When they finished their simple meal, Sam said, “You should’ve et with Mrs. Russell instead of me.”
Annis blotted the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “It’s you I’ve come to see. Now tell me, how are all the Brixham Kellands? Does Grandfather’s rheumatism still trouble him?”
“No more’n usual, so far as I know,” Sam answered. “He’ll be glad for any news of you. Since Mum died, he’s been gloomy-minded. My sisters don’t like leaving their families, and live so far off that they’ll go a twelve-month or more without setting foot in Brixham. Papa used to say you should come to live with him, but he gave up hoping for that when Nan wed her squire.”
“I wish I might visit him,” Annis said wistfully. “I could easily travel to Brixham from here—it’s not so far. We could both go, if Mrs. Russell gave you leave.”
“Do you think you should?” Sam asked gravely. “Old Dundridge mightn’t like it.”
“He’s not here to object,” she countered. “Nor would he have any reason. I’m a Kelland, and I can call upon my own grandfather without having to justify it.”
Sam bowed his head, saying gloomily, “You don’t hardly know what being a Kelland means.”
“Oh, don’t I?” she retorted. “This morning, coming to Dartmouth, I was stopped by an Exciseman. He was curious about the contents of those cider kegs I brought you.”
“Is that all?” He shrugged.
“It was most annoying,” she said, her eyes kindling at the memory.
“’Twas but an inconvenience, nothing more. I’ve been treated far worse, you may be sure.” Turning his hazel eyes upon her, he said, “I want to work on a ship more than anything—always have done. Kelland men have been seafarers for as long as anyone can remember.”
Annis knew exactly what was coming, and placed a consoling hand upon his arm.
“But no ship’s master or captain in any Devonshire port is going to take on Jem Kelland’s little brother,” he grieved. “The Customs officers would scour whatever vessel I was assigned to for contraband every time it sailed or returned. They’d question me about the smugglers who run goods into Dartmouth and Brixham and everywhere else Jem had his contacts. And who could blame them? He was notorious. You wouldn’t remember, you were no more than a mite, but—” Sam hesitated momentarily. “Ah, never mind. Poor Jem. He never killed that land shark himself, and no one who truly knew him believes he did. Or could.”
Annis, knowing so little about her father, hoped her relative would continue what for her was an illuminating discussion. But it came to an abrupt end when the head waiter charged into the kitchen, gesturing at him.
“Hurry along, Sam—you’re needed in the taproom! I’ve got a party of ship’s officers shouting for their grog, the dining room is full, and just now two fine gents came in wanting to sup in the private parlor. You, girl,” he said sharply to one of the cook maids, “put on a fresh apron and find out what they require.”
Annis bounded up from her stool. “Polly’s busy with the goose. I’ll go to them.”
Her uncle’s harassed colleague stared at her. “You, Miss?”
“Why not, if you’re short-handed?”
Sam put a restraining hand upon her shoulder. “Nay, Annis. B’aint what Squire Dundridge would want.”
For Annis that was the appeal of it. And although she felt shame at eagerness to go against the wishes of a man who was consistently kind and generous, she said airily, “He’ll never find out. It’s the least I can do for Mrs. Russell, who is so kind to me.”
She’d lived at the inn for many years, and knew the way to the private parlor commonly offered to the most distinguished customers. There her mother had often waited upon the squire.
After hastily straightening her fichu and smoothing her borrowed apron, she stepped into the room. One of the two gentlemen seated at the table was Sir Edwin Page. She decided to withdraw to the corridor and send Polly back in her stead—but wasn’t quick enough to escape his notice.
Squaring her shoulders, she advanced to the circular table and handed the baronet a bill of fare.
“What a pleasant surprise, Miss Kelland,” he intoned blandly. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. I boasted to Mr. Corston that the service at the Castle is as excellent as the food. I daresay you’ll prove me right.”
A serving maid would probably have bobbed a curtsy. Momentarily at a loss, Annis wasn’t sure how best to respond. Smiling tentatively at his companion, a stranger with blond hair and a sunburned nose, she said, “The soup is very good today, sir.”
Looking up from the paper she’d given him, the man asked, “And how are the wines? Does your master have something special hidden away in his cellar—a bottle or two that slipped past the Excise officers?”
A fiery blush swept over her cheeks, and she couldn’t bear to look at Sir Edwin. Twice in one day he’d been reminded of her connection, however distant, to the smuggling trade.
“It would be far too risky for the Russells to keep any untaxed spirits, Garth. We’ll begin with a bottle of the best claret. And, Miss Kelland, I’ll try the soup.”
So began a painfully embarrassing and aggravating evening, made worse by the knowledge that she’d brought it on herself. Her uncharitable desire to go against the squire’s wishes was being punished. By impetuously taking on the role of serving wench she’d disgraced herself before the man whose admiration she secretly sought.
From time to time she permitted herself to notice the way the candles in the sconces burnished Sir Edwin’s chestnut hair, tied behind with a dark velvet ribbon.
For two years she had loved him. After inheriting his great-uncle’s title and country house, he’d called upon her stepfather—that first encounter was engraved upon her memory. Of his life before he’d come to live in Devonshire she knew almost nothing. And, as a result of her actions this night, her curiosity would go unsatisfied.
She should have known better than to go off into the orchard with him during the harvest home, but when he’d taken her hand and led her out of the crowd she hadn’t protested. His hot, desperate kisses had been a revelation. His fingers, which first moved tenderly across her face and then down her neck, to finally settle on her breasts, had evoked exquisite sensations. For as long as he’d held her in his arms, it hadn’t mattered who he was or what her own father had been or done.
Ever since, she had cultivated a frigid civility, intended to communicate her disavowal of what they had done together that night.
While removing the empty plates from the last course from the table to the sideboard, she listened intently to his discourse with his friend, who had consumed more wine than food and was dominating their conversation.
“Where did you leave your yacht?” she heard him ask.
“Torquay. I made excellent time from Lyme Regis, considering that the direction of the wind was against me. The pater and mater were after me to stay close by—they insisted I attend some damned local assembly, the sort of thing I abominate. But I sailed away quick as ever I could. And the closer I got to Devonshire, the more I was tempted to make good my threat to pay you a visit.”
“Fortunate for me.”
Annis, alert to every inflection in that low, pleasant voice, detected the faintest note of sarcasm.
“From the moment I received your letter boasting about that string of horses you’ve got at Harbourne Court, I’ve been eager to see ’em.”
“You may try them, if you like. When do your parents expect you back in Lyme?”
Annis, with the wine decanter, returned to the table and witnessed Mr. Corston’s careless shrug. “It makes no difference. They’ve got Lizzie, who’s better company than me. They’re parading her before all the provincials.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the Incomparable Miss Cosrton has more admirers than she can count.”
The difference in the baronet’s tone was immediately apparent to Annis. She’d heard vague but persistent rumors of a dis
tant lady-love. Her hand was unsteady as she refilled his empty glass—had he noticed?
Mr. Corston beckoned her to his side of the table, and she also poured wine for him. “How late do the coaches run in this district?” he asked Sir Edwin.
“I’ve no intention of returning to Harbourne Court tonight. The rains left the roads in a terrible state, and the journey isn’t short. Miss Kelland, do you happen to know whether bedchambers are available?”
Avoiding his gaze, she stacked plates onto her serving tray. “I’ll ask Mrs. Russell.”
“I’d be most grateful.”
She hoped the landlady’s answer would be a negative one—the prospect of sleeping in the same location as Sir Edwin Page was singularly unnerving.
Her mother’s former employer, elated by the prospect of filling all the beds that night, had a single unoccupied room, the one she’d offered to Annis.
Knowing Mrs. Russell’s dislike of losing paying customers, Annis said, “I shan’t mind sharing with Polly. One gentleman can have the bed that was Mother’s, and the other must sleep on the trundle that was mine.”
“It’s far from being my best room, as you well know. Not nearly worthy of Sir Edwin Page. Or his friend.”
“You did say the sheets are clean,” Annis reminded her.
“And the rug was beaten this just morning. Of course I’ll give them the room—better that than letting them seek one elsewhere.”
Annis delivered the substance of this message to the guests in the parlor, leaving out the part about the rug. She circled the table once more, taking up the few remaining utensils and Mr. Corston’s bowl of soup, which he’d scarcely touched.
Tugging the long braid that hung down her back, he leered up at her. “I wonder, is the serving maid at the Castle as accommodating as the landlady?”
“Mind your manners, Garth,” Sir Edwin reproved him.
“Don’t be such a prude, Eddie. She ain’t offended. Are you, m’dear?”
“Let this be your answer,” Annis shot back, tipping the contents of the soup bowl into her lap.
Mr. Corston leaped to his feet. “Slut—I’ll have you sacked for that, I will!”
“You can’t,” she told him triumphantly. “I don’t work here.”
Before storming out of the room, she dared to look toward the baronet. His eyes met hers for an instant. Was it really amusement she read in his face, or merely a trick of the light that made her fancy it?
That’s hardly likely to impress him, she chided herself, returning to the kitchen.
It made no difference, not really. Sir Edwin Page had made up his mind about her long ago. He liked her well enough for bussing and groping—and for tumbling in the grass, no doubt—but it would be madness to expect anything more.
For days after the harvest dinner she’d cherished a foolish hope that his intentions were more honorable than not, until her mother had set her straight. After scolding Annis for allowing the baronet to steal a few kisses, she’d warned that titled gentlemen wanted but one thing. And after getting it from one lass, they sought it from another. If Annis had her heart set on becoming a ladyship, she was destined to be sadly, tragically disappointed.
Much later, wearily climbing the long and crooked stairway to the female servants’ garret, she reflected upon her mother’s doleful prophecy. Just as she reached the uppermost step, the door opposite the landing swung open. Sir Edwin Page stepped out.
“Might I have a word with you?”
His frown indicated that the words would not be the ones she most wanted to hear.
“I’ve set Mr. Corston straight about who you are. But I’m at a loss to explain precisely why you were serving customers tonight.”
“The staff was shorthanded, and I wanted to help.” She’d had another reason, and dared not tell him. If she mentioned her stepfather, whose authority she’d so recklessly defied, Sir Edwin might seek him out and expose her misdemeanor. “Do you disapprove?” she asked him, her voice as frosty as she could make it.
“I do,” he said curtly, almost angrily. “So would Squire Dundridge.”
Although she’d already lowered herself in his estimation, her pride would not let her plead for mercy. “My mother was doing exactly what I did tonight when she met him.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest and regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Exactly what sort of husband do you seek, Miss Kelland?”
A wave of anguish crashed over her, leaving her speechless. More than she’d wanted anything in all her life, she wanted him. No other man was as handsome and clever and strong and passionate as the one who stood before her.
Correctly guessing that his question wouldn’t get an answer, he commented, “Mrs. Russell meant for you to have this room, didn’t she? Where will you sleep?”
“I’m sharing the cook maid’s bed.”
“I wish you might share mine.”
A wanton, that’s what she was to him. In a tone more sorrowful than saucy, she said, “You are too bold, Sir Edwin.”
“It wasn’t an invitation,” he said defensively. “I merely said I wished it. Lest you have any doubts, that’s a compliment to you, not an insult. There’s no cause to treat me as you did my drunken friend.”
Half afraid he might say something even more alarming—and gratifying—Annis wished him goodnight and sped along dimly lit passage. When she glanced over her shoulder, his yearning face caused her heart to pound so violently that she placed her hand against her chest as if to keep it safely in place.
* * *
~ Chapter 2 ~
A shot shattered the morning stillness. With an explosion of breaking glass, the bullet struck one of several wine bottles arranged atop a low stone wall.
Glancing down at the old-fashioned dueling pistol cradled in his hand, Edwin wondered what his gruff great-uncle would have thought of his skill. The old gentleman had been a superior marksman.
“Well done,” Garth Corston commented, not without envy. He’d not yet hit any of the targets. He lifted his arm, his finger pulled on the trigger, and with the report a blast of fire and smoke issued from the barrel. But the row of bottles stood undisturbed.
“Damn,” he muttered.
For nearly an hour they’d competed, strive to fire, reload and fire again with speed and accuracy. Both were unshaven and carelessly dressed.
Garth was an awfully bad influence, Edwin acknowledged, raising his pistol. Not once during the past two days had they gone riding. They hadn’t done much of anything besides drink and dine and play cards. And waste lead shot and powder. Despite having company at Harbourne Court, he felt lonelier than ever.
It was female society he craved—a particular female. But his recent encounter with Annis Kelland had unsettled him, and his chances of softening her seemed depressingly remote.
He’d known Garth since their days at Eton. Their paths had diverged after leaving school, only to cross in London some years later at the height of the social season. Discovering that the easy camaraderie of their boyhood had survived, they’d sampled the delights and tested the dangers of the Metropolis together. Edwin, a regular visitor to the Corston house, embarked upon an intense but short-lived flirtation with Garth’s sister, Elizabeth. Simultaneously realizing that her parents had certain expectations he was reluctant to fulfill, and that in fact he had no desire to marry her, he’d decamped from London with all possible haste.
He’d returned to Somersetshire and the kindly and unpretentious relatives who had raised him, until summoned to Harbourne Court by his ailing great-uncle. On the crotchety bachelor’s death, Edwin had become possessor of his baronetcy and his estate.
The imposing Elizabethan manor and its outbuildings were surrounded by a spacious and overgrown park containing a scantily stocked fishpond and a neglected rose arbor. Although the house had lacked a mistress for decades, its furnishings and appointments were rather well preserved. In the library Edwin had found an antique housekeeping book written by an a
ncestress at the close of the previous century. Reading it, he’d ascertained how many tasks had been dispensed with by his late uncle’s staff, all of whom remained in his employ. The decrepit housekeeper’s eyesight had all but failed, and her loyal subordinates resented taking orders from anyone else. Someday soon he’d have to pension her off.
Garth interrupted his reflections by observing, “That boy wants you.”
Edwin looked around and saw one of his grooms coming towards them.
“A message came from the squire, sir,” the young man announced. “He asks that you call upon him at—at—” He wrinkled his brow in an effort to recall what he’d been told to say.
“At my earliest convenience,” Edwin supplied, handing his pistol to Garth. “Take this one—perhaps it will prove luckier than the other. Take care not to slay any of my sheep.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“No, no,” he responded quickly, preferring to keep Garth at a distance from Annis Kelland. “I’d best have a wash and change my clothes.” Running his hand across the two-day growth of beard, he added, “And I’m in need of a shave.”
Within an hour he had completed all of these improvements, and by the time he descended upon the stables he was the model of a respectable country gentleman. The young man who delivered the squire’s summons had saddled his favorite mount. The head groom watched from a nearby bench, a piece of hay firmly between his lips and at Edwin’s approach he bounded to his feet.
“Did you and Bart muck out the stable, Jenkins?”
“Aye, sir,” he said, clearly affronted by the implication that he might in any way be derelict in his duty. “Sir Edwin, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. Yon horses badly want exercising, and have these two days past. Bart and me can’t take more’n two out at a time, and there’s a full half-dozen of ’em in need of a good gallop every day. I was thinking p’raps you might take on another groom, or else go back to riding ’em yourself.”
“Mr. Corston claims to be an excellent rider—it was to try my horses that he came to Devonshire.” Or so Garth had claimed. Edwin wasn’t altogether certain it was a credible explanation. “When I return from Orchard Place, we can talk more of this.”
The Apple Blossom Bower (Historical Romance Novella) Page 2
