Lucasta

by Melinda Hammond

  ‘If I remember correctly, the last time I was here it was a pirate ship.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Lucasta. ‘And you refused to let Camilla and me come in.’

  He turned to look at her, a smile lurking in his grey eyes.

  ‘We were repelling boarders.’

  She laughed at that, and his smile grew.

  ‘I hope you do not still hold that against me, Miss Symonds? I was only a scrubby schoolboy then: I hope I should not be so ungallant to you now.’

  ‘No, I am sure you would not.’

  He dropped down to floor, leaning against the wall some distance away, but the curve of the building put him at an angle, and when he stretched his long legs before him, his shining top boots were almost touching her soft kid slippers. It took a conscious effort from Lucasta not to withdraw from him.

  ‘Is this where you come when you want to be alone, Miss Symonds?’

  She nodded.

  ‘No one ever uses it now, but Ned is married and lives in Kent with his own young family, so I hope that when they visit us in future years his children may enjoy this place as much as we did.’

  ‘Yes, I remember whenever I came to stay at Harley it was one of the highlights of my visit, to come here with my cousins.’ He laughed. ‘We played ball games on the lawns and allowed you to be an honorary boy. You see, I do remember it, Miss Symonds: my apologies for thinking it was your sister.’

  She lifted her hand in a small, dismissive gesture, but she was pleased.

  ‘Had you much sport at the river, my lord?’

  ‘No. The fish were not biting and your father’s hip made it uncomfortable for him to sit down for too long, so we gave it up soon after lunch and walked the long way back through the woods – why does that make you smile?’

  ‘No reason, sir. You said you were riding – does that mean you do not stay for dinner?’

  ‘Alas, no. My cousins have invited a few special guests for dinner tonight and I must be there. After that, my visit to Harley is at an end, so this will be my last visit to Oaklands.’

  ‘Well, as Mama takes Camilla to London tomorrow you will have no reason to call.’ Lucasta’s hands flew to her mouth and she looked at him in horror. ‘I am sorry, I should not have said that, I was thinking out loud.’

  ‘No matter. Is it really so obvious?’

  Her eyes twinkled back at him.

  ‘Well, yes, it is. Besides, Ned was forever telling us that the fishing at Harley is much superior to our own small stretch of river, so I could not think why you should want to spend the day here if it was not to see Camilla.’ She observed his wry smile and took pity on him. ‘After all, she is stunningly beautiful.’

  ‘A diamond,’ he agreed. ‘I hope to renew our acquaintance in London. You travel tomorrow, you said?’

  ‘Mama and Camilla only. I shall stay here to look after Papa.’

  He raised an eyebrow, but did not comment upon it and a few moments later he jumped to his feet.

  ‘I must get back to Harley and you, I am sure, will want to get on with your book. Good day to you, Miss Symonds. Let us hope it is not another ten years before we meet again.’

  With a bow and a smile he was gone. Lucasta listened to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs then she scrambled up and looked out of the window in time to see him trotting off down the drive. She realized with a little jolt of surprise how easy it had been to talk to him. She had not felt the least shy in his company. He was certainly very taken with Camilla, and it occurred to her that if he was serious enough to make her an offer, Camilla could wish for no better husband than Viscount Kennington.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On an icy March day Lady Symonds set off for London with Camilla and Lucasta was left with little to do at Oaklands. With Piggott and his wife to run the house she wondered why her father had been so keen to have her stay with him. He had never sought Lucasta’s company and when they did meet at mealtimes he did not speak to her except to criticize or to issue some new instruction. Their first dinner together after Camilla and Lady Symonds’ departure was taken in near silence, but Lucasta bore this cheerfully: she was well aware that Camilla had always been his favourite but it seemed that with the imminent prospect of Camilla’s marriage, her father wanted to improve his relations with his eldest daughter, and she hugged this small hope to her.

  At breakfast the following day her father greeted her cheerfully, and her spirits rose even more.

  ‘Well my dear, you must instruct Cook to put on a good dinner for us this evening, for we have a guest. Squire Woodcote is joining us.’

  ‘I see.’ She looked up hopefully, ‘Does that mean you will be dining alone with him?’

  ‘Indeed it does not, my girl. I shall expect you to play the hostess and to extend every courtesy to our guest.’ Lucasta’s spirits, riding so high a moment earlier, plummeted. ‘You need not look so downcast, madam! Arnold Woodcote is an old friend and you have known him for ever. He is not some stranger that you have never seen, so you cannot tell me you are shy of him!’

  Lucasta swallowed her retort. It was true that she had known Squire Woodcote since she was a baby but she could not like him. She disliked his jovial familiarity, the way he would pull her onto his knee and demand a kiss or allow his hand to linger on her arm whenever he came near. With her mother present she had always felt protected but now she, Lucasta, would be playing hostess and she was vaguely uneasy. She delayed going down to the little parlour as long as she could and wore a demure, high-necked gown with long gloves so that she need not feel the Squire’s hot, flabby fingers on her skin. Even so, she could hardly suppress a shiver when he pressed his mouth to her fingers.

  ‘Ah, Miss Symonds, so your sister has gone off to enjoy herself in London and you are left behind! Well, we must count London’s loss our gain, eh?’

  Lucasta drew her hand away and tried to smile. The squire was a robust man with iron-grey hair who was happy to boast that he wouldn’t see fifty again. His cheeks were reddened by an abundance of fresh air and red wine and his portly figure was due to overindulgence at the dinner-table. He had been a widower for many years, with no children of his own, and to this fact Lady Symonds ascribed his fondness for Lucasta and her sister. When they were children he had never left without pressing a coin into their hands, but the price for this was that he had been allowed to kiss them. Camilla had never minded, but Lucasta would have much preferred him to keep his money and his kisses to himself.

  ‘Well, Symonds, you may say that your little Camilla is a diamond, but this girl is a pearl,’ he declared, leering at Lucasta. ‘And you have her all to yourself for the next few months eh?’

  ‘Indeed I do, Arnold,’ agreed Sir Oswald. ‘We shall be as snug as bugs, will we not, my dear?’

  Lucasta could think of no reply to her father’s uncharacteristic jollity and was grateful when Piggott came in to announce that dinner awaited them. The food could not be faulted and Mr Woodcote praised every dish. Lucasta was only glad that the long table ensured that she was seated far enough away from the squire that he could not reach out to pat her hand or, even worse, to touch her leg with his foot, something he had done at other family dinners when the wine had been flowing too freely. At the end of the meal she retired to the little parlour with her embroidery, which she only put aside when the tea tray was brought in and she was obliged to serve the gentlemen. As soon as she was able she returned to her needlework and at eleven o’clock she retired to her room, thankful that the gruelling night was over.

  She was seated at her dressing table, brushing out her hair when her father came in without ceremony. He dismissed her maid with a curt word, and stood glaring down at his daughter.

  ‘Well, miss, you will know why I am here.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘Why, no, sir …’

  ‘Damnation girl, I have never been so ashamed of you in all my life! What do you mean, treating my old friend so coldly?’ He snatched up her go
wn which was lying over a chair. ‘And how dare you appear in this dowdy rag? Anyone would think you were a Quaker!’

  Lucasta shrank back before his rage, but she forced herself to reply.

  ‘I do not like the way the squire looks at me.’

  ‘You’ll allow him to look at you all he wants,’ raged Sir Oswald. ‘And to do a great deal more, if I have my way!’

  ‘Wh-whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that he is minded to wed you!’

  ‘No!’ Lucasta shuddered.

  ‘Oh yes! Do you think I want you here, eating me out of house and home for the rest of your life? What with the fortune we wasted on you last year I feel very hardly done by, my girl. It’s time you paid your way, and if Woodcote is prepared to be generous then I am happy to see you wed him.’

  ‘Please, Papa—’

  ‘Don’t you come mewling and crying to me, Lucasta. You will do as you are told! The squire is coming to dinner again tomorrow night and you will be on hand to receive him, and wearing your best gown, if you please. I want him to know you are a lady, not a nun.’

  ‘No!’ Lucasta shot up, quivering with rage. ‘You cannot treat me like this!’

  Sir Oswald pulled himself up to his full height and stepped towards her, glowering.

  ‘I shall treat you how I like, my girl, and you will do as you are told.’ He turned and strode to the door. ‘And don’t think I will let you plead a headache and keep to your room, because if you do that I shall fetch you downstairs in your petticoats if necessary!’

  He slammed out of the room and she was left staring at the closed door. How could he expect her to marry the squire? He was of an age with her father, the very thought of it made her feel sick. She sank down onto her chair again. If only her mother was here! A moment’s reflection convinced her that her father had deliberately waited until Mama was out of the way before announcing his plan. She tried to think calmly. All she had to do was hold out until Mama returned. The thought of sustaining nightly arguments with her father was daunting, and she decided it might be better to write to her mama and explain the situation. As her maid tiptoed back into the room Lucasta gave her a reassuring smile and continued with her preparations for bed. She had only to be firm. After all, she lived in a civilized society: no young lady could be married off against her will.

  Lucasta dressed with care the next evening, choosing an open robe of blue satin over a cream quilted petticoat. Her father insisted she came down to the little parlour before Mr Woodcote arrived and he looked her over critically.

  ‘Hmm, you have a good figure,’ he muttered, walking around her. He reached out and snatched away the fichu she had arranged around her shoulders. ‘No need for that: a man likes to see the goods he is buying.’

  Lucasta’s face flamed. She wanted to put hands up to her low neckline but she knew it was pointless and would only draw attention to her own discomfort. When the squire arrived she greeted him coldly, suppressing a shudder when he looked greedily at her bosom.

  ‘Perhaps, Sir Oswald, you would allow me the privilege of escorting Miss Symonds into dinner?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sir Oswald stood aside to allow Mr Woodcote to take his place. Lucasta placed her hand upon the squire’s sleeve and immediately he pulled her closer. The walk across the great hall to the dining-room had never seemed so long. She forced herself to remain calm and ignored the squire’s hints that she should move up to sit beside him so that they might all be cosy. The gentlemen did not talk to her during the dinner, but she felt the squire’s eyes constantly upon her, and she could not enjoy her meal. She refused the wine at the table but once she had left the gentlemen to their brandy and made her way back to the panelled parlour, she wondered if this had been wise: she had yet to endure another hour or so of the squire’s company. Sitting alone, her courage began to fail her. Remembering her father’s threats to drag her from her room, she dared not retire, so she decided to fetch herself a glass of wine to bolster her spirits. She swiftly crossed the great hall and slipped through the servants’ passage to the butler’s pantry. As she expected, it was empty, for Sir Oswald liked Piggott to remain in attendance in the dining-room while he plied his gentlemen guests with brandy. What she had not expected was that the connecting door between the pantry and the drawing-room should be ajar. She would have to be extremely careful if she was to pour herself a glass of wine from one of the decanters standing open on the side table. Any noise could bring Piggott in to investigate and might even alert her father. She picked up a clean cup from the shelf and moved silently to the side table, making sure she kept well away from the open door. She could hear the gentlemen talking, the chink of glass as more brandy was served. She began to fill her cup, but stopped when she heard her name.

  ‘… Lucasta’s not cold, Arnold, she’s a maid and she’s been kept well away from men. You will find her warm enough in your bed, I’ll vow.’

  ‘You may well be right, Oswald.’ The squire gave a low chuckle that made Lucasta’s flesh creep. ‘She can’t hold a candle to her sister, of course, but I know your good lady has her marked out for great things. No, Lucasta is a fine girl, I’ll grant you that, and she’s strong, I’ve no doubt she can provide me with a quiverful of brats. Must have an heir, you see, Oswald, the older I get the more I wants someone to look after me in my old age.’

  ‘Well, my daughter will fill that role very well. She’s a good housekeeper.’

  ‘Ah. Fine pair of bubbies, too … by gad, sir, just thinking of ’em makes me go hot!’

  ‘That’s why I thought we should get this matter dealt with as soon as possible. No point in delaying if you are willing, Arnold.’

  ‘Willing? Of course I am willing, man! I procured the special licence, just as you suggested: all we have to do now is persuade that little gel of yours to say yes.’

  ‘Oh she’ll agree.’ There was a coldness in Sir Oswald’s voice that sent a chill running through Lucasta.

  ‘Well, then, old friend, what are we waiting for?’

  There was a chink, as if glasses were being touched together.

  ‘I’ll get the parson here tomorrow and we’ll have you married by dinner time.’

  ‘And bedded, too, just to make sure of the gel,’ cackled the squire. ‘By gad if I don’t feel ready for her now—’

  ‘You’d be well advised not to say anything untoward this evening,’ growled Sir Oswald. ‘We don’t want to scare her off. Tomorrow, a little brandy and laudanum will make her compliant….’

  Lucasta leaned against the table, feeling slightly sick. Silently she set the decanter in its place and fled back to the parlour. She drew a chair up to the fire and sat very straight, her hands gripping tightly to the wooden arms. How could they discuss her thus? Anger raged through her. How could they talk about her in such terms, and with Piggott standing in the room. She had always known that her father paid little heed to the servants, but in this matter – it shocked her to realize that he had discussed the marriage of his daughter as coolly as he would have discussed bringing a bull in to service his best heifer. With a sinking heart she realized that her father had planned the whole: he intended to marry her off while her mother was away, knowing that she would object to the match. Fear began to replace her anger. She had failed to catch a husband and her reluctance to try again this season had sealed her fate: her father wanted to recover what he could from a poor investment. It was well known that the squire was a wealthy man; no doubt he would pay handsomely for her. Lucasta shuddered, then squared her shoulders: they would be joining her soon, and not by so much as a look must she show that she knew of their plans. Her choices were limited, but of one thing she was certain: she would not marry Squire Woodcote.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A fine drizzle had set in by the time Lord Kennington took his leave of his cousins. Low cloud added to the misty greyness of the March day and he wondered aloud if he should have delayed his journey.

  ‘Since her g
race was expectin’ you two days since, we needs to crack on,’ opined his groom with the familiarity of an old retainer.

  ‘Quiet, Potts. My godmother is not the sort of female to have the vapours because I am a day or two late,’ retorted Adam, adding judiciously, ‘but perhaps it is as well we do not delay any longer. To hell with this rain, it is turning the lane into a bog!’

  Potts did not deign to reply but sat in silence beside his master as he negotiated the muddy lanes without mishap and soon they were bowling south along a well-made highway. The drizzle showed no signs of abating; it dripped from the curricle’s waxed hood and puddled in the footwell. There was no traffic on the road, the only sign of life being a solitary cloaked figure, bag in one hand, striding towards them along the grass verge.

  ‘Poor lad,’ grunted Potts. ‘This ain’t a day to be walkin’ anywhere.’

  Adam was about to agree with him when the figure became aware of the approaching carriage and looked up. Adam found himself staring into the startled face of Miss Lucasta Symonds.

  Immediately he brought his team to a stand.

  ‘Miss Symonds! Whatever brings you so far from home in this weather?’

  She put down her portmanteau and regarded him nervously.

  ‘’It is not a matter that need concern you, my lord. Please, drive on.’

  It had been instinct and good manners that had caused the viscount to stop, but now it took a conscious effort for him to ignore the voice in his head advising him to do as she requested. If it had been the enchanting Camilla on the road he would not even have considered leaving her, but there was nothing enchanting about the bedraggled figure at the roadside. The tendrils of hair that had escaped from her boyish cap were curled wetly around her face, and her brown eyes held a distinctly guilty look. He observed her leather boots and guessed that beneath the long cloak wrapped tightly around her body she would be wearing breeches. His curiosity was aroused. He handed the reins to his groom, murmuring, ‘Not a word of this to anyone, Potts.’