Moonlight And Mistletoe

CHAPTER TWENTY

I am so sorry, but the shock of seeing her-and she must have recognised me as a friend of Anne Norton’s. Did you see the expression of guilt on her face when I walked in?’

‘I saw a woman who looked as though she had seen a ghost, not one who had a guilty secret.’ Guy held the front door open for Georgy and shut his lips tight as Parrott came forward to take their coats. ‘We will be in the library, Parrott, and do not wish to be disturbed.’

He shut the door behind them and leaned back against it, unconsciously echoing Hester’s own movements. ‘I am a bloody fool.’ This was hurting, damnably, but it was hurting Hester a sight more, of that he was certain.

‘You cannot blame yourself for being taken in.’ His sister, a handsome woman in her mid-thirties, came and took his arm, urging him towards a chair. Guy cooperated, too intent on his thoughts to resist. ‘She looks so respectable, so well bred.’

‘I was not taken in, and she is all you have just said. I should learn to think before I speak. Georgy, I have kissed her, held her in my arms, and if Hester Lattimer is not a virgin then I am the Prince Regent.’ He had made his sister blush, he saw with a kind of bitter amusement.

‘But perhaps she is a very good actress. Mrs Norton said-’

‘How well do you know Mrs Norton?’

‘Well enough, for acquaintances.’

‘And had she any expectations from the colonel? Something that his relationship, whatever it was, with Hester could have jeopardised?’

‘I do not know.’ Georgiana sat silent, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Guy regarded the fire and wondered if there was any way in which he could have handled that scene any worse. Probably not.

‘They were cousins,’ Georgy said suddenly. ‘And he was unmarried. I think her son must have been his heir. You think that was it?’ She looked at him, eyes wide and anxious. ‘Have I made a terrible mistake?’

‘No, you have made an understandable mistake, my dear. I have made one which might be unforgivable. Will you excuse me? I think if I do not go out and ride hard and long I will yield to the temptation to go right back across to the Moon House and that will probably make things a hundred times worse.’

‘Can you make it better?’ Georgy was watching him with a troubled expression quite unlike her normal confidence.

‘I do not know. I only know that I love her, and that is suddenly not enough.’

He took a hunter from the stables and rode, as he had promised, both hard and long. Riding blind he found himself up on the downs where he had held Hester in his arms and where she had reacted with what, he now realised, was understandable revulsion to her suspicion that he was offering her a carte blanche. Then on, along the crest of the hills in the teeth of the bitter wind until at last he dropped down again, through the beech woods to a village whose name he did not trouble to ask.

An inn called the Valiant Trooper furnished him with punch and bread and cheese and left him undisturbed by the blazing fire while the day lengthened and the sky became darker. At last, Guy stood up and stretched. He had a plan, of sorts, he had his bitter anger at himself under control and he had some hope. Hope that Hester loved him as much as he thought she might, hope that her anger and bitter sense of betrayal was a measure of just how much.

As he settled up the tapster pointed out the pike road that led to Winterbourne and Guy rode back through the gathering darkness to the gates of the Moon House.

Some instinct made him look up and there, lit faintly by a candle, he could see Hester, her head bowed, one hand resting splayed against the glass as though to touch the moon that was reflected there.

‘Hester, I love you. I will make it right, I promise you.’

‘My lord?’ A groom was swinging the gates open.

‘What? Oh, nothing, just thinking aloud. Thank you, Wilkins. Give him a good rub down and extra oats, he’s done well today.’

Hester came down to breakfast the next morning filled with a kind of bitter energy that cowed her household into silence. As she met their anxious eyes her resolve almost faltered, then she took a deep breath and sat down. ‘I am not going to discuss what happened yesterday. You all know the truth, but l forbid you to offer any kind of explanation to Lord Buckland or his sister. You will not speak or have any kind of communication with them. Neither they, nor any of their servants, will set foot in this house. Do I make myself plain?’

‘But, Hester, if he knew the truth…’ Maria faltered with what Hester realised was considerable courage. Explaining felt like running a knife into her heart, but she knew she owed them that.

‘If I, or you, tell him the truth, how will I ever know he trusts me? If he cannot tell what and who I am, then I do not want him, or his love.’

‘Bastard,’ Jethro muttered, his face red with emotion. Hester could tell he was close to tears.

‘I am sorry, we will have to find you another mentor in place of Mr Parrott,’ she said gently.

‘I don’t care. If he works for him, I don’t want his advice, not no how.’

Silence fell, broken only by Susan mechanically lifting eggs out of the skillet on to a plate and Miss Prudhome tearfully making tea.

‘Are we going to move away?’ Susan ventured at last as they sat down and began to eat. Hester found that she could. It seemed that hunger, or at least hunger stimulated by the smell of frying bacon, could overcome even a broken heart. From somewhere a small, twisted gleam of humour tried to raise its head.

‘What? Cut and run? I think not. We have a party to prepare for and most of the gentry for two miles around invited to it. There will be two fewer guests than I had planned upon; we will not regard that.’ She looked around at their startled faces. ‘I have done nothing wrong. I do not intend skulking off like a pariah, especially after I have offered hospitality to friends.’

‘And to the Nugents,’ Susan reminded her. ‘Lord Buckland had a plan to send them rightabouts. What about that?’

The pain that lanced through her at the mention of his name took Hester by surprise. For a moment she could not reply. ‘I can do nothing about that. All I can hope is to show them a confident face. Surely they will know soon enough they cannot scare me away?’

‘There are two roses due tonight,’ Susan pointed out. The others began immediately to discuss what was to be done, a babble of voices that Hester realised was due to relief at not having to talk, or think, about her ruined romance.

She shrugged. ‘Let them deliver them. Unless they attach a gunpowder charge to them, what harm will it do?’ At the moment she would almost welcome it. Then pride took over and she straightened her back. She had lived through bereavement, insecurity, scandal and opprobrium-one man and his lack of trust, his failure of love, was not going to defeat her now.

‘It’s the full moon.’ Susan sounded uneasy.

‘Well, if Death stalks the house with a scythe, you will just have to take to him with the poker,’ Hester said, realising that she had almost shocked them by making the feeble joke. ‘I am not such a poor honey as to be cast down by one man,’ she said, trying to convince herself. ‘And we are not going to be terrorised by two greedy people. Now, let us make some toast because I warn you, we are going to have a busy day today and this afternoon I am going to go for a drive.’

‘What?’ Maria gaped at her like a stranded fish. ‘Drive out after what happened yesterday?’

‘You think I should skulk inside like a shamed woman? We will make lists, clean the house and plan our entertainment. There are only three days and one of them is Sunday.’

Physical hard work was a therapy, Hester realised as she chivvied Maria and Susan about the house with beeswax polish, long feather dusters and black lead. For minutes at a time she could focus only upon removing every last dull patch from the drawing-room fender or vigorously scrubbing at the window panes with scrunched-up brown paper and vinegar. But then, just when she least expected it, a memory would hit her: the scent of Guy’s skin, the feel of his hair under her seeking fingers, the heat of his mouth on her breast, his words of love, his words of doubt and distrust.

Then the pain lanced through her as though she had been stabbed and she was hard put not to cry out, stopping what she was doing to push her clenched fist hard against her stomach as if to crush the pain out of existence. A strong woman, a woman of resolution and pride, would dismiss him as unworthy of her. ‘But I love him,’ Hester murmured to herself. ‘I love him.’

Over luncheon they made lists, argued about the food and drink they would need and debated whether it would be possible to buy sheet music in Tring or whether a trip on Saturday to Aylesbury would be necessary.

‘Had we better not try the piano?’ Miss Prudhome ventured. ‘I do not think it has been played since we arrived.’

A few minutes later Hester grimaced at the sound and agreed that a piano tuner had best be summoned as soon as may be. ‘Add that to the list for Tring tomorrow,’ she decided. ‘He can come on Monday. Now. I am going for a drive. Jethro, please harness Hector. Who would like to come with me?’

‘I will.’ They all spoke at once and Hester could have hugged them all. How would she be coping if she did not have friends and loyal supporters like this?

‘I will,’ Jethro said firmly. ‘I will bring the gig round to the front, Miss Hester. Mr Parrott may not think I know what is due to your position, but I do.’ He stalked off, looking determined, and Hester went upstairs to change into a walking dress and find her warmest coat, bonnet and muff.

She hesitated over a bonnet with a veil, the one she usually wore to church, then tossed it aside in favour of a frivolous confection in green velvet she had not considered suitable for the country. Guy would probably neither know, nor care, what she looked like, but it was suddenly very important to defy him, his sister, and, in spirit, those judgmental gossips who had dragged her name through the mire in London.

Jethro had drawn the gig up before the front gate and was sitting there in his best greatcoat, cockaded hat gleaming, whip cocked at a stylish angle. When Hester came out he jumped down and helped her up with ceremony before handing her the reins and sitting upright, arms folded and with an expression of great solemnity on his face.

Hester did not know whether to laugh or cry. In Jethro’s mind he was sitting on the box of the most fashionable barouche in Piccadilly and his mistress was the equal of the cream of the ton. Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Jethro, I have never regretted for an instant bringing you home that day. It was one of the best things I ever did. I hope you realise that.’

His Adam’s apple bobbed frantically with his efforts to keep some sort of control. When he spoke his voice cracked as though it was breaking all over again. ‘And I love you, Miss Hester, and I want to kill anyone who hurts you.’

‘Please don’t, Jethro, I need you too much to see you hanged. Now, I had better drive on before we both disgrace ourselves on the public highway.’

The air was crisp and frosty and, if one was in the mood, it was a delightful afternoon for a short drive. For Hester it was like stepping into a crowded room wearing a placard reading ‘Fallen Woman’. What if Lady Broome had already spread the news of her disgrace around the neighbourhood? Or perhaps she had not yet made the acquaintance of local society and this was the last time Hester could go out with her reputation intact.

She saw Mrs Bunting being driven in her dog cart by her groom and the two carriages drew up alongside to exchange greetings. The vicar’s wife beamed at her and Hester found she had been holding her breath. ‘Good day, Miss Lattimer! I must tell you that the vicar and I are much looking forward to your evening party on Monday. Such a pleasant way to begin the Christmas festivities.’

‘I’m so glad, ma’am.’ Hester managed to smile and drove on, a new dread forming. What if they all found out before the party and she did not discover it until she found herself with no guests? I’m mad to persist with this, they’ll find out sooner or later, I must leave…

She almost completed her circuit of the Green, then, at random, took one of the side lanes. Rounding a corner, she had to rein in sharply to avoid a little group standing almost in the middle of the roadway. Mrs and Miss Redland were in conversation with Guy and Lady Broome.

There was no escape short of turning the gig in the narrow lane in front of their eyes. Hester looked only at Mrs Redland and could not suppress a gasp of relief as she stepped forward with a smile.

‘My dear Miss Lattimer, how are you?’

‘Very well, ma’am.’ Somehow Hester got enough breath back to respond. She could feel the eyes of the others burning into her like a brand. ‘I must not keep you standing here in the cold; I am looking forward to seeing you on Monday.’ She raised her whip in what she hoped Mrs Redland would interpret as a general leavetaking of the group and trotted on.

‘Phew.’ Jethro sent her a sideways glance as soon as they were safely around the corner. ‘Do you think they’ll say anything to her?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think Lord Buckland would, even if he is very angry with me. But Lady Broome may feel it her duty.’

‘Then she’s a nasty, interfering old cat,’ Jethro said with some vehemence. ‘Will it not look strange that they are not at the party?’

‘Very, I fear. That in itself may be enough to start talk.’ It was easier to discuss the party, with all its uncertainties, than to think about that glimpse of Guy. She wanted to go back, jump down from the gig and throw herself into his arms, say, You are wrong about me, let me explain. But if he believed that she had been another man’s mistress and had been prepared to hide that from him, he simply did not feel for her as she thought he did. And that was an end to it.

Guy had spent hours following the confrontation between Hester and Georgiana in a state of indecision such as he had never experienced before. He had hurt Hester abominably, he knew that. It took him some time to face the fact that she had hurt him by not telling him the truth, and then longer yet admitting to himself that he had stopped her when she had tried to explain.

I love her, none of it matters. But it did matter, it was not a little thing; and the scandal it would cause in London if he married her was no little thing either. Going to her until he was clear about what he had to say would only make things worse and that glimpse of her, chin high, the colour flying in her cheeks as she came upon them in the lane, haunted him.

Then there was the problem of the roses. He checked his almanac: tonight was the full moon. Two roses were due and heaven knew what else. He rang for Parrott.

‘Parrott.’

‘Yes, my lord?’ Parrott enquired after a good minute of silence.

‘I am not, at the moment, on speaking terms with Miss Lattimer.’

‘So I gather, my lord.’

How the hell does he know? Then Guy dismissed the question: Parrott knew everything. ‘I am concerned about the safety of her household.’

‘Quite so, my lord. The last two roses are due tonight.’

‘Exactly.’ Sometimes Guy wondered if it would be easier just to allow Parrott to carry on without orders. Possibly he could do his courting for him. He could hardly make more of a mull of it.

‘I have already spoken to Ackland, my lord. He informed me that his orders were not to communicate with anyone in this household and certainly not to accept any assistance.’

With that he had to be content, although a near-sleepless night spent sitting at his bedchamber window watching the Moon House for any sign of disturbance or lights did nothing for his state of mind the next morning.

Parrott, who was winding the longcase clock in the hall and setting the hands to twenty-five to seven, allowed one eyebrow to rise by an infinitesimal amount when he saw his master descending the stairs. ‘Good morning, my lord. I regret that preparations for breakfast have only just been commenced. Would you wish me to have something prepared immediately?’

‘Hmm? No, thank you, Parrott. I will go out for a walk.’

‘And then call upon Miss Lattimer?’

‘If I can think what best to say to her, yes, Parrott. I got the devil’s own sleep last night.’

‘The lady is somewhat up in the boughs, I collect.’

‘You may well say so, Parrott. Miss Lattimer has a number of things to throw in my dish, of which tactlessness is probably the least of it.’

‘But surely you will not be calling at this hour?’

‘I imagine it will take me two hours to arrive at my tactics.’ Guy grimaced with an attempt at humour he was far from feeling. Somehow he had to make it up to Hester. ‘I have no idea what I am going to say. If she has been as miserable as I these past forty-eight hours, then perhaps I have a hope- but who knows?’

‘Tsk. Miss Lattimer has always seemed a lady of acute common sense to me, my lord.’

‘Exactly what I am afraid of!’

‘I will find your lordship’s heavier coat; it will not do to arrive upon her doorstep with your teeth chattering.’

Guy walked out of the gate into the frosty early morning gloom and turned to pass the front of the Moon House, heading for the expanse of the Green. An hour’s brisk walk to the canal and back, followed by breakfast at the Bird in Hand, which he could eat without interrogation from Georgy, should at least clear his head.

He looked up at Hester’s room as he passed, seeing it in darkness, wondering what her reaction would be if he stood in the garden like a lovesick fool-which I am-and threw pebbles at her windows. ‘A jug of cold water off the nightstand, I imagine, if I know my Hester,’ he answered his own musings.

Then something fluttering on the front door caught his eye and he slowed. A Christmas garland? That boded well for the mood of the household if someone had spent the time making decorations. Then, as he came closer, he saw it had no festive air about it, but instead hung heavy and dark, its ribbons black.

Surely it was not what it appeared? It was the lack of light, that was all, but Guy opened the gate and strode up the front path.

Then he saw it was a funeral wreath fashioned of yew and ivy, tied with black ribbons and with two dead roses at its centre. A card, inscribed H.L. Requiat in Pace in Gothic script was secured at the top. Fear for Hester, a superstitious dread he would have sworn he was incapable of feeling, swept through him, leaving an icy clutch around his heart. A knife in the dark? A soundless attack on Hester leaving the household unaware? Or poison and they were all lying there…

With hands that shook he wrenched the wreath from the door and hammered the knocker on its base plate. Ten more seconds and he would break a window.

There was a fumbling sound as the bolts were drawn back. Jethro opened the door, saw who it was and began to close it, alarm on his face. Guy simply threw his shoulder against the panels and knocked the boy back into the hall with the power of his entry. ‘Where is she? Is she safe?’