Elizabeth Elgin - I’ll Bring You Buttercups

And she must face Brattocks Wood again. She had promised Mr Giles, him being away seeing the agent, that she would take Morgan out; had said it would be all right, that the doctor had even suggested that she do it.

‘A bit like falling off a horse,’ he’d assured her. ‘You get straight back in the saddle …’

Yet now here she was at the woodland fence – unsure, and wanting to keep Morgan beside her, even though she was certain that Tom would be there and Elliot Sutton would not; even though her hatpin, on good advice, was secure beneath the lapel of her jacket.

‘You never know,’ Tilda said sagely, recounting one of her love-book heroines who had defended her virtue with the pin from her Sunday hat.

‘No,’ Alice whispered to the animal who had become used to being released at the fence. ‘Stay now, there’s a good dog.’ Carefully manoeuvring the lead from hand to hand, she climbed the stile, then stood, ears straining for the snapping of a twig that might betray some other presence. But Tom walked without sound as a keeper should, and the silence comforted her. ‘Tom?’ she called. ‘Tom Dwerryhouse?’

At once she heard his answering whistle. It was all right! He was waiting for her! Bending, she released the lead, relief pulsing through her. Nothing could harm her, she should have known it, and taking in a deep, calming gulp of air, tilting her chin high, she began to walk the narrow, moss-edged path.

She needed to see Tom, she urged silently; wanted him to hold her, touch her, because last night she had discovered the depths to which a man could sink and she needed to be sure that men like Elliot Sutton were few and far between. She wanted to close her eyes and lift her mouth to Tom’s so she might forget the way another man had kissed her; but most of all she wanted to know she had not changed, that what had happened only a few yards from this spot had not caused her to mistrust all men – even Tom, who loved her.

‘Alice, sweetheart …’

He was there, Morgan at his heels; the same Tom. So why did some strange voice inside her demand she must be sure that he should know the line that divided love from lust – and never step beyond it?

‘Alice?’ He walked slowly to where she stood, rooted to the ground, her feet all at once useless.

She ran her tongue round her lips, then moved them consciously into the shape of a smile, thinking for one wild moment to turn and run back to the stile and climb it again; place it like a barrier between them. But she did not, could not.

‘You came, then,’ she murmured, eyes on her boots.

‘You knew I would. I came at teatime, too, though I thought you’d not want to venture here again just yet.’

‘I did, though. Well – Morgan is with me,’ she defended.

‘Aye. He’ll not let anyone harm you.’ Carefully, as if she were some small, cornered animal, he raised his hand; gently he placed his fingertips to her face.

‘Poor little love. Does it hurt bad?’

‘Hardly at all. It looks worse than it is.’

‘I wanted to kill him, last night,’ he muttered, thickly. ‘I wish I had.’

‘No, Tom. Never wish that – he’s not worth it.’

‘He harmed you, dirtied you. I’ll not forgive him for that!’

‘It’s over,’ she urged, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘It’s behind me.’

‘But is it behind you? Can you be sure, lass? Can you be certain that what happened hasn’t set you against me, against all men?’

‘No!’ she cried, unnerved that he could look into her eyes and read the thoughts behind them. ‘Why should I think that?’

‘I don’t know, though I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But I won’t ever harm you, and you must know it, or there’s no future for you and me. So tell me why you’re holding yourself back from me – because you are …’

‘Tom!’ She glanced wildly around her, unwilling to meet his gaze. ‘How am I to know? How can I be sure that once we’re wed you won’t turn into –’

She stopped, tears choking her words, sudden fear making her want to run away from this encounter; run back to the warmth of Rowangarth kitchen; to Mrs Shaw and Mary and Tilda and Bess. And Miss Clitherow, looking down her nose.

‘That I won’t turn into an animal like the one that attacked you last night? Well, I won’t, Alice. I love you. It would be sweet and gentle between us.’

‘And you wouldn’t change, and look at me wild? And you wouldn’t hit me, tear at me? Because, Tom, if that’s the way of it, if that’s the way it happens …’

‘It isn’t the way of it. With love between us it’ll be giving, not taking. And I shall make you want me, sweetheart, not make you feared of me. Loving, real loving, isn’t like it was with him, I promise you it isn’t.’

‘Then you’ll give me time …?’

‘All the time it takes. All the time in the world.’

‘Tom!’ She took a step towards him; one small step across the divide, and it was all she needed. ‘I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to think as I did. And I’d be obliged if you would kiss me like you always do when we meet, for I’ve wanted you near me so much, even though I was afraid …’

‘Alice, my little love.’ Gathering her to him, he rocked her in his arms, whispering into her hair, hushing her, waiting until he felt her relax against him. Then he tilted her chin as he had done the first time, and placed his mouth tenderly on her own. ‘Will I kiss it better for you?’ He murmured, his lips over the bruising on her face, all the time making little comforting sounds, as if she were a frightened bird he had loosed, hurt, from a poacher’s trap. ‘I love you, Alice Hawthorn; love you – do you hear me?’

‘And I love you. And you aren’t like him – I think I always knew it. But forgive me for doubting?’

Slowly she raised her arms, clasping them around his neck, lifting her face for his kiss.

‘Will I tell you something?’ he smiled. ‘Reuben told me an’ it’s on Mr Giles’s orders. If that Sutton so much as sets foot on Rowangarth land, he’s to be treated like we’d treat a poacher. My, but I wish he’d try it. I’d like nothing better than to kick his backside off the place. Hell! I do so detest that man!’

‘Then don’t. He isn’t worth your hatred. Elliot Sutton will get what he deserves one day, so leave him, Tom; leave him to God. Promise me?’

And because he loved her, his lips formed the words she wanted to hear, whilst secretly he swore he’d have justice for her, should chance ever offer the means.

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Then damned himself for a liar.

Friday came in clear and blue and bright, so that Tilda didn’t grumble overmuch at leaving her bed an hour earlier to clear the oven flues of soot, and when Mrs Shaw made her sleepy-eyed appearance, the kitchen range shone with blacklead polish, the fire glowed red, and a kettle puffed lazy steam from its spout.

‘Good girl, Tilda,’ Cook approved. ‘You’d best mash a sup of tea and make us a couple of toasts. And them as lies in their beds till the dot of six are going to miss out on it, aren’t they? Think we might open a jar of the strawberry,’ she added comfortably, knowing the kitchenmaid’s fondness for her ladyship’s special conserve, and knowing too that so small a reward would be repaid in extra effort during the day ahead; the hot, hectic, dinner-party day just beginning.

William called, ‘Hup!’ and the horses broke into a canter. On the carriage floor lay the ice, collected from the fishmonger in Creesby, and, atop it, to keep it cool, a parcel of lobster meat for Mrs Shaw’s thick fish soup.

Fuss and bother, that’s what dinner parties were, the coachman brooded. All coming and going and do this, William, do that. He brought down the reins with a slap. Best get a move on or Miss Clitherow would glare and he’d be in trouble with Cook an’ all. She could be a bit of a battleaxe when the mood was on her, none knew it better than William Stubbs, though she was usually good for a sup of tea and a slice of cake when it wasn’t. But all thoughts of fruit cake were quickly dismissed from William’s mind when there were matters of greater importance to think on. The carry-on in Brattocks, for one, and the to-do it had caused at Pendenys. He’d got it from the under-gardener there, so it was fact – Elliot Sutton with a badly face; his father going on something awful, and Mrs Clementina throwing a fit of the vapours so that Doctor James had to be brought in the motor.