Black Sheep's Daughter

by Carola Dunn

  "It is not necessary for everyone to put themselves out for me, sir. I can very well go alone."

  "That will never do. For one thing, I have no desire to allow the gabblemongers to believe that you are being punished. For another, your aunt knows nothing of what occurred. If we leave early tomorrow, she need not find out, and by the time we return to town in February the business will be long forgotten."

  "Aunt Stafford mentioned to me just now that she desires to go to Five Oaks without delay."

  "Excellent. I was going to tell her that you have been burning the candle at both ends and are beginning to look sadly pulled." His Grace grinned at his indignant niece. "However, if she wishes to go anyway, we shall let her believe we are merely falling in with her own notion. Now, we generally get up quite a party for Christmas. I want you to be comfortable, my dear, so I shall invite a number of your particular friends to join us in a week or so. Danville has suggested Miss Parr and Miss Kaye, Mr Wishart, Graylin, and one or two others."

  "Oh uncle, you are a great deal too good to me! I do try to deserve your kindness, indeed I do."

  He patted her cheek. "Off with you then, child. And keep that bird of yours safely tied until we can get it down to the country."

  Teresa went slowly up to the drawing room. Others might come, ignoring her disgrace for the prestige of a stay in a ducal mansion. She could not bring herself to tell her kind uncle that Sir Andrew Graylin was not at all likely to accept his invitation.

  Chapter 16

  Five Oaks was scarce half a day's carriage ride south of London. At first Teresa felt her spirits rise as they left the smoky, bustling city behind them.

  Her cheerfulness did not last. The duchess, annoyed at having to miss Lady Jersey's rout, claimed a megrim and lay back against the brown velvet squabs with an expression of suffering, eyes closed. The countryside, so pretty on her arrival in England, was now painted grey and dun, and the leafless trees looked depressingly dead to one used to the ever-lush tropical forest.

  Teresa remembered that, though her aunt was unaware of it, she was in disgrace. Andrew blamed her for the turn-up in the park, and if she ever saw him again he would doubtless be already married. At least, now she was a subject of scandal, he and Muriel would probably not invite her to the wedding. She did not think she could bear to watch them plight their troth.

  The duke, sitting opposite, leaned forward and patted her hand. "Pray do not look so miserable, child," he whispered, glancing at his wife. "I have assured you that I do not hold you to blame."

  She smiled at him tremulously. "I believe you were right, uncle. I have been drawing the bustle with a vengeance, and am now reaping the effects." Determined not to let a single tear escape, she closed her eyes tight and leaned back in the corner.

  * * * *

  If Teresa had been impressed by Stafford House, her first sight of Five Oaks overwhelmed her. A Palladian mansion, set on a gentle slope overlooking the meandering River Arun, it could have held her jungle home in one wing and scarcely noticed its presence. Small, fawn Jersey cows wandered about the park, while larger, dusky-red Sussex cattle browsed the meadows by the river. The flowerbeds in the formal gardens were bare, but there was an evergreen shrubbery close to the house which promised shelter for winter walks. Better still, Teresa anticipated long rides across the rolling hills.

  Inside, the mansion was less elegant, less formal than the London house. Not that anything was shabby, rather it exuded an air of homely comfort. This was the duke's favourite seat, within easy reach of London, where generations of ducal children had grown up and congenial house-parties often filled the rooms with lively activity. Teresa stood in the huge entrance hall and tried to imagine her father as a small boy sliding down the well-polished bannisters.

  Her bedchamber had a window seat with a view, framed by a vast cedar, down to the rippling brown waters of the Arun, fringed with bare willows. She saw deer mingling with the cows in the park, and a pair of dogs lolloped across the lawn and disappeared into the shrubbery. The setting sun escaped from the layer of clouds, pale but willing, and turned the grey hills to green.

  Teresa decided to take Gayo outside before it grew dark. Here, surely, he could not land her in the briars.

  Gayo flew wide, joyful circles shouting "Hello, hello," with never a curse escaping his beak. Calmed by his pleasure and her peaceful surroundings, Teresa blessed her uncle for bringing her to this haven.

  The next few days she had little leisure for brooding. She rode with Marco and their cousins, helped the duchess plan entertainments for the coming party, explored the house, and met several neighbours. Every day she took Gayo out, and they soon had a regular audience of fascinated gardeners, dairy maids, and any other servants who could sneak away from their duties for a few minutes.

  * * * *

  One afternoon, she was descending the main stair with the parrot on her shoulder when she saw a gentleman in a greatcoat standing with his back to her in the hall. He was studying a full length portrait of the First Duke in all his be-wigged glory.

  Teresa was going to retreat, not wanting to risk Gayo embarrassing a guest, but there was something familiar about the set of his blond head. She paused, and he turned.

  "Andrew!" She ran down the stairs, her face alight with joy; then she remembered the terms on which they had parted.

  "Teresa!" He took a step towards her, both hands held out, then stopped.

  Gayo bridged the gap: "Hello, dinner!"

  "I did not think you would come."

  "I had to, if only to apologise. If you cannot forgive me, I shall not stay."

  "Forgive you?"

  "It was all my fault—well, Lord John was not precisely blameless! But had I not swept you onto my horse and galloped off with you like Young Lochinvar in Scott's poem, no one need have connected you with the incident."

  "I was afraid Marco might be badly hurt, and I had to retrieve Gayo before he caused further disaster. Given the choice of picking up my skirts and running through the mud, or playing the Bride of Young Lochinvar..." Teresa flushed. "Well, you know what I mean." How she would have liked to play bride to this "braw gallant”!

  "You know the poem?"

  Somehow they were friends again.

  "Papa once bought a whole chest of books from an English captain, without any idea what was in it. One was Marmion, and that was one of my favourite bits. Are you just now arrived?"

  "Yes, the butler has gone to announce me to the duke. I am very glad to have seen you first, for I had no notion how to tell him that my staying depended upon you."

  She laughed. "But you will stay. I am taking Gayo outside. When you have seen my uncle, if you are not too tired, will you come out?"

  "Happily."

  He joined her some ten minutes later, and together they strolled about, chatting comfortably, while Gayo enjoyed his freedom.

  "It is growing chilly," said Teresa at last, pulling her cloak closer about her. She whistled, and Gayo flew to her. As they turned towards the house, she told Andrew, "The rest of the guests are arriving tomorrow. My aunt has a hundred entertainments planned to keep us all busy."

  "Then I am pleased to have arrived early, to enjoy a quiet coze with you." He smiled at her.

  "How is it that you did not travel with Muriel?" Teresa asked, her heart aching. She had no desire to talk of his betrothed, but the words escaped her. She fought to keep her voice even.

  "I came via my home, to see my family." He seemed no happier at the choice of subject.

  "I am surprised she did not go with you, since she will so soon be your wife."

  "Muriel and my sister-in-law are...I cannot say at daggers drawn for Muriel is by far too gentle for such a phrase. They do not deal together."

  "You mean, I collect, that your sister-in-law bullies her. I remember that you told me she is an intimidating female. Something like your future mama-in-law, I daresay! Poor Muriel is such a meek creature, you do well to keep them apart, though you ca
nnot separate her from her mother."

  "I cannot, but the duchess can. The invitation did not include Lady Parr."

  They exchanged grins and went into the house in perfect agreement for once.

  That night, in spite of her active day, Teresa lay awake for some time after Annie snuffed out her candle. If only Andrew were not engaged to Muriel. If only Muriel were not her friend. If only Don Eduardo had never invited him to the Hacienda del Inglés. She realised now that the damage to her heart had been done before ever they left Costa Rica.

  She had believed Papa that she was attracted to Andrew only because he was a sophisticated stranger. Now she had met half the eligible gentlemen in England, many of them more elegant, handsomer, richer and of higher rank; now she knew for certain that she loved him.

  And somehow, she must keep both him and Muriel from guessing it.

  * * * *

  The next afternoon the rest of the house party arrived. As well as Teresa's particular friends, there were people of the duke and duchess's generation, and their elder daughter.

  Lady Pamela Jordan, a little younger than her brother Tom, was accompanied by her husband, Lord Jordan, and four children under the age of ten. She largely ignored the former in favour of the latter. In fact she spent so much time in the nursery that Teresa, after a friendly greeting that made her hope for a closer relationship, seldom saw her cousin.

  Jenny Kaye and Daphne Pringle, in raptures to be invited to Five Oaks, immediately set about the siege of Lord Danville. Teresa found it impossible to blame him for turning increasingly to the non-threatening, safely betrothed Muriel. Whenever the younger set split up, for instance when they went by carriage to see Arundel Castle, he manoevred so that he, Teresa, Muriel and Sir Andrew were together.

  This did not please his brother. "The devil of it is," he explained to Teresa, "that as soon as Tom's out of view they start after me, though I ain't half such a good catch."

  Teresa had mixed feelings on the subject, which she confided to no one. It was a painful joy to be so often with Andrew. The presence of his betrothed increased the pain. Though in some ways Cousin Tom’s company helped her bear the situation, he also presented a source of confusion: he and Muriel seemed often to have more to say to each other than to Andrew or herself. She knew Andrew noticed it and was hurt.

  In spite of these circumstances, she enjoyed the trip to Arundel. She had never seen anything remotely like the ancient medieval castle, rebuilt time and time again over the centuries, and she listened fascinated to Cousin Tom's tales of its history. It belonged to the Duke of Norfolk, and though he was not in residence his housekeeper made them welcome and provided a magnificent luncheon.

  The December days were short, so they left early for the two hour drive back to Five Oaks. Though the sun was shining it was bitterly cold, and the housekeeper provided hot bricks for their feet. Andrew and Lord Danville carefully tucked fur rugs about Teresa and Muriel in the smaller of the two carriages, then took their seats opposite and tucked themselves in. They set off, followed by the larger coach with the rest of the group.

  Some three miles from Five Oaks, they passed through the village of Billingshurst. They were in the middle of the village when their carriage stopped abruptly, with much whoa-ing from the coachman.

  "What is it?" called Lord Danville.

  The answer was drowned by a confusion of snarling growls and screams. Teresa leaned out of the window, but all she could see was a village girl carrying two pails of water on a yoke, her hand raised to her mouth, an expression of horror on her face.

  “Lord, what’s to do?” asked Andrew, peering over Teresa’s shoulder.

  “I cannot make out.”

  “Here, let me by and I’ll go and see.” He swung open the door and jumped out of the carriage, followed by Teresa.

  The horses were shying and tossing their heads, held with difficulty by the coachman. Behind them the second coach had stopped and several of its occupants descended, calling out questions. John ran to join Teresa and Andrew as they hurried forward to where they could see past the restless team.

  A mastiff and a bull terrier were locked in combat in the middle of the street, blood-curdling sounds issuing from their throats. It was a terrifying sight, but it did not explain the horror on the girl's face.

  Then they saw the child. Perhaps two years old, he was toddling towards the dogs with every evidence of fascinated delight, his hand held out as if to pet them.

  Somewhere a woman screamed, "Jemmy!"

  With one accord, Andrew and Lord John leaped at the dogs. They seized them by the scruffs of their necks and hung on with all their strength.

  Teresa dodged round them, picked up the little boy and set him down at the side of the road, well out of the way. He pouted at her.

  “See doggies,” he said indignantly.

  A woman in a white apron hurried up, tears pouring down her pale, plump face. "Oh, Jemmy! Oh, miss!"

  Teresa had no time for her. A backward glance showed her Sir Andrew and Lord John backing away with bloodied hands. The mastiff and the bull terrier, their quarrel forgotten, had both turned on the spoilsports and were advancing with teeth bared. Teresa had not seen so many teeth, so close, since she lay on the ground with the jaguar poised above her.

  She dashed to the girl with the yoke, praying that she had already been to the pump. The buckets were full. She seized one of them and threw the icy water at the menacing dogs.

  They shook themselves and looked back at her, annoyed at this new interruption to their sport. As she picked up the second bucket and sloshed its contents at them they fled, yelping.

  So did Lord John and Andrew.

  "Here, I say, cousin!" said Lord John indignantly. "That water is damnably cold."

  "Your skill with a bucket does not match your skill with a pistol," added Andrew, looking down with annoyance at his soaked unmentionables.

  "I should have let them go after you!" Hurt by their ingratitude, Teresa turned her back on them.

  The rest of the party from the second carriage hurried up, laughing at the sodden gentlemen, congratulating Teresa on the rescue.

  "Dashed if I've ever seen anything so neat!" exclaimed Mr Wishart.

  "Well done, Teresa," cried Marco.

  "How brave you are," shuddered Daphne. "I should never have known what to do."

  Then the child's mother approached, shyly pushing through the gentlefolk to thank her baby's saviour. Several other villagers arrived to hear the tale and marvel. Teresa was the centre of attention, and basking in it, until a reproachful voice from the first carriage interrupted.

  "We must be on our way!" called Lord Danville. "Miss Parr is sadly shocked and must be taken home."

  "And we are frozen half to death," grumbled Lord John, with a shiver, "not to mention bleeding."

  Teresa took his hand and examined it. "It is not deep, but it must be thoroughly cleansed, and soon," she said. "Cousin Tom is right, we must go."

  She turned to Andrew, but he had already bound his wound with a handkerchief. "It is nothing," he said gruffly. "For pity's sake let us be on our way before dark, if you are done with your admirers."

  He and Lord John climbed into the first carriage with Muriel and Tom, so as not to soak both vehicles, and Teresa perforce joined the others.

  Mr Wishart took her hand and patted it. "If they are ungracious," he whispered, "it is because they are mortified at being rescued by a beautiful young lady when they hoped to be heroes themselves. Do not heed their sulks. You were magnificent, Miss Danville."

  Unconsoled, Teresa removed her hand from his clasp.

  * * * *

  It was dark when they reached Five Oaks at last. Andrew abandoned Muriel, still trembling with shock, to Miss Carter's anxious care and hurried up to his chamber. He was shivering violently, frozen to the bone.

  Rowson arrived on his heels. He took one look at his master and sent for a hot bath. "And step lively!" he called after the footman. Then h
e turned back to Andrew. "Nice weather for swimming," he said conversationally, and set about pulling off his sodden boots.

  "It was that d-devilish Miss D-Danville," said Andrew, his teeth chattering.

  "Shoved you in the river, did she? Daresay she had her reasons. Game as a pebble, our Miss Teresa. Let's get them pantaloons off then."

  "She is n-not our Miss T-Teresa and she did not sh-shove me in the river! She threw a bucket of water over a pair of fighting dogs and drenched both Lord John and me."

  "What did I say, a right Trojan, she is."

  "Dammit, Rowson, will you take her side? She is a perfectly devilish female! Where's my bath?"

  "I'll go hurry 'em up." Rowson was certain that the whole story would by now have passed from coachman to cook and thence to the rest of the staff. Whatever had got his master on his high ropes, it was no mere soaking.

  Andrew sat by the fire, wrapped in his dressing gown, gradually thawing. As his shivers ceased, he found himself able to admire Teresa's courage, and still more, her efficiency in an emergency. While he and her cousin had acted like the veriest rattlepates, going for the dogs, she had coolly snatched the child to safety and then turned and rescued them from their folly.

  It was all of a piece with everything he knew of her. Before they had exchanged a word, she had saved him from a deadly snake. She had saved the mules in the flood, herself from the jaguar, several score slaves from the depths of the ocean. She was not only fearless but practical.

  In the same situation, Muriel was more likely to swoon. That was how a delicately bred female ought to behave. After all, a man wanted the chance to rescue his beloved from deadly peril. It was just his luck to have fallen in love with an Amazon who stood in no need of a heroic deliverer.

  Horrified, Andrew forced a halt to that train of thought. What poppycock! He loved and was engaged to be married to a young lady of irreproachable timidity.