chapter Six
Shall I or shan’t I? thought Cicely, as she prepared to go to the Manor on Wednesday morning. Shall I or shan’t I wear my gloves?
Long gloves formed a part of the fashionable outfit customarily worn by young ladies, but for her job at the Manor they were hardly practical, which was why she had not worn them on the previous Monday. She could not write easily whilst wearing them, nor could she operate the typewriter. On the other hand, they would protect her from any more electrical sensations if she should accidentally come into contact with Mr Evington.
She put her gloves back on her dressing table at last, deciding that she could not wear them, but she would take care she did not touch Mr Evington again.
Fortunately, he seemed to have the same idea, for when she joined him at the Manor half an hour later he sat determinedly on the opposite side of his desk and adopted a coolly formal manner, treating her very much as a secretary and not as a young woman he had nearly kissed on the sweetly-scented hay.
Slowly they settled into a polite way of dealing with each other, and the immense tension which had filled the room when Cicely had entered it began to return to more manageable levels.
‘I want to complete the arrangements for the housewarming ball,’ said Mr Evington, when they had dealt with the most pressing letters. ‘As you know, I’m holding it towards the end of July. My guests from London will be coming down on the Saturday beforehand. They will spend the week at the Manor, attending the ball on the Friday before leaving again on the following - Saturday - afternoon.’
‘Good,’ she said briskly, trying her best to behave like a perfect secretary.
‘I am going to need some more help around the house when my guests arrive. I’ve brought enough servants from London with me to cope with the day-to-day running of the Manor, but they won’t be able to manage a house full of guests. Do you know of anyone in the village who might be prepared to come in for a few days and help?’
‘I’m sure there are a lot of people,’ said Cicely. ‘Most of the young men and women from the village would be glad to help out, and then for the ball itself I think you will find most of the local landowners will be happy to lend their own staff. We usually help each other out for big events. Would you like me to deal with it for you?’
‘Yes. If you would.’
‘I should have it arranged by the end of the week,’ she said.
‘Now. As to the matter of the cricket match . . . ’
One by one they dealt with the matters that needed seeing to, and by the end of the day Cicely went back to the Lodge with the feeling of a day well spent, for she could not hide from herself the fact that she was enjoying helping out at the Manor.
Although Cicely still missed living there, she had worked hard to make the Lodge comfortable and welcoming and it was becoming more homely every day. She had cleaned it thoroughly before she had moved in, and whilst she had not been able to afford to redecorate, she had managed to cover up the worst patches of flaking paint with pictures and mirrors, and to disguise the worn sections of flooring with faded, yet good quality rugs.
She removed her hat as she entered the Lodge, then went through to the sitting-room. She had just thrown open the French windows when Lord Chuffington was announced. Feeling relieved that he had not called half an hour earlier, as she would then have had to invent an excuse as to where she had been, she welcomed him with pleasure.
‘What ho! Cicely,’ he said, as he ambled into the room in his usual diffident fashion, his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers and his light jacket bunched up behind him.
‘Hello, Chuff Chuff.’
Cicely greeted him warmly and invited him to sit down.
He took a seat on one of the faded sofas. ‘Thought I’d just pop over and see if you were ready for Evington’s ball.’
‘Not nearly!’ exclaimed Cicely, thinking of all the staffing arrangements she had to make. ‘There is so much to be done! I have to -’ She broke off as she noticed the surprised look on Lord Chuffington’s face, and realized that she had almost given away her involvement in the organisation of the ball, and therefore her position as Mr Evington’s secretary. She realized she would have to be more careful in future, in particular she must remember to sound casual when she asked the local landowners to lend their servants, so they did not guess that she was acting as Mr Evington’s secretary. ‘I have to sort out all my clothes,’ she corrected herself.
‘Ah! Yes, What!’ said Lord Chuffington amiably. He raised and lowered his eyebrows a couple of times and gave her a lackadaisical smile.
Cicely smiled back.
He raised his eyebrows again and Cicely realized that if she wanted the conversation to proceed she would have to provide something to talk about. ‘Would you like to see what I’ve been doing with the garden?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. Rather,’ Chuff Chuff beamed.
She led Chuff Chuff out through the French doors and into the pretty garden.
‘I’m trying to plant it in line with Gertrude Jekyll’s ideas,’ she said. ‘The garden’s rather small to let me put them into practice fully, but I want to use her idea of grouping shrubs and flowers so that I have colour in the garden all year round.’
‘Jolly good idea,’ said Chuff Chuff. He stopped suddenly and turned towards her. With unusual decision - for him! - he said, ‘Look here, Cicely old thing, what I mean is, don’t you know - that is to say, how about it?’
‘How about what?’ she asked, as she noticed a dead head on the roses and thought she must remember to cut it off.
‘You know, this marriage lark?’ He looked at her with hope in his eyes. ‘Can’t sit on the shelf for ever, you know. Got to get off it some time, Good Lord, yes! Parmiston’s not such a bad old place. And you’d have Antoine.’ Antoine was the Chuffingtons’ French chef. ‘Makes a marvellous kedgeree. And — ‘
‘Chuff Chuff, we’ve been through this before,’ said Cicely with a sigh. ‘I —’
‘And soufflé,’ went on Chuff Chuff, without taking any notice of her. He thrust his hands deeper into his trouser pockets. ‘Antoine makes a dashed fine soufflé.’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Cheese, and chocolate - not together, you understand - and -’
‘Yes,’ said Cicely kindly, ‘Antoine is a fine chef, and his cooking is superb, but Chuff Chuff, I can’t marry you for a soufflé.’
‘Worse reasons to marry a chap,’ Chuff Chuff pointed out.
‘No, Lord Chuffington, it just won’t do,’ said Cicely, kind but firm.
‘Oh, well. Third time lucky, what?’
Cicely sighed. It was obvious she was not going to be able to persuade him that she could never marry him and it looked as though she would have to let him propose a third time, after which, perhaps, her refusal might sink in.
She turned the conversation, therefore, back to the garden, showing Chuff Chuff her more notable plants before taking him back inside and offering him some refreshment. He declined, however, saying he was expected back at Parmiston Manor.
Cicely rang the bell and Gibson, looking resplendent in his immaculate butler’s uniform, which he insisted on wearing no matter how small the household had become, showed him out.
Cicely gave a rueful smile as she thought over Lord Chuffington’s visit. Chuff Chuff was a dear, but it was difficult to get through to him sometimes. Ah, well! He would learn in the end, no doubt.
And with that hopeful thought she went upstairs and changed into her cycling outfit. A calf-length divided skirt was so much more practical than a floor-length skirt when she needed to do the gardening!
The next two weeks were busy ones for Cicely. There were a lot of arrangements to be made for Mr Evington’s house party, and on top of that she had to find a boy to help Gibson around the house.
The latter proved to be easier than she had expected. Tom, Mrs Johnson’s oldest boy, was looking for work, and he soon took up his duties at the Lodge. Cicely’s earnings did not allow her to employ him full time, as she also wanted to buy an annuity for Gibson so that he would have some financial security when he retired, but they allowed her to employ him for three mornings a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays were the days she settled upon, they being the mornings which would allow her to keep her employment at the Manor a secret.
Tom quickly became indispensable. He was friendly and willing, and what he lacked in experience he made up for in raw strength and enthusiasm. He fetched and carried, cleaned and polished, he chopped the wood and carried the coal, and all this he did with a cheerful air that made him a pleasure to have around the house.
As the house party at the Manor approached, Cicely spent more of her working hours visiting local families and inveigling them into offering their servants for the occasion, and less of them at the Manor with Mr Evington, for which she was thankful. Her unruly feelings had not subsided as she had hoped they would. If anything, they had grown worse. Every time she was with him her thoughts drifted back to their encounter in the barn, and she seemed to feel his hands on her face and his hot breath on her lips. It therefore came as a relief for her to be able to spend most of her working hours away from him.
Having finally arranged everything to her satisfaction, however, she was forced to spend the last Friday morning before the house party at the Manor, where together she and Mr Evington went through the week’s post.
He sat behind his desk as usual, and as he gave her instructions, Cicely could not help noticing the way the sunlight fell across his face, revealing its strength. The line of his jaw and the firmness of his chin gave evidence of his character, and she could understand how he had managed to rise from his humble beginnings to the position he now held. Reluctantly, she found herself coming to respect him.
Whilst she might still resent the fact that he had treated the purchase of her beloved Manor as a business transaction, she realized that this same feel for business had enabled him to rise from being a stoker to being the owner of Oakleigh Manor.
She could not help but admire his energy and enterprise. He was so different from the men she usually met, either in Little Oakleigh, or on the one or two occasions when she had visited her aunt in London. They did not move her in any way. They were pleasant and amiable, and utterly unmemorable . . . whilst Alex was unforgettable.
Having dispensed with the last of the letters that had arrived in that morning’s post, he leant back in his chair. ‘I will be very busy next week, once the house party begins,’ he said. ‘I won’t have time to think about anything except entertaining my guests, so I am giving you a week’s holiday.’
Cicely felt a curious mixture of relief and disappointment. The relief she understood, but the disappointment . . . that was something she did not want to understand.
‘Very good,’ she said, pleased that her voice sounded business-like, instead of reflecting her contradictory emotions.
‘We will carry on as usual once my guests have gone.’ He hesitated, as though he were about to say something else, but then a formal mask dropped over his face and the moment was lost. He stood up. ‘Until after the ball, then.’
His hand began to rise in a reflex action, as though to shake hers, but then he suddenly dropped it again.
Cicely flushed. From the revealing expression that flashed across his face it was obvious he was remembering the electrical sensations their contact engendered and damaging as it was to Cicely’s peace of mind, she was remembering it, too.
She hurriedly gathered up her things, and waiting only to wish him an awkward farewell she swept out of the room. Her exit would have been perfect, if only she had not dropped her notebook. She chided herself inwardly, but it had been inevitable, for she had been shaking so much at the memory of what his touch had done to her that she had not been able to keep hold of it.
She bent to pick it up, only to realize that he, too, had bent to retrieve it.
Her face turned towards his as though it were being pulled by an invisible string, and she found her lips almost touching his. Their eyes met, and held. She forgot to breathe, so transfixed was she by the sight of him. His rugged skin was full of light and shadow, and she had to fight an urge to reach out and touch the stubble that was deepening the shadow around his jaw. How would it feel? she wondered. Would it be rough, and prickle against her sensitive fingertips? Or would it be soft and silky, inviting her to touch him even more?
And if she did, how would he react? Would he take her hand and kiss her palm? Would he caress her, as she caressed him?
Her mouth dried, and her eyes locked even more deeply on his own.
This was dangerous. She felt the peril, and knew she must resist, regaining control of herself before the situation escalated into something uncontrollable. She tried to speak, knowing she must break the enchantment, but as her lips moved over dry lips, no sound came out.
As his eyes dropped to her mouth she felt a wave of tingles wash all over her body and her eyelids began to close. There was a moment of unbearable anticipation as she waited breathlessly for what was to come . . . and then she felt, rather than saw, him pull away from her. She experienced a moment of frustration, even as her mind felt a wave of relief. And then she heard him say, in a voice so throaty as to be almost unrecognisable, ‘Allow me.’
She knew what the effort of speaking had cost him and was determined to play her part in bringing the situation under control. Fighting down the sensations that were threatening to swamp her, she made a decided attempt to salvage the dangerous situation. She would get up; take her things; thank him. And then she would walk out of the room.
She sent the command to her body, but it would not obey. She was held captive by the super-charged forced that bound her to him, and when she thought she had risen she found that she had remained as she was.
She saw a battle of emotions playing itself out on his face, and then with a seemingly enormous effort of will he wrested his eyes away from her own and his hands closed around her notebook.
Cicely, released from the spell that bound her, commanded her body once more to rise. It protested, but at last it obeyed her instructions, and she found herself standing in front of him. But now it was worse. She was so close to him that a piece of paper could not have been slipped between them. And then his hand rose and took her chin. His head angled; her own tilted in response. And then his mouth brushed hers.
His touch was so light it was almost non-existent, and it left her wanting more. She swayed towards him, even as a part of her mind, that tiniest part that had not yet fully succumbed to his magnetism, saw one of the gardeners, through the window, just coming into view.
But she paid the gardener no heed. She was too bound up in the moment to care about anything else; and whilst her tiniest remaining shred of sanity told her she must step back, and do it quickly, her body refused to listen.
His lips were tantalising, barely kissing her, and yet they were stirring things inside her she had never experienced before . . .
And then the gardener began to whistle.
Drawing on her last ounce of self control she stepped back, putting a hand’s breadth between them before the gardener could see anything untoward.
Once removed from the heady sensations produced by his mouth pressing so agonisingly lightly against her own, the full horror of the situation began to dawn on her. But whether she was horrified because he had kissed her, or because they had almost been seen by the gardener, she did not know.
Hastily taking the notebook Mr Evington held out to her, she bid him a garbled farewell, and walked with as much dignity as she could muster out of the room.
Once outside, with a closed door between her and her enigmatic employer, her thoughts began to clear. In the barn he had almost kissed her. In the study he had done so.
One thing was now certain, she thought as she hurried through the hall and out of the front door. If she wanted to retain her sanity she must never, ever let him touch her again.
The arrival of Mr Evington’s London guests caused quite a stir in the village. Such a large party of fashionable people had not been seen in Little Oakleigh for quite some time.
Cicely was relieved that Mr Evington had given her the week off. There would be a lot of cheerful and harmless gossip in the village, occasioned by the arrival of Mr Evington’s house guests, and knowing how the villagers liked to visit each other on a daily basis when anything exciting happened in Little Oakleigh, Cicely was relieved she would not be away from home. At such a time, her prolonged absences would have been noticed and would have been bound to cause comment.
‘Such clothes!’ said Mrs Murgatroyd as she popped in just before lunch. ‘No, I won’t stay, thank you, I have too much to do, but I had to look in and let you know the news. Three Daimlers have arrived so far, carrying the most elegant people imaginable. Their hats! Feathers and ribbons and goodness knows what! Cicely, you have never seen anything like it. In fact, Little Oakleigh has never seen anything like it. I am beginning to think it is a good thing that Mr Evington moved into the village after all.’ Her face suddenly took on a stricken look. ‘Oh, Cicely, my dear, I’m so sorry. How thoughtless of me. Of course, I don’t mean it’s a good thing he moved into the Manor. Any other good size house would have done. But he has brought a breath of fresh air with him. And now that he has recognised he has duties to the village, I think we may make an Oakleighan of him yet.’
She hurried away, ostensibly to visit the butcher’s, but in reality to tell Mrs Sealyham that three Daimlers had arrived.
Her pulses stirred by talk of the visitors, Cicely found it even more difficult than usual to concentrate on her chores, particularly as a procession of cars drove past the Lodge on their way up the drive to the Manor. But the lunch had to be made, and after that the washing had to be done.
She went into the kitchen, where a smiling Tom was wiping his hands on his trousers.
‘Is Gibson back from the shops yet?’ she asked him.
‘Not yet. But he won’t be long,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve had a look at the range for you,’ he said, standing aside so that Cicely could see the blaze he had lit there. ‘Not giving enough hot water, Mr Gibson said, so I’ve banked it up good and proper.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Cicely, hearing the fire roar. ‘It is such a blessing you know what to do with the range. I am tired of taking lukewarm baths.’
‘There’ll be plenty of hot water by tonight,’ said Tom confidently.
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Cicely.
‘Right, well, I’ll be off then,’ said Tom, who had already stayed beyond his hours, and he went off, whistling.
It was not long before Gibson returned from the shops and Cicely looked over the food items as he took them out of the basket. There were sausages and bacon, fruit and vegetables, eggs and cheese, as well as a loaf of bread - everything they needed to see them through the next few days.
‘That will do very well, Gibson,’ said Cicely.
The door bell rang. Cicely was annoyed as she really did not want to see anyone else at the moment, she had too much to do.
‘See who it is, Gibson, and if at all possible get them to come back later. I shall never get anything done today at this rate.’
‘Very good, miss.’
Gibson slipped on his frock coat and went to answer the door whilst Cicely washed her hands at the sink. A moment later, Gibson returned. ‘Mr Evington, miss,’ he said.
Suspecting he had a last-minute problem with the arrangements for the party, she knew she could not refuse to see him and so she said, ‘Show him into —’
But at that moment, he walked into the kitchen.
‘I showed myself in,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to take up too much of your time.’
‘Thank you, Gibson,’ said Cicely. ‘You may carry on.’
Gibson went out into the garden to pick some herbs for dinner.
Cicely looked at Mr Evington.
‘I just wanted — ‘ He broke off as the range began making an ominous banging noise.
Cicely gave an exclamation of vexation, turning to look at it. ‘The range is such a nuisance,’ she began. ‘If it isn’t one thing, it’s — ‘ But got no further, for Mr Evington had seized hold of her arm.
‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘Now.’
‘But -’
There was time for no more. He opened the back door and pushed her out.
‘What -?’ asked Cicely, as the banging grew louder, but the rest of her sentence was drowned out by the noise.
Mr Evington did not falter. He steered her down the path, and pushed her unceremoniously out of the gate. He had just done so when there came the most almighty explosion from within the house. Cicely turned round in shock. The kitchen window had been blown out and the air was full of the tinkling sound of breaking glass.
She turned to Mr Evington, eyes wide and questioning.
‘The back boiler,’ he said tersely. ‘It’s exploded.’
‘The back boiler exploded?’ asked Cicely, still feeling stunned. It had all happened so quickly. The explosion had been terribly loud and the breaking glass had momentarily frightened her; and Mr Evington’s man-handling, necessary though it had been, had shaken her nerves.
‘The fire was built up way too high,’ he said. ‘By the look of it the range was an old one. It was inevitable this would happen.’
‘If you hadn’t come in when you did . . . ’ said Cicely, turning to him, her face white.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said.
No, Cicely thought. Better not.
‘You’re shivering,’ he said.
He was right. The shock had taken its toll. She felt suddenly cold.
He took off his coat and wrapped it round her shoulders.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said. She felt foolish for having given way to shock and did not want him to think her a coward.
‘Of course you are,’ he said, leading her over to the grass verge. ‘But keep this on anyway.’
Cicely realized it would be useless to protest. And besides, the extra warmth was comforting. It wrapped her round, and so did the scent of Alex Evington. Faint but unmistakeable it clung to his jacket, a mixture of cedar after-shave and expensive cologne.
At that minute Gibson, looking considerably shaken, emerged from behind the house.
‘Ah. Gibson,’ said Mr Evington, taking charge of the situation. ‘I need you to go and get help. There’s going to be a lot of cleaning up to do. Not to mention the risk from the fire.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gibson.
Cicely, about to object to Mr Evington giving Gibson orders, suddenly realized that he had done it in order to settle Gibson’s nerves. By giving him something useful to do, Mr Evington had taken his thoughts from the explosion and directed them into more useful channels.
‘Right away, sir,’ said Gibson, disappearing down the lane.
‘Are you all right?’ Alex asked, taking her hands and chafing them.
‘Yes. Just a little shaken, that’s all.’
‘It’s not surprising.’
What was surprising was that, this time, his touch was not electric. It was comforting. She had a sudden longing to rest her head on his shoulder until she should have recovered from the shock. She fought against it, and in order to try and divert her thoughts, she asked, ‘You knew at once what was about to happen. Have you had a similar problem with your range?’
‘No.’ He settled himself more comfortably on the grass beside her, raising one leg in front of him, bent at the knee. ‘But I’ve seen boilers explode on steam ships.’
Cicely’s interest was caught. She had heard from Alice, courtesy of local neighbourhood gossip, that Mr Evington had worked as a stoker. Here was a chance for her to learn more about him. ‘You used to work on them?’
‘Yes.’ He fell silent, and Cicely thought he was not going to say anything else, but then he said, ‘I worked on or around ships for much of my early life. I grew up in Liverpool, and when I was a boy it was a good way to make money.’
‘Is that why you resent the landed classes so?’ she asked. ‘Because your early life was hard?’ It was a bold question, but she was interested to know.
‘No. Not really.’
‘Then why.’
He hesitated. ‘I . . . have my reasons.’
He was not more forthcoming, and Cicely did not feel equal to questioning him further. But after a few minutes he said, ‘Even so, I was wrong to show how I felt. I haven’t hidden my dislike very well, I fear.’
‘Why should you?’ she asked simply.
‘Good manners?’ he suggested humorously.
‘There is that,’ said Cicely with a smile. Adding wryly, ‘But I am not entitled to complain. My own manners have hardly been a model of decorum.’
He took her hands and she felt a sudden change inside her. His touch was no longer comforting. Instead it was stimulating.
Before he could do anything more the villagers, roused by the explosion, started to arrive at the scene. Alice was the first.
‘Cicely! Goodness! What happened?’ she asked.
‘The back boiler,’ said Cicely. ‘It exploded.’
‘No! How awful.’ Alice took in the shattered window and the ragged hole that had been torn in the kitchen wall. ‘Goodness. What a mess.’
‘It is. A terrible mess,’ said Mr Evington. He turned back to Cicely. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said, suddenly practical. ‘There is a gaping hole in the wall, and it will take at least a week to fix it. You will have to come and stay at the Manor.’
‘Oh, no,’ Cicely protested. ‘I couldn’t possibly — ‘
‘I won’t take no for an answer,’ he said firmly. ‘There is plenty of room and the house is geared up for guests. No one would be surprised at you making one of their number and it would give you somewhere to stay until the Lodge has been repaired.’
‘No, I don’t think it would be proper — ‘ Cicely began again, suddenly anxious at the thought of staying beneath the same roof as Mr Evington.
‘Miss Babbage would be invited, too,’ he said. He turned to Alice. ‘If you and your mother would do me the honour of accepting an invitation you could keep Miss Haringay company and provide her with a chaperon, as well as, I hope, having an enjoyable time.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Alice her eyes shining, and saying as plainly as words could do, A week at the Manor, with Alex Evington? Wonderful!
Cicely looked from one to the other of them, and then back at the ruined side of the Lodge.
She considered her options. On the one hand, she knew that Alice would invite her to stay if she refused Mr Evington’s offer. On the other hand it would put a strain on the Babbage’s small household - which consisted of Alice, her mother, a maid of all work and a manservant - to cater for an unexpected guest. Whereas Mr Evington, as he himself had said, was already prepared for guests. And with such a large gathering there could be nothing improper about her accepting his invitation, especially as Alice and her mother were to go as well.
The question was, could she spend a week with Mr Evington and not give way to her unruly feelings, which tempted her to travel down unexplored pathways into a whole new world whenever he was near?
Seeing her hesitate, Alex organised some privacy for them by saying to Alice, ‘If you could retrieve Miss Haringay’s shoe?’
Cicely looked down at her right foot. In all the confusion she had barely noticed that she had lost it when being manhandled out of the gate.
‘Of course,’ said Alice, glad to be of use.
She ran off.
‘You need not be afraid of me,’ he said, looking down into Cicely’s eyes and seeking to reassure her. ‘If you come to the Manor you will have nothing to fear.’
‘I am not afraid of you,’ she said. But her voice caught in her throat.
‘No?’
There was a sudden tension in the air.
She swallowed. ‘No.’ She almost said, I am afraid of myself, but managed to stop herself just in time. But it was true, she was afraid of herself. When she was with Mr Evington she discovered parts of herself that she had not known existed. He had touched something inside her that had been laying dormant, and though it was wonderful to experience the new and scintillating feelings he awakened inside her, it was alarming as well.
‘Then you have no reason to refuse my invitation to stay at the Manor,’ he said.
‘You are very kind.’
His mouth twitched humorously, as though kindness was not the motivation for his offer.
Is it wise? she asked herself, before committing herself to an answer. But wise or not she had no real alternative. ‘Thank you. I accept.’
‘There is one thing.’ He hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘If you are to be my guest, you can’t go on calling me Mr Evington.’
She felt a shiver of apprehension. She knew what he was going to say next.
‘You must call me Alex.’
There was something intimate about the notion, and she knew that it would make it harder for him to treat him with the distant manner necessary. And yet it was unavoidable.
‘And at the party you must call me Cicely,’ she said.
‘Cicely.’ His voice was soft and sultry.
Fortunately for Cicely’s composure, at that moment Alice returned, bearing her shoe.
‘I’ve checked to make sure there’s no glass in it,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
Cicely tried, with little success, to dismiss the memory of Alex’s voice as it had caressed her name, and slipped the shoe back on her foot.
‘Miss Haringay has accepted my invitation,’ said Mr Evington, standing up. ‘I hope you and your mother will do the same.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ said Alice, her voice filled with excitement.
‘Then I will expect you as soon as I see you. I will return to the Manor and tell the housekeeper to make up rooms for three more guests. Oh, and you must bring Gibson,’ he said to Cicely. ‘He, too, will need somewhere to stay. In fact I am sure he would be very useful in the coming week, as well as very welcome - that is, if you have no objection to his helping out?’
‘No. None.’
He looked down the lane, to where a group of people were converging on the Lodge. ‘The local officials can take over now,’ he said.
Cicely slipped his jacket from her shoulders as he stood up. She handed it back to him, knowing she must not detain him. He took it, swinging it over his shoulder. As he did so, Cicely’s eyes were drawn to the sight of his muscles working beneath his shirt, and she was filled with a sudden desire to feel his arms around her once again. But such a thought was madness. No good would come of such ideas, and she must banish them from her mind,
‘Miss Haringay,’ he said politely. ‘Miss Babbage.’ Then making the ladies a slight bow he walked away.
Cicely’s eyes followed him down the drive - until she realized what they were doing, whereupon she forced her attention back to the pressing matter in hand. And it was pressing. She gave a deep sigh. She must now deal with the aftermath of the explosion.
An hour later, explanations had been made and workers organized to assess the damage with a view to carrying out the repairs. She had made no mention of the fact that Tom had stoked the fire too high when asked about the cause of the explosion, she had simply blamed it on the back boiler being old. Tom had been doing his best to help, and a quiet word in private would make sure he knew the risks involved in making the fire too hot so that he would not do it again.
Then came the task of cleaning up the mess the explosion had left in its wake. It seemed to take forever to sort things out, despite the number of willing helpers who lent a hand, but at last it was done. The repairs to the Lodge, however, would take longer. Cicely sighed. She had been hoping perhaps at a later date to employ a maid to help her in the house for one day a week, but now anything left over from her wages would have to go on setting the Lodge to rights.
There was no use worrying about it, however. She was fortunate that she had a roof over her head for the coming week: Alex had seen to that. In one way at least, she no longer dreaded it. She had now visited the Manor so many times since moving out of it that she could go back as a guest without being troubled by the situation, and knowing that Gibson was also welcome took a great weight off her mind. But in another way it filled her with apprehension. Alex had said she had nothing to fear from him. But living in the same house as him, sleeping under the same roof - who knew what complications it would bring?
What shall I wear? thought Cicely an hour later, as she looked at her few good clothes, which she had spread out on the bed. True, they were well made and, having been bought before she had known her father had run up such huge debts, they had been expensive. But they were too few to last her for seven days.
Clothes were the least of her problems, she reminded herself. She would just have to make her outfits do.
Leaving Tom to wheel her valise round to the Manor on the hand cart, she set out to walk up the drive. As she approached the Manor she saw what a difference had already come over it. Three Daimlers were parked in the turning circle, which in her father’s time had seen nothing faster than a carriage. The sound of chatter and laughter floated out of the open windows. Steeling herself to face a throng of unknown people, Cicely rang the bell.
The door was opened by the butler, and to Cicely’s relief she saw that the hall was all but empty. She was greeted politely, and shown up to one of the guest rooms.
It seemed strange not to be sleeping in her old room, but in a way she was glad. It would have raised too many echoes of the past. The guest room was small, but overlooked the front of the house. Cicely was just opening the window when Alice bounded in.
‘I say, Cicely, isn’t this wonderful!’ she exclaimed, as she looked round the room. ‘Quite like old times.’
‘Old times were never like this,’ said Cicely. ‘A house full of guests, and an army of servants to wait on them.’
‘Well, no, your father never did like entertaining.’ She paused. ‘Is it very difficult for you, being at the Manor again?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No. I have grown used to it,’ said Cicely. She gave Alice an affectionate smile, and her eyes twinkled. ‘So you are free to enjoy yourself!’
‘Oh, Cicely, I’m so pleased. I wouldn’t have wanted to be happy if you were not, but it is rather wonderful. All the people and all the glamour. Mother is so excited.’
‘Where is she?’ enquired Cicely.
‘In the east wing. In fact, mother has had an idea.’
Cicely looked at Alice enquiringly.
‘About our evening dresses. I only have three, and I know you’re the same, but it is mother’s idea that if we swap them between ourselves we will each end up with six different gowns to wear.’
‘And as we are only here for seven evenings, that means a different gown for nearly every evening,’ said Cicely, delighted with the idea.
‘And not only that. Mother has raided her workbasket and found several lengths of lace, together with a selection of silk flowers and a number of ribbon bows. By adding a few extra trims to each gown, or indeed by removing a few, she can make them seem different.’
Cicely nodded appreciatively. ‘Unless anyone is looking closely, they are not likely to notice that the green silk gown I wear on Monday is the same as the green silk you wear on Friday, particularly if it has a different trim. We will appear to be as well dressed as any of the other guests.’
‘Apart from our lack of morning dresses and tea gowns,’ giggled Alice.
‘We will just have to hope Mr Evington’s guests are more interested in their own appearances than ours!’ At that moment the gong was struck in the hall. ‘Goodness! I’d forgotten how loud it sounds,’ said Cicely, who had left the gong behind when she had moved to the Lodge.
‘Time to dress for dinner,’ said Alice. ‘I will see you downstairs.’
She ran lightly out of the room, almost bumping into a maid, who had just arrived.
‘The master’s compliments, miss,’ said the maid to Cicely as Alice departed. ‘I’ve come to help you dress.’
Cicely felt a warm feeling wash over her at this evidence of Mr Evington’s - Alex’s - unexpected thoughtfulness.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
With the help of the maid she washed and changed, putting on one of her three evening gowns. It was an exquisite creation, made for Cicely by a talented local dressmaker who had once worked for the great Doucet in Paris. Made of the palest pink chiffon it floated around her delicate curves as she dropped it over her head. The maid arranged it over her lace-trimmed petticoat before fastening it at the back, whereupon it draped itself elegantly around Cicely’s trim waist before flowing down over her hips and falling in a swirling cascade to the floor.
The maid then arranged her hair in a simple pompadour, piling her hair on top of her head and leaving her neck and shoulders bare.
There came a knock at the door, and Alice entered. She was dressed in a gown of pale primrose brocade, her slender waist accentuated with a white sash.
‘Are you ready to go down?’ she asked.
Cicely fastened a pair of pearl earrings in her ears and pulled on her long white evening gloves. ‘I am.’
Cicely was apprehensive as they went downstairs. Although she had accustomed herself to being at the Manor when she worked there, it was different to visit it en fête. The hall below her was full of the most elegant people. The ladies in exquisite evening gowns, all décolleté and swishing trains, conversed with gentlemen in evening dress. The gay conversation met Cicely and Alice at the half landing. Bright bursts of laughter punctuated the hubbub, and there was an atmosphere of enjoyment and good humour.
‘This is how the Manor was meant to be,’ murmured Cicely. For a moment she was transported back in time, to the days of her early childhood when her mother had been alive. Her parents had often entertained then, and thrown parties that were the talk of the neighbourhood. But after her mother’s death her father had retreated into his own hobbies, and had cut off all but the most basic contact with the outside world.
Cicely and Alice reached the bottom of the stairs and were joined by Mrs Babbage, who was evidently enjoying herself. She had dressed herself in her best clothes and was making the most of the unexpected frivolity.
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ breathed Alice, looking round at all the lace and jewels in awe.
They went through into the drawing-room, where Cicely’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to Alex. Immaculately dressed in a black tailcoat, wing-collared shirt, bow tie and tailored trousers, he looked magnificent. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, revealing the masculine lines of his cheek and jaw. He had more character than anyone Cicely had ever met, and it showed on his face, being etched into the lines around his eyes to give his face interest and depth.
And then her eyes drifted to his companion and her heart stopped. For next to Alex was a statuesque beauty who held herself like a queen, and who was holding on to his arm with a distinctly proprietorial air.
Cicely felt a twist inside her. She was totally unprepared for it, and only just managed to stifle a gasp. She couldn’t be jealous, could she? Alex was entitled to offer his arm to one of his guests; indeed, good manners made it imperative that he do so. He was even entitled to be in love with the full-figured beauty, she realised with a sinking feeling, noting the way his arm encircled the Amazon’s waist.
At that moment he turned and saw her. A warm smile washed over his face, and it lit Cicely inside. Against all reason she was delighted that he was pleased to see her.
Excusing himself to his companion, he walked across the drawing-room to welcome her.
‘Cicely, I’m so pleased you could come.’ Hs eyes lingered on her face. Then, as if remembering himself, he turned to Alice and her mother and made them welcome.
‘Oh, we are so pleased to be here!’ said Alice, looking up at him adoringly.
Mrs Babbage was similarly smitten, though she was better at hiding it than her daughter.
‘Let me introduce you to some of my other guests.’
He introduced them to the statuesque beauty, Miss Postlethwaite. With her elegantly coiffured dark hair, voluptuous figure, great height and majestic bearing, she reminded Cicely of the Wertheimer sisters, whose likeness had been caught so well by the painter John Singer Sargent a few years earlier. Like them, Miss Postlethwaite was the epitome of elegance and glamour.
Miss Postlethwaite greeted them politely, before moving gracefully away to talk to the other guests.
More introductions followed, and Cicely soon found herself the centre of a group of agreeable people, all of whom knew nothing of her exploding range and accepted her as just another of Alex’s guests.
‘If you’ll allow me,’ said Mr Stirling to Cicely as the dinner gong rang, ‘I’m to have the pleasure of taking you into dinner.’
‘Of course,’ said Cicely politely, her eyes unconsciously straying to Alex, who was escorting an elderly dowager into the dining-room. She felt her spirits lift. How stupid of her, to be so affected by such a little thing. For she had thought he would go into dinner with Miss Postlethwaite, and was ridiculously pleased when he did not.
Alice and Mrs Babbage were similarly escorted into the dining-room, and all three ladies took their places at the long table.
Mr Stirling was good company, and he and Cicely passed the meal pleasantly by talking about their favourite books.
‘I didn’t know you were a fan of Sherlock Holmes,’ said Alex, joining Cicely after dinner, when coffee was served in the drawing-room.
‘Oh. Yes, I am,’ said Cicely. She and Mr Stirling had talked about the splendid stories over dinner, and Mr Stirling had obviously mentioned the fact to Alex.
‘I didn’t notice any of Conan Doyle’s stories in the library,’ he said.
Cicely gave a mischievous smile. ‘That’s because I took them all with me!’
He laughed. ‘How are you settling in at the Manor?’ he asked. ‘Is your room to your liking? I haven’t had a chance to ask you before now.’
‘Yes, thank you, it is.’
‘Because if you would like another one you have only to say.’
‘No. I am very comfortable where I am.’
He was about to speak when one of his guests hailed him from across the room. ‘I say, Evington, what about a game of billiards.’
‘I’m afraid that will be impossible,’ he said.
‘Impossible? Pish!’ said the young man. ‘Nothing’s impossible.’
‘I’m afraid this is. You see, there’s no billiard room.’
‘What? No billiard room. Good Lord! You’ll have to hurry up and build one then.’
Cicely turned away. In one way she could not take exception to what the young man had said, for most country houses had billiard rooms. But it hurt her to have the Manor’s inadequacies spoken of. She knew it needed bringing up to date, but she loved it anyway, and although she could now enter it without feeling a loss of spirits, and had indeed enjoyed seeing it en fête, she did not like to hear it belittled.
Looking up, she caught Alex’s eye in the mirror. He was looking at her curiously, as though wondering what had brought the sudden look of pain to her face. But there was more than curiosity in his eyes. There was an unmistakeable gleam of tender concern as well.
Fortunately, Alice came up to her at that moment and distracted her, forcing her to break eye contact with Alex and give her attention to the other guests. Otherwise she might have been guilty of giving way to wholly inappropriate feelings . . . feelings that were becoming increasingly hard to deny.
She saw no more of Alex that evening, and as she undressed for bed later that evening she was grateful for it, because as she finally blew out the candle - the gas lighting not reaching this part of the house - she realized that staying at the Manor was going to cause her difficulties she had not foreseen. Not only was it going to bring her into contact with Alex every single day, but it was also going to force her to acknowledge her unfortunate reaction to the beautiful Miss Postlethwaite, whose statuesque image haunted her until she fell asleep.