by Louise Allen
‘There are two roses due tonight,’ Susan pointed out. The others began immediately to discuss what was to be done, a babble of voices that Hester realised was due to relief at not having to talk, or think, about her ruined romance.
She shrugged. ‘Let them deliver them. Unless they attach a gunpowder charge to them, what harm will it do?’ At the moment she would almost welcome it. Then pride took over and she straightened her back. She had lived through bereavement, insecurity, scandal and opprobrium-one man and his lack of trust, his failure of love, was not going to defeat her now.
‘It’s the full moon.’ Susan sounded uneasy.
‘Well, if Death stalks the house with a scythe, you will just have to take to him with the poker,’ Hester said, realising that she had almost shocked them by making the feeble joke. ‘I am not such a poor honey as to be cast down by one man,’ she said, trying to convince herself. ‘And we are not going to be terrorised by two greedy people. Now, let us make some toast because I warn you, we are going to have a busy day today and this afternoon I am going to go for a drive.’
‘What?’ Maria gaped at her like a stranded fish. ‘Drive out after what happened yesterday?’
‘You think I should skulk inside like a shamed woman? We will make lists, clean the house and plan our entertainment. There are only three days and one of them is Sunday.’
Physical hard work was a therapy, Hester realised as she chivvied Maria and Susan about the house with beeswax polish, long feather dusters and black lead. For minutes at a time she could focus only upon removing every last dull patch from the drawing-room fender or vigorously scrubbing at the window panes with scrunched-up brown paper and vinegar. But then, just when she least expected it, a memory would hit her: the scent of Guy’s skin, the feel of his hair under her seeking fingers, the heat of his mouth on her breast, his words of love, his words of doubt and distrust.
Then the pain lanced through her as though she had been stabbed and she was hard put not to cry out, stopping what she was doing to push her clenched fist hard against her stomach as if to crush the pain out of existence. A strong woman, a woman of resolution and pride, would dismiss him as unworthy of her. ‘But I love him,’ Hester murmured to herself. ‘I love him.’
Over luncheon they made lists, argued about the food and drink they would need and debated whether it would be possible to buy sheet music in Tring or whether a trip on Saturday to Aylesbury would be necessary.
‘Had we better not try the piano?’ Miss Prudhome ventured. ‘I do not think it has been played since we arrived.’
A few minutes later Hester grimaced at the sound and agreed that a piano tuner had best be summoned as soon as may be. ‘Add that to the list for Tring tomorrow,’ she decided. ‘He can come on Monday. Now. I am going for a drive. Jethro, please harness Hector. Who would like to come with me?’
‘I will.’ They all spoke at once and Hester could have hugged them all. How would she be coping if she did not have friends and loyal supporters like this?
‘I will,’ Jethro said firmly. ‘I will bring the gig round to the front, Miss Hester. Mr Parrott may not think I know what is due to your position, but I do.’ He stalked off, looking determined, and Hester went upstairs to change into a walking dress and find her warmest coat, bonnet and muff.
She hesitated over a bonnet with a veil, the one she usually wore to church, then tossed it aside in favour of a frivolous confection in green velvet she had not considered suitable for the country. Guy would probably neither know, nor care, what she looked like, but it was suddenly very important to defy him, his sister, and, in spirit, those judgmental gossips who had dragged her name through the mire in London.
Jethro had drawn the gig up before the front gate and was sitting there in his best greatcoat, cockaded hat gleaming, whip cocked at a stylish angle. When Hester came out he jumped down and helped her up with ceremony before handing her the reins and sitting upright, arms folded and with an expression of great solemnity on his face.
Hester did not know whether to laugh or cry. In Jethro’s mind he was sitting on the box of the most fashionable barouche in Piccadilly and his mistress was the equal of the cream of the ton. Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Jethro, I have never regretted for an instant bringing you home that day. It was one of the best things I ever did. I hope you realise that.’
His Adam’s apple bobbed frantically with his efforts to keep some sort of control. When he spoke his voice cracked as though it was breaking all over again. ‘And I love you, Miss Hester, and I want to kill anyone who hurts you.’
‘Please don’t, Jethro, I need you too much to see you hanged. Now, I had better drive on before we both disgrace ourselves on the public highway.’
The air was crisp and frosty and, if one was in the mood, it was a delightful afternoon for a short drive. For Hester it was like stepping into a crowded room wearing a placard reading ‘Fallen Woman’. What if Lady Broome had already spread the news of her disgrace around the neighbourhood? Or perhaps she had not yet made the acquaintance of local society and this was the last time Hester could go out with her reputation intact.
She saw Mrs Bunting being driven in her dog cart by her groom and the two carriages drew up alongside to exchange greetings. The vicar’s wife beamed at her and Hester found she had been holding her breath. ‘Good day, Miss Lattimer! I must tell you that the vicar and I are much looking forward to your evening party on Monday. Such a pleasant way to begin the Christmas festivities.’
‘I’m so glad, ma’am.’ Hester managed to smile and drove on, a new dread forming. What if they all found out before the party and she did not discover it until she found herself with no guests? I’m mad to persist with this, they’ll find out sooner or later, I must leave…
She almost completed her circuit of the Green, then, at random, took one of the side lanes. Rounding a corner, she had to rein in sharply to avoid a little group standing almost in the middle of the roadway. Mrs and Miss Redland were in conversation with Guy and Lady Broome.
There was no escape short of turning the gig in the narrow lane in front of their eyes. Hester looked only at Mrs Redland and could not suppress a gasp of relief as she stepped forward with a smile.
‘My dear Miss Lattimer, how are you?’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ Somehow Hester got enough breath back to respond. She could feel the eyes of the others burning into her like a brand. ‘I must not keep you standing here in the cold; I am looking forward to seeing you on Monday.’ She raised her whip in what she hoped Mrs Redland would interpret as a general leavetaking of the group and trotted on.
‘Phew.’ Jethro sent her a sideways glance as soon as they were safely around the corner. ‘Do you think they’ll say anything to her?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think Lord Buckland would, even if he is very angry with me. But Lady Broome may feel it her duty.’
‘Then she’s a nasty, interfering old cat,’ Jethro said with some vehemence. ‘Will it not look strange that they are not at the party?’
‘Very, I fear. That in itself may be enough to start talk.’ It was easier to discuss the party, with all its uncertainties, than to think about that glimpse of Guy. She wanted to go back, jump down from the gig and throw herself into his arms, say, You are wrong about me, let me explain. But if he believed that she had been another man’s mistress and had been prepared to hide that from him, he simply did not feel for her as she thought he did. And that was an end to it.
Guy had spent hours following the confrontation between Hester and Georgiana in a state of indecision such as he had never experienced before. He had hurt Hester abominably, he knew that. It took him some time to face the fact that she had hurt him by not telling him the truth, and then longer yet admitting to himself that he had stopped her when she had tried to explain.
I love her, none of it matters. But it did matter, it was not a little thing; and the scandal it would cause in London if he married her wa
s no little thing either. Going to her until he was clear about what he had to say would only make things worse and that glimpse of her, chin high, the colour flying in her cheeks as she came upon them in the lane, haunted him.
Then there was the problem of the roses. He checked his almanac: tonight was the full moon. Two roses were due and heaven knew what else. He rang for Parrott.
‘Parrott.’
‘Yes, my lord?’ Parrott enquired after a good minute of silence.
‘I am not, at the moment, on speaking terms with Miss Lattimer.’
‘So I gather, my lord.’
How the hell does he know? Then Guy dismissed the question: Parrott knew everything. ‘I am concerned about the safety of her household.’
‘Quite so, my lord. The last two roses are due tonight.’
‘Exactly.’ Sometimes Guy wondered if it would be easier just to allow Parrott to carry on without orders. Possibly he could do his courting for him. He could hardly make more of a mull of it.
‘I have already spoken to Ackland, my lord. He informed me that his orders were not to communicate with anyone in this household and certainly not to accept any assistance.’
With that he had to be content, although a near-sleepless night spent sitting at his bedchamber window watching the Moon House for any sign of disturbance or lights did nothing for his state of mind the next morning.
Parrott, who was winding the longcase clock in the hall and setting the hands to twenty-five to seven, allowed one eyebrow to rise by an infinitesimal amount when he saw his master descending the stairs. ‘Good morning, my lord. I regret that preparations for breakfast have only just been commenced. Would you wish me to have something prepared immediately?’
‘Hmm? No, thank you, Parrott. I will go out for a walk.’
‘And then call upon Miss Lattimer?’
‘If I can think what best to say to her, yes, Parrott. I got the devil’s own sleep last night.’
‘The lady is somewhat up in the boughs, I collect.’
‘You may well say so, Parrott. Miss Lattimer has a number of things to throw in my dish, of which tactlessness is probably the least of it.’
‘But surely you will not be calling at this hour?’
‘I imagine it will take me two hours to arrive at my tactics.’ Guy grimaced with an attempt at humour he was far from feeling. Somehow he had to make it up to Hester. ‘I have no idea what I am going to say. If she has been as miserable as I these past forty-eight hours, then perhaps I have a hope- but who knows?’
‘Tsk. Miss Lattimer has always seemed a lady of acute common sense to me, my lord.’
‘Exactly what I am afraid of!’
‘I will find your lordship’s heavier coat; it will not do to arrive upon her doorstep with your teeth chattering.’
Guy walked out of the gate into the frosty early morning gloom and turned to pass the front of the Moon House, heading for the expanse of the Green. An hour’s brisk walk to the canal and back, followed by breakfast at the Bird in Hand, which he could eat without interrogation from Georgy, should at least clear his head.
He looked up at Hester’s room as he passed, seeing it in darkness, wondering what her reaction would be if he stood in the garden like a lovesick fool-which I am-and threw pebbles at her windows. ‘A jug of cold water off the nightstand, I imagine, if I know my Hester,’ he answered his own musings.
Then something fluttering on the front door caught his eye and he slowed. A Christmas garland? That boded well for the mood of the household if someone had spent the time making decorations. Then, as he came closer, he saw it had no festive air about it, but instead hung heavy and dark, its ribbons black.
Surely it was not what it appeared? It was the lack of light, that was all, but Guy opened the gate and strode up the front path.
Then he saw it was a funeral wreath fashioned of yew and ivy, tied with black ribbons and with two dead roses at its centre. A card, inscribed H.L. Requiat in Pace in Gothic script was secured at the top. Fear for Hester, a superstitious dread he would have sworn he was incapable of feeling, swept through him, leaving an icy clutch around his heart. A knife in the dark? A soundless attack on Hester leaving the household unaware? Or poison and they were all lying there…
With hands that shook he wrenched the wreath from the door and hammered the knocker on its base plate. Ten more seconds and he would break a window.
There was a fumbling sound as the bolts were drawn back. Jethro opened the door, saw who it was and began to close it, alarm on his face. Guy simply threw his shoulder against the panels and knocked the boy back into the hall with the power of his entry. ‘Where is she? Is she safe?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘You cannot come in here, my lord!’ Jethro was white-faced and clutching his shoulder. In some part of his brain Guy realised he must have hit the boy’s bad side and was sorry for it, but that would have to wait.
‘Have you seen Miss Hester yet this morning? Is she awake?’
‘What? Do you know what time it is?’ Jethro demanded, shocked out of any semblance of good manners or deference by surprise and pain. ‘Of course she’s not up yet, Susan said to let her sleep in.’
The door from the kitchen opened and Susan appeared, looking irritated. ‘Jethro, what’s this racket? You’ll wake Miss Hester and she needs all the sleep she can-You! Miss Hester said as how we weren’t to let you in, nor even speak to you, my lord. What can you be wanting at this hour?’
‘This was hanging on the front door.’ He thrust the wreath at them. ‘See? That says “H.L. Rest in Peace”.’ He was taking the stairs two at a time before they caught his meaning and began to run after him.
‘Oh, no,’ Susan was repeating over and over. ‘Oh, no, no one could have got in last night.’
Ignoring them, Guy threw open the door of Hester’s bed-chamber and crossed to the bed in two long strides. She was lying on her back, eyes shut, one arm flung back on the pillow, her face pale. For a second that seemed to last a year he thought she was not breathing, then she drew a long breath and stirred. Her eyes flickered open, blinked and she gasped when she saw who was looking down at her.
‘No!’ She scrambled back against the pillows. ‘No!’ She covered her eyes with her hands and shook her head violently. ‘This is a dream, I’m going mad.’
‘No, no, you are not.’ Guy rounded on Susan and Jethro, who were wringing their hands in the doorway. ‘Out!’ Retook a step towards them and they jumped back instinctively, giving him time to slam the door shut and turn the key in the lock. He had enough to do to cope with his emotions over Hester, let alone listen to their exclamations.
Ignoring the pounding on the door and the rattling of the handle, he turned back to Hester, who was wide awake and sitting bolt upright in bed. Her eyes were wide, her hair streamed down her back and her body was clad only in the flimsiest of nightgowns.
It raised no feeling of desire in him, only a horror at how fragile she looked, how white her skin, how delicate her shoulders and arms seemed. He had thought he had lost her and fury swept through him, anger with the Nugents, anger with himself for not protecting her better, anger at her for making him feel this way. It silenced him and he filled the empty space by stooping to touch a taper to the smouldering fire in the grate and light the candles.
‘I thought you were a nightmare.’ Her voice shook and she got it back under control; he realised her anger matched his, although it was much simpler, much more justified. ‘What possible reason can you have for bursting in here like this? Let my people in this minute.’
‘There was a wreath on your door. A funeral wreath. It said “H.L. Rest in Peace”.’ There was silence while she absorbed it, then went pale.
‘But we are all right. No one got in last night. Why should you leap to conclusions?’
‘Leap? After what has been happening here? I thought I would find you all poisoned in your beds.’ He was pacing angrily, fighting the urge to go and shake her until she a
dmitted he was right to be frantic about her. Hester swung her legs out of bed and stalked over to confront him, quite unconscious of the transparency of her nightgown. A wave of desire lanced through the anger. It didn’t help.
‘What nonsense,’ she declared scornfully. ‘No one could poison our food.’
‘No? Where does Susan keep your milk and butter and cheese to make sure it is cold? Where is your meat safe? In that lean-to by the back door, that is where, and if I know that you may be sure half the village knows, let alone anyone putting their mind to doing you harm.’ He kept his eyes locked with hers, if nothing else it kept them away from the tantalising rise and fall of her breasts, the shadow of the nipples through the fine lawn. He recognised the primitive source of his anger even as he chose to ignore it-this was his woman, he would fight to the death for her and he wanted nothing more than to make love to her when he had done so.
‘Could you not have sent Susan upstairs to check on Miss Prudhome and me?’ she enquired, her voice sinking to a dangerously reasonable level. ‘Why all these dramatics?’
Guy could feel his teeth grinding. ‘Because I was frantic with worry about you, that is why.’
‘Indeed?’ She was positively icy now. ‘You have no justification, no business, to be concerned about me.’ She glanced down, realised what she was wearing and coloured, turning away.
‘Hester, I asked you to be my wife.’
‘Yes, you did,’ she agreed, pulling on her dressing gown and making rather a business of tying the cord before turning back to him. ‘However, now you are aware I am another man’s leavings, that is irrelevant.’
‘I do not want another man’s leavings,’ he snarled in savage echo of her words. As soon as he spoke he knew it had not sounded as he meant it.