The Marquis emerged from the trance-like state which his condition of exhaustion had temporarily induced to observe bleakly that she had no need to crawl to his brother, since the house did, after all, belong to him, the Marquis of Capel. And he added further that any expenses incurred by their visit would be borne by him.
Harriet was somewhat amazed that Lord Bruce appeared not to mind in the very least this timely reminder that he himself was permitted to reside at Hollowthorne only as the result of a charitable gesture on the part of his elder brother. And that he was not in a position to entertain regally did not appear to upset him, either. Or, rather, the inference that he was in a slightly more impecunious position than the other members of his family, despite the sacrifice he had made at Waterloo.
He limped to the sideboard and produced a decanter and glasses, and although Harriet refused refreshment the Marquis, as always, appeared to be in dire need of it. Then Fetcham appeared and announced that his master’s room was ready for him, and he made the suggestion that the Marquis’s arm should be looked to the instant they had got him upstairs. The Marquis agreed, and signalled to Harriet that she should accompany them upstairs, but Lord Bruce intervened.
“I hardly think that is necessary,” he objected. “Miss Yorke is obviously tired after her journey, and if no more than a change of bandage is required I’m sure Fetcham can attend to it.”
The Marquis protested immediately.
“But Miss Yorke is my nurse!”
“A highly experienced and fully qualified one?”
The Marquis swore softly.
“No, damn it, but she is my nurse all the same!”
“Then she will attend to you tomorrow morning, after she has had a good night’s rest. I’m sure you will both benefit from a night’s rest after such an extraordinary experience as you both appear to have survived. In the event of an emergency I will summon our local physician.”
But Harriet stood uncomfortably at the foot of the stairs, and she followed the ascent of her patient and his manservant with an anxious expression in her eyes. There was no doubt about it, Lord Capel was climbing the stairs in as laborious a manner as he knew how, but she had seen the look in his eyes when he had decided to accept his brother’s dictum that she would attend to him in the morning and not argue the matter further, and it had reminded her of the faintly rebuffed, faintly hurt look of a small boy. Although he had said something pettishly about not expecting much from any woman, least of all one who owed him a debt and was not sufficiently high-minded to wish to repay it, she still thought she should have accompanied Fetcham upstairs and at least supervised the removal of his bandage.
She looked a little helplessly at Lord Bruce, who was observing her with a slight smile, and said that she thought she should have made herself as useful as possible to the Marquis. He had, after all, sustained a most unpleasant wound.
“Quite,” Lord Bruce agreed, in a remarkably soft and very pleasing voice for one who in the past had been accustomed to issuing orders. “But Fetcham is perfectly capable of dealing with him tonight, and indeed I would trust Fetcham to grapple successfully with almost any emergency. Now, I suggest you go upstairs to your own room, which I believe is the small guest-room at the head of the corridor directly facing you when you reach the top of the stairs, and I will see to it that Mrs. Rawlins brings some dinner to your room on a tray.”
“I could perfectly well fetch a tray from the kitchen myself-”
“Not while you are a guest in my—er,” he corrected himself, “brother’s house!”
She smiled at him with swift sympathy and understanding. “I am very sure Lord Capel is delighted to have you taking care of his house for him,” she told him, although afterwards she considered such a speech a trifle impertinent. “Houses such as this cannot be neglected, and, indeed, they are apt to fall into decay
“Which Hollowthorne commenced to do a full century and a half ago,” he replied. “Unfortunately it has never seemed to have much appeal for its owners, and Rick positively objects to it on the grounds that it is hidden away and too small for his taste. For my part I find it very suited to my particular requirements at the moment. But then I am a soldier with no brilliant future ahead of me, and no very real idea what I am to make of that future—minus an arm, as you were so quick to find out! And that unfortunate anomaly, a younger son!”
“I do apologise, Lord Bruce,” Harriet said uncomfortably. “It was appallingly rude of me to comment on your arm!”
“Not at all,” he assured her. And she discovered that when he smiled his somewhat haggard face was transformed, and one thing that had rather puzzled her about him became finally clear. His eyes were several degrees lighter than Lord Capel’s, a sort of chestnut brown, warm and reassuring and transparently honest, quite unlike the glinting darkness between the heavy fringes of the Marquis’s luxuriant eyelashes. “I could hardly believe my good fortune when I saw you alight from my brother’s carriage. My life here is so unrelievedly dull that a visitor such as yourself is like an apparition from another world. So I beg you do not apologise to me for anything whatsoever!”
“But, Lord Bruce,” she said to him earnestly, “I have to make it clear to you that my visit is quite an accident, and indeed I have to leave here very soon. Perhaps—perhaps if I could—talk to you about the quite extraordinary situation in which I find myself...”
“Yes, yes,” he replied to her reassuringly, “you shall talk to me tomorrow. We will have a family conference—I have a feeling that Rick is in some ridiculous form of trouble which we shall have to do something about. Almost certainly if my father is not to hear of it! Now, can I persuade you to go upstairs to your room and rest? You do badly need rest, of that I am quite assured.”
Harriet was inclined to agree with him, and at the same time she wondered what he would say if he knew that she had slept for at least a part of the night before in the Marquis’s own room. He had said that she need not apologise to him for anything, but she was very certain he would consider that more than a little strange. And so would a very large number of other people! Her father, most certainly, if he was alive... Indeed, he’d probably insist that the Marquis married her without a moment’s delay and be ready to run him through with his own small-sword if he refused!
And although the Marquis might laugh uproariously at such a notion, and particularly at the threat of the smallsword, how would he react if his sister, Lady Fanny Bingham, had been involved in such a situation...? Or the lady over whom he had fought a duel, despite the earnest advice of his friends!
As she mounted the stairs Harriet felt her feet dragging a little, for she was really so tired that she wondered whether she would have the strength to undress herself before crawling into bed. And if she had had to take yet another look at the Marquis’s wound after so many hours devoted to travelling and quite unwonted excitement, she knew that it was more than possible that she would have actually turned faint. She was filled with gratitude for the kind intervention of Lord Bruce.
But when after following, in a spirit of meek obedience, the directions issued to her, she reached her room at last and saw the can of hot water covered by a snowy towel on the dressing-table, her bed turned down and a fire crackling in a lively manner on the hearth, her spirits revived, and her gratitude increased. Even if she was not provided with any dinner she would have little to grumble at so long as she was allowed to sleep in peace.
But dinner—an excellent dinner—was provided, and it was the housekeeper herself who conveyed it to her room. Elderly and rheumaticky like her husband, and almost overburdened with curiosity rather than resentment because she had had to bestir herself and ensure that the unexpected visitors received adequate attention, she fussed over Harriet like a hen with one chick, apparently not in the least surprised that she was a part of the Marquis’s entourage. It could have been that she was accustomed to the Marquis making occasional descents on lonely Hollowthorne with one of his lady friends (not,
perhaps, altogether acceptable in the circles in which he was accustomed to move!); but Harriet preferred to think that this was not so. She preferred to think that Mrs. Rawlins was a naturally kindly woman with an amazing facility for creating feather-light dumplings, who enjoyed looking after exhausted young women like herself, and making absolutely certain that the hot brick in their bed was well wrapped up in layers of flannel, and that the supply of fuel beside the hearth was not likely to be seriously diminished during the hours of darkness should she find it impossible to sleep.
Fortunately for Harriet she slept soundly, and in the morning she awakened to find her room full of sunshine and the fire still smouldering on the hearth. When she leaned from her window to take a good look at the morning she was charmed by the trailing scarves of mist that had already ascended high among the branches of the trees and were rapidly evaporating in the warmth of the sun, and by the blue of the sky that hung like a canopy above Hollowthorne. And although on the previous afternoon she had thought the grounds overgrown, she now considered them delightful. The air was piercingly sweet with the perfume of the sprawling roses and with the perfume of wallflowers and violets and early lilies and jasmine, delicate tendrils of which climbed right up to her window inviting her to detach a small sprig for her own adornment, which she sniffed with acute pleasure as she made her way downstairs for breakfast.
Mrs. Rawlins had informed her that breakfast was served in a room known as the Oak Parlour, and having discovered it, and also made the discovery that Lord Bruce was there before her, she entered it a trifle shyly.
Lord Bruce rose at once, and greeted her with enthusiasm. She had put on a sprigged gown, and her curls were shining; her complexion was like the pale heart of a pink china rose, and her eyes were as clear as a trout stream. When she smiled, as she did a little uncertainly, her lips curved upwards engagingly at the comers, and dimples lurked at both sides of her mouth. Lord Bruce’s brown eyes beamed at her, and he thought of sunlit meadows and little streams and uncurling buds of springtime blossoms.
“Good morning, Miss Yorke,” he greeted her. “I do trust you slept very well?”
“Oh, excellently,” she replied. “Excellently!”
He carved her a slice of delicious pink ham which was on a side table, and placed a basket of newly baked bread close to her elbow. In response to his ring Mrs. Rawlins brought her a tray of tea all to herself, the enormous silver teapot striking her as a little absurd, but very welcome nonetheless. When she got to the stage of sampling Mrs. Rawlins’ own preserve she declared that she had never tasted anything quite like it before. The Marquis of Capel was very fortunate in having such an excellent pair of servants left in charge of Hollowthorne, and before she left she simply must persuade the housekeeper to part with one or two of her recipes which she could take back with her to Lowthan Hall when she returned to it.
“Lowthan Hall?” Lord Bruce looked decidedly curious at her mention of it. “Where is that? Am I to take it that that is where you live? If so, it is a very fortunate place indeed!”
Blushing slightly, Harriet explained that it was where she earned her living as companion to the two youngest de Courceys. That statement would have involved her in an immediate explanation of the somewhat curious situation in which she found herself, had she not already made up her mind that she would say nothing of any particular relevance until she had had an opportunity of seeing the Marquis. He was on her conscience, and she was simply not in the mood to dwell upon other matters for the time being, she explained carefully. As soon as she had finished her breakfast, she thought she ought to go upstairs and look at her patient, if only to prevent him running another high temperature as a result of fancied neglect.
“So if your lordship will excuse me...?” as she rose.
Lord Bruce, who had just dissected a particularly rosy apple and removed its core, looked up at her with a slight frown.
“But surely,” he objected, “there is no very great urgency? I looked in on him myself early this morning and he appeared to be sleeping quite peacefully. And Fetcham, I am sure, would have acquainted me with any deterioration in his condition.”
“Nevertheless, I think I ought to ascertain for myself that all is well.”
“You take your duties very seriously?”
“They are not precisely my duties, my lord.” She looked down demurely at the skirt of her gown. “It is rather a matter of my conscience, as Lord Capel pointed out to me on our arrival here yesterday. You must have overheard him say something of the kind.”
“Rick has a habit of making statements with which I could in no wise agree,” Lord Bruce told her, looking, however, a little curious as he did so. He eyed the shapely but very capable-looking hands smoothing the front of her dress, and then glanced upwards at her lowered white eyelids and her faintly drooping mouth, with a wry twist to its corners. “At least, not on every occasion. You must not allow him to affect your judgement in matters of any importance to you, Miss Yorke ... And certainly you must not allow him to make unreasonable demands of you!”
“No, my lord.” But her small smile remained inscrutable, and her long eyelashes did not lift. “And now, if you will excuse me, my lord—?”
“But of course,” he said, and rose and stood watching her as she left the room, the apple he had prepared for her remaining on his own plate, while her light feet carried her swiftly upstairs.
She tapped cautiously on Lord Capel’s door, and Fetcham called to her immediately to come in. His lordship was already up and dressed, which considerably astonished her. He was sitting beside his window. His expression was noticeably dour, but although he was interestingly pale and there were dark shadows under his eyes as if he had suffered a good deal, and was still suffering to a certain extent, there was no doubt that he was already on the road to what might yet prove to be a slow recovery.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, as she moved into the middle of the room. “Is this not early in the day for you to be out of your bed?”
The Marquis glared at her.
“If it is, then there is no reason why you, at least, should comment on it,” he replied. “Your attitude since we arrived at Hollowthorne has made it abundantly plain that my progress, whether uphill or down, is not of the slightest interest to you. I trust,” he added formally, “that you slept well? I have no idea where they put you, but from your appearance you were provided with a reasonably comfortable bed.”
“Oh, I was, my lord,” she assured him. “A very comfortable bed! Your housekeeper, Mrs. Rawlins, is a very kind woman, and she looked after me so well that I feel a new being. And I have just breakfasted in the company of your brother. I find him very pleasant, too.”
“Excellent,” Lord Capel growled. He indicated a chair facing him. “Sit down. You and I have a good deal to talk about, and it is long overdue.”
“I fail to understand how you arrive at that conclusion,” she told him in a gentle voice, as she ignored his invitation and decided to risk resting a hand lightly on the coolness of his forehead. He refrained from taking advantage of the gesture. “Splendid!” she exclaimed. “You have no fever.”
“I am perfectly well aware of that.”
“And as for any conversation between us being long overdue, we have only known one another for a matter of two days and nights. Admittedly, it does seem to be rather longer than that.”
“You know very well that I am referring to the conditions under which we have known one another. It is seldom, I imagine, that a young woman of your years and station finds it necessary to share a bedroom with a man about whom she knows little or nothing, and is compromised to such an extent that the landlord of an inn assumes she is a married lady and refers to her as such. And as I am the author of these tribulations of yours. Miss Yorke, I’m dev’lish concerned about the position—and dev’lish disturbed!”
“Why, my lord?” She sat down obediently facing him—Fetcham having discreetly left the room—and confronted him with
a smooth, and utterly unreadable, creamily-pink face lighted by those water-green eyes of hers. She fluttered her eyelashes a little, and looked down at her hands. “What is so very disturbing about my position?”
“I’ve just said that you’ve been damned well compromised!”
“But only in a very remote and tucked-away inn, which we are neither of us very likely to see again.” For an instant her eyes met his, and she was intrigued by the curiously baffled expression in the lustrous dark depths surveying her. “And for most of the time Fetcham was with us. I’m sure he constituted an excellent chaperon, apart from the one occasion when—when—”
“Ah, there you have it, girl!” He nodded his head at her in some satisfaction. “Apart from the one occasion when I dragged you down on to the bed and behaved towards you in a highly reprehensible manner! Fetcham was not there then! And even if he had been I doubt whether you would have gained much support from him! Why, dammit, don’t you understand...? He is used to—to—”
“Ladies of a slightly different persuasion whom you entertain from time to time?” Harriet suggested softly.
Lord Capel swore.
“If I do, it’s nothing whatsoever to do with you, you impertinent chit. Why in heaven’s name I couldn’t think of some way of ridding myself of you for good and all when you came to me that night in St. James’s Square I can’t think,” he lamented helplessly. “Believe me, I would have done so if I could! I never at any time liked the look of you, with those great green eyes of yours, and that critical expression which is the most uncomfortable thing about you! You sought to make me feel a villain, and you even accused me of annexing the de Courcey brats’ fortune...
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