The Regency Romances of Mira Stables: Part One

by Mira Stables

  To Elizabeth, who could see nothing in the least wicked or revolutionary in Lucy’s innocent ambitions, this sweeping condemnation was incomprehensible. But since Lady Hester was obviously reluctant to discuss the Bassetts further, she obligingly turned the conversation to the promised visit of Timothy Elsford and the Earl’s suggestion of dancing parties. Lady Hester was delighted. It was so long since they had entertained any but shooting parties. How pleasant it would be to have young people about the place. She began at once to make lists of all those who might or must be invited, and Lucy Bassett’s peccadilloes were happily forgotten.

  In her rare intervals of solitude Elizabeth faced the need of apologising to her guardian. She could not remember exactly what terms of censure she had used in her disgust and rage, but they had probably been as unbecoming to her as they were unjust to him. Her cheeks burned anew as she pictured how he would sneer at her ignorance. No. That was unjust too. He never sneered. But his patient tolerance was almost as bad. He made one feel so pitifully young and inadequate. Elizabeth, who at twenty-three considered herself perfectly capable of conducting her own affairs, felt that she could very well do without his management. Nevertheless there was no evading the fact that she had done him a grave injustice and must confess her fault. Except that she had no wish to limp into the library leaning on a stick—a tacit appeal for pity—she would be been done with the odious necessity already. So she was divided between gratitude and apprehension when Dr Hartwell said she might emerge from the seclusion of her room and resume her usual habits so long as she rested the weak ankle frequently. She was craven enough to take breakfast in bed—she really could not face him publicly over the breakfast table—but as soon as that was done she rang for Edith and achieved her toilet with unusual expedition. Then there could be no more putting off, and after a stiff and awkward descent of the main staircase she stood hesitating before the library door.

  Her first knock sounded so timid and tentative in her own ears that she promptly followed it up with a much more aggressive assault, and then started back in foolish alarm when the Earl’s calm voice bade her come in. Oh dear! How wonderful it would have been to sweep into the room with her most dignified air, express her regrets in the polished phrases she had so carefully rehearsed and be done with the whole affair. Instead she must make her halting entry upon what seemed to be at least an acre of gleaming oaken floor, the Earl, at his writing table, as remote and unapproachable as any monarch.

  That impression at least was banished almost as soon as it formed, for at sight of her he had sprung to his feet and crossed that treacherous expanse in a few swift strides to lend her the support of his arm, enquiring the while if she was really well enough to be about so soon.

  “Yes indeed, my lord,” she assured him earnestly. “I had to come as soon as possible. I came—I came—” frantically she searched her memory for those painstakingly acquired phrases—“to express my regret for having so misjudged your actions. I am truly sorry—”

  She got no further. He was half smiling and shaking his head as he laid a finger lightly across her lips. “Please, Miss Kirkley! The fault was quite my own. There is no need to pour coals of fire. I should have admitted you into my confidence and explained the situation instead of sending you off on a foolish errand that I hoped would spare you the horrid knowledge of my necessity. I might then have earned your sympathy rather than your detestation. Indeed it is for me to beg your pardon.”

  So generous a reception wholly disarmed Elizabeth. She quite forgot that his was her tyrannical guardian and poured out her sympathy over his predicament in a warm, impulsive way that she had not permitted herself since she had been reft from her home. From the sorry business of the deer they passed naturally enough to other aspects of the water shortage, the Earl showing her a chart on which the daily state of all the springs and wells had been recorded and explaining how Mr Christison’s mill was working short time to conserve the water left in the mill pool, releasing just sufficient each day to serve the needs of the valley farms. Before either of them quite knew it they were deep in discussion of the responsibilities of landowners and employers of labour, and it was not until the library clock struck twelve that Elizabeth awoke to the realisation that the morning had fled and that she had kept the Earl from whatever task had been engaging him upon her arrival. She got up, blushing and apologising, and the Earl assured her that only some very dull correspondence had been neglected, and that could be dealt with at any time.

  Even after he had closed the door behind her he did not at once apply himself to the task, but sat for a long time deep in thought, turning the pen abstractedly between his fingers. Then, with a shrug and a wry little grimace, he pulled forward a fresh sheet of notepaper and began a new letter. It was addressed to his nephew Timothy, and it suggested that, if his engagements permitted, Timothy should put forward the date of his arrival at Anderley.

  The damaged ankle took its time to mend, and the days of enforced physical idleness seemed endless. She scarcely set eyes on the Earl except at dinner, and then he appeared unusually silent and withdrawn. She would have welcomed the distraction of one of their typical arguments. Even better would have been such good talk as they had shared that morning in the library. Lady Hester and Mary were sweet and considerate, but their interests were purely feminine. Elizabeth, having discovered the exhilaration of serious masculine talk, was eager for more. She was even guilty of deliberately varying the time of her appearance at breakfast in the hope of a chance encounter, but her luck was quite out and she had to make do with Lady Hester’s gentle vapourings or the high moral tone of Mary’s serious discourse. Had she but known it her ill-luck was a blessing in disguise, since of all things the Earl detested being obliged to make conversation over the breakfast table, a social necessity that he described as being positively barbarous. In happy ignorance of this common male foible, she continued to regret his absence. There was not even dear M. d’Aubiac to talk to, for of necessity the dancing lessons had been discontinued until such time as her ankle was better.

  “I really am becoming the horridest creature,” she thought ruefully, when, at long last, she was able to make good her escape and the mare was trotting down the avenue. “Being a lady of leisure doesn’t suit me at all. There just isn’t enough to do, and so I snap and snarl at kind people who think I should do even less.”

  In this she was doing herself less than justice, for she had been perfectly polite, reassuring Lady Hester, who had protested that it was much too soon for her to be riding, and wouldn’t she at least take a groom? Mary’s face of sober disapproval she had carefully ignored. Mary, she had discovered, while outwardly admiring, secretly regarded the Earl’s horses in much the same light that a medieval damsel viewed the dragon in the old romances—as a necessary but most uncomfortable appurtenance to the background of a man of quality. She did, however, suffer a genuine qualm of conscience at the realisation that in the fuss over her departure she had quite forgotten the Earl’s order that she should leave word in which direction she proposed to ride out. She had felt that Lady Hester’s disapproval of the outing would only be strengthened by the knowledge that her intention was to visit Lucy Bassett. She had meant to leave word at the stables, but with John unaccountably absent, no one else had thought to ask her where she was bound, and she herself had quite forgotten the oversight until now. She must just hope that no mishap would befall her today, for to go back now would only mean more fuss and delay, and after a week’s imprisonment the taste of freedom was sweet. She rode on.

  The cottage had quite a welcoming air as she approached it, for the front door was standing open, but there was no answer to her knock. She could scarcely walk in, calling for Lucy, as the Earl had done, but in view of the open door there must surely be someone about the place. After a brief hesitation she rode round to the back of the building. Ah! There was Lucy, busily engaged in spreading linen over some low-growing bushes, and equally busy with her was a fair-haired
mite of perhaps three or four years old, seriously intent on spreading her doll’s garments on the greensward in careful imitation.

  Lucy swung round at the sound of hoofs, said something in low tones to the little girl, and then came quietly towards Elizabeth. The child stayed where she was, gazing round-eyed at the visitor.

  “Good morning, Miss Kirkley,” said Lucy composedly. “I hope your ankle is quite well again. Will you not come indoors and rest awhile? It is full soon for you to be riding all this way after such a nasty fall. We can turn the mare into the croft here,” and she indicated a tiny enclosure which was already occupied by a cow and some hens.

  Elizabeth came down from the saddle willingly enough. Truth to tell, she would be glad of a brief rest, having rather overestimated her capabilities, but she declined the offer of refreshment and said that she would rather sit a while on the low wall that enclosed the garden, so that she need not hinder Lucy’s work. They could talk just as well in the open air. Lucy’s hesitation was patent, but she made no objection and held open the gate for the visitor to pass through. The little girl came slowly towards them.

  “This is Mally,” said Lucy gently. “Make your curtsy to the lady, Mally.”

  The child wobbled an unsteady little bob, and continued to stare solemnly at Elizabeth, one small pink thumb eventually finding its way into her mouth to her obvious comfort.

  “She is not much used to company,” said Lucy excusingly. “Not many visitors find their way so far from the village.” She went on with her work, talking easily enough of the difficulty of keeping linen a good colour now that she could no longer use the stream for rinsing. The little girl had picked up her doll and was crooning a tuneless lullaby as she rocked it in her arms. All seemed simple and natural enough. Yet Elizabeth was aware of some sort of constraint in the atmosphere. She could not help wondering who the child was. Hardly a neighbour’s child, so far from any other habitation, yet she had certainly understood that Bassett was a widower with just one unmarried daughter who kept house for him. There were other puzzles too. The child’s clothes were of the finest quality, the doll she cuddled an expensive one. There was certainly no lack of money in this humble home.

  Elizabeth had liked Lucy at their first meeting, and had come today with no other motive than to thank the girl for her kindness. She had no wish to pry into Lucy’s affairs and tried to stifle her natural curiosity, yet her gaze would keep wandering to Mally’s fair head, so different from Lucy’s gipsy-dark good looks. The child had an elusive likeness to someone she had met, but she could not quite pin it down. At this point Mally solved one problem for her by tumbling down and setting up an immediate wail for ‘Mammy’. Luckily Elizabeth had time to bring her features under control while Lucy gently rubbed the bump ‘to make it better’, and dried the tears on the rosy cheeks, for the shock was considerable. Here, of course, was the real reason why Lady Hester had so disapproved of her introduction to Lucy.

  She felt deeply sorry for the girl, and instantly comprehensive of the wary defensive look on her face as she knelt beside the child, holding her close in the circle of her arm, the two of them together against the world.

  “Would Mally like a ride?” she asked gently. “I could take her up in front of me. Or you could hold her in the saddle while I walk the mare.”

  Lucy’s eyes shone with a gratitude that was not for the proffered treat. “Oh! You are kind, truly kind,” she said huskily. “But I think she would be frightened. Perhaps I could hold her up to stroke the mare’s neck. That would be excitement enough. She is only a baby yet.”

  The pathetically eager gratitude was very touching. On a sudden warm impulse Elizabeth said, “Lady Hester was telling me that you dearly wished to learn to read. I wondered if perhaps I could help you.”

  There was the shine of tears in the dark eyes as the girl shook her head. “It is too late. I have so little time now, with Mally to care for. And though my father is very kind to me, he would not like it. He will not have me put myself forward in any way. But Mally shall learn when she is old enough,” she finished fiercely, and then, diffidently, “Perhaps, sometimes, Miss Kirkley, if you are riding this way, you will stop for a word or two? It can be very lonely here. And Mally and I can do you no harm.”

  “That I will certainly do,” said Elizabeth firmly. “And if there is any other way in which I may serve you I beg you will let me know. I shall not easily forget your kindness at our first meeting.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lady Hester came down to dinner in disconsolate mood. As the first course was being removed the cause of her plaint was disclosed. “Really, Richard,” she said reproachfully, “it is quite too bad. I have gone to a great deal of trouble, making plans for these parties that you promised the child, and I have just remembered that she is in mourning. It is quite your blame for insisting that she wears colours, else I should certainly not have forgotten.”

  The Earl emerged from a deep abstraction. “Parties, Hester?” he said vaguely. “It is scarcely the time to be giving parties with so much distress about. Do you really think you should?”

  “Elizabeth tells me that you yourself suggested giving one or two informal morning parties for her,” persisted Lady Hester. “So far as the poverty in the district is concerned, we should certainly need to take on extra maids to help with the preparations, so it would be quite an act of charity to do so, and, incidentally, with John away so much, we could well employ one or two extra men in the stables. But that is not the point. Would it be proper for us to give even the simplest party under the circumstances?”

  Since his sister seemed to be deeply concerned, the Earl obligingly bent his mind to the problem. An evening party, he pronounced, was quite ineligible, but one or two mornings devoted to the practice of the latest dances, under the guidance of M. d’Aubiac, could be counted as educational, and therefore unexceptionable. There could be some form of cold collation to add a touch of modest festivity—his sister would know best what was appropriate.

  Lady Hester considered his suggestions doubtfully. “It sounds dreadfully dull,” she sighed. “I suppose there could be no objections to my engaging extra musicians? But I daresay you are in the right of it. We must certainly not do anything to prejudice Elizabeth’s prospects when she comes out next year,” and she smiled at the girl with affectionate benevolence.

  “You would do well to defer your parties until after Timothy’s arrival,” said the Earl helpfully. “He can then act as host, in my behalf.”

  Elizabeth looked up with a gleam of pleased anticipation that did not escape the speaker. It would be pleasant, she was thinking, to meet Mr Elsford again. But Lady Hester, not to be bamboozled by her brother’s nonchalant delegation of his duties, expressed her disapproval.

  “Should you not be present yourself, Richard? I am sure there is not the least need for you to join in the dancing,” she added kindly, “but our guests will be sadly disappointed if they do not even see you.”

  Both Maria and Hester, their brother reflected with an inward smile, were apt to forget the twenty odd years that separated them from him. He had never discouraged their peculiar belief that he was of their own generation. Indeed it had seemed to him eminently desirable that Maria, at least, should be prevented from adopting elder sisterly airs. Hester, bred in a gentler mould, had never presumed to order his conduct and accorded him all the respect due to the head of the family, but there were times when her unconscious assumption that he was middle-aged, bordering on elderly, had been mildly irritating. On this occasion he was actually glad of it. It was no part of his plan to further his acquaintance with his attractive ward. Timothy must be allowed a clear field.

  He shook his head. “As you have just implied, my dear, I am far too old for such junketings. Besides, my presence would add just that note of formality that we are anxious to avoid. Timothy will do it very well, and there will be no stern martinet present to cast a damper on the proceedings.” And though his sister indignantl
y denied that she had meant any such thing, he only laughed, assured her that she had given him a splendid excuse for crying off, and would not be persuaded. Elizabeth was conscious of a surprisingly keen disappointment. She had looked forward to dancing with her guardian again. It was all the fault of that insidious waltz.

  There were few things that Lady Hester enjoyed better than arranging parties, and however modest their scope, everything must be done perfectly for the honour of Anderley. The extent of the ‘cold collation’ grew daily in magnificence and variety as she thought of new and indispensable delights. Everyone was sure to be hungry after such an energetic morning, and it would be shameful beyond words if her provision was insufficient for healthy young appetites. Then the ballroom must be furbished up, the lustres of the great chandeliers washed and polished, and elegant Chinese screens set across one third of the room’s length lest it should seem too vast for so small a party. “For nothing,” she assured her fascinated listeners, “is more fatal to the success of any party than too much space. You can positively see the guests wondering why so few are present, and naturally wishing themselves elsewhere.”

  Elizabeth was left wondering whether the arrival of King George himself could have caused more fuss and excitement. But it was infectious. She felt more gay and light-hearted than at any time since her translation. Her laughter came readily, and she sang softly to herself as she ran Lady Hester’s many errands, a change of mood which did not escape the Earl’s percipient eye, and upon which he placed his own interpretation. She found time, among her many small preoccupations, to visit the lonely cottage at the head of the dale, and generally contrived to take some small treat for Mally, perhaps a few shining beads to string, or a gaily striped sugar stick. It was pleasant to see how the shy mite now ran to greet her and held up dimpled arms to be lifted and hugged, and Lucy’s glance of warm content at her coming was royal welcome. They talked only of surface matters, Elizabeth respecting the girl’s reticence. Most of all, of course, they talked of the small Mally, and of her future when she should be old enough to be put to school. Once, in an unguarded moment, Lucy confided that she was saving part of her allowance each quarter to meet the cost of schooling. Elizabeth tacitly ignored the slip, speaking instead of her own schooldays, a subject that Lucy found so fascinating that she never realised how she had betrayed herself.