by Mira Stables
She had craned as far as possible to view the house through her bedroom windows. At the far end of the frontage – the end opposite to hers – there was a fragment of a much older building, linked to the main structure by what looked like a long gallery. Enquiry had informed her that this was the last vestige of the original castle. Oh, yes, it had been a castle, though a very small one, destroyed by fire during the Civil War. The new house had not been built until the reign of Queen Anne, which was why it was so modern and comfortable. But the Warhursts had not cared to destroy the last remnants of the cradle of their line, and the present Mr Warhurst had taken a fancy to occupy the ancient apartments, a large room on the ground floor which he called his book-room – and aptly named it was – and the bedchamber above it. It was a pesky nuisance being obliged to carry every drop of water the length of the gallery, and the master was difficult, too, about the cleaning of the book-room, because there were so many papers strewn about, and if any one disarranged them he could never find what he wanted. Mrs Bedford herself had to supervise the girl who went in to clean up the hearth and to dust and polish the furniture. But there – nothing was really too much trouble if it pleased the master. Never a man like him, as all the tenants and villagers would swear, let alone his own household.
Harriet was quite prepared to share the general opinion. In fact, she went rather beyond it. To her, he was almost god-like. And small wonder, so kind and thoughtful as he had shown himself. Perhaps the thing that had touched her most was the gift of a handsome collar for Mandy. It had arrived two days after their long talk, and when she had tried to thank him for it he had laughed, and countered her shy efforts by declaring roundly that a dog capable of dealing so adequately with an unpleasant customer like Dorset, deserved a real dog’s collar rather than a flashy circlet of paste gems, and that it was really no concern of Harriet’s being purely between him and Mandy. Mandy accepted her gift, a band of soft green leather, stitched with copper thread and studded with small copper medallions, with a lamentable lack of enthusiasm, since it set a curb on the absolute liberty that she had enjoyed since her emancipation from Town fears and restrictions.
With very different emotions did her owner delve into the boxes that held Mrs Bedford’s selections for her wardrobe. There had been some small delay in the delivery of these, since the dresses had needed to be taken in to fit her slender figure.
“No more to you than to a sparrow,” complained Mrs Bedford, “but we’ll soon change that.”
Harriet had no objections. With returning health she had regained her appetite and usually gratified the cook by returning well-polished plates. Since Mrs Bedford further insisted on her sustaining nature with glasses of creamy milk or a ‘drop of sherry wine and a sponge finger’ to bridge the yawning gap between meals, it seemed probable that the good lady’s prophecy would be fulfilled.
“But I told them to leave the extra breadths on all the seams so that we could let them out again if it became necessary. Which I hope it will be,” she ended with a determined mien.
There were the two much debated dresses, one pink and one a soft green, and both very pretty as Mr Warhurst had promised. They were made in a lightweight merino cloth and the styles were simple as became a young girl.
“A bit warm for this time of year,” commented Mrs Bedford, “but autumn’s nearly on us and the evenings already growing chilly. No use buying you muslins, though I must confess I was sorely tempted by one or two of them. Such pretty materials as they make for you modern young things! But you’d have been needing something warmer before the month was out, and with the expense to consider it was out of the question.”
There were shifts and petticoats and stockings and handkerchiefs, but no more than were necessary to present a seemly appearance, and a pair of shoes with cut steel buckles that were sturdy enough for walking out of doors. To a girl who had long been starved of dainty clothing, the boxes held treasure beyond her wistful dreams. Her doubts allayed by the assurance that in one way or another she would be permitted to pay for them herself, she abandoned misgivings and yielded to a wholly feminine delight in trying on the dresses and shoes and fingering the softness of the underlinen. One further moment of doubt she had when for the first time she saw herself in the long glass dressed in her new finery.
“I look so different,” she said hesitantly. “I scarcely know myself.”
“I should hope you do look different,” retorted Mrs Bedford smartly. “Your Grandma would never have held up her head again if she had seen you traipsing the countryside in boy’s clothes. A regular hoyden you looked, and your hair all ragged ends. I do believe it’s beginning to grow again,” she added, surveying the short curly crop which, thanks to Alice’s assiduous brushing was beginning to regain something of its natural lustre. “As for your appearance, you look neat and seemly, which is more important than you think. You’ll be here some weeks yet, because it would be the height of folly to embark on a new situation before you had fully regained your strength. But a new situation will have to be found for you,” continued the wily woman, who had been carefully prompted by her master. “Mr Warhurst lives very quiet and retired, but he has a large circle of friends both in Town and in the country. As soon as you are strong enough, he and I mean to put our heads together and I don’t doubt but that we shall hit upon just the thing. A place where you will be well cared for and self-supporting. But appearance is very important in deciding these matters, however strongly you are recommended. It should not be so, but that is the way of the world.”
A month ago, such a post as her good friend described would have represented the summit of Harriet’s ambitions. It was surely odd that now, when she was favourably placed in the way of achieving it, it should sound more like a prison sentence, a closing of doors on all the resurgent life that was clamouring within her. She was in a fair way to becoming spoiled by soft living, she decided sternly; forgave herself on the score of convalescent weakness, and, being young, decided to enjoy the present and let the future take care of itself.
She wore the green dress, for no better reason than that it matched the green of Mandy’s collar, though a disinterested observer might have told her that it set off her colouring to a nicety. Fully dressed for the first time in three weeks, feeling a little shaky and strange, she embarked upon a gentle stroll about the house under Mrs Bedford’s guidance.
Disappointingly soon her legs began to tremble and she grew breathless. It was quite a relief when a maid came to say that the vicar’s wife had called to see Mrs Bedford about the meeting of the sewing party – the charitably disposed ladies who made the garments for the furnishing of the parish box. She was thankful for the excuse to return to her room and lie down on her bed for a while, but she did not sleep. Her mind was awake and active, assimilating and sorting a jumble of impressions.
The house made no claim to grandeur. The rooms were spacious, furnished with an eye to comfort rather than to smartness. Only one of them, the one that her guide had called the Saloon, might be described as impressive, and then it was an impression of delicate beauty, appealing rather than commanding. Walls and ceiling were tinted ivory, but the doorways, the window reveals and the ceiling mouldings were decorated with a design of leaf and tendril picked out in gold and green, colours which were repeated in the French brocade curtains. Unfortunately, the furniture was all swathed in holland covers, so Harriet was not able to appreciate the full glory of the room. Rarely used these days, sighed Mrs Bedford. Only when Mrs Pauncefoot came to stay. She was Mr Warhurst’s sister, several years older than he. There had been another sister, Miss Dorothea, but she had died young. Mrs Pauncefoot did not come very often, being much occupied with the care of a growing family and a husband who was an important figure in government circles. Like Mr Warhurst she had been born at Furzedown and had a fondness for the place. Yes, Harriet was told, Mrs Pauncefoot was the master’s only surviving sister, and the oldest of the family. He had one brother who came next. Viscount W
arhurst he was, and he, too, was married. His wife was very beautiful. They never came to stay at Furzedown, although Lady Warhurst had practically grown up there, being a near neighbour. Nowadays, it seemed, she preferred the excitements of Town life. If one could believe all the tales one heard, she was by way of being a leader of fashion.
There was a note of disapproval in the housekeeper’s voice when she spoke of Lady Fiona. Harriet could see no reason for this, save that after ten years of marriage there were no offspring of the union. And that, after all, might not be her ladyship’s fault. She might even be deeply disappointed about it, especially as there was a title to be inherited. At any rate, she mused, Fiona was a pretty name for a lovely lady. Much prettier than Harriet!
It was difficult to think of her Mr Warhurst as being brother to a Viscount. There was nothing in the least high in his manner. She remembered how much he had appeared to enjoy that impromptu tea party. He had behaved like a perfectly ordinary man and a very likeable one. Perhaps he did not care for being ‘toad-eaten’ because of his noble connections. She thought how Mrs Cushing would have behaved in circumstances such as hers, wrinkled her nose in disgust as she pictured that lady’s sycophantic gush and decided to forget all about Mr Warhurst’s noble rank. Presently, she drifted into a light doze.
It was not so easy to forget, though. She woke to a doubtful state of mind, wondering if she should have treated him with greater respect, and did a Viscount’s brother have some special title by which he should be addressed. Taking tea with Mrs Bedford in the housekeeper’s room she laid this problem before her and was comforted to discover that she had not committed a solecism by addressing her rescuer as ‘Sir’.
“He is the Honourable Mr Warhurst,” explained Mrs Bedford, pronouncing the aspirate with care, “but for some reason they never use it except on letters. If you was to write to him you would have to address him so, but that’s not very likely, is it? As for his consequence, there was never a man that cared for it less. That’s because he’s so accustomed to it that he takes it for granted, so he’s pleasant and friendly with everyone. But, mind you, there’s something about him that warns people not to take advantage. A proper gentleman is Mr Simon.” With which she busied herself over the dispensing of tea, and began to tell Harriet about her conversation with the vicar’s wife.
Once given the freedom of the establishment, Harriet’s progress was rapid. There were so many interesting things to see and to do that she was never dull or lonely. With Mandy and occasionally Meg trotting at her heels she explored the grounds and re-visited the scene of her adventure in the river. On wet days she spent hours examining the many strange and beautiful objects that filled the cabinets in the Saloon and the other reception rooms. On one occasion Mrs Bedford asked if she would like to see the long gallery and the book-room. Mr Warhurst had gone into Winchester so they would not be interrupting him. To Harriet’s diffident suggestion that perhaps he would not care to have a stranger intrude into his private apartments, Mrs Bedford returned a cheerfully casual negative. “Nothing secret about Mr Simon’s affairs. It’s just that he don’t like his papers disturbing. To my way of thinking they’re in such a muddle any way that he’ll never make moss nor sand out of them, but he thinks he will. He’s supposed to be writing a journal of his travels. Travelled a lot did Mr Simon. First the Grand Tour – which was commonplace among the nobility in his day – and then with his father in outlandish eastern parts. The late Viscount was quite famous for his knowledge of such distant places and their wonders. Even the ancient relics that had been dug up from hundreds of years before. He was always my favourite was Mr Simon, and no use denying it. I’d hoped he would have married and settled down to raising a family. But when Miss Fiona, that was his childhood sweetheart, upped and married his elder brother while he was away in foreign parts, he would have no more truck with women. Not that he wasn’t always pleasant and polite when they came in his way, just that he didn’t trust them any more. As for her – I suppose if she fancied the title one can’t blame her, especially brought up the way she’d been. Poverty-pinched and always looking to the main chance, her family were. Daresay they talked her into it. Only we’d always reckoned she was Mr Simon’s sweetheart so it was a bit of a shock when the betrothal was announced and Mr Simon away in Germany and knowing nothing of what was going on at home.”
Harriet listened to the tale with absorbed interest. She had never met Viscount Warhurst but she could not imagine any girl preferring him to his brother. In her eyes Mr Warhurst was as near perfection as it was possible for a human to be. She was a little startled to discover that this god-like creature could be so shockingly untidy. Wherever you looked in the book-room there were piles of papers, some of them loosely tied together in bundles, most of them just separate sheets of all sizes. The room itself was surprising after the gentle comfort of the rest of the house. The walls were of bare stone, cut in huge blocks and, as the window embrasures showed, massively thick; and the hearth, swept and bare at this season of the year, would comfortably accept enormous tree-trunks. A thick crimson carpet and curtains of the same cheerful hue served to mellow the austerity of the stonework, and if only one could furnish the old leather chairs with gay cushions instead of piles of dusty papers, the room could be given a much more welcoming aspect. Harriet’s housewifely instincts itched to set things right. She said, “I can see how difficult it is to clean the room when it is in such disorder, but here, at last, is a task that I can perform to help you. It is not heavy work to move each pile of papers separately, polish the chair – or table or chest or stool,” she put in with a mischievous chuckle – “and replace the papers just as they were, so that Mr Warhurst would never know it had been done.”
Mrs Bedford was inclined to demur at the idea of Harriet polishing furniture, but the offer certainly appealed to her tidy soul. It needed only for Harriet to say that while she heartily detested dusting she really quite enjoyed polishing, and the matter was settled, with the understanding that Harriet’s ministrations would take place during Mr Warhurst’s frequent absences. There was no time to study the papers that cluttered the room though the girl did notice that many of them were sketches of strange-looking birds and beasts and flowers while others were filled with a bold and forceful script. Later she was to realise that in spite of the seeming disorder the pages were all numbered and carefully annotated as to the place and the season of the year. Meanwhile, Mrs Bedford complained that the room struck chilly now that the sun was off the front of the house and they made their way back up the spiral stone staircase that gave on to the long gallery, where ranks of long dead Warhursts gazed serenely down at them, and then down the easy, shallow steps of the modern staircase at the other end.
Harriet was very happy. Only that morning Doctor Fearing had said that she might now spend a part of each day in sewing or reading, so long as she worked in a good light and rested her eyes frequently with a change of occupation. She would be able to help with mending the household linen and could feel that she was not wholly dependent on the charity of her host. And she would have the satisfaction of knowing that in her humble way she was serving the object of her adoration. If anyone had suggested to her that she was more than halfway to falling in love with Mr Warhurst, she would have been sadly dismayed, even shocked. One did not fall in love with a god. Mr Warhurst might be easy and pleasant in his ways but he moved in a world that was infinitely remote from the world of Harriet Pendeniston. She would as soon have thought of falling in love with the Prince of Wales. But she had no thought of love. The romantic novels that schoolgirl Harriet had secretly devoured bore no relation to real life as she had learned to know it, and her experiences in the Cushing household had shocked her deeply. In her present state it was quite enough to worship from afar. Had she been brought into contact with some marriageable young man of her own age and social standing, she would have shied away like a startled hare. Mr Warhurst was unattainable, so it was safe to pour out upon him all the fe
rvour of her love-starved heart. She did not even know that she was doing so as she made her innocent plans for the immediate future.
Chapter Six
Naturally enough the secret could not be kept for long. It was not even a real secret. It was just that both Mrs Bedford and Harriet nursed private qualms about Mr Warhurst’s possible reaction to their little arrangement, and since it was quite unimportant neither had seen fit to mention it. Harriet had worked her way right round the book-room once before she was discovered. Growing bolder with each visit she began to spend a good deal of time in studying the sketches that she had noted on the first occasion. An in-bred notion of honourable behaviour forbade her to read the manuscript pages without permission, but one simply could not help looking at pictures. They were fascinating and puzzling, and to Harriet, who could scarcely have sketched a recognisable dandelion, their artistic merit was beyond praise. She longed to know more about them. Even to her limited knowledge it was obvious that most of the subjects were of foreign origin. Sometimes there were fragments of ruined buildings that gave this impression. Once or twice there were sketches of temples or pagodas, once a water-colour of a lagoon covered with lilies that were blue as summer skies, and in the background a strange, foreign-looking boat, vividly coloured, with awnings spread.
This was one of her favourites. There were also sketches of castles and palaces and quaint old bridges and streets, which she thought might be of European origin. She was always scrupulously careful to replace everything in its proper order, but by now she was sufficiently familiar with the various piles to go straight to her favourites for a refreshing peep to lighten her labours. She was so engaged one day when Mr Warhurst walked quietly into the room to collect some forgotten papers relating to the lease of one of the farms. He came in by the small door that had once been a postern giving on to the terraces, and Harriet, kneeling in the window embrasure, intent on her treasure, might easily have escaped his notice. But there could be no ignoring Mandy’s ecstatic greeting. Harriet scrambled to her feet, flushing slightly under his enquiring gaze, and explained that she had thought him ridden out, and was just setting the room to rights.