It was midnight, and the villages of England were asleep. Sussex lay quiet. Sammy, however, was awake. He was on a four-hour watch until two in the morning. Captain Burnside had spoken to him and Mr Carter, and Sammy had offered his services. He patrolled up and down, and round and about. The moon, a bright crescent, cast silver light. Captain Burnside had said that if any unpleasant characters turned up, it would probably be at a time when they might expect the occupants of the cottage to be asleep and unprepared. So Sammy, willing and conscientious, was keeping watch.
Caroline was also awake. She simply could not get to sleep, cosy though the room and the bed were. She was in emotional turmoil, the impossible making its claim on her mind and restlessness afflicting her body. At times she felt almost feverish. She knew herself to be physically healthy. Too healthy. It was nearly six years since she had denied Clarence access to her bed. Now her feelings appalled her. She wanted to, she needed to, lie in the arms of a man. Not any man. A particular man, a singular man, a man of such dubious activities that one could only pray for him.
In dreadful dismay at her longings, she turned on to her stomach, buried her face in the feather pillow and even bit on it. Oh, dear heaven, how wretchedly true it was, the weakness some women had for scoundrels and adventurers. Clarence had been a degenerate scoundrel, and Captain Burnside was a philandering adventurer. But she knew now why she had worried about him, why she had come to hate the thought of Annabelle in his arms, and why she had been so wishful to reform him.
She must conquer her weakness, she must. She did not doubt that, given the encouragement, he would marry her for her money and make her as unhappy in the end as Clarence had. She turned again and sat up, her silk nightgown slipping off her shoulders. She was thirsty. There was water in a large terracotta pot in the kitchen. The coolness of the container and its contents, crystal-clear spring water, drew her from the bed. On her bare feet she left the bedroom. Annabelle did not stir. The cottage was quiet, and filtering moonlight saw her safely down the narrow stairs. Her bare feet moved over the polished boards of the passage, and she entered the kitchen. There, a brass oil lamp gave light. She took a pewter drinking mug from the dresser, lifted the lid of the water vessel and dipped the mug. She drank deeply. The water still had a sweet, refreshing coolness to it.
‘Stay quite still, whoever you are – oh, ye gods, Caroline?’
She dropped the mug in startled fright. It fell with a splash into the container, the lid of which was still in her left hand. She turned. Captain Burnside, in shirt and breeches, regarded her like a man mesmerized. The light of the all-night lamp bathed her face, neck and shoulders. Her splendid body was a pale, shimmering shape amid the silken delicacy of her nightgown. She was as much mesmerized as he was, though her limbs were trembling and her blood rushing, wayward and burning. She put a hand to her throat. Other than that, she could not move. And he, it seemed, could find none of his ready words.
She felt the lamplight was uncovering her. Her whole body trembled, causing the lightest of ripples to disturb her nightgown.
‘I – Captain Burnside, I beg you.’ Her voice was a strained huskiness.
He came to. He turned his glance aside from the revealing silk. ‘So sorry,’ he said, ‘but I was on the couch in the living room and heard a noise.’
‘Yes. I came down for water. I was dreadfully thirsty.’ Emotion shortened the lingering vowels of South Carolina. ‘I am sorry to have disturbed you. I did not know you had chosen to sleep in the living room.’
‘A precautionary measure, marm.’
Marm. That stupid appellation. So discouraging of friendship. Did he want nothing from her except, perhaps, her fortune? He even had his back to her now. It was true, because she felt the light was disrobing her, that she had made the plea of modesty. Now, made perverse by her wayward blood, she wanted him to look at her. No, what was she thinking of? There must be no encouragement, none, for if he touched as well as looked, she would lose her head.
With an effort, she said, ‘I do not think precautionary measures at all necessary – I think your fears and suspicions exaggerated.’
‘I am beginning to think so myself. But I’ll stay in the living room. Meanwhile, go back to bed.’ He was curt, brusque. He had never been so before. It should have helped her in her intention to conquer her weakness, but it was no help at all. It wounded her.
‘I will go when I will; I will not be told,’ she breathed, and still he kept his back to her.
‘Well, you are your own mistress,’ he said.
‘And you would always rather quarrel with me than not!’
He swung round, and it wounded her again, unbearably, to see how stiff and unyielding he was.
‘You are well aware,’ he said, ‘that I can’t command the privilege of either quarrelling with you or equating myself with you. If I—’ He broke off, his uncharacteristic harshness falling helplessly from him in the face of her revealing, night-clad splendour. She was wholly the woman, the white silk bestowing lustre to the visible glimmer of her body. The moment was fraught with impossibility in what it demanded of the man. It demanded the self-denial of a saint. What did it demand of the woman? A gesture that would save him from committing the unpardonable, a simple, quick retreat that would remove her from his eyes. But she made no gesture, none at all. She stood before him, as if compulsively inviting the unpardonable, her limbs trembling again. He made an effort by saying in a strained whisper, ‘God help you, Lady Caroline, and God help me too if you don’t go up to bed.’
Faintly she breathed, ‘Have you no affection—’
‘Cap’n Burnside?’ The momentous interruption came from outside the back door. It was Sammy’s voice.
Caroline gasped, and she did move then, just as the door began to open. She fled from the kitchen. Sammy looked in. He saw Captain Burnside.
‘Sammy?’ The captain forced himself out of his own emotional turmoil.
‘Oh, it ain’t no alarm bells, guv’nor, except there’s a tinker. Comes here reg’lar, he says, and sleeps in the stables and gets fed in the mornings. I thought best you know, sir.’
‘Yes, best I do, Sammy, and I’ll come and inspect the gentleman.’
‘In case he ain’t a tinker?’ said Sammy. ‘Well, I ain’t seen one more like. Hairy as an old goat, he is, with a cart full of tin kettles and suchlike, and smelling of onions, guv’nor.’
Even so, Captain Burnside went to inspect the itinerant pedlar. Satisfied, he returned to the cottage. He retrieved the pewter mug from the water container. He took a drink himself, to ease the dryness of his throat. Images danced in the lamplight.
‘Here is the lid, Captain Burnside.’ The warm voice of South Carolina reached his startled ears. The voice was calmer, softer. Caroline was unable, quite unable, to go back to her bed without trying to ease the tension between herself and him.
‘Oh, my God,’ he breathed, and turned, expecting to see an irresistible vision again. But she had put her cloak on, and there was even a slight smile on her face. Her hair, unbound, was a tumbling, fiery cloud. In her hand was the lid of the terracotta container.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, and he had no idea how much it had cost her to reduce her emotions to a controllable level.
He took the lid from her and replaced it. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
‘I declare myself to be the one at fault,’ she said. ‘If either of us was quarrelsome, it was I. Please forgive me.’
His look was rueful, as if he felt her too beautiful for her own good, which she nearly had been. He chose a safe, self-calming rejoinder. ‘You aren’t at fault,’ he said. ‘By the way, you’ve a guest in your stables. A tinker. You’re expected to supply him with breakfast. That, it seems, has been the custom.’
‘He need not fear we shall break it,’ she said. ‘What would England’s countryside be without its tinkers?’ Needing to re-establish the singular nature of their relationship, she went on lightly, ‘Are you sure he’s a tinker? Are you sure he isn’t Cumberland?’
Captain Burnside recognized her own kind of raillery. Much to her relief, he laughed. ‘Whatever else he might do, Cumberland ain’t the man to dress himself in a patched coat and ragged breeches that smell of onions, nor sport enough hair to stuff a pillow.’
Caroline’s responsive laugh was born of her relief. ‘When all is over, when Cumberland is no longer in fits at us for one reason or another, we – you and I – need not be such bad friends, do you think?’ she said, still keeping to a light note.
‘Assure you, I ain’t ever parted from any patron on unfriendly terms.’
‘You should not speak of parting from Annabelle and me.’
‘Your Ladyship—’
‘I won’t allow it. Nor will Annabelle.’ The challenging note was back. ‘And I am not Your Ladyship. I am your friend. I shall go back to my bed now.’
She went. Her resolve to keep herself at a distance from him, to fight her weakness, had had no more substance than a dry and withered straw.
The rest of the night was without incident. The morning brought clouds and a touch of humidity. Captain Burnside reflected on the possibility that Lady Caroline had not been wrong in her conviction that Cumberland, for all his majestic indifference to people, Parliament and certain laws, would not go so far as to have her and Annabelle silenced by an act of murder. And why should he? It would be Annabelle’s word against his, and there was no certainty Annabelle would testify against him. Even if she did, she could not name her sister, or anyone else, as a witness. Her word would never stand up against Cumberland’s in the event of an official inquiry into incidents planned to take place on 29 July. And since those incidents were not going to be quite as planned, an inquiry was doubtful. Cumberland did not know that. But he did know Annabelle could never be as convincing as himself. Perhaps those masked horsemen had related in no way to Cumberland’s machinations.
Captain Burnside wondered if he had not made somewhat of a fool of himself, in which case he must blame his emotive weakness for overturning his reasoning. Wryly, he conceded a man in love was not a man of cold logic. His first thought, his only thought, had been to contrive the removal of Annabelle and Lady Caroline from the immediate reach of Cumberland.
He stopped pacing the garden and entered the kitchen by the back door. The aroma of frying ham had a delicious effect on his sense of smell. The large iron pan was on the stove. In it were sizzling slices of ham and thick round pats. Lady Caroline was turning the ham with a long frying fork. Her kitchen smock guarded her gown. Jonathan was making coffee. Annabelle entered from the living room, having just finished laying the table.
Captain Burnside gave Jonathan a testy look.
‘Don’t blame me,’ said Jonathan. ‘Her Ladyship had a stand-up with me, and I lost.’
‘It is my kitchen,’ said Caroline, who had decided her relationship with the captain was at its most enjoyable when she stood up for herself.
‘Jonathan,’ said the captain, ‘you’re required to see to it that Lady Caroline don’t wait on us.’
‘Well,’ said Jonathan, ‘I ain’t supposing—’
‘Captain Burnside,’ said Caroline, ‘kindly don’t interfere. Breakfast is almost ready and you may take your place at the table.’
‘Mercy me,’ said Annabelle, ‘we are going to have such a trying day, Charles. Caroline is in a haughty mood.’
Captain Burnside let a smile come and go. He peered at the contents of the frying pan. He took up a fork and poked one of the round pats. ‘What, may I ask, are these?’
‘Go away,’ said Caroline, and lightly rapped his knuckles with the frying fork. She had enjoyed a beautiful sleep after going back to bed, and she had woken with a feeling of sweet determination. Captain Burnside must be reformed. And he must be made to fall in love with her. She would not let emotion weaken her, but proceed calmly along the path to success, matching his impertinences in her own kind of way. ‘These are American browns,’ she said.
‘Potato pats,’ said Jonathan. The pats were crisply browning on either side.
‘There, ready,’ said Caroline. ‘Who is going to take breakfast to Sammy and the tinker?’ Plates sat warming on the stove. She filled the top one with ham and browns. Jonathan took it up. She filled another.
Jonathan offered both plates to Annabelle. ‘There, my girl, you take ’em while I finish making the coffee.’
Incensed, Annabelle cried, ‘Oh, I cannot believe this. Do you hear him, Charles? Do this, do that, and calling me girl … Where did you find such a coarse, common creature?’
‘Come, Miss Howard,’ said Jonathan briskly, ‘it ain’t much to ask.’
‘I shan’t, I won’t,’ said Annabelle. ‘Why, you beast, you know that Sammy says the tinker has fleas.’
‘I’ll take them,’ said Captain Burnside, and relieved Jonathan of the filled plates.
When he returned, the others were sitting at the table, breakfasts in front of them.
‘I will get yours, Charles,’ said Annabelle, and came to her feet in sweet willingness.
‘Captain Burnside is quite capable,’ said Caroline.
‘Yes, sit down, sweet girl,’ said the captain, and fetched his breakfast.
The ham was delicious, the crisp-sided potato pats equally so. Caroline accepted all compliments graciously.
‘After breakfast,’ she said, ‘we shall go to Great Wivenden.’
‘Shall we?’ asked Jonathan.
‘You need not come,’ said Annabelle, ‘you can help the tinker mend kettles and catch his fleas.’
‘That won’t do, he’ll pass them on to us,’ said the captain.
‘Oh, is there nothing the horrid varmint wouldn’t do to us?’ said Annabelle.
‘I ain’t any more partial to fleas than you, Miss Howard,’ said Jonathan, ‘though I dare say you’d be a plumper meal than I would.’
Annabelle gasped a muffled little shriek of outrage. ‘Oh, you all are lower than a snake!’ she cried.
‘Mr Carter, don’t tease her so,’ said Caroline.
‘Great Wivenden?’ mused Captain Burnside.
‘Yes,’ said Caroline. ‘I have decided that, as we’re so close, you and Mr Carter may come and look at my house. And it is no use your arguing.’
‘I’m entirely happy about it,’ said the captain, ‘and will agree to a return to London tomorrow.’
‘Oh, you are a dear man, and should be kissed,’ said Annabelle.
‘Not by me,’ said Jonathan. ‘He ain’t at all kissable in my eyes.’
‘No one, sir, is interested in your opinions,’ said Annabelle. ‘I vow you are at your most bearable when you are dumb.’
‘Ain’t she a pretty wag?’ said Jonathan to the coffee pot.
The clouds were breaking apart, and shafts of sunshine warmed the stone bulwarks of the manor house. Caroline and Annabelle stood on the paved terrace with Captain Burnside and Jonathan. Steps led down from the terrace to the lawns and gardens. Beyond stretched the broad vista of the parkland, prolific in places with mighty oaks, copper beeches and stately poplars. In the distance rose the undulating slopes of the Downs.
‘I do declare, God has given us a beautiful world,’ said Annabelle, always affected by the unspoiled enchantment of Great Wivenden’s vistas and landscapes. ‘Could anything be lovelier?’
‘Well,’ said Jonathan, never lacking in cheerful boldness, ‘I fancy God ain’t above being proud of Lady Caroline, and nor ain’t you less than pretty, my infant.’
‘Infant?’ Annabelle seethed. Jonathan smiled. She did look pretty, ravishingly so in her gown and bonnet. But her blue eyes gave him angry contempt. ‘Sir, be so good as not to address me,’ she said.
‘Oh, silence don’t signify,’ he said; ‘it don’t alter the facts.’
Caroline smiled. She glanced at Captain Burnside. He was taking in the soft magnificence of the greens, all changing their tints so swiftly as racing clouds continually edged the sun. He had been unusually quiet, as if Great Wivenden was having a sobering effect on him. Was she making a mistake? Did he feel she was in conceit of herself by showing him that all this belonged to her? But would that not appeal to his acquisitive nature, her wealth of ownership? Was it not something he would marry her for, in his calculating way? Dear heaven, she did not want that.
He had not been quite his usual debonair self since last night. Last night. The sun caught her and cast warmth over her, but her thoughts brought little shivers.
‘You would like to see the house, Jonathan, wouldn’t you?’ she said. ‘And you too, Captain Burnside?’
Goodness, thought Annabelle, how odd she is, calling the odious Mr Carter by his first name and still calling our entertaining Charles nothing but Captain Burnside. How strange was this old friendship of theirs.
The interior of the house was altogether imposing, yet had the distinct appeal of being warm and welcoming. A multitude of windows allowed the light to dance in every room, brightening the colours of tapestries, carpets and pictures. As for the pictures, there were so many that the beautiful main hall, the dining room, the private reception room and the two drawing rooms had the entrancing look of furnished galleries.
On the ground floor, the steward, John Forbes, had his office. Caroline introduced him to her visitors. Jonathan shook his hand breezily. Captain Burnside did so with a reminiscent smile. ‘I am, as you see, a friend,’ he said.
‘I was in no doubt by the time you left me,’ said Mr Forbes.
Coming out of the office a few minutes later, Jonathan said, ‘Shall we look at the kitchen?’
‘Kitchens,’ said Annabelle. ‘Cooking kitchen, dairy kitchen, meat kitchen, fish kitchen, and so on. I declare you’ll be at home there. The servants will show you where the potatoes are stored, and the turnips. I shan’t come, unless Charles wishes to meet Caroline’s cook and kitchen boy.’
‘Well, I’ll take you, all the same,’ said Jonathan, ‘if Lady Caroline don’t mind.’
‘I find it distinctly intriguing to have a gentleman interest himself in kitchens,’ said Caroline.
‘Charles has expressed no interest,’ said Annabelle, ‘and he’s the only gentleman present.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Mr Carter won’t disgrace himself, so do go with him,’ said Caroline, ‘while I show Captain Burnside the library.’
‘There, come along, Miss Howard,’ said Jonathan. It was in his mind to give Lady Caroline and the captain a little time together. ‘Lead the way, my infant.’
‘Oh, I shall box your ears again in a moment,’ said Annabelle. ‘And I am not interested in the kitchens.’
‘Well, you should be,’ said Jonathan. ‘Prettiness alone ain’t going to be enough when you’re some gentleman’s wife. You’ll have to know how to run the household. Come along now.’
‘Oh, you wretched thing,’ said Annabelle, but Jonathan took her by the hand and she perforce went with him.
Caroline took Captain Burnside to the splendid library. He looked around in silence.
‘I am sorry if Great Wivenden does not impress you,’ she said.
‘I can’t recall saying so,’ murmured the captain.
‘Your silence, sir, is quite sufficient.’
‘My silence, marm, is a homage. What can be said about beauty and splendour that can’t be better expressed by reverential silence?’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Caroline.
‘Assure you, marm—’
‘If, sir, you still persist in calling me marm, I shall have Mr Forbes and two gardeners lock you in the estate stocks and throw bad eggs at you. I shall throw some myself. I am Caroline, and you shall call me so. What must my sister think that you don’t?’
‘Faith, I ain’t supposing Annabelle gives it any thought.’
‘Oh, yes, Annabelle …’ Caroline took her bonnet off and let the light fire her hair. ‘See what you have done for her. She rarely mentions Cumberland now. I declare myself entirely satisfied with your accomplishment, and the moment we return to London you shall be paid all you have earned.’
Captain Burnside grimaced. ‘It ain’t a pressing matter,’ he said.
‘It must be very pressing to a penniless man,’ said Caroline firmly, watching him as he inspected the spines of several weighty-looking tomes. She moved closer to him. ‘Are you distressingly penniless?’
‘Marm—’
‘Do you wish me to strike you, sir?’
‘Caroline—’
‘There, that did not hurt, did it? You should not be so proud.’
‘It ain’t pride,’ said the captain, keeping his eyes off her, ‘it’s principles.’
‘I won’t allow them,’ said Caroline.
‘Them?’
‘Principles. Not your kind. They are a ridiculous nonsense.’
‘No, they ain’t, they’re necessary,’ said the captain, examining titles, his top hat in his hand. He found it better not to look at her.
‘I should hope, sir, that our friendship is not to suffer the continual pinpricks of your tendency always to argue with me.’
‘God forgive me if I ever do. It ain’t the thing at all, arguing with a patron. It’s a principle of mine not to, nor to be familiar.’
‘Why, you deplorable villain,’ said Caroline, ‘you have subjected me to a hundred familiarities.’
Captain Burnside coughed. ‘Only, you might say, in the exercise of my accepted role,’ he said. ‘Heaven forbid, Your Ladyship, that I should ever, in normal and conventional circumstances, offend you with even the smallest familiarities.’
Delight danced in her eyes. Oh, was there any more adorable man? All his sins were insignificant compared with Clarence’s heinous aberrations. They were all forgivable. Oh, that he might turn over a new leaf and give up all scheming and philandering.
‘I forgive you your absurd principles,’ she said. ‘I am a sweet-natured woman, as you have no doubt noticed. In my sweetness, and in my gratitude for what you have done, I am utterly determined to help you, despite yourself.’
‘Oh, ye angels,’ sighed the captain.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘Ah, a passing comment of no significance.’
‘Caroline.’
‘A passing comment of no significance, Caroline,’ he said, and her eyes swam with laughter and love.
‘There, we have come to sincere friendship, though I fear it may still be some time before I can cure you of your provoking moments. Tell me truthfully, do you like Great Wivenden?’
‘One can’t merely like such an estate, one can only stand in silence and worship,’ observed the captain, who had still not taken his eyes off the library shelves.
‘Worship?’ enquired Caroline.
‘I’ve a romantic nature, Your Ladyship …’
‘Romantic? Can it be true of a deceiver of innocents?’
‘Oh, I am touched and affected by beauty, Caroline.’
‘Well, I declare,’ said Caroline, vastly amused.
‘Merely to like is to be a Philistine. What man owning any kind of discrimination could merely like the magnificent Alps, the English Lakes, a purple sunset or a beautiful woman?’
‘I have never heard of any man worshipping a purple sunset,’ said Caroline. ‘A beautiful woman, yes, he might worship her. How many have you worshipped recently?’
‘Recently,’ he said, ‘I’ve had pressing business to attend to.’
‘Yes, mostly my business. And thank you, Captain Burnside, for attending to it so efficiently. But that, of course, is the last of any such business. I am glad you agree on that.’
‘I don’t recall—’
‘Please don’t interrupt, or I shall lose my way. Now, you have formally met my steward, Mr John Forbes. He is one of England’s sturdiest and finest yeomen, and I am sure you cannot help but like him. That will make things very pleasant for you, liking him, and I am convinced your many talents will stand you in good stead as his assistant.’
‘Oh, the Lord Harry,’ sighed Captain Burnside, ‘and have you also determined which of your rosy-cheeked dairymaids I’m to marry?’
‘Marry? A dairymaid? Don’t be absurd. Really, whatever put such a foolish idea into your mind?’ Caroline, wholly aware of his refusal to look at her, or even glance at her, felt the moment could not be more delicious. ‘When we return to London, please favour me by winding up any little dubious business affairs you may have on hand. I shall be happy to reimburse you for any losses this might incur. You will need funds in order to equip yourself with suitable country clothes. Silk cravats and pearl-buttoned waistcoats won’t do at all. I shall be here most of the time to give you advice and encouragement.’
‘Oh, ye gods,’ said Captain Burnside.
‘Was that another comment of no significance, sir?’
‘It was a cry for help.’
‘But as I have just said, I shall give you help in the way of advice and encouragement. Because I know you have many good points, I shall spare no effort in assisting you to become an honest and industrious citizen of our lovely England. I have decided to take up residence here, at Great Wivenden, and visit my house in London only occasionally. So if becoming honest and industrious presents difficult moments for you at times, I shall be here for you to turn to, and I shall never be less than sympathetic.’
Oh, his expression. It was one of utter helplessness. Caroline hugged her exultation.
‘Your Most Gracious Ladyship—’
‘Please don’t thank me,’ she said. ‘I could not do less for you when you have done so much for me. Why, with your abilities, I can envisage you stepping into my steward’s shoes when he retires in a few years. I vow my faith in you is all it could be.’
‘Beg to point out—’
‘Also, I have decided I must marry again.’ In her exultation, Caroline was sweetly relentless. ‘Great Wivenden is a place for a husband, wife and children.’
‘I fancy so,’ said Captain Burnside, and frowned at a biography of Julius Caesar.
‘I am still only twenty-three,’ she said, taking off a year or two.
‘Ye gods, you married as a tender young girl?’
‘I married in mistake, sir.’
‘Then I earnestly hope your new choice won’t be another mistake,’ said the frowning captain. ‘Mr Wingrove springs to my mind as a faultless prospect, though it ain’t for me to name names. But if you care for my advice …?’
‘I don’t care for that advice at all,’ said Caroline. ‘Mr Wingrove? Really. Do you wish me to live in faultless boredom?’
‘Since I own a fair line in boring patter myself, I ain’t in any position to cast doubt on Mr Wingrove’s ability to be entertaining.’
‘Heavens, are my ears deceiving me?’ said Caroline. She could have stayed in conversation with her delicious love all day, all week, all month, all year. For ever. ‘I declare that what you own, sir, is a singular line in taradiddle.’
‘I ain’t denying you’ve a healthy American awareness of English taradiddle,’ he said.
‘Nor should you,’ said Caroline. ‘I own I am sharp to spot it, and have had cause to accuse you countless times. I am acutely perceptive of nonsense, piffle and taradiddle, especially yours.’
Looking pained, Captain Burnside said, ‘I’m unacquainted with piffle, madam.’
‘Madam yourself, sir. And you’re not unacquainted at all. Your piffle is of the highest quality. But no one could say it was boring. And I shall not marry Mr Wingrove. There is Cumberland, of course …’
‘What?’ Captain Burnside looked her in the face at last, his expression glowering. Caroline tingled. ‘Mr Wingrove, yes. Cumberland, no.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Cumberland, never. I ain’t going to allow that.’
‘Friends should not get above themselves, Captain Burnside. I am not to be told what man I may have and what man I may not.’
‘You ain’t going to marry Cumberland, except over my dead body, and you can take that as final and unalterable from your most respectful friend.’
‘Heavens, such arrogance,’ said Caroline, and her most respectful friend looked positively grim. She smiled sweetly. ‘You must know I shall marry by my own dictates, sir, not yours.’
‘Damn all my patience if I don’t end up putting you over my knees.’
Her eyes locked with his. Heavens, he meant it.
‘Attempt it, sir, and I will scratch your eyes out,’ said Caroline, tingling with rapture at the sparks that were flying.
He sighed. ‘Then I beg you’ll dismiss Cumberland from your list,’ he said.
‘Ridiculous man, do you think I would ever seriously consider Cumberland? I have told you I never would. I shall choose an adorable husband, one who can make me laugh, tease me into tantrums and love me for myself.’
Captain Burnside scrutinized her. ‘Then you can choose from the whole of London,’ he said, ‘for I don’t doubt the whole of London loves you for yourself.’
She examined her gloved hands. ‘The whole of London, Captain Burnside?’
‘From which I hope you’ll choose the best and most deserving man,’ he said.
‘The whole of London?’ she reiterated.
‘Oh, gentlemen and beggars, merchants and princes,’ he said.
‘And ruffians and blackguards?’
That visibly startled him. ‘They won’t offer a worthy choice,’ he said.
‘But you will allow me to make up my own mind?’ she said.
‘No, not if it points you at the wrong man. I admire you too much, marm, to let you—’
‘Caroline. Must I keep reminding you?’
‘Damn it, I can’t forsake all my principles.’
‘I thought, sir, we had already dismissed your principles as fiddlesticks.’
Downstairs, in the main kitchen, Jonathan examined a long copper cooking pot. ‘That, Miss Howard, is for steaming a fish, a fine salmon, say.’
‘How boring,’ said Annabelle.
‘Now, now,’ said Jonathan amiably, ‘food ain’t boring, nor are the ways of cooking it.’
‘Oh, tush,’ said Annabelle.
‘It ain’t wise for a young lady to come ignorant to marriage,’ said Jonathan, his cheerfulness undaunted by all rebuffs.
‘Precocious and detestable beast, do you think I wish to marry a kitchen?’ said Annabelle. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I like food,’ said Jonathan, ‘don’t you?’
‘I do not gobble,’ said Annabelle, fidgeting.
‘Or wine?’
‘Nor do I guzzle,’ said Annabelle.
Jonathan laughed. From the other side of the kitchen, Mrs Hetty Simmons, the well-upholstered cook, smiled at the young couple. Miss Annabelle had found herself a very amiable gentleman, although she was playing him up a bit. Usually, whenever she appeared at Great Wivenden, she was sweetly engaging. Such a pity she and Lady Caroline did not come more often. Most of the time one was only cooking for the permanent staff. Lady Caroline was an exceptionally gracious lady, even if she was American. She had more style than some English duchesses.
‘Do you know what that is?’ asked Jonathan.
Annabelle regarded a peculiar-looking machine with the mystification of a young lady who had rarely entered a kitchen. ‘Oh, do, I pray, inform my ignorance,’ she said.
‘Well, in the first place, it’s a singularly secretive device,’ said Jonathan confidentially. ‘It ain’t every household that owns one. Come closer. I don’t want to shout.’
Annabelle, warm body gowned in muslin, kept her distance. ‘Oh, you are so boring,’ she said, ‘and who cares what the thing is?’
‘Who cares? Well, you should, because if I bundled you into it and turned that handle, you’d come out as mincemeat. But keep it to yourself, or terrible things will happen to young ladies pretty enough to be eaten.’
Mrs Simmons hastily muffled giggles. Annabelle stared at Jonathan as if he represented all that was pitiful.
‘Sickening beast,’ she said.
He moved to inspect a long iron spit mounted on the hearth. ‘That,’ he said, ‘would take an ox … Hello, hello, where are you, infant?’
‘Miss Annabelle slipped out, sir,’ said Mrs Simmons, hiding a smile. ‘She went through that door.’
‘Oh, ain’t she a contrary madam?’ he said. He found her on the terrace, at the rear of the house, its handsome façade rising to command the countryside, its many windows blinking in the sunlight. ‘This won’t do,’ he said.
‘It will do for me,’ said Annabelle. ‘You may go.’
‘No, I ain’t supposed to let you go wandering off into trouble, though I don’t know who would want to harm a sweet little girl like you.’
‘Little girl? Oh,’ breathed Annabelle, ‘never did I meet such a baboon. I would have you know, you odious specimen, that I am admired and favoured by a gentleman of high and noble majesty, beside whom you are low and common. Go away.’
‘Can’t be done,’ said Jonathan.
‘Tiresome creature,’ said Annabelle, ‘I did not know what misfortune truly meant until you appeared to take charge of me.’
‘Bless you, my infant,’ said Jonathan, ‘tomorrow when we return to London, misfortune will depart at speed from your life, for I shall be gone in a puff of smoke.’
‘Choking to death, I hope,’ said Annabelle, and Jonathan laughed aloud.
Caroline and Captain Burnside appeared. Caroline looked as if she had found the atmosphere of the library entirely elevating. The captain looked as if he had found it all of mystifying.
‘We are taking dinner and supper here,’ said Caroline, ‘and also staying the night. We can bring our luggage from the cottage this afternoon. Captain Burnside has been sweetly reasonable.’
‘I’ve known Charles to be fairly reasonable,’ said Jonathan, ‘I ain’t ever known him sweetly so.’
‘And I,’ declared Annabelle, ‘have never known him to be less than sweet in all things. Charles is adorable. You are a baboon.’
‘Ain’t she delicious?’ said Jonathan. ‘Beg to suggest, Lady Caroline, we all take a saunter around your gardens before dinner.’
‘How lovely,’ said Caroline.
‘Beg further to suggest Charles gives you his arm,’ said Jonathan, ‘while I take care of our delicious infant.’
‘Oh,’ cried Annabelle, ‘I vow myself utterly despairing.’