by Mary Mackie
When the music stopped I swayed, feeling sick and giddy as I clutched at Basil for support. Working since dawn, no food since noon, stays laced too tight out of sheer vanity…
‘I must get some air,’ I gasped as the dizziness increased and my ears roared. ‘Please…’
His arm about me, he led me through crowded rooms to where doors stood open and the night air caressed my heated face. Under trees hung with lanterns, couples strolled taking the air. A distant gong sounded and voices called, ‘Supper! Come along, it’s suppertime!’
I shook free of Basil and hurried on, making for the cool shade of the yew walk, where there was just enough light for me to see my way. Gulping in fresh air, a wispy handkerchief blotting my brow, I felt the faintness recede. Forcing my lungs to expand on a deep breath that strained against my stays, I laid a hand to my throat, feeling an artery throb.
‘Are you all right, Miss Rose?’
I had forgotten Basil was there. ‘Yes, thank you. The dancing made me… It seemed airless in the house.’
‘We should have sat out. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, no – no, don’t apologise.’ My voice sounded breathless, the wisp of lace in my hand fluttering as I gestured nervously. ‘You go inside. They’re serving supper.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’
We were alone in the yew walk, the house a distant gleam of lights through a growth of trees, lanterns flickering here and there. Above us in a column of sky between the yews hot stars shimmered, and a hidden moon added pale light to the scene. The air around us seemed alive.
Then a movement to one side startled me. A harsh scream made me throw my hands to my ears and step back, colliding with Basil’s sturdy body. As his hands came at my waist to support me, I saw that the screech had been uttered by a large bird, which came picking a delicate way between the yews. With a soft rustle it spread a great fanning tail, painted eyes shining ghostlike in the darkness.
‘It’s only the peacock,’ Basil’s murmur came in my ear, vibrant with laughter as he leaned closer. ‘You’re not scared of a peacock, are you, Miss Rose? Why, look at him. He’s a beauty. Showing off.’
The peacock turned in a slow circle, shaking his magnificent tail in arrogant display. I watched him, but my other senses were concentrated on Basil, aware that he was holding me as close as he dared, breathing in my scent, letting his cheek touch my hair. His hands felt hot at my waist, his chest solid behind my shoulder. Warm breath fanned my cheek and throat.
‘We ought to go in,’ I said.
‘If you’re feeling better.’ Slowly, he removed his hands from me and stepped away.
‘Perhaps we could walk around the house. There’s a way across the front. We can get that way to the supper room.’
‘Whatever you say, Miss Rose.’
He offered me his arm, and laid a hand over mine as it lay in the crook of his elbow. Our path lay down a flight of steps and across a moonlit lawn where light streamed from the house and figures could be seen moving beyond the open windows; then through a gateway in the wall and across the gravelled front courtyard to a similar gateway on the other side of the house, where lay the rose garden and the terraces. Here lanterns lit the scene of tables set under the stars, with guests enjoying their supper. Laughter and light spilled from a French window which led into the morning-room, where the food had been laid out.
‘Shall I fill a plate for you?’ Basil asked. ‘You find a quiet place somewhere. There’s space by that pool, look.’
And so we ate supper, sitting on the low stone surround of a pool where golden carp slid through weedy shadows. Other people came to sit around us on steps and terrace edges, enjoying the warm evening and the chance to relax over food and drinks and light conversation.
Basil and I said hardly a word to each other.
As we finished supper, a breeze sprang up, cooling the air and sending goose-pimples along my bare arms and shoulders. Other ladies shivered and exclaimed, beginning a general drift towards the warmth of the house, and as I stepped into the brightness of the morning-room I heard thunder roll distantly. A dark band of cloud was advancing to shut out the stars.
‘It’ll probably pass over,’ Basil said.
‘I hope so.’ My thoughts were on the hay, fearing another disaster if storms set in.
And then, without warning, I found Geoffrey standing in front of me, smiling with social grace, saying, ‘Ah, Miss Hamilton. May I claim a dance? I hope your card isn’t full?’
After a moment of total incomprehension, I recovered my wits and fumbled for the card looped on its ribbon round my wrist. ‘No, not quite.’
‘Excellent.’ He perused the card, scribbling his initials in one of the spaces. ‘That one, I think, if I may. Our host seems anxious that we should bury hatchets, and since my father doesn’t dance…’ he laughed at the thought. ‘That is, he does, but he’d probably t-tread on your toes. I shall try to be more circumspect. Well, Pooley? How are you? Was that thunder I heard? Is it going to rain? Just when the hay’s coming in nicely, too. Oh – but you’re n-not a farmer, are you?’
He was all charm, all gracious politeness. I hated him for the ease with which he conducted himself when I was all worms and wires, though his stammer told me he was not as relaxed as he appeared. He chatted for a few minutes with Basil, neither of them saying anything of consequence, then he turned his smile on me.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me…’ and he spun lightly on his heel to go back to where his mother was standing, with Lucinda behind her trying to make herself invisible. Lady Ophelia was engaged in conversation with Mrs Wyatt; nevertheless, her gimlet gaze flicked to Geoffrey, and beyond him to me, and I knew she had witnessed our encounter.
‘Mr Wyatt’s a regular Cupid,’ Basil said.
My head snapped round. ‘What?’
‘Trying to make peace between Orchards and Ambleford by getting Devlin to ask you to dance.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
Lucinda’s colourless countenance had lit up, her eyes fixed on Geoffrey’s face as he spoke to her. He seemed to be asking her to dance, a hand held out in appeal. She shook her head, drawing back further into her corner, one finger stroking her nose so that her hand veiled her scarred mouth. He pleaded with her, every line of his body cajoling and tender as he caught the hand that she hid behind. Her other hand came up as if to replace it, but stopped, and she allowed him to ease her out from behind his mother and lead her towards the distant dining-room, where music played again.
‘Handsome couple they make,’ Basil said. ‘From a distance, at any rate.’
‘Don’t be unkind.’ Whatever I might feel for Geoffrey, I was achingly sorry for his young wife. ‘Can’t you see she hates all this? It’s torture for her being in company. Poor girl…’
‘Well, what’s a man supposed to do? Let his wife hide herself away? If he was seen out without her there’d soon be talk. Not that there isn’t talk enough. He could have had his pick. Why did he choose a bruised blossom when he could have had a perfect rose?’
Basil had a knack of making remarks that set my nerves strumming like telegraph wires in a gale. But it was chance, that was all, an ill-considered choice of phrase. He couldn’t possibly know the truth.
As a chill of doubt wafted over me, Basil said, ‘If you’re not engaged for this dance, may I…?’
While I waltzed with him, over his shoulder I watched for glimpses of Geoffrey and his wife among the swirl of dancers. She was petite in his arms, not reaching his shoulder, hanging her head and hiding her face. Geoffrey watched her, talking softly to her, and once I saw her look up and smile at him in a tremulous way before her head dipped again. As they turned I saw his face, his mouth tight under the moustache, his eyes dark, turned inward on himself. Another turn and, between the heads of other dancers, his eyes met mine. It lasted no more than a second and then the gap closed, the dance swirled us on, but I knew as surely as if he had spoken that Geoffrey was as unhappy as Lucinda was.
His initials on my dance card burned themselves into my consciousness as the orchestra played on.
A rising wind sent cold draughts eddying, making curtains billow and ladies shiver. Servants came hurrying to close the windows, and within minutes the house felt airless; gentlemen eased their collars, ladies’ fans flickered madly. I felt sweat soak my undergarments and my stays dug into me.
Two dances ended, then three. I was with Felicity when, in the lull between music, I saw Geoffrey approaching.
He stopped beside me, smiling at Felicity. ‘Miss Wyatt. You look splendid this evening.’
‘And you’re as gallant as ever,’ Felicity returned, tapping his arm with her fan. ‘You’re too much a stranger, Mr Devlin. You must bring your wife to visit us. We should make her very welcome in our female circle, shouldn’t we, Rose?’
‘Indeed we should.’ His presence robbed me of all wit.
‘You’re most kind,’ Geoffrey said on a deep note of gratitude and I saw him exchange a look of private understanding with Felicity before he smiled at me and held out his hand as the orchestra struck up another waltz. ‘Our dance, I believe.’
He held me lightly, almost at arms’ length as we swept about the floor, and I stared over his shoulder, avoiding his eyes. We probably appeared to be nothing more than two acquaintances engaged in social niceties; if we seemed stiff with each other that would accord with the known feud between our families. Only we knew of the currents that flowed hotly between us, unspoken but inexorable as the storm that gathered outside.
Basil didn’t appear to be in the dancing room, nor Lucinda, but I had glimpses of Mr Wyatt, nodding his head in time to the music, his plump wife smiling beside him; Lady Devlin, stiff with disapproval behind her busy fan, and others, amused or curious over the spectacle of Mr Geoffrey Devlin dancing with the notorious Miss Hamilton. The thought brought a wry curve to my lips.
‘Something amusing?’ Geoffrey asked.
‘It occurs to me that I’ve taken over my aunt’s mantle. They used to refer to her as “that Miss Hamilton”. Now they use the same tone for me. More so, indeed. Agnes may have offended a convention or two. I offended the Prince of Wales.’
‘I had heard. It was brave of you.’
The music swept us on, step, two, three; step, two, three…
How could he be so calm? I felt vicious, wanting to hurt as I was hurting. ‘I offended your mother, too. I’m sure she told you how I burst in upon her in such ill-bred haste. Though I fancy she detested me long before that. My mere existence offends her. You should never have danced with me. You’ll be in for a scolding when you go home.’
‘If I were afraid of my mother,’ he said tightly, ‘I wouldn’t b-be here at all.’
Beyond the west lawn, a flare of blue-white lightning crooked from sky to earth and stood there, connecting the two. People exclaimed in alarm and wonder. Geoffrey and I paused in our step as the music faltered and the musicians stopped playing. All eyes turned to the window. The jagged light remained, imprinted on my retina as darkness returned. Thunder cracked, making curtains shudder and candle flames twist, and a torrent of rain threw itself against glass panes.
The hay! I thought despairingly.
‘Why do you hate me?’ Geoffrey said.
For the first time since we had stepped on to the floor, I looked fully at him, and as I did so his face dissolved behind tears I couldn’t control. I didn’t want to quarrel with him. I loved him. My heart was breaking for him. And yet I distrusted and despised him…
‘Rose…’ His voice thrummed hoarsely in my ears as his hand tightened about mine and the arm at my waist drew me in closer. ‘This c-can’t go on. We have to talk it out. My dear—’
‘Don’t!’ Panic tugged at me. Everyone would see. Everyone would know…
But the storm had caused everyone to forget about Geoffrey and me. In the brief confusion I pulled away from him and fled to find Basil and ask to be taken home.
Nine
Rain beat down on the hood and apron of the victoria as our coachman picked his way along dark lanes. The storm centre had moved on, leaving in its wake a steady, soaking downpour.
I could smell brandy on Basil’s breath. Locked beside him in the confines of the vehicle, I wiped spatters of rain from my face and thought of the evening with all its events and undercurrents. We had left quietly, stealing away without spoiling the Wyatts’ celebration – that, at least, had been my excuse. Now we were silent, both keeping our own thoughts.
Reaching Orchards, we ran through the rain to the door, which was always kept unlocked, and into the hall where a single lamp burned. The house was silent, sleeping.
As I fumbled with the cord that fastened my damp cloak, Basil lifted the heavy velvet from my shoulders and placed it across the banister, saying softly, ‘Thank you for your company tonight, Miss Rose. It’s been a good evening. I enjoyed it.’
‘Yes, so did I.’ I moved a little away on pretext of shaking out my skirts, starting to peel off my gloves. ‘But I’m tired, as you must be. Don’t let me delay you.’
He watched me for a moment. ‘Is that all?’
‘What else do you want me to say?’
Moving softly closer, he said, ‘I’m a patient man, Miss Rose. I promised I’d wait until you were ready, and – don’t mistake me – I’m still prepared to do that. But it seems to me a man ought to expect a bit of encouragement now and then. You’re glad enough to cling to my arm when we’re in company. You’ll allow me to dance with you. But when we’re alone it’s “keep your distance, Basil Pooley”. A man might be forgiven for wondering if he’s being used.’
‘I don’t recall ever asking you to wait,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I am grateful for your support these last months, but… I don’t know what it is you want. Would you have me pretend to feelings that—’
‘No,’ he said at once, shaking his head. ‘No, I’d not have you pretend anything that’s not real. Only…’ he reached for my hand, holding it gently between his own, ‘these things have to be nurtured. Like plants. Fed and watered. Given the right ground. There’s got to be a bud before there’s a flower. If you never let me close, how will we ever know what might be waiting to grow between us?’
He could be right, I thought. I had made use of his affection; I owed him something in return. I owed it to myself too, to try to break free of the spell that Geoffrey Devlin had cast on me. Whatever had happened in the past, he was married to Lucy now. Was I to go through life longing for a man I could never have when another man might ease my pain, perhaps even make me forget?
Slowly, as if afraid to startle me, he lifted my hand to his lips, watching me over it. Then he turned it over and, bending his fair head, pressed his lips to my palm.
‘Basil…’ I began.
‘Sssh,’ came the whisper as he laid a hand along my face, brushing my cheek with his thumb, his glance studying my every feature. He looked at me as if I were beautiful. He looked at me with awe and wonder, making me wish that I could feel the same for him. He was a good man; he deserved better than I had so far given.
‘I want to kiss you, Miss Rose,’ he muttered. ‘I want it so much I can hardly bear it. Will you allow me the liberty?’
I suppose I made some sign of assent. Watching my mouth, he bent closer, until I was obliged to close my eyes and I felt his warm, brandy-scented breath on me. His lips touched mine with a soft, chaste pressure that withdrew almost at once. To my surprise, that was as much as he dared. I found him watching me as he gently withdrew his hand from my face.
‘That’s all right, Miss Rose,’ he assured me, gathering my hand and holding it to his breast. ‘Like I said, I can wait. You’ve things to do, things to think about. I’ll be near, though. I’ll never be far away. You can count on me.’
* * *
Luckily the storm did no lasting damage. It was followed by a brisk wind that helped to dry the hay, so that haysel was accomplished with only a minor delay.
Mama
returned from Thetford full of news about Grace; for a while she was almost happy again. I kept myself busy managing the household; there was soft fruit to be preserved, village visiting to attend to, watching the corn ripen, watching the weather, cursing the hares, arguing with McDowall and, that year, worrying about my father.
When Ned Plant let slip the fact that Father no longer tended his own horse, I knew my fears were justified. He had always taken pride in rubbing Harry down with his own hands, feeding and watering him at the end of a busy day. Now he no longer had the energy. In fact, it soon became evident that even riding was too much of a chore. If he had to go out, he would take the dogcart, but more and more he stayed in the house, or within sight of it, going only as far as he could walk. He even suggested that I should take Harry for exercise: ‘I don’t feel up to it today’, or, ‘He’ll enjoy a good gallop and I’ve got these books to tally.’ While such chances delighted me, for I loved to ride, they troubled me too. Father left most of the overseeing to McDowall and he seldom chided me for interfering or being less than conventional. He hadn’t the energy. But he would never admit when he was in pain; he always had some explanation or excuse. I watched him, I worried and I waited. Sad to say, we couldn’t talk about the things that mattered most.
The summer proved warm and dry. As ever the furry ‘kangaroos’ did their share of despoiling despite our efforts in blocking the runs, smearing tar or stuffing them with briers. A considerable amount of poaching went on, winked at by farmers, and many a village family dined illicitly on jugged hare.
During the school holidays, Johnny had new friends to occupy him. A boy he knew at school came to spend the summer with cousins whose father had leased East Esham Hall; Johnny spent most of his time there. East Esham being Mama’s old home, she sighed many a sigh over the ‘old days’. Her reminiscences were encouraged by visits from General Hall, a contemporary of Squire Ferrers who continued to keep an avuncular eye on Mama from time to time. Dwelling on the past with this old friend saved her from facing the present: she knew Father was ill but she refused to think about it, let alone discuss it.
