To Dream Again

by To Dream Again (retail) (epub)

  ‘Hadn’t we better be getting back to the house?’ she said. ‘We’ll be late for lunch.’

  ‘Does it matter… ?’ began Lord Alston, then he paused. ‘You are quite right, Mrs Lisburne. It is high time we went back,’ he said.

  Gradually, during the next few days, it was assumed that Lord Alston was Mercy’s permanent escort. They were partnered at dinner and at the bridge table; when dancing provided the entertainment in the evening no other man presumed to ask Mercy for a waltz or a veleta.

  At first Mercy accepted the situation, but uncomfortably, not knowing how to avoid it. It had not escaped her notice that the other guests had paired up too. Oh, very discreetly, but there was no ignoring the muffled whispers at night and the furtive thud of bedroom doors closing. Mercy’s new-found freedom clearly had its dangers, and it bothered her in case Lord Alston expected similar favours. To her relief he made no such demands.

  The last evening was spent playing a particularly rowdy game of hide-and-seek. It surprised Mercy that adults – and seemingly sophisticated adults, at that – could take part in such rough-and-tumble infantile games. She recognized them for what they were, an excuse for a sort of mildly lecherous behaviour. She wondered if the participants were naive enough to see them as no more than horseplay. She doubted it. For that reason she was reluctant to join in, but by the final evening her resolution was worn down.

  ‘Oh, do come along, Mercy!’ Charlotte urged her. ‘You can’t really want to sit in the library with a dull old book while the rest of us are having such fun.’

  ‘I’m quite content, really I am,’ Mercy replied.

  ‘Guests in my house are ecstatically happy, or having a wonderful time, or enjoying themselves no end. They are never just content! I regard the word as an insult! Put that book down and join the fun.’

  Charlotte in this mood was hard to deny, so Mercy did as she was told with a resigned smile.

  ‘Charles Wentworth is “he”, and it is permissible to hide anywhere in the house except the servants’ quarters. Right, Charlie! I’ve managed to drag Mercy out of the library so we are ready. How long are you giving us?’

  ‘Up to a count of thirty, then I come. Off you go!’ answered Charles.

  Feeling more than a little foolish Mercy hurried out with the rest, and found herself a hiding-place behind one of the long dining-room curtains.

  ‘You’ll be discovered immediately,’ said a voice behind her.

  She turned and saw Lord Alston. He put his finger to his lips and taking her hand led her out of the room and along a small corridor she had not noticed.

  ‘This leads to the garden-room. No one uses it at this time of year,’ he whispered. ‘Quick, in here.’

  He hustled her into a long cupboard in which hung mackintoshes. Squeezing in beside her he closed the door. It was cramped in there, among the waterproofs, making it necessary to stand very close together. Lord Alston’s arms began to creep about her waist and he pulled her closer. She felt his hold tighten as his body pressed against hers, and his mouth began to explore the softness of her neck. Mercy stood very still, not certain what to do. She wanted to pay Peter back for hurting her, yet she had serious misgivings about what was happening.

  ‘I— I think I hear someone coming,’ she whispered in desperation.

  ‘No one will find us here,’ murmured Lord Alston, his hands beginning to stray upwards to her breasts. Distressed, Mercy tried to move away. She wanted none of it.

  Voices in the corridor outside made him halt. In a moment the cupboard door was wrenched open and Charles Wentworth, aided by a jubilant Zena Pritchard, declared, ‘Found, the pair of you!’

  Mercy felt her face go scarlet, but Lord Alston merely laughed and said, ‘That was rather caddish of you, Wentworth, to find us so quickly.’

  ‘The night is young,’ Wentworth replied, a knowing leer on his face. ‘It wouldn’t do to leave you too long too soon.’

  The game continued, with Lord Alston being Mercy’s shadow, to her increasing disquiet. Each time they shared a hiding-place his caresses were becoming more importunate, his ardour more evident. It took all of Mercy’s ingenuity to fend off the more excessive of his attentions. When finally it was time to retire she could not fail to see the blatant desire in his eyes. Lord Alston had changed from being a reassuring friend into a would-be seducer, and the transformation horrified her.

  As she prepared for bed she listened tensely for the discreet tap at her door. When it came it was an urgent rapping, causing her to freeze. She knew Lord Alston found her attractive, and she had enjoyed his company, but tonight he was demonstrating all too clearly just how badly she had misjudged the situation. It had been stupid and naive of her to think she could restrict their relationship to a mild flirtation. Matters were rapidly slipping beyond her control.

  The knocking at her door was becoming insistent, it must be audible to the whole house. She could not stand it any more… She would speak to him, reason with him.

  She opened the door.

  Mercy had no chance to speak. Lord Alston, clad in his maroon silk dressing-gown, stepped into the room with complete assurance, pushing the door shut with his foot. He swept her into his arms straight away, forcing her backwards until they collapsed on the bed.

  ‘Please – please, no,’ she gasped, trying to struggle out from under his weight.

  He did not hear her. ‘You’ve no idea how I’ve waited for this.’ His voice was low, his breathing heavy as he pulled her dressing-gown away from her shoulders.

  ‘Please, stop—’ began Mercy, then she was silenced by the demands of his mouth.

  Desperately she tried to struggle, but she was trapped on the bed by his body, her arms pinioned by her own dressing-gown.

  Now his hands were at the neck of her night-gown, pulling and tugging, only to find his efforts defeated by the demure Peter Pan collar, and the rows of insertion lace. At once he turned his attention to pulling it up. Memories of the Orchard Laundry and Albert Hoskins flashed into her head, sweeping away all indecision. She knew without doubt she was not going to let this man, duke’s son or not, have the pleasure of her body. With a terrific effort she managed to free one arm.

  ‘No! Stop!’ she cried again, hitting out at him.

  Lord Alston looked down at her, his face flushed, his eyes bright with excitement.

  ‘So you still mean to tease me, eh? Well tease away, we’ve got the whole night ahead of us, and I intend to make the most of it.’

  He meant it, too! Mercy was desperate now.

  ‘I’m not teasing! Please stop!’ she begged again, without response.

  Her night-gown was crumpled up round her waist. Lord Alston’s excitement was increasing to the point where she knew there would be no hope of restraining him. Shades of Albert Hoskins haunted her. She stretched out her hand and found the water-jug on her bedside table.

  The shock of the cold water was enough to make Lord Alston gasp and loose his hold on her. Mercy took her chance to push him off the bed, scrambling off the other side herself, pulling down her clothes as she went.

  Lord Alston was sitting on the floor, water dripping off his head.

  ‘What was that for?’ he demanded in aggrieved surprise.

  ‘You wouldn’t stop!’ she cried. ‘Time and again I said no, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘You didn’t want me to listen. You were teasing. You were as desperate for it as I was.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t!’

  ‘Oh come, my dear! What do you think we’ve been doing the whole evening? After all those cosy moments together, the times we squeezed so seductively into cupboards and dark corners. What the devil did you expect to be the outcome?’

  ‘I— I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well I am! You were inviting me to your bed as clearly as if you’d handed me an engraved invitation.’

  ‘No I wasn’t… at least, I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Then you must be the most innocent, na
ïve woman I’ve encountered. And for goodness sake put that thing down! You’re in no danger. I’m no rapist.’

  Mercy put down the heavy silver-backed hairbrush she had been wielding like a club. She realized, with some surprise he was more hurt than angry. Honesty got the better of her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I suppose it must have seemed as though I was leading you on. Perhaps I was, only when it came to it… well, I suppose my marriage ties are too strong. It was mainly my fault. I’m sorry.’

  Lord Alston rose slowly to his feet, brushing trickles of water from his face.

  ‘You’re honest, I’ll give you that. I only wish you’d given matters a bit more thought and realized what you were doing. I feel an absolute fool.’

  ‘Oh no!’ protested Mercy. ‘I’d hate you to feel like that. I like you far too much.’

  ‘That’s something, anyway. Though if you douse men you like with freezing water to cool their ardour I can’t imagine what you’d do to someone you disliked.’

  ‘That’s easy to answer. I hit them with flat-irons.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I hit them with flat-irons. Or to be more accurate that was what I did to my former employer when he got too familiar.’

  ‘Then I must consider myself to be fortunate. Did the poor fellow survive?’

  ‘Yes, luckily. He was just a bit singed, the iron was hot, you see.’

  Lord Alston gave a bark of laughter. ‘Then I was definitely fortunate.’ He turned and made for the door. ‘All that remains now, I suppose, is for me to offer my abject apologies for having misunderstood your intentions. I feel I have insulted you, which is the last thing I wanted.’

  ‘You haven’t insulted me, and anyway, I acknowledge it was partly my fault.’

  ‘That’s very handsome of you. Not many women would say such a thing.’

  ‘As well as an apology I owe you my thanks. This is the first time I’ve been anywhere without my husband. I didn’t expect to enjoy myself, but I have, because you’ve been so kind. I’m very grateful.’

  ‘You’re a generous woman, Mercy Lisburne, and a most unusual one. You make me very regretful that we couldn’t enjoy a far closer relationship.’ He spoke wistfully, almost sadly. Then he gave a sudden smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to start making advances again. You’ve dealt my self-esteem a bit of blow, though. I think you should make amends. Come to the ball I’m giving at my place in Dorset next month.’

  Mercy looked at him doubtfully, ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

  ‘No strings, no obligations. Just come as a friend. Charlotte will be coming; I know she’d be delighted to have you join her party. There’s no need to give me an answer now. Think about it. I’ll make sure you receive an invitation.’ He paused at the door. ‘We’re still friends, aren’t we?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re still friends,’ she assured him.

  It was a long time before Mercy got to sleep that night. Memories of the evening and of the disastrous misunderstanding haunted her, making her go crimson again and again. Lord Alston had taken her rebuff well. She decided she liked him very much. Nevertheless, she had no intention of attending his ball.

  The Villa Dorata felt strangely quiet when she returned. It was good to see the children again, she had missed them, but away from the nursery the place felt gloomy. It took her some time to ask Agnes the question that had been bothering her.

  ‘Peter’s not at home?’ she said.

  ‘No! He’s up in London for a few days to visit his tailor and shirtmaker; then he’s going shooting in Norfolk.’

  ‘Norfolk? Who does he know there?’

  ‘Some people called Grant.’ Agnes paused ominously. ‘I understand they are friends of Mr and Mrs Hewson,’ she said.

  That was enough for Mercy. Next morning, when the elegantly engraved invitation to Lord Alston’s ball arrived in the post Mercy did not hesitate. She wrote at once accepting, just as she went on accepting the other invitations to race-parties and shooting-parties and country weekends which suddenly came through the letter-box. Her engagement book filled with extraordinary speed, and she looked at it with satisfaction. The invitations were to her and her alone. She was a person in her own right now, not merely the wife of Peter Lisburne. She no longer needed him. She could manage alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Joey strode up the gravel drive of the Villa Dorata, his face set with grim determination. He was not going to be fobbed off a second time. The trim parlourmaid who answered his urgent ringing at the front door took him rather by surprise, he had been expecting the sour-faced old buffer who had turned him away the previous day. The expression on the maid’s face was no more welcoming.

  ‘Tradesman’s entrance is round the back,’ she said haughtily.

  ‘I’m not a tradesman. I’ve come to see Mrs Mercy Lisburne.’

  ‘Mrs Lisburne is not at home,’ was the prompt reply. A little too prompt for Joey’s liking.

  ‘I know Mrs Lisburne’s in. I’ve just seen her drive up in her car. So I’ll see her now, if you please. I’ve an urgent message for her, and if you don’t want to get your marching orders, along with old misery-guts who answered the door to me yesterday, I suggest you go to her at once.’

  ‘She wouldn’t dismiss Mr Rogers,’ the maid said disparagingly.

  ‘Oh no? Just go and tell her Mr Joseph Seaton wishes to see her urgently.’

  The maid looked at him doubtfully, then said, ‘Very well, but wait here on the doorstep.’

  She was back in a surprisingly short time, her face rather pink.

  ‘The mistress will see you now, sir,’ she said. ‘Will you be kind enough to come this way.’

  It seemed to Joey that she led him across a vast expanse of marble floor, then up a huge winding staircase, but such was his desperation to see his sister the details of his surroundings were a mere blur.

  ‘Mr Seaton, ma’am.’ The maid showed him into a pretty sitting-room, then departed.

  ‘Joey! Such a surprise!’ Mercy rose to her feet, her arms outstretched towards him. He thought she looked more beautiful than ever in her rust-coloured gown. The fashionable Russian style, with its simple lines and rich embroidery, suited her. Only when she released him from her embrace and held him at arm’s length did he notice the faint lines of strain about her eyes. She looked pleased to see him, but she did not look happy.

  He took hold of her hands. ‘I’m here because I’ve some bad news.’

  Her grip on his fingers tightened.

  ‘Bad news? Is it Blanche? Ma? Lizzie?’

  ‘Blanche. Some sort of a seizure.’

  The colour drained from her face.

  ‘Is she seriously ill? Have you called the doctor? I’ll come at once. I’ll just get my coat.’

  Joey restrained her as she made for the door, shaking his head.

  ‘It’s too late,’ he said quietly. ‘Blanche is dead. She died yesterday.’

  ‘Dead? She can’t be!’ Her eyes widened with shock.

  Joey understood her disbelief. Difficult, quarrelsome, cantankerous, there had been a steely quality about Blanche that made her seem indestructible.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. ‘Come on, you’d better sit down.’

  He led her to a sofa and sat beside her, his arm comfortingly about her shoulders.

  ‘She died yesterday, you say? Then why did you leave it until now? Why didn’t you come and fetch me?’

  ‘I did come. I was told you weren’t at home.’

  ‘But I was!’

  ‘I was sure you were, only there was no getting through to that butler fellow. I left a message.’

  ‘I didn’t get it,’ she cried desperately.

  ‘I thought not. That’s why I came back today.’

  ‘I still don’t understand. If Rogers had given me your message I’d have come. I might have had time to be with her, to see her again for one last time.’

  ‘Maybe he thought I was some disreputable cha
racter, out to threaten you.’ Joey attempted to lighten her distress.

  ‘No, Rogers wouldn’t fail to deliver a message off his own bat. He was ordered not to give me your message, and I can guess by whom. I’ll never forgive her! Never!’

  ‘Her? Your mother-in-law, do you mean? Surely she wouldn’t have done such a thing?’

  ‘Agnes Lisburne is quite capable of doing such a thing, and she disliked Blanche. But she shouldn’t have got her own back this way. It’s too cruel.’ Mercy’s face suddenly crumpled, and the tears began to stream down her cheeks. The lump in Joey’s throat threatened to choke him, as he pulled her close to him in shared grief. How long they clung together like that he did not know. It was Mercy who moved away first, mopping her eyes with a totally inadequate handkerchief.

  ‘Tell me what happened… about Blanche, I mean,’ she said. ‘Were you there?’

  ‘At the end, yes. Seemingly Blanche collapsed in the street, outside the Oak, appropriately enough. It was Harry Dawe who brought her home.’

  ‘She didn’t suffer, did she?’

  ‘No, she was unconscious most of the time, though she rallied a bit soon after I got there. Her mind was quite clear for a spell. She had me dig this out of a hidey-hole she’d got in one of the rafters. Said she’d been keeping it for you because you were the only one in the family who would appreciate it.’ Joey rummaged in his pocket and took out a small brown-paper parcel.

  He watched his sister open it to reveal a small book of poems by Shelley. Inside, on the flyleaf was written: ‘To Blanche Elizabeth, on her sixteenth birthday, from her loving Mama. 12th June, 1863.’

  As she turned the pages a card fell out. It was a photograph of a young girl dressed in a plaid dress with the absurdly wide skirts of the previous century. On her head she wore a matching soldier-style hat, while her feet were smartly encased in neat white boots. Written on the back was the name ‘Blanche’. There was a surname too, but it had been scored out so heavily it was indecipherable.