She nodded. ‘It is. Henri, you are welcome to stay.’
* * * *
Life became easier with another pair of hands. Although Henri’s leg had been badly injured in the trap he was able to work sitting at the big kitchen table. It was here he peeled and chopped the vegetables, and by means of a chair which Tom had heightened for him by nailing pieces of wood onto the bottom of its legs he was able to sit at the stove and stir his soups.
Marianne was upstairs a few days later, sorting through the linen and thinking how fortunate they had been to find Henri, the tempting aromas for that day’s dinner already drifting up from the kitchen, when she heard a clattering of hooves outside and, looking out of the window, saw Lord Ravensford riding towards the house.
A minute or two later, Trudie appeared.
‘You’ve a visitor, miss,’ she said, with an interested expression, adding, ‘You didn’t tell me how handsome Lord Ravensford was.’
‘Perhaps I didn’t notice,’ replied Marianne coolly.
Strangely enough, she wouldn’t have minded Trudie’s teasing if she had really been unaware of Lord Ravensford’s handsome, if predatory, features, and if she had not been so disturbed by the feelings he had awoken inside her. Then she could have replied with good humour, perhaps even with some banter of her own. But the fact that Lord Ravensford had had an unsettling effect on her, and that he had invaded her dreams in the most provocative manner, made her unwilling to enter into the subject.
‘Your white gown’s clean,’ said Trudie, ignoring Marianne’s remark. ‘I pressed it with the flat iron yesterday. You’ve always looked lovely in white.’
‘I see no reason to change just because Lord Ravensford has called,’ said Marianne, feeling suddenly awkward. ‘I believe this gown will do.’
Trudie said no more. The yellow striped gown Marianne was wearing could not in the ordinary way be faulted, even though it was rather old. Its low bodice was filled in with a lace fichu and its wide satin sash showed off Marianne’s trim waist. Its pleated hemline was attractive, providing a pleasing decoration round the full skirt. Its sleeves, ending with a froth of lace just above Marianne’s elbow, showed off the delicate smoothness of her arms. All in all, she looked very presentable – although Trudie still thought she looked better in the white. However, she knew that Marianne was not one to be led and so she said no more.
With Trudie’s eyes on her, Marianne did no more than push a stray ringlet back into place before going downstairs.
Lord Ravensford was standing by the window as she went into the drawing-room, looking out towards the coast, but he turned round as soon as she entered the room. Trudie followed close behind and retired to a corner, where she proceeded to apply herself to some plain sewing.
‘Lord Ravensford,’ said Marianne. ‘I did not expect to see you.’
‘You are not disappointed, I hope?’ he asked.
Marianne was not sure how to reply. For all his light air she sensed there was something more serious underneath it; something which, for some reason he did not want to show. There had been a hint of it the previous day, but today it seemed more marked.
‘Won’t you sit down?’
She sat down herself, on an old and handsome gilded sofa, and he followed suit. As she watched him settle himself she thought that he was not, somehow, like the other men she had met. He made her feel somehow awkward, and aware of her heart beating. Was it because of his dark good looks? she wondered. But then she dismissed the notion. She had known handsome men before, and she had never had any difficulty in talking to them. No, she decided, it was not because of his looks - although she could not deny that his gold-brown eyes had a curiously melting effect on her, or that his high cheekbones, straight nose and firm jaw were very attractive – it was something else.
‘ . . . don’t you think?’
With a start, Marianne realised she had not been listening. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not been paying attention, and she felt a flush spring to her cheeks.
‘You seem distracted,’ he said with an amused smile.
‘I am.’ But she could not tell him what had been distracting her. ‘I . . . ’
‘I was saying I hoped you had a safe journey home, and that you were not too much inconvenienced by the snow.’
‘I . . . yes . . . no. That is, yes, I had a safe journey home, and no, I was not too much inconvenienced by the snow.’ She smiled suddenly, aware of the absurdity of her reply.
He smiled in return, and this time it seemed a genuine smile, not the mocking smile with which he had reacted to her state of abstraction. ‘I’m glad. I have come to tell you that I have dealt with the matter of the mantraps. I’ve had the men out clearing the woods, and so far they’ve found five. It isn’t easy in this weather. There is still snow on the ground and we may have missed some, but once there is a thaw we will know if we have found them all.’
‘Doesn’t the estate manager know how many he laid?’
His eyes darkened, becoming the colour of liquid gold. ‘He does, but he refused to tell me. He gave me to understand that he was employed by Mr Billingsdale and that what he did on the estate was his business, not mine.’
‘But you had the traps cleared anyway?’ asked Marianne anxiously.
‘Yes. Those things are an abomination. How anyone can want to trap their fellow man is beyond me, particularly in such a cruel manner. But then, there is a lot of cruelty in the world I fear.’
‘You are thinking of France,’ said Marianne.
He nodded. Then, realising that the horrors of the French Revolution were not a fitting subject for a lady’s drawing-room, he returned to the subject of the mantraps; hardly a fitting subject either, but one in which Marianne was concerned. ‘I am still worried there may be some traps left. Which is why I have come to ask you if I can speak to the man you found. I would like to ask him if he noticed any others, and if so, where they are.’
Marianne nodded. ‘Of course.’ She went over to the bell.
She was unaware of how gracefully she moved, or how beautifully the folds of her skirt draped themselves over her rounded hips and legs. But Luke was aware of it. Too aware.
‘Will you tell Mr Billingsdale that his manager refused to help you?’ asked Marianne as she sat down again. ‘I only ask because generally he does not like to be disturbed, and I don’t think you will get much help from that quarter.’
‘The day I need Billingsdale to help me deal with a surly manager is the day I return to town for good,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘No, Jakes has refused for now, but once he sees I mean to take an active interest in the running of the estate he will soon change his tune.’
Marianne felt an unexpected surge of relief. ‘I’m pleased to know you care. It isn’t good for a neighbourhood to have an absent landowner. The land can often be neglected; either that, or overused. I’ve been worried for some time that the trees are being cut and none replanted – but then, of course, it’s no longer my concern.’
‘No longer?’ he queried.
She rubbed her hands together, as they felt suddenly cold. ‘The woods used to be a part of this estate,’ she explained. ‘They –’ She stopped. She had been about to tell him that they had been sold off to cover her brother’s gambling debts, but prevented herself just in time. She hardly knew Lord Ravensford, and it would be disloyal to her brother to say any such thing. Despite everything, she still loved Kit very much and, against all odds, she hoped he would one day return to take his rightful place as the master of Seaton Hall. ‘I sometimes forget, and take too great an interest in them.’
‘It must be difficult for you, running an estate of this size.’
Marianne felt unexpectedly touched. She had done her best to look after the estate in Kit’s absence, but it had been a heavy burden, and she was surprised at how grateful she felt to him for his understanding. She did not want him to feel sorry for her, however, and said calmly, ‘I am happy to do what I can to help
Papa.’
At that moment the door opened, and Tom came in.
‘Tom, can you ask Henri to join us?’ she asked.
Tom looked surprised, but saying, ‘Yes, Miss Marianne,’ went to fetch him.
‘Henri?’ queried Lord Ravensford, with a satisfied air that Marianne did not understand. ‘He is French?’
‘Yes. He was running away from the Revolution, trying to make his way to London. He’s a chef,’ she explained.
‘I must ask him if he has any tips for my Mrs Hill,’ said Lord Ravensford with a smile.
A few minutes later Henri entered the room. He had made it clear he wanted to give as little trouble as possible, and once Tom had made him a makeshift crutch he had found he could get around quite easily, so that Marianne had called him to the drawing-room instead of taking Lord Ravensford to the kitchen. Lord Ravensford had already seen one example of her unconventionality, when she had visited him without a chaperon before she had been introduced to him, and she did not want him to think her behaviour was completely beyond the pale by taking him into the kitchen to talk to the servants.
‘You must be Henri,’ said Lord Ravensford, as Henri hobbled into the room.
‘Yes, milord,’ said Henri.
For a moment Marianne had the curious feeling that the two men knew each other. But then she dismissed the notion as absurd.
‘Henri,’ she explained, ‘Lord Ravensford wants to ask you about the traps.’
‘Ah.’ Henri was grave.
‘He wants to have them removed, and so far has found five, but he wants to know if you saw any more that he might not have found.’
‘Ah! Yes. Mais oui,’ said Henri. ‘At least, I have seen two traps, and maybe they have not yet been discovered.’
Although the ground had been covered with snow he had noticed iron traps sticking out of the soft white covering in two different places, he said. He described the places to Lord Ravensford as well as he could, and when Lord Ravensford had learnt everything Henri could tell him he thanked Marianne for her hospitality and took his leave. Saying, as he was about to go out of the door, ‘You are going to the Cosgroves’ ball are you not?’
‘Yes.’ She flushed, although why she should flush at the thought of the ball she did not know.
‘May I have the honour of the first dance?’
She smiled with pleasure. ‘You may.’
His eyes brightened. Then he bowed, and went out to his horse.
‘Alors!’ exclaimed Henri, who had not yet returned to the kitchen. ‘I remember another one. Milord! Milord!’
He hobbled over to Lord Ravensford, who turned to meet him half way.
‘Well done, Henri,’ said Lord Ravensford under his breath. ‘It was a stroke of good fortune to be able to place yourself in the house. You can help make Marianne’s life easier. Your leg isn’t too badly hurt, I hope? It was very bad luck, getting caught in a trap.’
‘I will not be dancing any time soon,’ shrugged Henri. ‘But you and I, Luke, we ’ave suffered worse.’
‘Keep an eye on her, Henri, and if she needs any help then send me word. I will do everything I can to lighten her load.'
Henri looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. ‘She is delightful, Marianne, is she not?’
‘She is,’ said Luke with a twinkle of his own. ‘But she is also Kit’s sister, and I never mix business with pleasure.’
Henri shrugged his shoulders in a typically Gallic gesture. ‘It is a pity, all the same. That hair, those eyes . .. they make the task of ’elping ’er a treat, non?’
Luke gave a wolfish smile. ‘Too much of a treat.’
And with that he threw his leg over his horse and rode away.
Chapter Three
To her surprise, Marianne found herself looking forward to the Cosgroves’ ball. Usually she disliked going out on winter evenings, but this evening it seemed foolish to worry about icy roads and draughty carriages. Not that it had anything to do with Lord Ravensford, she told herself. No matter how interesting she found him she could never think of marriage; not with all her responsibilities to the estate; and –
She stopped, startled. Marriage indeed! What was she thinking of? She must indeed be in need of more company, as Trudie was fond of telling her, if her thoughts were leaping to marriage simply because a bachelor had moved into the neighbourhood.
‘It’s a good thing you’re a slender nymph,’ said Trudie, recalling her thoughts to the present as she helped Marianne into her silk ballgown. It was of soft cream, perfectly suiting Marianne’s complexion and setting off the colour of her bright blue eyes. ‘When I used to help your mama dress it was always panniers and wigs and goodness knows what. Now the fashions are any old how, and it’s do as you will and come as you please.’ She gave a snort, not attempting to hide her opinion on the modern fashions, which in her opinion were not a patch on the opulent styles of yesteryear.
The line of Marianne’s gown was simple. Its close-fitting bodice, ornamented with three small ribbon bows one above the other, showed off her trim waist, and the full skirt, with the merest hint of a bustle, was decorated with a large bow at the back. A slight train flowed becomingly behind her.
‘And now for your pearls,’ said Trudie, fastening the simple necklace round Marianne’s neck.
Marianne surveyed herself in the cheval glass. Her dark hair, brushed until it shone, had been arranged into a mass of ringlets that surrounded her face and fell halfway down her back. It was decorated with an ivory plume that picked up the colour of the lace which edged her scooped neckline and spilled from her three-quarter-length sleeves.
She turned to see herself from the back. As she did so the full skirt swirled around her ankles, making a delightful swishing sound, reminding Marianne that it was an age since she had last dressed up and attended a ball.
‘Well, I say it as shouldn’t,’ said Trudie mistily, ‘you look as pretty as a picture. Your mama’d be proud.’
‘You spoil me,’ smiled Marianne.
‘Someone has to,’ returned Trudie. She knew how hard it had been for Marianne since her brother had left home and her papa had retreated into his sorrows. ‘You’ve grown too serious of late, Miss Marianne. You need a bit of fun. But mind, you be home by midnight.’
‘Or the carriage will turn into a pumpkin,’ Marianne teased.
‘It better not,’ said Trudie with relish, ‘or Henri will make it into soup.’
‘I must just go in and see Papa before I go,’ said Marianne, picking up her fan and gloves.
Trudie stood aside and Marianne made her way to her father’s bedroom. She knocked on the door and went in.
The room was sombre, with heavy oak furniture adding to the air of gloom. Dark red drapes round the four poster bed matched dark red drapes at the windows. She thought again how much she would like to change them. But her papa, knocked first of all by the death of his wife and then by the disgrace of his son, had retreated into his own little world and would not now hear of any change.
‘I have come to say goodnight, Papa,’ she said brightly, going over to the man who sat slumped in his chair by the window.
‘Is it bed time already?’ he asked querulously, clutching at the blanket that covered his knees.
‘No, Papa,’ she said, kissing him on the forehead. ‘But I won’t be home until late. I am going to the Cosgroves’ ball, and I know you will not like to be disturbed when I get in.’
‘A ball, you say, my dear?’ he asked tremulously. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘Quite sure, Papa.’ She spoke briskly, to try and counteract the air of stagnation that hung about the room.
‘Miss Marianne looks beautiful tonight, does she not, my lord?’ prompted Lowe, her father’s valet, as her father made no comment on her appearance.
‘Marianne always looks very well,’ he said, without, however, taking any notice of her dress. ‘But you had better not go, Marianne. The roads are treacherous and there may be robbers and –’
‘I will be quite all right, Papa. I will have Tom to look after me. And tomorrow I will come and tell you all about it,’ said Marianne, cutting across his fretful protests. Then, giving him a last kiss, she made her way down to the hall and, donning her long gloves and travelling cloak, went out to the waiting carriage.
Once she was comfortably settled, Tom took up the reins of the carriage, which had been specially polished for the occasion, and called to the horses, ‘Walk on.’
It took a good half an hour to reach the Cosgroves’ house, but with a hot brick for her feet and a little silver flask for her hands, to say nothing of her cloak and muff, Marianne hardly felt the cold. She was enjoying being Miss Travis for once, and resolved that for this evening at least she would put all her duties out of her mind.
When they were nearly there the carriage took a slight detour. Miss Stock, the rector’s sister, was to accompany Marianne as her chaperon. Having collected Miss Stock, they went on, finally pulling up in front of Mr and Mrs Cosgrove’s house. The house was ablaze with light. Flambeaux flickered outside, whilst chandeliers sparkled from within. As Marianne walked up the stone steps that led to the front door, followed by the good Miss Stock, she could hear the sound of chatter drifting into the night. She felt a wave of excitement. It was months since she had been to a ball, and she was looking forward to it.
‘Miss Travis! And Miss Stock.’
The Cosgroves gave both ladies a warm welcome, and Marianne was soon at home. Having lived in the neighbourhood all her life she knew most of the people present, and was quickly introduced to everyone else.
‘Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Hurst,’ said Jennifer.
Jennifer was Mr and Mrs Cosgrove’s bouncing sixteen-year-old daughter, who was delighting in the fact that her parents had finally allowed her to attend a ball.
Mr and Mrs Hurst were charming.
‘And over there is Mr Windham,’ said Jennifer, as Mr and Mrs Hurst engaged Miss Stock in conversation. She gave an awed giggle. ‘Isn’t he divine?’
Mr Windham looked over in their direction at that moment and Marianne could see why Jennifer was so impressed. Mr Windham was just the sort of gentleman to provoke a girlish fancy. His features were regular and his face was handsome, if bland.
Anything But a Gentleman Page 4
