Carola Dunn (19 page)

 She had noted three things. The first was in his favour: he appeared affable to all his guests, young and old, of high and low degree. The second she was glad of, whatever his faults: his back seemed much improved, to judge by his visible ease of movement.

 The third was that he had avoided her like the plague.

 Bother the man! she thought, wishing her companions good night and merry Christmas as she opened her garden gate. It was simply maddening not to be able to get him out of her mind. She had too little occupation now that the weather hindered both gardening and excursions to the lending library in the nearest town.

 Mariana was used to a busy life. She had enjoyed teaching the ladylike accomplishments—music, drawing and watercolours, fine needlework—as well as such academic subjects as her various employers considered suitable for their daughters. However, the only one she truly appreciated for itself was music, and she was not yet certain whether she could afford to purchase a pianoforte.

 She had promised herself to incur no unnecessary expense for a full year after unexpectedly inheriting a competence from her long-forgotten godfather. Always residing in other people’s houses, not to mention abroad, she had no real understanding of the cost of living. The most recent bills for candles and coals had rather shocked her.

 Paying them would by no means land her in the briars, but the purchase of a spinet was at present an unjustifiable extravagance.

 No doubt the amiable Mrs Perrincourt would be more than willing to allow her to play upon the instrument up at the Court. Yet Mariana could not bring herself to presume upon the old lady’s good-nature when her son was so obviously—inexplicably—inimical.

 And there she was thinking about him again already, not five minutes after resolving to drive him from her mind. Bother the man!

* * * *

 The day before the fête at Wych Court, Mariana had received a note from Lady Westin. The Westins were staying in the district, she said, and she and her daughter would give themselves the pleasure of driving over to call at Merriman’s Cottage.

 Her ladyship suggested the day before Christmas Eve, if it suited Mariana, and if the weather cooperated.

 “After the snows of Russia and the rains of Brazil, you will think us grown shockingly soft,” she wrote, and Mariana smiled to read it. “But what must be endured in case of necessity, may be avoided when one’s sole purpose is enjoyment. So, weather permitting, we shall call, for Ariadne is
aux anges
to have discovered your whereabouts.”

 Mariana was deeply touched. Ariadne had been her dearest pupil, and the Westins her most considerate employers. Nonetheless, for a governess to be remembered so kindly was unusual.

 Hetta was set to baking and Mrs Plunkett to scrubbing and polishing. Mariana took her best morning gown from the press, brushed it carefully and hung it to air. Though of the same modest cut as the rest, it had wide bands of lace at the neck and cuffs, and it was a rich burgundy colour which would have been most unsuitable when she was a governess.

 She wanted to show the Westins that she was not only independent but lacked for nothing. Even Lyuba received a thorough brushing, much to her disgust.

 A fine, frosty morning ensured that her preparations did not go for nothing. Shortly after eleven, a carriage was heard in the lane and Lyuba barked a warning that it had pulled up at the gate.

 Mariana suddenly wondered how she ought to address her callers. Not only had their relationship changed, but a new title must be taken into consideration.

 My lady or Lady Westin? Miss Westin or Miss Ariadne? Would her former pupil be offended to be called Ari, her pet name when they were alone together, now that she was emancipated from the schoolroom?

 As Mariana opened the door and started down the path to welcome them, an elegant young lady jumped down from the carriage and ran to hug her.

 “Darling Ducky!” she cried. “I have missed you so. Have you missed me?”

 Lyuba came frisking out, and Ariadne stooped to hug her, too, allowing Mariana to greet her mother.

 Smiling, Lady Westin held out her hand. “Miss Duckworth, what a charming cottage. We are all agog to hear how you have fared since we saw you last.”

 “Come in, do, Lady Westin, out of the cold. Ari, pray do not let Lyuba bounce up at you like that. I am trying to teach her manners, and she is not at all so apt a pupil as you were. Come in!”

 Over tea, biscuits and cake before a crackling fire, they exchanged news. Mariana congratulated Lady Westin on her husband’s knighthood.

 “Papa is excessively happy,” said Ariadne, “because it means he may hope for one of the best postings. Napoleon will soon be finished, and then we may go to Paris, or even Vienna. They say Vienna is the gayest capital in Europe.”

 “There is talk of a peace conference in Vienna,” Lady Westin remarked. “If it comes about, the city will be aswarm with kings and princes and grand dukes.”

 “Should you like to marry a foreign prince, Ariadne?” Mariana asked.

 “Not I,” the girl said gaily. “An English diplomat would be best, but if I had to stop in one place, I should choose England, not some mouldy German
schloss
. I wish you would come with us to Vienna, Miss Duckworth, or to Paris.”

 “You will always be welcome to join us, Miss Duckworth, wherever we go,” her mother confirmed.

 Mariana found herself tempted. Vienna, Paris, Prague perhaps, or Italy. Turkey, India, China, how much of the world she had not seen!

 She glanced around her cosy sitting room, at Lyuba, lying with her head on Ariadne’s booted foot. She looked through the window at the apple tree in the front garden, bare now, but how much she looked forward to seeing it clad in pink and white blossom come spring. And all the daffodil and crocus bulbs she had planted with her own two hands...

 Already she had put down roots here in Merriman’s Cottage, in Wycherlea. She had acquaintances who—now that Mrs Perrincourt had broken the ice—treated Mariana as an equal. Two or three of them she hoped were on the way to becoming friends, even intimates.

 With the Westins, even as a guest and companion rather than an employee, she would never be quite on the same level. Living in someone else’s house, however amiable, she would never be free to seek out friends of her own.

 She was ready to settle down and find her place in a stable, pleasant, if humdrum community. The only fly in the ointment was Mr Perrincourt’s unaccountable hostility, but being without reason, it must surely lessen in time.

 With familiarity, he would come to regard her simply as one of the village’s eccentric spinsters.

 Mariana sighed. “It is very kind of you to invite me, Lady Westin. However, unless for some reason I were forced to leave Wycherlea,” —unless
,
she said to herself, Mr Perrincourt went so far as to cancel the lease— “I believe my travelling days are over. I do hope you will stay in touch, though. By the way, I have been wondering how you found me?”

 “Quite fortuitously, Mama happened to mention your name to a gentleman who came to dinner at my aunt’s,” said Ariadne. “A Mr Perrincourt, who claimed some slight acquaintance with you. Was it not fortunate?”

 “Mr Perrincourt!” Mariana exclaimed in some confusion. “Yes, he is my landlord. Most fortunate indeed. His mother is a delightful person.”

 “I liked Mr Perrincourt, too. He sat beside me at dinner and he seemed vastly amiable.”

 “Ah,” said Mariana, “amiable, single, and reportedly quite well to do.”

 “And old. And not a diplomat.” Ariadne laughed.

 At the sound, Lyuba raised her head, then jumped to her feet and licked Ariadne’s hand. She trotted to the writing bureau in the corner. Lying down, she reached out with one paw to scrabble under it. A moment later, she returned from the corner, triumphantly bearing a distinctly ratty old hairbrush with missing bristles.

 This she dropped in Ariadne’s lap.

 “Her brush! She must have hidden it after last time I brushed her, the naughty creature. She hates being brushed, but it seems her retrieving instinct won.”

 “She brought it to me,” said Ariadne. “I am honoured, Lyuba.”

 While she petted the proud puppy, Lady Westin said softly to Mariana, “Mr Perrincourt seemed rather startled when he learnt you used to be a governess. I am so sorry to have given away your secret.”

 Embarrassed, Mariana shook her head. “Not a secret, exactly. I have no intention of trying to keep it secret. I suppose I have never mentioned it because no one has asked what I did before I came here. On the whole, people seem to prefer to talk about themselves.”

 “You are such a sympathetic listener, Miss Duckworth,” said Lady Westin, and patted her hand.

 After the Westins left, Ariadne promising to write often, Mariana thought about what she had said.

 It was true she had not deliberately avoided mentioning her former profession, nor would she ever lie about it. Yet might she not, quite unconsciously, have led more than one conversation away from the subject of her prior life?

 A governess occupied such an anomalous position in the world, neither servant nor lady. Not only could she never be quite sure where she stood, the uncertainty often made others uncomfortably unsure how to treat her. As the people of Wycherlea came to know Mariana as herself, a pattern would be established which the discovery of her past need not alter.

 After all, whatever she had been, Mariana was now a lady of independent means. If a certain stiff-rumped gentleman chose to regard her with contempt, that was his lookout.

Chapter 8

 “Must I go?” Damian groaned.

 “Yes, dearest,” his mother said firmly. “If you do not, you will offend the rector and set a shocking example to the village.”

 “The pews are so deuced uncomfortable!”

 “That has been an adequate excuse since you came home, in consideration of your poor back, but there will be no long sermon to sit through on Christmas morning, especially as it is a Saturday.”

 “You will not make me go to Church again tomorrow?”

 Mrs Perrincourt smiled. “You sound like a ten-year-old! Except that even at that awkward age you always enjoyed singing Christmas carols.”

 “I shall go with you today,” Damian conceded with a sigh, then put down his foot, “but not tomorrow.”

 In truth, his chief objection to attending the Christmas service was not the discomfort of the pews, nor the boredom of a sermon. He did not want to meet Miss Duckworth.

 He had led his men through many a French bombardment, steadied them against the charges of Boney’s cavalry, forded rivers with rifle bullets whistling about his head, stormed the walls of Spanish citadels. Now here he was, panicking at the prospect of finding himself face to face with a middle-aged governess.

 Not panicked, Damian reassured himself. Just wary.

 He could not quite pin down the reason. After all, she did not know that he had suspected her of being a woman of easy virtue. She could not guess he had dreamt of her—often—in that guise.

 The glimpses he caught of her at the Christmas fête had proved to him that his knowledge of her supremely respectable past did not make her less desirable. He had managed, not without difficulty, to avoid her then among the throngs of guests.

 In the churchyard after the service, on such a fine day, it would be much more difficult to evade an encounter. Undoubtedly his mother would wish to speak to her. Best to get it over with, Damian decided. Miss Duckworth was his tenant and his mother’s friend. He was going to have to speak to her sometime.

 In spite of anticipated embarrassment, he thoroughly enjoyed the service. Tom and Lucy been taught the old, familiar carols by their nurse and grandmother, and they sang with splendid verve. Lucy proved to have an excellent ear for music and a sweet voice.

 “Nowell, nowell,” she warbled, turning to look up at her uncle with a joyful face as she sang. “Nowell, nowell!”

 Damian wondered whether Miss Duckworth had a taste for music. He was glad to be sitting in the front pew, or he would have been searching the rows in front, trying to guess which was her bonnet.

 Though the service was not long, and included as much standing as sitting, his back hurt by the time it ended. To his dismay, everyone else waited in their seats while the Squire and his family walked down the aisle. He had not attended the village church in years, and had forgotten the custom.

 Most of the congregation were chatting to their neighbours in the pews, but he felt as if everyone was watching him—Miss Duckworth included. Lucy’s little hand in his, he attempted to walk naturally, not favouring his back.

 As a result, when they emerged from the church after exchanging a word with the rector in the porch, the pain was worse. Damian was thoroughly irritated with himself and the world.

 The carriage was waiting. They might easily have escaped had not Mrs Perrincourt, as expected, wished to exchange Christmas greetings with any number of people—Miss Duckworth, of course, included.

 She came out of the church chatting with the rector’s wife and her sister, the most respectable of females. A burgundy red gown peeked out from her slate grey pelisse, and her grey bonnet had a festive sprig of holly pinned to the brim. She laughed at something one of her companions said, and Damian caught his breath.

 For all her years, she was a lovely woman. And indubitably respectable, however eccentric. How could he ever have thought otherwise?

 He felt an utter fool.

 Naturally, feeling foolish made him angry, with Mariana Duckworth since she was the cause of his folly. It was her fault for misleading him with her draggled appearance the first time he saw her.

 When she turned to him, after wishing his mother a very merry Christmas, it was all he could do to bid her a curt good day.

 She gave him a forgiving smile, which made him angrier than ever, then stooped to give Lucy a Christmas kiss and ask after the kitten before moving on.

 “Isn’t Miss Duckworth nice, Uncle Damian?” said Lucy, adding fuel to the flames.