Francesca. Sylvia Andrew
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he seemed to be sincere. Perhaps not everyone at Witham Court was a rake. But…‘Why did you call me lovely,’ she asked suspiciously, ‘when everyone else says I’m plain?’
‘Plain? They must be blind. Sit down and I’ll tell you why I think you lovely.’ This sounded like a very dangerous idea to Francesca. So she was at something of a loss to understand when she found herself doing as he asked. She kept her distance, however—she was not quite mad.
‘Is Freddie the man you were with?’
‘Yes—we were talking about my c—about someone we both know. He lost a great deal of money last night. He…he wasn’t feeling well this morning, and we’re worried about him. But you don’t really want to talk about this, do you? It’s a miserable subject for a lovely morning. Tell me about yourself. What were you doing when you saw us? On your way to a tryst?’
‘Oh, no! I…I don’t know anyone. I was drawing—oh, I must fetch my book and satchel! I dropped them when I ran down the hill. Excuse me.’
She jumped up, glad to escape from the spell the deep voice and dark blue eyes were weaving round her.
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘But you haven’t anything on your feet!’
‘So? I’ve suffered worse things than that in the army. And I want to make sure you don’t disappear. You’re my hostage, you know, until we are both dry.’ She looked at him nervously, but he was laughing, as he got up and took firm hold of her hand. ‘Where is this book?’
They soon found the orchid plant she had been drawing, and her sketch pad and satchel were not far away. He picked the pad up, still holding her with one hand, and studied it. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Who is your teacher?’
‘Madame Elisabeth.’ She blushed in confusion. ‘I mean Madame de Romain. My governess.’
‘Let’s get back into the sun. My feet are cold.’ They collected the satchel, then went back to their tree trunk and sat down. This time it seemed quite natural to sit next to him, especially as he still held her hand in his. ‘Will you show me some more of your work?’
Francesca coloured with pleasure. ‘Of course!’ she said shyly.
From then on, he directed his considerable charm towards drawing her out, and Francesca found herself talking to him more freely than she had with anyone for years. Sometimes, she would falter as she found his eyes intent on her, looking at her with such warmth and understanding. But then he would ask a question about some detail in one of the pictures and she would talk on, reassured.
There came a moment when she stopped. ‘I…I haven’t anything more to show you—not here,’ she said. When he didn’t immediately answer, she looked up, a question in her eyes.
‘Why did you say you were plain?’ he said slowly.
‘Because I am! Everyone says so.’
‘No, you’re not, Francesca. You’re like your sketches—drawn with a fine, delicate grace.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ she said, nervous once again.
‘I’m not flattering you!’
‘No, I’m sure you mean to be kind. But it isn’t necessary. I’m really quite used to my looks. Please—if you carry on talking like this, I shall have to go. My dress is dry now. Your things are dry, too.’
‘How old are you?’ he asked abruptly.
She hesitated. Then, ‘Seventeen,’ she lied. When he looked sceptical, she had added, still lying, ‘Almost.’
‘It’s young. But not too young. Have you ever been in love?’
‘Me?’ she asked, astounded.
He laughed at her then, and let go of her, but only to put both of his hands on her shoulders. ‘Yes, you,’ he said.
‘Certainly not!’
‘There’s always a first time,’ he murmured. He drew her closer. ‘What about kisses? Have you ever been kissed?’
‘Not…not often,’ she whispered, hypnotised by the blue eyes gazing into hers. ‘My grandfather, sometimes.’ She swallowed. ‘I suppose my father did. I…I can’t remember.’
‘That’s not quite what I meant. I meant…this.’ He lowered his head and kissed her gently. Francesca felt as if she had just had been hit by lightning. The strangest feeling overcame her, a feeling compounded of fear and pleasure, chills and warmth, a feeling that she ought not to be doing this—and an urgent wish for more.
‘That was nice,’ she breathed, bemused and hardly knowing what she said.
They were now standing up, face to face. ‘Put your arms round my neck,’ he said softly. She took a step forward and slowly lifted her arms. ‘That’s right. Then I can put mine round you—like this.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her again, not gently this time. Francesca gave a little cry and he relaxed his grip immediately. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No. I…I didn’t expect…I didn’t know…’ She tightened her arms and pulled his face down to hers. ‘Kiss me again,’ she said.
A world of unimaginable delight opened now for Francesca. Absurd though it was, she felt safer than ever before in this man’s arms, and more alive than ever before. He was in turn gentle, then passionate, charming, then demanding. He called her his idiot, his love, his witch, but she didn’t hear the names—only the warmth and feeling in the deep voice. He laughed at her lack of guile, but tenderly, as if her vulnerability had disarmed him.
And, just occasionally, he sounded uncertain, as if he, too, was unable to understand what was happening to them. They were both lost in a world of brilliant sunshine and glinting shadows, of whirling green and gold and blue…
Perhaps it was as well that they were recalled to their senses before the situation went beyond recall. Shouts in the distance proved to be those of Freddie, looking for Marcus. Marcus swore, then whispered, ‘Tomorrow? In the morning? Here?’ Then he kissed her once more, got up and turned down the hill. ‘Here I am,’ he had shouted. ‘What do you want?’
Once again, Francesca listened to their conversation from her hiding place.
‘It’s Jack. He’s asking for you. And your uncle’s coming down to Witham. Thought you’d like to know. What the devil have you been doin’ all this time, Marcus old fellow?’
‘Er…nothing much,’ Marcus said…
Francesca was startled out of her memories and brought back to the present day by a brilliant flash, followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder. The storm was now imminent. She quickened her pace. But her thoughts were still on the girl she had been nine years before.
‘Nothing much’—she ought to have taken warning. But at the time she had been totally dazzled, bewitched. It had been so easy, she thought, for a man of his experience and charm. And she had been so gullible. She had met him the next day, of course, pleading to Madame Elisabeth that she was ill, so that she was excused her morning lessons. And this had not been so far from the truth—she had been ill, gripped by a fever, a delirium which suppressed all her critical faculties, all thought of self-preservation. She winced now as she remembered how eagerly she had run up the hill to meet him again all those years ago.
She had to wait some time before Marcus appeared; when he arrived, he seemed preoccupied. She felt a chill round her heart—did he despise her for being so open about her feelings the day before? They walked in silence for some time, she waiting for him to say something—anything to break the constraint between them.
‘You’re very quiet, Francesca,’ he said finally.
Francesca was astonished. He was the one who had not spoken! And now he was accusing her, in such a serious