Standing up, she walked to the pot of stew which was simmering over the open fire, stirring it vigorously before throwing a few sticks on the flames. The girl might be able to cook but she would never make a good wife for any man, let alone Byron. Pearl was bad at bottom – she felt it in her water. If Byron did but know it, she was saving him from a life of misery. There were plenty of good gypsy girls who were ready and willing to comfort him – he could take his pick – and if he married one of them, the pure line would continue. Which was all that mattered.
Less than a mile away, Pearl was saying much the same thing. ‘I can’t marry you, Byron. You know I can’t. Your family have been kind to me and I’m grateful, but I’ll always be an outsider. They’re expecting you to marry well, one of the daughters of a respected Romany family, you know that.’
‘As my wife you will be respected.’ His voice was soft. He had expected opposition but he wasn’t about to give up.
‘It wouldn’t be enough.’
Ignoring this, he said even more softly, ‘I love you, Pearl. I have for a long time. Do – do you love me?’
Her long lashes swept down over her eyes. ‘As . . . a brother.’
‘You have the same feeling for me as you do for Algar and Silvester?’
‘No. Yes. Not exactly.’ He was confusing her. ‘What I mean is, you’re special.’
‘Special is a good start.’
‘But I don’t think of you in that way.’ She raised her eyes and he saw they were swimming with tears. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever want to marry anyone.’
He knew what she was trying to say, and now his voice came low and gentle as he took her hands. She had long since stopped trembling when he touched her, and he had always rewarded her faith and trust in him by restraining himself. He did so now, merely keeping her fingers in his, but without pulling her into him as his whole being wanted to do, when he said, ‘If you give us a chance I can make you want to marry me. I promise. I won’t hurt you, Pearl.’
She shook her head. ‘Your family—’
‘I’ll take care of my family’
‘But you can’t, don’t you see? Even if the others accepted me as your wife, your grandmother never would. She – she hates me.’
He didn’t deny this, he couldn’t. It was the truth. Instead, he said, ‘My grandmother will die sooner or later – she’s an old woman.’
Again, Pearl shook her head. ‘I want us to be friends like we were. I – I like you better than anyone else in the world, but I can’t be what you want me to be.’
‘I want you to be yourself and I can be patient. Now don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Pearl.’ Tentatively he drew her into his arms, wiping her tears with his handkerchief before moving her to rest against him, his chin nuzzling the top of her head. It took all his willpower not to crush her against him and kiss her. After a little while, he said, ‘This isn’t so bad, is it?’ although he was aware that she was holding herself stiffly.
Her voice was small when she said, ‘No.’
He held her for a few moments longer before stepping back to look into her face, still with his arms loosely about her. ‘I love you and I can wait, but I want you to start thinking of me differently. I’m not your brother, Pearl. I don’t want to be your brother. Do you understand? This can be just between us for now. Nobody else needs to know, but I want you to try.’
‘But—’
‘What?’
‘If – if I can’t think of you in that way, what then?’
‘You will.’ He sounded very confident. ‘Now you go back and I’ll see you later.’
They were standing apart now and she stared at him uncertainly. She had expected . . . She didn’t know what she had expected, but not this quiet reasonableness. ‘You’re not angry?’
He moved his head sfightly ‘No, Pearl. I’m not angry.’
‘I – I do care about you, but – but not . . .’
There was a long pause before he finished, ‘Not in that way. You’ve said.’
Pearl hesitated for a moment more and then turned, walking swiftly away.
Once he was alone, Byron held his brow in his hand and, closing his eyes, remained still for some minutes. It was Rex pawing at his boot that made him take his hand from his head and bend down to pat the dog. ‘It’s all right, boy. It’s all right.’
But it wasn’t all right. He clicked his fingers at the animal and began walking in the opposite direction to the campsite. It was far from all right. He hadn’t expected her to fall on his neck with delight at his offer of marriage. He’d known he’d have to tread carefully, woo her, reassure her, but he’d thought . . . What had he thought?
He came to the grass-covered bank of a weedy stream and flung himself down, Rex flopping down beside him.
He had thought that when he declared himself, there would be some answering spark in her eyes, something to tell him that at the bottom of her she felt the same. That under the layers of fear and shyness and timidity, she wanted him.
His fingers reaching for his whittling knife, he brought it out of his pocket along with the small figure of a child at prayer that he was working on. He always found this went down very well with the fine ladies, a child at prayer. His dark eyes concentrated on the wood in his hand, he allowed the peace and quiet of his surroundings to steal over him.
She had asked him what he would do if she couldn’t see her way clear to accepting him. The truthful answer would have been he didn’t know. All his thoughts and dreams of the future had been wrapped up in her for so long he hadn’t contemplated anything else. He wouldn’t contemplate it.
His face hardened, his full, sensual lips thinning. She would become his wife, nothing else would do. He had waited for her longer than any man would have done; she was his by rights.
And what if Pearl didn’t see it that way? What if another man came sniffing about? She was so beautiful, she grew more beautiful each day. What if she looked at another man and liked what she saw?
He answered the devilish little voice in his head by standing up so abruptly that Rex growled and barked. No one else would have her. She was his.
His knife had slipped on the figure as he had jumped to his feet. He looked down at it in his hand, one finger stroking the surface of the child’s face which now had a deep groove in the wood. His mouth set in a grim line, he drew back his arm and flung the wooden figure into the stream, the weeds and lilies closing over it and hiding it from view beneath the dank green water.
Halimena was surprised to see Pearl return alone. Her gimlet eyes took in the girl’s posture, the droop of her shoulders and the downward curve to her mouth. Well, well, well. Her aged gums ruminating like a cow chewing the cud, she watched Pearl attend to the stew. Perhaps Byron wasn’t so foolish as she’d thought. It would appear that whatever had gone on wasn’t to m’lady’s liking – and that could only mean one thing. He hadn’t been prepared to give her his name.
She smiled to herself, her eyes gleaming under the wrinkled lids. Her grandson was a strange mixture, and she had long since come to understand there was a streak of independence in him that could threaten the following of the old ways if they didn’t coincide with what he wanted; however, in the case of the girl it would seem she had misjudged him. And that was good. She had no wish to go against the forces of the guardians if she didn’t have to.
She sat mulling the matter over in her mind for some time, her fingers busy. She knew the moment Byron walked back into the camp, and one look at her grandson’s face confirmed there would be no announcement made of a betrothal.
But she would watch and listen as to how things progressed. Mackensie and his wife were worse than useless; there were none so blind as those who did not want to see. And in the meantime she would summon up all the charms and incantations she knew to cause her grandson’s desire for the gorgie to wane and die, and for him to become bewitched by another pretty face. There was Margaritt, Wallace’s daughter, or Scicily Young – she was a fine Romany
girl with wide hips for childbearing.
At twilight when the evening meal was ready, Halimena did not wait for her portion to be brought to her at the entrance to the tent as was her custom. Instead she rose and went to sit beside Byron, slipping the contents of the small vial she’d concealed in her pocket into his stew when he wasn’t looking. The love potion was powerful, and she would make sure she had something from both the girls of her choice to slip under his pillow come bedtime. A strand of hair perhaps, a thread or two from an item of clothing or a handkerchief. Something for the potion to focus on while he slept.
Relief that the worst had not happened made her mellow, her cackling laugh sounding now and again once the meal was over and the music began. Pearl’s sombre face was food for her soul, further confirmation that the girl’s nose had been put out of joint and that her grandson had seen through the chit’s wiles.
She shouldn’t have doubted him, she decided, after several glasses of Mackensie’s strong, woody-tasting ale. He clearly wasn’t so daft as he looked. But just in case, she would keep the darnel grass safe in her chest along with all her herbs and elixirs and charms. Just in case . . .
Chapter 10
Christopher Montgomery William Armstrong watched his father shovelling food into his mouth like a pig at a trough and wondered for the umpteenth time how his mother – his elegant, genteel mother – endured living with such a man.
But he already knew the answer, he told himself in the next moment, and it certainly wasn’t love – unless you counted the love of money. When his father’s father – a moderately rich man with a burning desire to become much more than moderately rich – won this estate with its house, farm, labourers’ cottages and 100 acres of grounds on the turn of a card, he had promptly brought his wife and only son here, determining that it would be the beginning of a new life.
He’d bought himself a leatherworks and flour mill on the banks of the River Tyne in Newcastle, and later a string of warehouses on the waterfront. He’d seen his power and influence grow yearly, becoming respected and not a little feared, but the one thing he hadn’t been able to boast was a wife from the aristocracy. And so he had made sure he bought one for his only son from a noble family who were on the verge of becoming insolvent, and then promptly got himself and his wife killed in a boating accident when they were doing the Grand Tour, leaving his son the master of everything he surveyed at the age of twenty-five.
‘Christopher, dear.’
His mother’s calm voice brought the young man’s eyes to her face. ‘Yes, Mother?’
‘You aren’t eating. Are you unwell?’
‘I’m quite well, just not particularly hungry.’
‘Huh!’ Oswald Armstrong raised his eyes from his breakfast to glare at his son. ‘Not hungry! You’d be hungry if you did a decent day’s work, m’boy You can be sure of that. Can’t work up an appetite burying yourself in books with your grand friends.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Christopher didn’t take offence at this. He, along with his mother, could hear the pride his father was aiming to conceal by belittling the very thing he was immensely proud about. A son at Oxford might not be much benefit in his father’s many businesses, but it was something to boast about over dinner parties and at his club. His father, like his father before him, was a social climber who was very aware that his beginnings had not been in the top drawer. Added to that, Oswald Armstrong had another son, Nathaniel, to take over his little empire when the time was right.
As though his thoughts had conjured up his older brother, Nathaniel strolled into the breakfast room a moment later.
‘I was just saying, if Christopher wants an appetite he’d better work alongside us every day.’ Oswald spoke with his mouth full, and Nathaniel glanced over at his brother with raised eyebrows.
When Christopher merely smiled, Nathaniel said lazily, ‘He’d only get in the way, wouldn’t you, Chris?’ This was said with affection. At twenty-five years of age Nathaniel was four years older than his brother but the gap had always appeared wider. Nathaniel was like his father in nature – strong-willed, determined and selfish – but from the moment Christopher had been born, his brother had taken on the role of protector and friend. When Christopher had proved to be a gentle dreamer of a boy with a passion for books and poetry, it had been Nathaniel who had stood between his brother and father when Oswald got irritated with the son he didn’t understand and had little time for. Indeed, if there was one person in the whole world whom Nathaniel truly loved, it was his brother, and the feeling was reciprocated. Their father was a hot-tempered bully and their mother merely a vague presence in their lives, content to leave her sons to the care of the servants when they were younger, and each other and their friends as they reached manhood.
Once Nathaniel was seated, one of the maids brought his coffee and the soft white rolls he favoured, made with honey that morning by the cook. He always ate these before he helped himself from the covered dishes at one side of the room. In all, there were fifteen indoor servants to see to the family’s needs, and seven outdoor men from the coachman down to the stable boy. The farm was a separate entity, under the control of their manager, Wilbert Tollett. He was responsible for the buying and selling of stock and also the fine hunters which were Oswald Armstrong’s one weakness. They had a stable full of superb horses but Oswald could never resist another one. The farm hands numbered a dozen, and several of their wives were employed in the dairy.
‘So, all set to enjoy your vacation, little brother?’ Nathaniel spread one of the split rolls liberally with crab-apple jelly, made from their trees in the orchard. ‘I’m sure Adelaide will be pleased to see you safe and well and in the bosom of your family.’
Christopher grimaced. Adelaide Stefford was the daughter of his parents’ oldest friends, and with only a year’s difference in their ages the two had been pushed together since they could toddle. Both sets of parents were shameless in their desire to see a union between the two, but although Adelaide was willing – more than willing – Christopher’s tastes didn’t run to big, voluptuous women who liked nothing more than a day’s hunting in the fresh air followed by a hearty meal most men couldn’t finish. Adelaide was voracious in more ways than one, and he’d had enough sexual experience – courtesy of Nathaniel’s introduction to a couple of his ex-mistresses and one or two ladies of the night – to know he preferred women who were happy to be led rather than those who insisted on taking the dominant role.
‘I haven’t made any plans to call on the Steffords,’ he said, only to regret his ill-chosen words at once as his mother said reproachfully, ‘I really think you should, Christopher. Adelaide was here only the other day, enquiring as to when you were home. She is so looking forward to seeing you again.’
Ignoring the wicked sparkle in his brother’s eyes, Christopher smiled at his mother. ‘Perhaps when I’ve had time to settle in?’
‘Well, don’t leave it too long. The Steffords are such dear friends.’
If he had voiced what he was thinking, Christopher would have said, ‘The Steffords are typical of the incestuous breeding which produces dull minds and animal appetites, and I would rather walk through Oxford naked than call on Adelaide.’ Instead, he nodded. ‘Perhaps in a few days.’ Looking at his brother, he asked pleasantly, ‘And how’s Rowena?’
Nathaniel’s laughing blue eyes said, ‘Touché.’ His voice was circumspect, even prim, however, when he said aloud, ‘Very well.’
‘That’s good.’ Rowena Baxter’s family had connections with royalty, and their parents had made it very plain that that was where Nathaniel’s duty lay. The fact that Rowena was as thin as a pikestaff and twice as plain, and twittered like an empty-headed bird given half a chance had nothing to do with it.
Oswald Armstrong could hardly be called the most intuitive of men, but he had always been aware of the strong bond between his two sons and it grated on him. Now his small round eyes, which were as hard as black granite, moved between them. �
�If you’ve nothing better to do then I suggest you accompany Tollett on his rounds today and see how the farm is faring,’ he said to Christopher, his tone making it clear that this was an order. ‘It won’t do you any harm to put yourself out for once.’
Christopher’s quiet, faintly benign stance did not waver. He knew his father intended the exercise as a punishment. Oswald’s interests were totally centred on his business assets in Newcastle, the Stock Market, and his horses – and not necessarily in that order. The farm, in spite of being a successful and rewarding venture in its own right, interested his father not an iota, and because of that he couldn’t imagine either of his sons displaying a fondness for it. Which happened to be right, in Nathaniel’s case. Christopher himself had always enjoyed walking round the fields full of livestock and seeing the new additions in the spring, or strolling on the edge of the wheatfields when the warm summer sun wafted air rich with the smell of warm grass and golden crops. He knew most of the men by name, and Wilbert Tollett he liked and respected. He considered him a good, honest man and thought his father was fortunate to have secured his services umpteen years ago. Expressionlessly, he said, ‘I’ll do that, Father.’
His father inclined his head sharply at him and then continued to guzzle his meal, pieces of food falling from his mouth to his plate. Christopher didn’t look at his mother but he knew her face would be remote and her gaze concentrated anywhere but on her husband. She never looked at him unless she had to.
He left the house immediately after breakfast, walking swiftly through to the stableyard where the groom quickly ordered the stable boy to saddle his horse. He’d had Jet for years, resisting his father’s attempts to buy him a better and grander stallion. He and Jet were fond of each other, that’s how he felt, and he didn’t share his father and brother’s desire to outdo their neighbours by owning the best hunter in their circle.
Born to Trouble Page 11