by Sheila Walsh
THE SERGEANT MAJOR’S DAUGHTER
Sheila Walsh
EVERYONE WAS EAGER TO PUT FELICITY IN HER PLACE
Her cousin Amaryllis made it clear that Felicity did not belong in the fashionable drawing rooms of the great country house of Cheynings.
Jamie, the six-year-old heir to Cheynings, marked Felicity as his latest victim in a long series of routed governesses.
Lord Stayne, the infuriatingly handsome master of Cheynings, coldly informed her that her ideas and opinions were of no earthly interest to a supremely self-confident male like himself.
And the vile Captain Hardman, whose devious designs Felicity threatened, did not bother to mask his intentions of removing her from his path by either brutal force or contemptible cunning.
Felicity, however, had her own notions about what a woman’s place should be—as she set out on a campaign of conquest with only her wit and wiles as weapons, and love as a very treacherous ally...
1
The northbound stage rumbled from the yard of the Swan Inn and plunged into the teeming congestion of Stapleforth’s main thoroughfare. The driver whipped up the horses and to the accompaniment of much cursing and shouting cleared himself a path. In a remarkably short space of time the coach was free of the town and swaying perilously along between high Wiltshire hedges.
Some five miles were covered in this manner before the road widened suddenly. The coach lumbered to a halt. The driver swung his bulk nimbly to the ground, his stentorian boom advising the inside passengers that this was where the young lady was wishful to be set down.
Felicity Vale restored the sleeping baby with infinite care to the arms of its mother and set about collecting up her gloves and her reticule. Then there were friendly farewells to be exchanged all around, for the remaining passengers had quite taken to the vital, long-legged girl whose lively conversation had done so much to relieve the tedium of their journey.
Much later, when they were hard put to it to describe her, they would recall a mouth which quirked often into rueful laughter as she talked, and a skin so brown as to make her eyes shine out like twin jewels. And her stories!
Such stories she had told them of her travels—of splendid cities and barren plains, of great disasters and greater victories—and of that last and greatest victory of them all when “Boney” had finally been beaten and how the great Duke himself had actually spoken to her! There had been a sadness behind the eyes as she talked—some personal tragedy they guessed from her dress, though to be sure she was not alone in that; hardly a family in the land had emerged unscathed from the long years of war.
Good wishes were echoing in her ears as Felicity picked up the small guitar from the corner, slung it across her shoulder by its strap, and leaped lightly down from the coach.
The driver had extricated from the bulging boot a small, shabby portmanteau which contained the few of her possessions not packed into the single corded trunk and left back at the Swan Inn.
He eyed her doubtfully as she took it and jerked his head toward the massive crested gates set back at an angle from the road.
“That’s your direction, missy,” he wheezed. “But you’ve a tidy step afore you and no mistake. I still say as you’d have done better to’ve hired yourself a gig or somesuch in Stapleforth.”
“Goodness—I am not afraid of a little exercise.” Felicity laughed and held out her hand to him. “Indeed, I shall enjoy it after sitting for so long. But you have been very kind and I thank you for it.”
She forbore to add that her purse would not run to the hiring of gigs and that she had no wish to arrive at her cousin’s door already in debt. Indeed, the tip for the driver was less than his kindness merited, but she hoped that the warmth of her thanks would compensate.
She waved the coach from sight before turning with determined cheerfulness toward those imposing gates, thrown open to invite exploration of the long, shady avenue of elms beyond. A small gatehouse appeared empty, so with no one to direct her she began to walk.
More than a half hour later she was still walking, lingering from time to time where a break in the line of trees or hedgerow disclosed some particular view of breathtaking beauty.
In all her journeyings there had been nothing to equal England in summer. She was still not quite used to so much green—or so much variety of landscape crammed into every mile. The carriageway meandered gracefully until, with a disconcerting final twist, all was changed. Felicity stood—and stared.
Ahead of her stretched a wide, straight walk, sentineled by poplars of exact height and shape, fanning out in the distance to expose to view a building which, even from where she stood, exuded a grotesque air of grandeur.
“Glory!” she exclaimed aloud. “I must have missed the way! Amaryllis can’t be living in that great barracks of a place!”
A scythe moving rhythmically in the meadow behind her hovered in its downward sweep and an uncertain voice said, “Beg pardon, ma’am?”
Felicity swung around as a wrinkled face loomed over the hedge.
“Oh, thank goodness!” She smiled at the old man. “Would you be so good as to tell me if the house beyond is Cheynings?”
“Ah, it be.”
She was disconcerted. “Then perhaps there is another house of that name?”
The gardener sniffed. “Only one Cheynings, ma’am. That’s been the home of the Earls of Stayne right back to King Henry VIII, that has. ’Course it’s changed a mite since. They’ve all ’ad a go at it over the years, and a right skimble-skamble job they made of it!”
Hastily curtailing this architectural homily, Felicity asked, “Do you know if a Mrs. Delamere lives there?”
“Ah. Poor little widow woman. That was Master Antony’s bride, that was ... and a bonnier creature I never did see. She and the boy have been here more’n a twelvemonth, now ... since Master Antony was took...” He shook his head and muttered to himself.
Felicity thanked him and bade him good day, hiding her dismay. Of course, Amaryllis had married a younger son, but she had not supposed her to be living in such splendor.
First instincts favored instant flight, but the disciplines of an army upbringing would not permit such conduct ... and, anyway, where would she go?
Closer inspection of the building bore out the gardener’s censure. The centerpiece was unmistakably Tudor and quite delightful, but the rest was a sprawling hodgepodge of styles reaching the height of absurdity in a pseudo-Eastern temple!
The young footman who answered the pealing bell goggled at the swarthy young Amazon—five feet ten inches in her stocking feet—and, observing the guitar and shabby bag, was about to send her packing as an itinerant gypsy when the smooth-faced butler appeared at his shoulder.
A man of much greater discernment, Cavanah looked beyond the superficial to the undoubted quality in the steady gray-green eyes, where lurked a humorous appreciation of the situation.
Miss Vale was ushered into a medieval hall of awe-inspiring proportions. She exclaimed aloud and the butler permitted himself a smile.
“Ah, yes, madam—we are famous for our hall. A very fine example of hammer beams—one of the finest in the country, we are reliably informed.”
Felicity hid a smile and duly admired the hammer beams. Famous the hall might be; confoundedly drafty it certainly was! She noticed that they kept two fires burning though the day was warm. Her eye was drawn to the grand sweep of the staircase; a young man, undoubtedly a Corinthian of the first stare, had paused in the moment of ascending to put up his glass.
The odious familiarity of his scrutiny brought a dangerous sparkle to her eyes as he inclined his head and sauntered on his way.
“Who is that?” Felicity asked
abruptly.
“The gentleman is Mr. Tristram Dytton—one of Madam’s guests,” Cavanah replied smoothly. No mere milk-and-water miss, this cousin of Mrs. Antony’s—a young lady to be reckoned with, or he missed his guess.
When she was presently shown into the drawing-room, Felicity was dismayed to find her cousin not alone. Reluctantly she stepped forward, her feet sinking into deep blue carpet; against a blackcloth of rose damask many pairs of eyes followed her progress, brows arched in amused interest.
Among the gentlemen present was the Corinthian she had encountered earlier. He was shorter than he had seemed on the staircase, which made the yellow pantaloons and tightly waisted coat seem the more absurd. Above the complex folds of his cravat he inclined his head in a gesture of recognition; his remark, addressed to the lady at his side, reached Felicity distinctly.
“Did I not say? Brown as a nut, egad! But such a figure! A Juno, m’dear—a vewitable Juno!”
A faint titter came from somewhere in the room. Felicity was made desperately aware of her inches—and of the travel-crumpled black dress and the stain upon her spencer where the fat lady’s baby had dribbled down it.
Her eyes sparked momentarily and then moved to seek out the beautiful, indolent creature who reclined upon a nearby sofa. Eyes like gentian violets opening to the sun widened in response to the huskily voiced greeting.
“Lud!” the vision exclaimed, her incredulous glance flicking over Felicity. “Are you in truth my cousin? How you have grown! I declare I should never have known you.”
This droll observation brought a further titter and Felicity, coloring slightly, was forced to take a firm hold on her temper. For her, there was no problem of recognition.
Amaryllis had been a pretty child; as a woman she was breathtakingly lovely. A flawless skin rivaling the delicate bloom of magnolias was enhanced by black, silken curls; if the eyes were a little hard and the rosebud mouth pursed with discontent, these were but small imperfections.
Her manners, however, were less impressive, though Felicity was obliged to acknowledge that tiredness was probably making her oversensitive. It was perfectly understandable that Amaryllis should appear a trifle cool. To be suddenly confronted by a relative whose existence was but indifferently known to one was bound to be something of a facer.
She resolved to set matters straight.
“I am obviously not expected,” she said with some crispness. “I have no wish to impose myself upon you, cousin. Clearly my letter has gone astray.”
Amaryllis asked with conspicuous reluctance, “Are my ... are your parents also back in England?”
“They are both dead.” The bleakness of the reply was echoed in Felicity’s eyes. A tiny, involuntary ripple of shock ran around the room, but she was unaware of it as she knew again the despair of total bereavement. It was in part this despair which had led her to seek out her sole remaining family, for did not blood call to blood at such a time?
To be sure, they had met no more than a few times—and that as children—but had not Amaryllis herself lost husband and mother over recent months? It should have forged a bond between them. Watching Amaryllis now, pettishly plucking at the fine, floating gown of deepest violet, which so exactly mirrored her eyes—and seeing in those eyes an ill-concealed relief that she would not be called upon to receive an aunt and uncle whom she despised—Felicity was forced to acknowledge that her judgment had been sadly out.
“Well, I am very sorry to be sure,” Amaryllis was saying. “I suppose since you are here, you had best remain—for the present, at any rate.”
Dear God! Does she imagine I am come to sponge on her? Felicity’s spirit moved in revolt.
“No. I will not stay,” she said quickly. “I came only...” Here she stopped. Only to enlist your aid in securing me a position, was what she had intended to say, but before so many people—and with that odious man’s glass upon her—the words stuck, and with craven cowardice she allowed them to remain unspoken.
“I see now that it was foolish of me to come as I did. I have left a trunk at the Swan in Stapleforth. If you will provide me with some form of conveyance, I will trouble you no further, cousin.”
“Bwavo! Well spoken, Juno!” applauded the Corinthian. “ Amawyllis—you’ll not let this so charming cousin escape?”
Amaryllis wriggled her shoulders. “Oh, for goodness’ sake! I have said she may stay, have I not?” She turned impatiently to Felicity. “You cannot possibly put up at a common hostelry alone.”
The absurdity of this was too much for Felicity. Why should she care for the good opinion of these people? Her good humor restored, she said with a twinkle, “My dear Amaryllis, you would be amazed at some of the places I have been thankful to lay my head. No, my difficulties are, I fear, financial. Not to put too fine a point on it, coz, I have scarcely a feather to fly with and must secure a position without delay. I thought perhaps a governess—or a companion—I believe I have the necessary skills. It occurred to me that you might know of someone—a personal recommendation would undoubtedly carry more weight.”
There—it was out! The various reactions were fascinating to behold. Amaryllis flushed bright red, furious, Felicity supposed, at being so let down before her friends; the friends tried to look as though they hadn’t heard ... except for Mr. Dytton, who studied her anew—and with a subtle shift in the degree of familiarity. She knew without a doubt that there would be many Mr. Tristram Dyttons in her life from now on; the prospect depressed her beyond measure.
Amaryllis had recovered sufficiently to manage a brittle laugh. “Lud! Do not speak to me of governesses! I have just dismissed my third—and my darling Jamie scarcely more than a babe. I am nearly demented. The Earl is threatening him with the advent of a tutor, which is absurd! He is not yet seven and a most delicate child! I have the greatest difficulty in securing anyone who fully understands his needs, and am frequently left with only his father’s old nurse...”
A calculating look passed fleetingly across her face. “Perhaps your arrival is opportune, after all.”
Felicity swallowed her dismay. It was certainly no part of her plan to become an unpaid skivvy—trapped forever as a poor relation! But just for a week or two, would it be so bad? A breathing space—time to adjust her ideas and, if necessary, advertise. The bleakness of the alternative, with its inevitable depletion of her resources, decided her.
“Very well,” she said. “I will stay and look after your son, cousin, but only until you are able to find a permanent replacement.”
2
Felicity tied the ribbons of the plain, dark bonnet firmly beneath her chin and drew on the fringed black silk shawl that had been her mother’s. Outside her bedchamber, she paused, then moved to the next door and soundlessly turned the handle. Jamie lay sprawled upon his bed, his dark curls spilling across the pillow, one arm out-flung in sleep; beside the fireplace Nurse nodded in her comfortable chair, snoring in gentle rhythm.
The corners of her lively mouth turned upward at the sight. Felicity withdrew and directed her steps down a short, steep flight of stairs from the nursery apartments, through a bewildering maze of corridors which had once defeated her, as they had defeated many a visiting gentleman’s gentleman, down more stairs, across the Long Gallery where generations of Delamere ancestors followed her progress with haughty eyes, and so to the West Wing and yet more stairs, little used except by the servants.
In this way she hoped to avoid meeting any of the house guests, an act of cowardice which she acknowledged with a rueful grimace.
On attaining the ground floor, she again skirted the main body of the house, taking instead a passage which led from the library past the armory and the muniment room and so out onto the terrace where the oppressive furnace of the August sun met her like a wall.
Not a breath stirred the great cedar tree which dominated the lawns to the rear of the house. Felicity stood, awed even now by the vista of parklands stretching into infinity. Ahead, lawns of incredible gr
een, smooth as velvet, sloped gently toward a distant glint of water, flanked by Home Wood, where she would find a respite from the sun’s glare.
Behind her as she wandered rose the turreted walls of Cheynings; with a faint smile she recalled her first sight of its West Front. Now, in only two weeks, she had developed quite a fondness for its ugly, sprawling bulk.
Her thoughts turned to Jamie. He had proved to be less of a little horror than she had feared. He was precocious certainly, but no more than was inevitable in a six-year-old with an overdoting mamma and lacking a father’s disciplining influence.
The Earl, his uncle and guardian, whose heir he now was, should have supplied the deficiency, but apart from demanding that he live at Cheynings and threatening him with advent of a tutor, he appeared to have taken little more than a perfunctory interest in the boy. The governesses who had fallen by the wayside, had been duped by Jamie into letting him do much as he pleased.
In the schoolroom on their first morning together he had eyed Felicity speculatively. “I don’t feel very well,” he ventured.
She looked suitably grave. “Oh dear, I am sorry. Perhaps you should return to bed and we will call the doctor.”
Jamie said quickly, “I don’t feel as not well as that.”
“Ah. Then I suggest that we work for an hour or so. I find work a very good cure for a fit of the blue devils.”
Jamie watched her take out the books. “My governesses never stay very long. They don’t like it when I scream.”
“No,” said Felicity briskly. “I don’t suppose I shall like it either—in fact, I might be tempted to do something about it.” She smiled. “Is it not fortunate that I am your cousin, and not such a gudgeon as to balk at the first obstacle?”
