feed the ducks. I hope you won’t mind if I desert you both for a while?’
Ralph got up immediately. ‘I’ll escort you, Miss Fairmead.’
‘There’s no need, Mr St John,’ she said quickly.
‘But….’
‘Mr St John, you can’t possibly leave poor Margaret to devour all those strawberries on her own, people will talk about her.’
Margaret gave her an indignant look. ‘You beast, Helen Fairmead!’
Ralph still wanted to accompany her, however. ‘Miss Fairmead, it would ill become me to allow you to walk alone, even at Hagman’s.’
‘Nonsense, Mr St John, I’m perfectly capable of feeding the ducks without assistance.’ Not permitting him another chance to protest, she gathered her silk skirts and hurried away along the jetty toward the boathouse.
A minute or so later she emerged again with some crumbs, walking along the lakeside path in the wake of the crocodile of nurses, nannies, and children, who were now to be seen some distance away, still walking in an orderly line. Helen kept walking too, intending to place some bushes between herself and the jetty, for she knew Ralph could still observe her, and the last thing she wanted was to be constantly under his surveillance.
