Page 57

‘I’m sorry, sir, to be making a habit of this, arriving so improperly and uninvited at your door,’ she said, glancing up.

‘But you, Miss Rose, are always invited, never unwelcome in this house.’

They both sat down and he crossed his legs and noticed Madeleine’s gaze flicker for a moment to his feet.

‘You like my slippers? Since Lord Byron’s notorious fame, his penchant for exotic apparel has spread to us lesser dandies. Turkish slippers are everywhere.’ He stretched his foot out and they both examined the embroidered twining leaves and flower-heads. He met her eyes with a smile. ‘So, what brought you to my door rather early this day?’

Madeleine still had tight hold on her book in which her novel was written out in cursive script. Under her fingers, it seemed to vibrate with energy and was hard to ignore. But it was not the obvious reason for her flight to Mr Shilton’s house and she blushed for the second time that morning. ‘I’m afraid I did not want to remain in my cousins’ house.’

‘Why? What has happened to distress you?’

Madeleine found it embarrassing to articulate. ‘I was woken from sleep last night by Lord Lockhart coming into my room. Straight from his club and full of drink.’

Mr Shilton’s face registered shock and he expostulated, ‘Damn the devil!’ then he rose to his feet and took a step towards her. ‘Did he importune you?’

‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said, overcome with shyness, fearing this breach of her privacy and integrity was somehow her fault.

He began to pace in agitation. ‘This sounds scandalous, Miss Rose. Not safe in your own home! Were you harmed or frightened? Did you tell Lady Lockhart? Do you want me to call him out? Teach him a lesson? I’m quite a good swordsman, ye know.’

Madeleine leapt to her feet with consternation. ‘No, no! Mr Shilton. I’m quite unhurt. Even my feelings are barely ruffled. I think once I managed to get Lord Lockhart out of my room, he was truly ashamed by what he had done.’

‘But why didn’t you come to me immediately? I hate to think of you frightened and alone.’ Ferdy was suddenly protective and wished for nothing more than that she should fly into his arms. Then he realised that if Miss Rose had dashed round earlier, she would have interrupted Miss Payton’s impassioned denouncement of his character. Indeed, he felt shamefaced himself. It was not comfortable to be found so much lacking in probity and high principle.

Madeleine’s answer intrigued him. ‘I stayed to write the epilogue to my story. I’m now finished.’

Mr Shilton looked at her quizzically. What an unusual young woman not to descend into hysterics after her cousin’s assault, but to summon her good angels and finish her writing. He felt so benign – with brandy or freedom or both, he knew not – but he gave her a beatific smile. ‘What good news, Miss Rose. Congratulations are very much in order. Are you going to share the dénouement with me?’

‘As long as you don’t mock me for naivety and missish fatuity.’

She gave him a nervous glance, but he seemed to be in a glow of relaxed euphoria, gazing at her with unabashed tenderness. ‘My dear Miss Rose, you are the only person I know who can bring diversity to monotony and meaning to fatuity. Read on.’

Startled by his words, she blinked away a tear. ‘That is the best thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you.’ Madeleine paused. She felt she should confide in him too. Still looking at the book in her lap, she said, ‘I think you may have suspected that my first sight of you on your hunter provided the archetype of my hero figure. From the moment I actually met you at that ball, you were the only person with whom I wished to share my story.’ She opened the last page. Looking up, she began to provide the context to the characters’ final conversation. ‘After overcoming every kind of danger and vicissitude, hostility even from the universe to their union, my hero explains his feelings at last. Impossible was my love, despair was my song, and longing became a creature of my imagination in fated opposition to the stars. And my heroine, in his arms at last, replies, Our lives, long parallel and never meant to meet, have crossed like two vines on a wall, tendrils so entwined we can never be parted.’ She was blushing and embarrassed by the overblown prose. She looked up into Ferdinand Shilton’s eyes. ‘Do you think it affecting?’ she asked in a small, self-conscious voice.

He did, in fact, find it greatly affecting. He watched Madeleine reading, her delicate head set like a flower on a slender stalk. How intensely fascinating she was to him, her face, her voice and presence here in his library, his favourite person in his favourite room. She was at the incandescent centre of his newly-enlarged universe. He wished more than anything to take her in his arms, but she was still looking at him, in expectation of some reply.

‘I do find it a diverting end, but they’re rather poetical, literary types, aren’t they?’ He walked towards her and taking both her hands, drew her up to standing. ‘I’d be more inclined to say, “Dearest Dormouse, I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you curled up asleep at that tedious ball. I love the quickness of your movement, your cleverness, the mischief in your beautiful eyes, the charm of your laugh, and the fact your hair refuses to curl, except for a tendril around each perfect, shell-like ear.”’

Madeleine could barely believe what she heard. Had wishing made it so? Was it just an illusion of an overheated brain, a waking dream? She stammered, ‘But I’m not pretty, Mr Shilton. How can you love me?’

He laughed softly and gazing into her upturned face, said, ‘Not ordinarily pretty, ’tis true, but so much more. Everything about you is irresistible to me. You are beautiful indeed. Your voice, your mind, your wild romantic imagination entertain me greatly. I can’t take my eyes from you, Miss Rose; you turn my heart inside out and upside down and make me long to be with you.’

These were undreamed-of words, so unexpected, more delightful and refreshing to her soul than if she had written them herself. Madeleine wondered if, in fact, she was living in a novel of her own making; had her imagination untethered her completely from the reality of her life?

Then she heard Mr Shilton’s voice. ‘Have you truly finished your epilogue, I wonder?’

‘I thought it might end with my heroine’s words about the tendrils and the vine.’ She looked up enquiringly.

‘Well, may I suggest it ends with a kiss?’ His eyes were twinkling with amusement.

‘I should like that,’ Madeleine agreed gravely, ‘but I can only write of people and events I understand, and I don’t know what it feels like to have two people who love each other kiss.’ She dropped her eyes; was she brazen to talk thus of kissing?

‘Well, Miss Rose, would you allow me to show you?’

They were both oblivious to Dot silently stitching in the window embrasure and Madeleine nodded.

Ferdy put a forefinger under her chin and gently lifted her face to his. The unexpected warmth of his lips on hers was surprisingly tender and voluptuous. All her senses were heightened, he smelt of sun and herbs, with an overlay of brandy. The insistent softness of his mouth made her feel they were merged with little awareness of where each ended and the other began. His hands were cradling her face and her arms crept round his neck. She felt her breath caught in a sob at the almost unbearable pleasure of the embrace.

Ferdy and Madeleine were both overcome with the intensity of emotion and just about to break apart when they heard voices in the hall. Maltby was protesting that his master was engaged with another visitor, but the woman’s voice was raised in exasperation. ‘Let me see Mr Shilton, it’s very important he should know I’ve changed my mind.’