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  “What happened to your father’s estate?”

  “I sold it after I came back from India—paid off the mortgage and had nearly enough left to buy myself a new jacket in London. The work of Weston. Like it?” he asked, fingering his coat.

  “Exquisite.” We had reached the house. As I was feeling warm myself, I took for granted Mr. Gamble was also and invited him in for refreshment, to repay his civility in seeing me home. I also wished to find time to work the subject around to Lady Irene, in some subtle manner. He had not mentioned her.

  “That sounds delightful. Would it be possible for us to sit in the garden? Yours is so lovely,” he said, looking to the left, where a tangle of honeysuckle fought their way to the sun, hampered by sweet peas. There were some dispirited roses in there somewhere.

  I physically blushed for the condition of it. “It’s a mess,” I admitted quite frankly. “I was used to take some pride in it, but lately ... We are very busy, you know.’’

  He continued looking at it, seeming to inhale its jumbled profusion. “I don’t care for these new-fangled gardens where every bloom is placed artistically, all of a new improved variety, and nothing ever to be touched on pain of having your fingers cut off. May I?” he asked playfully, touching a honeysuckle, which he snapped off and smelled before sticking it into his vest.

  “Of course. Nothing is improved here.”

  “My mother had such a garden as this,” he said.

  I had never thought of Mr. Gamble as having had a mother, which is rather absurd when I put it down in black and white, but you know what I mean. There was nothing of the boy in him—he was all mature man. “There were pretty little purple flowers in the autumn. What would they have been?”

  “Asters, perhaps.” As he sank into a reverie of his mother’s garden, I walked to the backhouse door and called for ale, and a glass of lemonade for myself. We pride ourselves a little on growing lemons. We have the only trees for ten miles around, though of course Wingdale imports the fruit by the barrel.

  When I returned, I noticed Gamble’s gaze had roved from the garden to the house—there was an angled view of the front and the side from where we were silting. The wistful air was still with him, but I think it was for the fading grandeur of Ambledown now, not his mother’s garden. He was too polite to say it, but he was surely thinking what I so often thought myself, that it was a pity to let such a fine home sink into disrepair. It was little better than a derelict in its outward appearance, though I will add it was better preserved within, where women were in charge of its upkeep.

  The drinks arrived, carried on a tin tray by Effie, our kitchen servant, who curtsied prettily. Effie always made a good appearance, having been jawed into clean aprons and tidy hair by Nora and me. Never immune to a pretty face, Gamble smiled and made a few jokes with her. It, or something, put him in a good mood. He leaned back with a sigh of luxury and took a deep quaff.

  “Miss Barwick,” he said suddenly, leaning forward in a businesslike way gentlemen seldom adopt with a lady, “I have a suggestion which your pride is not going to like. I suspect your reluctance to go over to Stickle Tarn and buy Becky has to do with a lack of ready blunt. It was foolish, inconsiderate I mean, of Edward to have gone on his tour without leaving you any emergency funds. I hope you will let me loan you the sum required till he returns. The mishap is my fault, and we are neighbours after all, not strangers.”

  “No, no, it is not at all necessary,” I said quickly. “You are quite mistaken.”

  “No, Miss Barwick, I ain’t,” he answered baldly. “No good sheep farmer, which I give you credit for being, would think for two minutes of buying a fixer unless he already had a good general sheep dog. If you plan to have only the one, it is one of Ritson’s Border collies you want. I see no other reason for not getting this Becky your shepherd spoke of than lack of blunt. I’ll go over to Stickle Tarn and pick her up for you. You won’t have the burden of making the trip with me, which is the only other reason for your refusal that I can think of.”

  “It is kind of you to offer. Actually Edward left me plenty of money,” I lied glibly, “and if he had not, I have good friends from whom I would be more apt to borrow than from a ... a...” I came to a dead halt. I could suddenly think of no word in the world to finish the statement that would not be an insult to my guest. Instead of helping me out of my dilemma he sat looking, first with interest, then gradually with amusement.

  “Yes?” he asked, leaning back to wait.

  “A westerner,” I finished, with an embarrassed smile.

  “I expect that is as bad an insult in your view as what you originally intended saying, but I can hardly take exception to the term.”

  “You must learn to despise anyone who comes from a point west of Thirlmere if you hope to settle peacefully here, Mr. Gamble,” I rallied him.

  “I expect they’ll be calling me a demmed soft easterner, next time I go home to visit. I’m glad you have not taken into your head to be offended with my offer. I meant no harm, I assure you.”

  I muttered some sound of approbation. His glass was about empty, raising a hope he would take his leave. I had done all that politeness demanded, and a good deal more than I ever expected I would. He did nothing of the sort, but crossed one leg over the other, hinted outrageously for a refill, and settled in for a neighbourly chat.

  “It is unfortunate that we should be virtual strangers, Miss Barwick, particularly when we will soon have something in common. I refer to my new career as a sheep farmer. Where would you recommend I apply for fellside for grazing? Heaf, we called it in the west.”

  “We speak the same language here in the east. We are not such total strangers as that.”

  “Since Leroy sold his flock and Chapman is turning brewmaster, I might get the fellside between their two driftroads. I expect part of the herds might be up for sale next auction. Wingdale, I believe, is the gent who presently holds them.”

  “I wish you luck of getting anything from him, Mr. Gamble.”

  “Folks call me Jack,” he mentioned. “Yes, I know nothing will come at a bargain from Wingdale. What do you think of his notion of turning the place into a tourist mecca?”

  “It would be a desecration!” I said.

  “We had better put a spoke in his wheel then. Do others share your view?”

  I was ecstatic to see he shared my view, for though I found much to dislike in the man, there was no denying he was the most influential person in the neighbourhood, or soon would be. “Certainly they do!” I assured him.

  “Why do they go on selling to him then?”

  I had so long carried my disgust and fear of Wingdale in my bosom that it erupted like a volcano. All my suspicions were aired—the barn burnings, and more recently the accidents to the wall and Scout on our own heaf.

  “This should be reported to the authorities,” he said, greatly surprised that it never had been.

  “Much good it would do. Wingdale is the authority. It is no secret he runs Grasmere.”

  “That will come as news to my uncle. He is still the Deputy Lieutenant for the district of Westmoreland.”

  “He has taken no active interest for a few years. It is Wingdale who has appropriated the function of appointing the magistrates locally, including himself. He has put himself in charge of the militia group we have here. It must have been done with your uncle’s agreement.” It had not occurred to me before, but once it entered my head, I began to wonder whether Wingdale had not paid the old earl some sum to acquire these perquisites.

  “I wonder ...” Gamble said, then stopped, leaving me hanging in a limbo of curiosity. “That would explain the old boy’s having been able to obtain such staggering mortgages. I wondered that anyone would give him such huge ones. Anything about seventy-five percent is generally impossible to obtain. The Hall is mortgaged to the tune of ... well you would not be interested in that,” he said, very erroneously.

  “Pay the mortgages off if you can, Mr. Gamble. Wingdale h
as some way of buying them from the bank and foreclosing at the first sign of non-payment. It is another of his tricks for stealing properties. I have wondered from time to time if he had not his eye on the Hall, as the star of his new village.”

  A grim, mocking smile alit on Gamble’s swarthy countenance. “This promises to be a more interesting fight than I thought. I have taken up more than enough of your time, Miss Barwick. I must return home.”

  “Is Lady Irene still with you?” I remembered to ask, before he left.

  “She went home to replenish her wardrobe, but has promised to return soon.”

  “How is Emily?”

  “Blooming. Since I have been taking her about a little, she has turned into a butterfly. Now she is after me to take her dancing again tonight. Would you care to join us?” he asked.

  I had never been more in charity with Gamble than I was at that moment. For that reason I hesitated, though I feared the dancing would occur at Wingdale Hause. “Where ...”

  “Wingdale’s. I know you dislike the spot, but it will give us an excellent opportunity to observe The Enemy,” he said, smiling in a conspiratorial way. “Do come,” he urged.

  I sat wavering on the edge of acceptance, wanting to go, yet not wanting to break my word to myself. “Or would Mr. Carrick take it amiss that I ask you?” he added, with a hesitant expression. “I shall invite him to join us, if you wish.”

  “No!” The word was out, loud, firm, almost horrified, before I thought what I was about. “He is busy,” I said, and I am pretty sure I blushed.

  His face split into a grin. “Ah good, then it should not be necessary for you to have any headaches. This has been a very informative visit. We shall call for you—just Emily and myself—at eight. All right?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, and felt perfectly asinine to hesitate so long over a minor engagement.

  “Live life, Miss Barwick. You work hard and deserve to play hard too. It is the only way to live. Believe me. We shall come for you at eight. If your conscience gives you too hard a time, you can stay home. Ambledown is practically on our way, so it is no inconvenience, but I hope you will come.”

  At last he left, walking back across the meadow, to return home via the fells. I should have offered to loan him a mount, or a carriage. Instead I sat wondering what to do. All the day long I continued wondering as I went about my business, contacting the fence menders and finally sending the groom over to Ritson’s place to buy Becky, asking him to bring home a bill, to be paid by some as yet unknown means. My heart was light, considering the unpleasant nature of my day. I was by no means too tired to go dancing at night. The idea was very appealing somehow, if only Wingdale Hause were not the spot chosen.

  Chapter Ten

  You should always stick by your conscience. You know when you have made the right decision. I was correct in having vowed to stay away from the assemblies at Wingdale Hause. What a price I paid for giving in to the impulse to accompany Emily and Gamble! I had not, literally, a single moment’s enjoyment from beginning to end. It was a chaperone they wanted, nothing else. Hennie, in an effort to ingratiate herself with the old earl and perhaps pick up some bauble in his will, had taken on the duty of sitting with him in the evening. My bad temper may lead me to do the woman an injustice here. It may have been her taste that steered her away from the assembly. My main displeasure in the evening, however, was not wounded vanity at being used as a chaperone.

  I was put in a pucker from the start when the first person I saw there, dancing with all the local cits’ daughters and tourists, was Tom Carrick. To be sure he never told me he did not attend the assemblies, but I took his nodding approval of my oft-repeated opinion to mean he followed the same course. It was not his dancing that annoyed me so much as his mere presence, after I had told Gamble he was busy. You will be thinking it served me well, and so it did, but that element only exacerbated the offence.

  Of course, he dashed right up to us, making such a pest of himself for an hour, despite my frostiest manner, that we provided a very amusing spectacle for the onlookers. It seemed to me all of genteel Grasmere was there, all of it between, say, eighteen and forty. How they could waste their time, coming here night after night!

  And the way Wingdale had got the place rigged up was a joke. Whether it was his life on a crowded ship or economy of space that accounted for the chairs and tables being on top of each other I know not, but I know every time anyone wished to get to the dance floor he had to slither like a snake between the minute spaces left for passage. His notions of opulence and gracious living must have been picked up at Bartholomew Fair. There was a circus atmosphere about the place—everything too bright and gaudy. Any corners of the walls that had escaped gilt were draped with shimmering satin (some bright red, some bright blue). He had fresh cut flowers on every table—not a token bouquet but a crystal vase a foot high, with two more feet of blooms sticking out the top, making it impossible to see half of one’s party. Every youngster in town had been stuck into a little red jacket to play waiter, hustling wine to the tables before a bottle was half empty. I would like to have got a look at the bill for this evening’s farce. Whatever the cost, his patrons seemed to feel it was worth the price. The noise of laughing and talking did a fair job of overwhelming the music.

  Jack Gamble took the ill-conceived idea of asking Tom to join our table, so that he would not have to take any part in bearing my company himself. He (Jack) danced first with Emily, then with anything in a skirt that would have him. The local milliner enjoyed a half hour of his company, as did the doctor’s wife and the parish officer’s sister. A tourist in a corner being called Lady Trevithick occupied a good part of his evening, first in wangling an introduction to her and later in paying her court.

  Between dances he wiggled his way between the tight tables back to us, to laugh at Tom and me. If he said one word about headaches, I would have lifted the decanter and hit him on the head with it. After I had six times refused to stand up with Tom and be squeezed to death on the floor, he took a snit and stood up with Cora Mandrel. I shall mention in passing that she was the lady who had enjoyed his attentions before he took to annoying me with them. She is short, blonde, not outrageously ugly, and rich. Her father owns a large piece of Manchester, they say.

  When Tom went from Cora to her married sister, Lisa Blackmore, Gamble took pity on me and asked me to join him for a country dance. A country dance, if you please! You would take your life in your hands to venture on that crowded floor for a well-ordered cotillion or minuet, let alone a country dance. I gave him my opinion of that idea in no uncertain terms—in the dead of summer, too, in an unaired hall. The heat was one of the more outstanding aspects of the place, and I had not thought to bring a fan either. The perspiration stood out on my brow. Gamble, hoping to prevent my suggesting we go home, took up a menu from the table, and began fanning me, causing the neighbours to smirk and whisper, before following his lead and fanning their own ladies. “I shall be your punkah wielder,” he declared.

  “I expect you are quite comfortable in this stifling place,” I said.

  “No, I am never quite comfortable when a lady is so high in the boughs as you are this evening. Pray, if the question is not impertinent, why did you come if your intention was only to sit on the sidelines scowling at everything and everyone?”

  “How was I to know it would be a hundred degrees?” I asked querulously.

  “It would be as hot at home, with nothing to divert your attention. I believe you are angry that Carrick came, after telling you he was busy, but if that is the case, sulking won’t bring him round. You must show him how little you care that he ...”

  “How dare you suggest ... Oh this is too much!” I said, flinging his menu aside and making as though to arise.

  “Suggest? It was you who told me so.”

  “Why did you ask me to come here anyway?” I demanded.

  “I have just been asking myself the same question,” he said, and looked a
round the room, selecting his next companion. He had waited too long to join the country dance and was obliged to sit with me, making very desultory conversation—and drinking a good deal of wine.

  As the next set was about to begin, he nodded to Captain Wingdale, which brought that hateful person darting to us. This nasty trick accomplished, he said, “I leave you to make your compliments to the Captain for the delightful evening he is providing us, Miss Barwick,” and left, to return to Lady Trevithick’s table. That table consisted of three ladies and one gentleman. The females would have looked more at home at Covent Garden than St. James’s, despite the borrowing of a title by one of them.

  “I am happy you have deigned to come amongst us at last,” Wingdale began, with an ingratiating bow, as he lifted his coat tails and slid on to the chair beside me.

  My first aim was to undeceive him as to the idea that I was enjoying any delightful evening. “How warm it is,” I said, picking up the menu to fan myself.

  “An understatement,” he allowed. “It is deuced hot. Hotter than the hobs of ... Hades.”

  “Odd that people choose to dance in such weather, is it not?”

  “Aye, so it is, but it is very good for the sale of beverages,” the merchant informed me. “You are not drinking, Miss Barwick. Allow me to order you a glass of wine. On the house—in honour of your maiden visit.”

  “No, thank you,” I said promptly. I received not only a glass but a whole bottle of champagne, delivered with great pomp and circumstance by a parade of three red-jacketed boys, so that the entire room stared in my direction. I, who had been shouting from the roof tops for months that I would never darken Wingdale’s door, was forced to sit and accept this unwanted hospitality.

  The evening continued its decline from execrable to intolerable. Tom took to flirting so noticeably with Cora Mandrel (I think really he was a little tipsy) that there was no point pretending he cared a fig for me. Gamble, smiling slyly from the other side of the crystal vase, looked from Tom to me half a dozen times. When at length Captain Wingdale asked me to stand up with him, I accepted! It hardly mattered; my credibility was utterly sunk already.