The windows of the Town Hall were opened wide to let the cool evening air into the ballroom. A courtroom and the debating chambers were being used by guests who did not want to join the youngsters in dancing and the talk was loud and unrestrained since champagne was still being served.
Oliver found Florence and her mother in the mayor’s parlour, a panelled room next to the ballroom where the highest-ranked guests were assembled. Florence had changed for the dancing into a dress of white organza and Laura, elegant and cool in grey silk, chatted to the mayor.
‘Florence. Here you are!’ Oliver said, feigning surprise as if he had come across them by accident. ‘Are you and your mother going to join us in the ballroom? I’ve come to claim my dance.’
‘Mama! I’m going to the ballroom with Oliver.’ Florence tapped her mother discreetly on the elbow and took his arm.
It gave Oliver a feeling of pride, escorting her, surely the prettiest girl there. They were making sets for the eightsome reel and he led her on to the floor. Her eyes were sparkling with happiness. She was light and life in his hands when they touched. He had never seen her look so lovely and all at once he wanted to take her by the hand and run, run away into the warm summer night that waited, balmy, beyond the gently billowing curtains.
They sat out the next dance; too warm from their exertions in the reel. Oliver took her hand as they left the floor and did not release it. She kept her hand perfectly still in his, not speaking or looking at him. Her face grew pink as he watched her and he began to ask himself if she could … if she would … after all this time …? He could not be sure but he knew that he had started to hope for her presence at Lucy’s, to feel a quick tug inside himself when he looked at her and a sweep of desire when their eyes met.
He let go of her hand when her mother came to sit beside them on the red velvet bench. ‘Florence, dear. You promised Mr Hiddlesworth that you’d save a dance for him. Here he is to claim you!’
Florence seemed put out by her mother’s assumption that she would prefer to dance with the fat little mayor but she took his hand, threw Oliver a look of despair and set off with the delighted man to the music of the polka.
‘I wanted to speak to you alone, Mr Wainwright, and this would seem to be our opportunity.’ Her speech was very slightly slurred but she conveyed to Oliver the impression of having measured her words. There were women who frequented The Pheasant and whose first step on the road to utter inebriation was this not-quite focused look and the hint of loss of control of their speech. Oliver had seen it before, but never in a woman of high position.
‘My father, Sir Philip Oldfield, as I am sure you know, wishes you to call on him. You are to go on Tuesday of next week to Suttonford Manor at half-past two if that is a convenient hour for you.’ Mrs Mawdesley looked past him, towards a group of guests nearby, whether to avoid his eyes and the astonishment she would have seen there, or because she did not want to be overheard, Oliver could not guess. ‘Please say nothing to Florence of this. She will be at Churchgate with me when you go.’
‘Do you know the reason behind the invitation, Mrs Mawdesley? Do you know why Sir Philip wants to see me? Should I take my lawyer along?’ Oliver could not resist the jibe although he was aware that it was wasted on Laura who could have known nothing of her father’s past intrigues. He was on his guard again. This time he’d be ready.
‘Yes. I know what he wants and I don’t think you’ll be in need of legal advice. Please see him. He is an old man and afraid that his time is running out.’ Laura fumbled in her tiny evening bag for the scrap of lace with which she touched the corners of her eyes. Oliver felt sorry for her. He had nothing to fear from the Oldfield family after all this time. His business was flourishing and could not be harmed by any scheme they could devise for his downfall.
‘I’ll see him,’ he said.
The dancers returned and Oliver stood up. ‘Florence, will you come with me? Albert and Edith are leaving soon and I’d like to see them off.’
They waited on the steps of the Town Hall for Albert and his bride to come outside and climb into the waiting coach.
There was still light enough for the newly-weds not to need lanterns on their drive and the couple believed that they were slipping away unobserved. But just the same, handfuls of rose petals were thrown into the coach.
‘Quickly, Florence. Let’s slip into the park for a moment or two. Nobody will know we’ve gone.’ Oliver tugged at her hand and before she could consider it they were running towards the little patch of grass and trees behind the hall. A wall ran along the edge of the park and they leaned over it, watching the road that Albert and Edith would take and the outline of the church against the setting sun.
‘What a lovely night.’ Florence drew back from the wall and leaned against the great horse chestnut tree. ‘It’s so cool here.’
Oliver took her hands in his, pulled her towards him and under the rustling canopy of leaves he kissed her. Her hair smelled of perfume and he buried his face in it, crushing her into his chest and holding her there as if he were afraid to let her go. His mouth found hers again and there was passion as well as sweetness in her response; a response that was all too brief as she pushed him away with gentle hands.
‘Come. Let us return to the dance,’ she said. ‘We cannot be seen here, like a pair of street urchins.’ She walked ahead of him until they reached the market square and the set of her told him his advances would not be welcome if they were offered inappropriately.
‘Florence?’ Oliver caught up with her and walked by her side. ‘Do you think you could consider …?’ There was a look in her eyes, which lasted only for a second, and it told Oliver that all was not lost. But before she could reply they were met by Laura and the jolly Mr Hiddlesworth.
‘We were just waving to Albert and Edith, Mama. Their coach passed right under the wall. Did you think we were gone?’ She had no compunction in telling the lie, Oliver noticed. ‘Is our carriage here already? Oh, pity!’
She turned to Oliver and extended a polite hand. ‘Thank you so much for escorting me, Oliver. I am sure to see you soon at Aunt Lucy’s. Good night.’
It was all there, Oliver recognised; the imperiousness; the cool control of the aristocracy; the swift change from sweet acquiescence to haughty superiority. She had not shown this side of her nature to him before.
‘Phew,’ Oliver whistled as he ascended the steps to the Town Hall and the remaining guests. ‘I like her the better for it. I believe I do!’
Chapter Twenty
The coach was not being used on Tuesday and Oliver decided to go to Suttonford in style. As soon as the driver turned in through the wide-open gates the horses were able to lengthen their stride, away from the busy main road, and Oliver was exhilarated. The breeze whipped his hair back from his forehead, the scent of pine was in his nostrils and he knew that he was excited at the prospect of doing battle with his old enemy.
Sir Philip couldn’t touch him now. He was free of his patronage and he had freed his family from the system he had lived under. And he was glad, glad to come back as an invited guest and the old man’s equal. He had speculated on the reason for the summons and had come to the conclusion that the old baronet had discovered that he, Oliver, had bought Suttonford land and wanted it back in his possession.
The driver reined back as the horses turned into the sweep of gravel in front of Suttonford Manor and they drew to a sedate halt.
Oliver had never before been inside the house. He had once been into the kitchen, to ask Dolly something but had been shooed away even from there.
Jackson took his hat, without acknowledging by so much as a flicker of the eyelids that he recognised the young man he had on many occasions chastised.
The entrance hall was cool. Marble tiled floors, columns of marble supporting a wide gallery above his head and the great staircase in the same white marble met Oliver’s eye. In the shade of the columns, under the gallery, double doors of rosewood led to the formal rec
eption rooms. The distant clicking of a door and the silvery tinkle of crystal water spilling into the Roman bath were the only sounds.
‘Please follow me, Mr Wainwright. Sir Philip is expecting you.’ Jackson led the way upstairs to the private apartments of the Oldfield family. On the long gallery portraits of ancestors, hunting scenes and landscapes filled the spaces between the doors. Oliver would have liked to look closely at them but a door was being opened for him to the room where Sir Philip waited.
From a high-back chair, surrounded by cushions to support him and covered from the waist down by a cashmere blanket, the old baronet extended a hand.
‘Wainwright! Good to see you. Please sit here.’
He pointed to a chair that had been placed opposite his own. Between the chairs a marble and gilt table was set with glasses and cognac on a silver tray. ‘Will you join me in a glass of brandy? Jackson!’
Oliver noticed that Sir Philip was paler, probably from being indoors so much, he thought, and thinner than when he had last seen him, but that his eyes were as keen as ever.
Jackson poured, handed the glasses to them and quietly left the room. Oliver’s heart beat faster but with anticipation, not fear. His every sense was alert, waiting.
‘Well, Wainwright. I don’t believe in beating about the bush, like to get straight to the point, you know.’ Sir Philip studied Oliver’s face. ‘I hear you’ve bought shares in my companies, that you’ve purchased land on the estate and more mills in the town.’
‘Yes. I thought you might guess who the buyer was.’ Oliver sipped the brandy slowly. ‘Do you want them back? Why sell if they were still of value to the estate?’
Sir Philip looked at him slyly. ‘You must be a very rich man by now, young Wainwright.’
‘Oh, just “fair to middlin’” as the expression goes!’ The old devil had no business to enquire. Oliver smiled broadly.
‘How old are you?’ Sir Philip demanded.
‘Twenty-two.’
‘You’re very young to have control of so much money. Have you made it all by your own efforts? By honest dealing? No tricks? No gambles?’
‘My business dealings are no concern of yours,’ Oliver said. ‘But, no. No gambling outside the shares market.’ He would not give in to the feeling the man always aroused in him, making him defensive and nettled. He was giving nothing away, though he had told him more than he meant to do, annoyed by the implication that his wealth was the result of luck.
There was a moment’s pause. Sir Philip looked Oliver over. Then, like a shot from a gun: ‘Do you still wish to marry my granddaughter?’
Had he heard right? No words came. Oliver stared. What was the old devil up to now?
‘I asked if you’d like to marry Florence!’ Sir Philip repeated. ‘Good God. I offer you my granddaughter’s hand and you’ve nothing to say.’
This was no trick. Oliver saw that Sir Philip meant it. He tried to appear unperturbed, but he was floored. At last he collected himself enough to reply. ‘I hadn’t considered it. Not since she was sent away after our headstrong behaviour.’
‘Well. Consider it now, Wainwright. Consider and give me your answer in a week’s time.’ He called Jackson back to refill their brandy glasses. ‘Ask for tea to be sent up, Jackson,’ he added as the old butler reached the door.
‘I’ll tell you the reason behind my change of heart, Wainwright. I’m an old man. I don’t expect to live for more than another five years and before I go I want to see the estate’s future assured.’
So that was it. At last, Oliver thought, we’re getting to the truth. ‘Carry on!’ he said coldly.
‘I have a son. He lives in London but he has never married and I see no hope of the title going to his heirs. The title will die out with him but he has no interest in the estate except to support his extravagant lifestyle.’ He took a large sip of cognac before continuing. ‘So it has been apparent for some time that the estate will go to my granddaughter and her sons.’ He appeared to see nothing in Oliver’s face to discourage him from going on.
‘The Oldfield women are not particularly good breeders. My wife and I had only two children, no infant deaths, nothing like that, and Laura has only the one although she was married for fifteen years. Now I want to see great-grandsons before I die. I can’t have the girl marrying some young buck from London and risk losing her to the kind of society my son enjoys.’
‘You’ll not be considering marrying her off to a poor man, will you, Sir Philip?’ Oliver asked cynically.
‘No. I have to see her married to someone who can support her comfortably.’
‘And help the estate out of its difficulties?’ Oliver added. He stood up and looked down on the man he used to despise for a different reason from the one which prompted him to add, ‘You’re prepared to sell your granddaughter to the highest bidder, aren’t you? Do her feelings mean nothing to you? Is this what it means to have privilege and breeding? The morals of the cattle market?’ He was angry and it was apparent that his remarks had had no effect on Sir Philip.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Wainwright. You still have the attitude of the labouring classes, seeing money and the needs of the bedchamber as two separate aspects of your life.’ He handed Oliver his empty brandy glass and nodded his head towards the decanter. ‘Do you imagine this isn’t done … this dealing in marriage … in the very best of circles?’ He looked at Oliver quizzically.
Oliver sat down again, after handing the refilled glass to Sir Philip. His anger had gone as quickly as it had arisen. The man was speaking what for him was the truth. ‘Your finances are in a sorry state, then, I assume?’ Oliver filled his own glass again. ‘Leaving aside the question of Florence, her consent or otherwise, you’re going to need a deal of help in clearing up the mess you’ve made of managing your estate, aren’t you?’
‘Listen, Wainwright.’
Oliver was listening intently.
‘When you marry Florence the estate will be as good as yours. It will be in trust for your children but then, what else is land and property for? You’ll not be able to dispose of it but for your lifetime it will be yours to run as you wish.’
‘You’re trying to buy me back! I’ll not be in bondage to the estate again,’ Oliver said.
Sir Philip looked at him, incomprehension in his eyes. ‘Bondage? What are you talking about, Wainwright? We’re all bound one way or another to the land we came from. You’ll find it a damn sight harder to hold good workers than free them from your imaginary slavery.’
It came to him suddenly, the logic, almost the inevitability of it. Oliver knew what his answer would be. He’d marry Florence and run the estate. He’d be a fool to refuse even if he found Florence unattractive, and he did not. But he’d make the old schemer wait for his answer.
‘I’ll give you my answer a week from today, Sir Philip,’ Oliver told him. ‘Does Florence know anything of this? Her mother knows, of course!’
‘Her mother told me that, when she was seventeen, Florence wouldn’t consider marriage to anyone else but you, Wainwright. You must try to regain her affection if she’s lost it. If she hasn’t had a change of heart you’re a lucky man!’
‘Would I have complete control of the estate, right at the start? There’d be no point in anything less,’ Oliver asked.
‘I’ll be happy to see it in your capable hands. Lady Oldfield and I will remain in residence here, but we’ll live separately from you.’
On the drive back to Middlefield Oliver considered what might lie ahead for him as master of Suttonford. He would have to study the accounts and balance sheets before any decision could be taken on the future running of it as an enterprise and he winced as he imagined the financial bungling his investigations would uncover.
So it was to Florence that his thoughts turned as he told himself that she must never learn of the contract that lay behind their marriage. Nothing less than a love match would do for her and he must sweep her off her feet, make her believe that his need for her wa
s just as strong as it had once been. And it was not. When Rosie left a part of him had died; a part he did not believe would ever come to life again.
But he would love Florence. Her sweetness had always stirred him and he was determined to please her, to make himself worthy of her love.
He would have to give up his longing for a proper home. Life at Suttonford would never include fireside comforts. He would never be able to tell Florence about Rosie and Edward and he had harboured a faint hope that one day, perhaps, he would live with his son. Florence would not accept a child that was not of her marriage and Sir Philip Oldfield would not contemplate a bastard as part of the deal.
Tomorrow was ‘Balgone Day’. Florence would be there, he was sure. Sir Philip said that she’d have him. Florence had told her mother that she’d have no one else. Oliver laughed softly at her guile. She’d not be able to keep away, in spite of her rebuffing his advances. He smiled at the memory of her putting him in his place when he’d kissed her in public, since her actions belied the look in her eyes. Now he knew, as he had always known, that she was his for the asking.
The next day dawned fair and warm and Oliver found that he was eager to see her, just as he used to be when they first made their secret rendezvous in, what seemed to him, ages past. He dressed with care so that he would not disappoint her and at exactly half-past two o’clock he set out on the first day of his official courtship.
Oliver was shown into the sunlit garden. Florence looked more beautiful than ever today with her blonde hair tied back, its colour outshining the pale apricot of her dress. She and Lucy met him at the entrance to the rose garden. He smiled broadly and put out his elbows, inviting them to take an arm each. ‘The two prettiest girls in Cheshire,’ he declared. ‘What a fortunate man I am, to have them all to myself!’
Lucy recited the names of all the rose bushes, led them round to the shrubbery and must have noticed that Florence and Oliver were looking into each other’s eyes more often than they looked at the shrubs, so that finally, when they were within yards of the summer house, she put her hand to her mouth in dismay.
The Runaway Page 25