He stood up.
‘Very well. But I must warn you, I have not accepted your refusal. I am a stubborn man, Miss Haringay,’ he said, picking up his hat.
‘In that we are alike,’ she retorted, as Gibson entered the room. ‘Mr Evington is just leaving, Gibson,’ she said.
‘Very good, miss.’
Mr Evington made her a bow. ‘Miss Haringay.’
And then, turning, he followed Gibson out of the room.
Cicely sank onto the sofa. She felt as though she had just been involved in a sparring match, instead of a formal visit. Mr Evington was like no one she had ever met. He seemed to resent the landed classes on the one hand, and yet by buying the Manor he had become one of them on the other. It was most strange.
Strange, too, was the effect he had on her. And not only by setting her skin tingling in the most disconcerting way, but by causing her to forget her manners. She had had a lot of training at keeping a civil tongue in her head, whatever the situation. She had been involved in many charitable works around the village, and was an active supporter of the Sunday school, and whilst she did not always see eye to eye with the other ladies and gentlemen who were involved in the schemes, she always managed to be polite. And yet with Mr Evington she found it almost impossible.
She thought inconsequentially of the way his eyes had flashed when she had refused his invitation. It had made them very attractive, and set her insides to dancing in the most exhilarating way.
She quickly squashed the thought. He may be young, handsome and charming, as Mrs Sealyham had said, but he was still an avaricious cit without heart or soul, and therefore a man to be avoided.
She was just about to return to the kitchen when the door opened and Alice showed herself into the room.
Alice was looking particularly well this morning. Her grey panelled skirt swirled about her ankles, and she was wearing a becoming lace-frilled blouse.
‘Have you got one?’ she asked without preamble.
‘Got one what?’ asked Cicely inelegantly.
‘An invitation. To Mr Evington’s ball,’ said Alice.
‘No. I haven’t,’ said Cicely.
‘I’m sure you will. It’s probably on its way here even now.’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Cicely. ‘You see, I don’t need one. Mr Evington has just been here, and he asked me to the ball himself.’
‘You’ve seen him?’ demanded Alice, eyes wide. ‘Well? What’s he like?’
She threw herself onto one of the sofas and looked at Cicely expectantly.
‘He is the most infuriating man I have ever met,’ said Cicely. ‘He seems to spend his time either insulting me or laughing at me. It was bad enough yesterday -’
‘Yesterday?’ demanded Alice.
Cicely gave a wry smile. ‘Mr Evington is the man who knocked me into the duck pond.’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Alice.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Poor Cicely!’ laughed Alice. ‘You’ll have to be extra careful at the ball, and make sure you don’t fall into the punch bowl!’
‘I shall not be going to the ball,’ said Cicely decidedly.
Alice looked astonished. ‘No? Oh, but Cicely . . . ’
‘No, Alice. It’s more than I can bear. To see him walking round the Manor as though he owns the place - to have to remind myself that he does own the place - will be too terrible for me. I have told him I cannot go.’
Alice’s face fell. ‘Of course,’ she said loyally. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. Well, who wants to go to a ball anyway?’
Cicely smiled, touched by Alice’s loyalty. ‘I said that I’m not going to the ball. I didn’t say that you couldn’t go.’
‘I’m not going if you’re not. They are always dull, these occasions. Always the same old people. We will stay at home instea—’
She broke off as the doorbell sounded, and a minute later another visitor was shown into the room. It was Mrs Murgatroyd.
Mrs Murgatroyd was an alarming-looking matron of five-and-forty years. Her Amazon-like figure was made even more impressive by rigid corsets, sweeping skirts and an enormous hat. But beneath her statuesque figure and her organising nature lay a woman who never refused help to those in need, and who readily took up cudgels for those too weak to help themselves.
‘Miss Haringay. I am so glad to have found you at home. Oh, Miss Babbage, I didn’t realize you were here as well.’
‘We were just talking about our invitations to the Manor and deciding we would not go,’ said Alice.
‘Quite right, too,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd, drawing herself up to her full, impressive height. ‘There is more to living in the country than buying a Manor house, and so I told him. You must do something about it, Miss Haringay. We are all relying on you. You must use your influence.’
‘My influence?’ asked Cicely. As usual, Mrs Murgatroyd had launched into the subject without preamble, expecting Cicely and Alice to know what she was talking about.
‘As a Haringay,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd, nodding forcefully.
‘I can’t stop him holding a ball if he wants to,’ said Cicely, trying to follow Mrs Murgatroyd’s conversation: a difficult thing, as she could not read Mrs Murgatroyd’s mind.
‘Not the ball,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd roundly. ‘The picnic.’ She set herself down on the sofa and folded her arms over her capacious chest.
‘The picnic?’ asked Cicely.
‘Yes, Cicely. The picnic.’
‘Are we talking about the Sunday school picnic?’ asked Cicely.
‘What else? I went to tell Mr Evington about it yesterday and he told me he had no intention of letting the Sunday school children hold their picnic on his lawns.’
‘But it’s always been held at the Manor!’ cried Cicely.
‘Exactly what I said.’
‘And?’ asked Cicely.
‘And,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd with heavy emphasis, ‘he looked at me as though I were the world’s worst busybody and told me it would not be convenient.’
‘This is too bad,’ said Cicely with a frown. ‘I must confess, when I sold the Manor, it never occurred to me that the new owner might not want it to be used for village events.’
‘Well, Miss Haringay, what are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure . . . ’ Cicely had been about to say that she was not sure there was anything she could do, particularly as she had no wish to visit the Manor, but the thought of all the children who would be disappointed if she did not act stirred her spirit. ‘You’re right, Mrs Murgatroyd, I must do something. I must make Mr Evington realize that he bought the lord of the Manor’s responsibilities along with the Manor.’
She thought of his mocking smile and she found herself looking forward to the battle.
‘Ah! That’s the idea,’ said Mrs Murgatroyd.
Cicely nodded. ‘In fact, I will go this very afternoon.’
Chapter Three
Cicely dressed herself for the third time since luncheon. She had tried on two outfits already, but neither of them had looked impressive enough. If she was going to see Mr Evington at the Manor then she needed to be looking her imposing best. She had accepted the offer of Mrs Murgatroyd’s maid for the afternoon, and Molly had laced her into a corset to give her figure a fashionable S-shape.
Over her camisole, drawers and corset she put on two petticoats, followed by a blouse with a high collar and long sleeves, decorated with pin tucks down the front and a trim of lace at the yoke. Then she stepped into her long blue skirt, which was adorned at the hem with silk braid and lace. Once settled over the petticoats it stood out at the bottom, taking on the required shape of a bell.
‘Shall I do your hair, miss?’ asked Molly.
‘Yes, please,’ said Cicely. She sat down so that Molly could reach her dark tresses.
Although Cicely had become adept at arranging her own hair into a pompadour style over the last few years, with the hair swept back from her face and then pinned over pads t
o give it its distinctive roll, she had to admit that Molly arranged it far better than she could ever do. There were no loose tendrils when Molly arranged it as there were when she did it herself, and no hint of unevenness in the shape.
Then, too, with Molly arranging her hair, she could indulge in a more elaborate style. This afternoon, whilst most of her hair was piled on top of her head, one long swathe was left loose, falling down the side of her face and spilling across her blouse.
All in all, as she slipped into her bolero jacket, pinned her feathered hat onto her hair and picked up her lace-trimmed parasol, she felt ready to face a dozen Mr Evingtons. Let him laugh at her this time if he dared!
And then she was ready to go.
‘Mrs Murgatroyd says I’m to stay and help you undress again, if you wish it,’ said Molly.
‘Oh, yes, please, Molly,’ said Cicely. ‘That would be very kind.’
‘You look lovely, miss,’ said Molly. ‘Mr Evington won’t be able to say no to you, I’m sure.’
Thanking Molly for this vote of confidence - which she had the uncomfortable feeling she would need! - Cicely set out.
The day was fine, and the walk was pleasant. Turning right out of the Lodge gates she headed up the drive, walking between the sweeping lawns that had been her mother’s pride and joy.
It cost her more than one pang to approach the Manor, not as its owner, but as a visitor. It was less than a week since she had moved into the Lodge, and it was still too soon for her to feel that she really belonged there, as she still felt she belonged at the Manor. But she pushed those feelings aside and she concentrated instead on the freshness of the air, which was rich with the scent of new-mown grass, and the sky, which was full of the trilling of birdsong. It was just the sort of day that made her feel good to be alive.
If only she did not have to spoil it all by calling on Mr Evington . . .
Still, it must be done, so the sooner she got it over with the better.
Reaching the end of the drive she crossed the turning circle. Mounting the stone steps to the front door she lifted her long skirt elegantly with one hand so that she would not trip over it, and then rang the bell. It was answered promptly by the butler, who took her parasol, and Cicely was shown into the drawing-room, where she had a chance to look round before Mr Evington joined her.
The room, she was relieved to see, was unchanged. Although Mr Evington had only been there a day, she had dreaded to find that all the good furniture would have been pushed aside and vulgar new pieces put in its place. But so far, at least, the grand old furniture she had been forced to sell along with the Manor was still there: an elegant damasked sofa, now, alas, rather moth-eaten, which had been bought by her great-grandmother; a fine pianoforte purchased by her grandfather; a variety of occasional tables; a chaise longue; and a few good chairs.
The door opened and she turned round swiftly to see Mr Evington enter the room.
She could not help but notice his look of admiration as his eyes swept over her and she felt relieved. It had been worth it, then, the time and effort she had spent on her appearance. At least this afternoon he would have no cause for mirth.
‘Miss Haringay,’ he said. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘You will not think it a pleasure, I fear, when I tell you why I have come,’ she returned.
‘No?’
‘No.’
He indicated the sofa. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
‘Thank you.’
She settled herself gracefully on the sofa. He sat down opposite her on a hard-backed chair.
‘Mr Evington, I will come straight to the point.’ If this was to be a business meeting she would conduct it in a business-like manner, she told herself. ‘I understand that you have refused the Sunday school permission to hold their picnic at the Manor this year.’
His eyes hardened. ‘Mrs Murgatroyd didn’t lose any time, then,’ he said under his breath. Aloud he said, ‘This is a private house, Miss Haringay. It is not a venue for local jaunts.’
‘That is just where you are wrong.’ She returned his look with one which was equally firm. ‘This is not a private house, it is a manor house, and it comes with obligations attached. You may not have heard of it, but there is such a thing as noblesse oblige -’
‘Nobility imposes obligations,’ he translated. ‘You see, I am not completely ignorant, Miss Haringay,’ he returned, and although there was a hint of humour in his voice, the humour did not reach his eyes. ‘But I was not aware that I was a member of the nobility. Or you either,’ he added sardonically.
‘Nevertheless, as the owner of Oakleigh Manor you have certain obligations, and one of them is to host the Sunday school picnic,’ said Cicely.
‘And if I don’t want a parcel of children running over the lawns?’ he asked innocently.
‘Then you tell yourself you shouldn’t be so selfish and host the picnic anyway,’ she returned.
His face darkened and she could tell she had hit a nerve.
‘This is too much,’ he said angrily. ‘Lessons in selfishness from -’
‘ - someone who has had everything falling into her lap from the day of her birth?’ she asked innocently. ‘Yes, Mr Evington. Exactly that. The Haringays have hosted the Sunday village activities here from time immemorial, whether they have wanted to or not, and the villagers all expect you to do the same.’
He looked annoyed, and a scowl crossed his face.
‘I can’t see what you have against the idea,’ she said reasonably. ‘Is it really so difficult for you to put the children of the village before yourself for one afternoon a year?’
‘You are adept at putting other people in the wrong.’ There was a note in his voice that told her he was not pleased, and there was a hard glint in his eyes. She had never noticed it before, but they darkened most attractively when he was angry, becoming almost black.
‘I am adept at putting other people in the wrong when they are in the wrong,’ she returned.
His brows drew together and he looked as though he would like to say something rude, but was restraining himself.
‘Please don’t refrain,’ she said, nettled at his expression.
‘From what?’ he demanded, pushing himself out of his chair and striding across to the marble fireplace, where he turned and looked down at her from beneath beetling brows.
‘From saying what you are thinking. Something along the lines of "If there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s a managing female" if your expression is anything to go by,’ she said with asperity.
To her surprise, instead of replying angrily, he laughed.
‘Miss Haringay, sometimes it doesn’t pay to be so perceptive,’ he said with a wicked gleam of humour in his eye.
She smiled, and then laughed in her turn. The atmosphere had lightened, and for the first time since she had entered the house she felt she could perhaps relax a little.
‘Come now, Mr Evington. Won’t you host the picnic?’ she asked him.