Tavern Wench

by Anne Ashley

  Oh, if only Benedict were here! she thought, reaching for the apron which Lucy had torn that morning. He would have known precisely what to do. But she had received no communication, not even just a few hurried lines, to suggest when she might expect to see him. A sigh escaped her. Having had both Richard and Harry to bear her company had certainly made the evenings slightly more enjoyable. She liked them both immensely, but neither, sadly, could fill the void. It was Benedict’s face she longed to see smiling at her across the dining table, and his voice she longed to hear; even though on occasions it could be quite infuriatingly dictatorial.

  ‘Samuel not back yet?’ Martha asked, wandering through from the tap to stare out of the window, where Emma had sat for most of the evening, keeping watch on the yard.

  ‘No, no one has returned,’ she confirmed, before coming to a decision. ‘Oh, confound the man! Why isn’t he here?’

  Slightly startled, Martha watched Emma toss the apron aside, and then storm across to the kitchen dresser. ‘Oh, I expect he’ll be back soon, and it’s not as if we’re busy in the tap. Surely you don’t begrudge Sam a little free time?’

  ‘I was referring to Benedict,’ Emma enlightened her, as she began to rummage through the drawers. ‘If he were here now, I would be hard pressed not to administer a sound box round the ear!’

  ‘But why?’ Martha found it impossible to suppress a chuckle. Emma rarely succumbed to ill humour, but when she did, no one was left in any doubt about it. ‘The dear man said he would be away for at least a week,’ she reminded her, but Emma refused to be humoured.

  ‘I’ll “dear man” him when I get my hands on him!’ she muttered darkly. ‘Oh, confound it! Where is the dratted thing…? Ah, yes, I remember!’

  To her intense dismay, Martha saw Emma reach up to the top of the dresser and draw down the pistol Samuel left within easy reach should the need for its use arise. ‘Be careful, Emma, the thing is kept loaded.’

  ‘I know. It wouldn’t be a lot of use to me if it wasn’t,’ she responded, checking the pistol, before slipping it into the pocket of her gown. ‘Martha, I’m going out to search for Richard. I’m worried about him. He’s too considerate a man not to have sent word if he had any intention of not returning for dinner.’

  Holding up her hand against the protest Martha was about to utter, she instructed her to send Lucy over to Colonel Meecham’s house immediately to ascertain if Richard was there, and, if not, to ask Harry if he would kindly ride over and see if Lord Ashworth was with Sir Lionel.

  ‘And what do you intend to do?’ Martha demanded to know, following Emma outside into the yard.

  ‘I’m going over to the Hall. I’ll cut across the fields. It will save time,’ and so saying, she hurried away, granting no opportunity for further argument.

  Having been swiftly infected with Emma’s anxiety, Martha wasted no time in searching out Lucy, and speedily saw her off down the lane in the direction of the Colonel’s house. All she could do then was wait. Consequently she experienced no small amount of relief when a few minutes later she clearly detected the sound of a vehicle drawing to a halt in the yard.

  Assuming it must be Samuel returning from Andover, she rushed out, almost crying with relief as she watched the tall, immaculately attired figure stepping down from the carriage.

  ‘Oh, Mr Grantley, thank heavens you’re back!’ She was to wonder ever afterwards how she managed to stop herself from falling upon that broad expanse of chest. ‘Young Lord Ashworth has not returned, and we’re that concerned.’

  Benedict’s smile was instantly erased. ‘When did he arrive?’

  ‘On the very day you left us, sir. He was supposed to return for dinner, and Emma’s gone over to the Hall to search for him.’

  Those expressive black brows snapped together. ‘The devil she has!’

  Uncertain quite how to respond to this totally unexpected explosion of wrath, Martha was somewhat relieved to hear the sound of an approaching horse, and turned to see Harry entering the yard.’

  ‘Hello, Ben! Didn’t expect to find you here.’ His boyish grin faded when he detected his uncle’s grim expression. ‘What’s to do?’

  ‘Apparently young Ashworth is missing. Obviously he hasn’t been with you?’

  ‘No. I’ve been dining with the Meechams.’ Harry too began to betray signs of concern. ‘He might be over with Sir Lionel, although he certainly hadn’t called there before I left, which was around five.’

  ‘In that case, ride over now, just to be certain he isn’t there.’

  ‘Fine. And what are you going to do?’

  ‘Pay a visit to Ashworth Hall to find Emma,’ Benedict responded, after instructing his coachman to turn the carriage round.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Wring her neck!’

  Harry frankly laughed. ‘In that case I’ll be off now to see Sir Lionel, and then ride over to the Hall afterwards, just in case Emma should feel the need of my protection.’

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time Emma had arrived within yards of the house there was still sufficient light for her to see reasonably clearly, but this she well knew would not remain the case for very much longer. Feeling the effects of her hastily executed cross-country excursion, she made good use of one of the sturdy elms which edged the drive by leaning her back against the trunk, and taking a moment to regain her breath and look about her.

  Since scrambling over the boundary fence, and entering the park, she had been on the watch for any possible estate worker still toiling in the grounds. She had seen no one. This at first had struck her as most odd, until she had recalled that Isabel Ashworth had granted the servants the opportunity to enjoy themselves at Andover’s annual fair. The generous offer had possibly been extended to those working on the estate too, and it would be a rare man indeed who would deny himself the pleasure of doing no work and still earning a day’s pay.

  Earlier in the week she had considered Isabel most thoughtful to suggest that the servants be given the opportunity to enjoy a rare treat. Now, however, Emma was beginning to feel increasingly that something quite sinister had instigated this surprising show of kindness on Isabel’s part. After all, with the house empty of servants, what better time to commit some malicious act? It was just possible, though, that one or two older members of staff had not grasped the opportunity offered to make the trip to Andover. She could not imagine, for instance, the staid butler wishing to visit a noisy fair. Troughton might, of course, have chosen to visit his sister who lived on the outskirts of Salisbury. If not, then it was more than likely that he was still in the house.

  Her eyes narrowed speculatively as she gazed at the solid oak door. If Troughton was within, he would undoubtedly answer any summons and, more importantly, would tell her precisely what she wished to know. Supposing, though, he wasn’t there, and Isabel Ashworth herself answered the door? What then? Might Miss Ashworth deem any enquiry into her nephew’s whereabouts an impertinence? Furthermore, even supposing she did condescend to volunteer such information, could she be believed?

  Emma began to gnaw at her bottom lip, wondering what she should do. How she wished that she possessed Benedict’s God-given gift of knowing at once whether someone was telling the truth! Unfortunately she did not, and so could only rely on feminine intuition. And every instinct told her that Richard Ashworth was in danger.

  After a further quiet moment’s deliberation, she decided she must first discover if any of the servants were in the house, and this could best be achieved by making her way round to the kitchen entrance. If anyone happened to see her before she had reached her goal, she would merely say that she had called in order to collect a recipe from Mrs Wright. No one would think this in any way out of the ordinary, as she had done so on a score of occasions in the past. Furthermore, should any comment be made as to the lateness of the hour, she would merely say that she didn’t suppose that Mrs Wright would have returned from Andover very early.

  Having decided on th
is plan of action, Emma delayed no further, and headed across the drive to the path which eventually led to the courtyard at the rear of the building. She had walked almost half the length of the massive east wing, when she clearly detected the sound of a voice filtering through one of the open windows.

  With one swift, side-stepping movement, she had her back pressed against the grey stone wall, and began to edge her way stealthily towards what she believed must be one of the library windows, while praying that her approaching footsteps on the gravel could not be detected from within the room. It appeared her prayers had been answered, for she distinctly heard Isabel Ashworth’s voice again, this time clearly bemoaning the fact that they were having to wait.

  ‘Why on earth could you not have arranged for them to come here earlier?’ she demanded of someone obviously in the room with her. ‘The servants might be back before they decide to show their faces.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, woman! You don’t suppose they would be willing to come here in broad daylight, not after their last escapade? Be thankful that they agreed to offer their services a second time!’

  Emma had no difficulty in recognising that responding voice. Flint had tried to hold her in conversation too many times during the dinner she had eaten at the Hall on Wednesday evening for her not to be positive that it was he. Isabel began speaking again, and Emma listened intently, certain now that something was afoot.

  ‘They were paid well enough. They’ve no cause to complain.’

  A raucous shout of laughter followed. ‘What’s the use of money, if you don’t live to spend it? They have no wish to end their days dangling from a rope. And neither have I.’

  ‘You’ve no cause to complain, either, Flint.’ Isabel’s voice was harsh and scathing, singularly lacking its usually soft, ladylike tones. ‘You’ve done well enough out of me over the years.’

  ‘True enough.’ There was the unmistakable sound of chinking glass, as though someone was making use of the contents of a decanter. ‘But I’ll tell you this—as soon as you’ve achieved your aim, and your cousin has the title, you and I are parting company. And do not think to stop me. Your secrets are safe enough with me, providing I too do not meet with a sudden end. You see, I have taken the precaution of leaving a letter with a certain Notary and Commissioner of Oaths in Salisbury who has been instructed to hand the document over to the authorities, if I should just happen to leave this world in suspicious circumstances.’ A pause, then, ‘I don’t deny that I’ve done well out of our long and eventful association. I just hope Cedric’s as grateful to you as I’ve always been.’

  ‘Cedric’s a fool! He’ll never suspect. I can twist him round my little finger. And that nincompoop son of his will be easy enough to manage when the time comes for him to take his father’s place as head of the family.’

  Again there was the sound of masculine laughter. ‘Well, I for one wouldn’t care to be in Cedric’s shoes if he doesn’t prove so malleable as you suppose. Though why in the world you couldn’t have given your nephew a chance, I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve already explained that. Good God! Do you take me for a fool? I could see at once that the damned young upstart would prove a problem. If he’d betrayed the least sign that he might be susceptible to Clarissa’s charms, I might have given him the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘Well, that’s your own fault. You spoilt her. Had you spent time instilling some manners into the chit, she might have had more to commend her than mere looks. Not many men wish to take a sulky little shrew to wife. But I still say you’d have done better to have waited,’ Flint continued, when he failed to elicit a response. ‘You might have managed to win him round.’

  Emma’s breath caught in her throat, as she saw the shadow fall across the window, and heard Isabel’s voice, clearer than before, announce, ‘No, not he. He’s too much his father’s son. I’ve already told you that, on the night of the dinner-party, I overheard him telling someone that he wasn’t happy about Clarissa and me residing here. He would have had us out at the earliest opportunity…and after all I’ve done.’ There was an unmistakable bitter edge to the surprising shout of feminine laughter which followed. ‘And if you imagine I’d allow that damned young puppy to take away what would have been mine if only…’

  ‘Yes, you should have been a man,’ was the amused response. ‘There’s no compassion, no gentleness in you. Though, I must say you’re losing your touch. You managed to finish the serving-girl off with one blow, but young Ashworth’s still very much alive.’

  ‘But not for much longer if those rogues arrive and do their job.’

  ‘They didn’t fail the last time, when you wanted the doctor out of the way,’ Flint wasn’t slow to remind her. ‘When I first approached them I warned them I might require their services at a moment’s notice. It was pure chance that I discovered Sir Lionel was planning to cancel his evening with Dr Hammond. When I rode over to their lodgings in Salisbury later that Friday morning, they were more than willing to accompany me back to Ashworth Magna. And they did the job.’

  ‘Well, see that they do a thorough job again! They can even use the same spot in the lane leading to Brent’s place. If I’m ever asked, I’ll merely say that, when he left here, my nephew intended to call on Sir Lionel.’

  ‘Ye gods, you’re a cold-hearted wench! Don’t you ever suffer pangs of conscience?’ Flint demanded.

  Emma thought she detected what sounded suspiciously like a scoff before Isabel parried with, ‘Do you?’

  ‘I didn’t like having a hand in Hammond’s death.’

  Appalled and sickened though she was at what she was hearing, Emma was inclined to give Flint the benefit of the doubt, for she had detected an unmistakable hint of regret in his voice.

  Isabel Ashworth, on the other hand, sounded callously matter-of-fact as she said, ‘I knew he wasn’t happy over the Pritchard girl’s death. If I could have been certain that he intended keeping his suspicions to himself he’d be alive today. But I felt sure that, sooner or later, he would confide in Sir Lionel, so he had to be disposed of…and my nephew will suffer the same fate. Are you sure he’s still unconscious?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. And even if he should come round, he ain’t going anywhere. He’s safely trussed up like a chicken. So stop worrying! As soon as our friends arrive we’ll have him out of here.’

  Emma had discovered all she needed to know. Richard was somewhere in the house, and it was up to her to find out where before the villains hired to dispose of him arrived at the Hall.

  Stooping low, so as not to be seen passing the window, Emma held her breath as she tiptoed towards the corner of the east wing. Once safely in the courtyard at the back of the house, she took a moment to gaze across at the row of outbuildings, and was not unduly surprised to discover no grooms or servants about their work. Nor was she particularly daunted to find the door leading to the kitchen securely locked, for she knew that the catch on the larder window was loose, and could be opened from the outside with little difficulty.

  How glad she was that she had been on friendly terms with the Ashworth Hall servants all these years, and had paid numerous visits to Mrs Wright’s domain, she reflected, as she inserted a finger between window and frame and effortlessly raised the catch. The Ashworths’ cook had not infrequently bemoaned the fact that certain young male servants had, over the years, used the larder window as a means by which to gain entry when they had arrived home late, after a night’s carousing, to find themselves locked out. Emma recalled clearly Mrs Wright remarking that anyone of slender build would have little difficulty in using this means to break in. And thankfully she was correct!

  Emma soon found herself standing in the kitchen. She did not suppose for a moment that anyone in the library would be able to hear, but she took great care not to bump into anything as she wasted no time in going across to the door leading to the back stairs.

  Once again she thanked Providence for ensuring that she had enjoyed friendly relations wi
th the Ashworths’ cook, for Mrs Wright had on one occasion used the narrow back stairway to take Emma on a guided tour of the servants’ quarters. She had obligingly pointed out the door leading to the long gallery, which Emma now had no hesitation in using.

  Conscious of his ancestors peering down at her from the walls, she set about trying to locate Richard’s whereabouts. After searching without success every room in the west wing, she retraced her steps along the gallery to the other wing, only to discover that here too each and every room was frustratingly empty. She was wondering whether it might be worthwhile making a search of the cellars, when something that she ought to have realised at once suddenly occurred to her, and she cursed herself silently for a fool. Tall and muscular, Richard was no lightweight. Isabel might be able to bludgeon someone with deadly accuracy, but she didn’t possess the strength, even with the help of her villainous steward, to carry Richard any great distance. Therefore it was more than likely that they had left him in one of the downstairs rooms.

  For the first time since entering the house she paused to consider her own predicament. Fear suddenly gripped her like a vice, holding her captive at the head of the main staircase. Isabel had the blood of two people on her hands, possibly more. She was now planning the destruction of another: her own nephew, no less! It was unlikely, therefore, that Isabel would hesitate in putting a period to the existence of someone whom she no doubt considered of no more worth than the servant-girl she had murdered only months before. Oh, no, Emma reiterated silently. If she was discovered, she could expect no mercy from either of those heartless blackguards in the library.

  The sensible thing to do was to return to the village to summon help. The one flaw in this plan was, of course, that time was not on her side. The men hired to dispose of Richard might arrive at any moment. Dusk was fast approaching. Already the hall below was cast in shadow. Before too long it might prove difficult to search the ground floor without some means of artificial light. If she was to be of any help to Richard, she must act now.