It wasn’t like Bea to make jokes, let alone literary ones, and after a second of incomprehension, Cecilia let out a crack of laughter, which she hastily muffled. ‘An exemplary vegetable!’ she agreed, choking, and they snorted, and clutched each other as they were seized with irresistible waves of laughter. Perhaps it wasn’t really that funny, but they were both of them giddy already. The need to muffle their amusement made it all the more shattering, and soon they were gasping and kicking their heels, hands over their mouths.
‘Do you suppose,’ Bea wheezed after a while, wiping her eyes, ‘that Bianca too has been out trysting with somebody or other? Some lusty farmer, maybe, in the hay? It seems wrong that she should be so deprived, otherwise, now that we are all heiresses and may do as we please.’
‘I hope so, if she’s careful, though I think in reality, she’s just been sketching and painting to her heart’s content. Or, in a spirit of fairness, Miss Macintyre, with old Mr Fisk, perhaps, in one of the summerhouses.’
This picture set them off afresh, and at length, Cecilia headed off to bed smiling. She had not asked her sister, who was ordinarily such a prey to anxiety, what future might lie in any of it; Bea had paid her the same compliment. Maybe there was no future, and maybe unhappiness lurked ahead somewhere, for both of them. They could not know, and just now, she didn’t really give a fig.
27
On Sunday, the sisters readied themselves for church in good time, putting on their best new muslins and smartest black-trimmed bonnets. Miss Macintyre had never attended divine service with them before in all the time she had been their governess, considering the Church of England’s ceremonies something perilously akin to a heathen rite, or perhaps simply preferring a little precious peace on Sunday mornings, but she agreed to accompany them on this occasion. It was, they all acknowledged, their first real public appearance in Suffolk, and was therefore important; they would be widely judged by it.
There’d been no hot breakfast this morning, because Mrs Pritty had told them in a tone that invited no discussion that she was Chapel, and attended her service at an austerely early hour, in the village. The sisters did not consider the maids’ or other servants’ spiritual well-being any of their affair, just as their mother never had in London. Sunday was their chief day of rest and it was up to them how they spent it.
They set off in the dog cart with Miss Macintyre driving, and reached the tiny medieval church just outside the village in half an hour or less. The horse was let out of the traces, but hobbled, with a nosebag of oats to keep him busy; the old governess showed them how to go about this. It seemed most unlikely that anybody would steal the vehicle, or him, in this quiet place. If some rural miscreants did, they’d have to walk home.
They entered the building, which Miss Macintyre described as a fine, if decayed, example of English Gothic, and were directed to a box pew on the right of the nave, quite near the altar but not directly below it. They understood that this position of prominence was theirs by right as occupants of Albery House, though presumably, they’d have to arrange payment for it with Mr Drinkwater at some point. The elaborate box directly in front of them was empty, and probably belonged either to the elusive Lady Synett or the Pallants, who hadn’t struck anyone as likely to be enthusiastic churchgoers. Mrs Bartrum, her son at her side, was smiling and bowing to them from a box to their left, but a little further forward. This was an excellent position, as far as Cecilia was concerned, because it meant that with a little exercise of cunning, she could have the Major within her field of vision for most of the service. Fortunately for her wicked intentions, the wooden walls of the boxes here were not so high, like some others she’d seen elsewhere, that they made much of a barrier. Perhaps she was going swiftly to hell; on the other hand, she could hardly be the first woman in history who had had impure thoughts in such inappropriate circumstances, so at least she’d have plenty of interesting company.
Mrs Drinkwater was seated modestly in the front pew at the far right of the church, with her several small, freckled children, who all resembled her greatly. Bianca chose to beguile the next hour or so by making frightful faces at them whenever their mama wasn’t looking, to the extent that one of them became overexcited and had to be removed by his nursemaid. The youngest Miss Constantine was pleased, and whispered as much; as aunts more times over than any of them cared to count, it was good to keep one’s hand in.
Cecilia had no idea what Miss Macintyre or Beatrice was thinking, though she could hazard a wicked guess where Bea was concerned. For her own part, she allowed the familiar words and hymns to wash over her, responding appropriately without conscious thought, dedicated as she was to boring a smouldering hole in the back of Major Bartrum’s neck by the power of her focused gaze. She did not doubt for a second that he could feel it. Sometimes, he turned his head to the right, and then she could see his cheek, above and below the scar. It was rather pinker than it might be, she considered, given that the interior of the church could uncharitably be described as dank even on a fine spring day. Rarely, she observed, did he turn his dark head to the left, because she wasn’t over there. She was a witch. She had power over him. Possibly – oh, the infernal regions beckoned, there could be no question – he was growing aroused under her regard, hard once more, as he sat there in his extraordinarily uncomfortable seat and remembered everything that had occurred between them – literally so – the other night. She stifled an evil chuckle.
‘Stop it!’ hissed Bea, under cover of singing ‘Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing’. ‘I know exactly what you’re doing, even if nobody else does.’
‘You’re just jealous becauseshe’snot here and you can’t do the same!’ she muttered back.
‘True,’ Bea half-groaned.
Cecilia was feeling a little heated herself by the time the organ wheezed out the final hymn. As luck would have it, the Major and his mother were passing down the aisle and just at the door of their pew as they exited it. ‘After you, ladies,’ he said courteously, stepping back, and Cecilia smiled innocently up at him in response.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘It was a most affecting service, was it not, and an excellent sermon?’
‘Undoubtedly it was most affecting.’
Their eyes met and locked, before Bea, coughing theatrically at her side, recalled her wandering attention to her surroundings and forced her to move on towards the church door. If her gaze had ignited a fire in him, and she’d swear it had, his level, intent, grey stare could not fail to do the same to her. She’d always thought of grey eyes as rather cold before, but she realised now that she had been wrong. She had heard of, and during her Seasons had occasionally seen, women who feigned swooning in order to oblige the nearest man to catch them in his strong arms. She’d always rather despised the artifice, but now she might be changing her mind. Or, as Bea had said last night, losing it.
28
Mr Drinkwater could not fail to make a great deal of fuss of his four newest parishioners, whom he was just now meeting for the first time. He was full of apologies for not calling on them during the week of their residence in Suffolk, and thanked them for their kindness when they told him that they quite understood how busy he must be. Alistair knew all this, because he was standing only a couple of feet away and could hear every word. It would have been perfectly correct to smile and bow politely and move on, leaving the Drinkwaters and the Constantines together, but he had no expectation that his mother would pass out of the churchyard without taking the chance to converse with their new neighbours again. He understood that she was bent on matchmaking; his only consolation must be that she surely couldn’t have any particular Miss Constantine in mind, but instead any one of them. There should therefore be safety in numbers. If he could keep his composure, there was no reason in the world why his mama should guess that Cecilia had swiftly become the object of his interest. Though interest was far too weak a word for the emotions roiling inside him.
The trouble was, he was by no means certain that hecouldkeep his composure. In the course of his military duties, he had had some rather unconventional training along with all the regular stuff. He had been taught, and did not doubt, that people – some people, at any rate – could always tell when others were watching them. It was a sixth sense that nobody fully understood, but definitely it existed. And so he knew that Cecilia Constantine had not taken her eyes off him for the entirety of the service. She’d been behind him, on the other side of the church, so it had been impossible for him to turn fully and look at her, as he’d so wished he might, but he had felt those dark eyes on his body, a burning caress. He might also have said, more fancifully, that he could almost hear her private thoughts, and the nature of them had not been such to encourage concentration on the gospel or on Mr Drinkwater’s message. With a pistol at his head, he could not have recalled the argument of the sermon he’d just sat through.Adebtofpleasure, she’d whispered, and he could not doubt that she meant to collect it. Soon. Perhaps tonight.
All this, and he was supposed to speak to her, calmly and civilly, without betraying the least self-consciousness, in front of his mother, the vicar, her sisters and her chaperon? It was intolerable. He wanted to howl like an animal, paw the ground like a stag in rut, not make polite, inconsequential conversation about the fine weather and the chances of rain.
And that was before he considered what she might be doing with her lovely, wicked face while they spoke. Her dark, sparking eyes, her soft, red mouth… Jesus, her mouth. He did not know her – he could not claim that he did, that would be ridiculous – but still he was certain that she would quickly find some fresh way to torment him here, which yet appeared entirely innocent to others.
Mrs Drinkwater and her children arrived behind him, and his mother fell into conversation with her friend. At the same time, the vicar became aware of his presence, and smiled warmly at him. He hadn’t always attended service when his mood had been lowest, despite Mrs Bartrum’s gentle persuasion. Mr Drinkwater had never commented upon his absence, never judged him for it, but was always pleased to see him when he did appear. The kindly churchman, having ascertained that for one reason or another, he hadn’t been formally introduced to all of the Albery Hall party yet, was now performing that vital action: he was happy to present Major Bartrum to Miss Constantine, Miss Cecilia Constantine, Miss Bianca Constantine, and once again to Miss Macintyre. He bowed to each of them in turn, and murmured what he hoped were coherent civilities. The oldest sister was the only one he hadn’t set eyes on before, but it seemed unwise to mention any previous meetings. Especially, God knows, the last one.
Cecilia, it seemed, did not play by those rules. Or any rules.
‘I have seen the Major on any number of occasions already,’ she said brightly, addressing the company in general. ‘Bianca and I spoke a little with him while out walking on the sands one morning, and then Miss Macintyre and I had a brief tussle with him at the auction on Thursday. We bid against each other for a short while; it was most exhilarating and novel. I did not come off victorious, but then, neither did he. Was your mother very disappointed not to win the sofas, sir?’
Alistair could scarcely recall if she had or had not been. He responded all at hazard.Exhilaratingandnovel, indeed. ‘She was obliged to recognise that the bidding went too high for what was, after all, a mere fancy of hers, not a necessary purchase. But you were luckier than I, and walked away with something, at least. Are you pleased with your new furniture, ma’am?’
‘Oh, excessively so. They are very fine pieces, andmostcomfortable.’
In the end, she had said nothing to which anyone but him might take exception; the conversation now became more general, turning to Mrs Bardwell’s triumph at besting all comers in the famous battle of the sofas, which was apparently a great topic of interest in Debenbridge and beyond. Mrs Drinkwater and his mother had joined them by now, and Miss Macintyre presented to them, since it became apparent that they had not yet met.
The Vicarage children had grown understandably restless after an hour or more in church – Alistair could certainly sympathise – and Miss Bianca Constantine was now chasing them, giggling, around the mossy graves.
