by Sheila Walsh
‘Yes of course.’ Lucia hastily gathered up her gloves and reticule. She stole a glance at his face. ‘My lord …? I could not avoid Sir Gideon …’
His expression softened slightly. ‘I know. I am sorry I was not here. Newbury had trouble with the horses.’
There was no sign of Sir Gideon as they left. The inn was almost deserted, but from the barn at the rear came sounds of shouting and chanting.
The sun broke through with dazzling brilliance as they crossed the Heath, that dreaded stretch of moorland so feared by Lady Springhope, and they encountered nothing more fearsome than an occasional jackrabbit. They turned on to the Bath road and all too soon came to Culliford Cross. The coach halted before the entrance to a curving driveway and Lord Mandersely rode up.
‘You have arrived, Miss Mannering.’
Her heart began to flutter uncomfortably. ‘Will you not come in with me, sir? I am sure my grandfather would wish to thank you.’
‘I think not, Miss Mannering. Your reconciliation will be better achieved without the presence of an outsider.’
He looked at her for a moment and then smiled. ‘Chin up, little spitfire! I hope all goes well for you.’ With a final salute, he wheeled the big stallion and thundered away.
Out of sight, Hugo slowed the animal to a trot and fell to contemplating the memory of Lucia Mannering’s face ‒ pale and tense, the green eyes large and over-bright, with just the suspicion of a tremble about that stubborn chin.
He should have gone with her ‒ helped her over the initial ordeal. Irritably he spurred Rufus to a gallop. The sky had again turned a sickly yellow and was darkening by the minute. There was an eerie stillness and over to the west, thunder rumbled constantly.
He decided to make once more for the inn, before the heavens opened. The Heath was deserted. Nothing moved; even the smallest creature had gone scurrying to earth; silent birds huddled in the trees. As he rounded a particularly thick clump of trees, three men rode out and barred his way. All carried pistols and were masked.
Hugo dragged hard on the rein and brought the stallion to a halt. He surveyed the trio calmly. ‘If you are hoping for money or valuables, my friends, your luck is quite out. I am carrying very little on me.’
‘Stow it!’ growled the leading felon. A hasty conference ensued.
‘What d’ye think, Charlie? Is this the right cove?’
‘… ’e’s a flash cull …’
‘… nag fits an’ all … black stallion’s what ’e said … ’ere, stow yer daddles!’ snapped Charlie, as Hugo took one hand off the rein.
‘I beg your pardon!’ His lordship sat back wearily. ‘Gentlemen ‒ you appear to be somewhat at a loss! Would it expedite matters if I were to tell you that I am Mandersely?’
They stared.
‘Cor! You’re a cool one!’ The first man scratched under his hat brim with the barrel of his pistol. ‘A werry cool cove! Well lads … best get it over.’
Hugo’s keen ears picked up, above the constant rumble of thunder, hoofbeats approaching very fast; someone was trying to beat the weather, no doubt. At the same moment his assailants also heard ‒ and were thrown into temporary confusion.
Hugo seized his chance. Dropping his hand to his pocket, he fired his pistol, through his coat, at the man on the right and heard a yell of pain as he fell. Almost simultaneously, he dug his knees in hard and drove the horse straight between the other two riders, who were so unnerved by the sight of their intended victim coming at them like the Wrath of God, that they panicked and discharged their pistols harmlessly into the air.
Hugo passed between them, let go the reins for a split second and pushed outward with both hands, unseating them to the accompaniment of loud curses. He didn’t wait, but pounded onwards. He heard a shout and a rider drew level.
‘That was splendidly done,’ the man shouted. ‘Sorry I wasn’t a few seconds sooner.’
Hugo flashed him a wide grin. ‘You provided the necessary diversion, my friend. My thanks!’ Finding they were not followed, they slackened pace.
‘Whew!’ The man laughingly drew breath. ‘I’m glad to have been of service, my lord.’
‘You know me?’ Hugo’s keen glance met a pair of humorous grey eyes.
‘My lord, who in the fashionable world does not know and try to ape Lord Mandersely? To own a pair of hessians with Mandersely tassels ‒ to achieve with one’s neckcloth a Mandersely fall ‒ or learn the art of raising a quizzing glass, just so …!’
Hugo put up a hand. ‘Enough!’ he begged. He eyed the stranger’s stocky figure, the riding coat’s one modest cape. ‘I would never have taken you for one of the Haut Ton, sir,’ he observed in a droll voice.
‘And you would be right,’ the young man grinned. ‘However, I do have a young brother and he assures me you are all the crack.’ He stretched a hand across the saddle. ‘My name is Conrad, my lord, Charles Conrad.’
The storm was threatening again and the first large spots of rain splashed down. ‘Make for the inn,’ shouted Hugo above a clap of thunder. They broke into a gallop as the spots suddenly increased to a deluge.
‘I was going there anyway, my lord. That same young rip of a brother has sloped off to a cockfight ‒ he has a friend with a likely bird … and Mama, getting wind of the affair, must believe him to be in mortal danger from bad company. I am sent to fetch the miscreant home.’
The lashing rain and the danger from wildly whipping branches prevented any further conversation until they reached their destination.
The horses stabled, they made a dash for the barn. The steamy atmosphere was choked with sluggishly swirling feathers. From the pit, tier upon tier of benches rose into the rafters, supporting a rowdy, clamouring mob of young bloods. Hugo and Charles Conrad pushed their way past young Corinthians hotly disputing form, and were in time to witness the dying throes of the final contest.
Hugo’s eye travelled slowly along the front ranks of spectators until it came to rest on the figure he was seeking. Leaning forward, his features a mask of vicious sensuality, Sir Gideon Benedict sat, totally absorbed in the macabre spectacle being enacted before him.
A red pyle, a magnificent bird, strong and arrogant, strutted round the pit emitting a harsh, triumphant cry whilst a smaller dun cock slumped dejectedly in the centre of the arena. A spur had already pierced its lung and blood was slowly choking it.
‘By God! The dun’s rattled!’ The cry was taken up and echoed round the huge barn.
As though playing to the gallery, the dying bird suddenly lurched across the sod and grappled its adversary. Like pugilists they shuffled round the pit until, with a supreme effort, the dun pulled away and jerked erect; once, twice, three times it leapt with deadly grace and gaffed the red pyle. Its cry of victory was drowned, blood gushed from its throat and the two birds pitched forward simultaneously, dead.
A cheer rose into the rafters and the spectators began to elbow their way out, intent upon reaching the inn where they could debate the finer points of the contest in comfort. Sir Gideon sat on in tight-lipped fury; it would seem he had lost a valuable bird!
‘Well, my lord,’ said Charles. ‘That would appear to be that.’ A young exquisite in the full glory of yellow pantaloons, green coat and vividly striped waistcoat, topped by a monstrous erection of a cravat, pushed towards them.
‘Ho there, Charles! I didn’t know you were here. What capital sport, eh?’ Jason Conrad became aware of his brother’s companion. ‘I say! Lord Mandersely! Charles … you never said you were acquainted with Lord Mandersely!’
‘Mind your manners, puppy!’ reproved his brother. ‘I apologize for the lad’s shortcomings, my lord. As you can see, he is scarcely out of leading reins.’
‘Come off it, Charles! This is the greatest thing ever!’
Hugo watched this touching family reunion with lazy amusement. Occasionally his eyes lifted to scan the crowd.
Jason watched his every move. Hugo put up his glass; his brows arched delicately. ‘Is this the young
buck who aspires to be my rival!’
‘By jove, I could never be that!’ Jason enthused, quite unabashed. ‘But now that I know you, I shall not feel in the least shy about asking your advice, my lord … I must find Bertram … he’ll be green, I can tell you …’
‘Sometimes he makes me feel positively old,’ observed his brother whimsically. ‘I hope he did not annoy you, sir?’
There was no reply, and he turned to find his lordship’s gaze riveted with a curious intentness upon a large, red-haired gentleman. At that moment the man also saw Hugo, and Charles surprised a look of chilling malevolence. The look was instantly masked and the man came forward with every appearance of civility, so that Charles was persuaded he must have imagined the whole thing.
‘Mandersely! Now here’s a strange thing ‒ that we should be meeting twice in the same day.’
Hugo was urbane. ‘You were not, perhaps, expecting to see me again?’
The Irishman flushed a dull red. ‘You appear to have had an accident with your coat, my lord.’
Hugo contemplated the hole in his pocket and carefully rubbed the charred edges between slim fingers.
‘It is nothing, my dear Benedict. A trifling accident … some vermin I encountered on the Heath. I was forced to … er, deal with them.’
Sir Gideon’s smile had grown sickly. ‘You must take care, Marquis ‒ vermin can strike when one least expects. And now, if you will excuse me, I have an appointment.’
Charles Conrad was baffled by this exchange.
‘I think that gentleman does not like you, my lord,’ he said quietly.
‘How very acute of you, Conrad.’ Hugo’s voice was quite without expression and Charles, glancing at him, decided that further comment would be unwise.
They walked on in silence. The crowd had dispersed and the rain had stopped. As they approached the inn, two limping figures came into view. They were making furtively for the back door, supporting a third, inert form.
‘My lord!’ Charles gripped Hugo’s arm. ‘There go your assailants … I’d bet money on it!’
Hugo watched until they were out of sight and then walked on.
‘But … surely you will accost them? Bring the creatures to book?’
‘I think not.’
‘But … my lord …’
‘You see, my friend, I feel they are already in enough trouble over the appalling way they bungled their task.’
Conrad stopped dead in his tracks. ‘But dammit! That means you think what happened was not just a casual hold-up?’
Hugo smiled grimly. ‘I know,’ he said softly, ‘that our inept trio was sent to kill me!’
Chapter Six
Lucia watched Lord Mandersely’s retreating figure with an inexplicable sense of abandonment and loss.
Then the coach was turning in through the big iron gates and he was lost to view. They were bowling up a curving, tree-lined driveway and she leaned forward, eager for a first glimpse of the house ‒ and suddenly it was there ‒ a long, sprawling building of mellow brick. Thunder still rumbled, but a sudden, blinding shaft of sunlight burst through the clouds, setting the mullioned windows ablaze in welcome.
Before the coach had rolled to a halt, the front doors were flung open and a thin, wispy woman of indeterminate age came hurrying down the steps, picking up her blue dimity skirts. Lucia stepped down and was instantly enveloped in this good lady’s embrace.
‘My dear, dear niece … Oh! What a day this is! How I have longed … have hoped …’
‘Aunt Addie?’
‘Oh! … yes … of course, dear child, how silly of me! I am just so excited …’ She stood back, holding Lucia’s hands as though fearing she might vanish again at any moment. Her pale blue eyes were bright with tears as she gazed at last on her brother’s child. ‘It is unbelievable ‒ the likeness! Aurelia did mention it in her letter, but I never dreamed … I don’t know how Papa will take it I’m sure, but never mind ‒ you are here. Come along in. Bassett will attend to your abigail and see your boxes taken up.’
A portly old butler had followed her down the steps. ‘Bassett, isn’t this a wonderful day?’
The old man had served the family all his life. ‘It is indeed, Miss Addie, ma-am.’ He bowed with quiet deference. ‘May I say, Miss, how happy we are to have Mr Freddie’s daughter under our own roof at last.’
‘Why, thank you, Bassett!’ Lucia was touched by his obvious sincerity.
She followed her aunt into the cool spacious hall, hardly hearing her continuous prattle. This is where my father was born … she felt a sudden thrill of belonging. He must have run across this hall a hundred times, climbed the staircase, his hand holding this very rail. To Lucia, who had never known a settled home, it was a strange and magical experience.
‘Papa insisted that he must see you the instant you arrived,’ her aunt was saying. ‘I told him you would be quite done up after your journey, but he is so difficult …’ She looked vague … ‘Of course, you mustn’t scruple to say if you should want to rest …’
Lucia smiled reassuringly. ‘Dear Aunt, I am not in the least fagged. If I could just wash off a little of the grime and make myself tidy, I shall be quite ready to present myself.’ This wasn’t strictly true, but she decided there was no point in putting off the dreaded moment.
Aunt Addie looked relieved. ‘He has been very ill, you know, and is still far from well. Dr Weston advises that he must not get over-excited, but he will fly into a miff at the least setback … if you could try not to upset him …’
Lucia stifled a slight twinge of irritation, as her aunt threw open the door of a large airy bedchamber, attractively hung in floral prints.
‘What a charming room!’ Lucia exclaimed in delight.
‘It is pretty, isn’t it?’ Aunt Addie sighed wistfully. ‘It has been so seldom used, but now you are come, all that is at an end.’
Lucia removed her bonnet and pelisse and smoothed down the cream spotted muslin. She would have preferred to change her dress after sitting for so long, but her aunt was hopping about like an agitated hen, so she quickly washed and tidied her hair.
‘There ‒ I am ready,’ she said, displaying a totally false air of confidence.
By the time her aunt was scratching on the panel of the library door, her stomach was in a miserable knot. A curt voice ordered them to enter and Aunt Addie was twittering, ‘Here is Lucia come at last, Papa!’
Lucia had a fleeting impression of heavy crimson hangings and a quantity of oak wainscoting, before her eye was caught and held, with a heart-stopping jolt, by the oil painting over the fireplace. The gown was of an earlier age, the hair more elaborately dressed, but in every other respect it was herself!
From the depths of an enormous armchair near the fireplace an irascible voice demanded her attention.
‘Well, come nearer, girl! I can’t see you if you stand by the door! That fool of a doctor forbids me to rise and I have no intention of craning my neck.’
Lucia dragged her eyes from the portrait and met her aunt’s troubled gaze.
An ebony cane rapped impatiently on the floor and Lucia walked slowly forward.
She had hoped for some resemblance to her father, but there was none. Colonel Rupert Mannering was a striking figure in spite of the ravages left by illness. Bushy eyebrows above keen, dark eyes, and a large hooked nose gave his face a kind of fierce strength. Pure white hair sprang vigorously from a wide forehead. He wore it unfashionably long, tied back in a queue. Only the unnatural parchment colour of the skin betrayed his frailty.
Lucia stood gravely before him, seeing the intense shock in his eyes. The skin was stretched tight across his cheek-bones and one thin, blue-veined hand shook as it plucked querulously at the fur rug across his knees. The tension became unbearable. At last his harsh staccato voice broke the silence.
‘So ‒ you are my grand-daughter?’
She let out her breath on a sigh. ‘Yes sir ‒ I am Lucia.’
‘I will ha
ve no fancy foreign names in this house. As long as you remain here you will be Lucy.’
Indignation flared, but she controlled it. ‘Very well, sir,’ she agreed quietly. ‘If that is what you wish.’
‘It is! And one other stipulation.’ He glared under lowered brows. ‘I will not have my son’s name ‒ or that woman’s ‒ mentioned in my presence. No doubt your aunt will be happy to indulge in foolish reminiscence; I will have none of it. Is that clear?’
Scalding tears of rage and disappointment were threatening to blind her; angry words rose to her lips, but frantic pleading signs from her aunt made her swallow on the lump in her throat and jerk her head in silent agreement.
‘Then you may go.’ He dismissed her without another word.
‘I won’t stay!’ Aunt Addie hurried Lucia away from the library and into a small cosy parlour. ‘Did you hear what he called my mother? How dare he! I should never have let myself be talked into coming!’
‘Oh, don’t say that, dear.’ Tears were coursing down her aunt’s thin cheeks. She collapsed on to a sofa, her cap askew, and fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘He didn’t mean it, I’m sure … he was very upset … I feared he would be, the moment I saw you … so like dear Mama. Oh, do give him time, my dear.’ She dabbed ineffectually at her reddened eyes. ‘I do so want you to stay!’
Lucia instantly flew across the room and flung a comforting arm round the older woman’s shoulders. ‘Oh, don’t cry, dear Aunt. Of course I must stay. Good gracious ‒ I have put everyone to a vast amount of trouble on my account! A fine thing it would be if I cried off at the first setback!’
She smiled shakily. ‘You mustn’t mind my temper, it never lasts.’
But in spite of her determination to rise above this bad beginning, and in spite of her aunt’s constant efforts to make her feel at home, Lucia was desperately lonely at first. She longed for Toby’s uncomplicated camaraderie and often sought solace in the gardens. There were willows everywhere, drooping their graceful fronds, whispering to her gently as she passed. On hot days she spent hours in their shade, day-dreaming.
When she was exploring the house one day, she found a music room tucked away at the far end ‒ a sort of garden room.