Estelle settled her skirts comfortably about her and tuned the instrument to her satisfaction. Forgetting about her aristocratic audience, she moistened her lips and anticipated the pleasure she would derive from indulging her passion. She launched into one of Mr. Parry’s popular pieces, playing from memory. A smile spread across her face as the haunting melody washed through her. The therapeutic benefits of making such lovely music transported her to a place beyond the cruel realities of her world, a place where no one could reach her with their unreasonable demands.
At the end of the piece she looked up to see tears in Lady Crawley’s eyes and an expression of deep appreciation on the face of her son. He applauded her efforts, praising her skill. Having regained control of herself, the viscountess also voiced her appreciation.
“You must forgive a foolish old woman, Miss Tilling.” She dabbed at her eyes. “But that particular piece… I was accustomed to play it all the time at my husband’s request. How singular that you should have chosen it.”
“I am sorry, ma’am, it was not my intention to overset you.”
“You did no such thing. My only regret is that I never could execute it as well as you.”
“You are too kind.” Estelle shook herself. “Now, what else would you like to hear?”
She noticed Lord Crawley’s eyes frequently upon her as the evening progressed. Even when she quit her position at the instrument to sit beside his mother and drink her tea, he continued to scrutinize her. Had she done something to incur his displeasure? She hoped that was not the case and met his gaze, an expression of polite enquiry in her eye. But his responding smile lent few clues as to the thoughts occupying his mind.
The next afternoon she sat at the instrument again. Lady Crawley was making calls and Estelle was at leisure to amuse herself. She launched into an ambitious piece she had been trying to master just before her marriage, not having had an opportunity to return to it since. Lost in her own world, it took her a moment to realize that a visitor had called. She heard Phelps show the caller into the adjoining parlour and inform him he would enquire whether Lord Crawley was at home.
Lord Crawley soon joined the mysterious stranger there, asking what business brought him to Crawley Hall. As the visitor responded, his voice full of impatience and displaying scant deference for Lord Crawley’s elevated social position, Estelle let out a gasp of sheer despair. Her fingers hit several false notes, froze with indecision and died on the strings. She would recognize that voice anywhere.
The man with Lord Crawley was her father.
–—
Alex strode towards the morning room. He was annoyed to be disturbed by someone he did not know demanding rather than requesting an audience with the master of Crawley Hall. He would not, as a rule, entertain such a request from a Joseph Winthrop of Hampshire, according to the card he had given to Phelps, since the man was not prepared to state his business. But he had been so insistent, his strident tones reaching Alex’s ears even in the depths of his study. Alex would not wish for such a persistent person to call when his mother was here alone, oversetting her with his bullish ways. Better to see what the man wanted and send him on his way.
As Alex entered the room, his visitor was staring at the closed doors to the drawing room. The man was dressed expensively in the very latest fashion, but his well-cut coat did little to disguise his portliness. He had an unremarkable, fleshy and heavily whiskered face. His forehead was creased with a frown and his fingers drummed with impatience against a side table.
“I am Crawley,” said Alex. “What is the nature of your business?”
“Joseph Winthrop. I apologize for the intrusion and will not detain you long. I have come to collect my daughter.” He extended his hand but Alex ignored it.
Alex was aware of the abrupt cessation of the harp music and was sorry for it. Its lilting melody had been filling the house this past hour. He regretted that this man, whom he instinctively mistrusted, had interrupted Miss Tilling’s performance.
“Your daughter.” Alex did not need to feign surprise. “I do not understand you. To the best of my knowledge, no daughter of yours resides beneath this roof.”
Winthrop’s face flushed with anger. “Let us not waste one another’s time by bandying words, sir. I believe in plain speaking. Estelle is here, I know it, sent by that interfering minx who calls herself a friend for I know not what purpose—”
“What the devil are you talking about, man?”
“About Estelle. I cannot begin to imagine what she and that interfering Mrs. Cleethorpe hope to achieve by it, other than to vex me. But then that is an occupation Mrs. Cleethorpe excels at. No, I can only assume that Estelle’s mind has been affected by her grief, leaving her susceptible to the persuasion of others.”
Winthrop’s pugnacious attitude only emphasized his shocking want of manners, and the two factors combined to persuade Alex that he was not the gentleman he purported to be.
“I still fail to understand what you are talking about.” It usually took a lot to rile Alex. But this man had no trouble invoking his temper. He was not prepared to be addressed with such discourtesy in his own house—or anywhere else for that matter—and strove to take control of the situation. He walked towards the man, conscious that he was a good head taller and at least twenty years younger than his unwelcome visitor. “Why are you disturbing me with such riddles? Since you believe in speaking plainly, kindly do so. Explain yourself before I have you thrown out.”
“She is a dutiful, well-brought-up child and knows she should be quietly at home,” said Winthrop, acting as though Alex had not just issued him with an ultimatum. “Mourning the loss of her husband. But instead she is gadding about the country and imposing herself upon respectable people.”
“Her husband?”
“Yes, her husband, who has not been in the ground these three months. She was to have returned to Hampshire with me three days ago but when I went to collect her she was nowhere to be found. She’s caused me a damnable amount of inconvenience, I don’t mind telling you, and she’ll pay a heavy price for defying me when I get my hands on her.”
This extraordinary business was gradually making some sense to Alex. Estelle. E.S.T. Estelle Travis, the recently widowed friend of Susanna. The one who had lost her baby and her sister, which no doubt accounted for her ill health. And for her good-quality clothing. Alex was briefly at a loss, but not for long. If Estelle’s only option was to return to live under the same roof as this bullying coxcomb, then he would move heaven and earth to ensure it did not happen. He recalled her skittish behaviour since her arrival. Her eyes constantly darted about, as though she could not quite believe she was within the haven that was Crawley Hall and expected at any moment to be snatched away. Now he understood why.
Her sensual expression when she had sat at the harp the previous evening had transfixed him. It was the first occasion upon which he had glimpsed the true nature of the sensitive person lurking beneath the shuttered exterior. His mother had been right about music, it was the key to releasing her inhibitions. She had quickly become totally absorbed by it, forgetting all about her audience as she played from the heart. And the smile he had been patiently waiting to see, a combination of ideology and passion which transformed her beautiful features into something celestial, still drugged his mind.
Alex needed to talk with Miss Tilling—or rather, Mrs. Travis—to find out why she was really here. He needed to understand what she was running away from, although he suspected he was already confronting the answer to that question in this very room. It was now a matter of honour for Alex to be of service to the chit, and only when he had established it was what she truly desired would she be returned to Winthrop’s care.
“I regret that you have been misinformed,” he said, “and have had a wasted journey. There is no Estelle Travis residing under my roof.”
“There must be.”
“Are you doubting my word, sir?”
“Not at all. Pray exc
use me.” Winthrop flapped a placating hand in Alex’s direction. “I daresay you do not know who is here every minute of every day, what with it being such an extensive establishment. Perhaps she is passing herself off as a maid of some sort.”
“Why ever would she do that?”
“Who can say what a woman might do when she is stricken with grief? No, sir, I must insist that you enquire of your housekeeper if any new girls have been taken on of late.”
“I hardly think you are in a position to insist upon anything in my house.”
“No, of course not—beg pardon, but I would not have you encumbered with the wretched child. There will be the most damnable scandal if word of her temporary loss of wits were to be spread abroad. I would not subject you to such censure, what with you being a single gentleman, as I understand it. A young gel who ought to be respectably mourning her husband residing without a chaperon beneath your roof would be the very devil to explain away.” He eyed Alex with a calculating expression that made him want to plant his fist in the middle of the man’s fleshy face. “Best if you send for her right away. I will return her to her mother’s care and we’ll say no more about it.”
“It seems that her mother’s care has not been very efficient up until now.”
“It is a misunderstanding, that is all, but it will all be resolved soon enough when we have her back.” Winthrop gestured with his hand and moderated his bullish tone. “Now, if you would oblige me by making those enquiries, it will resolve the matter and put an end to my intrusion.”
“I do not need to make enquiries and I repeat, there is no Estelle Winthrop residing beneath this roof.”
“Her name is now Travis and you are mistaken about her not being here. My coachman spoke with the Cleethorpe’s driver, who said he deposited the girl here not three days ago. There, sir, what do you say to that?”
“I say that you have been misinformed.”
“I think not.” Winthrop’s expression became calculating. “The man has yet to be born who can sham it successfully with Joseph Winthrop.”
“What age is this missing daughter of yours?”
“Two-and-twenty.” Winthrop made the admittance with obvious reluctance.
“Then it would seem she is of age and can do as she pleases.”
“Disgrace my family, you mean, by gadding about I know not where when she is still in mourning? I think not. What sort of father would I be if I permitted her to make such a show of herself?”
“It seems that you do a good enough job of disgracing your family without your daughter’s help.” Alex opened the door before his temper got the better of him and called to Phelps. “I can well understand her reluctance to surrender herself to your care. Good day.”
“Not so fast, sir! If she is not here, who was that playing the harp when I entered the house just now, tell me that, huh? I know of no one else who can play that particular piece with such feeling.”
Before Alex could stop him, Winthrop wrenched open the door to the drawing room, bellowing for Estelle to show herself. But when Alex stepped up to the man, looking over his shoulder with a sense of foreboding, he perceived that the room was empty.
“Get out of my house!” Alex rarely lost his temper but was willing to make an exception in this man’s case. “Get out now or I’ll throw you out myself.”
“I will go if you insist upon it.” Winthrop picked up his hat, his face puce with rage. “But I’ll not go far. I know she is here and I shall not leave the district until she is restored to me.” His eyes lingered on a colourful shawl that was thrown across the back of a chair, the one Alex had so admired the previous day. “I know not what game you are playing, sir, but the law is on my side and I will have my daughter back. Tell her, when she has come to her senses, that I am putting up at the Bull on the Brighton Road. If she sends word to me there, I will call for her and we will say nothing more about her temporary lapse.”
He strode from the room without another word but Alex waited until he heard Phelps close the front door behind him before he called to Estelle.
“It is quite safe to come out now, Miss Tilling. He is gone.”
But no one appeared. The room was indeed empty.
Chapter Seven
At first Estelle was transfixed with fright. But the sound of her father’s voice and the prospect of falling victim to his dictatorial behaviour helped her to overcome her fear. Matthew and Marianne had been right about him all along. She should have paid heed to their warnings but prayed it was not too late to make recompense. If she ever saw either of them again, she would try to make them understand that she had behaved in the way that she had not because she did not love them but through a misguided sense of duty.
She did not know how Lord Crawley would react to her father’s appearance. Nor could she could guess how badly he would think of her when he realized she had deceived him and his mother in order to escape her tyrannical parent. The thought of disappointing him weighed heavily on her heart. She would not insult Lord Crawley by considering him in the same disagreeable light as her father, but there was no escaping the fact that they were both men, accustomed to having the ladies under their care deferring to their every wish. If her father could convince him that she ought to be at her family’s home in Hampshire, especially as she was still in full mourning, she did not see how he could honourably refuse to hand her over.
Panic gripped her as she glanced round the cavernous room, desperate for a means of escape. There were hiding places aplenty but she could hardly remain concealed in his lordship’s splendid drawing room indefinitely when, as soon as he learned the truth about her, he was most likely to want rid of her. There were just two doors, one to the main hallway and the other into the room which Lord Crawley and her father now occupied. The door to the hall was clearly her only option but she hesitated to turn the handle, conscious of her hands shaking so violently that it would have been a difficult feat to achieve at that precise moment. If either of the gentlemen in the adjoining room should quit it unexpectedly, or if they had left the door to the hall open, she would be seen in an instant.
There had to be another way.
Aware that their voices were now raised, presumably combined in their outrage at her want of propriety, Estelle almost gave up the struggle. What was the point? She could not win against them both and was merely delaying the inevitable. But her every sinew balked at the prospect of giving up her hard-won freedom so easily. Now that she finally understood how right Matthew and Marianne had been to stand up to their father, she was determined to match their stance. Besides, the very thought of marriage to the obnoxious Mr. Cowper was sufficient to reinforce her rebellious streak.
Reapplying her mind to concealment, Estelle considered the possibility of taking refuge behind the heavy drapes. But that would not serve. The huge window which they adorned overlooked the drive. The wide seat behind them would comfortably accommodate her but she dismissed the possibility without even trying it out. She would immediately be observed by her father when he descended the front steps towards his waiting carriage if he chanced to look back over his shoulder.
There had to be another means of escape, and it did not take long for her to find it. Hidden in the panelling immediately behind the harp was a door she had not noticed the previous evening. She did not scruple to turn the handle.
She found herself in a dim passageway, as cold and musty as a tomb. Its purpose was not immediately apparent and she did not pause to consider what it might be. She shuddered, pushing her fear of the dark to the recesses of her mind. It had to go somewhere and as long as it took her away from her father, she was desperate enough to follow wherever it lead.
Estelle screwed up her eyes and plunged recklessly ahead, hands stretched in front of her to feel for obstacles in her path. It reminded her of the extensive network of passages at Farleigh Chase which she, Matthew and Marianne had explored during their childhood. They had been their only escape from their all-seeing father, who
was unaware of their existence. Those passages had held no unpleasant surprises, and she could only trust to luck that those in Crawley Hall were equally innocuous.
After what seemed like an eternity, but in actuality could not have been above two minutes of moving with extreme caution, she was confronted by another door. She hesitated. What if it took her directly into the adjoining room, straight into her father’s path? But that would make no sense. She had not travelled far but she was fairly certain that she had moved in a different direction from the morning room. She listened intently, ear pressed against the heavy door, trying to make out any sounds beyond it, but she could hear nothing.
Something alive scurried over her slippered feet and she almost shrieked. Galvanized into action at the prospect of disturbing the rats which lived in this dark hideaway, she marshalled what little remaining courage she possessed and turned the handle.
With a sigh of relief she stepped into an unoccupied study. The walls were lined with shelves of books, and comfortable-looking furniture suggested the room’s owner had stamped his personality upon a space where he spent much of his time. Papers lay in disarray on a large desk, left there as though someone had been interrupted whilst reading them. A substantial fire danced in the grate. She could sense Alex Crawley’s presence as surely as if he was still occupying the huge chair behind the desk, his eyes resting upon her with a disarming expression of intelligent curiosity. She must have stumbled into his private domain, which was another reason for him to resent her intrusion into his house.
Instead of making good her escape before he came back and could add the invasion of his privacy to his list of her transgressions, Estelle looked about her with interest. She thrust to the back of her mind the depressing fact that her father had managed to run her down after only three days.
Her gaze swept the room, pausing on the portrait over the fireplace. It showed a gentleman and lady, the lady unquestionably Lady Crawley in her youth. Estelle stared at her image for several minutes she could ill-afford to waste. She admired the beautiful lines of her classical features and the lively spirit shining from eyes that had been skilfully captured by the artist, a spirit that was still visible in their faded depths even today. The gentleman must be Lord Crawley’s father. Indeed the resemblance betwixt father and son was unmistakable. Instead of looking at the artist, his eyes were fixed on his wife’s smiling face with a look of such slavish adoration that it stole Estelle’s breath away.
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