The Marsh Hawk

by Dawn MacTavish

  All at once, those renegade fingers, so gentle for their size, closed her jacket with painstaking control, though his hands were shaking. Then, crushing her close in his arms again, he buried his moist face in the cloud of her hair that his passion had set awry.

  “I have to go,” he murmured, his voice husky with longing.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “To London, Jenna. I cannot stay here with you in this house . . . not now . . . not like this. I shan’t compromise you in that way.”

  “But, Simon—”

  “Shhhh,” he murmured. His warm mouth closed her lips. When he lifted away, she looked into his hungering eyes, darkly glazed and half-shuttered. “If I stay, I won’t be able to stop myself, Jenna,” he said. “And I won’t do that to you. I want it to be perfect between us, my love. I want us to remember it always.”

  “I don’t want you to leave me,” she murmured, blinking back tears.

  “I shouldn’t even be here now,” he said, “but we needed to have this conversation. I love you, Jenna. I will do nothing ever to cause you harm.”

  Their lips met again, but briefly, and though he held her away, the ghost of his arousal still lingered.

  “I’ll go ’round to the church in the village on my way and see to the arrangements,” he said. “The vicar there is a close friend of mine. We were at school together before he entered the University and took Orders. He knows about the twins as well. It was he who gave me the idea to contact the Church for help years back. You’ll like him. His name is Robert Nast, and he will call upon you. I spent the night at his vicarage after I brought you here. I couldn’t stay under the same roof with you without a chaperone, Jenna—not after the way I literally abducted you from that dueling field before witnesses.”

  So that’s where he’d gone. She loved him more than ever, if that could be possible.

  “How long will you be away?” she wondered, unable to disguise her disappointment.

  “You won’t see me again until our wedding day, my love,” he said. “I will not have vicious gossip damning us the way it damned my brother.” He loosed one of his signature guttural chuckles. “Believe me,” he murmured, “it shan’t be long.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The storm spent itself on the coast through the night, and the following dawn broke steeped in a breathless mist that clung with stubborn persistence to the estate for most of the day. Jenna woke at first light lonely for Simon. But for the exquisite ruby and diamond ring on her finger, she would have sworn the events of the past few days had been a dream.

  She passed most of the morning familiarizing herself with the house and the servants. There were a number of footmen, stewards, kitchen maids, scullery maids, chambermaids, and laundresses. There was a butler and underbutler, a cook, a groundskeeper and his wife, a gamekeeper, and several grooms. Entirely too many for her to hope to remember all their names on short acquaintance, and she decided to concentrate on the ones with whom she would have the most contact. These included several of the primary footmen, Lawrence, Charl, and Peter; the housekeeper, Mrs. Rees; Horton, the butler; her chambermaids, Anna and Molly; and, of course, Phelps, who to her surprise had not gone on to London with Simon. She wondered about that, but there were just so many other things to think about then that she didn’t dwell long upon it.

  Before he left, Simon asked her if she wanted him to send for Emily, but she declined. Since she shared Emily with her mother—not out of necessity, but rather because her mother had her first and couldn’t bear to part with her—Jenna didn’t want to uproot the girl. Besides, she could only imagine how her mother must be coping with the situation. Taking Emily from her now would be disastrous. Simon offered to hire a personal maid for her, but she declined that offer as well and chose instead the mousy little Molly, who was delighted over the elevated new station that would take her eventually to London, and all of the excitement of Town life. It was a good choice. Everyone was pleased, and with that decided, Jenna set out to explore Kevernwood Hall.

  Mrs. Rees explained that the mansion itself was almost three centuries old, except for the conservatory, which Simon’s father, the second Earl of Kevernwood, had added before Simon was born. The house, nearly half-covered with ivy, was hewn of stone, seeming to rise from the very granite that formed the base of the cliff it crouched upon. It was an enormous rambling structure, four stories high, rising from a well-landscaped lawn with its back to the sea. To her amazement, it even had battlements.

  There were a number of outbuildings on the estate, including the stables, carriage house, groundskeeper’s cottage, game-keeper’s cottage, and a strange-looking round stone tower almost hidden in the orchard. Constructed of the same stone as the Hall, it looked like a miniature medieval keep.

  Inside the manor proper, the corridors were narrow and damp, the rooms enormous and full of stone presence. The hearths were very spacious; the mantels on nearly all of them held in place by elaborately carved marble statuary. Over the years much of the house had been renovated, but the effect was jarring. Modern trappings such as the Chippendale, and Duncan Phyfe furniture, Persian rugs, and odd pieces upholstered in chintz and brocade that dominated seemed out of place, and had been chosen for comfort rather than any pretense at aesthetics. Few women had had a hand in the decorating, Jenna decided. It was definitely a man’s house. The crossed swords, standing halberds, trophies, and formidable-looking Rutherford ancestors glowering from gilt-edged frames only reinforced her theory. It was cold and depressing and damp, to say nothing of dreary, and she was beginning to understand why Simon spent so little time on the coast.

  The fourth floor was closed off. Mrs. Rees explained that unless there was to be a hunt and a large number of guests were expected, none of the chambers there were ever used. They browsed through all of the third-floor guest chambers, and the second-floor suites. On the main floor, they toured the breakfast room, ballroom, salon, sitting rooms, library, parlor, trophy room, and drawing room. All seemed converted from something decidedly Elizabethan. Jenna came to the conclusion that she liked the conservatory best, but that, she admitted, was probably because she’d nearly given herself to Simon there.

  They ended the tour in the dining hall, where the housekeeper informed her that all meals would be served, and Jenna marveled at the size of it. The dining hall at Thistle Hollow would have fit inside it twice. It boasted a high vaulted ceiling embellished with frescoes in a woodland theme and fitted with Austrian crystal chandeliers, three of them suspended above the endless banquet table in the center of the room. A fine linen cloth had been draped across the end where her place had been set for nuncheon.

  The walls were painted a deep shade of rose with gilded plasterwork, and matching medallions holding sconces. On the east wall, the raised arms of tall marble wood nymphs supported the mantel over the hearth. Opposite, a built-in mahogany sideboard, nearly as long as the table it matched, was laid with salvers of cold meats and cheeses, and silver chafing dishes housing a variety of entrees, one more delectable-looking than the next. It was all very beautiful, but Jenna insisted that, in the future, unless the earl was in residence, she would just as soon take her meals in the breakfast room—or in her dressing room upstairs, for that matter. Eating alone in that vast, empty hall would only make her more lonesome for Simon.

  Once she’d eaten, she set out to explore the grounds. The mist still clung stubbornly to the hollows and floated over the courtyard that sloped down to the orchards in the south, half burying the odd-looking derelict tower. The sun hadn’t yet made an appearance, and by the look of the jaundiced sky threatening overhead, she wondered if it would for some time.

  Drenched and stirred by the wind, the garden foliage perfumed the air with exquisite scents. Though hidden from view by the fog milling inside artistically carved openings in the tall hedgerows that formed the garden wall, Jenna picked out the fragrances of rose, peony, honeysuckle, and lilac, to name but a few. She didn’t need to see them to know that
they were there. The heady perfume stirred her senses awake, reminding her of another garden, and a pulsating tremor moved inside her that almost made her lose her footing.

  The outbuildings were situated in a wide, sweeping semicircle around the courtyard and gardens, accessed by a narrow, well-kept lane, and she started out in a westerly direction, past a stand of stunted elms that stretched between the house and the stables. The day was warm for April despite the dampness, and she was grateful for that since she didn’t have her cloak. She did have her riding habit, however, and owing to that, she decided to make use of it and do her exploring on horseback.

  The stables were situated just beyond the trees. The carriage house stood alongside, with paddocks and a well in back. Emile Barstow, the chief groom, a bow-legged, gray-haired man past sixty, with hunched posture and a thick mustache, was only too happy to present her with a Thoroughbred sorrel mare named Treacle for the occasion. He was impressed at once with Jenna’s seat and knowledge of horses, and his sparkling blue eyes, filled with admiration, promised friendship and loyalty. Jenna eagerly looked forward to both. All of the servants at Kevernwood Hall had treated her royally, but this man was special. He reminded her of her father.

  She passed the gamekeeper’s cottage next. A smokehouse stood beside it. It looked deserted, as did the groundskeeper’s cottage farther on, set back beside a wall of rhododendron. Picket fencing separated vegetable and herb gardens. The combined scents of hawthorn, gentian, comfrey, bramble, briar rose, and the sweetness of wild rhubarb rode the breeze. The rabbits smelled them, too, and she laughed aloud watching them take unmerciful advantage of everyone’s absence. She hadn’t laughed in a long time—not since the night she killed the Marsh Hawk.

  She was relieved that no one was at home. Though she did want to meet everyone, she wasn’t really up to socializing. Not then. She wanted a closer look at the peculiar-looking round tower in the orchard. The mist was denser there, wandering aimlessly among the rows of budding apple trees that were just beginning to promise blossoms. It groped her body to the waist while she dismounted and tethered Treacle in a clump of bracken. The roughly hewn surface of the structure was half-covered with woodbine creepers, as was the land around it for some distance in all directions. A little path had been cleared in the groundcover leading from the narrow drive she’d been following, suggesting that the keep was frequented on a somewhat regular basis. Curious as to what it could be used for, she tried the arched wooden door, but it was locked, and she ambled around toward the back in search of another entrance. There wasn’t one, but there was a small window on the side almost at eye level, fitted with tinted glass panes set into diamond-shaped fretwork. There were two others like it higher up as well, one in front and one in back.

  She stood on tiptoe and began pulling the vines away from the lowest pane. It was black as pitch within, and she wiped away the dusty, salty crust that had collected over time on the tinted glass, cupped her hands around her eyes, and tried to see inside. Intent on that, when a man’s hand clamped around her arm, she spun around and gasped.

  It was Phelps.

  “You frightened me!” she breathed, clutching her breast as if to keep her heart inside her body. “Where did you come from, Phelps?”

  “You’d best come away, my lady,” he said. “We don’t use the tower.”

  “It’s locked,” she said, paying no heed to his directive. “Is there a key?”

  “I do not have the key, my lady, only his lordship. The tower is very old, you see. There is structural damage, my lady; it isn’t safe. You’d best come away now.”

  “It looks sound enough to me,” she said, appraising the building through a frown.

  “The damage is on the inside, my lady, though some of the outer is falling now as well. His lordship has been meaning to repair it, but he is here so seldom . . .”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. What was it used for?”

  Phelps hesitated and finally said, “Storage, my lady. Tobias Heath, the groundskeeper here, used to keep his tools inside until it became . . . unsafe. He keeps them in the root cellar now. Please come away, my lady. His lordship would never forgive me if you came to harm out here. Why, just last week some slates fell from the roof, so they tell me. It really isn’t safe, my lady.”

  “Did you follow me here, Phelps?”

  “Well, actually . . . no, my lady,” the valet said, turning as white as the mist. “That is . . . I was paying a call on Tobias when I saw you ride this way.”

  “He isn’t at home.”

  “I realize that now, my lady; it’s market day. I should have remembered, but we—”

  “Yes, yes, I know—you come to the coast so seldom,” she interrupted, finishing the sentence he was struggling with. Now she realized why Simon had left the valet behind. The stressed look on his face confirmed it. “Did his lordship leave you here to look after me, Phelps?” she said with her most fetching smile.

  “Well, actually . . . yes, as a matter of fact, he did, my lady.”

  She nodded, agreeing with her conclusion. At least the man was honest.

  “I would still like to see inside,” she persisted. “You’re sure there isn’t a key?”

  “I’m sure, my lady. Please come away now. There’s a fresh flaw on the make. It often happens in the spring—the prevailing wind’s to blame. One storm often spawns another along this coast. Sometimes it goes on for weeks.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  His nervous smile disturbed her. The tower looked too sound to warrant his distress, and that only piqued her curiosity further. It was neither the time nor the place to challenge him over it, however, and she followed him back to their horses.

  As he hung back at the edge of the path once she’d loosened Treacle’s tether, she called “Aren’t you coming, Phelps?”

  “I’ll wait for Tobias, my lady. He should be returning soon.”

  So she mounted then, and rode back toward the stables, eerily aware of the valet’s eyes on her the whole distance. There was such a thing as carrying protection too far. She would definitely speak to Simon about it. Phelps was right about the storm, though. She was all too familiar with Cornish flaws, though she had never experienced one so close to the sea. She tasted the salt on the air and on her lips now that she was alerted to it. She shuddered, imagining the sort of weather that had driven sea salt far enough inland to coat the leaded windows in the tower. Those thoughts dissolved the minute she reached the stables, however. Her heart plunged in her breast at the sight of a chaise in the drive being led by a different groom toward the tack room. It bore the Hollingsworth device.

  Jenna hurried back to the house. She was met at the door by Horton, the butler, a tall man with a long, straight nose, inscrutable gray eyes, and a shiny bald head fringed sparsely with silver hair.

  “Your mother has arrived, my lady,” he warbled. “I put her in the parlor.”

  “Thank you, Horton.” She glanced at the three portmanteaux on the floor and said, pointing, “That one may remain. Please have the footmen return the others to the chaise, and tell the grooms not to unhitch the horses. My mother will not be staying.”

  “Yes, my lady. Will that be all, my lady?”

  “Did she arrive alone?”

  “No, my lady, her personal maid was with her. I took the liberty of having tea served to the girl in the servants’ hall, and a tray has been brought to the parlor as well. Was that all right, my lady?”

  “Of course, Horton, thank you.”

  Jenna dismissed the butler, squared her posture, marched down the corridor through the broad medieval arch that led to the main floor renovations, and entered the parlor. It was a spacious, unwelcoming room somewhat outdated in decor, with the musty, telltale odor of disuse. She commended the butler mentally on his choice.

  The dowager spun around from the terrace doors, sloshing tea from her cup into the saucer in her hand when she entered. Taking one look at the indignant scowl on her mo
ther’s face—sour enough to clabber cream—Jenna braced herself. She knew that posture all too well.

  “Jenna Hollingsworth, how could you!” the dowager spluttered, slapping her teacup and saucer down on the serving tray with little regard for their frailty.

  “Sit down, Mother.”

  “I will not sit down. Jenna, explain yourself at once!”

  “Mother, sit!”

  Lady Hollingsworth bristled, passed an incredulous grunt, and dropped like a stone into a wing chair upholstered in faded blue velvet resting beside the vacant hearth. A cloud of dust rose around her upon contact. Aggression having failed miserably, she whipped out a handkerchief, and Jenna’s eyebrow lifted. It was edged with the familiar black of mourning. So that’s how it was to be, was it?

  “Put it away, Mother,” she said. “That tactic is quite shopworn, and beneath you. You know as well as I do that if Father knew what sort of man Rupert Marner really was, he never would have approved our betrothal, much less pressed for it.”

  “Jenna, what have you done?” her mother shrilled. Her breath caught in a gasp. “Has the scoundrel . . . ruined you? Have you let him—”

  “No, Mother, I have not let him ‘ruin’ me,” she replied, laughing in spite of herself.

  “Rupert is livid, dear. You’ve broken the poor man’s heart.”

  “Rupert has no heart, Mother. He’s a coward, you know. After Simon won the duel, your precious Rupert came at his back and wounded him—at his back, Mother! He would have killed Simon if I hadn’t been there. There were witnesses: Sir Gerald, Lord Eccleston—and you know how upright he is—Phelps, Simon’s valet, and Crispin St. John, Simon’s . . . houseguest. Don’t pretend that one among them hasn’t told the tale. Rupert’s behavior was unconscionable. How dare you defend him?”