A Season for the Heart (3 page)

“That they shall not,” vowed the Earl grimly. “Give me the wretched thing, and send my groom to hitch up my carriage. My coachman reported the new axle installed.”

He strode from the taproom in a fury—with himself, with Squire Rand and his unpleasant family, but most of all with a storm-eyed, fanciful, bedraggled little waif of a girl who had somehow managed to involve him in her ridiculous affairs.

Two

Pommy staggered in the front door of Highcliff Manor as dripping wet as though she had fallen into the ornamental pond. The butler tutted crossly as she stood on the rug taking off her ruined bonnet.

“Your shoes, Miss Pommy! They are thick with mud! We shall never get it off the carpets!”

“I’ll just go up the back stairs and change in my room,” Pommy began, when Forte interrupted her.

“Miss Cecilia told me to tell you to go straight to her room with the cloak as soon as you returned. You’ve been gone a long time, Miss Pommy.” Then, catching sight of her appalled expression, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Pommy’s face had gone white under the splatters of mud. “The cloak!” she groaned. “I forgot it entirely, when I heard those highwaymen planning to rob Uncle’s carriage on the way to London!”

Forte shook his head repressively. “Miss Pommy, when
will
you leave off this childish story-telling? There were no highwaymen, Miss Pommy! And what Miss Ceci will say when she hears—”

“When she hears
what
?” demanded a cold, hard little voice from the stairway. Pommy’s remorseful gaze lifted to see her cousin standing on the halfway landing, posed very prettily in her new pink
robe en chemise
which flattered her rose-petal complexion. With her usual acumen concerning anything which affected herself, she said sharply, “You look a wreck! Have you dropped my new cloak in the mud, then, you blundering idiot?”

“No—that is, well—you see, I—”

“Oh, stop babbling and come to my room!” With a flounce which Forte thought very vulgar indeed, Ceci turned and ran up the staircase.

“Take the back stairs, Miss,” the butler advised in a hurried undertone. “If the mistress catches you walking on the carpets with those shoes—!”

Shaking inwardly with cold and alarm, Pommy made her way up the servants’ staircase and down the hall to Ceci’s attractive bedroom. The door stood ominously open, and within, seated on a pink velvet upholstered chair, Ceci waited with an angry face.

“Well, where is it?” she snapped, as Pommy marched into the room as courageously as she could. It did not help the culprit to perceive her cousin Lydia ensconced in another chair, a sly smile on her fubsy face. Lydia lacked the piercing rapier attack of her sister. She contented herself with heavy-handed, pseudohumorous remarks which she served up with a smile. As now.

“Don’t tell me you’ve dropped Ceci’s new cloak in the mud, poor Pommy? Even you could not be quite so awkward, I am sure!”

“I—I forgot to bring it,” confessed Pommy, low-voiced.

“You
forgot—!
” shrieked Ceci, who saved her pretty voice and charming manners for her superiors in the social world. “But you’ve been gone over two hours, and you had nothing else to do but pick up the cloak!”

“The coach was late,” began Pommy. “Then, since I was drenched and shivering, Mrs. Appledore let me wait by the stove in the kitchen. It was while I was waiting that I heard the plot against you—”

“What plot? Have you run mad?”

“I think Pommy is giving us one of her Romantic little stories,” laughed Lydia. “You know she is always dreaming up some tale with herself as the heroine, when she should be attending to her duties. Mama has often deplored her sad want of common sense.”

“There were two highwaymen,” Pommy persisted doggedly. “I overheard them say they would stop our coach—your father’s coach—between Bodmin and Launceston—”

But Ceci had no patience with this farrago of nonsense, and leaping from her chair she ran over to Pommy and slapped her face hard. “Stop giving me a Banbury tale! You were dallying with the servants at the Climbing Man when you should have been fetching my cloak!” She slapped Pommy again, viciously. “I know what Papa will think about this!”

“To say nothing of Mama’s comments,” added Lydia. “I fear you have just wrecked your chances of going to London with us, poor Pommy. Still, only think what a nice rest you will have, when not assisting Forte to put the furniture under covers or washing out the cupboards! He might even let you polish the best silver.”

Holding back her tears, Pommy felt a sharper pain in her heart than the one in her cheek.
Not go to London!
Surely not even Aunt Henga could be so cruel? When she had been saving all the birthday tuppences, and the Christmas shilling, and the two pounds her mother had left her, and wearing her old clothes without complaint, so that there might be enough to buy at least one new dress when she came to London! She turned her great shadowed green eyes from one cousin to the other. “Not go—?” she whispered. “You don’t—you
can’t
—mean it!”

“Mama never intended you to go,” said Ceci impatiently. “You would overcrowd us in the carriage.”

“But your papa promised I might go, and visit the Libraries and Museums! I should be happy to maid you when you needed me—if only I were free for just a little while—mornings, before you awake. . . .”

“You haven’t enough alamodality to serve as our abigail and dress our hair in the latest style—” Ceci brushed away her protest.

“I can picture you traipsing about London in that dress,” laughed Lydia. “You would shame us all!”

“None of your acquaintance need ever see me,” pleaded Pommy. “I should slip in and out of the house by the servants’ entrance.”

“That dress would shame us with the smart London servants, said Lydia. “Poor Pommy!”

“My savings!” Pommy cried desperately. “Your mama said I had saved enough to afford one presentable gown!”

“But that money will have to go toward buying Ceci a new cloak
now
, will it not?” laughed Lydia. “Of course it won’t be nearly enough to pay for the cloak, but I daresay in a year or so you will have the sum—”

There was a discreet knock on the door. Ceci flounced over and pulled it open angrily. The youngest footman was standing outside. “Well, what do
you
want?” Ceci demanded.

“Beg pardon, miss, but there’s a gentleman asking to see Miss Pommy. Mr. Forte has put him in the small waiting room, seeing as he doesn’t know the gentleman, and wouldn’t risk showing him into the drawing room.”

“A
gentleman?
For Pommy?” Ceci trilled a laugh. “If he’s a gentleman, he’s probably come to call on me—”

“Mr. Forte asked him twice, to be sure. The gent says it’s Miss Pommy as he wishes to speak to. He’s got a present for her.”

“This,” pronounced Ceci, undecided between scorn, anger, and curiosity, “I shall have to look into!” and she sailed out of her room, pink draperies flying.

Pommy ran after her, anxious at this new development and yet eager to discover who had asked for her. Since she had left her grandfather’s home, no one had ever called specifically to see her, although some of the neighbors who had known her parents and her grandfather had occasionally inquired after her health and sent kind messages. Her brain was already buzzing with possibilities: A lost and forgotten relative, who had emigrated to the Colonies and made a fortune, was now wishing to see the vicar’s granddaughter; a childhood friend of her father’s had just now recollected his promise to see how Edwin’s child went on; or perchance the caller had brought a small overdue check for the vicar’s book (a critical but alas! not a commercial success). Pommy hastened down the stairs in Ceci’s wake. It did not occur to her to resent the fact that her guest had been relegated to the room set aside for tradesmen and persons not vouched for.

She arrived at the door of the waiting room in time to see a flutter of pink disappearing inside. Setting her jaw bravely, she followed.

Standing very much at his ease was a man who seemed to fill every square foot of the tiny cold room. It was the Mysterious Stranger from the inn! Pommy’s soft pink mouth formed a soundless “O!” of surprise.

Ceci, who had already realized that the elegantly dressed gentleman with the haughty manner was neither a servant nor a tradesman, came forward in a fair imitation of her mama’s social manner. “I am Miss Cecelia Rand,” she began, consequentially.

The Stranger, including her in the brief bow he made to both girls, walked past Ceci to stand in front of Pommy. He indicated a large parcel lying on the table. “You forgot this,” he said with a warm smile which faded as he noted her tear-stained face with the red patch burning on one white cheek.

“It is my new cloak!” cried Ceci gaily, all girlish charm and enthusiasm. “But how
gallant
of you! I was sure Pommy had lost it, the silly little widgeon! Now you must come into the drawing room and be properly thanked!” She glanced dismissively at Pommy. “Take the cloak up to my room and hang it up carefully.” She offered to place her hand on the Stranger’s arm, her pretty face dimpling into a smile.

The Stranger moved away slightly and slanted a cool eyebrow in her direction. “And who are you?” he asked. “I requested to speak to Miss Melpomene Rand.”

Ceci brushed that aside. “Oh, Pommy is not important! She is always daydreaming and getting things in a muddle. Mama calls her shatterbrained!” with a tinkling little laugh. “I must apologize for her—dragging you here through the storm to return my cloak when you had likely more important things to do, Mr.—?”

Her obvious angling for information brought a quick blush to Pommy’s face. The Stranger’s self-possession was quite unruffled.

“My name is Masterson,” he informed her. “I believe you owe your apologies to your cousin. I had only to make a short detour on my way to London, in the comfort of my carriage. It was she who was forced to trudge through the storm.” He looked at Pommy’s wet garments and muddy shoes significantly.

Ceci followed his glance and gave a little shriek. “Pommy, your shoes! Get up to your room and change! Will you
never
learn how to go on properly in a gentleman’s household?”

“I have always been told,” remarked Masterson with an air of detachment, “that one learns best by observation of good examples.”

Ceci clapped her hands girlishly, quite misreading the implied criticism. “Oh, what a charming compliment! You are a flatterer, sir!”

Pommy was forced to choke down an involuntary laugh as she caught the derisive gleam in the Stranger’s eyes.

“Now you really must come into the drawing room and accept a cup of tea for your trouble—or perhaps something a little stronger?” Ceci moved toward the door, supremely confident of her charm, and almost bumped into Pommy. “Are you still here? I thought I had told you—”

“You must permit me to make my adieux to Miss Melpomene,” interrupted the Stranger quietly. “I have been informed by Host Appledore at the Climbing Man, Miss Rand, that your grandfather was the Reverend Augustus Mayo. I have read and greatly admired his work—”

“Oh, poor Parson Mayo!” interjected Ceci, not at all liking the way the man lingered to talk to Pommy. “He went prosing on forever! Don’t tell me you’ve heard of his books in London?”

“I was fortunate enough to have been able to secure a copy of his latest book, Miss Rand,” continued Masterson as though there had been no interruption. “It is a work of such profound scholarship as to delight while it challenges the mind.”

Pommy’s face was aglow with pride. She fought to keep back tears of pleasure; there had been so pitifully few who had known how to value her beloved grandfather’s work.

Ceci was frowning. “Oh, are you a
grind
, as the saying is? You do not look it, sir! Pommy is bookish too. She is always weeping over some silly Tragedy from the Greeks, or mooning over poetry and Romances! My papa says it is a sad waste of time, and Mama swears Pommy has made herself into a freak.” She giggled. “Even her name is outlandish—Melpomene! Have you ever heard of anything more ridiculous?”

“Frequently,” smiled the big man, so coldly that Pommy wondered that Ceci did not cringe at the contempt in his voice. “But why are you wasting the talents of this learned lady in errands to the village? Has not your papa a footman or a groom who might venture to brave the elements?”

“Of course Papa has footmen and grooms,” Ceci said crossly, not at all pleased at the turn of the conversation.”They have important work to do, while Pommy is frequently idle! I do not know what she has told you,” she glanced suspiciously at her cousin, “but I must warn you she is forever making up taradiddles to gammon us. Why, just now she told me a cock-and-bull story about highwaymen to excuse her carelessness in forgetting my cloak—”

“But there were highwaymen, you see,” the Stranger said. “Host Appledore and I dealt with them and sent them packing. It would appear your cousin has saved your family from an extremely unpleasant encounter. Now I suggest that you take your cloak and leave me to talk for a moment to your cousin, in private, if you please!”

Pommy’s heart sank. If only he understood the situation! The poor man was inviting the most humiliating setdown, and she herself could not think of any way to protect him from the results of his unfortunate plain speaking. Ceci’s pretty mouth was already setting into the familiar ominous curve, and her brows were drawing together. She opened her mouth to deliver one of her devastating tirades. . . .