That Would Be a Fairy Tale (2 page)

‘Ah! Now you’ve caught me. If I say yes, I confirm you in your belief that I have no manners. And if I say no . . . ’

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

But it was no good. Try as he might he could not help laughing. ‘I’ve already answered one of your questions. Now you answer one of mine. If you weren’t so angry, wouldn’t you be laughing too?’

An unwilling smile tugged at the corner of Cicely’s mouth as she caught sight of herself in the Daimler’s windows, wet and bedraggled, with pond weed sticking out of her hair. So absurd was the picture that she almost succumbed to laughter but she fought it down, knowing that laughing would only encourage him.

‘Certainly not,’ she said repressively. ‘The sight of someone in distress has never amused me. Now, if you will kindly retrieve my bicycle, I will be on my way.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

Cicely splashed her way to the edge of the pond. She would have preferred to retrieve her bicycle herself, but she had realized it was impossible.

As she climbed out of the pond, dirty water trickled from her sodden garments, making a puddle on the grass. She shook her head in dismay and then set about wringing out her skirt. Luckily, being specially designed for bicycling, it was only mid-calf length, and not as long as the skirts she habitually wore when doing anything else. Having wrung it out, she straightened her jacket before re-settling her hat on top of her head. Then she looked round to see how the driver was doing. He had managed to rescue her bicycle and was in the process of carrying it to the side of the pond. But it was in a sorry state.

‘Oh, no!’ Cicely wailed. The once-gleaming machine was covered in pond slime. Mud was caught between the spokes, and the handlebars were bent.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said. There was still a glint of humour in his eye, but there was a hint of something softer as well, and his mouth was surprisingly gentle.

‘Not to you, perhaps,’ she remarked with a sigh. ‘The next time you go for a jaunt,’ she went on, taking it from him, ‘I suggest you choose a different village. Little Oakleigh is a peaceful place, and we prefer it to remain that way.’

Then, filled with a sudden longing to be safely back at the Lodge, she mounted her bicycle and, without a backward glance, she rode away.

He stood and watched her for a minute. There was something very appealing about her, even though she was covered in mud. Her carriage was erect, revealing the beautiful line of her straight back. Her neck was elegant, and there was a graceful set to her head.

Her hair, bedraggled though it was, had a softness about it that made him long to touch it, and the tendrils that had escaped from their pins were being blown across her shoulders in the most tantalising way.

Her slender curves, not quite hidden beneath her bolero jacket, together with the glimpse of shapely calf afforded by her bicycling skirt made his body stir. It was a long time since anyone had attracted him so much. But becoming attracted to one of the local girls was not on his agenda.

Against his will he watched her until she was out of sight, then climbed back into his Daimler and started up the engine.

He pulled away and began to drive carefully on towards Oakleigh Manor. He was mindful of the fact that at any moment another young lady on a bicycle might come hurtling round a corner before launching herself into a ditch!

It was not an auspicious start to his new life as lord of the manor, he reflected with a wry smile, but things could have been worse. He could have been confronted by an angry matron - or by Miss Cicely Haringay. Miss Haringay, from what he could make out, was a determined spinster who spent her life running Sunday schools and engaging in charitable works.

He knew the type: a monstrous battle-axe with  a ramrod back and enormous bosom who liked nothing better than telling everyone else what to do. But instead, he had been confronted by a slight, appealing girl, whose cycling skirt had given him a satisfying view of  her shapely calf and neatly-turned ankle, and he found he was looking forward to meeting her again. For all her high-and-mighty manner, there had been something very engaging about her.

Reluctantly, he brought his thoughts back to the present. He needed his wits about him if he were to remember the directions he had been given and arrive safely at the Manor. He drove on for a while, but by and by his face began to settle into a frown. He had the feeling he had gone too far and overshot the mark.

A few minutes later he was sure of it. He was in the village no longer, but heading out towards open countryside. There was nothing for it. He would have to turn round and try again.

He drove more slowly this time, his eyes searching for any sign of the Manor. It was barely visible from the road, his agent had said, but a lodge and a pair of fine gates gave evidence of its position. At last he saw the Lodge, a low, square building, and began to edge the Daimler forward more confidently.

Yes, that was it.

He reached the gates and turned into a long drive which wound between acres of verdant lawns. Despite himself, he was impressed. Although he may not have bought the Manor with the intention of making it his home, he still could not help admiring the sweeping lawns, the venerable trees and the herd of deer that grazed peacefully in the dappled sunlight beneath them.

Another bend of the drive and he caught sight of the house itself. It was far more sprawling than he had imagined, and presented a hotch-potch appearance, as though successive generations of Haringays had added to it, each in the style of their own era. A Tudor wing adjoined the main section, which appeared to be in the Georgian style, whilst a turret at the corner rose fantastically into the sky and spoke of the recently-departed Victorian age. But despite its hotch-potch appearance - or perhaps because of it  - it had a warm and welcoming feel.

In another few minutes he pulled up in front of Oakleigh Manor. His eye wandered up an impressive flight of steps that led to the front door.

At the top of the steps was his younger brother, Roddy.

Roddy ran down the stone steps and cast his eye over the Daimler. He was twenty-four years of age and was fashionably dressed in a jacket and a pair of trousers with knife-sharp creases. His hair was sandy and his face good-humoured.

‘What kept you, Alex? Car trouble?’ Roddy asked. ‘You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.’

‘The motor’s fine.’ Alex got out of the car, closing the door with a satisfying
thunk
! ‘I had a slight accident, that’s all.’

‘You haven’t scratched the paintwork?’ asked Roddy anxiously, running his eyes over the bodywork.

Alex raised one dark eyebrow. ‘What do you take me for? Strictly speaking, I wasn’t the one who had the accident - although I didn’t escape unscathed,’ he said as they walked up the steps. He glanced down at his trousers, which were wet and muddy round the bottom of each leg.

‘If not you, who then?’ asked Roddy, taking in Alex’s wet trousers with amusement.

‘It was a young woman. A bicyclist. She came careering down the hill by the forge and almost crashed into me as she rounded the corner. It was only by some efficient manoeuvring that she managed to avoid the car . . . ’

Roddy breathed a sigh of relief. ‘No harm done, then.’

‘I wouldn’t quite say that,’ laughed Alex, taking off his driving gloves as they went into the Manor. ‘She ended up in the duck pond!’

‘Not hurt, I hope?’ asked Roddy.

‘Would I be laughing if she was? No, of course not. The only thing she hurt was her pride. Of which she seemed to have more than her fair share.’

‘I hope she wasn’t anyone important. The success of our scheme lies in your being accepted here. You need the goodwill of your neighbours, don’t forget. They have to want to attend your gatherings, and more than that they have to want to attend them decked out in all their finery. Otherwise there will be nothing to tempt the thief to strike again.’

‘Which is our only hope of catching him. I know.’ He thought. ‘She didn’t look important,’ he said. He divested himself of his car coat, which had protected his narrow trousers and jacket from the dust of the road. ‘Fine grey eyes, a determined chin, and a tantalising figure. Probably just a girl from the village.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Roddy. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked, changing the subject, as he looked round the empty but beautiful hall.

‘It’s a fine old place,’ said Alex. He, too, looked round the hall. It was light and bright, and with its cream walls it had a pleasantly cool and spacious feel. Although it was at present bare - no paintings or portraits lined the staircase, and no console tables or other items of furniture took away from the emptiness - the proportions were elegant, and the tall windows let in plenty of daylight.

He turned round slowly, taking it in. An imposing staircase led upwards. He let his eyes return to the ground floor. A number of doors, half open, led into different rooms. He walked across the hall, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. He threw open the first door. A large, high-ceilinged room was revealed, with windows looking out over the front of the house.

This room was not entirely empty. A few pieces of good furniture - an impressive mahogany dining-table and chairs, and a mahogany sideboard - remained. Alex looked enquiringly at Roddy.

‘Miss Haringay had to let some of the furniture remain with the house,’ he explained. ‘She did not have room to take it all to the Lodge.’

Alex nodded. He cast his eye round the room once more.  ‘It’s very impressive,’ he said, before wandering back into the hall and looking round again. ‘My agent chose well.’

‘I still think you should have looked it over yourself before buying it.’

‘What for? I have an efficient agent who knew what I was looking for: an imposing residence in the right area. It’s not as though I wanted to call the place home.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Roddy. ‘It needs modernising, of course.’

‘It does. But as I don’t propose to live here permanently that isn’t a consideration. What matters is that it’s of the right stature, and it’s in the right place.’ His glance ran round the hall once again, and then suddenly his voice took on a steely quality. ‘Once it’s baited it will make the perfect trap.’

Cicely propped her bicycle up against the wall of the Lodge. Much of the mud had been dislodged on the journey home, and she knew that a good dousing with the watering can would restore it to most of its former glory. The handlebars she had already managed to bend back into shape. They had not been badly damaged, fortunately, and it had been an easy matter to put them straight.

She went down the garden to the shed and fetched the watering can and then cleaned the bicycle herself: Gibson had enough to do, without cleaning her bicycle as well.

Having successfully carried out her task she left her bicycle drying in the warm June sunshine and went into the house. Avoiding Gibson,  her butler, who had refused to leave her service no matter how impecunious she had become, she made her way up to the bedroom where she stripped off her wet things.

Her short black boots were first, followed by her fawn gaiters, which she unbuttoned with the help of a button hook. Then came her divided skirt, her drawers, her shirt and her chemise. They would have to be cleaned, but that was a problem for later on. Right now, she wanted to clean herself.

She ran a bath, thankful for the fact that the Lodge had had plumbing installed in one of her father’s rare bursts of enthusiasm for something other than his beloved bicycles. But she noted with a sigh that the range must not be working properly as the water was not very hot. Nevertheless, it would have to do.

Slipping into the tepid water she gave both herself and her hair a thorough wash, rubbing her hair dry with a towel before dressing herself in fresh, clean clothes.

Unlike most other young ladies of one-and-twenty, Cicely did not have a maid, and in fact had never had one. Her dear father had had very little idea about a young lady’s needs, and her mother, alas, had died when Cicely had been a young child. And since her father’s death, Cicely had discovered that his unworldliness had resulted in a mountain of debts, so that she had been unable to hire one. As a result, by dint of choosing the most suitable clothes, she had grown proficient in the art of dressing and undressing herself.

She slipped on a clean pair of lace-trimmed knickers. After them came her bosom amplifier. She loved the pretty camisole with its row upon row of tiny frills sewn across the front and as she fastened it, her body began to take on a fashionable shape. She followed it with her lace-trimmed petticoat and glanced at the whalebone corset at the back of her wardrobe, but without assistance it was impossible for her to put on.

Looking through her clothes, she pondered what to wear. After some thought she decided on a white blouse with a lace corsage and a lilac skirt. She put on the blouse and then slipped into the skirt, smoothing its long, flowing lines over her hips and tweaking the short train which trailed behind it.

Having dressed herself, she arranged her damp hair and, looking in the mirror, was not dissatisfied. Knowing their poverty, she had bought a few good clothes and, with care, they would last her for years.

She heard a sound outside and caught sight of
Alice
walking down the drive. Within minutes
Alice
, a childhood friend who came and went as though she were one of the family, entered her bedroom.