by Erin Grace
She brushed a clump of matted hair away from her face, rubbed at the scratches on her scalp and stared in disbelief as her quarry dashed from the yard and into the frost-covered bramble hedge beyond. She’d never catch the little beast now. All that effort for nothing.
Anger, frustration and acute embarrassment swirled within and bubbled into a volatile brew that took every ounce of her restraint to withhold. Arrogant sod. She was sorely tempted to muddy the shine on his highly polished hessian boots.
Refusing to meet his eye she brushed down her skirts, dusted her hands and gathered her hair, tying it into a loose knot at her neck. ‘Thank you for such sage advice, sir. You obviously have vast experience in catching chickens. Perhaps I should call upon your expertise next time? Good day to you.’
She turned on her heel to leave but was stopped by the sudden grip upon her arm.
‘Wait, madam.’
Damn it. She took in a deep breath, painted on a sunny smile and turned to face the person responsible for Mrs Jenkins having to endure yet another night of gruel. ‘I believe I have already thanked you, sir. Surely you do not require more?’ She met his gaze and her breath caught in her chest, every drop of moisture evaporating from her mouth, making coherent speech near impossible. Never had she seen such a magnificent hue as the deep blue within the two eyes fixed upon her. Tousled hair, the color of midnight, framed a masculine face beset with an aquiline nose and a proud, arrogant chin.
Arrogant. Oh, yes. He certainly was that.
Composing her scattered thoughts, she glanced down at his brutish grasp then back at him. ‘It was one matter assisting me to fend off an outraged fowl, but whom do I call upon to help remove you?
He released his hold upon her and frowned.
‘Are you always this courteous toward strangers?’ She raised an eyebrow at his remark. ‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ He shifted his stance and adjusted his gloves. ‘Then I shall endeavor not to press upon your good humor much longer, madam. I take it you are not the elder Mrs Jenkins?’
She crossed her arms, bristling at lofty manner. ‘No. Nor am I the younger. There is only one Mrs Jenkins here. Why do you ask?’
‘Are you related to her?’ ‘Well, no, but I…’
‘Then I shall bid you good day, madam.’ With a brush of his hand, he dismissed her and walked toward the old thatched cottage.
Stunned, she considered calling out after him, but she didn’t even know the ingrates name. ‘Wait. Sir. You just can’t go barging in there unannounced.’
Though her friend didn’t frighten easily, it didn’t seem proper to allow a stranger to visit her alone. She started after him but stopped when he ceased walking and turned to her.
‘Thank you for your advice, madam. But I rarely barge in anywhere.’ ‘Regardless, I may not be her family, but I am Mrs Jenkins’s friend and I shall see to it she knows you are here.’
‘Thank you.’ A rueful smile touched his lips. ‘You are all that is good and gracious, madam. However, I believe I can manage. Besides, my business with Mrs Jenkins is a private matter and doesn’t require your interference.’
‘I am not intending to interfere. And, she will be expecting me to at least say goodbye.’
‘Have no fear. I shall give her your regards, madam.’
‘But, how can you give her my regards when you don’t even know…my… name?’
Her shoulders sagged, and a sigh escaped her, as he touched the edge of his hat, inclined his head then continued on his path, walking stick in hand.
Wretched man. Honestly, she had encountered men with better manners at the local tavern – not that she’d ventured into the Red Lion very often.
Frustrated, she brushed the damp grass from her skirts and began pacing the ground. She should go after him. But, the last thing she wanted to do was give the wretch the satisfaction of thinking she was being nosey or overbearing. Mrs Jenkins may fret if she didn’t say goodbye, despite his reassurances. Unsure of what to do, she let out a soft groan, placed her bonnet back on her head then hastily tied up the ribbons.
The sad fact was her curiosity was starting to get the better of her.
‘Blast it all.’ She turned on her heel and began striding hard toward the village as tiny white snowflakes fluttered down from the heavy grey sky. Stupid man. Taking up all her time, when she could have been preparing supper for her friend. Her aunt was going to have her head as it was for being late.
Guilt nudged her conscience as she thought about leaving her friend, but she couldn’t simply force her way into the cottage like some mad fool. Perhaps it really was a private matter and Mrs Jenkins would be upset by her presence there?
Very well. She would get up early and call by to see the old lady in the morning. Mrs Jenkins will understand her not saying goodbye once she explained what happened. Tripping over a stone buried beneath the slurry of ice and mud, she cursed under her breath but kept on walking as her cold toes throbbed with pain.
Mark her words, if she ever met the horrid man again she was going to give him a sound dressing down about manners, courtesy and interfering with the apprehension of a rogue chicken.
Gabriel paused before the large, carved library doors, closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The air was cool but tainted with a familiar stale odor from the many ancient tapestries adorning the walls, bringing with it a lifetime of memories.
Unfortunately, few of them were good.
In fact, the last time he stood within the marble lined corridors of Etford Park, the very foundations shook from the shouting rage between him and his brother Henry.
He glanced along the hallway leading to the Green Room, half expecting his elder brother to appear at any moment and continue their quarrel. But such a moment would never happen.
Henry was dead.
Only a few days before, he’d been breakfasting in his London apartment when he’d received the letter from his father’s solicitor. Many who did not know him personally would have been shocked that his father hadn’t taken the time to write him directly, but it didn’t surprise him in the least.
When he’d fought with Henry his father had made it very clear he was no longer welcome at Etford. Deep inside he’d often wondered if his father had been seeking a way to make him leave the family, and by fighting with Henry, he had handed him the key.
But, as he’d already learned on many occasions, fate had other ideas.
A wry smile twisted one corner of his mouth. His presence at Etford must be the bitterest pill his father has ever swallowed. He was certain his lordship would never have imagined his precious first born to be anything but immortal.
And now, left with little choice, he was being summoned to wear boots he could never hope to fill.
He reached out and held one of the cool brass handles in his hand. Their butler, Thompson, had wanted to announce him, but he’d insisted to do it himself. Not to make his arrival a surprise, but his father took every opportunity to admonish him in front of the staff. He’d not give him the opportunity – at least not this once.
He gripped the second handle, twisted them then pushed forward. The doors opened on a soft sigh, the same faint cry he’d heard all his life. As a child the sound reminded of someone sad, such was his imagination. Though glancing around at the staid dark curtains, poor light and suffocating atmosphere there was very little in the room to recommend it for being cheery. More often than not, a visit to the library meant he was in some kind of trouble and severe punishments would be dealt out.
All of a sudden, he felt ten years old.
‘I suppose you think it clever keeping your father waiting.’
He froze a moment and stared at the back of the immense winged-back chair sitting by the hearth. The chair’s rich dark leather, studded with brass tacks, gleamed softly in the firelight.
‘My apologies, sir. I had intended on being here earlier, however, there was an urgent errand I had to attend to.’
‘Hmph. Naturally. Alw
ays something more important than your own family.’
He bit back his retort, refusing to be baited by the man within five minutes of returning home. He removed his hat and gloves, tossed them onto a nearby settee then approached the mantel.
‘Again, my apologies, my lord. If I have kept you waiting…’
‘Kept me waiting? Do you think I simply spend my time waiting on others? If so, then you obviously have the wrong person. If you were anyone else, I’d put your tardiness down to a lack of breeding, however, this would reflect poorly on myself. And, considering how well your brother turned out, I am confident my skills at raising you are not to blame.’
Under the weight of his father’s critical barrage, he stood there, taking a moment to survey the man sitting in the chair, his knees covered with a fur rug.
Barnabas Holsworthy had aged.
It shocked him to see the deep lines etched over what was once considered a proud, handsome face. Though his father was in his late fifties, he still exuded the strong, masculine features his brother Henry had inherited. Both had deep golden hair, refined nose and a lean, graceful build. He, on the other hand, was tall with black hair, heavier build and harsher features. If it weren’t for the fact he had his father’s eyes, he could easily be accused of not being his lordship’s son.
Next to Henry, he truly was the dark horse. ‘Lost your tongue as well as the use of your leg?’
His fingers clenched around the silver top of his cane. ‘I haven’t lost the use of my leg, sir. However, it may take a while for the wound to heal. I understand having an invalid son would be most inconvenient for you.’
‘Impertinent, sir!’
Never would he admit to the burning pain and soul wrenching ache he endured from the injury. So many nights he’d spent with brandy in hand, the nightmares of battle keeping him company until the sun broke through the dawn sky. So severe had been the wound, the surgeon had said a mere inch or so more and the blade would have severed major tendons in his thigh. He was fortunate to be walking at all.
‘Forgive me. I presume having me return as heir to Etford in Henry’s stead must be painful for you, my lord. Please believe me when I tell you it would give me no small measure of happiness to see my brother alive.’
‘Hah. Indeed. I very much doubt you have the slightest inclinations about my feelings, considering it has taken you nearly eight months to show your face again since returning to England. However, the fact remains you are here now. And as my only heir, I must tolerate your presence.’
Welcome home.
Chapter 3
Annabelle was waiting for her by the back gate of the vicarage.
Peering through the kitchen window, she smiled as her sleepy-eyed friend raised a gloved hand to her mouth and stifled an unladylike yawn. Annabelle never did care for rising early but had insisted on accompanying her to check in on Mrs Jenkins – especially after she had mentioned the handsome stranger to her during last night’s choir practice.
Handsome?
An odd little rush of warmth tingled at her cheeks as she recalled the gentleman’s riveting blue gaze. She glanced down to where he’d gripped her arm, and although he really hadn’t hurt her it was as if she could still feel him there. Though complete strangers, his brief hold on her had seemed almost possessive. And, even through his fine black leather gloves and the sleeve of her coat, her skin had warmed to the heat of his touch, his power and strength making her heart race.
Good lord. Surprised to find her mouth open, she moistened her dry lips and cleared her throat. What nonsense, dwelling over some ill-mannered man who didn’t care to introduce himself. Well, whoever the wretch was she doubted she would ever see him again, and for the best. Men like him were clearly the result of an unrefined upbringing.
Banishing all thoughts of blue eyes and strong hands to the back of her mind, she carefully opened the kitchen door, the house quiet as her aunt and uncle slept soundly. Her mother had risen with her before the sunrise, packing the old wooden cart with goods for the market. Twice a week Mama ventured to the neighboring village in the hope of selling some of the jams, relishes and preserves she’d made with the permission of her aunt, Henrietta Talbot.
But there were strict conditions attached to her aunt’s ‘generosity’.
Firstly, her mama could only use the bruised fruits and unwanted vegetables from the garden plot. Secondly, mama had to reimburse her aunt any money for sugar or salt used to make the preserves. And thirdly, in the name of room and board, Henrietta demanded half the money earned from the sale of the goods.
Although she never dared ask her mother how much she earned, and lost to Henrietta, her mama seemed content to take whatever she could.
As she ventured out into the frosty morning air, anger warmed her blood at the thought of how much work her young sister, Stephaney, put into the vegetable patch. She had to admit, her sibling was a natural at gardening and had a special way with animals – talents Henrietta recognized immediately and exploited to their fullest.
Though only twelve, Stephaney would be up early every day helping care for the two mangy horses her uncle used to pull his hackney and work cart. The rest of the day, she would be in the gardens, tending the chickens and rabbits. Only three times a week would Henrietta allow their mother to teach her sister some school lessons.
Oh, to one day earn enough to allow her mama to rest! Somehow, she would find a way. She adjusted her gloves, grabbed the basket of vegetables for Mrs Jenkins from the back stoop and made her way to the cottage gate.
If she was fortunate, Henrietta wouldn’t see her depart, lest her aunt find more chores for her to do. Honestly, the woman’s list was endless. In the eleven months since she’d arrive in Speckles Wood, she must have polished her aunt’s armoire almost daily.
The moment Henrietta spied a speck of dust on any of the furniture she would be summoned to polish every piece in the room.
But this morning she had more pressing concerns.
As she gripped the basket’s handle, a deep sense of anxiousness flooded her chest. She should have stayed behind yesterday to make certain Mrs Jenkins was in no harm. What on earth could that stranger have wanted with her old friend? And, Lord forgive her for not getting the wretched man’s name!
Her stomach began tying itself in knots. The sooner she got to the cottage the better.
‘Lily. Good morning.’
The sight of Annabelle Smythe brought back a much-needed smile to her face. From the very first day she’d moved to Speckles Wood, Annabelle had never failed to cheer her up.
Oh, how she envied her friend. Annabelle had been blessed with a softly rounded figure, ample bosom, golden hair and cornflower blue eyes.
Next to Annabelle, she may as well be one of her uncle’s horses.
She stood nearly a full head taller than Annabelle, her long legs the bane of her existence. Then of course was her red hair and green eyes to complete a less than desirable effect.
Her saving grace was the fact the freckles which had plagued the better part of her childhood had mostly faded, leaving just a fine trail over the bridge of her nose.
‘Good morning, Annabelle. How are your ears today?’
Annabelle rolled her eyes. ‘Still ringing with all that dreadful noise, I’m afraid. Honestly, this has to be the worst Christmas choir yet. The children will never learn all the words in time. Mr Peterson can’t keep in time to the music, and Mrs Longridge clearly refuses to do anything but screech her solo so loud it could be heard in the next village.’
‘And, I suppose it doesn’t help having my aunt disrupt rehearsals?’
‘Disrupt? After her tenth ‘suggestion’, I was ready to hand the whole mess over to her.’
Poor Annabelle. This had been the third year her aunt had conscripted her friend into being the choir mistress. This, in itself, wasn’t a task Annabelle disliked. In fact, her friend was well known for her talent in music. But when Henrietta decided to get involved, there was li
ttle chance on anyone else getting a word in.
‘Don’t fret, Anna. It will all come together before Christmas. You’ll see.’
‘I have my doubts, Lily. Which reminds me, I still could use an extra voice. Are you certain you won’t change your mind and sing with us?’
She shook her head, her chest suddenly heavy. ‘I’m sorry. I have a terrible voice. Believe me when I say that I’m doing you a great favor by not singing.’
But, in truth, her voice wasn’t considered that poor. She just couldn’t bring herself to get involved with anything closely connected to Christmas. It would soon be a year since her beloved papa died, and celebrating was the last thing she wanted to do.
Her friend’s exasperated expression told her a change of subject was in order. ‘What a lovely coat. Is it new? You always did look pretty in lavender.’
Increasing the pace of her stride, Annabelle had to dash after her. ‘Oh, thank you. My, you are in a hurry today.’
‘Yes. I have much to do at my aunt’s house.’ She could never bear to call it home. No. Home was a place where all the people loved and cared for each other. ‘And, I thought it best to get an early start and visit Mrs Jenkins first. You know how my aunt is. If I am late with her chores, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Speaking of hearing from someone. Has Mrs Jenkins heard any news from her grandson as yet?’
‘No. He appears to be missing, but she hopes he has merely become lost amongst the confusion of the military.’
‘Yes. I do hope that is the case.’
So, did she.
Mrs Jenkins had told her on many occasions that she wouldn’t know what to do without her grandson to help support her. He simply had to be all right.
She shot her friend a bright smile but kept walking. ‘I’m sure he is fine. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she is reading a letter from him this very instant. And, speaking of young men, I couldn’t help but notice a certain gentleman watching you in rehearsals yesterday.’ She laughed as Annabelle’s cheeks flamed crimson.
