“Dear aunt, you know I have no wish to—”
“Listen to me, child! Do you think I have not seen you casting glances at comely gentlemen? Following children with wistful eyes? I fear, my dear, I have done wrong in not encouraging you to break out of this frightful shell you have woven about yourself.”
A lemon biscuit stuck in Pamela’s throat. Seizing her teacup, she gulped down a long swallow of the now cool brew. It didn’t help. As she set down her cup with shaking hands, she feared she might be ill.
“My dear.” Honoria rose from her seat on a gold silk settee and took both Pamela’s hands in hers. “I assure you, no one will force you to dance. You are the child I never had. I love you dearly and would never hurt you. But I cannot encourage you to hide from love to the point of forswearing society itself. I have been selfish, I acknowledge it, molding you into my likeness when I know what love is and would not for the world wish to deprive you of its joys.”
“And pain,” Pamela countered, her mind filling with visions of her aunt’s long widowhood, her parents’ mutual indifference, interspersed by raging quarrels.
“That, too,” Honoria calmly agreed, “but never to open yourself to the possibility of love is a crime against nature. I beg you, my child, consider what I’ve said. Take your courage in hand and reach out for something more. Bravery belongs to those who conquer their fears.”
Pamela hung her head. “Then I am a coward,” she whispered. “Perhaps if I’d gone back to dancing immediately, but I lacked the courage. Now, the very thought terrifies me to the point of . . . well, what Chauncey would call, ‘casting up my accounts.’”
Honoria Whitehurst straightened, gazing down at the stubborn set of her niece’s jaw. “Pamela, my dear, I see I have allowed this situation to progress far beyond reason, and I am heartily sorry for it. It is, however, more than two months to Twelfth Night, allowing you ample time to readjust your thinking. I do not ask that you position yourself beneath the mistletoe, but I can only hope you will dance a set or two. I beg most sincerely that you extend your gaze beyond your duties as hostess and consider the possibility of finding a young man you can esteem enough for marriage.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pamela murmured—the only possible response after her aunt’s many kindnesses. Yet her heart pounded in sudden panic, her eyes flooded with stinging tears. She jumped up and ran from the room, leaving Honoria to watch after her with misty eyes of her own.
When Pamela’s tears had sunk into her pillow and a modicum of reason had replaced her panic, she had to acknowledge her aunt spoke true. She did cast what she hoped were hidden glances at the young men she encountered. There, she’d admitted it! And she tended to indulge in nonsensical talk with the tenants’ babies and had been known to actually play games with the older children. And, yes, every time Bella penned a letter full of the accomplishments of young Master Edmund Layton, age two, her envy tended to escalate into agony.
But give up her independence for any of the gentlemen she’d met in Worcestershire, who ranged from worthy but dull to out and out nincompoops? No, indeed. And, besides, who among them would offer for a young lady who, for no apparent reason, refused to dance. Unless, of course, their eyes were firmly fixed on Appledown Farm and they were willing to make any sacrifice to acquire it.
Bravery belongs to those who conquer their fears. A lovely turn of phrase, Pamela thought as she glowered at her quite innocent counterpane. But surely, if a girl was considering venturing her head for chopping, she had a right to more striking inspiration? To someone more than a vague dream. To a glimpse of a flesh and blood gentlemen who would make the goal of conquering her terrors seem worthwhile?
Pamela eyed her damp pillow. Last Christmas she had sneaked a sprig of mistletoe beneath her pillow, hoping the old legend would prove true, that she would dream of her true love. But it was all a hum. To the best of her recollection, she had not dreamed at all. Or if she had, her lover’s face remained a blank.
As blank as her life threatened to be if she did not allow herself to be more flexible. To at least consider the possibility . . .
Pamela grabbed her pillow and sent it flying across the room, where it rocked a sketch of men and women in elaborate eighteenth century garb dancing the minuet, before falling to the floor with a plop.
After uttering a heartfelt sigh, Pamela offered a silent prayer for strength to become the person her aunt wished her to be. But she very much feared the good Lord had more urgent things to consider than the romantic notions of an almost spinster in Worcestershire.
Chapter Three
Blast it! Will Forsythe stifled a groan as the carriage turned from the post road onto the drive to Mottram Manor, and he rapidly discovered it was as badly rutted as roads he’d encountered during his years in Portugal and Spain. As if the journey from London had not already been enough to make him long for comfort of his bed and a full bottle of brandy. Not necessarily in that order.
Another bump. Another pain shooting up his leg, echoing through his head, to join the incessantly clanging hammers that already lodged there. Will clutched his forehead, willing himself to stay upright.
“Sir?” Joseph Tubs, Major William Forsythe’s former batman, slid from his position with his back to the horses to a seat beside his employer, steadying his swaying form with his own body. Though still struggling to learn the ways of a proper valet, Tubs had been with the major through long years on the Peninsula and every step of the way from his wound at Waterloo, through his long convalescence, and now into what his family called “this mad start” of running away to some obscure corner of Worcestershire.
“Can’t be that much farther, sir,” Joseph said, tightening his hold around Will’s shoulders.
“Damn drive must go all the way to the Severn.”
“Couldn’t say, sir. Don’t much know the lay of the land ’round here.”
“That makes two of us,” Will agreed, managing a rueful grin.
The carriage slowed. Will straightened, heaved a sigh of relief. A nod to his batman sent Joseph to the window, peering out. “Nothing on this side, sir.”
Will grabbed the hangstrap and pulled himself close to the window on his side. “Good God,” he breathed, staring at gray stone walls overgrown by ivy sitting in a jungle of unscythed grass. “It’s gone to rack and ruin. I fear Poynings’s steward has played him false since great-Aunt Agatha passed on.” Will shook his head. “It’s a mausoleum, Tubs, dark and dreary. Undoubtedly, a ghost in every room. I’ll not set foot in it.”
To this flight of fancy, Joseph Tubs offered an indulgent smile. “A letter to the earl, sir, and he’ll have it right in a jiffy.”
“If it’s as bad inside as out, six months might do it,” Will grumbled. “Did we not pass a gatehouse as we turned onto this abominable drive?”
“Aye, sir, but it’s likely been abandoned longer than the house.”
“Smaller, easier to clean,” Will snapped. And closer in size to the modest residences he’d encountered during his years at war. Certainly better than a tent. “There must be servants about somewhere. Find them, Tubs, and tell them to ready the gatehouse. We will spend the night in the village and return at this time tomorrow, expecting to take up residence. And, Joseph, brook no arguments. Until that monstrosity”—he nodded toward the sadly neglected seventeenth century manor house—“looks like a home, not a crypt, I am fixed at the gatehouse.”
“Sir.” Joseph Tubs climbed down from the carriage and headed resolutely toward the ornately carved black oak door, set in the center of a somber gray stone frontage without benefit of either a graceful flight of steps or a sheltering porte cochère.
Will closed his eyes to the ugly house and leaned back against the squabs. He had no one to blame but himself. Determined to escape his family’s constant fussing over his health, he’d insisted on finding a private place where he could hide, recuperate from his wounds, and find his way past all the scars of war his well-meaning relatives and friends could
not see. Recalling Mottram Manor from visits as a boy, he’d made inquiries and, after learning that it was presently unoccupied, insisted on coming here. What was that old expression? A grim smile tugged at his lips. He had indeed made his bed and now must lie in it. Though the bed of his expectations and the bed he would actually sleep in did not necessarily have to be under the same roof. Soldiers were nothing, if not resourceful.
Will’s faint amusement faded quickly to what had become, since Waterloo, his customary solemn face. Worcestershire. Perhaps his father was right. The county was all well and good if you wished to order dinner service for two dozen guests or piquant sauce for your beefsteak, but live there? God forbid!
Will winced as the carriage door slammed shut and Tubs’s weight depressed the squabs beside him. Gritted teeth soon followed the wince as the coachman turned the horses and headed back down the rutted drive toward the gatehouse.
By Wellington’s shiny boots, what had he done?
Eulalia Chillworth, wife of the vicar, sank onto the gold silk brocade settee in Honoria Whitehurst’s drawing room. Eyes alight with the latest bit of gossip, she plunged into speech while the skirt of her gown was still settling around her. “Have you heard the news, my dears? We have a newcomer in our midst. A young gentleman.”
Pamela dropped her gaze to hide her not-so-charitable thoughts. Mrs. Chillworth tossed those last three words like Nan, the kitchen maid, tossing feed to the chickens. Well, she was not going to scramble for the rest of the story. Though of course that would not be necessary as, after an infinitesimal pause for breath, the vicar’s wife was only too happy to fill in the details.
“He stayed a night at the Hound and Hare—’tis how word of his coming first spread.” Eulalia Chillworth gasped, her fingers flying up to cover her mouth. “Not that I listen to gossip, of course,” she continued at a more judicious pace, “but Mottram Manor has been vacant since poor Lady Agatha passed on. Must be . . . a good two years now, is that not right, Mrs. Whitehurst?”
“Yes, indeed,” Honoria agreed. “A young man at Mottram, you say?”
Pamela, in spite of herself, pricked up her ears. Mottram Manor marched with Appledown Farm on the east, making the newcomer a neighbor.
“Mrs. Chillworth heaved a sigh. “Mottram Manor, indeed. And with three girls of an age to be married, I am sure you cannot fault me for my interest. At first, I was positively overcome with joy, but, alas, I fear we may be destined for disappointment.”
Pamela firmed her lips against the temptation to ask why. Curiosity killed the cat, she chided silently, and was rewarded when Honoria responded, “Disappointed, Mrs. Chillworth? Surely not.”
“Well . . .” The vicar’s wife leaned toward her listeners. “Not an hour ago I learned from old Mrs. Ryder—her gel is upstairs maid at Mottram, you’ll recall?—that the young man is moving into the gatehouse. The gatehouse, of all places. I fear he is no more than a half-pay officer who can afford no better. A shocking disappointment, I am sure you’ll agree.” After a disdainful sniff, Mrs. Chillworth settled against the settee’s scrolled back and heaved a mournful sigh.
Words—perhaps not the most judicious—tumbled, unbidden, from Pamela’s mouth. “What makes you think he is a half-pay officer?”
“Well you might ask,” declared Mrs. Chillworth. “I must admit I have not seen the man myself, but everyone who has describes him as a man of military bearing. With a scar on his brow and a pronounced limp. Wounded at Waterloo, according to his valet.”
“Merciful heavens, Mrs. Chillworth, you would not see one of your daughters tied to a hero?” Honoria exclaimed.
“I would not see one of my daughters living in a gatekeeper’s cottage!”
“Surely there is more to the story,” Honoria encouraged.
“Indeed,” the vicar’s wife huffed, “he may be escaping his creditors for all we know, taking a ‘repairng lease’ as the town beaus call it.”
Or injured in a duel,” Pamela added, her imagination soaring, “or run down by a carriage.”
“Or perhaps the poor man simply wants privacy,” Honoria suggested, “a place where he may rest and allow his wounds to heal.”
“That’s as it may be,” declared Mrs. Chillworth. “If he comes to church on Sunday, we may see for ourselves. If not . . .” Her disdainful shrug condemned the unknown young gentleman to social purgatory.
At that moment, Mrs. Whitehurst’s butler Digby arrived with the tea tray, and talk of the newcomer was allowed to lapse as tea was poured and Cook’s tasty treats sampled.
Pamela found herself juggling the stylized social interaction of afternoon tea with the whirlwind thoughts running through her head. Though gossip and speculation were not signs of good breeding, how could she not be interested in Mrs. Chillworth’s news? Newcomers to Little Heigham were rare. Newcomers described as young gentlemen, even more rare. No matter her deep-seated fears of making a cake of herself, she longed to know more. Was he truly a wounded hero? Or was he running from creditors, from Bow Street runners . . . or possibly, oh horrors, from a cuckolded husband?
And, oh dear . . .
“Mrs. Chillworth,” Pamela burst out, her words tumbling hard upon her aunt’s offer of more tea, “what is the newcomer’s name?”
The vicar’s wife paused with an apple tart half-way to her lips. “Oh dear, did I not say? ’Tis Forsythe. William Forsythe. His valet refers to him as, ‘Major.’ The vicar had it from the innkeeper himself.”
William Forsythe. Major Forsythe. Hero or villain? Plain or handsome? Would he participate in local society or remain a recluse?
Fool! She was nearly one and twenty, no longer a vulnerable young girl. She would put on her caps soon, confirming her spinsterhood . . . though so far her aunt had strictly forbidden it. One of the very few times—until today—Aunt Honoria had quashed her freedom to choose. But she was well and truly on the shelf and had no cause to twitter like a schoolgirl over a . . . a mystery man.
Yet none could say that after the harvest was in, winter in Worcestershire would glitter with excitement, gaiety, or hope of anything more than endless gray days punctuated by church bells tolling for Sunday morning services. So why should she not be interested in a newcomer in their midst?
Perhaps he would attend the Twelfth Night ball.
Ridiculous! A young gentleman with a limp would not be caught dead at a ball.
Or . . . perhaps he would be better in two months’ time, able to join her in a dark corner while they watched others swirl around the dance floor with all the ease and grace . . .
Coward! hissed her common sense. You’re as wounded as your mystery man. Forever condemned to dark corners, never to see the light. Your fault, your fault, yours alone.
Slowly, Pamela put her teacup back on the tray, fixing a look of polite interest on her face as she listened to the two older ladies exchange the remainder of the village’s latest events. Was this her fate then, Pamela wondered, to sit in the drawing room of Appledown Farm, exchanging endless nothings over tea while she grew plump as a Worcestershire apple and her hair turned gray?
Perhaps, just perhaps, when she rode out in the morning, she would take the path that led west toward Mottram Manor.
Chapter Four
With the aid of a boost from Joseph Tubs, Will swung into the saddle of his trusty charger, Ajax. Pain shot the length of his right leg as it cleared the bay stallion’s back, and for a moment former Major William Forsythe sat his horse like a sack of grain while his vision pulsed with shades of gray, threatening to fade to black.
“Major!” Tubs’s anxious note pierced his agony. “Told you ’twas a demmed fool stunt to ride so soon.”
Will forced his back to ramrod straight, gritted his teeth as his right foot found the stirrup. “I came to Mottram to recuperate, corporal, not sit on my backside and moulder into dust. Now stand aside, and leave me be.”
“Ye’ll take a groom, sir,” Tubs asserted.
“I will not.” Will gave Ajax h
is head and thundered out of the paddock, as if it had been yesterday, instead of five months, since he’d last sat a horse. His leg might hurt like the devil and his shoulder twinge with every yard of ground covered, but he was free at last. Free to fight his way back to the man he once was.
If that were possible. A grimace, not of pain, crossed his face. Truth be told, he was never going to be the man he once was. And perhaps that was just as well. He’d lived too long on the surface of life, his course mapped out at an early age, with nary a doubt. He was to be a soldier, do his duty to God and King, enjoy a goodly share of roistering and camaraderie, and risk his life when the occasion demanded it. And he’d done exactly that, living a charmed life through his years on the Peninsula, with nothing more than minor wounds. His reward? Assignment to the troops guarding the heads of Europe’s noblest houses as they partied far more than they negotiated at the Congress of Vienna.
And then came Waterloo. And in his heart, Will knew he’d never be a soldier again. There had to be a way to stop such carnage before it started. A way to put down overweening ambitions before the surge for power became an obsession, destroying everything around it.
Absurd! It was the way of the world, and nothing would ever change. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t try. If he could just break through the miasma of depression that surrounded him . . . If he could put aside the horror of a battlefield littered with dead and dying men, mangled horses, drummer boys who would drum no more . . .
Will snapped back to reality to discover Ajax, sensing his rider’s distraction, had slowed to a walk before the fortress-like walls of Mottram Manor. The former Major Forsythe gazed up at the forbidding frontage where workmen, perched precariously on four separate ladders, were stripping ivy from the walls. A small step in the right direction, but he doubted he’d ever be able to call this place home.
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