The Homecoming (10 page)

Although she told herself firmly that she should not expect God to intercede in the petty little life of one Tiffany Moon, she could not help praying that something would happen to alter her state so that she would not need to be condemned to a life of embarrassment while her father sought a suitor for her amongst the ranks of his betters and watch him getting well and truly snubbed for his pains.

It was just then that the pole of the post-chaise broke, right outside the tall iron gates of Mannerling. Aunt Bertha catapulted across the tiny carriage and banged her head. Tiffin was tumbled onto the floor. She wrenched open the door and got down on the road. The driver had got down as well and was holding on to the reins of the plunging horse.

Tiffin looked desperately back into the carriage at her aunt, who was lying crumpled and still on the floor.

“Help!” she cried. “My aunt. Something awful has happened.”

And that was when Peter came riding up to the gates. The lodge-keeper came out to open them, saw the post-chaise lurched on one side and the distressed Tiffin and called to Peter, “Accident, sir.”

He swung the gates open. Peter dismounted and ran to Tiffin.

“It is my aunt, sir,” she said. “Oh, let her not be dead.”

Peter wrenched open the other door of the carriage. He gently felt Aunt Bertha’s pulse.

“I think she is unconscious, miss,” said Peter. The driver joined them. “Wait here and I will ride to the house for help.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” said Tiffin, her large eyes swimming with tears.

She sat on the carriage step holding her aunt’s hand and feeling wicked—oh, so wicked. This is what came of her prayers. Poor Aunt, thought soft-hearted Tiffin, forgetting how much she detested the woman.

Peter returned with a carriage and servants. Aunt Bertha was lifted tenderly into the carriage. “If you will join her, Miss…?”

“Moon. Miss Moon,” said Tiffin.

“Please do not look so alarmed, Miss Moon,” said Peter gently. “A footman has ridden off to fetch the physician.” He climbed into the carriage with her. Tiffin took her aunt’s head on her lap and Peter sat opposite. “Are people waiting for you?” he asked. “What is your direction?”

“Moon’s Farm, about twenty miles from the border of your estates, Your Grace.”

“I am only the duke’s secretary,” said Peter. “My name is Bond. Please do not look so distressed.”

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” said Tiffin.

“Think nothing of it,” said Peter, feeling very tall and gallant. There was something so fragile and appealing about the sweet face looking so trustingly up into his own. “As soon as your aunt is settled and the physician has seen her, I will send someone to tell your parents…”

“Just my father; he is a farmer. My mother is dead.”

Tiffin gave a little gulp as the stately beauty of Mannerling hove into view, dreaming in the sunlight, the wings on either side of the house springing out in graceful curves.

But once inside, her concern was all for her aunt as she followed the servant up the stairs. Aunt Bertha was laid on a bed. The housekeeper said it would be unwise to move her further by undressing her until the physician had seen her.

The physician arrived and after examining Aunt Bertha said she had sustained a blow to the head, causing concussion. She required quiet and rest, and should not be moved for a few days.

When informed of this, Peter said to Tiffin, “I will arrange a bedchamber for you. Your luggage from the post-chaise has already been brought to the house.”

Tiffin thanked him and then said in a miserable little voice, “My father will no doubt arrive shortly.”

“You look so worried,” exclaimed Peter. “He cannot possibly blame you for an accident which was none of your doing.”

Tiffin looked at Peter’s kind, sensitive face. “I think I will tell you. May we step aside?” Her wide eyes glanced nervously at the hovering servants.

“By all means. Follow me.”

He led her a little way along the corridor and then stopped in the embrasure of a window.

“My father has great social ambitions for me,” whispered Tiffin. “He is a good man, but arriving at a duke’s house will make him…” Her voice trailed away and she turned scarlet. “You see,” she went on after a pause, “he sent me to a very expensive seminary in Bath. He has great hopes that I will make a grand marriage. But all the young ladies there were socially far above me, and so they are all preparing for their first Season in London next year. I have had no invitations to their homes, of course, and he will blame me for that.”

Peter felt very grand and strong and protective. “You must not worry. I will deal with your father.”

“Oh, thank you.” How trusting those beautiful eyes were as they looked up into his own!

“Now, return to your aunt,” said Peter. “The housekeeper will be sent to show you to your room.”

Farmer Moon read the letter from Peter describing the accident and stating that his sister would stay at Mannerling until she recovered. His heart swelled with gratitude. This Duke of Severnshire was unwed and under his roof was his pretty daughter, Tiffin.

He told the footman to wait and went into his study and brushed aside piles of farm accounts. He would not
go
himself. Let love blossom. Nothing must happen to remind the great duke that Tiffin was only a farmer’s daughter. He laboriously penned a reply thanking this Mr. Bond fulsomely for his master’s hospitality to his poor daughter and his sister, Bertha. Then he sanded and sealed the badly spelled letter and took it out to the footman. When the footman rode off, he stood rubbing his hands, his head filled with as many mad dreams of glory as Sarah Walters could ever conjure up.

Lizzie was sitting in the garden of the Green Man at Hedgefield drinking lemonade with the duke.

She had given up any idea of curbing her tongue. She had also lost any fear of the duke. The inn garden was pretty, and apart from a brief wish that it were Gerald sitting opposite her instead of the duke, she felt quite at ease.

Perhaps it was because the duke seemed relaxed in her company and showed no signs of wishing to hurry back to his other guests.

She had told him frankly about the adventures of the Beverley sisters and how all had turned out well for them the minute they had decided they did not want Mannerling.

“You, at least,” said the duke, “do not seem to be consumed with ambition to get your old home back.”

“I think there is something evil about that house,” said Lizzie. “Do not laugh at me.”

“I have no intention of laughing at you,” he said, remembering the face in the mirror. “Perhaps all the intrigue and death and ambition have imprinted their mark in the walls and that creates at times a sinister atmosphere that gives us fancies. But what can a house do?”

“It calls out to people. It says, ‘I could be yours,’ ” said Lizzie.

“And does it call to you?”

“You will think me mad. I do not love Mannerling anymore and Mannerling is angry with me.”

“Now that
is
fancy!”

“Perhaps,” said Lizzie and buried her little nose in her lemonade glass. Then she looked up and asked candidly, “And so, have you decided on your bride?”

He was about to reply that he had made a mistake and he could not wait for the day until he was shot of the lot of them. But there was something irksome in the very indifference of Lizzie Beverley. And yet why should she regard him as anything other than someone too old for her when she had the glorious Gerald waiting back at Mannerling for her?

So he said somewhat testily that he had not yet made up his mind.

“I think Lady Verity would suit you very well,” said Lizzie.

“Why? Why not Miss Celia Charter?”

“I consider you an intelligent man and although everyone assures me that gentlemen like stupid ladies, I have noticed that Miss Charter’s prattle bores you.”

“So why Lady Verity?”

“She is rich and haughty.”

“And I am rich and haughty?”

“Well…yes.”

“Miss Lizzie, if I were all that high in the instep, I would hardly be sitting in a common inn garden with you.”

“Nasty!” said Lizzie, her green eyes flashing.

“But oh, so true.”

“Then why
are
you sitting in what you call a common inn garden with such as I?”

“Because you are beautiful.”

“You are cruel,” said Lizzie angrily. “You are mocking me!”

“Not I. Your hair gleams in the sunlight and you have a fascinating elfin charm.”

Lizzie hung her head. “Now what have I done?” he teased. “Nonplussed the well-educated, direct-speaking Miss Lizzie Beverley?”

“I am all that you must dislike,” said Lizzie. “I am not stately enough. Not grand enough. Not rich enough.”

“If I had known a compliment was going to distress you so much, I would have kept silent. But did not, what I must continue to call Miss Trumble, teach you how to accept compliments?”

“Oh, yes. I must raise my fan so, and lower my eyelashes, and say, ‘You do flatter me,’ and then I should titter.”

“Now it is you who mocks me. I cannot envisage my aunt telling anyone to titter.”

“Miss Trumble has a quite wicked sense of humour. But she has great good sense and I must talk to her again about Peter.”

“My secretary?”

“Yes, Miss Walters is not for him. He is too fine a gentleman to be saddled with such a mad girl.”

“You worry so much about my servant that I begin to fear you have formed a tendre for him.”

“Not I! We are friends.”

Those odd silver eyes of his suddenly looked directly into her own. “No, it is the handsome Gerald who quickens your senses, is it not?”

“I barely know the man.”

“So you do not believe in love at first sight?”

“I know nothing of love, Your Grace. I am too young.”

“What? You who have lectured me on the existence of the beast.”

Lizzie felt suddenly tearful. She felt he was mocking her and she wished he would return to his old indifferent manner.

“You are talking
at
me,” she said crossly. “Let us talk of something else. Why did you really buy Mannerling?”

“It seemed to me a good property, that is all. When my stay here is over, I shall lease it until such time as I want it back.”

Lizzie gave a little sigh. “At least Mannerling to you is only a house. You do not seem to have been overcome by any strong desire to possess it.”

“No, and I am not sure I want to live there much longer,” said the duke, uneasily remembering that reflection in the mirror again. “We have been away some time, and I am neglecting my guests. What should I do with them today?”

“We could play croquet.”

“So that you can beat me again?”

“So that your guests will have some gentle and healthy exercise.”

“Very well. Croquet it is.”

Tiffin sat by her aunt’s bedside. The window was open and she could hear laughter and cries from outside as the guests played croquet. The door opened and an elderly lady came in. Tiffin rose and curtsied low.

“My name is Miss Trumble,” said the lady with a warm smile. “I am so sorry to hear of your accident.”

“Thank you,” said Tiffin shyly.

“And let me see your poor aunt.” Miss Trumble crossed to the bed and felt Aunt Bertha’s forehead. “No fever, that is good. From my experience, she will shortly recover consciousness.” She sat down on a chair next to the bed and looked brightly at Tiffin. “I am chaperone to a Miss Lizzie Beverley. Tell me about yourself.”

So Tiffin talked, and although she was not as frank as she had been with Peter, Miss Trumble quickly summed up the situation: ambitious farmer father, cross and bullying aunt, girl made lonely by the ambitions of her parent. Tiffin then went on to describe her rescue by Peter Bond in glowing terms.

“Yes, Mr. Bond is an exceptional young man,” said Miss Trumble. “Ah, here he is.”

“I have a letter from your father, Miss Moon,” said Peter. “He thanks us for our hospitality but is much engaged with farm work and cannot join you.”

Relief lit up Tiffin’s eyes.

“The day is too fine for you to be indoors,” said Miss Trumble. “Mr. Bond, why do you not take Miss Moon down and introduce her to the other guests?”

Tiffin shrank back in her chair. “Oh, I could not. I dare not.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Miss Trumble. “Run along. I will sit with your aunt.”

Peter smiled and held out his arm.

“I am quite terrified,” whispered Tiffin as she and Peter made their way downstairs. The sheer richness of Mannerling, from painted ceilings to cornices and down to the marble tiles of the entrance hall struck fresh fear into her heart. “Does His Grace know I am here?”

“Yes, of course. I informed him of your aunt’s accident as soon as he returned.”

When they approached the party, who had just finished a game of croquet, Tiffin quailed before the battery of curious eyes. Peter led Tiffin up to the duke.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the duke. “You are welcome to stay until your aunt is well enough to complete her journey home.”

“Thank you,” whispered Tiffin.

“Perhaps, Mr. Bond,” said the duke, “you would be so good as to show Miss Moon the gardens? They are very fine at this time of year.”

Peter bowed and led Tiffin away. Tiffin almost skipped along beside him. As soon as they were out of earshot, she said, “What a relief!”

“To get the introductions over with?”

“Oh, no, the duke. He is so old!”

“He is thirty-four, Miss Moon.”

“Yes, but that is old indeed, so neither Aunt nor Papa can entertain any ambitions there.”

“I would be surprised if they entertained any ambitions at all,” said Peter drily.

“You do not know them. When it comes to social ambition, I think people go a little mad.”

“You have the right of it,” said Peter gloomily. The duke on his return had given his secretary a brief and pithy account of Miss Walters’s disgraceful behaviour and Peter had not been able to find the courage to tell his master that Sarah was unrepentant. As they turned into the rose garden, Peter had a desire to confide in someone. He had been hoping to have a private word with Lizzie, but that might not be until the evening, and the desire to unburden himself was great. He found himself telling Tiffin all about Sarah Walters.