by Carola Dunn
They thundered down the turnpike, the light curricle bounding and swaying over the rough surface. George spared a quick glance at his companion, ready to rein in if the slightest sign of alarm appeared on her face. She was pink-cheeked and laughing, eyes sparkling with delight. Reluctantly he returned his attention to the horses.
The burst of speed soon came to an end as the road narrowed and began to wind.
“That was marvellous,” gasped Claire, out of breath as if she had been the one galloping. “Oh dear, I held onto my hat but all my hairpins have gone flying, as usual."
“Doubtless Mrs Copple will have some,” he said, clenching his hands to prevent plunging them into the mass of honey-gold silk flowing down her back. The journey was proving more trying than he had expected, and he had not even broached the subject of clothes. “I'm glad you enjoyed it, but a straight road with no obstacles is scarcely a test of driving skills. Which reminds me, you have not yet admired the waistcoat to which Lizzie drew your attention."
She glanced at the garment in question. “It does not seem to me remarkable, except as a testimony of your ability. I do not understand why Lord Pomeroy objects to it."
“As in behaviour, so in dress there is a fine line between the acceptable and the unacceptable, to the fastidious."
“To be sure. I hope I have taught Lizzie to choose what will at once suit her best and satisfy the dictates of fashion."
“Lizzie's new wardrobe is impeccable. It is a pity that you do not follow your own advice.” Though he kept his eyes on a farm cart ahead, he sensed her immediate withdrawal. “For your sister's sake, Claire. Since you mean to chaperone her, your dress cannot but reflect on her. You have done so much for her already. Do not fail her in this small matter. Are you so set against it?"
“No.” Her voice was uncertain. “I suppose it is just that I have been told so many times that even the in most beautiful gowns I shall never be anything but plain."
“Your dear mama, I take it.” He transferred the reins to his right hand and reached out to raise her lowered face to his. “You are not, ever again, to believe a word Lady Sutton says to you."
“Yes, my lord!” She looked surprised at the anger in his voice, but a glimmer of humour lit her eyes. “Not even that I am guilty of no impropriety?"
“I doubt she ever said anything so approving,” he snorted, swinging the curricle past the cart, “merely implied it by lack of criticism on that count. It is not true that you are plain, even in your wretchedest gardening clothes. Nonetheless, I want to see you in a ball gown."
“There is little likelihood of that,” she said bitterly. “I confess it had not dawned on me that my appearance must affect Lizzie; in any case it makes little difference. She has told me of your kind efforts to introduce her to your friends, but we have yet to receive a single visitor other than you and Lord Pomeroy, let alone any invitations. I was a fool to suppose myself capable of giving her the Season she deserves when I have no acquaintance in Town."
Aching to take her in his arms and comfort her, he managed to keep his tone light. “Then my efforts are not paying off. I must try something different."
“You must not think I do not appreciate it, but I do not understand why you are going to so much trouble for us."
How could she understand when he did not himself? He turned it to a joke. “Let's call it an irresistible urge to spike your mother's guns."
A gurgle of laughter rewarded him. He smiled, more than willing to abandon the serious discussion that had landed her in the dismals.
“'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished,'” she agreed.
“Hamlet, eh? I did not take you for a bluestocking,” he teased.
“Surely that is the sort of quotation everyone knows, and inappropriate besides, since Hamlet is talking of his own death, I believe. I cannot claim to be a bluestocking, or even well-read, but one cannot spend all one's time in the garden, especially in winter. Books on gardening grow dull after a while."
“Never tell me your mama approves of you reading Shakespeare?"
“Heavens no, but Papa once saw The Taming of the Shrew and he takes it as a personal insult almost if she says anything against the Bard."
The rest of the drive passed pleasantly and quickly in talk of the theatre, Shakespeare and books in general. When they passed Waltham Abbey, they agreed that on some future, more leisurely, visit to her house, they might stop and inspect the magnificent Norman nave. George was glad to have laid the groundwork for a future outing in her company.
He also enjoyed the rest of the day. He was, as he had told Claire, a countryman at heart, and though he had never paid particular attention to gardens, either kitchen or flower, he found much to interest him.
He was especially glad he had come when a vociferous disagreement arose between the mason and the carpenter, come to put in the foundation and frame of the greenhouse, and the glazier. Glazed was the right word for the expression on Claire's face when the men started shouting at each other in semi-comprehensible Essex dialect. Alfie was putting up his fists, prepared to defend her to the death, when George stepped in. He silenced them with a look, and a few pithy, well-chosen phrases had them scurrying back to work.
Claire still looked shaken. George realised with a rush of tenderness that it was not only her mother's diatribes that overset her. She was sensitive to any display of animosity. He put his arm about her shoulders and led her towards the house.
“Come and sit down for a while. Mrs Copple shall make you a pot of tea. Those fellows know perfectly well what they should be doing and I shall go back in a few minutes to make sure they are doing it."
“Thank you, tea does sound good.” She was rapidly recovering her composure. “I hope you will join me?"
Claire was not in the least disconcerted at the notion of entertaining a gentleman in the kitchen. Nor was she put out of countenance by Mrs Copple's tea, which arrived on the table very black, very sweet, in earthenware mugs. While the housekeeper bustled about preparing their luncheon, they exchanged amused glances as they pretended to sip the treacle-like brew.
George gave up, hoping the woman would not be mortally offended.
“It's all very well for you,” Claire whispered. “Gentlemen are not expected to drink tea. I shall have to finish every drop."
He grinned at her. “Be brave,” he said. “By the way, I noticed your lad was ready to engage in a bout of fisticuffs just now. Inappropriate for the circumstances, but it might be useful some time if he knows how to handle himself. Should you object if I were to give him a few pointers?"
“Alfie? Do you suppose he could learn?"
“Bruisers are not generally known for their intellects. I spar regularly with Gentleman Jackson and I'm sure I can teach him a few tricks."
“If you think it wise,” she said doubtfully. “I daresay it would be good for him to be able to defend himself, as long as he understands that fights are to be avoided if possible."
“I shall impress that upon him. Well, there is no time like the present, but you must come and tell him to go with me or he will not stir an inch."
“I'll come at once."
“There'll be a bite to eat waiting for you around one, miss,” Mrs Copple promised as they went out.
“Thank you for rescuing me from that tea,” Claire said as the door closed behind them.
“I hope that was not a sample of her cooking."
“If so, I shall hire a cook when I move here, or learn to do it myself!"
George nodded, keeping to himself his doubts that this would ever be her home.
After luncheon they left Alfie planting roses in the front garden and went for a walk in the Royal Forest of Epping. On the ancient hornbeams and beeches, strangely twisted after centuries of pollarding, buds were showing spring green, and nesting ducks quacked from the heathland ponds. It was quite different from Oxfordshire, Dorset or Northumberland, and they found much to discuss. They agreed that walking gave an intimate
view of the countryside which was missed on horseback or in a carriage.
By the time they left to drive back to London, George was convinced that Bertram Pomeroy must be touched in the upper works not to have proposed to Claire yet.
Chapter XIII—Bertram
“Miss Linwood's pictures are much more striking than the paintings at the Academy,” said Lizzie decidedly.
“You cannot be serious in preferring embroidered copies to the original oils.” Bertram's patience was wearing thin, his attention wandering from his horses.
“The colours are more vivid,” she argued. “I could almost taste those grapes."
“How typical of a female. You are all Philistines at heart, I vow."
“You only admire the Old Masters because you have been taught to venerate anything ancient and Italian. It is not your own genuine opinion. Oh, look out!"
As they turned from Wardour Street into Oxford Street, a bleating flock of sheep on their way to Smithfield Market milled across the road. Before Bertram noticed their presence, his chestnuts were in their midst. The high-strung pair reared and the curricle swung wildly to one side. Struggling to control them, from the corner of his horrified eye he saw Lizzie pitched out into the street.
She landed on top of a surprised sheep.
“Miss Lizzie!” shrieked Molly in his ear.
The horses were calmer now, shifting uneasily and rolling their eyes but no longer panicked. Bertram glanced back at the maid, who was hanging on with grim determination and staring open-mouthed at her mistress.
Undignified but apparently unharmed, Lizzie scrambled to her feet. The sheep followed suit.
“You cow-handed cawker!” she stormed at Bertram.
“Baa!” agreed the sheep and scuttled off.
“Get in,” Bertram said, tight-lipped.
He was all too aware that the pedestrians on the pavement had turned from the shop windows to watch the comedy. The shepherd was approaching, waving his crook and screeching what sounded like Welsh curses, leaving the care of the flock to his black and white dogs. Beneath the horses’ hooves a sheep with a broken leg struggled to rise. Two others lay still, one of them with its head in a pool of blood.
Lizzie climbed up beside him and saw the gory corpse.
“I'm going to cast up my accounts,” she choked out.
“No, you are not. You are going to sit looking unconcerned and twirling your parasol."
“My new parasol!” To his relief, Lizzie was distracted.
“Lawks, miss, them sheep's a-nibbling at it,” came Molly's shocked voice. “The dirty beasts! I'll get it.” She jumped down, seized the parasol and whacked one of the animals across the back with it. “Scarper, you nasty creetur,” she cried.
Bertram caught Lizzie's eye and she giggled. Unwillingly he grinned.
“Do you know what that nasty creetur said when I fell on it? I could swear it said ‘Oof!’”
“What did you expect the poor animal to say? ‘I beg your pardon, madam'?” Unable to resist the mischief in her face, he burst out laughing.
The shepherd glared up at him in a fury. Bertram tossed the man a five-sovereign piece. The efficient dogs had moved the flock past by now, its place taken by a swarm of gaping, pointing urchins. Molly handed Lizzie her parasol; she opened it and twirled it with a sweet, nonchalant smile.
Bertram urged the chestnuts onward, fleeing the scene of the disaster.
“Can I stop looking unconcerned now?” hissed Lizzie as they turned up Wimpole Street. “My face is growing stiff."
“Yes, no one here saw me making a mull of it.” He drew up at the side of the road and turned to her. “I don't know what to say, Lizzie. You were right to call me cow-handed."
“Oh no, for you handled them splendidly after they shied. I daresay they might have slaughtered the whole flock without your firm hand on the reins. Besides, it was my fault for provoking you. My wretched tongue seems to have a mind of its own."
“The fault was entirely mine. You are not hurt, are you?"
She wriggled experimentally and he found himself suddenly short of breath. Averting his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the nearest house, sadly disconcerting the lady descending the front steps.
“My shoulder aches a little,” said Lizzie. “That sheep was quite solid, though much softer than the cobbles would have been. It is nothing to signify. I am sure a hot bath will put it to rights."
Bertram blinked and lost his breath again as a vision of Lizzie in her bath arose unbidden before his mind's eye. The disconcerted lady dashed back up the steps in alarm and slammed her front door behind her.
“The sooner I get you home the better,” muttered Bertram.
He drove the remaining four blocks in abstracted silence, and when they reached Portman Square Lizzie looked at him anxiously.
“I believe you are in shock,” she said with a motherly air. “You must come in and have a glass of wine."
“I am quite all right,” he responded, more brusquely than he had intended.
“Pray do come in,” she insisted, “or I shall think you are angry with me for preferring Miss Linwood to Raphael."
“No, how can I be angry with a sincere opinion, even if I disagree with it? Perhaps I am in shock,” he added with a wry smile, following her into the house. “I cannot recall ever having made such a cake of myself in public."
“Fustian! I was the one made a cake of, and I assure you I do not regard it in the least. Is the Madeira in the front parlour, Enid? Now come and sit down, Bertram, and I will pour you a glass. You see, I do not have your vast self-consequence, so an encounter with a sheep cannot dent it."
She laughed, but her words stung him a little. Then he saw that as she bustled about, taking off her modish pelisse and bonnet, she winced when she moved her left arm. He wanted to tell her to go and take a hot bath at once, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he urged her into a chair, and handed her the wine she had poured him.
“I think you are more shaken than you will admit,” he said roughly.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes huge with some unrecognisable emotion. Her rosy lips parted slightly and he leaned towards her. At that moment the door knocker sounded.
“I'll see if miss is at ‘ome,” came Enid's voice.
The door of the parlour was open for propriety's sake, and Bertram shuddered as he listened to the caller's reply.
“Saw Miss Elizabeth drive up with my cousin,” came Horace Harrison's confident voice. “Needn't fear that she won't receive us."
He appeared in the doorway, resplendent in mauve and gold, with Amelia trailing behind him, in pink muslin as usual.
“How do, Miss Elizabeth. Servant, coz.” He glanced about the room. “Miss Sutton not here?"
Bertram saw Lizzie's instinctive protest at his presumption die as she noted Amelia's unhappy face.
“My sister is not at home,” she said with a haughty mien worthy of a duchess. With equal graciousness she turned to Amelia. “I am happy to see you, Miss Harrison. Pray take a seat."
Horace cast a sly glance from his sister to his cousin. “Yes, do, Amy,” he urged. “I must be on my way, came to see Miss Sutton, but I daresay Cousin Bertram will see you home right and tight."
Bertram concealed his impotent fury behind a mask of polite acquiescence. He could not bring himself to snub poor Amelia, especially in front of Lizzie. The day had been an unmitigated disaster.
He thought his cup of adversity was full, but it was about to overflow. New voices were heard in the hall: Claire and George Winterborne laughing together.
“No, I shan't stay,” said George.
Horace popped out of the parlour. “Miss Sutton! Well met. Came to call and found you out."
“Or perhaps I shall,” said George.
So the wretch fancied himself as Claire's protector! Bertram silently cursed the name of Winterborne.
He sent a glance of appeal to Lizzie and she shook her head slightly, merriment dancing in her
eyes. He hoped that meant that she did not mean to reveal his clumsy driving to his rival. It was inevitable that she should tell her sister, if only to explain her sore shoulder.
Claire was pink-cheeked and gay. She greeted him with apparent pleasure, said a word of welcome to Amelia, and turned to Lizzie.
“Such excitement,” she said. “I persuaded Lord Winterborne to spring the horses for a short distance and we flew like the wind, I vow. He is truly a top sawyer."
“You must try if he will take you out in the high-perch phaeton,” advised Lizzie demurely, avoiding Bertram's eyes.
He breathed a sigh of gratitude, knowing she was bursting to tell the tale of their adventure.
“Allow me to take your shawl, Miss Sutton,” proposed Horace, his tone ingratiating.
“Thank you, but I believe I shall go upstairs. It has been a long day and I am a little fatigued."
Since Claire looked anything but tired, Bertram could only applaud this masterly set-down. She was less in need of protection than Winterborne supposed.
He stepped forward, saying in a commanding voice, “We must leave Miss Sutton to her rest, Cousin."
Amelia jumped up as if he had addressed her. “Oh yes, so sorry, another time,” she said breathlessly.
With Bertram's large figure towering on one side and George's bearing down on the other, Horace sulkily gave up and made his farewells.
In the bustle of general leave-taking, Bertram managed to whisper to Lizzie, “You will take care of that injury properly, will you not?"
“Of course, but it is nothing.” She patted his arm in an oddly soothing gesture of reassurance.
The four visitors went down the steps together but Bertram and George paused on the pavement and watched Horace and Amelia driven away in Lady Harrison's barouche.
“I don't care for that cousin of yours,” said George with a scowl.
“Nor do I."
“Beg pardon.” His grin was engaging. “A man ain't responsible for his relatives. It seems to me the best thing we can do is see that Claire and Lizzie get about a bit more, meet more people. I mean to write to my cousin Tilly to come up to Town and introduce them about. Is Lady Caroline expected in London this Season?"