CHAPTER FOUR
A Time to Explain
An hour later, in the warmth and relative safety of Rosewood House’s drawing room, Michael Brearly and his new acquaintance were deep in conversation.
‘What can I say, Miss Norwood?’ Michael was trying to explain, ‘I’ve already apologised a score of times for what happened.’
‘I thought you were going to kill me,’ Frances said, her voice shaking with emotion.
‘What with? I wasn’t even carrying a gun.’
‘No, you weren’t, but that other man was. He fired two shots in my direction. I was so scared I didn’t know which way to run!’
‘MacMillan was just doing his job, for once. You can’t blame a man for doing that.’
‘That may be the case, but when your other servant saw me, he encouraged you to shoot me. I distinctly heard him refer to you as Bullseye Brearly.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about him,’ Michael assured. ‘I intend to dismiss that impudent wretch later this evening. As for me, I’ve never shot anything in my life. Well, not intentionally anyway.’ Michael rubbed his aching temples. ‘And while we’re apportioning blame, Miss Norwood, I’d like to know why you were gadding around in the dark. Were you aware that you were trespassing on private property?’
‘No I was not, and in answer to your first question, I was lost.’ She made no mention of her bicycling escapades. ‘When I saw the light from your house, I thought I’d be safe. Obviously I was wrong.’
Michael’s patience was exhausted. ‘And how did you come to be lost, Miss Norwood? Were you taking a walk? If that were the case, I’m surprised Louisa Wentworth allowed you to go rambling about on your own.’
Frances faltered. ‘Without wishing to go into specifics, I didn’t exactly obtain her permission.’
‘I see,’ he answered. ‘Well, all is well that ends well, as they say. As for my servants, they did their best, under the circumstances. They thought you were a prison escapee.’
In spite of her anger, Frances smiled. ‘A prison escapee?’
‘Yes. That murderer. Wilson I think his name is. Escaped from gaol.’
‘You don’t mean Oliver Wilson? Aunt Wentworth’s old gardener?’
‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask Dobson. He can tell you all about him.’ He crossed the room and rang the tinkling service bell. Dobson appeared almost at once. He had, in fact, been eavesdropping outside the door, along with two other servants.
‘Yes, sir?’ Dobson answered as he made his cautious entrance. ‘Ya called me?’
Michael surveyed Dobson with evident suspicion. ‘You’re very efficient this evening, Dobson. I’ve only just sent for you. Very prompt indeed.’
‘Thank ya, sir. I do me best.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do, although you’re working very diligently for someone who is no longer employed in this household.’
Dobson’s eyes widened. ‘Are ya givin’ me the boot, sir?’
Michael hesitated for words. The combination of wine and fatigue had clouded his judgement, and he realised that he was in no fit state to give serious consideration to anything. ‘Get me some muffins for later and I’ll think about it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Dobson replied, solemnly making his way towards the door.
‘Oh, and Dobson?’ Michael said, before his servant had reached the doorway. ‘What was Wilson really in gaol for?’
Dobson managed a grin. ‘Seems he likes stealing pigs.’
‘Hmm,’ Michael replied. ‘I thought so. Very well, Dobson. That will be all.’ Just before an exultant Dobson withdrew from the room, Michael called his name again. Once more Dobson turned around. ‘I don’t advise you to skulk outside that door for too long,’ Michael advised. ‘Despite the fact that you have other more important duties to attend to, it’s very draughty in that corridor. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.’
A dumbfounded Dobson just stared. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He then hurriedly took his leave.
‘I can see that nothing escapes your attention,’ Frances remarked, once the door had been closed and they were alone again. She was too busy laughing to notice that she was now the object of the young man’s attention.
Michael Brearly was not in the habit of staring at strangers, particularly young ladies, but somehow tonight was different, and he couldn’t seem to help behaving uncharacteristically. He appraised her for several more moments, considering how enchanting she looked in the firelight, wearing one of his shirts, an old pair of his trousers, and his large black frock coat wrapped around her shoulders. She was not what some would call beautiful, but there was a natural dignity and refinement in all her features. She was in her mid-twenties, he surmised, and from her slender, well proportioned limbs, her considerable height, which must dwarf many of her fellow sex, to her glossy sepia coloured hair of excessive fineness, she seemed to be the living embodiment of health and wholesome youth.
Frances, meanwhile, was acutely aware of being observed, and could feel the blood rush to her cheeks. Her discomfort, however, only made her dusky eyes more dazzling to Michael, and he was so captivated by the depth of candour and intelligence in them, that he didn’t initially hear her speak.
‘I, I think it best if I returned home now,’ Frances repeated in a louder voice. ‘My aunt must be frantic.’ In her state of self-consciousness, she let her eyes wander over to a little oil painting in a gold frame that echoed some coastal scene.
These words finally brought Michael back to his senses, and he could see straight away that his lack of manners had made his companion uncomfortable. ‘Please forgive me,’ he hastened to say. ‘It seems my mind was elsewhere.’ He anxiously cleared his throat.
Despite his best efforts to avoid looking at Frances, he felt his eyes being drawn to her firm mouth. In fact, her face at that moment seemed so welcoming, so inviting, that it seemed almost perverse to him that etiquette disallowed him from admiring it. The only way he could break the woman’s spell was to move further away from her, and turning his back to her, he made his way over to the window. He felt more composed already.
‘I regret to tell you, Miss Norwood that it is impossible for me to return you to Wintersleigh tonight. I have a very important visit to make, and I will be using my carriage for that purpose.’
Frances began to feel uneasy. ‘And can I not accompany you?’
‘I’m sorry, but no. My travels take me to the other side of Rokeby. Wintersleigh is in completely the opposite direction.’
‘But what am I to do about my aunt? You told me earlier that you are her close friend. Surely you must know what she’s like. You can imagine, perhaps, how worried she is…’
‘I can imagine, yes, but there is no need to concern yourself on that score. A message has already been sent to her, and I daresay she’ll have you brought home before bedtime. In the interim, your clothes will be dried and mended, a meal will be prepared for you, and if you need to occupy yourself, I have a well-stocked library.’
‘Thank you. You are very kind.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, glancing up at a clock on the mantelpiece. ‘And now I must go. I have a most pressing engagement.’
‘Might I ask how long you are likely to be?’
‘One can never be sure about such things, but I suspect you’ll be well and truly at home at Wintersleigh by the time I return. If that is the case, I bid you adieu!’ Michael then walked over to the drawing room doorway and paused. ‘Given that we are now neighbours, Miss Norwood, I imagine our paths will cross again. I just hope our future meetings won’t be so eventful.’
Before Frances had a chance to reply to this light-hearted comment, Michael Brearly left the room, shutting the door gently behind him.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 4
