Abigail was already seated on the tray when he got there, having painstakingly inched her way across the slippery step on her hands and knees, but Cary caught Hector before the young man could join her. He could tell at a glance that the boy was drunk.
“Have you all gone mad? You’ll crack your silly heads open like plover’s eggs.”
Abigail looked at Cary in surprise. “But I have gone down the chutes in the Park, sir, in a toboggan, and those are much steeper than this.”
Cary’s surprise was not less than hers; he’d formed the idea that Hector had foisted this harebrained scheme on her, but she seemed a more than willing participant in the madness. Vera was right. Abigail was shy, but by no means timid.
“I did say I thought it was a bad idea,” whispered Mr. Temple, mopping his face with his handkerchief. He seemed to be drunk too, and suffering from the worst effects of inebriation.
Abigail at least appeared sober. “Indeed, madam?” Cary asked her. “Did you go down the chutes on a bloody great tray?”
“No, of course not,” Abigail calmly replied. Sitting on her platter, she felt quite safe from him. This time, he seemed to be the one discomfited, and she took pleasure in the rare reversal. “But, for heaven’s sake, Paggles went with me. It’s not at all dangerous, I assure you.”
Cary grimly took in the frozen scene. The Cascades went down nearly twelve yards, then came the long, icy ribbon of frozen water slanting downhill. It looked like suicide to him. He wondered what Abigail would do if he ordered her to get off the tray and walk back towards him. Assuming she obeyed, she would probably slip, and break her fool neck on the steps. “Go and get a rope,” he told Mr. Temple, just as that gentleman turned his head to one side, and vomited.
“Are you afraid, Mr. Wayborn?” Abigail exclaimed in astonishment.
“I’ll go down with you, Miss Smith!” Hector cried recklessly. “I am not afraid.”
“No,” said Cary, shoving the boy aside. “I’ll go.”
“It was my idea,” Hector sulked.
“The lady is my cousin. You can take your sisters down, if you like.”
“You can take my sisters, sir,” Hector sniffed. “I’ll take your cousin.”
“I can certainly go alone,” Abigail said quickly. “It is what I intended.”
Cary set one boot onto the icy step. Hector had placed the tray on the third step from the top, the widest of the seven steps. It was a far from safe feeling to be standing on iced stone.
“You’d better crawl, sir,” Abigail advised him.
Cary did not reply, but concentrated on his steps as he inched towards the tray. They all watched as he crossed the ice, not breathing until he took up a position behind Abigail on the tray. Abigail scooted forward to give him room, drawing her knees up to her chest. One of his knees appeared on either side of her, and she saw that the right leg of his trousers had split to show one brown knee. She had not realized how very cold it was until she felt his warmth suddenly mold itself to her body. He seemed to fit her exactly. She felt his breath on her neck and, unable to endure such intimacy, she pressed her cheek to her shoulder; but he merely moved his head to the other side.
“An English gentleman,” he said in her ear, “never crawls.”
She made no reply but squirmed as he slid his arms around her waist, his fingers splaying just beneath her breasts. In response to her movements, the tray slid a few inches forward, skimming across the wet, icy step, and she went perfectly still.
“How do you like Temple and Young Mickleby?” he asked, snuggling against her. “They’re drunk as lords, both of them. The curate and the squire’s son.”
“They can’t be,” she scoffed, looking at the two men on the bank. Mr. Temple was down on all fours like Nebuchadnezzar, and Hector was jeering him mercilessly. “Mr. Temple only had four pints, and Mr. Mickleby switched to cider.”
“You’re not counting the half-pints. I’ve seen the bill. Indeed, I’ve paid the bill.”
“I drank the ladies’ pints,” said Abigail. “And I shall pay the bill.”
“Don’t argue with me, Cousin, not when we’re about to die.” Cary laughed softly. The sound made the hairs on her neck stand up. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered.
“It’s perfectly safe,” she protested. “You’ll see.”
He squeezed her waist. “It is not safe. We’re going to die. Kiss me for luck?”
“Certainly not,” she gasped.
“No? Shall we go down together then, and meet our Maker?” Not waiting for a reply, he leaned hard forward, holding her tightly against his body as the tray slid and bumped its way down the steps, swerving this way and that. Abigail shrieked as they sailed off the last step and landed with a jolt on the smooth ice track winding down to the broad, flat river.
Cary buried his head in the side of her neck as the tray slid down the long, smooth decline, gathering speed until it slammed into a curve. She felt him gripping her body tightly between his knees, then they were out of the curve and shooting across the icy surface of the river. The tray came to a gentle stop not ten yards from the Rose’s back garden.
“Well, I’m damned,” Cary whispered softly. “Nobody died, after all.”
“I told you there wasn’t any danger,” said Abigail.
“Don’t tempt fate,” he told her. “Just because we didn’t die this time, doesn’t mean it’s safe. We’ll certainly be killed the next time.”
Abigail laughed out loud. “The next time?”
Mrs. Mickleby, the squire’s wife, had braved the snow to call upon her new neighbors at Tanglewood Manor. Her ancient brougham had foundered in the snow half a dozen times, but each time the footmen had managed to free the wheels, and the lady’s determination to see Mrs. Spurgeon was so great that she scarcely felt the inconvenience.
Mrs. Spurgeon immediately set her most pressing concerns to rest. The London widow was precisely as loud, as abrupt, as large, as old, and as ugly as any mother could wish. For her second day in the country, Mrs. Spurgeon had chosen a primrose yellow gown and a long brunette wig. She looked like an aging Louis Quatorze. In short, she was not the sort of widow to tempt either Mr. Wayborn or Mrs. Mickleby’s own foolish son Hector. Indeed, one wondered in what way this imposing female had ever tempted Mr. Spurgeon.
In an instant, therefore, Mrs. Spurgeon secured all her good will, but the ravishing Mrs. Nashe was not so fortunate. To Vera the squire’s wife was hostile, but, as she lacked both consequence and wit, her repeated attempts to crush Vera could inflict no lasting harm. Indeed, not even the digs and demands of Mrs. Spurgeon could penetrate the pretty nurse’s serenity.
“More tea, Vera.” “A pillow for my back, Vera.” “Do crack these chestnuts for me, Vera.” “You are very dull today, Vera. You have not spoke two words together. Mrs. Mickleby must think you a half-wit.”
Such treatment might have excited Mrs. Mickleby’s pity had not Vera’s placid calm been interpreted by the squire’s lady as smugness. When Vera poured out the tea, she seemed quite the mistress, not merely of the teapot, but of Tanglewood Manor itself.
“Do you like birds, Mrs. Mickleby?” Mrs. Spurgeon asked her guest.
Mrs. Mickleby enthusiastically indulged herself on the subject of goldfinches.
“Bring Cato,” Mrs. Spurgeon instructed Vera. “Miss Smith is not here to upset him. Bring his perch. Cato is an ara macao,” she informed Mrs. Mickleby. “A scarlet macaw. I’ve taught him to eat with a spoon.”
“But who is Miss Smith?” Mrs. Mickleby inquired, puzzled.
“My dear Mrs. Mickleby,” said Mrs. Spurgeon, “I hardly know what she is, so it’s not fair to ask who. I expect my son found her through an agency.”
“Oh, it is a servant you mean,” exclaimed Mrs. Mickleby in relief.
“If she is a servant, she’s a very bad one,” said Mrs. Spurgeon stoutly. “She went out very early—before I was even out of my bed—and I’ve not seen her all this morning. Vera tells
me Mr. Wayborn took her ice skating at the village inn.”
Mrs. Mickleby’s alarm was awakened by this intelligence. Mr. Wayborn was a gentleman. He would not go skating with a mere servant, but he might take a paid companion; many such people were gentlewomen driven by poverty to find respectable employment. Such a woman might be forgiven for seeking to escape her enslavement by making an advantageous marriage. Indeed, Mrs. Mickleby would have forgiven Miss Smith, had she not already settled on the gentleman as an ideal son-in-law. As it was, she tried Miss Smith in absentia and convicted her of being a conniving and artful adventuress.
She said aloud, “Then she is a gentlewoman, at least, in spite of her name.”
Mrs. Spurgeon shrugged. “Do you think so? Why, she has Portuguese friends!”
Mrs. Mickleby was horrified. “Portuguese friends? She is not…Oh, my dear Mrs. Spurgeon, can you assure me that she is in no way a Portuguese herself?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Mrs. Spurgeon snorted. “Unless they have started making them with carroty hair and freckles. But she speaks quite proudly of her Portuguese friends at the dinner table. I don’t think the Portuguese suitable for dinner myself. Gentlemen may speak of them over port,” she conceded, as Vera brought in Cato on her arm. A servant followed, carrying the macaw’s perch.
Vera gave Cato a cuttlebone to chew, and he made a good impression on Mrs. Mickleby. At her hostess’s instigation, she offered him a chestnut and he came to take it from her hand, then returned to his perch. Cato remained quietly and aloofly engrossed in chewing, even when Abigail entered the room some time later, accompanied by Mr. Wayborn. They took no more notice of Cato than he did of them. Indeed, they did not notice anyone. They were laughing together, and Mr. Wayborn was taking the girl’s fur-lined cloak.
Vera appeared amused; she quietly went on cracking her chestnuts into a pretty silver bowl. Mrs. Mickleby slowly turned purple. Mrs. Spurgeon adjusted her wig in anticipation of Cary’s attentions. He saw the ladies first. His eye alighted in mild alarm on Mrs. Spurgeon’s brunette curls, then he was all smiles and charm. “Good morning, Mrs. Spurgeon. Mrs. Nashe! And Mrs. Mickleby, too. Delighted! Any chance of a fresh pot of tea?”
He dutifully bent over the ladies’ hands. It was his first opportunity to see Mrs. Spurgeon as a brunette, and he made the most of it, lavishing her with compliments. “But, madam, did we not agree that your delightful bird would remain in my study?” he gently chided her.
Mrs. Spurgeon pouted. “Miss Smith was out. I didn’t think it mattered. He’s the dearest, sweetest bird alive,” she told Mrs. Mickleby in her confidential roar. “Look at him—he’s an angel. Only Miss Smith upsets him. She upsets him most dreadfully.”
Mrs. Nashe quietly set down her nutcracker and took the macaw out of the room.
Cary turned to introduce Abigail to his neighbor’s wife, and discovered, to his exasperation, that the girl was trying to sneak unnoticed to the staircase door. “Miss Smith!”
Abigail started guiltily. “I’m just going to check on Paggles, sir,” she whispered.
“I should like to present my neighbor, Mrs. Mickleby, to you,” he said sternly. “I made you acquainted with her daughters and her son at the Tudor Rose. We have had the most entertaining morning, ma’am,” he told Mrs. Mickleby. “You will never guess what we have been doing. Tell her, Abigail.”
Realizing she could not escape the acquaintance, Abigail came back into the room and performed a wretched curtsy. “How do you do, Mrs. Mickleby?”
Mrs. Mickleby found Miss Smith’s blushing humility, which she perceived as humbug, quite as distasteful as Vera Nashe’s self-assurance. “And what have you been about this morning, Miss Smith?” she coldly inquired in her best grandam style.
Abigail flushed, and began to stammer. “We have been going down the Cascades, ma’am, on a platter.”
“But you have failed to capture the excitement of the experience,” Cary complained. “First off, it was a very, very large platter. We sat on it together, and bumbled, and slipped, and glided all the way down to the Tudor Rose. We could have been killed at any moment.”
“I see,” Mrs. Mickleby said, growing colder by the moment.
Cary quickly changed the subject. “Miss Smith lives in London, ma’am. I’m sure she’d be delighted to answer any questions Rhoda might have about her own presentation at Court.”
“I assure you, sir, I am capable of preparing my daughter to meet her Queen,” said Mrs. Mickleby stiffly. “It wasn’t so very long ago that I was presented myself.”
“Yes, of course,” said Cary, “but Miss Smith lives in Town. She will have a more intimate knowledge of the theater and other entertainments, the shops, the museums, and the exhibitions. Miss Rhoda is to have a Season in London this year,” he told Abigail, then turned back to Mrs. Mickleby. “I believe, ma’am, that you are planning to give Miss Rhoda a proper send-off. A going-away party. I daresay Miss Smith could be persuaded to attend. She has no aversion to a country dance, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Mickleby looked sour. “I have already invited Mrs. Spurgeon,” said she. “If she wishes to extend the invitation to include Miss Smith, I shall be happy to receive her, too.”
Cary’s eyes narrowed.
“I think I’d rather have Vera with me,” said Mrs. Spurgeon.
“Just as you like,” said Abigail, happy to be spared any gathering where the hostess so clearly did not want her. “Please do excuse me, Mrs. Mickleby. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, of course, but I must check on my—my friend upstairs.”
Mrs. Mickleby rose from her place. “I do hope, Miss Smith, that your Portuguese friends will not be visiting you here,” she said haughtily. “This isn’t that sort of neighborhood.”
Startled, Abigail stopped where she was. “My Portuguese friends?”
“You spoke of them last night over the Madeira,” Mrs. Spurgeon prompted her.
Abigail smiled. “Oh, I see! No, ma’am, my Portuguese friends are all…bottled up.”
“Bottled up? Whatever do you mean?” cried Mrs. Mickleby.
Cary glared at Abigail, who was laughing behind her hand. “Figure of speech, ma’am. She means they are all bottled up in Brazil,” he said quickly.
“Brazil?” Abigail repeated in astonishment.
“Yes, of course,” he said, looking hard at her. “Your Portuguese friends are all bottled up in Brazil, in a manner of speaking. At the Court of the Emperor Joao the…uh…Sixth, is it? Where your father—Sir William Smith—serves as private secretary to the Ambassador.”
Abigail’s amber eyes grew wider with every lie. “My father!”
“I think you will find, Mrs. Mickleby, that my cousin has rather a droll way of talking, which has made her a great favorite at the Court of St. James.”
“Your cousin!” exclaimed Mrs. Mickleby, turning pale. “My dear Mrs. Spurgeon, you did not tell me Miss Smith is Mr. Wayborn’s cousin!” she accused.
“I thought you were joking about being this young lady’s cousin, Mr. Wayborn,” said Mrs. Spurgeon. “You said you’d assumed the name of Smith when you sneaked into the Army.”
“I did so,” Cary replied. “But that was because of my Smith relations.”
“Well, there you are,” said Mrs. Spurgeon, turning to Mrs. Mickleby. “That explains it. They are cousins, you see,” she told the stunned woman.
“Only very distant cousins,” Abigail felt obliged to point out.
“Fairly close geographically,” Cary retorted.
“If Miss Smith is your cousin, Mr. Wayborn, she must be related to the Vicar as well,” said Mrs. Mickleby, trying to gauge the extent of her social blunder.
“No, indeed, madam. Did I not say? Miss Smith is one of my Derbyshire cousins. Her uncle is Lord Wayborn of Westlands.”
Mrs. Mickleby cried out in pain. “I trust I have not offended you, Miss Smith,” she babbled anxiously. “That was never my intention. It was not made clear to me who you are. Mrs. Spurgeon—”
“Don’t blame me,” said the former blonde. “I was not rude.”
“You are not offended, are you, Abigail?” said Cary. “Depend upon it, Mrs. Mickleby. Nothing ever offends my cousin. She has the sweetest, most forgiving disposition in the world. I can speak for her; she is not engaged. She will gladly condescend to go to Miss Rhoda’s soiree.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Mickleby, I would not dream of such a thing,” said Abigail, her face scarlet with embarrassment. “I beg you to excuse me,” she added, breaking for the stairs.
She ran straight up to her room, too furious with Cary even to visit Paggles. As she burst into the room, the man’s dog jumped down from her bed and barked sharply, startling her, to say the least. Content to have made her heart jump into her throat, Angel returned nicely to the bed, settled down, and began chewing on something he held propped between his front paws.
Some of the anger Abigail felt for the master transferred to the dog. “You’re not supposed to be up here,” she said severely, dragging him down from the bed by his collar. To her dismay, the red and white coverlet was thickly coated with orange dog hair. “And what have you got in your mouth?” she demanded. “Give it to me.”
Angel contritely dropped the twisted paper into her hand. Abigail smoothed it out on the windowsill. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Cary Wayborn. She ought not to have read it, but she recognized the sprawling, spidery handwriting as her father’s. Mr. Wayborn, she discovered to her dismay, owed Ritchie’s Fine Spirits an outstanding balance of thirty guineas for a case of Gold Label scotch purchased in the year previous. If Mr. Ritchie did not receive said sum forthwith, he would seek satisfaction by court order.
At the bottom of the page, Red had scrawled in giant letters: Immediate Payment Due.
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