But once on the flat, he did not turn back as he had promised. The boys were delighted, but not surprised. They had evidently never believed he would. ‘He’s a devil when he gets the ribbons in his hands,’ confided Jeremy. ‘I wonder where he’s taking us.’
Anxious, but hardly liking to protest, Jennifer sat still, looking out of the window at the brown and fallow fields. Time passed, Lucinda became restless and the boys noisy, and still Lord Laverstoke showed no sign of turning back. Presently, to her horror, Jennifer recognised the outskirts of Brighton and, while she rapped fruitlessly on the glass, saw Lord Laverstoke give a triumphant flourish of his whip as he turned his horses into the Steine. At last, with Edward’s help, she contrived to lower the stiff glass and leant out to expostulate with Laverstoke, when, to her horror, she saw advancing down the other side of the street two banker friends of her Uncle Gurning’s who were frequent visitors at Denton Hall. She popped her head back into the carriage and bent solicitously over Lucinda until they were safely past them, then leaned out again and expostulated with Laverstoke to such effect that he turned sheepishly homeward and whipped up his horses.
It was growing dark when he finally drew up in the stable yard and Jennifer helped the weary and grumbling children to alight. She was beginning an angry expostulation with their brother when Lord Mainwaring appeared at the entrance of Lightning’s loose-box and surveyed the scene with raised eyebrows. There seemed, suddenly, nothing to be said. Picking up the now tearful Lucinda, she called the boys sharply to heel and took them all up to the nursery where she distinguished herself, for the rest of the evening, by an unwonted outbreak of bad temper.
To her relief, the children were not summoned downstairs for dessert. Like her, they were jaded from the long drive and yielded with only a formal protest to her decree of early bed. Then, at last, came what she sometimes thought the best moment of her day. A shawl over the unnecessary brown silk, she settled by the schoolroom fire, feet snug on the fender, to read another chapter in the boys’ Latin Grammar over which she had found it necessary to supplement the labours of the aged and somnolent rector.
She was busy in the fourth declension when the schoolroom door burst open and Lord Laverstoke appeared. One look at his flushed face and tousled curls told her that he was more than a little intoxicated. Wondering quickly whether, on such occasions, he became gloomy, like her father, or riotous, like both her brothers, she rose to her feet and made him her stiffest curtsy. The schoolroom suddenly seemed unpleasantly isolated in the big house. But she had dealt with her brothers often enough when they were bosky. She would soon freeze him out.
‘To what am I indebted for this honour?’ she asked frigidly.
He advanced upon her, staggering ever so slightly: ‘Come to make my apologies,’ he said. ‘Damned ungentlemanly touch this afternoon. Mainwaring says so. I say so. Took you to Brighton when you didn’t want to go. Damned caddish thing to do. Came to apologise.’ He paused for breath and his eye lit on her book, in which her finger still hopefully kept her place. ‘And now I’ve interrupted you at your reading. Damned shame for a dasher like you to be sitting up here reading. Should be living romance, not reading it.’ He held out his hand for the book, swaying slightly as he did so.
‘No romance, my lord, but a Latin Grammar.’ She handed it to him.
His hand closed over hers. ‘A damned shame. Fero, ferre—hic—I beg your pardon—latum. Waste of a pretty girl’s time. Much better things for a smasher like you to be doing. And don’t “my lord” me either. Call me Charles. Everybody does. Call me Curly. They all do. And give me a kiss, for the most beautiful redheaded governess of them all.’ He pulled her towards him. Resisting, she was aware of the strong smell of port and snuff, of the hard line of his jacket buttons against her breast. Then a hand closed on his shoulder and he reeled away.
‘Go to your room, Charles,’ said Lord Mainwaring.
For a moment, Jennifer thought Laverstoke was going to resist, then, with a muttered ‘Damned inconvenient...damned shame...Servant, Miss Fairbank,’ he left the room.
Mainwaring looked down at her in silence, as she picked up her book and settled its ruffled pages. What could she say? Intolerable that he should have found her in yet another compromising situation.
‘Well, Miss Fairbank?’ There was no charity in the steel-blue eyes. He echoed her thoughts: ‘What am I to think?’
‘Think what you please, my lord.’ It was Jennifer Purchas who spoke. Then she recollected Miss Fairbank. ‘Only, I beg, do not think that this encounter was any of my choosing. Had I known of Lord Laverstoke’s purpose I would assuredly have bolted the door.’
He turned, gravely, to consider it. ‘Alas for your good intentions. I note that the bolt is lacking. Were you to continue in your post, I collect it would be necessary to provide one.’
‘Were I?’ she seized upon his use of the word. ‘Oh, my lord, you cannot advise Lady Laverstoke to dismiss me!’
‘Cannot?’ The black eyebrows rose.
‘I mean—I beg your pardon—I meant.’ She stopped in confusion, then collected herself together and began again: ‘My lord, I beg of you, let me continue here. I am sure Lady Laverstoke will speak for my success with the children. I fear you have seen me in but an unhappy light, but, indeed, my lord, we have gone on famously so far.’
‘So I apprehend from Lady Laverstoke who speaks for you as well as you could wish. But I cannot feel it right for so young a girl to hold a position of such trust.’
It was too much. ‘Indeed,’ she flared up at him, ‘I am sorry that I am not older, but time will doubtless amend it. And in the meanwhile I am hard put to it to see what it has to do with the business.’
‘You are very ignorant of the world, Miss Fairbank, if you think so. I find myself compelled to allude to your recent scrapes. It is no part of a governess’s duties to be seen disporting herself in a gentleman’s carriage, nor yet riding to hounds.’
‘It would, I apprehend, have been more suitable to let Lucinda be killed?’
‘It would have been better to have seen that the occasion did not arise.’
She was silent at the mixture of reason and injustice in this, and he continued: ‘Indeed, I am at a loss to imagine how Miss Faversham came to recommend you.’
‘She recommended me because she cared for me and knew how desperately I needed the position.’ She was suddenly near to tears at the truth of her own words.
‘I am sorry to hear it.’ He turned away, apparently considering the conversation finished.
She nerved herself to a last effort: ‘And so I am to go? And, what, pray, is to become of the children—and Lady Laverstoke? Governesses—even old ones—do not grow on every tree. This house was in revolution when I arrived, and Lady Laverstoke near hysterics. The children have just learned to feel safe with me; I’ll not be answerable for the consequences if you send me away.’
‘Fine talk, Miss Fairbank, but you will not find threats avail you. I am sorry if it proves inconvenient to you, but I must urge Lady Laverstoke to lose no time in finding someone less unsuitable.’
The door burst open behind him and Mary, the under parlour-maid, hurried in. ‘Oh, Miss Fairbank, Miss Lucinda’s had the nightmare and is calling for you. You must come at once.’
Curtsying swiftly to Lord Mainwaring, Jennifer hurried to Lucinda’s room. She was used to these nightmares of hers now and had discovered how to deal with them when she learned their origin. Some previous nurse had used Boney as a bugbear to such good effect that Lucinda, if overtired, would wake, screaming, convinced that she was about to be handed over to the French monster. Treating her fears seriously, Jennifer had promised her she would never allow this to happen, and Lucinda, who believed her new governess to be capable of anything, need only be reminded of her protection to forget her fears. So, now, Jennifer, bent over her:
‘It’s all right, precious, I’m here; I won’t let him get you.’
The child clutched her hand i
n a feverish grip: ‘He had me in the carriage: he was carrying me off...’ Her sobs threatened to break out anew.
‘Nothing of the kind,’ said, Jennifer briskly. ‘You know he has been on St Helena this age; now hush your crying and I will tell you a story.’
Ten minutes later, she laid the child down, heavy with sleep, and was about to steal away when Lucinda caught her hand: ‘Promise you’ll not leave me—ever.’
‘Of course I’ll not leave you,’ Jennifer hedged, ‘I am coming back directly to spend the night on the sofa.’
Satisfied, the child settled down in bed, half asleep already. Jennifer, rising, was startled to see Lord Mainwaring at the door. How long had he been there? But Lucinda came first:
‘Shh...’ She laid a finger on her lips, tiptoed out and closed the door. ‘I will fetch my things and then spend the night on the sofa in her room. I should have known she would have one of her bad nights after such a day.’
He looked down at her. ‘So, it seems, you win, Miss Fairbank.’
‘I win?’ Busy calming the child, she had forgotten what had passed before. Now it all came back to her. ‘Oh. You mean I may stay?’
‘You appear to have made yourself indispensable. Yes, you shall stay. And I will take young Laverstoke away tomorrow.’ She curtsied. ‘It will be mighty good of you, sir.’
But the house seemed strangely dull and quiet without them. Lucinda moped openly, and so, Jennifer suspected, did her mother, in secret. The weather broke, and several days of drenching rain reduced schoolroom tempers to breaking point. At last, the wind changed, the sun came out and frost sparkled on the trees of the park. Lucinda had a cold and was in bed, snuffling plaintively over barley water and Dr James’s powders. After the schoolroom lunch, Jennifer settled her down for a sleep, forced the reluctant boys to their classical studies, confiding them to the care of the devoted Mary, and put on her bonnet and pattens for her daily indulgence—sadly missed of late—of a walk in the park.
Breathing deeply of the crisp, cold air, she walked quickly across the frost-hard lawn to the shelter of the shrubbery. Lady Laverstoke had never said in so many words that she disapproved of this daily walk, so contrary to her own sedentary habit, but she had sedulously hinted her dislike. Blandly ignoring these suggestions, Jennifer did, however, do her best to make it as inconspicuous as possible, taking her exercise in swift perambulation of the long, concealed walk that lay among the rhododendrons. Today she was determined to cut it short; Lucinda might wake and cry for her.
She had just turned back from the little wicket gate that led out on to the open Down when a sound behind her made her turn. As she did so, her arms were caught from behind and a heavy cloth bound over her face, making speech or sight impossible. Struggling frantically, but to no avail, she felt herself pushed along by her captors and heard the click of the wicket-gate behind her. For a moment, wild visions of romantic terror darted through her mind, of foreign villains and castle dungeons. Then she remembered how her brothers had laughed at Mrs Radcliffe’s horrors. Simultaneously, she recollected her encounter with her uncle’s friends in the Steine. They must have seen her and told him. This was the result.
So, when she was half-pushed, half-pulled into a waiting carriage, and the bandages ungently removed from her eyes, she greeted her uncle, sitting there to receive her, with a calm that surprised him.
‘You are setting up in the brigandage business, I see, Uncle.’ Shaking out her crumpled skirts, she looked him over with a dislike which he returned in good measure.
‘You should be grateful to me, Niece,’ he said as the carriage began to roll forward, ‘for taking so discreet a means to recover you. It would hardly have suited either of our books if I had ridden up to Laverstoke House and demanded the return of my errant ward.’
‘No ward of yours, Uncle Gurning, as you well know.’ By this bit of defiance she did her best to conceal her horrid recognition of the truth of what he said. Now he had found her, she was helpless in his hands. And, oh, she thought to herself, what of poor little Lucinda, waking from her snuffling slumbers and calling for her beloved Miss Fairbank? What would happen to her? And what would Lady Laverstoke—and Lord Mainwaring—think? But she had no time now for such self-tormentings. With her usual strong common sense she swallowed salt despair and applied herself to discovering her uncle’s plans for her. The sooner she knew what he intended, the better she would be prepared to circumvent him. And he had certainly not gone to these uncharacteristic lengths to reclaim her without strong reasons of his own.
Sinking back into the corner of the carriage, she feigned a hopeless compliance she was all too near to feeling: ‘What now, Uncle?’
‘Why, that’s the girl.’ He made no attempt to conceal his pleased surprise at her meek acceptance of defeat. ‘You and I may deal admirably together yet. Particularly since I must tell you that this mad start of yours—together with some other circumstances—has quite put an end to any hope of the match that was proposed for you. Only think, niece, Mr Ferris’s father and brother have been killed in a carriage accident. If you had only taken him when he offered, you would have been in a fair way to being a duchess. But he will fly higher now than a country miss, I warrant. Never fret, though, I have a capital scheme in hand for you; I am only puzzled I had not hit upon it sooner. You are to marry Edmund, my dear. The bans are called, the parson willing, the licence ready and tomorrow is the happy day!’
Now he had indeed surprised her. ‘Edmund? Tomorrow? Impossible!’ She had always been fond enough of her uncle’s puppyish ward, but the idea of marrying him was beneath ridicule. Her uncle could not be serious. One look at his face undeceived her. He was never more so.
He cut short the protests into which he had surprised her. ‘Spare me your tantrums. It is you who have brought yourself to this, with your jauntings about the countryside. Your aunt and I have done everything in our power to stifle the tittle-tattle it has given rise to, but in the face of the report that you had been seen driving down the Steine with a young nobleman of so very unsteady a reputation, there was nothing we could do but announce your engagement forthwith. You should be grateful that Edmund is prepared to take you with so tarnished a name.’
Despair bit cold into her. There was too much truth in what he said. Useless to protest the innocence of that drive, her helplessness, the presence of the children. If the report had got about, her reputation was indeed tarnished. But marriage with Edmund...that was a desperate remedy.
CHAPTER V
Jennifer had never imagined the sight of her home could be so depressing. Her uncle handed her out of the carriage with an affected gallantry that sickened her, and Soames, the butler, who opened the door, gave her a look in which sympathy and curiosity were disconcertingly blended. Was she, from henceforth, to find herself the target of such looks? Intolerable thought. She almost persuaded herself that she had best marry Edmund and be done with it. Doubtless he would prove a complaisant enough husband, and marriage would give them both control of their fortunes. But the idea was sickening. She did not want a complaisant husband. She wanted a man who would stand no nonsense, someone older than herself, settled in the world, fit to be her master. In short, a man...
Her uncle led her into his study. ‘I will send Edmund to you,’ he said. ‘You will have much to say to each other. But remember, miss, tomorrow is the day.’
Leaving the room, he locked the door behind him. It was a foretaste of what she could expect. She paced up and down the room, thinking, contriving, planning...All depended, now, upon Edmund. Would she be able to manage him?
Her uncle opened the door to let him in. ‘I will leave you two love-birds alone together.’ His coyness was odious. ‘But I’ll not be far away.’
It was at once a warning and a threat. Jennifer, who had had wild ideas of rushing out into the house and throwing herself upon the loyalty of her father’s old and trusted servants, thought again. It would merely lead to a painful scene and achieve nothing.
She faced the blushing Edmund. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘Well Jenny?’ His attempt at nonchalance was pitiful. ‘What do you think of this scheme of our uncle’s?’
‘I abominate it,’ she answered him fiercely. ‘Surely, Edmund, you cannot be willing to submit?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘To deal plainly with you, Jenny, I did not take to it too kindly at first, but you will find it grows upon you. We are old friends, are we not? And, only think, Jenny, we will be free, able to control our own fortunes. We’ll have a house in London, and our own stables in the country, and go to all the races—and you shall have your own box at the opera. I promise you, I’ll not meddle with you more than you wish. You go your way—I go mine—and the freedom, Jenny, only think of the freedom.’
‘Freedom? You call it freedom to be tied for life to someone you do not love?’
‘Oh, as for love, Jenny, I have had my dream of that too, but who marries for it these days? You and I will deal well enough together, I promise you. And, remember your smirched name; in truth, our uncle is right, you should be grateful to me for granting you the protection of mine.’
She turned on him in a fury. ‘I’d not take it, were you the last man on earth. I know you think to do well enough supporting your racehorses out of my fortune, but I’ll not be a party to it. I’ll make such a scene tomorrow that the parson shall refuse to marry us.’
He smiled at her knowingly. ‘I collect you are not aware who the parson is to be. It is Dean Gurning.’
She had forgotten her uncle’s brother the Dean, whose plural livings caused less scandal than his many mistresses. Dependent, she suspected, for many of his luxuries on his brother’s help and financial advice, he would be a willing tool. No hope of help from him. Almost, she began to be frightened. Surely this could not really be going to happen?
She made another effort. ‘I promise you, Edmund, I’d lead you such a life you’d wish you had never seen me.’
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