by Jane Godman
“Will I fit inside there?” Fraser looked doubtful.
“That’s the clever part. This isn’t the actual priest hole, it’s a decoy. Even if this secret compartment under the steps is discovered, it just reveals this small area that you see here. The family would hide a few treasures, or maybe some money, in this part. Behind this compartment, however, the real priest hole is concealed. It is reached through a secret panel, there.” She pointed into the darkness of the confined space where, if Fraser craned his neck, a wooden panel could be seen. “Those doing the search were unlikely to notice it since they were usually distracted by the hidden valuables. The second chamber is not huge, but it is larger than this and has a bench for the priest’s comfort, as he could be forced to spend hours, or even days, confined in there. I would imagine that most of the priests who were forced to hide here were smaller than you—” she turned her head to smile up at him, her eyes skimming over the width of his shoulders, “—so they could even lie down. I’m not sure you could manage to do so and be comfortable for very long.”
Horses’ hooves approaching the house made them both look up from their contemplation of the priest hole. Martha ran through to the parlour to look out of the window, her heart drumming out a panicky staccato beat. Horse and rider continued on past, clearly intent on reaching Delacourt Grange.
“It is Sir Clive Sheridan,” she said in accents of doom.
“Who is he?”
“A neighbour. I thought he was in London for the winter. He considers himself a suitor of Rosie’s. He is a thoroughly unpleasant man.”
Fraser’s hand strayed to the dirk that he now wore concealed in the waistband of his breeches. “Mayhap it is time to teach him to be a little more pleasant.”
“I beg you will do nothing of the sort. You must stay here. No, pray do not object.” She reached out and laid a restraining hand on the bare flesh of his forearm where his shirtsleeve was rolled up. They both looked down for a brief second at the connection between her slender fingers and his well-muscled flesh, before she quickly withdrew the touch. “He is a man who misses nothing. It is bad enough that he will encounter Jack up at the house. Both of you together will definitely arouse his suspicions. Let me go, and I will do all I can to deflect his attention.”
With a sound that might have been a grunt of agreement, Fraser watched as she snatched up her cloak and dashed out of the house. Sir Clive had taken a detour to leave his horse at the stables, so Martha was able to hurry along the path that joined the old dower house to Delacourt Grange and arrive at the main door at the same time as the visitor. She found him in a cheerful mood. He confirmed, in his usual pompous manner, that he had recently returned from a trip to London.
“When I heard the dreadful news of what had been afoot in my own home county, however, my conscience would not allow me to remain away, Miss Wantage. I returned at once to assure myself that all was well. I look forward to sharing the latest news from the capital, together with the military intelligence from Derby, with my good friend and neighbour, Mr. Delacourt.” His smile deepened. “And, of course, I relish the prospect of seeing the beautiful Miss Rosemary again.” It was a well-worn joke in the Delacourt household that Sir Clive had made up his mind. Rosie Delacourt was to become “my Lady Sheridan” so that his obsessive fantasies about her could be made reality. The prospect might cause Harry much hilarity, but something in Sir Clive’s eyes when he spoke Rosie’s name made Martha shudder. It reminded her of the way the reivers had looked at her.
Sheridan Hall, Sir Clive’s family estate, was the largest property in the neighbourhood, and as its owner, he was known locally as “the Squire”. Mr. Delacourt, meanwhile, was by far the wealthiest gentleman in the neighbourhood, and it was well known that his daughter would have a generous dowry and an enviable inheritance. Sir Clive made no secret of his intentions and publicly almost licked his lips at the thought of the bounty that would enhance both his coffers and his bed when Rosie became his. He seemed not to notice that Rosie did not share his enthusiasm.
Mrs. Glover, who admitted them into the house, said that Mr. Delacourt was shut up in his study, but Miss Rosie and Mister Jack were in the drawing room. Sir Clive’s brows drew together at the mention of the hitherto unknown visitor, but he waved the housekeeper aside, assuring her that he knew his way. Martha could hear Rosie’s laughter as they approached the drawing room. Through the open door, it could be seen that she was seated at a small table and was engaged in a game of chess with Jack, who had his back to the door. Rosie was holding one of her opponent’s chess pieces in her hand, and he was admonishing her, in his softly spoken, cultured voice, to stop cheating and return it immediately.
Rosie promptly responded by smiling tauntingly before placing the piece inside her bodice. Martha was concerned at this unseemly display and the fact that Sir Clive had witnessed it. Before she could step forward and warn them of the visitor’s presence, however, Sir Clive had gestured her into silence.
Rosie got to her feet and danced away from the table, casting a roguish look over her shoulder as she did. Jack rose too, and Martha saw Sir Clive’s face fall as he noted the grace with which he carried himself, the sinewy strength apparent even in the ill-fitting clothes he wore. Jack followed Rosie, who allowed herself—without too much resistance, Martha noted with even more dismay—to be cornered in the window embrasure.
“Rosie, you little wretch.” Martha could sense Sir Clive bristling at the familiarity the words betrayed. Jack placed a hand against the wall either side of her shoulders, effectively encircling and imprisoning her. Rosie did not appear unduly perturbed at this action. In fact, from her sparkling expression, it might even be inferred that she was very much enjoying herself. “Do you think I won’t take it from you?”
Deciding that enough was enough, Martha entered the room, clearing her throat loudly. Jack and Rosie moved apart without surprise or embarrassment. On noticing their guest, Rosie came forward to greet Sir Clive in her usual friendly way. “Good morning, Cousin Martha, Sir Clive. Why, sir—” she dropped a slight curtsy and held out her hand, “— we have not seen you this age.”
Sir Clive bowed stiffly and saluted her hand briefly with his lips. “I must make you known to my cousin Jack, Sir Clive.” She smiled up at Jack, a remnant of their funning lingering in her expression. “Sir Clive is our neighbour.”
“Your cousin?” Sir Clive appeared to mentally review what he knew of her family. “I was not aware that Mr. Delacourt had any nieces or nephews.”
Jack bowed. “Rosie honours me with the title, sir,” he informed him. “Our connection is more distant and tenuous than she would have you believe. In fact we can at best be described as ‘kissing cousins’.”
Rosie gave a little choke of laughter and cast him a reproachful glance. Sir Clive’s frown deepened. “Please be seated, sir.” She gestured to a chair and made her way to sit on a sofa. Sir Clive promptly sat beside her and attempted to shut Jack out of the conversation, launching into a lengthy monologue about his trip to London. Jack, occupying the chair rejected by their guest, gave every appearance of being quite content to talk to Martha. He did, however, keep the interaction between Rosie and Sir Clive under keen observation.
“The man reminds me of a dog guarding a bone,” he said in an undertone to Martha. “Damn him.”
“You must be careful not to betray your feelings,” she rebuked him.
“Oh, fear not. I’ll not let on that I could happily choke the life out of the scowling dullard. And all because he can offer her everything that I cannot.”
Sir Clive stayed with them for an hour, at the end of which time Jack was openly yawning and even Rosie was struggling to maintain any semblance of interest in his discourse. He said he would not disturb Mr. Delacourt but would call again in the next few days.
“I do have one piece of interesting news which I hope you will impart to him. Word has filtered
through to me of the Jacobite withdrawal. Skirmishes in Cumbria and the loss of Carlisle have marked their passage to Scotland. Yesterday, the prince crossed the border. It was a significant day in more ways than one. He will soon be five and twenty years of age. Will he live to see his twenty-sixth birthday, or to see English soil once more? Cumberland is determined that he will do neither.”
Martha was aware of the tension in Jack’s frame at this casual reference to his friend and hoped that Sir Clive could not sense it. It seemed he did not, and with a low bow to Rosie and a curt nod to Jack, he took his leave. Jack closed the door behind him with a decisive click.
“You did not tell me that you had such an eligible suitor, my sweet.” Martha felt a tug of pity for him as he tried to keep his voice light.
Rosie turned to show him a laughing face. “Indeed, Sir Clive is accounted something of a prize in these parts.”
He came over to her and held out his hands. She took them, and he pulled her to her feet, scanning her upturned face. “You can do better, Rosie.”
“Can I? I’m waiting for you to tell me how, Jack.”
Almost angrily he pulled her into his arms, pressing his cheek against the mass of her hair. Martha turned away, gazing out of the window as she blinked away a sudden rush of tears. “I cannot keep up this pretence any longer, but Rosie, I have no right to ask you to wait for me.” Jack’s words were a groan.
“You have that right if I give it to you,” Rosie said softly, a note of sadness entering her voice.
“One day I will remind you of those words. But for now—”
Martha turned back in time to see his serious expression change to one of mischief. She was about to interrupt their embrace when, quick as a flash, Jack slipped his hand into Rosie’s bodice and removed the stolen chess piece.
“Why do you try so hard to make yourself invisible?”
“I beg your pardon?” Coming, as it did, so soon after the emotionally charged scene she had witnessed between Jack and Rosie, Fraser’s question threw Martha off balance.
“You know fine well what I mean.” He was helping her to clear the table, and he now turned to face her, standing a fraction too close for comfort. “You wear these to hide the fact that you’ve got beautiful eyes.” He reached out a hand and very gently removed her glasses. “And you pin your hair so tightly to disguise the fact that you’ve got soft, pretty curls.” Heart pounding, she remained frozen as he reached behind her head and pulled out some of the pins that held her hair in place. When he tangled his hands in those very curls and began to draw her toward him, however, she speedily unfroze and started to back away.
“Don’t do that. And give me back my glasses.” She extended her hand, palm upward. Bravely, she withstood the heat of his gaze. He licked his lips. She wished he wouldn’t do that. It made her imagine how it would feel if he licked her lips. And that was a most unseemly way for a demure, unmarried, invisible lady to think.
“What if I won’t?”
“Then I won’t be able to see,” she said in what she hoped was her usual prosaic manner.
“Tell me about the reivers.”
“I can’t.” Martha hung her head.
“I hear you crying every night.” His voice was husky.
“Have you ever thought I might be crying because I have a Scotsman in my house?” She gave a shaky laugh then, when his expression didn’t change, she followed it with a sigh of resignation. He was waiting for her to speak and, surprisingly, she found herself wanting to tell him about it. It was a story she never expected to recount, and it took a moment for her to find the right words. Drawing a breath, and faltering slightly, she began. “They came in the early morning. Although he was a tenant, my father was a wealthy farmer and that meant we were always in danger. The men who worked on the farm also guarded us. On this particular day, one of the farm cats had given birth in the barn and then gone missing. I’d taken a basket to gather up the kittens and bring them up to the house. When I emerged from the barn, the sky was black and orange over the house. I knew immediately what it was. It meant that my family were all dead and our home was ablaze. One of the new men my father had taken on recently was with the reivers. He noticed me and grabbed me. He threw me down on the ground and tried to—” Her voice had been carefully neutral until then, but she gagged on the word.
“To rape you.” Fraser said it for her.
“Yes. But I had a knife. The borders are a wild place to grow up, and my father insisted that we all knew how to defend ourselves. I only had one chance, but I made it a good one. That reiver was never going to rape anyone again by the time I’d finished with him. The townspeople were on their way by then. They’d been alerted by the flames, and I could hear their shouts as they approached. But the other reivers wanted their revenge for what I’d done. The one I’d cut was their leader’s son, you see. Strangely, none of them wanted to try the same thing he had.” Her smile was lopsided, and her hand crept up to her shoulder as though feeling the scars through the cloth of her gown. “You know the rest.”
“You were lucky to survive,” Fraser said gently.
She looked up at him then. She felt the smile that was not a smile still trembling on her lips. “Is that what you call it? Lucky? You asked me why I make myself invisible. I do it to ensure I never have to see the look of disgust in the eyes of another. Those reivers didn’t kill me, but when they scorched my flesh so that it looks like rough cloth or crumpled, discarded parchment, they killed any chance I might have of a normal life.”
Wordlessly, Fraser handed back her spectacles, and she quickly slipped them on. They finished their chores in silence.
“I didn’t know I cried in my sleep,” Martha said eventually, keeping her head bent over the dishes she was stacking.
“Aye, ’tis woeful hard on the heart to hear it.” He started to go out of the room, but turned around again, his big frame filling the doorway. “Oh, and, crabbit one?”
“Yes?” Her voice was wary. She blinked at him, aware that her pupils were magnified even further by the thick lenses.
“You don’t see disgust in my eyes.” His smile was warm on her face and, nervously, she lowered her head again.
Chapter Eight
Christmas came and went, and Jack’s health continued to improve steadily. The festive season provided everyone with a momentary relief from their fears about what might happen if the king’s men arrived before he was well enough to set out for the border. Christmas was always a vibrant affair at Delacourt Grange, and Tom carried armfuls of greenery into the house for Rosie and Harry to use as decoration. Mrs. Glover tolerated the boughs of evergreens which invaded her precious rooms, but she drew the line at mistletoe, which—with its risqué connotations and implied encouragement of kissing games—she considered ungenteel, if not downright unholy. She fought a constant battle, in between cooking a feast fit for a small army, against its introduction by the maidservants and footmen.
On Christmas day a yule log was lit in the fireplace. The family and staff indulged in a day of celebration, gift giving and frivolity. Mr. Delacourt, generally the most abstemious of hosts, made a bowl of punch which caused Fraser, when called upon to sample a cup, to choke at its fiery effects. Harry laughed as Jack, also required to sample the brew, mopped his streaming eyes but diplomatically pronounced it very fine. Tom joined the family for dinner being, as Rosie pointed out, more a family friend than an employee. Rosie wore a gown of ruby damask silk over an underskirt of embroidered lace, and Martha donned a new dress in a deep sapphire hue trimmed with silver ribbon.
“You look vastly pretty today, Martha,” Rosie told her.
“Nonsense,” Martha said, with a look of considerable surprise at her reflection in the mirror. “I couldn’t look pretty if I tried.”
“But you do,” Rosie insisted. “I don’t know what it is—mayhap ’tis that colour suits you—but there i
s a bloom about you I’ve not seen before. You look very well indeed.”
The gentlemen, when they joined them, were clad in full-skirted coats and knee breeches. Jack had borrowed his garments from Mr. Delacourt, while Fraser was rather less fine in Tom’s second-best suit. That evening, Rosie played the harpsichord and they sang traditional songs. Fraser and Jack, both possessed of fine baritone voices, taught them a few Scottish ballads which they had learned as children. There was much amusement when Fraser tried to get Martha to sing. He raised his brows at Harry, who seemed to find the suggestion particularly amusing.
“Cousin Martha couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” Harry had all the diplomacy of his twelve years.
“It’s true,” Martha said, when Fraser began to reproach the lad. “I am tone deaf.”
“I like it not when you talk ill of yourself or allow others to do so,” he told her under his breath.
Martha looked up at him, surprised to see a fiercely protective light in his eyes. “But indeed, it would be foolish of me to pretend I can sing when I cannot.”
“You know very well that’s not what I mean.”
Tom, with a skill no-one had ever suspected he possessed, took Rosie’s place and played a few country dances on his fiddle. Jack held out his hand to Rosie who, blushing slightly, allowed him to lead her around the room while Mr. Delacourt looked in approbation from a punch-induced haze. Rosie’s cheeks were becomingly pink, her eyes shining and lips parted.
“Will ye dance with me, lass?” Fraser turned to Martha.
“Oh, no, I don’t dance.” She shook her head determinedly.
He quirked an eyebrow at her but did not persist. Which was what she wanted, after all. So why did she feel so disappointed?