Francesca. Sylvia Andrew
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She attempted to see her aunt, but was denied access, her civil enquiries about Miss Shelwood’s health being met with a brusquely indifferent reply from Agnes Cotter. Resolving to see Doctor Woodruff for herself when he called that evening, she left the papers and escaped from the house.
At the end of an hour, she found she had walked off her frustration and anger and was enjoying the woods and open ground above Shelwood. The air was still heavy, however, and swallows and martins were swooping low over the swollen expanse of water left by the storm, catching the insects in the humid air. Francesca watched them for a while, marvelling at the speed and skill with which they skimmed the surface.
But even as she watched, one bird’s judgement failed disastrously. It dipped too low and, as it wheeled round, its wing was caught below the water line. Francesca drew in her breath as it dropped, then rose, then dropped again. By now both wings were heavy with water, and the bird’s struggles to fly were only exhausting it further. It would soon drown.
Without a second thought, Francesca hitched up her skirts, took off her shoes and waded in. The water was very shallow—it shouldn’t be difficult to scoop the bird out.
‘I never knew such a girl for water! You must have been a naiad in your previous existence.’
She recognised the voice, of course. But she said nothing until she had captured the bird and released it on dry ground. Then she said calmly, ‘And you seem to be my nemesis. I lead a very dull, dry life in the normal course of events. Excuse me.’ She bent down and put on her shoes. ‘Let me wish you a pleasant walk.’ She wanted to take polite leave of him, but realised that she had no idea what to call him other than ‘Marcus’. That she would never do again. She started off down the hill without saying any more.
‘Wait!’
She pretended not to have heard, but he came striding after her.
‘I was hoping to learn how you fared.’
‘Thank you—very comfortably. But my aunt is not well—I must get back to her. I know you will understand and forgive my haste. Goodbye.’
‘Not so fast! I want to talk to you.’
The pain in her heart was getting worse. He was still as handsome—more so! The years had added one or two lines to his face, one or two silver strands to the dark hair, but this only increased his dignity and authority, and the blue eyes were as alert, as warm and understanding as ever. The villain! The scheming, double-dealing villain! Where was the lady from the carriage?—if ‘lady’ was the right word! He should be using his charm on her, she might reward his efforts—probably had done so long before now. But she, at least, was old enough to see through him. She was well past the age of innocence!
But none of these uncharitable thoughts showed in her expression as she said coolly, ‘That is a pity. I have no wish to talk to you. I doubt that we now have very much in common. You must find someone else to amuse you.’
‘Is your aunt as ill as everyone says?’
He blurted this out with none of the polish she expected of him. What was he thinking of? Had he heard the rumours and was daring to be sorry for her? Francesca fought down a sudden rise in temper, then said in measured tones, ‘I am surprised that Lord Witham’s guests indulge in village gossip. I would have thought they had other, more interesting, pursuits.’
‘Don’t be such a awkward cat, Francesca—tell me how your aunt is.’
He had no right to sound so anxious. It weakened her, made her vulnerable once again to his charm.
‘I don’t know why such a thing should concern you,’ she said, maintaining her usual air of colourless reserve as she lied to him once again. ‘But if you insist on knowing, my aunt is suffering from the heat. I am sure she will be quite well again in a few days.’
‘That isn’t what I have heard.’
They must have been discussing the situation at Witham Court. Once again she had been made the subject of gossip there. It was intolerable! ‘You must think what you choose, sir. However, I am sure my aunt would not welcome speculation by strangers. And nor do I.’
‘Strangers, Francesca?’
Francesca had been avoiding his eye, but now she looked directly at him. She did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘Whatever happened nine years ago, sir, we were, and are, strangers. Of that I am certain. Now please let me go!’ In spite of herself, her voice trembled on these last words.
He took a step forward, hesitated, then bowed gracefully. ‘Very well. Good day to you, my dear.’
She felt his eyes on her as she set off again down the hill. She hoped he could not see how her hands were trembling, or hear how her heart was pounding.
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