The Lost Garden (The Purchas Family Series Book 5)

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Amanda, whose own timid overtures in the same direction had been briskly rebuffed, had looked up with a sudden flaring of hope. Here was an ally indeed, however dislikeable a one.

  Mrs Carteret had paused, coloured, seemed to consider, then deferred prettily to her guest’s opinion. “Do you truly think her old enough? Is it really my duty to cast off my widow’s weeds and bring my baby before the world? Must I — for her sake — give up the retirement that suits me so well?”

  “Of course you must, ma’am,” her visitor had said roundly. “For her sake, and your own, and the world’s, that has missed you too long. There’ll be many a hot cheek and anxious brow, I warrant, when the belles of Rye hear Mrs Carteret is coming among them again. You’ll put them all in the shade, and they know it.”

  Already on her feet to wish her visitor good day, Mrs Carteret had curtsied and coloured prettily for the compliment, and Amanda, while wondering how her mother — that dragon of good taste — could overlook its vulgarity, had known her point gained. There could be no doubt now: she would go to the Assemblies this year.

  And here she was, obediently standing and twirling for her mother’s inspection, while downstairs the fiddles were warming to their work and a rising hum of talk suggested that the world was beginning to arrive. “Will I do?” she asked anxiously. Impossible, now, with the sounds of music and talk coming up from below, to trouble herself too much about the unwelcome likelihood that Lord Meynel would soon be her stepfather. She had other things to think about. She was at her first ball at last. Her dress of finest pale blue sprigged muslin was almost exactly what she had wished. Her mother’s judgement of people might leave something to be desired, but on clothes, she was superb.

  Mrs Carteret was nodding critical approval. “Yes,” she said at last, “you will do admirably, my love. The dress is just as I wished it, modest but,” she paused, “becoming. I do not think you will lack for partners, and if, by any unhappy chance you should, I am sure Lord Meynel will have an eye to you.”

  That was just what Amanda was afraid of. She knew, she sometimes thought, rather more about Lord Meynel’s eye than her mother did. It was apt to lead him into dark corridors or shady paths among the shrubbery where he would linger to await a chance encounter with any personable young female. After the first of these meetings, Amanda had hurried for counsel to her friend and comforter, Phoebe, her mother’s maid. It was characteristic of her relationship with her mother that it had never occurred to her to go to her. But Phoebe had been robustly comforting. “Think nothing of it, love,” she said. “He does it to all us girls and we just laugh at him for his pains.”

  Amanda, who had never expected that her first kiss would be from elderly, snuffy Lord Meynel, had almost managed the laugh, and had become expert in avoiding dark corridors and shady paths when he was about. But it was certainly not to dance with him that she had dressed so carefully for her first ball, while the idea of his sharp little eyes upon her made her dress seem suddenly far too low cut. She had protested about this when she had first tried it on, but her mother had been firm: “You should see how the Duchess of Devonshire wears hers.” Amanda had not thought the argument exactly to the point, but she had bowed, as, in the end, she usually did, to her mother’s superior judgement. Now all the old qualms returned with a rush and she turned for an anxious and appraising glance at herself in the long glass. It was very well as long as she carried herself strictly upright, but suppose she should chance to bend forward? Worse still, imagine dancing with a partner taller than herself. And John Purvis was taller — taller by half a head. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by confusion.

  “Mother,” she turned from the glass, “I have the headache. Could I not stay here and wait for you?”

  “Nonsense,” said her mother robustly. “It is nothing but a spasm of the nerves; you will feel better directly you have got your first partner. Come, my love, you will only make yourself worse if you stay lingering here.”

  For once in her life, Amanda had to admit the justice of her worldly mother’s opinion. If the ballroom must be faced, the sooner the better. Besides, John had promised to watch for her and take her out for her first dance, and John did not like to be kept waiting. She spared one last quick glance, half fright, half satisfaction, at the unfamiliar and undeniably elegant reflection in the glass, then followed her mother down the long corridor to the ballroom. To her deep, delighted relief, John was indeed waiting close to the door and came up at once to greet them and ask for her hand for the next dance. Amanda had never seen him in evening dress before, and forgot her qualms about her own appearance in admiration of his. Even her mother, who habitually, and infuriatingly, referred to him as “poor Mr Purvis,” treated him, tonight, with something like respect, made no objection to his claiming Amanda’s hand for the dance, and even went so far as to enquire, almost archly, what he was doing so far from the fleet.

  “Wishing for war, ma’am,” was his forthright reply. “God knows how we poor sailors are to earn our living else.”

  Mrs Carteret flirted her fan at him in pretended horror. “La, Mr Purvis, how can you be so callous. To want a bloody war, merely for your own advancement! I am shocked at you, and so, I wager, is Amanda.”

  “Indeed, Mrs Carteret,” he protested, “you do me less than justice. If I did not think the declaration of war in the country’s best interests, I would starve gladly on half pay for the rest of my days. But, I tell you, if those madmen in France are not taught a sharp lesson, and quickly too, the whole world will rue it. And of course,” he added, with the engaging frankness Amanda had always loved in him, “there is no question but the sooner war is declared, the sooner I shall be at sea again, where, but for one thing, all my happiness lies. But, come, Miss Carteret, the set is forming, shall we go?”

  He held out his hand, and Amanda took it, blushing. How odd it seemed, after all their childhood years together, to have him calling her “Miss Carteret”. In the good old days — how long ago they seemed — the Purvis estates had marched with the Carterets’ and Amanda, five years the younger, and a lonely, fatherless child, had been John Purvis’s willing slave. Then, it had been “Mandy, come here,” or “Mandy, hold this… mind my dog… see how far I can jump…”

  Overnight, the long, happy companionship of childhood had ended. Mr Purvis, who, it seemed, had been speculating wildly in the East Indian market, shot himself to avoid the disgrace of bankruptcy and his wife followed his example in a timely decline and graceful death. Lord Meynel, the chief of Mr Purvis’s creditors, had taken over the house on Leasam Hill and John, after one last wretched scene with Amanda in the course of which, to her amazement and his fury, he had actually shed tears, had left the district. Taken in hand by his mother’s brother, he had been sent to sea, almost at once, as a midshipman, and from then on Amanda had seen him only occasionally, on his brief visits to his father’s sister, who still lived in a dark little highly polished house near Rye church. Like him, an only child, Amanda had lavished on his career all the affectionate interest her mother rebuffed, and while Mrs Carteret set her widow’s cap now at this eligible bachelor and then at that prosperous widower, Amanda’s main interest in life had continued to be John’s progress from one of His Majesty’s ships to another. Her somewhat randomly selected governesses might lament over the lapses in Amanda’s arithmetic, but of her geography and her spelling they could never complain; these were necessary to her, the magic by which she followed John round the world.

  It had been disconcerting, the other day, to drop in, oh so casually, on Miss Purvis, find John there — with the proper protestations of surprise — and have him great her, with total seriousness, as “Miss Carteret”. He was handsomer than ever, too, a man full-grown, his shoulders broad, his skin brown from the weather (terrible, he told them) around the Cape of Good Hope. But he had treated her, throughout a much shorter visit than she had intended, with all the formal courtesy due to a young lady, and that night, in bed, she had wept bitte
r tears for Mandy and John. At least, however, he had promised to come to the Assembly tonight — but then, how could he help himself when she, still half in, half out of the old casual relationship, had begged him to come and ‘see her through’. Well, he was here, her hand was on his arm, the musicians were tuning up for her first public dance — surely, it should be happiness enough?

  As soon as it was threatened, she chid herself for a fool to have admitted any qualification in her bliss. For here, now, at the last moment, when the set was forming and the music rising to its preliminary climax, came Lord Meynel, all smiles, all eagerness — and it was just as she had sometimes feared. It was not to her mother that his soft white hand was held out, but to her. “I must have the privilege of taking my dear Miss Amanda down her first dance.”

  Mrs Carteret had not expected this. Despite herself, perceptibly, she bristled. Amanda blushed crimson, and her little hand clung more tightly, with a desperate silent appeal to John Purvis’s arm.

  He did not fail her. “I cry your pardon.” How completely a man he was. “But Miss Carteret has done me the honour of accepting my hand for this dance.”

  “Oh,” Lord Meynel was only taken aback for an instant. “Young Purvis, eh? And how goes the world for midshipmen these peaceful days?”

  “Well enough, I thank you.” John had been a lieutenant for several years, but refused to be drawn. “Come, Amanda, we shall lose our place.”

  He had called her by her first name. In silent happiness, she let him lead her out to the line of couples now forming up in the centre of the room, hardly caring that they left Lord Meynel and Mama equally bristling. In a moment, however, the older couple joined them in the set. Mrs Carteret was all smiles now, and Lord Meynel gave every appearance of complete satisfaction as he made his dignified way down the hall. Only once, joining hands with Amanda, he held her more tightly than necessary and called her, in passing, “Little rogue”. And then, as he reluctantly let her go, “The next one, then.” She pretended not to hear him.

  But John had. “He is a trouble to you?” It was their turn now to meet in the figure of the dance.

  “Sometimes — a little.” She had to leave him again, and then, as they reached the head of the set, was too busy remembering her steps to be troubled about Lord Meynel or anything else. It was her first ball; she was dancing with John; what else could she do but be happy?

  When the dance ended and the couples began the usual parade about the room, John had her arm firmly in his. They were near the little side door opening onto the inn’s garden. “Come,” he said.

  It did not occur to her to resist him. After all, she had obeyed his every command since she had been five years old. The door shut with a little sigh behind them and they were away from the lights, the smell of tallow and the sounds of music and laughter, in a quiet world of moonlight and shadows. They had played here often enough as children under the tolerant eye of Mrs Random while their mothers busied themselves with the eternal female preoccupation of ribbons and gauzes. Now, without thinking, she let John guide her to their favourite seat under the arbour of honeysuckle. The bench was rickety now, with age, and the honeysuckle untrained and shaggy but fragrant as ever.

  Seating her, John looked, for a moment, anxiously down at her. “I wish I had a cloak to wrap you in. Will you be warm enough?”

  “Of course.” She coloured, grateful for the neutrality of moonlight. “I thought it was too low cut. Do you… do you mind?”

  There was infinite comfort in his well-known laugh. “Mind? Absurd Amanda, why should I mind that you are beautiful tonight? Or at least,” he did not pretend not to understand her, “to be honest, I do not mind when we are out here together, but when I see you with Lord Meynel — then I do. Tell me of him, Amanda.”

  She folded and unfolded her fan. “I… I do not know what to say. He is — always — most attentive to Mama — and to me. I had thought — I had wondered…” she dwindled to a pause.

  “Whether you might not find him, one fine day, your step-papa?”

  “Yes,” she breathed it gratefully. “Oh, John — Mr Purvis, do you think it very wicked of me not to like him?”

  “Like him? I’d never forgive you if you did. I only hope your mother knows what she is doing; his reputation is — not of the most savoury.”

  “He is very rich,” said Amanda apologetically.

  “What’s that to the purpose? I tell you, Amanda, I do not like to think of you in the same house as him. Nor,” she sensed his frown in the darkness, “nor do I quite understand it. Your mother is a fine woman, it is true, but,” he broke off for a moment, then took another tack. “I collect she has not had some unexpected acquisition of riches since I last saw you?”

  Amanda laughed. “I only wish she had. You know perfectly well that we are poor as curates.”

  “Not so poor as I am, Amanda. If only I had something — anything to offer! But a half-pay lieutenant in time of peace is about the lowest of God’s creatures. Your mother thought me heartless, I know, to talk of wanting war, but how can I help it? What chance of promotion have I otherwise? And, without that, what hope of happiness?”

  His intensity almost frightened her and she answered out of embarrassment: “I had not thought you mercenary.”

  “Mercenary? I? Oh, Amanda, do you not understand?” He caught the hand that was still playing, nervously, with her fan. “How can you imagine that I want money for my own sake? Surely you know me better than that. But when I see you surrounded by creatures like Meynel, and your mother, Amanda — forgive me for saying it — not the wisest of guides or counsellors… Then I cannot bear my penury, my absolute lack of prospects.”

  “But you say there will be war.” She would not let him stop there.

  “I think so. I hope so, for truly, Amanda, I believe the French to be a danger to the world. They must be stopped. But who knows when it will come, or, when it does, how long it will take me to make my mark — and the fortune I need.”

  “But you just said you did not care for fortune.”

  “Amanda, you are being stupid on purpose!” And then, when she did not deny it, “You must know my only wish for a fortune is so that I may ask you to be my wife. There: I have said it, and I promised myself I would not. I should not have done so, but you teased me into it. Amanda, forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? Why? What is there to forgive? I am glad you want to marry me,” she said simply.

  “Oh, Mandy, you are an angel.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “But I shall not easily forgive myself. I have no right to speak to you, circumstanced as I am. You must forget that I have done so. I shall always consider myself bound to you — nor could I wish myself otherwise, but you are to be free as air, Amanda.”

  “But suppose I do not want to be free,” she said a little petulantly. “You are really most unreasonable, John. Why should you be bound, and I free? Perhaps I want to be bound.”

  “Oh, Amanda,” he said again. And then, briskly, “But we shall be missed; I am twice ashamed, for keeping you here so long, and for speaking to you so, when, on my honour, I had vowed no word of love should cross my lips.”

  “Nor has it,” she said crossly. “And if you think, after all that has passed, that I will consent to be taken tamely back indoors like a good little girl, without so much as one kiss, you are gravely mistaken.”

  It was too much for the self-control he had promised himself. He had risen, to lead her back to the ballroom; now the hand that held hers turned suddenly to iron. Breathless, laughing, trying to protest, she found herself in his arms. His lips on hers stopped her laughter, and she submitted to their fierce demand in a sudden ecstasy, aware, in every fibre of her, of the controlled strength of his body against hers.

  If it would only go on for ever. But as suddenly as he had seized her, he let her go. “Amanda, forgive me. Forget that happened. Only remember, that, always, I am yours.”

  As he turned to lead her back through the moonlit garden, a doo
r opened ahead of them and a gust of music and laughter blew out to shatter the still ecstasy of the garden. Two figures were outlined against the light from within.

  “There,” it was Lord Meynel’s voice. “What did I tell you? She is stolen away into the garden, the little minx.”

  “Amanda,” said Mrs Carteret. “I blush for you.”

  “No, no, ma’am, never put her to the blush,” said Meynel. “I wager you stole away often enough in your day.” And then, as Mrs Carteret digested this reminder of advancing years in silence, he held out his hand to Amanda. “My dance, I believe, my dear Miss Amanda.”

  She curtsied, blushing. “I cry your pardon, my lord. I… I had quite forgot.”

  “I see you had.” A knowing glance passed from Amanda to John, and back again. Then, “My dear Mrs Carteret,” he said, “I congratulate you. Your Amanda is grown up.”

  For Amanda, the rest of the evening passed like a dream that is nearly nightmare. More than anything, she wanted a few minutes of quiet talk with John, simply to reassure herself that those moments of brilliant happiness had been real. But fate — or was it fate? — was against her. Lord Meynel, having teased her unmercifully for forgetting her dance with him, had claimed, as his recompense, the two next ones, the second of which turned out to be the supper dance. So, to her bitter disappointment, it was from him, not, as she had hoped, from John Purvis, that she accepted her cold chicken and lemonade. But there was still hope; the evening was young and John, somehow, always near her in the crowd. But hope was soon dashed. No sooner had she swallowed the last crumb of chicken and sip of warm lemonade than she felt Lord Meynel’s hot, unwelcome hand on her shoulder. “The child is exhausted,” he said to her mother, who had shared his attentions through the supper hour. “And you, my dearest Mrs Carteret, look, if I may say so, a trifle fatigued. Let me claim the privilege of an old friend and take you home.”