chapter Three
Cicely dressed herself for the third time since luncheon. She had tried on two outfits already, but neither of them had looked impressive enough. If she was going to see Mr Evington at the Manor then she needed to be looking her imposing best. She had accepted the offer of Mrs Murgatroyd’s maid for the afternoon, and Molly had laced her into a corset to give her figure a fashionable S-shape.
Over her camisole, drawers and corset she put on two petticoats, followed by a blouse with a high collar and long sleeves, decorated with pin tucks down the front and a trim of lace at the yoke. Then she stepped into her long blue skirt, which was adorned at the hem with silk braid and lace. Once settled over the petticoats it stood out at the bottom, taking on the required shape of a bell.
‘Shall I do your hair, miss?’ asked Molly.
‘Yes, please,’ said Cicely. She sat down so that Molly could reach her dark tresses.
Although Cicely had become adept at arranging her own hair into a pompadour style over the last few years, with the hair swept back from her face and then pinned over pads to give it its distinctive roll, she had to admit that Molly arranged it far better than she could ever do. There were no loose tendrils when Molly arranged it as there were when she did it herself, and no hint of unevenness in the shape.
Then, too, with Molly arranging her hair, she could indulge in a more elaborate style. This afternoon, whilst most of her hair was piled on top of her head, one long swathe was left loose, falling down the side of her face and spilling across her blouse.
All in all, as she slipped into her bolero jacket, pinned her feathered hat onto her hair and picked up her lace-trimmed parasol, she felt ready to face a dozen Mr Evingtons. Let him laugh at her this time if he dared!
And then she was ready to go.
‘Mrs Murgatroyd says I’m to stay and help you undress again, if you wish it,’ said Molly.
‘Oh, yes, please, Molly,’ said Cicely. ‘That would be very kind.’
‘You look lovely, miss,’ said Molly. ‘Mr Evington won’t be able to say no to you, I’m sure.’
Thanking Molly for this vote of confidence - which she had the uncomfortable feeling she would need! - Cicely set out.
The day was fine, and the walk was pleasant. Turning right out of the Lodge gates she headed up the drive, walking between the sweeping lawns that had been her mother’s pride and joy.
It cost her more than one pang to approach the Manor, not as its owner, but as a visitor. It was less than a week since she had moved into the Lodge, and it was still too soon for her to feel that she really belonged there, as she still felt she belonged at the Manor. But she pushed those feelings aside and she concentrated instead on the freshness of the air, which was rich with the scent of new-mown grass, and the sky, which was full of the trilling of birdsong. It was just the sort of day that made her feel good to be alive.
If only she did not have to spoil it all by calling on Mr Evington . . .
Still, it must be done, so the sooner she got it over with the better.
Reaching the end of the drive she crossed the turning circle. Mounting the stone steps to the front door she lifted her long skirt elegantly with one hand so that she would not trip over it, and then rang the bell. It was answered promptly by the butler, who took her parasol, and Cicely was shown into the drawing-room, where she had a chance to look round before Mr Evington joined her.
The room, she was relieved to see, was unchanged. Although Mr Evington had only been there a day, she had dreaded to find that all the good furniture would have been pushed aside and vulgar new pieces put in its place. But so far, at least, the grand old furniture she had been forced to sell along with the Manor was still there: an elegant damasked sofa, now, alas, rather moth-eaten, which had been bought by her great-grandmother; a fine pianoforte purchased by her grandfather; a variety of occasional tables; a chaise longue; and a few good chairs.
The door opened and she turned round swiftly to see Mr Evington enter the room.
She could not help but notice his look of admiration as his eyes swept over her and she felt relieved. It had been worth it, then, the time and effort she had spent on her appearance. At least this afternoon he would have no cause for mirth.
‘Miss Haringay,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘You will not think it a pleasure, I fear, when I tell you why I have come,’ she returned.
‘No?’
‘No.’
He indicated the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘Thank you.’
She settled herself gracefully on the sofa. He sat down opposite her on a hard-backed chair.
‘Mr Evington, I will come straight to the point.’ If this was to be a business meeting she would conduct it in a business-like manner, she told herself. ‘I understand that you have refused the Sunday school permission to hold their picnic at the Manor this year.’
His eyes hardened. ‘Mrs Murgatroyd didn’t lose any time, then,’ he said under his breath. Aloud he said, ‘This is a private house, Miss Haringay. It is not a venue for local jaunts.’
‘That is just where you are wrong.’ She returned his look with one which was equally firm. ‘This is not a private house, it is a manor house, and it comes with obligations attached. You may not have heard of it, but there is such a thing as noblesse oblige -’
‘Nobility imposes obligations,’ he translated. ‘You see, I am not completely ignorant, Miss Haringay,’ he returned, and although there was a hint of humour in his voice, the humour did not reach his eyes. ‘But I was not aware that I was a member of the nobility. Or you either,’ he added sardonically.
‘Nevertheless, as the owner of Oakleigh Manor you have certain obligations, and one of them is to host the Sunday school picnic,’ said Cicely.
‘And if I don’t want a parcel of children running over the lawns?’ he asked innocently.
‘Then you tell yourself you shouldn’t be so selfish and host the picnic anyway,’ she returned.
His face darkened and she could tell she had hit a nerve.
‘This is too much,’ he said angrily. ‘Lessons in selfishness from -’
‘ - someone who has had everything falling into her lap from the day of her birth?’ she asked innocently. ‘Yes, Mr Evington. Exactly that. The Haringays have hosted the Sunday village activities here from time immemorial, whether they have wanted to or not, and the villagers all expect you to do the same.’
He looked annoyed, and a scowl crossed his face.
‘I can’t see what you have against the idea,’ she said reasonably. ‘Is it really so difficult for you to put the children of the village before yourself for one afternoon a year?’
‘You are adept at putting other people in the wrong.’ There was a note in his voice that told her he was not pleased, and there was a hard glint in his eyes. She had never noticed it before, but they darkened most attractively when he was angry, becoming almost black.
‘I am adept at putting other people in the wrong when they are in the wrong,’ she returned.
His brows drew together and he looked as though he would like to say something rude, but was restraining himself.
‘Please don’t refrain,’ she said, nettled at his expression.
‘From what?’ he demanded, pushing himself out of his chair and striding across to the marble fireplace, where he turned and looked down at her from beneath beetling brows.
‘From saying what you are thinking. Something along the lines of "If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s a managing female" if your expression is anything to go by,’ she said with asperity.
To her surprise, instead of replying angrily, he laughed.
‘Miss Haringay, sometimes it doesn’t pay to be so perceptive,’ he said with a wicked gleam of humour in his eye.
She smiled, and then laughed in her turn. The atmosphere had lightened, and for the first time since she had entered the house she felt she could perhaps relax a little.
‘Come now, Mr Evington. Won’t you host the picnic?’ she asked him.
He sat down opposite her, this time on a beautiful chaise longue, and Cicely could tell by his casual attitude that he had relented. He stretched one arm along the back of the chaise longue, and said, ‘I may be persuaded to do so.’
Cicely smiled. It had not been so bad, then. In fact, it had been easy. ‘Good. Then I will tell Mrs Murgatroyd -’
‘On one condition.’
Cicely stiffened. ‘Condition?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled provocatively. ‘Condition. I told you that I was a stubborn man, Miss Haringay, and I am about to prove my point. I will let the Sunday school use the Manor lawns for their picnic - if you agree to attend my ball.’
Cicely paled. Attend the ball? Laugh and chatter in her beautiful home, knowing it no longer belonged to her family? Dance? Be gay? Whilst her feelings were quite the reverse? ‘No. I don’t think I could do that.’
‘Why not?’ he enquired, leaning forward. ‘Can you not put your own feelings aside for one evening?’
There was a teasing note in his voice. After all, she had told him to put his own feelings aside so that the picnic could go ahead.
‘I don’t see why my presence is necessary,’ she prevaricated.
‘Don’t you?’ He stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece again. He took a sheaf of cards from behind the clock, then handed them to her. ‘Fifteen replies to my invitations - and, I may say, very prompt replies: it seems in a village news travels fast,’ he said as she looked through them. ‘Fifteen replies and fifteen refusals.’
She pursed her lips. ‘And what does that have to do with me?’ she asked.
‘Everyone for miles around is following your lead. You refused my invitation, and so the local dignitaries have done the same.’
‘And you think if I change my mind they will then accept?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
Cicely was certain of it, too. The local area was a close-knit community, and knowing that she did not feel she could attend the ball, all her friends had refused their invitations likewise.
‘Come now, Miss Haringay, will it really be so bad?’ he asked, his eyes lighting with a surprising warmth. ‘An evening of good food, good conversation, good music and - I hope! - good company? If you snub me, no one will come to my ball and I will be dancing on my own.’
The humour was back in his face and his voice, making him look unsettlingly attractive. And it made her wish - foolishly, for one unguarded moment - that they had met under other circumstances, so that she might have been able to like him.
‘Not on your own, surely,’ she protested. ‘You will have friends coming down from London.’
‘Yes. I have. But my reason for throwing the ball is that I would like to get to know my neighbours. If none of them turn up it will defeat my purpose.’
Cicely did not want to attend the ball, but she realized that it would be unfriendly of her to refuse. He was trying to fit into the neighbourhood, and it was not kind of her to stand in his way. Especially as he had agreed to hold the picnic if she attended. Even so . . .
‘I am not keen on giving in to blackmail . . . ’ she began hesitantly.
‘Blackmail?’ he asked. ‘Call it rather a trade. I give you something you want, and in return you agree to give me something I want.’ He gave a tantalising smile. ‘You see, business and trade are in my blood. And now despise me for it if you dare!’
‘Indeed, I dare not,’ said Cicely with a smile. His talk of trading had reminded her that trading was an important aspect of village life, and she began to realize they might have more in common than she had supposed. ‘Besides, businessmen are not the only ones who know how to trade. You will find the villagers know all about it. Mrs Murgatroyd, for example, will be happy to trade you some of her excellent elderflower wine for some of the fruit from the Oakleigh Manor hot-houses if you ask her. I know. She has been trading with me for years!’
‘Elderflower wine,’ he laughed. ‘I must remember that. And we, Miss Haringay? Do we have a deal?’
She made up her mind. ‘We do. I will attend the ball if you promise to host the Sunday school picnic. I cannot promise that everyone else will come, mind,’ she cautioned him.
‘You don’t need to. I will take my chances.’
There was something so unsettling in his eye as it roved over her face that Cicely stood up quickly, saying, ‘I believe I must be going.’
He stood up, too.
‘So soon?’ he asked, crossing the space between them in one stride and taking her hand in his.
Even through her glove she could feel the heat of his fingers, and she felt suddenly hot. The strange tingling started again, filling her with a strange restlessness. She tried to draw her hand away but he held it fast.
‘Will you not stay for tea?’
‘Thank you, no.’ She made a determined effort to free her hand, and to her relief he let it go - although mixed in with the relief was a strange drop in her spirits, as though some part of her had not wanted him to.
‘I must be getting back to the Lodge,’ she said. ‘I’m still trying to get to grips with the range.’
His eyebrows rose, as though he had not expected her to have to bother with such things as ranges. But he made no comment, saying only, ‘Very well.’
He rang the bell and a minute later the butler arrived.
Exchanging goodbyes with Mr Evington, Cicely retrieved her parasol and walked out of the house; leaving Alex looking after her, an unfathomable expression on his face.
A minute later the door opened and Roddy walked in.
‘Who was that?’ asked Roddy, glancing at Cicely, who could be seen walking down the drive.
‘That,’ said Alex, drawing his thoughts with difficulty back to the present, ‘was Miss Cicely Haringay.’
‘Miss Haringay?’ Roddy let out a low whistle as he turned his attention again to the graceful figure of Cicely, whose straight back and delectable curves held his eye. ‘I thought Miss Haringay was a spinster who indulged in good works.’
‘And so she is . . . in a way,’ said Alex with a wry smile.
Roddy laughed. ‘It’s enough to make me take up good works myself, in an effort to get to know her.’
‘I shouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Alex.
He cursed himself as soon as he had said it. There had been an unmistakeable note of warning in his voice, but fortunately Roddy, engrossed with the last glimpses of Miss Haringay’s retreating figure, had not noticed.
And why had it been there, that warning note? Alex asked himself. Before realizing that, in spite of the fact he deeply resented the landed classes for what they had done to his sister, he found himself devastatingly attracted to Miss Cicely Haringay.
What was it that so attracted him to her? he asked himself. He had known many beautiful women in his time, and Cicely was not beautiful, but there was something very appealing about her. Was it her hair? he wondered. It was not remarkable in either style or colour, but there was a softness about it that made him want to reach out and touch it. Or was it her eyes? They were certainly lovely, being grey and deep-set. Or was it her nose? No, that had been a little too long. Or her mouth? His face broke into a slow smile. It was certainly kissable enough . . . Or her chin?
His smile faded. No, it was definitely not her chin. It was too determined for his tastes, that chin. It reminded him that, soft and appealing as Miss Haringay might appear, she was in fact the product of a long line of the ruling classes, people who liked to have their own way.
His eyes lost their appreciative gleam and his manner became matter-of-fact.
‘You’ll be pleased to know that she has changed her mind about coming to the ball,’ he said.
‘Ah. Good.’ Roddy, too, became matter-of-fact. ‘Then the rest of the neighbourhood will follow suit. Which means that the ball will be well attended, and we can go ahead with our plan.’
Cicely was light-hearted as she strolled down the drive, her mission successfully accomplished. Not only had she managed to secure Mr Evington’s promise that the Sunday school picnic could go ahead, but she had also cleared the hurdle of making her first visit to the Manor as a guest. Though saddening, the experience had been bearable, and she was now secure in the knowledge that she would be able to visit it in future without having to dread the event. Which, as she was to help organise the Sunday school picnic, and as she had promised to attend Mr Evington’s ball, was a relief.
She followed the drive for a short way but then, instead of making her way back to the Lodge, she took one of the gravel paths that snaked through the grounds and followed it until she was almost at their edge. She had promised to visit Mrs Murgatroyd and let that worthy matron know how she had got on, and the way she was taking was the quickest route. Cutting across the grass she slipped through a gap in the railings and joined the road.
She had just done so when the sound of a familiar voice rang out in greeting.
‘What ho! Cicely!’
Cicely turned and smiled. Lord Chuffington, dressed in a natty outfit of narrow trousers with a sharp crease down the front, a white shirt with high starched collar, and a brightly-coloured blazer, was hailing her from the other end of the lane.
‘What ho!’ he said again as he ambled towards her, removing his straw boater as he did so. ‘Jolly day, what?’
‘Very jolly,’ said Cicely, smiling at his fashionable slang. Lord Chuffington - Chuff Chuff to his friends - was an amiable young man whose family lived at Parmiston Manor, the manor house in the neighbouring village.
‘Going into Little Oakleigh?’ he asked, smiling brightly.
‘Yes.’
‘Walk along with you, if you’ve no objection,’ said Lord Chuffington, falling into step beside her. ‘I say, Cicely, you’re looking dashed pretty today.’
‘Thank you,’ smiled Cicely.
‘Dashed pretty hat,’ said Lord Chuffington. ‘Feathers and what-not. Deuced pretty.’ He gave a grin then began to hum tunelessly, ‘Dum de dum de dum de dum.’
‘How is your mother?’ asked Cicely. She knew from long experience that when talking to Lord Chuffington it was necessary to help the conversation along a little.
‘The mater? Sound as a bell,’ he said, giving her another grin.
There was a silence.
‘And your father?’ asked Cicely politely.
‘The pater? Fit as a fiddle.’
Cicely kept the conversation going by talking of village matters, but Lord Chuffington seemed distracted. He hummed and hawed and at last said, ‘Look here, Cicely old thing, when you’re tired of this bother with the Lodge, how about coming over to Chuffington Manor and living with me?’
‘Living with you?’ she asked, startled.
‘Yes. You know. Lord and Lady Chuffington. Just the ticket. Any number of coves wanting to ask you, of course. Just thought I’d get my oar in first. You know, early bird catches the worm and all that.’
He paused expectantly.
‘So, how about it then?’ he asked.
‘How about what?’ asked Cicely, in something of a fog.
‘You and me. Read the banns. Joyful celebrations. A good time was had by all.’
‘The banns?’ asked Cicely in astonishment.
‘Got to do it sometime,’ said Lord Chuffington affably.
‘Do what?’ asked Cicely, wondering whether he could be proposing to her but thinking that even Chuff Chuff would have made things a little clearer if that had been the case.
‘Hm? Oh! Do what? Well, you know . . . ’
‘No, I don’t know,’ said Cicely in exasperation, wishing he would explain.
‘Man and wife. All that sort of thing. Orange blossom. Bridesmaids.’ He smiled cheerfully.
‘Chuff Chuff, are you asking me to marry you?’ she asked with a sigh, realising a direct question was the only way to find out for sure.
‘Looks that way,’ he said.
‘Oh, Chuff Chuff, it’s very sweet of you but I can’t marry you,’ said Cicely.
‘Not to worry,’ he said, not in the least put out. ‘Knew you wouldn’t say "yes" first time of asking. The mater said so, and the mater knows. Keep it for later then,’ he said with an amiable smile.
‘Chuff Chuff, I won’t be able to marry you later either,’ Cicely said, kindly but firmly.
‘Pish,’ said Lord Chuffington good-naturedly. ‘Ladies always say that.’
‘No, really, I do assure you -’ She broke off to wish old Mr Johnson a “Good afternoon”, then continued, ‘I can’t possibly marry you.’
They had by now almost reached Mrs Murgatroyd’s house. The door opened and Mrs Murgatroyd herself appeared, sailing out to the gate.
‘Cicely, I couldn’t wait,’ she said as she greeted Cicely. ‘Do tell me how you got on. Oh,’ she said, noticing Lord Chuffington. ‘Chuffington. What are you doing here?’
Lord Chuffington’s eyes glazed over at the sight of her. Mrs Murgatroyd was a forceful woman, and she made him go weak at the knees. ‘Oh, well, just . . well, you know . . . ’ he said vaguely, sauntering on the spot and looking like a startled rabbit.
‘Well. Are you going or are you staying?’ demanded Mrs Murgatroyd, as he hovered just outside the gate.
‘Oh, rather . .. that is to say . . . yes, what,’ he said hopefully.
‘Lord Chuffington was courteous enough to escort me to your door, but I believe he has business elsewhere,’ said Cicely kindly, knowing that Chuff Chuff could not wait to get away.
‘Right-o,’ said Lord Chuffington amiably. He smiled at Cicely and waved vaguely in her direction. ‘Toodle pip!’ he said, before shambling off up the road.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd as she closed the gate behind him. ‘I’ve told you a dozen times, Cicely, you really can’t go walking round the village on your own. A young lady like you ought to have a chaperon. Now why don’t you hire a companion?’
Mrs Murgatroyd had raised the subject on any number of occasions. She knew that Cicely had had to sell the Manor to pay her father’s debts, but she assumed that there had been a large surplus, so that she, together with everyone else in the village, thought that Cicely was comfortably off. For this reason it seemed perfectly natural to her to suggest that Cicely should hire a companion.
‘You know I have cousin Gertrude,’ said Cicely. ‘Or at least, I will have. She would have been here by now, but she has broken her leg. Until she is better I will just have to do without a chaperon. In the country it is not so terrible for me to be without one. Besides, Chuff Chuff is harmless enough.’
‘That odious nick-name!’ shuddered Mrs Murgatroyd. ‘It makes him sound like a train! But enough of him,’ she said as the two ladies went into the house. ‘Do tell me, Cicely. How did you get on with Mr Evington?’
An hour later, Cicely took her leave. She had told Mrs Murgatroyd all about her interview with Mr Evington and had left that lady in a happy frame of mind, working out how many sandwiches would be required at the picnic. She was now looking forward to a peaceful evening back at the Lodge.
What with one thing and another, it had been an eventful day. But there was to be one last thing that disturbed her peace of mind. As she approached the Lodge, she saw something she had not seen before. Gibson was carrying a bucket of coal from the coal bunker into the house.
That in itself was not an unusual sight. Since Cicely had had to dispense with the services of most of the Haringay servants because of her straitened means, Gibson had had to take on many of the chores that should, by rights, have been taken on by under-servants. But it was not this that worried Cicely particularly. It was the way Gibson put down the bucket after a few paces and rubbed his back, before picking it up and carrying on again.
Gibson never stopped and rubbed his back in her presence, but once or twice of late she had suspected he had back trouble. He often moved stiffly, and was noticeably slower than he had been a year or two before. It was not right that a man of his advanced years should be carrying heavy loads and Cicely thought, not for the first time, that she must employ a boy to help him.
The only problem with that idea was that Cicely could not afford to employ a boy.
She gave a sigh. She could not for the moment see a solution. But as she turned in at the Lodge gates she knew that she must find one. And find one soon, if she was to spare Gibson any more suffering.