Chas leapt to his feet. “I don’t believe this!” He began to pace back and forth, his anger driving him on. Sam’s head throbbed as she fought to remain strong. It wouldn’t have mattered when she told him; it was easier for him to believe what he’d been told years earlier, than accept that his beloved grandmother had given away a candlestick even if it had been because of her husband’s behaviour.
Chas whirled around and came back to stand opposite. “So where’s the candlestick now?” he demanded.
Sam’s chin went up. “In my flat.”
Gripping the back of his chair, Chas glared at her across the table. “How could you not tell me this before?”
“Because I didn’t know the whole story until yesterday. And while we’re on the subject, what’s your excuse?”
“I don’t need one.”
Sam was on her feet now, stunned by the dire turn of events.
“It was George, wasn’t it? That’s why you went to see him!” Chas’ voice stung with accusation.
Eyes blazing, Sam nodded curtly. “I found a reference to my grandfather in the tack room. He had worked here as a groom. And then all the pieces fell into place, except one…George had known my mother when she was young. And his mother was assisting in the kitchens that evening at the Hall. She helped your grandmother cover her tracks.”
“Seeing as you can’t bring yourself to believe me, you can verify my story with George, Mr. Porter.” She tossed her napkin on the table. “I think it’s time we said ‘good night.’”
“Fine with me,” snapped Chas.
“In fact,” said Sam, “I’ll find my own way back to London.”
“I’ll have John run you to the station in the morning.”
“Do that,” retorted Sam. Head held high, she walked around the table and out the door, her knees wobbling so hard, she had no idea how she remained upright. As she mounted the stairs of Porter Hall to gather her things, she felt her heart shatter into a million pieces.
Glass slippers were for fairy tales.
Alone in the dining room, Chas felt as though every drop of blood had drained from his body. He’d gambled on gaining Sam’s trust by telling her how vile his grandfather had been and how shamefully the Burton-Porter men had treated their women. And what had he received in the end? Nothing but a massive betrayal. Samantha Redfern, the woman he’d come to love with all his heart, had known about the candlesticks from the start.
Or had she?
He refilled his glass and sat down, but as he raised the cognac to his lips, all he could see was the burnished copper of his sweetheart’s hair shinning in the candlelight. A groan escaped him. He loved her. He knew she loved him, yet this incredible wedge had just come between them, splitting them apart at the very moment they should be planning a future together.
The remains of their romantic dinner were all around him, mocking him for his stupidity.
And there was no one to blame but himself. He was the one who’d brought her to Porter Hall in the first place. He knew in his heart that her surprise at the auction had been genuine, just as her chagrin at being coerced into helping him catalogue the estate had been the real thing.
He toyed with the idea of rousting George out of bed, but that would be ludicrous. It was late, George was an old man, and if there was one thing he knew about Samantha Redfern, she did not lie. Like him, she might omit a few facts now and then, but he couldn’t fault her honesty. In fact, he thought sitting up straighter, had she wanted to, she could have kept the whole story about the candlestick to herself. He would never have been the wiser.
Was it true then?
Had her grandmother and his been close enough to conspire against his grandfather? He quickly reviewed what he’d told Sam, and realized that when he combined his knowledge with hers, it had the ring of truth about it.
He needed to think, and think hard. Putting aside his cognac and grabbing a candlestick from the table, Chas went around the room carefully snuffing out the remaining candles. Then, he navigated his way to the gallery by candlelight.
Strolling its length with a heavy heart reminded him that the relatives and the history he’d lived with all his life, was a burden he no longer wished to bear. That was why he had planned to sell Porter Hall. But then Sam had entered his house and his life and it seemed that the dark history had lightened, been banished by their growing love. It didn’t matter that he and Sam had been reluctant to take that final leap of faith; the importance lay in that they had offered their secrets to each other. And then he’d shut her down.
He’d been wrong. He had thought he could mend the past by reclaiming its squandered treasures. Now he knew that the past must be healed by his honour and a love built on unquestioning trust.
He would not grill George for confirmation of Sam’s story. He would believe it because she believed it, and she had offered it to him – a heritage as dear to her as any this old house could harbour. He groaned. Were there any more tests of fire needed to burn away the weight of his inheritance?
Heart pounding, he moved through the silent house with new-found purpose. He would tell Sam how much he loved her, that he believed her, and that whatever had happened in the past, was just that. Ancient history.
But when he reached her door, he hesitated. He’d wounded her so badly, he wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to him again. But he had to try. Raising his hand, he knocked softly. There was no response. He pressed his forehead against the door and waited. Still nothing. Silently cupping his hand around the doorknob, he gave it a slight turn, hoping he could at least whisper her name or even hear her gently breathing. But it was locked.
He wanted to pound on her door and demand her forgiveness, but that would only prove that he had been right all along. That he was just another in a long line of arrogant Burton-Porter males, and he didn’t deserve her.
That perhaps it was already too late.
CHAPTER TEN
Fumbling with exhaustion, Sam unlocked the door to her flat, braced it with her shoulder, and tugged her cases over the threshold, scattering the dust motes that had collected in her absence. With a sigh of relief, she allowed the door to shut firmly behind her.
It had been a miserable journey back to London. Slipping down the back stairs while it was still dark had made her feel like a thief in the night. But she'd managed to avoid seeing Chas, and after the abrupt end to their last evening together at Porter Hall, Sam was thankful for small mercies.
Desperate to run from the pain, she'd waited in the shadows by the coach house knowing John Weekes rose before dawn. He'd been aware, of course, about the relationship between her and Chas, and didn't question her decision to leave. He'd quietly driven her into Buxton to catch the early train, and gone to fetch her a coffee while she waited on the platform. But the pain and heartbreak had followed her all the way back to London.
Despite it all, she was home now, determined to ban Chas from her thoughts as she went through the flat like an automaton, opening windows, making tea in the tiny kitchen, drawing a bath, and pretending all the while, that she’d just returned from New York.
Leaving her cases for later, Sam leaned back in the tub with an herbal tea in hand, and soaked the fatigue from her bones. What little sleep she’d had during the long night had been restless, her dreams a kaleidoscope of emotion-laid images from the past ten days. It was ironic really, to have discovered her past and found the love of her life in the same place, a place where she knew she belonged, only to discover that the lord of the manor was a throwback, as ancient as the land he controlled. She’d awoken this morning in a tangle of sheets, anxious to quit Porter Hall and its pig-headed, short-sighted, cold-hearted, and arrogant owner as soon as humanly possible.
Sam scrubbed her face. She was being unfair and unkind. Chas was warm and wonderful; it just hadn't worked out in the end. But oh, it had been glorious while it lasted. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she remembered their first ride acr
oss Burton Park together, her tumble by the stream and that kiss, deep and penetrating and brooking no refusal, followed immediately by remorse and what are we getting into...their different worlds continually colliding and then merging again as the week wore on. They had come to know and to love each other with a depth that would have been impossible had they not been at Porter Hall.
Rising from the bath, Sam dried herself thoroughly, trying not to think about the feel of Chas' hands as he explored every inch of her. He had showered her with kisses and made her proud of her curvaceous physique, dismissing any of her shyness with his soft lips and firm touch. His love had unlocked her natural reserve, and for that she would forever be grateful.
Wiping the steam from the mirror, Sam took a long, hard look at herself. Same face, lightly freckled, same green eyes, thick auburn hair, and same determined chin. The dark shadows would disappear in time, but the heartbreak never would.
That she would have to live with, and she knew exactly where to start.
With the candlesticks.
Padding barefoot into the flat’s teensy bedroom, Sam grabbed a pair of leggings and a t-shirt from the chest of drawers, and quickly dressed. She dug through her shoulder bag for the eleventh candlestick, which lay carefully wrapped in the same scarf she’d used to carry it from the auction rooms to Porter Hall. It might have belonged at the house at one time, but it was hers now. She hoped that whoever had owned it before her, had had a happy life. Beyond the reach of Randolph Burton-Porter and his like.
With the utmost care, she carried it into the sitting room and set it on the mantel next to her most precious belonging. They were a perfect match. Tears stung Sam’s eyes. Despite all the grief she now felt, her journey had been a successful one. She knew where she came from, and how the candlestick had come to her family.
Chas had been wrong to accuse her of knowing what she was doing all along, but Sam did wonder if something she’d overheard in an unguarded moment when she was a child, had planted a seed that would one day lead her into the past. She sank into her one and only armchair and stared at the pair of candlesticks, finally united.
"You ride him any harder, he'll not thank ye," said George coming up behind Chas as he wiped the sweat from Damien's back.
Chas stiffened. The old man was right. The big chestnut loved to gallop, but Chas had driven them both faster and farther than usual.
"What brings you here?" Chas asked wearily, although he already knew the answer. The last time George had chugged his way up to the Hall on his old tractor had been the previous Christmas. This was all about Sam. In fact, everything was about Sam. Evelyn Weekes was barely speaking to him. John would tell him no more than he waited until he saw "the young lady" safely on the train. Even Max was mooning in his stall.
All because he, Chas “bloody” Porter was an arrogant idiot who'd just made a terrible mistake. So terrible, he'd driven the woman he loved out of his arms and out of his life.
When George cleared his throat, Chas tossed the damp towel into a corner. "You can't make me feel any worse than I already do, George, so just spit it out."
"Right then."
The old man pulled out his hankie and wiped his face. “I suspect you already know you’re a fool, so I won’t tell you again. The young lass came to see me the other day. Once she knew her Gran had worked at the Hall, she were terrified that one of them candlesticks had been stolen.”
Chas grabbed a brush and began grooming Damien’s flank. “My father told me it was.”
“He were just a lad when all that happened,” harrumphed George. “I can blame him for a lot of things, but not that. No one knew, you see. Another missing candlestick meant…”
“You don’t need to remind me,” snapped Chas.
“No, I don’t suppose I do.” George stepped forward and reached up to lay a gnarled hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Chas hung his head. He’d known George his whole life; there was no room in this conversation for stubborn pride.
“Why wasn’t I told the truth?”
“Your grandmother went to her grave shielding Grace and Paddy. If your grandfather, or even your father, had discovered their whereabouts, they’d have tracked them down. They were that vindictive. Don’t ye see, lad? What Paddy did was unthinkable in those days. He made your grandfather the laughing stock of the valley. The old man made Eugenie’s life a misery, I’ll tell ye, but she stuck to her story.”
“But why did she give them a candlestick?”
George dropped his hand. “Perhaps it were a bitter-sweet revenge for her husband’s betrayals. A bit of summary justice. Paddy and Grace were leaving the country. Eugenie gave them what little money she had for their passage,” the old farmer paused, his voice rough with emotion. “Grace was the best friend your grandmother ever had. And that young lady is her granddaughter.”
“She’s better off without me.”
“Don’t be daft,” snorted George. “She tell you that?”
Damien whinnied and tossed his head. Apparently, he was in full agreement. “She might as well have,” Chas mumbled. Sam’s parting words had proven to him just how much he’d injured her, and himself, in the process. “I’ve tried calling her,” he confessed to George, “but her mobile’s turned off.”
“Then get in that fancy car of yours and go find her.”
Chas nodded, too embarrassed to reveal how little he knew about Sam’s life in London. She had a flat somewhere in Notting Hill, that much he knew, but without an address, he’d be wandering the streets like the lovesick fool he was. Besides, even before George’s kind counsel, Chas had made up his mind. His bag was already packed. He would drive down to London this evening, but he’d let Sam have her space tonight.
It was tomorrow he was worried about, wondering whether he’d be able to see her again without striding across the office, sweeping her into his arms and begging her forgiveness in front of the staff. He might not be as bad as his forefathers, but humble pie was best eaten in private.
Sam had decided the night before to stick to her normal routine. Shower, coffee, smart suit and out the door by eight. At exactly nine o’clock, she entered the hushed premises of Burton-Porter & Sons carrying an oversized leather briefcase. With her head held high and not a single strand of her glorious auburn hair out of place, Miss Samantha Redfern, senior silver appraiser and expert in her field, filled her lungs and strode on stage.
If she was aware of the curious eyes tracking her every move through the delicate porcelain and fine art discreetly displayed in the company showrooms, she gave no sign other than a polite nod or two in response to a colleague’s friendly hello.
Once inside her office, she went directly to her corner filing cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer. She placed the briefcase inside the drawer and slid it closed. It locked automatically.
Proud to have made it this far, Sam staggered to her desk. She had just sat down when Mia appeared in the doorway carrying a steaming mug of tea. Today’s tights were striped, Sam noted with awe, the perfect foil for Mia’s polka-dot sweater and Sam's black mood. “Long time no see!" trilled Mia, all wide-eyed innocence.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Who tipped you off?”
“My buddy, Cyril. You walked right by his newsstand without even saying hello. He sent me a text.”
Sam groaned. “Is there anybody in London who doesn’t know?”
“Are you kidding me?” Mia walked in, handed the tea to Sam and then perched on the edge of a cherry wood side table. “This is headline news. The company’s two most glamorous people shacking up together in a remote castle for days on end!” She frowned. “Hey! Wait a minute! Aren’t you supposed to look happy?”
Sam felt her lower lip quiver. “Don’t ask.” She raised the tea to her lips and took a tentative sip. If she could just get through the day, she would be okay. The job in New York was still hers for the asking. But Mia was such a romantic at heart, if Sam wasn't careful, she would burst in
to tears and that would be a disaster. “So, Mia,” Sam said firmly, “talk to me about anything but…you know who…” This was terrible; she couldn’t even say his name out loud without fear of breaking down.
“Right,” said Mia, taking her cue from Sam. “Um, nothing new on the social scene. But then when does that ever change… Miss Bossy Boots came back from New York like she was the only person who mattered…but you probably don’t want to hear about that either.”
Sam gave her a wan smile. “To be honest, I don’t really care. But I do need you to help me keep it together in front of..." she waved her hand about, "...everybody else.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. You look great and besides, who needs a...” Mia’s brow creased. She jumped up and went to stand in front of Sam’s desk. “I know. We'll go to that Greek place for lunch. It’s really cheap…that’s not why I like to go there…but the food’s really good and Stavros is so cute…”
“You’re babbling, Mia.” And blocking my view, Sam was about to add when a deep male voice cut through her thoughts.
“Mia, can you give us a minute, please?”
A stricken Mia stared at Sam and then stepped aside to reveal the head of Burton-Porter & Sons standing in the doorway. “Miss Redfern,” said Chas. “Nice to see you back in the office.”
“Mr. Porter.” Without shifting her gaze, Sam caught a glimpse of Mia out of the corner of her eye, her head turning from one side to another like she was watching a match at Wimbledon. “Thanks, Mia,” said Sam, marveling at the steadiness in her voice, “I’ll take you up on that offer later.”
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