Carola Dunn (11 page)

She took his arm, wondering why she felt so unwilling to venture out upon the rock. She had never been afraid of heights, nor fearful beyond reason of physical danger. Determination overcame disinclination and she stepped forward to join her cousin.

The effort was amply repaid. The green hillside fell away towards Patterdale, and beyond stretched Ullswater, sparkling impossibly blue beneath the blue vault of the cloudless sky. Its farther shore was too distant to make out details, but on the near side they could clearly see a pony trap in the village street. Turning to the south, the beginnings of Grisedale wound into the hills, and to the north lay Upthwaite’s valley.

“Think what you must be able to see from the top of Helvellyn,” breathed Angel. “Catherine, I am quite resolved that we must climb to the summit one day. Have you ever been up there, Beth?”

“No, for when Dom went I was only twelve and he said I was too little.”

“The only sensible thing he’s ever done,” commented Sir Gregory drily, earning a black look from his cousin.

“Lord, I remember that!” exclaimed the viscount. “He and I and Gerald Leigh did it together. We didn’t wait for a fine day and the mists came rolling in when we were halfway down. We had to spend the night in an old shepherd’s hut. Dashed lucky you were not with us, Beth! Well, I must be on my way, but if you’re planning an assault on Helvellyn, count me in. Good-bye, ladies.’’

With a bow and a wave he swung up on his horse and rode off towards Upthwaite, leaving Sir Gregory to help the ladies mount and to escort them down the path in the opposite direction.

* * * *

“What a delightful day,” mumbled Angel as she snuggled down in her bed that night. “I hope you have not fallen in love with Lord Welch, Catherine. He is quite determined that Beth shall marry him.”

“Never fear, Angel. I can assure you that I have not conceived the slightest tendre for his lordship.”

“It will have to be Mr Leigh for you after all, I think. Good night.” She fell asleep with the happy recollection that Mr Leigh and Mr Marshall were coming to dinner on Monday.

* * * *

That same evening, Mr Marshall had interrupted his friend in the polishing of his sermon for the next day.

“I’m going to ask her,” he announced abruptly, limping into the vicar’s study.

“Ask who what?” enquired Mr Leigh tolerantly.

“Ask the Brand chit to help me meet Beth. I cannot endure this waiting much longer.”

“I am not at all sure why you did not do so when you met her the other day. You told me you conversed for several minutes.”

“I very nearly did ask, only she seemed reluctant that first time and I did not wish to press her. But this delay is intolerable.”

“Patience never was your long suit. However, in this case I believe you are right.”

“Your cursed religious scruples will not force you to throw a rub in my way, then?”

“I told you, the case is quite different. Think you she will oblige?”

“There’s no knowing what she will do. She seems to act always on impulse.”

“Then you are birds of a feather.”

“Damn . . . Dash it, Gerald, do not preach at me! I never could abide it! I have done my best to turn her up sweet, so perhaps she will oblige.”

“I hope you are not playing fast and loose with her,” said the vicar rather sternly. “Have you no liking for her apart from her possible usefulness to you?”

“Lord, I did not say that. She’s a pretty little thing under those quakerish garments, and she has a certain . . .
je ne sais quoi.
I didn’t tell you that she rang a peal over me when I would not admit that my leg hurt. Called me bacon-brained and a humbug! She has a certain style to her.”

“An odd little creature, but with more to her than meets the eye. You’d not consider asking the cousin? I’d wager she would be of more practical assistance.”

“Possibly, but I think her straitlaced, and since she does not know the whole story she might well disapprove of acting as a go-between. No, I’ll stick with Mistress Linnet, for in spite of her dress she’s not one to disapprove of anything but humbug!”

Early Monday evening, the two young men rode over Dowen Crag towards Barrows End. It was an inclement evening, not precisely raining but with the air full of an all-pervading dampness. They both turned up their collars and pulled their hats down low, and the horses stepped with care on the slippery rock path.

Coming down into the Grisedale woods, they met Lord Welch, on his way homeward and equally swathed against the weather. He greeted the vicar with laconic carelessness, and glanced uninterestedly at his companion, who hunched his shoulders, hiding his face deeper in shadow. Neither the weather nor friendship invited lingering. It did not suit the viscount to associate with one who must earn a living.

Nor was Gerald Leigh eager to seek Lord Welch’s society. He and Mr Marshall continued without pause down the hill to the vicarage.

Stabling their horses, they entered the house through the kitchen. Mrs Applejohn looked up from the pot she was stirring. Her rosy cheeks paled, she reached out one hand and seemed about to speak, but at a scarcely perceptible shake of Mr Marshall’s head she closed her mouth firmly.

“Will you tell Mrs Sutton that Mr Marshall and I are come,’’ requested Mr Leigh, removing his wet hat and coat and hanging them on a chair. There was nothing like a visit to Barrows End vicarage to make him appreciate the comfort and convenience of his own.

With her usual taciturnity, the old housekeeper clumped out, returning in a moment to indicate with a jerk of the head that they should go on into the house. Since that first start she had not looked at Mr Marshall, and now she returned to her pots and pans without a word.

“You were right,” said Mr Leigh as they stepped into the hall. “It is unbelievable just how close-mouthed these people can be.”

“Mrs Applejohn is a paragon of reticence. I’d not trust others so far.”

They found Mrs and Miss Sutton and Miss Brand awaiting them in the parlour-cum-dining room. Flowered chintz curtains and the removal of half a hundred china shepherdesses had done much to brighten the apartment, but on this gloomy day candles had already been lit and a cheerful fire lent an air of cosiness to the domestic scene.

Catherine had a book in her lap, Mrs Sutton was knotting a fringe, and Angel was struggling with some mending. As they entered she jumped up, happily abandoning her task.

“I am so glad you are come!” she cried. “I vow I have pricked my fingers with that odious needle a dozen times in ten minutes.”

Mr Marshall took her hands, and while his friend greeted the other ladies, he examined them intently.

“No permanent damage, I think,” he said with a sigh of relief, raising one to his lips. “I shall buy you a thimble.”

“I have one, only it gets in my way. I had a thousand times rather dust than sew. It is the most tedious occupation imaginable. Good evening, Mr Leigh. Uncle Clement was called out to a deathbed. Is it not a horrid thing?”

“One of the perils of our profession, Miss Brand, as pricked fingers are a hazard of your sex. Miss Sutton does well to prefer a book.”

“Catherine finished her mending hours ago, while I was out riding. Besides, she does not tear things as often as I do.”

This brought a general laugh.

“I am particularly careful,” Catherine admitted, “because I am no fonder of mending than you are, Lyn. Mr Marshall, will you take a glass of sherry?”

Mr Sutton came in before they had finished their drinks. Angel showed signs of wishing to interrogate him about his dying parishioner and had to be quashed by her aunt.

“All right, Aunt Maria,” she submitted amicably. “It is just that there is a positively gruesome deathbed in the novel I am reading and I wished to know if—”

“What are you reading, Miss Brand?” queried Mr Marshall hastily, and was soon deep in a discussion of a number of the more lurid offerings of modern authors. He and Angel found themselves in perfect agreement on a preference for wicked noblemen over mad clerics.

Mrs Applejohn brought in a tureen of green pea soup, and they moved to the table. When a roast leg of lamb made its appearance, Angel enquired after Osa.

“I persuaded Donald not to inflict the brute on you,” revealed Mr Leigh.

“She’s not a brute!” said Angel indignantly.

“I hope you did not leave her in the kitchen?” Mrs Sutton asked with a smile.

“No, I tied her in the stable,” Mr Marshall assured her. “Mrs McTavish has not yet forgiven me for that mutton, I fear. I have to go on my knees to beg for scraps for Osa.”

After the meal they returned to the parlour half of the room, and studiously pretended to be unaware of Mrs Applejohn clearing the table. Mr Sutton offered the gentlemen brandy and port, which was accepted on condition that the ladies should not feel obliged to withdraw. Mr Marshall was wondering if he had been over-optimistic in supposing that he would have a chance to speak privately to Linnet, when her uncle was once more called away and Mrs Sutton went to see him off.

Relying on Mr Leigh to entertain Miss Sutton, he abandoned his scarcely touched brandy and turned to her cousin.

“Miss Brand,” he began, “I have a particular request to make of you, which I have mentioned before. I hope you will not think me impertinent to apply to you a second time.”

“You mean about Lady Elizabeth? I wondered if you would ask me again. I did not like to do anything until I was certain you were in earnest.”

“Very much so, Linnet. It is imperative that I see her. I cannot tell you more, but I assure you that I mean no harm. In fact, she will be excessively grateful to you if you will help to arrange a meeting.”

“Without anyone else finding out, sir?”

“Yes. I know it looks odd, but there are circumstances which render it impossible for me to approach her openly. I am not merely knocking up a lark, I promise. Linnet, help me!”

Surprised by the desperation in his tone, Angel abandoned her reservations, which truth to tell had more to do with jealousy than considerations of propriety.

“I will,” she declared. “Give me a few days to persuade her. Can you meet me on Friday, so I can tell you what goes on?”

“Of course. Down by the lake?”

“No, on that big rock at the top of the path over the Crag. No one will see us there, except from so far away they won’t be able to see who we are. And we can see anyone coming.”

“The Crag then. At noon, if that suits you. Linnet, you don’t know how grateful I am.” He took her hand and was going to kiss it, but she pulled it away from him.

“I wish you will not call me Linnet,” she said crossly.

Meanwhile, Catherine was talking to Mr Leigh about the possibility of boating on Ullswater.

“I’d be happy to lend you my rowboat,” he said, “but it is too small to carry more than three.”

“You are an oarsman, sir?”

“Yes indeed. My mother lives on the other side of the lake, and I row across to see her every week, unless it is stormy. It is considerably shorter than riding around, and I enjoy the exercise.”

“Then when we find a boat, we will hire you to go with us!”

Mrs Sutton came back into the room, the tea tray was called for, and the young gentlemen soon took their leave. Catherine and Angel went up to their chamber and heard the men talking as they saddled their horses.

“Curse this rain!” came Mr Marshall’s voice. “I’m going back over the Crag.”

“Don’t be a fool! It is pitch dark, you’ll break your neck.”

“I’ve no mind to ride six miles and get soaked to the skin. I know the way like the back of my hand. You go around and I’ll be waiting for you. Good-bye!”

There was the sound of horses going in opposite directions, and then silence.

“What a reckless young man Mr Marshall is,” commented Catherine.

‘‘Yes,’’ agreed Angel sadly. “I was beginning to like him, but he is in love with Beth after all. Oh, well, there is always Damian Wycherly!”

Chapter 9

The next day the ladies of Barrows End vicarage had an invitation to take a dish of tea with Miss Weir and Miss Swenster in Patterdale. It was a pleasant day, with a balmy breeze blowing and high wisps of mare’s tail lending interest to an otherwise azure sky. Having completed their shopping, they sent John Applejohn home with their purchases in the gig and proposed to walk back after their visit. Even Mrs Sutton, to whom exercise was usually anathema, declared that the weather was too fine to waste.

The Weird Sisters, as Angel had christened them in an unexpected burst of erudition, lived in the end cottage of a row. It was slightly larger than its neighbours and this, together with its immaculate garden and genteel inhabitants, lent it a certain status. Tall, thin Miss Swenster, an aspiring poet reputed to have “a way with words,” had named it Rose End, and short, plump Miss Weir never tired of pointing out the clever pun as she showed visitors around her rose garden.

When the Suttons and Angel arrived, she was busy clipping deadheads off the bushes.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, bustling up to them. “Is it three o’clock already? Not that I mean to suggest that you would not arrive on time! Is it not a delightful day? Perhaps you would like to see my roses before we go in? The sun brings out their perfume, I always say. Let me cut a bouquet for you to take home. There are plenty, I assure you. Rose End we call our little house, you know, and at the end of the row too. So clever of dear Tabitha!”

Still chattering she led them into the house, and Angel wondered why her endless talk was so much less irritating than Mrs Daventry’s. They sat down to tea in a charming drawing room with French windows onto the garden, and as she consumed cucumber sandwiches and seedcake, Angel told Miss Swenster how much she was enjoying the novels she had borrowed.

“And Lady Elizabeth would like to read them too, if you are sure you can spare them so long,” she added.

“Of course, of course,” twittered Miss Weir. Her friend’s reputation seemed to be based at least in part on the rarity of her speech. “The poor little lady, I declare she is no better off than poor Princess Charlotte, and how the Prince Regent can behave so monstrous unkind is more than I can understand!”