Brides of Falconfell

by Bancroft, Blair

  “My fingers are adept in the sickroom, in the garden, changing a nappie,” I said. I even embroider with a fairly steady hand. But sing or play an instrument I cannot. After two years of struggle, my teacher informed my mother that I must be content to excel in other feminine skills, for he could not endure another moment of struggling to teach me the rudiments of music.”

  “Unnatural gel,” Maud chortled. “I was the same, you know. Perhaps I should teach you the skills I developed. Two witches in the family, now wouldn’t that be grand?”

  “You may be the late lord’s sister,” Isabelle Hammersley declared, “but I swear, Maud, you are mad as a hatter. How Hammersley tolerates you I truly do not know.”

  I seized the opportunity Maud had just offered. For as much as I did not care for the dowager, there was no doubt Maud bore watching. “Do you have a special room where you make your lotions and potions?” I asked. “Since many herbs and plants have medicinal uses, I would be most interested in visiting it.”

  Maud cackled with pleasure, sliding a dark glance at the dowager as she did so. “After nuncheon tomorrow I’ll show you, if you’re not bent on climbing the mountain again.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to it.” Isabelle Hammersley huffed.

  A hand touched my shoulder from behind. “A moment of your time, Serena.” My heartbeat was erratic as I followed Hammersley’s broad back all the way to his study. What now? It seemed likely his glorious speech had been for show, a necessity to keep his household from running amuck, but now the hammer would fall. I winced at my inadvertent play on words. No doubt that is where his name came from, some ancient Viking ancestor wielding a hammer and slaying every Angle, Saxon, and Celt in sight.

  Perhaps I should have thought of that before rushing pell-mell into the unknown north.

  The room was becoming familiar, the same mix of scents—snuff, sandalwood, goose quills, ink, old leather, and coal fire. The same flickering light from two candelabra and the glowing fire. The same Hammersley blue eyes and straight chestnut hair . . . no, instead of slicked back, Thayne’s hair was tousled tonight, as if he had been sitting for some time, struggling with a weighty problem. Quite possibly me.

  “You’ve had a busy day.” He had been drinking too, and more than the wine and port at dinner. A quick glance revealed the brandy decanter I had seen the first time we met in this room.

  I put on my best smile. “The climb was exhilarating, my lord, even if we were soaked to the bone on the way back.”

  “I wasn’t referring to the climb.”

  Truly, so much had happened since morning that I could only stare at him blankly. Was he referring to the dowager’s harsh words before dinner?

  “You have been raiding my attics.”

  I gaped, rearranged my thoughts across the chasm of the day. Attics. Violet. Clothing. “You were not about or I would have asked,” I burbled. “Mrs. Maxwell said there was no fabric suitable for a child, so I thought to see if there was anything put by in the attics that might do. Violet needs garments now, my lord. I did not wish to wait for exchanges through the post.”

  “No, of course you didn’t.” He ran long fingers through his hair while continuing to stare me straight in the eye. “And you wish Mrs. Maxwell and Cook at the ends of the earth.”

  “I thought they already were.”

  The hand tugging his hair stilled, his eyes widened, his shoulders shook. A sharp crack of laughter filled the room. “Oh, well done, Serena. A true coup de graçe for which I have no riposte. But what shall we do with them then?”

  I heaved a sigh. “I truly don’t know, my lord. It cannot be easy to find people willing to come to such an out of the way place.”

  “If we are to be married, Serena, you must call me Thayne.”

  I was beginning to wonder just which Hammersley was mad. “That’s the brandy talking, my lord.”

  “It is pure selfishness. I wish to live in a well-ordered household and, of all the females I know, only you can provide the level of management I desire.”

  “You cannot know Laytham was truthful. Very likely he wished to be rid of me.”

  Thayne’s lips curled in what appeared to be a decidedly scheming smile. “And I should dismiss the encomiums from all the other relatives as well?”

  I felt tears threaten. “My lord, you cannot hire a wife as you would a servant!”

  “Why not? ’Tis done all the time.”

  He was right, of course. Marriages were for land, money, prestige. Convenience. Very few were for love. “You cannot marry without a proper mourning period,” I protested.

  “I have already mourned my wife for close on to a year as I watched her fade away. And even before that as I watched her beauty and gaiety transform into a distempered shrew with a roving eye.”

  “My lord!”

  He steepled his fingers, leaned back in his chair. “So that bit of gossip has not reached you yet. I’m surprised, with so many in my household having a penchant for speaking ill of each other, let alone of the dead.”

  I stood. “My lord, I bid you goodnight.”

  “Sit!” I fisted my hands and glared at him. I did not sit.

  The lord of the manor rose from behind the desk, towering above me, his voice still cold but less commanding. “There is enough quarreling in this house, Serena, without adding the two of us to the mix. Falconfell needs a strong feminine hand at the helm. It needs you.” He clenched a hand at his side, slowly let it fall. “I need you, Serena. I am tired of being alone.”

  “You are as mad as Maud,” I told him. And escaped.

  I intended to throw myself on my bed and have a good weep, but the garments I’d salvaged from the attic were covering every inch of the coverlet I wanted to pull up over my head while telling the world to go away. I muttered several epithets learned eavesdropping in the stables as a child. I tried the chaise-longue in my sitting room, but felt utterly foolish draped over an item of furniture intended as a lounge for ladies with nothing better to do with their time or a “fainting couch” for women who thought invalidism was interesting.

  I finally plopped myself down in a wingchair set by the fire and glared at the glowing coals. I was surrounded by a house full of animosity and, I suspected, secrets. There was something not quite right at Falconfell, something beyond the scope of mourning the lady of the house. I was being offered an opportunity to mend matters. But at what cost? Marriage to a man whose wife was scarce in her grave? Living a life of service at the end of the world?

  Or had Hammersley simply gone mad with grief and would soon recover enough to regret his hasty words?

  And then there was Violet, who needed me. And Ross Hammersley, whose acceptance touched me. And Thayne himself, the one and only love of my life. I had been so sure he’d never guessed my tendre for him during that Season long ago. But perhaps I’d carried my heart in my eyes, as young girls are wont to do. Why else would he be so certain he could simply call me to Falconfell and manipulate me to his will?

  He was right about one thing. The only way I could fulfill the role Thayne Hammersley wanted me to play—the new broom that swept clean—was as the Baroness Hammersley.

  Marriage, a home of my own . . . children. Temptation called me.

  Thoroughly disgusted with myself, I jumped to my feet and charged into my bedchamber, spending the next half hour sorting the garments from the attic, choosing the ones most suitable for a child of five. A voluminous white nightgown would become a child-size chemise and pantaloons; a fine blue kerseymere and a leaf green sprigged muslin would do for simple day gowns. There were, in fact, so many yards of cloth in these gowns from another century that Bess and I might fashion enough garments for triplets.

  My first task for the morning: take Violet’s measurements and unpick one of her old gowns for a pattern. Making a concerted effort to think only of Violet and her need for clothing, I readied myself for bed without ringing for Bess. My attempts to ignore the larger problems looming over me were
, of course, in vain.

  I did not sleep well.

  Chapter Nine

  I was on my way back to my room after breakfast when Miss Maud popped up, seemingly out of nowhere, blocking my path. “She’ll never leave,” she told me, her dark eyes filled with the eerie glow of prophecy. “Willy-nilly, she intends to have him.”

  “I beg you pardon,” I murmured, genuinely puzzled. “Who won’t leave, Miss Maud?”

  “Justine,” she hissed. “Mark my words, she’ll find a way.”

  I was growing accustomed to Maud’s odd pronouncements, but this time she had an other-worldly look, as if she truly could see what others did not. “Miss Maud,” I said as gently as I could, “Justine will find a way to what?”

  Her far-away look snapped back to reality, fixing on my face with all the scorn of a tutor whose pupil has failed to add two plus two. “Thayne, of course. She plans to be the second bride of Falconfell.”

  I blinked, swallowed, and realized what an impossibly sheltered life I’d led, moving from sickroom to sickroom, allowing on dits to flow around me but never quite taking them in. Who was I to care about the peccadillos of people I scarcely knew? I would remain above all that.

  And yet how had I not seen it, when the dowager made such a point of asking when Justine would be leaving? When Justine herself had warned me away from Thayne?

  Too much on my plate. My head whirled, my stomach churned. I had clung to the lure of Thayne needing me, of his asking for my help with Violet. To the carrot he held out—the challenge of putting Falconfell to rights. I had even begun to cherish a small hope he might mean the rest of his words—his impossible, if scandalous, offer of that dream of every aging spinster. Marriage.

  Justine and her assertions had simply flown from my head. But now . . .

  “Be careful,” Maud whispered, leaning close. “She’ll see you gone, one way or another.” And then she was scuttling away down a side corridor with surprising agility, her black silk gown billowing out behind her.

  Merciful heavens, what did she mean by that? The implications my mind conjured were enough to bring up gooseflesh. No, no, the words belonged to mad Maud. I would be foolish to pay them heed. But I was still frowning as I continued on to my room, searched my sewing box until I found a tape measure, and made my way to the nursery.

  I would have been happier if Violet had squirmed or chattered as I took her measurements, but she stood still as one of Lord Elgin’s marbles, a ghost of a child, with no sign of the bright-eyed girl who had smelled violets and petted catkins only two days ago. The nursery remained bright and cheery, however, with all the windows uncovered and glowing coals in the fireplace. But the miasma of death permeated the house, spreading a gloom that was difficult to put off. Clearly, Violet needed to get out of the house more often.

  Guilt struck me. A vision of lunching beside a waterfall, a handsome and charming gentleman by my side, my thrill at the great open space of the moor, the spectacular view down the valley . . . I was out on the high moor enjoying myself while Violet was shut up in this . . . this mausoleum of a house, with occupants who spent their time warring with one another. The dowager was right. I had neglected my duties. If I had not climbed Falconcrest, I might have had one of Violet’s new gowns half-completed by now.

  The sound of voices interrupted my bout of guilt. A maid had brought up a stack of nursery supplies and was in close conversation with Nanny Roberts. From the attitudes of their bodies, as well as the avid look on their faces, I suspected the maid was imparting a rather juicy bit of gossip. I confess to being curious but resolutely turned my back, stretching the tape measure from Violet’s neck to her wrist, then dutifully recording the number in the notepad I always carried in my reticule.

  I looked up as Nanny approached, no longer hiding my curiosity when I saw she was big with news. She motioned me away from Violet then, speaking softly, said, “There’s been a great to-do, miss. The master and Mrs. Maxwell. No one heard what was said, of course, but Mary says she came back to the kitchen looking pale as a ghost. Do you suppose he’s let her go?” Nanny appeared stricken, as if fearing she was next.

  Once again, my usually steady stomach roiled. I wasn’t living up to my name. Instead of serenity, I had brought nothing but turmoil to a house of mourning.

  I should go away. Leave them to wallow in this pit of conniving and despair.

  Yet I, Serena Emilia Farnborough, was the panacea—or so Thayne Hammersley thought—and surely panaceas never refused a challenge.

  Ridiculous! Living at Falconfell was clearly affecting my ability to think clearly, my ability to reason, be sensible.

  I glanced at Violet who was still standing where I left her, dark eyes large and troubled, well aware that something else had gone wrong in her already shattered world.

  “Such a good girl,” I crooned. “Now that we have found fabric and I have your measurements, you shall have new clothes in no time. Bess, my maid, shall help me, and we will sew and sew, and perhaps as soon as tomorrow you will have something cheerful to wear that actually fits.”

  Violet offered a wan smile and a curtsy. “Thank you, miss.”

  The child was much too good. I would feel better when she displayed occasional signs of being naughty. Or at least animated. “Nanny,” I said, “since I will be busy sewing, perhaps one of the maids could take Violet for a walk through the gardens. I would like to see her get fresh air every day.”

  “I confess my bones are getting old,” Nanny Roberts said, fear coming back into her eyes. “The stairs are a mite hard.”

  “I meant no criticism,” I returned hastily. “I merely feel you are entitled to have an occasional rest. You have no reason to fear, Mrs. Roberts,” I added. “I am certain Lord Hammersley is pleased with your services.”

  “But I’ve let poor Violet go without clothes,” she wailed, throwing her apron up over her face.

  “Not your fault,” I declared briskly. “If his lordship thought it was, it’s you he’d be talking to this morning, not Mrs. Maxwell.”

  Her gray eyes peeped at me over the edge of her apron. “Oh, miss, do you think so?”

  “I know so. And now, if you will, please find me a gown, a chemise, and pantaloons that I may unpick for a pattern, so Bess and I may begin our sewing.”

  In the end, Bess and I did not have to do all the work, for not an hour later, Martha Beaseley tapped on the door to my sitting room, announcing that Mrs. Maxwell had sent her to help.

  I said a silent thank-you to both the Good Lord and the lord of the manor.

  My curiosity simmered all day, and after surviving another of Cook’s abominable dinners, eaten among diners thoroughly enjoying a lethal exchange of barbs, I requested a few moments of Baron Hammersley’s time.

  “We seem to have established a ritual,” he said as he seated himself behind his desk. “A nightly tryst in the study. What will our bevy of character assassins think? Which me reminds,” he added with considerably more deliberation, “just what were you doing on the mountain with my steward? We became distracted, I believe, and did not cover that subject last night.”

  I gulped. “I wished to see the moor and was warned not to go alone.”

  “And my dear cousin offered to be your guide.” His words fairly dripped sarcasm.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Thayne,” he corrected. I glared, and after a slight pause he continued on. “You enjoyed a picnic and nearly drowned yourselves on the way home.” It was an accusation. “I trust you have suffered no ill effects?”

  “None, my lord. Perhaps you are not aware I was born and raised on Dartmoor. I am accustomed to the vagaries of being caught out in the wilderness.”

  He harrumphed, looking far from satisfied, so I seized the initiative. “May I ask what transpired between you and Mrs. Maxwell?”

  “The wrath of God.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “If she gives you any more trouble, about anything, let me know, and she wi
ll be gone on the instant. I have informed her I am placing advertisements for a new cook. Nettie may stay on to assist and hopefully will do better with a competent cook to guide her.”

  I smiled brightly. “And with the problem of Violet’s wardrobe well on its way to a solution, you will soon have no need of me. I can be off to the bedside of my cousin Tess’s mother.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

  “I have been of age for sometime, my lord, and have a handsome competence of my own. You have no right to command me.”

  He slammed a hand onto the desk, followed quickly by both hands up, palms out, as if to apologize for losing his temper. “I do not command you, I entreat. I beg. I need you here, Serena. I cannot do this without you.”

  I felt my eyes spark, a long line of Farnborough ancestors ranged at my back. “That is absurd, a fantasy you have created out of whole cloth. We are strangers. You do not know me well enough to saddle me with this burden.”

  This time he slammed his fist onto the desktop, though not loud enough to obscure the expletive which blew by my ear like a bullet. I widened my eyes at him in what I hoped would convey maidenly shock. Thayne glowered. Before visibly reining in his anger and slumping back in his chair. “I have told you, Serena—your reputation has preceded you. And,” he added more gently, “I remember that girl in London, the one with the big eyes and shy smile. The girl who was so clearly suffering and yet dutifully attended each and every ton event when it was evident she wished to be anywhere but where she was. The girl who was different—more sensitive, more caring than the others, but too well brought up to reject what her mother expected her to enjoy.”

  I let out a long pent-up breath. “You have the right of it,” I admitted. “I never did learn to giggle or simper or revel in talking of gowns and bonnets, balls and soirées. I had a penchant for being useful. Perhaps I thought being helpful would make others like me. Truly, I don’t know. Somehow . . . it simply happened.”