James frowned. Spoilt crops did not tally with what he had seen on the adjoining Anglethorpe estates that were positively gleaming. And there was no reason for the mine to fail.
“I've helped where I can,” Bill continued.
“The Rocket still sails?”
“We couldn’t stop. The money from the goods was all that has kept many families afloat. We'll be sailing again in a week.”
“Brandy?”
“Amongst other things.” Bill brought his tankard to his lips and took a long swallow. “It's hard going. A new Riding Officer has been assigned to the district because of all the stories of smugglers in our coves. Not many customs men applied for the job when the last one died.” He gave James a sly look. “Running the contraband gives the unemployed some work, and allows the village to remain above the bread line.”
“Is everything alright, sirs?” Ned bustled back, a drying cloth over his arm, two pints of ale and a loaf of bread on a tray in one hand and a plate of cheese in the other.
James nodded. Ned laid the food on the table.
“How did you know who I am?”
“You've got the look of your grandfather,” Ned looked around and drew up a stool. “I knew of him when I was younger. Look just like him you do, although his hair had a reddish tinge. You must have a picture of him somewhere.”
There were many dark portraits hanging in Brambridge Manor. James hated them all. But there hadn’t been one of his grandfather.
“How did you know him?” Bill asked, pulling a hunk of bread from the loaf.
“It was before he won Brambridge. My father owned the inn in Honiton. The Five Cocks. Lord Stanton was the fourth son of an impoverished titled family.”
So that was why there was no portrait of him up there with the rest of the smirking bastards.
Ned got up and walked back to the bar. “His three elder brothers died. Carried off by the pox,” he threw over his shoulder as he poured himself a tankard of ale. “He inherited the Stanton title unexpectedly. Up until that point he was a regular at the inn, always tupping one of the barmaids, gambling and drinking. Father had to stop him coming in because he was regularly drunk before he even arrived.” Ned paused for a breath, and took a long sip of his beer. “It was unexpected when he won Brambridge. He was a noted loser. And Viscount Summerbain, the man who owned the manor, never gambled. It was a sad day when the Viscount had to leave. He was a real gentleman.”
“Viscount Summerbain?” James gave Ned a level stare. “Do you know if he had a family?”
“Aye, a daughter. Lovely little thing she was. No idea what has become of them both now.”
James clenched his fists under the table. It was going to be harder than he thought to find this Marie girl. But he wasn’t going to give up easily.
Ned stood and returned to the bar as new customers came through the door, lightening the tap room. Looking around to make sure that no one was listening, James motioned Bill back outside.
“Can I trust you?”
“Of course you can, James,” Bill said, looking hurt. “Two years ago.—”
“Yes, I know.” Two years ago Bill had saved his life. James rested against the edge of the horse trough. “Look. Father's will has just been read. I don't inherit anything unless I can find Viscount Summerbain's granddaughter, Marie Mompesson, within six months.”
Bill stared at him. “You mean you can’t inherit until you find her?”
“No.” James did not mention marrying the girl. It just made the task even more impossible. “And during that year all bills will be paid by the lawyers.”
“Granger?”
James nodded.
Bill shook his head and sat down next to James on the other edge of the trough. “That’s not good news. He’s a lawyer but he’s only out to serve his own interests. I would keep an eye on him if I were you.”
“I'm going to go to Ottery St Mary tomorrow to see him to make sure all the right payments are going to be made regarding the estate.”
James put a hand on the edge of the trough. Should he tell Bill about his other mission to find out what was happening to disrupt the trading routes? When they had sailed on the Rocket they had trusted each other with their lives, and it seemed he knew the Hawk well. But Bill was one of the main facilitators of the trading route. If anything happened he would be the first to know about it, and yet he hadn’t mentioned any problems with it at all. Just how much did he know about what was going on?
CHAPTER 7
Harriet looked up as Agatha stretched and pulled down the hunting knife from behind the door of their cottage.
“You seem tired, Harriet. Perhaps you should scale back your play. I don’t understand how you fit it in with the teaching. Especially if Edgar is not paying you for it.” Agatha picked up the dull cotton of her overskirt and smoothed it over the blade of the knife.
Harriet sighed. Her aunt wasn’t as taken with theatrical pursuits as Harriet was. Sometimes she wondered if they were related at all. Agatha was so methodical and mathematical. And practical. At least she hadn’t seemed put out that Edgar had stopped dropping by. To Harriet it had been a distinct positive. She thrust another log onto the pile by the fire.
“At least Mrs. Madely has been in a good mood recently.” Agatha held up the blade to the fire light.
“Mmm.” Harriet suspected that having the attentions of a wealthy man might have bolstered that mood. Despite Mrs. Madely’s pious ways she seemed to forget that she was married to the vicar.
“You know, there is also something a little off about Edgar Stanton,” Agatha said thoughtfully, rehanging the hunting knife. The intricate design of the elephants on the handle shone in the firelight. Agatha pushed her hand down the side of the armchair by the fire and pulled out a small letter with a familiar seal. She received them regularly, once every two months, but Harriet had never seen her write back.
“I agree. He robs everyone when he buys their lace.” Harriet pursed her lips as she thought about her procrastination outside the shop. “And despite his enormous profits, the Stanton estates don’t seem to be doing well under his hand.”
“Well, you could do well with Bill Standish,” said her aunt pensively. “Those nice strong shoulders, well, all I will say is that sometimes you need a strong man to get by.”
Harriet gazed at her aunt, nonplussed. Agatha was incorrigible. Harriet didn’t want Bill. He was like a brother to her. She wanted a hero on a large horse to sweep her off her feet. Someone a bit like—
No. Shaking her head to clear the unwanted vision, she turned her attention back to her papers. That sort of hero only happened in books.
“You know your father was just the same.”
Harriet jumped in surprise. Agatha surveyed her over the open letter. “He was only happy when he was outside, immersed in the elements with his painting. He never was one for the confines of indoors.”
Harriet bowed her head again. She hadn’t realized that the strain of the teaching was beginning to show. But then, who needed a young girl from the shires who enjoyed pretending to be other people? There was no future in that.
Lifting her head, she looked around the comfortable sitting room. The wall was covered in beautiful miniature oil paintings. It appeared there hadn’t been a future in painting for her father either. When her parents had been killed all that remained of their small belongings were numerous paintings, a few ragdolls, and the hessian sewing pouch.
Agatha had given Harriet the sewing pouch on her eighteenth birthday. The needle had not dulled, and the knife and scissors had remained sharp. Agatha had seen to that. A length of embroidery hidden inside had remained as pristine as the day her mother had stitched it, the saucepan shape of the five-star motif intricately woven across the slightly yellowing material.
Harriet blinked. The memories of her parents had faded away. Sometimes she thought she could remember her mother telling her endless stories, but the words didn’t come to her. All she had left to
hold onto was the embroidery and the paintings. She gazed at the nearest painting, her eyes focusing on the bottom right hand corner. “Why have they all got PB marked on them?” she asked absently.
“It’s your father’s initials. He needed to mark them because the paintings were destined for an exhibition. I’ve always particularly liked the one of the church in Ottery St Mary.” Agatha stood to look at the painting more closely.
Harriet clutched at her papers and stared unseeingly at the topmost page. Her favorite picture was the one of Longman’s Cove during a storm, although she liked all of them. They detailed every part of the Devon coast all the way to the beach at Seaton. She watched as her aunt moved across to the painting of Longman’s Cove. It reminded her of the day of the spring storm, patching Tommy up in front of the fire. What had Bill said before she had started stitching Tommy’s shoulder? The Frogs would do anything for British wares?
Harriet crumpled her papers in frustration, blowing an unruly lock of hair out of her face. There was no way a Frenchwoman would ever deign to buy fashionable clothes like Mrs. Madely’s putrid green dress, but the lace on the other hand—
“Are you feeling all right?” Agatha asked with a concerned frown.
“Yes,” Harriet mumbled. She felt lightheaded again. What she had in mind was not for the fainthearted.
A knock resounded at the door.
Agatha groaned. “Please tell me it’s not Bill with another injured man.”
Harriet unfurled the crumpled papers and pushed them into her waiting bag with relief. “I’ll get it.” Smoothing down her skirts, she moved to the door and fumbled at the lock. She opened the door an inch and peered into the darkness. A tall form faced away from her. Harriet sighed. Not again.
“I’m not sewing up any more injured men, you know. You can’t just keep coming here expecting me—Oh.”
The man turned. In every way he looked like Bill, and yet in every way he did not. The dark light hid the fact that his eyes were an emerald green where Bill’s were brown. He was leaner and yet still as muscular. He also caused shivers to course down her spine where Bill did not.
“Lord Stanton.” Harriet swallowed. He didn’t say anything. The silence lengthened.
“Who is it?” Agatha called.
James raised his eyebrows and planted his legs apart. It didn’t look like he would be leaving any time soon.
“Forgive me,” she said stiltedly. Her manners won over. “Do come inside.”
Agatha stood as Harriet opened the door more fully to allow James in.
“James!” Agatha cried in delight, and then wrung her hands. “Do beg my pardon, I quite forgot myself, you must be yes, Lord Stanton now. Oh dear, I’m not quite sure what to call you.”
“James is fine.” James quirked one edge of his lips upwards and walked into the room. Instantly the cottage seemed smaller.
“Hmph.” Harriet couldn’t stop her mutter of indignation.
“What’s that?” James shot her an enquiring look.
“Oh nothing.”
Nothing, my foot. What had he said to her? ‘That’s Lord Stanton to you.’ Bloody man. What made him think he could speak to her like that?
James was still looking at her. She resisted the urge to pat her hair or adjust her skirts. He had known her when she was fourteen and running around barefoot.
“I was wondering if I could speak to Harriet.” James paused and looked at her. “In her capacity as the Brambridge school mistress?” He turned back at Agatha, the strange half smile back again on his face. Harriet resisted the urge to mutter again. He knew exactly how to get what he wanted.
“I, why yes of course.” Agatha glanced at Harriet and twitched her nose warningly. “I’ll be just upstairs.”
Harriet waited until Agatha had disappeared around the bend in the stairwell. “Why are you here?” she asked sharply.
James looked around the cottage and then sank into the chair by the fire. He pushed his legs out in front of him and crossed one long muscular leg over the other. His boots gleamed in the firelight. Harriet couldn’t help contrasting them to her dusty shoes with worn out heels.
“I came to apologize.”
“About time.”
“You see, there you go again. As prickly as a hedgehog. Always lashing out before hearing the full story.”
“And what story were you going to tell me?” Harriet closed her mouth with a snap. She wasn’t normally so waspish.
James sighed in obvious frustration. He uncrossed his legs and stood. “Harriet, I wasn’t going to tell you any story. I wanted to say sorry for being so sharp when you first saw me. I was tired. I was…” His voice faltered. “I was embarrassed that you had so easily managed to trip me up. Of course you can call me James. That’s who I am.” He shrugged his impeccably dressed shoulders. “I don’t feel much like a lord anyway.”
Harriet clenched her fists into the creased muslin of her second best serviceable dress. She wished he hadn’t apologized. It was far easier thinking that he was a cad and a bounder. It helped keep some distance in her mind.
“I must apologize too,” she said stiffly.
“What for?”
Harriet sniffed. “For implying that what the circulars said was true.”
James turned away from her. His shoulders stiffened slightly. “What if it was true, Harriet?” he asked in a low voice. “True that I had killed a man, many men?”
Harriet stilled, then plucked at a curl of hair and pushed it behind her ear. Whatever James was, he wasn’t dishonorable, at least his younger self hadn’t been. He was nothing like his father.
“Then I’d say you had good reason to do it.”
James remained facing away from her. She took a step towards him. He still didn’t turn. Reaching out a hand, she touched gently at his sleeve.
He whirled, his strong hand closing on her wrist. In silence they both looked at where his hot palm warmed her cool skin. One by one James peeled back his fingers and dropped his hand to his side.
“Forgive me again,” he said, turning back to the fire.
She waited but James said nothing. “I believe you wanted to speak to me about the school?”
He nodded and walked over to the wall of paintings. He paced the length of the wall, glancing into every rustic frame. It was a surprise when he spoke again. “I wanted to know who pays you.”
“The estate of course.” Harriet sank into a kitchen chair as surprise filled her. “At least, I thought it was the estate. Edgar pays me at the end of every month.”
“Edgar.” James stopped and threw her a quick look before returning to the paintings. “I like these,” he said abruptly. “The use of dark and light is exemplary. It makes them feel very real.”
“I’m sure you could find my wages in the estate accounts,” Harriet offered. “I receive three and six pence.”
James gazed at her in obvious disbelief. “Three shillings and six pence?”
She folded her arms around her body. “If that is too much, I’m sure I could take three and three pence, although my pupils will have to go without books for a while.”
James leant forward as if he couldn’t see her clearly. “Harriet, don’t you understand you are being paid a pittance? In London those are lower than the wages of the children that sweep the chimneys.”
“I don’t have much cause to go to London.”
He softened his tones. “Harriet, whatever happened to the acting? Why did you choose to become a schoolmistress?”
Harriet bowed her head. How could she ever tell him that when he had left her those years ago, she had panicked? As she had waited, the tide had washed to her feet, threatening to pick her up and push her against the bottom of the cliffs if she waited much longer. Following his path, she had entered the mine. And there she had stayed for six hours, lost in the darkness. Faint from lack of food and water, utterly alone.
That was when she had decided to become a schoolmistress. Without James to save her yet aga
in, her foolhardiness had nearly cost her life.
Schoolmistresses didn’t need anyone to save them.
But then again, nothing exciting ever happened to them.
“It seemed like a good career for me,” she said in low tones. “I am well educated, and there was an opening.”
James stood. Harriet gazed into the fire, shaking her head at a light warm touch to her head.
“You look better with your hair free.” James stood in front of her, a serious expression still dominating his face. He touched one of her unruly locks again. “Even schoolmistresses should have holidays.”
“I—”
“I must go.” Without giving Harriet time to speak, James opened the cottage door and stepped out into the night. She watched as he passed the kitchen window and disappeared through the gate into the lane.
CHAPTER 8
James nodded curtly at Edgar and Bill, who sat at separate tables in the Fountain Inn staring into their drinks. He had slept late, his usual nightmares replaced by recurring visions of falling timbers and choking dust, the shadowy figure coming closer and closer towards a chink of light. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he did not pause and walked out into the yard where he had left Scorpius for a few moments whilst he had returned to fetch his telescope.
What was the matter with him? He could barely think straight. It was unusual for him to have forgotten something. James rested his head against Scorpius’ flank and took a deep breath. First he had grabbed at Harriet as if she was a French soldier-at-arms, and then he had caressed her hair as if his life depended on it. He reached an unsteady hand under the horse and tightened the saddle straps that had only been tied loosely by the inn’s groom.
Scorpius sidled sideways. He rolled his eyes a few times and snorted heavily into the cold stable air. Perhaps a run was in order. He had not been so lively since James had ridden him off the battlefield. It would do him good to feel the wind in his face too.
Scorpius quietened but shifted heavily when James swung himself into the saddle. Urging the horse out of the stable, they made short work of the back lanes out of Brambridge. Hitting the main road to Ottery St Mary at the top of the hill, James let loose with the reins. Scorpius surged forward, faster and faster.
Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) Page 6