Читать книгу Francesca - Sylvia Andrew - Страница 10

Lady Forrest saw the incident and felt a little spurt of irritation. Marcus was impossible—acknowledging a wretch like the girl on the road! Of course, he was just doing it to annoy her. He hadn’t wanted to come to Charlie Witham’s—it was not the sort of gathering he enjoyed and all her wiles had at first failed to persuade him to accept the invitation. But she had won in the end! And now he was showing his displeasure by teasing her.

‘Are you so very displeased, Marcus?’ she asked, looking at him sideways as the carriage turned into the village street.

He negotiated the tight left turn before replying. ‘About Nick’s driving? Not any more. Nor do you need to suffer any disquiet about him, either. By the time he’s found his way to the Court, he’ll have got over his fit of temper.’

Lady Forrest had forgotten Nick. ‘That’s not what I meant. You didn’t want to come to Charlie’s, when I first mentioned it. Are you regretting having changed your mind?’

‘Not at all. You produced a master card and played it.’ When she raised her eyebrows, and feigned surprise, he went on, ‘Come, Charmian. You don’t usually underestimate my intelligence so badly. You are quite ruthless in pursuing your wishes. When it became obvious I had no intention of escorting you to Witham Court, you beguiled Nick into performing the office. You counted on the fact that, although my nephew’s capacity for getting into trouble seems to be infinite, I am fond of him. You knew that I was most unlikely to abandon him to the mercies of Charlie Witham’s rapacious cronies.’

He looked at her with the quizzical smile she always found irresistible. ‘But tell me, what would you have done if I had called your bluff? It would hardly have enhanced your reputation to arrive at Witham Court in the company of a lad half your age.’

The smile, then the rapier. He could be a cruel devil when he chose! Lady Forrest coloured angrily. ‘You exaggerate, Marcus. In any case, the question did not arise. You have come—as I knew you would.’ She changed her tone. ‘Now, be kind. You have had your fun pretending to be concerned over that creature on the road, and attempting to introduce her—’

‘You were quite ruthless there, too. Did you have to give the girl such a snub?’

‘Why are you so concerned? If she were pretty I could understand it, but she is quite remarkably plain!’

‘Plain? How can you say so?’

‘Stop making fun of me, Marcus. Of course she is plain. Too tall, too bony, too sallow, a hard mouth—Really!’

‘Her mouth is not hard, it is disciplined. And I suppose the streaks of dirt on her face disguised from you the loveliest line of cheekbone and jaw I think I have ever seen.’ When Lady Forrest regarded him with astonishment, he added, ‘Oh, she is not your conventional Society beauty, I agree. She lacks the rosebud mouth, the empty blue eyes, the dimpled cheeks. Her conversation is less vapid, too. But plain she will never be—not even when she is old. The exquisite bone structure will still be there.’

‘Good Lord! This is news, indeed! What a sly fellow you are after all, my dear! When are we to congratulate you?’ He gave her an ironic look, but refused to rise to her bait. She went on, ‘Perhaps you will allow me to lend the girl a dress for the wedding? I can hardly think she owns anything suitable—nor, from the look of her, any dowry, either. Still, you hardly need that, now.’

There was a short silence and she wondered whether she had gone too far. Then he said calmly, ‘Don’t talk nonsense, my dear. I can admire beauty wherever I find it—I don’t necessarily wish to possess it! Thank God—here are the gates. I suppose it is too much to hope that Charlie Witham has learned moderation since I was last here. So I warn you, you will have me to reckon with if you lead Nick into trouble, or make him miserable. My nephew is the apple of my sister’s eye, God knows why!’

They were received warmly by their host, who could hardly believe his good fortune in snaring one of London’s most elusive bachelors as a guest. Marcus Carne tended to move in circles of Society that Lord Witham and his friends, who would never have been admitted to them, apostrophised as devilish dull, riddled as they were with clever johnnies—academics, politicians, reformers and the like! But they found Carne himself perfectly sound. In fact, they termed him a Nonpareil.

He belonged to all the right clubs, was a first-class, if rather ruthless, cardplayer, and could hold his wine with the best of them. His skill with horses was legendary, and his life as an officer under Wellington had provided him with a fund of good stories, though he never bored his company with talk of the battles.

And, though he was what was generally called ‘a proper man’s man’, he was equally popular with the ladies—not only with the frail beauties such as Charmian Forrest, who lived on the fringes of society, but with perfectly respectable dowagers and debutantes, too. His good looks and lazy smile, his air of knowing what he was about—such things appealed to the ladies, of course.

And he had another virtue that even outclassed his looks, his charm, his manliness, his straight dealing and all the rest. Marcus Carne was quite disgustingly rich. Once his cousin Jack fell at Waterloo, it was inevitable that Marcus would inherit the Carne title—his uncle had, after all, been in his seventies when his only remaining son was killed. But who would have thought that old Lord Carne would have amassed such a fortune to leave to his nephew—especially as Jack and his brothers had, in the short time allotted to them, done their best to disperse it!

However, Marcus was a different kettle of fish altogether from his wayward cousins. Though frequently invited, he was seldom seen at the sort of gathering Lord Witham enjoyed. And though he was not afraid to wager large sums at the gambling table, he had a regrettable tendency to win. In spite of this, however, his reputation was such that he was welcomed wherever he went.

So Lord Witham paid Marcus the compliment of conducting him personally to one of the best bedchambers, indicating with a wink that Charmian was lodged close by. Marcus waited patiently till his host had finished listing the delights in store and had gone to see to his other guests, then he summoned his valet, who had arrived with the valises some time before, and changed.

Suter busied himself discreetly about the room, obviously expecting his master to go down to join the company. But Marcus was in no hurry to meet the ramshackle bunch Charlie Witham had undoubtedly assembled for several days of cards and drinking. Instead, he went over to the window, which overlooked the park behind the Court.

It was nine years since he had last been at Witham. At that time there had still been three cousins available to inherit their father’s title. He himself had been an impecunious junior officer on leave, with no expectations except through promotion on the battlefield. His room then had been much less imposing—what else would he have expected? The view from its window had been the same, though. And the signs of neglect and decay, which even then had been evident, were now greater than ever. He wondered if that bridge had ever been repaired…Probably not. Nine years…

Nine years ago Francesca Shelwood had, for a brief while, filled his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Curious how one could forget something which had been so important at the time. Seeing the girl again had brought the memories back, memories which had been swamped under the horrors of the campaigns he had fought, and the turmoil and sea-change in his fortunes which had followed.

He had never expected to succeed his uncle. But first Maurice and Ralph, Lord Carne’s twin elder sons, had both been killed in a coaching accident, then Jack had fallen at Waterloo. Lord Carne himself had followed them soon afterwards, and Marcus had, against all the odds, succeeded to the title.

Francesca had changed surprisingly little. How well he now remembered that intriguing surface air of discipline, the tight control of her mouth and face, which might lead the uninitiated to believe her dull—hard, even. He knew better. The real Francesca’s feelings could suddenly blow up in rage, or melt in passion…His blood quickened even now at the memory of her total response to his kisses.

How absurd! Nine years of living in the world, three of them as a very rich man, had provided many more sophisticated affairs. None had been permanent, but few had lasted for as short a time as one day—yet he remembered none of them with half as much pleasure. How could he have forgotten?

From the first moment, he and Francesca had felt no constraint in one other’s company. Their initial encounter had effectively done away with the barrier she customarily put up to protect herself from the rest of the world. It was difficult to retain an air of cool reserve when you have just sent a perfect stranger flying into the river! But he rather thought that, even without that sensational beginning, he would have found the real Francesca. From the first he had had a strange feeling of kinship with her that he was sure she had felt, too.

He pulled a chair up to the window and sat down, his eyes fixed on the untended lawns of Witham Court without seeing them. The years faded away and what he saw was the sun, glinting through the leafy branches of the trees down on to the stream which formed the boundary between the Witham and Shelwood lands. He had come with his cousin Jack—he would never in those days have been invited for himself. Jack’s father had begged Marcus to go with his son, for the play there was deep, and Jack a compulsive gambler. It hadn’t worked.

Heedless of Marcus’s attempts to restrain him, Jack had wagered vast sums, more than he possessed, and had lost to everyone, even including his cousin. After a disastrous night of yet more hard drinking and gambling Jack, quite unable to honour his debts, and mindful of his father’s words the last time he had asked for more money, had attempted to shoot himself—a dramatic gesture, which his cousin and friends had fortunately frustrated.

Marcus smiled wryly. Jack had survived the attempt to take his own life, but it hadn’t done him much good. Just a few years later he had fallen at Waterloo along with so many other, better men. Marcus blanked out the thought of Waterloo—the memory of that carnage was best forgotten. He got up and went to the door.

‘There you are, Marcus! I was just about to send someone to look for you. Charlie’s waiting for us.’

Marcus suppressed a sigh, then smiled. ‘How charmingly you look, Charmian. That dress is particularly becoming. Do you know where Nick is?’

Later that night, when the company was relaxing over an excellent supper, he was reminded again of Francesca. Charmian brought up the incident on the road that afternoon.

‘And then we met this scarecrow of a girl! Nick pushed her into the ditch, and I swear it seemed the best place for her!’

She looked magnificent in a wine-red silk dress, her black hair piled high and caught with a diamond aigrette given to her by Marcus in the heyday of their relationship. An impressive array of other jewels—trophies from her many admirers—flashed about her person, but they glittered no more brightly than her dark eyes. She was in her element, flirting with Marcus, making the others laugh with her wicked comments on London life, and teasing a besotted Nick about his driving, laughing at him over her fan.

Nick flushed and muttered, ‘The horses were scared of the thunder. And she just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Oh, but, Nick darling, you were marvellous, I swear! Then Marcus got down and went to see what had happened—the wretched girl had vanished. Just the odd boot waving in the air, covered in mud. Pure rustic farce. Marcus insisted on going to see if she was all right, and of course she was, once he’d pulled her out. But what a sight! There she stood, draped in mud and weeds, a quiz of a sunbonnet stuck on her head. But Marcus seemed quite taken with her. I began to think he had fallen in love at first sight with this farmyard beauty.’ She paused dramatically. ‘I was almost jealous!’

There were shouts of disbelief and laughter and Charmian smiled like a satisfied cat. ‘But I haven’t finished yet—you must hear this—it beats all the rest. She wasn’t a village girl at all, it seems. Marcus said she owned most of the land round about. A positive heiress in disguise, looking for a prince. So which of you is going to rescue her, muddy boots and all?’

Marcus walked over to the side and helped himself to more wine. He said nothing.

‘I wager it was Fanny Shelwood,’ said Lord Witham.

‘Shelwood?’ said one of the others. ‘Of Shelwood Manor?’

‘Yes—her mother was Verity Shelwood. Now, ask me who her father was…No? I’ll tell you. Richard Beaudon.’ There was a significant pause. ‘D’you see? The girl was sired by Richard Beaudon, but her name is Shelwood. Not Beaudon. Adopted by her grandfather. You follow me?’

Having ensured by sundry nods and winks that his guests had indeed followed, Lord Witham went on in malicious enjoyment, ‘I don’t suppose many of you know about the Shelwoods. They keep quieter now than they used. But when the old fellow was alive, he was always boring on about the company I invited down here. As if it was any of his business! A bunch of killjoys, the Shelwoods. I told him more than once—a chap can have a few friends in his own house if he wants, can’t he? Have a bit of fun?

‘But Sir John never liked me—a real holier-than-thou johnny, he was. And then—’he started to grin ‘—and then old Sir Piety’s daughter kicks over the traces with Rake Beaudon, and runs off to the West Indies with him. All without benefit of clergy.’

‘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.