The Rake's Defiant Mistress. Mary Brendan

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       ‘I do hope Gavin has put up for the night somewhere. It would be foolhardy to travel on in such dreadful weather.’

      Ruth gently settled baby James in his crib before turning her attention to the boy’s mother. Sarah had spoken in a voice sharpened by anxiety and with her melancholy gaze directed through the nursery window.

      Inside the Manor all was cosy and warm, but sloping away from the house the lawns, that this afternoon had been murky green, appeared icy white. It was after eight o’clock in the evening and more than two hours since the time of Gavin’s expected arrival. The snow had stopped falling and the sky had become the darkest shade of blue, threatening a night of perilous frost lay ahead. A pale, hard moon had escaped from a scrap of cloud and beneath its faint light the snow scintillated back at the stars.

      ‘It is possible Gavin has not yet set out at all,’ Ruth soothingly reminded. ‘I expect he has sensibly remained in London if the snow has come from that direction.’ It was a valid reassurance, given more than once since the snow started, yet it did little to erase the look of strain from the Viscountess’s features. Sarah’s small teeth continued to nip ferociously at her lower lip. Forlornly she peered at the long driveway that led to the house as though willing her husband’s carriage to hove into view.

      When they had travelled together from the hamlet of Fernlea, where Ruth lived, the air had held a cruel effervescence. But the breeze had kindly whipped the heavy clouds before it, giving them no chance to hover and shed their load. Within an hour of their arrival at the Manor the elements had turned against them. The wind had dropped, leaving the heavens concealed behind an unmoving blanket of sullen grey. The first gentle flurries had seemed harmless, but inexorably the dainty flakes had thickened and settled on the ground. Sarah and Ruth had taken turns at the window to report on the creeping progress of the frosting on the grass. Now the two women stood side by side, silently surveying the treacherous white landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see.

      ‘There is the tavern at Woodville.’ Ruth quickly attempted to comfort her friend. Sarah’s countenance had become as still and pale as the scenery they gazed upon. ‘If Gavin was close to home when the weather took a turn for the worse, I expect he instructed his coachman to pull in there.’ Again the suggestion was valid: Woodville was a small town situated about seventeen miles south of Willowdene and the King’s Head was a well-known stopping point for travellers going to and from London.

      ‘Yes, I’m sure he would have done that.’ Sarah managed a constrained little smile. ‘Gavin would not be foolish enough to carry on regardless simply to get home to us…would he?’

      ‘Of course not,’ Ruth reassured fraudulently and drew her friend away from the window and back into the room. ‘Little James is a contented soul. His nurse must dote on him,’ she said, trying to divert Sarah’s attention to something pleasant as they sat down by the cot.

      A moment after they had settled into their chairs to watch James peacefully dozing, Sarah suddenly cocked her head, then leaped to her feet. In a trice she had flown back to the window and was craning her neck to peer out. ‘He is here!’ she sobbed out at the glass. She whirled about to gulp at Ruth, ‘The carriage is here.’

      Quickly Ruth joined her at the window and was instantly enveloped in Sarah’s hug. ‘Oh, thank Heavens! He is safely home.’ Sarah snuffled back tears of blessed joy, her eyes glistening with the strength of her relief.

      ‘You must go and welcome him.’ Ruth was well aware that Sarah yearned to do so. ‘I shall be quite happy to stay here with this darling boy if I may.’

      ‘Gavin will think me quite a nincompoop to get in such a state.’ Sarah knuckled away the wet that dewed her lashes. But she was soon at the door, leaving Ruth to gaze down, soft-eyed, at the infant left in her care. James was sleeping soundly, his cherubic face turned away from her. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Ruth drew the covers closer about him, then stroked a tiny curled palm. Reflexively the baby clutched at her finger. Ruth felt her chest constrict and an ache surged up her throat at the memory of another baby—one whose delicate fingers had remained cold and unresponsive to her loving touch.

      Ruth went to sit close by the fire. She eased back gratefully into the comfy chair, realising that she was quite enervated. In truth she, too, had begun to feel extremely concerned for Gavin’s safety as nightfall came with no sign of a thaw or the arrival of the master of the house. Feeling now relaxed and quite cosy, she allowed her weary eyelids to fall.

      The baby’s whimpering woke her. Immediately Ruth looked at the fire; it had burned low in the grate. She then glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was approaching nine o’clock. Jumping to her feet, she quickly went to peer in the cot. From his scrunched, angry face and drawn-up knees, and from female intuition, Ruth guessed that colic was the culprit.

      Having lifted the fretful baby to her shoulder, she began murmuring soothingly to him. Rhythmically she rubbed at his back in the hope of easing his cramps while walking towards the door. The corridor was deserted. The baby’s nurse had earlier been dismissed for the afternoon so Sarah and Ruth could chat and enjoy each other’s company in private. With no idea where she might find James’s nurse, and guessing Sarah and Gavin might be in the small salon, Ruth headed off in that direction.

      ‘Mrs Hayden?’

      Ruth had traversed many yards of quiet, carpeted corridor and was close to the top of the majestic staircase when she heard her name called in a cultured baritone voice.

      Turning about, she stared, astonished, at a tall blond gentleman who was strolling towards her. She recognised him at once and that was odd, she obliquely realised, for after their brief introduction—which could not have lasted more than a few minutes—she had never again seen Sir Clayton Powell. It was equally odd that he should remember her after that meeting in Willowdene over a year ago. Or perhaps Sarah or Gavin had informed him she was a guest this evening.

      ‘I had no idea you were staying at Willowdene Manor,’ he said pleasantly as he came closer and executed a polite bow. ‘Our hosts made no mention of it.’

      ‘I had no idea you would be here either, sir,’ Ruth said quickly. So her presence had not been mentioned, yet he had recognised her. ‘And I am not staying here. I received an invitation to dine this evening with the Viscount and Viscountess.’

      ‘Do you live close by?’ Clayton asked with a frown. ‘The roads are now virtually impassable. I doubt you will get home tonight.’

      That thought had already occurred to Ruth. She had guessed that Sarah would kindly offer her a bed for the night. And Ruth would have accepted, despite having no night things with her. She would never contemplate putting at risk a coach and driver by insisting on going home through miles of lanes blocked by snow. A short while ago the thought of staying a day or two while they waited for a thaw had not presented a problem. Now, for some odd reason, the thought of sleeping beneath the same roof as this gentleman made her feel awkward.

      ‘You have СКАЧАТЬ