'Even so, I feel that you should tell her about my former life. I did run away from here, you know.'
'At fifteen, wasn't it? I've often wondered about that. What made you leave your family? You took a dreadful chance, you know.'
'I wanted to see the world.' Gina was absorbed in straightening the fringe upon her cuff and she didn't look at him. 'I went in search of adventure.' It wasn't the whole truth, but it was as much as she would admit to.
'Well, you certainly found that.' Isham looked at the bent head and wondered. 'Whitelaw told me often of your courage in facing bandits and mutinous seamen. Doesn't anything frighten you?'
'There was no point in being frightened.' She gave him a merry look. 'Much better to learn to use a pistol well and be prepared to use it. It is a powerful persuader in places such as India, especially when one does not speak the language.'
'A telling argument, if ever I heard one!' Isham laughed again. 'Did you find the same in Europe and the Caribbean?'
'I did.' She shared in his amusement and then the laughter faded from her eyes. 'There were the girls to think about,' she said quietly. 'And her ladyship grew worse throughout our travels, though Whitelaw searched unceasingly for a cure. When she died I thought that he would not recover.'
'You were devoted to both of them, I think.'
'I owed them so much. Oh, Anthony, even at fifteen I was not a complete fool. Had I not gone to them as nursemaid to the girls I might have lived a very different life, that is, if I had survived.'
Isham rose to his feet. 'You are a born survivor, Gina. I have no doubt of that. After a brush with bandits a few old tabbies won't distress you with their gossip. Now you will let me know if there is aught that I can do for you?'
'I will.' Gina held out her hand. 'Thank you again, my friend. I'm sure we will be happy here.'
But Isham was still wondering as he walked back to the smithy. Why had Gina returned to Abbot Quincey when she might have settled anywhere in the country?
There was some hidden agenda, he was sure of it, sensing a certain reserve in the normally open manner of his old friend's wife. It wasn't like her, and it troubled him.
Had she returned to her birthplace with the intention of paying off old scores? No, that would be totally out of character. He would not even suspect her of a very human wish to flaunt her good fortune in front of those who might previously have despised her. That was not Gina. He knew her to be cheerful, dependable, and painfully honest. But there was something. He shook his head and went to find his horse.
Meantime, Gina was lost in thought. Her plans were going well, but there was still much to do. She looked up smiling as Mair and Elspeth came to find her.
'Do you like your rooms?' she asked.
Mair settled down beside her, resting her head against Gina's knee. 'Perfection!' she said in a dreamy tone. 'You were so clever to find this place.'
'We have Lord Isham to thank for that,' she told them. 'You have just missed him.'
'Oh, no!' Elspeth was dismayed. Her hero-worship of his lordship had been the cause of much teasing within the family. 'When is he to call again?'
'We are to call upon Lord Isham and his wife,' Gina said firmly. 'Now Elspeth, do not pull a face. It is unbecoming. We are to wish his lordship happy, as you must agree.'
'I thought he would not marry,' Elspeth said ungraciously. 'At least until...'
'Until you were old enough to wed him?' Mair giggled. 'By that time he'd be in his dotage...'
'Really, girls, this will not do! I will not have you speak so of a family friend. Now we have much to do. How does cook go on? I told her that our nuncheon should be light today. We shall eat it now. Then you may get back to your books.'
There was a united cry of despair.
'Must we?' Mair pleaded.
'Indeed" you must. Have I not explained so often the importance of an education?'
'But darling Gina, there is so much time for that.' Mair held her stepmother's hand against her cheek. 'May we not have a holiday, just for this one day?'
Gina glanced down at the fiery head. 'Sometimes I despair of you,' she scolded. 'It has taken me a full ten years to educate myself. Now the task is in your own hands, if you will but take advantage of it.'
Elspeth took her other hand. 'But you will help us, Gina, won't you? Suppose we promise to work twice as hard tomorrow? You can't mean to keep our noses to the grindstone all the time.'
'I haven't seen much evidence of that,' Gina said solemnly. Then Mair looked up at her and saw the laughter in her eyes.
'Why, Elspeth, she doesn't mean a word of it.' She jumped up, drawing Gina to her feet and grasping her sister's other hand. 'Time for a war-dance!' she announced.
Whooping and stamping, the two girls drew their stepmother into a ring, chanting as they moved around.
'Now we live in Abbot Quincey
All our parties will be princely.'
Gina shuddered. 'That is certainly the worst verse I have ever heard. And which parties are these?'
The girls whirled her even faster.
'Why, those that we give at my come-out,' Mair cried breathlessly. 'Shall we astonish the village, Gina?'
'Nothing is more certain if you go on like this. I doubt if you will have to wait till then. The servants will be persuaded that we have run mad...'
This did not appear to be the case. The butler apparently found nothing untoward in the sight of his young mistress cavorting about the salon with her stepdaughters. Had he not been mindful of the need for a wooden expression he might have permitted himself a smile. As it was he announced that nuncheon was served, remarking only to the housekeeper that Madam seemed to be in the best of spirits.
'And high time too. Madam is allus cheerful, but what a life she's had! Naught but caring for the sick, as far as I can tell.' Mrs Long gave him a speculative look. 'Think you that she'll settle here?'
'Who can tell?' Hanson had long ceased to wonder at the vagaries of his employers. 'Shall you prefer it, Mrs Long?'
'I don't know yet, but there must be more life here than in the wilds of Scotland. Madam will be thinking of finding husbands for the girls within a year or two, and we ain't so far from London.'
'True! I expect that she will open up the London house this year. I'd welcome it, you know. The place was like a morgue when last I saw it.'
'Her ladyship will change all that. Why, she might even find a husband of her own.'
Hanson bent his head in grave agreement. 'The family is out of mourning now. We may expect visits from every fortune-hunter in the country.'
'Then I hope that you will see them off, Mr Hanson.'
'I shall certainly do my best.' With that promise the butler left his confidante and proceeded to his duties.
Finding a husband was far from Gina's mind as she rose from the dining-table.
'Girls, I have a private call to make this afternoon. I shall not be away for long. Will you occupy yourselves?'
'We shall explore the cellars and the attics,' Elspeth promised. 'This house is a perfect maze of secret places.'
Gina nodded. Then she hurried away to change her fashionable walking dress for a plain toilette. She waved aside Hanson's suggestion of the carriage and turned left along the High Street, gazing at the old familiar surroundings with a pang of nostalgia. Abbot Quincey had not changed since her departure all those years ago and she recognised several of the passers-by, but her bonnet hid her face and no one greeted her.
A ten-minute walk brought her to her destination. The old sign was still above the shop and the door was open, but she hesitated by the window. She had rehearsed this moment for so long, but now her courage threatened to desert her.
Her heart was pounding painfully, but she took a few deep breaths. Then she walked into the shop.
'Yes, Madam? May I help you?' The woman behind the counter was an older, plumper version of Gina herself.
'Don't you know me, Mother?' Gina was close to tears.
&
nbsp; 'Gina?' Eliza Westcott paled as she peered into her daughter's face. 'Is it really you? Oh, my love, I thought that you were lost to us for ever.' She threw out her arms and Gina hurried to her.
'There, don't cry, Mama. I am home again.'
'You wicked, wicked girl!' Mrs Westcott was raining kisses upon her daughter's face. 'I can't think why you left us in the first place. The worry almost killed us.'
'That was foolish, Mama. I wrote to you each month.'
'But from all those outlandish places, Gina. I had never heard of one half of them. You might have been murdered in your bed.'
'But I wasn't. And you knew I was safe in Scotland for these past few years.'
Mrs Westcott sniffed. 'Safe in Scotland, indeed! There's another wild place, or so I hear.'
'The natives are quite friendly.' Gina began to smile. 'Is Father better now?'" She had gleaned little from her mother's infrequent letters.
'He is quite stout again, but still so cross with you.' Mrs Westcott paused. 'When you went away he blamed himself, you see. He still feels that he did not do his duty by you.'
'That isn't true, and I shall tell him so. Where is Father now?'
'He's in the bakery. Come through, my love, and sit by the fire. I will fetch him for you.'
Gina waited in some trepidation. As the youngest of the Westcott children she had been the apple of her father's eye. She could understand his hurt, and she did not expect immediate forgiveness.
When she looked at the cold face she knew that she was right. He would not look her fully in the eye.
'Come to honour us with a visit, your ladyship?' he sneered. 'I thank you for your condescension.'
'I came because I am now free to do so, Father. As you know, my husband died last year. It has taken me some time to settle his affairs.'
'So now you are come to queen it in the village? Well, good luck to you! You won't be needing the likes of us.'
'I've always needed you,' Gina said quietly. 'I'm sorry if I caused you hurt.' She went to him and took his hand. 'Won't you forgive me, Father dear?' She kissed his hand and raised it to her cheek.
It was too much for the master baker. With a groan he took his daughter in his arms and muffled his face against her hair. 'You bad girl! What are we to do with you?' His cheeks were wet and Gina hugged him close.
He took some time to recover his composure, but at last he smiled at her.
'Well, Missy, when are you off again on your adventures?'
'Never, I hope! I've taken the Mansion House in the village... The girls are with me, of course.'
George Westcott whistled in amazement. 'You are flying high, my girl. That must have cost you a pretty penny.'
'Whitelaw left me well provided for, Father. Tell me, how are William and Julia?'
'Both well, I'm glad to say.' Westcott's face softened. 'Wait until you see your nieces and nephews. Your brother's little lads are as merry as grigs, and as to the young maids...'
'Don't get him started on the subject, Gina. To hear your father talk you would think that better girls had never been born. If the truth be told they twist him round their little fingers.' Mrs Westcott looked wistful. 'I could wish that you had children of your own, my dear. When you married we hoped... Well, perhaps it was not to be.'
Gina did not reply. This was no time to explain that her marriage had been one of convenience. Dearly as he loved her, Lord Whitelaw had made that clear. Never strong and no longer young, he was well aware that in the natural order of things he would die before her. Caring for her stepdaughters would be a grave responsibility. He had no wish to add to her burdens by leaving her with children of her own.
Gina had understood and she respected his decision, though she'd known it was not the full truth. For Alistair Whitelaw no woman would ever take the place of his beloved first wife. Her own marriage had been based upon trust and affection. She had never resented it, though her own heart had been given long ago.
She thrust aside the painful memories and picked up her bonnet. 'You will come to see me, won't you?'
Mrs Westcott looked at her husband. Then she nodded. 'We'll come in a day or two. Your Uncle Samuel and Aunt Mary are to visit us tomorrow with the children. You won't want a houseful.'
Gina's polite enquiry as to the welfare of her relatives was less than enthusiastic, but her parents noticed nothing amiss. For her own part her father's brother was the last person she wished to see. Now a wealthy grain merchant, she could only be thankful that he was based in London. At some time in the future she would be forced to meet him again. As yet she was not ready to do so.
For the moment another unavoidable meeting filled her mind. Had she made the right decision in coming back to Abbot Quincey? For all she knew Giles might be married and a father. She had not dared to ask about him, fearing she would give herself away. Well, she would cross her bridges when she came to them.
She kissed her parents and walked back to the Mansion House.
Chapter Two
Had she but known it, Giles was at that moment being forced to listen to a long discussion about the latest resident of Abbot Quincey.
Having satisfied herself that her elder daughter was indeed with child, Mrs Rushford proceeded to acquaint herself with all the latest gossip.
'So much has happened since we went to Bristol,' she announced. 'Now, India, you must tell me everything. Who is this Lady Whitelaw? Giles said that Isham went to call on her this morning... She and her husband will be such an asset to the village.'
'Not her husband, Mama. Lady Whitelaw is a widow...'
Giles had stiffened, but his mother did not notice. 'Well, I expect that she will soon make friends. Is she elderly?'
'She must be twenty-six at most.' India smiled.
'And she has taken the Mansion House? She must be well-to-do...' Mrs Rushford gave her son a look of speculation. The widow, though not young, was not yet at her last prayers, and Giles was in need of a wife. If she brought a handsome dowry with her so much the better. 'When are we to meet her?' she enquired.
'Anthony will let us know. I expect that she has much to do, as she only arrived this morning. He promised to give her an open invitation.'
'Then he knows her well?'
'He was a close friend of her husband.' India hesitated. 'You know her yourself, Mama.'
'How can that be? To my knowledge I have never met the Whitelaws.'
'You have met Lady Whitelaw. She was the former Gina Westcott...'
'The baker's daughter?' Mrs Rushford gave a cry of indignation. 'India, you can't be serious! How can you receive a person who was engaged in trade? What of your social position?'
'Mother, those days are gone,' Giles said quietly. 'Westcott himself is a wealthy man and is highly regarded in the neighbourhood.'
'What has that to say to anything?' his mother demanded. 'Much you know about it! India, this is another of your queer starts. I fear you have learned nothing since your marriage. I forbid you to receive her. Isham can know nothing of her background. He has been deceived, which is what I would expect from that sly little madam.'
Giles flushed and was about to speak when he was forestalled.
'Is someone taking my name in vain?' a mild voice enquired.
'Oh, Anthony, there you are, thank heavens! Now will you explain to India that she cannot possibly receive a baker's daughter...this Lady Whitelaw, or whatever she calls herself. I know that this will be a shock to you, but you have been misled. I know that girl, and I would put nothing past her. Lady Whitelaw, forsooth! She was a nursemaid to the family, nothing more.'
'I believe she held that post.' Isham's voice was dangerously quiet, and India closed her eyes. Would her mother never learn? Nothing aroused her husband to anger more quickly than any criticism of his wife.
Mrs Rushford was oblivious of the warning signs. 'Certainly she did, and nothing surprised me more. The girl was fifteen when she ran away from home. Who knows what her life had been before she met the White
laws? None of us can be in much doubt, I think. She was always a pert, opinionated miss.'
Isham strolled over to the fireplace. 'You question Lord and Lady Whitelaw's judgement then?' The edge to his voice was lost on Mrs Rushford.
She tossed her head. 'They wouldn't be the first to be taken in by her. She will not have changed. She may claim the title, but I, for one, will be surprised if she has any right to it.'
'Then you must prepare yourself for a shock, Isabel. I was Whitelaw's supporter at their wedding.'
Mrs Rushford stared at him. 'You were? But Anthony, you could not have known about her. How can India receive the daughter of a baker"? The scandal will run like wildfire through the Ton. I can't imagine what Lady Wells will have to say.'
'As my wife, India need not concern herself with the opinion of vulgarians. Lady Whitelaw will be received here. I must hope that you will make her welcome.'
Mrs Rushford flushed an unbecoming shade of purple. It was a sharp rebuke, though his lordship had not raised his voice. Her visit to Bristol had caused her to forget just how unpleasant her son-in-law could be when he got on his high ropes. Now he sat down beside his wife and took her hand.
India squeezed it gently and he understood. His lofty manner left him as he turned to her sister.
'So we are to wish you happy, Letty?' His smile transformed the harsh face. 'When is the great day to be?'
'In the summer, Anthony.' Letty was radiant. 'Oliver and I are both so grateful to you. Without your help it could not have come about.'
'Nonsense! Oliver would not have let you go, whatever the difficulties.' Pointedly, he made no reference to the dreaded Lady Wells and Letty did not mention her. Anthony was no hypocrite. If her future mother-in-law had dropped off the face of the planet he would consider it a blessing. She twinkled at him, well aware of his feelings in that respect. Anthony turned back to his wife.
'You are looking better,' he said quietly. 'Has the nausea gone?'
'It is soon over,' she assured him. 'And Lucia has a sovereign remedy. I am to eat a dry biscuit when I wake and drink one of her tisanes.' She blushed a little. 'She says that it will last only for the first few weeks.'
Mr Rushford's Honour Page 2