Nina Coombs Pykare (17 page)

Jennifer had seen many villages in the last years and far too many of them had been inhabited by wretched, starving people, hard-pressed by absent landlords or peers with no concern for their respon-sibilities.

Jennifer’s heart grew warmer and warm-er at each evidence of the Viscount’s character. Such a man could not be a spy. It was unthinkable.

“Gingerbread,” Cammie cried. “Where is it?”

“I’m trying to remember,” said Mortimer. “It was a long time ago.”

“Gingerbread,” repeated Cammie and a tremor in her lower lip threatened an immediate crisis if gingerbread were not forthcoming.

“Look, Cammie,” said Jennifer, hoping to divert the storm. “There’s the smithy. Where the smith puts shoes on the horses.”

“Want to see,” said Cammie.

Gratefully Jennifer stopped the pony and helped the children out. From inside the smithy came the ring of the hammer against the anvil. Stepping into the build-ing, with its contrast from the bright sun-shine, made it difficult to see. As the room grew brighter she drew in her breath. The horse standing patiently at the forge, his back hoof between the smith’s leatherclad knees, was the black stallion Mystery. Haverford’s stallion!

A quick glance assured her that Haver-ford was not present and her heart slid back down into its proper position. Mortimer, of course, had immediately scurried over to watch the proceedings as closely as possible.

“Hello, young feller,” said the smith. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mortimer, Mortimer Parthemer,” the boy replied, never taking his eyes from the horse’s hoof. “I live at Seven Elms.”

“Right enough,” said the smith and con-tinued his work.

Jennifer heaved a sigh of relief. The brightly glowing fire seemed to have banished all thoughts of gingerbread from Cammie’s mind.

In bemused silence the children watched the smith slap a hot shoe on the hoof and quickly drive home the nails. “Ouch!” breathed Cammie in a startled whisper.

“I assure you,” said a deep voice from behind them, “Mystery didn’t feel that at all.” And then Haverford advanced and stood beside them. “Good day, Miss Whit-comb. You are far afield.”

“We thought to take a day of adventure and exploring,” she explained. “The children had not been to the village before.”

“I was. I was here once,” exclaimed Mortimer. “A long time ago when I was little.”

Jennifer found herself exchanging amused glances with the Viscount.

“Yes, of course,” he said smoothly. “And did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” replied Mortimer. “Especially the gingerbread.”

The Viscount’s eyes sought Jennifer’s. “Gingerbread?”

  “Mortimer seems to remember some exceptional gingerbread from his previous excursion.”

“Gingerbread,” said Mortimer, still intent on the blacksmith’s hammer.

“
I
want gingerbread,” declared Cammie, her fingers clutching Jennifer’s tightly.

“I’m very much afraid that we will either have gingerbread or a cloudburst,” said Jennifer with a rueful glance at the child.

Haverford smiled and stooped to pick up the little girl. Cammie giggled as she was suddenly swung up to his shoulder. “How does the world look from there?” asked the Viscount.

“Like it,” said Cammie with a breathless squeal as one of her hands buried itself in his hair.

“Let’s move out into the sunshine,” said his lordship, striding toward the door. Jennifer followed him, pausing only to draw a reluctant Mortimer after her.

“And so you came adventuring to the village?”

Jennifer nodded. “We had some differ-ence of opinion at the crossroads,” she added with a smile. “Each child preferred a different direction.”

“Oh?” Haverford raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And what direction did the girls prefer?”

“I wanted the sea,” said Cammie from her perch. “I like waves.”

“I wanted to go straight on,” said Cassie with a timid smile. “I wanted to see Great Oaks.”

“And so you shall,” said the Viscount. “We shall make a special excursion of it one of these days.”

In spite of herself Jennifer’s eyes sped to his. Didn’t he know that he shouldn’t make promises to the children that he didn’t intend to keep?

It was almost as though he read her thoughts for his next words were reassure-ing. “We’ll do it yet this summer. You’ll see.”

In the face of this Jennifer could only keep quiet. It was not her position to gain-say the Viscount. And perhaps, said a hopeful little voice that she could not silence, perhaps he really meant it.

“Gingerbread,” repeated Cammie. “I want gingerbread.”

The Viscount swung around and survey-ed the village. “Gingerbread,” he repeated. “I believe I know just the spot.” And he set off toward a trim little cottage whose front yard was a riot of flowers. Jennifer and the others trailed after him.

  Haverford knocked briskly at the door. In a moment it was opened by a little old woman whose bright black eyes gleamed as they lit on his lordship’s face. “Master Haverford!” she chirruped. “Ah, but it’s good to see you.”

“Thank you, Nurse Kinney,” replied Haverford. “These are friends of mine. Cammie, Cassie, and Mortimer. And Miss Jennifer.”

Jennifer fought down the desire to flush under those shrewd old eyes.

“Come in, come in.”

The interior of the little cottage was as neatly cared for as the exterior. A rocking chair stood by the hearth, a basket of knitting perched on it. A big fluffy cat purred nearby.

“Sit down, sit down.” The little old woman flurried about.

Haverford smiled.
“We have come in quest of gingerbread,” he said cheerfully. “Cammie here feels a need for some.”

Nurse Kinney smiled cheerfully. “Gingerbread I’ve always got. Gingerbread for the little ones.”

She bustled about the kitchen, setting out glasses of milk and a big plate of gingerbread men. With a squeal Cammie slid down from her perch and settled on a chair. “Gingerbread!”

There was quiet in the little kitchen as the children industriously demolished the treat.

When they were finished, Jennifer, cast a look at the Viscount. “That should hold them till we stop on the cliffs.”

“I’m sorry that I cannot accompany you on your way home,” he said gravely. “But today I am meeting with the villagers to discuss improvements on the land.”

Jennifer rose from her chair. “It was very kind of you to make us welcome here. Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” said Haverford. “Just ordinary hospitality.”

Jennifer smiled. “Whatever, I thank you for it.”

The children trailed behind as they made their way back toward the pony cart.

“Your village is very well cared for,” observed Jennifer.

“Of course it is.” Haverford’s eyes narrow-ed. “The welfare of these people is my responsibility. I should be failing in my duty did I not see to their well-being.”

“Certainly England would be in better straits,” observed Jennifer, “if all men of property were to feel so.”

Haverford shrugged. “I only answer for myself. And, of course, in Parliament I do what can be done for the poor and needy.”

By that time they had reached the cart. “I hope to see you again,” said his lordship.

Jennifer answered this with a brief nod, but she could not forbear smiling. And then he was gone.

On the way back to Seven Elms Jennifer puzzled long over each word, each expression, each glance of the Viscount’s eyes. She relived each moment with him, not once but many times, but she came no nearer to any conclusion about him. Except to know, with a dreadful feeling of finality, that the partiality her heart had previously formed for him was as nothing to the way she felt now.

They were all tired and hungry by the time they reached the cliffs. The children made short work of the food and tumbled back into the cart, each one by that time quite willing to see their day ended.

* * * *

And so it was that Jennifer again found herself at the dinner table and again harassed by the knowing looks of Mon-sieur Dupin and the agitated ones of Ingleton. Fortunately, however, her presence was not required at that even-ing’s demonstration.

  Now was the time, she judged, when Mrs. Parsons and Lady Carolyn were both busy, to return the blue silk gown to Claudine. As she removed it from her wardrobe, Jennifer could not keep back a sigh. How long ago it seemed already. Like another world - a fairy world.

And that’s what it
truly
was, she told herself stiffly. Just because for one night Viscount Haverford had amused himself with her - just because he had broad shoulders and warm grey eyes; all of it was nonsense, sheer nonsense. She would think no more about it. And with a look of grim determination she gathered up the gown and went in search of its creator.

Claudine, as Jennifer had guessed, was still occupied with putting Lady Carolyn’s room to rights. “Come in, come in,” she said, “I am most pleased to see you.”

“I am returning the gown.” Jennifer smiled. “I rather believe it did the trick. I should expect no more trouble from Lady Carolyn if I were you.”

Claudine took the gown. “My poor lady, she is not herself. This Monsieur Dupin....” She shook her head. “He is my country-man, I know. But there is that about him.... And since my lady had the convul-sions she has ignored the poor Lord Proc-tor. And before she could speak of no one else. It is very strange, this is.”

Jennifer agreed. “Yes, Monsieur Dupin seems to have some strange power.”

  “It is
mauvais,
bad,” shuddered Claudine. “I have try to help my poor lady but she does not talk to Claudine. Not a word. But her eyes are full of fear. It is not good this. Not good.”

“When your duties are done,” said Jennifer, “perhaps you would care to join me in a cup of tea. The children are all abed and I have some free time.”

Claudine smiled. “I should like that much. I shall be there shortly.”

Jennifer turned to make her way back to her room. It would be good to have some-one to talk to - a woman who was friendly. Of course, she would not talk of the thing that was uppermost in her mind - the Viscount Haverford. But perhaps she might drop a few hints - Claudine was very quick - about Ingleton’s lack of future prospects and about the deplorable con-dition of Lord Proctor’s horses. It was true that Lady Carolyn had never done any-thing to help
her,
but Jennifer could not stand by silently while a woman was deceived, not when it was in her power to do something about it.

  Some little time later a timid knock on the door announced a smiling Claudine. And while the house guests were forced to endure still another of Monsieur Dupin’s demonstrations, Jennifer and the little Frenchwoman spent a cordial couple of hours. It was not until Claudine had taken her leave and was well on her way back to her cot in Lady Carolyn’s room that it occurred to Jennifer that her visitor had been French.

She stopped in the midst of removing her gown to consider this fact and then chaffed at herself. For heaven’s sake, she thought with an angry sigh, next she would be suspecting Mrs. Parthemer herself. And certainly that was patently foolish. But, said a small voice in her head, what about Monsieur Dupin? Could
he
be a spy?

Certainly Ingleton was frightened of him. But Ingleton was the one with the government and he had accused Haverford. With another great sigh Jennifer blew out the candles and stepped to the window. The roof of the pavilion gleamed ghostly in the moonlight. She shivered. Something was strangely wrong here. And sooner or later she would find out what it was. She must.

Chapter Twelve

For several days after the ball things moved more normally in the Parthemer household. The exertions of that glorious evening had left Mrs. Parthemer rather more invalidish than usual and she had been reduced to spending several days lying immobile in the great red bed. Jennifer thought privately that she languished there with as little grace as a bad actress in a Cheltenham tragedy, but of course she did not say so. She simply went on about her business, quietly grateful that while she was indisposed Mrs. Parthemer would not allow Monsieur Dupin to give any more demonstrations. She could not bear, she said in a plaintive tone, to miss the least word that fell from his lips.

Monsieur Dupin, most happily for Jennifer, was invited away to give a demonstration among the neighbors. Mrs. Parthemer was not pleased by this development, but there was very little she could do about it.

And so Jennifer had three more whole days to devote to the children. Glorious days they were, too. Of course, they did lessons every morning but in the afternoons they took long trips in the pony cart - to the seashore to walk in the gently lapping waves, to the village again to watch the smith and visit Nurse Kinney, even to the verge of the park at Great Oaks where they could glimpse the Viscount’s huge house through the trees.

But nowhere that they went did there appear the familiar fair hair and broad shoulders that she so longed to see. Still they were pleasant days. Restful days. The strange threat of Monsieur Dupin faded in the brilliant sunshine and even Ingleton seemed relaxed.

If there had never been a runaway that day, if she had never looked up into Haverford’s eyes, these could have been some of the happiest days of her life. There were times when she felt as she had in those long ago days of her youth, those free and happy days by the sea.

But she knew that all too soon these days of grace would be over. Monsieur Dupin would return triumphant, Ingleton’s face would take on that look of nervous strain again, and she would find herself once more immersed in an atmosphere of manipulation and suspicion.

She did the best that she could to avoid the house guests. Since the night of the ball Lord Proctor had not come near her. At the dinner table Lady Carolyn did not deign to speak to her, but that was not particularly new and certainly could not hurt Jennifer’s feelings.

Occasionally, when Lady Carolyn was busy elsewhere, Claudine joined them in the schoolroom. Mr. Parthemer, though he was adamant about candles, had no such scruples about firewood, and because of the inherent dampness of the stone walls, Betty usually kept a little fire going in the schoolroom grate. Its flickering flames cast a welcome glow in the gloom.