Читать книгу Claiming the Ashbrooke Heir - Mary Nichols, Mary Nichols - Страница 7

CHARLES walked on, ruminating on the encounter with the young woman with the parcel. It reminded him of something his brother had said. ‘Out of the ordinary,’ he had told him, describing their stepmother’s nursery maid. ‘If she were dressed up a bit you could take her out and about in Society and no one the wiser. She has—what do you call it?—presence. Yes, that’s it. Presence. She speaks as well as we do and she holds her head up, and she has the most lustrous dark brown hair and wonderful greeny grey eyes …’

He had smiled at the time, putting it down to Jeremy’s fancifulness, but it exactly described the young lady he had just seen—except for the hair which, though dark brown, could hardly be called lustrous. She was too thin to be beautiful, but the rest fitted. He had almost spoken to her, accused her of being Annette Ryston, but had desisted, unwilling to make a fool of himself. If she was not the nursery maid then she would have laughed in his face or, worse, thought he was seeking an hour or so of pleasure. After all, Norwich was a large city, teeming with life, and there must be thousands of girls fitting the maid’s description. It did not matter anyway, because he had the girl’s direction and would see the real Annie Ryston there.

He stopped outside the boarding house on the corner of St Ann’s Lane and King Street, hesitating whether to go in or not. It looked respectable enough: the windows gleamed, the curtains were clean, the step scrubbed and the brass knocker on the door shone with much polishing. If she was staying here then she was not doing too badly and perhaps it would be best to leave well alone. There was no proof of anything, and Jeremy had denied he had got the girl with child. Jeremy, his brother. Was he his brother’s keeper?

The answer to that was that, in the absence of the brother himself, he was certainly his offspring’s keeper—if such a child existed. He went up the steps and knocked.

A skinny little maid opened the door, and then left him on the step while she went to speak to her mistress. He did not have long to wait. Mrs Porter arrived, tying a fresh apron about her waist. He doffed his beaver. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. I am looking for Mrs Anstey—Mrs Annie Anstey. I am told she resides here.’

‘No more, she don’t.’

‘Oh, do you know where she has gone?’

‘No.’ She was eyeing him up and down, probably coming to the conclusion he was the child’s father. ‘You’ve come a bit late in the day, hen’t you?’ she went on. ‘She could ha’ done with you a couple of months since.’

‘She had a child, then?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘No. I met her husband out in Spain and I have a message for her from him.’

‘Hmph,’ she muttered, evidently not believing a word. ‘I still don’ know where she’s gone. Try the work’us.’

He took his leave and went to the workhouse. She was not there, had never been there, and he was thankful for that; it was a dreadful place. Men separated from their families, mothers from their children, brothers from sisters, and they all looked listless and downbeat. He left and returned to the street, glad that he would never have to enter such a place, but wondering where to go next.

Standing on the pavement with his back to that forbidding building, with the sun beating down on him, he was transported back to Spain, to the last time he had seen his brother. When the command had come to move out of their winter quarters and pursue the enemy, the troops had marched with a will. None more so than himself. He hadn’t been able to wait to get at the enemy. His quarrel with them was more than a soldier’s duty, it was personal. He blamed them for the death of his wife and baby son nearly four years before, notwithstanding they had been safe home in England at the time. He had convinced himself that if he had been with them, if he had been at home and not waging war hundreds of miles away, they might have lived. He had been so ridden with guilt over it the burden had become intolerable. It had eased it to take his venom out on the enemy, and Napoleon Bonaparte in particular, who had started the conflict. He had vowed he would not rest or go home until he had seen him beaten.

It was a vow he had been obliged to retract when Jeremy had been mortally wounded at the Battle of Vittoria. His brother should never have been sent to war; he had not been soldier material and he cursed the unknown girl who had made it happen. He had known his father and stepmother would take the news very hard, and he could not let them learn it from an impersonal letter. He had seen his brother decently buried and come home.

He had been right; his father was wretched and his stepmother could do nothing to help him. Jeremy, the golden boy, had been his father’s favourite, and he was dead. Charles knew he ought to go to Brookside, the country house he had shared with Arabella, but he could not bring himself to do so. It was not only that he could not bear to be reminded of her, but because he did not like to leave his father, who went about the estate with hardly a civil word to anyone and, when at home, sat in his chair in the library and brooded.

‘I wish I could do something for him,’ he had told his stepmother. ‘He needs something to occupy him and take his mind off it.’

‘You could furnish him with a legitimate grandson.’

‘I could, but to do that I must marry again.’ He remembered pausing, because her use of the word legitimate had made him think. ‘I am hardly likely to come up with an illegitimate one, Mama.’

‘No, but I think Jeremy has.’

They had been breakfasting together at the time, and he had put down the piece of toast he’d been buttering and stared at her. ‘Tell me about it.’

And so she had told him about Annie, the nursery maid. He’d listened, remembering his conversation with Jeremy. ‘He told me about her,’ he said when she finished. ‘But he said it was only a romp and he had not got her with child.’

‘He did not know. I sent him away. I feel dreadful about it now. Not about the girl—because Jeremy was only doing what hundreds of other young men have done, trying out his manhood. It is up to the girls to stop them if they do not like it—but because I sent him to his death.’

Charles did not agree with her about the girls. Her attitude, and that of his brother and other aristocratic youths like him, was careless in the extreme, but he did not say so. Instead he asked what had become of the nursery maid.

‘I have no idea. Does it matter?’

‘I think it does. I think I should try and find her.’

‘You never mean to bring her back here?’ She was horrified at the idea.

‘No, of course not. It would not do. But I can at least make sure she is not in want. If there is a child, she is not going to find life easy, is she? She might need help.’

‘She should have thought of that before …’

‘Mama, can you not find it in your heart to be charitable? After all, Jeremy must share some of the blame. If he had lived, I am sure he would not have let her starve.’

The trouble was that no one at Riseborough Hall knew where Annie had gone. She had not mixed with the other servants and had kept herself to herself. ‘Too high and mighty for her own good,’ Miss Burnley had told him.

He had found out quite by chance when he’d visited Becky, something he always did when he was at Riseborough. After their mother had died, giving birth to Jeremy, she had been the only mother they had known until his father had married again, and by that time they’d been grown up. Becky had always been a safe haven whenever they needed one.

She had been distressed on learning of Jeremy’s death, and had spent several minutes talking about him and the mischief he’d used to get into. ‘When you were at home you would always haul him out of his pickles,’ she said, dabbing at her tears. ‘But you weren’t here that last time.’

‘You mean the business over the nursery maid?’

‘Yes.’

It was then, after a little hesitation, that she told him of Annette’s stay with her and gave him the direction of her sister. And after all that Annette had moved on and his journey had been in vain. He turned on his heel and went back to his room at The Maid’s Head. He had tried and there was little else he could do; the girl had gone, obviously intent on not being found.

And then he thought of the woman with the parcel. Could it have been Annette? She had had no child with her, but she could have left it somewhere—farmed it out, had it adopted. The idea did not sit well with him at all, and he knew he had to find her if only to confirm she was not the woman he sought.

Annette, taking the sewing back the following day, had the uncomfortable feeling she was being followed. She tried dodging down side streets, but still she felt that shadow behind her. She could not think who would want anything from her. Her purse was empty and the parcel she was carrying contained nothing of any value, though she knew people had been attacked and even murdered for less.

She hurried on, turning left before she reached the castle. It was a forbidding building which housed the city’s prison population, and she always passed it as quickly as she could, as if afraid that she might be drawn into it for some misdemeanour she was not even aware of. It was then she saw him—the man she had stumbled into the day before. If he was her follower, he must have turned down a side street to come at her from a different direction.

She put her head up and made to pass him, but he barred her way and doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We meet again.’

Could it be coincidence? Why would he remember meeting her, of all the hundreds of people that thronged the city’s streets? ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, wishing he did not look so much like Jeremy. It was unnerving—more so when she carried on walking and he dropped into step beside her.

‘I was hoping you might help me,’ he said.

‘Help you? If you are looking for directions, then you have asked the wrong person. I have not long lived in Norwich …’

‘Did you, by any chance, once live in Riseborough in Suffolk?’

The shock made her stumble, but she quickly recovered her balance and began walking again, faster than ever.

He was easily able to keep up with her. ‘I think from your reaction I might be right. Is your name Annette Ryston?’

She had been expecting the next question and was ready for it. ‘My name is Mrs Anstey.’

‘Ah, then I am right. Becky said that was the name you intended to use.’

‘Becky? I do not think I know the lady.’

‘Oh, Annie, you know her very well, and so do I.’

She stopped suddenly and turned towards him. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Major Charles Ashbrooke.’

She should have known; his likeness to Jeremy was uncanny. It was a likeness that had been passed on to her son. She saw it every day when she nursed him: Jeremy’s golden hair and blue eyes, the squarish line of his jaw—a stubborn jaw even in one so young—but it did not fill her with any desire to see the young man again. She could not, would not forgive him.

‘What do you want with me? If Jeremy has sent you …’

‘No, my brother did not send me—unless it be from the grave. He is dead.’

‘Dead?’ The stark word shocked her, but being in mourning probably accounted for his dark clothes. ‘How?’

‘I could explain if you would listen.’

‘Why should I? He is … was … nothing to me.’

‘Really? Now, do you know, I rather thought you had once been close?’

‘Close. That’s a funny way of putting it.’

‘Putting what?’

‘What he did to me. I did not ask for it. He came to my room and forced himself on me. Did he tell you that?’ Her voice betrayed her bitterness.

‘No, he did not.’ He was shaken to the core. He knew his brother had been a rakeshame, who had loved and laughed without a thought for the morrow, but he had never thought him capable of such a despicable act. A tumble, he had said, adding that he did not know what the girl had to complain of. Had she complained? ‘I find that impossible to believe.’

‘I care not whether you believe it or not, sir, it is the truth.’

‘Not something said to make you feel less guilty?’

‘I do not feel guilty. I never have. I feel hurt and … angry.’

‘Then all I can do is offer a heartfelt and humble apology on behalf of my brother.’

‘It was not your fault,’ she conceded.

‘You did not stay at Mrs Porter’s lodging house?’

‘It did not suit me.’

‘So you have moved on. Are you going to tell me where?’

‘No. I cannot for the life of me think what you want with me. Lady Ashbrooke turned me off in a snow-storm without a character. I have no business with anyone from Riseborough Hall. If, as you say, Jeremy is dead, then I am sorry for you, but it is nothing to do with me.’

‘You are sorry for me?’ He frowned. ‘I think perhaps the shoe is on the other foot.’

‘I do not need or want your pity, Major Ashbrooke.’

She was too proud for her own good. ‘Then I will not offer it. Where are you going?’

‘I am going to deliver this parcel.’

‘It looks heavy. Please let me carry it for you.’ He reached out and took it from her fingers. ‘That’s better.’

They walked side by side in silence, making their way round the cattle market, noisy with farmers selling and buying the Highland cattle which had been driven down from Scotland to be fattened up before being sent to London. He stuck to her side, one hand on her elbow to guide her through the throng as a gentleman would a lady. She should have thrown him off and left him, but he had her parcel, and that represented money and food she could not afford to lose.

‘Where are we bound?’ he asked.

‘We are bound nowhere, Major. I am going to St Stephen’s Street, and as we are nearly there I bid you good day.’ She held out her hand for the parcel.

Reluctantly he relinquished it and bowed to her. He watched as she hurried along the road, and then followed her to see her turning in at the gate to one of the large houses that lined the road. Did she live there? He did not think so, because she had said she was delivering the package. He hadn’t done with her. He could not get out of his head her accusation that Jeremy had forced himself on her. He could not believe it of his brother, but if she was telling the truth then it was his responsibility to try and make amends, if such a thing were possible. One thing Jeremy had been right about: she was definitely not the usual run of domestic servant.

He stood, idly leaning against a tree trunk, watching the house for her to emerge, wondering what it was that made her so different. She was clean, for a start. Her face shone with cleanliness, as did her hands and fingernails. Her gingham day dress, which had once been smart and modish, was now sadly dated, but that, too, was clean. It was not that. Jeremy had called her a pretty little thing, but she was more than that: she was beautiful. She had classic oval features, large luminous soft green eyes, neat brows and a firm mouth—a kissable mouth, he realised with a sudden start. No wonder Jeremy had been attracted to her.

He watched her come out of the house, still bearing the brown paper parcel—or perhaps it was another one. He wondered what was in it. Her step was light and she carried herself like a lady, back straight and head up. Again Jeremy’s description came to his aid. Presence. She made everyone and everything about her look drab. He marvelled, considering she must be living in very poor circumstances. Unless she had a wealthy lover, of course; perhaps Jeremy had not been the only one? But a wealthy lover would surely have dressed her better than that.

He pushed himself off the tree and walked towards her, admitting he did not like that idea at all. He had to know.

‘Major Ashbrooke,’ she said, trying hard not to let his continuing presence disconcert her. ‘I should have thought you had something more important to do than hang about here.’

‘At the moment, no. Allow me to escort you.’ Again he took her burden from her.

‘You do not know where I am going.’ She was going to buy food and then hurry home. She had to rid herself of him before that, because it was important he did not see her son. It was the child that had brought him to Norwich; she was sure of it. Lady Ashbrooke had told her never to come back, and Annette did not doubt she had meant it, but perhaps she had had a twinge of conscience about the baby. Or had the Major come of his own accord? He struck her as a man who would follow his own path, never mind what others thought. He was so handsome and so very … very masculine. A strong man—not only physically, but in every other sense. Stronger than Jeremy, who had had little difficulty in overpowering her.

‘Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me.’

‘No, it is none of your business. I have left Riseborough. I am no longer employed there. So you cannot dictate to me.’