The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
as to find what has delayed my dresser?’
As the housekeeper bustled off, Decima held out her hand. ‘My thanks once more, Lord Weston. I shudder to think what several days cooped up in the Red Cock would have been like, or the effect upon Pru’s health. I was most fortunate indeed to have been rescued by you. Please give Bates my best wishes for a speedy recovery.’
He ignored her careful formality. ‘You are angry with me; I should not have spoken so lightly of my sister’s schemes and my reaction to them.’
‘Not at all, and I must apologise for my intemperate response. You simply chanced upon one of my prejudices, my lord. I feel for the lady in the case; those of us who do not regard the married state as the be-all and end-all of existence must support each other, do you not agree? Ah, Pru, there you are.’ The maid was pink-faced, clutching the cloaks bundled together.
‘Goodbye, Decima.’ Adam caught her hand in his, the warmth of his grasp penetrating her winter gloves with ease. ‘I wish we had been able to talk together longer—there are things I would have wished to say.’
It was difficult to hold his gaze. Decima felt her own eyes waver and then fall before his. ‘Nothing of any import, I trust. Now, I really must go. Goodbye.’
For a second she thought he was going to bend and kiss her, but Mrs Chitty came in, and Pru was holding out her cloak, and the moment was gone.
In the yard the snow had turned to muddy slush and to one side all that remained of their snowman was a pile of snow with an incongruous carrot sticking out of it and a battered tricorne perched on the top.
Decima let the postilion assist them into the carriage, only turning to look at Adam when they were settled with the rugs over their knees. He was standing in the snow, his expression unfathomable as it rested on her. Did he feel as wretched as she that their days of intimacy and informality had ended in this chilly, formal farewell?
She raised her hand as the carriage began to move and Adam lifted his in acknowledgement. Did he stand looking after her, or did he turn at once on his heel and go back to the safe familiarity of his friends, putting this whole bizarre episode out of his mind?
Blankly she stared out of the window onto sodden fields and melting drifts as the carriage made its way through the lanes, onto the turnpike road and headed east. Would they reach Swaffham, and home, today? It would be a long journey, and all would depend on how bad the roads were and how good the horses they obtained at the changes. There were excellent inns along the way—that was not a problem—but Decima ached now for this journey to be over and for the safety of her own room, her own bed, her old life. Her old innocence.
Their luck held, with the roads in a reasonable state and horses that held a good pace. Decima was just thinking that at this rate they could count on taking a late luncheon at Wisbech, when something made her glance across at Pru.
The maid looked woebegone, huddled in her corner, her nose pink and one large tear running down her plump cheek.
‘Oh, Pru! Are you feeling poorly? I should never have dragged you out today,’ she exclaimed remorsefully. ‘I will pull the check string and tell the men to stop at the next respectable inn we come to.’
Pru gulped and shook her head. ‘It’s not that, Miss Dessy, I feel fine, honestly I do. I’m nice and warm and the carriage is ever so comfortable.’
‘Then whatever is it?’ Decima changed seats so she could sit beside Pru and feel her forehead. Quite normal. ‘Tell me, Pru, we will sort it out, whatever it is.’ She took the maid’s hand and patted it.
‘There’s nothing you can do, Miss Dessy.’ Pru scrabbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose miserably. ‘It’s just foolishness.’
‘Of course there is something to be done, Pru. I refuse to believe there is not, whatever the problem. Now tell me.’
‘It’s Jethro,’ Pru quavered.
‘Jethro?’ Who on earth was Jethro?
‘Bates, Miss Dessy. His name’s Jethro.’
‘Has he said something to upset you?’ Decima felt quite at sea. The two of them had spent hours together, apparently in a state of constant bickering, but what was there in that to produce tears now?
‘Oh, no, Miss Dessy.’ Pru’s face crumpled. ‘I think I’m in love with him.’
‘You are in love with Bates?’ Decima stared at her. ‘But I didn’t think you liked him much. You seemed to argue a lot and be exasperated with him…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘He is rather older than you,’ she suggested cautiously after a pause.
‘A bit,’ Pru admitted. ‘Doesn’t matter, though.’
‘No, of course not,’ Decima agreed hastily. ‘But does he feel the same way?’
‘I don’t know.’ Pru’s lip trembled in a way that made Decima’s quiver in sympathy. ‘I think so. He’s not what you’d call chatty.’
‘That is certainly true. Did you agree to correspond?’
Pru shook her head. ‘It was all a bit sudden, leaving, and I didn’t think.’ She sniffed again, her cheeks flushed, and an uneasy thought crept into Decima’s mind.
‘Pru, you didn’t…you haven’t done anything…unwise? Have you?’ Then she remembered. ‘No, of course not, how silly of me, you couldn’t have, even if you had been so imprudent, not with his broken leg.’ There was a silence, then Pru slid a sideways look at Decima. ‘Pru! Truly? How? No…do not tell me, I do not want to know.’
What if Pru becomes pregnant? With that thought came the treacherous memory of Adam’s body hard against hers, her own newly sensitised flesh quivering towards surrender. She could so easily have been worrying about exactly the same thing for herself. At least she would never have to face him again, never find herself laid open to either the temptation or the rejection that encounter would bring.
The tears were rolling fatly down the maid’s cheeks now. Oh, Lord! Now what am I to do? Charlton would say she should instantly dismiss Pru, but then Charlton could be the most unblushing hypocrite. ‘Pru, if you still feel the same way about him in a month or two, then I promise we will go and find some way to be close to Lord Weston so you can see Bates again.’ And what if Pru was with child and Bates was not prepared to do the right thing? That was a bridge to be crossed if they came to it.
Pru gripped her hands convulsively, too upset to speak her thanks. Decima smiled at her, as comfortingly as she could. But inside she quaked; there was no way she could bring Bates and Pru together again without Adam’s help. And that meant seeing him again.
Augusta was, predictably, delighted to see her back, completely incurious about her journey and hardly interested to learn how Hermione and Charlton were. But she did blink vaguely at Decima as they stood in her new glasshouse and observe, ‘You are looking different, dear. Have you changed your hair?’
That was typical of Augusta and Decima took no notice. But she was shaken by her dear friend Henry. Sir Henry Freshford rode over from his neighbouring estate the next day, alerted by the infallible country grapevine that she was back.
‘Henry!’ Decima stooped to receive his brotherly kiss on her cheek, so much more welcome than any salutation of Charlton’s. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’
‘Yes, fine,’ he replied, looking at her oddly. ‘Dessy, what have you been up to?’
‘Me? Why, nothing. Do come and see Augusta’s latest extravagance.’ She tugged his arm until he followed her through to the glasshouse, built out at an angle from the house so that it formed a conservatory extension to one of the sitting rooms. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? She is planning to put ferns and palms and even orchids in here.’