by Carola Dunn
A copse straddled the boundary between the Russells’ land and the Manor’s. As Delia entered the shelter of the trees, she remembered that Peter had wanted to climb one of them. A tall larch, she thought, that seemed easy for a small boy. She had hurried him past, and he had been in the mopes about it for quite five minutes. She looked about: there it was. Pushing through clutching brambles she made her way to it and peered up through the dripping green needles.
Half way up, a good twenty feet over her head, hung a damp blue bundle. Peter had hooked his arms and legs over the branches. His eyes were shut, and since she could see no way for him to have hurt himself, she assumed that, unable to climb down, he had fallen asleep.
She was about to shout his name, but a horrid thought came to her. Startled, sleepy, he might relax his grip and fall. If she went for help he might fall before she returned. The only thing to do was to climb up and help him down.
Selena would have done it without a second thought. Mama said Selena had been a real tomboy, and even Phoebe had liked climbing trees.
Delia had been a delicate child, often ill, and by the time she grew stronger she was a young lady, too old for such tricks. Besides, Jane Russell would have stared to see such hoydenish conduct.
But Jane was not here. Peter was in danger. Taking off bonnet and pelisse, tucking up her skirts as best she could, Delia started climbing.
Several breathless minutes later, she reached him. One arm around the swaying trunk, resolutely not looking down, she put the other arm about Peter and whispered his name.
Angelic blue eyes opened. “‘Lo, Auntie Dee.” He blinked, and shifted a little, to her alarm. “Oh! I ‘member. I got stuck. Did you come to get me?”
“Yes, Peter. I’ll go down first and help you find places to put your feet. You’ll see, it will be easy.
“All right. You look funny with wet hair.”
“So do you. Hold on tight now while I start down.”
Clinging to the trunk with both hands, Delia felt below with one cautious foot. She found a branch, stepped on to it, and moved her other foot. As the branch took her full weight it snapped with a noise like a pistol shot. For a heart-stopping moment she hung by her arms, then pulled herself back up.
“Auntie Dee? Are you all right?” For the first time Peter sounded frightened.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” She forced herself to open her eyes and smile at him. “I’ll try again, more carefully!”
Again she felt with one foot and found a branch. This time she tested it before trusting it with her weight. It felt solid enough, but she held on tight as she lowered herself. Then suddenly she couldn't move.
“I’m stuck,” she said in horror. “It’s my dress.” The jolt when she nearly fell had loosened her skirts. Behind her, unreachable, the fabric had caught on a dead branch. Her walking dress was made of good, strong kerseymere and showed no sign of ripping when she daringly let go with one hand and tugged on it. “Oh Peter, now I’m stuck too!”
“We’ll sing songs,” he suggested stoically. “Aunt Sena will come and get us soon."
“There are lots of people looking for you. We must shout for help.”
It seemed a long time that they alternated singing and shouting. Delia was growing hoarse when at last they heard an answering hail and Clive Russell appeared, leading his mount.
“Delia! What the deuce are you doing up there?” Even soaked to the skin, his dark hair dripping, the young man was extremely good-looking. For once Delia had no thought for romance.
“Having a picnic! We are stuck, silly, and if you dare to call me a featherhead for climbing up, I shall . . . I shall . . . well, I’d like to know what you would have done and oh, Clive, please get us down quickly!” Delia burst into tears.
“Now stop crying, Dee, and tell me what the trouble is. Are you too scared to move?”
“No!” Indignantly she explained. “So you will have to climb up and unhitch my skirt,” she said, “and then you can go away and I will help Peter down.”
Clive crimsoned. “I can't climb up underneath you,” he stammered. “It wouldn’t be decent.”
“Fustian! If you think I care a farthing for propriety when I am in this fix, then you are a numbskull! Now hurry up because my hands are getting cold and if I slip and fall I hope I land on you!”
Stunned to hear such language from a delicately bred female of a romantic disposition, Clive gulped and climbed.
Half an hour later, he led his horse up the drive to Milford Manor. On its back, Delia held Peter before her, hugging the shivering child. Lady Whitton and Selena rushed out to greet them.
“So Iverbrook did not take him!” cried Selena thankfully. “Where did you find him, Dee?” She lifted Peter down, and Delia slid down into Clive’s arms.
“Come inside and get dry, children,” said Lady Whitton. “You can tell us all about it when you are warmed. Bannister, pray call off the hounds.”
“At once, my lady!” said the beaming butler.
All in dry clothes, with Clive looking thoroughly embarrassed in the late Sir William’s emerald silk dressing gown, they met before a roaring fire in the drawing room.
Sir Aubrey, still immaculate in crimson and pink, examined Clive through his quizzing glass and tut-tutted. Delia eyed her cousin with dislike. He had stayed at home in comfort, and all the romance of his heroic Caribbean adventures was undermined. Clive might be just a farmer, and a shocking tease besides, but he was there when one needed him. He looked splendidly Oriental in Papa's dressing gown. She patted the sofa beside her and he sat down.
“It was Delia who rescued him,” he said, setting the seal on her approval.
They told their story, with Peter chiming in. Selena listened in silence. Happy as she was to have Peter back safely, she felt guilty for misjudging Lord Iverbrook. What a ninny she was to believe that he had done anything so dishonourable! When he returned, she would discuss Peter’s future with him calmly and sensibly, as he had requested. He was a reasonable gentleman; once he had heard her arguments, properly presented without flying into the boughs, he must agree that she had the right. Then he would come often to visit Peter and perhaps . . . and that would be delightful. For all his toplofty manner, he could be charming when he chose. Thinking of the smile that wrinkled the corners of his eyes, she smiled herself.
* * * *
Lord Iverbrook returned to a royal welcome.
After three days of rain, the sun shone once more and a strong but warm breeze was rapidly drying out the fields. Selena had been to inspect them and was trotting home on Orion, followed by Jem. She met the carriage as it reached the gates of the Manor. It pulled up and the viscount jumped down, to stand looking up at her with a glad light in his eyes.
“Miss Whitton.”
“Welcome back, Iverbrook.” She felt oddly breathless. “Help me down and I’ll walk with you."
He caught her with strong hands at her waist and released her reluctantly. She smoothed down the skirts of her habit, then took his proffered arm.
They walked up the gravel drive. Selena was very conscious of her fingers on the smooth sleeve of his coat, and of his enquiring look bent upon her face.
“Are you well, Miss Whitton?” he asked at last.
“Very well, I thank you. You are come back just in time to resume the harvest.”
“Hence the warm welcome!” he laughed. The moment of awkwardness was past.
“Did your business prosper? I hope poor Joshua was much improved before you left him?”
“Very much. He was able to take up his duties again yesterday, thanks to your mama’s skill. I spoke to Crowe, who is a very good sort of fellow for a lawyer, and he will watch that Joshua does not overtax his strength.”
“The case must have been desperate indeed to bring him all the way to the wilds of Oxfordshire.”
“Desperate indeed, but I have dealt with that, I trust. I also went to see Wilberforce, hoping to ask his advice about my maiden speech in
the Lords. He was not there, but I arranged to meet him this day fortnight.”
“And you will stay here until then? That is famous!”
“I dare to hope that Lady Whitton will not throw me out,” he admitted with a grin. “And even if the weather holds fine, I daresay it will be that long before the harvest will be finished, so that you will be forced to tolerate my presence!”
Before Selena could retort, Peter raced down the steps and threw himself into his lordship’s arms.
“Uncle Hugh, Uncle Hugh, I seed you from the window. Finny said I can come. Me and Delia got stuck up a tree and Mr. Russell had to rescue us. I drawed you a picsher, will you come and see it right now? I’ll draw one for you too, Aunt Sena. It’s teatime and I telled Finny to save you a bixit, Uncle Hugh, so will you come and have tea upstairs?”
“Calm down, young man,” said Hugh, laughing and hugging him. “You are getting your words all mixed up. I must make my bow to your grandmother before I begin to think about bixits.”
Lady Whitton appeared at the front door.
“Hugh dear! Just in time for tea. Now no nonsense about changing your clothes first, pray. Peter, you may stay down and have a jam tart if you like.”
"Yes, please, Grandmama. Finny can have my bixit.”
In the drawing room, Delia was pouring tea for Sir Aubrey. She greeted Iverbrook with pleasure and gave him the first cup. Peter picked up the plate of jam tarts, warm from the oven, and carefully handed it round, informing everyone that he liked the red jam best. Thus warned, everyone but Sir Aubrey chose yellow, and he retired happily to a corner to get red jam all over his face in peace.
Iverbrook sat back and sipped his tea. What a delightful place, he thought. The French doors stood open to the garden, and from the river beyond came the quacking of ducks and the occasional shout of a boatman. He stretched out his long legs and regarded his booted feet. Lady Whitton had no objection to boots in the house, and how she would have stared to see him in knee breeches at dinner. He even managed to cast a benevolent eye on Sir Aubrey’s mulberry coat. The man was without doubt a fop and a demi-beau, but harmless withal. Miss Whitton had by far too much sense to consider his suit.
And how charming she looked! The riding dress of russet cloth became her to perfection, roses bloomed in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled. Unconscious of the disarray of her pale curls, she told him all about the state of the various fields, and watching her, he heard not a word.
“If you are not tired,” he suggested, “we had best ride out before dinner and you can show me. I have brought a riding horse with me this time so you will not be dispossessed of Orion, nor Miss Delia of Lyra.”
“How very thoughtful,” said Lady Whitton approvingly.
“Did you bring a horse for me?” asked Peter. “A gentleman’s horse?”
“No, I brought you a pony."
Peter’s mouth dropped open and his eyes shone. “For me? A really truly pony? Where is it, Uncle Hugh? What’s its name? When can I ride it?” He launched himself at the viscount and generously shared the jam on his hands and face with that gentleman’s shirt before he was removed by his giggling aunts.
* * * *
During the next two weeks, Iverbrook found that his presence was only occasionally required in the fields. His authority was sufficient to keep things running smoothly even in his absence.
He taught his nephew to ride the pony, a shaggy-maned sorrel promptly christened Leo.
He walked with the young ladies and Sir Aubrey, and more often rode with the young ladies, since Sir Aubrey had never found it necessary in Kingston to learn that art. Nor could he drive a carriage. Delia was thoroughly disillusioned.
They dined at Bracketts. Mr. Russell, a stout, hearty gentleman of no pretensions, still showed signs of the handsome features now inherited by his son. His wife, Lady Anne, a severe matron with an aristocratic nose, was quick to make sure Iverbrook knew her to be the daughter of an earl. She was distantly acquainted with his mother, a fact that did not recommend her to him, but he liked the rest of the family.
The Russells joined them for a picnic on the river. Iverbrook had the unspeakable satisfaction of seeing Sir Aubrey dangling from the end of a swaying punt pole for a good thirty seconds before it finally deposited him in the murky water. His carmine velvet coat was ruined, and even Lady Anne was seen to hide a smile behind her gloved hand.
“Most unsuitable dress for a picnic,” she observed acidly.
Two weeks passed, and Lord Iverbrook left for his appointment with William Wilberforce.
“I shall not be gone for long,” he promised. “After all, there is still the clover to be mowed.”
As Selena waved good-bye, she realised that not once in the whole fortnight had they talked about Peter’s future. Had he come to accept, without words, that Peter belonged here? Had he avoided the subject, as she had, because he did not want to spoil the growing accord between them? Or was he biding his time, cozening her into believing he had given up, only to return to the attack when he was sure she had changed her mind about him?
For she was no longer so certain that he was unfit to have charge of his nephew. Watching them together, she could not imagine him abandoning the boy to the care of servants and his hypochondriacal mother.
Restless, she wandered down the garden to the river. A bright-painted barge was floating downstream with the current. On the bows an elderly man smoked his pipe, and the young fellow at the tiller waved his hat at her.
“Fine mornin’, miss!” he shouted.
Selena waved back. Peter would be growing up, she thought. She could send him to school, but then he should take his place in Society and she could not guide him through the shoals and rapids of the Polite World. His uncle’s help would be indispensable; Hugh must not be alienated. But surely he would not insist on taking the child away while he was so small?
A fish jumping after flies plopped back into the water and roused her from her reverie. There were bills to be paid, accounts to be made up, and even though her constant presence seemed no longer necessary she must ride out to the fields before luncheon. She climbed the steps to the house.
An hour later, dressed in her old habit, Selena descended the stairs. Seeing the butler crossing the hall, she called out, “Bannister, I am going out. Pray tell Mama I shall return for luncheon, if she should ask for me."
“Certainly, Miss Selena. Her ladyship is in the drawing room, miss. Lady Anne Russell has called with Miss Russell and Mr. Clive.”
“Oh dear, I suppose I had best make my curtsey. Thank you, Bannister.” Selena found Delia and Sir Aubrey in the drawing room with her mother and the Russells. She paid her respects to Lady Anne and stood for a moment making polite conversation. She was about to excuse herself and escape when the door opened and Bannister appeared.
“Lady Gant to see you, my lady,” he announced, “and Mrs. Amabel Parcott.”
Chapter 8
A stout elderly lady in a regrettable puce carriage dress trotted into the room, followed by Mrs. Parcott, an opulent vision in her favourite rose pink.
Lady Anne’s nose, always haughty, rose several degrees.
“Jane, my reticule!” she said sharply to her daughter. “My dear Lady Whitton, we must be on our way. Perhaps Delia would care to return to Bracketts with us if you can spare her? Come, Clive.” Urging her offspring and their friend before her like a sheepdog with an unruly flock, she gave Lady Gant a cold nod in passing and left.
Lady Whitton jumped up. “Lady Anne is always so anxious to return to the children,” she suggested hopefully. “How delightful to see you, Lady Gant. It is an age since you called and I fear I rarely have the leisure to drive so far as to Cowley. And you have brought dear Amabel with you. I expect London is far from pleasant at this season.”
“Mama insisted that I not spend the summer in town,” drawled Mrs. Parcott. “The country is so charmingly refreshing, is it not, Selena? Oh, I beg your pardon! Since you rusticate here year rou
nd I daresay it seems quite ordinary to you.
“I much prefer the countryside, Amabel,” said Selena, feeling more than usually dowdy as she eyed the other’s dark, shining ringlets and modish bonnet trimmed with silk roses. “And you prefer the city, I imagine, since we have not seen you in Oxfordshire for quite two years!”
"La, you are right! But I declare I am quite worn down with all the bustle and gaiety. Though it is excessively flattering to have so many suitors, one must needs escape them all now and then.”
“Lady Gant, Amabel, let me present Sir Aubrey Whitton,” Lady Whitton intervened. "Sir William’s nephew and heir, you know. He has been residing in the West Indies and is staying with us for the present.”
“How vastly odd!” cried Mrs. Parcott. “Why, I have never before given a thought to the West Indies, I vow, and now here are two gentlemen but just arrived from there. I suppose Iverbrook visits here often, since his brother was wed to your Phoebe. He is a very dear friend of mine, you know. On his return he came to see me even before his mama. Is it not shocking how a gentleman will put his beloved before his own mother? I feel sure you would not do such a thing, Sir Aubrey.”
“Pray excuse me . . . farm business,” muttered Selena, and fled, leaving her mama uncharacteristically flustered.
“So quaint,” murmured Amabel to Sir Aubrey.
The baronet had inspected Mrs. Parcott through his quizzing glass, and apparently found her appearance inviting, for a look of admiration spread across his handsome face. “Iverbrook and I are old friends, ma’am,” he claimed. “He has been staying here and left but an hour since, for London.”
The widow looked chagrined. “La, I am sorry to miss him, Sir Aubrey. However, I do not plan to stay more than a few days with my parents. I shall see Iverbrook in town next week.”
“I fear not, ma’am. His lordship said most particularly that he expected to return here at no very distant date.”
“Well, my own plans are flexible, I vow. Since dear Mr. Parcott passed away, I have been able to please myself. ‘Pon rep, I cannot but wonder what is the attraction that brings a fashionable young gentleman to such an out of the way spot.”
