Robert made general conversation and then said, seemingly idly, that as the evening was warm, he would be grateful if Miss Jessica could find the time to show him the garden again, as he had had to rush off the day before.
Jessica tried to signal with her eyes that she did not want to, but Lady Beverley said, ‘By all means.’
‘I thought you had seen enough of our gardens . . . and of me,’ said Jessica when they were clear of the house.
‘I came to see you only because I thought it necessary. Harry Devers is determined to marry you.’
He looked sadly at the glowing look Jessica gave him. ‘There is nothing to be happy about, nothing to celebrate. I beg you to realize that the man is a brutal lecher.’
Jessica was too happy and too elated to be angry. She thought he was jealous.
‘I am persuaded you are too hard on him, sir,’ she said, wishing he would go and leave her to tell her family the marvellous news.
‘No, I am not. He is also a drunkard and a wastrel. You think you would be happy to get Mannerling back again. But at what a cost! My dear, I am not jealous – I see you think I am – it is only that I cannot bear to see you ruined, and believe me, you would be ruined by such a marriage.’
‘I will not listen to you,’ said Jessica firmly. ‘You said you wished to see more of the gardens, so here we are in the gardens, sir.’
‘I have tried to do my duty,’ he said, half to himself. ‘I can do no more.’
He looked around. They were screened from the house by a tall yew hedge. Jessica’s face was alight with happiness in the setting sun. Despite her awful ambition, he sensed a sweetness in her. She had been warped by her upbringing, but her character could still be saved.
Before he could stop himself, he drew her into his arms. Jessica was too startled and surprised to resist. He bent his head and kissed her gently but firmly, full on the mouth. For one little moment, Jessica felt a surge of sweetness, of yearning, and then she pulled away and said breathlessly, ‘I think perhaps it is you and not Mr Harry who is the lecher.’
‘That was a kiss from a man who respects you,’ he said, his black eyes fathomless. ‘The kiss you received from Harry in the rose garden was something else.’
He turned and strode away. She watched him go, her hand to her lips, thinking how tall and athletic his figure was, thinking that he looked so little like a professor. Now she was free to tell her sisters of her success, but the elation she had felt when Robert had told her that Harry wanted to marry her was gone. She tried to tell herself that Robert’s behaviour had been disgraceful, shocking. But the better side of her nature forced her to admit that he had been genuinely concerned about her, a concern that was entirely unnecessary, however.
Although the congratulations of her family raised her spirits, she was aware at the same time of Miss Trumble’s eyes watching her with a look of pity.
After the next two weeks, the Beverleys, prepared every day for the arrival of Harry and his expected proposal, began to lose heart. Every day Barry had been sent over to the squire’s with a request for ice to chill the champagne that was to be opened to celebrate the betrothal, until the squire rebelled and said his ice-house was becoming sadly depleted and the Beverleys could have no more.
And then the fine weather broke, not in a dramatic way either, but with a thin grey drizzle and mist. Jessica fretted. She thought and thought about the problem. She began to hate Robert Sommerville. He must have turned Harry against her. That must be it. Or could it be . . . could it be that they had got together and found that she had allowed
both
of them to kiss her? Although they had been stolen kisses, she had not, in either case, blushed or pushed either gentleman away. Day after grey day, she had to cope with her sisters’ patent disappointment and her mother’s voluble fretting about what had gone
Jessica tried to signal with her eyes that she did not want to, but Lady Beverley said, ‘By all means.’
‘I thought you had seen enough of our gardens . . . and of me,’ said Jessica when they were clear of the house.
‘I came to see you only because I thought it necessary. Harry Devers is determined to marry you.’
He looked sadly at the glowing look Jessica gave him. ‘There is nothing to be happy about, nothing to celebrate. I beg you to realize that the man is a brutal lecher.’
Jessica was too happy and too elated to be angry. She thought he was jealous.
‘I am persuaded you are too hard on him, sir,’ she said, wishing he would go and leave her to tell her family the marvellous news.
‘No, I am not. He is also a drunkard and a wastrel. You think you would be happy to get Mannerling back again. But at what a cost! My dear, I am not jealous – I see you think I am – it is only that I cannot bear to see you ruined, and believe me, you would be ruined by such a marriage.’
‘I will not listen to you,’ said Jessica firmly. ‘You said you wished to see more of the gardens, so here we are in the gardens, sir.’
‘I have tried to do my duty,’ he said, half to himself. ‘I can do no more.’
He looked around. They were screened from the house by a tall yew hedge. Jessica’s face was alight with happiness in the setting sun. Despite her awful ambition, he sensed a sweetness in her. She had been warped by her upbringing, but her character could still be saved.
Before he could stop himself, he drew her into his arms. Jessica was too startled and surprised to resist. He bent his head and kissed her gently but firmly, full on the mouth. For one little moment, Jessica felt a surge of sweetness, of yearning, and then she pulled away and said breathlessly, ‘I think perhaps it is you and not Mr Harry who is the lecher.’
‘That was a kiss from a man who respects you,’ he said, his black eyes fathomless. ‘The kiss you received from Harry in the rose garden was something else.’
He turned and strode away. She watched him go, her hand to her lips, thinking how tall and athletic his figure was, thinking that he looked so little like a professor. Now she was free to tell her sisters of her success, but the elation she had felt when Robert had told her that Harry wanted to marry her was gone. She tried to tell herself that Robert’s behaviour had been disgraceful, shocking. But the better side of her nature forced her to admit that he had been genuinely concerned about her, a concern that was entirely unnecessary, however.
Although the congratulations of her family raised her spirits, she was aware at the same time of Miss Trumble’s eyes watching her with a look of pity.
After the next two weeks, the Beverleys, prepared every day for the arrival of Harry and his expected proposal, began to lose heart. Every day Barry had been sent over to the squire’s with a request for ice to chill the champagne that was to be opened to celebrate the betrothal, until the squire rebelled and said his ice-house was becoming sadly depleted and the Beverleys could have no more.
And then the fine weather broke, not in a dramatic way either, but with a thin grey drizzle and mist. Jessica fretted. She thought and thought about the problem. She began to hate Robert Sommerville. He must have turned Harry against her. That must be it. Or could it be . . . could it be that they had got together and found that she had allowed
both
of them to kiss her? Although they had been stolen kisses, she had not, in either case, blushed or pushed either gentleman away. Day after grey day, she had to cope with her sisters’ patent disappointment and her mother’s voluble fretting about what had gone
Similar Books
