Danger at Thatcham Hall Page 4

  “Are you sure this is right?”

  The boy grinned over one shoulder. “You’ll be all right with me.” There was no alternative but to follow. The woods grew deeper and darker, the track so narrow it could hardly be called a path at all. Surely this couldn’t be the way to the Hall. The struggle to keep up left Olivia short of breath. “Wait. Stop a moment. This is wrong, I know it is.”

  “Well, it’s up to you, miss. You’re welcome to find your own way.” Wiping his nose on a ragged sleeve, the boy stepped off the path, almost disappearing into the shade.

  “No, I don’t mean to doubt you.” If he ran back through the trees she’d be worse off than before. “It’s just that—well, perhaps we could stop a moment to catch our breath. Anyway, who are you?”

  “Me? I’m Theodore.”

  “Theodore. I’m Olivia.”

  “That’s a grand name, miss, and no mistake.”

  “Thank you.” She slumped, body weary, on a nearby log. “Do you live here? What were you doing?”

  The boy sniffed and kicked at a stone. “Collecting bundles.”

  “Bundles?”

  “Wood. For the fire. You know, for cooking.”

  “You don’t have any with you.”

  “Hadn’t started yet.”

  Was that true? Olivia remembered the attacks on the cattle and the dreadful accident that had befallen the farmhand. She licked dry lips. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Don’t have no mother. Got a grandmother, though. Over yonder.” The boy flicked his head sideways. “At home.” Olivia peered into the gloom but could make out nothing. “Just come on.”

  “No, take me back to the Hall.” It was no good shouting. The boy just grinned and walked on.

  What am I doing? Where is he taking me? Olivia, helpless and angry, stumbled behind, tripping on tree roots, breath grating in her chest. She’d been in this horrible wood for hours. Was there no escape?

  Puffing with exertion, she rounded a corner and stopped, amazed. A tiny cottage nestled amongst the trees, fronted by a patch of garden stocked with rosemary, lavender, and ivy. Myriad green shoots covered the surface of the earth, thrusting hopefully skyward. The scent of a wood fire, cosy, welcoming, filled the air.

  The boy put on a spurt of speed and disappeared inside, but Olivia hesitated on the threshold, nose twitching and stomach growling. Something was cooking. It seemed like hours since luncheon.

  The door creaked open. A tiny woman, shoulders bent, peered out, face weather-beaten. A length of rope fastened a long, cotton bed-gown tight at her waist, the garment so old it was impossible to distinguish the original colour. Small black eyes stared, unblinking, at Olivia. “Who might this be?” The voice quavered with age.

  “This is that visitor, staying up at the Hall. The one what found Daniel.”

  “Is she now?” The woman moved closer to Olivia, mouth wide in a toothless grin. “Better come in, then. You’re a long way from the Hall, Miss.”

  Olivia hesitated. Why had the boy brought her here? She was tempted to turn and run, but which direction to take? The moment of panic subsided, washed away by the smell of burning firewood and spicy food. There could be nothing to be afraid of here in a cottage in Lord Thatcham’s own woods. Taut muscles began to unwind.

  “Now then, you come inside. It was you found that lad, was it?” The woman’s face crinkled, eyes busy searching Olivia’s face. “Poor boy. Always careless. Don’t know what the farmer was thinking, to let a fool like Daniel use a scythe. Now, there’s no need to fear me, lass, but it’s not good to be wandering in the woods alone. These woods are deep. You could be lost for hours, if you don’t know your way around.” She beckoned Olivia into the cottage.

  Olivia shrugged. She couldn’t get herself back to the Hall, so she would just have to trust the woman. The doorway was low. She dipped her head to keep from cracking it on the lintel, and blinked in the semi-darkness. Enough light squeezed in through one window for her to make out the furniture.

  There was little enough—barely more than a simple wooden table and a few chairs. A fireplace filled almost the entire wall and a small log smouldered in the hearth, throwing out enough heat to stifle any fresh air that had entered with Olivia. She coughed and wiped smoke from streaming eyes.

  An ancient, battered tin kettle sat on the hearth, steam rising from the spout suggesting it had recently boiled. The woman pulled out a chair, nodded to Olivia to sit and padded across to the fire to pick up the kettle. Her back turned, she filled the pot and stirred the contents with a long spoon. “Want some tea, miss?”

  Olivia should get back to the Hall before she was missed. Why, they were probably out searching already. Disappearing on the first day of her visit might have already offended Lady Thatcham. The boy must show the way back at once.

  Yet, despite misgivings, Olivia was silent. Instead of refusing the tea, she settled, as if in a trance, on to one of the chairs and accepted a hot tin mug, drawing a deep, contented breath. Whatever the woman had brewed smelled wonderful. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to stay a few moments longer, to find out more about this odd little house in the middle of the woods…and the even odder person who lived here.

  The smell rising from the cup was delightful. Olivia took a deep breath. A sudden wave of tiredness, part homesickness and part sadness, spread through her. She must not succumb to such emotion. Instead, gripping the handle, she raised the cup to her lips and gulped.

  Heat burned Olivia’s throat. The tea tasted how she imagined new-mown hay. Wonderful. Setting the cup down, almost empty, she stood, head swimming, and leaned on the table to steady trembling legs. It was just hunger. Time to return. “Thank you for your kindness. Please will you be good enough to show me the way to the Hall now?”

  The woman’s toothless gums showed. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Miss. Remember, it don’t do to brood on things you can’t do nothing about. Theo, show Miss Olivia how to get back to the Hall.”

  The journey was far shorter than expected. Within minutes the boy led Olivia out of the trees. There was the Hall, just a few hundred yards away. “Why did you take me to the cottage?”

  “Grandmother wanted to meet you.”

  “Well, you should have said so, instead of leading me on. Why, some people would have been frightened.”

  “Frightened? By old Grandmother? Nah, don’t be daft.”

  Olivia stopped, hands on hips. “How dare you call me daft?”

  Too late. The boy had disappeared. One moment there, the next, gone. She shrugged. It wasn’t until she reached the comforting familiarity of the Hall’s entrance that a thought struck her. The woman had known her name.

  Chapter Six

  Nelson left Miss Martin alone in the water meadows. His right leg ached. The old wound had started up again. The pain was familiar—almost like an old friend. It hardly bothered him at all.

  He faced Thatcham Hall, determined to resist the awkward prickling sensation at his back that tempted him to turn. Was Miss Martin watching? Perhaps she imagined that curt dismissal had left him downhearted and rejected. He grinned. She had a lot to learn. He had crossed swords with many fiercer opponents. “Round one to me, I think, Miss Martin.”

  These skirmishes invigorated Nelson. Did the young lady, trying so hard to hold on to dignity in the face of embarrassment, know her face revealed every thought? Was she aware those green eyes sparked with each flash of annoyance? So many pretty girls of respectable birth wore stiff, inexpressive faces, in the absence of any deeper sentiment than coquettish flirtation or haughty displeasure. Miss Martin was cut from a unique pattern: a breath of fresh air.

  Unfortunately, Nelson had no time to waste on a well-bred young lady without a fortune. It was a shame, but everything about Miss Martin was wrong. It had taken only moments to sum up her position in society. No wealthy young lady, with the sort of independent means Nelson sought in a wife, would move into Fairford Manor as a tenant. The Manor was large and imposing, the m
ost important house in this part of the country apart from Thatcham Hall itself, but it didn’t belong to Miss Martin’s family.

  Miss Martin’s appearance hinted at respectability and good taste, rather than prosperity. Her dress, more serviceable than extravagant, was neat and elegant. She wore no trinkets or decoration apart from the emerald ribbons. Her behaviour was ladylike and calm, apart, that is, from sudden flashes of anger that brought the green eyes flaring to life and hinted at hidden, intriguing depths. Nelson enjoyed goading her, just to watch those eyes blaze.

  He must be sure to keep at arm’s length. Miss Martin had no money, and Nelson’s fortune was yet to be made. Half-pay from the army was enough for a single man, but fell far short of the substantial income needed for respectable marriage. His earnings as a barrister were not yet guaranteed, and depended upon success in court.

  For a moment or two, he’d almost been trapped into more than teasing. Nelson slashed at the hedgerow with a cane. It was many years since a woman had intrigued him so. After Miss Nancy Baldwin’s rejection, he’d vowed never to let anyone close enough to threaten his heart.

  His lip curled. Waving him off with his regiment, Miss Baldwin had cheered a handsome Hussar who wore a bright blue tunic and an air of optimism. She waved a scrap of white lace, dabbing her eyes. “Come back soon, dear Nelson. I cannot wait to become your wife.”

  The Major Roberts who returned to England after the rout in Kabul, face scarred, one leg permanently shorter than the other, seemed a less agreeable proposition as a husband for a pretty, empty-headed, popular, young lady. Expecting a dashing hero, she’d recoiled with horror at his appearance.

  His stomach still churned when he recalled her dismay, but at least Nelson was alive. He’d had better luck than most of his comrades. Honourably discharged from the army, looking for a profession, he set out with some trepidation on the long road to the bar. To his own surprise, he enjoyed studying the law. Mr. Charles Dickens depicted the law as “a ass, a idiot,” but Nelson disagreed; there was satisfying order and logic to it, and the comforting illusion that life could be controlled. England’s well-regulated courts of law existed a million miles away from the exhilaration, danger and chaos of the battlefield. War had thrilled him, made him taste hope and fear, triumph and terror, and had nearly taken his life.

  Miss Martin was too respectable for Nelson. Since leaving the army, he’d enjoyed a series of brief, passionate and enjoyable diversions with young ladies from the stage. That kind of pleasure was out of the question with Miss Martin. Could he even persuade her to flirt? Probably not.

  As he rounded the turn into the Thatcham Hall flower gardens, Nelson’s spirits rose. A ripple of female laughter accompanied a charming tableau. Miss Dainty, Lord Thatcham’s sister—in a becoming day dress of pink cotton printed with rosebuds, tight at the waist but billowing wide, her matching bonnet tied with calico ribbons—carried a wicker basket over one arm and wielded a pair of scissors in the other hand. The sun, slowly sinking, bathed her ringlets in a haloed glow. She leaned deep in discussion toward one of the gardeners.

  At Nelson’s approach, the gardener stepped back, touched his forelock and left. “Mr. Roberts!” Miss Dainty waved the scissors in welcome. “Is it not a beautiful evening? The first few roses have just come into bloom and I promised Lady Thatcham I would find enough to fill a vase. I had meant to cut some this morning, but I quite forgot, so these will not last long, I fear. Still, they will be delightful for a while, will they not? Please do stay and help.”

  Nelson accompanied the earl’s fragrant sister around the gardens, pointing out the freshest and brightest of the pink blooms. “Take care, the thorns are sharp,” he murmured as she leaned forward, breathing in the scent of the blossoms, smooth cheeks as pink as the rose petals.

  How Miss Dainty chattered. “We are looking forward so much to the dance, this year. Philomena—Lady Thatcham I mean, of course—has arranged it early to cheer us all, for we have been so worried about poor James, the footman.”

  She shook her head, brow furrowed. “Poor James is so foolish—constantly in trouble, especially with Mayhew, but he does mean well. I am quite sure James would never harm anything. It makes no sense at all to accuse the poor man. Still, my brother insists you will easily find the truth and then we’ll all be dreadfully grateful.”

  She looked into Nelson’s eyes with an innocent, wide-eyed stare. What a delightful creature. Not, perhaps, in possession of as sharp an intellect as Miss Martin’s, but it was no business of young ladies to outdo men in wit and debate. Miss Dainty’s hair was blonde and coaxed into neat ringlets over her ears, while Miss Martin’s wild red hair spilled with gorgeous vigour from its pins. Miss Dainty’s dress was rich, of the first fashion and trimmed with expensive lace. She was a true beauty. It was hard to believe she remained unwed. Lord Thatcham’s sister must, surely, have received many proposals: some at least from highly eligible gentlemen.

  As they strolled, Miss Dainty chattered. “Do tell me about your first case. I want to know every detail, for Hugh said you distinguished yourself marvellously.” She giggled. “It must be so exciting to ask questions in court and trick the witnesses into giving away secrets.”

  Nelson smiled, uneasy, hoping to put an end to the matter. “I am afraid your brother’s been misinformed. It was hardly a difficult case.”

  “Nonsense, you’re being far too modest, I know. Come, you must tell the story. I insist.”

  Nelson turned the subject. “I have never seen this rose before. Do you know its name?”

  The old Nelson would have welcomed Miss Dainty’s wide-eyed admiration of court success, but today, a twinge of discomfort spoiled such vanity. He ran a finger around his collar. Conversations about a man’s new profession would soon lead to questions about any earlier career, and Nelson would not talk about that. That dashing officer, riding to war and glory, handsome, fearless, overflowing with confidence and easy charm, no longer existed.

  It wasn’t just anger at his fiancée’s betrayal that ate at Nelson’s soul. The shame of ignominious defeat endured thousands of miles from home in the sweltering heat of the Afghan desert reduced every murmur of female admiration to the jarring clang of a cracked bell.

  Miss Dainty’s presence was a soothing balm, for she gave every appearance of enjoying Nelson’s company. Her stubborn refusal to marry, even though half the beau monde of London must have worshipped at her tiny, delectable feet, aroused Nelson’s interest. Why had she turned down every suitor? Was she searching for something other than elegant manners and wealth?

  An idea wormed its way into Nelson’s thoughts. Miss Dainty enjoyed his company and clearly found him personable, clever and articulate. Was there a chance—even the tiniest ghost of a possibility—that a young lady with all her advantages would consider a barrister as a possible suitor? Five long years since he left the army had softened much of the damage to his looks. The scar from ear to lip, too fresh and raw for Miss Baldwin’s shocked eyes, had faded at last, half-hidden by a neatly trimmed beard. With care, he could disguise the awkward limp, although the effort increased the dull ache that never quite disappeared.

  No. Such an idea was ridiculous. Why would Miss Dainty prefer an impecunious lawyer, newly called to the bar, to the pick of the most eligible men in England?

  Yet, once the notion had planted itself in Nelson’s brain, it wouldn’t let go. Exasperated, he tried to dislodge it by searching for the most perfect blooms for Miss Dainty to cut, but the worm burrowed further. Could this lovely creature grow to care for a wounded ex-officer? Stranger things had happened. Why, her own brother had married a waif more or less plucked from the streets of London.

  Miss Dainty buoyed Nelson’s spirits further by tucking a rose neatly into the buttonhole of his coat. A pink rose could mean either perfect happiness or secret love, in the ever-popular language of flowers. Was it a message? He indulged in a little dreaming. Seeing the rich and lovely Miss Selena Dainty by the side of her disca
rded lover, Miss Nancy Baldwin would wish she had been a little less hasty. Well, Miss Baldwin’s loss could be Miss Dainty’s gain.

  “Mr. Roberts. Have you any idea where Miss Martin can be? She set off for a walk some time ago, planning to enjoy the water meadows. I do hope she hasn’t come to any harm.”

  Brought back to earth, Nelson took Miss Dainty’s hand to steer her with care around a tiny bump in the grass. “Mr. Roberts, you are too gallant.”

  It was very easy to laugh back into those clear, blue eyes. Miss Dainty would be a most enjoyable conquest. “I met Miss Martin earlier this afternoon. She wished to be alone. I don’t know where she went.”

  “Poor Olivia.”

  Nelson pretended he hadn’t heard. The thought of Miss Martin, green eyes flashing with annoyance, threatened to spoil the pleasure of Miss Dainty’s amiable company.

  Miss Dainty spoke more loudly. “Olivia. Miss Martin. We must be very kind to her, for she has lost her home, you know. She has to work as a governess soon, and I’m sure she wishes she didn’t have to.”

  A small, becoming frown appeared between her eyes. “I wish there was more we could do to help. Miss Martin has so many talents that are simply going to waste. Why, the piano sings under her touch. She plays the most complicated pieces of music you can imagine and what’s more, she writes new things: sonatas, nocturnes, polkas, reels. Nothing is too difficult! And to imagine poor Olivia spending her life teaching children who have no wish to learn!” The frown dissolved. “In any case, I’m quite sure she will have come to no harm. She’s the most capable person I’ve ever met.”

  “I expect she lost track of the time, but if you’re concerned, perhaps I should investigate. Will you do me the honour of accompanying me?”

  “Of course.”

  Nelson set off once more towards the water meadows, one of the loveliest, wealthiest, and most charmingly polite of England’s beauties on his arm. He most certainly didn’t wish for a tall, penniless redhead for a companion, tying him in verbal knots and telling him in no uncertain terms to leave the moment she tired of his company.