Isabelle Goddard - The Major's Guarded Heart

Lizzie was old enough now, though, to know that she could not afford to lose her heart to an adventurer. One day she supposed she would have to marry, heart or no heart, and doubtless Piers would be the lucky husband. He was the most dependable man she knew and, most importantly, he was willing to adore her. He would make her his goddess. She tried to imagine Justin Delacourt worshipping at her altar and the thought made her chuckle.

She wondered if he even found her attractive. He had certainly stared long and hard when she’d entered the library wearing that dress, his ever-changing eyes shading from light to dark as his glance held. Goodness knew why, since the garment was the frumpiest thing imaginable. But he had stared nevertheless and not in a pleasant way. Mrs Reynolds had confided in the bedroom that the gown had belonged to the Major’s mother, someone she called Lady Delacourt. Her tightened lips suggested to Lizzie that there was something odd about the woman. Was she dead? If so, why hadn’t the housekeeper mentioned the fact, especially since Sir Lucien had only just died himself? And if she wasn’t dead, then where was she? The dress was old fashioned, it was true, but she saw immediately that its material was richly luxurious and that it was beautifully made. Lady Delacourt must at one time have enjoyed wealth, enjoyed being spoilt, enjoyed being adored. Perhaps she had been made a goddess. If so, it was unlikely to have been her son doing the adoring. After that first amazed stare, his face had registered a dour distaste.

* * *

She had reached the front entrance of Brede House and was about to raise the cast-iron anchor that served as a knocker when the door flew open and a figure dashed past her, nearly knocking her down. It was female, wild eyed and seemingly distraught. She had a brief glimpse of a face before the woman started down the drive at the most tremendous pace. Lizzie looked after her in astonishment. It was Mrs Armitage, she was sure, the woman she had seen in the churchyard. Why was she visiting Mrs Croft and why had the visit upset her so badly that she had tossed aside all vestige of propriety?

Lizzie walked into the hall and saw that the drawing-room door had been left ajar. Cautiously advancing into the room, she spied the remnants of tea scattered across the small occasional table that her employer used when visitors called—a plate of uneaten macaroons, a teacup tossed on its side. It seemed that this had been a social call, but what kind of social call ended with a flight such as Mrs Armitage’s? Or for that matter left the hostess prostrate. Her employer was slumped into one of the armchairs, her hand to her forehead as though nursing a sick headache.

‘Mrs Croft?’ she said gently. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

At the sound of her voice, the old lady stirred and, seeing Lizzie’s anxious face looking at her from the doorway, attempted to pull herself upright.

‘No, my dear, I thank you, just a little tired.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Socialising at my age can be a little trying, you know.’

Mrs Croft evidently did not wish to dwell on whatever had occurred and Lizzie wondered if she should leave the matter. It would probably be as well to escape now before her employer recognised the outdated dress she was wearing. But she could not leave her in such a mournful state.

‘I saw Mrs Armitage,’ she mentioned quietly. ‘She passed me as I came through the door. She seemed very upset.’

The old lady did not look at her, but uttered the deepest of sighs. ‘I’m sorry you were witness to her distress. Caroline is grief-stricken and her behaviour at the moment is unpredictable.’

‘But why? I mean why is she grief-stricken?’ That sounded a little harsh, Lizzie thought, and tried to infuse more sympathy into her next words. ‘I had not realised that Mrs Armitage was so attached to Sir Lucien.’

‘Not Sir Lucien, my dear,’ Mrs Croft said gently. ‘It is her son she mourns. She has lost Gilbert.’

‘Lost as in dead?’ Lizzie queried, wide eyed.

‘Lost as in lost. You might as well know, since it is now common knowledge. Gilbert Armitage disappeared some months ago and his parents have been unable to trace him. No one seems to know a thing about his disappearance.’

‘How strange. And sad,’ Lizzie added quickly. ‘But why was she so distressed? She could have received nothing but comfort from you.’

‘That is where you are wrong, I fear. I could not give her what she wanted. She has asked me to intercede with Justin Delacourt, to put all his other concerns to one side and search for her son. I told you, did I not, that Gilbert Armitage was the closest of friends with Justin?’

‘You did. But why was she so upset with you?’

‘Because I refused. I cannot bother Justin at a time like this. He has so very recently lost his father and been left an estate which is in near ruin. It will take him an age to put it right and I know that he is desperate to return to his regiment.’

‘Could she not ask Sir Justin herself—if he is so very close to the family?’

‘She has already asked him for help, but she wanted me to add my voice to her pleas. I could not in all honesty do that. Justin has more than enough to contend with. If he has promised to help in the search, he will do so—he is a man of his word—but it must be on his terms and at a time of his arranging.’

‘And that is not what Mrs Armitage wants?’

‘No, indeed. He must drop everything. I am afraid that she is slightly unbalanced at the moment. Her son was everything to her. He was a late child, you see, a delicate boy, or so Caroline always maintained. His disappearance has sent her teetering over the edge of an abyss and none of her friends’ advice or her husband’s care has been able to prevent it.’

‘I am sorry that you have had such an uncomfortable afternoon, Mrs Croft.’ Lizzie felt genuine concern for her employer, the old lady’s pallor testifying to how badly shaken she had been. ‘Can I bring you some water, perhaps, or fetch down the footstool for you to rest more comfortably?’

‘No, but thank you for your kind thoughts, Elizabeth. I shall sit here a while and listen to the river. It is nearly high tide, you know, and already I can hear the waters lapping in the distance. It is a most soothing sound and will soon restore me.’

* * *

Lizzie took her cue and slipped out of the room and up the stairs. Once in her bedroom, she stood at the open window and listened to the same water tumbling across the small, stony beach which lay just beyond the garden. Taking up her sketch pad, she began to draw—not the river snaking below, nor the clouds above busily filling the sky. She drew a face, one she had studied well and but recently. When she had finished, she was pleased with her portrait—the strong, lean cheek bones, the eyes steady and appraising, the hair a wild halo—but she was not so pleased with herself. She should cast the Major from her mind. From the outset he had fascinated and his curt indifference when they’d first met had only sharpened her interest: he was an invitation, an enjoyable project to lighten the dull days ahead. But this morning it had taken only a very little time in his company to realise her mistake. He was far too attractive, certainly too attractive to treat lightly, and if she were sensible, she would keep her distance. She looked down at the paper on her knee. What on earth was she doing, drawing portraits of the man? She took the sheet of paper and tore it neatly in half, dropping it in the nearby waste bin. He was a footloose soldier and she must forget about him and instead school herself to appreciate the estimable Piers.

There was a soft knock on the door and Hester came in, carrying fresh bedding and towels.