by Mary Nichols
‘This came for you,’ the maid said, holding out a large flat box. ‘Just delivered.’
‘For me?’ Diana sat up to find she was still clutching the little carving. She put it down carefully. ‘There must be some mistake. I am not expecting anything.’
‘The gentleman who brought it said to put it into your hands myself and to say you are to wear it tonight.’
Diana took the box and lifted the lid. Wrapped in tissue was a shimmering gown in a blue that reminded her of forget-me-nots and summer skies and fields of flax. She scrambled off the bed and held it against herself. She ought to refuse it, she ought to send it back with a polite note and put on the muslin. She ought not to be going dancing with him at all, and she certainly should not be looking forward to it with such pleasure. In any case, the gown might not fit.
‘He said I was to help you dress,’ the maid said, eyes shining. Such a romantic thing to do and him so handsome. She wished her young man thought of things like that. She sighed; he did not have money for such luxuries. But the guinea the gentleman had given her would go towards the wedding they had been saving for.
When Diana had washed and allowed the maid to help her on with the dress, she realised it fitted as if it had been made for her. And it was lovely. It had a slim bodice with a dual row of tiny pearl buttons from shoulder to waist from which the six-gored skirt swirled out over her hips to the floor. Each gored seam was embroidered with silver thread. Its beauty lay in the material, the clever cut and the way the silver shone as she moved. She could not bear to take it off again.
She brushed her hair, pinning it up in coils and twisting a blue ribbon through it, then surveyed herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were unusually pink, her eyes almost feverishly bright, but was that any wonder, considering the day she had had? And there was more to come.
Richard arrived in Lady Harecroft’s carriage promptly at eight o’clock. As was his wont, he stood and appraised her from head to toe. ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘That colour suits you. It makes your eyes seem almost as blue as Great-Grandmama’s.’
She wondered why he had mentioned the dowager, perhaps to make her feel guilty. But she had had no choice but to leave, whatever Richard said, and this evening was only a snatched few hours of happiness, of unreality before the real world claimed her again. ‘How did you know my size?’ she asked, as she followed him out to the carriage.
He laughed. ‘Oh, I know everything about you.’
‘Everything?’
‘Almost everything.’
The dance was just getting underway as they arrived. It was not a venue likely to be frequented by the haut monde and the strict codes of London society, where a gentleman would not think of asking an unmarried lady to dance more than twice unless he wanted to set the tongues wagging. They danced almost every dance together and when they were not dancing they were promenading, though she knew the matrons on the sidelines were whispering, she did not care. They did not know who she was; word would not reach the ears of anyone who mattered.
‘We could not do this at Almack’s,’ she said, as they danced a waltz. ‘Everyone would be whispering and asking, “Who is that? She cannot be a lady, a well-brought-up lady would know how to behave.”’
‘But you are a lady. After all, what is it that makes a lady?’
‘Breeding.’
‘That is an answer I might have expected from Mama or Great-Grandmama, not you. I think a lady is known by the sweetness of her temperament, by her compassion for those less fortunate, her innate good manners—I do not mean the superficial niceties that go by the name of manners these days. To me, you qualify on every count.’
Her face was flaming. The trouble was not that she could not rebuff him, but that she did not want to. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’
He laughed and whirled her round.
For three whole hours she was as happy as she had ever been. He was charming, amusing and attentive. She forgot the reason she was in Staines, forgot she was supposed to be marrying Stephen and still had the task of telling him she would not, forgot all about Lady Harecroft’s party. Tonight was hers and Richard’s, to be enjoyed to the full. There would be time enough on the morrow to worry about the future. When they were exhausted with the dancing they went and sat in the supper room, though both were too full of emotion to want to eat.
He was elated. Nothing else seemed to matter when he had Diana Bywater in his sight, looking radiant in a gown that he had known was perfect for her the moment he had seen it draped over a chair in a dressmaker’s window. He had realised that she was special when he first set eyes on her at Harecroft’s, that she was different from the typical run of young ladies he had met and not because of her unusual choice of employment. Now he knew the reason; it came upon him like a shaft of sudden light that almost blinded him. He had fallen head over heels in love with her, had been in love with her almost from the day they met. He had teased her and argued with her, but that had been a front to stop himself from admitting it. He could not tell her that, not yet, perhaps not ever. She was very astute, had always been quick at understanding him and he wondered how long it would be before she guessed. Not that it would help; even if she decided to reject Stephen, he could not suddenly step into his brother’s shoes. Stephen would undoubtedly think he had planned it to thwart him, knowing he was not in favour of the marriage in the first place. He told himself, not altogether truthfully, that he would have given her up to his brother if Stephen had been sincerely in love with her, but he was doubtful of that. Stephen’s heart was elsewhere.
He stood up so suddenly she was startled. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing. It is late and you are tired. I think we should find our beds.’ It was said flatly as if he would brook no contradiction. ‘I will call up the carriage.’
It took a few minutes for the coachman to be found and given instructions, but less than a quarter of an hour later, they were sitting side by side in the gloom of the carriage being carried to the Bells. Neither spoke. She had found his sudden change of mood disconcerting. If he had asked her politely if she were tired, enquired if she would like to retire, she might have said yes. But his bluntness, his silence since then, made her ask herself what she had said or done to vex him. They had been talking normally and then, poof! It was as if some hidden mesmerist had snapped his fingers and brought him out of a trance and he had found himself somewhere he did not want to be. What had they been talking about? What had she said to bring on his ill humour?
‘I shall call for you tomorrow morning,’ he said, when the carriage drew up outside the inn.
‘No, sir.’ Her voice was as tightly controlled as his. ‘I shall make my own way, thank you.’
‘You will not. My great-grandmother would skin me alive if she thought I had allowed it. I am taking you back to Borstead and you will face whatever it was caused you to leave. Running away is the coward’s way.’
‘I am not a coward!’
‘Then you will return with me.’
She did not argue, there was no point.
After a sleepless night when she veered from hope to despair, from wanting to hang on to what little they had, to a firm resolution to turn her back on the whole Harecroft family, she rose next morning with a heavy heart. She would dearly have liked to stay in bed, but she could not do that in a public inn; besides, Richard would come and demand to know what was wrong. In one thing he had been right—she had to face her demons. But not with him at her side; he made matters worse, simply by being there.
So many times the previous evening she had almost let him see how much she longed for him, especially as his behaviour had led her, in the euphoria of the moment, to wonder if her feelings might, after all, be returned. But then she thought of Lucy and Dick and knew it was out of the question. He was playing with her, tormenting her and she could not endure it. Alicia had said a little time away might help her to think clearly; the only thing that was clear to her was that she must keep to her original intention to leave.<
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She began to laugh. It went on and on, crazily, hysterically, while the tears ran down her face and dripped off her chin. And then the laughter turned to tears. It was as if floodgates had opened inside her and let out all the misery and anger and the sense of helplessness she had felt ever since Stephen had taken her away from her lodgings.
Her limbs felt heavy as lead as she dressed and her head ached. She told herself sternly that she had consumed too much wine the evening before, but she had drunk very little; it was not wine that had caused the elation while they danced, nor the lethargy she felt this morning. But the day had to be faced and she must be gone before Richard came for her.
She could not manage breakfast, but she had a cup of hot chocolate and when she heard the London coach drawing up, she picked up her bag and went out to the yard. Glancing round quickly and seeing no sign of her tormentor, she bought her ticket and boarded it. It was not full; there was a very thin man in a coat with a collar high enough to scratch his hollow cheeks, a young woman with a boy of six or seven and an old lady in widow’s weeds. The door had been shut and they were just about to move off, when it was wrenched open again and Richard put his head inside. ‘My dear, you are in the wrong coach,’ he said sweetly for the benefit of the other passengers. ‘You will be carried off to London in this one.’ He held out his hand.
Realising that he would not be averse to pulling her out ignominiously if she resisted, she smiled at the other occupants as if to say, ‘Silly me’ and put her hand in his. He helped her down, tucked her hand under his arm and he held it there to lead her to where his great-grandmother’s coach was being readied for the journey to Borstead. She did not speak. What was it about him that reduced her to a quivering jelly, unable to stand up for herself?
‘You did not really intend to go to London, did you?’ he queried, when they were on their way. ‘You cannot have meant to disappoint Great-Grandmama, and Great-Aunt Alicia and your father by running away and absenting yourself from the party.’ It was as if he had forgotten they had had almost the same conversation the day before. Or perhaps he thought taking her to the dance might have made her change her mind. If he’d hoped she would rise to the bait and argue with him, he would be disappointed. She stared out of the window and would not look at him. He gave up and settled back in his seat.
She knew she ought to be thinking of what to say to the dowager when she arrived, but her head was so woolly and her eyes so heavy, she could not put her mind to anything. In spite of all her efforts, her eyes began to close and her head lolled. He smiled and eased his arm around her shoulders to make her more comfortable.
‘Wake up. Wake up, my dear.’ The voice was low and insistent. ‘We are here.’
Diana stirred, opened her eyes and blinked, wondering for a moment where she was. She could feel an arm about her and warm breath on her cheek and sat up to discover she had fallen asleep cradled in Richard Harecroft’s arm. ‘Oh dear, I did not mean…I am sorry…’ she said, trying to straighten her bonnet, which had slipped over one eye.
He smiled. ‘It is I who am sorry that our journey has come to an end.’
They turned in at the gates and the horses slowed as they rounded the curve in the drive and came in sight of the house. As soon as they stopped she scrambled down, intending to make her own way into the house, but found herself face to face with Alicia, who had heard the coach and was coming down the steps to greet them.
Diana’s head felt so thick she could hardly think straight. ‘I do not think Miss Bywater is feeling quite the thing,’ Richard told his great-aunt, after she had kissed them both.
‘Oh, dear, you do look a little pale,’ Alicia said, tilting her head to one side to survey Diana. Richard returned to the coach to be carried off to the stables. ‘What is the matter? Are you ill?’
‘No, I have a headache, that is all.’
‘Poor dear, you must go straight to bed. I will ask Mrs Evans for one of her herbal remedies. A dose of that and you will be right as ninepence in no time, I guarantee it.’ She bustled away to give orders for the tisane and, once she had seen Diana settled in bed, went in search of Richard.
He was with his great-grandmother. His visit to Staines had convinced him of what he knew already. He loved Diana Bywater to distraction. He had very nearly spoken about it in the coach coming back and might very well have done so if she had not fallen asleep. Oh, the pleasure and the anguish of having her head nestling on his shoulder! But it could not be. Not unless Stephen withdrew his offer or she rejected it, and he did not think either was likely. He was arguing with her about how Diana should be told when Alicia bustled into the room.
‘Richard, what happened in Staines?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. We ate and walked and I took her to a dance and then we parted. This morning I stopped her just as she was getting into the London coach and more or less forced her to return, but I am not sure I should have done so. I am sure Great-Grandmama has mischief up her sleeve.’
‘You wanted her to come back, did you not?’ Alicia queried.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘But I think we are all being a little selfish over this and not considering how Diana might feel. To be thrust upon the family…’
‘I said I would talk to her beforehand,’ the old lady said, a trifle truculently. ‘It is not my fault she disappeared when she did.’
‘And her father,’ he added.
‘Has he recovered? Is he capable of taking it in?’
‘I am sure he is. I intend to visit him tomorrow to see how he is. I think he will be glad I brought his daughter back. He is in favour of her marriage to Stephen. He thinks it will take the burden of having to look after him from her shoulders.’
‘Is he putting pressure on her? Is that part of her problem?’
‘I do not know, but it is no more than Papa is putting on Stephen.’ He paused. ‘Does Papa know the truth about Diana?’
‘Not unless he has guessed.’
‘I think he might have done,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Otherwise, why is he so keen for Stephen to marry her? Assuming there is money involved, he would want to keep her even more firmly in the family.’ He paused. ‘Is there money?’
‘Some,’ she said enigmatically. ‘Now go away, both of you. I have to think.’
Cook’s remedy, which had tasted foul, sent Diana into a deep, dreamless sleep. She did not wake until the first dinner gong echoed through the house. Alicia, dressed for dinner, came to see how she did.
‘I am quite well,’ she reassured her.
‘Thank goodness for that. Richard said you were caught out in the rain yesterday. We feared you might have taken a chill.’
She felt the colour rise to her cheeks at the memory of what had happened in the room at the Bells. How much had Richard told his great-aunt? ‘Yes, but I was soon dry again.’
‘Richard said you did not stay with Mr and Mrs Proudfoot.’
‘No, I did not want to impose upon them. They are elderly and were not prepared for company. I did well enough at the inn.’
‘And do you feel better for your little trip away?’
‘Nothing has changed.’
‘But you are not leaving before the party, are you? If you are determined to turn down Stephen’s proposal, you can tell him when he comes down. I promise you no one will hold it against you.’
‘I do not deserve your kindness.’
‘Of course you do. Now, would you like some supper sent up to you on a tray? Then you can go back to sleep. We cannot have you ill just before the party.’
Not wanting to meet any of the family, afraid that they would all know she had tried to run away and been brought back like a truanting schoolboy, she agreed. She would face them tomorrow when she felt stronger and when Richard had gone back to the dower house and his mistress and son.
She rose next day, loins girded to stand up for herself, but that was easier decided than done, simply because there was no one about when she went downstairs. The dow
ager had not emerged from her room and Alicia had gone to see the florist. There was no message about what she should be doing and so she set off to see her father.
The rain had passed and the sun was warm on her back. She strode down the drive purposefully, intending to take the long route to avoid the dower house. Turning onto the lane leading to the village, she heard the sound of a horse and carriage behind her and turned to see Lucy driving a pony and trap, with Dick beside her. The other two lodgers were mounted and riding alongside. Diana stepped aside and waited for them to pass.
Lucy pulled up and so did the horsemen. ‘Miss Bywater, good day to you,’ Lucy called. ‘May I offer you a lift?’
‘Thank you, but I am only going into the village.’
‘We are going that way.’ Lucy held the trap door open for her.
Diana stepped up and settled herself on the seat opposite Dick. The little boy gave her a wide grin that tore at her heart strings, but she had made up her mind to keep tight hold of her emotions and not mind too much that the man she loved was not, could not, be for her. It was a fact of life and if she told herself often enough that he was a rake, the black sheep his father had painted him, and that he liked to flirt, then perhaps she could cope. She might even manage to feel sorry for Lucy and her little boy.
‘I did not thank you properly for bringing Dick back to me the other day,’ Lucy said. ‘I was so thankful to see him safe and well, I was perhaps a little brusque with you.’
‘Not at all. You were worried and that is understandable. I am sure if he had been mine I would have been out of my mind.’
‘We are off to the races to see North Wind run,’ Freddie said, riding alongside. ‘Would you like to come with us?’
‘That is very kind of you, but I am going to visit my father.’
‘He could come too,’ Freddie suggested. ‘There is plenty of room in the trap and he might appreciate a change of scenery.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said doubtfully. ‘He might not feel up to it.’