Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles)

by Louise Franklin

Why was that woman still here? Georgiana wondered. She pushed her half-cooked eggs around her plate, and ate a slice of bread with jam instead. Months had passed since her mother returned to London, and still the promised new cook had not been sent. She stared at the letter she had opened in which her mother had replied to her inquiries about a decent cook. Apparently, not a cook in all of London could meet her mother’s high standards.

  Lady Wyndham had also made it painfully clear Georgiana was not to accept any more invitations into society. How did she know about Lady Kingston’s dinner? Only a week since that evening, did country gossip reach London that fast? Her mother had also scolded her for preferring to eat in the kitchen with the servants rather than by herself in the dining room.

  “Is the rest of the mail still in the hall, Elton?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Could you bring it to me please?”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  The mail was for the most part for her, but on occasion, a letter arrived for one of the staff. She picked up the one from London addressed to Cook, and stared at the handwriting. It wasn’t her mother’s, but then her mother was smarter than that. Did Cook now spy for Mother as well? It wasn’t to be borne. She could not go another month with the awful food Cook made a habit of serving. She was surviving on bread and cheese.

  She handed the mail back to Elton who took it without comment. Dixon helped her to move into the drawing room where she sat looking over the week’s accounts. She took each bill and entered the date, the amount, and the creditor’s name. When she had the figures all down, she counted up the total and frowned. The sum was formidable.

  The new cottages accounted for most of the bills, plus other improvements that had been needed on the estate. The work on the house itself was completed now, but the bills were still arriving. She opened the wooden box on her table with a key, and shook her head at how much emptier the coffers looked since she had arrived. She counted what remained, and then decided she had to be far more careful. Elton announced a caller, and she looked up in surprise from her books.

  “Mr. Gordon, the vicar?” she asked. She hesitated, and then said. “Show him in, but first have Dixon help me to the settee.”

  She put aside the inkwell and quill pen, and rubbed at the ink stains on her fingers to no avail. She reached for her white gloves and covered her stained hands. Dixon arrived to lift her to the settee.

  Mr. Gordon entered wearing his cassock and she wondered at this peculiarity, for he was not required to wear it all the time. He was as handsome as she remembered, she decided, as he bowed to her. She offered him the settee opposite her. He sat down and she ordered tea, and then waited patiently for him to state his business.

  “You do not attend Sunday services,” he said, frowning.

  “Indeed, no,” she answered. “Under the circumstances, it is quite impossible.”

  “Yet you ride all about the countryside.”

  She could not argue with him on that point, so she did not try.

  “Why are you here?” she asked impatiently.

  “I fear for your spiritual welfare, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said slowly, noticing how he did not meet her eyes when he made that last remark. A vicar who lied, she wagered. “You really wish me to attend Sunday services?”

  “I do, yes,” he said, pulling at his collar.

  “Alas, Mr. Gordon, I’m afraid that I will have to disappoint you.”

  “But how else am I to save your soul?” he asked, his enticing lips drawn into a smile and his eyes almost teasing.

  He was a proper rogue, she decided, intrigued by his behavior. She had been in residence at Ravenstone for many Sundays, so why did he approach her now? “I’m afraid my soul is already doomed to spend eternity in hell,” she said and watched the smile slip from his face.

  It was blasphemy, she knew, but didn’t care. It was true. She only wondered why she had said it to him.

  “You do not seem capable of a sin great enough to be so condemned at such a young age.”

  “We are none of us what we seem,” she said pointedly, and thought she saw the shadow of some emotion in his expression, but he controlled it quickly.

  “You are far too cynical for someone so young and –”

  “Innocent?” she asked, wondering why he had not finished the sentence, then realized he must have also heard of her evening at Lady Kingston’s.

  “Yes, I was going to say that.”

  “But then you changed your mind.”

  “I realized you might take offense at the characterization. You believe innocence is not a sentiment for which a woman should strive as it keeps her in servitude to men. Your speech at Hamly Hall has been much reproduced. The countryside is abuzz with its audacity. Only yesterday I was walking across some far field, only to hear your views discussed by the shepherds.”

  The tea arrived and the maid placed it on the table in front of her.

  Georgiana poured the tea and handed Mr. Gordon his cup, noticing again his hands that seemed not to belong to a vicar at all.

  “May I ask you how it happened?” he asked.

  “How what happened?”

  “How you lost the ability to walk.”

  “A riding accident.”

  “And yet you ride about the countryside again completely unafraid. How odd.”

  She studied him as she took a sip of the tea, knowing it would be too hot, but wanting the time to consider what he was trying to achieve. She burnt her tongue, but showed not a hint of the pain.

  “Nothing more terrible can happen to me now, can it?”

  “Except dying.”

  “Yes, and that isn’t so terrible, is it?”

  “You are not afraid of death then?”

  “Dying is the easy part,” she smiled. “It’s living that requires effort and courage, doesn’t it?”

  He shifted as if uncomfortable, and she wondered that it had taken so long. She was usually able to unsettle someone much faster. He had remarkable fortitude.

  “You seem to possess immense courage, Lady Fairchild.”

  “Do I?”

  “Indeed you do. You run the estate yourself, and cleverly by what I have been told.”

  “You have asked about me?”

  “As a vicar, I am entrusted with information. I also feel I am in a position to inquire after the welfare of my parishioners.”

  “How nice for you,” she said.

  He smiled in return and sipped his tea. She felt like an insect being closely observed, all details safely locked away in his mind to be used at a future time. That was exactly why he had come. He wanted to see what kind of person she was, but for what purpose? Perhaps he was only curious, and like others had come to investigate for himself. The conversation turned to safer topics of weather and livestock sales before he took his abrupt leave and she returned to her letters. After making the fourth mistake within three lines of writing, she gave up and sent for Peter. Her mind would not be still.

  He knocked softly before entering and then stood before her, hat in his hands, wearing muddy shoes that left a trail wherever he walked. He was starting to look less like the thin street boy when he had arrived at Ravenstone, and more like a young man. His cheeks were no longer hollow and his face had altered so that she thought him handsome. The only aspect that had not changed was the look in his eyes, which remained inscrutable. He rarely gave away any sign of what he thought or felt. She had only seen him angry once, and that was the night he and Harry had followed her into the dungeon.

  “Is it still empty?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  The smugglers had removed all the contraband the night of the Kingston’s dinner party.

  “Let me know if that changes,” she said.

  “Yes, miss,” he said his eyes on her. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He left again and Mrs. Bristow arrived to clean the mud from the floor.

 
Her instincts told her to be suspicious of the vicar’s visit. If he was truly concerned for her, he would have visited much sooner. The timing of her discovery of the smuggled goods and his visit was far too coincidental and she didn’t believe in coincidence. She returned to her accounts but was soon interrupted again by Elton.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “A Major Price, madam.”

  She sighed, resigning herself to yet another curious visitor. She closed her ledger as Elton showed in a man in uniform. He wore a blue jacket with red facings on his lapel and collar, and cuffs with yellow lace. He carried his black hat under his left arm. He walked slowly into the room, taking in his surroundings. She had a feeling he missed very little.

  Major Price had the bearing of a man used to power, and worse, used to having his way. She drew in a slow steady breath not unlike those she had used when her father had entered the room. She composed her expression into the unreadable mask she had cultivated at an early age.

  His gaze finally settled on her short hair, her riding skirt and jacket, the way she sat with her back straight, not letting it touch the back of her seat. His eyes remained too long on her lips and she knew he did it deliberately to unnerve her, to see her reaction. If she was flattered, she was vain and easily influenced. If she was insulted, she was insecure and predictable in another way and therefore easily manipulated. She showed no reaction and still he learned more than she wanted from this. He would know now that she had developed defenses beyond the normal social façade of cool disdain. He would have to be smarter to get from her what he wanted. The only question that remained was what did he want?

  He did not bow to her and he did not wait for her to ask him to sit down. He lowered himself gracefully into a chair that was not in her direct line, forcing her to twist her neck at an uncomfortable angle to see him. Clearly, she was dealing with a master, and possibly, a dangerous man. Already, she felt like a sacrificial lamb, and he had not yet said a word. She did not order tea for this man had not come for refreshment. Elton understood this and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Major Price,” she said evenly. “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you sympathize with the cause of revolutionaries.”

  She smiled. He went for blood quickly. She remained calm, surprising herself as the fear in her veins collected in the pit of her stomach, curling into a tight knot of panic.

  “I sympathize with those less fortunate than myself.”

  He sat perfectly still, watching her, and she felt as if he was looking straight through her.

  “Admirable, I’m sure,” he said. “Rousseau, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said evenly and met his gaze. “You should read him. Even you might learn something.”

  His turn to smile. The expression did not improve his features, and only served to alarm her more. His face was not frightening, but rather normal. His brown eyes were perfectly set apart in a countenance of hard stone. His nose and lips were equally well formed and the overall affect was a certain neutrality. He had a mustache neatly trimmed, and she imagined him grooming it in front of a mirror as he calculated his next ploy to achieve his objective. His eyes did scare her: deep and full of a kind of knowledge that humans should not possess.

  “I have read Rousseau,” he said.

  “And you found him wanting?”

  He took his time answering her, and crossed his legs, the right over the left.

  “Not wanting, no. Naïve, perhaps. No man is free, not even the King himself and equality, Lady Fairchild, is not a condition human nature will ever be comfortable with. There will always be those that try to better themselves, those that want to be set apart from others. It is in man’s nature to enslave, to conquer, to wage war, and human behavior, Lady Fairchild, is an instinct far superior to mere philosophy.”

  “And yet the principles espoused in that book have inspired not one but two revolutions.”

  “And does not America have a flourishing slave trade and is France not on the brink of complete anarchy? Neither, I believe, considers women equal.”

  He was not wrong, and she hated him for it.

  “You are not here to point out the weaknesses of Rousseau’s ideas, Major Price.”

  “Indeed, no. I am, Lady Fairchild, in command of the 8th Light Dragoons, and am charged with finding and arresting smugglers. You have a group of smugglers operating on your estate.”

  “I am offended by your accusation.”

  “No, you are not, Lady Fairchild. What you are might be described as uncomfortable at best, but you do not take offense easily.”

  Damn him. She needed to divert him.

  “I thought excise men were charged with apprehending smugglers, Major Price?”

  “Excise men are ineffective and easily corrupted.”

  She sat silently thinking for a moment before she said, “A war is being fought on the peninsula, and yet your considerable talents are being employed to ferret out harmless smugglers. Is the Crown so desperate for funds?”

  “The Crown is always desperate for funds, but you are correct. Smugglers are but a small interest in that they can lead me to my real purpose.”

  “And that is?” she asked, curious as to his real intent.

  “Spies, Lady Fairchild. They move freely between the Continent and England with the help of smugglers. That alone is enough to have a smuggler hanged for treason.”

  “Any spy in particular?”

  He smiled. “You show intellect, Lady Fairchild.”

  “It can be so very strenuous.”

  He stood and approached her, seating himself next to her on the settee. He meant to unsettle her, and she refused to give in to his manipulation.

  “His name is Arnaude Rochette and he is probably one of Napoleon’s more prodigious accomplishments. He has managed to earn himself egregious amounts of money from the French by selling our military movements and weaknesses.”

  “That is unfortunate,” she said, attempting to remain steady as she tried to guess the real purpose for his visit.

  “It’s far more than that. He must be stopped and you, Lady Fairchild, are going to help me find him.”

  She would much sooner throw a dinner party than have anything more to do with this man.

  “I don’t see how I could.”

  “The scoundrel has some connection to Ravenstone, I fear.”

  “That must be our cook then, and you are welcome to take her away immediately for she has tortured me long enough with her cooking.”

  “You think to be funny.”

  “Not at all,” she smiled. “I take it quite seriously when you accuse me of smuggling and treason.”

  “You mistake me. You are, after all, not only a cripple but also a mere woman, and so hardly capable of such industry of mind and body as to be able to commit these crimes. No, I only require information from you.”

  He was goading her.

  “Such a relief it is to hear that you have confidence in me to be of some use then. But tell me, so I can be sure. Why would I help you?”

  “Because you love your country, Lady Fairchild, and you want England to win the war.”

  “Or because you will apprehend my husband for smuggling, possibly treason, if I don’t. I much prefer honesty, Major Price. It wastes less time.”

  He smiled, and reaching for her hand, raised it to his mouth. He kissed her wrist at its most delicate point, where it bent, and the blood in her veins pumped through the fragile blue lines under her translucent skin. His lips were wet, his mustache a light brush, and he was slow to lower her hand again as he studied the thin red scar along her wrist. She regretted not having worn her longer gloves but she had not expected visitors, especially the kind who would kiss her hand.

  “You take untoward liberties, Major Price,” she said, and pulled her hand out of his. “What makes you sure I can find him? I am but a crippled woman, as you have said.”

  He smiled slowly
and glanced at her. “Lady Fairchild, most men may have the disposition to think woman are helpless creatures, but let me assure you I am not one of them. In fact, I believe women far more superior to men in manipulation, deceit, and strength, and I make it a habit never to underestimate them.”

  “How forward thinking you are,” she said. “What makes you so sure there is a connection to Ravenstone?”

  He took a moment, and she met his gaze without hesitation.

  “We captured one of Rochette’s more knowledgeable messengers and persuaded him to give us his master’s name and location. Unfortunately, the prisoner died before he could give us any details. It is the closest I have come to the traitor.”

  He lifted his hand, running it down the side of her face, and she forced herself to remain perfectly still. “I believe you are in the perfect position to help me. As the mistress of this reputable estate, you will be able to discover any suspicious activity, and keep me well-informed.”

  “Again, I must refer you to my cook. She is far better suited for such a task, having as she does a long history as an informer.”

  He smiled. “Why does a man like your husband leave such a beautiful and intelligent woman as yourself so unprotected?” he said, giving her an admiring look. “Does he not long to kiss you? Touch you?”

  She wanted to hit him. She had no use for the rules of society, but at this moment she wished suddenly to hide behind them. She should, according to society’s dictates, avoid having a gentleman call on her alone. For a married woman living in the country, such visits were permissible, but still not advisable.

  By rights, her husband should be with her, or an elderly, unwed woman, so a conversation such as this could never happen. She was at his mercy, without protection, and for the first time she longed to have her mother sitting opposite her. He was trying to show her how vulnerable she was, trying to frighten her into submission. Her cowering had ended with her father’s death, but she also knew the value of allowing someone to think they had succeeded.

  “You are too familiar, Major Price,” she said, allowing her voice to shake and lowering her eyes as any lady would have. “How dare you?”

  “I dare greatly.”