Harlequin Historical November 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2

by Carol Arens

  The sky was a misty autumn blue, the sun growing stronger by the minute, but she knew from painful experience that the weather could change at any time. Several foot crossings and the small ferry were all that separated Rye from the marsh and thick mists could descend at any time. Just a few days ago she had begun her walk in brilliant sunshine, only to be turned within minutes into a veritable sponge by rolling, wet clouds. This morning she would risk a light costume, she decided, but wear a protective cloak. She could always abandon the garment once she arrived and bundle it behind a bush. Intent on looking her best, she had selected from a meagre wardrobe her second-best gown, a dress of primrose-floret sarsnet. It was a trifle old-fashioned, bought for her by Colonel Ingram as a peace offering before he returned to the Peninsula, but she had tried to bring it up to date by trimming it with French flounces. With a bright yellow ribbon threaded through chestnut curls and a primrose-silk reticule, painstakingly made over the last few evenings, she had checked the mirror and thought herself presentable. She hoped she could persuade Major Delacourt into thinking so, too.

  The ferry proved as dirty as it was ancient and she spread a handkerchief across one of its grimy seats before lowering herself carefully on to a broken plank. The ferryman gave her a disdainful glance, spat over the side and turned to the shepherd who had followed her on board. Their muttered conversation in an impenetrable dialect filled the short journey, but Lizzie was happy to be ignored—she was on another adventure.

  Once on the other side of the river she found the path to Chelwood without difficulty. As the maid had described, it skirted the marshland at its edge and travelled in a semi-circle inland. Beneath this morning’s high blue skies the marsh looked benign, but here and there the wooden structures marking a sluice gate raised their profile above the flat landscape, looking from a distance for all the world like a gallows. There was something primeval about this world, something deep and visceral, and brave though she was, she wasn’t at all sure she would want to venture into its depths. She was glad that Chelwood lay at its very edge.

  * * *

  An hour’s brisk walking had brought her to the gates of the mansion. They were immense, a rampart of black iron decorated with several rows of sharp-tipped spikes; they were also resoundingly locked. She saw to the side the lodge-keeper’s house and wondered if she dared lift the knocker and ask to be admitted. But what reason could she give for her visit? To stroll casually up the carriageway towards the house and ‘accidentally’ bump into Sir Justin was one thing, but to demand admittance on a formal visit when no invitation had been issued was quite another. Possibly there was a second way into the grounds, an entrance less thoroughly guarded. Veering left away from the lodge, she began to push through the deep grass which grew around the perimeter wall. She walked until her small boots were sodden with dew, but without finding any break in the masonry. The wall was as old as the iron gates, old and crumbling, and here and there large stones had come loose, sometimes falling to the ground altogether. There were footholds for anyone daring enough to climb and she stood for a while, calculating whether she could manage the ascent without damaging either her dress or her limbs. She would have to, she decided. She hadn’t donned her second-best dress and come all this way merely to turn around. But it was more than that. She didn’t know why, but it seemed important that she see Justin Delacourt and see him today. She would have to get over that wall. She chose a section which was crumbling more quickly than elsewhere, and, hoisting her petticoats up around her knees, she reached up and began hand over hand to climb. It was fortunate that the lane abutting the wall was narrow and largely unused for it would have been mortifying to be caught showing her stockings. Once at the top of the wall she saw to her dismay that a long drop lay before her, since the inside of the wall had not succumbed to the elements as badly and there was no easy path to the ground. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and jumped, landing awkwardly on her ankle and bruising her shins. But she was in.

  A pain shot through her foot. She would not stop to worry about it: she wanted to catch Justin Delacourt before he left the house for the day’s business and she had already wasted too much time. She had landed in a thicket of trees that appeared to be part of a larger spinney. The undergrowth was lush and uncut and straggling branches obliterated her view. Pushing past the trees, one after another, she attempted to find a path, but there seemed always to be another row of trees to negotiate. Then the first drops of rain fell. She had been so busy clambering over the wall she had not noticed the blue sky disappear and a menacing black take its place. The few drops soon became a downpour and then a veritable torrent. She pulled her cloak tightly to her, sheltering her hair beneath its hood, but in a short while she was wet to her very skin. The ground beneath her began to squelch ominously and she was dismayed to see the lower part of her dress as well as her boots become caked in mud. How could she accost Sir Justin looking such a fright? There was no hope for it—she would have to abandon her adventure and return to Brede House.

  But she was lost. The spinney seemed to stretch for miles and she had no idea of the direction she should take. She could only hope that she would hit upon a road before she dissolved in the driving rain. She was bending down to loosen a twig that had become tangled in her skirts when she felt something hard and unyielding pressed into her back. A voice sounded through the downpour.

  ‘Right, me lad, let’s be ’avin’ yer. Yer can disguise yerself all yer wish, but yer ain’t gettin’ away. Not from Mellors. Chelwood Place ain’t open fer poachers—not now it ain’t.’

  She tried to turn round and reveal herself. There was a gun to her back, she was sure, but if the man who spoke knew her to be a woman, surely he would lower the weapon and allow her to go.

  He was taking no chances. ‘Keep yer back to me.’ He prodded her angrily with the weapon. ‘I knows yer tricks. Now walk!’

  ‘But...’ she started to protest.

  ‘Keep quiet and walk. By the sounds of yer, yer but a striplin’. What’s the world comin’ to, eh?’ And Mellors tutted softly to himself while keeping his weapon firmly levelled.

  Lizzie had no option but to walk. She could sense the tension in the man and feel the hard pressure of the shotgun in her back. She did not think he would use it if she tried to escape, but she could not be sure and dared not take the chance. She was marched for minutes on end until they were out of the spinney and walking over smooth lawns towards the main driveway. This was the spot she had been seeking. A gig was drawn up outside the front entrance—precisely as she had imagined. The baronet would be leaving, she had decided, and as he came down the steps, she would trip up to the front door, telling some story of having become lost and wandered by accident on to his land, and looking a picture of primrose loveliness. He would wonder how he could ever have ignored such a delightful girl and, filled with contrition, immediately set about trying to please her. That was the fantasy. The reality was that her feet oozed mud, her hair dripped water and, far from tripping, she was being roughly frogmarched to an uncertain fate.

  The man steered her towards the back of the sprawling mansion. She was being taken to the servants’ quarters, she thought—at least she would be spared the humiliation of meeting Justin Delacourt face to face. Down a long passageway they trundled, a passageway filled with doors, but at its very end a large, airy kitchen. The room was bright and homely, smelling of baked bread and fresh coffee and Lizzie realised how hungry she was. Her tiny breakfast seemed an age away.

  ‘Look ’ere, folks,’ the man said gleefully, ‘look what I’ve caught meself.’

  The cook was just then taking newly baked cakes from the oven, but at the sound of Mellors’s voice, she stopped and looked around. The scullery maid on her knees paused in her scrubbing and the footman held aloft the silver he was polishing.

  ‘You best put that gun down,’ Cook said crossly. ‘Master won’t like that thing in t
he house.’

  Mellors did as he was told, but was unwilling to give up his glory quite so quickly. ‘See ’ere,’ he repeated and pushed Lizzie into the centre of the room. ‘Take a look at me very first catch. There’ll be plenty more of ’em before I’m through.’

  The cook sniffed at this pronouncement and the footman allowed himself a small snigger. Wearily the scullery maid began again on her scrubbing.

  Lizzie stood in their midst, dripping puddles on to the flagstones, her cloak still wrapped around her, the hood still covering her head. Anger at this stupid man coursed through her veins. It wasn’t his fault that she was drenched, she conceded, but to be treated so disagreeably and then made a fairground exhibit was too much.

  She pushed back the hood on her cape and shook her damp ringlets out. The cook, the maid, the footman, stopped again what they were doing and gawped, open-mouthed. Mellors, busy fetching a rope to bind his victim’s hands, turned round, surprised by the sudden ghastly silence. Even in her present state, Lizzie looked lovely. What she didn’t look was a poacher.

  ‘What have you done, Mr Mellors?’ Cook rubbed the flour from her hands with a satisfied smile on her face. It was clear that the new bailiff was not a popular man among his fellows.

  Lizzie was swift to use the moment to her advantage. ‘How dare you!’ Her voice quivered with indignation. ‘How dare you treat a lady in such a dastardly fashion!’

  Mellors looked bewildered, but still managed to stutter a reproof. ‘But yer wuz poachin’, miss.’ His obsession was all-consuming and he failed to see the absurdity of the situation.

  ‘Poaching! Are you completely witless? Do poachers normally come calling in a muslin dress?’

  There was more sniggering from the footman and the unhappy bailiff hung his head a little lower. ‘No, miss, but...’

  ‘And if I am a poacher,’ Lizzie continued inexorably, ‘where are my tools? Do you think I have hid them? Perhaps you would like to search me for the odd snare?’

  The footman guffawed at this idea, but the look she shot him bought his immediate silence.

  ‘And where, pray, are my illegitimate spoils? Why be a poacher and be empty-handed?’

  ‘You could ’ave ’idden the stuff, miss,’ he tried desperately.

  ‘Hidden? Upon my person, perhaps? You are ridiculous.’

  ‘Mebbe you warn’t poachin’, then, but you wuz still trespassin’,’ he continued doggedly.

  ‘I am no trespasser, you scurvy man.’ Lizzie drew herself erect, making up in dignity for what she lacked in height. ‘I came to call upon Sir Justin Delacourt.’

  Mellors shifted uncomfortably. His master’s name gave him pause, but he would not yet own himself beaten. ‘So what were yer doin’ in the spinney, miss? It ain’t usual for Sir Justin’s visitors to come by that way.’

  For an instant Lizzie was flustered and she saw a small, sly smile creep over Mellors’s face. There was no alternative—she would have to behave shamelessly.

  ‘I met Sir Justin for the first time yesterday,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but I was deeply moved by his sorrow. I had not the opportunity then of speaking to him of his dead father and I came here today only to pay my respects. I meant well, but look how I’ve been treated!’ She began to sniffle slightly and managed to squeeze several realistic teardrops from her eyes.

  ‘There, there, my pet,’ the cook weighed in. ‘Look what you’ve done, you clumsy oaf!’ She turned to Lizzie. ‘Come here, my dear. You need looking after, not lambasting. Poor lamb, you’re wet through.’

  Lizzie coughed artistically. ‘I meant no harm, ma’am. You see, I was so touched by Sir Lucien’s death and his son’s grief that I merely wanted to say how sorry I was.’ A few more tears trickled down her cheeks without robbing her of one mite of beauty.

  Mellors and the footman looked on askance, but the scullery maid clasped her hands to her breast, drinking in the romantic possibilities. ‘I am soaked to the skin,’ Lizzie continued, her voice barely audible, her hands clasped together in anguish. ‘I have been in these clothes so long that I shall likely die of pneumonia.’

  Her sudden terrified wail startled her listeners into action. There was a general fussing and clucking as the cook and the scullery maid took her to their bosoms and Mr Mellors protested his innocence and the footman was sure that a fit young woman would not contract pneumonia from just one soaking.

  ‘What the deuce is going on here?’ Sir Justin strode into the kitchen and in an instant the uproar ceased and was followed by a strained silence.

  ‘Perhaps one of you would care to explain this mayhem and tell me why I have been ringing for coffee for the last ten minutes without answer. Do I employ you to serve me or not?’ His beautiful voice held a new severity.

  All of a sudden he became aware of Lizzie, abandoned in the middle of the room, and still dripping ceaselessly on to the floor. An expression of blank amazement replaced the frown on his face.

  ‘Miss Ingram?’ he queried. ‘Can it be you?’

  ‘It can.’ She gave a saucy smirk at the bailiff and, since there was nothing left to lose, announced boldly, ‘I have come to call on you, Sir Justin.’

  Justin remained motionless, stunned by the vision before him. Elizabeth Ingram was the last person he expected to find in his kitchen, and to find her dripping and mud stained was astonishing.

  ‘How came you here, Miss Ingram?’ He almost stuttered the words.

  ‘At the point of a gun,’ she said bitterly. ‘You should not complain that your servants are tardy, Sir Justin. One of them at least is a little too eager.’

  ‘What can you mean?’

  ‘Your bailiff believes me to be a poacher!’

  Justin looked even more stunned, his hand ruffling the fair halo of hair. ‘Mellors?’ he queried, hoping for enlightenment, and was immediately subjected to the bailiff’s impassioned defence.

  ‘The lady wuz in a cloak, Sir Justin,’ Mellors protested. ‘She ’ad her back ter me and, in the rain, I took her fer a boy.’

  ‘Then I fear you may be in need of spectacles!’

  The other servants cackled joyfully at this sally, but Mellors’s face took on a truculent expression. ‘It were an easy mistake to make, Sir Justin. We’ve ’ad a spate of poachin’, you knows that. You told me yerself to be extra vigilant.’

  ‘Vigilant, yes, foolish, no. You had better wait for me in the office—I may be some time... And take that gun with you.’

  The man slumped to the door, still ruffled. ‘She wuz trespassin’ for sure,’ he managed as a parting shot.

  Justin Delacourt turned impatiently to face his audience who seemed caught in a trance and had barely moved since he had entered the room. ‘You may forget the coffee—but make sure that tea is ready in the library in ten minutes.’ His tone was even more severe and the servants, forgetting their earlier gaiety, speedily resumed their chores.

  Striding across the room to the hanging line of brass bells, he sounded one vigorously. ‘I have this minute rung for my housekeeper, Miss Ingram. Mrs Reynolds will be with you shortly to escort you upstairs, so that you may—um—tidy yourself.’

  He accorded Lizzie a brief bow and, without another word, walked through the door.

  * * *

  He strode to the library and waited. What the devil was the girl doing wandering in his grounds? Was Mellors right when he said she was trespassing? She must have been, otherwise why had she not called at the lodge and asked the porter for admittance. And how had she got in? The lodge gates were the only entrance to the estate, a fact bemoaned by servants and masters alike for years, but nothing had ever been done to improve the situation. And nothing would be done now, for there was precious little money for refurbishment.

  But Miss Ingram. He had been stunned at the sight of her and not just because she had no
place in his kitchen. Even in her sodden condition she had looked lovely, her soft brown eyes wide with indignation and her fiery curls already drying to a glossy mass. He hoped her dress was not completely ruined for he thought it likely that her wardrobe was not extensive. Until the gown could be laundered, Mrs Reynolds must find a replacement from one of the many wardrobes scattered across the house. It would probably not be to Miss Elizabeth’s taste but then she should not have come calling in a downpour, or, more accurately, she should not have come trespassing. He would have some questions for that young woman.

  * * *

  It was at least half an hour before he could pose them and when she slipped quietly into the library, all desire to question her fled. Her skin, still luminous from the rain, was blooming with health and her dazzling hair had been marshalled into some kind of order. But it was the dress that mesmerised Justin. A deep blue of the finest silk, years out of date, but showing the girl’s shapely figure to splendid effect. He almost gasped. His mother had worn that dress and she, too, had been beautiful and well formed. In body at least, he amended, for there was nothing beautiful about Lady Delacourt’s nature. But what had possessed the housekeeper to alight on that particular gown? He could only imagine that it was one of the few dresses that fitted his unexpected guest.

  A lace shawl was draped across her bosom—just as well, Justin thought, else the temptation to caress her two beautifully rounded breasts would be too strong. His thoughts juddered to an abrupt halt. He was shocked, shocked at himself that he could think thus of a girl he hardly knew. ‘Come in, Miss Ingram.’ He had to clear his throat which had become very tight. ‘Come in,’ he repeated and gestured to the table. ‘Alfred has brought tea and there are fresh baked madeleines. I hope you will partake of some or Cook will be disappointed.’