Melinda Hammond (3 page)

* * * *

 They stopped to change horses at Bakewell, then the carriage climbed out of the town and through pretty villages of grey and yellow stone before ascending westwards through open farmland to the moors, where the occasional thin trail of smoke spiralling upwards from the chimney of an isolated stone farmhouse was the only sign of habitation. The coach rattled on over the well-made drovers' road and as they came around one sharp bend Verity caught her breath at the spectacular views of the valleys and peaks spread out before her, the dramatic rock formations thrown into strong relief by the low morning sun. Miss Shore gazed out enthralled at the view as the road fell away in a sweeping curve before the long drag up again onto the moors and the bleak track that carried them westwards. At Chapel-en-le-Frith they changed horses again, and as they set off Mr Bannerman remarked that they should be in Manchester soon after noon, and would take lunch there.

 'If you would prefer to press on, sir … '

 'I would, of course, but you will need sustenance. To have you fainting off on me would be a damnable nuisance.'

 She bridled. 'Far be it from me to inconvenience you sir!'

 'I knew you would wish to be accommodating.'

 Verity blinked. Was he laughing at her?

 Relaxing in his corner, Mr Bannerman watched her, a smile curving his lips.

 'You have the most expressive countenance, Miss Shore. I find I can read it like a book.'

 'Can you?'

 'Easily. You are wondering whether to fire back at me, or if a frosty silence would serve you best.'

 She laughed at that. 'Observant of you! But you have the advantage sir, for I find I cannot understand you at all.'

 'Strange. My friends tell me I am blunt to the point of rudeness.'

 'You are certainly very frank, sir, but I had not considered you ill-humoured, until this morning.'

 'Ah. I am not at my best in the early morning.'

 'Then I pity your poor wife, sir.'

 'You need not, Miss Shore. I am not married.'

 'Oh.' She felt the tell-tale flush stealing over her cheeks and turned her gaze towards the wintry landscape. 'Will you tell me what I am to expect at Highclough? Is it a large establishment?' After a pause she added, 'Will I be there alone?'

 'No. There is Margaret Worsthorne - she is a widow, the daughter of Sir Ambrose's only sister and has run the household for many years. Her son Luke now looks after the day-to-day running of the estate. Your grandfather left him a snug little property at Sowerby but he appears to be in no hurry to move on, and has agreed to remain at Highclough until everything is settled.'

 'Oh, so I have family.'

 He nodded. 'You are not entirely alone in the world. And there is something else I should mention. Since your grandfather became ill I have been heavily involved in his affairs, and have been in the habit of staying at the Hall one or two nights each week. There is considerably less to do now, but until you are in full control, my administration must continue, and if you have no objection it would be convenient for me to keep a room there.'

 'I have no objection to that sir. In fact,' she added with a slight smile, 'I should be glad to have you on hand. The prospect ahead of me is a little daunting.'

 'Come, Miss Shore, I thought you indomitable.'

 'Headstrong might be a better word! My arrival at Highclough, almost unannounced, cannot be welcome.'

 'You need have no fear on that head. Mrs Worsthorne will be delighted to see you, I have no doubt. I have often considered her situation at Highclough to be a lonely one. The house is quite isolated and in the winter months the roads are often impassable. I think she will be glad of a female companion. Besides, you are not entirely unexpected: she knew I was going in search of you and will not think it odd that I have brought you back with me.'

 'Carrying all before you, Mr Bannerman?'

 His grinned at her.

 'In this instance,
I
was not the driving force!'

Chapter Three

 Their stop at Manchester was shortened by reports of bad weather ahead of them and after a hasty lunch they set off again with the coachman casting an anxious glance at the grey clouds gathering overhead. By the time they reached Rochdale the sun had disappeared behind a blanket of grey cloud that had settled over the sky and rested heavily on the surrounding hills. Verity regarded the darkening landscape with foreboding: perhaps it was the grey cloud, but the land looked so much gloomier, even the walls were darker than the whitish-grey stone she had known in Derbyshire. She watched from the shelter of the carriage as Mr Bannerman conferred with the coachman and as he climbed in beside her she gave him an anxious, questioning glance.

 'We will press on.' Rafe Bannerman answered her unspoken question. 'There are no reports of snow ahead yet, but I have decided we should take the upland road rather than the valley route through Derringden. The road is steep and a little rough, but it will save us at least two hours' driving. Don't worry, Miss Shore. You must not let the prospect of a little snow daunt you. Besides, it may not come until morning.'

 Verity pulled her cloak about her and glanced up at the lowering sky.

 'I hope you are right sir.'

 As they travelled north the weather grew steadily colder and the first flakes of snow began to fall. Verity watched with growing unease as the road wound its way through a steep-sided valley, and the light faded to a gloomy dusk. Soon the coach pulled off the toll road and began a steady climb.

 'We are on the direct road to Highclough.' Rafe Bannerman's voice cut through the darkness. 'There is little more than a mile to go now.'

 As they left the shelter of the valley the wind began to buffet the carriage, and the snow became finer, until it was hard, icy particles that rattled against the sides of the coach with each new gust of wind. Verity huddled into her cloak, listening to the storm. She tried to peer out of the window, but could see nothing in the near darkness. The road grew steeper and the coach groaned on its back springs as the horses struggled to drag it upwards. To Verity the journey seemed interminable. She had no idea how fast they were travelling but just as she had decided that they must be climbing a mountain rather than a hill, the carriage came to a halt.

 'Wait here.' Rafe Bannerman jumped out, slamming the door behind him to keep out the storm. Verity sat alone in the darkness. She could just make out the sound of voices raised against the wind, then the door jerked open and she was obliged to hold her cloak tightly against the sudden icy blast. Mr Bannerman leaned in.

 'John Driver says the horses can get the coach no further. The house is less than half a mile from here – do you think you can walk?'

 'Of course.'

 'Let me see your shoes.'

 She pulled one foot from the snug sheepskin and put it forward for inspection, wrinkling her nose at the well-worn leather.

 'One of the advantages of a life of a governess,' she said, a laugh in her voice, 'one's footwear is
always
serviceable!'

* * * *

Mr Bannerman helped her out of the carriage, one hand clasping the brim of his hat as he shouted over his shoulder to the coachman.

 'Leave it here, no-one is likely to be coming this way tonight. Get the horses to Highclough, then have some of the lads come back with the sledge for the baggage.' He turned to Verity. 'Are you ready?'

 'Yes.'

 She looked down at her feet: the snow was so fine there was very little on the ground, but it was building up at the sides of the road, and she could feel the icy surface beneath her boots. They set off along a rough lane. The light was nearly gone, but she could just make out the high dry-stone walls on each side. The wind swirled about, tugging at Verity's thick cloak. The lane carried on upwards, and as they crested the highest point they were suddenly exposed to the full force of the wind, and Verity gasped as the icy rain hit her cheeks like dozens of tiny blades. She gripped her hood, pulling it tightly around her face and trudged on, her head bent into the wind. The storm howled about her and she found her feet slipping on the uneven surface. Unable to look forward, she kept her eyes on the ground, just visible in the fading light, gritting her teeth against the biting cold and the icy wind that cut through the thin kid gloves, stinging her fingers.

 'Here, let me help you.' She felt a strong arm about her shoulders. 'Keep your head down. I'll guide you.'

 She found herself clamped firmly against Rafe Bannerman's solid figure and he marched her steadily forward. A few minutes later, the wind dropped and Verity peeped up to see that they had turned onto a sweeping drive and had reached the shelter of a building. She was aware of a large oak door being flung open and she was bundled across the threshold into an echoing stone passage. Breathing heavily, she swayed as she found herself free of the gentleman's reassuring grip. She blinked, dazed by the quiet calm of the entrance hall.

 'You are safe now, Miss Shore.' Rafe Bannerman murmured, taking her hand to support her.

 'Yes, thank you. I just need a moment to compose myself.'

 There was a bustle at the far end of the passage and Verity stepped quickly away, pulling her hand free.

 'Master Rafe we had quite given you up!' A plump, middle-aged woman hurried towards them, her black silk skirts rustling around her. 'When the snow began to fall we made sure we would not see you until the morning!'

 'You should know I would not let a little snow keep me away from you, Megs!' declared Mr Bannerman, smiling. 'Let me present Miss Verity Shore to you - your Cousin, Margaret Worsthorne …'

 'Oh fie on you, Master Rafe, be done with your ceremony! Can you not see the child is quite done up?' Her kindly face creased into a smile as she looked at Verity. 'Come along into the parlour, my dear. Plenty of time to get acquainted once you are thawed out!'

 Thank you ma'am,' began Verity, but the lady cut her short.

 'Call me Megs, my child, for we are Cousins, are we not?' She ushered Verity across a large galleried hall into a snug wainscoted room with a blazing fire. 'And you are little Verity, poor Charles's baby! To think of you living in Portsmouth all those years and we did not know it. Luke has not long come it and he said the weather was closing in with the roads well nigh impassable, so we thought you might put up somewhere for the night. However, I had Ditton put up a light supper in here, just in case, but my dear you look too exhausted even for that, so sit you down by the fire and I will find Cook and ask her to boil some milk for you, and perhaps when you are rested you will find your appetite.'

 'And brandy for me, Megs, if you will,' put in Mr Bannerman.

 'I will ask Ditton to send up a bottle,' said Mrs Worsthorne, bustling out of the room.

 When she had gone Verity removed her bonnet and shook out her flattened curls, then she pulled off her gloves and tried to untie the strings of her cloak.

 'Let me.' Rafe Bannerman threw aside his own gloves and stepped forward to wrestle with the knot.

 'My fingers are still too cold to be of use,' murmured Verity, trying not to think about the lean fingers moving so close to her cheek.

 'They will soon recover.' He unfastened the strings and removed her cloak, tossing it over the back of a chair.

 'I am sure they will, with such a good fire blazing in the hearth.'

 Verity was glad to turn away from his disturbing presence. She knelt before the fire and stretched out her hands towards the warmth.

 'Not that way!' Rafe Bannerman caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. 'You must warm them slowly: the fire will cause them to scorch and blister.' He stood close, holding her fingers between his own warm hands. Verity felt the hot blood coursing through her cheeks and was aware of an erratic heartbeat making her breathless. She dare not raise her eyes, but kept them fixed on the neat sapphire pin nestling in the folds of the gentleman's cravat.

 'There. Are they warmer now?'

 Receiving no reply, the gentleman's mouth curved into a smile. 'Faith, m'dear, this must be the first time I've known you lost for words!'

 Verity looked up at that, the ready laughter curving her lips into a smile, but a moment later another voice spoke from the doorway.

 'Trying to steal a march with the heiress, Bannerman?'

 A shadow flickered briefly across Rafe Bannerman's features. He released Verity's hands and stepped back.

 'Nothing so dramatic,' he replied coolly. 'Miss Shore, allow me to present Mr Luke Worsthorne to you.'

 Verity cast a swift, appraising glance at the figure in the doorway. Luke Worsthorne was, she guessed, a few years younger than Mr Bannerman and almost as tall, but very different in appearance. He was classically fair, and where Rafe Bannerman's black hair was cut ruthlessly short, Luke's blond locks were brushed into a semblance of disorder and long enough to fall over his brow. He was elegantly attired in a dark-green frock-coat with a green and white striped silk waistcoat and pale breeches fastened at the knee with green ribbons that matched his striped stockings. The snowy lace at his wrists and the elaborate cravat hinted at a man of fashionable tastes, but there was nothing of the fop in his bearing, and in repose his lean face had a sober, thoughtful cast. This serious look was replaced by an attractive smile as the gentleman addressed her, and as he approached she was struck by the deep blue of his eyes.

 'How do you do Miss Shore, or may I call you Cousin? I believe our lines meet somewhere, for Sir Ambrose added your father back into the family tree at the front of the great bible.'

 'Cousin is very agreeable,' Verity returned his smile. 'I had come to think of myself as being without family.'

 They were interrupted as the door opened again to admit Mrs Worsthorne followed by a stately butler.

 'Here we are at last - and Ditton has brought up the brandy for you gentlemen - I am so glad you are downstairs at last, Luke, for I thought I should be obliged to fetch you!'