A Penniless Prospect. Joanna MaitlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
It was many years since she had been permitted to taste one, and her mouth watered at the thought of their delicious juices.
As the butler moved to offer the dish to Jamie, Lady Calderwood intervened. ‘Leave them here, if you please,’ she said sharply, adding, as the butler replaced the dish in front of her, ‘Sir John never touches oranges at dinner, cousin. He maintains that they spoil the wine.’
Graves cast a shrewd glance at his host who was now well into his third bottle. ‘There may be something in that, cousin, indeed. I do not grow oranges myself. A very ordinary fruit, in my opinion, given the shocking cost of maintaining an orangery. Do you not find it so?’
Lady Calderwood tittered. ‘Oh, these were not grown here, cousin, certainly not. The expense, as you say, is not to be thought of. No, these were procured from town for your visit. I should not have done it else, I do assure you.’
Graves smiled smugly and helped himself to the finest specimen on the plate.
The knot of tension in Jamie’s stomach grew tighter once more as she looked down the table at the odious cousins. She tried to concentrate on her apple but could not. Eyes fixed on her plate, she heard her father signal to the butler to refill his glass yet again. Sir John was, as usual, becoming very much the worse for his wine. By the time Lady Calderwood rose to signal the ladies’ departure, her husband’s occasional words had become noticeably slurred.
As soon as the gentlemen rejoined them, Lady Calderwood moved rapidly to the bell-pull by the fireplace to order the tea tray. A great wave of relief flowed over Jamie as the butler received his instructions. Not long now, surely? She bent almost eagerly to her stitchery, trying to shut out the sound of Cousin Ralph’s voice.
‘Jessamyne.’ Jamie raised her head at the sharp voice. ‘What are you about? Come and help me to serve tea to our guest.’
Jamie rose obediently from her place. She took the teacup to Graves, who was sitting in the best chair by the fire. ‘Cream and sugar, cousin?’ she asked politely, trying to avoid his sharp little eyes.
He took the cup awkwardly from her, trying to touch her fingers as he did so, but only succeeding in spilling the tea into the saucer.
Jamie’s sharp intake of breath was drowned by a gasp of outrage from her stepmother. ‘Jessamyne! How can you be so clumsy? Fetch a clean cup for Cousin Ralph. At once!’ she commanded sharply.
Holding grimly to the thought that this ordeal must soon be over, Jamie did as she was bid without uttering a single word and then retreated to her dark corner once more.
Some fifteen minutes later, Lady Calderwood rose, glancing anxiously at her husband, who seemed to be half-asleep in his chair. ‘If you will forgive us, cousin, I think we shall retire now. I am sure you agree that it is wise to keep early hours, especially in winter. The cost of candles is quite outrageous these days.’
Cousin Ralph rose to take his hostess’s hand. ‘You are only too right, dear lady. A very wise proceeding, which I also adhere to in my own establishments, particularly in the servants’ hall. They are quite profligate with candles if one does not supervise them most strictly. As I am sure you do, cousin,’ he added, relinquishing her hand and turning to Jamie.
He took Jamie’s hand in both of his, pressing it with his clammy fingers. ‘Good night, my dear Jessamyne. Sleep well. I shall see you tomorrow, as we agreed. After breakfast, do you not think?’ He raised her hand to his lips.
She managed to overcome the urge to pull away from him, but she could not suppress a shiver of loathing as his lips touched her skin once more. He looked up sharply into her face.
Jamie’s mind was racing. She must find a way of reassuring him. Oh, why did her body insist on betraying her so? She forced a rather wobbly smile. Maidenly modesty, she prayed, would be blamed for a little quiver of excitement at the thought of his proposal on the morrow.
‘Until tomorrow, then, my dear,’ he said again, letting go of her hand at last.
Jamie succeeded in waiting until she was back in her own chamber before rubbing the offended hand vigorously on the white muslin gown. She did not stop to wash. She had far more important things to do.
Jamie’s preparations were swift and methodical. First, she collected together her pitifully small store of money and a bare minimum of clothes and other necessities, which she stowed under her bed. Next, she removed the awful muslin dress and her petticoats, replacing them with her nightgown over her underthings. Finally, she lay down on her bed, extinguished her candle and drew the bedclothes up to her chin.
Then, in the darkness, she waited.
She had known that waiting would be the worst part. It seemed the threat was all around her, hovering in the gloom like an evil spirit. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus on practical, positive things. In her mind’s eye, she began to design a wondrous garden…
It seemed to take hours before the house was finally quiet. Lying on her bed, Jamie watched the moon flood the landscape with ethereal light. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks to some ancient virgin goddess for the help it would provide. Surely this was a sign that her plan would succeed?
Cautiously she slipped out of bed and across to the door. She listened carefully—there was no sound of life in the house. A quick peep into the corridor confirmed that everyone must be in bed, for no lights were to be seen.
Without lighting her candle, Jamie crept downstairs to her half-brother’s room.
Less than ten minutes later she was back with her booty, completing her preparations. The bundle was retrieved from under the bed and tied up for travelling. Her nightgown was cast aside and replaced by outdoor clothes. Wrapping Edmund’s worn cloak over the whole, she made her way down the back stairs and out, by the garden door, to the stables.
Her mare greeted her with a soft whinny and allowed herself to be led quietly out of the yard with only a rope halter.
‘Bless you, Cara,’ whispered Jamie, stroking the velvet muzzle as they reached the shadow of the outside wall. ‘I hope we can both remember the way of this. It’s been a very long time.’ Without further ado, Jamie jumped up on to a convenient outcrop and mounted, tying her bundle into the small of her back with the strings which bound it. Edmund’s old cloak covered her almost to her feet, hiding both the bundle and the fact that she rode bareback.
Holding lightly to Cara’s black mane, Jamie walked her quietly away from Calderwood Hall.
Jamie was in no hurry, since she had all the hours of night to complete less than five miles. Besides, she would not for all the world have risked her beloved old mare by travelling too fast at night.
They made good speed until they came to the edge of the wood and the end of Calderwood land. Now Jamie was grateful for the moonlight, since she had to follow less familiar paths and bridleways, some of them perilously ill-kept. ‘Only another mile down the lane, my Cara,’ she whispered. ‘Not long now.’ The mare’s ears twitched at the sound of her mistress’s voice, but she did not pause in her gentle walk.
When Jamie reached her destination, she slid down from the bay’s back and led her through the hedge and into the shelter of a belt of trees. ‘Oh, I shall miss you so much, Cara,’ she whispered, wrapping her arms round the mare’s neck. Cara whickered softly in response, nuzzling Jamie’s shoulder, then stood calmly watching her mistress as she made her final preparations.
Jamie extracted a small spade from her bundle and dug a hole under a leafless beech tree. Then she used a pair of shears to hack off much of her curly titian hair, cursing softly when she realised she had forgotten to bring anything to serve as a mirror. The hanks of hair went into the hole, followed by the shears and the spade.
As she was tying back her shoulder-length hair with a piece of black ribbon from her pack, she was surprised into a giggle by the look of interest on her mare’s face. ‘Well, Cara, what do you think of your new master?’ Cara blinked slowly. ‘Not very complimentary, are you? I admit I’ve probably made a poor fist