Chapter Twenty-Seven
Then suddenly, the problem of Mr. Vernon took a back seat in Cynthia’s life.
Tim Turner arrived at the cottage one afternoon, the dutiful Sam trotting next to him, carrying a letter for the Honorable Andrew Fielding, sent from London.
Cynthia looked at it curiously, wondering both about the form of address and who in London knew Mr. Fielding was lodging with them.
It had a wax seal on it, but she couldn’t read the name.
She patted Sam on the head, and sent Tim on his way with a penny and piece of pigeon pie.
She propped the letter on the mantlepiece, where Mr. Fielding saw it two days later, when he came home after completing his latest commissions.
He was happy to be back at last. The subject of his last portrait had complained from beginning to end, not about him, but about everything else.
She hated the country and wanted to live in London.
The servants ignored her and never did what she asked.
Her husband spent all day riding around the estates and snored after dinner in the evenings.
He had found it hard to paint her without the bad-tempered turn to her mouth she habitually wore, and though she had been delighted with the portrait, and consequently her husband had been more than satisfied, he was sure she had found something to complain about with it by now. Thank God that was over!
He was looking forward to a quiet evening by the fire and frowned when he saw the letter.
He picked it up, but simply stuffed it in his pocket.
Cynthia was too well-bred to interrogate him, and when he made no reference to it, neither did she.
However, the thought of the letter kept her tossing and turning all night.
She was almost relieved when Mr. Fielding emerged for breakfast the following day dressed in his hand-me-down coat and breeches, but carrying an old leather bag.
“I’m sorry, Miss Rowley,” he said, taking her hand, “but I’m going to have to leave you for a few days.
It is, of course, related to the letter I received yesterday.
I had previously sent news of my whereabouts to my, er…
contact in London, so they knew where to find me.
I am called on urgent family business. Ruby lent me this,” he indicated the bag in his hand, “for my clothes you repaired so beautifully. I’ll come back as soon as ever I can, definitely by Harriet’s wedding.
You know my plans for the winter.” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then smiled at her.
“I’ve given Teacup strict instructions to look after you while I’m gone. ”
He went into the kitchen and bussed Ruby heartily on the cheek. “I’m going away for a while, and I’ve a mind to take you with me,” he said. “I can’t live without your cooking!”
Ruby bobbed a curtsey, which Cynthia had never seen her do to anyone before. “Well, Mr. Andrew, sir,” she said, “An’ I’d come willingly, ’cept I don’t doubt but Will would ’ave something to say about it.”
“Ruby, please go and tell Will he’s to drive Mr. Fielding to Winchester,” said Cynthia, making up her mind.
“He can stay the night and come back tomorrow. No,” she said, as Andrew began to protest. “I don’t want any arguments.
I won’t take the chance you might have to walk all that way. It could come on to rain.”
They looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear without a cloud in the sky.
“I haven’t nursed you back to health, Mr. Fielding,” she said defiantly, “to see you walk miles in heaven knows what weather, and then spend hours sitting in damp clothes in a rackety post carriage. Where is your cloak and what happened to your cap?”
“I’m afraid it has gone to a watery grave,” he replied. “It fell off my head as I bent over the weir yesterday down by Simon’s Corner. I think it was glad to go, to tell you the truth. You could see sunlight through it. But if it makes you happier, I’ll take my cloak. I’ll just go and get it.”
While he was gone, Cynthia darted upstairs and returned with a top-hat, its brim shaped like a bell in the front, and much lower in the crown than the ones she knew men were wearing those days. When he returned with his cloak, she gave it to him.
“My father was quite short, but had a rather large head,” she said. So though you are much taller, this may fit you. If it comes on to rain, you will be glad of it.”
Mr. Fielding put it on his head, and while it was old-fashioned, it did not look ridiculous. Cynthia thought that the truth was, with his good looks, nothing looked out of place on him. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
“Thank you,” he said. “You are too good.” And he added in a low voice, “My angel.”
It was a while before Ruby returned with Will, who had evidently been made to wash his hands and face and change into his Sunday best. He, too, was carrying a cloak, and had his best cap on his head.
“I’ve given ’im sufficient for ’is food and lodging from the drawer,” said Ruby. “Yer ’appy about making the trip, ain’t yer, Will?”
“I am that,” said Will. “I ain’t never been to Winchester afore.”
The two men climbed into the gig, tossed their cloaks into the back and with a wave, were off down the road. The women were left on the doorstep, as women so often are, watching them go.
Ruby gave a sigh. “I wunner if Mr. Andrew will come back,” she said. “There’s more fer ’im in Lunnon than ’ere, that’s fer sure.”
Then she turned and bustled into the kitchen. Cynthia stayed in the doorway until long after the gig disappeared, blinking the tears from her eyes. In spite of his promise, she was thinking the same thing as Ruby.
“Goodbye,” she said under her breath. “Goodbye, my dearest.”