THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL_1750_JACQUELINE

by Stephanie Laurens

  Regarding him as a highly desirable, eminently eligible parti—which he unquestionably was—apparently did not feature in her, from all he could judge, otherwise clear-eyed view of her world.

  If one part of him saw her obliviousness as a challenge, that part and any impulses to which it might have given rise were smothered beneath a tide of relief. Although he was escorting a striking young lady about a social gathering, for once, he felt safe.

  He’d thought that he would have to reach Wells and the august presence of his uncle before he would be able to relax. But while he still had to keep a wary eye out for the other young ladies—and several not so young—who saw him as a marriageable entity and couldn’t believe their luck, while he stuck by Miss Tregarth’s side…he was safe.

  That gave him time and the mental space to observe more broadly and consider other things.

  Of course, many of the older gentlemen, those of the type to take a paternalistically protective view of Miss Tregarth, were eyeing him askance, some with expressions bordering on incipient animosity. He could have soothed them by informing them that he had sworn off marriageable females, possibly for all time, but their wish to scare him off was proving useful.

  From the instant he’d been informed that Miss Tregarth owned the estate, he’d been curious as to how she managed it. Being the owner of an estate himself, he knew what the management of such properties entailed. It was pure curiosity on his part, wondering how a pretty, still-youthful lady would handle the demands of the position.

  During their various discussions, several gentlemen—Alderman Harris among them—had dropped comments to the effect that Miss Tregarth managed the reins entirely on her own. Richard suspected that the alderman and others who had made similar remarks thought that by painting a picture of a lady of managing disposition, they would frighten him off. Instead, their revelations only further fueled his curiosity.

  As he and she progressed up the great hall, stopping at each circle of guests to chat and converse, he overheard a not quite low-voiced-enough exchange between three disapproving older ladies and learned that Miss Tregarth had dismissed a string of suitors. The older ladies deplored her unwed state, declaring that, at twenty-four years of age, she should be married with a brood of children rather than discussing the price of wool with two of the estate’s farmers, as she presently was.

  Richard enjoyed the puzzle of understanding people, of figuring out what drove them. It was an interest his parents had encouraged as useful in one of his station, and over the years, defining people had become an ingrained habit. He could comprehend and catalog most people without any real effort. Jacqueline Tregarth, however, was proving to be a challenge.

  That she was, apparently, uninterested in marriage—which went some way toward explaining her lack of matrimonial interest in him—and, instead, was focused on managing her estate was precisely what made her so interesting to him.

  So different, ergo fascinating, entertaining, and intriguing.

  She was presently discussing the estate’s expected wool clip and the price she and her farmers might get for it. Having not that long ago been privy to a similar exchange between his father and his brother, Richard judged her to be well informed.

  Given she was competent, intelligent, and strikingly attractive—albeit romantically reserved—and endowed with what, from all he’d gleaned, was a sizeable house and estate, he had to wonder just why Miss Tregarth had turned away what sounded to be legions of suitors.

  They were in between groups when the strains of a viol drifted down from above. Glancing up, Richard saw movement in the gallery above the end of the hall as the musicians who had taken up position there put bows to strings and struck up a jaunty country dance.

  Those milling in the center of the hall shuffled toward the sides, creating an impromptu dance floor. Richard looked at Jacqueline. She was smiling encouragingly at other couples, then she laughed and made a shooing motion, directing those others to the floor.

  One glance around the room was enough to confirm that he was the ranking male of appropriate age and station to lead Miss Tregarth out, at least to begin with. Electing to grasp the opportunity Fate was dangling, he caught Jacqueline’s eye, swept her a flourishing bow, and with a laughing smile, asked, “Might I beg the honor of this dance, Miss Tregarth?”

  For one instant, she looked taken aback, as if participating in the dance hadn’t crossed her mind. But then she smiled, sank into a curtsy, and rising, gave him her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Montague. I would enjoy that.”

  He set his mind and his considerable expertise to ensuring she did.

  It was a simple country dance, one he could perform in his sleep, but with her as his partner, he remained alert and focused.

  As she dipped under his arm in a slow, graceful twirl, from beneath her lashes, she met his eyes. “Do they dance such dances in town?”

  Ruefully, he shook his head. “The hostesses prefer the more complicated contredanses, yet everyone needs to concentrate so ferociously on the steps, such dances feature more as torture than enjoyment.”

  She laughed—as he’d intended.

  They parted, then came together again, and he seized the moment to ask, “I’ve heard, of course, of the cause of this celebration—that an old spring is running again and a previously dry lake is refilling. But what prompted you to search for the spring?”

  The stableman had explained, but Richard wanted to hear her reasons. In her various exchanges on the topic, she hadn’t touched on those.

  She bobbed, then drew closer and turned, giving him her hands. “Our stream’s been drying up—the flow never picked up after winter. So we—the estate—needed water. Quite desperately. We still have to find a way to supply the millstream, but one hurdle at a time—at least we now have water enough for the Hall’s and our farmers’ needs.”

  “I see.” After another circle and changing of hands, he asked, “The stream that’s failing—is it the one that runs past your woodcutter’s cottage?”

  “Yes. You must have noticed how poor the flow was.”

  He nodded as they swayed, but continued to hold his tongue regarding the gentleman and his diversion of the stream. Clearly, they were talking of the same stream, yet his father had drilled it into him never to jump in and volunteer information in situations he didn’t fully comprehend, and he had no way of telling if Miss Tregarth and the gentleman were acting together for some reason he couldn’t yet discern.

  The dance separated them for several minutes.

  By the time they came together again, he’d decided that, if he hadn’t learned more one way or the other before he was ready to ride on, he would mention the gentleman and the diversion in the wood before he left.

  The dance came to an end, and he bowed, and she curtsied. He gave her his hand and drew her to her feet, returning her smile—one more genuinely relaxed than he’d yet seen from her.

  Others gathered around, and they continued chatting while the musicians decided on their next measure. When they once more started playing, Richard—too well brought up not to know his role—solicited Miss Swinford’s hand.

  Although she blushed and disclaimed, when he inquired, Miss Swinford admitted she loved to dance. Thereafter, he ignored her fluster and inexorably drew her into the nearest set.

  If her wide smile when the dance ended was any indication, Miss Swinford had thoroughly enjoyed the exercise.

  While dancing with a succession of her neighbors, Jacqueline watched with approval as Richard Montague dutifully progressed through the ladies, most of whom were somewhat older than he, but who nevertheless clearly enjoyed his company.

  His attentions, she noticed, he kept to himself. Given the dearth of younger ladies, that might have been expected, but more than one lively matron attempted to catch his eye in a more meaningful fashion, yet although his smiling courtesy never wavered, he studiously maintained a respectful distance.

  He was, she realized, accustomed to this—to
country entertainments and country ways. She suspected that meant he was a landowner himself or, at the very least, the son of one. That, indeed, fitted with some of his earlier comments to her farmers and neighbors.

  After a time, she excused herself from the dancing and returned to the hearth to check on Hugh and Elinor, who had returned to her seat beside Hugh. Hugh’s legs had weakened, and he was confined to his Bath chair, propelled around the house and grounds by his devoted valet, Freddie. Freddie had retreated to stand by the wall, so when Jacqueline paused by Hugh’s chair and exchanged a smile with her erstwhile guardian, she felt no hesitation in declaring, “I find myself quite content to have had Mr. Montague join us.” She turned to watch the dancers and picked him out amid the lines—simple enough given he was taller than most and easily the most striking man in the room.

  Hugh humphed, the sound one of approval. “He’s certainly joined in—no standing on ceremony.”

  Jacqueline nodded. She had a strong suspicion Richard Montague was at home in significantly more elevated circles, yet at no time had he shown the slightest sign of being high in the instep.

  Elinor sighed. “Such an easy and undemanding guest. He’s the sort of guest it’s a pleasure to have.”

  “Indeed.” Jacqueline felt reassured at having her reading of Montague confirmed. Hugh and Elinor might live as sheltered a life as she did, but each had years of experience at their back, and she’d long ago learned they were rarely taken in by pretty faces and polished manners. As for charm…like her, they instinctively distrusted it, especially in gentlemen.

  Despite his easygoing handsomeness, Richard Montague hadn’t tried to charm anyone.

  With a nod, she moved on. She accepted an offer from a blushing Thomas Willis for the last dance and found herself in the same set as Montague. Thomas was younger than she by three years and was clearly in awe of Montague’s polish, but with a smile and a nod, Montague set the boy at ease, and the dance passed off splendidly, leaving the four in their set laughing and smiling and in excellent accord.

  Most of the estate’s workers had already left, slipping away with nods and bows. The rest of the guests, mostly neighbors, took the end of the music as signaling the end of the event and started gathering their parties to depart. Coaches were called for and farewells tendered. Jacqueline stood to one side of the open front door and waved her guests off, into the softness of the summer night.

  Finally, all were gone. She turned inside to find Cruickshank waiting to close and bar the door.

  While he did, she walked slowly back into the great hall. Elinor had already gone up, and Hugh and Freddie had retreated to Hugh’s rooms at the rear of the house. Somewhat to Jacqueline’s surprise, Richard Montague was helping the footmen muscle back into place the heavy round table that normally stood in the center of the great hall.

  Once it was settled, she approached. With a nod and a smile, she dismissed the footmen, then met Montague’s hazel eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He smiled and lightly shrugged. “I was here, and it seemed the least I could do to repay you and your household for your collective willingness to put me up for the night.” He tipped his head. “And for allowing me to join your celebration—you didn’t have to do that.”

  She laughed. “Very well. Let’s call ourselves quits.”

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a glint of candlelight on gold and looked toward the hearth. Now freed of all dirt and polished until the gold mounting gleamed and the surface of the stone, a moonstone, shone, the orb—Hugh, Elinor, and she had agreed that was the only word for it—stood on the mantelpiece, in the middle, in pride of place.

  Smiling, she turned and crossed to the fireplace. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll show you to your room. I should put this away.”

  He trailed after her and watched as she reached up and lifted the orb down.

  As it had several times before, when her fingers brushed the moonstone, the stone appeared to softly glow. Just for an instant.

  Frowning, he peered at the orb. “What is that?”

  She wasn’t sure if he was asking about the orb or the curious glow. “We found it lodged on top of the spring—like a plug.” Cradling the orb in her hands, she started toward the drawing room on the other side of the hall. “Now, of course, it’s become the Hall’s good luck charm—we’re calling it ‘the orb.’ The way the estate’s workers are talking of it, it’ll feature in the tales they tell their children for years to come.”

  “I see.” He strolled beside her, but his gaze remained on the orb, his expression one of puzzled curiosity.

  They walked into the drawing room; the room had been left open for guests to sit and rest, and several candelabra still shed a warm glow throughout the chamber.

  She crossed the room and halted before the dresser set against the far wall directly opposite the door.

  His gaze still on the orb, he halted beside her, then glanced up and saw her studying him. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, and his lips quirked. “It’s a curious thing—I was thinking it looks a bit like the top of a scepter.”

  She nodded. “The more fanciful suggestion is that it’s the head of a magical staff, but regardless, it’s now the Hall’s charm.” She looked up at the top shelf of the dresser; she couldn’t reach it, not without dragging over a chair.

  “Top shelf?” he asked.

  “Please.” She held out the orb.

  He lifted it from her hands. His hands were so much larger, the orb was all but engulfed by his palms and fingers.

  And it glowed. Briefly.

  Just as it did whenever she touched it.

  They both frowned as the glow quickly faded, leaving the moonstone once more just a large, smooth, pale, milky, semi-translucent stone.

  “Perhaps it’s something to do with the warmth of our hands,” he muttered.

  Except it hadn’t reacted that way when either Hugh or Elinor had held it. “I thought it might be due to some hidden facet or fracture catching the light just so,” she offered.

  He made an uncertain sound, then looked up at the empty top shelf of the dresser. “In the middle?”

  “If you would.”

  He placed it carefully, turning it on the base of old gold, an engraved working that reminded her of the ruff above an eagle’s claw. The mounting holding the moonstone in place almost certainly represented claws.

  He stepped back to view his handiwork. “Is that how you wanted it?”

  She couldn’t have done better. “Yes, thank you.”

  She turned and deviated to pick up one of the candelabra as she crossed to the door. He stood back to let her precede him into the great hall, then followed at her shoulder as she led the way to and up the stairs.

  His manners, his courtesies, weren’t actions he consciously thought about; his attentiveness to others was ingrained. As he followed her down one of the corridors leading from the gallery, she was quite sure of that.

  She halted before the door of the room the Hall’s housekeeper had earlier informed her had been prepared for him. She lifted the latch, set the door swinging wide, then stepped back and waved him inside. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.” With a gracious nod, he stepped past her, and she added, “If there’s anything you find you need, please ring no matter the hour. Cruickshank and Mrs. Patrick—the housekeeper—will be distressed if you don’t. To their minds, they have their own standards to uphold, and we don’t get many unexpected visitors, so you’ve put them on their mettle—please don’t be shy.”

  Richard cast a comprehensive glance around the room, taking in the comfortable four-poster bed, his saddlebags set on the top of a large tallboy, and the ewer, basin, and folded towel on a washstand in one corner. The wide window was uncurtained and stood open to the soft, scented night air.

  He turned to his hostess and smiled. “I can’t see any reason to disturb your staff.”

  He reached out and lifted the candlestick left waiting on a si
de table by the door. He tilted the tip of the candle to one of those in the candelabra she held. Once the wick was alight, he straightened the candlestick and raised his gaze to her face—to her lovely blue-green eyes. “You and your staff have my heartfelt thanks for taking pity on a benighted traveler—and his even more benighted horse.”

  She laughed as he’d hoped she would; the silvery sound fell like music on his ears.

  He saluted her with the candlestick and reached for the door.

  She dipped her head to him, her golden curls burnished by the candlelight. “Goodnight, Mr. Montague.”

  He executed a courtly half bow. “Goodnight, Miss Tregarth.”

  Still smiling, she set off along the corridor, heading back to the gallery.

  Richard turned into his room and shut the door.

  It had been a long day. He was tired, but…despite the frustrations of the day, he’d landed on his feet, and unexpectedly, they’d led him to a welcoming, comfortable, and altogether intriguing place.

  Chapter 3

  The following day was Sunday. As usual, the old minister, Reverend Henry, came walking up the drive, followed by the estate workers, and they joined with the household for the customary service in the chapel above the great hall.

  Sunday service in the chapel had been a Hall tradition from time immemorial.

  Afterward, Jacqueline met with Mrs. Patrick to review the stores after the depredations of the unexpected celebration. They’d agreed on the items for an order to be placed with the merchant in West Pennard, the nearest village of any size, when one of the young footmen, Harold, arrived to inform her that Sir Peregrine Wallace had called and that Cruickshank had Sir Peregrine waiting in the great hall.

  Jacqueline muttered an imprecation; she did not like Sir Peregrine. “Thank you, Harold. No need to go back to Cruickshank—I’ll go straightaway.”