Very well, she thought, delaying tactics: gave careful orders to the servants, and went to bed.
Caroline woke to sunshine and the sound of birds. Late birds. This was no dawn song. She lay for a few moments, collecting herself, aware of stiffness, of sore feet, of a great reluctance to move. But she must. Mattingley might be home this evening, his mother had said. She must be well away before then, off to town to confront her mother.
She did not want to go. They might say things they would both regret. But she must. Go to her father first? Well, why not? She reached out and rang the bell. Mrs Mattingley had ordered breakfast in bed, and she was grateful for the respite.
Dressed at last in a severe riding outfit worn by a much younger Mrs Mattingley, she put on the soft slippers that were all she could wear and went downstairs to seek out her hostess.
‘There you are, my dear. Did you sleep well? Are you sure you are strong enough to go back to London?’ She wished now that she had sent for the doctor. Caroline looked transparent with strain.
‘Oh, yes. I must. If you really can spare me the carriage?’
‘Of course, but I am afraid you will have to wait a little. One of the horses has cast a shoe and we’ve no smith on the place. It won’t be long, and it will give us time to get together a basket of goodies for Granny Biggs.’
‘Granny Biggs? Oh, I’m ashamed. I must go and thank her.’
‘I thought you’d want to. I’ve told Smart to get a few things together. Come and see the gardens while we wait. You will be glad of a breath of air before you start on your journey.’
‘Are you well enough? I should have asked…’
‘I’m myself again today. You’ve done me good.’ It was true, but she wished Mattingley would come. I’m old, she thought, I want things settled.
The gardens lay behind the house, sloping away to the East, and they walked together into morning sunshine.
‘This is the knot garden.’ Mrs Mattingley bent to pick a sprig of lavender and hand it to Caroline. ‘Charles had it put in order for me when he came of age. He’s a good son.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Caroline said warmly, and then, ‘Oh!’ They had come out from among trim, strong-smelling box hedges to where the slope grew suddenly steeper down towards a little stream that ran along the bottom of the valley.
‘It’s Charles’ new project,’ said his mother. ‘He’s been busy with it all spring. A wild garden, he says.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘You do recognise it? I’m glad. I told Charles no one would for years, but I’m delighted to be proved wrong. Yes, it’s the wild garden at Merton from your husband’s last canto. You think it will do?’
‘Oh, yes,’ breathed Caroline. And then, ‘Mrs Mattingley, do you think the carriage will be ready now?’
They kissed each other goodbye and Mrs Mattingley felt Caroline close to tears, and longed to urge her to stay. Instead, ‘Give my thanks to Granny Biggs,’ she said. ‘And you won’t mind it, my dear, if the coachman does one errand for me while you are with her?’
‘Of course not.’ What else could she say?
Mattingley reached Hallam House half an hour later, dust-stained and haggard from his two days’ desperate search for Caroline. Having overshot them at Upper Hallam, he had never even encountered Comfrey, and had been at his wits’ end when his mother’s messenger caught up with him.
‘Mother!’ She was waiting at the door. ‘She’s here? She’s safe?’
‘Safe, Charles, but not here. She felt she must go back to London and face her mother.’
‘Damnation! You could not make her stay?’
‘She’s not someone one makes do things, I’m glad to say. As Giles Comfrey found, thank God.’
‘How did she get away from him?’
‘Walked. But she’ll tell you.’
‘I thought you said—’
‘She only left half an hour ago, Charles. She’s gone to see Granny Biggs on her way to town.’
‘Granny Biggs?’
‘She spent the night with her. Night before last. After she walked away from Comfrey. I sent her to say thank you, and told the coachman to leave her there for an hour or so. She’ll be getting restless now. You had better hurry or she’ll walk off again. That’s a very determined young woman.’ She put out a hand to detain him. ‘Just one thing, before you rush after her. Don’t take anything for granted, Charles.’
‘No.’ He was controlling his impatience with a visible effort.
‘She’s decided to live in a cottage and write poetry.’
‘Has she, by God?’ She had his full attention now.
‘Yes. And if you bully her, she’ll do it.’
‘Bully her? I?’
‘Yes, Charles. You. Now, off you go and bring her back to me. I like her, Charles. I like her very much.’
‘That’s lucky.’ He kissed her warmly and strode back down the steps to where his curricle waited. ‘You, Frank!’ The man from Chevenham House was holding the horses’ heads. ‘It’s the end of the chase. You had better come too.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Bored with her visitor, Granny Biggs presently drifted off into a light doze, and Caroline left the basket beside her and went out into the lane to watch for the carriage. There was actually some warmth in the sun and she lifted her head to take deep breaths of spring air. Charles Mattingley had made her garden, the one she had happily written into her last canto. That was what he had been doing all the long winter while she sat in the fog in London. Why? And how did he know it was her garden, not Tremadoc’s? Could he have been to Llanfryn? Could he have seen it there? Or was her description in that last canto really so good? Giles had never recognised the garden, and Giles had grown up in it.
Giles. She looked up, listening. That was not the heavy Hallam House carriage. That was something much lighter, faster. Giles? She looked up and down the narrow lane, then at the cottage. No, I won’t hide. I’m tired of running away.
She stood there, chin up, waiting as the curricle swept dangerously round the corner and Mattingley pulled his horses to a savage stop.
‘I thought you were Giles!’
‘I nearly ran you down.’ He threw the reins to the man from Chevenham House. And then, jumping down. ‘Giles Comfrey? You were waiting for him?’
She smiled at him. ‘I was going to tell him what I thought of him.’ And then, ‘You’ve seen your mother? You know?’
‘I knew before that.’ He had taken her arm and started them forward down the lane, away from the cottage. ‘Your mother told me. God, it seems a lifetime! I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Looking for me? What did my mother say?’
‘That you’d gone off with Giles Comfrey.’
‘But you didn’t believe her? You came looking for me?’
‘Caroline, I nearly did. Believe her. I was so angry. So wretched. I nearly left you to your fate.’ He laughed. ‘But you saved yourself. My mother says you just walked away from him.’ He looked down at her. ‘You’re lame!’
‘A little.’ She paused. ‘This is a very strange conversation.’
‘Yes. You were going back to London?’
‘I am going back to London.’
‘To face your mother?’
‘And my father.’
‘As you were going to face Giles Comfrey?’
‘Yes.’
He put both hands on her shoulders and looked down at her. ‘Do you need to?’
‘I thought I did.’ She met his eyes squarely.
‘Do they matter?’
‘I don’t know. She is my mother.’
‘And Comfrey was your publisher. We’ll have to find you a new one. My mother says you are going to live in a cottage, and write.’
‘Yes.’
‘Caroline.’ His hands were urgent on her shoulders. ‘Would you consider living in Hallam House and writing? It’s not a cottage…’
‘No. You’re making my garden.’
&
nbsp; ‘You recognised it?’
‘Oh, yes, Charles, I recognised it.’
‘Caroline!’
‘Charles!’ His arms around her were the most natural thing in the world. His kiss was like nothing that had ever happened to her: a beginning, an ending, a whole new life…
‘I have asked you twice before.’ He looked down at her at last, the smile she remembered in his eyes. ‘Is third time to be lucky, Caroline?’
‘I hope so.’ And then, an ecstatic, endless while later. ‘Charles, do you know we are in full sight of your curricle? And can you tell me why you have a man from Chevenham House with you?’
‘That’s not a man,’ he told her, his arms still firm around her, ‘that’s an angel. It was he told me you thought you were going to Llanfryn, not Gretna.’
‘He’s a very amused angel at the moment. Perhaps we should go and thank him. But, first — Charles?’
‘Yes, my love?’
‘You really understand? When I saw the garden, I thought you must. But how did you know?’
‘That you were the poet? My darling, I am not entirely a fool. When you came once a week and sat in John Gerard’s library and picked my brains, I had the advantage of you; I knew who you were. Then I read your husband’s poem and found myself quoted so extensively…so flatteringly. Well…I wondered. But it was your last canto that settled it. Do you remember consulting me about Aboukir Bay? I offered to look at the notes you’d taken from Tremadoc’s dictation, and you blushed crimson and looked like a naughty child. How I longed to kiss you.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Do you know, our tactful angel has turned the other way?’ This time the kiss was longer, easier, a whole wordless conversation. ‘I think I’ve loved you always,’ he said at last.
‘Always?’
‘Yes. Ever since that first night at Chevenham House. Only, for a while, I could not see it.’
‘Because of the Duchess?’
‘Yes, Caroline, because of the Duchess. You’ll not mind it?’
‘I loved her too.’
‘I know. I’m glad. She was such a loving person, Caroline.’
‘And so unhappy. I’m glad you gave her some happiness, Charles.’ She pulled away a little to look up at him. ‘Do you think they will marry now?’
‘The Duke and your mother? I expect so. She’s a very clever woman. But it will be no concern of ours.’
‘None at all. I do like your mother.’ It was very far from being a non sequitur.
‘And she you, my darling. I’m a very lucky man.’ He traced the fine line of her eyebrow with a loving fingertip. ‘There’s just one thing: Do you want me to kill Giles Comfrey?’
‘Good gracious, no! He’s got troubles enough as it is. He didn’t even want to marry me, you know. That’s why the whole abduction was so absurd.’
‘Caroline, you’re laughing. I love you.’ But he thought she was near tears too. ‘I would have killed him if…’
‘Don’t. Let’s not talk about it. Only…one thing I thought of when he told me where we were going. I think he’s your blackmailer, Charles.’
‘You know about that!’
‘He told me. And there was something about the way he told me…’ Safe in his arms, she smiled up at Mattingley. ‘Charles, why do you think he wanted so desperately to marry me?’
‘Not for your beaux yeux, you think?’ He kissed her again, in a friendly spirit this time. ‘How good it is to like you so much as well as loving you, love. And as to your poor Giles, I think he’s near bankruptcy. Put all his publishing eggs in one basket and has been on the thinnest ice since Tremadoc died. And, another thing, I heard some talk about your mother-in-law the other day. A downy old bird, someone was calling her. Do you think she might have saved more of her fortune from the crash than she let her son know?’
‘Of course! Mr James, the lawyer, called me an heiress once and I remember thinking it was an odd word to choose. He and Giles were very thick; I expect he told him. That explains everything!’ She laughed. ‘Not my beaux yeux, my expectations! How very unflattering.’
‘Very like Giles Comfrey. As to the money, no need for you to take it if you don’t want to. I’ve enough for us both, and then there will be your earnings which I imagine must be considerable. I expect Comfrey had that in mind too. He must surely have seen how the land lay.’
‘Oh, no, he had no idea. He just hoped we were going to be able to go on cashing in on the publicity for a while. That was all. Charles, would you mind if I took Mrs Tremadoc’s money after all? I…I sort of promised her…’
‘Promised her?’ He touched her cheek with a loving finger. ‘What a delicious blusher you are! Come on, love, chin up, and break it to me gently. What in the world did you promise that old tartar?’
‘I didn’t exactly promise. She told me…She thought there was to be a child. “For Geraint,” she said. “For little Geraint.” Charles!’
He was roaring with laughter. ‘Now I’ve heard everything! I’m not to kill the man who abducted you, because he’s your publisher, and I’m to call our son after your first husband! Tell me, love, may we call him Charles too? After me, of course.’
‘She’ll be a girl. Charles!’ Now it was a protest.
‘You’re right.’ He let her go. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, my darling, and that is that we are going to be married directly and be damned to the gossips. What do you say to a trip to Gretna?’
‘Oh, no!’
‘I quite agree with you. I rather fancy the chapel at Cley myself, with your father giving you away and your mother swooning in the front pew. Would you mind that?’
‘Do you know, Charles, I think I’d enjoy it. If your mother will come?’
‘Oh, she’ll come all right. Why do you think she sent you round by Granny Biggs’ cottage?’
‘Oh?’ Her eyes were sparkling with something between anger and amusement. ‘You mean she knew?’
‘She’s no more a fool than I am. Less, in fact. She told me to take nothing for granted.’
‘Oh, Charles, you can me.’
‘But I don’t intend to,’ he said.
Bride of Dreams
Jane Aiken Hodge
Chapter One
Amanda and her mother were early. The fiddlers in the little musicians’ gallery that overhung the Assembly Room were still tuning their instruments. Mr Random, the proprietor of the George Inn where Rye’s Assemblies were held, was hurrying about with last minute preparations and it was left to his wife, buxom Mrs Random, to make her nervous bob to the first arrivals and guide them through the dance hall and up to the dressing room they had hired for the evening. As always, she talked, lugubriously, all the way. The weather was bad; the attendance at this, the first Assembly of Rye’s little season, would be thin; the news was terrible — particularly that from France. In the year 1791, France, with its developing revolution, could be relied on, by pessimists, as a source of bad news.
Equally true to form, Mrs Carteret took not the slightest notice of Mrs Random’s flow of nervous talk, and it was left to Amanda to make the rejoinders courtesy demanded. At seventeen, world affairs do not seem vastly important, but the question of the weather struck nearer home. Yes, it had indeed rained all day; their coach had nearly stuck in the mud at the foot of Rye Hill; did Mrs Random really think the attendance would be poor? “For my first ball? I do not believe I could bear it.”
Satisfied with having got the reaction she wanted, Mrs Random relented, promised Amanda all the partners her heart could desire, and took her leave.
“Truly, Amanda,” said her mother, turning to the long glass as she removed her cloak, “sometimes I despair of your breeding. Must you always be gossiping with the lower orders? I wish you would at least try to remember who your father was.”
Amanda made a face. “I wish you would try to forget it, Mama. What is the use of giving ourselves the airs and graces of the nobility when everybody knows we are as poor as church mice?” She stopped and coloured, alarmed at h
er dangerous plain speaking, but on this important night her mother was determined to be pleasant.
“What a little Jeremiah it is, to be sure.” She pinched her daughter’s cheek affectionately. “But I tell you, my love, there are those who recognise how infinitely more important blood — and breeding, of course — are than mere money. Who knows, perhaps our troubles are nearly over.” It was her turn to pause, colour, and apply herself assiduously to the problems of her toilette.
Though young and full of dreams, Amanda was no fool. She had not failed to notice the steady diminution in the trappings of her mother’s widowhood. Tonight, Mrs Carteret’s admirably preserved charms were set off by a gown of palest lavender, with faint touches of crêpe surely more for ornament than out of respect for a long dead husband. To Amanda, who had grown used to the widow’s cap and the widow’s black, she looked, just faintly, ridiculous, but then, to Amanda, Mrs Carteret was a mother and, by definition, old. To a chance observer she was a woman in the ambiguous mid-thirties; to herself, she was in the prime of life.
Amanda, on the other hand, was very young. “Is Lord Meynel to be here tonight?” She knew the question for a mistake as she spoke it.
But once again, almost miraculously, her mother’s uncertain temper held. Mrs Carteret had learned, among many bitter lessons of a disappointing life, how fatally anger blotched her pink and white complexion. “How should I know?” she countered mildly. “But come, my love, let me look at you. To think that my little girl is really old enough for her first ball. I can hardly believe it.”
Amanda was privately convinced that she had been quite old enough to attend the quiet Rye Assemblies the year before, and knew equally well that she owed this year’s unexpected indulgence to a chance remark of Lord Meynel’s. It had been at the end of one of the neighbourly morning calls that had become so frequent of late — to Amanda’s disgust and her mother’s not quite concealed delight. Rising to take his leave, he had paused for a moment to twirl the inevitable cane in his thinning white hand and spare one of his uncomfortably appraising glances for Amanda. “You will be bringing this child to the Assemblies this year?” It was hardly even a question.
The Lost Garden (The Purchas Family Series Book 5) Page 37