Country Cousin

by Jacqueline Gilbert

  ‘Thank you ... I think I need three pairs of hands for this pair!’ and taking a firm hold of the chuckling truant, she smiled up at the owner of the blue eyes. The amusement was still there, and deepened as he very gently tweaked Eleanor’s hat back into place. Beneath his scrutiny, for some completely inexplicable reason, she felt a blush sweep across her face, and feeling a fool, watched him give a brief smile to the children and then walk away.

  The blue eyes were not amused now, merely coolly curious. She ground her teeth, remembering that blush, and wished she could get up, go out, and never come back.

  ‘I wonder why you deemed it necessary for a spot of playacting?’ Edward Mansel was saying reflectively. ‘Are you a frustrated actress?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ exclaimed Eleanor.

  ‘Yet you did your best to create a wrong impression. Does it give you satisfaction to put others at a disadvantage?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ snapped Eleanor, her remorse rapidly disappearing. ‘I would never have done it if you...’ and she stopped short, biting her bottom lip.

  He frowned. ‘Now, how could I...?’ and then his brow cleared, and the tip of his black shoe flicked the dropped apple on to its side, and his eyes moved upwards. ‘I see ... you were sitting in the apple tree listening to our conversation.’

  ‘Not intentionally, I can assure you,’ said Eleanor coldly, getting to her feet. ‘Believe me, had I had any choice in the matter, I would rather not have heard your enlightening conversation.’

  ‘It upset you, it would seem.’

  She stared at him. Even at the station she had thought him worthy of a second look. It wasn’t any one thing that set him apart, but rather the inseparability of the whole. He was tall, slim and moved with unhurried deliberation which had its own particular grace. Dressed with fastidious elegance, he had a deep, pleasing voice which lapsed into a drawl at times, sleepy blue eyes that evidently missed nothing, and an arrogantly assured, urbane manner that Eleanor immediately mistrusted.

  She said frostily: ‘I do not think you a fool, Mr. Mansel, and would be obliged if you would not treat me as one. I can refresh your memory quite well. Strait-laced, waif and stray, goody-goody, innocent from the backwoods, is to quote but a brief outline.’

  His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you so touchy.’

  Part of Eleanor agreed with him. All their lives the Ferrers children had come up against the fallacy that living in a Rectory automatically rendered them abnormal until proved otherwise. At any other time she would have shrugged philosophically and dismissed what she had overheard, but without realising the fact, she had come to view Priory Lodge as a safe bolt-hole, somewhere where she could relax from the knife-edge, balance on which she had been living the past few weeks. To find that it was nothing of the kind was the final straw. All this flashed through her mind, but she had no intention of taking this man into her confidence.

  He took unhurried steps towards her and before she could protest, had plucked the glasses gently from her nose, saying:

  ‘I think we can dispense with these, and this,’ removing her hat to allow her hair to fall free. ‘It was unfortunate that you heard...’

  ‘Unfortunate!’ Eleanor could hardly believe her ears, so casually this was said. ‘Unfortunate for you, perhaps, but...’

  ‘Van says many things she doesn’t mean. There ... that looks much better,’ and his hand accidentally—or was it?—brushed her cheek as he released a strand of hair. He smiled. ‘You have a good ear for accents. Had I not heard you speak at the station, you would have fooled me completely.’

  Eleanor caught her breath. The treatment, when turned on full power, was devastating ... and she felt a stab of pity for the girls in the fifty-mile radius.

  ‘I can’t imagine there are many women who can boast that,’ she said stonily. ‘I refuse to be charmed, Mr. Mansel. Innocent and from the backwoods you may think me, but I have no wish to be a prototype, as your sister recently suggested.’

  There was an ominous pause while Edward Mansel lifted a brow and allowed his eyes to travel slowly from her head to her feet and back again.

  ‘Really?’ he drawled. ‘How kind of you to tell me.’ Eleanor felt the blood rush to her cheeks beneath his gaze. He continued:

  ‘Whatever sympathy I may have felt has quickly died. Prejudging is not restricted to the South, after all. I’m rather relieved, I must confess. Having a saint as a guest could be trying.’

  Eleanor bit her lip and stared down the garden. Insufferable man! but he had reminded her that she was a guest, whether she liked the idea or not, and she had said far too much already. The silence was broken by the arrival of Vanessa, and Eleanor turned thankfully and accepted a cup of tea.

  ‘You will stay and have tea with us, Edward, won’t you?’ said Vanessa, her tone very pointed.

  ‘I shall be delighted,’ her brother replied smoothly, obediently seating himself, much to Vanessa’s obvious surprise and Eleanor’s chagrin.

  ‘We’ve had a transformation scene in your absence, Van,’ and Edward waved a hand in Eleanor’s direction. ‘Miss Ferrers had the bright idea of hoaxing us into believing her a country bumpkin, and if you’re surprised at what was hidden beneath hat and glasses, I can assure you that her voice is like music.’ His own was mocking. ‘ “Where there’s music there can be no evil.” ’

  ‘Don Quixote, I believe ... how appropriate,’ said Eleanor, holding his stare above the rim of her cup, pleased to see the flicker of surprise at her knowledge. She turned to a perplexed Vanessa. ‘It’s your brother who’s trying to hoax you now, Miss Mansel.’

  Vanessa obviously thought the whole thing incomprehensible, but the relief afforded her by the change in their guest was plain to see, and she launched into small talk. As she drank her tea, Eleanor compared her surroundings with her own home and gave an inward smile. It was difficult to imagine her mother connected with anyone wealthy, so complete was her identification as the busy parson’s wife, making a modest income stretch as far as she could. Constance Ferrers and Eve Mansel had faithfully kept in touch by letter over the years, sustaining an early friendship that outwardly seemed incongruous. Yet there was a deep affinity between the two women, despite their totally different environments. Eve had made frequent invitations for the three Ferrers girls to visit, but for some reason they never had. When her latest letter arrived, once more offering hospitality, Eleanor had seized upon it as a lifeline. It was a means of escape from an intolerable situation, and she was thrown into a whirlwind of preparations, the day of her departure arriving before she could catch her breath. And now here she was, drinking tea on the Mansel terrace, having earned two black marks against her—not an auspicious start to her visit!

  ‘More tea, Eleanor?’ Vanessa waited expectantly, teapot in hand.

  Eleanor rose to her feet. ‘No more, thank you, that was lovely.’

  ‘Right... just let me take the tray into the kitchen and I’ll show you to your room,’ responded Vanessa, stacking the cups and saucers. ‘Mother sent her apologies for not being here to greet you, but she had a meeting she couldn’t put off.’ She paused at the french windows. ‘Do call me Van, by the way. I like your name, it’s pretty.’

  Eleanor watched her go through to the house and when the silence became unbearable, said stiffly:

  ‘I’m sorry for what I said.’

  ‘You’re not, you know,’ Edward answered smoothly, ‘a lifetime’s indoctrination in good manners is hard to throw off.’ He raised a brow. ‘Does the thought occur to you that when you entered into your little charade you might have been compelled to play it out for the whole of your visit? Think how tiring it would have been—might even have proved fatal... the temptation to bump you off in the dead of night could well have become irresistible!’

  Drat the man, thought Eleanor, squashing a bubble of laughter that his words provoked. How disconcerting to find herself warming to him, when she was determined to dislike him. Refus
ing to catch his eye, she said primly: ‘What a lovely house you have, and a beautiful garden—quite a fantastic view.’

  ‘Quite beautiful and quite, quite fantastic,’ mimicked her companion in an equally prim voice, and the bubble threatened again. She took a quick breath and said with a rush: ‘Look, whatever we may think of each other...’

  ‘I’d be interested to hear your opinion on such a short acquaintance.’

  Eleanor bit her lip. There were one or two highly descriptive words that immediately leapt to mind, but sense prevailed.

  ‘You’re not going to enlighten me?’ There was exaggerated disappointment in his voice. ‘Never mind—I have the feeling that you will ... in time.’

  ‘Oh, you’re hopeless,’ accused Eleanor, a quiver in her own.

  ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ he agreed with satisfaction. ‘Come, no one with a sense of humour can be stiff-necked for long, and there’s a smile just itching to be used, I saw it a few seconds ago and it gave me hope.’ He rose indolently to his feet and stood staring at her. ‘Shall we agree to forget our false start? I think, when you’ve had a good night’s sleep and we’re not so strange to you, that you’ll see things in a much better light.’

  ‘Do you always get your own way, Mr. Mansel?’

  He gave this his consideration. ‘Nearly always. That is what’s probably wrong with me. As for Van, she’s a thoughtless creature, but there’s no malice in her. If you can be bothered to try, you may find something worth your while. There she is, calling you now.’ He opened the door and ushered her into the house. ‘By the way, I think you’ll have to make the effort and call me Edward ... for the look of the thing.’ He lifted a brow. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult, after the first time.’

  ‘Not difficult at all,’ said Eleanor, with wide-eyed innocence. ‘I once had a pet toad called Edward—I’m quite used to the name,’ and giving him a bright smile, she swept past.

  ‘I suppose I must be thankful it wasn’t a snake in the grass,’ murmured Edward Mansel, as he followed her in.

  ‘Duffy’, of toothache fame, turned out to be Amy Duffield, cook-housekeeper, who had been with the Mansels for longer than she cared to remember. Eleanor took to her immediately, recognising in the brusque, matter-of-fact manner that there was a warm-hearted confidante available if necessary. Duffy, on her part, sensed the girl’s homesickness and encouraged visits to the large, comfortable kitchen, and with her warmth and interest in some measure filled the void of family contact in Eleanor’s life. Sam, Duffy’s implacable husband, a sturdy, weatherbeaten individual, was as indispensable to the well-being of the estate as Duffy was to the house.

  Another safe haven, apart from the kitchen, was the study, with its well-stocked bookshelves, and she spent many hours curled up in one of the huge leather armchairs, her love of reading rescuing her from loneliness. There were ample opportunities while the weather lasted to go out with her sketch pad, and this she did, but the hoped-for intimacy with Vanessa did not materialise ... how could it, when it had been made plain that Eleanor’s visit was a bore? Not that Vanessa was openly rude, rather the reverse. She treated their visitor with a politeness that killed any overtures of a closer friendship stone dead, and Eleanor was too proud to beg for her company. It was a pity, because there was only six months between them in age and they ought to have found something in common.

  James Mansel, founder of Mansel Airways, an air-freight business, reminded Eleanor of a picture of Edward Elgar that hung in the Rectory hall. He had thick white hair and moustache and an air of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ too, being very upright with an old-fashioned courtesy. She thought him rather sweet. Her hostess, Eve, led a full life and was to be seen only fleetingly, at odd meal-times, or passing on the stairs. She was charming and anxious that Eleanor was having a good time and kept on saying how like her mother Eleanor was. Eleanor could see why the Mansel progeny were so self-sufficient; they had had to be with such busy parents.

  Vanessa had great vivacity and Eleanor thought her pretty, with short, dark brown curls framing a heart-shaped face. She didn’t lack escorts and dressed stunningly for each occasion, her slim, petite figure showing the clothes to advantage. Eleanor had the odd feeling, however, that beneath the gay exterior Vanessa was not as happy as she made out, and once or twice surprised a droop to the perfectly shaped mouth and a bleak look in the eyes that belied the fun and gaiety. Perhaps she had fallen for this Philip Nolan who was her most constant partner, and her feelings were not returned? Eleanor had first-hand knowledge of this situation and Guy’s laughing face and their early meetings came, unbidden, to her mind. Stoically she told herself that even if their friendship had had the chance to survive Kate’s introduction, it might have fizzled out, was bound to have done, for she and Kate were so unalike in temperament. Eleanor found these sort of arguments beneficial.

  Edward was an irregular visitor, coming and going without warning, and she had not seen him since that first day. He had a flat in town and working hours were spent between the family business and the antique shop, in which his mother and sister also had an interest. What he did outside business hours was anyone’s guess, and his private life was kept strictly private, although glossy photographs in society magazines showed him escorting some beautiful girl or another, indicating that he was no hermit. First impressions, although often not true ones, had a habit of sticking, and Eleanor’s were not favourable. The fact that he made her feel extremely young and gauche did not help, and despite the lazy manner, she felt there was an underlying ruthlessness in him. She had every intention of keeping out of his way, for he brought out the worst in her, but some pricking of the thumbs told her that when Edward was around he would make his presence felt. She acknowledged that his looks were striking, but inscrutable faces always made her uneasy, she preferred a more open, friendlier disposition, and men whose eyebrows met—and his were extraordinarily dark and thick—she was mistrustful of. She guessed his was a popular name on the county guest lists—thirty and unmarried, presentable and wealthy, he was a challenge to every mother with a marriageable daughter, and Eleanor considered that many an eye would gleam with untold satisfaction when Edward Mansel put his foot across the threshold!

  Contact with the Rectory was by a regular weekly letter. Constance Ferrers was a natural writer, her words came alive on the paper, bringing with them a mixture of emotions. Family and village gossip was read avidly, but among it, inevitably, were plans for Kate’s and Guy’s wedding.

  Late on Friday evening, three weeks after her arrival, Eleanor slipped out of the house to post her own letter home. The air had a seasonal nip to it, and she was glad of her coat, hugging it round her as she walked briskly to the post-box at the far end of the country lane. On the way back she paused to lean on the parapet of a small bridge, straining ears and eyes to see if she could locate any nightlife along the river bank in the moonlight available.

  She had a sudden rush of longing for her own river and felt the familiar wave of homesickness sweep over her. She fished in the pocket for a handkerchief and crossly blew her nose, telling herself that it was futile to indulge in self-pity. She knew why she was feeling like this now, at this moment, for her mother had made a surprise telephone call, her voice coming over warm and near. And then Kate had taken over, full of excitement about the wedding and giving details of the bridesmaid’s dress Eleanor was to wear.

  So busy was she with her thoughts that Eleanor gave no heed to the sound of an approaching car, and was only aware of it when a beam of light rounded the corner, blinding her momentarily. Startled, she flattened herself back against the brickwork as the car bore down on her, breathing a sigh of relief as it roared safely by, screeching to a halt a few yards ahead.

  She realised that it had been foolish to linger on the narrow bridge in the dark, and as a door slammed and a tall shape loomed up out of the night, she felt a touch of fear until she saw who it was. She had an apology framed on her lips, but he gave her no time to get
in first.

  ‘That’s a damned stupid place to be dreaming, isn’t it?’ his irascible voice demanded.

  She felt a cold nose touch her ankle and saw unwinking, almond eyes staring up at her.

  ‘Yes, it is, I’m sorry,’ she answered readily, bending down to stroke the bull-terrier at her feet. ‘There was no real danger, was there?’

  Edward Mansel drew in audible breath. ‘Only because I know the road. That bridge is a blind one, and too narrow for comfort.’ He paused and searched her face. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Communing with nature,’ she replied airily, standing up but keeping her face turned away.

  ‘In future, do it where it’s safer,’ came the dry retort, Edward taking her arm in a firm grip and walking her back down the road.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming this weekend,’ Eleanor remarked. She hoped there’d been no trace of tears on her face.