A Stranger at Fellsworth

by Sarah E. Ladd

  Annabelle blatantly refused the offer. It was rude to reject such assistance, but the thought of placing her hand in his, even for such a simple gesture, sickened her.

  She thought his intoxication would prevent his notice of the offense, but as her foot touched the ground, Mr. Bartrell gripped her hand and pulled her to him, the suddenness of it causing Annabelle to lose her balance.

  “How dare you!” she breathed, simultaneously attempting to steady herself and free her hand. “Let go of me this instant!”

  His eyes narrowed to threatening slits, and he hissed in her ear, “You’re being very mean, Miss Thorley. I don’t care for it.”

  “And I don’t care to be handled in such a fashion.”

  The torchlight slid across his face. Darkness lurked in his eyes, and a sinister expression took hold. “If you know what is good for you, you’ll rethink the manner in which you address me.”

  She lifted her face. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “You’re a bit too high and mighty for your station, aren’t you? Mark my words, Miss Thorley. Once we are married, I will not tolerate such behavior. A woman like you must remember her place.”

  She jerked her arm free, sending the inebriated man stumbling backward. “I will never marry you.”

  “We’ll see what your brother has to say about that.” He laughed and leaned close, his rheumy eyes locked on her with unnerving self-confidence. “Do not doubt it, my pet. I will possess you.”

  Concerned her terror would write itself on her face, Annabelle clutched her cloak and whirled around, caring not that the wind had caught her hood and blown it back over her shoulders. The rain pummeled her hair, dripped down the sides of her face, and blurred her vision, but she was determined to put as much distance between Mr. Bartrell and herself as possible. She quickened her steps over the cobbled street and fixed her gaze on the door, but then something caught her eye.

  A man was seated just outside the mews, his attention focused on her. It was unusual for a strange man to be present at this time of night.

  She slowed her steps. The flickering lanterns illuminated the familiar wide-brimmed hat, and his dark, wild hair hung just below the hat’s brim. His broad shoulders and strong jawline were unmistakable. He was the man who had saved her reticule from Miss Stillworth.

  Anger flared. What right did men have to regard her this way? Was she really just a token to be treated like an object, a thing to be controlled? First, her brother demeaned her, then Mr. Bartrell treated her vilely, and now this strange man had followed her and stared at her as if she were on display at a fair.

  It was not proper.

  It was not to be tolerated.

  Her social standing might be shifting, but she was still a lady. And she would be treated as such.

  Despite the incessant rain and the menace of the night wind, she pivoted and approached the man boldly. Her humor had turned. Humiliation had worn her down, and the sense that life was spinning beyond her control consumed her.

  “You are the man I met on the street today.” Her words rang out like an accusation.

  The man stood when she spoke. He had told her his name, but in her state she could not bring it to mind. He was taller than she remembered, and much more intimidating now that she was so near to him. Stubble shadowed his chin, and he appeared quite different in the night’s darkness. It was then she noticed a dog at his feet, which had stood along with its master. She took a step back from the animal.

  “I am, Miss Thorley.”

  She drew a sharp breath at the mention of her name. “I do not recall telling you my name, nor where I live.”

  “No, you did not.”

  Frustration mounting, Annabelle crossed her arms over her chest. “Then how do you know it? What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

  Her words did not rattle him. He remained exasperatingly calm. “I did not follow you. I am a guest here. That is, my master is a guest here. I am staying in the rooms above the mews.”

  Annabelle frowned. Was he speaking in riddles? She looked back at the unruly bunch behind her. “Who?”

  He nodded toward the group. “Mr. Stephen Treadwell. I am the gamekeeper on his estate. We are traveling back to Fellsworth, and Mr. Treadwell had business with Mr. Thorley.”

  Annabelle’s stomach clenched. He had not followed her. Nor had he behaved in an indecorous manner. She wanted to sink into the ground or turn and run for the sanctity of her chamber. Now she was the one behaving abhorrently. She had been wrong about this man who not only had come to her assistance earlier in the day, but did not deserve the harshness of her tone.

  She swallowed the lump of pride. “Please accept my apologies, Mr. . . .”

  “Locke. My name is Owen Locke.”

  “That’s right. Mr. Locke.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Very well, then, Mr. Locke. I am sorry. I fear the lateness of the evening has affected my manners.”

  She turned to leave, but his words stopped her. “I overstep my bounds, I know, but is that gentleman troubling you?”

  She followed the direction of his nod, and Mr. Bartrell came into view. The very fact that Mr. Locke had noticed the impropriety of Mr. Bartrell’s behavior both unnerved her and stirred her. “No.”

  He pressed his lips together and stepped back. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  She stared at him for a moment, transfixed. She did not know this man, and yet he spoke as if he had some sort of authority over her, some reason to protect her.

  “Belle!” Thomas’s sharp call echoed in the night mist. “Come here. What are you doing, lurking about like that?”

  She had no desire to rejoin the detestable party and needed to avoid her brother. Without another word she gathered her skirts and headed to the door, but just as she drew closer to it, Thomas closed the space between them and grabbed her wrist.

  “Belle! Come join us here.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  Her brother refused to let her pass. “The night is young, and we have guests to entertain.”

  “It is not young. And you have guests to entertain, not I.”

  “Mr. Bartrell would like to better make your acquaintance. It would be rude for you to retire when your presence has been requested.”

  Her heart thudded and she looked around for an escape. At the door was the butler, who would be of no help, but just beyond him stood Crosley. Dear, helpful Crosley.

  The situation was getting entirely out of hand. Annabelle wrenched her wrist free.

  “Belle, wait!”

  But she did not listen.

  Her brother’s footsteps rang heavily, if sloppily, behind her, but when she arrived at the door, Crosley held it open.

  Annabelle stepped inside and locked the door behind her before her brother could reach her.

  Owen clenched his fists at his sides as he watched the scene unfold. It was not right.

  The night’s weather carried away the words, but the actions he witnessed spoke volumes. In a span of mere minutes, he had seen not just one, but two instances of ill treatment toward Miss Thorley.

  It did not matter if the woman was the finest lady or the beggar he had met on the street earlier that day. No woman deserved to be treated with such appalling disrespect.

  He was poised, ready to intervene, when Thomas Thorley finally released his sister’s wrist and she disappeared into the house.

  Yes, Miss Thorley had been rude to him, but it had been the expression in her hazel eyes and not her words that affected him—for it was fear, not condescension, that radiated from her.

  Owen recalled seeing the same expression once before: on his late wife’s face. It had been in the days leading up to her death, but he had not recognized the significance of it until it was too late. He swore he would never suffer another human to feel fear if he could prevent it. And he had not—until this night.

  “Locke.”

  Owen turned as Treadwell approached from the carriage. He’d
been paying such close attention to Miss Thorley that he’d almost forgotten why he was waiting outside in the first place. “How was the ball?”

  Treadwell chuckled and scratched the back of his head, then stared up at the black sky, as if contemplating his answer. “Amusing.”

  Disappointment stabbed at Owen, for Treadwell’s eyes were red. His sloppy gait confirmed Owen’s suspicion: Treadwell was intoxicated.

  Owen frowned. He knew all too well that even men who were gentlemen by day could become quite altered under the influence. Promises would be forgotten; priorities would shift. He knew the answer to his question before even asking it. “Did you speak with Farley?”

  Treadwell smacked his forehead in an exuberant display, twisting his face as if physically pained. “I forgot.”

  Owen heaved a sigh. In Treadwell’s current state, perhaps it was for the best. “Another time, then.”

  “Definitely. You know I’ll do everything in my power to help you. You’re like a brother to me.” Treadwell became everyone’s brother with a pint of brandy, and his overly affectionate words slid against each other as the man swayed from side to side. “These things take time, and Farley is an old goat.”

  Even in Treadwell’s altered state, he spoke the truth. It was a waiting game. But patience was not a virtue Owen could boast. He detested relying on others, and he was involved in a game of class now. Farley would never sell his land to a mere gamekeeper. It did not matter to Farley that Locke blood and sweat had transformed the thickets and groves for centuries and that Owen’s ancestors were buried beneath its boughs. Legal ownership of the land would never change that fact. For now Owen had to be content to know that the wheels were being set into motion.

  He looked back at the door through which Miss Thorley had disappeared. Mr. Thorley was pounding on it, demanding admittance while a male servant fiddled with the lock.

  Concern for the young woman buzzed through Owen, and the most frustrating part was there was little he could do. She was inside the great house, and he was bunking in a room above the stables. Their paths would not cross again.

  This world was one he did not care for. The groves and elms of Linton Forest were calling to him, even in the midst of the midnight hours, and his heart ached to return home to his daughter. The cruel treatment of Miss Thorley had awakened memories that would be best left forgotten, and once again, he was powerless to do anything about it.

  Chapter Seven

  Annabelle stormed into her bedchamber and whipped her damp cape from her trembling shoulders. She tossed the garment on a nearby settee with a huff.

  A cheery fire flamed merrily in the grate, as if attempting to soothe her rumpled spirit, but the voices downstairs prevailed.

  Crosley followed behind her, retrieved the cape from the settee, and shook it out.

  “I will not marry that man. I won’t do it.” Annabelle paced the small space. She yanked her long glove off her hand, finger by finger, and then dropped it onto a cushioned chair next to the blazing fire. “I would prefer to be an old spinster living on the streets than marry a man so arrogant, so condescending, so unkind.”

  Crosley pressed her lips together as she calmly waited to take the discarded gloves.

  “And my brother!” Annabelle peeled her jeweled bracelet from her wrist. “How dare he. How dare he! He cannot force me to marry anyone, especially someone so revolting. You agree with me, do you not, Crosley?”

  When she did not respond, Annabelle ceased her pacing and looked at the lady’s maid. “Crosley?”

  Crosley looked down at the floral carpet, as if deliberately avoiding Annabelle’s eyes. “I don’t know, miss.”

  Annabelle dropped her hand and turned. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  Crosley shrugged and draped the glove over her arm. “Mr. Bartrell is established and, from my limited knowledge, is generally well accepted in society. He is wealthy and can offer you security. You would have an elegant home. Nice possessions. There could be a worse husband, miss.”

  Annabelle shook her head in adamant protest. “But such things do not matter. Not when the gentleman in question—and I use the term gentleman loosely—would treat me with such discourtesy. Did you witness the display by the carriage?”

  “I did.” Crosley’s voice was soft as she placed the gloves by the fire to dry.

  Annabelle moved to the dressing table, dropped to the tufted bench with a huff, and yanked the woven ribbons from her hair. Perhaps she had been wrong to share her feelings with Crosley. She’d been foolish to think the woman could understand her situation. “Would you tolerate such treatment?”

  Crosley unclasped the necklace from around Annabelle’s neck and returned it to the jewelry cabinet. “Mr. Bartrell is a fine match and—”

  “He’s dreadful.”

  Crosley shrugged. “Many women would find a match like him fortunate.”

  Annabelle reached out and grabbed Crosley’s hand. “But would you tolerate such treatment?”

  At Crosley’s hesitation Annabelle returned her hands to her lap and fixed her gaze on the lady’s maid. “Please tell me. I really would like to know your opinion.”

  It was an odd request, Annabelle knew. Crosley’s role was to care for Annabelle’s gowns and dress her hair, not share her opinions on her mistress’s personal life. But Annabelle was growing desperate. She had no family members to offer counsel. And the lines between mistress and servant were blurring at a rapid pace. There were times she and Crosley laughed together. They had even cried together. In fact, if their situations were not so different, they might even be considered friends.

  With a sigh Crosley sat on the settee next to the dressing table and fixed her light-blue eyes on Annabelle. “I know your heart is set on Mr. Goodacre, and Mr. Bartrell is certainly not as handsome or charming as he, but you must face reality.”

  Annabelle swallowed her objection. After all, she had asked for the opinion.

  “I have great respect for the Thorleys, but your family’s situation is precarious. Given your brother’s decisions and your father’s past actions, it might be difficult for you to make a more suitable match than Mr. Bartrell.”

  Annabelle felt as if she had been struck. “Are you suggesting that another man would not marry me?”

  Crosley shook her head. “No, I am not saying that. But consider Miss Stillworth. I’d wager she never expected to find herself in the situation she is in. We never know what lies ahead of us, Miss Thorley, or what the consequences of our actions might be. Perhaps prudence and practicality would serve you better than the satisfaction of realizing your heart’s desires.”

  Miss Stillworth’s story was a sobering reminder of the world’s harsh realities, especially for a woman. Annabelle pulled a pin from her hair. “I would not wish Miss Stillworth’s circumstances on anyone, but I refuse to accept this as my only option. Something is underhanded about Mr. Bartrell. His nature is not trustworthy, and that I cannot abide. Perhaps I seem stubborn, but I will not marry that man. I refuse to become like Eleanor and be so frightened of my husband that I lock myself away. No. There has to be another way.”

  Crosley offered a reassuring smile. “I hope I did not speak too freely, and I am honored that you would ask my opinion. It is only that—an opinion. You’ll figure this out, I’ve no doubt. Perhaps a good night’s sleep. Things always seem brighter by the light of day.”

  Save for the fire’s crackling, the women sat in silence as Crosley brushed Annabelle’s hair. But instead of growing calmer, Annabelle’s thoughts twisted tighter when the occasional shout or burst of laughter echoed from below.

  Stroke after stroke Crosley brushed, and Annabelle attempted to make sense of the feelings churning within her.

  Her world as she knew it was over. And yet, as she studied her face in the looking glass, she looked the same. Same light-brown hair. Same hazel eyes. Same oval face. Her features showed no sign of the scars on her heart.

  She’d heard the tales o
f women who fell from society for this reason or the other. Never did she dream that she would count herself among them. Crosley was right. No more marriage proposals would come. No more flirting. No more girlish exploits. Her future lay before her, bleak and desolate. Her choices were clear: marry the obnoxious Mr. Bartrell or risk becoming like Miss Stillworth.

  “There, all done.” As Crosley lowered the brush to the dressing table, a shout made her freeze in midmotion and turn toward the door.

  “Belle! Belle!” Thomas’s voice grew closer with each repetition of the word.

  Annabelle looked to Crosley’s reflection in the looking glass, and the women locked gazes.

  Thomas’s footsteps clomped outside of Annabelle’s bedchamber. “Belle!”

  Panic—no, fear—seized Annabelle at the sound. He had been intoxicated, and by now would be more so. No good could come of a conversation with him.

  Annabelle leapt up from her seat and lunged toward the door. Pulse racing, she turned the key and stepped back, staring at the wooden entry.

  Her brother’s heavy fist pounded on the door, causing both Annabelle and Crosley to jump. He shook the brass handle from the other side, and when it would not open, he rapped on the door once more. “Open this door!”

  Annabelle pressed her finger to her lips to tell Crosley to be quiet. She motioned for the lady’s maid to go through her dressing room and lock the other entrance.

  She turned back to face the door. Thomas hammered again, shaking the door in its frame so that Annabelle feared he might knock it in.

  “Bartrell told me about your behavior by the carriage. How dare you!” Each strike pummeled her with fresh fear. “Need I remind you that you, too, are a guest in this home? You are here because I allow it. I provide for you, take care of you, and this is how you repay me? Belle, open this door!”

  Chapter Eight

  You are here because I allow it.” Thomas’s words echoed in Annabelle’s mind as the mantel clock struck the second hour. She glanced at the clock’s face and then resumed her pacing.