The Georgian Rake
Page 25
“There’s a smut on your cheek,” he said, at last, and handed her his handkerchief.
She took it with a murmured word of thanks, and scrubbed vigorously at her face in an embarrassed silence. Then she looked doubtfully at the now dirty handkerchief. After a moment, she hesitantly offered it back to him.
“No, pray keep it,” he said, his smile widening. “I fear it’s of no further use to me.”
Amanda found her voice. “I — I suppose not.”
Inspiration for further conversation completely failed her for the moment, so she began to rub some of the dirt off her hands. This was a strategic move in that it enabled her to avoid meeting his eyes, which remained fixed upon her face.
There was a moment’s silence.
“What were you doing up there?” he asked, curiously.
She shrugged, still busy at her task. “Just — just sitting.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“One might have supposed that the ground would afford more comfort — and less insecurity,” he said, gently teasing.
“It happens that — I am very fond of this particular tree,” answered Amanda, defensively. “John and I used often to climb it, in the old days.”
He shot her a keen glance.
“You will miss John, will you not?” he asked, softly.
For some reason that she could not define, her eyes filled with tears at his tone. She lowered her head, and began to scrub once more at her hands with the handkerchief.
“Poor child,” he said, compassionately. “If only there is anything I may do to help you!”
She looked up at that, surprised, and blinked away the foolish tears.
“Help me, sir? Why, how should you help me, and why?”
“That’s the devil of it,” he said, abruptly, starting to his feet. “There is nothing I can do to help, who would do anything in the world — but at least you do not need to pretend to me. If it can be any consolation to you, I know your secret. Would it help you at all to talk of it to me?”
She, too, came to her feet, and fixed him with a look of profound astonishment.
“I cannot understand you, Mr. Barsett. What secret do you know — of what should I speak to you?”
“You prefer that I should pretend to be ignorant of it?” he asked, sadly. “Very well, it must be as you wish.”
Amanda’s embarrassment was fast slipping away from her, and something very like irritation taking its place. Almost she stamped her foot.
“I wish you will understand, sir, that I have no secret. Be plain with me, I beg: to what do you refer?”
He studied her again. Even a partial observer could not have contended that she looked her best. The honey-coloured curls were tangled with stray leaves and blades of grass, there was a streak of dirt down one cheek, and scratches on both her arms. Her gown was in a sorry state, and she had now lost both shoes. To Charles Barsett, she looked, as always, adorable. His glance softened.
“I will say no more if you do not wish it. Forgive me.”
This time she did stamp her foot upon the harsh, dry grass.
“Of course I want you to say more! Begin by telling me what exactly you mean!”
This time, it was evident to the man that she did not dissemble.
He hesitated, frowning.
“Can I be wrong?” he said, at last. “I had certainly supposed — you will pardon the assumption, I am sure — that you were — enamoured of John Webster.”
Amanda stared, then suddenly burst out laughing.
He watched her in silence for a moment. Then a change came over his countenance; he threw back his head, and he, too, laughed.
“Do you mean to tell me that it is all a mistake?”
“Mistake?” Amanda gurgled in amusement. “However could you think such a thing? John and I — it is too ludicrous!”
“I don’t quite see why,” he said, a shade defensively. “You seemed always to turn to him in need.”
“As I would have turned to a brother,” replied Amanda, quietening a little. “But as for love — why, I don’t love anybody!”
“Do you not?” he asked, quickly, involuntarily taking a step towards her.
“No,” she answered, then hesitated. “At least —”
“At least —?”
There was a long pause.
“I don’t know,” said she, at last, frowning a little. “I am not perfectly sure what —what love is.”
“What do you think it is, Amanda?” he asked, softly.
He had used her name, but she appeared not to notice. He stood motionless, watching her intently.
“Why, I should think —”
She stopped, a faraway expression in her eyes. He waited, saying nothing, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“I should think it is wanting to be with someone for the rest of your life — not being able to think of anything or anybody else I should think —”
“Yes?”
“I should think it happens before one knows. That suddenly one realises —”
Her voice faded away, consciousness came back to her face, and she blushed.
“Amanda!”
His voice forced her to look up, but she could not meet his eyes. What was it that Nurse had said to her? ‘Look well into your heart.’ She had done so for the first time, and knew that nothing could ever be the same again.
“You told me once, Mandy,” he said quietly, “that you never wished to see or hear of me again — that you detested me. Is this still true? If so, you have only to say the word, and I will relieve you of my presence for ever.”
She did not answer him at once. He drew nearer to her, but did not attempt to touch her, clenching his hands at his sides.
“You must answer me, Amanda!” he pleaded urgently. “It is only fair that you should.”
She recognised the justice of this, and raised her head in the familiar, courageous gesture. Her blue eyes met his for a brief moment.
“I — I talked a deal of nonsense once, sir.”
She heard his quick intake of breath. “You no longer detest me?” he asked, trying to read her expression.
“I don’t think I ever did — not truly,” she answered candidly. “You offended me, and crossed me, and so I was annoyed with you, and later, when I was determined to find you out in — in something discreditable it was more of an adventure to me than anything else, except that, of course, I did not wish you to marry Bella. But when I did go to — to that place — and discovered what — what went on there — I was not pleased at my discovery, but sad.”
The last words came out in a rush.
He took a deep breath. “Do you know why you felt sad, child?”
She lowered her eyes. “I know now, though I did not at that time. It was because I didn’t want to prove you evil, but — but honourable and noble.”
He repeated these words with a depth of bitterness that seemed to arise from his very soul.
“That I can never be!” he finished, his lips twisting. “For that reason I may not say to you what is in my heart.”
“But you are!” burst out Amanda indignantly. “All that the affair at Medmenham, your — your past indiscretions — all that is nothing. What I know of your relationship with your cousin proves the essential nobility of your nature.”
She paused for breath, then added, with a touch of defiance, “And, anyway, even if it did not — which it most certainly does — still, I wouldn’t care!”
He gazed at her, thunderstruck. “Not care?”
“No!” she answered emphatically. “Why should I? You see —” she paused, evidently mustering her courage for a supreme effort — “you see, the fact is — I — I love you. I have only just discovered it.”
“My God!”
In a stride he was at her side, and had almost taken her into his arms. But he checked himself with a painful effort, and did not touch her.
“You can’t realise,” he said jerkily. “I — I cannot
accept such a sacrifice. You are only a child, sweet, innocent, and I — I am not worthy.”
The last words were wrung from his heart.
“Fiddle-dee-dee!” said Amanda, with misty eyes. “What is so saintly about me, after all? Everyone is agreed that I am a hoyden, and, moreover, I am immodest. I showed a total want of propriety in visiting the Abbey, and — and now I have just declared my affections in a manner that could only be called brazen!”
“You are the most wonderful woman in the world,” he answered unsteadily, “and yet the most pure and innocent child. I — worship you, Amanda.”
“I don’t want worship, sir,” she answered, a tremulous smile on her lips, “but only a warm, human love such as ordinary mortals know. Can you not — give me that?”
“I can, my love,” he whispered.
“Then what on earth,” asked Amanda impatiently, “are we waiting for? Do you not mean to — to — kiss me?”
He took her in his arms at that, gently and tenderly. But Amanda passed her strong young arms about his neck, drawing his face to hers; her warm lips met his with all the wholeheartedness of her impetuous nature.
Gradually his grip upon her tightened, and thankfulness filled his heart. The rake had found his true mate, and was at peace.
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A NOTE TO THE READER
It’s wonderful to see my mother’s books available again and being enjoyed by what must surely be a new audience from that which read them when they were first published. My brother and I can well remember our mum, Alice, writing away on her novels in the room we called the library at home when we were teenagers. She generally laid aside her pen — there were no computers in those days, of course — when we returned from school but we knew she had used our absence during the day to polish off a few chapters.
One of the things I well remember from those days is the care that she took in ensuring the historical accuracy of the background of her books. I am sure many of you have read novels where you are drawn out of the story by inaccuracies in historical facts, details of costume or other anachronisms. I suppose it would be impossible to claim that there are no such errors in our mother’s books; what is undoubted is that she took great care to check matters.
The result was, and is, that the books still have an appeal to a modern audience, for authenticity is appreciated by most readers, even if subconsciously. The periods in which they set vary: the earliest is The Georgian Rake, which must be around the middle of the 18th century; and some are true Regency romances. But Mum was not content with just a love story; there is always an element of mystery in her books. Indeed, this came to the fore in her later writings, which are historical detective novels.
There’s a great deal more I could say about her writings but it would be merely repeating what you can read on her website at www.alicechetwyndley.co.uk. To outward appearances, our mother was an average housewife of the time — for it was usual enough for women to remain at home in those days — but she possessed a powerful imagination that enabled her to dream up stories that appealed to many readers at the time — and still do, thanks to their recent republication.
If you have enjoyed her novels, we would be very grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads so that others may also be tempted to lose themselves in their pages.
Richard Ley, 2018.
More Books by Alice Chetwynd Ley
THE EVERSLEY SAGA:
The Clandestine Betrothal
AVAILABLE HERE!
The Toast of the Town
AVAILABLE HERE!
A Season at Brighton
AVAILABLE HERE!
The Jewelled Snuff Box
AVAILABLE HERE!
The Guinea Stamp
The Master of Liversedge
Letters for a Spy
Tenant of Chesdene Manor
The Beau and the Bluestocking
A Conformable Wife
At Dark of the Moon
The Sentimental Spy
An Advantageous Marriage
A Regency Scandal
The Intrepid Miss Haydon
Anthea and Justin Rutherford Trilogy
A Reputation Dies
A Fatal Assignation
A Masquerade of Vengeance
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Copyright © The Estate of Alice Chetwynd Ley, 1960
The Estate of Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted their right to be identified as the author of this work.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
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eBook ISBN: 9781912546800