by Candace Camp
“Miss Holcomb, what a fortunate surprise,” he said, crossing the room to bow over her hand. Unmarried and in his late thirties, Martin Felton was part of the small social circle in which Anna and her brother moved. She saw him frequently at parties and assemblies, and while he was not exactly someone she would classify as her friend, he was a good acquaintance.
“Oh, yes, Miss Holcomb, it’s so delightful to see you.” Mrs. Burroughs, a small, fluttery woman, jumped up and rushed forward to take Anna’s hands. “How kind of you to come. And bringing one of your cook’s delicious pies, as well. So considerate of you.” She admired the pie in the maid’s hands and fussed over Anna, taking her arm and leading her to the sofa, sitting down beside her.
Mrs. Bennett, who was as plump as her friend was thin, joined her in an effusive greeting. “Anna, so nice to see you. How is your brother, my dear? Such a fine young man, I always say. Wasn’t I just saying to you the other day, Rachel, that Sir Christopher was the very model of a gentleman?”
“Oh, yes, of course, I’m sure. Such a gentleman,” Mrs. Burroughs agreed.
“You must scold him for not coming with you today. We do so enjoy seeing him.”
“I fear he is rather busy today with the estate manager.”
“Oh, yes, such a responsible young man he is. I could only wish my Miles showed the same sort of interest in our estate, but, of course, he is not inclined toward matters of business. He is more of a scholar, I fear, forever locking himself in his room with his books.”
Anna, having conversed with the young man on a few occasions, would scarcely have termed him scholarly, but she made no comment. Indeed, when Mrs. Bennett was talking, there was rarely any room to make a comment, even if one should be so inclined.
“Of course, I fear that Miles is feeling a trifle under the weather,” Mrs. Bennett sailed on. “I hope he hasn’t caught a chill. He got caught in the rain the other day. I told him to take an umbrella before he went out for his walk, but you know the young….” She let out a titter and covered her mouth. “Oh, he would be furious if he heard me say that. He said to me only yesterday, ‘Mother, I am scarcely young. I am all of twenty and one!’ And, of course, he is, but still, it seems so young to me. Probably not to you, of course, as you are barely more than a child yourself.”
“Hardly that, I am afraid, ma’am,” Anna demurred.
Somewhat to Anna’s surprise, the woman did not pursue the subject of her son’s ill health any further than that. Nor did she even remark upon her daughter. Such a departure from Mrs. Bennett’s normal behavior would have made Anna wonder what was the matter with the woman, but there was an air of suppressed excitement in her manner, a bright gleam in her eye, that to Anna, judging from past experiences, meant that the squire’s wife was bursting with some prime bit of gossip.
Anna glanced over at her hostess and saw that Mrs. Burroughs’ cheeks were also faintly flushed, her eyes bright. What on earth was going on?
As if she could hold it in no longer, Mrs. Bennett said in a rush, “Have you heard the news, Miss Holcomb? So very exciting…”
“No, I am afraid that I have heard nothing exciting.” Anna looked at the doctor, and he shrugged imperceptibly, as though he had no idea what was going on, either.
“Well, the squire told me—and I am certain that he heard it directly from Mr. Norton, who is, of course, his solicitor—Reed Moreland is returning to Winterset!”
Mrs. Bennett paused, looking at Anna expectantly. Anna could do nothing but stare blankly at the woman. Reed Moreland! She felt as if her insides had suddenly fallen down to her knees.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” the vicar’s wife gushed.
“Yes,” Anna managed to say through bloodless lips. “Yes, of course.”
“Such a gentleman of refinement,” Mrs. Burroughs went on happily. “So knowledgeable, so well bred. Everything one would expect from the son of a duke.”
“But not at all proud,” Mrs. Bennett stuck in.
“Oh, no, indeed, you are absolutely right,” her friend agreed. “Not proud at all, but not overly friendly, either.”
“Indeed, just perfect.”
“A paragon, it would seem,” Dr. Felton put in, a faint note of amusement in his voice.
“You are absolutely right.” Mrs. Bennett, incapable of irony, nodded her head. “Did you meet him when he was here before, Dr. Felton?”
“I was introduced to him at a party, I believe. He seemed a pleasant-enough gentleman.”
Anna felt as if she might be sick, right there in front of everyone. Why was Reed coming back here after all this time? And how was she to bear it? She thought of seeing him again, of going to a party and finding him there. It would be impossible.
“I am sure you must be quite excited to hear of it,” Mrs. Bennett said, with a playful smirk. “As I remember, the man danced attendance upon you quite a bit.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Anna protested faintly. “He was a very pleasant man, but I am sure he had no partiality for me.”
The other two women exchanged knowing glances.
“Very prettily said, my dear,” Mrs. Burroughs said approvingly. “Your maidenly reserve becomes you. But there is nothing wrong with attracting a worthy man’s attention.”
“And since you did not have a Season—” Mrs. Bennett rattled on.
“Of course it was very proper, very good of you to remain here and run the household for your father and brother—” the vicar’s wife inserted piously.
“—no one is more deserving than you of catching such a man’s eye,” Mrs. Bennett finished triumphantly.
“You are very kind to say so,” Anna said, putting all the firmness into her voice that she was capable of. “However, I assure you that there was nothing between Lord Moreland and myself but a very brief acquaintance. I imagine he scarcely remembers me.”
That statement, Anna knew, was extremely doubtful. Reed Moreland might not recall her with any kindness, but the son of a duke was unlikely to forget the affront of a woman turning down his offer of marriage.
“One wonders why Lord Moreland is returning after so long,” Dr. Felton commented, and Anna shot him a grateful glance for turning the conversation away from her relationship with Reed.
“He wrote to Mr. Norton that he intended to sell Winterset,” Mrs. Bennett explained. “And he wanted to see what needed to be done to the place to put it in good condition. He instructed Mr. Norton to hire servants and have the house cleaned and made ready for his arrival.”
“Do you…know when he is arriving?” Anna asked.
“Very soon, I would think, my dear,” Mrs. Bennett replied. “The squire said Mr. Norton seemed to think that Lord Moreland was most eager to come here.” She shot a meaningful little glance at Anna.
“It would doubtless be a good thing if he can sell it,” the doctor mused. “It would be much better to have someone living there. Winterset is far too fine a house to stand empty so long.”
“Oh, yes, it is beautiful,” Mrs. Burroughs hastened to agree, adding somewhat hesitantly, “Although it is a trifle odd, don’t you think?” She looked toward Anna apologetically. “I do not mean any offense, my dear. I know it is your ancestors’ house….”
Anna gave her a reassuring smile. “Please. Do not fear it will offend me. Everyone knows that the Lord de Winter who built it was, well, a trifle whimsical.”
“Exactly.” The vicar’s wife nodded, pleased at Anna’s understanding.
“It would be wonderful if someone would live in it,” Mrs. Bennett agreed, her eyes shining at the prospect. “Think of the parties…the balls…. Do you remember that ball Lord Moreland gave when he lived here before? Such a grand turnout.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mrs. Burroughs agreed.
Anna said nothing, letting the conversational tide move on without her. She remembered the ball very well. Too well. The memories of it had haunted her for years.
She had looked her best. She had been aware of that. Her
hair had been piled on top of her head in one of the intricate styles that her maid Penny was always trying to persuade her to wear, and she had worn a vivid deep blue gown that turned her eyes midnight blue. Her eyes had sparkled; her cheeks had been flushed with excitement. And she had glowed as if lit from within, her emotions turning her attractiveness into beauty.
The Winterset ballroom had positively glittered with lights, and the scent of gardenias had perfumed the air. Anna, knowing that she had told Reed once that gardenias were her favorite flowers, was aware, with a happiness so great she felt as if she were about to burst, that Reed had ordered them as a gift to her. His eyes as he smiled down at her had confirmed that knowledge.
It had been the most wonderful night of her life. She had danced only twice with Reed, the limit that propriety would allow, but those moments in his arms had been heavenly. She would never forget his face as he smiled down at her, his gray eyes warm and tender, the slash of dark eyebrows above them, the planes and hollows of his face as familiar and dear to her as if she had known him always, rather than only one month. The music, the other people, even the words they spoke, had been immaterial; the only important thing had been the way it felt to have his arm around her, her hand in his.
Later, after the midnight supper, he had taken her hand and slipped out onto the terrace with her, evading the countless prying eyes inside. They had strolled down the steps to the garden. The evening had been cool, but the chill had felt pleasant after the heat of the ballroom. As they walked, his hand had clasped hers, and Anna’s pulse had begun to hammer in her throat. He had stopped and turned to face her, and she had looked up at him, knowing what was coming next, wanting it with every fiber of her being.
Then he had bent and kissed her, and she had felt as if something exploded within her. Longing, hunger, a dancing, gibbering joy such as she had never experienced, all surged inside her, tangling and tumbling and racing through every inch of her. She had clung to him, lost to everything but Reed and the pleasure of his lips. And she had known at that moment that she had found the only man in the world for her, the love that would last her lifetime.
Even now, just thinking about it sent a shaft of pain through her chest so swift and hard that she almost gasped. Anna closed her eyes briefly, willing down the anguish that welled up in her all over again. Giving up Reed Moreland had been the hardest thing that she had ever done in her life. It had taken her three long years to reach the point of—well, not happiness, exactly, but at least contentment with her life.
It seemed the cruelest of jokes that Reed should decide to reappear in her life now. She dreaded the thought of what would happen if she saw him again. Would the mere sight of him send all her hard-won peace of mind crashing to the ground?
Anna could feel herself starting to shake inside, and she clenched her fists tightly to control it. She had to get away from here, had to be by herself, where she could reflect without having to worry about what everyone around her would think. Hoping she had stayed long enough to be polite, she inserted herself into the first conversational pause, saying that she must return home to give Kit the latest news.
She set the horse on the road back to Holcomb Manor, but before she reached it, she took the lane to the left that led to Winterset. She drove the trap along the driveway, edged on both sides with limes. Her hands grew looser on the reins, and the horse slowed its pace more and more. There were breaks in the trees where one or more had died and been cut down over the years, and there were shrubs that had grown up closer to the road. But it was still familiar enough to make Anna’s heart ache within her chest. Winterset was their nearest neighbor, but she had not ridden along this drive for three years.
The rows of trees ended, opening onto a broad expanse of lawn leading up to the great house itself. Winterset lay on a slight rise in the land, like a jewel in its setting. The drive curved in a circle in front of it, ending just before the low stone wall, topped by an iron railing, that stood some yards in front of the house.
The wall was centered by two stone pillars standing higher than the iron railings, and atop each pillar lay a staghound au couchant, its ears pricked alertly. The fierce dogs were, it was said, modeled after the hunting hounds of Lord Jasper de Winter, who had built the house in the seventeenth century.
Between the iron fencing and the house lay a small inner courtyard, with a wide stone pathway leading from the drive to the front door of the house. The house itself was elegant and symmetrical, with a long central section flanked on either end by two shorter gabled wings. It had been constructed of yellowish stone, almost honey-colored when it was built, but now darkened in patches by age, and much of it spotted by lichen. As a result, when the sun shone on it, as it did this summer day, the stone was a mellow golden; on dreary days, it had a dark and gloomy cast.
Much of its graceful elegance came from its large windows and the stone balustrade that ran across the top of the house. Stone chimneys dotted the roof. The chimneys at the front gables were carved so that they appeared to twist upward in spirals. At various corners of the roof, statues of fierce griffins and eagles jutted up into the air.
Anna looked up at the building. She had always loved Winterset, even when she was a child, seeing the statues of the fantastical griffins and the twisting chimneys as delightful whimsy. But now, looking at the house, she understood the superstitious unease with which many people regarded it. The statues and twisted chimneys did give the place an odd air, even—especially on a gloomy day—an atmosphere of foreboding. The uncannily accurate renditions of the staghounds on the gate piers only added to the faint menace. Despite the ravages of time, the faces of the large dogs were eerily realistic, so that one felt almost as if the animals were watching one carefully. It was the sculptor’s skill at creating the hounds, Anna thought, that had contributed to the local legend that on the nights of the full moon, the staghounds rose from their positions and, at the piercing whistle of their long-dead master, Lord Jasper de Winter, ran with him on a ghostly hunt through the night, eyes gleaming like red-hot coals.
There was a rustling in the bushes beside Anna’s trap, and she whipped her head around. A man stood just beyond, scarcely visible, watching her.
CHAPTER TWO
Anna’s hands tightened on the reins, her heart suddenly in her throat. Then the figure moved, shoving through the shrubbery to the driveway, and she relaxed.
“Grimsley. I did not see you there.”
The slight man, a trifle stooped from years of bending over plants and weeds, reached up and swept the dark cap from his head, revealing a shock of curly hair, the dark streaked through with gray.
“Good day to ye, miss,” Grimsley replied, with a deferential bob of his head. He had once been head gardener here at Winterset and had stayed on as caretaker during all the years it had sat empty.
“How are you?” Anna asked politely, and the man moved over to the side of her trap.
“Very good, miss. Kind of you to ask.” He grinned up at her, displaying a row of crooked teeth. “The old place is still a beauty, ain’t she, miss?”
“Yes. I have always found Winterset quite lovely.” Anna paused, then added, “I hear that the owner plans to return.”
He nodded his head eagerly. “Yes, miss, that’s the truth. Mr. Norton came by and told me today. Says the grand folk are coming back. Mayhap ye will be coming over here again, then.”
Anna quickly shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so.”
“Don’t seem right, the house without a de Winter in it.”
“I am sure Lord Moreland is a good employer.”
“Not a de Winter,” the man said unanswerably. He turned to look again at the building. “House is lonely without them. Don’t seem right, Lord de Winter leaving Winterset like that. Going to some heathen place.”
“Barbados,” Anna said automatically. This was a familiar conversation; she had had it nearly every time she had run into Mr. Grimsley in the past few years.
“Selling the house.” The middle-aged man’s jaw set stubbornly.
“It was far too big a place for my uncle,” Anna said. “And he did not wish to live there any longer.”
Her mother’s brother, Charles, was the Lord de Winter about whom the caretaker spoke. An unmarried, childless man, he—and Anna’s mother, Barbara—had been the last of the de Winter line. When he left Winterset, he had put the house and all his other assets into the guardianship of Anna’s father, as someday, when he died, all his belongings would be inherited by Anna and Kit. Kit still managed the de Winter lands and money, but their father had sold the house, as all of them preferred to live in their own home, Holcomb Manor.
Anna could see that her words had not mollified Grimsley; she knew that they never had before and doubtless never would. The man was peculiarly obsessed with Winterset and the de Winters. He had been born on the estate and had lived his entire life there. He had continued to occupy the small gardener’s house on the grounds for the last three years, while the house had stood empty. Of course, he was also rumored to take a few nips of gin throughout the day, which Anna suspected had something to do with some of the odd notions he took.
She turned the conversation back to the subject that still nagged at her brain. “Do you know when Lord Moreland will be arriving at Winterset?”
Grimsley shook his head gloomily. “Soon, Mr. Norton said. ‘Best be getting it in shape, Grimsley.’ That’s what he said. How’s one man to do that, I’d like to know.”
“I am sure he will not expect you to do any more than what you can,” Anna assured him. “Ree—Lord Moreland is a very fair man.”
He nodded, but Anna could see the skepticism in his eyes.
“Well,” she went on bracingly, though she knew that the assurance was more for herself than from the caretaker, “I imagine that he will not stay here all that long, anyway. I understand that he is merely looking it over to see about selling it.”
