Carola Dunn (17 page)

Sir Gregory led the way up through the woods, where the scent of honeysuckle hung heavy. They rode in silence but for the soft thud of hoof on leaf mould, the distant hoot of an owl, the faint rustles of small night creatures. As they passed, a badger looked up unafraid from his hunt for grubs, his striped face visible only because he moved. A horse neighed.

A horse neighed! Sir Gregory reined in Atlas, and Catherine, once more rudely awakened, pulled up her bay beside him.

“It must be them. Who else would be up here?”

“Come,” he said again, and taking her bridle rode out from the sheltering trees onto the bare hillside. Hooves struck stone.

Four startled faces turned to meet them.

“Cousin Gregory!” breathed Beth.

“Dominic!” Sir Gregory was stunned into silence. Before he recovered the use of his tongue, Lord Dominic was on his feet and limping towards him.

“You didn’t expect to find me here, Cousin,” he said belligerently.

“I might have guessed that only a combination of you and Miss Brand could be responsible for this escapade.” The baronet’s voice expressed resigned forbearance, but Catherine thought she detected an undercurrent of excitement.

“It was all my idea,” Angel declared. “I told Beth I was meeting Dom . . . Lord Dominic, and she came as a chaperon.”

If Sir Gregory’s lips twitched, it was indistinguishable in the moonlight. He turned to the young clergyman.

“Leigh?”

“I too was brought along to play propriety. I did not know Lady Elizabeth would be here. I had intended to insist that Miss Brand return home at once, but when I got here . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

“Moon madness! Miss Brand, I have no control over your actions, but I hope that as a guest at the Hall you will heed my request to return thither immediately. Beth, come.”

As Sir Gregory helped the girls mount, two shamefaced young men converged on Catherine with muttered apologies.

“There’s no harm done, I think,” she told them. “At least you had the sense not to let them ride up the Crag in the dark. Good night.”

She turned her horse to join the others.

“I shall do myself the honour of calling at Upthwaite vicarage in the morning,” the baronet announced in a carrying voice, and the four of them rode back down the hill.

“Cursed interfering busybody,” growled Lord Dominic. “I only hope it gave him a nasty shock to see me alive and well.”

“He’d have been within his rights to have thrashed me soundly,” pointed out Mr Leigh.

“Not when I had a hand in your meeting Beth. I’m her brother, after all.”

“He should have thrashed you too!” was the vicar’s response.

Chapter 13

Creeping up the stairs, Catherine saw that her parents’ chamber door was open and a candle lighted within. With a sigh she stopped tiptoeing and was about to knock when her mother called:

‘‘Catherine? Pray come in.” She went and sat on their bed.

“Angel, I take it?” queried Mr Sutton, sitting up with his nightcap askew.

“Yes, Papa. All is well now.”

“Enterprising young lady. What has she been up to now?”

“She persuaded Lady Elizabeth to a midnight rendezvous with Gerald Leigh and . . . Mr Marshall.”

“You mean Lord Dominic Markham, do you not?” her mother asked with a smile.

“I thought you must have guessed, Mother.”

“There is a definite likeness between brother and sister, though not obvious perhaps. And the strange coincidence of names.”

“Dom Markham becomes Don Marshall,” mused the vicar. “It must have made things easier at first, when the alias was new to him.”

“Angel never guessed, you know. Even after Dom and Beth met, she had to have the relationship explained to her.”

“Catherine, do you wish me to speak to her?” asked her father. “I know you offered to take her wholly in charge yourself, but she is a more difficult ward than I had anticipated. I fear Louisa and Frederick have spoilt her abominably. If you feel her to be a burden, or that you cannot cope with her starts . . .”

“She is not always easy, Papa, but she is so good-natured. She was vastly apologetic tonight. As usual, she ‘had not considered.’ She wished to take the whole blame, and when I asked if she would spend the rest of the night here at home, she said she must go to the Hall ‘to protect Beth.’ And they had taken a groom with them, though he ran off when we arrived, so she had some concern for safety.”

“She has many good qualities,” agreed Mrs Sutton, “and I daresay she will grow out of her thoughtlessness. She is not so much lacking in consideration for others as simply impetuous. Well, if you think you can manage the little minx, let us get some sleep, for we have a journey tomorrow.’’

“Good night, Mother. Good night, Papa.” Catherine kissed them both. “I promise I’ll come running if I need help, and I thank you for your confidence in me.”

Returning at last to her chamber, she wondered momentarily whether that confidence was justified. Had she acted sensibly in riding off into the night alone with a gentleman she had known scarce a month? A gentleman, moreover, who had taken advantage of her in such a disgraceful fashion.

Even the memory of that kiss could not keep her awake. The moment her weary head touched the pillow, her eyes closed, and the next thing she knew was her mother shaking her.

She yawned all through breakfast. When the Grisedale coach arrived, bearing two lively, chattering young ladies apparently none the worse for the night’s adventures, she was much inclined to think that perhaps Angel’s opinion was correct. She was growing old.

Lord Grisedale’s team was also lively, “rarin’ to go,” said the coachman, and he declared that he was equally happy to go jauntering about “for ‘is lordship don’t scarcely even leave the ‘ouse nowadays.” With such an attitude the Kirkstone Pass was no obstacle, and they were soon driving along the well-wooded banks of Lake Windermere.

“It’s even prettier than Ullswater!” exclaimed Angel.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Mrs Sutton. “The islands lend a delightful perspective to the scene.”

“Ullswater is much more beautiful!” said Beth hotly, defending her home district. The farther behind they left her father, her companion, and her unwanted suitor, the more she lost her shyness.

They spent the night in Ambleside, and the next day went to Grasmere to watch the St Oswald’s Day rush-bearing procession.

“It is a very old custom,” explained Mr Sutton, “dating from the days when churches had no wooden floors. Once a year the people of the parish would gather rushes and strew them on the floors to make a sweet-smelling carpet.”

“Only once a year?” asked his wife disapprovingly. “That’s no way to keep house! They must have been quite foul by the end of the year.”

“I daresay, my dear. Of course, in these modern times the whole business is merely an excuse for a holiday.”

“Where are Angel and Beth?” Catherine interrupted. “Oh, dear, she promised not to think up any mischief.”

The girls had disappeared into the crowds of spectators, but it seemed unlikely that they could come to serious harm. Besides, at that moment a brass band appeared at the end of the street, so it was impossible to search. The band was followed by villagers carrying ‘rush-bearings.’ These were emblems of rushes woven into elaborate designs: harps, stars, serpents, and other traditional patterns. Then came Morris dancers in colorful costumes and jingling bells, accompanied by fiddles and pipes.

Closing the procession was a haywain piled high with fresh rushes and drawn by garlanded girls in white dresses, wearing flowered crowns and surrounded by cheering children. Angel was never able to explain just how she and Beth had joined the decorative maidens, but they both confessed to having enjoyed themselves amazingly.

“I suppose no one who knows you is likely to have seen you,” sighed Mrs Sutton philosophically. “But it has me in a puzzle to know how you manage to fall into such adventures, indeed it does.”

After this excitement, the glimpse they caught of Mr William Wordsworth and his family was an anticlimax.

* * * *

The next day they drove back over the Kirkstone Pass. Even Angel felt as if she was coming home when they reached Patterdale and turned up the lane towards Barrows End. Mrs Applejohn actually welcomed them, and Beth was persuaded to stay and dine before continuing to the Hall. She found it difficult to express her gratitude for having been included in the expedition.

“I cannot remember when I have so enjoyed myself,” she assured them fervently. “Though in general my life has been much more interesting since you came to the vicarage.”

“So has mine,” muttered Catherine.

“Tomorrow?” whispered Angel as they parted.

“Two o’clock. They swore to be there. Till then.”

Promptly at two, Beth arrived with Abel and the horses. Catherine had been half inclined to insist on going with them, but there was a great deal to be done at home. She felt disinclined for housework, yet no more eager to ride up Dowen Crag, where she would be an unwanted fifth.

So listless was she that her mother commented on it.

“I do hope you are not coming down with something,” she said anxiously.

“No, Mother, I am merely tired. I suppose I am spoiled by our holiday.”

Mrs Sutton was not satisfied. “Go and lie down, dearest,” she directed. “There is nothing I cannot do without your help. We cannot have you falling ill.”

Catherine felt no inclination to retire to bed, but it was easier than arguing so she obeyed. Alone in her chamber, she could no longer suppress the memory of Sir Gregory’s kiss, and it was impossible to deny that she had behaved to him in a free and easy way which had invited disrespect. In future she would be on her guard, she promised herself. She would treat him with formality and avoid being alone with him. And in a little over three weeks she would be leaving Westmorland and need never think of him or face him again.

To her own surprise, she found herself weeping uncontrollably, and when her mother looked in half an hour later she was fast asleep.

Meanwhile Angel was endeavouring to coach Lord Dominic in the gentle art of complimenting ladies. It was an occupation that involved a great deal of giggling.

His lordship alternated between the laconic and the overelaborate. From the simple statement that Angel was pretty as a primrose, which led to a brief discussion of spring flowers, he moved on to a eulogy of her eyes in which mountain tarns figured largely.

“And icy as they are, colder yet is the glance of displeasure from my Linnet’s eyes,” he rhapsodised, “which freezes my heart till her smile comes like a sunbeam to warm to life once more the—”

“No, no,” Angel stopped him. “That is much too involved and long-winded. Why, I know girls who would be half asleep before you reached the end of your sentence.”

“Perhaps I had best stick with the flowers. Your cheeks have the delicate tint of the wild rose in June.”

“That’s very pretty,” she applauded. “Go on.”

He continued, comparing her laugh to a mountain stream, her lips and teeth to raspberries and cream.

“Excellent! Much less commonplace than cherries and pearls.”

“Much more tempting, too,” he said audaciously.

Angel thoroughly enjoyed the lesson, but the only compliment she cared for was spoken before it began, as soon as Beth and Gerald wandered off.

“I missed you, Linnet,” Lord Dominic had said simply.

They could not meet again till Monday, because Saturday was the day set for the race. Angel wished she had not accepted Sir Gregory’s challenge. However, she had committed herself, and now not even the way time was rushing by could make her back down.

She went up to the Hall in the morning alone, as Catherine was otherwise occupied. After enduring for half an hour Mrs Daventry’s complaints about “young girls forever off jauntering about the countryside,” she was more than happy to welcome Lord Welch when he arrived with her mount.

Beth, having been spared his attentions for several days, also greeted the viscount with complaisance. Sir Gregory was called from his business, and the four of them rode out to give the racecourse a final inspection.

Lord Welch, heartened by his reception, was very attentive to Beth. At first she accepted his solicitude patiently, but his proprietary air became so marked that it began to distress her.

Sir Gregory was about to give his lordship a sharp set-down when Angel noticed her friend’s discomfort and took a hand. She drew off the viscount with a coquettish question and he, in accordance with his policy of blowing now hot, now cold, responded with alacrity.

He continued to flirt with Angel at luncheon, under Mrs Daventry’s disapproving eye, until Mrs Sutton and Catherine arrived to watch the race. They took Mrs Daventry up in the gig, and everyone made their way to the course.

Sir Gregory offered Angel a head start of a length, but she refused indignantly and was punctilious about making sure Star’s nose was precisely level with Atlas’s. The huge grey charger towered over her mare but in no wise diminished her eagerness for battle.

Lord Welch, who had appointed himself master of ceremonies, loaded his pistol with a blank shot, pointed it skyward, and fired.

Atlas got off to a slow start, but once he was in full stride it became obvious that Star had no chance. The big horse took the lead and kept it all the way in spite of the filly’s gallant efforts. Sir Gregory wondered momentarily whether to hold back, but guessed that Angel would be furious if she realised. He abandoned the gentlemanly impulse and won by a length and a half.

Angel took her defeat with cheerful equanimity, upon which he congratulated her.

“I’m glad you did not let me win,” she said. “It was Atlas’s race all the way. He’s a beauty. Of course, if I had my own horse here . . . I mean, if I could have had a larger choice . . . Oh, never mind. You won fair and square and I owe you a handkerchief. I hope you do not want it embroidered with your initials?”

“No, Miss Brand, I’ll not ask that of you.”

This response inclined her to think that he was perhaps not quite so odious as she had supposed. She was about to tell him so when Beth came up.