Page 62 of The Earl’s Intended Wife

Chapter Twenty-Three

Days at Tasborough Hall began to fall into a pleasant pattern during that first week. They would breakfast together, sometimes joined by Anna, sometimes not. Then Alex would vanish to consult with his steward or head gamekeeper and Hebe and Anna would explore the house, talk to Mrs Fitton and Mrs Dexter, the formidable cook, or ride out around the estate visiting tenants.

Usually Alex joined them for luncheon. On the first day Hebe decreed that the sunny parlour on the south face of the house would from now on be the Small Dining Room, whatever Starling said about the cavernous chamber that had previously carried that appellation. She tried to imagine the occasion when the Large Dining Room might be pressed into service, but only a State visit seemed appropriate. The butler was rapidly getting the measure of his new mistress and noted her list of orders about drapery, furniture and paintings with a perfectly straight face.

‘I am not prepared,’ Hebe said firmly, ‘to eat my luncheon facing a gentleman who appears to be in the act of casting me into hellfire.’ She gestured towards an exceedingly large and gloomy portrait of a gentleman clad in severe dress in the style of the preceding century. He clasped a large volume in one hand and had the other raised, apparently for the chastisement of all before him.

‘Ah, Grandfather Bellingham,’ Alex observed, strolling in at that moment. Hebe was within an ace of saying ‘So that’s where you get the look from’ when she remembered the presence of the butler and bit her tongue. Alex’s expression showed he had read her mind with tolerable accuracy. Hebe twinkled at him and received a wink in return.

‘And what would your ladyship wish to be placed there instead?’ Starling enquired, managing to ignore the by-play with the superb aloofness of the superior upper servant.

Later, over their evening glass of brandy, he relaxed his guard with Mrs Fitton. ‘Anything you like, Starling, she said, just so long as it is cheerful. Cheerful! I ask you, Mrs Fitton, where am I going to find something cheerful in this house? Mind you, she’s a real lady, I will say that for her.’ And the housekeeper had nodded in solemn agreement.

The ladies stayed in until three o’clock for the first few days in case of visitors, but they received none. Most of the local gentry wrote letters of felicitation following the discreet announcement in the newspapers, but, respecting the early days of mourning, stayed away and no invitations were issued.

Hebe consulted Starling on when they might expect callers and was told that it would be perhaps three weeks before their isolation was broken. She could only be glad, for it would give her a breathing space to become accustomed to her new role before she had to play the Countess to a no doubt inquisitive and possibly critical audience. After that they decided to use the sunny afternoons more profitably and either rode or drove out to visit all the tenants on the list which Glossop, the steward, gave Hebe.

The days were pleasantly full of new experiences, new lessons and new people to meet. Hebe felt busy and useful and enjoyed Anna’s company. Even dinnertime was less of a strain with a more modest menu, a small table and fewer hovering servants. At Hebe’s request Anna joined them, but she refused to do so on more than alternate evenings. ‘You have to grow accustomed to being alone with him, ducky,’ she said, patting Hebe’s cheek. ‘You feel safe with him, do you not?’

Hebe felt like retorting that she felt all too safe, but said nothing. She lived in fear that Anna would decide that enough was enough and she was going to lecture Alex on his husbandly duties. The thought made Hebe cringe with embarrassment, so she did her best to make Anna believe that she was content.

But the evenings were another matter. Hebe felt a constant tension, however relaxed and charming Alex was. He always made time to sit and talk about her day, tell her about his and he was full of praise for her efforts with staff and tenants. Already he was giving Mr Glossop instructions based on Hebe’s observations about badly thatched roofs on cottages, or

holes in hedges.

Yet, despite his praise and his consideration, she was acutely conscious of how he kept his distance from her and of a constraint that entered his voice whenever she strayed into too personal a topic.

At first Hebe could not account for it, then she began to wonder if it was the effect on a healthy, virile young man of leading a celibate life. She could not believe he had a mistress in the country and he was certainly not the sort of landlord who would prey on the daughters of his tenants for sport. In London, of course, even Hebe knew there would be ample opportunity for a man to find congenial and obliging female companionship, and for all she knew, Alex already had a mistress established.

She wondered if she should encourage him to go up to Town, although quite how to do so without betraying her motives eluded her, and much as she loved him and wanted what was best for him, she could not quite bring herself to plot stratagems to deliver him into the hands of some willing barque of frailty.

Eventually she confided in Anna, who raised her eyebrows somewhat at her young friend’s earnest enquiries about the deleterious effects of self-denial on men, but answered her willingly enough.

‘Well, priests and monks do it for life, of course. At least, they should,’ she amended carefully. ‘But they have a strong reason for doing so and are supported by their vows and the discipline of their faith. For ordinary men, I would say it often makes them, what is the word? Grumped? No, grumpy and short-tempered, and it is not comfortable for them to desire it but not to be able to consummate it.’ She eyed Hebe’s face as she sat there unconsciously nibbling the end of one finger in thought. ‘You know, it is not of such meaning for a man as for a woman. For women, except of course those who sell their favours, it is important to feel an attachment, at the very least, for the man. Men do not have that need, they can separate love and lusting.’

All Hebe said was, ‘Oh. Thank you for explaining, Anna,’ but her friend had given her much to think about. If Alex could separate one from the other, then he could make love to Hebe while still loving Clarissa. In fact, she realised, looking back with as much composure as she could, that was what had happened. In his delirium he had spoken of Clarissa, but had felt a strong enough physical attraction for her for it to overcome his fever and weakness when she lay in his arms.

So, she reasoned carefully as she wandered up and down the brick paths of the flourishing herb garden on the south side of the house, his restraint now stemmed only from the fact that he did not want to shock her or frighten her after what had happened in France, and because he did not love her he had no driving reason to attempt to seduce her out of what he interpreted as her revulsion. So, she continued, if I try, I can probably lure him into my bed. But at that point she stopped. No, she could not do it. What she had told him was true, it had to be a love match for her, anything else was not right.

She had reached this conclusion when Anna appeared around the side of the house, her broad straw hat swinging from its deep grey ribbons, her quietly elegant walking dress showing off her striking figure. Far better than Hebe, Anna could wear black to advantage for it suited her dark, dramatic looks to perfection.

‘Are you ready for our drive?’ she asked. ‘The gig is at the front. I have spoken to Mr Glossop and he has told me how to find those last three farms we have not visited.’ She conned the list in her hand. ‘Bourne Farm, that is Mr Peterson, then there is Cold Furlong: Mr Grayson, and finally, he suggested we call at Flint Acre on our way back. A Mr Thorne.’

They duly made their calls. Mr Peterson was elderly and supported by three stalwart sons, each with a wife and brood of children, spilling out of the cottages that hugged the farmhouse close. Mr Grayson was jovial with an equally cheerful wife and they were invited in for plum cake and a glass of his cowslip wine and a comprehensive account of all the doings at Cold Furlong.

Taking the reins afterwards, Hebe confided, ‘I think I am a trifle tipsy, goodness knows what he puts in that wine.’

‘Indeed, yes,’ Anna agreed, tying on her hat more firmly. ‘Now, let me think, first left here and another mile, Mr Glossop said. This Mr Thorne is a widower with no children.’

The farm came in sight, a rambling brick and flint dwelling that appeared to have grown over the years, like a humble version of the Hall. The farmyard was well kept and busy and the men stopped their work to touch their hats and take the pony’s reins. The master was in, they confirmed, if the ladies would just like to step round there into the garden.

He was indeed tending a magnificent cottage garden in the best traditional style. As he saw them approach he straightened up, brushing the soil off his hands: a tall, well-built man of about forty with an open expression and a shock of blond hair. Around him the beds were a riot of flowers, close packed and all blooming in abundance. In between were rows of vegetables, in some cases they were even mixed, and Hebe saw beans growing through roses and onions rearing up through the geraniums.

‘Oh how lovely!’ she exclaimed, breathing in the scent in delight. ‘Oh Anna, look, there are beehives as well.’

But her companion was silent. Hebe glanced at her and realised that not only was the farmer staring at Anna with the air of a man who had been struck dumb, but the Spanish woman was meeting his gaze with equal intensity. How long they might have stood there if she had not spoken, Hebe had no idea, but she coughed and Mr Thorne started out of his trance and came towards them.

‘Good afternoon, ladies. May I be of service?’ His voice had the slight West Hertfordshire burr, and close to Hebe saw he had blue eyes and laughter lines around his eyes. She liked him on sight.

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