The hand holding hers stilled. “Have you? Fallen in love, I mean.”
All at once Ottilia was weeping. “Oh yes, Fan. Oh, so very much.”
He cradled her, placing his cheek to hers and stroking her back. “And here I had thought you invincible, my dearest dear.”
“Invincible?”
He drew back and wiped away her tears with his fingers. “Always so assured, so capable. Ready with a quip or a word of comfort at every hand. How was I to find the chink?”
Ottilia gave a watery chuckle. “You had no need to search. It cracked open at the first and widened thereafter in despite of all I could do.”
“I am glad.” He took her hands in his. “I love you very dearly. Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
Francis kissed her again, a strong, persuasive kiss that went on for some little time and left her breathless and weak. He seemed to realise this, for he drew her to sit beside him on a cushioned bench between the windows. Here he indulged in a good deal of gratifying, if sentimental, conversation, in which Ottilia readily encouraged him.
At length, it occurred to her that things were more complicated than she had foreseen. “Francis, we cannot possibly be married — not yet.”
He was playing with her fingers, but he looked up at that. “I am aware. But don’t imagine I intend to wait upon a year’s mourning, for I don’t.”
“And let us not forget I am still Sybilla’s companion.”
“By the time we are wed, I daresay Teresa’s leg will have mended. But you will ever be my mother’s companion. She is almost as enamoured of you as am I.”
“Well, I am already very fond of her. But does she mean to take up her residence here?”
“Lord, no! She would be horrified at such a thought.”
“But the house needs a mistress, and much as I love you, Fan, I cannot take upon myself such a role. I would be bored to death.”
He laughed. “No, it is far too mundane a life to satisfy a woman of your talents, my dearest. But we are not going to live here.”
Ottilia blinked at him. “No?”
“No.” Francis slipped his arm about her. “You have not so far asked about my circumstances, but I am not obliged to live upon my brother’s bounty.”
Ottilia nestled into him. “I am not marrying your circumstances.”
“I am gratified to hear it,” he returned, dropping a light kiss on her hair, “but one must be practical. I have an estate. It is only in London that I choose to live here.”
“A younger son, and you have an estate? How so?”
Francis hesitated. “It is not generally known, but it came to me through my late wife.”
Mischief rippled through Ottilia. “So having found your heiress, you lost no time in disposing of her so that you might live on the proceeds.” She heard the echo of her own voice with dismay, and felt the arm about her stiffen. Quickly she turned to him. “No, I did not mean it! It was a jest.”
“In exceedingly poor taste, under the circumstances.”
His tone was rough and Ottilia detected the hurt beneath it. She seized his hand. “Pardon me, pray. You must by this have recognised my besetting sin — I cannot stop my tongue running away with me. Francis!”
He turned pained eyes towards her. “If I can’t forgive you for that, I have no business declaring my affection for you.”
“No, I was wrong. So horribly wrong.”
His smile was a trifle crooked. “My darling, don’t take on so. Your besetting sin has been the making of this family. But for your unruly tongue at the outset, my brother would at this moment be languishing in gaol.”
“Yes, but I —”
He put a finger to her lips. “Hush! Let there be no dissension between us.”
Ottilia sighed. “I fear that is too much to ask.”
“Well, if it comes, at least let us pledge ourselves to wash it away as swiftly as we can.”
She let out a contented sigh. “You are unbelievably forbearing, Francis.”
“No, why? We are setting out upon an adventure of discovery. After all is said and done, we have known each other but a few short days.”
Ottilia spread his hand and slid her fingers between his, caressing his palm with her own. “I feel as if I have known you forever, but that is a trick of these especial circumstances. I daresay there are all manner of habits to disgust you of which you as yet know nothing.”
“I know enough of you, my darling, to be sure you could never disgust me.” But a gleam came into his eye. “You will undoubtedly madden and frustrate me and drive me to tearing my hair, but disgust? Never. Especially if you will persist in chortling in that unscrupulous way to get under my guard and disarm me.”
At this, her merriment bubbled over the more and all Ottilia’s doubts and uncertainties melted away.
“Oh, Fan, I adore you.”
A sudden grin lightened his features and he turned her face towards him, lifting up her chin. “A sentiment I wholly reciprocate, my infinitely adorable Tillie.”
His kiss enchanted her. But when he drew away a little, she sighed. A faint crease appeared between his brows.
“That sounded less than contented.”
She gripped his hand, beset by an inevitable reflection. “I cannot help but feel the poignancy of snatching happiness out of tragedy.”
Francis pulled her hand open and set a kiss in her palm. “For my part, I am thanking heaven for the blessing of a silver lining in a cloud uniformly grey.”
Ottilia gave a little shiver. “And I started out with hopes of entertainment.”
“No you did not, my dear one. You began in compassion, and if you found a way to be merry on occasion, you lightened my heart in so doing. I will not allow you to belittle your motives.”
“What, will you make of me a saint?” Her eyes pricked and filled. “Alas, I must ever fall short.”
“No saint ever giggled the way you do, Tillie.”
Ottilia did just that even as the tears spilled over. She dashed them away. “Your mama was right. I have turned into a watering pot.”
Francis smiled into her eyes. “I have a reliable cure for that.”
After which Ottilia was unable to utter a word for some little time, much less weep. When Francis at last released her mouth, Ottilia saw his eyebrow quirk and was swept with suspicion. She leaned back a little, the better to regard him.
“I mistrust that look. What now, pray?”
“It has just occurred to me. If we should ever find ourselves in need of funds — not that I anticipate such a contingency, but it is well to be prepared —”
“Fan ...”
“— I will hire out my Lady Fan to untangle the difficulties of our neighbours.”
She preserved her countenance, but her lips twitched. “Indeed? Well, to tell you the truth, I was thinking of asking Sir Thomas Ingham if he would care to employ your Lady Fan for a Runner.”
“Oh, not a Runner, Tillie,” said Francis, mock serious. “You are far too good for that. Let Ingham retire and we will ask the home secretary to set you in his place.”
Ottilia could not hold back a laugh, but she leaned into him and curled her fingers around his. “I thank you, dearest Fan, but to be Lady Francis Fanshawe is ambition enough. This one brush with murder will content me.”
BOOK TWO: THE DEATHLY PORTENT
Chapter 1
It was an ill night to be abroad. The shouts of men, one to another, echoed into the dark, along with the stamp of heavy feet over ground sodden with the droning rain. Here and there, a remnant flicker of the dying fire and the gleam from a shuttered lantern pierced the relentless black, and a distant rumble promised worse to come.
Out of the troubled voices rose a chorus of youthful jeers, closing on running feet as they hastened away from the commotion. Huddled in her cloak, with Tabitha’s strong arm about her shoulders urging her on, the young woman raced for shelter. Not from the storm, although its unkind ad
vent had precipitated just the outcome she dreaded. Rather, from the familiar appellation burning in her ears and the sting of the stones thrown by the village boys.
She knew not whither they were headed, except that it lay in an opposite direction from the little cottage she now called home. What with the darkness and the snarling wind, the wetness falling on her face and flattening the hair to her head, and the cries behind ringing in her brain, she could scarcely see to set one foot before the other. Not that it mattered. Not if fate’s decree had set a man’s life to her account.
Of a sudden the world around her slashed into view as the skies were cut asunder. In the sheet of white, poised for a brief instant while the lightning struck, she saw the spire above the rooftops.
The flash lit up the bleak interior of the parlour, throwing into high relief the boxes in the centre, half unpacked, and the stark outline of the wooden settle, bare of cushions.
The Reverend Aidan Kinnerton, on his knees beside the growing pile of books, glanced up at the window, as yet uncurtained, just as the rolling thunder crashed overhead. He blinked in the dim shadows left behind after the massive glare, the candles struggling to do adequate duty in its stead.
The rain gained momentum, and for an instant Aidan imagined himself back in Africa, with one of its swift and violent storms raging over the crude thatched hut where he had lain, helpless and weak with fever, while his pathetic little flock of converts reverted to their heathen gods and the insane mutterings of the witch doctor.
A second crack of light startled him out of remembrance, and the instant rumble that followed reverberated in his head. Sighing, he turned back to his task of sorting the books, struggling to read their spines by the light of a candelabrum he had set upon the floor. He would undoubtedly do better to leave it until morning and go instead to his bed, but Aidan knew he would not sleep with the intermittent thunder and the persistent dinning rain. And if he did by chance drop off, the raging skies must inevitably bring on his dreaded nightmares. Those lurid dreams of dancing black warriors armed with spears and the call of the tom-toms beating into the night.
The sounds of the storm were abruptly superseded by a violent knocking that seemed to come almost out of his thoughts. For an instant he lost sight of his present situation, and it took a moment to realise that the noise was penetrating through the hall from the front door.
Aidan leapt to his feet, obeying the impulse of shocked question. His footsteps echoed on the bare boards as he crossed hastily through the dimness of the big square hall. Beyond the front door he could hear shouts, and in quick succession there came two thuds against the wooden barrier just as he reached it. Instinct told him these were not made by fists hitting the door. Someone was throwing missiles.
His fingers were numb with cold, he realised, as he fumbled in his hasty effort to turn the large key, and the fleeting thought passed through his mind that he should have kept the fire going in the parlour. Throwing back the bolts, Aidan wrenched open the door.
Two bedraggled figures stood without, one huddled in the protective arms of the other, who looked a trifle more robust. Both were drenched. The larger of the two let out a thankful gasp as she caught sight of Aidan.
“Sanctuary, good sir, for my mistress, else the little beasts will stone her to death.”
Aidan’s gaze turned automatically to the woman she held, whose head lifted just as another fork of lightning lit up the sky, revealing a brief image of a ravaged face, streaked dirty and wet, with hollow cheeks and wounded eyes, and long hair plastered to her head.
“Come in, come in,” Aidan uttered as the dark enveloped them again and the thunder rattled above them.
He swiftly pulled the two women through the door and then thrust outside, putting up a hand to keep the wet out of his eyes as he sought for the perpetrators of this vicious assault.
“Who are you? Show yourselves!”
He could just make out a coterie of figures inside the gate. From their stature, Aidan took them for boys. He raised his voice.
“I see you there. Who are you? Be sure this will not go unpunished!”
At this a hoarse crack of laughter emanated from one of the group.
“It be her as’ll be punished,” came in retort.
“You watch yourself, Reverend,” shouted another. “You don’t want nowt to do with her. A witch her be.”
Before Aidan could respond, a chorus of mocking laughter echoed into the darkness. And then the boys were off, running back in the direction of the village green.
Aidan watched them disappear into the gloom until discomfort reminded him that he was standing in the driving rain. Hastening back into the house, he shut the door and shot the bolts, shaking off the damp. Then he turned to find the fugitive leaning into the wall, her breath coming short and fast.
“Softly, ma’am. You are safe now.”
He spoke without thought, and the dimly seen outline of the woman turned towards him. But if she was about to speak, she was forestalled by the maid who accompanied her.
“Safe, is it? She’ll not be safe, Reverend, if she goes back to the cottage. They’ll come after her there, sure as check, if that fellow is dead.”
Low-voiced, at last the other spoke. “I should not have told him.”
“Hush now, Miss Cassie. It ain’t no use repining.”
In the gloom, Aidan saw the woman sway. The maid caught at her before he could step forward.
“Begging your pardon, Reverend, my mistress is like to fall down if I don’t get her sat down quick.”
“Yes, of course. Forgive me, ma’am. Will you come into the parlour, both of you?”
Darting ahead, Aidan held the door open, thankful that his two candelabra spilled a modicum of light into the hall to show the way.
“Take care as you enter. I am but half unpacked as yet, and the floor is strewn with belongings.”
“Never you fret, sir,” said the maid. “I’ll see to her.” Aidan took up the candelabrum from the floor and watched the maid shepherd her mistress towards the wooden settle. “Sit you down, Miss Cassie.”
Obedient, the woman sank into the seat, and then she looked up, directly into his face. The candlelight gentled the harsh planes of her dampened features into a softer glow, and Aidan realised she was barely a woman yet. A girl — aged by suffering?
“You befriend me at your peril.”
Struck by the vibrant note in her husky voice, Aidan held her gaze, speaking with gentleness.
“As a man of God, it is my duty to befriend anyone who calls upon my charity. Where is the peril in that?”
He watched her fingers curl into claws. “They will revile you. They will tell you I am in league with the devil and you must shun me.”
“Then they will find themselves mightily at fault.”
She stared at him, her eyes dark with a species of pain that cut Aidan to the heart. “I should not have told him.”
The maid clicked her tongue at this repetition, and Aidan glanced at her.
“Pray sit by your mistress and take care of her while I fetch my housekeeper, who will find towels and prepare a bedchamber.”
“A bedchamber?”
Aidan smiled at the shock in the maid’s voice. “You asked for sanctuary, did you not? I cannot think it wise for your mistress to venture out again tonight.”
The girl shuddered, pulling her cloak more tightly about her. Aidan moved a step closer and set his hand palm up. She looked at the hand, then up into his face.
“You are a gentle man, sir.”
Then, like a child, she lifted her hand, fingers outstretched and trembling, and set it upon his. Hers was a slim, cold hand, colder than his, and Aidan held it strongly.
“Let me but set all in motion, and then you may tell me everything.”
The overnight storm had given way to a fresh summer day, with a rapidly rising temperature. But it had left the roads a quagmire.
Lord Francis Fanshawe was hot, sticky, and decidedly o
ut of temper. He unbent his body from useless contemplation of the axletree, in the vain hope that Ryde was mistaken in saying it was broken. He shifted to flex the ache in his back from bending too long and regarded the muddy road with acute disfavour. The coach wheels were stuck fast, and his boots were caked. They were probably ruined forever — or would be, once he put them in the hands of the boots at a wayside inn. Why in Hades had he come away without his valet?
As if in sympathy, his stomach growled, protesting the hours since breakfast. Francis glanced over to where the three remaining horses, released from their traces and temporarily tethered to a nearby tree, were grazing, ready to eat themselves into a stupor while Francis starved.
At that instant, his gaze fell upon his bride, and his vexation intensified. Tillie was palpably to blame for these evils, but instead of decently railing at an unhappy fate, she could think of nothing better to do than to wander along the roadside admiring wildflowers and humming.
“Ottilia!”
His wife of a few short weeks merely turned her head and waved before continuing on her way. Francis cursed and strode in her direction.
“For pity’s sake, come and wait in the coach,” he called. “You will exhaust yourself wandering about in this heat.”
Tillie checked and turned her clear gaze upon him, raising her brows.
“I am more like to faint from being shut up in that stuffy coach, do you not think?”
“No, I do not. It may be hours before Ryde or Williams gets back.”
His groom, despatched to locate the nearest smithy, had gone off in one direction across country, while the coachman, riding the post-horse, had gone back along the main road towards Atherstone, through which they had passed a little before the breakdown, in a bid to locate a decent hostelry where some form of transport might be hired to enable the stranded travellers to seek shelter.
“Surely not,” objected Tillie. “That kindly yokel spoke of a village a mere half mile or so from here.”
Francis all but snorted. “Do you know no better than to take a country fellow’s estimate for gospel? I daresay it is five miles or more to this Witherley place, if we only knew.”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 34
