by Cheryl Holt
She yanked her gaze from the frothing sea water, not eager to contemplate how violently it might swallow up the sand and leave them stranded. It was like a scene out of a grim fairytale where an innocent maiden was lured into danger by a wicked witch.
She fought off a shiver of dread and followed after the children.
They wandered through the busy courtyard where vendors had set up booths and were selling food and other merchandise. They stopped an officious-looking man and inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. John Dunn. He was Jane’s uncle who they were hoping to locate. They were directed into the main hall of the castle.
They entered into a huge room that was probably very much as it had been during the Middle Ages. There were rows of tables and benches for communal dining, as if the serfs still shared all their meals.
A large fireplace was built into the wall, and even though it was the first week of July, it was cool and cloudy outside. Massive logs burned in the grate, so the space was toasty. It was filled with people, and their packed presence increased the temperature. The smell of unwashed bodies was a bit overwhelming.
Up in the front, there was a dais where the family could eat and stare down at their servants as if they were royalty. As far as Winnie was aware, the Dunns had no noble blood, yet their castle gave every sign of their carrying on like ancient lords.
There was a hearing in progress, and a man on the dais was listening as two fishermen complained about pilfering each other’s catch. A woman sat next to him, and occasionally, he’d lean over and they’d confer about the testimony.
He was very imposing, very commanding, and he had the air of a soldier, as if he’d spent his life barking orders and having them obeyed. His powerful personality wafted out across the assembled crowd, and it was obvious his elevated position was recognized by all.
He had black hair—worn longer than was proper—and very blue eyes. She thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, but his stellar looks annoyed her. Since her failed engagement three years earlier to Holden Cartwright, who’d been dapper and charming and very good looking too, she’d developed a potent loathing for men.
Her low opinion had initially been stirred by her despicable father who’d passed away and left her in dire financial straits. Then she’d added Holden to the list, having suffered the humiliation of being jilted at the altar by him when she was just seventeen.
But her recent experiences with the Prescott family—Jane’s and Bobby’s relatives—had her convinced that males of the human species were beyond redemption. She’d cursed all of them to perdition.
Jane and Bobby, who were half-siblings, had been sired by Neville Prescott, the Earl of Benton. He’d been an amoral cad who hadn’t been able to marry either of their mothers because he’d already been married.
They’d grown up at his Benton estate, and Winnie had been hired to work as their governess, but he’d had the gall to die and leave them unprotected. His brother, Peyton Prescott—the new earl—had decreed he would no longer support Neville’s illicit offspring.
Winnie had been terminated, and Jane and Bobby had been kicked out. Bobby had no kin to take him in, but Jane had her uncle, John Dunn, at Dunworthy. Winnie had written him several letters as to the possibility of Jane and Bobby coming to live with him, but she’d never received a reply.
After they’d been tossed out on the road, she’d decided to travel to Cornwall with them. She could hardly have let them go alone. She intended to throw herself on John Dunn’s mercy and plead for his assistance, but if he refused to provide it, she had no alternate plan.
A man at the rear of the room appeared to be a guard of sorts. He noticed them and interrogated them as to their purpose. When Winnie whispered that she needed to speak with Mr. Dunn, the fellow gestured to the dais, indicating that Jane’s uncle was the man holding court.
The guard asked her name, then had them sit on a bench in the back. He explained that they’d be called up when it was their turn. She couldn’t imagine addressing the situation with so many people eavesdropping, but she was weary and hungry and in an awful mood. For once, she did as she was bid.
They watched the proceedings, as one case after another was brought before Mr. Dunn. They involved common village quarrels: stolen items, rustled cattle, physical fights, unpaid debts. There was even a stabbing and an adulterous affair.
She and Bobby observed it with a high degree of interest. Jane fell asleep though, her head drooping onto Winnie’s shoulder.
Mr. Dunn was smart and brusque and an excellent judge of truth and character. He doled out penalties and sentences like an angry god, and no one argued with any of his edicts. He possessed complete and undisputed authority.
The drone of voices had lulled her into a stupor, so she was startled when the bailiff suddenly announced, “Miss Winifred Watson.”
At first, she didn’t move, then Bobby nudged her with his elbow. She eased Jane off her shoulder, and the girl woke up and rubbed her eyes.
“Shall we come up with you?” Bobby murmured.
“No. Wait here. Let me talk to him by myself. Take care of Jane for me.”
“I always will,” Bobby said, and he meant it.
He was a brave, loyal boy, and at twelve, he was perched on the edge of manhood. During their trip to Cornwall, he’d repeatedly told Jane he would shield and defend her, and Winnie thought it was sweet that he was so devoted. It made her wish he was her son or that she might have a son just like him someday.
She stood, and she ran a hand across her skirt and patted the same hand across her hair. She’d have liked an opportunity to wash and change clothes before they’d met with Mr. Dunn, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. They’d been granted an audience, and it was obvious he viewed himself as being very important. He wouldn’t brook any nonsense or tolerate any delay.
She walked to the front, hating how everyone was focused on her. She didn’t like to be the center of attention, and she most especially didn’t want to have others listening as she and Mr. Dunn conversed.
They had delicate matters to discuss, and they weren’t the type that should be publicly debated.
“Hello, Mr. Dunn,” she said.
The woman next to him snottily snapped, “It’s Lord John to you.”
Mr. Dunn looked to be thirty or so, and the woman was about his same age. She was voluptuously chubby, with black hair and cold black eyes, and there was malice in her gaze that was unsettling.
Was she Mr. Dunn’s wife? Could she be Jane’s aunt? It was a disturbing possibility. Furtively, Winnie scrutinized their hands, but neither of them was wearing a wedding ring, so she couldn’t guess at their relationship.
The woman’s attitude was terribly rude. Winnie hadn’t yet uttered a word as to her quest, but the suspicions as to her motives had already blossomed. They were probably fueled by a general contempt for strangers, and the notion was exhausting.
“Hello, Lord John,” she said. “I’m Miss Watson.”
“Yes, yes, you’re Miss Watson,” he grouchily replied, “and you’re the last person on my list. State your case so we can wrap this up. I’m tired and eager to open a cask of ale.”
The spectators mumbled with excitement, so it was likely the custom to end the legal day with a protracted bout of drinking.
Wonderful! She’d arrived just as the occupants—Jane’s unmet kin—would soon be addled with liquor.
Mr. Dunn was glaring at her as if he’d engaged in all the testimony he could abide for one afternoon, and it occurred to her that she’d better explain herself quickly or he’d boot her out before she could spit out the reason for her lengthy journey.
“I’ve traveled from Benton to speak with you,” she told him.
He simply gaped at her, the name of Benton not registering, which was distressing and depressing.
“All right,” he said. “You’ve traveled from Benton. I’m not familiar with the spot. Where is it locate
d?”
“It’s a property outside London. It’s Lord Benton’s family seat.”
“I don’t know him, and I’ve never heard of him.”
People snickered, and she squared her shoulders. She might be only twenty, but she was Sir Walford Watson’s daughter. He’d been quite an imposing character, and she’d inherited his more impressive traits. She couldn’t be bullied, and she was never afraid or cowed.
A paltry veteran—if that’s what Mr. Dunn was—could never intimidate her. Nor could a fake lord in a crumbling, decrepit castle.
“I must raise a very difficult subject,” she said, “but I shouldn’t reveal it in this crowded forum. Is there somewhere we could confer privately?”
“No. Get on with it please.”
“I’m sure you won’t like me to address it this way.”
“And I am sure I’m about to call it a day. Tell me why you’ve come or I’ll adjourn the proceedings.”
From how he was studying her, as if she was insignificant and annoying, it was clear he was serious. He would be delighted to put her in her place, but he never could.
After her recent bouts of enmity at Benton where she’d constantly battled with the estate agent, Mr. Slater, she was irked and drained. A man couldn’t insult or aggravate her without consequence.
“I’ve brought your niece, Jane Prescott, to stay with you,” she bluntly proclaimed. “She has nowhere to go, and I beg you to provide shelter to her.”
Winnie intended to beg for herself and Bobby too, but she didn’t suppose she ought to mention that fact in her opening salvo.
Her announcement flummoxed everyone. Mr. Dunn glanced at the woman beside him. “Melvina, do I have a niece named Jane Prescott?”
“No,” the woman—Melvina—curtly responded.
He turned to Winnie. “I have no idea what you mean or who you mean. Will that be all?”
Winnie took a deep breath. She’d warned him about the delicate conversation she planned to have, but he was too vain and imperious to listen. Well, a pox on his head!
She could be just as vain and imperious.
“Jane is your sister Rebecca’s daughter,” she said. “Her father was Neville Prescott, the prior Lord Benton, and he seduced Rebecca when she was sixteen and away at boarding school. She died in childbirth, and Jane has been living at Benton ever since, but the Prescott family’s circumstances have changed.” Since Neville Prescott was now deceased, that was a massive understatement! “She’s been evicted by them, and she’s requesting sanctuary from you.”
Her speech had sucked the air out of the room. It had grown so quiet she could have heard a pin drop. Spectators were scowling, nervously peeking at each other and not certain what to think. Up on the dais, Mr. Dunn—the haughty Lord John—was glowering at Winnie as if she were a bug he’d like to squash under his boot.
“You have some gall, Miss Watson,” he ultimately seethed, his tone threatening.
“So I’ve always been told, Mr. Dunn.”
Melvina practically shouted, “It’s Lord John to you, you little harpy.”
Mr. Dunn raised a hand to silence her. She bristled, but shut up as he’d demanded.
“Miss Watson,” he said to Winnie, “in a few short sentences, you have denigrated my dead sister, thoroughly besmirched her reputation, and ruined our beloved memory of her that we hold so dear.”
“I’m sorry if you find the truth to be painful, sir,” Winnie replied. “In my own defense, I warned you that we should discuss this privately.”
“Yes, you did, and that’s enough from you. Thank you for coming.”
He waved her off as if she would slither away with the dilemma unresolved. She huffed with offense. “You haven’t answered me.”
“What was your question again?”
“Jane needs shelter and support. Will she receive them from you?”
“No.”
Winnie valiantly stood her ground. “Her half-brother, Bobby Prescott, has traveled with her, and I am here too.”
“I see that,” he caustically retorted.
“I am their guardian.” It was a white lie. She had no official role with regard to either child, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “I ask for shelter and assistance for Bobby and myself as well.”
“I don’t choose to extend it.”
“Why not?”
Apparently, her query was too insolent to abide, and the audience groused and grumbled. Had no one ever argued with Mr. Dunn’s edicts? Was no one ever permitted to disagree with his grand self?
“Why not?” he spat back at her. “Let me count the reasons. I don’t know you. I don’t believe you. I have no basis to trust you. And my sister, Rebecca, died of the influenza.”
“No, she didn’t. I regret that the details of her demise were concealed from you, but I’m telling them to you now.”
“I won’t allow you to spew any further falsehoods about her.”
“They’re not falsehoods.”
Winnie gestured for Jane and Bobby to join her. They hesitated, then Bobby—the braver of the pair—took Jane’s arm, and they approached.
With their Prescott blond hair and very-blue eyes, they were golden and striking: thin, lithe, fetching, and regal in their bearing. No matter what one thought of their disgusting, unscrupulous father, Neville Prescott, he’d been a very handsome man, and he’d produced very handsome children.
Winnie pointed to them. “This is your niece, Jane, and this is her half-brother, Bobby.”
Mr. Dunn stared at them for an eternity, as did every person in the room. They were assessed so curiously they might have had three legs or purple skin. Winnie wanted to cluck her tongue and call them all idiots, but she forced herself to remain silent while they endured the odious appraisal.
Finally, Mr. Dunn relaxed in his chair. “My sister, Rebecca, had black hair and black eyes. All of the Dunns have black hair and black eyes.”
“You don’t. Your eyes are very blue.”
The instant she commented she wished she hadn’t. She hated to have him presume she’d paid sufficient attention to notice the color of his eyes.
“You’re very perceptive, Miss Watson,” he said.
“Aren’t I just?”
“I’m told they’re a throwback to some old pirate kin.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m positive there are many nefarious characters in your family tree.”
“You’d suppose correctly.” He studied Jane again. “This girl doesn’t resemble my sister in even the smallest way.”
“Jane resembles her father, Lord Benton,” Winnie insisted. “They both do. It’s his powerful aristocratic blood that’s defined their features.”
“Why was I never contacted about this situation?” he inquired. “If you’re being truthful, why didn’t you write or send a messenger?”
“I wrote you several letters. The Benton estate agent, Mr. Slater, wrote too. You can’t tell me you never received any of them.”
“I can tell you that, Miss Watson, because I’ve never heard of you in my life, and I’ve definitely never corresponded with anyone named Slater.”
“Then perhaps you should investigate the person who serves as your postal carrier. It appears he’s not very competent at delivering your mail.”
He narrowed his gaze, looking derisive and bored. “You have a very smart mouth, Miss Watson.”
“I’ve always been told that too, Lord John.”
“I like my women—”
She cut him off. “Your women?”
“Yes, my women. Everyone and everything on this accursed island belongs to me, and I like to surround myself with females who are meek and pleasant.”
“Then I’m sure you and I would never be cordial.”
“I’m sure we wouldn’t,” he agreed. “I couldn’t imagine having you underfoot. You’d exhaust me with your superior attitude and fancy manners.”
“I’d try
to control myself,” she sarcastically muttered.
He snorted out a laugh that sounded odd and unusual—as if his voice was rusty and he was never amused by any topic. He pondered for another eternity, scrutinizing Jane, then Winnie and Bobby. Just when she decided he might exhibit a shred of decency, Melvina leaned in and whispered furiously in his ear.
Suddenly, he said to Winnie, “No.”
“No…what?”
“No, you may not tarry at Dunworthy. Not you or the two children you’ve dragged through my door.”
“May I ask why?”
“No, you may not.”
“Well, I’m asking anyway. We’ve journeyed across England to meet with you, and I’m begging you to have mercy on us. If you can’t muster any mercy, then at the very least, I demand simple courtesy. Allow us to stay until we can make other plans.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek, his patience clearly at an end. “As I previously mentioned, Miss Watson, I don’t believe your story about my sister, and as the three of you are strangers to me—”
“Jane is not a stranger! She’s your niece!”
He ignored her paltry complaint. “I don’t care to have more mouths to feed, and at the moment, I’m fresh out of mercy. You’ll have to seek it elsewhere.”
Winnie was more incensed than she’d ever been. “Why are you such a fiend? Are you always this awful? Or have we merely caught you on a bad day?”
“I’m always this awful.” He addressed the crowd in general. “Who let them into the castle? All of you know I don’t appreciate outsiders wandering in unannounced. We have to be cautious, and this one”—he pointed scornfully at Winnie—“couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. She’s a risk we cannot assume.”
The spectators nodded their concurrence, and he gestured to the man in the back who’d initially greeted them. “Escort them out, would you? And spread the word that they shouldn’t be permitted onto the island again. If they show up, there will have to be consequences for whoever disobeyed my edict.”
“I’ll tell people what you’ve ordered, Lord John,” the man said. “If you’ll come with me, Miss Watson?”