SYLVIA ANDREW
Eleanor

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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With love to my friends Joan and Brian Robinson

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Eleanor had never seen anything so beautiful. The crystal drops in the huge chandelier splintered the flames from its candles into a million points of sparkling light. It was like…like fireworks frozen in the air, like all the stars in the Milky Way gathered together. It was worth coming to London just to see this. A fairy-tale enchantment…

‘Eleanor, my dear, Lady Dorothy and her daughter wish to speak to you!’ Eleanor was recalled to a more mundane reality by the sound of her aunt’s voice. Without waiting for her niece, Lady Walcot had moved on a few paces in the direction of a dowager with a haughty air and an imposing turban, complete with feathers.

Eleanor gave a small sigh and started to follow, but stopped again when she became aware that a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, hard features was staring at her from the other side of the room. He would have been an impressive figure in any circumstances, but what made him even more striking was the fact that in this crowded room he was standing quite alone.

As her eye caught his, he raised one eyebrow and smiled ironically. He was laughing at her! Of course, she had been behaving like the country bumpkin her cousins accused her of being, gazing like a moonstruck idiot at the chandelier, but she was not about to be put out of countenance by this creature’s boldness! She raised her chin, gave him a cool stare, and then turned away to join her aunt and Lady Dorothy.

After exchanging civilities with Lady Walcot and agreeing, with every sign of pleasure, that the rooms were sadly crowded, Lady Dorothy said with a significant movement of her head, ‘I see that he is back in London.’

‘He?’ said Lady Walcot blankly. Then her puzzled expression changed to one of disapprobation. ‘Is he here now?’

‘Come, Lady Walcot! You must have noticed him.’

‘No, where?’

‘Further down on the other side of the room—you passed him as you came in. He is quite on his own, of course. How he has the effrontery to show himself I cannot imagine!’ The ladies turned and stared down the room. Eleanor looked too, but more discreetly. The tall man was gazing indifferently at the passing crowd, but when he became conscious of those two icy stares directed down the room at him he bowed ironically. Whatever the gentleman lacked it was not self-assurance, thought Eleanor with some amusement.

‘The impertinence!’ said Lady Dorothy as she turned back again, outraged. ‘But, my dear Lady Walcot, there is worse. Mrs Anstey is here tonight, too. I only hope the poor woman is not brought face to face with him—that would be most unfortunate. In a moment I shall seek her out and warn her.’

‘Indeed you must!’

Most of the sense of this conversation was lost on Eleanor, though it was certain that the two ladies were talking of the man who had smiled at her. Her aunt seemed to be genuinely worried by his presence, but beneath her display of righteous indignation Lady Dorothy was relishing the idea of seeking this Mrs Anstey out to warn her. Lady Dorothy had never forgotten that she was the daughter of a duke, and that marrying Edwin Rushton—a mere commoner—in no way diminished her right to order the lives of those around her. When they had last met, Eleanor had thought her an uncharitable busybody, and she now saw that the years did not appear to have mellowed or changed her. She sighed and waited patiently until the lady turned to her.

‘Miss Southeran. How nice to see you in London again. Are you here for the season? I believe your mama is not with you?’

‘I am a little old for that, Lady Dorothy,’ said Eleanor with a polite smile. ‘No, I merely came to take part in my cousin Bella’s wedding celebrations. But I must go back soon—I have been away too long already. My mother is now something of an invalid, and I worry about her.’

Lady Dorothy’s daughter, a pretty, fair-haired girl with doll-like features, cried, ‘But how can you bear it, Miss Southeran? To be leaving London just as the season is beginning!’

‘Be silent, Maria! Miss Southeran will do as she ought. No doubt she regrets having to leave London at any time, but it is not as if she were a girl in her first season. As I recall, you came out the same year as my Charlotte, did you not?’ said Lady Dorothy, turning to Eleanor again with a crocodile smile. ‘Let me see, that must have been seven or eight years ago. How time flies! Has your aunt told you that Charlotte is now the mother of three charming little girls?’

‘Indeed she has, ma’am. And how happy Charlotte is in her marriage.’

‘It is fortunate. She was always a good, obedient girl, of course, and would never have dreamt of refusing Lord Crawford’s offer. Her father and I would not have permitted it. But as it happens the match has turned out very well.’ She turned to her youngest daughter. ‘I hope you are paying heed, Maria! Miss Southeran here had just the same opportunities as Charlotte, but I am sorry to say that she wasted them all. Indeed your own brother Arthur was quite taken with her for a while. I dare swear she now regrets her foolishness and wishes she too had an establishment and children of her own!’

Eleanor replied calmly, ‘If I could have been sure of making your son as happy as Charlotte is in her marriage, I would have accepted his very flattering offer, Lady Dorothy. But I am persuaded that his second choice of partner was a better one for him. As for the rest—you will perhaps remember that I had to leave London halfway through the season, when my brother died. I have not been back between then and now.’

Eleanor’s voice might have been calm, but her aunt, observing the faint colour rising in her niece’s cheeks, intervened hastily. ‘I am sure that no daughter could have been more loving or more dutiful than Eleanor, Lady Dorothy. I have done my best to keep her in London a little longer, even pleaded with her to keep me company for a while now that Bella has left me, but she insists that her mother needs her.’

‘I suppose that is understandable—London must seem strangely noisy after so many years in the depths of the country. For myself, I cannot imagine what it would be like to live so far from any really civilised society—very tame, I dare swear. Arthur and his wife live with me, of course, in the centre of town. They are forever entertaining and visiting. But now, if you will forgive me, I really must go in search of Mrs Anstey. Enjoy the rest of your stay, Miss Southeran! Perhaps we shall see you again. Come, Maria.’ As Lady Dorothy sailed away with Maria in tow, Eleanor let her breath out in a long sigh.

‘I had forgotten how odious that woman is.’

‘Eleanor!’

‘Well, she is, Aunt Hetty. I am willing to wager that Arthur is as much under her thumb now as he was seven years ago. I pity his poor wife.’

It was clear that Lady Walcot agreed with her niece, but was not about to say so. Instead she changed the subject. ‘Would you like me to find you a dancing partner, Eleanor?’

‘Do you think you could? At my great age? Lady Dorothy would think it most unlikely.’

‘Eleanor, you let your tongue run away with you—you always did. It is not becoming in you to make fun of your elders, and especially not Lady Dorothy. In any case,’ she went on, somewhat spoiling her effect, ‘you are as handsome now as you ever were, and I am sure I shall have no difficulty at all in finding someone to dance with you.’ As they walked up the room she went on, ‘But I confess that I wish I could be happier about your future! Since you refuse to stay here in London, I suppose you must look for a husband in Somerset.’ She sounded so doubtful about the idea that Eleanor burst out laughing.

‘You are right to rate my chances low, Aunt Hetty! The young men of Somerset have younger, richer game to pursue—when they are not pursuing real game, or shooting pigeons, or…or…whatever they spend their time doing. Truth to tell, I find them rather boring! But pray do not concern yourself on my account. Mama and I are quite happy together. And you know that I have always loved Stanyards.’

Lady Walcot stopped by a quiet alcove. ‘My dear, it isn’t enough!’ she said earnestly. ‘A woman’s best chance of security lies in a suitable marriage.’

‘Such as one to Arthur Rushton, perhaps?’ asked Eleanor with a slight curl of the lip.

‘Why not? He is rich—or will be one day. And from what I hear young Mrs Rushton has a handsome allowance and any number of servants to look after her. And she has her children. It is a pity that her nerves do not always permit her to enjoy her advantages…’

‘You see? No, Aunt Hetty. I think I am happier in my tame country existence than I could ever be in Clara Rushton’s place.’

‘Happiness is not the sole aim of marriage, Eleanor. Not even the chief aim.’

‘Isn’t it? I think it is the only one.’

‘What nonsense you talk! Pray be serious for one moment! If you would only put yourself into my hands I could almost certainly find you a suitable husband here in London.’

‘Well, then, I promise you, when I feel the need of one I shall come to you first of all! But for now I shall look around me and enjoy the spectacle of London society amusing itself. The memory of it will console my tame country evenings.’

Lady Walcot shook her head at her niece’s refusal to be serious, but decided to say no more, and they resumed their walk down the room. It was a magnificent apartment, lavishly furnished in red velvet with a richly decorated white and gold ceiling. Eleanor found it slightly overpowering—vulgar even, but dared not say so. The chandelier was lovely, though. She looked up at it as they passed, and nearly walked into her aunt as that lady suddenly stopped. The stranger from the other side of the room was standing in front of them.

‘Lady Walcot—’ Eleanor’s aunt looked coldly at the gentleman but said nothing. He continued, ‘We met at my cousin’s house in Berkeley Square. My name is Guthrie. I should like to ask your companion to dance with me.’

‘Thank you, sir, but my niece does not intend to dance this evening—not at the moment, at least,’ said Lady Walcot frostily.

Perhaps the gentlemen saw Eleanor’s astonishment, for he made no move to go, but said gently, ‘Forgive me, but how can you possibly know? You haven’t even asked her.’

‘I would not dream of doing so, sir. I know that to have any closer acquaintance with a man such as yourself would be as abhorrent to her as it would to me, or to any woman of principle. And now you must excuse us, if you please. Come, Eleanor!’ She took Eleanor’s arm and almost dragged her niece away. Eleanor couldn’t help casting a glance over her shoulder at the stranger to see his reaction to this massive set-down. He was gazing after them with the same ironical smile on his face. Then he shrugged and walked calmly towards the door to the rooms where the card tables were to be found.

‘My dear aunt, you must, you really must explain! I shall explode with curiosity if you do not! Who is this monster called Guthrie? You and Lady Dorothy were talking about him before, were you not? What has he done that puts him so far beyond the pale? Tell me!’

Lady Walcot hesitated, then shook her head. She and Eleanor were sitting at one of a number of small tables which had been placed in the conservatory, and Lord Walcot, who had joined them for supper, was fetching some refreshment.

‘That is impossible, Eleanor. The story is not a suitable one, but at the risk of setting your back up I assure you that that man is not a fit acquaintance for you.’

‘Oh, come! I am not a simple schoolroom miss. As Lady Dorothy so kindly said, I am well past my first season! I need a better reason than that for not being allowed to dance with him!’

Lady Walcot looked even more determined. ‘I am afraid that you must do without one, Eleanor. All I will say is that his treatment of the Anstey family has been wicked.’

‘Can you tell me, at least, who these Ansteys are?’

‘Mrs Anstey and her younger daughter, Marianne, are sitting over there in the far corner. The poor woman is trying to make herself inconspicuous.’

Eleanor turned her head a fraction and saw a pale, sweet-faced woman in black, almost hidden by the overhanging branch of a potted palm. Next to her sat a very beautiful girl in a pale blue dress. ‘Marianne Anstey is exquisite! She looks like a fairy princess!’

‘Absolutely lovely, I agree. They have aroused a great deal of attention since their arrival from America. The girl is certain to make a good marriage, although they are as poor as church mice, and totally dependent on their relatives.’

‘What did Mr Guthrie do?’

‘I cannot discuss it now—here is your uncle. All you really need to know is that the man is a scoundrel.’

‘Who is this scoundrel?’ asked Lord Walcot. ‘No, let me guess. Jonas Guthrie, without a doubt. Why can’t you leave him alone, Hetty? From what he says, Guthrie has decided to leave London soon and retire to the country. And I must say I don’t blame him! Lady Dorothy and her cronies—’

‘Cronies!’

‘I beg your pardon, my dear, I forgot you were one of them—I should have said her friends! You’ve all been making life impossible for the poor devil with your scandalous stories about the Ansteys—not that he needs anyone’s sympathy; he’s well able to take care of himself.’

Eleanor, swift to seize her opportunity, asked, ‘You do not agree with the stories, then, Uncle?’

‘We don’t know enough of the matter to judge, my dear. It’s possible that Guthrie is a villain—I suspect he’s no weakling, and he certainly isn’t a fool—but I have found him to be perfectly straightforward in his dealings with me.’

‘Are you suggesting that that sweet woman is not telling the truth when she says that Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all her misfortunes?’ asked Lady Walcot, bristling.

‘Not at all. I’m certain Mrs Anstey believes every word she tells you. How much she understands of business affairs is another matter. But this is the most idle speculation, and not fit for an evening of enjoyment! Come, Eleanor, if your aunt won’t do her duty and find you a partner, I shall dance with you myself.’

Since Lord Walcot was generally considered to be the best performer of the waltz in London, Eleanor rose with alacrity and accompanied her uncle into the ballroom. Though she looked somewhat nervously around her in case Mr Guthrie should be watching, there was no trace of him. He had not, it seemed, found anyone else to dance with. Perhaps he had not tried?

They returned to her uncle’s house in South Audley Street that evening without any further mention of Mr Guthrie. But her aunt’s somewhat high-handed action had roused Eleanor’s spirit and she was determined to find out more about him. She waited until Lady Walcot was in her bedroom and then went along to visit her. They discussed the evening for a moment or two, then Eleanor said, ‘About Mr Guthrie, Aunt…?’

‘Why are you so fascinated by the subject of Mr Guthrie? I would much rather forget him—he is an unworthy topic of conversation.’

‘But you must see that I am consumed with curiosity! Now that we are private, can you not tell me why you refused to let me dance with him, when just a minute before you had said you would find me a partner? I am not Bella, Aunt Hetty. I am not accustomed to being treated like a child.’

Lady Walcot looked in affectionate exasperation at her niece. ‘My dear Eleanor, you may be six-and-twenty, but you are still a young, unmarried woman! Oh, I know that you have been more or less in charge of Stanyards ever since you were a girl. I am sure anyone would admire the devoted manner in which you have looked after your mother—’

‘There is no cause for admiration there, Aunt Hetty—I adore her!’

‘—and managed the Stanyards estate—’

‘I adore that, too!’

‘Be quiet and let me finish, Eleanor!’ said her aunt, smiling. But she quickly grew serious again. ‘I have been thinking for some time that I should say something to you, and this seems to be a good occasion. Come and sit by me, my dear.’ She thought for a moment, then, taking one of Eleanor’s hands in hers, she said carefully, ‘The…somewhat unusual circumstances of your upbringing have given you an independence of mind which you do not trouble to hide. And of course this same independence has recently stood you in good stead while you have struggled to keep the Stanyards estate going. But, sadly, it is not generally regarded as a desirable quality in a young woman, and I fear it does not endear you to prospective suitors—nor to society in general.’

‘Father always said I should think for myself, Aunt Hetty—’

Lady Walcot gave a small exclamation of impatience and said with sisterly scorn, ‘Your father always had his head too high in the clouds to be a judge of anything. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that that is the last thing to teach a young girl! Neither he nor your mother ever had the slightest idea of what goes on in the real world.’

Eleanor removed her hand. ‘We were very happy, all the same.’

‘But what now? Here you are—a very pretty girl, but six-and-twenty and no sign of a husband. Why on earth didn’t they insist that that brother of yours run the estate if your father didn’t wish to? Why leave it to you? It is no occupation for a woman!’

‘Since both my father and my brother are now dead, it is difficult for them to reply, Aunt Hetty,’ said Eleanor, colouring up. ‘I loved my father, and my brother, just as they were. And I love looking after Stanyards—I always have.’ She got up and moved away. ‘Moreover, I came here to talk about Mr Guthrie, not about the shortcomings of my family.’

Aware that she had overstepped the mark in criticising her brother to his daughter, Lady Walcot accepted Eleanor’s reproach with grace. She said gently, ‘My dear, I was trying to help you, believe me. I wish you would abandon this interest in Mr Guthrie. It might be well to think over what I have said about your own behaviour, rather than speculating on that of a known scoundrel. I want to see you settled—married, with a future which is secure, not tied to an ailing estate.’

‘Ailing, Aunt Hetty? What do you mean? What do you mean by ailing?’

Lady Walcot looked at her niece sympathetically. ‘It is time that you faced facts, Eleanor.’

‘Stanyards is doing very well, and Mama and I are perfectly happy to live there together. I do not need a husband!’

‘Then there is no more to say—tonight, at least. I hope you will come to see things differently before it is too late, my child. Goodnight, Eleanor. I shall see you tomorrow.’ She turned away and rang for her maid.

Eleanor went back to her own room with a distinct feeling of grievance. How dared her aunt suggest that Stanyards’ future was not secure? It was true that it was not as prosperous now as it had been in her grandfather’s day, but it was still a handsome property. Eleanor dismissed uncomfortable thoughts of damp walls and decaying barns—they would soon be put right, just as soon as there was money for them. Quite soon, in fact.

And how could her aunt accuse her of not attempting to hide the fact that she had opinions of her own? That really wasn’t fair! Why, ever since she, Eleanor, had been in London, she had taken great pains to behave as Lady Walcot wished, though it had been far from easy. During interminable calls she had meekly listened to the vapid gossip which passed for conversation in Lady Walcot’s circles, had attended innumerable routs and parties at which she had confined her remarks to the conventionally obvious, had danced with young men who, in spite of their town bronze, were as limited in their interests as the young men back home in Somerset. She had begun to doubt that she would ever find anyone interesting in the whole of London! Yet she knew that outside her aunt’s narrow acquaintance there was a vast world full of interest and excitement waiting to be explored. It had all remained frustratingly closed to her. She thought she had been successful in hiding her impatience. It now appeared she had not.

Her mind returned to the subject of Mr Guthrie. What had he done that was so disgraceful? It was flattering that he had braved an inevitable snub to ask her to dance, and his boldness had intrigued her. But her interest in him might have remained slight if her aunt’s refusal to discuss him had not roused her curiosity and a feeling of rebellion at being treated like a child. She fell asleep with Mr Guthrie’s dark features floating before her eyes…

The next morning Eleanor rose at her usual time and, since she usually kept country hours, this was very much earlier than the rest of the household. Lady Walcot had tried in vain to convince her niece that it was highly unfashionable to be up and active before midday, but when that had proved impossible her indulgent uncle had arranged both a horse and a groom for his niece’s use, and Eleanor rode every morning. At this hour the park was usually pretty deserted, and the air comparatively fresh, and of all her activities in London these morning rides were her favourite. Lord Walcot, who sometimes accompanied her, was not up so early this morning, and Eleanor was alone except for her groom. This was a relief, for she was still wrestling with the spirit of rebellion which had been roused the night before. She made herself recall her aunt’s many kindnesses, she told herself that her aunt was wise in the ways of London society, and she finally reminded herself that she would shortly be back in Somerset where none of this would matter.

As for Mr Guthrie—she would probably never see him again, and it was better so. She nodded to herself. That was right—she would forget him, remove him from her mind. She urged her horse to a brisker pace and rode forward, aware of a feeling of virtue and common sense. She was therefore slightly disconcerted when Mr Guthrie drew in beside her and raised his hat. He appeared to bear her no ill-will and greeted her cheerfully. ‘Good morning, Miss Southeran. I see you are an early riser.’

The colour rose in Eleanor’s cheeks as her composure deserted her. ‘I am not sure, sir, that my aunt would approve of…of…’ Her voice died away as he looked at her with such quizzical amusement in his eyes that she found herself wanting to respond.

‘She wouldn’t want you even to bid a perfectly respectable acquaintance good morning? I find that hard to believe. Your aunt is a stickler for the rules, I’m sure.’ There was a dryness in his voice that roused Eleanor to defence.

‘I doubt very much that she would describe you as “perfectly respectable”, Mr Guthrie. My aunt may be a stickler, but I have never before heard her speak to anyone as she did to you last night.’ She stopped short. She had almost sounded apologetic! She added coolly, ‘I am sure she had good reason. Good day, sir.’

‘So you’re just a doll, a puppet without a mind of her own! When you’re told to dance, you dance—oh, yes, I saw you last night! And when you’re told not to dance, then you don’t. I thought better of you.’ Eleanor flushed angrily and moved on. Mr Guthrie moved with her. He said solicitously, ‘You should not be riding alone in London, Miss Southeran. It really isn’t safe, especially for dolls.’

‘I am not alone, Mr Guthrie. I have my groom, as you see. Pray go away!’

‘You certainly don’t need both of us, I agree.’ He turned round in his saddle and called to the groom, who had dropped back a pace or two, ‘John! Be a good fellow and take a message to Colonel Marjoribanks at the Barracks. Tell him I’ve been delayed and will meet him shortly at Tattersall’s. Miss Southeran will be quite safe with me—we’ll see you at the end of this path in a few minutes. Off you go!’

Eleanor was both surprised and angry to see that John instantly wheeled away. ‘How dare he? I think he must have gone mad!’

‘No, no, nothing of the sort!’ he said soothingly. ‘I ride a great deal with your uncle, you see. John knows me well. He knows I am to be trusted, even if certain others…’ He looked at her again with that quizzical gleam in his eye, and once again she felt a strong wish to respond. He went on, ‘But never mind him—I want to talk to you. Are you really a mindless doll? Tell me it isn’t so. Tell me my first impression was correct—that you’re a young woman with a mind of her own, that you don’t judge a man on hearsay and gossip.’

Eleanor made one last attempt to obey her aunt’s wishes. ‘Mr Guthrie, I know it must seem feeble—as feeble-minded as gazing in such an idiotic manner at the chandelier last night—’

‘I didn’t find that idiotic! I thought it was enchanting! The look of wonder on your face, the reflections of those crystals in your eyes. I was bewitched!’

This was so totally unexpected that Eleanor gazed at him in surprise.

‘Yes, that’s something like the look,’ he said softly. Eleanor snapped her mouth shut and made an effort to recover herself.

‘P-please!’ She was annoyed to find herself stammering.

He laughed and said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you into such confusion. Forgive me. What were you about to say?’

‘What was it…? Oh, yes! I believe I am not without a mind of my own. But I do defer to people whose judgement I trust. Tell me, why should I disregard my aunt’s opinion of you—which is that you are not a fit companion for me—in order to pay attention to anything you might say? I met you for the first time last night.’

He was silent for a moment, then smiled wryly and said, ‘You are right, of course. I seem to have caught the American disease of wanting to hurry things along too swiftly. You need time to get to know me. Well, that can be arranged. But dare I ask you to hold judgement until you do know me better?’

‘I fear that may prove difficult. From what I observed last night, my aunt would never allow you to enter her house.’

‘I agree with you—nor would most of the others! And I must confess that up to this moment I have not given a dam—’

‘Mr Guthrie!’

‘A dam, Miss Southeran, is a small Indian coin worth practically nothing.’

Eleanor was not wholly convinced of this, but let it pass, since her interest had been caught by something else. She asked eagerly, ‘Have you been in India? Oh, how fortunate you are! I have always been fascinated by the stories I have heard of it, and of the countries in Asia.’

He smiled at the expression on her face. ‘The romantic East? Don’t get too carried away, Miss Southeran. There’s a wealth of myth and legend about the East, not all confined to its history, literature and art. It’s true that when I was young fortunes were there for those prepared to work for them, or, rather, fight for them. But the climate—and the life of most of the people—is very hard.’ He looked down at her absorbed face. ‘Would you really like to hear more about India? Come for a drive with me this afternoon in the park.’ Eleanor hesitated. ‘Unless you’re afraid, of course.’

‘Afraid?’

‘Oh, not of me! You have nothing to fear from me. No, of what the tittle-tattling matrons of London might say. Any lady seen with me is automatically deemed to be beyond redemption! It makes for a somewhat isolated life.’ When Eleanor still hesitated he said somewhat grimly, ‘I see. I am to be condemned without a hearing, even by you.’

‘I…I…’ The battle with her conscience was lost. ‘What do you drive, Mr Guthrie?’

‘I normally drive a curricle. But if you were to consent to a drive with me I would use something more suited to a lady.’

‘No! That is not what I want at all! I have always wanted…that is, I should like very much…Do you have a phaeton—a sporting phaeton, a high one?’

He stared at her, then his hard face broke into a smile. ‘A woman of spirit! I knew it! I shall arrange to have one this afternoon—but what will your aunt say?’

‘I think my aunt would rather see me in a tumbril than in any vehicle driven by you, Mr Guthrie. But you are right. I am not a doll—nor a child! At what time do you drive in the park?’

‘Usually about five.’

‘If I happened to be walking there at that time, would you offer to take me up?’

‘I should be honoured. At five, then?’

Eleanor took a deep breath and said, ‘At five.’

They had reached the end of the path where John was waiting for her. Mr Guthrie raised his hat again, gave a nod to the groom, and rode off in the direction of Knightsbridge. Eleanor returned to South Audley Street, wondering if she had gone mad.

Chapter Two

By the afternoon she was sure she was mad. Hyde Park was crowded with the ton all taking their afternoon airing—walking, riding and driving in every form of vehicle. Gentlemen drove by in their gigs and curricles, ladies displayed their pretty dresses and parasols in open landaulets—the smarter set in handsome barouches—and Eleanor had the feeling that here was a world just waiting to watch her defy it. If she had not given Mr Guthrie her word she would have obeyed her strong inclination to go back to her aunt’s house before the fatal hour of five.

However, when the gentleman stopped and offered to take Miss Southeran up, Eleanor interrupted her aunt’s refusal, and accepted. In response to Lady Walcot’s startled protest, Eleanor said firmly, ‘Forgive me, Aunt Hetty. Half an hour only,’ and climbed into the phaeton. She ignored the stares directed at her and put on an air of serenity which belied the pounding of her heart as Mr Guthrie drove off.

‘Bravely done! Allow me to congratulate you.’

‘I am not at all sure it is a matter for congratulation, sir! As you very well know, I run the risk of being sent to Coventry for this venture. However, since I have only a short time left in London I can bear that. Why do people dislike you so?’

‘Because they mistakenly believe me to be dishonest and dishonourable.’

Eleanor blinked at this forthright statement. ‘Have they cause?’

Mr Guthrie paused. At last he said, ‘Matters are not always what they seem, Miss Southeran. They think they have cause.’

‘You are fencing with me, I think.’

‘You are right. Miss Southeran, there are reasons why I cannot be frank in talking of my own affairs. I do not intend to give you tedious half-truths. My hope is rather that if we could get to know each other better you would judge me more kindly than the rest of society does. But now you tell me that you have only a short time left in London?’

‘I return home in a week’s time.’

‘At the very beginning of the season? Do you not regret that?’

‘Not in the slightest. I love my home. I cannot wait to see it again.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Eleanor never needed much encouragement to speak of Stanyards, and with that and stories of India the half-hour passed swiftly for them both. It was with regret that Eleanor noticed that they were leaving the park and making for South Audley Street.

‘Where are you going tonight? Shall I see you there?’ asked Mr Guthrie as they drew up at the Walcot house.

‘Tonight? I think not. My aunt is taking me to a ball at the French ambassador’s.’ She paused, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘Tell me, how was it that you were at Carlton House last night? I thought all doors in London were closed to you.’

‘Not all, Miss Southeran, not all. There are still some brave souls who ignore Lady Dorothy and the other gorgons. The Prince Regent is one of them. Who knows—perhaps the French ambassador is another? But in case he isn’t, shall I see you tomorrow morning?’

‘I…I am not sure. I still have to make my peace with my aunt.’

‘Come! It took a great deal of courage for you to make this afternoon’s gesture on behalf of the underdog. Don’t waste it!’

‘Very well.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Eleanor entered the house in a defiant mood. Mr Guthrie had proved a most interesting companion and she found it hard to believe he was the scoundrel her aunt had described. She could see, however, that he might not appeal to those who set great store by polished manners and the elegant niceties of polite behaviour, and was surprised that he apparently had the entrée to the Prince Regent’s circle. But his abrupt style of address had not offended her, and she had actually found his directness curiously appealing. She felt a strong wish to see him again, and decided that she would do all she could to coax her aunt to agree. Meanwhile she would no doubt be faced with reproaches and some justifiable anger.

Lady Walcot was sitting in the salon on the first floor. When Eleanor walked in she said, ‘I am relieved to see you back safely.’

‘Aunt Hetty, I was never in any danger!’

‘A high-perch phaeton! Driven at such a reckless pace! It only shows what disregard the man has for any lady’s sensibilities—’

‘No, Aunt! I asked Mr Guthrie to take me in the phaeton. And we went rather sedately, I thought.’ Eleanor got up and went to sit beside her aunt. ‘Truly, Aunt Hetty, Mr Guthrie is not the villain you have described. We talked of the most interesting things, and though he is not as polished as some of your acquaintance he was always the gentleman.’

‘Really?’ Her aunt was still annoyed. ‘Allow me to tell you, Eleanor, that you have made a pretty spectacle of yourself this afternoon. What Lady Dorothy will say I cannot bear to think.’

‘Pray do not worry yourself over such a trifle! I am not concerned with Lady Dorothy and her tales.’

‘But you should be, Eleanor! She is not without influence in London, let me tell you.’

‘Not with me, Aunt Hetty.’

Her aunt ignored her. ‘I blame myself, of course. I should have remembered how wilful you can be, and told you more about him when you asked. What did he tell you? A pack of lies, no doubt.’

‘I don’t think so, Aunt. We didn’t discuss Mrs Anstey, if that is what you mean.’

‘I am not surprised at that—she would be the last person he would mention! Well, Eleanor, you have forced my hand. I shall tell you about Mr Guthrie. It is not an edifying story, as I think you will agree.’ Lady Walcot paused, then began, ‘Mrs Anstey is a widow. She is an Englishwoman, but she married a man from Boston in America, and lived there for many years. The family was a wealthy one and Mrs Anstey might reasonably have hoped for a comfortable and secure existence. However, some years ago her husband went into partnership in a business venture with the man Guthrie. Guthrie ruined them.’

‘In what way?’

Lady Walcot said impatiently, ‘How should I know what piece of chicanery was involved? I understand nothing of business or trade. But ruin them he did, and now Mrs Anstey and her daughter haven’t a penny to their name. That is your precious Mr Guthrie.’

‘How do you know all this, Aunt Hetty?’

‘Everyone knows it!’

‘Gossip, idle rumours, scandal. I am surprised you give so much credence to them.’

‘It was Lady Dorothy who first told me, and she had it from Mrs Anstey herself.’

‘But—’

‘No, Eleanor, there is no “but”! What is more, I believe there is something else, which I am not at liberty to discuss. But if it is true, then I assure you on my life that the man is a dishonourable villain.’

‘Mr Guthrie said people were mistaken in believing that he was dishonourable.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Lady Walcot with contempt.

‘Why should I not? Have you any proof to the contrary?’

‘Eleanor, the proof lies in what we know to be facts! Henry Anstey shot himself because he and his family were bankrupt. The Guthrie creature, who was a full partner in the enterprise, remains a wealthy man. Whatever else may or may not be true, how do you account for that? Besides, Guthrie has never bothered to deny anything that has been said about him.’

‘That is hardly proof of guilt! I agree it is tempting to believe Mr Guthrie to be the villain of this particular melodrama—he has all the appearance of one. And lovely Marianne Anstey looks like the very ideal of a damsel in distress. But is it not at least possible that appearances are deceptive?’

‘Oh, it is useless to argue with you! It is just as I was saying last night—you are always determined to make up your own mind, determined to ignore the judgement of people who are older and wiser than yourself. And when you embark on one of your crusades you lose all sense of proportion. Now you are about to fling yourself at a known scoundrel. What am I to do?’

Eleanor drew herself up and said with dignity, ‘Aunt Hetty, I promise not to fling myself at anyone—least of all a known scoundrel, whoever that is. But, unless you can give me more convincing proof of Mr Guthrie’s guilt, I reserve the right to talk to the first man I have met in London whose company I enjoy—apart from that of my uncle. And that’s another thing! My uncle is by no means sure of Mr Guthrie’s villainy. I would trust his judgement sooner than I would that of Lady Dorothy!’

‘Oh, your uncle is a man,’ said Lady Walcot somewhat obscurely. She got up and went to the door. Here she stopped and said, ‘I haven’t finished with you yet, Eleanor. You have asked for proof. I shall see what I can do.’ Then she left the room.

Eleanor was left feeling confused and uncertain. It was perfectly possible that Mr Guthrie had roused Lady Dorothy’s enmity by nothing more criminal than omitting to give her the deference she imagined due to her rank. But Lady Walcot was another matter. Eleanor had known and loved her father’s sister all her life—she could not dismiss her aunt’s views on Mr Guthrie so lightly. She sighed.

‘Good lord, Eleanor, don’t look so glum!’ It was her uncle who had just come in. ‘Where’s your aunt? Been giving you a lecture, has she? I’m not surprised, but don’t worry—she’ll soon come round again. Cheer up, my dear! Isn’t it time you were thinking of your dress and so on for tonight? I’m taking you both to a ball, I believe. As for your aunt, by the time she’s decided what she’s going to wear, and what jewellery to put with it, she’ll have forgotten about this afternoon. Come, let me see you smile, then you can go and pretty yourself up.’

Eleanor got up obediently and went to the door, but there she turned and came back to her uncle. She hesitated a moment, then asked, ‘Uncle Charles, what do you think of Mr Guthrie?’

Lord Walcot shook his head in mock-reproof. ‘Now, Eleanor, I’m too downy a bird to be caught by a question like that. What you’re really asking is whether I agree with your aunt in discouraging you from having much to do with him. You should know better than to ask me what I think. You are in her charge, and I cannot oppose her wishes as far as you are concerned. That would never do.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He looked sympathetically at her downcast face, and relented a little. ‘He’s a difficult fellow to know. A man who keeps his own counsel. Except for the stories about him, I’ve never had any occasion to distrust him—in fact, I would say that I quite like him. But your aunt and the others may well be right, you know. I believe Mrs Anstey tells a convincing enough tale, which he has never denied. Give it up, my dear. You’re upsetting your aunt, and to what purpose? In a few days or so you’ll be setting off for Somerset and you’ll probably never see him again.’

Eleanor looked up and said with resolution, ‘You’re right, as always, Uncle Charles. I shall be amenable from now on.’

He laughed and said, ‘Not too amenable, Eleanor. I enjoy our discussions. Don’t become like all the rest!’

That evening Eleanor found it impossible to remain unaffected by the excitement and glamour of a really large ball. The splendid rooms, lavishly decorated with artificial fountains and fantastic pyramids, were impressive by any standards, and the dresses and jewels of the cream of London society were a rare sight. Her own dress, though modest in comparison, suited her very well, she thought. It had been made originally by the best dressmaker in Taunton, and had a bodice made of blue-green silk, with a skirt of white sarsnet. Her aunt had looked at it thoughtfully, pronounced it delightfully simple and had then taken it away. It had appeared a few days later with an overskirt of blue-green gauze, embroidered round the hem in blue, green and gold, and caught up at the side with a knot of matching ribbons. Her efforts had turned a pretty dress from a local dressmaker into a garment worthy of the highest London circles. The result was eye-catching and very flattering.

But, lovely as the dresses were, impressive though the rooms looked, to Eleanor’s mind nothing could outshine Marianne Anstey. The fairy princess was stunningly beautiful in a very simple white silk dress. Her pale gold hair was caught back on top with a knot of pale pink roses, and fell in graceful curls to the nape of her neck. More pale pink roses were clustered at her waist, matching the delicate colour in her cheeks. Eleanor, along with many others, could hardly take her eyes off the girl, and no one was surprised when the ambassador kept more important guests waiting while he greeted this exquisite creature.

‘The embodiment of every man’s dreams, wouldn’t you say, Miss Southeran? A lovely damsel in distress, waiting for her knight to rescue her. And what a prize!’

Eleanor turned round with a start to find Mr Guthrie immediately behind her. She looked round for her aunt, but the Walcots were some distance away, having been separated from their niece by the crowd. Mindful of her promise to her uncle, Eleanor said, ‘If report is true, her face is her only fortune, sir. The knight in question may not have to rescue her from dragons—only her own, undeserved penury.’

‘Yes, of course. I am cast as the dragon in this fairy-tale, “if report is true”, is that not so, Miss Southeran? Well, it looks to me,’ he swept on without waiting for her reply, ‘as if the knight is about to make his appearance. More than a knight—a viscount, no less!’

The French ambassador had finally released Miss Anstey, and she had rejoined the group of fashionably dressed people with whom she had first arrived. Among them was a young man who was now talking most earnestly to her.

‘Robert Morrissey, heir to an Irish earldom. A very worthy candidate, don’t you agree?’

‘Since I know neither the lady nor her knight, I cannot tell, sir,’ said Eleanor coolly, disliking the thread of mockery running through Mr Guthrie’s words.

‘Well, I think it will do very nicely—it will at least relieve the worst of her fond mother’s anxieties.’ He bowed and disappeared as abruptly as he had come. Eleanor didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased, but saw that her aunt and uncle were about to join her again, and was glad that awkward explanations had been avoided. She asked her aunt about the Ansteys’ party.

‘They are with their cousins, the Verekers—the ones who live in Berkeley Square. And the young man who is paying such particular attention to Marianne Anstey is Lord Morrissey. Would you like to meet them?’

She took Eleanor over to the other side of the room and made the introductions. Mr and Mrs Vereker were an amiable couple, who were clearly enormously proud of their beautiful protégée. Mrs Anstey was soberly dressed and stayed quietly in the background, pleased to let her cousins take charge. Eleanor, who was guiltily aware that she had spent half an hour in the park that afternoon with Mrs Anstey’s reported enemy, was prepared for some coolness, but when they were introduced the lady smiled pleasantly enough, if somewhat timidly. Marianne proved to be as amiable as she was beautiful. Her manner was a delightful mixture of modesty and charm, and Lord Morrissey’s attentions had brought an appealing flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her lovely eyes. He was obviously well on the way to falling in love, and Eleanor privately agreed with Mr Guthrie’s words that it might do very nicely.

After a few minutes Lord Morrissey made his excuses and took Miss Anstey off towards the ballroom. A young man Eleanor had met at a previous party came up and took her off as well, and soon the ball was well on its way. Though she did not quite dance every dance, Eleanor was seldom without a partner, and received a good many compliments on her appearance. She found herself enjoying the evening. She had just returned from a set of country dances and was standing with her aunt and uncle when she saw that the ambassador himself was approaching them. She stood back modestly in order to allow him to speak to her uncle, but then saw that Mr Guthrie was with him. She looked anxiously at her aunt. Lady Walcot was smiling at the ambassador, and though the smile faltered a little when she saw his companion she quickly recovered.

‘Lady Walcot, I am enchanted to see you so well,’ said His Excellency. ‘I see that you have lost one daughter only to gain another—and such a pretty one! Mademoiselle?’

Eleanor curtsied low and blushed as the ambassador took her hand and kissed it. He glanced mischievously at Mr Guthrie. ‘And now, Lady Walcot, I see that your niece is not dancing at present. That is quite wrong. May I present Mr Guthrie to you as a most desirable partner for the young lady?’

Eleanor had difficulty in suppressing a smile. Her aunt was undoubtedly outraged by a manoeuvre which made it impossible for her to refuse, but no one could have guessed it from her demeanour. She smiled graciously, then inclined her head.

‘How can anyone refuse you, Ambassador? My niece would be delighted, of course.’

‘Excellent! And I shall take you and Lord Walcot to the refreshment tables—I have a champagne there which will please you, I think. Come, my friend Guthrie will take good care of the pretty niece, n’est-ce pas, Jonas?’

‘Lady Walcot may have every confidence in me, Ambassador,’ said Mr Guthrie smoothly, whereupon Lord Walcot made a curious noise which he was able to turn into a cough. Mr Guthrie raised an eyebrow, then turned to Eleanor. ‘Miss Southeran?’ he said, offering his arm, and Eleanor, with an apologetic glance at her aunt, moved forward. Lady Walcot exchanged a long look with Mr Guthrie and then turned to accompany the ambassador, and Eleanor’s uncle, still amused, shook his head and followed his wife.

‘That was not well done, sir!’ said Eleanor severely as they walked towards the ballroom.

‘Not well done? Well, upon my word, I wouldn’t know how a man could do it better! To get His Excellency himself to plead my case…what more would you expect? The Prince Regent?’

Half laughing, Eleanor said, ‘You know very well what I mean, Mr Guthrie! It was to pay my aunt back for refusing you last night, was it not?’

‘You underrate yourself,’ he said with a smile. ‘There were other merits in the idea.’ Then he stopped and said, ‘But there’s something you should know about me, Miss Southeran. When I play, I don’t take chances. I play to win.’

‘And the prize in this case? Was it worth calling out such big guns?’

‘Well, now,’ he said softly, ‘it depends on what you mean by the prize. Victory over your aunt? An opportunity to dance with you? Or…what?’

Surprised by his tone, Eleanor looked at him, which was a mistake. He was looking down at her with amusement and something more disturbing in his eyes. She said uncertainly, ‘If you are trying to flirt with me, Mr Guthrie, I must tell you that I don’t appreciate it. I prefer sensible conversation such as we had this afternoon to…to silly compliments and empty phrases.’

‘I assure you, I was not trying to flirt with you. And if I were capable of flattery—which I am not—I would tell you that you outshine every other woman in the room, that that entrancing dress is a perfect foil for your sea-green witch’s eyes, and the dark gold of your hair—’

‘Mr Guthrie!’

Undeterred by her angry exclamation, he went on, ‘That, lovely though your features are, they are rendered yet more entrancing by your animation, the liveliness of your expression—’

‘Mr Guthrie, stop this at once or I shall leave you instantly!’

‘But I am not saying such things, Miss Southeran,’ he said earnestly. ‘They are quite clearly false, the merest flattery. You are pretty enough, but far from being the prettiest woman in the room. Miss Anstey, for instance, is a star!’ After a brief pause he added, ‘I grant that you’re livelier than she is—and much more intelligent.’ He gave a delighted laugh at her indignant expression. ‘What sensible things shall we talk about, Miss Southeran?’

Eleanor had never known such a man! Never before had she experienced such a mixture of feelings—anger, amusement, puzzlement, sympathy. Never had she felt so alive.

‘You shall tell me more about the East. But first we shall enjoy your prize, which,’ she said firmly, ‘is a dance.’

They didn’t talk about the East, but after the dance was over he took her to supper, and they talked of other things. They walked through the crowded rooms and at one point found themselves among the plants in the winter garden, still talking. Eleanor had objected to something disparaging Mr Guthrie had said about life in England, and was arguing her case passionately. But her voice died away as she saw him looking at her as she spoke, his eyes focused on her lips. She was overcome with a feeling of panic and turned away from him. ‘We…we must go back,’ she said nervously. ‘My aunt will be looking for me.’

‘No, wait a little. How can we talk sensibly out there among all those people—?’

‘I cannot stay here—it is most improper. My aunt would be very angry if she saw me.’

‘The devil take your aunt!’

‘Sir!’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I have something I want to say to you, and there never seems to be a suitable moment. I keep putting it off…’ He gave an exasperated laugh. ‘I think I’m afraid!’

‘Afraid?’ she echoed, looked at him wide-eyed.

‘Yes, and when you look at me like that it all goes out of my head. You have a most extraordinary effect on me—like no other I have ever known. How do you do it?’

Eleanor suddenly became aware of the very strange effect this conversation was having on her breathing. ‘You are talking nonsense, Mr Guthrie—I must go back,’ she said with determination, and started for the entrance to the ballroom.

‘Wait! Eleanor—’ he called, but stopped abruptly as he saw Lady Walcot standing at the entrance.

‘At last I’ve found you! What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Lady Walcot’s voice was sharp, and one or two bystanders cast curious glances in her direction. She forced a smile, whispering to her niece, ‘Don’t bother to tell me. You’ve been with that man!’

‘Aunt Hetty—’

‘We’ll talk when we get home, Eleanor, not here. Now come with me—several people have been asking to meet you. Ah, Lady Marchant, there you are! We’ve been looking for you—this is Miss Southeran, my niece…’

Eleanor did not see Mr Guthrie again that evening. Her aunt kept her close at her side until the carriages arrived to take them home. But she would not have looked for him in any case. Her feelings were much too confused to face him again so soon. This same confusion of feeling made it difficult for her to discuss the matter with her aunt afterwards, and Lady Walcot, drawing her own conclusions, was most concerned. ‘I blame myself,’ she said unhappily. ‘I should never have agreed to your dancing with him—I know what he is. Heaven knows how he manages it, for he is not at all handsome. But he is a dangerous man, Eleanor. I beg you to forget this attraction he has for you.’

‘He…he seemed sincere,’ said Eleanor hesitantly. ‘As if he too felt the same…attraction. Could I be so wrong?’

Lady Walcot exclaimed, ‘The devil! The scheming, contriving devil! He has bewitched you, Eleanor, just as he bewitched Ev—But no, I mustn’t say any more.’ She appeared to be debating with herself, and then to reach a conclusion. ‘You must go to bed, Eleanor,’ she said slowly. ‘And in the morning I shall see what I can do.’

Eleanor slept badly that night. She tossed and turned, reliving the moments with Jonas Guthrie, especially the time in the winter garden. One moment she wanted to meet him the next morning, and then, after another debate with herself, she had decided that it would be better if they did not see each other again. Was he a dangerous philanderer—all the more dangerous because he did not appear to be trying to charm? Or was he the straightforward man he appeared to be? And what was it that he had been afraid to tell her? She eventually fell into an uneasy slumber, still debating the question.

She woke late the next morning to find that one question at least had already been decided. It was far too late for a ride in the park. When she eventually came downstairs she found her aunt waiting.

‘I have someone I wish you to meet,’ she said briskly, ‘and we are late. Put your bonnet on and come with me, Eleanor. Don’t delay—the carriage is waiting.’

A few minutes later they arrived at a modest house in a street off Cavendish Square. Here they were taken into a small parlour, where a lady was waiting to receive them. It was Mrs Anstey. She greeted Lady Walcot in a soft, well-spoken manner and then turned to Eleanor. ‘Miss Southeran, you are very welcome, though I am sorry the occasion is…is such an awkward one…’ Mrs Anstey paused and looked to Lady Walcot for help.

‘Mrs Anstey has agreed, at my urgent request, to talk to you, Eleanor. I am very obliged to her—the matter is a painful one, as you will see, and I would not have asked her to speak of it had I not been so anxious for you. I am sure you will give her your earnest attention—it concerns Mr Guthrie and his behaviour towards the Anstey family.’

‘Surely this isn’t necessary, Aunt Hetty—’

‘In view of your refusal to accept my word for Mr Guthrie’s character, and especially in view of your behaviour last night…’

‘I wanted to explain—’

‘Forgive me, Eleanor, but Mrs Anstey’s time is precious. We must not waste it.’

Good manners silenced Eleanor. She sat chafing under her aunt’s disapproval, convinced that this whole visit was an unnecessary exercise. Lady Walcot said, ‘Mrs Anstey, would you mind telling my niece how well you know Mr Guthrie?’

‘Jonas and I were brought up together, Miss Southeran. His mother was a Vereker, too. That is to say…I mean his mother was a Vereker before she was married. As I was.’

‘You were sisters?’

‘No, no! Oh, dear, how stupid of me…Caroline, his mother, was my cousin.’

‘From what you have told me,’ said Lady Walcot, casting a glance at Eleanor, ‘you practically brought him up?’

‘Well…yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs Anstey uncertainly. ‘I was so much older than he was, and he had no mother…He was a dear little boy when he came to us.’

‘Came to you? In America?’ asked Eleanor, somewhat puzzled.

‘No, no. This was over thirty years ago—Jonas was a baby…I was a girl and still living in England then.’ She looked anxiously at Lady Walcot, then said nervously, ‘Perhaps I had better explain. You see, Richard Guthrie, Jonas’s father, abandoned poor Caroline before Jonas was born. She came back home to have the child, and died soon after. I think it must have been of a broken heart, don’t you? Jonas and I…we were both orphans living with relatives. We were very close, though I was ten years older.’

‘But what happened to his father?’ asked Eleanor.

‘He was a bad lot, I’m afraid. I think he eventually went into the army and was killed. But Jonas never really knew him. It is surprising…’ Her voice drifted away.

‘He must have felt very alone in the world.’

‘Oh, no! He knew he always had me to turn to—until I left England and went to live in America…’ Mrs Anstey’s voice trailed away weakly again, and Eleanor felt a sudden impatience with her. The woman is a born martyr, she thought, and then reproached herself for her lack of charity.

Lady Walcot said, ‘And later, I believe, your husband took Mr Guthrie as a business partner on your recommendation?’

‘Well, partly. Jonas left England for India when he was still quite young. I’m not sure how, but he made a fortune out there. Then he came to see me in Boston. He was looking for a suitable investment, and my husband happened to need some new capital for his family concern and…and they helped each other. It worked very well to start with. I was delighted to see him again, and Henry and the girls were all devoted to him. For a while Henry and I even thought that we would be more closely related to Jonas. But then the engagement was broken off…’

‘Engagement? Mr Guthrie has been engaged? To Marianne?’ asked Eleanor, growing pale.

‘No, no. Jonas was engaged to my other daughter. But then it was broken off. And things went wrong after that.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘Miss Southeran, I am not precisely sure what went amiss. I took no part in the business, of course. But Henry—my husband—and Jonas suddenly seemed to disagree a great deal, and though Mr Oliver did his best to keep the peace there were frequent arguments.’

‘Mr Oliver?’

‘My husband’s other partner. He is now married to Evadne.’ Mrs Anstey’s hands were twisting in her lap. She said suddenly, ‘Oh, Miss Southeran, if you only knew how wicked Jonas Guthrie has been, how like his father!’

The sudden passion in this timid little woman’s voice was startling. Eleanor was impressed, and, dreading what more was to come, she asked slowly, ‘Why do you say that?’

Mrs Anstey looked uncertainly at Lady Walcot, who leaned forward and said softly, ‘Please, if you can, tell her! I give you my word that it will go no further.’

‘I…I…am ashamed to tell you that Jonas Guthrie is the father of my daughter’s child!’ This was said in a low voice, and at first Eleanor thought she had not heard correctly. She looked blankly at Mrs Anstey, who added in a clearer, louder tone, ‘He seduced my daughter Evadne, and gave her a child.’

Chapter Three

Eleanor found herself without a word. The morning’s revelations had been a shock and she was experiencing great difficulty in retaining her outward appearance of calm. She wanted to leave that neat little room, to refuse to listen to the ugly story which was being unfolded in it. But this was impossible. She must stay.

Mrs Anstey mistook her silence for embarrassment and said nervously, ‘I’m sorry—your aunt did ask—’

‘In her own words, my niece is not a child, Mrs Anstey! And I wish her to hear everything,’ said Lady Walcot grimly.

Eleanor rallied and found her voice. ‘But she is married to Mr Oliver?’

Mrs Anstey lowered her head and said, ‘Yes. It is shameful, is it not? He…he agreed to marry her in return for a sum of money—paid by Guthrie.’

‘Why didn’t Mr Guthrie marry her himself? Why didn’t your husband insist?’

‘By the time her condition was discovered my husband was dead, and we were on the verge of bankruptcy.’ Mrs Anstey’s voice faded again and Lady Walcot took over the story.

‘Mrs Anstey found herself without anyone to advise or help her and the one man who might have been her support proved to be her worst enemy. He refused to marry Miss Anstey—at first he even denied that the child was his! Then, when he was forced to admit the truth, he paid another man to shoulder his responsibilities.’

‘How did Mr Oliver come to agree to this dreadful scheme? He was a partner in the firm, too. Why did he not take up your defence?’

‘Jonas was…was more masterful. He knows how to get people to do as he wishes—I can’t explain how,’ said Mrs Anstey, ‘and Mr Oliver was in severe financial difficulties himself. He had always been fond of Evadne and he was happy to marry her—but without the money it would have been out of the question.’

‘It has proved impossible to find out why the firm foundered, Eleanor,’ said Lady Walcot. ‘The books disappeared after Henry Anstey shot himself. But Mrs Anstey saw them in Guthrie’s possession the day before they vanished and she believes he still has them—or has destroyed them. And is it not significant that he seems to have survived the firm’s collapse with his own fortune intact?’

‘Conscience money,’ said Mrs Anstey sadly. ‘He paid conscience money. He made a fool of my husband, and a paramour of my daughter, and he thinks that he has solved everything when he buys a husband for Evadne. But how could he do it to us—to Evadne, to me? We loved him! We trusted him!’ She shook her head mournfully. ‘He was such a dear little boy!’

‘Are you absolutely certain that Mr Guthrie is the villain?’ Eleanor heard the slightly desperate note in her own voice and tried to speak more calmly. ‘It seems so strange. Is there no one else?’

‘It was strange, Miss Southeran! At first I refused to believe that he had cheated us, I refused to believe that he could be so wicked—so like his father! I begged, I pleaded with him to explain what had happened.’ Mrs Anstey dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and continued, ‘But he pushed me away. He said we could think what we liked, that he had found a husband for Evadne, and enough money to pay for a passage to England for Marianne and me. That should be enough. His manner was so…so hard! It was as if he couldn’t bear to look at us…’ She paused, then added, ‘The only other person involved was Mr Oliver, who was as poor as we were until Guthrie paid him to…to marry Evadne.’ She shook her head obstinately. ‘In the end he was just like his father. No, Miss Southeran, Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all our troubles. What else can I think?’

‘Indeed, what else can anyone think, Eleanor?’ said her aunt sternly.

‘I…I’m not sure…He left you entirely without resources?’

‘He must have had some vestige of feeling. He paid for our passage to England, he arranged for someone to meet us when we landed and take us to our Vereker cousins in Berkeley Square. They have been very good to us. But we have not spoken to Jonas since we arrived in England. Indeed, we have avoided meeting each other since we came to London, and, though I understand he was a frequent visitor at Berkeley Square before Marianne and I came from America, he has not been there since.’ Mrs Anstey blinked down at her hands. ‘I…I still find it difficult to believe…’

She stood up. ‘I’m afraid you will have to excuse me. I must go and fetch Marianne from her lesson; she will wonder where I am.’ She hesitated and then said timidly, ‘Miss Southeran, I agreed to talk to you today because Lady Walcot has been so very good to Marianne and me. I do not know what I would have done without her. Thanks to the help from my cousins and your aunt’s kindness in sponsoring Marianne in London, I now have hope that one of my daughters at least will make the marriage she deserves. Lord Morrissey has been so very attentive. But any scandal…I know I can be sure of your discretion.’

‘Of course,’ said poor Eleanor, pulling herself together. ‘And I see now why my aunt wished me to hear your story. I am grateful to you for being so frank with me, Mrs Anstey.’

‘I saw it as my duty,’ said Mrs Anstey simply.

As they got into the carriage again Eleanor was conscious that her aunt was waiting for her to say something. But what was there to say? Mr Guthrie was a complete villain, it appeared—there was no mistaking the sincerity of Mrs Anstey’s feelings. Before talking to her Eleanor had thought, hoped even, that the woman might be a charlatan—it wouldn’t be the first time that a poor widow with a beautiful daughter had tricked her way into society. But unless Mrs Anstey was a consummate actress, which Eleanor very much doubted, she had been telling the truth. This was no scandalmonger, no vindictive gorgon—this was a woman patently sincere in her distress and shame. Mrs Anstey was completely convinced of Guthrie’s guilt, and very unhappy that it was so.

‘Well, Eleanor?’ said Lady Walcot finally.

‘Please, Aunt Hetty, could we wait till we are back in the house? I feel…I feel a little dazed at the moment. It was a shock.’

‘Of course, my child. We’ll soon be there, and you shall do just as you wish—talk to me, or spend some time in your room.’

The rest of the journey passed in silence, but this gave Eleanor a chance to recover her equilibrium and she was quite ready to talk to her aunt when they arrived. They went into the little parlour, and here Eleanor sat down, gave a great sigh and said, ‘You were right, Aunt Hetty, and I was mistaken. I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’

‘I am to take it that there will be no further tête-à-têtes in secluded spots with Mr Guthrie?’

‘I…I cannot imagine why I was so indiscreet.’

‘When you are on one of your crusades, Eleanor, there is no knowing what you might do! However, I think this particular crusade is finished, is it not?’

‘It is finished, Aunt Hetty.’

Something of her niece’s misery must have communicated itself to Lady Walcot, for she gave Eleanor a hug, then got up and said briskly, ‘Come, you must now try to put it all behind you. You must enjoy what is left of your time in London. Would you like to rest now, or shall we go shopping? Have you bought a present for your mother yet?’

Eleanor pulled herself firmly together and declared that she was ready to do some shopping. She and Lady Walcot decided that a note should be written to Mr Guthrie which made it clear that she did not wish to see him again. This they did, and once it had been dispatched she felt as if a burden had been lifted from her, though she still felt a secret regret. If Mr Guthrie had been the man she had thought him, she would have enjoyed his company, and fought to maintain her right to it. But as it was she need never have anything more to do with him. She sighed and then consoled herself with the thought that in a few days’ time she would be returning to Stanyards. She was looking forward to it more and more.

However, Eleanor was mistaken in thinking that she had finished with Mr Guthrie. She was to meet him again before she left London, and in very odd circumstances.

On the day before her departure she went out for one last ride. Ever since the conversation with Mrs Anstey she had taken to riding at a later hour than before, in order to avoid the embarrassment of meeting Mr Guthrie. Thus far she had been successful. It meant, of course, that she and John had to venture further in order to find less frequented areas of the park, since at the later time more people were abroad. On this occasion they had ridden almost to the western edge, and they were just about to return when they heard a faint groan coming from the bushes at the side of the path. John slid off his horse and went to investigate. He returned, saying urgently, ‘It’s Mr Guthrie, Miss Southeran. He’s lying groaning something horrible! I think ’e must ’ave fallen off ’is ’orse.’

Eleanor dismounted and followed John. Mr Guthrie was apparently in the process of regaining consciousness. He was trying to sit up, then groaning again and holding his head in his hands.

‘Fetch help, John. I’ll stay here. Do as I say; I shall be perfectly safe. Mr Guthrie needs urgent assistance, and I cannot be sure of finding the shortest way back. Go quickly—you know the way better than I do.’

John hesitated, but saw the sense of what Eleanor had said. He ran to his horse and rode off. Eleanor looked down at Mr Guthrie. He was now lying with his eyes closed. She knelt down beside him. His eyes flew open, and he said, ‘What the devil are you doing here? Where’s John?’

‘He’s gone for help.’

‘He shouldn’t have left you alone…Did you see anyone else?’

‘Here? I don’t think anyone else was here—’

‘Of course there was! Why else do you suppose I’m lying flat on my back like this?’ His tone was irritable, but that was perhaps understandable. His head was obviously hurting quite badly, and she could see a huge bruise developing over one eye.

‘I thought you might have taken a toss. People do,’ she said calmly.

‘I am not so careless. And “people” don’t usually ride into a piece of wire stretched across the path, do they? Look!’ He struggled to sit up and pointed at a length of wire lying beside the path. Eleanor got up to examine it. ‘I came off when the horse stopped dead. There was someone else here, though—I saw him standing a short way off before I fell. He looked as if he was waiting…He started coming towards me—and then the next thing I knew John was there. Confound it, you must have seen him! I wasn’t out for more than a minute.’

Eleanor looked nervously about her. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see anyone, nor can I see anyone now. Do you think it was footpads, or highwaymen?’ Her voice had risen slightly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start getting hysterical! I’m perfectly capable of defending us both, if necessary.’ With some difficulty Mr Guthrie drew a pistol out of the capacious pocket of his riding coat.

Eleanor said tartly, ‘I have no intention of indulging in hysterics. And if you will permit me to say so, that pistol wasn’t of very great help a moment ago—nor is it reassuring to watch you handle it now!’

‘Don’t talk rubbish. I was off my guard. And you are perfectly safe from it. What is more to the point—have you seen Captain?’

‘Captain? Captain who?’

‘My horse, my horse! He must be hurt, too. That wire caught him right across his legs.’

‘Is that him? Over there?’

‘Go and fetch him, there’s a good girl. I’ll have a look at him.’ He started to get up, but stopped on one knee. Eleanor could hear him swearing quietly to himself. She went to help him, but he waved her away impatiently. ‘Don’t twitter over me! Make yourself useful by getting the horse, woman!’

Eleanor refrained from comment, though there was much that she would have liked to say. The man was clearly in great pain. She went slowly over to Captain. He was in a highly nervous state and it took her some minutes to calm him sufficiently to catch hold of his bridle, which was fortunately still in place. She led him slowly over to Mr Guthrie, who by this time had managed to stand.

‘That was very well done,’ he said with reluctant approval. ‘You have a way with horses as well as with men, that’s obvious. Now, Captain, my beauty, what have we here?’

Fortunately the wire had not been well anchored at one end and had given way before doing the horse any serious damage. By the time John returned with help, Mr Guthrie was leading Captain along the path, exhorting Miss Southeran to ride on without him. She had up to this point ignored him, merely continuing to walk alongside, leading her own bay. In any case, how on earth did he expect her to mount a fully grown horse without the benefit of groom or mounting-block? But when she saw John and the others approaching she breathed a sigh of relief and turned to her companion.

‘Goodbye again, Mr Guthrie. I hope you have not suffered any lasting damage.’

‘I am obliged to you, Miss Southeran. I think you might have saved my life, albeit unintentionally.’ Eleanor looked at him doubtfully, but he was serious.

‘If you think so, then I am happy to have been of service.’

‘I’ve missed our rides,’ he said abruptly.

Eleanor coloured, but said nothing. He gave a wry smile and went on, ‘Well, I look forward to our next meeting—in more auspicious circumstances, I hope!’

‘As I think my aunt said in her note, Mr Guthrie, I don’t think another meeting is at all likely. I have now heard Mrs Anstey’s story, you see—the full one. I shall take pains to avoid you in future.’

‘You may try, by all means. Don’t count on success, however,’ he said coolly. ‘I suppose you have no doubts, no uncertainties about my guilt?’

Eleanor felt a sudden flicker of hope.

‘Do you…do you deny the truth of what she said?’

He hesitated for a moment, then he drawled, ‘Since I wasn’t there, how can I possibly know what she said? She may well have been right. In any case, ma’am, why on earth should I deny anything? What business is it of yours, I should like to know?’

Eleanor was so incensed that she almost ran towards John, requesting him to help her to mount. Then she rode off without waiting to hear any more.

Eleanor went on fuming about Mr Guthrie throughout that last day in London—when she wasn’t puzzling over the curious circumstances of the morning’s meeting. In spite of everything, she still found it very difficult to reconcile the black-hearted villain of Mrs Anstey’s tale with the man she had met. Her feelings were so confused that she was heartily glad to be leaving for Somerset the next day. She told herself she would forget everything to do with him once she was back at Stanyards.

On the day of her departure the whole household, including her aunt, rose early to see her off. She was fortunate enough to be able to travel with some friends of Bella’s new husband, who lived near Lyme Regis, and who had hired a post-chaise. When they appeared in South Audley Street, Eleanor thanked her uncle, embraced her aunt warmly and prepared to climb into the carriage. Her aunt held her sleeve.

‘I have done my best to change you into a conformable young lady, Eleanor, but I cannot pride myself on my success.’

‘And I, for one, am glad of it,’ said her uncle, embracing his niece.

‘Well, there have been times when I could have shaken you for your behaviour—but we shall miss you. Life is never dull when you are there,’ said Lady Walcot, smiling at her niece. ‘Remember! When the time comes, you have only to say the word and I shall still spare no effort to find you a suitable husband!’

‘Thank you, darling Aunt Hetty! But I’m afraid the task would be too difficult, even for you! Besides, there’s too much to do at Stanyards! Come down and see us when you grow tired of the season. I shall miss you both! Goodbye!’

The chaise rolled off, and Eleanor waved until they turned the corner and the Walcots were lost to sight.

The journey passed pleasantly enough—the roads were dry and the weather favourable. But by the end of the second day she was heartily glad to stretch her legs at the posting house in Axminster, say goodbye to her kind friends, and join the carriage from Stanyards which would take her the rest of the way. Within an hour she was at the beginning of the long avenue of chestnuts which led to the house. She was home!

As soon as the carriage drew up at the door, Eleanor jumped out, ran up the low flight of steps and clasped her mother in her arms. After a rapturous greeting, Eleanor stood back and surveyed her. ‘I ought to scold you for standing in the evening air,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you stay inside?’

‘Daniel saw the carriage and told us you were coming. I couldn’t wait to see you, Nell—and anyway I’m feeling very well at the moment, so you needn’t scold me at all! Oh, it’s delightful to have you home again! Cousin Louisa has been very kind, but I’ve missed you a great deal. Come in, come in!’

Eleanor followed her mother across the huge, stone-flagged hall into a room which opened off to the side. Here the low ceilings, ingle-nooks and casement windows set in thick walls proclaimed the great age of the house. But the log fire in the handsome fireplace and the books and tapestries around the walls gave it an air of warmth and comfort.

‘I hope you don’t die of a heatstroke, Nell. Cousin Louisa insisted on the fire.’

‘Your mother hasn’t enough flesh on her bones to keep her warm even on the hottest day of summer! And this room never really gets the chill off it, you know that. I am glad to see you, Eleanor. How was your journey? No, don’t start talking before you have some food in you; I dare swear you have had nothing sensible for the past month. I’ve told Betty to bring a tray and we’ll put it on the table by the window—the dining-room is far too damp unless you have a fire there, too, which would be wickedly extravagant.

‘Anthea, I’ve drawn your sofa nearer the fire. It was foolish of you to stand outside in the night air for so long. Eleanor could well have waited another two minutes to see you; you look quite chilled. I’ll ask Betty to bring you something warm, too—Drat the woman, you may wait till Domesday for what you want. I’ll just see what she is doing.’ Cousin Louisa went bustling out. Her cry of, ‘Betty!’ echoed through the hall as she went.

‘She means well,’ said Mrs Southeran with a wry smile.

‘I know she does. Has it been very hard?’

‘Not at all. But tell me about the journey, and when Cousin Louisa returns you can tell us both about Hetty and Bella and the wedding. Did you like the Wyndhams? It’s a long journey to be cooped up with strangers.’

They spent the rest of the evening exchanging news and gossip. Candles were necessary quite soon, for daylight always faded early in the house, even in summer, and the three ladies sat cosily in the soft light till the tea-tray was brought in. But in all her descriptions of her life in London Eleanor never once mentioned the name of Guthrie.

The following day Eleanor woke early, and wondered for the moment where she was. There was a totally different quality to the air, and in the distance she could hear sounds of the country. She was home! She rose quickly, and quietly took herself out into the early morning sunshine. She had forgotten how lovely Stan-yards was. For the next half-hour she wandered over the familiar paths and fields round her home, finding herself at length at the end of the chestnut drive.

‘Good marnin’, Miss Nell!’ It was Daniel driving the cart up from the village. ‘Would ’un like a lift up to the house?’

‘No, thank you, Daniel—I’m enjoying the walk. The chestnuts look magnificent this year!’

‘You be careful of ’un, Miss Nell! There’s a good few as needs chopping down, I reckon. You have a look at the branch that’s lyin’ up by the bend. Nearly got old Betty last week, ’un did. Had to skip a bit, did Bet!’ He grinned, showing blackened teeth, and drove on.

Eleanor refused to be daunted. The trees were said to be over a hundred years old—it was natural that they should be feeling their age. But they were beautiful. The early morning breeze caused the leaves to whisper and flutter in the summer air, now revealing tiny glimpses of a pale blue sky or the slanting rays of the morning sun, now closing over her head like a heavy canopy. It had always been airless in the city. Here at Stanyards it was cool and fresh. She felt a sudden uplift of spirits as she realised she really was home! Stanyards was where she wanted to stay for the rest of her life, and if the choice was to be between this house and a husband, then Stanyards was what she would choose. Her aunt was wrong to pity her, for she was a fortunate woman.

But as she reached the bend in the drive she stopped and stared. How could she have missed this last night? A huge branch was leaning drunkenly between two of the trees, just off the drive, its leaves drooping and a great jagged, bleached wound at one end. There were signs that the branch had been dragged a few feet, presumably to keep the drive clear. It was an unwelcome reminder that time was taking its toll of her beloved avenue of trees. Daniel was right—some of them at least would soon have to be chopped down.

She stood staring at the branch for some minutes, her happiness at being home again slowly seeping away, tempered by a small shadow of uncertainty. Stanyards was in desperate need of repair and restoration. It wasn’t just the drive—the whole estate needed attention. For a black moment she began to doubt her own strength and determination. For years she had done what she could, jiggling account books, robbing Peter to pay Paul, trying to be in three different places every hour of the working day, but suddenly she was terribly afraid that she was slowly but inexorably losing the battle.

What nonsense! she chided herself. It only needed a little more patience, a touch more perseverance and energy. She was still tired after her long journey, but she would soon find the necessary energy and hope. Things would be better this year, she was sure. She threw back her shoulders and marched on up the drive.

In the afternoon Cousin Louisa returned to her own home, in the next village, and after she had gone Mrs Southeran told Eleanor several times how kind, how good, how very helpful Cousin Louisa had been.

‘I’m sure she was, Mama—but why are you protesting so much? I already know how worthy Cousin Louisa is!’

‘That’s it! She’s worthy! Oh, Nell, I have been so bored! And I haven’t written a line since you left!’

‘Now that is serious. Well, I am back now and you must start immediately—where are your things? I’ll fetch them and you shall not leave your sofa until you have written at least ten lines! I shall be neither good nor kind until you comply!’

Mrs Southeran was a poet with quite a reputation in the West Country, and even beyond. She wrote under a pseudonym and few of her neighbours knew of her talent, but writing was as necessary to her as breathing. The news that she had been neglecting it was worrying.

‘Don’t be too concerned, Nell. It wasn’t just because of Cousin Louisa or your absence. I’ve been doing some serious thinking and have even taken some action. Sit down, my dear. Now that we are alone again, I want to tell you something.’

Her mother’s voice was so earnest that Eleanor’s heart missed a beat. Had the doctor been making gloomier prognostications again? ‘I knew I shouldn’t have left you! You’re feeling worse?’

‘It isn’t my health, it’s you! I’ve been worried over you for some time now, and while you’ve been away I’ve decided that we must do something about it. Running this house and estate is sapping all your energy…all your youth. Your life is taken up with worry and work and little else—’

‘Mama! I have just spent four weeks doing little else but enjoying myself!’

‘And when was the last time you left Stanyards before that? Or went to a ball or a party? Wore pretty dresses? You have forgotten, and so have I. Well, it must not continue—and I have taken steps to see that it does not.’

‘But I am quite happy living here and running Stan-yards! I don’t want to change anything—except perhaps to see you in better health again!’

‘Stanyards is destroying your youth and looks, Eleanor, and it is taking away my health. I know, I know what you are about to say! Stanyards has been in the Southeran family for four hundred years or more, and is steeped in tradition and history. But Tom’s death—’ Mrs Southeran’s voice faltered.

‘Don’t, Mama! Don’t talk about it! It will make you ill.’

‘I must! I have refused to face the consequences for far too long! When Tom was killed, Nell, the family name died out. You are not a man, however much you have played the man’s part since Tom died.’

‘And before,’ muttered Eleanor.

‘Yes, and before. It was a matter of regret to all of us that your brother never had your interest in Stanyards.’ Mrs Southeran paused again, but this time Eleanor made no effort to speak. How could she say anything, when her feelings were so hopelessly tangled? Even after seven years she still felt love and grief for her handsome, laughing brother, was still angry at the recklessness which had caused his death and still resentful that he had cared so little for his heritage. Tom had only ever taken, never given.

Mrs Southeran looked at Eleanor’s stormy face and sighed. But then she continued in a more determined voice, ‘When you marry, or die, there will be no more Southerans of Stanyards.’

‘What are you trying to say, Mama?’

‘Not even you can claim that this house is comfortable to live in. Not in its present state. It is old, dark and damp. And we don’t have the resources to change it. I have done what I must.’

Eleanor’s throat was dry. She said in a strained voice, ‘Mama, what have you done?’

Mrs Southeran looked at her with pity in her eyes. ‘You will not like it, Nell, but it was for us both. I seized an opportunity which came out of the blue, and I cannot be sorry. I have sold Stanyards.’

For a moment Eleanor sat in stunned silence. Then she whispered, ‘No, no! It’s not true!’ She threw herself down by her mother’s sofa and her breath caught on a sob as she pleaded, ‘Tell me it’s not true, Mama! You can’t have s-sold it!’

Mrs Southeran’s face was troubled as she gazed at her daughter. But she said steadily, ‘It is true, Eleanor. In two weeks Stanyards will have a new owner.’

‘How could you? How could you, Mama? You must cancel the sale at once!’

‘I did it for us both, Nell,’ repeated Mrs Southeran. ‘And I will not change my mind.’

Eleanor got up. Without looking at her mother she said, ‘I feel…I feel sick, Mama. Excuse me, please.’ She ran out of the room.

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