The Chaperon (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 2)

by Mary Kingswood

  “He might just surprise you,” Lucy said. “Trust him, uncle. He is not your enemy.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I will think about it.”

  ~~~~~

  Lucy’s thoughts were very much filled with Mr Audley as well, although for very different reasons. She had begun by despising him thoroughly, but had long since been won over by his kindness. Or so she told herself, but perhaps his handsome face and broad shoulders and shapely legs had something to do with it, too. And his charm. He was the most charming man she had ever met, and when he smiled at her in that intense way he had, as if there were no one else present but the two of them, her insides turned alarmingly to jelly.

  It was fortunate, perhaps, that he so rarely smiled these days. Even after that kiss—! A second kiss, and with a man Lucy had no intention of marrying. There must not be a third time. And yet, she thought wistfully of their days of friendship, when they had sat in the common room at the Lamb and Pheasant, and she had talked about Papa and Jeremy, and he had talked about his sisters. If only they could go back to those days, and pretend that they had never kissed, that he had never misguidedly offered to marry her, that he had never turned into this serious man who rarely looked at her at all.

  She had no regrets about refusing him, for a marriage between them was inconceivable, but she regretted her own foolishness in allowing him to kiss her. If she had not, she would, perhaps, have been able to meet with him day after day with tolerable equanimity, and bid him farewell whenever they should part without despair. But now, she dreaded to leave her room each morning for fear of encountering him and experiencing that surge of hopeless longing, and dreaded even more the day which must soon come when he would quit Longmere Priory and leave her lonely and bereft. How foolish to fall so helplessly in love, at an age when she should know better. What may be forgivable at seventeen is less so at almost three and twenty.

  For several days the house was filled with funereal despondency. Mr Kingsley went to see the Extons, returning even grimmer-faced than he had gone, and the following day Mr Exton and his father spent several hours closeted with him in the library. Uncle Arthur and Aunt Laurel called and talked privately to Mr Audley, who then went off with them in their carriage, returning only in time for dinner. And Deirdre spent her days confined to her room. She was suffering from a summer cold, the story was given out, and no one mentioned that one or other of Captain Edgerton, Mr Willerton-Forbes and Mr Neate was always stationed outside her door, which was kept locked.

  But there were some causes for optimism. Augusta was happy, spending as much time as she could in her husband’s company, basking in his newly-restored love. And he, despite the difficulties assailing his family, smiled affectionately at her, and strolled about the gardens with her arm tucked into his. Mr Coylumbroke and Winifred were now relieved of the dreadful anxiety which had hung over them, and the reports from Coylumbroke Castle were cautiously optimistic.

  In Lucy’s own family, there was good news from Annabelle, but no news at all from Margaret, and Lucy was beginning to fret rather. Each morning, she watched for the return of the footman from his visit to town to collect the mail, and seized eagerly on her letters. But there was never one from Margaret, and none of her sisters had heard from her either.

  One morning, she encountered Mr Audley in the hall, sorting through the newly arrived letters.

  “There are two for you, Mrs Price,” he said politely. “From two of your sisters, judging by the franks.”

  Impatiently she broke the seal on each and scanned the contents, then sighed.

  “Not bad news, I hope?” he said.

  “Oh no, not at all. Annabelle is betrothed, and we are all of us invited to Westerlea Park for Christmas. Not bad news at all, but not the news I hoped for, nevertheless. We have none of us heard from Margaret in weeks… no, months. It is three months since Aunt Letty died, and not a word since then! We do not even know whether Margaret is to stay on there, for she was engaged as companion to poor Aunt Letty and now she is gone… And all of us have written entreating her to let us know what is happening and how she goes on, and not a word has she written, not a word! I cannot imagine what has become of her, but I fear the worst, Mr Audley.”

  “Margaret… is she the one in Yorkshire?”

  “No, that is Fanny. Margaret is near Ludlow.”

  “Oh, that is not far at all,” he said. “Would you like me to go there and make enquiries, Mrs Price?”

  For the first time she looked him in the eye, and what she saw there made her catch her breath. “You would do that?” she whispered.

  “Of course, if it would assuage your worries,” he said gently. With a catch in his voice, he went on, “You must know that I would go to the four corners of the earth if it would bring you comfort.” He took a deep breath, as if to master his emotions. When he spoke again, his voice was firmer. “If you will be so good as to write your sister’s direction for me, I will go and see about my packing.”

  Within the hour he was gone, leaving Lucy to reflect on his kindness with tears of gratitude, and great warmth of affection. Such generosity was not such as to reduce her feelings for him in the slightest, and must render her even more miserable when they should be parted, as inevitably they soon must.

  ~~~~~

  For several days, Lucy heard nothing, and the household settled into an uneasy calm. Deirdre was allowed to leave her room and resume her place as a daughter of the household, but now the informal guard transferred its attentions to protecting the baby at all times. But then she was invited to stay with the Extons at Hammerford End, and after that the atmosphere lightened considerably, although the watch on the baby continued night and day.

  Then word came to Augusta at breakfast one day that Leo had seen Margaret and she was perfectly well. Lucy could not stop the tears of joy flowing at this news.

  “How very correct, to write to you, my dear, instead of to Mrs Price,” Mr Kingsley said.

  “Leo is always correct, Peter,” Augusta replied. “He has excellent manners. Although I had supposed that he and Lucy were on such terms— But still, I was wrong, I daresay.”

  “I am not betrothed to him,” Lucy said quietly. “He could not write to me.”

  “Then he should not have kissed you,” Mr Kingsley said tartly. “A gentleman should not kiss a young lady unless he intends to marry her. I like your brother well enough, Augusta, but he is very much inclined to forwardness with ladies, which I cannot approve.”

  “Why should you suppose that he does not want to marry her?” Augusta said indignantly. “He is a dreadful flirt in general, I grant you that, but he does not flirt with Lucy in the slightest.”

  “Indeed he does not,” Lucy said.

  “And he is of an age when he should be looking for a wife,” Augusta said. “He is seven and twenty, he has a good fortune and a position in society, and now he has Stoneleigh back in his hands, so he should certainly be on the lookout for a suitable wife.”

  Mr Kingsley hesitated, with a quick glance at Lucy, but forebore to speak. It was for her to state the obvious.

  “Which I am very far from being, Augusta dear,” she said softly. “If you were to describe the worst possible wife for Mr Audley, I should fit the picture perfectly. I have no beauty, no accomplishments, no style, nothing at all to recommend me, as you must admit. Mr Kingsley understands the point perfectly well, although he is too polite to say so while I am in the room. Whoever your brother marries, she will not be a penniless widow without rank or fortune or connections.”

  “I cannot but agree,” Mr Kingsley said gently, with a rueful smile at Lucy. “You have many fine qualities, my dear, and you have been the greatest comfort imaginable to all of us in this house, but a match with Audley would be most imprudent on his side. He should be looking to improve himself in the world, and his choice of wife should reflect that. She must bring more to the marriage than good humour.”

  “Well, I care nothing for titles or accompli
shments, and nor does Leo, I am sure,” Augusta said stoutly. “As to fortune, that is not of the slightest importance. The only consideration is whether she will make him happy, and as to that, only Leo knows his own wishes and needs well enough to say. If he chooses Lucy, then I for one shall be delighted. No, do not shake your head at me, Peter.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “If there is one thing I have learnt in the last few years it is this — that a marriage between two people who share a deep love can weather any storm. I could not believe my good fortune when you offered for me, and I have never regretted my choice, despite our difficulties, but had we married merely for prudence, we would have been driven apart long since. Love endures almost any hurt but separation. So if Lucy makes Leo happy, then he should marry her, and let the world disapprove all it wants.”

  “You are a romantic, Augusta,” Lucy said sadly. “The disapproval of the world may be overcome, but differences in temper and character and education may not. If the inequality is too great, then even the strongest affection will gradually be worn away until nothing remains. I do not wish that on Mr Audley.”

  “So you would not have him even if he offers?” Mr Kingsley said.

  “I would not.”

  28: The Herb Garden (October)

  ‘Dearest sister, Pray thank your Mr Audley again for me for in my last letter I did not do him sufficient justice for his incomparable kindness in going to find Margaret. Thank goodness she is well and nothing untoward has occurred, although I do think there was something not said about what has been going on since Aunt Letty died. But wills are so complicated, are not they? Am I wrong to harbour the hope that this kindness in him has disposed you to look on him more favourably? For I do think you would suit very well, dearest, for you talked so much at first of his charming smile and his shapely legs, that it makes me very sad that now you do not mention him at all. He must be quite heartbroken, poor man. Your affectionate sister, Fanny.’

  ~~~~~

  OCTOBER

  The days drifted past. Deirdre was gone to the Extons and a special licence was talked of. Passage was booked on a ship to America at the end of the month. Winifred returned from Coylumbroke Castle, not betrothed, but calmer, more settled and very much more grown up. And Mr Audley returned from the south of the county, and his visit to Margaret.

  “So she is well? You are quite sure she is well?” Lucy said for about the fiftieth time.

  “She is perfectly well, and happy.”

  “And she has friends? She is not alone?”

  “She has friends. The clergyman and his wife, and the curate.”

  “The curate. A gentleman friend.”

  Mr Audley smiled. “Yes, he is a gentleman, and he is certainly Margaret’s friend.”

  “Ah, but is he just a friend, or is he a kissing friend?”

  That made him laugh a little. “You must let her tell you that. She will write you a long letter very soon. There is a lot to tell, but she wants to tell it herself, in her own words.”

  “She never had very many words of her own,” Lucy said, but Leo merely smiled.

  He said no more about kissing, as friends or in any other way, and he soon lapsed into his serious self again, and she saw little of him, although he made no move to quit the Priory. It was as if he were waiting, but for what, she could not say.

  One day, when a break in the damp autumnal weather drew her out of doors, her feet found their way to the small herb garden where she had first been kissed. Such memories were painful, and she knew she should not indulge them for the sake of her own peace of mind, but there was solitude there, and the little bench was sheltered by the hedge behind it from the wind, so it had its own appeal, quite apart from its remembrance of Leo.

  But when she entered the herb garden, the bench was not empty. Sitting forlornly, his hat in his hands, was Leo. He looked up at the sound of her feet on the gravel path and gave her a wan little smile that made her heart turn over in pity. Poor Leo!

  At once she went to him and, before he could rise, sat down beside him.

  “You look miserable,” she said.

  There was that faltering smile again. “I am, rather.”

  “Is it… is it my fault?”

  A wider smile, but his tone was bleak. “It is not your fault that I fell in love with you.”

  Her heart twisted painfully, but she cried out, “That is just what I do not understand! When you talk so… it is nonsense, you must see that.”

  “It is not nonsense, Lucy! I love you, I want to marry you — what could be less nonsensical? I am perfectly serious.”

  “But you must not be! It is impossible, surely you can see that?”

  “Only if you dislike me so much as to make it so. Do you dislike me?”

  She gave a vexed exclamation. “Of course not! Who could possibly dislike you? You are everything a man ought to be, and any woman would be fortunate beyond reason to be married to someone as handsome and generous and fine as you. But you are somebody, Leo, you can mingle in the best society in the world. Why, you could meet the Prince of Wales if you wanted, and dance at Almack’s and take your place amongst the ton. But I am nobody at all, a penniless widow with no home, no family, no accomplishments. I can barely place a stitch, my drawing is terrible and I play all the wrong notes on the pianoforte. The only skill I have is to rattle away at a vast rate, and even though I can do so in three languages, it is still not conversation. I am just a boring nonentity, Leo. I am nobody. I am nothing.”

  “You must never, ever speak so!” he said fiercely, taking both her hands in his. “You are far from being nothing. You are everything to me, dearest Lucy, everything I could ever want. You are the sun that lights up my days, the moon that beguiles my evenings, and the stars that cast a magical glow over my nights. You are the rose that fills the air with scent, you are the great oak in the forest that stands proud and true, you are the stream that burbles so delightfully over pebbles. You are the very earth of England, the mountains and green fields, the heart of everything that is good in mankind. You are too good for me, and I am not worthy of you.”

  She could not speak, being quite overcome.

  “Dearest one, do not weep,” he whispered. “I did not mean to make you cry.” Gently his fingers brushed away her tears, although more fell all the time.

  “I did not know… I did not understand… No one has ever said such things to me,” she sobbed.

  “Perhaps because you always pushed young men away before they could reach that point, as you once tried to push me away, do you remember? You despised me from the start, as any sensible woman should. I am a wretched creature, who has lived a selfish and idle life, caring for nothing but my own pleasure. I set out to seduce you, dear, honest Lucy, and you would have none of it. You showed me the foolishness of such behaviour. So then I thought I would attain my end by different means, by openness instead of flattery, and honesty instead of deceit. And as soon as I did so, as soon as I set aside my falsity and exposed my heart to the world, there you were to creep unnoticed into it. Darling Lucy, you are the whole world to me, the sky and the moon and the earth and all that is in it, and if there is any way that I may win your regard, I would know of it, so that perhaps, in the fullness of time, I may endeavour to deserve you. But if there is no hope, then tell me at once, and I will go away and plague you no more and try… try… to live without you.”

  But all she could do was weep.

  “Hush now,” he murmured, taking her face in his hands. “Hush, my sweet. Do not cry.”

  “So sorry,” she managed. “So foolish to turn into a watering pot like this.”

  He smiled then, a warmer smile that made his face light up. And his eyes… He was so close to her now, but he made no move to kiss her. She could not decide whether she wanted him to or not, for if he did, she would be lost, and there was still much to say.

  “Leo, I…” she began, but then looking up into his eyes again, she lost her words.

  �
�Yes, my love?” He leaned back a little, the better to watch her face, and the greater distance allowed her to get her jumbled thoughts in order.

  “I cannot do this. You are so far above me— No, let me say this. You are so far above me, in education and position. You have a house… two houses! I could never be mistress of anywhere as grand as Stoneleigh Hall, or a house in the Royal Crescent.”

  “There are servants to do everything, you know,” he said, smiling again so that her stomach flip-flopped unnervingly. “And the Bath house is not nearly so grand as you might think. But if you dislike them, well, let us live in a cottage and keep chickens. Whatever would make you happy, my sweet one.”

  She would have pushed him away then, except that he had one arm around her waist and the sensation was delightful. So she contented herself with saying only, “You cannot mean that! A cottage?”

  “I do not care where I live as long as you live there with me,” he said, and the raw honesty in his words and the light in his eyes made her gasp.

  “Do you truly mean it?”

  “I was never more serious in my life.”

  “It would be wrong to ask you to make such a sacrifice,” she said.

  “Oh. Then how may I please you? What do you want of me, Lucy? I will give you anything within my power, if only you will marry me.”

  She was silenced, not knowing how to answer him. She wanted nothing at all, except him, yet she could not shape the words. His face fell, and she saw the fear there.

  “You do not like the idea?” he whispered.

  “I have not the least idea how to do it,” she said slowly. “How to be married, I mean. Properly married, to a man I love, and not like Walter. Dear Walter! He was a good friend, but— What? What have I said to make you look so?”

  “You said… I think you said that you love me.”

  “Well, so I do. Of course I love you, how could I not? You are everything that is desirable in a man, have I not said so, repeatedly? But… the prospect terrifies me. Not just the house, for I daresay I should grow accustomed, but you. How can I possibly make you happy? Will you tire of me one day? Will we sink into one of those odd marriages where everyone looks at us and wonders what you ever saw in me, and pities you? I do not want you to regret this, Leo. Anything would be better than making a terrible mistake, and having years and years to wish you had not thrown yourself away. Love… is love enough to sustain us through all the tribulations life may throw at us? How can it be? How can mere emotion be strong enough, when all good sense has been ignored? It is not that I dislike the idea of marriage, but I have no idea how to do it. A Romany woman once read my palm and told me that I would marry a handsome man of property, and I laughed at her. ‘Thank goodness you are wrong about that,’ I told her, because I could not imagine a worse fate. Well, now I can. The worse fate is not to marry him, but it still terrifies me.”