by Anne Gracie
He looked at the lake where he was supposed to have drowned Cecily and remembered house parties in the summer with boating on the lake, ladies in wide-brimmed hats and light summer gowns being rowed by gentlemen. And picnics set up by the lakeside. He was never allowed to participate—such events were for adults, not small boys. He’d watched from his room.
Today the surface of the lake gleamed like polished pewter. It could do with a good clear-out too; those reeds were starting to take over.
His horse shifted restlessly, tossing its head, and Zach moved on, moving away from the house. He had no plans to get any closer. He doubted many people would remember him, let alone recognize the man he’d become, but if anyone did, there was bound to be a fuss and he didn’t want to be bothered with all that just yet.
Besides, it was the estate he was interested in, not . . . feelings. He had no interest in wandering down the unpleasant byways of his childhood memories.
He rode around the estate, coming across familiar landmarks with unexpected pleasure, noticing changes. But the more he saw, the more disturbed he became. He’d come here just to remind himself what he’d left, to see what was to be done—but mostly just to get away to think.
He’d never seriously thought about marriage before, had, in fact, assumed it wasn’t for him. But Miss Jane Chance had him thinking all sorts of things he’d never before considered.
The more he saw of Wainfleet, the more he noticed things that needed doing: fields lying fallow that should have been plowed and ready for spring planting—if not already planted—swampy areas that should have been drained, coppices and orchards that needed attention now, before the spring growth, fences that were sagging and ought to be repaired; all small things on their own, but adding up to a pattern of neglect that concerned him.
His father had, he thought, been a good steward of the land—old-fashioned, and hardheaded in his opinions, but responsible. He’d drummed into Zach the duty the younger generation owed to those who came before.
His father had been dead a year. And since then, it looked as though nothing had been done.
Zach’s fault. He’d assumed the estate manager, whoever it was, would simply continue on as before.
There was work for him here. Not just repairs and the restoration of order, but new possibilities, new methods of farming that could bring prosperity to tenants and landlord alike. A chance to build something fresh and new and good out of something old.
Grow up, she’d told him.
His mind spun with possibilities.
He rode on, circling around the estate, and came to the edge of the forest at the rear of the house. He’d spent many hours of the day in this forest. A faint, overgrown path wove through the trees. Just past there was a stream where he’d fished sometimes, and a clearing where the gypsies used to camp each year. He’d haunted their camp as a boy, absorbing their lore without realizing it. It had helped shape his life, and on occasions to save it.
He dismounted, tied his horse to a tree and followed the little path.
And heard a crash and a sharp, sudden cry. He raced toward the sound and found, beneath a large spreading oak, a small boy of about seven or eight, lying on the ground, still and unmoving in a tangle of small branches.
He bent over the boy. To his relief, the child’s eyes were wide and aware. One arm was bent at a slight angle. Broken, Zach thought. The boy stared up at Zach with a panicked look on his face, his mouth moving like a beached fish, unable to breathe.
“It’s all right,” Zach told him in what he hoped was a calming voice. He hadn’t had a lot to do with children. “You’ve had the wind knocked out of you. It’ll come back in a min—ah, there you are,” he finished as the boy sucked in a desperate lungful of air.
The boy said nothing, gasping in air until the panicked look faded. He tried to sit up, but fell back with a cry of pain. His face turned a greenish white; his skin looked clammy.
He cradled the injured arm up against his chest and looked at Zach. His lips were clamped together in a desperate attempt not to cry. He looked sick with pain and utterly miserable.
“I think you’ve broken your arm,” Zach told him. “Hurts like the very devil, doesn’t it? Now, just lie there a moment and we’ll see if you’ve done any other damage.” The boy lay back, gritting his teeth, his face pinched with pain, dead white and clammy.
“I’m Zach,” he told the boy as he tested the child’s other limbs. “Fell out of the tree, did you? I’ve done that before.”
The child said nothing; clinging to his dignity—and the contents of his stomach—Zach thought. He flinched and gasped when Zach felt his ankle, but he never uttered a sound. Brave little chap. Stoic. A farm boy by his clothing.
“Can you wiggle your toes on this foot?” He touched the lad’s knee.
The boy tried it, winced and nodded.
“Good, then it’s not broken, though I’m sure it hurts like fury as well. So a broken arm and a sprained ankle, eh? And a good few bruises and scratches. But don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed up,” Zach said in as soothing a voice as he could manage. The boy looked sick as a dog already. No use adding worry to the mix. “So what’s your name, lad?”
“Robin,” the boy whispered. “Robin Wilks.”
It was a familiar surname. There had always been Wilkses at Wainfleet. In Zach’s boyhood the cook was a Mrs. Wilks, a stout and motherly woman who had a fondness for growing boys and an understanding of how they were always hungry; she’d sneaked him treats time out of memory. But that Mrs. Wilks was old even then, too old to be the mother of this child. She’d be retired by now.
He might yet escape recognition.
“You can’t walk on that ankle, lad, so I’m going to carry you home. Where do you live?”
The boy hesitated then, realizing he had no choice, said, “In the big house.”
“Wainfleet?” Zach asked with a sinking feeling. The irony of it didn’t escape him.
The child nodded.
“Well, Robin Wilks, I’m going to lift you up now and I’ll tell you straight, it’s going to hurt like the devil, so I won’t hold it against you if you have to yell. You’re a brave lad, I know.”
He scooped the boy up as gently as he could, being careful not to bump the broken arm, which was tucked against the boy’s narrow chest, but the little fellow gasped again, and fainted. Just as well, Zach thought as he made his way down through the forest, spare the child any further pain.
Taking the shortcut he’d taken so often as a child, he cut between the stables and the kitchen gardens, crossed the courtyard and headed for the kitchen. Under normal circumstances he would have expected to come across any number of people—gardeners and under-gardeners, grooms, stable boys, whatever, but he met nobody at all. It was very strange.
But just as he reached the kitchen door, it was flung open and a stout, familiar figure stood there, aged considerably, but instantly recognizable: Mrs. Wilks. She took the situation in at a glance. “Oh, Robbie, Robbie, what have you done to yourself now?” She hadn’t even looked at Zach.
The boy had regained consciousness, and managed to say, “Don’t fuss, Gran, I’m all ri—” but then he fainted again.
“Oh, dearie, dearie me! Come ye in, come ye in—oh, thank you, sir—yes, put him down on the chair there. Wilks, Wilks!” she called, and returned to her grandson. “That arm—”
“Is broken,” Zach told her, “but the ankle is, I think, only sprained. He fell out of a big oak.” She’d barely glanced at him; all her attention was on the boy.
“That’d be right. Never out of trouble that one.” She hurried back to the door, calling, “Wilks!” again—presumably the boy’s father, but when finally a man came running, he was white-haired and stooped and even older than she was. He was a groom, Zach recalled. The old man didn’t look at Zach either.
She told him
, “The boy’s gone and broken his arm. Fetch Ernie.”
“Ernie?” Zach had been about to slide quietly out the door and make himself scarce, but the name stopped him.
She didn’t answer for a moment, but clucked over the boy, who was looking ominously green, and set a bucket down beside him. “In there, Robbie, if you’re going to toss up your breakfast.” He did, and she handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth, shaking her head. “Just like his father, God rest his soul. Never out of trouble.”
She straightened and said to Zach, “Ernie’s a natural, lives over by Bramble Creek. He’ll set the lad’s arm for us.”
A natural? She meant a simpleton, Zach realized. Country folk often ascribed healing powers to simpletons, but he wasn’t going to let a brave little lad like that be mauled by a well-meaning simpleton. “The boy needs a proper doctor.”
The woman shook her head. “No, it’ll have to be Ernie. The doctor won’t come to us.” She smoothed the boy’s hair back.
“Why not?”
“Can’t pay him,” she said. “No money.”
“Send for the doctor,” Zach told her. “I’ll pay.”
“You will?” For the first time she stopped fussing over the boy and looked at Zach. Her eyes narrowed. She came a few paces closer and squinted nearsightedly up at him.
“It’s never—oh, my Gawd, it is!” She staggered back and sat down—plump!—on a kitchen chair, staring at Zach as if she’d seen a ghost. “Oh, Lordy, Lordy, Wilks—see who’s brought our Robbie home! It’s Master Adam, back from the dead!”
* * *
Jane left the matter of Lady Dalrymple’s letter for a day. She and Abby needed some time to calm down and think things over.
Abby was normally very loving and forgiving and gentle, but in this matter . . .
Jane felt so torn. She didn’t want to be disloyal to her sister. Abby had worried and worked and fought to keep them fed and safe . . . She was entitled to be angry.
But Jane wanted to hear what the woman had to say and she wanted Abby to come with her—not because Jane felt uncomfortable going by herself, but because she felt, deep down, that Abby needed to be there, to hear for herself.
She decided to try again. She walked around to Abby’s house and Abby rang for tea.
“I know she did a terrible thing in leaving us to starve, Abby, but . . . it was a long time ago and we’re all right now . . . And . . . she’s—it’s not as if we have family to spare . . .”
Abby folded her hands across her stomach. “She left us to die, Jane. That’s not what family does.”
“I know. But I want to know why.”
“Does it matter? Jane, the letter—letters—I wrote, she would have had to be made of stone to ignore them.” Abby’s face crumpled and a tear rolled down her cheek. She pulled out a large masculine handkerchief and wiped it away.
Jane slipped an arm around her sister, feeling guilty. “I owe you everything, Abby darling, and would not for the world distress you . . .”
“But?”
“I want to know.” She swallowed. “She’s Mama’s mother. And the other night she looked genuinely distressed, Abby. She fainted.”
“Because of the shock. Because she never expected to see us—see you. Because you’re the image of Mama. Because we weren’t supposed to exist.”
There was a long silence. It wasn’t like Abby to be hard or bitter. And although Jane could understand her sister’s anger, she didn’t feel it as strongly. She’d been too young to know what it had really been like for Abby. Her sister had borne the brunt of all their problems. And all before she was even twelve years old.
But Jane yearned for family. And she knew Abby did too, deep down. This was just defensiveness. Abby didn’t want old wounds reopened, and unhappy emotions stirred up. Jane could understand that. Abby’s life was happily settled now; she had a home, and she had Max, whom she loved to distraction, and who adored her in return.
Abby had everything she’d ever wanted now. Jane didn’t.
Jane took her sister’s hands in hers. “When we first came here to live with Lady Beatrice, you changed our name from Chantry to Chance—”
Abby frowned. “You know why—it was for our own safety.”
“Yes, but you also said it symbolized a fresh new chance for each of us. We each got that chance, didn’t we, Abby? Damaris never believed she could wed and yet now she’s married to Freddy and I’ve never seen her happier. Daisy, a maidservant from a brothel, is on her way to becoming the finest dressmaker in London. And you, who were destined to be a governess for the rest of your life, looking after other people’s children and never having the chance of a child of your own—”
Abby burst into tears.
Jane was horrified. Abby never wept, and now Jane had made her cry twice in a matter of minutes. “Oh, love, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never meant to upset you like this.”
Abby mopped her face with the large handkerchief and gave a rueful laugh between the sobs. “It’s not your fault, Jane darling. And I’m not really upset. It’s just . . . with all this talk of second chances and family and children . . .” She wiped her eyes, folded the handkerchief and tucked it back into her reticule. “Max says I’ve become the veriest watering pot since—”
Jane frowned. “Since what?”
For answer, Abby took Jane’s hand and laid it on her belly. It took a moment for Jane to understand. “Abby! You mean—”
Abby nodded and gave her a misty smile. “Only Max knows at the moment, but I wanted to tell you first; little sister, you’re going to be an aunt.”
Chapter Seventeen
It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
“I’m surprised you recognized me,” Zach said as he finished his meal. The doctor—a stranger to Zach—had been, set Robin’s arm and left. The boy was tucked up in bed now, fast asleep after having been dosed with laudanum for the pain.
Mrs. Wilks chuckled. “You have your father’s eyes—and your grandfer’s, at that, my lord.”
“Aye,” her husband chimed in. “Living spit of old Lord Wainfleet—your grandad, I mean, not your pa.”
Mrs. Wilks had cooked and served an enormous dinner, which she’d wanted to serve in the dining room, but Zach had no intention of dining alone in state. Much to her outward horror but secret pleasure, he’d eaten in the kitchen with her and her husband.
“It’s not as if I haven’t eaten here a hundred times before,” he reminded her. He’d forgotten it, but coming here reminded him that this room had been something of a refuge for him as a small boy. It still felt that way.
Now he was here, there were things he needed to know.
“What has happened here since my father’s death?” Zach asked. “I remember this place as always busy.”
Wilks nodded. “Skeleton staff now,” he said. “But we’ll be all right now you’ve come home, Master Adam. Thought you were dead, we did.”
“Thought yon cousin of yours was going to be the new master,” Mrs. Wilks said darkly. “Mr. Gerald. He be the reason Wainfleet is in limbo.”
“Limbo?” Zach frowned. “How so?”
“Stopped the money,” Wilks explained. “Wanted to take control the day your father was buried, but the lawyers said no. Had to wait. Look for you.” He sucked on his pipe and contemplated that.
“Got his own lawyers,” Mrs. Wilks prompted. “Got the estate—what did they call it, Dad?”
“Frozen,” Wilks said. “Assets frozen, they called it. Till the rightful owner be proved.” He grinned at Zach and gestured with his pipe. “That’s you now, the new Lord Wainfleet.”
Mrs. Wilks chuckled. “Mr. Gerald’s going to be green as a frog when he finds out you’re back. Fancied himself lord of the manor, he did, struttin’ around, tellin�
� us all what to do.”
“He still might be if I’m done for murder,” Zach said.
They both looked at him in shock. “Bless my soul, Master Adam,” Mrs. Wilks said. “You never did kill your pretty young stepmother—not a soul here believes that!”
“Not a soul,” echoed her husband.
“Somebody else must have done it,” Mrs. Wilks said comfortably.
“Cecily isn’t dead,” Zach told them. “I got her away from here. I left her with one of her old school friends.” They stared at him in surprise, so he added, “She was alive when I left her.”
“No, that can’t be right, sir,” Mrs. Wilks said after a moment. “We saw her body, dead as a doornail she was, poor drownded little thing, just days after you left. But we never thought it was you who did it.”
“Never thought it,” her husband echoed.
“You saw her?” Zach repeated. “And you’re sure it was Cecily?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Wilks assured him. “It was her all right. All dressed up in that lovely gold dress your pa had bought her, she was. Ruined it was. The weeds and the water had got to it bad.”
Zach sat back, stunned by the revelation. It couldn’t be Cecily. He’d left her in Wales. Unless she’d returned . . . But why would she? She’d been in fear of her life.
“When was this exactly?” he asked.
The Wilkses exchanged glances in silent consultation. “Three days after you left Wainfleet,” Mrs. Wilks said. “That’s right, isn’t it, Dad?”
Wilks withdrew his pipe and nodded. “Aye, pulled her out of the lake three days after, we did.”
“Then it couldn’t possibly be Cecily,” Zach said, somewhat relieved. “It took us more than three days to get to her friend’s house in Wales, and after that I went to London and back and then I saw her again in Wales—it must have been at least two weeks after I left Wainfleet. And for years after that she wrote me letters; the last one was at Christmas.”