by Janet Woods
‘It’s not my trunk, it’s Mr John’s. See, it has his name on it. He asked me to guard it with my life, and trust it to nobody but you. I have the key in the dresser drawer. The trunk is heavy, and it will require two men to carry it.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘All of Mr John’s worldly goods I imagine. His journals in particular. He wanted them to come home and form part of the Kern history of the house. He said it would give continuity to the family history and his great nieces and nephews would enjoy reading them.
His uncle had worked it all out, and Magnus suddenly grinned. At least John wouldn’t know that his plans had come to nothing.
‘All he kept were his guns and a change of clothing,’ she said. ‘He said he would be here when I arrived.’
When she sniffed he handed her his handkerchief again. ‘It’s hardly his fault that he couldn’t be. Please don’t start weeping over my uncle. He wouldn’t like it.’
She didn’t take his offering, but pulled an embroidered, lace-edged scrap from her sleeve. Her translucent green eyes flicked up to his, stormy with her youthful defiance. Despite her year with Mrs Lawrence learning her airs and graces, it came hard to her. He reminded himself that, underneath, Sarette Maitland was a feral child his uncle had rescued, taught and partly tamed on the goldfields in a distant land. Like a wild pony, she still wanted to run free.
The difference between Sarette Maitland and the Carradine sisters was marked. Good manners had been bred into Alice and her sisters.
‘I’ll never forget Mr John. He was always so kind to me, and I’ll cry over him if I feel like it,’ she said.
Of course she would. Her loyalty to the memory of his uncle was all too apparent, and he warmed to her because of it. But John was gone and she hadn’t yet learned he was no longer there to protect her, and she had to let him go.
As for exactly how kind his uncle had been to her, the girl was as yet unaware. Magnus thought he might leave her in ignorance of that particular fortune until she was a little older and wiser, and had more sense in her exquisite little head. Gerald had been right . . . she did need to grow up.
He wasn’t looking for an argument, so he said evenly, ‘As you wish, Miss Maitland. I’ll see you at dinner, and would be obliged if you’d finished crying by then.’ Turning the trunk up on end he tested his strength against it. It was heavy. Too heavy for comfort, but not impossible. He crouched, and, lifting it to his shoulder, straightened up, feeling his thigh muscles tighten to take the strain. He widened his stance for balance and departed.
Magnus was enjoying his small triumph of his physical strength over her caution when she flung her final words after him with a soft, ‘Hah! Your uncle could lift it with one hand.’
He didn’t believe it for one second, and pretended he didn’t hear her final taunt. He carried the trunk along the corridor to where his own room was situated, then was obliged to ask his valet to help him lower it to the floor. ‘Have it taken to the library when you’ve got a minute, and get someone to help you,’ he told George, when the man looked askance at it.
The trunk was dirty and scuffed, the brass work dull. It was secured by metal straps. Magnus ran a finger over his uncle’s name and said, ‘Welcome home, John Kern. Your adventuring days are finally over, but your spirit lives on. I think my adventures are just about to begin. But don’t expect me to thank you for this creature you’ve foisted on me, for I’m set in my ways.’
Sarette Maitland joined him for dinner, demure in a cream, high-collared gown with puffed sleeves. Her bun was made less severe by a cluster of pink silk roses that were entirely youthful. The style revealed her delicate bone structure and exquisite features. She was as pretty as a peach.
She seated herself at the other end of the table, where he’d instructed her place to be set, as far away from himself as possible, for he didn’t want to hear her slurp her soup.
When Branston was serving the soup she slipped something into his hand and whispered a few words. She didn’t slurp, and the missive was duly delivered to his end of the table when Branston served the main course. Magnus slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. Nothing was going to spoil his enjoyment of his favourite dinner of roast lamb and vegetables. It was followed by a delicious tart containing stewed apples and rhubarb, and floating in a creamy custard.’
‘Congratulate the cook on the meal please, Branston.’
Branston gazed at the girl, who smiled at him. ‘Miss Maitland ordered it, sir. She said it was your favourite meal and should be served as a welcome home.’
He sent her a cool glance. How dare the damned creature attempt to take over his household?
‘Will you read your note please, Magnus?’ she almost pleaded.
It was a note of apology for her earlier behaviour. She had a good hand. Her sentences were clearly constructed, her letter formation steady and without too much embellishment. He made no comment as he read the prettily worded appeal, then finding nothing to criticize, slipped the missive into his waistcoat pocket.
Her composure slipped a little and her eyes became anxious. ‘Do you not wish to comment?’
‘I don’t really feel the need.’
‘Have I apologized for nothing?’ she said, her voice wounded.
‘Ah . . . and I thought it was an apology for your earlier rudeness.’
Colour drained from her face and she whispered, ‘It was, and it was one that came sincerely from my heart. But it seems to me as though your heart is made of stone, for your manner is so surly. Excuse me please.’ Her chair scraped across the floorboards as she stood, and she turned and walked away.
Magnus sighed. How could he have been so churlish? ‘Come back here, Sarette.’
She kept going, her back as stiff as a ramrod. The door closed behind her. Branston clattered the plates on the dresser, and he couldn’t keep his disapproval from clouding his voice. ‘Do you want coffee, sir?’
‘No . . . dammit, Branston. Send somebody up to Miss Maitland, tell her to come back down here at once.’
‘The young lady is upset. I don’t think she will appreciate being disturbed.’
He decided to take Branston’s advice. He could only add fuel to the flame now. ‘It was my fault, wasn’t it?’
‘Since you ask, yes, sir, it was. Miss Maitland is just a sweet young girl who goes out of her way to try and please people.’
To Magnus she appeared to be a provocative little minx sent here by his uncle to plague him. ‘What do you suggest I do to make amends?’
‘A small gesture like a posy of flowers would probably please her. She is very appreciative of the nature of her surroundings.’
‘I’ll personally pick one in the morning and give them to her at breakfast, so stop looking so long-faced at me. I’ll have that coffee now, Branston, thank you. Take Miss Maitland’s up to her, and don’t stay and gossip about what took place here. How the devil did she know what my favourite dinner is?’
‘Your uncle told her, I believe.’
His uncle had told her a lot of things . . . how close had these two been, that he should leave her such a fortune? It seemed disloyal that he could even think it, but his uncle wouldn’t be the first ageing man who’d fallen under the spell of a young girl. Perhaps there would be a clue in his journals as to what had taken place between John and the girl. He would open the trunk tomorrow and see if he could make sense of it.
Flynn Collins had secured employment in a coal yard in Poole, courtesy of his cousin, who’d preferred to deny any connection between them in public. That bastard didn’t want to know him, but all the same, he’d promised to help him get away when the time came.
The job consisted of shovelling coal into sacks, then weighing them and sewing up the tops. He’d also found accommodation, a back room in a mean house in Smuggler’s Lane. His landlady wasn’t too fussy, but she wasn’t a bad cook and she didn’t ask questions.
The job was worse than working down a mine, what with the dust, and
all, and he’d done some of that in his time. But it meant that for most of the day his face would be black with coal dust, so if by chance someone looked for him here, the chance of him being recognized had lessened.
He could do nothing about his Irish accent, but it was common. He frequented the bars at night, keeping his ears open and his trap shut. He’d befriended an Irish engineer off a cargo carrier who sailed on the American route.
‘Jack Maitland?’ he said when Flynn offered his assumed name. ‘It doesn’t sound like an Irish name to me.’
‘It’s my mammy who was Irish, God bless her. Ireland is where I was born and raised. America is where I’ll end up when I can get signed on. I have a brother there, and my mammy has gone to live with him.’
The engineer downed his pot of ale. ‘I might have a job as a stoker opening up. You’d have to be signed on as crew, but I’d need surety money. Half up front and the rest when we’re under way.’ While Flynn fumbled in his pocket, he said, ‘You have legitimate papers?’
‘Aye, I have. Got to get some money first, though. My father used to work for someone called John Kern. He died in my father’s arms in foreign parts. My old man followed after him still being owed his wage, and my mammy asked me to collect it from the heir before I join them. But I’ve lost the letter and I don’t know where the Kerns live.’
A sceptical expression came into the engineer’s eyes. ‘What’s this man called?’
‘Magnus Kern.’
‘Odd sort of name. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. Can’t say I’ve heard of him m’self, but then, we’re only here for a few days’ turnaround to unload cargo and load coal.’
He downed his ale, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood, holding out his hand. I hope you’ll be able to finish your business with this Kern fellow as soon as possible. I’ll be back now and again, and no questions asked. I’ll keep our mutual acquaintance informed.’
Flynn palmed some money into the engineer’s hand. His bankroll was being reduced rapidly. He’d have to find another randy toff to roll before he left.
An old man sitting at a beer-stained table said, as he was about to leave, ‘The Kern family made their wealth from smuggling hereabouts. Magnus is the last of the Kerns. Nothing dishonest about him though. If the family owes you money, he’ll pay up.’
Flynn nodded. You bet he will, he thought, then said out loud, ‘You know where he lives, then?’
‘I might do. It will cost you a pint of ale though.’
Flynn nodded to the barman.
Eleven
Magnus woke at dawn, dressed and went out into the garden to look for wild flowers. The mist drifted across like curtains of drizzle and soon his hair and coat were damp. There weren’t many wildflowers left. She might have to wait until spring for an apology from him, he thought grumpily.
He found some blue speedwell, mayweed and campion, and going back through the orchard, a leafy bough hung with crab apples. Then there was a branch covered in hazelnuts, and some small feathery branches of the yew tree with sticky red berries. His glance was drawn to a splash of scarlet in the hedge where the berries of the black bryony shone, jewel bright. And the bramble leaves, red like wine. He reached out to snap the bract off, and sucked in a swift breath when a thorn ripped through his skin.
‘No perhaps not,’ he said, sucking the blood from his finger. He didn’t want the girl to accuse him of plotting her downfall.
It had been a long time since he’d taken time to observe his surroundings, and he was reluctant to go inside. But it looked like it might rain, and he’d promised himself that he’d go through his uncle’s belongings.
His arms full of late autumn glory, Magnus carried his booty through to the kitchen, and ignoring the knowing looks and grins his staff exchanged, asked for a pewter jug. He shoved the branches into it and went upstairs to bang at Sarette’s door.
Nobody answered. He opened the door and gazed inside. The room was empty. ‘Where the devil is she?’ he said.
Behind him, a woman gently coughed, and he spun round, encountering one of the maids, who had a gown over her arm.
‘Miss Maitland is at breakfast, sir.’
He recalled that her name was Ada, and gazed at the gown in her arms. ‘Are you acting as maid to Miss Maitland.’
‘Yes, sir, but only when she needs me to fashion her hair or tighten her . . . well, never mind. She does for herself mostly.’
‘Miss Maitland is my guest, and shouldn’t need to fend for herself. Ask Mrs Young to see me after breakfast.’
‘Mrs Young went to see her mother and she never came back. We reckon she’s not going to now she’s got that legacy. She sent a letter to you but you haven’t had time to go through your letters yet. Branston has put Verna in charge of the housekeeping, pending your permission. Would you like me to take those . . . branches?’
‘No. They’re for Miss Maitland.’
‘Well, you’ll find her in the dining room, sir. Though she said she was going for a long walk after breakfast.
He found Sarette there. Her face took on a wary look when she set eyes on him and she whispered, ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ He plonked his offering in front of her. ‘They’re for you.’
He blinked when a wide smile sped across her face. ‘The colours are lovely, and you’ve arranged them so beautifully. Thank you so much. What are these sticky berries? Can I eat them?’
He wondered if she was teasing him, then realized she wasn’t. ‘They’re from the yew tree. The only fruits safe to eat, apart from the crab apples which will pucker your mouth up and are too sour to enjoy anyway, are those round hazelnuts.’ Plucking a couple from the branch he cracked them together in his palm, shucked the shell from them and offered her the nuts.
She ate them both, said, ‘They’re delicious.’
‘Yes, they are . . . I believe you intend to take a walk after breakfast.’
‘The countryside is so pretty.’
‘I think it will rain before too long, so take an umbrella from the big vase in the hall. Can you ride?’
‘I used to ride Hercules, but I had to sit behind your uncle and hang on to him, so I could never see where we were going to or coming from. I could drive my father’s horse and cart, but the horse was a plodder.’
Magnus helped himself to some breakfast. ‘Tell me about your father.’
Her smile faded. ‘He was a nice man with a big laugh. I loved him, and he died after a snake bit him. It was only a scratch, and he laughed, and then . . . it was a cruel, relentless death that robbed him of strength and the will to resist it. I’d never seen fear in his eyes before that day. Three hours later he was dead.’
‘I’m sorry, that must have been hard for you to bear. And your mother?’
‘Typhoid, I believe. She was expecting a child. I can’t really remember her, but I have a brooch with her picture painted on it.’
‘Do you have any living relatives?’
‘None that I know of. My father was a clerk and my mother a governess.’
‘Where were they employed?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her face began to close up, obviously her memories were painful. ‘Is there anything else you want to know, Magnus?’
‘My uncle—’
‘Was the kindest man I’ve ever met, even though he was tough. I adored him, and can put no measure on that. I’m sorry you are put to such trouble on my behalf. It was wrong of Mr John to take advantage of your kind nature by imposing my presence upon you.’
He felt all types of a rogue and squirmed on a self-created, but imaginary devil’s roasting fork as he stumbled over the words . . . ‘My kind nature?’
‘I’ve been thinking of my position here. No wonder you were angry with me. I’ll move as soon as I can make plans. Perhaps Mrs Lawrence will take me as a paying guest, or perhaps Mr Ignatious Grimble will help me find employment where I can live on the premises. I would very much like to look after children. I thought I mig
ht be a governess, but Mr John advised against it. He said they’re dried-up old spinsters.’
She should marry and have children of her own, which, after all, was what his uncle had planned for her, Magnus thought.
She rose, and her smile wasn’t quite so spontaneous now. ‘I will take these upstairs to my room, and will try and stay out of your way when I return. I promise.’
‘Sarette,’ he said when she reached the door, and she stopped her flight, but she didn’t turn. ‘My offering is by way of apology for the way I treated you yesterday. I should have accepted your note. As for staying out of my way, my home is yours and you may use it as you will while you’re here. Also, I don’t want you to leave. I’m used to solitude here, so your presence will be good for me. Perhaps you’ll make me more human.’
‘It takes a brave man to bury his pride and admit he’s wrong. I shouldn’t have expected you to measure up to your uncle. Thank you, Magnus.’ She departed, her nose buried in the fruity bouquet. His smile fled when he suddenly thought: What was it she’d said? She shouldn’t have expected him to measure up to his uncle? What the devil was that supposed to mean?
The downpour sent a satisfying rattle of rain down on Sarette’s black umbrella. She loved the rain after living in a place where it was a rarity, loved the way it turned the soil to mud beneath her feet and the way the raindrops raced each other down the window pane. When it was heavy it made the boughs downcast, dripped off everything, then turned into glittering icicles when the wind was at its coldest.
Happiness was bursting from her like flowers opening to spring sunshine. The only reason she could think of for this feeling was that the argument with Magnus Kern had been resolved, and they had reached a point from which they could progress. It had taken a considerable sacrifice on her part.
She heard the yelp of a dog, and stopped. Along one side of the path a small brook headed towards the sea. With the rain, the water in the brook had become a rush. In the middle of it was the limb of a tree, and hanging from a woody twig, a sack, partly submerged, as if it had been washed there by the force of the water. The sack moved and a desperate yelping came from its innards.