Francesca

From the first moment, he and Francesca had felt no constraint in one other’s company. Their initial encounter had effectively done away with the barrier she customarily put up to protect herself from the rest of the world. It was difficult to retain an air of cool reserve when you have just sent a perfect stranger flying into the river! But he rather thought that, even without that sensational beginning, he would have found the real Francesca. From the first he had had a strange feeling of kinship with her that he was sure she had felt, too.

He pulled a chair up to the window and sat down, his eyes fixed on the untended lawns of Witham Court without seeing them. The years faded away and what he saw was the sun, glinting through the leafy branches of the trees down on to the stream which formed the boundary between the Witham and Shelwood lands. He had come with his cousin Jack—he would never in those days have been invited for himself. Jack’s father had begged Marcus to go with his son, for the play there was deep, and Jack a compulsive gambler. It hadn’t worked.

Heedless of Marcus’s attempts to restrain him, Jack had wagered vast sums, more than he possessed, and had lost to everyone, even including his cousin. After a disastrous night of yet more hard drinking and gambling Jack, quite unable to honour his debts, and mindful of his father’s words the last time he had asked for more money, had attempted to shoot himself—a dramatic gesture, which his cousin and friends had fortunately frustrated.

Marcus smiled wryly. Jack had survived the attempt to take his own life, but it hadn’t done him much good. Just a few years later he had fallen at Waterloo along with so many other, better men. Marcus blanked out the thought of Waterloo—the memory of that carnage was best forgotten. He got up and went to the door.

‘There you are, Marcus! I was just about to send someone to look for you. Charlie’s waiting for us.’

Marcus suppressed a sigh, then smiled. ‘How charmingly you look, Charmian. That dress is particularly becoming. Do you know where Nick is?’

Later that night, when the company was relaxing over an excellent supper, he was reminded again of Francesca. Charmian brought up the incident on the road that afternoon.

‘And then we met this scarecrow of a girl! Nick pushed her into the ditch, and I swear it seemed the best place for her!’

She looked magnificent in a wine-red silk dress, her black hair piled high and caught with a diamond aigrette given to her by Marcus in the heyday of their relationship. An impressive array of other jewels—trophies from her many admirers—flashed about her person, but they glittered no more brightly than her dark eyes. She was in her element, flirting with Marcus, making the others laugh with her wicked comments on London life, and teasing a besotted Nick about his driving, laughing at him over her fan.

Nick flushed and muttered, ‘The horses were scared of the thunder. And she just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Oh, but, Nick darling, you were marvellous, I swear! Then Marcus got down and went to see what had happened—the wretched girl had vanished. Just the odd boot waving in the air, covered in mud. Pure rustic farce. Marcus insisted on going to see if she was all right, and of course she was, once he’d pulled her out. But what a sight! There she stood, draped in mud and weeds, a quiz of a sunbonnet stuck on her head. But Marcus seemed quite taken with her. I began to think he had fallen in love at first sight with this farmyard beauty.’ She paused dramatically. ‘I was almost jealous!’

There were shouts of disbelief and laughter and Charmian smiled like a satisfied cat. ‘But I haven’t finished yet—you must hear this—it beats all the rest. She wasn’t a village girl at all, it seems. Marcus said she owned most of the land round about. A positive heiress in disguise, looking for a prince. So which of you is going to rescue her, muddy boots and all?’

Marcus walked over to the side and helped himself to more wine. He said nothing.

‘I wager it was Fanny Shelwood,’ said Lord Witham.

‘Shelwood?’ said one of the others. ‘Of Shelwood Manor?’

‘Yes—her mother was Verity Shelwood. Now, ask me who her father was…No? I’ll tell you. Richard Beaudon.’ There was a significant pause. ‘D’you see? The girl was sired by Richard Beaudon, but her name is Shelwood. Not Beaudon. Adopted by her grandfather. You follow me?’

Having ensured by sundry nods and winks that his guests had indeed followed, Lord Witham went on in malicious enjoyment, ‘I don’t suppose many of you know about the Shelwoods. They keep quieter now than they used. But when the old fellow was alive, he was always boring on about the company I invited down here. As if it was any of his business! A bunch of killjoys, the Shelwoods. I told him more than once—a chap can have a few friends in his own house if he wants, can’t he? Have a bit of fun?

‘But Sir John never liked me—a real holier-than-thou johnny, he was. And then—’he started to grin ‘—and then old Sir Piety’s daughter kicks over the traces with Rake Beaudon, and runs off to the West Indies with him. All without benefit of clergy.’

‘You mean that girl is a…a love-child?’ breathed Charmian. ‘The poor thing! So very plain, too. It hardly seems fair. But who was Rake Beaudon?’

‘You never met him? A great gun, he was. Played hard, rode hard, had more mistresses than any other man in London. Didn’t give a damn for anyone.’

‘I don’t think I’d have liked him,’ said Charmian.

Lord Witham smiled cynically. ‘Oh yes, you would, my dear. The ladies found him irresistible. That’s how he managed to seduce the daughter of old Straight-lace Shelwood himself. Didn’t profit from it, though. Sir John disinherited her. Refused to see her again. That’s probably why Beaudon never married her.’

‘Then why is this Fanny girl here now?’

‘Father packed her off when her mother died. Didn’t want to be saddled with a bastard, did he? Cramped his style a bit.’

‘If she’s coming in to the Shelwood estate, I wouldn’t object to making an offer and giving her a name myself. Tidy bit of land there,’ someone said. ‘I could do with it, I don’t mind telling you. Shockin’ load of debts to clear.’

‘Don’t think of it, Rufus, old dear. Waste of time. Charmian’s wrong to say the girl owns the land. She don’t own anything, and, what’s more, she never will. The estate belongs to her aunt, and she wouldn’t leave her niece her last year’s bonnet. Hates little Fanny.’

‘I find this all quite remarkably tedious,’ said Marcus, yawning. ‘I don’t mind gossip—Lady Forrest’s latest Society on-dits are always worth hearing—but…what one’s neighbours in the country get up to…really! The last word in boredom.’

‘Don’t stop him, Marcus! I’ve finished my fund of stories, and I find this quite fascinating!’ said Charmian. ‘Come, Charlie. Tell us the rest. It’s just the thing for a good after-supper story. What did this Fanny do?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t Fanny who dished Cassandra Shelwood. It was her mother. Verity Shelwood stole her sister’s beau—the only one the poor woman ever had.’

‘Rake Beaudon was going to marry Cassandra Shelwood? I don’t believe it,’ said the man called Rufus.

‘It hadn’t got as far as that. But he was making a push to fix his interest with her. He wanted the Shelwood money, y’see, and Cassandra was the elder sister. But when he saw Verity, he lost his head, and ended up running off with her. Not surprised. The elder Miss Shelwood was always a hag, and Verity was a little beauty. Tiny, she was, with golden curls, brown eyes—a real little stunner.’

He paused. ‘Y’know, it’s damned odd—she was a beauty, Rake Beaudon was a devilishly good-looking fellow, but Fanny, their daughter, is as plain as they come. And when Auntie kicks the bucket, which, from what I’ve heard, could happen any minute, the poor girl will be looking for a roof over her head. Shame she don’t take after her ma—a pretty face might have helped to find one, eh, Rufus? But she must be well into her twenties; she don’t even know how to begin to please. Never been taught, d’y’see?’

‘I thought we were here to play cards,’ said Marcus coldly. ‘Or is it your intention to gossip all night?’

‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Marcus,’ said Charmian. She turned to Witham. ‘Marcus doesn’t think she’s plain.’

‘You may ignore her, Witham. I made the mistake of saying something complimentary about one woman to another. It is always fatal, even to someone as beautiful as Lady Forrest. Are we to play?’

Marcus was angry, but taking care to conceal it. His first impulse had been to rush to Francesca’s defence, to tell them to stop their lewd, offensive gossip about a girl who had never done any of them any harm. But second thoughts had prevailed. To enter the lists on her behalf would do more harm than good—it would merely give them more food for speculation. Better to keep calm and distract their tawdry minds. They would soon lose interest now they had got to the bottom of Francesca’s story, as they thought. Cards would soon occupy their thoughts, once they were back at the tables.

But he himself found concentration difficult that evening. From all accounts, Francesca’s life was no happier now than it had been nine years before—and there was every reason to fear that it might get worse. He had been angry at her rudeness on the road, and with some justice, but looking back, surely there had been desperation in her tone? She had looked…ridiculous, standing there covered in mud as he drove past. Ridiculous, but gallant. Endearingly so.

Francesca had refused to gaze after the chaise as it disappeared in the direction of the village. Instead, she had turned to walk briskly back to the Manor, for as the mud dried her clothes were becoming stiff and uncomfortable. She had no wish to compound her discomfort by getting caught in the storm. But she was in a state of quite uncharacteristic agitation.

She was normally a philosophical girl. She had learned over the years to endure what she could not change, to find pleasure in small things instead of pining for what she could not have. She had gradually taught herself to be content with her friendship with Madame Elisabeth, her old governess, who lived in the village, to find pleasure in her drawing and sketching, and to abandon childish dreams of encountering love and affection from anyone else and of having a home and family of her own.

But just this once, she found herself wishing passionately that she was powerful, rich and beautiful enough to give this oaf the set-down he deserved! The awareness that she still felt a strange attraction to the oaf was impatiently dismissed. Her conduct during their earlier acquaintance was a dreadful warning to any girl—especially one in her precarious situation. Twenty-four hours only, but from beginning to end she had behaved like a lunatic, like a…like a lightskirt! She pressed her hands to her cheeks in an effort to cool them. If only she could treat it as casually as he had! If only she could forget it as easily as he seemed to!

She reminded herself angrily that she had been not yet sixteen at the time, still hoping vaguely that one day someone would rescue her from life with Aunt Cassandra. There had been some excuse for her. But for him? It was true that she had lied to him about her age…Nevertheless! He had been old enough to know the effect his kisses would have on her. And all to relieve a morning’s boredom—or perhaps to revenge himself for the loss of dignity she had caused him? Though he hadn’t seemed angry after the first few minutes.

It all started because of that stupid conversation. It hadn’t been meant for her ears, and now she wished passionately that she had never listened to it. But what else could she have done? She had been so engrossed in her sketching that the gentlemen had been within earshot before she noticed them. And then, aware that she was trespassing on Witham land, she had deliberately concealed herself…Francesca walked on towards the Manor, but she was no longer aware of her dirty clothes, nor of the threatening storm. She saw herself as she had been nine years before—half child, half woman—peering nervously through the bushes…

Francesca peeped through the bushes at the two figures walking along the banks of the stream that ran down between the two estates—they were both in shirt sleeves, but were quite clearly gentlemen. However, they were decidedly the worse for wear—cravats loose, hair all over the place, and the older, shorter one had half his shirt hanging out. The other…She caught her breath. The other was the most beautiful man she had ever seen in all her life. He even eclipsed her dimly remembered father. Tall, dark-haired, with a powerful, athletic build, he moved with natural grace, though he was carrying himself a trifle carefully, as if his head hurt. They came to the bridge just below her and stopped.

She knew instantly that they were from Witham Court. Lord Witham must be holding another of his wild parties. The parties had been notorious for years, even as far back as her grandfather’s time. He had fulminated about them, but had never been able to stop them. It was universally known that they were attended by rakes and gamblers, a scandal and danger to every decent, God-fearing neighbour! The village girls would never accept a position at the Court if they valued their virtue, for these lecherous villains found innocence a challenge, not a barrier.

So, in spite of the fascination the young man had for her, she withdrew a little further into the bushes to avoid being seen. But she was unable to avoid overhearing their conversation.

‘Freddie,’ the tall, handsome one solemnly said. He sounded as if he was experiencing difficulty in speaking clearly, but the timbre of his voice was very attractive—rich and warm and deep. ‘I’m in despair! What th’ devil am I goin’ to say to m’ uncle? He trusted me, y’ see, and I’ve failed him.’ He paused, gave a deep sigh, then added, ‘Failed him c’mpletely. Absolutely. Devil’s own luck with th’ cards last night. Never known an’thing like it! Ruined, both ’f us.’

‘Course you’re not, Marcus! Rich as Croesus, your uncle.’

‘He trusted me, I tell you! And he’s sworn not to pay ’nother penny for any more gambling debts! Said he’d die first. Ruined. I’d be much better dead myself, I swear.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Marcus. It will be all right, you’ll see. Look, hate to interrupt—don’t want to sound unsympathetic—but we ought to turn back, old fellow. Been out long enough—ought to get back to poor old Jack. Coming?’

‘No,’ Marcus said moodily. ‘I’ll stay here. Think things out before I see’m again. How ’m I goin’ to tell m’ uncle?’