by Sally Wragg
‘Leon,’ she called, both gratified and soothed by the old man’s quick smile of welcome.
‘Ursula . . . and Freddie too. But what a lovely surprise! You’re welcome here, both of you. You’ve arrived just at the right time. . . .’ So saying, he turned to the man beside him, saying a thing then, so shocking to all Ursula’s impossible plans and dreams, that instantly they collapsed into trembling disarray.
Clearly having no idea of the wound he was about to inflict, Leon smiled widely. ‘Porter, these are the neighbours I was telling you about, Ursula and Freddie Hamilton, who own this land. Ursula, Freddie, I’d like you to meet Porter, my son-in-law and Maisie May’s father. Isn’t it wonderful? He’s returned to accept his responsibilities. He’s going to look after Maisie at last!’
In her comforting and comfortable little kitchen, Mary Compton busied herself refilling the teapot and stoking up the fire for her visitor. The afternoon had grown cold in that dreary way of early autumn, giving a hint of the winter to come. ‘Reuben, it is good to see you,’ she murmured, finding, delightfully, it to be perfectly true. ‘Tom’s gone to the wholesaler. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.’
‘I’m not here to see Tom,’ Reuben muttered, forthright as ever and accepting his tea as of right, complete with the two sugars she remembered he’d always taken, stretching out his legs towards the fire and sipping it moodily. He’d obviously something on his mind but then, so had she.
‘I’ve had the Inspector round here,’ she told him, getting in first.
‘Digby?’ A faint alarm registered on Reuben’s face which, despite the passage of years, she acknowledged was still a handsome one.
‘That’s the one,’ she agreed. ‘And asking a lot of awkward questions about you and the lad . . . Lewis, isn’t it? I thought you might have brought him with you.’
‘He’s gone to the hall to see Hettie,’ he informed her, sharply. ‘What did he want to know?’
‘How long you’ve known him. What he does in your employ, exactly. . . .’
‘Blasted man, did he indeed,’ he muttered, looking displeased.
‘He asked about you too. What you used to do here, that sort of thing.’
‘You told him, of course!’ he snapped, irritably.
‘As little as I could,’ Mary agreed, equably and refusing to be rattled. For all his fine clothes and fancy manners, it was clear beneath the thin veneer, the same Reuben lurked, prickly as a room full of porcupines! The thought made her smile, for which she received another furious stare. ‘Give over, lad. You’re amongst friends here, remember?’ she said.
Her words soothed him and she blessed the deity that had put them there, ready on her tongue when needed. He finished his tea and put down his cup.
‘What do you know about this Roland de Loxley?’ he asked, abruptly.
Mary had known this was no impromptu visit and realized now what it was about. Her old friend was here to quiz her about Roland because, like everyone else, he sensed there was something going on between him and Bronwyn. Reuben had always liked Bronwyn, more than liked her if he’d ever admit it. Her heart filled with pity but, despite it, she told him all she knew. It was little enough and only what she’d been able to glean from Bronwyn herself. ‘I thought he’d have gone home long before now. There must be something – or someone keeping him here,’ she finished quietly.
‘Bronwyn, you mean?’ he demanded, his eyes filling with a pain he couldn’t quite disguise. She’d always been able to read him like the proverbial book, closed to most folk but never to her. Her answer would give him more pain but it seemed kindest, in the long run.
‘They spend an inordinate amount of time together,’ she answered, carefully. ‘Though it’s hardly surprising, given, as I say, he’s only recently discovered he’s from the same branch of the family.’
‘Family – the same as me?’ demanded this most passionate and impetuous of men.
Mary nodded uncertainly, unable to stop the thought rising that any relationship with a man like Reuben, no matter how loving, would be as being caught up in a maelstrom. No! Reuben was the last person Bronwyn needed in her life right now, particularly when the poor lass was so badly in need of peace and quiet.
It was time for straight talking. ‘You still have feelings for her, don’t you?’ she demanded.
Suddenly, the years rolled away and he was as ever, the same lad who’d used to take refuge in her kitchen to pour out his woes. ‘I love her. I always have and always will,’ he admitted, as if owning to a crime instead of the most natural feeling in the world. Sadly, Mary shook her head. Given he’d used to be the gamekeeper round here and Bronwyn, despite her lowly origins, was still mother to Hettie, the present Duchess of Loxley, as far as she, Mary, could see, the poor man was headed for trouble.
Still she struggled for the right words to say what she believed badly needed saying.
‘Reuben. . . . You don’t think you’re, well, reaching above yourself?’
That was putting it mildly and yet, even so, she saw that she’d offended him. As far as Reuben was concerned, he was as good as any man on God’s earth and who could deny him? He was a grand man, a passionate man, if one who sometimes took some understanding. But there! He’d had much to put up with in his life and that was the truth. He sat, struggling to express his frustration so she wished now desperately she’d kept her observations to herself. She reached over awkwardly and patted his hand, all the while restraining the impulse to throw her arms around him and assure him everything would turn out right because, after all, it generally did . . . didn’t it?
Suddenly, her heart full of misgivings, Mary wasn’t so sure.
After she’d discovered him hiding away in Reuben’s cottage, Hettie had never since clapped eyes on Lewis so she was only too happy when that afternoon, he’d turned up unexpectedly at the hall. He’d made his peace with Reuben, he said, and he was presently keeping a low profile and doing what Reuben told him, which was to avoid the police. Circumnavigating Soames, who appeared intent on ushering them into the sitting room, Hettie had dragged him straight up to the anteroom and into the secret tunnel to show him the words carved into the stonework and to ask him what he thought.
Lamplight flickered, flaming grotesque shadows on the walls.
‘I knew you’d want to see it,’ she said, leading the way out again and back into the anteroom whilst inwardly owning to a sense of disappointment Lewis hadn’t appeared all that impressed.
‘This tunnel links up with the other, you say?’ he asked, dusting a cobweb from his sleeve.
She darted him a curious glance, wondering now if, subconsciously, she’d meant it as some kind of a test. ‘You really didn’t know, did you?’
‘For goodness’ sake, don’t start that again!’ he snapped, clearly offended.
Hettie was at once contrite. ‘I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. It’s just, what with the war committee papers being stolen and suspicion falling on everyone, it’s been so difficult round here of late.’
‘Hah! Tell me about it. . . .’
He must be the prickliest boy in the world. Doing her best to put his rudeness aside, Hettie concentrated instead on the matter in hand. ‘What do you make of the riddle?’ she asked.
‘Dunno, something and nothing, I expect.’ He shrugged.
Her face fell. She’d thought Lewis at least would have understood. ‘No one will believe me!’ she entreated. ‘But I’m sure Aelric is hidden somewhere near here. Nell Loxley was a Royalist at heart. She’d have kept it safely against the King’s return, above all.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything Leon tells you,’ Lewis muttered, looking amused. ‘Oh, Hettie, you know what gypsies are like!’
‘Folk, the same as any other folk,’ she argued.
He smiled suddenly, a rare smile, transforming his face so she saw how good-looking he really was, so much so, for a moment she wondered. . . . Bill’s face loomed large. Hastily, she pushed the thought aside. Any relationship with L
ewis would bring trouble, she knew.
He was evidently prepared to humour her. ‘Say Nell did hide this . . . Aelric . . . whatever it’s called,’ he mused, looking thoughtful, ‘and she left the riddle as a way of explaining? It doesn’t exactly make much sense. I mean, who or what is Aranrhod, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Leon says she’s the goddess of the moon. . . .’ Hettie stopped, her expression suddenly changing. ‘But I know who’d tell us – the Reverend Payne! Why ever didn’t I think? We’ll go and ask him.’
‘What, now?’ Lewis demanded, too late for she was already heading for the door, leaving him no option but to follow her.
Downstairs, Hettie crossed the hall and flung open the front door. And then she froze, looking in shocked surprise at the man she’d discovered on the doorstep, his large bulk looming before her and his hand raised to pull the bell. A man with presence and breeding, immaculately dressed if exuding the faintly menacing air she’d always found so disconcerting. A man she’d assumed she’d never see again! Whatever would her mother say now? Crazily, it flitted into her mind that Dizzy, at least, would be pleased.
Fully cognizant of her surprise, Count Charles Dresler smiled, revealing thereby small and perfectly even teeth. ‘Hettie, my dear,’ he murmured. ‘You did say I must come and look you up?’
Chapter Ten
Bronwyn Loxley helped herself to a glass of wine from the drinks tray, thanking Soames politely before turning her attention back to the company assembled in the sitting room, prior to the evening meal, a company comprising mostly family, which included Roland, plus Dizzy Pettigrew, hastily summoned from her home in the village to make up the numbers. Count Dresler’s arrival had thrown them all into a spin, Bronwyn in particular, left with the headache of what to do with him. She was still vexed with Hettie, presently chatting animatedly to her grandmother about goodness alone knew what, Bronwyn fretted, a little peevishly. Her troubled gaze roamed around the room, landing on the convivial figure of the Count, who stood, glass in hand, holding forth to Dizzy, who gazed up at him adoringly. Taken with the idea of Loxley’s former governess harbouring romantic feelings for anyone, and such a distinguished man to boot, Bronwyn’s gaze lingered. There was no doubt, the Count was a charismatic, distinguished figure and she could well see why Dizzy was so smitten. Another time, perhaps when she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Roland, his company might even have been welcome?
Her gaze shifted again, this time to Roland, who stood by the French windows, sipping a glass of sherry. Remembering their embrace that afternoon, not for the first time Bronwyn wondered where their relationship was headed, or, indeed, if it was headed anywhere.
‘You look pensive,’ he observed, aware of her perusal and moving swiftly to join her.
She smiled, playing for time and not fooling him one iota.
‘I’m alright, really I am, Roland. And you?’
‘I’m not sorry for this afternoon if that’s what you imagine,’ he murmured. His gaze softened, his eyes flashing hidden depths so for a moment, she felt herself sucked into the invitation she read there. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, Bron?’ He frowned.
‘No, of course not . . . that is. . . .’
‘You’re not exactly sure?’ he probed, gently.
That was Roland, a man who believed in going straight to the heart of a matter. He deserved honesty if nothing else. Her hand was trembling. Confused, she put her drink down on the table beside her and took a deep breath. ‘There’s never been any one else since Harry and even thoughts of starting another relationship scares me. I just feel that . . . events this afternoon have moved things along a little too fast. Does that make sense? That’s not to say I don’t like you,’ she concluded hastily. Having got all this out, jumbled as it was, Bronwyn immediately felt better. She smiled up at him, relieved when he smiled back, albeit ruefully.
‘I do know what loss feels like, Bron. . . .’ he murmured, his ready smile falling away so she was reminded again of the troubled past at which he’d so far only hinted and had yet to confide. He’d told her so little about his past, she realized, determining to ask him now.
‘You must have your problems, too, Roland?’ she prompted.
Clearly uncomfortable, he took a gulp of his wine. ‘We can’t be our ages and not carry some sort of baggage, I expect,’ he replied. ‘There was someone once, if you must know, someone I probably should have got over long before now but . . . well. . . . You know how it is?’
She did know, exactly. ‘I wish you’d tell me, that’s all. I can’t help otherwise.’
‘Her name was Lilli,’ he began, still reluctantly. ‘I’ve known her forever, since I was a boy. Our families were close; we used to spend our holidays together. We were friends long before we fell in love though things went much deeper with me, I’m afraid. I sometimes think . . . I wish I’d never met her. I’ve never really got over her.’
‘It didn’t work out?’
‘No, not really. Something happened – something bad. It’s like . . . she’s a part of me I can’t quite shake off. I can’t forget her and I don’t even know if I want to. . . .’
‘I do understand. . . .’ she answered when it appeared nothing else was forthcoming. But she did understand and hadn’t only been speaking empty words meant to placate. In an odd way, what Roland was describing were exactly her feelings for Harry. She’d never really got over Harry and she knew that now.
Frustratingly, at that moment, the Count detached himself from Dizzy and joined them.
‘I’ve been meaning to thank you for putting me up at such short notice, Your Grace,’ he began suavely, in his almost impeccable English. So saying, he took her hand, kissing it so gallantly, she blushed. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Despite a faint and instinctive aversion towards him, she couldn’t help but be flattered. He was a handsome man and no wonder Dizzy was so smitten.
‘You’re planning to stay a while?’ she asked him.
‘I’m over here on business,’ he agreed, pleasantly. ‘After your daughter’s most kind invitation, it seemed too good a chance to miss. But I’d hate to think I was putting you out.’
Bronwyn’s smile was genuine. Poor man, so far from home and with the sensitivity to know he might be in the way. ‘Nonsense Count, of course you’re not putting us out in any way. Please. . . . You must let me introduce you to Roland de Loxley, who’s visiting us from France. . . .’
The Count clicked his heels and shook hands formally, gazing into Roland’s face searchingly before letting go his hand and returning his attention to Bronwyn. ‘We must talk business soon.’
‘Please, feel free now, if you’d like? Roland is family.’ She smiled, feeling good giving air to such a truth, or as good as family, she conceded, no matter how tenuous the connection between their two distinctive branches of the Loxley line. The Count nodded, agreeably.
‘I’ve always been wary of the maxim against mixing business with pleasure. So much more palatable, don’t you agree, to manage a little business and yet enjoy oneself too? So, my dear, your daughter tells me you have items of historical interest you may wish to sell?’
Even if Hettie hadn’t already warned Bronwyn about the reason for the Count’s visit, she was still wary. She didn’t know this man; though Dizzy had assured her that he was perfectly genuine. Aware of her reluctance, the Count took a card from the top pocket of his jacket and presented it.
‘I’d be perfectly willing to value any article you wished to show me and guide you through the market. Difficult as things are back home presently – politically I mean – I still have many contacts.’
‘Blasted Nazis,’ Roland muttered, under his breath.
The Count’s brows arched in surprise. ‘You’re no friend to the Nazis, Mr de Loxley? But I can assure you they do much good. Our country was left in such turmoil after the war. People starving, so few jobs. . . . We needed a strong party to pull us together.’
Roland shook his head, too
vehemently for politeness’ sake, Bronwyn thought, if privately agreeing with him. She threw him a worried glance. Aware of it, he apologized at once. ‘I’m sorry, Count. It’s just I can’t say I like the way things are going in Germany. In my humble opinion, Herr Hitler has much to answer for.’
‘There’s much change afoot,’ the Count agreed, amiably, returning his attention to Bronwyn, who found herself pinned under the intensity of those cool blue eyes. ‘Now – how about you show me round tomorrow but only if you’ve time, of course?’
He was charming and affable and, given their current financial plight, it surely couldn’t do any harm to have expert opinion on any Loxley valuables that might prove saleable? Quickly, Bronwyn made up her mind. ‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ she agreed.
Her grandmother had gone to talk to Dizzy. Hettie stood, thoughtlessly twirling her hair round one finger and regarding her mother quizzically. She’d been worried what her mother would say about the Count’s unexpected arrival but really, there’d been no need. Any frustration she felt at discovering him on the doorstep and having to cancel her planned visit to Lawrence Payne was long forgotten. In any case, she’d already sorted out another time. . . .
‘Hettie!’ her mother called, catching her gaze. ‘I’m just promising to show the Count round tomorrow. You’ll be joining us, I presume?’
Hettie nodded uneasily. ‘It’ll have to be later though; I’ve arranged to see the vicar with Lewis, first thing. We want to ask him about that riddle in the secret passageway. Have you heard about that yet, Count Dresler?’ If he hadn’t, she was only too happy to tell him. She moved closer, her expression bubbling over with excitement. ‘It’s to do with a sword, named Aelric. A fabulous jewel-covered sword, worth an absolute fortune, I should think. I’m positive it must be hidden round here somewhere, if only I’d a clue where exactly!’
‘Darling, don’t bother our guest with all that now,’ Bronwyn interrupted, forestalling the gleam of interest shadowing the Count’s face.
All Hettie’s good humour vanished instantly. Trust her mother to put a spanner in the works! But Aelric did exist and, what’s more, it was hidden here, at Loxley, she was sure of it. She frowned. Some day, she would find it and then everyone would be sorry! She launched in again.