Lydia saw Brodrick swallow hard. He was naturally a bully and resented anyone getting the better of him - especially a woman. But Aunt Elizabeth was not to be browbeaten, and she rose from the ladder-back chair haughtily, straightening her rustling, purple skirts around her ample shape.
She gave Brodrick a sharp nod. “Our conversation is ended, Mr Fortey. You have been recompensed handsomely for the deprivation of your step-daughter’s company and there’s no more to be said. The hired carriage is waiting to take us to the railway station, we must waste no more time.”
Lydia’s heart warmed towards her aunt as she moved with her to the door. It was clear she had the same opinion of Brodrick as she had herself, and that alone made her her friend as well as her aunt.
“The sooner we are on that steam locomotive, the sooner we’ll be back in Upwych!” added her aunt.
Lydia smiled as she took her relative’s arm and led her out of the house. With a cold goodbye to her stepfather - and wondering quite how much Fortey had accepted to relinquish his responsibility of her - she helped her aunt into the hard leather upholstery of the brougham and covered her legs with a rug.
Climbing in herself, Lydia watched as the driver secured her baggage onto the rack before they set off towards the station. It was only when they were safely on their way that Lydia allowed herself a satisfied little smile.
For once, Brodrick Fortey had met his equal.
*
The young stoker sweated away on the footplate of the train as he shovelled the coal. In the First Class accommodation, Lydia felt the furnace’s warmth as she stared at a picture of an Evesham apple orchard and listened to the train’s whistle and the rattle-rattle of its iron wheels.
They were the only occupants of the carriage now on that brisk autumn morning, quite different from the hustle and bustle when they had first boarded the train at Paddington. Many of its business passengers had alighted at Worcester, only a few remaining on the platform to continue their journey by the local train. And, Lydia observed, most of these were either old or invalid and, so Aunt Elizabeth informed her, on their way to Upwych to soothe their ills in the increasing popularity of the brine baths.
Now three miles north of Worcester, and with the confused heap of that city’s buildings left far behind, Lydia could hardly contain her excitement. She leaned forward in her seat, her eyes glowing as Upwych drew nearer.
“Aunt, I think we’re slowing down! Wake up! Do, please, wake up! We must be nearly there!”
Elizabeth Annesley roused herself, rubbing her neck to ease the ache brought on by her uncomfortable slumber. “Nearly there? Already?” She stirred, rubbing her still-drowsy eyes and looked out of the red-curtained window of the train.
The smoke from the engine was curling over them, blending like a cloak over the mist of the landscape. “No, Lydia, we’re not quite there yet, but the train is slowing down.”
“Why, aunt?” Lydia stepped quickly across to look out of the window. “Why is the train stopping here?”
“I don’t know, dear, but people tell me it often happens.”
Lydia’s eyes sparkled as she looked out at the gentle countryside around them, so different from the London scene she knew.
“Oh, aunt, what a pretty place. Is Upwych just like this?” Her aunt smiled indulgently, settling back to finish her doze:
“This looks like Fern Hill Heath. We’ve not much farther to go now and, yes, most of Upwych is as pretty as this - once one is out of the valley and away from the chimney-stacks.”
“Then I must get ready.” Lydia moved back to her seat to pick up her bonnet, setting it firmly on her head and fussily arranging the chestnut curls around it.
Its gossamer veil and sprigs of spring flowers along the brim suited her and, as she regarded herself in the tiny oval mirror above her seat, placing her head first to one side then the other, she felt her confidence grow. Lydia wasn’t vain but she was pleased with her reflection. Somehow she felt much older, experienced even, almost a lady.
But the feeling lasted only a moment because, just then, the train juddered to a full sighing halt and, holding on to her hat, she almost lost her balance.
“Goodness me,” her aunt said crossly. “I do wish these locomotives were more considerate to a lady’s forbearance. Horse carriages are far more dignified.”
But Lydia hardly heard her. She had hurriedly left the seat and had already pulled on the leather strap to open the window still further.
Hanging precariously out of the upper half of the compartment, her eager eyes drank in the beauty of the high banks of ferns and grasses and trees. Surely, this was fairyland!
And now that the sound of the engine had ceased, the air seemed unnaturally still with only the breeze sighing through the branches.
But the peace and quiet lasted only a moment. Soon she was aware of wild, raucous sounds all around her. Her head spun towards the spinney of elm trees where the sounds were loudest.
There were voices - men’s voices - guttural, shouting. Dogs were barking and howling and then more shouting, until, suddenly, the earth seemed to explode with the stampede of horses’ hooves.
It was pandemonium! Dogs, horses and riders were everywhere! Breaking over the hedgerows from the spinney, through the bracken, crashing across the fern.
A horn bellowed stridently as a huntsman, cracking and flaying his whip, came flying past close to the train, almost close enough for Lydia to touch as he beat his frantic hounds off and away from the line.
“Why! It’s a hunt!” cried Lydia, craning her neck as the confusion of unruly dogs leaped around the wheels of the carriages. “Do come and look, aunt! This is marvellous! I’ve never seen anything so marvellous in my whole life!”
The old lady smiled but remained quietly in her seat. She had seen many a hunt and it moved her but a little. Still, she mused, doubtless it must be exciting for Lydia, having come from London and not used to country ways.
Lydia’s eyes danced, letting the robust, colourful scene wash around her. Of hunting she knew very little, but how thrilling it all seemed.
Her curls, beneath the pretty hat, glowed almost golden in the pale sunlight, and the vibrant hues of her sky-blue woollen gown gave her the look of a Gainsborough lady. She stood, rapt, framed like a picture by the train’s window.
A rider crashed through the fern. A wild young huntsman in black jacket and stock, reining hard on his bay to prevent it plunging onto the tracks.
He waved his whip boldly, overtaking and reaching out to drag at the reins of a second, scarlet-coated rider whose flailing whip had scythed through the air, causing his horse to stumble.
“Damn you, Caleb!” yelled the rider in red, “You rob us of sport!” He kicked at the mare’s flanks as it careered into the side of the stationary train. “Out of my way!”
“You fool!” the huntsman in black shouted back, his words hoarse and urgent. “This isn’t sport! Get away from the line! Hell’s teeth! You’ll have us all killed!”
His angry instructions, forceful and authoritative, carried clearly into Lydia’s hearing as, at that moment, he saw her.
But there was no acknowledgement of her presence, no sign of regret that his tone might offend a lady and Lydia gaped wide-eyed, first at him and then at the second rider.
The second one galloped nearer, doffing his hat to reveal a shock of straight fair hair and, smiling at her with the bluest, devil-may-care eyes she’d ever seen, he called quite shamelessly,
“My compliments, ma’am!”
But, as Lydia nodded in confusion to the handsome face, the rider in black had already caught him up, turning his horse, forcing him up the bank and away from the train.
She watched fascinated as they reached the brow of the embankment together and drew rein, both riders turning their heads briefly back as the fair one, grinning, waved his crop.
But the dark one stood his horse on the trampled earth, unsmiling, arrogant and impatient. The riding-jacket was
open at the neck, cut perfectly across the broad shoulders, and even at such a distance, Lydia held herself still, stirred by his vibrant masculinity.
He held her gaze briefly. She imagined perhaps a flicker of interest in the dark, narrowed eyes. But, if it had been there at all, it was quickly suppressed.
He turned his horse, his face determined and angry in the pale light. He snatched again at the rein of his companion’s mare and then, as he snapped out a brusque command, they were gone - lost to the shelter of the trees. The dogs followed, more meekly now, as if they, too, were powerless against their master’s imperious voice.
Then it was all over. The strains of the horn died away and all that was left was the broken undergrowth and the trampled brushwood. Lydia was breathless.
As she sank into her seat, the train hissed slowly back to life, gathering its mechanical strength more slowly than the natural force of the horses and riders.
Sitting quietly beside her sleeping aunt, Lydia closed her eyes and thought of what was waiting for her soon in Upwych. Would it be all she hoped?
She sighed. It didn’t seem to matter now. Somehow, try as she might, Lydia found herself unable to drag herself completely away from the spectacle and back to reality; felt an odd reluctance to leave this place in the hope the dark rider might come back...
The Great Western locomotive chugged on around the loop of line skirting the River Salwarpe, entering at last the unlovely surroundings of the industrial belly of Upwych, with its low chimneys and ugly sidings.
On reaching the small station, the view was disconcerting, the most prominent objects being a conglomeration of tall chimney-stacks and a confused huddle of ugly old houses that seemed to teeter on the edge of a broad canal.
And, as she stepped off the train, Lydia’s nostrils were assailed by the pungent vapours of sodium chloride, a tang ten times stronger than the therapeutic healthiness of the salty air she remembered on a day’s visit to Brighton.
But Lydia wasn’t really seeing any of it. Her attention was still with the hunt and the two handsome young horsemen, but particularly with the rider in black. She could not bring his features quite into focus, yet his presence had crowded and jostled her thoughts. She wished his manner had been more friendly, and she remembered the faint trace of red in the dark hair, under-pinning the temper that had already been in evidence. And Lydia remembered, too, the strange way the brown eyes had faintly mocked her.
‘How absurd,’ she murmured, aware of the beating of her heart. Then hurriedly stifling her spasm of exhilaration, followed her aunt on to the main street of Upwych. Yes, it was ugly here, but there was no question of turning back now!
Lydia’s eyes glistened. Strangely, she felt quite optimistic.
She might never get used to the ugliness, but the lovelier picture of the hunt would always remain with her and sustain her.
Yet she was puzzled, too. Puzzled at the feeling of joy it had brought, and of the knowledge that she would never forget the thrilling power the black-coated huntsman had exuded over the scene about him.
CHAPTER 2
Caleb Vyne bathed and threw on a dressing robe, dismissing his manservant and expressing a wish to be alone.
The servant bowed and withdrew as Caleb poured some brandy into a crystal goblet and, moving to the window, looked out to the mist-shrouded ridge above the river, glad that this hellish day was almost over.
His mood was sombre as he swallowed the liquid fire. He did not want to think any more about the morning’s incident and cursed aloud that he had agreed to go hunting with Charlie in the first place. He should have known better.
His half-brother was a liability; too impetuous, too rash, and would not listen to reason. The knowledge annoyed him. Caleb didn’t suffer fools gladly, and Charlie was a fool, seeming to thrive on controversy.
He moved stiffly into his dressing-room, glancing cursorily at the attire so carefully laid out. Caleb placed his goblet on the small table by his bed and pulled on the fine serge trousers.
He was tired, but not too tired to seek out some warm companionship tonight - the companionship of a friend he could trust. And, as he wound his cravat and shrugged his broad shoulders into his grey frock-coat, he thought again of the morning’s hunt.
His displeasure deepened. A fierce anger still burned in his belly. Caleb Vyne did not easily damn a man, but he had seen too much of the world not to deplore the weakness of his feckless younger brother!
More disappointment settled coldly on him as he thought of the man whose blood sprang from the mother they shared. Of his lying; his cheating at cards; and, most of all, at his abuse of the privilege that the salt works accorded him by right.
And knowing he could prove nothing, Caleb fought off an overwhelming desire to wring his brother’s neck.
For long Caleb had hoped it was Charlie’s youthfulness that made him so imprudent, and that one day he would learn to act like a man. But that day was long coming! Instead of a brain, Charlie seemed to have a head filled with sawdust - and especially when it concerned a pretty woman! My God, he thought grimly, just look what happened this morning! He could have been killed - and the others, too - careering into the train merely to bring a blush to a young girl’s cheek!
A curious rage caught at his loins as he remembered the girl. There was no denying that her beauty had left him breathless too.
Caleb couldn’t remember seeing anyone look so fragile before, so unreachable, and he had felt something akin to pain when those startling green eyes had smiled so shyly into those of his half-brother.
Caleb’s frown deepened. The image of the girl’s face lay imprinted on his mind. Why, in God’s name should he think of her now? Hell’s damnation! She was only a girl, and he’d glimpsed her for only the briefest of moments!
He grimaced. He would have to mend his ways. He knew plenty of eager ladies who, even without the offer of a small sum, would be more than willing to share his bed.
It occurred to him that, lately, perhaps his energy had been directed too much towards his work: he’d been spending too much time at the works! He had almost forgotten that there were still pretty women in the world - and he’d been too long without one! But this one was so young - and virgins had never been his fancy.
He turned abruptly from the dressing mirror, experiencing a strange feeling that, at first, defied analysis.
But, moments later, when he realised what the feeling was, Caleb Vyne allowed himself to smile. He desired the girl - it was as simple as that!
From the moment he’d seen her framed in the window of the compartment, he had been attracted to her! A profound sexual hunger settled itself deep inside his gut and he would have to be a liar if he were to deny it!
Swiftly, he turned back to the mirror, forcing his attention away from his fanciful lust and back to his cravat, tying it expertly before pulling on his boots. Women could come later! He had enough to think about with Raven’s Mill....
Caleb reached for his cloak and strode to the door. Whether he knew it or cared, he was a handsome figure, standing tall and straight on the stone steps outside his house.
In his mid-twenties, Caleb’s wide mouth smiled too rarely, giving his features a sternness, an uncompromising gravity that was misleading; a steadfast severity that was intensified by the darkness of his brown eyes.
Tonight, he needed air. He would walk to the inn. The rain that had threatened earlier was now reduced to a fine drizzle, and, for a moment, his features, lean and stern, were illuminated by the yellow glow of the lantern above the gates.
And, so, deciding to leave his bay to its bed of warm straw, he set off, frowning against the world.
He wished he had someone he could turn to, but there was no one. And there was no point at all of him discussing the matter of Charlie with his grandfather, because the old man doted on him.
And it was even more impossible to approach Charlie’s father - his step-father. He was no more than a drunken fool, a man not to be
trusted.
Thus, with his mother, Lavinia, too sick and weary to carry the extra burden of his own futile despondency, Caleb turned to Sam Shrike...
*
Caleb pushed open the door of The Talbot and looked around for Sam. The barman, seeing Master Vyne in the doorway, touched his forehead and, for a moment, as though aware of the presence of a gentleman of note, the noisy laughter of the inn customers diminished.
“Master Caleb, sir?” Sam beckoned from a table in the far corner of the room, his face flushed, a tankard already in his hand. “Over here, sir.”
Sam’s fair hair, darkened with its generous coating of macassar oil, gleamed in the smoky light and his thin shoulders hunched forward as he sat down again. He leaned his elbows on the trestle table, his hands securely gripping his pint of ale.
Caleb dropped easily into the vacant wheel-back chair opposite.
“The young rogue drew the hounds right on to the line this morning, Sam,” he said, signalling for more ale to the barman. “There was no way of heading them off. He had no thought, riding like a madman even though the noon train was due. We’ve already lost six good hounds through my brother’s recklessness.”
Privately, Sam wished young Charlie Sheridan to hell, but aloud he said: “Take your ale, Mr. Vyne, and don’t fret. It wasn’t your fault.”
“He distracted the dogs, threw them off the scent at the cutting and then rode like a demon after them! Near broke his neck - his horse’s, too, and all because of--” Caleb Vyne broke off as he thought again of the girl on the train.
“All because of what, Mr Vyne?” asked the salter, glancing at Caleb inquisitively. The ale was warming him and a bit of gossip would be a comfort after a hard day in the brine pit.
“The train - standing there --” Caleb paused, somehow reluctant to mention - even to Sam - the advent of the girl. He gazed into his ale for some seconds then shrugged, saying, “Lucky the driver had his wits about him.”
The Price of Beauty Page 2