by Sandra Heath
She did it to spare herself needless torment, and to avoid any chance of unwittingly revealing the truth, for there were times when she’d felt Robert’s thoughtful gaze upon her, as if he was beginning to suspect something.
Toward the end of the week, when the rain seemed to have been falling forever, and, with four days to go before they all set off for Bellstones, a grand ball was arranged on the spur of the moment at Sheldon House, where the family was overjoyed at the unexpected return from India of one of its best-loved members.
Lord and Lady Sheldon were leading lights when it came to hosting grand functions, and there wasn’t a soul of consequence who didn’t receive, and accept, an invitation. Invitations arrived at Johnstone Street, much to Jane’s joy, but Christina determined immediately that she would feel indisposed on the night of the ball, and thus again avoid Robert’s company.
She played her role with great guile, seeming to be looking forward to the ball almost as much as Jane, when all the time she had no intention at all of going. Neither Jane nor Mr. Richmond suspected anything, and both were greatly concerned on the day of the ball when she complained at breakfast of feeling a little unwell.
She retreated to her room at midday, drawing the curtains and lying on the bed, pretending to be asleep when Jane peeped in to see how she was. As the evening arrived, and the others began to dress for the ball, she cried off very apologetically, insisting that she really did feel under the weather and would much prefer a quiet evening to the excitement, crush, and noise of a ball. Jane and Mr. Richmond were disappointed, and at eight o’clock they set off by carriage in the rain for Sheldon House, on the road to Bristol. Robert was due to join them there, having accepted a dinner engagement first.
Christina prepared to enjoy her quiet evening as best she could. Wearing her dark-blue dimity gown, her hair brushed comfortably loose, she adjourned to the drawing room with Gil Blas, determined to shrug off all her troubles by immersing herself in fictional adventures. The rain was lashing against the window as she sat by the fire and opened the page at her bookmark, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her attention wandered, and, as always now, she found herself thinking of Robert.
There was a knock at the front door, but she didn’t hear it; she knew nothing until the butler came in rather apologetically.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Richmond, I know you’re indisposed, but Lord St. Clement has called.”
She stared at him. “Lord St. Clement?”
“Yes, madam.”
But Robert was going on to Sheldon House after his dinner engagement, and as far as he was concerned, all three members of the Richmond family were attending the ball. Why on earth had he called? She closed the book. “Please show him in.”
“Yes, madam.”
The butler withdrew into the hall again, and she rose nervously from her chair, putting the book on a table.
Robert came in almost immediately, pausing in the doorway to smile at her. “Good evening, Christina.”
“Good evening, Robert.” How handsome he was, especially in evening clothes.
He came toward her, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “I trust you don’t mind this intrusion?”
“I confess I’m a little surprised, for by rights there shouldn’t be anyone at home tonight, we should all have gone to the ball.”
“I guessed you were here. By chance I saw your father’s carriage on its way to Sheldon House, and I noticed that only Jane appeared to be with him.”
“You wished to speak to me?”
“Yes, if it isn’t inconvenient.”
“Of course not.”
His gray eyes searched her face. “The butler said that you were indisposed.”
“I was, but I’ve recovered.”
“I’m glad to hear it. May we sit down?”
“Oh, forgive me,” she said quickly, turning to gesture to a sofa. “Shall I have some tea or coffee served? Or would you prefer cognac?”
“Cognac would be eminently satisfactory.”
He sat on the sofa, lounging back to watch her as she went to the little table to pick up the decanter. “Christina, have I offended you in some way?” he asked for a moment.
“Offended me? What a strange question. Of course you haven’t,” she replied, endeavoring with all her might to stop her hand from trembling so that the decanter rattled against the glass.
“Not so very strange, for you have been avoiding my company.”
She colored, taking the glass to him. “You’re mistaken, for I’m not avoiding you.”
“No?”
“No.”
He held her eyes. “I wish I felt reassured, but I’m afraid I don’t. I look at you now and see that you are, to say the least, ill-at-ease with me. I’m sad that this is so, for when we first met I felt we had a certain warm rapport, but now there’s definitely a wall between us, and you, Christina, are the one who’s built it. You say I haven’t offended you, which prompts me to conclude that you simply don’t like me after all.”
“Oh, no, please don’t think that! I like you very much indeed.” Too much, by far too much, that’s the whole problem. The reply finished silently in her head.
“Then why are you avoiding me?”
Answers didn’t come as easily to her as they did to Jane, and to give herself time to reply she returned to the table to pour herself a glass of sherry. She’d thought she was doing the best thing by staying away from him, but she’d only succeeded in giving him the wrong impression.
Pouring her glass, she turned with a smile. “This is all quite foolish,” she said, “for there’s absolutely nothing wrong, and if I’ve somehow conveyed the feeling that there is, then I cannot imagine how. Please believe me, Robert, I haven’t been avoiding you, nor do I dislike you. Can we set this misunderstanding aside and begin again?”
He smiled, swirling his glass. “Setting misunderstandings aside appears to be the hallmark of our relationship, Christina, for I seem to recall once thinking that you were to be my bride.”
She gave a light laugh. “What a catalog of disasters that marriage would undoubtedly have been.”
“Do you think so? Now I’m of a mind to be insulted.”
She was determined to steer the conversation onto a new tack, and sitting down opposite him, she asked him about Bellstones. “I’ve been longing to ask you more about Bellstones, Robert. From what you said at dinner the other evening, it seems very beautiful.”
For a moment she thought he’d begun to see through her, for he paused in a way that unsettled her more than ever, but then he nodded. “It is very beautiful, especially at this time of the year, when the park and surrounding moor are in full autumn color.”
A gust of wind drove the rain against the window again, and he glanced toward the lowered ruched curtains. “The Darch will soon be in full spate if they’ve had all this rain down there as well.”
“The Darch?”
“The river in the valley directly below Bellstones. I think I told you it rises in a lake on the high moor. It’s soon in flood after a lengthy spell of rain.” There was a note of longing in his voice as he spoke of his home, a yearning to be there, not in the stifling atmosphere of Bath.
“You love Bellstones very much, don’t you?” she said.
“It’s the most perfect place on earth, and I long to kick my heels of London, Bath, Brighton, Cheltenham, and every other place of fashion.”
She was surprised. “But I thought you were very much a London soul.”
“I was, but I’ve more than had my fill. I think I decided once and for all when those two tiresome women fought over me on the steps of St. George’s. It was the last straw.” He gave a quick, apologetic smile. “Please forgive me for mentioning such a vulgar incident.”
She thought of Jane, who was looking forward so much to the excitement and whirl of London.
He watched her. “What are you thinking about?”
“Jane,” she replied honestly. “Does she
know you feel this way about London?”
“Yes. I didn’t think it right to mislead her.”
Christina was taken aback. Jane knew and yet hadn’t mentioned it? Such reticence was entirely out of character in one whose great joy was a bulging social calendar. Realizing her silence was making him curious, she sipped her sherry and then spoke of Bellstones again. “Can you solve a mystery for me? Why is it called Bellstones?”
He smiled. “There’s a ruined belltower on the moor. It was put there originally by an ancestor of William Grenfell’s, a gentleman who greatly feared a Spanish invasion, and who didn’t have much faith in a beacon being properly visible on a bright sunny day. He had the tower built and an immense bell installed, and it’s said that this bell could be heard all the way to Dartmoor. Anyway, there was a dreadful storm one winter, and the tower collapsed. An ancestor of mine acquired some of the stones and used them in the building of a stableblock for his thoroughbreds. He was soon nicknamed ‘Old Bellstones,’ and with the passage of years the house became known as Bellstones, which is, you’ll grant, more entertaining than plain Darch House, which was its original name.”
“Much more entertaining.”
“Exmoor abounds in interesting stories.”
“I look forward to hearing them.”
“And I look forward to telling you. You’re a very rewarding audience, Christina.”
“Perhaps it’s the talent of the raconteur, sir.”
“Perhaps.” He smiled at her.
His smiles had the power to storm her defenses, and she had to look quickly away. A fluttering pulse raced through her, making her shiver.
He sat forward immediately. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she replied quickly. “It’s nothing. Truly.”
“But you haven’t been well today, and I’m being boorish enough to impose my company on you.” He finished his cognac and put the glass down before getting to his feet. “It’s time I took myself to the ball anyway. Jane will no doubt be wondering what’s happened to me.”
She got up as well. “I do hope that I’ve allayed your fears now?”
“You have.” He took both her hands, looking into her eyes. “I hated the feeling that I’d somehow managed to alienate you.”
“Be assured that I do like you, and I do approve of you as my brother-in-law.”
“Then I’m content,” he murmured, hesitating before bending forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Good night, Christina.”
“Good night, Robert. I trust you enjoy the ball.”
“It would have been much more agreeable if you’d been there.”
“I’m sure Jane will more than make up for my absence,” she replied.
He seemed to become suddenly aware that he still held her hands, and quickly released them before turning to go out. She heard him speak to the butler; then the front door was opened. A draft breathed through the house, moving the curtains; then the door was closed. His carriage drew away a moment later, and then there was silence, except for the patter of the rain on the glass.
Christina raised the hand to her lips, kissing the skin he’d kissed a moment before. Hot tears stung her eyes, and a sob caught in her throat. How long would she have to endure this pain before it became bearable?
Chapter Seventeen
There was rain for the next four days as well, but on the morning of the departure for Bellstones the sun was shining again. At seven, two carriages set off from Johnstone Street, Christina, Jane, and Mr. Richmond traveling with Robert in his coach, the valets and maids following in the Richmond vehicle.
All the rain had swollen the Avon so that it pounded over the weir as the carriages crossed Pulteney Bridge on their way southwest out of Bath toward the market town of Midsomer Norton. It was seventy miles to Bellstones, too far to accomplish in one day on the poor roads of the west country, and it was intended that they would stay overnight at the Red Lion Inn in Bridgwater, which was about halfway. They halted at Wells for luncheon, and then drove on through the long afternoon.
During that day Christina had to call upon all her acting skills, especially when they neared Bridgwater and both her father and Jane fell asleep. Robert sat in the seat opposite, and it was quite impossible to avoid conversation. He was so easy to talk to, and so amusing that at times she knew she was perilously close to allowing her protective mask to slip. She was relieved when they reached Bridgwater, and alighted gladly when they entered the yard of the busy Red Lion Inn.
She didn’t linger over the fine pheasant dinner, but retired quickly to the shelter of her room, where she hid in the capacious bed, fighting back the hot tears that were always so close now.
The next day they continued on their way to Bellstones, driving west along the coast on the road that led to the fishing port of Minehead. The Bristol Channel was deep blue beneath the clear October sky, and far out on the water there were several frigates, their sails straining before the freshening breeze. They halted for luncheon at a wayside inn near the village of Wiltiton, taking their time over the meal because the afternoon would be arduous for both travelers and horses as they entered the steeply rolling terrain of Exmoor.
They set off on the final stage, driving further westward along the coast for a mile or so before turning suddenly southwest. Exmoor was soon silhouetted against the skyline ahead, and the road deteriorated, rapidly becoming little more than a track. The hills were steep, plunging down into narrow tree-choked valleys, and the horses were soon tired. At last they descended into a long valley, where the track followed the banks of a swollen river. It was the Darch, the same river that flowed past Bellstones,
The moor rose all around, clearly visible beyond the autumn foliage overhanging the way. In the shelter of the trees there were secretive herds of red deer, glimpsed only now and then as the two carriages proceeded slowly beside the river.
The open hillsides were still clad in the summer glory of late heather and gorse, clear-cut against the wide heaven, and wild ponies and flocks of sheep could be seen roaming free. Far above, wheeling gracefully in the stream of air sweeping over the high moor, there were merlins and buzzards, birds of prey that flourished in this wild but beautiful part of England.
As Robert had predicted, the Darch was in full spate after all the rain, its waters foaming and splashing over rocks, filling the valley with a thunderous roar. It was a salmon river, one of the finest in the west country, and from time to time a flash of silver gave evidence that the fish were beginning to swim in from the sea to spawn.
The afternoon wore on toward evening, and the light began to change. The track may have been narrow and poor, but it was well-used, because there were straggling villages along the valley. Occasionally they encountered strings of packhorses, the most usual form of transport in Exmoor, but there were some farm carts laden with produce, en route for the following day’s market at Darchford, the largest of the villages.
A stone bridge spanned the river at Darchford, and there was a tang of woodsmoke from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. It seemed that all the folk of Exmoor had congregated ready for the market, which took place on the wide village green, and as the carriages drove over the bridge, the sound of fiddle music carried clearly on the breeze that rustled through the autumn leaves.
Jane had been asleep for some time. Traveling in a carriage frequently affected her in this way, and she didn’t stir as they drove through Darchford, nor did she look up when Robert pointed out another track and told them that one mile away along it was Grenfell Hall, William’s family home. Christina glanced unhappily along the other track as it wound away along the bottom of a hill, soon vanishing among the trees. William Grenfell’s residence was a little too close for comfort.
Shadows were lengthening now as the sun began to set. The Darch still frothed noisily beside the track, its waters sometimes threatening to spill over the bank, and soon there was a new sound, a deep thundering that told of rapids. Leaning closer to the glass, Christina gazed ah
ead, and sure enough, she saw the pounding white water as the river plunged down a drop of about fifteen feet.
The track climbed beside the rapids, and as the carriage breasted the slope, Christina saw how wide the river was beyond, wide enough to encompass a small islet green with shrubs and low trees. Upstream of this islet, where the river narrowed again, a five-arched stone bridge spanned the water, carrying the track to the lodge and armorial gates of Bellstones, which was hidden beyond a thick screen of tall trees.
Followed by the green Richmond coach, Robert’s carriage crossed the bridge, the coachmen easing their tired teams with great care, for although the horses were weary, they were still easily unnerved, as was swiftly evidenced when a broken branch, carried downstream on the water, struck the bridge. The sound rang loudly above the thunder of the river, and the Richmond team shied, tossing their heads and fighting the bit until the coachman managed to impose his will on them once more.
The noise of the branch against the bridge woke Jane with a start, and she sat up sharply, obviously disoriented for a moment. Robert smiled, putting his hand reassuringly over hers. The lodgekeeper had seen the carriages approaching, and flung open the gates in readiness, doffing his hat respectfully as they passed.
As they entered Bellstones, the trees peeled back and the drive swept up through a gracious park toward the early-Tudor splendor of the great house. Set between the valley and the high moor beyond, it was a breathtaking sight, a rambling three-story mansion with gables, turrets, battlements, and towers. Mullioned windows caught the dying blaze of the setting sun, and a gilded weathercock on the stableblock that had been built of stones from the warning bell tower high on the moor, swung gently to and fro as the breeze blustered playfully around it.
The main entrance of the house was beneath an arched stone porch topped by carved stone lions, which heraldic beast Christina was to learn was the Temple-family emblem. The closer the carriages drew, the more clearly she could make out details on the house. There were more stone lions on the roof, and gargoyles with fearsome faces jutting by the eaves. The chimneys were spiral, and there were many of them, for the Tudors didn’t like to be cold, especially in this bleak area of winter winds, rain, and snow.