by Mira Stables
“It’s a lonely business growing old alone,” he went on presently. “Melia and me decided we’ll see it out together. Aunt Isa’s been dead this many a year, but Uncle Nat’s still hale and hearty and gives us his blessing. Now that there’s no danger of us breeding the idiot-children he threatened us with,” he threw in, a trace of that old bitterness still audible in the cadence of his voice.
Then suddenly he grinned, hugely, as Ann had never seen him do, and added, “And has the impudence to announce that he’ll condescend to make his home with us, since, he reckons, I owe him some return for his fostering care in my childhood!”
He seemed to regard this as a great joke and chuckled over it for quite some time, but presently his mood grew reflective again.
“Your mother—well—I suppose I loved her beyond the bounds of reason. She was the kind of faery creature a man dreams of. But we weren’t suited. She was too fine-grained, too sensitive for a man of my stamp. I might lap her in luxury, but at every turn my dealings jarred on her. I’d see her shrink when I spoke roughly to some menial or denied some treat to you or to Barbara. But I’d been bred in a harsher mould and I couldn’t change. I tried hard enough. Vowed I’d not make the same mistakes again—and made others—worse ones. There had been no treats in my childhood. The servants I had known had been just that—servants. How could I understand the devotion that links some faithful old retainer and the cherished child of the family? Or realize that a mother would rather forego some offered luxury than deny a treat to her daughters? You thought me hard, I know, but I did my best for you in my own fashion—and you, at any rate, have good reason to be grateful. Even if, some day, you marry a man of wealth and position, your servants will respect you the more for your competence.”
Ann wondered what he would say if she told him that her sole ambition was to marry a penniless Dales farmer. The revelation would certainly put an abrupt and stormy end to this pleasantly domestic interlude! She said instead that he was perfectly right, and that she now valued his care for her far more justly than she had done in her heedless youth.
Much pleased by this very proper attitude, Mr. Fortune enlarged for a little while longer on his matrimonial plans and his daring notion of taking his bride to Italy for the honeymoon. When Ann finally rose to bid him goodnight, they were on better terms than they had ever known.
Preparing for bed in her comfortable room, she thought repentantly of the many times that she had rejected his counsel; of the occasions when she and Barbara had deliberately provoked him into showing himself at his worst in front of Mama. What horrid creatures children could be, she brooded. And then decided that she was becoming maudlin. Even now she would not willingly submit herself to his sole authority. She might understand him better, now that she knew the circumstances that had gone to his making, but the fact remained that they would never really see eye to eye. So she could only be thankful that his future held a promise of companionable comfort.
They set out early next day, a crisp day of early autumn, of brilliant sunshine and blue skies, that yet gave warning of coming winter in the vividly coloured hedgerows and the trees that were dappled with bronze and yellow. Mr. Fortune shivered a little and wound a scarf about his throat, but Ann’s spirits seemed to mount every mile that brought her nearer to home and Patrick. Tomorrow she should see him. Had he missed her? Would she read in his face open acknowledgement of the love she believed he bore her? For the moment she forgot the difficulties that might arise from Mr. Fortune’s presence, and thought only of the happiness that could await her at the journey’s end, and her face glowed with such joyous anticipation that her companion studied her rapt countenance curiously. Presently he ventured a question.
“You are happy to be going back to your work? No regrets for the lazy luxurious life you are leaving?”
She laughed. “I shall miss some of my comforts very much,” she confided, “but yes, I am happy to be going home.”
He made no comment on the unconscious betrayal implicit in the last word, though a faint smile hovered about his mouth and he nodded as one well satisfied. Instead he made one or two desultory remarks about the passing scene, commenting approvingly on farm land that looked to be in good heart, though an eye accustomed to south country farming missed the golden stubble fields. “Mostly cattle and sheep, I suppose,” he grunted. “Pity. There’s no sight so fair as a field of standing corn just ripe for the sickle.”
They reached Sedbergh by mid-afternoon and changed horses for the last time. Ann sniffed the clear hill air contentedly, but Mr. Fortune viewed the high fells that barred their way with deep disapproved.
“That’s no kind of country for farming!” he said disgustedly. “Don’t tell me this Delvercourt fellow expects to make a success of that sort of caper. He must be all about in his head.” The barbaric splendour of the scenery left him unimpressed. He spoke sourly of the difficulty and expense of road building over such a terrain, and marvelled that anyone should choose to live in a wilderness when he might enjoy all the amenities of civilization in the cities.
Ann knew better than to argue. She could only be thankful that he pronounced Dent to be a snug little town, the inn that the Earl had recommended surprisingly comfortable. They were served with a good, plain dinner, which earned his approval, but the confidential atmosphere of the previous evening was lamentably missing. The genial bridegroom-elect had vanished and in his place sat the keen-eyed man of affairs. Ann was subjected to a searching inquisition as to ways and means at High Garth, an inquisition so embarrassing as the poverty of the place emerged more and more clearly, that she pleaded fatigue at the first possible moment and retired early to bed.
It was some time, however, before she slept. Tomorrow was going to be more than a little awkward. Papa Fortune had sharp eyes. Not for worlds would she have Patrick betray himself to that penetrating gaze. And there had been no opportunity to advise the folk at High Garth of her change of plan. Patrick would be expecting only herself. What would be his attitude to the intrusion of an uninvited stranger?
That problem at least was not destined to embarrass her. At breakfast a message was brought to her from Mr. Delvercourt. He regretted that he would not be able to come for her until early afternoon, and hoped that she would be able to amuse herself meantime in exploration of the little town. She looked doubtfully at her step-father and tentatively suggested a visit to the church, which was, she assured him, of considerable antiquity and very interesting. But Papa Fortune had very different ideas. He entered into negotiation with the landlord for the hire of a gig, not wishing to risk his own elegant vehicle on such dubious roads, and took her off to visit the marble mills, where he became so enamoured of a black chimney-piece that he enquired into the possibility of having one delivered to his London home. Just the thing to give the drawing room a new touch, he assured Ann enthusiastically, and he was sure that Amelia would like it of all things. By the time that he had chosen a design from the pattern book, entered into a long debate on the respective merits of sending it by carrier all the way or by sea, and embarked upon an exhaustive tour of the premises, the morning had gone. They returned to the Sun to find Patrick awaiting their arrival and already advised of Mr. Fortune’s presence.
It was impossible to discover whether her return gave him any particular delight, though he greeted her warmly enough and there was mention of the eager welcome that awaited her at the farm. At least he had not betrayed himself to Papa Fortune, she consoled herself, and watched with considerable interest the meeting between the two gentlemen.
They exchanged greetings with a courtesy which did not wholly mask the deep reserve of the one, the speculative enquiry of the other. Mr. Delvercourt had already lunched, but he insisted that they should not hurry over their belated repast and sat at table with them, accepting a glass of claret, sipping in leisurely fashion and conversing on such topics as might be supposed to interest Mr. Fortune. Presently, however, he drew Ann into the conversation.
She would be sorry, he knew, to hear that Bridie had met with an accident, having fallen and broken her leg as she pursued her solitary way along the green tracks. Luckily she had been found almost at once by a party of drovers and had been carried by these rough but kindly men to a nearby inn. The broken limb was mending well, but Bridie was fretting about her inactivity, her mounting debt to the innkeeper and most of all about her donkey. Word of her distress had been brought to Will at High Garth and Patrick had sent him off at once to see what arrangements could be made for her comfort. Will’s absence naturally meant more work for those left at home, hence his belated arrival.
“In fact,” he concluded, “though I am loath to hurry you, Miss Beverley, we should set out soon. As it is, the girls will have to manage the milking.”
There was an awkward little pause. Ann glanced uncomfortably at her stepfather. That gentleman said composedly, “How very unfortunate. I had hoped to improve my acquaintance with you, perhaps even to call upon you and see something of the home that this child prefers to mine. You will understand, I am sure, that my responsibility for the welfare of so wilful a girl is no light one. I would have liked to assure myself that she was suitably established. However, if it is inconvenient, I must abandon the scheme for the moment.”
He waited hopefully. A furiously indignant Ann swallowed some hasty words on the subject of encroaching ways, not to mention the odiously patronizing indulgence of the reference to herself. Patrick’s mouth twitched slightly, his eyes were amused. “But it is not in the least inconvenient, sir. You must know that my housekeeper is not one to be put out by the arrival of—er—unexpected guests. You will find everything in apple pie order, I promise you. I shall be honoured if you will accept the hospitality of High Garth for as long as you care to stay.”
“Now that’s very handsome of you,” approved Mr. Fortune cheerfully. “What’s more—and maybe this’ll surprise you—I may even be able to lend a hand while this man of yours is away. Bred up on a farm I was, though it’s more years ago than I care to think of. And that was in Wiltshire, which is what I call real farming country. This Will, now. He’ll be your head cowman I take it?”
Patrick laughed outright. “Sole, cowman and general handyman as well,” he explained. “Before you commit yourself too far, sir, you had best know what lies before you. We will do our best to make you comfortable, but it’s no fine estate that you are to visit; nor am I a wealthy eccentric playing at husbandry. High Garth is a small hill farm, and I have just two men to help me.” He studied his work hardened palms. “And I may say that it’s a full time job, wresting a living from my thankless acres.”
There was a gleam of approval in Mr. Fortune’s eyes. “Well, hard work never hurt a man yet,” he pronounced dispassionately. “Though that’s not to say you might not work to better purpose in a more fertile soil,” and he glanced disapprovingly at the mist wreathed fells that ringed the little town. “But that we’ll see in good time.”
Having won his way, he was in the best of humours, and bustled about cheerfully over his preparations, making light of every difficulty. Ann, still seething at the blatant manner in which he had angled for his invitation, wondered grimly what he would make of the democratic ways of Janet’s kitchen. It was probably a good thing that the forthright Will would not be present.
In point of fact his visit caused less stir than she had feared. The twins, overawed by what they had already heard of the gentleman’s consequence, were unusually subdued. Janet was her dignified self, determined that the newcomer should have no cause to complain of High Garth’s hospitality, and Jim was quiet, as ever, in the presence of strangers. Even Philip, with the promise that there would be a present for him after supper, was on his best behaviour.
So, too, was Papa Fortune. He did not say a great deal but it was easy to see that he was quite at home in a farmhouse. His voice actually took on something of the rustic burr that it had held in his youth, and he was promising himself a busy day of exploration on the morrow, dusk having put a stop to such an enterprise tonight.
Supper done, he accepted Patrick’s invitation to sit with him in the parlour. The invitation was also extended to Ann, but she declined it on the plea of unpacking to be done, a plea heartily endorsed by young Master Philip. Never had the supper table been cleared nor the dishes washed with more helpful celerity. And never, perhaps, had such small gifts given so much pleasure. The twins danced joyously round the kitchen, comparing their gifts and hugging the giver. Janet’s handkerchief must be smoothed out and refolded half a dozen times, the precious lavender water appreciatively sniffed, while Philip was so enchanted with his ‘snowball’, as he insisted on calling it, that after one or two experimental blasts he was persuaded to put the whistle aside for outdoor entertainment.
When the excitement had abated and a sleepy Philip had been tucked into bed, Meg and Jenny begged to see the bridesmaid’s dress. A glimpse of this splendour had been vouchsafed them when they had helped unpack, but now they wanted Ann to put it on so that they could see just how she had looked.
She hesitated, not sure that she wished to run the risk of having Patrick see her tricked out in fashionable finery, however becoming. Meg said coaxingly, “While your hands are still nice,” and ruefully displayed a blister on her own wrist. Ann remembered, in a warm surge of affection, all that they had done to help her look her best, and their total lack of jealousy, and against her better judgement she yielded.
“We shall have to be quick, though,” she stipulated. “See—it is past nine o’clock already, and tomorrow will be extra busy. Time we were all abed.”
Both girls were only too eager to help her dress, touching the silken petticoat and the rich fabric of the dress itself with shy unaccustomed fingers, Jenny proving herself surprisingly adept with buttons and hooks. As usual her hair presented a problem. Ethel had dressed it for the wedding, piling it high at the back of her head with a tiny diadem of rock crystals clasped round the knot, but there was no time for ornate hair styles tonight.
“Leave it loose,” suggested Jenny, her own eyes shining more brightly than the crystals. “With that little crown on top you look just like the princess in Master Philip’s story book.”
Ann laughed. “More like a maypole with the garland a-top,” she retorted. “Very well, then. It will save time. But do you run downstairs and make sure the gentlemen are still in the parlour.”
Even when the scout had reported that all was safe, the three crept downstairs like conspirators, muffled giggles from the twins, Ann with fast-beating heart and hands that shook on the stair-rail. But they reached the kitchen in safety and now she could breathe freely. Patrick would certainly escort the guest to the bed-chamber that had been hastily made ready for him before he himself returned to the kitchen, as was his custom, to take order for the next day’s work. That would give her ample time to make her escape.
She had forgotten the claims of hospitality. As, indeed, had Patrick himself, so long accustomed to solitary evenings. But an hour spent in the society of Mr. Fortune had reminded him that it was customary for gentlemen to sit over their wine if no better entertainment offered. He was inclined to like his guest, finding him honest and unpretentious despite his obvious confidence in his own worth. But there could be no denying that close converse with him left one feeling slightly battered and breathless. He asked personal questions with an impersonality that made it impossible to resent or evade them, and question, comment and suggestion followed one another with relentless persistence. It was as much the need for a brief escape from this catechism as the recollection of his duties as host that sent Patrick to the kitchen in search of glasses, thankful that he could still draw upon the remnants of his uncle’s cellar.
He walked in upon a scene that was unusual, to say the least of it, in that setting. Ann was standing with one foot outstretched and skirts coquettishly extended so that Janet might see the pretty satin slippers, while Jenny, perched on a stool, comb in hand, w
as straightening the diadem which did not sit very securely on the loosened hair. Meg was adjusting the lamp to give a better light. There was a concerted gasp of dismay and for one breath-stopping moment the actors in this tableau seemed to be frozen, their eyes fixed on the master’s face. Then, with one accord, and regardless of proper deference, the twins stepped forward as though to come between Ann and the anger in those tawny eyes, for they held a fury to intimidate the boldest. Ann’s own hands dropped limply to her sides, though pride insisted that she hold herself erect and outface him.
But Patrick did not at once release his wrath, though perhaps his icy courtesy hurt more than a rougher tongue.
“I beg your pardon for my intrusion,” he said. “Janet, do you think you could lay your hand on two of the good glasses?” And as the old woman got up to do his bidding he turned back to Ann. “You must allow me to tell you that you look quite delightfully, Miss Beverley. It is most kind in you to give us humbler folk a glimpse of a world that is quite beyond our touch.”
Fortunately at that point Janet came back with the glasses, for resentment of the unjust jibe had for the moment swamped Ann’s misery. There was no opportunity for retort. As the door closed behind him, Meg said in a bewildered voice, “But we weren’t doing anything wrong. Why was he so cross?”
Despite her own hurt and anger, Ann’s instinct was to spring to the defence of the beloved. “It is very late,” she offered. “And I suppose he thought we were wasting our time, frivolling.”
“Perhaps Mr. Fortune said something to annoy him,” suggested Jenny. But Janet shook her head.
“I doubt it was the sight of you in that dress,” she said sorrowfully. “It would put him in mind of the kind of life he should have been leading, but for his father’s folly. But don’t you let it upset you, Miss Ann. He’d be sorry enough as soon as he’d said it. Because it’s not your fault, and well he knows it.” Nevertheless it was a rather subdued little group that made its way to bed. Perhaps Janet was the nearest in her interpretation of her master’s feelings, but even she was only partly right. It was not the world of fashion that Patrick craved. Indeed he infinitely preferred his present way of life, having proved it far more satisfying than days spent in moving between town house and club, between his tailor and Tattersall’s, between breakfast parties, Park parades, morning visits and the endless succession of evening entertainments. But to see the girl he loved dressed as his wife might have dressed, had it not been for his father’s aberrations; to see her, warm, glowing, laughing, with her lovely hair loose about her shoulders, and to know that he could never hope to claim her as his own, had touched him on the raw. He had lashed out in helpless fury. How he endured the rest of the evening with Mr. Fortune he scarcely knew. Fortunately the older man admitted to some travel weariness and retired to bed at a reasonably early hour, assuring his host that he meant to rise early in anticipation of a full and absorbing day.