by M C Beaton
Frederica told him of the story about Lord M. that her mother had read out of the newspaper. “So you see,” she ended, “if by any chance our friendship should be discovered, I should be well and truly in the suds. No one would believe the innocence of our friendship.”
He laughed. “Then I would just need to marry you, my sweeting.”
“Do not joke about a serious matter of this kind,” she said bitterly. “A man such as you would never forgive me for allowing circumstances to force you to propose.”
“I think if there had been even a murmur, a suspicion of our meetings, your papa would have immediately let you know in no uncertain terms.”
“Yes, that is true. But every time we meet now, I will feel eyes all about us.”
“There might be a compromise.”
“Such as?”
The moonlight was shining on the cascade of her hair. She was hatless.
He touched a strand of her silky hair. “Do you never wear it up?”
“I shall surely be allowed to wear it up for the ball.” She wound her tresses in one hand and swept her hair on top of her head and smiled at him.
He felt a tug at his heart and a feeling of danger but stubbornly refused to examine his feelings. “So what is your compromise?” she asked.
“Instead of me having to walk such a way and skirt the village in order to see you, you could come to the grounds of Townley Hall.”
“What of the gamekeepers? The lodge keeper?”
“I thought of them. There is a gazebo….”
“But that is on the lawns and in full view of the hall!”
“No, not that one. There is a ruined one over near the west wall.”
“Oh, I know the one,” said Frederica. “And there is a break in the wall just about there. It would be easy for me to check that no one was about on the road, and the old gazebo is now surrounded by shrubbery.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Frederica felt she was treading farther into uncharted waters, and Lord Granton was wondering why he was about to pursue this odd and unsuitable friendship. After a few moments he scooped up the ball gown and left.
Chapter Four
Mrs. Hadley was shocked when the ball gown arrived for Frederica on the following day. She assumed that some carrier must have left it on the doorstep. All her daughters crowded around her as she read the letter aloud. Although the letter was addressed to Frederica, her mother had no compunction about opening it herself.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed. “Old Lady Prebend is sending a ball gown to Frederica. I have not seen her in ages, and I was sure she did not know of Frederica’s existence. See, it is only a short letter and dated back in the spring! How odd!”
She took out the gown and held it up. “It is really very fine.”
“How kind of her,” said Frederica. “I look forward to wearing it.”
“Take it to your room,” said her mother, coloring up. “I said, take it!” she snapped angrily.
After Frederica had gone, Mrs. Hadley went in search of her husband and finally found him in the church. She told him of the amazing gift and then wailed, “This is worse and worse. Frederica does not know she is not invited.”
“I think we must tell her, my dear,” said Dr. Hadley.
“But what if, in her disappointment, she does or says anything rude. Then we shall all be forbidden to go. It would break my poor girls’ hearts.”
“It might break Frederica’s heart.”
“Oh, tish! When has our Frederica shown herself in any way concerned over feminine things? She wanders the countryside, mooning about, or sits reading all day long.”
“Perhaps,” said Dr. Hadley, “if I were to call on Lady Crown and explain that Frederica is truly penitent and quite reformed, my lady might relent.”
His wife looked at him doubtfully. “If you are sure it will not put her in a passion.”
“I will try.”
Dr. Hadley drove over to Townley Hall after changing into his best suit of clericals. He was ushered into the drawing room where Lady Crown and Annabelle were studying the latest fashion magazines.
“Dr. Hadley.” Lady Crown smiled graciously. “You look very hot. May I offer you some lemonade?”
“Thank you, my lady. That would be most welcome.”
Lady Crown rang the bell and told a footman to bring a jug of iced lemonade.
“I am gratified to hear you still have ice,” said the rector.
“There is very little left in the icehouse,” said Lady Crown. “This fierce weather.”
“I am called,” said the rector hesitantly, “to broach the subject of Frederica.”
“Oh, that funny little girl,” said Annabelle. “What has she done now?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, and she is truly penitent for the distress she has caused you by her odd idea of humor. I wondered if you could be so gracious, so condescending as to consider allowing her to come to your ball. I have always been an admirer, my lady, of your great good nature, your Christian charity.”
“Well…,” began Lady Crown, but Annabelle, with the memory still sharp in her mind of the way Lord Granton had paid all that unwelcome attention to Frederica, interrupted sharply, “No, I do not think so, Rector. Frederica has behaved shamefully and must be punished. Were she allowed to go to the ball after all, then she would feel free to behave in such a rude and thoughtless way again. She does not know the behavior that is due to her betters and must be taught a lesson.”
The footman came in with the iced lemonade.
“Take it away, John,” said Annabelle haughtily. “Dr. Hadley is just leaving.”
Red in the face with heat and embarrassment, the rector bowed his way out.
When he related to his wife what had happened, she raised her hands in horror. “It is all Frederica’s fault,” she complained. “I should never have let you plead with them. We will take Frederica to one of the assemblies in Evesham in the autumn, but she must be content to stay at home on the night of the ball.”
Upstairs in her room with the book of dancing steps in her hand, Frederica hummed to herself as she practiced. The splendid ball gown lay on the bed. Life was suddenly full of color and magic, and she would see him that night.
By evening tempers in the rectory were running high. The air was so still, so sticky, and so humid that everyone’s nerves felt frayed. Mary was sulking over that ball gown, claiming it was much too fine for the youngest sister and that old Lady Prebend had muddled the names and had really meant it for her. Amy pointed out waspishly that Mary was too fat to wear it anyway. Frederica slipped upstairs and locked the ball gown in a chest in her room, suddenly afraid that one of her sisters would claim it as her own.
Amy said Harriet would never get any partners at the ball because her manner was too forward and her looks too blowsy. Harriet threw her fan at her sister. The fan struck Amy on the cheek, the ivory sticks leaving an angry red mark. Amy fell on Harriet and began to tug her hair, and both girls tumbled to the floor, clawing and shouting. Frederica heard the row as she slipped out of the back door, heard the angry voices fading behind her as she moved like a ghost through the still, heavy air.
As she was approaching the old gazebo, she heard away in the distance a rumble of thunder. She looked uneasily up at the sky. But the moon shone clearly and the stars glittered.
The gazebo, unlike the splendid stone one nearer the house, was made of wood, now rotting and covered in creepers. Frederica wondered what it had been originally supposed to gaze upon, being so near the boundary wall. She stood outside, not liking the musty darkness of the interior, and waited anxiously, hearing the growling thunder draw ever nearer as if some great beast were stalking the countryside.
Lord Granton sat over his port and fretted. Sir Giles had said he had something of great import to discuss with him and so had delayed his leaving the dinner table. It transpired that Sir Giles wanted to ask his advice over a boundary dispute. He began to outline the
details of what had happened. “It is Squire Huxtable’s land, you see, and I showed him the maps, but he claims the maps were drawn up on the instructions of my father and were wrong. I do not want to take my neighbor to court, but what am I to do?” He then went on to describe at great length the various arguments he had had with the squire over the years.
At last Lord Granton interrupted impatiently by asking, “Just how much land is involved?”
“Three feet.”
“Three feet!” exclaimed Lord Granton angrily. He swallowed the last of his port and got up. “You have asked my advice and it is this. Were it three feet of my land in question, I would gladly surrender it rather than be involved in a tedious and petty quarrel with one of my neighbors. Now if you will excuse me, I must return to my manuscript.”
“I must say,” complained Sir Giles huffily to the major, “that your friend seems to have little understanding of what is due to my position. Squire Huxtable is my social inferior and therefore should bend to me.”
Lord Granton tore off his evening dress and put on a shirt and breeches, top boots and black coat and then made his escape. He heard the approaching storm and quickened his pace. He hoped Frederica had not waited for him. But as soon as he approached the gazebo, he saw the white glimmer of her gown in the darkness.
“This was not a very good idea,” whispered Frederica. “This place is so old and dirty, and it looks about to fall down any moment. The boards on the floor inside are full of great holes, and there is nowhere for us to dance.”
“We must forego our dancing and conversation tonight,” he said hurriedly. “A storm is about to break. Come, I will walk you home.”
“What if we are seen?”
“Everyone will be indoors. Come.”
He helped her over the wall, and they walked together down the road. A great flash of lightning suddenly blinded them and Frederica cried out. He put an arm around her shoulders and hurried her forward. And then the heavens opened and the rain came down in sheets. As they approached the village, they saw candlelight flickering at the windows behind the thick cottage glass so that the flames looked like yellow smears.
“We will need to go round the village,” shouted Frederica above the tumult of the storm.
He nodded and they both climbed over a stile and began to squelch across the fields. Frederica’s thin gown was plastered to her body.
He now had his arm about her waist, urging her forward, reflecting that it was like crossing a battlefield. The storm was so great that the very ground seemed to heave in front of them.
They reached the back garden of the rectory. Frederica opened a gate in the high brick wall and they both entered, looking nervously up at the old house in case anyone was watching.
At the back door, her door as she thought of it, she whispered urgently, “Come up to my room until the storm has passed. You cannot possibly return in this weather.”
It seemed logical not to stand arguing with her in the storm, or so he told himself. He followed her up the narrow stone staircase, wondering as he did so what excuse he would give if he found the rector waiting at the top.
But they were soon in her room with no one having seen them. Frederica locked them in and then went to a press in the corner and took out a large towel. “Try to dry yourself a little,” she urged.
She took a towel out for herself, found dry clothes, and went behind the shelter of the bed curtains to change. When she emerged, he had stripped down to his waist and was scrubbing a very muscular chest. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, and she remembered the story of Miss Bentley. She had lit two candles, and by their wavering light she saw nothing of the lover in Lord Granton’s eyes, only a sort of devilish amusement.
“What a shocking pair we are,” he murmured.
“It is as well the storm is so noisy,” said Frederica. “Normally you can hear anything anyone says in this house.”
He sat in a chair by the window after having wrung out his shirt over the basin on the toilet table and put it on. “I might leave my coat here,” he said. “It is surely ruined.”
“You had best take it with you,” replied Frederica, “or I will have a difficult job getting rid of it.”
He looked about him. “So this is your sanctuary.” Candlelight fell on piles of books. Apart from the four-poster bed and two presses against the wall, there was a little table, the chair on which he was sitting, and a clutter of sewing material and fans and bits of inexpensive jewelry lying about the place. The ceiling was low and beamed.
“I have decided to leave the day after the ball,” he said.
Suddenly Frederica’s heart felt heavy and her mind wrestled with the dismal vision of the empty days that lay ahead.
“I shall miss you,” she said quietly.
“I shall write to you.”
She shook her head. “That would not answer. Mama reads my letters.”
“If I were as wicked as my reputation, I would ask you to run away with me.”
Frederica’s eyes were wide and startled. “As your mistress?”
“As my friend.”
“Nothing so wicked there. Take me with you.”
“If only I could, Frederica. But your reputation would be ruined beyond repair. You will soon meet a man you can love and marry. Listen, the storm is passing over. I must be on my way.”
“I will show you out.”
Frederica went and opened the door. Then she shrank back against him. “Wait!”
Mrs. Hadley’s voice sounded clearly along the corridor. “I do declare this ball is causing more fuss and misery than I ever envisioned.” Then there was the slamming of a door.
Frederica’s body was pressed back against his own as they both listened to make sure no one else was about. He had an urge to turn her about, to hold her in his arms, and to kiss those soft virginal lips. Instead he gave her an impatient little push. “Lead the way, miss. We cannot stand here all night.”
She led him quietly down the narrow staircase. The thunder rumbled away in the distance.
Something told him that he should not see her again, but he found himself saying, “Tomorrow night?”
“Not the gazebo,” said Frederica.
“Then we will go back to the pool. If that poacher is around, he will not betray us.”
“Till then.”
He turned and walked away. He had not kissed her hand. Frederica sadly watched him go, heard the faint creak of the iron gate, and then there was only the great silence of the rain-washed night. She went slowly up the stairs. She would try not to think of the fact that he would be leaving for London so very soon now. She had another evening with him to look forward to. She would try so very hard not to think beyond that.
Lord Granton strode in the direction of the Hall. Moonlight was shining in the puddles and silvering the trees. Some night bird above his head chirped sleepily.
His conscience was beginning to nag him. Had he run mad going up to her room? What if they had been discovered?
In the morning Frederica rose very early and taking a basket of cordials and medicines went out to visit various sick parishioners. The day was fresh and fine. The air was full of the smells of bushes and flowers. She skipped over the puddles on the roads, singing under her breath, thinking only of the evening to come.
After she had done her rounds, she made her way back to the rectory—to find it in an uproar.
“What’s amiss?” asked Frederica. Mrs. Hadley was stretched out on the sofa in the parlor having burned feathers held under her nose to revive her.
Amy and Harriet were clutching each other and emitting little shrieks.
“Papa is rounding up the men,” said Mary. “We were nearly killed in our beds.”
“Wh-when? H-how?” stammered Frederica.
“Mrs. Andrews, the baker’s wife, said she saw a tall, villainous man creeping out of the rectory garden yesterday evening, just after the storm abated.”
Frederica forced herself t
o look calm. “Did she see his face?”
“Yes, she said it was the face of evil, glittering eyes and a great scar down his cheek.”
The great scar down Lord Granton’s cheek had been caused by the effect of a branch casting a shadow across it in the moonlight.
Frederica let out a slow sigh of relief. “There is certainly no one of that description about. Perhaps it was just some tramp.”
“We could all have been killed in our beds. I am going to write a poem about it,” said Mary. “Some of the village men have volunteered to guard the rectory tonight.”