A Fall from Grace - Maggie Ford (have you read this book TXT) 📗

about him from what she’d remembered, apart from merely being a quite agreeable young man with a gentle nature.

Now twenty-one, three years older than her, that considered just right by both families, he was tall, slim, moderately good-looking but for a rather weak chin, somewhat washed-out blue eyes, and fair hair so fine it gave the impression of being in danger of wafting off his scalp at the least puff of wind. He certainly wasn’t the man of her dreams back in Switzerland.

She too was tall and slender, but her hair though fair, was heavy and luxuriant and her eyes a vivid blue. In fact only a few days ago she’d been told by Freddie Dobson she was extremely pretty.

‘Gosh, miss, you’re far prettier than I imagined,’ he’d said. ‘If you’ll forgive me for being a bit forward, I’d say extremely pretty,’ which would have struck her as being very forward had it not been for his smile, so utterly appreciative that she had felt herself colour with pleasure rather than show pique or embarrassment.

She’d been home only two days and had been standing at the front door enjoying the warmth of late April’s early morning sunshine, needing to calm herself after being faced by her mother’s questions in the hall of all places, having only just come down from her bedroom. The last thing she’d wanted was to be interrogated on how things had gone between her and Hamilton after last night’s sumptuous dinner organized for her homecoming with his parents as guests.

‘All right, I suppose,’ she’d answered in an offhanded almost negative manner, instantly putting her mother’s back up.

‘All right, you suppose?’ her mother had burst out. ‘All right? Is that any kind of response to give us after the effort both our families have made on behalf of our daughter and their son?’

Her tone made Madeleine turn on her more than any nice girl should towards a parent, her own tone rising. ‘Mother, I don’t want anyone to make an effort! Yes, he’s a nice person but he’s not for me. At least I don’t think so,’ she ended trying to moderate her tone. Too late, her mother was already livid, her fair-skinned cheeks reddening.

‘Then I think you should explain your feelings to your father and see what he has to say about it. He will not be pleased. He will not be pleased at all. What right have you, eighteen and still under our jurisdiction, to begin behaving so finicky when we’re thinking only of your well-being, your future? Hamilton will make you an ideal husband,’ she went on, her words gaining momentum from shock, disappointment and mounting vexation. ‘He is kind and generous and gentle-natured. You might never find another prospective husband half as suitable as young Hamilton, look though you will, and—’

‘But I need to look!’ she’d cut in, not as any good daughter should to a parent, but she was angry too. ‘This is nineteen fourteen, Mummy, not eighteen ninety-nine! I don’t want to marry someone on whom my parents have already decided whether I like it or not. I like him, yes, but not enough to marry him. And anyway, how do I know he’s what I want? I know you’ve mentioned him in your letters when I was away but last night was the first time we’ve met in two years, so don’t you think you’re somewhat jumping the gun, Mummy?’

‘Jumping the gun? Jumping… What an uncouth expression for a well brought up young lady to use! Your father and I have… We have…’

‘I don’t want to talk about it just now,’ she said, cutting through the stammering torrent of dismay. ‘All I want at the moment is some fresh air – to think.’ With that Madeleine swung away from her and let herself out.

To help control her rapid breathing, she stood for a moment watching their gardener preparing to mow the huge circular front lawn bordered by its line of trees on one side and the curving, wide gravel driveway on the other.

The rattle of milk churns took her attention. Glancing towards the sound she saw a young man, in a blue and white striped apron over trousers and a collarless shirt, the sleeves rolled up as he trundled a handcart bearing two huge milk churns along the gravel path towards the servants’ entrance, as energetically as if they weighed nothing.

With growing interest she found herself taking in his appearance: the broad shoulders, the tanned skin of someone used to the outdoors, a shock of dark brown hair. It was a strong face, firm jaw, straight nose; she judged him to be around twenty-five.

Catching sight of her standing there looking his way, he gave a small, friendly nod, his gaze lingering for a moment before continuing on his way. In that moment, even from a distance of some fifteen feet she was aware of his dark brown eyes that seemed to her to smoulder, causing her young heart to quicken. So much so that on impulse and without thought of why or what had got into her, she followed him as he went out of sight around the far corner of the house.

Reaching the place where he’d disappeared she hovered, hopefully concealed, to watch him manoeuvre the awkward milk cart alongside the rear door to begin ladling out the thick creamy milk from a churn into the two large jugs that their cook, Mrs Plumley, had brought out to him.

As the woman retreated back inside he replaced the churn lid and deftly manhandled the milk cart around the way he’d come. The movement was faster than she had expected, too late to hurry back to the front of the house as he came abreast of her. Giving an impression of shocked surprise, seeing her there, he gave a dramatic execution of recovery as a broad grin widened his lips to reveal white even teeth.

‘Good gosh, miss!’ he burst out, ‘you gave me quite a start!’

Not knowing how to combat the