Reawakening Miss Calverley

‘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 corrected 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.

She’ll be well looked after, never fear. One of the maids will join me in a minute. If she wakes and asks for you, I’ll send for you. Meanwhile, you’d do better to have some rest yourself.’