“I cannot like to deceive him, dearest.”
“It will be only for a short while, I promise. Please?”
“Oh, very well, my sweet. I suppose he is more likely to believe in our love if we do not tell him at once. We have only known each other two weeks, after all, though it scarce seems possible to me.”
Chapter 8
Richard had had no trouble in reaching Grantham on Tuesday evening while it was still daylight. He and Ned, the coachman, had taken turns driving the light, elegant new carriage, and he had several times ridden his chestnut mare, Flame, rather than relaxing in the luxury of the well-padded vehicle.
On Wednesday they stopped at the Angel in Doncaster for lunch and to bait the horses. The weather was glorious—cloudless blue skies with a nip in the air that made one want to be up and about. They left the Great North Road at Doncaster, heading northwest toward Leeds. The road was in fair condition, and they passed through that town in midafternoon. As always, Richard noted with regret how fast the sleepy old wool-market town was becoming a grey, smoky city. Mills were rising on the hillsides all around, three- and four-story buildings, rectangular, with monotonous rows of windows all alike.
As the four matched bays pulled up the hill out of town, the road gradually deteriorated. Badly rutted, pot-holed, and deep in mud, it slowed them so much that when they reached Ilkley, with twelve miles still to go, the sun was sinking behind the high fells. The western sky was gloriously painted with reds and oranges and pinks but the horses were sweating, almost staggering from the weight of dirt clinging to their fetlocks and hooves.
“I’ll not take ‘em no further tonight, sir,” asserted old Ned. “We’m best put up at t’inn.”
“You shall, Ned, and bring them on tomorrow,” agreed his master. “I’ll take Flame and go ahead. It will be light for another hour yet. You know Miss Florence.”
The two men grinned at each other.
“Aye, Mr. Richard. She’m a holy terror, an’ she were t’same afore ever tha was born.”
They pulled into the inn-yard. Richard unhitched Flame’s bridle from the back of the carriage and mounted. He waved to the old man and set off through the mud. Soon he left the road for a well-known moorland track. The going was easier and he turned his attention to the spectacle in front of him.
The hills rose ahead, range upon dark range. His heart lifted at the sight, as it always did when he approached his beloved home, and this evening it must have raised the spirits of any person of the slightest sensibility. Beyond the rolling horizon the sky was the color of fire above banks of crimson clouds far in the west. The red light kindled the mare’s coat to a blaze, and Richard thought of Miss Fell’s hair shining in the sun. He had avoided thinking of the errand that had brought him home, still unsure of his feelings toward his protégée, but suddenly he was glad he would be seeing her again.
As Flame cantered onward, the sky paled to pastel; the clouds were a soft rose, and a band of pure clear green faded gradually into darker and darker blue. He was nearly at Toblethorpe village when the evening star appeared, and as he trotted up the drive of the manor, it was joined by a myriad others.
Riding around to the stables, he turned Flame over to a groom with a word of praise and a sugar lump. He entered the house by a back door, happy now to be out of the chilly night.
As he passed the billiard room, Richard became aware of the sound of the pianoforte. A Mozart minuet, played with a sure yet delicate touch, very unlike Lucy’s. He listened with pleasure. Surely not his aunt…
At the door to the music room, he paused to study the charming scene within: Miss Carstairs sat in an easy chair, her back to him and her inevitable embroidery lying idle in her lap; at the instrument, half facing the door, wholly concentrated on her playing, was Miss Fell. In the candlelight, her hair had a soft sheen as vivid as the sunset but gentler, which contrasted delightfully with her gown of dark green silk.
The dainty piece came to an end. Richard clapped his hands. “Bravo!”
Miss Fell looked up in amazement, which quickly turned to a glad welcome. “Rich… Mr. Carstairs! We had almost given up hope of seeing you today. I did not hear the carriage.”
“It is at Ilkley. I rode the last few miles. Your servant, Aunt.” He bent to kiss the cheek presented to him.
“So, Richard. Miss Fell insisted on holding back dinner until seven. I trust you mean to divest yourself of your filth before sitting down?”
Richard and Miss Fell exchanged glances brimming with amusement.
“Indeed I do, Aunt Florence. I beg your pardon for appearing before you with half the county on my boots and breeches. I heard the music as I entered and could not resist it.”
“Miss Fell is an admirable player,” stated the old lady.
“Say, rather, superb.” He bowed over Miss Fell’s hand as she blushed. “Are you quite recovered, ma’am?”
“Thank you, I am very well.”
“You are much improved,” said Miss Carstairs magisterially. “However, you still tire too easily.”
“If my aunt thinks it wise, perhaps you would indulge me with a little music after dinner, Miss Fell? I must thank you for preserving that meal for me.”
She laughed.
“I doubt whether we could have prevailed upon the servants to serve it before that hour, when you were expected. I was told very firmly that my lady always waits for Mr. Richard.”
“How fortunate that I did not stay at Ilkley, or you must have gone fasting to bed! Yes, Aunt, I am going to change immediately.”
He was met in the hall by a reproachful Bedford, “I did not hear your arrival, sir,” he said disapprovingly. “I shall have hot water sent up at once and Thomas will help you.”
“Thank you, Bedford. It is good to be home.”
Over dinner, Richard regaled the ladies with the story of Lucy’s success in London. “She hardly knew a soul that night at Almack’s,” he said proudly, “yet she stood up for every dance. I was prepared to do my duty, but there was no need. You would not believe all the new gowns she has.”
“The modern fashions are very simple,” pointed out Miss Carstairs disparagingly. “In my young day we wore hoops and powdered wigs and yard-high ostrich feathers. It took two hours to change one’s dress. I remember the gown in which I was presented at Court…” Her detailed description of the formal dress of forty years ago fascinated Miss Fell and nearly sent Richard to sleep. At last she ended with a sigh. “Of course, King George was a young man then. We had no idea of the troubles that would follow.”
Richard wished he dared tell them the story he had heard about His Majesty and the Princess of Wales. Instead, he described the two tulips who had appeared on the doorstep the morning after Lucy’s first ball.
“However,” he added, “Cousin Edward is finer by half, a regular Bond Street Beau. Have you seen him in his town rig-out, Aunt Florence?”
“If he could only be persuaded to confine it to town! He appears at Arnden in a cerise coat, having taken an hour and a half to tie his neckcloth. Making a cake of himself and all the while thinking himself monstrous fine.”
“Oh, he’s a veritable man-milliner, bang up to the knocker. Let me tell you, his ball dress is like to blind you. Uncle Geoffrey asked me to have a word with him, but I cried craven. I quite long to introduce him to you, Miss Fell.”
“I’d as lief forgo that pleasure, sir, judging on your description. Is that how Beau Brummell dresses? Lucy told me that he is a friend of yours.”
“I daresay the Beau spends as long or longer over his cravat, but his mode is rather characterized by quiet elegance than by display. My cousin would do well to follow his lead.”
“Edward never had the slightest common sense,” said his aunt austerely. “Jennifer also spends more time on her dress than I consider justifiable.”
“There is no fear of Lucy doing so. She enjoys appearing elegant, to be sure, but she is not truly interested in fashions and modes. After a day of shopping she was better pleased to visit the Exeter Exchange than another mantua-maker.”
“I suppose Lucy has had little time for reading,” observed Miss Fell. “I quite expected that you would bring word of the fate of Count Casimir and the unfortunate Melisande.”
“Oh, Lucy charged me with a thousand messages for you. I told her I should remember only one, so I am to tell you that she cannot wait to see you again. Mama is also looking forward to receiving you in Cavendish Square.”
“You wrote that you will accompany me to Arnden and spend the Sabbath there,” said Miss Carstairs. “An excellent arrangement. I do not approve of the modern habit of traveling on the day of rest. Also, you will want to take the journey in easy stages, as Miss Fell is still convalescent.”
Richard did not linger over his brandy. He was tired after travelling two hundred miles in two days, and before retiring he was anxious to hear Miss Fell play again.
When he entered the drawing room, she was reading. At his request she went willingly to the piano. He watched her walk, remembering the times he had carried her. Her movement had elegance, he thought, yet it was purposeful somehow, unlike the languid fatigue adopted by so many fashionable ladies. Her figure was full, but she was tall and did not appear plump.
She turned to ask what he would like her to play, and found him gazing at her. He flushed and apologized.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Fell. I did not mean to stare. I was wondering at how much your appearance has changed. When I found you, Lucy quite thought I had brought home a skeleton. Oh, my cursed tongue! That is not very complimentary!”
“As you are saying that I no longer look like a bag of bones, I will take it as a compliment,” she assured him with a smile. Her eyes smiled, too, and he thought of all the faces he had seen that smiled only with the lips. Her eyes were her best feature, he decided. A man could lose himself in their sea-green depths.
She called him back to reality.
“What would you have me play, Mr. Carstairs?”
“Something restful,” he answered. “It has been a long day.”
She chose the Bach that was the first piece she had played in his house. Her fingers moved lightly over the keys, interweaving strands of melody that somehow built a towering castle in the air, a magic castle which enchanted her listener and then faded softly away. There was a long silence when she finished.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “You have a great talent.”
Miss Carstairs brought them back to earth this time. “I am unable to understand,” she declared, “why gentlemen nowadays think it not the thing to play an instrument. Your grandfather, Richard, was an excellent violinist, and even your father played the clarionet in his youth. We were used to have delightful musical evenings. Today it is a wonder if a gentleman can read music well enough to sing.”
“I can do that much, Aunt, though I’ll not boast of any great ability.”
“You shall show your paces tomorrow. Miss Fell and I are wont to sing ballads together and have sadly felt the lack of a deeper voice to join us.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Richard submitted.
“Now, come and drink your tea, children.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they chorused obediently.
The next day dawned fair. Miss Carstairs had gone to early service in the village as usual, so Richard and Miss Fell met alone at the breakfast table.
“Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,” Richard greeted her.
“Did you see the sunset yesterday?” she queried. “Oh, of course, you must have been riding right into it. I watched from my chamber. It is fortunate that dinner was put back, or I should have been late for it. I do not remember having seen a more beautiful sky.”
“Have you remembered anything?” he asked gravely. “It is three weeks today since we found you.”
“No, nothing. Unless you count the music—and I do not precisely remember having played before. When I sat down at the pianoforte, it just seemed to come to me.” She looked at him helplessly. “I have tried to think about my childhood, but I just get the headache and no memories. I am sorry.”
The distress in her face shook him.
“You are not to worry about it,” he said hurriedly. “Tell me what you have been doing since we left.”
Miss Fell described her encounter with the Reverend Crane and Jeremy’s timely rescue. “I was quite at point non plus when he appeared,” she said. “However, I am grateful to Mr. Crane, for if he had not seen fit to visit me I might never have become acquainted with Susan Denison, and she is such a dear person…”
“A happy outcome, to be sure,” agreed Richard, laughing. “It is an amusing story, but I must apologize for the vicar’s lack of manners. It must have been a painful experience. He was given the living by my Uncle Mortlake before I attained my majority, and unfortunately I cannot dismiss him. He is not popular in the parish. He crawls to the great, comes the mighty over the villagers, and tells spiteful tales of all.”
“Mr. Denison told me he is angling for a living in Lincolnshire, so perhaps you will soon be free of him.”
“I can only hope so. Jeremy has a brother in orders to whom I would be happy to offer the parish.”
“They are relatives of yours? I thought so. It is good of you to take such an interest in their welfare.”
“I have done little enough. The elder brother, William, is a soldier, and the two sisters have both made good marriages. Indeed, I should hesitate to say that I have obliged Jeremy more than he has obliged me. He is a first-class agent, and I would trust him with my fortune.”
“Miss Carstairs agrees with you, I am sure. She described him as ‘a young man of culture and sense,’ a rare encomium from her, is it not?”
Richard whooped. “She has never said anything half so complimentary about me!” he exclaimed, “and you heard her strictures on Cousin Edward. Did you tell Jeremy?”
“I told Susan,” she said. “I am sure she passed it on.”
“You have seen a good deal of Mrs. Denison, then?”
“Yes, nearly every day since we met. She came here several times, and then when Dr. Grimsdale permitted, I visited Rosebay Cottage.”
Richard was pleased. He had a high opinion of Susan Denison’s common sense, and if, as it appeared, she liked Miss Fell, it was definitely a point in that young lady’s favor.