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And it would be stretching the truth to say she was graceful and elegant, certainly not in her present circumstances. With her fashionable blue hat flopping around her face like a damp rag, her pale blue skirt now splattered with mud and her boots full of water, she looked more like a tramp than a fashionable young lady. She giggled to herself, wishing he could see how she looked. On second thoughts, she was sure he would still be able to think of some fawning comment to make, even about this state of dishevelment.
Her giggle turned to a grimace as wet mud flowed over the top of her ankle boots. She looked down to discover she was standing in the middle of a puddle, and her once cream silk boots were now a dirty brown. Extracting herself from the sucking mud, she tried not to think about the damage she was doing. Her lady’s maid was not going to be happy when she finally returned home and all this bedraggled clothing had to be washed and mended.
Perhaps it wasn’t the most sensible thing to do—go for a muddy walk in clothing designed for spending a comfortable evening in a warm drawing room and light footwear that had never been expected to withstand the rigours of country paths.
Claiming to have a headache so she could retire to her room had seemed like a good idea at the time. As had her plan to quickly escape from the house so she could have a quiet walk. All she had wanted was to enjoy the sunset and a few moments’ peace away from Lord Pratley’s flattery. How was she supposed to know that the weather in Cornwall could change so quickly?
If Iris were superstitious, she would see this drenching as the price she had to pay for telling her mother a white lie. Could a small white lie really cause the gods to make the wind howl, the rain to pelt down and to turn what had previously been a cloudy but otherwise pleasant early evening into a raging tempest just to punish Iris for telling lies?
As if the gods were listening in on her thoughts, the rain fell harder. She pulled her sodden hat more tightly down onto her head. ‘All right, all right,’ she said to the all-powerful gods. ‘You’ve proved your point. I shouldn’t have lied to Mother.’
And to make matters worse, it appeared she was now completely lost. She paused in her trudging along the path to look around. All these fields looked exactly the same, so how was she expected to get her bearings? And she was sure she had passed that barn already. Or did all barns in the Cornish countryside look identical?
What was becoming increasingly obvious was she had no idea how to get home and she needed help. While getting a thorough drenching was perhaps preferrable to an evening in Lord Pratley’s company, it was starting to get dark, and even his company would be better than being stuck out in the countryside in the middle of the night during a storm.
She looked ahead, turned and looked behind, and pulled her jacket more tightly around her shoulders. Either direction could be the way back to the Walbertons’ estate, and either way could also take her further from her destination. There was only one thing for it. She hadn’t passed a single soul on the path since the rain started, so there was unlikely to be anyone from whom she could get directions. Apparently, the sensible people of Cornwall did not go out walking in storms, so she was going to have to seek help at the very next house she came to.
It was unacceptable behaviour for a young lady to approach an unknown house, uninvited and alone, but what choice did she have? Staying out in this weather all night long was the only other option, and that was no option at all. Surely the rules of etiquette could be abandoned under these conditions.
She took another look behind her, flicked up her jacket collar and made a decision. There was no point retracing her steps. It was better to just keep walking and stop at the very next house she came to, and if no houses appeared before it got dark, she would shelter in one of those identical barns.
At least it was an adventure, she tried to console herself as she walked, or, more accurately, squelched along the muddy track, but it was an adventure she would like to come to an end, sooner rather than later.
She turned the corner, looked in every direction but still saw no houses.
‘All right,’ she called out to anyone who might be listening, including the weather gods. ‘I’ve been suitably punished for lying to my mother.’ She placed her hand on her heart. ‘I solemnly swear that I will never lie to my mother again. If you return me safely to Lady Walberton’s house, I will never, ever misbehave again. I will conduct myself in an exemplary manner throughout the rest of the house party. I will smile politely, laugh at the men’s jokes, listen to the women’s gossip and even join in with my own titbits of information. And I will never tell a lie, never, ever again.’
She waited for the rain to stop falling, the wind to settle down, and a sign to appear pointing her in the direction of the Walbertons’. None of these things happened, so she continued trudging along the path, muttering her annoyance at herself.
Just as she was starting to think that Cornwall was an uninhabited part of the British Isles a large house appeared in the distance. Looking up at it, while holding her hat on her head so it wouldn’t be whipped away by the wind, she said a silent thank-you.
Trying to avoid the worst of the mud, she walked towards the house, then stopped at the start of the long driveway.
‘Please be home, and please be kind,’ she muttered under her breath as she took in the rough stone exterior. Crenellated battlements ran along the top edge of the building and round turrets stood proud and tall at the four corners, showing that it had once been a castle before being converted to a manor house. It was a somewhat forbidding exterior, one originally designed to repel intruders.
But this was not the Middle Ages, she reminded herself as she traipsed up the driveway. It was the eighteen-nineties, not the fourteen-nineties. It was a time of steam trains, electric streetlights, even underground railways—certainly not the Dark Ages, when a man’s home really had been his castle and he had defended it with all the might at his disposal. She paused in her walking and looked up at the building. No, this was not the Middle Ages, a time when young maidens could be held captive in turrets.
She gulped down her trepidation. Now was not the time to get fanciful and be intimidated by the look of a house. On a sunny day it probably looked welcoming and friendly. It was surely just the storm that was making it look like something from one of those gothic novels she so loved to read.
And what choice did she have? She could hardly wait until a friendly cottage appeared with roses round the door and a welcoming mat at the doorstep. No, this intimidating castle would have to suffice.
She approached the house and scanned the windows for lights but found none. Did that mean no one was home? Hopefully, that was not the case. The rain was now falling even more heavily, and the wind was getting stronger. The storm was giving no impression of being about to settle down at all soon and the last thing she wanted was to continue wandering aimlessly around the countryside.
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At least the doorway was covered. Finally, she could shelter from the rain. She took off her rather useless blue hat and wrung out the water. The hat was the height of fashion, with its ostrich feathers, lace and bows, but it had been useless at protecting her from the elements and now looked rather sad and pathetic. She brushed down her skirt, trying to remove some of the mud from the bottom, and did her best to straighten her hair.
If her mother could see her now, she would be horrified. Not only was Iris doing something almost unforgivable in approaching a stranger’s door unaccompanied, but she was doing it while looking like a complete fright. Escaping from the party really had been a mistake. One that must never be repeated, she reminded herself. She raised her eyes skyward, hoping the gods were still listening to her remorseful thoughts and would take further pity on this poor, drenched creature and ensure that the owners of the house gave her a warm welcome.
She took hold of the brass ring in the mouth of a rather stern-looking lion, and pounded on the solid black wooden door, praying it would be heard above the sound of the storm.
Then she waited. And waited.
Please, please, someone be at home.
She pounded again, harder, with more desperation. Was she going to have to spend the night sheltered in this doorway like a beggar?
Bolts scraped open. Locks clanked as keys were turned. Iris was tempted to run from the ominous sound, then covered her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle. What was she expecting? That the Frankenstein monster was living in Cornwall and was about to attack her? That a ghostly apparition was going to appear before her?
