The Regency Romances of Mira Stables: Part One

by Mira Stables

  For the first time since she had been brought to Anderley she was unreservedly grateful for the standard of service and comfort that the Earl maintained. Though it was past three in the morning a groom was on the alert for his return, ready to take charge of the horses. A lamp was burning in the hall, and no less a person than the majestic Harrison himself came softly forward to attend to any wishes that his master might choose to express. A brief low-voiced colloquy ensued. The Earl turned to Elizabeth, who was standing wearily with one arm round the drooping Lucy.

  “You will want to see her safely bestowed,” he said gently. “I have asked Harrison to have Gertrude called. She is one of the maids with whom Lucy was friendly before she went away, and she is a kindly girl who will be glad to help her former friend. Once you have persuaded Lucy to swallow Dr Hartwell’s draught, you may safely leave her to Gertrude’s care. I think you should take some refreshment before you retire, for you must be quite exhausted. Harrison will bring wine and biscuits to the library and I beg that you will join me there when you have seen Lucy settled.”

  Elizabeth began to murmur something vague and disjointed about not being so very tired—she was not so poor a creature—and her gratitude for his concern, but the advent of Gertrude put an end to her protestations. Gertrude had obviously dressed by guess and in great haste. Her gown was buttoned awry and the hem of her nightgown hung an irregular inch below it, her cap had been crammed on hurriedly on top of her curling rags and she was still sleep-flushed and drowsy-eyed. But she hurried to Lucy’s side full of kindly concern, and Lucy, too emotionally drained to be on the defensive, allowed herself to be led upstairs unresisting, borne on the floodtide of Gertrude’s warm sympathy.

  In the library the Earl waited patiently for Elizabeth’s return beside a fire which Harrison had cunningly replenished with a double handful of fir cones and some small logs. On first coming into the room he had snuffed the candles, so that only the fireglow lit the semi-circle about the hearth, where a low chair had been set ready for Elizabeth with the tray standing on a tripod table beside it.

  He leaned back lazily in his own chair, stretching his long limbs luxuriously, his body relaxed, his expression inscrutable as ever, until the door opened softly and Elizabeth appeared on the threshold and came rather diffidently towards him. Then he was on his feet in one swift movement, catching her cold hands to draw her to the comfort of the hearth and installing her in the easy chair with a reverence that would have graced a throne-room. She had taken time to tidy her hair and bathe her face and hands, but she looked pale and tired and her gown was hopelessly crumpled. Not even the devoted Miss Clara would have claimed that the beloved niece was in her best looks. To the Earl she seemed wholly lovable in her weariness. He was aware of an almost overmastering desire to take her in his arms and coax her back to confident happiness, coupled with a deep regret that this was definitely not the moment for such behaviour. Even setting aside the tragic experience that they had just shared, it would be highly improper for a guardian to be making love to his ward alone in a sleeping house at four o’clock in the morning. Impatient of convention the Earl might be, but his love should be treated with the honour due to a princess of the blood. So it was only the hint of reluctance with which he released her hands that might have betrayed him to an onlooker, had there been one.

  “Indeed, my lord, I came only to tell you that Lucy has taken the draught and then to bid you goodnight,” protested Elizabeth, as the Earl, without enquiring her preference, poured sherry into her glass.

  “Nevertheless you will drink your wine and be the better for it,” he said coolly, with a return to the old masterful manner, holding out the glass so that she was forced to take it from him just for good manners, and having done so found herself sipping it without conscious thought and then acknowledging that he had been right to insist. The mellow golden liquid eased a little of the ache of unshed tears in her throat, and the burden of helpless pity was insensibly lightened by the deep security that seemed to enfold her in the quiet firelit room. She found herself thinking sleepily that his lordship would know just what to do and that she could leave it all to him, and on the thought she smiled across at him with such open affection and trust that the Earl’s hands closed sharply on the arms of his chair and he had to remind himself hastily of the good resolutions so recently made.

  “You have been so kind to me tonight,” she said dreamily, and he realised that in her weariness she was not so much talking to him as thinking aloud, “that it is hard to believe that I hated you so much at first.”

  The involuntary jerk of the Earl’s head and the wry twist of his lips roused her to the knowledge that she had spoken aloud. She blushed rosily, but the tired blue eyes met his bravely enough, and she went on steadily, “That had to be said between us, my lord, though indeed I had not meant to say it at this present. But having begun, I will finish. Since I have come to reside under your roof you have shown me a kindness far beyond what was required of you by duty. I am deeply sensible of your care for me, and beg you to pardon any—any discourtesy that I may have shown before I learned to value you as I should.”

  Stem measures were called for, decided the Earl, or he would be catching the lovable penitent into his arms and smothering her with kisses. He pulled himself together firmly.

  “Blackmailer and bullying tyrant—bloodstained brute—” he enumerated thoughtfully. “Would you call them discourtesies, Miss Kirkley? I shudder to think what terms you would regard as insults! But come, my child. It is not kind in me to tease you when you are so sleepy that you scarce know what you are saying. To bed with you. We will continue this discussion at a more suitable time.”

  Even in her present humble state of mind this was going too far. “I am not a child,” she said with dignity, and would have gone on to aver that she knew very well what she was saying had not the Earl laid one finger lightly across her lips.

  “Are you not?” he asked softly. “To me you seem a veritable infant—but a very wise one,” he added hastily, placatingly, “and one to whom my thanks for this day’s work shall be rendered in due form when she is less sleepy.”

  He led her firmly to the foot of the stairs, lit her bedroom candle and put it into her hand. Then he took her free hand into his and raised it to his lips, an action so unusual that even in her daze of exhaustion the blue eyes widened in surprise. The deep voice was so velvet soft—she could scarce believe that she had heard him aright, but must already be dreaming. He could not, surely, have said, “A beloved, adorable infant”?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elizabeth woke late. The great house lay drowsing in its mid-day somnolence. She could hear the stable clock striking as she sat up in bed. Eleven o’clock already! Someone must have given orders that she was not to be wakened, and here was the morning almost spent and so much to be done. She jumped out of bed and pulled the bell to summon Edith, then drew back the curtains to let in the light of another grey day, with never a gleam of sun to raise one’s spirits nor yet a drop of rain to bless the thirsty earth.

  She turned to her wardrobe in search of a dress to lighten the prevailing gloom and cheer her own mood, for she felt unusually tense and restless this morning in spite of her long sleep. Part of her mind was mulling over the problem of Lucy and wondering what could be done to help her, but there were other thoughts clamouring insistently for attention. She wondered, safely enough, where her guardian was this morning and what he was doing, but then strayed on to the more dangerous and delightful ground of trying to recall his every word and expression during that brief and dreamlike interlude in the small hours. Edith, coming quietly into the room with a tray in her hands, found her mistress absently fingering the delicate crystal broidered gown that she had worn for the party, and exclaimed involuntarily, “Oh, no, Miss! Not for ordinary morning wear,” in a tone so shocked that Elizabeth was sharply awakened from her idle dreaming.

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “I was just recalling that h
is lordship was pleased to approve this gown, but I had no thought of wearing it.”

  Edith set the tray on a table in the window. “His lordship gave orders that you were not to be disturbed this morning until you rang your bell, and then I was to bring you this. Which is why I was a bit long in coming, Miss, because I had to boil fresh water for the tea.”

  “Tea, at this hour?”

  “The master’s orders, Miss,” said Edith, with a wooden countenance that betrayed more completely than obvious excitement her deep interest in these unusual proceedings. “He spoke to Mrs Abbot himself, and told her just what she was to send up, so better get back into bed, Miss, and drink your tea before it goes cold.”

  Elizabeth meekly did as she was bid, sunk in amazement over this new facet of her guardian’s personality. Who would have dreamed that so essentially masculine a man would take thought for the small details of domestic comfort? There were new-baked scones on the tray, still warm in their napkin; and there was honey. Elizabeth smiled over that. She was indeed extremely partial to honey, a fact which had obviously been duly noted. “But he cannot have thought how sticky it would be, to eat honey in bed,” she decided, spreading butter on her scone and stealing shy glances at a basket of nectarines, across the top of which was laid one glowing golden rose. She did not quite like to ask whether the rose had been Edith’s own idea of making the tray look attractive, or whether it had been added by some other hand, and Edith volunteered no information on this interesting point. In the intervals of laying out fresh clothing for her mistress she said that Lady Hester had sent to tell her not to be worrying her head about Lucy Bassett. Lucy had benefited by a good long sleep, and was more composed this morning. It had been arranged that Gertrude should go back to the cottage with her and stay as long as she was needed.

  “I would like to see Lucy before she goes,” Elizabeth said, pouring out a second cup of tea. “Do you know when they are leaving?”

  Early in the afternoon, Edith said, and went on to speak of the smallpox and how fortunate it was that the village had escaped. It seemed that the unfortunate pedlar who had brought the sickness to Bassett’s cottage had been taking a short cut across the head of the dale and had never gone near the village itself.

  “But to think of his lordship knowing all about the man dying, and never saying a word for fear of alarming folks,” breathed Edith, who could never have kept so vital and dramatic a secret to herself for so much as five minutes. “Seems they were all prepared, though, if it did break out in the village. Everything was ready to turn the nursery wing into a fever hospital, if so be as it was needed.”

  Elizabeth did not answer. A great many puzzles were being made plain. This was why she had been forbidden the village—why Lady Hester had been preoccupied with just such stores as would be needed for setting up a hospital. She could not help feeling just a little sore at heart that she had not been admitted to the secret and allowed to help. But he had not known that she was safe from infection, and had not dared to ask. She had been just an added anxiety to his already heavy load.

  Casually she picked up the rose, intent, apparently, on careful selection among the nectarines, all of which were equally perfect. “What a lovely rose!” she exclaimed with slightly artificial brightness, and waited hopefully. Alas! The rose, it transpired, from Edith’s eager explanations, was a new one that Tom had only put in last year. This was its first flowering at Anderley. Elizabeth knew all about the growing attachment between her maid and the young under-gardener and she generally listened to the girl’s enthusiastic tales of Tom’s doings with sympathetic interest, but in this instance she could well have spared the details of all that Tom thought about this rose and several others. Edith took it for granted that it was Tom who had added the rose to the basket of fruit. Elizabeth, picturing sturdy snub-nosed Tom, with his freckled face and wide amiable grin, could not feel that he was capable of so poetic a gesture. She did not, of course, wish to think it. It was better that the rose should remain a mystery.

  At least it helped her to a decision as to what she should wear. An insidious inner voice had been murmuring, “You do right to wear blue, Miss Kirkley,” but she would not listen. Really, there was no need to take notice of a man’s lightest word, just because one had been mistaken in one’s first judgement of him.

  “I’ll wear the jonquil muslin with the velvet ribbons,” she announced. “It will be cool, and the day promises to be uncommonly hot.”

  It was one of her prettiest afternoon dresses, beautifully cut but very simple, relying for its charm on the hundreds of tiny vertical tucks that formed the bodice from rounded bosom to tiny waist, and on the knots of velvet of a deeper shade of yellow which caught up the ruched hem rather naughtily into a series of shallow scallops which permitted a tantalising glimpse of dainty sandal and slim ankle.

  “Yes, Miss!” said Edith, in a glow of approval, and spread the pretty thing with reverent fingers on the sofa which stood in one of the window embrasures. Elizabeth pushed aside the tray and carried the rose over to the light. Edith clasped her hands ecstatically. “Beautiful, Miss,” she sighed. “Tucked into your sash? It’s just the right colour! Let me make sure there are no thorns to catch in this delicate stuff,” and she held out a hand for the flower which Elizabeth surrendered with a ridiculous sense of reluctance.

  She lingered over her toilet, not quite sure that she was ready to leave the peaceful haven of her own room for the powerful emotional currents that might be awaiting her outside. If only she could be quite sure! When she was dressed at last and Edith had gone, she stood a little while longer gazing out on to the terrace below her window with unseeing eyes. It would be dreadful, quite unbearable, if she should have mistaken the affection that a guardian might quite properly bestow upon his ward for something deeper and sweeter. And she knew so little of men. Had he really said and meant the words that he had breathed over her hand last night? By today’s grey light it seemed incredible.

  The sound of voices in the garden caught her attention. The Earl was there with his steward, Burrows, evidently, from his explanatory gestures and Burrows’s understanding nods, giving some kind of instructions. The two men walked on together to the end of the terrace and then separated, Burrows going off briskly in the direction of the main drive, the Earl descending the shallow steps that led to the sunken garden.

  Her mind was made up. She would walk out of doors for a while and trust to chance for a casual encounter with her guardian. It would be easier to meet him so. There would be more room, as he himself would say, for manoeuvre. One could always break off a difficult conversation by pausing to admire a particularly fine blossom, or calling attention to a charming new aspect which one had noticed for the first time. Indoors was much more difficult. It would be too absurd to try to turn the subject by breaking suddenly into animated praise of the Van Dyck or the Rubens, even if one had been carefully instructed in all the proper things to say about them. She stifled a giggle at the ridiculous pictures conjured up by a fertile imagination, and went to put on her hat.

  The Earl was not in the sunken garden when she finally strolled down the steps. That she had expected, since he did not care for formal gardens. For herself she rather liked its quaint air of precise order. The flower tubs were slightly over-ornamented, she decided critically, but with the fountain playing it would be a peaceful secluded spot to sit with one’s sewing or a book; a safe place, too, for children to play. Here she blushed scarlet and shook her head vigorously in denial of such foolish imaginings. To be thinking of such things, just because an attractive man had whispered half-heard love words over her hand!

  But suppose—just suppose! She perched herself on the rim of the silent fountain, slim feet dangling. Though the drought had broken at last there was still no water to spare for such pretty toys as fountains. An orange butterfly settled on her beribboned skirt and folded his wings. Perhaps the soft velvet had tricked him into believing that he had found a mate. She watched the c
reature idly, her mind still toying with ‘suppose’. If he had really meant it, if she had heard aright, what would he say when they met again?

  She pondered the thought deliciously, savouring its many possibilities. A man of his integrity would undoubtedly propose marriage if—again that horrid little word—he had been serious last night. But how? Not since schooldays had Elizabeth had access to those romantic novels so eagerly perused by young females who were carefully guarded from reality. Her memory of them was vague, and none of the noble heroes’ stilted utterances sounded at all right as imagined from the lips of the Earl.

  The butterfly flew away in disgust and a watery-looking sun crept out from behind its veil of clouds. She swung herself lightly to the ground and resumed her strolling progress, turning back towards the rose garden. She had a fancy to identify the bush from which her rose had been plucked. Her fingers gently enclosed the flower as she walked. And in the rose garden she came upon the Earl, but not, as she had hoped, alone. For Lucy was with him, bareheaded as though, catching sight of him from a window, she had run out of the house just as she was to speak with him. And clearly upon a matter of importance, for she was clasping his sleeve with both hands, her face lifted appealingly to his, her slight body tense with urgency. So absorbed were they in their talk that they had not noticed Elizabeth’s approach, and instinctively she halted. There was such an air of intimacy between them that she felt like an intruder, and hesitated, uncertain whether to join them or to go back. And while she wavered the Earl put his hand over Lucy’s clutching, pleading ones and said something which operated so powerfully upon the girl that she released her grip on his arm and stepped back, her whole pose incredulity incarnate. His decisive nod evidently confirming his words, Lucy caught his hand to her lips and kissed it passionately. Elizabeth, too far away to sense the embarrassment that he could not wholly dissemble at this blatant adoration, saw only that his free hand came up to touch the girl’s dark head with gentle fingers. She waited for no more, but turned away and left them to finish their talk in privacy. Only yesterday the three of them had been linked together by a common task, a shared anxiety. Today she felt herself excluded. There was no place for her in this conclave.