by Decca Price
“How terrible!” Miss Simms exclaimed.
“Will we have the honor of being introduced to Miss Latimer?” Claire asked.
“I would be most pleased,” Latimer responded, “but my sister has left the neighborhood.”
“Very wise. I understand,” Miss Simms murmured. She failed to notice Latimer’s clenched fists, but Claire did not. Poor man, she thought, to love somebody so and to see her hurt by a person you trusted!
“Mr. Latimer,” she said, “if it’s not asking you to repeat gossip, what happened to Lord Montfort’s brother? You mentioned a tragedy.”
“Drink,” Latimer said. “If it isn’t gambling or other vices, the Montforts give themselves over to drink. The brothers were imbibing one night in the cider house at Oakley Court and one of them apparently knocked over a lamp. Flames engulfed the building before Rhys could summon help.”
Miss Simms and Claire both gasped. “That’s horrible!” Claire cried. “To see your brother die before your very eyes!”
Latimer hesitated, then said in a low voice, “Rhys escaped without serious injury, though he bears a scar from that night. It is but a tiny mark for a man who claims to have barely survived an inferno.”
“I saw it,” Claire remarked.
She blanched at Miss Simms’s next words. “Do you mean to say Lord Montfort was responsible for his brother’s death?”
“Perhaps not in the eyes of the law,” Latimer replied, “but his conscience can tell him whether he is guilty in the eyes of God.”
Latimer stepped closer to Claire, took his hands in hers and gazed down, searching her face. “Do not be agitated, my dear. I most sincerely beg your pardon. I would wish to keep this unpleasantness from a lady, but sometimes it is better if the lamb knows the nature of the wolf.”
Claire looked up into his intense green eyes. “Your concern is most appreciated,” she said softly, allowing her hands to remain a moment too long.
Her heart beat a little faster. This man could never match her Josiah, but he embodied solicitude that she found both comforting and flattering.
Miss Simms dropped a book with a loud thud and attempted to look startled. “Claire,” she said, “perhaps Mr. Latimer would like a turn in the garden. It looks like the rain has stopped.”
Latimer looked pleased. “You wish is my command, Miss Burton.”
No sooner had they stepped off the terrace and onto the gravel path than Latimer offered his arm and Claire accepted, striking the correct balance between formality and friendliness. But when Latimer tucked her hand more securely into the crook of his elbow, she did not resist. He was as solid as oak, and she felt security in his closeness.
At her touch, gratification surged through him like the heat of Montfort’s fine whiskey, radiating from his solar plexus and settling finally in his nether regions. No painted Jezebel, as he half feared, Miss Burton affected an outward modesty that enticed. Her smooth face bore no traces of past calumny. Alert to the slightest hint of art in her manner, he detected none.
He noted that her sober dress conveyed wealth without going in for display. She again wore some dull purple color and a minimum of ornament. Spotless gray gloves concealed her hands, but to his annoyance, no bonnet covered her abundant tresses, suggesting she felt a little too casual in the presence of men. Their short acquaintance hardly warranted such informality. In the sunlight, he noted, there was an unmistakable reddish hue to her hair.
He frowned and confined himself to small talk until their stroll brought them to an octagonal summer house hidden in the shrubbery, out of sight and hearing of the main house. He steered her toward it, half hoping she would decently refuse.
“Miss Burton, I hope you will not think me too forward if I make a comment? No? Then let us go in where it is sheltered. I have wanted to speak with you on a serious matter since we met.”
Claire assented, giving him only half her attention, he noted.
“Mr. Carter loved this place,” she exclaimed as she stepped up onto the small porch and preceded him into the cool dimness. Her delight struck him as unseemly.
The young leaves of climbing roses clinging round the windows gave the interior light a green cast, as though the room were under water. Between the windows, panels in the French style displayed exotic birds and fish limned in gold paint. Bamboo furniture amply strewn with soft cushions invited relaxation, but Claire went directly to an ornate table on the far side of the room.
She ran her fingers lovingly across the smooth surface. “He talked so often about the hours he spent here.”
“You were very fond of Josiah,” Latimer said, watching her closely. The face she turned toward him seemed innocent.
“I loved him with all my heart,” she said.
“That is not quite what I am getting at,” he said, dropping his voice. He opened his arms toward her in appeal. “I hope to be your friend, Miss Burton, but I also have a duty to my parish.”
She moved behind the desk and, with her back to him, began to toy with the antimacassar on the tall desk chair.
Pleased at her unease, he continued more firmly. “My friendship, you understand, can make all the difference in whether you are accepted here. I am respected, people look to me as an example. If they know I call on you, they will call. If I find I must shun you...”
“Friendship requires honesty, or it is a dead thing,” she said, turning to face him again. Her set mouth and rigid posture belied her calm voice.
“I am glad you see it that way.” He chose his words carefully now, anxious to project sympathy as well as authority. “Love, or what young ladies think is love, can lead them to make dreadful mistakes, mistakes that can never be undone, mistakes that ruin their happiness and the happiness of their families...”
“You are thinking of your sister?”
“You do see what I mean.” He shifted his stance, clenching his hands at his sides. “This is most awkward, believe me, but I must ask.” He moistened his lips. “Miss Burton, you were not too fond of Josiah Carter?”
Pride and indignation mingled in her expression.
“Are you asking whether I am all a lady should be, Mr. Latimer?
The rector’s cheeks flamed. He did not like the challenging tone of her voice.
“Do not distress yourself, sir,” she said stiffly. “My father and brother warned me of such suspicions if I ignored their advice. As long as my conscience is clear, I cannot let the opinion of others keep me from fulfilling the trust Mr. Carter put in me. But my own Papa, it grieves me to say, used such shocking language to me, I will never forget it.”
She was crying now. Latimer fumbled through the pockets of his coat, produced a fine linen handkerchief and thrust it toward her.
“Thank you, Mr. Latimer.” He watched as she quickly dried her tears. “Please pardon my ridiculous display. I didn’t realize how difficult this would be. I pretend I am not lonely for Miss Simms’s sake, but I fear she is lonely, too, because of me.”
Seeing his advantage, he seized it. “I could assist you, if you will let me.”
“Do you really think you can alter your congregation’s opinion of me??”
“I can also help you put Josiah’s papers in order. I have the advantage of knowing him since he was a boy, which makes me peculiarly suited to sorting the wheat from the chaff, as it were.”
“Mr. Carter’s solicitor says that Josiah’s readers are clamoring for a biography. He suggests I hire an author as soon as possible to begin the work.”
“And you told him what in response?”
“That under no circumstances could I allow anyone to read Mr. Carter’s private papers before I’ve reviewed them myself.” She offered the rector an apologetic smile. “And for the same reasons, I must respectfully decline your offer to help catalogue them.
“Miss Burton, that is most unwise. Even the most upright gentleman harbors thoughts and engages in experiences that no lady should wish to expose herself to. I do not say this task is fit fo
r a stranger, but I assure you, you are not prepared for what you may find.”
Claire softened under his impassioned gaze.
“Forgive me, Mr. Latimer. You are so unlike the clergymen I knew as a girl, I forget myself. Of course you view matters differently. Since we do not see eye to eye on this, may we talk of something else? There is so much I want to learn about my new home.”
“One question first, if I may?” He continued at her nod. “When do you intend to begin? And may I help you to catalogue Josiah’s papers as you review them?”
“That is two questions, Mr. Latimer,” she said with a smile. “I’ve already begun and work a little every night before retiring, when the house is quiet. At the moment, I’m merely ascertaining the size of the task and hoping to find a manuscript Josiah’s publisher believes he left behind.”
She missed his scowl as she dipped to gather her skirts and stepped toward the door.
He grabbed her arm before he could stop himself. She halted in mild surprise and he let her go. He expected a reprimand, but her next words shocked him.
“Poor Mr. Latimer!” she said with warmth. “You loved Josiah, too. How selfish I must seem when all you want is what I want—to honor his memory and preserve it for posterity.”
He walked her back to the house in silence and left her on the terrace. As he turned toward the stables to collect his mount, she touched him lightly on the arm. Again he felt her power to bid him.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” she said earnestly, her beguiling eyes seeking his. “I want to be so sure of doing the right thing, the way Josiah wished. I will reconsider your request and give you my answer in a few days.”
As Claire watched him walk away, she marveled again at how beautiful a man could be in face, form and conduct. Josiah had been a small man, more a jester than a judge of men. And though some of Latimer’s words carried a sting, he spoke with the perfect frankness and meant only kindness. And his life must be lonely, too. A man of his stature would know deference but little true companionship. The losses of his friend Montfort, his sister, then Josiah surely must be hard to bear.
His offer tempted her. Claire was also lonely, and Latimer’s words about Josiah’s papers awakened a possibility she hadn’t considered. What if she did not like what she was about to learn of her beloved’s private life? Would it not be better to have someone steady to lean on, to share in the joys and sorrows as they worked on common goals?
Noonan’s approach broke her reverie.
“A message from the Great House, miss,” he said as she took the envelope from the extended salver. She glanced at the crest, then tore it open.
“Miss Burton,
The building my steward tells me you wish to make into a school is entirely unfit. However, if you or your designee would deign to meet me at 11 o’clock tomorrow at The Dragon Inn, I can show you a place nearby that would better suit your requirements. If this is inconvenient, please name another time. I am, at your pleasure,
“Montfort.”
“The man is waiting, miss.”
She hesitated, thinking of her recent encounter with distaste, then remembered her duty. The building she had seen was dark and smelled as though it had once been a pig sty, not a place to entice children or satisfy any teacher she might be able to hire.
“Tell him my answer is yes.”
Chapter 7
The village of Abbot Pyon, with its sweeping views across the valley to the Black Mountains of Wales, had been a gathering place for millennia. The area’s earliest inhabitants had planted a sacred oak grove where the stout Christian church now stood, and there they had worshipped the triple goddess with feasting and sacrifice.
Victoria’s subjects remembered neither the sacred grove nor the rugged plinths raised to mark the grove’s perimeter. Those stones had vanished into the very fabric of the village, taken by stout builders for lintels, thresholds and hearths as the community grew. Its people believed themselves good Christians, yet at the vernal equinox, housewives still swept the dust of winter into the street with brooms made of hazel boughs, and at Yuletide logs of applewood burned brightly in their grates. Priests still blessed the orchards each winter and presided over the harvest festival with unseemly gusto. Country lads and lasses danced to near-exhaustion, then disappeared into the fields, oblivious to the origins of the ancient rites that once sanctified their couplings.
The power of the place ran deep and had already touched Claire, though she was barely aware of the spell it cast. It was a hard man or woman who breathed the air of Herefordshire for long without feeling it awaken their desires.
Her hair tucked up primly beneath her city topper, she guided the quick-stepping Toddy from the main road up the High Street lined with low two-story black-and-white buildings flanking the street, so different from the upright brick structures of Surrey.
Finding her destination was easy—the High Street was a long straight road scarcely broad enough on market days for stalls, shoppers and livestock. On ordinary days like this one, she saw only a few housewives or servants tending to the morning’s errands. She recognized faces from Sunday mornings, but no one returned her tentative nods of greeting.
She slowed Toddy to a walk as houses gave way to shops—a chandler, a butcher, a tack maker, a mercer and a chemist comprised the whole of Abbot Pyon’s mercantile offerings—and then the inn, where she was to meet Montfort.
Handing Toddy off to a lad in the yard, she looked in vain for a ladies’ entrance, then gripping her riding crop more tightly, she took a deep breath and pushed open the main door to the single public room.
The interior was dim and cool, the windows the only source of light. The broad stone fireplace that filled most of the wall to Claire’s left was dark, but the pungent aroma of wood smoke hung in the air. An array of bright brass candlesticks stood on the low rough-hewn mantle and above it hung a picture so begrimed with soot the lack of light made no difference. Claire assumed it depicted a hunting scene since there were daubs of dull red in the middle ground above longer horizontal brownish daubs and smaller white dabs in the foreground that could have been hounds.
A girl hanging tankards on hooks over the bar to Claire’s right paused from her work and called over. “Help you, miss? You lost?”
Her eyes adjusting to the low light, Claire stepped quickly toward her and said as loudly as she dared, “I’m meeting Lord Montfort, but I seem to be early.”
“Nay, he ain’t been by yet. Fancy a cider?”
“No. Thank you.” Claire chose a seat in a nook formed by the wide stone fireplace and the wall. She could see the door she had used to enter and the main door to the street off to her left, but no one entering would immediately spy her. To her right, a twisting staircase crossed by heavy beams and with trends worn crooked by time ran up to a second floor. Doors slammed and footsteps bustled overhead.
Despite the empty public room, The Dragon appeared to be a thriving business. The wide floorboards gleamed and the windowpanes sparkled. In the yard, horses were being hitched and a dray delivered sacks of flour.
The side door to the yard flew open and a boy tumbled in, his arm locked around the neck of a smaller lad, both of them laughing. Behind them, a man strode in accompanied by a somewhat weary-looking woman Claire guessed to be his wife.
“I’ll keep an eye on these rapscallions and settle the bill while you run up,” the man said. As the woman began to ascend, the boys flew round her skirts and dashed ahead of her.
“Cecil! Humphrey—” the man shouted.
He was drowned out by the crash of crockery and silverware on the stairs and the shout of the servant who had been carrying them down on a tray.
Soon quiet descended again on the empty room, except for the muttering of the chambermaid, on her knees picking up shards of crockery. The girl from behind the bar swabbed away with a mop at grilled tomatoes, congealed eggs and a puddle of dark tea.
Claire refrained from looking at the watch pinne
d to her jacket, though a careful observer would have noted the boot tapping under the edge of her skirt. She glanced idly at a week-old copy of the Hereford Times lying on the table next to her and pretended not to listen to the maids’ conversation.
“Lor,’ she didn’t eat much, did she, Sally? And her wantin’ to be served so early,” the girl from the bar said.
“She weren’t there,” Sally muttered.
“Whatya mean, she weren’t there?”
“I mean she weren’t there when I took her tray up.” The girl’s tone sharpened Claire’s attention. “Scarce sunrise and her bed not slept in.” Sally lurched to her feet, clutched an apron-full of pottery fragments to her chest and dumped them into a basket with a clatter.
“Mr. Williams’ll be hoppin’ mad if she skipped out on the bill,” Jane replied. “That’ll be the third one this month and he’ll start making one of us sleep down here nights.”
“Nah,” Sally said. “Her things’re still in the room and she warn’t packed nor nothin’. She’s an odd duck, though—coming and going at all hours and never talkin’ to no one. That one was up to somethin’, mark my words.”
“Shhh!” Sally nodded her head toward Claire, who quickly ducked her head back to the newspaper. The girls gathered up their things and went through to the back room, leaving Claire alone again. The girl called Jane came back a few minutes later and Claire called out to her.
“Excuse me, but I think I would like a glass of cider after all, unless it’s not too early for a cup of tea.”
“Cider it is, miss. It’s from me dad’s own press and you’ll not taste nothin’ finer,” Jane said with pride. “A glass mornin’ and evenin’ will keep you in long life and health, he says.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Claire said a moment later as she gazed down into the pint of murky brown liquid Jane put in front of her. It looked more like soup than the clear amber cider her mother sometimes served at garden parties.