Elizabeth Mansfield (10 page)

He gave the question a moment of honest consideration. "Yes, I think we do, on occasion," he admitted with some embarrassment.

"That's what I thought. Then you may be able to answer a question most puzzling to me." She leaned forward and studied his face curiously. "Do you know what made him change toward me?"

Charlie squirmed. How had he permitted this irritating chit to subject him to such an intimate and relentless interrogation? "If I did know," he said curtly, "you certainly don't think I would tell you, do you?"

"Why not? It would be much less painful and awkward to hear the truth from a disinterested third party than from Jeremy himself."

"That may be," Charlie declared firmly, "but I do not intend to say another word on the subject. If you want answers to these questions, you'll have to ask Jeremy, awkward or not."

Cicely sighed in defeat. "That is too bad, for I cannot possibly bring myself to ask him. Now I will never, never know."

"That, my girl, is something I cannot help."
 

"You could if you really wanted to," she murmured in what was unmistakably a pout.

"It is not a question of my wanting to or not!" he exploded in exasperation. "It's a question of honor. Honoring the confidences of a friend."

"Oh, pooh!" was her response to his righteous declaration.

Her disdain was, for him, the last straw. "Very well, Cicely Beringer, if that is your attitude, I
will
say something. It is entirely my own view and has nothing whatever to do with Jeremy's." He rose from his chair and loomed over her like a threatening schoolmaster. "It is simply this: that you should have known better than to encourage a relationship with a man so much older than you. You should find yourself someone close to you in age . . . someone full of youthful vigor and wide-eyed innocence, who'd fall at your feet in awed adoration of your charms, not some confirmed old bachelor who's seen and said and done it all before."

"Good God!" exclaimed the girl, staring up at him wide-eyed. "You sound like my
mother!
" Her expression hardening, she rose from her seat and drew herself up to her full height, bringing her almost eye-to-eye with him. "Let
me
say something now, my lord. What I don't wish from you is motherly advice. Furthermore, the advice is utterly useless. I may be a wide-eyed innocent, but I know enough to realize that a person's age has little importance in matters of the heart." She gave him one last glare and strode to the door. "You should know by now, being quite old enough to 'have seen and said and done it all,' that falling in love has nothing whatever to do with numbers." And she shut the door behind her with a slam.

Charlie gaped at the door, astounded by that display of vehemence. He'd never expected, from a young chit he'd believed so naive and awkward, such a spirited display. But even more surprising was what she'd just said. Hadn't
he
said
those very words
to her mother less than twenty-four hours before? Why on earth had he, who'd long made a practice of ensnaring young ladies without paying any regard to their age, suddenly switched sides?

Chapter 13

For a fortnight, the manor house at Inglesby Park was a very quiet and dreary place. The two principal causes were the rain, which continued to fall with a gloomy persistance, and the patient, who spent most of this time in a stuporous, laudanum-induced sleep (for Dr. Swan insisted that sleep was the best cure for all her injuries). These were not circumstances to encourage gaiety.

During this time the number of inhabitants in the household increased by two: first, Lady Beringer's housekeeper, Mrs. Annie Upsom, who arrived from Crestwoods within hours of learning of her mistress's condition; and then Lady Schofield's abigail, who arrived from London two days later. Mrs. Upsom insisted on moving into the dressing room adjoining her ladyship's bedroom so that she might be close at hand day and night. Lady Schofield's abigail, only slightly less determined, managed to convince Lady Schofield that she was indispensable and, without a moment's hesitation, settled herself into the largest room in the maids' quarters. Though the addition of these strong-minded women to the household did not dramatically alter the hushed atmosphere, their presence did make a modest improvement. With Mrs. Upsom taking charge of the sickroom, Mrs. Stemple was able to return to the kitchen, which resulted in a decided improvement in the meals. And the abigail from London contributed what anyone could see was a marked improvement in the dressing of Lady Schofield's hair.

Jeremy, Charles and the two female guests tried to maintain a reasonably cheerful disposition. Each spent a few hours a day at Cassie's side, watching her sleep, an occupation that could in no way be considered lively or diverting. Nor were any of their other activities particularly diverting. Their days were spent in a desultory fashion, the ladies sleeping late and spending their afternoons reading or wandering about in purposeless gloom, and the gentlemen taking out horses in the mornings for brief rides despite the rain and passing their afternoons playing billiards. They all met at dinnertime (during which Charles tried to keep the flow of conversation amusing, but without much success), after which they adjourned to the drawing room and indulged in card games. But copper loo and whist, when played for very modest stakes, could not be expected to elevate their dampened spirits. Thus the long evenings seemed very long indeed.

All of this changed abruptly one morning after the fortnight had passed. Perhaps the change was instigated by the sun, which made a royal appearance in a sky of such brilliant blue clarity it was hard to believe that just yesterday it had been completely obscured behind heavy gray clouds. Now the sun spread its rejuvenating radiance everywhere. Suddenly the spring air smelled sweet as wine, lilacs burst into lively bloom, columbine and cowslip peeped out from the edge of the woods, and all the greenery gleamed in newly washed splendor. How could mere human beings resist the warm vitality of Mother Nature at her best?

Certainly Cassie could not. From the moment Mrs. Upsom pulled back the draperies in her room and the sunshine streamed in, her condition changed. She sat up in bed, blinked in surprise at the unaccustomed cheeriness of the sunlit room and smiled. It was a purely instinctive act; she had not smiled since her fall. Mrs. Upsom, who was approaching her with a glass of the morning dose of laudanum in her hand, took a look at her mistress's face and gasped. "Oh,
ma'am,"
she exclaimed in delight, "are you smiling at last?"

"Am I?" Cassie put a hand to her mouth to feel what a smile might be like. Then she pushed aside the sleeping potion firmly. 'Take it away, please! I wish never to take another sip of that vile brew. I'm tired of being forever drowsy and forever thick-headed."

"But, my lady, the doctor said—"

"Never mind the doctor," Cassie declared, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. "Help me to the window, please, Mrs. Upsom. I want to see the sun. At least sunshine is something I remember."

She hobbled over to the window on Mrs. Upsom's arm, her legs dismayingly unsteady, and stared out past the sunny lawn and the shadowed home woods to where a pond, spilling its contents over a waterwheel, was sparkling in the distance. It was a lovely scene, revealing the miracle of springtime rejuvenation, and it made a rejuvenating impression on her mind. "I won't ever take a sleeping draught again," she murmured. "I must begin to face... to learn to live. From now on I shall rise in the mornings and dress, just as ordinary people do, and go out of this room and face the world." She threw a hesitant look at the still-not-familiar face of the woman who, she'd been told, had been her housekeeper for more than two decades. "That
is
what ordinary people do, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course, ma'am," Mrs. Upsom replied, biting her lip to keep from weeping. "You used to dress all by yourself, every day, without ever an abigail, even for church or a party, before... before ..."

"Before my accident. You needn't be afraid to say the word."

"Yes, ma'am. Do you remember anything at all from before the accident, ma'am? Like how you always called me Annie?"

Cassie shook her head. "No. I'm sorry."

The housekeeper sighed. "No need to apologize, ma'am. It ain't your fault. Here, let me help you to sit down."

"No. I want to try to walk."

She started across the room, but after three steps her knees almost gave way. For the next few steps, she had to cling to Mrs. Upsom, but soon she learned how to keep her balance. In a little while she felt secure enough to take a few steps on her own. "Now, then," she said when she'd crossed the whole length of the room without holding on, "let us get me dressed."

Mrs. Upsom's face brightened. "I brought some of your clothes along from home. There's your pearl-gray muslin with the lace collar, and the lilac jaconet that always looked so sweet on you, and the green brocade with the full sleeves—"

Cassie shook her head helplessly. T don't remember any of them. You choose."

Dressing took a great deal longer than she had expected. With her left wrist bandaged, and spasms of pain emanating from her right shoulder and hip, every motion had to be slow and careful. Even her hair had to be combed with slow, gingerly deliberation, so as not to cause pain to the still-swollen lump on her head. Eventually, however, Mrs. Upsom managed to brush out the tangles. Then she braided the long, heavy strands neatly and coiled them at the nape of Cassie's neck.

When the job was done, Cassie limped over to the mirror, which she hadn't looked into since that first day. The face looking back at her today was still that of a stranger. But now the experience was less shattering. The woman in the mirror had a pleasant enough face, Cassie thought, and the purple bruise that had seemed so disfiguring a fortnight ago had now paled to a gray shadow, except for a darker, green-and-purple remnant over the cheekbone. She did not wince at the sight, but neither could she look at that face for more than a moment. The unfamiliarity of it made her so uncomfortable that she had to look away.

"Did I hear the clock strike eleven while you were combing my hair?" she asked the woman who seemed to know her so well, and who was taking such devoted care of her. "What do ordinary people do at that hour?"

"Since you've been ill, ma'am, the ladies in this house have been staying late abed. They usually straggle down to breakfast about this time."

"Then, if you don't mind lending me your arm, let's go down and join them."

Mrs. Upsom looked frightened. "All the way downstairs?"

"Yes. All the way."

* * *

In the morning room a larger group than usual was gathered. Jeremy and Charles had ridden out early to enjoy the magnificent weather and, their appetites sharpened by the exercise, had come back eager for a meal. They found Lady Schofield already at the table with a plate of shirred eggs and pickled salmon before her, and Cicely, who'd just come down, standing at the buffet surveying the selections that Hickham was uncovering for her. "What a jolly ride we've had," Charles informed the ladies as he pulled off his riding gloves and joined Cicely at the buffet. "I declare I'm prime for either a huge late breakfast or a huge early luncheon."

"Well, there's York 'am an' buttered eggs an' salmon an' cold chicken an' toast, if it's breakfast ye choose," Hickham said, "or hot roast chicken an' greens an' river trout an' potatoes an' gooseberry tarts an' cream if ye wish to call it luncheon."

Hickham helped them to load their plates, and they joined Lady Schofield at the small morning room table to slake their appetites. Cicely took a bite of trout and found it so delicious that she turned round in her chair to tell Hickham to compliment Mrs. Stemple. But before the words left her tongue, her eye was caught by a movement in the doorway.
"Mama!
" she gasped, dropping her fork.

Cassie, standing in the doorway, suddenly found five astonished faces gaping at her. She knew she'd seen each one of them before, but there wasn't one she clearly remembered. She felt a spasm of terror and had an urge to turn and run. But she did not. For one thing, her knees were too weak. For another, she'd made herself a pledge to stand firm and face life. So, clutching the door frame with her one good hand, she forced herself to smile. "Good morning," she said bravely.

As one, they jumped up from the table, and she was immediately surrounded. "Cassie,
dearest,"
a large, formidable matron exclaimed, embracing her.

"Oh, Mama! How
well
you are looking!" cried the pretty young girl who threw her arms about her as well.

"Lady Beringer!" exclaimed the stocky man, pounding her shoulder. "You've come
down\
Oh, very deedy!"

Only the tall fellow with the kind eyes (eyes that she remembered better than anything else) stood aside. She glanced over at him questioningly. He smiled back at her with such apparent pride in her accomplishment that it warmed her heart.

"Per'aps 'er ladyship's 'ungry," Hickham suggested after the din had quieted down.

"Yes, of course she is," Lady Schofield said, drawing her to the table. 'The poor thing hasn't had a proper meal in a fortnight."

A place was hurriedly made for her, and she sat down, uncomfortably aware that she was the center of all eyes. This could not be how ordinary people took their meals, she thought in dismay.

Everyone attempted to return to their breakfast, but having the hitherto somnolent patient among them was too distracting to encourage eating. "Mama," Cicely asked at last, unable to stand the suspense, "do you know me now?"

Cassie put down her fork. "You call me Mama, so you must be my daughter. But I'm afraid I don't remember you."

"Oh, Mama!" Cicely cried, crestfallen.

"Dash it, Cicely," Charles muttered in disapproval, "let her be! Remember what the doctor said."

"No, please," Cassie begged, "don't curb your tongues. I want things to be . . . ordinary."