That Would Be a Fairy Tale

chapter One

‘Are you sure?’ asked Mr Weedon. ‘It’s still not too late to change your mind.’

Miss Cicely Haringay braced herself. ‘Quite sure.’ Picking up the pen she signed the document. As she did so she felt a sinking sensation. With the signing of the document she had sold her beautiful manor house, and for the first time in its four-hundred year history it had passed out of Haringay hands.

‘If I could just ask you to date it?’ Mr Weedon prompted her.

Cicely roused herself. ‘Of course.’ She added the date - 25th June, 1904 - before handing back the document to Mr Weedon.

‘May I say what a pleasure it has been doing business with you?’ said the solicitor politely as he took the proffered document and put it away.

Cicely forced herself to smile. ‘Thank you. And thank you for all your help in arranging the sale.’

‘Not at all.’

Cicely turned to the door, her business concluded. Then, on a sudden impulse, she looked back at Mr Weedon. ‘Mr Evington plans to take up residence at the start of next month, I think you said?’

‘He does.’

Cicely nodded, thankful that at least she would have some time to get used to the idea of someone else living at the Manor before actually seeing him there.

She was glad that her beloved father had not lived to see it. He would have been horrified at the very idea of selling the Manor, and he would have been even more horrified at knowing that it had been bought by a businessman, or a cit, as he had called them.

If there had been time, she would have waited for a country family to buy it, people who would have fallen in love with the beautiful old house and treated it with the affection it deserved. But her father’s death had left her with such pressing debts that she had had to accept the first offer she had received. A generous offer, it was true, but one made by a man who had bought her beloved Manor house without even seeing it, as though any house would do.

However, there was no use dwelling on things. She was fortunate to have found a buyer, and she comforted herself with the thought that at least she had not had to sell the Lodge.

Thanking Mr Weedon again she pulled on her gloves and left the office, descending the stairs and reclaiming her bicycle, which she had left propped against the wall outside. Her flat straw hat, calf-length divided skirt, bolero jacket and short boots were ideally suited to bicycling, and she threw one leg expertly over the saddle before setting off back to the Lodge.

She soon left the town of Oakleigh behind her. As she cycled along the peaceful country lane she felt her spirits begin to rise. Selling the Manor had been difficult but it was over now, and she had much to be thankful for. She had paid all her father’s debts, and she still had enough money left over to enable her to live in modest comfort.

She turned left at the crossroads and headed towards Little Oakleigh. The summer afternoon was a beautiful one. The rain of the morning had given way to bright sunshine, and she found herself enjoying the ride. High hedges grew at either side of the lane. Grass verges, covered in wild flowers, ran in an untidy profusion alongside, and a rabbit hopped out from a neighbouring field and twitched its nose, before hopping along the verge and disappearing under the hedge again.

She began to draw near the village of Little Oakleigh. Only a mile more to go and she would be at the Lodge. Which was a good thing, she thought, as she heard the chimes of the church clock ringing out over the countryside, because she had invited Alice to tea.

She began to pedal more vigorously. Then, turning a corner, she started the descent to the forge. She had almost reached the bottom when, coming round the corner, she saw a motor car. The sight was so unusual that for a moment she was transfixed. Then, recovering herself, she swerved, only to find that she was now hurtling towards the duck pond instead. She tried to turn again, but it was too late, and she found herself careering into the water, tumbling from her bicycle and landing with a soft, wet thud on the thick mud at the bottom.

She hit the water in frustration and then picked herself up, looking at her filthy wet skirt and even filthier blouse in vexation. She put up a hand to push the hair out of her eyes and discovered that her hat had been knocked off in her fall. It was nowhere to be seen, until she turned round and caught sight of it twirling around just out of reach. She was just about to grab it when she saw something else. There, parked at the side of the road, was the Daimler, and standing next to it was the man who had caused her accident. He was about thirty years old with brown hair and dark eyes, a full mouth and, revealed by his infuriating smile, a flash of white teeth. His driving coat was hanging elegantly over his trousers and jacket and he was casually removing a pair of driving gloves.

‘I suppose you find this amusing?’ she asked icily.

His smile broadened into a laugh, goading her to continue: ‘If you were a gentleman you would now be apologizing for causing an accident and doing everything in your power to make amends, but as you are obviously nothing of the kind I will have to help myself.’

His expression darkened and she was pleased to have annoyed him.

Paying him no more attention, she retrieved her hat, putting it securely on her head, only to find muddy water cascading down her face.

And just when I believed my dignity could sink no lower! she thought, as she heard an explosion of laughter behind her. The sooner I’m back at the Lodge the better.

She waded crossly over to her bicycle and pulled on the handlebars, but it was stuck in the mud. She waded round to the other side of it, her sodden skirt making her movements slow and clumsy, and tried again. But again to no avail.

And then a pair of hands – strong, masculine hands – covered hers.

Cicely froze.

The driver, coming up behind her, had wrapped his arms around her and was proceeding to help her.

For a moment she had the most peculiar feeling as a rush of tingles spread outwards from her hands and radiated through her body. She wondered if it was a delayed reaction to the accident, but she did not think so. The sensation, whilst being unsettling, was not painful. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was strangely pleasurable. But what was it? It was certainly like nothing she had ever felt before. For some reason it had started when he had put his arms around her . . .

Reminded of the liberty he had taken she said, ‘I don’t need your help,’ completely ignoring the fact she had berated him for the lack of it a few minutes earlier.

‘You’ll never get your bike out of the mud without it,’ he said.

‘Oh no?’ she enquired, shrugging him off and giving another tug on the handlebars.

But again the bicycle refused to move.

His arms came round her again, and she pushed him away. ‘When I need your help, I’ll ask for it,’ she said.

He gave a mocking smile, but nevertheless he stood back.

She was aware of his laughing eyes lingering on her as she struggled with the bicycle and felt herself growing hot and flustered. It was obvious she couldn’t manage, and yet she would rather leave her bicycle in the pond and squelch her way home dripping water all the way than ask him for anything.

He watched her for another minute, then said, laughing, ‘It’s no good. I can’t stand by and watch you wrestle with it any longer. Like it or not —’

‘No,’ she snapped. Then, realizing she had sounded churlish, she added ungraciously, ‘There is no point in you getting dirty as well.’

There was a sudden silence. From nowhere a cold wind sprang up and blew over the pond.

Then, ‘I’ve been dirtier,’ he said.

She did not know how it was, but it was as if her words had unleashed a sudden bitterness in him; as though they had somehow opened an old wound she could not possible understand. But it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

‘Wait at the side of the pond,’ he commanded, wading into the water again. ‘That way I don’t have to worry about splashing you.’

‘It’s a pity you weren’t so concerned about splashing me when you raced through the village,’ she returned, looking down at her ruined cycling clothes. ‘You drivers have no idea how to behave in the countryside. You career along with no concern for anyone else. But I suppose I should be thankful. At least I wasn’t killed.’

‘Four miles an hour isn’t exactly racing,’ he pointed out. ‘In fact, you were going far more quickly than I was. With the reckless way you were rolling down the hill it’s a miracle you didn’t kill us both!’

‘Are you always so infuriating?’ she asked in exasperation, turning to face him.

He smiled, his eyes dancing. ‘So I’ve been told. But I can’t help having a lively sense of the ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous?’ Cicely’s face took on a deceptively innocent expression. ‘You are saying I look ridiculous?’

Her tone was mild, but he was not deceived and his eyes gleamed with barely-suppressed amusement.

‘Ah! Now you’ve caught me. If I say yes, I confirm you in your belief that I have no manners. And if I say no . . . ’

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

But it was no good. Try as he might he could not help laughing. ‘I’ve already answered one of your questions. Now you answer one of mine. If you weren’t so angry, wouldn’t you be laughing too?’

An unwilling smile tugged at the corner of Cicely’s mouth as she caught sight of herself in the Daimler’s windows, wet and bedraggled, with pond weed sticking out of her hair. So absurd was the picture that she almost succumbed to laughter but she fought it down, knowing that laughing would only encourage him.

‘Certainly not,’ she said repressively. ‘The sight of someone in distress has never amused me. Now, if you will kindly retrieve my bicycle, I will be on my way.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

Cicely splashed her way to the edge of the pond. She would have preferred to retrieve her bicycle herself, but she had realized it was impossible.

As she climbed out of the pond, dirty water trickled from her sodden garments, making a puddle on the grass. She shook her head in dismay and then set about wringing out her skirt. Luckily, being specially designed for bicycling, it was only mid-calf length, and not as long as the skirts she habitually wore when doing anything else. Having wrung it out, she straightened her jacket before re-settling her hat on top of her head. Then she looked round to see how the driver was doing. He had managed to rescue her bicycle and was in the process of carrying it to the side of the pond. But it was in a sorry state.

‘Oh, no!’ Cicely wailed. The once-gleaming machine was covered in pond slime. Mud was caught between the spokes, and the handlebars were bent.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ he said. There was still a glint of humour in his eye, but there was a hint of something softer as well, and his mouth was surprisingly gentle.

‘Not to you, perhaps,’ she remarked with a sigh. ‘The next time you go for a jaunt,’ she went on, taking it from him, ‘I suggest you choose a different village. Little Oakleigh is a peaceful place, and we prefer it to remain that way.’

Then, filled with a sudden longing to be safely back at the Lodge, she mounted her bicycle and, without a backward glance, she rode away.

He stood and watched her for a minute. There was something very appealing about her, even though she was covered in mud. Her carriage was erect, revealing the beautiful line of her straight back. Her neck was elegant, and there was a graceful set to her head.

Her hair, bedraggled though it was, had a softness about it that made him long to touch it, and the tendrils that had escaped from their pins were being blown across her shoulders in the most tantalising way.

Her slender curves, not quite hidden beneath her bolero jacket, together with the glimpse of shapely calf afforded by her bicycling skirt made his body stir. It was a long time since anyone had attracted him so much. But becoming attracted to one of the local girls was not on his agenda.

Against his will he watched her until she was out of sight, then climbed back into his Daimler and started up the engine.

He pulled away and began to drive carefully on towards Oakleigh Manor. He was mindful of the fact that at any moment another young lady on a bicycle might come hurtling round a corner before launching herself into a ditch!

It was not an auspicious start to his new life as lord of the manor, he reflected with a wry smile, but things could have been worse. He could have been confronted by an angry matron - or by Miss Cicely Haringay. Miss Haringay, from what he could make out, was a determined spinster who spent her life running Sunday schools and engaging in charitable works.

He knew the type: a monstrous battle-axe with a ramrod back and enormous bosom who liked nothing better than telling everyone else what to do. But instead, he had been confronted by a slight, appealing girl, whose cycling skirt had given him a satisfying view of her shapely calf and neatly-turned ankle, and he found he was looking forward to meeting her again. For all her high-and-mighty manner, there had been something very engaging about her.

Reluctantly, he brought his thoughts back to the present. He needed his wits about him if he were to remember the directions he had been given and arrive safely at the Manor. He drove on for a while, but by and by his face began to settle into a frown. He had the feeling he had gone too far and overshot the mark.

A few minutes later he was sure of it. He was in the village no longer, but heading out towards open countryside. There was nothing for it. He would have to turn round and try again.

He drove more slowly this time, his eyes searching for any sign of the Manor. It was barely visible from the road, his agent had said, but a lodge and a pair of fine gates gave evidence of its position. At last he saw the Lodge, a low, square building, and began to edge the Daimler forward more confidently.

Yes, that was it.

He reached the gates and turned into a long drive which wound between acres of verdant lawns. Despite himself, he was impressed. Although he may not have bought the Manor with the intention of making it his home, he still could not help admiring the sweeping lawns, the venerable trees and the herd of deer that grazed peacefully in the dappled sunlight beneath them.

Another bend of the drive and he caught sight of the house itself. It was far more sprawling than he had imagined, and presented a hotch-potch appearance, as though successive generations of Haringays had added to it, each in the style of their own era. A Tudor wing adjoined the main section, which appeared to be in the Georgian style, whilst a turret at the corner rose fantastically into the sky and spoke of the recently-departed Victorian age. But despite its hotch-potch appearance - or perhaps because of it - it had a warm and welcoming feel.

In another few minutes he pulled up in front of Oakleigh Manor. His eye wandered up an impressive flight of steps that led to the front door.

At the top of the steps was his younger brother, Roddy.

Roddy ran down the stone steps and cast his eye over the Daimler. He was twenty-four years of age and was fashionably dressed in a jacket and a pair of trousers with knife-sharp creases. His hair was sandy and his face good-humoured.

‘What kept you, Alex? Car trouble?’ Roddy asked. ‘You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.’

‘The motor’s fine.’ Alex got out of the car, closing the door with a satisfying thunk! ‘I had a slight accident, that’s all.’

‘You haven’t scratched the paintwork?’ asked Roddy anxiously, running his eyes over the bodywork.

Alex raised one dark eyebrow. ‘What do you take me for? Strictly speaking, I wasn’t the one who had the accident - although I didn’t escape unscathed,’ he said as they walked up the steps. He glanced down at his trousers, which were wet and muddy round the bottom of each leg.

‘If not you, who then?’ asked Roddy, taking in Alex’s wet trousers with amusement.

‘It was a young woman. A bicyclist. She came careering down the hill by the forge and almost crashed into me as she rounded the corner. It was only by some efficient manoeuvring that she managed to avoid the car . . . ’

Roddy breathed a sigh of relief. ‘No harm done, then.’

‘I wouldn’t quite say that,’ laughed Alex, taking off his driving gloves as they went into the Manor. ‘She ended up in the duck pond!’

‘Not hurt, I hope?’ asked Roddy.

‘Would I be laughing if she was? No, of course not. The only thing she hurt was her pride. Of which she seemed to have more than her fair share.’

‘I hope she wasn’t anyone important. The success of our scheme lies in your being accepted here. You need the goodwill of your neighbours, don’t forget. They have to want to attend your gatherings, and more than that they have to want to attend them decked out in all their finery. Otherwise there will be nothing to tempt the thief to strike again.’

‘Which is our only hope of catching him. I know.’ He thought. ‘She didn’t look important,’ he said. He divested himself of his car coat, which had protected his narrow trousers and jacket from the dust of the road. ‘Fine grey eyes, a determined chin, and a tantalising figure. Probably just a girl from the village.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Roddy. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked, changing the subject, as he looked round the empty but beautiful hall.

‘It’s a fine old place,’ said Alex. He, too, looked round the hall. It was light and bright, and with its cream walls it had a pleasantly cool and spacious feel. Although it was at present bare - no paintings or portraits lined the staircase, and no console tables or other items of furniture took away from the emptiness - the proportions were elegant, and the tall windows let in plenty of daylight.

He turned round slowly, taking it in. An imposing staircase led upwards. He let his eyes return to the ground floor. A number of doors, half open, led into different rooms. He walked across the hall, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. He threw open the first door. A large, high-ceilinged room was revealed, with windows looking out over the front of the house.

This room was not entirely empty. A few pieces of good furniture - an impressive mahogany dining-table and chairs, and a mahogany sideboard - remained. Alex looked enquiringly at Roddy.

‘Miss Haringay had to let some of the furniture remain with the house,’ he explained. ‘She did not have room to take it all to the Lodge.’

Alex nodded. He cast his eye round the room once more. ‘It’s very impressive,’ he said, before wandering back into the hall and looking round again. ‘My agent chose well.’

‘I still think you should have looked it over yourself before buying it.’

‘What for? I have an efficient agent who knew what I was looking for: an imposing residence in the right area. It’s not as though I wanted to call the place home.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Roddy. ‘It needs modernising, of course.’

‘It does. But as I don’t propose to live here permanently that isn’t a consideration. What matters is that it’s of the right stature, and it’s in the right place.’ His glance ran round the hall once again, and then suddenly his voice took on a steely quality. ‘Once it’s baited it will make the perfect trap.’

Cicely propped her bicycle up against the wall of the Lodge. Much of the mud had been dislodged on the journey home, and she knew that a good dousing with the watering can would restore it to most of its former glory. The handlebars she had already managed to bend back into shape. They had not been badly damaged, fortunately, and it had been an easy matter to put them straight.

She went down the garden to the shed and fetched the watering can and then cleaned the bicycle herself: Gibson had enough to do, without cleaning her bicycle as well.

Having successfully carried out her task she left her bicycle drying in the warm June sunshine and went into the house. Avoiding Gibson, her butler, who had refused to leave her service no matter how impecunious she had become, she made her way up to the bedroom where she stripped off her wet things.

Her short black boots were first, followed by her fawn gaiters, which she unbuttoned with the help of a button hook. Then came her divided skirt, her drawers, her shirt and her chemise. They would have to be cleaned, but that was a problem for later on. Right now, she wanted to clean herself.

She ran a bath, thankful for the fact that the Lodge had had plumbing installed in one of her father’s rare bursts of enthusiasm for something other than his beloved bicycles. But she noted with a sigh that the range must not be working properly as the water was not very hot. Nevertheless, it would have to do.

Slipping into the tepid water she gave both herself and her hair a thorough wash, rubbing her hair dry with a towel before dressing herself in fresh, clean clothes.

Unlike most other young ladies of one-and-twenty, Cicely did not have a maid, and in fact had never had one. Her dear father had had very little idea about a young lady’s needs, and her mother, alas, had died when Cicely had been a young child. And since her father’s death, Cicely had discovered that his unworldliness had resulted in a mountain of debts, so that she had been unable to hire one. As a result, by dint of choosing the most suitable clothes, she had grown proficient in the art of dressing and undressing herself.

She slipped on a clean pair of lace-trimmed knickers. After them came her bosom amplifier. She loved the pretty camisole with its row upon row of tiny frills sewn across the front and as she fastened it, her body began to take on a fashionable shape. She followed it with her lace-trimmed petticoat and glanced at the whalebone corset at the back of her wardrobe, but without assistance it was impossible for her to put on.

Looking through her clothes, she pondered what to wear. After some thought she decided on a white blouse with a lace corsage and a lilac skirt. She put on the blouse and then slipped into the skirt, smoothing its long, flowing lines over her hips and tweaking the short train which trailed behind it.

Having dressed herself, she arranged her damp hair and, looking in the mirror, was not dissatisfied. Knowing their poverty, she had bought a few good clothes and, with care, they would last her for years.

She heard a sound outside and caught sight of Alice walking down the drive. Within minutes Alice, a childhood friend who came and went as though she were one of the family, entered her bedroom.

‘Such news,’ said Alice without preamble, throwing herself down on the bed. ‘You’ll never guess – goodness, Cicely, what happened to your clothes?’ she asked, seeing the muddy clothes in the corner.

‘I had an accident. I fell off my bicycle.’

‘That’s not like you,’ said Alice.

‘It wasn’t my fault.’ Cicely’s desire to confide in her friend overcame her pride. ‘I was coming down the hill by the forge and I’d just turned the corner when I saw a motor car right in front of me. I had to swerve to avoid a crash, and I ended up in the duck pond.’ It was too much. The memory of the accident, now that she was dry and fresh and safely back at the Lodge, was so ridiculous that she had to laugh.

‘Oh, Cicely, how awful!’ laughed Alice. ‘You must have looked a sorry sight!’

‘I was drenched. There was water everywhere. And pond weed. It was sticking out of my hair. And when I rescued my hat and put it on –’

‘Don’t tell me. The water poured down your face! Oh, Cicely! How dreadful. I wish I’d been there!’

‘I’m glad you weren’t! It was bad enough that that man –’ she stopped short.

‘Man?’ Alice looked at her enquiringly and then broke out laughing again. ‘You don’t mean to say that someone saw you like that?’

Cicely pulled a face. ‘The driver of the car.’

‘How awful!’ laughed Alice, torn between amusement and horror. ‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything. He laughed at me!’

‘What a cad.’

‘I know, and you may believe I told him so, in no uncertain terms. “Had you been a gentleman you would now be apologizing for causing an accident and doing everything in your power to make amends, but as you are obviously nothing of the kind I will have to help myself.”‘

Her mouth twitched.

‘Oh, Cicely, you didn’t!’ Alice collapsed into laughter again.

‘I did.’

‘You mean, you didn’t laugh?’ asked Alice, pulling herself together.

‘Of course not – although at one point I was tempted. But I was too cross.’

Alice’s face was sympathetic. ‘You poor dear. Did anyone else see you – apart from the monster, that is?’

Cicely had a brief vision of the owner of the Daimler: dark hair, athletic build, long legs and an infuriatingly mocking smile. A monster? No, he hadn’t been a monster. Unaccountably, the strange sensation she had experienced when he had put his arms round her, the tingling feeling, which had made her body feel strangely alive, came back to her. She shook herself in an effort to drive it away.

No, he hadn’t been a monster, she thought again. More was the pity. Because if he had been a monster, his laughter would have been so much easier to bear.

‘No one else, thank goodness,’ she said, answering Alice’s question. ‘I was sure I would bump into someone in the village, but fortunately I managed to get back here without seeing a soul.’

‘That’s a relief! If the village boys had seen you, you would never have heard the end of it. But now, tell me, how did the rest of your afternoon go?’

Cicely sank down on the bed. She felt deflated suddenly, as though the events of the early afternoon had finally caught up with her. Rousing herself, she said at last, ‘As well as can be expected. I cycled over to Oakleigh and signed the final document as arranged, and then I cycled back again.’

‘It was very brave of you to sell the Manor,’ said Alice. She put her hand consolingly on Cicely’s arm. ‘I don’t think I could have done it.’

Cicely sighed. ‘I had no choice, in the end. The debts were too large. Selling the Manor was the only way to pay them. Father was a dear, but he was very absent-minded. I always knew it, but I didn’t realize at the time just quite how bad he was. I’d always assumed he paid the bills, at least, but when he died I realized he hadn’t paid anything for years. He always meant to, I’m sure, but he simply forgot about them five minutes after they’d arrived.’

‘His head was always full of some enthusiasm or other - usually bicycles,’ said Alice.

Cicely smiled. ‘Yes, his beloved bicycles. Not that I was ever allowed to call them that, I had to call them “velocipedes”, although "boneshakers" is a better description, if you ask me. He loved riding them, collecting them, inventing them . . .’ She gave a sigh as she thought of her dearly loved but completely impractical father. Then she rallied herself. ‘But it’s done now. The Manor is sold and the papers are signed. Never mind, at least I have a few weeks to adjust to the idea of the Manor having a new owner before Mr Evington takes possession.’

There was a pause in the conversation. Alice stood up and strolled round the room. She stopped in front of Cicely’s dressing table. She picked up Cicely’s silver-backed hairbrush, before putting it down and picking up the hand mirror, then putting that down and picking up the hairbrush once more. Without looking at Cicely she asked nonchalantly, ‘How would you feel if the new owner arrived earlier than expected?’

‘Earlier?’ Cicely’s eyebrows rose. ‘How much earlier?’

‘Oh . . . ’ Alice hesitated. Then she put down the hairbrush with a clatter. ‘The thing is, Cicely,’ she said in a rush, ‘it turns out he’s already here.’

‘Mr Evington? Here? Oh, no. He can’t be,’ she said in dismay. Suddenly, losing the Manor was even more real. But one look at Alice’s face convinced her it was true. ‘Are you sure?’ she demanded, wondering suddenly whether Alice could be mistaken. ‘He’s not meant to be here until the start of next month.’

Alice nodded. ‘Quite sure. He changed his mind about waiting, that’s all. But he’s definitely here. Mrs Sealyham’s seen him, and she told me all about him.’ She added nonchalantly, ‘He’s young, handsome, and charming, she says.’

‘Mrs Sealyham thinks every bachelor is young, handsome and charming,’ said Cicely.

‘Even so.’ Alice paused. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he really is?’

‘Why?’ asked Cicely.

‘Because . . . because then you could marry him, and you could go back to the Manor and raise your children there, as you always wanted to,’ said Alice with a sigh.

‘That wouldn’t be real life, that would be a fairy tale. And besides, he is the last man in the world I would want to marry. He isn’t like us, you know, he doesn’t have a heart and soul. He’s a brash businessman who sees everything in terms of profit, loss and investment. He didn’t even bother to look at the Manor before he bought it.’

‘You might change your mind once you meet him,’ said Alice.

‘And pigs might fly!’