newness of her smart russet outfit, Charlotte sank down on the tree trunk at the side of the diminutive Lucy and put an arm round her, whereupon Lucybegan to weep more piteously than ever. Her golden curls were tousled and her old-fashioned sun bonnet was hanging down her back by its ribbons. Charlotte gently smoothed the curls away from the unhappy little forehead and spoke soothingly to her. ‘What is it, my little pretty? Has someone hurt you, child? Tell me what is wrong.’
The little girl gulped in an effort to control her sobs and said, ‘Please, miss, ’tis my dress. I reached for … for some blackberries yonder and tore it on the brambles. Oh, miss … I dursen’t’go . . home like this … it’d be awful trouble … Miss Grayson….’ And she gave another hiccuping sob.
‘Let me see,’ Charlotte said. She gently stood the little girl up and turned her round. ‘It is but a small tear, Lucy dear. In my reticule I have my little mending kit that ladies sometimes take to dances. Stand still and I will make it as good as new.’
Lucy had stopped crying and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Oh, can you, miss? Can you truly mend it? Ma will be so mad wi’ me if she sees it like this.’
She stood patiently while Charlotte opened her reticule and took out the handy little needle case with a needle already threaded up. Very carefully, she mended the small tear in the faded print frock and said briskly, ‘There now, Lucy dear. It is done. No one can tell you have had it mended. Look at me now, my dear, and let us dry those pretty eyes.’
Lucy obediently turned towards her, smiling tremulously now, and that was exactly how Hugo Westbury saw them as he walked alone along the footpath, leading his horse and halting in the little clearing. The child was tearful, he noticed, and he scowled. He hoped the unpleasant Miss Grayson had not been unkind to her. If she had, he would have something to say about that. The little girl was the daughter of one of his estate workers. Then he noticed that the hateful Miss Grayson was actually wiping the child’s eyes very gently with a most insubstantial wisp of lace and he took out his own immaculate handkerchief and stepped forward.
‘Miss Grayson,’ he said suavely. ‘Good morning. Allow me to offer my handkerchief. I trust you have not been mistreating this little child and making her cry.’
Charlotte glared at him and said coldly, ‘Your handkerchief and your presence here are equally unwelcome, sir. Kindly leave us.’
She then proceeded to ignore him utterly. She was now tidying the guinea-gold curls on the pretty little head and replacing the faded old bonnet with a tenderness that was as warm as it was moving. Hugo Westbury caught his breath at the gentle loveliness of her expression as she drew the little girl to her and gave her a hug, saying, ‘There, my little darling. Now you are all done and I can see you home to your mama.’
Still Miss Grayson ignored him as she rose to her feet and smoothed out her skirts, ready to take the little girl’s hand.
Hugo Westbury was unused to being ignored, especially by women. He cleared his throat and said, ‘What is your name, little girl?’
‘Please sir, I be Lucy Baker,’ she said shyly.
‘Well, Lucy Baker, how would you like to ride home on this horse?’ he said. Charlotte frowned at him. What game was he playing, offering the child a ride like that?
‘Where do you live, Lucy?’
‘Over yon, sir, in the village, I do. And I would like a ride, so I would.’
‘You trust me to give you a ride home, then?’
‘Yes, sir, I does,’ she whispered shyly and to Charlotte’s utter amazement, she showed not the slightest nervousness as he lifted her on to the big black horse.
‘Are you sure you trust this strange man?’ she asked.
‘Yes, miss, cos he’s big like my pa and he has smiley eyes, so he has.’
Hugo Westbury gave Charlotte a sideways glance of undisguised triumph. ‘Hold on tightly,’ he
The little girl gulped in an effort to control her sobs and said, ‘Please, miss, ’tis my dress. I reached for … for some blackberries yonder and tore it on the brambles. Oh, miss … I dursen’t’go . . home like this … it’d be awful trouble … Miss Grayson….’ And she gave another hiccuping sob.
‘Let me see,’ Charlotte said. She gently stood the little girl up and turned her round. ‘It is but a small tear, Lucy dear. In my reticule I have my little mending kit that ladies sometimes take to dances. Stand still and I will make it as good as new.’
Lucy had stopped crying and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Oh, can you, miss? Can you truly mend it? Ma will be so mad wi’ me if she sees it like this.’
She stood patiently while Charlotte opened her reticule and took out the handy little needle case with a needle already threaded up. Very carefully, she mended the small tear in the faded print frock and said briskly, ‘There now, Lucy dear. It is done. No one can tell you have had it mended. Look at me now, my dear, and let us dry those pretty eyes.’
Lucy obediently turned towards her, smiling tremulously now, and that was exactly how Hugo Westbury saw them as he walked alone along the footpath, leading his horse and halting in the little clearing. The child was tearful, he noticed, and he scowled. He hoped the unpleasant Miss Grayson had not been unkind to her. If she had, he would have something to say about that. The little girl was the daughter of one of his estate workers. Then he noticed that the hateful Miss Grayson was actually wiping the child’s eyes very gently with a most insubstantial wisp of lace and he took out his own immaculate handkerchief and stepped forward.
‘Miss Grayson,’ he said suavely. ‘Good morning. Allow me to offer my handkerchief. I trust you have not been mistreating this little child and making her cry.’
Charlotte glared at him and said coldly, ‘Your handkerchief and your presence here are equally unwelcome, sir. Kindly leave us.’
She then proceeded to ignore him utterly. She was now tidying the guinea-gold curls on the pretty little head and replacing the faded old bonnet with a tenderness that was as warm as it was moving. Hugo Westbury caught his breath at the gentle loveliness of her expression as she drew the little girl to her and gave her a hug, saying, ‘There, my little darling. Now you are all done and I can see you home to your mama.’
Still Miss Grayson ignored him as she rose to her feet and smoothed out her skirts, ready to take the little girl’s hand.
Hugo Westbury was unused to being ignored, especially by women. He cleared his throat and said, ‘What is your name, little girl?’
‘Please sir, I be Lucy Baker,’ she said shyly.
‘Well, Lucy Baker, how would you like to ride home on this horse?’ he said. Charlotte frowned at him. What game was he playing, offering the child a ride like that?
‘Where do you live, Lucy?’
‘Over yon, sir, in the village, I do. And I would like a ride, so I would.’
‘You trust me to give you a ride home, then?’
‘Yes, sir, I does,’ she whispered shyly and to Charlotte’s utter amazement, she showed not the slightest nervousness as he lifted her on to the big black horse.
‘Are you sure you trust this strange man?’ she asked.
‘Yes, miss, cos he’s big like my pa and he has smiley eyes, so he has.’
Hugo Westbury gave Charlotte a sideways glance of undisguised triumph. ‘Hold on tightly,’ he
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