by Jo Beverley
Amy could have cited propriety but instead she said weakly, “My hands are so dirty.”
“I don’t mind,” he said and raised her hand for a kiss. Then he released it.
She was a regular Cinderella, Harry thought, having to struggle not to show his anger at her lazy servants and her ugly sister. More than ever he wanted to sweep her into his arms, kiss her, and carry her off to Hey Park, where she could idle her days away in peace.
She leapt to her feet and moved away from him. How shy she was. “Jasper and Jassy help,” she carried on. “But Jasper is at school most of the time—he boards at Uppingham—and Jassy has her lessons, too. Aunt Lizzie does a great deal of the cooking, but she’s too old to do heavy work.”
“You’re too delicate to do heavy work,” Harry said firmly.
She turned to him in surprise. “I’m not the slightest bit delicate,” she said. “You mustn’t be deceived by my appearance.” She walked over and picked up a sturdy chair, raising it above her head. By the time he was on his feet to assist her, she had already set it down again. “See?”
“So you’re a female Atlas,” he snapped, filled again with a burning desire to claim her and put an end to such foolishness. “That doesn’t mean you should be doing such things.”
“Rooms need to be cleaned,” she pointed out, “and that means furniture must be moved. So, we move it.”
“This is all nonsense,” he said. “You may be in straitened circumstances, Miss de Lacy, but this degree of hardship cannot be necessary. You are being shamefully ill used.”
“By whom?” she asked, appearing to be genuinely at loss. She was such an innocent darling.
He hesitated to name her hard-hearted family since she seemed devoted to them, but he had noticed that the sister had been wearing quite a tolerable green spring muslin while Amy was in little more than a rag.
He was saved when Beryl bustled into the room, followed by Chart Ashby bearing the tray, and an older lady carrying a plate of cakes. A cruel aunt instead of a stepmother.
“Tea!” the older woman declared with a degree of emphasis which seemed uncalled for.
They all sat as tea and cake were dispensed. Harry noticed that both the sister and the aunt raised their cups to their lips as if the china contained a sacred beverage. After the first taste they sighed softly in unison. He glanced at Amy, but she held her cup and saucer forgotten in her hands.
“Do you not care for tea, Miss Amy?” he asked.
She started and looked down. “Oh, yes.” She sipped and then smiled. “It is good, isn’t it?”
It occurred to him at last they perhaps were not able to afford tea. True, it was expensive, particularly since the war, and was always kept in a locked caddy, but he’d never known anyone before who could not afford it. Even the tenants at Hey Park would have an ounce or two in a tin for the occasional cup.
A proposal hovered on his lips. He could put an end to this here and now—provide tea, wine, and good food; dress Amy as befitted her station; and hire servants so she ceased such foolish, dangerous activities. But she deserved better than such a hurly-burly offer.
He realized Chart was adroitly holding up their end of the conversation and began to take part himself. The sister and aunt were less honest than Amy and attempted to keep up appearances, but he still gathered a bleak picture of their situation. He couldn’t help but wonder if they would be better advised to sell up and live in modest comfort, but it would be time to look into such things when he was part of the family. They were obviously in need of proper advice. The new baronet was a mere schoolboy, and the trustee lived in Cumberland and paid little attention to their affairs. Harry gathered he was a poet of sorts.
He’d bring in his father’s man-of-business and the Hey Park steward to assess the situation and decide what should be done for the best.
Amy relished her tea, even though she knew this whole event was a disaster. It was as Beryl had said; it would be so much harder to go back to herbs after savoring bohea. Moreover, Beryl and Aunt Lizzie were enjoying this little party so much that they would stretch it out as long as possible, when Amy knew she needed to have Harry Crisp leave.
She just couldn’t seem to stay sensible, especially when he touched her.
She recognized the warning signs. Yesterday he may have treated her as a brother—for most of the time, anyway—but today he had a different look in his eye. If she wasn’t very careful he would propose to her, and she didn’t want to have to hurt him by a refusal. To worry her more, there was always the danger that she wouldn’t manage to refuse him at all.
If he were to touch her, perhaps kiss her…
“Amy!”
Amy looked up suddenly and would have spilled the tea if there had been any left in the cup.
“What were you about?” Beryl asked. “It looked as if you were trying to read your future in the leaves.”
They had played that game in the good old days. She grinned and peered into the cup. “Let’s see. Goodness, I have a very twisty road here. Life is going to be complicated in the future, I fear. But I have a tree. That,” she said with a flashing look at Harry, “means sturdy good health.”
He leaned over to look. “How can you see a tree in all that? It’s just a splattering of tea leaves.”
“Oh ye of little faith. I can see a tree. And a road.”
“And what of marriage?” he asked lightly. “Is that not what all young ladies seek in the leaves?”
Amy realized she had allowed herself to slide into warmth again and drew back, but he had his hand on her cup and she could not retreat far without a struggle. “A ring signifies marriage,” she said.
He looked and then smiled at her. “I see a very clear ring.”
“Oh, Amy,” declared Beryl. “How lovely!”
“It is marred by a cross,” countered Amy.
Beryl’s face fell. “Oh dear.”
Harry shared an indulgent glance with Chart Ashby. “And what does that mean?”
“It means,” said Beryl seriously, “that Amy will experience many difficulties before she marries and is in danger of failing to find true love there.”
Harry glanced into the cup again and then surrendered it to Amy. “I hope I do not offend, ladies, but I don’t think that is a good prediction of Miss Amy’s future at all.” It was time for them to take their leave, and with some reluctance he led the way.
As they rode off he turned to Chart. “Well?”
Chart shrugged. “I don’t know. She seems charming enough. I suppose you could do worse. I suspect she’ll want you to lay out a lot of blunt on the place.”
“My father won’t mind helping them out, providing some comforts. As to the estate, we’ll have to see if there’s anything to save. They seem to be in desperate straits.”
They discussed estate management on the way back in a competent manner which would have surprised and delighted their parents.
Back at Hume House, Harry announced his intention of asking Amy de Lacy to marry him as soon as it seemed appropriate, and was pleased to find that no one had any objection to raise.
Amy tried to put Harry Crisp out of her mind, which wasn’t easy when Beryl and Lizzie dwelt on the visit all the time. Jassy, returning from yet another visit to Amabelle’s, was put out to find she had missed the beaux, and so she stayed at home the next day.
“They won’t call again,” said Amy.
“Who?” asked Jassy innocently.
“The king and queen,” Amy retorted. “But if you think we might have visitors, make yourself useful and dust the drawing room.”
Aunt Lizzie, she noticed, was polishing the tiles in the front hall, and Beryl had gone out to look for flowers—both in their best gowns. Amy shook her head and went off in her workaday brown bombazine to take the kitchen scraps to the pig.
This was her latest project. After all, most of the tenants had a pig. Augustus would survive almost entirely on scraps and then, come winter, provide bacon, ha
m, and sausage.
As she tipped out the bucket for the eager fellow with his comical flapping ears, Amy wished Jassy hadn’t christened him. She scratched him behind one ear as he snuffled around for the choice bits. “How are you, then, Augustus?” she asked. “That’s right. Eat up. I don’t suppose it will help when the time comes, but I’ll make sure you’re as happy as possible until then.”
Augustus looked up and gave a strange little snort of disbelief. “Oh dear,” said Amy.
“Do you always talk to the livestock?”
She whirled around to find herself face-to-face with Harry Crisp. “What on earth are you doing, creeping up on me like that!”
He looked down at his top boots. “I don’t think it’s possible to creep in boots on a gravel path, Miss de Lacy. I think it was more a case of you being enthralled by your companion.”
“Nonsense,” said Amy, face flaming. “I was merely feeding him. Fattening him up. They…er…feed better when talked to.”
Harry looked over the sty wall. “He seems to be eating well still.”
“Because of the sound of human voices,” said Amy triumphantly.
Harry leaned against the wall and grinned at her. “Then I suppose it is our duty to stay here and talk.”
Amy picked up the bucket. “I have work to do.”
He took the bucket from her and held her hand. “The lowest laborer is entitled to a rest.” He looked over the sty wall again. “I see you were correct. The poor pig has stopped eating. We must talk more.”
Amy looked down and saw he was telling the truth. Augustus was not rooting in the trough but looking up longingly. She knew it was not foolishness, but his expectation of the treat she always brought in her pocket and gave before she left—an apple, a carrot, sometimes a piece of leftover pie or stale cake. Today, because of Lady Templemore’s bounty, she’d stolen a buttered scone for him.
“I was fooling,” she said. “I could recite The Corsair and make no difference to his eating.”
Augustus rested his snout against the top of the wall and squealed demandingly.
“He protests that. Can you recite the The Corsair?”
“Of course not. I doubt even Lord Byron can.”
“Perhaps you should just relate the story of your life,” he suggested with a smile. “For the pig’s sake, of course.”
Amy gave him a disgusted look. “Augustus couldn’t care a fig for my history.” She pulled out the scone. “This is what he wants.” She tossed it into the sty. The pig gave a snort that said, About time, too, gulped it down, and went back to eating.
“You see,” said Amy. “Just like all males. Cupboard love.” She walked briskly back toward the house and he kept pace with her, the bucket clattering against his leg.
“Do you really have such a low opinion of men?” he asked.
Amy regretted her tartness. She slowed her pace and said, “I’ll have to hope it’s not true. My cupboard, after all, is bare.”
He put down the bucket and stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Hardly that, Miss de Lacy. There are other riches than money.”
Oh dear. I’ve forgotten to be careful and we’re in trouble again. “If you mean my beauty,” she said prosaically, “I have no desire to be married for looks. What would become of me in a few years when they fade?” And yet that is what I plan to do.
She pulled against his hand, but he merely brought his other hand to her other arm to hold her more firmly. “I shan’t let you run away just yet. You know you have nothing to fear from me.”
Oh no, I don’t.
“I don’t deny that you have beauty, Miss de Lacy, but you also have courage, honesty, and a warm heart. It extends,” he said with a smile, “even to the porker. May I hope it extends to me?”
Amy could feel panic growing in her. It would be so easy, so wonderful, to say yes. He would make her happy. He would give Beryl and Jassy and even Lizzie a comfortable home, perhaps even give her sisters a small dowry each. He would help Jasper, and after all, it would not be so terrible to lose some land, and some of the silver and pictures….
“Miss de Lacy?” he prompted. “Amy?”
But it would be utter selfishness. She would be the only one to benefit when she could provide everything that was required. “I am grateful to you, of course,” she said woodenly.
“You know that isn’t what I mean,” he said gently. “Amy, will you marry me?”
Amy stopped breathing. She knew that because she noticed when she needed breath to say, “No.”
Color touched his cheeks. “A bit abrupt,” he remarked. “Could you give me a reason? I’m healthy, wealthy, and willing. Where lies my shortcoming?”
Amy swallowed and took refuge in the banal. “We hardly know each other, sir.”
Foolishness was always unwise. “I feel I know you better than any number of young women I’ve danced with, and walked with, and been acquainted with for years.”
“I don’t know you at all,” Amy persisted.
“Don’t you?” he queried. “Well then, have I your permission to visit you, so that you may get to know me better?”
She was hurting him. She hated this. But it was unfair of him to badger her so. “I don’t think so.”
“Miss de Lacy,” he said with a touch of impatience, “if you have taken me in dislike, or if you are already pledged to another, I wish you would tell me directly. Otherwise, these dillydallyings of yours are very strange.”
At this reproof, Amy applied all her strength, and she wrenched herself out of his hands. “Strange?” she echoed. “I always thought a man was supposed to take no for an answer, sir. Instead, you’re hounding me to death. Two days ago we were total strangers.” She raked her hands distractedly through her hair. “Why on earth would I want to marry you?”
“Because I can rescue you from poverty, if nothing else,” he said, looking every bit as distraught as she. “You may not be ready to agree to marry me now, Miss de Lacy, but you have no reason to dismiss me out of hand, unless your beauty has so gone to your head that you are holding out for a better catch. I think I am entitled to a logical reason for your refusal to even consider my suit.”
Amy welcomed the rare surge of temper, for it swamped the pain. She hissed in a breath through her teeth. “Very well, sir,” she snapped. “If you want logic, you may have it!” She looked him straight in the eye. “I am holding out for a better catch. I plan to marry a fortune, and you are nowhere near rich enough.” She laughed at the shock on his face. “I could be wrong, of course, our acquaintance being so slight as to be nonexistent. If you are a regular Croesus, pray tell me now and I’ll say yes, and thank you, sir, and be as grovelingly grateful as you clearly expect me to be.”
“I do not—”
She interrupted him. “But you’re not a Croesus, are you? And so you’re no use to me, Mr. Crisp, for all that you’re a handsome, pleasant young man. I intend to marry only an immensely rich man.”
He turned white. “You bitch.”
At the end of her tether, Amy hit him, knocking his head sideways with the force of it. The sound cracked, and in seconds the scarlet mark was on his face like a red flag. Manual labor developed the muscles remarkably.
“Amethyst!” gasped Aunt Lizzie.
Amy turned, horrified, to see Aunt Lizzie, Beryl, Jassy, and Chart Ashby gaping at her. She wished the earth would swallow her. How had she ever become so lost to proper behavior? She turned, seeking adequate apologetic words.
Harry laughed in her face. “I should have known,” he said. “Even your name is false. You’re not an Amy, you’re an Amethyst—beautiful, cold, hard. And for sale to the highest bidder.”
Amy forgot apologies. “Leave!” she commanded and pointed dramatically toward the distant gates. “And you will never be welcome here again.”
Harry looked her over. “There is certainly nothing here to tempt me.” He bowed curtly to the other ladies and stalked off.
Everyone simply stood frozen.
After a moment Chart Ashby made an elegant bow. “Apologies, ladies. ’Fraid we’ll have to miss our dish of tea.”
No one said a word as he followed his friend, but then Aunt Lizzie said, “Amethyst…”
Amy burst into tears and fled to her room.
When Chart arrived at the drive where they had left their horses, Harry was already at the end of the drive, heading away from Stonycourt at a gallop. Chart made no hurry about following. A long, blistering, lonely ride was probably what his friend needed right now.
7
CHART SAW NO SIGN OF HARRY during the leisurely canter back to Hume House. That didn’t surprise him. If he’d been assaulted by his beloved, he’d doubtless disappear to lick his wounds.
Chart was mildly puzzled over the behavior of the beautiful Amethyst. Harry Crisp would be quite a catch for her, so why the furor? He couldn’t imagine that Harry had done or said anything to truly warrant such outrage. That wasn’t in Harry’s style. Too sweet-natured for his own good, was Harry, and especially gentle with ladies of all degrees.
When he strolled into Hume House he expected inquiries as to Harry’s whereabouts. Instead he was greeted with, “What’s got into Harry?”
They were all in what passed for a drawing room—Verderan, Emily, Randal, Sophie, Corny, and Renfrew. It was Randal who had spoken. He was a spectacularly handsome man with golden curls and bright blue eyes made for teasing. In their school days he’d been the Bright Angel to Verderan’s Dark, but he had left the nickname behind.
“Why d’you ask?” Chart replied.
“Because he stormed in here like a Fury,” Randal said, “grabbed a decanter of brandy, and headed for your room. There was a crash a while back but it didn’t sound fatal.”
“Lord,” said Chart, rather awed. He tried to remember the last time Harry had lost his temper. He didn’t think Harry ever had.
“He can wreck the place if he wants,” said Verderan. “I’m sure there’s nothing of value. But we’d rather not have a corpse in the house.”
“What happened?” asked Randal seriously.