21 A Cunning Plan #2
A maid had been found from Brinchester who was so glad to have six pounds a year and a sleeping place in front of the kitchen fire that the precise status of her employers did not trouble her.
Cal still cooked every night, but between Meg and Souter, the house was kept clean and tidy, and Timmy’s ma undertook to do their laundry.
It was nothing like any of Cora’s previous homes, but that mattered not a jot, for she had Cal with her every day, and what more could she want from life?
He spent one day a week at Frickham Wood, doing she knew not what, but he always returned home refreshed and smiling.
He spent his mornings either working in their own garden or helping a couple of older villagers who could no longer manage.
In the afternoons, he either worked inside the house or else took Cora out in the gig, shopping in Brinchester or simply bowling along the Brinshire lanes enjoying summer’s beauties.
On Sundays, they took the gig into Brinchester to attend divine service at one or other of the churches there.
Twice a week, Georgie Hammond called bringing little treats and all the news from Staineybank. The house was preparing for the return of the London party, she reported, now that the season was all but over. They were expected home by the end of July.
Cora herself found much to do, filling her days with a variety of needlework projects for the house, raiding the garden and hedgerows for flowers to brighten the parlour and scouring the shops in Brinchester for small items to add either comfort or elegance to their lives.
They ate their dinner in the kitchen, being a small household, but after the main dishes had been attacked, Cal and Cora would retire to the parlour with cheese, nuts and dessert, accompanied by a glass of wine and a pot of ale.
This was Cora’s favourite time of day, when she had Cal to herself at last and they could talk about anything and everything.
There was nothing held back now, for she knew his history and there were no more secrets.
It was a pity they could not sit outside the hut, watching the sun sink behind the solid mass of Staineybank, for there was little view from the cottage, but they were together and they were blissfully happy and she wanted nothing else from life.
One rainy afternoon, she was surprised to see a smart carriage and pair draw up outside the cottage.
It bore a coat of arms on the door, two liveried footmen at the rear and a pair of outriders.
Cora did not recognise the coat of arms, but she instantly recognised the pretty face that stepped out of the carriage as soon as the footman opened the door.
Cal, who was busy painting in the bedroom, must have seen her too, for he opened the front door to her before the echoes of the knocker had ceased.
“What on earth are you doing here, Vi?” he said, wiping paint-stained hands on a rag just as Cora emerged from the parlour. “Cora, look who’s here. Are you running away again, Vi?”
“No… not precisely… well, perhaps I am, but I did not come on the common stage this time, so that is all right, is it not? Oh… this is Vinny, Uncle Cal. Vinny, this is my very best friend, Cal Garford, and that is Mrs Merrington. May we come in?”
Violetta was joined by one of the outriders, a young man not much older than she was, and clearly no servant, to judge by his expensive clothes and the imposing mount he rode.
“Whose is the carriage, Vi?” Cal said, pointedly not moving aside to let them enter.
“Vinny’s… at least, it is his father’s but he would not mind. May we come inside, Cal? It is horridly wet out here.”
“You’d much better turn around and go away,” Cal said. “Cora, won’t you back me up? Vi shouldn’t be here.”
“No, but she will be soaked through standing out in the rain like this. Let her come inside and have a cup of tea to warm up, at least, and she can tell us how she comes to be here.”
Cal could not argue with the logic, so he stood aside, and Violetta, trailed diffidently by her companion, was permitted to enter the house. Meg, arriving at a rush in response to the sound of the door knocker, was dispatched back to the kitchen to fetch tea.
“And some of Mrs Hammond’s cherry cake,” Cora called after her.
Cal ushered Vi into the parlour, leaving Cora with the hesitant Vinny.
“Will you not step into the parlour, Mr… er?”
“Roth—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Rothwell.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Rothwell.”
Another gentle cough. “Lord, actually. Lord Vincent Rothwell.”
“Oh! Then your father is—?”
“Marquess…” Cough. “Marquess of Beckwith.”
“You are very welcome, my lord, and be assured that no one will blame you for this little adventure. Violetta is not a lady who takes no for an answer.”
He blushed, tried to answer, failed, dropped his gloves, scrabbled on the floor for them and then dropped them again.
“Come inside and have a glass of wine,” Cora said, taking pity on him.
“Oh yes… thank you… much obliged.”
In the parlour, Violetta and Cal were engaged in a low-voiced discussion, Cal arguing that she must leave and Violetta wandering about the room admiring some of the modest changes Cora had made while pointing out the deficiencies that remained.
“So small! How can you live in such poky rooms? Oh, what a pretty little clock! And the fire screen — how lovely! What an odd little table. Whatever use is it? And that chair looks most uncomfortable. Why do you not throw it away? Oh — you have no employment now, of course. Do you have anything to eat? Vinny would not stop at the last change of horses and I am absolutely famished, although Mrs Merrington would say I should not mention it. Oh, there you are, Vinny! Do come and admire this tiny little room. What is it, would you say? Not a drawing room, and despite the table, it is not large enough to be a dining room.”
“We call it the parlour,” Cora said, pouring a glass of wine and pressing it into Lord Vincent’s hands.
“Is the other room the dining room, then?” She swished out in a swirl of expensive muslin into the entrance hall and threw open the bedroom door. “Oh! Why is there a bedroom downstairs?”
“Because we have no upstairs,” Cora said briskly, following her. “We have only the parlour, the bedroom and the kitchen.”
“Then where does Cal sleep… oh! Oh!” Her hands flew to her mouth, spotting the two sets of hair brushes on the dressing table.
“Which is precisely why you should not be here,” Cora said.
“This is not a respectable household, Miss Garth. I suggest you get back in your carriage and carry on to Staineybank, where you will be accommodated in a manner appropriate to your station, and from where word may be sent to inform your father of your whereabouts. And Lord Vincent’s father, too, presumably. ”
Lord Vincent, hovering in the hall with his wine glass clutched to his chest, made an inarticulate sound in his throat and then downed the wine in one gulp.
“Another glass, my lord?” Cora said politely, but after a quick glance at Violetta’s crestfallen face, he shook his head.