Chapter 28
Mr Drinkwater could not fail to make a great deal of fuss of his four newest parishioners, whom he was just now meeting for the first time.
He was full of apologies for not calling on them during the week of their residence in Suffolk, and thanked them for their kindness when they told him that they quite understood how busy he must be.
Alistair knew all this, because he was standing only a couple of feet away and could hear every word.
It would have been perfectly correct to smile and bow politely and move on, leaving the Drinkwaters and the Constantines together, but he had no expectation that his mother would pass out of the churchyard without taking the chance to converse with their new neighbours again.
He understood that she was bent on matchmaking; his only consolation must be that she surely couldn’t have any particular Miss Constantine in mind, but instead any one of them.
There should therefore be safety in numbers.
If he could keep his composure, there was no reason in the world why his mama should guess that Cecilia had swiftly become the object of his interest. Though interest was far too weak a word for the emotions roiling inside him.
The trouble was, he was by no means certain that he could keep his composure.
In the course of his military duties, he had had some rather unconventional training along with all the regular stuff.
He had been taught, and did not doubt, that people – some people, at any rate – could always tell when others were watching them.
It was a sixth sense that nobody fully understood, but definitely it existed.
And so he knew that Cecilia Constantine had not taken her eyes off him for the entirety of the service.
She’d been behind him, on the other side of the church, so it had been impossible for him to turn fully and look at her, as he’d so wished he might, but he had felt those dark eyes on his body, a burning caress.
He might also have said, more fancifully, that he could almost hear her private thoughts, and the nature of them had not been such to encourage concentration on the gospel or on Mr Drinkwater’s message.
With a pistol at his head, he could not have recalled the argument of the sermon he’d just sat through.
A debt of pleasure, she’d whispered, and he could not doubt that she meant to collect it. Soon. Perhaps tonight.
All this, and he was supposed to speak to her, calmly and civilly, without betraying the least self-consciousness, in front of his mother, the vicar, her sisters and her chaperon?
It was intolerable. He wanted to howl like an animal, paw the ground like a stag in rut, not make polite, inconsequential conversation about the fine weather and the chances of rain.
And that was before he considered what she might be doing with her lovely, wicked face while they spoke.
Her dark, sparking eyes, her soft, red mouth…
Jesus, her mouth. He did not know her – he could not claim that he did, that would be ridiculous – but still he was certain that she would quickly find some fresh way to torment him here, which yet appeared entirely innocent to others.
Mrs Drinkwater and her children arrived behind him, and his mother fell into conversation with her friend.
At the same time, the vicar became aware of his presence, and smiled warmly at him.
He hadn’t always attended service when his mood had been lowest, despite Mrs Bartrum’s gentle persuasion.
Mr Drinkwater had never commented upon his absence, never judged him for it, but was always pleased to see him when he did appear.
The kindly churchman, having ascertained that for one reason or another, he hadn’t been formally introduced to all of the Albery Hall party yet, was now performing that vital action: he was happy to present Major Bartrum to Miss Constantine, Miss Cecilia Constantine, Miss Bianca Constantine, and once again to Miss Macintyre.
He bowed to each of them in turn, and murmured what he hoped were coherent civilities.
The oldest sister was the only one he hadn’t set eyes on before, but it seemed unwise to mention any previous meetings. Especially, God knows, the last one.
Cecilia, it seemed, did not play by those rules. Or any rules.
‘I have seen the Major on any number of occasions already,’ she said brightly, addressing the company in general.
‘Bianca and I spoke a little with him while out walking on the sands one morning, and then Miss Macintyre and I had a brief tussle with him at the auction on Thursday. We bid against each other for a short while; it was most exhilarating and novel. I did not come off victorious, but then, neither did he. Was your mother very disappointed not to win the sofas, sir?’
Alistair could scarcely recall if she had or had not been.
He responded all at hazard. Exhilarating and novel, indeed.
‘She was obliged to recognise that the bidding went too high for what was, after all, a mere fancy of hers, not a necessary purchase. But you were luckier than I, and walked away with something, at least. Are you pleased with your new furniture, ma’am? ’
‘Oh, excessively so. They are very fine pieces, and most comfortable.’
In the end, she had said nothing to which anyone but him might take exception; the conversation now became more general, turning to Mrs Bardwell’s triumph at besting all comers in the famous battle of the sofas, which was apparently a great topic of interest in Debenbridge and beyond.
Mrs Drinkwater and his mother had joined them by now, and Miss Macintyre presented to them, since it became apparent that they had not yet met.
The Vicarage children had grown understandably restless after an hour or more in church – Alistair could certainly sympathise – and Miss Bianca Constantine was now chasing them, giggling, around the mossy graves.
‘You have nephews and nieces, I collect, Miss Cecilia?’ the vicar asked, looking on benignly.
‘More than a dozen of them, sir,’ she answered. ‘Bianca is closer in age to the older ones than she is to our eldest sisters, of course. We are a large family, though there are, I know, many larger.’
His temperature was cooling a little, and he was grateful for it.
It was not possible to contemplate throwing a young lady down on the nearest convenient surface – which would be one of his own old ivy-covered family tombs, he noted distractedly – and making passionate love to her, when she was standing talking sedately to the vicar about the composition of her family. Not really possible.
The congregation was dispersing, and he saw that Miss Macintyre was setting about re-attaching the horse to the dog cart; he went to help her, and she grunted her thanks.
When they had done, she stood looking at him measuringly. ‘I understand your Christian name is Alistair, Major,’ she said. ‘I have not found that to be a very common English name. Do you have Scottish connections?’
‘Yes. My mother’s father was a Mr Murray. He was originally from Edinburgh, and a writer to the signet, I believe; I never knew him, but I am named for him.’
‘Perhaps we are distantly related, then; I have Murray cousins, also in Edinburgh.’ The lady hesitated for a second, and then with the air of one whose desire to speak her mind and relieve her feelings was stronger than any sense of caution, she went on, ‘Well, I am sure Scotland must be as full of untrustworthy people as any other nation, and yet I shall tell you this, with no particularly rational reason for saying it to you. But after all, who else can I confide in? I have met these Pallants, who I understand are your close neighbours, and I do not like any of them, the older brother least of all. My charges are spending tomorrow afternoon picnicking with them at the ruined castle; we encountered them as if by chance in Debenbridge after the auction, he inveigled himself into our acquaintance as smoothly as I have ever seen it done, and the invitation was extended. Cecilia really had no way of refusing it without gross rudeness.’
She saw his expression, which must be excessively forbidding, and now said with a wry little grimace, ‘And now you are about to tell me that he is your closest friend from boyhood, you are blood brothers or some such nonsense, and that I am a dreadfully spiteful old woman to slur his unsullied good name. You would think I’d have learned to guard my tongue better by now. ’
‘Oh, no, I’m not going to say any such thing, ma’am.
On the contrary, I am glad you’ve spoken.
Oliver Pallant is no friend of mine. I know little about the sister – I was sent off to the army as a cornet when I was sixteen, so I have not had much occasion to encounter her – and the younger boy seems of no particular account.
I’d call him half-flash and half-foolish, like many a young officer I have commanded; I daresay a pair of colours and some military discipline would have done him good, and might still.
But I entirely share your distrust of Pallant.
Even setting aside any consideration of his character…
Their patrimony is all but lost, though no fault of his, but he’s said to have enormous debts and to have made a bad situation much worse through reckless spending; for example, he has bought horses only a very wealthy man could afford.
Your charges are heiresses, and he has made sure to force acquaintance on them with all possible speed. I do not need to go further, I think.’
She sighed and said, ‘I’m not expecting you to do anything about it, and I don’t suppose that any great damage can be done on a simple expedition of pleasure.
It is the fact that we are obliged to know them at all that I instinctively object to – him in particular.
Perhaps I was hoping that you’d tell me I was being fanciful, since you have the air of a practical man, not prone to exaggeration.
But now I feel worse, having my suspicions to some degree confirmed. ’
‘I’m flattered by your good opinion, but it can hardly be justified.
I could be a gazetted fortune hunter myself, determined to put a spoke in the wheel of my only potential rivals in this part of the world.
One could say I inveigled myself into Miss Cecilia’s acquaintance at the auction. You saw me do it, if it comes to that.’
‘It’s quite true, I did, and one could,’ she replied promptly.
‘But then, would you say as much to my face, unless you were an utterly shameless lothario, which you give no other sign of being? Maybe I’m a foolish old woman, but what I dislike above all things is a man who is smooth.
Such a person always sets my teeth on edge. ’
‘And I’m not, and don’t? No, don’t trouble to answer that, ma’am. I wasn’t fishing for compliments.’
There was no more time for confidences; the rest of the Constantine party had arrived, and the four ladies must be handed up into their seats. This involved taking each of their hands in turn; only one of them squeezed his hand significantly as he did so, and it was not Miss Macintyre.