You must not stand while I speak. You make me feel like a school mistress. Vivienne did not sit. She stayed standing beside her chair with her hands folded in front of her the way Petra had taught her when she was small. She kept her face still.
It was not difficult. She had trained her face for many years. Lady Mariset tilted her head. You know, my dear, one hears such things about a girl who has done such a service to a great man. One hears that she must be very clever or very pretty or if she is neither that she must be very wellplaced.
I do so admire cleverness. Truly, she sipped her wine. Her eyes never left Vivienne. Tell me, which are you? The room did not breathe.
Vivienne looked at her for a long moment. She did not answer at once. She had learned from Petra that a slow answer is often a better one than a fast one. She let the silence take up as much space as it wished. She saw the vicar's wife's hands tighten around her plate.
She saw Lady Mariset's smile widen just a fraction as if she had already won and was only waiting for the losing party to concede. I am neither clever nor pretty nor wellplaced, Vivienne said at last in a voice so calm it surprised her. I am only where I happen to be. If your lady ship would prefer a more interesting answer, I am afraid I have not one to offer. She curtsied.
Not deeply, just enough. If you will forgive me, she said to the vicar's wife, I promised my aunt I would be home before dark. She walked to the door. She did not look at Lady Mariset. She did not look at the vicar's brother.
She did not look at any of the other ladies. She walked as one walks when one has decided very quietly that one will not weep until one is out of doors. The vicarage gate closed behind her with a small click. The lane was empty. The sun had gone down behind the elms while she was inside, and the air had that particular thin blue of an autumn evening, and her breath came out in little clouds against it.
She walked. She did not weep. She had promised herself she would not weep until she was home, and she meant to keep the promise. She walked with her hands pressed flat against her sides, so that they would not shake in a way anyone passing might see. She had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile when she heard the horse behind her.
She did not turn. She thought at first it was a farmer or the miller's boy going home late, and she stepped near the hedgerow to let the rider pass. The horse did not pass. It slowed. It came alongside her at a walk.
Miss Ashcom. She did turn then. She had known his voice by the second word. The Duke of Ravenholm was on a dark bay horse alone, without his stick, without pel, without the carriage. He was in a plain riding coat, and his hat was pulled low against the wind, and he was looking down at her with the same quiet look she remembered from the grass.
Your grace, I have been to the vicarage. you. I stopped my horse in the lane outside for perhaps 4 minutes. Long enough to hear a certain lady laugh through an open window. Long enough to see you leave. He paused.
Long enough to decide not to go in. Vivienne did not know what to say. So she said nothing. That too she had learned from Petra. May I ride with you as far as your gate?
He said it was not quite a question. Your grace it is not proper. No, he said it is not. Then Miss Ashcom. I have this evening had my patience with propriety somewhat used up.
If you would prefer me to ride off, I will say the word. She looked up at him. His face in the blue light was not the face he had shown at her aunt's parlor table. It was closer to the face he had had in the grass. tired, honest, a little angry, though not at her. "You may ride," she said.
He got down from the horse. He did not mount again. He walked beside her, leading the animal by the reins, and the horse's hooves made a soft double sound on the lane, and for a little while, neither of them spoke. She could hear the horse's breath. She could hear her own.
She could hear his boots. "She was cruel to you," he said at last. I have heard worse. That is not the same as it's being nothing. No, Vivienne said quietly.
It is not. They walked a few more paces. I was on the scaffold, he said without her asking because a boy fell off it 3 weeks ago. He was 15. He broke both his legs.
He is the son of a man who has served my house for 30 years. I promised him I would see the work done properly. I have been climbing that scaffold every third day since to inspect the joints because the master builder was the man who let the boy fall. I did not trust his word. I trusted only what I could see with my own eyes.
Vivienne did not look at him. She kept her eyes on the lane. That is why you were dressed as a workman. It is. You did not tell anyone.
No. Why? He was quiet a moment. "Because a duke inspecting a scaffold makes a great deal of noise," he said.
A man in an old coat makes none. I did not wish to embarrass the master builder in front of his men. I wished only to know if the wood was sound. And was it? "No," he said.
It was not. They walked a few more paces. He will be dismissed. The Duke said the master builder quietly without shame. He will be given a small pension and a letter of character that speaks only of his best work.
He has three daughters. I do not wish them to suffer for his failure. That is between him and me. Vivienne stopped walking. He stopped too.
The horse stopped. He looked at her. Why are you telling me this? She said.
Because you asked me why I was on the scaffold. I asked you two mornings ago. You did not answer then. I did not know you well enough then. You do not know me well now.
I know you enough. They stood in the lane. The blue had deepened into something almost black. A single star had come out over the elms. The horse shifted its weight and lowered its head to crop at a tuft of grass beside the ditch.