by Anne Ashley
‘From what Emma has divulged in the past, I rather fancy that it was fortunate that her uncle did keep in close contact. Although the Reverend Joseph Lynn was a scholarly man, he was not very adroit when it came to financial matters, and would have quite willingly given away his last penny to the poor if Emma’s mother had not taken control of the finances, and had received assistance from her brother.
‘Sadly Emma suffered the loss of her mother and beloved uncle in quick succession. All financial help then ceased, but her uncle did leave Emma a sum of money in his will. Her uncle was an astute man and, I suppose, fearing that his altruistic but faintly unworldly brother-in-law would squander Emma’s inheritance, he ensured that she could not touch so much as a penny until she attained the age of five-and-twenty, or she married. Emma, therefore, was forced to make her own way in the world after her father’s demise.’
‘Understandable enough, but why seek employment in a wayside inn? Surely she could have attained some genteel position as a governess or companion?’
Lavinia, to her surprise detecting a faint note of annoyance in the deep, cultured voice, shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘I do not think that would have suited Emma. Besides which, she sought refuge with someone whom she loved and trusted. The landlady used to be Emma’s nursemaid up until she returned here to marry Samuel Rudge.’ She cast him a reassuring smile. ‘Believe me, Martha guards Emma with all the protective verve of the strictest duenna.’
He did not appear in the least gratified to learn this. ‘Maybe so. But that doesn’t alter the fact that a girl of that quality ought not to be working in a tavern.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ she responded, appreciating fully now his evident annoyance. ‘And I have suggested that she come here to live with me on more than one occasion. I am extremely fond of Emma.’ Her frown of disapproval was no less pronounced than his own. ‘I’m afraid, though, that she has a definite stubborn streak. She is fiercely independent, and is determined not to accept charity.’
His only response was to give vent to what sounded suspiciously like a snort of disapproval, before he rose to his feet, scooping up the leatherbound diary in one long-fingered hand as he did so.
‘May I take this with me, Lavinia? I’d like to read through it at my leisure.’
‘By all means. I do not believe you’ll find very much of interest, though. Henry didn’t keep a regular diary. He could go for months without jotting anything down. There is, I seem to remember, another one somewhere. I’ll look it out and ask Deborah to take it over to you later, when she returns from Salisbury.’
She accompanied him to the front door, extracting a promise that he would dine with her on the following evening, before allowing him to take his gracious leave.
It was while she remained in the front garden, watching the elegant long-striding gait taking him quickly along the road, that it occurred to her as most odd that he should have betrayed such an interest in the welfare of Emma Lynn… Yes, very strange, she mused. Most interesting, none the less!
Miss Deborah Hammond was one of the few people who had no difficulty whatsoever in winning a warm smile from the landlady of the Ashworth Arms. Martha had always been very gratified by the friendship which had quickly blossomed between the well-respected doctor’s daughter and her one-time charge. She was always pleased to see the girl and her unexpected arrival later that same day was no exception.
Martha immediately invited her to join Emma and herself at the kitchen table, and for a while they exchanged snippets of village gossip, before Deborah recalled the reason for her visit.
‘Is Mr Grantley about, by any chance?’
‘He went out, with his nephew, this morning in his carriage.’ Martha sniffed rather pointedly. ‘He didn’t trouble to tell me where he was going, or precisely what time he would return, though he did say he would be requiring dinner.’
Deborah was not slow to detect the note of disapproval, and cast a glance in her friend’s direction in time to see Emma attempting to suppress a smile. She knew well enough how Martha fussed about Emma like a broody hen, keen to protect her from life’s less wholesome elements. But really, there was absolutely no need, Deborah mused, ineffectually striving to suppress a smile of her own. Dear Emma had a head on her shoulders, and was quite capable of rebuffing the unwanted attentions of any male.
‘Harry Fencham’s a charming young man, Emma, don’t you agree? I’ve known him all my life.’
‘Are you well acquainted with the uncle, too?’ Emma couldn’t resist asking, thereby earning herself a dour look from a certain quarter.
Deborah freely admitted that she was not, and that she had seen him only once, many years ago, when she had been invited to stay with Lady Fencham. Nevertheless she was quite happy to satisfy her friend’s curiosity as far as she could.
‘I may have mentioned before that his sister, Lady Agnes Fencham, is my godmother. When people first meet her they think she’s unapproachable and very haughty, but really she’s a dear. I know she’s very fond of her younger brother. Harry says that he’s the only member of the family who’ll stand up to her. By all accounts she’s been trying for years to persuade him to marry.’
‘Ha! Pity she didn’t succeed!’ Martha put in, much to the younger ladies’ intense amusement.
‘As you may have gathered by now, Deborah, dear Martha doesn’t approve of the very personable Mr Grantley. She seems to suppose that I’ll succumb to his abundance of charm. She conveniently forgets that he’s a gentleman, and is merely being polite.’
‘And what you seem to forget, Miss Em,’ Martha retorted, not slow to administer a counter-thrust, ‘is that one needs to be a man before one can be considered a gentleman. And no one could dispute the fact that Mr Benedict Grantley is every inch a male. I noticed the look he cast you before he left the inn this morning. I’m not blind.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ Emma scoffed, while secretly wondering just how he had looked at her. ‘Gentleman of Mr Benedict Grantley’s station in life are not interested in people like me.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Deborah announced. ‘You’re exceedingly pretty, Em. Mama has frequently remarked upon it. Oh, and speaking of Mama…she wishes to know if you would care to join us for dinner tomorrow evening. Apparently the new doctor arrived today. She has already made herself known to him, and has invited him to dine, and says there’ll be an odd number sitting down at table if you do not accept.’
Ordinarily Emma would not have needed to consider the matter. She always enjoyed the evenings she spent with the Hammonds. Not once had Lavinia or her daughter made her feel in any way inferior, simply because she now lived and worked in an inn. Sadly, this time, she felt she could not neglect her obligations and felt she must forgo the pleasure.
‘Naturally, I’d love to come, Deborah. Only with guests staying, I don’t—’
‘Of course you can go,’ Martha interrupted. ‘My cooking might not be up to your standard, but I won’t poison Mr Grantley, or his precious nephew.’
In view of the fact that Mrs Rudge did not wholly approve of a certain gentleman, Deborah decided not to reveal that both Mr Grantley and Harry would be amongst their guests the following evening. ‘Oh, yes, and speaking of Mr Grantley…’ Delving into a large, drawstring bag, Deborah drew out a slightly shabby, leatherbound book. ‘Mama asked me to give this to him. It’s Papa’s old diary. Can’t imagine why he should wish to read it. But would you see that he gets it, Em?’
Receiving the assurance she required, Deborah soon afterwards departed, leaving Emma to ponder over what to serve at dinner. It certainly didn’t cross her mind for a moment, as the afternoon wore on, to suppose that she was giving any undue consideration to what tempting delicacies to create for the evening meal. It most certainly did occur to her, however, that Martha had no intention of relaxing her guard where one of the inn’s newest arrivals was concerned, for shortly before the food was due to be placed in the various dishes, the landlad
y appeared in the kitchen, with the serving-maid at her heels, announcing that Lucy was to wait at table that evening.
‘Really?’ Emma refused to argue the point, even though she considered that Martha was spreading that protective mantle a little too wide. ‘Well, let us hope the dishes don’t end in the gentlemen’s laps, or on the floor, for that matter.’
She wasn’t being entirely facetious. Although Lucy Lampton was an immensely likeable and hardworking young woman, she was built on very generous lines, and on occasions had the unfortunate tendency to be clumsy.
Martha’s expression betrayed faint unease, as she watched the inn’s popular serving-maid return to the kitchen, one fleshy elbow banging against the laundry door as she tied the strings of a clean apron about her ample curves.
‘Yes, see that you don’t drop anything, Lucy,’ she warned, casting a critical eye over the plump, rosy-cheeked young woman whose fondness for masculine company was famed. ‘And fasten up that blouse! And no leaning over the table neither! The gentlemen will have ample breast to satisfy their needs on the chicken served at dinner, without being offered any more!’
Emma almost choked. ‘Come along,’ she said to a chortling Lucy. ‘I’ll give you a hand to set the table.’
After collecting fresh table-linen, Emma went out into the coffee room in time to see Lucy’s wide hips brush against one of the tables, knocking a sketch-pad to the floor. ‘Oh, Lucy, do be careful!’ she cautioned, bending to retrieve the pad which she had observed Mr Fencham carrying out to the carriage earlier in the day.
Being something of a keen painter herself, she allowed curiosity to get the better of her and couldn’t resist a quick peek inside the cover, her expression turning swiftly to one of comical dismay as she studied the results of Mr Fencham’s labours.
‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘perhaps dear Martha is quite right to be suspicious. Without doubt Mr Benedict Grantley is a rank deceiver!’
Chapter Four
Something about his body’s clock was most definitely malfunctioning since his arrival at this inn, Benedict decided, making his way as silently as he could down the narrow staircase to the coffee room. As he had informed Lavinia Hammond the day before, he had never experienced the least difficulty in adjusting to country hours. He hadn’t experienced the least hardship in falling asleep in that very comfortable bed the moment his head touched the pillow, either. The trouble was, though, he seemed to be waking at a ridiculously early hour. Yesterday he had been wide awake at six o’clock and today it was five. If he carried on at the present rate, there would be little point in going to bed at all!
Deciding that an exploratory stroll round the inn’s exterior, and many outbuildings, would be a more pleasurable way of passing the time than sitting in the private parlour waiting for Harry to rise, he carefully drew back the substantial bolts, and stepped outside to discover yet another lovely late spring morning, the air pleasantly fresh and scented with the fragrance of the roses that grew around the front door.
When he had wandered into the tap the evening before to enjoy a tankard of mine host’s fine home-brewed ale, before finally retiring for the night, he had discovered from the very amiable landlord that the inn was fairly self-sufficient. Besides managing to grow most of the vegetables they required, they kept a cow, pigs and a variety of poultry. There was even a dairy where the less than friendly landlady produced butter and cream.
Benedict smiled to himself as he walked past the barn, and proceeded along a slightly overgrown path into a long meadow, sparkling with early morning dew and adorned with a wide variety of pretty wildflowers. Never could there have been a couple so dissimilar as the very amiable Master Rudge and his grim-faced wife. Yet, to be fair, perhaps there was reason enough for the landlady to maintain the strict vigil over a certain someone and continue to remain a little aloof herself.
If he were honest, he would be forced to admit that he had been more than just mildly disappointed when the delightful Miss Lynn had failed to appear in the private parlour the evening before to furnish them with port. None the less, the novel experience of being waited upon by that buxom serving-wench had certainly produced its lighter moments, most notably when the soup had very nearly ended in poor Harry’s lap, and the trout had skidded across the table to collide with his own wine glass, spilling most of its contents over the pristine cloth.
The sight of a large house, surrounded by early morning mist and nestling in a slight valley, caught his attention and he stopped by a rustic gate to study the aspect in more detail. Although set in a picturesque landscape, the building was undoubtedly one of the ugliest he’d ever seen. The original part of the house, he suspected, was Elizabethan, but it had been enlarged considerably over the centuries, without much thought to either symmetry or style, resulting in a monstrosity which had long since lost what architectural beauty it might once have possessed.
The sound of sweetly melodious humming reached his ears, and he turned his head in time to see a slender figure emerge from the woodland area at the far end of the meadow. The young woman’s silky brown hair, hanging loosely about her shoulders, caught the sun’s rays, highlighting the golden tints in the rich chestnut locks, as she stepped from beneath the last of the shading branches.
He found himself quite unable to draw his eyes away as she moved along the path towards him. Swinging the basket she carried to and fro, she seemed to float just above the ground, like some fragile, unearthly creature one read about in fairy-tales. Only she was very real; as real as his body’s immediate reaction when she caught sight of him, and paused for a moment, a lovely smile of instant recognition curling her delectable mouth.
‘Why, Mr Grantley! You’re up and about very early this morning.’
As she approached him the golden tints in the lustrous hair were even more noticeable, matching those flecks in her strikingly lovely eyes. ‘I could say the same about you, Miss Lynn,’ he responded, momentarily wondering why his chest should suddenly feel as though it were being constricted by encircling bands of steel, making breathing faintly laboured.
‘Oh, I’m usually up bright and early in the spring and summer. I always think it is the best time of day. Besides which, I had a very good reason for rising particularly early.’ She raised a cloth, revealing the contents of her basket. ‘Mushrooms for your breakfast. I also took the opportunity of drying my hair whilst I was out. So you must forgive my slightly—er—informal appearance.’
Although she was doing her level best to conceal the fact, he knew she was feeling faintly discomposed at being discovered in this less than perfectly groomed state. He, on the other hand, considered Providence had favoured him, and was not in the least disappointed to have come upon her in such an unexpected way. Her crowning mane was a wonderful warm brown, flowing, and silky soft. So very different from the short, crimped styles worn nowadays by the vast majority of fashionable ladies, he reflected, whilst manfully resisting the urge to reach out and run his fingers through the shining strands.
‘Your hair is beautiful, Miss Lynn. I would suggest you never cut it,’ he advised, thereby making her appear for a moment so deliciously flustered that a sudden desire to kiss her breathless almost overwhelmed him, but not quite.
‘Tell me,’ he remarked, desperate to give his thoughts a new direction. ‘Who lives in the house, there, in the valley below?’
‘That is Ashworth Hall.’ Although unable to prevent that telltale glow from suffusing her cheeks at the unexpected compliment, Emma was relieved to discover her voice continued to remain wholly dependable. ‘Apart from the servants, only Miss Ashworth and her niece, Clarissa, live there now. Lord Ashworth died last summer.’
She could see at once, by his expression, that he was decidedly unimpressed. ‘I must admit that it is an eerie place, especially at this time of year when it’s shrouded in early morning mists. I’m reliably informed that it is quite elegant within, and sumptuously furnished. The Ashworth family is a wealthy one.’
&
nbsp; ‘Have you never seen inside it yourself, Miss Lynn?’
‘Hardly, Mr Grantley,’ she responded, wondering if he was being facetious. ‘I’m not the sort of person who would ever be asked to pay a visit there.’ For a moment she thought she could detect a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, but then decided she must have been imagining things. After all, why should he care whether the Ashworths considered her completely unworthy to sit at their table? ‘I have, however, been allowed inside the kitchen. The Ashworths’ cook and I frequently exchange recipes. More often than not Mrs Wright calls at the inn on her afternoon off.’
His expression now totally unreadable, he transferred his gaze once again to the mishmash of brick and stone in the valley below. ‘Are you acquainted with all the servants there?’
‘Most of them, yes,’ she answered, suddenly wondering why he should be so interested in the domestic situation presiding at the Hall.
‘Were you by any chance on friendly terms with the young maid who died there not so many months ago?’
‘No, I cannot recall that I ever saw her. She was there a few weeks only. And, as I’ve already mentioned, Mrs Wright more often than not calls to see me at the inn, if ever she tries a new recipe which she thinks I might like.’
She regarded him in silence for a moment, the suspicion that he had a definite purpose for visiting Ashworth Magna increasing rapidly. ‘Mr Grantley, why have you come to this out-of-the-way place?’ she asked, rank curiosity overcoming her natural reserve. There was no response. Undeterred, she added, ‘You may tell me to mind my own business if you wish, but please do not insult my intelligence again by repeating that farrago of nonsense about visiting the sights in order that your nephew might indulge his artistic bent. To be blunt—he hasn’t one. Indeed, he cannot even draw a straight line!’