Carola Dunn (7 page)

“Where did you get her?” Angel wanted to know. “In Spain?”

He hesitated, and when he answered it was with such obvious reluctance that Catherine looked at him sharply.

“Yes, from a
Basque guerrillero.”

Catherine, seeing that Angel was bursting with questions, spoke quickly. “Lyn, we are keeping Mr Marshall from his luncheon, and the remains of mine await me. Come now.”

Unwilling but for once obedient, Angel followed her, and Osa’s master soon rejoined them.

“I fear the leg of mutton was unsalvageable,” he apologised to his host. “Mrs McTavish says we shall have to make do with a Welsh rarebit for dinner.”

“I hope you and Mr Leigh will dine with us one of these days,” proposed Mrs Sutton. “We go to Penrith next week, but perhaps the following week?”

“I shall be delighted to accept,” Mr Leigh assured her, “but Donald does not in general . . .”

“Please come, Mr Marshall,” entreated Angel. Ignoring Aunt Maria’s frown, she continued, “There is a sad shortage of young gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and we cannot sit down five to dinner.”

“An . . . Lyn!” said Mrs Sutton sharply, but Mr Marshall smiled at her and cut off any further reprimand.

“I daresay it might be managed,” he allowed, and, as his friend looked at him askance, went on, “Dash it, Leigh, I cannot be forever cooped up, and if we ride over the Crag . . . I shall be happy to accept your invitation, ma’am.”

Angel breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

* * * *

All too soon they returned to Barrows End and there were chores to be done. Every day her aunt discovered more tasks that Mrs Applejohn adamantly refused to find time for. The girls were set to dusting the front parlour, and as Angel had never done such a thing in her life and had no idea how to go about it, it was a lengthy job.

“I cannot think why Mrs Craythorn wants so many china shepherdesses!” she said pettishly. “They are not at all pretty. I should like to take the poker to them.”

“Pray do not,” begged Catherine, uncertain whether her cousin might take it into her head to carry out her proposal. “They are hideous, I agree, but I suppose she is attached to them.”

“I know, I’ll ask Aunt Maria if they can be packed away, and then we will never have to dust them again!” She danced out, pleased with her brilliant solution, to return disconsolate a few minutes later. “She says it is an excellent idea, both because they are dreadful and so that they will be safe from accidents. So when we have finished dusting the horrid things, we are to fetch a box from the stables and pack them in straw. Why did I ever make such a suggestion?”

“Only think how pleased you will be next time we dust,” consoled her cousin. “And how delightful it will be to go home in September to a houseful of servants!”

As they worked, they talked about their new acquaintances.

“Mr Leigh is a true gentleman,” Catherine commented. “Sensible and courteous, well informed, conversable. I thought him charming and I expect he is an admirable parson. Papa certainly seems to approve of him.”

“Should you like to marry him? He is the very person for you, I am sure. And we are not to see him for two weeks! I must try to arrange a meeting sooner.”

“But Angel, did not you tell me that Lady Elizabeth and he are sweethearts? He would make her a perfect husband, I think, but even if they have no hope of marriage because of Lord Grisedale, you would surely not expect me to set my cap at another female’s beloved!”

“To tell the truth, I may have been mistaken,” Angel confessed. “I did think Beth was speaking of Mr Leigh, but I did not know then of the other. Mr Marshall asked me to arrange a meeting for him with her so he must be the one she meant.”

“Unless he spoke for his friend, or perhaps they are rivals,” suggested Catherine, hiding a smile.

“That would be altogether too confusing! How should I know which one to help?”

“You had much better leave them to their own devices, my dear. I hope you did not offer to bring Mr Marshall and Lady Elizabeth together?”

“N-no, for you and Aunt Maria came, and there was no opportunity.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies! You had decided though, I take it, that he would be an equally unexceptionable suitor?”

“Well, no, not really. In fact at first I thought him prodigious sinister, with that dark hair and the scar and the limp. Then he turned out to be pleasant enough, but I think perhaps he is too lively for Beth.”

“An intense and forceful young man, I agree.”

“He might frighten Beth. Osa would if he did not.”

“Not necessarily. She is not alarmed by horses.”

“True, but I do not think him right for her. And he is not tall enough for you, for I am sure he does not top me by more than an inch.”

“Then you are free to pursue him for yourself. With discretion, I beg!”

“If I find Beth does not love him, then I just might,” said Angel, her voice full of mischief.

The next morning it was raining. It was Angel’s turn to carry up hot water, so when the church clock struck seven Catherine reached out and poked her, across the narrow space which separated their beds.

“Time to get up, sleepyhead,” she said cheerfully, and snuggled down again.

Angel yawned and groaned and muttered, then, resigning herself to the inevitable, she threw back the covers, shivering. She put on slippers and a wrap, looked out at the rain and groaned again, then trudged down the narrow stair.

The stove was stone-cold.

Until this week, Angel had scarcely been aware that hot water did not appear by magic in her ewer every morning. The fact that a fire must be carefully tended to provide it had been quite beyond her ken. She considered giving up and going back to bed until the Applejohns arrived to deal with the problem, but the previous evening her uncle had read her a mild scold on her unwillingness to do her share of necessary chores. She decided to demonstrate her desire to comply. She would light the fire.

It took her five minutes to work out how to open the fire-door. She peered in, and could see nothing but grey ash. No sense in trying to relight that. There was a stack of wood beside the black iron stove, so she pushed in as much as would fit on top of the ashes and looked about for a tinderbox.

She had never had any occasion to strike a light, but she had seen it done and it had not looked difficult. After a few tries she became proficient, to her delight, in striking flint against steel. The tinder began to glow as a stream of sparks fell onto it and soon a brimstone match flared up. Quickly she thrust it among the wood in the firebox. It went out. Three successive attempts ended the same way, and Angel sat down with a sigh to rest her aching hands and decide what to try next. By now she was determined not to be beaten.

Her wandering gaze fell upon a box of wood on the other side of the stove: thin sticks and twigs, shavings and dried heather. Of course! One must light smaller pieces first, and they in turn would light the larger logs. It was the work of a moment to pull out a couple of thick sticks and substitute a packed mass of kindling. She lit a match, set it to the bone-dry wood, and quickly slammed the door as it flared up.

With another sigh, of satisfaction and exhaustion, she sat down again to wait for the water to heat. A sudden thought made her jump up to check that the kettles were full. All was well, she need not go out in the rain to fetch water.

Quickly recovering her energy, Angel set about preparations for breakfast. That was one chore she had escaped so far, for Aunt Maria had decided it was more trouble to teach her to cook than it was worth. How surprised and pleased her aunt would be, she thought with a smile. Her eyes were burning, so she stopped setting the table and rubbed them. Perhaps the water was warm by now. She went over to the stove and was about to test the kettle with her hand when a puff of choking black smoke belched up into her face.

Coughing and wheezing, eyes streaming, Angel made for the door. Groping blindly she found the latch, opened it, and stumbled towards the stair, followed by clouds of pungent fumes.

“Help!” she wailed.

It was some time before she calmed down enough to give a coherent account of her misadventure. By then Uncle Clement, a handkerchief held to his nose, had shut the kitchen door, opened the windows and the back door. The rest of the house was clear of all but a faint, pervading smell of woodsmoke, and a grumbling John Applejohn had been persuaded to rake out the stove.

At last Angel dried her tears, caused, she insisted, entirely by the smoke. She raised her soot-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes, and described precisely what she had done.

“Goose,” said Aunt Maria kindly, hugging her. “Air is necessary for combustion, you know. You have to rake out the ashes so that air can flow in through the grating, and then put no more wood than will allow it to circulate.”

“Don’t tell me!” Angel clapped her hands to her ears. “If it happens again on my day, we will just have to wash in cold water.”

“Hot or cold, you had better wash your face soon,” advised Catherine. “You look for all the world like a climbing boy. We are going to see Lord Grisedale today, and what he’d think if he saw you now doesn’t bear dwelling on. He’d certainly not guess your true identity!”

Chapter 6

When Angel and the Suttons were ushered into the drawing room at Grisedale Hall, they found only Lady Elizabeth and her companion awaiting them. A footman announced that his lordship would see Mr Sutton immediately. The vicar excused himself and followed the servant, whereupon Mrs Daventry launched upon a complaint about the climate of the Lake District.

“It is
raining
again!” she announced in case they had not noticed. “I declare I do not know how it is to be
borne.
Three days of sunshine we had and I
quite
expect that that is all we shall see this
summer
for they say this is by far the
wettest
part of the kingdom and I am sure . . .”

Mrs Sutton and Catherine closed their ears and sat with glazed smiles on their faces, thinking their own thoughts and occasionally murmuring unintelligible comments, which seemed to satisfy Mrs Daventry. Angel had managed to seat herself and Beth on a sofa at some little distance, and they talked quietly together.

In view of the presence of the others, Angel hesitated to attempt the subject of Messrs Leigh and Marshall, so she did not even mention the previous day’s visit. Instead she described her mishap with the stove, eliciting a laugh from Beth that brought Mrs Daventry’s monologue
to an abrupt halt.

“. . . and I
assure
you in Norfolk it is very different— Why, the girls are laughing! Pray
what
did you tell her to make her laugh so, Miss Brand? I
dearly
love a joke myself.”

Seeing Angel about to answer and afraid of what might emerge, Mrs Sutton hastily interrupted. “I am sure it is nonsense, ma’am, and not worth repeating. The silliest things amuse young ladies. I expect you remember that from your youth, as I do.”

This called forth an oration on Youth, followed by a series of reminiscences which nearly sent Catherine to sleep. She could not imagine how anyone who had had such a dull childhood was able to recall it in such minute detail. As she stifled her fourth yawn and wondered whether the fifth would escape her, the footman returned. His lordship requested the pleasure of the company of Mrs and Miss Sutton and Miss Brand.

The ladies rose, shook out their skirts, and followed him. Angel wondered why the summons had thrown her into high fidgets. By all she had heard the earl was an irascible old gentleman, but he was not an ogre and had no reason (as yet, she qualified) to rip up at her. Besides, he was merely an earl and Papa was a marquis, though she could not tell him so. It must be an uneasy conscience as to her intentions towards his expressed wishes for his daughter’s future, she decided. But she was no dependent of his, to be bound by his wishes. She dismissed her misgivings as the footman threw open a door and bowed them through.

The room they entered was hot and gloomy. A huge fire roaring in the hearth was the only lighting, and heavy crimson drapes covered the windows, while the walls were panelled in dark wood and the only furniture was a number of leather-upholstered armchairs. In one of these Angel at last distinguished a small, hunched, elderly gentleman who, she realised to her surprise, must be Lord Grisedale, as the only other person in the room was her uncle. For no reason she could think of she had expected someone much larger.

She examined him with interest as she made her curtsy, and decided he looked bitter, surly, and miserable. The latter, she thought, could be cured at least in part by dousing half the fire and throwing open both curtains and windows. She herself was already hot and sticky and uncomfortable, and the air had a musty smell as if it had been breathed too many times.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, for not rising to greet you,” said his lordship to Mrs Sutton, sounding not in the least apologetic. “My physician has placed strict limits upon my freedom of movement.”

“Pray do not let it concern you, my lord,” she replied.

“I do not, I assure you. Are you quite comfortable at the vicarage? It is not as commodious as you expected, I daresay.” The words were unexceptionable, but the tone of the earl’s voice was malicious and provoking.

“It suits us very well for the summer. The surroundings make up for all the deficiencies.”

Angel was full of admiration for the way Aunt Maria managed to give as good as she got without being impolite.

“Ha!” grunted his lordship. “Well, I am tired. You may go.” They murmured good-byes, dropped curtsies, and were halfway to the door when he called harshly, “Wait! Gregory tells me the girls like to ride. They may borrow horses as long as a groom rides with them. Good-bye.”

“Thank you very much, my lord,” chorused Angel and Catherine. They curtsied yet again, and fled. Mr and Mrs Sutton joined them at a more decorous pace, and they all breathed a sigh of relief as the footman closed the door behind them.

“It is kind of Lord Grisedale to mount us,” said Catherine, who was looking somewhat pale. “Papa, I feel a little dizzy.”