by Hazel Hunter
“I expect you are still tired after your journey,” he said as he dropped into the shabby armchair by the fire. “Nevertheless, you might try to overcome your weariness to befriend my wife. You must know Deidre wishes only to make you comfortable.”
“I know that I terrify your wife, Brother, and she deeply annoys me,” she informed him sharply. “Mrs. Branwen quivers whenever she addresses me. I have eaten braver quails.”
The tip of her brother's nose turned pink; a sure sign he was in a temper. “Nonsense; she loves you already. She is your sister, as I am your brother, Lucy–”
“Do not call me that.” The affectionate nickname made her hands curl into fists. “We are no longer children, sir. To you I am Lucetta, or Sister, or nothing at all.”
“God in Heaven.” He shot to his feet and took a step toward her. “What did that wretched man do to you?”
She considered answering his question truthfully, but thankfully, only for a moment.
“My former employer, Lord Carlton, accused me of stealing from him, and had me arrested.” Even saying that man’s name made her stomach curdle. “His attorney persuaded him to drop the charges against me due to lack of evidence, but his lordship dismissed me without a reference. I had no recourse but to come here and impose myself on you. Have you forgotten everything I wrote to you in my letter?”
“But why did this happen?” her brother pleaded.
“I had to come here, Jeffrey, or starve in the hedgerows.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Although I might have done quite well as a pilfering vagabond.”
“You are no more a criminal than I, Lucetta,” he said, looking somewhat wounded now. “Whatever the circumstances, I know this is but a terrible misunderstanding that we will sort out in time.”
Lucetta almost took pity on him, but the stone that had replaced her heart some months back refused to be moved. “As it happens, Jeffrey, I am a thief, and rather a good one. His Lordship was quite correct to toss me out into the gutter.”
“I do not believe it,” he said firmly. “Do you forget that I have known you all of your life? That I have seen into your good, kind heart since we were children?”
“You see only what you wish to, Brother. I envy you that, but it does not change who I am, or what I have done. I stole very valuable property from my employer, and I do not regret it.” She offered him a prim smile. “Content yourself with praying for my soul. Blackened as it is, I am sure it will benefit.”
She swept past him and headed for her room at the back of the house, encountering Deidre coming out of the kitchen. “Do be aware, Mrs. Branwen, I have just freely confessed to your husband that I am a thief.”
“You are?” Deidre pressed her hand to the base of her throat. “Heavens. My poor Jeffrey.”
“I daresay he will survive the revelation. As this news was neither anticipated nor welcomed, however, you may wish to serve him something a little stronger than your insipid, thrice-brewed pekoe.” Lucetta continued on down the hall.
Once inside the tiny servant's quarters her brother had allotted as her bedchamber, Lucetta closed the door and leaned back against it. By coming here, she had demonstrated utter, complete lunacy. Before leaving London she had given away all of her savings, and spent her last shilling to manage the journey. She now had no means with which to extricate herself.
Where should I go?
Bitterly she thought of how only months ago her situation in life had been far more fortunate. She might have found employment instantly; she had served as governess to five of the finest families in England, and had been held in high esteem by all. She had been proud of her work with her young, privileged charges. She would still be imprinting such eager minds with all the knowledge they could hold, had it not been for her sixth and final post.
Some weeks before Lucetta had left London in disgrace, his lordship had come to her jail cell. The prosecutor had informed him that without the exact details of her crime he could not continue to keep her imprisoned, but reluctantly granted him one last interview in order to settle the matter between them.
In the end the attorney had been forced to hold his client back to prevent him from beating her with his fists. The very noble Lord Carlton had screamed his final words to her: Tell me where, you rat-faced bitch, or I will see you ruined.
Lucetta had held her tongue, and the charges against her had been withdrawn. Yet upon her release she learned that his lordship had kept his final promise. Carlton had seen to it that no one in London would ever again offer her employment.
The sound of her brother and his wife's voices carrying down the hall wrenched Lucetta back to the present; it sounded as if Jeffrey were blustering and Deidre weeping. Of course, they are. The vicar prays for felons, he doesn’t keep them as guests.
Suddenly Lucetta could not bear to spend another moment under the same roof with them, and seized her hat and cloak. Now that the storm had passed she could resume her new habit of taking a daily long walk in the countryside. The cows and horses in the fields did not care what she was called, or why she was here, or even what she had done—and they called them dumb animals.
She left the house through the front entrance and walked quickly down the lane until she came to the road that led to and from the village. Since she had no money she could not shop. She felt no inclination to introduce herself to people who would soon revile her, so she took the direction leading away.
Like many small towns scattered across the county, Renwick remained stolidly rural, the town a hub for a large number of farms and country properties. When her brother had finished his studies, a family friend had steered him to apply for the position of curate at Renwick. By the time the elderly vicar passed away Jeffrey had made himself so beloved by all there was no question of the living going to anyone else.
Lucetta had never envied her sibling his calling. She dutifully attended church as a matter of form, but had never felt Jeffrey’s fervor for good works. She knew her brother’s faith meant everything to him, but she could not share it. Now it was all she could do not to scream at him about the God he so cherished. A God that, if he truly existed, allowed horrible, vile things to happen to the most innocent of his creations.
“Suwar ki aulad,” a man's voice uttered.
Lucetta looked ahead, and saw a man standing beside a large heap of wet, broken wood that might once have been a rig. As he wore a blue turban and carried a sword, she halted in her tracks and turned around to head in the opposite direction.
“Coward.” She reversed herself again and marched forward.
Harshad glanced over at the tall, pale woman, who regarded him with interest.
“You sir,” she said, “are very dark.” She carried a parasol, and looked as fierce as a hawk.
“You are not,” he replied.
“I am an Englishwoman. This is the only shade of skin that we are permitted at present. What were those words you uttered?”
“Suwar ki aulad, Miss.” He thought for a moment. “In English you would say the son of a hog.”
She quickly suppressed a smile as she came to stand beside him and studied the remains of the smashed rig. “This looks in sad repair. Is it yours?”
“No, Miss. I was sent by my master to collect it.” He regarded the heap of shattered wood. “It was overturned this morning, but it did not look so bad as this. I think someone came during the storm and tried to move it.”
“More likely they had a tantrum and smashed it to bits.” The woman knelt down and studied a section of shattered wood. “This mark here came from a hammer or cudgel of some sort.”
Why was this fine lady kneeling in the mud? Harshad almost tried to help her up, but then remembered his master's warning about touching any Englishwoman. “I do not know that word. What is this cudgel?”
“It is a club made of wood or metal that is used for smashing things. Heads, generally.” She stood up again. “How odd that someone would take the time to do this in a storm. They mus
t have been in quite a temper.” She faced him and held out one gloved hand. “I am Lucetta Branwen, sister to Jeffrey Branwen, the vicar of Renwick. And you are…?”
“Very well, thank you. Oh, you want my name. It is Harshad Naveya.” He bowed over her hand. “I serve as steward to Colonel Thorne.”
“You work for the beast of Dredthorne Hall. Fascinating. How do you do, Mr. Naveya?” Lucetta bobbed.
Harshad knew enough about English customs to bow in return, but her remark made him frown. “My master is not a beast. He is a man. You are joking with me, yes?”
“Yes, I am. You speak tolerable English for, well, whatever you are.” She nodded at the rig. “I should advise your master that someone has been at this, perhaps to disguise something that may have otherwise been found.”
“You have some notion of what this not-found thing is?” Harshad asked, impressed by her deduction.
“As I have never worked as a wheelwright or a rig smasher, no, I do not.” Lucetta tapped her cheek with a slender finger. “You might take the remains to one, however. He may discern what you and I cannot.”
Harshad nodded, and discreetly regarded her face. While very pale like the other women of the village, she had some color on her cheeks. Her hat covered most of her very dark hair, but what he could see gleamed with soft blue glints. Her eyes were the same blue, like polished sapphires. Although her nose was long and thin, it gave her a regal air he thought very comely.
“You should not look at English ladies as you are doing now, Mr. Naveya,” Lucetta mentioned as she walked around the heap. “Such looks can be presumed to have more meaning in our society. Also, you are a servant, which requires you should look at your work, or the tips of your shoes.”
“Englishwomen do not wish dark men like me to look at them,” he guessed.
“Well, I rather like it,” she said, and as the sun came out opened her parasol and held it over her head. “My countrymen think me too tall and severe to merit their notice. Your admiration is therefore quite refreshing.”
Harshad frowned. “You do not mean that.”
“I do, a little.” She smiled, and then quickly flattened her lips. “You should know that I am a penniless outcast here, Mr. Naveya. I cannot afford to give offense, particularly to the one gentleman who has bothered to be so mannerly to me. My apologies.” She glanced at the clouds billowing up from the horizon. “I think the rain intends to revisit us. I should return home.”
“You could join me for tea to wait out the storm, and talk more about English things.” He nodded toward the cottage he occupied on the edge of the estate.
“My brother the vicar would never approve of that,” Lucetta informed him, and then smiled again. “Happily, I never concern myself with his approval.” She offered him her arm.
Once he led her inside his cottage Harshad inspected the front room to assure it was tidy before showing her to the best of his chairs. “If you will sit, Miss Branwen, I will make the tea.”
“I would rather help you, if I may?” When he nodded, she followed him into his kitchen. “What is that wonderful smoky smell?”
“Patchouli.” As he lit the lamps he nodded at the urn where he burned the fragrant incense sticks. “It makes the air like home.”
“You are from India, of course. I should have guessed that, given the rumors about the colonel.” Lucetta began rolling up her sleeves.
Harshad touched her bare forearm. “What have you heard?”
She went still and stared down at his hand, which Harshad just then realized looked almost burnt against the whiteness of her skin. “Only that he came from your country to settle in Renwick after he resigned his commission. Your fingernails are very long, Mr. Naveya.”
“I cannot attend to them,” he said, dropping his hand. “I am at the house all day, and it is bad luck to do so after the sun sets.”
The jewels of her eyes glowed rather than glittered in the lamplight. “You are superstitious.”
“I am careful not to walk where there is talk of snakes,” Harshad admitted.
A sadness flickered over her face. “I wish I had learned such caution.”
Outside the rain began to fall in earnest, and thunder grumbled all around the cottage, but neither of them paid attention to it. Lucetta seemed indifferent to the violence of the weather, and her presence kept Harshad from thinking about it.
Once his water pot boiled, Harshad demonstrated the Hindi method of tea-making by adding Darjeeling leaves, green cardamom and crumbles from a dried cinnamon stick. He allowed the blend to steep for a short time, and then strained it into cups before he added sugar cubes and milk.
“That smells most exotic,” Lucetta told him as he presented her with one cup. She did not wrinkle her nose or pretend to taste it but sipped carefully. “Delicious. What is this blend called?”
“Chai.” He gestured for her to sit at his small morning table and brought another chair in from the front room to join her. “My mother added peppercorns and dried ginger root to hers, but I do not know where to buy them in England.”
“Peppercorns can be had at market, but for ginger root I think you must visit the apothecary,” she advised him.
“I will do that, thank you, Miss.” He reached for the plate of sweet cakes he kept on the shelf over his stove and removed the napkin covering them. “My master's cook made these for us so that the memory of home would stay sweet in our mouths. My people call them chomchom.”
Lucetta sampled one of the cakes and nodded her approval. “Very sweet and delicate.” She tried another bite, chewing it slowly. “They taste of roses.”
“They are made with…the water of the flower.” Harshad felt frustrated that he did not know the proper term. “It is a very special cake to my people, the Bengali. They even call their beloved ones 'chomchom'.”
Her lips curved as she set down the cake. “Have you family back in India, Mr. Naveya?”
“No, Miss.” He did not like to think about what had been taken from him, so he rose and began to tidy up. “You have come to visit your brother the vicar?”
“I am presently living with him and his wife, much to our mutual despair.” Lucetta’s tone seemed indifferent, but Harshad saw the heaviness of emotion causing her shoulders to sag. “It is an unhappy arrangement, but given my lack of funds I must tolerate it.”
Harshad could not agree with her. “Family is never tolerable.”
She smothered a sound almost like a laugh. “I did not mean to imply that my brother and his wife are unbearable to me. Rather it is the reverse; I am a terrible burden on them.”
“No, you are not,” he assured her. “You and they are the same blood. If they are penniless, and you are not, would you take them in? Would you call them a burden on you?”
Lucetta’s pretty brows drew together. “Of course not, but it is different for–”
“It is the same,” he corrected her. “Family is not tolerable. Family is everything. It is love.”
“I wish that were true.” She stood. “I must return now or they will wonder where I have got to. Thank you for the lovely tea and cakes.”
“You are a kind woman, Miss Branwen, even if you do not wish anyone to know it.” Harshad bowed to her. “You should make friends with the young woman who crashed her rig this morning. She is also very kind.”
“Mr. Naveya,” Lucetta said carefully. “Where, exactly, is this young woman?”
Chapter 4
The sound of thunder rattling the windows roused Meredith to open her eyes. After lunching with her the colonel had left her to rest, promising to return to check on her. If he did she could not remember; her slumber had been deep and undisturbed.
As she glanced at the darkened window she saw the flash of lightning, and grimaced. Renwick and the surrounding countryside enjoyed a mild climate, so even an unseasonable storm was generally of short duration. For such a tempest to last for hours would be the talk of the village.
Meredith rose carefully an
d, feeling no pain from her head, carefully removed the poultice tied to it. Once she plucked the remaining hairpins from their perilous positions she combed her fingers through her messy locks. Without a maid to assist her she would have to resort to the style of her schoolroom days, she decided, and divided her hair into three parts before weaving them into a thick braid, which she pinned over the lump.
My dear girl, he will think you very pretty however your hair is arranged.
Meredith turned her head, but saw no one in the room. For the first time since coming inside the house she felt a tremor of fear. “Who is there? Colonel? Show yourself.”
That I fear I cannot do. One of the curtains by the window lifted slowly before wafting back into place. But I do wish to thank you for admiring The Garden Room. I commissioned it as a tribute to my late wife. Often I came here to sit and think of her in her own gardens. She did so love her flowers.
The air suddenly seemed very chilly now, making her shiver. “Who are you?”
Emerson Thorne, my dear. I built this place.
“No. You cannot be here.” Meredith’s heart pounded, and she pressed the heels of her hands against her ears. “No one is speaking to me. It is the lump on my head, nothing more.”
I am not here, I suppose, the voice mused. Nor am I anywhere else, it would seem.
“I do not believe in ghosts.” As she spoke, she saw her breath puff out white with each word. She shut her eyes tightly. “Please, go away.”
Even if I wished to, I cannot. The ruins I had removed before they built the house may have been haunted, the unseen man said. When they invaded the Normans killed all of the poor souls who dwelled here. Perhaps they conspired to keep me here as punishment for desecrating their resting place. I should thank them for that, for there is no place I should rather abide for eternity, Miss Starling.
Miss Starling.
“Miss Starling.”
Meredith opened her eyes to see Colonel Thorne standing over her. When he repeated her name a third time she smiled with relief. “Hello. You are not a ghost.”