Francesca. Sylvia Andrew
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‘I don’t think much of your methods—’He stopped suddenly and looked down. The stream was unusually low—the water barely came up to his knees. ‘In this?’ he asked. The irony in his voice was gall to Francesca. She blushed and hung her head.
‘I…I didn’t think,’ she confessed. ‘I just ran down the hill without pausing to consider—then I couldn’t stop, so I…I…er…I pushed you in. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? I should think you might be, indeed!’ He took a step towards the bridge, then said irritably, ‘Damn it, my boots are full of water, I can hardly move. Help me out, will you? I need a pull up.’
‘But I’ll get wet myself!’
‘So you will. Now give me your hand—just to give me a start, so I can get a hold on the post there. It won’t take much once I’m moving.’ He looked up and said impatiently, ‘Come on, girl—stir yourself! What are you waiting for?’
She extended a reluctant hand. It wasn’t just that she was afraid of getting wet. To get too close to a perfect stranger—especially one who was staying at Witham Court—was a touch foolhardy. And anyone so handsome was almost certainly a rake!
‘For God’s sake, girl, give me your hand properly! What are you? The village idiot?’
Francesca was noted in the neighbourhood for her withdrawn manner, and most people found her almost unnaturally reserved. But at these words, she forgot years of self-restraint, and flamed into anger. Handsome or not, this oaf’s rudeness had gone too far! He needed a lesson. So, without a thought for the consequences, she let go of his hand and shoved him back into the water. ‘I don’t think I want to help you after all,’ she said coolly, and walked away across the bridge.
Chapter Three
With a roar of fury, Marcus struggled to his feet, waded clumsily to the side, scrambled up the bank and caught up with her halfway up the hill.
Francesca gave a cry of fright as he grabbed her by the arm and swung her round. ‘Now, you little wretch, you’d better explain yourself before I give you what you deserve.’
‘Let go of me!’
‘Not till I have an explanation. And you’d better make it a good one. Or are you the sort of Bedlamite who does this as a regular sport?’
‘I’m not the lunatic!’ Francesca cried. ‘I tell you, I was trying to stop you from drowning—you said you wanted to.’
‘But I didn’t mean it, you…ninny!’ he said, giving her a shake.
Francesca lost her temper yet again. She pulled herself free, but though she took a step back, she made no attempt to escape. ‘How was I to know that?’ she blazed at him. ‘You stood on that bridge, draped over the water like a…like a weeping willow, and said you were going to drown yourself! How was I to know you were playacting?’
‘A weepi—a weeping willow!’ he said, outraged. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! I wasn’t feeling quite the thing—I had a headache! A hangover, if you must know. But I wouldn’t be such a clunch as to do away with myself. Why on earth should I?’ He had glared at her. ‘And if I did, I’d find a better way than to try to drown myself in two feet of water! What rubbish!’
‘Then why did you say you would?’
‘I didn’t, I tell you.’ She opened her mouth to contradict him, but he held up a hand and said slowly and distinctly, in the tones of one talking to an idiot, ‘I was expressing unhappiness. I was just unhappy.’
‘Well, you deserve to be! People who are rakes and who gamble all their money away deserve to be unhappy!’
‘Gamble all my money aw—You are a lunatic! An impertinent, lunatic child! What on earth do you mean? I’m not rich enough to gamble any money away! Anyway, I won last night, damn it!’
‘A fine story! If that’s the case, why are you so worried about facing your uncle?’
The young man’s eyes narrowed and he said slowly, ‘You little sneak! You were eavesdropping—that conversation was private!’
Francesca was instantly abashed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help hearing it—I certainly didn’t do it intentionally. I really am very sorry. Please, please forgive me. I meant well, really I did.’ She looked up at him beseechingly. ‘I promise I shall forget all about that conversation, now that I know you don’t really mean to…to—you know.’
He was staring down into her eyes, seemingly fascinated. Francesca’s heart thumped, but she didn’t—couldn’t move. He muttered, ‘A lunatic child, with witch’s eyes…I’ve seen you in paintings…’ and he slowly drew his finger over her cheekbone and down her jaw. He held her chin and lowered his head towards her…Then he jerked back, and said in astonishment, ‘I’m going mad. It must be the hangover.’
Francesca was not sure what he meant, but said nervously, ‘And…and now I shall go home.’
‘No, don’t!’ He took her by the arm once again and marched her into a patch of sunshine. ‘I still want my explanation…You’re shivering!’
Francesca thought it wiser not to explain that this was due to nerves and reaction to his hand on her arm, rather than to feeling cold. She said nothing.
‘Sit in the sun here—you’ll soon be warmer. Now, where were we?’
‘I was telling you I’d heard you say you wanted to drown yourself because you’d gambled away all your money. And I was trying to stop you. But I forgot how steep the bank was, and I got carried down the slope and…and I pushed you in.’ Francesca was gabbling, as she often did when nervous.
‘I suppose it makes some sort of inverted sense,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful that you meant well—though I still think I’d have been better off without your help.’ He looked down thoughtfully at his sodden clothes…
Francesca tried, and failed, to suppress a giggle. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. ‘Much better off. You squelch when you walk, too!’ and, after another vain struggle with herself, she went off into a gale of laughter.
For a moment he looked affronted, but as she laughed again at his face he smiled, then he, too, was laughing. The atmosphere lightened considerably.
‘Look, let’s sit down here for a moment, and you can help me with my boots while you tell me the story of your life.’
‘Well, that’s a “blank, my lord”,’ she said, as he sat down on a fallen tree trunk and had stuck his foot out.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Down there, at Shelwood. With my aunt.’ Francesca tugged hard and the boot came off, releasing a gush of water over her dress. She gave a cry. ‘Oh, no!’
‘It will dry. Now, the other one.’ She cast him a reproachful look, but gingerly took hold of the second boot. She took more care with this one but, when it came away with unexpected ease, she lost her balance, tripped over a root and fell flat on her back. The second boot poured its contents over her. She got to her feet hastily. ‘Just look at that!’ she cried.
‘I am,’ he said. Francesca was puzzled at the sudden constraint in his voice. ‘I…I seem to have made a mistake. I thought you a child.’ He swallowed. ‘But it’s clear you’re not. You may be a lunatic, but you’re all woman—and a lovely one, too!’
She looked down. The water had drenched the thin lawn of her dress and petticoat, and they were clinging to her like a second skin. The lines of her figure were clearly visible.
‘Oh, no!’ Desperately she shook out her dress, holding it away from her body. ‘I must go!’
‘No! Please don’t. Your dress will dry very soon,