by Dunn
Mrs. Vaux brightened. She caught herself just in time not to blurt out that there would be no end of gossip. Amaryllis would have to marry him in the end to foil the gossipmongers, and though she would miss her niece quite dreadfully, it was her dearest wish to see her happily wed.
“Another thing I must tell you about,” Amaryllis went on, “is the reason he is come to the village, which is not merely impatience to be near me.” She explained how both his lordship and Ned had seen a mysterious Spaniard making enquiries about the school.
Mrs. Vaux emitted a faint shriek. “Your Papa will be the death of me yet,” she wailed. “Perhaps if we tell the man that Henry is in Philadelphia, he will go off to America and leave us in peace?"
“I cannot suppose, ma'am, that there is the slightest connection,” said Miss Tisdale firmly, looking daggers at Amaryllis.
“Oh no, Aunt Eugenia,” she said shamefaced. “I did not mean to alarm you. It is vastly unlikely after six years. Only Bertram has taken a bee in his bonnet and uses it as an excuse to hover over me. Which is most unfortunate at this precise moment, because I have accepted an invitation."
“An invitation?” Miss Tisdale glanced at the clock. ‘Your life grows hourly more entangled, but I beg you will save this story until I return from checking the common-room.” She stalked out with a rustle of skirts, shaking her head in amused dismay.
Seeing that Mrs. Vaux was inclined to dwell on the sinister Spaniard, Amaryllis asked whether she had visited Augusta Raeburn that afternoon.
“I spent quite half an hour with her and she offered me tea, though I could not stay for it,” said the widow triumphantly.
“It is three years since the Raeburns came here. Is she not suspicious at your sudden friendliness?"
“Not in the least. She is too occupied by far with her own feelings to wonder about the motives of others."
“And did you discover anything that might be of use to us?"
“Travelling makes her ill, but I cannot see that that will help us."
Amaryllis shook her head regretfully. “Hinder us rather."
“And she cannot abide the smell of cheese and will not have it in the house."
“Then we must be sure to have a good cheese on the table for the vicar on Monday evenings. However, unless we can persuade a cheesemaker to move in next door to the vicarage, that is not very helpful either."
“I shall persevere. Only if both you and Miss Tisdale are to marry, I doubt I can run the school by myself, Amaryllis, had I ever so many governesses to help me."
“Dear aunt, you cannot suppose that Bertram and I should abandon you in such a situation. Now hush, here is Tizzy."
“Louise Carfax has been telling fortunes by melting lead in a spoon over a candle,” announced Miss Tisdale, “and dropping it into cold water. Where she came by the lead I cannot say. Unfortunately, the handkerchief wrapped about the handle of the spoon caught fire, but the girl holding it at the time dropped it before she was burned."
“Is the carpet much damaged?” asked Mrs. Vaux anxiously.
“Louise was performing the experiment over the hearth, so there is no damage. A sensible child in her own peculiar way. Now, Amaryllis, what is this invitation?"
At that moment Daisy came in with the tea tray. Amaryllis asked her to send up some apple charlotte for Mrs. Vaux, and busied herself making tea. One of the housemaids brought up the dessert, and they all settled about the fire sipping from the elegant china.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Vaux at last, setting aside the empty dish with a contented sigh, “I ought not to have eaten that, I know. I shall have to let out my gowns. Now, tell us about your invitation."
“It is not precisely my invitation.” Feeling her cheeks grow warm, Amaryllis gazed into the flickering flames in the hope that any unusual colour in her face would be laid to their account. She explained Lord Daniel's proposal for the outing on the following Sunday, stressing that it was planned as a treat for the girls.
The older ladies exchanged glances. “An obliging notion,” commented Miss Tisdale.
“That is what is so odd. In general he is one of the most disobliging men I have ever met. I can scarce exchange a word with him without quarrelling."
“Then I had better go with the girls,” suggested Mrs. Vaux uneasily. “It will not do to be quarrelling with your host and the parent of a pupil, and there is no need to fear that he will have designs against my virtue."
Amaryllis looked up with a smile. “How can you say so, Aunt? You are as pretty as ever and have only to put on your new silk dress to be a worthy object of any man's attention, whatever his intentions."
It was the widow's turn to blush, but she asserted firmly that she had never so much as glanced at a man since dear Mr. Vaux's death and she did not mean to begin now.
“As to Lord Daniel having designs against anyone's virtue,” Amaryllis went on, suppressing her own unease, “he must be the greatest mooncalf in nature to wish for an intimate association with such a contrary female as he perceives me to be. And I shall not wear my new silk dress, so he will continue to think me dowdy as well. Papa always liked his ... his fancy pieces to be dressed in the height of fashion."
“You are determined to go then?” asked Miss Tisdale.
“He took me by surprise with the request and I accepted. I do not think it proper to withdraw now. As Aunt Eugenia says, he is the parent of a pupil and not to be offended gratuitously."
Avoiding their eyes, she went to make sure the common-room had not been set ablaze, though after Tizzy raked them over the coals it was unlikely that any of the young ladies would dare so much as touch a candle for a week.
As Amaryllis closed the door behind her, Mrs. Vaux grew suddenly agitated.
“It has just come to me!” she announced in a shocked voice. “Lord Daniel Winterborne—I knew the name was familiar. His wife—it was far worse than poor Henry's scandal I vow."
“I do not care to hear,” said Miss Tisdale firmly.
“But ought I to tell Amaryllis?"
“'Let the dead bury their dead.’ Matthew 8, verse 22. Though the old proverb says it better: Let sleeping dogs lie."
Mrs. Vaux shook her head worriedly but agreed not to disclose Lord Daniel's scandal unless his future actions should warrant it.
Amaryllis came back. “They are as quiet as mice,” she said gaily. “Whatever did you say to them, Tizzy?"
Amaryllis turned the conversation to school matters. Nothing more was said that evening of Lord Pomeroy, Lord Daniel Winterborne, or the ominous Spaniard. It was raining when she went up to bed. She closed the curtains tight against the night and lay wakeful, listening to the mournful sounds of dripping eaves, an owl hooting in the distance, the church clock striking midnight. Her dreams were haunted by faces: Bertram's fair, genial, and Daniel Winterborne's dark and moody.
By morning she had come to two decisions. She would confess to Bertram about her plans for Sunday as soon as possible, stressing that it was purely a business occasion. And she would try to find out from Isabel just how seriously Lord Daniel had fallen out with his family. For some reason, it was a great relief that he was still in contact at least with a sister and not so depraved as to be cut off completely.
Chapter 8
On Monday, when Daisy went into the village to pick up the post at the Bell, Amaryllis gave her a note to deliver to the Blue Boar. She wanted to see Bertram, and more particularly did not want to risk his turning up at the school and asking for her. A light drizzle was falling, making the world damp and grey and cold. Reluctantly, she asked him to meet her at the Bell at four. It was bound to give rise to gossip, but they had already been seen together at the Falcon, though surrounded by schoolgirls, and he was now known at the Blue Boar. Daisy came back with her billet intact and reported that his lordship was not staying at the Blue Boar. Vexed, Amaryllis wondered if he had settled on one of the other inns for some reason, or if he had suddenly decided he did not wish to marry her after all
and had shabbed off without a word. She managed to laugh at herself. The notion of Lord Pomeroy doing anything so ungentlemanly was absurd. The mystery was solved a few hours later, when Mr. Majendie's groom appeared with a fresh bundle of newspapers and a brief scrawl from Bertram. A quick look disclosed that Queen Caroline's trial was still the chief subject of the news. Amaryllis locked the papers away and turned to the letter.
Bertram had met Ashurst Majendie in Halstead on Sunday evening and had been invited to stay at his father's house for as long as his business kept him fixed in the district. He suggested that she should ask Mr. Majendie to allow her to bring her history class to study the castle ruins as they had the Roman ruins in Colchester. That, he averred, had been a splendid excursion.
Since she had in any case intended to do so, though not for a few weeks, Amaryllis quickly wrote the request and gave it to the groom. She took several groups of young ladies up the hill each year and was sure Mr. Majendie would oblige.
At four o'clock, Amaryllis left the classroom and, having ascertained that Mr. Raeburn would be delighted to stay to dine, repaired to her office. No more than two minutes later, Bertram sauntered into the room. He was dressed in riding breeches and top boots, his hair curling damply.
“I bring a message from Mr. Majendie,” he said in a deliberately loud voice.
Amaryllis saw Daisy hovering in the doorway behind him.
“His lordship would come in, miss,” she said indignantly. His lordship grinned and flipped a shilling to her with an accuracy that would have astonished anyone unacquainted with his reputation as a crack shot. She caught it niftily and curtsied, but did not budge an inch.
“That's all right, Daisy,” Amaryllis told her. “As you hear, Lord Pomeroy has brought a message from the castle. You were quite correct, though, to attempt to announce his arrival before showing him in."
The maid shook her head reprovingly at his unrepentant lordship, curtsied again, and departed. In spite of her disapproval, she tactfully closed the door behind her.
“I went riding this afternoon,” Bertram said, “so I left my horse at the Bell and walked over. I really do bear a message though. Mr. Majendie will be pleased to allow you to explore the castle on Wednesday. If you go to the house, his housekeeper will give you the keys. He's a nice old boy."
“Lewis Majendie is a well-known agriculturalist, a member of several Learned Societies, and author of a paper on the history of Hedingham Castle for the Society of Antiquaries,” corrected Amaryllis. “But you are right, he is a nice old boy, and a highly regarded Lord of the Manor. It is a pity, though, that the castle passed out of the hands of the Earls of Oxford after being in the de Vere family since the Norman Conquest."
“Are you about to give me a history lesson?” he asked suspiciously. “I am not one of your pupils, you know."
“Not now. If, as I suppose, you intend to join us on Wednesday, we shall cover six centuries or so in the course of a few hours."
His lordship groaned.
They chatted for a few minutes, then Amaryllis said that she must go up to the common-room to see to Mr. Raeburn's comfort. “Daisy will think it an excessively lengthy message if we are closeted together any longer,” she pointed out. “However, as a guest of Mr. Majendie it will be perfectly proper for you to request an introduction to the local vicar. Come up with me."
“Must I? I am not over fond of the clergy. An uncle of mine is a bishop—devilish chap."
“Of course you need not, though I must. We shall meet on Wednesday, after all, unless William the Conqueror frightens you off. By the way, I shall be unable to see you on Sunday, I fear. A matter of business."
“Business on the Sabbath? Shocking! You must put it off. Sundays are the only time I can spend with you."
“I cannot. I must chaperone some of the girls on a visit."
“Where to? Can I not go? I am sure by now they are coming to expect my escort."
“To Wimbish. It is a small village some fifteen miles from here.” She found herself ridiculously reluctant to pronounce the name of their host, but he might hear it from someone else and wonder why she had not mentioned it. “It is the home of one of our girls, Isabel Winterborne. Her father, Lord Daniel, has permitted her to invite her friends to spend the day there."
“Lord Daniel Winterborne,” he mused. “The name sounds familiar. One of Bellingham's sons?"
“So I assume, though he has not mentioned the connection."
“You remember George? I've not seen him since Vienna. He was at the Congress. I heard he was in Italy last winter, but I never caught up with him. Don't believe I ever met Daniel, though. Come to think of it, wasn't he with the army in Spain?"
“Was he?"
“Yes, now I remember! He ... But that's no tale to tell a gently bred female. You must have been in the schoolroom yourself at the time."
“At what time, Bertram? You cannot leave me in suspense like this!"
He was adamant. Many gentlemen of the Haut Monde were as eager to pass on on-dits and tidbits of scandal as any society matron, but Lord Pomeroy considered it vulgar. He looked at Amaryllis consideringly, as if wondering whether to warn her to be on her guard. However, he dropped the subject, stood up, and offered her his arm.
“Lead me to the vicar,” he said with resignation.
She complied, with a backward glance at the account book and correspondence that would have to be dealt with tomorrow. They found Mr. Raeburn talking to Miss Tisdale by the fire in the common-room. There were only three girls there, reading in a corner. The others would be scattered about the house, studying, drawing, practising their music. A few hardy souls were probably taking the air in the garden, well wrapped against the weather. Mrs. Vaux would be laid down on her bed.
She introduced Lord Pomeroy to the vicar, knowing that in spite of his professed dislike of churchmen he would be impeccably polite and probably charming. They soon discovered that they both, along with Miss Tisdale's father and brother, had been students at Magdalene College. Miss Tisdale had heard so much about it that she was able to join in their reminiscences, giving Amaryllis leisure to consider Bertram's words.
It seemed he knew something to Lord Daniel's discredit, yet he did not think her in danger from him. Was it because he still saw her as a member of the Ton, beyond the reach of any but a thorough-going blackguard? At least that meant he did not thus stigmatise Lord Daniel. More likely he simply thought her too dowdy by far to attract the attention of a rake. That was what she had decided herself, but all the same it was a lowering reflection!
Miss Tisdale took it upon herself to invite Lord Pomeroy to dinner. He looked down deprecatingly at his riding clothes and mud-splashed boots, but she hurried to assure him that he need not regard his inability to change.
If he thought that dining with three schoolmistresses, a clergyman, and a horde of giggling girls was bound to prove sadly flat, no hint of it appeared in his face or voice as he accepted. Amaryllis was sorely tempted to test his patience by seating him between chattering Louise, who was after all his niece, and silent Isabel. She resisted that temptation, succumbed to another, and placed him beside herself, though with Louise on his other side.
Lord Pomeroy behaved throughout the meal with perfect propriety, his composure threatened only when Daisy offered him a choice of lemonade or milk.
“Milk!” he exclaimed, outraged.
“It is good for you, Uncle Bertram,” his niece reproved him.
“Lemonade, please, Daisy,” he requested meekly.
Mrs. Vaux had warned him to stay behind with the vicar at the end of the meal, in order to give the girls an opportunity to practise withdrawing from the room and leaving the gentlemen with their port. This was accomplished in good order. His lordship was rewarded when Amaryllis returned to the dining room with a bottle of brandy, kept strictly for medicinal purposes.
Nothing could persuade him to go up with Mr. Raeburn to the common-room.
“Mr. Majendie is expe
cting me,” he pointed out smugly.
“Then wait while I put on my boots,” said Amaryllis. “It has stopped raining. I will walk with you as far as the corner."
The clouds had blown over, leaving a starry sky. The air was mild and fresh, more like spring than autumn, though drifts of fallen leaves under the trees were a reminder of coming winter. Her hand tucked under Bertram's arm, Amaryllis savoured the mingled scents of woodsmoke and wet grass as they strolled down King Street.
“Was dinner so very bad?” she asked, a laugh in her voice.
“Not at all. I wish the food at Eton had been half so good. And as for the company, I have had worse at many a diplomatic banquet."
“There speaks a diplomat. I must turn back now. I shall see you on Wednesday?"
“I am looking forward to my history lesson. Goodnight, my dear.” He kissed her wrist between glove and sleeve, watched as she walked back until she turned in at the gate and then strode on into the village.
She was still very dear to him, though she had changed over those six missing years. She was still the only woman he had ever wanted to make his wife. He did not want to press her for a decision, yet he must have an answer soon, for his father was suddenly growing old and his dearest wish was to see his heir married and settled.
Still, if she refused him, he could do little to search for a bride until the new Season began in March, when every eligible damsel in the kingdom would be paraded for his edification. All the matchmaking Mamas in town would seek out the wealthy heir to an earldom. The thought, as usual, appalled him. All he wanted was Amaryllis, and he must spend the months until March proving and reproving his devotion so that when the time came for him to insist on an answer, she would have no doubt that he loved her. He looked back, but the night had swallowed even the white blur of the proud sign announcing the school's presence.
Amaryllis opened the gate and lingered a moment with her hand on it, reading the sign by memory since the starlight was too dim to make out the letters. The expected feeling of achievement eluded her. The thought of going up to face her four and twenty pupils was disagreeable. Bertram's reappearance had made her dissatisfied with her lot. Why had she not told him she would wed him? Was there a lingering sense that it would be unfair to marry only to escape?