Chapter Four #4
‘Oh,’ said Rachel. She was finding it hard to remain frosty with him, having forgotten how the soft burr of his voice always affected her.
And he looked so delicious. He was her lovely, her own (or had been) Angus, so handsome and dashing, so much more of a man than the other boys – he made her think of a prince in a story, going in disguise among the peasants.
He carried with him the aura of the open moors and wild crags, even when in faultless evening clothes.
He had proper shoulders under the broadcloth, and his hand, though gentle when touching hers, was strong and capable: no Piccadilly beau he.
She looked away from his eyes, embarrassed by her thoughts, looked at his lips, and that was a mistake, because she remembered what it was like to kiss him.
She had to remember that he had berated her at the Shacklocks’ ball, had called her a wild animal, had cruelly broken off their engagement.
And now he said, ‘If you will excuse me, I must return to my party. It was good to see you looking so well.’ He bowed, and was leaving.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?’ she asked.
He turned back, looked down at her. ‘The whole point of releasing you,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘was so that you could dance with other people to your heart’s content, without feeling guilty.
I’ve come to realise how unreasonable it was to make demands of you, when I was not in a position to fulfil any demands you might legitimately make of me.
I was completely in the wrong. So dance and enjoy yourself with a light heart, and don’t think of me. ’
She stamped her foot – she couldn’t help it. ‘Oh, you are impossible! Don’t you realise how you are embarrassing me? What am I supposed to tell people?’
‘Whatever you like. No-one will be surprised that you broke off your engagement to a man of no estate and no means. Make it completely my fault – because it is. When your birthday comes, if you haven’t already married someone else, I shall come and ask you again.’
‘You needn’t bother, because I hate you!’ she cried, in a temper, only just managing to do it quietly. ‘I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in London!’
But even that did not get the reaction she wanted. He only bowed again, and went away. Her sole comfort was that he looked sad and thoughtful. She was left with a terrible desire to throw something.
The movement of people had separated her from her aunt, and she was standing effectively alone. She knew her colour was up, and concentrated on breathing slowly, fanning herself to get it down.
A voice just beside and behind her said, ‘Am I the luckiest man in London? Can that really be the lovely Lady Rachel standing all alone?’
It was Jervis Farocean, handsome and smart in evening clothes of such unusual cut they must be the leading edge of a new fashion.
He was smiling and looked insistently straight into her eyes in a way that was definitely flirtatious.
It was not quite proper for a man to look at a woman like that unless they were engaged.
She felt a thrill run from her scalp all the way down her backbone.
‘Alone, Mr Farocean?’ she said archly, gesturing at the press of bodies.
‘It is my contention that one can only be truly alone in a crowd. If there were fewer people, there would be much more chance of overhearing what one is saying.’
‘Do you intend, then, to say things that should not be overheard?’ she said, surprising herself with her boldness.
This was flirting of a different order, not just the sidelong glance and fluttering of eyelashes that she was used to.
It was rather exciting. She tried to look into his eyes in return, but couldn’t quite manage it.
Instead, she lowered her eyelashes, knowing it to be a fetching gesture.
Farocean laughed. ‘You anticipate me, madam. First, I must ask you to dance, which is not something we need to hide from the public ear, but may lead – who knows where?’
She was glad that her card was not empty. She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘I’m afraid I must wait to find out what it is you want to say to me. I am engaged until – let me see…’ She consulted her card, though she knew very well what was written in. ‘I can give you the fifth dance, sir, if you like.’
‘Oh, that’s too bad!’ he said, with an amusing pout. ‘Can I not persuade you to cross someone out?’ He took the card from her. ‘Who is this Anson fellow who has the first?’
‘Sir Walter Anson,’ she said. ‘His father was ambassador to France.’
‘He must be a paltry fellow. He’s not hovering eagerly at your side, even though I can hear the music has started, which shows a shocking lack of enthusiasm. I, on the other hand, am here. Shall we?’
She felt a jolt of excitement, a desire to throw convention to the winds.
It was true, Sir Walter should have been there.
She’d had enough of young men not treating her as she ought to be treated.
She placed her hand on Farocean’s offered arm, picked up her skirt and walked with him towards the floor.
It was a thrill such as she had never felt before when they passed Sir Walter and he stared in astonishment, which quickly turned to chagrin.
Serves you right! she thought triumphantly.
Let them stare: Jervis Farocean was a very handsome young man, and was clearly very much smitten with her, or he wouldn’t have claimed her so publicly.
Giles rode out to Castle Cottage on Vipsania, his road horse.
He walked her, enjoying a little time away from work, with the dogs running here and there, before and behind, plunging their noses deep into the new smells.
The earth was warming, spring was definitely at hand: the woods were dappled with the dull gold of catkins, shaking their tails in the light breeze.
Everywhere there was the sound of running water as the Wade and the Shel, swollen with winter rains, tumbled down the hillside in eagerness to meet the Ash.
There were curlews nesting in the rough grassland near the hill’s crest, and their wild, trembling call was like the bubbling of water, too.
As he neared Motte Woods he reined in the mare and sat a moment to contemplate the Motte, the ancient, pudding-basin hill where the original castle had stood in mediaeval times.
It had the remote, forbidding look of great antiquity that said, Do not touch me.
Last year it had taken the life of his little nephew who had fallen through a crumbling place at the base into a stone cellar.
Giles had had it sealed off to prevent further accidents, but he was an archaeologist by training, and the idea was there at the back of his mind – just a little far-off niggle – to do a proper excavation of the site.
Where there was one cellar there were bound to be more, and there must be stairs inside the mound itself that would have led up to the superstructure that had long since decayed and been removed.
His archaeologist friends had teased him about arranging a dig and had promised to come and help.
They had been joking, but there was a core of seriousness to it.
They reached the woods and Giles turned Vipsania onto the path, and the dogs’ ears pricked as they realised where they were going.
They ran on ahead so that when he finally entered the clearing in front of the cottage he was already expected.
A stout, elderly terrier bitch came fussing up to show him this was her place, and Axe Brandom was walking out from a barn rolling down his sleeves in anticipation of a visitor.
It was a curious thing, but for an instant Giles thought he had a look of intense anticipation, which disappeared to be replaced by ordinary polite welcome – as if he had expected someone else entirely.
He stopped and let Vipsania come to him, stroked her nose as she nuzzled at him, and said, ‘Afternoon, my lord.’
Giles swung down, stooped to pat the little terrier, and called the dogs to heel as a flotilla of white ducks came round the corner of the barn making acid remarks about the disturbance. ‘Afternoon, Brandom,’ he said. ‘How’s the back?’
‘All better, my lord, thank you. ’Twas only a bit of muscle strain and bruising.’
‘And the hands?’
Axe displayed one palm, the other holding the horse. There was a ragged, fading red scar across it. ‘Healed, my lord.’
‘Good. I’m glad you came to no serious harm. I’d like a word with you, if you’ve a moment.’
Axe nodded, and led Vipsania to a ring in the wall to tie her up.
Giles remembered again how reserved the man was, never wasting words.
He supposed living alone out here you would lose the habit of conversation.
There was a bench against the wall outside the cottage door, and he sat down, leaning back against stones slightly warm from the afternoon sun.
Before the bench there was a tree stump set up on end like a table, and on it a sharp, curved knife with an ivory handle, and a lump of wood that seemed to be taking a shape.
Axe saw him looking and said, ‘Bit o’ whittling, keeps my hands busy when I’m resting.’
‘A bird, is it?’
‘Will be. Can I offer you something, my lord? Cup o’ tea? Glass o’ beer?’
Giles was going automatically to refuse, but then thought perhaps the man would like the company.
Also it was very pleasant here, in the heart of the quiet wood, with the smell of grass and woodshavings and horse, no sound but the flickering breeze playing with the leaves, Vipsania easing her weight, making the saddle creak, and the scuffling of the dogs trying to get the terrier bitch to play with them.
‘A glass of beer, if it’s no trouble,’ he said.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Axe said gravely. ‘I keep a firkin in the scullery.’