An Unsuitable Bride (23 page)

“What are you suggesting?” Alex looked suspiciously at her sister.

“Nothing in particular,” Sylvia said airily. “But I think you should consider alternatives to the life of a recluse.”

Alex’s frown deepened, she opened her mouth to say something, and then she shook her head impatiently. “I’m going for a walk.”

Sylvia smiled to herself as her sister left the parlor. She had the strangest sense that maybe a solution to all of their difficulties hovered on the horizon if Alex could be brought to see it.

Chapter Ten

Alexandra checked on the piebald pony, who seemed content to eat her head off in the lean-to in the kitchen garden. She let herself out into the lane at the rear and climbed up a little hill behind the houses onto the wide expanse of the heath. A cold wind was blowing, and her loosened hair blew around her face, but it cooled her blood and cleared her head.

Twice this strange thing had happened to her, this frightening sense of losing her bearings, as if her own personal compass needle had swung wildly off course. When Peregrine Sullivan stood so close to her, looked so deeply into her eyes, that full, sensual mouth hovering just above her own, she felt herself as malleable as a lump of clay on a potter’s wheel.

It was absurd. She had never experienced such a feeling before. There had never been time or occasion in her life hitherto for such encounters with the male of the species. By the time she had gone to St. Catherine’s, at an age when young women were beginning to venture into the social world, she had, to all intents and purposes,
gone into an all-female seclusion as tight as that of a convent. Men had not visited the seminary unless they were servants or parents of the pupils. Oh, there had been an occasional brother, gangly, spotty, and awkward for the most part, and Alexandra had never had the slightest interest in cultivating them. Now she felt herself as innocent as the most naïve, sheltered, medieval maiden in a stone castle on the Welsh Marches. Probably more so, she reflected wryly, remembering the rather more barbaric aspects of medieval castle life.

So, what was she to do now? Peregrine had made it clear that she was not going to be rid of him in the short term, and the remainder of the journey to London lay ahead of them. She would, of course, revert to her librarian’s costume as soon as she returned to her chamber at the Angel. That would help, of course. The danger only seemed to arise when she was herself, Alexandra Douglas. The costume gave her all the protection of a medieval chastity belt.

She took a deep breath of the chill air, standing with her hands on her hips, her muslin skirts flattened against her legs, and let the strength of will flow back. And across the flat expanse of the heath, by the gibbet at the crossroads, a man on a big gray horse watched the small figure with a half smile on his lips.

Alexandra looked across the gorse-strewn landscape, as if her eyes were magnetized. She saw the distant figure watching her. And the strength and confidence of a moment ago evaporated.

Peregrine rode back to Lymington, stabled Sam in the Angel yard, and went into the taproom. The landlord was polishing tankards at the bar counter, and a few men sat drinking at a long bench in the window, conversing in laconic bursts. Perry leaned on the bar counter. “A pint of porter.”

“Aye, sir.” The landlord filled the tankard and set it down before him. “D’you fancy a bite of summat, sir? ’Tis a time since you broke your fast.”

“What are you offering?” Peregrine buried his nose in the tankard.

“A nice bit o’ gammon, sir, and a slice o’ meat pie. My Bertha makes the best meat pie this side o’ Yorkshire.”

“Then gladly, landlord.” Perry leaned one elbow on the counter and swiveled to look at his fellow inhabitants of the taproom. “Local folk?”

“Aye. But you should be ’ere on a Sat’day, sir. ’Tis market day, an’ folk can’t move fer the press. You’d be ’ard pressed t’ get close to the bar then.” The landlord beamed his satisfaction at the prospect and set a hearty piece of meat pie and a thick slice of gammon in front of Perry. He sawed off a hunk of wheaten bread from a loaf at the end of the counter and passed it up on the point of the knife.

“My thanks.” Perry took it off and set it on his plate. “So, I understand there’s a seminary for young ladies around here.”

“Oh, yes, sir. St. Catherine’s that’ll be.” The man leaned comfortably on the counter, prepared to chat. “ ’Tis run by Mistress Simmons, a real lady she is. We see ’er on market day sometimes, but most times she comes in the week to do her business wi’ Mr. Buxton, the lawyer, who does the bankin’ for folks around ’ere. An’ sometimes one of ’er girls is took sick, an’ the doctor goes out there. Never misses a pay day, does Mistress Simmons.”

“A veritable paragon,” Peregrine murmured. “D’you remember a Mistress Hathaway, who was a pupil there for a few years?”

The landlord frowned and shook his head. “Don’t know as I do, sir. But we didn’t know the young ladies in the town. They came in once in a while to visit Mistress Collins, the milliner, but they never come in ’ere.”

“No, of course not.” Peregrine cut into his ham, debating his next question. He had the feeling that if his questions became too searching, too specific, then the landlord would clam up. Country folk were not generally happy to discuss their affairs with strangers. “I was talking with a Mistress Matty, over in Barton, earlier. She mentioned the seminary, and I was interested. ’Tis an out-of-the-way spot for such an institution.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. The air’s good an’ clean, we’ve the sea an’ the forest. A little piece o’ heaven, we think it.”

The landlord moved away down the bar. Peregrine
finished his meal, drained his tankard, and left the taproom.

Until Alexandra returned that evening, there was nothing he could do . . . unless he asked a few questions at the seminary. Mistress Simmons might throw some light on the mystery. If he was to help Alexandra, he would have to get to the bottom of it, with or without her consent. And just why was he so anxious to help such an obstructive, exasperating, perverse young woman? He didn’t need to ask himself the question. He’d never met a woman like her, and she drew him like a lodestone. He wanted to know her in every facet. He found her company stimulating, and he couldn’t imagine he would ever find it anything else. The glimpses he’d had of the woman beneath the subterfuge fascinated him, so much so that he had a feeling that they were somehow made to partner each other.

Perhaps it was irrational, and he was not in general an irrational man, and yet this compelling need to persist in his pursuit regardless of her opposition seemed absolutely the only possible thing he could do. He had a tidy mind, and this course he was pursuing seemed likely to lead only to chaos, and yet his heart sang and his spirit danced at the prospect of such chaos.

The groom brought Sam out into the yard, and he swung into the saddle. “Where will I find St. Catherine’s Seminary?”

“Oh, ’tis out Barton way, sir, mebbe a mile outside the village. Take the coast road that-a-way”—the elderly
groom gestured back up the High Street—“an’ ye’ll come to a bridle path on the left after about two miles. You’ll see the ’ouse up on the cliff. Big gray ’ouse, can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” Perry turned Sam out of the yard and up the street away from the quay. The sandy road ran parallel to the cliff top and the gray-green waters of the Solent stretching to the Isle of Wight. The day was overcast, the wind was brisk, and the first intimations of autumn were in the air. The lane curved away from the cliff and wound down quite a steep hill between high hedges thick with blackberries. He came to the bridle path as the groom had said, and as soon as he turned onto it, he saw the house, set back from the cliff.

He turned through stone gateposts and rode up a well-kept driveway. A group of young girls came giggling down the drive, carrying baskets overflowing with blackberries. The youngest were still children, their mouths stained purple with the fruit they were eating as they walked. They all stopped and stared at the stranger.

He swept off his hat and bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies. I was hoping to speak with Mistress Simmons.”

The tallest in the group came to her senses first. “Amelia, run up to the house and tell Mistress Simmons she has a visitor,” she instructed, and one of the youngsters turned and raced up the drive to the house, berries spilling from her basket.

“Thank you.” Perry bowed again, before setting his
hat back on his head and riding slowly on to the house to give the child time for her warning. He wondered if Alexandra had ever roamed the countryside picking blackberries, her mouth stained purple. Or had she preferred to stay indoors buried in her studies? The reflection brought a smile to his lips, and a warm glow seemed to settle behind his ribs.

The door stood open, and as he dismounted before the house, a woman appeared in the doorway. Her pale gray gown was plain, but the material was good. Her hair was banded in neat plaits around her head. She lifted a lorgnette and subjected her visitor to a careful scrutiny as he walked towards her.

Peregrine bowed low. “Do I have the honor of addressing Mistress Simmons?”

“You do,” she said quietly.

“The Honorable Peregrine Sullivan at your service, ma’am.” There was something about the woman that reminded him of Alexandra. The sharp eyes, the air of one who did not tolerate inanities, the air of one who took no prisoners.

“Indeed, sir. And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Peregrine came straight to the point. The woman seemed to encourage directness. “I have recently made the acquaintance of Mistress Alexandra Hathaway, ma’am. I believe she was a pupil here.”

The look of confusion that flashed across her eyes confirmed what he had long suspected. Hathaway was not Alexandra’s name. But almost as quickly as it had
appeared, the confusion vanished, and Mistress Simmons said simply, “That is so. But it has been many months since Mistress Hathaway was living here. She left to seek her own employment.”

“As a librarian, I understand.”

Helene had had only the sparsest communications from her protégée since she’d left the seminary, and her early disquiet had grown into a deep sense of foreboding that Alexandra, always impulsive and hotheaded, was involved in some madcap scheme. Her first thought now was that Alexandra was in trouble. “I’m not aware of the lady’s employment,” she said carefully. “I know nothing of what became of Mistress Alexandra when she left my roof.”

“I see.” Peregrine frowned. “Forgive me, ma’am. I am merely seeking confirmation that Mistress Hathaway has sufficient knowledge to carry out her duties as a librarian cataloguing some very rare and valuable volumes.”

Helene breathed a little easier. Working as a librarian was an eminently respectable profession, although somewhat unusual for a woman, and most particularly one as young as Alexandra. But why had she changed her name? “Certainly she has, Mr. Sullivan. Alexandra was a very accomplished pupil. Indeed, I can safely say I have never known her like.”

“I can believe that,” Perry said. “Neither have I.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shook his head with a slight laugh. “Thank you
for your opinion, Mistress Simmons. It merely confirms my own, but I wished to be sure. How long was Mistress Hathaway a pupil here?”

“Five years . . . and they were five years well spent, I assure you.” Helene, confident now that she was being asked to provide a reference for Alexandra, spoke without hesitation.

Peregrine smiled. “I would expect nothing else. I understand Mistress Hathaway has a sister?”

Helene’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to see what that has to do with Alexandra’s abilities as a librarian, sir.”

Peregrine retreated. “No, of course, ma’am. Forgive my curiosity. I wish only to discover if Mistress Hathaway has any family members for whom she is perhaps responsible. Her work is so outstanding, I would wish to ensure that her remuneration is sufficient. I don’t wish to lose her, you understand.”

And just where had he managed to come up with such a tissue of lies? He hated lying. It seemed that association with Mistress Alexandra was very bad for a man’s moral conduct.