He straightened at the sight of her and leaned on his broom with a contented smile. ‘Morning, Miss Charlotte, ’tis a grand day.’ He nodded towards the stables. ‘I’ve had the stalls filled up for near on a week, and ’tis good to be busy, but I prefer a bit ’o room to move about and see our own beasts is looked to properly. These past days … ’
‘Saddle Max for me, Ned’, Charlotte put in swiftly. The head groom looked surprised. ‘I thought the guests had all gone. Who’s still here?’
‘No one. I’m going up on the downs.’
Ned wagged his head. ‘Max is one of Master Valentine’s fast ’uns. He’s too much for you to handle.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ she snapped.
The man’s monkey face adopted a stubborn look she knew well. ‘I’ve knowed you since you first climbed up into a saddle, and I say Max is too fiery. I’ll not let him out o’ this stable in your charge, Miss, not over my dead body.’
Desperation precluded further argument. ‘Saddle a horse — any one of them, and be quick about it!’
The little man moved towards the stable. ‘Is there an emergency?’
‘Yes … an emergency.’ She followed him into the building that smelled of fresh straw and the warm hides of animals.
‘In that case, I’ll come along with you.’
‘No!’
The sharpness of that negative made him look at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You all right, Miss?’
‘Perfectly. Just lead one out and help me to mount.’ Ned did so, his mouth tight with disapproval over this mysterious emergency which obliged the lady of the house to set out in an amber morning gown quite unsuitable for riding. He held the mare, Moll, steady beside the mounting-block while Charlotte settled herself with a leg over the pommel. Then he tried again to dissuade her from her intention.
‘Why don’t you send me or one of the lads? There’s surely no cause for you to go off like this.’
Charlotte heard none of his words and was oblivious to his concern as she urged the mare forward towards the path leading uphill to the east of Leyden’s Spinney. Moll responded gamely to the unusual demands for speed, and they were soon on the downland stretch which gave spectacular views of Wiltshire and distant Dorset hills. The blue and gold splendour of the day went unnoticed by a young woman who was lost in recollection of Vere saying: ‘Imagine waking to a cream and lemon sky overhanging an ochre landscape. Picture a moon so large it silvers everything for as far as one can see. One feels close to immortality in that argent stillness. The desert still haunts me, Lottie. I am not the person I was.’
Racing across the turf, oblivious of the small, wiry groom following at some distance, Charlotte had no thought of possible danger from her wild gallop. The truth had suddenly confronted her. She had matured believing she could never be like other girls because of her disability. From the day she had come out into society, she had avoided the pity she dreaded by making it clear to everyone that she accepted her fate to remain a spinster. To compensate, she had created a fiercely possessive bond with her invalid brother. She now realized that she had made Vere the substitute for those male admirers she could never have.
Neat swathes of her hair edged from their pins as the breeze whipped past Charlotte’s face, and her cheeks grew wet as she acknowledged the shaming fact that she had regarded her brother as her lifelong partner. Then he had defied destiny, and discovered a glittering future in which there was no place for a sister who clung to him as the only person who gave her life meaning. Humiliation washed over her as she thought of the plans outlined to him in the belief that they were bonded together forever. It had not once occurred to her that she might prove to be an embarrassing burden to a man who had experienced things beyond her own narrow comprehension. What had he felt on being faced with her confident proposal to accompany him to Italy?
Moll’s hooves thundered across the turf as the mare sensed something of the emotions ruling a rider normally gentle and considerate. More questions bombarded Charlotte’s distressed mind. How could Vere have loved Annabel so much he wanted to die when she spurned him? How could Margaret feel such passion for Laurence Nicolardi within a few weeks that she could expose herself, and the children, to social disgrace and condemnation by leaving to live in sin at a secret address? How could a schoolboy with an assured golden future become so obsessed with a woman of twenty-eight, he could throw it all away for her sake?
Charlotte could no longer hold back moans of bitter regret that burst into the glory of that summer morning, to be snatched away by the breeze which tangled her hair and whipped the skirt of her gown up above the starched petticoat. Blinded by tears she raced on, possessed by a curious sensation of terror she tried to banish with a headlong charge. She had never known such depths of feeling, had never lost control in this fashion. Part of her terror was this very revelation that she was capable of passion; a notion foreign to the woman she had always believed herself to be. Her sobs were still flying on the wind when she became aware of a dark shape ahead. Too late she tried to control the startled mare. Moll swerved at high speed, slipped, and fell heavily.
When daylight returned beyond Charlotte’s closed lids, the thud of Moll’s hooves and her own heartbeat had quietened to leave a blessed peace containing only the song of a high-flying lark. She relished it for a moment or two, then became aware of being held against some rough material by a strong arm beneath her shoulders. A hand gently pushed strands of hair from her wet cheeks, then ran over her temples with caressing strokes.
‘Come on, lass, stop frightening me and open those lovely eyes.’
Charlotte felt she knew the voice but was too weary to pursue the thought. When the tone changed to one of brisk authority, recognition came immediately. The man holding her was the bailiff, John Morgan.
‘Go to the house, Ned. Tell them to summon Dr Alderton, then get back here with rugs and pillows as fast as you can. I dursn’t move her lest she has broken bones. She’s so white I fear the worst, so get off swiftly, man.’
Whilst this was being said Charlotte opened her eyes, but the scene spun so dizzily she closed them again. The supporting arm moved fractionally sending a wave of pain through her back forcing an involuntary moan. Physical pain banished inner anguish, and Charlotte slipped back into unconsciousness.
*
Dr Alderton insisted on complete rest in bed for two weeks, followed by another two of restricted activity. A kindly man who ought to have retired several years ago, George Alderton had not kept apace with medical developments. He was a great believer in ‘bed and broth’ cures for most ailments. Having attended the Ashleighs for many years as physician and friend, he knew Sir Gilliard’s second granddaughter well and was puzzled by the incident she refused to discuss. No one could discover why she was riding on the downs in a morning gown, or why she was so obviously distressed. Ned claimed Miss Charlotte had mentioned an emergency, which was why he had decided to follow her, and John Morgan said she appeared to be in the grips of such distress she was unaware of her surroundings.
Dr Alderton continued to probe gently, without success. He had seen Margaret Ashleigh in much the same state when the death of Vorne came so soon after their mother’s remarriage and departure to America. Margaret had been but fifteen, overwhelmed by the responsibility of being the eldest and the substitute mother, but Charlotte was twenty-eight and highly sensible, with few signs of the passionate trait in the rest of Roland Ashleigh’s attractive brood. Alderton was mystified. Young women were the very devil to understand, he told himself, and prescribed sedative powders to the patient who had a badly bruised back, and a wrist which needed a splint to prevent movement.
Charlotte was in no hurry to resume routine. For some days she felt weary enough to enjoy the comfort of bed. Weariness merged into lethargy, which then became a curious brand of dreaminess she was reluctant to abandon. The bruising caused great discomfort whenever she moved and this contributed to her prolonged convalescence. Sir Gil
liard came once to her room to ask bluntly why she had acted in such a foolhardy manner when she was far from being a brilliant horsewoman. He left when she offered no explanation, bidding her to do as Alderton ruled because he missed her company at the dinner-table.
During the second fortnight when she was allowed to sit out, surrounded by pillows, in a chair by the window, Charlotte watched John Morgan as he went about his daily tasks. The memory of his astonishing tenderness as she lay against his arm gave her cause for speculation.
John held a unique position at Knightshill. Neither servant nor equal, he had become a respectful friend to the young men and women he had known from their childhood. Nearing fifty, the large, gentle, country-bred man with a fresh complexion and light-blue eyes had done well from humble beginnings. Joining the staff at Knightshill as a cowman on leaving school, John had undertaken additional work to pay for evening lessons from the local accountant, and he had studied manuals on farming to glean more information than he was given by the bailiff then serving the family. When the post became vacant, John applied to Sir Gilliard and became the youngest bailiff ever employed by the Ashleighs. He proved worthy of his employer’s trust, and when the adolescent Vere began to devote himself to running his future inheritance, John was a generous teacher. He had never married. In fact, he rarely participated in village affairs other than those connected with his job.
Charlotte reflected that John would make a good husband. He was dependable, honest, hard-working, gentle. Why had no woman ever set out to catch him? He must be lonely in his little cottage. Lonelier than she, who had a grandfather and many servants around her? Watching the subject of her thoughts one morning as he stood talking to Benson in the morning sunshine, Charlotte guessed work left him little time for loneliness. That thought revived the problem of finding occupation to fill her own empty days. Still haunted by the suspicion that her lack of understanding had deepened the unhappiness which had driven her brothers and sister away, she remained unsettled during a convalescence she was curiously reluctant to end.
On a morning at the end of July, Charlotte was finally lured from her room by the promise of a glorious day after a rainy spell. It was already hot when she went down with the intention of taking a stroll on the terrace. John Morgan came from his office as she passed, heading for the garden door. His ruddy features broke into his usual warm smile and his eyes lit with pleasure.
‘This is the best birthday present I could wish for!’ he exclaimed. ‘The place hasn’t been the same these past weeks. We’ve all been very concerned.’ He stopped before her, a large man in breeches and a linen jacket. ‘Are you really strong enough to be on your feet again?’
He was the same John she had always known. She told herself she must have imagined his affectionate manner because of the mood she had been in that day. Yet she now felt a little constrained in his company. ‘I’ve been lazy for too long. I should have resumed my duties several days ago.’
‘Best that you didn’t,’ he commented swiftly. ‘No sense in being hasty after a bad fall.’
Avoiding further discussion on that subject, she asked lightly, ‘Is it your birthday, John?’
He smiled. ‘I’ve reached the age when I shall forget this particular date from now on.’
She returned his smile. ‘Grandfather has never said that, and he is considerably older than you. I suppose you have received many congratulations.’
‘I’ve no family to send them, and I don’t tell others my private affairs.’
‘Birthdays should not be private affairs,’ she protested. ‘We all make a great fuss of them.’
‘That you do. I recall days when you were all children. Little roundabouts out there on the lawns, and clowns or marionettes to entertain you. There was enough food left over to feed the village poor for weeks.’ He laughed. ‘Your brother was invariably sick afterwards for eating things he shouldn’t, and young Mr Valentine was always in trouble with Ned for giving horses iced cake.’ His eyes brimmed with mischief as he added, ‘You and your sister were very well behaved, of course. I’ll not forget how dainty you both looked in party-gowns covered in bows and frills.’ His words revived visions which were now painful. ‘That was long ago, John. There were so many of us here then.’
‘They’ll be here again, Miss Charlotte. Mr Ashleigh loves this place. He’ll return when the old general is bowing out, then he’ll stay. Mr Valentine was born to follow tradition and roam the world, but he’ll come home between adventures, take my word. Mrs Daulton will be returning with the young ones now she’s been widowed. There’ll be roundabouts and clowns again when she gets back from Africa.’ He touched her elbow lightly. ‘Would you like to come along and look at the gardenias? Benson’s boys have been doing the packing in your absence, but I think you’ll want to inspect the present crop of blooms before they’re sent off. It’s been too damp lately. Benson thinks they may fall apart if transported as far as London.’
Charlotte walked beside him to the large glasshouses, her thoughts still on her family. Lies had been told and must be maintained. Everyone had been allowed to believe Margaret was in Africa recovering from the shock of her husband’s murder, and Val’s absence had been explained by a story of his decision to spend a year in South Africa with the family of a school friend before going on to Oxford. That year was almost over. Charlotte had no idea what she must answer to anyone who questioned her after that time, or how she would account for her sister’s failure to return from a country in which she had never resided.
Only when she began studying the flowers in the stifling glasshouses did Charlotte realize any awkwardness she had felt with John had evaporated. They were on their normal friendly footing. For about ten minutes they discussed the commercial aspects of the business she had made her own, then Benson’s sons arrived to hear her verdict. The boys were identical in features, with the same hesitant grin and slow, plodding way of speaking. Simple lads willing to undertake any task which would beautify the grounds of Knightshill, they listened to Charlotte and nodded simultaneous agreement like a pair of clockwork figures.
After a while the excessive heat beneath the glass began to affect her. Simon and Sam’s faces began to float free of their bodies, then the plants themselves started to move up and down in dizzying fashion. Charlotte turned instinctively, swayed and would have fallen if John had not reached out to steady her.
‘You’ll feel better outside in the air,’ he said in tones of rough concern. ‘Lean on me. I’ll not let you fall.’ He began leading her between the plants. ‘What a fool I am to bring you here the moment you leave your sick-bed. My wits are diminishing with age!’ Over his shoulder he called to the twins. ‘Get to the house and fetch Mrs Clark for the mistress … and move at twice your normal speed!’
‘There’s no need to bring Sarah,’ Charlotte protested, despite her continuing swimmy sensation. ‘It’s merely the heat in here.’
‘You came down too soon. It’s easily done after illness.’
Emerging to the comparative freshness outside Charlotte stepped away from the supporting arm. ‘I’ve not been ill, John. You are making a great fuss over nothing. I felt a little dizzy, but I’m perfectly well and able to walk back without assistance. You should not have sent for my maid.’
‘She’d have given me what for if I hadn’t.’
This typical comment from him softened her enough to say, ‘You have no fear of Sarah Clark. She speaks so often in praise of how well you manage the estate in Vere’s absence, I tire of her fulsome compliments.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ he replied calmly, ‘but she’s a termagant where you are concerned. It’ll be a while before I hear the last of blame for this.’
‘Then you were foolish to have informed her of it.’ After a moment’s hesitation he waved a hand towards the path. ‘I’ve left some papers in the office. I’ll walk back to the house with you, if that’s allowed.’
She smiled. ‘How absurd! Of course you may accompany me … esp
ecially on your birthday.’ Walking beside him she felt the time was right to say what she must. ‘I believe I have to thank you for your prompt action after my fall. I didn’t see you until it was too late, I’m afraid.’
‘I know.’
They were walking alongside the east wing and the grey stone walls threw back heat from the fierce midday sun. Charlotte was unwilling to continue the subject, but John made no attempt to break a silence which emphasized her uneven footfall against the regular tread of his boots. The beauty of the rose-garden ahead, and of the surrounding estate lying beneath a haze of heat, brought an echo of the yearning she had suffered on that fateful ride. Youth cried out within her. John Morgan was fifty today and could look back with satisfaction on all he had achieved since the age of twenty-eight. What would she look back on on her fiftieth birthday? Margaret had gone forever. Val would follow his star. When Sir Gilliard called Vere back to his deathbed, her brother would settle here with a wife to raise a family. There would be no place for an ageing spinster at Knightshill.
John’s deep voice broke her introspection, making her look up swiftly. ‘I’ve known you since you were knee-high, Miss Charlotte. I’ve served your family with pleasure and not a little pride. If there is ever anything I can do, any help you need, I hope you’ll regard me as your friend as well as your servant. I won’t let you down.’
His steadfast gaze told her it was the truth, but this man could never relieve her loneliness. She was an Ashleigh and must deal with it herself.
‘Thank you, John,’ she murmured, then was saved from further comment by the arrival of Sarah and Winters summoned by the twins. During Charlotte’s disclaimer of needing their assistance, John headed for his office leaving her to order iced tea on the terrace. Sarah protested, but was silenced and went off wearing a long-suffering expression.
When Winters came with the chilled drink in a glass in a silver holder, he also brought her mail. Charlotte left the letters on the tray while she sipped tea, lost in thought once more. It would too quickly be autumn, then winter. How could she solve the problem of her isolation and uselessness? All manner of charity work could be undertaken, of course, but Ashleighs had always participated widely in local good causes. It might be worthy occupation, but she had found it less than totally absorbing. By the time her glass was empty she was no wiser about the solution she had been seeking since Vere left.
A Distant Hero Page 4