Carola Dunn (18 page)

“Miles?”

“Yes, certainly. I have no urgent business on the estate.”

“Then let me tell you whose acquaintance you shall make,” said Miss Sophie happily.

As she began to describe the Nidds, the Loftings, and the Hazlitts, Miles resigned himself to a postponement of his reading with Nerissa. Listening with half an ear, he wondered whether Mrs Chidwell was truly unperturbed by Nerissa’s introduction to the local gentry. Surely she was not so blind as still to believe Nerissa was a wanton slut. Complying with Sir Barnabas’s third clause would be no trouble to her, so her greedy relatives must count on her failing to win acceptance.

That was it. They were sure that however well she started, sooner or later, one way or another, she would forfeit the neighbours’ esteem. By not introducing her themselves, they hoped to insulate themselves from her coming disgrace.

Miles’s surmise was bolstered when Aubrey left the card table and came to join them.

“We shall pay more calls tomorrow?” he said. “Splendid, splendid. All went very well today, did it not? I knew my influence would suffice to ensure your welcome.”

Aubrey must be included in the others’ scheming. Such was the man’s conceit, he was unable to imagine his standing affected by his young cousin’s downfall. Miles fumed.

He decided not to relay his guess to Nerissa. Her confidence was shaky enough without knowing her ill-wishers expected her to fail. They might be right, alas. Her upbringing had been deficient, and he and Miss Sophie could not possibly cover every contingency.

The worst threat was from her suitors, he reckoned. How the devil was he to protect her from them?

The next day added a third to their number--for Miles was not inclined to dismiss the handsome Dr Firston whatever the fellow had hinted to Nerissa. Jeremy Lofting showed a decided interest in Nerissa, and he could not be dismissed as a fortune-hunter as he was heir to a very pretty property between Riddlebourne and Porchester. He had progressive ideas about agriculture, too, many of which Miles resolved to copy. It was difficult to disapprove of him. He just was not quite right for Nerissa.

Miles racked his brain all the way home, without success. Though he came up with plenty of ways to stop any courtship in its tracks, all were liable to ruin Nerissa.

Snodgrass met them at the front door, looking even more impassive than usual.

“The Digbys called in your absence, miss,” he told Nerissa.

“Oh, I am sorry to have missed them.”

“Mr Digby--Mr Clive Digby, that is--left a...an offering, miss. Perhaps gift is the correct word.”

“A gift? Where is it?”

“I took the liberty, miss, of having it conveyed to the kitchens. Cook, I may say, was delighted but awaits your instructions on the precise disposition of...the gift.”

“Snodgrass, what is it?”

“A basket of fish, miss. Very fine perch, I understand, fresh caught this morning.”

Nerissa burst into peals of laughter. Miles caught the butler’s eye and was prepared to swear he saw the corner of that very proper servant’s mouth twitch.

“Oh dear,” Nerissa said unsteadily, “I must confess I only expected monologues on fish from him, not baskets of fish. How very kind, to be sure. I’ll go and see Cook.”

As she and Snodgrass went off and Aubrey started up the stairs, Miss Sophie said to Miles in a perplexed tone, “I daresay it is unexceptionable for a young lady to accept a gift of fish from a gentleman? If it were jewellery or clothes one would know it must be sent back.”

“I’d say a basket of perch is on a par with a box of bonbons,” he reassured her.

“But it is not quite proper to give any gift when they have only met once.”

Miles had to agree that Clive Digby’s courtship was proceeding with indecorous celerity. “Next time we see him,” he said, “you and I must each thank him for the fish as though we considered it a present to the household.”

“Dear Miles, how clever you are.”

“You had best warn Nerissa, and advise her as to what gifts are acceptable.”

“No doubt actresses are willing to take anything they are offered, poor things,” said Miss Sophie with an air of worldly wisdom.

“They don’t always wait for an offer,” Miles told her sardonically. He paused, then continued hesitantly, “Since Digby appears to be making Nerissa the object of his attentions, she needs to know how to conduct herself with an admirer, and not only where gifts are concerned. I cannot claim to be able to advise her. Can you?”

Miss Sophie turned scarlet. “Oh yes, dear. I was not without suitors in my youth. Though Effie did not consider any of them suitable,” she added wistfully.

They both started and looked around as an angry, wordless mutter filled the air.

“Such odd noises the wind makes sometimes,” said Miss Sophie. “Yes, I will speak to Nerissa about her beaux. I do believe Mr Lofting is quite
épris
also, do not you? And perhaps Dr Firston. It is not to be wondered at. Nerissa is a delightful

girl.”

Miles smiled as he watched her go, but his smile soon changed to a frown. The rules of propriety changed at a snail’s pace compared to niceties of etiquette and fashion, so Miss Sophie should be able to advise Nerissa adequately. However, trouble still lay in wait if any of the gentlemen in question decided to propose to her before she was assured of her inheritance.

Though she could avoid explanations by refusing a proposal, some inexplicable feminine whim might actually lead her to wish to marry one of the fellows. Miles--nobly, he felt--wanted her to be able to accept if she so chose. Thus the difficulty was reduced to preventing too early an offer.

A stroke of genius hit him. All he had to do, if Digby, Firston, or Lofting showed signs of serious intentions, was to remind him that though forbidden to put on blacks Nerissa was in mourning for her grandfather. Under the circumstances, a proposal of marriage would be crassly insensitive.

On the other hand, no gentleman with the slightest claim to sensitivity would regard fish as an appropriate present for the young lady of his choice... He’d have to keep an eye on Clive Digby.

The perch were served at dinner, breaded and fried in butter, garnished with parsley and lemon slices. The delicate white fish was delicious, and Miles saw Nerissa eating some with every evidence of pleasure. She cast him a quizzical smile the length of the table.

Forgoing port, he followed the ladies out after the meal. “You enjoyed the perch?” he asked, pulling up a chair beside Nerissa at a small Pembroke table near the confidante.

“I don’t know when I have tasted better fish. One could never buy it so fresh in York. I am sorry I laughed at Mr Digby. After all, I believe I shall quite like to have a beau who is a dedicated angler.”

“I used to fish when I was a boy,” he informed her, displeased by her change of heart towards Clive Digby. “In a river near my home or the Addle when I visited my godfather. Maybe I shall try my hand again when I have time to spare. I wonder whether the fishing rod I had here is still about.”

“Mr Harwood would let you buy one, I expect. Will you teach me to fish?”

“You might do better with lessons from Digby.”

“Oh no! I had rather learn from you.”

“Very well, then,” Miles agreed, gratified, “provided we have a spell of weather neither too wet nor too cold. It’s not usual for a female to fish but I see no objection.”

“Perhaps I had best ask Miss Sophie.”

“Not now,” he protested as Nerissa began to rise. “Let us read, before we are interrupted. I put the first volume on the mantelpiece before dinner.”

While he retrieved the book, she took from the table’s drawer several sheets of paper and two pencils. Returning, he sat down and opened the book. Nerissa moved a tall branch of candles so that the light fell on the page and on her paper.

“This will be a change from my usual reading,” Miles remarked.

“What do you read?”

“‘Words, words, words.’“

She laughed. “‘What is the matter, my lord?’“

“‘Between who?’“

“‘I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.’“

“Sheep and turnips. Aubrey suits the rôle of Polonius better than you do.”

“Lucky for him that you are no Hamlet. I suppose they will watch us closely once we begin to play, hoping to catch you making real wagers.”

“We shall leave our lists lying about for them to peruse. I doubt any of them is quite crack-brained enough to believe I have actually staked a talking dog. Are you ready? Good heavens, I’ll skip the apostrophe to Allah and Mohammed if you don’t mind. Here we go.”

He began to read. The first part of the story had few treasures worthy of note apart from saddles of gem-encrusted gold, which sounded, as he commented, deuced uncomfortable. With nothing to write, Nerissa started to sketch Oriental-looking figures as she listened.

Miles broke off to say, “Those are good. I didn’t know drawing was one of your accomplishments.”

She looked up, her face flushed in the candlelight. “Only costumes. Turbans and veils and draperies. As you see, the faces are blank. I cannot draw portraits or landscapes or other ladylike subjects, but I found it easier to make costumes if I sketched them first. We once put on Racine’s
Bajazet
, in translation of course, and that has a Turkish setting, you know. It was not a success.”

“Not because of your costumes.”

“I hope not,” she said with a smile. “No, Mr Fothergill, our manager, was forced to conclude that Racine seemed stilted to audiences used to Shakespeare. Do go on. You read well.”

Pleased, he continued. A few lines later, he came to the young king’s discovery of his wife’s infidelity. The brief passage was finished before it struck him that he should not be reading such things to an innocent young lady.

But Nerissa appeared unconcerned, continuing her sketching without a pause. Of course, she had been brought up on Othello and the like, he reminded himself. He read on.

The description of the carryings-on of the second queen and her attendants was another matter, not a trifle warm, not even merely indelicate, but positively ribald. Miles, his face hot, found himself reading faster and faster in a softer and softer voice.

Nerissa’s face was in shadow, her head bowed over her drawing. As far as he could tell, she was oblivious of the indecency of the story. He ought to warn her of the utter impropriety of listening to such stuff, but he could not bring himself to speak of it.

Instead, he said, “I should never make an actor, I’m already growing hoarse. Is it too early to ring for the tea-tray?”

“No, of course not.” She jumped up and went to ring the bell.

While she was gone, Miles skimmed through the next part of the book and was horrified to find it going from bad to worse. Yet when he opened it at random, the page he read was entirely innocent. For the most part it consisted of a list of exotic fruits and flowers, including the Damascene nenuphars and such delicacies as Osmani quinces and Omani peaches.

He decided the only thing to do was to read ahead each night and mark, to be omitted the next evening, those passages that were unfit for a delicate female’s ears.

Nerissa did not return to Miles. She did not see how she could ever face him again. The indecorous stories which had seemed unimportant when read to herself became shocking from the lips of a handsome rake. Shocking and disturbing, leaving her with the most peculiar quivery feeling.

She could not possibly tell him she didn’t want him to read any more. He would want to know why. She should never have started the business. What was she to do?

For the present, she told Snodgrass to bring in the tea-tray, and then went to speak to Miss Sophie, hoping her face showed none of her agitation. By the time she was ensconced behind the tea things and Miles came to fetch his cup, she was calmer. Nonetheless, her heartbeat sped up on his approach.

“I’ve found an account of the preparations for a feast,” he said. “Instead of reading further tonight, shall we play a game, wagering--let’s see--Sultani citrons and musk-scented fritters on the outcome?” He pulled a face. “Though I’m not sure I fancy musk-scented fritters.”

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Nerissa wrinkled her nose. “Nor I. And have you come across coffee flavoured with ambergris? It sounds quite horrid. Still, it scarcely matters since for us they exist only in fancy.”

“Quite. The immaterial is immaterial,” Miles agreed and took his cup of tea, smiling at her in a way that made her feel shaky all over again.

Immaterial! Sir Barnabas pursed his invisible lips in annoyance at this cavalier dismissal. He’d show them the importance of the incorporeal.

His sharp eyes had not missed Nerissa’s perturbation when Miles read that disgraceful story. He must strike while the iron--or in this case the hussy’s passion--was hot. Tonight she’d not resist Miles’s advances if he sought her bed.

Fortunately Aubrey was not on watch tonight. Last time his dead uncle had succeeded in luring the pair out of their rooms, the numskull had been too terrified to budge an inch yet had given away his presence and ruined the plan. This time Sophie was on duty. As Sir Barnabas was well aware, the poor dear always sank into a deep slumber within half an hour of concealing herself behind the curtain. She would not interfere.

As before, he watched the lights go out one by one, until only the night-lamp still burned. Then he slithered round the edge of the curtain to make sure Sophie was sleeping.

She was still wakeful, shivering as she tried to pull her shawl around her shoulders and hug a rug about her knees at the same time. It was a cold, clear night, the moon shining in at the window. By morning there would be a heavy frost.

Sir Barnabas wished he could tell her to go to bed. He was still able to make himself seen and understood only to Harwood, and whenever he did the lawyer read him a lecture on the folly of his Will. If he touched Sophie, he would only make her colder, so he pressed into the corner of the alcove, making himself as small as possible.

At last her eyes closed and her face relaxed in sleep. The lines of anxiety smoothed away, she looked years younger. As Sir Barnabas gazed down at her, his immaterial heart twisted painfully within him. If only....