Toblethorpe Manor Page 2

  “I would not for the world have you alter your plans, mama. I think Lucy would never speak to me again.”

  “But Miss Fell is very ill and needs a great deal of care, and how can I leave a young lady alone in the house with only the servants?”

  “We do not know that she is a lady. Certainly her clothes would suggest otherwise. I suspect she may be a governess or something of the sort.”

  “No, Richard, how can you be so prosaic,” said Lord Denham, grinning. “I am sure Miss Carstairs has recognized in Miss Fell a princess in disguise, or at the least, the daughter of a duke.”

  “You are teasing, my lord,” said Lucy crossly. “Richard, I do not wish to seem unfeeling, but I could not bear it if my first Season were to be spoiled. I have been waiting seventeen years for this moment.”

  “I shall send for Florence,” declared Lady Annabel in a voice that announced the ultimate solution.

  “Do you think my aunt would come?” queried Richard. “I cannot like asking her to nurse a stranger who, after all, was found in the most ambiguous circumstances.”

  “I shall not ask her to do any nursing. I hope my housekeeper and Nurse are capable of that! Your Aunt Florence has often mentioned to me how she would enjoy being invited to an empty house for once, with no necessity for entertaining or being entertained. Of course, she was funning,” (Richard and Lucy here exchanged speaking glances: Miss Florence Carstairs had never been known to joke) “yet I am sure she would find it restful after living in my brother-in-law’s house with his six children.”

  “I daresay you are right as always, mama. Jem can ride to Arnden with a note and return with an answer tomorrow so that we may arrange the matter. If all goes well, I shall return here after escorting you to London, to check that everything is in order.”

  “You’ll not persuade me to accompany you again, especially with your sister settled in London,” said Lord Denham. “Miss Carstairs, if you are not occupied elsewhere, perhaps you would favor me with a stroll around the shrubbery. I believe the sun has dried the grass, and I find myself recovered from my enforced early ride.”

  “I shall be delighted, my lord,” replied Lucy demurely.

  At that moment the butler entered and bent to murmur in Lady Annabel’s ear.

  “Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “Miss Fell is in a fever and Nurse wants my advice. Lucy, wrap up well if you are going out. Richard, pray do not leave the house for a while, I must speak with you. Lord Denham, do not let my daughter become a nuisance.”

  “Mama! I am not a child anymore. You must not speak so,” said Lucy in indignation.

  “I beg your pardon, dearest. It is difficult to remember that you are a young lady already.”

  “Behave like a young lady or you shall not be treated as one, Lucy,” threatened Richard with a grin, and a wink at Lord Denham.

  Lucy cast him a darkling glance and flounced out of the room on his lordship’s arm.

  “Oh dear, Richard,” said Lady Annabel with a sigh, “I do not believe I shall ever teach her to behave as Society will expect.”

  “Come, mama, you would not wish her to be missish or tongue-tied. Do not let her worry you, she will be a great success.”

  “Indeed I hope so. Well, I had better see how Miss Fell does.”

  “I will be in the library when you want me. I beg you will not let Miss Fell worry you, either. I could wish her in China!”

  Lady Annabel smiled up at her tall son and patted his cheek. As she left the room, she was thinking that her biggest problem was not her daughter, nor even the stranger who had appeared in her household so unceremoniously. She hoped Richard did not know how much he worried her.

  Lady Annabel, in her late forties, was still as blond as she had been when she had caught the eye of Mr. Christopher Carstairs during her second Season. Her husband had had light brown hair and a ruddy complexion; her father, Lord Mortlake, had been as blond as his daughter, but her mother had been an Italian contessa, dark as a Gypsy. Both Lady Annabel’s children had taken after their grandmother. Lucy was a glowing brunette, Richard so dark-skinned he could have passed as a savage from the colonies. He had been a happy child, mischievous but not difficult, and then at the age of thirteen he had been sent away to school. She was still not very clear as to exactly what had happened. She and Kit had been absorbed in their newborn daughter, a miracle after so many barren years. And then Kit had been killed hunting. It still hurt her to think of the dreadful moment when they had borne his body home on a hurdle.

  Richard had been at Eton for two years before she had realized that something was seriously wrong. The charming small boy had become a withdrawn adolescent, hiding his hurts under an arrogance justified to himself by pride in his family and birth. A lecture on manners, after he had been insolent to a neighbor, had led to an agonizing session during which she learned that he had been christened “the Indian” by the older schoolboys and ostracized by his fellows.

  She had suggested that he finish his studies under a tutor. But the tall, painfully thin boy with the haunted eyes had told her, “The Carstairs do not run away.”

  After another year of misery, his last two years at the school had been not unhappy, she thought. Richard had proved himself highly successful in both studies and sports and had at last made a few friends. But the damage had been done. He found it difficult to socialize, and the idea that had saved him, the importance of birth and breeding, was too much a part of him to be relinquished.

  Three years at Cambridge and a couple of seasons in London under the aegis of his uncle, Lord Mortlake, had smoothed the corners of his character. He was able to hold his own in any society, though he relaxed only among close friends and family. His essential arrogance was blunted by courtesy, but it was not diminished, nor, indeed, would Lord Mortlake, a high stickler, have approved of anything less. He had introduced his nephew to the ton and made sure that he frequented only the best society. He had watched indulgently as the young man had gone through the usual discreet liaisons with opera dancers, but when Richard had seemed to be attracted by a most ineligible young person, the daughter of some obscure country gentry, he had promptly nipped the affair in the bud.

  Not that it was necessary. Richard was perfectly aware of the unsuitability, and was merely being kind to the distant cousin of a particular crony.

  Lady Annabel could not complain that Richard was not kind. He was a perfect son and brother and always ready to come to the aid of anyone in distress. He spent a good deal of time at home, supervising and improving his estate, and was on easy, though far from intimate, terms with the neighbors. He had friends to stay occasionally, especially Lord Denham, and went visiting in the hunting season. Lady Annabel would be perfectly satisfied with him for months at a time.

  Yet she had listened in repressed horror as he had discussed cold-bloodedly whether Miss Fell were well born or not, as if it were the only important point, as if she were not desperately ill a few feet above his head. Hurrying up the stairs, she wondered what revelations lay in store for her in London. She had not seen her son in Society, and rather dreaded the prospect. Finding a husband for Lucy, she suspected, would be a far easier task than finding a bride who would satisfy her son’s stringent requirements as to birth. She did not begin to know what he might expect in the way of beauty or character. However, she was determined to find a wife for him. Her mother’s eye had pierced the shell of self-sufficiency surrounding him and saw within the loneliness and lack of assurance that were so well masked by his arrogance.

  “He must marry,” she decided, “and he must marry for love.”

  The door of the Blue Bedchamber was ajar. It had not warranted its name for years, being decorated in cheerful yellow and russet. The bed hangings of buttercup silk were pulled back, and Nurse was sitting on the edge of the bed, bathing with lavender water the hot face that tossed and turned on the rumpled pillow. She rose and bobbed a curtsy as her mistress entered.

  “She’m bin this way a half-
hour, my lady. So quiet and still as she was to start, then all of a suddenlike she were a-mutterin’ away, an’ the flush come to her face. I give her the doctor’s medicine, but it don’t seem to do no good.”

  “What did she say?” asked Lady Annabel eagerly.

  “Well, I can’t rightly tell you, my lady. I couldna make out the words till she cried out: ‘Oh pray, uncle, don’t!’ then she were incohairem again.”

  Lady Annabel sat down and felt the burning forehead, careful not to touch the court plaster on the left temple.

  “Nurse, have Mrs. Bedford tell Cook to make some barley water.”

  “Indeed, my lady, that Cook is a great ignomalous. Them furriners don’t know how to prepare a nice barley water for a sick young lady. I better make it wi’ my own two han’s.”

  “Now, Nurse, you know how upset Monsieur Pierre gets if anyone invades his kitchen. Just give the message to Mrs. Bedford, and then I will need your help here. You had better call one of the maids; Mary will do.”

  “Very well, my lady. As you says.” Nurse heaved a heavy sigh and went on her errand.

  Lady Annabel was at last able to turn her full attention to the patient. The thin face was not that of a young girl. The red hair and firm chin suggested a certain strength of character, belied by sensitive lips and fluttering hands. “Miss Fell” was breathing fast and shallow, painfully, and seemed to be growing too weak to continue her restless motion. Suddenly Lady Annabel realized she might die and wondered if somewhere her mother were waiting for her, praying for news of her. How would she herself feel if Lucy disappeared and fell sick among strangers? She resolved that unless the young woman was truly out of danger, Lucy must go to her Aunt Blanche for the start of the Season. She and her Cousin Jennifer would probably live in each other’s pockets anyway.

  Nurse returned with Mary, followed by Richard.

  “May I come in, mama? I wanted to see how you go on.” He caught sight of the sick girl and was alarmed to see how the already thin features were hollowed out. The hectic flush was fading; for a moment it presented almost a picture of health, then the face was pallid again, the brow bedewed, and Miss Fell’s body was seized with uncontrollable shivering.

  Her eyes opened, appearing huge in the wasted face.

  “Cold,” she whispered, “I’m so cold.”

  “Since you are here, dearest, do you lift Miss Fell so that the bedding may be changed.”

  Richard picked her up gently and Lady Annabel tucked a blanket around her while Nurse and Mary remade the bed. The burden seemed pounds lighter than when he had carried her on horseback. He gazed down into her face, then raised his eyes to his mother.

  “Will she live?”

  “I do not know. We must do the best we can, but now that the fever has broken there is little to be done. Do not look so despairing, Richard, there is yet hope.”

  “I feel responsible for her, I suppose because I found her. She is so…helpless.”

  He had felt the same, thought his mother, at the age of twelve when he had saved a puppy from drowning and nursed the feeble thing back to health.

  The housekeeper came in with warm barley water. Richard propped Miss Fell up with his arm while Lady Annabel held the glass to her lips. She had scarcely strength enough for a few swallows.

  “I will watch her for a while, Nurse. You had better get some rest, there may be a long night ahead. Mrs. Bedford, I will send for you when I need you. Richard, I cannot talk with you now.”

  “Mama, I shall ride up to the moors and see if I can learn anything from the horse’s tracks. We were in too great a hurry to consider it before, but there may be some clue.”

  “Certainly, dear. I suppose Lucy will keep Lord Denham tolerably entertained.”

  Miss Fell’s gaze followed Richard as he left the room. In this nightmare into which she had woken, his dark face, constantly recurring, was a landmark to which she clung. It was the first thing she could remember seeing, the only thing that stood out in a haze of other faces, coming and going. She was too tired to think about it, too tired to try to understand what was happening, too tired to sleep, but too tired to keep her eyes open. As they closed she felt as if she were sinking into a dark whirlpool that sucked her down and down. Someone took her hand in a firm, gentle clasp; it seemed far away; she must hold on or she would drown in the blackness that grasped and pulled at her.

  Lady Annabel sat by the bed in a rocking chair, the cold, still hand clasped in both hers. She had felt the feeble, desperate clutch, and though the girl’s hand was limp now, she would not let it go. The winter sun sank in the west, its ruddy rays turning the silk draperies to flame.

  “Like her hair,” Lady Annabel thought drowsily.

  Lucy peeked in and, seeing that all was quiet, went to warn everyone to stay away. Richard had told her that her heroine might not live, and the sight of the pale face so still on the pillow was enough to suppress her usual exuberance.

  At dusk Mrs. Bedford brought the doctor. The sound of their arrival roused Lady Annabel, who had been dozing. Miss Fell lay motionless, but a slow pulse beat at the base of her throat. Dr. Grimsdale laid his hand on her forehead and took her pulse.

  “Sleeping,” he grunted. “She’ll do. To tell the truth, I’m surprised. Must have an excellent constitution. Main thing now is to keep her strength up.”

  He changed the dressing on her head. The cut was already showing signs of healing, though there was a dark bruise and some swelling.

  “I’ll drop in in the morning,” he said as he left. “She should sleep all night, but someone should watch. Try and get her to drink some broth this evening even if you have to wake her. She’s half starved and very weak.”

  The housekeeper went to fetch Nurse and Lady Annabel hurried to tell the others the good news. She found them in the music room gathered round the pianoforte, singing mournful ballads about death and forsaken lovers. The result was not entirely felicitous. Lucy’s playing style ran more to verve than to sensitivity or accuracy; and while Richard’s light baritone sounded pleasant, the fervor of Lord Denham’s tenor did not make up for his inability to carry a tune.

  Richard noticed his mother’s entrance and broke off in the middle of a plea for branches of yew to be strewn on his coffin.

  “Mama! You look happy! What is the news?”

  “Oh, my musical children, Miss Fell is sleeping and Dr. Grimsdale considers her out of danger, though still very ill and weak.”

  Richard felt as if he had unknowingly been holding his breath for hours and was only now able to breathe freely again. Lucy, frozen at the piano, relaxed with a small sigh, and Tony turned to inquire, “Then may I stop singing these dreadful songs?”

  “Mama, that is wonderful!” cried Lucy, throwing her arms about Lady Annabel and giving her a hug. “You must know that Richard would have us indulge in music because he said I looked as though I were going into a decline. But I could not bear to play anything cheerful while Clarissa was dying upstairs.”

  “Not ‘Clarissa,’” groaned Richard, and they all laughed as if he had voiced the wittiest of bon-mots.

  Lady Annabel caught sight of the clock on the mantel.

  “Oh dear, it is past five, and I suppose Cook will have prepared dinner for six o’clock as usual. Lucy, we must dress immediately. Richard, you shall tell me at dinner what you found on the moor. Excuse us, Lord Denham.”

  The two young men were left alone for a moment, occupied in closing the pianoforte and putting away the music books.

  “Tony, I really must apologize for the musical interlude. It was all I could think of to distract my sister.”

  “It is for me to apologize, Richard. You are a musical family, and I cannot hold a note. Lucy plays as charmingly as she smiles.”

  “Indeed, if you think so you are undoubtedly tone-deaf. She does well enough with a gig or a hornpipe, but she mangles anything requiring sensitivity of touch!”

  “Oh, you are an expert. I sometimes think we should ne
ver see you in London were it not for the concerts and the opera. I insist, for us tyros who enjoy a good tune, Miss Carstairs does an excellent job.”

  Laughing, Richard led the way upstairs.

  Some thirty minutes later, the party assembled in the small salon. Lucy pointed out to her mother a bowl of snowdrops she had picked that afternoon.

  “May I put them in Miss Fell’s chamber?” she asked. “Flowers always make me cheerful, and I am sure she needs them more than anyone.”

  “I cannot promise she will notice them, Lucy, but you may take them to her this evening.”

  The dinner gong rang. Lord Denham gave his arm to Lady Annabel, and Lucy followed with Richard. He offered her his arm, and she was about to refuse scornfully when she saw the twinkle in his eye and remembered what he had said earlier. Mindful of her mother’s lessons, she inclined her head regally and laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve. Then she looked up inquiringly into his face, so much like a sparrow that he laughed and patted her hand.

  “Excellent,” he approved. “Almost I think you are ready for London.”

  Monsieur Pierre had outdone himself in honour of the noble guest, a noted gourmet. Caneton à l’orange followed braised kidneys in white wine, Brussels sprouts au gratin succeeded a succulent sirloin surrounded with elaborate side dishes. Richard noted with amusement that Lucy confined herself to small helpings of a few dishes and ended her meal with an apple, which she delicately peeled and sliced instead of munching it down to the core. The child was really trying.

  “Come, Lucy,” he said, “time enough to stop eating when you get to Town.” He cut her a large slice of gooseberry tart and piled it with whipped cream. Throwing him a grateful look, she demolished it rapidly.

  The ladies left the gentlemen to their brandy. Lord Denham, replete, suppressed a belch and remarked, “My mother was always on at m’sisters about their appetites. Of course they did put on weight easily, especially poor Agnes. But your sister don’t seem to, mustn’t let her waste away just to be fashionable.”