It was nightfall four days later when they reached the last mile of the journey. Beth had just fallen asleep and her dreams took her back to Fiddler’s Court, where Jake’s arms were warm and his lips tender. ‘I love you, Bethie, you’re the most precious thing in my world.’ The sweetness of his love surrounded her, and she could smell the hay in the loft. ‘Give me your hand, Bethie. Feel that? Cocker’s ready to do you justice. My God, he’s fit to explode. Oh, yes, you stroke him gentle like. Gentle, gentle.’ He exhaled with rich pleasure. ‘Now then, let’s get him between your legs, Bethie, so he can go about his God-given business. Aah, that’s right. My God, you’ve got him going, he can hardly fit, he’s that swelled up with love.’
The chariot shuddered over stones in the road, and her eyes flew open again. The weak light of the carriage lamps hardly made an impression on the gloom as the horses picked their weary way down the long winding gorge that led from Exmoor toward the sea. She must only have dozed for a few moments, because they were still negotiating a long gradual decline that had not required Billy to fit the drags to the rear of the chariot as he’d had to do quite a few times while crossing Exmoor. Occasionally he had also hired horses for the climbs out of deep valleys.
The narrow road, which was quite new, wound along the gorge’s steep wooded side, swinging out past huge boulders and outcrops, before shrinking back into dips and recesses where secretive springs trickled through moss. It was only just passable for carriages, and before its construction packhorses would have been needed to transport goods. The loud babble of the East Lanner river echoed beneath the dense canopy of trees, and now and then she saw the stark white of rapids or waterfalls far below, while high above, an early moon shone an upturned crescent in the starry darkness. She wondered how much further it could possibly be to Lannermouth. The high moor seemed miles above and behind them, and she longed for the silent comfort of a clean featherbed.
Suddenly the noise of the carriage took on a different sound and she glimpsed the candlelit window of a cottage poised above the drop to the river. She lowered the window glass and savoured the smell of the summer leaves and moss and, for the first time, the sea. Lights shone through the darkness ahead, but she couldn’t make anything out in detail until a sharp turn around another cottage took them into the glow of a porch lantern. Billy slowed the horses right down, giving her a chance to assess her surroundings. By the light of more lanterns she saw a river confluence that flowed down to a creek where a walled harbour was just distinguishable in the gloom. Lannermouth, she thought, as Billy drove carefully over a double-arched stone bridge that spanned the East Lanner at the very point of confluence. Beyond the bridge and away from the village, the road skirted a few acres of level grassland before climbing steeply north-east over a towering hill. She would soon learn that it was the coast road to Porworthy and Minehead. The grassy area was well kept and dotted with the ghostly silhouettes of handsome specimen trees, and twinkling through the graceful branches she saw a lamp shining at a gothic trefoil window.
The chariot halted again, and Billy climbed down to open gates bearing the name, Dower House. Resuming his seat, he drove down a narrow drive that ran parallel with the creek. One hundred yards later, after passing a small stable block that was built right on the harbour wall, they reached the house, which had a thatched veranda surrounding the ground floor, with scented roses twining the wooden pillars. The smell of the sea was fresh and tangy, and she was sure she could hear the splash of waves close by. The lamps swung up and down with the springs as Billy applied the brakes for the last time. Beth looked up at the lighted window. Was it the room of the housekeeper, Mrs Cobbett? Billy jumped down to rap loudly with the highly polished brass fox’s head knocker on the green-painted door. After a moment the lighted upper window opened and a round-faced woman in a white nightdress peered down, her grey hair hanging in two long plaits from beneath her night bonnet. ‘Who’s there?’ she called in a rich Devon burr.
‘Mrs Cobbett? My name is Miss Mannacott,’ Beth answered, ‘and I am the new tenant.’ Billy already knew the new name, having learned of it during the journey.
Mrs Cobbett was taken aback. ‘I didn’t realize there was to be a tenant, no, that I didn’t.’ She drew back inside hastily and after a moment candlelight appeared beneath the front door. Bolts and keys crunched, and the door squeaked as Mrs Cobbett opened it. ‘Do come in, please.’
Billy touched his hat. ‘I’ll see to the horses and luggage, Miss Beth. Are the stables all right to use?’ he asked the housekeeper.
‘Everything’s there. There’s a mite of oats from Mr Grainger’s time, and I reckon the water butt’s full. It’s all in good repair.’ Billy led the team and chariot around toward the stable block, where the horses would be given a well-earned feed and rest, and Beth followed Mrs Cobbett into the hallway, with its whitewashed walls and red-tiled floor. The woman’s candle fluttered, setting shadows leaping and fading, and Beth could smell herbs, especially rosemary, which hung in little bunches from a picture rail. The housekeeper opened the furthest door into a spacious, exceedingly clean kitchen. ‘You must be hungry, Miss Mannacott?’
‘Oh, yes. And Billy too. That’s the coachman.’
The woman nodded. ‘Of course. Now, I’ve not much in the store cupboard because I expected to be alone here, but I did bake today and my sister’s boy brought me some plaice from his morning catch. I can fry some to take with bread and butter?’
‘It sounds delicious.’
Mrs Cobbett smiled. ‘Let me take your outer things, and then you sit down.’
An oil lamp was soon lit, and in a short while the light brightened over a clean, tidy room with very white walls and a wealth of oak dressers. There was a stone sink, and one of Count Rumford’s patented iron ranges. Mrs Cobbett busied herself with it. ‘Darned new-fangled thing,’ she grumbled, ‘I was happier with my old open fire and brick oven. This contraption is bedevilment. There, it’s burning up at last. I’ll have a good pot of tea on the brew in no time. Oh, lordy, there’s so much I have to do tomorrow. If I’d known about you I’d have laid in everything, but I’ll make a start first thing by going up to the village store in Haldane.’
‘Billy can take you in the chariot.’
The woman blushed. ‘Me? Go in a carriage?’ But she was clearly pleased as she took the tea caddy from its shelf and carefully set out cups and saucers. But when she turned to ask Beth how she liked her tea, the words died on her lips, for Beth was asleep on the white-scrubbed table, her head resting on her arms.
Once again Beth’s dreams were erotic, and it was with Guy that she lay. They were naked together on a dew-soaked lawn, and skeins of dawn mist threaded through hanging willow fronds. She didn’t care that they were in the open air, or that they might be seen, just that she was with him in the way she yearned to be. The exciting strength of his body pressed against her as he leaned over to kiss her, dwelling over the intimacy. The dew clung to his skin, and the glow of approaching sunrise touched his hair as his tongue teased her lips, now sliding over them, now pushing between them, as soon another part of him would tease and then enter. His breath was soft against her cheek as he whispered, ‘You didn’t really believe I wanted you arrested, did you?’
‘What else could I think?’ she answered, and closed her eyes as he kissed her lips again, tracing their outline with the tip of his tongue. An erotic thrill tingled through her veins as he slid a hand to the nape of her neck and twined his fingers slowly and richly in her hair. ‘You wish you found me repulsive, don’t you? You wish you could hate me, but you can’t. You desire me as much as I desire you, and now, at last, we are consummating that desire.’ he breathed.
‘I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you,’ she confessed, nuzzling against him and tasting the salt of his skin. All pretence was abandoned, and submission was divine. Oh, the rapture of making love with a man she desired – and the reckless exhilaration of surrendering to a man she feared. His mouth adored h
er throat, her breasts and her eager nipples. She held him, exulting in his hard, strong body, and the fact that for these precious moments he was entirely hers.
His lips worshipped her belly, lingering over her navel, and then moved down to the dark thatch of hair between her legs. Her body arched with delight as he pressed his face into the forest, breathing deeply of her scent. Gently he parted her thighs a little more, and then began to explore her moist, most secret places with his tongue. She writhed with pleasure as he kissed and sucked gently, gratifying desires she had hardly acknowledged. Her hands smoothed lovingly over his shoulders, and then sank through his hair. How she loved him. How she loved him! She was lost in joy, and her body was his to do with as he chose.
At last he moved from between her legs, and kissed his way up her body until his face was level with hers again. As his lips sought hers again, she could taste and smell herself, but then his hand slid down between her legs again, and as he slipped his fingers inside her, he stimulated her most sensitive place with his palm. Such a tide of ecstasy rushed over her that she thought she would dissolve with joy. Again and again the tide swept over her, until she thought she could stand no more, and yet even then another wave would carry her away into new elation. It was only when her body was so sensitive to him and she felt as if she were made of the most delicate glass, that he took his hand away and prepared to penetrate her with his arousal. He moved until he could lower his hips between her thighs, and slowly, so slowly, he allowed the gleaming tip of his manhood to pause at the gates of her body. ‘Do you want me, Beth?’ he whispered.
‘You know that I do,’ she breathed, and then gasped with renewed excitement as he pushed himself into her. He was so big that she felt him stretching her, and the feeling was almost too delicious to be believed. How could she withstand more pleasure? How many times had she already been satisfied? Oh, so many, and now he was storming her defences again, pleasuring her almost to the edge of reason. He withdrew, taking his time so that she felt every inch of him, then he was deep inside her again, so deep that it seemed he would impale her forever. Her hips moved luxuriously in time with him, and then their lips dissolved together in a kiss that threatened to rob them both of consciousness. They were absorbed by each other, becoming a single creature, with but single heart and a single soul.
It was perfect bliss, the loving embodiment of passion and fleshly delight, and all the while there was the dew, the crushed grass, and the wisps of evaporating mist among the draping curtains of the weeping willow. Their sensuous congress was warm and fulfilling, adoring and sensitive, but just as he began to pump his seed into her in a climax that transcended all things mortal, the dream was shattered.
Beth was awakened with a start as a marmalade cat jumped on to her lap. The rug over her knees was dislodged, and she found herself in the bright morning light of the kitchen at the Dower House. Sleep was slow to release her, and the dream lingered. Confusedly, she reached out for Guy, and was bereft at not finding him there beside her. There was a self-conscious bloom on her cheeks, because it really was as if she had just been physically invaded and adored by Sir Guy Valmer. How different the cold clear day. She sat back slowly on the chair, pondering the irony that the man she wanted but couldn’t have when awake, was hers in every way during sleep.
After a few minutes she gathered the purring cat into her arms and got up to look out of the window, where Mrs Cobbett’s potted geraniums bloomed on the sill. She was startled to see the sparkling green-blue water of the Bristol Channel apparently lapping the house’s foundations, although when she leaned forward to look down, she saw there was a walled path about six feet above the high tide mark. The Dower House really was at the edge of the sea! The door opened behind her and Mrs Cobbett came in. Gone were the plaits and nightgown, and instead her hair was pinned beneath a floppy mobcap and she wore a blue gingham dress and starched apron. Her shoes tapped as she crossed to the range. ‘Ah, you’re awake at last, miss.’
‘Good morning,’ Beth replied. ‘I’m sorry I just fell asleep like that.’
‘Think nothing of it, my dear, for you were exhausted. You’ll soon feel wonderful, because there’s no better spot on God’s earth than the Dower House. Now then, you go outside and have some fresh air in the garden while I see to some breakfast. Tea, toast, some boiled eggs, and honey from our own hives. And after breakfast I’ll set a nice warm bath in here, so you can have a good soak after all those days on the road.’
‘Thank you, that’s something I would really appreciate.’ Beth smiled at her. ‘You’re a treasure, Mrs Cobbett.’
The housekeeper beamed. ‘Why, thank you, miss.’
‘How is Billy?’
‘That cheeky London hosebird has made himself quite at home in the room over the stables. Oh, if he could take me up to the village to get provisions? It’s a mortal steep climb, and when I’m there, I’ll engage a girl to help me here.’
The cat jumped out of Beth’s arms as she emerged from the kitchen door to the walled pathway that separated her from the Bristol Channel. In the absence of a wind, the waves washed gently among the rocks not far below her. The sea was dotted with sails, and on the shimmering horizon she could see the coast of Wales and the Brecon Beacons beyond. High above, seagulls wheeled against the cloudless sky. The cat rubbed around Beth’s ankles as she inhaled air that seemed to fill her lungs more than any before. She looked to the west, and saw the harbour and river mouth. Several cutters swayed on the swell of the tide, and fishing boats were setting out, overlooked from the other side of the harbour by a joined row of ancient thatched cottages that clung to the base of tree-hung cliffs that were at least 500 feet high. The cottages rose inland up a track, and ended where a much smaller dwelling was set at a right angle to the rest, so that instead of facing the harbour as did its fellows, it looked up the gorge toward Exmoor. At the top of the cliff were the rooftops and chimneys of the village of Haldane.
Looking east, Beth saw the flat tree-fringed shore of the little park against a background of the precipitous cliffs of the enormous hill over which the coast road disappeared. At the base of the cliffs the sea swirled between huge rocks and boulders. She walked to that corner of the house to see more of the park and its fine trees. Two stone steps led down to the grass, and a path skirted the little kitchen garden and then the hedged flower garden behind the house, where the drone of bees around hives was soothing. She could smell thyme, as well as myrtle, roses and lavender, and it was all so arcadian that she didn’t resist the compulsion to keep walking. Leaving the path, she strolled across the park, and had almost reached the road when a horseman breasted the hill on the coast road. For a moment he was framed against the skyline, a dashing hussar on a cream horse, before he began to ride down toward Lannermouth. As he drew nearer, she admired his uniform, a blue dolman jacket with scarlet facings, a fur-trimmed pelisse over his shoulder, and a gold and red shako with long golden flounders and a bright red pompom.
He reined in on seeing her, and removed his shako to incline his head. His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes a subtle shade of deep turquoise. She thought he was in his mid-thirties. It was hard to tell. Like all hussars, he had side-whiskers and a moustache that drooped on either side of his mouth. He manoeuvred the horse a little closer and she suddenly remembered her crumpled clothes and untidy hair. ‘Good morning, madam,’ he greeted. ‘Major Haldane, your servant.’
‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Major. I’m the new tenant, Miss Mannacott. Forgive my dishevelled appearance, but I only arrived late last night and I fell asleep in a chair.’
‘So, we both arrive here together? An omen of future friendship I trust.’
She smiled. ‘Are you home on leave, Major Haldane?’
‘No, I’ve chosen to leave the army because my regiment, the King’s Own Light Dragoons, will soon embark for India. I was there before and was at death’s door due to malaria. I have no desire to risk the same again, and with the war finally over,
I prefer to manage my estates. So, when I take off this uniform I will become plain Mr Haldane.’ He donned the shako once more, and prepared to ride on. ‘No doubt we shall meet again soon, Miss Mannacott, in fact I shall see to it, on that you have my word.’ He kicked his heels and the horse cantered on over the double-arched bridge and then disappeared around the corner of the cottage where the porch lantern had been lit the night before. She walked back toward the house, and arrived just as Mrs Cobbett came out to tell her breakfast was ready. ‘Ah, there you are, miss. I trust you have an appetite?’
‘I could eat an entire banquet.’ Beth followed her into the kitchen. ‘I have just made the acquaintance of Major Haldane.’
‘Master Landry’s back?’ Mrs Cobbett turned, clasping her hands and beaming. ‘Oh, the Lord be praised! No one has heard from him for so long, we’ve been convinced he died in some god-awful foreign place.’
‘He looked hale and hearty enough to me.’
Mrs Cobbett looked at her. ‘And no doubt he still has his winning smile. He’s the biggest landowner in these parts, and the biggest catch, although it’s said Miss Harriet will be his bride. That’s Harriet Bellamy, the rector’s daughter. She’s a really pretty wench, and has had eyes only for Master Landry ever since I can remember.’
Beth smiled, but in her mind’s eye she could still see Landry Haldane’s dashing uniform and deep turquoise eyes.
Chapter Ten
It was the morning of Friday, 13 July, and the office of Mr Arthur Withers in Caradine Street was as stuffy as the man himself. Jane paced irritably up and down, her mulberry muslin pelisse and gown swishing over the floor, her face grim beneath her wide-brimmed grey silk hat. The solicitor’s refusal to divulge the contents of Esmond’s letter had forced her to come to London, but so far she had achieved nothing. ‘So, Mr Withers, you issue a very public notice concerning my late husband and my stepdaughter, yet refuse to tell me what it concerns?’
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