Sylvia Andrew (3 page)

‘You mean that girl is a…a love-child?’ breathed Charmian. ‘The poor thing! So very plain, too. It hardly seems fair. But who was Rake Beaudon?’

‘You never met him? A great gun, he was. Played hard, rode hard, had more mistresses than any other man in London. Didn’t give a damn for anyone.’

‘I don’t think I’d have liked him,’ said Charmian.

Lord Witham smiled cynically. ‘Oh yes, you would, my
dear. The ladies found him irresistible. That’s how he managed to seduce the daughter of old Straight-lace Shelwood himself. Didn’t profit from it, though. Sir John disinherited her. Refused to see her again. That’s probably why Beaudon never married her.’

‘Then why is this Fanny girl here now?’

‘Father packed her off when her mother died. Didn’t want to be saddled with a bastard, did he? Cramped his style a bit.’

‘If she’s coming in to the Shelwood estate, I wouldn’t object to making an offer and giving her a name myself. Tidy bit of land there,’ someone said. ‘I could do with it, I don’t mind telling you. Shockin’ load of debts to clear.’

‘Don’t think of it, Rufus, old dear. Waste of time. Charmian’s wrong to say the girl owns the land. She don’t own anything, and, what’s more, she never will. The estate belongs to her aunt, and she wouldn’t leave her niece her last year’s bonnet. Hates little Fanny.’

‘I find this all quite remarkably tedious,’ said Marcus, yawning. ‘I don’t mind gossip—Lady Forrest’s latest Society
on-dits
are always worth hearing—but…what one’s neighbours in the country get up to…really! The last word in boredom.’

‘Don’t stop him, Marcus! I’ve finished my fund of stories, and I find this quite fascinating!’ said Charmian. ‘Come, Charlie. Tell us the rest. It’s just the thing for a good after-supper story. What did this Fanny do?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t Fanny who dished Cassandra Shelwood. It was her mother. Verity Shelwood stole her sister’s beau—the only one the poor woman ever had.’

‘Rake Beaudon
was going to marry Cassandra Shelwood? I don’t believe it,’ said the man called Rufus.

‘It hadn’t got as far as that. But he was making a push to fix his interest with her. He wanted the Shelwood money, y’see, and Cassandra was the elder sister. But when he saw
Verity, he lost his head, and ended up running off with her. Not surprised. The elder Miss Shelwood was always a hag, and Verity was a little beauty. Tiny, she was, with golden curls, brown eyes—a real little stunner.’

He paused. ‘Y’know, it’s damned odd—she was a beauty, Rake Beaudon was a devilishly good-looking fellow, but Fanny, their daughter, is as plain as they come. And when Auntie kicks the bucket, which, from what I’ve heard, could happen any minute, the poor girl will be looking for a roof over her head. Shame she don’t take after her ma—a pretty face might have helped to find one, eh, Rufus? But she must be well into her twenties; she don’t even know how to begin to please. Never been taught, d’y’see?’

‘I thought we were here to play cards,’ said Marcus coldly. ‘Or is it your intention to gossip all night?’

‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Marcus,’ said Charmian. She turned to Witham. ‘Marcus doesn’t think she’s plain.’

‘You may ignore her, Witham. I made the mistake of saying something complimentary about one woman to another. It is always fatal, even to someone as beautiful as Lady Forrest. Are we to play?’

Marcus was angry, but taking care to conceal it. His first impulse had been to rush to Francesca’s defence, to tell them to stop their lewd, offensive gossip about a girl who had never done any of them any harm. But second thoughts had prevailed. To enter the lists on her behalf would do more harm than good—it would merely give them more food for speculation. Better to keep calm and distract their tawdry minds. They would soon lose interest now they had got to the bottom of Francesca’s story, as they thought. Cards would soon occupy their thoughts, once they were back at the tables.

But he himself found concentration difficult that evening. From all accounts, Francesca’s life was no happier now than it had been nine years before—and there was every reason to
fear that it might get worse. He had been angry at her rudeness on the road, and with some justice, but looking back, surely there had been desperation in her tone? She had looked…ridiculous, standing there covered in mud as he drove past. Ridiculous, but gallant. Endearingly so.

Francesca had refused to gaze after the chaise as it disappeared in the direction of the village. Instead, she had turned to walk briskly back to the Manor, for as the mud dried her clothes were becoming stiff and uncomfortable. She had no wish to compound her discomfort by getting caught in the storm. But she was in a state of quite uncharacteristic agitation.

She was normally a philosophical girl. She had learned over the years to endure what she could not change, to find pleasure in small things instead of pining for what she could not have. She had gradually taught herself to be content with her friendship with Madame Elisabeth, her old governess, who lived in the village, to find pleasure in her drawing and sketching, and to abandon childish dreams of encountering love and affection from anyone else and of having a home and family of her own.

But just this once, she found herself wishing passionately that she was powerful, rich and beautiful enough to give this oaf the set-down he deserved! The awareness that she still felt a strange attraction to the oaf was impatiently dismissed. Her conduct during their earlier acquaintance was a dreadful warning to any girl—especially one in her precarious situation. Twenty-four hours only, but from beginning to end she had behaved like a lunatic, like a…like a lightskirt! She pressed her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them. If only she could treat it as casually as he had! If only she could forget it as easily as he seemed to!

She reminded herself angrily that she had been not yet sixteen at the time, still hoping vaguely that one day someone
would rescue her from life with Aunt Cassandra. There had been some excuse for her. But for him? It was true that she had lied to him about her age…Nevertheless! He had been old enough to know the effect his kisses would have on her. And all to relieve a morning’s boredom—or perhaps to revenge himself for the loss of dignity she had caused him? Though he hadn’t seemed angry after the first few minutes.

It all started because of that stupid conversation. It hadn’t been meant for her ears, and now she wished passionately that she had never listened to it. But what else could she have done? She had been so engrossed in her sketching that the gentlemen had been within earshot before she noticed them. And then, aware that she was trespassing on Witham land, she had deliberately concealed herself…Francesca walked on towards the Manor, but she was no longer aware of her dirty clothes, nor of the threatening storm. She saw herself as she had been nine years before—half child, half woman—peering nervously through the bushes…

Francesca peeped through the bushes at the two figures walking along the banks of the stream that ran down between the two estates—they were both in shirt sleeves, but were quite clearly gentlemen. However, they were decidedly the worse for wear—cravats loose, hair all over the place, and the older, shorter one had half his shirt hanging out. The other…She caught her breath. The other was the most beautiful man she had ever seen in all her life. He even eclipsed her dimly remembered father. Tall, dark-haired, with a powerful, athletic build, he moved with natural grace, though he was carrying himself a trifle carefully, as if his head hurt. They came to the bridge just below her and stopped.

She knew instantly that they were from Witham Court. Lord Witham must be holding another of his wild parties. The parties had been notorious for years, even as far back as her
grandfather’s time. He had fulminated about them, but had never been able to stop them. It was universally known that they were attended by rakes and gamblers, a scandal and danger to every decent, God-fearing neighbour! The village girls would never accept a position at the Court if they valued their virtue, for these lecherous villains found innocence a challenge, not a barrier.

So, in spite of the fascination the young man had for her, she withdrew a little further into the bushes to avoid being seen. But she was unable to avoid overhearing their conversation.

‘Freddie,’ the tall, handsome one solemnly said. He sounded as if he was experiencing difficulty in speaking clearly, but the timbre of his voice was very attractive—rich and warm and deep. ‘I’m in despair! What th’ devil am I goin’ to say to m’ uncle? He trusted me, y’ see, and I’ve failed him.’ He paused, gave a deep sigh, then added, ‘Failed him c’mpletely. Absolutely. Devil’s own luck with th’ cards last night. Never known an’thing like it! Ruined, both ’f us.’

‘Course you’re not, Marcus! Rich as Croesus, your uncle.’

‘He trusted me, I tell you! And he’s sworn not to pay ’nother penny for any more gambling debts! Said he’d die first. Ruined. I’d be much better dead myself, I swear.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Marcus. It will be all right, you’ll see. Look, hate to interrupt—don’t want to sound unsympathetic—but we ought to turn back, old fellow. Been out long enough—ought to get back to poor old Jack. Coming?’

‘No,’ Marcus said moodily. ‘I’ll stay here. Think things out before I see’m again. How ’m I goin’ to tell m’ uncle?’

From her bushes, she saw Freddie walking uncertainly away up the hill on the other side, and then her curiosity got the better of her. She crept forward to see what ‘Marcus’ was doing.

He was standing on the bridge, leaning on the thin plank of wood that served as a balustrade and gazing moodily down into the waters. He banged his hand down on the plank and,
with a groan, repeated his words of a minute before. ‘I’d be better dead myself! Drowned! Oh, my head!’

Francesca gazed in horror as he put one leg over the plank. Convinced that this beautiful young man was about to drown himself even while she watched, she jumped to her feet and launched herself down the hill. A second later, unable to stop, she crashed into the unsuspecting young man on the bridge and sent him flying into the water. She only just managed to stop herself from following him.

Francesca gazed, horrified, while he picked himself up, shook himself like a dog and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The shock of the water seemed to have sobered him up.

There was an ominous silence. Then, ‘What the devil did you do that for?’ he roared. ‘Are you mad?’

‘…I…’ Francesca had a cowardly impulse to run away, but she suppressed it. ‘I wanted to save you.’

‘Wanted to save me? From what?’

‘From drowning.’

‘I don’t think much of your methods—’He stopped suddenly and looked down. The stream was unusually low—the water barely came up to his knees. ‘In this?’ he asked. The irony in his voice was gall to Francesca. She blushed and hung her head.

‘I…I didn’t think,’ she confessed. ‘I just ran down the hill without pausing to consider—then I couldn’t stop, so I…I…er…I pushed you in. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? I should think you might be, indeed!’ He took a step towards the bridge, then said irritably, ‘Damn it, my boots are full of water, I can hardly move. Help me out, will you? I need a pull up.’

‘But I’ll get wet myself!’

‘So you will. Now give me your hand—just to give me a start, so I can get a hold on the post there. It won’t take much once I’m moving.’ He looked up and said impatiently, ‘Come on, girl—stir yourself! What are you waiting for?’

She extended a reluctant hand. It wasn’t just that she was afraid of getting wet. To get too close to a perfect stranger—especially one who was staying at Witham Court—was a touch foolhardy. And anyone so handsome was almost certainly a rake!

‘For God’s sake, girl, give me your hand properly! What are you? The village idiot?’

Francesca was noted in the neighbourhood for her withdrawn manner, and most people found her almost unnaturally reserved. But at these words, she forgot years of self-restraint, and flamed into anger. Handsome or not, this oaf’s rudeness had gone too far! He needed a lesson. So, without a thought for the consequences, she let go of his hand and shoved him back into the water. ‘I don’t think I want to help you after all,’ she said coolly, and walked away across the bridge.

W
ith a roar of fury, Marcus struggled to his feet, waded clumsily to the side, scrambled up the bank and caught up with her halfway up the hill.

Francesca gave a cry of fright as he grabbed her by the arm and swung her round. ‘Now, you little wretch, you’d better explain yourself before I give you what you deserve.’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Not till I have an explanation. And you’d better make it a good one. Or are you the sort of Bedlamite who does this as a regular sport?’

‘I’m not the lunatic!’ Francesca cried. ‘I tell you, I was trying to stop you from drowning—you said you wanted to.’

‘But I didn’t mean it, you…ninny!’ he said, giving her a shake.

Francesca lost her temper yet again. She pulled herself free, but though she took a step back, she made no attempt to escape. ‘How was I to know that?’ she blazed at him. ‘You stood on that bridge, draped over the water like a…like a weeping willow, and said you were going to drown yourself! How was I to know you were playacting?’

‘A weepi—a weeping willow!’ he said, outraged. ‘You
don’t know what you’re talking about! I wasn’t feeling quite the thing—I had a headache! A hangover, if you must know. But I wouldn’t be such a clunch as to do away with myself. Why on earth should I?’ He had glared at her. ‘And if I did, I’d find a better way than to try to drown myself in two feet of water! What rubbish!’

‘Then why did you say you would?’

‘I didn’t, I tell you.’ She opened her mouth to contradict him, but he held up a hand and said slowly and distinctly, in the tones of one talking to an idiot, ‘I was expressing unhappiness. I was just unhappy.’

‘Well, you deserve to be! People who are rakes and who gamble all their money away deserve to be unhappy!’

‘Gamble all my money aw—You are a lunatic! An impertinent, lunatic child! What on earth do you mean? I’m not rich enough to gamble any money away! Anyway, I won last night, damn it!’

‘A fine story! If that’s the case, why are you so worried about facing your uncle?’

The young man’s eyes narrowed and he said slowly, ‘You little sneak! You were eavesdropping—that conversation was private!’

Francesca was instantly abashed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help hearing it—I certainly didn’t do it intentionally. I really am very sorry. Please, please forgive me. I meant well, really I did.’ She looked up at him beseechingly. ‘I promise I shall forget all about that conversation, now that I know you don’t really mean to…to—you know.’

He was staring down into her eyes, seemingly fascinated. Francesca’s heart thumped, but she didn’t—couldn’t move. He muttered, ‘A lunatic child, with witch’s eyes…I’ve seen you in paintings…’ and he slowly drew his finger over her cheekbone and down her jaw. He held her chin and lowered his head towards her…Then he jerked back, and
said in astonishment, ‘I’m going mad. It must be the hangover.’

Francesca was not sure what he meant, but said nervously, ‘And…and now I shall go home.’

‘No, don’t!’ He took her by the arm once again and marched her into a patch of sunshine. ‘I still want my explanation…You’re shivering!’

Francesca thought it wiser not to explain that this was due to nerves and reaction to his hand on her arm, rather than to feeling cold. She said nothing.

‘Sit in the sun here—you’ll soon be warmer. Now, where were we?’

‘I was telling you I’d heard you say you wanted to drown yourself because you’d gambled away all your money. And I was trying to stop you. But I forgot how steep the bank was, and I got carried down the slope and…and I pushed you in.’ Francesca was gabbling, as she often did when nervous.

‘I suppose it makes some sort of inverted sense,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful that you meant well—though I still think I’d have been better off without your help.’ He looked down thoughtfully at his sodden clothes…

Francesca tried, and failed, to suppress a giggle. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘Much better off. You squelch when you walk, too!’ and, after another vain struggle with herself, she went off into a gale of laughter.

For a moment he looked affronted, but as she laughed again at his face he smiled, then he, too, was laughing. The atmosphere lightened considerably.

‘Look, let’s sit down here for a moment, and you can help me with my boots while you tell me the story of your life.’

‘Well, that’s a “blank, my lord”,’ she said, as he sat down on a fallen tree trunk and had stuck his foot out.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Down there, at Shelwood. With my aunt.’ Francesca
tugged hard and the boot came off, releasing a gush of water over her dress. She gave a cry. ‘Oh, no!’

‘It will dry. Now, the other one.’ She cast him a reproachful look, but gingerly took hold of the second boot. She took more care with this one but, when it came away with unexpected ease, she lost her balance, tripped over a root and fell flat on her back. The second boot poured its contents over her. She got to her feet hastily. ‘Just look at that!’ she cried.

‘I am,’ he said. Francesca was puzzled at the sudden constraint in his voice. ‘I…I seem to have made a mistake. I thought you a child.’ He swallowed. ‘But it’s clear you’re not. You may be a lunatic, but you’re all woman—and a lovely one, too!’

She looked down. The water had drenched the thin lawn of her dress and petticoat, and they were clinging to her like a second skin. The lines of her figure were clearly visible.

‘Oh, no!’ Desperately she shook out her dress, holding it away from her body. ‘I must go!’

‘No! Please don’t. Your dress will dry very soon, and I won’t stare any more. Look, if you sit down beside me on this log I won’t be able to. We could…we could have a peaceful little chat till your dress dries. I’d like to explain what I meant when I was speaking to Freddie.’

She looked at him uncertainly. He was really very handsome—and he seemed to be sincere. Perhaps not everyone at Witham Court was a rake. But…‘Why did you call me lovely,’ she asked suspiciously, ‘when everyone else says I’m plain?’

‘Plain? They must be blind. Sit down and I’ll tell you why I think you lovely.’ This sounded like a very dangerous idea to Francesca. So she was at something of a loss to understand when she found herself doing as he asked. She kept her distance, however—she was not quite mad.

‘Is Freddie the man you were with?’

‘Yes—we were talking about my c—about someone we
both know. He lost a great deal of money last night. He…he wasn’t feeling well this morning, and we’re worried about him. But you don’t really want to talk about this, do you? It’s a miserable subject for a lovely morning. Tell me about yourself. What were you doing when you saw us? On your way to a tryst?’

‘Oh, no! I…I don’t know anyone. I was drawing—oh, I must fetch my book and satchel! I dropped them when I ran down the hill. Excuse me.’

She jumped up, glad to escape from the spell the deep voice and dark blue eyes were weaving round her.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘But you haven’t anything on your feet!’

‘So? I’ve suffered worse things than that in the army. And I want to make sure you don’t disappear. You’re my hostage, you know, until we are both dry.’ She looked at him nervously, but he was laughing, as he got up and took firm hold of her hand. ‘Where is this book?’

They soon found the orchid plant she had been drawing, and her sketch pad and satchel were not far away. He picked the pad up, still holding her with one hand, and studied it. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Who is your teacher?’

‘Madame Elisabeth.’ She blushed in confusion. ‘I mean Madame de Romain. My governess.’

‘Let’s get back into the sun. My feet are cold.’ They collected the satchel, then went back to their tree trunk and sat down. This time it seemed quite natural to sit next to him, especially as he still held her hand in his. ‘Will you show me some more of your work?’

Francesca coloured with pleasure. ‘Of course!’ she said shyly.

From then on, he directed his considerable charm towards drawing her out, and Francesca found herself talking to him more freely than she had with anyone for years. Sometimes, she would falter as she found his eyes intent on her, looking
at her with such warmth and understanding. But then he would ask a question about some detail in one of the pictures and she would talk on, reassured.

There came a moment when she stopped. ‘I…I haven’t anything more to show you—not here,’ she said. When he didn’t immediately answer, she looked up, a question in her eyes.

‘Why did you say you were plain?’ he said slowly.

‘Because I am! Everyone says so.’

‘No, you’re not, Francesca. You’re like your sketches—drawn with a fine, delicate grace.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she said, nervous once again.

‘I’m not flattering you!’

‘No, I’m sure you mean to be kind. But it isn’t necessary. I’m really quite used to my looks. Please—if you carry on talking like this, I shall have to go. My dress is dry now. Your things are dry, too.’

‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly.

She hesitated. Then, ‘Seventeen,’ she lied. When he looked sceptical, she had added, still lying, ‘Almost.’

‘It’s young. But not too young. Have you ever been in love?’

‘Me?’ she asked, astounded.

He laughed at her then, and let go of her, but only to put both of his hands on her shoulders. ‘Yes, you,’ he said.

‘Certainly not!’

‘There’s always a first time,’ he murmured. He drew her closer. ‘What about kisses? Have you ever been kissed?’

‘Not…not often,’ she whispered, hypnotised by the blue eyes gazing into hers. ‘My grandfather, sometimes.’ She swallowed. ‘I suppose my father did. I…I can’t remember.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant. I meant…this.’ He lowered his head and kissed her gently. Francesca felt as if she had just had been hit by lightning. The strangest feeling overcame her, a feeling compounded of fear and pleasure, chills and
warmth, a feeling that she ought not to be doing this—and an urgent wish for more.

‘That was nice,’ she breathed, bemused and hardly knowing what she said.

They were now standing up, face to face. ‘Put your arms round my neck,’ he said softly. She took a step forward and slowly lifted her arms. ‘That’s right. Then I can put mine round you—like this.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her again, not gently this time. Francesca gave a little cry and he relaxed his grip immediately. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No. I…I didn’t expect…I didn’t know…’ She tightened her arms and pulled his face down to hers. ‘Kiss me again,’ she said.

A world of unimaginable delight opened now for Francesca. Absurd though it was, she felt safer than ever before in this man’s arms, and more alive than ever before. He was in turn gentle, then passionate, charming, then demanding. He called her his idiot, his love, his witch, but she didn’t hear the names—only the warmth and feeling in the deep voice. He laughed at her lack of guile, but tenderly, as if her vulnerability had disarmed him.

And, just occasionally, he sounded uncertain, as if he, too, was unable to understand what was happening to them. They were both lost in a world of brilliant sunshine and glinting shadows, of whirling green and gold and blue…

Perhaps it was as well that they were recalled to their senses before the situation went beyond recall. Shouts in the distance proved to be those of Freddie, looking for Marcus. Marcus swore, then whispered, ‘Tomorrow? In the morning? Here?’ Then he kissed her once more, got up and turned down the hill. ‘Here I am,’ he had shouted. ‘What do you want?’

Once again, Francesca listened to their conversation from her hiding place.

‘It’s Jack. He’s asking for you. And your uncle’s coming
down to Witham. Thought you’d like to know. What the devil have you been doin’ all this time, Marcus old fellow?’

‘Er…nothing much,’ Marcus said…

Francesca was startled out of her memories and brought back to the present day by a brilliant flash, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder. The storm was now imminent. She quickened her pace. But her thoughts were still on the girl she had been nine years before.

‘Nothing much’—she ought to have taken warning. But at the time she had been totally dazzled, bewitched. It had been so easy, she thought, for a man of his experience and charm. And she had been so gullible. She had met him the next day, of course, pleading to Madame Elisabeth that she was ill, so that she was excused her morning lessons. And this had not been so far from the truth—she had been ill, gripped by a fever, a delirium which suppressed all her critical faculties, all thought of self-preservation. She winced now as she remembered how eagerly she had run up the hill to meet him again all those years ago.

She had to wait some time before Marcus appeared; when he arrived, he seemed preoccupied. She felt a chill round her heart—did he despise her for being so open about her feelings the day before? They walked in silence for some time, she waiting for him to say something—anything to break the constraint between them.

‘You’re very quiet, Francesca,’ he said finally.

Francesca was astonished. He was the one who had not spoken! And now he was accusing her, in such a serious voice…he
did
despise her! ‘I…I’m not sure I should have come,’ she said.