by Mira Stables
Mrs. Forester entertained some very strong doubts about that last statement, but the poor boy seemed to believe it, bless him. She said slowly, “It will not be easy. Speak to her, now, of love and she will not believe you. She will put it down to your noble nature, or some such folly.”
“In any case I have promised not to pester her with unwanted attentions.”
Mrs. Forester laughed, a soft gurgle of sound that made him smile in return though he could see nothing funny in what he had said.
“How truly noble!” she mocked. “But my dear boy, there are more ways than one of wooing a girl. I can see I shall have to take your education in hand.”
“Then you will help?” he demanded eagerly.
“Indeed I will. To the best of my ability.” She held out her hand, laughing up at him, and he clasped it firmly in token of alliance. Eyes brimming with mischief, she tugged gently at the captive hands so that he came, puzzled, to kneel beside her. Gently she put up her other hand to the crisp dark hair, tweaked it lightly, kissed the scarred cheek and said softly, “Do you think I do not know my own daughter?”
If Alethea had entertained any lingering thought of evading the Byram visit they were banished when the Duchess’s letter of invitation arrived. Its tone was simple and friendly. She was invited to spend the whole of August with them. There was mention of a projected visit from Marianne and James during the latter part of her stay, which the Duchess hoped would add to her enjoyment of a quiet country holiday. And in her closing paragraph she suggested that perhaps Alethea’s father would like to spend a week at Byram before escorting his daughter home again. She understood from her son that Mrs. Forester was not yet able for so long a journey, a fact that she much regretted. She would hope to have the pleasure of making her acquaintance at a later date, having heard so much about her from her son. Meanwhile their Chaplain at Byram would be happy to exchange pulpits with Mr. Forester if that would be helpful.
It would have taken a much harder heart than Alethea’s to quench the eager delight that shone in her father’s face at this proposal. There was no more talk of whether she should or should not go. Preparations were set in hand and all was bustle. Mama and a rather wistful Susan were comfortably established in their apartments in Worthing and Hetty packed Alethea’s trunks for a month’s stay in what Papa teasingly described as ‘the barbarous borders’. Papa had shed twenty years in his anticipation of such a holiday as he had never dreamed of, and made even his rather half-hearted daughter laugh with his ridiculous, solemnly uttered warnings as to the customs obtaining in the north.
A suggestion that a good supply of flannel petticoats and warm shawls would be a great deal more useful than all those flimsy gowns that Hetty was folding so carefully might be heard with filial respect, even if disregarded, since Papa was a north-countryman by birth. But the offer of a chain-mail hauberk, his dearest treasure, to be worn beneath those same gowns for fear of border reivers and moss-troopers reduced her to helpless giggles.
Papa, however, seemed to feel that his high spirits had betrayed him into going beyond the line of what was pleasing, and reverted to his more usual manner. And this time his daughter was hard put to it not to laugh, for the reverent voice in which he recited the names of the towns through which she would pass on the Great North Road, “Stilton, Stamford, Grantham, Newark—names redolent of history! The very stones will speak to you,” put her irresistibly in mind of the way in which he pronounced the Benedicite.
SIXTEEN
Papa was at least so far right in that Alethea enjoyed the long leisurely journey far more than she had thought possible. For the most part she travelled in that same carriage that had once served as an al fresco dressing room, Judd on the box, positively cheerful these days, since he found Hetty an entertaining sparring partner in their off-duty hours. Sometimes his lordship would join her for an hour or so; sometimes, if the weather and road conditions permitted, he would coax her to ride with him. The little brown mare, most inappropriately named The Mudlark, had been brought along for her especial use, if she chose to ride. A young groom, whom Alethea vaguely recognised, led her when she was not required and seemed to be responsible for her welfare.
The constantly changing scene, the exercise and the busy posting inns all helped to raise Alethea’s spirits. Everything was fresh and novel. There was ample food for her lively curiosity. And in answering the many questions and pointing out the various places of interest along the way, it was not long before Damon was re-established on almost the old friendly footing.
Almost, but not quite. His behaviour was beyond praise. Her comfort, and Hetty’s, was provided for in every detail, with a forethought that was as thorough as it was unobtrusive. When the two of them talked together he so managed it that the chosen topics were interesting, amusing, even controversial, but never personal. Yet despite his care, he sensed in her a wariness, a reserve that he could not penetrate.
Once, in a careless moment he betrayed himself. They had arrived betimes in Newark where they were to rest overnight, and he had persuaded her to stroll out with him to view all that remained of its castle. As they returned, she expressed her regret that they could not stay longer in the town, so much as there was to invite exploration. Quite unthinkingly Damon suggested that the next time they came that way she might stay for as long as she pleased. He saw her check in her strolling pace, then move on again, saying quietly, “You forget, my lord. When next I come this way, I shall be with my father—and he will be in haste to get back to Mama and to his parish duties.”
But arrived at Byram she lowered her guard a little. She was naturally shy, a trifle overawed, and Damon was an old friend among so many strangers. She could turn to him with confidence for any information necessary to her peace of mind and know that he would not laugh at her or despise her ignorance of the ways of great houses. So two weeks passed very pleasantly, and even the weather smiled upon them. There was no need for flannel petticoats, thought Alethea with a smile, though it was certainly much cooler than in Kent, a coolness that she found invigorating. They drove out to visit several beauty spots in the neighbourhood, rode together every day, and, on the two occasions when the weather was really hot, went boating on the lake. The Duchess apologised for not holding parties in her guest’s honour, pleading laziness, which was manifestly untrue, and explaining that there would have to be parties when Marianne and James arrived and, with the weather so fine, it was a pity not to take advantage of it.
“We must have a picnic on the island before you go home,” suggested Damon, careful not to fall into error again. “Edward and I were used to spend most of our holidays there when the weather permitted—and the grown-ups! We even built a log cabin there, so that we could sleep in it and play Robinson Crusoe. I wonder if it is still standing.”
It was the first time that he had spoken to Alethea of his brother, and since he said no more and made no attempt to land on the island, Alethea judged that the pain of his loss was still acute. She knew from Lady Rachel that the two had been very close. Damon, the younger brother, adoring and copying the older one, Edward fiercely protective.
“Damon has never really forgiven what he felt was the throwing away of Edward’s life,” she had said sadly, “and when he failed in his brave attempt to save our son, his whole disposition seemed to change. He is more himself this summer than he has been since Edward’s death. A happy marriage will, I believe, bring back something of the dear, lovable boy over whom we have all grieved so deeply.”
This was coming too close. Alethea said rather stiffly that she sincerely trusted that his lordship would soon find a suitable marriage partner with whom he might achieve this felicity.
Lady Rachel did not appear to notice any withdrawal of intimacy. “I shall be so thankful, both for him and myself,” she confided. “I cannot desert the Duchess, whom I dearly love, but my brother needs me so much more.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes, my dear. His wife is so very
frail. Indeed, we fear the end cannot be far away. The lung sickness, you know. And two small children—the youngest a mere babe. You can see how I am torn.”
Alethea could. And her tender heart grieved for the sad little family. But it could not change her feelings about marriage with Damon.
It was not quite so easy to ignore the Duchess’s remarks. The Duke, who did not employ an agent, preferring to keep matters in his own hands, generally vanished into the estate office after dinner. The rest of the party amused themselves with books and needlework or music and card games, as the mood took them. On this particular occasion Damon had gone off with his father. Rachel had been singing, her voice not very powerful but sweet and true. The song done, she remained at the piano, drifting gently from one melody to another, her fingers idling over the keys. The Duchess sat watching her for a little while before turning to Alethea to say, “I shall miss her so very much when she goes, but I think she will be happier with her brother. She dearly loves children and those poor little mites need her more than I do. I fear I have been selfish in clinging to her companionship for so long. But you and I go on very comfortably together, do we not?”
Alethea could only blush and stammer what she hoped were appropriate thanks and pretend to be unaware of the underlying significance of the pleasant words. Approval—acceptance—could scarcely have been more blatant. In one way it made her very happy. But when one felt bound to disappoint these innocent hopes, one felt the meanest of traitors. And the Duchess was such a dear. The sight of her anxious, loving eyes dwelling so tenderly on her tall son tore at Alethea’s heart. She began to think gratefully of the impending arrival of Marianne and James. It would be easier when there were other guests to distract the attention of these lovable ladies from her guilt-stricken self.
Marianne and James were due to arrive on Thursday. There were but three more days to be endured. Surely she could hold out for so long against the gentle but inexorable fingers that were thrusting her into Damon’s arms? For she still believed that her original decision had been the right one—and Damon had given her no reason to think otherwise.
On Wednesday night the Duke took a hand in the affair, telling Alethea over dinner that he had received a letter from her Papa and suggesting that if she could spare the time to come with him to the library after dinner, she might like to read it. But when he had settled her in a comfortable chair and told her that Papa hoped to arrive on Saturday, he made no attempt to give her the letter. Instead he said gravely, “My child, how does it come about that my son believes you to be practically penniless? Your father, feeling it to be his duty under the circumstances, informs me that you are, on the contrary, a very considerable heiress.”
Alethea’s head went up proudly. Duke or not, she could not see that it was any business of his. Then she remembered that he was also her host and Damon’s father. She said with dignity, “My parents, your grace, did not wish me, in my first season, to be exposed to the attentions of fortune hunters when they could not be at hand to guide and advise me. It seemed to them wiser that word of my inheritance should not be bruited abroad. I naturally submitted to their wishes.”
He studied her thoughtfully, a gleam of appreciation in the grey eyes so like his son’s. So she had a temper. Good! And had it in control. Even better. He said quizzically, “There was no romantic notion of persuading my son to declare the world and wealth well lost for love?”
The blaze in the soft brown eyes quite startled him. By the Lord Harry, he thought, if she had a sword, she’d spit me for that! There was a long pause before a perfectly colourless little voice said, “No, your grace. Nothing of that kind.”
Inwardly he saluted the child’s demeanour. But since Damon had told him the whole, he must move carefully. “You relieve my mind,” he said gently. “I had judged you to be above such romantical folly, and am thankful to have my opinion confirmed. Though if my son had known the truth, I might have been spared some extremely boring, not to say disrespectful homilies on the value that should be set on character and disposition as opposed to mere money. All of which I heartily agreed with before he began. Not that it spared me anything. However, I daresay you and he will settle the business best between you. I’m no hypocrite, Miss Forester. If you decide to marry my son, I won’t pretend that your fortune won’t be very useful. I can honestly say that I’d have welcomed you thankfully without it, since I think his happiness lies in your hands. Don’t look so distressed, child, I won’t tell him. Good night. Sleep well!”
Alethea could only be grateful for dismissal, since she was left without words. She slept very badly indeed—for a girl not yet twenty—and was wide awake by six o’clock. She had never left her room so early before, but she could bear inaction no longer. She put on her riding dress, moving softly to avoid rousing the sleeping Hetty in the adjoining room, and went quietly downstairs. The servants were already astir. A surprised abigail brought her a glass of milk and an apple and Bellamy, Damon’s deerhound, came pleasedly to greet her. The huge creature had, from their first introduction, taken it upon herself to escort the visitor in all her comings and goings when her master was unable to do so. Only Alethea herself was unaware of the singularity of this behaviour. The entire household had noticed it with emotions that ranged from amused interest to downright awe, and it had done much for Alethea’s prestige. Presently the two of them made their way to the stables. Alethea had been told that The Mudlark was entirely at her disposal—she had only to ask Belling to bring her out. She did so now. A brisk canter would at least distract her thoughts if it could not solve her problem. In the event it actually underlined the problem, since Toby Belling seized the opportunity of begging her pardon for his share in the accident that he had helped to bring about. Now she knew why she had half recognised him. She must have seen him about the livery stables, though how he now came to be in Lord Skirlaugh’s service was still a puzzle. He was only too eager to explain. But as his remorse, his gratitude for an inexplicable forgiveness and generosity, his adoration for his new master, spilled over in tumultuous and slightly incoherent phrases, she struggled anew to escape from those relentless voices that urged his lordship’s claims. Here was a man worthy of any woman’s love. Who was she, to demand that first he must love her?
James and Marianne were late. Alethea was already changing her dress for dinner when the soft, urgent tapping at her door announced her friend’s arrival, and Marianne, glowing and breathless, came in. Her first exclamation was one of concern. “My dear—you look worn to the bone! What have you been doing? Oh dear! It will be very awkward if the air at Byram doesn’t suit your constitution!”
At this point Alethea, recognising the signs, hastily dismissed an interested Hetty and assured her friend that she was perfectly well and happy to see her in such high bloom.
“Yes, I daresay,” said Marianne quite brusquely. “But you, my love! What’s amiss? Is Uncle Hugo being difficult? I was afraid of that. I have looked each day in the Gazette, hoping to see the announcement of your betrothal.”
Alethea turned on her almost fiercely. “Would you accept a bridegroom because Tina’s foolish play-acting had forced him to offer for you?” she demanded. “He doesn’t really want me, certainly doesn’t love me. You told me yourself that his choice was already made. Do you think me as selfish and greedy as Tina that I must snatch at the offer of high rank, just because sheer chance has flung it at my feet?”
“But”—said Marianne. And stopped. She was horrified that a few careless words of hers should have caused such mischief. She, at least, would meddle no more. But Damon should have the truth of the matter before she slept that night. Hastily she fell back on woman’s ever-ready excuse. “My love, I must change my dress. Uncle Hugo will be cross if we keep dinner waiting. We were dreadfully late arriving. One of the horses cast a shoe and the smith’s fire was out. We can talk later,” and fled.
“I don’t know whether to hug you or shake you,” said Damon. It had proved impossible
to talk with him privately during the evening, since the newly arrived pair were the centre of attention, but Marianne, knowing that she would not rest until her confession was made, had taken the desperate course of going to his dressing room before he retired for the night. His expression of shocked incredulity had swiftly vanished at the trouble in her face, though he could not wholly check a speculative conjecture as to what his valet would think.
“Yes, I think it must be the hug,” he decided thoughtfully. “To be sure, if you had not meddled—yes, yes, I do understand precisely how it came about, you need not explain again—we might have been betrothed by now. On the other hand I would certainly have missed a very rare, a very wonderful experience. And no, I am not going to tell you what it was. But it could buy you forgiveness for far worse crimes.” He stooped and kissed her cheek. “Now—be off with you, before my reputation is wholly ruined. The thought of having compromised two young ladies at one and the same time, and one of them my own newly-betrothed cousin, is too much even for my sangfroid, while if James discovers your present whereabouts I shall undoubtedly receive a politely worded invitation to meet him in the cold, depressing dawn—and he a Marine and a first rate marksman! But don’t forget to explain our arrangements to him in careful detail. Marines do so like to have their orders cut and dried!” With which parting jibe he cautiously scanned the corridor to ensure that the coast was clear and pushed her hastily through the door.
