Sylvia Andrew (4 page)

‘Why?’

Francesca hesitated. She didn’t know the rules of this
game, and accustomed though she was to rejection, she was afraid to invite rejection from this man. It would hurt too much.

‘I didn’t behave well yesterday.’

‘When you pushed me into the stream? I’ve forgiven you for that.’

‘No—afterwards.’

He stopped, turned and took her hands. ‘You were…wonderful. But I was wrong to kiss you.’ He fell silent again.

After a while, she asked timidly, ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re far too young. Because you’re innocent. Because Jack’s father arrived this morning to take him home, and…and, Francesca, I have to leave with them. I was only here in the first place to look after my cousin. And I failed.’

For the life of her, Francesca could not hold back a small cry. He swore under his breath, and said, ‘I ought to be whipped. I failed him and I’ve hurt you, and that was the last thing I wanted. Believe me.’

Francesca pressed her lips tightly together. She would not plead, she would not beg. This was the very worst rejection she had ever suffered, but she had hidden her distress before, and she would not show it now. But it was taking all the resolution she had.

‘You needn’t feel too badly,’ she said finally. ‘I knew you were staying at Witham Court, after all, but I still let you kiss me. That’s only what rakes are expected to do, isn’t it?’

‘Rakes!’

Francesca hardly heard the interruption. She continued, ‘You needn’t feel sorry for me—I enjoyed it. And they were only kisses. I daresay I shall have many more before I am too old to enjoy them. When…when I make my come-out and go to London.’ She had even managed a brilliant smile. ‘My father will fetch me quite soon, I expect. He said so just the other day in one of his letters.’

‘Francesca.’ He said her name with such tenderness that she was almost undone.

‘So you can kiss me again, if you like. Just to show that it doesn’t mean very much.’

‘Oh, Francesca, my lovely, courageous girl! I know just how much it meant to you. God help me, but how could I not know? Come here!’

He kissed her, at first gently, as he had the first time. But then he held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, kissing her again and again, murmuring her name over and over again. But gradually the fit of passion died and he thrust her away from him.

‘It’s no use,’ he said, and there was finality in his voice. ‘My uncle is right—I have nothing to offer you. And even if I had, you are too young. We both have our way to make. It’s no use!’

Then he kissed her hand. ‘Goodbye, Francesca. Think of me sometimes.’ He strode off down the hill, but Francesca could not see him. Her eyes were burning with tears she would not allow to fall.

But that was not the end. Hard though it was, she could have borne that much, could have cherished the memory of his care and concern for her, the thought that someone had once found her beautiful enough to love. But this consolation had not been for her.

Some days later she was standing on the bridge, looking down at the stream, when Freddie’s voice interrupted her unhappy thoughts. ‘You must be the little goddess Marcus spent the morning with the other day,’ he said. ‘He was very taken with you, give you my word! Wished I’d seen you first. Missing him, are you?’

Something inside Francesca curled up. She hated the thought of being a subject of conversation at Witham Court. Surely Marcus couldn’t have done such a thing?

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ she said coldly, not looking at him.

‘Don’t you? Marcus seemed to know what he was talking about. Never seen him so much on the go, and he’s known a few girls in his time, I can tell you. Very good-looking fellow. But he did seem taken with you. We were all no end intrigued, but he wouldn’t tell us who you were. It was Charlie who said you must be the Shelwood girl. Are you? Marcus was right about the figure, though I can’t see your face. Why don’t you turn round, sweetheart?’

Francesca shut her eyes, bowed her head and prayed he would go away.

‘Don’t be sad, my dear! Ain’t worth it! It wouldn’t have lasted long, you know, even if he hadn’t had to leave with Jack and his father. It never does with these army chaps. Off and away before you can wink your eye. And if you cast an eye around you, there’s plenty more where he came from.’

She would have left the bridge, but he was blocking the way.

‘Cheer up, sweetheart! It’s always the same with the army. Rave about one woman, make you green with envy, and then before you know it they’re over the hill and far away, making love to another! Seen it m’self time and again. Mind you, I’m surprised at Marcus—leaving Jack lying there in misery while he pursues his own little game. And a very nice little bit of game, too, from what I can see. Come on, sweetheart, let’s see your face.’

When Francesca shook her head and turned to run back to the Manor, he ran after her, caught her hand and pulled her to him. ‘You shan’t escape without giving me a kiss. You were free enough with them the other day, from all accounts. One kiss, that’s all, then I’ll let you go, give you my word. Give me a kiss, there’s a good girl.’

‘Fanny!’ For the first time in her life, Francesca was glad to hear her aunt’s voice. Miss Shelwood was standing a few
yards away, with Silas, her groom, close behind. Her face was a mask of fury. Francesca’s tormentor let her go with a start, and took a step back.

‘Come here this instant, you…trollop!’ With relief, Francesca complied. Her aunt turned to Freddie. ‘I assume you are from Witham Court, sir. How dare you trespass on my land! Silas!’ The groom came forward, fingering his whip.

Freddie grew pale and stammered, ‘There’s no need for any violence, ma’am. No need at all. I was just passing the time of day with the little lady. No harm done.’ And, within a trice, he disappeared in the direction of Witham Court.

‘Take my niece’s arm, Silas, and bring her to the Manor.’ Miss Shelwood strode off without looking in Francesca’s direction. Silas looked uncomfortable but obeyed.

Francesca hardly noticed or cared what was happening to her. All her energies were concentrated in a desperate effort to endure her feelings of anguish and betrayal. She had believed Marcus! She had been taken in by his air of sincere regret, had thought he had been truly distressed to be leaving her! And while she had lain awake, holding the thought of his love and concern close to her like some precious jewel in a dark world, a talisman against a bleak future, he had been joking and laughing at Witham Court, boasting about her, making her an object of interest to men like Freddie. It was clear what they all thought of her.

Oh, what a fool she had been! What an unsuspecting dupe! She had fallen into his hands like a…like a ripe plum! Her aunt could not despise her more than she already despised herself. She had been ready to give Marcus everything of herself, holding nothing back. Only Freddie’s timely interruption had prevented it. She had indeed behaved like the trollop her aunt had called her. Occupied with these and other bitter thoughts Francesca hardly noticed that they were back at the Manor.

Miss Shelwood swept into the library, then turned and said coldly, ‘How often have you met that man before?’

Never. Francesca said the word, but no sound came.

‘Answer me at once, you wicked girl!’

‘I…’ Francesca swallowed to clear the constriction in her throat. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘A liar as well as a wanton. Truly your mother’s daughter!’

‘That’s not true! You must not say such things of my mother!’

‘Like mother, like daughter!’ Miss Shelwood continued implacably, ignoring Francesca’s impassioned cry. ‘Richard Beaudon was at Witham Court when he first met your mother. Now her daughter goes looking for her entertainment there. Where is the difference? No, I will hear no more! Go to your room, and do not leave it until I give you permission.’

Exhausted with her effort to control her feelings, Francesca ran to her room and threw herself on her bed. She did not cry. The bitter tears were locked up inside, choking her, but she could not release them.

In the weeks that followed, she castigated herself time and again for her weakness and stupidity. She, who had taught herself over the years not to let slights and injuries affect her, to keep up her guard against the hurt that others could inflict, had allowed the first personable man she met to make a fool of her, to destroy her peace of mind for many weary months. It would not happen again. It would never happen again.

Her aunt remained convinced that Francesca had been conducting an affair with Freddie. Francesca was punished severely for her sins. She was confined to her room on starvation rations for days, then kept within the limits of the house and garden for some weeks. It was months before she was allowed outside the gates of the garden, unaccompanied by her governess or a groom. She was made to sit for long periods while Mr Chizzle,
her aunt’s chaplain, expatiated on the dreadful fate awaiting those who indulged in the sins of the flesh.

This last Francesca endured by developing the art of remaining apparently attentive while her mind ranged freely over other matters. Since she felt in her own mind that she deserved punishment, though not for her escapade with Freddie, she found patience to endure most of the rest.

But the worst of the affair was that Miss Shelwood took every opportunity it offered to remind Francesca of her mother’s sins. That was very hard to endure. And, in her mind, the distress this caused her was added to the mountain of distress caused by one man. Not Freddie—she forgot him almost immediately. No, Marcus Whatever-his-name-was was to blame. She would
never
forgive him.

The first few drops of rain were falling as Francesca found, to her surprise, that she had reached the Manor. She slipped in through the servants’ door—it would never do for Aunt Cassandra or Agnes Cotter, her maid, to see her in her present state. Betsy was in the kitchen.

‘Miss Fanny! Oh, miss! Whatever have you been doing?’

Francesca looked down. The mud from the ditch had now dried and the dress was no longer plastered to her body. But she was a sorry sight all the same.

‘I fell,’ she said briefly. ‘Help me to change before my aunt sees me, Betsy. I’ll need some water.’

‘The kettle’s just about to boil again. But you needn’t fret—your aunt won’t bother with you at the moment, Miss Fanny. She’s had another of her attacks. It’s a bad one.’

Suddenly apprehensive, Francesca stopped what she was doing and stared at Betsy. ‘When?’

‘Just after you went out. And…’ Betsy grew big with the news ‘…Doctor Woodruff has been. Didn’t you see him on your way to the village?’

‘I went through the fields. Did my aunt finally send for him, then? What did he say?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me, Miss Fanny. You’d better ask that maid of hers. Miss Cotter, that is,’ said Betsy with a sniff.

Worried as she was, Francesca failed to respond to this challenge. Agnes Cotter had been Miss Shelwood’s maid for more than twenty years and jealously guarded her position as her mistress’s chief confidante, but Francesca knew better than to quiz her. If Miss Shelwood did not wish her niece to know what was wrong, then Agnes Cotter would not tell her, however desperate it was. So, after washing, changing her clothes and brushing her hair back into its rigid knot, she presented herself outside her aunt’s bedroom.

‘Miss Shelwood is resting, Miss Fanny.’

‘Is she asleep?’

‘Not exactly—’

‘Then pray tell my aunt that I am here, if you please.’

With a dour look Agnes disappeared into the bedroom; there was a sound of muted voices, which could hardly be heard for the drumming of the rain on the windows. The storm had broken. The maid reappeared at the door and held it open. ‘Miss Shelwood is very tired, miss. But she will see you.’

Ignoring Agnes, Francesca stepped into the room. The curtains were half-drawn and the room was dim and airless. Her aunt lay on the huge bed, her face the colour of the pillows that were heaped up behind her. But her eyes were as sharply disapproving as usual, and her voice was the same.

‘I expected you to come as soon as you got in. What have you been doing?’

‘I had to change my dress, Aunt,’ said Francesca calmly.

‘You were here before the rain started, so your dress was not wet. There’s no need to lie, Fanny.’

‘My dress was muddy. How are you, Aunt Cassandra?’

‘Well enough. Agnes has a list of visits for you to make tomorrow. I’ve postponed what I can, but these are urgent. See that you do them properly, and don’t listen to any excuses. I’ve made a note where you must pay particular attention.’

Miss Shelwood believed in visiting her employees and tenants regularly once a month, and woe betide any of them who were not ready for her questions on their activities. During the past few weeks, Francesca, much to her surprise, had been required to act as an occasional stand-in, so she knew what to do. Since both she and her aunt knew that she would perform adequately, if not as ruthlessly as Miss Shelwood, she wasted no time in questions or comments. Instead she asked, ‘What did Dr Woodruff say? Does he know what is wrong?’

‘How did you know he’d been? Betsy, I suppose.’