Two Corinthians (11 page)

“The dragon?” she asked quietly.

He glanced at her. She had gone back to her work, trimming stems and binding them together in the arcane mysteries of her craft, but he knew she was listening to every word. He was driven by a need to make her understand his weakness and her own strength. He began to pace up and down the narrow space.

“Danny joined the army and went to Portugal. After Corunna he came home, wounded and with a Spanish bride. Both wound and woman put him through hell, and I will not apologise for using that word. I could not see how to help him so I stayed away, but there must have been something I should have done. There must have been something!”

“Perhaps not. How could you intervene between man and wife?

But have you never seen him since?”

“She ran away and there was a divorce, a scandal in itself and of course rumours flew. Afterwards I went to him. He let me visit, but he never confided in me again, not until...he fell in love again, Claire, and he quarrelled with his beloved. And he told me, and I was able to make it up between them.
You
can imagine how I felt!”

“Yes, I think so.” The faraway look in her grey eyes was not an escape but concentration upon an inner vision. “I am glad you told me. Is he happy now?”

“Very happy. He is to be wed in June.” George felt as if he was relieved of a great burden. Her calm acceptance and undemonstrative sympathy warmed him. He sat down on an upended barrel and watched her hands.

Her long fingers with their oval nails moved with a delicate surety of touch. He wondered how it would feel if she touched him. He remembered the supple slenderness of her waist between his hands when he lifted her, the light pressure of her head resting trustfully against his shoulder.

The back of her neck was almost unbearably tempting.

“I must go,” he said abruptly. “I want to reach Oxford tonight. I shall see you in London.” As he left he ran one finger down the soft curve of her cheek in a gentle caress.

He strode back towards the house, unmindful of the puddles he splashed through. He had been too long without a woman. As soon as he reached Town he would call on Suzette—or was it Annette? She would be happy to see him after his three-week absence.

The thought was uninviting. It must be time to find a new mistress, no difficult task, for his generosity was as well known to the ladies of the
demi-monde
as was his fickleness.

The devil of it was, he decided, that it was no mistress he needed, but a wife.

Chapter IX—Bertram

“Well, Bertram?” Lady Caroline looked up from a letter as her brother joined her in the breakfast-room. “How goes the courtship?”

“I have not seen her since she was here three days ago.” He helped himself from the variety of dishes on the sideboard and joined her at the table. “I’ve no intention of making a cake of myself by being too particular in my attentions before I have decided whether she will suit.”

“Lud, sometimes I think you are a regular cold fish!”

“You know it is to be a marriage of convenience, Caroline. I cannot so easily forget the past.”

“No, and I daresay I should think you a cold fish if you could. You cannot win, my dear. But tell me what you think of her. We dine with the Suttons tonight, remember.”

Bertram groaned. “Truth to tell, her family must be the biggest obstacle—vulgar mother, impertinent sister, father who reeks of the stables, and the brothers do not bear thinking of!”

“I doubt she will care to see any but her sister once she is married. You are dodging the point, however. What think you of Claire herself?”

“When she is on her own, and not absorbed in her wretched plants, she is well enough. No beauty, of course, but a coiffeur and a decent wardrobe must improve her looks. She is quiet enough, yet she has a certain humorous touch at times and I think her reasonably intelligent. An adequate companion for the country, but I do not mean to bury myself year round at Tatenhill. I must see how she goes on in Town before I commit myself.”

“Claire would probably be quite content to be left alone in the country while you do your gadding about. It is not an uncommon arrangement.”

“No, but I suppose I expect something more than that even of a marriage of convenience. I want a wife of whom I need not be ashamed before my friends, someone who can help me entertain, both in London and at Tatenhill. Perhaps when she is out from under her mother’s thumb she will show more poise. Amaryllis always had such
savoir-faire,
even when I first knew her.”

“Oh, if we are back to Amaryllis, I give up. Eat your eggs before they are stone cold. I must go and see my housekeeper.”

“I shall drive over to the Suttons’ early and meet you there for dinner.”

“Very well, my dear. Remember that they dine early.” Lady Caroline beamed her approval. She was about to leave when the door opened and Aunt Dorothy and Amelia came in.

“On the other hand,” muttered Bertram, “perhaps I shall drive over this morning.”

In the event, he spent the morning riding about the estate with his brother-in-law. He had always thought he had little in common with Lord Carfax, but now that he was forced to learn about estate management he found him both knowledgeable and helpful. He and his tenants had put into practice many modern agricultural improvements which had not yet found their way to Tatenhill. Somewhat to his own surprise, Bertram was interested.

He was also interested in the relationship between his sister and her husband. About to be leg-shackled, whether to Claire Sutton or some as yet unknown maiden, he wanted to see how others managed to live in wedded bliss.

The Carfaxes’ marriage reminded him strongly of his parents’: affectionate yet calm and undemonstrative. Caroline appeared to be happy, and Carfax never spoke of her with anything but praise for her common sense and good humour. It seemed to him an admirable relationship, and much what he hoped for himself. He was not one for high flights of fancy or romantic notions.

He pushed away the memory of the pain he had felt when Amaryllis told him she had sold her engagement ring to buy necessities.

Though he doubted the Suttons would care, or even notice, if he appeared at the dinner table in his riding breeches, Bertram changed before setting out. His bottle green coat and buff pantaloons were moulded to his muscular figure with the perfection of fit attained only by London’s premier tailors. His boots and hat, from Hoby’s and Lock’s respectively, shone glossy in the pale February sun. Pinkerton steadfastly refused to divulge, even to his master, whether he used champagne or some more recondite ingredient in the boot blacking. Whatever it contained, it was the envy of many an aspiring dandy.

Abel had the curricle ready. He was about to let go the horses’ heads and jump up behind when Horace Harrison appeared, picking his way daintily across the stable yard. “I say, coz, heard you was off to the Suttons’. Believe I’ll come with you, pay my respects to the ladies.”

“We dine there tonight, there is no need to go now.” Bertram closed his eyes as he took in the full glory of Horace’s costume.

He was wearing his jewelled shoes, and beneath his open greatcoat his waistcoat was likewise decorated with brilliants. As he had pointed out, they sparkled better in the sun than in candlelight. He looked like a jeweller’s display case, except that Rundell and Bridge’s, for one, would never be guilty of such a vulgar display, even had they been diamonds and not Strass glass.

Abel loosened his grasp on the harness to gape at this apparition. The chestnuts shied.

In one swift motion Bertram brought them back under control. “Move to where they can’t see you!” he shouted to his cousin.

Horace complied, hurrying past the restive beasts and scrambling up into the curricle.

Bertram sighed. “I shan’t need you after all, Abel,” he called, and they rattled out of the yard.

“Devilish high-strung cattle,” observed Horace.

“They are unused to such magnificence at midday.”

“Good idea, matching weskit and shoes, what?” The man was impervious to sarcasm. “Wager Miss Sutton will like it. Prodigious complimentary she was when I showed her the shoes the other day.”

Bertram’s recollection of Claire’s startled amusement was quite otherwise. He looked forward to seeing her face when she saw the waistcoat, and he would have wagered a good deal that forthright little Lizzie would be unable to control her giggles. His lips twitched, but he could only be glad that his cousin was such a clunch. At least there was not the slightest chance that Claire would favour his suit.

“You still mean to make up to Miss Sutton then?” he asked casually.

“Damme if I don’t, though t’other one’s more to my taste.

I like ‘em lively. Still, it’s marriage we’re talking about, not a roll in the hay, and the blunt’ll make up for a deal of boredom.

“Lord but you’re vulgar!” Bertram exclaimed, unable to keep silent while his possible future wife was traduced. “Miss Sutton is a lady, not a ladybird.”

“That’s what I just said,” pointed out Horace sulkily, and mercifully fell silent for the next couple of miles.

It was nearly three when the chestnuts trotted up the Suttons’ drive. Bertram stopped at the front entrance to leave his objectionable cousin, then drove round to the stables. Turning into the yard, he heard sounds of merriment.

In one corner, several stable boys with swinging shovels were jeering and whistling at something in their midst. From the height of the curricle seat Bertram saw that they surrounded a carrot-haired lad who stood holding a wheelbarrow. His face was screwed up in despair, his face blotched with tears, his clothes smeared with filth.

“The devil!” muttered his lordship, recognising Miss Sutton’s servant.

He tossed the reins to an approaching groom, jumped down, and strode towards the derisive group. A flying clod caught him in the midriff. From it rose the distinctive aroma of horse dung.

The boys froze in appalled silence as he reached them. The only sound was their victim’s sniffs.

Lord Pomeroy looked them up and down, one by one, then asked in an icy voice, “What is going on here?”

“He done ast for manure so we gi’en it ‘im, my lord,” one said sullenly.

“‘Tes only Alfie,” explained another. “He’s a nacheral. He  don’t know what’s what.”

“Sir James shall hear of this,” his lordship promised.

They shuffled nervously, then the first one said, “T’master don’t care. ‘Tes only for Miss Claire’s garden, nuthin’ important, honest, my lord.”

“He will care when I explain to him that his guest was, shall we say, caught in the crossfire.”

For the first time they noticed the daub of muck besmirching his lordship’s greatcoat, waistcoat, shirt, and pantaloons.

Three of them melted away. The other two, visions of a whipping before them, hastened to apologise humbly.

“An’ we’ll clean off Alfie under t’ pump,” the larger offered.

 ”No!” wailed Alfie as the other snickered.

“No, indeed. Alfie is coming up to the house with me to have a hot bath. When he returns, the wheelbarrow will be full of manure, and the five of you,” he looked threateningly at the stall where the other three huddled, “will be least in sight. Jump to it.”

His horsewhip moved with astonishing speed. The two boys let out simultaneous howls and clapped their hands to their rear ends before setting to with their shovels. This time all the manure landed in the wheelbarrow.

Alfie blinked at his saviour, mouth agape.

“Come on, lad,” Lord Pomeroy said kindly. “We both need to do a bit of cleaning up.”

It was nearly an hour later that Bertram at last reached the drawing room. He had considered sending his excuses by a servant and going home to change. However, the thought of what a servant would make of his story persuaded him to tell the young ladies his own version. Besides, Golightly had assured him that Lady Sutton was absent, and that his own clothes would be clean and pressed dry long before dinner time.

He was dressed in clothes borrowed from his host. Unfortunately Sir James, though almost as broad and preferring his garments loose, was considerably shorter. Bertram’s wrists protruded from the cuffs, and his shirt showed a distressing tendency to escape from his trousers. No wonder he paused before entering the drawing room and attempted to compose his features into his usual expression of affable calm.

Lizzie was seated facing the door. She looked up from her embroidery and went off into a peal of laughter. Bertram tried not to scowl at her.

“Lud, coz, you look like a scarecrow!” said Horace, shocked.

Lizzie rounded on him. “That’s better than looking like a mannequin from a sequin manufactory!” she told him severely.

Bertram revised his opinion of her as Horace turned red and gobbled like a turkey cock.

Claire jumped up, dropping her book, and came towards him with both hands held out. “Whatever happened, my lord?” she asked with evident distress. “We have been waiting for you this age. Golightly said only that you were delayed.”

He took her hands, led her to a sofa, and seated himself beside her. “I have been slaying dragons again, ma’am,” he said gaily, intent on reassuring her. “This time, in the form of five scrubby, grubby boys, and in aid not of a fair damsel but of your servant, Alfie. In the process, my clothes became...er, offensive, shall we say.”

“Oh dear, I sent him to fetch manure from the stables.” She bit her lip, and he saw that her grey eyes were dancing. “Those horrid boys, I am so sorry, but how very kind of you go to poor Alfie’s assistance.”

“I hope you whipped them!” said Lizzie, amusement replaced by indignation. “They pick on poor Alfie because he is a little slow. And we have not yet thanked you for that business with the gloves,” she added inconsequentially, “Which was equally kind.”

“Not equally,” he said, grinning at her, good humour restored by their obviously sincere gratitude. “The purchase of the gloves was my pleasure. I cannot say the same of the present incident.”

“Gad no!” said Horace in horror. “Can’t say I’ve ever come into contact with horse droppings, but I daresay it’ll stain.”