by Mira Stables
In this lighthearted mood, with the impalpable barrier that he had set between them at least temporarily forgotten, she found him quite irresistible.
“And if the officers of the law did not find me?” she tempted.
He frowned judicially. “A nice point,” he conceded. His face lit with laughter. “Ah! Now I see it all. This is why you refused to give me Mr. Fortune’s direction. The whole thing is a deep laid plot. Very well, then. I shall distrain on the goods and chattels that you leave behind!”
“The silver thimble that Mama gave me, and the locket with the likeness of Papa?” she enquired seriously, entering into the spirit of the thing.
“That I have not yet decided. But I shall certainly distrain on those intimidating caps of yours. It is positively wicked to cover your pretty hair at your age. I’ll wager you won’t do so at Mickleford Hall.”
At that interesting moment the parlour door burst open and a small figure in a rumpled nightshirt hurled itself at Ann, sobbing so bitterly that it was some minutes before she could cuddle him into coherence.
“She said I was a horrid spoilt b-brat,” he hiccoughed, “and it would s-serve me right if you didn’t come back.”
“So you are horrid, sometimes,” said Ann cheerfully. “Everyone is. I was pretty horrid myself this morning, and I daresay even your brother has his moments”—this with a propitiating twinkle for Patrick. “But you’re not spoilt. As for being a brat—my Papa was used to call me a pestiferous brat when he was feeling especially fond of me—so no need to trouble your head for that.”
This categorical reassurance exerted a highly beneficial effect on the sufferer. He heaved a deep, shuddering sigh and nuzzled a rather smeary face against Ann’s shoulder. “And you will come back, won’t you?”
“Of course I will. Why! I’m leaving all my clothes behind, so I must come back, mustn’t I? And what’s more, when I do, I shall expect you to know all your tables, right up to the six times,” she finished severely.
Her matter-of-fact manner was far more comforting than honeyed promises. His face brightened and he began eagerly, “And then there will be pig-killing and lovely brown sausages, and I shall help you to make the plum pudding for Christmas”—
“And meanwhile there is a very grubby face to be washed again and a long overdue bed awaiting a lad who must be up betimes tomorrow,” put in Patrick, and scooping the child on to his shoulder carried him off upstairs.
Ann lingered in the parlour, deep in thought. In any case, she told herself, she could scarcely walk out leaving the interview unfinished. It was a pity that Philip should have come in just when things were going so well. If only Patrick’s lighter mood would persist!
Alas! Though he was not gone above five minutes his manner upon his return was very different. He seemed remote, serious; his voice gentle but impersonal.
“I hope you will not refine too much upon that little demonstration,” he said. “It had occurred to me that while you were staying with your sister some opportunity of more suitable employment might arise. If that should be the case, then you must not feel yourself in any way bound to High Garth. Philip is much attached to you, but a small boy’s memory is short. You must not permit your affection for him to cloud your judgement. In a year or so he will be going to school, and I am sure you have realized by now that you cannot remain here indefinitely. I myself, a little while ago, voiced sentiments closely allied to Philip’s. I was gravely at fault, entirely selfish. Of course we do not wish to lose you, but if it is to your advantage, then you must go, and neither affection nor misguided loyalty must be allowed to hinder.”
No answer. Only the animation faded from her expression so that her face put him in mind of a flower, tight closed against some clumsy, bumbling insect. Much as he loved her he found this dumb obstinacy infuriating. Did she not understand that he wanted only her happiness and security? That it was like tearing the heart out of his breast to send her away, but that sooner or later it must be done? It seemed an age before she bowed her head and said gently, “I will remember, sir.”
It sounded submissive enough, but he knew her too well. He said sternly, “You will be wise to do so.” And then, on a softer note, “Meanwhile, unless you send word of any change in your plans, I shall expect you back in two weeks’ time.”
Chapter Fourteen
There was a good deal to be said for a life of luxury after all, thought Ann ruefully. It was blissful to take a bath whenever one wished without having to pump, heat and carry every drop of water, let alone the messy business of emptying it away again afterwards. Delightful, too, to sit down to a meal that one had neither planned nor prepared, and to experiment with Barbara’s pretty creams and lotions as a change from Bridie’s brew, effective though the latter had proved. She studied her hands critically. Dear Janet and Bridie! The twins, too. Everyone had done so much to ensure that she looked her best. Her present enjoyment of the fleshpots seemed positively traitorous.
But after a day or so she began to find the time hang heavily on her hands. Lady Broughton was a very capable woman. The arrangements for the wedding and for the guests who would be staying at the Hall had been carefully planned to the last detail. Her staff was adequate and well trained, and it was very obvious that any offer of assistance would be presumptuous. Since Barbara was often occupied with the sewing maids who were making last minute adjustments to her new dresses, there were long periods of boring inactivity. Ann soon wearied of studying the pages of fashion journals which described gowns that she could not afford, and of strolling in perfectly kept grounds where gardeners seemed to lurk behind every bush as though defying one to pluck a single bloom. Having written to Janet to tell of her safe arrival, she had no more letters to write. Sir Henry Broughton had sought refuge from the encroachments of caterers, dressmakers, hired musicians and the like by shutting himself in his library, and she did not like to intrude upon him there. In any case this perfect, golden September weather should not be spent in stuffy rooms. It was likely to be of brief duration. Already there was hint of morning crispness, an evening chill that made a fire in one’s bedroom an agreeable luxury.
Lady Broughton, thoughtful hostess, suggested that she might like to drive into the village. The shops were nothing, of course, by London standards, but there was one linen-draper who was not wholly unworthy of patronage. His prices, too, were moderate. Ethel could be spared to go with her. Oh, dear me no! Of course she could not go alone. The village was all of two miles away. And Ethel could be spared more easily than a footman.
Ann submitted to the inevitable and was duly driven into the village in the barouche, wryly amused that it required the services of the second coachman, an abigail and a pair of horses to transport her over a distance that, at High Garth, she would certainly have been expected to cover on her own two feet.
Ethel, the maid who had been appointed to wait on her during her visit, was not much older than the twins, but a good deal more sophisticated. It had not taken her long to assess Miss Barbara’s sister as ‘one o’ the pleasant kind’ with no niffy-naffy ways and not above enjoying a little friendly conversation with her attendant, and she was delighted with the prospect of an outing to the shops.
Perhaps it was because of her six months’ deprivation that Ann found those shops a good deal more attractive than she had been led to expect. She wanted to buy one or two small gifts and was pleased to find the prices well within the limits of her slender purse. Janet and the twins were easy. With Ethel’s enthusiastic assistance she bought two little china bowls that held solid perfume. Their scent seemed to bear little relationship to the flowers painted on the lids, but they were sweet without being sickly and when the perfume was finished they would serve for holding pins and small oddments. A fine linen handkerchief for Janet and a tiny flask of lavender water—the lavender water was rather expensive—left only Philip to be provided for. Here she ran into difficulty.
Had he been a little older—or her own means adequate
to the purchase—she could have bought him a pair of skates, a saddle for Jigs, or even a gun. But toys for younger children were sadly lacking in variety. In the end she bought a whistle, reflecting that the gift would be highly unpopular with the other residents of High Garth, and a little glass sphere which enclosed a tiny house, a fir tree and two miniature figures. It was actually a paper weight, but Ann remembered her own childish delight in a similar bauble that had belonged to her father. When you shook it, a realistic snow storm sprang up, veiling the figures in drifting flakes. Philip would love it.
Her last call was at the linen-draper’s. Just one dress length, and she would make it herself during the winter evenings. Something a little brighter than her sober greys and browns.
Lady Broughton had been right. The shop was remarkably well stocked. It was plain that it catered to the local gentry. Ann looked wistfully at the rich silks and velvets which were the shopkeeper’s pride, but good sense as well as straitened means put them out of court. What use were silks and velvets on a Dales farm in winter? Her employer might think that she looked becomingly. He was more like to think that she had run mad! Nor was such ostentation likely to recommend her as a thrifty helpmeet who would be perfectly contented with farm life!
She choose eventually a soft golden brown kerseymere. Brown again, she thought regretfully. But it was a very different brown. As one turned it about it glowed almost buttercup yellow. “Done in the twilling,” explained the proprietor, only too happy to expound upon his mystery to an interested listener. “A certain number of the yellow strands are included in the weft.” He turned the material about to show her the reverse side with its positive yellow hue. “If you wish to pick up the lighter shade with your buttons and trimmings, ma’am, match it to this.”
With Ethel carrying the parcel she went back to the carriage well pleased with all her purchases. They discussed at some length the choice of a style that would make up well in the soft fabric, and then Ethel began to speak of the guests who would start arriving tomorrow. The Hall would be crammed to the eaves with those who were staying for two or three days and their personal attendants, and accommodation had been booked in every decent inn for miles around. No less a person than the Earl of Encliffe himself was to honour the occasion with his presence.
“He is Mr. Jack’s godfather, of course, but still,” proclaimed Ethel reverently. “And him to stay two nights at least!” It was plain that she found this prospect of vicarious grandeur quite stunning. It even silenced her for so much as a minute. But she soon continued her enumeration of the various lesser guests who were expected, explaining briefly how they were connected with the family and occasionally, since Miss Beverley might be counted upon to allow her a certain degree of license, throwing in a shrewd comment on their foibles. With amused interest Ann heard what a pity it was that the Countess of Encliffe would not be accompanying her lord.
“But then, she never goes nowhere. She’s what they call an ‘eggsentric’ though what eggs has to do with it I’m sure I don’t know, because its animals that she’s mad after. There’s never a sick or injured creature on their land but she takes it in and nurses it. And not just decent useful animals, neither, but wild ones and even vermin. They do say as she has a tame otter that follows her like a dog, but that I’d not be knowing. Milady says it’s a sad pity she never had no children, which ’ud have given her something better to do, let alone there not being no heir to the title. But that’s the way it is, so she’ll not be coming to the wedding.”
Ann allowed the girl’s chatter to flow over her, hearing about half of it. Mention of a real earl had taken her back to the kitchen at High Garth, to Bridie’s prophecy and Janet’s scathing comments. She wondered, half smiling, if the two gentlemen who were to influence her future would be among the wedding guests.
“And Sir Stephen and Lady Conroy,” said the voice beside her, startling her back to full and dismayed attention. “He was at school with Mr. Jack, and Lady Conroy is pretty as a picture and dresses very smart. ’S a good thing Miss Barbara is so dark, ’cos Lady Conroy’ll shine all the blondes down and no mistake.”
She then realized that this was scarcely a tactful remark to address to one who was undoubtedly a blonde, and subsided into blushful silence, but since at that moment they drew up at the door of the Hall, Ann was spared the necessity of putting her at ease. In the bustle of gathering up the packages any slight awkwardness was quickly forgotten.
It was ridiculous to feel apprehensive over Lavinia Conroy’s coming. To be sure, the lady’s manners scarcely evoked pleasurable anticipations, but they would probably be a good deal more conciliatory under the present circumstances. Useless to rely on not being recognized. Her height and colouring were sufficiently distinctive to make it unlikely, and the fact that she had been in Patrick’s company would undoubtedly make her memorable to this particular lady. Uneasily she wondered if Lady Conroy had made enquiries about her standing at High Garth and thought it very probable that she had. Well? She had nothing to be ashamed of. The Broughtons were perfectly well aware of her situation, though it might not be very comfortable for them to have a maliciously garbled version retailed to their friends. She wished that there had been an opportunity of asking Ethel how long the Conroys were staying and whether or no they were to be house guests.
This omission she remedied when the girl came to help her dress for dinner, carefully prefacing the enquiry with one about a school friend of hers and Barbie’s so that it should not have too much particularity. The answer was only partly satisfactory. The Conroys were staying only one night—they were on their way south, and it would be foolish to set out on so long a journey after the wedding—but they were staying in the house, which would make avoidance virtually impossible. Ann masked her concern by making a smiling remark about the extent of Ethel’s knowledge of the histories and movements of the guests, which the girl accepted in all seriousness, explaining shyly that it was her ambition to be maid to Miss Barbara herself, in due course, and that to fill such a post successfully it was necessary to know as much as possible about the world in which your mistress moved.
“To know, but not to tell,” she concluded solemnly, as one affirming a first principle, and lapsed into silence as she gave her whole attention to the elegant coiffeur that she was creating for the bride’s sister.
Chapter Fifteen
On the following day, the eve of the wedding, Ann was at last gathered in to the ranks of the workers. She and Barbara spent the forenoon arranging the flowers in the reception and guest rooms, and so impressed was Lady Broughton by their artistic achievements that she invited Ann to go down to the church after luncheon to put any necessary finishing touches to the flowers there. Barbara, of course, could not be spared. The first guests would be arriving soon and she must be on hand to take her share in receiving them.
Rather reprehensibly Ann dismissed the carriage, telling herself that it might be required for some other purpose, and spent a contented afternoon in the church, the air filled with the scent of great masses of yellow and white chrysanthemums and white and gold lilies, and strolled back to find the Hall already seething with excitement. Upward of thirty guests would sit down to dinner, in addition to the family. Feeling grubby and untidy she managed to slip up to her room unperceived and so did not meet any of them until she went down to dinner.
Since it was a very formal affair, Ann supposed that the gentleman in the place of honour beside his hostess must be the Earl of Encliffe. And there was Papa Fortune on her other hand. All the rest were strangers.
It seemed only proper that Papa Fortune should seek her out when the gentlemen eventually joined the ladies in the drawing room, though it was rather surprising that he should bring the Earl with him. As they came down the long room together she was suddenly seized by the most ridiculous notion. So ridiculous that she was hard put to it to restrain a chuckle, and it was a merry, smiling face that she lifted to greet them. For here, undoubtedly, were the two
gentlemen of Bridie’s prophecy. And though it was certainly possible that Papa Fortune might yet influence her future, it seemed highly unlikely that his tall companion would do so.
The unaffected enjoyment in her face struck pleasantly on both gentlemen, though it was possibly fortunate that they did not guess its cause. There was a note that might almost have been pride in Mr. Fortune’s voice as he presented the Earl.
“My second step-daughter. The rebel and runaway,” he added severely, but there was no real reproof in his tone. Ann glanced at him curiously. In the three years since she had last seen him, he seemed to have mellowed a good deal.
“So you informed me,” agreed the Earl gently. “But do you think it quite kind to bait her with such accusations when she is in no case to defend herself? Come, Miss Beverley, pay no heed to him. You shall take me to the small salon if you will be so kind, and show me these miniatures which my hostess has been describing to me.”
Ann hesitated for a moment, but surely there could be nothing improper in accepting such an invitation from one who was old enough to be her father. She put her fingers on the proffered arm and allowed him to escort her from the room.
He had not missed the tiny hesitation, and laughed softly. “You are very right, Miss Beverley. In my hey-day it would have been much wiser to decline that invitation. But nowadays I am a reformed character, I promise you. My motives, if not wholly disinterested, are perfectly chivalrous.”
Ann eyed him thoughtfully. One scarcely expected that bantering tone from a gentleman of exalted rank on such short acquaintance. She was not discomfited, but she was wary.
“Not wholly disinterested?” she repeated, brows lifting.
He laughed. “No, indeed. I look to you to save me from a very boring evening. And no need to draw that reproving mouth. My fellow guests are very worthy—wholly delightful. But I have been doing the polite since early afternoon, and enough is enough. You and I will agree at the outset that the bride is perfectly charming, the bridegroom a very fine fellow and the marriage obviously destined to succeed. Then we may forget them and turn to our own amusement. Your step-papa tells me that your present situation is with a farming family who live in some very remote dale. Surely you must have had experiences—adventures, even—quite out of the common way. Behold me, all attention!”
