“Good afternoon, Allie.”
“Aye—it’s that an’ all to see you back where you belong.” With a nod for Colly, the woman started to unpack her bags. “I’ll tell you straight I never believed you’d done it—what they said—and now you’re back, I’ll expect you to set to and get the matter sorted. It ain’t the thing for a belted earl to have hanging over his head.”
In between thumping packages on the table—packages Colly was quickly unwrapping and putting away—Allie had been shooting narrow-eyed glances at Amanda. “Now, who’s this?”
“This,” Martin responded with unimparied calm, “is Miss Amanda Cynster.” To Amanda, he said, “Allow me to present Allie Bolton. Originally my nurse, Allie continued to hold that title long after I’d left the nursery. We had a cook-housekeeper but in reality, it was Allie who ran this house.”
Walking forward, he continued, “As you’ll quickly learn, she’s distressingly tyrannical, but has a heart of gold and always has the family’s best interests at heart.” Reaching Allie, he hugged her and kissed her cheek.
“Get away with you!” She batted him back, flustered, pleased as punch and trying to hide it. “That’s not the way I taught him to behave,” she humphed to Amanda, “you may be sure.”
“I’m quite sure he was a handful.” Amanda tried to interpret the shooing-like gestures Martin, now behind Allie, was making. Colly, too, was nodding encouragingly. She glanced at the last of the packages being unwrapped—a pat of butter. The penny dropped; she stepped closer. “Of course, we don’t know what your present arrangements are, but we’d be very grateful if you could see your way to returning to your position here.”
“Humph! Aye—with only him”—Allie nodded at Colly—“to look after the house, I imagine the place is in a right state.”
“We’ve started opening up rooms, but . . . well, as I don’t know how things used to be . . .”
“Leave it to me.” Packages stowed, Allie untied her bonnet, set bonnet and hat on the dresser, then started to unbutton her coat. “I sent word to Martha Miggs—she’ll be here tomorrow and we’ll have the place to rights in no time.”
The determination behind the words made it clear nothing would be permitted to stand in Allie’s way; Amanda felt a weight lift from her shoulders, felt relief slide through her veins. “We have an injured gentleman upstairs—he was shot by a highwayman, and my coachman was, too.” She waved at Onslow, who was edging toward the door.
“Gracious heavens!” From under her voluminous skirts, Allie pulled out an apron and tied it about her ample waist. “I’d best take a look at their wounds, then.”
“Mine’s healed well enough—I’ve got to see to my horses.” With a nod to Martin and Amanda, Onslow escaped through the back door.
“I’ll see to you later!” Allie called after him. She turned to Amanda. “Right, then! You’d best take me up to this gentleman, and then we’ll see about opening more rooms. Colly, you’ll be needed—don’t disappear.”
Martin watched Allie hustle Amanda before her on into the house. Colly sighed, but he was smiling as he bent to stoke the fire. Martin felt his own lips curve, felt the gesture warm a place deep inside him that had been cold for a long, long time. He hesitated, then, smile deepening, turned and went to help Onslow.
Household activity the next morning approached the recognizably normal. Reggie was still weak; he’d boggled when Allie had descended on him, making eyes at Amanda, pleading for rescue, but Allie had quickly subdued him. He ate the breakfast she presented him without a murmur, then let her bully him downstairs to doze in a chair in the sunshine.
After a good night’s sleep in the room next to Reggie’s, aired and dusted to Allie’s high standards, then breakfasting with Martin in the sunny small parlor, Amanda, restored to her usual, stubborn and determined self, went looking for Allie to thank her and put herself at the older woman’s disposal. There was a great deal to do; helping seemed a quick way to learn the ins and outs of the household.
She found Allie in Martin’s room, shaking out the bedclothes that draped the huge bed. Yesterday, after finishing with Reggie and completing the room Amanda now used, Allie had stridden straight down the corridor and flung the double doors at the end wide. The windows had been next, then she’d swept, dusted and polished with a passion, stripping the bed and remaking it, chattering all the while. Amanda had helped, listened and learned.
When she and Martin had retired the previous evening, in response to his question over which room Allie had readied for him, she’d indicated this room. She’d seen his hesitation, but had given no sign, merely smiling wearily and bidding him good night. She’d closed her door and listened; after a minute, he’d walked down the corridor, then she’d heard the door open.
A long pause had ensued, then the door had shut.
She’d peeked out; he’d gone in. She’d retreated to her bed, speculating on what he might be feeling, what might be going through his mind. She’d been tempted to go and find out, but she’d known in her heart it wasn’t yet time. And she’d been too physically weary to do much beyond sleep, which she had, deeply.
Now . . . while she felt she understood Martin’s relationship with his mother, his relationship with his father remained veiled. Yet last night, Martin had slept in this room, previously his father’s. That much—that he was his father’s son—he’d accepted.
Walking into the room, she looked for any evidence that he’d changed things, any little sign he’d made the room his. His brushes had been moved, the mirror atop the tallboy shifted.
Puffing the pillows, Allie saw her noting the changes. “Aye—he’ll come around.” She eyed Amanda, then asked, “Am I right in thinking you didn’t expect to land here?”
“Yes—it was pure chance the highwayman struck so near here. I was heading for Scotland, to my cousin and his wife. Martin . . . followed me.”
“Aye.” There was a wealth of understanding in Allie’s tone. It had taken her a mere few minutes to guess how matters lay between Amanda and her erstwhile charge. While she’d said nothing directly, Amanda was aware she’d been vetted and examined during the previous day, and Allie had approved.
Allie turned from the bed, then stopped, staring out of the window. “Now I wonder what . . . ?”
Amanda walked to the window and saw Martin setting off on one of the horses. “He must be going to the village . . .” Allie hadn’t asked him to fetch anything.
Allie came up beside her, a frown in her old eyes as she watched Martin disappear down the drive. Then she nodded brusquely. “Ah—of course. He’ll be going to the cemetery.”
“The cemetery? I thought I saw a mausoleum in the woods.”
“Oh, aye—his parents are buried here.” Allie shook out her duster, and attacked the tallboy. “But it’s Sarah he’ll want to see first. That’s where it all began.” Allie glanced at Amanda. “He has told you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then.” Allie nodded at the window. “You’ll know what to do.”
The rock-solid confidence in Allie’s tone overrode the doubts rising in Amanda’s mind. Leaving Allie, she headed for the stable.
Onslow helped her saddle the other bay, then mount. They hadn’t been able to find a sidesaddle and she hadn’t had time to change into her habit; with her skirts rucked up to her knees, she felt utterly hoydenish as she cantered down the drive.
Keeping the house at her back, she took the lane south and followed the river. The morning was bright and fresh; spring was in the air, the buds plump on the branches, just waiting to burst. A haze of green had already replaced the dull brown of winter. Beside the lane, the river ran strongly along its rocky bed, fracturing the sunlight, its murmuring a paean to the morning.
She reached the church and saw the other horse tied to a tree. Reining in, she dismounted, an ungainly exercise she was thankful no one was around to see. The bakery stood just a little way along, a blacksmith’s opposite, the forge glowin
g inside the shadowy workshop. Tying her mount alongside Martin’s, she headed for the lychgate.
It stood open; she climbed the steps to a narrow path that led to the church’s front door. Glancing about, she followed the path; before the door, it bisected, circling the small building. She turned to the right and walked on, scanning the graves. None of the stones were big enough to hide Martin, yet she arrived back at the church door without sighting him.
Frowning, she looked across the road at the bakery, then peered at the forge. Searched the surrounding fields. No Martin. Puzzled, she walked back to the gate, then around to the horses—they were both still there.
Then she remembered. Sarah had taken her own life.
Amanda looked to either side, then headed left around the outside of the cemetery wall, seeking the small plot that often existed outside hallowed ground. It lay along the stone wall toward the back of the cemetery. The grass grew longer there, the graves bare mound only just detectable.
Martin stood before one, distinguished only by a rock placed at its head, the letters SB crudely carved into one face.
He must have heard her approaching, but he gave no sign. What she could see of his expression was bleak, intimidating. Stepping between two graves, she slipped her hand into his, and looked down at the grave of the girl he’d been accused of dishonoring.
After a moment, his hand closed, tight, around hers.
“I never had a chance to say good-bye. When they bundled me off that night, they wouldn’t let me stop here.”
She said nothing, just returned the pressure of his clasp. Eventually, he drew a huge breath and looked up. Then he glanced at her. She met his gaze. He studied her eyes, then nodded ahead.
He led her out of the small plot to a jumble of boulders at the corner of the cemetery. He lifted her up to sit on one, then hoisted himself up alongside.
They looked up the sunlit valley to where the house stood high on the rise with the cliff at its back. The sun struck the windows, made them wink and gleam.
She didn’t need words to know they were thinking the same thing.
“Which cliff was it?” Swivelling, she studied the ragged cliffs that formed a backdrop to the village.
He pointed to a towering escarpment. “That one. Froggatt Edge.”
She considered it, considered the distance from the village, the sheer drop to the broken ground below. “Tell me again—what happened that morning when you set out to find Sarah’s father?”
He hesitated for only an instant, then turned and pointed to a cottage down a narrow lane. “I went to Buxton’s house first. When the housekeeper told me he’d gone walking, I thought for a minute, then took that path.” Pointing, he traced a well-worn path that led from the lane across the fields to the escarpment. “It climbs around the side of the Edge, and comes out some way back from the lip.”
He paused, then went on, “I didn’t see or hear anyone or anything, but the path goes up that cleft and needs concentration—it’s not an easy stroll. On top of that, I was in a rage—a gunshot I might have heard, but anything less might well not have penetrated.
“When I got to the top, it was deserted, as I’d expected it to be. I’d gone up because from there I would have been able to see Buxton if he was anywhere around. I walked to the lip and looked. All around, everywhere. I didn’t see anyone. I remember suddenly feeling cold, deathly cold. Then I noticed the buzzards. They were circling below the lip. I went right to the edge and looked down.”
He stopped; after a moment, she prompted, “Where was it that he’d fallen?”
Martin pointed to the base of the escarpment, to where the ground was broken by upthrusting rock and scattered boulders. “There’s a gap between the rocks. You can’t see in until you actually reach it—or unless you look down from the top. I remember . . . it looked like Buxton, and the first thought I had was that I was glad he was dead. I thought he must have thrown himself off in remorse and guilt.”
“You came down to check.”
“I wasn’t sure it was him. He was lying facedown, and besides, what if he wasn’t dead? I couldn’t just leave him there.”
“How did you get down?”
“The same way I got up.”
She considered the distances. “Is there another way down from the top to where he fell?”
Martin pointed to the other side of Froggatt Edge. “There’s a much steeper path down that side. It’s shorter, but I didn’t take it because it’s more dangerous, and usually that means slower.”
“So you got to the bottom, to where the man was, and . . . ?”
“He’d been turned over and his skull had been bashed in with a rock.”
Amanda stared. “Between the time you saw him from the top and reaching him at the bottom?”
Martin nodded. “Someone had been there in between and whoever it was had made sure he was dead. The rock was covering his face. I still wasn’t sure . . . so I picked up the rock.”
“And that’s when the villagers found you.”
He nodded. “I lifted the rock and saw . . . then I heard them coming and looked up, and there they were, crowding in . . .” He refocused and shook his head. “I must have been in shock. I know that now, but then . . . nothing like that had ever happened in my life. I’d just learned Sarah had died, that people assumed I’d . . . and then that. I don’t know what I said, truth to tell, although I do know that later I insisted I hadn’t done it.”
Amanda frowned. “You said the villagers had seen a gentleman they thought was you throw the old man over the edge.”
Martin waved at the forge. “The blacksmith was working— the back of the forge was open. He happened to glance up and see two men—old Buxton and a young gentleman he mistook for me—struggling on the Edge. He saw the man push Buxton over. He downed tools, doused what he was working on, then rounded up some others and raced for the spot.”
Amanda fitted the information together like a jigsaw in her mind. “So . . . Buxton goes out walking—he goes up to Froggatt Edge. Is that likely?”
“Many walk up there. It’s a popular spot.”
“Very well—he goes up and walks. You come to his house, then set off for the Edge, quite coincidentally, to locate him. But someone else who also wanted to find Buxton is before you. While you’re climbing up, he struggles with Buxton and pushes him off. The blacksmith sees, douses his work and rushes off to get help. Then, not sure Buxton is dead, the murderer pelts down by the other path to finish him off. Meanwhile, you reach the top, look around, and see Buxton, lying facedown. You couldn’t see that other path from the top, could you?”
His face impassive, Martin shook his head.
“You decide to go back down and check for life. You go down by the first path. Could you see the spot where Buxton fell from that path?”
“No.”
“While you’re on the way down, the murderer reaches Buxton, turns him over and bashes him dead. Then he runs away. Could he have done that without being seen by you or the villagers?”
Martin hesitated. “It would have been dicey, but yes. The ground’s so uneven near the base of the cliffs, he could have got out of sight of both me and the villagers without having to go far. Later . . . once the villagers found me, no one was watching for anyone else.”
Amanda nodded. “So then you get to the body, and the villagers find you there. That’s how it happened.”
Martin eyed her calm, determined—stubborn—expresssion. “You seem remarkably sanguine about murder.”
She met his eyes. “I’m remarkably unsanguine about you being wrongfully accused of murder.” She held his gaze, then continued, “But you worked all that out years ago.”
He didn’t deny it. She let the moment stretch, then asked, “So . . . how do we go about proving the truth?”
“I don’t know that it’s possible. There wasn’t a shred of evidence at the time. If there had been, even in shock, I would have waved it.”
Amanda remembered L
ady Osbaldestone’s words. “Things happened very quickly. It’s possible something was overlooked, or only came to light later.” When he said nothing, she urged, “It can’t hurt to ask.”
It could, but it wouldn’t be him, or her, who might be hurt. Martin didn’t say the words; he knew the time had come. He had to choose—her, or that other he was protecting. She hadn’t begged, but if he resisted, she would do even that; she was committed to his resurrection because the future she envisioned for them hinged on that.
It was a future he now coveted more than anything else in life. He looked into her cornflower blue eyes, then lifted his gaze, looking up the valley to Hathersage. His father’s and grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s house. Now his.
Now theirs. If he would . . .
He drew in a breath, exhaled, and reached for her hand. “Let’s see if we can find Conlan.”
She jumped off the rock, looked her query.
“The blacksmith who thought he saw me pitch old Buxton over Froggatt Edge.”
“Da’s in the cottage out back, m’lord.” The blacksmith set aside his bellows; his demeanor was eager as he waved them in. “He’ll be right pleased to see you. That old matter’s weighed heavy on his mind these last years. If you don’t mind going through? He’s not too steady on his pins, these days.”
“We’ll do that, Dan. I remember the way. You won’t want to leave that.” With a nod, Martin indicated the glowing shoe Dan had been working.
“Aye—well, you’ve the right of it, there.”
As they crossed the yard behind the forge, Martin looked up, slowed. Amanda followed his gaze to the escarpment. Froggatt Edge was clearly visible, yet could anyone be sure who it was they saw at such a distance?
“Country eyes are notoriously sharp,” Martin murmured.
“Hmm.” Amanda matched his stride as they headed for the cottage flanking the cobbled yard.
Martin knocked on the door. A buxom young woman opened it. When he gave his name and asked to see Conlan, the woman’s eyes grew round.
“Oh, heavens!” She bobbed a curtsy. “My lord, I—” She glanced back into the room behind her.
On a Wild Night Page 36
