she had been touched by tragedy and
had become a stronger person because of it. He recognised something of himself
in her, a lone spirit, someone with an inner strength who would not allow
life's little ironies to subdue her. Which was all palpable nonsense, of
course. He had only known her a few weeks, but she had already taken a firm
hold on his heart. Not only was she beautiful and delightfully innocent, she
was forthright and spirited, thoughtful and intelligent. He had never expected
to find all those attributes in one person and having found her, he wanted
nothing so much as to hold on to her. He sat there, jogging along the North
Ride, thinking how pleasurable it would be to have her in his arms, to kiss
her, and a smile played about his lips.
`Why are you
smiling?' she demanded suddenly. 'Have I done something to amuse you?'
`I beg your
pardon.'
`You were
grinning from ear to ear. I should like to share the jest.'
`I am simply
happy,' he said. 'The morning is fine, no hint of rain, and it is good to be
alive, to be free, and in such lovely company. What more could anyone ask?'
`Thank you,
kind sir,' she said, laughing. 'But why did you mention freedom? Were you
perhaps referring to freedom from the constraints of matrimony?'
`No, nothing
was further from my thoughts.'
`But you are
not married?'
`Oh, you are
referring to that ridiculous piece of tattle about an Indian wife?'
`You have heard
it?'
`One could
hardly fail to hear it; it is all round London.'
`It is not
true?'
`Pure
fabrication, I assure you.'
`Then why do
you not deny it?'
`It amuses me
not to.'
`Do you not
mind that people are telling lies about you?'
`Not in the
least. My friends - my true friends - pay no heed.'
`And Papa is
one of them,' she said, determined to find out all she could. 'But it seems
strange to me that you have never visited us at Hartlea, when you have known
him so long.'
`There has been
no opportunity. My work never took me in that direction.'
`Just what is
your work?'
He paused,
unable to give her a put-down but struggling with an answer that would satisfy
her. 'I work for the War Department, as a kind of commissar, locating supplies,
recruiting, that sort of thing.'
`But you are
not a soldier?'
`No. '
`Neither is
Papa,' she said, accepting his explanation equably. 'But that does not mean his
work is not important. It must be the same for you.'
He let out his
breath in relief. He hated deceiving her and yet he could not tell her the
truth. Not now. Not until the war was at an end and there was no longer any
need for secrecy. And by then it would be too late, she would be married and
out of his reach. For the first time he cursed his circumstances and wished
wholeheartedly that Lord Martindale had not asked him to accompany his wife and
daughter to the ball. Then they would never have met and he would not now be
suffering such torment. But if he managed to stop thinking about the possible
consequences, the torment was of a pleasurable kind. He ought, of course, to
withdraw, to take himself off, but he could not bring himself to do it, to
deprive himself of the joy of her company.
`Tell me about
Hartlea,' he said, to change the subject. `You must love it very much.'
`Of course I
do. It is my home, I have known no other and it has always been a happy place.'
`Tell me about
it.'
`The estate
covers a large area, I do not know how many acres, and the house is very
substantial. I believe it was given to our ancestors by Cromwell after the
Civil War as recompense for the support they gave him. Somehow it avoided being
taken back when the monarchy was restored. It has been handed down from father
to son ever since...'
'Only now there
is no son.' He spoke quietly, inviting her to go on, to tell him how she felt
and she found it surprisingly easy to do that.
`Yes. It is
entailed and will go to Mr Martindale when the time comes.' She felt sad for a
moment, then added cheerfully, 'But that will not happen for years and
had become a stronger person because of it. He recognised something of himself
in her, a lone spirit, someone with an inner strength who would not allow
life's little ironies to subdue her. Which was all palpable nonsense, of
course. He had only known her a few weeks, but she had already taken a firm
hold on his heart. Not only was she beautiful and delightfully innocent, she
was forthright and spirited, thoughtful and intelligent. He had never expected
to find all those attributes in one person and having found her, he wanted
nothing so much as to hold on to her. He sat there, jogging along the North
Ride, thinking how pleasurable it would be to have her in his arms, to kiss
her, and a smile played about his lips.
`Why are you
smiling?' she demanded suddenly. 'Have I done something to amuse you?'
`I beg your
pardon.'
`You were
grinning from ear to ear. I should like to share the jest.'
`I am simply
happy,' he said. 'The morning is fine, no hint of rain, and it is good to be
alive, to be free, and in such lovely company. What more could anyone ask?'
`Thank you,
kind sir,' she said, laughing. 'But why did you mention freedom? Were you
perhaps referring to freedom from the constraints of matrimony?'
`No, nothing
was further from my thoughts.'
`But you are
not married?'
`Oh, you are
referring to that ridiculous piece of tattle about an Indian wife?'
`You have heard
it?'
`One could
hardly fail to hear it; it is all round London.'
`It is not
true?'
`Pure
fabrication, I assure you.'
`Then why do
you not deny it?'
`It amuses me
not to.'
`Do you not
mind that people are telling lies about you?'
`Not in the
least. My friends - my true friends - pay no heed.'
`And Papa is
one of them,' she said, determined to find out all she could. 'But it seems
strange to me that you have never visited us at Hartlea, when you have known
him so long.'
`There has been
no opportunity. My work never took me in that direction.'
`Just what is
your work?'
He paused,
unable to give her a put-down but struggling with an answer that would satisfy
her. 'I work for the War Department, as a kind of commissar, locating supplies,
recruiting, that sort of thing.'
`But you are
not a soldier?'
`No. '
`Neither is
Papa,' she said, accepting his explanation equably. 'But that does not mean his
work is not important. It must be the same for you.'
He let out his
breath in relief. He hated deceiving her and yet he could not tell her the
truth. Not now. Not until the war was at an end and there was no longer any
need for secrecy. And by then it would be too late, she would be married and
out of his reach. For the first time he cursed his circumstances and wished
wholeheartedly that Lord Martindale had not asked him to accompany his wife and
daughter to the ball. Then they would never have met and he would not now be
suffering such torment. But if he managed to stop thinking about the possible
consequences, the torment was of a pleasurable kind. He ought, of course, to
withdraw, to take himself off, but he could not bring himself to do it, to
deprive himself of the joy of her company.
`Tell me about
Hartlea,' he said, to change the subject. `You must love it very much.'
`Of course I
do. It is my home, I have known no other and it has always been a happy place.'
`Tell me about
it.'
`The estate
covers a large area, I do not know how many acres, and the house is very
substantial. I believe it was given to our ancestors by Cromwell after the
Civil War as recompense for the support they gave him. Somehow it avoided being
taken back when the monarchy was restored. It has been handed down from father
to son ever since...'
'Only now there
is no son.' He spoke quietly, inviting her to go on, to tell him how she felt
and she found it surprisingly easy to do that.
`Yes. It is
entailed and will go to Mr Martindale when the time comes.' She felt sad for a
moment, then added cheerfully, 'But that will not happen for years and
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