“Indeed. I realise now that you were probably only pretending to drown to bring me within your circle of enchantment. I shall no doubt be enslaved for ever.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I am no water nymph and was indeed drowning.”
“Perhaps you have been rendered mortal on account of committing the misdemeanour you mentioned. What did you do – or should I not ask? Perhaps fell in love with the wrong man – probably a mortal – and willingly exchanged your immortality for love. I cannot think that a good bargain: love rarely, if ever, lasts even as long as a man’s life.”
“Oh no,” she said, her amusement withering. “It was not a case of love or, if it was, it lasted such a short time that I have altogether forgotten it.”
“In that case it is probably time you fell in love again.”
“Oh, I cannot. That is a large portion of my punishment: I must always be alone.”
“Nonsense! You are taking the analogy too far. Come along, it is time I took you home before you fall into despondency. First, though, I think we should do something about your likeness to Ophelia – she is not a good example of what a female should do when love goes awry.”
He leaned forward and removed a long strand of green weed from her hair, which still hung in damp, tangled curls around her neck. “Now you no longer look deranged. It is odd, is it not, that the presence of a piece of weed should have such a pronounced effect upon one’s judgment of a person; being wet is only the half of it.”
She smiled and stood up in one graceful movement.
He rose too and handed her the still sodden bonnet. “You must have looked charmingly in this before you took your ill-advised dip,” he remarked.
“I liked the rose; it was excessively shabby but there was something brave about the way it continued to sit there, unaware of its age or loss of beauty.”
“I am sure it will be perfectly restored once it has dried out,” he said, picking up the two bunches of flowers. “You had better not leave these behind - I might take such carelessness as a slight.”
“I have no intention of doing so, but I thought it better to leave them until the last. Flowers, you see, do not like to be manhandled.”
“No, indeed. I did not mean to jump down your throat.”
He sat down again, drew off his wet stockings and dried his feet with a handful of grass torn from the ground.
“Will you put your boots on without stockings?” she asked, trying, and failing, not to look at his bare feet.
“I shall be obliged to since there will otherwise be too much to carry. Clearly, you cannot wear yours, which look to be full of mud, so that we must bestow them somewhere, along with your hat and the two bunches of flowers. Otherwise, you look almost dry now – more so than I in any event. I suppose you have been sitting here in the sun for longer.”
“It was your choice to plunge into the river repeatedly.”
“Are you displeased that I did?” he asked, pulling on his boot. “You should have stopped me.”
“I could not; you flung yourself in before I could speak. Would you have refrained from demonstrating your prowess in the water if I had tried to prevent you?”
She saw his colour rise although he did not turn, concentrating instead upon the tricky matter of putting on the second boot.
“It was a piece of exhibitionism of which I suppose I should be ashamed,” he admitted.
“Not at all,” she replied, her voice quivering. “It was wonderful to see – better than a circus. I promise I was vastly impressed and shall look after the flowers with enormous care.”
“And yet they will last only a few days – and then you will be obliged to throw them away.”
“Yes – such is the nature of flowers; but I shall not, I do not think ever, forget the hero who rescued not only me but also them.”
“I shall not give you the chance to forget me,” he declared, raising his eyes to her face with a serious look.
“Oh!” she said, her mouth falling open and her eyes, blue as the cloudless sky above, unable to break free from his.
He got to his feet again and she saw how he towered above her. “If you wait here, I will fetch my horse.”
“Very well,” she said meekly and watched him as he walked off towards the animal, which was cropping the grass peaceably a little way off.
He had not told her his name but she guessed that, since he had admitted to being her neighbour, he must be Lord Marklye. She wondered what her employer would think of her encounter with the rich man who lived next door and suspected that she would expect her companion to make a determined effort to fix his interest. She was not sure whether she had done so; his manner veered between amused and teasing and something which hinted at deeper engagement but still, for the most part, fell short of amorous. She was by no means certain that he would wish to meet her again.
“Are you accustomed to horses?” he asked when he returned, leading his steed. “You will not be afraid if I lift you on to him?”
“No. I am an exceedingly privileged companion. Lady Leland allows me to ride her horses.”
“It seems to me that the only thing lacking in your life is a lover,” he observed in a matter-of-fact manner. “Now I wonder where we should put the bonnet.”
“I can perfectly well hold it or I suppose I could put it on again, if you would not be too embarrassed to be seen with a female wearing something resembling a drowned bird upon her head.”
He laughed. “No one could possibly be anything but proud as a peacock to be seen with you whatever you were wearing upon your head but I would advise against it purely on account of its being exceedingly wet. Put it down and I will pass it to you, along with the flowers, once you are safe upon Mercury – that is my horse’s name. I will put you in front of the saddle so that I will be able to hold you when we begin to move.”
She nodded and he swept her up once more and sat her upon the horse.
“What is your name?” she asked as he passed her the bonnet and the two bunches of flowers.
“Albert.”
“Are you Lord Marklye?”
“Yes. I am sorry; I thought you knew that.”
“I guessed it but was not certain. Lady Leland will wish to hear a full account of my adventure.”
“Indeed? Will you give her one?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. She likes to be entertained and she will no doubt be amused by my falling into the river. Give me the boots, my lord,” she added, seeing that he was uncertain what to do with them.
“But you are already encumbered with your bonnet and the flowers. How are you to manage them?”
“The flowers will very likely be perfectly comfortable tied up in the bonnet; I daresay they will consider it to be a peculiar kind of vase well equipped with water to sustain them for the duration of the journey.” As she spoke she laid the flowers across the hat, folded it around them and tied the ribbons firmly in place. When she had done, she held out her hand for the boots.
He gave them to her and vaulted lightly into the saddle. For such a tall man his movements were extraordinarily graceful.
He put one arm around her waist, holding her firmly in position in front of him, and gave the horse the office to start.
After they had proceeded some way, his lordship said, “I am aware that, from your point of view, we are going in entirely the wrong direction but, although I am certain Mercury would not jib at being asked to cross with both of us upon his back, he would be obliged to swim as the river is surprisingly deep in the middle.”
“Indeed,” Mary said with feeling.
“Near my house there is a shallower stretch which I daresay he will not object to fording. Then we will turn round and ride back until we are within reach of your house. I can drop you at your front door or, if you prefer, out of sight of it; I should not imagine you will want to walk far without shoes.”
“No, but I believe I would rather you set me down out of sight for I own to some concer
n about what Lady Leland’s servants would make of my arriving, sodden and half dressed, in the company of an unknown man.”
“Just so. I see that you are the very epitome of caution. Will you permit me to take you out in the curricle on another occasion when you can sit beside me correctly attired in dry clothes with a bonnet upon your head and shoes upon your feet?”
“Yes, I should like that very much.”
“Good; I shall look forward to driving you somewhere. We could make some sort of an expedition, could we not? I daresay we could find a ruin to explore. I have not spent a great deal of time in the English country but I believe that is what people do on a fine summer’s afternoon, do they not?”
“Yes; would you bring your guests too?”
“I had not thought of doing so but I suppose, now you mention it, that it would be something I could do to entertain them; their presence would immediately make the expedition perfectly proper. Only, if I were to take you in the curricle, how could I convey them?”
“How many are there?”
“Three.”
“Do you not have some sort of an open carriage which would be crowded with five but which could comfortably accommodate three?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course I do, but it carries four so that the usual thing, I suppose, would be for me to put all my guests in the carriage and I ride beside it.”
“It might be usual,” Mary said, “but, if you have promised one of your guests a ride in the curricle, you will no doubt feel obliged to fulfil your obligation.”
“Indeed. We need one more. How about inviting her ladyship? There would then be four in the carriage and every reason to take one in the curricle. Would she like to come, do you think?”
“You have hit upon the perfect solution; I am persuaded she would be delighted.”
As she spoke, he drew the horse up and pointed to the river, which now ran between the two pieces of land – his and Lady Leland’s – without either side rising in a steep bank. Indeed, the grass gave way to a sort of stony beach on each side against which the water lapped softly.
“Here we are. This is the place I spoke of, although I own to not having a very exact idea of how deep it is here, but it looks fairly shallow and should not present Mercury with any difficulty. Are you prepared to try it?”
Chapter 6
Susan, at first fascinated by the sound the violin made, soon found that her interest did not by any means make up for the discomfort of sitting on a log which was so low that it forced her knees almost into her chin. This in turn made it difficult to sit up straight and she was soon subject to the inevitable pain consequent upon consuming a large nuncheon and then compressing her stomach.
In addition, since she had been charged with providing an audience – and was, embarrassingly, the sole member of it - she felt obliged to pay attention and was aware that, when the last note died, she would be expected to make a positive comment; a negative one would be uncivil but, if good manners had allowed her to tell the unvarnished truth, she would have been forced to admit that she was not by any means enjoying the performance. She was certain that this was on account of her inability to appreciate music rather than any deficiencies there might be in her teacher’s skill. He had abandoned the Bach he had been playing when she first heard him and embarked upon what struck her as an unsuitable melody for the instrument.
As a consequence of this duty looming before her, she found it difficult to listen with the proper degree of attention, her mind being almost entirely taken up with composing a short panegyric which would satisfy her teacher whilst not exposing her own ignorance.
It seemed she was not to be put to such lengths after all.
“You do not like it!” he exclaimed, stopping abruptly mid-bar.
“Yes, I do,” she responded at once, stung into flat denial by the accuracy of his comment.
“I do not believe you. You are fidgeting and there is a look upon your face almost of pain.”
“I am in discomfort,” she agreed, glad to be able to admit to it. “I ate too much at nuncheon and it is excessively uncomfortable sitting upon this horrid log. I do not know where to put my feet or how to hold up my back!”
“Then do not sit there! I found it perfectly adequate. It is not, of course, the sort of chair I daresay you are accustomed to,” he added with some bitterness.
“It is not a chair at all,” she snapped. “And I daresay it might not have been so disagreeable for you.”
“Because I am a servant of no importance and therefore I must be accustomed to discomfort? I suppose you think me fortunate if I am able to sit at all!”
“No, not because of any such thing,” she cried, jumping to her feet as she spoke. “But because your legs are not so excessively and unnaturally long as mine.” She was so incensed at what she saw as his criticism of the soft ways to which he seemed to suppose a rich woman must be accustomed, that she barely noticed that what she had said might be construed as insulting.
“So now I stand accused of having short legs as well as making a disagreeable noise,” he cried with such extreme anger that she realised she had hurt his amour propre although she was unsure which criticism caused him the greater pain.
“No, of course you do not,” she snapped unsympathetically, “but I am so exceedingly uncomfortable that it is difficult to think of anything else just at present.”
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable if you sat upon the ground with your back against the log,” he suggested irritably, snatched his handkerchief off the tree trunk, shook it viciously as a dog might a rabbit it has caught, and laid it, now with exaggerated care, upon the ground.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly.
He nodded, stepped back, adopted the position he had previously assumed with the violin tucked beneath his chin, and resumed playing. She saw that, notwithstanding the hardship she had already endured upon the beastly log, she was not to be let off without commenting upon the music. By now considerably irritated, she abandoned her kind intention of saying something positive and, when he at last lowered the instrument and raised his eyebrows in mute appeal for a comment, she said bluntly, “I did not like it.”
“There!” he exclaimed with unexpected satisfaction. “I said you did not and you denied it. Now you admit that you found it displeasing.”
“It is too loud and there is something plaintive about it in spite of the fact that I am sure it is meant to be a joyful tune; but pray do not pay any attention to my opinion. I am no musician and am probably incapable of appreciating its finer qualities. You played very well,” she added by way of consolation.
She could see immediately that it was this last remark which particularly inflamed him. His face darkened. “How do you know I played well since you admit you have no ear for music?” he almost shouted at her.
“I … I suppose I do not.”
“I will play you something different,” he said, “which I defy you to dislike or to call ‘plaintive’.”
She winced but sat down again.
He gazed at her for a moment, as though considering which piece of music might endear her to an instrument for which he clearly held a high regard, and then began on an altogether different style of composition.
Almost from the first note – and certainly by the end of the first few bars – her attention was arrested. This, in her estimation, suited the instrument much better than the popular tune, which had grated upon her ear. It would not be accurate to say that she became a sudden convert to the power of music or to that of the violin, but, while it disturbed her, it did not distress her and her desire to run away was prompted as much by the unfamiliarity of her feelings as by the perceived unpleasantness of them.
As she listened – and wished that she were not obliged to do so – she found herself watching Signor Pontielli. That was quite as disturbing as the sound he was making and just as difficult to ignore. She began by fixing her eyes upon him because she believed that he expected it; he was
standing directly in front of her so that she felt self-conscious and wished that she had not chosen to walk in this direction. But, as she watched him, she became engrossed by the position he had adopted, with the instrument tucked under his chin and his head inclined towards it while one hand held down the strings at the top and the other wielded the bow. She thought at first that this appeared quite grotesque and hoped vaguely that it did not hurt him. But it was not long before she became fascinated, not only by the movement of his hands and the protective inclination of his head, but also by his expression.
Signor Pontielli was an unusually handsome man, even if his legs were a trifle short. He had slightly overlong black hair which flopped across his forehead as he played. Since his eyelids were lowered - although she was not certain that his eyes were entirely closed – she felt confident that he was not observing her. Her eyes moved between the lowered lids with their thick fringe of eyelashes and the beautiful, sensitive mouth, which quivered, reminding her of a butterfly.
When he finally lowered his fiddle and bowed as though to a proper audience, she felt uncomfortable, afraid that he could read her thoughts in her face. Suddenly recalled to a sense of her duty, she began to clap.
“I think you liked that better, did you not?” he asked softly.
“Yes, I did. It’s my belief that sort of tune suits the instrument better than the one you played before,” she added, feeling it incumbent upon her to make a remark which showed that she had been paying attention.
“Oh, it can sound jolly; perhaps the one I played earlier was not to your taste. I thought you might have heard it before.”
“Yes, I have. My governess used to play it on the pianoforte and I was obliged to try to sing to it. It did not go well and I own I have no fondness for the melody.”
He smiled. “I daresay it has bad memories for you. Would you like to essay a song – accompanied by the fiddle – now? Not that one, but perhaps another which you like better.”
Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence Page 5