It was the following morning, and he and Alex were talking over the breakfast table.
The dining-room in which they were eating was an elegantly-proportioned room with high ceilings and elaborate plaster mouldings, giving evidence of its Georgian origins. It was painted in a pale shade of biscuit which, despite its shabbiness, gave the room a pleasant feel.
Tall windows flooded the room with light. Long fawn curtains, topped with shaped pelmets, were swept back to reveal the splendid view. The gravel path beneath the window was dotted with weeds, it was true, and the lawns beyond it were unkempt, but across the ha-ha, that useful ditch which separated the house from the park and prevented the animals from wandering too close, the deer at least kept the grass short.
Above them large oaks, fully leaved, rippled in the breeze.
‘Ready,’ said Alex, looking up from his meal. ‘As soon as I’ve finished my breakfast, I am going to visit Miss Cicely Haringay.’
‘I’m glad to see you’re building up your strength.’ Roddy looked meaningfully at Alex’s plate of bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and fried eggs.
Alex laughed. ‘Something tells me I’m going to need it. Charitable spinsters are not my favourite people, and charitable spinsters who were born with silver spoons in their mouths . . . ’
He let the sentence tail away.
‘She may not be so bad,’ said Roddy, spreading a thick layer of marmalade on his toast.
‘Oh, no? She’s already interfered with my running of the Manor, and I haven’t even met her yet.’
‘How on earth has she done that?’ asked Roddy, pausing with his piece of toast half way to his mouth.
‘By customarily allowing the Sunday school children to hold their annual picnic on my lawns. I had a visit from a Mrs Murgatroyd yesterday afternoon,’ Alex explained to Roddy, ‘shortly after I arrived. She told me - told me, mind you, didn’t ask me - that the Sunday school picnic, which is in a few weeks’ time, will be held, as usual, at the Manor. And when I told her that it might not be convenient she fixed me with a gimlet eye and said the Haringays had always allowed the Sunday school children to hold their picnic here, and that she knew Miss Haringay would be most put out if the custom did not continue.’
Roddy laughed. ‘You’ll have to expect some of that sort of thing, you know,’ he said reasonably.
‘But I don’t have to like it. Nor do I have to like the idea of mixing with the Mrs Murgatroyds of this world.’
‘Was she really that awful?’
‘Worse. I’ve no use for her kind. They’re rich and idle, and they think they have the right to tell everyone else what to do. It would be bad enough if their own lives were perfect, but they’re not. Far from it. The landed classes have all kinds of faults. They run up debts and never bother paying their bills - Haringay’s a prime example. The man’s family had lived here for time out of mind, but did that mean he paid his way? No. He thought he was too good for such things, I’ve no doubt, like the rest of his kind. Bought everything on credit and the poor shopkeepers who supplied his goods were put out of business.’
‘Be fair. You don’t know Haringay put anyone out of business.’
‘And you don’t know he didn’t,’ returned Alex.
‘And anyway, his daughter can’t be so bad,’ said Roddy, between mouthfuls of toast. ‘She did pay all his debts when he died. That’s why she had to sell the Manor.’
‘And was mighty glad to get rid of it, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He looked round the beautiful but neglected room. The paintwork was shabby and in the far corner it had peeled off, whilst round the fireplace it had become discoloured with smoke from the coal fire. The windows, having shrunk and expanded many times over the centuries with the damp and the heat, did not fit properly and rattled gently in the breeze. ‘It’s a draughty great barn of a place with no modern conveniences. Miss Cicely Haringay knew what she was doing when she sold the Manor. She got rid of a white elephant and settled herself snugly in the Lodge.’
He turned his attention back to his breakfast.
‘I hope you were polite to her. Mrs What’s-her-name from the Sunday school, I mean,’ said Roddy, reaching for another piece of toast.
‘Mrs Murgatroyd? Yes, I was polite. Though it stuck in my throat to be polite to someone like that.’ He grimaced. ‘She’s exactly the sort of woman who made Katie’s life such a misery when she was a parlour-maid. And exactly the kind of person who was so eager to believe that Katie was a thief when the Honourable Martin Goss’ – he gave a mirthless laugh at the idea of Martin Goss being honourable – ‘dropped the bracelet he had stolen into Katie’s apron so that his guilt should not be discovered. If there’s one thing I’m grateful for, Roddy, it’s that I managed to earn enough money to rescue our sister from that life, otherwise what would have become of her? She was turned out onto the streets without a reference, with no way to prove her innocence, and all because of Goss. But we’ll catch him, Roddy. We’ll nab him red-handed. We’ll show him up for the liar and thief he is.’
‘And to that end, you’ll have to be nice to Miss Haringay,’ Roddy reminded him. ‘Charm her. Win her over. We need her on our side. If she accepts us, then the rest of the county will do the same. They’ll be delighted to come to our balls and entertainments, and then we have only to tempt the thief with the kind of jewels he likes and we have him.’
Alex pushed away his empty plate. ‘You’re right. What does eating a little humble pie matter if it means we can clear Katie’s name? I’ll be as charming as the day is long to Miss Haringay, and I won’t return until she’s promised to come to our first ball.’
Cicely was in the kitchen of the Lodge, looking at the range. It was a large, black contraption which at the moment reminded her of a sleeping dragon. Which was a pity, because what she really wanted to see was an angry dragon, all heat and fire and dancing flames. Because then, and only then, would she be able to get some hot water and have a proper bath.
The range was, without doubt, the most contrary thing she had ever encountered in her life. And yet the range at the Manor had always been so obedient. Mrs Crannock, the cook, had never had any trouble with it, and had made the most delicious meals on it. But the range at the Lodge seemed to have a mind of its own.
‘I’ve tried everything I can think of, miss,’ said Gibson unhappily, ‘but it won’t heat the water properly and it keeps going out.’
‘What did Mrs Crannock used to do?’ Cicely felt as helpless as Gibson in the face of the uncooperative range.
‘I don’t rightly know, miss,’ said Gibson. He drew himself up a little as he spoke.
‘Of course not,’ said Cicely soothingly. She realized that she had, unwittingly, ruffled Gibson’s feathers. At the Manor, Gibson had been a person of consequence. As the Haringays’ butler he had been at the top of the servants’ hierarchy, and it would have been beneath his dignity to enquire into such menial matters. ‘If only Mrs Crannock was still at the Manor we could ask her, but Mr Evington has brought his own servants down from the city with him and as Mrs Crannock has taken a well-deserved position with Lord Boothlake, she is no longer here for us to ask.’
‘No, miss,’ said Gibson.
Cicely looked helplessly at the range. ‘We must have hot water. There’s a copper-load of clothes to be washed, and on top of that we will need the range if we are to have a hot meal.’ She picked up the poker and, opening the small door at the front of the range, she poked hopefully at the coals. ‘It is worse than I thought,’ she said. ‘There is no spark at all. It has completely gone out. Well, we must simply light it again. You pump the bellows, Gibson, whilst I get it alight.’
‘Very good, miss,’ said Gibson.
Ten minutes later, Cicely at last succeeded in lighting the range. Gibson pumped manfully with the bellows and the small glow began to grow larger until the range was well and truly alight.
Cicely gave a sigh of relief and straightened up, pushing a strand of dark hair out of her eye
s. Keeping her hair in its fashionable pompadour style was not easy when she had so much work to do. Stray strands would keep working free of their pins and falling in soft tendrils around her face.
She had just pushed it back into place when there came a knock at the front door.
‘Are you at home, miss?’ asked Gibson. He slipped on his frock coat and prepared to answer the door.
‘Yes, Gibson,’ said Cicely. ‘I will go through into the sitting-room. You may show the visitor in there.’ She went over to the sink and washed her sooty hands, shaking off the excess water and drying them thoroughly on one of the kitchen towels before going into the sitting-room.
The sitting-room was a pretty apartment at the back of the house. It was well-proportioned, though far smaller than anything Cicely had been used to at the Manor, and had a variety of nooks and alcoves which gave it character and charm. French windows looked out over the gardens and filled the room with light. A faded sofa was set in front of the windows with another one facing it. A collection of inlaid console tables, brought from the Manor, were arranged artistically, and the far wall was adorned by a fireplace.
It will be Mrs Murgatroyd, thought Cicely as she settled herself down on the sofa. She will have come to talk to me about the arrangements for the Sunday school picnic.
But as the door opened, it was not Mrs Murgatroyd who walked in. It was the man who had knocked her from her bicycle!
He was looking every bit as attractive as he had looked the day before. His clothes - the trousers with their turned-up cuffs, and the jacket open to reveal the fob-strewn waistcoat - showed off the lean yet muscular build of his body. His dark brown hair was cut short, accentuating the strongly-defined planes of his face, and was shot through with gleams of chestnut. His eyes were a velvety brown, and something about the way he looked at her gave her the most peculiar feeling inside . . .
But this would not do. She was allowing her thoughts to run away with her. She needed to gather her wits, for with this provoking man she knew she would need them.
And yet, perhaps not. For on seeing her he stopped dead, and looked just as surprised as she was.
‘I was looking for Miss Haringay,’ he said uncertainly, turning to Gibson.
‘Thank you, Gibson,’ said Cicely quickly. She did not know what the driver was doing in her sitting-room but she decided to send Gibson away as quickly as possible. She had no desire for any of the distressing details of her previous encounter with him - or with the duck pond! - to leak out.
Gibson, his mouth open in the act of announcing the visitor, closed it again. ‘Very good, miss,’ he murmured, and backed out of the room.
‘My apologies,’ said the driver. His eyes flashed, sending a shiver up and down Cicely’s spine, and a wicked smile touched his mouth. ‘I seem to have come to the wrong house. I was looking for Miss Haringay.’
‘I am Miss Haringay,’ she said, standing up. She did not know why, but she felt she would be better able to hold her own if she was standing. But what on earth could he wish to see her about? Did he want to apologise, perhaps, for his earlier rude behaviour?
‘Miss Cicely Haringay,’ he said, as if to make the matter clear.
Already he was turning to walk out of the room.
‘There is only one Miss Haringay,’ she said, ‘and I am she.’
‘You are Miss Haringay ?’
‘I am. What is your business here?’ she asked. ‘I take it you had a reason for calling?’
‘Indeed I did. I wanted to introduce myself . . . ’
Not to apologise, but to introduce himself! she thought, startled. Whatever next?
‘And invite you to a ball.’
Her eyes flew open in astonishment. A ball?
She glanced at the door, wondering how long it would take Gibson to enter the room and throw him out, as he had clearly run mad.
‘You don’t need to call for your butler,’ he said, his eyes dancing again as if he could read her mind. ‘I’m not mad, and I haven’t wandered in off the streets for the purpose of asking you to an imaginary dance, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m Alex Evington. I have bought the Manor. We are neighbours, Miss Haringay, and I am here to make your acquaintance, and to invite you to my housewarming ball.’ He went on to explain. ‘I want to get to know my neighbours, and holding a ball seems the best way of doing it.’
‘Mr Evington?’ asked Cicely faintly, sinking down onto the sofa. Things were getting worse and worse.
‘Yes.’
She wondered now why she had not thought of it before. The man who had so carelessly knocked her from her bicycle was of course the same man who had so carelessly bought her beloved Manor, it was all of a piece.
He stood looking down at her with an amused air. ‘Is it such a terrible shock?’
It was indeed, but she was not about to admit it.
She noticed that he was still standing, and remembering her manners she bid him sit down. He sat down opposite her, putting his hat on a side table, and the action gave her time to recover her composure.
‘I take it you will accept my invitation?’ he asked.
Cicely pulled herself together. ‘Oh, no, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’
‘May I ask why?’ he enquired, eyebrows raised.
‘I don’t see that it’s any of your -’ she began, before stopping herself. I don’t see that it’s any of your business, she had been going to say, but realized belatedly that it would be rude. For some reason he seemed to provoke her to rudeness. ‘That is, I’m afraid I have a prior engagement,’ she said.
The one thing she did not want to do was to visit her beloved Manor now that it was no longer her home.
‘But you don’t know when the ball’s to be held,’ he pointed out, and his good humour vanished, to be replaced by something harder and more cynical.
Cicely was caught, but thinking quickly she said, ‘My diary is fully booked.’
‘Is it indeed? Perhaps it would not be so fully booked if I were a gentleman,’ he said.
There was suddenly something hard and predatory about him. His body was tense, and beneath his even tone of voice there was a note of steel.
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ she replied, wondering how he had managed to put her in the wrong.
‘No?’ he asked with the same cynical look in his eyes. ‘Then the landed classes do not look down on those who have made their money through honest work?’
‘You forget, Mr Evington, you are one of the landed classes now,’ she replied. ‘Be careful how you speak of them, lest you blacken your own character along with theirs.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said tightly.
‘I doubt if you have ever begged for anything in your life,’ she returned, nettled by the angry gleam in his eye, and by the rudeness concealed beneath his polite words.
‘Oh, you are mistaken there,’ he said; and for a moment she had a glimpse of something much deeper than a well-dressed man with nothing better to do than knock people off their bicycles.
It reminded her of another similar change of atmosphere the previous day, when he had been about to pull her bicycle out of the mud, and had said, "I’ve been dirtier". She had the strange feeling there was more to Mr Evington than met the eye.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘Well, Mr Evington,’ said Cicely at last, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. ‘You have made my acquaintance and issued your invitation. If there is nothing further, I have some letters to write.’
She spoke awkwardly, feeling she was being rude to dismiss him in such a hasty manner, but knowing that she was not equal to continuing the conversation. There was something about Mr Alex Evington that she found profoundly disturbing, and she did not trust herself to be in his company another minute. She went over to the mantelpiece and pulled the bell.
That Would Be a Fairy Tale Page 3
