Читать книгу Mr. Trelawney's Proposal - Mary Brendan, Mary Brendan - Страница 7

The ironic well-modulated voice had Rebecca swirling unsteadily around.

Two strangers were watching their antics from the pond bank mere yards away. Rebecca felt her heart pumping painfully as she hurriedly smeared filming pond residue from her vision. Then she stared, horrified.

One man sat astride a grey farm horse, the other was lounging comfortably against the bole of a centuries-old oak, and was the most handsome man she had ever before seen in her life. His long, thick hair appeared jet-black beneath the shading oak. His narrow mouth was curved a little with the same mocking humour that had tinged his words, for she knew instinctively that it was he who had spoken. Peat-dark eyes were heavy-lidded and fixed on her with the same intensity that she watched him. In one hand he idly held the reins of a second rather mangy-looking horse, placidly cropping the rough grass. As his lazy gaze lowered to slowly survey her drenched form, her fists abruptly opened, dropping her thigh-high skirts into the water.

Rebecca closed her gritty, stinging eyes momentarily in utter despair. Why did disasters invariably always cluster together? Why would they never spread themselves out a bit in her life? This was too much for one day! Thank heavens five years had lapsed since she had last endured times such as this, crammed with alarm and anxiety.

The stranger astride the horse, who had fairer colouring and looked to be younger by some years, laughed down at his broad-shouldered companion and exchanged a few quiet words. Earthy eyes skimmed to her sodden bodice and aquamarine eyes lowered there too. The thin wet cotton was almost transparent and clung to her bosom like a second skin. As her breasts hardened with shame and her nipples stung she instinctively closed screening arms about herself.

She remembered Lucy, positioned somewhere behind her. Her pupil’s safety and well being were now her responsibility. Through the girl’s stupid recklessness they now found themselves stranded in soaked clothes that served only to display every feminine contour they were designed to cover. They were in the densest part of the wood, still a good way from home, with two complete strangers witnessing their discomfort.

She had never seen either of them before. She would have remembered if she had. Both were memorably good looking but the powerfully built, darker man was quite ridiculously so. She was acquainted with most people in the small communities of Graveley, Westbrook and the immediate surrounding areas. These two were probably just passing through. They might be miscreants…

The disturbing possibility possessed her abruptly, monopolising every thought. Why were they off the main track and in private woodland? Why were they dressed in finely tailored black breeches and white lawn shirts but, confusingly, in possession of horses that looked little better than tired farm hacks? She had heard fearsome gossip about young village women being mistreated by bored gentlemen out looking for diversion. Even as she thought the word, she recalled him uttering it, and her temples hammered as blood surged through her veins.

The hideous danger in their predicament forced itself mercilessly upon her and she twisted towards Lucy, wanting to reassure the girl. The expression on her young pupil’s face was the most daunting aspect of the whole nightmare situation. Excited interest was darkening and widening Lucy’s blue eyes as she ignored Rebecca and stared at the strangers on the bank.

‘Who are you? Why are you trespassing?’ Rebecca demanded tremulously of the man who still relentlessly watched her. Before he could reply she swivelled away, aware of Lucy approaching her through the water. She believed the girl to be seeking her closenesss for safety, but Lucy made to glide straight past. Catching at one of Lucy’s wet arms she attempted to detain her in the pond. Should the need arise for physical protection it would be far better to be close together. Lucy impatiently slipped her arm through Rebecca’s cold, stiff fingers and swayed herself forward. As she approached dry land, her plump arms raised and the movement caused her precociously curvaceous body to be quite deliberately outlined as she slowly wrung out her dripping dark hair.

Rebecca watched in horrified embarrassment as Lucy brushed closely past the tall, athletic figure leaning against the tree. A slight deepening of the cynical smile curving his mouth was the only reaction. His eyes remained with Rebecca. She watched anxiously as the younger man dismounted, his eyes following Lucy’s hip-swinging progress.

Fury and humiliation engulfed her. It made her wrap her arms tighter about herself and snap out, albeit it tremulously, ‘I asked you who you are and what you are doing here.’

The raven-haired man shoved himself away from the ancient oak then and walked the few paces to the pond. ‘Are you intending to stay in there?’ That deep, sardonic voice caused Rebecca to involuntarily shiver and take a step back. She attempted to dart a glance past him, desperate to see Lucy’s continuing safety from his companion.

‘I asked you who you are.’ She challenged in a fierce shaky whisper.

Her simultaneous fear and courage erased his amusement. ‘Well, why don’t you come here and perhaps I’ll tell you,’ he cut soothingly into her unsteady speech. He extended a lean, tanned hand towards her. When she still didn’t move but merely stared at it, he beckoned peremptorily.

Remaining there like a fool to defy him was, she knew, ridiculous. She forced her boneless legs forward but chose to ignore his offer of aid. She scrambled up the bank, slithering a little as her sodden skirt hampered her, and belatedly, gratefully, sought his hand, preventing herself sliding back.

A warm, firm grip pulled her to within a few inches of his tall, spare body and she could feel the heat of him warming her chilled form. Without meeting his eyes, she quickly disengaged her hand, mumbled her thanks and then felt churlish and cowardly. Besides, she wanted so much to look at him more closely. She drew a silent, steeling breath and forced herself to slowly raise her damp gold head in a semblance of pride and confidence.

Turquoise eyes fused with dark brown for a timeless moment. She wasn’t mistaken. He was as exceptionally handsome as she had thought. No warts, moles or pockmarks to mar the lightly bronzed angular planes of his face. His hair was as glossy and pitch black as it had seemed when he lounged beneath the shading oak. A small crescent-shaped scar by one thick dark brow was an imperfection yet it only served to enhance the beautifully piratical air about him.

‘Thank you for your aid, sir,’ she said, striving to casually modulate her tone. But she knew she had failed miserably when one side of his sculpted, narrow mouth lifted in a vestige of returning amusement.

‘Do you often wade fully clothed into woodland ponds? Is it a local custom of sorts?’ he teased, the humour in his eyes strengthening as they roved her damp and tousled dark honey hair.

Rebecca raised an impulsive hand to her unruly locks, realising just what a fright she must look. She stepped away from him hurriedly, aware that his outstanding attractiveness made her feel even more bedraggled than she probably was. She averted her crimsoning face from sepia-coloured eyes knowing she could do nothing to conceal her accentuated silhouette from his heavy-lidded scrutiny. She hastened towards Lucy who stood idly sliding bold glances at his companion from beneath moisture-spiky lashes.

Rebecca hastily grabbed up Lucy’s carpet bag from the ground and with shaking fingers pulled the clasp apart. She grabbed at the dry garments within and brusquely shook them out. She thrust a plain lemon day dress at Lucy, snapping in a vehement undertone, ‘Hold this in front of you.’ The undiluted anger in Rebecca’s voice and the icy sparks in her turquoise eyes made Lucy wordlessly do as she was bid. Removing a dress in the same way from her own carpet bag, Rebecca finally spun back towards the two men. She gulped another calming breath and even managed a wavering smile.

‘Thank you once more for your aid. But if you would now be so kind…my pupil and I need to dry ourselves after our mishap. I’m sure you wouldn’t want either of us to take a chill…’ Her voice trailed off as she watched a tanned, squarish jaw set as he realised he was being summarily dismissed.

‘I thought you were keen to know who I am,’ he drily reminded her.

‘It matters little,’ Rebecca rebuffed him, nevertheless managing a small, conciliatory smile. She was quite astonishing herself, accomplishing this sham composure. It disintegrated with equally astounding ease as he commenced strolling towards them. She spontaneously stepped protectively in front of Lucy, and her dress, gripped in white-knuckled hands, was raised a little.

He hesitated and seemed momentarily undecided before changing direction, gathering the reins of his grazing horse, and mounting the beast in a swift athletic movement. He sat thoughtfully considering her before suggesting soothingly, ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me who you are then, as you appear to have lost interest in my identity…Miss…?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Rebecca agreed, compelling herself to sound polite and confident. ‘My name is Nash…Rebecca Nash. And this is Miss Mayhew…a pupil from my school at the Summer House Lodge. We are returning there directly. It is barely a few minutes’ walk away,’ she lied for good measure, ‘on Lord Ramsden’s estate.’

His eyes narrowed instantly at this information and she caught the younger man darting a swift, searching look at him.

‘I should warn you,’ Rebecca informed helpfully, when he made no move to depart, ‘that Lord Ramsden prosecutes all trespassers. He has a reputation for dealing harshly with all such. You really should leave now before his gamekeeper happens upon you.’ She seized upon the idea at once, a relieved breath breaking from between her bloodless, trembling lips. ‘The gamekeeper…keepers, for there are several,’ she lied again, ‘scour these woods ceaselessly for poachers…’

His spontaneous smile at this local news made her blush hotly. She was sure he was about to call her bluff.

‘You think I’m a poacher?’ he enquired softly. ‘Do I look like a poacher?’

‘It matters not how you look,’ she countered sharply. ‘Williams is apt to shoot first and examine you later.’

‘Williams?’ he mildly queried.

‘Lord Ramsden’s gamekeeper,’ she explained. ‘Please, sir. If you and your companion would be so kind…’ She snatched a searching glance at Lucy who was shivering and now looking as though one of her dejected moods was taking a grip. ‘My pupil needs to dry herself and you should make haste to depart. Believe me when I say if you are discovered you will be prosecuted.’

‘And what do you suppose…’ he paused ‘…Lord Ramsden’s reaction is to you trespassing in his pond?’ he persisted silkily, as he controlled his restless mount with a cursory flick of the hand.

Rebecca gave a short, dismissive laugh. ‘Lord Ramsden and I are well acquainted,’ she informed him with a deal of satisfaction. ‘I have no fears on that score.’

This confident declaration drew an amused snort from the younger man. He appeared about to speak but a swift, silencing gesture from his darker companion made him simply shake his head disbelievingly and examine the leaves that sighed above him.

‘Lord Ramsden doesn’t frighten you?’ the dark man suggested with a half-smile as he nudged the horse slowly forward.

‘Not at all,’ Rebecca confirmed, shifting slowly to keep him in sight and Lucy positioned behind her, as he approached. She sensed a new, disturbing undercurrent to their exchange.

‘Good,’ was his brief, dulcet response as he reined in close and looked down at her in the same thoughtfully amused way.

He extended a dark hand towards her in the gesture of one wishing to shake hands before departing. Clutching her shielding garment in front of her in one, she politely offered her other pale, slender hand to him.

‘Luke Trelawney and my brother Ross…at your service,’ he introduced them both as his warm fingers retained her cool ones in his firm grip. A dark thumb traced the delicate skin of her palm in a careful, camouflaged caress as he reluctantly relinquished it.

‘Mr. Trelawney…’ Rebecca courteously acknowledged, with a small dip of her head, as his horse passed her. She nodded civilly to Ross also as he followed Luke.

Rebecca’s eyes stayed unwaveringly with them until they had disappeared from view, when they closed in utter thankfulness.

As the two cart horses started an ambling trot down the grassy bank towards the track that lead to Westbrook, Ross grunted a low, lascivious laugh. ‘I’m most definitely at her service. Servicing that wench would be no hardship—’

Luke pulled his horse up sharp and swung about in the saddle. His perfect features were savage as he ground out, ‘Touch her and I’ll—’ The fierce caution ceased mid-flow. He was as aware as Ross of what he had astonishingly been about to threaten.

‘—be most put out,’ he remedied, relaxing a little. But a wry grimace was the closest he got to apology…or to analysing his aggression, before he urged his lumbering nag into something approaching a canter.

Rebecca gently disengaged herself from the grey-haired woman’s firm embrace. ‘It’s good to be home, Martha,’ she greeted her with a sweet smile as the woman dabbed at her eyes with her grubby starched apron. ‘Hush,’ Rebecca soothed. ‘I’ve only been gone just four weeks. I’ll wager you’ve hardly missed me at all,’ she teased. She contentedly surveyed the familiar pristine interior of her kitchen at the Summer House. Everything looked as meticulously ordered as it always did when Martha Turner was in attendance.

Martha and her husband Gregory lived in a tiny spartan dwelling, on the perimeter of the woodland Rebecca and Lucy had just traversed. Their cottage was situated barely a stone’s throw from the Summer House, easily within walking distance for the elderly couple who made the journey each day.

While Martha prepared meals and cleaned, generally helping Rebecca run the household, her husband coaxed the sizeable vegetable patch situated along the western flank wall into providing Rebecca and her boarding pupils with fresh produce. Gregory Turner also tended the few chickens and geese they kept with the same natural diligence, ensuring his wife always had fresh eggs and poultry available to prepare nourishing fare.

The Turners’ property, which had been settled on them by Robin Ramsden on their retirement from his service, had very little tillable land surrounding it. Woodland predominated on three sides, rendering it picturesque but poorly self-sufficient. In a way this unfortunate situation had benefited Rebecca and she often felt ashamed acknowledging it. She was well aware that she would never have been able to pay this dear couple for their aid. But she could offer an arrangement whereby, in return for housekeeping and gardening services, the Turners helped themselves to whatever surplus eggs, poultry and fresh fruit and vegetables the Summer House gardens produced.

Approaching the large floury patch on the scrubbed pine table, Rebecca idly dusted her arms free of pastry traces from Martha’s welcoming hands. She peered at the mouthwatering sweet and savoury ingredients assembled for supper. As her stomach gurgled a little, she realised just how hungry she was. She had eaten nothing since departing from the King’s Head hostelry early that morning at Guildford, when setting out on the last leg of her journey home.

Martha’s silver-bright eyes were crinkle-cornered as she regarded Lucy, standing subdued and quiet by the open kitchen door. Her smile faltered a little and Rebecca knew Martha was focussing on the bruising about Lucy’s eye. As she noted Martha’s troubled reaction to the injury, she finally relented and gave Lucy a small smile.

It was the first token of friendship she had felt capable of bestowing on the girl following the fiasco at the woodland pool. She was still in equal parts furious and bewildered by Lucy’s behaviour.

Having both changed hastily into dry dresses, their final trek through the woods had passed in strained, chilly silence. Rebecca had decided that until her anger was again under control, it was best to keep quiet and keep walking lest she say or do something she might regret. But every speedy step taken had been filled with an inner wrangling about whether to contact Lucy’s stepfather to ask him to fetch her. The fact that her meagre income would be again reduced, leaving her in severe financial difficulties, had been the only consideration in the girl’s favour. As she looked at Lucy now and met those injured blue eyes, Rebecca sensed a niggling sympathy. Lucy seemed resigned to being rejected.

‘This is Lucy…Lucy Mayhew, who is going to be joining us for a while,’ Rebecca introduced her, with a strengthening smile for Lucy. ‘Lucy, Martha and her husband Gregory have been giving me invaluable help here at the Summer House over the past five years.’ Trying to lighten their moods, she indicated Martha’s laden table. ‘Martha’s cooking is delicious, Lucy, it is very easy to over-indulge.’ Lucy gave the cook a shy smile before perching demurely on a kitchen chair and gazing interestedly about.

Such a picture of youthful innocence, Rebecca couldn’t help ironically surmising. But she cheered herself with again acknowledging just how fortunate she had been since the double tragedy of her parents’ and fiancé’s deaths some five years ago. At that time, circumstances had conspired to make a future in harsh employment or marriage to the first man to offer for her seem the only avenues. Instead, she now had a kind and generous landlord, friendship and aid from the Turners and also from dear friends who lived close by. But, most of all, she had this small, pretty Summer House, providing her with home and employment. She sighed her contentment, acknowledging that she would persevere with Lucy’s education.

Martha fetched a stone jug from the dark pantry and set about filling two glasses with aromatic lemonade. Rebecca smiled her thanks, determined not to let this afternoon’s humiliating episode spoil her pleasure at being home. Consciously recalling the incident allowed raven hair and earthy dark eyes to once more dominate her thoughts, but only momentarily before she determinedly banished them.

Luke Trelawney disturbed her by fascinating her far too much. But he had now gone and she would never again see him or his brother Ross. The strange bittersweet pang tightening her chest at that certainty made her fingers instinctively seek the large silver locket she wore. She could feel its warm, solid shape beneath her cotton dress. Her fingers smoothed its oval silhouette as she held on to the dear memory of David, her mourned fiancé.

‘I knew you’d be wanting some lemonade. I made that fresh this morning.’ Martha broke into her wistful reverie, arms crossing contentedly as she watched the two young women draining their tumblers. ‘I knew you’d be along and hot and thirsty,’ she emphasised with a wag of the head. ‘Mind you,’ she cautioned, rolling her sleeves back to her elbows before expertly pummelling the dough on the table. ‘Mind you…’ she repeated for good measure ‘…Gregory reckons that rain is on the way at last and you know he’s rarely wrong.’ Her head bobbed again as deft hands rolled the pastry into a ball. ‘His legs have been playing up bad again…a sure sign o’ wet on the way…biscuits are nearly done,’ she tacked incongrously on the end. ‘I can smell them coming along nicely.’ She smiled at Lucy. ‘I reckon a healthy young lady like you can polish off quite a few before her dinner.’

Lucy nodded, settling expectantly back into her chair like a biddable child. Watching her, Rebecca wondered how she could veer so rapidly between wanton sophistication and childlike innocence. But if what Gregory predicted was true and rain was on its way, she had pressing matters to attend to. She replaced her tumbler on the table.

‘Has John fixed the roof while I’ve been away, Martha?’ she enquired anxiously, remembering Robin Ramsden’s promise that he would send his young carpenter to repair some summer storm damage.

‘No…we’ve seen not hide nor hair of that young man. Gregory was going to attempt it hisself…but his affliction in the knees meant he could barely rise up three rungs of the ladder.’

‘Is Lord Ramsden returned yet from Bath?’ Rebecca quickly interrogated.

‘Well, he wasn’t at the manor five days ago when Gregory fetched the provisions but Miles was expecting him at any time. I reckon he must be at home now. If you chase that John up he’ll be over and fix that roof quick as can be before his lordship finds out he’s been idling again while he was away.’

‘How many staff remain?’ Luke asked the sombrely dressed elderly man standing stiff and quiet behind him, as he idly surveyed the weed-strewn gravel driveway. The chippings were piled high at the perimeter of the circular carriage sweep, testament to how long it had been since it was tended or raked. Numerous coach wheels were quite visibly imprinted in the dusty grit.

Both dark hands were raised, bracing against the framework of the large casement window he stood by. He gazed out, far into the wooded distance, his mind still deep in that quiet sanctuary with a girl with turquoise eyes.

‘Eight,’ came the terse response from behind.

Luke’s eyes narrowed, his jaw setting as he recognised the barely concealed insolence in the elderly butler’s tone. He swung away from the large square-paned window and faced him across the mellow yew desk.

Edward Miles must have been seventy if he was a day, and in a way Luke could understand his belligerence. What he could not comprehend was the man’s stupidity. Had he any sense at all, he would take great pains to appear pleasant and obliging. His livelihood was now at great risk. For an aged butler of three score years and ten, employment was scarce. Employment without a reference would be impossible, as would keeping a roof over his sparsely covered head in his twilight years.

Luke knew he was tired, he knew he was thirsty but mostly, he knew, today he had been frustrated and that irritated him. Meeting the first woman in an age who had tried to rid herself of his presence at the earliest opportunity was quite a novelty and one he now realised he could have done without. Rejection came hard. And the more he dwelt on it, the more he knew it was ridiculous to allow it to matter. He forced himself to concentrate on Edward Miles. A rheumy-eyed gaze challenged him unwaveringly.

‘Is there some brandy about this place?’ Luke demanded testily, determining to leave matters for an hour or so whilst Ross and he refreshed themselves. They had been travelling solidly for almost two days with barely an overnight stop.

A slow, satisfied shake of the head met this request.

‘Some wine of some sort?’ Luke persisted, his patience with the butler’s aloof attitude nearly at an end.

‘Judith might have made some lemonade,’ the old man advised dolefully. ‘I can ascertain, if you wish.’

Luke stared at him, wondering if he was being deliberately facetious. But Edward Miles returned his black-eyed stare phlegmatically.

‘Fine,’ Luke agreed, knowing it wasn’t fine at all, and wondering how he was going to break the news to Ross. And where the hell was Ross? Since they had arrived in the village of Westbrook an hour ago he had been off exploring. Luke allowed himself a rueful smile; at times his twenty-five-year-old brother was a fitting playmate for his young nephew of five. Thinking of that little lad brought Tristan to mind. His brother Tristan had his own wife and family to look after and couldn’t be left to cope alone for too long, sensible and dependable as he was. He needed to deal speedily with this matter and set on the road home to Cornwall

‘I’ll meet with the staff in the main hallway in an hour. Assemble them there at three o’clock…and bring some sort of refreshment to this study, if you please,’ Luke dictated steadily to Miles. The elderly man gave a creaky, insolent bow and quit the wood-panelled study with Luke close on his heels.

Miles ambled slowly towards the kitchens on stiff joints. He slid a recalcitrant glower up at Luke’s handsome face as he passed him with one long, easy pace.

Luke descended the stone steps and strode around the side of the house towards the outbuildings, hoping that Ross’s lengthy absence didn’t mean he’d found a distracting servant girl to seduce. The notion made the throbbing in his own loins increase, and he cursed as he pushed open the barn door and walked in. He wished to God he’d never seen her. If they’d stayed on the main track instead of seeking shelter from the sun in those woods, he damned well never would have. Since the moment she had spun, dripping, to face him in that pond, he had been uncomfortably aware of the impact she’d had on him.

‘Mr Trelawney!’ Rebecca breathed out the name in utter astonishment as she shielded her eyes from the dusty sunlight streaming in through the open barn door.