She looked at him searchingly. “You said something similar to me once before, Mr Audley, if I recall.”
“I did, and you replied that it made you look like a crow, but I thought then and I still think that black suits you remarkably well. There are not many ladies of whom that may be said, but you are one of the few. But if you dislike the colour, then I heartily wish you no more deaths in the family for a very long time.”
He held his breath, wondering if perhaps she would think it mere flattery and give him one of her set-downs, but it seemed she recognised the sincerity in his voice, for she said only, “Well, I do dislike it, and even half mourning is dreary, is it not? So much dull grey and lilac.”
“What colours would you prefer?”
“Oh, yellow! Such a cheerful colour, do you not agree? Not pink, for that does not agree with me at all, but vivid blues and greens, or else very pale colours. Robin — my brother-in-law Robin Dalton, you know — he persuaded me to buy a length of figured silk of the lightest blue imaginable, and it looked quite ravishing when it was made up. Fanny did most of the work on it, for she is so clever with her needle, but I put some of the satin trim around the tunic, and Margaret sewed tiny flowers on the sleeves and bodice.” She sighed. “It is the most beautiful ball gown I have ever owned. Oh, but I beg your pardon, sir. You should interrupt me at once when I go on in that dreadful manner, and about gowns, too, which cannot be of the least interest to you. Ah, here is Augusta now. Pray excuse me, Mr Audley.”
Smiling, he watched her cross the room, hearing Gussie’s complaining tone even from the far side of the saloon, which was by no means a small room. So he went himself to pay court to his poor sister, now only a few weeks from her confinement, and then the rest of the family began to arrive and the guests for the evening, and there was no further opportunity for private conversation with Lucy.
The next day was Sunday, and Lucy stayed with Gussie while the others went to church, and then on Monday she went shopping with Deirdre and Winifred again, who seemed to have endless money to spend on furbelows and trinkets. But on Tuesday, Gussie was holding a garden party, perhaps her last opportunity to entertain before she was sequestered away. After the success of the archery at Stoneleigh, the twins had been wild to have their own equipment, and this was the first chance to show it off. There was to be a competition, and all the young ladies had made favours to bestow on the gentlemen of their choice, which naturally led to a certain amount of jostling amongst them.
Lucy was sitting on a stone bench watching her charges and their admirers prepare for the contest. Voices were raised and matters were becoming heated, but she made no move to step into the dispute. Leo took the opportunity to sit beside her.
“Will they shoot each other, do you suppose?” he said conversationally. “Or shall you be required to deploy your parasol again?”
She laughed. “No, for if they come to blows, I shall deploy you, Mr Audley. I am sure I may rely upon you to intervene if matters become heated. You may borrow my parasol if you need to.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” he said gravely. “Willing as I am to oblige a lady, I am not sure that my dignity would survive intact if I have to break up a mill with a lady’s parasol.”
“Perhaps not,” she said with equal gravity, “but I should very much enjoy watching the spectacle. Oh, there now! They have settled it themselves without any need for your intervention. How disappointing.” And she turned such a mischievous smile on him that he was seized with the sudden urge to sweep her into his arms, parasol and all. While he wordlessly fought the impulse, she turned away and went on calmly, “Mr Audley, there is something I must say to you on a private matter, which I know I should not speak of, so I hope you will forgive me.”
Catching his breath, he said with as much composure as he could muster, “You may speak to me of anything, anything at all.”
“Thank you! You are very good. Mr Kingsley was so kind as to let us know of a letter he had received from the clergyman whose daughter made accusations against you of the most serious nature, and yet it seems there was no truth in them at all, and you are entirely blameless in the affair. That makes me so ashamed of my unconscionable rudeness to you at Stoneleigh Hall. I believed the worst of you without the least evidence, in contradiction of everything I have observed of your character over these several months that I have known you. I am so very sorry that I maligned you so, for it was quite unpardonable. I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to know that the truth of the matter is now acknowledged publicly. You must be greatly relieved.”
His heart was so full at this unexpected apology that he could barely speak. “I am indeed,” he said, struggling to catch his breath.
“But it is unaccountable!” she cried. “Why would she do such a thing? To impugn the reputation of an honourable man in that way, it is wicked, quite wicked! And you said nothing against her — few men, I believe, would have shown such forbearance.”
“I could not speak against a lady.”
“She is no lady, sir! And to think that I berated you on her behalf, and insisted you ought to marry her, and yet you did not defend yourself. Can you ever forgive me?”
“There is nothing at all to forgive, and it would grieve me if you were to waste any more sympathy on me,” he cried. “If I had always behaved as I ought, no one would have believed such a thing of me. It is the greatest reproof possible that everyone found the accusation plausible, and I am resolved to follow proper principles in future.” He took a deep breath, in an attempt to compose himself. Never had he had such difficulty talking to a lady! In general, the words tripped glibly from his tongue without the least effort. But she demanded more of him, a great deal more, and he was not accustomed to the exertion. He was twisting his hands this way and that, and had to force himself to bring them to a rest. “Let us speak of other matters,” he went on, a little breathlessly. “While I was in Lancashire, I was able to spend a few days in Liverpool, and sought out the family who had cared for your brother.”
“The Moretons?” she said, astonishment written on her face. “You found them?”
“Oh yes. They were not hard to find, and they remembered your brother very well. I asked them… Mrs Price, you must say at once if I have been presumptuous, but you told me that you would be happy to know more of Jeremy’s final days, and so I took you at your word. I asked Mr and Mrs Moreton to write down everything that they could remember of him, and here are their words.”
He produced a bulky letter from an inner pocket, the letter he had been carrying next to his heart for days, waiting for an opportunity to give it to her, and yet terrified of her reaction. His hand shook slightly as he handed it to her. Would she berate him for his interference? Or perhaps it would upset her, and he could not bear to be the means of sharpening the grief that she still felt for her dead brother.
She did not cry. She displayed no anger. Instead, her eyes luminous, she whispered, “You did this for me?”
He nodded. “I thought…” Deep breath. Be calm. “I hoped it might please you. And now I shall leave you alone to read it, Mrs Price.”
And before she could say a word, he jumped up and walked on legs that were unaccountably unsteady across the lawn. He found Gussie lying on a chaise longue in a patch of shade, with two of the Miss Watfords and Mrs Partridge in attendance. He pulled up a chair and virtuously engaged the ladies in conversation, but all the while his thoughts were elsewhere, with a lady in black and a letter and his nebulous hope that perhaps, in time, it might make her look more favourably upon him.
But when he looked round, she had gone.
After he had done his duty with Gussie, he spent some time with Kingsley and his coterie of bored husbands at the billiard table in the great hall, and thence to the archery grounds, where he took his turn with the bow. Still there was no sign of Lucy. She must have gone into the house, he supposed. His mind was still too full of her to settle anywhere, so he slipped away from the law
ns and walked moodily about the formal gardens for a while. Then he spotted Mrs Partridge, but he was in no mood for her coy flirtatiousness today, so he turned in the opposite direction. His wanderings brought him to a small knot garden screened by high hedges, the shapes filled with aromatic herbs. The air hummed with the sound of bees busy about their work. The sight made him smile for it reminded him of Lucy and her pleasure in the kitchen garden at Stoneleigh. Every thought of Lucy made him smile.
He stepped through the opening in the hedge, his feet crunching on the gravel path. At once he stopped, his heart twisting painfully. There she was! A seat was set into the hedge, and she sat there, engrossed in her letter. Even as he hesitated, unsure whether to creep away before she noticed him, she looked up and smiled.
“It is abominably rude of me to hide away like this. Am I wanted? Is my parasol required?”
That made him laugh. “No, all is well. But I intrude. Let me withdraw at once…”
“Oh no. Please stay. If you wish to, I mean. If you had rather be alone, then you may go away with my goodwill.” Another smile. “But if you stay, be prepared to be thanked excessively for your kindness. This letter makes me so happy, you cannot imagine. I have read it over and over, for it is the most wonderful thing to have these memories of Jeremy, so clearly described that it is almost as if I were there, seeing him perched nervously on the horsehair sofa when he first arrived, or playing with the dogs, or singing sea songs. He had such a wonderful singing voice.” She sighed. “I cannot thank you enough for your thoughtfulness.” She patted the seat beside her. “Will you not sit down?”
In a daze, he did so. It was frightening, this effect she had on him. He had always been at ease in company, never short of the right words for the occasion, never at a loss for a delicate compliment or a polite turn of phrase. Yet she reduced him to stumbling inarticulacy, and turned his brain into dust. “I…” he began, then cleared his throat. “I am glad it pleases you.”
“Oh, yes! And they describe Jeremy just as I remember him, very well-grown, and terrified of going to sea, and not at all how Captain Hunt spoke of him to Annabelle. It must be that he has mistaken the matter, and he is confusing Jeremy with some other boy, because I cannot think that Fanny is right and that someone took Jeremy’s place, for if so, and he did not go to sea at all, where is he? And why would he not write to us, at least? No, Captain Hunt must be mistaken. Is there any other explanation?”
“There is one other possibility,” Leo said tentatively. “Mr Moreton and I had some discussion of the point, and he suggested a way it might all be explained. Liverpool is, like all ports, a town with a number of persons none too scrupulous about adherence to the law. Jeremy was young, wealthy by the standards of many, and might have been seen as a goose ripe for plucking.”
“He was set upon, perhaps?” she said. “Someone stole his things — his uniform — and presented himself to Captain Hunt in Jeremy’s name? Yes… that would explain it, certainly. But then, there is still the question of what became of Jeremy. Even if—”
He said nothing as she worked it out, her face changing from curiosity to sorrow.
“He was killed… that was it, was it not? That is what you mean. He was set upon, everything stolen and his body rolled into a ditch somewhere, and even if he was later found, no one would know who he was. Oh, poor Jeremy! That is far worse than drowning at sea as a midshipman. Far, far worse.”
“Is it?” Leo said. “They seem equally dire options, to my mind.”
“You are right, of course,” she said, with a wry smile. “And it makes no difference, does it? For however it came about, poor Jeremy is just as dead.”
20: An Agreeable Interlude
Leo sat in silence, not wishing to disturb Lucy’s reverie. But after a while she sighed, folded the letter and tucked it into her reticule.
“I suppose I should go back,” she said, but she sounded reluctant.
“No need,” he said. “Gussie is surrounded by friends, and Mrs Exton and Mrs Cherry are supervising the archery. If the gentlemen come to blows, I am tolerably certain we shall hear them from here. Or would you prefer to go somewhere else? The kitchen garden, perhaps?”
“Oh no, for it is not a proper kitchen garden with a wall about it and trained fruit trees, such as you have at Stoneleigh Hall. The one here is just a potager, and a very weedy one, it must be admitted. I go there sometimes, for I like to see food growing — there is something peculiarly satisfying about seeing beans growing on their vines one week, and eating them in a white sauce the next. There is a rightness to it, somehow. I like to see a field full of sheep, too, knowing that it will put mutton on my plate in the future. But the vegetables in the kitchen garden here are not orderly, as they should be. This place is far pleasanter, although the rosemary is far too overgrown. But the scents of a herb garden are wonderful, would you not agree? The air is so full of fascinating aromas that it is almost like being in a kitchen. Actually, kitchens are better, especially when there is bread being baked, or cakes. I love the smell of bread.” She inhaled lengthily. “Oh, the smell of yeast! And when one makes bread, one may pummel it as hard as one likes, for it is all to the good. No one can be ill-humoured who kneads bread.” She paused and looked apologetically at him. “You do let me run on, Mr Audley. You should interrupt me when I get prosy about yeast.”
He laughed. “As I have told you before, I enjoy your prosiness, Mrs Price. Do you often pummel bread?”
“Not as often as I should like, for I am not allowed to, here. Mrs Wallinger is a very grand sort of cook, and tolerates no interference from those above stairs. But at Woodside, I used to help Mrs Thompson all the time. I am better at cooking than hemming handkerchiefs. Do you know, Mr Audley, I cannot imagine why Augusta warned me away from you when you first came here, for you are the kindest, and most gentlemanlike man I have ever met.”
“I rather thought you disapproved of me,” he said, although he had trouble getting the words out. His throat was oddly tight.
“So I did, at first, when you tried to flirt with me, but as soon as you discovered that I disliked it, you began to treat me like a friend instead of a female to be won over. And now this business of the clergyman’s daughter, where everyone believed such a terrible lie. I do not think you are half so bad as you are painted. Indeed, Mr Coylumbroke said as much.”
“Did he now?”
“He did, and now that I know more about you, I can see what he meant. He said I should ask you how you came to get your reputation.”
Leo chuckled. “Heaven preserve me from interfering friends!”
“Oh, he meant it for the best, I am sure,” Lucy said, anxiously. “You are not angry with him? Or with me? For discussing you?”
As if he could ever be angry with her! She was so disarmingly open and innocent, that no displeasure could be sustained. “I am not angry with you,” he said softly. “He was referring to my reputation as a rake, I take it?”
“Are you a rake?” she said artlessly. “I mean, I know you are a flirt, and so on, but a rake… that implies… something more, does it not?”
“It does,” he said gravely. “Do you wish to know the whole of my history, Mrs Price?”
He could see the conflicting emotions clearly written on her expressive face. She could hide nothing! But she did not dissemble, either. “Of course I should like to know of it! Naturally I am curious, but there is no need to say anything if you had rather not.”
“I have no objection to telling you. Few people know the whole story, but it would please me to include you in their number. Very well, then. When I was seventeen, one of the housemaids at the house in Bath fell violently in love with one of the grooms. As a result, the groom got her with child. Such a thing was a disaster for her, of course. My great-uncle and great-aunts, who were running the place then, would not have been understanding. The girl would have been turned off without a reference, and who knows what would have become of her? If her family had been unable to
take her in, it would have been the workhouse, or an orphanage for the child. The groom was distraught and came to me for help. I could have given her money, perhaps, but not enough to do any good, for I had only a small allowance then. So, I went to my great-uncle and told him the story, except that I allowed him to think that I was responsible.”
“You took the blame?” Lucy said in astonished tones.
“Exactly so. The groom could do nothing to relieve her difficulty, but a gentleman in such a situation must do his duty by the girl, and see her taken care of, that is an absolute obligation. She cannot be discarded like a crumpled neckcloth. If I accepted responsibility, then something could be done for her. I told no lies, you understand, but when I told my great-uncle of it, I mumbled rather, and looked at my feet a great deal, and naturally my great-uncle drew certain conclusions. The maid was hastily married to the groom, they were given a cottage on the Stoneleigh estate and have lived untroubled lives ever since. I believe they have four children now. When the story became known, as such stories always do, naturally I acquired a reputation as a rake. It is a curious thing, but I had never been of much interest to society before, except as someone who would one day become a marriageable fortune, in the fullness of time. But after this, I found myself receiving attention from a surprising number of ladies older than I was. Married, mostly. One or two widows. Generally they wanted to get up a flirtation. Sometimes there would be a few kisses in dark corners. Occasionally they would offer… something more. And so it went on.”
“But you did not have to oblige them,” Lucy said quietly. “You could have refused. Why did you do it?”
“Why, because I enjoyed it,” he said at once, surprised.
“The… something more?” she whispered.
Oh, the impropriety of discussing such a subject with a lady, even a married one! But he wanted no secrets between them. She needed to know the worst of him, for only thus might she judge him properly. Yet how glorious it was to be able to talk to her in this way! She was not embarrassed or coy. To her, it was just another interesting subject. What an extraordinary woman she was.
The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2) Page 19