Runaway Miss Read online

  The return journey was accomplished in comfort and as soon as Alex had helped unload the parcels, he busied himself seeing the horses safely in their stalls and giving instruction to his new outside staff and the two gardeners whom his uncle had kept, though they knew more about what needed doing than he did. Amelia and Emma took their purchases to Emma’s room and in no time had them all out of their packages and began a trying-on session, which only ended when the half-hour gong sounded to tell them to dress for dinner. It was usually taken at country hours of three o’clock, but, because they had been late returning from their shopping expedition, it was nearer six when Emma went downstairs in the lilac dress.

  Alex was beginning to become accustomed to seeing the rapid changes in Emma’s appearance, but even so he did not think the beauty in blue could be surpassed until he saw the beauty in lilac. He would never have expected that colour to become her, but it did. She had brushed her hair until it shone, its chestnut tones flecked with copper. It was long and thick and she had twisted it up into a rope and pinned it to the top of her head. The style emphasised her long neck, a neck, he noted, devoid of any jewellery.

  After dinner, they went into the drawing room—Alex did not even stay in the dining room for the usual glass of port and a cigar—and played spillikins, which Alex contrived to lose, much to the ladies’ amusement. ‘What about some music?’ Amelia asked, when the childish game palled. ‘Fanny, do you sing?’

  ‘Only a very little, ma’am.’

  ‘Then do entertain us. Sing a duet with Alex. I know he has a fine voice. I will accompany you.’ She went over to the pianoforte and opened the lid. ‘What shall it be?’

  Alex shuffled the sheets of music which lay on the piano top and chose ‘Moll in the Wad’, which he handed to his aunt. After her opening chord, his voice rose strong and musical: ‘Miss Jenny, don’t think that I care for you, for all your freaks and comical airs, you snub at your betters I tell you true, you know full well you are at your last prayers…’

  When it came to her turn, Emma could hardly sing for laughing. ‘Pray don’t you be impudent, Master Clump, for all your cobbling kit and gears, I’ll up with my fist and give you a thump, I’ll smack your face and box your ears…’ All accompanied by suitable actions.

  He had chosen the song to make her laugh and in that he succeeded. By the time they finished, tears of sheer gaiety were sliding down her cheeks; the song was so apt to the way they behaved towards each other, which was, she supposed, why he had picked it.

  After that, in more serious mood, he sang, ‘My love is like a red, red rose’, plucking a rose from the vase on the table as he sang and presenting it to her. It was left to her to wind up the evening with ‘When first this humble roof I knew with various cares I strove’, which ended with the line ‘The all of life is love’. Not since her childhood had she felt so happy. Under this roof she felt her cares drop away from her. Nothing had been solved, of course, she knew that, and really it was only a temporary respite, but she was grateful: grateful to her mother and to Mrs Summers who made it possible, grateful to this understanding man with whom she frequently sparred.

  As she climbed the stairs to her bed, she realised it was more than gratitude, it was love. She loved him, she loved his thoughtfulness, his gentleness, his understanding, his unquestioning acceptance of what and who she purported to be. And that thought brought her back to reality with a bump. Mrs Summers was right—the longer she delayed, the harder it would be to tell him the truth. And he would be angry.

  Chapter Seven

  Alex left the house early the next morning to ride over to visit Colin Digby, his farmer tenant, to make himself known and enquire if there was anything the man needed. He lived with his wife and several children in a stone-built cottage halfway up Rydal Hill. Its condition was primitive, but it was kept scrupulously clean, as were the children. He stopped at the house for a few words with Mrs Digby and then went with her husband to tour the farm, which was extensive but hilly and only good for grazing sheep, a few goats and one or two cattle. There was no arable land such as he was used to in Norfolk, where the flat terrain and fertile ground made it ideal for crops.

  Having arranged for someone to help repair the walls that divided the pastures, he returned to Highhead Hall in the early afternoon to find an elegant carriage in the drive. His aunt was evidently entertaining. He hurried indoors and upstairs to change before joining them.

  ‘Ah, here is my nephew,’ Amelia said as he entered the drawing room.

  The visitors were strangers; one was a tall angular woman dressed in a purple pelisse over a grey gown. Her black hair—dyed, he was sure—was topped by a purple satin turban trimmed with feathers. She was accompanied by a young lady in a white dimity dress tied with a wide pink sash. She was blonde and blue-eyed and altogether lovely.

  ‘Lady Pettifer, may I present my nephew, Viscount Malvers?’ Amelia said.

  He swept her a bow. ‘Your obedient, my lady.’

  ‘It is always a pleasure to meet a relative of dear Mrs Summers,’ her ladyship said. ‘Lord Bourne, who was a great friend of my husband, Sir Mortimer, often spoke of you.’

  ‘Did he, indeed?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he thought very highly of you. May I present my daughter, Charlotte. Charlotte, make your curtsy.’

  Charlotte came forward, curtsied and gave him a most impish and knowing smile, which made him realise his first conception of her had been entirely wrong. She was not the quiet schoolgirl he imagined her to be, but must have left the schoolroom at least three years before. And the look in her eyes held a certain wily cunning; he had seen that look in the eyes of soldiers caught in some punishable offence and hoping to be able to talk their way out of it with a faked air of innocence. On a young lady, it was disturbing.

  ‘Miss Pettifer.’ He bowed again and looked round for Fanny. He felt in need of her support, which was foolish of him. The visitors posed no threat to him, so why could he not deal with them? And what could Fanny Draper, lady’s companion, do about it? He thought at first she was not in the room, but then he saw her sitting in a corner, half-hidden by a cabinet displaying mementoes of his uncle’s many voyages, quietly reading a book. It brought a smile to his face; she was acting her role of companion and effacing herself. So be it. When the visitors had gone he would suggest a ride to give them an appetite for dinner.

  ‘Lady Pettifer has been so good as to invite us to a little soirée at Cragside House on Monday evening next week,’ his aunt said. ‘You are not engaged elsewhere, are you?’

  ‘No. I shall be delighted to attend.’

  ‘It will not be anything like you are used to in London,’ her ladyship said. ‘Just a few friends to welcome you to the area.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’ He bowed again and a few minutes later, after talking about the unseasonable weather, the price wool was fetching and the fact that the streets and shops were crowded with offcomers, as tourists and visitors from outside the area were called, her ladyship and her daughter took their leave.

  ‘Who and what are they?’ he asked his aunt when the door had closed on them.

  ‘Sir Mortimer is a magistrate and a sizeable landowner hereabouts, fancies himself cock of the walk. His wife has pretensions of grandeur and an overriding ambition for her daughter to marry well. Anyone with a title and a moderate fortune is fair game, so be warned.’

  ‘I will take your warning to heart,’ he said seriously, though there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes. And, raising his voice a fraction, added, ‘Miss Draper, you may come out of hiding now.’

  Emma shut her book, which had been open on her lap, though she had not been reading it, being far more interested in the conversation going on in the middle of the room. She rose and went to sit beside Mrs Summers.

  ‘You do not have to hide yourself away when someone comes, my dear,’ Amelia said, patting her hand.

  ‘Well, I certainly have no wish to push myself forward on someone who ignores me so tot
ally I might as well be invisible.’

  Alex laughed. ‘You did right, Miss Draper, Lady Pettifer would have been horrified had you joined in the conversation. In any case, I am sure your book was more interesting than our chatter. What is it?’ He took it from her when she offered it and read the title. ‘Admiral Crosthwaite’s Invasion. Whatever is that about?’

  ‘It is about two men—one a local man, the other who came to live in the Lake District—who formed a partnership to put on a mock-sea battle on Derwentwater for the benefit of tourists. They did it every year for ten years, from 1780, and people came from all over the country to witness it. It was a grand affair with boats and yachts made up to look like ships and cannon and soldiers with musketry…’

  ‘I remember witnessing it once when I was younger,’ Amelia put in. ‘The whole countryside went wild over it. There were foot races and rowing races, stalls and sideshows, refreshments tents and marquees. The battle was the climax. Mr Joseph Pocklington owned the island on the lake and had built himself a house on its highest point. He built a mock-church and a fort too. He was called King Pocky and defended the island against the invasion led by Mr Peter Crosthwaite, of Keswick. That was why he called himself Admiral, but Henry maintained he had never been to sea, certainly not as a seaman. But it made a wonderful display.’

  ‘Is it no longer done?’ Alex asked.

  ‘No, I believe there was some opposition from the purists and some of the high jinks got out of hand and made it unpopular with the local inhabitants. And one year Crosthwaite’s enemies went to the island and told everyone the battle was off and then charged a fee to ferry the disappointed defenders back to the mainland. It ruined the whole day and Mr Crosthwaite was so furious he would not take part again.’

  ‘I wonder I never heard of it when I used to stay here,’ Alex said. ‘Where did the book come from?’

  ‘Why, sir…’ Emma laughed ‘…I took it from a shelf in the bookroom, so I presume it now belongs to you. You do not mind, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘It sounds so exciting, I was wondering if it could be revived.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Do you not think it would be good for the area? Would it not provide work for those ex-soldiers you spoke of?’

  He was flattered to think that his little homily about the problems of the old soldiers had made an impression on her, but he was given no opportunity to discuss the idea because new callers were announced. This time it was Mrs Griggs and her daughter and they were followed almost immediately by the Misses Hurley. Emma shrank into the background while an almost-identical conversation took place as had been conducted with Lady Pettifer, ending as the previous one had with invitations, one for supper at the Griggs’s and another from Miss Hurley to make up a party for a picnic the following week. ‘Weather permitting, of course,’ she added. And almost as an afterthought, ‘Do bring your charming companion.’ By the time they had all gone Alex concluded there was no time to go riding and so he did not mention it.

  ‘It is evident you are going to be much in demand,’ Mrs Summers said to Alex. ‘A handsome bachelor with a title and a fortune! My goodness, they haven’t had anything so exciting happen round here for years. The young sprigs will all try aping your dress and the young ladies will be vying for your favours.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you want a wife?’ She looked sideways at him, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Not at the moment, not ever perhaps. What I have seen of marriage does not incline me towards it.’

  ‘Oh, you are an old cynic and I am persuaded you do not mean it.’

  ‘Assuredly I do. Besides, I have hardly said half a dozen words to your young friends. I would need to know someone a great deal more thoroughly than that before I make such an important decision, Aunt Amelia.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ she said complacently. ‘I did not mean people from round here necessarily—someone from Norfolk or London, perhaps.’

  ‘His lordship decries London society,’ Emma put in. ‘He told me so.’

  ‘Oh, then we shall have to see what the Lakes have to offer.’

  Because he found the subject deeply embarrassing, he turned back to the book about the regatta and began leafing through its pages. ‘I have been wondering how to fulfil my uncle’s wishes,’ he said. ‘And perhaps organising a regatta might serve the purpose. Not on Derwentwater but on Windermere. It would provide employment and encourage visitors to spend their money. Everyone will benefit: the inns and hotels, the cook shops and stallholders. Not only that, but a grand finale, like a battle on the water with cannon going off and fireworks, will need a great many people to make it work.’

  Emma was glad to hear him talking so enthusiastically. It meant the advent of the young ladies had not disturbed him and her heart beat a little more freely.

  They discussed the possibilities, with Amelia and Emma either making suggestions or playing devil’s advocate, but the idea was growing on him. He would have to have the local community on his side, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought he could make it work. He would put up the initial finance, but, properly run, it should be self-financing and a battle would bring in the local ex-soldiers and sailors, give them something to do building the mock-ships and forts, besides taking part. He could see it all in his mind’s eye. Making it reality would take hard work, but hard work had never bothered him.

  ‘What do you say, Miss Draper?’ he asked. ‘Can we do it?’

  ‘I imagine you can do anything you set your mind to,’ she said, heartened by his use of the word ‘we’. ‘Except walk on water, and perhaps you can even do that.’

  He laughed. ‘There is a tale of walking on water I heard when I used to visit my uncle as a lad, though it wasn’t a man who did it, but a horse.’

  ‘Oh, that old myth,’ his aunt put in. ‘I do not know how it started, someone with too much drink in him, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Oh, do tell me,’ Emma begged.

  ‘It is supposed to be an omen,’ she told Emma. ‘The story is that when harm is about to come to the neighbourhood, a ghostly white horse walks on the lake from shore to shore.’

  ‘Has anyone actually reported seeing it?’

  ‘Only those rolling home from an evening spent in the Sun. You should not pay any heed to tales like that, Fanny, Alex is only trying to frighten you.’

  ‘I am not easily frightened,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘I know that.’ He turned to his aunt. ‘When the coach horses bolted in a storm on our journey up here, she spent the time reassuring the other young lady in the vehicle that we were not about to turn over and the coachman knew what he was about.’

  ‘And I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, indeed you were,’ he agreed, deciding not to boast that it was he who had taken the reins and brought the horses back into line. ‘A most intrepid traveller. One would think you had been doing it all your life.’

  If he thought that would elicit a response which would tell him more about her, he was disappointed; she simply laughed and then returned to the subject of the regatta. They discussed it until dinner time and returned to it afterwards and the idea grew and developed as they talked. By the time the evening ended and they went to their beds, it had been agreed that Alex would sound out the local business people and make a tour of the lake to see how it could be arranged.

  The regatta was only a short-term solution to the unemployment problem. He needed something that would last long enough to set the men and their families up for life. He could sell the estate and use the money for the general good. On the other hand, he could turn the house into a hotel, or a library, or a Lakeland museum or an orphanage, but until he was sure his aunt and Miss Draper had a home, he would not do anything. For the moment, he would concentrate on the regatta.

  Emma woke early the next morning to find the sun shining and the birds singing in the eaves. She
rose and dressed in her old grey-striped dress, now cleaned and pressed, and went down to the kitchen where Mrs Granger was busy at the stove.

  ‘Good morning, miss,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect you down yet. If you don’t mind waiting…’

  ‘I’m in no hurry, Mrs Granger. I thought I would go for a walk before breakfast. It is such a beautiful morning.’

  ‘Yes, thank the Lord. After the weather we have had, the sun is welcome. But don’t go out empty. Have a little bread and butter and a drink to tide you over.’

  Emma sat at the kitchen table to have it. ‘Did you ever see the regatta on Derwentwater?’ she asked, as the cook set about her chores again.

  ‘Yes, everyone went to see it. It was a grand occasion. You are the second person to ask me that. Lord Malvers mentioned it when he came down. He said he was thinking of doing something similar on Windermere.’

  ‘We were talking about it last night. Is he up and about already?’

  ‘He went out about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Was he going riding?’ she asked, stifling her disappointment that he had gone without her, especially as he had told her she could ride the new mare. She had assumed he meant she would go with him, but perhaps he had not meant that at all.

  ‘He didn’t say, but I didn’t hear a horse leave the yard.’

  Emma left her to her cooking and set off to walk to the lake. The road led directly to Waterhead; once there, she walked along a gently shelving shore. There were several boats on the lake: some lying at anchor by the small jetty, some out on the lake containing men with fishing rods, others taking passengers from Waterhead to Bowness. She stood and watched them for a few minutes, then decided to see if it was possible to walk around the northern edge of the lake.