Читать книгу Confessions Bundle - Jo Leigh - Страница 27

Lincolnshire, 1868

“Oh, Miss Barton, how wonderful to see you! Isn’t it simply dreadful?” the unfortunately familiar female voice declared pleasantly.

Grace Barton smiled noncommittally as she turned to face Miss Myrtle Hurley and her silent twin sister, Miss Ethel, who were now blocking her way as formidably as any brick wall.

As always, the elderly women wore virtually identical black bombazine dresses, gray wool cloaks, ratty fur muffs they had apparently owned since the Regency, and corresponding black bonnets. Their thick white hair was dressed the same way, and to a stranger, they would look like mirror images of the same, sweet elderly woman.

Unfortunately, Grace knew from long experience that neither the brisk April breeze blowing from across the fens and tugging at her thin wool cloak and bell skirt, or the smell wafting toward them from the nearby fishmonger’s, would cause them to move until they had said what they wanted to say.

“Good afternoon,” she said evenly, wondering what particular piece of salacious gossip the Hurleys would regale her with today.

“Good afternoon,” Miss Myrtle, the eldest of the twins by a full five minutes, said breathlessly. She always spoke breathlessly, and she always smiled, no matter how terrible the tale she was going to relate, or how damning her criticism.

Grace often felt that was how the Hurley girls-who had been “girls” for the past seventy-five years-managed to avoid criticism themselves. If any other person who did not look like the epitome of sweet seniority said the things they did and revealed the secrets they told, they would be shunned.

“It’s just too distressing!” Miss Myrtle exclaimed. “Not for us, of course, but for so many others!”

“What has happened?” Grace asked, keeping her tone carefully neutral as she shifted her basket into her other kid-gloved hand, partly because she was impatient, but also because Miss Ethel was trying to peek inside, and Grace didn’t want her to see the contents. It was none of the woman’s business that the fish Grace had purchased was the cheapest she could find.

“It’s the rents,” Miss Myrtle announced, not without a sense of importance. “Sir Donald is raising them-most definitely! I heard it from Mrs. Banks herself not two hours ago.”

Grace swallowed hard. As well as the holder of the largest estate in the country, Sir Donald was also the landlord of Barton Farm. For once, the Hurleys’ news was important and, if it came from his housekeeper, likely to be true.

“I do so hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Myrtle Hurley said eagerly, a pleasant smile still on her round face. “But everyone will know sooner or later. Sir Donald came home yesterday, and he has already spoken with some of his tenants!”

How typical of the Hurleys to treat this news of a raise in rents as just another fascinating piece of gossip! Grace thought, keeping any sense of her displeasure from her face. The Hurleys had nothing to fear, for their parents had made quite a tidy fortune in the wool trade, which they had bequeathed to their daughters. Sir Donald could triple the rent, and they would not suffer.

Not so herself and Mercy. Her family had been the major landholders here for over three centuries-the village Barton-by-the-Fens was even named for them. Sadly, in her grandfather’s time, a series of investments had turned out to be disasters. Her father had done his best to recoup, to no avail. Little by little, their land had gone to Sir Donald, until all they were left with upon their parents’ deaths three years ago was one acre and their house, and all they had to live on was the interest from her mother’s dowry, not very much at all.

“Do you know how high he intends to raise them?” Grace asked, her voice quite cool and calm in spite of her inner turmoil.

“No, I don’t how much he intends to raise them,” Miss Myrtle said rather primly. “It is improper for ladies to discuss business matters.”

“Improper,” Miss Ethel murmured.

Grace didn’t point out that they were discussing business matters at that very moment, and as far as she was concerned, if the Hurleys wanted to be the unofficial town criers, they should expect to be interrogated. “Do you know when?”

“It’s none of our business,” Miss Myrtle answered affably. “Perhaps when he does, he will pay for more policing. The chief constable claims he is unable to do anything about the vagrancy problems unless he can hire more help.”

She nodded in the general direction of The Three Crowns, one of the small brick establishments that lined the village square, where a group of ragged, ill-fed men lingered. Simultaneously all three women pulled their cloaks tighter, as if to ward off the men’s unblinking stares.

“And just the other day, my dear, I heard that some travelers were robbed on the road to Grantham by a band of brigands. Even our countryside is not safe anymore!”

“Not safe,” repeated Miss Ethel firmly and with an affable smile.

If the proposed rent increase would go to improvements in the county, Grace would have been less upset about it, even though the means to pay would still be a problem.

Unfortunately, she doubted Sir Donald had any intention of spending the extra income on anyone but himself. After his recent knighthood-which had come as a surprise to everyone in Barton-he had declared the house that had belonged to his family for three generations was not grand enough for a knight. Work on improving, or at least expanding, the stone structure had begun immediately.

“I should be going--” Grace began, hoping to get away from the Hurleys before they could impart any more bad news.

“They do say he’s thinking of marrying,” Miss Myrtle noted.

“A rich heiress,” Miss Ethel announced.

“If he did marry well, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to raise the rent,” Grace observed hopefully, and not all that hope had to do with the proposed rent increase. “If you ladies will excuse me, I had better get home to Mercy.”

“Oh, and how is dear little Mercy?” asked Miss Myrtle solicitously, as if Mercy were a child of six instead of a young woman of eighteen.

“Very well, thank you,” Grace lied.

She lied because if the Hurley girls discovered Mercy was ill, they would arrive at the house at the most inconvenient times with soup, or medicines they bought from peddlers and Gypsies, or simply to “see how she is, poor dear.” Afterward Grace would hear from those who thought she ought to know that the Hurleys considered their housekeeping faulty, their garden untidy, and their food undercooked.

At times such as these, Grace was relieved they had no servants to reveal that Mercy had been sick this morning.

“I hope she isn’t too distraught over Adam’s absence,” Miss Myrtle said, coy as a fifteen-year-old as she spoke of her nephew.

“She has not mentioned him this past month,” Grace replied evenly. “They were merely acquaintances, after all.”

Or so Grace fervently hoped. Mercy had made no secret of her infatuation with the dashing young naval officer visiting his aunts on leave. He had been at his aunts’ home in Barton for only a month, but in that time, he seemed to have quite captured Mercy’s fancy.

“Mere acquaintances,” Miss Ethel confirmed firmly.

No doubt the idea of their precious relative marrying a poor girl, no matter what her family background, gave them the vapors.

“Miss Mercy was simply being her charming self, nothing more, I’m sure,” Miss Myrtle said. “And Adam is such a fine young man, anyone of any discernment would wish to enjoy his company.”

Grace knew she intended that remark to be a rebuke, for Grace had not paid much attention to the young man. He had struck her as handsome, but little more, and rather too proud of himself. However, she calmly smiled her agreement.

“He has arrived in Gibraltar safely, and is already quite a favorite of the wardroom,” Miss Myrtle continued.

“Quite a favorite,” Miss Ethel repeated.

“I’m sure he is. Now, I really must beg to be excused. This wind is so very cold!” Grace was shivering when she dipped them both a curtsy and turned to leave.

“Good afternoon, Miss Barton,” Miss Myrtle called out cheerfully as Grace hurried on her way. “Try not to worry about the rent!”

With that parting shot rankling in her bosom, Grace barely caught Miss Ethel’s “Afternoon!” as she crossed the square, for indeed, the breeze had picked up and was decidedly frigid.

They would shout about the rent, just in case the whole village didn’t know of the Bartons’ circumstances, Grace reflected sourly. Well, she shouldn’t get annoyed about that. After all, everybody already knew they were not well off. There were few secrets in such a small place.

Few changes in the daily routine. Few new faces to make life interesting…

Not for the first time Grace tried to imagine leaving Barton-by-the-Fens, to begin again in a larger place, where no one knew who you were, or what difficulties you faced.

Where no one cared about you, or gave you respect because your ancestors had been lords and masters there time out of mind.

Grace sighed heavily. As always, her ruminations about leaving came to that point, and served to make her dread abandoning her home.

Besides, she had Mercy to think of, and Mercy would sooner lose a limb than leave Barton. She had said so often enough.

She said many things often enough, and emphatically enough that her feelings were an open book not only to her sister, but to the whole village, including, unfortunately, the Hurley twins.

Why wasn’t Mercy more circumspect? Grace thought with an old, familiar frustration. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her own counsel? Why did she have to be so blatant in her admiration of Lieutenant Brown?

Well, it would have been worse if she had expressed any admiration for the Hurleys’ darling nephew. They would have told her every time they met why it would be an unsuitable match, although the simple fact of the matter was that the Hurley girls didn’t like Grace.

They never had, not since she was a small child. It had taken her some time to realize why: the Hurleys lived for reactions, and Grace didn’t give them any. She had always been quiet and rather shy and not given to showing how she felt.

The Hurleys much preferred the type of response Grace’s sister gave them. Mercy was always emotional and sentimental, and their tales could move her to the heights of happiness or plunge her to the depths of despondency, seemingly within minutes.

As Grace reached the far side of the village green, she noticed the usual gathering inside the blacksmith’s forge. No doubt they were discussing the future raise in the rents.

At least she would not be alone in her dismay over the increase. While the villagers had supposed Sir Donald had every right to be proud of his mysterious knighthood, there had been much speculation as to how the money for the planned renovations was to be obtained. Now they had their answer.

They were probably also discussing, again and with dissatisfaction, the labor Sir Donald had hired. He had imported carpenters and masons from London, and it was said the furniture was coming from there, too. Taken all in all, the villagers were in as disgruntled a frame of mind as Grace, she was sure.

A black barouche turned down the main road and, recognizing its occupant, Grace quickly stepped back into the shadow of the butcher’s doorway, her basket clutched defensively to her chest. She had no wish to be seen by Sir Donald, any more than she wished to speak with him.

Fortunately, he seemed far too immersed in looking every inch the country gentleman to be peering into doorways, his large, heavy-lidded dark eyes staring straight ahead, his carriage erect--although his posture couldn’t disguise his overly large stomach--his tall hat perched fashionably to one side on his round head, and an expression of haughty condescension on his fat features.

Grace subdued a shudder, remembering again the precise moment during the Christmas service when she had realized Donald Franklin was watching her with an interest she did not appreciate in the slightest. At first, she had wondered what was wrong with her attire to warrant his scrutiny. Later, when he had waylaid her at the church door with some inane observation about the holidays and how things had changed since her grandfather’s time, it had slowly dawned upon her that he thought he was being charming.

Why charming, and more importantly, why to her? What had been the meaning of that supercilious little smile, and that look in his watery eyes? The only answers that came to her struck her as a form of insult, and she had been loath to encounter him ever since.

When he was safely gone, Grace stepped out of her hiding place, quickening her pace.

Once she left the village, the wind picked up even more. The stone hedgerows provided some protection, and the trees would have done more, if they had been in full leaf. However, they were not and Grace realized the wind had veered from the east to the north. She glanced anxiously at the sky. As if she didn’t have enough to trouble her, the billowing clouds had grown darker and thicker, and it looked about to rain.

Her old cloak provided scant protection. If she didn’t hurry, she would be not merely cold, but wet through before she could get home.

Thinking it was a good thing the Hurleys couldn’t see her, Grace lifted her skirts, got a good grip on her basket, and disregarded any notion that it was unladylike to run.

The handsome young man cursed and gingerly felt the gash on his forehead. When he looked at his fingers, squinting not just because the sky had grown darker, but also because he was having difficulty focusing, he saw blood. Not a lot, though, and he supposed it could have been worse. “I could’a been sober,” he mumbled with a wry smile.

His bleary gaze traveled to the offending limb of the oak that loomed over the road. “Where did you come from, eh?” he demanded, only half in jest, because the branch had truly seemed to come from nowhere. He hadn’t noticed that he had entered a small wood, or that the road took a sudden dip there.

“Maybe this is an enchanted forest,” he continued, his enunciation less than precise. “Ogres and trolls

and Boffins, I shouldn’t wonder. No beautiful princesses to help out a poor traveler, though.”

His smile disappeared, to be replaced with a bitter frown as he looked around for his horse. Or rather, the nag he had “borrowed” from some unsuspecting innkeeper. “I suppose Adrian would say that if I wasn’t drunk,” he muttered bitterly, “I would have seen the damn thing, and if I hadn’t cheated, Boffin wouldn’t be after me. And he’d be right. Again. Damn him to hell.”

Forcing all thoughts of his half brother from his mind, he contemplated using his last handkerchief for a bandage, then decided against it. The cut was minor; no need to ruin a perfectly good handkerchief, even if it did need a washing. Instead, he picked up his battered hat and placed it lightly upon his head. Then, having located the nag placidly munching grass at the side of the rutted road beside the mossy stone fence, he reached into his worn saddlebag and withdrew a bottle, which he tilted and put to his lips.

He lowered it after a moment. “Hardly enough to taste,” he mumbled, tossing the bottle over the hedgerow. He scratched, wondering if he had picked up something more than a bottle of hock at the tavern. Gad, he needed a bath and new clothes. These garments had withstood the voyage from Lower Canada, but they couldn’t take much more wear.

If any of his friends from London should see him, they would think he had indeed suffered these past five years. Adrian would say it was no more than he deserved

but he wasn’t going to think about Adrian.

Then he looked back the way he had come. No. Nobody there. Thank God. He didn’t have the strength of a baby at the moment.

The man shook his head. “Doesn’t do to think about that,” he murmured, staggering back toward the horse. “I couldn’t have done anything else.”

Then, with a soft curse, he clambered onto his mount. “How the mighty have fallen, eh, my Pegasus?” he said to the horse. “Let us away!”

The beast lurched into motion and started down the road, eventually coming out of the woods to what appeared to be the junction of this road and a farmer’s lane. The man strained to see any kind of a sign, but either his eyes were going, or the light was fading, or he was just too drunk, because he couldn’t find one. Not so much as a white cross.

Just where the devil was he? Why couldn’t the local inhabitants have signposts, like other civilized people? He should have disembarked at Liverpool, or Dover, not Yarmouth.

He knew he must be somewhere to the southwest of Boston, still close enough to the fens to catch a marshy whiff of the breeze blowing over the plowed fields too often for his comfort. The land was getting less flat, though, and every now and then, he spied a sheep.

Lincolnshire was terrible country, he thought grumpily, and the roads were the most terrible thing about it. Once he got out of here, he’d never come back. If he got out of here. If he didn’t keep going around in circles, and if Boffin and his gang didn’t find him…

Surely there must be an inn somewhere in this godforsaken countryside, where he could play a few card games and earn enough for a meal.

He pulled his soiled jacket tighter. The weather was damnably cold for England in April, but not nearly as cold as some of the places he had been since he had left the country. That was why he had come back, of course. The weather. Only the weather.

He still had no wish to see his family. Not his mother, who had betrayed him. Or his half brother, with his condescending self-righteousness. He could imagine the martyr’s face and hear his admonishing words.

And certainly not his half brother’s wife.

His mother would be glad to know he was alive, of course. His spoiled, indulgent, vain mother, who had given her son whatever he wanted, until he was as vain and spoiled as she.

No one had ever had to tell him such things; he had realized early in his school days what he was. It had never troubled him, and as for Adrian, he was jealous. Not just because of the mother who had come into his house to replace his own, but because their father had loved his second son, too. Which was only right.

He didn’t need or want to see Adrian or anybody else in his family. To live in anticipation of the condemnation sure to come his way. To see the disrespect in his sibling’s eyes. To hear his mother sing his praises, and know that she did so only because he was her son, not for any merit she believed he possessed.

Suddenly, the nag stumbled on the mud-slick road. It quickly regained its footing, but not before the young man slipped from the saddle. He lay on his stomach, then tried to stand, too drunk to make much of a success of it. “I’ll just rest a moment,” he mumbled, lying down and laying his head on his arms.

In another moment, Lord Elliot Fitzwalter, second son of the fifth Duke of Barroughby, was fast asleep in a Lincolnshire ditch.

The indomitable old woman sat staring out the window, her back straight and her gaze fastened on the long, sweeping drive that led to Barroughby Hall before continuing to her habitation.

The Dower House stood on a low rise, and at one time, before the present dowager duchess’s occupation, it had been screened from Barroughby Hall by a row of larch trees. The dowager duchess had ordered them cut down, the better to see over the large lawn past the ornate gardens to the drive and the front entrance of the hall.

As she looked out, she paid no heed to the young couple who had quietly entered the tastefully furnished drawing room. The man was dark haired, tall, handsome and serious; his wife was not a great beauty, but there was a calm serenity to her features that the duke considered far more lovely.

The Duke of Barroughby glanced at his wife, and then addressed his stepmother. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

The dowager duchess did not turn to look at her visitors. She knew who they were; they came to the Dower House every day when they were in residence at the ducal seat. “Have you heard from him?” she demanded, as she did every time they called.

“No, Your Grace,” the duke’s wife replied softly.

“He will come tomorrow,” the dowager duchess said firmly, as she always did, referring to her beloved son, who had stormed from Barroughby Hall nearly five years ago after a bitter and angry confrontation. “Leave me now.”

Adrian and Hester looked at each other and obeyed, each of them silently wondering how long the dowager duchess could maintain her daily vigil before she gave up hope of ever seeing her cherished son again, for Elliot Fitzwalter had sworn that he would never set eyes on his family again.

Between themselves, they thought he must be dead. No one had heard from him. There had been no letters to his doting mother, and perhaps more surprisingly, no demands for money to his half brother. Every inquiry had been fruitless. There had not been even a whisper of a rumor concerning the handsome young nobleman.

It was as if Elliot, in his determination to be rid of his family, had disappeared from the face of the earth.