Christina Hollis (18 page)

‘Then it is to be hoped that other gentlemen are better teachers,’ Adamson said before draining his glass. ‘If we have all quite finished here, perhaps we can set off? When Jack has tidied the furniture.’

He brushed a few stray oak husks from his jacket, unconcerned at Mistress Constance’s annoyance. Once the settles were back in their proper places, Adamson escorted his mother out to the coach while Jack and Madeleine followed behind.

‘He’s jealous!’ Jack whispered as Adamson settled himself in the carriage beside his mother.

Madeleine giggled even more at that. She had certainly offended him beyond redemption over the matter of money. He might be getting over that gradually, but Madeleine knew that things would never be quite the same between them again. What other cause would he have for jealousy? she wondered. Surely he couldn’t imagine she would want to steal Jack’s friendship from him?

The Pettigrews’ estate, Highlands, was an enormous spread offering acres of open land, hundreds of trees, five miles of river fishing and an enormous rambling old house.

No farmer in his right mind would have touched it. The man who had first named it Highlands had possessed a wonderful sense of humour. It was a wet, low-lying frost pocket, and the trees it grew were not the noble oaks and cedars of Willowbury, but only gnarled thorns and alders. All the introduced game crept away to higher ground, while sheep rotted away slowly on their diet of coarse bog grass.

Albert Pettigrew was not a farmer. He was something important in machines. Nobody knew quite what, although he explained frequently and at length. Unfortunately he always picked the worst times—shearing, or harvest—when everyone was far too busy with proper work to listen.

Whatever he did seemed to provide inexhaustible wealth. Madeleine gasped as the Adamsons’ carriage started a slow descent to the enormous house, garishly decorated with yellow and green paintwork.

‘Don’t mention the smell when we get inside, dear,’ Mistress Constance smiled, ‘it’s the river. Standing below the village as it does, all the waste sails past. In winter the river comes right up to their ground-floor windowsills! The first year they moved in, men on rafts had to pole across the lawn and sail on down to the next village for provisions!’

Jack and Mistress Constance laughed, but Madeleine saw that Philip was not amused. He was staring out of the opposite window.

‘Mr Pettigrew has spent a lot of money since then, Mother. I dare say we will find things much improved. And with the fine weather of late, the river level will be low.’

His rigid expression showed he expected no further comment on the matter. All at once Madeleine realised his present sharp manner might not be all her fault. To spend an afternoon in the company of his chief creditor was hardly an ideal arrangement. Madeleine decided not to make a bad situation worse by trying to make conversation, and spent the journey looking quietly out of the carriage window.

A line of gardener’s boys were sweeping the flagged apron outside the house. The Adamsons’ coach slowed down to a crawl, but still could not help catching up with the children as they inched forward.

Mr Pettigrew dashed out of his front door. He was dressed in the latest style as worn by the Prince of Wales, and in the finest cloth. Unfortunately a vermilion cutaway over an orange waistcoat did nothing for his florid complexion.

Cuffing garden boys left and right, he extended his hand to help Mistress Constance down from the carriage. He was grinning broadly, but his eyes were panic-stricken.

‘Well, well—here’s a turn-up for the books!’ he said with a hint of desperation. ‘Must be some trouble on the road—is there? Or were the invitations wrong? Three o’clock, I wanted written—it’s nearly twenty-past now, and you’re nearly the first to arrive!’

Mr Pettigrew bobbed about nervously as first Madeleine, then Jack and finally Philip stepped down from the carriage. Hardly noticed at first, the Reverend Mr Wright slipped into their gathering, but Madeleine heard his whispered greeting to Mistress Constance. With a guilty tinge of pleasure she saw that Leonora had been left at home.

Mr Wright had walked to Highlands and arrived on time, but was unwilling to enter alone. Waiting behind the shrubbery until someone else turned up had seemed a good idea.

After a confusion of greetings and hand-shaking all round, Pettigrew led them into the house. He had every member of his staff lined up in the hall, as though for inspection. Everyone but Madeleine tried hard to ignore the embarrassment of farm workers and country girls squeezed into garish livery. She was more interested in marvelling at the number of staff rather than their quality.

The party was led into a huge dining-room. Today, the double doors leading from it had been thrown open and an orchestra installed in the salon beyond. Tired of waiting, musicians sprawled about talking and passing a flagon of gin round among themselves. At Mr Pettigrew’s arrival they stopped scratching and hauled themselves into sitting positions.

Several dozen rout chairs lined the walls of the Pettigrews’ dining-room. A shining new spinet stood proudly in the window bay, while the centre of the room was clear to allow for dancing.

‘This is going to be a disaster,’ Mistress Constance hissed in Madeleine’s ear. ‘I don’t know what possessed us to come. Everyone else has seen sense and stayed away!’

They all sat down, and found the rout chairs as uncomfortable as they looked. Trying to hide his disappointment with forced cheerfulness, Pettigrew went off to search for his other guest.

While the band smirked at their discomfort, the party tried to get comfortable on the hard, lumpy chairs and exchanged awkward little comments about the weather.

At the sound of Mr Pettigrew’s noisy approach outside, conversation faded away to nothing. At least we’ll have someone different to talk to, Madeleine thought with relief.

That was short-lived. The dining-room door was flung open, and with horror Madeleine recognised the newcomer.

It was the horrible man from the coach—Philip Adamson’s other creditor. Sir Edwin Pickersgill.

Madeleine felt her hands dampen with horror. Here was the man she had publicly embarrassed, now on the firm ground of a genteel English tea-party. He was sure to take revenge, and in her shame Madeleine would be found out for what she was—an impostor.
        She flashed a look of desperation at Philip, but he paid no attention. He and Jack had risen to greet Sir Edwin, and the three were exchanging pleasantries like old friends.

Pettigrew was bringing his honoured guest down the short line of visitors, introducing each in turn. Madeleine was at the end, but time was running out. She wound the strings of her fan into knots, frantically thinking of some way to avoid coming face to face with Sir Edwin again.

It was too late. He was directly in front of Mistress Constance now. As she was next to Madeleine, there was no escape. By this time Pettigrew was chattering on about things Continental, while his wife fluttered about like a little brown bird.

Madeleine took a deep breath and extended her hand. Sir Edwin Pickersgill’s bulldog eyes fastened her to the seat as he took hold of her reluctant fingers. ‘No, I’ve not had the pleasure,’ he breathed heavily, but his eyes added that the time would soon come.

Taken aback at the way his memory had failed, Madeleine could only mutter a faint greeting in her surprise.

The introductions over, Pettigrew and his wife stood back to face their luckless guests. Sir Edwin had subsided on to a chair beside Madeleine. She could not bear to look anywhere but down into her lap, but that didn’t stop her agony. From the sickly reek of his cologne to the persistent wheeze in his throat, Pickersgill was still managing to assault her on every front. If she raised her eyes only a little, there were his fat pink fingers spread out over the acreage of his breeches.

Madeleine edged a little closer to Mistress Constance.

The awkward silence that followed was almost tangible. Minute after minute staggered past, interrupted only by Albert Pettigrew wondering aloud where the rest of his expected guests had got to.

Finally, at a quarter to four, Mrs Pettigrew succeeded in attracting her husband’s attention. After some frantic whispering, both Pettigrews looked shamefaced at their guests.

‘If you would excuse me, ladies and gentlemen...my lady wife wishes to speak with me for a moment.’

Grinning uncomfortably, Mr Pettigrew led his wife out of the room. When a distant door clattered shut the orchestra and guests all sighed with relief.

‘What time is it?’ Jack asked hopefully.

Mistress Constance fanned herself. ‘Three minutes after you last asked, Dr Pritchard.’

‘Perhaps he’s got another engagement, mistress!’

Pickersgill’s words silenced what little noise there had been, and everyone turned to look at him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said in a voice that echoed in the quiet. ‘Wish I had a ready-made excuse for cutting off quick like young Jack-the-lad! Fill up on Albert’s hospitality, safe in the knowledge you could be called away on some “emergency” before you’re forced into being civil—’

‘Well,’ Madeleine interrupted, making everyone jump including herself. ‘Well, I think that what everyone’s done to the Pettigrews is awful. Not coming to their party, or, worse, being ungrateful!’

Here she shot a venomous look at Pickersgill, regardless of the consequences. He was smirking broadly. Disappointed that he felt no shame, Madeleine was fired up to continue.

‘I bet there’s piles and piles of food ready and waiting for all the dozens of guests Mr Pettigrew must have invited, and staff running around in all directions out of sight. The least we could do is pretend we’re enjoying ourselves, for their sake if nothing else.’

Madeleine spread her fingers on her lap and waited for someone to tell her that she had said the wrong thing yet again. Instead she heard the others moving rather uncomfortably in their seats. When she could bear to look up again she found that, while the others were avoiding each other’s gaze, Philip was almost smiling.

‘Well said, mademoiselle. What are a few hours of unease to us compared to the trouble Mr Pettigrew’s staff must have gone to for our supposed pleasure?’

There was a mutter of agreement, and even the orchestra gathered itself into some sort of order. When the Pettigrews returned it was to an atmosphere of resignation rather than of dread.

Pettigrew looked deflated. His wife had clearly been crying, and kept her head well down.

‘It seems—ah, that is...’ Pettigrew rocked on his heels and stared at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Apparently quite a few people have been in touch to say that they won’t be able to attend this afternoon... The lady wife was kind enough to try and spare my feelings, you understand...’

He was beginning to flounder, so Philip stepped in to rescue the situation.

‘A shame. We few will have all the enjoyment to ourselves, then!’

Sir Edwin Pickersgill snorted dismissively, but Pettigrew did not notice. He gaped at Philip, then realised he had been saved from an uncomfortable scene. Shaking himself, he laughed.

‘By Harry, you’re right! What’s to be first—vittles or dancing? Or cards, or we could just have some music. After all, that’s what I’ve paid these layabouts for!’

Pettigrew rubbed his hands with glee. At the mention of dancing Madeleine looked to Jack, but although he smiled the doctor seemed a little reticent.

‘Dancing, then?’ Pettigrew signalled to the orchestra to get ready. ‘I can see young feet want to step out!’

‘Now it’s time for Philip and me to be excused for a moment, I think.’ Jack rose from his seat and drew Adamson aside for a whispered conversation. At one point Philip turned to look at Madeleine, but Jack waved away her curious questions with a laugh.

‘Mind your own business, mademoiselle! We’re talking about you, not to you!’

The two young men moved a few steps away from Madeleine, and Mistress Constance had accepted the offer of a dance from Mr Wright. At once Sir Edwin Pickersgill moved in closer.

‘It’s the wife,’ he breathed secretively. ‘Confined to her bed. She’d be sure to hear any horse that left the stable so I’ve got to take the common carriage when I go off to town. Young Adamson owes me—he’ll not talk. But you—’

He was interrupted by Jack, who pointedly but politely asked Madeleine to dance. Philip was back in his seat, and although Madeleine smiled at him the look he returned was as stony as Pickersgill’s expression.

‘I thought it was about time Phil got a bit of exercise, but he’s too shy, it seems,’ Jack said brightly.

Too grumpy more like, Madeleine thought as she took Jack’s hand for the dance.

‘Perhaps there will be other occasions, Master Philip?’

‘I don’t dance,’ he snapped without looking at her.

‘Not even a little bit?’

‘Mademoiselle, rest assured that I have long since grown out of the stage of wishing to hurl myself and others about in public.’

At that rebuff Jack swept her away on to the dance-floor.

‘That told you!’ He grinned as they took their places.

‘I hope I haven’t upset him. He was bad enough before—goodness knows he didn’t need any encouragement in being miserable. With that awful Sir Edwin being here too—’

‘Don’t you worry about Phil,’ Jack winked. ‘I’ll cheer him up. He’ll soon come round.’

Madeleine didn’t want to overtax her new dancing skills. After a quick hop, skip and jump with Jack she partnered the Reverend in a stately minuet. Considering her duty done, Madeleine went to take a seat. Ignoring Sir Edwin, she took Jack’s place beside Philip, while the young doctor whisked Mistress Constance off for a dance.

‘I thought you were all for us pretending to enjoy ourselves, Master Philip?’

‘Some of us don’t seem to require much encouragement.’

Madeleine chuckled and gave him a nudge. ‘Jack was right. You are jealous, aren’t you?’

At once he flew to the defensive, but Madeleine shrugged.

‘It’s all right! I’m not going to steal Jack away from you!’ She laughed, but received no response. Perhaps a more serious approach was needed. ‘You’ll have to face up to it some time though, sir—one day a lucky girl’s going to want to make an honest man of him. If you were to get out and about more, meet people...you wouldn’t miss his company quite so much when the time comes.’