Читать книгу The Master of Stonegrave Hall - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 8

Chapter One

1820—Late spring

The stagecoach clattered to a halt in the inn yard in the market town of Malton in the North Riding of Yorkshire, some twenty miles equidistant from both York and Scarborough. The first of the passengers to alight, Victoria looked around for a post boy to assist her with her baggage. She would have liked to go inside the inn to partake of some refreshment, but she had another journey ahead of her and was impatient to be on her way before nightfall.

Attired in a cinnamon dress and a matching bonnet, the crisp wind flirted with the cluster of soft ringlets cascading over Victoria’s shoulders and played with the hem of her skirts, while it brought a fresh flush to her cheeks. Trim and bandbox polished, she was a most fetching sight for any man, many of whom paused after passing and openly glanced back for a second taste of her beauty.

The inn was thronged with an assortment of people going about their business and travellers, some sitting about waiting for stagecoaches to take them to their destinations. She was glad it wasn’t Saturday, which was market day, being largely attended by families and farmers from the surrounding countryside, causing congestion both inside the town and the nearby roads. She managed to secure the attention of a young post boy who was hauling luggage from the back of the coach.

‘Excuse me,’ she said as he placed her trunks on the ground, ‘I want to get to Ashcomb tonight. Is there anything going that way?’

He shook his head. ‘Not today, miss. You’ll have to go tomorrow—unless,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder to where a horse and piled-up cart stood beneath a dusty old clock, ‘you don’t mind going by carrier. Tom Smith goes that way three times a week. He’s to set off for Cranbeck within the next half-hour. He might give you a lift.’

‘I would be most grateful. Would you see that my trunks are transferred?’ she said, slipping him a coin and almost jumping out of her skin when a tinny horn blew, announcing the arrival of another stagecoach.

The lad grinned at her, slipping the coin into his pocket. ‘Glad to, miss. I’ll go and have a word with old Tom first.’

She was about to follow him when the arriving stagecoach was drawn to a halt. Suddenly, the door was flung open. Too late to take evasive action, it hit her and knocked her back. Stunned by the force of the blow, it was only by some miracle that she managed to remain upright. A slender young man smartly dressed in whipcord breeches and jacket accompanied by a woman stepped down. The man, fair-haired and with a lean, sunburnt face that spoke of warmer climes, clearly agitated, glanced round the door and glowered crossly at her.

‘Good Lord, young lady! Have you no more sense than to walk in the path of the stage!’

‘I—I realise that, but it was not all my fault,’ Victoria protested, setting her bonnet straight with trembling hands.

‘It most certainly was not,’ the elegant young lady attired in silver grey said, coming to Victoria’s aid, a deeply concerned look on her lovely face. ‘Are you hurt? Can I be of assistance?’

‘Thank you, but I am not hurt. The gentleman—’

‘My husband.’

‘Yes—he was quite right. I should not have been walking so close to the coach. But as you see the inn yard is a throng. I have just arrived in Malton myself.’

‘Well, you do not appear to be hurt,’ the young man said, clamping his tall hat on his head. Somewhat agitated and clearly wanting to be on his way, he peered at her intently. ‘You are all right?’ he asked impatiently.

Despite the sharp pain in her arm, which she realised she must have hurt when she had bumped into the side of the coach, and not wishing to make a fuss, she replied that she was.

‘That’s all right then.’ He gave Victoria one final brief glance before turning his attention to his wife. ‘Come along, Diana. We must get on. I see Bartlet is here with the carriage.’

‘Yes, I can see he is, but you go on, I’ll be along in a moment.’

Unconcerned, he strode off and did not turn to look at Victoria again.

‘I’m so very sorry. Are you quite sure you are all right?’ the woman called Diana asked, distraught on behalf of her husband’s rudeness. ‘We’ve been abroad and my husband is eager to get home. He—he...’

‘Please, do not concern yourself,’ Victoria was quick to assure her. ‘I really am quite all right—albeit a little winded.’

The lady looked anxiously at her husband’s retreating figure.

Victoria smiled at her. ‘You’d better go. Your husband is leaving you behind.’

‘If you’re sure—but can I not assist you in any way?’

Victoria saw in her eyes nothing but kindness and concern. She shook her head. ‘You are very kind, but I am not hurt.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘Perfectly, and thank you for your concern.’

Victoria watched her run across the yard in the wake of her husband. Still feeling a little shaken despite what she had told the lady, and her arm now beginning to throb, she made her way to the carrier cart, which was about to set off for the coastal town of Cranbeck.

‘I’ll be glad of the company,’ Tom Smith the carrier said, hoisting a sack into the back. ‘Mind you, I won’t have time to take you all the way to Ashcomb. I have to be in Cranbeck at my sister’s place by dark and not up on the moor. All kinds of miscreants travel the coast road at night. I can drop your trunks off in the morning on my way back.’

‘You’re quite right, Mr Smith, and I agree. It’s a brave man who ventures across the moor after dark. You can drop me off at Ashcomb lane end. I can perfectly well walk to the village.’

‘That’s settled then,’ he said handing her up onto the cart without more ado.

The arable farmland which was a feature of the Yorkshire lowland slowly gave way to moorland as the carrier’s cart climbed higher. They passed through sun-filtered woods, up grassy banks and down sheltered valleys, until they reached a narrow lane that veered off to the left and the small village of Ashcomb.

‘Will you be all right, miss?’ Tom asked as Victoria jumped down from his cart.

Adjusting her bonnet, she smiled up at him. ‘Of course I will and thank you for bringing me this far. You will bring my baggage to the cottage tomorrow on your way back, won’t you, Mr Smith?’

‘Aye, I’ll see to it. I’d take you all the way, but I’ll have to get a move on as it is.’

‘I understand. I shall enjoy the walk.’

Tom tipped his cap and urged his horse on. ‘Have a care how you go now.’

When he’d driven off Victoria stood for a moment to take in the view. The charm and tranquillity of the sweep of moorland, with rolling hills, folded valleys and the muted greens and browns of scrub and earth, wrapped itself around her in an endless vista and seeped into her bones. She breathed deep of the fresh tang of the sea beyond the moors. Combined with the warmth of late spring and the first petals of the season, it made a heady fragrance. Soon the heather would spring to life and, come July, these hills would be cloaked in glorious pinks and purple.

Two miles in the distance and nestling in the shelter of the surrounding hills was the sprawling village of Ashcomb. It was a quiet village in an obscure setting of moorland and fast-flowing streams, uneven red-roofed cottages and smoking chimney pots. Victoria was alive with that tingling thrill that surged through her whenever she came home. She drew in a deep breath, her heart soaring at the welcome sight, and the more she gazed, the more she wanted to avail herself of such joyous abandon and run. There was no disguising her love of this wild open land. The kind of satisfaction it gave her was not given by another but achieved from within, and with the fresh breeze on her face, she moved forwards, savouring every moment.

Ashcomb was home and she’d been away far too long. Her life at the Academy in York and the minor society events she’d attended with her friend Amelia and Mrs Fenwick, Amelia’s mother, had been exciting and fun, but Ashcomb and her mother remained the loves of her life, the fiery beacon on a faraway hill that beckoned her home. Here she would settle back into the leisurely rhythm of country life.

A flash of scarlet caught her eye. Pausing a moment, she focused on it. A woman was galloping along the side of the beck that ran along the valley bottom. A gentleman mounted on a chestnut horse was way behind her, and the way he was riding he was clearly in hot pursuit. The clothes they were wearing and their splendid horses told her they were gentry—they also rode the moors with the God-given right of those whose family owned them, and rode the lower slopes with authority and arrogance.

Eager to see her mother, whose health was giving her cause for concern, with a spring in her step and carrying a small satchel, Victoria started on her way, smiling happily at the sheep that nipped the short moorland grass on the side of the road. A narrow ditch ran alongside and, nearing a part of the road where it narrowed and turned sharply, she was snatched from her preoccupation on seeing a horse and rider in scarlet habit hurtling towards her. Too late the horse was almost on top of her when with a cry and a diving action she went headlong into the ditch.

There had been rain the previous day and the silt and grass at the bottom had become soggy. Oh, no, she thought in perfect horror. Momentarily paralysed and stunned, she lay there gasping. She knew she wasn’t hurt—although her arm had taken another knock—but she also knew she was angry. In fact, she was furious.

Retrieving her satchel and clawing her way out of the ditch, with her bonnet hanging down her back by its ribbons, her hair in disarray and her skirts muddied, she stood at the side of the road and stared open-mouthed at the woman who had pulled her horse to a standstill. The woman gave Victoria an imperious look down her long nose and when she spoke her voice was high pitched and haughty.

‘Why didn’t you look where you were going?’ And then on a more concerned note, she asked, ‘Are you all right?’

Victoria Lewis—the product of eighteen years of careful upbringing and the product of five years at Miss Carver’s Academy for young ladies in York which had, until now, produced a charming and dignified young lady—looked up at the stranger and regarded her with scathing animosity. The woman’s tone—condescending, authoritative and at the same time lightly contemptuous—made Victoria’s hackles rise.

‘I’ve almost been run over by your horse,’ she fumed, quite beside herself. ‘Of course I’m not all right. It is you who should have looked where you were going. You might have killed me.’

The girl’s boldness and forceful attack infuriated the woman on the horse. Her initial concern that she might be hurt vanished. ‘How dare you speak to me so!’ The words were shrill, like those that might have come from a shrew.

‘I dare and I do. And look at your poor horse.’ Victoria pointed to the restless mount which was all a-lather. ‘And look at me.’ She held out her soiled skirts.

‘It’s your own fault. If you hadn’t been wandering in the middle of the road, you wouldn’t have fallen into the ditch.’

Victoria stared up into the beautiful, arrogant face above her, seeing angry grey eyes blazing in a soft-skinned face, topped by a feather-adorned high scarlet hat to match the velvet habit that had a white ruffle at the neck. The snug waist and fitted bodice enhanced the woman’s voluptuous body and the abundance of her light brown hair was secured in a net at her nape. Clearly she was a woman of note, but after Victoria’s run-in with the gentleman at the station and now this, she was in no mood to be browbeaten by anyone.

‘Me? If you hadn’t been racing your horse to death, I should not have fallen!’ she retorted before she could stop herself. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed on the road. Do you always ride like a lunatic?’

Her face a mask of blazing indignation, the woman could scarcely believe what she was hearing. ‘What? What did you say? Why, you impertinent little baggage! You will do well to watch your tongue. I swear you will pay for this insolence.’ Like a flash the woman’s arm went up, the riding whip with it, as she cried indignantly, ‘You dare to say such things to me—to me!’

At this point another horse and rider appeared on the scene, a gentleman, and he couldn’t believe his eyes at what followed, for he saw the girl standing in the road reach up, grab Clara’s arm and wrench the whip from her grasp. Then in one swift movement she snapped it in two and flung it into the ditch.

‘There, that’s where it belongs. How dare you raise your hand to me! Do you make a habit of going around beating people?’

‘What’s going on here?’ a deep, throaty voice broke in. ‘Clara? What’s all this about? It looks like a minor riot to me.’

The moment was brought to a halt by his mount. Restless at being pulled up when it had been in full stride, it tried to move on. Before the horse was brought under control it had made a full turn and moved closer to Victoria, who, always nervous around horses, eyed the beast warily and stepped out of the way of its hooves.

Distracted by the arrival of her companion, when Clara turned her head towards him a flush rose to her cheeks. Victoria saw her expression soften visibly and her eyes light up. Why, she thought, it was as if the gentleman had lit a candle inside her. The woman’s affection for her companion was more than obvious.

‘This—this girl was in the middle of the road and when I came round the corner she lost her balance and fell into the ditch,’ Clara explained on a gentler note than the one she had used on Victoria, her gaze reluctant to leave her companion.

‘Must you and your animal claim the whole road while lesser mortals take to the grass?’ Victoria retorted, feeling that she had to remind the woman of her presence.

Clara looked at her, but addressed her companion. ‘Never have I been so insulted! When I asked if she was all right the insolent girl accused me of being an idiot and a lunatic. Really! The audacity!’

‘Which you are,’ Victoria flared. ‘I’m not sorry for calling you those things. I could have been trampled to death, or terribly crippled.’

‘I don’t know who you are, but you should mind your manners, girl, if you know what’s good for you. And who might you be? Well?’ Clara demanded, her voice unnecessarily loud in the quiet of the countryside. ‘Where do you live?’

‘In Ashcomb,’ Victoria replied, lifting her chin proudly and looking directly into the narrowed grey eyes. ‘And there is no need to shout since my hearing is perfectly sound.’

Fixing the gentleman with her gaze, her eyes restless and pensive—the very essence of tempestuous youth—she was rendered momentarily speechless by the appearance of this scowling, masculine presence. An indescribable awe—or fascination—came over her as she stared at him. She had made a study of animals in her lessons to be able to pick out in an instant the dominant male and there was no question whatsoever that he was it.

He sat tall and lean in the saddle with strong shoulders straining at the seams of his well-cut olive-green jacket. Snuff-coloured breeches were fitted snugly about his muscular legs, which gripped the horse. His boots were brown and highly polished, and he wore no hat. There was a certain insolence in the lift of his head and in the casual way his body lounged upon his horse. Even his shadow, which stretched along the ground and almost touched her feet, seemed solid.

His gaze, uncompromising and intent, settled heavily on hers. There was something so powerful in that look, an energy that flowed into her. She shuddered with a mingling of fear and awe. Indomitable pride, intelligence and hard-bitten strength were etched into every feature of his face. He was clean shaven, his skin dark, slashed with eyebrows more accustomed to frowning than smiling. His mouth was firm with a hint of cruelty in it, determination in the jut of his chin and arrogance in his square jaw. It was a face that said its owner cared nothing for fools and in the purple-blue of his compelling eyes—the purple-blue of amethyst—silver flecks stirred dangerously like small warning lights. They were watchful and mocking as though he found the world an entertaining place to be providing it did not interfere with him. His expression was set with determination and she suspected he did not often smile readily.

Victoria forgot her manners and stared back for as long as she was able, suspecting he was a man diverse and complex, hard-edged and fine-tuned, with many shades to his character and much of it hidden. She felt her cheeks grow pink, sure he’d somehow read her mind. He wasn’t handsome in the classical sense, but with his shock of unruly hair as black as pitch, he had the look of a pirate or a highwayman about him, or even the devil himself.

Yes, she thought, feeling her stomach roll over, she sensed a wildness about him that would surely terrify the most experienced of women. He bothered her, bothered her senses. She tried to put that thought aside.

‘I see you’ve got yourself into a spot of trouble. Then thank God you are unharmed,’ the man said. ‘You are unhurt?’

‘Yes—but look at my clothes,’ Victoria said, upset that her mother would have to see her looking like this when she had so wanted to arrive home looking perfect. ‘They are quite ruined.’

The man, Laurence Rockford, looked down at her with interest and a furrowed brow. Her self-possessed response startled him. She wore a knee-length pelisse which matched the dress beneath. The expression on her face was interesting—wary, challenging, confident, all at the same time. It was familiar to him, that face, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where he might have seen it before.

When she tilted her head back, his stare homed in on her slender neck and white fichu tucked into her neckline. He was struck by a jolt of unexpected lust Victoria little realised. Her dark-brown hair with shades of mahogany, caught in a mass of ringlets, cascaded over her shoulders. It was rich and luxuriant—and in disarray, having come loose from the pins that had tried to keep them tamed, due to her tumble into the ditch. Golden strands lightened by the sun shimmered among the carefree curls. He felt an absurd temptation to get off his horse and caress the bountiful silken mane and the delicate cheekbones blooming with colour. Her features were perfect, her eyes a warm shade of amber against the thick fringe of jet-black lashes. The soft pink lips were tantalising and he could imagine them curved in laughter, but just now they were turned down and her eyes were bright, fuelled with the same fire as his haughty companion’s.

Laurence’s eyes passed briefly over her muddied skirts and upwards, lingering a while longer on the swell of her bosom heaving beneath her pelisse. She glared at him like a slender pillar of indignation. Two rosy flags of resentment sprung to her cheeks, for had she not suffered enough indignity for one day?

‘That is unfortunate, but I am sure the mud can be washed out.’ As if to dismiss her—although he thought it would be impossible for any man to dismiss such a fetching creature as this—he looked at his companion. ‘You must have gone hell for leather and taken a shortcut to get ahead of me, Clara. In my book that’s cheating.’

‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t,’ Clara waspishly replied, ‘then I wouldn’t have had the misfortune to encounter this girl.’

Victoria glowered at her in righteous indignation while the gentleman held back, one eyebrow cocked mockingly, as if he found the whole situation an amusing turn of events. But my goodness, if the woman wasn’t taking the offensive by accusing her of being in the wrong! She threw back her shoulders and lifted her head, the action saying quite clearly that she was not going to be put on the defensive. ‘I am no girl,’ she flared. ‘Have you not the decency at least to apologise to me?’

Clara’s cold eyes settled on her. ‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t dream of it. I have nothing to apologise for.’

‘Come now, ladies, the way I see it it was no one’s fault—an accident, surely.’ Laurence looked down at Victoria slightly disapprovingly. ‘You have a temper on you, young lady. It could get you into trouble if you don’t learn to curb it.’

‘And she is very rude,’ Clara quipped.

Rather than inspiring her silence, these words caused a fresh surge of anger to course through Victoria. ‘I wouldn’t call it rudeness, more like retaliation justly deserved. I don’t take kindly to people raising a whip to me.’ She looked directly at the gentleman. ‘Sir, you should have more control over your wife.’

Clara turned to Laurence and raised one elegant and faintly satirical brow. ‘Wife,’ she murmured softly, her expression softening as her eyes caressed her companion’s face. ‘Now there’s a thought.’

In a bored drawl and carefully avoiding his companion’s eyes, the gentleman said, ‘You are mistaken. The lady is not my wife.’ And nor will she ever be, his tone seemed to imply.

And not through want of trying, Victoria thought when she saw the flash of angry frustration that leapt into the woman’s eyes. She sensed the gentleman was distracted and not as caught up in the spirit of discussing marriage as the woman was. Realising her mistake, had the circumstances been different Victoria would have been mortified by her blunder, but as it was she really didn’t care. When the woman’s horse nudged its nose towards her she sprang back.

Amused by her nervousness, Clara laughed, her beautiful brows rising slightly. ‘Don’t worry. She doesn’t bite,’ she said with insulting solicitude.

Victoria seethed inwardly. ‘I have only your word for that. If she is anything like her mistress, I have reason to be wary. Excuse me. I must get on.’

‘Are you sure you’re unhurt?’ the gentleman asked. He trailed a leisurely stare over her and slid her a rakish smile that caused the woman to flash him an angry glare.

Remembering that this was the second time today that a gentleman had asked her that question, Victoria held his gaze. His brilliant blue eyes were fixed on her with immense interest, as if she was worthy of close and careful study, and, at the same time, with great appreciation. Every moment seemed to shrink her further.

‘Yes, perfectly all right,’ she replied, briskly detaching herself from his gaze.’

‘Are you heading for Ashcomb?’

‘Yes—not that it’s any of your affair.’

‘Oh, but it is,’ he said silkily.

‘How is that?’

‘You’re on my land.’

The silence after this quiet statement was deafening.

‘I see,’ she said in a small, tight voice, beginning to realise who he was and feeling trapped, but trying none the less not to show it. ‘You are Lord Rockford!’

If he had been astonished before, he was now thrown a little off kilter. ‘You have heard of me?’

‘Who in these parts has not?’ Afraid that her nerve would fail her, excusing herself with a toss of her head, she walked on.

Clara watched her go before turning on Laurence. Her heart leapt in dismay on seeing the warm glow in his eyes as they followed the girl down the lane. Resentful and hurt and wishing he would look at her that way, she took refuge in anger, a fierce glint lighting her eyes. ‘Why didn’t you do something? I can’t believe that chit broke my whip. I don’t know who she is, but I swear she’ll pay for it. She’s an uncouth, insolent chit and wants putting in her place.’

Without moving his gaze from the figure of the girl striding along the road—her spine ramrod straight, her chin tilted high with indignation and her bonnet bouncing against her back—he said, ‘For what? The whip or the damage to your pride? Don’t be silly, Clara. You were about to strike her. She was only defending herself.’

Clara faced him, her face convulsed with fury as she tried to hide the anguish that rippled through her caused by his obvious interest in the girl. ‘How dare you take that chit’s side against me! She is nothing but an upstart.’

‘Don’t be foolish. Calm yourself. Don’t let your temper get the better of you. You’d already run her into the ditch. I’m surprised you retaliated the way you did. Normally you would not have lowered yourself even to address such a person, let alone acknowledge her existence by attacking her.’

‘On any other occasion I would have snubbed her for her boldness, but I could hardly ignore her when she fell into the ditch.’

‘If you’d brought that whip down on her, you could have found yourself in grave trouble. Come—I’ll ride with you to the Grange.’

Angered and hurt by his nonchalant manner, pulling hard on the bit, Clara brought the horse round and galloped off, dashing away a rogue tear that ran down her cheek.

Clara’s sister Diana was married to Laurence’s younger brother, Nathan, and it was Clara’s burning ambition to marry Laurence Rockford now he’d returned from his travels abroad. But he treated her with little more genuine warmth than he did his servants. Nevertheless, she always eyed him with unveiled longing whenever he called at the Grange to see his brother, for, despite his cynical attitude, there was an unmistakable aura of virility about Laurence Rockford, something that was as dangerously attractive as sin, and just as wicked, that made her heart beat faster—for anyone who looked into those cynical blue eyes of his could tell there wasn’t an innocent or naïve fibre in his superb, muscular body. Whether he was riding a horse or dancing at a ball, he stood out among his fellow men like a magnificent panther surrounded by harmless kittens.

It crossed Laurence’s mind as Clara rode ahead of him that he hadn’t asked the girl her name—one of the village girls, no doubt—and then he shrugged and went on his way.

* * *

As soon as Lord Rockford and his companion were out of sight, Victoria slowed her pace. Her nerves felt raw, her anger all-consuming. Gradually the initial shock and outrage at being spoken down to and almost beaten with a whip began to wear off. She was mortified that she had just behaved in a manner no respectable young lady should in the presence of Lord Rockford of Stonegrave Hall.

The woman, whoever she was, was a savage, stuffed full of pride. But her manner and attitude and Victoria’s own volatile reaction reminded her that despite her time at the Academy and being taught that she must conduct herself with dignity, grace and refinement at all times, it was as if she’d never learnt anything at all.

Nothing had changed. She was still the daughter of a village schoolmaster and people like that woman would never let her forget it. She didn’t expect to see either of them again. People like them dwelled in a world far beyond her reach and would therefore vanish from her life for ever.

* * *

Victoria entered the village and walked across the vast expanse of green covered with moorland grass. Sheep grazed freely and several villagers were going about their business. At the far end of the green was the Drover’s Inn and Mr Price’s blacksmith’s shop. A swinging board with a trademark on it above the property next door distinguished the wheelwright’s shop, and further on was Mr Waller’s baker’s shop and next to that the butcher’s and then the village shop, which sold everything necessary for village life.

Victoria’s gaze went to the building that stood back from the village, up a cobbled lane across from the church. A lump clogged the back of her throat. This was the schoolhouse where her father had taught. Upon his death, Victoria and her mother had moved out of the schoolhouse into a cottage behind the church.

On reaching the cottage she opened the gate and walked up the short path to the door, noticing that the flower garden was overgrown and badly needed tending. She tried the door, only to find it was locked. Going to the window, she peered inside. There was no sign of her mother and there was no fire in the hearth. In fact, she was unable to see the familiar table and fireside chairs. She frowned, standing back. Perhaps Mrs Knowles across the way would know where she could find her mother.

Mrs Knowles was a widow who had always been kindly disposed to her and her mother. She was a busy, house-proud little woman who lived with her son Ned. Ned worked up at the Hall looking after the master’s horses. Her mouth fell open with astonishment when she saw Victoria standing on her doorstep. Delighted to see her, she drew her inside.

‘Why, just look at you. A right bonny lass you’ve turned out to be. Your mother will be right proud of you.’

The cottage was warm and above the smell of baking Victoria could detect the fragrance of beeswax. The wooden floor was covered with pegged rugs and two comfortable chairs were drawn up to the log fire, while a pile of neatly folded laundry and bunch of spring flowers in a copper jug stood on a gate-legged table under the window.

‘I expect you want to know where your mother’s gone,’ Mrs Knowles said, offering her a chair by the fire and a cup of tea, which Victoria declined.

‘Yes, Mrs Knowles. I thought I’d surprise her. I—I know she hasn’t been well of late and I’ve been most anxious about her, which was why I left the Academy. I couldn’t stay any longer knowing she was ill.’

‘Aye, well, you’re right about that. She’s been right poorly ever since you went back to that Academy. I told her to write and tell you to come home to look after her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’

Victoria was mortified. Her mother had begun coughing a lot over the last twelve months. In fact, she’d had what she referred to as a ticklish cough for a number of years, but she had refused to find out the cause. Last summer it had become more persistent and she had finally succumbed to Victoria’s pleading and allowed the doctor to examine her. He had confirmed that she had consumption. Resigned to the fact that the time she had left was limited, she had insisted that Victoria return to the Academy until the time when she took to her bed.

‘My mother needed me. I should have been here.’

‘When you went away I told you that I would look after her. I did what I could, mind, but she needed more care than I could give her.’

A feeling of sick dread began to take root in Victoria. She stared at Mrs Knowles, seeing the anguished expression in her eyes. This was serious. Her blood seemed to chill in her veins. ‘She is very ill, isn’t she?’

‘Aye, lass, she is.’

‘Then where is she? Where has she gone?’

‘The master came and took her to the Hall.’

Victoria stared at her. ‘The master? Lord Rockford? How extraordinary! But—I don’t understand. Why would he do that?’

‘Lord Rockford heard how poorly she was and thought she would be best taken care of up at the Hall. I suppose it’s something to do with her being his mother’s maid.’

‘But that was years ago—before she married my father.’

‘Be that as it may, Victoria, I reckon that when the master came up from London and heard how ill she was, he felt obliged. Nobody could have been more solicitous in seeing she was conveyed to the Hall in comfort.’

‘And the cottage? When I looked in at the window it seemed empty.’

‘That’s because it’s been made ready for the next tenant.’

The colour slowly drained from Victoria’s face. ‘The next tenant? Are you saying that Lord Rockford has turned us out?’

‘Well—not exactly.’

‘Then where are our things—our furniture?’

‘They’ve been packed up and taken to the Hall.’

‘But he can’t do that. The cottage is our home.’

‘Can you afford to keep it?’ Mrs Knowles said gently.

‘Of course. Father left us well provided for. How else could Mother have been able to afford to send me to the Academy?’

Mrs Knowles clamped her jaw shut and turned away to stir a pot on the hob. How Betty had managed to send her daughter away to be educated was her business, but Mrs Knowles knew, she had always known, that there was more to it than that. ‘Well, you can see about the cottage later—when you’ve spoken to your mother. She’s the one you should be concerned about just now.’

Victoria was silent as she absorbed what Mrs Knowles had told her, unable to believe this was happening. She thought of Lord Rockford. The details of his face remained strongly etched in her mind, along with the conviction that this man would mean something, impinge on her life in some vital way.

‘You are right. I must go to her,’ she said, fighting to control the wrenching anguish that was strangling her breath in her chest. She refused to think about her home just now. Her mother would explain everything. But the thought of having to face Lord Rockford again was abhorrent to her.

‘It’ll soon be dark and it’s a long trek over the moor to the Hall. You don’t want to be going up there at this time. There’s no telling what might happen to a lass all by herself.’

‘I have to, Mrs Knowles. If I leave now and get a move on I’ll be there just after dark.’

‘Nay, lass, I won’t hear of it. Ned’s out the back. I’ll get him to take you in the trap.’

‘Thank you. I’m most grateful, Mrs Knowles. It is heartening to know my mother had you. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Get along with you. What are friends for if they can’t help each other out in times of need? Now I’ll go and get Ned. The sooner you start out the better.’

* * *

Ned didn’t mind taking her to the Hall. Victoria had known him all her life and he’d never been one to indulge in idle chatter. She was content with this for she was happy to keep to her own thoughts on the journey to the Hall. She had never been inside, nor had she seen the master until today. As a child her playground had been the moors and she had often stood at the closed gates and looked at the house, never imagining that one day she would step inside and certainly not in circumstances such as these.

The old Lord Rockford had been well respected. His youngest son, Nathan, was a fun-loving man who preferred his horses and country pleasures, while the oldest son, Laurence, was reputed to be a surly, arrogant individual.

According to tales, following a broken romance some years ago, Laurence had left England and gone abroad to seek out fresh enterprises. By all accounts he had succeeded on a grand scale. It was said he owned large tracts of land in America and had a fleet of ships, with warehouses in both America and London filled with silks and spices from the east, furs from Canada and industrial machines which he sold to the woollen mills in Lancashire. His company, Rockford Enterprises, was headquartered in London. Immensely wealthy, Laurence Rockford had become one of the most powerful men in the north of England.

When Victoria had been a small child her mother had regaled her with stories of her time at Stonegrave Hall as lady’s maid to Laurence Rockford’s mother, and often told her of the grand events that had been held there during the late master’s time. Victoria had absorbed the stories in wide-eyed wonder, reliving the fantasies in her dreams. She didn’t know what to expect when she got there, or how Lord Rockford would react when he saw her.

The sky was darkening by the time they reached the high moor, and the upper part of the Hall set behind high walls came into view. Dark and sombre and set amid acres of gardens and lawns, it was a large, forbidding structure, a gentleman’s manor house, three storeys high, with Gothic turrets rising up into the sky.

Passing through the tall wrought-iron gates, Ned drove the cart up the long, straight, gravel drive, but there was no sign of life. Victoria’s trepidation increased a thousandfold by the sheer size of the building. It made her feel even smaller and more insignificant than she already did. The door was opened by Mrs Hughs, the housekeeper. Victoria informed her of her identity and Mrs Hughs let her in. Once inside the Hall the warmth struck her immediately, causing her to glance towards the roaring fire set in the deep stone fireplace.

Mrs Hughs gave a sad shake of her head. As soon as the master had heard of Betty’s illness, he had set the whole household agog by going to the extraordinary lengths of having her brought to the Hall.

‘The master has spared neither trouble nor expense to see that your mother is taken care of. He has been goodness itself.’

‘I’m sure he has and I am grateful.’

‘Your mother is very ill, Miss Lewis. Indeed, she cannot rise from her bed,’ she told Victoria in a quiet, sombre voice. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘Please will you take me to her?’

‘Of course. Come with me.’

Victoria followed her up the wide, oak staircase on to a long gallery. Everything was very stately and imposing to her. She was aware of gilt-framed pictures on the walls, graceful marble statues in niches and the richness of the Persian carpet beneath her feet, but unaccustomed to such grandeur and with her mind set on reaching her mother, she did not give them much further attention.

She was ushered along a corridor that led to the domestic quarters. After several twists and turns they entered her mother’s room. It was small yet comfortable, offering a splendid view of the moors. A vase of flowers and a bowl of fruit stood on a dresser by the window.

Her mother was in bed. Her face was still beautiful. Age had faded the intensity and colours of her beauty, but not the structure. Her grey hair was long and braided and draped over her shoulder, her skin so pale it was almost translucent. Once so tall and fine, she was now all bones and her lips were blue.

Victoria knew that over the years her mother had tried her best, but she had never loved her as deeply as her father had. Her mother had rarely held her, and Victoria could not remember her coming to her room to kiss her goodnight except on the rare occasions in her childhood when she had been ill. Often when she had tried to hug her mother, she had been gently put away from her, with the words: ‘Not now, Victoria, Mother is tired,’ whereas her father had been more affectionate, sitting her on his knee while he read her stories and giving her bear hugs when she hurt herself. Victoria had always assumed that she was too much trouble for her mother, which was probably why she had been happy for her to go away to school.

Without her father to turn to, Victoria had taken the pain and turned it inwards and for a while she had been adrift. But now, seeing how ill her mother was, she decided to cling to those things that were wonderful about her and to ignore the insecurity, instability and anxiety that had beset her all her young life.

On opening her eyes and seeing Victoria, Betty offered a weak smile. ‘Why, Victoria! Is it really you? What a lovely surprise. I was not expecting you for several weeks.’

Victoria had not cried in a long while, not since the death of her beloved father when she had been a girl. Now tears threatened and she struggled to keep them at bay. Approaching the bed, she reached out and took her mother’s hand, bending over to kiss her mother’s brow.

‘I did not know you were so ill, Mother. Truly I didn’t. Why was I not told? I would have come home immediately to take care of you.’

‘I didn’t want to worry you. Your time at the Academy was almost over and I knew you would soon be home. Don’t look so worried, my dear,’ she said, seeing her daughter’s eyes bright with tears. After an awkward moment she reached up and with a slender thumb she wiped away a tear. Her eyes were soft and unafraid. ‘Don’t be concerned.’

‘But of course I’m concerned. I don’t understand why you are here—at the Hall.’

‘Because I was lady’s maid to the old mistress.’ She smiled. ‘Lord Rockford has been very kind to me. When he heard I was ill and alone in my cottage, he had me brought here where I can be looked after properly.’

Full of remorse and resentful that she was to be denied taking care of her mother when, for the first time in her life, she needed her—for was it not a daughter’s duty to look after her mother?—Victoria took her hand, relieved that she did not pull away. As poorly as her mother was, she had decided not to mention the cottage. But she wanted answers and only one man could give them to her. ‘I should have been here to look after you—and I would have been had you not sent me away.’

‘I have told you over and over again that it was for your own good, Victoria,’ she whispered, coughing. She closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath and expelling it slowly before continuing. ‘You know how important your education was to your father. It was what he wanted.’

Victoria gave her a tender smile. ‘While you always wanted me to be a lady.’

‘Which is exactly as you’ve turned out. Why, look at you—a proper young lady. You make me so proud. And you’ve done well at the Academy. Whatever you decide to do, you have a bright future ahead of you, Victoria.’

Victoria remembered the time when she had been taken out of the village school where her father had been the headmaster and sent to the Academy in York to be shaped. Into what? she had asked. A young lady, her mother had replied.

‘You cannot remain here. Will you come home now I am here to take care of you?’

‘Lord Rockford is most adamant that I remain at the Hall. I am well looked after and my every need is taken care of.’

‘But—Lord Rockford! I have heard he is most fearsome.’

‘Do not judge the master too harshly, Victoria. There is good in everyone. Always remember that. And there’s a great deal of good in him. He has shown it with his kindness to me.’

Victoria had almost forgotten her father’s words as he lay dying, telling her mother not to worry, that the master would take care of her. Until today she had never given Lord Rockford a moment’s thought, a man with whom she had never come into contact. She’d been too young and stricken with grief to realise that one day he’d be something more.

‘You must speak to him,’ Betty said. ‘I know he has been looking forward to meeting you. I—would like you to stay here with me, Victoria. Lord Rockford will suggest it.’

‘I see.’ Victoria didn’t see, not really, and she would do everything within her power to take her home. But her mother was becoming visibly weaker and her eyes were closing so she let the matter rest. She sat by her, the person who had remained the one constant throughout her life, and she told herself that if anyone deserved God on their side, it was she.