Nicola Cornick (16 page)

Monks Dacorum Hall was very quiet. Caroline and Marcus Kilgaren had left the previous day to join Alicia’s guests at Chartley. James was alone in his study, attempting to formulate a reply to his sister Louisa, who had written to ask him to postpone his visit to Worcestershire. Two of the children had developed chickenpox, she wrote, and the house was all at sixes and sevens. If he could delay for a week or two, they could give him a better welcome.

With surprise, James realised that it would be no hardship to stay at Monks Dacorum for another week. He put the letter down on his desk and stared out of the window into the dark. Before he had gone abroad he had considered the country to be good only for hunting and a dead bore otherwise. He had had no desire to live on any of his country estates, finding amusement and company only in London. The West Country was particularly alien to him with its mixture of wild, heather-clad uplands and its flat, waterlogged levels. Yet now…

He picked up his pen again, and it was then that he heard the music. High, sweet and piercing, it was the sound of a single violin. Intrigued, James leant on the desk in order to peer out of the mullioned window. The ivy grew close, but he could just distinguish the dark outlines of the garden and the retaining wall which bordered the road.

The moon was a silver disc, high and bright, in a cold black sky
studded with stars. By its light, he could just discern a procession of shadowy figures moving along the road. At first he wondered if it was the fabled free-traders who were particularly active in the Bristol Channel, but they would hardly herald their approach with music. James turned back to the lamplit room and rang the bell.

‘Russell, what is going on outside?’

The butler was a local man and for a moment it seemed that he had caught some of the excitement in the atmosphere outside. He struggled to regain a suitable gravity.

‘It’s the annual cider wassail, my lord.’

‘Cider wassail?’ James raised his eyebrows. ‘What sort of festival is that?’

The butler scratched his head. ‘Every spring, folk from all the surrounding villages come to the orchards to celebrate the previous year’s crop and drink a toast to the next harvest, my lord,’ he explained. ‘There have been cider wassails for generations in these parts. Why not go along and see for yourself, sir?’

James almost dismissed the idea out of hand. It sounded to him like an excuse for excessive drinking and precious little else, but something gave him pause. He had nothing else to do that evening—why not experience a little local colour?

‘Where is it being held, Russell?’ he enquired casually.

‘On Chartley land, sir,’ the butler replied. ‘Lady Carberry provides the food and drink, and a barn for the dancing. There’s no side to her ladyship! Why, sometimes she even attends herself!’

‘Does she, indeed?’ James murmured, and as he made for the door the butler could have sworn that his master was smiling.

It proved very easy to find the revels. The sound of the fiddle was still faintly audible above the soughing of the wind in the trees as James set off on foot down the track to Chartley. He felt a sudden lifting of spirits to be out in the fresh air after a day spent poring over the estate books. And there seemed to be something in the air that night—something of magic, excitement and anticipation. James shrugged the feeling off as fanciful, but it persisted.

There were many orchards thereabouts which stretched from the fertile east of Chartley village towards Monks Dacorum, but only one barn large enough to house the celebrations. As he drew near, James observed that the wassail was already well advanced. Figures were milling around the wizened trunks of the apple trees, torches flared, and the
cider flowed freely from a multitude of casks. Someone at the front of the crowd was making a speech—there was much laughter and shouts of encouragement—and as James drew close the crowd burst into spontaneous applause before breaking up and streaming towards the open doors of the huge tithe barn.

Torchlight and firelight spilled out from its doors. There was a delicious smell of roasting meat and James, anonymous on the edge of the crowd, could just see inside, where wicker baskets spilled their contents of fruit over the cobbled floor and the village children picked them up with cries of excitement. Oranges and lemons were expensive commodities—no doubt these had also been provided by the philanthropic Lady Carberry. James smiled to himself. There really was no stopping her.

The press of people about the barn was so great that not everyone could get inside. Trenchers of food and huge, overflowing tankards of cider were passed good-humouredly out to those in the cold. James glimpsed bottles of liquid other than cider being passed surreptitiously from hand to hand, and wondered fleetingly how many of the locals augmented their wages with free-trading. It was an accepted fact that smuggling was rife in the Bristol Channel—perhaps the charitable lady of the manor also bought her brandy without paying duty?

James stayed at the back of the crowd, preferring to remain unrecognised. He felt almost like an interloper in this merry throng. All around him the conversation buzzed and the laughter grew raucous as the cider made the rounds again. People were beginning to disperse a little now. Some amorous couples, oblivious of the cold night air, drifted off between the trees, absorbed in each other. An area was cleared at the front of the barn and the fiddles struck up again, several of them in haunting melody. It was time for the dancing. James was about to slip away when he received a surprise.

A small party of people were coming forward from inside the barn where they had been out of his line of vision. With a slight shock he recognised Caroline Kilgaren, her piquant face upturned to Marcus’s, her eyes bright with excitement. A fur-lined cloak framed her fair curls. Marcus’s head was bent towards her and in a moment he grinned, took both her hands, and whirled her into the dance. A small ripple of applause went through the throng of watchers and some of them came forward to join in.

There was another girl there whom James did not recognise, but whose identity he could guess. Caroline had mentioned that the Staple
ford family would be joining them at Chartley—this, then, must be the celestially fair but unfortunately rather spiteful Georgiana, whom they had maliciously put forward as a potential bride for him. She was indeed very beautiful, James thought dispassionately, but her beauty was marred by her expression, which at the moment mirrored her shock and disgust that members of her party should condescend to join in the festivities with the local peasants. Clearly she felt that it was all very well to be seen to patronise the event, but a suitable distance should be maintained.

The reel finished and one violin immediately took up an air for a jig. Caroline and Marcus showed no inclination to stop dancing. Georgiana Stapleford turned to look for the rest of her party. Evidently her parents and Lady Stansfield had considered themselves too staid and ancient for such revelry, particularly on a cold spring night. Which only left…

Then he saw them. The torchlight burnished Alicia’s hair with a dark copper glow and shadowed the brilliant green eyes with a deep mystery. She had her hand on Christopher Westwood’s arm and was speaking urgently to him. Westwood’s expression was unencouraging; in fact, it was a close match with Georgiana’s. Apparently he would not be obliging her by dancing, no matter how much Alicia wanted him to.

James was not aware of having moved until he had almost reached them. The crowd parted silently to allow him through and then he was bowing before Alicia and looking down into her wide, startled eyes.

‘Would my lady care to dance?’

He felt, rather than saw, Westwood stiffen beside him, as though he was about to object. But it was Alicia he was looking at and only her. She absorbed his whole attention and the look she gave him was one of pure, uncomplicated pleasure.

‘Gladly, my lord.’

He took her hand and drew her into the dance. A murmur ran through the crowd, but James barely noticed. His awareness of Alicia was intense. The firelight gave her skin a golden glow and lit her eyes with luminous brightness. She burned with an excitement he could feel emanating from her whole body. Around them the other dancers dipped and whirled, but it was as though the two of them were alone, absorbed in the same magic that had touched James earlier. The wind whipped back the hood of Alicia’s cloak and she laughed aloud in pure enjoyment. Despite their large and very interested audience, James could simply have picked her up and carried her off there and then. He wanted her more than any woman he had known.

But all dreams must end. The musicians had already played one extra chorus and now the dance drew to a close. Alicia was rosy and breathless but the magic was draining away. The violins finished with a flourish and a moment later Marcus and Caroline Kilgaren were at James’s shoulder.

‘You never told us you intended to be here tonight, James! We could have made up a party!’ Caroline’s speculative gaze slid from him to Alicia with puzzlement.

Some element of restraint had entered Alicia’s manner, as though she could not believe what she had just done. James knew that during the dance she had felt exactly the same as he had done but now her glance was suddenly shy as it met his. ‘We should be glad if you would come back to Chartley with us for refreshments, Lord Mullineaux,’ she said, with constraint.

Christopher Westwood was lurking behind her with a face like thunder, whilst Georgiana Stapleford’s avid blue gaze moved from one face to another ceaselessly. For James, too, the descent to reality had happened too quickly and he bowed abruptly.

‘Thank you, Lady Carberry, but I must decline. Your servant, ma’am, Lady Kilgaren…’

He turned on his heel and walked away without a backward glance. The murmur of the crowd rose to a crescendo behind him and over it could be heard Georgiana Stapleford, in a voice as sharp as daggers. ‘So
that
is the dangerous Marquis of Mullineaux!
What
an attractive man!’

‘All I am saying, Alicia, is that such behaviour cannot help but fuel the rumours that there is some kind of illicit relationship between yourself and Mullineaux!’

The entire household could hear Christopher Westwood’s complaints on the subject, for he was standing stubbornly in the entrance hall at Chartley Chase and would not move. He was white with anger and determined to have his say.

Alicia strove to keep her own temper and to keep her voice level. She knew that Westwood was right and that her actions had been ill-considered. But how could she explain to anyone, least of all Christopher Westwood, the spell which had held her captive from the moment she had seen James Mullineaux stepping forward to take her hand? At that moment nothing on earth would have prevented her from dancing with him. Now, it seemed, she must bear the consequences.

‘Since you know such rumours to be false, Christopher, I can only suggest that you disregard them!’

‘But you are encouraging them! Why dance with the man if you wish to quash the speculation?’

‘What would you have me do?’ Alicia snapped. ‘Must I refuse to even speak to him just to satisfy you? I am not so poor-spirited as to regard this gossip, and neither should you be!’

‘But you should have seen yourself! The look on your face alone—’

Alicia turned on him, eyes flashing. All enjoyment she had derived from the evening, and in particular her dance with James, had long fled.

‘I was simply enjoying myself! Really, Christopher, you are becoming the most complete puritan!’

‘Dash it, Alicia, will you not take this seriously? Your reputation is hardly such that it can afford another scandal!’

Westwood regretted the words as soon as they were said, for Alicia was looking at him with a glacial expression very reminiscent of her grandmother. The fact that he had spoken nothing but the truth did not really help.

‘Thank you for your consideration, Christopher. I do not believe that I have given you the right to judge such matters, however.’

Westwood winced. For someone who looked so sweet, Alicia had a damned unpleasant way with her sometimes! He stood his ground.

‘Nevertheless, as your friend I feel I must say something!’

‘But not in front of the servants, Christopher! Very bad
ton
!’

Lady Stansfield’s voice carried with the clarity of a bell from the first landing, where she was standing dressed in a silk kimono of dashing but unorthodox design. It was clear that she had been roused from her slumbers by the altercation and was in a very bad mood. She had no difficulty with criticising others for faults which she had herself, and addressed herself to both of them, oblivious of the embarrassed footman standing by the front door.

‘You, Christopher, will hold your tongue and show a little more self-control! Alicia, you will come up and talk to me! At once!’

Westwood flushed to the roots of his fair hair and slammed off into the library in search of a drink. Alicia sighed and started up the staircase. It was useless to argue with Lady Stansfield in such a mood. She followed her grandmother into her bedroom, which smelt strongly of snuff, and took a seat in one of the armchairs disposed beside the fire. The room was dimly lit, the embers of the fire glowing hot in the grate. An abandoned piece of embroidery lay on the table, and Alicia’s heart
sank further. Lady Stansfield only ever resorted to what she termed ‘frippery, female pursuits’ when she was very bored and it inevitably put her in an even worse mood. Her evening with the Staplefords must have been a tedious one.