Carola Dunn (18 page)

 Mariana regarded the hefty young man with puzzlement changing to amusement. The only reason she could imagine for Mr Perrincourt to send a carpenter with such haste, when she had carefully not complained, was to ensure that she had nothing to complain of.

 He was determined not to put himself in the wrong where she was concerned. In other words, if anyone was at fault in any respect, it must be she.

 “I told your master they are not bad,” she said, “but since you have come, you might as well look.”

 Lyuba at his heels, the carpenter toured the cottage. The small but comfortable house, about a century old, had a sitting room, dining parlour, and kitchen below, and three chambers above. The puppy joined in peering—or in her case sniffing—at doors and windows as Mariana pointed out the minor cracks and gaps.

 “I’ll do me best, miss,” the carpenter said doubtfully as they returned below stairs, “but these old places, they settle crooked, see. A bit o’ putty here and there maybe’ll help. Trouble is, you don’t want to make it so’s the doors and winders won’t open and close.”

 “No, indeed! I shall be grateful for anything you can do, and I’ll assure Mr Perrincourt you did a splendid job. Is he a hard master?”

 “Can’t hardly tell yet, miss. His manservant, what was his batman in the army, I heard he says Squire’s pertickler but fair.”

 “Fair enough,” said Mariana.

 She found herself still puzzled by Damian Perrincourt. Guessing the reason for his prompt attention to her insignificant draughts did not explain why he felt so strong a need not to be found lacking where she was concerned. Mariana was sure it was more complicated than a simple a wish to do his duty as her landlord. She had sensed an inexplicably strong determination to prove himself morally superior to her, not merely her superior in station.

 He had responded to his mother’s introduction with a stiffness not wholly to be accounted for by his half-healed wound. All in all, it seemed he was resolved to dislike her, though he hardly knew her.

 Did she like him?

 One was naturally prejudiced against any person who regarded one with antipathy. She had not cared for his sharpness with the children, obviously not for the first time, to judge by their anxious apologies. Yet afterwards he had begged Mrs Perrincourt for a toy for them and the kitten.

 She would keep an open mind, Mariana vowed. Time would show whether he was amiable or odious.

 The former, she hoped—purely for the children’s sake, and because she liked his mother. And, of course, as his tenant she was to some degree dependent upon his good will.

 It was a great pity he had seen her first in such shocking disarray, she thought with a sigh.

* * * *

 News of Mariana’s drinking tea with Mrs Perrincourt—in her private sitting room, too, not the formal drawing room!—soon spread throughout the village and then the neighbourhood. Ladies began to call at Merriman’s Cottage: the rector’s wife and her sister, the apothecary’s mother, the lawyer’s spinster daughters, a genteel widow or two, someone’s aunt and someone else’s cousin.

 By dint of letting it be known that she would be “at home” between certain hours, Mariana managed not to offend any of these good ladies by receiving them in her gardening dress. Besides, the December weather was rarely conducive to working out of doors.

 Rain followed frosts and frosts followed rain. Lyuba, growing by leaps and bounds, insisted on a walk every day whatever the skies chose to do.

 She was equally happy in the woods, where she chased squirrels and retrieved sticks, or in the meadows, where she chased rabbits and retrieved odds and ends—a crow’s feather here, an abandoned fieldmouse nest there.

 Mariana kept her strictly away from the Wych Court coverts and park. Though the pup was on the whole obedient, there was no guarantee she would come if called away from pheasants or deer. Best to keep her well out of the way of gamekeepers and their master.

 In fact, she did not see Mr Perrincourt at all in the fortnight after her first visit to the Court, though she called twice more. Mrs Perrincourt received her kindly, and the children soon lost their reserve with her.

 Which was delightful, but how was she to judge the Squire if she never met him?

 Then she received an invitation to a Christmas party at Wych Court. Everyone went, from cowherds to local gentry, she was informed by her new acquaintances.

 The younger ones bemoaned the warning that this year there would be no dancing, because the family was still in mourning for Mr Jack’s death. Their elders told them they were lucky to have a party at all. The Perrincourts were generously entertaining as usual only so as not to disappoint their neighbours and dependents.

 Mariana had only ever been to balls as a chaperon. She was not sure whether to be sorry to miss the experience, or glad that she would not have to worry about whether Mr Perrin...any gentleman—or cowherd—would stand up with her.

 Although Mr Perrincourt probably would not have been able to dance anyway, with his injured back, she reminded herself.

 At least she was bound to see him, to have a chance to form an opinion of his character.

 There were lesser festivities in the village, and in the spirit of the season, Mariana was even invited by some of the nearby gentry to join the company at the tea-table after dinner. The Perrincourts’ recent loss excused their absence from these affairs.

 One festive dinner party, however, they did attend. Lady Fortescue was Mrs Perrincourt’s dearest friend, though the property of Sir George Fortescue, Baronet, was some six miles from Wycherlea. (Because of the distance, Mariana was unacquainted with the Fortescues and had no expectation of an invitation.)

 Damian had no wish to go, but his mother persuaded him. He was quite well enough for a mere hour’s travel in the comfortable landau, “or you may ride if you prefer, my dear. Lady Fortescue will be happy to provide a chamber for you to change into your evening clothes. And who knows but you will find a bride among the company.”

 “Hardly likely, Mama!”

 “You never can tell. Lady Fortescue’s brother, Sir Everard Westin is visiting with his family, including a daughter of marriageable age. He is a diplomat, you know, recently knighted for services to the Crown.”

 “And you think she would make me a suitable wife?”

 “My dear, I have no idea. I have seen her only once, many years ago, when she was about Lucy’s age. But the Fortescues have a number of other guests staying in the house, chosen to mingle well with the Westins, so there are bound to be other young ladies.”

 “To whom I have no notion of doing the pretty,” Damian growled, but he agreed to accompany his mother.

 At dinner, he was seated next to Miss Ariadne Westin. Much to his surprise, he found her charming. She was pretty without being vain, well-informed but not pedantic, conversable yet not a chatterbox.

 She was twenty to his forty-four.

 After dinner, the rugs in the drawing room were rolled back for a not quite impromptu hop. Watching the young people enjoying a vigorous country dance, Damian was glad of the excuse of his mourning and his injury. He had never much cared for dancing in his youth. Now he had no desire whatsoever to take part. The sight made him feel his age, though several of the older gentlemen joined in with verve and apparent pleasure.

 He found himself seated on a sofa with Lady Westin, a grey-haired, distinguished-looking matron.

 “What fun the young folks are having, are they not, Mr Perrincourt?” she exclaimed with delight. “Ariadne adores dancing.”

 “Miss Ariadne is a thoroughly amiable young lady,” said Damian sincerely. “I took the greatest pleasure in her company at dinner.”

 Lady Westin eyed him dubiously. “She is a good girl. We have been so much abroad that she has not had a proper come-out yet, but we intend to take her to Town in the spring. I think it best she should meet as many people as possible before she settles down.”

 “I am sure so charming a young lady will have not the least difficulty attracting a suitable young gentleman.”

 Damian ruefully noted Lady Westin’s relief at his choice of adjectives. Though he had been reflecting not a moment since that he was too old for Miss Westin, or any of the other girls skipping about the floor, her ladyship’s obvious concurrence made him wince.

 “Thank you, Mr Perrincourt,” she said. “I hope it is not simply a mother’s partiality which leads me to agree!”

 “Not at all. You are to be congratulated on her upbringing, ma’am.”

 “Oh, not I! At least, I trust my influence has not been utterly negligible, but we owe more than I can say to her governess, a most excellent woman. Miss Duckworth came to us when—”

 “Miss Duckworth!”

 “My dear sir, do you know Mariana Duckworth? What a happy coincidence. Ariadne, love,” she said as her daughter, becomingly flushed, breathless and laughing, came to her at the end of a set, “only think, Mr Perrincourt is acquainted with your dear Miss Duckworth.”

 “Oh, splendid, Mama! I have been so very sad, sir, to have lost touch with Miss Duckworth. Will you give me her direction, pray?”

 Damian obliged. Miss Ariadne vowed to call upon her former governess before leaving for London after Christmas.

 A youth came to beg her hand for the next dance, and she went off.

 Somewhat bemused, and feeling sheepish at having so misjudged his tenant, Damian asked, “How did you come to lose track of Miss Duckworth, Lady Westin?”

 “I fear it is inevitable in Sir Everard’s profession,” she said with a sigh. “Diplomats move about so. My husband was attached to the Portuguese Court for many years, you know, first in Lisbon, and then in their exile in Brazil.”

 “And Miss Duckworth went with you?”

 “To be sure. I cannot conceive how I should have managed without her. She was remarkably quick to pick up languages and foreign customs, the greatest help to me. Naturally, when Ariadne no longer needed a governess we should have been happy to keep her on as a companion, or to pay her fare home if she so chose.”

 “She did not so choose, I take it?” Damian was more and more bemused.

 “Far from it! She found a post with a Russian diplomat’s family, and in no time, she was off to Russia.”

 “Good Lord!”

 “She has not told you of her travels?” asked Lady Westin. “For all her attainments, she is the modestest thing in creation, and always excessively circumspect and proper. I dare say she does not wish to be considered boastful.”

 “I...I am only very slightly acquainted with the lady,” said Damian evasively.

 “Merriman’s Cottage, you say, in Wycherlea? We shall certainly call. Is she living with a relative?”

 “No, ma’am, on her own.”

 “She is not... Oh dear, I do hope she is not in need?” Lady Westin said anxiously.

 “I believe not.”

 “That is a relief. I am so glad!”

 Sir Everard came to speak to her then. Damian was in need of changing his position, so he went to talk to his host for a while. Afterwards he chatted cordially with several others, but all the while his mind was revolving the extraordinary discovery of Miss Duckworth’s prior existence.

 He found it quite impossible to reconcile the “excessively circumspect and proper” governess with the mud-smeared woman in the garden.

 Had her name been Jane Smith, or even Jennifer Smithson, he would have been convinced the two were not the same. But how many Mariana Duckworths of the right sort of age could there be? He knew her name was Mariana, for he had seen it on the copy of the lease sent by his lawyer.

 Miss Mariana Duckworth, governess extraordinaire, world traveller, digging weeds in a country garden?

Chapter 7

 “A governess? Did I not tell you Miss Duckworth is perfectly respectable, Damian?”

 “You did, Mama,” he admitted as the landau turned from the Fortescues’ avenue into the lane. He nearly added, “But we do not know what she has been doing since she left the Westins, nor how she came by the money to rent Merriman’s Cottage.”

 Biting back the words just in time, he recognized them as a feeble attempt to justify his unwarranted suspicions of the woman.

 Thank heaven no one but his mother was aware of his mistrustfulness. He was going to find it difficult enough to face Miss Duckworth, knowing he had maligned her, without her knowing it too!

 “Is she coming to our Christmas fête?”

 “Of course, darling.”

 Recalling the dreams he had had of her brought a blush to his cheek in the dark. If he had discovered her to be unchaste, and had she not lived on his own estate, he would gladly have set her up as his mistress.

 The young girls he had met tonight, no matter how fresh and lovely, did not appeal to him in the slightest. He refused to make a fool of himself marrying a chit straight from the schoolroom just for the sake of an heir of his own body. Properly taught, Thomas would grow up to be a worthy squire of Wych Court.

 No, no youthful bride for him. Yet he rather thought he should like to have a wife, not just a mature mistress. Someone to talk to at the breakfast table. Someone to come home to after a day riding about the estate. Someone to sponsor Lucinda when the time came for her to seek a husband.

 A vision of little Lucy standing at the altar with a kitten draped over her shoulder made Damian smile.

 She needed a mother as well as a governess. The trouble was, available women of the right age were either spinsters, with all the flaws which had deterred suitors in their youth, or widows, very likely with children of their own. Even if he found a suitable childless widow, he had no wish to have to compete against her memories of her first husband, good or bad.

 Lucy might have to make do with a governess after all. She must have the very best.

 Miss Duckworth?

 He would never have the nerve, far less the gall, to ask her after having misjudged her so! Drat the woman, the best thing he could do was to stay out of her way.

* * * *

 Walking down the Wych Court avenue with the rector, his wife, and her sister after the party, Mariana pondered what she had learnt of Mr Perrincourt in the past few hours. It was not a great deal.