Adam and Jonathan looked as startled by her outburst as she was herself.

"My dear..." her brother began with an air of reproof.

Sarah pushed back her chair. "I beg your pardon," she whispered, and fled the room.

CHAPTER SIX.

Jonathan left early the next morning for the drive into Salisbury which, at Dapple's pace, would take him a couple of hours.

Since that horrid moment at the luncheon table, he had treated Sarah as if she were made of gla.s.s. Even when she apologized to him for her shocking rudeness to a guest, he had not breathed a word of reproach.

"My poor dear," was all he said, enfolding her in his arms.

She rested her forehead against his shoulder. "Did he ... did Adam guess that I am jealous? He must have done so. I shall never be able to face him again."

"No, he blamed himself for oversetting your nerves. I had a hard time persuading him not to change his orders to Gossett. I know you will want to do what you can for those unfortunate females."

At that time, Sarah had thought how difficult it was trying to live up to her saintly brother's idealistic view of her. Now, waving goodbye to him as he drove down the street, she was glad he had not let Adam countermand his instructions. She was forced to acknowledge, to herself at least, that she was excessively curious to see what a fashionable Cyprian was like.

The day pa.s.sed with painful slowness. Every time there was a sound in the street outside Sarah paused in her ch.o.r.es, half hoping, half dreading that it might be Adam. Discovering that she had set the cuff on the sleeve the wrong way round, she gave up trying to concentrate on hemming a shirt for Jonathan. She decided to go for a walk to ease her restlessness, but when she looked out of the French windows she saw that while her thoughts had been elsewhere, a pall of grey clouds had crept across the sky. A gusty wind was blowing a haze of chalky dust from the dry fields.

She took from the shelves one of her favourite books, a translation of Herodotus's Histories, and went to sit in the front parlour where she could see into the street.

She had not been there long when an elegant travelling carriage approached from the direction of Cheve House. The road through the village came to an end at the viscount's front door, so either Lady Cheverell had had a visitor or the driver had lost his way.

To Sarah's astonishment the carriage with its team of four perfectly matched black horses pulled up before the vicarage. The only explanation she could think of was that it carried one of Adam's lights-o'-love, but she had never dreamed that females of that sort might possess such an extravagant equipage. If Adam treated all his mistresses with similar generosity, it seemed probable that he would shortly find himself with pockets to let.

A smart footman jumped down from the back of the carriage, ran up to the door, and knocked.

Sarah rushed to the mirror over the fireplace and made a vain attempt to tidy her hair. She heard the sound of voices in the hall, then Mrs. Hicks came in.

"A Mrs. Goudge to see the reverend," she announced, giving Sarah a handsomely engraved card. "I told the fella as he's not at home."

"Mrs. Henry Goudge," Sarah read. That was the name of the first ladybird Adam had mentioned, the one whose husband was lost at sea. She felt an unexpected rush of sympathy. "I shall see her, Mrs. Hicks. Show her in here, if you please."

It took all her resolution not to peer out of the window like a vulgar busybody, to see what sort of creature was descending from that magnificent carriage.

The woman who entered the parlour moments later could not have been less like what she expected. Her black bombazine carriage dress was elegant but plain, trimmed with jet beads, and she was definitely a trifle on the plump side. When she raised her veil her face was white and tired, her dark eyes red-rimmed, and she looked to be at least thirty.

"It is good in you to receive me, ma'am," she said. Her voice was low, with a refined accent that sounded quite natural. "I am at my wits' end or I should not have dreamed of troubling you."

Sarah went to her with both hands held out and led her to a chair. "You must be exhausted after your journey," she said gently. "Do you put off your bonnet and I shall order refreshments." She went to the door, where she found Mrs. Hicks chasing Nellie from her position at the keyhole.

"I'll bring tea, shall I, miss?" the cook enquired. "There's some nice Queen cakes fresh from the oven."

"That will do very well." Sarah closed the door and went back to take a seat opposite her visitor.

Mrs. Goudge was twisting a handkerchief in her kid-gloved hands. Beneath a white lace bonnet-cap her ringlets were raven black, making Sarah feel her own dark brown hair to be utterly insipid. The woman's face was slightly flushed as she said, "I don't know quite how to explain why I am here."

"Lord Cheverell has told me something of your difficulties," Sarah informed her, feeling her own anger rising at Adam's callous seduction and abandonment of this unfortunate woman. "I collect that your husband is reported lost at sea."

Mrs. Goudge raised her handkerchief to dab at her eyes. "I don't know what I shall do without Henry,'' she said simply. "He was the best of husbands."

Sarah was taken aback. She had supposed that a wife who betrayed her husband must dislike him, but the woman sounded perfectly sincere. Fortunately Mrs. Hicks carried in a tray at that moment, giving her time to reorganize her thoughts.

"I fear there is little I can do for you," she said as she poured the tea, "except send a message to Ad-to his lordship to tell him that you are here."

"The butler promised to inform him. He is out riding, I understand."

"It was wicked of him to desert you at such a moment."

"Oh no, you must not think ill of Adam, Miss Meade. His London butler said he had an urgent summons from Lady Cheverell, and of course his family must come first. It was foolish of me to follow him, but I was distraught."

"He ought not to have ... led you astray in the first place. Forgive me, but I do not perfectly understand how, if you love your husband, you could have let Adam take advantage of you. I cannot believe he forced himself upon you."

"Heavens, no! I was lonely, you see. I missed Henry desperately. I was standing on Blackfriars Bridge, looking down the river to the docks and wishing that he was on his way back, when Adam drove past. He was afraid that I meant to do away with myself. He was so very kind, Miss Meade. The City merchants tend to ignore females, and I had never met a proper gentleman before. He began to call quite often, to cheer me, and ... one thing led to another. Indeed you must not blame Adam. When you marry, perhaps you will understand better."

"Perhaps," said Sarah dubiously. She took refuge in the social niceties. "Will you take another cup of tea?"

Mrs. Goudge complimented her on the Queen cakes and they chatted for a while about domestic matters, quite as if Adam's mistress was a respectable village matron. When Mrs. Hicks came in to remove the tray, Sarah pa.s.sed on the praise of her baking and she beamed and curtsied.

The visitor consulted the watch pinned to the front of her dress.

"I must not take up any more of your time," she said. "If you will be so good as to direct me to a respectable hostelry where I can await Lord Cheverell, I shall be on my way."

"I had almost forgot we were waiting for Adam," said Sarah, not quite truthfully, hoping the set-down would reach that gentleman's ears. "I expect he will be here soon. You must not leave. If you would like to tidy yourself, I shall take you up to the spare chamber."

They went above stairs together, but a certain constraint had fallen between them again at the reminder of Mrs. Goudge's situation.

Sarah wandered down to the study. The emotion uppermost in her mind was confusion. She needed a period of uninterrupted contemplation to sort out her feelings and this was clearly not the right time to attempt that task. She allowed herself a brief flash of envy: if Adam admired black ringlets and a voluptuous figure, why could not she have been so endowed?

She picked up the shirt she had been sewing earlier and went back to the parlour. When Mrs. Goudge returned, she was st.i.tching composedly.

The India merchant's wife was no longer pale and tear-stained. Sarah was surprised that merely washing her face had so effectively removed the ravages of misery and a tiring journey. Then she realised that the woman had used powder, and even a touch of rouge. It was so delicately done that she would never have guessed had she not seen her before its application.

She was staring rudely. She dropped her eyes, flushing, and an awkward silence fell between them.

It was broken by the rumble of wheels in the street, halting at the door. A volley of knocks followed, then Mrs. Hicks's raised voice.

Mrs. Goudge reached for her bonnet and her reticule. "Your visitors must not see me," she said. "Where shall I go?"

"Let us first wait and see who it is," advised Sarah, frowning. It was not like her cook-housekeeper to raise such a rumpus.

Mrs. Hicks appeared in the doorway, scarlet-faced and with a militant glint in her eye.

"'Tes a young person, miss, as had the cheek to tell me to pay off her chaise!"

"Did she give her name?" Sarah enquired.

Mrs. Hicks was opening her mouth to answer when a startling vision pushed past her. Clad in a clinging, decollete gown of pea-green satin embellished with cherry bows, the new arrival had a willowy figure that curved generously in the right places. A matching bonnet topped flaming red hair above a face painted white, with cerise on the high cheekbones. Her eyelids were blue and her soot-black eyelashes of an improbable length. Sarah developed a sudden admiration for Mrs. Goudge's ability with cosmetics.

Her opinion of Adam's taste took a plunge, but perhaps he always saw the creature by candlelight. This, she was sure, was his opera singer.

"You!" cried Marguerite dramatically, pointing with one hand at Mrs. Goudge while the other rose in a histrionic gesture to her forehead. "Whatcher doing 'ere?"

"The same as you, no doubt," said Mrs. Goudge dryly.

"And oo's she?" The actress turned her attention to Sarah.

"Miss Meade is the vicar's sister."

"And I'm the King's gran'ma! Adam's country piece, are you, ducky? Nothing to be ashamed of, yer in good company. Speakin' o' the devil, where is 'e? Ol' starchy-britches up at the big 'ouse sent me 'ere to see 'im."

Sarah had lost her tongue, so Mrs. Goudge came to the rescue.

"Adam is out riding," she said in a cold voice. "No doubt he will come as soon as he can."

"That's just fine, that is. Oo's gonna pay my carridge, is what I want to know."

Sarah rallied. "I am sure Adam-his lordship-will pay the coachman when he arrives, but perhaps you should not turn it away until you discover whether you still need it. There is no inn in the village."

"My, you do talk nice," said Marguerite admiringly. She looked around the room. "Kind of shabby place 'e's set you up in though, ain't it? You didn't ought to let a gentleman get away wiv it like that, ducks. I'll 'ave a word wiv 'im about it if you like. Swimming in mint sauce, 'e is. You don't 'ave to be shy about asking for nice stuff. After all, 'e gets what 'e wants, don't 'e?" She winked.

"I really am the vicar's sister," said Sarah in desperation, hovering between laughter and tears at the woman's persistent misapprehension. There was no point in taking offence at her frankness. "My brother is in Salisbury calling on the Bishop. He will be back shortly."

"Calling on the Bishop!" The actress mimicked her voice. "La, I vow I am almost ready to believe it."

"It is true!" Sarah and Mrs. Goudge a.s.sured her as one.

"Then what's Adam think 'e's doing, foisting the likes of me and 'er on a gentry mort?" Marguerite was indignant. "Don't tell me ol' starchy-britches done it wivout 'is orders."

"No, Lord Cheverell told his butler to send you here. He did not want his mother to meet ... He was protecting his mother. My brother and I have known him since we were children. Of course he could not guess that Mr. Meade would be from home when you arrived. In fact, he did not really believe that you would come."

"d.a.m.ned-beg parding-deuced if I know why I did. 'Is lordship's not one to let a girl down. Just couldn't stand that Clorinda crowing over me. Clorinda, I don't think. Bertha she were christened and Bertha she'll be buried." She grinned. "And you'll be wondering what I was christened. Well, it weren't Marguerite, but Margaret ain't so different."

"Since you never introduced yourself, I for one was not wondering anything of the sort," said Mrs. Goudge tartly.

"'Sright, I never did. Well, Marguerite's me stage name and it'll 'ave to do. And I'm sure I beg parding, miss, if I said aught out of line."

Sarah was perfectly willing to let bygones be bygones. She was revising her opinion of Adam's opera singer. To be sure, she was shockingly vulgar in speech and dress, but she was able to laugh at herself and her apology was unforced and apparently sincere. That was not to say that Sarah wanted to entertain her for the next several hours.

Adam had landed her in this b.u.mblebath. Where was the dratted man when she needed him?

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The pounding of hooves in the village street followed by a thunderous knocking at the front door sent Marguerite rushing to the window. Sarah and Mrs. Goudge kept their dignity and their seats but both looked at her eagerly.

"Cor lumme, it's 'im," announced the actress. "Is me 'air on straight?" With a gliding gait quite unlike her previous sprightly movements, she went to a sofa and disposed herself on it, in an att.i.tude of languorous grace. "Mustn't let 'im know we was all agog, must we," she added.

Sarah briefly considered escaping into the hall to confront Adam on his own, but she wanted to see his expression when he found her sitting with his mistresses as if they were everyday callers. She wished Mrs. Hicks, whose raised voice was once more heard, had not removed the tea tray, that symbol of respectability.

The viscount came into the parlour unannounced, looking sheepish. His eye fell on Marguerite, who had carefully selected the sofa opposite the door.

"Adam darling," she cooed.

"Marguerite!: he exclaimed in a hara.s.sed voice and glanced round the room. "Janet. Sarah."

"Miss Meade," the vicar's sister said frostily.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Meade," he apologized, and bowed to her. "If I might have a word with you in private?"

"Pray excuse us, ladies," said Sarah. "We shall not keep you waiting long." She led Adam into the study and turned to face him. "Well?"

"I never intended that you should entertain them," he protested, running his fingers through his hair.

"No, I daresay I should have shut them in together and left them to scratch one another's eyes out," she said with composure. "They are not fond of each other, you know. Marguerite was sadly taken aback to find Mrs. Goudge-Janet, is it?-here before her. She was most kind to me, however, and advised me to insist that you buy me more elegant furnishings."

"She what?" He looked blank.

"She was under the impression that I am your 'country piece'. I take it that means what I think it means?"

"Probably," Adam said ruefully. "No, certainly. I'm sorry, Sarah." He took both her hands in his and squeezed them gently.

A tingling sensation raced up her arms, leaving her shaken and breathless. She pulled her hands from his grasp and turned away, praying that he had noticed nothing amiss.

With careful nonchalance she said wryly, "Such is life in a rural vicarage. You will never guess what she called Gossett."

"Tell me." His voice sounded constricted, as if he too were having trouble breathing.

"Old starchy-britches."

He made a choking noise and she swung round. Their eyes met, and both burst into peals of laughter.

"Not a word of this must reach Gossett's ears," he gasped as their mirth died down. "His dignity would be irreparably injured. Yours, however-" he grew serious "-is too much an innate part of you to suffer. All the same, I am truly sorry to have put you in such a position. Am I forgiven?"

"Not quite. I do not want to give you too great an opinion of your ability to charm me into condoning this disgraceful business. Adam, I can do nothing for the two of them. You must take them back to London and deal with their problems there."