An Impossible Confession (5 page)

Helen drew a long breath. ‘Yes, I will.’

‘He and the colonel have fallen out, and it could be that the colonel is in the wrong, but it could also be that Lord Drummond is in the wrong. You don’t know anything about him. He mentioned that cozy thing, but….’

‘Cozy thing? Oh, you mean the
cause célèbre
.’

‘Yes, miss. Well, he told you about it, but he didn’t really give any details, did he? Maybe that’s because he knows he’s in the wrong.’

Helen looked at her. ‘You’re right, of course, except that I find it hard to believe he’d do anything wrong.’

‘Do you find it easier to think the colonel could do something wrong?’ persisted the maid, determined at all costs to steer her mistress away from the rash course she’d seemed set on ever since arriving at the inn, even if by presuming to steer, she was stepping a little above herself.

‘No, of course not.’ Helen managed a smile. ‘It’s all right, Mary, I know you have my best interests at heart.’

‘I do, miss. Now, please come back inside, it’s cold out here.’

Helen nodded and moved toward the steps, pausing at the bottom to look at the maid again: ‘I know all you say about him could be true, he could be a libertine, a wicked lord with a dark past, intent only upon my seduction, even though he protests he isn’t, but when he kissed me…. Oh, Mary, I’ve never felt like that before, it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.’

A
s the journey to Ascot continued later that morning, Helen tried her hardest to put Lord Drummond from her mind, but it proved an impossible task. Could Mary possibly be right, was he far from the flawless hero he seemed? Or was her own instinct more accurate, and he was all she could ever wish? Whatever the truth about him, however, one thing was certain as far as she was concerned: his smiles and kisses had consigned caution to oblivion. She wondered greatly about the unexplained
cause célèbre
he’d mentioned, and about the lady whose
reputation
and happiness he was so anxious to protect. He’d said he hadn’t been her lover, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in love with her. Helen gazed out of the chaise window. Yes, from the way he’d spoken of the lady, it seemed very probable indeed that he loved her, and that if there wasn’t anyone in his life at the moment, it was because this particular lady wasn’t available.

It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon, as the chaise was driving over Ascot Heath, that she managed to temporarily forget Lord Drummond, or Adam, as she now found herself thinking of him, and turn her attention to the scenery outside. The race
meeting
wasn’t for another two weeks, but already the heath bore signs of it. Makeshift stables were dotted everywhere to accommodate the many horses that were arriving from all over the country, some under their own power, others in large, slow-moving wagons. Owners liked to have their horses well settled in before a meeting, and so there weren’t only stables, there were grooms, stable boys, temporary forges, sheds of hay, and everything else associated with the world of the turf. A steady flow of horses and wagons trickled along the road, all converging on the course built one hundred
years before on a whim of Queen Anne’s. By the opening day of the royal meeting, a veritable town of tents and booths would have sprung up behind the stands lining the course, and in this town would take place the cockfighting, prizefighting, wrestling, gambling, and drinking that were as great an attraction to the lower orders as the horse racing was to the
beau monde
. When the meeting commenced, crowds of thousands would descend upon the heath, including practically every resident of Mayfair, but for the moment, in spite of all the increased activity, it was all still quite quiet.

Leaving the racecourse behind, the chaise drove on to Bourne End, and as the lodge gates appeared ahead, she found herself wondering what her first impression of the house itself would be. She’d been told about it countless times in Margaret’s letters, but she’d never seen it, having only stayed previously at the town house in Park Lane.

The chaise swept through the gates, which were set by a beautiful gothic lodge, and then entered the incomparable park, which was ablaze with the late spring glory of purple, white, and crimson rhododendrons. There may have been a great deal that was new and innovative about the house itself, but the park had been laid out by Capability Brown at the height of his brilliance, and Gregory had very wisely elected to leave it untouched.

At last the house itself came into view. The famous architect Mr Searles had been engaged to design and build the new Bourne End, and the rambling two story building, with its shallow roof and tall chimneys, spread with magnificent irregularity over a low hill in the center of the park. There was nothing symmetrical or
conventional
about it, every elevation was novel and different, with semicircular roofed balconies of great size supported on columns above leafy verandas. She knew from her sister’s letters that there wasn’t a square or rectangular room in the building, they were all oval, circular, or octagonal, and those on the ground floor could all be entered from the outside through large French windows, either directly from the grounds or through tall conservatories where tropical plants pressed luxuriantly against the glass. Informality and nature were the key, and as a consequence there were leaves and flowers everywhere, trained on trellises, up the
balcony columns, and around the French windows. Spring leaves, lilac, honeysuckle, and very early roses nodded against warm brickwork, as if the house was inviting a complete invasion, and the whole was a symphony of the picturesque.

Helen drank in the scene as the chaise traveled the final few hundred yards of the journey. Behind the house there were gardens, and the immense white stableblock that was famous the length and breadth of England. The servants’ wing was adjacent to the stables, joined to the house but really quite separate, which was in itself a startling departure from the usual unified design which had marked all great houses until now.

The chaise drew up at last before the main entrance, which lay beneath one of the immense roofed balconies, and Helen prepared to alight, having already decided that Bourne End was quite the most beautiful home she’d ever seen. As the crunch of hooves and wheels on gravel died away, two footmen in Gregory’s gray-
and-gold
livery hurried to open the chaise door. One of them assisted Helen down, and as she stood by the vehicle she became aware of the rhythmic drumming of swift hooves on grass. She turned quickly to see several racehorses being exercised at full stretch across the park and away into the distance. She reflected that they were a sight and sound to which she was going to become greatly accustomed from now on.

A delighted voice drew her attention sharply back to the house, as her sister hurried out to greet her. ‘Helen! Oh, Helen, we weren’t expecting you just yet!’

Margaret Bourne was very like her younger sister, with the same green eyes and honey-colored hair, but she was shorter and more rounded, with a dimpled smile and plump arms. She wore a pale green silk gown that became her particularly well, and her costly cashmere shawl dragged carelessly on the ground as she ran to hug Helen.

The sisters embraced joyfully, and then Margaret stood back, her head on one side as she inspected Helen’s appearance. ‘My, my, how very London you are, to be sure.’

‘I have Gregory to thank for my Madame Rosalie wardrobe.’

‘He was only too pleased to provide for you. But why on earth are you here today?’

‘I couldn’t stand the thought of Miss Figgis for another minute, so I persuaded her to let me go. Five years is a horrid long time to be incarcerated at school.’

‘But worth it to produce young ladies of spotless character, faultless poise, and perfect manners, which is how I trust
you
have turned out.’

How Helen managed to give an innocent smile, she didn’t know; all she did know was that as her sister spoke, visions of the goings-on at the Cat and Fiddle hovered accusingly all around. Spotless character, faultless poise, and perfect manners? Nothing could have been further from the truth after her disgraceful
behavior
at the inn, and she only hoped Margaret would never find out how far her little sister had fallen from grace in one single day.

The footmen were unloading the trunks from the chaise boot, watched very closely by Mary, who was determined that her mistress’s belongings should be handled with the utmost care. The postboy hovered anxiously nearby, having indeed adopted a
different
attitude for the second part of the journey, just as Adam had so dryly predicted, and the moment the last trunk was removed from the boot and the lid closed, he remounted and drove away as swiftly as the tired horses would permit.

‘You should have waited for the traveling carriage,’ said Margaret a little disapprovingly.

‘That wouldn’t have been nearly so interesting,’ Helen replied, with much more meaning than her sister could possibly know.

‘Interesting?’

‘Well, the postboy was full of dire warnings about highwaymen.’

‘Highwaymen, in
this
day and age?

‘Oh, I’m reliably informed that there is one, a certain Lord Swag.’

‘Good heavens, I thought they were extinct.’

Some more racehorses galloped across the park, and Margaret turned quickly to observe them. ‘The light-gray is Musket, Gregory’s hope for the Maisemore Stakes, and the chestnut is Lexicon, which is reckoned to have an excellent chance in the Gold Cup itself. I do so hope they both do well, for after last year’s disagreeable events it would be good to carry everything off
without
upset.’

Helen looked at her. ‘Last year’s disagreeable events? But I thought all the Bourne End horses won.’

‘They did, it was the behind-the-scenes trouble I was referring to.’

‘What behind-the-scenes trouble? You didn’t tell me anything in your letters. You gave me the impression that last year’s was one of the best Royal Ascots you’d attended, with the Czar’s presence, and….’

‘I didn’t mention it because it really was too upsetting at the time. Gregory was very anxious indeed to have it all forgotten as quickly as possible, especially since the Jockey Club inquiry cleared him of all involvement. Luckily, it was all kept from the newspapers, even though there was a great deal of whispering.’ Margaret smiled apologetically. ‘Helen, I really wish I hadn’t said anything to you, because if he knew Gregory would be very cross with me. It’s all ancient history now, anyway, so please forget I ever said a word.’

Ancient history. That was how Adam had spoken of the
cause célèbre
he’d referred to but never explained. Could whatever had happened to him be the selfsame thing Margaret was at pains to avoid speaking of now? Surely it had to be. Adam and Gregory had once been friends, but now loathed each other, and now it seemed that something of considerable importance, something
disagreeable
, had happened in the lives of both men the previous summer. That event had led to Adam’s withdrawing from further
participation
in horse racing except as a spectator, and whatever it was that had happened to Gregory had also been very much connected with horse racing.

Margaret linked her arm. ‘Shall we go inside and see Gregory? He doesn’t even know you’re here; he’s far too absorbed in
watching
his horses through his telescope. It will do him good to take his eyes away from the wretched thing for a while, for I truly believe he’ll wake up one morning with one huge eye in the middle of his forehead.’

Laughing, the sisters went into the house, and Helen
immediately
halted in surprise, gazing around the circular entrance hall. The cream walls were hung with the many racing certificates presented to Gregory’s winners, and with paintings of those
winners. Three chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, and a curving staircase followed the line of the wall, rising between fine Doric columns to a balustraded landing on the floor above. Daylight shafted in from high windows, falling on a floor of mosaic swirls of arcadian greenery. A number of fine double doors opened off the hall, and on either side of each were tables where vases of flowers and ferns had been exquisitely arranged. A basket stood next to one of these tables, and with it some more flowers, a pair of scissors, and a pair of dainty little gloves, from which Helen knew immediately that Margaret had been arranging the flowers when she’d heard the chaise arrive.

Margaret smiled at her. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’ve arranged them beautifully.’

‘Not the flowers, silly, I mean the house.’

‘Oh, it’s perfect, Margaret, truly perfect.’

‘I’m afraid it’s already been trumped.’

‘It has? Surely not.’

‘I fear so, the Prince Regent has out-picturesqed us with the Royal Lodge, his new
cottage orné
in Windsor Great Park. Well, it’s hardly a cottage, it’s a veritable thatched palace, and when it was completed last month it was universally declared to be the most modern and superior dwelling in the land. I was quite of a mind to be miffed, but it’s impossible to remain miffed with him for long, he’s too charming.’

Helen gave a slight laugh. ‘You know, I can still hardly believe my sister is friendly with the Prince Regent. It’s a world away from our life in Worcestershire, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is, and you are shortly going to meet the prince yourself. We’re holding a dinner party here in a few days’ time, and he’s going to be the guest of honor. I trust your fortitude is up to not only the prince but also twenty-five other guests, including a number of dukes, duchesses, earls, countesses, and sundry other persons of consequence, including the Russian ambassador and at least three lady patronesses from Almack’s.’

Helen felt quite pale at the prospect. ‘The Prince Regent
and
three of Almack’s dragons?’ She murmured faintly.

‘Yes, but don’t fret, for I’m sure you’ll carry it off with
impeccable
Fairmead flair. It’s all a considerable coup for you, you know,
for there aren’t many young ladies who embark on their first Season with the Prince Regent under their belt – in a manner of speaking, of course.’ Margaret grinned.

The footmen carried the first trunk in, still watched over by Mary, and as they vanished up the staircase, a butler appeared from one of the doors at the far end of the hall.

‘Ah, Morris,’ said Margaret, ‘as you can see, Miss Fairmead has arrived a little earlier than expected. Will you send some
housemaids
up to see that her room is in perfect order?’

‘Yes, madam.’ His voice was deep and rather lugubrious, and Helen was irresistibly reminded of an undertaker she’d once encountered in Cheltenham.

‘And then will you have some Pekoe and sweet almond biscuits served in the drawing room?’

‘Yes, madam. Is there anything else, madam?’

‘No, Morris, that is all.’

‘Madam.’ He bowed and withdrew again.

Margaret rolled her eyes behind his back, and it was all Helen could do not to burst into giggles. Linking arms again, the sisters proceeded toward the nearest double doors, which led to a large, extremely beautiful octagonal room with a line of four French windows opening on to a veranda beneath another of the balconies. The walls were adorned with gilt-framed mirrors, shelves of books, paintings, and display cabinets, and there were comfortable floral armchairs and plum velvet sofas. The windows were swathed with plum velvet curtains and hung with delicate nets that moved gently in the light breeze coming in through the one open French window. There were more flower arrangements, and pots containing fine plants, and the room looked very inviting indeed.