The lady artist, coming rather belatedly onto the scene, said in surprised accents, "Whatever are you doing, Mr. Chandler?"
Gordon Chandler was widely held to be a rather stern young man, with a reputation for shrewd common sense and a temper that was usually held in check. Mr. Chandler's temper however had, for several reasons, been somewhat frayed of late. One of those reasons stood before him now, and the knowledge that he had stupidly allowed himself to be thrown into a flower bed, that his hair was in his eyes, his new riding coat torn, and that he must look a proper fool, did nothing to improve his mood.
"I might well ask the same of you, madam," he snarled, coming swiftly to his feet. "Who the deuce gave you leave to use this garden as a shortcut? It escaped your notice, I gather, that this is a footpath! A footpath, Miss Arlington!" Clutching the back of his neck, which smarted considerably, he glared at her.
"Allington," she corrected involuntarily. "I am so sorry if we have come the wrong way. We were lost, you see, and arrived on this side of the grounds, so— Oh, my! You have tea leaves in your cravat, sir." She snatched a small handkerchief from the bosom of her gown. "Allow me to—"
"Thank you—no." He stepped back and brushed at his cravat. His hand, being muddy, did not help matters. He saw Miss Allington's lips twitch and, lightning fast, a dimple came and went. Glancing down, he swore under his breath.
From the cottage behind her came a squeak of mirth. Aghast, Ruth retained sufficient presence of mind to clap a hand over her mouth as though trying to muffle the sound.
Her apparent amusement did not please. "Allow me to inform you," he raged, shaking his riding crop for emphasis, "that this lawn—" The riding crop, broken in the fall, sagged ludicrously.
The dimple in Miss Allington's cheek struggled against suppression.
Gritting his teeth, Chandler hurled the crop from him. With fiendish perversity it flapped through the air to drape itself over the nose of the coachman's tall bay horse. The bay took violent exception to such treatment and made a determined effort to jump backwards over the coach. His cohort, jerked back willy-nilly, became equally alarmed and succeeded in getting a leg over the pole. The coach veered crazily, creating havoc in the flower bed.
Alarmed by the murderous expression on the face of this crusty young gent, the coachman ran to seize the harness and shouted threats at his animals.
Chandler moved quickly to tear the leathers from his hand. "Gently, you fool," he growled, reaching up to stroke the sweating neck of the big bay. "Easy now, poor fellow. Easy."
Ungently, the bay bit him.
Ten minutes later, the uproar having quieted, the coachman followed Mr. Chandler's piebald mare and strove to obey the gentleman's terse orders to keep to the disastrous tracks he'd wrought in his initial journey.
Watching Chandler's rigid back with no small apprehension, Ruth called, "I am truly sorry, sir."
He turned in the saddle. "Your arrival, madam," he advised pithily, "has not been propitious."
The two women looked at each other.
"Oh dear," sighed Ruth.
The blue cottage was a delight; a fairy tale house much larger than Ruth's perception of a cottage, with the same red-tiled roof as the main buildings. On the ground floor were a small entry hall, a cozy sunken parlour, a dining room, kitchen, and a small bedroom. The charming spiral staircase led up to two larger bedchambers, each with dressing room; and there was also a study equipped with well-stocked bookshelves and a writing desk. The furnishings were tasteful, the walls were hung with fine old prints and watercolours, and, much to Ruth's relief, each of the casement windows was provided with heavy draperies calculated to keep out the cold winter winds. These were pulled back at present but when closed would keep out prying eyes.
They were all pleased with their new home, and it was swiftly decided that the boys would share one of the upstairs bedchambers, Ruth taking the other, and Grace occupying the smaller downstairs room. The twins rushed about exploring every nook and cranny, and discovering such wonders as a tiny bedroom cupboard evidently intended for shoes, a frigid little pantry off the kitchen, and some deliciously creaking floorboards. Even the fastidious Grace was satisfied that the wardrobes, drawers, kitchen cupboards, and shelves were immaculate, and she at once went to work to unpack and put away their belongings.
After a preliminary and pleased inspection of the rooms, Ruth washed, tidied her hair, and changed her dress as quickly as possible, but the shadows were long across the gardens when she hurried down the path to the main house. The sun was going down in a blaze of crimson and purple, the fiery glow painting the exterior walls pink. Candles had already been lit inside, and the windows glowed a mellow amber. The air of early evening was mild, birds were sharing the day's news as they settled into the trees, and the stream gurgled and chattered over its stony bed. Beset as she was by anxieties, Ruth could not fail to be struck by the beauty all about her, and when she came around to the front of the building her steps slowed and she paused briefly, looking out over the charming prospect.
"So here you are, Miss Allington. Sir Brian wondered when you were going to come."
The housekeeper stood at an open casement. She was bathed in the warm light, but her tone was cold and she did not return Ruth's smile. It was not to be wondered at, Ruth acknowledged glumly. Mr. Chandler had undoubtedly relayed the news of her disastrous arrival, and during her first visit here she had gained the impression that Mrs. Tate was devoted to him.
She hurried to the door, which was already being held open by a liveried footman. Mrs. Tate glided across the hall to meet her, the dark grey bombasine of her gown whispering.
"I was not quite sure," said Ruth, "whether I should use the back door."
"But you came to the front." Mrs. Tate's dark eyes were expressionless. "Sir Brian is waiting. He desired that you join the family for dinner. We shall send a tray down to your cousin."
"Oh, but—"
"This way, if you please."
Ruth followed, willy-nilly. If Sir Brian had invited her to dine with the family he must not consider her hopelessly far beneath them, nor could he be too angry over her unfortunate arrival.
Mrs. Tate led her across the great hall, past the graceful sweep of the fine old staircase, and opened one of double doors into a wide and wainscoted withdrawing room.
"Miss Allington," she announced, and went away.
Sir Brian rose from a sofa and turned, smiling. With him was a clerical gentleman of about forty, with a high forehead, the gentle eyes of a dreamer, and beautifully chiselled features. Advancing to shake Ruth's hand, Sir Brian presented his chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Nathaniel Aymer, who was, he added, "a most distinguished scholar."
Mr. Aymer's rather grave smile told Ruth that he did not approve of lady restorers, but she betrayed no awareness of his reaction. Sir Brian drew up a chair for her, and she answered his polite enquiries by saying that their journey had been pleasant and the cottage was a joy. Her cautious attempts to refuse the dinner invitation were brushed aside. She must not deny three lonely gentlemen the pleasure of a lady's company for once, and Sir Brian promised faithfully that he did not mean to "talk business."
At this point, Gordon Chandler arrived. He had changed his clothes and looked quite well, thought Ruth, trying to be fair, in a plum-coloured coat, the great cuffs rich with silver braid. A diamond sparkled amid the laces at his throat. His hair was powdered and drawn back severely, and the glance he rested on Ruth as he made his bow was also severe.
"Here you are at last, my dear boy," said Sir Brian. "You see, you were not 'the last act to crown the play,' Miss Allington, though crown it you do. Perhaps, Gordon, you will be so good as to offer the lady a glass of ratafia."
Chandler went over to a credenza and filled two glasses, one of cognac.
"Now, you must give me your opinion, ma'am," said Sir Brian, with a twinkling glance at his son's broad shoulders. "What do you think of this room?"
"I think that, like
the rest of your estate, sir, 'tis very beautiful."
The lace at Mr. Chandler's wrist shifted as he offered the glass of ratafia and Ruth gave a shocked gasp.
"You do not think all this panelling a touch gloomy, perhaps?" prompted Sir Brian.
Appalled by the lurid bruise on his son's wrist, Ruth stammered, "Sir Brian—I must apologize for—"
"My father asked, your opinion of this room." Chandler's dark face was forbidding. Strolling to take a deep chair near Sir Brian, he raised his glass in salute to him and said with fond mockery, "I am very sure he waits your verdict with bated breath, ma'am."
Mr. Aymer chuckled. "You place the lady in a most difficult situation, Mr. Gordon," he remarked in an unexpectedly high-pitched tenor voice. "She is scarcely able to be anything but complimentary."
"No, no, that will never do," protested Sir Brian. "When I ask a question, Miss Allington, I want only the truth. However unpalatable it may be."
There was clearly more here than met the eye. Ruth wrenched her mind from its preoccupation with Mr. Chandler's damaged wrist, and glanced around the room. It was spacious, richly furnished, and panelled throughout in oak, and she said with genuine admiration that she could find nothing to dislike. "Truly, I have never seen such superb carvings as those on the heads of the panels."
Chandler laughed softly and again raised his glass to his sire.
'He manages to look human when he laughs,' thought Ruth.
"Alas, we are outnumbered, Sir Brian," said Mr. Aymer with a rueful smile.
"Oh dear," said Ruth. "Never say I have committed another faux pas?"
"To the contrary." For once the ice in Mr. Chandler's grey eyes had been replaced by a look of approval. "Your judgment must only be excellent, ma'am, since my brother and I share it."
Sir Brian smiled. "You agree with me, at least, Nathaniel. And you should, Miss Allington, for had I not stripped all the gloomy wood from the chapel walls, our fresco might have stayed unrecovered for another two centuries."
"Instead of which, we have a mouldering fresco and a cold chapel," his son murmured into his wineglass.
Mr. Aymer explained, "Mr. Gordon holds that walls covered with plaster and paper admit draughts, ma'am. And that panelling keeps a room snug."
"With all your many virtues, Gordon, you have been denied an appreciation of art." Sir Brian gave a start as his son waved a gesture of acknowledgment " 'Pon my soul! What a'plague have you done to your hand?"
Chandler looked vexed and shook down the laces at his wrist. "A small accident, merely. 'Tis of no consequence."
"Of no consequence!" Mr. Aymer sprang to his feet and seized Chandler's arm. "What a frightful bruise! There may be bones broke, which can be deadly dangerous, and I'd not be surprised—"
Watching his father's alarmed face, Chandler jerked his arm away. "Such a pother you make, Aymer. You will have my father thinking me a block because I took a simple toss."
Still uneasy, Sir Brian exclaimed, "You were unhorsed? Which animal scored that rare victory? When did it happen?"
Darting a stern glance at Ruth, Chandler answered, "My piebald mare was the culprit. In the woods this afternoon. Something spooked her and I was woolgathering." He shrugged. "That'll teach me."
"Mr. Chandler is not being entirely honest, I fear," said Ruth.
Sir Brian and the chaplain jerked around to face her.
Chandler said irritably, "Oh, let us have done with this! There's no cause to make so much of a stupid—"
"Be still!" Sir Brian raised one hand autocratically. "Pray go on, Miss Allington."
" 'Twas entirely my fault, sir," she said, as she had rehearsed. "I did not properly recall the way, and we followed the back road onto your lands. In my confusion I failed to correct my hired coachman when he mistakenly turned onto a footpath."
"A—what!" Sir Brian's face darkened. "Do you say that you brought a carriage up behind the blue cottage? Not across my lawns, I trust."
"The coachman was a fool," said Chandler. "I was a—er, trifle short with him, which frightened my mare into a buck that caught me by surprise. No harm done."
"Except to my lawn," grumbled Sir Brian.
Ruth said humbly, "I am truly sorry."
Sir Brian was not appeased, and his tone was chill when he said that he trusted his gardeners could rectify matters.
Feeling a depraved criminal, Ruth lowered her eyes to the hands folded in her lap and kept silent.
"The gardens of Lac Brillant are famous, Miss Allington," said Mr. Aymer reprovingly. "We all treat them with the greatest care and are exceeding proud of them."
"And I am exceeding ravenous," said Chandler. "Has that fool of a chef expired?"
Almost as he spoke a gong somewhere sent out a sonorous peal. Sir Brian offered Ruth his arm. As she rested her hand on it, he said, "If that wrist starts to swell, Gordon, we must have Keasden out to look at it."
Chandler muttered something about an "old curmudgeon," and Sir Brian led Ruth into what he told her was the breakfast parlour, used for dinner when they did not set out very many covers.
It was a good-sized room wherein a long table was spread with snowy linen. Candlelight awoke answering gleams from silver and crystal. Lackeys stood ready to pull back chairs. The casements were open to the balmy evening air, the food was delicious, and to add what should have been the final touch of delight, a harpsichordist in an adjacent room began to play familiar old airs.
At any other time, Ruth would have been enchanted, but although Mr. Aymer kept up a stream of obviously well-meant but rather inane chatter in which Mr. Chandler occasionally joined, Sir Brian's countenance was austere and he scarcely spoke. Ruth sensed that she was in disgrace, and her heart sank.
The meal seemed interminable, and when it was over she declined Sir Brian's polite offer to take tea in the withdrawing room, and begged to be excused.
"Of course. You will be tired," he said. "My son will see you back to the cottage."
They all stood. Ruth offered her thanks and said her good nights, and was soon very gratefully walking across the lawns with Chandler pacing beside her. She made a few nervous attempts at conversation, but his replies were curt and monosyllabic.
Most of the curtains were drawn when they reached the cottage, but a lighted lamp brightened the parlour windows. Ruth turned on the top step and said firmly, "I know you do not wish to speak of it, sir. But I must thank you for trying to shield me. I fear Sir Brian was very provoked."
"Had you not persisted in talking out of turn, Miss Allington, he would have had no cause to be provoked. An I attempted to shield anyone, it was him. My father is not a well man. We all of us do everything in our power to spare him distress. Pray bear that in mind. For the short time that you are with us." And with a brief inclination of the head, he was striding off again.
Mortified, Ruth watched his tall figure blend into the night. "Horrid… brute!" she hissed, and went inside.
At the darkened upper window two fair heads turned, two small boys exchanged looks of outrage.
"You were right, Jake," whispered Thorpe. "He's a bad 'un."
"Awful bad! Did you hear the way he spoke to Aunty?"
"I think she was piping of her eye."
"If I was a man I'd—I'd grass him!"
"I wouldn't," said Thorpe with ferocity. "I'd say— 'confound you, sir!' An' I'd jolly well call him out!"
Jacob looked around uneasily, and with the authority of being thirty minutes his twin's senior said, "That's swearing! You shouldn't say swearings."
"I'll do more'n that if he's rude to Aunty Ruth again! I'll cut out his heart an' feed it to the frogs! Like the pirates do."
Jacob sighed. "I wish we was pirates," he said, the notion of murder and mutilation apparently less offensive than an oath. "But we're not, so I 'spect he'll keep on being bad. Unless…"
"Unless—what?" Eagerly, Thorpe accused, "You're brewing, Jake!"
"Well, if you or me was't' speak to a lady like he did
, we'd be punished. An' I think that if Mr. Chandler don't mend his ways, he oughta be punished."
"Oooh," said Thorpe, titillated. "Could we?"
"Aunty Ruth says you c'n do anythin' if you try hard 'nuff."
As they climbed into the canopied bed, Thorpe enquired, "D'you think frogs really eat hearts, Jake? Has they got teeth? You'd have to have teeth to eat a heart, wouldn't you?"
" 'Course, silly. We'll catch a frog an' see." A short silence, then Thorpe murmured sleepily, "Still, this is not so bad for a little house. An' I'm glad we c'n all stay together."
"So'm I. But it wasn't him what 'ranged it. I heard Aunty Ruth tell Miss Grace he tried to stop it. The old gentleman 'ranged it."
"Oh." Thorpe yawned. "Then it's not un-hon'rable if we have to punish him."
"No. Hon'rable, in fact. A man's's'posed to take care of his ladies. That's what Papa said."
"Oh." Another yawn. "Jake, d'you 'member Papa?"
"Not much. But that's what Grandpapa said he said. An' he said Papa was a fine gentleman 'cause it was in the blood. So that's what we'll be, Thorpe. Fine gentlemen."
"Righto. We better catch a frog't'morrow…"
The next morning Ruth resisted Grace's attempts to dress her hair less severely, insisting the tight plaits be wound behind her ears, with no curling tendrils allowed to escape.
Grace sighed. "Your beautiful hair! All scrinched flat. How can you hope to win the old gentleman over when you look such a dowd? And that plain old brown dress…"
"Let him once suspect I am an Armitage, and we're finished. Goodness knows, he may send us packing as it is, for he was most huffy with me about the lawn we spoilt. I mean to try very hard to please him, you may be assured. Now, all my tools and paints are in this box. Sir Brian will send a footman to carry it to the chapel, so when he comes, be sure to behave as if you're exceeding nervous. And for heaven's sake, keep the boys hid! I've told them they've to pretend the grounds are full of spies searching for them. Keep the doors locked and the curtains drawn, and if the windows are open, they must speak very quietly, just in case there are busybodies about."
Ask Me No Questions Page 8