Читать книгу Francesca - Sylvia Andrew - Страница 11

With a roar of fury, Marcus struggled to his feet, waded clumsily to the side, scrambled up the bank and caught up with her halfway up the hill.

Francesca gave a cry of fright as he grabbed her by the arm and swung her round. ‘Now, you little wretch, you’d better explain yourself before I give you what you deserve.’

‘Let go of me!’

‘Not till I have an explanation. And you’d better make it a good one. Or are you the sort of Bedlamite who does this as a regular sport?’

‘I’m not the lunatic!’ Francesca cried. ‘I tell you, I was trying to stop you from drowning—you said you wanted to.’

‘But I didn’t mean it, you…ninny!’ he said, giving her a shake.

Francesca lost her temper yet again. She pulled herself free, but though she took a step back, she made no attempt to escape. ‘How was I to know that?’ she blazed at him. ‘You stood on that bridge, draped over the water like a…like a weeping willow, and said you were going to drown yourself! How was I to know you were playacting?’

‘A weepi—a weeping willow!’ he said, outraged. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! I wasn’t feeling quite the thing—I had a headache! A hangover, if you must know. But I wouldn’t be such a clunch as to do away with myself. Why on earth should I?’ He had glared at her. ‘And if I did, I’d find a better way than to try to drown myself in two feet of water! What rubbish!’

‘Then why did you say you would?’

‘I didn’t, I tell you.’ She opened her mouth to contradict him, but he held up a hand and said slowly and distinctly, in the tones of one talking to an idiot, ‘I was expressing unhappiness. I was just unhappy.’

‘Well, you deserve to be! People who are rakes and who gamble all their money away deserve to be unhappy!’

‘Gamble all my money aw—You are a lunatic! An impertinent, lunatic child! What on earth do you mean? I’m not rich enough to gamble any money away! Anyway, I won last night, damn it!’

‘A fine story! If that’s the case, why are you so worried about facing your uncle?’

The young man’s eyes narrowed and he said slowly, ‘You little sneak! You were eavesdropping—that conversation was private!’

Francesca was instantly abashed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help hearing it—I certainly didn’t do it intentionally. I really am very sorry. Please, please forgive me. I meant well, really I did.’ She looked up at him beseechingly. ‘I promise I shall forget all about that conversation, now that I know you don’t really mean to…to—you know.’

He was staring down into her eyes, seemingly fascinated. Francesca’s heart thumped, but she didn’t—couldn’t move. He muttered, ‘A lunatic child, with witch’s eyes…I’ve seen you in paintings…’ and he slowly drew his finger over her cheekbone and down her jaw. He held her chin and lowered his head towards her…Then he jerked back, and said in astonishment, ‘I’m going mad. It must be the hangover.’

Francesca was not sure what he meant, but said nervously, ‘And…and now I shall go home.’

‘No, don’t!’ He took her by the arm once again and marched her into a patch of sunshine. ‘I still want my explanation…You’re shivering!’

Francesca thought it wiser not to explain that this was due to nerves and reaction to his hand on her arm, rather than to feeling cold. She said nothing.

‘Sit in the sun here—you’ll soon be warmer. Now, where were we?’

‘I was telling you I’d heard you say you wanted to drown yourself because you’d gambled away all your money. And I was trying to stop you. But I forgot how steep the bank was, and I got carried down the slope and…and I pushed you in.’ Francesca was gabbling, as she often did when nervous.

‘I suppose it makes some sort of inverted sense,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful that you meant well—though I still think I’d have been better off without your help.’ He looked down thoughtfully at his sodden clothes…

Francesca tried, and failed, to suppress a giggle. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘Much better off. You squelch when you walk, too!’ and, after another vain struggle with herself, she went off into a gale of laughter.

For a moment he looked affronted, but as she laughed again at his face he smiled, then he, too, was laughing. The atmosphere lightened considerably.

‘Look, let’s sit down here for a moment, and you can help me with my boots while you tell me the story of your life.’

‘Well, that’s a “blank, my lord”,’ she said, as he sat down on a fallen tree trunk and had stuck his foot out.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Down there, at Shelwood. With my aunt.’ Francesca tugged hard and the boot came off, releasing a gush of water over her dress. She gave a cry. ‘Oh, no!’

‘It will dry. Now, the other one.’ She cast him a reproachful look, but gingerly took hold of the second boot. She took more care with this one but, when it came away with unexpected ease, she lost her balance, tripped over a root and fell flat on her back. The second boot poured its contents over her. She got to her feet hastily. ‘Just look at that!’ she cried.

‘I am,’ he said. Francesca was puzzled at the sudden constraint in his voice. ‘I…I seem to have made a mistake. I thought you a child.’ He swallowed. ‘But it’s clear you’re not. You may be a lunatic, but you’re all woman—and a lovely one, too!’

She looked down. The water had drenched the thin lawn of her dress and petticoat, and they were clinging to her like a second skin. The lines of her figure were clearly visible.

‘Oh, no!’ Desperately she shook out her dress, holding it away from her body. ‘I must go!’

‘No! Please don’t. Your dress will dry very soon, and I won’t stare any more. Look, if you sit down beside me on this log I won’t be able to. We could…we could have a peaceful little chat till your dress dries. I’d like to explain what I meant when I was speaking to Freddie.’

She looked at him uncertainly. He was really very handsome—and he seemed to be sincere. Perhaps not everyone at Witham Court was a rake. But…‘Why did you call me lovely,’ she asked suspiciously, ‘when everyone else says I’m plain?’

‘Plain? They must be blind. Sit down and I’ll tell you why I think you lovely.’ This sounded like a very dangerous idea to Francesca. So she was at something of a loss to understand when she found herself doing as he asked. She kept her distance, however—she was not quite mad.

‘Is Freddie the man you were with?’

‘Yes—we were talking about my c—about someone we both know. He lost a great deal of money last night. He…he wasn’t feeling well this morning, and we’re worried about him. But you don’t really want to talk about this, do you? It’s a miserable subject for a lovely morning. Tell me about yourself. What were you doing when you saw us? On your way to a tryst?’

‘Oh, no! I…I don’t know anyone. I was drawing—oh, I must fetch my book and satchel! I dropped them when I ran down the hill. Excuse me.’

She jumped up, glad to escape from the spell the deep voice and dark blue eyes were weaving round her.

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘But you haven’t anything on your feet!’

‘So? I’ve suffered worse things than that in the army. And I want to make sure you don’t disappear. You’re my hostage, you know, until we are both dry.’ She looked at him nervously, but he was laughing, as he got up and took firm hold of her hand. ‘Where is this book?’

They soon found the orchid plant she had been drawing, and her sketch pad and satchel were not far away. He picked the pad up, still holding her with one hand, and studied it. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Who is your teacher?’

‘Madame Elisabeth.’ She blushed in confusion. ‘I mean Madame de Romain. My governess.’

‘Let’s get back into the sun. My feet are cold.’ They collected the satchel, then went back to their tree trunk and sat down. This time it seemed quite natural to sit next to him, especially as he still held her hand in his. ‘Will you show me some more of your work?’

Francesca coloured with pleasure. ‘Of course!’ she said shyly.

From then on, he directed his considerable charm towards drawing her out, and Francesca found herself talking to him more freely than she had with anyone for years. Sometimes, she would falter as she found his eyes intent on her, looking at her with such warmth and understanding. But then he would ask a question about some detail in one of the pictures and she would talk on, reassured.

There came a moment when she stopped. ‘I…I haven’t anything more to show you—not here,’ she said. When he didn’t immediately answer, she looked up, a question in her eyes.

‘Why did you say you were plain?’ he said slowly.

‘Because I am! Everyone says so.’

‘No, you’re not, Francesca. You’re like your sketches—drawn with a fine, delicate grace.’

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she said, nervous once again.

‘I’m not flattering you!’

‘No, I’m sure you mean to be kind. But it isn’t necessary. I’m really quite used to my looks. Please—if you carry on talking like this, I shall have to go. My dress is dry now. Your things are dry, too.’

‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly.

She hesitated. Then, ‘Seventeen,’ she lied. When he looked sceptical, she had added, still lying, ‘Almost.’

‘It’s young. But not too young. Have you ever been in love?’

‘Me?’ she asked, astounded.

He laughed at her then, and let go of her, but only to put both of his hands on her shoulders. ‘Yes, you,’ he said.

‘Certainly not!’

‘There’s always a first time,’ he murmured. He drew her closer. ‘What about kisses? Have you ever been kissed?’

‘Not…not often,’ she whispered, hypnotised by the blue eyes gazing into hers. ‘My grandfather, sometimes.’ She swallowed. ‘I suppose my father did. I…I can’t remember.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant. I meant…this.’ He lowered his head and kissed her gently. Francesca felt as if she had just had been hit by lightning. The strangest feeling overcame her, a feeling compounded of fear and pleasure, chills and warmth, a feeling that she ought not to be doing this—and an urgent wish for more.

‘That was nice,’ she breathed, bemused and hardly knowing what she said.

They were now standing up, face to face. ‘Put your arms round my neck,’ he said softly. She took a step forward and slowly lifted her arms. ‘That’s right. Then I can put mine round you—like this.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her again, not gently this time. Francesca gave a little cry and he relaxed his grip immediately. ‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No. I…I didn’t expect…I didn’t know…’ She tightened her arms and pulled his face down to hers. ‘Kiss me again,’ she said.

A world of unimaginable delight opened now for Francesca. Absurd though it was, she felt safer than ever before in this man’s arms, and more alive than ever before. He was in turn gentle, then passionate, charming, then demanding. He called her his idiot, his love, his witch, but she didn’t hear the names—only the warmth and feeling in the deep voice. He laughed at her lack of guile, but tenderly, as if her vulnerability had disarmed him.

And, just occasionally, he sounded uncertain, as if he, too, was unable to understand what was happening to them. They were both lost in a world of brilliant sunshine and glinting shadows, of whirling green and gold and blue…

Perhaps it was as well that they were recalled to their senses before the situation went beyond recall. Shouts in the distance proved to be those of Freddie, looking for Marcus. Marcus swore, then whispered, ‘Tomorrow? In the morning? Here?’ Then he kissed her once more, got up and turned down the hill. ‘Here I am,’ he had shouted. ‘What do you want?’

Once again, Francesca listened to their conversation from her hiding place.

‘It’s Jack. He’s asking for you. And your uncle’s coming down to Witham. Thought you’d like to know. What the devil have you been doin’ all this time, Marcus old fellow?’

‘Er…nothing much,’ Marcus said…

Francesca was startled out of her memories and brought back to the present day by a brilliant flash, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder. The storm was now imminent. She quickened her pace. But her thoughts were still on the girl she had been nine years before.

‘Nothing much’—she ought to have taken warning. But at the time she had been totally dazzled, bewitched. It had been so easy, she thought, for a man of his experience and charm. And she had been so gullible. She had met him the next day, of course, pleading to Madame Elisabeth that she was ill, so that she was excused her morning lessons. And this had not been so far from the truth—she had been ill, gripped by a fever, a delirium which suppressed all her critical faculties, all thought of self-preservation. She winced now as she remembered how eagerly she had run up the hill to meet him again all those years ago.

She had to wait some time before Marcus appeared; when he arrived, he seemed preoccupied. She felt a chill round her heart—did he despise her for being so open about her feelings the day before? They walked in silence for some time, she waiting for him to say something—anything to break the constraint between them.

‘You’re very quiet, Francesca,’ he said finally.

Francesca was astonished. He was the one who had not spoken! And now he was accusing her, in such a serious voice…he did despise her! ‘I…I’m not sure I should have come,’ she said.

‘Why?’

Francesca hesitated. She didn’t know the rules of this game, and accustomed though she was to rejection, she was afraid to invite rejection from this man. It would hurt too much.

‘I didn’t behave well yesterday.’

‘When you pushed me into the stream? I’ve forgiven you for that.’

‘No—afterwards.’

He stopped, turned and took her hands. ‘You were…wonderful. But I was wrong to kiss you.’ He fell silent again.

After a while, she asked timidly, ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re far too young. Because you’re innocent. Because Jack’s father arrived this morning to take him home, and…and, Francesca, I have to leave with them. I was only here in the first place to look after my cousin. And I failed.’

For the life of her, Francesca could not hold back a small cry. He swore under his breath, and said, ‘I ought to be whipped. I failed him and I’ve hurt you, and that was the last thing I wanted. Believe me.’

Francesca pressed her lips tightly together. She would not plead, she would not beg. This was the very worst rejection she had ever suffered, but she had hidden her distress before, and she would not show it now. But it was taking all the resolution she had.

‘You needn’t feel too badly,’ she said finally. ‘I knew you were staying at Witham Court, after all, but I still let you kiss me. That’s only what rakes are expected to do, isn’t it?’

‘Rakes!’

Francesca hardly heard the interruption. She continued, ‘You needn’t feel sorry for me—I enjoyed it. And they were only kisses. I daresay I shall have many more before I am too old to enjoy them. When…when I make my come-out and go to London.’ She had even managed a brilliant smile. ‘My father will fetch me quite soon, I expect. He said so just the other day in one of his letters.’

‘Francesca.’ He said her name with such tenderness that she was almost undone.

‘So you can kiss me again, if you like. Just to show that it doesn’t mean very much.’

‘Oh, Francesca, my lovely, courageous girl! I know just how much it meant to you. God help me, but how could I not know? Come here!’

He kissed her, at first gently, as he had the first time. But then he held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, kissing her again and again, murmuring her name over and over again. But gradually the fit of passion died and he thrust her away from him.

‘It’s no use,’ he said, and there was finality in his voice. ‘My uncle is right—I have nothing to offer you. And even if I had, you are too young. We both have our way to make. It’s no use!’

Then he kissed her hand. ‘Goodbye, Francesca. Think of me sometimes.’ He strode off down the hill, but Francesca could not see him. Her eyes were burning with tears she would not allow to fall.

But that was not the end. Hard though it was, she could have borne that much, could have cherished the memory of his care and concern for her, the thought that someone had once found her beautiful enough to love. But this consolation had not been for her.

Some days later she was standing on the bridge, looking down at the stream, when Freddie’s voice interrupted her unhappy thoughts. ‘You must be the little goddess Marcus spent the morning with the other day,’ he said. ‘He was very taken with you, give you my word! Wished I’d seen you first. Missing him, are you?’

Something inside Francesca curled up. She hated the thought of being a subject of conversation at Witham Court. Surely Marcus couldn’t have done such a thing?

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ she said coldly, not looking at him.

‘Don’t you? Marcus seemed to know what he was talking about. Never seen him so much on the go, and he’s known a few girls in his time, I can tell you. Very good-looking fellow. But he did seem taken with you. We were all no end intrigued, but he wouldn’t tell us who you were. It was Charlie who said you must be the Shelwood girl. Are you? Marcus was right about the figure, though I can’t see your face. Why don’t you turn round, sweetheart?’

Francesca shut her eyes, bowed her head and prayed he would go away.

‘Don’t be sad, my dear! Ain’t worth it! It wouldn’t have lasted long, you know, even if he hadn’t had to leave with Jack and his father. It never does with these army chaps. Off and away before you can wink your eye. And if you cast an eye around you, there’s plenty more where he came from.’

She would have left the bridge, but he was blocking the way.

‘Cheer up, sweetheart! It’s always the same with the army. Rave about one woman, make you green with envy, and then before you know it they’re over the hill and far away, making love to another! Seen it m’self time and again. Mind you, I’m surprised at Marcus—leaving Jack lying there in misery while he pursues his own little game. And a very nice little bit of game, too, from what I can see. Come on, sweetheart, let’s see your face.’

When Francesca shook her head and turned to run back to the Manor, he ran after her, caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘You shan’t escape without giving me a kiss. You were free enough with them the other day, from all accounts. One kiss, that’s all, then I’ll let you go, give you my word. Give me a kiss, there’s a good girl.’

‘Fanny!’ For the first time in her life, Francesca was glad to hear her aunt’s voice. Miss Shelwood was standing a few yards away, with Silas, her groom, close behind. Her face was a mask of fury. Francesca’s tormentor let her go with a start, and took a step back.

‘Come here this instant, you…trollop!’ With relief, Francesca complied. Her aunt turned to Freddie. ‘I assume you are from Witham Court, sir. How dare you trespass on my land! Silas!’ The groom came forward, fingering his whip.

Freddie grew pale and stammered, ‘There’s no need for any violence, ma’am. No need at all. I was just passing the time of day with the little lady. No harm done.’ And, within a trice, he disappeared in the direction of Witham Court.

‘Take my niece’s arm, Silas, and bring her to the Manor.’ Miss Shelwood strode off without looking in Francesca’s direction. Silas looked uncomfortable but obeyed.

Francesca hardly noticed or cared what was happening to her. All her energies were concentrated in a desperate effort to endure her feelings of anguish and betrayal. She had believed Marcus! She had been taken in by his air of sincere regret, had thought he had been truly distressed to be leaving her! And while she had lain awake, holding the thought of his love and concern close to her like some precious jewel in a dark world, a talisman against a bleak future, he had been joking and laughing at Witham Court, boasting about her, making her an object of interest to men like Freddie. It was clear what they all thought of her.

Oh, what a fool she had been! What an unsuspecting dupe! She had fallen into his hands like a…like a ripe plum! Her aunt could not despise her more than she already despised herself. She had been ready to give Marcus everything of herself, holding nothing back. Only Freddie’s timely interruption had prevented it. She had indeed behaved like the trollop her aunt had called her. Occupied with these and other bitter thoughts Francesca hardly noticed that they were back at the Manor.

Miss Shelwood swept into the library, then turned and said coldly, ‘How often have you met that man before?’

Never. Francesca said the word, but no sound came.

‘Answer me at once, you wicked girl!’

‘I…’ Francesca swallowed to clear the constriction in her throat. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘A liar as well as a wanton. Truly your mother’s daughter!’

‘That’s not true! You must not say such things of my mother!’

‘Like mother, like daughter!’ Miss Shelwood continued implacably, ignoring Francesca’s impassioned cry. ‘Richard Beaudon was at Witham Court when he first met your mother. Now her daughter goes looking for her entertainment there. Where is the difference? No, I will hear no more! Go to your room, and do not leave it until I give you permission.’

Exhausted with her effort to control her feelings, Francesca ran to her room and threw herself on her bed. She did not cry. The bitter tears were locked up inside, choking her, but she could not release them.

In the weeks that followed, she castigated herself time and again for her weakness and stupidity. She, who had taught herself over the years not to let slights and injuries affect her, to keep up her guard against the hurt that others could inflict, had allowed the first personable man she met to make a fool of her, to destroy her peace of mind for many weary months. It would not happen again. It would never happen again.

Her aunt remained convinced that Francesca had been conducting an affair with Freddie. Francesca was punished severely for her sins. She was confined to her room on starvation rations for days, then kept within the limits of the house and garden for some weeks. It was months before she was allowed outside the gates of the garden, unaccompanied by her governess or a groom. She was made to sit for long periods while Mr Chizzle, her aunt’s chaplain, expatiated on the dreadful fate awaiting those who indulged in the sins of the flesh.

This last Francesca endured by developing the art of remaining apparently attentive while her mind ranged freely over other matters. Since she felt in her own mind that she deserved punishment, though not for her escapade with Freddie, she found patience to endure most of the rest.

But the worst of the affair was that Miss Shelwood took every opportunity it offered to remind Francesca of her mother’s sins. That was very hard to endure. And, in her mind, the distress this caused her was added to the mountain of distress caused by one man. Not Freddie—she forgot him almost immediately. No, Marcus Whatever-his-name-was was to blame. She would never forgive him.

The first few drops of rain were falling as Francesca found, to her surprise, that she had reached the Manor. She slipped in through the servants’ door—it would never do for Aunt Cassandra or Agnes Cotter, her maid, to see her in her present state. Betsy was in the kitchen.

‘Miss Fanny! Oh, miss! Whatever have you been doing?’

Francesca looked down. The mud from the ditch had now dried and the dress was no longer plastered to her body. But she was a sorry sight all the same.

‘I fell,’ she said briefly. ‘Help me to change before my aunt sees me, Betsy. I’ll need some water.’

‘The kettle’s just about to boil again. But you needn’t fret—your aunt won’t bother with you at the moment, Miss Fanny. She’s had another of her attacks. It’s a bad one.’

Suddenly apprehensive, Francesca stopped what she was doing and stared at Betsy. ‘When?’

‘Just after you went out. And…’ Betsy grew big with the news ‘…Doctor Woodruff has been. Didn’t you see him on your way to the village?’

‘I went through the fields. Did my aunt finally send for him, then? What did he say?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me, Miss Fanny. You’d better ask that maid of hers. Miss Cotter, that is,’ said Betsy with a sniff.

Worried as she was, Francesca failed to respond to this challenge. Agnes Cotter had been Miss Shelwood’s maid for more than twenty years and jealously guarded her position as her mistress’s chief confidante, but Francesca knew better than to quiz her. If Miss Shelwood did not wish her niece to know what was wrong, then Agnes Cotter would not tell her, however desperate it was. So, after washing, changing her clothes and brushing her hair back into its rigid knot, she presented herself outside her aunt’s bedroom.

‘Miss Shelwood is resting, Miss Fanny.’

‘Is she asleep?’

‘Not exactly—’

‘Then pray tell my aunt that I am here, if you please.’

With a dour look Agnes disappeared into the bedroom; there was a sound of muted voices, which could hardly be heard for the drumming of the rain on the windows. The storm had broken. The maid reappeared at the door and held it open. ‘Miss Shelwood is very tired, miss. But she will see you.’

Ignoring Agnes, Francesca stepped into the room. The curtains were half-drawn and the room was dim and airless. Her aunt lay on the huge bed, her face the colour of the pillows that were heaped up behind her. But her eyes were as sharply disapproving as usual, and her voice was the same.

‘I expected you to come as soon as you got in. What have you been doing?’

‘I had to change my dress, Aunt,’ said Francesca calmly.

‘You were here before the rain started, so your dress was not wet. There’s no need to lie, Fanny.’

‘My dress was muddy. How are you, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Well enough. Agnes has a list of visits for you to make tomorrow. I’ve postponed what I can, but these are urgent. See that you do them properly, and don’t listen to any excuses. I’ve made a note where you must pay particular attention.’

Miss Shelwood believed in visiting her employees and tenants regularly once a month, and woe betide any of them who were not ready for her questions on their activities. During the past few weeks, Francesca, much to her surprise, had been required to act as an occasional stand-in, so she knew what to do. Since both she and her aunt knew that she would perform adequately, if not as ruthlessly as Miss Shelwood, she wasted no time in questions or comments. Instead she asked, ‘What did Dr Woodruff say? Does he know what is wrong?’

‘How did you know he’d been? Betsy, I suppose.’

‘She told me, yes. I am sorry you were so unwell.’

‘I’m not unwell! Dr Woodruff is an old woman, and I shan’t let him come again. I don’t need him to tell me what I am to do or not do. Don’t waste any time before seeing those people, Fanny. I shall want an account when I am up. You may go.’

Against her better judgement Francesca said, ‘Can I get you anything? Some books?’

‘Don’t be absurd! Agnes will get me anything I need. But you’d better see the housekeeper about meals for the rest of you. Agnes will let her know what I want. Agnes?’

Francesca was given her aunt’s list, then she was escorted out and the door shut firmly behind her. She made a face, then walked wearily down the dark oak staircase. It was not easy to feel sympathy or concern for her aunt—not after all these years. But she was worried. Whether her aunt lived or died, her own future looked bleak indeed. If no post as a governess was forthcoming, where could she look for help? In spite of her brave words to Marcus, her claim on her father was nonexistent. She had not heard a word from him since she had left the West Indies nearly twenty years ago, and had no idea where he might now be.

The world would say that her aunt ought to do something for her, there was no doubt about that. But Francesca had every doubt that she would. Shelwood was not an entailed estate—Miss Shelwood could dispose of it as she wished—and whatever happened to Aunt Cassandra’s money, her sister’s child would see none of it—nothing was more certain. Her duty, such as it was, would end at her death.

Francesca came to a halt, thinking of the cheerless years since her grandfather had died. She had always been required to sit with her aunt at mealtimes, though the meals were consumed in silence. She was adequately clothed, though most of that came out of her allowance. She had a bedroom to herself, though it was the tiny room allotted to her when she had first arrived as a child of six. She had been taken to church twice every Sunday, and forced to join in her aunt’s weekly session of private prayers and readings with the Reverend Mr Chizzle. But there was nothing more.

Was it that Miss Shelwood could not tolerate the evidence of the shame that her sister had brought on the family? But Sir John Shelwood had never shown any sense of shame. Regret at not seeing his daughter again before she died, at not telling her that she had been forgiven, perhaps, but there had been no sense of shame. There had never been anything in his attitude towards his granddaughter that even hinted at the shocking truth. Strange…

The next morning Francesca rose early; by midday, she had completed her round of visits. She had made notes of complaints and requests, and, in order to satisfy her aunt, had written down one or two criticisms—nothing of any consequence—together with some recommendations. She attempted to see her aunt, but was denied access, her civil enquiries about Miss Shelwood’s health being met with a brusquely indifferent reply from Agnes Cotter. Resolving to see Doctor Woodruff for herself when he called that evening, she left the papers and escaped from the house.

At the end of an hour, she found she had walked off her frustration and anger and was enjoying the woods and open ground above Shelwood. The air was still heavy, however, and swallows and martins were swooping low over the swollen expanse of water left by the storm, catching the insects in the humid air. Francesca watched them for a while, marvelling at the speed and skill with which they skimmed the surface.

But even as she watched, one bird’s judgement failed disastrously. It dipped too low and, as it wheeled round, its wing was caught below the water line. Francesca drew in her breath as it dropped, then rose, then dropped again. By now both wings were heavy with water, and the bird’s struggles to fly were only exhausting it further. It would soon drown.

Without a second thought, Francesca hitched up her skirts, took off her shoes and waded in. The water was very shallow—it shouldn’t be difficult to scoop the bird out.

‘I never knew such a girl for water! You must have been a naiad in your previous existence.’

She recognised the voice, of course. But she said nothing until she had captured the bird and released it on dry ground. Then she said calmly, ‘And you seem to be my nemesis. I lead a very dull, dry life in the normal course of events. Excuse me.’ She bent down and put on her shoes. ‘Let me wish you a pleasant walk.’ She wanted to take polite leave of him, but realised that she had no idea what to call him other than ‘Marcus’. That she would never do again. She started off down the hill without saying any more.

‘Wait!’

She pretended not to have heard, but he came striding after her.

‘I was hoping to learn how you fared.’

‘Thank you—very comfortably. But my aunt is not well—I must get back to her. I know you will understand and forgive my haste. Goodbye.’

‘Not so fast! I want to talk to you.’

The pain in her heart was getting worse. He was still as handsome—more so! The years had added one or two lines to his face, one or two silver strands to the dark hair, but this only increased his dignity and authority, and the blue eyes were as alert, as warm and understanding as ever. The villain! The scheming, double-dealing villain! Where was the lady from the carriage?—if ‘lady’ was the right word! He should be using his charm on her, she might reward his efforts—probably had done so long before now. But she, at least, was old enough to see through him. She was well past the age of innocence!

But none of these uncharitable thoughts showed in her expression as she said coolly, ‘That is a pity. I have no wish to talk to you. I doubt that we now have very much in common. You must find someone else to amuse you.’

‘Is your aunt as ill as everyone says?’

He blurted this out with none of the polish she expected of him. What was he thinking of? Had he heard the rumours and was daring to be sorry for her? Francesca fought down a sudden rise in temper, then said in measured tones, ‘I am surprised that Lord Witham’s guests indulge in village gossip. I would have thought they had other, more interesting, pursuits.’

‘Don’t be such a awkward cat, Francesca—tell me how your aunt is.’

He had no right to sound so anxious. It weakened her, made her vulnerable once again to his charm.

‘I don’t know why such a thing should concern you,’ she said, maintaining her usual air of colourless reserve as she lied to him once again. ‘But if you insist on knowing, my aunt is suffering from the heat. I am sure she will be quite well again in a few days.’

‘That isn’t what I have heard.’

They must have been discussing the situation at Witham Court. Once again she had been made the subject of gossip there. It was intolerable! ‘You must think what you choose, sir. However, I am sure my aunt would not welcome speculation by strangers. And nor do I.’

‘Strangers, Francesca?’

Francesca had been avoiding his eye, but now she looked directly at him. She did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘Whatever happened nine years ago, sir, we were, and are, strangers. Of that I am certain. Now please let me go!’ In spite of herself, her voice trembled on these last words.

He took a step forward, hesitated, then bowed gracefully. ‘Very well. Good day to you, my dear.’

She felt his eyes on her as she set off again down the hill. She hoped he could not see how her hands were trembling, or hear how her heart was pounding.