The Intrepid Miss Haydon
Page 23
She nodded. “Yes, you told us that same evening. I wanted to confide in you, but I felt bound by a promise I had made to him. I was so uncertain what I ought to do — so miserable!” she burst out.
“I guessed you were keeping something back. But never mind that now. It’s all over, and we may forget about it. I only brought the subject up because I thought you would forget the more readily if you knew what had happened subsequently. I may be wrong in that — I don’t know.”
“See, here is our carriage,” interrupted Lydia. “Will you drive back with us, Richard, or is your own vehicle at hand?”
“Why, no, I went first to your house and left my curricle there. But surely it’s a shame to sit in a carriage in such perfect weather for walking? Why do we not load it with your parcels and stroll back together across the common?”
Corinna agreed enthusiastically; and Lydia was about to fall in good-naturedly with the plan when something in Sir Richard’s expression caused her to change her mind.
“You two may walk, by all means, but as for myself, I declare I’m fagged to death with trailing around the shops! I’ll see you at home later, in time for nuncheon.”
Having helped her into the carriage with her own and Corinna’s purchases on the seat beside her, he turned to offer Corinna his arm.
They walked along more or less in silence until they had left the busy streets for a tree-shaded path through the common, quiet save for the twittering birds.
“There’s something I must ask you, Corinna,” he began almost abruptly. “I don’t wish to wound you, God knows, but I must have an answer. It is this — how deeply do you grieve for Grenville? Is it at all possible that a little time may heal your loss?”
He was startled by the sudden flash of anger in her golden eyes.
“How stupid you all are!” she flung at him. “You, Mama, Lydia — you all persist in thinking that I am — was, I should say — as infatuated with him as I was foolish enough to be last year! Of course I am grieved, as anyone of feeling must be at the sudden death of an acquaintance — more especially when there is violence connected with it! Such shocks, though mercifully rare, are not easily overcome.”
She paused and he nodded, waiting to see if she would have anything to add to this.
“But as for a more — intense — personal grief, a sense of irreparable loss, that I certainly do not feel,” she continued. Then, almost defiantly: “Does that answer your question?”
“Indeed it does,” he said woodenly.
They walked along in silence for another few minutes, meeting no one on their way, while she glanced covertly at his inscrutable profile.
“If you must know,” she said in a milder tone, “I have realised for some time that it was all a silly girl’s nonsense, and that the man I’d been attracted to was only a figure of my fancy, vastly different from the reality.”
“When did you discover that?”
She noticed he was still looking straight ahead, keeping his face in profile. She pondered for a moment.
“It’s difficult to say. When we were in Paris, I think. But there’s a regrettable streak of obstinacy in my disposition” — she gave a little laugh — “and I don’t flatter myself that you haven’t noticed it! At first I wouldn’t admit my mistake, even to myself. Later, however, I caught myself out in several ways. You remember when Laurie first suggested that — he” — evidently she found it difficult to speak the name — “might be involved with the smugglers?”
He nodded, but did not interrupt.
“Well, I was quite ready to credit that, which shows I had no illusions about his character. Yet twelve months ago, had anyone dared to breathe a single word against him—! And then, you know, when he was paying me attentions, quite particular in the end, I assure you—”
She saw a muscle move in his cheek, but still he said nothing. He silence began to pique her, but she tried to ignore this, intent now on unburdening herself.
“I only half believed anything he said — less than half! — whether it was on that subject or when he tried to convince me that he was working in British espionage. It was then that I freely admitted to myself that I no longer cared at all for him, or even liked him — and that I’d been deluding myself all along.”
She stole another look at him. Surely he must say something now? If there had been any substance in Madeleine’s assertion that he loved her, Corinna, and not Frances Cheveley — if he had meant anything at all by his endearments as he supported her in his arms on the cliff that night — then surely he would speak?
Suddenly she knew how very much she loved him, with the mature love of a woman and not the green sickness of a young girl. And she wanted him to declare himself hers — wanted it desperately, so that frustrated longing boiled up within her, exploding at last in anger.
She wrenched her arm from his and turned on him with the familiar golden fire in her eyes.
“Have you nothing to say — nothing? I tell you all the innermost secrets of my heart, while you stand there like a wooden image, with never a word of — of understanding or sympathy? You’re an odious, unfeeling creature, Richard Beresford, and I never want to set eyes on you again!”
His control snapped suddenly. He turned towards her, clasping her in a strong, almost rough, embrace.
“By God, Corinna, I can take no more! Is this answer enough for you?”
He kissed her with all the pent-up ardour of past years.
She yielded in ecstasy, tightening her arms about him.
“Oh, Richard, Richard, that’s what I’ve wanted you to do all along, whenever we’ve quarrelled!”
He drew a little apart from her.
“Do you mean to say,” he asked incredulously, “that you’ve fallen in love with me? I’ve loved you since you were a saucy little chit in the schoolroom — but that you should reciprocate, never entered my wildest dreams.”
“But it’s true,” she insisted, nestling close to him once more. “I do love you, and, what’s more, I think it’s been going on for a very long time. Oh, Richard, how happy I am! I’ll never want to quarrel with you again, I promise!”
He kissed her once more, this time lightly, and smiled.
“We’ll see about that,” he said cautiously. “But if by any chance you should happen to forget that somewhat rash promise, my dearest, at least I’ll know how to put an end to our tiff, won’t I?”
She chuckled delightedly. Then hearing someone approaching along the path, she moved reluctantly out of his arms to walk demurely enough at his side, even though her bonnet was slightly askew.
***
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A NOTE TO THE READER
It’s wonderful to see my mother’s books available again and being enjoyed by what must surely be a new audience from that which read them when they were first published. My brother and I can well remember our mum, Alice, writing away on her novels in the room we called the library at home when we were teenagers. She generally laid aside her pen — there were no computers in those days, of course — when we returned from school but we knew she had used our absence during the day to polish off a few chapters.
One of the things I well remember from those days is the care that she took in ensuring the historical accuracy of the background of her books. I am sure many of you have read novels where you are drawn out of the story by inaccuracies in historical facts, details of costume or other anachronisms. I suppose it would be impossible to claim that there are no such errors in our mother’s books; what is undoubted is that she took great care to check matters.
The result was, and is, that the books still have an appeal to a modern audience, for authenticity is appreciated by most readers, even if subconsciously. The periods in which they set vary: the earliest is The Georgian Rake, which must be around the middle of the 18th century; and
some are true Regency romances. But Mum was not content with just a love story; there is always an element of mystery in her books. Indeed, this came to the fore in her later writings, which are historical detective novels.
There’s a great deal more I could say about her writings but it would be merely repeating what you can read on her website at www.alicechetwyndley.co.uk. To outward appearances, our mother was an average housewife of the time — for it was usual enough for women to remain at home in those days — but she possessed a powerful imagination that enabled her to dream up stories that appealed to many readers at the time — and still do, thanks to their recent republication.
If you have enjoyed her novels, we would be very grateful if you could leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads so that others may also be tempted to lose themselves in their pages.
Richard Ley, 2018.
MORE BOOKS BY ALICE CHETWYND LEY
THE EVERSLEY SAGA
The Clandestine Betrothal
The Toast of the Town
A Season at Brighton
THE RUTHERFORD TRILOGY
A Reputation Dies
A Fatal Assignation
Masquerade of Vengeance
OTHER NOVELS
The Jewelled Snuff Box
The Georgian Rake
The Guinea Stamp
The Master of Liversedge
Letters For A Spy
Tenant of Chesdene Manor
The Beau and the Bluestocking
A Conformable Wife
At Dark of the Moon
An Advantageous Marriage
A Regency Scandal
Published by Sapere Books.
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Copyright © The Estate of Alice Chetwynd Ley, 1983
The Estate of Alice Chetwynd Ley has asserted their right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-80055-144-2