The Summer Fields

  In this quiet backwater above the hullabaloo he sits her down beside the fire. He fetches a second lamp and, taking her hand in his, delicately runs his finger across the swelling. ‘There,’ he says. ‘I can feel the end of the splinter. Your body is trying to throw it out.’

  ‘The doctor will be here soon. I can ask him for advice.’

  ‘For a splinter?’ he says. ‘I am sure there is no need to trouble him.’

  Without releasing her hand, Ned hooks his foot around the leg of her chair, slowly drawing her towards him, watching her face all the while as a half-smile fights to conquer all of his face. His hand feels dry and warm.

  He lifts her palm towards his mouth. She stares at his coarse hair, raked back and pinioned in the queue. Several robust wisps have broken loose. She wants to lift her other hand and smooth the strands back behind his ear but at that moment she feels the heat of his breath, the wetness of his mouth and the touch of his teeth on either side of the soft rise of flesh at the base of her thumb.

  A dull twitch of pain tells her the tip of his tongue has found the splinter. He begins to suck, gently at first but as the pressure increases, his teeth bite into her skin. The pain is almost unbearable. She tries to snatch her hand away but then there is sudden relief.

  Ned raises his head and plucks the shard from between his teeth, spitting discreetly into the fire beside them. The clinkers hiss. He holds the trophy up for her to see, the splinter, tar black against the lamplight.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘No need for the doctor at all.’

  She tries to lift her hand away but he holds it a moment longer, planting a chaste kiss on the wound before releasing her. She looks at her reddened skin. She can still see the half-moon impressions of his teeth, framing the puncture wound and she smiles.

  He lays the splinter on the linen napkin covering the table and says, ‘That’s a hefty mote to carry under your skin for all that time.’

  There’s a crump from below and the sound of a voice bellowing in the distance.

  ‘I must get back to my patient,’ she says.

  ‘You always seem to be running away from me,’ he replies, his tone still light and teasing.

  ‘We both have our work to do,’ Elen says. ‘And I’ve been away from my patient for most of the afternoon.’

  He sits back in his chair. ‘I fancy you do not entirely trust yourself, were you to stay with me now.’

  His guess is correct. He looks so appealing, the buttons and braids on his livery flashing in the firelight. His eyes burn from beneath his brow, the flames turning the irises to the colour of caramel. The candles gutter on the chimney piece, their wax glutinous in their holders and as he holds her gaze, his pupils seem to swell, wide and black.

  The room is hot, very hot. Elen’s head fills with the scents of tallow, of resin, of wood smoke and beneath those fragrances her nostrils catch a sigh of musk, heady and feral, pumping fresh from his skin.

  As she rises to leave, her foot catches on the edge of her skirt, making her stumble. Ned is breathing heavily, his nostrils flared, as if he has run up a flight of stairs. As he rises to his feet, she moves behind the chair on which she has been sitting, clinging to the back of it to steady herself. He knows, she thinks, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  Instead she says, ‘I think I should go now.’

  He comes round to where she stands, his head sinking towards a shoulder as he gazes at her. With a gentle but lithe movement, he slides his hand around her waist, letting it settle in the small of her back. Shame sweeps through her because she longs to bite the generous sculpt of his mouth, to press her teeth close to his blood as he has just done to hers. When the pressure of his hand begins to draw her towards him, she does not resist.

  A clatter on the service stairs springs them apart and, covered in confusion, she bumps against the chair, grasping it with her hand.

  Mr Antrobus strides into the room and says, ‘Ah, you’re back, Miss Griffiths. I need Joan as soon as you’re ready to relieve her. Send her down promptly.’ Mr Antrobus looks from one to the other before adding, ‘Make haste. There is much to do before this evening’s dinner.’

  As Elen begins to ascend the stairs, she steals a glance back towards the steward’s pantry. Ned is leaning with his elbow against the edge of the door, his hand resting on the crown of his head, watching her. The air between them pulses with an understanding that an opportunity, although missed this time, needs to be resolved in the not-too-distant future.

  Chapter 21

  Elen is surprised to find Mordiford no longer in bed, but sitting on the chaise longue with his legs kicked up, idly watching the flames of the fire. He has got himself dressed in his breeches and undershirt, topped with a plain wool waistcoat. Although his face is still badly scabbed and marked, much of the swelling has subsided and he seems greatly improved. Beneath the crusts she can make out the broad forehead and the straight, strong nose she admired in the portrait. On hearing her footsteps he looks up, his face for a moment unguarded. In the permanent twilight of the candlelit room, there is pleasure in his eyes, a smile beginning on his lips.

  She returns his look with a gentle smile of her own. It brings him abruptly to his senses. He knits his brow, looks away and scowls.

  ‘You are dressed, sir.’

  ‘It seems I am.’

  As soon as Joan has slumped away, Mordiford swing his legs onto the floor and says, ‘The chill of the evening air has done you good, Miss Griffiths. You have an exceptionally high colour.’

  ‘You are right, sir. I have enjoyed my walk,’ Elen replies, although she doubts her high colour is due to the fresh air.

  ‘And how was your father?’

  She frowns at him, unaccustomed to this civility. ‘He was well, thank you, sir.’

  He looks at the scruffy chapbook that she holds and says, ‘And what have you chosen for me to read?’

  She has forgotten. The interlude with Ned has quite distracted her. She feels a jolt of frustration that she has lost a chance to please Mordiford.

  Unclasping her cloak, she says, ‘Oh, not this, sir. This is just a silly thing my sister sent over for me to read. Give me a minute to change from my outdoor things and I will go down to the library directly.’

  Mordiford looks exceedingly cross and says, ‘You forgot? The minute you left this room, you dismissed me from your mind. Here was I, exhausting myself by struggling into my clothes with no help whatsoever from that useless girl, so that I could sit for an hour in front of the fire and enjoy my book. I may as well have lain moribund in my bed.’

  ‘I did forget,’ she says, irritated by his unnecessary drama. ‘But as a reward for the effort you have made, I’ll go directly and return forthwith.’

  Before he has a chance to remonstrate, she drops her cloak and bonnet on the floor where she stands and quits the room.

  She hopes to find Ned, but Mr Antrobus is in the steward’s pantry, decanting wine over a candle, watching for the moment when the sediment appears illuminated in the neck. She waits until he whips the bottle upright, leaving an inch of dregs at the bottom before asking the way to the library, explaining that she is on an errand for the viscount.

  ‘You’d better go along the staterooms,’ he says. ‘No one’s down yet but be quick and don’t go nattering to any of the maids. They’ve work to do.’

  In the staterooms, the footmen are lighting candelabra and the maids are busy with the fires. Despite the fires’ merry crackle, the rooms feel clammy and cold. Nevertheless, they look magnificent, the ornate-looking glasses and polished tables reflecting the candlelight, the rich damask draped around the windows, glowing with luscious splendour. The glass drops of the chandeliers flash as they gently twist and turn, throwing light across the high ceilings.

  The corridor stretches ahead and as she leaves one stateroom, she is immediately in the next – this one a kingfisher blue with bright ornaments and bronzes, fabulous marble statuettes on the chimneypieces; the next has
elaborate tapestries hanging on every wall.

  She is now alone and slows her pace, wishing she could spend more time looking at the treasures that cover the tables – the silver boxes and glass vases, the beautiful bowls and jugs. What must it be like to be accustomed to rooms such as this?

  She catches sight of herself in a looking glass, her willowy frame, her thick hair escaping from her cap, that little mole at the corner of her mouth that makes her seem as if she’s smiling, even when she’s trying to frown. She tucks a couple of fallen curls behind her ear and turns sideways to inspect her figure. If only she had Libby’s curves. Unexpectedly, she thinks of Lady Arabella. Perhaps she has curves. Perhaps she too has studied herself in this pier glass, knowing that one day all this will belong to her – the vases, the porcelain, the paintings and, yes, Viscount Mordiford. Strangely the thought causes her to sigh, very faintly, before she carries on.

  * * *

  The library is not as brightly lit as the staterooms. One or two candelabra burn on low tables, deepening the shadows in the recesses of the long room. Her nostrils catch the scent of tobacco smoke and she peers into the gloom, worried that someone is there. All she can see are walls of books stacked on ornate wooden cases. The furniture scattered down the room appears to be unoccupied. She wishes she had brought her own candle or lantern – the lettering on the spines is hard to read in the low light. The first few shelves contain books in a foreign language, French perhaps, or German. There is another shelf of ecclesiastical tomes, their huge spines ribbed and embossed. The next shelf is filled with books on law, another on natural history.

  She lingers on the shelf of travel books: The Travels of Sir John Chardin in Persia and the East-Indies; A Voyage to East-India; Coryat’s Crudities, wondering if something here might interest Mordiford. She finds shelves of Shakespeare’s plays and although she has read many with her mother, she moves on. She takes down a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, but returns it to the shelf thinking that such a journey may depress Mordiford.

  Halfway down the room the gloom deepens despite the large fire that is burning in the grate. A large armchair stands before it, with the back towards her. She is on the point of taking down The Tragedy of the Dutchesse of Malfy, when she stops. A plume of smoke is rising above the back of the chair. She is not alone.

  ‘Don’t stop on my account,’ a voice says from the recesses of the chair and a tall figure rises up from it. It is the earl.

  He is dressed in a full-length robe of purple velvet, the gold of the heavy brocade glinting in the light of the fire. Instead of the fine wig he wore when last they met, he has an embroidered cap on his head, which has the effect of elongating his face. He places his clay pipe onto a dish on the chimneypiece and comes towards her.

  ‘What, pray, are you doing down here in the library?’ he says. ‘Are you not meant to be caring for my son?’

  ‘He’s asked me to fetch a book, my lord.’

  ‘Has he now? And what book have you been asked to fetch?’

  ‘I am to choose something, my lord.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, you can’t see much in this light.’ He sets off down the gallery, his robe hissing along the floor.

  Taking up a candelabrum, he returns and holds it in front of her. He stands so close she can smell tobacco on his breath, mixed with a tang like over-hung game, the sickly scent of rose water coming from his robes.

  Lifting the candelabrum higher he says, ‘You’re a handsome thing, aren’t you? Not to everyone’s taste – too thin, too tall. Unusual though. I imagine you might flick up rather well, should you choose.’

  She stares back at him with bold insolence, her interest piqued by his eyes. She thought they were pale blue, but the candlelight reveals a milky film partially obscuring their true colour.

  Her gaze discomforts him. The vulgar smile on his face fades and he takes a step back. ‘Now that’s a contemptuous way to stare,’ he says. ‘You’d better watch your step, miss. Someone might enjoy taking you in hand and taming that spirit of yours. Be thankful my son is not yet full of vigour or you might regret your decision to stay up there unchaperoned.’

  ‘I should return to the sickroom, my lord,’ she says, backing away in disgust.

  ‘Not before we have found a book for Crispin,’ he says. To her horror, he grabs her by the wrist, forcing her to follow. ‘Now, let me see,’ he says, moving along the shelves, every now and then rolling a jaundiced eye towards her. His palm is clammy, his hold so tight it pinches. ‘Oh, yes, here,’ he says. ‘This is the one I search for.’

  Releasing his hold on her, he draws down a small volume. He studies the spine and licks his lips, an unpleasant smile distorting his mouth. ‘The Unfortunate Florinda by Lady Hester Pulter. I am sure Crispin will enjoy revisiting this little romance,’ he says, passing it to her. ‘Be sure you read it to him. Run along now.’

  He turns away and heads off down the library, the flames of the candles bending towards him.

  Her heart bumps in her chest. The earl’s attentions repulse her. She even feels angry with Mordiford for sending her on the errand in the first place, although she knows this is a ridiculous fury. If only she’d remembered to come to the library earlier, she would have had the room to herself.

  She thunders up the service stairs, taking two steps at a time, but when she reaches the minstrels’ gallery, she recoils – she can hear the unmistakeable voice of the earl below. He must have made his way along the statue corridor to the great hall as she was scurrying in the same direction through the staterooms. She approaches the railing with great care and looks down.

  The earl is almost directly beneath her and he is in conversation with none other than Ned. She draws closer to the edge, hoping to hear better, but they are too far below her and the echo carries the words away. The earl is clearly giving instructions, but instead of Ned’s usual confident swagger and gaze, he seems slumped. He appears to try to reason with the earl who wags a cautionary finger at him before disappearing in the direction of the private apartments. Ned stays where he is, staring down at the floor.

  Elen calls him softly. He turns and looks up, his face is a study of misery.

  ‘Ned,’ she says, beckoning to him, ‘are you in trouble?’

  ‘No,’ he calls back, shaking his head and giving a sniff. ‘No trouble.’

  ‘Then come up here and tell me why you look so chap-fallen.’

  ‘Nothing would give me the keenest pleasure,’ he says, briskly resuming to his usual manner. ‘But the earl has given me a sheaf of orders and demands for this evening. We have additional guests just arrived. Three carriages. I must take these orders down to the steward or I shall be in trouble.’

  ‘Until tomorrow then?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he says, his tone cautious again.

  ‘Our walk. Surely you will be free for our walk tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, yes – tomorrow, in the morning. I was quite at a loss. I have much to think about. Yes, we shall walk tomorrow, of that I am sure. Until then…’ He backs away a few steps before turning and disappearing beneath the gallery.

  Chapter 22

  ‘Come, Miss Griffiths,’ Mordiford says, getting to his feet and momentarily resting a hand on the chimneypiece to keep his balance. ‘I am agog to see what volume you have chosen for me.’

  She hesitates, looking down at the book in her hand. ‘I was not at liberty to make a choice, sir. Your father was in the library.’ Does Mordiford take a sharp inward breath? ‘He chose this for you,’ she says, holding out the book.

  He walks over to her, his steps a little slow, but strong and steady. He takes it, returns to the fireplace, and holds it up to the candle to read the title.

  ‘Good God,’ he says under his breath. He remains stock still for all of a minute, staring into the fire before turning to her and saying, ‘I have been thinking, is it not time you were hastening back to your family? I am so much recovered today except for these wretched scabs. I do not need you loitering arou
nd here any further.’

  She rolls her eyes, frowning at his rudeness. ‘I’ll leave when the doctor tells me I can, sir. Clearly you are a deal stronger than you were, but you’re infectious until your skin clears. You need someone to tend you.’

  ‘I have Joan to run and fetch for me. I do not need you.’

  His manner is so light, his words so blunt, a stubborn irritation wells up inside her. She puts her hands on her hips. ‘I suppose that now you’re feeling better and bored, you return to your favourite game of baiting me.’

  Mordiford throws his head back and laughs. ‘You are right, Miss Griffiths. I am damnably bored. Bored with seeing your face day in and day out.’

  ‘You are very rude, sir.’

  ‘Would you like me more if I were polite?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  He tosses the book onto the table and, picking up a lamp, heads towards the vestibule. With a sigh, Elen collects a candle and follows. He’s been out of bed for less than a day. He could swoon and hurt himself. When he reaches the edge of the wall hanging at the back of the vestibule, she calls after him, ‘You’re not sufficiently imprudent to fetch that looking glass, are you, sir?’

  ‘What is it to you if I am?’

  ‘The doctor thinks you do yourself a disservice by studying your face before the disease has run its course.’

  He stops, leaning back against the wall. ‘Is it better that I trace these crusts with my fingers, rendering them larger and more disfiguring than they could ever be in nature? Why, I imagine I have the face of Shakespeare’s Caliban, “A freckled whelp, hag-born, not honoured with a human shape.”’

  ‘You’re certainly freckled, but you are no whelp. I can assure you, sir, the sickness has not robbed you of a human shape.’