On the next page, a wholly different image was coming into being. She drew from memory, pausing every few seconds to close her eyes and study her subject in her mind’s eye. The sketch was not detailed yet – it was simply roughed out, the strong shapes and distinct lines all that yet graced the page. Yet it was immediately recognisable as a portrait – a portrait of Gerald Otford, Baron Tillingford, as he had been on the night of that Ball, so many weeks ago.
These were the sketches that she did not show her family – the sketches of people, including all of them.
Capturing people was a secret delight. She might share her sketches of everything else, but not these – they were just for her. Sketching this man, now, was a way to ease her excitement. Tomorrow, she would board their family carriage, and they would travel to his home. Just the thought of standing before him, in his home, rather than at some Ball or soiree, made her breath come faster.
Every other man she had danced with, all Season, had simply made her more certain that she wanted another opportunity to dance with this particular man, to be held in his arms, to speak with a man who actually seemed to care what she thought. A man who she had wanted from the day she had first seen him, shortly after Hunter and his friends had returned from the war.
She had told herself that she was silly, and that, with a proper Season in London, she would find other men to want, would, in all probability, find a man to marry. Yet the opposite had happened.
She had enjoyed the dresses, the glitter and pomp of it all – but she had not, at all, enjoyed the men, and their shallow self-interested view of the world. She was not sure what to do about it – but, given this chance to stay at the home of the only man she had ever actually wanted, she was quite sure that she would try to do something, anything, that she could, to make him really notice her.
Her mind ran around the idea, all the while that her hands drew, capturing the man onto the page, with the candle light drawing glints from his dark blond hair, and the crispness of his cravat at odds with the determined disarray of that one lock of hair. Only when she was completely happy with the sketch, did she close her book and rise, to go to her chamber and sleep.
Her sleep was deep and peaceful, her dreams of dark blue eyes.
~~~~~
Tillingford Castle had been empty, all but a few staff to maintain it at a basic level, for more than a decade before the previous Baron’s death, and the granting of the title to Gerry. The previous Baron had moved out, and gone to live at another estate with his two young daughters, soon after his wife’s death, unable to bear the memories that stalked him in these halls. It had been closed up, everything covered in dust sheets, and simply left.
It was a huge place, and Shackleton had explained that much of it, even when the previous Baron had lived there, had not been used for fifty years and more – there had been no large house parties, nothing needing large numbers of guest suites, no reason to bother with unused spaces. Gerry was fascinated with the place. At first, he had simply kept to the limited number of rooms he needed, and ignored the rest, struggling to adapt to the very idea that he held a title and estates. But, over time, he had begun to explore.
Baron Setford made certain, regularly, to drag him away from the place, and into society, and there had also been occasions of his own choosing, mainly to visit the other Hounds, so he had not actually spent all that long exploring the place, from the moment that he had decided to do so. The more he explored, the more he wanted to – who knew what he might find. Lately, he had been looking into cellars – both the ones that were used, and the ones that were not.
Some days, he felt a dark and gloomy affinity with underground spaces full of cobwebs and little else – they seemed an echo of his life now. Other days, he walked in the gardens, and found joy in discovering little clusters of determined flowers, struggling to survive amidst the overgrowth of weeds and hardier species.
This particular day, as he waited nervously for the arrival of Hunter and his family, he had turned to the cellars again. The original castle had been simple – a round tower keep surrounded by a courtyard area inside a round stone wall. Under that were many original cellar rooms, more than two layers deep. The later building had enclosed that courtyard, roofed part of it over, and swallowed it into the castle itself, with another storey above it. Outside that, over centuries, further wings of the building had been added, in different directions. Each one had a collection of cellars under it – some interconnected, some not. Gerry wondered if he would ever actually discover them all.
Under the farthest North wing, towards the back of the Castle, he discovered some stairs leading down. The space smelled musty, as only a long abandoned place could smell, and the cellar floor was paved with old cobbles, the dirt having settled between them until the surface was almost flat. He wondered what those who had built these rooms had expected to store there – but there were no clues. All the space contained were a couple of pieces of very old furniture, with equally old paintings leaning against them. The echoing emptiness surrounded him with the sense that it was so old that even the ghosts of the occupants had faded away.
But, as he turned to leave, he noticed something.
Surrounding the door, on the inside of the room, were panels of remarkably skilled carving – as if a trellis holding a tangle of roses grew all around the door, the carving so detailed that they seemed almost alive. He stood, in awe of the skill of the unknown carver, amazed yet again at the diversity of things to be found in his home. He had been feeling rather lonely and sad again, after finding only empty rooms, but the panels of carved roses shifted his perspective, and he returned to the upper reaches of the castle cheered, thinking of the gardens, and what Nerissa might suggest for them.
And that thought inevitably brought Lady Alyse to mind. She would be here, soon, possibly as early as this very afternoon. He remembered that waltz, when her mother had so adroitly trapped him into dancing with Lady Alyse – that waltz which had been wonderful. And she had praised him – so genuinely, with an unaffected honesty that took his breath away, after all of the society misses he had met, who were only interested in his wealth. He remembered drowning in the depths of her rich brown eyes, where flecks of gold caught the light. He remembered the scent of her, drifting around him, and how she had felt in his arms.
He ached to feel all of that again, to have a conversation which was honest, not manipulative, to hold a woman he wanted to hold. He forced the thoughts away, the bitter reality of his life crashing in on him again. He was a monster, not fit to touch a woman like her, let alone desire her. He doubted that she could even imagine the like of the terrible things that he had done – and he was glad of that – no woman should ever know such things. He would keep her at a distance, whilst she stayed in his house.
He could admire her, like a work of art, without ever touching her. For touching her would be playing with fire, tempting the madness of desire.
A desire he could never allow to grow, no matter what.
~~~~~
On the green of Little Tilling village, a group of gypsy wagons were drawn up. The villagers eyed them with both interest and suspicion. Gypsies were always viewed with suspicion, with the expectation that they would steal. But the people liked a show, were intrigued by the fortune tellers, and by the odd collection of unique trinkets that were offered for sale.
This time, a man emerged from the wagons, and walked into the village. He was not a gypsy, by his looks, yet his dress was like theirs, and his hair was long and wild. His face was pure English though. He went to each of the shopkeepers, and the Inn, arranging supply of foods and drink, and materials for repair of wagons, all to be delivered to the gypsy encampment. And he paid with good money.
They looked at him oddly, but took the coin, and settled to gossip a little. He told them of the news from the previous towns the gypsies had been to, and asked about their neighbourhood. It was more than a year since the gypsies had passed this way, and there was muc
h to tell.
At the Rose and Wren Inn, the Innkeeper handed him a tankard of ale, and settled in to talk.
“Well then, there’s a lot been happening hereabouts, since last you gypsies were here. We’ve a new Baron up at the Castle. Name was Otford, if I remember right, but he’s Lord Tillingford now. Young, good looking. Was a soldier, so they say, and given the title for his service, when the old Baron upped and died with no heir. Keeps to himself, but the staff at the Castle say he’s a good man, treats them well. And he’s spending his money here, doing the Castle up again, so everyone’s happy.”
“Sounds like a good thing for the village then.”
The man spoke casually, but his eyes had glittered with interest at the mention of the new Baron’s name.
“Aye, it is a good thing. Half the girls think they’re in love with him, silly widgeons, but he’s never once looked at them except to be polite. Delusional, the lot of them. A man like that, he’s not going to be looking at a village girl, not when he’s got all of them upper class pretty bits to choose from.”
“True, very true.”
They drank their ale, and talked on about the growth of the village, and where to find the blacksmith, and then the man left, continuing with his errands. Back at the gypsy encampment, he went into the wagon he had lived in for the past year, and gathered his things together, before going out again, and making his way purposefully up the hill towards the castle that loomed over the village.
A few hours watching, from a secluded spot amongst the trees nearby, and his patience was rewarded. A man came out, obviously the one in charge, talking to another.
Cunningham’s gut clenched - it was him, the bastard he had been seeking for over a year. The man who had destroyed his life.
In that crumbling farmhouse in France, the choice had seemed clear – admit to what he had done, and reveal all of the details of his French co-conspirators that he could remember, or suffer pain that he knew he could not face. The deal had seemed sound – do so, and not only would he not suffer the pain which the instruments around him in the room promised, but he would be pardoned – free to return to his family.
But they had lied. They had not been willing to allow him loose on the world while the war still raged, not trusting that a man who had turned twice already would stay loyal. They had shipped him back to England and kept him imprisoned for two long years, waiting for the war to end. Only then had they done as promised, and freed him, a pardoned man.
But by then, somehow, word had leaked out of his doings, and his fellow prisoners had shown their opinion of a traitor in all manner of inventive and painful ways.
Then, when he finally reached his family, they too rejected him, having been informed, by a letter from the army, of his actions and his incarceration. In all of the time that he had been locked up, they had not seen fit to write, or to visit. His life was destroyed, utterly – and it all went back to that room, and the man he saw before him now, wealthy, and a Lord for his efforts.
Cunningham ground his teeth, restraining the urge to surge forward and fall upon Otford. That would be too quick, too kind. He wanted to make the bastard suffer as he had suffered.
Through all of this, and all the time since that fateful day, Cunningham had never once admitted to himself that perhaps the fault lay, at its root, within himself, for having turned to the French in the beginning. For he saw their cause as righteous, once he had understood it – his life before the army had been trampled beneath the heel of a cruel and uncaring Lord, who saw his tenant farmers as nothing more than a source of money – so a cause that called to throw down the nobility had spoken to him at the deepest level.
Once captured and his villainy revealed, he had needed someone to blame, for he could not accept his own culpability. Lieutenant Otford had become the focus of his blame and hate – a hate that he had nurtured into a desire for revenge over the near four years since that day.
Now the man was before him. He no longer needed the Gypsies. Now he needed a reason to stay here, to watch, and wait his chance, to inflict a slow and terrible death upon this man, to destroy his life, as Otford had destroyed his own.
Two hours later, clean shaven, hair washed and tied back in a brown ribbon, wearing clothes that might suit any farmer, Cunningham, as Mr Reaper, applied at the servants’ door of Tillingford Castle, looking for work – any work they might offer.
Shackleton eyed him, but could see nothing out of order, and, as an extra hand about the place, to deal with the lowest of the drudge work, would be useful, gave him a position. He was given a tiny room in the servants’ quarters above the stables, and settled in quickly.
Over the next week, he learnt the pattern of the place, and became adept at listening at doors, and observing detail.
Putting those skills at spying that had originally brought about his downfall to use, he discovered all that he could about his new employer.
Chapter Four
The weather was beautiful, as spring moved into summer, and the roads were in excellent condition. It was barely midday when they arrived, so fast had they been able to travel.
The first view of Tillingford Castle quite took Alyse’s breath away. It was large, and looked imposing, even while it looked rather like a jumble of child’s blocks, a collection of pieces stacked together to build a not entirely harmonious whole. The ancient keep tower stood up above the porticoed entryway, like a giant guardian. She wanted to draw it, even like this, from a distance – there was so much detail that it was fascinating.
Charles had been staring about as they rolled between wide fields, assessing the land’s potential, and Nerissa was almost hanging out of the carriage window, trying to get sight of the gardens as they approached. Hunter watched them all with some bemusement, secretly full of happiness that these people he loved had so much passion for life, each in their own way.
As they drew up in front of the imposing entry, the doors opened, and a butler came out to stand and wait.
Their footman opened the carriage door, and let down the steps, then stood by to assist if required. Alyse was stiff from two days of sitting in the carriage, and was grateful for the steadying hand. She stood on the gravel, looking up at the imposing face of the Castle. It was real! She was here! And, in a moment, she would see… him…
As if her thought had summoned him, suddenly, he was there, the sun glinting on his dark blond hair, drawing a sparkle from his eyes. Alyse found it difficult to breathe. Then he was gripping Hunter’s hand in greeting, smiling at all of them, oddly seeming a little shy as he greeted her, then ushering them in through the huge doors. The butler bowed as they passed, a genuine smile on his face, and gently shut the doors behind them.
“Your Grace, your luggage will be taken to your rooms, and Mary,” the butler waved in the direction of the maid standing to one side,” will be waiting here to show you up when you are ready.”
Hunter turned to the butler and maid, and bowed.
“Thank you.”
They looked a little startled at being thanked by a Duke, then nodded as he turned and followed everyone else to the parlour.
Alyse came to an abrupt halt as they passed the bottom of the grand staircase. She reached out, her fingers tracing the complex carving of the balustrades and banisters. Her voice was barely audible.
“I have to draw these…”
Hunter smiled, but encouraged her onwards.
Tea and refreshments were served, and Alyse found herself torn – she wanted to be in the room, in his presence, taking the chance to be part of a conversation that was not constrained by the moves of a dance. Well – if she had not found herself unable to decide what to speak of… yet she also desperately wanted her sketch journal, and to be back out in the hallway, drawing those amazing carvings.
She could see Nerissa staring out the windows at the view to the gardens – Alyse recognised that look – Nerissa wanted to get straight into the gardens as much as she wanted to get to drawing.
Finally, the formalities of welcome were done, and, as Lord Tillingford escorted Nerissa and Charles from the room, en route to the gardens, and the home farm, Alyse slipped out, collected her sketch journal, and settled by the stairs. Shackleton, observant as always, brought her a chair.
Hunter, abandoned by everyone, shook his head in amusement, and asked Shackleton for directions to the library, and a brandy. Two hours later, Gerry joined him there, having left Nerissa in consultation with the head gardener, and Charles in discussion with the farm manager and a group of farmers.
Alyse was so deeply involved in drawing that she did not notice as Gerry paused for some time, quite some distance away, and watched her, his face alive with interest, before moving on to the library, his steps almost silent on the marble floor.
~~~~~
In the library, Gerry collected a drink and settled into his favourite chair.
“Your family are all so passionate about things. I suspect that we will need to send a search party for Nerissa and Charles if we are to have them attend dinner.”
Hunter laughed, nodding his agreement.
“You are probably right. Be glad of it – for it will serve your needs well. I much prefer them as they are, to the bored families I have met elsewhere. I do not understand how so many people manage to do so little with their lives.”
“Neither do I. But perhaps our perspective on such things was changed by so many years of needing to act, every day, simply to stay alive?”
“True. War does rather change everything.”
Gerry was quiet for a while, wishing that he had never brought the spectre of war into the conversation.
Determinedly seeking something to speak of, to turn his thoughts to brighter things, the image of lady Alyse, as he had just seen her in the hallway, came to mind.
Loving the Bitter Baron: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 11) Page 3