by Carol Arens
‘I know he was.’ He would have been. While to his family he was a Wyoming rancher, to the folks here he was one of their own, their Baron.
As Joe now was. He had an obligation to the people living at Haversmere. If only he could remember something—anything—that would give him the devotion he needed in order to serve them the way he should.
He could serve them without it. But they deserved to have someone who felt a part of their world. Had their best interests at heart because he cared about Haversmere—about them.
‘I agree. It would honour Pa and help us, too. We need to become accepted here.’
‘Nothing grand.’ Ma tapped one finger on her chin in thought. ‘But intimate—to remember your father and to become acquainted with our neighbours.’
‘I’ll need your help, Olivia,’ he said. This gathering could work to his advantage in more than just getting acquainted with the local folks. Perhaps by spending a lot of time with his teacher, he could win back the trust the widow had shaken.
‘If you ask me, my brother still has much to learn.’ Roselina shook her head as if he had learned nothing over the course of his instruction.
The plain fact was, he had learned far more than he ever expected to. How to dress and how to speak were only a part of it.
He had learned that Olivia Steton was a dedicated mother—a loving one. Also that her son was endearing in every way a boy could be. He had learned that she was a determined instructor.
He had seen her angry, seen her patient. Seen her wary and seen her surrender her heart—to him. He had seen her away turn from hurt and betrayal to trust—in him.
Most of all, he had learned that he was in love with her. Not that he could admit it. It was too soon for such a revelation.
As things now stood, Olivia was not ready to discover she was going to become his wife—that Victor was going to be his son. It might seem this decision was sudden, but looking back he knew it had been in the making for a while now.
It had taken seed in Kensal Cemetery. But the night in Fencroft garden when she had held him while he cried—he had loved her then.
Sitting here now, he knew he always would. From this moment on he would not be the same.
Turning his gaze towards the river, he watched the water rush past. What he was really doing was hiding his expression. He was choked up with emotion and did not want anyone to suspect it.
‘Your brother is actually doing very well, I think.’
She thought that? He felt like preening at her defence of his social skills.
‘There is one thing he is stubborn about, though.’
‘What? I’m not stubborn. I’m pliable.’
‘Not when it comes to your top hat. You refuse to wear it.’
‘And since I will continue to do so, your work with me remains unfinished.’
‘And have you learned to dance yet, Joe?’ Roselina asked.
‘My dear Olivia, I fear your work with my son might take a lifetime to accomplish.’
Thank you, Ma.
* * *
A rainy day and a young boy trapped inside amounted to nothing but trouble, no matter that this was a spacious manor house. Olivia feared for each porcelain vase of flowers. It was inevitable that at least one of them would crash on the floor when Victor galloped down the hallway on his imaginary horse.
Given that he might also yank down a curtain in pursuit of an outlaw, she was only able to give half of her attention to the conversation she was having with Roselina.
It was unfortunate because Joe’s sister seemed rather morose today and it was unlike her to be so. Olivia would like to discover what was behind it but there was a sudden thump in the hallway.
‘Yee haw! Got you, you lowdown bag of fleas!’
‘I’m sorry, Roselina.’ She stood up, then hurried to the doorway. ‘I had better find out what he really captured.’
Not a bag of fleas, for sure. She was certain he had not learned the expression from any of his books. Either he had made it up himself or heard it from Joe.
A bag of fleas, indeed. She could not help but smile. Her son really did have a fine imagination.
Warm breath skimmed the top of her hair. A quiet laugh tickled her ear. ‘It’s a lucky thing that pillow is going to jail, otherwise we’d have bugs all over,’ he said.
‘Your home is so well kept I pity the flea who tries to set up house here.’ Olivia laughed, too.
‘I’m taking Sir Bristle on a walk to the barn. Would you and Victor care to come with us?’
‘I can’t think of what I would like more. It will be a relief to get him outside.’
Which was not all the truth. She would like to toss her arms around his neck, express her thanks for the invitation. She would like that more.
Of course, her heart would go soft at the feel of him so firm and strong under her hands. The scent of him so close would fill her nose and her knees would knock.
She feared that taking things slow with this man might prove to be futile.
‘Thank you, we accept,’ she murmured, clasping her hands in front of her. She would not hug him because, futile or not, she must at least try to remain level-headed.
Had she forgotten how to keep a man at a distance? She had not forgotten the need to do so.
If only Mrs Lapperton had not stirred up those old memories of being betrayed. She struggled to remember it was Henry who had done the damage, not Joe.
Walking towards the shearing barn listening to the pinging of raindrops on the umbrellas, she tried to rebuild the emotional wall she used to have.
It was the safe thing to do. The sensible thing.
Ah, but the rain was against her. The steady drum brought her back to the moment Joe had kissed her in the alley behind the opera house.
In that moment nothing in her past had mattered.
Fortunately Joe opened the barn door before she let herself believe it again.
The past did matter. One learned from one’s past.
Of course, her past had not been with Joe. Had it been, the lesson would have been different.
She gave herself a good mental shake. They were together in the barn for one purpose only, to let Victor romp about without having to worry about damage to the house.
A spot of fun was all she was going to think about.
For a large space, the shearing barn was cosy. The scent of fresh straw in the stalls and wood burning in several stoves filled the air. With the weather churning outside, everything in here seemed all the more snug.
Sir Bristle’s ears swivelled to attention when he heard the bleat of a lamb. He wagged his tail, stirring a puff of straw dust.
‘I reckon he likes lambs.’ Victor whooped, then galloped towards the stall where they lay with their mother.
The dog trotted after him, seeming so good natured she nearly forgot he had knocked Lord Waverly flat, then stood over him as if he wanted nothing more than to devour him.
The ewe, apparently used to being herded by dogs, did not seem alarmed by Sir Bristle sniffing her babies. Victor stepped into the stall, sat down, then picked up the one he had named Annie Oakley. He settled her on his lap and sang softly to her.
‘Come and sit with me.’ Joe caught her hand and led her to a bench near one of the stoves. ‘I have something to say to you.’
While he held her hand? She really did need to snatch it back.
‘It’s about the woman in Grasmere.’
If there was one thing she did not want to discuss, it was that brazen person. She was having the devil of a time forgetting her as it was.
Prudence Lapperton had smacked Olivia back to a time when she’d felt threatened. The woman scratched at the wound she had striven so hard to heal from—and she had done it with pointed fingernails.
Old Olivia shivered fearfully,
warning the new Olivia to be cautious.
But of Joe?
She wriggled her fingers out of his hand. ‘What about her?’
‘I want to know why she made you uneasy.’ His voice was low, nearly a whisper.
‘Unless I’m wrong, she made us all uneasy. Roselina and your mother were annoyed at the way she was acting overly familiar with you.’
‘I imagine not. They are not used to such women. Pa was always loyal to my mother. He never gave her a reason to doubt his faithfulness.’
What a blessing it would be to feel confident of a husband’s loyalty. She thought she had had that confidence once, had blindly and wholly given her trust only to have it crushed.
‘Ma and Roselina were annoyed. But it was more than that for you—you felt threatened, darlin’.’
It made her uncomfortable to know he could peer into her heart so easily. Truthfully, she desired an intimate connection with Joe, but not, perhaps, as much as she feared it.
‘What reason would I have to feel threatened?’
‘You know what reason.’
She did know, yet she shook her head to make him think she did not. Why was she hiding from him, especially when she did not truly want to?
‘There is something rare between us, Olivia. It’s tender and it’s growing.’ Normally, Joe had a light in his eyes that reflected his cheerful nature. It was not there now. ‘But for all that it is remarkable it is also wounded. If that woman had not waylaid us as she had, it would not be. When you saw that she was interested in me—or more likely my title—it frightened you.’
He was wrong in thinking Mrs Lapperton’s interest had to do with his title. She was only the first of many women who would be seeking Joe’s attention because he was an exceptional man.
This was not something she could accept.
‘All right, it did frighten me, Joe. I honestly thought I was finished with—with the ugliness my late husband left me with, but it seems I was wrong. The widow, she bore a resemblance to the woman who held my husband while he died in her bed. I would be lying if I did not say I was shaken by her.’
‘Do not fear me.’ He cupped her chin, gazed at her as if he saw her trepidation and looked right past it. ‘Trust me, Olivia. I will never betray you.’
Footsteps shuffled through scattered straw on the barn floor. The steps stopped a short distance away and someone cleared his throat.
Joe withdrew his hand, turning on the bench to see Willie Smythe wringing his hat in his hands.
‘What is it, Mr Smythe?’
Joe reached for an overturned barrel, pulled it closer, then indicated that the estate manager should sit down.
‘I’m that sorry to interrupt, sir.’ In spite of it he sat down. ‘There’s a problem among the shepherds and I fear it will come to a bad end.’
‘What is the nature of this problem, Mr Smythe?’ Joe leaned forward, a frown cutting his brow.
Olivia had to catch her breath. Joe might not feel like a baron, but watching him while he listened to the estate manager, oh, he did look it. He was so very confident, so self-assured, his noble bloodline was evident.
‘Ach, it will sound silly to you. It did to me at first, but the lads fear there is a ghost behind the recent mischief.’
‘A ghost?’ Joe’s brows shot up.
‘Your father’s ghost, God rest his generous soul.’
‘Perhaps we should discuss this out of hearing of the boy.’ Joe rose, walked several paces away, then stood with his arms crossed over his middle.
Olivia followed, too, because who would not?
Closer to the barn door the rain sounded louder and she could hear the wind moaning under the eaves.
Well, the timing of that was odd.
‘Tell me what you know, Mr Smythe. I would like to understand what has happened to make them think such a thing.’
‘At first it was the broken bridge, then a branch fallen from a healthy tree and that with the weather as still as can be. Then the lambs vanished from their mother’s udders and were whisked away to be left by the lake.’
There had also been a button left by the lake. She kept quiet about it, though, confident that Joe remembered and would deal with this as he would.
‘What is there about these events to make them think it is the work of the supernatural and not plain mischief?’
‘It’s just that the happenings were odd and when the boys counted back, they figured the strange things began to happen at the time the old Baron died.’
‘And do you believe this is happening because of a shade?’
Mr Smythe did not answer at first, but drew the tip of his boot in a half-circle in the dust on the floor.
‘I think I do not—especially in the broad light of day. But I would not quit even if I did believe it. I can’t explain what’s going on, though.’
‘But the others? They are speaking of leaving Haversmere?’
Willie Smythe nodded. ‘Sitting out by the fires at night, they tell stories, some far-fetched, but others—well, the lads tend to be superstitious.’
‘I’ll have a meeting with them. See if I can explain how there are natural causes for it all.’
‘I’m glad for it, my lord. They are reliable shepherds. Some of them have grown up here. We would be hard pressed to do without them.’
Mr Smythe nodded to her, then to Joe. He rolled open the barn door, then paused to looked back at Joe. Heavy rain had turned the area beyond the door into a vast mud puddle which Victor was going to take great delight in.
‘Oh, and you will need to explain why that haystack—’ he wagged his finger at a hay pile which stood no less than eight feet high ‘—moved from the right side of the barn to the left overnight without anyone hearing or seeing a thing.’
* * *
Joe sat down on the divan in the library, stretched his legs towards the fire and wondered what problem he should consider first.
After dinner the ladies had gone to the parlour to stitch dainty-looking flowers on pillow cases and to talk about whatever things women did, leaving him on his own.
With Victor being put to bed by Miss Hopp and the servants going quietly about their business of the evening, the house was quiet, pleasantly tranquil.
Tranquil to his mind, at least. He suspected the servants were wondering what might go bump in the night. Gossip about Haversmere being haunted was spreading fast.
He’d noticed more than one maid glancing over her shoulder while hurrying down a long hallway.
Joe took off his boots, waggling his stockings at the fire while deciding which of his pressing issues to deal with first.
The one most compelling had to do with Olivia and her fear of trusting him. There had to be something he could do to make her trust him—although it was not him she distrusted. He knew that. There was more than one ghost to be dealt with.
One was a fabrication, but the other? Henry Shaw, curse the man, was quite real as a spectre from the past.
How was he to battle a dead man? He knew of only one weapon against the hurt the fool had left behind.
Love. His banner over Olivia would be love. And he would win.
He would also show his employees he was a responsible leader once he got to the bottom of the business involving a fabricated ghost.
The phantom was missing a brass button shaped somewhat like a pumpkin and that was all he knew about him. He wasn’t the spookiest of spirits. Sabotaging a bridge, kidnapping lambs, and sawing a limb off a tree were acts of mischief and nothing more.
So far the ‘spook’s’ reason seemed to be to frighten rather than harm.
Blamed if he knew why, though. Didn’t make any sense why someone would want to put everyone on edge.
One thing was certain, it was not Pa come back to cause mischief.
He crossed his ar
ms over his belly, which was still humming happily over dinner. He closed his eyes and was about to drift contentedly away when he heard the rustle of a skirt.
‘I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude.’ The last voice he would consider intrusive was Olivia’s.
Sitting up straight, he turned to her with a smile. She always made him feel like grinning. He waved for her to come and sit beside him.
‘Looking for a book?’
‘The nights can get rather long without one.’
‘I can recommend some excellent poetry.’
‘No doubt.’ She frowned, but her lips pressed together so he knew she suppressed a smile.
The thought popping into his mind was that the night did not need to be long. The reason why not was better left unsaid for now—but not for ever.
One night they were going to sit right here and read poetry together. His thoughts went soft, drifting away while he watched her bite her bottom lip in thought.
She hesitated in accepting his invitation to sit down, but in the end she did. Not quite beside him, but close enough for easy, friendly conversation. Close enough that a sideways scoot would bring them shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.
‘You ladies finished your stitching quicker than I expected.’
‘I put mine away early. I felt your mother and sister needed time to talk alone.’
‘What’s wrong with Roselina, do you think? She hasn’t seemed herself today.’
‘I know what is wrong, just not what is to be done about it.’
‘Is she ill?’ That was an alarming thought. Roselina was never ill.
He relaxed when Olivia’s mouth quirked in a dimpled smile. ‘Not in the way you think.’
‘Oh, good then. But what is it?’
‘You remember young Lord Mansfield?’
He did. Just the name made him want to growl. With exceptional effort he answered pleasantly, ‘I remember him.’
‘The boy has done nothing to deserve that scowl, Joe.’
Scowl! Was he not displaying a perfectly agreeable grin?
‘Then why is my sister distraught?’