Reawakening Miss Calverley Read online

  He walked over to the window. The storm was now quite over, and the fields and hedges were silvered with moonlight. Nothing stirred. He wondered what his grandmother would say if she knew he was standing here in the middle of the night keeping watch over a sick girl, a perfect stranger? Something trenchant, no doubt. She had been annoyed enough with him before he left. Those damned newspapers! He stared at the scene outside with unseeing eyes, even forgot the girl in the bed behind him. He was back in London in his grandmother’s room in London. She was sitting as always in her chair by the window looking out over Brook Street…

  * * *

  The Dowager Lady Aldhurst was an upright figure with a silver-topped cane in her right hand. Tiny as she was, she dominated the room. She was wearing black as usual, but her dress was trimmed with a collar of Alençon lace, and a very pretty cap of the same lace covered her beautifully arranged frosted-black hair. A cashmere shawl was draped over her arms. On a small table next to her chair was a glass of Madeira, together with a plate of small biscuits and a pile of papers, on top of which was a copy of the Gazette.

  When James came in she greeted him with no particular warmth, but her expression softened as he walked towards her with his characteristic easy stride. Tall, broad shouldered, with dark grey eyes and black hair, he was the image of the man she had loved and married more than fifty years before, and he had always held a special place in her affections. As James bent to kiss her cheek he smiled appreciatively as he caught a delicate trace of perfume.

  ‘I see you’re wearing the cap I gave you, ma’am,’

  he said as he sat down. ‘It suits you. I swear you look younger every day!’

  His grandmother was not to be mollified. ‘No thanks to you, sir!’ she snapped.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘What have I done this time, Grandmama?’

  ‘It’s what you haven’t done!’ She picked up the copy of the Gazette. ‘Between the social announcements and the gossip I have never read the Gazette and the rest with so little pleasure. Read that, if you please!’

  James took the paper and read, ‘“Lord Paston has announced his daughter’s engagement to the Honourable Christopher Dalloway…”’ He raised an eyebrow and, handing the paper back to her, said with a puzzled frown, ‘I wish the happy couple every joy, but I am not sure what it is supposed to mean to me, nor why it should cause you such displeasure…’

  His grandmother glared and took the paper back from him. ‘That isn’t all,’ she said angrily. ‘Read down the page, sir! Look at the other announcements! Sarah Carteret is to marry someone I’ve never heard of—her mother won’t be pleased about that! And next month Mary Abernauld will marry Francis Chantry—’

  This time his tone was more cynical. ‘So Mary is to be a Countess? I hope her father knows what he is doing. Chantry gambled away his first wife’s inheritance in pretty much record time—let’s hope he doesn’t lose his new one’s fortune as quickly.’

  ‘Arthur Abernauld is no fool, James,’ said his grandmother. ‘He’ll have seen to it that he won’t!’ Then she snapped, ‘Don’t try to change the subject! I haven’t asked you in to talk about the Abernaulds!’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear you say so. They’re a tedious lot. What did you want to see me about—apart, of course, from the pleasure of my company?’

  She tapped the paper with her finger. ‘It’s this. Did Barbara Furness tell you she was going to Scotland? According to the Gazette, her parents are taking her for a prolonged stay at Rothmuir Castle. Does this mean she has given up waiting for you to make her an offer and intends to accept the Marquess after all?’

  James leaned back in his chair with a lazy smile. ‘That is something you would have to ask the lady.’ When Lady Aldhurst simply held his eye and waited in silence he added, ‘Surely I don’t need to tell you, of all people, that Lady Barbara has never expected an offer from me. What is more, I don’t believe she would have accepted me if I had made one.’

  His grandmother looked grave. ‘That’s not the impression you were giving the world, James.’ She poked her stick at the sheets still lying on the table. ‘And it’s not what the scandal sheets are saying, either. According to them, she has left London with a broken heart. Is that true?’

  ‘Let me see.’ James picked up the offending newspaper, but after a quick glance he murmured, ‘Barbara has been busy! So this to be my punishment!’

  ‘Is it true?’

  James got up and said impatiently, ‘Of course it isn’t! Barbara is simply playing one of her tricks. She was furious when I told her she was behaving badly to a friend of mine, and thinks she can pay me back through this piece of nonsense. Lady Furness insisted on taking her daughter to Scotland, but I’ll be amazed if Barbara isn’t back in London before the month is out, heart whole and perfectly free of any engagement. Why on earth do you read such unedifying rubbish?’ He looked at his grandmother, and said, surprised, ‘You surely don’t believe it?’

  ‘I no longer know what to believe, James. And you can stop towering over me like that. Sit down, sir! Sit down and look at me!’

  His jaw tightened and for a moment it looked as if he would refuse. Then their eyes met and he shrugged his shoulders and sat down. His grandmother thought for a moment and then said slowly, ‘I can see you’re annoyed with me. You think I’m an interfering old woman, and I suppose you’re right. But I care about you, and I care even more for the good name of the Aldhursts. It’s an old name and a highly respected one, and I am not prepared to see it bandied about in newspapers such as these.’

  ‘Why the devil does the world have to take such an interest in my affairs?’

  ‘Oh, come, James! You must know that you’ve been regarded as one of London’s most eligible bachelors ever since you were old enough to enter society. Lady Barbara is only one of a large number of girls whose names have been linked with yours in the past year or two. Three others are also in that newspaper—Mary Abernauld, Sarah Carteret and the Paston chit. You are acquiring a reputation, James.’

  ‘Really, ma’am, I thought you had better sense. You more than anyone must know what it is like. I have only to dance once with a girl, or happen to be more than once in the same room with her, or even raise my hat to her in the street, for the gossips’ tongues to start wagging. I hardly knew the Carteret girl. Our so-called affair was only ever in the girl’s imagination, fed by her mother’s ambition. I never remotely considered asking her to marry me.’

  She shook her head. ‘You have never to my knowledge remotely considered asking anyone to marry you.’ She put the Gazette back on the table with a sigh. ‘Three of London’s most desirable young women—four with the Paston girl—all well born, all well bred and all passably good-looking. And now they are all about to marry someone else.’ She gave a frustrated tap on the floor with her stick. ‘You’ve known Barbara Furness a long time. I had such high hopes of her.’

  ‘She was John’s friend, not mine.’

  ‘But John is dead and you are alive. You could well have made a match of it. Now you’ve lost her to Rothmuir, who must be fifty if he’s a day! What stopped you? Is there some truth in what they are all saying? That you think no woman is good enough for you?’

  James was offended. He said curtly, ‘You must know me better than that! Of course that’s not true!’ He turned away from her and gazed out of the window.

  Lady Aldhurst said more gently, ‘Then what is it, James?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been introduced to innumerable girls since I came out of the army. They all seem such polished articles. They’ve been trained to smile, but not too much, to converse, but not too wittily, to play an instrument, but not too brilliantly. They have been to the best dressmakers, the best milliners, and they have without exception been taught every trick of proper deportment. So much effort in pursuit of a suitable match…’

  He paused and turned round to look at her. ‘The trouble is, ma’am, there is so little to distinguish one from another.’ He corr
ected himself. ‘No, Barbara Furness is different. She is a minx, but she at least makes me laugh…John loved her, and since he died I have very occasionally wondered whether she and I could tolerate one another enough to make a marriage work.’

  ‘Well then—why not Lady Barbara?’

  ‘The feeling didn’t last. She is beautiful enough, and she amuses me, but I want more than that from a wife. I’d rather not marry at all than feel nothing more than amusement or a somewhat lukewarm regard for the woman I intend to share the rest of my life with.’

  ‘But you must marry, James! You owe it to the family. You’re the last of us now that John has gone. You must have some sons. Or do you intend to let the line die out altogether?’

  There was a long silence during which James continued to watch the carriages and horses, the vendors and servants passing in a constant stream up and down Brook Street. At last he said with a touch of bitterness, ‘You’re right, of course. I owe it to the family. When John died I “owed it to the family” to give up the Army career I loved. After my father died I “owed it to the family” to spend months rescuing our estates—Charterton, Aldhurst, Baldock and the rest—after he had neglected them for years.’

  ‘You haven’t mentioned the most important. You haven’t mentioned Roade.’

  ‘I haven’t been to Roade. I dislike the place,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Your grandfather and I loved it, James.’

  After another pause he turned round and said grimly, ‘And now I suppose you think I owe it to the family to secure its survival.’

  ‘Quite right! You’ve waited far too long as it is. You need to marry.’

  ‘You know, ma’am, I was fool enough to hope that one day I would find someone special—the sort of woman who would mean as much to me as you meant to my grandfather. But I’m beginning to think she doesn’t exist.’

  For a moment Lady Aldhurst looked her age. But before James could utter another word she had pulled herself together, and was at her most astringent as she said, ‘That is, of course, a pity, and I am sorry for it. But I’ve waited long enough to see you settled. It’s time you found someone to marry even if she isn’t your ideal. The Season will be on us in a month. There’s bound to be a suitable bride among this year’s crop of débutantes. You must make up your mind to choose one!’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘They are all so…so young, ma’am.’

  ‘Most debutantes are, James,’ said his grandmother drily. She regarded him for a moment, then said in a softened tone, ‘There’s always a chance that one of them will suit you better than you think. Here’s one who might be different.’ She picked the paper up again, and read out, ‘“Sir Henry Calverley, one of the government’s most senior diplomats, is returning shortly to London in order to take part in this year’s London Season. It is understood that he wishes to present his daughter, Miss Antonia Calverley, at the Court of St James. Miss Calverley should prove an interesting addition to London society. She left England when she was a child and has since then been her father’s constant companion, helping him in his work and mixing with some of the most distinguished families in Europe.” Now there’s a girl who could interest you. You cannot say she will be your average debutante.’

  ‘No,’ he said moodily. ‘She’s probably full of stories about life in the highest circles. And, if she is so used to managing matters for her father, she will probably expect to manage a husband as well. That doesn’t sound like the one for me!’

  Lady Aldhurst looked at her grandson thoughtfully for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘I can see how open-minded you are in your search for a wife, James,’ she said drily, ‘but before you start, I think you should pay a visit to Hatherton. You haven’t been there for ages, and Mrs Culver and the rest of the servants would be very happy to see you. And you can take a look at Roade House while you are there. Talk to your people. It wouldn’t do any harm to you or your reputation to get out of London for a week or two—a month even. There would still be time for you to be back here before the Season gets fully under way.’

  ‘I suppose you think I really ought to stay at Roade.’

  ‘I would not dream of suggesting anything of the sort! The place has been shut up for so many years that it would take an army to make it fit for anyone to spend even a night there, let alone a week or two. No, you must stay at Hatherton. And, while Mrs Culver and the rest are making their usual fuss of you, you can visit Roade and see what needs to be done to it. It is, after all, your chief place of residence, and when you do marry I hope you and your wife and children will live there.’

  She shook her head at him, and then put out her hand. ‘Go, James. A visit to Hatherton and Roade might give you a purpose in life, help you to see your future in a more positive light.’

  Chapter Two

  James had hesitated. Then he had recalled the many happy times he had enjoyed at Hatherton Grange. It was a relatively unpretentious country house, but Aldhursts had lived in it for three hundred years before his great-grandfather had built Roade House on higher ground a mile or so away. After his grandfather had died his grandmother had left Roade to move down to Hatherton and had made it her own. Its servants and tenants were all fiercely loyal to her, and many of them were old friends of James, too. He and his brother John had been brought to live with her there after she had discovered that her two small grandchildren had been left behind at Roade, while their parents travelled abroad.

  At Hatherton he and John had learned to ride and shoot under the strict supervision of Tom Gage, his grandmother’s gamekeeper and chief groom. Mrs Culver, her housekeeper, had bound up their injuries, looked after them during childhood illnesses, and scolded them after their many escapades. And his grandmother had given them the love his parents had denied them. Hatherton had always held a special place in his affections. It should be a good place to come to terms with the life ahead of him.

  So he had looked at his grandmother and nodded. ‘Very well,’ he had said. ‘I’ll go.’

  * * *

  But when he had set out from London that day he hadn’t expected to be sharing the house with a mysterious stranger, let alone a young woman! Where had she come from? The road to his grandmother’s house was an unfrequented lane; their nearest neighbours were four miles away, and the Portsmouth Road was several miles to the west. And how had she come by that ugly bruise on her head? The rope burns on her wrists?

  He turned to look at her and saw that her eyes were open. ‘You’re still here.’ Her voice was a thread of sound. He came over to the bed and sat down.

  ‘Are you warm?’

  She frowned. ‘Too warm. Water? Please?’

  Mrs Culver had left a pitcher on the chest by the bed. He poured a little water into the glass beside it, raised her slightly and held it to her lips. But she had taken no more than a sip when her eyes closed.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked softly.

  He thought that she hadn’t heard him, but then, ‘I’m An…’ she began. She stopped and a small frown wrinkled her brow. After a moment she tried again. ‘I’m An…’ There was another pause, longer this time. ‘I know who you are,’ she said at last. ‘You said I was safe here.’ He nodded and she gave a small sigh. ‘I’m An…’

  ‘Anne who?’

  Her head moved restlessly on the pillow. ‘I don’t…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He put his hand reassuringly over hers. ‘You can tell me later. And you are safe here, I promise.’

  ‘I know. Your name is James Aldhurst. This is your grandmother’s house.’ Her eyes opened. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She isn’t here. She’s in London.’

  She closed her eyes again and seemed to fall asleep. Thankfully, he tucked the covers round her and relaxed. After a while one of the maids came in to see if he needed anything. She offered to sit with the girl for a while too, but James refused. The frantic appeal in the girl’s eyes, the way she had clung to him, had touched him, and he intended to be there when
she woke again.

  * * *

  The girl slept quietly for an hour or two, but after a while began to mutter and turn her head restlessly on the pillow again. James had to replace the covers as she tried to push them from her, but she protested, ‘No, don’t! I’m too…hot. Too hot. Thirsty…’ When he lifted her again and gave her a sip of water his heart sank as he realised that she was burning with heat. She was muttering incoherently, but he caught the word London several times. Then she opened her eyes and said quite clearly, ‘I must go to London! Now!’

  ‘You can’t go anywhere at the moment. You’ve hurt your head. You must rest.’

  She resisted his efforts to put her back on the pillow and cried, ‘But there isn’t time, I tell you. You mustn’t stop me. Let me go, let me go!’ Eyes bright with fever and cheeks flushed with two spots of brilliant colour, she pushed his hand away with unexpected force and struggled to sit up. When he put an arm out to hold her back she grew even more agitated and shouted, ‘You can’t stop me! I won’t let you keep me here!’ Thrusting the covers back, she scrambled to get out of the bed, but before her foot even touched the ground she gave a cry and if James had not caught her she would have fallen to the floor. He could feel the heat of her body through the fine linen of the nightgown. She was burning up with fever.

  James put her back in the bed as quickly and as gently as he could and covered her up. Then he went to the door and shouted for a servant to send for Mrs Culver, who came hurrying into the bedroom in a surprisingly short time. ‘I hadn’t gone to bed—I thought something like this would happen,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, Master James, I’d like you to hold the young woman while I give her a sip of the draught Dr Liston sent. That’s the way.’

  The girl stirred as he raised her, but made no protest as Mrs Culver administered the sedative and James laid her back against the pillows. She was quiet again. Mrs Culver straightened the covers, and said firmly, ‘And now I want you to leave her with me till morning, my lord. This is a sick woman and she needs proper nursing.