The Major and the Country Miss

by Dorothy Elbury

  His contemplative reverie was soon interrupted by the belated arrival of the highly apologetic viscount, bearing a pair of foaming tankards. ‘Dreadfully sorry, old chap,’ he puffed, as he joined Maitland on the grass. ‘Bit of a domestic crisis, I’m afraid—one of the kitchen maids tripped over the blessed cat and suffered a broken ankle—had to call the doctor out!’

  ‘Ooh, nasty!’ returned his friend, with a sympathetic grimace. ‘Nevertheless, if my impression of Lady Letitia is anything to go by, the poor lass is sure to have the benefit of the best of treatments.’

  The viscount gave an emphatic nod. ‘Quite right, too!’ he exclaimed. ‘The welfare of our employees has always been high on the list of Mater’s priorities. Although, to be fair, Georgie’s pretty amazing too, as a matter of fact. She’d grabbed a hold of a teacloth and a tub of ice and had a cold compress on the girl’s foot before any of us could say “Jack Robinson”!’

  Maitland sipped thoughtfully at his ale. ‘Seems a very pleasant girl, your cousin,’ he ventured, almost carelessly. ‘Would have thought she’d have been snapped up by now!’

  The viscount was silent for a moment. ‘Mmm, well, you might think so,’ he said, eventually. ‘She’s an absolute gem, is our little Georgie. Don’t care to talk about the lady behind her back, but the fact is that she suffered a severe disappointment some years back and now does her damnedest to keep all the fellows at bay—still carrying the proverbial torch, if you want my opinion—not that any of us ever mention the subject, of course,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Nuff said,’ acknowledged his friend while, at the same time, finding himself thinking that it was clear that the unaccommodating suitor, whoever he was, must have been in dire need of having his head examined.

  While the two men were conversing, the servants had been setting up trestle tables and laying out a selection of cold meats, raised pies, platters of fruit and other mouth-watering delicacies. Chairs were brought out for the older members of the party, whilst rugs and cushions were thrown on the grass for those youngsters who might wish to avail themselves of them. Shortly afterwards, a footman appeared on the terrace striking a gong, signalling to those guests still in the furthest reaches of the grounds that luncheon was about to be served. In answer to the summons, the ongoing games of cricket, tennis and croquet were brought to a swift close, couples ceased their aimless wanderings about the gardens, and everyone began to make their way back towards the terrace area.

  Triumphantly waving the piece of paper that he held in his hand, the Honourable Jeremy sauntered over to join his cousin. ‘What a creature!’ he breathed. ‘So talented and such rare insight!’

  Catching hold of the paper, which he quickly recognised as a page torn from a sketchbook, Maitland found himself staring at a remarkably well-executed likeness of Fenton.

  ‘One of Miss Highsmith’s, I collect?’ he said, feeling not a little put out that his rather dandified cousin had apparently captured Stephanie’s undivided attention with such apparent ease.

  ‘You should consider yourself highly honoured,’ grinned Catford, as he leaned across and studied the sketch. ‘Steffi usually only bestows those on her favourites.’

  ‘Do you say so!’ Fenton beamed, carefully rolling up the paper and tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket, an action that caused Maitland considerable astonishment, knowing, as he did, his cousin’s normally fastidious attention to the smooth, uncluttered line of his dress. ‘I shall treasure it always! And, now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I am commissioned to select a few tasty morsels for the lady’s enjoyment!’

  ‘Well, he certainly seems to have found favour with our little beauty,’ remarked Catford, as the Honourable Jeremy drifted off towards the refreshment tables. ‘Wonder how long that little caper will last?’

  Maitland frowned. It was not like his friend to cast disparaging remarks about a member of the opposite sex. ‘Steady on, Cat!’ he protested. ‘That’s a touch near the knuckle, surely!’

  ‘If you had been acquainted with the delectable Miss Highsmith for as many years as I have, Will,’ observed the viscount, with a wry smile, ‘you, too, might have learnt to be a little sceptical—I do hope that you were not thinking of casting out a lure in that particular direction!’

  ‘Well, you have to admit that she is rather dazzling,’ returned his friend, giving a slightly self-conscious shrug.

  The viscount stared across at him, his forehead puckered in dismay. ‘Keep away, old chap, if you value your sanity!’ he cautioned. ‘There’s not a fellow in the vicinity who hasn’t fallen under her spell—have to admit that I went down the same road myself, a few years back. Luckily, I soon found out that the adorable Miss Highsmith enjoys nothing better than playing off her admirers one against the other—take a look, if you’re disinclined to believe me!’

  Not entirely convinced by Catford’s friendly words of caution, Maitland allowed his eyes to travel across to where the object of their discussion sat, still surrounded by half-dozen or so eager gallants. But then, as he registered the mischievous way in which she smilingly reached out a finger to chuck one man under his chin whilst, at the same time, fluttering her long, curling lashes over his shoulder at another, it became horribly clear to him that the viscount’s ruthless shredding of Stephanie’s character had been entirely justified.

  Stifling a pang of regret for all those earlier hopes and dreams that had, all too quickly, crumbled into dust, Maitland silently cursed himself for allowing his usual good sense to be swayed by the sight of a pretty face. Offering up a prayer of thanks to his lucky stars for his friend’s most timely warning, he resolved to put aside all thoughts of romance and apply himself to the job in hand—namely, the search for young Étienne Billingham, always supposing that the unfortunate lad had survived his birth.

  However, since it was clear that any attempt to hurry Fenton away from Stephanie’s side at this juncture was likely to meet with fierce resistance and, uncomfortably aware that he was obliged to rely upon the clearly besotted Jeremy for his own transport back to the inn, Maitland realised that he had no choice but to wait until his cousin decided the moment of their departure. And, since the unexpected set-back to his own romantic hopes had somewhat diminished his appetite, he declined Catford’s invitation to join the family for luncheon and, somewhat disconsolately, wandered off into the lower reaches of the gardens, towards the lake.

  As the noisy hubbub of conversation and laughter began to fade into the distance, to be replaced by the rather more agreeable sounds of rippling water and birdsong, his inner turmoil gradually lessened and he could feel his mind growing calmer with every step. Pausing only to smile at the antics of the disorderly line of mallard duck chicks, each of them noisily jostling for position in their mother’s wake, he made his way along the path towards the hexagonally shaped summerhouse that he had spotted on the bank a little distance ahead.

  He had barely set his foot onto the bottom step of the building, however, before he became conscious of the fact that he was, clearly, not the only one who had chosen to leave the clamour of the garden party behind them, in search of a moment’s solitude.

  ‘Miss Venables!’ he exclaimed, standing stock-still in the doorway. ‘I beg your pardon! I had no idea that there was anyone here!’

  Georgianne, who had, in fact, been observing Maitland’s leisurely stroll along the lakeside path with a peculiar mixture of panic and excitement, carefully laid down her plate of, as yet, untouched food on to the bench at her side. ‘I fear that you have found me out, Mr Maitland,’ she said, with a rueful smile. ‘I had a sudden urge to get away from all the hullabaloo for a few moments’ peace and quiet on my own.’

  ‘And here I am, depriving you of your well-earned rest!’ grimaced Maitland, stepping back hurriedly and turning to go. ‘Please accept my apologies for having intruded upon your privacy.’

  ‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ begged Georgianne, leaping to her feet. ‘There is more than enough room for t
he two of us here and, as you can see…’ she indicated with a sweep of her hand ‘…the view from this spot is simply marvellous.’

  Maitland entered the summerhouse and sat down on the bench opposite. ‘It’s hardly surprising that you felt the need to catch a few minutes’ respite from your labours, Miss Venables,’ he ventured, with a gentle smile. ‘Cat has told me all about your sterling efforts with the unfortunate kitchen maid.’

  She flushed. ‘I had heard that it is preferable to limit the swelling in such cases,’ she replied diffidently. ‘It apparently makes it easier for the physician to reset the bone.’

  ‘Far less painful for the patient too, I believe. How is the poor lass?’

  ‘Fast asleep by now, hopefully—Dr Travers had to administer quite a hefty dose of laudanum to calm her. I shall look in on her later this afternoon to see how she does.’

  Maitland’s eyes travelled to the heaped plate at her side. ‘I appear to have interrupted your luncheon,’ he observed, suddenly feeling quite peckish himself. ‘Please do not allow my being here to prevent you enjoying your meal.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care to join me?’ invited Georgianne, lifting up the plate and holding it out to him. ‘Cook piled on far more than I can possibly manage.’

  Quickly transferring his position to her side of the summerhouse, Maitland thanked her and helped himself to a slice of game pie. ‘I have to admit that I was somewhat disinclined to join in the general scrimmage around the refreshment tables, but that little walk along the lake path seems to have done wonders for my appetite!’

  ‘I have often thought that picnics are not nearly as much fun as we keep telling ourselves!’ she said, with a dimpling smile.

  ‘Oh, I cannot agree there, Miss Venables,’ he protested, a wide grin on his face. ‘I have to say that I am finding this particular alfresco meal rather pleasant!’

  At his words, Georgianne felt her cheeks grow quite warm and, in an attempt to hide her growing confusion, she turned her head away, appearing to busy herself with choosing a titbit from the plate. Maitland, studying her profile, suddenly found himself wondering how it was that he had ever considered her to be merely ‘nice-looking’. With her clear grey eyes and softly flushed cheeks, not to mention the several gently waving tendrils of warm brown hair that had escaped their rigid confinement from their pins to fall, in graceful confusion, over her brow and down the nape of her neck, he could see that it was well past time to revise his former opinion of his friend’s young cousin.

  ‘Your hair appears to have come somewhat adrift, Miss Venables,’ he pointed out softly, lifting up his hand in an attempt to tuck one of the curling wisps back behind her ear.

  Almost as if she had been stung, Georgianne started back in alarm. ‘Yes, I know,’ she acknowledged breathlessly. ‘I had intended to deal with it before going back to the house.’

  ‘Pity,’ he drawled, her sudden reticence not having escaped his attention. ‘It suits you much better that way.’

  Then, getting to his feet, he strolled across to the doorway, endeavouring to give her the impression that he was admiring the view. Great heavens above! he was thinking. You have surely not been extricated from one bumblebath only to fall straight into another! Then, shaking his head, he came to the conclusion that it must have something to do with the much talked-about rebound effect, a circumstance with which he was unfamiliar. Or, could it be that, having registered Cat’s remark about his cousin ‘keeping the fellows at bay’, he had regarded Georgianne as something of a challenge to his masculinity?

  ‘I really need to get started on this blessed search,’ he murmured aloud. But, on turning to face the silent Georgianne, to enquire as to the whereabouts of Willowby’s church, his breath caught in his throat and he found himself quite lost for words.

  Still seated on the bench, Georgianne had taken advantage of his protracted meditation to unpin her hair and was, at this very moment, hurriedly combing her fingers through the flowing waves, prior to coaxing them back into their usual neat chignon and quite determined to have the job done before Maitland should turn around.

  Alerted by the sounds of his booted feet on the stone floor of the summerhouse, she swept back the curtain of hair from her face and, to her consternation, looked up to find him standing directly in front of her. Biting her lip in annoyance at having been caught out, she quickly attempted to bundle up her locks into some semblance of tidiness, only to find Maitland’s hand on her own, preventing her from continuing.

  ‘Please don’t,’ he said softly, running his own fingers through the silken strands. ‘Your hair is so very lovely—must you drag it back into such an unbecoming style?’

  Finding herself, momentarily, transfixed by both the sensation of his fingers on her head and his unconcealed expression of admiration, Georgianne could neither move nor think but then, as Maitland, having relinquished his hold, lowered himself on to the bench at her side, she drew in her breath and said, somewhat shakily, ‘It is not, usually, quite as troublesome as it has been today—I must crave your indulgence while I attend to it.’

  And, much to Maitland’s regret, she proceeded to coil her hair into a tight loop and, with the help of the few remaining pins at her disposal, set about attaching the heavy chignon to the top of her head. Then, picking up the chipstraw bonnet that she had lain aside on the bench, she settled it carefully over her newly arranged hairstyle and quickly tied the ribbons under her chin.

  ‘There, now,’ she said, with a smile of satisfaction. ‘That should hold it in place—I dare say all that rushing up and down stairs caused it to come adrift—I must make a point of securing it more firmly in future.’

  Although he was obliged to shelve his disappointment that Georgianne had chosen to ignore his plea that she might adopt a less severe style, Maitland could not help but be impressed at the calm, matter-of-fact way that she had attended to her somewhat embarrassing predicament. He was well aware that a good many of the young women of his acquaintance, by exhibiting a more-than-usual quota of fluttering eyelashes, simpering blushes and highly irritating giggles, not to mention a pretended mortification, would have used such an opportunity to turn what had been merely an unfortunate mishap into a full theatrical performance. Having observed Stephanie Highsmith’s earlier display of dramatic ability, it was not difficult for him to visualise how she would have reacted, given a similar circumstance.

  Unfortunately, Maitland’s failure to reply to her lighthearted comment only gave Georgianne the impression that her somewhat nonchalant behaviour had caused him to think badly of her. As an unexpected sense of despondency swept over her, she rose hurriedly to her feet, fighting back the impulse to offer her apologies for having acted in so unladylike a manner in front of a gentleman, who was, after all, still little more than a stranger.

  But Maitland, finding himself suddenly loath to part with her company, at once leapt up to join her, saying, ‘Please do not rush away, Miss Venables. I was hoping that you might point me in the direction of your local church—this would seem to be an excellent opportunity for me to have a few words with the incumbent there.’

  ‘Oh, that would be our curate, Mr Childs,’ the much- relieved Georgianne was delighted to be able to inform him. ‘And you are in luck, for there is a shortcut to the church through that spinney just ahead of us—the family often make use of it. If you will permit me, I would be happy to take you there myself.’

  ‘The pleasure will be mine, I assure you.’

  And, so saying, Maitland leapt nimbly down from the summerhouse and held out his hand. After a scarcely discernible hesitation, Georgianne placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her descend the three shallow steps on to the pathway. Why this simple action should have had the effect of setting up such a trembling inside her, she could not imagine but, when Maitland then chose to tuck her hand firmly into the crook of his arm, she was powerless to prevent the rosy blush that formed instantly upon her cheeks.

  Fortunately for Georgian
ne’s peace of mind, her escort seemed not to have noticed her brief moment of confusion. Indeed, as far as she could tell, he appeared to be heavily engrossed in studying the courtly behaviour of the pair of swans who were sailing majestically across the lake.

  ‘Such beautiful creatures,’ he observed chattily, as they turned off the path and strolled through the sunlit spinney, at the far end of which the church’s squat tower could be seen. ‘I’m told that they mate for life.’

  ‘A particular habit amongst a good many members of the bird family, I believe,’ replied Georgianne, with a sudden smile. ‘Strange, really, when one considers that their brains are said to be not nearly as well formed as our own.’

  He shot her a quick glance and was relieved to see that she seemed to have overcome her momentary attack of agitation, which, contrary to his companion’s firm belief, had not, in fact, escaped his attention. ‘I believe their choices are made more by instinct than by the decidedly unreliable methods we humans tend to employ,’ he said, a rueful grin forming on his lips as the unwelcome memory of his own recent and rather foolish lapse over Stephanie sprang into his mind. ‘It is possible that we might be far better off endeavouring to emulate their ways, rather than allowing our hearts to rule our minds, as we are frequently inclined to do.’

  Georgianne gave a thoughtful nod. ‘A fair point, Mr Maitland,’ she conceded. ‘Although the swans’ lifetime devotion to their partners does seem to suggest that something more than mere instinct must be involved. For instance, I have heard it said that a bereaved swan simply pines away after having lost a mate, which rather begs the question insofar as the basic instincts for survival and self-preservation are concerned.’