by M C Beaton
Gerald swung away and went to join Tiffin. “How goes your aunt?” he asked.
“Very well, I thank you,” said Tiffin.
“I find these house parties curst dull,” Gerald went on, keeping a cautious eye on his parents, who were chatting with the Chumleys. “Do not you?”
“I have never attended a gathering like this,” said Tiffin. “I find it all quite overwhelming. I do not know quite how to go on.”
“Tell you what,” said Gerald eagerly. “It is a fine night. After dinner, we could go for a stroll in the gardens and I’ll tell you all about things like this.”
“Would that be correct?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll tell my parents, if you like.”
Tiffin hesitated and then said shyly, “I suppose if your parents have no objection…”
Gerald crossed to his parents, bowed to the Chumleys, exchanged a few innocuous remarks about the weather, and then returned to Tiffin.
“There. That’s done,” he said cheerfully. “Conventions observed.”
Peter Bond entered. Gerald, having secured the promise of that walk, had left Tiffin. Peter bowed to the company and then joined Tiffin. “I am so glad to see you again, Mr. Bond,” confided Tiffin. “I am not used to grand company. Although some of the young ladies at the seminary were from very grand families, I did not socialize with them, so this is different. Mr. Parkes has offered to take me for a walk in the gardens after dinner and to instruct me as to how I should go on.”
“That would hardly be a correct thing to do. You cannot go out into the gardens in the evening unescorted with a young man.”
“But he asked and secured his parents’ permission.”
Good manners stopped Peter from saying cynically that he doubted if Gerald had obtained any such permission. He saw Miss Trumble watching them. “Excuse me, Miss Moon,” he said. “I have an idea.”
He joined Miss Trumble and told her of Gerald’s invitation. “You were right to tell me,” said Miss Trumble. “Tell Miss Moon from me that it will be quite conventional if she is chaperoned. I elect myself her chaperone while she is here. Tell her we will both join Mr. Parkes after dinner. I wonder how he will like that?” Peter smiled and returned to tell Tiffin of Miss Trumble’s offer.
“I do not know how to thank you,” said Tiffin. “I feel so safe with you beside me, Mr. Bond.” Peter felt ten feet tall.
The duke was talking to Lizzie. “Are you recovered from the ordeal of saving my life, Miss Lizzie?”
“I feel quite well, Your Grace, but I fear I shall have bad dreams.”
“What did Mr. Parkes say to annoy you so much?”
“Nothing of consequence,” said Lizzie.
“Are you angry because he seems to have fallen for the charms of Miss Moon?”
“If he is set on breaking Miss Moon’s heart as a way of providing himself with some excitement, then I shall be very angry indeed,” said Lizzie. “I do not like philanderers.”
His eyes sparkled. “Alas, you cannot like me. I am devastated.”
“I cannot imagine you philandering!”
“Do you find me staid and serious?”
“Your Grace, when I think of our previous conversation, I feel I have insulted you enough.”
He put her hand on his arm and began to walk down the long room with her. “Advise me. What entertainment should I provide for these guests of mine? Or do you think I should pretend to fall ill and so be shot of them?”
“What of your marriage plans?”
“I fear I am destined to remain a bachelor.”
“You must try harder.”
“What if I have decided I wish to remain single?”
“Then that is your choice.”
Sarah Walters felt she could not bear it any longer. The duke had not even looked once in her direction. Somehow, she must distract his attention from Lizzie.
She moved until she was directly in their path, put her hand to her brow, and pretended to swoon in a dead faint at their feet.
Lizzie let out a gasp. The duke put his hand over her hand on his arm and held it in a firm clasp and guided her round Sarah’s recumbent body, saying over his shoulder, “Mrs. Walters! Your daughter is unwell. Pray ring for the servants to remove her to her room, and should you need the physician, please summon him.” He turned back to Lizzie. “To return to my earlier question, what entertainment should I supply?”
“Cards for the old people and dancing for the young,” said Lizzie. “There is quite a good little orchestra in Hedgefield which plays at local assemblies.”
Sarah was being carried from the room by two strong footmen, followed by her parents and an anxious-looking Peter Bond. “You did not believe she really fainted, did you?” asked Lizzie.
“No, I did not,” he said. “But if she did, then she has her parents to look after her. I fear Mr. Bond might be gullible enough to believe her really ill.”
“Did you see that?” hissed Verity to Celia. “He is so taken up with Lizzie Beverley that he paid absolutely no attention when Miss Walters fainted at his feet.”
“Why do not we rescue him from death?” said Celia.
“And how do we do that?” asked Verity with contempt.
“We manufacture some event.”
Verity looked at her curiously. “Such as what?”
“I have been thinking about it,” said Celia eagerly. “We could perhaps wait until he is ready to go out riding. One of us will go up on the leads and drop a piece of masonry down on him and the other will push him clear.”
“It could work,” said Verity slowly. “You could be stationed on the roof and I—”
“Why me on the roof? I thought of the idea. I should be the one to save him.”
“We will toss for it,” said Verity, fishing in her reticule and producing a crown piece. “Heads I go on the roof, tails you do.”
“Oh, very well,” said Celia sulkily.
Verity tossed the coin. “Tails,” she said triumphantly. “You go on the roof.”
“Then you must think up a rescue for me to perform,” said Celia, feeling quite tearful. “I think it most unfair that you should be the first to act the heroine when it was all my idea.”
Verity ignored her. “We must have a word with him in private and find out when he plans to go out next.” She left Celia and joined the duke and Lizzie. To the duke’s irritation, Lizzie murmured something and walked off to join Miss Moon.
“Do you often go riding early in the morning?” asked Verity.
“Quite often.”
“Tomorrow?”
He looked down at her impatiently. Gerald had joined Lizzie. What were they talking about?
“Yes, but too early for anyone else to be about. I leave at nine to ride to Hedgefield.”
To the duke’s relief, dinner was announced.
* * *
At dinner the duke said to Miss Trumble, “I am riding to Hedgefield in the morning.”
“For any particular reason?”
He smiled. “Only to put a little distance between myself and my guests.”
“So it was all a mistake.”
“A very great mistake.” He hesitated. “I may ask Miss Lizzie to accompany me. There can be nothing wrong in making an innocent expedition to a local town with Miss Lizzie.”
“Why do you wish her to go with you, Gervase?”
“She amuses me.”
Miss Trumble sat for a few moments in deep thought. “Lizzie is in no danger of losing her heart to you,” she said at last. “If there was any other gentleman in this party I considered a suitable beau for my Lizzie, then I would tell you to keep away from her and stop ruining her chances. I distrust Gerald Parkes. I fear his attentions to Miss Moon will be short-lived and he will soon turn his attentions back to Lizzie. You may go.”
“Thank you,” he said drily. “Your time as a governess shows in that you manage to make me feel about ten years old.”
Miss Trumble smiled. “I will t
ell Lizzie of your proposal so that she knows she has my approval.”
Sarah Walters lay in bed, a cloth soaked in cologne on her forehead. Her father’s acid words rang in her ears. “What possessed you to faint in that silly way? His Grace ain’t interested in you. And why? Because you’ve left the field to Lizzie Beverley, that’s why, with all your moping and maundering. If it hadn’t been for the Beverley chit, you might have had a chance.”
Oh, why didn’t Lizzie Beverley die? thought Sarah miserably.
To ease her mind, to take away the awful shame of that memory of the duke’s paying absolutely no attention to her “faint,” she began to dream up ways of murdering Lizzie. An hour of hard dreaming intensified the idea that without Lizzie she, Sarah Walters, could become a duchess. Having, in her dreams, disposed of Lizzie, her dreams of that wedding to the duke came flooding back. But as she fell asleep, she plunged straight into a dream where she was at the duke’s wedding but he was marrying Lizzie.
She awoke with a start. Something would have to be done.
Lizzie looked out nervously at a grey, misty morning. She had been so sure that the fine weather would last. She sensed approaching rain.
But she dressed with care, wearing the same riding outfit and hat. She had an older one she could have put on, but she felt that the new one was smarter.
With a feeling of nervous and happy anticipation, she walked down the stairs to meet the duke. It was not that she was in any way attracted to him, she told herself. It was just that she was only human and it was flattering to be selected as his companion a second time over the other eligible ladies in the house.
Celia was up on the roof, peering down into the swirling mist. She felt weak and dizzy. She was clutching a large square brick of Portland stone. If only the mist would clear.
It was too bad of Verity. It had all been her, Celia’s, idea, and she should be the one down there prepared to rescue the duke.
The shapes below her moved and changed in the mist. Horses neighed. Which figure was the duke?
Then she heard Verity’s voice. “I declare I am a light sleeper. Why do I not change into my riding habit and join you?”
Treacherous girl, thought Celia furiously. That was not part of the plan.
Anger at Verity gave her strength as she heaved up the brick. Now all she wanted to do was get it over with and get down from this cold and dizzying perch.
Verity, a smile pinned on her face, wondered what was holding Celia up. She tried to delay the duke with further conversation, but Lizzie was already mounted. The duke swung himself up into the saddle, touched his hat to Verity, and he and Lizzie rode off down the drive.
And then Verity screamed as a brick hurtled down past her head, missing her by inches.
“What was that?” cried Lizzie. “I heard a scream.”
“I neither know nor care,” shouted the duke above the drumming of the horses’ hooves.
They rode on in silence after that through a dream countryside, bleached of all colour by the mist. At last he slowed and stopped on the rise above Hedgefield where they had stopped before. “It will rain,” said Lizzie.
“It will not rain. You forget, I am a countryman. The sun will soon burn through the mist and we shall have a fine day.”
“And you forget I am a countrywoman, and it will rain!”
“Nonsense.”
“You are not always right, you know,” said Lizzie, feeling her hair coming out of its curl with the damp mist. “Should we go on? The mist hides everything.”
“But I am sure you, the countrywoman, can find the road to Hedgefield in this mist.”
“Yes, but it is not very pleasant.”
“Your company makes it pleasant, Miss Lizzie.”
“You amaze me. Very well. Hedgefield it is. It is market day. There will be many people about.”
“What of it?”
“I will be seen with you and do not want to damage my reputation,” said Lizzie primly.
“Anyone seen with me has their reputation enhanced.”
Lizzie gasped. “You are not even joking!”
“I am aware of my consequence.”
“How sad,” mocked Lizzie and spurred her horse.
He set out in pursuit of her flying figure, knowing that if he lost sight of her in the mist, he would probably lose his way.
They reached Hedgefield and left their horses at the Green Man and then walked through the gaily-coloured market stalls. Lizzie was greeted by many of the stall-holders and curious glances were thrown at the duke. And then a portly figure sailed through the mist and stopped in front of them.
“Lady Evans,” said Lizzie. She introduced the duke.
“We are acquainted,” said Lady Evans stiffly. “Where is Miss Trumble?”
“At Mannerling,” said Lizzie. “We are guests of the duke.”
“I am surprised Miss Trumble lets a young lady in her charge go unescorted,” said Lady Evans.
“I have her permission,” said the duke crossly.
“Yes, well, in the circumstances I am sure she could do little else if your mind was set on it,” retorted Lady Evans, who was aware of Miss Trumble’s true identity. “I shall call on Miss Trumble as soon as possible.”
The duke did not like the disapproving way she stared at Lizzie. He was tempted to say that he did not want callers and give her a set-down, but he remembered that this Lady Evans was an old friend of his aunt, and so he contented himself by saying coldly, “As you wish. Come along, Lizzie.”
“Oh dear,” said Lizzie. “How familiar of you!”
“What have I done?”
“You called me Lizzie.”
“Lady Evans will put the familiarity down to the great difference in our ages.”
“I had begun to forget that,” said Lizzie in a small voice. “But you always say or do something to remind me of it.”
He stopped and looked down into her eyes. “And that distresses you?”
“No, no. I mean, why should it?”
“Let us go to the inn for some refreshment.”
“We can hardly sit outside in this weather,” Lizzie pointed out.
“I will ask for a private parlour.”
The duke was used to his rank protecting him at all times from criticism and was blissfully unaware that by taking a young lady, known locally, to a private parlour would cause a great deal of gossip.
Lady Evans had been following them at a little distance.
She had once had high hopes of securing a suitable marriage for the daughter of a friend of hers with an eligible man. But one of those wretched Beverley sisters had snatched the prize.
Lady Evans considered the Beverleys scheming and devious. She saw the duke and Lizzie go into the Green Man. She turned to her footman. “Inquire discreetly what they are about.”
The footman returned after a few minutes and said, “His Grace has engaged a private parlour.”
Lady Evans’s face hardened. “This is the outside of enough. Get the carriage. We are going to Mannerling.”
Gerald was wondering if he would ever have even a few moments alone with the increasingly desirable Tiffin. She was constantly supervised by Miss Trumble.
Therefore, when a certain Lady Evans was announced, who urgently desired to speak to the governess in private, he found Tiffin left unguarded.
“At last,” he said. “I thought I would never speak to you again. What a dreary walk we had with that terrible old woman listening to every word.”
“Miss Trumble is very kind,” said Tiffin. Tiffin had been wondering when she could see Peter, but Peter had been very busy on the duke’s behalf and was now closeted in the study.
“What do you want to talk to me about, sir?” asked Tiffin politely.
Gerald spread his arms. “Everything. Let us take a walk in the Long Gallery.”
Tiffin went with him. Perhaps Peter might come looking for her.
“I have something to tell you,” said Gerald as they walked
along the gallery.
“Sir?”
“I have fallen in love with you.”
Tiffin blushed and her step faltered. “I do not know what to say. My father is not here and my aunt is unwell. But perhaps you should approach my aunt, nonetheless, and ask her for her permission to pay your addresses to me.”
Gerald gave what he hoped was a rakish laugh. “Ah, you are funning. Such a love as mine is not hidebound by the conventions.”
“A life like mine is very hidebound by the conventions,” said Tiffin. “I am flattered by your declaration of love, but I fear I cannot return it.”
“My heart is broken.”
“I do not think you have a heart to break, Mr. Parkes,” said Tiffin, remembering Lizzie’s warning.
He knelt on one knee in front of her and took her hand in his and pressed a warm kiss on the back of it. “Take pity on me, Miss Moon.”
Tiffin blushed again and snatched her hand away. “I think I should see how my aunt fares.”
“I have frightened you, but all I wish is to love you.”
He rose to his feet. “One kiss would ease the pain at my heart.”
He seized her in his arms.
Tiffin, despite the fragility of her appearance, was a farmer’s daughter and came from healthy country stock. With surprising strength and energy, she wrenched herself free and ran down the Long Gallery and headed straight for the study. She wrenched open the door, dived in, and slammed it behind her.
“Miss Moon!” cried Peter, getting to his feet.
“Oh, Mr. Bond, if he comes, tell him I am not here. Send him away!”
“Who?”
“Mr. Parkes.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Wait there,” commanded Peter.
He opened the door. “Is Miss Moon here?” asked Gerald.
“Yes, she is and we have private business to discuss. Good day to you.” Peter shut the door firmly in Gerald’s face.
He turned around. “I was just about to take a rest from work. Shall I ring for tea?”
“Thank you,” said Tiffin shyly. “I should like that above all things.”
Lizzie enjoyed her chat with the duke in the private parlour. They had discussed books and plays and the state of the nation. She only became aware of the unconventionality of their behaviour after the duke had said reluctantly that they should take their leave. As they made their way down the stairs, a housemaid bobbed a curtsy, but before she lowered her eyes Lizzie saw a sort of salacious curiosity in them.