Guy didn’t care, having had enough of the Widow Tremoille for the time being. Flexing his fingers and glancing up at the dark storm clouds that now filled the sky, he approached the carriage, to the rear of which a groom was tethering a fine bay stallion. There were two things he needed now – Beth Tremoille and her father’s final will, a copy of which he was firmly convinced had survived.
He reached Lancelot and, as he thoughtfully slid gloved fingers over the stallion’s glossy coat, he recalled Jane’s hand on the library doorknob. There’d been a recent edition of Lithgow’s Journal on the desk, so she had to have seen the notice by Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop. It must have chilled her when, like him, she guessed the letter probably confirmed a copy of the last will. Guy straightened with a smile. His objective was clear. He had to find the lady, find the will, and then exact full revenge on all things Tremoille.
In the house behind him Jane had returned to the library. Filled with trepidation, she closed the door behind her and went to the decanter on the table by the large floor-standing globe. Pouring a large glass of Esmond’s favourite single malt, she drank it in two gulps and closed her eyes as the liquid coursed down her throat to heat her stomach. This wasn’t the time to lose her nerve, not after plotting so long to get what she wanted. Striving for composure, she went to the desk and opened the copy of Lithgow’s Journal at the page displaying the legal notice.
Miss Elizabeth Tremoille. As has been done on previous occasions since the death of Mr Esmond Tremoille of Tremoille House in the County of Gloucestershire, it is hereby again requested that the above lady, only daughter of Mr Tremoille, contact Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop, solicitors of Caradine Street, London, where a letter from her father awaits her.
What was in that cursed letter? The spectre of the reputed last will loomed again. She had almost ransacked the house when Esmond died, but found no sign of it, so she’d despatched Bolton to dispose of Beswick and his records. Then she’d seen the first notice from Esmond’s London lawyers, Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop. She’d written to them in her capacity as Esmond’s widow and Beth’s stepmother, seeking information about the letter’s contents, but they would only deal with Beth. Jane sighed heavily, for there was Thomas Welland to consider as well. She had wanted him for so long that the thought of losing him again now was almost too much to bear. She had married Esmond for his money and the status he would provide, but another reason for netting him was that his land bordered Whitend, Thomas’s ancient estate in the vale, south of Gloucester. The fact that Esmond was rewarding between the sheets – and just about everywhere else he could think of – had been a very pleasing bonus, but it was Thomas she’d dreamed of all along. She was under no illusion. He was considering the match solely as a means of getting the Tremoille lands and stud, not because he wanted his once-favourite whore to spread her legs again. There would be no marriage if Guy Valmer succeeded in his aim. In fact, there would be nothing at all for poor Jane.
Chapter Two
Beth was at that moment far closer than either Jane or Guy imagined, watching from a hiding place in a knot of sweet-scented elder high on the southern boundary wall. She saw Joshua being urgently despatched, and saw the doors closed in the elegant visitor’s face. She didn’t know Guy, just that he had probably purchased Lancelot, nor did he interest her, because she’d only returned to see her beloved former home.
Her patched green woollen shawl and shabby grey chemise dress had seen far better days, and her bare feet were bleeding and dirty after walking the five miles from Gloucester. Weary and undernourished, she pushed her dusty hair back from her forehead and leaned her head against a branch. It was over a year since she ceased being the elegant and beautiful Miss Tremoille, and in that time she had become a blacksmith’s woman. She was Jake Mannacott’s whore, because although she liked and respected him, she certainly didn’t love him. That was the reality of her life, but she’d always ached for true love, silks and lace, a scented marriage bed, and a passionate bridegroom who was both handsome and wealthy. In the secrecy of her bed at Tremoille House, she’d explored her own body, arousing her breasts and stroking herself between the legs as she imagined her perfect lover. Such wild feelings had seized her that it seemed her flesh would melt with excitement, but such innocence had been banished forever when she surrendered her maidenhead on the dirty floor of Jake’s hovel. There was no melting flesh, no excitement, just paying her dues.
Now the emptiness of her stomach suddenly made her feel nauseous. Beads of perspiration sprang to her forehead as the churning sensation made her retch several times. She felt weak and feverish as the spasm ran its course, and by the time it had passed Joshua was riding beneath the gatehouse. She’d known him all her life. He’d taught her to ride her first pony, and brought her fresh fruit from his tiny cottage garden, strawberries, raspberries and fine juicy apricots. What errand could require such haste? Her attention returned to the house. Jake had warned her that such a visit would be foolish and achieve nothing, but she had to see it again. Her father had begged her forgiveness on his deathbed, and told her it was all hers after all, not Jane’s, but where was the final will that proved it? Tears stung her hazel-green eyes as she drank in the uneven, lichen-covered roofs and the windows high in their gables. The stone was mellow, and always looked warm in the sunlight. Today, beneath such heavy skies, it was subdued. A handsome deer park dotted with specimen trees and purple and crimson rhododendrons stretched down through the valley, before the land plunged steeply over the edge of the escarpment, through dense woods toward the vale, where Gloucester Cathedral was clearly visible, even in the summer murk.
She glanced up as the rain that had threatened for some time at last began to fall. It was time she set off for Gloucester. Hearing the faint crunch of wheels on the gravel drive, she saw that Lancelot’s purchaser was leaving. If she hurried, she’d reach the shelter of the hanging wood before the carriage reached the gatehouse. Scrambling down from the hawthorn to the common, she grabbed the battered basket she’d brought in the vain hope of gathering wild strawberries and, after raising her shawl, ran toward the road. Rooks wheeled noisily above the woods and in the distant vale the winding Severn shone like a silver ribbon. Gloucester Cathedral shone in a narrow shaft of sunlight that pierced the clouds, but the rain quickened over the hills and she was soon soaked. The fresh prints of Joshua’s horse had already filled with water, but suddenly they slithered and became random. A dead pheasant lay on the road, its feathers spattered with dirt thrown up by the rain. The bird must have started from the grass and been trampled by the frightened horse. Then, judging by the prints, the horse had veered sharply to the right, toward a bramble thicket. Beth’s first thought was that Joshua had recovered control and was now well on his way to the Gloucester road. Or was he? She halted, the carriage behind her suddenly forgotten as a cold finger ran down her back. Something felt wrong. She was close to the woods now, and the rooks seemed to be shrieking a warning. But of what? Lightning glittered to the south, followed by a long growl of thunder as she scanned the common for any sign of movement, but even the cattle and sheep were sheltering in the lee of the woods. Then, just beyond the bramble thicket, she saw Joshua’s horse, riderless, its reins caught on thorns. Slowly she retrieved the pheasant, stuffed it into the basket, and made her way toward the thicket.
Joshua lay among the brambles, his clothes torn, his face and hands badly scratched and bloodied. His eyes stared unblinkingly toward her, and her heartbeats quickened unpleasantly. Was he still alive? She reached through the thorns to shake him, ‘Joshua? Joshua, it’s me, Miss Beth.’ When he didn’t react she knew he was dead. A hot wave of horror engulfed her, and suddenly her stomach revolted. She turned, heaving uncontrollably. It seemed an age before the convulsion eased and she was able to raise her face to the torrential rain. Her mouth tasted sour and she shivered uncontrollably. When at last she felt able to look at Joshua again, the first thing she saw was the sealed leather pouch protruding
from his coat. Reaching for it, she felt the coins and paper inside, and knew it was a lot of money. Payment for Lancelot on its way to Jane’s fat account at Williamson’s Bank? Breaking her father’s seal, she gasped on seeing the bank notes and gleaming gold guineas. It was a fortune! Her mind raced excitedly. With a sum like this she could be free to begin a new life, with good food in her belly and fine clothes on her back. She could go to London, where no one knew her, and then choose where she wished to live from then on. One possibility succeeded another with such speed that her thoughts were blurred.
Lightning flashed again and thunder shook the escarpment like the judgement of God and, as the sound died away, she took a huge breath and tried to be rational. She could walk away now, but what good would that do her? This might be the only chance she ever had to claw herself back out of poverty. Yet taking such a sum would mean prison, maybe even the gallows. Except that it wouldn’t really be stealing, because Jane had no right to anything, including Lancelot. Closing the pouch again, she hid it beneath the pheasant in the basket. For a moment she considered taking the horse as well, but knew it would be risky. Better to stay on foot, as befitted someone of her present situation. Then she realized she also risked being accused of killing Joshua, which would certainly mean hanging!
Her fearful gaze darted around through the downpour, but all she saw were the sheep and cattle, and a few goats tethered by the fringe of the wood. Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. A pigeon flew up from an elm, wings clapping loudly as more lightning dazzled the sky, closely followed by a roll of thunder that resembled immense skittle balls in a heavenly alley. Beth’s immobility ceased, and she hastened into action, freeing the horse and sending it cantering on into the woods, then grabbing the basket to run back to the track. With more sense she’d have remained in the thicket until the carriage had driven past. The effort of running, combined with hunger, made her hot and weak again. She was overwhelmed by the sick, churning feeling of earlier, colours began to merge into a garish red monochrome and, on reaching the road, she could no longer stay upright. Her knees sagged, and the basket fell as she lost consciousness.
Guy’s coachman, Dickon, was alarmed to see a young woman slumped at the roadside. What was this? A trap? His bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows drew together, and the capes of his brown benjamin coat dripped as he half stood, grasping the reins firmly in one hand and applying the brake with the other, almost losing his cocked hat and wig in the process. Guy leaned out as the carriage lurched to a sudden halt. ‘What is it, Dickon?’
‘Can’t rightly say, Sir Guy. There’s a woman keeled over just ahead. Might be a rum do.’ He spoke with a broad West Country accent, but not Gloucestershire. ‘Should I drive on, or take a look?’
‘Take a look. I have my pistols ready.’
Lightning forked across the distant Severn, followed by a snarl of thunder as Dickon climbed down, muttering under his breath. On approaching, he saw her eyelids flutter as the cold rain dashed her face. She was younger than he’d expected, and far too thin, but would be comely if cleaned up. He realized she wasn’t pretending. ‘There now, missy, take it easy,’ he said, crouching beside her.
‘I’m all right.’ Her memory returned, and with it came panic. How had she forgotten the carriage? If only she’d stayed out of sight.
‘You’re not all right, my girl, you’re weak and hot.’
‘I’ve been running, that’s all.’ He helped her to a sitting position.
‘Without food for some time, I’d guess,’ he said. She nodded and looked uneasily at the basket, which by some miracle had landed upright, its contents undisturbed. Dickon mistook the unease. ‘Stole that fancy bird, did you?’
‘I found it dead.’ Her gaze moved to Guy as he alighted. How different Jane’s visitor was close to, taller than she’d expected, deceptively lithe, with a suggestion of considerable strength. In spite of her weak state, she could still appreciate his natural grace and elegance. His tall hat was worn at a slight angle on his curling auburn hair, and there was an air of fashionable ennui in the way his ebony cane swung in his gloved hand. He was the sort of man for whom Beth Tremoille would once have appeared in her most becoming attire.
Dickon hissed at her beneath his breath. ‘Mind your manners now, my girl, for this is Sir Guy Valmer.’ Valmer? She tried to think. Tremoille House had once been Valmer House.
Guy reached them and stood looking down at her. ‘When did you last eat?’ he asked, his cane still swinging. The rain spattered his hat and excellent coat.
‘Last night, sir.’
‘Upon what delicacy, may one ask?’
‘Crust and cheese, and some ale.’
‘But tonight you’ll dine in style on pheasant?’ He pushed the basket with a toe. ‘So, madam, you’ve been running after missing – let me see – two, possibly three meals? It would appear inevitable to me that you are found in such a state by the roadside. Why are you here?’
His grey eyes seemed to see right through her. ‘I – I’ve been visiting up at Tremoille House. My aunt – Mrs Alder – is the cook there.’
‘You’re exceedingly well-spoken for a cook’s niece. What’s your name?’
‘Bessie. Bessie Alder.’ The lies came easily. Mrs Alder was indeed the cook at the house, and had a niece called Bessie.
‘Well, we cannot leave you fainting away at the wayside, so if you’re going to Gloucester, I’m Samaritan enough to take you in the carriage. But do, pray, keep well away from me. You may be well spoken, and no doubt, exceedingly pretty beneath the grime – but there are limits on my goodness of heart.’
In the carriage? She was horrified. He made her feel he could read her thoughts, and he asked a lot of prying questions. Five miles was a lot of questions. ‘I’m happy to sit on the box,’ she offered hopefully.
‘Have such a ragamuffin perched like the figurehead on the Victory? No, madam, you’ll keep out of sight inside.’
She nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, sir.’
The rain stopped suddenly as Guy returned to the carriage. Dickon pulled her to her feet and lifted the basket. Its weight took him by surprise. ‘By God, that’s some bloody pheasant!’
‘Yes, to make a stew,’ she said, fearing he would investigate the basket’s contents, but instead he handed it over and she hurried to the carriage, where Guy waited to help her inside. His hands were strong, and she sensed their cleanliness beneath the flawless kid of his gloves. All of him was clean, and he smelled so good that she was made even more aware of her own dirt, so she pressed wretchedly into the furthest corner, the basket clutched close.
After pointedly lowering the window glass, Guy took his place as well, slouching back against the oyster velvet upholstery with his Hessian boots resting on the seat opposite. She gave him a covert glance. His eyes and lips seemed chill, she thought, and yet she found him alluring. Was the chillness a façade, masking a far warmer personality beneath? After all, how many gentlemen would rescue her from the wayside as he had done? Or perhaps the attraction was simply that he represented a world that was now lost to her.
She hadn’t noticed the hamper in the other corner until Guy pushed it toward her with the tip of his cane, and flicked the lid back. ‘Eat, I beg you, for I cannot bear the thought of your hunger.’ She saw a capon inside, with some crusty bread, slices of cooked ham and some red cheese, and lodged at the back a bottle of good German wine. Removing his gloves, Guy leaned across for the bottle, which had already been opened, with the cork only shoved lightly back in place, and poured a little wine into a glass. ‘Steady now, or your stomach will reject it.’ As she sipped, he broke a portion of the capon and presented it to her. ‘Since you are too shy to take anything, I will thrust it upon you.’
He watched her eat. Try as she would, hunger overcame manners, and she knew she was devouring the succulent meat like a dog gobbling its one meal of the day. ‘So, Miss Alder, you have been visiting your aunt the cook, who should be reprimanded for not
feeding you.’ Lancelot neighed behind the carriage and he saw her eyes fly to the window. ‘You appreciate horses, Miss Alder?’
‘I don’t know anything about them, Sir Guy.’
‘Then you may take my word for it that the creature I have purchased this day is worth every penny of his thousand guinea price.’ Beth’s heart almost stopped. She had stolen a thousand guineas? Guy misunderstood the change on her face. ‘I agree, it’s an unjust world that permits me to lavish a fortune on a horse, but denies you food. Some more Rhine wine, Miss Alder?’
‘Rhine? Surely it’s Moselle?’ she replied unguardedly.
‘So, not only do you speak beautifully, but you can distinguish between Rhine and Moselle.’ He tapped his fingers on the handle of his cane. ‘Who are you? I am not in the habit of forgetting faces, nor do I normally give aid to the ill-washed and ill-dressed, but you have aroused my curiosity.’
‘I’m Bessie Alder, sir.’
‘So you say, but somehow I feel I’ve seen you somewhere before. Quite recently. But where?’
‘You’re mistaken, sir.’ She guessed he’d noticed the portrait in the hall at Tremoille House.
The carriage swayed on down through the steep, dripping woods towards the broad levels of the Severn vale. To Beth’s relief the remainder of the journey was accomplished in silence, although the atmosphere became more and more claustrophobic. She began to feel that Guy’s eyes would soon penetrate the basket and see the pouch nestling beneath its pheasant blanket. Her thoughts turned to how and when to run away to London. It was best to leave as soon as she could, while her courage was still high. Jake knew too many people in Gloucester, so she’d go to nearby Cheltenham, and buy a coach ticket at the Plough Inn.
Never had five miles in a carriage seemed to take longer, and the evening light was fading when at last they drove past the new dock basin and approached the site of Gloucester’s medieval southern gate. The watery sun was setting in a horizon of carnation and salmon, edging the clouds with a fringe of lurid garnet. For some weeks now there had been unusual spectacles of colour when the sun was low in the heavens.
Star-Crossed Summer Page 2
