by Louise Allen
She had to stop thinking about him. I am the only person I can rely on, no one is going to help me if I do not help myself. And she could achieve nothing shut up inside, Caroline knew that. Her old world of certainties and duty and acceptance of the limitations of a lady’s powers lay in ruins. She would not submit to marrying Woodruffe and that meant she must act.
She had even thought through a strategy over the past few days: go downstairs and assess Pa... Father’s temper and intentions. If he had no intention of yielding, then gather money, jewels, information and escape. Somehow. There would be no help from Lucas, for although he had been shocked by their father’s violent outburst, he still shared his opinion that Caroline should marry as he directed.
But Anthony was a constant worry. What if he did something to arouse such violence in his father? And if she left home it was going to be horribly difficult to meet with him. One thing at a time, she told herself. If I am married to that man I would be equally helpless to look after Anthony. This way I can write, I could see him when he is at school perhaps.
She dressed with care and went downstairs. Her father and Lucas were at breakfast, the table littered with news sheets and the scattered pages of opened letters. Lucas stood up as she came in, her father merely grunted and went back to his reading.
Caroline found a soft roll and some scrambled eggs and took her place at the table and began to eat, favouring the left side of her jaw. Her father shot her a penetrating look, nodded, presumably with approval at her unbruised appearance, and turned to Lucas.
‘The hermit has had his first night in the folly now. I’ll not disturb him for a few days, let him settle in.’
She had not intended joining in the conversation, but this was startling enough to make her forget that. ‘You have found a hermit, Father?’
He did not appear to notice that she had stopped calling him Papa. Somehow the affectionate diminutive was impossible to use for a man who had raised his hand to her.
‘I put it about at my clubs that I was looking for one and he turned up, don’t know how he heard about it, although the fellow is a gentleman of sorts. He seems ideal. Educated fellow, for all that he looks as though he hasn’t had a haircut or a shave for six months. Says he’s a poet or some such nonsense. Wants to write in peace and quiet. Told him he can do what he pleases as long as he wears the costume and looks the part. I’ll not send warning that we’ll be about when we do go, so I’ll catch him unawares, see how he performs.’
‘Are you going to the Home Farm this morning, Father?’ Lucas looked up from his correspondence.
‘Yes.’ The earl lifted a bundle of papers. ‘These are the plans for the new Model Farm that Hardwick sent over from Wimpole Hall in Cambridgeshire. Their new buildings are excellent, we’ll see how they’d do for our site.’
They left together soon afterwards. Caroline looked out across the sweep of the South Lawn, over the invisible line of the ha-ha to the shoulder of Trinity Hill. Just visible above it was the tower of an apparently ancient chapel which had, in reality, only just been completed.
She finished her cup of tea and pushed back her chair without waiting for the footman to help her. She needed exercise and fresh air and the faux hermitage was one place where her father was not this morning. An unkempt poetry-writing hermit might not tempt her to linger long, but at least he would give her walk a destination.
* * *
The slope of Trinity Hill was gentle, but for someone who had been shut up inside with no exercise for days it was enough to bring a glow of perspiration to her face and an ache to her legs. Caroline reached the point where she could look down on the lake and on the hermitage, apparently deserted in its shady grove of trees.
She was not at all certain she wanted to converse with a professional hermit, for he must be a strange creature, but curiosity drew her down the slope to the clearing. The door to the chapel stood open and in front, on the other side of the path, a rough trestle table had been created by balancing a slab of wood on two tree stumps. A log was set in front of it as a seat and the table was laid with a pitcher, a pewter plate and a horn beaker, the remains of the hermit’s breakfast, she supposed. As she watched, a robin flew down and pecked hopefully around in pursuit of crumbs.
Treading with care, Caroline approached the chapel and glanced at the open door. No movement within, but she did not feel she had the right to pry by entering.
Then the sound of a twig snapping brought her round to face the path up from the little lake, the robin flew away in whir of wings and a tall robed figure walked into the clearing.
The man stopped when he saw her and stared, just as she was doing, she supposed. What did one say to a recluse, even an ornamental one? He was certainly not her idea of a hermit, which was a white-bearded, stooped figure supported by a staff. This man was big, with a mass of thick black curling hair that fell across his brow and shadowed his eyes and a beard that, although not long, covered his lower face completely. It made him look older than he probably was, for he moved like a young, fit man and there was no grey showing in the black hair that brushed the folded-back hood of his brown robe.
His hair was wet, catching the sunlight that filtered through the tree canopy, and droplets of water hung in his beard like improbable diamonds. He must have been bathing in the lake, she realised. In one hand he held a battered leather satchel, perhaps containing soap and a towel.
‘Good morning,’ Caroline ventured, wondering if a clean hermit was a contradiction in terms.
He inclined his head, but said nothing. Nor did he move any closer.
‘Has my father forbidden you to speak? I am Lady Caroline Holm. I hope the kitchen sent you food or do you go down to collect it yourself? You must let us know if there is anything you need.’
His silence was unnerving, but not as unsettling as the feeling of familiarity that was growing as they stood there separated by ten feet of leaf litter and sparse turf. Then, maddeningly, he inclined his head again.
‘Which of my questions is that an answer to?’ she demanded.
The thicket of beard moved as though he was smiling, but with his eyes in shadow she could not be certain. Of course, if he had been forbidden to speak then it had been quite illogical of her to follow on with more questions.
‘Are you required to keep silent?’
The man cleared his throat. ‘No, my lady.’ He spoke quietly, but the deep voice was quite clear in the still, warm air. It had an attractive lilt to it. ‘I have food, I thank you.’
‘You are not English, are you? Your accent is unfamiliar.’
‘It is a Welsh accent, my lady.’
‘Oh.’ Then that sense of knowing him was completely illusory. How strange. It must be her need for someone to talk to, to confide in. To plan with, if she could trust them. But all her friends were in London, or away at country houses or at the seaside and she had hardly had a conversation for weeks, except with her maid. ‘You are comfortable here?’
In response the hermit gestured to the open door of the chapel. He did not move and when she took a step towards the building he sat down at his makeshift table as though to reassure her that it was safe to enter, that he would not follow.
Inside all pretence of a religious building disappeared. There was a single whitewashed room with a bed made up with coarse sheets, blankets and a worn patchwork quilt. A table and chair stood in the middle of the space and a chipped stone sink was propped up on empty crates that served as makeshift shelves. A wide fireplace with logs stacked beside it was set into what must be the base of the tower, which would disguise the chimney, and a rag rug on the stone floor provided the only touch of decoration or comfort.
Bleak, but weather-tight and warm enough during the summer. She only hoped her father did not expect the man to stay here in all seasons. There was a small pile of books on the table, some pap
er and an inkwell and pen. Tools for a poet, she supposed, resisting the temptation to see what he was reading—or writing.
When she left the folly he stood up again and she sensed he was smiling. ‘It seems rather comfortless,’ she observed. ‘Are you certain there is nothing that you need?’
‘I am a hermit, my lady. I am supposed to live the simple life.’
‘You are acting the hermit,’ she corrected. ‘There is no need for you to endure such a Spartan existence in reality.’
‘His lordship requires authenticity and he employs me.’ He shrugged. ‘When he brings visitors to view the scene nothing must jar.’
He was certainly conscientious. Caroline knew she would have been tempted to smuggle in some comforts if she was in his place. ‘What is your name?’
There was a long pause and she wondered if she had disconcerted him. Then he said, ‘Petrus.’
‘That means Peter, doesn’t it? Peter the Hermit. Why does that sound familiar?’ Caroline wrestled with the elusive memory. ‘Of course—Peter the Hermit, the First Crusade.’
Now she was certain he was taken aback. Bother that impenetrable beard. ‘You are well read, my lady. It is simply coincidence, not a deliberate choice.’
‘I will leave you in peace, Petrus, you will want to get dry...’ Caroline could feel herself blushing. She most certainly could not discuss a strange man’s washing arrangements. To add to her discomfort her imagination conjured up the vision of that tall, broad-shouldered figure naked in the lake, the water streaming off his chest as he stood up, the thick black hair tossed back from his face.
‘Oh!’ Before she was aware of moving, of turning to leave before her treacherous mind conjured up any more shocking images, her foot caught in something. She had a split second to realise it was a tree root as she went flying to land in a sprawling, inelegant heap. ‘Ouch!’
‘What hurts?’ Petrus knelt beside her, then caught her by the shoulders as she tried to lever herself up.
‘My left wrist.’ Caroline managed to sit. ‘The leaf mould is soft, but I put out my hand and I... I hurt it a while ago. No, it is all right—’
His fingers were circling her wrist, gentle and firm and all-enveloping. With the other hand he pushed back her sleeve to expose her forearm. There was silence as she went still in his grasp, watching the bent head as he studied the pattern of fading bruises that still encircled her arm. The sprain where her father had jerked her towards him, held her as she fell, was still a little sore.
‘Who did that?’ Petrus still did not look up and the lilting voice was steady, but she could feel the shock and the anger coursing through him even though she could not see his face.
‘It was an accident. I fell and my...someone caught my arm to steady me.’
‘No, they did not.’ He rebutted her lie quite calmly. ‘These are not the marks of someone catching you, but of someone holding you forcibly, as though they intended to hurt you. Who was it? Your brother or your father?’
‘Lucas would never—I mean no one wants to hurt me.’
‘So it was your father.’ He stood and held out his hand so she could take it with her uninjured right.
There did not seem to be any point in arguing with him. Caroline allowed him to pull her to her feet. ‘It is none of your business,’ she said as she found herself standing with her nose virtually pressed against the rough cloth of his robe.
‘And I am merely an employee,’ the hermit observed. ‘Of course, a husband is permitted by law to beat his wife with a rod no thicker than his thumb and a father may chastise his children. But you are not a child.’ His voice became harder, angry.
‘No. I am not.’ We are both adults.
The fingers wrapped around hers were strong and still slightly cool from the lake water. Standing so close, she could smell damp wool from his robe and the sharp tannin scent of crushed bracken and leaf mould and something indefinable that must be the scent of his skin. A little shiver of recognition, as elusive as a breath of wind, stirred her and he let go of her hand and stepped back.
‘I am sorry, my lady. It is not my business, as you say. But is there no one to take your side, for you to confide in? Who looks after you?’
‘Why, no one! I am twenty-three, Petrus the Hermit, and I have people to look after, not the other way around. Or do you think all women are feeble little things who need keeping in cotton wool?’
‘No, I do not. Nor do I think they are fair game for any man who feels he has a right to bully and abuse those who cannot fight back, for whatever reason.’ He walked away from her towards the chapel, then stopped and half-turned in the doorway. ‘You should go, my lady. You should not be here alone with me.’
The sense of recognition was almost déjà vu now. Something about the way he stood there, one hand on the door, the way the broad shoulders filled the frame, the utterly relaxed pose that hinted at an ability to move instantly if the need arose... Caroline gave herself a brisk mental shake. She had never met a bearded Welshman before, her mind was playing tricks on her. The only tall, black-haired, broad-shouldered man she knew was miles away in London, probably nursing a hangover or totting up his gambling winnings. Or just getting up from the bed of some sophisticated and beautiful woman.
Petrus lifted his head, no longer relaxed. ‘Someone is coming. Two horses.’
Without a word Caroline turned and plunged down the narrow path that led through the bushes to the lake. It must be her father and Lucas, but she would be safe down here, the path was too steep and narrow for riders to follow.
She reached the shelter of an ancient oak tree and moved behind the massive trunk, round to where honeysuckle had created a tangled screen. Looking up, she could see the area in front of the chapel door where Petrus stood waiting.
The horses moved into the space, large hunters, ridden with no thought that they might be intimidating to a man on foot. Petrus stood his ground, then bowed, his hands inside the wide sleeves of his habit, the gesture somehow utterly lacking in servility and with a hint of the exotic about it.
‘You have made yourself at home, I see.’ Her father’s voice carried clearly. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Eating my breakfast, bathing in the lake, contemplating a rhyme for bruise, my lord.’ Petrus’s voice was respectful and yet lilting through it was a thread of laughter, of mockery that had a dangerous edge to it.
Bruise. He had been angry when he saw her arm, angry when he realised who had inflicted the fading brownish-purple fingermarks that circled it like a malevolent bracelet. She should have been wary, on her guard approaching a complete stranger like that, and yet she had felt safe, even when he had touched her, even when the savage note had marred the liquid music of his accent.
Her father appeared to have noticed nothing amiss with the hermit’s tone, but then he would never believe that an employee would dare to mock him, let alone threaten him. What was the status of a professional hermit anyway? Was he a servant or did he have a professional standing akin to an artist or architect called in to provide a service? she wondered, smiling a little at her own whimsy.
‘Very good, carry on as you are.’ No, her father had heard nothing amiss and his self-centred imagination had not picked up on the oddity of Petrus’s remark about bruises. ‘I have house guests arriving in three days’ time. I will send word of when I want you to be here, but the first evening I think you should be seen at a distance, wandering across the hillside. It will intrigue the company before dinner, make a topic for conversation. You will receive detailed instructions.’
House guests? Who? And why hasn’t Father told me? Now she had to get back to the house without being seen and wait until he deigned to inform her. She could hardly ask straight out or she would betray where she had been. When she looked back her father and Lucas had ridden on and the little clearing was empty.
&
nbsp; It would be quickest to return to the chapel, cut down through the slope above the kitchen gardens and enter the house from there. She would then appear to have been inspecting the vegetable and flower crops if anyone noticed her slightly muddied boots.
Caroline crossed the clearing silently. The chapel door was still open and she could hear the hermit moving about inside. As she tiptoed past he spoke, one loud, angry swear word that made her gasp. Then something hit the door and fell to the ground. For an appalled moment she thought the brown huddle was an animal, then a fold flopped over and she saw it was his robe.
Which meant the chapel contained one angry, damp, naked hermit. She picked up her skirts and fled.
Chapter Five
‘Woodruffe will be visiting in three days,’ her father announced at dinner. ‘Thought I would make a house party of it so Calderbeck’s coming and Turnbull—they are sound on landscape design—and Lucas has invited some friends.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Caroline’s heart sank. She had always thought it an exaggerated phrase, but it perfectly described the unpleasant lurch in her chest at the thought of her unwelcome suitor’s presence in the house. ‘Who have you invited, Lucas?’
‘Frampton, the Willings brothers and Perry Ratcliff.’ Lucas hardly looked up from his attempts to carve a tough chicken.
‘Seven, then. An all-male party?’ She tried to sound interested and positive.
‘Yes.’ Her father helped himself from the dish of buttered peas.
‘I had best ask Aunt Gertrude to stay.’ Caroline chased a sliver of beef around her plate. For once the idea of her aunt’s fierce chaperonage was welcome.
‘I don’t want my sister’s Friday face around the place for a week. What do you need a chaperon for when you’re in your own home with your father and brother? I’ve no time for this missish nonsense.’