Louise Allen Historical Collection

by Louise Allen

  ‘You’ll learn,’ Lily said comfortably as they strolled down the lane. ‘Just don’t be your father, that’s all anyone round these parts would ask of you.’

  The sense of happiness vanished abruptly. ‘I look like him. I scared Heneage half to death this afternoon—he thought he’d seen a ghost, poor old devil. But it was just me scowling.’ Meg’s words, the words he had pushed away into a corner of his mind so he did not have to look at them, came back. Territorial, possessive…your father’s shoes.

  ‘Did he rape you, Lily?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Did he force you, or was it that he threatened ruin and dispossession for the whole family so you had to give in to him?’

  ‘He had no need to use force,’ Lily said. ‘Just threats. He owned me, he said. He was the lord, I was his to do with as he wanted or we could all get out and starve. Mine, he said.’

  Ross felt physically sick. You are mine and you know it, he had flung at Meg. Mine, he had said as he crushed her body under his, his mouth on her neck. She was right, he was turning into his father.

  ‘I must go.’ He mounted Dragon and sat looking down at her tired, open, loving face. ‘Come and see me tomorrow, Lily, if you can, and we’ll decide which cottage you’d like—there are three empty. Bring William and we can talk some more.’

  ‘Thank you, Ross.’ She put her hand on the rein. ‘My father is so happy you are home.’

  He forced a smile and dug his heels into Dragon’s flanks, urging him into a canter as soon as they were clear of Lily. He had not trusted himself to reply. Home? Perhaps he was coming to feel like that about it at last. The torrent of information about the farms, the estate, the fishing boats that he owned, that was all beginning to make sense now. He had a brother to discover and old friends to talk to.

  And Meg was chasing the ghost of his father out of the house, room by room, making it warm and light and alive again, fit for a young wife to inhabit, fit for a family.

  ‘Oh, God. Meg.’ Ross reined in, provoking a display of temper and resistance from the stallion that had him cursing and sweating by the time the animal accepted that he had to walk again. What the devil was he going to do about Meg?

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Mrs Halgate.’ Meg jumped, water splashing from the flower arrangement she was positioning on to the polished mahogany of the table in the small dining room. She mopped at it, then made herself turn.

  ‘My lord.’ She could speak, thank goodness—for a moment she had thought her heart had lodged in her throat.

  Ross filled the intimate space. He stood, booted feet apart, face expressionless. ‘Please confer with Mrs Harris and tell me when would be a convenient evening to have a dinner party. There will be a full moon next week, which will make travelling easier for guests.’

  The request was so abrupt and unexpected Meg thought she must have misheard. ‘A dinner party?’ He nodded.

  ‘For how many?’

  ‘The large dining room will seat twenty-four.’ Ross moved past her to straighten his neckcloth in the mirror.

  ‘Twenty-four? Forgive me, but are you on receiving terms with twenty-three people yet? My lord,’ she added, laying one hand over her stomach. It was suddenly queasy. She had been dreading his return, fretting about where he had gone, rehearsing over and over what she might say in the wake of that heat, that passion and anger. And now this, the cold, hard man, was back and she could see no way to speak the words.

  ‘Yes, that many. You forget, I have been riding out every day. I make social calls as well as endure lectures on foot rot in sheep and the value of seaweed as a manure, but I saw no reason to report them all to you. We may not be able to accommodate every young lady in the neighbourhood at the first dinner, but I can certainly start the inspection process.’

  ‘You wish to inspect the young ladies?’ Did he mean what she thought he meant?

  ‘Certainly. I am sure, as a vicar’s daughter, you can put me right, but it was St Paul who said “It is better to marry than to burn,” was it not? And it is certainly my duty to marry.’

  His attention appeared to be fixed entirely on his neckcloth. He isn’t even watching to see what effect his words have on me. Meg gripped the back of the nearest chair. ‘Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians, chapter seven, verse nine.’

  Two could play at pretending this did not matter, that this frigidly polite exchange was not in fact a blazing row. But of course, Ross did not feel sick, his nerves were not dancing so close to the surface that his skin hurt, he was not feeling confused and humiliated. Only frustrated and angry with her, no doubt. ‘You have nothing suitable to wear.’

  ‘Perrott has been nagging to some effect, so I visited the tailor again two days ago. It will all arrive by the end of the week. The bootmaker, too—I will not, I am glad to say, have to wear my father’s actual shoes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He was throwing her own words about his father back at her and she was not going to pick him up on it. ‘I will go and consult with Cook immediately.’ Mrs Harris would know what to produce for a wife-hunting dinner party. Something to demonstrate taste and wealth to appeal to the parents and something festive enough to charm the young ladies.

  She dropped an immaculate curtsy to Ross’s unresponsive back and left. Her control lasted exactly as long as it took to get herself out of the dining room and down the stairs to the privacy of her own room where her churning stomach finally revolted.

  The strength of her reaction was alarming. Was it just the aftermath of frustrated passion, the tension crackling between them, or the news that he was looking for a wife? Meg wrung the washcloth between her hands and buried her face in the cold dampness, hoping to shock herself into clear thinking.

  Of course it was right that Ross should be looking for a wife. It was exactly what she had wished for him. A wife and a family was what he needed to root himself to this place. His own heir would give him the purpose to care for this beautiful estate, this old house. And a wife would give him the love he needed, the affection his life had been lacking for so long.

  Am I so utterly miserable because I am falling in love with him? Meg dried her face, frowned at the wan image in her mirror.

  Perhaps she was simply unsettled because she had heard nothing from Patrick Jago. When she knew where Bella and Lina were she could plan her own life. That must be it—Ross was finding his place in his own world, she was simply uneasy because she had not. She could not let her old, romantic self sweep her away into another misjudgement as great as her feelings for James had been. Whatever it was, she could not skulk here, she needed to talk to Cook.

  ‘Why, whatever’s the matter, Mrs Halgate?’ Mrs Harris’s reaction put paid to any illusion that she could put a brave face on this. Cook put down her rolling pin and stared, her forearms floury to the elbows. ‘You look quite put about.’

  ‘I am quite put about.’ At least she had a genuine excuse for her troubled face. ‘His lordship intends to throw a dinner party for twenty-four next week and wants to know when would be a convenient time for it. And the large dining room is not turned out yet, let alone the fact that I haven’t checked the formal table linen. It could be covered in iron mould.’ Or eaten by moths or whatever happened to linen.

  ‘Lord love us. What sort of dinner party? We haven’t had one of those here for, what, eighteen months? Still, Heneage will be pleased—he says it’s a crying shame, him and the lads polishing all the silver every week and no one to show it off to.’

  ‘Lord Brandon is inviting families with unmarried daughters.’

  Mrs Harris’s eyebrows shot up. ‘So that’s the way of it.’

  ‘Exactly. We will be setting out to impress, don’t you think? I will have a look at the large dining room now and see what we can do with it. And I suppose we had better turn out the long drawing room overlooking the gardens; the Chinese Salon is too small for twenty-four.’ There, she was doing this quite successfully, sounding positive and energetic. The butler came in with the postbag i
n his hand. ‘Mr Heneage, his lordship wants a dinner party for twenty-four next week.’

  ‘Does he now? Best say Thursday, don’t you think, Mrs Harris? The moon will be at its best and that will give us plenty of time to prepare.’

  On the Tuesday before the dinner party Meg was in the kitchen when Heneage came in with the mail bag. He tipped the post out on to the far end of the table from the bread-making and began to sort it. ‘Miriam, you make me a nice cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’

  The kitchenmaid lugged the kettle off to the pump as Heneage sorted. ‘All for his lordship except these, which all look like bills.’ He handed a small pile to Meg, then found another at the bottom. ‘Here’s one for you by name—come quite a way by the look of it.’

  Meg took it then stared at the blob of blue sealing wax. It would be from Jago; no one else would send her a personal letter. She picked it up. ‘Excuse me.’

  There was a seat on the terrace, just beyond the point where Ross had kissed her. Meg found herself there, still clutching the unopened letter. A sharp pain made her realise that she had caught her lower lip between her teeth. She broke the seal and spread out the single sheet.

  The Royal George, Martinsdene, May 8th Dear Mrs Halgate,

  As you can see, I have made excellent time and last night reached this inn where I am putting up, convenient to the vicarage. I am representing myself as a student of old church architecture and hope by that means to introduce myself to your father.

  However, I must tell you at once that neither of your sisters has been seen in the village for some time.

  The words blurred but she made herself read on.

  I sought information about the vicar from the landlord under the pretext of wishing to better introduce myself and secure permission to study all parts of the church. According to him, Miss Celina Shelley has not been seen since June of last year and Miss Shelley, not since the end of April.

  Where could they have gone? If Ben Wilkins at the George did not know, then there was some mystery about it.

  After a couple of tankards of his own brew, the evening being wet and business slack, I had hopes that he would became inclined to gossip and I did nothing to discourage him. But he revealed nothing more and seemed uneasy at having spoken as he did. I have gained the strong impression that he is wary of incurring your father’s displeasure.

  Tomorrow I intend calling at the Vicarage to make the acquaintance of your father. I shall also exert every effort to be certain that neither young lady is, in some way, confined in the house

  I will write again as soon as I have any further information.

  I beg to remain, your obedient servant,

  Patrick Jago

  The letter fluttered down to her lap. Meg sat and stared at it. She had thought they would still be there at home, unhappy, trapped, but safe. Or her best hope had been that they had found husbands that their father had approved of. But this—to have vanished with no explanation, not even substantial rumours of why they had gone—was inexplicable.

  And how was Jago to find them? A tear fell with a splash on to his neatly written words, blurring your obedient. Then another, then another until Meg was sobbing, sobbing as she had not done since the night they had opened James’s will and her already shaky world had utterly fallen apart.

  ‘Meg? Meg, sweetheart, what is it? Bad news?’

  Ross. Ross calling me sweetheart. ‘I don’t know,’ Meg managed. ‘I don’t…I hope not. It is my sisters, they’ve vanished. Patrick Jago went to look for them for me, but they aren’t at home any more and no one knows where they’ve gone.’

  Somehow she got the sobs under control and found a large square of white linen pressed into her hands. She buried her face in it and mumbled, ‘It is so long since I’ve seen them. And none of us was happy at home and now, not knowing… I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Young Jago’s got a good head on his shoulders,’ Ross said. ‘He has only just started—give him time.’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘Perhaps it is a good thing you were unable to go yourself or you would have been stranded there with hardly any money, and no idea where to go next.’

  Meg nodded, wiping her eyes and taking a deep breath. ‘Of course, my lord,’ she managed to say with careful formality. ‘I’m sure you are right and Mr Jago will find them.’ She had to believe it.

  Then his arm came around her and she was pulled close into warm linen and broadcloth. ‘Hush, Meg. Never mind, “my lording”, me. There is no bad news, hold on to that.’

  She should push him away, but his other hand was stroking her hair and he did not appear to mind that she was crying again into his shirtfront. ‘You should not,’ she managed to say. ‘Someone might see us.’

  ‘I am not leaving you to cry, Meg,’ Ross said, holding her tighter. ‘You gave me Giles again. You are driving me insane, but for Giles alone the whole of Falmouth can see us, for all I care.’

  ‘The house does you credit, Mrs Halgate.’ Perrott joined Meg on the upper landing as she caught her breath in the few minutes left before the first guests arrived. They leaned on the banisters and surveyed the hall below.

  ‘And his lordship does you credit,’ she countered, her voice low as she studied the dark head and broad shoulders that were all she could see of Ross crossing the hall.

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ The valet surveyed his employer with satisfaction. ‘It helps that he’s a military gentleman, they usually carry themselves well. And he’s fit. Not a spare ounce on him, I’d say, and good musculature,’ he continued with professional enthusiasm, apparently not noticing the warmth in Meg’s cheeks. ‘All that marching makes long muscles, not bulky ones. Makes his inexpressibles fit like a second skin.’

  The thought of Ross’s thighs in fine knitted silk evening breeches had Meg turning to fuss with the flower arrangement. That half-hour on the terrace when she had cried in his arms and he had comforted her seemed like a dream now. The next day he had appeared to be engrossed writing letters in the intervals between inspecting the cottages on the estate, setting on a veritable army of men to repair them and continuing with his daily rides out with his steward.

  His mood had seemed not so much grim as serious, she had thought, watching him pace across the hall between drawing room and library. Meg could only hope that he met a young woman for whom he could feel real affection and attachment.

  And then she would have to leave, for she could not imagine staying at the Court with Ross wed to another woman. But she had kept busy, and outwardly cheerful. Sometimes she had not thought about Ross or her sisters for an hour at a time.

  ‘Any more news of your sisters?’ Perrott asked, jerking her away from uncomfortable speculation and back to the main anxiety in her life.

  ‘I have had one more letter from Jago, but he is not getting anywhere. They are definitely not at home and my father informed him that he had no daughters when Jago was making conversation with him when he called.’

  ‘Perhaps they both eloped?’

  ‘There is no gossip—it seems the villagers are keeping silent out of fear of my father’s anger.’

  ‘No news is good news, in my opinion. After all, if—forgive me—they had been taken ill or met with an accident at home and died, Jago would find out about that.’

  ‘That is true.’ Worrying over something you could not do anything about was not productive, she knew that. Instead, she went over the arrangements for the dinner party for the tenth time that day.

  Heneage and Mrs Harris had thrown themselves into preparations for the event with enthusiasm and Meg had been caught up in it, finding to her relief that she now knew enough to fulfil her part.

  The large dining room and long drawing room had been turned out, the gloomier paintings removed to the attics and the candelabra lowered for every tinkling crystal drop to be washed. The silver had been polished and the laundry maids attacked the yards of napery with soapwort and starch. Footmen had been set to clean windows on the inside while the ga
rdening staff polished at the outside and Meg had turned the two largest spare bedrooms into boudoirs for the ladies to leave their wraps and to retire to during the course of the evening.

  Now, as Heneage threw open the front doors and Ross walked back into the hall, Meg went to check on the maids. She could have watched, seen the guests arrive, but somehow she did not want to, although the maids were all agog and had had to be chased back to their stations. Once, as Lieutenant Halgate’s wife, she would have been an eligible guest for a dinner party like this; now she must think herself grateful to be able to attend to the comfort of the ladies.

  It was clear, as the footmen led one chattering group after another up to the ladies’ retiring rooms, that no one was thinking of being fashionably late. They were all far too eager to see the new Lord Brandon presiding over his dinner table for that, Meg thought, half-amused, half-irritated by the prattle. She should have been attending to the married ladies, but the opportunity to size up the little flock of prospective brides was too much for her curiosity.

  Ross had not been so obvious as to invite only those families with daughters, but even so, there were seven unmarried girls to fill the bedchamber with giggles and gossip as they prinked in front of the dressing-table mirror and the long cheval glass.

  ‘He isn’t at all handsome,’ Elizabeth Pennare remarked as she pinned up one of her elder sister’s curls.

  ‘Deliciously brooding, though,’ one girl Meg did not recognise countered. ‘Like a Byronic hero.’

  ‘And brave,’ another added. ‘He was a major, after all, and was wounded. I wish he was still wearing his scarlet uniform.’

  The Rifle Brigade wears green, you ignorant chit. Meg helped Jenny fold evening cloaks away, her tongue between her teeth.

  ‘And rich,’ one of the Pengilly girls remarked. ‘Papa says he owns mines and fishing boats and a warehouse in Falmouth.’

  One or two of the young women exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, at this vulgar mention of money. But they are all interested, Meg thought. Money, title, looks. What about the man? What about his character?