A Shadow's Bliss (4 page)

“Jack?” She was laughing at him. “I'faith, but you must think you've a roaring lion in there!”

He had wrapped almost the whole ball of string around the basket. Mortified, he stammered, “Jupiter! I—I must have been—”

“Wool gathering,” she declared, in mock scolding. “That's what you were doing. And I think heard not one word I said!”

“Well, what d'you expect, Jennifer? I've told you before not to have the looby about you.”

Irritated by that sardonic drawl, she turned to face her eldest brother.

Howland Britewell had the height and fine build that characterized all the Britewells. Seven years Jennifer's senior, he was a handsome man, but resembled her only in that his eyes were the same deep blue. His neatly tied-back hair was unpowdered, and several shades darker than hers. His features were well formed, but there was none of her warmth to be found in his hard eyes or about the rather thin-lipped mouth, and a ruthless set to the chin made him seem older than his thirty-two years. He came into the room with quick impatient strides, and before she could respond went on, “Gather your things, Madam School Teacher. We've company come, and papa wants you home.”

He reached for the basket. Jonathan picked it up, and Britewell gave him a hard shove and jerked it away. “Get out, half-wit! You've no business hanging about here.”

“I sent for him,” argued Jennifer, taking the basket and returning it to Jonathan. “I want him to repair the front door. And he is not a half-wit.”

“Likely you're right. No wits at all, I'd wager.” He snatched the basket again and holding it high said mockingly, “Only see how well he secures an empty basket.”

“'Tis not empty! No—Howland! Give it back! It belongs to him.”

He held the basket above his head, laughing at her attempts to reach it. “And what does it contain? His worldly goods? Riches beyond compare, eh? Very well, the clod may have it. If he asks for it politely.”

With an inarticulate cry of anger, Jennifer again tried to snatch the basket from him. Fending her off, Howland pushed harder than he had intended, and she almost fell. Before he could steady her, his wrist was caught in fingers of steel. Astounded, he met a pair of narrowed eyes in which humility had been replaced by a murderous glare.

“Why you damned gallow's bird!” he gasped. “How
dare
you lay your filthy hands on me?”

His attempt to wrench free, failed.

Jennifer saw his face, and cried desperately, “Jack! Do not!”

Howland whipped up his left fist. Jonathan let him go with a jerk that threw him off balance. Infuriated, Howland started for him again.

Running between them, Jennifer pleaded, “Don't! Howland, he thought you were hurting me! He meant no harm!”

“I'll harm the makebait!” he growled, pushing her away.

“No! I'll come now. Please, dear.” She tugged at his arm, keeping always between him and Jonathan. “You said Papa was waiting. Come, then!”

Still livid with rage, he fumed, “By God, woman! D'you realize this loathesome yokel dared to—”

“Yes, yes. But—but you yourself said his wits are disordered. You are above soiling your hands on such. Come.”

“He needs a lesson, I tell you!”

“No doubt, but I've had all the lessons
I
need today! Teach him another time, love.”

She took his arm, smiling up at him and tugging him gently towards the door until, muttering dark threats about having the looby driven from the Hundred, he at length accompanied her.

Jonathan stared after them and took up the basket absently. He was relieved to hear squawking and flutterings about. “So you're still among the living are you,” he murmured. “I've some work to do, and then I'll take you home.”

The tools Mr. Holsworth had loaned him were still in the cupboard, and he carried them to the warped front door and set to work.

He'd not endeared himself to Howland Britewell, but having acknowledged that fact, he dismissed it from his mind. How sweetly she had tended his hurt, how bravely interceded for him. ‘His wits are disordered … You are above soiling your hands on such.' He flinched, but she'd not meant it. She was too compassionate to have meant it. She'd merely been trying to distract her brother. She had guessed he was an educated man, bless her. And she'd spoken of London. The fond smile on his lips died. London. Long and long ago, in that misty other-life, he had lived there. There had been a big and happy house … the squeals of children … a kind gentleman … love, and laughter. His own family, perhaps. He may have been one of the children. But they could as well have been friends or acquaintances, who had forgotten him and no longer cared what had happened to him.

He bowed his head against the door and stifled a groan. There were others who would care, heaven help him! There were others…!

*   *   *

The craftsmen of the fourteenth century had built Castle Triad to last, and last it had, defying siege, bombardment, and the elements, through four hundred stormy years. It had been erected on the highest point of the cliffs and some distance inland, but year by year strong winds and hungry waters had made their inroads, and now the castle reared its defiant tower only a hundred yards from the cliff edge.

Triad lacked the massive size of such fortresses as Windsor, or East Anglia's Green Willow Castle, nor could it boast the majestic height that made Castle Tyndale in Ayrshire such a fairy-tale structure. In point of fact, Triad was more a keep than a castle. Its ten-foot-thick walls were of rough-hewn stone and thrust upward from bastion to battlements with no softening ornamentation to indicate that this was a dwelling as well as a fortress. The only variations in the outer walls were the occasional narrow and deeply inset windows of the upper storeys, and the rows of gun ports that encircled the ground floor, or bastion, and the first or “fighting” floor.

Roselley was only a mile south of the castle, but Howland Britewell had ordered out a coach and four to fetch his sister. Through the short ride home, he berated her for consorting with “dangerous lunatics,” and for having opened the village school. “You demean yourself by over-much mingling with the common herd,” he declared. “It invites a familiarity they'd best not attempt with me.”

She studied his handsome, arrogant face, and said dryly, “I feel sure they know what to expect from you, Howland.”

“Good.” He gave a short laugh. “They respect those who keep them in their place. The way you coddle 'em does but encourage impertinence. And be damned if I'll allow you to be subjected to that! Least of all from a filthy vagrant like Crazy Jack.”

Indignant, she said, “He has
never
been in the slightest impertinent towards me! And he is neither filthy, nor a vagrant! I admit he suffers lapses of—of memory, but he's never shown the slightest inclination to harm anyone, and you must allow he has the speech and manners of a gentleman.”

“Which is another reason to be rid of the fellow. Who can say where he came from, or what he may be hiding? For all we know, he might be a thief—or worse, and running from Bow Street.”

“A thief would choose a better place to ply his trade, I think. The village folk have nothing, and there's little in the way of great works of art upon our walls, or gold in my father's store. Aside from the pieces Mama left me, I've not much jewellery.”

“You could have. Grandmama left you enough lettuce to enable you to live like a queen.”

Having wound its difficult way up the rutted road, the carriage was drawing to a halt before the side entrance to the bastion, rather than proceeding to the long flight of wind-whipped steps that climbed past the two lower floors to the impressive main entrance. Jennifer gathered her shawl closer about her shoulders, and pointed out coolly, “She left you more, only you gambled it away.”

He scowled at this home truth. “At least I didn't hoard it like any miser.”

“Grandmama wanted me to be able to provide for myself after Papa is gone, as you very well know.”

The footman swung down and made to open the door, but Howland gestured to him to wait, and said with low-voiced intensity, “There would be no need for you to provide for yourself if you found a well-circumstanced husband. You're a pretty chit, Jennifer.”

She looked at him steadily. “I thank you. But a gentleman needs heirs, wherefore I shall never marry. Now pray stop talking rubbish and let me go.”

Grumbling, he nodded to the footman to open the door, then sent him off. “Damned servants!” he muttered. “Always have their ears on the stretch.”

Jennifer started up the steps, her skirts billowing in the wind. “Why you went to the bother of calling out the coach, I cannot fathom. 'Tis a short walk to the village.”

“A short walk! 'Tis more than a mile to Devil's Ladder alone, and deuce take me if I'll trudge up and down the hill in this wind, and with clouds blowing up for rain. Besides, a coach and four with servants on the box gives the yokels something to gawk at. They get little enough in the way of entertainment.”

“I thought you didn't care about the opinions of the simple folk.”

“No more I do.” He opened the ponderous iron-bound door for her and they walked side by side across the gloom of the bastion. The cannon had long since been removed, and the gun ports were shuttered, but the candles in the occasional wall sconces flickered to the draughts. “An I had my way,” muttered Howland, “I'd show my back to this accursed castle tomorrow and never set foot in it again!”

“I wonder you do not,” she said equably. “Papa would likely be willing to set you up in London, for that's where you long to live—no?”

“Aye. I like Town life. And never pretend
you
enjoy this lonely desolation. I've seen how you look at the Morris ladies in their elegant gowns and their elegant mansion.”

Jennifer's steps slowed. She said guiltily, “I hope I do not look at them with envy. Grandmama used to say that envy—”

“Consumes the soul. How well I remember her prosing on with her fusty moralizing! 'Tis not a matter of envy—or if it is, surely it's natural enough, so do not be thinking yourself a sinner.” He said in a kinder voice, “You think I don't know, but I do. It's blasted miserable for me to rusticate here, but a man can always search out entertainment, and my father ain't backward in keeping me busy. For a girl to be shut up in this grim old place, away from pretty gowns and parties and bazaars, is downright unfair.”

Sometimes, she did feel rather hardly done by, and her smile was wistful. “I thank you for the thought. But you know that what I said is truth. After the accident, Dr. Fowey told Papa—”

“Pox on the old curmudgeon!”

“He's the finest surgeon in Plymouth, and—”

“And has never journeyed farther north than Devonshire since he finished his training. There are other surgeons in London. Up to the minute, and better a thousand times! Besides, even if you cannot ever bear children, not all men need 'em.”

She halted as a fierce pang transfixed her, snatching her breath away. They all pitied her, but no one really knew how desperately she had wanted children of her own. Little ones to cherish; innocent minds to mold and prepare so that they might meet the world with gentleness and courage and integrity.

Misinterpreting her silence, Howland peered at her, and said bracingly, “I know you don't believe it, but there's plenty of fine gentlemen who judge you quite beautiful, and would be dashed eager to take you to wife if you'd not be so everlastingly touch-me-not-ish.”

Jennifer regained her voice, and standing very still said, “Are there indeed? I wish I might know of one who is not in his dotage.”

“I know of one.” He looked at her from the corners of his eyes. “A good man. A man of great fortune. A man who fairly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Goodness me! His worship must be very subdued, for I've heard no such declarations.”

“He has not declared himself as yet. But he's here now, and means to speak to my father.”

She turned to face him. “Do you say that this ardent suitor has come to Triad only to make me an offer?”

“Well—er, not that only.” Howland's eyes slid away from her candid gaze. “He has business to discuss with Papa. But I am very sure he admires you, and would make you a dashed fine husband.”

“I am all agog, for he sounds a paragon.” They started up the flight that led to the fighting floor, and she said demurely, “What a relief! Do you know, I had feared for a moment you meant that disgusting creature who wants to buy the Blue Rose Mine.”

“Disgusting creature?”
He gave a scornful snort. “Here's a high flight! Lord Hibbard Green is a peer of the realm. A man of wealth and power who would be a splendid catch for any girl!”

“Always provided,” she said, her eyes flashing, “she wants a great boorish brute, with the manners of a hog, and as much sensitivity as—”

“Sensitivity will not buy you beautiful gowns and jewels and several great houses. Have some sense do! You should be flattered that a gentleman of his high station would so much as glance your way. No, never fly out at me. I'll own you're a little younger than he. But you're too tall to attract most men, you know you are. Lord Green is generous enough to forgive that flaw, in addition to—er, all else.”

“Don't bother to wrap it up in clean linen,” she said hotly. “What you mean is that he will forgive that I cannot provide him an heir. How noble of him! Seeing that he already has one who is older than me! You forget, I think, that I have met Rafe Green, who is as loathsome as his gross father, only perhaps a shade less honest of a rogue! I take leave to tell you, Howland Britewell, that you do not excel as a matchmaker!”

Seething, she walked rapidly across the echoing vastness of this area that had once teemed with fighting men and rung to the din of battle, but was now empty save for a few rusting suits of armour and a rather forlorn collection of swords, shields, pikes, and other impedimenta of war.