ANNE ASHLEY – The Viscount's Scandalous Return (страница 9)

A week of heavy rain did little to improve her spirits. Nor, it had to be said, did waking up one morning to discover her vegetable patch under a considerable amount of water.

Her prized garden had produced sufficient quantities of root and green vegetables to feed the household throughout the previous year, not to mention sufficient soft fruits during the summer months to preserve for leaner times. She doubted very much that this would be the case for the present year, for she very much feared that her attempt to produce early crops had been completely washed away by the deluge.

‘That is it!’ she declared, reaching for her cloak and stout, serviceable boots. ‘I’m not prepared to put up with this any longer! I’m mindful of the fact that his lordship has been most generous to this household already, especially where Clara is concerned. But that doesn’t give him the right to neglect his duties as a landowner. So don’t you dare try to stop me, Bessie!’

The thought never crossed the housekeeper’s mind for an instant. She knew well enough that, when her mistress had reached the limits of her patience, only a forceful airing of views would restore calm, and return her to her normally sensible and controlled state. None the less, Bessie sensed that more lay behind this present show of fiery tension in her young mistress than the washing away of a few vegetable seedlings. All the same, she was at a loss to know quite what it might be.

From the kitchen window she followed her irate young employer’s progress up the drove to the meadow. Then she watched her clamber, in a most unladylike fashion, over the boundary fence that divided his lordship’s deer park from her own property, her faithful Beau padding along at her heels. Bessie smiled to herself as she recalled a story she’d heard many years before about an ancient warrior queen, fearless and determined, setting forth to do battle with her enemies. Which was exactly how Miss Isabel looked right now! And there wouldn’t be too many souls brave enough to stand in her way, she mused.

Although Mr Tredwell, the new butler up at the Manor, did not view the rather ill-groomed young woman, demanding to see the aristocratic master of the house at once, in quite the same reverential way as did her own devoted servant, her overall demeanour, quite frankly, did puzzle him. Had he been in town he maybe wouldn’t have thought twice about denying admittance. But this was not London. And unless his adroitness at assessing a person’s station in life had deserted him entirely, this was no country bumpkin either. Nor, he felt sure, was she a female of a certain disreputable calling.

None the less, having been in his lordship’s employ a few short weeks only, Tredwell had no intention of jeopardising his superior position in the household by not fulfilling his role as major-domo. He had a duty to deny admittance to all those who might importune his lordship. And this young woman, he strongly suspected, was more than capable of doing precisely that!

Consequently, he was on the point of demanding to know the caller’s name and business, when a high-pitched squeal from behind captured his attention, and he turned to see his master’s elder ward bounding down the main staircase.

The boy knew well enough that he was only ever supposed to use the back stairs, unless instructed to do otherwise, and Tredwell was on the point of reminding him of this fact, when he was almost thrust rudely aside by Josh in his enthusiasm to reach the caller.

‘Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel!’ he cried joyfully, almost launching himself into her outstretched arms. ‘You’ve come to see us at last! Why has it taken you so long? Have you come to take me fishing?’

Josh’s enthusiastic greeting and subsequent barrage of questions had contrasting effects on the two adults: a look of enlightenment immediately flickered over the high-ranking servant’s long, thin face, for he was very well aware that the children’s surrogate guardian during past months had been none other than a Miss Isabel Mortimer; whereas the lady herself, after a brief glowing smile down at Josh, cast a look of comical dismay above the boy’s head in the general direction of the butler.

‘The truth of the matter is, Josh, I’m here to see his lordship. There’s something I need to discuss with him urgently. But I haven’t forgotten my promise,’ she assured him. ‘I will take you fishing. But we’ll need to seek his lordship’s permission first, and wait for warmer weather, of course.’

Out of consideration for the servants, Isabel first removed her boots, which not surprisingly had become caked with mud after her brisk hike across the sodden park land, before accepting the butler’s invitation to step inside the hall, and leaving her trusty hound to await her return in the shelter of the roomy, stone-built entrance-porch.

‘Why are you not at your lessons, Josh?’ she asked him, thinking it most strange that he should be wandering about the house by himself at this time of day.

‘Oh, I just happened to leave my book in the kitchen,’ he answered, raising wide, innocent eyes, which didn’t fool Isabel for a second. ‘I often do, you know.’

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she responded, favouring him with a quizzical look. ‘And what prompts these lapses in memory—plum cake or apple tart?’

He chuckled impishly. ‘Plum cake. But it isn’t as good as yours.’

‘Artful little demon!’ she admonished lovingly. ‘You’d best run along then, and have your mid-morning treat, before Miss Pentecost wonders what’s become of you … although I expect she’s a pretty shrewd notion already of why you’re so forgetful.’

This touching exchange was witnessed by more than one person, as Isabel quickly discovered, when the butler requested her to take a seat whilst he discovered whether his lordship was available to see her.

‘Don’t trouble yourself, Tredwell. I’m quite at leisure,’ a smooth voice assured him, and Isabel swung round to see the master of the fine Restoration building leaning against a door jamb, his arms folded across his manly chest.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Mortimer,’ he declared, after moving to one side in order that she might precede him into the room. He then looked at her intently, studying her from head to toe, and paying particular attention to the wild and shining windswept locks, the glowing colour in her cheeks and her unshod feet, whilst all the time she took stock of her surroundings, in blissful ignorance of his scrutiny.

‘Had I not happened to witness that touching little reunion between you and Josh, I might have been forgiven for imagining some personal calamity had befallen you. I shall take leave to inform you, young woman, you look a positive fright! In fact, little better than any ill-groomed labouring wench!’

‘And so would you, if you’d traipsed across the park in this wind,’ she defended abruptly, clearly nettled by the criticism, though she did whip off the red ribbon that had earlier confined her locks at the nape of her neck and retied it as best she could without the aid of a mirror.

Secretly he had thought she looked stunningly attractive with her rich chestnut locks framing the healthy glow in her face. She was so different from so many of those high-born society ladies who made full use of any artificial aid to beauty. Miss Isabel Mortimer might never be considered by some to be a gem of loveliness, a pearl beyond price. But she was certainly out of the common way, he decided, and quite refreshingly natural.

‘Do sit yourself down, Miss Mortimer, and tell me how I may serve you,’ he invited, while pouring out two glasses of wine. ‘Here, drink it,’ he added, when she attempted to refuse the Madeira. ‘It will calm your nerves.’

‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my nerves,’ she assured him, reluctantly accepting the glass. ‘I’m merely damnably annoyed.’

‘About what, may I ask?’ he enquired, not wholly approving the unladylike language, which was strange, considering that he never objected to plain speaking as a rule.

‘For the past six years, my lord, the ditch on the western boundary of your property has repeatedly overflowed on to my land, after any prolonged spells of rain, to the detriment of my vegetable crops. Time and again I approached the last steward, Guy Fensham, to do something about it, but to no avail. Why your family ever employed such a lazy—’ Isabel pulled herself up abruptly, realising suddenly that she was going beyond what was pleasing by voicing opinions on matters that were absolutely none of her concern.

Taking a moment to fortify herself from the contents of her glass, she peered up at him through her lashes. He didn’t seem in the least annoyed by her outburst. But then it was sometimes very difficult to judge what was passing through the mind of this enigmatic aristocrat, she reminded herself. ‘But you do not need me to tell you how he neglected his duties during your time away, sir.’

Without uttering a word, his lordship went over to his desk and proceeded to write a brief note. The silence in the room was punctuated by the scratching of the quill across the sheet of paper, the steady ticking of the mantel-clock and a distant low and eerie howling. Which Isabel did her best to ignore whilst taking further stock of her surroundings.