“And you became the family drudge.”
“Never that!” I protested.
“Drudge,” he repeated flatly. “And I would save you from all that.”
“By offering me the position of drudge in just one location . . . at the end of the earth.”
“By offering you the position of Baroness Hammersley, chatelaine of Falconfell.”
I dropped my gaze to the hands clasped in my lap. Home. Children. Love? After long moments of tense silence, I offered: “The scandal would be immense.”
“Those who live here will understand the necessity, and the rest of the world is far away. By the time we rejoin London society, the precipitate nature of our marriage will be long forgotten.”
Justine would understand his marriage to me? The dowager? Like most men, Thayne was blind, seeing only what he wanted to see.
And what about Ross? a small voice inside me whispered. How could you let him turn your head if your heart truly lies with Thayne?
I heard myself say: “I will consider it . . . Thayne.”
Chapter Ten
I covered my inner turmoil by immersing myself in creating garments for Violet, a surprisingly absorbing chore with the adept fingers of Bess and Martha working beside me. To my surprise, by the second day our project drew a parade of visitors, enough to emphasize that even such a slight change in routine offered a full day’s entertainment at Falconfell.
A much-chastened Mrs. Maxwell was first, come to inquire if we had everything we needed, and would we like to have luncheon brought to my sitting room. I responded with a coolly polite yes to both, staring after her long after she left the room, the blue kerseymere crumpled in my lap.
Miss Maud was next, wandering about, plucking at each garment, using both claw-like hands to spread out the odd shape of Violet’s white pantaloons with only one side seam partially stitched. She dropped the garment back in Martha Beaseley’s lap and moved on to Bess, cocking her head to one side like a small bird contemplating a worm that might be too fat to be swallowed. “That was mine,” she said as she lifted a corner of the leaf green sprigged muslin. “When I was young and beautiful and full of hope.” We all sat frozen as she held it against her cheek, crooning, “Pretty, pretty, pretty Maud.” I didn’t know if I should be appalled or join in the sorrow of her memories.
And then it came to me: there but for the grace of God go I. Two decades, three, and I would be Maud, looking back on . . . nothing.
Not if I married the lord of the manor. My home might be at the end of the earth, but I would be mistress here and, God willing, there would be children and grandchildren. And shades of the mausoleum would be long gone in a house that was bright and cheerful and filled with love.
Fool! You are tossing your hard head to the four winds, swallowing the bait whole just because a man with bright blue eyes was once kind to a shy gawk of a girl suffering a Season in London.
Hush! I snapped at my inner voice. After all, it wasn’t as if I’d never had an offer. I’d had several, in fact. All from gentlemen of practical dispositions, such as the vicar who needed a helpmeet, the solicitor who wanted a well-ordered household almost as much as my ample dowry, and a handsome young second son of an earl whose pursuit truly puzzled me until I realized he was looking for a screen to hide behind, a wife to demonstrate that, truly, his amatory interests were not in his own gender. A pity, as he was by far the most handsome of my suitors, Thayne Hammersley included.
By the time my thoughts returned to the work at hand, Maud was gone, but she left behind an atmosphere tainted by sorrow, possibly to the point of madness.
Isabelle, Dowager Baroness Hammersley, came next. She stood just inside the doorway, surveying us as if from a box at the opera house. An abrupt wave of her hand motioned us back to our industrious stitching. “I am sorry for it,” she announced. “Even though it was no longer my place, during Helen’s illness I should have paid more attention to the household. I apologize for my obvious neglect.”
I could not have been more stunned if she had stood on her head. “You cannot blame yourself, my lady, for something you did not know.”
“I should have known, but I only saw the child when she was brought to her mother in the pretty party gowns Helen so loved. And these past months, when her illness worsened . . .” With no need to expound any further on her failings, Lady Hammersley’s voice trailed to a halt.
“Mrs. Maxwell knew and did nothing,” I told her. “And I fear I must fault Nanny Roberts as well for not pursuing the matter with Hammersley. But in truth, the child’s needs were simply lost in the agony over her mother’s illness.”
The baroness’s brown eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Maxwell has been running Falconfell as her own fiefdom for more years than I care to remember. Her father was a by-blow of the fourth baron, though why a pair of blue eyes should give her airs above her station I fail to understand. ’Tis high time she received her comeuppance. Believe me, Miss Farnborough, inducing Hammersley to rip her to shreds is the miracle of the century.”
For a moment I goggled at her, uncertain if I were more shocked by her dislike of Mrs. Maxwell or by her assumption that I had persuaded Hammersley to ring a peal over her. “For the moment the lion seems tamed,” I returned, “but I expect it could turn ravenous at any moment.”
Isabelle Hammersley regarded me with something close to approval. “Well said. Something we must both keep in mind.” She offered a tentative smile. “My pardon for interrupting your work, ladies. Please carry on.” And she was gone, back stiff and straight as a soldier on parade.
Merciful heavens! What had just happened? Bess and I exchanged a glance of amazement, while Martha Beaseley swiftly bent her head over her stitching. Only time would tell, but I might have gained an ally among the odd jumble of people living at Falconfell.
We paused for a small mid-day meal, which, alas, was even worse than the usual fare. I suspected poor Nettie had learned she was to be replaced. Any more meals like this, however, and I’d see she did not stay on as assistant.
Suddenly, with my soup spoon poised above my bowl, I blushed to the roots of my hair. I could feel the telltale stain spreading, see the puzzled look on my companion’s faces. Not only had I let my temper rule my head, in my thoughts I had once again assumed the position of lady of the manor. And was undoubtedly doomed to suffer for my high-flown idiocy.
Fortunately, Justine chose that moment to make her appearance. “Enjoying yourselves, are you?” she taunted. “And here I was told you were all working your fingers to the bone for poor little Violet.”
I longed to box her ears, and not just because of her hostility. Justine Raibourne was one of those few blonde beauties who managed not to look sallow in black. Her height, her willowy figure, the fine cut of her mourning gown—undoubtedly ordered from London while Helen still lived—all combined to make her a striking figure as she looked down her nose at the three seamstresses who were daring to take a few moments to replenish their strength.
I took a page from the dowager’s book and said, “You must be weary from tending your cousin for so long, Miss Raibourne. I expect you are longing to return to civilization. How much longer do you expect to be with us?”
She struck a pose—queen of all she surveyed. “Considerably longer than you, Miss Farnborough,” she declared. And added what I can only call an evil smile. A shiver shook me.
“Miss,” Bess ventured after Justine had gone, slamming the door behind her, and we had returned to our sewing. “I’ve heard talk.”
“Yes?”
“’Tis said Miss Raibourne haunts Lord Hammersley, following him about, popping into his study when she knows he’s alone.”
“’Tis true, miss,” Mrs. Beaseley added. “Doin’ it for months now, with the mistress so ill in her bed. Shocking, it was.”
“And still is, from all I’ve heard,” Bess said. “They say she’s determined to have him, willy-nilly. Makes no never mind whether he wants her or not.”
“She’ll not budge, miss,” Martha Beaseley added, “less’n t’master orders her bound, gagged, and tossed into a coach headed down t’mountain.”
“Griffings—that’s Lady Hammersley’s maid, miss,” Bess said, dropping her voice to a whisper—“says she’s even been seen in the corridor outside the lord’s bedchamber.”
I pricked my finger, a fat drop of blood welling up and threatening to fall onto the blue kerseymere. “Drat!” I popped my finger into my mouth, sucking down the sharp tang of my own blood.
“I beg pardon, miss,” Bess mumbled, “but I thought you should know.”
A vision of me as mistress of Falconfell and Justine Raibourne as mistress of the master rose up before me.
Never!
“Forgive me,” I muttered. “I feel the need for fresh air. I grabbed up my cloak and nearly ran from the room.
I flew straight out the front door with barely a civil nod for Fraser. I could feel him standing there watching me as I charged down the steps and headed toward the bridge as if I were escaping a raging fire. But the fire was inside me, burning through my brain. Thayne and Justine . . . while Helen was still alive. Justine. Thayne. No! I wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t . . . he wouldn’t . . .
Breathing hard, I thumped up against the bridge’s wooden rail, gripping it hard. Below me, water, swollen from recent rains, cascaded over rocks, frothing and foaming in its mad rush down from the high moors. My eyes gazed into the churning depths below while my heart examined the depths of my soul. I had not truly realized how much I cared until Bess’s words struck me with all the force of a whip. How could Thayne speak to me of marriage if his mistress lived under the same roof?
But every female knew men were mad, selfish creatures who did as they pleased. Even Cressy, who professed herself happily married, had moments when she cried and wailed and said much the same thing.
Impossible! I would not believe it.
And yet Justine had marked her territory from almost the moment of my arrival. Thayne Hammersley was hers.
I turned away from the burgeoning stream that formed a natural moat in front of Falconfell. Crossing to the other side, I wandered down the road the coach had traveled not quite a week ago, suddenly overwhelmed by my change of circumstances. In the houses of all my other relatives I knew exactly where I stood. Here I was nursery governess, seamstress . . . and quite possibly mistress of the house. If I could tolerate the presence of my husband’s mistress.
Which I could not.
I ground my teeth while my common sense warned me that every step I took downhill must be retraced while climbing up. But what did exhaustion matter? Exhaustion was good. I might be able to sleep tonight after ordering a coach for first light, a coach to take me back to Laytham Hall and those who actually loved me.
A faint path led off to the left, the ascending slope gentle enough to beckon me. Perhaps the challenge of exploring unknown territory would distract my thoughts, dampen the hurt and anger that consumed me. Hiking up my skirts, I began the climb and, to my surprise, soon arrived at a grassy plateau, a lovely pocket of land surrounded by high hills. The path, however, disappeared, seemingly lost in the rocky outcroppings along the edge of the moor. I made my way through a scattering of tumbled rocks almost as big as a carriage and finally found one flat enough to sit on. I hauled myself up and contemplated the stretch of moorgrass in front of me. It was almost too quiet, not a sheep in sight. Here and there were patches of bright green, the telltale sign of a bog. And did I see dark patches as well—something not quite like a rock? Since curiosity is one of my besetting sins and exploration might keep my demons at bay, I slid down from my rock and made my way toward the nearest place where the moor’s earth tones seemed to turn to black.
I had rushed out of the house without a walking stick to test the ground beneath my feet, so I moved with caution, getting the feel of the moor grass with my toe before taking each step. I was concentrating so carefully on what was beneath my feet, I was almost upon the blackness before I saw what it was. I gasped, standing frozen, suitably afraid at last. The dark patch I had seen from my rock was far larger than I anticipated, a deep hole in the ground, twenty or more feet across and at least that many feet deep.
Shake hole. And I was standing within three feet of the edge of it.
Ross Hammersley’s words came back to me. To make matters worse, in those areas any portion of the ground might give way at any moment, forming a new pit.
I looked back over my shoulder to see how far I’d come from the rocks. A good fifty feet. I shuddered. Or at least I hoped it was I who shuddered, not the ground beneath my feet.
Surely if I simply turned around and walked back the way I’d come . . .
A loud halloo pierced the air. Startled, I teetered, righted myself as my heart pounded wildly. A man was charging down the rocky high ground on the far side of this dangerous bit of moorland. I continued to stand quite still while he made his way around the rim of the valley, staying on rocky ground. As he drew closer, I got up the courage to turn around in place and . . . yes, I recognized him. He was the tallest of the pallbearers, a giant of a man with a head of wavy blond hair the color of sand. Incredibly, he was uncoiling a length of rope which had been draped over his shoulders.
“Stay!” he called, and I didn’t even mind being addressed like a dog. Besides, I wasn’t at all sure my feet would move, even if the earth began to give way beneath me.
He tied a flat rock to the end of the rope then began to move forward, one careful foot at a time. At about half way onto the moorland, he stopped, coiled the rope and slung the end with the rock as hard as he could. The rock plunked down not ten feet from me. Needing no instruction, I minced forward like a rope-walker, balancing with outstretched hands. Absurd, I suppose, when I had just crossed this ground with no repercussions. But now that I knew . . . Now that it was apparent my giant rescuer believed the danger great . . .
Four steps. Five. Just a few more . . . I grabbed the end of the rope, worked the rock loose, and tied the rope around my waist. I heaved a long sigh and sharply ordered my legs not to noodle. Now thoroughly mortified by my arrogance in thinking I understood the moor, I walked toward my rescuer, as he hauled the rope in, hand over hand.
“I am so sorry,” I cried as soon as my feet were on solid ground. “But thank you, thank you for rescuing me. I have never known fifty feet to look so vast.”
He smiled, and it was like a ray of sun peeking through the gloomy skies. Oh dear God, he was the most ruggedly handsome man I had ever seen. And he too had the Hammersley blue eyes. “My pleasure, miss. You must be Miss Farnborough. I’m Rab Guthrie, the gamekeeper.”
“And personkeeper as well,” I told him. “Never have I been so glad to see someone in my entire life!”
“However did you come here, miss? Anyone could have told you not to walk on Swallowin’ Sam.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what we call this valley, miss. Swallowin’ Sam. Reminds folks not to come this way.”
Swallowin’ Sam. A shiver snaked up my spine. I dropped my gaze, toeing the ground. “I fear I didn’t ask,” I admitted. “It would seem being Dartmoor born and raised led to foolish arrogance. If not for you, I might have paid dearly for it.”
He had re-coiled the rope and now slung it over his shoulder. “And glad I am I was on my way home from a bit of climbing. Allow me to escort you back to Falconfell.” He held out his arm.
I took it with gratitude, and found myself returning to the house with yet another offshoot of the Hammersley family tree.
Chapter Eleven
It was too much to hope that Rab Guthrie had not immediately reported my afternoon’s adventure to Hammersley. I returned to my stitching, as if I had been gone only moments instead of well over an hour, my eyes fixed meekly on the blue kerseymere, while inwardly I quaked. And, sure enough, within a quarter hour Fraser appeared at the door.
“Miss Farnborough,” he pronoun
ced, with a commiserating look that spoke volumes, “his lordship wishes to see you in his study.”
I longed to say I was busy, that Violet’s need outweighed anything the lord of the manor might wish to say. But of course I did not. Instead, I apologized to Bess and Martha for once again deserting them and followed Fraser’s stately pace down the staircase. He announced me and left, softly closing the door behind him.
Hammersley, rising to his feet behind his desk, waved me to my usual chair directly in front of him. He folded himself back into his comfortably upholstered burgundy leather armchair and glared at me. Chin up, I glared right back. He was far from my favorite person at the moment.
“Miss Farnborough,” he said from between clenched teeth, “I understand you were prowling about Swallowin’ Sam.”
“I beg your pardon?” I said, as if I’d never heard the term before.
“That’s what we call that bit of moorland—there’s not a safe place to put your foot without risk of the ground swallowing you up. “Why,” he continued most awfully, “when I told you not to venture onto the moor alone, would you do such a daft thing?”
I could not have devised a more perfect leading question if I had worked on it for hours. I came close to flashing a teeth-baring smile. “I was upset,” I told him, looking him straight in the eye.
“Upset!” he roared. “You were bloody close to being permanently upset. Some of those pits are so deep we might never have found your body.” I blanched at that one. Somehow I had managed to convince myself I had escaped nothing more than a nasty fall. Not death itself.
“Answer me, dammit! What were you doing out there?” When I did not immediately reply, he heaved a disgusted sigh. “And I thought you such a sensible female.”
“I thought so too,” I returned after a pause to gulp a bit of air. “Until I was regaled with tales of Justine Raibourne being seen in the corridor outside your bedchamber. At night.”
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