Then came the task of cleaning up the mess the explosion had left in its wake. It seemed to take forever to sort things out, despite the number of willing helpers who lent a hand, but at last it was done. The repairs to the Lodge, however, would take longer. Cicely sighed. She had been hoping perhaps at a later date to employ a maid to help her in the house for one day a week, but now anything left over from her wages would have to go on setting the Lodge to rights.
There was no use worrying about it, however. She was fortunate that she had a roof over her head for the coming week: Alex had seen to that. In one way at least, she no longer dreaded it. She had now visited the Manor so many times since moving out of it that she could go back as a guest without being troubled by the situation, and knowing that Gibson was also welcome took a great weight off her mind. But in another way it filled her with apprehension. Alex had said she had nothing to fear from him. But living in the same house as him, sleeping under the same roof - who knew what complications it would bring?
What shall I wear? thought Cicely an hour later, as she looked at her few good clothes, which she had spread out on the bed. True, they were well made and, having been bought before she had known her father had run up such huge debts, they had been expensive. But they were too few to last her for seven days.
Clothes were the least of her problems, she reminded herself. She would just have to make her outfits do.
Leaving Tom to wheel her valise round to the Manor on the hand cart, she set out to walk up the drive. As she approached the Manor she saw what a difference had already come over it. Three Daimlers were parked in the turning circle, which in her father’s time had seen nothing faster than a carriage. The sound of chatter and laughter floated out of the open windows. Steeling herself to face a throng of unknown people, Cicely rang the bell.
The door was opened by the butler, and to Cicely’s relief she saw that the hall was all but empty. She was greeted politely, and shown up to one of the guest rooms.
It seemed strange not to be sleeping in her old room, but in a way she was glad. It would have raised too many echoes of the past. The guest room was small, but overlooked the front of the house. Cicely was just opening the window when Alice bounded in.
‘I say, Cicely, isn’t this wonderful!’ she exclaimed, as she looked round the room. ‘Quite like old times.’
‘Old times were never like this,’ said Cicely. ‘A house full of guests, and an army of servants to wait on them.’
‘Well, no, your father never did like entertaining.’ She paused. ‘Is it very difficult for you, being at the Manor again?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No. I have grown used to it,’ said Cicely. She gave Alice an affectionate smile, and her eyes twinkled. ‘So you are free to enjoy yourself!’
‘Oh, Cicely, I’m so pleased. I wouldn’t have wanted to be happy if you were not, but it is rather wonderful. All the people and all the glamour. Mother is so excited.’
‘Where is she?’ enquired Cicely.
‘In the east wing. In fact, mother has had an idea.’
Cicely looked at Alice enquiringly.
‘About our evening dresses. I only have three, and I know you’re the same, but it is mother’s idea that if we swap them between ourselves we will each end up with six different gowns to wear.’
‘And as we are only here for seven evenings, that means a different gown for nearly every evening,’ said Cicely, delighted with the idea.
‘And not only that. Mother has raided her workbasket and found several lengths of lace, together with a selection of silk flowers and a number of ribbon bows. By adding a few extra trims to each gown, or indeed by removing a few, she can make them seem different.’
Cicely nodded appreciatively. ‘Unless anyone is looking closely, they are not likely to notice that the green silk gown I wear on Monday is the same as the green silk you wear on Friday, particularly if it has a different trim. We will appear to be as well dressed as any of the other guests.’
‘Apart from our lack of morning dresses and tea gowns,’ giggled Alice.
‘We will just have to hope Mr Evington’s guests are more interested in their own appearances than ours!’ At that moment the gong was struck in the hall. ‘Goodness! I’d forgotten how loud it sounds,’ said Cicely, who had left the gong behind when she had moved to the Lodge.
‘Time to dress for dinner,’ said Alice. ‘I will see you downstairs.’
She ran lightly out of the room, almost bumping into a maid, who had just arrived.
‘The master’s compliments, miss,’ said the maid to Cicely as Alice departed. ‘I’ve come to help you dress.’
Cicely felt a warm feeling wash over her at this evidence of Mr Evington’s - Alex’s - unexpected thoughtfulness.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
With the help of the maid she washed and changed, putting on one of her three evening gowns. It was an exquisite creation, made for Cicely by a talented local dressmaker who had once worked for the great Doucet in Paris. Made of the palest pink chiffon it floated around her delicate curves as she dropped it over her head. The maid arranged it over her lace-trimmed petticoat before fastening it at the back, whereupon it draped itself elegantly around Cicely’s trim waist before flowing down over her hips and falling in a swirling cascade to the floor.
The maid then arranged her hair in a simple pompadour, piling her hair on top of her head and leaving her neck and shoulders bare.
There came a knock at the door, and Alice entered. She was dressed in a gown of pale primrose brocade, her slender waist accentuated with a white sash.
‘Are you ready to go down?’ she asked.
Cicely fastened a pair of pearl earrings in her ears and pulled on her long white evening gloves. ‘I am.’
Cicely was apprehensive as they went downstairs. Although she had accustomed herself to being at the Manor when she worked there, it was different to visit it en fête. The hall below her was full of the most elegant people. The ladies in exquisite evening gowns, all décolleté and swishing trains, conversed with gentlemen in evening dress. The gay conversation met Cicely and Alice at the half landing. Bright bursts of laughter punctuated the hubbub, and there was an atmosphere of enjoyment and good humour.
‘This is how the Manor was meant to be,’ murmured Cicely. For a moment she was transported back in time, to the days of her early childhood when her mother had been alive. Her parents had often entertained then, and thrown parties that were the talk of the neighbourhood. But after her mother’s death her father had retreated into his own hobbies, and had cut off all but the most basic contact with the outside world.
Cicely and Alice reached the bottom of the stairs and were joined by Mrs Babbage, who was evidently enjoying herself. She had dressed herself in her best clothes and was making the most of the unexpected frivolity.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ breathed Alice, looking round at all the lace and jewels in awe.
They went through into the drawing-room, where Cicely’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to Alex. Immaculately dressed in a black tailcoat, wing-collared shirt, bow tie and tailored trousers, he looked magnificent. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, revealing the masculine lines of his cheek and jaw. He had more character than anyone Cicely had ever met, and it showed on his face, being etched into the lines around his eyes to give his face interest and depth.
And then her eyes drifted to his companion and her heart stopped. For next to Alex was a statuesque beauty who held herself like a queen, and who was holding on to his arm with a distinctly proprietorial air.
Cicely felt a twist inside her. She was totally unprepared for it, and only just managed to stifle a gasp. She couldn’t be jealous, could she? Alex was entitled to offer his arm to one of his guests; indeed, good manners made it imperative that he do so. He was even entitled to be in love with the full-figured beauty, she realised with a sinking feeling, noting the way his arm encircled the Amazon’s waist.
At tha
t moment he turned and saw her. A warm smile washed over his face, and it lit Cicely inside. Against all reason she was delighted that he was pleased to see her.
Excusing himself to his companion, he walked across the drawing-room to welcome her.
‘Cicely, I’m so pleased you could come.’ Hs eyes lingered on her face. Then, as if remembering himself, he turned to Alice and her mother and made them welcome.
‘Oh, we are so pleased to be here!’ said Alice, looking up at him adoringly.
Mrs Babbage was similarly smitten, though she was better at hiding it than her daughter.
‘Let me introduce you to some of my other guests.’
He introduced them to the statuesque beauty, Miss Postlethwaite. With her elegantly coiffured dark hair, voluptuous figure, great height and majestic bearing, she reminded Cicely of the Wertheimer sisters, whose likeness had been caught so well by the painter John Singer Sargent a few years earlier. Like them, Miss Postlethwaite was the epitome of elegance and glamour.
Miss Postlethwaite greeted them politely, before moving gracefully away to talk to the other guests.
More introductions followed, and Cicely soon found herself the centre of a group of agreeable people, all of whom knew nothing of her exploding range and accepted her as just another of Alex’s guests.
‘If you’ll allow me,’ said Mr Stirling to Cicely as the dinner gong rang, ‘I’m to have the pleasure of taking you into dinner.’
‘Of course,’ said Cicely politely, her eyes unconsciously straying to Alex, who was escorting an elderly dowager into the dining-room. She felt her spirits lift. How stupid of her, to be so affected by such a little thing. For she had thought he would go into dinner with Miss Postlethwaite, and was ridiculously pleased when he did not.
Alice and Mrs Babbage were similarly escorted into the dining-room, and all three ladies took their places at the long table.
Mr Stirling was good company, and he and Cicely passed the meal pleasantly by talking about their favourite books.
‘I didn’t know you were a fan of Sherlock Holmes,’ said Alex, joining Cicely after dinner, when coffee was served in the drawing-room.
‘Oh. Yes, I am,’ said Cicely. She and Mr Stirling had talked about the splendid stories over dinner, and Mr Stirling had obviously mentioned the fact to Alex.
‘I didn’t notice any of Conan Doyle’s stories in the library,’ he said.
Cicely gave a mischievous smile. ‘That’s because I took them all with me!’
He laughed. ‘How are you settling in at the Manor?’ he asked. ‘Is your room to your liking? I haven’t had a chance to ask you before now.’
‘Yes, thank you, it is.’
‘Because if you would like another one you have only to say.’
‘No. I am very comfortable where I am.’
He was about to speak when one of his guests hailed him from across the room. ‘I say, Evington, what about a game of billiards.’
‘I’m afraid that will be impossible,’ he said.
‘Impossible? Pish!’ said the young man. ‘Nothing’s impossible.’
‘I’m afraid this is. You see, there’s no billiard room.’
‘What? No billiard room. Good Lord! You’ll have to hurry up and build one then.’
Cicely turned away. In one way she could not take exception to what the young man had said, for most country houses had billiard rooms. But it hurt her to have the Manor’s inadequacies spoken of. She knew it needed bringing up to date, but she loved it anyway, and although she could now enter it without feeling a loss of spirits, and had indeed enjoyed seeing it en fête, she did not like to hear it belittled.
Looking up, she caught Alex’s eye in the mirror. He was looking at her curiously, as though wondering what had brought the sudden look of pain to her face. But there was more than curiosity in his eyes. There was an unmistakeable gleam of tender concern as well.
Fortunately, Alice came up to her at that moment and distracted her, forcing her to break eye contact with Alex and give her attention to the other guests. Otherwise she might have been guilty of giving way to wholly inappropriate feelings . . . feelings that were becoming increasingly hard to deny.
She saw no more of Alex that evening, and as she undressed for bed later that evening she was grateful for it, because as she finally blew out the candle - the gas lighting not reaching this part of the house - she realized that staying at the Manor was going to cause her difficulties she had not foreseen. Not only was it going to bring her into contact with Alex every single day, but it was also going to force her to acknowledge her unfortunate reaction to the beautiful Miss Postlethwaite, whose statuesque image haunted her until she fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
Alex was up early the following morning. Although most of his guests thought the forthcoming ball was nothing more than a housewarming gesture, there was one person who knew that it had been arranged in order to snare the man who had almost ruined his sister’s life by framing her for a theft she didn’t commit. That person was Miss Eugenie Postlethwaite - or, as she was more usually and correctly known, Mrs Eugenie Dortmeyer.
Alex went down to the library as soon as he was dressed. He had arranged to meet Eugenie at half past seven. As the long-case clock struck the half hour the door opened and Eugenie, looking magnificent in a long tailored skirt and high-necked blouse, entered the room.
‘Eugenie.’ Alex smiled. Taking her hands, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘It was good of you to get out of bed so early. I thought we had better meet at this hour so that we would not be in any danger of being interrupted by any of the other guests.’
Eugenie returned his greeting. ‘I understand.’
‘In fact, it was good of you to come to the house party at all,’ he said, indicating a chair for Eugenie and then, when she had settled, sitting down himself. ‘Especially at such short notice.’
‘To help you catch that rat I’d have come a lot further,’ she said, not mincing her words. ‘And done it at the drop of a hat.’
There was a hint of an American twang in her voice. After growing up in the same neighbourhood as Alex, Eugenie had set out to explore the world. She had fallen in love with, and eventually married, Hyram Dortmeyer, an American magnate, and now spent most of her time in Boston or London. But she had responded to Alex’s plea for help and had been only too happy to join him at the Manor.
She ran her eyes appreciatively round Alex’s study, taking in the splendid book shelves and large mahogany desk before turning to look out of the French windows. ‘You’ve found a beautiful place here,’ she said, as her eyes roved over the sweeping lawns.
‘Yes. It’s perfect.’
‘It’s lucky your Miss Haringay had to sell.’
‘My Miss Haringay?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘She is not my Miss Haringay.’
‘No?’ Eugenie gave him a knowing look.
He returned her gaze. ‘No.’
‘That’s funny. From the way you were looking at her -’ began Eugenie.
‘And what do you mean by that?’ he interrupted.
She laughed. ‘Why, nothing, Alex . . . except that every time you look at her your eyes smoulder and your hands clench, as though you want to sweep her off her feet and carry her up to the bedroom,’ remarked Eugenie with a mischievous look in her eye.
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