Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus (44 page)

“I have done my best to explain,” said Lord Gerald in great exasperation.

“But we are
walking
,” wailed Ginny.

Lord Gerald stared at her in amazement. “What on earth has that to do with it? Do your feet hurt?”

“N-no,” sobbed Ginny. “But you have your horse, and it would have been so romantic if you could have lifted me up into the saddle in front of you and then we could have ridden off through the night.” Her tears miraculously dried at the thought of this glorious picture and a faint smile curved her lips.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” snapped Gerald. “My horse is tired and we are very near home and I assure you, both you and the horse would have found it a very uncomfortable experience.”

“I am never in the right place with the right man,” said Ginny, walking on and shaking her head sadly.

“You have been reading too many novels,” said Lord Gerald severely. “A man and a woman should be quite capable of walking along an ordinary country road on a very ordinary night and carrying on a straightforward and sensible conversation.”

Silence.

“After all, dear girl,” he went on, “what on earth was supposed to happen if we had both climbed on my poor horse and ridden through the night?”

“You would have put your arms around me,” said Ginny dreamily, “and then when we reached Courtney, you would have dismounted first and held up your arms to help me down and I would have slid into them, and then you would have kissed me passionately.”

“Dear God!” said Gerald in high disdain. But an insidious little picture of holding Ginny in his arms and kissing her passionately seemed to be creeping into his brain.

He looked at her in irritation as she glided along. Yes, that was it… glided. He wished she had the reassuringly mannish steps of, say, Alicia. Also, that waist of hers was ridiculously small. Why, he could span it with both hands. But her hair did look jolly pretty in the moonlight, and her gray silk dress with its pattern of tiny white spots floated around her legs in the most becoming way. He was beginning to feel quite warm toward her when her next remark mark put an end to all that. She stopped and looked up at him.

“You know,” said Ginny, “I really truly don’t think you like modern women at all. I think you prefer the old-fashioned subservient sort in your heart of hearts.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Gerald wrathfully, wishing she would not stand so close to him. That light, seductive scent of hers ought to be banned, for a start.

In the moonlight, which was now very bright, he could see a little pulse beating at her neck. He felt quite breathless and suddenly very angry with her.

“Stop flirting with me, Ginny Bloggs,” he said.

“I’m not flirting in
earnest
,” said Ginny mildly. “I’m only using you for practice.”

“Then you are playing a very dangerous game,” he said slowly.

“Pooh!” said Ginny rudely. “Dangerous? You?”

“Yes, me,” he said, jerking her into his arms. “Perhaps we both need some practice.”

He began to kiss her quite furiously and then he felt as if his body were turning to liquid, and the night and countryside went far, far away, leaving him on an empty plain with Ginny burning in his arms.

“You’re holding me too tightly,” Ginny suddenly cried out. “Let me go!”

But the fact that he seemed to have struck a genuine response from her only excited him further. She was not wearing stays and her skin was like silk. He ran his long fingers over her bare shoulders as her shawl fell to the ground. Lost to the proprieties and conventions, he kissed her until her lips were swollen and bruised. He felt that if he did not consummate this overwhelming passion, he would die. Freeing his lips reluctantly from hers, he spied what appeared to be a grassy bank beside the road and, uttering a triumphant little sound in the back of his throat, he dragged the protesting girl down and down and down into—a deep bank of stinging nettles.

Both leapt to their feet with cries of pain.

“Now that is
quite
enough, Lord Gerald,” said Ginny, picking handfuls of docken leaves and squeezing the juice onto her stings. “You told me yourself that it is quite easy to sublimate these urges. I suggest you go straight home, sir, and sublimate immediately!”

“You led me on, Ginny Bloggs,” said Gerald, gritting his teeth. “I suggest you find someone else to practice on.”

“Oh, I will,” said Ginny calmly.

They were nearly at Courtney and with fury Lord Gerald realized that Ginny was going to go on as if absolutely nothing had happened.

“I think you have the soul of a tart,” he said, trying to hurt her.

“All women have,” said Ginny mildly. “But fortunately for us there are still a great deal of gentlemen about.”

“Meaning I’m not a gentleman?”

“Not in the moonlight you aren’t,” said Ginny, grinning.

They had come to the door of the great house, Lord Gerald’s horse still plodding behind them.

The great door opened and the light from the hall streamed out toward them. Alicia came running forward.

“Gerald and Ginny,” she cried. “What has happened? Tansy came back a long time ago and locked herself in her room and everyone else seems to have disappeared. Why, Ginny! You’re covered in awful blotches. My dear girl, they look like nettle stings! What on earth have you been doing?”

“I fell into some nettles, Alicia,” said Ginny. “Good night, Lord Gerald. Thank you for your help.” And with that, Ginny tripped off into the house.

Lord Gerald had said nothing and Alicia looked at him in surprise. His black eyes were burning in his white face and his lips formed a thin line.

“What’s the matter, Gerald?” asked Alicia. “Don’t you like Ginny?”

“I hate her guts,” said his lordship in a calm, even voice. “See you in the morning, Alicia.” He gave her a brief kiss on the cheek and swung himself up onto his horse and cantered off.

Alicia stood for a long time looking after him, with her hand to her cheek. She had known Gerald for quite some time and had never seen him other than calm and sophisticated, an urbane man of the world. He had changed all in one day and she didn’t think she liked it one bit.

The conspirators were reduced to three. Tansy and Cyril sat on the edge of Jeffrey’s bed the next morning and looked at him sympathetically. It had been extremely difficult to explain to the doctor how he had come to drink an overdose of liquid paraffin, but the quick-witted Tansy had stepped in to explain that someone had played a terrible practical joke on Jeffrey by putting the cleverly colored horrible contents in the wine decanter. And shaking his head over the juvenile pranks of the aristocracy, the doctor had prescribed kaolin powder and rest.

“She
knew
,” hissed Jeffrey. “No one but an idiot would do that to a sick man.”

“G-Ginny
is
an idiot,” pointed out Cyril.

“She’s a dangerous lunatic,” moaned Jeffrey. “Does she now know that Badger is dead?”

“Yes,” said Tansy. “And do you know what she said? She said, ‘Lord Gerald was right then when he said it was a practical joke. But why should anyone want to lie in bed and drink medicine for a practical joke? I believe there is often insanity caused by
inbreeding
in some of these old county families.’”

“I’ll kill her,” said Jeffrey bleakly.

“We’ll have one more try,” said Tansy. “Cyril this time.”

“Oh, h-here, I s-say,” stammered Cyril.

“Yes, you, Cyril. What do you think of this? We’ll organize a picnic and invite a lot of guests as a sort of smoke screen. You lead her away for a walk, Cyril, and we’ll have a carriage waiting for you… a
closed
carriage. Jeffrey can be coachman and that will save trusting servants. My mother’s on holiday at the moment, so I’ll ride over and get the servants to take the day off. There’s a gamekeeper’s cottage on my mother’s estate. I’ll get it ready for you.”

“What about the gamekeeper?” asked Jeffrey.

“We haven’t been able to afford a gamekeeper, let alone any game, in years,” said Tansy bitterly. Her father was dead and her mother had devoted her whole life to keeping up appearances on a small annual income. This meant the Bloomingtons had plenty of indoor servants and very little else.

“I-I’ll do it,” said Cyril suddenly. “We
deserve
to have Courtney. And the girl’s nothing b-but a b-blasted commoner anyway.”

Gerald had decided to drop over to Courtney—to see Alicia, he persuaded himself—on the morning of the picnic.

Riding up to the front entrance, he was surprised to see his friend, Peter Paster, sitting at the wheel of a brand-new Wolseley, complete with antidazzle lamps, cursing fluently. What was the point, Peter started raging, in all these great scientific breakthroughs if one had to be at the mercy of a set of mutton-headed bureaucrats. He had, it appeared, been caught in a speed trap between Windsor and Maidenhead for exceeding the twenty-mile-an-hour limit.

“But what are you doing
here
?” demanded Gerald when he could get a word in edge-ways.

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Ginny and Alicia appeared on the steps and exclaimed in wonder at the gleaming red motorcar with the white leather upholstery.

Ginny was looking very frail, feminine, and pretty in white organza with pale-green spots. Alicia, as a contrast, was dressed in a serviceable navy linen skirt with a white shirt and a hard, uncomfortable-looking collar. Peter had a pleasant ugly-handsome face, eyes that crinkled attractively, and a nose that had been broken twice. His eyes were resting appreciatively on Ginny.

“Care for a spin, Miss Bloggs?” he asked.

“No,” said Ginny. “I can’t stand motorcars—nasty, smelly things.”

Gerald raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was surprisingly rude coming from the usually pleasant Ginny.

“Peter… I-I’d
love
to go,” said Alicia suddenly. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”

“Hop in,” cried Peter with enthusiasm. The happy pair bowled off and Gerald turned toward Ginny, who surprised him with a placid, almost maternal smile on her lips as she looked after Peter and Alicia.

“Just how did Peter Paster come to be invited?” he asked with a growing feeling of suspicion.

“Do you mind?” exclaimed Ginny. “After all, he is a friend of yours. And when I saw him at the house party, my heart gave a great lurch. I think I am in love with him, so I wrote and
simply begged
him to come.”

Gerald glared at her wrathfully. He had had a very pleasant dream about Ginny Bloggs during the night, an intoxicating dream of soft lips, small waist, and blond hair. Damn her! He had forgotten how utterly infuriating she could be.

“You are talking codswallop,” he said, because he simply could not think of anything else to say, so great was his anger.

“No, I’m not,” said Ginny. “I have no mama, you know, so I must find an eligible young man for myself. Peter Paster is
very
eligible.”

“He has no money,” snapped Lord Gerald.

“But I have,” said Ginny, opening her eyes wide. “So
that
does not matter.”

“Have you
no
morals?” demanded Lord Gerald, taking Ginny by the shoulders and giving her a slight shake. “You cannot go around kissing me and then say you’ve fallen for another man.”

“Yes, aren’t we both dreadful,” giggled Ginny. “There you are, sweet on Alicia and here am I, pining for Peter, and there go both of us, kissing in the moonlight. But I am sure both our loved ones will benefit from our bit of harmless practice.”

“And was that all it was to you—harmless practice?” asked Lord Gerald, looking down into her wide blue eyes with his deep black intense ones, looking into those flat, empty pools for any flicker of emotion.

Ginny was saved from answering by the rattle of carriage wheels on the drive, and Lord Gerald quickly dropped his hands. Physical contact of any kind in public was a social disgrace.

One by one the guests were beginning to arrive.

The picnic was to be held at a beauty spot some two miles distant beside the river Perch at a point where the wide, placid river wound its way through smooth, grassy banks strewn with wildflowers and little stands of silver birch. An army of servants was to travel on ahead to set up tables and chairs and light the spirit stoves and stack the bottles of champagne in the river to keep them cool.

The Bishop of Welcombe had surprisingly decided to grace the party with his wife and daughter, Annabelle. Annabelle was like a rather faded copy of Ginny. Where Ginny’s hair was golden, Annabelle’s was light brown. Where Ginny’s eyes—albeit often expressionless—were of a vivid blue, Annabelle’s were pale and slightly protruding, and where Ginny’s curvaceous figure owed nothing to tight lacing, Annabelle’s was achieved with the rigors of a whalebone corset. Possibly this might have been why Annabelle took such an intense dislike to Ginny and wandered through the rooms of Courtney, before the party set out, fingering the delicate objets d’art and sighing that it was a pity that Courtney had fallen into
such
hands. Annabelle was wearing a pretty white silk dress with a white straw bonnet embellished with scarlet poppies, and her dislike was intensified when Ginny appeared, ready to leave, wearing almost the same outfit.

The carriages and motorcars moved off in a long procession, Peter Paster again having to escort Alicia, as Ginny refused to set foot in a motorcar and had offered space in her carriage to Barbara… a point noticed and chalked up against Barbara by the three conspirators.

It was a perfect day, with the sun shining down merrily from a sky as blue as Ginny’s eyes.

The air was heavy with the scent of limes and masses of tiny blue butterflies performed their erratic dance over the meadows.

The stream was soon reached and the ladies of the party promenaded across the grass at the edge of the river, frilly parasols unfurled and long dresses trailing across the carpet of tufty grass and wildflowers. The men in their colorful blazers and white flannels walked sedately beside the ladies, and the whole thing looked like an enormous out-of-doors drawing room.