1815, September
The North York moors stretched to the horizon and beyond wearing the colours of the late summer blooms. The cool breeze of early morning, carrying fragrances and desolation, had gradually gotten warmer with the noontime sun and chirpier with birds looking for sustenance. Rays of stubborn sunlight piercing through a Great Oak tree shifted playfully upon a prone figure lying on a jacket, not thrown carelessly, on the ground underneath it. One of his hands were behind his head and another on his stomach while he laid on his back. His eyes, of unknown colour, were closed and his dark hair, which shone as dark honey whenever the sunlight touched upon it, fell back from his temple lightly grazing his ears. A first glance would have revealed a symmetrical face crowned by a wide forehead, a Greek nose, a thin upper lip and a fuller lower lip all shaped by a square jaw and high cheek bones. But a connoisseur of beauty would also have seen that the hair was smooth as that of a woman, the eye lashes were thicker than average, the shadow of the beard was promisingly thick and no extra flesh marred the sharpness of the chin. On a boy the effect would have been handsome, striking even. But on a man like him it commanded attention and ardour. His posture stretched his white linen shirt on his substantial torso, shaped lovingly by an excellently tailored black waistcoat. His shoulders were wide, arms muscular, hips narrow, and the fitted black pantaloons were moulded by long powerful legs, at the moment crossed at the ankle in a nonthreatening manner.
A stallion, with a romantically bestowed name of ‘Wind’, patiently stood a few meters away, his chestnut coat reflecting the sunlight. With a full stomach, the grass below his hooves held little interest for him. Except the occasional interruption by offending butterflies and bees, in which case he couldn’t help an escaping snort, Wind stood as still as his master disciplined enough not to disturb the desired tranquillity.
Unbeknownst to both the horse and his master, this scene was being witnessed by Miss Andromeda Dormer, wearer of breeches, shirt and a jacket, a worn-out bonnet hanging by her neck at her back and a slingshot in her hand. Her untied hair, for the ribbon had been lost long ago, had the colour and texture of jute after regular unauthorized frolicking, her thin upturned nose was liberally spotted with freckles and the roundness of face that is usually associated with babies was yet to disappear. Weary villagers would say her face was perpetually lit up with cunning and a stubbornness easily identified by the jutting chin. Her mother would often moan that her eyes, still too big for her face and inherited from her, were the only asset which could win her a husband when she grew up. They were the vivid blue that had no hint of grey or brown in it, the colour of a clear spring sky. Presently unconcerned about her marriage prospects, although Miss Andromeda could not see a man, she concluded correctly that he could not have been far away and most likely under the Great Oak. Having been acquainted either intimately or by sight with all the horses in her small village of Ganymede, in all the ten summers she has spent on earth so far, she never came across a horse as beautiful as that. Clearly, it necessitated a closer inspection.
Upon closing the distance and before nearing the horse, she first found out the master. Her mouth became slightly lax as she identified him lying under the Great Oak tree, looking very different from any one she knew. Even napping like a sluggard, because who else took a nap before nuncheon, he seemed dangerous to her because he seemed larger even than Mr. Stubbins, the grocer and he seemed taller than Jack, the village madman. She couldn’t have pinpointed, not having learned or cared for the merits of fine clothing yet, why he seemed different, but he did. A quick look around told her that the horse was alerted but nobody else was there. Her boots, having been worn thin and almost tight now, allowed her to assuage her curiosity by noiselessly creeping closer. A gasp caught in her throat when she spied a beautiful pocket watch tied to a simple chain, clearly having slipped from the man’s pocket, was lying on the ground beside him. The owner of the watch, if he hadn’t been sleeping, could have justified her awe with descriptions such as a porcelain dial, double hunter case from which you can see the detailed backside of the watch and intricate enamel painting on the cover. Tugged closer by her unquenchable curiosity, Miss Andromeda stood three feet away from the huge man and holding her breath without conscious thought leaned forward with her hands balanced by her bent knees.
Undecided by the motive of the newcomer for a time and incorrectly concluding that it did not bode well for his master, Wind gave a loud and decided neigh trotting towards the Great Oak tree. The sleeping figure’s eyes flew open, they were a deep grey although that information was of no interest to Miss Andromeda, and sharply focused on the small face looming close by. Hand extended to touch the pocket watch Miss Andromeda froze quite uncharacteristically. Had she been focused on her body; she’d have found her heart beating wildly out of fear and her nose and forehead producing alarmingly large drops of sweat. Had she been her usual characteristic self, she’d have flown a hundred feet before a quick hand latched on to her arms in a strong grip. But by the time she regained her senses the man had gotten up and was looming above her with her arms still captured in his hands. Terribly afraid of being stolen for the first time in her life, after having heard her mother say so for years, Andromeda resorted to the shameful deed of shrieking loudly once and then promptly bursting into tears.
A gentle yet commanding voice came from above her head, ‘Hush, child, hush!’ An un-gloved finger touched her chin and tilted her face up. Through the blur of tears, she surmised that the man, although tall, looked more concerned than menacing. The hand which was holding her arms came up close to her eyes and swiped at the tears about to roll down her reddened cheeks. Better visible now, the giant was looking at her with a frown while she tried to collect herself. She remained rooted to the spot, her hands clutched together at her front in a praying stance, body slightly bent backwards to accommodate her eyes to see the man clearly.
He looked down at the cherubic face, red eyes recently devoid of tears in stark contrast to the hooligan outfit she wore and alone in the moors as far as he could see. The child was either lost or a great adventuress. He bent down to sit so his eyes were a little below her level and said,
‘I will not harm you, child. Are you lost?’
Not one foolish enough to be swayed easily by strangers Miss Andromeda threw him a sceptical glance, her tears having ceased as suddenly as they had made an appearance.
‘I am not lost,’ but after a moment curiosity won out and with a subdued sniffle she added, ‘are you?’
Noxforth was surprised to hear her speak in the clear language of the gentry. He had expected her to be a farmer’s or some country smith’s child. He took another careful look at her shabby persona and decided she must be from those family who have fallen into genteel poverty. Her clothes, though not meant for a girl, were old and worn out but clean. Her bonnet was once in fashion and must have been deep green. Her chin had that aristocratic tilt and neither the confidence in her voice nor that defiant direct gaze she presented him belonged on a peasant child. He took her hands in his and tried to make himself as non-threatening as a man of his bulk could. With a slight smile looking around he said,
‘No, I am not lost. Won’t you tell me your name?’
Having lost the fear of the unknown and recovered from her momentary disgrace, Miss Andromeda looked at the man on his knees in front of her, trying to gauge if he would tattle on her that he had found her in the moors. She was sure he was not acquainted with her mother and deciding that no harm could come of it she revealed, ‘I am Andromeda Dormer.’ When this lit no recognition in her companion’s eyes which continued to look enquiringly at her she felt further clarification was due, ‘I am Sir Algernon Dormer’s daughter.’
‘Are you?’ He said soothingly, trying to recall all the country squires he knew of from his childhood days spent here. If he knew any Dormers, he did not recall.
Andromeda asked faintly surprised, ‘Don’t you know my father? Everyone does.’
‘Do they?’ He said ruefully, ‘I regret to say I don’t have the pleasure of his acquaintance, miss.’
‘Oh, you won’t ever. He’s quite dead!’ Then she blushed furiously because she was aware that again something scandalous had escaped her. But instead of the heavy censure all she heard in response was, ‘Ah!’ then after a pause he added abstractedly, ‘Mine too.’
His grey eyes had turned poignant, an emotion that was carefully obstructed from spreading to his face. Having gained the knowledge from experience that most older people’s fathers were usually found to be dead she saw nothing exceptional in his statement; what she found exceptional was it seemed as if he did not quite like it unlike the other nonchalant adults she knew. Without conscious thought she inched closer to him and squeezed the warm hands holding hers, ‘Are- are you sad?’
Noxforth’s surprised eyes looked at her young, concerned face in silence. He tried to recall if anyone else had been this candid with him since both of his parents’ death. His sisters, both married, had cried and sought comfort from their husbands and children. His had had another untimely aggravating row with his younger brother after his father’s will was read after which he had not shown his face. Grandmother Grey had retired to Grey Manor refusing company, which was not really an unexceptional behaviour. Lady Diana- a diamond of first water- who he had decided to make his wife, had said all things suitable and had presented herself in the largely attended funeral. His noble acquaintances- it would have been absurd to call any of them as friends- had all offered condolences by carefully maintaining the appropriate emotional distance, which indeed would not have been welcome by someone like Noxforth. If his usually grave countenance had acquired an even stonier appearance, nobody dared mention it. And if his secretary, an impertinent yet sharp young scamp, often caught him at his most unguarded moments in the sanctuary of his library, he was also in possession of ample tact not to comment upon it nor to repeat it to another ear. Apart from his old governess Mrs. Fernshaw, who had at once tried to embrace his large figure in her tiny frame when he had shown up one day suddenly at her doorstep feeling restless and helpless, no, nobody had enquired whether he was grieving. The young child in front of him tilted her head at his silence and said as if she had come to the inevitable conclusion, ‘You miss him, don’t you?’
At her artless yet accurate supposition, Noxforth was aware of the all too familiar sensation of choking physical ache that needed to be suppressed before it overpowered him. He looked away admitting simply for the first time, ‘Yes. I do miss him.’
The late Duke of Noxforth had been an inattentive parent to his children, believing himself inexperienced in such matters, and an equally inattentive husband, because she had not inspired any camaraderie, to his wife. The feeling had been reciprocated from both ends without resentment for his children had been thrust into the charges of well-paid indulgent servants and his wife was content being established as a duchess seeing no reason to demand further attention than what was obligatory in social situations. But the late duke had been an exceptional landlord; his estates vast and spread across England, his tenants satisfied, his farmland in profit and his own life dedicated to the duties of his dukedom. When his heir had reached the turbulent age of adolescence and had shown the predictable signs of needing attention by raising hell in the neighbourhood, the duke had deemed it to be time and had finally taken him under his wing. The relationship between the familiar strangers had begun as tutor and pupil, both parties on tumultuous grounds trying to measure the other one up. Gradually the heir had discovered his father understood his passions and quirks unlike any, perfectly willing to foster and guide them, and the duke had found in the heir a keen intelligence and a hungry mind that neither shied away from responsibilities nor felt burdened. The inexperienced youth and the veteran had soon developed a bond that had singularly isolated the rest of the family. The females had not aspired to enter it and the younger son, sullen and jealous by nature, had not managed to. When the two decades of friendship had been brought to a sudden end, the heir- the current duke- although prepared to take on the responsibilities he had been raised for, had found himself with the unwelcome knowledge that for him there would never be another person to turn to and had wondered if his predecessor had felt the same way too.
Presently, he was brought back to earth by a tiny insistent hand that had cupped his cheek, trying to capture his attention. He felt a warmth in him towards this young person who was asking him,
‘Are you not from Horndale? What’s your name?’ she questioned a little impatiently as if she was repeating them.
‘Ignatius Villiers. And yes- yes, I have not lived here in a long time.’ Releasing a long sigh, he fell back and sat down on the grass, leaning against the tree. He saw no reason to introduce himself with his title, this was no social introduction, nor did he usually feel the need to fall back on his title to bolster his consequence, definitely not with a child. Noxforth remembered that he indeed had not been to Horndale, his childhood home, in over fifteen years. These moors which had been a part of his life growing up had not changed much. But he had changed a lot since he had left home for Eton, then Oxford and later had spent time between various of his father’s estates and London. After his younger brother, Jonathon, had left for Eton, the whole family had shifted to their London house and had remained therein. His father had often visited their principal seat in Horndale, and Hawkweed Hall had remained deserted except by families of old loyal servants. And now finally he had come back because the London house still reminded him too much of his father and he meant to occupy again his ancestral seat. The child seemed to have been affected by his sombreness. She had strikingly blue eyes that were looking at him as if she understood he needed space. She still had not moved from her spot.
‘You seem to be far away from home. What are you doing here alone, young Miss Dormer?’
‘Nobody calls me Miss Dormer!’ She giggled and added, ‘Call me Andy.’ She eyed him defiantly, ‘Will you?’
He rose to the challenge repeating, ‘What are you doing here, Miss Andy?’
‘Only Andy!’ she cried.
‘Andy’ he repeated tilting his head in acquisition, his eyes dancing with humour.
She seemed to pause to consider if to give him the truth or not. His easy expression seemed to decide her mind. Haltingly she said,
‘I sometimes come here when Tom and Matty refuse to play with me- because I am a girl!’ She assessed his reaction for a second and seeing no immediate censure on his face continued, ‘And when I want to hide from Mama.’
Noxforth smiled at this unfiltered confession, having himself done so during his nursery days. He did not have much exposure towards children in his life, but he could recognise spirit when he saw it.
He offered, ‘Tom and Matty sound like regular clod poles to me.’
Warming up to this sincere support she added noddingly, ‘Dunces, I call ‘em.’
‘Imbeciles, the both of them!’
‘Dipsticks!’ she threw, looking to see his reaction to the racier slang.
He was grinning by this point, ‘Pudding heads!’
She giggled, ‘Cork-brains!’
‘Addle-pates!’
‘Sap skulls!’
‘Simkins, I say!’
At this she paused, wildly trying to think fast with her hands flailing in the air, ‘Nod-Nodcocks!’
Noxforth laughed out and upped the stakes with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘Loose screws, my dear!’
Clearly, she had not heard this particular one. ‘Loo-loose screws?’ she cried, ‘Are you making that up?’
‘Ran out of them, eh, Miss Andy?’
‘No! Wait!’ she hopped twice on her spot, ‘How about, dolts?’
He was not impressed, ‘Too tame but I’ll take it. Lunkheads’
‘Cuckoos!’ she added triumphantly.
‘Dicked in the nobs, they are!’ he added smoothly without a pause.
Her eyes rounded but she quickly took her cue from it, ‘Queers in the attic!’
‘Bravo!’ She threw her hands up and jumped at this well-deserved praise, ‘Do you give up?’
Noxforth was about to add his next rejoinder but stopped himself at her anticipated expression. Doffing an imaginary hat to display his honourable defeat he sent into whoops of delight. At once she declared, ‘You’re the best, Nate!’
Eyebrows raised he asked her, ‘Nate?’. Barring a few peers who had tried to call him Nate until he had forcefully stopped that nonsense from catching on, nobody ever dared call him anything but Ignatius or Horndale or lately, Noxforth outside family. His young siblings used to call him Natius in nursery and that is what his parents had been calling him too. But he held his peace with Andromeda, long past the age to take exception to what a child called him.
Andromeda, mistakenly, read more into it and said meekly, ‘Beg your pardon, Mr Villiers.’
‘Nonsense. Nate, of course.’
At this, Andromeda lost all her reservation; having found another kindred spirit. She came closer and kneeled down near him. She had never met a man who talked so easily with her, they either always rebuked her like Mr. Stubbins did or looked angrily at her like Father Morgan did or ignored her like Tom and Matty who told her that they did not care to be plagued with little hoydens. Now that formal introduction had been dispensed with, she picked up the fob watch and held her hand to give it to him, her eyes lingering on the beautiful designs. He had noticed her looking at the watch repeatedly since he had awakened to that pixyish face. He leaned forward, collected it and held it out back to her,
‘Here, you may keep it.’
‘What?’ Her eyes were like blue saucers on the small face, ‘No no! But it’s so beautiful! I cannot!’
‘If you don’t want to hear me calling you a dunce’ he paused meaningfully, ‘you will take it.’
She protested feebly but didn’t take it, too awed.
‘To seal our bargain.’
Attention caught she asked, ‘What bargain?’
‘Why, so you will be my friend.’
She giggled, ‘But I cannot be your friend, silly, you’re too big.’
‘Who cares?’
‘But you’re so old!’ that did not sound right to her, ‘Mama will not-’
‘Mama will not know.’ He winked at her saying, ‘Now am I to forever remain friendless?’
She considered for a while and said magnanimously, ‘I will be your friend even without the watch.’
Noxforth looked down at the watch in his hand. He had four others lying in his possession, one of which was a gift from his father. Children have the power to unman a person with simple words, he thought. He closed his fingers on the watch putting it back in his pockets and said, ‘It’s yours, Andy. I will keep it with me for now. You can come see whenever you want at my home.’
This seemed to simultaneously satisfy her and excite her, ‘Capital idea! Where is your home?’
He gave her a narrow stare, ‘You probably know it. Hawkweed Hall.’
‘Hawkweed Hall!!’ she shrieked, ‘No, are you hoaxing me?’
He grinned and shook his head. Just when he was convinced, he had impressed she intruded on this notion asking, ‘Then, you know Mr. Warren Price?’
He ruefully snorted at this question. No, he did not know Mr. Warren Price but had a fair idea that the name must belong to one of the children of his steward Mr. Carlson Price. Andromeda Dormer clearly had not grown up enough to care about riches yet but the sparkle that Mr. Warren Price invoked her eyes could hardly be missed for anything other than unadulterated adoration in the bosom of an innocent heart. The dim recollection of the Price brood before he had left Hawkweed that rose in Noxforth’s mind consisted of grubby motherless brats occasionally found in the Hawkweed gardens. With mild surprise he deducted that those brats must be young men ready for employment or university. Mentally registering that he would enquire the same and offer any assistance to Mr. Carlson Price, he narrowed his eyes at the young expectant face, ‘So this is how the matter stand, you’re already in love with Mr. Warren Price.’
Her face turned peach red and she screeched scandalised, ‘I am not!’ Something told her nobody in her knowledge talked of love openly with giant male friends. She hid her face in her hands and kept repeating, ‘I am not, I am not. Oh pray, you will not tell him, will you?’ She appeared out of her hands and sent him an earnest glance that not even a mountain could have withstood.
Not impervious to innocent wiles Noxforth confessed, ‘I do not know your Mr Warren, child. You may rest easy.’
Indignant and chagrined she exclaimed in a way only a child could. Impulsively she put her hands on Noxforth’s shoulders and tried to shake him furiously to no avail. Had her mother or acquaintances been party to this display they’d have been horrified but Noxforth was able to allow this high-spirited behaviour having witnessed similar outbursts in nursery from his youngest sister years ago. It did not take long for Andromeda to come to her senses either. Gasping at her own deplorable conduct she jumped back and stammered, ‘Oh N-Nate, I apologise!’ She seemed at the precipice of tears again, ‘You will not tell on me, please!’
He said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘I do not tell on friends.’
This calm utterance had the desired effect and brought her back from her high fidget. She threw him a look of such guileless gratefulness that Noxforth, suddenly felt much older than his thirty-two years; he could easily be her father. This interlude with her had seemed to unwind a tight knot that had formed in his heart these past few months.
‘So you’ve been to Hawkweed Hall?’
She shook her head, ‘Only seen from far,’ she whispered, ‘It’s so pretty.’
‘How do you know your Mr. Warren then?’
‘Oh, he comes to our priory to meet Father Morgan.’
He nodded. ‘You must come to Hawkweed Hall when you want your watch? You will like it; I have several others. And you may get to meet your Mr. Warren.’
‘But it’s so far!’ she said a little morosely, ‘Mama wouldn’t let me.’
‘I see. Then, you will send me a note of course and I’ll send my carriage.’
‘A carriage?’ she eyed him wonderingly. She told him she supposed that she could contrive to send notes through Mr. Baggins who delivered fresh vegetables to Hawkweed Hall from Ganymede on a daily basis and carried occasional letters and missives between people of Ganymede and Horndale.
‘But Mama wouldn’t-’
‘She would. I will tell her myself.’
‘You will?’ She was too familiar with capricious behaviour of adults to be taken in.
He nodded, ‘I will tell her today when I take you home.’ Pointing towards his horse he added, ‘On Wind.’
This confidence sent her into squealing ejaculations that Nate was the best man she had ever met. Upon her enthusiastic approval he picked her up on his arms carrying her towards his horse. She was a small child and weighed almost nothing. Her trusting arms came around his neck and her legs shackled him like a monkey. She confessed it would indeed be high treat to see Tom and Matty’s face when they saw who was riding Wind.
Noxforth got on to Wind’s saddle and made Andromeda sit in front of him, praying her mother would not take exception to a stranger delivering her child in such a manner. Andromeda clearly knew the shortcuts and all the curved roads for she efficiently guided him on to the village road. A few times he let Wind have his way and the child in front of him squealed her joyful excitement. As they came through the village, several heads turned to look at the broad-shouldered nabob riding what could be nothing other than a pure-bred. A few matrons ogled as soon as they recognised Priscilla’s hellion daughter giggling sitting in front of a stranger. A few young men walking by the road stopped to look at the magnificent stallion gracing their village road. The young ladies gaped at the large man seemingly one with the horse. Positively preening from the attention Andromeda shouted at one of them, ‘Shut your gob, Edwina!’ Noxforth’s lips twitched at this uncalled-for jab. As they moved on, he could hear a collective gasp followed by, ‘Why, you brat!’ probably by poor Miss Edwina. Andromeda turned slightly to the right and stuck out her tongue. However, upon recalling that she had let go of her control again to behave like a lady she quickly stole a chagrined look at Noxforth. Realising that far from censure, his eyes shone with mischievous comradery Andromeda giggled.
They arrived at a small, thatched house with a dilapidated fence surrounding it, unkempt ground, and peeling paint. Noxforth took in the situation with a quick glance and realised his assessment of Andromeda’s family had been correct. As soon as he brought Andromeda down from Wind a woman only a few years older than him came out the door, hurrying towards them. He was mildly surprised to observe the woman, if not at the first stare, was dressed fashionably well. The attire was by no means the finest but did not cast her in a poor light either. Raising her hands beside her face, she let a horrified screech at Andromeda’s limp bonnet, untied hair, and dirty breeches, ‘What have done to yourself?’ Her involuntary reaction was checked when her eyes took in her daughter’s companion. She, at once, composed herself and discovered the handsome person was unfamiliar to her and undoubtedly belong to the upper class. Dragging her eyes slowly back to her daughter she smiled this time, ‘Where have you been, dear child? I was worried.’
Ignoring this unusually soft conduct from her mother Andromeda grasped Noxforth’s arm and tugged him forward, ‘Mama, meet my new friend Nate! He brought me on his horse Wind!’ Under Noxforth’s silent scrutiny he watched a flush creep up Mrs. Dormer’s face while she momentarily looked at him with a shrewd gaze. In the next instant, she turned to Andromeda and gently pushed her towards the house, ‘Darling, do go inside right now and clean yourself! I have taught you better manners than this.’
‘Mama, Nate says he’d take me to Hawkweed Hall tomorrow’ her tone smoothly turned cajoling, ‘if you agreed to it. Won’t you Mama? May I go, please?’
‘Hawkweed Hall?’ Mrs. Dormer’s voice rose, and her eyes flew to Noxforth becoming wider. Noxforth was smiling at Andromeda’s earnest face, but he looked up at Mrs. Dormer at her high-pitched exclamation. He was about to introduce himself when Mrs. Dormer turned back towards Andromeda again,
‘Miss Andromeda Dormer, do as I say and go inside!’
‘But Mama-’
‘At once!’
Failing to sway her mother with a foot stomp and a moan orchestrated to tug at heartstrings Andromeda turned to Noxforth and waved a goodbye. He gave her a mock bow and taking her tiny hand in his he brought them to his lips and kissed it. Leaving behind a delirious giggle she vanished into the house.
As Mrs. Dormer turned towards him- Noxforth was surprised to see- her comportment underwent a startling transform from a widowed mother to a simpering female. Such transformation came natural to her which she employed liberally in front of attractive male persons. She had applied herself in such a manner twelve years ago and elevated her social ranking from a peasant girl to a genteel housewife. The appeal had quickly turned sour when her countrified husband had refused to be budged from Ganymede to take her on a trip to London, when in his dastardly pursuit of scholarly activities, he had not given a thought to his wife and when he had expected her to be a mother to that plain child, he had from his first wife. To top it all he had carelessly succumbed to a peaceful death in his sleep leaving his wife to a life in financial ruin and perpetual ill-humour. Consequent attempts for a more qualified marriage had not been successful for most young gentlemen did not care to be encumbered with two daughters they may be expected to dower. Spitefully, Mrs. Dormer had blamed her stepdaughter until four years ago when the chit had been picked up by Viscountess Henhurst, her late husband’s sister, packed off to London for a short season and quickly married off to a titled and rich baron. Presently, Mrs. Dormer’s feelings towards her stepdaughter primarily consisted of jealousy for having married into money and apathy for having neglected to allow even a small amount of that fortune to trickle down to her. The Viscountess Henhurst, who had looked down her nose at Priscilla and her daughter Andromeda and had haughtily declared that the only reason she was helping Olympia Dormer- the eldest child of her brother- was because she owed it to the honourable Margaret- the late wife of Sir Algernon Dormer- who herself was the daughter of a Baron. Mrs. Dormer, though loath to admit, had a healthy terror of her dragon of a sister-in-law. From that one time they were forced to tolerate each other’s company, she did not nurture any foolish hope that her sister-in-law could be counted upon to arrange such an advantageous marriage for her own Andromeda.
Her voice still high-pitched and her eyes blinking rapidly she said, ‘I apologise for my daughter, Sir. You must believe I have been remiss in-’ her speech stumbled as Noxforth’s hands flew up flat in a sign to halt her. His eyes hardened instantly, and the temporary ease of the morning quickly leeched from his heart as he recognised another coquette not different from those found in London ballrooms. Mrs. Dormer, he resolved, did not deserve his time or patience,
‘Mrs. Dormer, allow me to introduce myself. I am Noxforth.’ Mrs. Dormer took a sharp intake of breath at this, but Noxforth continued, ‘I find your daughter delightful, and nothing is lacking in manners in a child as young as she. I found her alone and decided to restore her to you.’
Ignoring everything he had said about Andromeda, her eyes glowing Mrs. Dormer demanded urgently, ‘Noxforth? You’re the new Duke of Noxforth?’
His posture stiffened at this vulgarity, not that Mrs. Dormer noticed, ‘The very same, Ma’am.’ With a chill in his voice, which would have shocked Miss Andromeda Dormer had she heard it, Noxforth added, ‘As your daughter already mentioned, I beg your permission to take her on a tour of Hawkweed Hall. You will forgive me for promising her this treat without consulting you first.’
Her eyes rounded hearing that the duke was willing to hobnob with her daughter. She did not know what to think of this. Although he was begging her permission. Suddenly recollecting herself she curtsied prettily, ‘Your grace! I am Mrs. Priscilla Dormer, wife of late Sir Algernon Dormer. I apologise for I did not know you have taken up residence in Hawkweed Hall; you see. I am grateful to you for delivering my daughter safely.’ There, she thought triumphantly and looked serenely at Noxforth. What Mrs. Pelting wouldn’t give to be in her shoes right now, she secretly thought.
‘But you grace, you must not feel obliged to entertain my tiresome daughter.’
Noxforth almost took this opportunity to end any potential future meetings with Mrs. Dormer, but years of civility won over, ‘I do not. I will be pleased to send my carriage tomorrow with my groom. Andromeda’s governess is welcome as well.’
Priscilla announced like a cat with cream, ‘Andromeda doesn’t have a governess, your grace. You must understand I cannot allow her to go without her Mama’s company. She will be quite afraid.’
Recognising this speech for what it was he chillingly said, ‘It will be quite improper because currently Hawkweed Hall is a bachelor’s residence, Ma’am. I assure you Andromeda will be quite safe and my housekeeper, Mrs. MacPherson, will take excellent care.’
Knowing it would be fatal to press further Priscilla agreed before he could change his mind, ‘Of course, your grace. I merely assumed Lady Grey would be in residence. Andromeda will, of course, be safe with Mrs. MacPherson. What a pleasant woman! I thank you for your generous offer, your grace. My Andromeda will like it very much.’
Deciding that he did not want to spend another moment in her company he informed her it was his pleasure, smoothly got upon Wind and rode away, leaving a thwarted Priscilla in its wake. For a moment he wondered at how a child such as Andromeda was spawn from a creature such as vulgar as Priscilla Dormer. However, he did not dwell on it long, his mind rapidly being taken over by the meeting he was expecting from a few of his tenants as he rode back the eight miles to Hawkweed Hall.
