That Would Be a Fairy Tale
Read That Would Be a Fairy Tale Online
Authors: Amanda Grange
© Amanda Grange 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
First published in hardback by Robert Hale Ltd. under the title of Marriage at the Manor
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“
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‘Are you sure?’ asked Mr Weedon. ‘It’s still not too late to change your mind.’
Miss Cicely Haringay braced herself. ‘Quite sure.’ Picking up the pen she signed the document. As she did so she felt a sinking sensation. With the signing of the document she had sold her beautiful manor house, and for the first time in its four-hundred year history it had passed out of Haringay hands.
‘If I could just ask you to date it?’ Mr Weedon prompted her.
Cicely roused herself. ‘Of course.’ She added the date
- 25
th
June, 1904
- before handing back the document to Mr Weedon.
‘May I say what a pleasure it has been doing business with you?’ said the solicitor politely as he took the proffered document and put it away.
Cicely forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you. And thank you for all your help in arranging the sale.’
‘Not at all.’
Cicely turned to the door, her business concluded. Then, on a sudden impulse, she looked back at Mr Weedon. ‘Mr Evington plans to take up residence at the start of next month, I think you said?’
‘He does.’
Cicely nodded, thankful that at least she would have some time to get used to the idea of someone else living at the Manor before actually seeing him there.
She was glad that her beloved father had not lived to see it. He would have been horrified at the very idea of selling the Manor, and he would have been even more horrified at knowing that it had been bought by a businessman, or a
cit
, as he had called them.
If there had been time, she would have waited for a country family to buy it, people who would have fallen in love with the beautiful old house and treated it with the affection it deserved. But her father’s death had left her with such pressing debts that she had had to accept the first offer she had received. A generous offer, it was true, but one made by a man who had bought her beloved Manor house without even seeing it, as though any house would do.
However, there was no use dwelling on things. She was fortunate to have found a buyer, and she comforted herself with the thought that at least she had not had to sell the Lodge.
Thanking Mr Weedon again she pulled on her gloves and left the office, descending the stairs and reclaiming her bicycle, which she had left propped against the wall outside. Her flat straw hat, calf-length divided skirt, bolero jacket and short boots were ideally suited to bicycling, and she threw one leg expertly over the saddle before setting off back to the Lodge.
She soon left the town of
Oakleigh
behind her. As she cycled along the peaceful country lane she felt her spirits begin to rise. Selling the Manor had been difficult but it was over now, and she had much to be thankful for. She had paid all her father’s debts, and she still had enough money left over to enable her to live in modest comfort.
She turned left at the crossroads and headed towards Little Oakleigh. The summer afternoon was a beautiful one. The rain of the morning had given way to bright sunshine, and she found herself enjoying the ride. High hedges grew at either side of the lane. Grass verges, covered in wild flowers, ran in an untidy profusion alongside, and a rabbit hopped out from a neighbouring field and twitched its nose, before hopping along the verge and disappearing under the hedge again.
She began to draw near the
village
of
Little Oakleigh
. Only a mile more to go and she would be at the Lodge. Which was a good thing, she thought, as she heard the chimes of the church clock ringing out over the countryside, because she had invited
Alice
to tea.
She began to pedal more vigorously. Then, turning a corner, she started the descent to the forge. She had almost reached the bottom when, coming round the corner, she saw a motor car. The sight was so unusual that for a moment she was transfixed. Then, recovering herself, she swerved, only to find that she was now hurtling towards the duck pond instead. She tried to turn again, but it was too late, and she found herself careering into the water, tumbling from her bicycle and landing with a soft, wet thud on the thick mud at the bottom.
She hit the water in frustration and then picked herself up, looking at her filthy wet skirt and even filthier blouse in vexation. She put up a hand to push the hair out of her eyes and discovered that her hat had been knocked off in her fall. It was nowhere to be seen, until she turned round and caught sight of it twirling around just out of reach. She was just about to grab it when she saw something else. There, parked at the side of the road, was the Daimler, and standing next to it was the man who had caused her accident. He was about thirty years old with brown hair and dark eyes, a full mouth and, revealed by his infuriating smile, a flash of white teeth. His driving coat was hanging elegantly over his trousers and jacket and he was casually removing a pair of driving gloves.
‘I suppose you find this amusing?’ she asked icily.
His smile broadened into a laugh, goading her to continue: ‘If you were a gentleman you would now be apologizing for causing an accident and doing everything in your power to make amends, but as you are obviously nothing of the kind I will have to help myself.’
His expression darkened and she was pleased to have annoyed him.
Paying him no more attention, she retrieved her hat, putting it securely on her head, only to find muddy water cascading down her face.
And just when I believed my dignity could sink no lower
! she thought, as she heard an explosion of laughter behind her.
The sooner I’m back at the Lodge the better
.
She waded crossly over to her bicycle and pulled on the handlebars, but it was stuck in the mud. She waded round to the other side of it, her sodden skirt making her movements slow and clumsy, and tried again. But again to no avail.
And then a pair of hands – strong, masculine hands – covered hers.
Cicely froze.
The driver, coming up behind her, had wrapped his arms around her and was proceeding to help her.
For a moment she had the most peculiar feeling as a rush of tingles spread outwards from her hands and radiated through her body. She wondered if it was a delayed reaction to the accident, but she did not think so. The sensation, whilst being unsettling, was not painful. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was strangely pleasurable. But what was it? It was certainly like nothing she had ever felt before. For some reason it had started when he had put his arms around her . . .
Reminded of the liberty he had taken she said, ‘I don’t need your help,’ completely ignoring the fact she had berated him for the lack of it a few minutes earlier.
‘You’ll never get your bike out of the mud without it,’ he said.
‘Oh no?’ she enquired, shrugging him off and giving another tug on the handlebars.
But again the bicycle refused to move.
His arms came round her again, and she pushed him away. ‘When I need your help, I’ll ask for it,’ she said.
He gave a mocking smile, but nevertheless he stood back.
She was aware of his laughing eyes lingering on her as she struggled with the bicycle and felt herself growing hot and flustered. It was obvious she couldn’t manage, and yet she would rather leave her bicycle in the pond and squelch her way home dripping water all the way than ask him for anything.
He watched her for another minute, then said, laughing, ‘It’s no good. I can’t stand by and watch you wrestle with it any longer. Like it or not —’
‘No,’ she snapped. Then, realizing she had sounded churlish, she added ungraciously, ‘There is no point in you getting dirty as well.’
There was a sudden silence. From nowhere a cold wind sprang up and blew over the pond.
Then, ‘I’ve been dirtier,’ he said.
She did not know how it was, but it was as if her words had unleashed a sudden bitterness in him; as though they had somehow opened an old wound she could not possible understand. But it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.
‘Wait at the side of the pond,’ he commanded, wading into the water again. ‘That way I don’t have to worry about splashing you.’
‘It’s a pity you weren’t so concerned about splashing me when you raced through the village,’ she returned, looking down at her ruined cycling clothes. ‘You drivers have no idea how to behave in the countryside. You career along with no concern for anyone else. But I suppose I should be thankful. At least I wasn’t killed.’
‘Four miles an hour isn’t exactly racing,’ he pointed out. ‘In fact, you were going far more quickly than I was. With the reckless way you were rolling down the hill it’s a miracle you didn’t kill us both!’
‘Are you always so infuriating?’ she asked in exasperation, turning to face him.
He smiled, his eyes dancing. ‘So I’ve been told. But I can’t help having a lively sense of the ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous?’ Cicely’s face took on a deceptively innocent expression. ‘You are saying I look ridiculous?’
Her tone was mild, but he was not deceived and his eyes gleamed with barely-suppressed amusement.