Honey Pot

by Mira Stables

  “I think you under-rate yourself, child. And it is only your kind heart that prompts you to make light of your difficult position. But you have not answered me. If you will not marry me, what will you do?”

  “I shall join Papa in Rome,” she returned promptly, for it would not do to seem at a loss. “It is only until Joanna is safely married, you know. Then I can return to England and live retired in some quiet spot where no one knows me. It should be easy to make Papa’s health the reason for my prolonged sojourn abroad, for his constitution was never robust and his earlier excesses”—She blushed, and falted into silence. The trouble with talking to James—to Mr Cameron—was that it was all too easy to say just what came into one’s head, regardless of convention.

  He ignored the impropriety. “Sentencing yourself to a living death,” he said morosely, “and all to be set to my account. If you were determined on revenge, Miss Ingram, you must be satisfied that you have it now.”

  She was silent. She did not want revenge of course. She wanted nothing so much as to say yes to his offer. But only if he loved and wanted her, not because in common decency he had been obliged to make it. And they had gone over it all again and again until she was unutterably weary. So she let the accusation pass unchallenged. If he thought so poorly of her it might lessen his burden of guilt. But not even to ease his conscience would she consent to a loveless marriage. Spinster boredom would be more bearable.

  Unfortunately Mr Cameron was not a man to give up easily, especially when inclination chimed so sweetly with duty. He said, though with painful diffidence, “I would ask nothing of you that you did not choose to give. And if it is the prospect of living in Scotland that is unacceptable to you, I will abandon the scheme. I ask only that you should consent to bear my name.”

  It was no small sacrifice. Perhaps he was not so deeply attached to the home of his ancestors as his father and his grandfather had been, yet he had planned to build his life around the bringing of fresh health and vigour to their deserted holdings. But while Russet appreciated the cost of the gesture, the thought of a marriage in name only was painful beyond endurance.

  She said quietly, “If I were your wife I would wish to go to Scotland with you; to share the task with all its difficulties, its duties and its rewards. But I will not marry without love. And you, when you have a little recovered from your orgy of guilt, will remember that the House of Cameron will need an heir to ensure that the good work goes on, and will not speak so irresponsibly of marriage or of your chosen work.”

  In the face of such stern rebuke he could only bow that proud head and submit. He said slowly, “Very well. Will you at least permit me to charge myself with the conduct of your journey to Rome? I would like to see you safely lodged with your father, and myself explain to him the reason for the delay in your arrival. Who knows,” he added with a wry little smile that tugged at her heart, “what dangers you might encounter on even so simple a journey?”

  It meant that their final leave-taking would be painfully protracted, but if it would bring him some measure of comfort she would not refuse.

  “That offer I will accept most gratefully,” she said gently, “and shall be thankful to leave all the arrangements in such capable hands.”

  “On the principle of setting a thief to catch a thief?” he mocked, and then, suddenly serious, “I beg that you will also accept this small—memento—of your recent adventures. I had intended it as a farewell gift, which, indeed, it is. You could not take Jai to Italy, you know. Even if I gave her to you—and I should be reluctant to give up my own memento of our acquaintance—she could never endure the heat of August in those climes. This little beast”—he tugged the Chinese dog from his pocket—“will accept any climatic changes with true Oriental imperturbability. And I hope you will catch the fleeting resemblance that caused me to buy it.”

  She looked down at the quaint little figure, her eyes blurred by helpless tears. Why could he not have loved her? Others had done so. But the one to whom she had given her heart could give her only kindness in return. She murmured a few stumbling phrases of appreciation and thanks—she hardly knew what—and he, supposing her distress to be caused by the impending parting with her much-loved Jai, hastened to distract her thoughts by enquiring if she would, in truth, like to spend the next two nights with the Sheridans.

  “They are the people at the farm,” he explained, “where we buy our butter and cream. They believe themselves to be under some kind of obligation to me—quite unnecessarily. When the Furzedown estate came to be sold, the farm went with this house. I had no particular need of it, while the Sheridans had been scrimping and saving all their lives to be able to buy if the opportunity ever arose. Their gratitude over my willingness to sell to them was quite excessive. They would be only too happy to oblige me by taking you in, and I think you would be comfortable there. They are simple folk but very kind.” He smiled. “And would lie valiantly in support of any tale that I chose to put about.”

  But Russet said that she would prefer to stay on at Furze House, making a rather feeble excuse about the nuisance of packing and unpacking for just two days. “And I could not bear to part from Phoebe before I must,” she added more convincingly. And then, striving for a lighter note, “Do you know, I had it in mind from the very first to persuade Phoebe to enter my service permanently? And that I even contemplated nurturing a romance between her and Matt, not knowing they were already wed.”

  He smiled politely over that, then begged her to excuse him from dining with her that night. “I must leave all my affairs in train before I escort you overseas,” he explained. “If I set out for Town at once I can save a whole day.”

  Russet would have liked to protest. He had already ridden to Southampton that day and must be tired. Surely one day could not make so much difference. But as she had dismissed him so firmly and finally perhaps he felt some embarrassment in her society. Certainly there could be no possibility of reverting to their recent easy companionship. She resigned herself to a lonely evening.

  She went early to bed and cried herself to sleep, clutching to her an unresponsive yellow china dog, precious because it was his gift. And as though to mark the ending of her idyll the next day brought rain, keeping her to the house, where she spent a miserable time in supervising Ameera’s preparations for her departure. Only the naughtiness of Jai, lacking her usual exercise and bursting with energy and mischief, served to lighten her black depression. She kept the pup with her that night, despite Heaton’s gloomy warning about pampering and Phoebe’s freely expressed disapproval of dogs in bedrooms. At least it was warm and living. It leaned against her knees in a companionable way and its great dark eyes expressed dumb sympathy with her incomprehensible grief.

  Next day she felt a little more cheerful. There were gleams of watery sunshine that permitted outdoor excursions for girl and pup. She even ventured to hope that Mr Cameron might have dispatched his business with unexpected rapidity and would return by nightfall. But the dinner hour came and went without any bustle of arrival. She had to content herself with the reflection that she could count upon his returning tomorrow as he himself had reckoned.

  The sound of hoofs beating a rapid tattoo on the drive, long awaited, eventually took her by surprise. It was so much earlier than she had expected—barely noon. Her heart seemed to quicken its beat in sympathy with the rhythm, for there was something ominous about it. What should cause Mr Cameron, notoriously considerate of his horse, to arrive at a full gallop? Whenever they had ridden together he had been most insistent about bringing the horses in cool.

  Her impatience, her sudden springing anxiety, could not be bridled by convention. She made the best speed she could to the stable yard to find out for herself. There, indeed, was a steaming, jaded horse, head a-droop. But the rider who had just flung himself from the saddle was not Mr Cameron but the groom who had gone with him, and Herrick and most of the stable staff, alarmed as Russet had been by the unusual nature of his arrival, had
abandoned their duties to gather round him with anxious enquiries.

  As Russet came up she heard the man say, “Warned ’im, I did, that ’twas risky, setting out so late. And now look at what’s come of it. Nothing would do for ’im but to get ’ome last night. The doctor says ’e’s not fit to be moved. Lorst a lot o’blood and like to be in ’igh fever by nightfall. But ’e’s awake and clear in the ’ead and ’e sez ’e’s going ’ome. So I’ve come for the carriage and Mrs ’errick, wot’s better than any nurse, to go and fetch ’im.”

  Unconsciously Russet pressed both hands to her breast as though to subdue the agitated beating of her heart, but her voice was quiet and controlled as she stepped into the circle of listeners and said, “Something amiss? Has Mr Cameron met with an accident?”

  The circle opened to admit her, the eager questioners falling silent, the groom tugging nervously at his forelock, then expanding into volubility as he temporarily forgot his genuine concern for his master in his own brief importance.

  “Not to say a haccident, miss,” he began. “We was set upon by ’ighwaymen. Just coming down towards Hambledon. Three of ’em, the leader yelling at us to stand and ’and over the dibs. The master was riding Flying Fox and ’e made pretence that the beast was out o’ control, rearing and such, while ’e worked ’is pistol out o’ the ’olster. But one o’ them spotted what ’e was at and let fly. The shot took the Fox low in the neck. Then the other two joined in and there was a reg’lar flurry o’ shots. I was that mazed I couldn’t rightly say just ’ow it ’appened. I’d got me own barkin’ iron out by then, and I reckon I winged one o’ the bast—sorry, miss, one o’ them. Then the master was down, hanging over the Fox’s neck and one o’ the highwaymen was sprawled in the dust. The other made off, and the fellow I’d hit went after ’im. I ’ad to let ’em go ’cos I’d all on to see to the master, ’oo was bleeding like a stuck pig, and which way they went I couldn’t rightly say. The poor old Fox went down and I just managed to drag the master out o’ the saddle before ’e rolled over and pinned ’im. Did my best to stop the bleeding—the master, not the Fox, ’e’d gorn—but with only my shirt and neckcloth to tie ’im up with I doubt it was a botched job. ’E came to just as I was finishing and between us we managed to get ’im up on Jemima”—he nodded at his exhausted mount—“but what with leading the mare and trying to ’old ’im in the saddle, and main afraid as ’e’d break out bleeding again, I thought I’d never get ’im into shelter. And then we ’ad a stroke o’ luck. A gig came down the road and overtook us, and damme if it weren’t Doctor Unwin. Our own doctor, miss, as used to attend ’er ladyship. Never so glad to see ’pothecary in all my puff!”

  There was a concerted sigh of relief from the attentive listeners. Herrick, irascible in his anxiety, said shortly, “Taken your time getting here, haven’t you?”

  “We’d to get the master to shelter first,” protested the groom, “and then the doctor ’ad to get the bullet out of ’im. Seemed a long time,” he muttered inadequately, recalling how the doctor had sworn at him for a clumsy oaf and bewailed aloud the fate that had directed them to a womanless household and given him a ’misbegotten moon-calf with two left feet where his hands should have been’ as his sole assistant; for the schoolmaster upon whose hospitality they had thrust themselves was one that couldn’t abide the sight of blood without swooning.

  But despite his curses the doctor had recognised the groom’s willingness and devotion. Once he had done all he could for his patient, he had not hesitated to leave the lad in charge. Mr Cameron was unlikely to rouse. If he did, he could be given the draught which the doctor would leave for him and water or tea to drink if he was thirsty. Not wine. The doctor himself must return to the patient who had called him out. For he was attending a lying-in. An awkward cross-birth, too, though the groom, with a respectful glance at Russet, did not embark on these intimate details at this point. He must get back at once, but as soon as the child was safely delivered and he had snatched a few hours’ sleep he would return to see how Mr Cameron did.

  He had done so, to find Mr Cameron conscious, though very weak, and determined to be conveyed to his own establishment without loss of time.

  “And it’s taken you till now to get here, even with galloping the mare into a lather?” grunted Herrick. “Lost your way, I suppose.”

  “I couldn’t leave until the doctor gave the word,” protested the lad. “And ’e said as ’ow I must go with ’im first to make a deepo—something in front of a magistrate.”

  “A deposition,” put in Russet quietly. “Saying just what had happened, so that possibly the malefactors might be apprehended.”

  “That’s it, miss,” agreed the groom gratefully. “Though I don’t know nothing about no mallyfactors. I just ’ad to say what ’appened and give my affy-davy like I was in a court o’ law. But then ’e asks a lot o’ questions about the b-begging your pardon, miss, about what our hassailants looked like, and that’s what delayed me.” This with a resentful scowl at Herrick.

  “I guess you did pretty well at that,” grunted that worthy. “Couldn’t ha’ done any better meself, though I’m downright nattered to think of such a thing happening and me not by to lend a hand.” At which handsome amends the groom’s expression lightened, and when Russet added gently that she thought he had done very well indeed he blushed bashfully and stammered out a few incoherent phrases about only doing his duty and the master being a great gun.

  If Russet had ever wondered fleetingly in just what light Mr Cameron’s servants regarded her, the next half hour provided comforting reassurance. They had always treated her with respect, but that might be only the outcome of good training—and Ahmed Khan was a stern disciplinarian. Now they turned to her—even Ahmed Khan himself—for advice and comfort. And in giving it she eased her own sore heart and stifled her fears. She would dearly have loved to go with Matt and Phoebe to bring the master home, but a moment’s rational consideration showed her that there was nothing he would dislike more. To be exposing herself to public scrutiny and comment when he had been at such pains to protect her good name that he had even offered to marry her! She contented herself instead with suggesting that Herrick should try if the ‘doolie’ could be fitted into the coach since it would add considerably to the invalid’s comfort, and with helping Phoebe to collect pillows and rugs. Benjy, the young groom, begged leave to go too, to act as guide, and though his services were quite unnecessary, Herrick, repenting of his earlier severity, assented.

  In Phoebe’s absence she earnestly debated invalid diets with Ahmed Khan and the cook, suggesting that chickens should be killed for the preparation of sustaining broths and the finest brandy looked out in case desperate measures were required. And in her secret heart one tiny seed of comfort grew and strengthened her. This mishap must delay her own departure. Perhaps she would be permitted to help nurse him—at least to bear him company when he was convalescent.

  She would not permit her mind to dwell on any outcome other than convalescence and eventual recovery. He was in the prime of life and vigorous health. He had been singularly fortunate in receiving prompt and skilled medical attention, and if the doctor had thought his state serious he would have returned to the patient’s side a good deal earlier than he had, in fact, done. It was not even as though he was a stranger. If Mr Cameron or any of his household had needed the services of a doctor, presumably it would have been Doctor Unwin who was summoned. She could be sure that her beloved had received every care and attention. Beyond that she would not think.

  And perhaps—just perhaps—in his weakness and dependence, he might turn to her at last in love.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I cannot like it,” pronounced Doctor Unwin gravely. “The inflammation has subsided and the wound is beginning to heal just as it should. But there is a lassitude that becomes alarming. One must remember that Mr Cameron has spent a good deal of his life in the Orient. There are diseases, fevers, with which we are unfamiliar. But I have heard
theories that they may lie dormant in the blood for many years, only to become active and virulent when the patient is weakened by some other illness or, as in this case, by loss of blood.”

  Russet and Phoebe, who had shared the nursing, nodded sober understanding. The doctor, delighted to have so intelligent and cooperative an audience, proceeded to enlarge on his theme.

  “In such a case it is of the first importance to build up the patient’s strength and to keep up his spirits. For the first we may rely upon suitable nourishment and the healing power of sleep. At the moment it is the second which is causing me concern. As a man of science I do not subscribe to superstition. I am no believer in evil omens and premonitions. But Mr Cameron’s preoccupation with the orderly arrangement of his worldly affairs appears to me to be morbid. It is the only matter to which he has given a thought since he was brought—much against my advice—back to Furze House. Indeed, the only occasion upon which I have seen him show signs of animation was when his attorney was announced.”

  “I believe him to be anxious to complete the purchase of an estate in Scotland,” offered Russet tentatively.

  The doctor shook his head. “That may be so. But on this occasion he made no secret of the fact that it was the drawing of a new Will that concerned him. That, and the arrival of some document that he had instructed his attorney to procure for him. Not a healthy attitude. A man may change his Will if he so chooses. But to be doing so when he is lying on a sick bed is depressing to the spirits and not to be encouraged. If he was at death’s door it would be understandable, but until this strange fancy took possession of his mind he was making good progress.”