Caroline, standing at the gate of Pond Cottage, filled her lungs with the pure country air. Why it was called Pond Cottage no one seemed to know. The nearest pond was in Wychling village, a mile away on the other side of Great Wivenden. Its bricks were mellow with age, its slate roof adorned with a cluster of red chimney pots. It stood alone in the lane that led to Pond Farm, the lease of which was owned by herself. Two other cottages lay farther west. They housed farm labourers and their families.
This was farming country, and at this time of the year the pastures were still lush, the fields rich with summer growth. The hedgerows, to Caroline, were singularly English. They divided fields and they bordered every rutted track and dusty lane. Honeysuckle sprang from them, and wild roses, and in the fall, which the English in their peculiarity called autumn, blackberries plump and ripe glistened with morning dew.
Visible, the rising green folds of the South Downs were soft with evening light, the air caressingly warm. A single fleecy cloud, tinted by the sun to pearly pink, drifted westwards through the heavenly ocean of blue.
The landscape presented every shade of green to the eye, and every shade had its own variability in the ever-changing light of an English day. No one could say the Carolinas did not hold their own beauty, but the greens of Sussex always made Caroline feel that nature had come to rest here in the quintessence of tranquillity.
She loved her Sussex estate, and Sussex itself. Had she been blessed with an affectionate husband and loving children, it was here she would have lived, not London. But as a childless widow, Great Wivenden, for all the pleasure she took in it, made her feel incomplete. She had neither husband nor children. She was almost twenty-five – twenty-five! – and was without children.
Great Wivenden’s manor house cried out for the laughter of children, and for their scampering feet. How could she live here by herself, with only servants to keep her company? She must marry again, she must. She must have children. Three, four, five, oh, even six. Then the quietness of the house would burst into the joyful, hurly-burly noises of children growing up. But whom could she marry? Was there a man she wished to bed with? Should she consider Mr Wingrove? He would surely make an affectionate and thoughtful husband, and looked manly enough to bring her to motherhood. She reflected on what this would entail. Simply, the act of physical union. The reflection brought no quickening to her body, no excitement. Mr Wingrove was a very good friend, and a gentleman all of upright, but she had lately come to feel he was a little wordy. As his wife, she would have no escape from his informative dissertations. One did not always want a conversation to be informative. There was a deal of pleasure in taking up a challenging dialogue, in giving tit for tat, as with …
Caroline bit her lip. How unkind, how wrong, to think of comparing Mr Wingrove’s honest conversation unfavourably with Captain Burnside’s devious use of words. Mr Wingrove was a gentleman, a pleasant English gentleman. His integrity as a husband would be much to her liking. It was only recently she had begun to think of marrying again, although she could not imagine why. Consequent upon her wretched life with Clarence, she had found widowhood an equable state. Why had she suddenly become restless, even worse than restless? Her present state was a starved one. She really must consider encouraging Mr Wingrove to propose. Yet why, if her body felt starved, did the thought of being bedded and loved by Mr Wingrove not excite her? Should not the thought of being loved by any personable man arouse some quickening of her blood? London was full of handsome, athletic Corinthian bucks, and it was ridiculous she could think of none who might be responsible for inducing this restlessness in her.
Her deeply introspective mood brought her to the realization that she wanted a husband she was in love with. To conceive children in the arms of a cardboard husband did not excite the imagination at all. To conceive in the arms of a husband she loved would be a joy. Was that not what most women dreamed of, loving, giving and being loved? Was it not what even some widows dreamed of?
In coming to know Clarence, it had seemed to her that some men could take physical pleasure of a woman without being remotely in love. Clarence had never been capable of loving anyone. She supposed Captain Burnside … No, she could not think so ill of him as to place him in the same degenerate mould as Clarence, but she supposed he had bedded infatuated young ladies without any consideration of love. If not degenerate, it was wretchedly immoral to seduce a young woman of her honour and her trinkets. Captain Burnside was …
She found herself trembling then, a strange wildness afflicting her at the thought of her unprincipled hireling even now in the company of some woman he intended to seduce. She thrust the thought from her. But she still trembled, her agitation a physical thing.
Inside the cottage, Jonathan was removing dust sheets from the furniture. Annabelle, coming down from one of the bedrooms, was greeted with a brisk smile and an unwelcome suggestion. ‘Perhaps you’ll lend a delicate hand, Miss Howard? Sammy’s dusting the kitchen, and you might care to do this room.’ This was the living room, with an inglenook fireplace, comfortable furniture, and a dining table and chairs in the bay window. The cottage had a pretty character, a cosiness, and a polished wood flooring. ‘Sammy will find you a duster.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Annabelle.
‘Why, there’s dust, don’t you see. But it won’t do, working in your pretty gown.’ Jonathan, his coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, was in a practical mood, albeit cheerful. ‘I presume there are kitchen smocks somewhere.’
‘Are you addressing me, sir?’ Annabelle was as haughty as a young lady of Charleston could be.
‘Well, Sammy ain’t present, and I fancy your sister is still outside …’
‘Sir, you all are a bare-faced impertinence,’ breathed Annabelle. ‘One more word and I shall box your ears.’
‘Wouldn’t recommend it,’ said Jonathan, ‘I’m quick to counter. However, I ain’t known to be heavy-handed with young ladies, and it won’t come to more than a light slap on your derriere.’
Annabelle gasped. How could dear and delightful Captain Burnside have delivered her and Caroline into the hands of an oaf? ‘Oh, if I were a man, sir, I should call you out and knock you down,’ she said.
‘Well, you ain’t a man,’ said Jonathan, ‘you’re a pretty young thing with her nose in the air.’ He picked up the pile of folded dust sheets and offered them to her. ‘Could you find a place for these while I see what Sammy and I can do about lighting the kitchen stove?’
‘Mr Carter,’ said Annabelle with delicate aloofness, ‘I am not your paid servant, and I don’t wish to be smothered with dust.’
‘Servants, yes, that’s a point,’ said Jonathan. ‘There’s only Sammy. I put it to you, Miss Howard, he ain’t expected to do all the work, is he?’
‘How should I know? I did not ask to come here. Nor did I ask to be escorted by a creature utterly beastly and boring.’ Annabelle pushed past him and swept out of the cottage to join Caroline at the gate. ‘Caroline, I do declare we are in the hands of a ruffian and a boor, and I vow myself capable of striking him.’
‘Mr Carter?’ Caroline shook herself free of brooding introspection. She smiled. Annabelle had been at odds with their escort from the start, perhaps because he had been far too casual for her liking. ‘Well, perhaps he doesn’t have the same whimsical ways as Captain Burnside, but I think he may prove resolute in our behalf, and one can’t deny he’s a cheerful young man.’
‘He is too vainglorious by half,’ said Annabelle. ‘He expected me to clean and dust, would you believe, and was offensive enough to threaten me with a slap.’
‘He could not have been serious.’ Caroline frowned, wondering if Mr Carter, a crony of Captain Burnside’s, had no more scruples than the captain. ‘Annabelle, isn’t the evening beautiful? Leaving London is not really too bad, though I disliked the reason for coming here.’
‘It’s a ridiculous reason, all to get me away from the Duke of Cumberland,’ said Annabelle. ‘I thought Charles was on my side.’
‘I should hope he wasn’t,’ said Caroline firmly. ‘Come, you know very well by now that Cumberland has no intention of marrying you.’
Annabelle fidgeted. ‘But there’s nothing to do here except sit and look at vegetables. I shall turn into a turnip, and I know I shan’t ever be able to put up with the incivilities of the odious Mr Carter. Why don’t you bring a servant over from Great Wivenden?’
‘Because, sister dear, it is better so.’
‘But who is to cook and clean and dust?’ asked Annabelle in horror.
‘We are, all of us,’ said Caroline, and in truth she did not mind busying herself domestically. It would be an antidote for her restlessness.
Annabelle gave a despairing sigh. ‘We cannot go out, we cannot drive to Great Wivenden or even to the village?’ she said. ‘And I am to cook and clean and dust? I shall die of boredom and peevishness. It would not be so bad if Charles were here. He is such amusing and affectionate company, and would surely never make a kitchen maid of me. Already I am missing him.’
Caroline, the dark auburn tints of her hair enriched by the sun, turned to look at a copper beech. It held her gaze. ‘Charles – Captain Burnside – means more to you now than Cumberland, Annabelle?’ she asked.
Annabelle, who thought the less she said of her feelings concerning Cumberland the better, replied, ‘But, Caroline, you surely do agree Charles is a sweet and exciting man, don’t you?’
‘Is it necessary for me to agree?’ asked Caroline, looking as if she found the magnificent beech somewhat imperfect.
‘I cannot think why you all are so cool towards him,’ said Annabelle, then drew herself up warily as Mr Carter showed himself at the open front door.
‘Beg to report, Your Ladyship,’ he said, ‘that there are no beds made, nor bed linen unpacked. Beg to report also that Sammy has the kitchen stove going, and that boiled potatoes will be served with cold ham for supper. Beg further to report there are mice in the harpsichord, playing tunes.’
‘Mice?’ cried Annabelle, and instinctively clasped close the skirt of her gown. ‘Why do you tell us? Am I to remove them?’
‘Beg to suggest, Miss Howard,’ said Jonathan, ‘that while I take the harpsichord to pieces, you peel the potatoes.’
‘Potatoes? Peel them?’ gasped Annabelle, thinking of what it would do to her hands. ‘Oh, you abominable creature!’
Caroline, smiling, said, ‘As you see, Mr Carter, my sister is not too much in favour of peeling potatoes. But you have made your point. There is work for all of us. Come along, Annabelle, let us see what we can do to help.’
‘I vow myself utterly despairing,’ said Annabelle.
She was sure, as she found herself flicking a duster some minutes later, that in some awful way she had become the victim of a conspiracy, that she had been brought here to keep her away from the duke.
If Annabelle was fretful, Jonathan was cheerful and adaptable, Sammy a willing workhorse, and Caroline a quiet, efficient preparer of the supper, which proved to be somewhat more attractive than mere ham and boiled potatoes.
The high, square house within its perimeter of iron railings showed only ground-floor lights. Captain Burnside, unobtrusively lurking, saw the glimmer of a lamp as the side door opened a little. Outside the front door stood the usual sentry, an infantryman, the butt of his rifle resting on the stone step. Out of the soldier’s sight, Captain Burnside moved to the railings at the side of the house, opened a latched gate and advanced. The side door opened wider, and from around it Betsy peeped, curls frisky under her cap as she bobbed a little curtsey.
‘Oh, there you be, sir,’ she whispered, ‘but I hardly knows what I’m at I’m so beset with quakings.’
Slipping into the passage, Captain Burnside murmured, ‘God’s life, puss, you’ll quake yourself into a quivering jelly one day and get served for supper.’ He quietly closed the door. ‘All is clear, my pretty?’
‘His Highness be out with his officers, sir, but Mr Erzburger be in bed with the colic or summat, and groaning fit to throw his stomach up.’ Betsy’s nervous and very low whisper counselled the utmost caution. ‘But he be a spry listener, so I beg you won’t rummage about nor clump on floors, sir, or we’ll be took in the act. And you best not be no more than five minutes.’
‘Good puss, sweet kitten.’ Captain Burnside patted her shoulder, and Betsy at once snuggled herself up against his, seeking comfort for her quaking bosom. Then she led him up the back staircase, and they both ascended with considerable care and deliberation. He heard only the faint murmur of servants gathered together below stairs. She took him into the secretary’s study, dim with dusk. He turned up the wick of the desk lamp, and its thin streak of light grew to a small flame. Betsy, ears twitching, watched him as he took out the royal diary from a drawer, opened it and leaned over it. She had closed the curtains.
He scanned recent entries quickly, looking for something, anything, that might offer a constructive pointer, although he knew it was highly unlikely he would find positive information. He found nothing at all other than official and innocuous entries concerning engagements. He leafed his way then to the day of 29 July, to take a look at the entry that had interested him before.
What had that entry been?
‘3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K.’
And below it: ‘3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning poss. marriage to Lady CP. Bty and riches.’
That had been in Cumberland’s own hand, and smacked of Cumberland’s own contempt for the eyes of posterity. But was it a contemptuous flourish of his quill, that reference to beauty and riches, or was it to emphasize the subject of the meeting and leave no doubts in the eyes and minds of others?
Captain Burnside found the relevant page.
‘3 p.m. Geo. Pn. from Lady K.’ In Erzburger’s hand.
‘3.30 p.m. Fd, Wm & Ed also. Concerning betrothal to Frederica of M-S.’
The captain peered in astonishment. That entry too was in the secretary’s hand. The former entry was gone, and without any sign of erasure. He ran his hand over the page, feeling it with fingertips. He felt the next page. He could detect no difference, each felt the same as the other. There could be no possible doubt, however, that there had been extraction and substitution, something that could be easily effected by a skilful bookbinder.
‘Sir, oh Lord, be quick,’ breathed Betsy, ‘I be nigh on dying.’
Captain Burnside closed the diary, replaced it and turned down the lamp. Betsy drew back the curtains. Outside, the July dusk had turned into night. The captain stood in silence for a moment. That new page and new entry meant, for a start, that the former entry could be considered never to have existed. It meant, further, that Cumberland assumed Lady Caroline would be a permanent absentee from London and England by 29 July. Perhaps a permanent absentee from life. It also meant Cumberland did not wish to cancel his meeting with his elder brothers. He now intended to place before them his possible marriage to the Duchess Frederica of Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She was his natural choice. Yet he had, perhaps, in his sense of self-omnipotence, considered he could exercise a princely right to choose a commoner. A commoner who was exceptionally uncommon. An American woman, undoubtedly among the most beautiful in London, and undoubtedly rich. It was typical of his darkness that he was now willing to dispose of her because … ah, yes, what was it?
Because of something that now pointed to his meeting with his elder brothers, all of whom stood between him and the throne.
Captain Burnside’s smile was a faint gleam. ‘Come, Betsy,’ he murmured, and in relief Betsy led the way back to the stairs. At the top, she stiffened, then shrank back against him. A handbell was being rung in a vexed, erratic way. She drew a breath. ‘Erzburger?’ he whispered. She nodded. They stayed where they were for the moment, poised to fly to a dark corner for shelter. Although the sound of the repeatedly shaken bell came from a room on the other side of the house, it was penetrating enough to induce caution and stillness. It stopped.
Betsy waited a few seconds, then tiptoed her way down the stairs and reached the passage to the side door in a breathless burst of new relief. There, close to the door, she turned and snuggled herself up to the captain again. ‘Oh, I be shaking to my every bone,’ she breathed.
‘Ah, well, though it’s your every bone,’ he murmured, ‘you shake as deliciously as a peach tree blown by the wind.’
Betsy snuggled her palpitating bosom closer. ‘Oh, I be that gone on you, Mr Burnside, sir—’
‘Hush. No names, puss.’
‘No, sir, but you fair melt me all over, you do. We be meeting on Sunday, like you said?’
‘Sunday it is, Betsy. Ten thirty, outside the Theatre Royal in the Hay Market. Prettiest gown, mind, and your Sunday bonnet.’
‘Oh, my Sunday pantaloons too,’ whispered Betsy ecstatically, ‘they be so pretty, with ribbons and all. It’ll be a loving Sunday? I’ll blush fit to die, sir, but I don’t know how I can hardly say no.’
‘Have no fears, innocent puss. My wife will say no for me as well as for you, and you shan’t spend the day quaking, quivering and blushing.’
Betsy smothered giggles against his shoulder, then lifted her head as he touched her hand. She felt him press a coin into her palm. ‘What be this, sir?’
‘A golden guinea, pussy poppet. You’re a brave partner and a deserving one.’
Delighted, Betsy flung her arms around his neck and kissed him rapturously on the mouth.
‘Betsy! Where are you, wench? I’ll deal thee a thump come you don’t show a quick pair of feet!’ a demanding voice echoed and the echoes rang in the passage.
‘Oh, that be Job Cuffley, second footman,’ whispered Betsy, and opened the door. Captain Burnside slipped out. ‘Sunday, then, sir, and I be all agog already.’
Captain Burnside went on his way, thoughtful on account of the diary, smiling on account of Betsy. She was an endearing puss, and invaluable.
Sammy put his head into the cottage kitchen. His mistress, Lady Caroline, had been astonishing him today. She had set about domestic chores without a single note of fuss, helping to bring a clean and cosy glow to the cottage. Mr Carter had worked with her, while Miss Annabelle had wandered from room to room, trailing a brush and pan, and giving vent to despairing sighs, much to Mr Carter’s amusement. Lady Caroline was now unpacking preserved foodstuffs from a large wicker basket that had travelled with them from London yesterday. She wore a calico white apron to protect her gown, and a white mob cap on her head.
‘Your Ladyship?’
‘Yes, Sammy?’
‘Cap’n Burnside’s a-coming, Your Ladyship. A-coming down the lane, he is, on his tod.’
There was no response from Her Ladyship for a moment. Then, her back to him, she said in a busy way, ‘Really? Captain Burnside? Dear me, are you certain?’
‘Certain positive, Your Ladyship,’ said Sammy. ‘I told Miss Annabelle and she’s gone a-running to meet him.’ Sammy essayed a little grin. ‘She said heaven be praised, Your Ladyship.’
‘Really?’ Her Ladyship sounded offhand. She dipped into the basket and brought out a jar of preserved figs, which she placed on a shelf in the pantry. ‘Thank you, Sammy.’
‘Yes’m,’ said Sammy, and disappeared.
Caroline heard her sister’s laughter then, laughter from the open front door, followed by the sound of Captain Burnside’s voice. ‘Faith, here’s a charming place.’
‘Charming?’ Annabelle made herself heard. ‘But, Charles, it’s so poky. Caroline calls it a cosy retreat, but there’s hardly room to pass each other by, and no room at all to avoid each other. And, oh, I declare, you have burdened us with such an uppity varmint. How could you?’
‘You’re referring to the estimable Jonathan?’ murmured the captain.
‘He is not at all estimable; he’s unfeeling.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the back yard, chopping wood for the kitchen stove.’
‘Back yard?’ said the captain, and Caroline realized Annabelle had yet to understand a back yard was a garden to the English.
‘Yes,’ said Annabelle, ‘and would you believe, he expects me to carry in a basket of logs. And Caroline is in the kitchen, working with pots and pans. Charles, look at my hands. Already they are ruined. Mama would swoon to see them. Oh, but now that you are here, I shall go and change into a fresh gown, then beg you to protect me from that boring bully, Mr Carter. Do go and say hello to Caroline.’
‘Of course. And I’ll acquaint myself with her pots and pans.’
A moment later, the kitchen door, ajar, was pushed open and he came in. His beaver hat was in his hand, his boots a little dusty, his hair a trifle ruffled by the country breeze. His smile arrived in friendly fashion.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Caroline, attempting a casual attitude while putting her back against the pantry door. Alarmingly, she was in need of its support, for her legs felt ridiculously weak. The captain bowed. Faint colour flushed her.
‘Lady Caroline? My compliments. How very domesticated.’
‘I was not sure you would come,’ she said, almost faltering. ‘I am afraid we finished our midday meal some time ago, but if you are at all peckish, there is food you can have. See, do you care for these?’
She turned, hiding her flush, and opened the pantry door. Without knowing exactly what she was doing, she took out the jar of figs. She looked at it, then showed it to him.
‘Figs?’ said Captain Burnside, and regarded her in curiosity, for she was quite unlike her usual composed self. Her lashes were flickering, her eyes looking everywhere except at him, and the jar was actually unsteady in her hand. ‘That’s an extremely kind offer, dear lady, but I ain’t all that partial to preserved figs.’
‘Oh, there are other foodstuffs, I assure you, and can declare all of them to be very palatable. See, the hamper is full of them. Meats in aspic, fruit in syrup, and – and …’ She did falter then.
‘Heavens, are we stocked to endure a siege?’ smiled the captain.
‘Yes. That is, I don’t know.’ Caroline examined the jar of figs, then lifted her eyes to him. ‘Oh, I am so glad to see you.’
‘Are you?’ His curiosity deepened.
‘Yes, of course I am. We have been worried about you, about Cumberland.’
‘Oh, Cumberland’s his usual self, his head high in clouds of self-esteem and feet running with the devil’s. And I’m safe and sound, as you see, having caught a morning stagecoach to Lewes, and a cart to this side of Wychling.’
‘A cart?’
‘Farm wagon. Devilishly bumpy. But I’m delighted that you and Annabelle are safe and sound yourselves, though Annabelle don’t seem too taken with Jonathan.’
Caroline, steadier of limbs now, said, ‘Oh, she has met her match in that young man.’
‘While you are getting the better of the pots and pans?’ Captain Burnside eyed her white cap and apron with a smile. ‘Respectfully, marm, I’m compelled to say you look uncommonly fetching in a mob cap.’
‘Among pots and pans and potatoes, Captain Burnside, one must dress for the part,’ she said. ‘We have no servants except Sammy, which is putting Annabelle into fits of despair. In South Carolina, it’s considered most indelicate for any young lady to do anything for herself.’
‘Every family owns another family, a family of Negro servants?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Annabelle will come round.’ The captain dipped into the hamper and came up with a jar of creamy mussels. He broke the red wax seal with a kitchen knife, prised up the large cork and smelled the contents. Caroline watched as he spooned out mussels and popped them into his mouth. ‘Delicious,’ he said, and sat down at the table with the jar and spoon.
‘Please, if you are hungry,’ said Caroline, ‘I’ll prepare a proper meal for you.’
‘We ain’t come down to having you set a table,’ said Captain Burnside. ‘No, not the thing at all.’
‘But without servants, we are all doing something. Do you think I could not set a table?’
‘I ain’t allowing it,’ said Captain Burnside, eating mussels.
The challenging light appeared in Caroline’s eyes. ‘I declare you out of order, sir.’
‘Marm, you may declare night is day, but I still ain’t allowing you to set tables.’
‘Captain Burnside, if I will, I will, and there is no more to be said on the subject. And please do not call me marm.’
‘Your Ladyship—’
‘Nor that,’ she said. ‘We are surely friends now, aren’t we? And there is some good in you, I know there is. So you may call me Caroline.’
‘No, it won’t do,’ said the captain, ‘except in front of Annabelle, or your friends. It would never do to become familiar with a patron. No, it shall be businesslike between us all the way, and when all is over, done and settled, marm, I shall depart in the agreed fashion, taking no advantage of Annabelle – and you, I hope, will be free of problems and worries, though lighter of two fifty guineas and expenses.’
Caroline stared down at him, appalled by such unfeeling matter-of-factness. ‘Captain Burnside, I can scarcely believe my ears,’ she said. ‘I have never required our relationship to be as businesslike as that.’
‘Marm, I fancy you made it clear at the beginning, which was wise and sensible of you.’
Caroline made an angry gesture. ‘Will you stop calling me marm?’ she breathed. ‘I detest the word, it is unctuous and unappealing. The beginning is irrelevant. It is the present that counts. Oh, I vow you a miserable and difficult man to put me in such annoyance and irritation with you, for you know very well things have changed. I won’t have you speak of being businesslike, no, sir, I will not. Was it businesslike to dance as you did at the ball with Annabelle, and make it such a joyful and exhilarating occasion for her?’
‘Surely, dear lady,’ said Captain Burnside, frowning at the mussels, ‘that was only as I was required to.’
‘Oh, you wretched man, was it also required of you to stand up with me in the cotillion? Was that an act of business you felt obliged to effect?’
‘That, Your Ladyship, was perfection, but it still won’t do, d’you see, for a patron to offer more than the terms of the contract.’
‘Oh!’ Caroline’s be-aproned bosom surged in an excess of stormy emotion. ‘Go about being miserably businesslike, then, for if you have no friendly regard for Annabelle and me I shall return to London, taking her with me, and Cumberland may do his worst!’
Captain Burnside stood up. ‘Cumberland will,’ he said, ‘so you shan’t.’
‘Shan’t?’ Caroline was fiercely glad he was on his feet. On his feet, he was easier to challenge, better to confront, to stand up to. ‘Who are you, sir, to say what I shall or shan’t do?’
‘Lady Caroline,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s no use your stamping your foot and waving your arms about, for you ain’t going back to London, and that’s flat.’
Electrified into incensed action, Caroline did what she had done before. She slapped his face. She had to, or else feel reduced to a spiritless creature only able to say yes or no to him.
Captain Burnside received the slap with frank surprise. ‘Damn me,’ he said.
‘Yes, you may well be damned, Captain Burnside, for your miserable lack of simple affection and your provoking excess of outrageous impertinence.’
‘Simple affection?’ he said, rubbing his tingling jaw.
‘Yes!’ Caroline was beside herself, and the more so because her angry emotions did not make sense. But there it was, she was unbearably wounded by his declared intention to depart and disappear once the venture was over. ‘Annabelle has been sweet to you and sung your praises to our friends, and I have taken your welfare to my heart, worrying myself dreadfully that you may end up being hanged or transported. We have both earned some little affection, and it is of all things hateful of you to speak so coldly and unfeelingly.’
‘Oh, ye gods,’ said Captain Burnside, and eyed her in utter consternation, for his proud and magnificent patron was in stormy upset. ‘May the devil himself claim me if I’ve offended you. Marm – Caroline – not for the world would I consciously do so.’ In his contrition he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘I beg your sweet forgiveness.’
Caroline, head bent, eyes hidden, said unsteadily, ‘I will forgive you if you will promise never again to suggest Annabelle and I cannot be your friends. And you must also promise to give the most serious consideration to letting me help you live an honest and commendable life. It is in you to live very commendably instead of wasting your talents.’
‘Well, I shall even consider taking a rosy-cheeked Sussex wife,’ said the captain quite earnestly, at which she cast a shocked look at him. What was he about now in speaking of wedding a simple country girl? Such a wife would never do for him. Then she remembered it had been her own suggestion. How could she have been so absurd?
‘You may consider that,’ she said, ‘but need not promise.’
‘Then I shan’t,’ he said with a smile, ‘for if I did I’d be committed, and it ain’t quite the sort of thing on which to commit oneself. Now, may I hope you’ll forget what you said about returning to London? I don’t wish to be guilty of further impertinence, which I will be if you don’t reconsider, for you can take it from me I ain’t going to let you go, nor Annabelle.’
Caroline said in a low voice, ‘I have been graceless again. You have come all this way to see if we are safe and sound, and I have only given you a quarrel.’
‘Oh, a few spirited words,’ he said, ‘and there were also some excellent mussels.’
Caroline smiled then, although a little uncertainly. She could not make head nor tail of her recent emotions and tempers, nor why he aroused them so quickly in her.
Annabelle reappeared, wearing a fresh gown of blue, her face newly powdered. ‘Caroline, isn’t it all of a pleasure to have Charles here?’ Her blue eyes sparkled. It dismayed Caroline intensely, the certainty that Captain Burnside had succeeded with her sister. ‘It isn’t nearly so boring now,’ said Annabelle. ‘All the same – oh!’ The door bumped her back as it was pushed open by a basket of logs. The basket preceded Jonathan, who was carrying it. ‘Oh, you unmannerly brute,’ cried Annabelle, ‘must you throw doors bruisingly open?’
‘Humble apologies, my infant,’ said Jonathan cheerfully.
‘Infant?’ gasped Annabelle.
‘So sorry,’ said Jonathan. He placed the basket down on the stone hearth of the stove. In his shirtsleeves and minus his cravat, his hair damp at the roots, he looked warm from the sun and from the toil of splitting logs. ‘I trust you ain’t uncommonly bruised, Miss Howard? Beg to say hello, Charles.’
‘H’m,’ said Captain Burnside.
‘I shall discover myself black and blue,’ declared Annabelle hotly. ‘Charles, see what a ruffian you have attached to us. Oh, I meant to ask you, have you come to take us back to London?’
‘No, he ain’t,’ said Jonathan, ‘it can’t be done.’
‘I was not addressing you, Mr Carter,’ said Annabelle, and looked proudly pretty in her haughtiness.
‘It still can’t be done,’ said Jonathan.
‘Well, it’s true it wouldn’t be wise to return yet,’ said Captain Burnside, and Caroline thought how cool and collected he always was. Such redoubtable assets for a man of his kind. Oh, why did he have to be a trickster?
‘But, Charles,’ protested Annabelle, ‘I’m sure the Duke of Cumberland can’t be a danger to us. I’m sure you are wrong about him, sweet though you are.’
‘Bless us,’ said Jonathan, ‘is my hearing faulty? Sweet, did you say, Miss Howard?’
‘Captain Burnside is a gentleman, sir, which you are not,’ said Annabelle.
‘Well, I ain’t sweet, and that’s a fact,’ said Jonathan. He looked at Captain Burnside. ‘Sweet, oh Lord,’ he said, and laughed.
‘Kindly go away,’ said Annabelle.
‘Shall we go together?’ suggested Jonathan. ‘Will you come and help me split logs?’
‘Oh, I declare! You all will provoke me into flying back to London.’
‘In which case,’ said Jonathan, ‘I’d have to fly after you and carry you back here. Orders from Charles, don’t you see. He ain’t quite as sweet as all that.’ And Jonathan departed whistling.
‘I vow I shall scratch that creature’s eyes out,’ breathed Annabelle.
Caroline said to the captain, ‘You have given Mr Carter orders to restrain Annabelle forcibly in certain circumstances?’
‘Caroline, such a question,’ said Annabelle. ‘Charles would never allow anyone to lay rough hands on me, would you, Charles?’
‘Ah,’ said Captain Burnside and made a critical inspection of pots and pans.
‘And did such orders embrace me?’ asked Caroline.
The captain, studying an iron pot as if it were grievously suspect, cleared his throat and murmured, ‘Do excuse me while I look around.’ His exit from the kitchen was effected smoothly.
‘Mercy me,’ laughed Annabelle, ‘I do believe he has elected to be stern and masterful.’
‘Your sweet gentleman has only elected to be evasive, sister,’ said Caroline.
‘Yes, he isn’t at all like your agreeable Mr Wingrove,’ said Annabelle, and eyed Caroline a little teasingly. ‘He would surely make a delicious husband, don’t you think so?’
‘For whom?’ asked Caroline, resuming her unpacking of the food basket.
‘Why, dearest, for you, of course.’
‘That is not very amusing,’ said Caroline.
‘Then for me,’ smiled Annabelle, and Caroline thought that even less amusing.