by Mira Stables
He said innocently, “What a fortunate circumstance that Miss Wayne should have chosen to retire to Bletchingley. It is scarcely an hour’s drive from Pittsfield House.”
She rose to the bait immediately. “But you are not to be taking advantage of that! You promised.”
Julian hid his smile. Not so indifferent after all. “I did. And will keep my word. Though how I shall put on the time when I am obliged to skulk out of sight lest some mutual acquaintance sees me and wonders if I have made away with you, I really cannot imagine. You ought to have thought of that, you know.”
She looked quite troubled. “I do see the difficulty,” she admitted, “but I scarcely know what to suggest. You could hunt, I suppose. No one would think that odd, even when you are supposedly on your honeymoon. But if you stay in Town it is more difficult. Unless you have a taste for museums? You would not be likely to meet any of your friends there, would you?”
“But just imagine the comments if I was seen so engaged! Having apparently deserted my newly married wife in favour of a collection of dry-as-dust relics. I could not risk serving you such a back-handed turn.”
The spontaneous gurgle of her laughter quite melted his heart. His vague sense of resentment fled and he hastened to reassure her that he would be perfectly adequately occupied during her absence. “I shall probably spend most of my time in Surrey,” he added, “but I’ll steer clear of Bletchingley. I shan’t bother with the house—that will be for you to see to, with your father’s assistance. But I mean to look into the working of the home farm. Some of my Uncle Thomas’s notions were pretty mediaeval, and this is a good time of year to be thinking of new methods. And I daresay I shall manage a few days’ hunting. That was a good notion of yours.”
She mulled this over thoughtfully. “And if Papa should suddenly descend on you it would be quite reasonable to explain that I had gone over to visit Wayney. Not that I think it at all likely.”
She relapsed into silence. Absorbed in her plans and dreams, he thought amusedly, and heartily wished her well. His mind went back once more to the events of the day, to the picture she had presented in that beautiful, barbaric gown. He said slowly, “As your husband, whom you have just promised to honour and obey, may I make one humble request?”
She glanced up, startled out of her reverie, half amused by his solemn air.
“I understand that you mean to present the world with a new image of yourself,” he went on. “Don’t let fashionable notions change you too much. And promise me that you will not let any one cut your beautiful hair.”
Chapter Eight
Two compliments on her wedding day. Three, really. For surely it was no small compliment that her husband should suggest that he did not want her to change too much. Painstakingly she brushed out her hair and studied it with new interest. It was just ordinary hair, she decided, unusual only in its luxuriance, absolutely straight with no hint of wave or curl, though it was docile enough, holding its shape for several hours if Cicely had used the irons on it. Perhaps it was the colour he had liked, a flat, even gold, neither red nor flaxen. That was rather out of the common, because her brows and lashes were dark.
She had need of all the comfort she could find in remembered compliments during the weeks she spent with Wayney. Only a fierce determination to prove that she could achieve what she had vowed to do held her to her strictly planned diet. Wayney had given it cautious approval and would willingly have shared the abstinence and the hunger pangs, but that, of course, Anna could not permit. So she was obliged to watch Wayney sustain nature on savoury stews and rich, mouth-watering pies while she must content herself with a wafer of chicken. It was all very well to say that she would not miss puddings and cakes since any way she did not care for them above half and much preferred fruit. But when one was so very hungry even the dullest of puddings looked tempting, and fruit, lacking the resources of the Wellasford succession houses, meant apples, already growing slightly wizened from storage.
Wayney, who had an excellent appetite and a figure like a hop pole, was almost as miserable as Anna. Fortunately the weather was clear and frosty, so they eventually solved the problem by taking their mid-day meal apart, Anna lunching first and then going off for a walk until Wayney had done.
By the end of the second week they were both agreed that the wonderful plan was working. The thickening about the jaw-line, the fullness under the chin, were less pronounced, and Anna was sure that her dresses hung on her more loosely. Moreover she was becoming accustomed to the restricted diet, and was even able to turn up a virtuous nose at the delicious aroma of fresh-baked bread.
By the time the month was out, there could be no doubt about it. They were obliged to embark on the satisfactory task of taking in dresses to ensure a neat fit; and Anna, yielding to Wayney’s urging to “eat a proper dinner for once” because it was the good soul’s birthday, found herself unable to finish the hearty portion that she had accepted. Wayney was quite perturbed by this phenomenon, but Anna laughed and said it just showed that for years she had been eating far too much.
It was time to be thinking of a move to Town. A message was dispatched to Lord Wellasford setting a date some ten days ahead and asking that the carriage should be sent for her ladyship. His lordship having been obliged to go up to Town for a couple of nights, there was some small delay before his reply was received, but when eventually a groom brought the elegantly super-scribed missive, her ladyship was gratified to learn that her husband proposed to do himself the honour of coming for her in person.
Miss Wayne, receiving this information with outward calm and inner excitement, said that she looked forward to meeting his lordship and suggested that they should see if they could finish the alterations to the green poplin with the quilted petticoat, but she was deeply shocked by Anna’s sudden decision that her hair must be washed. Why! It was enough to give her her death. This was no time of year for washing one’s hair, especially if one had such a quantity that it would take all day to dry.
Anna was apologetic but determined. She would put camomile flowers to steep overnight and wash it first thing in the morning. That would give it ample time to dry before his lordship’s arrival. He had not mentioned a specific hour, but he would surely not be paying calls before mid-afternoon. Meanwhile, Wayney was quite right about the green poplin. With its white petticoat, lightly sprigged with yellow flowers, it seemed to speak of spring. Moreover it was a style that drew attention to a trim waist. Perhaps they could finish it tonight.
They did. Although it was past eleven when they sought their beds—very late by Wayney’s standards—and she also spoke strongly about the extravagant use of working candles, delivering a little lecture on economical household management which Anna accepted meekly, quite understanding that it was just Wayney’s way of reasserting her authority after her defeat on the topic of washing one’s hair in February.
In her belief that her husband would not be paying calls at an unfashionably early hour, however, Lady Wellasford was mistaken. Possibly he was thinking of the long drive back to Town, or perhaps he was just curious to discover how his bride had fared during their separation. In either case he arrived shortly after noon, catching the ladies drinking coffee after an early luncheon. His wife, who had planned to astound him, not only by her newly achieved slimness but by her generally soignée appearance, was attired in a quilted petticoat with a wrapper about her shoulders and her hair, almost dry, hanging loose. Unfortunately Miss Wayne’s elderly maid, who was rather absent minded, remembered only that the gentleman was expected and showed him directly into the parlour.
There was a startled silence. Anna’s hands flew up to pull the wrapper close about her throat. To be sure, he was her husband. But to catch her so in her petticoat! Miss Wayne rose, curtseying, her hand extended, an offer of refreshment on her lips.
His lordship was swift to perceive the embarrassment on both faces. He bowed politely to Miss Wayne, but addressed himself to his wife. “I see now why
your father wanted you to wear your hair loose on our wedding day. How very right he was! I suppose I should apologise for arriving so early, but I refuse to say that I am sorry for a circumstance that has brought me so much pleasure.”
The words could scarcely have been better chosen, and they were spoken with a half-laughing sincerity that carried conviction without being fulsome. Both ladies relaxed. Introductions were performed, and his lordship, declining wine, accepted the offer of a cup of coffee. Anna, going off to complete her toilet, was persuaded without difficulty to leave her hair loose a little longer, Miss Wayne obligingly reminding her of the pains and penalties consequent upon inadequate drying, and then settling down happily to make the acquaintance of dear Anna’s husband, while fresh coffee was brewed.
An hour passed very pleasantly, his lordship drinking his coffee and commending the little queen cakes that Miss Wayne herself had baked. Anna, having put on the green poplin over-dress, sitting quietly by the fire, declining the queen cakes with a rueful twinkle at Wayney, occasionally holding out a strand of hair on the comb to help the drying process and listening to the easy talk between the other two. She was very well pleased with life. It had all been worth while. Nothing had been said but from time to time she had seen her husband’s thoughtful gaze bent upon her and she knew him well enough to make a pretty accurate guess at the mixture of surprise, speculation, even a slightly reluctant admiration that coloured his attitude. Not admiration for her appearance, she hastened to admonish herself, but for her resolution.
Presently he broached the subject, saying that he was relieved to find her looking so well and expressing his gratitude to Miss Wayne who must, he felt sure, have exerted her restraining influence to keep the experiment within reasonable bounds.
The ladies exchanged a little smile but were not prepared to be drawn on this head. His lordship said temperately, “I find you a good deal changed, I must confess. But if you can assure me that you have suffered no ill effects I am content. No doubt I shall accustom myself in time.”
He could scarcely, supposed Anna, have proclaimed openly that he found her vastly improved! A little amused by the predicament in which he found himself, she took pity on him. “No ill effects at all, except on my temper,” she told him with a twinkle. “Poor Wayney suffered dreadfully during the first weeks. I was the crossest thing in nature. But that is all over with now, and actually I feel very much better for my weeks of abstinence. In fact I have come to think that there may have been sound practical reasons for the old Lenten restrictions. Papa, I know, holds that many such practices have their roots in common sense and a knowledge of the behaviour that is conducive to good health. Like not eating pig meat in hot countries where pigs are scavengers,” she explained sagely.
“Then I profoundly trust that you can persuade him to accept that explanation when he enquires why I have been starving his daughter,” suggested Julian with a rueful grimace.
For a moment she looked both startled and penitent, but she was swift to make a recover. “He won’t notice if I wear my old loose gowns,” she declared triumphantly, “and he was always opposed to tight lacing.”
He looked dubious, and delighted her by saying, “It’s not just the gowns. Your face looks quite different. It is not so round. And your neck looks longer, while as for your eyes, they look bigger than ever.” And I never realised how long and dark your lashes were, he might have added, save that he was deliberately keeping this very personal exchange on a prosaic footing. “I should think he is bound to notice. But we shall see.”
The ladies excused themselves presently, Wayney offering to help Anna put up her hair and finish her packing. They were not long gone, and when they came down to the parlour again Anna mentioned her desire to see Pittsfield House. “It seems only sensible when we are so near. Then we can begin planning what needs to be done. Do you think we might spend tonight there? We need not hurry ourselves—tomorrow will do perfectly well for our return to Town.”
Julian raised no objection to this suggestion, save to remind her that Pittsfield House was pretty bleak and comfortless but that he dared say they would take little hurt by staying the night in it.
Anna’s farewell to Wayney was brief, for it would not be long, she promised, before they met again. “You must come and help us with the house, when Papa and I set to work in earnest,” she said gaily, and informed Julian that Wayney had an excellent eye for colour. “Only first I must buy a great many clothes,” she stipulated, as Julian wrapped her cloak about her, surveying that sober garment with disfavour.
During the short drive from Bletchingley she enquired in very wifely fashion about his progress with his farming problems, some of her questions so sensible and pertinent that he eventually expressed surprise that a female should have so intelligent a grasp of what was usually regarded as a masculine province.
He was the first personable young man with whom she had enjoyed a friendly relationship. To pursue that relationship, even to the verge of flirtation, with the added savour of knowing that the gentleman was her husband, was a new and delightful pastime. If she had spoken truth she could have told him that she would have displayed equal interest in Mr. Arkwright’s spinning machine or Crompton’s mule—had his interests lain in that direction. Instead she said demurely, “I do my best to understand such things, milord. Papa has always impressed upon me that all sound commercial enterprise must be based upon a healthy agricultural policy. His exposition frequently took me out of my depth, but even I could see that every one needs to eat, whether they toil in these vast new mills and manufactories or travel overseas to sell the goods produced.”
Very naturally it was Julian’s pleasure to explain these mysteries a little more fully to so intelligent and receptive a pupil.
In the failing light it was not possible to make a detailed inspection of Pittsfield House, but Anna saw enough to realise that Julian had not exaggerated the Spartan nature of the accommodation. The bones of the house were beautiful but a good deal needed to be done if she wanted to enjoy the standard of comfort to which she was accustomed. Draughts abounded. Food had to be carried so far from the kitchens that it must inevitably be cold upon its arrival at table, and all water had to be drawn from a pump in the stable yard. Fortunately there was one thing that she could praise without reserve, for none of the chimneys smoked, not even the one in her bedchamber where a fire had been hastily kindled.
Over dinner Julian told her about his trip to Town. He had driven up to obtain some publications that dealt with the selective breeding of cattle, and while in Portman Square had been startled to receive a call from Lady Holroyd, who had chanced to see him in the street and had impulsively decided that it was high time that she called upon her new tenants, naturally supposing (she said) that his bride would be in Town with him, so newly wed as they were. She had been disappointed, of course, but had sent all kinds of welcoming messages—well, no, he couldn’t remember exactly what they were, but all about being great friends, just like the old days, and about Anna being sure to let her know as soon as she was fixed in Town. Oh yes! And she had made rather a fuss about one of the pictures that they had stored away.
“Seems it was a portrait of the late Sir Marmaduke. She couldn’t bear to take him into that pokey little hole in North Audley Street—her description, not mine—so she left him in surroundings more appropriate to his dignity. Apparently the thought that we had packed him off to the attics was exceedingly painful, so if you will have him looked out she will dispatch him to their country place where, presumably, he will be able to rest in peace. Just like Caro in one of her fusses. It was always easiest to let her have her own way. Though I wouldn’t mind laying you odds that by the time we reach Town she’ll have forgotten all about it. ’Fraid I played along with her. The thing is, I thought I’d better turn her up sweet because I thought she might be a useful friend for you—knows everyone who is anyone and can recommend you to the most fashionable dressmakers and milliners.”
/> It was thoughtful of him, and Anna had no desire to be disobliging. She had taken a sincere liking to Johnnie Merridew and this was his sister. But for one reason or another she felt no great eagerness to be ‘great friends’ with Lady Holroyd. Even from Julian’s half laughing account she sounded spoilt and pettish, while as for the ridiculous fuss about her husband’s portrait, it was just the sort of whim that a spoiled beauty would invent in order to centre attention on herself. If she had cared so much she would never have left the portrait in the hands of strangers. There was the rub, of course. Julian was not a stranger. And that was another odd thing. She, Anna, had not been a wife for very long. Some people might even say that she was not a wife at all. But already she found herself resenting Lady Holroyd’s calm appropriation of Julian. So they would all be great friends would they? Just like old times. Well—there could be two opinions about that.
She said pleasantly, “I don’t doubt she would be able to help me in any number of ways. We must certainly invite her to our parties—unless you think it might distress her to attend parties in the house that she shared with her husband. But I do not mean to tax her kindness by burdening her with all my small social problems. I am sure she would find it a dead bore, even if she was too polite to say so. As for clothes”—she broke into a gleeful chuckle—“no one, but no one, not even the Queen’s own dresser, shall lay a meddling finger on those.”
She put both elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands, smiling across at him in frank comradeship and looking, though she was quite unaware of it, distinctly delectable.
“I warned you of some of my odd notions,” she reminded him, “but I dared not tell you the full score lest you should cry off. You were my only chance, you see, and I could not take such a risk.” The mischief in face and voice, the mock penitence in the pose of the down-bent head, were a challenge that he found difficult to resist. He was aware of a strong desire to kiss the laughing, teasing mouth. But this new Anna was a stranger—and, he suspected, a shy, wary creature that must be coaxed and gentled before it would endure a caress.