Henrietta (13 page)

“Now just where have I seen that before?” he murmured.

“There’s another one,” cried Henrietta, a glint of silver catching her eye. “Under that bush over there.” Unmindful of the conventions, she crawled on her hands and knees under the bush. Her voice came back to Jeremy faintly. “I’ve got it… it’s not a button. It… it’s my reticule.”

She backed out from the bush and triumphantly held up her reticule. Mr. Holmes was doubled up with laughter. “What are you giggling at?” demanded Henrietta severely.

“Honestly, Henrietta… I mean Miss Sandford you’re such a serene, correct sort of girl. But you should see the crazy mess you’re in.”

Henrietta fished in her reticule and, producing a small mirror, looked at her dishevelled hair with horror. “Oh dear! No wonder everyone thought I was mad. Perhaps if you would hold the mirror for me…? Thank you.” She took a comb and began to deftly straighten out her tangled curls.

“You know, you’re really a very attractive sort of girl, Miss Sandford, that is, when you’re not being so quiet and correct.”

Henrietta put down the comb with a sigh. “Come now, Mr. Holmes, I cannot act like a hoyden in the drawingrooms of London.”

“No,” agreed Mr. Holmes, stretching himself lazily out on the grass beside her. “But if you’ll forgive me for speaking plain, you could do with a tiny bit more animation.”

“Like Miss Belding perhaps?”

“Well, yes, that is… I mean,” began Jeremy blushing scarlet. “Dash it all, Henrietta. I was just trying to give you some brotherly advice.”

“I’m tired of brothers,” snapped Henrietta, and then added in a kinder voice. “Oh, I know you’re trying to help, Mr. Holmes. But you must realize, I have not been used to going about in society much. I went to various balls and parties in Nethercote, but then I was not an heiress, so I could sit against the wall all night, unnoticed.”

Henrietta settled her shoulders against a sun-warmed rock. “You know, Mr. Holmes. The trouble I suppose is that I can’t remember having any sort of carefree life as a child. All I can remember is having to be correct and watch my tongue. All the natural impulsiveness of youth was curbed by my brother’s riding crop.”

“Oh, come now,” protested Mr. Holmes, sitting up straight and staring at her. But Henrietta went on, talking almost to herself.

“Oh, yes. But of course, it was never my brother striking me. He was but an instrument of God, or so he said. I thought when I grew up and became a young lady that I would be too old for such treatment but Henry listened to Lady Belding, you see. ‘That sister of yours is too bold, Sandford,’ she would say. ‘A few lashes with the crop is just the thing to keep her in line.’”

“But Alice.…” began Mr. Holmes, much shocked.

“Oh, no Alice was never whipped. But she was sometimes allowed to attend my whippings as a special treat.”

Jeremy stared at Henrietta. She was patently telling the truth.

Henrietta went on. “Even very correct young ladies seemed to be allowed to romp a bit, but never me. I do not expect pity, Mr. Holmes, I am merely trying to explain to you why it was necessary for me to develop a placid mask to hide my feelings.”

Jeremy looked at her speculatively. “And now someone is trying to prove that you are mad or a murderess or both.”

Henrietta sighed. “Sometimes I get so frightened, I can hardly breath. But until today, Lord Reckford has always been around to believe me and protect me. Today… well, he looked for the first time as if he thought there might be something strange about me. In any case, we are not observing the conventions at the moment. We should go back.”

“Blow the conventions!” remarked Mr. Holmes with an airy cheerfulness, he did not feel. He could not help remembering Henrietta’s remark about Alice being invited to view the whippings. He needed time to think. He heard a faint sound of voices ascending the cliff path.

“Let’s escape!” he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand to Henrietta. “Here they come.”

Feeling like naughty schoolchildren, they ran lightly over the springy turf on the top of the cliff until they came to a narrow overgrown track on the far side. “Down we go!” said Jeremy blithely, leading the way. They stumbled headlong down, laughing and giggling, and the parishioners of Nethercote would have been hard put to recognize the vicar’s staid sister, with her hair once more in a tangle and her skirts torn by briars. They arrived at the woods at the far side of the glade where the stream bubbled down in a series of miniature falls. They sank down on the turf beside it, breathless and laughing.

“Really, we are behaving abominably,” gasped Henrietta. “What a wild schoolboy
you
must have been.”

“Well, I was,” admitted Jeremy, grinning unrepentantly. “Guy Reckford was the scholar. He didn’t have much fun as a child either. His parents died when he was young and by the time he came down from Oxford he certainly had a job to sort out the muddle here. His uncle, Sir Marcus Hemmington had been regent of the estate, so to speak, and a right mull he’d made of it. Land lying fallow, tenants’ roofs falling about their ears, and the whole of the Abbey turned into a sort of gambling hell. Reckford sent him packing and then by the time he had got everything running smoothly, he decided it was time he enjoyed himself. And he did. Wildest rake about town was Guy.” Jeremy flushed. “Sorry, forgot who I was talking to.”

They both sat for a few minutes in a companionable silence, listening to the stream rushing and chuckling between the stones. Far above them, the tops of the trees began to sway and whisper as a breeze sprang up.

“When I was a boy,” Jeremy went on lazily, “we used to spend our vacations on my uncle’s estate in Scotland. Right up in the Highlands it was, miles from anywhere. I used to run wild with the boys on the estate and, looking at this stream reminds me, they taught me how to catch trout without using a line.”

“How did you do that?” asked Henrietta. “By magic?”

“No. Nothing to it I’ll show you.” The elegant Jeremy carefully removed his coat and hung it on a branch. Then he took off his boots and stockings and unfastened the lacings at the knees of his buckskins and rolled them up with no little effort. They were skin tight.

“Now,” he explained to the fascinated Henrietta. “You must be very, very quiet. Ouch, the water’s icy.” He stood in the stream, and bent his pomaded curls over the water. “Now we wait.”

Both fell silent. Far away came the muted voices of the rest of the party. Henrietta’s eyelids began to droop. They jerked open at a yell from Jeremy as he hurled a fat speckled trout onto the bank and then began dancing after it, cheering in triumph. “There you are!” he cried. “First one. What was it those Scotch boys called it? I have it… guddling for trout.”

“Could I try?” asked Henrietta.

“I don’t see why not,” he answered, looking doubtfully at her dress.

“My gown is ruined in any case and… and… if I hitch it up, you won’t tell anyone.
Please
, Jeremy.”

He shook his head and stared at Henrietta. With her huge eyes sparkling with fun and her heavy fair hair tumbling about her shoulders, she looked extremely attractive. Henrietta modestly pinned up her skirts a little above the ankle and waded into the stream. “Now,” said Jeremy’s voice behind her. “Bend over the water and keep very quiet. Hang your hands down just so. That’s it. Now, all you have to do is grab one when he comes along.”

Henrietta stared intently at the water and, after what seemed like an age, a fish flashed towards her. She stooped, she grabbed… and the fish slid neatly between her fingers and swam off downstream.

“Try again,” called Jeremy.

She stared down into the water again. The afternoon began to drift lazily past. Just as Henrietta thought she would never have any feeling in her feet again, a trout flashed below her. She grabbed onto it and dragged it from the water, leaping about and crying for help. “Throw it on the bank,” yelled Jeremy, nearly helpless with laughter. Henrietta was flushed with triumph. Unaware that the sun was beginning to sink in the sky, she bent her head again to the stream. In the next hour, Jeremy caught two and Henrietta, another one.

It was Jeremy who first became aware of the lengthening shadows. “Henrietta. We really must get back.” He offered her his pocket handkerchief to dry her feet. Both had become fast friends and were on first name terms without being aware of it.

“Oh, dear. The others have left,” said Henrietta, conscience-stricken. “What shall we do?”

“We’ll leave the fish in the kitchen and creep up the backstairs to our rooms,” said Jeremy. “Guy should know that you’re all right with me.”

But as they scrambled back down the hill on foot—their donkeys had gone—they were met by the head gamekeeper who delivered himself of the grim message that he and the other servants had been searching for them for the past hour or more and that his lordship wished to see Miss Sandford in the library immediately on her return.

Feeling like chastened schoolchildren, they returned to the Abbey under the stern eye of the gamekeeper. Jeremy handed over his catch, and took Henrietta’s arm. “Guy has a bit of a temper, especially when he’s worried. Do you want me to come with you?”

Henrietta mutely shook her head. The gamekeeper escorted her to the library and shut the door firmly behind her.

Lord Reckford had been writing at a Chippendale desk over by the huge French windows which opened on to the first floor terrace. He rose to his feet and turned to face Henrietta. He was dressed for dinner in a rose coloured silk evening coat and breeches. There were diamonds in his snowy cravat, diamonds flashed on his long white fingers and on the buckles of his slippers. He wore his black hair unpowdered and his tawny eyes surveyed the trembling Henrietta with a fashionable air of boredom.

In actual fact, he was in a towering rage. He had been worried to death and then, to receive the news from a footman that Miss and Mister were returning with the gamekeeper and had been fishing.
Fishing
!

He stood over the shaking Henrietta and levelled his quizzing glass over her torn gown. “Well, madam?” he drawled.

Henrietta was about to burst out with all sorts of justifications and apologies when she remembered that she was a woman of twenty-six, an heiress and Lord Reckford’s guest and bit her lip.

Guy Reckford walked slowly round her examining her muddy shoes and tangled hair.

“Well, madam?” he asked again, with an edge to his voice.

“Well, what?” demanded Henrietta rudely.

“I have been out of my mind with worry about you, madam,” said his lordship. “Out of my mind worrying whether you are but of yours. You are part of an incident which could have meant the death of one of my guests and instead of waiting to discuss the matter with me, you go…
fishing
.”

“I was enjoying myself and forgot the time,” said Henrietta. “Furthermore, I
found
my reticule so that proves it was not me who was responsible for dislodging the rock. Mr. Holmes believes me.”

“He does, does he. Very pretty. Well, madam, while you and Mr. Holmes were dancing about in your Arcadia, I had returned and marshalled the servants to search the estate for evidence of any stranger and also to ensure your safe return. I am extremely displeased with you, madam.”

“Oh, fiddle,” snapped Henrietta. “Mr. Holmes was protection enough, I assure you.”

“You are distressingly innocent for a lady of your years,” sneered Lord Reckford, making Henrietta feel like forty. “Surely, in that provincial backwater you hail from, they had enough sense to tell you that a lady does not play about the woods with a gentleman, unescorted.”

“Pooh!” said Henrietta rudely. “I was perfectly safe. What could happen to me, my lord?”

“This,” he said savagely. He dragged the surprised girl into his arms and began to kiss her, long, hard ruthless, insulting kisses. Henrietta gave a faint moan of protest. The room began to spin about her. The inner Henrietta took over. With a little sigh, she wound her arms about his neck and returned his kisses as wave after wave of pent-up passion swept through her body. The Beau suddenly forgot who he was, who Henrietta was, where he was. His kisses became longer, deeper, more exploring. His long fingers began to move over her body, easing her gown away from her shoulders to bare her breast. Henrietta let out a high, thin cry of passion and he bit her neck and then bent his head to her bosom. “Oh, my dear Lucinda,” he sighed.

Henrietta felt exactly as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown over her. She dragged herself away and struck Lord Reckford with her clenched fist as hard as she could and ran sobbing from the room.

Miss Mattie was waiting for her in her bedroom and jumped up in amazement as Henrietta ran past her and flung herself on the bed. “Oh, what is the matter?” gasped Miss Mattie.

“He… he… called me…
Lucinda
,” wailed Henrietta between sobs.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Mattie sat down beside the bed and reached for Henrietta’s hand. “I had the whole story of Lucinda from Monsieur Dubois.”

With none of her usual silliness, Miss Mattie told her story in a low voice. Lord Reckford was a young man of twenty-one when he had his first Season in London. Ignoring the charms of all the debutantes, he had fallen in love with a very beautiful widow, Lucinda Braintree. Their stormy affair lasted six months. Lucinda had been charming, enchanting… and heartless. At the end of the six months, she had left Lord Reckford to live under the protection of the elderly Marquis of Glenmorrison. In despair, the young Lord promised marriage but Lucinda only laughed and patted his cheek and went off with her Marquis.

Since that time, Lord Reckford had shown no interest in women apart from a series of opera dancers. He had stated his intention of eventually getting married to a lady of suitable birth.

Miss Mattie ended her tale and looked sadly down at Henrietta who lay on the bed, wide-eyed, her face tear-stained. She suddenly felt very old and had no romantic fantasies to comfort her young, heart-broken friend.

Henrietta rose wearily from the bed and began to prepare an especially elaborate toilette for dinner. She rang for her maid who raised her hands in horror at the sight of her mistress’s tangled locks. An hour later, and Henrietta was once again an elegant young lady in all the glory of a smart silk gown, pale green like young spring leaves, and with a heavy set of garnets clasped round her neck. She was carefully choosing a suitable fan when a servant scratched at the door to inform Miss Sandford that his lordship wished to see her urgently.