She spun round, and there was Mr Hartwell, standing in the corridor watching her. “Did you manage to hear very much?” he enquired mildly.
Caroline was silent, surprised to find that she was not in the least afraid of him, but was simply nonplussed.
“The trouble is,” she said, “I just don’t know what to believe. You warned me that I might put myself into danger by prying into your affairs . . .”
“I did nothing of the sort! I warned you against taking too much interest in the smugglers! I said nothing about my own concerns.”
“But I thought . . . Oh.” Caroline suddenly realised that this was quite true.
“It seems to me,” he observed judicially, “that you’ve been letting your imagination run away with you. I’ll admit that, at first glance, my behaviour is a little suspicious, sudden comings and goings. odd visitors at strange hours, no social chit-chat about where I’ve been or what I’ve been doing, but I’ve explained all that to you. Why do you still think I’m up to some sort of villainy?”
Why indeed, thought Caroline, did she harbour such ridiculous and suspicions about a man with whom she was almost prepared to admit that she was in love . . .
Dinah Dean was born in Northamptonshire, but she has lived for most of her life in the Home Counties. She was a teacher until 1979, when she decided to give more time to her writing, and since then has fitted it in “around local history studies, reading and conversation, well-seasoned with trips abroad, preferably to Scandinavia and Russia.” She lives in Waltham Abbey in Essex which, in some respects, bears a strong resemblance to the fictional Woodham, which first featured in her last novel, The Country Gentleman.
The Country Cousins is her eighth Masquerade Historical Romance.
THE COUNTRY
COUSINS
DINAH DEAN
MILLS & BOON LIMITED
15-16 BROOK’S MEWS
LONDON W1A 1DR
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain 1986 by Mills & Boon Limited
© Dinah Dean 1986
Australian copyright 1986
Philippine copyright 1986
ISBN 0 263 75423 5
Set in 10 on 11½ pt Linotron Times
04—0686—74,600
Photoset by Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd
Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
Made and printed in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading
For Liz, Al and Thomas
CHAPTER
ONE
IT WAS unfortunate that Mr Hartwell chose to call on the fourth of September, for anyone in Stepney could have told him that Mrs Barnes had her wash-day on the first Monday in every month, and, being the thrifty wife of a City merchant, she chose to conduct such household matters herself.
Mr Hartwell, on the other hand, was of the Landed Gentry, and left the running of his residence to his housekeeper, so he arrived in all innocence at the pleasant house near St Dunstan’s church in his smart town carriage, and sent his groom to mount the four steps to the white door in the centre of the double-fronted brick house, pull the gleaming brass bell-knob, and hand in his master’s card with a polite request that Mrs Barnes should spare him a few minutes of her time.
The footman, who had been cleaning the silver in his shin-sleeves and had been obliged to don his morning livery coat in some haste, pulling white gloves over his plate-powdered hands, raised his eyebrows in a superior fashion at the groom, regarded the carriage with rather more respect, and, saying he would “henquire”, closed the door and retired into the back regions, where he found the mistress in the large wash-house, pensively prodding with a dolly-stick at the sheets boiling in the copper, a large apron protecting her fashionable poplin morning dress.
She took the proffered card, read the name, thought for a moment, and then, looking slightly vexed, instructed the footman to admit the gentleman to the parlour. She cast a sharp eye on the three laundrywomen, the maids, and her two daughters, who had all paused in their various tasks out of curiosity over this unwonted interruption.
“Come with me, Caroline,” she instructed her elder daughter, “and the rest of you carry on with your work. Don’t forget, Alice”—this to her younger daughter—“that the lace is to be washed in milk. Your father did not pay the exorbitant price asked for that collar for you to ruin it at the first wash! I really don’t know,” she Continued as she took off her apron and shooed Caroline before her into the kitchen, “why fashion decrees French lace when we’re at war with them, and English lace is every bit as good. Tidy yourself, girl! I’ve no wish for you to look like a tradesman’s daughter to this—this person!”
Caroline thought with some amusement that she was, in fact, a tradesman’s daughter, for her father was a prosperous merchant in the East India trade, but she kept the thought to herself, took off her own apron, shook out her sprigged muslin frock, and, looking in the rather patchy mirror on the back of the kitchen door, tweaked her dark curls, which were already quite tidy, and wished once more that she might be allowed to have her hair cut short, for she was sure the style would suit her.
“Did not James say that the gentleman wishes to speak to you, Mama?” she asked, wondering who could he so important that both her mother and herself, the first lieutenant, should be obliged by his arrival to leave the wash-house.
“I have no wish to see Mr Hartwell at all,” Mrs Barnes replied. “But since he is here, I suppose I must do so, but only in the presence of a third party. You need not speak, but listen carefully to everything he says.”
With that, she set her lips in a tight and unforthcoming line, tied the strings of her clean cap with a jerk, and set sail for the parlour, her daughter following like a frigate behind a man o’ war.
Mr Hartwell was standing by the window, apparently looking across to the still-countrified churchyard of St Dunstan’s, but he turned as Mrs Barnes and Caroline entered, and advanced to meet them, speaking in a pleasant tone, despite the forbidding glower on the elder lady’s face.
“Good morning, ma’am. It’s most kind of you to receive me.”
“Yes,” Mrs Barnes replied non-committally, seating herself imperiously on one of her new sabre-legged chairs and motioning to Caroline to sit unobtrusively by the door. “What do you want?”
Caroline was puzzled. It was not at all like her mother to be so brusque—rude, indeed—and the gentleman standing in the middle of the room seemed to have done nothing to deserve such treatment. He was quite tall, slimly built, dressed in a fashion which did credit both to his taste and his tailor in a dark blue coat and nankeen trousers of excellent cut and fit. His linen was pristinely clean and well starched, his brown hair well cut and brushed, and the only fault she herself could see in him was a somewhat arrogant tilt to his head and a touch of hauteur about his features, which were otherwise reasonably handsome. She awaited his reply with interest.
“First, to make my apologies for not making contact with you much earlier,” he replied equably, “but I was not even aware of your existence until a few days ago.”
Mrs Barnes made no reply, and looked, if anything, more hostile.
“Second,” he continued after a slight pause, “to bring you. I’m afraid, unhappy news about your sister.”
“If you mean Maria Hartwell,” Mrs Barnes replied, “you must understand that she disowned me more than twenty years ago. The feeling was mutual.” Her tips closed at the end of this brief but remarkable speech with a snap which was almost audible.
“So I collect from the information concerning you which I received at the end of last week.” Mr Hartwell seemed, on the whole, unperturbed by her hostility, but he abandoned his somewhat tentative approach and went on in a brisk and business-like fashion, “Your sister. ma’am, is my father’s second wife, and my stepmother. She and my father took advantage of the Peace of Amiens in ’02 to travel to France, leaving my elder half-sister in the care of her godmother, Lady Stavely, and taking their younger daughter with them. Unfortunately, they were still in France when hostilities were resumed the following year, and have been prisoners ever since.”
There was a brief pause, and then Mrs Barnes said coldly, “How unfortunate for Lord Hartwell and the child! I am very sorry to hear of this, for I pity anyone put into the power of Bonaparte for six years!”
“And your sister, ma’am!”
“Your stepmother is well able to take care of herself. Is that all you wished to tell me? If so, I thank you for your well-meaning intentions, and bid you good day.”
With that, Mrs Barnes rose to her feet, but Mr Hartwell, uncowed by her abruptness, replied smoothly, “No, ma’am! It is not all. By your leave . . .”
Mrs Barnes hesitated for a moment, then, to her daughters surprise, sat down again. Caroline was familiar with the decisive note in her mother’s voice during her last speech, and had not expected her to relent in the least—this was quite unprecedented! In fact, the whole episode was amazing, for, until this morning, Caroline had been quite unaware that her mother even had a sister, let alone one married to a Lord—a Baron, presumably, as the son was a plain Mister.
“As you wish,” Mrs Barnes said, still sounding disagreeable.
“I am very concerned about Julia, my half-sister—your niece, ma’am! Her continued residence with Lady Staveley has, for various reasons, proved impossible, and she has now returned to Canons Grange, our country estate at Woodham in Essex. She’s a high-spirited young lady, but has, unfortunately, suffered some neglect in her education, and does not enjoy being alone, as she is unused to occupying herself profitably. In short, ma’am . . . I’m anxious to find a sensible companion of about her own age to be with her during my unfortunately frequent absences.”
Mr Hartwell broke off at this point, and looked in a deliberate and considering fashion at Caroline, who was caught in the act of studying his face with some interest. She had just made the unfortunately hasty decision that he was undoubtedly an arrogant man, completely wrapped up in his own interests, who clearly considered the female sex to be trivial and inferior, and would have no sympathy for a lonely young girl shut away in some gloomy mansion in the country, with no one to talk to, and probably not even a neighbour within reasonable distance for social intercourse. She lowered her eyes in some confusion, for the direct gaze of his dark eyes surprised her, as she had thought him oblivious of her presence, and gave her a nervous feeling that he knew what she was thinking.
“I hardly think you will find a suitable companion for Miss Hartwell in Stepney,” Mrs Barnes said uncooperatively. The neighbourhood is going down, and most of the better families are moving away; as, no doubt, we shall he doing ourselves before long.”
“Surely one of your daughters would welcome a chance to move in a different society?” It was quite clear to Caroline’s sensitive (and prejudiced) ear that he had only just managed to substitute “different” for “superior”.
“I do not suppose that Miss Hartwell’s parents would consider a merchant’s daughter fit company for their child,” Mrs Barnes said coldly.
“It was my father’s suggestion,” Mr Hartwell countered.
“But you said that your father is in France!” Mrs Barnes was surprised enough to exclaim with a lively interest which contradicted her earlier apparent indifference.
“There are ways of communicating, at a price,” Mr Hartwell replied sardonically.
“Nevertheless, it has in the past been made clear to me that any connection between the Hartwell family and Trade would not be to their liking.” There was a distinctly bitter tinge in Mrs Barnes’s voice, and Caroline looked at her sudden comprehension. So that was it! Lady Hartwell had married above her station, and had considered that Mrs Barnes had married below hers, and so had put her Beyond the Pale!
“As a matter of fact,” Mr Hartwell remarked, apparently to the mirror on the far side of the room, “my paternal great-grandfather, who acquired the Barony by means of some rather shady dealings over the accession of King George I, was the grandson, on his mother’s side, of a linen-draper.” He obviously assumed that this was sufficient to brush aside the long years of resentment which had simmered in Mrs Barnes’s bosom, for he continued, “Julia is seventeen, ma’am. I believe both your daughters to be a little older than that?”
“Miss Barnes is twenty, and Miss Alice Barnes eighteen,” Mrs Barnes replied absent-mindedly. She appeared to be preoccupied with some private thoughts.
“Alice has no more sense than a drunken hen, but Caroline might have a steadying effect on your sister—she has a reasonable intelligence and a studious disposition.” Having presumably reached some conclusion in her inner consideration, she fixed Mr Hartwell with a steely gaze, and demanded abruptly, “What’s the girl done? Got herself on the increase?”
“Certainly not!” Mr Hartwell was not in the least disconcerted by this sudden attack. “Flighty she may be, but not entirely stupid! No, the problem is merely one of a lack of interest and a want of proper guidance.”
“And you think a girl of twenty will succeed where a grown woman has failed?”
“I think that the company of a sensible female of near her own age would be advantageous.”
There was silence for a few moments. Mrs Barnes gazed reflectively at her new Indian carpet, Mr Hartwell, frowning a little, waited expectantly, and Caroline, looking anxiously from one to the other, twisted her hands together and made up her mind to speak, having determined that she had no wish to oblige Mr Hartwell, or put herself in the way of his further acquaintance.
“How long would you wish me to stay?” she heard herself enquire in a calm voice, and was amazed, for this was not in the least what she had intended to say.
“It depends,” Mr Hartwell replied, turning his gaze full upon her again. “I would suggest that a month’s trial on both sides would give everyone concerned a chance to see how matters progress. If, after that, you felt at all unhappy about the arrangement, you would be under no obligation, and I should seek elsewhere. If, on the other hand, you and your cousin accord well together, I should be glad if you would stay as long as you please.”
“Are you proposing to employ my daughter?” Mrs Barnes enquired in an ominously icy tone.
“Miss Barnes would be our guest.” Mr Hartwell raised an eyebrow to register displeasure at being accused of such a solecism. “She is, after all, a member of the family!”
“And was your ancestor a Freeman of the City of London?” Mrs Barnes enquired with apparent inconsequence.
“Good Heavens, no! A mere shopkeeper in Chelmsford!” Mr Hartwell replied with a suspicion of a smile. “Does that make us too inferior to be recognised as relatives? I understand that Mr Barnes is a Freeman of the Mercers’ Company, and an Alderman to boot!” His tone implied that he did not consider himself inferior to anyone, and Caroline suspected that he would have thought little of requiring the loan of a daughter from Queen Charlotte herself, had it suited his purposes.
Mrs Barnes gave a stately inclination of the bead in acceptance of this proper recognition of relative rank, and said, “I have no objection if Caroline chooses to accept your . . .” she paused judicially “. . . your kind invitation.”
There was another short pause, during which Caroline lost her chance to voice an objection to the plan, for, unaccountably, she said nothing, and then Mr Hartwell said politely, “Thank you, ma’am. Do you anticipate that Mr Barnes will have any objections?”
“Mr Barnes?” That gentleman’s wife sounded mildly astounded that his name had even been mentioned. “What has he to do with it? I have given my consent, and now the matter rests with Caroline.” And, with that, she apparently withdrew into a silent consideration of the br...
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