Virtuous Cyprian

by Nicola Cornick

  ‘Thank you for your offer of the house, sir,’ she said, careful to distinguish just which offer she was contemplating. ‘I shall let you know my answer as soon as possible.’

  She saw his swift frown. ‘Can you not give it your consideration now, Miss Kellaway?’

  Lucille avoided his eyes. ‘I cannot…it is not my—’ She broke off, adding carefully, ‘It requires much thought, sir.’

  Seagrave was still frowning. ‘You sound as though you need to consult the wishes of someone else,’ he said acutely, and did not miss the sudden rush of colour to her cheeks.

  ‘My lawyer—’ Lucille said, constrainedly, and saw his face harden again.

  ‘Of course,’ he said politely. ‘You will wish to ascertain whether the properties are of equal value. I shall have Josselyn send the details to your man immediately, if you will furnish me with his name and direction.’ He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Lucille racked her brains to remember what Susanna had said. She knew Barnes was her sister’s man of business, but could not for the life of her remember his address. She said evasively, ‘I will send them to Mr Josselyn, sir. Thank you.’

  She stood up, suddenly wanting him to leave. Her nerves were distinctly on edge. Worse, she knew that he knew she felt uncomfortable. It was clear in the mocking smile he gave her as he took her hand and bowed over it with grave formality.

  ‘I forgot to thank you,’ Lucille added suddenly. ‘We were overwhelmed by your generosity, sir! Poultry, game and meat from your own herds; vegetables from your allotments and fruit from your own hothouses!’

  Seagrave grinned down at her. ‘It was nothing, Miss Kellaway! And I understand that you now have help in the gardens and the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucille looked away uncomfortably. ‘I am glad your agent was able to find two villagers whose curiosity outweighed their moral scruples! No doubt they find us a sad disappointment, so quietly do we live!’

  ‘Never mind,’ Seagrave said comfortingly. ‘Today they will be able to report that you have had a visit from both myself and a dashing French Count! Plenty of scandal to suffice for one day, although plain fare for such as yourself, Miss Kellaway! But perhaps…’ he glanced around ‘…we can do better than that! After all, I have yet to demand payment of the heriot!’

  Lucille, who had just started to feel a little calmer, looked up in trepidation to meet the speculative look in Seagrave’s eyes. ‘My lord?’

  ‘The heriot,’ Seagrave repeated, a little satirically, ‘is the price, if you like, that I exact for your succession to the lease of Cookes!’

  Lucille’s heart had begun to beat fast and erratically. ‘The price, my lord? I assume you mean a financial transaction?’

  The mockery on Seagrave’s face deepened. ‘Sometimes, Miss Kellaway—but not always.’ He moved closer to her. ‘In your case, I am tempted to set another payment…this, perhaps…’

  This time it was more like Lucille’s fevered imaginings. She had no clear idea how she came to be in Seagrave’s arms, but as she felt them close around her she started to tremble with the same mixture of apprehension and anticipation that had seized her earlier. The material of his coat was smooth beneath her fingers as her hands came up hard against his chest, as though she were uncertain whether to push him away or draw him closer. And Seagrave seemed in no hurry, determined to prolong the moment of expectation.

  ‘I am inclined to show you how pleasurable you would find it to accept my offer, Miss Kellaway,’ he murmured, lowering his head until his mouth barely touched hers and Lucille’s lips parted on a gasp of mingled shock and delight. She would not have believed that such a gentle contact could create such an exquisite reaction. That molten heat swept through her again, leaving her weak with longing. This time he did not let her go, but took advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss with quite shattering effects.

  The seductive warmth of the sun combined with this sensual onslaught went straight to Lucille’s head. Her arms slid around Seagrave’s neck without any conscious thought on her part. She pulled him closer, a deep shiver running right through her. She was achingly aware of all the points at which his body touched hers and wanted to be closer still. The mingled male scent of his skin and the fresh air filled her senses, intoxicating and heady. The silk dress, made for Susanna’s more opulent curves, slid off one shoulder and Lucille felt Seagrave’s fingers brush across her bare skin before tracing the edging of the lace that had slipped halfway down her breasts.

  Then, to Lucille’s immense frustration and disappointment, he had put her gently from him, smiling down into her dazed blue eyes.

  ‘And that is only the start,’ he said enigmatically. ‘I warn you, I shall exact a heavy price! I’ll bid you good day, Miss Kellaway.’

  Further up the garden, the boy whom Josselyn had engaged to help keep Cookes’s grounds tidy, leant on his hoe, his mouth wide open. So all he had heard about that Miss Kellaway was true after all, and her such a refined and quietly spoken lady as well! Not that anyone could blame the Earl, he thought regretfully. There were plenty who would wish to be in his shoes!

  The second poison-pen letter arrived the next morning. Lucille had spent a miserable night. Before she had gone to bed she had stood before her mirror, critically examining her face and figure for any hint as to why the Earl of Seagrave had undergone this strange transformation and suddenly found her so attractive. She could see none. Her soft, fair hair was too straight and too pale, her complexion was positively pallid and her figure was too thin to be at all pleasing. The Earl could only be amusing himself at her expense. Or perhaps he was acting out of a need for revenge, hoping to engage her feelings and, when he had done so, taking great delight in rejecting her? With a heavy sigh, she got into bed, only to be tormented by erotic dreams which caused her to toss and turn all night in a fever of unsatisfied desire.

  She felt tired at breakfast time, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes did little to persuade her that her appearance was anything other than old and grey. She was too preoccupied to question the arrival of the neat, white envelope which she found resting on the hall floor, having evidently been pushed under the door. It bore Susanna’s name in bold capitals, and after a moment’s hesitation Lucille opened it. She was totally unprepared for its contents. In the same bold print as before, the author gave a vindictive and wholly unpleasant opinion of Susanna’s character and morals, and ended with the threat that she should remove her vile presence from the neighbourhood or suffer the consequences.

  Lucille felt shocked and disgusted in equal measure, horrified once again at the spite and malice represented there. Had the fires been lit, she would have thrust it into the grate with no second thought, but she had to make do with tearing it into little shreds instead. She promised herself that she would not think about it any more, and sat down with her book. Almost immediately she found her mind wandering from the page as she dwelt on the letter’s sender instead, and she put her book down in despair, deciding to take a stroll in the garden instead.

  It was early, and the garden was shady and cool. Lucille sat down on the little bench in the orchard and reflected once more on the hatred which someone bore towards her sister. Could it be their cousin? she wondered. Walter Mutch had made his contempt very clear that day in the village and since he had the lease of Cookes snatched from beneath his nose he would be bound to bear a grudge. It would be in his interests to drive her out of the village, for the lease might then be settled in his favour. Remembering Seagrave’s comments on Serena Mutch’s resentment, Lucille supposed that she must also consider her aunt as the anonymous author.

  Seagrave…A horrible thought took hold in her mind and refused to be dislodged. Could the Earl have written the letters, or perhaps have instigated their writing as part of his campaign to make her leave Dillingham? The idea made her feel sick. Surely he would not stoop so low? And yet, what did she know of him, after all? For her own peace of mind, Lucille knew she had to avoid seeing Seagra
ve any more. She had already found herself hoping that he would call, dwelling romantically on their encounters like the veriest schoolgirl! She knew she was close to committing the unutterable folly of falling in love with him.

  Lucille plucked a stray leaf from her hair and regarded it rather sadly. She knew she should not be too hard on herself. After all, she had lived almost a nun’s life at Miss Pym’s, rarely going out into company and never meeting any eligible men. It would have been a rare woman indeed who could have gone from so sequestered an existence into the company of a man as attractive as the Earl of Seagrave, without feeling at least a small pang of the heart. The knowledge did nothing to comfort her, nor could it help her put him from her mind. The thought that she would never see him again once she returned to Oakham made her feel even more unhappy.

  Another two days limped past without word from Susanna. Lucille began to pack her small trunk in preparation for the journey back home, no longer prepared to sustain the impersonation just for Susanna’s sake. Now that she was close to leaving Cookes she felt relieved and disappointed in almost equal measure, sorry that she had not had more opportunity to explore the countryside and discover more about the county for herself. It had been an educational visit to Suffolk, she thought, a little sadly, but not perhaps in the way that she had intended.

  She was just considering whether she dared to take a short walk, and remembering the threats of the anonymous letter-writer, regretfully rejecting the idea, when there was the peal of the front door bell. Hurrying down Cookes’s elegantly sweeping stairs, she found Lady Bellingham in the hall, swathed in imperial purple and fur this time, and with a dashing feather-trimmed shako perched on her head. Her ladyship kissed her warmly.

  ‘Dear child! How glad I am to find you still at Cookes!’ She scrutinised Lucille closely. ‘But you are so wan, my love! How lucky, then, that I am come to take you into Woodbridge!’

  Lucille began to say that she did not think this a good idea, but was overruled in the kindest possible way.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Lady Bellingham was bracing. ‘It is a sadly provincial little place, ’tis true, but it has a certain charm! The outing will do you good!’ Her pessimistic, dark gaze took in Lucille’s apprehensive face and she smiled a little. ‘My poor Miss Kellaway, have they been so cruel to you?’ The dark eyes sparkled. ‘You must not worry, my love! The gentry may scorn us, but you may be sure that the shopkeepers will welcome us with open arms, for I am so very rich they have no choice!’

  And she swept Lucille out of the front door without further ado.

  The Bellingham carriage was a remarkable sight: massive, ancient, and unquestionably luxurious. Lucille was not in the least surprised to see Horace curled up asleep inside on a scarlet cushion.

  ‘I cannot abide these modern contraptions,’ Lady Bellingham confided, as she settled herself on the thick velvet seat. ‘Curricles, phaetons…pah! They may be fast but the workmanship cannot match my barouche! Now, tell me, child, how have you fared since we last met?’

  Her tone was so kindly that Lucille almost dissolved into tears. ‘It has not been too bad if one has a taste for insults, anonymous letters and carte blanche!’ she said, aware that in her misery she had probably been losing her sense of proportion. One day, perhaps, she would laugh at this preposterous masquerade and the trouble it had brought her…

  Lady Bellingham looked sympathetic. ‘Nasty things, poison-pen letters,’ she said gruffly. ‘You must disregard them, Miss Kellaway! As for the insults, it is no comfort to think that they are directed at your sister rather than you…Small-minded, intolerant people!’ She gave a Gallic shrug. ‘But the offer of carte blanche—now, that sounds far more exciting!’

  Lucille found herself smiling, in spite of everything.

  ‘The Comte De Vigny, perhaps?’ Lady Bellingham continued. ‘Conchita told me that he was in the neighbourhood. He is an old lover of your sister’s, is he not? Was he minded to rekindle their affaire?’

  ‘I believe he might have been, given the slightest encouragement,’ Lucille admitted.

  ‘Not De Vigny, then,’ Lady Bellingham said, thoughtfully, watching her face, ‘but some more…attractive proposition, perhaps, Miss Kellaway? The Earl of Seagrave, for instance?’

  Lucille felt the pink colour stain her cheeks. ‘You must be clairvoyant, Lady Bellingham!’ she said involuntarily.

  ‘Now, I find that most interesting,’ Lady Bellingham said, amused. ‘Seagrave is always most particular in his choice, and your sister, Miss Kellaway…’ she paused delicately ‘…well, her reputation would normally be too much for such a man to stomach! Which can only mean that either he knows you are not Susanna Kellaway, or he is much drawn to you personally!’ she finished triumphantly.

  ‘Neither conclusion gives me much comfort, ma’am!’ Lucille said, shifting uncomfortably on her seat. ‘I have to tell you that on one of the occasions we met, I gave Lord Seagrave the impression that I was indeed prepared to be bought off, and so cannot be surprised that he treats me like the Cyprian I set out to play!’

  Lady Bellingham was much diverted. ‘But you would not accept him, would you, my child,’ she said, shrewdly, ‘for all that you are as drawn to him as he is to you!’

  The hot colour flooded Lucille’s face again. ‘I…could not do such a thing,’ she said, her voice stifled. ‘Now, if you please, Lady Bellingham, can we not please speak of other matters?’

  They were rumbling into the outskirts of the town now, past a working windmill and through narrow streets with their charmingly painted villas set in leafy gardens. The Deben estuary could be seen glinting distantly in the sun. The coach entered the cobbled streets of the centre, where the pavements were crowded with ladies in their summer dresses, their parasols warding off the sun, and the gentlemen were strolling and chatting on the street corners. Lucille and Lady Bellingham descended, her ladyship instructing the coachman to wait for them down by the harbour.

  Lucille, made self-conscious by her recent experiences, was sensitive to every curious glance and whispered comment that was being cast their way. Lady Bellingham, on the other hand, ignored the interest of the passers-by with a superb indifference.

  ‘This is a very fine musical instrument makers,’ she declared, pausing before a shop where the bow windows displayed a harpsichord and reclining double bass. ‘Bellingham bought me a piano from Mr Fenton the second year of our marriage, declaring that it would complement my pretty singing.’ She looked most indulgent as she remembered her late spouse. ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘it is young Mr Fenton who keeps the shop now, though he must be all of five and forty! But if you require a guitar to take back to play for those schoolchildren of yours, my dear Lucille, this is the place to buy one!’

  Lucille declined the invitation regretfully, explaining that she had neither the money nor the talent for such a purchase. Lady Bellingham was not cast down.

  ‘No instruments, then…’ She took Lucille’s arm and guided her to the next shopfront. ‘Now, how about a gown, my dear?’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I know it says French modes, but the sad truth is that the Misses Browne have not set foot abroad these twenty years or more! No, all their fashions come from London via Ipswich, and it takes several years at that!’ She saw the hopeful face of one of the Misses Browne peering from behind the curtains, and hurried on. ‘Now, the milliners…’

  At last, it seemed, they could make a purchase. A bowing Monsieur Gaston Deneuve was there to greet his noble client almost before Lady Bellingham had reached for the door handle. He tenderly relieved her of the dashing shako, one of his earlier creations, before bringing out a whole range of other hats for them to try.

  Lady Bellingham considered them all, gave a blunt opinion on each, and finally settled for a truly outrageous creation with an upstanding poke-front lined with crimson silk, and a high crown adorned with ostrich feathers. Monsieur Gaston, Lucille thought, might well have designed it precisely with Lady Bellingham in mind. Feeling rather ta
me in comparison, Lucille chose a rose pink bonnet trimmed with coquelicot ribbons, and was bowed out of the shop by the smiling milliner, hatbox in hand.

  The next stop was the drapers for several pairs of embroidered gloves and silk stockings. Lady Bellingham spent copiously, Lucille rather more carefully, for she was aware that she had already parted with a good deal more money than she had intended.

  ‘Now, my love,’ Lady Bellingham said, with the satisfaction of one who has already made several desirable purchases, ‘I have a small errand to run. I know that you have been surreptitiously eyeing the booksellers this age, so I shall not feel the smallest guilt for deserting you for a little! I will meet you at the carriage within the half hour!’

  The time went swiftly for Lucille, browsing amidst the musty interior of the shop, finding old friends on the bookshelves and sighing over the prohibitive cost of new works. By the time she had emerged, with a copy of Fanny Burney’s Evelina tucked under her arm, the town clock was chiming the half hour and she had almost forgotten that she was supposed to be Susanna Kellaway. She crossed Market Street and turned towards the river.

  Remembrance returned swiftly and unpleasantly. The cobbled streets were crowded and Lucille stepped out into the road to avoid a flower seller whose wide panniers threatened to knock her off the pavement. A group of people were moving towards her, and with a slight shock Lucille recognised the Earl of Seagrave, for there was no mistaking his height and breadth of shoulder.

  Accompanying him were a young lady and a gentleman whose facial resemblance both to each other and to a horse was striking. The lady, dressed in the first stare of fashion, was hanging on Seagrave’s arm in a proprietorial manner as she spoke intimately close in his ear. Her brother, a rather foppish young man who looked as though he were about to impale himself on his shirt points, raised his quizzing glass and gave Lucille the comprehensive stare that she was beginning to recognise as well as resent.