“Do you like it up at the Grange? Are they good to you?”
“Oh yes,” Sarah told him eagerly. “ Lady Caroline’s lovely. He’s nice, his lordship, but a bit severe, an’ I don’t see much of him anyway.”
Guy sighed. “ What a pity it’s not my mother you work for, then I could see a good deal more of you.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and again Sarah felt that peculiar thrill run through her—half fear, half delight.
“I should be going,” she murmured, but she made no effort to move.
“Not yet.” Guy’s face was close to hers in the half-light of the tiny room.
Time passed more quickly than she realised in his company and, when next she thought about leaving, she looked towards the slit of a window and saw to her horror that it was already growing dusk.
She scrambled to her feet. “Oh it’s late. I’ll be missed. I’ll be in trouble.”
Guy too got up. “ Sarah, Sarah, don’t run away.”
‘I must, I must!” Wildly she pulled away from his reaching hands and squeezed out of the doorway and began to stumble across the rubble-strewn ground.
“Sarah! Sarah!” He caught up with her and grasped at her arm. “When will you come again?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” she cried, unable to think clearly, the only thought in her head being to get home before it grew dark, before her pa and Henry came home. Henry would come to their house tonight straight from his work, knowing it was her half-day off.
As she hurried out of the ruins and began to run across the intervening space towards the wood, completely forgetting this time to hide herself from the valley, she heard him call.
“Next week, Sarah. Please!”
Sarah hurried on, her head bent against the blustering wind which now blew flecks of snow against her, stinging her cheeks and catching her breath.
Through the wood and down the lane past the Manor. She hurried towards the footbridge and then stopped in dismay. The water now completely covered the planking of the footbridge. In that short time the water had risen that last vital inch or so and now covered the wooden boards of the bridge. Panic rose in her throat and her knees began to tremble. She was trapped on the wrong side of the stream and it was already growing dark. This was the only way across the stream into the village.
It couldn’t be so very deep, she tried to reason. She glanced back up the lane. If only someone would come along with a cart, she could beg a lift through the ford. But now, when she wanted someone to appear, the lane was still empty.
Sarah bit her lip and glanced at the threatening sky; the flecks of snow had turned to rain now and it was coming faster. Soon there would be even more volume added to the already swollen stream. Sarah took a resolute breath and picked up her skirts almost to her knees and stepped into the water. She gasped as it swirled above her ankle-boots and clutched icy fingers at her legs. She reached for the handrail and breathed a sigh of relief as she felt its roughness beneath her fingers. Slowly she inched her way along, feeling with each foot for the hidden boards beneath. She was about halfway across and thinking she was going to make it when her foot slipped and almost before she realised she had fallen she was floundering in the freezing stream, gasping for breath. The stream bowled her over and over, bruising her arms and legs, and a stone cut her chin. She spluttered and gulped and then, feeling the bottom, she managed to stand upright. It wasn’t as deep as she had feared, only to her thighs, but the shock of falling into the cold water and the unusual swiftness of the flow of the stream had made her think she was in more danger than she actually was.
Sobbing, she dragged herself out of the water, her clothes clinging to her in a sodden mass. She squelched the rest of the way home and fell thankfully through the door into the warmth of the cottage kitchen.
Her mother, lifting bread from the brick oven, threw up her hands in horror.
“Oh my dear child! Whatever’s happened? I thought you weren’t coming today, it bein’ so late now. Where have you been?” She hurried towards the shivering Sarah and drew her towards the fire. “Here, strip these clothes off an’ I’ll get you a blanket. You’ll catch your death, else.”
“No, Ma, I canna. Pa an’ Henry …”
“Never mind them. They can stay out till you’re finished. I’ll not have you catch cold, me girl.”
Soon Sarah was sitting with a rough blanket wrapped around her, whilst her mother rubbed her wet hair. Guiltily Sarah accepted her mother’s ministrations.
“What happened?” her mother asked again, towelling her dry with skin-reddening briskness.
“I—I fell in the stream. The water’s over the bridge.”
Her mother stopped her rubbing and stared at her in amazement. “What, Smithy’s Bridge?” Mrs Miller referred to the stone bridge near the smithy.
“No—no.”
“I didna think it could be. Why, if that were under water then the whole village’d be flooded!” She thought for a moment then added. “ You weren’t daft enough to come by the field bridge—the one behind the village?”
“Well—yes, I did. But it weren’t that one.”
“Well then?”
“The—the footbridge—near the ford.”
“Lord, girl! What were you doin’ near that un? It dunna take much to put that un under water—you know that!” she added scathingly to a girl born and bred in Abbeyford. Miserably Sarah nodded.
“What were you doin’ that way, anyway?”
Sarah took a deep breath. “I—er—had to take a message to—to the Manor.”
“Huh!” Mrs Miller resumed her vigorous rubbing. “ ’Tain’t right. Askin’ a young girl to go traipsin’ round the countryside in weather like this. I’ve a mind to …”
“No, Ma, please!” Sarah cried, frightened that her lie would lead her into deeper trouble. “Dunna say nothing—please.”
“Well,” said her mother doubtfully, “I don’t want to do anything to make you lose that good job you’ve got, but still …”
“Please, Ma,” Sarah begged.
“Very well, then, but I dunna know what your pa will say.” Sarah was silent. She too was worried what her pa would say!
Joseph Miller had plenty to say—but not what his wife had expected.
“She’s lying!” he exploded, thumping the table with his fist, whilst Sarah jumped physically and her mother gasped in astonishment. “Joseph …!”
“I tell you, she’s lying. They wouldn’t send a young maid on such an errand. They’ve footmen and stable-boys for that. Just where did you go, girl?” he demanded, leaning towards her menacingly.
“I—I told you,” Sarah stammered.
Beth said slyly, “ I reckon I saw Master Guy Trent riding across the brow of the hill towards the abbey ruins this afternoon.”
That was all she needed to say for the colour that swept into Sarah’s face gave her away.
“You little bitch!” Jospeh Miller spat and raised his hand to strike her across the face, but his wife stepped between them.
“Joseph, I will not have such language in this house. And don’t strike the girl till you know the truth.” She rounded on Beth. “And you, miss, I know your vicious tongue. As for you …” She whipped round to Sarah now and grasped her by her long black hair. “We’ll have the truth now. Well?”
When Sarah did not answer at once, her mother pulled her hair hard. “Answer me, girl.”
“Yes—yes—yes!” The admission was torn from her and then she sank to the floor in a sobbing heap.
Her mother stood over her, her lips pursed, whilst Joseph growled, “There, I knew it!” and Beth merely smiled, maliciously satisfied. In her corner, Ella, the youngest sister, crooned softly to her doll oblivious of the drama taking place in front of her uncomprehending eyes.
“You’re a little fool, Sarah. You’ll not meet him again. You promise me now? He’s no good, d’you hear me?”
Still sobbing, Sarah nodded.
Mrs Miller turned towards
her husband, taking charge of the situation now. “ You or Henry will meet her each week from the Grange and see her back.” She glanced down at her eldest daughter, then looked at her husband. “Say no more about it now. I reckon she’s learnt her lesson.” She stepped over Sarah and began laying the table for supper,
but Joseph’s face still scowled.
He was not so sure his wayward daughter would obey.
Chapter Six
When the snow cleared, Lady Caroline resumed her own secret meetings—with Thomas Cole. Soon all the village were aware of the growing attachment between them. Only Lord Royston remained in ignorance. The villagers shook their heads over the matter, foreseeing only tragedy at such an unsuitable liaison.
“Someone should tell his lordship!” was the general opinion. But who? Who would dare to tell the Earl of Royston that his beloved only daughter was keeping company with his tenant farmer’s bailiff?
Caroline played a meticulous game of hide and seek. Seeking out Thomas whilst at the same time hiding from her father, who himself frequently rode about the estate offering advide to Sir Matthew, or giving orders to his own gamekeeper.
Always she had an excuse ready in case she should be questioned. She made frequent visits to Lynwood Hall in the hope of being able to meet Thomas on the way back. But this ploy was often thwarted for Lynwood would escort her home and spoil her plans.
At one time she had enjoyed basking in Lynwood’s obvious adoration of her. Now she found his devotion irksome. His insistence on accompanying her prevented her from seeing Thomas!
“There’s really no need for you to come all the way back to the Grange with me, Francis. I am quite able to take care of myself.”
“We still get vagabonds and paupers along the roads—even in Abbeyford and Amberly,” Lynwood told her seriously.
Caroline laughed rather cruelly. “And if we were set upon—just what do you think you could do? You’re only a boy!” She slapped her riding-crop against her horse’s flanks and galloped
ahead of him, into the woods above Abbeyford.
She could not have hurt young Lynwood more if she had plunged
a knife into his heart!
He reined in and sat watching her gallop away from him, her
wide skirt billowing, her long auburn hair flying free.
As she disappeared amongst the trees, he turned his horse around
and returned home, the secret hope in his heart shattered.
Caroline found a further excuse for riding down into Abbeyford with the arrival in the village of her cousin, Martha.
Martha was indeed ‘the poor relation’. She was the daughter of Caroline’s mother’s sister and so the connection with the Earl of Royston was rather distant. But that did not prevent Martha feeling resentful that her cousin Caroline should be a lady of quality whilst she herself was a mere curate’s wife. Lord Royston had been prevailed upon by his late wife’s sister to offer the living at Abbeyford to her son-in-law, the Reverend Hugh Langley.
So the recently married Langleys had moved into Abbeyford Vicarage.
“It’s a lovely house, Martha.” Caroline viewed the rooms critically.
Martha sniffed, folding her hands in front of her. “ It will no doubt be cold and draughty. These huge vicarages always are.”
“Oh come now, my dear,” Hugh remonstrated gently. “Pray don’t let your cousin think us ungrateful.” He turned his pale eyes on Caroline. “ I am indebted to your father. I never thought to gain such a living so soon.”
“It’s no more than you deserve, Hugh,” Martha snapped. “ Why must you always belittle yourself so?”
Hugh Langley was a mild, gentle, rather fussy little man. At thirty he already stooped slightly from the long hours he had spent poring over his books, studying hard. His mousy-coloured hair was thinning and his face was pale from lack of sunshine and fresh air.
Hesitantly he said, “There was just one more thing—er—I was wondering if there are any boys locally who might benefit from—well—private tuition?”
Caroline wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “Guy Trent’s a little old now.” She laughed. “And he’s scarcely the studious type anyway. There is Francis, Lord Lynwood. He’s about fourteen.”
“No doubt they’ll already have some arrangement for his education,” put in the pessimistic Martha.
“His father’s dead, but I’ll ask Lady Lynwood the next time I see her.”
“Thank you—thank you,” Hugh said fussily, almost bowing towards Lady Caroline, but Martha merely pursed her already thin lips.
“As a matter of fact, that’s an excellent idea, Caroline,” Lady Lynwood beamed. “I have been looking for a tutor for Francis. I must confess, Caroline, that although I should send him away to school I fear I am far too selfish to rob myself of his company. Your cousin’s husband sounds admirably suitable.”
Caroline laughed. “Oh, Mr Langley is the typical ‘professor’ type. Very muddly over everyday living and completely dominated by my cousin, Martha.” Caroline wrinkled her nose a little. “She’s a bit of a shrew, but I believe he’s really quite clever academically.”
“Good—good. Ah Francis, there you are,” Lady Lynwood greeted her young son as he sidled into the room, his blue eyes intent upon Caroline.
Caroline smiled at him. “Good day, Francis.”
“Lady Caroline,” he murmured and listened politely whilst his mother said, “ Caroline has found you a tutor. The new vicar at Abbeyford is her cousin’s husband.”
Francis nodded, but his gaze did not divert from Caroline’s face. Though he still looked upon her with adoration, now there was a haunted, hurt expression deep within his eyes. The fact that it was Caroline who had found a tutor for him was yet a further reminder of the difference in their ages. He was still regarded as a schoolboy, whilst she was out of the classroom, an adult young lady.
Lady Lynwood, sensitive to her son’s feelings for Caroline, was immediately aware of the subtle change in him. She could see in an instant that in some way Caroline had hurt her son.
Caroline stood up. “I must be going. There’s a meet of the hunt next week, I believe, now the snow has gone. Will you be following in your carriage as usual, Lady Lynwood?”
The older woman nodded. “ Most definitely. Francis is to be bloodied. I mustn’t miss that.”
“Neither must I.” Caroline turned to the boy. “ I’ll be sure to watch out for you,” she told him and the colour rose faintly in his cheeks and the pain in his eyes lessened a little.
Lady Lynwood sighed within herself. There was nothing she could do to help him, but she wished that her son were not so easily affected by Caroline’s volatile moods. One kind word from her could make him happy, one cruel word could make him miserable.
Lynwood accompanied Caroline to the front door and down the steps. He watched her mount her horse and canter away down the drive.
Behind him he heard two of the stable lads sniggering together. Then clearly their conversation drifted to his ears.
“My Lady Caroline off to meet her lover. Master Thomas Cole aims high!”
Lynwood turned, rage flooding through him. He couldn’t understand the full meaning of their words because he knew nothing of her affair with the bailiff. But he recognised by the inflection in their voices that they were insulting Caroline.
Without hesitation, Lynwood launched himself towards the two boys, fists flying. Caught unawares, one fell beneath his blows, his nose bloodied. The other received a blow beneath the ribs which doubled him up and he sank to his knees.
“You are dismissed from my employ and will be off the Lynwood estate by nightfall!”
Breathing hard, Lynwood turned and marched back into the house. The two boys, nursing their injuries, stared after him in amazement.
“What did us do? What did us say?” they asked each other.
Caroline rode away from Lynwood Hall, back through Amberly towards Abbeyford. But once in the wooded shade at the top of the
hill she left the track leading through the wood to Abbeyford, turning in the opposite direction from the abbey ruins. She followed a rough footpath as far as possible and then slid from her horse’s back and tethered him to a tree. Delicately lifting her skirt she ran lightly down a steep narrow path, twisting and turning through the trees until she came to a waterfall bubbling down a steep rock face into a deep pool and then tumbling on down the hillside until it became the stream which meandered through Abbeyford valley.
Caroline sat down upon a rock, watching the waterfall. With all the recent snow added to its normal flow, it was fast-flowing and the pool deeper than ever. Caroline shivered and drew her cloak around her and hoped Thomas would soon join her.
They met in different places around Abbeyford. Sometimes here at the waterfall. Sometimes in the abbey ruins. Sometimes they each rode out of Abbeyford, well away from the prying eyes of the villagers, meeting in the fields and lanes, in tiny copses or derelict shepherds’ huts.
She heard a rustle on the pathway and jumped up to meet him as Thomas appeared through the trees. She ran towards him flinging her arms around him with passionate abandon.
“Thomas, oh Thomas. It seems an age since I saw you and yet it was only yesterday. Kiss me!” She clung to him, winding her arms around his neck.
Never ceasing to wonder why this adorable creature should imagine herself in love with him, Thomas held her close, kissing her tenderly and then finding himself responding ardently to her feverish desire.
“Thomas, oh my Thomas! If only we could be together for always,” she murmured.
Thomas smiled gently but a little sadly. He could not believe that her love for him would last. He told himself that loneliness had driven her to seek him out, that once the London season began again he would be swiftly forgotten. He loved her, he knew, but he could not believe that there would be a future for them together.
Abbeyford Page 6
