Bedford brought in the tea tray, and as Lady Annabel poured, she told them of Miss Fell’s progress.
“I truly think that she has taken no harm from lying in the snow. She was half asleep, but she drank all the broth one could wish. She is so weak from loss of blood and exhaustion that her recovery is bound to be slow; however, I don’t think we need fear for her.”
Chapter 3
Morning brought Dr. Grimsdale, who agreed absolutely with Lady Annabel’s prognosis. His one warning was that Miss Fell must not be worried about her loss of memory.
“Time enough to discuss that when she is stronger,” he advised. “I am sure, ma’am, you will know how to reassure her, should she ask any questions. I shall not call again unless I am sent for.”
Miss Fell had breakfasted on some more of Monsieur Pierre’s
consommé
—to call it broth was an insult—and was now lying drowsily in that state between sleeping and waking where all one’s problems vanish in a haze of half-dreaming fantasy. She was warm and comfortable; her hurts were fading; and the fact that she did not recognize the motherly woman who appeared now and then to check on her, seemed unimportant. Floating in sunshine, she was at peace.
The sunshine was an illusion produced by firelight on her chamber’s yellow hangings. It was in fact a grey day, with a damp blustery wind blowing fitfully from the west, the sort of wind that after a spell of hard frost can make spring seem possible even in February. Lucy and Lord Denham had decided to ride after breakfast. Richard, occupied by business with his agent, was unable to accompany them. His mother, busy about the tasks that fall to the lot of the lady of the house in even the best-run establishments, found time between consultations with Cook and instructions to Mrs. Bedford to look in periodically on Miss Fell. So much improved was she that Nurse, who had spent the night on a trundle bed in her room, was sent home to the cottage she managed for her widowed brother-in-law.
In the library, Richard was discussing lambing with Jeremy Denison, the young man to whom he entrusted his estate during his absences. Jeremy, the younger son of a younger son of distant relatives of the Carstairs, worshiped his employer. Some three years before, coming down from Oxford with no prospects, he had been enabled by the offer of his present position to exchange the probability of solitary penury for a comfortable, spacious cottage and marriage to his childhood sweetheart. They now had two small children, and in their eyes Mr. Carstairs could do no wrong, though he was a demanding master. He was always ready to try new farming methods and expected his agent’s knowledge and understanding to equal his own. The problems of his tenants must be dealt with immediately, and the land must be cared for constantly and thoroughly.
Toblethorpe Manor had belonged to the Carstairs family for generations. It was mentioned in the Domesday Book as a gift from William I to Sieur Reynald de Carresteyr, knighted on the field at Hastings. The family records were incomplete, having suffered during both the Wars of the Roses and the Civil War, but it seemed likely that the property had descended from father to son in unbroken line until the reign of Charles I, when Sir Roger Carstairs, who had no heir, had died fighting for the king. The manor was inherited by a cousin, and the title was lost under the Commonwealth, yet how many families in England could trace their ancestry half as far! Dukes themselves appeared upstarts viewed from such a perspective. Perhaps Richard did not consider himself superior, at least in birth, to many dukes, but he had good reason for his pride of family.
Such things were far from his mind at present. Jeremy had just given him some most unwelcome news.
“Sir Philip?” he groaned. “Not that business of the thirty-acre field again! How did he know I was returned, Jeremy?”
“Oh, the usual gossipers, sir. You know how news travels. I tried to persuade him that you would be too busy to receive him, being here for so short a period, but he is one who will not take no for an answer. I fear you must see him, unless you smuggle yourself out the back way.”
“What, and meet his groom on the way to the stables? I had almost rather give the fellow the land than be persecuted every time I show my nose in Yorkshire!”
“You are not serious, sir! That field has been in the family since 1587.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge, Jeremy. You shall stay and support me through this trial. It is eleven o’clock. I suppose he will be here on time at least.”
Twenty minutes later Bedford appeared to announce, with deep disapproval, Sir Philip Rossiter, and received permission to show him into the library.
Sir Philip was a stout gentleman in his early forties who affected a bluff heartiness that accorded ill with his sly, rather porcine eyes. His wife, a meek, faded woman, was much pitied in the area both because of his bullying and his notorious womanizing in town, whither he repaired alone every winter. However, since his conduct was otherwise unexceptionable, if unattractive, and he did not bring his libertinage into his home county, he was everywhere received with the complaisance due his baronetcy and his large fortune.
For some months Sir Philip had been trying to persuade Richard to sell him some land that he had decided was necessary to his estate. Not only would he not accept repeated refusals, he was becoming increasingly abusive and had recently threatened to go to law, a step for which he had absolutely no justification. He obviously hoped that the prospect of a lengthy, troublesome and expensive lawsuit would change Richard’s mind.
Richard, however, had been assured by his lawyer that the case would be thrown out of court without a hearing, so the threat did not dismay him in the least. In fact, he would welcome such a definite decision if only to enable him to escape the constant visits of a man whom he could find no reason to like or admire. He was unwilling simply to refuse to see him, as he would be bound to meet him at the houses of his neighbors and would not for the world embarrass them, so he was forced to endure the unwelcome attentions and rudeness with what patience he could muster.
This morning Sir Philip seemed in a good humour, though his hard eyes belied the expression on the rest of his face. Always inquisitive, he had heard rumours that distracted him momentarily from his more serious purpose.
After greeting Richard, and pointedly ignoring Jeremy as beneath his notice, he continued, “So, Mr. Carstairs, what is this I hear of your finding some female on Daws Fell? Pretty chit, is she? Perhaps I’ll take her off your hands.”
“The young lady is very ill,” said Richard shortly, suppressing his disgust. Whatever his own feelings about Miss Fell’s origins, he would not expose her to the attentions of this gross rake. Then, remembering his mother’s suggestion, he added, “She is the daughter of an old friend of Lady Annabel’s. She was on her way to visit us when she had an accident.”
“Strange that she should come alone on horseback, and at this season,” mused Sir Philip, “and Lady Annabel about to leave for Town.” He wondered what Richard was concealing.
Richard did not feel it necessary to answer. Almost with relief, he turned to the business of the sale, or rather the non-sale, of the thirty-acre field. Sir Philip’s assumed good humour vanished, and Richard and Jeremy spent a very unpleasant half-hour before their visitor took his leave in a furious temper.
As he left, Lord Denham strolled in.
“Phew!” he said, “was that Rossiter? I was prepared to find a couple of dead bodies in here. You could hear him in the front hall.”
“Let’s forget him,” proposed Richard firmly. “I am in need of sustenance. Jeremy, will you join us for luncheon? I have worked you hard this morning and you must have breakfasted even earlier than I.”
The butler appeared miraculously with sherry.
“Luncheon will be served shortly, sir.”
“Ah, Bedford, sometimes I think you read my mind. Tony, where is my sister? You did not lose her on the moors, I trust?”
“One female lost in that wasteland is enough for a lifetime! Miss Carstairs decided to sit awhile with Miss Fell, I believe. She is a most intrepid rider; I was hard put to keep up.”
“There speaks the man who broke the London to Brighton record not three years ago. You grow old, Tony. Indeed, Lucy is a neck-or-nothing rider. I know my mother expects her to be brought home with a broken neck any day, but it is dull here for a girl her age, and I cannot bring myself to forbid her to ride.”
“I daresay she would not obey you if you did,” replied Lord Denham, amused. “She has a strong will of her own.” Then, hastily turning the subject, he commented on the excellence of the sherry.
“Jeremy is in charge of my cellars, in addition to all the other duties I pile on his shoulders.”
“Superb, Mr. Denison. Where did you find this?”
“My uncle is in the wine trade, my lord. The family has second choice, after his most favored customers.”
“That is why Jeremy is in charge of my cellars,” said Richard smugly.
Lucy and Lady Annabel were awaiting the gentlemen in the breakfast room. A cold collation was spread on the buffet, and Lucy, after her exertions of the morning, forgot her good resolutions and helped herself to a huge plateful. Noting her mother’s reproving look, she apologized.
“I’m sorry, mama, but I am simply ravenous. We rode for miles, and then seeing Clarissa—Miss Fell—take only a cup of soup made me even hungrier. Richard, I helped Mrs. Bedford feed Miss Fell and then I read poetry to her. She fell asleep,” she added ingenuously.
The gentlemen laughed.
“What did you read her, Miss Lucy? Not Cowper, I trust, for then it is no wonder she fell asleep.”
“Well, Jeremy, I did not think
Macbeth
suitable.”
Mr. Denison, whose devotion to the bard was a byword, gracefully accepted the laughter directed this time at him.
In the afternoon, Richard and Jeremy rode out to inspect the flocks and call on one or two tenant farmers. Lord Denham was persuaded to go with them, grumbling loudly that he had had more exercise in a week in Yorkshire than in the rest of the year.
Lucy was sent to practice upon the pianoforte. Her last governess had left in despair some eighteen months previously, quite unable to make Lucy mind her. Since that time, Lady Annabel had instructed her. Lucy’s intelligence gave her a quick grasp of such subjects as French and geography; but though she obeyed her mother, she was totally uninterested in such ladylike accomplishments as drawing and embroidery, and only practiced the piano assiduously because she enjoyed it. Her liveliness made her both a rewarding and an exhausting pupil, and after a busy morning and half an hour of supervising her playing, Lady Annabel retired for a nap.
From this she was called by her abigail, with the news that the Vicar and Mrs. Crane were come to see her. The Reverend Mr. Crane was another neighbor who would not take no for an answer. He and his wife were busybodies and great gossips, considering anything that occurred in their parish to be their business. The Carstairs tolerated them but were not intimate with them, though naturally they went to morning service every Sunday.
The Cranes had, of course, heard about Miss Fell. Lady Annabel found Lucy trying manfully to cope with a flood of nosy questions and delighted to be rescued even to be sent back to the pianoforte. Lady Annabel, more adept in the ways of the world, had no trouble stemming the tide and sending the couple on their way satisfied with a minimum of information. She even managed to persuade the vicar that her “old friend’s daughter” was in no immediate need of spiritual consolation, yet was too ill to receive visitors.
In fact, that evening Miss Fell was strong enough to eat some chicken and a custard instead of the broth, which, however excellent, palled as a constant diet. Lady Annabel was delighted to see a little color in her cheeks, and though she was tired after sitting up to eat, she was wakeful. Eager to avoid a conversation that would be certain to lead to subjects better left alone for the present, Lady Annabel suggested that Lucy might read to Miss Fell again.
“But perhaps not Cowper,” suggested Miss Fell with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m afraid I fell asleep this afternoon.”
Lucy was happy to find that Miss Fell would enjoy hearing a chapter of the novel she had recently received in the mail. This coincidence of taste, however much due to her own obvious preference for such literature, confirmed Lucy’s determination to make a friend of the heroine so conveniently delivered to her. If Miss Fell’s lips twitched at the more lurid passages, it was because a real heroine must know so much better than any novelist just how an adventure should go.
Miss Fell’s strength proved equal to only a single chapter. “Thank you, Miss Carstairs,” she said with real gratitude. “Perhaps, if you are not otherwise occupied, we might have chapter two tomorrow.”
“Of course,” assured Lucy. Then she added hesitantly, “Won’t you call me Lucy? I should like it of all things.”
Miss Fell crimsoned.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “but I…I cannot reciprocate. I have no name.”
“Oh, forgive me,” cried Lucy. “I should not have… Please, let me call you Clarissa?”
Amusement overcame embarrassment.
“Oh, not Clarissa, I beg of you!” Then seeing Lucy’s disappointment, “Perhaps you could call me Clare, or Clara, then you might think of me as Clarissa if you wish, but no one else need know.”
“Of course, dear Clara. Now you had better sleep.” And Lucy, surprising herself as much as Miss Fell, stooped and gave her a motherly kiss on the forehead. Blushing at her own forwardness, she left hurriedly, calling “Good night!”
What a charming child, thought Miss Fell, newly christened Clara. As good-hearted as her mother. Her amusement faded. Who were they? Who was she herself? Suddenly the awkwardness, the helplessness and embarrassment of her position overwhelmed her. What could she do? She was totally dependent on strangers; and however kind, they had their own plans, and she must be upsetting them dreadfully.
She did not even know how long she had been here. Time blurred into a succession of vignettes, of faces appearing and disappearing, dominated by one dark, pitying face, which she had not seen today. Feeling lost and alone, Miss Clara Fell slipped into uneasy sleep.