I’ll Bring You Buttercups. Elizabeth Elgin
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round her lips, then moved them consciously into the shape of a smile, thinking for one wild moment to turn and run back to the stile and climb it again; place it like a barrier between them. But she did not, could not.
‘You came, then,’ she murmured, eyes on her boots.
‘You knew I would. I came at teatime, too, though I thought you’d not want to venture here again just yet.’
‘I did, though. Well – Morgan is with me,’ she defended.
‘Aye. He’ll not let anyone harm you.’ Carefully, as if she were some small, cornered animal, he raised his hand; gently he placed his fingertips to her face.
‘Poor little love. Does it hurt bad?’
‘Hardly at all. It looks worse than it is.’
‘I wanted to kill him, last night,’ he muttered, thickly. ‘I wish I had.’
‘No, Tom. Never wish that – he’s not worth it.’
‘He harmed you, dirtied you. I’ll not forgive him for that!’
‘It’s over,’ she urged, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘It’s behind me.’
‘But is it behind you? Can you be sure, lass? Can you be certain that what happened hasn’t set you against me, against all men?’
‘No!’ she cried, unnerved that he could look into her eyes and read the thoughts behind them. ‘Why should I think that?’
‘I don’t know, though I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But I won’t ever harm you, and you must know it, or there’s no future for you and me. So tell me why you’re holding yourself back from me – because you are …’
‘Tom!’ She glanced wildly around her, unwilling to meet his gaze. ‘How am I to know? How can I be sure that once we’re wed you won’t turn into –’
She stopped, tears choking her words, sudden fear making her want to run away from this encounter; run back to the warmth of Rowangarth kitchen; to Mrs Shaw and Mary and Tilda and Bess. And Miss Clitherow, looking down her nose.
‘That I won’t turn into an animal like the one that attacked you last night? Well, I won’t, Alice. I love you. It would be sweet and gentle between us.’
‘And you wouldn’t change, and look at me wild? And you wouldn’t hit me, tear at me? Because, Tom, if that’s the way of it, if that’s the way it happens …’
‘It isn’t the way of it. With love between us it’ll be giving, not taking. And I shall make you want me, sweetheart, not make you feared of me. Loving, real loving, isn’t like it was with him, I promise you it isn’t.’
‘Then you’ll give me time …?’
‘All the time it takes. All the time in the world.’
‘Tom!’ She took a step towards him; one small step across the divide, and it was all she needed. ‘I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to think as I did. And I’d be obliged if you would kiss me like you always do when we meet, for I’ve wanted you near me so much, even though I was afraid …’
‘Alice, my little love.’ Gathering her to him, he rocked her in his arms, whispering into her hair, hushing her, waiting until he felt her relax against him. Then he tilted her chin as he had done the first time, and placed his mouth tenderly on her own. ‘Will I kiss it better for you?’ He murmured, his lips over the bruising on her face, all the time making little comforting sounds, as if she were a frightened bird he had loosed, hurt, from a poacher’s trap. ‘I love you, Alice Hawthorn; love you – do you hear me?’
‘And I love you. And you aren’t like him – I think I always knew it. But forgive me for doubting?’
Slowly she raised her arms, clasping them around his neck, lifting her face for his kiss.
‘Will I tell you something?’ he smiled. ‘Reuben told me an’ it’s on Mr Giles’s orders. If that Sutton so much as sets foot on Rowangarth land, he’s to be treated like we’d treat a poacher. My, but I wish he’d try it. I’d like nothing better than to kick his backside off the place. Hell! I do so detest that man!’
‘Then don’t. He isn’t worth your hatred. Elliot Sutton will get what he deserves one day, so leave him, Tom; leave him to God. Promise me?’
And because he loved her, his lips formed the words she wanted to hear, whilst secretly he swore he’d have justice for her, should chance ever offer the means.
‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
Then damned himself for a liar.
Friday came in clear and blue and bright, so that Tilda didn’t grumble overmuch at leaving her bed an hour earlier to clear the oven flues of soot, and when Mrs Shaw made her sleepy-eyed appearance, the kitchen range shone with blacklead polish, the fire glowed red, and a kettle puffed lazy steam from its spout.
‘Good girl, Tilda,’ Cook approved. ‘You’d best mash a sup of tea and make us a couple of toasts. And them as lies in their beds till the dot of six are going to miss out on it, aren’t they? Think we might open a jar of the strawberry,’ she added comfortably, knowing the kitchenmaid’s fondness for her ladyship’s special conserve, and knowing too that so small a reward would be repaid in extra effort during the day ahead; the hot, hectic, dinner-party day just beginning.
William called, ‘Hup!’ and the horses broke into a canter. On the carriage floor lay the ice, collected from the fishmonger in Creesby, and, atop it, to keep it cool, a parcel of lobster meat for Mrs Shaw’s thick fish soup.
Fuss and bother, that’s what dinner parties were, the coachman brooded. All coming and going and do this, William, do that. He brought down the reins with a slap. Best get a move on or Miss Clitherow would glare and he’d be in trouble with Cook an’ all. She could be a bit of a battleaxe when the mood was on her, none knew it better than William Stubbs, though she was usually good for a sup of tea and a slice of cake when it wasn’t. But all thoughts of fruit cake were quickly dismissed from William’s mind when there were matters of greater importance to think on. The carry-on in Brattocks, for one, and the to-do it had caused at Pendenys. He’d got it from the under-gardener there, so it was fact – Elliot Sutton with a badly face; his father going on something awful, and Mrs Clementina throwing a fit of the vapours so that Doctor James had to be brought in the motor.
Mind, you couldn’t expect much else from the likes of Elliot Sutton. Not real gentry, the Place Suttons. Not like Rowangarth, so you couldn’t entirely blame Pendenys for their lack of refinement, them being half trade, so to speak, and liable because of it to throw a wrong ‘un from time to time. But the atmosphere over at the Place was cold as charity if talk was to be believed. Something was going on there, or why had the laundrymaid been ordered to wash all Mr Elliot’s linen and boil and starch his shirts – every last one of them? Taking himself off, was he? Away to London again, out of the reach of his mother’s tongue? And a fair wind to his backside if it were true, thought William with grimmest pleasure. A good riddance, and no mistake.
There had better, warned Mrs Shaw, getting things straight right from the start, be no idling this morning. Indeed, they should all count themselves lucky there had been time for breakfast, so pushed were they going to be. True, the soup was well in hand, two salmon lay cooling on the cold slab in the meat cellar, and the four ribs of beef – any less would have seemed penny-pinching – had been quickly browned in a hot oven to seal in the juices, and now cooked in slow contentment on the bottom shelf.
The ice-cream and sorbet were Cook’s biggest worry, though both were safely packed with fresh ice now, and should turn out right, as they almost always did.
‘That’s the