Page 69 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘I can’t go into a pub,’ she objected.

‘They’ve put chairs and tables out in the yard, look, with coloured lanterns. We can sit there – it’s quite respectable. I can see Mr Moss and Mrs Webster sitting there.’

When she laughed, her nose wrinkled in a manner that charmed him. ‘You know how to tempt a girl, don’t you?’

He laughed too. ‘We don’t need to sit at the same table.’

‘They’ll call us over, you’ll see, and we’ll have to join them. But go on. I could do with sitting down for a minute.’

Rose was enjoying herself. She’d forgotten how much she liked to dance – the opportunity didn’t often arise. And it was nice to have a man taking care of her. The beauty of it was, if a man was seen at your side, it stopped any other man coming over and bothering you. And he was nice, and treated her like a lady. It made her relax to the extent that she danced with more abandon than she would normally have allowed herself. Someone had turned up with a hurdy-gurdy, and its drone and wheeze sounded like bagpipes. Perhaps for that reason, the band had started playing a Scottish tune, and everyone was dancing their version of a reel, which, since no-one really knew the steps, turned into a romp that left them breathless and laughing.

It also left Rose with a problem. While everyone stood panting and waiting for the next tune to strike up, she pulled Woodrow away, through a gap in the onlookers and into the open space behind.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked her.

‘Something’s come adrift,’ she muttered.

He was puzzled. ‘What has?’

She jerked a thumb downwards and said in an annoyed undertone, ‘You don’t need to know. But I’ve got to fix it.’ She looked around. Between the house they were standing by and the next was a narrow alley, really no more than a passage giving access to the rear gardens. It was unlit and in deep shadow. She towed him there and stepped into it. ‘You stand there, stop anyone seeing me. And turn your back! No peeking!’

He was looking amused, and she never trusted a man with that sort of expression, but he turned his back obediently, blocking the entrance to the alley with his body. Rose went further in and started to hitch up her skirts.

‘Let me know when you’re finished,’ he said.

‘You’ll know all right,’ she said, in discouraging tones. The elastic of her garter had broken, which meant tying it in a knot to keep her stocking up, which was tricky enough to do when you didn’t have your skirts under your armpits to keep them out of the way. But she managed at last, gave an exploratory wriggle, dropped her skirts and straightened everything, then said, ‘All right, you can look now.’ He hadn’t looked round at all during the operation, so she said it in a kinder voice than she might otherwise have.

He turned. ‘I’m looking,’ he said. ‘And I see something very pretty.’

‘Not me, then,’ she snorted automatically.

She had gone a few steps down the alley to make sure she was in the shadow. Now before she could retrace them, he came down to join her.

‘You don’t need to say that every time,’ he said, looking down at her. He had come very close. She felt nervous of such closeness. ‘I’ve got good eyesight, and I know a pretty thing when I see it. You’re lovely, Rose. My lovely rose.’

And then he put his arms round her, drew her against him, and kissed her.

For the first moment she was too surprised to react. Then she realised she ought to have struggled. It was not too late to push him away, and perhaps slap his face. But to her dismay she found she was enjoying it. His lips were soft and he smelt nice and his arms round her felt good, and something loosened inside her that she didn’t have a name for.

She didn’t know anything about kissing. She’d had no experience of it. Of course, there had been no kissing with Him: he was all about the act, getting it done, one-two-three, thank you, Rose, off you go. Don’t tell her ladyship. She despised men. They were all the same. Yet even as these thoughts were tumbling through her head, she was yielding to Michael Woodrow’s kiss, growing soft in his embrace, coming back with kissing of her own. It was a queer thing to do, when you thought about it, to put your lips against someone else’s lips and wiggle them, but it turned out there was a sort of instinct to it. Presented with his lips, hers knew what to do, even if she didn’t. And when the kiss stopped she found she was resting her head against his shoulder and his hand was on the back of her neck and it felt so nice!

‘I’ve been wanting to do that for such a long time,’ he said softly. ‘Ever since I first met you, in fact. I knew right away you were the one for me. You’re my girl now, aren’t you, Rose.’

He didn’t say it as a question, but it startled her, and she pulled back, stared up at him, and said, ‘What?’

He tried to tighten his embrace but though his arms were still round her waist, her hands were now against his chest holding him back. Her reaction had thrown him. She had responded to his kiss, but he couldn’t pretend to himself that her present expression was encouraging. He had no idea what was troubling her. Did she think, perhaps, that he went round kissing girls willy-nilly?

‘I’m serious about you, Rose. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife.’ She stared at him, speechless, and he plunged on. ‘Will you marry me?’

She thought of it in that second, of marrying him, living with him in Hundon’s, sleeping in a big bed with him. She saw them eating across the same table, walking with arms round each other in the twilight, working together; kindness, warmth; growing old together, security, not ending in a workhouse ward alone and unwanted. She saw it all in one revealing flash, a different life to be lived: like a turning off the road you’d never been down, only passed with a glimpse of some distant loveliness you’d never experienced.

And never would. She pushed him away hard enough to break his grip, and said coldly, ‘Don’t be daft.’

He looked hurt. A small, perverse part of her was glad. What did he know of suffering?

‘It’s not daft,’ he said, rallying. ‘I’ve got a house and a good income. I love you. I know you care for me. Why shouldn’t we marry?’

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said, in a hard tone. And if you did, you wouldn’t want me any more, she concluded, inside her head.