Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for Frances Evesham
Danger at Thatcham Hall
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Aghast, Olivia slid to a halt,
half-lying in the stream. Water seeped into both boots, chilling skin, bone and muscle. Her woollen skirt mushroomed, absorbing moisture until the damp fabric outlined every curve of her body.
The stranger watched, eyes widening. Oh! He was staring at her—at her—no, Olivia could hardly even think the words. He could see her—her shape. Shame drove out the chill, reddening her chest, and heightening the dreadful humiliation. Oh, if only the earth would open and swallow her whole! She gulped, strove for words, but none came.
Wait. The stranger wasn’t watching her at all. His gaze had come to rest beyond Olivia. The knowing smile faded, and Olivia’s insides turned to horrified pulp. What was he looking at? Something terrible? Slowly, heart hammering inside a tight chest, she twisted, awkward in the flow of water, to peer over one shoulder.
A brown boot, heavy and cracked with wear, wavered in the stream, barely an inch from Olivia’s fingers. She gasped. A swollen leg bulged from the battered leather, the pale stretch of waxen flesh exposed through torn brown trousers and the tattered remains of a sacking gaiter. Olivia snatched back her hand, biting the knuckles to stifle a scream. The man’s body lay on its back, head half-submerged, as the current stroked wisps of black hair across a pale cheek.
Praise for Frances Evesham
“[In Thatcham Hall Mysteries’ series premiere, AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN,] Frances Evesham slips the reader into a time of rapid change in England, uses light and dark character traits, light and dark places, and love that will not be denied to create a page-turning story.”
~Long and Short Reviews
Danger at Thatcham Hall
by
Frances Evesham
Thatcham Hall Mysteries
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Danger at Thatcham Hall
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Frances Evesham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0196-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0197-6
Thatcham Hall Mysteries
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
My family makes my life and writing worthwhile.
Chris, Pippa, and Nick are all
unfailingly positive, kind and enthusiastic.
Dave also reminds me to eat
when I’m lost in my Victorian world,
and makes the best tea in England.
Thank you all.
Chapter One
Olivia wrenched open the heavy oak door and ran, letting it slam shut with a satisfying thud. A gust of wind, sharp and cold, yanked strands of hair from her bonnet, twisting them into fiery knots. Raked gravel crunched, sending a dozen chickens into a clucking, flapping bustle of indignation. Olivia threw herself at a five-bar gate, hands gripping damp wood as it creaked open. She pushed harder. Nothing would stand in her way, not any more.
She scurried down the rutted path, mud sucking at her boots. Soon, legs weak and shaking, panting, she slowed to a walk. A cuckoo called once, twice. Between neat, clipped hedgerows veiled in cow parsley, Olivia took a long, deep breath of country air, full of the tang of cut leaves. For once, no creeping London fog choked off her breath. The frustration that sent her running headlong from the Manor subsided. It was hard to stay cross out here, surrounded by birdsong and fresh air. Fingers interlocked, she stretched both arms in the air above her head and laughed aloud.
She ran to peer over the nearest hedge. Rolling green Berkshire fields stretched into the distance, gentle hills rising behind copses of elm and ash. Distant dots shifted—horses, or sheep? Too far to tell. Pigeons swooped and plunged in bare brown fields, gorging on a glut of new sown barley. Olivia’s neck tingled. Heavens, she was humming.
The chuckle of running water drew her further down the lane to the edge of a coppice. A stream, six inches deep, chattered and gurgled as it tracked a dip between two meadows. A tangle of branches dipped fresh green tips in the water. Other boughs reached out to the lane, half concealing a stile.
Far behind, Fairford Manor’s blank windows considered the morning’s reckless flight with the resigned calm of centuries. Safe from Mama’s disapproval, Olivia’s stomach fluttered and contracted. Perched on the topmost bar of the stile, she let one hand slide into her pocket, stroking the precious letter for luck.
A crowd of rooks wheeled, raucous, startling, into a heavy grey April sky. Olivia flinched. Mama would be furious if she had any idea of the adventure her only daughter planned.
Poor Mama. Still, she need never know. Olivia unfolded the letter for the hundredth time. “Dear Mr. Martin.”
She shivered and tugged the shawl closer. The wind blew cold at this time of year. She should have taken the time to unpack a warm coat, or at least something heavier than this flimsy, lavender-coloured lace affair. She would need additions to her ladylike, town wardrobe out here, where the wind whistled across the pastures. She stuffed the invitation back into her pocket, rehearsing for the thousandth time the familiar, pedantic phrases.
She should go back and make peace with Mama.
Olivia gathered her skirt in one hand and jumped down from the stile. Her right foot landed smack in a puddle of mud. Off balance, she skidded and grabbed at the wooden bar. A splinter pierced her finger. Finding a patch of firmer ground, she sucked at the single drop of blood, fingers too numb to register pain.
Something moved. Olivia’s head flew up. A pair of round brown eyes met hers, unblinking. Her heart pounded. A bull! Motionless, not daring to breathe, she waited, a magic lantern show of imagined, mangled bodies flickering behind her eyes. A
solitary bellow split the air. The beast, almost close enough to touch, lowered its head—horns menacing—and prepared to charge.
She stepped to the left, as the beast bellowed louder and stamped a foot. Olivia could run, but the animal would easily out-pace her. Could she scramble back over the stile in time?
Someone coughed. Olivia’s breath escaped with a hiss. If this was the farmer, he’d save her. She kept her eyes on the bull. Her voice squeaked. “Please, would you assist me?”
“She won’t hurt you.” Laughter pulsed in the deep voice.
“She?” Not a bull, then, at least. Curious, still grasping the stile for support, Olivia turned her head, moving with care lest she inspire the animal to charge. Could she trust the stranger’s words? Was he really the farmer?
One glance gave her the answer. Though the man was easily tall and broad enough to fit the part, his neat trousers, elegant top hat and gleaming riding boots showed he was no farmer. A tiny flutter under her ribs surprised Olivia. Could she guess the stranger’s age? Lines crinkled both eyes and mouth. Older than her own nineteen years, then.
He lifted his hat and bowed low, revealing thick brown hair that curled a little around his ears. “This, I suspect, is one of the farmer’s best Jersey milking cows. The others are over there, behind the trees.”
Olivia winced. A dozen more animals watched from a safe distance, rows of melting brown eyes wide in gentle faces. The heat of one of her unbecoming blushes spread from the back of her neck onto her cheeks. She must look a fool.
The rescuer held out a hand, but the corner of his lips twitched. So, he found her predicament amusing, did he? Not such a gentleman, then.
Olivia raised her eyebrows and glared with as much icy indifference as she could summon under the circumstances. “Thank you, I can manage perfectly well.” She ignored the outstretched hand, let go of the stile and edged further to the left, eyes once more trained on the cow.
She bit her lip. The animal was still far bigger than she, and its horns bore wicked points. It bellowed again. Olivia jumped, an ankle turning in the rough grass. She wobbled for a long moment, arms outstretched, fighting for balance. Her shawl caught on a branch, tugging her sideways. A final lurch in the slick mud took her sliding down toward the stream, hands grabbing empty air as she lost the battle and landed with a splash. Aghast, Olivia slid to a halt, half-lying in the stream. Water seeped into both boots, chilling skin, bone and muscle. Her woollen skirt mushroomed, absorbing moisture until the damp fabric outlined every curve of her body.
The stranger watched, eyes widening. Oh! He was staring at her—at her—no, Olivia could hardly even think the words. He could see her—her shape. Shame drove out the chill, reddening her chest, and heightening the dreadful humiliation. Oh, if only the earth would open and swallow her whole! She gulped, strove for words, but none came.
Wait. The stranger wasn’t watching her at all. His gaze had come to rest beyond Olivia. The knowing smile faded, and Olivia’s insides turned to horrified pulp. What was he looking at? Something terrible? Slowly, heart hammering inside a tight chest, she twisted, awkward in the flow of water, to peer over one shoulder.
A brown boot, heavy and cracked with wear, wavered in the stream, barely an inch from Olivia’s fingers. She gasped. A swollen leg bulged from the battered leather, the pale stretch of waxen flesh exposed through torn brown trousers and the tattered remains of a sacking gaiter. Olivia snatched back her hand, biting the knuckles to stifle a scream. The man’s body lay on its back, head half-submerged, as the current stroked wisps of black hair across a pale cheek.
She’d almost sat upon it. Sickness gripped Olivia’s stomach. Clasping one hand to her chest, she scrambled to her feet, backing away, slipping and sliding. “No,” she whispered through stiff fingers, voice grating through a closed throat. “Oh no!”
“Let me help you out.” The touch of the stranger’s hand under her arm was firm.
Once she was safe on land, he leaned over the body in the stream, touching the thin neck with outstretched fingers. The head turned under his touch. Cold blue eyes stared, blind, sunken in a colourless face. The man was young, hardly more than a boy, and handsome, with dark eyebrows and a straight nose. Whose son was he? On his hand, a thin band ringed his finger. A married man, then. Olivia’s voice trembled. “Is-is he dead?”
The stranger stepped back. “Don’t look.”
She clutched his arm, grateful for the warmth of a living body. “What happened to him?”
“I can’t tell.” The stranger tried to lead Olivia aside, but she wouldn’t move.
“We-we must call for a doctor.”
“There’s nothing to be done for him, now.”
“He’s dead?” Olivia’s words echoed in her ears as though someone else spoke. She shook her head, trying to clear it. This must be a nightmare. She would wake in a moment, safe in bed.
The hem of her brown dress, heavy with water, weighed down Olivia’s legs. Half the river seemed to have trickled inside her boots. The stranger threw off his coat and dropped it without a word around her shoulders. She pulled the heavy material close but nothing could stop the shudders that gripped her body.
The stranger grasped her elbow. “I must take you home. Where do you live?”
She pointed toward the hill. “Over there. But should you not ride for help?”
“When I am sure you’re safe and well, I’ll alert Thatcham Hall. I’m afraid the poor man is past help.” The stranger’s eyes narrowed as he gazed over her shoulder, toward the Hall. “Lord Thatcham’s household will doubtless recognise him. I don’t know the fellow.”
Olivia pressed her lips together, to stop them shaking. “Nor I. I’m newly arrived in the country.” The mist that had fogged her mind cleared, little by little, but she couldn’t still the trembling of her limbs and she gripped the stranger’s arm tight as they climbed the hill to Fairford Manor.
“We’ve not been introduced,” he said.
Olivia controlled a sharp intake of breath. Must they really exchange pleasantries at such a time?
“Nelson Roberts at your service.”
“Olivia Martin.”
Her return to Fairford Manor, with such news, and accompanied by so fine a gentleman, diffused any wrath Mama may have retained from her daughter’s exit. The angry words, exchanged about Olivia’s future, were forgotten. Mama fussed, offering sal volatile from the bottle that never left her side, apparently convinced Olivia would soon faint away. “Mama, I can assure you I am n-not in the least upset.”
Mr. Roberts bowed as she returned his coat. As one hand touched his, quite by accident, she caught a whiff of tobacco and soap. Her stomach quivered. This would not do. She turned, flustered, to call for Miles, Mama’s sole male servant, to accompany the stranger to the Hall. Mr. Roberts disappeared with Miles towards the stables.
Suddenly, there was nothing else to be done. Mr. Roberts had the matter in hand and Olivia could only await further news. She couldn’t sit still, not with the dead young man’s face, so pale and lifeless, imprinted on her memory. She shifted from one chair to another, glancing out the window, the view toward the hills sending a final, reminiscent shudder down her back. Restless, she arranged Staffordshire dogs in the fireplace and repositioned Mama’s treasured ornate china vases, already unpacked, on side tables, her fumbling fingers only a hair’s breadth from sending them all flying.
It was no good. Olivia needed to do something—anything—that would drive the sight out of her mind. “I’ll visit Thatcham Hall today, as arranged, Mama. I’m expected and it would be impolite to be late. After all, Lord Thatcham’s allowing us to live here on a peppercorn rent. I’ll send you word as soon as I can. No, I can assure you I don’t need a tonic or a glass of Madeira. My nerves are in perfectly good order.”
“Well, it’s as well that kind gentleman happened to be there. I’m sure I should have fainted straight away, Olivia, and I can only wonder that you should be so calm.”
; Olivia didn’t feel at all calm, but it seemed Mr. Roberts was, at least, a gentleman. He’d given no sign of noticing the effect of the cold on her body. Perhaps the sight of the poor dead man had driven it from his mind. That was something. Her neck burned with embarrassment at the memory.
If she’d encountered him at one of the dances or plays in London, she would have thought him rather a fine man. She’d liked his wavy brown hair, blown by the wind into a becoming confusion, and the neat, well-trimmed beard. On the other hand, that mocking smile was infuriating. She didn’t like to be the object of amusement.
Olivia thrust pins into her hair to tame the wayward curls, allowing her thoughts to rest upon the stranger, trying to drive out the image of the dead man.
Who could he be? That smile was a little uneven. A thin white scar ran from one ear to his mouth, almost hidden by the beard. He walked with a slight limp.
Was he a neighbour? If only she’d bitten back her temper when they first met, and asked some questions, Olivia might have found out a little. He’d set her teeth on edge with barely concealed amusement at her predicament. She dreamed up at least three remarks of great wit and irony and pulled a face at her reflection in the mirror. They were far too late to be useful. She could never think of the perfect cutting retort at the right moment.
A picture of the dead man’s face, white and still, flashed before Olivia’s eyes, and her mind was made up. She scrabbled ribbons and pins into a tapestry reticule. It was too frustrating to be left at the Manor while Mr. Roberts acted. There must be something she could do to help. What if no one had thought to tell the man’s wife?
Fumbling to tie her sash, all thumbs, Olivia sped downstairs, calling out to Mama that she was leaving straight away. Mr. Roberts had already ridden off at great speed, but Miles had not yet followed with the cart. The servant’s faint protestations were no match for Olivia’s determination. “I am coming with you. Mary will pack my things and you can bring them to Thatcham Hall later.”
She hoisted herself on board and the cart set off, clattering over cobbles, leaving Mama open-mouthed in the doorway.
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