It was at this point that Lady Templeman, in desperation, introduced the Right Honourable the Viscount Ransome as a possible suitor. The biggest catch on the marriage mart, he was every ambitious mother’s dream for her daughter: titled, wealthy and good looking. The desperation was in the fact that some found Lord Ransome’s straightforward manner rather off-putting and, although his whims and fancies were slavishly emulated by every beau from seventeen to seventy, the younger women were frightened by his tendency to be blunt, at times. The older ones, who found his dangerous good looks and directness exciting, were already married. Lady Templeman, however, had been convinced that, with more co-operation, not to say encouragement, from Phoebe, Lord Ransome would have made more progress with her than anyone else, for he had appeared to be making an effort to gain her interest. Which was quite remarkable when, to everyone’s knowledge, he rarely lifted a finger to make himself agreeable. It was always the other way round.
But Phoebe had discovered from her elder brother as much about Lord Ransome’s lifestyle as she wished to know, and had decided early on that he would not be the one to succeed where others had failed. She had observed him before and after her marriage to Claude, and although such men always aroused a flutter of excitement and quite a lot of fantasy to keep one warm in bed, Phoebe did not believe him to be good husband material unless his partner was prepared to close her eyes to his future infidelities. And Phoebe’s faith in men had been severely shaken, after her widowhood.
She knew no more than that, except for one important thing. Having travelled across Europe on the Grand Tour, Lord Ransome had acquired a large circle of aristocratic French friends, one of whom was the embittered young Count whose family had been victims of Donville’s treachery, the one whose resentment had caused her so much anguish. Whether Lord Ransome had been told of this or not, it was a risk Phoebe dared not take. What he might or might not do with such information—if he was in possession of it—she did not know. Why he would want to know her better, in the circumstances, she did not know either. Perhaps, she thought, he did not care as much as he ought, which would be puzzling indeed. All she knew was that the association was a dangerous one, that her mama was making a thorough nuisance of herself over the matter, and that she, Phoebe, was desperate to escape.
Then Leon, dear Leon, had made his offer. Ferry House might be a bit run down, he told her, but here is my biggest coach, four nags, a coachman and two footmen. Pack your bags and go. Handing her the key, an old cast-iron thing wrapped in newspaper, he told her what to do about her funds and how to find a builder, and within a week, to the sound of much wailing and protest, she was on her way to Richmond to find this magical bird-songed place where water lapped at the edge of the garden. And at last, Phoebe and Claudette, Hetty, her companion, and Tabby, the governess, were in paradise. It was here where her bad dreams were replaced by good ones.
‘Are you listening, Mama?’
‘Yes, cherie. I’m listening. Go on. The village children joined you.’
The villagers of Richmond had been quietly delighted to take young Claudette under their wing and to have tenants at Ferry House after years of neglect, while the men gave her all the free advice she could need to renovate the outbuildings and gardens, her brother Ross and his wife offering only ill-concealed envy.
‘Just the hem of my dress got wet, Mama. I had bare feet.’
‘Then you should change it before we sit down to luncheon unless, of course, we take it outside on the terrace. Shall we picnic today?’
‘Oh, Mama, may we? Shall I go and tell Mrs Ted?’ In a bound, Claudette ran off up the path through the herb garden, jumping over the dozing cat, to the kitchens. Mr and Mrs Ted Clough were the cook and her handyman husband who lived above the kitchen range and worked tirelessly to make Ferry House beautiful for their mistress. To Claudette, they were more like doting grandparents than the one in London who had not yet found the time to visit, in spite of promises.
She watched her go with a familiar pang of regret that the child had rarely been carried in a man’s arms, never walked hand in hand to church with her father, or ridden out with him. These were sacrifices Phoebe had been prepared for when she had decided not to remarry, but she had not fully appreciated the impact it would have upon a daughter on the brink of womanhood. It was a situation fraught with dangers. She, Claudette, had already begun to ask questions about her father, and the piquant idea of being sent off to the riverside with Miss Maskell while her mama received a Viscount intrigued her as only a girl of that age could be.
Once more, Phoebe’s exploring fingers roamed across her lips to discover if they were really as swollen as they felt, chastising herself for not having had Hetty with her, as she ought. The events of the morning crowded in again, pestering her to find a way out of a problem that threatened the happiness of so many others, apart from herself. And what about poor dear Leon? After being the one to bail her out of an impossibly difficult situation, he was the one to plunge her into the next one from which there appeared to be no comfortable escape. At the same time, he also needed help to protect him from opportunists like Lord Ransome who, apparently, could not wait to take advantage of his weakness.
Cursing the man under her breath with words no lady ought to have known, she caressed her aching wrist, pulled her shawl over it and stood up, looking across the large walled garden lush with vegetables. ‘Well, my lord,’ she muttered, angrily, ‘you’ll not wrench this off me so easily, whatever your clever schemes. I’ve not done all this simply to hand it over to you on a plate. And as for owning me, too, put it out of your mind. Nobody owns me.’
‘Beg pardon, ma’am?’ said the gardener’s lad, passing her with a basketful of peas.
Eating al fresco was one of Claudette’s chief delights, whatever the season, and Phoebe had had a stout rustic table and benches made for the terrace on the river side of the house where they could eat while looking out towards the nearby bridge. In the distance, cornfields were ripening and the high sunny wall at one side gave them shelter, as it did to the kitchen garden on its opposite face.
Miss Maskell had been almost one of the family since Claudette was four years old, as petite as a wren, brown and merry-eyed and of indeterminate age since no one younger than a centenarian could possibly know as much as she did about everything. In fact, she was only one year older than Phoebe, and she knew everything thanks to her education by her professor father, a penniless academic. If she tended to throw into every conversation the knowledge she’d soaked up like a sponge, the other three indulged her because she was kind and quite adorable, and far above the usual type of governess. Tabby Maskell and Cousin Hetty had grown fond of each other, for here there was no jealousy or snobbery. Tabby was never cold-shouldered away into the schoolroom at mealtimes or on social occasions, and Hetty took on many of the responsibilities while never impinging on those of Phoebe’s personal maid, Miss Cowling. Nevertheless, with her white hair and rather oldfashioned dress, she had more than once been mistaken for the housekeeper.
On this occasion, knowing what she did of Lady Templeman’s early efforts to bring Phoebe and Lord Ransome together, she could make an educated guess at the reason for the distress, and although she was no stranger to the Viscount’s personal brand of etiquette, she had not expected him to renew his interest with the kind of immediacy he had apparently shown that morning. She hoped sincerely that he would not return to upset dear Phoebe again, just when she was finding some peace at last.
Phoebe knew that Hetty’s ignorance of the true situation could not be allowed to continue, particularly as it involved her and Tabby Maskell as much as Phoebe herself. Lord Ransome had promised to visit her again tomorrow, no doubt with a time limit for their removal. The dreadful truth would have to be told, and the sooner the better, so after Claudette was in bed, she gathered in her parlour to tell them the news.
Predictably, both Hetty and Tabby were more sympathetic and supportive than distressed, and with touch
ing loyalty declared that, like Ruth to Naomi, wherever Phoebe went they would go also. If she recognised the problems with that sentiment, she was far too overcome with thanks to call attention to them. They stayed up far into the night talking about the reasons, the alternatives, the organisation, about Claudette’s future as well as their own, yet the one fact that seemed to come round for discussion rather too regularly was that Lord Ransome had found the means to avenge himself for the indifference Phoebe had once shown when, if she’d had a mind to it, she might have encouraged him. It was useless to speculate, Phoebe told them, when the end result would be the same.
She was less prepared, however, for his astonishingly early arrival next morning, long before the usual hour for a gentleman’s call, so that it was Claudette and Miss Maskell who met him as they came into the courtyard from the side garden with a basket of roses. Claudette, who had never met a real Viscount before, half-expected him to be wearing a red velvet ermine-edged robe with a coronet on his head rather than the double-breasted tailcoat with a high stand-fall collar and a grey striped waistcoat showing below. They watched with interest as he swung out of the saddle and stood before them, sweeping off his tall hat and performing a faultless bow.
He noticed Claudette staring at his gleaming boots. ‘Hessians,’ he said, smiling. ‘From Hesse, you know. May I introduce myself? I’m Ransome. And you must be Mademoiselle Donville. Am I correct?’
Prompted by the reminder in the small of her back, Claudette curtsied. ‘You are correct…er…my lord. May I present my governess, Miss Maskell?’
‘Your servant, ma’am.’ Ransome nodded, giving Tabby ample opportunity to see why Phoebe had not been quite herself since yesterday. She made her curtsy, and could see no reason to object when he offered to introduce them to his horse. It was, Tabby thought, a perfect way for him to make Claudette’s acquaintance, for she had no fear of the great black creature. What would she say though, she wondered, when the Viscount claimed her home for himself? Would she withdraw the friendship so quickly given? Ought they to have shown the same disapproval as Madame Donville?
The answer to that was seen in Phoebe’s stony expression as she came out of the front porch, bristling with the disapproval Tabby had identified, yet reluctant to break the instant rapport between her daughter and the Viscount, who were so engaged that it was a few moments before they noticed her.
But in that small capsule of time, Phoebe’s heart played her false before it remembered the reason for his visit. Here was a man, it told her, an athletic and virile creature with the most disagreeably insolent manner, unbearably good looking and probably well aware of it, walking into her house as if he owned it, which he did, and striking up an immediate friendship with her daughter when it was common knowledge that few men even recognised the existence of young girls until they were old enough to be either seduced or married off. Phoebe’s heart also reminded her once again, in that short pause before she spoke, how it felt to be held in those arms, pressed against that hard chest and ruthlessly kissed.
Pushing the errant thoughts aside, she stepped forwards into the sunlight, refusing to be drawn into a discussion about single and double bridles, maintaining the unsmiling face she had prepared since she’d heard the clop of hooves on the cobbles. She had been upstairs at the time and had not had time to finish tying up her hair, so she had no idea how lovely she looked.
Tabby Maskell was quick to remove her charge, leaving her mistress and unwelcome guest to face each other with some indefinable spark between them, keeping them both silent for far too long. Looking over her shoulder, Tabby saw that neither of them had moved or spoken before she and Claudette reached the door.
Drawing off his leather gloves, he sauntered towards her. ‘You were never one for friendly greetings were you, madame?’ he said.
‘My friends would not agree with you, my lord. Will you come inside, or do you prefer to give me more bad news out here where there’s nothing much for me to break?’
His eyes twinkled in the sun, but his reply was to hold out his hat in the direction of the porch and wait for her to lead the way. ‘Oh, mistress of the sharp tongue,’ he murmured. ‘Your ancestors—’
‘If you were at all concerned with my ancestors,’ Phoebe snapped, ‘you would have guessed that Ferry House has been in the Hawkin family since the late sixteen hundreds. My ancestors would never have believed it would pass out of their hands with so little effort.’
‘So, if we are to leave the ancestors out of it, may we speak of your delightful daughter? She does have the look of this lady,’ he said, stopping to look at the portrait on the wall above the hall table. He placed his hat, gloves and whip on the polished surface, peering at the woman wearing seventeenth-century dress, clearly related to Phoebe. ‘But then, so do you.’
‘Lord Ransome, am I to understand you came so early in the morning solely to talk about family likenesses?’ Phoebe asked as she led the way into the parlour. ‘Or is this small talk meant to soften me up ready for the coup de grace?’
‘You should ask me to sit down, you know. I’m glad you’ve changed your mind about allowing me inside. So much more comfortable.’ Holding up his long coat tails, he lowered himself into a wing chair upholstered with china-blue velvet, sat back and stretched out his long legs, showing not a wrinkle in the skintight breeches.
Phoebe placed herself, very upright, on the slender couch. ‘Please be seated, my lord. As you pointed out so gallantly on your last visit, I am hardly in a position to prevent your entry, am I? Even so, I do not intend to pack up my possessions and camp out on the village green so that you can move straight in. You have at least two houses to live in. Probably more.’
‘Yes, several more.’
‘Tenanted, are they?’
He smiled at that. ‘The farms on my estates are all tenanted, certainly, but Ferry House is simply a house, isn’t it? With a sitting tenant.’
‘Rather more than that, my lord.’
‘Oh? Do enlighten me, madame.’
‘The place was almost derelict when I first came here. My brother had no use for it, and no one had rented it since my father died. Leon didn’t want to spend any money on renovating it, and that’s why he lent it to me. Fortunately, I was able to repair it and to employ people who needed some security. Three of these I brought with me, but most of the others are all either too old or too…well…vulnerable, to find work elsewhere. I took them on without references and I’ve had no trouble so far. The gardens were in a terrible state, but now we grow all our own vegetables and fruit, and we supply two or three inns in Richmond, too. We use all our own dairy produce, and sell it at the local market, and the money it earns is used on wages and running costs. It would be such a pity to lose all that.’
‘And the money you inherited from your late husband?’
‘Yes, I wondered how long it would be before you brought up the subject again. Most of that money, my lord, went on new roofing, floors and plastering, windows and doors, fittings for the kitchen and stables. Everything. I also rebuilt the attics for my staff, for it seemed to me that since I could not refund my late husband’s gains to the rightful owners, it should be used to help others less fortunate than me. So now you know. It’s out in the open, and all I ask is that my family never gets to hear the truth. I have learnt to live with it now, but it would do them irreparable damage. My brother Ross, who lives near you at Mortlake, is a solicitor, you see, and he would not take kindly to any hint of a scandal in the family. Nor would my brother-in-law, Lord Nateby. Not to mention my mother and her husband.’
‘Templeman? No, he manages to find an opinion on every subject under the sun whether he knows about it or not. He’d certainly have plenty to say.’
‘So you know exactly what happened, do you?’
‘Oh, yes, Madame Donville. I do. The young Count who told you is an embittered young man who doesn’t see himself as fortunate to be alive. But I believe he regrets what he has done, now his friends hav
e told him how wrong he was. I don’t think you need be too concerned that he will repeat it outside of the circles the French move in.’
‘I’m rather more concerned, my lord, that others will.’
He could hardly have failed to understand her precise meaning, but he said no more on the subject, passing on to a relation about whom she had said very little. ‘And your eldest brother Leon? Has he seen Ferry House since your renovations?’
Phoebe went to stand by the window that looked out on to the formal garden at one side, at the white roses that fell like a waterfall over the pink bricks, the little topiary bushes cut into corkscrews. Her voice was only just loud enough for him to hear. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t. He ought not to be in London at all. It’s not the life for him. He’s an artist. Ideally, he should be living here in Richmond, where he could paint to his heart’s content.’ Idly, she picked up the watercolour painting, the victim of her outburst yesterday. Its frame lay in pieces along with the small easel on which it stood. ‘This is one of his watercolours. I believe he has real talent, but my mother never encouraged it and he won’t try to sell anything. He needs looking after. He needs a wife. And a patron. I ought to go to him. He was the one to help me when I needed it most.’
‘And do your family support what you’re doing here?’
Phoebe looked at him over her shoulder. ‘No, my lord. Nor will they do so now, when I need help again. I’m more sure of that than of anything.’
‘May I see the painting?’ He was up on his feet to take the paper from her, holding it to the light. While he studied it, Phoebe studied him, wondering what kind of women had felt the touch of his skin next to theirs, had touched the long dark sideburns and the cleft in his chin, the thick waves of hair with a dent where his tall hat had been. ‘Surely this is Marble Hill House?’ he said. ‘It’s remarkably good.’
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