Danger at Thatcham Hall

by Frances Evesham

  There he was, part of a small group of cronies, coarse laughter grating across the meadows. Nelson hesitated, tempted to slide back into the shadows, leave the Hall and avoid the moment he dreaded. No, that was the coward’s way. The soldier spun round, laughing, and saw Nelson. The laughter dried and his mouth fell open.

  Major Lovell blinked in the dim evening light. “You?” it was a croak. “What the devil…”

  Nelson took a step forward, to stand just inches away, eyes fixed on Lovell. “Me.” The colour in Lovell’s face drained away, leaving him deathly pale. Nelson smiled in his enemy’s face. “Did you think I was a ghost?”

  “I thought you…”

  “You thought I was dead.”

  Lovell’s eyes slid away. His cronies had moved, searching out a place to sit, unaware of the confrontation. Lovell took a step in their direction, but Nelson’s hand shot out. He grasped an arm, fingers like steel.

  He whispered, “Stay a while.” Lovell flinched. “It’s been some time since we met, I recall. That was an interesting day. You must remember it.”

  “Get out of my way,” Lovell gasped, his voice a harsh whisper, eyes flickering towards his friends. “You can’t…”

  “Can’t what? Can’t touch you here, while you’re protected? Do you really believe that?” His grip tightened.

  Lovell winced. “No, no I didn’t mean…” he spluttered. “I mean, come on, old chap. Don’t want to spoil the party, do we? Let bygones be bygones, eh what?”

  Nelson’s other hand grasped the lapel of Lovell’s coat and drew him close, the beads of sweat on the man’s brow reflected in the glow of candlelight that flooded through the ballroom doors. “We’re guests, here at Thatcham Hall, Lovell. I will not distress our hosts. You can go free, but don’t dare to imagine I’ve forgotten. I have some advice—good advice. You should listen carefully.”

  “Wh-what do you mean, advice? D’you think I need advice from you?” Lovell tried to laugh, but his voice cracked. He was shaking. “You can’t hurt me, Roberts. Not now. It’s too late.”

  “Here’s a warning, all the same.”

  Nelson twisted Lovell’s collar tight, half-pulling the man off his feet. Lovell’s voice squeezed through rasping breaths, high-pitched with terror. “You’re strangling me.”

  Nelson snorted. “Strangling? An interesting way to die. Would it be easier, I wonder, than dying from the bullet you sent my way?” He shook Lovell like a dog, holding him up as he stumbled. “If you want to live much longer, leave Thatcham Hall now. Keep away from me and from the Hall. If ever I see your cowardly face again, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  Lovell’s eyes bulged. Nelson had seen the same expression in the eyes of comrades facing oncoming hordes of Afghans in the Khyber Pass. Naked fear was a dreadful sight.

  Sick, Nelson closed his eyes. His hand dropped from Lovell’s coat. Suddenly, he was tired: weary of the past, of killing, and of betrayal. He was tired of watching men’s horror and the fear. The furious anger, the unbearable, desperate longing for revenge, melted away, leaving Nelson sickened and bitter. “Just go,” he said. “Get out and stay away.”

  Lovell’s whole body shook. He tried an uncertain laugh. “You’re all talk, Roberts.” The thick lips twisted in a sneer, but his eyes were dark pools of fear in a chalk white face. Nelson’s expression seemed to terrify the man. He took a step back, then another. At last, at a safe distance, he turned and staggered away. “Pity I missed.” He spat the words, loaded with venom, over one shoulder.

  Nelson watched his old enemy go, the taste of vomit sour in his throat. Was that the end of the matter? Would Lovell leave the Hall or stay on, protected by the crush of people, and force Nelson to cause a scene? Nelson hoped he’d go rather than risk letting Nelson reveal the truth. If he had to fight, he would, but better it was somewhere else.

  Through the night air, almost lost in the music and laughter all around, Nelson heard Lovell call for his horse. He relaxed, tension dispersing at last, leaving him bone-tired with relief, every muscle aching. He could forget Lovell for the rest of the evening. Lady Thatcham’s dance was no place to repay old scores.

  The painful, desperate urge for revenge that had dogged Nelson for five years had disappeared. Nelson had nursed that hatred, longing to see Lovell once more, just one last time; he wanted to punish the coward, give him what he deserved. Tonight had been his chance. Should he have taken it? No. Five years was too long to nurse a craving for vengeance.

  Nelson filled his lungs with night air. It smelled sweet, as though a poisonous stench had vanished. He passed the noisy group of Lovell’s cronies. Not one even threw him a stray glance. Too busy smoking and drinking to notice who came and went.

  He continued round the ancient building to where an old oak stood, guarding the Hall, its girth as wide as the door to the Hall. In the distance, a horse, silhouetted by the crescent moon, walked. It broke into a trot, before the rider kicked it on, the faintest echo of a curse reaching Nelson’s ears. In moments, the pair disappeared, galloping out of sight as though the devil himself was in pursuit. Suddenly elated, Nelson slammed a fist against the tree trunk.

  “Well, Mr. Roberts. I’m pleased to see you enjoying the evening air.”

  He jumped, nerves still jangling, and spun on one heel. “Miss Martin?”

  “I startled you. I’m sorry.”

  A pause in activity, the moment of quiet between dances, fell around them. Lovell’s cronies had gone, striding inside to take their places on the floor, as the musicians struck up a polka. One or two couples, too far away to hear, were in any case immersed in the delicate conversations of flirtation. Occasional candles, set among the trees, enabled Nelson to see the glint of white teeth as she smiled.

  “I was enjoying the peace, Miss Martin. These are lovely gardens, are they not?”

  “Why, Mr. Roberts, I hadn’t taken you for a lover of peace and quiet.”

  Caught out, he laughed. “No, indeed, but even an old soldier appreciates such a charming evening as this. The polka, however, is not to my taste.”

  “Nor mine, today. I must confess my foot aches a little.”

  “Then, perhaps you should sit a while. I believe you indicated a preference for watching, rather than dancing.” He heard a sound, a barely perceptible intake of breath. Nelson’s blood pumped faster. She’d remembered the agreement they’d made. “There is a bench under this tree. Won’t you sit?”

  She took the offered hand, fingers warm and dry as she sat, leaning against the solid trunk of the oak. “In any case, I was in need of fresh air. I hadn’t realised the ballroom could hold so many people.” White teeth glimmered as she smiled in the darkness. “I cannot think when there are many nearby.”

  “May I walk you back to the Hall, at least? Your reputation won’t survive spending time in the dark with a man.”

  “Oh, Mr. Roberts, do you really think I care for my reputation? I’m just a poor relation of the Dainty family. They’re very kind, but I’m not likely to marry any of the men here, so the opinion of the mamas watching their charges in the ballroom is of no account. I will be stealing no suitors.”

  “Why should you not marry as well as any other young lady?”

  “A million reasons. The chief of which is that I have no money, nor any prospect of more, except—” She broke off. After a moment she went on, her voice flat. “When the ball is over, I must look for work as a governess.”

  Her sigh seemed to come from the depths of her soul. The tip of a pink tongue traced full lips. “Mr. Roberts, I have to tell someone. If I let you in to my secret, will you promise not to betray me?”

  Nelson, intrigued, bowed his head. “Of course, I should be honoured to be the recipient of your confidences, Miss Martin.”

  “You see,” she went on, “I can’t confide in Miss Dainty or Lady Thatcham, for I know I’m behaving incorrectly, but somehow I feel you won’t be shocked at what I reveal. I think you understand how ambition and the des
ire to succeed can overcome delicacy and propriety.” She turned a little aside and spoke so quietly Nelson could hardly make out the words. “It’s so hard to keep it to myself. But, perhaps I shouldn’t speak.”

  Nelson started. What scandalous behaviour could she be about to admit? A stream of the most disreputable images flickered in his head, like pictures seen within a magic lantern. “Miss Martin, you cannot possibly shock or disgust me with anything you’ve done. I’m convinced your secret is perfectly innocent. I assure you, you needn’t fear I would give it away.”

  “Well, then, I will confess to you that I have sent some compositions to Mellows, the London music publisher, and—I can hardly believe it, even now—I received a positive reply.”

  Nelson suppressed a smile. Hardly his idea of scandal. “Well, that’s quite delightful, but why must it be a secret?”

  “Shh. Please, don’t speak so loud.” She flapped a hand. Several distant heads had turned their way. “That fact isn’t the secret. Indeed, Mama knows of it. But she doesn’t know I’ve made an appointment to visit Mr. Mellow, so he can hear me play the pieces before deciding whether to publish them. Unfortunately, Mama doesn’t believe music—or indeed, any profession—suitable for a lady. She’s forbidden me to see Mr. Mellow and wishes me to become a governess.”

  “I see. That’s most unfortunate, but I’m sure a young lady of resolve won’t give in to such opposition. I imagine you’ve concocted a story.”

  Miss Martin nodded, leaning forward to speak in a whisper. “I’m visiting friends in London.” Face suddenly fierce, eyes narrow, she hissed, “If you breathe one word, Mr. Roberts, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  He swallowed a chuckle. “Your secret is safe, Miss Martin. I wish you good fortune.”

  She sighed. “I’m afraid there’s something else. You see, I knew Mr. Mellow would not want to work with a woman, so I—er—I pretended to be a man.”

  “A man.” Nelson’s shoulders shook. Could any woman look less like a man? “I—” He coughed, trying to keep control. “Truly, I have the greatest sympathy for you, but really, pretending to be a man…”

  “Well, if you find it so amusing…” She jumped to her feet.

  “No, dear Miss Martin, please wait. I apologise. There’s nothing comical about your situation. I’m so sorry—it’s just that—well, this has been a long day. I promise, if I can help in any way, you have only to ask.” She subsided once more.

  Ashamed, Nelson tried to make amends. “I pray your journey to London brings the results you deserve. Miss Martin, I’m sure all will be well.” He touched her hand. She did not pull away. “One day, your name will be on the lips of the highest in the land, as a musician of excellence and fame.”

  “Sometimes—” Her lips were very close to Nelson’s. “I confess, I sometimes dream of it, not for fame and fortune, but simply to escape a life in service. I know that’s wrong, so let’s talk no more about my foolish dreams. I wish to tell you about the scullery maid.”

  “Scullery maid?” What was she talking about? Nelson could hardly remember. He wanted to continue drinking in the sweet scent of her hair, letting his eyes rove across the earnest face. He ached to cover it with kisses, leaving the consequences until tomorrow.

  “You asked me to speak to the servants. Have you forgot?”

  “Oh, yes. The servants.” Nelson took her hand. It was cool and firm; a pianist’s hand, strong and elegant. Their fingers entwined. “What did you discover?”

  “Eliza, the scullery maid. She named Eileen Hodges.” She seemed as breathless as he. “She’s behind the thefts.” Nelson let the words wash over deaf ears, overwhelmed by the nearness of her soft cheek.

  She’d stopped talking.

  “Miss Martin.”

  “Yes?”

  His heart raced. He slipped one arm around her waist and pulled her close, her breast against his chest. She murmured once, as though surprised, but his lips touched the sweet, warm mouth and there was silence. She was still for a long, tantalising moment. Was she frightened? Then her mouth relaxed, lips moving, soft and sweet with a touch of spice, and Nelson’s head whirled, senses charged, every inch of his body alight with desire.

  Olivia drew back, eyes enormous. Nelson gasped for breath. She shuddered in his arms. “Mr. Roberts. Nelson—”

  “Dear Olivia. Please, do not be offended.”

  She touched gentle fingers to his lips. “I’m not offended, although I know this is wrong. I hardly care, tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, it will be but a dream.”

  Nelson pulled her closer. She sighed. “How strange that this moment should be so perfect, when there’s so much unhappiness in the world.”

  He whispered, mouth close to her ear. “My sweet Olivia.”

  “How glad I am the ball wasn’t cancelled. Lady Thatcham had almost decided it would be wrong to have such fun, so soon after poor Daniel died.”

  “Daniel?” The words hardly registered in Nelson’s brain. He rested a heated forehead against the smooth cool of her brow. The scent of lemon in her hair was enticing. His head reeled, eyes closed. “Don’t worry about Daniel,” he murmured. “Farmhands have accidents all the time.”

  Miss Martin stiffened. Puzzled, Nelson pulled back. She sat straighter. “He wasn’t just a farmhand to his wife.” She was frowning.

  “Of course not. But life can be cruel, especially on a farm.”

  She shifted sideways, further along the seat. “How can you speak so lightly of the poor man, cut down early in life? Don’t you care?”

  He flinched. “Care?” The sweet, heady moment ebbed, swept away in a wave of anger, leaving Nelson outraged. “You think I care nothing for the death of a young man?”

  He rested his head on both hands, elbows digging into shaky legs. He did not want to remember. Why did she try to remind him? For years he’d tried to forget, striven to wipe away the dreadful images of war that crowded into his head. Then, seeing Daniel, dead, lying in the stream—he couldn’t bear to think of it. The memory brought back all those other sights.

  What a fool, to think he could ever be happy, with such pictures carved, indelible, into his mind. How could a young woman, warm, well-fed, safe, whose only worry was disobeying mama, ever understand the darkness of Nelson’s world?

  Naked anger at that world, at himself, at Olivia, boiled to the surface as furious words spilled out, harsh and bitter. “Do you have the slightest idea, the faintest notion of how many young men died—no, not even young men—boys, younger than Daniel? I saw them, lying in their own blood on the field of battle. You think I don’t care? Why, which one should I care for among hundreds? What is one more death among so many?”

  Miss Martin’s anger flared. “The death of any young man is a tragedy, but soldiers know the dangers they face. Daniel was just a country lad—”

  “Soldiers.” Nelson laughed, a mirthless bark. “Children, you mean. Children troop off to war, recruited for a shilling, heads full of excitement and adventure, to end their miserable days dying in the sand, crying for mama.”

  Memories, suppressed for years, flooded back, engulfing Nelson in the chaos of the battlefield. His ears rang with the crash of gunfire, screams of dying men and shrieks of terror. “Blood soaking into the sand, faces so ruined their mamas would fail to recognise them, the smell of death.”

  Nelson raised his head and stared through his companion. She’d vanished, replaced by a boy’s innocent face, eyes screwed shut, mouth open in a terrified scream. Nelson shuddered. “Can you imagine, Miss Martin, how a dead body smells when it’s lain in the sun all day?” He groaned. “And the blood. There are gallons of blood in a body.” Eyes closed to try to blot it all out, to banish the horror that would never leave, Nelson fell silent, throat closed.

  He took a long, shuddering breath. What had he been saying? Whatever had possessed him? This was no way to talk to a young woman.

  Her fingers closed round his arm. “I-I didn’t know…”

  He re
coiled from the touch, sick at heart. “No,” he whispered. “Of course not. War is for men. A woman has a heart. No female would stand by and let children suffer as we did.” He opened his eyes. Tears glinted on Miss Martin’s cheeks.

  Disgust at himself, at the world he inhabited, at everything he had seen and done, choked Nelson. “Miss Martin, have nothing to do with a man like me. Such remnant of a heart as still beats in my breast is ruined—black and shrivelled. Save yourself, I beg you. Find a young man who’s never had to face the enemy and find the horrible depths of his own infamy. See, there are many gentlemen here, tonight. Young or old, you can take your choice. Go, pick one.”

  She rose, a hand at her throat. “How cruel you are, Mr. Roberts. What have I done to deserve such contempt?”

  “You? Why, nothing. My contempt is for myself, and those fellows over there, drinking. They imagine they can forget.” He pointed to a group of officers swaggering and laughing once more under the trees. Revulsion dripped from every bitter word. “Such fine fellows!”

  Miss Martin faced him, face alight, hands clenched at the base of a white throat. “Mr. Roberts—”

  Nelson never knew what she’d been about to say, for at that moment, a shout rang out from the Hall. “Murder!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The cry shocked Olivia into motion. She tried to run but the injured foot, still weak, twisted. A shaft of pain ran up one leg. She gasped and almost fell. Mr. Roberts turned to seize the nearest elbow. “Go round to the front,” he hissed. “You shouldn’t be seen with me.”

  Olivia left, hobbling painfully towards the hall entrance. The front of the Hall seethed with noise and confusion, a jumble of screams, shouts and horses. At last, Lord Thatcham’s voice rose above the hubbub, sharp and imperative. “Calm down, man, and say what happened.”

  An officer, one of the dragoons at the ball, leaped from his horse. “It’s Major Lovell, my lord, on the edge of the woods. He’s dead.”

  Dead? Olivia’s head swam. She’d been talking to the man only an hour ago. Why, he’d tried to insist she dance the waltz. She’d retreated to the garden to avoid such a fate and, she had to admit, to find Mr. Roberts, to see if he remembered their agreement to sit together. She would waltz with no other man.