Sir Peter wisely chose to make his next interview with his daughter a little more private. The news of Ralph Jameson’s death during the night had fallen like a thunderbolt and Sir Peter’s head was not at its clearest anyway after the previous evening. What on earth was going on? Who had his daughter been meeting in the woods? Jameson or Holland—or both?
Resentfully he stared out of the window of his study, rubbing the knee which troubled him of late. All his planning and scheming had been undone, and it was not his fault. Now he was probably further away from his objective than he had been before Holland had deigned to visit. But how to make the best of it all, that was the question. How could he, Sir Peter Stratford, contrive to turn defeat into victory?
He was aware that his gross conduct after dinner the evening before had lost him sympathy. He was aware, too, that Hermione’s triumphant attitude grated on him. He had always despised his sister-in-law, and her present behavior did nothing to alleviate an already tense situation. She had sought every opportunity to engage one or other of his guests in long discussions about Sarah’s dreadful faux pas.
Edward was scarcely less embarrassing with his continuous loud comments about his cousin—often accompanied by coarse laughter. The guests felt increasingly uncomfortable, and Sarah’s dignified manner began to win her some admiration. The gentlemen in particular were inclined to take her side; she may have been born on the wrong side of the proverbial blanket, and she may even be a bit of an adventuress, but she had style! All this Sir Peter was aware of. But how to use it to the best advantage, that was the question.
He moved behind his ornate carved desk, his stubby fingers tapping impatiently upon the green baize. Curse this pain in his knee—like a hot pin jabbing him! His temper bubbled a little and he banged his fists upon the table. “Where is that damned boy? Eh? He was told to be here immediately after breakfast!”
Hermione flushed, flicking her ivory fan backward and forward with alarming speed before her hot face. Come on, Edward, this was not the time to flaunt defiance before Stratford. Like her brother-in-law she was determined to use the happenings of the past day to her best advantage, and her son chose now to be late!
Her tiny, bright eyes swiveled to look at Sarah, who sat on a chaise longue, her hands clasped meekly in her lap, her eyes downcast. Hermione noted with some envy the long, black lashes and the perfect white complexion. What right had such a low girl to look like that! Oh, how she loathed her, how she loathed her!
A protective shell seemed to cocoon Sarah. The death of Ralph Jameson had set the whole house humming, but to her it was all dull and distant. Inside her little shell she was private, alone and undisturbed. She fully expected to be sent away, and was reconciled to the fact—and nothing on God’s earth would allow her to give Hermione the satisfaction of seeing her weep.
And so she sat there, staring at her hands, looking so demure, so pretty, and so utterly unlike Hermione in every way that Sir Peter found himself glancing at her with pride. Begad, she would have been a credit to his name. If she could have been presented at Almack’s she would have been made—made!
The door opened and in sauntered Edward. Hermione closed her eyes faintly, wondering if her son had any sense at all. He was clad in a riding jacket of quite exaggerated cut and made of surely the finest and brightest lilac velvet in the land. Reeking of perfume he glanced beamingly around the room, banging his shiny top hat against his thigh, and slowly sat down in a chair, arranging himself perfectly. Even Hermione stared at his trousers, for they were of the latest style, called cossacks, and his were the fullest, baggiest cossacks she had ever seen, gathered in at his ankles by brilliant scarlet ribbons.
Edward’s smile was superior. Here I am, he seemed to be saying; you are back to me, Uncle, and this time I shall do as I like, lead my own life, marry where I please! Sarah looked at him with amusement. Had he thumbed his nose at Sir Peter he could not have been more obvious.
Stratford’s face was suffusing dramatically, and Hermione was alarmed. Oh, Edward, Edward, you foolish boy. The older man stepped from behind his desk, clasping and unclasping his shaking hands behind his back, and came to stand before his nephew. Edward had gone so far as to place his long legs upon his uncle’s priceless desk and the heels of his shoes were marking the polished surface. Quite suddenly and without warning, Stratford threw his nephew’s offending legs aside and Edward sat up with a jerk, his mouth open with surprise, his face slightly comical.
“I say, Uncle!”
“Behave yourself under my roof, you young pup. You may act as you please only when you are the master here!”
Hermione did not trust herself to speak. She knew that Stratford could not abide her, so tactfully decided to leave her floundering son to fend for himself.
With mouth wide open, Edward glanced at his mother for assistance, but she was obviously going to remain silent.
Stratford turned to Sarah suddenly. “Well, girl? What have you to say for yourself? You’ve made me the laughingstock of the district and I don’t like to wear a fool’s garb. Which gentlemen did you honor with your company in the woods yesterday? Eh?”
There was relief on Edward’s face as his uncle’s attention was directed elsewhere. He fiddled petulantly with his top hat.
Sarah roused herself and looked up at her father. “If you hope that I’ll deny everything, then I’m afraid that I’ll disappoint you, Father. I was there, with Mr. Jameson, and then later with Mr. Holland.” There was little point in her denying anything, for the truth would out sooner or later.
Hermione swelled up visibly. There! She was condemned with her own words! A sleek smile spread across Hermione’s lips and her little eyes glittered like diamonds.
Stratford sensed his sister-in-law’s reaction and swung around sharply. Her gloating ceased instantly and her face became a blank. He turned back to his daughter. “Why?”
“Does it matter? Surely the mere fact that I was there is sufficient.”
“It matters, for I would know the complete truth. Which one had you gone to meet?”
“Mr. Jameson.”
“Why?”
“Because I liked him. He was kind and friendly, and was the only one I’d met since coming here who spoke gently to me. He sent a note to me, asking me to meet him, and after a lot of hesitation I decided to go to him.” She swallowed, feeling Hermione’s delight exuding in all directions. Sarah felt certain that she was to be sent away in disgrace and so had nothing to lose by telling the truth.
Sir Peter gazed steadily and thoughtfully at her. “And will you nine months hence have a tangible memory of the late Mr. Jameson? Will you be as your mother was before you?”
Sarah’s eyes flashed with anger. “My mother very mistakenly fell in love with you, sir, and I thank God she died before she could see what you have become.”
He seemed unperturbed by the venom in her voice. “You’ve not answered my question, madam.”
“No, I’m still as chaste as the day I was born! Mr. Holland arrived in time to save me from Ralph’s advances, which, I admit, I’d have been unable to curb without help.”
“Hmmm.” He stared at her, stroking his chin.
Hermione was alarmed. The old fool was not reacting in the way she wished. The ivory fan closed with a snap. “Who is to say she didn’t show her gratitude to Holland then, eh?”
Sarah was irritated. “In a chilly wood in January, in soaking wet clothes and with you watching us?”
Hermione sniffed. “I don’t know how long you were together before I came upon you, and as for the wet clothes, well there are some who—
“Enough, Hermione!” Stratford rounded on her furiously. “Such despicable suggestions are little more than I’ve come to expect from you, but now you’d better end them. It was you who made certain I discovered about Sarah and Jack Holland, with your embroidering and insinuating. Like you he was my guest, only he was important to me. But that didn’t matter to you; you couldn’t see further than your interfering nose! Can you not see how much the family’s fortunes can be advanced by gaining Holland’s support? Are you so dense then? Instead you gleefully spread slanderous tittle-tattle around until everyone is crawling with embarrassment.”
Hermione felt the strings of control slipping swiftly away. “Stratford, you’re forgetting that because of your precious daughter’s conduct a man lies dead.”
“I’m forgetting nothing, Hermione, nothing.” He stared menacingly at his hated sister-in-law and then at his lout of a nephew.
“Oh, I say—!” Edward felt that he must make some protest.
“You say too much too often, Edward, and now I wish to see your dandified rear departing from this room with some briskness. You too, Hermione. Get out of my sight for I mislike your face; it plays havoc with my digestion.”
Hermione stood, her whole body quivering with disbelief. How could all this be happening? How could it all be going against her when that odious girl was so guilty? “And where does this leave Edward? Is he still expected to marry that girl?” She pointed at Sarah with her fan.
“Edward will marry who I say, when I say ... or go penniless.”
Hermione’s fan snapped again. “My son shouldn’t be expected to marry a girl who has caused such scandal. It was bad enough before, for she’s illegitimate and no fit person for him.”
Stratford’s fingers were drumming his desk. “Be careful, Hermione, or I’ll tell a tale or two myself about Edward’s parentage. It seems I recall a certain Irish gentleman....”
Hermione’s mouth closed almost as quickly as her fan, then opened again. “That was all a scurrilous lie.... Your brother believed me.”
“My brother always was a fool!”
Hermione gave in. “Very well, Stratford, but think on this if you will. It’s hardly fitting that Sarah should remain here under present circumstances. You have guests of some importance—the Duke of Annamore comes next week—and her continued presence will be an embarrassment all round. And with Jack Holland’s disappearance—”
“I’ve thought of all that. You may rely on me, my dear Hermione, to make the correct decisions. I bid you good morning.”
With Edward trailing after her she swept from the room in an angry swish of mauve silk. The door closed on Edward’s voice. “I say, Mother, what’s all this about an Irish gentleman?”
“Be quiet, Edward!” was the sharp reply.
Sarah looked at her father. “I’ll not be able to marry him, Father. Please don’t ask me to.”
He sat down in his chair. “He’s my only male relative and will carry on our family name, so it’s Edward or penury—the choice is yours.”
The truth stared unflinchingly at her. Could she go back to Longwicke? To Squire Eldon? To be his housekeeper as her mother had been? Housekeeper ... and mistress. Could she? No. She was not brave enough. She would cling like a limpet to the chance of wealth and comfort. Her new life was not pleasant and probably never would be, but the compensations far outweighed the problems. She was a little ashamed of her feelings in this, but she was no saint. Once in her life already, when she had spurned the lecherous squire, she had gone hungry and had known the terrors of being alone and penniless. It was an experience she did not want to repeat.
“Very well, Father. I’ll do as you wish.”
He smiled and made no comment on her decision. “That’s settled once and for all then. You’ll have to go away for a while, of course, but where to send you is the problem.”
He looked out of the window, massaging his sore knee thoughtfully. Liza was walking along the path by the moat, a pair of small brown dogs running around her, yapping and wagging their tails. He watched her, and a slow, smooth smile touched his full lips. It was a devilish smile which Sarah hated to see. He glanced at his daughter. “I think that Mannerby provides a most excellent answer.”
“Mannerby? Where is that?”
“Devon. Dartmoor to be precise, a village right on the edge of the moor itself. Have you not heard of the Mannerby stud? The finest horses in England. The property has but recently, er, come into my possession, having formerly belonged to the present tenant, Paul Ransome. He lives there with his sister who will be able to act as your chaperone during your stay. I’ll send word straight away and you shall leave in a day or so. I think anyway that I was mistaken in trying to launch you so quickly.
“You’re not ready yet. Your previous life prepared you in many ways, as your mother showed good sense in engaging a tutor for you, but you’re still lacking in that certain polish which is necessary. I’ll use your stay in Devon to find a governess, a tutor, call it what you will, someone to coach you, teach you and bring you to that excellence which I know you to be capable of. Everything will be sorted out in your absence and Jameson’s death smoothed over to everyone’s satisfaction. It’s a dashed difficult business, but no doubt can be solved. As for Edward, well, that fool can look forward to a spell of service in the army. I fancy it will do him the world of good. God help the army! Perhaps I’m giving the French a boost. I don’t know.”
He smiled thinly. “But now to more immediate things. When the midday meal is served you’ll enter the dining room with me. My guests must be made aware that you’re still my daughter and still in favor with me. By the time the Duke of Annamore gets here next week I want everything to be as ordinary and normal as possible. With luck you’ll be gone before his arrival; that would be the best solution all round. I’ll write to Ransome now. You may go.”
She stood, curtsied quickly, and then left him. She went to her rooms, hardly able to believe that she was still to remain in her new life. Everything was the same—except for Mannerby, and Paul Ransome and his sister.