Читать книгу The Property of a Gentleman - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 9

I n disagreeable silence Eve turned from Marcus Fitzalan, her heart heavy with shame and helpless misery. Never had she been so shaken and humiliated in her seventeen years as she was then. Hurrying back along the path, she discovered to her mortification that her indiscretion had been witnessed not only by Angela but also by Leslie Stephenson, who was staring at her in absolute incredulity.

Unable to utter a word of explanation in her defence she hurried on, too ashamed, angry and humiliated to speak to anyone—but not before she had glimpsed, through the blur of tears that almost blinded her, Angela’s look of triumph and barely concealed smile. Her features were stamped with smugness and a confidence which came from the knowledge that Eve’s association with Leslie Stephenson lay in ruins.

Left alone, Marcus was angered beyond words that he had fallen into a pit of his own making. But she was right. Before he knew who she was he’d had every reason to believe by her actions and forward behaviour that she’d had lovers before, despite her youth, and something perverse inside him had refused to call a halt to his assault on what he believed to be a willing body.

He could be forgiven for thinking that her eagerness, her very willingness to have him kiss her, had confused him into believing she was experienced in the ways of seduction, but if this was her general pattern of behaviour when she was not under the watchful eye of her parents, then it was as well they knew about it, and soon.

Marcus Fitzalan did exactly as he said he would and had spoken to Eve’s father immediately. Her parents’ anger and disbelief at what she had done made the whole thing much worse. Her future looked bleak. Aware that Atwood society neither forgave nor forgot an indiscretion, and to avoid Eve becoming the object of derision, her parents sent her to Cumbria post haste to stay with her grandmother and did not allow her to return until the whole affair had died down.

But sadly Eve never saw her mother again, for she died before Eve returned to Atwood, leaving her with a well of grief and self-reproach. Blaming herself bitterly for not being there when her mother needed her, it was something she did not get over, and she spent her days in self-imposed isolation at Burntwood Hall, ignoring Emma’s pleas to accompany her to the local assemblies and soirées in an attempt to cheer her, only venturing abroad for the odd visit to her Aunt Shona in London or her grandmother in Cumbria.

Mr Fitzalan, it would appear, was beyond reproach where her father was concerned. He held him in such high regard that he believed every word he said. It was not the first mis-demeanour his high-spirited daughter was guilty of, and he had always said that one day she would go too far. Both he and his wife had been in agreement that her wild spirits were difficult to curb. But Eve was extremely angry that they chose to ignore Mr Fitzalan’s part in the affair, making her suspect he might not have told them just how intimate their meeting had been at Atwood Fair.

And as for Leslie Stephenson, at the first whiff of a scandal he abruptly withdrew his suit and married Angela instead, just as she had contrived it.

The sheer malice of Angela’s trickery had angered Eve beyond words—all because Angela coveted the man who was considering marriage to her. Angela had made sure Eve was seen with Mr Fitzalan, and was unable to believe her good fortune when he had declined Eve’s request to dance and had disappeared into the bushes with her. When it had come out, Leslie had married Angela instead—only to die in a riding accident a year later, leaving Angela an extremely wealthy young widow.

Until that fateful night Eve had believed Angela to be her friend, and the pain of her betrayal hurt more than Leslie’s rejection. She had not seen her since, but never would she forgive her unspeakable malice and deceit. She and Emma remained close, but Angela’s name was never mentioned between them.

Eve was glad to put the whole sorry affair behind her, hoping she would never have the misfortune to set eyes on Marcus Fitzalan again. He had spared her nothing, making her see herself as fast, a flirt and a spoiled, overindulged, selfish child, but as she agonised over his cruel accusations, reluctantly she had to admit that they were close to the truth.

But no matter how resentful she felt towards him, he had awoken her desire, had left her with a strange ache rising inside her, and a sharp new hunger and need in her heart she could not explain. Looking back, she knew that that was the time when childhood had left her. She would never again be that same carefree, impulsive girl.

It was someone knocking on her door that woke Eve from her fitful sleep. With a deep sigh she opened her eyes, her mind still full of Marcus Fitzalan and that day three years ago as she rose and crossed wearily to the door, surprised to see her grandmother, who had come to speak to her before retiring for the night. Usually her presence had a daunting effect on Eve, but today too much had happened for her to feel intimidated by her grandmother. Whenever she came to visit them the house always became a different place, quiet and subdued, her presence invading every room from the attics to the cellars, and felt by everyone.

There were always the same questions and answers, the same stiff rules to be adhered to. She always demanded much of Eve’s time, commanding her to read to her for hours, and she would sit with her to make sure she did her embroidery, a task Eve found tedious at the best of times. In the past her grandmother had constantly reproached her mother for allowing Eve too much freedom to do as she pleased, and the whole household would breathe a sigh of relief when she went back to Cumbria.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Eve, but I must speak to you,’ she said, stepping into the room and seating herself in an armchair by the fire, the very chair Eve herself had occupied until her grandmother had knocked on her door and roused her from her melancholy thoughts.

‘Of course, Grandmother,’ Eve replied quietly, giving no indication that this was a conversation she would have preferred to defer until another time, feeling in no mood to talk to anyone.

While she waited for her grandmother to speak she moved towards the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains and looking out, aware of a feeling of gloom and despondency. The night was dark now and beyond the church she could see the warm lights of Atwood glimmering in the distance, and also, some considerable distance away from the township, stood the tall, ghostly shape of the engine house of Atwood Mine and its surrounding spoil heaps, indicative of the area and so distinctive a feature of the landscape.

Her thoughts barely penetrated the fog that clouded her mind. She was numb in mind, body and soul, unable to comprehend all that had happened that day and what it would mean to her future. Her father’s will had turned her life into an irretrievable disaster. How could he have done this to her—and why? How could he want her to marry Mr Fitzalan? The very idea horrified her.

But the thought of Atwood Mine falling into Gerald’s hands brought a great emptiness of heart. He knew nothing about mining—and even though it would still be managed by competent men, if she let it happen he would be in absolute control. It would not be long before he spent the profits and it ran into difficulties. Everything her father had worked to achieve on the estate would be eradicated by Gerald, this she was certain of, and she would hate to see Atwood Mine go the same way.

Not until today had she realised how dear, how important the mine was to her, and she wondered what had possessed her to hold it so lightly all her life. Her father had been so proud of it, so proud of its efficiency, its worth—the lifeblood of the Somervilles, he often said. He had worked hard to make it what it was, and many were the times when he had been there from dawn until dark, causing her mother to gently taunt and tease him, telling him she would find it easier to accept another woman as a rival for his affections, but a coal mine was insupportable.

She sighed deeply. To leave Burntwood Hall would be like being uprooted, but to lose the mine completely and let Gerald have the run of it would tear her heart. She couldn’t let it go. For his own reasons her father had bequeathed half of it to her—a half which would become a whole if she were to do as he asked and marry Mr Fitzalan—but that was the stumbling block. Marcus Fitzalan! There must be some other way of keeping the mine out of Gerald’s hands other than that. There had to be. She couldn’t let it go, she thought desperately. She just couldn’t.

Of course Eve knew that as a married woman she couldn’t actually be seen as the owner of the mine, in the eyes of the law, but whatever else Marcus Fitzalan was he was a man of his word. Eve felt certain he would stand by her father’s legacy to her.

She had given the matter some considerable thought all day, trying to find some way to escape the impossible situation she found herself to be in, anything, so long as she need not marry Mr Fitzalan or go to live with her grandmother in a wild and unfrequented area of Cumbria.

But as her brain had gone round and round in ever confusing circles she could see no escape. If she wanted to hold on to a part of her past—to Atwood Mine, which she was fiercely determined not to let go—then she really had no choice but to marry Mr Fitzalan. But for now she would hold out against making that decision for as long as she could in the hope that a solution to her dilemma would present itself.

‘This has all come as a terrible shock to you, Eve,’ said her grandmother at length.

‘Yes—it has, Grandmother. From my earliest memories my father’s devotion was to be relied on unquestionably. I don’t understand what has happened—why he has done this. Do you know? Did he discuss this with you? Mr Fitzalan has tried explaining it to me but still I fail to understand any of it.’

‘Yes—your father did discuss the matter with me briefly when I visited you twelve months ago.’ She looked away, awkward, suddenly.

‘So you knew what he intended all along.’

‘He wanted my opinion.’

‘And you gave it. You approved of what he intended doing—that it would be in my best interests to marry Mr Fitzalan?’

‘Yes, I did. I saw no reason not to. He is a good man and you know your father held him in the highest regard. He always admired a man who knew his own mind.’

She didn’t tell her how deeply concerned her father had been by Leslie Stephenson’s cruel rejection of her almost three years ago, or that it troubled him greatly to see that she showed no interest in marrying anyone since that time. But he loved her dearly and wanted to know she would be well taken care of after his death, and to his mind there was only one man worthy of his beautiful, spirited daughter, a man with a spirit to equal her own, and that man was Marcus Fitzalan.

He knew he had it within his power to bring the two of them together—that Atwood Mine would be used as the bait—and the idea of Eve being in the protective care of Mr Fitzalan when he was gone gave him a great deal of comfort.

‘I know this isn’t easy for you and you have every right to be angry, Eve. But what do you feel about Mr Fitzalan?’ asked her grandmother directly. ‘Will you marry him?’

‘Oh, Grandmother—how can I? I hardly know him.’

‘That will not be difficult to remedy. I would, of course, be happy to accommodate you in Cumbria, Eve, but for your own good I would advise you to accede to your father’s wishes and stay here and marry.’

Eve turned slowly and looked at her grandmother, sensing by the tone of her voice and the manner in which she spoke that she didn’t want her to go and live with her in Cumbria, which she considered strange, for she had never objected to her visits in the past—in fact, she had always encouraged them.

With her thin fingers coiled around the knob of her cane, her grandmother sat so straight and stiff she might have been armour plated. She was a woman of great dignity and had been beautiful in her time, and despite her grand age of sixty years the signs remained. But there was no emotion of any kind in her expression, no softness or gentle understanding, as she would have seen on her mother’s face before her death.

Sensing what she was thinking, her grandmother looked at her severely. ‘And you needn’t look so put out, Eve. You know how much I look forward to your visits—but that’s all they were. Cumbria’s no place for a young girl with her whole life before her, and if you were to go and live with your Aunt Shona in London you know you would not endure it for long. After the first few weeks the excitement of city life would have worn off and you would be pining to be back in the West Riding. It always happens.’

Eve sighed. What her grandmother said was true. She always looked forward to visiting London and her Aunt Shona, but the excitement of the parties and balls her aunt and cousins were so fond of attending soon wore off and she could never wait to return home.

‘But I don’t want to marry Mr Fitzalan, Grandmother. He is practically a stranger to me—which I am sure you find surprising, considering the close friendship that existed between him and my father. From what I have heard of him I do not like him. Besides, he is so old.’

‘Rubbish. Thirty is not old. My dear Eve,’ her grandmother remonstrated with undue sharpness, ‘you have to marry some time, so why not marry Mr Fitzalan? He may not have been blessed with noble blood, as you have fortunately been yourself, but there was nothing unsophisticated about him that I could see.

‘Despite his humble origins, the fact remains that through his father’s marriage to Mr Henry Woodrow’s daughter, a gentleman and wealthy businessman over at Netherley, his present credentials are admirable. He is a man of power and influence, of considerable property and business—and owner of a fine house too, I have been told, built by his grandfather. It is reputed to be very grand indeed. I am sure life would be pleasant for you living there.’

‘I dare say it would be—if I agree to marry him. Although it would appear that I am left with little choice, Grandmother,’ she said, wondering what her grandmother would say if she knew of the close familiarity Eve and Mr Fitzalan had displayed towards each other three years ago at Atwood Fair.

She spoke harshly, more than was usual when she addressed her grandmother, causing the redoubtable lady to cast an imperious eye over her, but she did not reprimand her as she would have done at any other time, for she put Eve’s irritability down to the trauma of the day.

‘However, no one seems to have considered the idea that Mr Fitzalan might not want to marry me,’ Eve said with an inappropriate lack of seriousness. ‘He might surprise everyone and decide that the mine is not so very important to him after all—although, should that be the case, I doubt another will hurry to take his place. The reduced size of my inheritance is hardly large enough to tempt any other man in asking for me.’

‘Nonsense. Two thousand pounds a year is a veritable fortune to some young men. And you forget that when I die, Eve, you will be comfortably well off—although not as well off as I should have liked to leave you, as I am the head of a large family and have other dependents scattered throughout the length and breadth of England. But that will not be for some considerable time because I fully intend living a good many years yet.

‘But I would still advise you to seriously consider marrying Mr Fitzalan. Despite what you have just said, by all accounts he would dispose of everything he owns to bring Atwood Mine back into his family—so he will not take much persuading to marry you. I am sure if you put your mind to it and do not repeat the performance of this afternoon—when you forgot your manners and accused the poor man so shockingly of contriving to obtain the mine by devious means from your father—you will get on well enough.’

‘I said nothing to Mr Fitzalan that he did not deserve.’

‘Whatever your opinions might be, they are unjust and ill-founded, Eve. You really should know better than to listen to tittle-tattle. Your outburst was unpardonable and at any other time you could have been sure of my severest reproof.’

‘But I don’t love him—and I doubt I could ever love such a man as he has been painted,’ and as I know him to be, she thought with secret shame.

Her grandmother stared at her askance. ‘Love? What has love to do with anything? You are talking nonsense. If it’s love you want then I dare say it will come with marriage. Young people of today enjoy a greater independence than was the case in my day, when marriages were arranged for the benefit of families. In situations such as ours it is expected to bring advantage, wealth and status to the prospective partners and their families. If this nation is to remain strong then it is important that distinguished families like our own continue to uphold that tradition.’

‘But this is not your day, Grandmother,’ cried Eve, unable to keep the bitterness and frustration from her voice, causing her grandmother to draw herself up and look at her severely.

‘Maybe not—and I can see that things have not changed for the better. In cases such as this, take my advice and leave your emotions behind. Marriage is too crucial a matter to be determined on such frivolous considerations as romantic love. Call it old-fashioned if you must, but I am of the belief that children should defer to their parents regarding marriage. However, with marriage to Mr Fitzalan in mind, it’s a pity your father did not think of introducing the two of you sooner.’

‘But I had no wish to meet him.’

As if sensing her wretchedness, her grandmother’s expression softened a little. ‘Despite the fact that your parents allowed you to do very much as you pleased for most of the time, running about the countryside like a young hoyden, you’re a good girl, Eve—and I am pleased to see you have become a sensible young lady at last, with far more about you than Shona’s and Mary’s girls,’ she said, referring to her two remaining daughters, which caused Eve to look at her in surprise, for this was praise indeed coming from her grandmother.

‘Listen, Eve,’ she went on, leaning slightly forward in her chair and fixing her granddaughter with a hard stare. ‘I know you think I am being hard—cruel, even, in asking you to think seriously about marriage to Mr Fitzalan—but like your father I want to see you well secured. If you stubbornly refuse, then apart from the annuity your father has left you—and your mother’s jewellery and other possessions, which are already in your possession but not worth a fortune—you will lose everything to Gerald—and there’s a wastrel if ever there was. You cannot turn your back on this chance of retaining something of your father’s estate—which to my mind is the best thing he could have left you.

‘Coming from Cumbria I have only a little knowledge of the mining of coal, but I know enough to realise that it is the lifeblood of the people in this area and one of the most important, profitable commodities in England. Its potential and economic significance is immense. I have seen for myself that mines are being sunk all the way along Atwood Valley, and your father told me himself that Atwood Mine has no rival. Trade is increasing at a rapid rate and explorations have shown there are unexploited deep seams of coal reserves. My dear girl—you would be a fool to let it go.’

For the first time Eve felt a reluctant stirring of admiration for her grandmother. The intensity of feeling in her voice and her eyes told her that she cared, that it did matter to her what became of her, and she was grateful, but she could not suppress a deep sigh. ‘You make it sound like an ultimatum, Grandmother—like some necessary evil.’

‘I don’t mean to—but you must think about it,’ she said animatedly, thumping her stick, which she was never without, hard on the carpet. ‘Let Gerald play at being Lord of the Manor all he likes—but you take control of the mine.’

‘Me and Mr Fitzalan, of course.’

‘Yes. You know your father would not have set down these conditions had he not your best interests at heart. He always wanted you and Mr Fitzalan to marry and this was his way of bringing it about. Take what is offered, Eve, and ask no questions. Had things been different he would have wanted you to marry a man of your own choosing, but knowing he would not be here to look after you, to protect you, he did what he thought was right and best for you.’

Eve’s eyes remained doubtful, but on looking at the situation with cold logic, it was with reluctance that she recognised the sense of her grandmother’s words. She was right. If she wanted to hold on to her pride and something she considered to be her birthright, then she really had no choice.

‘I promise I shall give the matter serious thought, Grandmother. At this moment I cannot say more than that.’

Gerald left for his home on the day following the funeral, leaving Eve with the knowledge that he would return to take up residence at Burntwood Hall just as soon as he had put his affairs in order.

She was alone in her father’s study, writing letters to people who had been unable to travel to the funeral, when he entered to tell her of his departure and what he intended to do. She had no choice but to speak to him, to see the mockery in his eyes and hear the lust in his voice. She shuddered at the sight of him for she disliked him intensely. The mere thought of him had the power to make her draw her breath in sharply.

If he was aware of it he seemed unconcerned and chose to ignore it. He relaxed at the sight of her, a twisted smile curving his lips, and yet his expression remained hard, his eyes alert, boldly lingering appreciatively, greedily, on the soft swelling mounds of her breasts, insolently taking in every detail. Eve met his gaze coldly. She had known ever since his last visit to Burntwood Hall that he was attracted by her—known it by the way he looked at her—and she hated him—the smile on his slack lips, the glint in his dark eyes.

Sitting in a large winged chair beside the fire, he folded his hands casually across his rapidly expanding stomach and stretched his legs out in front of him with the lazy grace of a big cat, a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes as he looked at her sitting demurely at her father’s desk.

‘Do forgive me for intruding on your privacy, Eve, but I wanted to speak to you before returning to my home. I waited until I knew your grandmother would be resting, when I would be sure to find you alone. There is much to be done, you understand. Not wishing to appear uncharitable I just wanted to tell you that you must continue to look on Burntwood Hall as your home for just as long as you want to—that I have no intention of “turning you out”, so to speak,’ he said, with feigned sympathy and generosity in his eyes.

The truth of it was that Gerald had become aware of Eve as a woman several visits ago—an extremely beautiful and desirable woman, and extremely accessible while ever she continued to live at Burntwood Hall—but more importantly he also saw her as a means of retaining Atwood Mine, which would revert to him should she refuse to marry Marcus Fitzalan, and provide him with a much needed constant source of revenue for years to come.

But he was also in the devil of a fix. Having borrowed money after losing heavily at cards at his club in St James’s, from men who knew he was Sir John Somerville’s heir—a great deal of money, thirty-five thousand pounds to be exact, with an extortionate interest on the amount borrowed—there was no possible way he could repay the loan until he came into his inheritance. Before he left London the moneylenders, having heard of Sir John’s death, had begun turning on the pressure for him to repay the loan with a terrible force. They were closing in on him, crushing him like a vice. He had to get the money. He was becoming desperate. The mere thought of what they would do to him if he didn’t come up with it made sweat break out on the palms of his hands and his heart pound uncontrollably.

These men were experts at what they did, men who would not be crossed or defied. Gerald had soon learned from their dealings with others that beneath their elegant exteriors they possessed muscles of steel combined with a ruthlessness and cruelty that stopped at nothing—tactics he would not hesitate to employ himself on others to obtain the means to repay the loan and get these men off his back for good, and only the income from Atwood Mine would enable him to obtain the kind of money he needed to do that. Sir John’s death had come as an enormous relief. He could not believe his good fortune—but without the mine his inheritance would not be enough to repay what he owed without selling off more land and property.