Mandy grimaced—and not from the heat of the soup. She had come to Hungerford in an attempt to dispel her melancholy, and here she was, with signs of spring burgeoning around her, her heart trapped in winter. As bound by her absurd fantasy of love as ever. How could an intelligent, sensible female be so abysmally foolish?
She broke off a chunk of bread still warm from the oven, buttered it, and chewed slowly, gazing, unseeing, at the garden outside the window. She was not Isolde, Eloise, or that impossible child, Juliet. The life of Amanda Merriwether was not going to end in tragedy. She would not allow it. And, besides, it took two lovers to create those tragic couples. She was alone, merely another silly female wearing the willow for a man who had spurned her. A much too common occurrence to make the stuff of tragedy.
Mandy returned to her soup just as the sound of light wheels sounded in the courtyard outside. Another local braving the weather without a coach? A rush of air as the outer door flew open, an exchange of hearty male voices in the next room, footsteps, and then Mandy saw the tapster’s face light with recognition.
“M’lord, welcome back! Come from Lunnon, have you?”
“Thank you, Mills. A pint, if you please, to take off the chill.” The gentleman swept off his beaver and swiftly pulled off his driving gloves, slapping them onto a table near the fire, where he sprawled in a chair, obviously enjoying his respite from the chill March wind.
Mandy’s hand paused halfway to her mouth, where it shook for a moment before she managed to slowly lower the spoon onto her plate. She kept her gaze fixed on her soup bowl, unable to eat another bite. In truth, she very much feared what she had already swallowed might come back up at any moment. Montsale? Here?
Whyever should he not be here? Hungerford was on the direct road from London to High Meadows.
But on this day, at this particular moment? Mandy railed against the capriciousness of Fate. For the life of her, she could not decide if today’s Fate was kind or cruel.
Perhaps he would simply continue to gaze into the fire and never notice she was there.
She’d been so comfortable, so delighted to be back at The Bear, and now she could not eat, dared not move. She quivered from head to toe, her stomach rumbling ominously. Keeping her head down, she could only peer out the window at the garden and hope she was invisible.
Bourne gulped a long swallow of The Bear’s home-brewed. Ah! That was better. Whatever had possessed him to set out for High Meadows in his curricle when winter still clung to the land and his woolen greatcoat seemed as little protection as a coat of flimsy muslin?
Truth be told . . . a fine pair of green eyes and a guilty conscience. She’d been right, the little termagant. He’d shown a sad lack of character, bowing to Carewe’s every command. And yet he’d told himself he was protecting her. He could not marry her; therefore he must stay away, lest he give in to his baser self and seduce the girl. And Haymarketware she most certainly was not.
Which meant he should not be on his way to High Meadows.
Yet here he was, doing exactly what he had vowed not to do. But two nights ago, when he’d had to support Jeremy home after yet another night of gaming and far too much brandy, he’d been so overcome by thoughts of High Meadows that he left London the very next morning, with no more notice than a note telling his brother where he had gone.
High Meadows indeed. It was not High Meadows or interest in the progress of the Challenor Tunnel that drew him home. It was—devil take it!—Miss Amanda Merriwether, with whom he quarreled every time they met. And yet . . .
Agitated, Bourne swung around toward the tapster’s high counter, calling for another pint. He was turning back toward the fire when his shoulders skidded to a stop. He blinked. Not possible! His obsession with the little witch had driven him mad, turning every female into her replica. Very slowly, he turned back, peering from under lowered lashes at the woman by the garden window. The woman who was giving him her back. Just because he could see a few bronze curls peeping out from under her bonnet didn’t mean . . .
The size was right, the set of her shoulders was not. Amanda Merriwether’s shoulders were forever stiff, upright, proud as a princess. This woman was slumped into herself, almost as if she hoped to make herself invisible.
“Mills,” the marquess asked as the tapster delivered his pint, “do you know the young lady by the window?”
“Aye, my lord. ’Tis Miss Merriwether. She and her pa stayed here for many a month when they wuz digging the canal. They’re at the Cross Keys in Great—ah, but you must know the lady, my lord. Be’int they digging a tunnel at High Meadows?”
“Indeed I do, Mills. Indeed I do.”
The tapster, after venturing a wink, returned to his bottles and kegs. The Marquess of Montsale, a tiny smile curling his customarily impassive features, rose and crossed the room.
“Miss Merriwether?” The shoulders so ostentatiously turned toward the garden did not so much as twitch. “I beg your pardon for disturbing your view of such lush blooms, Miss Merriwether, but you cannot accuse me of being forward when our acquaintance goes back so many years.”
She swung ’round with an outraged gasp. “I have no quibble with the quantity of years of our acquaintance, my lord, merely the quality.”
Bourne clutched his chest, his face contorting into mock pain. “A hit, a veritable hit.” When this bit of play-acting produced not a hint of a smile, he straightened, staring down at her, hands on his hips, a slight frown marring his handsome features. “Your tongue has become worthy of fencing in the highest circles,” he observed. “Keep it up, and the ton will welcome you with open arms.”
“With the proper nobility on my family tree, that might be so,” Miss Merriwether returned coolly, “but from the daughter of a tradesman, you know quite well such words would be considered a shocking impertinence.”
“Yet with me you have indulged in impertinence from the moment we met.” A look of pain, swiftly masked, crossed her face before she dropped her gaze to her unfinished soup and kept it there. “May I join you?” Bourne asked, lowering himself to the chair across from her before she had time to refuse.
“Do not, I beg of you, offer excuses,” she said in a stifled voice, keeping her head so low the brim of her bonnet completely shadowed her face. “Oh!” Her hands flew to her face. “I should not have said that, I meant nothing by it, I assure you. I . . .” Miss Merriwether fished in her reticule for a handkerchief, wiping at tears Bourne could only guess at as he could not catch so much as a glimpse of her face behind the brim of her bonnet. “Go away,” she choked out. “Just go away. I have no conversation today, no repartee. I wish to be left alone.”
Impossible! His Miss Merriwether would never cry coward. He reached for the brim of her bonnet, intending to coax it to one side.
“Don’t touch me!”
He snatched his hand back, as conscious of the sudden sharp glances of the tapster and other occupants of the common room as if he had never been taught that dukes and their heirs did not give a rap what anyone cared.
Slowly, as if walking naked through a dream, he stood, tossed coins to the tapster, with a flick of his eyes to indicate he was paying for Miss Merriwether as well as himself, grabbed up his hat and gloves, and stalked out of the room. In the courtyard he stood, staring blindly at his curricle, seeing only Miss Merriwether’s bowed head, hearing her fierce, “Don’t touch me!”
He had tried to cut the connection, indeed he had, for never had he wanted to hurt her. Yet obviously it was far too late, the damage done.
But for whom did she weep? For him? For Jeremy? Or only for herself?
More like only her pride was damaged, not her heart. Had she not cast out lures to both Challenors before having them torn from her, undoubtedly resulting in I-told-you-so looks punctuated by openly mocking comments from the Bath tabbies . . .
Yet he’d set out for High Meadows this morning because he had to see her, had to say he was sorry. Had to assure her he was strong enough to
love where he pleased . . .
And where had love come from?
He’d set out for High Meadows because he could no longer stay away, but love had nothing to do with it. He was overwhelmed by the need to speak with her, exchange barbs as they were wont to do. To castigate the foibles of society, even as he recognized the irony of his being immersed in it from shining black boots to the soft fur of his equally dark beaver. He needed . . .
He wanted . . .
Had to have . . .
“M’lord?” His groom, venturing a most puzzled look.
Bourne scowled at his waiting curricle, painted black, the two wheels picked out in yellow. At his matched bays, growing restless in the cold. Should he turn left, continuing his journey toward High Meadows? Or concede the utter futility of his desires and turn right, taking the post road back to London and the rarified world into which he was born?
Chapter Twelve
Outwardly, the next day began like all the other days at the Challenor Tunnel, with a contingent of navvies far inside the hill at the head of the dig, another group widening and smoothing what had already been dug, and a third group nearest the opening, carefully bricking the sides and overhead arch. While one of the engineers constantly checked his instruments to make certain the dimensions of the finished tunnel would accommodate the fourteen-foot width of a narrowboat.
John Merriwether, declaring that no one would have to “leg” his way through the 502 feet of the Challenor Tunnel, had decided to embed a chain along the wall. “Legging” was the common practice of two boatmen lying flat, one on each side of the narrowboat and using their feet to propel the boat through a tunnel. With a chain set into the wall, the boatmen could simply pull the boat through.
Mandy’s lips curled in a momentary smile as she remembered Papa’s pleasure when he came up with the idea of using a chain to free the boatmen from the ignominious and exhausting practice of “legging.” But in the next instant her life outside the canal came crashing back as she found herself scanning the tow path that led to the nearest bridge. The path Montsale would use . . . if he came.
Don’t touch me!
Of course he wasn’t coming. She had given him a disgust of her, ended it forever. Whatever it was.
He’d gone back to London, of course. And good riddance. For what use was he here except to turn her constant dull ache into raging pain that surely must rend her limb from limb . . .
Heaven forfend! Had she become one of those shockingly helpless females right out of the pages of Mrs. Radcliffe? No, indeed. Two could play the game of indifference. It might take a bit of maneuvering to recover from her mortifying demonstration of maidenly sensibility in Hungerford. But do it she must.
Not that there was anything she could do if the coward had turned tail and run back to town . . .
A rumble, the unmistakable sound of falling earth, falling rocks. Shouts. Pounding feet. A giant cloud of dust erupting from the tunnel. The navvies who had been bricking came flying out, clustering together at the tunnel mouth, attempting to peer through the cloud of impenetrable dust.
The rumbles ceased, shouts fading into silence as everyone stared at the tunnel mouth waiting for more men to emerge.
Gradually, the cloud of dust thinned, beginning to settle over the watchers, the river, the greenery . . . Of two dozen men, not a single soul came out.
Jeb Banks, Mandy thought. At the tunnel head, as always. Jeb, always reliable, good-natured, friendly. She knew all of them. Perhaps not as well as Jeb, but she knew every man who worked on the tunnel. Each Saturday she personally handed them their wages. She had, in fact, been calculating pay packets since she was fourteen. These were her people, and never would she forget it.
“Lanterns!” John Merriwether called. Two minutes later he and Alan Tharp were sliding down the bank, the brick-layers making way, offering to form a rescue party.
“Guv’nor, ay, Guv!” A man, covered in dust and dirt from head to toe, stumbled out of the tunnel. “Jeb sez t’tell y’ it ain’t as bad as it looks. Five men down, but we’ll have ‘em out in a jiffy. Nothin’ worse’n bloody ’eads and some powerful bruises.”
After a gasp of relief, Mandy ran into the tent, swiftly clearing the largest work table and spreading out bandages, scissors, and ointment from the medicine chest that was as much a part of their lives as drawing boards and survey equipment. What if more of the ceiling should come down while Papa and Alan were inside? What if . . .?
No time for worrying. She’d known countless emergencies in the past. This was just one more. Or so she told herself. Mandy tied a white bibbed apron over her drab brown woolen gown before filling an enameled basin from a water keg in the corner and placing, lye soap, and a flask of brandy next to it. Some of the brandy, she knew, would escape its duty swabbing wounds to find its way down needy throats. Brandy was a restorative, was it not?
Wounded men began to stagger out of the tunnel, each supported by one or two other navvies. Fortunately, only four required Mandy’s attention, and none of the injuries were serious. She was watching the last of them, his bandages neatly in place, drain the last few drops in the flask, when she heard Luke’s voice: “Oh, I say, isn’t that Montsale?”
Oh, no! Mandy glanced down at her apron, streaked with blood and grime, and hastily jerked it off, thrusting it into a ball under the worktable, though not before remembering to wipe her equally bloody and blackened hands. Another look down her front, and she groaned. Dripping water had soaked through her apron, dampening her gown to the verge of indecent. A quick feel revealed hair flying in every direction, and there could be no doubt her face was likely as streaked with blood and dirt as her apron. Frantically, she searched for her bonnet, slapped it against the side of the table to banish the dust, and jammed it on her head. Blast the man! How could he pick such an inopportune moment for a visit.
Was this was a duty call because he’d heard about the cave-in? Or . . .was it possibly a foray to test the waters? Namely, Miss Merriwether’s temper.
Ignoring both navvies and engineers, the marquess rode straight for the command pavilion where Mandy stood, her fine features fixed in a look of polite curiosity as chill as the gray March day. From the back of his stallion, Montsale proffered a stiff nod. “Miss Merriwether. One of my tenants informed me there was a problem today. I trust no one was hurt.”
“Cave-ins are common when digging a tunnel, my lord. And dangerous. Which is why we prefer to cut instead of tunnel.”
Montsale drew in a deep breath. Mandy could almost hear the caustic words leaping into his mind, only to be rejected. “You have not answered my question, Miss Merriwether,” he returned smoothly. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Not if you discount cuts, scrapes, and several very sore heads.”
Several moments of seething silence before he offered, “I am glad to hear it.” Another awkward pause. “I would not, for myself, have insisted upon the tunnel. I hope you realize that.” Why? Bourne wondered. Why did they always quarrel?
“Miss Merriwether,” the marquess continued in an entirely different tone, “I have come to invite you, your father, and his engineers to dine with me Sunday next. I–I have been remiss in not inviting you long before . . . but, as you know, I was not in residence last year and . . .”
Devil a bit! He was never this awkward. Not with invitations, not with females. Only with his nemesis, Miss Amanda Merriwether.
Who was eyeing him with considerable astonishment. “All of us?” she inquired.
“It is scarcely an army. Three engineers besides your father and yourself. I doubt Cook will take fright and run, though there’s little doubt the staff has become lazy in my long absence.” Not so much as a quirk of her lips, when the Amanda Merriwether he knew in the past had never failed to smile at his jests.
“You see them there on the bank, my lord. I suggest you ask them yourself. For my part I am quite agreeable to seeing the view that has cost the canal company four years’ labor and thousands of ad
ditional pounds.” She proffered a nod, lifted the flap of the tent, and went inside.
Females! What in the name of the devil and all his minions had made him think he was beginning to understand them? After yesterday’s display of high temperament in Hungerford, he should have known better than to try his hand yet again.
He should have gone straight back to London.
But the invitation had been issued, there was no going back. Bourne turned his black stallion toward the knot of engineers hovering above the coffer dam on the bank of the River Avon.
“Come early,” Montsale had said, “so you can tour the house before dark.” Mandy, sitting beside her father in their gig, sniffed. “Come early to see the view” is what he’d meant. The precious view that meant four years of digging and danger.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Alan Tharp rode up beside them. “Will we find the view worth it?” he called to her papa.
“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, the lot of you, and that includes you, my little shrew,” John declared with a nod toward Mandy. “Tharp, be sure you remind the boys I expect their best behavior. ’Tisn’t often we dine with nobility.”
Mandy winced, hoping Luke and Peter had not heard themselves referred to as “boys.” But of course Papa was right. They were in their third season of digging the Challenor Tunnel and this was the very first invitation from the marquess . . .
Unfair. Two years ago he had fed them lunch every other day for close on six weeks.
Not the same, Mandy asserted, eyes flashing. But, truthfully, there was nothing in the code of noblesse oblige that said a marquess was expected to dine with the tradesmen, no matter how well educated, who were digging a hole through his land.
Lady of the Lock Page 10
