‘Are you ill, purodad?’
Saggy eyes in a seamed face studied him before his grandfather shook his head. ‘Just old, Son. But thankful for the sun that shines. We wondered if we would see you again.’
His words shocked Zach. They were the same with which his uncle had greeted him.
‘You thought I might just disappear? Without a word?’
His grandfather shook his head. ‘No. That would not be your way. But your aunt—she sensed your image fading. She says your father’s blood still speaks in your veins.’ He smiled, revealing gappy teeth. ‘There is no shame in that. Your father’s world could still be yours, if you choose.’
If I choose...
Zach’s thoughts turned inwards, picturing Cecily: her skin, soft and delicate as a butterfly’s wing; her gentle eyes, the colour of moss; her lips, the pink of a cloud brushed by the evening sun as it dips below the horizon. His pulse leapt at the thought of her, pumping the blood to his groin, and he grew hard with pure desire. For Cecily. But his heart and his soul, they were bleak. Empty. He clenched his jaw, staring into the flames, willing his body back under control.
His thoughts moved on.
To Kilburn.
And the unease he had tried so hard to ignore erupted, firing his blood and pounding through his body. A husband had absolute dominion over his wife and Zach could not rid himself of the gut feeling that he should go after Cecily and, somehow, make her listen to him.
His grandfather was watching him, narrow-eyed.
‘There is no shame in feeling torn.’
‘Torn?’
‘The two halves of you. I see it, as your aunt saw it. You battle against yourself, inside here.’
He put his hand on his chest, over his heart, and then paused as Zach’s aunt brought him a plate of rabbit stew. She smiled as Zach thanked her. Grandfather waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.
‘A lusty man like you needs a mate and you have returned here today with the memory of a woman in your eyes. A woman who haunts you.’
Zach frowned. ‘Have I? I have only just arrived. How can you know?’
His grandfather shrugged. ‘I have lived a long time. I know people. I know you. I saw that same look in your mother’s eyes when she met your father. A mix of shame and of longing. She told me she was happy with your father. Happy until he died.’
‘She was. We were happy.’
His grandfather shrugged. ‘Then go back and find your woman.’
He made it sound simple. And, probably, to him it was. But to Zach it was anything but. A man marrying a Romany—she would be elevated to his status even though she might—and his mother had—face disapproval and ostracism. A woman, though—she would be relegated to her husband’s status. In his case, that of a Romany. And Cecily was the daughter of a duke. The sister of a duke. Their positions in society could hardly be further apart. She would face losing everything, including her beloved family. He could never ask her to choose. She would never be happy. He could never make her happy.
Neither will Kilburn.
That truth clawed at him. Was it enough to hope she would heed his warning? Should he have tried harder? But how, without revealing his past and his shame? Pride. It was a powerful force... Could he bear to humble himself in front of a lady like Cecily? But, on the other hand, could he bear to continue his life without ever knowing what decision she had reached?
‘She intends to marry another.’ He unfolded his body, rose to his feet. ‘She is too highly born for me.’
His grandfather tipped his head back to look at him. ‘Your father was high-born. You are his son. You have land and a house—what else would this gadji need or want?’
Her world, her family’s love and respect, her perfect life.
No point in voicing that to his grandfather.
‘The man she intends to marry—he is cruel. I can stop her from making that mistake, even if I cannot offer her an alternative.’
Grandfather’s brows rose to disappear under the brim of his old hat, but Zach would not explain further. He had said enough. His gut instinct told him—had been telling him for days—that he could not just leave Cecily to her fate. He must do everything possible to help her see the truth of Kilburn’s character.
‘I shall leave in the morning.’ He remembered the countryside around Leyton Grange—Lord Derham’s country estate, where Cecily’s aunt lived—and he instinctively knew the direction to take and how far he must go. Two days’ travel. Maybe a touch further. Cecily had promised to take her time and not to rush her decision. He must hope he would be in time.
* * *
‘We head south when we move on,’ his grandfather said to Zach the following morning as he was leaving. ‘T’aves baxtalo.’
Good luck.
* * *
‘Cecily!’
Cecily put aside her book and rose to her feet, stifling a sigh. She had yet to turn a page—she had read the words, but their sense had eluded her as her mind’s eye had cast back in time to a campfire in Worcestershire. She was already fatigued by Aunt Drusilla’s constant demands. She had been at Leyton Grange almost a week now and her first action had been to pack Miss Fussell—Aunt Drusilla’s long-suffering companion, an impoverished cousin on the late Lord Derham’s side of the family—off to her bed. Miss Fussell had a cold which, having been neglected in favour of running around after Aunt Drusilla, had since developed into a chronic cough. Cecily had found herself in the unenviable position of filling Miss Fussell’s shoes, expected to cater to her aunt’s every whim in the days following, until Miss Fussell had re-emerged from her sickroom this morning, insisting she was much better.
Cecily crossed the room to her aunt’s side, sparing a searching look at Miss Fussell as she passed her by. The poor woman appeared to have diminished in stature since her illness—and she had not been large to begin with—but Cecily was pleased to see a touch of colour back in her cheeks. Experiencing the life that loomed in her future had only strengthened Cecily’s determination to avoid such a fate at all costs. And, in the absence of any other likely suitors, Lord Kilburn appeared to be her best hope. Or a nunnery. And, after those delicious kisses she had shared with Zach, that thought had been summarily dismissed—with a wry, inner smile—the instant it had popped into her head.
If only Kilburn would return to his estate. She was impatient to meet him again, conscious of Zach’s warning, but she could not assess the character of a man who was not there. As soon as she could decide her way forward, she could leave here—a prospect that grew in appeal by the hour.
‘Why do you not read to me, Cecily?’ Her aunt—large-bosomed and purple-turbaned—fanned her face vigorously. She suffered from frequent hot flushes and yet still insisted on the fire in the salon being lit and drawing her chair close in the belief that draughts were fatal. ‘It is exceedingly selfish in you to sit on the far side of the room instead of next to me, where you might make yourself useful and entertain me. Heaven knows, I see little enough of my dear, departed brother’s family as it is. There can be no excuse for such neglect. I am the last left of my generation of Beauchamps, but am I afforded the respect I deserve? No, I am not.’
‘I am here now, Aunt,’ said Cecily hastily, aware she might prose on for an age. ‘I shall read to you if you wish, but you told me you were about to take a nap. I did not wish to disturb you.’
‘Well! I should have thought it was obvious I was not asleep, if you’d cared to look, Niece.’
Miss Fussell struggled to her feet and held out her hand. ‘That book does not appear to hold your attention, my dear Lady Cecily,’ she said. ‘My throat is much, much improved. Allow me to read to Cousin Drusilla.’
She cast a worried look at Aunt Drusilla as she spoke and Cecily’s heart went out to her. The poor woman had nowhere else to go. She had no home and the Derhams were her only family. She lived in a state of constant anxiety lest Drusilla decided to turn her away.
‘Well, I must
say, Minnie, at least you have dispensed with that awful croaking sound when you speak. I could not stand to listen to such a noise for more than a minute at a time. And that cough—how it irritated my poor nerves.’
Aunt Drusilla plucked at the shawl covering her legs and plied her fan vigorously to her pink, shiny cheeks. Cecily swallowed the retort she longed to fling at her aunt. Instead, she smiled at Miss Fussell.
‘Are you certain you are strong enough to read aloud? I should not like to be the cause of more damage to your throat.’
‘Ridiculous notion, Cecily. Really, you young things—you have no stamina. Of course Minnie is strong enough. The very idea. Why, she has done nothing but lie abed this past week or more. She must have stamina to spare by now and I know her pride will not allow her to neglect her duties any longer.’
Miss Fussell all but snatched the book from Cecily’s hands at those words. ‘Yes, yes. I am certain, thank you, my lady. Cousin Drusilla is right. I have neglected my duties of late. I must atone for it.’
Cecily’s heart went out to her. ‘If you are sure, Miss Fussell, then I shall go for a walk. I am need of some fresh air. With your permission, Aunt?’
Cousin Drusilla waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, yes. Go if you must. But be sure to close the door properly against the draughts. I do not want to catch a chill at my age.’
Cecily’s eyes met those of Miss Fussell and they exchanged a speaking glance. As Cecily left the room, she heard Miss Fussell begin to read.
Cecily, as had become her custom since the day of her arrival, left the Grange via a side door and strolled in the direction of Chilcot Manor, Lord Kilburn’s home—a mere twenty minutes’ walk from the Grange. A well-worn pathway linked the two great houses and it was this pathway she followed through a wide belt of ancient woodland that still grew close to the Grange, affording shelter from the east wind. The now-familiar track forked within the wood and Cecily took the left path—the right fork led, eventually, out to the road—until she reached the edge of the wood. Here a rough wooden fence marked the boundary between the two estates. A weathered stile made crossing the fence easy and she then followed the still-visible path across a meadow to a small copse. She skirted round the copse and the medieval Chilcot Manor, set in a sweeping vista of landscaped parkland—complete with ornamental lake—came into view.
Her pulse quickened as she saw clear signs of activity at the house: two maids were on hands and knees scrubbing the steps, a gardener was raking the gravel forecourt and what looked like a footman, in his shirt sleeves, was up a ladder, washing windows. Even at a distance, there was an undeniably frenetic quality to their movements—it appeared that the master’s arrival was imminent. Cecily recalled Vernon’s comment about his lordship’s debts, but the number of servants and the pristine condition of both Manor and grounds surely belied those rumours?
She turned to go. Kilburn’s servants were already aware of her presence at the Grange and she had little doubt they would convey that piece of news to Kilburn and that he would call upon Aunt Drusilla the following day to pay his respects.
She followed another path that wound down towards the ornamental lake. When she had first met Kilburn—two years before, during her last visit to her aunt—Kilburn had taken great pride in informing her that the parkland at Chilcot had been designed by Humphry Repton. There was no denying it was spectacular, with plentiful walks and artfully contrived vistas, and Cecily usually took great pleasure in wandering around the immaculately kept grounds and discovering new delights. Today, however, as she approached the lake—the shoreline punctuated with clumps of the yellow flagged flowers and sword-shaped leaves of irises—there was an inexplicably tight ball of nervousness lying heavily in the pit of her stomach.
There was barely a breath of wind today and the lake’s surface was like a mirror, reflecting the few fluffy white clouds in the sky. She gazed across the water, her mind whirling. On impulse, she looked down, searching the ground until she found what she was looking for. She removed her glove, stooped and picked up a flat, smooth pebble, caressing the warm surface, the slightest ache in her throat signalling the emotions she battled to hold at bay. Zach’s face materialised in her mind’s eye—tanned skin, dark eyes, wild curls. And that diamond...
No!
She leaned back and sideways, positioning her arm as her brothers had taught her, long ago in her carefree childhood. Her arm swept around, and she released the pebble with a flick of her wrist to skim it across the water. It bounced. Once...twice...three times in all. Not bad, considering how many years it had been since she had done such a thing.
She watched the ripples radiate out from the three spots where the pebble had touched the water. They spread to the shore, dissipating among the clumped iris swords which barely seemed to register the disturbance. She eyed the clumps. How solid and unmoving they seemed, yet a man with a spade could easily break the clump apart if it became overcrowded, and move the resulting portions to wherever he chose. Even to another part of the country.
She tried to apply that thought to her situation—as though her family were the existing clump and she was an offshoot that could be removed and set down, to grow and thrive elsewhere. But—what if she were transplanted to the wrong spot? What if, instead of thriving, her roots withered and shrunk, and she shrivelled? What if...?
But her thoughts were too random—fluttering hither and thither, like butterflies around a lavender in full bloom—and she could not think through the analogy to a conclusion. With a hmmph of disgust, she spun on her heel and marched back to the Grange and to the never-ending demands of Aunt Drusilla.
* * *
‘Lord Kilburn has called to pay his respects, my lady,’ Parker, Aunt Drusilla’s butler, bowed as he announced his lordship’s arrival the following afternoon.
Cecily pursed her lips against a smile as her aunt straightened in her chair, tucking stray strands of hair under the lace cap she wore that morning.
‘Minnie! Take this,’ she hissed as she tore the blanket from her lap. ‘Make haste.’
Cousin Minnie scrambled to gather the blanket and then scurried to conceal it behind the floor-length curtain.
‘Do show his lordship in,’ Aunt Drusilla said, as she adjusted the neckline of her morning gown, tugging the lace fichu to conceal any hint of bosom, ‘and send in refreshments.’ She eyed Cecily up and down. ‘’Tis a pity you chose that particular gown this morning, my dear. The colour draws attention to your age. I have advised you before that you should wear more white, to honour your unmarried status. Kilburn is just the sort of man—hush. He is here.’
Cecily bit her lip, now struggling to contain a laugh. Her aunt had been extolling the virtues of her widowed neighbour ever since Cecily’s arrival. Little did she realise that was the precise reason for Cecily’s visit. The door opened again and Kilburn walked in and bowed. He slid a look at Cecily as she rose to greet him, his interest in her still apparent even though she had refused an offer from him not four months since.
‘Lady Derham, your servant,’ he said. ‘Lady Cecily—a delight to see you again. Miss Fussell, you are in blooming health, I see.’
Cecily tamped down her irritation. Could he not see how pale and frail poor Miss Fussell looked? She set a polite smile on her face and joined in the conversation.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Aunt Drusilla announced that Kilburn would be leaving now.
‘You may walk to the door with his lordship, Cecily, dear,’ she said. ‘I am certain you have much to tell him about your brothers’ weddings. I am sure I shall be unable to satisfy any curiosity on his part, as neither of my nephews saw fit to inform me of their plans.’
Aunt Drusilla lost no opportunity to complain that she had not been invited to either wedding, even though—often with the next breath—she would lament that the state of her health precluded her from travelling any further than to the local church for Sunday services.
‘Would you care to walk wi
th me a short distance?’ Kilburn’s horse had been brought round from the stables. ‘I am in no great hurry to return to the Manor. I dine alone tonight.’
‘That would be most pleasant, sir.’
Here was an ideal opportunity to learn more about his lordship. They fell into step, Kilburn’s horse plodding along behind them.
‘You must visit us at the Manor, my lady—the children will be delighted to see you,’ Kilburn said as they strolled down the main carriageway, his hands clasped behind his back as he matched his long stride to her shorter one. ‘It will have to be within the next few days, however, as I plan return to London shortly.’
Cecily glanced at him, taking in his tall, lean figure and his aristocratic profile, with its hooked nose and deep-set eyes. His brown hair was already receding although he was but a few years her senior and, despite his gaffe when he complimented Miss Fussell on her healthy appearance, he had given her no cause to view him with caution, either today or during their earlier meetings.
‘Thank you. I shall enjoy renewing my acquaintance with the children. It is an age since I have seen them. No doubt they have grown since I last set eyes upon them.’
‘Indeed.’ She could hear the pride in his voice. ‘Thomas is growing tall and straight and his manners, though I say so myself, are exemplary.’
Cecily waited, but he added nothing to his statement. ‘And the girls?’
‘They also thrive.’
Cecily frowned at that throwaway remark about his young daughters, but took care to smooth her expression as he turned his head and caught her eye.
‘They are in need of a mother’s guidance.’ His voice was loaded with meaning and the smug satisfaction in his eyes suggested he had an inkling of the real reason behind Cecily’s visit to her aunt.
She swallowed.
Probe his character, Zach’s voice whispered in her memory. He is not a kind man.
Kilburn’s intended early return to London had removed some of the urgency from Cecily’s decision. She, too, would return and she would make it her business to get to know him better.
Lady Cecily and the Mysterious Mr. Gray Page 9