Читать книгу The Marriage Rescue - Joanna Johnson - Страница 10

Selina gazed up at the ceiling of the darkened caravan, arching in a perfect curve above her head. Orange embers glowed in the grate of the compact stove set against one wall, dimly illuminating the gilt-painted woodwork of the shelves and bunks to gleam like real gold. A sliver of moonlight fell from one not quite shuttered window, slicing down to leave a pale splash on the polished floor.

Like all Roma women, Selina kept her vardo spotlessly clean, and even Papa, when he came to call for a cup of tea, knew to wipe his boots before he was allowed to cross the threshold.

A sideways glance across the narrow cabin showed her grandmother was asleep, the mound of colourful crochet blankets she slept under rising and falling with each breath. In the eerie stillness of the night even that small movement was a comfort.

Selina sighed. It’s no use.

Sleep evaded her, just as it had on the previous three nights. Each time she closed her eyes pictures rose up to chase each other through her mind: Edward as a young lad, on the day she had first encountered him all those years ago, attempting to smile through gritted teeth as she cleaned his wounded face, and then his adult counterpart, the blond curls just as vivid but his shoulders so impressively broad beneath his fine coat that Selina felt her heart beat a little faster at the memory.

Would that distinctive hair have been soft beneath her fingertips, she wondered, if she’d leaned down from her tree to touch?

The very notion made her breath hitch in her throat before she slammed the brakes on that train of thought, horrified by its wayward direction.

You can stop that this moment, Selina. What’s the matter with you?

At least the mystery of who he was and why she had encountered him there had been solved. Edward Fulbrooke. Ambrose’s son and Charles’ nephew. Perhaps she should have suspected, she mused as the image of his face drifted unstoppably across her mind’s eye once again, wearing the same dazzling smile he had flashed her mere days previously. But Edward’s father and uncle shared the same chestnut hair and ruddy complexion, quite unlike his cool fairness. There was no physical resemblance. And as for character...

Certainly as a boy he had been agreeable, she recalled as she lay in the darkness. He’d looked surprised to see her there in the woods, hunting for wild mushrooms, and she herself had felt nothing but sympathy for him at the state of his bloodied cheek. In those days she’d had no real reason to fear the gentry; Mama had still been alive, and in her childish innocence it had felt the most natural thing in the world to go to him, to help tend to his wound and to feel a slow creep of pleasure at having made a new friend who delighted her with his strange old-fashioned manners.

But then they had killed Mama. The Roma had left the Fulbrooke estate, never intending to return—and Selina’s hatred of the gentry had been burned into her heart like a brand.

It was just as well he didn’t remember me. He might have wanted to talk, otherwise, and that would never have done.

Selina shifted beneath her bedclothes, attempting to make her body more comfortable than her mind. The fact Edward had been just as courteous as a grown man as he had been as a lad was as surprising as her apparently instinctive attraction to him—and almost as confusing. The upper classes were renowned among her people for their contempt of the Romani, fostering the animosity that raged on both sides.

Had her care of Edward as a child opened his mind to the possibility the Roma were more civilised than he would otherwise have believed? she wondered. Or perhaps she was giving herself too much credit, Selina thought wryly. Certainly she was giving him too much space in her head.

The fact that she had slipped Edward’s handkerchief beneath her pillow meant nothing. There just wasn’t anywhere else to keep it. Zillah, with her hawk-like eyes, would spy it at once if she left it on her shelf, and carrying it upon her person seemed unduly intimate. Perhaps she should just get rid of it, wad it into the stove, but the thought made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t quite identify.

Beneath her pillow it would have to stay, incriminating embroidered initials and all, and Selina could only pray nobody would find it.

‘You’re still awake, child.’

Selina jumped, and sat up so quickly she almost hit her head on the low shelf above her bunk. ‘I thought you were sleeping, Grandmother.’

‘So I was—until you decided the early hours would be a good time to begin talking to yourself. A sign of madness, as well you know.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t realise I’d spoken aloud.’

‘You didn’t.’ Zillah rose up in her bunk, arthritic bones creaking. ‘You’ve been tossing and turning all night; any fool could tell you have something on your mind. I’d wager it’s the reason why you rode back into camp three days ago as if the devil himself was after you.’

‘It’s nothing, Grandmother. Go back to sleep.’

‘I will not. Make a cup of tea, girl, and tell me what ails you.’

Selina groaned inwardly. There really was no stopping Zillah once she got the bit between her teeth. A lifetime on the road—a hard path for any woman—had instilled in her an almost legendary resolve. There was no room for weakness in a vardo. At past eighty years old, with silver hair and a face lined with the countless creases of age, Zillah had a mind that was still sharp as a knife, and she was revered among the Roma for her experience and wisdom.

Of course she’d noticed Selina’s absence from camp, and how distracted she had been for the past few days—how could Selina have expected anything less?

She swung her legs down from her bunk and shuffled, still cocooned in blankets, the few steps towards the stove. She could have made a fire in her sleep by now, she was sure, and it wasn’t long before their copper kettle was whistling shrilly. Two doses of strong, sweet tea were poured into china cups, and she conveyed them back to where her grandmother sat, swathed in a thick woollen shawl and regarding her expectantly.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what, Grandmother?’ Selina hopped up into her bunk, cup clutched to her chest.

‘I would like to know what it is that bothers you. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.’

‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’ Selina glanced at Zillah from beneath her lashes. Even in the darkness she could see her grandmother’s eyes were fixed on her, gleaming bright as a pair of new pins. ‘There isn’t anything I can think of.’

Edward’s face rose up before her mind’s eye before she could stop it, his hazel gaze locked onto hers, and she frowned down into her teacup. How was it that the only man ever to make her blush was a gentleman, and a Fulbrooke at that? She had every reason to loathe his family, and yet the pull of Edward’s powerful appeal was impossible for her to ignore.

No Roma man had ever tempted her so much, that was for sure. Although plenty had vied for the hand of Tomas Agres’s pretty daughter, Selina had never felt more than a passing flicker of interest in any of them beyond a stolen kiss or two.

The only one who had ever made her think twice was a handsome youth named Sampson, and even his charms had quickly vanished when she’d overheard him boast of his confidence in winning her without even needing to try. Since her swift and loud rejection of him nobody else had dared approach her, for which Selina felt nothing but relief.

The only man whose good opinion she needed to consider was Papa, and that had suited her just fine—until Edward Fulbrooke had come striding back into her life, his handsome face making her question every rational thought she’d ever had.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘You lie,’ stated the old woman flatly. ‘Do you think I’m blind? That I’ve finally lost my aged mind after all these years?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then don’t play games with me, girl. I can read you like a book.’

Selina sighed, shoulders slumping in resignation. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to talk things over, she mused. There had never been any secrets between the two of them; living in such close quarters didn’t really leave much room for intrigue. Besides, she had too much respect for Zillah to continue with such an unconvincing lie.

Edward’s image surfaced once again, all disarming smile and broad shoulders, and she forced it back roughly. It was definitely because she was overtired. She wouldn’t waste a single, solitary second thinking about him or the musculature hidden beneath his coat under usual circumstances. The distress of that day must have disturbed her more than she’d realised, and now her mind was playing tricks on her. Perhaps the benefit of her grandmother’s wisdom would help her regain her mental equilibrium. She just wouldn’t tell her every detail.

‘Very well.’ Selina took a sip of tea and braced herself for the inevitable. She had no doubt it would not be pleasant. ‘There was an incident while I was scouting for food.’

‘What kind of incident, child?’

‘I was set upon by two men. They chased me for a few miles, then I managed to climb a tree and hide until they left.’

‘Did they hurt you?’ Zillah’s voice was soft in the darkness—ominously so.

‘No. No doubt they would have done, had they caught me, but another man came and threw them off the scent. I suppose it’s to him I owe my escape.’ She hadn’t thought of it that way before, she had to confess, and, looking at events in such a light, didn’t it make her earlier behaviour towards Edward seem a little ungrateful?

Not to mention rude, she chided herself. You didn’t do much to show him Roma aren’t really insolent and ill-mannered.

But, no. One good act could never hope to negate generations of malice. Even if Edward had surprised her that day, there was nothing to say he wouldn’t revert to his class type on any other. Besides, she thought grimly, if he’d known where they were camping would he have acted entirely less chivalrously?

‘I see. And this heroic figure of a man—what of him?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what of him, Lina? Why did he intervene? What manner of person was he? Roma?’

‘No, Grandmother.’ Selina’s mouth twitched at the thought as a sudden recollection of Edward’s refined features flitted through her mind, his lips curved yet again into a distressingly attractive smile. ‘Most definitely not Roma.’

Zillah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come along, Selina. At my age I don’t have time for guessing games. What is it you think you cannot tell me?’

Selina took a deep breath.

‘He was gentry.’

There was silence.

‘Grandmother...?’

‘Speak on, girl.’

The mound of crochet blankets shifted as Zillah turned to face her directly with a close scrutiny Selina could have done without.

‘What strange circumstances led such a high and mighty gentleman to concern himself with the likes of you?’

‘I found his sister lost in the woods. I was trying to return her to where she came from and I was seen. The men who saw me assumed I was trying to steal her—and they weren’t pleased.’ Selina shivered suddenly and drew her blankets round her more tightly. What exactly would they have done if they’d caught her? The endless possibilities made her feel sick. ‘The gentleman saw where I was hiding but sent the men away before they realised. He said his sister had told him what happened, and if I ever needed help I was to call on him.’

Zillah gave a short caw of laughter. ‘Call on him? What does he think we would ever need him for?’

She clucked to herself for a few moments, evidently tickled. Selina tried to smile, but found her face was cold.

‘And did he have a name, your new friend?’

‘He—yes. Grandmother, he was the late Squire’s own son.’

Every trace of mirth died from the old woman’s face. ‘Selina! Say you didn’t tell him we were camped on his land?’ Her voice was earnest, and her eyes fixed on Selina’s own. ‘I had not thought he would come so soon. If he learns we’re here we’ll have to move. With winter coming, and the babies so ill, we can’t—’

‘I would never endanger our people,’ Selina breathed. ‘I gave no clue where I had come from. He has no reason to suspect we’re on his land.’

Zillah gazed at her a moment longer, before exhaling slowly. ‘Good.’

It would be disastrous to move the camp now, and both women knew it. Winter was approaching fast—the hardest time of year for those living on the road, whose lives were a trial at the best of times.

All their menfolk, with the exception of just two elderly grandfathers, were away working on the Oxford Canal, undertaking the backbreaking labour of widening it. Even their adolescent boys had gone, taking up shovels and picks and toiling alongside the grown men. The work was hard, and the hours long, but they were able to make a few coppers to take back to the waiting women on their short visits home that would allow them to buy provisions for the entire winter—including costly coal to feed the stoves that kept their caravans warm.

Such opportunities didn’t arise every day, and Selina’s father had jumped at the chance. Even the prospect of returning to the Blackwell estate, with all its nightmarish memories, would be worthwhile if it meant securing the survival of the camp. If the Roma moved on now the men would have to give up this precious source of reliable income.

It isn’t just the men’s jobs at stake, though, is it?

Selina bit her lip as she thought of the women who’d had the misfortune to bear autumn babies: three of them, all born within a few days of each other, struggling to breathe in the raw mornings and coughing their hearts out at the first suggestion of a frost. They would never survive the jolting journey along pitted roads if the camp had to move. The chill would get into their tiny lungs and one of the women would be sewing a miniature shroud before they knew what had happened.

No. There was no way they could leave now.

‘I mean it, Grandmother.’

With a supreme effort Selina once again attempted to banish Edward from her mind. He had no place in her world; their chance encounter could so easily have ended in disaster.

‘You know nothing in this world is more important to me than the safety of our people.’

Zillah seemed about to reply when the silent night was shattered by a terrible scream.

* * *

Edward couldn’t sleep.

That damned letter from Father certainly hadn’t helped, he reflected drily. How unfortunate that even now the Squire’s missives brought so little happiness to their recipients.

Edward’s mouth set in a grim line as he recalled the weight that had settled in his stomach when he’d heard the news of his father’s passing. Their relationship had been strained in life. Each had been as stubborn as the other, and Ambrose’s unsuccessful attempts to control his son had damaged their already shaky bond.

Edward remembered the many times his father had pushed him to the limits of his patience with his demands. His move to London, ostensibly to take care of their business in the capital, had allowed Edward to put a distance between them, and that was the only reason their relationship had managed to survive at all. They had disagreed on so many things, and their heated arguments had been the cause of more than one servant running for cover.

But Ambrose was the only father Edward would ever have, and in his own way he had begun to mourn the man who had caused him so much frustration; or at least he had, until anger had seeped in to mingle with his complicated grief.

He threw back the red coverlet and left his bed. The cold night air raised goosebumps on his skin and he shrugged his way into his best brocade dressing gown. The fire in the grate had burned down to ash, and he toyed momentarily with the idea of calling for a maid to bring it back to life before dismissing the thought in irritation. When had he become the kind of man to consider dragging a girl from her warm bed in the middle of the freezing night solely to pander to his own needs?

He’d been in London too long; it was as well he’d returned to Warwickshire when he had. The capital, with all its diversions and frivolous pursuits, had threatened to turn him into a ‘perfect’ gentleman—selfish, hedonistic and mainly decorative. Now he was back where he belonged he could feel the countryside and its ways seeping back into his bones, gently erasing the hardness city living had threatened to instil in him.

Edward struck a match and lit the candle standing on his desk. The light illuminated the Squire’s final letter, lying on the green leather top, and Edward picked it up. He’d read it a dozen times already, and it did not improve with further scrutiny.

His father’s solicitor had seemed almost apologetic when he’d handed it over, having taken it from his ancient safe at the reading of Ambrose’s will. It was written in a bold and flowing hand, and Edward ran his eye over the last communication he would ever receive from the man to whom he had been so deeply vexing.

As my only son and heir, you have repeatedly disappointed me in your duty to continue the line of our great and noble family. Nothing in your life could be more important, and your persistent failure to marry has provoked me to act.

I have instructed Mr Lucas to amend the terms of my will and add a condition on your inheritance. If you have not taken a wife within two months of my death the entirety of your inheritance will revert to my brother, your Uncle Charles, in his position as next in line.

He dropped the letter back onto the desk and extinguished the candle. He’d half expected it. His reluctance to marry had been like a red rag to a bull for Ambrose, for whom the continuation of the family name had been almost an obsession. Pretty heiress after pretty heiress had been paraded under Edward’s nose, but of course the damage had been done long before then.

His mother had been the first to crush his faith in gentry women, but the Right Honourable Letitia James had driven the lesson home with brutal clarity. With her blonde ringlets and china-blue eyes Letitia had the face of an angel but not the morals to match, and her thoughtless betrayal of Edward with a richer suitor had opened the wounds he had hoped she would help him to heal. She was the only woman he had ever entertained marrying, and her actions had only proved to Edward his reticence had been justified.

Edward felt a hot pulse of anger course through him as he wrenched his mind away from past pains and recalled the full contents of the letter. Unable to dictate terms while alive, Ambrose had in death finally managed to find a way to bend Edward to his will, and recognition of the fact that he had no choice but to obey caused Edward’s hands to curl into fists. He wasn’t a simpleton; he knew he would have to wed eventually. It was the notion of being ordered, instructed like a child, that turned Edward’s blood to fire.

In fairness, I suppose my bride might not be entirely like Mother or Letitia, he mused grimly as he dropped into his favourite armchair by the cold hearth. You never know. Her pretty ringlets might be dark instead of blonde, for instance.

The thought of dark hair stirred something in the back of his mind.

The girl from the woods. Selina. Now, that’s the sort of woman a man might be persuaded to marry, were such a feat ever to be managed.

What had she meant, he owed her twice? The words had puzzled him ever since their chance meeting. Surely they had never met before. Edward knew he would never have forgotten one such as her. It must have been simple mischief on her part, doubtless for her own amusement, and he had resolved to put her from his mind.

Unfortunately the Romani girl had persisted in working her way into his thoughts with vexing regularity since their encounter three days before. The memory had troubled him to begin with—what was he doing, allowing a woman so much space in his mind?—until he had reassured himself that it meant nothing.

It was simple human nature to admire a pretty face, and that was surely all his idle thoughts amounted to. Couldn’t a man enjoy the mental picture of a handsome woman without it meaning anything more? He was in little danger of ever seeing her again—and besides, his disinclination for spending too long in the company of young ladies ran deep.

Thoughts as to her suitability as a wife were as laughable as they were entirely hypothetical. Still... She wouldn’t be self-centred and idle like the women of his class, he was sure of it. She certainly wouldn’t spend too much money on dresses and amusements—in a stark contrast to the wasteful extravagance of the gentry. Of course it helped that she was beautiful, but a beautiful wife was often more trouble than she was worth—and besides, it wasn’t as though he had any intention of loving a woman. He doubted he was even capable anymore, his heart having twice been battered by thoughtless rejection.

The only female with any sort of claim to his affections was little Ophelia, and he resolved there and then never to allow her to be moulded into an upper-class Miss. If she were to be subjected to endless lessons in etiquette and how to be a true lady he feared his sister would one day become conditioned to be more concerned with herself than other people. Just like his mother.

Edward grimaced. Now you’re getting maudlin, he chided himself. Ophelia was nothing like the first mistress of Blackwell Hall and thank goodness for it. His sister would never be so cruel as to abandon her own child and run away with another man, leaving without so much as a goodbye for the boy she’d left behind, who had spent months waiting in vain for her return and defending her reputation with his fists.

At least she’d done him one favour—even if accidentally. From her harsh teaching he had learned a valuable lesson: he knew never to fall in love with a woman lest she leave and shatter his heart all over again. That was his mother’s legacy.

Letitia had been the only one to break through, and Edward had dared to believe she might be a better woman than the one who had given him life. But instead she had proved herself almost a copy of his mother, and after her duplicity he had rebuilt his defences with even higher walls.

Edward drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as thoughts of Letitia flitted through his mind. The notion that he had once thought she could be his bride seemed so ridiculous now he might almost have seen the humour in it if she hadn’t ripped open the emotional scars he’d borne since childhood.

She knew how Mother’s leaving had affected me, and yet she betrayed me in exactly the same way Mother betrayed Father.

If what he’d felt for Letitia had been love he could do without it. For when the loved one left—as apparently was inevitable—the pain was almost too much to bear.

The gilt clock on the mantelpiece struck two, but Edward was only half listening to the feeble chimes. The idea of another fashionable young lady parading around his countryside sanctuary appalled him. This was where he came to escape the cloying falseness of high society—the notion of inviting it into this last outpost of peace was unthinkable.

He sighed and rubbed his aching forehead with one hand. ‘Think, Ned,’ he said aloud. ‘Put that Cambridge education to use for once in your life.’

Inspiration wouldn’t come.

Edward got to his feet and paced the floor, boards creaking as he moved. ‘Think! This is your future. Do you really want to be bound to such a creature for the rest of your life?’

Anger at his father’s last actions churned within him once again, and he felt his chest tighten with the now familiar mixture of grief and rage. The Squire had been dead almost one month already; only a few weeks remained for Edward to find a suitable match or risk forfeiting his inheritance forever.

He could barely even remember Uncle Charles, the man to whom all his future could be lost. The only communication they had shared in the twelve years since Charles had left for the Continent was the occasional letter, never concerning anything warmer than news of business affairs. The injustice of his situation made Edward curse out loud.

He crossed to the window and drew aside one heavy curtain. There was no sign of dawn. Darkness would cover the estate for hours yet—until the sun sulked into view and its pale autumn rays signalled the start of a new day.

His rooms were at the front of the Hall, positioned to make the most of the natural light, and from the window Edward could just make out the line of manicured trees that stood to attention on either side of the long drive leading up to the Hall’s imposing front door. He gazed out at the night, watching the trees stir gently in the moonlight.

A movement further down the drive caught his eye. He frowned. Even from a distance he could tell that whatever was out there was approaching the house at some speed, and getting ever closer. Edward squinted, straining his eyes against the gloom. Was it an animal of some kind?

Yes, he could just see it now: a great horse, bleached bone-white by the moon, galloping towards the Hall as though fleeing the fires of hell. Its rider was swathed in a cloak, with only her hair uncovered, flying out behind her like streamers in a storm—

‘Selina?’

A thrill of something unknown flared in Edward’s chest. It was definitely her—the closer she drew, the more Edward’s certainty grew that the figure flying towards him was the girl from the woods. Now she was in range he could even recognise her horse: a huge grey beast, flecked with scars and knotted with hard muscle, speeding down the gravelled drive with a gracefulness that belied its size.

Momentarily frozen in surprise, all Edward could do was watch her approach, his confusion growing with every moment. He hadn’t expected to see her again, and yet here she was. A less sensible man might have called it fate, and the unwanted suggestion was enough to galvanise him into action.

His heart pounded in his ears as he wrenched on his breeches, a rapid succession of thoughts chasing each other through his mind. Why was she here? At this hour? And why had she approached so swiftly? Something must be gravely wrong. She had given the impression that she distrusted his offer of friendship. What events could the intervening few days have wrought to bring about such a change?

A disloyal corner of his consciousness registered the thought that he was, despite his rational mind, pleased she had sought him out. Whatever it was she wanted, it was to him that she was turning. He dismissed the thought as soon as it arose—ridiculous notion!—but the echo of it stubbornly remained.

A thunderous sound at the front door drove him onwards in even greater haste. She’ll break it in two if she’s not careful, he thought in wry amusement as he thrust his feet into long leather boots.

The creak of an inner door being hurriedly flung open signalled the emergence of Blackwell’s aged butler, Evans, and Edward couldn’t restrain a grin at the prospect of the faithful retainer confronted with Selina.

Poor Evans. He smiled. He won’t know what’s hit him.

She was trying to pull away from the butler’s firm grip when Edward reached the top of the grand sweeping staircase that led down into the entrance hall, all the while waving something in Evans’s heated face—something white. Or at least it might have been white originally, but now it was streaked with mud and perhaps...dried blood?

‘Mr Fulbrooke!’ Selina spotted him and her attempts at escape doubled. Her hair was windswept and tangled from riding and her eyes were wild. ‘Mr Fulbrooke! Please, sir, I must speak with you—let me go!’

Evans was trying manfully to restrain her, but the woman appeared to be as strong as an ox. The older man’s face was puce with effort, and one of his slippers had come clean off in the fracas.

‘You can’t just push in here, waking the whole house—’

Selina paid him about as much attention as Edward would have paid a gnat. ‘I brought this with me. We met in the woods—do you remember? You gave me this—this handkerchief!’

‘Of course, Miss Agres.’ Edward reached the bottom step and gently laid a hand on the butler’s heaving shoulder. ‘Thank you, Evans, you’ve done very well, but Miss Agres is a friend of mine. Please let go of her.’

The other man’s face was a picture of surprise, and he opened his mouth as if to argue. Edward watched as the butler took a good look at Selina, taking in her disordered hair and unusual dress, but years of unfailing service prevailed and he hesitated for only a moment before sweeping into a low bow and stepping away.

‘Please forgive me, miss. I should never have laid hands on you had I realised you were known to the master.’

Edward turned back to her, a smile forming on his lips. But it flickered and died when he saw the expression on her face, and he registered for the first time how her entire body trembled as though she suffered from an ague. Her slim form, so perturbingly attractive to him upon his first sight of her, now seemed to radiate a vulnerability unlike the defiance of their previous meeting. Was it for that reason he felt a glimmer of protective concern?

‘Miss Agres? What’s the matter?’ She was very pale, he saw with alarm—could she be ill? The pallor served to highlight the rich darkness of her eyes, a fact that did not escape him. ‘You seem unwell. Won’t you please sit down and I—?’

‘There’s no time!’ Selina burst out.

She was wringing her hands, and Edward had to fight the unwelcome urge to take them in his own and hold them still.

‘Please, Mr Fulbrooke, come with me at once! You said you’d be a friend to me, and that your word was your law—I need you to prove it!’

Edward gazed down at her. He had been right; something truly terrible had occurred. There could be no other explanation for her coming to him, and in such a state of obvious distress.

‘You must try to calm yourself.’ He spoke with such firmness that Selina’s agitation seemed to check a little. ‘I will, of course, do anything within my power to help you, but first you must explain to me the particulars.’

Selina took a deep breath and clenched her hands into fists. Behind her, Edward caught sight of the below-stairs maids peeping from the servants’ corridor, their eyes wide with curiosity.

‘Evans. Would you please ensure the maids return to their beds and tell Greene to saddle my horse immediately? I have a feeling I’ll be going out, and I’m not sure when I shall return.’