A week had passed since Nerissa wrote to her parents. Surely their answer must have arrived by now! As the landau pulled up outside the Stickleback Inn, she clenched her hands within her new, down-filled muff. The footman jumped down from his perch behind and ran in to pick up the post for Addlescombe.

Would Mama and Papa let her stay?

At least if she had to go home she had a whole new wardrobe to take with her. She glanced down at her elegant, moss-green velvet pelisse, trimmed with black braid, and at the great heap of packages beside Maud on the opposite seat.

"I have been dreadfully extravagant, Cousin Sophie," she said guiltily.

"Not at all, dear. Half of those are Miles's-well, a third, I daresay, but the larger ones, since a gentleman's garments are so very bulky. Is it not fortunate that he decided to escort us on horseback today?"

"It was something of a squeeze last time, with all the parcels of reticules and fans and stockings and gloves and shawls. I had not intended to buy so much!"

"Pray do not forget, Nerissa dear, that it is your money, after all."

"Only if I don't have to go home."

"But in that case it is Miles's money, and he has said he is very well pleased to spend a little on tricking you out in style. I believe that was his expression? Although perhaps it is not quite proper for a young lady to accept clothes from a gentleman-but he is practically a relative, you know, and Mr Harwood said you might consider it your money, if only for a few days. Oh, I do so hope dear Anthea will not insist on your leaving!"

"I should be sorry indeed never to see you again, Cousin Sophie."

As for the rest of her relations, she doubted even absence could make her heart grow fonder. Over the past few days, they had all followed Raymond's lead in making overtures to her, as Miles had predicted. Not for a moment was she deceived into thinking they resented her presence less or had ceased to hope that she would fail to observe Sir Barnabas's conditions.

How smug Cousin Euphemia had looked when Nerissa made such a cake of herself in church on Sunday! She had been half way down the aisle when she realized the entire congregation was staring at her. Unable to move, her breath caught in her throat, she had stood like a rabbit mesmerized by a stoat until Miles took her arm and gently led her to the family pew. Two days later, the memory still made her blush.

At home everyone understood about stage-fright. At home no one had any reason to stare at her. A sudden wave of longing swept over her for the close-knit world of the theatre, for the community where she was an accepted and useful-if not highly valued-member.

Perhaps, in her new clothes, Lucian would notice her even if she returned without a fortune. She bit her lip. She wanted to go home!

And then Miles came out of the inn, a tankard in his hand, and smiled at her.

"I thought I'd wait here for you to catch up," he said. "Can I bring you ladies any refreshment? Miss Sophie, a dish of tea? Or will you step in for a few minutes?"

"So very considerate, dear boy," twittered Miss Sophie, quite unused to anyone attending to her comfort. "Nerissa, do you care to ... But here is Ben with the post," she interrupted herself as the footman returned to the carriage with a bundle of letters and periodicals. "Ben, is there a letter for Miss Courtenay?"

"Yes, miss, 'tis come. From York, 'tis the right one for sure. I put it on top, miss." He handed the bundle to Nerissa.

Maud forgot she was supposed to speak only when spoken to. "Oh miss," she cried, "I hope 'tis good news."

Nerissa's eyes met Miles's in a look of shared amusement and suddenly she prayed she'd be allowed to stay. The servants wanted her, if only because the alternative was Cousin Euphemia. Miss Sophie wanted her. And Miles needed her support and friendship through the long months ahead in a house full of ill-wishers. He watched anxiously as she fumbled with the seal.

"Here's my pocket-knife."

"Thank you." Her hands shook. The sight of Mama's writing made her realize how much she missed her. She no longer knew what she hoped for.

Chapter 9.

Sir Barnabas glared in disgust as Nerissa entered the drawing room in her new evening gown. To be sure his granddaughter was pretty as a picture in the deep rose sarcenet, modestly trimmed with blond lace, but modesty was the word for the style, too. With its high neck and long sleeves, it displayed no more of her shape than the most wishy-washy of present-day fashions allowed. Waists right up under their bosoms! In his day a woman's waist was where it belonged, and well-stayed into the bargain.

The jade was cleverer than he had allowed for. He'd been certain the purchase of new finery would tempt her to a display of garish vulgarity but there was nothing in her appearance for the highest stickler to cavil at.

Still, all was not lost. That good-for-nothing godson of his was gazing at her like a star-stricken mooncalf.

Well, she was pretty, the late baronet admitted grudgingly. Candlelight glimmered on her hair, done up on top of her head in a fanciful knot. Her ingenuous, hopeful smile would have graced the most blameless damsel. Pretty-and a superb actress!

Her hopefulness merged into contented relief as Miles came forward and bowed over her hand, his admiration evident. He was well and truly hooked, Sir Barnabas exulted.

"Delightful," Miles said. Enchanting, he thought. The gown showed her slender figure curved in all the right places, and the smooth, shining topknot of hair gave her an air of graceful dignity. He wondered if her mother had dressed her dowdily on purpose to disguise her charms and keep her safe. She was safe from him. As a delicate colour rose in her cheeks, he grinned and added, "What excellent taste I have!"

She laughed. "And you are very fine in your new coat. I cannot thank you enough for your help, Miles. I'd have been sadly at a loss without you. As it is, even Cousin Effie has found nothing to criticize except the quantity of my purchases."

"You don't still feel guilty over the cost, do you? Since your mother sent you permission to stay, the money is as good as your own."

"It is as much Mama's and Papa's as mine, though Mr Harwood will not let me send them any yet. Still, it seems horridly selfish to spend so much on frivolities for myself when Mama's letter is full of plans for all of us. She wants to take a house outside the city, with a proper garden, and to hire a wardrobe mistress for the Playhouse so that I need not sew any more. And, most important, to refurbish the theatre so that audiences will not stay away because of its shabbiness. It needs..."

A sort of growling howl drowned her words. Miles swept the room with a wild glance. He was hearing things again. He turned back to Nerissa just as she exclaimed, "Oh, what was that?"

"You heard it too?" he asked in relief.

At that moment the drawing-room door opened and Mr Harwood came in. Miles and Nerissa both stared at him. His round face was as artlessly cheerful as ever. He turned slightly pink under their united gaze.

They glanced back at each other and shook their heads. The fearsome noise had not emanated from the inoffensive little lawyer.

"Then what...?" Nerissa faltered.

"Did you hear a peculiar sound just now, sir?" Miles demanded.

"A peculiar sound?" Did Mr Harwood look just a trifle shifty? "What sort of sound?"

"Like a dog that has been trodden on and can't decide whether to snarl at the offender or whine at the pain. A cross between fury and anguish, wouldn't you say, Nerissa?"

"Yes, that's a very good description."

"Good heavens!" The lawyer was definitely embarrassed. "No doubt one of the grooms has fallen over one of Miss Philpott's dogs in the stables. My dear Miss Wingate," he went on hurriedly, "may I say how charmingly you look this evening?"

Miles let him change the subject, though the stables were much too far off to hear a dog. If he was surer of his inheritance, he'd get himself a dog, he thought, but one could not keep a country dog in London.

Nerissa, blushing, was thanking Harwood for his compliment. "And I must thank you for letting me purchase this gown and so many others," she said. "I wish you were able to let me send money to my parents. I have just been telling Miles of their plans for improving the York Playhouse when funds are available."

"Ah!" With an air of enlightenment, Mr Harwood turned towards one of the chairs by the fireplace and frowned at it, a minatory frown.

He really was behaving very oddly. Miles was about to challenge him to explain when the door opened again, to admit Mrs Chidwell, Lady Philpott, and Aubrey.

Euphemia Chidwell, dressed in purple as always, bore down upon them like Lord Byron's wolfish Assyrian upon the fold. Her teeth were bared in an improbable beam of pleasure, her eyes hard and calculating behind her lorgnette.

"Well, Miles," she said with an awful gaiety, "is not our little Nerissa a beautiful sight in her new attire? Positively alluring, I vow. In fact, irresistible!" Her elbow, sharp despite the padding on the rest of her, nudged him in the ribs and he winced as she added in a sly whisper, "A tempting morsel to a dashing blade like yourself, no doubt."

"Miss Wingate is at last dressed as befits her station," he said, coolly reproving.

"Very proper, cousin," Aubrey deigned to bestow his approval. "One would not be ashamed to be seen anywhere with you." His corset creaked as he turned to Miles. "Your coat is not badly cut, Courtenay, for a provincial tailor. Naturally I have mine made in London, by Nugee. At least, I did," he reflected, recalling his changed circumstances. He retired to the far end of the room to brood in silence upon his wrongs.

"It is quite monstrous," said Lady Philpott in a voice quivering with reproach, "that my poor boy is no longer able to dress as befits his station."

"Now, Jane," Mrs Chidwell chided, "you know we all agreed to let bygones be bygones."

"I'm sure it is nothing to you, Euphemia, if my unhappy children are turned out of doors as paupers..."

Seeing Nerissa looked distressed, Miles drew her away and asked her about the denizens of the York Playhouse. The rest of the family soon came in and they went in to dinner.

Nerissa was used by now to presiding over the dinner-table. She did her best to see that everyone's likes and dislikes were catered to, and judging by the number of dishes sent back empty, she succeeded.

Nor had anyone objected to her substitution of a pleasant landscape for the painting of the dog with the dead duck in its mouth.

Among the reams of advice puzzled out from Mama's much-crossed letter was a caution to seat compatible guests next to each other at her dinner parties, with due regard to precedence. Fortunately she did not have to worry about such matters for the moment, with only the family present. They sat where they chose, regardless of precedence and compatibility. So far, thank heaven, Cousin Euphemia had not quite come to blows with Cousin Raymond.

They were on the verge of battle again, Effie laying down the law on some church matter and Raymond pugnaciously quoting the prayer book to refute her. Nerissa met Miles's eyes, at the far end of the table, and he rolled them comically. Wishing she could sit next to him, she signalled to the rest of the ladies. Euphemia was forced to abandon her dispute and to retire with them to the drawing room.

According to Miss Sophie, Sir Barnabas had been able to quell the combatants with a glance. Nerissa's only recourse was to remove one of them. In six months they would both leave the manor-sometimes six months seemed forever!

"You learn very fast, dear," Miss Sophie congratulated Nerissa as they sat down together on a love-seat. "Already you preside at the table as if you had been bred to it."

"Do you think so?" she asked, pleased. "There is such a great deal to learn. I am quite comfortable with Cook and Mrs Hibbert now, but Snodgrass still puts me in a quake, I confess."

"Oh, but I, too, find him utterly intimidating, quite like dear Barnabas at his grumpiest."

"I have not found Tredgarth grumpy, though, as you warned me he can be. He is quite willing to grow flowers for me. If it is fine tomorrow, I shall walk into the village and see if anyone can spare me some seeds and bulbs. I must go anyway. Now that I have lady-of-the-manor clothes, it's time I found out what the lady of the manor can do to help the villagers."

"Do you think you ought to, dear?" said Miss Sophie dubiously. "Of course, one contributes cast off clothes and sends a footman with soup when there is sickness, but neither Effie nor Jane has ever become personally involved."

"Mama is most particular in her letter that it is my responsibility to become acquainted with the tenants and their needs. She even asks after some of the people she knew long ago."

"Dear Anthea!" Miss Sophie exclaimed and made no further objection to Nerissa's plans. "Pray do not forget to take your abigail with you."

However, the next morning when Nerissa was ready to leave, clad in her new red cloak and stout new walking-shoes, she had sudden qualms. To thrust herself upon several dozen strangers, she wanted more company than just Maud. Miss Sophie was no walker. Raymond Reece was the obvious choice, but she still did not trust him to guide her aright. She'd ask Miles to go with her.

"Mr Courtenay has rid out with Mr Bragg, miss," Snodgrass informed her. "The bailiff, that is."

Nerissa was surprised. Miles had told her he meant to master the estate accounts, but she had assumed his interest lay solely in ensuring he was not cheated. To go off with the bailiff suggested he wished to take a more active part in managing Addlescombe.

But he was a city-dweller, a gamester and a rake, a self-confessed wastrel. No doubt he needed to check that matters on the ground corresponded with the reports in the account books. Nerissa wondered whether he could distinguish a field of wheat from a field of barley any better than she could. At this time of year they were all ploughed up anyway so he might as well have stayed at home and gone with her to the village.

Disappointed, she set off with Maud, unaware of Sir Neville reluctantly sneaking along behind.

"I shan't do it again, I tell you, Euphemia," Sir Neville blustered. "Can you imagine what a nodcock I must have looked when that drunkard Bedford came upon me sneaking behind his privy? He invited me to make use of it."

"Oh no!" Jane moaned. Sir Barnabas grinned.

"And all she did was chat with the villagers," Neville went on. He gave Effie a poisonous glance. "It was before you moved in or you would recall that her mother was the same, always poking and prying into the affairs of the lower classes. The older people remember her well."

Yes, thought Sir Barnabas sadly, he had taught Anthea a feeling of responsibility towards her dependents if not towards her rank. It had been a mistake to invite Neville to live at Addlescombe. He had hoped, on his wife's death, that his sister-in-law would be a mother to Anthea, but Jane had never had the least interest in any but her own children.

Little wonder that Anthea had been eager to leave home, yet she had turned down more than one respectable offer to run off with that penniless, lowborn, disreputable mountebank. Unforgivable!

His choler revived, he drifted after the three to the dining room, where a luncheon was set out. Here he found another cause for irritability. He missed his vittles, dammit if he didn't!

Miles was hungry after a morning spent on horseback. He spared a glance for Nerissa-her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes suggested she too had been out and about-and then applied himself to a plateful of cold meat, pickles, cheese, and treacle tart.

When at last, his appetite satisfied, he looked up, he found her watching him.

"I trust all is to your liking?" she asked teasingly.

"Excellent. Only one thing missing."

"Missing? Oh dear, what?"

"Not really missing, but I have a fancy for pigeon pie, and Bragg says the pigeons were a serious pest when the winter wheat was sown. I believe I shall take a gun out this afternoon."

"I'll join you," Matilda grunted.

Nerissa seemed surprised, but she said readily, "Cook will be glad of some pigeons, I daresay, and she asked just this morning whether you mean to provide any pheasants. But Miles, I'd like a word with you in the library before you go out. Mr Harwood, also, if that will be convenient, sir?"

"Certainly, Miss Wingate, I am at your service."

Intrigued, Miles followed Nerissa and the lawyer to the library. What had prompted her to take charge?

She didn't appear vexed or distressed, simply serious.

The library had become something of a refuge from the rest of the family, who had been accustomed to avoiding it in Sir Barnabas's day. Nerissa had had the dead fish picture replaced by a charming portrait of her mother in a riding habit, rescued by Mrs Hibbert from the attics. A vase of autumn leaves stood on the long table.

Nerissa seated herself behind the desk and invited the gentlemen to take chairs opposite her. Miles hid his amusement at her businesslike air.

"I wish to consult you," she said, "because I cannot spend money without Mr Harwood's approval and I should prefer to have Miles's agreement."

"You want a new carriage," Miles guessed.

She bent a frown upon him. "Pray do not be facetious, Miles. I was in the village this morning and I discovered that several cottages had their roofs damaged by a gale last month. As my grandfather was dying, nothing was done about them, but they must be re-thatched before winter comes." She turned a severe gaze upon the lawyer. "Surely, sir, this is an allowable expenditure. I understand Sir Barnabas, whatever his treatment of his relatives, always took good care of his tenants."

"Pshaw!"

Mr Harwood whipped out a handkerchief, buried his face in it, and sneezed an unconvincing sneeze. Miles was pretty sure the irascible exclamation-that was no sneeze!-had not been produced by the lawyer, but there was nowhere else for it to have come from. He was almost ready to believe the manor was haunted, except that he didn't believe in ghosts.

"Excuse me," said Mr Harwood, tucking away his handkerchief. "Indeed, my dear young lady, the roofs must be mended. Mr Bragg and Mr Reece both did mention the matter to me, but I fear it slipped my mind in the press of urgent business attendant upon Sir Barnabas's demise. Mr Courtenay, you have no objection, I am sure."