That Would Be a Fairy Tale - By Amanda Grange Page 0,14
lightened, and for the first time since she had entered the house she felt she could perhaps relax a little.
‘Come now, Mr Evington. Won’t you host the picnic?’ she asked him.
He sat down opposite her, this time on a beautiful chaise longue, and Cicely could tell by his casual attitude that he had relented. He stretched one arm along the back of the chaise longue, and said, ‘I may be persuaded to do so.’
Cicely smiled. It had not been so bad, then. In fact, it had been easy. ‘Good. Then I will tell Mrs Murgatroyd -’
‘On one condition.’
Cicely stiffened. ‘Condition?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled provocatively. ‘Condition. I told you that I was a stubborn man, Miss Haringay, and I am about to prove my point. I will let the Sunday school use the Manor lawns for their picnic - if you agree to attend my ball.’
Cicely paled. Attend the ball? Laugh and chatter in her beautiful home, knowing it no longer belonged to her family? Dance? Be gay? Whilst her feelings were quite the reverse? ‘No. I don’t think I could do that.’
‘Why not?’ he enquired, leaning forward. ‘Can you not put your own feelings aside for one evening?’
There was a teasing note in his voice. After all, she had told him to put his own feelings aside so that the picnic could go ahead.
‘I don’t see why my presence is necessary,’ she prevaricated.
‘Don’t you?’ He stood up and walked over to the mantelpiece again. He took a sheaf of cards from behind the clock, then handed them to her. ‘Fifteen replies to my invitations - and, I may say, very prompt replies: it seems in a village news travels fast,’ he said as she looked through them. ‘Fifteen replies and fifteen refusals.’
She pursed her lips. ‘And what does that have to do with me?’ she asked.
‘Everyone for miles around is following your lead. You refused my invitation, and so the local dignitaries have done the same.’
‘And you think if I change my mind they will then accept?’
‘I’m certain of it.’
Cicely was certain of it, too. The local area was a close-knit community, and knowing that she did not feel she could attend the ball, all her friends had refused their invitations likewise.
‘Come now, Miss Haringay, will it really be so bad?’ he asked, his eyes lighting with a surprising warmth. ‘An evening of good food, good conversation, good music and - I hope! - good company? If you snub me, no one will come to my ball and I will be dancing on my own.’
The humour was back in his face and his voice, making him look unsettlingly attractive. And it made her wish - foolishly, for one unguarded moment - that they had met under other circumstances, so that she might have been able to like him.
‘Not on your own, surely,’ she protested. ‘You will have friends coming down from London.’
‘Yes. I have. But my reason for throwing the ball is that I would like to get to know my neighbours. If none of them turn up it will defeat my purpose.’
Cicely did not want to attend the ball, but she realized that it would be unfriendly of her to refuse. He was trying to fit into the neighbourhood, and it was not kind of her to stand in his way. Especially as he had agreed to hold the picnic if she attended. Even so . . .
‘I am not keen on giving in to blackmail . . . ’ she began hesitantly.
‘Blackmail?’ he asked. ‘Call it rather a trade. I give you something you want, and in return you agree to give me something I want.’ He gave a tantalising smile. ‘You see, business and trade are in my blood. And now despise me for it if you dare!’
‘Indeed, I dare not,’ said Cicely with a smile. His talk of trading had reminded her that trading was an important aspect of village life, and she began to realize they might have more in common than she had supposed. ‘Besides, businessmen are not the only ones who know how to trade. You will find the villagers know all about it. Mrs Murgatroyd, for example, will be happy to trade you some of her excellent elderflower wine for some of the fruit from the Oakleigh Manor hot-houses if you ask her. I know. She has been trading with me for years!’
‘Elderflower wine,’ he laughed. ‘I must remember that. And we, Miss Haringay? Do we have a deal?’