The man was unbending, and it scraped on her last nerve. “Very well.” Lucinda crossed her arms. “I would like to see the ledgers, too. I want to learn everything about Ravensbrook’s finances.”
To her surprise, Riel gave her a steady, considering look. “All right,” he said. “In two years you will be responsible for them. It’s a good idea for you to learn about them now.”
Lucinda felt a flush of pleasure…and a flare of unease, too. Learning about the books meant she’d have to work closely with Riel. But perhaps that would be a blessing in disguise. Three days remained to discover the chinks in his armor. The time spent together, learning how to run Ravensbrook, would provide her with ample opportunity to discover his weaknesses and use them to her best advantage.
If all went well, not only would she learn how to run the estate, but she’d discover a way to convince him to leave before he signed the final documents. Lucinda settled back, feeling her first flicker of hope in hours.
Chapter Four
Happily, the village modiste had a length of black bombazine silk on hand. She agreed to sew it into a dress immediately. Since she knew Lucinda’s measurements, the fitting did not take long. She promised the dress would be ready in time for the funeral tomorrow.
Twenty pounds remained when Lucinda and Montclair headed for the parsonage attached to the village church. Lucinda had stuffed the money into her reticule, after snatching it from the seamstress when she’d held out the change to Riel.
“If it is all right, I will leave you here to speak to Pastor Bilford,” Riel said, offering her an arm to step down from the carriage. For the sake of polite courtesy, her fingertips touched his proffered arm for the briefest moment possible. Even in that fleeting touch, she felt the raw strength of him. It disturbed her. He said, “I need to visit the mercantile.”
“Very well. I am pleased to take your leave, Mr. Montclair.” She turned away and headed down the pebbled path to the parsonage. Guilt for her dreadful manners assailed her conscience, and she bit back the apology that rose in her throat. Had her rude comment bothered him? No sound came from behind her, as if Riel watched her. And then the sound of boots on gravel reached her ears, and the carriage rolled down the country lane.
Unfortunately, the idea of prickling under Riel’s skin elicited a wicked feeling of pleasure. Definitely not a good thing, Lucinda thought with a further sting of remorse, and glanced at the church. If only he wasn’t such a thorn in her side. If only he would go away, then she would not have to behave like an annoying fox hound.
An unexpected thought crossed her mind. If she behaved badly enough—if she managed to infuriate him so frightfully that he couldn’t stand to be near her—would he run from Ravensbrook? What was the saying in Proverbs? Better a corner of a roof than living in a house with a quarrelsome woman?
Well, maybe not quarrelsome. That did not appeal. Neither did acting like a harridan.
But if it worked… Would it be worth the cost, she wondered. Could she stomach behaving like a vixen for the next three days? The self-inflicted wounds to her self-respect might prove difficult to mend. Especially since she had struggled so hard over the last year to try to conform to the mature requirements of a young lady. This plot might erase all of her gains.
In truth, the plan did not appeal at all, but as of right now, she could think of no other way to convince Mr. Montclair to leave.
She climbed the step and rapped on the parsonage door.
Mrs. Bilford, a thin, sprightly woman with coiled iron gray hair and snapping black eyes saw Lucinda and said merely, “Lucinda,” before wrapping her in a tight hug. “My child. I am so sorry. Won’t you please come in?”
Lucinda blinked back tears. “Thank you.” She followed Mrs. Bilford into the crowded front parlor. A secretary desk sat in one corner and a large wooden wardrobe in another. The room also contained a horsehair couch and an armchair. All sorts of knickknacks were scattered on every available surface.
“Please sit down. I will fetch the tea and send in Mr. Bilford.”
Lucinda had always thought it funny the Bilfords called each other Mr. and Mrs. Bilford. A faint smile touched her lips as she sat on the slippery couch, but it vanished as she waited. What would she say to the pastor? How did one go about arranging a funeral service?
Mr. Bilford hurried in with his wife, who carried the tea tray. “Lucinda.” He pressed her hands between his own. His kind eyes, behind round spectacles, looked concerned, and his bushy gray brows furrowed together. “I am so sorry. Your father was a good man.”
“Thank you,” Lucinda whispered, and bit her lip. Mrs. Bilford looked on, worried lines crinkling her forehead. The kindness and concern in both of their eyes was suddenly too much, and Lucinda burst into tears. Flustered, she fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief, but Mr. Bilford pressed one into her hand, instead.
“It’s good to cry,” he said gently. “You miss him very much. So will we all.”
“Y…yes,” Lucinda sniffed, and tried to blot the tears from her eyes. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t stop.
Mr. Bilford gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder and sat in an adjacent chair. “Take all the time you need.”
Lucinda did not like to weep in front of others. She’d much rather cry in private and keep her deep emotions to herself. It felt strange and frightening that she couldn’t stop crying. At long last, however, her sniffling sobs shuddered to a stop.
“There.” Mrs. Bilford pressed a clean hanky into her hand.
“Don’t be surprised if you weep often in the next few weeks,” Mr. Bilford said kindly. “Little things will set you off. Take advantage of those times and cry. You need to grieve.”
Lucinda nodded, but couldn’t speak.
“And pray to God when you feel down, Lucinda. I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you this. He cares for you and will give you comfort.”
“I’ll try,” she said in a small voice. Goodness knew, she didn’t pray enough. Hadn’t Riel been the one to remind her to pray at dinner last night?
Pastor Bilford said, “And always remember this; your father is in heaven. It’s a wonderful, glorious place, and some day you will see him again.”
Lucinda’s mind flashed to all of her misdeeds; many of them recent. “I hope I will,” she mumbled.
Pastor Bilford chuckled. “Faith pleases God, Lucinda. If you’ve committed transgressions, repent and move on.”
What if she planned more transgressions? Lucinda felt uncomfortable, and decided to change the subject.
“We’re having Father’s funeral tomorrow evening at Ravensbrook. Will you be able to conduct the service?”
“I would be honored. If you wish, I will arrange the burial as well. In your family plot?”
“Yes.” Grateful tears hovered, but she managed to blink them back. “Thank you. And I wondered about a grave stone.”
Pastor Bilford motioned to his wife, and she immediately turned to the desk and withdrew a paper, quill and ink. “I will commission one made. Write what you would like engraved on the stone.”
Lucinda accepted the items. But her quill hovered, unmoving, over the paper. Part of her could not believe she was about to write words that would commemorate her father’s grave forever. It seemed a momentous task. Her words would be read for centuries to come.
She drew a breath, and tried to marshal her thoughts. Above all, she wanted everyone who read the epitaph to know a little about her father. She did not want him forgotten. Not ever.
After a long hesitation, she dipped quill into ink and wrote, “Peter Hastings, Earl of Ravensbrook, Commodore in the Royal Navy, professor, well loved for always. 1759 – 1812.”
Hands trembling, she handed the sheet to Mr. Bilford. He smiled when he read it. “Very good. The stone should be ready in about three weeks.”
Lucinda reached into her reticule and pulled out the twenty pounds. “Will this be enough? Or will it cost more?”
Mr. Bilford accepted the money.
“A few pounds more, but don’t worry. We can collect it in the future, Miss Lucinda.”
A knock sounded at the door, and every intuitive fiber in Lucinda said it was Riel. She stood, clutching her bag. “It’s time for me to go.”
Mrs. Bilford welcomed Riel inside. Montclair looked very large standing in the doorway, with his black clothing accenting the lean, muscular lines of his body. He bowed over Mrs. Bilford’s hand and introductions were made. Neither the pastor nor his wife seemed put off by Riel’s long hair, pulled back in a tail, nor his unfashionable preference not to wear a cravat.
“I’ve just finished,” Lucinda said, clutching her reticule tightly. She wanted to go. She didn’t want Riel to guess at the tears she had shed here, nor the vulnerable emotions that still threatened to engulf her.
His black eyes ran over her face. “All is well?” he asked quietly.
Lucinda bit her lip and glanced at Pastor Bilford. “All is arranged.”
“Is more money required for the stone?”
“Yes, but Mr. Bilford said it can wait. Perhaps until Mr. Chase gives you the monthly stipend.”
“I will pay it now.” Riel pulled a money clip from his inner jacket, and when Pastor Bilford named the remaining sum, he paid it in full.
Pastor Bilford’s gaze met the younger man’s and he offered a firm handshake. “You will take good care of Lucinda.” It sounded like both a question and a command.
Riel returned the shake. “I will, sir.”
Pastor Bilford smiled. “Good. I will see you both tomorrow night.”
Lucinda followed Riel to the carriage and settled herself inside. “You did not need to do that.” For the first time, uncertainty gripped her. Surely a dishonorable man would not have paid her debt with his own money. Of course, he could replace it later. But still.
“I like to pay debts in full. I do not like owing anything to anyone.”
Lucinda nodded slightly. A policy her father had championed, as well.
She glanced at him, and then away. The man unnerved her, and on more than one level. She didn’t want to admire anything about him. It disrupted her sense of purpose.
At Ravensbrook she hurried inside. She had plans to make. Plans she must carry out, for the good of everyone on the estate. More than that, she needed to rest. Her father’s coffin would arrive this afternoon and she must gather her strength.
* * * * *
Later that afternoon, wagon wheels rattled down the lane to Ravensbrook. With trepidation, Lucinda slid aside a curtain and looked out. Sure enough, an open wagon with a wooden coffin bumped into view. Grief gathered into an aching lump in her throat. Father was home for good. She bit her lip, but refused to cry. It felt as if she’d cried enough for one lifetime already.
A British soldier, clothed in dark blue, accompanied the wagon driver. Following them was a dun colored horse and a rider with long, scruffy blond hair smashed beneath a black, bicorne hat. From this distance, it was hard to guess his age, but his clothes looked worn. Definitely those of a commoner. Who could he be, and why was he accompanying her father’s body to Ravensbrook?
Lucinda gathered her skirts and rose to her feet. She must welcome her father home for the last time.
Blinking quickly, she descended the wide, winding staircase and discovered Mrs. Beatty waiting at the bottom, wringing her hands. “He’s here, miss,” she whispered.
A knock sounded at the door. Riel appeared from Father’s study and strode to open it, but Lucinda lifted her chin and hurried abreast of him. Her father had arrived, and she would welcome him home.
“Excuse me.” With a scampering double-step, she achieved the front door ahead of him. Wilson, the butler, swept it open before her.
“Lady Lucinda.” A tall British soldier bowed. “I am Lieutenant Simmons. I…I am sorry for my duty this day.”
She nodded. “Do come in. Perhaps my father could rest in the parlor.”
“Of course.” He bowed again, and Lucinda, Riel and Mrs. Beatty stood aside as two soldiers carefully carried in the large mahogany box.
It did not seem real that her father lay within that sealed box. Lucinda turned back to the soldier, her vision blurry. “You have had a long journey. Would you like tea, or perhaps refreshments?”
“Thank you Lady Lucinda, but no. We will refresh ourselves in the village. I also have a flag for you, and a tribute written by Admiral Smythe.” He pressed both items into her hands, and then, with another bow, he and the wagon driver made their exit.
Lucinda looked into the parlor, and then anxiously at Mrs. Beatty. She whispered, “Should we leave the door open, or shut?”
“Whatever makes you feel comfortable, miss.”
Lucinda blinked quickly. “We will leave it open. It’s Father’s home. He’s welcome, and he belongs here.”
“Very good, miss. But perhaps you would like a spot of tea in the kitchen?”
“Yes, thank you.” Gratefully, Lucinda latched onto this excuse to move away, at least for a few moments, from the coffin holding her father. It was too much to bear, to know he was in the next room, but would never speak to her again in this lifetime. Sorrow billowed up and tears slipped down her cheeks.
Still, as Mrs. Beatty disappeared, Lucinda glanced back, feeling guilty and remiss in her duty. She should say something to her father, and be with him for a minute, instead of running away like a tearful coward.
Yes. Her father deserved nothing less. Slowly, Lucinda returned to the parlor. “I love you, Father,” she whispered, and touched the box. “Welcome home.”
Tears overflowed, and she sat on a chair and let them come, sniffing and sopping them up with the handkerchief she’d begun to carry with her. Mr. Bilford had said to cry whenever she needed to.
She sniffled into silence. A low rumble of voices tickled her ears. They came from the next room, which was her father’s study. Riel. She frowned, puzzled. To whom was he speaking?
The man on the dun colored horse. Could it be him? She hadn’t seen him enter Ravensbrook, but then again, she had only focused upon her father when the soldier arrived.
Rising to her feet, Lucinda slipped close to the waist high bookcase which was pushed flush against the wall that adjoined with her father’s study. Sure enough, she heard another man’s coarse voice. Not Wilson, the butler’s, for it sounded far too rough. Curiosity and suspicion arose. If he was indeed the man on the horse, why would Riel speak to such a disreputable-looking stranger?
Unless, of course, the man was no stranger to Riel at all, but one of his crewmen. Unsavory, too, by the look of him.
From the first, she had suspected Riel possessed a dark secret. Now could be her opportunity to discover it. A plan sprang to mind. Unfortunately, she knew quite well that her father, lying silently behind her, would have heartily disapproved of her intended course of action.
Lucinda tried to ignore this fact. She pulled out a thick book and found the round peg imbedded in the back of the bookcase. She pushed it hard, and the bookcase shifted left. Quickly, she withdrew her hand and slid the rolling bookcase left. A small, dark opening appeared, about three feet high and two feet wide. It was the only secret passageway Ravensbrook possessed; at least to Lucinda’s knowledge. She’d loved playing in this one as a child.
Stooping, she slipped inside, and swiped at spider webs drooping from the ceiling. A soft, filmy one caressed her face, and she shuddered, although she knew it had to be an old web, for it wasn’t sticky. Not to say there weren’t new ones, and new spiders lurking nearby.
Lucinda shivered again and silently minced four steps to the right inside the secret passageway. No need to announce her presence. Hopefully, if the men heard her, they’d think she was a mouse scuttling within the walls. Lucinda swallowed a gurgle of revulsion and prayed no rodents ran over her toes.
Her fingers skimmed over the wall. And then again…and yet again, searching. It had been years since she’d done this.
Here. At last, she found the recessed l
ever. A gentle push, and the panel slid—thankfully noiselessly—inside, and to the right. Before her, a floor-to-ceiling tapestry concealed her hiding place from the men in the room. Dust motes tickled her nose, and she hastily pinched it shut so she wouldn’t sneeze.
Now she could hear clearly, and she remained still and listened.
“It’s worse’n you think, guvnor,” a raspy voice said. “The Brits say they’ll seize Tradewind if y’don’ comply. Yer to be there Friday.”
Heavy boots paced the floor. “The Admiral said that? In so many words?”
“I’ve a note. Here.”
The crisp snap of a letter opened, and silence ensued. “He breaks his word.” Riel sounded grim.
“What right have we to deny ’im? As you say, if y’don’ want waves, don’ sail in a storm.”
“I’m aware of our predicament. But I cannot leave here yet. Documents must be signed before I can return.”
“Kin you handle the gel?”
“I can handle her.” Again, the words sounded grim. “But I won’t leave until all is settled.”
“Legal, or otherwise?”
Riel did not answer.
“Last thing yer want is to raise suspicion, Cap’n.”
“As I know well.”
Suspicion? Lucinda drew a soft, startled breath, and stopped pinching her nose in order to breathe better. Why would the Royal Navy possibly become suspicious of Riel and his crew?
Her heart pumped faster, and dangerous prickles of excitement danced over her skin. Riel must be running—or hiding—from something. Just as she’d thought. But what could it be? And how could she find out? She leaned closer to the old tapestry in order to hear better.
“Is it worth it, guvnor?”
“What do they intend, Haskins? You must have heard a rumor.”
“All I know is the Admiral means business. To keep yer squeaky clean rep and boat, you’ve got to come.”
“When will this end?” Frustration edged the deep voice.
The Pirate's Desire Page 6
