by Mary Mackie
A voice from above called sharply, ‘Who’s that? What are you doing there?’
The voice belonged to Clemency Clare.
The lawyer’s daughter came running, in a flurry of petticoats, from the attics above. The housemaid fled down the bare stairs towards the servants’ quarters, but it was too late for Jess to escape.
‘Aha! What’s this?’ Clemency pounced on Jess, grabbing for the note. ‘Passing secret messages, are you, Jessie Sharp? Well, we’ll see…’ She scanned the note with growing fury, her face contorting. ‘No! Oh, this is too much!’ Her hand came out and caught Jess’s arm, her long nails biting painfully. ‘Who gave you this? Who was it?’
Jess shook her head. ‘I dunno, m—’
Next moment she was reeling back, a hand clapped to her stinging cheek. Clemency’s hand had moved like lightning. ‘Liar! It was one of the maids, I saw her skirts. Damn her! Damn all of you sneaky peasants, working against your betters.’ In a passion of spite, she tore the paper across and across, tossing the pieces to scatter across the stairs and float down the stairwell. ‘There! And you can tell dear little Lily that if she dares to meet him, I’ll… I’ll tear her in pieces, too. Mr Haverleigh hasn’t the least interest in her. He’s only using her. That’s what it is. He’s using her to make me jealous.’ Ashton Haverleigh? Jess thought, outraged – he’d had the brass cheek to leave a note for Miss Lily?
From regions overhead, a younger voice called, ‘Clemency? I can hear you talking. It’s not fair if you don’t hide properly. I’m going to count to a hundred again.’
‘I was delayed by stupid servants,’ Clemency called back. ‘Start again, Evangeline.’ In a lower tone, she added to Jess, ‘And if you tell about this, you’ll be sorry. There was no note, do you understand?’ And she went on down the stairs.
As Jess started back along the main bedroom hallway, Lily appeared carrying the cat, laughing. ‘You went in the wrong direction! Still, I managed to catch him by myself.’
Ching was delivered safely back to Miss Gittens, and Jess decided not to mention the incident of the note. Mr Ashton Haverleigh had no business sending secret messages. If Miss Lily knew, she’d only be upset. She might even try to contact him. Sometimes Miss Lily didn’t think too clearly, especially where this Mr Haverleigh was concerned.
As they drove back across the bridge the light was fading, the clouds closing in, dropping thin fragments of snow. Lily’s spirits drooped too, turning to sighs and frowns as she guided the trap along the valley. She showed Jess the site of the old Manor, half demolished now, its stone used for other purposes, its windows gaping, with ivy strangling its broken walls and shrubs growing unkempt around it.
‘It was a nice old house,’ Lily said. ‘But the smoke used to blow backwards down the chimneys, and all the floors creaked. When I was a child I found it quite scary, and even now I hate to come past here after dark. I’m sure it’s haunted.’
For her it certainly was haunted. By memories. ‘It was here I first saw Ash – Mr Haverleigh. Five years ago, when I was twelve years old and he seventeen. I was sitting on the stairs when he and Dickon came in from riding. They sat in the hall drinking wine, laughing and swapping stories. Oh… he was simply the most amusing, daring, beautiful creature I had ever seen. From that moment on there has been no room in my heart for anyone but Ash.’ Lily shuddered with the joy of her confession.
Why did Lily have this obsession with a young man she hardly knew? Jess wondered. She herself had had passing fancies now and then as she grew up, but she’d never believed such feelings were of much account. More important was a man’s ability as a breadwinner – whether he could stay sober, be trusted, be faithful. If you wanted a good husband, you chose with your head, not your heart.
‘Oh, I wish something good would happen!’ Lily cried. ‘I wish my real father would come.’
Five
Standing on an upturned milk-setting pan in order to see better, Jess watched intently as Miss Peartree measured out flour and kneaded lard in a mixing bowl on the scrubbed table.
‘A light hand,’ the plump lady declared. ‘That’s the secret of baking pastry and dainties, so my mother taught me.’
The day outside was dismal, bitter rain turning snow to slush. But it was pleasant in the kitchen, warm from the big fire in the range where Dolly was tending a leg of mutton on a spit. Eliza had returned that morning – been real poorly, she’d claimed.
Lily was in her room, writing her journal. Since the visit to the Manor she had been subdued and Jess wondered what words of misery were pouring into that private diary. Had she herself done wrong to keep her silence about the note Ash Haverleigh had sent? But though she was worried about Lily, she also had other preoccupations now she was a working woman again. She had to learn how to cook with the right ingredients, instead of making only soups and stews with whatever came to hand.
As they worked, Miss Peartree chatted about her life. She had grown up in Bristol, in what she called poverty – only one maid, and a woman to do the heavy work. She and her mother had existed on a pittance, her father having died young, so she had learned to cook at an early age. She had stayed at home, caring for her mother until she died, at which time Miss Peartree had been obliged to sell her family home. The money, invested, afforded her a minimal income; she had lived rather unhappily in various rented rooms until, seven years ago, she had been summoned to Hewing rectory to nurse her cousin, Mrs Hugh Clare, through an illness which had proved fatal.
‘My cousin’s death left a great gap here,’ she said sadly, ‘and I was the only one available to fill it. There was, anyway, little for me to return to. My mother gone, my sister married…’
One of the bells on the wall jangled briefly and hung quivering. In the same moment Dolly shrieked and leapt back, clutching her arm – the ladle had slipped, sending boiling fat down her apron and on to her wrist.
‘Put that in cold water,’ Jess ordered, jumping from her perch to drag the girl into the scullery and pump water over the burn.
‘Jessamy! The door!’ Miss Peartree cried.
Jess ran for the door, drying her hands on her apron, smoothing it and her hair, fastening the buttons on her sleeve…
In the twilight that pervaded the rectory in winter, the kitchen passageway was the most gloomy of all. Dim daylight filtered through a leaded window above the outer door. It had coloured glass, in a flower pattern, but since the door faced north it seldom saw sunlight and was, anyway, half obscured by the mat of ivy that covered the wall outside. When Jess opened the door all she saw at first was a figure with a hand raised, a dark shadow etched against grey daylight washed with rain.
He wore a thornproof cape that enveloped him from neck to knee, his lower legs being encased in buskins – leather gaiters with buckles all down the sides – his feet in sturdy brown boots. Everything about him looked strong and sturdy. Dependable, her instinct told her as she encountered a pair of lively hazel eyes fringed by thick brown lashes and set in a clean-shaven, heavily freckled face.
The force of her reaction to him shook her – an overwhelming feeling of pleasure, a feeling that cried in glad welcome, Oh, that’s you! There you are at last! And yet, as far as she knew, she had never seen him before in her life.
He’d just taken off his cap to stand bare-headed under the drizzle of rain. Now he paused, in the act of sweeping back the thick brown hair that grew long on his neck. Dark lashes flickered as he swept a glance over her slight, slim body enveloped in an oversized apron.
Seeing herself through his eyes, she became aware of the mess she must look, splattered with water, dusted with flour. What must he think of her? But as she was stiffening herself defensively his eyes met hers again and, with a pang that was almost physical, she saw that he wasn’t amused or derisive, as she had half expected; instead, those hazel eyes held a flattering interest, and a dangerous warmth.
‘Morning,’ he greeted with a smile that made her feel hot all over. ‘Is Miss Potts ab
out? Or Miss Peartree?’
As she recovered her common sense, her barriers went up, strong walls to guard her from the threat he offered to her peace of mind. Whoever he was, however attractive his smile, she couldn’t afford to let him near.
‘Who is it, Jess?’ Miss Peartree called. Coming out of the kitchen, pastry-covered hands akimbo, she added with pleasure, ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Rudd. What a day you’ve brought with you!’
‘Aye, it’s right lovely weather for ducks,’ he replied with a rueful laugh. ‘And if it freezes on top of this lot, we shall need to get our skates out.’
‘Well, come along into the kitchen and get dry. Dolly, stop fussing over your arm and make a pot of tea.’
Jess stepped back, opening the door wider, wondering why she hadn’t realised who he was. Mr Rudd, of course – the gamekeeper – the man who had carried her back from the wood. Remembering his strength and his warmth she avoided his eyes as he stepped inside the house and swirled off his cape. Under it he wore tweed breeches, with a belted tweed jacket with many pockets. Behind him, a shaggy black dog padded placidly at heel, though once inside it stopped to shake itself vigorously, throwing water from its coat. Startled, Jess jumped back, her long, starched apron spattered with muddy drops.
‘Dash!’ the man admonished, though there was amusement in his voice as he cast a gleaming look at Jess. ‘Sorry, lass. Dogs do that.’
‘You should have warned me!’ She’d never had much to do with dogs and she was wary of this one – and its disturbing master.
‘Aye, happen I should.’ His eyes were bright with laughter, teasing her. ‘Sorry, lass.’
Her awareness of him raised prickles along every tiny hair on her flesh. He wasn’t a Norfolk man; his voice had more of the north in it – Yorkshire, perhaps. Jess had met fishermen from Scarborough who had that blunt burr in their voices. Or it might be Lincolnshire. Was he a Lincolnshire Yellow-belly, like her mother?
Evidently the gamekeeper and his dog were frequent and welcome visitors in the rectory kitchen. The retriever stretched out by the hearth, basking in the warmth from the fire; its master settled himself in a wheelback chair, chatting easily and pleasantly to Miss Peartree as Jess tended Dolly’s arm, all the time aware of Rudd’s bright hazel eyes on her. His interest made her fumble-fisted.
Dolly’s burn, though not severe, was bad enough to warrant the use of cotton wool dredged with flour, applied to the spot and bound with bandage. The attention soothed Dolly and soon she was heading away with a tray of tea for the study.
‘What a fuss over a spot of hot lard,’ Miss Peartree commented.
‘Poor little mawther’ll feel better for a mite o’ fussin’,’ Jess replied, stretching to replace the tea caddy in its spot on the high mantel. ‘She don’t get much o’ that.’
Miss Peartree regarded her with surprise. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
As Jess finally managed to get the caddy back into place, she caught herself sighing, as she often did, over the lack of an extra inch or two in height, which would have made her life so much easier. It hadn’t been so bad in the tiny cottage at home, but the rectory kitchen seemed to have been designed for a much larger type of woman. She stepped back, cuffing her brow in relief, and caught a knowing gleam in the gamekeeper’s eye. What did he mean, she thought hotly, watching her so close he seemed to be reading her mind? Her cheeks flushed to burning as she tipped her chin at him defiantly.
Miss Peartree was saying to Rudd, ‘You remember Jessamy, I expect. Had you heard that she had joined our household?’
‘Aye, ma’am, I did hear that,’ Rudd replied. ‘Took a while for me to realise she was the same lass, though. She looks a lot better now.’
The smiling hazel eyes were directed at Jess again, trying to make her look at him, but she avoided doing so. He made her feel confused and she didn’t like being confused.
Handing him a cup of tea, she noticed his hands – strong brown hands, capable, with square-tipped fingers and neat nails, bearing the marks of scratches from thorns and, on the back of one thumb, a healing cut that must have been nasty not long ago. There was also a plain gold band, worn on his little finger. What was that meant to signify? Was he married?
As the last batch of pies went into the side oven, Miss Peartree was called away by a summons from the front of the house, where Lily demanded her attention. Jess found herself alone with the gamekeeper.
‘Any more tea in that pot?’ he asked.
Fetching his cup meant going near to him again but she made herself move slowly, so as not to trip or fumble, and retreated to the table to pour. She wondered what was keeping Dolly; she ought to have come back by now.
‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘So it’s Jessamy Sharp, is it?’ She chanced a glance at him, wondering if the question held more than passing curiosity. ‘Miss Jessamy Sharp?’ he added.
He was watching her as if deeply interested in her answer. Wanting to know if she was spoken for! What a nerve! Did her flush betray her agitation, or was she already red-faced from the heat of the kitchen? ‘Just Jessie Sharp will do.’
As she took him the full cup, keeping her eyes on the level of the liquid, he said, ‘I’ve got something of yours, Jessie Sharp.’
Surprise made her look fully at him, feeling again the jolt of her senses as her eyes encountered his bright hazel gaze. Instinct told her he was as alive to her as she to him.
‘Leastways,’ he added, ‘I think it must be yours. Can’t think where else it came from. Have you lost summat lately? Found owt missing, like?’
‘Not as I’ve noticed,’ she said, and turned away.
‘You sure about that?’
Now that there was safe space between them, Jess tossed her head and spun to face him. ‘Do you have somethin’ to say, Mr Rudd, then say you your piece. I en’t got time for foolery.’
The light in his eyes turned rueful as he shook his head, murmuring, ‘Well named, Jessie Sharp,’ and to her astonishment he reached for the ring on his littlest finger and took it off, holding it up to her between blunt-tipped fingers. ‘What about this, then?’
Jess had thought it was his own ring. It was just a plain gold band, with nothing to distinguish it from others. But now she found her fingers at her throat, remembering a small weight hanging there from a thread.
Rudd said, ‘It was on a piece of black thread. Got caught round one of my buttons, the day I brought you back here. I didn’t notice it until after I got home, and then I wondered if it could be yours. I couldn’t think where else it might have come from.’
Slowly, drawn by the sight of the ring, Jess stepped across the flagged floor to stand by his chair. Rudd too was staring at the ring, but as she paused beside him he looked up into her eyes, his own gaze almost sombre, the teasing light gone. Her senses jerked again as she fancied she was being allowed a glimpse of the real man behind the façade. ‘I thought I’d best give it to you myself,’ he said. ‘You might not have wanted others to know… Is it yours?’
Jess was too full of emotion to speak. She could only nod, and reach out to take the ring, savouring the feel of it against her fingertips, smooth and still warm from contact with his skin. She had feared she might never see it again.
‘That was caught round your button?’ she managed.
‘Aye, it was.’ He looked down at his coat, touching one of the buttons fastening a breast pocket. ‘This one. You can see how it happened. When I lifted you up…’ He pantomimed the action and she, fearing for one panicky second that he was going to take hold of her, backed away and turned her shoulder to him, gazing again at the ring.
Oh Lord… All this time she’d believed Eliza to be a thief and thought hundreds of unkind thoughts about the girl. She’d have to find a way to make amends, somehow.
‘I thought it was gone for ever,’ she said, slipping the ring on to her own index finger – the only place it would fit and then not very securely; her mother had been a bigger woman than Jess would ever be.
> ‘Where is he, then?’ Rudd’s north-country tones came close behind her.
The question brought her back. ‘What?’ She glanced round and saw his frown deepen as he glimpsed the moisture in her eyes.
‘Your husband. Where is he?’
It took her a moment to understand what he meant; then she shook her head. ‘That’s not my ring. Not that way. I en’t never been wed. Look – that don’t fit ’cept on my first finger.’
‘Then who—’
‘That’s my mother’s wedding ring. That’s all I’ve got left of her. She give it me when… just afore she died.’
‘I see.’ Though his expression asked questions it was also full of understanding; then he further disconcerted her by taking her hand, curling her fingers over to guard the ring and closing his own warm hand over hers. ‘Then keep it safe, Jessie Sharp. I know how much a keepsake can mean.’
There was sadness in him, buried deep behind those steady hazel eyes, and she could feel the beat of a pulse where his flesh touched hers – her pulse or his, maybe both combined, awfully intimate. For one terrible compulsive moment she wanted to throw herself into his arms and cry her eyes out, and tell him everything that was troubling her.
Panicked by that impulse, she cried, ‘Let go o’ me!’ and wrenched away with a force that made him stare at her in puzzlement.
Before either of them could say or do anything else, a commotion in the passage made Rudd retreat to his chair. Miss Peartree was back, with both Eliza and Dolly, bringing great trails of holly and ivy to throw out. Lily had decided that the festive season was over, here and now. She was getting rid of the Christmas decorations long before Twelfth Night.
Eliza was in a fine temper – any unexpected extra work put her in a passion – but when she saw Rudd her mood changed and she became arch and female, saying pertly, ‘Well, Mr Rudd, I didn’t know as you was here. You now goin’ after them poachers?’