Читать книгу The Westmere Legacy - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 8

The Westmere wood was the only substantial stand of trees in the area. It was here the Earl’s gamekeeper raised pheasants and partridges for his lordship’s sport, though he had not been out shooting for some time. Bella suspected that much of the game found its way into the local poachers’ capacious pockets. If the birds went to feed the hungry poor then she, for one, did not begrudge them. Primroses grew in abundance in the early spring and there might still be a few late blooms under the shelter of the trees where the ground was less soggy. She would gather a few for her room—perhaps their sweet new growth would cheer her.

She had dismounted and was stooping to pick a few of the delicate blooms when she became aware that she was bring watched. She looked up sharply. A tiny old woman in a ragged black cloak, green with age, stood watching her. She had, Bella noticed, the clearest, bluest eyes she had ever seen, incongruous in such a brown, wrinkled face.

‘Who are you?’ Bella demanded. She was about to add that the woman was trespassing on Huntley land but decided she was doing no harm and was probably, like her, out to gather flowers.

The woman ignored the question. ‘Want your fortune told, my dear?’ she asked, holding out a bony hand.

‘No, I do not think so, thank you.’

‘You should. You have a decision to make…’

Bella gasped. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I have the gift of second sight.’ In spite of her unprepossessing appearance, the old woman’s voice was surprisingly cultured. ‘Don’t you want to know what the future has in store for you if you make the right choice?’ She paused. ‘Or the wrong one…?’

‘I don’t know…’ She was wavering. What harm could it do?

‘Come with me.’ The old lady pointed to a tiny hovel which had once been a woodman’s dwelling, but there was no woodman now that Bella knew of.

‘You live there?’

‘I do.’ She held out her hand again. ‘Come, you can rest awhile before you return home.’ Without waiting for a reply, she took Misty’s reins, tied the horse to a tree and led the way to the cottage, which was surrounded by a patch of well-tended garden.

Bemused, Bella followed her, ducking her head under the low lintel of the door. Inside was a single room, with an earth floor and a tiny window. It was furnished with a table, a couple of chairs and a bed in a corner covered with a multicoloured quilt. A dresser against the wall held stacked crockery and also rows of jars containing she knew not what. Bunches of herbs hung from a beam to dry. There were more on the tiny window-sill. Everywhere was surprisingly clean.

‘Sit,’ her hostess commanded. ‘I will give you a herbal drink which will soothe you.’

It did not occur to Bella not to obey and she sat and watched as the tiny woman flitted about the room, picking up a bottle of this, a jar of that and adding some of the contents to a glass of clear water, stirring it with a thin stick. She had a kind of restless energy which defied her age. But how old was she? Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? More perhaps. She looked as though she had never had a square meal in her life, she was so thin. But her eyes! They were mesmerising.

‘Who are you?’ Bella asked. ‘How long have you been living here?’

‘How long?’ the woman echoed. ‘Time means nothing to me, means nothing to anyone. We are put on this earth for a short span to live and breathe, love, hate and procreate and then… Poof!’

‘Oh, how cynical! Surely there is more to it than that?’

‘Life is what you make of it,’ the woman said, sitting down opposite her. ‘Joy or sorrow—the choice is always there. Some make good choices, others bad.’ She paused to look at the girl. It was an intense regard, as if she were looking right inside her past the flesh and bones to the person inside them. ‘If I had made a good choice, I would not be here now, neither would you.’

‘What do you mean, I would not be here?’

The woman laughed. ‘Why, if I was not here, you would not be here talking to me, would you? Perhaps it is fate.’ She paused and handed Bella the glass. ‘Here, drink this.’

‘What is it?’

‘A few herbs, meant to soothe. I make it from a recipe the good nuns taught me.’

Bella sipped the cloudy liquid. It had a bitter-sweet taste but was not unpleasant. ‘You are a nun?’

‘No, I was never devout enough. I questioned things too much. The nuns and I parted when I came to my senses.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No. It is of no consequence to you, who are young and innocent of any ill intent. But beware of others. You will be sorely tried before you find happiness.’

‘But I will find happiness?’ Bella wanted desperately to be reassured.

‘Give me your hand.’

Bella held out her hand and it was taken in a firm grasp and turned palm upwards. She watched as the woman appeared to study it. ‘Do I not have to cross your palm with silver first?’

‘No. I do not make forecasts for money.’

‘Then how do you live?’

‘Curiosity is one of your traits, I see.’

‘You see it in my hand?’

She laughed. ‘No, I hear it on your tongue. Now, let me see. This burden you have to bear…’ She was not looking at Bella’s palm, but directly into her eyes.

‘You know of it?’

‘Only that there is one. You may tell me of it if you wish. It will go no further than these four walls. And I may be able to advise you.’

Bella longed to confide in someone, but this curious woman was a stranger she had never seen before. How could she admit what was troubling her? On the other hand, a stranger might be more objective. ‘I have to choose a husband,’ she said.

‘I see nothing burdensome about that. For most young ladies, it is the best time of their lives, watching their swains making fools of themselves.’

Bella smiled ruefully. ‘My choice is limited.’

‘How many?’

‘Four.’

‘That is more than most young ladies have.’

‘This is different.’

‘Why?’

Bella hesitated. ‘I do not think I want any of then. I mean, I am not sure… Oh, I am so confused. Besides, I do not think any of them will offer and I shall think the poorer of them if they do.’

‘Oh, a conundrum. I like conundrums. How will you solve it?’

‘I do not know.’

‘You must be careful in whom you put your trust.’

‘It is not a question of trust. I trust them all. It is a question of—’

‘Happiness?’ the woman finished for her, smiling a little. ‘You think everyone has a right to happiness?’

‘Why not? If it harms no one else.’

‘Ah, but there’s the rub. Every selfish act harms someone.’

‘I should hate to be accused of selfishness…’

‘On the other hand, to give in to moral blackmail might be unselfish, but it would be foolish in the extreme.’

‘Moral blackmail? I do not understand.’

‘Oh, I think you do.’ She paused. ‘There is money involved?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘And a title.’

Bella looked up sharply. Did the woman know who she was? Now she wished she had not spoken. ‘I do not believe you saw that in my palm.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘But you know who I am?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then you have the advantage of me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do tell me your name.’

‘So that you may go to his lordship or his lordship’s steward and have me turned off his property…’

‘No, I will not betray you.’

‘If you don’t, you will be the first Huntley not to do so.’

‘What do you mean? Do you have a grievance against the family?’

‘No,’ she retorted quickly. ‘I am a silly old woman—take no note of what I say.’

Her retraction was so swift that Bella did not believe her, and for a moment she forgot her own dilemma in wondering what the Huntleys could possibly have done to the woman. But she knew that if she asked, she would not be told. She was beginning to wish she had not mentioned her troubles at all. ‘You would not speak to anyone of what I have said to you?’

‘Who would I tell? I see few people and those I do see are more interested in their own problems. They come for cures or favours or love potions…’

‘There are no such things as love potions.’

‘You may believe what you will—others would not agree with you. And as for William Huntley, what the eye doesn’t see the heart cannot grieve over.’

‘I will not tell him,’ Bella said, surprised that the old woman should speak of the Earl in those almost contemptuous terms.

‘Do you feel calmer now?’

‘Yes, a little.’ In fact, she felt rather sleepy, almost as if she were dreaming. What had been in that concoction she had drunk? Why had she swallowed it without demur?

‘Good. It is time for you to go. If you take my advice, you will wait and see who offers and then make up your mind. But take your time, the old man is not about to die. Keep them dangling.’ The old lady smiled, and the smile lit her face and made her seem years younger. Bella could imagine that she had once been beautiful. ‘It might be quite diverting.’

Bella left her and walked slowly to her horse. As she mounted, she turned back, but although the hovel was there, nestling among the trees, there was no sign of the strange old woman. But surprisingly she did feel calmer, if not cheerful. Witch or not, she was right—there was no point in jumping her fences before she reached them.

She left the trees and crossed the park to rejoin the drive, where she stopped to gather her wits and shake out her skirts, so that when she approached the house she looked like a young lady back from a gentle hack. She had achieved nothing by her flight. Her problems were still there, still insurmountable, and if her grandfather ever heard about her attempted ride to Downham Market, he would be more determined than ever to see her safely married, and the Comtesse would brand her a hoyden.

She went up to her room and sat on the bed. Her nerves were on edge, she had a terrible headache from the bump on her head and there was a bruise on her side which hurt when she moved. She would much rather have had her supper in her room, but in less than an hour she would be expected to be the perfect hostess, bright and cheerful. Neither could she help thinking about her grandfather’s impossible ultimatum. Somehow she had to avoid making a hasty decision. What had that strange woman in the woods said? ‘Keep them dangling’?

But they weren’t dangling, were they? Not one of them viewed the prospect of marriage to her with any pleasure, not even Robert. He had been unexpectedly sympathetic, but not enough to fall in with her plan. And yet it was a good plan.

Reluctantly she rose and changed for supper, putting on a pale blue silk gown, which had a full skirt and tiny puff sleeves and a neckline filled with ruched lace. It was hardly the height of fashion but, then, her grandfather disapproved of the flimsy apparel which was the latest mode. Slipping her feet into satin pumps, she made her way down to the kitchen to see that supper would be ready on time.

‘Everything is going along nicely, Miss Huntley,’ Martha told her.

‘I believe Miss Battersby might be back and bringing her sister so, please, lay two extra covers.’

‘Yes, miss.’

Returning to the drawing room, she took a book from a shelf to while away the time until supper and flicked idly through its pages. It was a small volume of poetry written by William Harrison, a young fenland poet who was making a name for himself locally, though his style was not one to commend itself to devotees of Tennyson or Shelley. There was nothing in it to bring her relief, but one short verse caught her attention. It was entitled ‘Clod’s Complaint’.

When war throughout all Europe reigned,

We farmers lived in clover

But now the friendly fiend is chained,

Our golden age is over.

Grant, O fate, ere ’tis too late

When men have had a blowing

War may revive, that we may thrive

And corn may pay for growing.

Bella smiled, thinking of James. He might almost have written it himself, except that he did not have a poetic bone in his body. And, on reflection, it was not amusing to wish for war as the answer to the country’s ills.

She looked up as Louis wandered into the room. He was dressed for evening in black satin breeches, white stockings and a brocade coat decorated with rows of silver frogging. The frills of his shirt cuffs hung over his hands and his white muslin cravat was tied in some complicated knot which looked as though it might choke him.

‘Ah, Cousin Isabella,’ he said, putting up his quizzing glass. ‘All alone?’

She shut the book with a sigh. ‘As you see.’

‘Good.’ He dropped the glass and sat down beside her on the sofa. ‘Hoping to see you alone. Need to speak to you.’

Her heart sank. ‘I am listening.’

‘Been talking to Mama about this idiotish plan of his lordship’s.’

‘Your mama has already spoken to me, Louis.’

‘Yes, told me so. Said you were in accord.’

‘Yes, we are,’ she said. ‘I do not expect you to offer for me.’

‘That’s the thing,’ he said. ‘Can’t see it will serve. But…’ He paused and searched her face. ‘Pretty filly, no doubt of it. Pay for dressing.’

‘Why, thank you, Louis,’ she said, wondering why he spoke in that clipped way, as if he did not know how to string a whole sentence together.

‘But if his lordship is determined on it…’

‘Oh, he is, but Edward does not think he can legally do it.’

‘Costly,’ he said. ‘Going through the courts, I mean.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Got a solution.’

‘Then, please, tell me, for there is nothing I would like better than a solution.’

‘Like living at Westmere, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted doubtfully, wondering what was coming next. ‘I have lived here all my life. But if I have to move, I shall do so.’

‘No need for that. We can come to an accommodation, a mariage de convenance. You agree to stay in the country where you belong and don’t interfere with me, and we shall get along famously.’

She was so dismayed that she hardly noticed that he had produced two complete sentences which sounded as though his mother had drilled him. ‘But, Louis, how will that serve? Grandfather wishes for an heir…’

‘Do my duty by you, naturally.’ He sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘So what do you say? Make a marriage of it, shall we?’

She knew she was supposed to answer something to the effect that she was very sensible of the honour he did her but she could not accept his kind offer, but the words would not come. She was appalled. This was worse than James’s clumsy attempt to propose.

‘You mean I am to be the uncomplaining wife, hold house here and produce offspring as often as you deem necessary, while you continue to act the bachelor? No, thank you, Louis.’

‘Plenty of fripperies when I come into my inheritance. All you need, not that you’ll need a great deal, living as you do, quietly in the country…’

That was more of his mother. If Bella was capable of hate, she would certainly have hated Elizabeth, Comtesse de Courville, at that moment. ‘Louis, much as I love Westmere, I cannot marry you,’ she said.

He stood up. ‘Persuaded you don’t mean it. Too much to lose. You’ll come about when you have had time to think about it.’

‘She doesn’t need to think about it,’ said a voice at the door.

Bella looked up to see Robert leaning lazily against the jamb. How long had he been there? How much had he heard?

‘Nothing to do with you,’ Louis said, flushing scarlet. ‘Not eligible.’

‘Indeed I am,’ he said, sauntering into the room. ‘And Miss Huntley has already accepted my offer.’

‘I don’t believe you, it’s a hum.’

‘Not at all. We were about to see his lordship and tell everyone over supper.’ He turned from Louis to Bella, his brown eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Isn’t that so, my love?’

She was so relieved, she could have cried. Instead, she smiled. ‘Yes. I was about to explain that to Louis, but he did not afford me the opportunity.’

Louis was obviously furious. He rose from his seat and advanced on Robert. ‘Toad-eater! Jack-at-warts! Flat! You don’t suppose that marrying the chit will give you the title and inheritance, do you?’

‘You evidently did.’

‘That’s different. If his lordship is so set on her marrying the heir, then I’m happy to oblige him and Miss Huntley. But you’re ineligible, whatever you may think. I shall fight you…’

‘Oh, Louis, no!’ Bella cried. ‘Please, do not call him out.’

Robert’s smile did not waver. ‘Happy to accommodate you, cousin, but what the Earl would say to such a proceeding I do not know.’

‘Wouldn’t dirty my hands on you. Fight in the courts.’

‘You may do as you please, sir, though I may tell you that my offer for Miss Huntley is not dependent on her sitting at Westmere in splendid isolation, nor, I may say, on hopes of a title or a legacy. It is not I you will have to fight but the Earl of Westmere.’