The Master Of Michaelmas Hall

by Vanessa Brooks

  “I believe mawkish to be the wrong word. Try romantic instead,” she suggested. “And, yes, once upon a time we were both young and full of romantic expectation. Life soon knocks such foolish dreams from our heads.”

  “Angele, how can you be so unaffected by all of this? I beg of you to tell Gabriel that you are alive. I can see no other way for this deception to end well otherwise,” Mary pleaded.

  She was staggered that her usually astute sister-in-law should think her unaffected. Before she could form a reply, there came another knock at the closed door. This time the interruption was Mary’s butler. Entering, he was followed by a footman bearing a heavy tray of tea. All private conversation ceased.

  Chapter 2

  That night she dreamed of Gabriel. The same dreams had haunted her ever since he’d become lost to her. It was one of those dreams which left her quaking with her hand thrust between her thighs, her fingers busy in her wet divide. Her breasts ached for his touch, her nipples swollen hard as acorns with desire.

  Her subconscious tormented her relentlessly with such lusty recall, while her sharp memory actively provided the physical detail.

  In her dreams Gabriel’s sculptured form, as beautiful to her as any Greek God, loomed over her petite frame. His dark eyes brimmed with loving lust as they searched her own. His tongue tangled with hers as his hands, dear God, those skilled hands which pleasured and punished, toyed with her hardened bud until she screamed his name. The finale always finished with his magnificent cock rearing from his groin; frustratingly he never entered her the way he had so powerfully, and satisfactorily in reality. Her dream would end there.

  She awoke to find herself in a tangle of sweat soaked sheets and frantically masturbated in an attempt to relive her frustration, but as always, it was never enough to satisfy.

  After three such nights, Angele slept late most mornings. She would take coffee with Mary and then spend time watching Christopher play with his cousins. He was a different child since their arrival. It was clear to her that he was thriving and that he had lacked the companionship of his peers.

  Mary and she talked endlessly around the thorny issue of Gabriel St. Nicholas. Angele appreciated that Mary was concerned for her husband’s welfare, but Mary could only see the situation from a sister’s perspective and even though both women wanted what was best for the man they both loved they could not see eye to eye.

  It took some doing, but Angele finally convinced Mary she should be allowed to travel onward and alone to Michaelmas Hall in order to inform Gabriel that he had a son and heir. Mary did not need to know she intended to arrive there in the guise of her cousin, Marie.

  Angele pondered the right words to explain the situation to her husband. She worried about how she would cope being so physically close to her dearest love, actually be able to reach out and touch him, then she remembered that would not be possible to place her hands upon his person in her disguise as Marie. She consoled herself that she would be close enough to breathe in his aroma once more, a unique scent that belonged solely to Gabriel, a heady mix of Bay Rum, coupled with sandalwood, and man; a rich bouquet which had the power to turn her knees to jelly, yet at the same time gave her a sense of safety and homecoming.

  How she longed to hear the familiar rumble of his voice, to feel the thud of his beating heart under her ear as he held her against his chest. To once more enjoy the rich sound of his vibrant laughter as she basked in the warmth of his powerful arms crushing her to him. Oh to be wrapped in the security of his embrace, his muscular strength enveloping her. Never had she wanted to be anywhere else...until the tragedy in Paris.

  How lonely she had been without her soul-mate. How utterly torn by her decision to put him first, before her own craving need for him, her reasoning simple—her wonderful, handsome husband should not be saddled with damaged goods, which was what she had now become. St. Nicholas, her Gabriel, deserved to move on with his life, leaving behind all grieving. Such a man should not be forced to suffer the insidious shame of her return. No, her beloved should be free to find love again with another woman—however much the thought pained her. Angele knew St. Nicholas could never be hers, not now that she was sabotaged, ruined, disfigured.

  She would not allow herself to dream the impossible, and she was severe with that small voice that sobbed so hard inside her head, begging to be heard, asking her to tell him the truth that she was alive and loved him still. No, because one look of disgust crossing his beloved face would cast her into deep despair, a depression she knew she would not recover from—not after the ordeal she’d suffered in Paris. Better to remember his face glowing and full of love for her. No one could take away those happy memories of her marriage, just as they could not remove the bad ones that had come later in France.

  Thank goodness that her cousin, Marie, had married the Italian count, Alessandro, of Maccia. Together they’d kindly offered her a home with them. She’d recovered from her grief, far removed from the madness that raged throughout France, away from prying eyes, safe in the peaceful hills of Italy, where she’d born a son, her only link with her beloved husband.

  She had not paused to think about how Christopher might feel if, as a grown man, he discovered his mother had denied him his birthright. It was not until her cousin-in-law, Alessandro, had gently pointed out how wrong she was to deny the boy his heritage and deprive Gabriel St. Nicholas of his firstborn son and heir that she had pondered on what to do. She had shelved making a decision for months. It was not until the news reached them that Gabriel intended to remarry in December, that any action was required.

  Alessandro remained intractable, insisting she return to England before St. Nicholas unwittingly committed bigamy, a happening Angele was perfectly happy to overlook, but Alessandro had appeared horrified by the circumstances. He’d insisted that she write immediately to Mary, Gabriel’s sister, to apprise her of events. She’d written a letter as her cousin-in-law had requested, omitting the fact in her missive to Mary that she, Angele, was actually alive. She informed her only that Angele had born St. Nicholas a son, who would be arriving sometime between November and December.

  By the time Mary’s reply had reached them, it had been the end of October. Angele had wanted to wait until spring before undertaking such an arduous journey, but by then it would have been too late to halt Gabriel’s marriage to Lady Noelle Bellingham. Alessandro had given her no option, suggesting that he travel to England to take Christopher to meet his father and put a stop to the bigamous wedding. Angele had dug her heels in. She’d decided that if anyone should travel with her son, it should be her.

  Alessandro and Marie had no idea she planned to pass herself off as her cousin. She had absolutely no intention of stopping Gabriel from remarrying, regardless of Alessandro’s thoughts upon the matter. She refused to stand in the way of St. Nicholas’s happiness, but she would not abandon Christopher’s rights in the process. Her plan was to ensure that her son reaped the benefits due to him as his father’s heir.

  She had not reckoned on her son giving away her identity to Mary, not after having explained to him in great detail why he must call her Aunt Marie once they arrived in England. She gave a deep sigh. It was wrong of her to expect Christopher to lie to his father, but what other choice did she have? Of course, there was the truth, she acknowledged that, but she could not bear her handsome husband to gaze upon her altered features with pity or disgust.

  The answer was to leave Christopher here at Churchton, safe in the care of his aunt, whilst Angele travelled on alone to Michaelmas Hall, disguised as her cousin, Marie. There, she could speak with Gabriel alone, explaining that he had a son, expressing the desire that he allow Christopher to return with her to Italy, where he would remain, with her, until the day that he inherited. She winced at the thought of her beloved’s demise, but it was, after all, the way that these lifetime entitlements were bestowed.

  Angele prayed her husband’s sorrow at her loss, coupled with the passing of time, would ha
ve softened his stubborn nature. She hoped to be able to deliver her message, returning to Churchton the following day. If only she could find a means of keeping Mary from telling St. Nicholas the truth but she concluded she had plenty of time to ponder on that thorny issue.

  “I insist you take a maid with you for it is not seemly for you to travel about the country unescorted,” Mary exhorted.

  Angele had forgotten how exacting Mary’s standards of protocol were. How taxing the etiquette of the English ton could be. She found it simpler in the end, to acquiesce, rather than argue with her tenacious sister-in-law. She agreed to the stipulation.

  Angele was relieved to find Christopher was more than content to stay behind at Churchton with his cousins. He had regained the colour in his cheeks since they’d arrived. It was quite obvious to her that he’d developed a hero worship of his cousin, Rudy, a lad almost two years older than he.

  She set forth early on a particularly chilly day. Frost rimed the windows of Churchton. The maid whom Mary had loaned her for the visit sat huddled in the corner of the coach, shivering. Angele ignored her for the most part. She was too engrossed in trepidation at finally seeing her husband again after all this time.

  They had only been travelling for an hour when the maid timidly commented that it was snowing. Angele glanced outside. It was indeed snowing, and heavily, too. Thick snowflakes swirled giddily past the windows but barely settled upon the ground, so she snuggled back against the seat, glad of her fur-lined cloak and muff. Remembering the girl, she looked across at her. The maid appeared to be shaking with cold.

  “Do you not have a warm brick at your feet?” she asked, concerned by the girl’s excessive trembling.

  “No, milady,” she replied between chattering teeth.

  With a tsk, Angele reached under her seat, pulling out the box that contained two heated bricks. Opening the lid, she found that although still hot, the bricks were cool enough to be handled. She extracted one and held it out to the maid.

  As Angele turned towards the girl, a look of surprise crossed the maid’s face. Angele’s veil had been pulled aside by her action, revealing the scarred portion of her face. Hastily, she reached for the black gauze, placing it back into position.

  “Milady, there is no reason to be afeared on my account. My sisters and brothers all had the smallpox when they were young. Only one brother survived, and ’is face is ruined. My stomach is strong; you don’t need to stay covered up around me.”

  Angele passed her the brick then placed the box back into position under her seat, thus giving herself time to think before she replied.

  “What is your name?” she finally asked.

  “Ivy Shepherd, milady.”

  “Ivy, I am most melancholy to hear about your family. When I am out, I prefer to remain covered, but when we are alone and you attend me in my chambers, I shall take you at your word and allow you to remove my veil. However, should it come to my attention that you have gossiped about my facial disfigurement with other members of the household, you shall find yourself summarily dismissed.”

  “Yes, milady, thank you, milady. You may rely upon me for my discretion, milady.” The girl turned her flushed face to gaze out of the window. “Oh dear, the snow be settling thick upon the ground.”

  Angele looked out; it was indeed. At least an inch of snow coated the verge by the roadside. Snow fell so thick and silent that the world beyond the carriage appeared blindingly white. There were no features to be seen, not even a tree. All that was visible now was the dizzying snowstorm that engulfed them, surrounding them in a muffled embrace.

  The coach halted. The carriage rocked as the driver climbed down and rapped upon the door. Ivy bent to open it. “Begging your pardon, milady, but I don’t like this weather. It be making the way forward difficult. The horses are exhausted, and they need attention. I suggest we turnabout and return while we still can.”

  “We are about half way are we not?” Angele queried.

  “Aye reckon we are slightly less than half way, milady. ‘T’would be best we turnabout.”

  “Non, pray continue en route,” she replied.

  “Ma’am, I really think...”

  “I will take full responsibility. We will press onward.”

  The coachman sighed deeply, touched his hat and closed the door. Moments later there was a shuddering lurch and the coach moved forward.

  Chapter 3

  Lord Gabriel St. Nicholas, Earl of Yulerton, took one look out of the window and cursed. Setting his cup aside, he strode from the room, through the house and a myriad of servant passages, until he reached the boot room. There he donned his warm, waterproof beaver hat and stout leather boots, before pulling on a greatcoat and gloves. The two hounds bedded down in their respective baskets rose and stretched, sensing adventure. Their litter of seven-week-old pups were cosily asleep in a tangle of heads and tails. The bitch cast an eye over her litter. She seemed content to leave them now they were older and not so reliant upon her.

  “Come!” Gabriel commanded the two older hounds, opening the door to the freezing air. The weather was as he’d noticed from the breakfast room—icy, and snow was starting to fall. He hastened to the stables. Greeting North, his head groom, he gave instructions for the exercise and care of his horseflesh should the freezing temperatures persist. Then he asked for Star, his bay stallion, so named for the star-shaped blaze between his eyes, to be tacked. If the weather closed in, it was best he stretch the beast’s legs now to ensure the animal coped with the enforced inactivity that a significant snowfall might cause.

  He gave the stallion his head from the start, the hounds streaking behind in an attempt to keep up, finally reining the horse in as they reached the estate boundary. The dogs zigzagged from scent to scent, yipping with excitement.

  It was on his return he noticed a coach had stopped just shy of the gates of Michaelmas Hall.

  What the devil?

  The masquerade ball was a week away, he expected no guests before then. Who on earth was this entering his grounds? He clicked his tongue at Star and headed towards the cumbersome vehicle. As he approached, a coachman knelt before a broken wheel. The man must have taken the turn through the gates too wide, possibly because the edge of the highway was concealed under a thick layer of snow.

  He rode forward, surprised to see his brother-in-law’s coat of arms emblazoned on the side of the carriage.

  “Robin, Mary?” he called.

  A black-gloved hand moved the window down, and a woman stuck her veiled head through the carriage window.

  “Non, my lord, your sister was simply kind enough to lend me her conveyance. As you can see, we are in need of your assistance.”

  Gabriel froze in his saddle, and not from the biting winter chill. Surely he recognised that melodious female voice, and yet it could not be. His pulse quickened. His temple throbbed.

  “Who are you?” he enquired brusquely.

  “A distant relative, I will explain our connection later but for now we require your aid.” the resonant female voice replied with a decidedly French accent.

  He shook himself. Of course it was foolish to have entertained such false hope. She was long gone.

  “How many of you are travelling within the carriage?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. He hated bad manners, and unexpected guests a fortnight before Yuletide fell into that category.

  “Only myself, and my maid, of course,” the lady replied.

  “I shall carry you on horseback up to the house and return to fetch the maid. Come forth,” he commanded.

  “Malheureusement, I should prefer to wait here with my maid until a carriage can be readied to collect us both,” came her irksome reply.

  Oh, she preferred, did she? Muttering an obscenity, he dismounted and strode to the coach. Tearing open the carriage door, he peered inside the gloomy depths. Seeing a woman dressed head to toe in black, her face completely obscured by a veil, he concluded she must be in mourning. A feelin
g of unease stirred deep within. Whom had she lost, and what had her loss to do with him?

  “Give me your hand.” He softened his tone but spoke perfunctorily.

  The woman shrank back from him into her seat, as though afraid.

  “If your coach is stuck in snow, it is to be presumed that another would suffer the same fate. Now, give me your hand.”

  Still she shrank from him. With a grunt of irritation, he reached for her. It was as though she realised she couldn’t win against his determination, for she capitulated immediately, meeting him halfway. He was able to lean in and scoop her out of the door. She was far lighter than he’d expected. Her form was slight inside the voluminous, sombre gown.

  Snow crunched underfoot as he carried her over to his horse. Her arms tightened about his neck. She rested the side of her head on his shoulder and leaned into him quite passively. He placed her onto the saddle, climbing up behind her. Securing her to him, with an arm placed around her waist, he turned Star and set off at a sedate pace, with the dogs following at their own speed. Large flakes of snow swirled thickly, but it was not yet deep enough to upset the sure-footed stallion.

  There was something unsettling about the woman that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, a certain feeling of familiarity that made him uncomfortable. She sat meekly before him, not attempting any small talk. He was bemused by the fact she leant back against his chest without any embarrassment, which he would have expected from an unknown female sitting in close proximity to an unknown male. Perhaps if she was elderly, she had a lifetime of experience that had taught her to be accepting of situations beyond her control. He could not determine her age; she was too heavily screened behind the darkness of her veil.

  Again he wondered, with unease, what loss had brought her to his door.