Seasons of Love (16 page)

Helen hesitated, then took them. ‘There was no need, sir. The incident is forgotten and no harm was done, thanks to your intervention.’

He bowed slightly. ‘Permit me to introduce myself properly. Charles Carnforth, of Ashdown Park in Hampshire, at your service.’ He handed her his card.

She sighed and took the card reluctantly. What did he want with her? She had no desire to complicate her life with such an acquaintance. But she couldn’t be rude to him, for he had been kind to her. ‘It's very kind of you to bring me these, but I'm afraid that you must excuse me now. I have an appointment at eleven o'clock to give an English lesson and I mustn’t be late.’ That would show him she was below his touch, socially, ‘Thank you again for the flowers.’

Charles Carnforth - noted ladies' man, who rarely failed to charm a member of the fair sex upon whom he set his sights, be she five or fifty - found himself standing once more outside a firmly-closed door, as lacking in words and address as the most callow of youths.

As he walked away, he acknowledged the irony of this, if only to himself. He went for a walk along the cliffs, his eyes still filled with a pretty English face and a tumbling mass of gently curling chestnut hair. Or was it the sweetness of her smile that attracted him? Or even perhaps the roughness of her hands, which he hadn’t been able to help noticing? She looked like a woman who worked hard for her living. A woman of determination, who had no time for frivolous flirtations with itinerant gentlemen like him.

‘And yet, I want to know her,’ he said aloud, staring down at the waves breaking on the small half-moon of beach. ‘I just
have
to get to know her.’

Maybe once he did, she would appeal to him less. People did not, in his experience, improve with acquaintance. Or maybe . . . He didn’t finish that thought. But he set his mind to finding a way to gain her acquaintance.

Chapter 10

Morosely Charles made his way back to the inn. There, he ordered a bottle of red wine and sat in his room, sipping a glass and staring out at the village square. People came and went, but he saw none of them. His thoughts were still filled with the lovely Mrs Perriman.

When Alfred came upstairs, to see if the Captain had any orders for him, any plans for the following day. he found his master uncharacteristically quiet. This raised his spirits considerably.

The Captain only behaved in a heedless, roistering fashion when he was upset about something, usually something connected with his home or his family in England. Perhaps the fit of gloom was passing. Alfred certainly hoped so. He was getting too old for these late nights and drunken capers. As was his master.

‘Sit down and have a drink with me,’ Charles ordered abruptly.

‘Happy to, sir.’ Alfred poured himself half a glass and sat back, prepared for the confidences that usually ensued in this sort of situation.

Quietly, Charles began to talk, confiding in the servant who had been with him so long. They had been under fire together, had bivouacked in some very uncomfortable circumstances, and had quite literally shared their last crust. They were more than master and servant; in all but name, they were close friends.

‘She's a beauty,’ Charles said reflectively.

‘Is she, sir?’

‘She is indeed.’

Alfred had a fair idea of whom his master was talking, but he asked anyway, ‘And what might this paragon's name be, sir?’

‘Helen - Helen Perriman. Our hostess was telling me all about her last night - well, not all, obviously, but a great deal.’

Alfred nodded, took another sip, though he thought wine a poor substitute for a glass of good English ale, and waited.

‘She's a widow. Was married to an actor fellow. Bit of a gambler, too. He died of consumption two years ago. Good riddance, from what the signora tells me. Used to ill-treat her.’

‘Not a gentleman, then.’

‘Definitely not a gentleman.’

Another pause, then, ‘And she has a son, fine little lad by all accounts. She sounds to be a brave woman. Earns her own living, keeps herself respectable. Damn fine thing that, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Alfred frowned. The lady didn't sound at all like his master's usual type. ‘But if she's respectable, then why are you - ?’ He broke off, seeing the frown on the Captain’s forehead.

‘Dashed if I know why. I just - want to get to know her. And damme, I'm not leaving until I do.’

‘It'll be nice to have a bit of a rest, sir,’ Alfred said philosophically. ‘Pleasant little town, this.’

‘Yes.’

After a while, Alfred put down his empty glass and left quietly. Charles sat on, with his wine barely tasted, for another hour or two, then roused himself to go for a ride.

When his erstwhile drinking friends, who were staying at one of the houses on the hill, came to find him that night, he sent them away, saying he was feeling unwell.

But try as he might, Charles could find no way of getting to know Mrs Perriman, and although he caught a glimpse of her once or twice in the street in the next few days, she hurried away so quickly it would have made his pursuit far too obvious if he had run after her.

In the end, it was Alfred who furthered the acquaintance with Mrs Perriman for his grateful master. He was in the stables, checking on his lordship's horse, because he didn't trust the groom at the inn to look after it properly. After a small contretemps with the stable boy over the way the stall had been cleaned out, Alfred turned round to find himself being solemnly regarded by a little lad with dark blond hair. Not many Italians had hair that colour. Alfred observed him through narrowed eyes. Could this be the son of the widow to whom his master had taken such a fancy?

Yes, surely it must be?

He smiled encouragingly. ‘Hello, young fellow.’

He was rewarded by a tentative smile. ‘Good morning, sir. Are you - are you English?’

‘Yes, young shaver, I am, and proud of it.’

‘I'm English too, but I’m afraid I don't remember England. We left when I was only a baby.’

They studied the horse together for a while, then Harry recalled his manners. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, sir! I didn't introduce myself. I'm Harry Perriman.’

‘Are you, now?’ Yes, that was definitely the name his master had mentioned. ‘And I'm Alfred Briggs, young sir. Valet and general factotum to Charles Carnforth, late Captain in the Light Horse.’

Harry frowned at him. ‘If you please, sir, what's a general factotum?’

‘It's a servant what is prepared to do any job that is needed, my lad.’

‘I see.’ Another thought penetrated Harry's mind. ‘Carnforth, you said? That's the gentleman who called and gave my mother some flowers the other day, isn't it? I didn't see him, but I heard his voice and the flowers were lovely. I pick flowers for her sometimes, but not beautiful ones like that.’

‘She's a lucky lady to have a son as picks her flowers. I dare say she likes yours best.’

Harry beamed. ‘She says she does. I help her in other ways too, you know,’ he confided eagerly. ‘She works very hard for us both, so I try to do what I can.’

‘That's a good lad.’

There was a companionable silence for a while, as they both continued to study the horse, then Harry said wistfully, ‘He's a fine-looking animal, sir.’

‘He is, and has a nature to match. You won't get a show of temper from Jervis here, however tired he is. You can't beat a grey, young fellow. The Captain always rides a grey.’

‘Can you not? I don't know very much about horses, I'm afraid. But one day I'm going to learn to ride them. My mother’s promised me.’

‘That's the ticket, Master Harry! A gentleman should always know how to ride.’

Another frown from the boy. ‘My mother says I'm not exactly a gentleman. We have to earn our way in the world, you see.’

‘Well, there's nothing wrong with that, as long as you do it honestly.’

The bells of the church started to ring and Harry sighed regretfully. ‘I must go now. My mother will have finished giving her lesson. Will you - will you be here tomorrow?’

‘I will.’

‘Then - may I come and look at the horse again?’

‘You may indeed. And I'll show you how to bridle him, if you like.’

The boy's face lit up. ‘Will you, sir? I'd like that!’ He nodded to Alfred and ran off to meet his mother.

Alfred went off to report this useful encounter to his master.

The next day, after observing from his window the arrival of a golden-haired lad, Charles sauntered down to join his general factotum in the inn yard, and soon had the boy standing on a box, while he gave him his first lesson in bridling and saddling a horse.

With a grin, Alfred stepped back and left him to it. The young widow was going to have a very difficult time repulsing the Captain, with her son in a fair way to becoming a disciple of his. And no one could deny his master’s considerable expertise on the subject of horses, or his knack of passing it on to youngsters. A pity he'd never had a son of his own. He’d have made a good father.

Within three days, Harry was following Charles around like a tame lap dog. His conversation at home consisted mainly of eulogies about Jervis, upon whose back he had been allowed to sit while Alfred led the animal slowly round the inn-yard and Mr Carnforth corrected his posture.

When Harry wasn’t talking about horses, he was telling his mother what the Captain or Alfred had said and done.

Helen was torn in her reactions to this friendship. On the one hand, she had a strong desire to allow Harry to spend some time with an English gentleman, so that he would have someone upon whom to model himself. On the other hand, she had a feeling she ought to stop the association before her son got hurt or worse still, she herself got dragged into it.

In the end, she decided that she couldn’t help getting involved, at least to the extent of keeping an eye on her son to check that he wasn’t making a nuisance of himself.

‘Mother's coming to pick me up today,’ announced Harry. ‘She wants to see Francesca and she wants to see you too, sir, if you have time.’

‘See me, eh?’ Charles hid a smile. ‘Do you know why?’

‘She wants to thank you for teaching me about horses and things. I say, sir, may I hold the reins myself today?’

‘’Fraid not. You're too small to control him.’

Harry's face fell.

‘We'll have to see if there's a pony we could hire for you, then I could really teach you to ride.’

Harry looked at him, head on one side, then shook his head firmly. ‘I'm sorry, sir, but Mother can’t afford to hire a pony.’

‘But I can.’

Another shake of the head. ‘That wouldn't be right, sir. We don't allow others to pay for us. We didn't allow il Conte to do it, either, and Mother says he was a good friend to us. I used to sit in the corner and talk to Maria - she was his housekeeper - when we visited him, you know. Maria used to give me cake and lemonade.’

So rumour was wrong, Charles mused. Not that anyone who had the slightest acquaintance with her would have believed that Helen Perriman would behave immorally. But it was nice to have it confirmed from an unimpeachable source. He saw that Harry was still waiting for an answer, searched his brain to remember what they'd been discussing, and recalled the question of a pony. ‘Couldn’t you even let me pay for its hire if you would be doing me a favour by keeping me company when I go riding?’

‘I don't think so, sir. Mother and I - we often talk about things like that. We like to stand on our own feet, sir, and not be beholden to anyone.’

Harry's expression was curiously adult for a lad of seven, as was his conversation. In fact, thought Charles, a nicer lad I have never met. Though I'd like to make him laugh more. He's a very solemn child. He still wanted to further his acquaintance with the mother, but he’d begun to enjoy the son's company for its own sake.

Helen arrived at the albergo a little before noon. She allowed Harry to re-introduce her to the man who had so quickly become his idol. ‘I have to thank you, Mr Carnforth, for the interest you’ve shown in my son.’ She smiled at the boy as she spoke and her whole face lit up with love.

She could be a beauty if she were properly dressed, thought Charles. ‘It's been a pleasure,’ he said formally. ‘I've greatly enjoyed his company. You have a fine son.’

‘I think so.’

‘Mrs Perriman - would you and your son do me the honour of takin' luncheon with me today?’

The warm expression vanished and a wariness replaced it on her face.

How transparent her feelings were! Charles mused. He liked the lack of artifice. He had never known what his late wife was thinking - and after a few months of marriage hadn’t even wanted to.

Helen was still hesitating. ‘I don't think . . ’

‘I would be very grateful. A man gets tired of eatin' alone.’

His voice had suddenly grown diffident. She sensed a loneliness behind the request, which, if it didn’t equal her own, then at least approached it. Could it be so harmful to have lunch with a fellow-countryman? Just the once? ‘Well . . . ’

Harry tugged at her arm. ‘Do say yes, Mother! Mr Carnforth was going to tell me about India and what it's like to ride on an elephant.’

So, because it was good for her son and because she, too, was lonely, she agreed.

They dined in a corner of the public rooms of the inn. Charles' private parlour, Helen said gently, when it was suggested, would not be quite the thing. She was still a little worried about what people might say, so she had a quick word with Francesca, explaining her dilemma.

Francesca waved away her friend's scruples. ‘You have your son with you and I myself will wait upon you. Thus, I will be able to refute any gossip,
if
anyone is stupid enough to suggest that
my
inn is not of the most respectable!’

Helen wasn’t sure she liked the way Francesca was smiling as she walked away. She soon forgot her worries about her reputation as the meal progressed. What a delightful time the three of them had! The inn's temperamental cook produced a marvellous meal, and Francesca's husband Paolo was persuaded to unearth from his cellars one of the special bottles of wine that only the most favoured customers were allowed to know about.