“That is a terrible generalisation, Lord Shelford,” asserted Howard.
Charles agreed. “I think we must be careful not to judge these people unfairly, just because they live outside our society.”
“Outside our laws, you mean,” sniffed Lord Shelford.
“They have their own laws,” replied Charles simply.
“They do,” Howard cut in keenly. “And they keep all sorts of interesting customs. Stories are passed down through the generations. Music that makes you want to throw all your inhibitions to the wind.”
“That I can believe,” countered Lord Shelford dryly.
“They do have the most colourful costumes,” sighed Aunt Sarah abstractedly.
The gentlemen paused politely for a moment and then continued their conversation.
Davina found her eye and ear drawn time and again to Lord Delverton.
His eyes blazed as he defended the right of the gypsies to their own long-established way of life. She could not have imagined such passion burned in his breast, for he was so outwardly composed, even severe.
She wondered longingly what it would be like to be the object of such passion.
Her gaze drifted to his brother, Howard.
Davina had to admit that Howard was charming and handsome. His face seemed almost boyish compared to the grave features of his brother.
Whenever he made what he thought was a good point, his eye sought out Davina as if to gauge her response.
Once or twice Howard even winked at her. For some reason this made her blush.
Parfitt circled the table, refilling glasses. Aunt Sarah’s cheeks and nose began to glow. Davina drank only a little, but still she began to feel heady. It had been a fine day, but Lord Shelford had ordered a fire lit in the dining room, as the evenings often proved chilly.
Now the room was growing stuffy. She looked over at the row of French windows. The curtains had still not been drawn but the doors were all shut tight. Perhaps one of them should be opened to let in a little fresh air?
“I think there is a good deal too much nonsense talked about the rights of these people,” began Lord Shelford, when he was interrupted by a piercing scream from Davina.
Charles leapt to his feet, as Davina rose shaking from her chair.
“Good God, madam, what is the matter?” he cried.
Davina lifted stricken eyes to his and then appeared to swoon. He was at her side in an instant, moving so swiftly that Howard and Lord Shelford barely had time to register what was happening.
Charles swept Davina into his arms and carried her to a chaise longue near the fire.
“Water, someone,” he commanded.
Aunt Sarah, pale and wide-eyed, filled a glass from the water jug and hurried to the chaise. Charles took the glass and raised it to Davina’s lips.
“Drink, my dar – drink, Davina,” he urged.
As Davina obeyed, her eyes and his locked. At such close quarters, his ardent concern could not be concealed. For an instant his hand rose as if to sweep her curls from her forehead. Then he seemed to recollect himself. He stood and moved to one side as Lord Shelford knelt by the chaise.
“What was it, my dear daughter? What did you see?”
Davina closed her eyes and shuddered. “There was a – face. At the window. Staring eyes and white, wild hair. It was the ghost! I am sure it was the ghost!”
“Now, now.” Lord Shelford patted his daughter’s hand. “What ghost are you talking about?”
“The ghost of – Evelyn Felk.”
Lord Shelford frowned. “Now this is exactly why I did not want you hearing those stories. You’ve too vivid an imagination, my girl.”
“But there was a face!” wailed Davina.
“Lord Shelford,” said Charles, “permit me to go and search the grounds. That will surely lay this – ghost to rest.”
“A good idea,” nodded Lord Shelford. “I will ring for a lamp.”
A servant brought a lamp and Charles departed. Davina sat up and drank some more water. She was still pale and had started to shiver but she would not retire until Lord Delverton came back from his search.
Lord Shelford rang for Jess to bring a shawl, which Howard then insisted on taking to wrap around Davina’s shoulders. She smiled at him wanly but did not speak.
Charles returned after twenty minutes. His hair was damp and a lock fell over his forehead.
“I saw no one,” he revealed.
Lord Shelford was about to pronounce himself vindicated when Charles raised a hand to silence him.
“However, I did find footprints in the wet clay to the side of the French window. Somebody was there all right.”
Howard gave a low whistle. “Who do you suppose it was?”
“I can tell you who it was,” cried Lord Shelford. “One of the robbers, that’s who!”
There was silence for a moment. Davina shrank fearfully into her shawl.
“That is a distinct possibility,” said Charles at last.
“Oh, dear!” broke out Aunt Sarah. “My house has been empty all this time, just the servants about, and they are hopeless in a crisis. Supposing I have been robbed in my absence? I want to go home! I want to go home!”
“What, tonight, aunt?” asked Howard.
“Yes, tonight,” wailed the old lady. “But supposing I am robbed on the way.”
Charles took his aunt’s hand between his own.
“Calm down, Aunt Sarah,” he said kindly. “I will escort you home and then ride on to Lalham to catch the train to London. I had intended to go on business and might as well leave tonight.”
Howard ran a finger over his lip thoughtfully. “How long will you be away, Charles?”
“Oh, a fortnight or so,” he replied.
Davina felt crushed. A fortnight! A fortnight was as good as forever.
That moment of intimacy with Lord Delverton – his coming so swiftly to her rescue a second time – had begun to make her think he cared for her in the way she wished. Now he was going to London, a city of myriad distractions.
How could she ensure that he did not forget her? She swallowed.
“L-Lord Delverton?”
“Madam?”
Davina blushed. “I should – like to hear news of London – while you are away,” she murmured.
Charles hesitated. He knew what she was asking for and it went against his resolve. How could he withstand the emotion she aroused in him if he corresponded with her while he was away? Aunt Sarah had no such considerations. As far as she was concerned, whether Davina succumbed to Howard or Charles was immaterial. Either of them as groom would have the same beneficial effect on the coffers of the family. She was well aware of Howard looking daggers at his brother, but she did not care. All fires should be fanned, was her philosophy.
“My nephew will be delighted to write to you, Miss Davina,” she said firmly. “Won’t you, Charles?”
He might have been amused at his aunt’s tenacity had it not struck when he felt at his weakest, under the beseeching gaze of this alluring Davina Shelford. However, he could prevaricate no longer. He gave a short bow of assent.
“It will be my pleasure,” he said.
“You – you promise?” Davina breathed.
“I promise,” Charles replied. “Now, aunt, I think it is time we departed, if I am to return you home tonight.”
Their carriage was ordered. The little party gathered in the hall to say their goodbyes, Davina leaning on her father’s arm. Howard was riding back to Lark House alone. He kissed Davina’s hand, his lips lingering on her skin.
Charles simply bowed, but it was his figure that Davina fixed her eyes on as he vanished into the dim, rainy night.
Her heart felt heavy as she thought of the fortnight that stretched ahead.
It would have felt heavier still could she foresee the terrible events that were to befall herself and the man she loved before that fortnight was out.
*
Howard parted from his broth
er and Aunt Sarah at the gates of Priory Park, he to ride east, they to travel west.
Charles rode beside his aunt’s carriage all the way to her home, where he left her in the care of her doughty housekeeper. He then turned north. He would ride until two o’clock and stay at a hostelry near Lalham, where at dawn he would catch the London train.
There was little moon. A damp mist settled about him like a shroud.
His horse trod carefully, the sound of its hooves seeming muffled.
Davina, Davina. Her name fell again and again from his lips. He was painfully bewitched by her. It was agony to know that he could never have her, for he would not woo where he had no security to offer.
His mind was too full of Davina to be mindful of his own safety.
They came at him out of the mist, three or four masked men. The first Charles knew was when his horse shied and reared. The second was when a blow from a cudgel unseated him and he fell heavily from the saddle. He was struggling for his gun when another blow caught him on his temple.
He staggered to his feet, struck out in defence, but the blows fell now from all sides. They came until he sank to his knees and still they came.
He tasted mud and then all sensation vanished, leaving only darkness and the inexorable drip, drip of rain on his unconscious body.
“Davina” was the last word he uttered, the name seeming to rise and float like gossamer in the night air.
CHAPTER FOUR
Davina lay miserably in the dark, listening to a distant rumble of thunder.
Six days had elapsed since the departure of Lord Delverton for London.
Six days of interminable silence, during which she had not received so much as a single word from him.
At first, she had chided herself for her childish impatience. She had to allow Lord Delverton time to arrive at his desk, surely, before she could begin to expect a letter!
He must sharpen his pen, fill his inkwell, set out his paper, wait for inspiration. Once he had written to her, he must fold the letter, set his seal, send for his servant to take the letter to the post.
After five days of silence, however, she felt she had to face the truth.
Lord Delverton had forgotten her. The glitter of London had erased his promise to Davina from his mind.
She began to sink into a deep melancholy.
Her mood was not alleviated by the visits of Howard. She barely registered his attentions, the bouquets of sweet smelling flowers he brought, the chocolates ordered from the special store in Lalham. She only turned her full gaze on him when he mentioned Charles.
Howard noted this with a frown.
He did not know whether Charles had an interest in Davina, but it was obvious Davina had an interest in Charles. This must be sharply nipped in the bud! All was fair in love and war. He was as good a match for Davina Shelford as his brother.
Better, he believed, for he was not so serious and was far more experienced with the fairer sex. He was convinced it was only a matter of time before he won Davina’s favour.
To hold Davina’s attention, Howard began to talk more and more about his brother. Soon he was insinuating that Charles had an eye for the ladies and was easily infatuated. He almost felt a twinge of guilt when he saw Davina’s eyes mist over, but he knew he must eradicate all yearning for Charles from her heart before he could begin his own courtship.
“My poor brother,” he sighed, “cannot resist a pretty face. It is the reason he is not married, although he is thirty years old and should be thinking about producing a Delverton heir. In the six months he has been back from Africa, he has squandered all his money on the ladies. Scores of them.”
Scores of them! These words now haunted Davina as she listened to the approaching storm.
Her face felt hot in the stifling room. She threw aside her bedclothes and lay there in her silken shift. Lightning lit up the window behind the curtains and the growling thunder was like a beast let loose in the skies.
She moaned as she imagined Lord Delverton at this very instant in someone’s embrace. Someone else’s embrace.
She had misconceived his character just as she had misconceived the character of Felix Boyer. She was a silly, naïve fool. She would never in a million years have guessed Charles to be a philanderer, but if Howard did not know his brother, who did?
The window, that she had left on the latch, blew wide open. The storm seemed to rush into the room, catching Davina up in its wake and flinging her down again into an abyss of despair.
She felt helpless in its force and longed deeply for strong and capable arms to hold her steady.
Arms that she increasingly felt could never be those of Lord Delverton!
*
In a place not too far distant, but unknown to Davina, Charles stirred his head in the dark and groaned. The thunder without seemed to roll and crash within his very skull. His eyelids were as heavy as lead and it was with effort that he opened them.
Where was he? A fire glowing dully in a hearth was all he saw at first, but each flash of lightening revealed a little more of his surroundings. A three-legged stool, a low, wooden door, rafters under thatch, a thin blanket covering him on the bed in which he lay. A window, such as those found in the cottages of poor tenant farmers.
Rain drummed on the thatch above.
How had he come to be in such a place? He struggled to remember.
There had been hooves on a dark road, then figures looming out of the mist.
He frowned as he recalled harsh voices – blows – the taste of mud.
After that, all was as a dream. There had been the flickering light of a fire – this same fire that burned before him now, no doubt. A cool flannel on his brow, a phial held to his lips, a voice urging him to drink. A liquid that seemed to burn his tongue. Tossing and turning on this pallet that smelled of hay.
A tall figure with dark hair, floating in and out of his consciousness.
Another figure, almost grotesque, with a shock of white hair and maddened eyes. This latter creature cackled at his bedside or crouched before the fire rocking to and fro on her heels.
One vision swam before him that was a balm to his shattered mind.
A girl with violet eyes, gazing sweetly at him. Now as he thought on this ghostly image, a name came to him. Davina. “Davina”, he murmured aloud, and the sudden stab in his heart told him that this beautiful creature had at some point been a source of pain as well as comfort.
Attempting to rise from the bed, he realised he was injured. His right arm was in a crude sling and his head swam as he sat up. Lifting his hand, he felt a bandage about his brow. He swung his legs to the floor and winced.
His joints were stiff and he needed all the will power he possessed to climb to his feet.
He staggered to the door and opened it, his eye drawn immediately to the blaze of logs in a wide hearth.
At the creak of the hinge, a figure at the fireside started up. A bowl of hot milk clattered to the floor, a flash of worsted cloth passed before his eye and the figure was gone, like a cat frightened from its corner.
Charles was alone again. Or so he thought.
There was the tinkle of bracelets from the shadows and a woman stepped into the firelight.
She was carrying a pewter plate on which lodged a hunk of bread. A scarlet shawl was draped about her shoulders. These details escaped Charles completely, however, for his breath had almost stopped in his throat at the sight of the woman’s face.
She had proud, dark, Romany features. Ebony hair tumbled to her waist and her almond-shaped eyes were the colour of jet. Her lips were lustrous, glinting like red berries on a winter bough. Everything about her – the profusion of bracelets, the green embroidered petticoats, the gold hooped ear-rings – suggested a gypsy. Her bearing, however, was as haughty and regal as that of an Egyptian queen.
Her voice when she spoke was deep and assured.
“So, you have risen,” she said.
Charles managed a slight bow. �
�Indeed, madam. But it seems I am at your mercy and perhaps even in your debt.”
The woman’s eyes flashed in such surprise at the word ‘madam’ that he dimly realised she had not often been treated with the usual social courtesies.
He waved a hand at the stool. “My – apologies.I scared away your guest.”
“No matter. She will come again,” replied the gypsy.
The next moment she was at his side as he swayed with sudden dizziness and groped for support. Grasping his elbow with her free hand, she guided him to the stool and helped him to sit.
“It is no surprise that you are so weak,” she murmured with concern. “You have taken no food for many days.”
Charles stared up at her. “How many days?”
“Six.”
He digested this information in astonished silence. He felt too weak to ask the questions that were plaguing his mind. He leaned against the wall and watched in a daze while the gypsy crumbled the bread she was carrying into a pot that swung on a hook over the fire.
She stirred the bubbling contents for a moment and then ladled some out into a bowl that had been warming on the hearth.
“Take this,” she commanded, handing him the bowl and a spoon.
Charles obeyed, but after only a few listless mouthfuls he put down the spoon.
“I cannot,” he muttered.
“It is soup made with rabbit. It is not good?”
“It is very good. But – I do not feel hungry.”
The gypsy came close and pressed a hand to his forehead. “That is because you still have a fever,” she stated calmly.
As she drew her hand back, his attention was caught by a glint from her left hand. It came from a red stone set in a gold ring.
Something about it disturbed him, but he could not think what. The next moment he had forgotten the ring, as the gypsy took the spoon and bowl from his hands.
“Come,” she said simply. “You must return to the bed I made for you. You must rest some more.”
“Rest more? Impossible. I must – I must be gone.”
The gypsy said nothing but a wry smile played about her lips as Charles rose unsteadily to his feet and took a few steps towards the cottage door. A moment later he buckled and sank insensibly to the ground.
Theirs to Eternity Page 5