Part 7 (1/2)
Sarah had intended, on retiring to bed, to think over the events of the day and sort out her confused emotions. She fell sound asleep within moments of lying down, and woke the next morning with nothing settled in her mind.
The first matter requiring her attention after breakfast was to send Peggy off to Goody Newman's. Billy had already departed, whistling cheerfully, but unfortunately, Sarah neglected to ensure Nellie's absence when she proposed this plan to the visitor.
”Ooh, Miss Sarah, you can't send her to that owd witch,” the maid gasped in dismay.
”Peggy is no country simpleton to believe such silly talk,” said Sarah firmly. ”Having lived in London she is too sophisticated to heed your nonsense.”
Though Peggy looked unconvinced, she was reluctant to give the lie to Miss Meade's high opinion of her. She went off with Arthur in the gig. The old woman's cottage would be a letdown after her villa in Chelsea, but it would do her no harm and in that isolated spot she was not likely ever to meet Adam.
Besides Sarah's usual ch.o.r.es, a number of villagers called that morning bursting with curiosity about the previous day's visitors. She managed to satisfy even the inquisitive Miss Barnes without actually revealing the truth, but leisure for contemplation was sadly lacking.
The previous day's gusty wind had dropped, and though the sky was heavy with rain clouds, Sarah decided to walk to Stonehenge. It was the only way she would find any peace, and it was warm enough not to matter if she received a wetting. She went to the kitchen to pack up some bread and cheese and fruit in a little satchel.
”Going to be a downpour any minute,” prophesied Mrs. Hicks.
”The fields need rain,” said Sarah tranquilly.
”'Tes nor proper nor safe for a young lady to walk abroad alone. Suppose there be tinkers about?”
”They will be taking shelter from the downpour,” she teased.
The housekeeper shook her head indulgently, used to her warnings being disregarded.
Sarah set off, walking with careful decorum through the village, then lengthening her stride when she reached the open hills. If they went to live in Salisbury, it might be impossible to escape from the town to take solitary rambles. Here everyone knew and forgave her eccentricity. Even Lady Cheverell had long since given up scolding her for it. Adam's wife would likely be more circ.u.mscribed by convention, with her position as viscountess to uphold. The proper young ladies among whom Adam was to choose doubtless would not care for such vigorous exercise in any case. After all, they were to be selected by his sisters, whose indolence, except in the ballroom, was notorious.
The sheep-cropped gra.s.s was bright with the scarlet-tinted yellow flowers of lady's slipper, a fresh reminder of the young ladies gathering at Cheve House. Doubtless, they would each bring the appropriate footwear for dancing the night away. But Sarah was shod with well-worn, sensible half boots; she was a countrywoman at heart, without the instincts necessary to the bride of a n.o.bleman.
Not that Adam was either a dandy or an idler. She knew that even in town he rode often and exercised at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon. Could he be content with a languid, fas.h.i.+onable wife, or would he be driven back into the arms of the muslin company?
Sarah called herself sharply to account. She had no reason to suppose that Mary and Eliza and Louise would choose young ladies who resembled themselves. Her condemnation was motivated by jealousy of the unknown miss who would win Adam's hand. It was ridiculous to envy the girl who would have to contend with his extraordinary ability to charm every female in sight. Even if he intended to be faithful, sooner or later his scruples were bound to be overcome by his sympathy for feminine woes.
The huge grey monoliths of Stonehenge rose from the plain before her. It was said that the flat centre stone had been used for human sacrifice in the days of the Druids, but Sarah always found it a peaceful refuge. Time had laid unquiet spirits to rest, and the solitary grandeur of the place made her own concerns seem petty.
She sat down with her back against one of the stones and watched the clouds form and reform over the treeless hills. The sheep which had raised their heads on her arrival went back to nibbling at the gra.s.s. After a while she took out her luncheon. As she unwrapped the bread and cheese she was joined by a brown-and-white sheepdog which sat down at a polite distance with hopeful eyes fixed on the food. She threw a crust. The dog gulped it down, waved its s.h.a.ggy tail, and trotted off about its business.
It had better manners than some humans she had met: Marguerite, for instance, who had pushed into the vicarage without a by-your-leave and as good as accused Sarah of being a lightskirt. Adam's kindness might account for his liaisons with Janet Goudge and Peggy, but the opera singer was another matter altogether. He could only have chosen to make her his mistress because he found her attractive, which seemed to indicate that his taste in women ran to the vulgar.
And if that were so, then none of his sisters' choices would suit him, for they were all bound to be the most refined, proper young ladies on the Marriage Mart.
More confused than ever, Sarah started back toward home. Really, the man was impossible! The only thing to do was to put him right out of her head and concentrate on her brother's dilemma. Would Jonathan be happier with his books and his country parish or as a rising star of the Church? There was no way she could make up his mind for him so she must do as he said and decide what sort of life she preferred.
Which brought her right back to Adam.
A few heavy drops of rain fell and she quickened her steps. She was closer to Cheve House than to the village. The soon-to-be-dowager viscountess would not mind her appearing in a shabby, and probably wet, walking dress, and she ought to ask after Jane. She felt a bit guilty about sending Adam back to town so abruptly when he had been summoned home to deal with his sister's problems.
By the time she reached Cheve, she was soaked to the skin. She slipped in at a back door and asked a surprised housemaid to inform Gossett of her arrival. Old starchy-britches (she would never be able to think of him as anything else) could be relied upon to announce her discreetly to Lady Cheverell and to send someone to find dry clothes for her.
Clad in a cast-off morning gown of Eliza's, Sarah went down to the small drawing room. Lady Cheverell was knotting a fringe in a desultory manner, while Jane stared gloomily out of the window at the pouring rain. They both brightened as Sarah entered.
”My dear, we are delighted to see you,” said her ladys.h.i.+p, patting the sofa beside her invitingly. ”Nothing is so dreary as a wet day without company.”
With an affectionate smile, Sarah joined her. She was fond of Adam's mother, who always welcomed her as if she were a fifth daughter.
”I wonder that anyone chooses to go out on such a day,” said Jane, taking a seat nearby. ”Bradfield will not travel in the rain, I daresay. Oh, Sarah, why do you think he has not come yet?”
Sarah was taken aback by this appeal. ”I fear I know nothing of the situation,” she said. ”Your mama told me only that you have had a disagreement with Lord Bradfield. I cannot advise you.”
”Did not Adam tell you everything? I was certain he would tell you. It was not a mere disagreement. We quarrelled most dreadfully. Bradfield wants to call our child Cyril after his late papa and I threw a priceless vase at him.”
”I ... I see.” Sarah did her best not to let her laughter escape her. ”You are with child, then? How happy that must make you, Jane.”
”Well, it would, if only ... Oh, I see now how ridiculous it sounds.” Her eyes, as blue as Adam's, swam with tears. ”How very foolish I have been! I do love him, Sarah. Suppose he never comes?”
Sarah went to hug the weeping girl. She had scarce put a comforting arm about her shoulders when voices were heard in the hall. Jane clutched her.
”It is him! What shall I do? You must talk to him for me. Oh, why did Adam leave?”
Lady Cheverell was also looking at her in mute appeal. Sarah shook her head.
”No. I think it is fortunate that Adam left. It is time you stopped using a go-between and learned to settle your differences with your husband by yourself. Go on, goose, he cannot eat you. I shall come to the door with you.”
She urged Jane's hesitant footsteps to the door, opened it and gave her a little push. As she closed the door she saw Jane fly across the hall and fling herself into the arms of a large, stolid-looking gentleman in a dripping multicaped greatcoat.
”Oh, Tom, I am so very sorry!” she cried.
Sarah turned to grin at Lady Cheverell, only to see her ladys.h.i.+p pressing a tiny wisp of lace to her eyes. It was Sarah's turn to fly across the room with an apology on her lips.
”I did not mean to upset you, ma'am. Pray tell me what is the matter?”
Lady Cheverell sniffed delicately. ”You will think me such a widgeon, Sarah. It is just that you are quite right about Jane facing Bradfield without an intermissionary. I ought to have suggested it long since, but Lord Cheverell, Adam's father that is, was such a very erasable gentleman that I never did learn to stand up to him.”
Sarah correctly translated intermissionary as intermediary, but Adam's erasable father had her at a loss for a moment. She murmured soothing words. ”Oh, irascible!” she said then. ”Yes, his lords.h.i.+p did have a notorious temper. You must not tease yourself about it, ma'am, but be thankful that whatever Adam's faults, that is not one of them.”
Her ladys.h.i.+p looked at her guiltily. ”No, he is the dearest boy,” she agreed. ”Only, perhaps, too amiable. I am so sorry, my dear, about your visitors yesterday. Every sensibility must be outraged!”
”Why, however did you learn of that? I suppose I ought to know by now that between your servants and the villagers nothing can be kept secret, but I did hope it would not come to your ears. I cannot deny that I was not best pleased by the business, but my sensibilities are shockingly impervious, I fear. I did not manage even one little swoon.”
”Now you are bamming me,” said Lady Cheverell with dignity. ”It was very wicked of Adam. I cannot think why he would do such a disgraceful thing.”
Sarah tried to explain, without further agitating her ladys.h.i.+p, just why Adam's Paphians had honoured the village of Little Fittleton with their disturbing presence. It was not an easy story to recount to a gently bred lady of advancing years. In the end, she blamed everything on Adam's tender heart.
”And that is my fault, too,” said her ladys.h.i.+p tearfully when she finished. ”If I had not had four daughters after Adam, he would not have grown accustomed to rescuing damsons in distress.”
Sarah laughed, first at the notion that Lady Cheverell was to blame for having four girls, and then at a vision of Adam rus.h.i.+ng about rescuing purple plums.