Page 10 of The Book of Lost Stories

Taking the Waters

Raymundo fixed his burning, dark blue orbs on Malvina’s white and anguished countenance.

‘Be mine, or this chamber will be your tomb, for there is but one way out, and that will be sealed if you do not give me the answer I desire by the morrow.’

The Travails of Lady Malvina by ORLANDO brOWNE

Mr Pullen stayed in the carriage when they reached Knaresborough, warmly wrapped in a travelling rug and with the newspaper to amuse him, while the rest of the party went to view the Dropping Well.

They were fascinated by the strange array of objects hung there to petrify in the water and, in exchange for a few coins, an elderly man told them the history of the well, and pointed out some of the more interesting items.

‘Were my cousin James here, I expect he could have lectured us at great length on the scientific explanation of the phenomenon,’ Alys commented to Nell. ‘I am so glad he is not.’

‘Is Mr Basset of a scientific turn of mind?’

‘He thinks he is, but in reality his understanding is no more than moderate.’

‘Have you seen enough, girls?’ Lady Basset enquired. ‘Shall we take a turn along the riverbank before returning to the carriage? There seems to be quite a pretty walk there and I believe the rain will hold off a while yet.’

Alys was surprised, since her aunt did not in general care for exercise, but she and Nell were very happy to accompany her even at Lady Basset’s dawdling pace.

They were enjoying the lovely prospect and the fresh air until Nell, happening to look round, espied a tall figure dressed for riding in breeches, top boots and a blue cutaway coat, striding rapidly towards them.

‘Alys, look. It is Lord Rayven!’ she exclaimed, clutching her friend’s arm. ‘What can he be doing here?’

‘What indeed?’ Alys said drily, for it could be no mere coincidence that brought him to this exact spot.

Glancing suspiciously at her aunt, Alys espied a momentary gleam of complacency on her face, before she greeted his lordship with expressions of surprised pleasure, which he met with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic bow.

Nell made a frightened schoolgirl’s bob and Alys dropped him the slightest of curtsies before turning to Lady Basset and saying, ‘Aunt, it looks increasingly like rain. Perhaps we should be making our way back to the carriage. I am sure Mr Pullen will be wondering what has become of us.’

Nell, who always seemed to be struck dumb with terror in the vicinity of his lordship, squeezed her arm gratefully, but Lady Basset appeared to be about to disagree.

Then one or two large drops of rain darkened the dusty path and she changed her mind, especially when she recalled that she was wearing her best bonnet.

‘Perhaps we had better turn back, girls, after all,’ she agreed reluctantly.

‘In that case, perhaps I may be permitted to escort you to your carriage?’ Lord Rayven suggested, clearly not a man to recognize a snub, and Lady Basset agreed with unbecoming alacrity.

Somehow, she manoeuvred it so that she walked on ahead with Nell, whose pace she declared suited her own, so that Alys had perforce to take his lordship’s arm and follow on behind.

‘Let us admire this vista for a moment or two,’ he said, restraining her when she would have set off immediately after the others.

‘Or rather, let me admire you, for I had not believed until today that grey could be so becoming. Your spencer and ribbons are the exact clear shade as your very beautiful eyes. Besides, this is the first opportunity I have had to speak to you entirely alone and uninterrupted. Let us not waste it.’

To her annoyance Alys felt herself blush at the compliment and looked about nervously, but other than the slowly receding figures of her aunt and Miss Pullen, could see no other visitors, even though there had been several earlier at the well. They were all alone under a leaden and threatening sky.

She looked up doubtfully at Lord Rayven and for just one moment the incredulous idea that he might be about to propose to her crossed her mind. Then it was as quickly dismissed: he had been attentive enough since their first meeting, it was true, but not in any loverlike way.

‘Sir, there is nothing you need say to me that cannot be said before others,’ she said firmly. ‘Besides, the sky grows darker every minute and I am sure we are in for a downpour. I would prefer to return to the carriage immediately .’

‘Demure as a nun’s hen to the last!’ he said, with a curl of his lip. ‘But come, Miss Weston, you do not need to pretend to me to be anything other than what you are, and I think you and I could get on very well without the excellent Lady Basset.’

Alys tried – and failed – to remove her hand from his arm, for he put his other hand over it and held it firmly. ‘I do not know why you always refer to my aunt in that sneering way.’

‘Come, you know she is no more a lady than that mallard over there! That she has been an actress is writ plain all over her.’

‘She was an actress before her marriage, but I am sure that is not a criminal offence,’ Alys said tartly.

He looked down at her and smiled, a glint of admiration in his dark blue eyes. ‘You play the part of reluctant innocent so admirably that, were it not for your companion, I would perhaps have been entirely taken in.’

Finally managing to pull her arm from his grasp with a great wrench, Alys turned, backing away a little and stared at him, or rather, up at him, since he was of commanding build and towered over her, even though she was above the average height.

‘Sir, I do not understand your meaning, but I find the tone of your remarks offensive, and your manner ungentlemanly!’

‘Bravo! Like Lady Basset, you were clearly cut out for the stage, my dear. Such big, soulful eyes and demure air.’ He kissed his fingers and smiled at her in a most discomfiting way. ‘A very prime article, indeed.’

‘Lord Rayven,’ she began again uncertainly, for in her limited experience no man had ever said such things to her and she was unsure what he meant or, indeed, how to extricate herself. ‘I would like to return to my aunt at once .’

‘Oh, very good!’ he applauded. ‘And perhaps the bargain should be struck with her, but I thought we would deal better together, gloves off.’ He moved closer and said in a low, intimate voice, ‘Come, what do you say? I must return to London tomorrow on urgent business. If you go with me I will set you up in prime style in your own little establishment and, provided you do not share your favours while under my protection, you will find me generous to a fault.’

‘Return to London with you … little establishment?’ Her head reeled as she stared blankly at him.

‘Yes, you are a pretty little thing, and would cut quite a dash in fine gowns and jewels,’ he suggested, insinuating a muscular arm about her slim waist and pulling her closer.

‘I am sure your object in coming to Harrogate was to inveigle some old gentleman into marriage and I dare say with a little more encouragement Colonel Lamphlet would oblige, but take it from me, you would have much more fun in London under my protection. Come, let us seal the bargain!’

The hard, sure pressure of his kiss woke her from a horrified trance as illumination finally dawned and, recalling half-understood passages from the letters of her aunt’s worldly friend, Lady Crayling, the precise nature of the offer he was making her suddenly became clear.

Furious outrage flooded her veins in a molten, invigorating rush, and she thrust him away from her with such a mighty and most unladylike shove that it caught him entirely unawares and off balance.

Staggering back, he caught the heel of his boot in the twisted root of an importunate willow, causing him to fall with an almighty splash into the river. A great cascade of displaced water shot into the air and then rained down on a gaggle of ducks, who fled, quacking indignantly.

It was fortunate that at this point the river was quite shallow.

Alys stared, transfixed, as Lord Rayven slowly rose to his feet like a modern-day Neptune, his wet coat and breeches clinging modishly, if immodestly, to his admirable form.

It was a vision that reminded her forcibly of the jewelled figure of a sea god she had found in her mama’s jewellery box.

Damp tendrils of black hair clung to his brow, and he had an indescribable look on his face, as several conflicting emotions tried to express themselves at once: incredulity, anger and amusement all vied together.

Amusement seemed to win. Laughing, he emptied the water out of his hat, flourished it as he bowed deeply, then, with a measuring look in his eyes that she feared boded her ill, began to wade back to the shore.

The spell of horrified fascination broke. Picking up her muslin skirts, Alys ran for dear life along the riverbank, towards the safety of the carriage.

There was no sound of pursuit, and she presumed he had thought better of whatever devilish impulse she’d seen in his eyes and would ride straight home.

He would be, if possible, even wetter by the time he got there, for it came on to rain heavily just as Alys reached the carriage.

This was fortunate, since her lame explanations for her solitary return, blazing cheeks and distracted manner were overlooked in hastening to a nearby inn, where they could shelter while taking refreshment.

Alys felt it a deep pity that a lady – especially a young lady – could not call for the brandy.

And it was even more of a pity that she had not pushed Lord Rayven into the Dropping Well, where he could be hung, petrified, among all the other items, like an awful warning of what could befall so-called gentlemen who grossly insulted innocent maidens.

*

Lord Rayven, still grinning, had waded out of the river and looked admiringly after Alys’s rapidly diminishing figure, white skirts fluttering. Her gown did not seem to impede her in the least: he had not thought any young lady could run so fast.

And lady she had undoubtedly proved to be, despite being paraded about the town – and even brought to his very house!

– by a vulgar woman who seemed little better than a procuress showing off her wares.

If Miss Weston had been puzzlingly quiet and self-possessed, using no arts to attract other than those nature had supplied by way of beautiful and expressive grey eyes and glossy chestnut curls, he had thought it all part of their plan.

Something crackled underfoot and he picked up a letter, which she must have dropped. It was addressed to a Miss Grimshaw and, in addition to being slightly marred by the muddy imprint of his boot heel, the wafer that had sealed it was broken.

He hesitated a moment, before giving in to curiosity and opening it, hoping that it might give him some insight into Miss Weston’s real character … which it did. It most certainly did.

It also showed him that, even without his crass error, she held him in unalterable dislike, comparing him with the villain in some trumpery novel she was playing at writing.

When he looked up, the flying figure had vanished beyond a turn in the pathway.