by Lady Rascal
This put him at a disadvantage, but he still wasn’t going to be seen giving in. ‘I don’t accept money from women,’ he said stiffly.
‘You’ve got no choice. What was that I overheard last night? Some little matter of Mistress Constance running up an account at the dressmakers? At least let me settle that worry for you, if you won’t take the money for Pickersgill and Pettigrew.’
Adamson said nothing in reply, but he did lead her towards a low-ceilinged little establishment much like the shop she had raided in Paris. Here she handed over most of her silver coins while the dressmaker simpered and Adamson died a silent death of embarrassment.
‘I’ll pay you back the money as soon as possible, mademoiselle,’’ he muttered quietly as he walked her back to the coaching point.
‘Don’t worry about that. As long as I’m in employment with Mistress Constance I have all I need, sir. Food, lodgings...’ here she almost mentioned company as well, but thought he might consider that too forward ‘...and entertainment...’
‘Precious little of that lately.’ Adamson directed her towards a coach that was about to leave by the London road. ‘Only the Pettigrews’ tea-drinking to look forward to.’
‘Oh, here you are, for heaven’s sake!’ Madeleine caught up his hand and slapped a few coins into it before he had time to protest. ‘Go and buy yourself some lunch, Master Philip. My treat. I’ll be as safe travelling home alone as I was when you were riding along behind.’
To her relief he accepted this suggestion with little argument. As soon as he had turned the corner out of the coaching yard, Madeleine heaved a sigh of relief and slipped away from the boarding coach.
She had taken care to memorise the route it had used to bring her to Bath. Now she would save the return fare by walking. Not only might this prove a help to the Adamsons’ slender finances—it would also save her from another encounter with the likes of Sir Edwin Pickersgill.
Philip Adamson rode through the gates of Willowbury shortly after Madeleine had reached home on foot. She was sure he noticed her as she unpegged the dry dairy cloths, but he hurried straight on into the house.
The library door was usually kept closed against the Willowbury dogs, but when Madeleine went back to the house it was standing ajar. After a moment’s thought she decided against going in. If Master Philip didn’t want to know me when I was outside, then he’ll have to do without me now, she thought crossly.
She retired to her pink and white bedroom. Mistress Constance had given her an old exercise book in which to copy out English words and phrases, and Madeleine spent her afternoon struggling with that. She finished work only when she heard Adamson come upstairs as though to change for tea.
As things turned out, Madeleine was to take tea alone. Adamson did not leave his room until Mistress Constance returned, just before dinner. He was quiet over the meal, but that was nothing particularly out of the ordinary.
Madeleine thought nothing of it at the time, but when he did not join them for breakfast next morning she began to wonder. The thought did flit through her mind that perhaps she really had offended him by handing over the money. Then she dismissed the idea. It was ridiculous, and in any case she could buttonhole him about his reticence later that morning when she went to collect the milk for the dairy work.
However, when she went to collect the donkey cart of milk churns Adamson was nowhere to be seen.
‘What’ve you done to him, miss?’ Higgins laughed as he led the cart up to her. ‘He don’t usually leave me with this job!’
That was true enough. Each day, Adamson always reached the corner of the lane at exactly the same time that Madeleine did, but not this morning. A walk of the boundaries had evidently been in order, instead.
A little sadly, Madeleine decided that this time she really had ruined any hopes of a brief romance. Master Philip was only interested in avoiding her, and she was certainly not going to throw herself after him.
The weather stayed fine for the next few days. Many and various were the ways that Philip Adamson found to avoid her, but Madeleine let him. If he felt uncomfortable in her presence, then it would give her no pleasure to torture him. She confined herself to a brief smile on the rare occasions they happened to meet. With her regular routine of dairy work, looking after the poultry and mending linen with Mistress Constance in the drawing-room, Madeleine could be easily found at any time of day.
During this time she made two more visits to Jack’s sister. There she learnt three or four easy dances so that she wouldn’t disgrace herself at the Pettigrews’ tea-drinking. At the same time she could practise her English, and her manners.
To her dismay she learned that young ladies could never simply dance with whom they chose. She must wait to be asked, and fill her dance-card like everyone else. This put an end to all romantic thoughts of being whirled around the floor by Philip Adamson. He was gradually beginning to thaw again towards her, but he made very sure that they were never alone together nowadays.
When the great day of the tea-drinking came Madeleine and Mistress Constance finished the dairy duties early in the day. The gathering was to start at three o’clock. Evenings were already beginning to draw in, and Mistress Constance calculated that at worst they could expect only five hours of the Pettigrews’ idea of entertainment.
The Adamsons had only decided to attend in view of Mr Pettigrew’s scrawled addition on the bottom of their invitation—’PS: everyone’s coming!’
In view of that, it would have been impolite to refuse and there was at least safety in a crowd. The Pettigrews would be diluted with a houseful of guests.
Jack Pritchard arrived after lunch, saying he thought it more reasonable to arrive as a group. One look at his face told Madeleine that he was only going to keep up appearances, too.
Everyone was ready in plenty of time, but as the carriage was being brought round to the front door a message came from Higgins out in Far Meadow. Adamson at once went to sort things out, while the others waited in the parlour.
With Jack to jolly them along, conversation soon turned to the matter of dancing and Madeleine’s secret lessons.
‘Oh, but you must show me what you’ve learnt!’ Mistress Constance clapped her hands in delight. ‘Go on, Jack, you can be Madeleine’s partner!’
The parlour was not laid out for dancing, but Jack soon pushed the wooden settles aside and made room. After a few false starts and a lot of giggling, Jack and Madeleine managed most of their movements in an imaginary gavotte before Adamson returned.
Despite his mother’s laughter he would not watch the dance, but instead poured himself a glass of lemonade with his back turned towards them.
‘Doesn’t Madeleine dance prettily, Philip?’
‘If the Pettigrews do not think the gavotte too old-fashioned for their modern tastes.’ He sipped his drink then turned as though sensing Madeleine’s disappointment. ‘Yes—mademoiselle dances very prettily indeed. Although it is a shame about her partner,’ he finished with a rueful smile at Jack.
Madeleine was about to ask Adamson to show how much better he could do, but remembered the warnings Jack’s sister Charlotte had given her about decorum.
‘I must confess Jack is the only person who has been kind enough to suffer my attempts at dancing so far, Master Philip.’
‘Then it is to be hoped that other gentlemen are better teachers,’ Adamson said before draining his glass. ‘If we have all quite finished here, perhaps we can set off? When Jack has tidied the furniture.’
He brushed a few stray oak husks from his jacket, unconcerned at Mistress Constance’s annoyance. Once the settles were back in their proper places, Adamson escorted his mother out to the coach while Jack and Madeleine followed behind.
‘He’s jealous!’ Jack whispered as Adamson settled himself in the carriage beside his mother.
Madeleine giggled even more at that. She had certainly offended him beyond redemption over the matter of money. He might be getting over that grad
ually, but Madeleine knew that things would never be quite the same between them again. What other cause would he have for jealousy? she wondered. Surely he couldn’t imagine she would want to steal Jack’s friendship from him?
The Pettigrews’ estate, Highlands, was an enormous spread offering acres of open land, hundreds of trees, five miles of river fishing and an enormous rambling old house.
No farmer in his right mind would have touched it. The man who had first named it Highlands had possessed a wonderful sense of humour. It was a wet, low-lying frost pocket, and the trees it grew were not the noble oaks and cedars of Willowbury, but only gnarled thorns and alders. All the introduced game crept away to higher ground, while sheep rotted away slowly on their diet of coarse bog grass.
Albert Pettigrew was not a farmer. He was something important in machines. Nobody knew quite what, although he explained frequently and at length. Unfortunately he always picked the worst times—shearing, or harvest—when everyone was far too busy with proper work to listen.
Whatever he did seemed to provide inexhaustible wealth. Madeleine gasped as the Adamsons’ carriage started a slow descent to the enormous house, garishly decorated with yellow and green paintwork.
‘Don’t mention the smell when we get inside, dear,’ Mistress Constance smiled, ‘it’s the river. Standing below the village as it does, all the waste sails past. In winter the river comes right up to their ground-floor windowsills! The first year they moved in, men on rafts had to pole across the lawn and sail on down to the next village for provisions!’
Jack and Mistress Constance laughed, but Madeleine saw that Philip was not amused. He was staring out of the opposite window.
‘Mr Pettigrew has spent a lot of money since then, Mother. I dare say we will find things much improved. And with the fine weather of late, the river level will be low.’
His rigid expression showed he expected no further comment on the matter. All at once Madeleine realised his present sharp manner might not be all her fault. To spend an afternoon in the company of his chief creditor was hardly an ideal arrangement. Madeleine decided not to make a bad situation worse by trying to make conversation, and spent the journey looking quietly out of the carriage window.
A line of gardener’s boys were sweeping the flagged apron outside the house. The Adamsons’ coach slowed down to a crawl, but still could not help catching up with the children as they inched forward.
Mr Pettigrew dashed out of his front door. He was dressed in the latest style as worn by the Prince of Wales, and in the finest cloth. Unfortunately a vermilion cutaway over an orange waistcoat did nothing for his florid complexion.
Cuffing garden boys left and right, he extended his hand to help Mistress Constance down from the carriage. He was grinning broadly, but his eyes were panic-stricken.
‘Well, well—here’s a turn-up for the books!’ he said with a hint of desperation. ‘Must be some trouble on the road—is there? Or were the invitations wrong? Three o’clock, I wanted written—it’s nearly twenty-past now, and you’re nearly the first to arrive!’
Mr Pettigrew bobbed about nervously as first Madeleine, then Jack and finally Philip stepped down from the carriage. Hardly noticed at first, the Reverend Mr Wright slipped into their gathering, but Madeleine heard his whispered greeting to Mistress Constance. With a guilty tinge of pleasure she saw that Leonora had been left at home.
Mr Wright had walked to Highlands and arrived on time, but was unwilling to enter alone. Waiting behind the shrubbery until someone else turned up had seemed a good idea.
After a confusion of greetings and hand-shaking all round, Pettigrew led them into the house. He had every member of his staff lined up in the hall, as though for inspection. Everyone but Madeleine tried hard to ignore the embarrassment of farm workers and country girls squeezed into garish livery. She was more interested in marvelling at the number of staff rather than their quality.
The party was led into a huge dining-room. Today, the double doors leading from it had been thrown open and an orchestra installed in the salon beyond. Tired of waiting, musicians sprawled about talking and passing a flagon of gin round among themselves. At Mr Pettigrew’s arrival they stopped scratching and hauled themselves into sitting positions.
Several dozen rout chairs lined the walls of the Pettigrews’ dining-room. A shining new spinet stood proudly in the window bay, while the centre of the room was clear to allow for dancing.
‘This is going to be a disaster,’ Mistress Constance hissed in Madeleine’s ear. ‘I don’t know what possessed us to come. Everyone else has seen sense and stayed away!’
They all sat down, and found the rout chairs as uncomfortable as they looked. Trying to hide his disappointment with forced cheerfulness, Pettigrew went off to search for his other guest.
While the band smirked at their discomfort, the party tried to get comfortable on the hard, lumpy chairs and exchanged awkward little comments about the weather.
At the sound of Mr Pettigrew’s noisy approach outside, conversation faded away to nothing. At least we’ll have someone different to talk to, Madeleine thought with relief.
That was short-lived. The dining-room door was flung open, and with horror Madeleine recognised the newcomer.
It was the horrible man from the coach—Philip Adamson’s other creditor. Sir Edwin Pickersgill.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Madeleine felt her hands dampen with horror. Here was the man she had publicly embarrassed, now on the firm ground of a genteel English tea-party. He was sure to take revenge, and in her shame Madeleine would be found out for what she was—an impostor.
She flashed a look of desperation at Philip, but he paid no attention. He and Jack had risen to greet Sir Edwin, and the three were exchanging pleasantries like old friends.
Pettigrew was bringing his honoured guest down the short line of visitors, introducing each in turn. Madeleine was at the end, but time was running out. She wound the strings of her fan into knots, frantically thinking of some way to avoid coming face to face with Sir Edwin again.
It was too late. He was directly in front of Mistress Constance now. As she was next to Madeleine, there was no escape. By this time Pettigrew was chattering on about things Continental, while his wife fluttered about like a little brown bird.
Madeleine took a deep breath and extended her hand. Sir Edwin Pickersgill’s bulldog eyes fastened her to the seat as he took hold of her reluctant fingers. ‘No, I’ve not had the pleasure,’ he breathed heavily, but his eyes added that the time would soon come.
Taken aback at the way his memory had failed, Madeleine could only mutter a faint greeting in her surprise.
The introductions over, Pettigrew and his wife stood back to face their luckless guests. Sir Edwin had subsided on to a chair beside Madeleine. She could not bear to look anywhere but down into her lap, but that didn’t stop her agony. From the sickly reek of his cologne to the persistent wheeze in his throat, Pickersgill was still managing to assault her on every front. If she raised her eyes only a little, there were his fat pink fingers spread out over the acreage of his breeches.
Madeleine edged a little closer to Mistress Constance.
The awkward silence that followed was almost tangible. Minute after minute staggered past, interrupted only by Albert Pettigrew wondering aloud where the rest of his expected guests had got to.
Finally, at a quarter to four, Mrs Pettigrew succeeded in attracting her husband’s attention. After some frantic whispering, both Pettigrews looked shamefaced at their guests.
‘If you would excuse me, ladies and gentlemen...my lady wife wishes to speak with me for a moment.’
Grinning uncomfortably, Mr Pettigrew led his wife out of the room. When a distant door clattered shut the orchestra and guests all sighed with relief.
‘What time is it?’ Jack asked hopefully.
Mistress Constance fanned herself. ‘Three minutes after you last asked, Dr Pritchard.’
‘Perhaps he’s got
another engagement, mistress!’
Pickersgill’s words silenced what little noise there had been, and everyone turned to look at him.
‘What’s the matter?’ he said in a voice that echoed in the quiet. ‘Wish I had a ready-made excuse for cutting off quick like young Jack-the-lad! Fill up on Albert’s hospitality, safe in the knowledge you could be called away on some “emergency” before you’re forced into being civil—’
‘Well,’ Madeleine interrupted, making everyone jump including herself. ‘Well, I think that what everyone’s done to the Pettigrews is awful. Not coming to their party, or, worse, being ungrateful!’
Here she shot a venomous look at Pickersgill, regardless of the consequences. He was smirking broadly. Disappointed that he felt no shame, Madeleine was fired up to continue.
‘I bet there’s piles and piles of food ready and waiting for all the dozens of guests Mr Pettigrew must have invited, and staff running around in all directions out of sight. The least we could do is pretend we’re enjoying ourselves, for their sake if nothing else.’
Madeleine spread her fingers on her lap and waited for someone to tell her that she had said the wrong thing yet again. Instead she heard the others moving rather uncomfortably in their seats. When she could bear to look up again she found that, while the others were avoiding each other’s gaze, Philip was almost smiling.
‘Well said, mademoiselle. What are a few hours of unease to us compared to the trouble Mr Pettigrew’s staff must have gone to for our supposed pleasure?’
There was a mutter of agreement, and even the orchestra gathered itself into some sort of order. When the Pettigrews returned it was to an atmosphere of resignation rather than of dread.
Pettigrew looked deflated. His wife had clearly been crying, and kept her head well down.
‘It seems—ah, that is...’ Pettigrew rocked on his heels and stared at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Apparently quite a few people have been in touch to say that they won’t be able to attend this afternoon... The lady wife was kind enough to try and spare my feelings, you understand...’