found,’ he said. The boy grabbed the coin and ran off, moving from one figure to the other.
The vicar met them half way down the lane leading to the vicarage.
Even in the moonlight, it was possible to see his face was dark with rage.
Lord Harry put his arm round Deirdre’s waist as she braced herself for the tirade to come.
Before the vicar could open his mouth, Lord Harry said quickly, ‘Congratulate me, Mr Armitage. Your daughter has done me the great honour to accept my hand in marriage.’
The vicar opened and shut his mouth like a landed cod. Rage was replaced by joy which was promptly replaced by worry.
Did Deirdre want this marriage? Or had she simply broken down under pressure?
‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘But where on earth did you go in the middle of the night, girl? I have been worried to death.’
Another lie coming up, thought Deirdre wearily.
‘I decided to go out for a walk so that I could make up my mind,’ she said, not looking at her father. ‘Lord Harry found me and I told him of my decision.’
The vicar looked at her narrowly. He did not believe a word of it. Deirdre did not look like a girl who had just been proposed to by an eligible man. She looked . . . numb.
Mrs Armitage had been having one of her famous Spasms, but rallied remarkably on hearing the news. The girls were all delighted, clustering shyly round Lord Harry in their nightgowns and curl
papers.
Deirdre accepted hugs and kisses and champagne, wishing all the time she could go to bed.
Somehow, she was sure, the real reason for her journey out into the night would soon be revealed.
She had left those wretched bandboxes. If Guy had not hidden them, Lady Wentwater’s servants would find them, and she could not explain that they were clothes meant for the poor when they
contained all her best gowns.
Only someone as stupid as Lord Harry would have believed her.
‘I’ll have a word with you in the morning, Deirdre,’ said the vicar, and Deirdre nodded dully.
As she finally went up the stairs to bed, the remembrance of that letter on the pincushion made her teeth begin to chatter. She quickened her steps and burst into her bedroom, her candle held
high.
And there was the letter. Just where she had left it.
She snatched it up and tore it into shreds and hurled it into the embers of the fire.
‘I didn’t read it,’ came a soft voice from the doorway. Daphne was standing there, watching.
‘Just as well,’ said Deirdre, forcing a laugh. ‘It was nothing but a series of household notes I meant to give Mama in the morning.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Daphne, moving into the room. ‘When you were missing and after I had sounded the alarm, I saw the letter and I thought you had run away from home. But
letters are so final. I thought if they could find you and bring you back, then no harm would have been done.’
‘What an imagination you have, Daphne,’ said Deirdre with a laugh that ended as a sob. ‘Only see how tired I am? I am nearly in tears over nothing at all!’
Guy Wentwater tossed and turned, trying to get to sleep. But despite the amount of brandy he had drunk, sleep persisted in eluding him.
His glee over the humiliation of Deirdre Armitage was beginning to turn sour but he would not yet admit to himself that he was heartily afraid of the Reverend Charles Armitage.
There had been his own ignominious hounding out of the county by the vicar. And then there had been that fellow who had tried to break up Annabelle’s marriage. He had heard the stories
about that. The vicar had whipped him out of the church and the local boys had debagged him and thrown him in the village pond.
Perhaps it would be best to say nothing about it, except perhaps to Silas Dubois, who would enjoy the story. He would leave out the bit about how Deirdre had battled her way free from three
grown men. Best tell it that she had left in tears.
Benjie Rowse and Bill Wilson would not remember the name of the girl in the morning.
The vicar met them half way down the lane leading to the vicarage.
Even in the moonlight, it was possible to see his face was dark with rage.
Lord Harry put his arm round Deirdre’s waist as she braced herself for the tirade to come.
Before the vicar could open his mouth, Lord Harry said quickly, ‘Congratulate me, Mr Armitage. Your daughter has done me the great honour to accept my hand in marriage.’
The vicar opened and shut his mouth like a landed cod. Rage was replaced by joy which was promptly replaced by worry.
Did Deirdre want this marriage? Or had she simply broken down under pressure?
‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘But where on earth did you go in the middle of the night, girl? I have been worried to death.’
Another lie coming up, thought Deirdre wearily.
‘I decided to go out for a walk so that I could make up my mind,’ she said, not looking at her father. ‘Lord Harry found me and I told him of my decision.’
The vicar looked at her narrowly. He did not believe a word of it. Deirdre did not look like a girl who had just been proposed to by an eligible man. She looked . . . numb.
Mrs Armitage had been having one of her famous Spasms, but rallied remarkably on hearing the news. The girls were all delighted, clustering shyly round Lord Harry in their nightgowns and curl
papers.
Deirdre accepted hugs and kisses and champagne, wishing all the time she could go to bed.
Somehow, she was sure, the real reason for her journey out into the night would soon be revealed.
She had left those wretched bandboxes. If Guy had not hidden them, Lady Wentwater’s servants would find them, and she could not explain that they were clothes meant for the poor when they
contained all her best gowns.
Only someone as stupid as Lord Harry would have believed her.
‘I’ll have a word with you in the morning, Deirdre,’ said the vicar, and Deirdre nodded dully.
As she finally went up the stairs to bed, the remembrance of that letter on the pincushion made her teeth begin to chatter. She quickened her steps and burst into her bedroom, her candle held
high.
And there was the letter. Just where she had left it.
She snatched it up and tore it into shreds and hurled it into the embers of the fire.
‘I didn’t read it,’ came a soft voice from the doorway. Daphne was standing there, watching.
‘Just as well,’ said Deirdre, forcing a laugh. ‘It was nothing but a series of household notes I meant to give Mama in the morning.’
‘I’m glad,’ said Daphne, moving into the room. ‘When you were missing and after I had sounded the alarm, I saw the letter and I thought you had run away from home. But
letters are so final. I thought if they could find you and bring you back, then no harm would have been done.’
‘What an imagination you have, Daphne,’ said Deirdre with a laugh that ended as a sob. ‘Only see how tired I am? I am nearly in tears over nothing at all!’
Guy Wentwater tossed and turned, trying to get to sleep. But despite the amount of brandy he had drunk, sleep persisted in eluding him.
His glee over the humiliation of Deirdre Armitage was beginning to turn sour but he would not yet admit to himself that he was heartily afraid of the Reverend Charles Armitage.
There had been his own ignominious hounding out of the county by the vicar. And then there had been that fellow who had tried to break up Annabelle’s marriage. He had heard the stories
about that. The vicar had whipped him out of the church and the local boys had debagged him and thrown him in the village pond.
Perhaps it would be best to say nothing about it, except perhaps to Silas Dubois, who would enjoy the story. He would leave out the bit about how Deirdre had battled her way free from three
grown men. Best tell it that she had left in tears.
Benjie Rowse and Bill Wilson would not remember the name of the girl in the morning.
Similar Books
