Runaway Miss (9 page)

Seeing her trudging along the road, weariness in every contour of her body, had filled him with pity. He had to remind himself that pity was no basis for marriage and falling in love with a mysterious stranger the height of folly. Nevertheless his heart had jumped at the sight of her. ‘It crossed my mind.’

She was beginning to regret greeting him so thankfully, as if he were her saviour. She must remember he had taken advantage of her half-asleep state in the coach and…No, better not remember that; it was too disturbing. She would give him no opportunity to repeat it. ‘Then let me relieve your mind. It appears my employer has moved house. I am on my way there.’

‘Why did she not meet you as you expected?’

‘She was detained, but sent a message where she was to be found.’ She was surprised at how easily the lie slipped off her tongue. And none of it would have been necessary if her mother’s husband had had an ounce of humanity. She hated him, not only for what he expected of her, but for disposing of her pearls and leaving her with worthless copies. Her hate was so raw, and the business of the pearls so new to her, she
was ready to take her fury out on any man who crossed her path, however well intentioned.

‘And where is that?’

‘Why are you quizzing me?’

‘My dear Miss Draper, I am not quizzing you, simply wishing to know whither we are bound.’

‘You, I collect, are going to Lake Windermere. I do not remember demanding to know exactly where, as if it was of any business of mine.’

‘I merely wanted to know where you wish to be delivered.’

‘Like a parcel.’

‘No,’ he murmured in an undertone. ‘Baggage.’

He did not realise she had heard him until she said sharply. ‘Well, you may set this baggage down anywhere in Bowness, my lord, preferably near the shores of the lake. I can find my own way from there.’

‘As you wish.’ So much for his pity. He ought to know better; wounded soldiers, unemployed ex-soldiers, men whose wives had given up the struggle to wait for their return and gone off with someone else, did not want pity. You could not eat pity, you could not sleep on a bed of pity, or warm yourself by pity’s fire. It was a lesson he had learned very early on in his career and it had been reinforced since his return. This proud, independent woman was no different from his men. Except she was beautiful and she intrigued him.

He flicked the reins at the mare and clicked his tongue to make her go faster, but was obliged to slow her again while they were passing through a small hamlet, where women and children were out on the streets. Then on they went. Neither spoke. Both looked grimly ahead.

As they approached the little town of Bowness, water could be glimpsed in the distance and some white sails. ‘Anywhere in Bowness?’ he queried mildly.

‘Yes.’

He took her almost to the lakeside and drew the little horse to a halt. She did not wait for him to jump down and come round to help her, but scrambled down and retrieved her bag. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He came swiftly to her side, putting a hand on her arm to detain her. ‘Are you sure you know where you are going?’

‘Yes.’ She tried to sound positive. ‘Thank you, my lord, for your help.’

‘No doubt we will meet again.’

‘Do you think so?’ For a moment, her eyes brightened and then the veil dropped over them again and shut him out.

‘Yes, I am sure of it. This might be the largest lake in England, but the villages and hamlets around it are not so big one can lose oneself in them.’

‘But you, my lord, are expected to go home to Norfolk, are you not?’

‘Yes, when I have seen my uncle and aunt.’

‘Then goodbye, my lord.’

He watched as she set off down the road.
‘Au revoir,’
he murmured to her back. She had disappeared from sight before he remembered he should have apologised for his behaviour in the coach. No wonder she had been so uncommunicative. If he had said he was sorry and asked her forgiveness, she might have told him where she was going; they might have parted as friends. He climbed back into the gig with a heavy sigh, wondering why that was so important.

Emma waited out of sight until she was sure he had gone, then emerged and retraced her steps to the edge of the lake and then turned north. Low in spirits as she was, not only because of her situation, but also at having to say goodbye to Lord Malvers, the pretty scenery made her feel more cheerful. As the road wound round the lake, she glimpsed boats: sailing
boats, some with white sails, some with brown, some flying coloured pennants, rowing boats and a ferry taking people across to the other side, where woodland and hills and fleecy clouds were reflected in the water. At the water’s edge fishermen sat over their rods. Ducks and diving birds busied themselves searching for food. To her right as she walked, the hills rose above her, where sheep and goats grazed in fields criss-crossed by stone walls. Here and there were magnificent mansions, which commanded views across the lake and were reached by winding paths. She wondered if Mrs Summers lived in such a one.

She came to the head of the lake at last and asked her way to the Ambleside Road. Ten minutes later she was standing outside a large villa built of the local grey stone. A path led from the gate on the road to a central front door, flanked by evenly spaced windows. Her heart sank when she realised the curtains of these windows were drawn, just as those in Kendal had been. The difference, she realised when she had recovered from the shock, was that these windows were clean and the paintwork fresh. But there was a huge black crepe bow tied to the door knocker. It was a house in mourning.

She stood undecided, not wishing to intrude on anyone’s grief, not sure of her welcome at such a time. She was exhausted, her feet hurt and her arm ached with carrying her bag and there was no Viscount Malvers to come to her rescue this time. Reluctant to take that knocker in her hand and remembering her poor appearance, she took a deep breath and made her way round to the back of the house and knocked on the kitchen door.

T
he woman who came to the door was wearing a black dress and a spotless white apron. Her hair was invisible beneath a starched white cap and her cheeks were rosy from the fire; the cook, Emma guessed. Her blue eyes looked Emma up and down. ‘Have you come to help with the funeral tea?’

Emma was about to say no, but changed her mind. ‘Yes. What needs to be done?’

The cook held the door open wider. ‘Come on in, then. You took your time about getting here.’

‘I’m sorry. I only just heard.’

‘Only just heard? Where have you been this past week? His lordship’s known to everyone hereabouts. Great loss to the community, he is. We’ll miss him. Goodness knows what we will do now he’s gone.’ She stopped talking because Emma had put her bag down and was standing looking about her in a kind of trance. The kitchen was large and old-fashioned. There was a dresser all along one wall full of pots and pans, dishes and plates. A huge fire burned in a wide chimney opposite the dresser, where chains and a spit, a huge kettle, a large iron pot and several trivets bore evidence to its use for cooking. On a table in the centre of the room were dishes of food being
prepared by three servants for the funeral feast. And judging by the amount, a great many were expected to partake.

‘Well, girl, where’s your apron? They’ll be back from the funeral any minute now.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Don’t have one! What was the agency thinking about sending you out without an apron? What have you got in that bag, then?’ And before Emma could stop her, she had picked it up, dumped it on a chair and opened it. ‘What’s this?’ Her delving hand produced a jaconet gown the blue of a hazy summer sky, a satin nightgown and a long blue pelisse.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not from the agency,’ Emma said, and then, suddenly overcome by everything that had happened in the last three days—the horror of her stepfather’s demands, the long worrying journey and her confused emotions over Lord Malvers—she sank into a chair near the fire and sobbed.

The cook stood and looked at her in bewilderment, but, realising something had to be done if this weeping girl was not to disrupt the whole business of sending the Admiral off in style, she patted her on the shoulder. ‘There, there, don’t take on so. We are all very sad today, but we have to bear up, don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ Emma sniffed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So if you’re not from the agency where are you from?’

‘London.’

‘Lunnon! Good heavens! More kin of his lordship, are you?’

‘No. I came to see Mrs Summers. I went to her house in Kendal and the neighbour said I should find her here. I had no idea…’

‘Wait here, I’ll go and find her.’ She disappeared through a door on the other side of the kitchen. Emma found a handkerchief in her pocket and mopped her eyes, then went to her bag and extracted her mother’s letter, which she hoped would explain everything, and sat down to wait.

After a few minutes Mrs Summers bustled into the kitchen ahead of her cook. She was a short dumpy woman, her ample frame encased in a stiff black taffeta gown, her grey hair pulled tightly back under a black lace cap. Her complexion was good and her eyes a warm brown. ‘Do I know you, young woman?’ she asked.

‘No, but you know my mother. She sent you this.’ Emma offered the letter.

Mrs Summers took it, put on a pair of spectacles that dangled from a ribbon round her neck, and began to read, while Emma watched with her heart in her mouth and the cook watched with open curiosity.

‘Oh, dear.’ The words were murmured. And then a little later, ‘Shocking. Unbelievable. Oh dear, oh dear.’ Coming to the end of it, she looked Emma up and down over the spectacles. ‘Well, there’s nothing to be done about anything now. As you see, this is a house in mourning for my brother, Lord Bourne. The ladies are in the drawing room and the gentlemen will be back from the funeral at any moment and I must look after them. I do not think now is a good time to introduce you to them, do you?’

‘No, ma’am, I do not.’

Mrs Summers turned to the cook. ‘Mrs Granger, can you find a little food for—’

‘Fanny Draper, ma’am,’ Emma put in before the lady could use her real name. She did not know why she did it except that she could not rid herself of the idea her stepfather would not give up and might even now be hot on her heels.

‘Fanny.’ Emma saw the smile that briefly lit the old lady’s face and was heartened by it. ‘Mrs Granger, Miss Draper will be staying with us for a little while. Please make up a tray for her while I take her up to her room.’

‘Yes, madam. The agency didn’t send that girl.’

‘No? I’m sorry, we shall just have to manage between us.’

‘Can I help?’ Emma asked, though she was still feeling a little tearful.

‘No, my dear,’ Mrs Summers said firmly. ‘You are done in and must rest. And after that, when all the mourners have gone and the will’s been read, we will have a good long coze and you can tell me all your adventures.’ She picked up Emma’s bag as she spoke. ‘Is this all the luggage you have?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t carry any more.’

‘Never mind. Come along.’ She ushered Emma from the room and into a wide hall from which a cast-iron staircase rose to the next floor. In a room nearby Emma could hear the low murmur of ladies’ voices, but Mrs Summers ignored them and led the way up the stairs. ‘I wasn’t sure how many people would be coming to the funeral and who would need to stay over, so there are beds made up. Here we are.’ She opened a door and ushered Emma inside.

‘I do not want to take someone’s room,’ Emma said, looking round her. The bed was a sturdy four-poster and the rest of the furniture heavy and old fashioned, though an attempt had been made to lighten it with pretty curtains and a colourful bedside rug.

‘You aren’t. It is only my nephew staying after all. Everyone else has elected to go home or has booked into the Lakeside Hotel.’

‘I am more grateful than I know how to tell you.’

‘Tush, it’s the least I can do for an old friend. I am agog to hear the whole story from your own lips, but it will have to wait until you have rested and I have got over this dreadful day. I can hear carriages, so I must leave you. Sleep if you can.’

And with that, she kissed Emma’s cheek and left the room.

Emma collapsed on to the bed and wept forlornly, which was perfectly silly of her, considering what she had been through. To cry when it was all over was the height of absurdity.

When Mrs Granger came up with tray on which was a plate of cold chicken and ham, a few boiled potatoes, some bread and butter, beside a glass of cordial, taken from what had been prepared for the funeral guests, for there was no time to do anything else, she found Miss Fanny Draper fully clothed and fast asleep. She put the tray down and crept away.

Emma woke to see Mrs Summers sitting by the bed, her face lit by a lamp on a table beside her, which must surely mean it was dark outside. She sat up, noting her crumpled dress. She tried to smooth it down. ‘I’m sorry, I must have dropped off.’

‘That is hardly surprising, my dear. Now, the funeral is over, the mourners, apart from my nephew, have departed and I am at your disposal at last. But tell me, child, why did your mother think of me? I have not corresponded with her since your dear papa died and I sent my condolences. I did not even know she had married again.’

‘That was one of her reasons. She said my stepfather knew nothing of you and would never think of looking for me here. She gave me your address in Kendal. When I found it unoccupied, I was at a loss to know what to do.’

‘I left there two years ago to keep house for my brother. It seemed silly to keep it on, so I sold it. I am surprised the new owners have not yet taken up residence. But enough of my affairs. I think you had better tell me the whole story from the beginning. Why are you alone? How did you get here? And why did your mother not come too?’

When the tale was finished, Mrs Summers remained silent and thoughtful. Emma was afraid she would not be able to stay. It was one thing to be sympathetic, another to provide a strange young lady with a home. It was a great deal to ask, especially as Mrs Summers had just lost a beloved brother,
for whom she must be grieving, and having to arrange the funeral and everything else.

‘I’m sorry, I should not burden you with all this,’ Emma said. ‘If I could stay just a day or two, until I can think what to do.’ She fished in her pocket for the five guineas and offered it. ‘Mama gave me a pearl necklace, but when I tried to pawn it I found it was only worth five guineas. You can have it for my keep until I find a position: companion, teacher, or even housemaid if it comes to that. I will not return to London, not while that man—’

‘Of course you will not. It is not to be thought of.’ Mrs Summers reached out and closed Emma’s hand over the money. ‘I do not need that. I was just considering what could be done. I wish now I had not sold my house. I have the money carefully invested and my brother left me a small annuity, but where I am to live, I do not know.’

‘But this house…’

‘Gone to my nephew and I cannot see him wanting to keep it on. He has his own estate.’

‘Do you mean you are to be homeless too?’

‘Not immediately. My nephew is a darling boy and he will not turn me out or see me in want, but you see how I am placed?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed. I will look for employment first thing tomorrow. I may stay here tonight, mayn’t I?’

‘Of course. I am not thinking very clearly at the moment. Tomorrow, I am sure, we shall think of something between us. Are you hungry?’

She was ravenous. ‘A little.’

‘Then I will take this away and have something fresh sent up.’ She indicated the tray on the table. ‘You were asleep when Mrs Granger brought it up. Poor thing, you must have been exhausted.’

‘I did not realise how tired I was, ma’am. But don’t take it away. I’m sure it is still perfectly edible.’

‘If you are sure.’ She reached over to the table and lifted the tray on to Emma’s lap. ‘While you are eating it, I’ll have some hot water sent up so that you may refresh yourself. Then I suggest you undress and get into bed. Time enough for introductions tomorrow morning, when you will feel more the thing. We will have a conference and something will come of it, I am sure.’ She patted Emma’s hand. ‘Do not worry. You are safe here.’ She left Emma to her meal. A kitchen maid brought hot water just as she finished it and took away the tray.

Half an hour later, nightgowned and feeling properly clean for the first time since leaving London, Emma curled herself up in the bed; it was bliss after sleeping fully clothed in coaches and on settles. Was she really safe? Dare she believe it?

Her thoughts went to her mother. As soon as she could, she must send the message they had spoken of to tell her she had arrived safely, though what would become of her now she was here, she had no idea. But whatever it was, it could not be worse than marrying Lord Bentwater. If only her pearls had not been made of paste, it would have been so much easier. But she would not worry her mother with that. What had happened to Viscount Malvers? she wondered dreamily. How far away was he? Wouldn’t it be strange if, going about the village, she should come across him? If everyone in the vicinity knew Lord Bourne, he might even call to pay his respects. Oh, dear, in that case, she must remain Fanny Draper, companion. She must be sure to tell Mrs Summers that in the morning…

Alex, ensconced in a wing chair in his Uncle Henry’s drawing room, stretched out his long legs and sipped the glass of cognac that his Aunt Amelia had put at his elbow. It had been an extraordinary day, extraordinary week, really, and though he had known his uncle was ill and would not have
sent for him if it had not been important, he had not been prepared for his death. ‘If only I had travelled post as soon as I heard, I would have been here at least a day sooner,’ he had told his aunt when he arrived. ‘I have become so accustomed to considering the expense of things and not being extravagant—’

‘It would not have made any difference,’ she said, perfectly aware that her brother-in-law had always kept his younger son on short commons, saying he had to learn to fend for himself, since he was not the heir. It had incensed Henry, who had loved the boy like a son. ‘He died over a week ago.’

‘At least I am here in time to attend the funeral.’

‘Yes, and right glad I am of it, otherwise the only support I would have in the family is that widgeon, Francis, his even more foolish mother, and Bertie who is only here because he expects to be the richer for it. A greedier man I have yet to meet.’

He had smiled at that. Francis Waldover was the son of Lord Bourne’s cousin, which made him Alex’s second cousin. They had known each other as boys, but were never close; Frankie was several years younger than Alex. He and his widowed mother lived in Lancaster. Sir Bertram Hudson was another distant cousin, but if he had met him before, he could not remember him.

The ladies, of course, had not attended the funeral, but had waited at the house until the men returned; then everyone stood about talking and drinking sherry or ratafia or tea and eating the refreshments Mrs Granger had prepared. The large drawing room had been crowded with friends of the deceased from the town and his time in the navy, together with the Reverend Andrew Griggs, Dr Hurley, who had looked after his lordship ever since he left the navy many years before, and Mr Dewhurst, the family lawyer. Some Alex already knew; his aunt had introduced him to others.

She was a marvel, the way she coped. She had told him
Uncle Henry had been ailing for some time, but had gone downhill swiftly in the last three weeks of his life, and in the end, because of the pain he suffered, it had been a release.

One by one they had begun to drift away, until only the family and the lawyer were left to hear the reading of the will. Its contents had shocked Alex. After gifts to the servants, and an annuity to his sister, ‘for her devoted care’, the bulk of Lord Bourne’s estate, including the house, its lands and his small yacht moored at Waterhead, had been left to ‘my nephew, Major Alexander Malvers, knowing he will, among my various kin, make the best use of it’.