Benedict's Bride

  BENEDICT’S BRIDE

  Janet Woods

  Chapter One

  ‘I cannot say who will look after you now your grandfather has passed away, Miss Hartford. You’re old enough to fend for yourself until the new owner of the manor arrives.’

  Indeed, she should be, for in this year of 1812 she had just turned twenty-one years of age.

  ‘Won’t you please stay just a little longer, Mrs. Tranton?’ Amber begged. ‘The other servants have been dismissed and I’ll be here by myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ the housekeeper said firmly. ‘I didn’t grow up in luxury and I’m not responsible for your welfare. I need to earn a wage and I have a new position to go to. You’ll have to talk to that lawyer who dealt with the estate.’

  ‘But he came all the way from London. Even if I knew how to get there I don’t know where his office is or what he looks like. I was ill and confined to bed when he visited. Why did nobody think to mention me?’

  ‘I told him you were indisposed with an infection and couldn’t be disturbed,’ the housekeeper said. ‘The servants were more concerned with finding themselves new positions.’ Her voice softened. ‘Perhaps you should consult with the new reverend and his wife. They might be able to advise you.’

  Amber shuddered. ‘Reverend Winter is such a misery; his face is as long as an eel.’

  ‘The poor man has a scold for a wife. A proper busybody is Mrs. Winter.’

  ‘I’ve never seen either of them smile.’

  ‘Saving souls is a serious business. I doubt if you’ll be alone for too long, though. I imagine that solicitor is making arrangements for you at this very minute. Just carry on as normal.’

  ‘But who will cook my meals?’

  Mrs. Tranton became brisk. ‘Goodness me, Miss Hartford, you’ll soon learn how to do that for yourself once you’re hungry. You’ve got the new stove in the kitchen to cook on and there’s plenty of coal to keep it going. Likely you can use one of the stew-hearths just for yourself. There are vegetables in the garden and the fruit will be ripe for picking next month. The hens will supply you with eggs, and there are plenty of dry goods left in the larder - enough to last for many months.’

  The woman picked up her bags and smiled cheerfully. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way then. Samuel is giving me a lift into Dorchester so I can catch the coach to Bristol, and I hear his cart coming up the lane. I’ll ask Samuel to drop in on you now and again to see how you’re managing. No doubt he’ll bring you a fresh trout or a rabbit, so you can make a tasty stew for yourself. Try not to worry too much.’

  ‘I won’t. Good bye Mrs. Tranton, and good luck.’

  As she watched the woman walk away Amber was forced to gulp back her tears. She’d never felt so forlorn in all her life.

  Amber went back inside. She stood in the hall and felt its emptiness, as if the life had gone from it. Hartford House had never been any less than welcoming to her. Now she felt alien to it. She was not used to such quietness. Each sound was separated from the other into strands. The long clock in the hall tick-tocked to a stately walking pace, the carriage clock in the morning room had a more frivolous tick while the one in drawing room clock made a muffled knocking sound. But it also had an authoritative, tinkling chime to remind those in residence of the hour.

  Amber was so used to her time being accounted for that she automatically turned towards the music room when the carriage clock chimed half past the hour of ten. She slid the dust sheet from the instrument. Two hours of practice took her mind off the questions laying in wait in her mind, and the dilemma they’d cause her if they weren’t answered to her satisfaction.

  After piano practice she smoothed the creases from her skirt. It was a pretty gown of white muslin dotted with cornflowers, and fashioned in the latest style with small puff sleeves and detachable long ones for when the day was cold.

  From habit, she took a book from the library shelf and began to read. Her concentration was spoiled by the sound of hammering. She flew outside, to where two men were fixing shutters across the windows. There was a cart filled with planks, and a horse between the shafts flicking the flies away from his flanks with his tail.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The older man whipped off his hat. ‘Sorry, Miss. We were told the place was empty and instructed to board up the lower floor. This is Hartford Manor, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but as you can see, it’s not empty. I’m Miss Hartford.’

  The two men gazed helplessly at each other, then the younger one told her. ‘We’re following orders. Miss. It’s a precaution against gypsies and the like, those who might think to gain entrance and rob the place.’

  ‘How am I to get in or out if the house is boarded up?’

  The younger man scratched his head, then grinned. ‘Can you climb up a ladder to the second floor?’

  ‘Certainly not ... it’s unladylike.’

  She relaxed when he chuckled and said, ‘In that case you’ll have to use either the front or back doors, for there’s no need to board them up. And we’ll leave small gaps between the boards on the window to allow some light in.’

  By the time the men left it was late afternoon and the light on the lower floor was effectively painted in stripes of light and shade that crept across the walls and floor with the passage of the sun. It looked quite pretty swirling with dust motes

  As she made her way to the kitchen she realised she hadn’t kept the fire going. But the ashes glowed red when she stirred them and she lit a candle from them. There was bread and cheese in the larder and some ham. After a makeshift meal washed down with watered wine she went out into the garden to enjoy the evening sunshine.

  The house seemed odd without people in it. Usually at this time she sat opposite her grandfather in the library and read to him for half an hour before they went in for dinner. His eyesight had been poor towards the end. How quickly things had changed. She didn’t want to sit there in the library by herself, so went up to her room. Once again the quiet overcame her.

  There were no horses clattering on the cobbled yard, no jingling of reins or whinnies and squeals as they gave voice.

  It seemed a long time until night fell and she didn’t know what to do with herself as the evening stretched into dusk. She went to bed early. As she lay in bed in the empty house she felt small and vulnerable, like a tiny kernel trying to hide inside a very large nut.

  When the candle sputtered into a pool of wax the spaces around her filled with whispers and shadows. Every crack and creak kept her awake and the wind in the chimneys sounded like a moaning ghost.

  When she’d been very young her grandfather had shown her the secret passage. His ancestors had been smugglers, he’d told her. The tunnels led to a trapdoor in the stables and had been built in case they needed to escape easily. The place had smelled of sour earth and had been lined with bricks, but water dripped from the roof and unseen creatures had scuttled off into the darkness as she’d pressed close to his side.

  ‘Sometimes a draft comes through the tunnel and makes the house doors rattle, but you mustn’t be afraid,’ he’d said.

  They were rattling now. Perhaps the kindly old man who’d taken her under his roof when she’d been orphaned was shaking them all to remind her of him. Amber smiled at the thought of Barnaby Hartford haunting her, though she’d welcome his presence and advice, for she sorely missed having someone to talk to.

  He’d told her that when he’d gone to the orphanage in Italy to collect her, at first the holy sisters had declined to hand her over. But he’d refused to leave without her. The remembered snippets of his accounting of the event tumbled through her mind.

  ‘Ambra Rosa’s mother was Italian,’ the good sisters had said to him. ‘She has relat
ives here. Two aunts.’

  ‘Neither have stepped forward to lay claim to her in the past six months,’ her grandfather had replied.

  ‘It is difficult, the church, you see ... in her aunts’ eyes the girl is a ... problem. They think it best that she stay in our care, then in time ... ’

  ‘Enough! Amber Rose is English, the daughter of my youngest son, Oliver. She will not be brought up to serve a religious order. Now…kindly fetch my granddaughter so I can make her acquaintance. Then I shall deliver her to her nurse, who is waiting outside in the hall to take charge of her.’

  Her grandfather had been taken with her right away, he’d said. As for her, she’d grown up loving the kindly old man as the only parental authority in her life, and could only be glad that he hadn’t suffered. He’d gone to bed on that last night of his life filled with plans, and had been taken quickly and unexpectedly in his sleep. She missed him and his wise counsel.

  There was another grandchild, her cousin. Patrick Hartford was the son of her late uncle, who’d been the black sheep of the family and who’d died in a duel.

  Her grandfather had always shaken his head when Patrick’s name had been mentioned. ‘If it was up to me you’d inherit everything, Amber. But provision has been made for you, as you’ll discover in time.’

  Amber remembered meeting Patrick once. She’d been nine when he’d come to stay. He’d been a small, weedy youth of about sixteen years with grey eyes, a sullen mouth and brown hair that flopped over his forehead. He’d been mean to her, pinching her or pulling at her hair. She gave a faint smile, imagining that age would have brought about some improvement in him.

  She held her breath when she heard a scratching noise. Her bedroom door opened with an almost imperceptible creak to rebound against a chair. It then closed again with a gentle, but definite click. Blood pounded in her ears. She’d forgotten to lock it and somebody had come into her room. She was too afraid to get out of bed. ‘Who is it?’ she quavered, and trembling, pulled the blankets over her head when there was no response.

  When something landed on her stomach she gave a frightened squeak, until two paws started to knead and a cat began to purr loudly.

  ‘Tansy,’ she said, sighing with the relief of having a kindred spirit for company, for the housekeeper’s cat must have been left to fend for itself as she had been. She was out of bed in an instant to turn the key in the lock.

  The thoughts she’d suppressed earlier intruded into her mind to worry her when she scrambled back into her warm nest. If the staff had been dismissed, didn’t that mean the new master of Hartford Manor had no intention of taking up residence in the near future? And if Patrick didn’t move in, what would happen to her then?

  She cuddled the cat against her. ‘We’ll manage,’ she said out loud. ‘We’ll learn to look after ourselves and we’ll survive until he does put in an appearance.’

  Then what? she asked herself.

  ‘Oh don’t be such a wilting lily,’ she snapped. ‘We’ll simply face that problem when it arrives.’

  * * * *

  When Amber rose the next morning it was to find that one of the chickens was missing. She followed a trail of flattened footprints in the dewy grass, which led around the corner to the stables. Finding a door open she looked inside and surprised an unkempt boy plucking the last of the feathers from the limp bird.

  The lad was about ten. Small and thin, with brown eyes and hair. His mouth fell open when he saw her and he said without apology, ‘I thought the place was empty and I was hungry.’

  ‘How did you intend to cook the hen?’

  ‘I was going to light a fire on the cobbles and cook it on one of those shovels.’

  Amber shuddered. ‘They’ve been used for shovelling horse dung.’

  The boy shrugged and shuffled to his feet. A closer look revealed the weariness written on his face. Her heart went out to him and her voice softened. ‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’

  ‘I came here from London. I thought I could get work on a farm but all the positions were filled. So I went to the reverend’s house to see if he would give me a meal. The woman who answered the door said he wasn’t there, and she was his wife. She gave me a lecture and said I didn’t belong to the parish. Then she called me a dirty little sewer rat and sent me packing with a smack around the ear.’

  Amber began to burn at the thought of such treatment. ‘And your parents. Where are they?’

  ‘Dead and gone, Miss, along with my elder brother. Cholera took them and I’m on my own now.’

  There was no self-pity evident in the lad’s voice and he was well spoken, something that raised Amber’s curiosity. ‘What was your father’s occupation?’

  ‘He was a teacher, Miss. My mother was a seamstress. But the rooms we lived in belonged to the school and were needed for the new master so they turned me out.’

  ‘I’m on my own too,’ Amber said, suddenly feeling an acute sense of grief for the loss of her grandfather.

  ‘But you’re grown up and you have a big house to live in and food to eat, and nobody will turn you away from here,’ the boy reminded her.

  She sincerely hoped not, for where else could she go? ‘Yes ... yes, I do have those things, for now.’ Amber was of a mind to share this fortunate state of affairs while it lasted. It was possible she might end up in the same position as this boy and would also need someone’s charity to survive. The Reverend Winter had preached that those who gave would receive their just reward in heaven. Obviously his wife didn’t practice what her husband preached if she’d turned this unfortunate lad away from her door. She voiced her next thought out loud. ‘I do hope I’m never obliged to steal from others.’

  The boy shrugged, but dejection was apparent in the droop of his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. My parents taught me to be honest.’ He held out the chicken. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’

  She hadn’t meant it as a reprimand. ‘On your way to where? Goodness, boy, by your own admission you have nowhere to go so it might be better if you follow me to the kitchen with that fowl. Perhaps we can get a fire going in the hearth and cook a proper meal between us, though I’ve never cooked anything before. And I’m sure I can find you somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘I don’t want to be any trouble to anyone, Miss . . .’

  ‘Miss Hartford. And your name is?’

  ‘Jake Selby, Miss Hartford.’

  ‘I’m here alone, Jake. All the servants have gone and I’ll be glad of your company. Follow me.’

  Amber secured the stable door behind them and set out. When she looked back Jake was still standing there, the chicken dangling from his hand. He appeared undecided.

  ‘You really won’t be any trouble, Jake. We can look after each other, and you might be able to get a job in the district. Perhaps when the new owner comes he’ll employ you.’

  And she might be offered employment, too, though she didn't think she possessed any skills that would be of interest to anyone in the district, since she'd been brought up to be a companion to her reclusive grandfather and eventually, some man’s wife.

  She had a vague recollection of talk of a dowry set aside for her, an agreement signed. She must look through her grandfather’s strongbox, where his papers had been kept. A chill went through her at the thought of leaving Hartford and marrying a stranger.

  Chapter Two

  Benedict Costain handed his hat and gloves to a waiting servant and headed for his father’s study, his long legs carrying him up the stairs two at a time.

  It was good to be back at Laconbridge, where he’d spent a happy childhood, but he’d wondered when a message had arrived from his father requesting him to return home with some urgency.

  The last few weeks had been spent in London with friends. They’d attended balls, gambling establishments and theatres and he’d enjoyed several house parties on the way home. There, he’d cast his eye over the available females, encouraging only those who were willing to help him enjoy his single
status without expecting commitment.

  Most of his nights had been spent in the company of women who lived for pleasure. He liked the way women purred and writhed like cats when they were being pleasured. He loved the scent and taste of their warm flesh - the pain that came with their involuntary nips, bites and scratches.

  And when he wanted to get away from such sensuous pleasures, there was always Brierly House, the luxurious home in the Hampshire countryside that he’d inherited from his maternal grandfather. Adjoining it was his horse stud, which by his own efforts contributed nicely to his wealth. Though most credit belonged to his stallion, he thought with a grin.

  The stud was not far from the modest manse where his mother had grown up under the strict guidance of the Reverend Andrew Brierly. Not that her pious upbringing had ensured her safety once his father had set eyes on her. Besotted by love, his father had persuaded Imogene Brierly to elope with him a few weeks after they’d met. Because his father was an earl and his mother had returned to the district a countess, her reputation had remained unsullied.

  He broke into a smile when he saw her waiting for him on the landing at the top of the stairs, her face full of love and pride at the sight of him. From his father’s own account she was perfection - a woman whose love had tamed him, for he’d never looked at another since the day they’d wed.

  ‘Mother, how wonderful to see you again.’ He swept her up into a hug and whirled her gently around before setting her back down on her feet and gazing into eyes as blue as his own. She was an elegant woman, nearing fifty, her dark hair stranded with grey. ‘You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world. No wonder my father carried you off. I’d be tempted to do the same myself if you didn’t happen to be my mother.’

  ‘You’re just as eloquent as your father is, Ben,’ she said, laughter filling her eyes, and using their informal name for him. ‘The one who wins your heart will be a fortunate woman, indeed. Welcome home.’

  ‘How are my sisters?’