“Don’t be so foolish, Philip; go to bed,” she said.
She closed her window and drew the curtains; and somehow my shame went from me, and the blunder too, and I felt light of heart.
It was not possible to ride over to Pelyn in the early part of the week, because of the program I had drawn up for visiting the tenants.
Besides, I could hardly have made the excuse of seeing my godfather without taking my cousin Rachel to call upon Louise.
On Thursday my opportunity arrived.
The carrier came from Plymouth with all the shrubs and plants that she had brought with her from Italy, and as soon as Seecombe gave her the news of this—I was just finishing my breakfast at the time—my cousin Rachel was dressed and downstairs, her lace shawl wound about her head, prepared to go out into the garden.
The door of the dining room was open to the hall and I saw her pass.
I went out to say good morning.
“I understood,” I said, “that Ambrose told you no woman was fit to look upon before eleven.
What are you doing downstairs at half-past eight?”
“The carrier has come,” she said, “and at half-past eight on the last morning of September I am not a woman; I am a gardener.
Tamlyn and I have work to do.”
She looked gay and happy as a child might do at the prospect of a treat.
“Are you going to count the plants?” I asked her.
“Count them?
No,” she answered,
“I have to see how many have survived the journey and which are worth putting in the soil at once.
Tamlyn will not know, but I shall.
No hurry for the trees, we can do that at our leisure, but I would like to see the plants in right away.”
I noticed that she wore upon her hands an old rough pair of gloves, most incongruous on her neat small person.
“You are not going to grub about the soil yourself?” I asked her.
“But of course I am.
You’ll see. I shall work faster than Tamlyn and his men.
Do not expect me home for any midday meal.”
“But this afternoon,” I protested. “We were expected at Lankelly and at Coombe.
The farm kitchens will be scrubbed, and tea prepared.”
“You must send a note postponing the visit,” she said.
“I commit myself to nothing when there is planting to be done.
Good-bye.”
And she waved her hand at me and passed through the front door onto the gravel drive.
“Cousin Rachel?” I called at her from the dining room window.
“What is it?” she said over her shoulder.
“Ambrose was wrong in what he said of women,” I shouted.
“At half-past eight in the morning they look very well indeed.”
“Ambrose was not referring to half-past eight,” she called back to me; “he was referring to half-past six, and he did not mean downstairs.”
I turned back laughing into the dining room, and saw Seecombe standing at my elbow, his lips pursed.
He moved, with disapproval, to the sideboard, and motioned to young John to remove the breakfast dishes.
One thing at least about this day of planting, I should not be wanted.
I altered my arrangements for the morning, and giving orders for Gypsy to be saddled I was away on the road to Pelyn by ten o’clock.
I found my godfather at home and in his study, and without any preamble I broached the subject of my visit.
“So you understand,” I said to him, “something will have to be done, and right away.
Why, if it should reach Mrs. Pascoe’s ears that Mrs. Ashley considers giving lessons in Italian it would be about the county in twenty-four hours.”
My godfather, as I had expected, looked most shocked and pained.
“Oh, disgraceful,” he agreed, “quite out of the question.
It would never do at all.
The matter is a delicate one, of course.
I must have time to think this out, how to approach the business.”
I became impatient.
I knew his cautious legal frame of mind. He would fiddle-faddle with the job for days.
“We have no time to waste,” I said.