Ginnie Come Lately

by Carola Dunn

  “I shall. He might try to kiss me and I should hate to have to be cross with a friend,” said Lydia placidly.

  Ginnie knew that in such straits her gentle sister’s crossness consisted of gazing reproachfully at the offender while tears filled her deep blue eyes. These tactics had successfully repulsed two or three would-be beaux in Cheltenham. Now Lydia was stepdaughter to an earl and, however besotted, the respectable son of the respectable squire was not at all likely to take advantage of her.

  Any more than Lord Amis was likely to take advantage of herself, Ginnie thought with a sigh. That kiss had been a momentary caprice, prompted not by admiration but by one of those inexplicable impulses gentlemen were prone to.

  Today of all days she did not mean to repine. She went down to breakfast with a spring in her step.

  Although Burnham Beeches was no more than a couple of miles from Lord Wooburn’s estate, as the crow flies, Ginnie had never been there. The carriages stopped in a clearing of bracken and heather, scattered with graceful silver birches, surrounded by the beech woods. She was fascinated by the ancient trees, so different from the usual tall, slender beeches. Centuries of pollarding had created massive, contorted trunks, easily climbed, as the twins proved ninety seconds after alighting from the carriage.

  “I want to climb, too,” cried Nathaniel as Colin lifted him down from the gig.

  Lady Wooburn, watching Jack and Jimmy with alarm, was moved to protest, “Oh, no, darling, you are too little.”

  “I’ll get him up there safely, Mama,” said Colin, “and back down again. Just wait till I tie up Patch, Nat.”

  The earl soothed her. “Don’t worry your pretty head, my love. Trees and boys were made for each other.” He exchanged a grin of complicity with Colin and led his wife away. “Come and sit in the shade and I shall tell you about the larch I used to climb when I was a lad. Tall and straight, it was, with branches regular as steps in a ladder, and the top swayed in the wind.”

  Priscilla went with them. Ten or a dozen other children were halfway up trees, racing with squeals through crunchy piles of dead beech leaves or sliding down the steep sides of a nearby dell. Judith gazed at them wistfully.

  “Ginnie, do I have to be a lady today?”

  “Certainly not,” said Lord Amis’s voice behind them.

  For once Ginnie agreed with him. “Not today, love. Let me help you kilt up your skirts. If you will excuse us, gentlemen?” she said over her shoulder, leading Judith behind a nearby tree.

  “Come on, Justin,” said Gilbert. “We mustn’t embarrass the ladies.”

  As she helped her sister tuck her hem into the waistband of her pantalettes, Ginnie wondered if she could possibly have misheard. Had Gilbert really called the viscount Justin?

  Judith ran off to join the tree climbers. Ginnie paused to greet the vicar and Mrs. Desborough, who drove up at that moment. They presented their son, Mark, who had just arrived home to stay a few weeks between taking orders and going to be a curate in Dorset. A tall, fair, willowy young man, he regarded her with patent admiration and gallantly offered her his arm.

  With his parents, they went over to where Mrs. Frobisher’s servants had spread rugs and cushions on the thick carpet of last year’s fallen leaves.

  Ginnie thoroughly enjoyed the picnic. Mark Desborough was flatteringly attentive, even after he had caught sight of Lydia’s lovely face between the two youthful gentlemen competing with Peter Mason for her notice. She knew and liked most of the merry company. The food was superb.

  The children, Websters and others, dashed up periodically to grab a bite to eat, then dashed off again to play. Colin brought a grubby, happy Nathaniel to Ginnie, but Alice appeared at once to relieve her of him and took him off to ply him with goodies. Priscilla sat primly by her mama, who absent-mindedly fed her on titbits from her own plate.

  Though Priscilla seemed perfectly contented, Ginnie asked her, “Do you not want to go with the other children, love? They are having such fun.”

  “I don’t want to get my frock dirty,” she said.

  Ginnie smiled and shook her head and turned back to her conversation with Mark Desborough and Sir Mortimer Rill.

  Talking, listening, or eating, she was constantly aware of Lord Amis’s whereabouts. He moved from group to group, chatting to everyone with the self-assurance of the heir to an earldom, yet without the least sign of condescension towards his less-exalted neighbours.

  He was quite the handsomest gentleman present, especially when he smiled or laughed. Ginnie, who had seldom seen him do either, felt her heart twist within her. Gilbert had called him Justin. Was reconciliation possible at last? Would he one day smile at her, laugh at something she said?

  Yet so recently he had put the worst possible construction on her encounter with the odious Sir William and had tried to do her an ill turn with his father. She didn’t know what to think.

  The eldest of the Masons’ daughters, a young woman married to a Beaconsfield lawyer, came up and invited her to go for a stroll. Ginnie glanced about. No sign of the twins. Judith, Nathaniel, and Alice were tossing armfuls of leaves at each other nearby. Lydia was already strolling off with Peter Mason, safely chaperoned by his youngest sister and the two persistent gentlemen. Priscilla was helping herself to a cheesecake, obviously enjoying the change from plain nursery fare.

  Justin had settled beside the vicar and was earnestly discussing some weighty subject. His serious, intent expression was as unfamiliar to Ginnie as his smile. He had never looked at her without scorn, or anger, or arrogant complacency, except...

  Except just before he’d kissed her, when his gaze had devoured her and thrilled her to the marrow of her bones.

  “You are wool-gathering. Miss Webster! Do let us take a little gentle exercise.”

  “I beg your pardon. Yes, that will be delightful.”

  “Allow me to give you each an arm to lean on, ladies,” offered Mark Desborough hopefully.

  Accepting, they headed for a path through the trees. Just before the picnic site was hidden by a turn in the path, Ginnie glanced back. Nothing was changed. Greedy little Priscilla was even reaching for another cheesecake.

  They wandered about the woods for twenty minutes or so before turning back. By then Ginnie had no notion which of the maze of paths led back to the picnic, though the others, familiar with the place since childhood, knew the way. She hoped, a little anxiously, that the twins had obeyed her injunction not to go too far afield.

  In no time they were once more in sight of the rest of the party. With relief, Ginnie saw the twins thirstily drinking lemonade.

  As she looked around for the others, Justin sprang to his feet, strode across the intervening rugs, and seized Priscilla. Tucking her under one arm, he ran towards the nearest trees.

  “Oh Lord!” Ginnie groaned, and picking up her skirts, she followed at a most unladylike pace.

  The glimpse she had caught of her sister’s green-tinged face prepared her for what she found behind the huge old tree. Priscilla was bent double, casting up her accounts. Justin held her by the waist, supporting her forehead with one hand, his pained gaze fixed on some distant spot.

  “Thank you, sir!” Ginnie took over, murmuring soothing words. Priscilla’s forehead was cold and sweaty.

  With a sigh of relief, Justin stepped back. “Every time I looked up, she was taking a bite of something or other,” he explained in a conversational tone. “At first I assumed it was always the same something, but when she stopped eating and started to grow pale, I kept a close watch. Then she clutched her stomach and I decided it was time to intervene. I could not think Mrs. Frobisher would appreciate—”

  “Thank you, my lord, you need say no more! Have you by any chance a handkerchief?”

  The heaving had stopped and Priscilla was sobbing weakly. Without another word, Justin held out his handkerchief. Taking it, Ginnie was cleaning her sister’s face as best she could when Alice arrived.

  “Oh, miss, I’m that sorry.
Can I help?”

  “Yes, bring me a napkin soaked in water, if you please.”

  “And a glass of water,” Justin suggested.

  The nursemaid sped off. When she returned, Ginnie asked her to go and keep an eye on Nathaniel and the twins. Priscilla was already feeling a little better. Intent on wiping her face and helping her wash out her mouth, Ginnie was startled when Justin spoke.

  “It seems to me Miss Priscilla would be better off at home. May I offer my services to take her back to Wooburn?”

  “Oh, I thought you had gone!”

  “I want to stay with you, Ginnie,” Priscilla wailed, clinging to her.

  “Naturally my offer extends to both of you.”

  “It might be as well,” Ginnie admitted, regarding her sister’s still-pallid cheeks.

  “Then if you will go directly to the carriages,” he said, pointing, “I shall go and inform our hostess and your mama of our departure and meet you at the curricle.”

  “Very well, sir. Pray make my apologies to Mrs. Frobisher. But will you tell Gilbert or Colin or Lydia, not Mama? She will only worry.”

  “As you wish, ma’am.” He bowed slightly and they parted.

  “He frightened me when he grabbed me like that,” Priscilla confided, hanging on Ginnie’s arm.

  “I expect he did, but he was actually most helpful, for a wonder. No doubt the spectacle of a member of his family behaving so disgracefully would have humiliated him beyond bearing. It was very naughty of you to eat so much as to make yourself sick.”

  “I’ll never ever eat cheesecakes again. It was horrid and my tummy still hurts. I’m glad Lord Amis is going to take us home.’’

  “Yes, I’d not have expected such kindness of him. I dare say he’d not entrust his cattle to his groom, but he might have told Colin to drive us in the gig.”

  They reached the clearing where several grooms had charge of the carriages and the mounts of those who had ridden. Some of the more skittish horses were being walked about, including two of Justin’s new greys, led by the groom he had hired to take care of his precious, high-spirited team.

  Justin arrived just as the man saw her and came towards her. The pair were hitched up to the curricle with their fellows. Justin looked appraisingly at the head-tossing, impatient horses and turned to Ginnie.

  “I believe it would be a mistake to have your sister sitting beside me,” he said sardonically. “I could not answer for my control of my cattle with the distraction of anticipating a recurrence of her... er...unfortunate illness.”

  “I shall sit between you,” she replied with dignity, hoping that Priscilla would have the sense to lean over the side if she felt suddenly sick.

  He handed her up and lifted Priscilla up beside her. Going round the back of the curricle, he took the reins from the groom, who jumped up behind. Then Justin took his seat at Ginnie’s side and they set off.

  The seat was wider than that of the gig, but not by much. Ginnie found herself pressed against Justin, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. When she tried to shift imperceptibly, Priscilla complained that she was being squeezed half to death. In view of her condition, Ginnie didn’t dare increase her discomfort.

  As they trotted through the narrow lanes, she tried to concentrate on the flowers in the hedgerows. It was impossible. She tried to ignore the contact with Justin. Equally impossible. His hard-muscled leg tensed and relaxed against her with the sway of the well-sprung curricle. Heat diffused throughout her body, burning in her cheeks and in the pit of her stomach. Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she bowed her head, praying her bonnet hid her face from him.

  And then they came to a sharp corner. In directing the horses, his arm brushed against her breast. The glow within her flared into flame and she gasped aloud.

  “Are you all right?” His voice was strained. Risking a peep, Ginnie saw that his gaze was firmly fixed on the ears of his leaders. Then he said in a more normal tone, “Is that wretched child in dire straits? Shall I stop?”

  “I’m better,” said Priscilla. “I like your carriage, my lord. It’s much nicer than riding in the gig with old Patch pulling it.”

  He made some response and they continued to talk. Ginnie scarce understood a word they said. Though Priscilla’s voice had extinguished the flame, the flexing pressure of Justin’s thigh continued, and with it the glowing warmth that was slowly but surely melting her.

  Just when she was certain she could stand it no longer, the curricle turned between the tall wrought-iron gates of the park. The greys cantered swiftly up the avenue of elms and halted before the front door. The groom sprang down and went to the horses’ heads.

  Justin lifted Priscilla down and offered Ginnie his hand. Face averted, she reached for it as she stepped down, missed, and stumbled. He caught her against him. For a moment, his strong arms supported her.

  Instantly she pulled away. “Thank you, my lord,” she muttered. “I must take Priscilla to Nurse.” And seizing her sister’s hand, she fled into the house in an agony of embarrassment.

  * * * *

  ‘‘Will you be going back to the picnic, my lord?”

  “What?” Justin tore his gaze from Ginnie’s rapidly retreating figure. “Oh, no. Take them round to the stables, if you please.”

  Slowly following her into the house, he wished he had told the groom to walk home from Burnham Beeches, or to cadge a ride on his father’s carriage. Ginnie had been grateful for his help. It might have been a good time to attempt to settle his differences with her.

  Perhaps not, though, with Priscilla listening to every word. In fact, it had been Priscilla who talked, while Ginnie said not a word from the moment he sat down beside her. Had she recalled her grievances and decided she had nothing to say to him fit to be uttered before a servant? Or had she been as disturbed by his proximity as he had been by hers?

  The feel of her taut body against his, the faint fragrance of jasmine, had been far more distracting than Priscilla’s presence next to him could possibly have been. In fact, it was just as well that the child and the groom had been with them. Otherwise he might have been tempted to drive Ginnie off to some hidden dell in the woods and ravish her.

  This time, he could not possibly blame her for enticing him. He had insisted on her sitting beside him. The only question was, what had silenced her: his touch, or the affronts he had so freely lavished upon her?

  The need to talk to her, to come to an understanding, was urgent within him as he entered the house. He was making for the stairs to seek her out when Reynolds came into the hall, silver salver in hand.

  “There are some letters for you, my lord, and a periodical.” The butler went to the hall table, picked up several items and placed them on his tray, then presented it to Justin.

  Justin scooped them up, intending to read them after his hoped-for interview with Ginnie. As he went up the stairs, he flipped through them. The Gentleman’s Magazine, a letter from the Foreign Office, one from George Medford, one from his aunt, and another directed in an unfamiliar feminine hand.

  As he crossed the landing, he broke the seal of the last. Unfolding it, he glanced at the signature: Amabel Fellowes.

  Amabel! He had almost forgotten that wretched houseparty. One foot on the bottom step of the next flight, he paused to read her brief letter. Writing on behalf of her parents—a young lady simply did not correspond with an unrelated gentleman—she accepted his kind invitation. She and her mother would arrive in ten days’ time, her father two or three days later, as he had business in Town.

  He had arranged the house party solely to humiliate the Websters. What maggot had got into his head? Now he had ten days’ grace to persuade them he was their friend before his fashionable guests arrived to pour scorn on their artless ways.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Urgency gnawed at Justin. He started up the stairs towards the nurseries at a run. He must speak to Ginnie at once.

  Before he was halfway up, he slowed to a halt.
Amabel was coming to Wooburn in the expectation of receiving an offer of marriage. She was the perfect bride for him, the daughter of an earl, beautiful, sophisticated, accomplished—everything he could ask for. She had even waited faithfully for his return from Russia, though the understanding between them had been of the most informal kind.

  He was going to marry Amabel, so his attraction to Ginnie must be sternly suppressed. He had best not see her now, while the sweet provocation of her closeness lingered fresh in his mind.

  With a groan, he changed direction and went to his dressing room. The door was ajar. He pushed it open as he entered.

  A horrendous clatter ensued as a dozen tin pie pans descended upon his unsuspecting bead.

  One of them clipped him painfully on the ear in passing, though his thick hair protected him from the rest. His eyes watering, he kicked them aside and crossed to his dressing-table, on which he dropped his letters. He peered at his ear in the looking-glass.

  It was bright red, though not actually cut. Irresistibly reminded that Ginnie was not the only Webster he had yet to win over, Justin sank onto a chair to think.

  The pie pans were the twins’ doing, he guessed. They must have heard him giving Tebbutt the day off, and sneaked in before leaving for the picnic. If they had already collected the pie pans, it wouldn’t have taken more than a moment to set up the trap. The only contact he had had with Jack and Jimmy was as the butt of their tricks. They were a self-sufficient pair, always together and doubtless egging each other on,

  He hadn’t the faintest notion how to tackle them. What of the others?

  When he started to count, he was pleased to realize he was already on reasonably easy terms with four of them: Gilbert, Judith, Priscilla, and Nathaniel. Setting aside Ginnie and the twins for the moment, that left Lydia and Colin.

  Lydia he didn’t consider to be a problem. She was as compliant and easygoing as her mother, though she had shown an unexpected flash of spirit in defending Lady Wooburn against his wild accusations. In retrospect, he failed to see how he could ever have believed that gentle peagoose to be a conscienceless schemer.