‘Which? Clear felling and replanting or coppicing?’
Damn again, the man must think him quite buffleheaded. ‘Coppice,’ he decided at random, finding he was staring into the dense thicket and assessing it as cover for marksmen. Or you could put a field gun just there and cover the whole of the little valley, sweep it with grapeshot. He shivered. No. No more fighting, no more violence, no more gripping a sweaty palm around the butt of a pistol and waiting for death. Peace, growing things, love. That must be it, he was feeling dynastic as a result of seeing all that death and destruction.
‘Where to next?’ Ashe stretched, standing in the stirrups, suddenly aware of the warmth of the sun on his back, the scent of flowers and hay, the sheer delight of the English countryside in summer. For the first time in a very long time—other than when he was making love to Bel—he was aware of his body and of feeling pleasure in it and its reaction to everyday things.
‘The Home Farm?’ Barrington suggested. ‘I need to talk to you about reroofing the long barn.’
‘Race?’ Ashe did not wait for a reply, but turned the gelding’s head towards home, conscious of the power gathering itself between his thighs, of the muscled curve of the animal’s neck as it strained against the bit. ‘Get up!’ As the hooves beat a tattoo along the packed chalk of the track, Barrington’s dapple grey thundering behind, he found himself wondering if Bel would enjoy this, whether she enjoyed the countryside, whether he could, after all, hold a house party and invite her.
He beat his estate manager into the yard by a length and reined in, laughing. ‘I’m thinking of holding a house party, Barrington. What do you think?’
‘Lady Dereham would be delighted, I image,’ the other man responded, swinging down out of the saddle and looping his reins through a ring on the wall.
Yes, she would and there was the rub. It was madness to contemplate bringing Bel here. He could not hope to hide their relationship from close scrutiny by his family, especially as his mother would probably consider her a most eligible candidate for his hand. And besides, they were due to go down to Brighton soon. It would cause endless speculation if he reversed those plans.
Sobered, he put his hands in the small of his back and craned to study the sagging ridgeline of the barn roof. ‘Before Christmas, perhaps. This roof, now, is in a poor state,’ he commented. ‘It’ll either have to be done now, quickly, before we want to bring the harvest in or it’ll have to wait the winter out.’
It would surprise Bel if she could see him now, standing in a farmyard and worrying about barn roofs and the harvest. What was she doing? he wondered.
Bel was, for once, not thinking about Ashe. She stood in the middle of Madame Laurent’s elegant dress shop and sighed in exasperation. ‘But don’t you want a new gown Elinor?’
‘I do not need one.’ Elinor set her mouth stubbornly. ‘We came to shop for you, not for me. What use do I have for a full dress outfit? I never get invited to that sort of occasion.’
‘Then buy a half-dress ensemble and work up to it! Something that is not fawn or beige or taupe for a change.’
‘They are practical colours,’ Elinor said calmly.
‘Not for evening wear.’
‘I do not need evening wear.’
They were going around in circles. Madame Laurent had tactfully withdrawn her assistants to the back of the shop when it was obvious that a fullscale debate was about to ensue between one of her most favoured new clients and her drab companion.
‘How are you ever going to meet men if you do not attend evening functions?’ Bel asked in a whisper, driven to a frankness she had intended to avoid.
‘I meet men at lectures and during the day on business. I meet quite enough of them for my purposes—which do not include marriage!’
‘Don’t you want to get married?’ Bel exclaimed, keeping her voice down with difficulty.
‘No. I do not. And you don’t either, you say, so why are you trying to persuade me?’
‘Because I do not think you are happy at your mother’s beck and call and, just because my marriage left me disinclined to repeat the experiment, there is no reason why you should not find a husband you could like.’
What was the matter with her? She wanted to matchmake, to set to couples—yet Elinor was quite correct, she most certainly did not want to remarry herself. But, of course, she had the best of both worlds: the freedom of a widow and the attentions of a lover.
‘I am sorry,’ she said pacifically. ‘I am getting carried away. Perhaps a husband is a step too far. But I am so fond of you and I hate to see you wasting your looks so. Why not wear colours that suit you? Clear greens, ambers, strong, rich browns. Red, even.’ It seemed outrageous that her cousin with her striking colouring should look so drab. ‘Madame?’
‘Your ladyship?’ The modiste hurried forward from the rear of the shop.
‘What do you have that would set off my cousin’s colouring and that would be suitable for a nice, practical walking dress?’
‘I have the very thing my lady, newly come in. Paulette, the ruby twill and the emerald broadcloth.’
Elinor rolled her eyes. ‘I have better things to do with my pin money.’
‘To please me?’ Bel tried again. And Mr Layne, perhaps. She was not going to give up hope. He was not boring, his temper appeared lively yet equitable and he was intelligent and hardworking. Perfect.
So perfect, in fact, that Bel was conscious that, if it were not for Ashe, she might feel a fluttering of her own pulse at any attention from Patrick Layne. As it was, she could indulge in a little harmless, and probably futile, matchmaking and enjoy his company, quite unruffled.
Bel managed to persuade Elinor into a walking dress and a carriage dress and even a new pelisse to go with either. Both were rigorously plain, but a least none of the garments were dun-coloured.
‘Where to now?’ Elinor asked patiently, evidently resigning herself to a further round of shopping.
‘Hookham’s Library.’ Bel’s driver raised his whip in acknowledgment and the ladies settling back on the cream squabs. ‘I hope that is all right with you?’ Elinor nodded, no doubt relieved to be back on safe and familiar ground again. ‘I would like some new novels, but I mainly want to find some directories which will tell me about charitable institutions.’
‘You wish to contribute?’
‘Well, yes, if you mean money. But I want to do more than that, I want to do something practical to help. I feel I live such a frivolous life now I have no responsibilities to the estate. The dilemma is, I cannot choose what type of good cause I wish to support, let alone which one. You would think it would be easy, but there are so many, all no doubt deserving in their way.’
They were still comparing the merits of various types of charity as the barouche swung into Bond Street and began to draw up outside the circulating library. The crowd on the pavement seemed strangely animated, then Bel saw that the porters who opened doors and ushered in customers were attempting to drive away a pair of men in stained uniforms. Both were on crutches, one with the lower part of his right-hand trouser leg pinned up, the other dragging a useless limb.
‘On your way,’ the head porter was ordering. ‘This is a respectable establishment. We don’t want the likes of you begging here.’
‘Outrageous!’ Bel jumped from the carriage without waiting for the steps to be put down and marched up to the group before the doors.
‘Just what I said myself, ma’am.’ The porter