RANGER (Forsaken Riders MC Romance Book 19)

by Samantha Leal

  Christabel moved to the window and looked down from the window and onto the small park below. A few black-clothed nannies had ventured forth with their charges, wrapped snugly inside their iron wheeled perambulators; blissfully unaware of the weather outside or of life's constant cares. Black. The color of mourning, the color of nannies, the color of crows and the color of the chimney sweeps she occasionally saw rushing through the smoggy London air.

  Several smart carriages waited outside the house, including the elaborately adorned funeral hearse. Four large black plumed horses wearing full funeral regalia snorted their steamy breath into the bitter morning air. They were all waiting downstairs for her – Charles’ family; impatient for the dreariness to be over so they could get on with their own lives once again.

  She hardly knew them; they were strangers to her. Most of them had been against the marriage in the first place. Lord Charles Montgomery was a wealthy man, everyone knew that, and his family had presumed that they would eventually inherit all of the lands and fine houses he owned with no heir to speak of. Why he had suddenly decided to marry a young woman just old enough to be his daughter they could only guess, but many of the family members felt bitter towards the young interloper. At least now he was dead they could all breathe a sigh of relief – at least there would be no son and heir!

  There was a firm knock and the door opened gently. It was Hannah, her maid. Hannah had been in Christabel’s family since she was just a baby and had looked after her for most of her young life. Christabel noticed that the hair around her old companion’s temple was now greying, but the eyes were still youthful and the face still attractive. She often wondered why the woman had never married.

  She had asked her once, one evening just before she was due to be married to Charles. Returning from a local ball, Hannah had stood behind her, brushing the long black hair that fell luxuriously down to her waist. Hannah had laughed and said that she could never leave Christabel, and if she did who would brush the young girl’s hair each evening? Yet Christabel had noticed a sorrow in the woman’s eyes as she spoke and had never mentioned the subject again.

  “They’re waiting downstairs for you Chrissy.”

  The older woman walked up to Christabel and placed her arms around her young charge for comfort. Her dear mother had died when she was five years old, and ever since then Hannah had acted more as a surrogate mother than a maid, and the two women were close.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I will be alright Hannah, but I will be glad when this day is over.”

  “You better go down; I will be following on with the rest of the household to the church.”

  Reaching for the hat that sat idly upon the bed, Hannah placed it on top of her mistress’s hair, pinning it in place with a jet encrusted pin, before pulling down the dark veil to hide the pretty features beneath. Two years of wearing black; it seemed a pity for one so young, but that was the requirements for a woman in her position according to Cassel’s manual, the last word on funeral and mourning etiquette.

  Opening the door, Christabel inhaled deeply before walking across the landing and down the grand staircase to the awaiting group in the library. Glad for the veil to hide her emotions, or perhaps more importantly lack of them, she stepped slowly down towards the hall. Stephens, the butler was posted on duty, standing like a sentry against the front door, and as she approached he nodded his head gravely. He wore a black armband as a sign of respect. He had been with Charles for at least forty years and had been extremely loyal.

  Christabel had the feeling he did not approve of her, a young chit of a girl playing at being mistress in the grand house, but if he had felt it, he had not shown it outwardly in any of his actions or words. Occasionally, she had caught him staring at her during dinner and the look had disturbed her, leaving her cold.

  Opening the door to the library, Stephens led her into the room, the babble of voices almost ceasing as the group within stopped their conversations and turned to look at the young widow. Although it was only ten in the morning, the lamps in the room had been lit and the curtains closed, as was the custom. The dim light seemed appropriate. The silence seemed absolute, even the ticking clock had been stopped as a mark of respect for the late master of the house.

  The casket containing his body was now closed and nailed down and lay on a table in the center of the room. She had been expecting to sit with the body, watching over him day and night until the burial, but it hadn’t seemed a fitting duty for such a young widow. The wake had been carried out by members of the household staff, all of whom had reveled in its morbid curiosity.

  At first Christabel didn’t recognize anyone in the room and felt almost a stranger in her own home. The men in their mourning coats and hats, the woman in their crepe and silk, all stood like crows with their beady eyes shining; ready to devour the poor creature.

  “My dear.”

  A tall figure with a long, bushy beard stepped forward to take her hand. It was Edward Montgomery, Charles’ twin and younger brother by a matter of minutes. It was as if those few minutes had always come between them and caused a rift between the two siblings; vital minutes that had left Charles to inherit his father’s estate and leaving Edward with very little. Although identical in looks, Hannah could always tell the two men apart. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it was something in the eyes; a certain coldness in Edward that offset his brother’s warmth and generosity.

  He and his wife Anne were the first to greet her. Like Stephens, they had never approved of her and she had only met them once, briefly at her wedding. Edward was a cold fish with beady, mud-colored eyes that reminded her of the sea at Brighton where she used to holiday with her father. The thought of her dear departed Papa brought a sudden tear to her eye. He had been dead for almost four years, but suddenly her grief seemed raw and recent. Perhaps the sight of the men and women in black had brought back the memory of her father’s funeral? She had been only fourteen-years-old at the time and had worn a plain white dress; a strange contrast to the blackened figures around her. At the funeral tea, served in his large study after the burial, she had felt like a spectra.

  His palm was clammy as he held her black-gloved hand, the stickiness perceptible through the lace. Charles could be stern on occasion, but his eyes were warm, reflecting his generous spirit; nothing like his cold brother. Anne, in turn, grasped Christabel sharply by the arms in the pretence of a warm embrace, the effect convincing to no one. Christabel had the feeling that she had been the subject of the conversation before entering the room and a conversation that had not been very complimentary. The woman smiled with her mouth, yet her eyes, like her husband’s, remained cold.

  She couldn’t blame them too much. They would have inherited everything if it had not been for her. The will was due to be read the following day and was the main topic of debate amongst the family. Not that she expected much; the lands and the country estate would fall to Edward, but the couple were avaricious and wanted it all

  Arthur Chadwick was the next in line; a cousin of Charles and now serving in the army. He had seemed the most welcoming of the family at first, but had also been the most lascivious. On both of the occasions they had met, he had been drunk and suggestive; even on her wedding day. With his dark eyes and ruffled dark hair he was handsome enough, but too much of a rake; the wild card of the pack. He probably had a wife in every county. His breath was hot on the back of her hand as he pressed it to his lips and kissed it greedily. Hardly the etiquette for a funeral, but no one else seemed to notice or care.

  Suddenly she felt vulnerable, a deer amongst a pack of wolves. Charles had made her aware of her own sexual attractions and now she seemed to see the same look in the eyes of every man she met.

  Many of the people who shook her hand were strangers; she had never seen them before, or at least she did not think she had. The line seemed endless and just as she reached the end, the door opened and Mr. Williams was shown into the room. Englebert Wil
liams was her late father’s second cousin and her only living blood relative. He had become her guardian when her father died and had been responsible for her welfare up to the time of marriage. He had always been kind, yet there was something about him that made her keep her distance. On her sixteenth birthday he had presented her with a gift; a row of exquisite pearls, but as he had placed them around her neck there had been something in his manner that unnerved her. Those warm fingers lingering for too long on her skin, his warm breath on the back of her neck; she had been wary of him ever since.

  “My dear Christabel.” He stepped forward, and as he politely kissed her hand she immediately felt a pang of guilt. He was the only person in the room who genuinely seemed to care about her; her only friend. Perhaps she had been wrong about him after all? It was difficult to think properly on a day like today.

  The pall bearers had entered the hallway and we're waiting patiently with their long and gaunt faces; a continuous expression of both grief and boredom. As they entered the room to remove the coffin, Christabel wondered if they normally looked this way, or if it were only a mask that they wore whilst on duty? Perhaps at home they were light hearted and gay? Somehow she doubted it.

  At last it was time to go, and as she clutched the arm of Edward Montgomery the solemn procession made its way to the awaiting carriages. It was to be a grand procession and Edward had spared no expense for his dear brother. It was Charles’s money, after all, and Edward and Anne had quickly taken over the arrangements and expenditure. It was so different to her father’s small burial.

  Four black carriages waited to take the party to the small church of St. Michaels. Alongside the pall bearers, several mutes had been hired as was tradition, to slowly walk in front of the funeral procession. The church was festooned with white lilies, so much so that a stranger might have been mistaken in thinking that a wedding was taking place rather than a funeral, although the somber organ music and general atmosphere depicted otherwise. As Christabel walked through the oak doors, the sickly sweet smell was almost overpowering and she dabbed at her nose with a black silken handkerchief in an attempt to dull the scent. To the world it looked as though she was wiping her tears beneath the gauzy veil, and many looked on in pity at the poor young widow’s grief.

  The main body of the church was already crowded, the pews stacked with the great and good and those of the general public with a morbid sense of curiosity. Only the front few pews remained empty for the immediate family.

  She walked slowly down the aisle and her thoughts drifted to her wedding day. They had married in the cathedral and the day had been glorious, the sound of the bells ringing across London as she stepped out into the spring air to start her new life. Charles had seemed so happy, so vibrant. It was hard even now to think of him in so short a time dead; he had seemed so vibrant, so sensual and full of energy.

  Christabel nodded her head in acknowledgment as she passed the pew seating the household staff. Stephens looked particularly forlorn; although in all honesty, she had never seen him look particularly happy. She was surprised to see Hannah comforting Pearl Hudson, the housekeeper, who seemed inconsolable in her grief. Mrs. Hudson was a hard-faced middle-aged woman who had been cool, if not cold, in her attitude towards the young bride, making her feel most unwelcome. She hadn’t mentioned it to Charles; the woman had been with him for a long time and she hadn’t wanted to upset the equilibrium of the household.

  The service was dull, not reaching the heart of the congregation, or perhaps the heart of the congregation was not open to the words of salvation. They seemed hardened to the death of this man; a husband, cousin, and friend. Not many seemed to be mourning his loss and that itself made Christabel a little sad.

  The reverend’s words soared high above her head and far up into the old Norman bell tower, as she felt a dull heaviness in her heart. It had never been a marriage of love, but they had both benefitted from the arrangement. Charles had been well past the first flush of a young man’s affections, but it had suited him to have an attractive young woman by his side and in his bed.

  Her father had left very little behind when he died and she had managed to live off a small income and the patronage and ever watchful eye of Englebert Williams. Meeting Charles Montgomery had been both fortuitous and necessary. For Charles, it had been a middle-age aberration, but not one that he had ever regretted.

  Englebert tapped her gently on the arm and woke her from the reverie. The sermon had finished and it was time to make their way outside to the cemetery and Charles’s final resting place. Walking back down the aisle she noticed a young man seated towards the back of the church. He was a handsome man in his early twenties and as she passed their eyes met briefly. Her face flushed as a feeling of desire rippled through her and she moved quickly passed him-her heart beating quickly. Something stirred deep in her breast, a new feeling, and she struggled with the sudden impact the young man was having on her. Christabel had never seen him before and wondered who the stranger could be, but then tried to push him out of her mind; such thoughts were not fitting at her own husband’s funeral.

  The air was chilly as they stepped outside. The clouds had been gathering all morning and the sky was dark and brooding. The hired men, the mutes, and the pall bearers all stood like bit part actors as they waited in a line at a respectful distance away from the family, now gathering around the deep and gaping gash in the earth that was to be Charles Montgomery's final resting place.

  The smell of damp earth lingered in the air and Christabel shivered, not from the cold, but at a sudden glimpse of her own mortality. Englebert wrapped a fatherly arm around her and in a strange way it was good to feel a man’s arms, even if it was only Englebert’s. Either way, it would do no good to shake him away and make a fuss; after all, he was the only friend she had in the world, apart from Hannah.

  "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...." The vicar’s voice droned on as the mourners stood with heads bent in mock solemnity. It was time to lower the coffin into the ground and the group stood back as the hired hands stepped forward to undertake their last duty–the promise of beer now foremost in their mind.

  Scooping up a pile of loose earth from the mound by the side of the grave, Christabel held it for a second. The soil was cold and clammy in her gloved hand and she threw it quickly into the ground; hitting the wooden coffin lid with a soft thud.

  Poor Charles. All of that vitality and energy gone; dust to dust.

  The key mourners stepped forward to do the same before moving away. The grave digger, with his dirty hands and rough clothes, was impatiently waiting on the edge of the scene, ready to cover over poor Charles. Resting his hands upon his spade he looked weary; as if he too longed to lie down in that deep, cold sleep.

  Walking away Christabel turned to look once more at her husband’s final resting place, fearing that she might forget the spot. A cracked marble crucifix stood to the left and a grey winged angel to the right. Soon, a great headstone would mark the spot; the last testament to his life.

  About to move away she spotted a lone figure from the corner of her eye, hovering near to the grave. At first she thought it one of the hired men, but peering more closely realized it was the stranger from the church. Why hadn't the man made himself known to them if he was an acquaintance of Charles, why the need for such mystery?

  "Who is that man?" Christabel whispered to Englebert, now firmly cradling her arm. But by the time he had turned to look, the young man had gone.

  Back at the house, a hot and cold luncheon had already been prepared and was awaiting them. Christabel would have preferred to go straight up to her room, but it wouldn’t have been acceptable and soon she found herself sat at the table between Englebert and Arthur Chadwick. Edward and Anne sat boldly at the head and foot of the table. They had assumed an air of ownership almost as soon as the last shovels of earth were being piled on top of the body of poor Charles.

  The wine was flowing and the lively group in the room resembled more
a wedding party than a funeral. Once or twice she felt Englebert’s arm brush against hers, or his leg touch hers for a second before moving away. She couldn't tell which was worse, the surreptitious passes of her old ward or the drunken and obvious fumbling of Arthur Chadwick. The man was already in his cups and she hadn't known a time when he hadn’t been so. His face was red and his mouth slack as he slouched across the table reaching for his wine glass.

  "Where is that man Stephens? A man could die of thirst here." Raising the half full glass to his lips he downed the contents in one gulp. "Here man, bring me the bottle." His fingers snapped aggressively towards the young footman. The poor man jumped at the command and brought round the bottle which was unceremoniously snatched out of his hand by the drunken Arthur. The contents slopped around the rim of his glass and onto the crisp white linen of the tablecloth beneath.

  "Steady man." Edward had stopped his conversation, glaring at the spillage. "Damned good claret that. Too good to waste."

  Ignoring the rebuke, Arthur rose uneasily to his feet, the full glass now swaying precariously in his hand as he gestured across and over the table. "I would just like to raise a toast to the dearly departed Charles." Raising his glass, he drained half the contents before refilling it and turning his lurid gaze to Christabel. "And to the beautiful widow." He bowed low in acknowledgment and as he did, lost his balance and fell into her lap, the wine spilling across the both of them. The man was clearly enjoying the situation and buried his head deep into the folds of her mourning dress. Christabel felt the same dull ache between her thighs. It was ridiculous that the touch of the lecherous Arthur Chadwick should arouse her, but she missed Charles' touch so much.

  "My god man, can you not behave yourself better than this? Do you have any decorum?"

  Arthur grasped at Christabel's clothing in an attempt to stand. Moving from his seat, Edward stormed across the room and pulled the disorderly man to his feet by the collar of his jacket. "Pull yourself together man. This is no way to behave at a funeral party or in any other polite society. Your behavior belongs to the barracks and I suggest that is where you return posthaste!"