‘Not yet one-and-twenty, although she rides around on that big horse of hers as if she were lady of the manor.’ Mrs Kensley stopped, her knife and fork poised in mid-air. ‘But of course
that
will have to end now, won’t it, sir, since
you
are now the owner of Morwood Manor.’ She gave another of her irritating titters. ‘Unless, that is, you are tempted to offer for her? I warn you, Mr Keighley is there before you.’
Lucas smiled vaguely and sipped at his wine. The young people at the other end of the table were enjoying a lively conversation, with Annabelle Havenham at their centre. Mrs Kensley was right, the two other young ladies would be considered more beautiful than Annabelle Havenham. Her figure was good, but no better than others he had seen, her features were regular and her soft brown hair was simply dressed. Celia Rishworth’s vivacity made her dark curls dance about her head and Miss Scanlon’s fair prettiness was set off by an over-decorated gown that must have cost her father a pretty penny, but there was something about Miss Havenham’s quiet elegance that caught the attention. He remembered
she had looked magnificent when riding and it was hard to forget the disconcertingly direct gaze of her grey eyes.
His own gaze moved on around the table until it reached James Keighley. A widower, he had been informed. They had been introduced earlier and Lucas had summed up Keighley as a country gentleman of comfortable means, some years older than himself. Was there an understanding between the man and Miss Havenham? Keighley had brought the Oakenroyd party in his own carriage, but Lucas had noticed no special attention between the pair since then. If he had been enamoured of the lady, or if he had been a hot-headed young suitor then he might have been a nuisance, but Lucas did not think Keighley’s interest in Miss Havenham was likely to affect his own plans.
When the ladies withdrew, their host gave a signal to the butler.
‘Now we can be comfortable.’ He leaned forwards to address Lucas. ‘I know you were a military man, Monserrat, but I hope you won’t think us unpatriotic to bring French brandy to the table now that the emperor has finally been defeated.’
‘Not at all,’ returned Lucas, pushing his glass out to be filled. ‘I am pleased to see you are supporting the new regime.’
‘We are, sir,’ declared Mr Scanlon, ‘and since Sir John is magistrate for these parts you can be sure that the duty has been paid on the brandy, too!’
There was general laughter at this.
‘So you were in the army, Mr Monserrat,’ remarked Mr Keighley. ‘What is it brings you to Stanton, sir?’
‘Have you not heard?’ said Scanlon. ‘He has purchased Morwood Manor and means to restore it. Ain’t that right, sir?’
‘It is,’ averred Lucas.
‘Well, now you are here,’ said Rishworth, ‘perhaps you would be interested in investing locally.’
‘That depends upon the investment.’
Sir John Rishworth sat back in his chair, preparing to expound upon what was clearly a favourite theme.
‘Our new toll road, for example. A number of us subscribed to the venture two years ago, to build a new road running around Dyke’s Ridge. The old road, you see, dips down very steeply past Oldroyd Farm to cross the ford, but the valley bottom is almost a bog. In winter the road is well nigh impassable. We hope the new road will improve trade to the town.’
‘Unfortunately it has not done so yet,’ observed Mr Keighley.
‘No,’ agreed Sir John. ‘Last year’s bad harvest means trade in Stanton has been very poor and we have not yet recovered our costs.’
Samuel Havenham sighed. ‘I had hoped we would have turned a profit by now.’
‘You could always sell your share in the venture,’ suggested Lucas.
Havenham shook his head. ‘No, no, we shall come about. Besides, the subscription was not so much an investment for me as for my daughter. A little something for her when I am gone.’
His neighbours cried out at that and declared they hoped Mr Havenham would be with them for many years to come.
‘If you are interested, Monserrat, there are several of us who might wish to sell on our shares to you,’ called a bewhiskered gentleman from the far end of the table.
‘Aye,’ cried Scanlon. ‘You may have mine with pleasure. I haven’t seen any improvement to business in Stanton or recovered my costs yet.’
Sir John waved one hand in a placating gesture. ‘Be calm, gentlemen. Once the mail coach begins to use the new road next summer our fortunes will improve, trust me.’
‘Perhaps Mr Monserrat has more patience than I,’ retorted Scanlon. ‘What do you say, Monserrat, would you like to take my shares off me?’
‘I will consider it.’
‘I think he is better keeping his funds to restore Burnt Acres,’ laughed the bewhiskered gentleman.
Lucas raised one black brow in enquiry. ‘Burnt Acres?’
‘Morwood Manor. Burnt Acres is what we’ve called that land for more years than I care to remember.’
‘Oh?’ Lucas kept his face impassive. ‘Why is that?’
‘Goes back to when the house burned down five-and-twenty years ago,’ explained Sir John. ‘Owner and his wife lost their lives in the fire.’
‘Aye, sad business.’ Mr Scanlon shook his head. ‘It followed a particularly dry spring. Burning debris from the house was caught up by the wind. It set fire to the surrounding trees and the gorse. By morning the house was a ruin and everything around it was scorched and blackened.’
A chill was spreading through Lucas, but he forced himself to ignore it. He asked his next question with studied indifference. ‘What caused the fire?’
Rishworth shrugged. ‘Angus Dutton was the magistrate then, so I am not familiar with the details, but no one knows for sure. It is thought it started in a bedchamber—the mistress of the
house was a foreign lady from warmer climes and didn’t like this northern cold. She insisted on a fire in her room, day and night, at all seasons.’
Lucas, my love, come and read with me by the fire
.
Samuel Havenham shifted in his chair. ‘Let us hope Mr Monserrat will bring some happier memories to the place.’
Their host signalled to the butler to fill the glasses again. ‘You’ve taken on a deal of work there, sir,’ he remarked.
‘Aye, but it’s brought some much-needed employment to the town,’ remarked Mr Scanlon. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Monserrat?’
‘Yes, I use local labour where I can.’
‘Good for you, sir. And where are you staying while all this work is going on at Morwood?’ asked the bewhiskered gentleman. ‘I haven’t been there for years, but I understand the house is merely a shell.’
‘It is. I am staying at the Red Lion.’
Rishworth chuckled. ‘Ah, then let me warn you to watch out for the ladies, sir. The Red Lion holds the monthly assembly, and with you living there, they will expect you to attend.’
‘Aye,’ laughed another who had reached the roistering stage and was banging the table. ‘They’ll have you marked down as a dance partner
and maybe more, if they have daughters to marry, eh, Sir John?’
Their host laughed. ‘I ain’t looking for a husband for Celia yet, but her mother is no different from the rest, looks upon every single man as a possible catch. Sorry to put it so bluntly, Monserrat, but there it is…’
Lucas smiled and shrugged and the conversation moved on, growing louder and more boisterous as the brandy and port flowed freely. By the time Sir John led them back to the drawing room to join the ladies, many of the gentlemen were decidedly rosy-cheeked. Lucas had drunk comparatively little and as the gentlemen ambled their way out of the dining room he hung back to wait for Samuel Havenham. Slowly they crossed the hall together.
‘I hope my neighbours’ little jests did not offend you,’ said Havenham in his mild way. ‘They are as good a set of gentlemen as one could hope to find, but the wine and the brandy, you know…’
‘I understand,’ said Lucas. ‘I am pleased at the warm welcome I have received since I came here.’
They were entering the drawing room and Lucas observed that Annabelle was watching him from across the room. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. There was one person whose welcome had been anything but warm. Havenham
was still talking and making his way slowly but surely towards his daughter. Lucas wondered if he should excuse himself and move off, but an inner demon kept him beside the older man.
‘We have not done much entertaining of late at Oakenroyd,’ said Samuel. ‘My health, you know. I keep very much to the house during the winter months, but your coming puts me in mind of my obligations. Annabelle, my love, I was just saying to Mr Monserrat that we should hold a dinner. What do you say?’
‘Of course, Papa. Perhaps at the end of May. The weather will be more settled then and that will give me time to arrange everything. I do hope you will be able to join us, Mr Monserrat.’
She was clearly accustomed to playing hostess for her father. Her response was cool and collected, although Lucas noted how she avoided his eyes.
‘May? We cannot wait nearly two months to invite our new neighbour to dinner,’ objected Havenham.
‘Papa, I cannot possibly organise something in any less time. Invitations will need to go out and guests must have time to reply, then Mrs Wicklow must open up the guest rooms, and Cook, you know, will need notice to prepare.’
‘Yes, yes, I quite see that is the case if we are going to have a
grand
dinner, but in the meantime
Mr Monserrat must take pot luck with us. Next week. A man cannot dine every night at the Red Lion!’ He touched Lucas’s arm. ‘Come as soon as you wish, sir. Name your day. You will find Belle keeps a very good table, you will not go hungry. And if truth be told her efforts deserve more appreciation than I can give them.’
‘You are very good, sir, and I will take you up on your invitation, gladly.’ He felt rather than saw the lady’s grey eyes upon him and turned to meet her frosty look with a blank one of his own. ‘Thursday next week would suit me very well, sir, but I would not want to inconvenience Miss Havenham.’
He could almost see the thoughts whirling through her head. She wanted to refuse, to make some excuse to put him off, but in view of her father’s invitation that was not possible. The devilish imp prompted him to say with false deference, ‘Perhaps Thursday is not her best day for cooking…’
‘Heavens, Mr Monserrat, I would not cook for you
myself.’
The honeyed tone was as insincere as his own. ‘However, I can assure you that our cook is equal to feeding guests on any day of the week.’
‘Thursday it is, then,’ cried Mr Havenham, oblivious of the tension around him. ‘Splendid, splendid.’
He wandered off, but Lucas remained with Annabelle. ‘I look forward to improving our acquaintance, Miss Havenham.’ Silently she turned to walk away, but he kept beside her. ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘You are speechless with anticipation.’
‘I am speechless at your effrontery, first at Morwood—’
‘And now I only want to make amends.’
He could smell her perfume, not too sweet, and with a hint of citrus. He found himself leaning closer to breathe it in.
‘Let it be enough that I do not cut your acquaintance,’ she hissed.
‘But then everyone would want to know why.’
‘And you would delight in telling them, I suppose.’
‘No, no, I would not
delight
in it, Miss Havenham.’
She bit her lip and glared at him. He thought that if they had not been in Lady Rishworth’s drawing room she would have stamped her foot. He laughed suddenly and held out his hand to her. ‘Come, madam, your father likes me. For his sake, cry friends.’
She hesitated. Slowly, her hand crept up and into his. ‘Not friends, sir,’ she said quietly, ‘but for my father’s sake, not enemies.’
They did not speak again and later, when he lay down on his bed at the Red Lion, Lucas went
over the events of the evening. He had enjoyed himself. Moreover, he had enjoyed the verbal sparring with Annabelle Havenham, so much so that when she had at last given him her hand he had felt a surge of pleasure.
He shifted uneasily. Havenham was a gentle, scholarly soul. In other circumstances he would have liked him, but it was not part of his plan to grow too fond of Samuel Havenham. Or his daughter. Lucas turned over and prepared for sleep, seeing again in his mind’s eye Annabelle’s clear eyes, the slight blush tinting her cheek during their last encounter.
On the other hand, it would do no harm at all if Annabelle Havenham grew too fond of
him
. Perhaps he should revise his plans. To force her to marry him to save her father would, of course, have its merit, but how much sweeter would his revenge be upon Samuel Havenham if Annabelle was to fall in love with him?
M
r Havenham was sanguine about the invitation he had issued to Mr Monserrat to dine at Oakenroyd, but Annabelle could not rest. She knew her father would enjoy the evening, so she stifled her own misgivings and set about preparing a sumptuous dinner to show their new neighbour that Oakenroyd was a household of some standing in the neighbourhood. She made several journeys to the housekeeper’s room to change her mind about the dishes they should offer their guest, until at last the housekeeper, Mrs Wicklow, gently but firmly refused to discuss it any further.
‘Cook has been in charge of the kitchens for the past twenty years, Miss Belle, as you very well know, and if I tell him that you have changed your mind
again
he is likely to pack
his bags and go off in high dudgeon, and then where should we be?’ She ushered Annabelle to the door. ‘Now, miss, I suggest you take yourself for a nice walk around the gardens while the sun is shining. The roast beef and cod loin will do very well, then we have a fine ham and apple dumplings, and I am sure we will find a few dainty sweets for when the covers are removed. Don’t you worry, my dear, your guest will not be disappointed.’
A similar indecisiveness struck Annabelle over what to wear.
‘I am mistress of this house,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled out and discarded various gowns. In the end she chose a high-waisted robe of pale-green silk, cut low across the bosom and with tight-fitting sleeves to offset the chill of a March evening. One of her many cream-muslin gowns would have been more suited to a young unmarried lady who had not yet attained her majority, but following their previous meetings she wanted Lucas Monserrat to see her as mistress of her father’s house, composed and in command.
Their guest arrived promptly and was shown into the drawing room by the butler. He was again dressed in the regulation dark coat and tight-fitting breeches, and his manner of greeting was just as it should be. She met him coolly, alert
for any sign of insolence in his manner, but he was perfectly polite. Relieved, but not yet wholly convinced, she took her embroidery to a chair by the window and left her father to entertain him.
The winter weather took its toll on her father’s health and he was not able to enjoy the local society as much as he would wish, so by the spring he was always ready for company. Despite their distance from London, her father was well informed and the two men conversed easily together on a wide range of subjects, leaving Annabelle free to set her stitches and listen to their conversation with growing interest. Perhaps the evening would not be too much of a trial after all.
The good mood continued throughout dinner. Mr Monserrat directed his attention towards his host. Their discussions ranged from politics and the price of corn to the recent war. As the meal progressed Annabelle found herself relaxing. She forgot her previous animosity and even interjected her own comments into the conversation upon occasion—it was hard to remain coldly aloof with a guest who entertained her father so well.
At the correct time she excused herself and left them to their port, but it was not long before they joined her in the drawing room. Darkness had fallen and the shutters were closed. She had ordered the log fire to be built up and a quantity
of candles burned steadily about the room. Annabelle glanced around her with satisfaction. No hostess could be displeased with such comfortable and elegant surroundings.
‘Mr Monserrat has great plans for the manor, my dear,’ remarked her father as she helped him to his favourite chair beside the fire. ‘He intends to restore it, very much as it was.’
‘That is admirable, sir.’ She favoured their guest with a faint smile. ‘I hope you succeed.’
‘I intend to.’ His dark eyes rested on her, cool and considering. ‘I succeed in everything I undertake.’
A
frisson
of disquiet ran through her, but she tried to ignore it.
‘How fortunate for you.’
‘Fortune has little to do with it.’ He waited until Annabelle was seated, then lowered his long frame into a chair. ‘I make my plans and stick to them.’
Her father chuckled. ‘But you are a young man still, if you do not mind me saying so. Life has a way of upsetting the best-laid plans.’
‘Not yours, sir, surely.’ Those dark eyes flickered about the room. ‘You look to be very comfortable here. Everything you need to make you happy.’
‘Not quite everything.’
Annabelle was immediately aware of her father’s
sadness. It was in the slight droop of his shoulders and the faint change to his expression, imperceptible to a stranger.
‘Papa.’ She flew out of her chair and dropped down at his side. ‘Do not talk of it if it makes you unhappy.’
He placed one gnarled hand upon her head while he addressed his visitor.
‘I lost my wife when Belle was born, and my son died of a fever some years ago.’ He raised his eyes. ‘So you see, young man, I too have had my share of sadness. Belle is now my only joy.’
The silence following his words was broken only by the faint tick of the clock and the logs crackling in the fireplace. Belle expected their guest to say something, to murmur a word or two, of comfort, perhaps, or at least sympathy, but he said nothing. His face was impassive, the dark eyes thoughtful. She sought for something to break the silence, but within moments her father had roused himself and was smiling again.
‘We have a painting of Morwood Manor, Mr Monserrat. A watercolour. Perhaps you would like to see it.’
‘I would indeed, sir.’
‘It hangs on the landing. Annabelle, my love, perhaps you would accompany our guest? It is at the top of the stairs, you see, sir, and my legs are not what they were.’
‘I quite understand and would be obliged if Miss Havenham will show me the way.’
Annabelle wavered, wondering whether to suggest viewing it another time, in daylight, but that would require a further invitation. No, better to get it over with. She rose.
‘Of course, sir. Let us go now.’
She picked up a branched candlestick as they crossed the hall, explaining that they would need the extra light to see the painting properly. Her spine tingled as she led the way up the stairs, aware of his presence, the faint whisper of his footstep behind her, his warm breath on her neck—or was that her imagination? Surely he was not that close. She forced herself not to look around.
When they reached the landing she stopped by a small painting in a plain wooden frame.
‘Here it is.’ She lifted the candles higher. She had seen the painting many times before. It showed a long stone-built manor house with a slate roof and a gabled wing at each end. It had been painted in high summer. The creamy stone glowed against the backdrop of dark trees, and where there was now only rough grass and young saplings the artist had lovingly painted a sweeping drive curling between manicured lawns. ‘We keep it here on the upper landing so that it is out of direct sunlight and will not fade so quickly.’
He stepped closer to study the picture and Annabelle found herself looking at his profile, the hawkish nose and strong jawline, the lines of his face, so harsh they might have been carved from stone. In the dim light his hair was black as ink, his colouring so dark that even though his cheek was freshly shaved it bore a faint shadow. A man of dark thoughts, not one given to smiling. Strength emanated from his powerful frame. For all his fine clothes and good manners, he was not a man to be crossed.
Suddenly she was uncomfortable being here alone with him. The gloom and stillness were unnerving. She shivered and a few droplets of hot wax dripped on to her hand, making her gasp.
‘Here, let me hold that.’ He took the candlestick from her, his fingers brushing her skin and causing her to suppress another shiver, this time at the shock of his touch. She began to chatter to cover her nervousness.
‘This was painted just before the manor burned down. It is one of my father’s most prized possessions.’
To her relief he turned his attention again to the painting.
‘It is a good likeness.’
‘Is it? I have never seen another painting of the manor, so I cannot tell you.’
‘Who is the artist?’
‘I do not know…’
‘There is a signature.’ He held the candles closer and she peered at the faint scrawl.
‘I have never thought to look before…M.M.B…’
‘Maria Blackstone.’
She blinked. ‘Blackstone was the name of the family who lived there. Look—’ she pointed ‘—there is a small figure on the lawn.’
‘Yes, I see it. A tiny detail, easily missed.’
She leaned closer. The painting had been on the wall for as long as she could remember and she had not studied it for years.
‘It is a little boy, I think. I wonder who—’
‘Shall we go?’
His tone indicated that his interest was at an end. At the top of the stairs he put a hand beneath her elbow. Startled, she looked up and their eyes locked. His were black, unfathomable, yet she sensed danger and her breath caught in her throat. Panic gripped her, setting her heart thudding wildly, and the blood pounded so loudly in her ears that she was sure he would hear it in the gloomy stillness.
Annabelle swallowed nervously. She was being fanciful and foolish beyond permission. Straightening her shoulders, she moved away from him and began the descent, although she
kept one hand lightly on the banister in case her shaking legs failed to support her.
Back in the drawing room, the tea tray had arrived.
‘It is a few miles to the Red Lion,’ explained Samuel as they came in. ‘I know you will want to get back while the moon is still high.’
‘I will indeed, sir.’ Lucas replied. He noted Annabelle’s tense countenance and could not resist teasing her, saying quietly, ‘Patience, Miss Havenham. Your ordeal will soon be over.’
Her brows rose and she muttered with icy politeness, ‘It is no ordeal, sir, I assure you.’
‘What thought you of the picture?’ Samuel enquired, unaware of the interchange.
‘Very interesting, sir.’
Samuel nodded. ‘It is an accurate representation of the way the manor used to be. Feel free to call again and look at it whenever you wish. Bring your architect, he may want to copy the detail.’
Lucas felt a smile tugging at his mouth when he saw the flicker of alarm in Annabelle’s eyes.
‘I am not employing an architect, Mr Havenham,’ he said. ‘I have drawn up my own plans for the builder.’
‘Such a lot of work,’ sighed Samuel. ‘The
place has been sadly neglected. I always intended to do something about it, but…’
He trailed off and Lucas said cheerfully, ‘I do not despair of returning it to its former glory. The house is already under way and I have made a start on taming the wilderness that was once the park.’
‘I wish you good fortune, then, Mr Monserrat. If we can help in any way, you only have to ask. In fact…’ Samuel straightened in his chair ‘…if anyone knows the lie of the land it is Belle. She grew up playing in those woods and grounds.’
‘Oh, no, Papa. I am sure Mr Monserrat would be better advised to study a map.’
‘Nonsense, my love, you know every dell, every spring and stream at Morwood.’
‘But surely you could be more helpful to him, Papa,’ she persisted. ‘After all, you remember the house and grounds as they were before the fire. You have not yet given up your horses, a gentle ride would be good for you.’
A strange look came over Samuel’s face. Fear? Revulsion? Lucas could not decide, but a definite tremor ran through the old man as he shook his head.
‘No, my dear,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not care to ride there any more.’
‘I would be honoured if Miss Havenham would give me the benefit of her knowledge,’
said Lucas. ‘Perhaps, ma’am, you would ride out with me one day and show me these, er, streams and dells.’
‘An excellent idea,’ put in his host, rousing himself once more. ‘And you should do it soon, while the weather holds. What about tomorrow, sir?’
‘Papa, I do not think—’
Samuel was so caught up in his own thoughts that he did not hear her.
‘Yes, if you are free, Monserrat, I think tomorrow would be most convenient. I know Belle intended to spend the day at home, but Dr Bennett is coming over to play chess with me in the afternoon, and it is very dull work for a young lady to be sitting with two such elderly gentlemen when she would much rather be roaming free over the fields, what?’
Annabelle opened her mouth and closed it again. Her father had anticipated every objection. Lucas rose.
‘Then it is settled.’
Lucas came towards her, smiling with unholy amusement at her consternation.
‘I must be going. I shall call for you tomorrow, Miss Havenham.’ His back was to his host and he added quietly, ‘It seems you are not rid of me quite so easily.’
She bit her lip before replying with much feeling, ‘Nothing about you is
easy
, Mr Monserrat.’
Apollo was fresh. The big grey sidled and sidestepped playfully when Annabelle rode away from Oakenroyd, and she was glad that she could give her attention to controlling her mount and did not have to make conversation with the man who rode beside her, mounted on a hunter of equal size and strength to Apollo.
‘I am somewhat surprised you agreed to ride out with me, Miss Havenham.’
‘I did not choose to do so.’
‘If you really did not wish to come, you could have told your father the truth about our first meeting.’
Apollo took exception to a wood pigeon flying out of the hedgerow and she quietened him before making her reply.
‘That would upset him and he would be obliged to cut your acquaintance. I would not have him on bad terms with a neighbour.’ She glanced behind her. ‘And as you see, I have Clegg with me today.’
‘You would be quite safe, even if you had not brought your groom.’
His tone was perfectly sincere, but Annabelle had not forgotten his insolent manner, nor the
hard looks he had given her when she had come upon him at Morwood.
‘Perhaps,’ she said coldly. ‘I would rather not put it to the test.’
‘I can see I have some work to do to gain your good opinion, Miss Havenham.’