Mr Harwood came in and, after a few words with the Philpotts, joined Miles and Nerissa. Chatting with him, she scarcely noticed that the others, as they entered, all stayed at the far end of the room.

As the clock in the hall began to strike the hour, the lawyer said, "You two will take the head and foot of the table of course. Fortunately we are close to the dining-room door." He indicated a door in the wall opposite the fireplace, beside the beam dividing their half of the room from the other.

Miles grinned. "I take it you fear I shall have to battle Sir Neville for my rightful place."

"Oh no," said Nerissa in dismay. "Surely it cannot be proper in me to come to pulling caps with Lady Philpott over who sits where."

"I doubt you'll have any trouble with her ladyship," Miles reassured her, then spoiled his reassurance by adding dryly, "It's Euphemia you'll have to watch out for."

"Mrs Chidwell does have an inflated notion of her position in the household," Mr Harwood acknowledged. His gaze remained fixed on the door and when, at that moment, it began to open, he quickly offered Nerissa his arm. "Come, Miss Wingate. I hope you will allow me the pleasure of taking you in."

"Please do, sir. When you said Miles-Mr Courtenay-and I must sit at either end, I was afraid I should be isolated and left to eat my dinner in silence."

He smiled at her in a fatherly way and patted her hand.

"Dinner is served," Snodgrass announced.

Mrs Chidwell, who had not sat down on entering the drawing room, surged forward, but Nerissa, Mr Harwood, and Miles reached the door first. The lawyer escorted her to one end of the table, held her chair for her, and took his place beside her. To avoid the indignant eyes of Lady Philpott and Mrs Chidwell, she surveyed the room.

White walls, the same cheerful red curtains, and a painting over the mantel of a dog with a dead duck drooping in its mouth. More appropriate than the fish in the library, but she could not care for it.

"May I change things around in the house?" she asked Mr Harwood.

"You will have a free hand after six months, ma'am, but until then I fear I cannot authorise any major expenditures for furnishings."

"I don't wish to buy anything, just to move a few pictures about. Otherwise I like the way the house is decorated and furnished, what I have seen of it."

"Sir Barnabas believed in quality but refused to pay extra for what he described as frivolous fal-lals. You see the china is sturdy blue-and-white Spode. You will find the same with your dinner, good English food in season, well-cooked but without fancy sauces, which he abominated."

Nerissa became aware that Cousin Sophie had taken the seat on her other side and was nodding vigorously. "Bad for the digestion, he said," she whispered after a swift glance to see if Euphemia was watching her.

With friends on either side, Nerissa enjoyed the meal. She was perfectly content without fancy sauces, never having tasted any, though she missed Yorkshire pudding with the roast beef. She mentioned the lack to Mr Harwood, who advised her to consult Cook. They chatted about the city of York and its superb minster, which the lawyer had once visited and admired. Cousin Sophie ventured an occasional murmur when her sister was particularly absorbed in her food.

Only one course was served, but with several removes. Nerissa finished with a slice of apple tart. Swallowing the last morsel, she dabbed her lips with her napkin, and commented to Mr Harwood on the excellence of the pastry. Tessa, her mother's maid, had a heavy hand with pastry, she was explaining when she realized that everyone was watching her. Even Miles seemed to be trying to convey a silent message from the other end of the table.

The dreadful, familiar paralysis struck. She was unable to think, unable even to begin to consider what she might have done wrong. Their combined gazes, curious, expectant, avid, pressed upon her like a physical mass, crushing her chest so she could not breath, could not stir.

And then, despite Euphemia's scrutiny, Cousin Sophie risked touching Nerissa's hand. "Shall we leave the gentlemen to their port, dear?" she enquired gently.

The bonds of inertia snapped. Fiery-cheeked, Nerissa led the ladies back to the drawing room.

Nothing on earth could have persuaded her to stay, to await the gentlemen and the tea-tray. Tonight Lady Philpott and Euphemia Chidwell were welcome to fight over who was to do the honours. Nerissa didn't even want to see Miles, who had failed to warn her. No doubt he was as shocked as anyone that she, who had staked her claim to be hostess, had not known she was expected to give the signal to depart from the dining room.

Humiliated, she fled to her chamber.

Chapter 7.

If Nerissa expected to lie long awake, agonizing over the impossibility of mastering every detail of ladylike conduct she was mistaken. She fell asleep the moment her head touched the soft, feather-filled pillow. Thus, given her nap the previous day, it was not surprising that she should waken early on the morrow.

A pale light filtered round and through the flowery curtains. For a few minutes she enjoyed the warm comfort of her bed, then she reached for the navy serge dressing-gown Maud had draped over the chair beside her. There was too much exploring to be done to entice her to lie in this morning. Besides, she wanted to be abroad before she had to face anyone who had witnessed her stupidity last night.

The fire in the small grate-a fire in her bedchamber!-had burnt out but its warmth lingered, taking the chill off the early October air. Bare-footed, Nerissa pattered across to the window and parted the curtains.

She had been too tired yesterday to notice that her room had a splendid view westward over the valley. Now much of it was invisible, hidden by floating patches of autumn mist with the crowns of trees protruding here and there. Her breath on the window-pane did not help, so she raised the lower sash and leaned out, her loosely plaited hair falling forward over her shoulder.

The far hills rose above the mists, their crests gilded by the rising sun. She took a deep breath of deliciously crisp air, scented not with the dank miasmas of a town but the mysterious, enticing, unknown smells of the countryside.

Unknown except for one. Her nostrils twitched as the unmistakable aroma of new-baked bread reached her.

In the wardrobe she found the olive-green dress she had travelled in, already washed and pressed for her by her new maid. It had ribbon drawstrings at the neck and beneath her breasts, so it was easy to put on without help. She scrambled into it, grabbed her grey cloak, and sped down to the kitchens.

As she entered the high-ceilinged room with its huge hearth and walls hung with copper pots, the cook was turning a loaf out of its tin and knocking on its bottom crust to test it. A tall, brawny, red-faced woman enveloped in a vast white apron, she turned a look of suspicious disapproval on Nerissa.

She had done it wrong again. Real ladies obviously did not pop into the kitchen before breakfast.

Too bad, she thought crossly. It was her kitchen, or at least, half of it soon would be. She, in some obscure, convoluted way, paid Cook's wages.

"Good morning," she said with a smile. "I'm Miss Wingate. Can you spare a slice of your bread before I go out for a walk? The smell is simply irresistible."

Slightly mollified, Cook bobbed a sort of clumsy curtsy. "Oh aye, miss, there's plenty. Will tha help thysen?" She gestured at a rack of cooling loaves with a bread-board and knife beside it. "Lil," she called, turning to remove another pair of golden-crusted loaves from the built-in oven beside the fire, "bring t'best bootter fro' t'larder."

"You're from Yorkshire!" Nerissa exclaimed, carving herself a crusty doorstep as a skinny little maid scurried in with an earthen pot of butter. "I've just come from York. I've lived there for years."

Cook thawed still further. "'Twas in York I started in service, miss. T'kettle's on t'boil. Will tha take a cup o' tea? 'Twon't take but a minute to mash."

"Thank you, not just now. I want to be out and about. Have you any fresh milk?"

"Aye, miss, t'lad brought up t' can an hour since. Lil, fetch a jug o' milk for miss. Mind how tha goes, now."

The wide-eyed kitchen maid scurried off again, to return with a blue-and-white striped jug. When Nerissa thanked her, she turned crimson and curtsied. Nerissa suspected neither Lady Philpott nor Mrs Chidwell, and certainly not Sir Barnabas, had ever so much as noticed the child's presence, let alone thanked her.

The milk was richly yellow with cream, an altogether different liquid from the thin, bluish stuff purchased from street-sellers in York. Between sips, Nerissa asked Cook why, as a Yorkshirewoman, she had not served Yorkshire pudding at dinner.

"T'master-t'auld master-didn't fancy it, miss, and nowt were served but what he fancied."

"Well, I fancy it. Will you make it next time we have roast beef? And parkin for tea?"

"Wi' pleasure, miss," said Cook, beaming.

Nerissa went off with a hunk of bread and butter in her hand and a satisfying feeling that she had found another ally.

Though she wanted to see the gardens, among other things, she didn't care to go straight from her confrontation with Cook to another with a gardener. She followed a faint path across the park towards the upper end of the valley. As she strolled, she kept a wary eye on the grazing cows, hoping that the beasts who had so generously supplied her with milk and butter would not take it into their heads to approach too close.

With relief she reached a stile and climbed over into a lane. The hedgerows were wreathed with orange and scarlet garlands of bryony berries and silvery old-man's-beard. Nerissa's mother had taught her the names on riverside walks in York, but she had never seen them growing in such profusion. Pretty as they were, she found her attention concentrated mostly on her feet as she picked her way between the muddy ruts. She was about to give up and turn back when another stile beckoned her onward.

The sun had risen above the brow of the hill behind the house to disperse the mists and sparkle on the dew. Climbing the stile she discovered the other side of the hedgerow to be overgrown with brambles, still bearing late blackberries. She stuffed her gloves in her pocket and stopped to taste them.

Amidst the tangle of prickly stems and yellowing leaves, countless spiders lurked in their dew-spangled webs. Admittedly the webs had a delicate beauty of their own, but Nerissa did not care for the eight-legged occupants. The better to reach between both spiders and thorns in her quest for the few unshrivelled berries, she took off her cloak, folded it, and set it on the stile.

She was reaching up with purple-stained fingers for a bunch dangling overhead when she heard the sound of approaching hooves. A rider on a roan gelding cantered across the field towards her.

"Halloo, Nerissa!" he called.

Recognizing Miles, she waved. On horseback, sitting tall in the saddle, handling his spirited mount with practised ease, he looked less than ever like a debauched wastrel.

As Miles drew rein, Sir Barnabas ventured to open his eyes. Whisked along through the air hanging on like grim death to a single tail-hair, he didn't know what would have happened had he let go in mid-flight. He didn't want to know.

His insubstantial feet drifted down to meet substantial ground and he sighed in relief. He wasn't going to travel that way again!

"Good morning," said Nerissa. Sir Barnabas almost answered before he remembered she could not see him.

"Good morning." Miles swung down from the saddle and doffed his hat with a smile. "You are the very picture of a country lass."

"And you of a country gentleman."

Sir Barnabas snorted at this exchange of inane compliments between the Bond Street beau and the piece of Haymarket-ware. Still, compliments might lead to more significant exchanges, though the season was hardly conducive to a tumble in the hay. What could he do to help? He cast about for ideas.

"I want to apologize for last night," said Miles soberly, "for not warning you. I hadn't thought about our being host and hostess, and when Harwood sprang it on us, it was too late to consider all the pitfalls."

"I cannot hold you responsible for my own stupidity."

"Ignorance, not stupidity. Quite different, and I had offered to guide you. I'm a little surprised that you didn't guess what was needed when all the ladies turned to you at the end of the meal."

"That was the trouble!" The girl actually blushed. She really was an excellent actress, Sir Barnabas thought absently. He had spotted a spider dangling from a glistening thread just above her head and it had given him a splendid notion.

"Everyone was staring at me," Nerissa continued. "It was like being on stage, before an audience. I suffer so dreadfully from stage-fright that I cannot move or think."

"I see! That explains a good deal."

"It explains why I am not an actress," she confessed. "I daresay I would be otherwise, perfectly respectable of course, like Mama. Not that being an actress, respectable or not, could change the likelihood of my committing the most dreadful faux pas."

"Not dreadful," said Miles. "Not last night at least, though I can't speak for the future. I've been to more than one formal dinner given by a fashionable newly-wed bride who has made just the same mistake. No one would have thought twice about it if you had not been surrounded by people hoping you'd do something wrong."

While they talked, Sir Barnabas was concentrating on a delicate manoeuvre. The spider's gossamer thread was so flimsy, he had no difficulty swinging it aside till the creature hung above Nerissa's shoulder.

Alarmed, the spider dropped the last few inches. It sat on the greenish-brown woollen cloth for a moment, planning its next move. Sir Barnabas's cold, once-bony finger poked it towards Nerissa's neck.

As its eight feet scampered onto her bare skin, Nerissa clapped her hand to her neck. Too late. Urged on by Sir Barnabas, it had already dived for cover down the high but loose front of her bodice.

"Something went down my dress," she cried, clutching her bosom.

And that bosom now claimed all Miles's attention, just as the late baronet had intended.

"A leaf?"

"Something with legs." Twitching, Nerissa pulled at the neckline of gown and tried to peer down it. "It's

scuttling about."

"I'll help you get it out," Miles offered, a gleam in his eye.

She played the outraged maiden well, too. "Certainly not," she snapped. "Please go over to the stile and

make sure no one comes. And keep your back turned. And hurry."

Grinning he obeyed. Led by the reins, his mount followed, tossing its head as it passed Nerissa.

The moment Miles's back was towards her, Nerissa turned her back on him, untied the bow at her neck,

and pulled down the front of her dress. Her chemise was cut lower. As she held it away from her body and squinted down it, Sir Barnabas saw the white globes of two small but softly rounded breasts.

"I can't find it," she wailed.

"Do, pray, permit me to be of assistance, ma'am," said Miles, the formality of his words belied by his laughing voice.

"No!"

"Then might I suggest that if you cannot find it from above, you try to shake it downwards, to the ground."

"Oh yes, I will," Nerissa said gratefully. She loosened the ribbon at the high waist of her gown.

Sir Barnabas watched every gyration of her slim body. There was no harm in it, for after all he was her

grandfather, and dead, besides. He just wanted to see how far his shameless granddaughter would dare

to disrobe in the open air.