‘They are in your dressing room, Papa.’
‘What were you reading?’ His voice rapidly regaining its strength, her father approached the bed and, stooping, picked up her book, staring in curiosity at the gold letters on the spine.
Slowly the colour drained from his face. He held the book out towards her and shook it. ‘Where did you get this … this obscenity?’ he hissed. His voice was tight with anger.
Caroline had gone white. ‘Please give it back, Papa. It is mine –’
‘No!’ He was beside himself with fury. ‘This goes on the fire where it belongs. I don’t believe – I cannot believe that you knew what you were reading! That a daughter of mine should dream of opening such a book –’
‘Papa –’
‘Enough!’ His voice was strident, his need for medicine forgotten.
Caroline clenched her fists. ‘Papa, I am a grown woman, old enough to decide what to read for myself.’
‘No woman under any circumstances should be permitted to read anything that … that monster of depravity has written, Caroline.’ He turned away. ‘I would never have allowed your mother to do so, and I shall not allow you to do so, either.’ At the door he stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘We shall talk of this again tomorrow,’ he said ominously, and he closed the door.
For several moments Caroline stood still. Fury and indignation vied with sorrow for her beloved book and fear of what her father would do to punish her, grown woman or not. For a moment she blinked back humiliating tears, then galvanised into action by the same streak of rebellion that had driven her to seek refuge from the party earlier she began once more to get dressed.
How dare he!
He dared because he was her father and he knew best.
But he didn’t know best! He had never read Lord Byron’s work, of that she could be almost certain. He, like so many others, was reacting to the unnamed scandals to which her sister with a whisper had hinted. Terrible scandals. What they were she could not guess. And she did not care. Nothing anyone said about him made his poetry less beautiful. Caroline felt the heat of the night caress her languid body as she eased her wrap more loosely around her shoulders. The air had became almost unbearably humid. She pinned her long hair back off her neck in a heavy looped knot and still barefoot, let herself silently out of the room.
The Rectory was in darkness. She padded down the broad staircase and hesitated for a moment at the bottom outside her father’s study door. All was silent within and she could see no light beneath it. He must have gone to bed. Turning she pushed through the door which led to the kitchens at the back of the house. The fire in the range was not damped down as it should have been. It was burning brightly. Peering in she could make out the blackened edge of the binding of her book in the heart of the coals. He had been as good as his word. With a sob she slammed the range door shut.
The key to the garden door was missing from its hook. For several seconds she stared at the empty place in the long line of keys, then again she rattled the door. It was locked fast.
With a sob of anger and frustration she turned and made her way to the front hall. The Rectory was completely silent save for the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Cautiously she opened the door into the vestibule and putting her hand on the front door knob she turned it. That door too was locked. She was trapped in the dark, silent house.
Back in her room it was hours before she slept.
At breakfast her father was quick to tell her her fate. He had obviously spent at least part of the night thinking of a suitable punishment for his errant daughter.
‘You have behaved like an irresponsible child, Caroline.’ He put his hand to his forehead dramatically. ‘Yet I cannot believe you knew what you were doing. If I did …’ he paused, shaking his head sadly, ‘I don’t know what punishment would be sufficient, but as it is, I put your sin down to ignorance rather than the intention of knowingly reading such … such filth. Each evening from now on, child, you will read and then learn a passage from the Bible which I shall mark for you, to cleanse and purify your mind.’
Spooning some devilled kidneys onto his plate as he spoke he never looked at her face, never saw the anger and indignation in her eyes. Already he had moved on, to talk of their parish visits, of the Sunday school picnic she was to organise, and of the garden party the day before. It never crossed his mind that she might defy him.
Still seething with anger, she was putting on her bonnet, ready for the first of those parish visits when Charles Dawson was shown unexpectedly into the morning room.
‘Mr Hayward. Miss Hayward. Forgive me. I see that you are about to go out!’
Caroline felt her mouth go dry. So this was it. He was going to tell her father himself about her unladylike behaviour at the party and that would seal her fate. Her father would be convinced of her utter depravity! She felt Charles’s eyes on her, and defiantly she raised her own to meet them.
‘Thank you for your hospitality yesterday,’ she murmured. ‘My father and I enjoyed our visit to the palace so much.’
‘Did you indeed, Miss Hayward?’ His tone was lightly mocking. ‘I’m so pleased. It would have been so easy for one such as yourself to become bored.’
‘Indeed not …’ Caroline replied, flustered, but already her father was interrupting.
‘Oh come, sir, my daughter enjoyed every moment of it, as I did. I have of course already written to your mother to thank her for her hospitality – Charles.’ He hesitated slightly before using the younger man’s first name. ‘Her parties are renowned throughout the county, you know.’
‘Indeed they are.’ Charles bowed and Caroline caught the slightest quirk of his eyebrow. ‘I shall however tell her that you enjoyed yourselves. Particularly you, Miss Hayward. I am sure she will ask you again.’
Was he deliberately taunting her? Trying to keep her intense embarrassment hidden, Caroline glanced at him angrily from beneath her lashes, but his face was bland as he turned back to her father.
‘Forgive me calling so early, Mr Hayward, but I had to be in the area on business and I felt I must call in to say good morning.’ He smiled. ‘It did worry me that Miss Hayward did not seem to be herself yesterday.’
Both men looked at Caroline.
Her father frowned. ‘She seemed all right to me.’
Caroline clenched her fists. ‘Of course I was all right, Papa. I can’t think what Mr Dawson means.’
He was enjoying himself hugely. She was sure of it now.
‘You looked pale, Miss Hayward. Several people remarked upon it,’ he went on solicitously.
‘Did they indeed. How kind of them to comment.’ She could feel herself growing more cross and agitated by the second. ‘If so, it must have been because of the heat.’
‘Indeed it must.’ He bowed assent with a smile. ‘And it is going to be hot again today. Already the hills are covered in heat haze. I suspect that storm is not too far away.’ He smiled again. ‘However, I must not delay you any longer.’ He turned towards the door and snapped his fingers at Polly who was waiting in the hall. As she brought him his hat and cane he turned back and held out his hand to Caroline.
‘Miss Hayward.’ He bowed slightly over her fingers. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Hayward.’ Then he had taken his hat from Polly and with another bow he had gone.
George looked after him with a frown. ‘Charming young man. Such style. And showing such concern to come and ask after your health.’ He sighed. ‘A pity you could not have married someone like him, my girl, while you had the chance.’ He shook his head. ‘A great pity. And now it is too late. You won’t marry now, I don’t suppose.’ Unaware of the cruelty of his remark