Hunter rode on his great black horse. Mrs Hunter and Phoebe sat in Hunter’s fine coach, Mrs Hunter not wishing to ruin hers by trailing it through, as the lady put it, the mud of all the moor. The baskets of linens and food were fastened in the boot.
Within each farmstead Hunter spoke to the man of the house, he who was holding the tenancy to farm the land, and eke some measure of living from it. From what Phoebe could hear their conversations seemed to centre on breeds of sheep, trout in the lochs, deer and the maintenance of the farm buildings. While Hunter dealt with that side of it, Mrs Hunter was in her element bestowing sheets, blankets and great hampers of food on the wives. Between each farm she moaned incessantly about the mud dirtying her shoes and the wind ruining her hair. But once in the farms Phoebe could see that Mrs Hunter was secretly enjoying herself.
One of the farmsteads, the closest to Blackloch and located on a particularly bleak stretch of the moor, housed a family of eight children, all girls, the oldest of which looked to be only ten or eleven years of age. The younger girls, dressed in clothes that looked worn and shabby, were running about the yard when the carriage drew up. The older girls were helping their mother peg wet washing to a drying line. All activity ceased as the coach rolled into the yard.
The woman’s husband, the tenant sheep farmer, was a thin, grey-haired man with a kind but work-worn face. He looked as if life on the moor was not an easy existence. Hunter and the man must have been talking of the barn for the pair of them were looking and pointing in that direction before walking off towards the small wooden building.
The small girls gathered round Mrs Hunter and Phoebe in silence, their little faces in awe of their visitors, their hands and fronts of their smocks revealing that they had been busy playing in the dirt.
‘Oh, Mrs Hunter, ma’am.’ The mother hastened to greet them, pink cheeked and breathless, and Phoebe saw the wash of embarrassment on Mrs Hunter’s face as her gaze dropped to the woman’s heavily swollen belly. Mrs Hunter glanced around almost as if checking that her son was not witnessing the woman’s condition. And now Hunter’s request for his mother’s presence seemed to make sense and Phoebe felt ashamed at her thoughts over his motive.
‘Such a pleasure, ma’am. I was just doing the washing for it is a fine drying day.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Hunter and smiled as if she understood completely, even though Phoebe doubted whether Mrs Hunter had ever had to give a thought to the washing and drying of clothes in the whole of her life.
‘Our Martha loves working in the big house. She cannae speak highly enough of you and Mr Hunter, ma’am,’ the woman gushed.
Mrs Hunter smiled magnanimously and said to Phoebe, ‘Martha Beattie is a maid of all at Blackloch.’
Phoebe thought of the freckle-faced young girl who lit the fires and drew the water and swept the stairs.
The footman carried over two baskets, setting them down upon a bench in the yard and opening the lids for the farmer’s wife to see the linens in one and food in the other, before leaving to answer Hunter’s summons.
‘Oh, bless you, ma’am, bless you. I’ve never enough baby linens to go round. Rosie and Meg are still in nappies, and I didnae ken how I was gonnae manage wi’ the other wee one on her way.’ She patted her hugely rounded stomach.
The children’s eyes lit up when they saw the hamper of food. Soon their curiosity overcame their awe and they edged closer.
‘Can I offer you some water, or a little ale?’ Mrs Beattie asked.
But Mrs Hunter declined graciously.
‘Let me get this emptied so that you can take the baskets away back wi’ you.’ And the woman lifted both baskets.
Mrs Hunter frowned. ‘Should you be …?’
Phoebe stepped forwards. ‘Please allow me to help you with that, Mrs Beattie.’
‘Ocht, they’re no’ heavy, no’ next to a load of wet wash. Never be botherin’ yoursel’, miss.’
But Phoebe had taken hold of the baskets, which were, she could confirm, most definitely too heavy to be carried by a woman in Mrs Beattie’s condition.
She carried the baskets into the cottage and set them down where Mrs Beattie directed, before helping the woman to unpack their contents. The cottage was clean, scrubbed and well swept, but the rooms were small and the bedroom in which they were piling the linens was tiny with barely room for more than the bed.
Phoebe and Mrs Beattie made their way back outside just in time to see toddler Rosie fall over beside Mrs Hunter. The toddler began to cry and tried to right herself, reaching with little muddy hands for the lady’s fine silk skirt.
‘No, Rosie!’ shouted her mother, trying to rush forwards and prevent the calamity that everyone standing there in the yard could see unfolding before their eyes.
Phoebe reacted in an instant, sprinting and scooping the child up into her arms just in time, cuddling her in close so she would feel safe and secure. ‘Oops a daisy, Rosie. Up you get.’
The little girl looked at her, fat tear drops balancing on the end of her lashes, her little nose all pink and wet.
‘Have you been making some lovely mudpies?’
Rosie nodded.
Phoebe smiled at Rosie, ‘And what’s all this wet all over your face?’ she asked. Rosie sniffed back a sob.
‘Shall we wipe it all nice and clean?’ She set the little girl carefully on her feet out of reach of Mrs Hunter’s dress; taking out her handkerchief, Phoebe wiped the child’s nose and tucked the handkerchief in the pocket of the little mud-smeared smock. ‘Just like a big girl,’ she whispered.
Rosie patted her pocket. ‘A big girl,’ she said with a shy smile.
‘I’m ever so sorry, ma’am, miss.’ Mrs Beattie was looking from Mrs Hunter to Phoebe.
‘There was no harm done,’ said Mrs Hunter, but she lifted her skirts and started to make her way back to the carriage. ‘And now we must be moving on. We are visiting quite a few of the farmsteads this afternoon.’
Phoebe smiled to reassure Mrs Beattie, who had taken a firm hold of Rosie’s hand. ‘Good luck for the baby when it comes,’ she said quietly.
‘There’s a month to wait yet, but thank you, miss.’ Mrs Beattie smiled and then her eyes shifted to Phoebe’s side. ‘Mr Hunter, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsy and hurried away to catch hold of another small child.
‘Mrs Beattie.’ Hunter nodded and Phoebe jumped at the sudden sound of his voice beside her. He leaned closer and said quietly to Phoebe, ‘You will have no handkerchiefs left at this rate.’ And she remembered their first meeting upon the moor when he had rescued her. Their eyes met just for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to send a myriad of shimmering sensations racing through her body just as if he had pulled her into his arms and lowered his mouth to take her own. She blushed and quickly averted her gaze.
‘Phoebe!’ called Mrs Hunter with impatience.
Fortunately for Mrs Hunter there was only one more tenant to be visited and he was without children, muddy or otherwise. He was an old man, tall and thin, but slightly bent, his hands large and ruddy, his knuckles enlarged with age and too many years of hard living. Dressed in his brown overalls and an old woollen work jacket patched at the elbows, he walked forwards to meet Hunter’s horse, pulling a cloth cap from his head to reveal some sparse white hair as he did so.
Phoebe was surprised to see Hunter dismount and grip the man’s hand in a warm greeting. The coldness had vanished from his face. Indeed, he was smiling so warmly and sincerely that it quite transformed his face, lighting all of the darkness to reveal something very different in its place. Phoebe stared and could not look away, shocked at the difference in him. And she felt a warmth steal over her heart.
She blushed at the feeling and at her staring, and glanced round at Mrs Hunter to see if she had noticed, but Mrs Hunter was also watching Hunter, and with a less-than-convivial expression. Her face was thoughtful, her mood sombre as if seeing him like this brought back memories that saddened her.
‘I am
sure Sebastian can manage this one by himself, Phoebe. McInnes lives alone so there can be no need here of female sensibilities. Besides, I am feeling a little tired.’
Hunter glanced round at the carriage at that moment, expecting to see his mother and Phoebe alighting.
Mrs Hunter looked away, but not before Phoebe had seen that the lady’s eyes were blinking back the tears.
And when she looked at Hunter again he was making his way towards the carriage with a grim expression upon his face.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I have a headache. I believe I shall return to Blackloch,’ Mrs Hunter said without even looking round at Hunter.
‘This is the last farmstead. We are for home after this.’
‘I cannot wait; I am leaving now.’
‘Will you not at least step out of the carriage and show your face to McInnes? He will be insulted if you do not.’
‘What do I care for McInnes’s thoughts?’ Mrs Hunter glared at her son. ‘He is a tenant. Little more than a peasant grubbing in the dirt with his sheep and his hens. Lord, Sebastian, you always did treat him better than your own fath—’ She bit off the word but even to Phoebe it was obvious what she had intended to say. Mrs Hunter set her face straight ahead, stubbornness and fury was etched into its every line.
Hunter stilled. Phoebe saw the tightening in his jaw as if he was clenching his teeth, controlling some strong emotion.
‘He is an old man.’ Hunter said quietly so that McInnes would not hear. ‘Put aside your personal grievances for me in this one instance. He has a mare not long foaled. Come, ask him about it.’
But Mrs Hunter’s face remained front facing and stubbornly defiant as if she had heard not a word her son had spoken.
‘He is ill,’ Hunter said, and then added, ‘Mother … please.’ Phoebe could see what it cost him to plead.
‘He is ill?’ Mrs Hunter turned to him, anger and hurt blazing in her eyes. ‘Your father was ill! What care had you about him?’
Hunter’s face seemed to bleach while his eyes darkened. His lips pressed firm. He turned and walked away without another word.
Phoebe knew she had to act quickly. ‘Ma’am, you are unwell, and little wonder when you have suffered a headache the day long and still undertaken all with a smile for the sake of those who admire and respect you.’ She paused, knowing that she might be risking too much in what she was about to say, but she spoke the words anyway. ‘I could make your apologies to Mr McInnes and see to the linen and the food … if you so wish.’
Mrs Hunter looked at her for a moment and Phoebe could see the anger and jealousy still simmering, and, behind that veil, the hurt and the grief.
‘Thank you Phoebe, that is what I was about to ask.’ Mrs Hunter looked away before the tears could betray her completely.
Phoebe nodded.
Hunter started to talk to McInnes, again, drawing the old man away from the carriage and his mother. McInnes was no fool—Hunter knew he would realise the truth. Then he saw the old man’s gaze shift back to the carriage and he heard the crunch of footsteps; when he turned there was Phoebe Allardyce walking beside the footman and his hamper, carrying an armful of linen.
‘Good afternoon, Mr McInnes. I am afraid that Mrs Hunter is quite unwell with a headache, but she has sent you some linen and some small extras, too, and she asked if I would be so kind as to enquire as to your mare. Mr Hunter was telling us that she recently foaled.’ Miss Allardyce smiled a tremulous smile at the old man.
‘Very kind of Mrs Hunter. Please be sure to thank her for me.’ McInnes kneaded the cloth cap between his hands and gave a respectful nod and a tug of his forelock towards the shadowy figure of the woman within the carriage.
And Hunter watched with surprise as a gloved hand appeared through the carriage window in an acknowledging wave.
‘This is Miss Allardyce, my mother’s companion,’ said Hunter, and his eyes met those of Phoebe Allardyce both in warning and question.
Then McInnes took the linen and the small hamper and disappeared with them into his tiny stone cottage, only to reappear in the doorway a minute later with a stone bottle in his hand. ‘Will you be taking a dram, Mr Hunter?’
‘Not today, thank you, McInnes. Mrs Hunter is unwell, I should be returning her to Blackloch. I will drop in when I am passing tomorrow.’
The old man nodded, then shifted his rheumy gaze to Miss Allardyce. ‘Do you want to see the foal so that you might tell Mrs Hunter?’
‘Could I?’
He had to admit that Miss Allardyce’s acting skills were of the first order. She managed somehow to make her face glow with delight; her eyes were bright and her smile broad and warm as she looked at McInnes.
McInnes gave a chuckle. ‘Just a quick peek, mind, so as no’ to keep Mrs Hunter waitin’.’
And just like that, Alasdair McInnes was won over by the girl who was lying to her employer, and who was steadily working a search through Blackloch by stealth, no doubt with a view to theft. She was dangerous, Hunter thought. And not only with her lies and her subterfuge. She was dangerous enough to tempt a man, to make him forget what it was that drove him through every hour of every day. Even now he was too aware of her, of her slender neck with its soft velvet skin that he had nuzzled and mouthed, of the small dimple that appeared in the corner of her mouth when she smiled, and the sweep of her long dark-red eyelashes, and the depths in those clear brown eyes.
He watched her absorbed in what the old man was telling her, with her shabby plain blue dress and her prim pinned hair, and that most wonderful warm smile. Yes, Miss Phoebe Allardyce was definitely the most dangerous woman he had ever met. The sooner he discovered what she was up to and she was out of his house, the better.
Chapter Seven
The sunset had lit the moor in a fire of red hues but, for once, Sebastian Hunter was paying no attention. He had not seen Phoebe Allardyce since their return to Blackloch the previous day, yet he had been thinking of her and the mystery she presented without respite.
‘You are sure that she met with no one either before or after her visit to the Tolbooth?’ Hunter asked as he leaned against the mantel above the fireplace.
McEwan made himself comfortable in one of the winged chairs before the empty fireplace and sipped at his brandy. ‘Quite sure. The only time she was out of my sight was when she entered the building of the gaol itself. There was no man.’
Hunter’s thumb toyed absently with the cleft in his chin and his eyes narrowed in thought. ‘How the hell are we going to find him?’ he murmured almost to himself.
‘How goes your side of the campaign? Has she searched any of the other rooms?’
‘The bedchambers—mine and my mother’s. Nothing was taken that I can see.’
‘But if nothing was taken? You are certain she was searching the rooms?’
‘Oh, I am sure of it,’ said Hunter grimly.
‘What can she be looking for?’ McEwan frowned in puzzlement.
‘I suspect the answer to that question is the key to solving the whole damn mystery.’
‘And how are we to find the answer? Short of catching the girl in the act with the Hunter family silver in her pocket?’
‘I suppose I will have to keep an even closer eye on Miss Allardyce than I have been doing.’ Hunter made no mention of just how close an eye he had been keeping on his mother’s companion, or of how the prospect both compelled and taunted him. ‘My mother’s safety is paramount.’
‘Absolutely. We should stop at nothing to discover Miss Allardyce’s scheme.’
The pounding of the wolf’s-head knocker woke Phoebe in the night. Over the sound of heavy rain drumming against the peat land outside there was the sound of footsteps running up and down the stairs, of hushed voices, and small scrapes and bangs from Hunter’s room as if he were opening and closing drawers or cupboards. Phoebe rose from her bed, pulled a shawl around her shoulders and peeped out into the hallway. A couple of wall sconce candles had been lit
, casting the passageway in a dim flickering light.
And just at that same moment Hunter emerged from his bedchamber, pulling his great caped riding coat over his dark coat and breeches. His hair was ruffled and dark as a raven’s wing, and over his cheeks and chin Phoebe could see the shadow of his beard’s growth. He looked piratical, wicked and dangerously handsome. His gaze met hers and that same tremulous feeling fluttered right through her.
‘A coach has come off the road. Assistance is required at the scene of the accident.’
‘There may be ladies present amongst the passengers. I will come with you and help, if you will give me but a moment to dress.’
‘You offer is appreciated, but unnecessary. The moor is difficult to negotiate in the dark and rain. As I said, I will deal with the matter. Go back to bed, Miss Allardyce.’ He glanced towards his mother’s door, which remained shut.
‘Mrs Hunter has taken one of her sleeping draughts. I doubt the rumpus will wake her.’
A nod of the head and he was gone, his great coat swirling out behind him and only the sound of his booted steps running down the stairs. She heard the distant thump of the back door as she returned to her room to dress.
Downstairs a few servants were huddled in the hallway, discussing the possible severity of the coaching accident and what they should be doing.
‘Oh, Miss Allardyce, Mr Hunter told us no’ to waken you,’ McCabe, the oldest of the group and Hunter’s valet, said.
‘Rest assured, you did not waken me,’ she said with a smile, knowing that Hunter had no housekeeper and that his mother was in no fit state to oversee what needed to be done. ‘Now, tell me, what instruction has Mr Hunter left?’
‘He’s no’ left any instructions. The master went out in such a hurry, there wasnae time,’ said Jamie. ‘And Polly told us that Mrs Hunter’s had her powder the night so there’ll be no wakenin’ her.’
A Dark and Brooding Gentleman Page 9