Bride of Dreams Page 2

  "But you say there will be war." She would not let him stop there.

  "I think so. I hope so, for truly, Amanda, I believe the French to be a danger to the world. They must be stopped. But who knows when it will come, or, when it does, how long it will take me to make my mark – and the fortune I need."

  "But you just said you did not care for fortune."

  "Amanda, you are being stupid on purpose!" And then, when she did not deny it, "You must know my only wish for a fortune is so that I may ask you to be my wife. There: I have said it, and I promised myself I would not. I should not have done so, but you teased me into it. Amanda, forgive me."

  "Forgive you? Why? What is there to forgive? I am glad you want to marry me," she said simply.

  "Oh, Mandy, you are an angel." He lifted her hand to his lips. "But I shall not easily forgive myself. I have no right to speak to you, circumstanced as I am. You must forget that I have done so. I shall always consider myself bound to you – nor could I wish myself otherwise, but you are to be free as air, Amanda."

  "But suppose I do not want to be free," she said a little petulantly. "You are really most unreasonable, John. Why should you be bound, and I free? Perhaps I want to be bound."

  "Oh, Amanda," he said again. And then, briskly, "But we shall be missed; I am twice ashamed, for keeping you here so long, and for speaking to you so, when, on my honour, I had vowed no word of love should cross my lips."

  "Nor has it," she said crossly. "And if you think, after all that has passed, that I will consent to be taken tamely back indoors like a good little girl, without so much as one kiss, you are gravely mistaken."

  It was too much for the self-control he had promised himself. He had risen, to lead her back to the ballroom; now the hand that held hers turned suddenly to iron. Breathless, laughing, trying to protest, she found herself in his arms. His lips on hers stopped her laughter, and she submitted to their fierce demand in a sudden ecstasy, aware, in every fibre of her, of the controlled strength of his body against hers.

  If it would only go on for ever. But as suddenly as he had seized her, he let her go. "Amanda, forgive me. Forget that happened. Only remember, that, always, I am yours."

  As he turned to lead her back through the moonlit garden, a door opened ahead of them and a gust of music and laughter blew out to shatter the still ecstasy of the garden. Two figures were outlined against the light from within.

  "There," it was Lord Meynel's voice. "What did I tell you? She is stolen away into the garden, the little minx."

  "Amanda," said Mrs Carteret. "I blush for you."

  "No, no, ma'am, never put her to the blush," said Meynel. "I wager you stole away often enough in your day." And then, as Mrs Carteret digested this reminder of advancing years in silence, he held out his hand to Amanda. "My dance, I believe, my dear Miss Amanda."

  She curtsied, blushing. "I cry your pardon, my lord. I . . . I had quite forgot."

  "I see you had." A knowing glance passed from Amanda to John, and back again. Then, "My dear Mrs Carteret," he said, "I congratulate you. Your Amanda is grown up."

  For Amanda, the rest of the evening passed like a dream that is nearly nightmare. More than anything, she wanted a few minutes of quiet talk with John, simply to reassure herself that those moments of brilliant happiness had been real. But fate – or was it fate? – was against her. Lord Meynel, having teased her unmercifully for forgetting her dance with him, had claimed, as his recompense, the two next ones, the second of which turned out to be the supper dance. So, to her bitter disappointment, it was from him, not, as she had hoped, from John Purvis, that she accepted her cold chicken and lemonade. But there was still hope; the evening was young and John, somehow, always near her in the crowd. But hope was soon dashed. No sooner had she swallowed the last crumb of chicken and sip of warm lemonade than she felt Lord Meynel's hot, unwelcome hand on her shoulder. "The child is exhausted," he said to her mother, who had shared his attentions through the supper hour. "And you, my dearest Mrs Carteret, look, if I may say so, a trifle fatigued. Let me claim the privilege of an old friend and take you home."

  Amanda protested, but, she knew, vainly. Her mother had angled so often, so unsuccessfully, for the loan of Lord Meynel's carriage and his four exquisitely-matched bays that it was idle to hope she would do anything but jump at his offer now. Besides, there was economy to be considered. Their hired carriage must be paid by the hour . . . The outcome was inevitable. Mrs Carteret had the headache at once – "So like you to have perceived it, my lord . . . and to tell truth this child was so afflicted when we arrived that she begged to wait out the ball above stairs."

  "I am glad you persuaded her not to do so," said Lord Meynel, with the detested, familiar gallantry, as he took an arm of each to lead them back through the ballroom. And now, when Amanda particularly wanted to see him, there was no sign of John. No doubt he was still in the supper room . . . But there was always, Amanda consoled herself, tomorrow. She would call on his aunt betimes in the morning.

  As Amanda had hoped, her mother slept late next day, and she was able to escape from the house without the usual tirade against her "hoydenish rambling about the countryside". It was a fine, sun-washed morning and Amanda's heart was as light as her tread as she walked the familiar downhill path to Rye and paused, as she always did, at her favourite corner, to admire the spreading prospect of marsh and sea. Today, the future was as bright as the world below her; John had spoken at last; he loved her. She had always, in her heart, been sure of it, but now her head too could revel in the prospect of happiness. War would be declared. . . . Recalled to active service, John would distinguish himself, of course, at once. Soon he would be commanding his own sloop . . . Negotiating a stile with a whisk of muslin skirts, Amanda built herself a golden castle in the air. The prize money would flow in; her mother would yield to the over-whelming argument of affluence . . . As she crossed the river and entered the little town, Amanda settled the design of her wedding dress (white satin and silver gauze) and started down the aisle of Rye Church . . . Soon she would be the youngest captain's wife in the fleet and John's ship the smartest . . . At this point she was nearly run down by a brewer's dray and interrupted her dream to smile an apology at its driver, whose first outburst of frightened anger had turned to an appreciative whistle at sight of her small pointed face, flushed at once with happiness and alarm. It was time to pay attention to her footing as she made her way on light, slippered feet over the cobbles of East Street and around to Miss Purvis's little house by the church.

  As she approached it, she heard the quarters chime out from the church tower, and congratulated herself on having timed her visit just right. Miss Purvis would have returned from her bustling morning round of the shops and John could not possibly be gone out yet. Thinking of him, a belated qualm chilled her happiness. Would he think her forward to call on him like this? Ridiculous, she told herself; she had called on his aunt at least once a week for years . . . But her lagging feet told another story.

  Somehow, instead of turning the last corner, she found herself crossing the little grass-grown street and pausing irresolutely at the entrance of the churchyard. She could not turn back, having come so far, and yet, how could she go on? It had seemed entirely natural to plan this visit last night, and she had been too busy with her day-dreaming to think about it on the walk into town, but now – what should she do? Of course, she should have waited at home for John to pay her the formal call he owed her after last night . . . but then, for years now, it had been tacitly agreed between them that he would not call on her, since Mrs Carteret always contrived to make such visits unpleasant to all of them. Kind Miss Purvis's house had always been their meeting ground; why then did everything seem so different today?

  But she could not stand here, the target of goodness knows how many curtain-screened, knowing eyes. Suddenly determined, she left the churchyard, crossed the street again, turned the last corner and rang a louder peal than she had intended on Miss Pu
rvis's front door bell.

  The door was opened instantly by Miss Purvis herself. In street dress, her capacious shopping basket on her arm, she was obviously just going out. A grave breach of routine this. What could be the matter?

  "My dearest child," Miss Purvis's colour was high, her manner even more flustered than usual, "you are come in the nick of time; I was just casting about in my mind for a messenger I could send to you."

  "A messenger? What can be the matter? John – Mr Purvis is not ill, I trust?" Aware at once of indiscretion, Amanda blushed scarlet but saw with relief that Miss Purvis was much too discomposed herself to notice anything out of the usual. "Ill?" she said. "Of course not. You know he has never been ill in his life, the dear boy, at least not since he had the measles and that, you know, was ten years ago, as you must well remember, since you gave them to him. But what am I doing keeping you standing here. Come in, my love, we are all at sixes and sevens this morning, with dear John going off so suddenly. Why, I have not even been down to the fishmonger's for poor Midge's bit of fish, but he'll have to wait now, won't you my Midge?" And she picked up the vast ginger cat that had been twining itself lovingly round her ankles and led the way into her dark little living room where the parrot mourned eternally for sunny Spain.

  Settling herself in the usual faded rocking chair, Amanda seized at once upon the important point. "Mr Purvis is gone?"

  "Yes; poor dear John. I hope he has done the wise thing, but he said he had no alternative, and you know the days are past when I could sway his opinions – and quite right too, a poor scatterbrained old maid like me. But to be travelling all day, and without a wink of sleep last night is not at all what I can like."

  "No sleep last night? What can you mean, Miss Purvis?"

  "Why? Did you not know? I quite took it for granted you would, since Lord Meynel is such a friend of your mother's. But, here, what am I thinking of?" She fumbled in her shopping basket and produced a note. "Let John explain; he will do it much better than I ever could."

  John's note was brief and to the point. Lord Meynel, it seemed, had returned to the Assembly rooms the night before, sought him out, and offered his assistance in getting him a place on the Phoenix Indiaman presently fitting out for the long voyage to India. It was a chance that must be taken on the instant; John intended to catch the morning mail coach to London; he would write to her again as soon as anything was settled. 'In the meantime,' he concluded, 'we must hope that this is the first step on the way to success – and happiness.' He had filled the page by now, only down at the bottom, in the finest of fine print, was a last, heart-warming message: 'Amanda, it cuts me to the heart not to see you again. Do not forget. I never shall.'

  Blushing and smiling, Amanda put up the note and joined Miss Purvis in her exclamations at this piece of amazing good fortune. "Of course," as Miss Purvis said, "India is a long way off, but he will be back soon enough, I am sure, and with a nabob's fortune, I have no doubt. But had you truly known nothing of this plan of Lord Meynel's? To tell truth, I had been convinced we had you to thank for his goodness; can it be your Mama who has spoken for dear John?"

  This seemed more than improbable to Amanda, but she hardly liked to say so, and they passed the morning in an orgy of hopeful if unprofitable speculation. For Amanda, the immediate disappointment of having missed John was lost in the widening dream of hope before her. As he said, this was the beginning; now it was but to wait. . . . Walking home up Rye hill a few hours later she re-designed her wedding: John was in captain's uniform now and her wedding dress was of India silk.

  Chapter Two

  "So you have deigned to come home at last." Her mother's angry greeting put an end to Amanda's dream of happiness. "Who gave you permission, I should like to know, to be running off to Rye like a serving maid after her trooper? And draggling your petticoats through all the mud you could find, too? I am only grateful Lord Meynel did not stay to give you the meeting as he at first intended. He was not best pleased, I can tell you, that you had not the common civility to await his visit after the great – and undeserved – attention that he paid you last night." And then, in one of her sudden spurts of rage: "Well, child, what do you think you are doing, standing there gawping? Run upstairs and change your dress and try at least to look like a lady, if you cannot conduct yourself like one."

  Something of a termagant at the best of times, Mrs Carteret outdid herself that week. The servants trembled; Amanda kept out of her way. So, she noticed with pleasure, did Lord Meynel, and this, though good in itself, was doubtless the reason for her mother's rages. Despite his assiduous attentions on the night of the ball, he had not, after all, proposed to Mrs Carteret, and each day that he stayed away made it seem less likely that he would. He was busy, it seemed, supervising the hay harvest on his extensive estates. As these almost entirely surrounded the small garden to which the Carteret property was reduced, Amanda had to exercise a good deal of ingenuity in taking her walks so as to avoid the 'chance' encounters with him that she had learned to dread. Luckily, her mother's maid Phoebe was being courted by one of the labourers who were getting in Lord Meynel's hay, and usually contrived to get advance knowledge of where they would be working. By taking her walks in the opposite direction, Amanda contrived to pass a peaceful week of dreamy solitude. Any day now, she must hear from John.

  The London mail coach reached Hastings at eight o'clock in the morning, but it was nearer eleven before the mail reached Rye, and Amanda often made enquiring for letters her excuse to walk into town and visit Miss Purvis. Unluckily for her, on the morning when John's letter arrived, she was reluctantly closeted with her mother, who was trying to improve her spirits by a root and branch inquisition into her daughter's scanty wardrobe. She had just reached the category of neck handkerchiefs and was exclaiming in inevitable horror at the discovery that Amanda had only four – and one of those badly stained with blackberry juice from an autumn escapade – when Phoebe tapped at the door to announce that Robert was "back with the mail, ma'am." An expressive glance for Amanda announced that the longed-for letter had come. But what was the good of that when Phoebe was forced to put all the letters into her mistress's eagerly outstretched hand?

  Mrs Carteret was an extensive correspondent, and there were letters from dearest friends in Bath, Scarborough and Brighthelmstone to be exclaimed over before she came to John's letter. "What is this? For you Amanda? I do not think I know the hand."

  "I collect it will be from John, Mama." She saw her mistake the moment she had finished speaking.

  "From John? From Mr Purvis, you must mean. And by what right, pray, does he take the liberty of addressing you? It was well enough when you were a child, but it will not do to be encouraging the attentions of a half-pay lieutenant now, when you have the world before you, Amanda, and so I warn you. I have been intending to speak to you on this very subject since the night of the Assembly when you made such an exhibition of yourself with him." As she spoke, she had torn open the letter, despite a strangled protest from Amanda, and was glancing rapidly through its contents. "Well, that is something," she went on, "he sails for India today. How good of dear Lord Meynel, and only think of his not so much as having mentioned it to me the other day. No doubt he has been awaiting the success of his recommendation before he visited us again. Naturally, his kindness to John Purvis is a compliment to us, his old friends and neighbours. But what is this? 'Always yours' and 'Amanda, do not forget me'. Amanda, I demand an explanation."

  "I am engaged to John Purvis." Chalk white, Amanda still managed to speak steadily enough.

  "Engaged! To John Purvis!" After the tirade that followed, it was almost a relief to Amanda when her mother went off, at last, into the inevitable strong hysterics. She was busy ministering to these with hartshorn and sal volatile when Phoebe knocked timidly at the door to announce that Lord Meynel was below. This news effected an instant cure, and Amanda was amazed as usual by the speed of her mother's transition from hysterics to coquetry. She was bus
y at once at her glass, removing all traces of the crisis through which she had just passed, discussing, as she did so, rather with herself than with Amanda, whether it would be better to receive Lord Meynel alone or accompanied by her daughter. To Amanda's great relief, she decided on the former course, and hurried downstairs after one last admonition to Amanda to "forget all that nonsense about John Purvis".

  Left alone, Amanda's first thought was for John's letter, which her mother had luckily forgotten in the excitement of Lord Meynel's visit. He wrote with controlled enthusiasm. He had indeed been taken on as lieutenant on the Phoenix which sailed that very day for Calcutta. The improvement in his prospects was enormous, but, 'I could wish that I was not going so far away from all that I hold dear.' This, and the phrases that her mother had picked out, were, disappointingly, all the positive expressions of love that the letter contained, but as she read it for the second and third time, Amanda was increasingly warmed by its tone. He wrote as if there was no need for protestations between them. He hoped to return, he said, within the year. Meanwhile, 'Amanda, do not forget me.'

  How could she? Carefully folding the letter, she tucked it, like a talisman, into the corsage of her dress. She had just done so when the door of the room flung open and her mother appeared. One glance told Amanda that the storm she had just gone through was as nothing compared to the one to come. What could be the matter? Mrs Carteret was yellow-white and the rouge she had applied before going downstairs stood out pitifully on her cheekbones. Her eyes sparkled with rage and unshed tears.

  "Well, Amanda," she said, "it seems you are in great demand today. I have just received a proposal for your hand."