by Penny Jordan
‘I blamed him for my mother’s death. It was the mill he loved, not my mother, and I could not understand then…I didn’t know then what love can move a person to do.’
Marianne blinked away her tears as she remembered that conversation.
‘I am dying, Marianne,’ he had told her. ‘We both know that. I want you to take baby Miles to my stepfather, and I want you to give him this letter I have written to him. He is a hard man, but a fair one. He will, I know, recognise his duty to my son—for after all I am his heir, and my son after me.’
Marianne hadn’t wanted to argue with a dying man, but she had promised herself that she would say nothing of her real purpose in coming here, nor of baby Miles’ true identity, until she had satisfied herself as to the way the baby would be treated. The master had, after all, driven Milo away from his home. He had married a woman he did not love in order to become Master of Bellfield. He was a vigorous man in the prime of his life; what if he should marry again and father children? What, then, would be the fate of the baby she was supposed to entrust to his care?
She had planned everything so carefully, but she had not planned for what had happened the night before, and the way it had made her feel.
Marianne got up, still holding the baby, pacing the kitchen floor as she tried to calm her agitated thoughts.
The day passed slowly, long hours dragged out minute by minute, and the Master of Bellfield slept whilst Marianne tussled with her conscience. Was it wrong of her to want to be absolutely sure before she revealed the truth to him? She had, after all, given Milo her promise that she would see his son to safety.
A dead wife, a dead stepson, and a ward disappeared without trace. Was this truly a man fit to have charge of a helpless child?
And what about her own feelings? A widower who had married for gain, and who had by all accounts passionately loved a young girl who did not return his love. Was this truly a man fit to have charge of her vulnerable heart?
Where her heart was concerned it was too late for her to save it, Marianne acknowledged. But for the child she would fight with the strength she hadn’t been able to muster on her own account.
It was evening before Marianne could finally assure herself that the wound was clean and the Master of Bellfield’s sleep was a healthy, healing one.
Her duty to him was done. Now she must attend to that duty which had brought her here.
For every voice that gainsaid Milo’s stepfather there was another voice to praise him. Milo himself had said that his stepfather had shown him great kindness in the early days of his mother’s marriage to him.
‘It was only after my mother’s death, when I told him that I wanted to marry Amelia, that he changed towards me,’ he had told her. ‘He said we were too young, that I had no money other than the allowance he gave me. I cursed him then for persuading my mother to make him my trustee.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS hard to believe that three short days could make such a difference, Marianne acknowledged. The snow had gone from the town, and from Bellfield Hall, even though snow still lay on the hilltops, and the sun was shining. The Master of Bellfield was improving in strength by the hour, his wound was clean and healing well, his fever was gone, and his irritation was growing along with his recovery.
He had made no mention of the subject she had been dreading, and Marianne had grown to believe that he had no memory of that fever-driven intimacy. That knowledge was the greatest relief to her—of course it was. How could it be otherwise? That ache within her heart was a foolishness she should sweep out with the same vigour with which she had been sweeping out the housekeeper’s rooms.
That, though, had been this morning. The improvement in the weather, combined with the spread of the news through the town of the Master of Bellfield’s recovery had brought a growing number of visitors to his front door to enquire after his health.
The ever-cheerful Charlie had delivered a parcel discreetly and firmly wrapped up and tied with string. Inside, Marianne had discovered a smart new frock, and an apron to go over it, along with a note from the mill manager explaining that it was being supplied to her under the Master of Bellfield’s instructions. It had not come a minute too soon in view of the status of her employer’s visitors. Mostly they were eminent men from the town, including his fellow mill owners, although there had been no return visit from the doctor—nor, thankfully, from the nurse.
Now, wearing her new uniform, and with tea trays and china cups at the ready in the kitchen, Marianne felt confident enough to face the mayor of the town itself on her employer’s behalf if necessary.
She could face the mayor, perhaps, but she was certainly not confident enough to face the increasingly intent and probing gaze of the Master of Bellfield himself.
A knock on the front door heralded the arrival of yet another visitor. This time the visitor announced himself not as a fellow mill owner but as the Reverend Peter Johnson. He was tall and stooped, his face thin and his cheeks sunken, and the zeal shining in his eyes reminded Marianne of how Milo had described the Reverend—how stern and zealous the churchman was, and how Amelia had been in fear of him. Milo had told her that local gossip said that as a young man he had yearned to work as a missionary, and that being disappointed in that hope had soured him and caused him to preach of the hellfire awaiting his flock if they should slip from the path of righteousness.
Milo had also told her, with a small laugh, of how the Reverend had read out a fierce lecture from the pulpit after he had seen Milo and some of the other young men from the town wearing fashionable trousers with turn-ups.
Whether it was because of that memory, Marianne did not know, but the burning-eyed look the Reverend turned on her made her feel that she had been found wanting.
‘I’ll inform Mr Denshaw of your arrival,’ she told him, intending to show him into the library—now polished and free of dust, with a warm fire burning in its hearth.
But before she could do so the Reverend shook his head and told her sharply, ‘My business will not wait. Take me to him immediately.’
Marianne did not dare refuse to obey him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs as she led the way up the stairs and then knocked on her employer’s bedroom door.
At his ‘Come’ she pushed it open.
The Master of Bellfield was seated at the small desk he’d had brought into his room by a couple of stout men from the mill, so that he could work whilst his wound healed.
‘The Reverend Johnson, sir,’ she informed him, before starting to back towards the door.
‘Wait,’ the Reverend ordered her, then addressed the Master of Bellfield. ‘The woman must stay to hear what I have to say, since it concerns her and her presence here in the house of an unmarried man.’
Marianne folded her hands together tightly, unable to bring herself to look directly at either of the two men, although she could sense that her employer was looking at her.
‘I could not believe my ears when it first came to my attention that you, sir, a single man and a widower, were allowing a young woman to act as your nurse and to perform such intimacies for you as must cause repugnance and shock to any decent person who came to hear of them. This woman must be sent from your house immediately, whilst you yourself must repent of your sins in allowing her to be here.’ The Reverend’s voice was thundering now, as though he was speaking from his pulpit.
Marianne looked up at him, and wished that she had not when she saw the burning anger in his gaze.
‘It is a sin for a man and a woman such as yourselves to live beneath the same roof when—’
‘I am glad that you have called to see me, Reverend Johnson, since I was on the point of requesting my manager to ask you to do so.’ The master’s voice was calm but cool.
‘You wished to see me?’
‘Yes. I wished to speak with you so that I might advise you of my intention to marry Mrs Brown, and to ask you to put in hand the arrangements for that marriage as speedily as
you can.’
Marianne didn’t know which of them was the more shocked. The Reverend Johnson or herself.
Both of them had certainly turned to stare at the Master of Bellfield in equal disbelief. But it was towards her that he limped, taking hold of her hand and squeezing it in warning rather than affection as he asserted meaningfully, ‘There you are, my love. I told you that we must not linger over making our plans known in case others misjudge the situation.’
‘You are to marry?’
The Reverend’s face was flushed, and Marianne wondered if perhaps he was more resentful at being deprived of the prospect of denouncing them both from his pulpit than a true man of God should have been.
‘You are the first to know, Reverend, and I know I can rely on you to speedily dismiss any gossip that may be being spread.’
‘When…when is this marriage to take place, may I ask?’
The Reverend’s voice was stiff with what Marianne suspected was angry disapproval.
‘As soon as it can be arranged. Certainly I wish to be wed before Christmas, so that we might celebrate it as man and wife. Now, if you will excuse us, my bride and I have much to discuss and arrange. I dare say you can see yourself out?’
Marianne might have laughed at the expression on the Reverend Johnson’s face if she had not been in such a state of shock.
The moment the door had closed behind the affronted minister she turned towards her employer, intending to demand an explanation, but before she could say anything he had swept her into his arms and was kissing her with a ruthless determination that made it impossible to do anything other than allow him to continue to do so.
When he finally released her she was trembling so much that she was actually leaning against him instead of moving away from him.
‘I…You…We…You cannot mean to marry me…’ she finally managed to get out.
‘I cannot do aught else, Mrs Brown—especially not now, after having treated you so fiendishly. Surely you must agree with that?’ he said. ‘After all, have I not taken advantage of you in the most vile manner, pressing an intimacy upon you that no man should press on a woman to whom he has not offered the respectability of marriage?’
‘You have kissed me,’ Marianne agreed. ‘But—’
‘That kiss was merely a mark of our betrothal,’ he told her softly. ‘The intimacy to which I refer was the one that took place in my arms and in my bed when I—’
Marianne’s face burned. She covered her ears and shook her head, telling him frantically, ‘Sir, please—I do not wish to talk about that. It is best forgotten.’
Instantly his expression changed, a look of triumph darkening his eyes.
‘So it did happen, and was not solely something I conjured up from my imagination. Well, Mrs Brown, there is no getting away from it now. We are both condemned to one another, and we have no choice but to commit our flesh and our sins to the sanctity of marriage—as I am sure the Reverend Johnson would be the first to tell us.’
Was he actually daring to laugh? Marianne could see that he was.
Her thoughts were in the most painful kind of turmoil. On the one hand—yes, she must admit it to herself there was nothing she wanted more than to give herself where she had already given her heart and become his wife. On the other, she was bruisingly conscious of how much she had deceived him, kept him from the truth.
‘You cannot want to marry me, Mr Denshaw,’ was all she could think of to say as she made to move away from him.
‘I find it telling that whilst you say that I cannot wish to marry you, you say nothing of you not wishing to become my bride, Mrs Brown, and that leads me to infer that in fact you do not have any objection.’
The colour came and went in Marianne’s face.
‘I…I am your housekeeper, sir. A servant. Naturally…’
‘Naturally you would not refuse to become my wife? Is that what you were about to say? Well, it may interest you to know that it is not the humble Mrs Brown, widowed and with a child to nurture, I wish to marry. No, it is the delicious woman who came to my arms and my bed, who gave herself to me with such sweet abandon, that I intend to make my wife—and for reasons that would no doubt cause the sour Reverend Johnson to call down hellfire and brimstone on my head if he were to know of them. But of course he won’t. It is only you, Marianne, to whom I shall whisper them, in the privacy of our marriage bed, when I kiss every inch of your quivering silk-fleshed body, when I silence your sweet cries of pleasure with my own greater cry of need to share that pleasure…’
‘Sir…Mr Denshaw…’
‘Heywood, Marianne. My name is Heywood, and I have ached badly these last days to hear the sound of it on your tongue…’
His words dizzied and enraptured her, and Marianne knew that if he were to take her by the hand now and lead her to his bed and those pleasures he had spoken of she could not and would not deny him.
‘You are saying that…that you wish to marry me, sir…Heywood…and…and make me your true wife in every way there is?’ How her voice trembled and shook with the force of her feelings and her hopes.
‘I am saying exactly that, Marianne.’
‘But we have only just met. You hardly know me.’
‘I know that you saved my life, and I know too that you are a good housewife.’
Marianne looked up at him and saw that his last words were meant to tease her. Suddenly the grey eyes were sparkling with fun and laughter. Her heart turned over inside her chest.
‘You are also a good mother.’
Marianne’s heart became as heavy as a stone. ‘Sir—Heywood…’
‘The child—what name does he have?’
‘It is Miles…’ Marianne answered him quietly.
‘Miles…’
She knew that Heywood was looking at her, but she could not lift her own gaze to his. She felt too ashamed and too guilty. How much she wished now that she had been open with him right from the start. How hard it was going to be now to tell him everything.
‘He…he is named for his father,’ she felt obliged to add.
The silence in the room was such that Marianne could hear the unsteadiness of her own heart.
She had to tell him.
‘Sir…I mean Heywood…there is something…’
‘Here is Archie Gledhill just arrived. Show him up will you, please, my love? Unless I am mistaken he has some important news for me.’
Numbly, Marianne nodded her head. Now was plainly not the time to unburden herself to him.
CHAPTER NINE
TWO days from now she would become the Master of Bellfield’s bride, and another week on from that it would be Christmas. Marianne’s heart gave a lightning leap of mingled delight and dread. So much had happened since the afternoon of the Reverend Johnson’s visit that she could scarcely take it all in.
The mill manager had been given his orders, and within a matter of days she had not only been measured for her trousseau, she’d also had a chaperon, in the shape of a sweet-natured elderly second cousin of Heywood’s, who had been persuaded to give up the comfort of her pretty house in Harrogate to come and stay at Bellfield Hall until after their marriage.
Marianne had had to move from the housekeeper’s room to a prettily decorated room on the first floor, along the opposite corridor to the master bedroom, and she had not been surprised when her chaperon had explained to her that it had once belonged to her husband-to-be’s ward.
‘Such a pretty girl. Heywood was distraught about her and the boy leaving. Such a dreadful tragedy, as neither of them were ever found.’
Marianne had nodded her head and said nothing, but now the memory of that conversation pricked at her conscience.
Heywood was everything any young woman in love could hope for in her husband-to-be, and if their chaperon was of an age when she preferred to retire to her room for a sleep after luncheon, leaving the two of them alone together, Marianne was not going to complain.
Those stolen kisses they
had shared had been so sweet, and their more intimate stolen caresses sweeter still. She trembled with delicious pleasure just remembering the hard warmth of Heywood’s hand against her breast, and the feel of his body firm and male against her own.
Only yesterday, whilst he held her fast in his arms, Heywood had demanded roughly, ‘Tell me that you love me, Marianne.’
‘You know that I do,’ she had whispered.
‘Aye, I do know it,’ he had agreed, with a smile that had made her heart swell with pleasure. ‘I knew it the night I first kissed you. But I still like to hear you say the words.’
‘I love you, Heywood Denshaw,’ she had told him then, laughing softly, and then not laughing at all when he had kissed her.
Such precious and wonderful memories. At least she would have them to hold if it should be that when he knew the truth—
Her heart thudded painfully. It was no good. She could not go to the altar without telling him—even though that meant that she might lose him.
It was four o’clock, and her chaperon was safely asleep. Heywood was in his library, his injury now having healed sufficiently for him to be able to climb the stairs with ease. Miles was asleep, and in the care of the young nursery maid Heywood had insisted on hiring.
Marianne smoothed her hands nervously over her hair and took a deep breath.
When she opened the library door Heywood was looking at some papers on his desk, and she allowed her gaze to delight itself to the full, absorbing every tiny detail of the preciousness of him until he looked up and saw her.
‘There is something I…I want to talk to you about, but if I am disturbing you then you must say—’ she began, breaking off when he laughed and got up to come towards her.
‘You always disturb me, my precious love, but in the most delightful way. However, if you wish to discuss with me yet again your plan to provide every child in the whole of Rawlesden with a Christmas gift, then…’