by Mira Stables
The pleasant words were plainly dismissive. Mr. Delvercourt was aware of a distinct desire to prolong the encounter, a desire which Fate chose to favour, for at that moment Mrs. Robertson came in.
The landlady was lightly flustered and apologetic. “I reckoned you was gone down to the coffee room, sir,” she began breathlessly. “I’m sure I’m ever so sorry, miss. I quite thought the parlour was empty. ’Twasn’t till I took Mr. Delvercourt’s supper in that I found he was still up here. Don’t let it spoil, will you, sir? One of my meat puddings, and the pastry light as a feather. Now miss, how about you? Will you take a bit o’ supper in the coffee room or shall I carry a tray to your bedchamber?” She saw the girl hesitate and added encouragingly, “There’s a bonny fire in the coffee room. And no need to be shy of Mr. Delvercourt here. I’ve known him this many a year and you can take my word for it he’s none of your fly-by-nights but a respectable hard-working farmer.”
Both her guests laughed. The girl said diffidently, “I own it to be a strong temptation. A fire, hot food, and respectable company.” And that will teach him to make remarks about people’s ages, she decided, little guessing how accurately her expression reflected her thoughts.
“And saves work for me,” nodded Mrs. Robertson briskly, as though that settled it. “I’ll show you your room, miss. You’ll be wanting to take that damp cloak off. And do you, sir, go down right away and set to, for letting good victuals go cold for manners’ sake is what I don’t hold with.”
She swept her guests to their respective destinations without hindrance, though the gentleman paid no further heed to her advice, choosing rather to let his supper cool, and forgetting economy so far as to order a bottle of wine. The chance encounter had amused him. He was not likely to set eyes on the girl again. There could be no harm in beguiling away a dull evening in pleasant converse.
Chapter Two
“But I think you’ve run mad!” exclaimed Miss Barbara Beverly, her eyes dark with dismay. “A man you know nothing about, save that he is advertising a post that is next door to slavery in a place that is so savage and isolated that anything could happen to you and it might well be months before we heard of it. Oh! Very well, then. So you saw the original advertisement. So the landlady—and how should she know—said he was respectable. It doesn’t alter the fact that the work is menial. You know perfectly well that Miss Vestey would let you stay here, helping with the little ones, until I am married. Jack is due home in the summer and we are planning the wedding for September. Then you may come and live with us. And spend a few months ‘wholly devoted to pleasure’ as Papa Fortune would say. And I’m sure no one has ever deserved it more,” she ended heartily, for the sisters loved each other dearly, despite their differences. Each admired—or deplored—facets in the other’s personality that were lacking in her own, but during a happy childhood, gypsying about Europe with their soldier father, and even more determinedly during a difficult girlhood, when their widowed mama had re-married, they had developed a family solidarity that admitted criticism only between themselves.
“I imagine Jack will have something to say about that,” suggested Ann mildly. “To be taking your wife’s twin sister on your honeymoon would scarcely be to most men’s taste, even if there is no danger of mistaking which is which.” For Barbara was petite and brunette, while she, save for the dark eyes which both had inherited from their mother, was silver fair, like Papa, and built, as she ruefully complained, on Amazonian lines. In which she did herself less than justice, for although she was admittedly tall for a woman, she was slight of build and moved with a lithe grace that was wholly feminine.
“Goose,” laughed Barbara. “You know I didn’t mean on the honeymoon—though Jack has promised to take me to Spain and to Portugal, and it would have been fun to re-visit some of our childhood haunts under peaceful conditions, wouldn’t it? No. But when we come home, you will join us at Mickleford and we’ll indulge all the extravagant whims that Papa Fortune so firmly suppressed. Can you not be patient till then, and stay quietly here instead of stravaiging off to the wilds of Yorkshire on some madcap ploy?”
If Barbara thought that her sister meant to hang on Jack Broughton’s sleeve, she was out in her reckoning. Ann did not deny that it would be very comfortable to have a secure refuge, a place where one could always be sure of a welcome if matters were desperate, but she had no intention of taking up permanent residence at Mickleford Hall, nor even of making any prolonged stay there. Perhaps later, when the babies came along, she might be of use to her sister. That would be a different pair of shoes. Meanwhile she meant to cling to her independence. But there was no point in provoking an argument on that head.
“Have a little pity on poor Miss Vestey,” she teased. “If she had to suffer me for the better part of a twelve-month, she would certainly explode even if I didn’t. I’m sure she was never so thankful to see the back of a departing pupil as on the day that I left. As for helping with the little ones, I should detest it of all things, since I am perfectly well aware that it is only offered to please you! Now don’t take that in snuff. Of course the future Lady Broughton is a patron to be studied! Do you really believe that if you were just an ordinary governess you would be allotted such a comfortable room? Why—there is even space to set up a trucklebed when your wilful sister descends upon you, which she does, alas, all too often! If it were not for your prospects of future grandeur, you’d be fortunate to have a bed to yourself, let alone a whole room. And remember that I certainly couldn’t expect such favourable treatment. No, my love. Not for worlds would I miss your wedding, and I’ll be very happy to visit you when you’re wed and to hear all about your travels, but you must know I couldn’t possibly stay cooped up here.”
Barbara did know it. Ann’s energy, her zest for adventure and for a wider world to conquer, had always been something to acknowledge, even if one did not understand them. She got up, shook out her skirts, and said calmly, “I must go. It’s my turn to take the older girls for their walk. We’ll talk further tonight,” and went contentedly enough about her prescribed duties.
Left to herself, Ann went over to the window-seat and stared out unseeingly at the prospect of a bare-looking kitchen garden. She was very tired, for she had not arrived until noon and John Porter’s predictions about the discomforts of the stage had been amply fulfilled. In her present state of aching fatigue that odd encounter at the Pheasant seemed dream-like. Had she really sat at supper with a stranger, accepted a glass of wine from him, told him how she had come to be dismissed from her post and provisionally accepted the one that he offered? At least, she reflected, she had clung to some vestige of common-sense, since she had refused to commit herself finally without knowing a little more about him.
“You will expect me to furnish references,” she had pointed out. “I think I am entitled to some reassurance as to your standing in the community. The vicar of your parish, perhaps?”
He had laughed at that. “Actually I am not in the least interested in your references,” he had told her. “They could scarcely apply in this situation and in any case I prefer to form my own judgements. But I do see that your position is rather different. Unfortunately the vicar of my present parish would not know me if he saw me. Since High Garth is several miles from his church I fear I am become little better than a heathen. There is my attorney—but no. You might think him to be in collusion with me. Will nothing but a clergyman serve?”
His eyes were smiling, making her feel that her scruples were faintly ridiculous, but she clung to them the more obstinately for that. Eventually he hit upon the notion of writing to the rector of the parish in which he had resided before removing to High Garth. “I believe he will give me a good character,” he had submitted meekly, amusement still dancing in the hazel eyes, “and I shall beg him to write to you at once, so that I may look forward to your arrival at High Garth on the first of next month.”
It was only next day, jolting along in the stage, a trifle disappointed th
at she had not seen her prospective employer again, he having left an hour and more before she came down to breakfast, that she remembered. The first of next month was All Fools’ Day. Had he meant to drop her a hint that he had just been amusing himself? Whiling away the hours of a dull evening? Would the letter ever come? He had seemed serious enough when he warned her of the difficulties in store, meticulous in ascertaining the details of Barbara’s address. In the peaceful seclusion of her sister’s room she pondered these questions for the hundredth time; then decided that she was too weary to be capable of fair judgement. She took off her dress and shoes and lay down on the bed, pulled the quilt over her and fell instantly and deeply asleep.
It was dusk when Barbara’s return wakened her. She was much refreshed by her long sleep, and by the time that she had washed her hands and face and rebraided her hair was inclined to take a more cheerful view of her future. “What a relief not to have to put on a cap,” she commented, studying the scrupulously neat coronal in a somewhat inadequate mirror. “I shall have to make some new ones, though, to take to Yorkshire. It will be something to fill the waiting time. And there is nothing that lends one such an air of sobriety and responsibility as a well starched cap.” Barbara, hurriedly changing her own dress for supper, declined the provocative challenge. If Ann’s heart was set on going, go she would.
If anything had been needed to confirm Ann in her choice, the supper hour supplied it. The dull, if sufficient, fare, the long lines of meek girlish faces bent decorously over their plates, the occasional murmurs of subdued conversation, these were not for her. She wondered how Barbara had endured it for so long. But of course Barbara had Jack and a secure and happy future to dream about. Lacking that solace, surely even she must have rebelled. Private governessing might have its hazards, but really!
She was drawn into discussion of those hazards later that night when they were at last permitted to retire after an insipid evening in Miss Vestey’s prim parlour discussing such absorbing topics as the present circumstances of several former school-mates whom the sisters might recall, and the recent shocking increase in the prices of various staple commodities. Fortunately good manners prevented Miss Vestey from asking outright why her former pupil had left the Anstruthers, but no such inhibition curbed her twin’s curiosity.
Barbara waited only until the bedroom door was safe shut behind them before demanding, “Now. Let’s have it. How did you come to resign a post that, when last you wrote to me, sounded eminently desirable? If I remember aright, you liked both Mr. and Mrs. Anstruther and your only complaint was that their mother indulged the children beyond what was reasonable, which made them difficult to manage. Yes! And you said that even the servants treated you with proper respect, which is rare indeed. So what went wrong?”
“I didn’t resign,” said her sister mischievously. “I was turned off. But not without a character,” she offered demurely, seeing Barbara’s shocked face.
“But what did you do?” demanded that outraged damsel. “They couldn’t just turn you out like that! You must have done something dreadful.”
“They could and they did. And as for doing something dreadful, you’d have done exactly the same yourself. Well, no, you couldn’t, of course, not being tall enough, but you’d have wanted to.”
“Will you tell a plain tale!” exclaimed her exasperated twin.
“I only boxed Mr. Luxton’s ears,” protested Ann virtuously. “He is Mrs. Anstruther’s cousin, and a revolting little beast—one of the patting squeezing kind—and seemed to think that I should be flattered by his odious attentions.”
“But they surely didn’t dismiss you for that? They can’t have wanted you to encourage him and must have realized that he deserved it.”
“Well Mr. Delvercourt certainly said it served him right. But there is a little more to it than that.” She stopped, looking guilty but smug.
Barbara sighed resignedly. “I might have guessed as much. Go on!”
“It all comes of being so tall,” explained the defendant. “If I were tiny, like you, I couldn’t have stretched up to put my bedroom candlestick on the shelf where they were kept during the day. But I did. And that was when Mr. Luxton chose to come creeping up behind me and begin his horrid mauling, putting his arms round me and fondling my bosom. Wouldn’t you have boxed his ears?”
“Yes. But I still don’t see”—
“Only that in my surprise and alarm I had—I had—er—neglected to put down the candlestick. And it was a heavy brass one.” She peeped at Barbara, trying not to laugh.
“Heavens! Did you kill him?”
“Of course I didn’t—else I’d be in jail, silly. He dodged back, so that I caught his face rather than the side of his head. The doctor said that his nose was broken and he had lost two teeth. He was certainly a horrid sight, but he will live to pester some other helpless female.”
“Not so helpless!” murmured Barbara.
“That is exactly what Mr. Delvercourt said. Also that he could see that they had no choice but to dismiss me. I had, he explained very kindly, struck at the root of the whole social system with my candlestick, and went on-to paint a most moving picture of the Anstruthers unable to sleep nights for fear of me plotting revolution in my garret—for so he chose to describe my perfectly comfortable bedchamber. But since he also described Mr. Luxton as a slimy toad, I found myself perfectly in charity with him and was able to sustain his frivolous comments with fortitude.”
Barbara laughed, a little uneasily. There was considerable doubt in face and voice as she said slowly, “He sounds a very odd kind of farmer.”
Ann hesitated only briefly. They had never had secrets from one another. Besides—she wanted to talk about him. He had filled her mind almost exclusively during that wearisome journey south. Perhaps talking about him would reduce him to his proper place.
“Very odd indeed,” she agreed. “Yet I believe he really is a farmer. His hands are slender and well-shaped, but they certainly bore signs of rough work, and though we did not actually talk about his farm, he dated various events by referring to crops or seasonal jobs. You know the sort of thing. Where you or I would say, ‘That was the year we had the measles,’ he would say, ‘the year the oats did well.’ Yes. I think he is certainly a farmer. He is also well educated and well read; and a gentleman. There was nothing of the unlettered rustic in his conversation or his manners.”
“A story behind him?” queried Barbara.
“I would think so. Is there not a story behind most of us? Think of ourselves! Few lives are all plain sailing. He may have lost a fortune gaming or suffered losses on ‘Change. It was not my place to enquire and he dropped no hints.”
“Was he handsome?”
Ann considered that judicially. “He was tall,” she said, and Barbara grinned, for this was always her sister’s first consideration, “but I would not call him precisely good looking. It was a strong face, a fighting sort of face rather than classically handsome. But he had good teeth—and his nails were well-kept,” she ended practically.
Barbara burst out laughing. “You make him sound like a horse,” she spluttered. “Teeth and nails indeed! Was he dark or fair?”
“Medium. His hair might show tawny in full sunlight; eyes—a sort of golden hazel.” She fell silent for a moment, then said slowly, “I think on the whole I would call him distinguished looking. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it, for he was quite pathetically shabby—his shirt carefully darned, his coat patched. And yet he looked like somebody.”
“He certainly seems to have made an impression,” said Barbara drily. “From your description I could almost pick him out of a crowd.”
And she had no mention of thick curling lashes, gold-tipped, or of the warm intimacy of the gentleman’s rare smile. Nor of a clear incisive voice that could suddenly deepen to brooding gentleness. “I should think he might have a hasty temper,” she offered meekly, “and would not suffer fools patiently.”
“Goes with red hair,”
agreed her twin laconically. “You say he’s a gentleman. And unmarried. Do you think it prudent to entrust yourself to his protection with only this ancient and crotchety retainer to play propriety?”
“Yes,” said Ann baldly. “He is a gentleman. Not a slimy toad. He’d not lay a finger on me against my will. Though he did stipulate”—her eyes began to dance—“that if we came to terms I was not to set about my unwanted admirers with candlesticks or other lethal weapons, since he could not spare the time to be attending court to beg me off.”
The man sounded dangerously attractive thought Barbara, her heart sinking. “So on the whole you liked him,” she summed up.
“I don’t know. Yes, I think so. I would rather say that I was inclined to trust him, that I felt sorry for him, and that I admired his attitude in the face of difficulty. Goodness knows he has problems enough, but he spoke of them lightly, almost amusingly. It made me want to help him, far more than if he’d pulled a long face. And he was truly concerned about his old housekeeper, which I thought unusual. And then, of course, he thinks I shall prove incapable, or weaken and fall by the wayside. I couldn’t possibly draw back at this stage.”
No, thought Barbara, groaning inwardly. It wouldn’t be the first time that Ann got herself entangled in the cause of some lame dog. One or two of them had even been genuine. All of them had brought trouble, expense or anxiety. This one sounded genuine though, and Ann, at twenty-four, was not quite so naive as Ann at thirteen or fourteen. Her experiences in the ‘sheltered’ life of a governess in genteel families had at least taught her to distinguish pinchbeck from gold. But if she thought she could help this particular lame dog, she would go, and possible difficulties would only make her the more eager. Barbara could only hope that the promised letter of reference would never arrive.
