by Louise Allen
It was very fortunate that she had observed the consequences for a woman who fell into sin at first hand. Most of the girls working at The Blue Door had started their journey to the brothel with seduction at the hands of a sweetheart—just as Mama had. A briar thorn stuck in her thumb and she sucked it, wincing at the metallic taste of blood. Papa would turn that into a sermon—the apparently innocent loveliness of the flower hiding pain and danger. But she did not need a preacher to warn her that she was flirting with peril.
Celina began to work on the arrangement, straightening her bruised back as though to stiffen her resolve. Quinn Ashley was too much temptation even for an experienced society lady, let alone her. She must avoid him whenever possible.
Lina succeeded in staying out of Quinn’s way most effectively. She appeared at luncheon and dinner, made unexceptional conversation, refused to notice double-edged or teasing remarks and took her walks when she was certain that he and Gregor were shut up in the library.
Long trestle tables had been set up where the men were laying out and sorting papers as they retrieved them from all over the house. It seemed strange that the wicked Lord Dreycott could so immerse himself in scholarly pursuits. He ought to spend his time with his horses, his guns, his brandy and his cards, she thought resentfully, then she could categorise him very neatly.
For four days after that encounter in the gazebo life at Dreycott Park fell into a routine so disciplined and predictable that Lina felt sometimes that she had dreamed the demanding pressure of Quinn’s lips on hers, the strength of his arms, the heat of his mouth. She was living, it seemed, with a gentleman scholar and his assistant.
In the morning after breakfast, during which a large amount of post appeared, he and Gregor rode out or walked or exercised. They went into the long barn with rapiers and, according to Jenks, practised swordsmanship exhaustively. They wrestled and fought, attracting an audience of all the male staff, which drove the women of the household to exasperated nagging when none of the heavy work was done.
Then the copper was emptied to fill the marble bath and following luncheon they disappeared into the library. After dinner Quinn went to the study to read through his uncle’s work on the memoirs and make notes on how to complete them while Gregor continued to search through cupboards and shelves for paperwork. When they had the papers sorted, Quinn explained, they would begin on the books, creating a brief catalogue as they boxed them up.
The fifth day was Sunday. Lina put on her usual costume for attending church since she had arrived at Dreycott Park, the once-white gown that had been dyed to a soft grey, tied with a deep amethyst ribbon under the bosom. With white cuffs and narrow white lace at the neckline it looked sombre yet attractive, she thought, as she pinned up her hair into a complex plaited twist that her aunt had taught her. Simple pearl stud earrings, her gold cross, plain black-kid ankle boots and a bonnet trimmed with more of the amethyst ribbon completed the ensemble.
She picked up her prayer book and went down to breakfast. It was proper to join the men in the small dining room, she decided, instead of taking her tea and toast in the kitchen as usual.
They stood up as she came in. ‘Good morning. It is a lovely day, is it not?’ Then she saw that they were both clad in immaculate and conventional tailcoats, pantaloons and Hessian boots—and that they were both staring at her.
‘Celina, good morning. We are all dressed for church, I see.’
So that was what they were staring at. This was the first time she had worn her Sunday best. ‘You are coming to church, too?’ It had never occurred to her that they might; Gregor because she assumed he was not of the Protestant faith, Quinn because she found it hard to visualise him sitting attentively through a sermon with the eyes of the entire parish on him, speculating about his past and present sins.
‘We make a point of attending the religious rites of whatever community we find ourselves in,’ Quinn said. ‘Unless, of course, non-believers are unwelcome, which they are in some parts of the world. Religious observance is usually of great significance to a tribe,’ he added as though they were discussing diet or clothes.
‘You are not a believer, then?’ Lina asked, taken aback at the concept of the parishioners as a tribe to be studied. She did not think she had ever met someone of an atheistical persuasion before.
‘I am a sceptic. Certainly my great-uncle’s spirit has not visited to inform me that we were both wrong and I should repent immediately.’
It was a shocking thing to say, but the image he conjured up of old Simon’s spectre appearing in the bedchamber with dire warnings about repentance while Quinn sat bolt upright in bed in alarm almost made her laugh out loud. Lina fought to keep a straight face. ‘It is a charming church and Mr Perrin delivers an interesting sermon.’ Despite his dry appearance, the vicar had a mild sense of humour and a genuine concern for his flock which she admired.
‘Is there a box pew for the Park?’
‘No. We—I mean you—have a pew set aside, but all of them are rather charming medieval benches with carved ends, not enclosed ones.’ And the congregation will have an uninterrupted view of their shocking new lord of the manor, she thought, wondering if that had prompted his question. He did not appear alarmed at the prospect.
Trimble came in with a newspaper on a salver. ‘A newspaper at last, my lord. Friday’s Morning Chronicle has only just arrived from London. What has happened to The Times I regret I cannot say—some inefficiency at the receiving office, I have no doubt. I will enquire. I trust those two papers will be suitable?’
‘Eminently, thank you, Trimble.’
Lina stared at the folded paper beside Quinn’s plate. If it had been The Times she would not have worried: sensational crimes several weeks old would not feature there. But the Chronicle always ran crime stories, and followed them up whenever a titillating snippet came out; there was a chance that something about the fugitive Celina Shelley would be in there.
Quinn showed no inclination to look at the paper yet and Gregor scarcely glanced at it. ‘I wonder…might I see the paper for a moment? I…there is an advertisement I would like to find if it is in that issue.’
‘Of course.’ Quinn handed it across and went back to his gammon and eggs.
The front page was all advertisements as usual. She made a show of skimming past notices about artificial teeth, anatomical stays, the Benevolent Society of St Patrick’s annual general meeting, Essence of Coltsfoot for coughs and several notices of lotteries. The inside two pages were without notices, but a glance showed her it was all international and court news. The back page, however, was full of snippets. Fire at Kentish Town…protest against threshing machines…bizarre accident to a pedestrian in Newcastle…the Tolhurst Sapphire.
There was only an inch, but to Lina’s eyes it seemed to be printed in red ink. Sir George Tolhurst, lately succeeded as baronet after the tragic death of his father, Sir Humphrey Tolhurst, has offered a reward of one hundred guineas for information leading to the capture of Miss Celina Shelley, a young woman of dubious character, who removed the famous Tolhurst Sapphire from the finger of the expiring baronet after inveigling herself into his Duke Street house. Miss Shelley, a well-favoured and genteel-seeming young female, is of middling stature with long straight yellow hair and blue eyes.
She laid the Chronicle down beside her plate, the blood loud in her ears as she fought down the panicky instinct to grab the paper and flee.
‘More coffee?’ She picked up the pot, newly refilled by Michael, and moved it towards Quinn’s cup. ‘Oh! Ouch!’ She jerked, the coffee splashed out and on to the folded paper. ‘I am sorry.’ Quinn reached out and took the pot from her hands. ‘It was so heavy and my arm is still sore from falling the other day. Oh, dear, your newspaper!’ Lina took her napkin and dabbed fiercely at the coffee stain, the soft newsprint disintegrating under the assault. ‘Now I’ve made it worse!’
‘Allow me, Miss Haddon.’ Trimble removed the paper and held it up. ‘It will dry by th
e range, my lord. There is now a hole, but it can be made readable, at least.’
‘Have you scalded yourself?’ Quinn sounded more concerned about her welfare than the state of his newspaper. He certainly did not seem suspicious. But why should he be? It was only her own awareness of danger that made the item seem to leap from the paper at her. ‘No? But those bruises are still bad? Gregor, you must lend Celina your pot of bear fat. A sovereign remedy, I understand.’
‘Thank you, but arnica is perfectly adequate.’ She smiled at Gregor, not wanting to offend, although she suspected he had probably killed the animal in question himself with his bare hands. The restrained elegance of formal morning wear made him look, if anything, larger and more forbidding than usual. ‘We should be going soon,’ she added with a glance at the clock. ‘The carriage will be at the door.’
Jenks had sent round the barouche with the top down so they could enjoy the sunny weather. With the betraying newspaper announcement safely illegible her mood lifted and Lina wished she had a parasol to twirl. Instead, she allowed herself to be handed into the forward-facing seat opposite the two men and prepared to enjoy the treat of a drive through the park to Upper Cleybourne church.
The bells were ringing, the cracked tenor that had so annoyed Simon spoiling the joyous peel. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘that’s the bell the legacy will replace.’ They came out of the gates and pulled up on the little green outside the church. It was already thronged with parishioners chatting in the sunshine and heads turned as the Dreycott barouche came to a halt.
Lina descended, preoccupied with sorting out reticule and prayer book and smoothing down her skirts. Then the change in the sound penetrated and she looked up. All around the little groups were falling silent as they stared and the faces that watched them were set and unwelcoming.
So, the gossip mills have been working to grind out all the old history and they’ve made up their minds, have they? she thought. There were people with whom she had thought herself on cordial terms, with whom she expected to exchange smiles and greetings and village news, who were staring now. They froze her with the same disapproval they directed at the men—it was much worse than she had feared.
We’ll see about that, Lina thought. Inside she quailed—disapproval had always shrivelled her soul—but now she lifted her chin, set her shoulders back and made herself walk up to Mr and Mrs Willets and their family.
Mrs Willets had been amiable when Lina stepped off the stagecoach in Sheringham, tired and confused. Lina had fallen into conversation with the Willets’s new governess, who was being met by Mrs Willets in their carriage, and, after a whispered word from Miss Greggs, the matron had been happy to take up Lord Dreycott’s guest. Now the squire managed an uneasy smile of greeting, his wife looked daggers and their daughters edged behind their father.
‘Good morning,’ Lina said brightly. ‘Have you met Lord Dreycott yet? He is most anxious that his late uncle’s legacy to restore the cracked bell is dealt with urgently. Won’t it be a joy to have a musical peal?’
‘Er, no.’ Mr Willets looked harassed. ‘I mean, yes, it will. Good morning, my lord.’ He bowed and Quinn inclined his head in response.
‘Mr Willets. Madam. May I introduce Mr Vasiliev?’
Gregor bowed, Mrs Willets glared at Lina, the girls giggled. Lina gritted her teeth into a smile and swept on to the next group with much the same result: wary politeness from the men, thinly veiled hostility from the women and no attempt to introduce daughters.
By the time she reached the church door she was seething and her nervousness had become lost in her anger for Quinn. How could they be so rude and unwelcoming to a man they had never met, just on the basis of ancient gossip?
Perhaps he hasn’t noticed, she thought. Perhaps he thinks this is just typical English village society. Then as she reached the porch she turned and saw Quinn’s face. He was smiling, but his eyes were like chips of green ice.
Chapter Seven
Well, no-one has actually spat on my boots yet, Quinn conceded as he walked up the path in Celina’s wake. It was like following a small, very fierce frigate, wheeling to turn its guns on any enemy shipping it passed. He was touched by her anger on his behalf but he had expected, and to an extent merited, this reception. She did not deserve to be treated like this by those sanctimonious prigs who had shunned his uncle. He certainly did not want to have her fall out with her acquaintance over him and he was not happy about it.
He caught up with her in the porch and bent to murmur in her ear, ‘Not so fierce!’
‘I had not expected them to be like this,’ she whispered back. ‘I am so sorry. They are decent people—I thought.’ She was not normally so confrontational, he sensed. If asked, he would have said her instinct was to avoid trouble, not face it. It was touching that she was so strong in his defence, like a kitten defending a mastiff, tiny claws out, tail bristling.
‘And they think I am not decent. Most perceptive of them,’ he said and was taken aback by the look of reproof she flashed him.
‘Do not say that! They must respect you, even if they do not like you. You have responsibilities here—these are your people now.’
‘Not for long,’ he retorted. ‘I’ll be as pleased to get rid of them as they will be to get shot of me.’ He showed his teeth in what should have been a smile and the verger who was hastening forward to escort them to their pew flinched visibly.
‘Good morning, Mr Bavin,’ Lina said. She stepped towards the man and Quinn saw him relax. ‘How is the rheumatism this morning? You look very sprightly, if I may say so.’
She is good with people, Quinn thought as the verger positively beamed.
‘Much better, thanks to the tincture you sent down, Miss Haddon. Done me the world of good, it has.’ He preceded them down the aisle and stood to one side while they filed into the front right-hand pew. Quinn could feel the tingle in the back of his neck that told him he was being watched as the congregation came in behind them. Let them stare if it amused them.
Celina was on her knees, head bent, hands folded. He watched her from the corner of his eye; so, she had taken on the duties of the lady of the house, looking after the local sick. Her aunt had been pious, she said. Was that where she had acquired her instinct for parish works?
He sat back in the hard pew, Gregor silent beside him, and thought about the incident at breakfast with the newspaper and the coffee. An accident? But Celina was not clumsy; he watched her more closely than he hoped she realised and she moved with a natural grace. Nor had she been favouring that arm and he did not believe it hurt her so much she could not control a coffee pot.
The organ wheezed into life and the congregation rose, searching their books for the first hymn. Quinn had no intention of singing, but he realised Celina was fumbling with her hymnal. Her hands were unsteady. Damn it, he thought, it was nerves about coming to church that had made her shaky at breakfast and now, with her fears about their reception confirmed, she was trembling.
Quinn reached out, removed the hymn book from her unresisting fingers, glanced up at the board hanging on the pillar and turned to the right number. ‘There you are.’
She shot him a grateful smile and began to sing in a clear contralto while Quinn tried to recall the last time he had stood in an English church finding hymns for a lady. It must have been that Sunday when Angela Hunton, the Earl of Sheringham’s eldest daughter, the young lady with whom he had believed himself deeply in love, proposed that they anticipate the marriage bed by making love in the summer house.
It was probably the first—and last—time that innocence and romantic idealism had saved his skin. If he had not refused, shocked to the core at the very suggestion that he sully the purity of the lady he worshipped, then he would now be married to a promiscuous little liar and bringing up another man’s child.
Beside him Gregor, having heard the first verse through, was joining in with the singing, his rumbling bass putting up a good fight with the organ. Celina glanced acr
oss in surprise, caught Quinn’s eye and bit her lip to suppress a smile. He smiled back and bent to pick up her prayer book to find the place in that for her.
That kiss in the gazebo had been a mistake in timing, if nothing else, he concluded. An armful of Miss Haddon had been delightful and the taste of those lips gave him moments of pleasurable recollection even days later, but he had handled it badly. He had not understood her, and, he was all too aware, he still did not.
In his experience women fell into four categories, so far as carnal pleasure went: the professionals; married women and widows who were more than willing to be persuaded to share their beds; respectable married women and widows who needed more subtle persuasion; servants and innocent young ladies who were most certainly neither fair game nor satisfying flirts.
The hymn ended and they sat. Celina took the prayer book from him with a murmured, ‘Thank you.’ Their fingers tangled for a moment and Quinn made no effort to remove his hand, enjoying the feeling of Celina’s slim fingers enmeshed with his. She retrieved hand and prayer book and faced the front, her cheeks pink. She had stopped shaking, he noticed.
Which of his categories did Celina Haddon fit into? Was she a fallen woman making a very good attempt at an appearance of virtue? A married woman or widow—virtuous or otherwise—in hiding for some reason? He found he was suspicious of this aunt who was so vaguely unable to look after her. Or perhaps she was exactly what she purported to be, a respectable innocent. But if an innocent, she was certainly an unusual one who knew slang terms for brothels, who melted into his arms, who had so many of the little tricks of an accomplished flirt.
The Reverend Perrin’s sermon was, as Celina had promised, intelligent and even mildly witty in a dry kind of way. But their reception as they emerged into the sunlight again was not noticeably improved by the congregation’s spiritual experience. Shoulders were turned, people they had not met on their way in walked away as though to ensure they did not have to speak.