‘What?’ Maria gaped at her like a stranded fish. ‘Drive out after what happened yesterday?’
‘You think I should skulk inside like a shamed woman? We will make lists, clean the house and plan our entertainment. There are only three days and one of them is Sunday.’
Physical hard work was a therapy, Hester realised as she chivvied Maria and Susan about the house with beeswax polish, long feather dusters and black lead. For minutes at a time she could focus only upon removing every last dull patch from the drawing-room fender or vigorously scrubbing at the window panes with scrunched-up brown paper and vinegar. But then, just when she least expected it, a memory would hit her: the scent of Guy’s skin, the feel of his hair under her seeking fingers, the heat of his mouth on her breast, his words of love, his words of doubt and distrust.
Then the pain lanced through her as though she had been stabbed and she was hard put not to cry out, stopping what she was doing to push her clenched fist hard against her stomach as if to crush the pain out of existence. A strong woman, a woman of resolution and pride, would dismiss him as unworthy of her. ‘But I love him,’ Hester murmured to herself. ‘I love him.’
Over luncheon they made lists, argued about the food and drink they would need and debated whether it would be possible to buy sheet music in Tring or whether a trip on Saturday to Aylesbury would be necessary.
‘Had we better not try the piano?’ Miss Prudhome ventured. ‘I do not think it has been played since we arrived.’
A few minutes later Hester grimaced at the sound and agreed that a piano tuner had best be summoned as soon as may be. ‘Add that to the list for Tring tomorrow,’ she decided. ‘He can come on Monday. Now. I am going for a drive. Jethro, please harness Hector. Who would like to come with me?’
‘I will.’ They all spoke at once and Hester could have hugged them all. How would she be coping if she did not have friends and loyal supporters like this?
‘I will,’ Jethro said firmly. ‘I will bring the gig round to the front, Miss Hester. Mr Parrott may not think I know what is due to your position, but I do.’ He stalked off, looking determined, and Hester went upstairs to change into a walking dress and find her warmest coat, bonnet and muff.
She hesitated over a bonnet with a veil, the one she usually wore to church, then tossed it aside in favour of a frivolous confection in green velvet she had not considered suitable for the country. Guy would probably neither know, nor care, what she looked like, but it was suddenly very important to defy him, his sister, and, in spirit, those judgmental gossips who had dragged her name through the mire in London.
Jethro had drawn the gig up before the front gate and was sitting there in his best greatcoat, cockaded hat gleaming, whip cocked at a stylish angle. When Hester came out he jumped down and helped her up with ceremony before handing her the reins and sitting upright, arms folded and with an expression of great solemnity on his face.
Hester did not know whether to laugh or cry. In Jethro’s mind he was sitting on the box of the most fashionable barouche in Piccadilly and his mistress was the equal of the cream of the ton. Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Jethro, I have never regretted for an instant bringing you home that day. It was one of the best things I ever did. I hope you realise that.’
His Adam’s apple bobbed frantically with his efforts to keep some sort of control. When he spoke his voice cracked as though it was breaking all over again. ‘And I love you, Miss Hester, and I want to kill anyone who hurts you.’
‘Please don’t, Jethro, I need you too much to see you hanged. Now, I had better drive on before we both disgrace ourselves on the public highway.’
The air was crisp and frosty and, if one was in the mood, it was a delightful afternoon for a short drive. For Hester it was like stepping into a crowded room wearing a placard reading ‘Fallen Woman’. What if Lady Broome had already spread the news of her disgrace around the neighbourhood? Or perhaps she had not yet made the acquaintance of local society and this was the last time Hester could go out with her reputation intact.
She saw Mrs Bunting being driven in her dog cart by her groom and the two carriages drew up alongside to exchange greetings. The vicar’s wife beamed at her and Hester found she had been holding her breath. ‘Good day, Miss Lattimer! I must tell you that the vicar and I are much looking forward to your evening party on Monday. Such a pleasant way to begin the Christmas festivities.’
‘I’m so glad, ma’am.’ Hester managed to smile and drove on, a new dread forming. What if they all found out before the party and she did not discover it until she found herself with no guests? I’m mad to persist with this, they’ll find out sooner or later, I must leave…
She almost completed her circuit of the Green, then, at random, took one of the side lanes. Rounding a corner, she had to rein in sharply to avoid a little group standing almost in the middle of the roadway. Mrs and Miss Redland were in conversation with Guy and Lady Broome.
There was no escape short of turning the gig in the narrow lane in front of their eyes. Hester looked only at Mrs Redland and could not suppress a gasp of relief as she stepped forward with a smile.
‘My dear Miss Lattimer, how are you?’
‘Very well, ma’am.’ Somehow Hester got enough breath back to respond. She could feel the eyes of the others burning into her like a brand. ‘I must not keep you standing here in the cold; I am looking forward to seeing you on Monday.’ She raised her whip in what she hoped Mrs Redland would interpret as a general leavetaking of the group and trotted on.
‘Phew.’ Jethro sent her a sideways glance as soon as they were safely around the corner. ‘Do you think they’ll say anything to her?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think Lord Buckland would, even if he is very angry with me. But Lady Broome may feel it her duty.’
‘Then she’s a nasty, interfering old cat,’ Jethro said with some vehemence. ‘Will it not look strange that they are not at the party?’
‘Very, I fear. That in itself may be enough to start talk.’ It was easier to discuss the party, with all its uncertainties, than to think about that glimpse of Guy. She wanted to go back, jump down from the gig and throw herself into his arms, say, You are wrong about me, let me explain. But if he believed that she had been another man’s mistress and had been prepared to hide that from him, he simply did not feel for her as she thought he did. And that was an end to it.
Guy had spent hours following the confrontation between Hester and Georgiana in a state of indecision such as he had never experienced before. He had hurt Hester abominably, he knew that. It took him some time to face the fact that she had hurt him by not telling him the truth, and then longer yet admitting to himself that he had stopped her when she had tried to explain.
I love her, none of it matters. But it did matter, it was not a little thing; and the scandal it would cause in London if he married her wa
s no little thing either. Going to her until he was clear about what he had to say would only make things worse and that glimpse of her, chin high, the colour flying in her cheeks as she came upon them in the lane, haunted him.
Then there was the problem of the roses. He checked his almanac: tonight was the full moon. Two roses were due and heaven knew what else. He rang for Parrott.
‘Parrott.’