His words brought her back to the present and she blushed, not knowing how to respond. In the end she decided upon the truth.
‘I was thinking about your face.’
Immediately he seemed to withdraw from her.
‘That is why I wanted you upon my right hand, to spare you that revulsion.’
She shook her head.
‘It does not revolt me.’
‘I should not have shaved off my beard!’
‘Yes, you should, you look so much better, only—’
‘Yes, madam? Only what?’ The hard note in his voice warned her not to continue, but she ignored it.
‘Your hair,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I am surprised your valet does not wish to cut it.’
‘I have no valet. Graddon does all I need.’
‘But I thought he was a butler...’
‘He does what is necessary. He was with me in Spain and brought me back to England. He stayed with me, helped me to come to terms with my new life.’
‘And Mrs Graddon?’
‘She was housemaid at Markham and decided to marry Graddon and come with him when I moved here.’ He raised his glass, his lip curling into something very like a sneer. ‘You see, my misfortune is their gain.’
She frowned.
‘Please do not belittle them. They are devoted to you.’
‘I stand corrected,’ he said stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon and theirs.’
‘I think you would look much better with your hair cut short. It is very much the fashion now, you know.’
He leaned closer, a belligerent, challenging look in his eye. It took all her courage not to turn away.
‘I need it long,’ he said savagely. ‘Then I can bring it down, thus, and hide this monstrous deformation.’ He pulled the ribbon from his hair and shook the dark curtain down over his face. ‘Surely that is better? I would not want to alarm the ladies and children!’
He was glaring at her, eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin, taut line, one side pulled lower by the dragging scar.
‘Nicky is not afraid of you,’ she said softly. ‘Nor do you frighten me.’
For a long, interminable time she held his eyes, hoping he would read not pity but sympathy and understanding in her gaze. He was a proud man and she was dismayed to think he was hiding from the world. To her relief, his angry look faded.
‘So would you have me trust myself to a country barber?’ he growled. ‘I think not, Miss Pentewan. Perhaps next time I go to London—’
‘I could cut it for you.’ She sat back, shocked by her own temerity. ‘I am quite adept at cutting hair, although I have no idea where the skill comes from. I was always used to trim my father’s hair, and since I have been at West Barton I have cut Nicky’s. I am sure no one could tell it was not professionally done.’
He was frowning at her now. She had gone too far. The wine had made her reckless and her wretched tongue had let her down. Major Coale jumped up and strode to tug at the bell pull. He was summoning a footman to escort her to her room.
‘Graddon, fetch scissors and my comb, if you please.’ He caught her eye, a glint in his own. ‘Very well, Miss Pentewan, let us put you to the test.’
‘What? I—’ She swallowed. ‘Are you sure it is what you want?’
‘Are you losing your nerve, madam?’
Zelah quite thought that she was. Two voices warred within her: one told her that to dine alone with a gentleman who was not related to her was improper enough, but to cut the man’s hair would put her beyond the pale. The other whispered that it was her Christian duty to help him quit his self-imposed exile.
The glint in his eyes turned into a gleam. He was laughing at her and her courage rose.
‘Not at all. Let us do it!’
* * *
‘Major, are you quite sure you want me to do this?’
He was sitting on a chair by the table and Zelah was standing behind him, comb in hand. They had rearranged the candelabra to give the best light possible and the dark locks gleamed, thick and glossy around his head, spreading out like ebony across his shoulders. The enormity of what she was about to do made her hesitate.
The major waved his hand.
‘Yes. I may change my mind when I am sober, but for now I want you to cut it.’
Zelah took a deep breath. It was too late to go back now, they had agreed. Besides, argued that wickedly seductive voice in her head, no one need ever know. She picked up the scissors and moved closer until her skirts were brushing his shoulder. It felt strange, uncomfortable, like standing over a sleeping tiger. Thrusting aside such fanciful thoughts, she took a secure grip of the scissors and began. His hair was like silk beneath her fingers. She lifted one dark lock and applied the scissors. They cut through it with a whisper. As she continued her confidence grew, as did the pile of black tresses on the floor.
His hair was naturally curly and she had seen enough pencil drawings of gentlemen with their hair à la Brutus since she had arrived at West Barton to recreate the style from memory—Reginald and Maria might live in a remote area of Exmoor, but they were both avid followers of the ton, receiving a constant stream of periodicals and letters from friends in London advising them of the latest fashions. She cut, combed and coaxed the major’s hair into place. It needed no pomade or grease to make it curl around his collar and his ears. She brushed the tendrils forwards around his face, as she had seen in the fashion plates. Her fingers touched the scar and he flinched. Immediately she drew back.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No. Carry on.’
Carefully she finished her work, combing and snipping off a few straggling ends until she was satisfied with the result. It was not strictly necessary, but she could not resist running her fingers though his glossy, thick hair one final time.
‘There.’ She brushed the loose hair from his shoulders. ‘It is finished.’
‘Very well, Delilah, let us see what you have done to me.’
He picked up one of the candelabra and walked over to a mirror.
Zelah held her breath as he regarded his image. In the candlelight the ugly gash down his face was still visible, but it seemed diminished by the new hairstyle. The sleek black locks were brushed forwards to curl about his wide brow, accentuating the strong lines of his face.
‘Well, Miss Pentewan, I congratulate you. Perhaps you should not be looking for a post as a governess, after all. You should offer your services as a coiffeuse.’
Relief made her laugh out loud. She said daringly, ‘You look very handsome, Major.’
He turned away from the mirror and made a noise between a growl and a cough.
‘Aye, well, enough of that. It is time I sent you back to the sick room, madam. You will need to be up betimes.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She cast a conscience-stricken look at the clock. ‘Poor Hannah has been alone with Nicky for hours.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘Goodnight, sir. I hope we shall see you in the morning before we leave?’
Again that clearing of the throat and he would not meet her eyes.
‘Perhaps. Goodnight, Miss Pentewan.’ He took her hand, his grip tightening for a second. ‘And thank you.’
Chapter Three
The following morning Reginald drove over in his travelling chaise, which Maria had filled with feather bolsters and pillows to protect Nicky during the long journey home. Nicky looked around as his father carried him tenderly out of the house.
‘Is Major Coale not here, Papa?’
‘He sends his apologies, Master Nick,’ said Graddon in a fatherly way. ‘He went off early today to the long meadow to oversee the hedge-laying.’
‘But I wanted to say goodbye to him!’
Nicky’s disappointed wail touched a chord in Zelah: she too would have liked to see the major. However, she was heartened by Reginald’s response.
‘Your mama has already penned a note to Major Coale. She has not only given him permission to call at any time, but she has also invited him to
dinner. And once we have you home, Nicholas, you may write to him yourself, thanking him for his care of you.’
‘Yes, and I can ask him to call and see me,’ agreed Nicky. He frowned, suddenly unsure. ‘He will come, won’t he? If I ask him ’specially.’
‘I do not see how he can refuse.’ Reginald grinned at Zelah. ‘But I might have to instruct the staff not to send him round to the kitchens—when I saw him last he looked so ragged one might easily mistake him for a beggar.’
‘I think you might be surprised,’ murmured Zelah, smiling to herself.
* * *
The five miles to West Barton were covered with ease and they were greeted with great joy by the household. Maria clasped her stepson and wept copiously, bewailing the fact that she had been unable to visit him, while Nurse promised him all sorts of treats to make up for his ordeal.
‘I only hope being in That Man’s house hasn’t given you nightmares,’ said Nurse, tucking Nicky into his bed. ‘I believe he is truly hideous to look at.’
Anger welled up in Zelah, but she fought it down and said quietly, ‘Nonsense. Major Coale has a scar on his face, nothing more.’
‘Yes, and I don’t care for that,’ exclaimed Nicky. ‘He’s a great gun.’
‘Of course he is, my pet. Now, you need to rest after your long journey.’
Obedient to her unspoken wishes the others left Nicky to Nurse’s care and made their way back downstairs to the morning room.
‘I don’t like to think that he has been making a nuisance of himself.’ Reginald frowned. ‘When Coale told me he has been running free at Rooks Tower—’
‘Major Coale and his people are very happy to see him,’ said Zelah. ‘With everyone here so busy with the new baby, Nicky has been left too much to his own devices.’
Her words were met with a short silence. Then Maria sighed.
‘It is very true. Nurse has been giving all her attention to me and little Reginald and we were only too happy to think that Nicky was amusing himself in the garden.’ Her softly reproachful eyes moved to her husband. ‘And you have been out of the house so much recently...’
‘Trying to gather evidence for the villagers,’ he replied defensively. ‘I could hardly take the boy with me! I never thought—Nicky seemed quite happy.’ He gave Zelah a rueful smile. ‘No wonder he took to you so well, although looking after Nicky was not the reason you came to us. My poor sister, you have been with us for only a few weeks and we have turned you into a nursemaid.’
‘I am pleased to help, you know that, but Nicky needs companions of his own age,’ she said gently. ‘Or at the very least a tutor...’
‘But he is so young!’ Maria clasped her hands together. ‘I suppose I must stop thinking of him as a baby now.’ She brightened. ‘You are looking for a post as a governess, Zelah—perhaps you should start with Nicky. We could pay you—’
‘Dear sister, that is a kind thought, but that is not what I meant. And I could not take a salary off you; I have no wish to be an added drain upon your resources.’
Reginald shook his head.
‘No, it would not do at all. I believe Mr Netherby gives lessons to a few boys in the vicarage. I will make enquiries when I go into Lesserton this afternoon.’
Maria stretched out her hands to him. ‘Oh, must you go, with Nicky just come home...?’
He squeezed her fingers.
‘I’m afraid I must.’
‘What is this business that takes you there so often, Reginald?’ asked Zelah. ‘Is it something to do with Lydcombe Park? I remember you saying the new owner was causing difficulties.’
‘Aye. He is planning to open mines on his land.’
‘But surely that is a good thing,’ exclaimed Maria. ‘It will provide work—’
‘Not much. Evanshaw will be bringing in engineers and miners of his own. But the land he wants to mine is in dispute. The villagers believe it is theirs by ancient charter and have been using the land for years, grazing their animals on the hill as well as hunting in Prickett Wood. Sir Oswald claims it for his own and he has employed a bailiff, William Miller. A nasty piece of work who patrols the land with his henchmen.’
‘And is there nothing they can do?’
‘Those he has evicted are too poor to do anything themselves, but I have been organising the villagers. We have petitioned the Crown and put together a fund to pay for a lawyer to come to Lesserton and settle this once and for all.’
‘But can you not talk to Sir Oswald?’ said Zelah. ‘Surely he does not want to be on bad terms with his neighbours.’
Reginald shrugged. ‘I called upon him as soon as he took possession of the house on Lady Day, but he was not at all hospitable. I do not think he intends to live at Lydcombe. The house is merely a shell; everything of value in it has been sold. He told me he means to sell off the timber from his land and then sink his mine. He has no interest at all in the people.’
‘Then of course you must fight this,’ exclaimed Zelah. ‘I quite understand now why you are so busy. And please do not worry about Nicky, at least for the moment. I am very happy to help you look after him.’
Zelah went upstairs to relieve Nurse, satisfied that Maria and Reginald would find a solution to Nicky’s loneliness. Taking lessons at the vicarage would go a long way towards filling his days and would also provide him with the companionship of other boys. For the present, her concern was to keep him entertained while the deep gash on his leg healed.
* * *
The fine spring weather continued but Zelah was too busy to go out, dividing her day between Nicky and Maria, who was delighted to have her back and insisted that Zelah should sit with her whenever she could. It was therefore a full three days before she could find the time to enjoy the sunshine. She tied a straw bonnet over her brown curls, but declined her sister’s offer of a parasol, declaring that her complexion was past praying for.
Leaving the house by a side door, she set off across the grass at a very unladylike pace. It was good to be out in the fresh air again and she lifted her face up to the sun, revelling in its warmth. She walked briskly, enjoying the opportunity for a little quiet reflection.
She had been at West Barton for a month now and had made no progress in finding a position. She could make excuses, of course. Maria had told her how helpful it was to have her there, looking after Nicky, but deep in her heart Zelah knew she did not want to dwindle into the role of favourite aunt, at everyone’s beck and call and willing to perform any little task in gratitude for being allowed to live with the family.
‘You are being very ungrateful,’ she said aloud. ‘A position as governess would be far from comfortable. Here you could more than earn your keep.’ She climbed over a stile and jumped lightly down. ‘But as a governess I would be paid!’
She strode on. What she wanted, she realised, was independence. If she was fortunate enough to find a good position, then it might be possible to save a little of her salary each year until she had enough to retire. That, of course, would take many, many years, but what else had she to look forward to?
Perhaps you should look for a husband.
Major Coale’s words came into her mind. She could almost hear his deep voice saying them.
A husband. That was the ambition of most young ladies, but it was not hers. Besides, no man would want her if he knew her past—and she could not consider marrying a man without telling him everything.
No, thought Zelah practically, she had only two choices: she could remain at West Barton, loved and valued at the present, but destined to become nothing more than a burdensome old maid, or she could make a bid for independence.
‘I choose independence,’ she said to a cow, regarding her balefully from the next field. ‘I shall go back now and write out an advertisement for the newspaper.’
She crossed the field and scrambled over the stile on to the lane that led up to West Barton and as she did so she saw a rider approaching from the direction of Lesserton. Major Coale. In a panic
she considered jumping back over the stile and hiding until he had gone by, but it was too late; he had already seen her.
‘Good morning, Miss Pentewan.’ He raised his hat to her. She felt a little rush of pride when she saw his short hair. His cheeks were still free of a beard, too. There was no sign that he planned to revert to his former shaggy appearance. ‘I am on my way to enquire after young Master Buckland.’
‘He is doing very well, Major, thank you. The doctor says he may leave his bed tomorrow.’
He professes to dislike society, she thought. Perhaps he will be satisfied with that report. He will touch his hat, turn and ride away again.
‘I am glad to hear it.’ He kicked his feet free from the stirrups and jumped down. ‘Are you walking back to the house now? May I join you?’
‘I...yes, of course.’
She waited until he was beside her and began to walk on, very slowly, the grey mare clopping lazily along behind them. After a few yards the major stopped.
‘Is this how you usually walk, Miss Pentewan? I am surprised you ever get anywhere.’
‘Yes—no, I...’ She trailed off, her gaze dropping to his booted feet. ‘I thought, your leg...’
‘I am not a cripple, madam.’
Mrs Graddon’s words flashed into her mind and she recalled when she had offered to cut his hair and he had got up from the table to summon his servant. There had been no dragging step, no sign of a limp then.
‘Does the wound not pain you?’ she asked him.
‘Not at all, unlike this dawdling pace.’
She gave a little huff of irritation.
‘I beg your pardon. I was trying to be considerate.’
His hard look informed her quite clearly that he did not appreciate her efforts. She put up her chin.
‘If the wound has healed and there is no pain, why, then, does it affect your step?’
‘Habit, I suppose. What does it matter? I do not go into society.’
‘But that might change.’
‘I think not.’
She gave up the argument and walked on at her normal pace. The major matched her stride for stride and Zelah hid a smile. A little furrow of concentration creased his brow, but he was no longer limping.
Beneath the Major's Scars Page 5
