Carola Dunn (16 page)

Chapter 3

 The butler, though apprised of the master’s arrival and awaiting him in the great hall, had not considered it proper to assemble the household staff to be presented to him. Thankful to be spared that gauntlet, Damian patiently accepted Perkins’ welcome and his properly expressed but lengthy condolences on Mr and Mrs John’s demise.

 “Where is my mother?” he asked then.

 “In the conservatory, I believe, sir. I shall bring refreshments at once.”

 Mrs Perrincourt was reclining on a well-cushioned basketwork chaise longue among the orange trees and grape vines. Her eyes were shut, her mouth a trifle open.

 Damian’s first impulse was to rouse her from her nap with a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. However, he did not want her to wake to find him bent double and unable to straighten—or possibly flat on the flagstones beside her couch.

 “Mama,” he said softly.

 Her hands went up to set her lacy cap in order even as she blinked drowsily.

 “I was not asleep,” she protested.

 “Naturally not, Mama.”

 “Damian! Oh, my dear, I am so very happy to see you at last.”

 Eagerly, though not without difficulty, she levered herself to her feet and came to him. He managed to hug her and drop a kiss on her forehead without swooning.

 “Sit down, darling,” she said, subsiding onto the chaise. “You do not mind sitting out here for a while? I like to be where the children can reach me however dirty they get, the scalawags,” she explained indulgently.

 Damian eyed the basket chairs with misgiving. “I had rather stand, Mama, though I apologize for towering over you. I am a trifle stiff from riding. Old age creeping up on me, I dare say.”

 “Oh, I know precisely what you mean! I am always horridly stiff after sitting for a while. But you are still young, Damian. Is it the wound you mentioned in your letter which troubles you?”

 “A little,” he admitted.

 He did not wish to reveal the extent of his injury to her, or at least not just yet, so he quickly changed the subject. There were any number of topics in need of discussion, from the children’s behaviour to the carriage accident which had robbed them of their parents. Yet what rose to his lips was an utterly irrelevant query.

 “Do you know who has taken Merriman’s Cottage?”

 His mother accepted this unexpected by-way with her usual placidity.

 “A Miss Duckworth, I understand,” she said. “It fell vacant soon after...after Jackie died. I left the letting to your lawyer. He said she had excellent references.”

 “No doubt. You have not called on her?”

 “No, dear. I get about so little these days, I fear.” She hesitated, with a puzzled frown.

 “So, I presume, you know nothing of the uncouth female she employs to work in her garden,” Damian said, ridiculously disappointed.

 “No. Well, that is, I have heard she does her own gardening, even the heavy work, digging and so forth. Yet people say she is quite ladylike in other respects. It is really very odd, Damian.”

 “Excessively!”

 “One does not know quite how to approach such a person, which is another reason I have not called. I feel it is very remiss of me not to welcome her to the village.”

 “Not at all, Mama. Either she is a...less than respectable woman who has learnt to ape her betters, but does not fully grasp the behaviour expected of a lady; or else she is a shockingly eccentric lady. I see no reason for you to approach such a person.”

 “Oh no, dear. You know it is my duty as lady of the manor to make the acquaintance of all newcomers, whatever their degree. I simply must make the effort. I hope she will not be affronted by my tardiness.”

 Damian knew better than to argue. Despite her mildness, his mother was a determined woman when it came to her perceived duty.

 Perkins brought in a tray just then. Damian was glad to see a decanter of Madeira as well as the pot of tea. A glass of wine would dull the persistent ache in his spine, he hoped.

 As the butler left, he responded to his mother’s last comment, his voice full of doubt as he recalled the woman’s mud-smeared brow. “If Miss Duckworth is indeed a lady, she will properly ascribe the delay to your mourning for your son and his wife.”

 “Oh Damian!” cried Mrs Perrincourt, “It was perfectly dreadful. How I wished you were here!”

 He was pacing as she told him about his brother’s death, when he noticed two small, dirty faces and a tiny pink feline nose pressed to the glass wall of the conservatory. Thomas and Lucinda realized at once that they had been spotted. They snatched up the kitten and scurried away.

 Again a twinge of guilt. He had not meant to make them afraid of him.

 Nonetheless, he broke into his mother’s enumeration of the guests at the funeral to say, “Mama, I am very sorry to see Jack’s children so ungovernable.”

 She flared in their defence. “Not ungovernable, Damian. Tom and Lucy are exceptionally affectionate, sweet-tempered and willing to oblige. Indeed, it is quite charming to see how Tom takes care of his little sister. Boys are by no means always prepared to make accommodations for those younger and less able than themselves.”

 “I dare say they may be charming,” Damian said skeptically, “but you cannot deny that they are undisciplined.”

 “Perhaps a little, just at present,” said Mrs Perrincourt with a guilty look. “If so, it is entirely my fault. They were both heartbroken when Jack and Melinda died, naturally. I could not bear to force them to follow their usual routine, when they were weeping their eyes out.”

 “But that was four months ago, ma’am! There were no tears in their eyes when I met them on my way up the avenue.”

 “No, though they still feel the loss deeply, I assure you. The trouble is, Miss Robinson was obliged to give notice, and I have not felt up to interviewing and selecting a new governess. I refuse to trust a lawyer’s judgement in such an important matter, or even a friend or acquaintance! Besides, a little holiday, until after Christmas, I thought, will do the children no harm.”

 “Perhaps not,” Damian conceded, “but then it will be past time for them to settle down. I shall find a governess for them.”

 “And you will be a father to them, I know, my dear. Yet I feel they are sadly in need of a mother. I am too old to carry on that rôle with any degree of success. Have you any thought of marrying?”

 “It has crossed my mind now and then,” said Damian hesitantly. “However, I saw no need of a wife. Being the elder by a dozen years, I have always been accustomed to considering Jack as my heir.”

 His mother heaved a sorrowful sigh. “Everything has changed. Do put your mind to it, darling.”

 “I will,” he promised.

* * * *

 The next day, it rained all morning. When the sun peeked out in the early afternoon, Mariana found the ground was too soggy for digging. She decided to prune the brambles which were taking over one corner of her back garden.

 Lyuba was eager to help. After a brief but painful encounter with the blackberry thorns, she came to the conclusion that they were as dangerous as the chickens. (A bold hen had pecked her enquiring nose on her second day at Merriman’s Cottage, when she was not much more than chicken-size herself.) She went off to sniff in the hedges.

 Even with gloves and long sleeves, Mariana had to agree that the brambles were dangerous. The low ones caught at her skirts and the high ones caught in her hair, and the ones in between pricked and scratched despite gloves and long sleeves.

 Still, there was something eminently satisfying in the conquest of such a foe. Growing hot, she rolled up her unhelpful sleeves and battled on.

 “Miss Duckworth!” Hetta called from the cottage. “Summun’s come to call!”

 “On me?” Mariana asked idiotically.

 “Yes’m. There’s a footman at the door, says Mrs Prinket’s out in the lane in her carriage and wants to know are you at home?”

 “Oh dear!”

 A footman? Then Mrs “Prinket” must surely be Mrs Perrincourt, her landlord’s mother. And here was Mariana with muddy boots, a rip in the hem of her gown, and her hair flying in all directions!

 “What’m I to say, miss?”

 She could not possibly receive the squire’s mother in such a state. Yet to have Hetta deny her when she was obviously not away from home might very well set the seal on her exclusion from local society. Her disarray could accomplish that anyway, but it was perhaps a trifle more acceptable outdoors than in. Or so she hoped.

 “I shall go out to the carriage, Hetta.”

 The torn skirt and the muddy boots could not be remedied. Mariana whipped off her gardening gloves and did her best to pin up her hair as she hurried around the side of the cottage. Bother it, she ought at least to be wearing a cap.

 Too late. To keep Mrs Perrincourt waiting while she changed her clothes was as unthinkable as to deny her or to receive her looking like the veriest slattern.

Chapter 4

 An elderly lady awaited her, seated in an old-fashioned but well-kept landau. She wore a black, jet-trimmed bonnet and carriage robe. Mariana vaguely recalled the lawyer who handled her lease having mentioned that Mrs Perrincourt’s younger son had died that summer.

 And the elder son was a soldier, she remembered now. So the high-and-mighty lieutenant-colonel must be her landlord! No doubt he wished to disembarrass himself of his disreputable-looking tenant.

 He would hardly send his mama to give her notice, however.

 Mariana stepped up to the side of the landau, its hoods folded down on this fine afternoon.

 “Mrs Perrincourt?” she queried, with difficulty restraining herself from curtsying. Though the habit of decades was strong, she was an independent woman now, she reminded herself.

 “Miss Duckworth.” Mrs Perrincourt gave her a slight, stiff bow, but her gaze seemed more curious than unfriendly. “My dear!” she went on unexpectedly, with a gasp, “what have you done to your arms?”

 Looking down, Mariana saw several bloody scratches stitched across her arms, and one blob where blood had welled from a thorn’s vicious stab. She had forgotten to roll down her sleeves.

 “I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, hastily pulling the cuffs down to her wrists. “Not a pleasant sight, though no serious damage has been done, I promise you. I was hacking down blackberry bushes.”

 “A hazardous enterprise,” said Mrs Perrincourt, a twinkle in her eyes.

 Emboldened, Mariana agreed. “Yes, but so very gratifying to see them fall, and thus to enlarge the garden by several square yards. I do enjoy gardening immensely, but it is a shockingly messy business, alas. As you see, I am in no fit state to entertain company, which is why I must apologise for not inviting you into the cottage. “

 “No, no, any apologies must come from me. I ought to have called many weeks since to welcome you to Wycherlea. My only excuse is that I have not been well since...” She bit her lip. “Perhaps you have heard about my son?”

 “Yes, ma’am, I have. Please accept my sincere condolences.”

 Mrs Perrincourt nodded. “Thank you. However, dear Damian—Jack’s elder brother, you know—is at last returned just yesterday to Wych Court, and already I feel my health much improved. It was such a dreadful worry, his being in the army, in constant peril. He was quite badly wounded, in fact, but now he is at home, at least I am assured the French cannot kill him!”

 “Indeed, I hope not.” Mariana felt something brush her skirt and glanced down.

 Lyuba deposited an egg at her feet and looked up, with a short bark demanding thanks. Mariana and Mrs Perrincourt both burst out laughing, and the footman, standing by, guffawed.

 “Good gracious,” cried the squire’s mother, “an egg-laying dog. It is the tenth wonder of the world, I declare.”

 Mariana picked up the egg. “Look, not a crack! One of my hens has been laying astray, but I never thought to send Lyuba to hunt for the eggs.”

 “She is a born retriever, Miss Duckworth. Damian would buy her from you, I dare say, to train for when he is recovered enough to go shooting.”

 “She is not for sale, ma’am. Besides, I doubt Mr Perrincourt would be happy with a dog who retrieves weeds from the compost heap.”

 “No, does she? Oh, see, what has she brought you now?”

 “My glove! I dropped it when I was hurrying from the back garden.”

 “And here I am calling you from your work,” said Mrs Perrincourt remorsefully, “and keeping you standing when you had rather be butchering brambles. I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Miss Duckworth. I hope you will come up to the Court to drink tea with me one afternoon soon.”

 “Thank you, I should like to.”

 And to be presented to Mr Perrincourt—no, to have Mr Perrincourt presented to her, Mariana thought as the landau bore Mrs Perrincourt away down the lane. So he was wounded, he had been in pain when he scowled at her so.

 The only remaining question was whether his scowl had been solely the result of his discomfort, or whether he had instantly taken her in contempt. It was too much to hope that he was sufficiently interested to be responsible for his mother’s belated visit.

 Hope? Fiddlesticks! Mariana rather liked Mrs Perrincourt, but she cared not a whit for Mr Damian Perrincourt’s opinion!

* * * *

 Tired by the journey, Damian spent the day after his return to Wych Court in his chamber. He did not emerge until dinner time, when he trod cautiously down the stately old carved oak staircase to join his mother.

 “How do you feel, dear?” she asked anxiously.

 “A great deal better than this time yesterday. And you, Mama?”

 “A little tired, but that is because I was so full of energy this afternoon I drove out in the carriage to pay some long overdue calls.”

 Damian’s thoughts at once flew to the outlandish Miss Duckworth, but all he said was, “I hope you have not overexerted yourself.”

 “Not at all. I have scarcely left the house these four months, but having you home at last has quite rejuvenated me. Our neighbours are all eager to welcome you home.”

 “Ah, I see,” he said, laughing, “your mission was to confirm the rumours of my arrival.”