by Dorothy Mack
His dear sister complied with this request but gave it as her opinion that he would be well-served if his beautiful new coat arrived at Monteith Hall liberally splattered with the mud created by the recent storm.
“Now, Lucy,” said John for the third time before bestowing a brilliant valedictory smile on her as he left the carriage.
CHAPTER 3
Lady Gemma Monteith and her canine companion set off across the smooth lawns of her ancestral home in the direction of the lane that led to the post road. This was reached by traversing a shallow belt of trees that concealed the grounds from the view of anyone arriving from this direction until the trees gave way to an encircling wall of brick that was eventually breeched by a Jacobean gate house giving onto the avenue that led to the main entrance of the hall. Beyond the belt of trees, a thick high hedge bordered the lane, and this was Lady Gemma’s destination at the moment.
One destination was as good as another as far as Homer was concerned, and except for repeated short forays to chase down the source of various woodland noises, he took his job as his mistress’s companion seriously. From hard-won experience of his frenetic style, Gemma kept one eye on his progress. Her vigilance kept her from tripping over him on one of his ill-judged rushing returns, but her swift sideways manoeuvre to avoid stepping on the pup resulted in a dirty wet mark made by a branch brushing across the hipline of her dress. After relieving her feelings in a burst of scolding, to which Homer was as usual impervious, she proceeded on her way, having mentally accepted the necessity of changing her gown before their guests arrived. The sodden condition of the path endorsed the precautionary wisdom of wearing a pair of old half-boots instead of her sandals. They were already disgracefully mud-covered, but at least her feet were dry.
The blackthorn hedge, when she reached it, was still glistening with raindrops, and Gemma was markedly damp by the time she had clipped a generous quantity of the white blossoms and placed them in her basket. There were one or two scratches disfiguring her hands and wrists, and having forgotten to put a handkerchief in her pocket, it had been necessary to dry her hands on the skirt of her gown, a procedure that had not enhanced its appearance. The sloes were lovely, though, so Gemma did not regard a little inconvenience when she pictured what would be Lucy’s surprise and delight to find masses of them in her bedchamber.
Lady Gemma’s sartorial condition would have remained a minor inconvenience had not Homer gotten himself entangled in the hedge. It was necessary to lay her basket aside and squat down to free the pup. In the process, Gemma found herself hooked on a branch of the hedge. It had become inserted in the low rounded back of her bodice when she tried to rise after rescuing Homer. It jerked her back onto her heels, and such was the awkwardness of her position that she could neither twist her head sufficiently to the rear to see, nor reach a hand to the proper spot to pull the branch away. Any attempt to get to her feet was going to result in a huge tear in one of her favourite gowns, not to mention the possibility of a corresponding tear in her flesh. She might have been able to use the shears to some good effect, but they were in her basket just tantalizingly out of reach. Homer’s yelps were rising to a crescendo as he ran to and fro, trying to entice her into a game, and she had just about decided there was no recourse save a ruined dress when she became aware of the sound of hoofbeats approaching in the lane beyond the hedge during a pause between barks.
“Is that you, Peter?” she called in ringing tones. “I need your assistance desperately. Tie Rufus up and come through the gap a little farther along.”
The hoofbeats stopped abruptly, then continued on for a bit. Gemma tried to follow the movements behind her, but Homer’s barking made that all but impossible.
“Quiet, you idiotish animal! It is entirely your fault that I find myself in this ridiculous predicament in the first place.” A second later, she exclaimed, “Thank goodness you came along just at this moment,” as the welcome sounds of a body brushing through the small gap in the hedge reached her ears at last. “Pray unhook my dress from this malevolent branch before I grow roots,” she begged, craning her neck and rewarded by an oblique glimpse of polished Hessians and fawn-coloured inexpressibles making their way toward her. She was still trying to reach Homer to cuff him into silence when she felt the fingers of one gloved and one ungloved hand at her back. It seemed but an instant before the hands had moved to her waist and lifted her to her feet. Gemma turned a laughing glance over her shoulder and encountered the intent blue-eyed gaze of a stranger.
“You’re not Peter,” she accused, spinning to face him fully.
The stranger drew in a long breath and smiled. “Alas, no, but the urgency of your request and the awkward nature of your situation led me to believe that you might prefer to accept any prompt assistance rather than await Peter’s arrival, no matter how swift.”
“Well, you are very right about that,” she conceded frankly. “I cannot remember when I’ve been so uncomfortable.”
The man heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Then perhaps I need not fear that my presumption has put me quite beyond the pale before ever we have been introduced.”
“On the contrary, I believe that even among the highest sticklers it is considered perfectly permissible to abandon formality in the middle of a rescue,” she replied, adopting his tone of mock gravity. Huge near-black eyes laughed into blue before the girl swooped down and retrieved her basket.
“You must allow me to thank you most gratefully, sir, for a very timely assistance,” she declared, and on impulse broke off a clump of the flowers in her basket and presented it with a flourish to her rescuer, who accepted the token with a graceful bow.
“Would you be so kind?” He indicated his lapel, and Gemma obligingly and unselfconsciously inserted the flowers in his buttonhole. She stepped back to admire the effect, then turned her steps toward the gap in the hedge.
“Have you left your horse tied in the lane, sir?” For the first time, curiosity appeared in the dark eyes. “Were you heading for the hall?” she inquired as he suited his pace to her shorter steps.
“Yes,” the man replied, sweeping off his modish beaver hat and turning to face her squarely. “May I introduce myself? My name is John Delevan and I… Is something wrong?”
Long black lashes descended to conceal the flicker of dismay that had appeared in her eyes at his words. “No, of course there is nothing wrong. It is just that if you are Mr. Delevan, Lucy must not be far behind; in fact, I hear a carriage in the lane now, and just look at the picture I shall present in greeting her!” This last was added in a despairing wail.
Mr. Delevan took full advantage of the permission accorded him to study the discomposed girl at his side. Even now she had not mentioned her name, but he had guessed her identity from the instant laughing brown eyes had met his in a glance brimming with rueful mischief when she had thought him the unknown Peter. He had understood in a flash why Lucy had found it so difficult to describe her friend. It wasn’t easy to describe sunshine either; one simply gravitated toward it. Now, as he took in muddy boots, crumpled sprig muslin gown with patches of damp and streaks of dirt, a charming straw bonnet set slightly askew on dusky curls, and one delicate wrist bearing an angry scratch, a smile very like his sister’s — did he but know it — appeared in the bright-blue eyes.
“I would suggest that there is nothing to be done but carry off the situation with a high hand,” he offered calmly, “after you straighten your bonnet.”
The basket of flowers was unceremoniously thrust into his hands as Gemma’s flew to her hat to rectify matters. “Quickly, let us catch the chaise in the lane,” she urged, slipping through the gap in the hedge on the words.
Perforce, Mr. Delevan followed her and the darting little dog, his progress considerably slower, thanks to the minuscule size of the gap and the bulky basket he carried. His driver had already started to obey her signals to stop when he arrived beside his horse. Lady Gemma had not waited for him but had sped after the braki
ng chaise, waving and calling to Lucy, whose smiling face had appeared at the window. By the time Mr. Delevan retrieved Blackbeard and caught up with the chaise, his groom had opened the door and Lucy had tumbled out into the arms of her friend. They were both laughing and talking at once, with the yapping dog circling them, watched benevolently by Henry and less patiently by the coachman, who was eager to see the end of the journey. Mr. Delevan gave the latter an understanding wink and approached the absorbed girls with a purposeful air.
“May I suggest, Lady Gemma, that you join Lucy in the carriage for the last few yards. You’ll be able to get a running start on catching up on all your news.” A friendly smile accompanied the words as he extended a hand to assist her into the carriage. Lady Gemma looked a trifle surprised at such high-handedness but allowed herself to be manoeuvred thus. He handed Lucy in, then the dog, and closed the door before recalling the basket of flowers he had in his turn thrust into his groom’s unwilling hands. At this point, he decided Henry’s ruffled feelings must be temporarily sacrificed in the interests of getting to their destination, and he swung himself up onto Blackbeard’s back after giving Joseph the signal to start.
Inside the carriage, Gemma was repeating her delight at having the company of her dearest friend. “You look quite recovered from that dreadful influenza, I am thankful to see, but we shall spend hours and hours outdoors this summer. That will bring the roses back to your cheeks,” she predicted, casting a knowledgeable eye over her guest’s features.
“It sounds a delightful programme,” Lucy agreed, “but you know I am naturally pale, especially compared with you.” She surveyed her hostess’s healthy olive complexion with an affectionate smile.
“Oh, I am as dark as a gypsy, of course; there’s nothing to be done about that.”
Lucy was well aware that Gemma rated her physical attributes very low, despite considerable evidence that others were drawn to her glowing dark looks. She had come to the conclusion that it must simply be a case of the grass being greener, a romantic longing to be different from one’s everyday self. She had meant to observe her brother’s first reaction to her friend, but they had put that beyond her power. “How did you and John come upon each other?” she asked, her first pleasure in seeing Gemma giving way to curiosity.
“He rescued me. I was caught on a piece of hedge and called to him, thinking it was my brother Peter I heard in the lane,” Gemma explained, and looked slightly affronted at Lucy’s gurgle of laughter.
“Just what I would have expected. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“It was purely an accident,” her friend replied, on her dignity.
“Of course, but it could only happen to you.” Lucy assessed the other’s crumpled appearance with interest and smiled more broadly.
“Fustian!” declared Gemma roundly. “It could have happened to anyone… Well, perhaps not to Coralee,” she admitted, grimacing.
“Is Coralee your cousin, the one you said you couldn’t get on with as children?”
“Yes, and we still don’t get on together. She is excessively good to look at and disgustingly accomplished and has a talent for making me seem farouche. I always show to disadvantage in her company.”
“Nonsense, Gemma. You go along in company quite comfortably,” argued Lucy in a practical spirit.
Her companion’s face was a study in regretful resignation. “You shall have a first-hand opportunity to judge for yourself, I’m afraid. My mother told me today that Coralee and my aunt are coming for a long visit. Such a hideous stroke of luck, when I was so looking forward to having you all to myself.”
Lucy quirked an eyebrow at the gloomy tone but contented herself with a noncommittal murmur.
The coach had entered on the avenue of chestnut trees now, and she was straining for her first glimpse of Monteith Hall. Gemma forgot her gloom in mischievous anticipation of her friend’s reaction.
She was not disappointed. As they swept around the last curve, the main front of the hall was revealed in all its complexity.
“Goodness!” Lucy was startled into a faint ejaculation. “It looks like something out of a fantasy, but delightful,” she added in case Gemma should be offended.
Mr. Delevan, riding beside the groom, was in the happy position of having his first impression of the Duke of Carlyle’s principal seat uncensored, but in any case, it was Henry whose reaction was recorded.
“Well, if that don’t beat the Dutch,” he exclaimed in patent disbelief. “You’d have thought somebody would have pulled the place together. It looks as if every man jack of them what was living in the place had a hand in designing it.”
John could not but agree with his groom that Monteith Hall struck one at first glance as being unplanned, almost haphazard in design — certainly it made no pretence of striving for any kind of symmetry with its irregular bays and rooflines — but on continuing to regard it as he came closer, he conceded a definite charm about the whole that overcame its architectural deficiencies. Clearly Tudor in conception and period, its rosy brickwork and mullioned windows, oriels, and partial timbering in some of the bays produced a harmonious effect that was augmented in his eyes by the ivy growth that was extensive without in any way adding a dreary touch. He let his glance climb to the profusion of tall moulded chimneys that, in conjunction with the crenelated tops of some of the bays, made the roofline even more picturesque.
Just at that moment the carriage pulled up before the entrance porch, which, John noted with interest, was surmounted by the arms of Henry VIII. The huge oaken door was already open, forcing his attention from the peculiarities of the architecture to the butler and his subordinates who were deploying themselves in readiness to assist the arrival of the guests.
John had to restrain a chuckle as the butler betrayed his calling by permitting a momentary expression of astonishment to cross his long, ascetic face when the first person out of the carriage proved to be his young mistress, who declined his assistance, tossing an airy, “Hullo, Stansmere. Will you help Miss Delevan?” as she jumped lightly down despite the squirming pup in her arms.
The duke’s reaction to the sight of his daughter an instant later brought no similar inclination to amusement, however. Most of John’s attention had been focused on the scene beside the carriage, but he had detected from the corner of his eye the imposing figure of his host approaching from the doorway.
“Gemma, what is the meaning of this? How came you to be in such a disgraceful condition?” he demanded in a well-modulated voice that nevertheless seemed to thunder into a sudden silence.
His daughter started and bit her lip before replying coolly that she would explain it to him presently. She deposited the yapping dog on the ground and shooed him into the house before the irate duke could cuff him.
“May I present my dear friend, Miss Lucinda Delevan, Papa?” she said as Lucy descended from the chaise.
The duke responded charmingly, bowing over Lucy’s hand with a show of flattering interest that her brother suspected was an automatic reaction in one accustomed to a lifetime of success with the fair sex. In his turn, he was made graciously welcome by his host, who then attempted to present his daughter, though it was evident by the set of his mouth that he was displeased by her dishevelled state.
“I have already had the extreme felicity of meeting Lady Gemma, sir,” John said smoothly, interrupting the duke’s apology for her appearance.
“We had the good fortune to spy Gemma in the lane,” Lucy continued, taking over for her brother. “It was marvellous to have her personal escort at the end of a long journey.” She sighed suggestively, but the duke refused to be put off the scent.
“Walking in the lane scarcely seems an adequate explanation for the state of your dress,” he commented to his silent daughter in a tone from which all previous warmth had departed.
“I was picking flowers for Lucy’s bedchamber and, with Homer’s help, got myself dirty,” she said briefly, no note of apology present in her explanation.
“Now I propose to escort Lucy to her room so she may put off her bonnet before tea.”
“Thank you, Gemma dear. Oh, are these the flowers?” as John offered the basket to his hostess with a smiling bow. “How lovely! You remembered how much I admire sloes. Thank you so much.”
Gemma eased her guest away from the men, grateful that John Delevan had made a remark about the facade of the hall that demanded her father’s attention long enough for the girls to make a silent entrance into the house. For a moment, her shoulders sagged a little. She had been so looking forward to spending a quiet summer with Lucy, but everything had conspired to go wrong from the moment her mother told her of the expanded guest list. Well, she still had Lucy, and she was determined not to allow the others to ruin this visit.
Beside her, Lucy noted the sudden air of resolution about her friend’s bearing and wondered as to the cause as she allowed herself to be led up the heavily carved wooden staircase.
CHAPTER 4
It was a full half-hour before the residents of the hall, both permanent and temporary, assembled in one of the main saloons for the scheduled refreshments. By that time, Lucy had been installed in a spacious bedchamber located in the same corridor as her friend’s in the oldest wing of the house, and she had amply gratified her hostess by her spontaneous pleasure in being assigned a room furnished with the ponderous carved furniture prevalent in the seventeenth century. She exclaimed over the original bedhangings of crewelwork, faded with the passage of time but still strong, and gazed out the casement windows to admire the view of smooth lawns sloping down to an ornamental lake.
Lady Gemma then left her guest to freshen up in privacy while she hurried to her own room to remove her boots and change into another gown after removing as many of the signs of her recent activities from her person as possible. There was nothing she could do about the red scratches on her wrist except try to dull them with powder, but she washed her face and hands and revived her flattened coiffure with a quick brushing. The dark curls were enhanced by a yellow ribbon that matched her prettiest new muslin, a dress she had worn only once before, which had elicited a rare compliment from her father.